Rebellion and Reform in Indonesia: Jakarta's Security and Autonomy Polices in Aceh (Routledge Contemporary Southeast Asia)

Rebellion and Reform in Indonesia Armed separatist movements in Papua, East Timor and Aceh have been a serious problem...

Author: Michelle Ann Miller

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Rebellion and Reform in Indonesia

Armed separatist movements in Papua, East Timor and Aceh have been a serious problem for Indonesia’s central government. This book examines the policies of successive Indonesian governments to contain secessionist forces, focusing in particular on Jakarta’s response towards the armed separatist movement in Aceh. Unlike other studies of separatism in Indonesia, this book concentrates on the responses of the central government rather than looking only at the separatist forces. It shows how successive governments have tried a wide range of approaches including military repression, offers of autonomy, peace talks and a combination of these. It discusses the lessons that have been learned from these different approaches and analyzes the impact of the tsunami, including the successful accommodation of former rebels within an Indonesian devolved state structure and the expanding implementation of Islamic law. Michelle Ann Miller is a postdoctoral fellow at the Asia Research Institute, National University of Singapore. She previously taught at Charles Darwin University and Deakin University. Her research interests include Indonesian/ South-East Asian politics, political development, decentralization, democratization, security sector reform, state and nation-building, capacity-building, and civil and political rights.

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13 Financial Fragility and Instability in Indonesia Yasuyuki Matsumoto

2 The Politics of Indonesia-Malaysia Relations One kin, two nations Joseph Chinyong Liow

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15 Communal Violence and Democratization in Indonesia Small town wars Gerry van Klinken 16 Singapore in the Global System Relationship, structure and change Peter Preston 17 Chinese Big Business in Indonesia The state of the capital Christian Chua 18 Ethno-religious Violence in Indonesia From soil to God Chris Wilson 19 Ethnic Politics in Burma States of conflict Ashley South 20 Democratization in Post-Suharto Indonesia Edited by Marco Bünte and Andreas Ufen 21 Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia Golkar in the post-Suharto era Dirk Tomsa 22 Community, Environment and Local Governance in Indonesia Locating the commonweal Edited by Carol Warren and John F. McCarthy 23 Rebellion and Reform in Indonesia Jakarta’s security and autonomy polices in Aceh Michelle Ann Miller

Rebellion and Reform in Indonesia Jakarta’s security and autonomy policies in Aceh

Michelle Ann Miller

First published 2009 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Avenue, New York, NY 10016 This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2008. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2009 Michelle Ann Miller All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A Catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Miller, Michelle Ann, 1974Rebellion and reform in Indonesia : Jakarta's security and autonomy polices in Aceh / Michelle Ann Miller. p. cm. — (Routledge contemporary Southeast Asia series ; 23) Includes bibliographical references and index. ISBN 978-0-415-45467-4 (hardback : alk. paper) — ISBN 978-0-203-88819-3 (ebook) 1. Indonesia—Politics and government—1998- 2. Aceh (Indonesia)—Politics and government. 3. Aceh (Indonesia)—History—Autonomy and independence movements. 4. Decentralization in government—Indonesia. 5. Centrallocal government relations—Indonesia. 6. Political violence— Indonesia—Aceh. 7. Ethnic conflict—Indonesia—Aceh. 8. Social conflict—Indonesia—Aceh. I. Title. DS644.5.M555 2008 959.8'1104—dc22 2008019935 ISBN 0-203-88819-7 Master e-book ISBN ISBN 13: 978-0-415-45467-4 (hbk) ISBN 13: 978-0-203-88819-3 (ebk) ISBN 10: 0-415-45467-0 (hbk) ISBN 10: 0-203-88819-7 (ebk)

For my friend Tomer Shemesh

Contents

Acknowledgments Glossary Administrative map of Aceh 1

Introduction

ix xi xv 1

PART I

Bacharuddin Yusuf Habibie

11

2

New regime, new security strategy?

13

3

Decentralization: An exclusive affair

41

PART II

Abdurrahman Wahid

57

4

Persuasion and repression

59

5

Search for a special autonomy solution

88

PART III

Megawati Sukarnoputri

99

6

An authoritarian past revisited

101

7

The NAD law: Reasons for its failure

127

viii

Contents

PART IV

Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono

147

8 Waves of reform

149

9 A rebel government

165

10 Conclusion

Notes Bibliography Index

183 188 192 209

Acknowledgments

Words do not do justice to those who have supported this project, but I would like to thank the following people. To Ed Aspinall and Dennis Shoesmith, I owe special thanks for their encouragement, considered advice and detailed feedback on earlier drafts of this manuscript. My heartfelt thanks go to Patrick Daly and Barbara Nowak, who carefully read sections of this book in its final stages. Patrick and Barbara, as well as Tony Reid and Michael Feener, have made my stay at the National University of Singapore’s Asia Research Institute (ARI), where much of this book was written, especially joyful and inspirational. I also wish to thank Damien Kingsbury for providing constructive commentary on previous drafts and for being a supportive colleague and friend during my time at Deakin University. I would like to thank many other people who have assisted this project in different ways. They are Zulfitri Ahba, Mahdi Ismail, Rony and Alex Chul, the late Safwan Idris, Irwan and Icut Djohan, Hadi Soesastro, Matthew Davies, Richard Chauvel, Arskal Salim and Jaap Timmer. I would also like to thank Deyana Goh, Monica Smith, Sovan Patra, Sue Kenny, Ismet Fanany, Rob Budd, Birgit Brauchler, Andiara Schwingel (aka. C.C.), Bina Gubhaju, Hiroko Matsuda, Yasuko Kobayashi, Steve and Marrion Farram, Sally Neagle and Tiffany and Ippei Okazaki. Any factual errors or shortcomings in this book are in no way attributable to those who have assisted in its creation and are entirely my own responsibility. This project was originally inspired by two of my dear former Indonesian teachers, Tom Hunter and Ni Wayan Pasek Aryati, who helped me discover Aceh in many indirect ways. I would like to thank the National University of Singapore’s ARI for financially supporting this project, and for providing a happy and nurturing intellectual environment. This project was also assisted by an Australian Postgraduate Award granted by the Department of Science, Education and Training in the Australian Government. This manuscript would not have reached completion without the love and comic relief of those who have travelled with me throughout this entire journey. It is to them I express everything that words cannot. They are Elizabeth, Graham and Kat Miller, Tomer Shemesh, Benjamin McKay, Bea (Maria Antonia) Viegas and Korin Lesh.

x

Acknowledgments

Finally, I wish to thank the people of Lampuuk, Aceh Besar, for inviting me into their homes, for sharing their stories and for their tremendous courage before and after the December 2004 tsunami. Their great capacity for great kindness even under grave conditions is the human quality I admire most. To have known them is a special privilege.

Glossary

A: Acehnese Ar: Arabic I: Indonesian ABRI (I) Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia, Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia adat (I) customary law AGAM (I) Angkatan Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, armed wing of GAM algojo hukuman cambuk (I) lashing executioner APBD (I) Anggaran Pendapatan dan Belanja Daerah, Regional Budget ASNLF Acheh-Sumatra National Liberation Front (GAM) Bakorstanas (I) Badan Koordinasi Bantuan Pemantapan Stabilitas Nasional, Coordinating Body for Assisting the Consolidation of National Stability Bappeda (I) Badan Pembangunan Daerah, Regional Development Agency Bappenas (I) Badan Perencanaan Pembangunan Nasional, National Development Planning Board BIA (I) Badan Intelijen ABRI, ABRI Intelligence Agency BIN (I) Badan Intelijen Nasional, National Intelligence Agency BPS (I) Biro Pusat Statistik, Central Bureau of Statistics Brimob (I) Brigade Mobil, Mobile Brigade (paramilitary police) bupati (I) regent/district head CoHA Cessation of Hostilities [Framework] Agreement cuak (A) spy, traitor Daerah Istimewa (I) Daerah Istimewa, Special Province dakwah (I) preaching/proselytizing darurat militer (I) military emergency dayah (A) Islamic boarding school Dinas Syari’at Islam (I/Ar) Islamic Law Agency DOM (I) Daerah Operasi Militer, Military Operations Area (1989–98) DPKSH (I) Dewan Penegakan Keamanan dan Sistem Hukum, Council for the Enforcement of Security and Law DPR (I) Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, People’s Legislative Assembly DPRD (I) Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah, People’s Legislative Assembly (provincial level) DPRD-II (I) Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah-II, People’s Legislative Assembly (sub-provincial level)

xii

Glossary

EMOI ExxonMobil Oil Indonesia Farmidia (I) Forum Aksi Reformasi Mahasiswa Islam Daerah Istimewa Aceh, Reform Action Forum for Islamic Students in Aceh Special Region (Aceh NGO) Forum Peduli HAM (I) Forum for Caring about Human Rights (Aceh NGO) Galaksi Gayo, Alas, Kluet, Singkil (Acehnese ethnic groups) political movement/militia GAM Gerakan Acheh Merdeka, Free Aceh Movement GOLKAR (I) Golongan Karya, Functional Group (Suharto-era government party) GPK (I) Gerakan Pengacau Keamanan, Security Disturbance Movement (Indonesian government term for GAM) GPL (I) Gerakan Pengacau Liar, Wild Disturbance Movement (Indonesian government term for GAM) HAM (I) Hak Asasi Manusia, Human Rights HDC Henry Dunant Centre HUDA (I) Himpunan Ulama Dayah Aceh, League of Acehnese Dayah Ulama IAIN (I) Institut Agama Islam Negara, State Islamic Institute ICMI (I) Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim se-Indonesia, Indonesian Association of Muslim Intellectuals IDP Internally Displaced Person IMF International Monetary Fund Inpres (I) Instruksi Presiden, Presidential Instruction jilbab (Ar) Islamic women’s headdress exposing face but not ears, hair or neck JSC Joint Security Committee (established under CoHA) Kapet (I) Kawasan pembangunan ekonomi terpadu, Integrated Economic Development Zone Keppres (I) Keputusan Presiden, Presidential Decree KNPI (I) Komite Nasional Pemuda Indonesia, Indonesian National Youth Committee Koalisi HAM (I) Koalisi Hak Asasi Manusia, Human Rights Coalition Kodam (I) Komando Daerah Militer, Regional Military Command Kodam Iskandar Muda Aceh regional military command Kodim (I) Komando Distrik Militer, District Military Command KOLAKOPS (I) Komando Pelaksana Operasi, Force Operation Command Komnas HAM (I) Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia, National Human Rights Commission Kontras (I) Komisi untuk Orang Hilang dan Korban Tindak Kekerasaan, Commission for Missing Persons and Victims of Violence Kopassus (I) Komando Pasukan Khusus; Special Forces Command (Army) Korem (I) Komando resort militer, Military resort command (at district level, encompassing a number of districts) Kostrad (I) Komando Strategis Angkatan Darat, Army Strategic Reserve Command

Glossary

xiii

KPU (I) Komisi Pemilihan Umum, General Elections Commission KRA Kongres Raykat Aceh, Aceh People’s Congress LBH (I) Lembaga Bantuan Hukum, Legal Aid Foundation Lemhanas (I) Lembaga Ketahanan Nasional, National Resilience Institute LIPI (I) Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia, Indonesian Academy of Sciences LoGA Law on Governing Aceh Mahkamah Syari’ah (Ar) Islamic court system (to decide on Syari’ah cases) MPR (I) Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat, People’s Consultative Assembly MPU (I/Ar) Majelis Permusyawaratan Ulama, Consultative Council of Ulama MUI (I/Ar) Majelis Ulama Indonesia, Indonesian Council of Ulama NAD (A) Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam, Lit. State of Aceh, Abode of Peace napol (I) narapidana politik, political prisoner NKRI (I) Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia, Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia Operasi Cinta Meunasah (I/Ar) Love the Mosque Operation (March 2000–April 2001) Operasi Jaring Merah (I) Red Net Operation (1989–98) Operasi Rencong Terbang (I/A) Flying Dagger Operation (May–December 2002) Operasi Sadar Rencong (I/A) Beware of the Dagger Operation (February 1999–March 2000) Operasi Satgas Wibawa 99 (I) Task Force Authority Operation (January–February 1999) Operasi Terpadu (I) Integrated Operation (from 19 May, 2003) Opslihkam (I) Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan, Security Restoration Operation (April 2001–December 2002) pagar betis (I) fence of legs (military operations strategy) PAN (I) Partai Amanat Nasional, National Mandate Party Pansus Aceh (I) Panitia Khusus Aceh, Special Committee on Aceh (in DPR) PDI-P (I) Partai Demokrasi Indonesia Perjuangan, Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle Perda (I) Peraturan Daerah, Regional Regulation (changed to qanun under NAD law) pemilu (I) pemilihan umum, general election petrus (I) pembunuhan/pembunuh misterius, mysterious killings/killers PKB (I) Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa, National Awakening Party PLN (I) Perusahaan Listrik Negara, National Electricity Company Polri (I) Kepolisian Republik Indonesia, Indonesian National Police PPP (I) Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, United Development Party PPRM (I) Pasukan Penindak Rusuh Massa, Mass Riots Repression Force qanun (Ar) regional regulation (previously called Peraturan Daerah, Perda) Rabithah Thaliban Aceh (Ar) Union of Acehnese Students, formerly Ikatan Santri Aceh SAMAK (I) Solidaritas Masyarakat Anti Korupsi, Solidarity for a CorruptionFree Society

xiv

Glossary

Serambi Mekkah (I/A) Verandah of Mecca (common name for Aceh) SIRA (I) Sentral Informasi Referendum Aceh, Aceh Referendum Information Centre SMUR (I) Solidaritas Mahaswisa untuk Rakyat, Student Solidarity for the People SOMAKA (I) Solidaritas Mahasiswa untuk Kasus Aceh, Students Solidarity for the Case of Aceh SORAK (I) Solidaritas Rakyat Anti Korupsi, Solidarity of the People against Corruption Syari’ah (Ar) Islamic law Tengku (A) honorific title for male Acehnese royalty, Malay aristocracy Teungku (A) honorific title for ulama Teuku (A) honorific title for male Acehnese of high rank Tim Sebelas Plus (I) Team of Eleven Plus (Galaksi advocates) TNI (I) Tentara Nasional Indonesia, Indonesian National Army TPO (I) tenaga pembantu operasi, [military] operations assistance staff (spy/traitor) TPPUA (I) Tim Penasihat Presiden Urusan Aceh, Presidential Advisory Team on Aceh ulama/ulema (Ar) Islamic religious scholar, teacher or leader UNDP United Nations Development Program USAID United States Agency for International Development wajib tutup aurat (I) Islamic dress code walikota (I) mayor Wali Nanggroe (A) lit; Guardian of State wanra (I) perlawanan rakyat, people’s resistance (civilian militia) WFP World Food Program zakat (Ar) religious tithe paid by Muslims to the poor ZILS (I) Zona Industri Lhokseumawe, Lhokseumawe Industrial Zone

Administrative map of Aceh Post-tsunami administrative map of Aceh created in 2005 by Matthew N. Davies and used here with his permission.

1

Introduction

On 11 December, 2006, the citizens of Indonesia’s north-westernmost province of Aceh voted in their first ever direct democratic local elections. These were the first elections in Aceh since the devastating December 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami, which killed more than 160,000 Acehnese, left another 550,000 homeless and swept entire villages into the sea. The elections were also the first in three decades to be held under peacetime conditions because the signing of a peace agreement between the Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Acheh1 Merdeka, GAM) and the Indonesian government in Helsinki on 15 August, 2005 brought an end to one of Asia’s most enduring and bloody armed separatist conflicts. This was also the first time in Indonesian history that Jakarta had allowed independent candidates who were not affiliated with any registered party to compete in local elections, making Aceh’s electoral system the most participatory, equitable and inclusive anywhere in Indonesia. The Acehnese people used their newfound political freedom to elect a former GAM rebel as Aceh’s new governor. Irwandi Yusuf, an elephant veterinarian by profession, had been in jail for his role in the conflict when the tsunami struck, and had escaped through the roof of his prison cell during the disaster. From there he fled to Sweden, where the Free Aceh Movement’s political leadership resided in exile, and only returned to Aceh (this time a free man) after GAM and the Indonesian government signed the historic Helsinki peace agreement. Aceh’s first direct democratic local elections were described by analysts as a milestone in Indonesia’s political development. This was especially so within the context of the war in Aceh, which had persisted for almost eight months after the tsunami. After May 1998, when a national process of democratization was initiated in Indonesia, the successive administrations of Bacharuddin Yusuf Habibie, Abdurrahman Wahid and Megawati Sukarnoputri made some attempts to search for a negotiated settlement to the Aceh conflict through different offers of ‘special autonomy’ and limited peace talks with GAM’s exiled political leadership. For the most part, however, the Indonesian state relied more heavily on ‘security operations’ to deal with Aceh’s separatist insurgency. It was only under the government of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono that the signing of the Helsinki agreement ushered in a new era of peace. This book explores Indonesia’s initiatives and capacity to contain the Aceh conflict after the end of President Suharto’s New Order regime in May 1998. It is

2

Introduction

a study of centre–periphery relations, seen primarily from the perspective of the centre. As such, it places more emphasis on the attitudes and decision-making processes about Aceh in Jakarta than on localized dimensions of the conflict and the mobilization of Acehnese nationalist forces. At a conceptual level, the book is concerned with the capacity of democratizing regimes to resolve their national identity problems. This central concern is empirically explored by examining Jakarta’s different security and autonomy policies in Aceh from 1998 to 2007. These state policies and behaviour are in turn presented as a lens through which to interpret Indonesia’s process of political development. The book puts the case that agency, or political will, was the most crucial factor in the resolution of the Aceh conflict, supported by structural preconditions and circumstances. In this, it recognizes that, in the real world, structure and agency are symbiotic and inter-related. The structural and functional constraints imposed by the New Order’s authoritarian legacy, by the 1997 national economic crisis and by the 2004 tsunami, dramatically reduced Indonesian state capacity in all areas, leaving Jakarta ill-prepared to deal with secessionist challenges from Aceh. In the case of Indonesia, however, political will has often hinged on the ability and desire by political actors to take advantage of windows of opportunity presented by such adverse material conditions. The first window opened when Indonesia began its uncertain transition towards democracy as the national climate of political openness created the space for Jakarta to win its would-be nemesis Aceh back to the Indonesian nationalist cause. It gradually closed as Acehnese support for GAM grew and as the Indonesian military (TNI)2 reasserted itself as the primary defender of national unity under weak successive administrations. The second window was thrown open by the tsunami, which brought Aceh to world attention and allowed both sides to tap into the international community’s abundant assistance. Without the physical ‘shock’ of the tsunami, it is unlikely that the Helsinki peace process would have begun as quickly as it did (or at all), or that it would have succeeded (Aspinall 2005; Morfit 2007). The structural challenges facing the Yudhoyono administration remained enormous. Whatever peaceful initiatives Jakarta attempted to implement in Aceh were likely to be thwarted by an unreformed military that continued to enjoy considerable political latitude, and by a corrupt and dysfunctional state bureaucracy and national legal system that would take several years to clean up. While there is no denying that the tsunami presented both sides with an opportunity to work towards peace, however, natural disasters alone do not end human conflicts. A recurring theme in this book is that while structural preconditions can and do affect the capacity of states to democratically accommodate their aggrieved ethnic minorities, political will is required if non-coercive accommodation is to occur. If political actors do not seize the momentum presented by a change of regime or by other physical ‘shocks’ such as the 2004 tsunami, then the window of opportunity to develop remedial policies may narrow or close. In the Indonesian case, the political opportunity to peacefully end the Aceh conflict was greatest at two points when the state’s structural capacity was extremely weak. The first point was after the 1997 financial crisis and the subsequent tumultuous

Introduction

3

regime change, which saw the opening of political space within which Indonesia’s political leadership could have worked towards a negotiated settlement to the Aceh problem, but lacked sufficient political will and acumen to do so. The second point was when the tsunami paralyzed the state infrastructure along Aceh’s coastline, after which both Jakarta and GAM developed the political determination necessary to put aside their differences to achieve a peaceful outcome, despite the TNI’s ongoing political influence and strong presence in Aceh. That these two windows of opportunity were created at a time when Indonesian state authority was weak is not entirely coincidental: Crises that diminish a state’s structural capacity leave it vulnerable to pressure for political change. Such crises are also sites of tremendous political flux and instability, which tend to impact on how political actors see themselves and the opportunities available to them. Though the political commitment shown by the Indonesian government and GAM towards the current Aceh peace process has been most impressive, it reminds us that the conflict may not have been resolved if the search for a political settlement had not begun in the early years of Indonesia’s transition to democracy. A limited peace process with GAM and the development of special autonomy legislation under the first three post-Suharto governments undoubtedly influenced Jakarta’s decision to pursue a similar policy after the tsunami. Therefore, even though these former administrations failed to deliver peace to the Acehnese people, their initiatives were not entirely in vain. Background to the contemporary conflict There are diverging accounts of the primary cause(s) of Aceh’s contemporary conflict. GAM’s view, which was widely accepted in Aceh during the conflict but rejected by most other Indonesian and foreign sources, is that the contemporary conflict stemmed from the 1873 Dutch invasion of the ‘State of Acheh Sumatra’, and was perpetuated by the ‘illegal transfer of sovereignty’ from the ‘old, Dutch colonialists to the new, Javanese colonialists’ (di Tiro 1984: 15–17). GAM’s nationalist struggle was premised on the claim that ‘no decolonization took place in the Dutch East Indies’ through the signing of the 1949 Dutch–Indonesian handover of sovereignty treaty as ‘only its name was changed to “Indonesia” with “Indonesia” being merely a geographic expression’ (Thaib 2000: 107). GAM justified their claim to territorial sovereignty through the construction of a singular Acehnese national identity based on ethnicity, language, culture, history and geography. It is true that the distinctive Acehnese ‘pre-Indonesian’ identity was integrally linked to four centuries of sovereign statehood. Aceh’s strategic location along the Malacca Straits trading route also led to the development of a Malay–Islamic written and cultural tradition in the region, which set the Acehnese apart from many other ethnic groups in the former Dutch East Indies that were geographically closer to the island of Java. However, even at the peak of its pre-colonial greatness, the state of Aceh sequestered a number of smaller states whose indigenous ethnic groups never completely assimilated into Aceh (Reid 2006: 8). Almost 20 percent of Aceh’s population is

4

Introduction

not ethnic Acehnese, claiming membership of at least seven linguistically and culturally distinct indigenous ethnic minority groups (Gayo, Alas, Kluet, Aneuk Jamee, Tamiang, Singkil and Puloe) and non-indigenous ethnic minorities, the largest comprising Javanese settlers. GAM’s argument about Aceh’s illegal incorporation into Indonesia is further refuted by the weight of historical evidence that the contribution by the Acehnese to the Indonesian nationalist struggle was wholly voluntary, both in terms of human and economic resources (including the Acehnese famous purchase of the first airplanes for the new Republic). Even so, the anti-Dutch struggle was waged differently in Aceh than in other parts of the archipelago as ‘Indonesia in reality was shaped more by collaboration with Dutch influence than by resistance to it’ (Reid 2004: 303), whereas in Aceh it was the reverse. As one Dutch colonial governor famously put it, the defiant spirit of Acehnese resistance against outside rule was nurtured by ‘a fanatical love of freedom, reinforced by a powerful sense of race, with a consequent contempt for foreigners and hatred for the infidel intruder’ (Reid 1979: 9). This book, while acknowledging the historical ‘differentness’ of the Acehnese people (and Aceh’s indigenous ethnic minorities) from other Indonesian ethnic groups, takes the view that the activities of the Indonesian state were the root cause of the contemporary conflict. Most sources, including GAM, agree that Acehnese anger towards the Indonesian state was aggravated by the latter’s exploitation of Aceh’s oil and gas reserves, broken promises about the province’s ‘special region’ status and depredations committed against Acehnese civilians during military operations (Kell 1995; Robison 1998: 127–56). There is some disagreement, however, about which of these factors contributed more towards the birth and subsequent growth of Acehnese separatism. Some historical accounts tend to downplay economic grievances,3 while others argue that even though economic factors cannot entirely explain GAM’s growth, Aceh’s rich oil and natural gas reserves played an important role in perpetuating the conflict (Ross 2003). This book supports the latter standpoint. Without underestimating the severity of human rights atrocities committed against the civilian population, it is unlikely that GAM would have been capable of reviving, and to some extent reinventing, Acehnese nationalism if not for local resentment over the siphoning off of Aceh’s natural resource wealth, which later fuelled dreams of turning Aceh into a an independent ‘Brunei’. As the site of lucrative national oil and gas assets, Aceh’s resource wealth also influenced Jakarta’s decision to deploy large numbers of security forces to the province, whose aggressive response to perceived security threats produced thousands of civilian casualties. While most sources agree that the contemporary conflict began with the formation of GAM in 1976, its roots can be traced back to the Darul Islam (House of Islam) Rebellion of the 1950s and early 1960s. Acehnese involvement in the Darul Islam uprising largely stemmed from regionalist anger over the province’s incorporation into North Sumatra.4 This rebellion (see Chapter Three) was eventually resolved in Aceh through a combination of military force and negotiations after President Sukarno responded to Acehnese demands to manage their own affairs in accordance with Islam by conferring in principle ‘Daerah Istimewa’

Introduction

5

(Special Region) status to the reestablished province of Aceh (Miller 2006: 294–95). Aceh’s first separatist insurgency was launched on 4 December, 1976, by Tengku Hasan Muhammad di Tiro, a successful businessman and former self-appointed Darul Islam ‘ambassador’ to the United Nations.5 Hasan di Tiro’s Acheh-Sumatra National Liberation Front (ASNLF, later called GAM)6 shared some common grievances with the Darul Islam rebels about centre–periphery inequities. The growing centralization of state power under Suharto’s New Order gradually rendered Aceh’s Daerah Istimewa status meaningless and did not accommodate Acehnese aspirations to restore Islam as a dominant sociopolitical force. Nor did the New Order’s modernizing and nation-building projects lead to substantive improvements in the local economy (Morris 1983). Although parts of Java and eastern Indonesia experienced higher poverty levels than Aceh under the New Order, the discovery of vast oil and gas reserves in North Aceh in the early 1970s fuelled regional resentment as most of the profits were funneled out of the province to Jakarta. Unlike the Darul Islam rebels, however, who sought to change the form of the Indonesian state but not to secede from it, the ASNLF/GAM ‘re-declared’ the ‘free and independent Sovereign State’ of ‘Acheh-Sumatra’ with the intent of severing all ties with the ‘foreign regime of Jakarta and the alien people of the island of Java’.7 Aceh’s contemporary conflict was complicated by the New Order’s intolerance of separatism, as shown in 1989 by the launch of an aggressive counterinsurgency campaign against GAM. The establishment of a ‘Red Net Operation Implementation Command’ (Komando Pelaksana Operasi Jaring Merah) in Aceh effectively transformed the province into a ‘Military Operations Area’ (Daerah Operasi Militer, DOM) for the next decade.8 The human rights violations that accompanied these operations further alienated the Acehnese people from Indonesian state authority and created fertile conditions for GAM’s regeneration in the post-Suharto era. By mid-1998, when ‘DOM’ ended and ‘non-organic’9 battalions were withdrawn from the province, Acehnese antipathy towards Jakarta had become deeply entrenched and manifested into widespread demands for retribution, compensation and social justice (Miller 2004a: 134). By mid-1998, Indonesia had also initiated a process of democratization after four decades of authoritarian rule. Regime change was precipitated by the 1997 Asian financial crisis. Indonesia was the country hit hardest by the crisis, where rising unemployment and poverty levels and soaring food prices translated into a sharp increase in crime and general lawlessness across the archipelago. In Aceh, as well as the island of Java, East and West Kalimantan and parts of Sumatra and eastern Indonesia, the social impact of the economic meltdown was especially profound.10 This sociopolitical and economic instability in turn led to a sharp reduction in Indonesian state power and authority. Some Acehnese seized this opportunity to pressure Jakarta into providing redress for their long-standing grievances in the form of wide-ranging autonomy. Many others, however, began to look towards the creation of an independent polity in which they would be free to govern themselves without fear of state repression and with control over their own lives, livelihoods and resources.

6

Introduction

These causes of the contemporary conflict will be revisited in later chapters. At this point, we need to consider some important questions about the capacity of democratizing states to resolve their armed separatist conflicts. How do democratizing states, and especially those with geographically dispersed ethnic minorities, project democratic ‘breakthroughs’ outwards to their peripheral territories, and why are they often unable to do so? Why do separatist conflicts tend to intensify during transitions to democracy? And, is democratization actually possible if there is a lack of consensus about nationhood? Democratization and national identity problems In considering the above questions, it should be noted that democratizing and democratic regimes have historically proven far less capable than authoritarian forms of government in retaining sovereignty over their disputed territories. Between 1974 and 1997, 57 percent of new states recognized by the United Nations were established after their ‘parent’ states embarked on democratization processes, while the rest were all established immediately before, or after the start of transitions to democracy, usually within three years (Baogang and Reid 2004: 295). This pattern can be explained by the inherent instability of transitions to democracy, when state capacity is generally weakest, allowing different viewpoints on national identity to be heard, including those of separatists. By contrast, separatist movements have consistently failed to achieve independence during transitions towards repressive authoritarian regimes, which tend to rely more heavily on their coercive and military capabilities to determine state boundaries by force, governing over society rather than with societal consent (Fritz 2003: 5). Authoritarian regimes may also benefit from national identity problems by constructing and imposing a particular nationalist ideology to legitimize their continued rule. This happened under Suharto’s New Order, which justified its authoritarian behaviour through ‘the denial of legitimate political activity outside structures defined by the state’ (Robison 1993: 42). The obvious limitation of imposing nationalism is that coercion, force and the exclusion of civil society from decision-making processes hardly inspire public confidence in a state’s capacity to resolve its territorial disputes, and often exacerbate them. Though state repression is not the only cause of extra-state violence, extreme state force can create the unintended consequences of fuelling localized support for separatism and inciting mainstream mobilization against state institutions and actors. As Kohli and Shue argue in the case of Brazil, ‘Technocratic competence…under the military, may have enhanced the state’s capacity to pursue technically correct economic policies, but did little to strengthen the government’s legitimacy’ (1994: 309). Similarly, under Suharto, the Indonesian state’s heavy reliance on force contributed towards a loss of faith in the New Order regime’s right to rule in Aceh, East Timor and Irian Jaya (now Papua). In other words, while a state’s coercive or military capabilities may be strong, its capacity to meet societal interests and expectations may be weak or non-existent (Miller 2004a: 131). Despite the poor track record of democratizing and democratic regimes in negotiating shared-rule outcomes with their separatist movements, democracies should

Introduction

7

theoretically be more capable than authoritarian regimes in peacefully settling their national identity disputes. Assuming that the rights to freedom of expression and association (including the right to express undemocratic views) are integral to any meaningful definition of democracy, the corollary of this assumption is that democracies should be more capable of achieving peaceful outcomes to their separatist rebellions due to their tendency towards the political processes of negotiation and compromise. In democratic systems, state capacity depends to a great extent on societal capacity, or the capacity of civil society to constructively engage in decision-making and nation-state building processes (Migdal 1988). The ability of democratic leaders to settle internal disputes depends on their capacity to negotiate mutually satisfactory outcomes with oppositional societal forces; in other words, to govern with societal consent as opposed to governing over society. In reality, however, national identity problems pose a particular dilemma for democratizing regimes. This dilemma revolves around the issue of how much freedom to grant separatist forces without compromising the state’s territorial sovereignty and national integrity. While democratizing regimes may try to negotiate a political settlement with their separatist movements, nationalist minorities can and often do use their increased collective capacities during regime change to pursue independence instead of contributing towards the state’s democratization process. When there is no consensus on nationalism, then, is it possible for democratization processes to continue, or are force and coercion the only means available to maintain the state in its existing form? In Indonesia, there was no such consensus at the point of regime change in East Timor, Aceh and Papua. The New Order’s rigid emphasis on internal unity and national cohesion meant that regional assertions of diversity and difference were either confined to the symbolic realm or repressively standardized. Despite this, the New Order’s nation-building project was generally successful, given Indonesia’s dispersed geographical composition and ethnic, cultural and religious diversity.11 In 1998, Aceh was not representative of Indonesia’s national project and was one of only three of the republic’s then 27 provinces with an independence movement.12 Even in Aceh, GAM did not enjoy the strong grassroots support that it later attained in the post-New Order period. The New Order’s shrewd institutionalization of nationalism was so effective that the contradiction between being Acehnese and being Indonesian became a largely post-Suharto phenomenon. As James Siegel points out, previously ‘for someone born in Aceh, the trajectory of maturation, taking one through the schools especially, left one “Indonesian”’(2000: 366). Nevertheless, Indonesia’s regime change exposed the inherent weakness of the New Order’s construction and imposition of national unity. This was shown not only by the growth of separatism in East Timor, Papua and Aceh, but also by the broader phenomenon of resurgent regionalism across the country. The loss of central state power, authority and legitimacy that accompanied regime change and the consequences of the 1997 economic crisis created space for Indonesia’s unresolved national identity question to forcefully resurface. This situation generated concerns about whether regime change had set Indonesia on an uncertain path towards democratization or towards inexorable disintegration.

8

Introduction

Indonesia’s change of regime was coupled by some new initiatives to address its territorial disputes. Most political leaders in Jakarta saw decentralization, or regional autonomy, as the most democratic way of accommodating centrifugal forces and were prepared to recognize a ‘special’ place for Indonesia’s problematic provinces within the unitary state. However, President Habibie’s remarkable decision to settle the national identity problem in East Timor by granting that province a referendum on national self-determination was widely seen in Indonesia as unacceptable and contributed towards his political denouement in the 1999 presidential election. For Indonesian nationalists, any debate about national identity had to be constructed within, seeking to strengthen the integrity and cohesion of the unitary nation-state, not weakening or destroying it. This thinking was reflected in the central government’s approach to the national identity problem in Aceh. The dominant view in Jakarta was that while the Acehnese people and territory of Aceh occupied a special position within the Indonesian Republic, the Acehnese themselves had settled the national identity issue back in the 1940s through their significant financial contribution to, and nationalist zeal for, Indonesia’s independence struggle. That contemporary Acehnese nationalism primarily came into being as a reaction against the counterproductive policies and practices of the New Order did not, according to this logic, require any substantive re-thinking of Aceh’s position within the unitary state. Instead, the prevailing belief in Jakarta was that because the Aceh problem had directly stemmed from the central government’s past interference and neglect, it could be gradually redressed through democratization. This belief supports the basic assumption that ethnic minorities with distinct and separate identities can be peacefully accommodated within democratizing regimes. Indeed, the escalating conflict in post-New Order Aceh was more the result of failed democratic reforms than the inevitable consequence of competing nationalisms. There was certainly a risk that the national identity crisis in Aceh could threaten or stall the transition to democracy in the rest of Indonesia. But Indonesia did initiate some national democratic reforms after 1998, despite its ongoing national identity disputes. The increasing violence in Aceh was arguably neither inevitable nor unavoidable because Jakarta had a window of opportunity through which to democratically accommodate the Acehnese people at the point of regime change when separatist sentiment and activity was low in Aceh compared with later periods (see Chapter Two). Back then, Indonesia’s political leadership argued that the Acehnese were given opportunities to help build a more democratic Indonesia but instead chose to pursue independence. Yet, this claim was also used by the first three post-Suharto governments to justify their intensifying counterinsurgency operations against GAM. Though the offer of selfgovernment to Aceh under Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s presidency was made under vastly different circumstances after a second window of opportunity was created by the tsunami, it did prove that national governments are capable of forging a relationship amongst equals with minorities of another identity. Accommodating armed separatist movements is not, of course, a simple or straightforward process. Since the first flush of democratization in Indonesia,

Introduction

9

Jakarta has faced a real dilemma of how much freedom to grant the Acehnese people without losing control over the territory of Aceh. Until the Helsinki peace process, this dilemma was reflected in the Indonesian government’s seemingly schizophrenic security and autonomy policy choices about Aceh, which aimed to militarily crush Acehnese separatism on the one hand, while winning back Acehnese hearts and minds through offers of autonomy on the other. Although the current peace process has thus far succeeded in striking this delicate balance between Acehnese freedom and Indonesian sovereignty, it remains fragile and by no means assured. Sections of Indonesia’s political and military establishment continue to question whether the Acehnese people have been granted too much freedom, and whether Aceh’s former rebel leadership will eventually abuse its increased political leverage to revive its separatist cause. Jakarta’s past and ongoing capacity to resolve its Aceh dilemma within the context of Indonesia’s democratization process is the subject of this book.

Part I


2

New regime, new security strategy?

The government…should hang 3,500 soldiers who slaughtered Acehnese during recent military operations. If it does so, I would remain loyal to Indonesia, and if not I would probably join the Free Aceh Movement. Acehnese agricultural worker (The Jakarta Post, 11 June, 1999). In [East] Timor, it’s just like in the United States, Puerto Rico. Aceh is just like, for the United States, Georgia. You cannot separate Georgia – or New York, or Alaska, or California or Washington – from the United States of America. President B. J. Habibie (The Straits Times, 5 August, 1999). At the start of Indonesia’s transition to democracy, Aceh’s security situation was highly unstable but not yet critical. The province was still reeling from more than a decade of war and widespread human rights abuses committed during the infamous ‘DOM’ period, and local support for separatism was relatively weak. Even GAM did not refute the Indonesian military’s claim that only 54 guerrillas with 48 firearms remained active in Aceh’s jungles, the lowest recorded estimate of the rebels’ military strength in the post-New Order period (interview with Irwandi Yusuf, 2006; Gatra, 29 August, 1998). Despite the low levels of GAM activity at the start of B. J. Habibie’s presidency, state power in Aceh was extremely weak. The fractured nature of the national political landscape, combined with the devastating impact of the 1997 national economic crisis, translated into a loss of state authority throughout the archipelago, and particularly in problematic peripheral provinces like Aceh. The TNI was institutionally weakened by internal factional divisions, the impact of the economic crisis on many military businesses and the regime transition process itself, which saw the Indonesian military become widely portrayed as the primary instrument of authoritarian repression. Though Aceh’s DOM status was not lifted until August 1998, the TNI’s attenuated authority became apparent almost immediately after the New Order’s collapse. With Suharto’s resignation, the military lost all control over the flow of information coming out of Aceh as Indonesia’s newly liberated mass media began reporting extensively on its depredations against the civilian population. Several Acehnese student organizations that had formed in early 1998, when regime

14


change looked increasingly probable, staged mass rallies, demonstrations and hunger strikes. While Aceh’s reform movement, like its national counterpart, was led by students and reform-minded NGOs, Acehnese demands mainly coalesced around a province-based agenda that called on Jakarta to end DOM and statist violence, punish rights perpetrators and compensate Acehnese victims and their families. There were two key phases in Aceh security policy development under Habibie. The first phase from August to December 1998 represented the clearest departure from the New Order’s traditional security approach by looking towards a peaceful settlement to the conflict. During this period, Habibie attempted to reintegrate Acehnese hearts and minds back into Indonesia’s ‘big family’ by instigating the first human rights investigations in Aceh, ending DOM, withdrawing thousands of non-organic military troops from the province and granting amnesty to hundreds of Acehnese political prisoners. The second phase, from January 1999 to the end of Habibie’s presidency in October, involved a shift towards a dual-track ‘persuasive–repressive’ strategy that would be adapted by the next three governments in different forms, with renewed security operations on one hand, and efforts to achieve conflict resolution through political mechanisms (such as the development of ‘special autonomy’ legislation) on the other. This chapter explores the circumstances and attitudes that contributed towards this policy shift and the impact of Jakarta’s changing security strategy on Indonesian state capacity in Aceh. It argues that the decision to return to security operations five months after the end of DOM was a disproportionate response to the level of separatist activity at that time in Aceh, and was more related to shifting power relations in Jakarta than to what was happening on the ground. The more time that elapsed after Suharto’s resignation, Habibie’s presidency (which was never widely popular) steadily weakened, allowing TNI interests and priorities in Aceh to gain political ascendancy, with the result that the military was able to gradually reassert itself as the primary defender of national unity and cohesion. The decision to return to security operations in turn reduced Indonesia’s capacity to effectively govern in Aceh. While the renewed operations were formally under police auspices, the lack of coordination between TNI and police commands, combined with the incapacity of Aceh’s undersized and under-resourced police force to restore law and order, created opportunities for the TNI to claw back its power in Aceh. The indiscriminate application of state violence that accompanied these renewed operations cost Jakarta much needed political legitimacy in Aceh and made its dual-track approach seem unviable. This disconnect between the Habibie administration’s persuasive and repressive Aceh approaches is explored in further in Chapter Three. The main concern of this chapter is to evaluate the processes of security decision-making about Aceh and the impact of these choices on central state capacity there within the political context of Indonesia’s early transition to democracy. The Habibie administration In discussing Aceh security policy developments under B. J. Habibie, we first need to consider the main forces at work within his administration. Habibie’s Reform

New regime, new security strategy

15

and Development (Reformasi Pembangunan) Cabinet, which was sworn in on 23 May, 1998, was characterized by at least three distinguishing features. The first was the strong presence of generals with backgrounds of direct or indirect involvement in human rights abuses.13 Second, unlike the final New Order cabinet, the elite modernist Islamic organization, ICMI (Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim seIndonesia, Indonesian Association of Muslim Intellectuals) was well represented in the interim government.14 Formerly headed by Habibie under Suharto, ICMI comprised the new president’s principal support base. Third, while Habibie’s government contained a number of new appointments, there was a high degree of continuity; for example, all the four coordinating ministers and the armed forces (ABRI)15 commander were retained. Though Habibie’s cabinet was largely a product of the New Order, it was created within a highly volatile national political and economic context. The loss of state authority and legitimacy that accompanied Suharto’s resignation and the national economic crisis made the new government more susceptible to public pressure to adopt a democratic reform agenda as the ‘only game in town’. The willingness and capacity of the ministers in Habibie’s administration to apply Indonesia’s new democratic game to Aceh varied over time, and according to particular policy issues. For instance, while Indonesia’s generals were divided over security sector reform issues such as reducing the military’s direct involvement in politics, they were largely united in opposing Habibie’s human rights agenda in Aceh. Although the generals in the new cabinet initially tolerated investigations into TNI abuses from the DOM period, their resistance gradually intensified (for example, by disavowing responsibility for soldiers who committed abuses) as Habibie’s presidency weakened. Habibie’s appointments of officers who were implicated in rights violations caused some concern in Aceh about Jakarta’s capacity and willingness to redress Acehnese calls for justice and compensation. Causing particular controversy in Aceh was Habibie’s assignment of the politically sensitive Home Affairs portfolio to Major General Syarwan Hamid, who, in his previous capacity as Chief of North Aceh’s Military Operations Command during the early DOM period (1991–92), had been responsible for introducing the infamous ‘fence of legs’ (pagar betis) operations strategy in Aceh, which forced villagers to sweep through areas that were believed to have been occupied by GAM guerrillas ahead of TNI troops (Kell 1995: 75). The first manifestation of Acehnese resentment over Syarwan Hamid’s ministerial appointment was in June 1998, when 13 university students in Banda Aceh went on a three-week hunger strike to demand that he be brought to justice. The same students accused General Wiranto, whom Habibie reappointed ABRI Commander/Defence and Security Minister, of collusion in war crimes in his former role as Presidential Adjunct to Suharto, and later, as ABRI Commander during the final months of the New Order, although they cited no compelling evidence to support this claim (Interlog, 16 June, 1998). Another general with ties to Aceh was the returning Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security, Lieutenant General Feisal Tanjung. Like Wiranto, Feisal Tanjung had served as ABRI Commander during the late DOM

16


period (1993–98). Feisal Tanjung was believed to have condoned the atrocities committed by ABRI’s Special Forces Command (Kopassus) in Aceh, as the then Kopassus Commander, Lieutenant General Prabowo Subianto, admitted to directly reporting to him (Van Dijk 2001: 247). Habibie’s new Secretary General in the Ministry of Education and Culture, Colonel Sofyan Effendi, had also preceded Syarwan Hamid as Operations Commander of the North Aceh 011 Lilawangsa Military Command in 1989–91, when some of the worst atrocities during DOM reportedly occurred (Gatra, 8 August, 1998). Sofyan Effendi’s immediate superior at that time, Major General H. R. Pramono, was appointed Inspector General of the Ministry of Industry and Trade. As former Chief of the North Sumatran Regional Military Command (Kodam Bukit Barisan), Pramono had been renowned for his territorial strategy of co-opting Acehnese civilians into the war against GAM, which had included ordering villagers to kill GAM rebels (Robison 1998: 137, 142–43). Lieutenant General Agum Gumelar, who had served as an intelligence officer in Aceh, and later as Chief of Staff at Kodam Bukit Barisan, was also promoted under Habibie to Governor of the military think tank, Lemhanas (National Resilience Institute) (Gatra, 20 February, 1999). President Habibie’s chief military advisors also included two former Kopassus commanders who had previously undertaken tours of duty in East Timor. Lieutenant General Muhammad Yunus Yosfiah, who had led a Kopassus unit blamed for the deaths of five foreign journalists in East Timor in 1975, was awarded the politically sensitive Information portfolio. It is worth noting, however, that in his ministerial capacity, Yunus Yosfiah reverted to a surprisingly reformist position and often defended the media’s freedom despite its critical coverage of the TNI. Another of Habibie’s key military advisors was Major General Sintong Panjaitan, the new Secretary of Development Operations (Sesdalopbang). Sintong Panjaitan was another former Kopassus commander in East Timor, whose alleged involvement in the 1991 Santa Cruz massacre in Dili later led to his dismissal (Gatra, 31 October, 1998). Although the returning Minister for Transmigration and Settlement of Forest Squatters, Lieutenant General Abdullah Mahmud Hendropriyono, did not form part of Habibie’s inner circle, his influence over Aceh security policy grew as Habibie’s own power became attenuated. Known by some as the ‘Butcher of Lampung’, Hendropriyono had previously been district commander of a Kopassus unit in the Sumatran province of Lampung that had stormed a village in February 1989, killing more than 100 villagers (Kompas, 25 March, 2001). Habibie’s appointment of generals with questionable human rights records to politically strategic positions implied that the search for a negotiated solution to the Aceh conflict would be difficult. Habibie also had uneasy relations with the TNI’s dominant ‘secular’ nationalist reform faction, which included such politically influential figures as General Wiranto, Agum Gumelar, Hendropriyono and ABRI’s then Chief of Social and Political Affairs Staff, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. Though Habibie enjoyed some support from more conservative generals, such as Syarwan Hamid and Feisal Tanjung, they became increasingly marginalized as the secular nationalists gained predominance within


17

the TNI under Wiranto.16 While internal divisions initially impeded the TNI’s capacity to act cohesively, Habibie’s political power base was too small and fragile to manipulate these schisms to his advantage. Unlike Suharto, Habibie had no military background and ICMI had been treated with growing suspicion by secular nationalist generals since its inception in 1990. In his former capacity as Suharto’s Minister for Research and Technology, Habibie had also been widely resented by Indonesia’s military leadership for his poor management of organizations that fell under traditional areas of TNI authority such as defence equipment procurement. Nevertheless, in the political turmoil that surrounded regime change, the majority of generals decided, at least temporarily, to cooperate with Habibie until a more suitable presidential candidate could be found. That most senior generals tolerated Habibie’s leadership was also premised on the condition that the new president refrain from interfering in the TNI’s affairs, including its security sector reform process (interview with Lieutenant General (ret.) Hasnan Habib, 2001). Like the TNI, ICMI was internally divided at the point of regime change. Although ICMI members broadly coalesced around issues such as proportional representation and the idea of elevating indigenous (pribumi) Muslim Indonesians to influential positions in government, business and society, there were tensions between the newly powerful pro-Habibie faction in government and the state bureaucracy, and an anti-Habibie group of independent Islamic modernists (Schwarz 1999: 182–84). Unlike Indonesia’s two largest Islamic organizations, the Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) and Muhammadiyah, ICMI’s elite membership also lacked strong grassroots support. With its emphasis on divisive concepts such as ‘minority’ (non-Muslims) versus ‘majority’ (Muslims) and ‘pribumi’ (indigenous) versus ‘non-pribumi’ (usually denoting ethnic Chinese), ICMI’s reform agenda did not directly relate to or represent Acehnese interests. Unlike most generals, however, the ICMI reformists in Habibie’s government tended to sympathize with the justice demands of Aceh’s almost entirely Muslim population. ICMI’s reformist political discourse about redressing perceived injustices against Indonesia’s Muslim majority under the New Order made it a vehicle through which well-connected Acehnese political and community leaders were able to gain influence with, and apply pressure on the central government. ICMI’s Secretary General, Adi Sasono, whom Habibie appointed Minister for Cooperatives, Small and Medium Enterprises, was particularly outspoken in calling on the government in which he served to investigate human rights abuses and initiate rehabilitation programmes in Aceh (Bisnis Indonesia, 28 October, 1998). Another ICMI reformist, Justice Minister Muladi, urged Habibie to grant amnesty to Acehnese political prisoners, provide financial assistance to the families of deceased victims, grant free medical treatment and handicapped facilities to surviving victims and offer education scholarships to Acehnese orphans (Kompas, 31 August, 1998). Other broadly Islamic figures within the Habibie administration who believed the Acehnese should be compensated for their suffering under Suharto included the Religious Affairs Minister, Malik Fajar, Manpower Minister, Fahmi Idris,

18


State Minister for Investment/Chairman of the National Investment Coordinating Board, Hamzah Haz and the Minister of Food and Horticulture, A. M. Saefuddin. Hamzah Haz and A. M. Saefuddin were also senior figures in the Islam-based United Development Party (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, PPP), which had generally performed better in legislative elections in Aceh than in other provinces under the New Order.17 In addition to these broadly Islamic and military groupings, there were many other cleavages and subgroups within Habibie’s government. Personal loyalties and party interests also shaped ministerial attitudes. While it was sometimes difficult to understand how and why different decisions were made during this period of political flux and economic uncertainty, alliances tended to form over particular Aceh issues, such as the timing and scope of human rights investigations, and whether a conciliatory approach or a combined persuasive–repressive approach was needed to restore law and order in Aceh. Within the TNI, the New Order attitude that counterinsurgency operations were needed to eliminate GAM remained strong. By contrast, ministers with ICMI backgrounds generally believed that acceding to Acehnese demands for human rights investigations was a necessary precondition to conflict resolution. Within Indonesia’s fragmented national political landscape, however, these bases of elite conflict and cooperation were neither binding nor enduring. Alliances tended to shift and regroup as Habibie’s presidency weakened and as the military’s political influence grew. Persuasion From the start of his presidency, Habibie sought to distinguish himself as a democratic leader. Amidst growing public agitation for democratic change, greater media freedom and the end of authoritarian repression, Suharto’s appointed successor arguably had little choice. While Habibie was to a large extent swept along by the tide of pressure for political change, however, he surprised everyone by introducing some radical reforms. For example, while it could be argued that any Indonesian president would have been forced to adopt a reformist agenda under such circumstances, Habibie made the remarkable and widely unpopular decision to resolve the East Timor conflict by offering that province the option of an internationally monitored referendum on independence. When Habibie came to power, the biggest security challenge facing Indonesia was the threat of national disintegration. With the end of centralized rule, long-suppressed ethnic, regional and religious tensions erupted across the archipelago, leading to widespread violence, riots and social dislocation. While many regions demanded a more equitable share of the nation’s wealth and power through decentralization, East Timor, Aceh and Irian Jaya increasingly challenged the bonds of national unity. As noted, Acehnese separatist activity was extremely low at the start of Habibie’s presidency, compared with later periods. Aceh was still in shock after more than a decade of rape, torture, summary executions, theft and a litany of other crimes committed against the civilian population during DOM. Although some


19

400 GAM rebels returned to Aceh from Malaysia and other countries throughout 1998, there was little evidence of rebel activity during this period, when anti-Jakarta and anti-TNI demonstrations were coordinated by university student groups such as Farmidia (Reform Action Forum for Islamic Students in Aceh Special Region), Somaka (Students Solidarity for the Case of Aceh) and KARMA (Aceh Student Action for Reform). That these student demands mainly focused on human rights issues and not Aceh’s political status may be at least partially attributed to the fact that DOM had not yet ended and thousands of non-organic troops remained in Aceh. After more than a decade of war, many Acehnese simply wanted the opportunity to live in peace. Independence demands may also have been muted at the point of regime change because there appeared to be cautious optimism amongst Aceh’s resurgent civil society that democratic change was possible. As one Acehnese student put it, ‘I don’t want a separate country… I just want a different Indonesia’ (Asiaweek, 18 September, 1998). At first, Habibie was quite responsive to Acehnese justice demands. On 4 June, 1998, two weeks after coming to power, he sent the first of two National Human Rights Commission (Komnas HAM) delegations to Aceh to investigate reports about widespread rights violations committed during DOM and investigate several mass graves, mostly in the districts of Pidie and North and East Aceh. This decision formed part of Habibie’s National Plan of Action on Human Rights, which aimed to ratify and implement international human rights instruments throughout Indonesia over a five-year period. The timing of this reform initiative was crucial because the TNI was still internally divided and not in a strong position to oppose the investigations. However, the Komnas HAM investigation failed to alleviate the strong sense of betrayal in Aceh, in large part because the commission released contradictory findings that only 944 Acehnese were killed or disappeared during DOM, and yet some 3,000 women were widowed ‘because their husbands died or disappeared’, and 15,000 to 20,000 Acehnese children were orphaned (Waspada, 24 August, 1998). In August 1998, when the Komnas HAM report was publicly released, it was angrily rejected by Acehnese student leaders and humanitarian NGO representatives, some of whom cited considerably higher fatality figures ranging from 10,000 to 39,000 conflict-related deaths (The Jakarta Post, 13 August, 1998). While these figures sound extraordinarily high, the actual death toll from the DOM period is unknown, and the more time passes the less likely it is to ever be revealed. Many sources have also failed to distinguish between ‘victims of violence’ and ‘fatalities’ from that period, with the result that even less controversial DOM fatality figures tend to be located within the broad range of 1,600 (The Jakarta Post, 6 October, 1998) to 6,000 deaths (Smith 2002: 76). For entirely different reasons, the Komnas HAM report was also rejected by Indonesia’s armed forces. General Wiranto condemned Komnas HAM for publicizing its findings without first consulting ABRI and even suggested that the corpses exhumed from the mass graves in Pidie, North and East Aceh were victims of the 1965–66 national purging of suspected communists (Republika, 11 August, 1998). Komnas HAM Chairman Baharuddin Lopa pointed out, however,

20


that the army belts that bound the hands of the corpses were only manufactured after 1991 (Serambi Indonesia, 28 August, 1998). Other generals made equally implausible claims. For instance, the 011 Lilawangsa North Aceh Commander, Colonel Dasiri Musnar, denied the existence of any ‘killing fields’ in Aceh, arguing that Komnas HAM had included in its report casualties from Aceh’s colonial war against the Dutch. According to Dasiri Musnar, Acehnese civilians who disappeared during DOM were illegal migrants who had sailed to Malaysia to avoid being ‘butchered’ by GAM rebels. Musnar therefore reasoned that ‘in the event that they didn’t make it or got lost at sea, how can ABRI be blamed for that?’ (Gatra, 29 August, 1998). A more common TNI claim, which only added to the growing sense of anger in Aceh, was that DOM never existed because there was no legal doctrine by that name. Habibie’s Inspector General of Industry and Trade, Major General H. R. Pramono, a former Kodam Bukit Barisan commander during DOM, was especially outspoken in claiming that Aceh was never a military operations area because ‘if there was “DOM” then all the activities in every area would have been organized by the military, but we didn’t do that. The activities for development/society [in Aceh] continued to proceed as usual’ (Suara Pembaruan, 28 August, 1998). It is true that DOM had no legal status and that the military command system and operations in Aceh between 1989 and 1998 were both formally called Komando Pelaksanaan Operasi Jaring Merah (Red Net Operations Implementation Command). For practical purposes, however, Aceh was a military operations area. During his tenure as Aceh’s Regional Operations Commander, Pramono had organized such ‘activities’ as ordering Acehnese civilians to kill GAM rebels and staging nationalist rallies in association with the MUI (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, Indonesian Ulama Council) as part of the military’s strategy to co-opt local community and religious leaders into its territorial campaign (Kell 1995: 79). But the legal (or illegal) status of DOM was beside the point. Soldiers could not be blamed for DOM as such, but they could be prosecuted for human rights abuses. That there was no legal doctrine called DOM should have afforded security forces personnel less – not more – state protection. The TNI also indirectly influenced a fact-finding mission into Aceh that was established in July 1998 by the DPR (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, People’s House of Representatives). This investigation was led by Lieutenant General Hari Sabarno, who headed the parliament’s ABRI faction. According to Hari Sabarno, the purpose of the DPR mission was not to legally process rights violations cases from DOM, but to collect data on ‘the security and political aspects of conditions in Aceh’ to inform future policy decisions (Xpos, 7 August, 1998). The findings of Hari Sabarno’s report, which were submitted before the DPR along with the Komnas HAM report, were ambiguously framed so as to include no direct references to abuses against Acehnese civilians by Indonesian security forces personnel. As Hari Sabarno explained, while his eight-member delegation ‘did not research the full extent of the human rights violations’, it concluded that the consequences of Operasi Jaring Merah were ‘caused by the GPK [government term for GAM] as well as by military operations’, which created conditions under


21

which ‘a person who is directly or indirectly helping GPK can become a victim’ (Tempo Interaktif, 3–8 August, 1998). The Komnas HAM and DPR investigations presented a dilemma for the Habibie administration over whether it was more prudent to address Acehnese demands for justice or to bury the past and concentrate on democratic reforms. As O’Donnell and Schmitter explain, immediately after the end of repressive authoritarian regimes, ‘memories are more intense; victims (or their survivors) and victimizers are still present’ (1986: 30). Instigating human rights trials directly after the New Order’s collapse may have further destabilized Habibie’s already fragile presidency by inviting repercussions from the TNI. Proceeding with the national democratization process without attempting to redress one of the primary causes of Aceh’s contemporary conflict, however, threatened to further erode Jakarta’s capacity to govern in Aceh due to growing local discontent over this issue. An additional risk of delayed action on the human rights issue was that it threatened to further diminish Habibie’s political legitimacy, which had never been strong, in the eyes of the wider population. Although most Indonesians believed Aceh should remain part of Indonesia, by mid-1998 the mass media had turned Aceh into a national political issue and public opinion was firmly in favour of compensating the Acehnese for their suffering under the New Order. Tapping into this sympathy, the Minister for Cooperatives, Small and Medium Enterprises, Adi Sasono, publicly criticized the government in which he served for ‘not giving the Acehnese anything’ (Bisnis Indonesia, 28 October, 1998). Despite its opposition to human rights investigations, the military did cooperate with Habibie’s non-coercive Aceh approach, at least initially. In August 1998, General Wiranto followed Habibie’s instruction to visit the North Aceh capital of Lhokseumawe to announce the end of DOM and the planned withdrawal of nonorganic troops from Aceh. Wiranto also followed Habibie’s order to apologize for ‘the conduct of ABRI troops who caused severe losses to the Acehnese people’ (Gatra, 15 August, 1998). While most Acehnese cautiously welcomed the end of DOM, rumours surfaced almost immediately after Wiranto’s visit of covert military operations to conceal or destroy evidence of atrocities, which prompted teams of villagers to organize round-the-clock vigils to guard Aceh’s mass grave sites (Tapol, September 1998). Wiranto’s apology also failed to achieve the desired effect of promoting peace and reconciliation in Aceh, not least because it was followed days later by his inflammatory remark that suspected communists from the 1965–66 mass killings may have been included in the Komnas HAM report. Acehnese anger over Wiranto’s comments soon manifested into a series of public demonstrations organized by Acehnese university students and local NGOs. At the heart of the protesters’ demands were calls for Wiranto to recant his ‘unfair’ and ‘inhumane’ remarks, and for ABRI to take legal responsibility for abuses perpetrated against the Acehnese people (Serambi Indonesia, 29 August, 1998). They also accused Wiranto of stigmatizing the Acehnese people through his statement that the central government no longer considered it appropriate to refer to GAM as ‘GPK’ (Gerakan Pengacau Keamanan, Security

22


Disturbance Movement), which would henceforth be labelled ‘GPL’ (Gerakan Pengacau Liar, Wild/Unauthorized Disturbance Movement) (The Jakarta Post, 13 August, 1998). The non-organic troop withdrawal from Aceh presented Jakarta with a complex array of security challenges. The biggest problem was that Jakarta treated the end of DOM as a policy in itself and did not issue any clear directives on the provision of additional resources to strengthen civil law enforcement. There can be no doubt that Habibie’s order to withdraw non-organic troops from Aceh was well-intentioned, but it was a simplistic response to a complex situation as law and order cannot be restored in a security vacuum. During his Aceh visit, General Wiranto had alluded to this lack of a coherent Aceh policy by stating that responsibility for Aceh’s security situation would henceforth be placed ‘in the hands of the people of Aceh, namely the ulama, community leaders, teachers, government officials and all of its community, including all ABRI units belonging to the regional police and military resort commands’ (The Jakarta Post, 13 August, 1998). What role the wider Acehnese community was supposed to play in provincial law enforcement was unclear, and the only enthusiastic response to Wiranto’s announcement came from the MUI, which had been co-opted into the TNI’s territorial campaign against GAM during DOM. In a statement reminiscent of that period, Aceh’s MUI Chairman, Professor Ibrahim Husen, pledged to ‘assemble the ulemas throughout Aceh. Then we can find the strategy to restore the security back to normal again’ (Gatra, 15 August, 1998). In practice, of course, Indonesian security forces and not Acehnese community groups were responsible for law enforcement after the end of DOM. After the non-organic troop withdrawal, it was envisaged that responsibility for the protection of public order would shift from the TNI to the police force. As the Acehneseborn ABRI Chief of General Staff Lieutenant General H. Fachrul Razi explained, ‘The ABRI unit [in Aceh] is merely for reinforcement. They are placed under the police operational command. The controlling command is done by the Police Resort [district command] and the Regional Police [provincial command]’ (Gatra, 12 September, 1998). A key problem with this new arrangement, however, was that Aceh’s police force was understaffed, under-resourced and lacked the training and operational capacity to maintain security in Aceh. Although paramilitary police (Brigade Mobil, Brimob) had been involved in counterinsurgency operations against GAM under Suharto, Brimob lacked adequate intelligence, discipline and resources to manage internal disputes. According to Fachrul Razi, Aceh’s police force needed to be increased three- or fourfold, since ‘the ideal ratio for the police and the community should be 1:350, while the police ratio [in Aceh] at the present time is 1:1,200’ (Gatra, 12 September, 1998). However, with no additional funding, training or resources forthcoming from Jakarta, Fachrul Razi conceded that was an unrealistic expectation. There were also confusing chains of command. In Jakarta, the TNI was in the process of developing a ‘New Paradigm’ through which to reform itself in consultation with legislators from Indonesia’s then highest legislative decision-making


23

body, the MPR (Majelis Perwakilan Rakyat, People’s Consultative Assembly). These security sector reforms, which were initiated and managed by the TNI, included plans to separate the military from the national police force (Kepolisian Republik Indonesia, Polri), and to place the police in charge of domestic law enforcement while the military were to revert to a largely external defence role. But there was no legal basis for the separation until April 1999.18 Meanwhile, in 1998, the remaining organic TNI battalions in Aceh continued to act autonomously from the regional police as they were only directly accountable to their territorial command units. This trend continued even after the formal separation of the forces and contributed towards the reduced effectiveness of future police-led operations in Aceh. The TNI’s territorial system, which loosely parallels the civilian administration from the national level to villages across Indonesia and constitutes its main power structure, was left largely untouched by Indonesia’s reform process. As a result, the military retained a high level of informal access to political power and state resources in the regions. From 1985 until January 2002, when Aceh’s Iskandar Muda regional military command was reestablished (see Chapter Six), the Medan-based Kodam Bukit Barisan supervised the military commands and operations in Aceh, Jambi and North and West Sumatra.19 Directly subordinate to this in Aceh are two military resort commands (Korem). The Lhokseumawebased Korem 011 Lilawangsa manages subordinate military commands and operations in eastern Aceh, while the Banda Aceh–based Korem 012 Teuku Umar covers the western part of the province. By contrast, the police only have one Regional Police Headquarters (Mapolda), located in Banda Aceh. At the district (kabupaten) and sub-district (kecamatan) levels, the military and police both have commands, known by their acronyms as ‘Kodim’ and ‘Koramil’ for the military, and Polres and Polwil for the police. Both security systems are further divided along functional lines. Under Habibie, numerous ad hoc military and police structures remained active outside these formal command systems for intelligence, interrogation and counterinsurgency operations. During Operasi Satgas Wibawa 99 (Operation Task Force Authority 99), for instance, informal interrogation centres called Tactical Force Post (Pos Satuan Taktis) were used to torture civilians on at least two occasions. It was also at the district and sub-district command levels that the military later revived the New Order practice of recruiting civilian militias, or ‘people’s defence organizations’. The informal shift in responsibility over internal security from the TNI to Polri in 1998 challenged traditional attitudes within the armed forces. The subordination of the police to the military under the New Order had left a lingering perception that the relationship between the forces was unequal, ‘like between a father and son’ (interview with Lieutenant General (ret.) Hasnan Habib, 5 October, 2001). The TNI was reluctant to relinquish control over internal security, especially in conflict areas like Aceh where even the police conceded their incapacity to uphold the rule of law (Gatra, 12 September, 1998). Tensions between police and military units in Aceh occasionally erupted into violent clashes and attempts to blame each other for atrocities. In February 1999, for example, soldiers shot into

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a crowd of civilians in East Aceh, an event that became known as the Idi Cut Massacre. During the incident, the soldiers ordered dozens of youths onto trucks and ordered them to say that police/Brimob officers were responsible for the shootings (Koalisi NGO HAM Aceh, 18 February, 1999). Another problem was the TNI’s interpretation of, and justification for, state violence as a mechanism for defending national unity, which cast doubt over its capacity to exercise restraint in police operations. Within the TNI, there remained a high level of continuity in the New Order attitude that any policies to end separatism must begin with the elimination of the separatists. As the police shared the same view, it was equally uncertain whether Aceh’s regional police units, which had operated as an extension of the TNI under Suharto, would be capable of reverting from an offensive position to a defensive role. That Brimob and Polri were surpassed only by the TNI in their acts of aggression against the civilian population did not inspire confidence amongst many Acehnese civilians that the police would transform into a credible civilian law enforcement agency. In the absence of re-training programmes and additional resources to facilitate this transformation, there was little incentive to reform. Like Indonesia’s other conflict areas, Indonesia’s security forces also had strong economic reasons for remaining in Aceh. During DOM, the military had become embedded in every sector of Aceh’s war economy. As Siegel observed, under Suharto, it was ‘widely known that a peasant could not even sell a cow without giving 10% to the army’ (23 October, 2000). The best-known military business in Aceh was its provision of security for multinational companies there such as ExxonMobil Oil Indonesia (EMOI) and the Arun natural gas installations in the Lhokseumawe Industrial Zone (ZILS). Soldiers and police officers were also involved in Aceh’s marijuana, illegal logging and fishing industries, the sale of arms to GAM, extortion activities, commercial crops such as palm oil and coffee, and exporting native fauna such as Sumatran tigers and exotic birds. The end of DOM threatened to bring an end to these opportunities for personal and institutional enrichment. Another risk was that sections of the security forces would subvert or ignore central government policy directives if benefits derived from a pre-existing order were endangered, such as micro-level business interests that operated outside state control. With the police ‘in charge’ of law enforcement after the end of DOM, state power in Aceh dramatically declined. This loss of authority was evident when 659 nonorganic TNI troops were withdrawn from the North Aceh capital of Lhokseumawe on 31 August, 1998, and only 50 police officers were deployed to contain some 2,000 rioters (Waspada, 3 September, 1998). When the Lhokseumawe riots spiralled out of control and spread to other parts of North and East Aceh, Wiranto announced that the non-organic troop withdrawal would be postponed until law and order could be restored (Kompas, 2 September, 1998). It was not until 11 September that the violence, looting and burnings of buildings had sufficiently subsided for the remaining non-organic battalions to be redeployed (Serambi Indonesia, 10 September, 1998). The Lhokseumawe riots raised questions about who was responsible for inciting the violence, how many non-organic troops were withdrawn from Aceh


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and why the remaining organic troops were so slow in providing police assistance. One explanation was that sections of the TNI saw the deterioration of Aceh’s security situation as an opportunity through which to gradually reassert a strong military presence in Aceh and to return to a more direct role in Indonesian politics. While the army and police blamed GAM for the riots, local legislators and NGOs accused the TNI of engineering the violence (Siar News Service, 3 September, 1998). Lhokseumawe residents claimed that soldiers had paid Acehnese youths to travel by truck to incite riots in other cities (Van Dijk 2002: 229). There were also rumors that up to 6,000 non-organic troops had secretly returned to Aceh to create chaos (Xpos, 11 September, 1998). This last claim was difficult to verify. It was unclear how many non-organic troops, and from which forces (for example, Kostrad, Kopassus, marines) had been stationed in Aceh during the final months of DOM. While most ‘guestimates’ of TNI–Polri troop levels during DOM were around 12,000 personnel (Kell 1995: 74; Sukma 2004: 17; Shie 2003: 17; Smith 2002: 76), the Indonesian government did not publicly release figures on the subject. What was clear from the widely publicized troop withdrawal, however, was that large numbers of nonorganic battalions had left Aceh. This was later confirmed by North Aceh 011 Lilawangsa Military Resort Commander Colonel Daisiri Musnar, who averred that TNI troop levels in Aceh had been reduced by 65 percent immediately after the end of DOM, although he too did not provide an actual figure (Tempo, 26 February, 2001). Without a coherent Aceh policy in place after the non-organic troop withdrawal, the vacuum in Indonesian state power and authority in Aceh created space for the mobilization of anti-Indonesian sentiment. After their key demand to end DOM was met, Acehnese student groups and NGOs began to demand a Truth Commission to investigate human rights perpetrators. It was during this period that Acehnese civil society underwent its first phase of consolidation. On 3 September, 1998, 18 NGOs and rights advocacy forums united to form Koalisi NGO HAM Aceh (Aceh NGO Coalition for Human Rights). The goals of this non-partisan coalition were to raise national awareness about rights violations in Aceh, investigate and collect data on abuses, provide legal and humanitarian assistance to the victims and secure compensation and rehabilitation facilities and services from Jakarta for the victims and their families. This campaign was conducted on several fronts. In late 1998, Koalisi NGO HAM Aceh staged several demonstrations and petitioned Jakarta, foreign governments and international human rights organizations to take action on human rights issues (Waspada, 10 September, 1998). By late 1998, several member organizations of Koalisi NGO HAM Aceh, such as the Jakartabased Kontras (Commission for Disappeared Persons and Victims of Violence) and Citra Desa Indonesia (Village Image Indonesia), were also making extensive use of the Internet by hosting online discussion forums and posting press releases on their websites to raise global awareness about atrocities committed in Aceh. Acehnese NGO demands also became more economically orientated after the end of DOM. Some NGOs demanded a fairer share of Aceh’s resource wealth through broad economic autonomy, higher wages and improvements to living

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conditions and employment opportunities (Waspada, 11 September, 1998). Some of these economic issues are discussed further in Chapter Three. It is important to note here, however, that like the rest of Indonesia, Aceh’s deteriorating economy after the national financial crisis had a destabilizing impact on provincial security. With the economic collapse, rising poverty and unemployment heightened pre-existing sociopolitical tensions throughout the province. There was anger over the perceived economic exploitation by multinational companies in Aceh, specifically EMOI’s oil and gas operations in North Aceh. In October 1998, 11 NGOs released a three-page media statement outlining their grievances against EMOI, such as its ‘negligible contribution’ to Aceh’s economy, forced displacement of villagers from their land and pollution of crops in surrounding areas. The most serious allegation, however, was that EMOI had supported atrocities committed against Acehnese civilians during DOM through its provision of facilities (such as command posts that were used as torture chambers) and equipment (including excavators for digging mass graves) to ABRI personnel. While neither EMOI nor the central government publicly acknowledged the NGO statement at that time, this issue became the subject of a protracted international lawsuit under the next three governments. Another manifestation of growing Acehnese anger over Indonesian abuses was the resurgence of a petrus (pembunuhan/pembunuh misterius, mysterious killings/killers) phenomenon in Aceh in October 1998. Unlike later petrus killings in 1999, the first Acehnese victims were all suspected Indonesian military or government spies (known as cuak, mata-mata militer [military spy] and TPO [tenaga pembantu operasi operations assistance staff]). Suggesting that the killers were GAM rebels or their supporters, the Banda Aceh–based Serambi Indonesia newspaper noted that ‘these people who become [petrus] victims are always known as TPO’ (14 February, 1999). At first, there was a distinct lack of public sympathy for petrus victims, who were generally seen as ‘traitors’ and ‘criminals’ (Waspada, 6 January, 1999). It was only after 16 February, 1999, when General Wiranto introduced a controversial policy to shoot rioters on the spot, that the motives behind the Aceh killings became more ‘mysterious’ in nature and there was a dramatic increase in shooting victims (Koalisi NGO HAM, 4 April, 2000). One noteworthy feature of the first petrus killings in Aceh was that they were not especially mysterious in nature. It is questionable whether the murders would even have been labelled petrus if Indonesia’s post-Suharto political climate had not been so rife with conspiracy theories. The first four killings of suspected Indonesian spies in GAM’s traditional stronghold of Pidie were described by Koalisi NGO HAM Aceh as ‘summary killings’ by angry locals who took ‘the law into their own hands’ (Koalisi NGO HAM, 4 April, 2000). The only other district where petrus killings took place in late 1998 and early 1999 was North Aceh, which, like Pidie, was the scene of some of the worst atrocities during DOM. Unlike the Pidie killings, the North Aceh petrus murders were generally committed by small groups and individuals (Serambi Indonesia, 27 February, 1999). In both districts, however, the motive was clear. For instance, the corpse of Zainal Abidin from North Aceh’s Blang Kandang district was found with his throat slit


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and two pieces of paper attached to his body reading ‘You are a killer of the nation’, and ‘Cuak’ or ‘Spy’ (Tempo, 23 February, 1999). These early petrus killings in Aceh pointed to two key areas of state incapacity. The first was Indonesia’s dysfunctional legal system, which led civilians to pursue justice through extrajudicial means. The second was the incapacity of the police to contain the violence as none of the petrus killers were ever captured. According to North Aceh Police Chief Lieutenant Colonel Iskandar Hasan, Acehnese society was to blame for refusing to cooperate with the police, since ‘without the people’s help, it is nonsense to think the police can do much’ (Serambi Indonesia, 2 February, 1999). That no suspected spies ever sought police protection, however, reflected the general lack of confidence in the police as a legitimate civil law enforcement agency. It is likely that suspected spies would have been further stigmatized by their communities, had they approached the police. For example, after the first petrus killing of a farmer in Pidie, who reportedly had intimate ties with the TNI, dozens of other Pidie residents who were alleged TNI collaborators fled to the jungle rather than seek police protection (Serambi Indonesia, 23 October, 1998). By late 1998, Acehnese anger towards Jakarta also started to translate into increasing support for GAM. One factor that contributed towards GAM’s growth was the return of about 400 GAM rebels to Aceh throughout 1998 who had been involved in the movement’s weapons smuggling operations and propaganda campaign in Malaysia during DOM. GAM’s resurgence was also inadvertently assisted by Habibie’s decision to grant amnesty to 562 Acehnese political prisoners (naripidana politik, napol) in August 1998 as part of his government’s national reconciliation agenda in Aceh (The Jakarta Post, 13 August, 1998). GAM rebels too were included amongst 150 prisoners who escaped from Lhokseumawe’s city jail during the August–September 1998 riots (AFP, 1 September, 1998). From November to December 1998, pro-GAM rallies, arson attacks on Indonesian state facilities and rebel killings of Indonesian security forces personnel increased, although these incidents were largely confined to small pockets of North and East Aceh. The first incident on 2 November, 1998, began with a GAM ‘blessing of arms’ ceremony in Syamtalira Bayu sub-district near Lhokseumawe. Though those who attended the GAM rally later marched down the Bukit Raya road to Lhokseumawe, chanting ‘Aceh Merdeka’ (Free Aceh) and removing Indonesian flags from several government buildings along the way, the rally ended peacefully (Forum LSM Aceh 1998). It was only on 15 November, 1998, when Brimob troops returned to Meunasah Blang Kandang and surrounded the home of local GAM commander Ahmad Kandang, that violence broke out, killing one Brimob officer and one civilian. Ahmad Kandang had recently returned from Malaysia, and had trained in GAM’s military camp in Libya in the mid-1980s. He was also wanted by the police for robbing a Lhokseumawe bank. Despite Ahmad Kandang’s GAM ties, Aceh’s Regional Police Chief, Colonel Mohammad Rodja, strangely refused to blame GAM for the incident, stating that it was ‘more the consequence of dissatisfaction by the local community, including problems about road building and other social problems’ (Serambi Indonesia,

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22 November, 1998). Equally odd were claims by villagers who witnessed the incident that Ahmad Kandang walked calmly out of his house during the five-hour shootout without being captured or shot at by the police.20 Dozens of other villagers were subsequently arrested, however, and were only released one week later after signing statements that denounced GAM and pledged allegiance to the Indonesian state (Serambi Indonesia, 22 November, 1998). The search for Ahmad Kandang soon became a catalyst in Jakarta’s decision to resume security operations. On 29 December, seven soldiers were dragged from a bus by an angry mob along the Lhokseumawe–Medan highway. Six of the soldiers were killed, while one managed to escape. Although the killers were never identified, TNI spokesmen blamed GAM for the lynching because ‘the “brain” of someone who would cause the disappearance of ABRI soldiers must be GPK’ (Waspada, 31 December, 1999). As if to prove the military’s point, on 30 December, Ahmad Kandang allegedly left a message on the telephone answering machine of the 011 Lilawangsa Military Commander Johny Wahab, claiming responsibility for two other kidnappings of Indonesian soldiers near the North Aceh EMOI installations. According to Johny Wahab, Ahmad Kandang refused to negotiate the return of the kidnapped soldiers because ‘ABRI has already killed thousands of people’ (Forum Keadilan, 11 January, 1999). Johny Wahab immediately responded by ordering helicopters to drop hundreds of leaflets on Meunasah Blang Kandang village requesting information on the whereabouts of the missing soldiers. When no information was forthcoming, Operasi Satgas Wibawa 99 was launched in North Aceh on 2 January, 1999. Return to repression The shift towards a more repressive Aceh approach putatively stemmed from intensifying GAM activity, but preparations to adopt a tougher stance in dealing with Indonesia’s internal disputes had already begun in Jakarta almost two months earlier; that is, before the shooting at Ahmad Kandang’s house on 15 November, 1998. On 9 November, a Council for the Enforcement of Security and Law (DPKSH, Dewan Penegakan Keamanan dan Sistem Hukum) was established via Presidential Decree No.191/1998 to advise the government on controlling threats to national stability and to coordinate strategies to resolve it. When the central government first acknowledged the existence of the DPKSH in December 1998, it announced that the council was not an extension of the Operations Command to Restore Security and Order (Kopkamtib) that had been used to control dissent under the New Order (Republika, 9 December, 1998). Certainly, there were key differences between the DPKSH and New Order agencies like Kopkamtib and Bakorstanas (Badan Koordinasi Ketahanan Nasional, Coordinating Agency for National Stability). Unlike these agencies, the DPKSH was located outside the formal security hierarchy, its primary function was advisory, not operational, and it had no power to make arrests. Beyond these differences, however, some national policy advice provided by the DPKSH closely resembled decisions made by the New Order security agencies. It was the


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DPKSH, for instance, that informed the decision to redeploy thousands of nonorganic troops to Aceh under the renamed Mass Riot Repression Force (Pasukan Penindak Rusuh Massa, PPRM) (interview with Major General (ret.) Abdul Rachman Gaffar, 31 October, 2002). The creation of the DPKSH marked the start of a shift in authority over Aceh security decisions from President Habibie to General Wiranto. While Habibie formally headed the DPKSH, Wiranto was in charge of its daily operations and held considerably more influence over the council’s smaller, more powerful 13-member executive committee. When the DPKSH was established, many generals were becoming frustrated by Habibie’s uncertain experiment with democracy, as well as with the democratization process itself, especially in problematic provinces like Aceh where the police evidently lacked the capacity to protect public order. In the absence of any clear Aceh policy direction from August to December 1998, it seemed to many generals that it was only a matter of time before GAM resurfaced. Even Habibie’s TNI ‘allies’ on the DPKSH executive committee, including Syarwan Hamid and Sintong Panjaitan, prioritized the defence of national security over democratic reforms, which appeared to lack substance and direction. Though there were several civilian ministers on the DPKSH executive, it was the seven generals, with their superior knowledge and experience in security matters, who dominated the Council’s proceedings (Serambi Indonesia, 9 January, 1999; Waspada, 23 February, 1999). From the start of Operasi Satgas Wibawa, Wiranto was in charge of Aceh security policy. On 31 December, 1998, the ABRI commander foreshadowed the decision to return to security operations in Aceh by warning that ‘although the Acehnese people had wanted “DOM” to be removed and the troops to be withdrawn to their barracks, the actions by a small group in that region will tarnish the convictions of Acehnese society and ABRI alike’ (Waspada, 31 December, 1999). Habibie remained conspicuously silent about the renewed operations, but Wiranto became increasingly outspoken on Aceh and other domestic security issues throughout 1999. Though Operasi Satgas Wibawa was restricted to North and East Aceh, the operations sparked province-wide protests amongst Acehnese civil society groups. According to Wiranto, the goal of the Kamtibmas (Restoration of Security and Public Order Operation), which was supported by 2,000 non-organic TNI and Polri troops, was to reestablish a ‘feeling of safety’ (Waspada, 31 December, 1999) in the Acehnese society, and by inference, to destroy GAM. The violence that accompanied the operations, however, saw Wibawa (Authority) become colloquially known as an acronym for Wiranto Basmi Warga Aceh (Wiranto Exterminates the Acehnese People) (HRW 1999). By the end of Operasi Satgas Wibawa in February 1999, 46 civilians had been killed, 90 had been hospitalized and about 160 arrests had been made. It was a public relations disaster. By mid-January 1999, TNI and Polri leaders were already conceding the operation’s failure after two widely publicized incidents at an informal interrogation centre, or Pos Satuan Taktis, in Lhokseumawe. In the first incident on 5 January, 137 men were detained at Lhokseumawe’s Indonesian National Youth Committee (Komite Nasional Pemuda Indonesia, KNPI) building

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for four days. For the first two days of their detention, the men were forced to lay face down with their hands tied behind their backs, and several were beaten and tortured (Serambi Indonesia, 7 January, 1999). On 9 January, the KNPI was again used as a Pos Satuan Taktis to interrogate 39 men and one woman from Ahmad Kandang’s village of Meunasah Blang Kandang and the neighbouring village of Kuta Blang. This second incident highlighted the unequal relationship between the police and the military in the ‘police-led’ operations. Although the 40 youths were arrested by a police unit commanded by Lieutenant Colonel Iskandar Hasan, the TNI took over the interrogation process. The interrogations were conducted by TNI Major (Infantry) Bayu Nadjib, the former commander of the six soldiers who were murdered along the Lhokseumawe–Medan highway on 29 December, 1998. During the interrogations, Major Bayu Nadjib ignored requests by the police to stop beating the detainees with an electric cable. Later that evening, Nadjib returned to the KNPI with about 50 soldiers, who proceeded to beat the detainees so badly that 4 later died from their injuries, while 23 were hospitalized and 13 sustained light injuries (Serambi Indonesia, 11 January, 1999). The maltreatment of civilians in the KNPI incidents pointed to the common perception within Indonesia’s armed forces that GAM rebels and Acehnese civilians were inseparable. A variation of this view was expressed by the then Kodam Bukit Barisan commander, Major General Abdul Rachman Gaffar: ‘GAM are like fish in the water. GAM are the fish and society is the water. If the fish feel as if they are going to be attacked by the TNI, they will run [sic] to their parents in the villages (interview, 31 October, 2002). The elusive nature of GAM and their ability to easily blend into the local population, especially in the countryside where support for the rebels was strongest, constituted a key difficulty in Operasi Satgas Wibawa and subsequent security operations. Rather than err towards caution and restraint, the military behaved recklessly and often recorded civilian casualties in their records as GAM members or their supporters. Although the military’s behavioural and disciplinary problems remained unaddressed during Operasi Satgas Wibawa, these operations were conducted in a vastly different political context than during the DOM period. The national landscape of political openness and the liberalization of the mass media reinforced pressure for security sector reform and punitive action against human rights perpetrators. The negative publicity surrounding the second KNPI incident led to Major Bayu Nadjib’s dismissal from the TNI and subsequent sentencing by a Banda Aceh military court to six years imprisonment for manslaughter (Serambi Indonesia, 31 January, 1999). Four other soldiers were also dismissed from Korem 011 Lilawangsa and sentenced to seven years each for slapping, kicking and beating the KNPI detainees with pistols and electric cables (Serambi Indonesia, 30 January, 1999). Though local humanitarian NGOs described the sentences as unacceptably lenient (Serambi Indonesia 31 January, 1999), such trials would have been unthinkable during DOM. These were also the first TNI personnel to be sentenced for Aceh violations in the post-New Order period, and the trials were conducted in a timely manner.


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The TNI soon showed, however, that there were limits to its willingness to prosecute soldiers. National condemnation over the KNPI incidents forced the military to punish some of the perpetrators. But, after a massacre in the East Aceh village of Idi Cut on 3 February, 1999, the TNI decided to terminate Operasi Satgas Wibawa rather than hold fresh trials. The Idi Cut affair also marked the start of a shift in the military’s Aceh strategy towards a series of more covert Sadar Rencong (literally, beware of the [traditional Acehnese] dagger) security operations, which, unlike Operasi Satgas Wibawa, were not publicized, at least at the time they were launched. The Idi Cut affair began with a GAM rally on the evening of 2 February, 1999, which was attended by up to 10,000 villagers. The size and frequency of these GAM rallies (called dakwah, or ‘preaching’ rallies) increased after the start of Operasi Satgas Wibawa and were often advertised through pamphlet distributions. When the crowd attempted to leave the Idi Cut rally, soldiers opened fire on civilians and shot at the tyres of departing vehicles. Army trucks were then used to dump the corpses of civilian victims into the nearby Arakundoe River. Six corpses were later recovered from the river while a seventh shooting victim was found in his vehicle. At least 74 civilians were wounded in the incident, and by late February, 30 people were still missing (Ishak 2001). The Idi Cut massacre had a profound impact on the radicalization and unification of Acehnese civil society. Not only did it demonstrate the hollowness of Indonesia’s democratization process in the eyes of many Acehnese, but it also showed the limits of Jakarta’s capacity and willingness to dispense justice for human rights abuses. Although Wiranto told the DPR that a fact-finding team would be deployed to Aceh to investigate the Idi Cut massacre, no soldiers were subsequently brought to trial. Colonel Johny Wahab, who headed the 011 Lilawangsa Korem that supervised operations in Idi Cut, expressed his disappointment that the Acehnese ‘people and ABRI always want to clash’, but made no mention of prosecuting the responsible soldiers (Serambi Indonesia, 25 February, 1999). The Idi Cut affair sparked a shift in Acehnese expectations of Jakarta. Frustration over the central government’s inaction on human rights and democratic reforms was replaced by new questions about Aceh’s position as part of the Indonesian Republic. The emergence of such civil defiance was possible, even amidst ongoing security operations, because the New Order’s collapse ended the prevailing climate of fear in Aceh. The military’s authority was no longer absolute, and its legitimacy was increasingly called into question by the mass media and by Aceh’s student-led reform movement, which formed the moral pulse of the province. Somewhat differently, Colonel Johny Wahab claimed that it was only because ‘ABRI’s image is at its lowest ebb’ that a ‘house rat’ like Ahmad Kandang was able to convince ‘local people that ABRI has carried out mass murder[s] of their families during the DOM status’ (Gatra, 16 January, 1999). The radicalization of Acehnese society was also linked to Habibie’s decision to resolve another of Indonesia’s internal conflicts by granting East Timor a referendum on independence. On 31 January–4 February, 1999, 386 Acehnese student, human rights, youth and religious leaders from 106 provincial groups and organizations

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convened a ‘Congress of Students and Youth of Away Acehnese’ in Banda Aceh. By its conclusion, the Congress had decided that Acehnese youth and students were left with no alternative but to fight for a United Nations–monitored referendum on Acehnese self-determination. To promote their East Timor–style referendum demand, the Congress formed an umbrella organization, SIRA (Sentral Informasi Referendum Aceh, Aceh Referendum Information Centre), which was mandated to ‘free the Acehnese people from external and internal colonization and oppression, and to fight for the realization of civil society’ (SIRA 1999). Conspicuously, the day after the Congress, the Banda Aceh–based Serambi Indonesia newspaper published a front-page excerpt of Habibie’s announcement that ‘If the people of East Timor don’t want us to implement development and cannot share the spirit of our program of struggle, then they can adapt by themselves or separate [from Indonesia] in a peaceful manner’ (5 February, 1999). SIRA worked rapidly to promote its referendum proposal. It also worked quickly to consolidate support throughout the province by forging networks with existing student, religious, human rights and Islamic groups and organizations. By April 1999, SIRA had established 78 coordination posts throughout Aceh, each of which was manned by two students whose task was ‘to familiarize the referendum and to monitor the violations of human rights’ (The Jakarta Post, 14 April, 1999). SIRA found an especially important ally in the 75,000 member Ikatan Santri Aceh (Aceh Santri [devout Islamic] Association). Ikatan Santri Aceh students had become increasingly politically active following the establishment of SIRA, and often participated in pro-referendum rallies. On 7 April, 1999, the students held a province-wide dayah (Islamic boarding school) meeting, where they decided to change their name to the Arabic Rabithah Thaliban Aceh (Union of Acehnese Students) to reflect their ‘solidarity with the aspirations of Acehnese society’ by holding an internationally monitored referendum on Acehnese independence. Although Rabithah Thaliban Aceh President Tgk. Bulqaini Tanjungan said the Acehnese dayah students supported SIRA, he emphasized that his organization’s primary concern was, and always had been, to promote Islamic education throughout Aceh (interview, 10 September, 2000). Though SIRA and GAM cooperated with each other, they were divided along socioeconomic, geographical and ideological lines. At its inception, SIRA was philosophically opposed to armed struggle, which was GAM’s modus operandi (interview with Muhammad Nazar, 29 August, 2000). SIRA was also conceived and driven by an educated urban middle class, whereas GAM’s strongest support base was in the countryside where about 70 percent of the provincial population live and where agriculture and small-scale industry are the primary means of employment (BPS/Bappeda 2000: 32). It was in Aceh’s rural areas that the worst of the fighting took place during DOM, which helped to widen pre-existing urban–rural cleavages. Despite these differences, GAM and SIRA found growing solidarity in the face of a common enemy: the TNI. GAM flags were often raised at pro-referendum rallies, and SIRA’s 1999 Profile Paper even stated that ‘the Acehnese people also stand on their opinion and commitment to struggle for independence under control [of the] ASNLF [GAM]’.


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The security forces assisted in the growing cooperation between GAM and SIRA by identifying both groups as a security threat. The newly appointed Kodam Bukit Barisan Commander, Major General Abdul Rachman Gaffar, viewed support for SIRA as tantamount to treason, which he warned would ‘no longer be tolerated amongst Acehnese society, because it will jeopardize that society and cost more innocent lives’ (Tempo Interaktif, 27 December, 1999). When the first of three consecutive Sadar Rencong operations replaced Operasi Satgas Wibawa in February 1999, shootings into crowds became increasingly frequent. According to Koalisi NGO HAM Aceh, it was during this period that shootings into crowds by security forces became more commonplace than rape, torture and disappearances. There was also a sharp rise in the mysterious (petrus) killings of civilians, suggesting that GAM and mobs of angry locals were no longer the principal perpetrators (Tapol, March 2000). From 16 February to December 1999, there were 281 petrus killings in Aceh, compared with 15 between October 1998 and 15 February, 1999 (Koalisi NGO HAM, 1999). During the build-up to Indonesia’s June 1999 general election, visible divisions emerged within the Habibie administration over the Aceh issue. Habibie’s political influence plummeted after his widely unpopular decision to grant East Timor a referendum on independence. Meanwhile, Wiranto and other generals pushed for a greater security presence in Aceh. The TNI’s growing influence over Aceh security decisions was clear in a DPKSH meeting in early February 1999. Previously, in January, Habibie had met with 39 Acehnese representatives at the presidential palace in Jakarta to discuss Aceh’s political and economic future within a ‘special autonomy’ framework. He also promised to address their concerns about worsening security conditions and the issue of delivering justice and compensation to the Acehnese people at the next DPKSH meeting, ‘which actually I lead’ (Serambi Indonesia, 9 January, 1999). Though the February DPKSH meeting decided that Habibie should visit Aceh to try to find a ‘concrete solution’ to the conflict, it endorsed Wiranto’s plan to establish a special military task force to respond to riots and security disturbances in Aceh and other conflict areas. This resulted in the formation of an ‘elite’ Mass Riots Repression Force (PPRM) that was mandated to ‘rush to trouble spots, isolate the unrest to prevent it spreading and then to quell the strife’ (The Straits Times, 2 March, 1999). The DPKSH also supported Wiranto’s proposal to shoot rioters and security disturbers on the spot. Reflecting the continuing subordination of the police to the military, National Police Chief General Roesmanhadi told his staff that anyone who disobeyed Wiranto’s order would be dismissed on the grounds that shooting rioters on the spot would ‘boost the National Police’s dignity’ (Tapol, 22 February, 1999). In fact, the opposite occurred. Jakarta’s growing reliance on military force in Aceh approach led to a complete loss of faith in Indonesian authority in the eyes of many Acehnese. On 25 March, the day before Habibie was due to pay his first presidential visit to Aceh, about 5,000 student demonstrators assembled at Banda Aceh’s Baiturrahman mosque to demand a referendum on Acehnese independence. The protestors also condemned Habibie’s planned visit on the basis that thousands of soldiers had been deployed to Aceh to boost security

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(Tempo, 30 March, 1999). During the demonstration, Brimob and TNI troops interpreted the size of the crowd (and taunts by the students) as ‘a show of force’ and fired tear gas and rubber bullets into the crowd, injuring 163 civilians, of whom 120 were hospitalized.. Two soldiers were also injured after being pelted with rocks by students (Waspada, 25 March, 1999). Not surprisingly, Habibie was greeted by a smaller-than-anticipated audience when he arrived in Banda Aceh the following day. Many students boycotted the presidential address, and those who attended left disappointed after Habibie avoided directly addressing the issue of an Aceh referendum by stating that the MPR would be the final authority on such a decision. Habibie’s Aceh visit, however, coincided with the start of the 1999 general election campaign, and the president arrived with a nine-point Aceh policy plan that was aimed at winning Acehnese votes. This plan was far from comprehensive, overlooking as it did security issues and only focusing on narrow development, education and social rehabilitation projects and programmes. In an emotional speech, Habibie also promised to personally adopt Acehnese orphans, provide proper funerals for deceased DOM victims, grant 350 surviving victims accreditation certificates as civil servants and create an additional 2,188 jobs for the victims’ families (Tempo, 30 March, 1999). Finally, he agreed to grant amnesty to 40 Acehnese political prisoners if they promised to obey the law (South China Morning Post, 24 March, 1999). Without addressing the numerous systemic problems associated with the ongoing security operations in Aceh, it was difficult to see how these limited conciliatory gestures would win back Acehnese hearts and minds. The DPKSH was not involved in the drafting of the nine-point plan, which was prepared by Habibie’s new Presidential Advisory Team on Aceh (Tim Penasihat Presiden Urusan, TPPUA) in association with ICMI (Serambi Indonesia, 17 March, 1999). The TPPUA was created on 5 March through Presidential Instruction No.74/M/1999 with a mandate to find a ‘comprehensive solution’ to the Aceh conflict. Habibie’s decision to form the TPPUA appeared to have been an independent initiative, which reflected the basic civil–military split within the government over the Aceh issue in terms of personnel as well as the sorts of strategies they advocated. However, the TPPUA did comprise an eclectic membership, including an Acehnese political commentator (Fachry Ali), a general (Lieutenant General Surjadi Soedirdja) a legal academic (Ismail Sunny), an Acehnese businessman (Ibrahim Risjad), an ulama (Alie Yafie) and an Acehnese community leader (Mustafa Abubakar). The team was led by Habibie’s new chief advisor on Aceh, H. Usman Hasan, a career diplomat and former Golkar candidate in Aceh’s 1998 gubernatorial election. Usman Hasan saw the resolution of the Aceh conflict in terms of social justice based on Islamic principles, and was the most outspoken advocate in the Habibie administration of implementing Islamic law there (see Chapter Three). In contrast to the TNI, the TPPUA urged Habibie to respond to Acehnese justice demands by investigating human rights violations, releasing political prisoners, improving the socioeconomic welfare of Acehnese society and providing for some 1,400 orphans, 6,000 widows and 800 handicapped conflict victims (Kompas, 13 March, 1999). ICMI endorsed the advice provided by the


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TPPUA in a public four-page report and further urged the government to grant Aceh broad autonomy and withdraw all non-organic security forces from Aceh (Republika, 15 March, 1999). While some of these recommendations formed the basis of Habibie’s nine-point Aceh plan, the new policy made no mention of troop withdrawals, nor addressed Acehnese demands for an end to ongoing human rights abuses and statist violence. Meanwhile, on 1 April, 1999, the MPR passed security sector reform laws that separated the armed forces and made the police primarily responsible for internal security. Some 3,000 active soldiers who held civilian posts were also forced to retire from the army if they wished to retain those positions (TempoInteraktif, 1 September, 2000). Although these reforms were consistent with Indonesia’s democratization process, the police remained directly subordinate to the Defence Ministry, which was headed by General Wiranto. Sections of the military sought to compensate for their reduced political influence by applying pressure on the government to expand the TNI’s territorial command system. The most outspoken advocates for territorial expansion were Wiranto himself and the TNI Chief of Staff, General Subagyo Hadisiswoyo, who proposed up to seven new Kodam in conflict regions such as Aceh, Maluku, West Kalimantan and Irian Jaya. According to Subagyo, the new Kodam were necessary to defend Indonesia’s territorial integrity and to stem rising sociopolitical unrest (Kompas, 12 May, 1999). Wiranto unconvincingly argued that the envisaged Aceh Kodam was ‘in line with the aspirations of the local administration, community as well as religious leaders’ (The Indonesian Observer, 18 August, 1999). In Aceh, which sits alongside the geopolitically strategic Malacca Straits, the TNI could have, and later did under Megawati Sukarnoputri’s presidency, justify the establishment of a new Kodam as part of its external defence function (see Chapter Six). Expanding the TNI’s territorial structure may also have created new jobs for lowranking officers. Most importantly, territorial expansion promised to strengthen the military’s informal access to political and economic power in the regions. To his credit, Habibie resisted Wiranto’s calls to reinstate Aceh’s Kodam Iskandar Muda by indefinitely postponing it. National public opinion was also firmly against the proposed Aceh Kodam, which affected the attitudes of the leaders of major parties such as Golkar, the United Development Party (PPP) and Megawati Sukarnoputri’s Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle (PDI-P) (The Indonesian Observer, 31 August, 1999). The TNI did, however, strengthen its presence in Aceh through its deployment of the Mass Riot Repression Force (PPRM). For practical purposes, the PPRM was not a new force, comprising as it did pre-existing non-organic army, police, navy, air force and intelligence officers who only received limited additional riot control training (Serambi Indonesia, 7 May, 1999). The catalyst for the PPRM deployment to Aceh was another incident involving soldiers shooting into a crowd of civilians, this time in Cot Murong village in North Aceh’s Dewantara sub-district. On 3 May, soldiers opened fire on 5,000–7,000 villagers who were attending a Dakwah Aceh Merdeka (GAM proselytizing rally). Although the soldiers responsible for the shootings claimed they only used rubber bullets in self-defence after the crowd

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threw stones at their Koramil headquarters, hospital staff later removed lead bullets from 38 corpses and 115 wounded civilians. Video coverage of the Dewantara massacre (otherwise called the Simpang KKA incident) also showed soldiers shooting at fleeing civilians (Kompas, 4 May, 1999; Tempo, 17 May, 1999). Overlooking this empirical evidence, Wiranto announced that PPRM troops would be immediately deployed to Aceh to contain the mysterious ‘provocateurs’ responsible for the Dewantara massacre (Serambi Indonesia, 7 May, 1999). Wiranto’s decision was strongly supported by Acehnese politicians in the DPRD and in the North Aceh district legislature (DPRD-II), who were concerned about their own declining authority in the face of GAM’s expansion. Although Acehnese human rights groups saw nothing mysterious (petrus) about the Dewantara incident, some local politicians urged the civilian population to take action against mysterious provocateurs (Serambi Indonesia, 6 May, 1999). On 11 May, for example, the Deputy Head of Aceh’s provincial parliament, Colonel Yusri Hadjerat, issued the bizarre order to the local population that ‘If you meet a provocateur, whether they belong to GAM or the military, or whoever, they must be killed…in accordance with the law’ (Nikoya 106.15FM Radio [Transcript], 12 May, 1999). Aside from the fact that no such law existed, Hadjerat’s order reflected the view in some circles that mysterious provocateurs were responsible for the escalating violence, which gave rise to numerous conspiracy theories. Hadjerat, for instance, argued that the provocateurs were ‘communists’, and urged ‘religious leaders, local leaders and the government to unite in the face of the threat of communism’ (Waspada, 12 May, 1999). For Korem 011 Lilawangsa commander Colonel Johny Wahab, GAM were the real provocateurs. As a TNI commander, there was nothing unusual about Wahab’s viewpoint. But his defence of the soldiers who were involved in the Dewantara massacre was equally implausible. According to Johny Wahab, his troops had simply been following instructions to protect a guided missile installation in the area that could have destroyed the entire city of Lhokseumawe had it exploded (Waspada, 12 May, 1999). Like the Idi Cut massacre, none of the soldiers involved in the Dewantara incident were brought to trial. The series of violent incidents under Johny Wahab’s command, however, had made him a liability to the TNI, and he was soon replaced by Colonel Syanil Armen, a former intelligence officer from West Java. After the deployment of 16,000 PPRM troops to Aceh on 7 May, 1999, the security situation there dramatically deteriorated (Waspada, 10 May, 1999). Between May and early August 1999, the rule of law did not exist in Aceh, and 211 people, including 44 security forces personnel, were killed in armed clashes, compared with a total of 450 fatalities in the 11 months after the end of DOM (The Indonesian Observer, 18 August, 1999). The PPRM’s activities in Aceh also helped to create a massive internal displacement problem, especially in Pidie and North and East Aceh, where fleeing villagers sought refuge in mosques, schools and other public buildings. When PPRM troops started patrolling villages to enforce security during the build-up to the 1999 general election, an estimated 70,000 civilians became displaced and many faced starvation as escalating


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attacks on public transport prevented the delivery of emergency supplies (Tapol, 10 June, 1999). By August, Aceh’s humanitarian crisis had spiralled out of control when about 100,000 civilians became displaced (The Indonesian Observer, 7 August, 1999). This situation inadvertently helped GAM and SIRA to wage the most successful boycott campaign of the 1999 general election in Aceh, where only 988,622 valid votes were recorded, representing less than half the official figure from the 1997 general election (Aspinall 1999: 37). Habibie’s response to the growing violence was to launch fresh human rights investigations. On the advice of the TPPUA and ICMI, Habibie established a 27-member Independent Commission for the Investigation of Violence in Aceh on 30 July, 1999, to investigate atrocities committed in the province since August 1996. Despite Wiranto’s protest that such a move was unnecessary, the Commission went on to document some 5,000 rights violations cases in a comprehensive 484-page report, which was later presented to President Abdurrahman Wahid in November 1999. From a capacity perspective, these fresh investigations failed to improve Jakarta’s ability to govern with Acehnese societal consent. Habibie did not indicate how he would act on the findings of the investigation; nor did his government demonstrate any clear commitment towards ending state violence. Withdrawing the PPRM troops from Aceh in mid-1999, however, was a far more complicated procedure than the non-organic troop withdrawal after the end of DOM. Local support for GAM and SIRA skyrocketed in the months leading up to East Timor’s independence ballot. According to one opinion poll conducted by the Medan-based Waspada newspaper in June 1999, 56 percent of Acehnese wanted a referendum on independence, compared with 23.5 percent who preferred broad autonomy within the Indonesian Republic. After September 1999, when East Timor proved that secession was achievable, Acehnese support for separatism continued to grow as the civilian population coalesced around SIRA. From a government and military standpoint, withdrawing the PPRM forces from Aceh would have endangered Indonesia’s territorial sovereignty by ceding control to the separatists. This assessment represented an important shift in government thinking since 1998, when Habibie’s ‘persuasive’ non-approach had been premised on the assumption that the military’s withdrawal alone could facilitate conflict resolution. Following the arrival of the PPRM troops, however, it became clear that no plans would be made to withdraw the non-organic security forces from Aceh until after a political solution to the conflict had been found. A strictly non-military solution to the conflict was no longer seen by the central government as an option. Jakarta’s capacity to find a political solution to Aceh’s worsening conflict was impeded by serious structural problems. The state infrastructure in Aceh was dysfunctional and had ceased to operate in many areas amidst the escalating violence. GAM especially targeted Indonesian government offices. Between June and September 1999, 17 of the 27 sub-district government offices in North Aceh alone were burnt down, creating a vacuum in Indonesian state authority (Serambi Indonesia, 21 September, 1999). Indonesian bureaucrats and state officials were no longer able to enter GAM-controlled areas (The Straits Times, 12 September, 1999).

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On 24 September, GAM ordered all ‘Indonesian–Javanese’ government employees to permanently vacate their offices by 1 October, 1999. The guerrillas only exempted media offices, hospitals and schools from the evacuation order on the grounds that these institutions would be needed to assist the ‘liberation of our land…by our own means’ (Serambi Indonesia, 1 October, 1999). As a result, Indonesian state authority was instantly crippled in GAM’s stronghold of Pidie, where 600 of 948 village heads (keuchik) resigned within a week (Serambi Indonesia, 1 October, 1999). State capacity in Aceh was further undermined by a series of mass strikes (mogok massa) in August 1999. On 4–6 August, the entire province came to a standstill after student leaders and humanitarian NGOs called on the civilian population to suspend all daily activities, in solidarity with their brothers and sisters who were suffering during the ongoing counterinsurgency operations (The Jakarta Post, 4 August, 1999). Amidst these different forms of protest, Wiranto announced the launch of fresh counterinsurgency operations against GAM. The second phase of Operasi Sadar Rencong II (OSR-II) involved an additional 6,186 Polri officers and 5,000 nonorganic TNI troops (The Straits Times, 6 August, 1999), bringing the total number of security forces in Aceh to about 32,000 troops (The Straits Times, 4 August, 1999). According to Kodam Bukit Barisan commander Major General Abdul Rachman Gaffar, the aim of OSR-II was to disarm some 250–300 GAM combatants (The Indonesian Observer, 14 August, 1999). Although the TNI attempted to deflect negative publicity over OSR-II by announcing plans to open dialogue with Acehnese civilians to ‘obtain sympathy from the people’, the operations included orders to shoot armed civilians on sight (The Straits Times, 12 August, 1999). While this was happening, TNI leaders in Jakarta began applying pressure on Habibie to declare martial law in Aceh. As Habibie had recently announced plans to launch fresh rights investigations in Aceh, the military’s growing calls for a state of emergency partly sought to protect troops in Aceh by positioning the operations within a legal framework. Martial law also stood to formally seal the military’s control over the province. In mid-1999, the Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security Minister, Lieutenant General Feisal Tanjung, requested the imposition of martial law in Aceh and Irian Jaya during a DPR plenary session (The Jakarta Post, 10 July, 1999). Feisal Tanjung also submitted a State Safety and Security Draft Law to the DPR. This bill called for the replacement of Indonesia’s 1959 State of Emergency Law (as well as a related 1960 government regulation on procedures for requesting military assistance) with a provision stipulating that the president must consult the DPKSH about declaring a state of emergency. As the TNI already dominated the DPKSH, the security bill threatened to make the president a mere signatory to the military’s decisions on national security. However, only the armed forces faction in the DPR supported the state security bill in its entirety, and it was blocked. The three major DPR factions, the PPP, PDIP and Golkar, expressed reservations about what they described as the ‘excessive power of the president’ in the controversial draft la, who formally headed the DPKSH (The Indonesian Observer, 23 August, 1999).


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Feisal Tanjung also called on the DPR to pass legislation to recruit civilian militias to defend national security in Aceh and Irian Jaya. Although civilian paramilitaries had been recruited to serve in armed forces auxiliary units since the early 1980s as part of the military’s Total People’s Defence and Security System (Kingsbury 2003: 112–15), their legal status remained somewhat ambiguous.21 Since January 1999, however, the TNI had been recruiting and training unemployed youths as civilian militias in preparation for the 1999 general election campaign. Wiranto had justified the recruitment of some 40,000 ‘Ratih’ (Rakyat Terlatih, Trained People) as necessary to assist Indonesia’s 200,000-member national police force in defending public order (Indomedia, 8 January, 1999). Though there was insufficient time to train more police officers before the 1999 general elections, it is noteworthy that the TNI commander did not suggest longer-term initiatives to improve the functional capacity of Indonesia’s undersized police force. Even though the DPR did not legislate to form civilian militias, they were used in the 1999 security operations in Aceh. These Aceh militias largely comprised Javanese transmigrants known as Wanra (Perlawanan Rakyat, People’s Resistance), who were deeply unpopular amongst the local population.22 Wanra provided auxiliary assistance to the Indonesian security forces during the 1999 general election campaign in Aceh (HRW, 18 March, 1999). Some 2,000 Wanra were also incorporated into OSR-II (Antara, 5 August, 1999). Most military and political leaders in Jakarta denied the existence of any civilian militias in Aceh. It was clear, however, that the generals in government supported the idea of sending militias to Aceh. In addition to Feisal Tanjung and Wiranto, the Minister for Transmigration and Settlement of Forest Nomads, Lieutenant General Hendropriyono, proposed to ‘create a new transmigrant security system’ in Aceh and Irian Jaya ‘that will take the form of Perlawanan Rakyat [Wanra]’ (Suara Pembaruan, 23 September, 1999). As the conflict worsened and local support for GAM steadily increased, transmigrants also became victims of violence. In 1999, thousands of transmigrants were forced to flee Aceh (The Indonesian Observer, 8 October, 1999). They were also internally displaced. On 20 September, 1999, for instance, 123 transmigrants set up camp at the Polri compound in Pidie district after receiving threats from GAM and their civilian supporters (Serambi Indonesia, 21 September, 1999). In one particularly violent incident, 228 transmigrant homes were burnt down in a single night in the North Aceh district of Samalanga (Serambi Indonesia, 5 October, 1999). The scale and increasing frequency of these attacks reflected both GAM’s growth and rising hostility towards Jakarta. As one of Habibie’s TPPUA advisors, Ali Abdullah, put it, ‘the government’s inaction and the military’s bloodbath will simply turn the province into a recruiting ground for the Free Aceh Movement’ (The Straits Times, 12 August, 1999). Indeed, state violence had proven to be the most fertile incubator for creating another generation of GAM fighters. East Timor’s successful secession also inspired unprecedented confidence in, and support for, SIRA’s referendum demand. Even GAM agreed to abandon its armed struggle if Jakarta agreed to SIRA’s demand for a referendum on Acehnese self-determination.

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If Jakarta refused, however, the rebels vowed to ‘die as martyrs in order to fulfill the will of the people to hold a referendum’ (Waspada, 6 September, 1999). The ongoing violence also helped to radicalize Aceh’s community of ruralbased independent ulama, especially after one of their own was killed by Indonesian security forces. On 23 July, 1999, the independent ulama Tgk. Bantaqiah and 52 of his students and family members were gunned down by PPRM troops at his Islamic boarding school in the West Aceh village of Blang Meurandeh. Tgk. Bantaqiah was an outspoken critic of the Indonesian state’s secular policies and shortly before his death had been released from prison as part of Habibie’s amnesty offer to Acehnese political prisoners (Koalisi NGO HAM Aceh, 23 July, 1999). When Bantaqiah and his followers were killed, the TNI and Polri described him as a marijuana farmer with close ties to GAM (Radio Nikoya 106.15FM, 27 July, 1999). A subsequent Komnas HAM investigation, however, found no evidence to support either of these claims. The killing of Tgk. Bantaqiah showed Aceh’s independent ulama that they were just as vulnerable to state violence as ordinary civilians. On 13–14 September, some 500 sub-district level ulama met at the Syiah Kuala Funeral Complex in Banda Aceh, where they pronounced their support for SIRA’s referendum proposal ‘to stay with or separate from the Republic of Indonesia’ (Serambi Indonesia, 16 September, 1999). It was at this meeting that the independent ulama decided to play a more active political role by forming HUDA (Himpunan Ulama Dayah Aceh, League of Acehnese Islamic Boarding School Ulama), which became the parent organization of Rabithah Thaliban Aceh. HUDA’s establishment heightened pre-existing tensions between the independent sub-provincial level ulama and the urban-based MUI, which had close links with the Indonesian government. There were also tensions between HUDA and the provincial government, with the latter making no effort to include HUDA in government plans to development and implement Islamic law in Aceh. Instead, both the Habibie administration and provincial government leaders focused their efforts on empowering the MUI. It was clear that by the end of Habibie’s presidency, Jakarta had lost the battle for Acehnese hearts and minds. The civilian administration was dysfunctional and completely paralyzed in the worst conflict areas. The police, unable to shed their military legacy, were not viewed as a credible or user-friendly force. The unreformed TNI, which saw itself as the defender of Indonesian unity and national cohesion, was widely seen as anti-Acehnese for its depredations against the civilian population. This policy environment increasingly saw Acehnese civil society, which would otherwise have been divided along urban and rural and socioeconomic lines, become united in the hope of an East Timor–style exit option. As we will see in the next chapter, by the time Jakarta eventually offered Aceh a limited form of special autonomy shortly after East Timor’s separation from Indonesia, most Acehnese saw the offer as too little, too late.

3

Decentralization An exclusive affair

The government has yet to prove [its pledge] of wide-ranging autonomy. It is something which is non-existent. All this time, everything is handled in a centralized manner…Unlike Jakarta and Yogyakarta, there’s no law that supports Aceh’s status as a special region. The status was reached in Aceh through a mission of negotiations with the then Darul Islam [rebel leaders]… Aceh has been treated the same as other regions. The name ‘special region of Aceh’ is merely that, a name. Syamsuddin Mahmud, Governor of Aceh (The Jakarta Post, 12 July, 1999). In fact, autonomy is not the real issue at all, but it is a question of decolonization of the Dutch East Indies, which has got a new name as the Republic of Indonesia…To accept the [sic] autonomy means we are perpetuating the Indonesian colonization on Acheh. Dr. Husaini Hasan, former GAM Chief of Staff (Hasan 1999). On 22 September, 1999, the Indonesian parliament formally recognized Aceh’s special place in Indonesia by introducing Law No.44/1999 on the ‘Special Status of the Province of Aceh Special Region’. This initiative followed the introduction of two other autonomy laws passed earlier in 1999 that devolved limited political, economic and administrative authority to all of Indonesia’s sub-provincial administrations. The decision to grant the Acehnese additional powers in the fields of Islamic law, education and adat (customary law) was based on the dominant assumption in Jakarta that the contemporary conflict in Aceh had directly stemmed from the central government’s failure to honour the terms of the Darul Islam settlement. However, while Jakarta’s offer of Islamic law would have redressed the religious grievances of Aceh’s Darul Islam rebel leaders, the structure and expectations of Acehnese society had undergone a major transformation since the 1950s and early 1960s. By September 1999, GAM and SIRA were more politically influential than the ulama and regional calls for Islamic law had been supplanted by demands for an East Timor–style referendum on Acehnese independence. This chapter examines the Habibie administration’s efforts to contain the Aceh conflict through the development of regional autonomy and ‘special autonomy’

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legislation. It begins with a brief history of ‘special autonomy’ in Aceh to help explain the rationale for autonomy choices made during Habibie’s presidency. The chapter then looks at the development of three autonomy laws. Law No.22/1999 on ‘Regional Government’ and Law No.25/1999 on ‘Fiscal Balance Between the Central Government and the Regions’, which were passed by the DPR on 23 April, 1999, and came into effect on 1 January, 2001, devolved political, economic and administrative powers and responsibilities to all district and city administrations. Finally, the chapter examines the processes involved in developing Law No.44/1999, which only applied to Aceh, and which formally acknowledged the ‘Special Status of the Province of Aceh Special Region’ in the fields of religion, education and customary law. Background to Aceh’s special status The Habibie administration’s offer of special autonomy to Aceh was set against a background of broken autonomy promises by past Indonesian governments. When the Acehnese people agreed to join the newly independent Indonesian state in 1949, it was based on the twin assumptions that Aceh’s important contribution to the nationalist struggle against Dutch colonial rule would entitle it to an equitable stake in the Republic’s future, and that Indonesia would be founded on, and strive to uphold, Islamic principles (Hardi 1993: xx). State power and authority in Aceh were still weak during this period as Indonesia’s political leadership emphasized the task of nation-state building from the centre to prevent a return of Dutch colonialism. After the Dutch formally transferred sovereignty to the Republic of the United States of Indonesia in 1949, the Acehnese people enjoyed broad autonomy from Jakarta for less than one year before centre–periphery tensions arose. In December 1949, Acehnese leaders persuaded Indonesia’s Deputy Prime Minister Sjafruddin Prawiranegara to issue a decree that created a separate Province of Aceh by dissolving the military region of Aceh in North Sumatra. After the Dutch handover of sovereignty to Indonesia, however, national political leaders queried the constitutionality of Sjafruddin’s decision, which was made three days after the government in which he had served was dissolved (Sjamsuddin 1985: 34–42). Responding to rising resentment over the decision in North Sumatra, the Home Affairs Ministry decided that the decree violated an earlier government decision to only divide the island of Sumatra into north, south and central administrative components. This dispute came to a head in 1950, when Aceh was reintegrated into North Sumatra as part of Jakarta’s administrative reorganization of the Republic into just 10 provinces. The strong sense of betrayal over this decision in Aceh was amplified by the subsequent influx of non-Acehnese, non-Muslim migrant workers and military troops into the region, as well as deteriorating socioeconomic conditions after Aceh’s special foreign exchange arrangement was terminated and a greater portion of the national budget began to be allocated to Java than to Indonesia’s outer islands. In September 1953, Acehnese resentment erupted into insurgency when local rebels, led by Aceh’s most prominent ulama, Teungku M. Daud Beureueh, joined

Decentralization 43 the broader Darul Islam revolt that had begun in West Java and which sought to transform Indonesia into a federation of Islamic states (Negara Islam Indonesia, NII). It was only after January 1957, when the Sukarno government reestablished the ‘Province of Aceh’ pursuant to Law No.24/1956 – which raised hopes amongst some Darul Islam leaders that Aceh would soon be free to implement Islamic law – that Acehnese involvement in the Darul Islam rebellion gradually subsided (Sjamsuddin 1985: 265). The first offer of ‘special autonomy’ to Aceh was made on 26 May, 1959, when President Sukarno agreed in principle to grant Aceh Daerah Istimewa (Special Region) status by granting the province broad autonomy in the fields of religion, education and customary law (adat). Some Acehnese ulama were dissatisfied with the Daerah Istimewa formula, however, and continued their struggle for the ‘implementation of Islamic law in Aceh, in particular, and Indonesia, in general’ (Morris 1983: 240). In April 1962, Jakarta responded to the ulama’s grievances by authorizing Aceh’s regional military commander, Colonel Muhammad Jasin, to issue a decree that allowed the Special Region of Aceh to start implementing elements of Islamic law, a ‘spiritual settlement’ that would diffuse Acehnese tensions about the nature of centre–periphery relations for the next decade (Morris 1983: 273–77). It was not until the early 1970s that Acehnese discontent started to resurface. In 1971, the discovery of vast oil and natural gas reserves in North Aceh and the subsequent growth of the Lhokseumawe Industrial Zone (Zona Industri Lhokseumawe, ZILS) fuelled regional resentment, as most of the profits were siphoned out of Aceh to Jakarta. Local anger was compounded by the forced resettlement of Acehnese villagers to make way for the expansion of ZILS, as well as by the arrival of skilled migrant workers to operate the oil and gas operations, and the increased armed forces presence to defend the lucrative national asset (Kell 1995: 13–28). The New Order’s ‘secular’ nationalist and centralizing policies also did not accommodate Acehnese expectations to restore Islam as a dominant sociopolitical force. As Acehnese ulama became increasingly politically marginalized under the New Order, so too did their calls to implement the Daerah Istimewa formula. In 1968, for example, Aceh’s provincial government passed regional regulation No.6/1968 on the enforcement of aspects of Islamic law (Syari’ah). This regulation required Acehnese Muslims to observe rituals and obligations pertaining to the ‘five pillars of Islam’: to pray five times daily, pay zakat (religious tithe to the poor), profess the Islamic faith, adhere to the Muslim fasting month of Ramadhan, and if physically and financially capable, undertake a pilgrimage to Mecca. Importantly, however, Jakarta never formally approved this regulation to allow the establishment of Islamic state institutions. Although Islamic courts had operated in Aceh since the late 1940s, their jurisdiction became increasingly restricted under the New Order. In another unsuccessful bid to substantiate Aceh’s Daerah Istimewa status, provincial politicians sought to improve the quality of Islamic education for primary school students. This initiative stemmed from local concerns that the religious education curriculum in state schools was

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less comprehensive than that provided by traditional Islamic boarding schools. Though Aceh’s two leading tertiary institutions, the Indonesian State Islamic Institute (Institut Agama Islam Negara, IAIN) and the more secular Syiah Kuala University presented the Departments of Education and Religion with proposals to integrate the two curricula, neither department issued a response. Instead, Jakarta made its position clear by allocating far more funding to secular education (Hamid and Soelaiman 1971: 1–10). The final disappointment concerning Aceh’s Daerah Istimewa status came when the New Order issued Law No.5/1974 on ‘The Principles of Regional Government Administration’. At first glance, this legislation appeared to endorse regional autonomy. The autonomy provision in the legislation was effectively nullified, however, by other clauses that reinforced Jakarta’s control over regional administrations. Law No.5/1974 made the president the final authority on gubernatorial appointments and the governor became responsible for managing provincial government affairs on the president’s behalf. As Suharto’s reform-minded Home Affairs Minister, General (ret.) Rudini, later explained in 1991, the reference to autonomy in Law No.5/1974 was about ‘administrative and development affairs’ and not ‘politics, defence and security’ (Kell 1995: 59–60). In practice, however, the legislation only granted autonomy over regional administrative and development initiatives that had first been approved by Jakarta. Although the New Order government had been aware of growing regional resentment since the late 1980s, which led to the introduction of a limited decentralization programme in the early 1990s, it was not until the 1997 national financial crisis that more rigorous steps started to be taken to review Law No.5/1974. When Suharto’s final Seventh Development Cabinet was installed in March 1998, the new Coordinating Minister for Development Supervision and State Administrative Reforms, Hartarto Sastrosoenarto, drafted a Presidential Decree to revise Law No.5/1974. Home Affairs Minister General (ret.) R. Hartono also issued a ministerial decree to establish a team to prepare three new laws, including one outlining the functions of central and regional government representatives. Led by the reform-minded political scientist Ryaas Rasyid, this team later became known as the Team of Seven, which played a central role in drafting the autonomy laws under Habibie. In 1997, Suharto also took the first steps towards redressing Aceh’s long-standing religious grievances. In stark contrast to 1968, when Jakarta ignored Acehnese proposals to improve Aceh’s Islamic education system, the province received a ‘religious development’ budget of Rp.1 billion (US$360,000) in 1997 to upgrade 66 Islamic boarding schools (Suara Karya, 6 January, 1998). This policy shift formed part of a national trend that had begun in 1990, when Suharto established ICMI in an attempt to attract Islamic political support for his weakening presidency. In January 1998, Aceh’s governor, Syamsuddin Mahmud announced that Jakarta had approved further plans to double Aceh’s Islamic boarding school budget in the 1998–99 financial year to Rp.2 billion (US$230,000). Despite Indonesia’s deepening economic crisis and the change of regime, an additional 85 Acehnese Islamic boarding schools were upgraded over the next year under

Decentralization 45 Habibie’s presidency. Unfortunately, as Aceh’s security situation worsened, there would be few other visible signs of progress. The reform era Upon coming to power, Habibie accelerated the plans for decentralization that had begun under the final New Order cabinet. On 28 May, 1998, Habibie announced that a team of political scientists (Ryaas Rasyid’s Team of Seven) within the Home Affairs Department would start drafting a series of political reform laws. Habibie also ordered Hartarto Sastrosoenarto, who was retained as Coordinating Minister for Development Supervision, to prepare a cabinet paper on issues that needed to be addressed in Law No.5/1974, such as fiscal balance and the functions of the provincial and central governments. This push towards decentralization was influenced by both international and domestic forces. The 1997 economic collapse reduced Indonesia’s independent decision-making capacity as international lending and donor agencies prescribed policy advice in exchange for financial disbursements. In particular, the Indonesian government consulted the World Bank and the International Monetary Fund (IMF) throughout the drafting of Indonesia’s autonomy laws, which both institutions supported as a way of strengthening local institutional capacity and building good governance. The loudest calls for decentralization, however, came from the regions. In Aceh, local elites with close ties to Jakarta would later become the strongest advocates of a ‘special autonomy’ solution to the Aceh conflict, but they were not organized at the start of Habibie’s presidency. Local elite expectations of autonomy during this period tended to focus on redressing historical economic imbalances by granting Aceh greater control over its natural resource revenue. One outspoken Acehnese advocate of fiscal decentralization was Syiah Kuala University lecturer Dr. Alfian Ibrahim, who argued that if Aceh were allowed to retain 70 percent of its natural resource profits, then the province would ‘become almost as rich as Singapore’ (Waspada, 11 September, 1998). Such inflated estimates of Aceh’s natural resource wealth were common; rich neighbouring countries like Singapore and Brunei had captured local imagination since the discovery of oil and gas in the 1970s. GAM also envisaged an independent Acehnese state as rich as Brunei, in which the Acehnese people would no longer have to work for the benefit of outsiders (Jones 1997: 5). Implicit in this sort of speculation was the idea that, if Aceh had control over its natural resource wealth, then the profits would be evenly distributed amongst the civilian population. However, as Chapter Seven describes, after Aceh was eventually granted the lion’s share of its natural resource revenue, only a handful of local and national elites derived any material benefits. Developing an autonomy framework On 10–13 November, 1998, a Special Session of the MPR reinforced the push towards decentralization by issuing Decree No.XV/MPR/1998, which advised the

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central government to develop legislation on the administration of regional autonomy, fiscal balance between Jakarta and the regions and the realignment of centre–periphery revenue-sharing arrangements. Days later, Habibie convened a plenary cabinet session to discuss what form Indonesia’s decentralization process should take. It was at this cabinet meeting that the foundations for Laws No.22 and 25 of 1999 were laid. During the meeting, Habibie authorized Ryaas Rasyid’s Team of Seven to start drafting regional autonomy legislation that would reshape administrative and political relations between the centre and the regions (Law No.22/1999). Another team of economists in the Finance Ministry was later established to prepare a bill on reforms to intergovernmental fiscal relations (Law No.25/1999). Meanwhile, outside the cabinet, a constitutional debate about unitary statehood versus federalism was starting to take shape. Unitary statehood implies a certain level of centralization in that state power is constitutionally located at the national level. Federal systems, by contrast, suggest a degree of decentralization as state power and authority are constitutionally organized within a two-tier framework at the central and regional levels. In practice, federations and unitary states may take many different forms since federal states can be decentralized through constitutional change while unitary states may be decentralized through legislation. Some federations are far more centralized (such as Russia and the Czech Republic) than decentralized unitary states (for example, the United Kingdom and the Netherlands). In Indonesia, however, state type has commonly been associated with the degree of decentralization, with unitary state proponents advocating limited decentralization, while proponents of federalism have tended to promote broader autonomy to the regions. In 1998, there was general consensus amongst Indonesia’s political and military establishment that decentralization was necessary to prevent the spectre of national disintegration, but there was some disagreement about how much state power should be devolved to the regions, and within which constitutional framework. The majority of Indonesian nationalists negatively associated the concept of federalism with the discredited Dutch colonial system and saw federalism as an imposed colonial construction that threatened to weaken the Indonesian state (unlike Indonesia’s unitary system, which was integrally linked to its nation-state building project). By contrast, the small minority of Indonesian politicians who advocated federalism argued that constitutional change was the only way to convince aggrieved ethnic minorities in the problematic provinces of Aceh, East Timor and Papua that it was worth remaining part of Indonesia. In Jakarta, the most outspoken proponent of this latter viewpoint was Amien Rais, a political scientist and leader of the newly formed National Mandate (PAN). Amien Rais argued that ‘Only with the federal state can we defend national unity’ (The Jakarta Post, 8 December, 1999). For Amien, subscribers to the ‘kindergarten theory’ that federalism would lead to national disintegration were not seriously committed towards accommodating Indonesia’s separatist minorities (Kompas, 5 December, 1999). At the time this national debate began, another previously little used acronym, ‘NKRI’ (Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia, Unitary State of the Republic of

Decentralization 47 Indonesia) suddenly entered mainstream political discourse. Politicians in the regions almost never used the term. But, in Jakarta, NKRI was commonly employed by federalism’s detractors in their discussions about Indonesia’s conflict areas where threats to Indonesia’s unitary system were seen to be the greatest. In Aceh, however, local government leaders had begun to promote federalism as a way of ending Jakarta’s top-down approach to decision-making. Political support for adopting a federal system was particularly strong in Aceh’s provincial parliament (interview with Syamsuddin Mahmud, 20 November, 2001). Central to the demands of Aceh’s ruling elite were the return of a greater share of Aceh’s natural resource revenue and the implementation of Islamic law in Aceh within a federal system. In a statement that was reminiscent of Aceh’s Darul Islam rebel leadership, Aceh Governor Syamsuddin Mahmud argued in February 1999 that ‘Islamic law needs to be implemented [in Aceh] through a declaration that establishes a federal state’ (Republika, 6 February, 1999). Specifically, Syamsuddin Mahmud, along with several Acehnese politicians, academics, NGOs, MUI and ICMI ulama and local police and military leaders, petitioned President Habibie to formalize Aceh’s special status, to allow the Acehnese people the right to implement Islamic law, and to return 80 percent of Aceh’s natural resource wealth. Mahmud also urged the MPR to change the 1945 Constitution, reasoning that ‘one way of preserving [national unity] is by changing the form of the unitary state’. GAM and SIRA, however, rejected federalism and autonomy as an unacceptable compromise to a referendum on Acehnese self-determination. When SIRA was formed in February 1999, the referendum movement clarified its position by announcing that ‘implementing autonomy, a federal state, and reinstating the [proposed] Iskandar Muda Kodam are just new strategies by the state of the Republic of Indonesia to deceive the people of Aceh’. Somewhat differently, GAM’s military commander, Teungku Abdullah Syafi’ie, stated that ‘We won’t even accept federalism. We have to have freedom’ (Time Asia Magazine, 7 June, 1999). Despite the increasingly heated national debate about Indonesia’s constitutional status, in April 1999 when Laws No.22 and 25 of 1999 were introduced, there was little discussion about Indonesia’s unitary system or the federalist alternative in the national parliament. There was also little discussion of the new autonomy laws. According to one of the drafters of Laws No.22 and 25/1999, Andi Mallarangeng, this was because DPR legislators had been engaged in a series of protracted debates in the preceding months about draft laws on elections, political parties and local and national legislatures. Therefore, Mallarangeng said that ‘when we submitted the local autonomy bills to the DPR in April 1999 they’d lost interest and passed it without making much noise’ (interview with Andi Mallarangeng, 17 October, 2002). Laws No.22 and 25/1999, however, were clearly not equipped to deal with Aceh’s specific set of needs and expectations. Although Law No.22/1999 (Article 122) recognized Aceh’s special status, it was only ‘in accordance with the intent

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of Law No.5 of 1974’, which in Aceh was associated with the New Order’s undermining of the 1959 Daerah Istimewa formula. National legislators did, however, acknowledge the need to develop separate special autonomy legislation for Aceh. This was outlined in the elucidation of Law No.22/1999, which stipulated that Aceh’s special status would ‘take the form of the implementation of religious life, customary law and education together, as well as observing the role of the ulama in regional policy development’. In Aceh, like Indonesia’s other regions, politicians at the provincial level were unhappy with the disproportionate redistribution of state funding and resources under the new system. Reflecting the central government’s aversion to federalism, Laws No.22 and 25/1999 decentralized most state power and responsibility to the sub-provincial level. Under Law No.22/1999, district and city administrations were granted new powers in the areas of local investment, trade and industry policy, public works, education, health, labor, agriculture and the environment. Foreign affairs, defence and security, the legal system, national policy and planning and religious affairs remained under central government control. Subprovincial legislatures were also empowered to elect their own bupati and mayors without gaining prior approval from the governor or the Home Affairs Ministry, whereas provincial parliaments could elect or dismiss governors, but they still required formal authorization from Jakarta. Provincial government officials were especially concerned about the new financial arrangements between sub-provincial administrations and Jakarta. Under Law No.25/1999, most of the decentralized revenues bypassed the provinces and were directly transferred to sub-provincial administrations. The legislation granted all the regions 15 percent of their oil revenues, 30 percent of natural gas and 80 percent of forestry, mining and fishing revenues generated within their borders. Law No.25/1999 also conferred a minimum of 25 percent of national revenues to the regions through a grant system called the General Allocation Fund (Dana Alokasi Umum, DAU). For Aceh, these combined revenue streams were predicted to amount to a massive 800-percent increase in the provincial budget. From a total annual budget of Rp.288.9 billion (US$43.335 million) in the 1997–98 fiscal year (Suara Karya, 28 March, 1998), Aceh’s budget was expected to increase to approximately Rp.1.6 trillion (US$184 million) after the new legislation came into effect (The Indonesian Observer, 7 September, 1999). The provincial government could not access most of these funds, however, as 90 percent of the DAU and 80 percent of natural resource revenues were to be directly sent to districts and mayoralties. Because of this situation, Acehnese provincial government officials later called on the central government to return political, economic and administrative powers to the provincial level during the drafting of Law No.44/1999 on Aceh’s special status. The passing of Laws No.22 and 25 of 1999 invoked virtually no response from Acehnese civil society. Amidst the pressing problems of ongoing human rights abuses, intensifying security operations (Operasi Sadar Rencong I) and deteriorating socioeconomic conditions, the legislation was meaningless for most of Aceh’s civilian population. When the autonomy laws were passed, demands for

Decentralization 49 wide-ranging autonomy by Aceh’s ruling elite were becoming supplanted by growing public calls for a referendum on Aceh’s political status. As Acehnese confidence in Indonesia’s governing institutions plumbed new depths, SIRA went on the political offensive and won strong community support in Aceh’s urban areas, while GAM consolidated its influence in the countryside. The loss of Indonesian political authority and legitimacy made local government officials increasingly vulnerable to the referendum movement’s demands. On 9 March, 1999, for example, members of the ABRI and Golkar factions in the North Aceh DPRD-II were forced to sign a statement supporting a referendum on Acehnese independence after about 2,000 demonstrators blocked the district assembly entrance. As the DPRD-II Speaker, Lieutenant Colonel Mas Tarmansyah, explained, ‘We’re like a public bus; if everyone supports a referendum what can we do?’ (The Jakarta Post, 12 March, 1999). As discussed in Chapter Two, it was also during the first half of 1999 that clear divisions emerged over the Aceh issue between civilian and military elites in Jakarta, both in terms of personnel and the types of strategies they advocated. While the TNI emphasized security operations to eliminate GAM, civilian leaders in the TPPUA and ICMI advocated a political solution to the conflict. Indonesia’s armed forces fully supported regional autonomy, and later, special autonomy for Aceh, but not as the sole strategy for conflict resolution. Within the TNI, there was a strong belief that the Acehnese would abuse autonomy and try to secede from Indonesia if steps were not also taken to crush GAM. As General Wiranto explained, ‘Demands for Aceh Merdeka [Free Aceh] cannot be tolerated and cannot be communicated with, because that will lead to death…What is realistic are the related problems of autonomy, the economy and culture, including religion. This can be discussed amicably’ (Kompas, 13 August, 1999). Implementing autonomy within the context of Aceh’s conflict environment also potentially stood to strengthen the TNI’s informal access to state power and resources through its territorial command structure. The defence budget did not cover the TNI’s expenses and operational costs, and fiscal decentralization in Aceh could have provided soldiers deployed there with more business opportunities to supplement their meagre incomes. Laws No.22 and 25/1999 were also passed at a time when the TNI was in the process of ‘reforming’ itself, and sections of the military saw decentralization as a way of compensating for the TNI’s loss of formal political authority by strengthening its informal political and economic influence in the regions. For most TPPUA and ICMI members, decentralization was integral to the resolution of the Aceh conflict. While the TPPUA urged the government to grant Aceh broad autonomy and the right to implement Islamic law, however, Habibie became increasingly preoccupied with his own fight for political survival during the 1999 general election campaign. In the first half of 1999, national legislators were also too overburdened with managing the electoral process and drafting other reform laws to concentrate on new special autonomy legislation for Aceh. Reflecting the frustration felt by many TPPUA members with Jakarta’s delayed action on the Aceh issue, one TPPUA advisor, Ismail Sunny, announced days after

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Habibie’s presidential visit to the province in March 1999 that local ‘aspirations are clearly far from realization’ because ‘the central government is still half-hearted about this regional autonomy’ (Kompas, 31 March, 1999). It was not until August 1999 that the central government began to seriously revisit the Aceh autonomy issue. That it did so then was due to a combination of factors. First, the Habibie administration was under growing pressure from the DPR to find an autonomy solution to the Aceh conflict after PPP legislators petitioned the parliament in June to grant Aceh special autonomy, an initiative that had received strong political support in the national parliament (discussed later). By August, it had also become apparent that Habibie’s nine-point plan, which he announced during his presidential visit to Aceh in March 1999, had failed to achieve its goal of restoring Acehnese confidence in his government’s leadership (see Chapter Two). There was also the issue of the Indonesian security forces’ failure to restore law and order in Aceh as the GAM insurgency and SIRA campaign rapidly gained momentum. For Jakarta, however, withdrawing troops from Aceh was no longer a feasible option due to growing local support for separatism and the vacuum in Indonesian authority there. It was under these difficult conditions that Jakarta decided to continue its persuasive–repressive approach that involved more counterinsurgency operations (Operasi Sadar Rencong II) on the one hand, and efforts to persuade the Acehnese to remain part of Indonesia by granting them autonomy on the other. Jakarta approached the Aceh autonomy issue in two ways. In August 1999, the Habibie administration decided to allow the Acehnese to start implementing Laws No.22 and 25/1999 before Indonesia’s other provinces. Second, it endorsed a parliamentary initiative to draft legislation that would formally recognize Aceh’s special status. In August 1999, Home Affairs Minister Syarwan Hamid announced that Aceh could immediately start implementing Laws No.22 and 25/1999 during his ministerial visit to Banda Aceh. Foreshadowing the introduction of special autonomy legislation with an Islamic law component, the Home Affairs Minister also announced that ‘if Aceh’s DPRD wants to change a holiday from Sunday to Friday, with enough regional regulations, no problem. We at the centre are ready to receive reports, no need to ask for agreement’ (Kompas, 30 August, 1999). The Coordinating Minister for People’s Welfare and Poverty Eradication, Haryono Suyono, who accompanied Syarwan Hamid to Aceh, also promised to grant Aceh Rp.1.5 trillion (US$195 million) to enable the province to start immediately implementing Law No.25/1999 (Kompas 29 August, 1999). For most Acehnese, Jakarta’s conciliatory gesture came as too little too late. The ministerial delegation arrived in Aceh three days ahead of East Timor’s referendum on independence when most Acehnese were eagerly awaiting the outcome. The central government’s offer to allow Aceh to start immediately implementing Laws No.22 and 25/1999 was also not accompanied by any commitment towards ending state violence; conversely, the offer came less than one month after the launch of the repressive Sadar Rencong II operation (see Chapter Two). Habibie’s decision to send Syarwan Hamid to Aceh was equally counter-productive. The former Chief of North Aceh’s Military Operations Command was widely seen as

Decentralization 51 one of the worst human rights violators from the DOM period. During his speech in Banda Aceh, Syarwan Hamid was interrupted by about 300 students chanting ‘Allah Akbar’ (God is great) and ‘You are responsible for the violence’ (The Jakarta Post, 29 August, 1999). As one student put it, ‘We want the government to bring human rights abusers to court, not charity’. The decision to start immediately enforcing Laws No.22 and 25/1999 in Aceh received mixed reactions from Aceh’s political leadership. At first, provincial government officials welcomed Jakarta’s plan to grant Aceh Rp.1.5 trillion (US$195 million) in accordance with Law No.25/1999. One week after the ministerial visit, however, when Acehnese officials conducted their own calculations of Aceh’s entitlements under Law No.25/1999, they complained that Aceh was actually entitled to Rp.1.6 trillion (US$208 million) (The Indonesian Observer, 7 September, 1999). It is unclear how they arrived at this figure when they did not know how much revenue Aceh was entitled to receive under the new system. State-owned oil and gas companies in Aceh such as Pertamina and ExxonMobil had refused repeated requests by Acehnese politicians to publicly disclose their profits (The Straits Times, 27 March, 1999). This confusion over how much revenue Aceh was supposed to receive through its revenue-sharing arrangements with Jakarta would later create tensions between provincial and central government leaders when more comprehensive special autonomy legislation was introduced under later Indonesian governments (see Chapters Seven and Nine). Another difficulty was that Laws No.22 and 25/1999 were incomplete and required several supporting regional regulations in order to be implemented. When Syarwan Hamid announced that Aceh could start enforcing the laws, one Team of Seven member, Dr. Afan Gaffar, had warned that the legislation could only be enforced gradually, which ‘doesn’t mean everything can be implemented today…this must be understood by the Acehnese people’ (Kompas, 30 August, 1999). In order to implement the laws, Acehnese legislators needed to develop a series of bylaws to clarify Aceh’s new economic, political and administrative arrangements with Jakarta. Though Governor Syamsuddin Mahmud established three working groups to prepare for the implementation of regional autonomy – on managing the budget between Aceh and the central government, social development, and non-government and state organizations – they had made little headway by the end of Habibie’s presidency. Special autonomy During his Aceh visit, Syarwan Hamid also outlined Jakarta’s intention to grant the Acehnese people ‘special autonomy’ in the fields of religion, education and customary law (Media Indonesia, 27 August, 1999). ICMI leaders and TPPUA members had been urging the central government to grant Aceh autonomy in these key areas since March 1999. Formal recognition of Aceh’s special status had also been envisaged in the elucidation of Law No.22/1999, which envisaged formal recognition of the Daerah Istimewa formula through the ‘implementation of religious life, customary law and education together, as well as observing the

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role of the ulama in regional policy development’. It was only in June 1999, however, when PPP legislators lobbied the DPR to introduce special autonomy legislation for Aceh that the Indonesian parliament began to apply increasing pressure on the Habibie administration to develop a special autonomy formula for Aceh (Syah and Hakiem 2000: 241). There was strong political support for a special autonomy law on Aceh amongst all the major DPR factions. Even secular nationalist and military leaders who had traditionally opposed Acehnese Islamic demands endorsed the decision to allow Aceh to implement aspects of Islamic law. Secular nationalist Golkar legislators in the DPR, for instance, were the first to sign the PPP’s petition to formalize Aceh’s special status. The armed forces faction in the DPR also gave its ‘full support’ for the implementation of Syari’ah, provided it was ‘molded to and within a positive legal system, and enforced in Indonesia’ (Syah and Hakiem 2000: 165). This strong political support largely stemmed from growing national concerns that, like East Timor, Aceh would break away from Indonesia, which the government had already indicated it would never allow. There was also popular support for granting Aceh special autonomy amongst the wider population. Most Indonesians opposed the idea of Acehnese independence (especially as Indonesian nationalist sentiment surged during the build-up to East Timor’s secession), but public opinion was firmly in favour of compensating the Acehnese for their suffering under the New Order. In particular, there were growing calls for the implementation of Syari’ah in Aceh amongst nationalist Islamist groups, which tended to portray Aceh as a symbol of the New Order’s perceived injustices against Muslims. For many Muslim activists, the struggle for Islamic law in Aceh formed part of their broader goal to eventually impose Islamic law throughout Indonesia. As the leader of one Jakarta-based Islamic activist group, Brigade Ibadullah, stated, his organization wanted ‘Syari’ah in Aceh now, in other areas later, if possible’ (The Indonesian Observer, 12 August, 1999). The decision to base Law No.44/1999 on the 1959 Daerah Istimewa formula reflected the dominant view in Jakarta that Aceh’s contemporary conflict had stemmed from the central government’s failure to honour the terms of the Darul Islam settlement. This thinking was reflected in the law’s definition of Aceh’s ‘special status’ as its right to organize its own religious, customary law (adat) and educational life, and for ulama to play a role in regional policy processes. Related to the perception that Aceh’s conflict could be resolved by making the Darul Islam formula official was the idea that Acehnese support for Aceh Merdeka (Free Aceh) would wane if Acehnese ulama were restored to their pre–New Order position of sociopolitical influence. It was this rationale that informed the decision to allow the Acehnese to implement Islamic law. Law No.44/1999 also envisaged the creation of an independent ulama council with the same status and decision-making powers as the provincial legislature. Although Aceh’s education system was to remain part of the national education system, the law authorized the provincial government to provide supplementary religious material in the Aceh curriculum and to establish an ‘Islamic Education Organization’. In cultural matters, the provincial government became responsible for encouraging Acehnese

Decentralization 53 society to adhere to Islamic law by promoting regional customs, traditions and cultural values based on Islam. Though many Acehnese provincial government representatives, business leaders, academics and MUI ulama had wanted special autonomy, some felt excluded from the policy process. Academics from Banda Aceh’s Ar-Raniry Indonesian State Islamic University criticized the central government for not consulting Acehnese ulama and local community leaders about the content of the law to improve its chances of gaining popular acceptance (The Jakarta Post, 30 August, 1999). The Home Affairs Department also ignored recommendations by Acehnese government leaders to grant Aceh greater administrative and economic autonomy. Syamsuddin Mahmud was particularly disappointed that his government’s calls for greater administrative and economic autonomy were omitted from Law No.44/1999. For Mahmud, the final version of the law was ‘a kind of statement about Aceh’s special status…[but] not really special autonomy’ (interview with Syamsuddin Mahmud, 20 November, 2001). This sentiment was shared by other Acehnese government officials. Three days before the October 1999 presidential election, 30 Acehnese DPRD politicians met with MPR leaders to call for a new special autonomy package that would grant Aceh control over all areas except for foreign affairs and national fiscal policies. This proposal was loosely modelled on an earlier autonomy offer that had been made by Jakarta to East Timor as an alternative to independence. In October 1999, however, national attention was focused on the 1999 presidential election, and the Acehnese delegation would have to wait until the next government to seek a more receptive audience. Amongst the local population, there was a strong lack of grassroots support for Law No.44/1999. Acehnese civil society groups had not been consulted about their expectations of autonomy. Nor were GAM and SIRA asked what – if anything – would persuade them to remain part of Indonesia. Many Acehnese government officials agreed that it would be ‘irrational if the government excludes GAM from discussions’ about the autonomy process (The Indonesian Observer, 20 August, 1999). It was for this reason that a group of five Acehnese representatives travelled to Stockholm in July 1999 in an attempt to open dialogue with Hasan di Tiro (Kompas 29 July, 1999). Hasan di Tiro, however, had refused to meet with the Aceh delegation on the putative grounds that they were ‘not educated and they don’t represent the Acehnese people’ (interview, 4 July, 2000). According to Hasan di Tiro, as ‘Head of the State of Acheh’, it was only appropriate that he should conduct any negotiations with other heads of state. The Habibie administration, however, refused to recognize GAM as a fact in the field. Even ICMI reformists such as Justice Minister Muladi rejected the idea of negotiating with separatists. Reflecting the government’s hardening position towards GAM, Muladi stated that ‘It is OK not to sell beer there [in Aceh], please ban it, but there is no tolerance of GAM’ (The Jakarta Post, 11 August, 1999). By the time Law No.44/1999 was passed, however, GAM was widely seen, and promoted itself, as a liberating force that would free the Acehnese people from Indonesian oppression. After East Timor voted for independence, most Acehnese joined GAM and SIRA in rejecting autonomy as an unacceptable compromise to

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independence. Reflecting popular opinion, GAM’s political leadership in Sweden announced that it ‘firmly rejects the autonomy solution for Acheh as it is not in accordance with the true aspiration of the majority of Acehnese’, and condemned the government for pursuing ‘deplorable “stick and carrot” methods to solve the Acheh problem’ (GAM statement, 27 September, 1999). GAM’s military commander, Abdullah Syafi’ie, also dismissed the offer of Islamic law as irrelevant. ‘If we die, we become syahid [martyrs]. Remember that!…The TNI are like devils’, said Syafi’ie (The Jakarta Post, 4 August, 1999). Jakarta’s expectation that Acehnese ulama would be restored to their former position of political influence was also unrealistic. Acehnese ulama who had survived the New Order by becoming integrated into its institutional framework had been unable to establish an influential independent political base in the postNew Order period. The majority of Acehnese, who were traumatized after the decade of military operations in the province and angered by the government’s diffidence in relation to past and ongoing human rights abuses, ‘preferred to listen to students and NGOs than to government officials and ulama’ (Kontras, 11 August, 1999). Even Acehnese ulama were divided over Jakarta’s offer of Islamic law. Whereas Acehnese ulama who had fought in the Darul Islam rebellion would have welcomed the opportunity to implement Syari’ah, Acehnese society had undergone a major transformation since the 1950s. By late September 1999, HUDA ulama supported SIRA’s referendum demand, as did their Islamic boarding school students in Rabithah Thaliban Aceh. Though HUDA ulama did not oppose Islamic law, they argued that the Acehnese already practised Syari’ah in their daily lives. HUDA ulama also saw the decision to implement Islamic law in Aceh as a cheap political deal between political elites. As one HUDA ulama, Teungku Zamzami, explained, Jakarta’s offer of Islamic law was like receiving ‘an empty cheque’ because neither the local population nor the ulama accepted it (Radio Nikoya 106.15FM, 30 September, 1999). By contrast, MUI ulama with close ties to the provincial government threw their support behind the legislation in the hope of increasing their political power and influence. As Law No.44/1999 was not passed until late September 1999, only one regional regulation on Islamic law was introduced before the end of Habibie’s presidency. Like Laws No.22 and 25/1999, Aceh’s special autonomy legislation was incomplete and required several supporting regulations to enable its implementation. In order to start enforcing Syari’ah immediately, the provincial government issued Regional Regulation No.451.1/21249 on 6 September, 1999, which ordered all female government employees to wear Islamic dress. The aim of this regulation, which came into effect on 23 September (the day after Law No.44/1999 was passed), was to ‘socialize’ the concept of Syari’ah amongst the civilian population. Banda Aceh’s Baiturrahman mosque was also turned into a compulsory jilbab (Islamic women’s headdress) wearing area that was guarded by female police officers (Republika, 27 September, 1999). According to the Rector of Banda Aceh’s Ar-Raniry Indonesian State Islamic Institute, Safwan Idris, the regulation targeted women because in Aceh women were widely seen as the ‘moral custodians of religion and culture’ (interview, 15 September, 2000).

Decentralization 55 Contrary to the provincial government’s expectation that Acehnese women would welcome the imposition of Islamic dress, however, many local women’s NGOs complained that they had not been consulted about the regulation and expressed concerns that the government’s interpretation of Syari’ah would lead to increased acts of violence against women. The women’s NGO Flower Aceh claimed that the majority of Acehnese women already wore jilbab (Islamic women’s headdress), not because of Syari’ah, but because they feared being attacked by gangs of radical ‘barbers’ in ‘jilbab raids’ (razia jilbab). Jilbab raids and other acts of violence against women (such as cutting women’s clothes and verbal and physical abuse) had been reported in different parts of the province since April 1999. In part, this relatively new form of religious fanaticism by gangs of youths may have been a reaction against Indonesia’s more open political climate after the fall of Suharto. It only peaked, however, after the introduction of Law No.44/1999. Meanwhile, in Jakarta, unexpected support for Aceh’s referendum movement surfaced during the October 1999 presidential election campaign. In September 1999, the head of Indonesia’s largest Islamic organization and president-in-waiting, Abdurrahman Wahid, visited Banda Aceh to declare his ‘support for the Aceh ulemas’ struggle for a referendum for Aceh’ because ‘the patience of Acehnese people is almost gone’ (The Indonesian Observer, 16 September, 1999). Standing on a stage with the future Speaker of the MPR, Amien Rais, Abdurrahman Wahid unfurled a banner, in front of the Baiturrahman Mosque, reading ‘The Aceh conflict can only be resolved through a referendum’. While inconsistency would later become a hallmark of Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency, his display of solidarity was welcomed in Aceh as a surprising reversal of his former position. Previously, during the 1999 general election campaign, Abdurrahman Wahid had been ‘hounded off the stage by mobs hurling insults and rocks’ in Banda Aceh for announcing that while some members of his National Awakening Party (PKB) supported Aceh’s referendum demands, he did not (The Age, 2 June, 1999). As Habibie’s presidency drew to a close, however, it seemed that Aceh’s referendum movement had become an unstoppable force. Neither security operations nor Jakarta’s ‘persuasive’ special autonomy package could slow down the momentum for a ballot on Aceh’s political status. On the contrary, these counterproductive and ineffective policies only accelerated it. For most Acehnese, their one remaining request of Indonesia would be for its next president to keep his promise of an East Timor–style referendum.

Part II

Abdurrahman Wahid

4

Persuasion and repression

Requests by the Acehnese for a referendum are reasonable. Why not? Whatever the final decision of the Acehnese people, it must be honoured. If there was a referendum in East Timor, why should there not be one in Aceh? That would be unfair. But I’m sure they won’t leave the country. I know the Acehnese people. President Abdurrahman Wahid (The Indonesian Observer, November 1999). The point is this: the establishment of an independent Indonesia in 1949 was a perfidy that denied the Acehnese their freedom. The Dutch simply transferred their colonialism to the Javanese. This so-called ‘Indonesia’ is a [sic] nonsense and Acheh should never have been subjected to the rule of those idiots, who have twice in 54 years brought ‘Indonesia’ into total bankruptcy and caused untold miseries, death and destruction upon the people of this vast archipelago through their unworkable system of administration. We therefore do not need the Javanese to give us our freedom. Tengku Hasan Mohammad di Tiro (Media Statement, 27 January, 2000). By the time Abdurrahman Wahid was elected president in October 1999, Aceh had become Indonesia’s most serious domestic problem. Indonesia had effectively lost its governing authority in Aceh as public confidence in political institutions and leadership there reached an unprecedented low. In the wake of East Timor’s independence ballot, the power vacuum in Aceh was filled by GAM and the student-led referendum movement, which experienced a surge in community support. Acehnese groups and individuals who were otherwise divided along demographic, socioeconomic and political lines united in their opposition to Indonesian rule. By November 1999, when the referendum movement staged the largest rally in Aceh’s history, it seemed that nothing could stop the momentum for a vote on Acehnese independence. With the notable exception of Abdurrahman Wahid himself, who fleetingly considered granting Aceh an East Timor–style referendum, Indonesia’s ruling elite rejected a ballot to decide Aceh’s political status. This was partly due to heightened fears in Jakarta that the country was on the verge of breaking up after the separation of East Timor. Unlike East Timor, however, Aceh retained a

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powerful symbolic place in the national imagination for its important contribution to Indonesia’s independence struggle. In contrast to the Melanesian people of eastern Indonesia, the Acehnese formed an integral part of Indonesia’s predominantly Malay-based cultural and literary national identity (Reid 2005: 17–18). Indonesian nationalists saw the Acehnese people as necessary participants in the Indonesian nation, and the province of Aceh as an important territory of the Indonesian state. This chapter explores the attempts by Abdurrahman Wahid’s government to restore security in Aceh through its persuasive and repressive policy approaches. Like B. J. Habibie, Abdurrahman Wahid initially attempted to restore Acehnese faith in Indonesian rule by releasing political prisoners, withdrawing non-organic troops from Aceh and launching human rights investigations there. Abdurrahman Wahid went one step further than his predecessor, however, by initiating peace talks with GAM. By late 1999, Indonesia’s decentralization process was also underway, and Jakarta began to look beyond Law No.44/1999, towards a more comprehensive autonomy solution to the conflict. While the search for a negotiated settlement continued until the end of Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency, Jakarta’s reliance on force to restore law and order also intensified after September 2000, when the limited peace process with GAM began to unravel. This approach increasingly came to resemble a reconstituted version of the New Order’s repressive Aceh strategy, as efforts to reposition the Acehnese people within the Indonesian nation-state were overshadowed by a policy and rhetorical emphasis on defending territorial sovereignty. Abdurrahman Wahid’s revolving cabinets Of all Indonesia’s presidencies, the processes of political decision-making were the least coherent under Abdurrahman Wahid. During his 21-month tenure, Abdurrahman Wahid formed three cabinets in October 1999, August 2000 and June 2001. Many ministers received portfolios that they lacked interest or expertise in, while others were replaced too frequently to effectively manage them. Not only did these decisions reduce the government’s efficacy, but they quickly cost Abdurrahman Wahid political support and eroded much of the legitimacy he had gained through the electoral process. On Aceh policy, Abdurrahman Wahid frequently failed to consult his ministers, especially during his first 10 months in power. Unlike Habibie, who sought advice on Aceh from his cabinet and teams of strategists (TPPUA and Team of Seven), Abdurrahman Wahid often made impromptu decisions about Aceh during informal discussions with his inner circle of family and friends in a kabinet malam (night cabinet), and in talks with Acehnese student leaders and ulama at the presidential palace or at his home in Ciganjur (Barton 2001: 357). Abdurrahman Wahid did not, for example, convene cabinet meetings to discuss offering the Acehnese a referendum or about initiating peace talks with GAM. In fact, it seemed that Abdurrahman Wahid’s behaviour as president had changed little since his former role as the spiritual leader of Nahdlatul Ulama, when he had

Persuasion and repression 61 made decisions about the world’s largest traditionalist Islamic organization without becoming involved in its daily management. Just as Abdurrahman Wahid commanded total loyalty from his religious followers, he also tended to appoint and dismiss cabinet ministers based on loyalty over performance. Like the Habibie administration, there were broad schisms between civilian and military leaders in Abdurrahman Wahid’s cabinet over Aceh policy. Although the TNI was internally divided and lacked the confidence to act cohesively at the start of Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency, its political influence had not been seriously attenuated. This was evidenced by the number of strategic ministerial portfolios awarded to generals, and by their growing political power as Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency weakened. Though the military had announced its intention to withdraw from politics under its ‘New Paradigm’, it continued to apply pressure on the government for a military ‘solution’ to the Aceh conflict, which raised questions about whether Indonesia’s civilian leadership would be capable of developing and implementing healthy humanitarian policies in the province. Related to these civil–military tensions were differences over Aceh policy between Abdurrahman Wahid and his conservative nationalist vice president, Megawati Sukarnoputri. Unlike Abdurrahman Wahid, Megawati Sukarnoputri did not include the TNI amongst her political problems and was far more amenable to a military response to threats to Indonesia’s territorial integrity. Whereas Abdurrahman Wahid publicly flirted with the idea of adopting a federal system to accommodate problematic provinces like Aceh (Waspada, 22 December, 1999), Megawati Sukarnoputri regarded the unitary state as inviolable and believed ‘excessive’ decentralization would lead to national disintegration (Kompas, 31 January, 2000). Just as political alliances had shifted and regrouped around particular Aceh policy issues under Habibie, executive attitudes changed over time during Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency. Many ‘democratic reformists’ who initially advocated persuasive strategies, such as peace talks and human rights investigations to Aceh, either resigned, were sacked,, or reverted to a more hard-line position as the TNI’s political influence strengthened and as the Aceh conflict worsened. It was also common for individual government leaders to espouse seemingly contradictory views, such as condemning atrocities committed against Acehnese civilians on one hand, while calling for the elimination of GAM on the other. This was the case with Abdurrahman Wahid and to a lesser extent Megawati Sukarnoputri, who both issued inconsistent statements and changed their minds on Aceh policy in response to national political pressure. Abdurrahman Wahid, for instance, initially emphasized negotiations as the basic tenet of his Aceh approach, but later announced under growing military pressure that it would be impossible to ‘sit and talk together’ with GAM until the ‘rebellious group’ was disarmed (The Jakarta Post, 24 September, 2000). Megawati too, had ‘sobbed for minutes’ in a televised national address during the 1999 presidential election campaign while pledging to ‘always remember the struggle of the people of Aceh. I am going to give my soul, I’m going to give Arun back to you and I’m going to see how beautiful is this “Verandah of Indonesia.”’ (The American

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Reporter, 29 July, 1999). As vice president, however, Megawati generally remained publicly silent on the Aceh issue while privately courting the TNI. First cabinet Although most decisions about Aceh were made outside the cabinet under Abdurrahman Wahid, individual ministers nevertheless exerted influence over the policy process. This was less apparent in the first ‘National Unity’ (Persatuan Nasional) cabinet than in later cabinets, partly because Abdurrahman Wahid’s power was strongest at the start of his presidency, partly because the TNI was then still under public pressure to withdraw from politics, and partly because of the new cabinet’s fractured composition. Installed on 26 October, 1999, the first cabinet was formed as the result of bargaining with the leaders of Indonesia’s five major parties and the TNI (Kingsbury 2005: 290). While the new government reflected Indonesia’s emerging democratic landscape, it was deeply divided, and ministers were often more concerned with internal politicking than with what was happening in troubled peripheral provinces like Aceh. The TNI was well represented in Abdurrahman Wahid’s first cabinet, receiving six portfolios. To the anger of many Acehnese, General Wiranto was awarded the most senior cabinet position of Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security. When Abdurrahman Wahid later dismissed Wiranto on 13 February, 2000, for his alleged involvement in atrocities committed in East Timor and Aceh, the president also alienated the majority of military leaders. While Indonesia’s generals disputed such issues as the expansion of the TNI’s territorial command system, they remained united in their basic opposition to human rights investigations. General Wiranto continued to exert considerable influence over both the TNI and the cabinet under Abdurrahman Wahid, even after his dismissal from government. This was shown by Wiranto’s rotation of more than 100 military officers in November 1999 and by his informal role in two subsequent military reshuffles in June and August 2000. A number of ministries in the first cabinet were awarded to Wiranto’s friends and allies. Of these, two strategic portfolios were given to generals who had supervised Aceh security operations under Habibie. The new TNI Commander in Chief, Admiral Laksamana Widodo Adi Sucipto, was Wiranto’s former classmate at Indonesia’s armed forces academy (Akademi ABRI, Akabri) in 1968. Although the appointment of a naval officer to the top army post was generally seen as a positive step towards military reform, Widodo had been groomed for the position since July 1999 while serving as Wiranto’s Deputy TNI Commander. In that capacity, Widodo had assisted Wiranto in managing the second phase of Operasi Sadar Rencong in Aceh. Also on Wiranto’s recommendation, the corruption-prone Mines and Energy Ministry was awarded to the politically ambitious Lieutenant General Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. Although Susilo had a reputation as an intellectual and military reformer, he had supervised regional commanders in Aceh and East Timor as former TNI Chief of Territorial Affairs, when he had been directly accountable to Wiranto. Compared with many of his military colleagues, however, Susilo was a moderate general, who, even

Persuasion and repression 63 while serving as TNI Chief of Territorial Affairs, had advocated a ‘comprehensive’ approach to the Aceh problem that combined security operations with political, economic and social strategies (Republika, 28 July, 1999). The appointment of a civilian, Juwono Sudarsono, to the Defence portfolio was largely symbolic. While the mass media portrayed the appointment of Indonesia’s first civilian Defence Minister since the 1950s as an important step towards asserting civilian supremacy over the military, this was not entirely accurate. Juwono, who was recommended by Wiranto, enjoyed close relations with the TNI, having previously served as Deputy Chief of the military think tank, Lemhanas (National Resilience Institute). The new Defence Minister also shared the military’s opposition to human rights investigations in Aceh, arguing that ‘democratic absolutism’ would result from prosecuting senior generals who were ‘just carrying out state policy’. In other areas of Aceh policy, however, Juwono was a reformist. Soon after his appointment, he even ambitiously proposed phasing out the military’s territorial command system, starting with Aceh, because the TNI’s presence was ‘the most sensitive to civilians there’ and because of the ‘very significant’ contribution made by the Acehnese people to the Indonesian nation (The Jakarta Post, 27 October, 1999). In relation to Aceh, the other strategic ministry was the Home Affairs portfolio, which was traditionally seen as the most militarized department after the Ministry of Defence. This portfolio was awarded to Lieutenant General (ret.) Surjadi Soedirdja, who became the TNI’s most powerful representative in government in February 2000, when he replaced General Wiranto as Acting Coordinating Minister for Political and Security Affairs. Prior to his cabinet appointments, Surjadi had served as Governor of Jakarta (1992–97), a member of President Habibie’s Advisory Team on Aceh (TPPUA) and, like other senior military leaders, had briefly undertaken a tour of duty in Aceh in the late 1970s. Like the Habibie administration, the number of generals in Abdurrahman Wahid’s first cabinet who received strategic portfolios cast doubt over Jakarta’s political will and capacity to redress Acehnese expectations of justice. The military’s ongoing governmental role also raised questions about its decision to withdraw from politics and the relative power and authority of civilian ministers. Abdurrahman Wahid’s first cabinet did, however, contain two new ministries that were key to the search for a negotiated Aceh settlement. The first was the Human Rights Ministry, headed by Hasballah M. Saad, an Acehnese and a former human rights activist. Hasballah M. Saad’s appointment sent a strong symbolic message to the Acehnese that the central government was committed to addressing the atrocities committed in Aceh. Although Acehnese activist groups cautiously welcomed the institutionalized handling of human rights, some queried whether the new department would be granted sufficient decision-making powers to properly function, while others warned Hasballah to ‘work only for humanity, not for politics’ (Koalisi NGO HAM Aceh, 27 October, 1999). The second new Ministry for Regional Autonomy was headed by Ryaas Rasyid. With his prior experience as Director General of Public Administration and Regional Autonomy in the Home Affairs Department under B. J. Habibie,

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Ryaas Rasyid was suited to the job. Like Hasballah M. Saad, the former Teamof-Seven leader believed the threat of national disintegration could be prevented by decentralizing wide-ranging powers to Indonesia’s problematic provinces, as opposed to Vice President Megawati Sukarnoputri, who saw the unitary state as sacrosanct and ‘too much’ decentralization as a threat to it. The two new ministries faced considerable political and structural obstacles. Both departments lacked adequate staff and resources, and neither Hasballah M. Saad nor Ryaas Rasyid received clear job descriptions. Although these civilian ministers shared Abdurrahman Wahid’s commitment towards peacefully resolving the Aceh conflict, they were excluded from the president’s inner circle of late night ‘whisperers’, which restricted their influence over the policy process. Ryaas Rasyid said he tendered his resignation (while serving in the second cabinet) because Abdurrahman was ‘a very authoritarian figure’ who ‘never agreed with my ideas’ or approved his counter-proposals (interview with Ryaas Rasyid, 17 October, 2002). Similarly, Hasballah M. Saad explained that he had been ‘a bit confused, but also disappointed’ when the president bypassed the Human Rights Ministry and ordered his new TNI Commander in Chief, Admiral Laksamana Widodo, to investigate rights abuses in Aceh (interview with Hasballah M. Saad, 11 November, 2001). Second cabinet The second cabinet, which was announced on 23 August, 2000, was far more united on Aceh policy than the first, with the majority of ministers supporting a dual-track persuasive–repressive approach to the conflict. This was largely due to the military’s growing political influence and the lack of democratic control over the armed forces. With his presidency in crisis, Abdurrahman Wahid was forced to reshuffle the cabinet and transfer the practical running of the country to Vice President Megawati Sukarnoputri in a bid to defuse calls for his impeachment. Although Abdurrahman Wahid continued to exert influence over the second cabinet by awarding key portfolios to his allies, he made growing concessions to the TNI to remain in power. Most civilian ministers in the second cabinet also supported a stronger military presence in Aceh as national sympathy towards Acehnese grievances waned and the limited peace process with GAM verged on collapse. Like the first cabinet, the armed forces did well out of the second cabinet, receiving five ministries. Of these, the most powerful Ministry for Coordinating Political, Social and Security Affairs was awarded to Lieutenant General Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. It was Susilo, more than any other minister, who shaped Aceh policy development in the second cabinet. As discussed later in this chapter, Susilo was also the principal architect of Presidential Instruction (Inpres) No.4/2001, which became the foundation of Jakarta’s ‘comprehensive’ Aceh approach during Abdurrahman Wahid’s final months in power. The Defence portfolio in the second cabinet was again awarded to one of the military’s civilian supporters. Mohammad Mahfud Mahmodin’s appointment was

Persuasion and repression 65 especially controversial as he had no prior experience or knowledge of defence matters. A Nahdlatul Ulama member and constitutional lawyer, Mahfud was chosen for his loyalty to the president and not for his ministerial capability. Despite his personal and institutional ties to Abdurrahman Wahid, Mahfud was so outspoken in supporting a traditional security approach in Aceh that one Acehnese parliamentarian described him as ‘more military than the military, even though he is a civilian official’ (Tapol, 16 January, 2001). A key difference between the first and the second cabinets was the dissolution of the Human Rights and Regional Autonomy ministries in the second. Reminiscent of the Habibie administration, regional autonomy matters were merged into the Home Affairs and Regional Autonomy Department, which was again headed by Lieutenant General (ret.) Surjadi Soedirdja. Reflecting Jakarta’s reduced emphasis on human rights issues, the Human Rights Ministry was integrated into the Law and Human Rights Department. This department was headed by the leader of the Islam-based Star and Crescent Party (PBB), Yusril Ihza Mahendra, who had served as Minister for Law and Legislation in the first cabinet. Yusril only had seven months to master his portfolio before he was sacked for disloyalty to Abdurrahman Wahid in February 2001. Yusril’s replacement, the former Komnas HAM chairman, Baharuddin Lopa, was also only in government for four months before the cabinet in which he served was dissolved. While the second cabinet functioned marginally better than the first, in the sense that it was more coordinated and politically cohesive, it was far from stable or efficient. The regular rotation of ministers, combined with declining political support for Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency, led the armed forces, the DPR and the MPR to increasingly question or undermine executive authority. Just as the first cabinet had been marked by a high degree of political infighting, many ministers in the second cabinet were less concerned with regional issues than with Indonesia’s emerging leadership crisis as entrenched elite interests began to reposition themselves around Vice President Megawati Sukarnoputri. Third cabinet By the time of the third cabinet reshuffle on 1 June, 2001, the TNI had consolidated its control over Aceh policy. In practical terms, it barely functioned as it was installed during the final stage of a protracted impeachment process against Abdurrahman Wahid. With national attention focused on the issue of presidential succession, the third cabinet made no new decisions about Aceh and only proceeded to half-heartedly implement a ‘comprehensive’ Aceh programme that had been developed by Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono in the second cabinet. One distinguishing feature of Abdurrahman Wahid’s last cabinet was the political ascendancy of Megawati Sukarnoputri and her allies. Like the first two cabinets, the military and its civilian supporters were awarded key portfolios. In a bid to reach a settlement with his political rival, Abdurrahman Wahid awarded the top cabinet position of Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security to Lieutenant General (ret.) Agum Gumelar, who had actively supported Megawati

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Sukarnoputri’s 1993 election to the chair of the Indonesian Democratic Party (PDI). Agum Gumelar had also served as Minister for Transportation and Communications in the first two cabinets, and had previously supervised military operations in Aceh as Chief of Staff of Kodam Bukit Barisan during DOM (1994–96). The strategic Defence portfolio and the Home Affairs and Regional Autonomy ministry were respectively returned to Mohammad Mahfud Mahmodin and Surjadi Soedirdja. These appointments seemed to suggest that Aceh choices would have continued to be heavily informed by myopic policy debates about territorial integrity even if Abdurrahman Wahid had not been impeached. The military’s ongoing access to the highest echelons of political power further indicated that while Indonesia’s reform process had suffered under Abdurrahman Wahid’s chaotic leadership, the TNI had not. Instead, dysfunctional and erratic governance had enabled the military to reassert its self-image as the defender of national unity. Calls for a referendum Upon coming to power, Abdurrahman Wahid acknowledged the severity of the Aceh problem by announcing that he would ‘personally’ handle it (Reuters, 24 October, 1999). Like Habibie before him, Abdurrahman Wahid sought to distinguish himself as a democratic leader by withdrawing non-organic troops from Aceh, launching human rights investigations and releasing Acehnese political prisoners. Despite these conciliatory gestures, Abdurrahman Wahid soon proved weak on the details of policy implementation. His numerous off-the-cuff remarks about Aceh undermined any sense of goodwill that he sought to create in Aceh and entrenched the general feeling of isolation and alienation of the Acehnese from Indonesian rule. Abdurrahman Wahid inherited a far more serious problem in Aceh than Habibie. From having high expectations of democratic change at the start of Indonesia’s transition to democracy, most Acehnese now saw SIRA as the most tangible embodiment of democracy at work with its rallying call to decide Aceh’s political status via popular ballot. The precariousness of Indonesia’s governing presence in Aceh was underscored two weeks into Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency by SIRA’s ‘rally of millions’. On 8–9 November, 1999, about 500,000 of Aceh’s 4.2 million people gathered at the Baiturrahman mosque in Banda Aceh to demand a referendum with two options: ‘To Join or Separate (Free) from RI [Republic of Indonesia]’. From the shouts of ‘Free Aceh’ and ‘Referendum, Freedom’ that reverberated throughout the mosque grounds, however, the crowd’s message was clear. Though Aceh’s referendum movement covered the entire political spectrum, the majority of Acehnese whose daily experience of Indonesian authority was violence wanted independence. Nevertheless, there were differences over how particular groups and individuals saw their role in the referendum process. The university students at the vanguard of the referendum movement saw their political ‘struggle’ as ‘the ideal form of compromise with the Central Government’ to ‘resolve the Aceh case in a just, peaceful, democratic,

Persuasion and repression 67 political and comprehensive manner’ (SIRA statement, 25 October, 1999). By contrast, GAM vowed to militarily defend the students and to wage war against Jakarta if it refused Aceh an independence ballot. As GAM’s military commander Abdullah Syafi’ie explained, ‘We must protect our children, those students, until the last drop of blood has been spilt’ (Kompas, 14 January, 2000). Others, including HUDA and Rabithah Thaliban Aceh, saw their role in the referendum process as a calming and unifying influence to ensure that ‘Aceh doesn’t become a second East Timor that’s destroyed and divided after the referendum’ (Waspada, 10 November, 1999). While some HUDA representatives directly petitioned Abdurrahman Wahid as a fellow traditionalist ulama, others employed more defensive language, warning that ‘the dayah ulama are ready to face the consequences’ if their referendum demand was not met (Serambi Indonesia, 3 November, 1999). Lacking strong community support and in the absence of political assistance from Jakarta, provincial government leaders adopted a conciliatory attitude towards the referendum movement. They arguably had no alternative; in the week before the massive display of people power in Banda Aceh, an angry mob set fire to the DPRD-II building in the West Aceh capital of Meulaboh after local legislators refused their demands to lower the Indonesian flag and support their referendum demand. It was within this context that DPRD and provincial government leaders signed a joint written statement on 8 November, 1999, pledging their support for ‘the struggle for self-determination of the Acehnese people through a democratic and peaceful referendum’. Governor Syamsuddin Mahmud added that ‘If [a referendum] is what the people want, then I agree with the people’ (Serambi Indonesia, 12 November, 1999). Under attack from Jakarta, however, Syamsuddin back-pedalled, claiming that he had only endorsed a referendum ‘because until now the Acehnese people don’t have the option of whether they must be given special autonomy, revert to a federal system or something else’ (Kompas, 16 November, 1999). Meanwhile, in Jakarta a different leadership crisis was emerging over Abdurrahman Wahid’s handling of the referendum issue. Acting against the advice of the DPR, the MPR, the TNI and his own cabinet (with the notable exception of Hasballah M. Saad), Abdurrahman Wahid agreed to grant the Acehnese a referendum on independence, stating that it was ‘unfair’ to only allow the East Timorese to decide their political status (Kompas, 9 November, 1999). When his offer invoked panic amongst Indonesian nationalists and mass demonstrations in Aceh and Jakarta, however, the president modified his referendum proposal to ‘broad autonomy and matters pertaining to the application of Syari’ah’ after seven months (Suara Pembaruan, 19 November, 1999). By early December, Abdurrahman Wahid was forced to completely abandon his referendum offer after being summoned before the DPR to ‘clarify’ that he ‘would not tolerate any province to secede from the country’ (Kompas, 9 December, 1999). From a capacity perspective, Abdurrahman Wahid’s responses to the referendum issue cost him much-needed legitimacy in both Jakarta and Aceh. In the Indonesian capital, political and military elites began to question their new president’s ability

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to make rational choices and hence, to responsibly govern. Abdurrahman Wahid later admitted that he had never actually intended to hold either an ‘extra large referendum’ on Acehnese independence, or ‘a wide array of referendums’ on ‘special case policies’ such as Islamic law, because that would ‘not solve anything’ (interview with Abdurrahman Wahid, 23 October, 2002). This implied that his statements, which were made during a whirlwind tour of Asia, the USA and the Middle East, were either completely thoughtless or had simply been aimed at buying time. Instead of cultivating trust and goodwill in Aceh, the ‘referendum ruse’ made Abdurrahman Wahid seem insincere and indecisive. On the balance, the new president’s spontaneous pronouncements about Aceh did more harm than good and created the general impression that his administration lacked a coherent programme for conflict resolution. Human rights Abdurrahman Wahid’s efforts to win back Acehnese hearts and minds through his human rights campaign was similarly confusing and largely counterproductive. Even if the new government had implemented a coherent rights programme, there was no guarantee that it would have been capable of satisfying the Acehnese people or that it would have contributed towards a gradual reduction in separatist sentiment and activity. Nor was there any assurance that the TNI would have permitted the prosecution of human rights violations cases if they were too rapid. What did become clear as Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency progressed was that Jakarta’s human rights programme was too slow and insubstantial to restore Acehnese faith in Indonesian authority. And, that while the prospect of human rights trials presented a fleeting threat to Indonesia’s military establishment, there were no substantive changes to the behaviour and professionalism of troops in the field. Like Habibie, Abdurrahman Wahid responded to Acehnese demands for justice for human rights abuses in two ways: by granting amnesty to Acehnese political prisoners and by launching investigations. On 15 November, 1999, the DPR approved Abdurrahman Wahid’s decision to release 90 political prisoners who had been charged with subversion in Aceh, East Timor, Lampung and Jakarta. While the majority of national parliamentarians praised the president’s commitment towards human rights, he only approved amnesty for 15 Acehnese political prisoners, prompting a spokesman from Megawati Sukarnoputri’s PDI-P party, Julius Usman, to question the fate of an additional 26 Acehnese political prisoners who had been listed for release (The Jakarta Post, 16 November, 1999). In a second prisoner release in December 1999, 11 more Acehnese political prisoners were granted amnesty. According to SIRA and Aceh’s Legal Aid Foundation (LBH), however, hundreds of other civilians were unlawfully arrested to replace those who had been freed.23 Abdurrahman Wahid’s most important human rights initiative in Aceh was to order investigations into violations against civilians. Vowing to not only catch the small fish (ikan teri), but also the big fish (ikan kakap) who were responsible for

Persuasion and repression 69 depredations, he announced that all abuse cases would be ‘thoroughly investigated by the Attorney General’, Marzuki Darusman, and that the perpetrators would stand trial (Serambi Indonesia, 2 November, 1999). Most Acehnese doubted Abdurrahman Wahid’s sincerity, however, especially after he bizarrely stated that the mass killings in Aceh were ‘not committed by Indonesian security forces personnel, but by people wearing military uniforms’ (Republika, 27 October, 1999). There were serious concerns amongst Acehnese and national activist groups about the investigative process. Instead of sending his Acehnese Human Rights Minister, Hasballah M. Saad, to investigate atrocities in Aceh, Abdurrahman Wahid ordered the new TNI Commander in Chief, Admiral Laksamana Widodo, to interrogate the head of Kodam Bukit Barisan and the Intelligence Affairs Assistant to the Chief of Korem 012 Teuku Umar. Not only did this decision raise questions about the impartiality of the investigation, but it made the Human Rights Ministry look like little more than a political mouthpiece for promoting the government’s credibility. Hasballah’s symbolic status was underscored during his first official visit to Banda Aceh on 12–13 November, 1999, when he announced that he had ‘only come here to visit my brothers’ and had ‘no special message from the government’ (The Indonesian Observer, 14 November, 1999). Abdurrahman Wahid’s decision to interrogate senior military commanders in Aceh followed two separate investigations into the July 1999 killing of the boarding school ulama Tgk. Bantaqiah and 52 of his students in West Aceh, which fell under the command of Korem 021 Teuku Umar that is directly subordinate to Kodam Bukit Barisan. The first independent investigation was ordered by President Habibie in July 1999 and resulted in the documentation by Komnas HAM of more than 5,000 rights violations cases in Aceh. When Komnas HAM submitted its findings to Abdurrahman Wahid on 10 November, 1999, it recommended prioritizing five cases, one of which was the case of the Bantaqiah massacre. The second investigation was undertaken by an Acehnese fact-finding team comprising a mix of DPRD representatives, police officers, student activists, humanitarian workers and community leaders. In October 1999, the Acehnese team concluded that there was insufficient evidence to support claims by the TNI and police that Tgk. Bantaqiah had cultivated marijuana and had links to GAM. Although the Bantaqiah case went to trial, only 24 lowranking soldiers and one civilian were prosecuted in May 2000. The 25 were convicted in a civil–military connectivity court and received sentences ranging from 8.5–10 years. No senior officers were sentenced as the commanding officer in the Bantaqiah incident, Lieutenant Colonel Sudjono, ‘disappeared’ months before the trial began, and the court did not exercise its right to prosecution in absentia (Kompas, 17 February, 2000). While several senior generals were questioned about their role and interventions in rights abuses in Aceh at the start of Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency, none were prosecuted. On 29 November, 1999, six previously ‘untouchable’ generals were summoned before a DPR special committee (Panitia Khusus, Pansus) to explain their involvement in atrocities committed during the DOM period.

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The 50-member Pansus Aceh (which included 12 Acehnese representatives) was formed in mid-November 1999 with a mandate to ‘realize special autonomy and restore the human rights of the Acehnese people’ (Waspada, 1 December, 1999). In working towards these objectives, the Pansus Aceh questioned those generals who were implicated in atrocities in Aceh and sought input from four ministers who were seen to be directly involved in Aceh policy-making (Wiranto, Surjadi Soedirdja, Ryaas Rasyid and Hasballah M. Saad). Three of those summoned had held prominent positions under Habibie: Lieutenant General (ret.) Feisal Tanjung (former Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security), Lieutenant General (ret.) Syarwan Hamid (Home Affairs Minister) and Major General H. R. Pramono (former Inspector General of Industry and Trade). Other four-star generals included former ABRI Commander/Vice President (1988–93/1993–98) General (ret.) Try Sutrisno, ex-Defence and Security Minister (1988–93) General (ret.) Benny Moerdani and the former Chief of the Armed Forces Intelligence Agency [BIA] (1997–99) Major General Zacky Anwar Makarim. The only civilian summoned before the hearing was a past Aceh governor, Ibrahim Hasan (1986–93). Though the public interrogation of Indonesia’s top generals would have been unthinkable under the New Order (the DPR session was broadcast live on TVRI), it ultimately revealed the extent of the TNI’s political power. General (ret.) Try Sutrisno silenced the House during question time by shouting ‘Don’t try to provoke us. Behave yourselves!’ (The Indonesian Observer, 30 November, 1999). Even the Pansus Aceh Chairman and Deputy DPR Speaker, Soetardjo Soerjogoeritno, admitted that the hearing had achieved ‘nothing towards disclosure’ as the generals disavowed responsibility for depredations by using arguments similar to those advanced by their colleagues immediately after DOM (The Indonesian Observer, 30 November, 1999). The outspoken Try Sutrisno argued that DOM status had never been imposed on Aceh, and that General Wiranto had only ‘lifted’ DOM because most Acehnese and sections of the wider population believed DOM had existed. Another common argument, advanced by Major General Zacky Anwar Makarim, was that ‘GPK’ rebels were responsible for the killings of Acehnese civilians (Waspada, 1 December, 1999). Others, including General (ret.) Benny Moerdani,24 pointed out that Try Sutrisno had served as ABRI Commander for part of DOM, but accused former governor Ibrahim Hasan of asking President Suharto to impose martial law in Aceh. In his defence, Ibrahim Hasan argued that he had simply ‘requested the Indonesian Armed Forces to secure Aceh’ in order to fulfil his duties as head of the provincial government ([email protected], 15 December, 1999). The failure to prosecute any generals with direct links to atrocities in Aceh showed the impunity that Indonesia’s judiciary, legislature and executive continued to award the military. No punitive action was taken even after Kontras (Commission for Disappearances and Victims of Violence) produced TNI documents directly linking several top-ranking generals to atrocities committed during a 1994 ‘Satgas Rencong’ operation in Aceh. On 16 December, five days after Kontras released its findings, a DPR plenary session unanimously endorsed the

Persuasion and repression 71 Pansus Aceh recommendation to bring military rights violators to trial. In Aceh, however, the session was cynically regarded as a public relations exercise. GAM accused Pansus Aceh of participating in a ‘political conspiracy’ to protect the TNI (Serambi Indonesia, 31 December, 1999). This did not seem entirely fair, however, given that the Pansus Aceh had made more effort than any other state institution to prosecute military perpetrators. On the other hand, the DPR hearings made the armed forces extremely uneasy. This high level of disquiet at least partially contributed towards the military’s decision to outwardly cooperate with Abdurrahman Wahid’s ‘persuasive’ Aceh approach. In the absence of human rights trials, however, the armed forces had little incentive to improve the discipline and professionalism of troops in the field. The military was also discouraged from becoming more responsive to democratic control, while it remained largely dependent on external funding and while Indonesia’s civilian authorities remained so evidently indecisive and divided. The armed forces retreat… One of Abdurrahman Wahid’s most important decisions during his first few weeks in power was to order a complete withdrawal of non-organic troops from Aceh. This decision formed part of his broader persuasive Aceh approach that would later include a limited peace process with GAM and a unilateral offer of broad autonomy. Despite his rhetorical emphasis on peaceful conflict resolution, however, Abdurrahman Wahid did not order the termination of Operasi Sadar Rencong II (OSR-II), which had commenced in August 1999 under President Habibie. As a result, the police-led operations continued even after the non-organic troops left in November 1999 (Serambi Indonesia, 4 November, 1999). Although the remaining organic battalions in Aceh initially lacked the confidence and resources to deal with GAM, this ‘passive’ phase of OSR-II was short-lived and was soon replaced by a third, more offensive phase (OSR-III) on 1 February, 2000. The TNI’s compliance with Abdurrahman Wahid’s order to withdraw from Aceh was always reluctant. As the TNI Commander in Chief, Admiral Laksamana Widodo Adi Sucipto, explained, ‘The military, with a heavy heart, has been forced to deploy a persuasive approach in facing mounting tension in Aceh’ (The Jakarta Post, 3 December, 1999). Laksamana Widodo’s statement revealed as much about the Indonesian military’s preferred traditional security approach as it did its frustration with Abdurrahman Wahid’s handling of the Aceh conflict. Still, the TNI was widely discredited for its depredations in Aceh and was reeling from a wave of national and international condemnation following its poor conduct during the referendum process in East Timor. Internally divided and under strong pressure to withdraw from political life, the TNI pragmatically decided to publicly support Indonesia’s first democratically elected president by pledging its commitment towards the national reform process. At the same time, statements by Indonesia’s military and police leadership and ongoing violence in the field presaged a return to state repression.

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On 17 November, 1999, less than one week after the publicized withdrawal of 600 Kostrad troops from Aceh, National Police Chief General Roesmanhadi requested ‘limited’ martial law in Aceh on the grounds that ‘the police are currently being subjected to conditions that they are unprepared for, especially in facing a guerrilla war’ (Media Indonesia, 18 November, 1999). In fact, the martial law proposal was not at all limited and covered large swaths of the province, including the entire districts of Pidie, North, West and South Aceh. Roesmanhadi’s request received strong support from the TNI and was sympathetically viewed by several cabinet ministers, especially Home Affairs Minister Lieutenant General (ret.) Surjadi Soedirdja, TNI Commander in Chief Admiral Laksamana Widodo and Defence Minister Juwono Sudarsono, who agreed to discuss the proposal at the next cabinet meeting in November 1999 (Serambi Indonesia, 18 November, 1999). To his credit, Abdurrahman Wahid rejected the proposal based on Aceh’s past negative experience of martial law and the inevitable rights violations and internal displacement of civilians that such a policy would have entailed. He was forced to concede, however, that Aceh was degenerating into a state of lawlessness (The Jakarta Post, 4 December, 1999). The organic security forces lacked control over most of the province. By early December 1999, the military and police had reportedly evacuated 10 out of 14 sub-districts in South Aceh. Regional military and police commanders also confirmed claims by GAM that the rebels ‘control 70 percent of the villages in all of Aceh’ (The Indonesian Observer, 2 December, 1999). The security vacuum had awarded GAM unprecedented leverage, which the rebels manipulated in two ways. On the one hand, GAM continued their attacks on Indonesian security forces personnel, military installations and Indonesian state facilities. On the other, they sent a message to Jakarta that the Acehnese people did not need Indonesian troops to maintain security. This self-reliance was demonstrated at GAM’s 23rd anniversary commemoration on 4 December, 1999, which passed relatively peacefully after AGAM Commander Tgk. Abdullah Syafi’ie forbade the sale and hoisting of GAM flags outside local GAM headquarters to avoid further bloodshed (Serambi Indonesia, 18 November, 1999). These combined strategies of self-restraint and insurgency strengthened GAM’s communal support base and reinforced the rebels’ self-portrayal as national liberators who would empower the Acehnese people to regain control over their homeland. GAM was not the only group to take advantage of Indonesia’s reduced security presence. By late 1999, armed gangs of ‘provocateurs’ were roaming the countryside and committing a litany of crimes such as extortion, theft, looting, arson attacks and terrorizing civilians. In a surprisingly candid statement in December 1999, Wiranto admitted that many of these provocateurs were actually ‘thugs who come from Medan’ and ‘rogue elements of the military’ (The Indonesian Observer, 7 December, 1999). Aceh’s Police Chief Brigadier General Bahrumsyah Kasman even estimated that 70 percent of ‘GAM’ activity in Aceh was actually carried out by TNI–Polri deserters and escaped prisoners (Serambi Indonesia, 8 March, 2000). The activities of these shadowy groups exacerbated

Persuasion and repression 73 the local climate of fear and mistrust and heightened hostilities between the warring parties. According to police leaders, the aim of the ‘provocateurs’ was ‘to provoke the security personnel into using a repressive approach’ in Aceh (The Jakarta Post, 1 November, 1999). In a different vein, GAM vowed to ‘exterminate provocateurs’ because the rebels were tired of ‘always being turned into scapegoats’ by Indonesian security forces (Serambi Indonesia, 14 November, 1999). There was some truth in GAM’s argument as the police collectively labelled the various armed groups in Aceh as GBPK (Gerombolan Bersenjata Pengacau Keamanan/Gang of Armed Security Disturbers), which was another government term for GAM. Even as the non-organic troops withdrew from Aceh, almost daily reports of mysterious killings (petrus) raised concerns amongst the local population that the security forces had shifted their repressive emphasis from open security operations to more covert and clandestine action. West Aceh residents, for instance, confirmed that soldiers continued to enter their villages at night even after the district military commander signed a written statement stating that the TNI was no longer allowed to operate at the village level (The Jakarta Post, 3 December, 1999). There was a widespread perception that non-organic battalions were returning to Aceh to create chaos and force a return to repression. This belief was strengthened after 28 November, 1999, when 1,000 Brimob and regular police were redeployed to Aceh, just two weeks after the formal non-organic troop withdrawal (Kedaulatan Rakyat, 29 November, 1999). Brimob troops were especially infamous for their atrocities against the civilian population and arson attacks. In one such incident on 17 December, 1999, 5,000 civilians were displaced in Sakti village in Pidie after Brimob and sub-district-level (Koramil) military officers set fire to dozens of buildings in revenge for the killing of one policeman (Serambi Indonesia, 18 December, 1999). Such incidents became so frequent that eventually Abdurrahman Wahid intervened and asked National Police Chief Rusdihardjo to dismiss the Aceh’s operational taskforce police chief, Colonel Jusuf Muharram, for ‘participating in, and ordering the burning of people, the burning of houses and schools in Aceh’ (TempoInteraktif, 20 April, 2000). The worsening conflict was most clearly shown by the loss of human life and the physical destruction of Aceh’s state infrastructure. In 1999, Aceh’s average annual death toll was 350 fatalities, representing a sharp increase from 1998, when official sources reported just 46 conflict-related deaths. The vast majority of extrajudicial killings were labelled ‘petrus’ because none of the ‘mysterious’ killers were ever captured. At least 400 buildings were also burnt down in Aceh in 1999 at a cost of tens of millions of dollars to the state (The Jakarta Post, 11 January, 2000). The most palpable sign of the escalating violence, however, was Aceh’s refugee crisis. These refugees were of two types. The first group comprised several thousand non-Acehnese civilians from 12 transmigrant communities (mostly from North, West and South Aceh) who fled the province in the wake of East Timor’s independence ballot due to intimidation by GAM. These non-Acehnese migrants were not simply victims of racism, having been long associated by the local population with Suharto’s widely unpopular transmigration programme and TNI-backed

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civilian militias. Even so, there was an element of ethnic cleansing in the non-Acehnese exodus. For instance, one AGAM commander in Saree village in Aceh Besar district confirmed that he had ‘cleaned’ entire streets of Javanese migrants in his village (interview with local GAM commander, 8 December, 2000). The second group of Acehnese refugees was by far the largest. Although the number of internally displaced civilians had fallen considerably since July 1999, there were still 36,000–40,000 Acehnese refugees by late 1999, mostly in the strife-torn districts of Pidie, North and East Aceh. Even many of those Acehnese refugees who were subsequently relocated to makeshift camps were unable to escape the violence. On 29 November, 1999, for example, at least 185 refugees in the Seulimeum camp in Aceh Besar were hospitalized after being poisoned by a mysterious ‘chef’ (Waspada, 1 December, 1999). Despite the non-organic troop withdrawal, it seemed that nowhere in Aceh was safe. With GAM and Indonesian security forces blaming each other (and provocateurs) for the violence, the rule of law did not exist. This explosive situation provided police and military leaders in Jakarta with increased political leverage to force a return to repression less than two months after the non-organic redeployment. …and return As security conditions in Aceh spiralled out of control, Abdurrahman Wahid began to reconsider his commitment to a non-military policy approach there. He first alluded to this shift less than two months after coming to power on 3 December, 1999 (the day before GAM’s 23rd anniversary commemoration) by warning that if Acehnese separatists challenged the government then ‘we will use repressive force’ (The Jakarta Post, 4 December, 1999). At the same time, Abdurrahman Wahid signed a written statement ordering the military and police to use force if necessary to uphold the law in Aceh. The timing of this decision was related to growing calls by Indonesian security forces to impose a state of emergency in the troubled province. While Abdurrahman Wahid did not seriously believe that repression would solve Aceh’s problems, he acknowledged the need to accommodate the still politically powerful TNI. Almost immediately after Abdurrahman Wahid authorized the use of repression in Aceh, the counterinsurgency campaign intensified. Military spokesman Major General Sudrajat responded to the president’s order by announcing that ‘The [Acehnese] people should not be allergic to repression’ because the ‘TNI as the state protector has no other alternative than the repressive approach if all other means are ineffective’ (The Jakarta Post, 3 December, 1999). In January 2000, after an additional 540 non-organic soldiers were redeployed to Aceh, the counterinsurgency campaign began to incorporate more door-to-door searches, roadblocks and ‘sweepings’ of villages, particularly in North Aceh, Pidie and Aceh Besar. Indiscriminate acts of violence against the civilian population also shot up in the form of rape, torture, harassment, summary killings, unlawful arrests, looting, extortion and the burnings of homes and marketplaces (the economic hub of villages). According to Aceh’s Legal Aid Foundation

Persuasion and repression 75 (LBH), there were 21 summary executions, 115 torture cases and 33 arbitrary arrests in January alone. Material losses also accumulated, with 415 buildings being incinerated the same month (1 February, 2000). Then, on 1 February, 2000, when Operasi Sadar Rencong II (OSR-II) was replaced with a third, more offensive phase of the operations, the violence reached levels not experienced since the worst of the DOM period. On the day OSR-III came into effect, 2,000 non-organic TNI and Brimob troops were redeployed to Aceh to assist the police operations. By mid-2000, there were some 20,000 security forces personnel in the province. Police and military spokesmen said the aim of OSR-III was to capture about 800 armed civilians (Media Indonesia, 27 February, 2000). Most of the fatalities, however, were noncombatants, as shown by the deaths of 103 civilians in the first month of OSRIII, compared with seven TNI–Polri officers and five GAM rebels (Kompas, 4 March, 2000). Even after Abdurrahman Wahid ordered in March 2000 that OSR-III be replaced with a more defensive Operasi Cinta Meunasah (lit; Love the Mosque Operation, OCM), the violence continued unabated. The only real difference between the two campaigns was that the OCM involved greater inconsistency between official rhetoric and reality. According to DPR Commission I Assistant Police Chief Inspector, General Sutiyono, Abdurrahman Wahid ordered the police to create ‘a softer impression’ in Aceh by incorporating those officers who had been involved in the offensive OSR-III into more defensive operations (Kompas, 20 March, 2000). Around the same time, the new National Police Chief, Lieutenant General Rusdihardjo told all police officers in Aceh to implement a ‘Three S’ campaign (Senyum, Sapa dan Salam/Smile, Greet, Peace [in greetings]) to improve police interactions with the civilian population (Serambi Indonesia, 4 March, 2000). It soon became apparent, however, that the security forces were incapable of reverting to a defensive position. By late May, when Jakarta and GAM agreed to implement a three-month peace agreement, at least 399 people had been killed since the start of the year, including about 30 police officers and soldiers (The Jakarta Post, 22 May, 2000). As the security forces were seen as the primary perpetrators of the violence, GAM had no difficulty in recruiting new fighters and in expanding and consolidating its local support base. As discussed in Chapter Two, the armed forces had strong economic interests in Aceh. Major shortfalls in the defence budget made soldiers and police officers reliant on external funding, which Aceh’s war economy provided in abundance. Soon after his appointment, Defence Minister Juwono Sudarsono admitted that insufficient resources had created ‘uncontrollable’ soldiers with ‘lousy professionalism’ (The Indonesian Observer, 23 November, 1999). Even after Juwono announced the government’s intention to provide some redress for these problems by increasing the defence budget by a massive 62 percent, however, there were no substantive improvements to the discipline and behaviour of troops in the field.25 In part, this was because the military did not receive most of the allocated funding, which never left Jakarta, and in part because the budgetary increase was not accompanied by institutional reforms to reduce corruption within the armed forces through the introduction of transparency and accountability mechanisms.

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The role of sections of Indonesia’s security forces in perpetuating the Aceh conflict was perhaps best illustrated by an arms smuggling scandal that broke in 2000. It was a well-known ‘secret’ that security forces personnel had been selling weapons to GAM since the early DOM period, but the issue received little media attention until the Sadar Rencong operations, when several TNI and Brimob officers became implicated in a series of arms smuggling operations in Aceh. The timing of this ‘discovery’ was linked to the military’s divided and discredited public image, as well as to the relative freedom of Indonesia’s mass media, which provided critical coverage of the conflict. In March 2000, DPR Speaker Akbar Tanjung ordered a parliamentary inquiry into the military’s illegal arms trade with GAM (Serambi Indonesia, 4 March, 2000). The acting Coordinating Minister for Political and Security Affairs, Lieutenant General (ret.) Surjadi Soedirdja, ordered a corresponding police investigation, which led to the arrest of 12 lowranking officers (Kompas, 4 March, 2000). Although Indonesia’s military leadership publicly pledged to cooperate with these investigations, they were desperate to contain the embarrassing disclosure and put an end to the investigative process almost immediately after it started. As a result, the arms trade in Aceh continued to flourish. In August 2000, North Aceh GAM commander Abu Sofyan Daud confirmed that the rebels continued to enjoy ‘special links with members of Kopassus’ who ‘are supplying us with weapons, information and logistics’ (The Jakarta Post, 19 August, 2000). Though the intensive counterinsurgency operations constituted a major, if not the biggest, obstacle to peace, GAM also perpetuated the violence. The pretext for OSR-III had been a series of ambushes, kidnappings and killings of security forces personnel by GAM rebels, most of whom were regular or paramilitary police. Fifty-three police officers were killed in Aceh in the second half of 1999, while many more were injured (HRW, 12 May, 2000). GAM also intimidated nonAcehnese migrants, killed suspected military spies (cuak) and attacked Indonesian state facilities. Like the TNI and police, GAM was involved in illegal businesses such as the cultivation/sale of marijuana and extortion. From GAM’s perspective, what constituted extortion for Indonesian authorities was their legitimate collection of ‘state taxes’ (pajak nanggroe) for the Acehnese war effort. Similarly, GAM saw their attacks on Indonesian security forces personnel and state facilities as part of their nationalist struggle to destroy the illegitimate Javanese–Indonesian neocolonial system. As the violence continued, the political middle ground in Aceh disappeared. Those who were not clearly for or against the TNI or GAM were particularly vulnerable. One disturbing sign of the closing political space was the killings of Acehnese community leaders, which began shortly before the start of OSR-III and continued until the end of Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency. Those killed included Syiah Kuala Rector Dayan Dawood, Acehnese PPP parliamentarian Tgk. Nashiruddin Daud, South Aceh DPRD-II politician Harun Aldy, New York–based International Forum for Aceh chairman Jafar Hamzah Siddiq, North Aceh PPP legislator Tgk. Ibrahim Ilyas, IAIN Rector Professor Safwan Idris, DPRD Golkar Chairman Major General (ret.) Tengku Haji Djohan, and an Acehnese member of

Persuasion and repression 77 the peace monitoring team, Teuku Al-Kamal, along with his human rights lawyer Suprin Sulaiman and their driver. In the absence of the rule of law, none of the assassins were ever formally identified or brought to trial. Another sign of the polarizing conflict was the retreat of Acehnese civil society. By mid-2000, many of the civil society groups and organizations that had flourished since the fall of Suharto had been intimidated into silence. In contrast to late 1999, when almost the entire province had coalesced around SIRA, the students, ulama and GAM became increasingly divided throughout 2000 (McGibbon 2006: 334). The compromised state of Aceh’s referendum movement was shown through the aborted Kongres Rakyat Aceh (KRA, Aceh People’s Congress). Organized by HUDA ulama in consultation with student leaders, the week-long congress was originally scheduled for 22 April, 2000, and aimed to bring together 1,500 Acehnese representatives to debate two options: to accept broad autonomy (otonomi luas) or separate from Indonesia (Serambi Indonesia, 16 April, 2000). This was a decisive moment in the politicization of the independent ulama, who had previously only played a supportive role in the referendum movement. It was also a turning point for Rabithah Thaliban Aceh (RTA). Not only did the Islamic students provide much of the impetus for the emergence of HUDA as a political force, but they also established a new security function during the build-up to the KRA by forming a ‘Helpers of God Command’ (Komando Ansarullah). According to the head of RTA, Tgk. Bulqaini Tanjungan, the three functions of this new security wing were to create cadres who would form the inner circle of RTA, activate the programmes of the RTA and safeguard the RTA and its social programmes (interview with Tgk. Bulqaini Tanjungan, 10 September, 2000). Almost immediately after the KRA was announced, it was opposed by Indonesian security forces, the provincial government and GAM. National police leaders identified the congress as a potential security threat and deployed 1,700 Brimob officers to Aceh to secure the event (Farmidia 2000). The provincial government, which had aligned itself with MUI and refused to deal with the independent ulama, viewed the KRA with suspicion. Although GAM was invited to participate in the KRA, the rebels refused and accused KRA organizers of colluding with Jakarta. For GAM, the political assertiveness of HUDA/RTA also posed a potential threat, as both groups shared a predominantly rural support base. The decision by HUDA and RTA to place Komando Ansarullah in charge of law and order at the congress also undermined GAM’s self-proclaimed role as the defender of the Acehnese people. Under pressure from the principal warring parties, HUDA and RTA hastily retreated to their Islamic boarding schools to focus on religious education, a role not dissimilar to their emasculated position under the New Order. Peace process ‘If we negotiate enough and if we are patient enough then we will get results’, said Abdurrahman Wahid in 2002 when asked to elaborate on his government’s Aceh policy (interview, 23 October, 2002). Though dialogue does not constitute

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a complete policy in itself, it was this for which President Abdurrahman Wahid would be best remembered in his handling of the Aceh conflict. Departing from the combative approaches taken by past Indonesian presidents, Abdurrahman Wahid decided to recognize GAM as a fact in the field and treat the rebels as ‘brothers’ of a different political persuasion. This attitude laid the foundations for an internationally brokered peace process with GAM, which, while limited under Abdurrahman Wahid, marked the first step in a longer process that would eventually produce peace in Aceh under the government of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. At first, Abdurrahman Wahid’s peaceful overtures to GAM were met with open hostility. In part, the president’s authorization of military repression in December 1999 had stemmed from his difficulty in identifying ‘trusted parties for negotiations in Aceh’ (The Jakarta Post, 9 December, 1999). In his first attempt to engage GAM in dialogue, Abdurrahman Wahid had mistakenly contacted a breakaway rebel faction called MP-GAM (Majelis Pemerintahan GAM, GAM Governing Council). As a result, GAM’s founding leader, Hasan di Tiro retaliated by calling Wahid ‘a liar’, adding that ‘I probably wouldn’t have taken a call… I know Wahid. I knew his father and his grandfather. I know them for what they are. Stupid’ (The Age, 26 November, 1999). Despite his combative language, Hasan di Tiro was not in a strong position to ignore Jakarta indefinitely. Since suffering the first of three strokes in early 1999, GAM’s founding leader had provided no clear policy or strategic direction (such as supporting an Aceh referendum) to his field commanders. In May 1999, tensions within GAM’s political leadership erupted when Hasan di Tiro’s former Chief of Staff, Husaini Hasan, established a breakaway ‘MP-GAM Eropa’ faction along with several other senior GAM members including Daud Paneuh and Idris Mahmud. It was the Secretary General of the MP-GAM Malaysian office, Don Zulfahri (alias Don Malindo), who announced on a Jakarta radio programme in November 1999 that GAM was ‘ready to negotiate anytime’ with Abdurrahman Wahid, whom he described as ‘a gentleman’ (Serambi Indonesia, 17 January, 2000). Presumably for this and other acts of open betrayal, such as stating that Hasan di Tiro ‘no longer has the capability’ to lead the rebel movement (Media Indonesia, 30 November, 1999), Don Zulfahri was shot dead seven months later in a restaurant on the outskirts of Kuala Lumpur. While GAM blamed Don Zulfahri’s murder on Indonesian military intelligence agents, Husaini Hasan publicly accused Hasan di Tiro’s Foreign Affairs Minister and appointed successor, Malik Mahmud, of using his ‘mercenaries’ to murder the ‘martyr’ Don Zulfahri, as well as two other MP-GAM members. To some extent, this factionalism influenced GAM’s decision to eventually agree to negotiate with the Indonesian government. Peace talks provided Hasan di Tiro with an opportunity to reassert his leadership and to disprove MP-GAM claims that he was incapable. Decisive action by Hasan di Tiro could also have boosted morale amongst the majority of GAM field commanders who remained loyal to him. Although GAM’s armed network was far more extensive than that of MP-GAM, the rebel split created some complications in the field. In Aceh, where both factions called themselves GAM and used the

Persuasion and repression 79 same star-and-crescent flag, GAM military commanders threatened to take stern action against MP-GAM, whom they accused of being ‘false GAM’ and of colluding with Kopassus soldiers to carry out such criminal activities as school burnings (Serambi Indonesia, 17 January, 2000). The most important factor in GAM’s decision to negotiate, however, was the involvement of a newly formed, Geneva-based NGO, the Henry Dunant Centre (HDC).26 Established in January 1999, the HDC had a mandate of resolving conflicts through mediation based on humanitarian concerns, and the organization had been searching for a conflict that would raise its international profile (Kay 2002–3). When the HDC approached the Indonesian government and offered to mediate in the Aceh case, Abdurrahman Wahid readily accepted. In part, this was because of his own failed attempt to establish contact with GAM, in part because of his genuine desire to peacefully resolve the conflict, and in part because his controversial initiative lacked strong political support in Jakarta. For GAM, the HDC’s involvement provided the rebels with an opportunity to win international support for their cause. Hasan di Tiro’s previous efforts to convince the United Nations and Washington to pressure Indonesia into relinquishing Aceh had been fruitless. The first HDC-facilitated meeting took place on 27 January, 2000, between Hasan di Tiro and Indonesia’s UN Ambassador to Geneva, Hassan Wirayuda, in Bavois, Switzerland. Despite the deep mutual mistrust and ongoing violence in the field, both sides agreed to hold further talks after acknowledging that they could not militarily defeat each other (Aspinall and Crouch 2003: 11). These discussions, held on 24 March and 14–17 April, primarily focused on humanitarian concerns and a ceasefire. Meanwhile, on 16 March, 2000, Abdurrahman Wahid sent his Acting State Secretary Bondan Gunawan to ‘secretly’ meet with AGAM commander Abdullah Syafi’ie in the rebel stronghold of Sigli in Pidie district. Facilitated by the HDC and Acehnese NGOs, this unprecedented meeting between an Indonesian government representative and a GAM field commander was mainly aimed at ascertaining Abdullah Syafi’ie’s opinion about the viability of proceeding with negotiations. Bondan said that President Wahid had only instructed him to offer two cows to Abdullah Syafi’ie as a goodwill gesture (Kompas, 17 March, 2000). Although the actual meeting went smoothly, the conciliatory gesture later backfired when police assaulted at least 20 villagers while searching for Syafi’ie in the area. In the ensuing political confusion in Jakarta, some government officials and the National Police Chief, Lt. Gen. Rusdihardjo, described the raid as the result of poor coordination between the central government, Polri headquarters and police in the field (Kompas, 21 March, 2000). Others, including Abdurrahman Wahid, alluded to a deliberate attempt by sections of the security forces to sabotage his government’s reform agenda. In Jakarta, the peace process generated deep divisions. Abdurrahman Wahid believed that an internationally facilitated peace process would prevent Aceh’s secession from Indonesia. Pursuing a persuasive approach also provided the president with an opportunity to prove his commitment towards exerting civilian control over the TNI and to resolve Indonesia’s most serious domestic dispute peacefully. Abdurrahman Wahid’s initiative was strongly supported by the

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international community, the Acehnese people, humanitarian NGOs, senior diplomats and some cabinet ministers, especially Hasballah M. Saad (Human Rights Minister) and Alwi Shihab (Foreign Affairs Minister), who outspokenly advocated a negotiated approach to conflict resolution. On the other hand, there were powerful detractors. The majority of military and police leaders believed that separatists should be crushed and not accommodated, and resented Abdurrahman Wahid’s efforts to curtail their power in Aceh. Civilian critics, led by MPR Speaker Amien Rais and DPR Speaker Akbar Tanjung, questioned the advisability of sending Indonesia’s United Nations Ambassador to Geneva to negotiate with GAM, which they argued conferred international recognition and legitimacy to the rebels. Taking such a step, they said, implied that GAM’s political leadership was equal in status to the Indonesian government, and that its armed wing AGAM was the military counterpart of the TNI. Opponents also argued that holding peace talks at a foreign venue could pave the way for the internationalization of the Aceh conflict and invite foreign intervention into what they saw as a domestic issue. This was a valid concern, given that GAM made no secret of its intention to use the peace process to present a case to the UN. As Abdullah Syafi’ie explained, with a peace agreement ‘we are half way to Aceh’s freedom’ because ‘now Aceh’s struggle no longer depends on guns or wars, but more on diplomatic and political efforts’ (The Jakarta Post, 14 August, 2000). Notwithstanding the high level of dissension in Jakarta, the Indonesian government and GAM, with the help of the HDC, went on to sign a ‘Joint Understanding on Humanitarian Pause for Aceh’ on 12 May, 2000, at Bavois castle, 70 kilometres from Geneva. The Memorandum of Understanding (MoU) was welcomed with cautious optimism everywhere except Jakarta, where it received mixed responses. On the day of the signing, over 100,000 people gathered at the Baiturrahman mosque in Banda Aceh to pray for peace, and mass prayers were held in schools, offices and mosques throughout the province. There was also strong support amongst the international community, with several foreign governments, including Norway, the United States, Qatar and the United Arab Emirates pledging funding and humanitarian assistance. Although the Humanitarian Pause represented an important breakthrough, it was structurally limited to the delivery of humanitarian aid and the immediate ‘reduction of tension and cessation of violence’. In other words, the purpose of the MoU was for both sides to put aside their differences and focus on humanitarian concerns, not to address the substantive issues that divided them. The three-month Pause, which came into effect on 2 June, 2000, provided for the establishment of three committees: (1) a Joint Committee on Humanitarian Action to coordinate humanitarian aid deliveries to Aceh, (2) a Security Modalities Monitoring Team and (3) a Joint Committee on Security Modalities to ensure the absence of military offensives and the continuation of normal police functions. What all three committees lacked was the capacity and power to enforce the Pause and to punish those who violated it. Cracks emerged in the peace process almost immediately. There was confusion over whether the MoU was a de facto or de jure agreement. While GAM interpreted the Pause to mean a formal ceasefire, Abdurrahman Wahid succumbed to pressure

Persuasion and repression 81 from the DPR, MPR, TNI and sections of his cabinet by refusing to use the term, arguing that a ceasefire would have conferred official recognition to GAM. It was for this reason that Foreign Affairs Minister Alwi Shihab received an eleventh-hour presidential instruction not to attend the signing ceremony in Bavois. Jakarta’s treatment of the MoU as an informal understanding was underscored by the Coordinating Minister for Political and Security Affairs, Lieutenant General (ret.) Surjadi Soedirdja, who described it as ‘literally a humanitarian pause, there is no other term for it’ (Serambi Indonesia, 12 May, 2000). Outside the cabinet, many questioned or publicly opposed the peace process. DPR Speaker Akbar Tanjung called on the government to explain why the MoU had been signed abroad, while the Indonesian Institute of Political Sciences (LIPI) issued a statement describing it as a ‘political blunder’ (The Jakarta Post, 16 May, 2000). The biggest problem was that both sides were unable to agree on critical security issues. During the Bavois talks, GAM and Indonesian government representatives had reached a stalemate as GAM wanted a complete military withdrawal and the replacement of Brimob troops with approved security guards, while Jakarta insisted on the continuation of Operasi Cinta Meunasah to protect public order. While this technically concurred with the terms of the Pause, which stipulated ‘the continuing of normal police functions for the enforcement of law and the maintenance of public order’, most police and military leaders opposed the peace process. One military commander in East Aceh, Lieutenant Colonel Demi K. Irawan, even refused to adhere to it, announcing that security operations would proceed as usual under his command (Kontras, 20 June, 2000). Others, including Aceh Police Chief Bahrumsyah, warned that because GAM was ‘maintaining its intimidation of the people’, the police ‘may be forced to eliminate other groups…to protect the people’ (The Jakarta Post, 26 June, 2000). With both sides unable to commit to a comprehensive set of ground rules, nobody agreed on what constituted a breach of the Pause. Shortly after the signing of the MoU, the committees responsible for overseeing and monitoring the ceasefire agreed to a limited set of ground rules that were set out in 7 articles and 14 chapters. There were major omissions, however, such as whether GAM was in breach of the agreement for raising its flag, or whether extortion (or ‘state tax’ collection) constituted a violation. For Jakarta, GAM was in breach for using the relative quietude to consolidate its control over the countryside by establishing a shadow civil administration that performed Indonesian government functions such as registering the sale of land, issuing identity cards (called tanda peuturi droe) and providing marriage certificates (kaleuh meunikah, lit., already married). For GAM, the security forces personnel who were responsible for implementing the ‘Love the Mosque’ operations were in breach for ‘sweeping’ villages and intimidating the civilian population. Though the police remained responsible for ‘riot control and the prohibition of the movement of civilians with arms’, this clause created a loophole which the security forces exploited by targeting GAM and their supporters. In the absence of any legal sanctions, those responsible for the violence were not punished. In Aceh, the peace process was criticized for excluding student leaders, ulama, rights activists and other local community leaders. This complaint was valid in the

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sense that Aceh’s independence movement was far broader than GAM. Throughout his presidency, Abdurrahman Wahid held a series of informal meetings with Acehnese ulama and students in an effort to gain a better understanding their demands and expectations. However, the exclusion of Acehnese civil society representatives from the peace process, which was also discouraged by GAM, was not well received by sections of Acehnese civil society. Although there was an immediate reduction in hostilities, the peace process was short-lived. In the first three months of the Pause, 69 civilians and 14 TNI–Polri personnel were killed, as compared to 399 casualties (an average of 80 per month) in the first five months of 2000 (Kontras, 6–13 September 2000). After the MoU came into effect, however, Aceh’s growing refugee crisis bore testimony to the lack of public confidence in the peace process as well as the ongoing violence. By July 2000, an estimated 55,000 Acehnese civilians were internally displaced (The Jakarta Post, 19 July, 2000). Despite the humanitarian focus of the Pause, much of the aid never arrived due to administrative delays and corruption at all levels of government. By early August, official sources estimated that some 38,000 refugees in South and East Aceh were ill or facing starvation due to the delayed distribution of food and medical supplies. There were also reports of the maltreatment of displaced Acehnese. On 19 July, 2000, for example, Indonesian security forces personnel fired warning shots to disperse some 20,000 villagers who sought refuge from the fighting in the ExxonMobil compound near Lhokseumawe (Kompas, 20 July, 2000). As the first phase of the three-month peace process drew to a close, the violence quickly returned to pre-Pause levels. Reflecting popular opinion, one civilian explained that ‘OCM is no longer interpreted as Operasi Cinta Meunasah [Love the Mosque Operation], but Operasi Cari Musuh [Search for the Enemy Operation]’ (Serambi Indonesia, 20 October, 2000). Although Abdurrahman Wahid extended the peace process until 15 January, 2001, confidence in it had eroded on both sides. In Aceh, the Pause was regarded by many as an exercise to monitor the violence but not to deal with it, or more cynically as ‘a means to avoid legal problems’ (The Jakarta Post, 17 May, 2000). In Jakarta, where the Pause had always been controversial, support for a negotiated settlement further declined as GAM gained political ground and as Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency weakened. By September 2000, Abdurrahman Wahid was confronted by growing calls for his impeachment and facing two corruption scandals (one of which, the ‘Bruneigate’ case, involved his alleged misappropriation of US$2 million in humanitarian funds for Aceh from Hassanal Bolkiah, Sultan of Brunei). It was around this time that Indonesia’s strongest advocate for an Aceh peace process turned his attention away from the Acehnese people and towards his own political survival. Back to repression Rather than completely abandon its persuasive approach when the peace process started to unravel, the central government decided to combine the Humanitarian Pause with more intensive security operations. On 29 August, 2000, the newly installed Minister for Coordinating Political, Social and Security Affairs, Lieutenant

Persuasion and repression 83 General Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, preempted this persuasive–repressive policy approach by explaining that Jakarta’s decision to extend the Pause was contingent on GAM agreeing ‘to follow the rules’ by ending their attacks on security forces personnel. Otherwise, said Susilo, ‘the government will not hesitate to take stern measures against anyone breaking the rules’ (The Jakarta Post, 30 August, 2000). Amongst Jakarta’s military and political leadership, there was strong support for tougher action against GAM. Reflecting the TNI’s mounting frustration with the peace process and its high degree of autonomy from civilian authority, the Army Chief of Staff, Major General Endriartono Sutarto, announced that ‘the TNI can itself decide whether its presence is still required in Aceh’ and that his troops would continue to fulfill ‘their duties’ for as long as the Acehnese people presented ‘increasing threats’ (The Indonesian Observer, 17 November, 2000). Defence Minister Mahfud even argued that ‘technically’ the TNI was capable of ending the conflict because ‘If we act firmly and forcefully for just a short while we may be able to convince the rebels that a dialogue is the best way to settle the problems of Aceh’ (The Indonesian Observer, 7 December, 2000). Technically, a more professional army that was subordinate to responsible civilian authorities and obeyed the rule of law may have played a constructive role in reducing hostilities. But, the still unreformed TNI was as much a cause of the contemporary conflict as it was a key factor in its continuation. Mahfud’s statement did, however, point to some of the political considerations behind Jakarta’s policy shift. The timing of Jakarta’s hardening Aceh approach coincided with intensifying criticism of Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency from within the MPR, DPR and the armed forces. Reverting to a dual-track Aceh approach presented Abdurrahman Wahid with an opportunity to deflect negative public attention away from the financial scandals that plagued him. Acquiescing to TNI demands for more intensive counterinsurgency operations also could have made the military more supportive of his unstable government. At the same time, extending the Humanitarian Pause allowed Jakarta to respond to pressure from the international community and foreign donors to continue the search for ‘peace’. There was also an element of responsiveness to national opinion in Jakarta’s hardening Aceh stance. Amongst the wider population, sympathy for the suffering of the Acehnese people had declined following the separation of East Timor when fears about national disintegration peaked. In contrast to the start of Indonesia’s regime change when the Acehnese had been widely portrayed as victims of the New Order’s repressive policies, by 2000 many Indonesians regarded the Acehnese as perennial troublemakers who had abused their ‘special treatment’ by Jakarta. Such sentiment was reflected in a series of opinion polls conducted in late 2000 and early 2001. In December 2000, The Indonesian Observer newspaper reported that 80 percent of 571 interview respondents in 10 provinces agreed that separatism should be eliminated, although 65 percent still saw dialogue as the best way to resolve separatist conflicts. In April 2001, however, after Aceh’s peace process collapsed, a Tempo magazine poll found that 69 percent of 811 respondents supported limited military operations in Aceh, while only 29 percent were opposed.

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By late 2000, Aceh’s rising death toll attested to the deteriorating security environment; 841 people were killed in Aceh in 2000, including 676 civilians, 124 TNI/Polri personnel and 41 GAM rebels (The Jakarta Post, 9 December, 2000). This was more than double the fatality rate of an average of 350 people in 1999. Like the counterinsurgency operations in the first half of 2000, the intensive military campaign towards the end of the year targeted students and humanitarian workers. In particular, regional TNI commanders expressed growing concerns about the political influence of SIRA following Indonesia’s Independence Day celebrations. On 16 August, 2000, some 5,000 people rallied at the Indonesian State Islamic University (IAIN) in Banda Aceh and called for UN intervention to decide Aceh’s political status. The following day, several people were arrested for dismantling Indonesian flags in North Aceh and Bireuen. While these forms of civil protest were on a far smaller scale than the referendum rally of November 1999, they were interpreted by Indonesian security forces as violations of the peace process. As a result, two SIRA activists, Muhammad Saleh and Muzakkir, were arrested on 19 September, 2000, in Banda Aceh, when they were tortured by Brimob and regular police officers before being released the next day without indictment (Serambi Indonesia, 21 September, 2000). Then, in November, as SIRA prepared to commemorate its 1999 rally by staging a second SIRA-RAKAN (Mass Rally of the Acehnese People for Peace), the security forces coordinated a large-scale attack on pro-referendum activists and their supporters. In the days leading up to the SIRA-RAKAN, which was scheduled for 10–11 November, several convoys of vehicles that were travelling from across the province to attend the rally were stopped at checkpoints and shot at by Indonesian security forces. According to SIRA, 56 civilians were killed in the shootings (Serambi Indonesia, 13 November, 2000), while Komnas HAM reported 30 fatalities and 62 wounded (Kompas, 17 November, 2000). As part of their move to restrict the freedom of speech and association, the police also arrested members of the SIRA-RAKAN organizing committee. On 20 November, 2000, SIRA President Muhammad Nazar was charged with inciting hatred for using such phrases as ‘nation of Aceh’ and ‘Indonesian neo-colonialism’ (Serambi Indonesia, 21 November, 2000). Around the same time, SIRA’s Banda Aceh headquarters were ransacked by plainclothes police and TNI officers, who seized computer equipment and documents and interrogated the students. The security forces’ efforts to reduce support for an Aceh referendum were initially counterproductive. Just as state repression had strengthened public support for GAM, the detention of SIRA activists only added to the movement’s popular appeal. Twenty-seven-year-old Muhammad Nazar, who was already a local celebrity, received far more media coverage in the months after his arrest, when Acehnese tabloids such as Kronika and Kontras frequently ran cover stories about Nazar’s prison experience and personal life. By early 2001, however, when the police unleashed a national campaign of slander and innuendo against SIRA, the students were forced underground. On 10 May, a bomb exploded at the Iskandar Muda Student Welfare Foundation in Jakarta, where Acehnese university students lived, killing two people and injuring 18 others. In an apparent bid

Persuasion and repression 85 to link SIRA with GAM’s violent campaign, Jakarta’s military commander, Major General Bibit Waluyo, described the blast as ‘God’s justice’ because ‘SIRA’ had ‘hurt themselves before they had a chance to hurt anyone else. Let them feel that!’ (Kompas, 11 May, 2001). In retaliation, SIRA condemned the ‘one-sided allegations by the security forces’ and their ‘extremely damaging effect’ on their peaceful campaign (SIRA press release, 12 May, 2001). What the police interpreted as SIRA’s involvement was actually a circumstantial link between a second unexploded bomb and SIRA documents found at the blast site. Armed with this ‘evidence’, the police arrested the Acehnese dormitory coordinator, Taufik Abdullah, and raided the SIRA ‘Consulate’ in Jakarta. Although SIRA’s Coordinator in Jakarta, Faisal Saifuddin, was also arrested days after the dormitory bombing, he was subsequently charged with inciting hatred and not in connection to the dormitory bombing. Meanwhile, in an attempt to destroy whatever sense of legitimacy GAM had gained through the peace process, the police began to portray GAM as terrorists. In late 2000 and 2001, a series of bombs exploded across the Indonesian archipelago, including nine church blasts and the bombing of the Jakarta Stock Exchange (JSX). According to police spokesman Superintendent Husnie, GAM’s motive in the JSX bombing was clear: the rebels ‘wanted to create disorder in Jakarta so that the economy would worsen and the value of the US dollar increase, leaving GAM free to act’ (Tempo, 16 October, 2000). GAM countered by pointing out that it made more sense to bomb North Aceh’s oil and gas installations. Although Acehnese with former GAM links were involved in the JSX bombing, it was unclear who they were working for at the time of the blast. There were rumours that sections of the TNI or the militant Islamic organization, Jema’ah Islamiyah, were involved. While most of the wider population and the central government did not seriously believe GAM was responsible for these bombings, AGAM Commander Abdullah Syafi’ie did not improve the rebels’ image by threatening to ‘create chaos all over Indonesia’ and ‘destroy Jakarta’ if the counterinsurgency campaign in Aceh persisted (Reuters, 16 February, 2001). By the time the Humanitarian Pause expired on 15 January, 2001, the peace process did not exist in any practical sense. On 9 January, 2001, Indonesian government and GAM representatives signed a ‘Provisional Understanding’ in Geneva, in which both sides agreed to a ‘one month moratorium to stop violence’. For the first time, the two sides also agreed to discuss the substantive issues that divided them and to ‘seek a formula for a lasting and comprehensive solution to the conflict’. Importantly, the annex to the Understanding stipulated that democratic processes in Aceh should include ‘democratic consultation’, ‘free and fair elections’, a mutually acceptable ‘independent electoral commission’, and the formation of ‘locally-based parties’ to encourage GAM and their supporters to participate in the electoral process. Though this Understanding laid the foundation for the later more successful peace talks under the government of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (see Chapter Eight), the violence escalated sharply in 2001. In January, police launched an intrusive door-to-door disarmament campaign aimed at ‘persuading’ GAM to surrender their weapons, which made the cities of

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Bireuen, Langsa, Sigli and Lhokseumawe come to resemble ghost towns as their residents became too afraid to go about their daily activities. The chasm between Jakarta’s conciliatory rhetoric and repressive policy implementation widened during Abdurrahman Wahid’s final months in power. Both sides agreed in February 2000 to a 10-day extension of the Provisional Understanding to implement ‘new security arrangements’, including the establishment of confidence-building contacts between GAM and TNI troops and a telephone hotline to prevent violent clashes. At the same time, a second more offensive ‘Love the Mosque’ counterinsurgency operation (OCM-II) came into effect on 19 February. While the new operations were formally under police auspices, they were supported by an additional 6,000 TNI troops, bringing the total number of security forces in Aceh to about 30,000 personnel (Kontras, 21– 27 February, 2001). Military leaders justified the TNI’s increased involvement in the police-led operations by pointing out that Polri lacked the operational capacity and training to deal with threats posed by GAM (Tempo, 27 March, 2001). As if to prove the military’s point, the following month, ExxonMobil Oil Indonesia (EMOI) announced the indefinite suspension of its North Aceh operations due to security threats from GAM. According to EMOI, GAM had threatened to wage war against the multinational company if it refused to pay Rp.5 billion (US$500,000) in annual ‘income tax’ to the ‘State of Acheh’ (Tempo, 20 March, 2001). For their part, GAM denied directly targeting EMOI, even though the rebels saw EMOI and the Indonesian security forces personnel who guarded its installations as legitimate targets. For the Indonesian government, which stood to incur massive financial losses (oil and gas exports from North Aceh earned more than US$1.8 billion per annum), the EMOI closure was a disaster. It also pushed Abdurrahman Wahid’s already strained relations with his cabinet, the legislature and the military to breaking point and marked the end of his influence over Aceh policy. With the president politically isolated and Vice President Megawati Sukarnoputri remaining characteristically silent, the task of formulating an Aceh policy to balance the competing demands of the national and international business communities, foreign donors, the military and the legislature fell to the Coordinating Minister for Political, Social and Security Affairs, Lieutenant General Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. It was Yudhoyono who drafted the ‘Comprehensive Steps in a Framework for Resolving the Aceh Problem’, which Abdurrahman Wahid reluctantly signed on 11 April as Presidential Instruction (Inpres) No.4 of 2001. This framework outlined a programme to end the conflict by combining counterinsurgency operations against GAM with social, political and economic programmes and ‘special autonomy’. Susilo had proposed a similar model in his former capacity as TNI Chief of Territorial Affairs, when he had argued for a mix of political, economic, social and security strategies to deal with the complexities of the Aceh problem (Republika, 28 July, 2001). As only the security component was immediately implemented, however, the ‘comprehensive framework’ was cynically regarded in Aceh as a legal mechanism to protect the Indonesian military by positioning its operations within a broader political framework.

Persuasion and repression 87 Unlike the other post-New Order security operations in Aceh, which had formally been under police auspices, a new joint TNI–Polri security command structure was established in Aceh after the introduction of Inpres No.4/2001. Foreshadowing a return to the past, the TNI’s Operations Implementation Command (Kolakops) was reestablished alongside its police counterpart (Kodalops). These operations were headed by former deputy Kopassus commander, Brigadier General Zamroni, placing the army effectively in charge. The twin objectives of the new ‘Security Restoration Operations’ (Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan, Opslihkam) were to eliminate some 3,000 GAM guerrillas while pressuring the rebels into accepting a special autonomy compromise (Dephan, November 2001). While police conducted operations in Aceh’s urban centres, the TNI and Brimob launched a counterinsurgency campaign in rural Aceh, and navy and air force battalions were deployed to the Malacca Straits to intercept arms shipments to GAM from Malaysia and southern Thailand. With their superior weaponry and human resources (there were about 10 Indonesian security forces personnel to every GAM guerrilla on the ground), the armed forces were adequately equipped to crush or at least militarily weaken GAM. But the only immediate effect of the ‘security restoration operations’ was a sharp increase in civilian casualties. According to official sources, from 1 January to 1 June, 2000, 448 people were killed in Aceh, including 398 civilians (Elsam, June 2001). By comparison, the TNI announced around the same time that 127 soldiers had been killed in Aceh over the past three years (Kompas, 21 April, 2001). Meanwhile in Jakarta, Abdurrahman Wahid became increasingly prone to delusional behaviour as he stumbled from crisis to crisis. As Aceh’s security situation continued to deteriorate, the attenuated president began to allude to supernatural forces as a way of ending the conflict. He reportedly said that the Aceh problem could be ‘easily fixed’ if the grave of the Acehnese colonial war heroine, Cut Nyak Dhien, were relocated from West Java to beside the grave of her husband, Teuku Umar Djohan Pahlawan, in West Aceh, so that ‘the two graves can become one’ (Kontras, 11–17 July, 2001). On another occasion, Abdurrahman Wahid also predicted that if he fell from power then the troubled provinces of Aceh, Irian Jaya and Riau would separate from Indonesia and the country would disintegrate (Kompas, 3 June, 2001). While Abdurrahman Wahid struggled to ward off his political demise, the Home Affairs Ministry, the DPR and Acehnese legislators began to look beyond the military campaign towards a political solution to the conflict. After a protracted process of negotiations, a new special autonomy law for Aceh was passed days before President Abdurrahman Wahid’s impeachment. The new legislation, which changed Aceh’s name to Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam, or State of Aceh, Abode of Peace, was hailed in Jakarta as a comprehensive package to win back Acehnese hearts and minds. As the next chapter describes, however, Jakarta’s new unilateral offer of autonomy was widely seen as meaningless amidst the escalating violence.

5


Aceh is already special. We have the most TNI troops, the most human rights violations and the most trauma of all the provinces…we have the most natural resources but the highest poverty. Jakarta has already forced us to become special…what’s so good about being special? Acehnese civil servant, 3 December, 2000 (interview, 1 December, 2000). Though the legal foundations for Indonesia’s decentralization process had been laid by the time Abdurrahman Wahid came to power, many questions remained about the capacity of local governments to effectively manage their increased budgets and responsibilities, and what this would mean for national cohesion and stability. Although autonomy is generally seen as a positive solution to national identity disputes, Law No.44/1999, which formally recognized Aceh’s special status, was too limited to accommodate the Acehnese people within the Indonesian nation-state. As Acehnese faith in Indonesian authority plumbed new depths and fears about national disintegration in Jakarta peaked, the decentralization debate increasingly focused on the structure of the Indonesian state and whether a federal or unitary system would better promote national stability. Acehnese government officials and a minority of political elites in Jakarta argued that a federal system would recognize the rights of Indonesia’s disparate ethnic minorities and produce more stable sociopolitical and economic outcomes. Related to this argument was the idea that the centripetal tendencies of the unitary state precluded the consolidation of meaningful and inclusive democracy. By contrast, defenders of Indonesia’s unitary system argued that federalism increased the risk of secession by the country’s disaffected regions. While unitary state proponents generally believed that some form of decentralization was necessary to prevent Indonesia’s troubled peripheral provinces from seceding, many argued that excessive regional autonomy would heighten political fragmentation and national disunity. This chapter explores the competing tensions over the form and substance of a ‘special autonomy’ solution to the Aceh conflict during Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency. It begins by canvassing the key policy debates about decentralization in Jakarta during Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidential term. The partial implementation of Law No.44/1999 on Aceh’s special status is then discussed.


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Obstacles to the implementation of Laws No.22 and 25/1999 in Aceh are also briefly considered. Finally, the chapter traces the development of the Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam (NAD) special autonomy law, which many in Jakarta hoped would restore Acehnese confidence in Indonesian authority through the devolution of wide-ranging central state powers and material resources. The decentralization debate Political debate about the direction of Indonesia’s decentralization process that had begun under Habibie continued under Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency. Abdurrahman Wahid was elected to power six months after the passing of Laws No.22 and 25/1999, and national opinion on regional autonomy became increasingly divided as the entire country began to look towards its implementation. The separation of East Timor from Indonesia added fuel to this debate, as conservative nationalists in Jakarta began to equate ‘too much’ autonomy with political fragmentation and the ‘Balkanization’ of Indonesia. National debate about the competing merits of federalism versus unitary statehood also continued under Abdurrahman Wahid, although proponents of a federal solution to Indonesia’s internal conflicts became increasingly marginalized after the separation of East Timor. Indonesia’s new MPR Speaker, Amien Rais, remained the strongest advocate in Jakarta of introducing a federal system to accommodate the country’s disaffected separatist regions and argued that subscribers to the ‘kindergarten theory’ that federalism would lead to national disintegration were not serious about ending the country’s internal conflicts (Kompas, 5 December, 1999). Though some Indonesian government leaders publicly flirted with the idea of reverting to a federal system, most were not serious about changing the 1945 constitution. For instance, President Abdurrahman Wahid and Regional Autonomy Minister Ryaas Rasyid talked openly about adopting a federal model for Aceh, but both men recognized that, as most Indonesians opposed the concept, federalism would gain wider acceptance if referred to by another name, such as ‘full autonomy’ or ‘special autonomy’ (Waspada, 22 December, 1999). There was much disagreement in Jakarta, however, over what form ‘special autonomy’ in Aceh should take. This was reflected in four central government proposals ranging from limited to broad autonomy that were presented before the DPR Pansus Aceh (Aceh Special Committee) on 26 November, 1999. The Regional Autonomy and Home Affairs departments jointly prepared the proposals following MPR Ruling No.IV/1999 on State Policy Guidelines (GBHN) for 1999–2004, which was passed on 16 October, 1999, and mandated the rapid development of special autonomy legislation for Aceh and Papua. The first of the central government’s four proposals drew from Law No.44/1999 and offered Aceh limited special autonomy over one area of central state authority in the field of either religion or justice. The second option proposed broad fiscal autonomy for Aceh through the phased transfer of economic powers and resources to the province and the realignment of centre–periphery fiscal relations.

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Included in this second proposal were recommendations to develop new ‘special financial arrangements’ between Aceh and Jakarta, and to accelerate the implementation of Law No.25/1999 (See Chapter three). The third proposal recommended more wide-ranging powers for Aceh than those granted to the regions under Laws No.22 and 25/1999. Reflecting the preferences of Ryaas Rasyid and Abdurrahman Wahid at the start of his presidency, the final proposal offered Aceh ‘full autonomy’ at the provincial and sub-provincial levels of government over all areas except for national economic/fiscal policy and foreign affairs. In his presentation before the Pansus Aceh, Ryaas Rasyid recommended that if the DPR agreed to the fourth option then the central government would need to concurrently pursue a process of ‘reconciliation’ and reach a ‘political agreement’ with the Acehnese people (Kompas, 27 November, 1999). The deliberations in Jakarta about a special autonomy formula for Aceh, however, did not reflect what was happening on the ground. By November 1999, debate in Aceh revolved around whether a referendum should be held to decide Aceh’s political status. As the New York–based International Forum for Aceh (IFA) stated: A referendum does not mean independence, special autonomy, federalism or implementing Islamic law…a referendum, as understood by the Acehnese people, is to determine the opinion of the Acehnese people about their political status, whether to remain within Indonesia, or to separate in a peaceful manner to become a sovereign state (press statement, 7 February, 2000). For most Acehnese, a referendum actually meant the chance to be free from Indonesian state repression. While the civilian population overwhelmingly supported independence, however, many provincial government leaders did not. As discussed in Chapters Three and Four, the once-loud calls by provincial politicians to adopt a federal system in early 1999 could hardly be heard by November, when hundreds of thousands of people converged on Banda Aceh to demand a plebiscite on national self-determination. This did not mean that outspoken Acehnese advocates of federalism and wide-ranging autonomy, such as Governor Syamsuddin Mahmud, simply abandoned their agendas. Instead, they pragmatically decided to ride the wave of public opinion and tacitly support the referendum movement while quietly continuing negotiations with Jakarta for a more comprehensive autonomy settlement. Their initiatives and responses to Jakarta’s offers of autonomy are considered in the following pages. Implementing Law No.44/1999 For more than a year after Abdurrahman Wahid came to power, there were sharp divisions within the central government over whether Law No.44/1999 on the ‘Special Status of the Province of Aceh Special Region’ could end the conflict. There were broad divisions in the cabinet between those who believed the Acehnese people had been granted enough concessions via Law No.44/1999, and


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those who felt that more comprehensive special autonomy legislation was required. Included in the former group were President Abdurrahman Wahid, Human Rights Minister Hasballah M. Saad and Regional Autonomy Minister Ryaas Rasyid. Other ministers, however, such as the Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security, General Wiranto, and Home Affairs Minister Surjadi Soedirdja argued that Law No.44/1999 adequately recognized Aceh’s special status and should be implemented in conjunction with Laws No.22 and 25/1999. Related to this second viewpoint was the idea that Indonesia’s unitary state would be strengthened and that support for GAM would decline if Acehnese ulama were granted greater political power and authority through the implementation of aspects of Islamic law in Aceh. While the central government remained internally divided over the form and direction of Aceh’s special autonomy status, Aceh’s provincial parliament took the first steps in mid-2000 towards implementing Law No.44/1999 through the introduction of five new Regional Regulations (Peraturan Daerah, Perda). These were on: (1) the implementation of Islamic law, (2) banning the sale and consumption of alcohol, except by non-Muslims in their own homes, (3) implementing religious education in Aceh, (4) enforcing customary law (adat) and (5) establishing a new MPU (Majelis Permusyawaratan Ulama, Consultative Council of Ulama). The timing of this fifth regulation on establishing the MPU was significant as it was passed shortly after the aborted Aceh People’s Congress (Kongres Rakyat Aceh, KRA; discussed in Chapter Four), which led to the retreat by HUDA ulama and their students in Rabithah Thaliban Aceh from Aceh’s political life. The impetus for Perda No.3/2000 on the ‘Establishment, Organisation and Function of the MPU’ came from urban-based modernist MUI ulama, who decided to disband and establish the more politically powerful MPU in accordance with Law No.44/1999, which envisaged the creation of an independent ulama council with the same status and decision-making powers as the DPRD. Aceh Governor Syamsuddin Mahmud, who reportedly refused to deal with HUDA because of their outspoken support for the referendum movement, also encouraged the MUI to play an active role in the formation of the MPU in the hope that the provincial government could sideline HUDA from the political process. When the MPU was formed on 27 June, 2001, however, two of the most senior positions went to traditionalist ulama. Although the elected MPU chairman Teungku Muslim Ibrahim was a former MUI ulama, his traditionalist views corresponded more closely with those of the independent rural ulama (Salim 2006: 197). One of the two elected MPU vice-chairmen was also a HUDA ulama, Teungku Daud Zamzami. The second vice-chairmanship went to former MUI ulama, Teungku Alyasa Abubakar, who would later head Aceh’s Syari’ah Agency (see Chapter Nine). In contrast to the government-backed MUI, the autonomous structure of the MPU was very attractive to the independent ulama, who saw the council as an avenue through which to regain political influence. As HUDA Chairman Teungku Nuruzzahri explained, through the establishment of the MPU, Acehnese ulama could stop acting as ‘an extension of the government’ (Serambi Indonesia, 27 June, 2001). By June 2001, Syamsuddin Mahmud had also been

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replaced as Aceh governor by Abdullah Puteh, who was far more willing to cooperate with the independent ulama as part of his bid to stabilize his political leadership. While the Acehnese ulama became more united and politically powerful after the introduction of Law No.44/1999, there was little support for limited special autonomy amongst the civilian population. Acehnese women’s organizations protested that they had been excluded from governmental decision-making processes about the implementation of Islamic law in particular, and complained that the DPRD’s interpretation of Syari’ah had led to increased acts of violence against them. The Islamic headscarf raids (razia jilbab) that had begun in early 1999 became increasingly frequent after the introduction of Law No.44/1999. By early 2000, when banners were erected around the Baiturrahman mosque in Banda Aceh in Arabic, Indonesian and Acehnese languages warning women to cover their heads, Acehnese women also found it increasingly difficult to openly discuss the jilbab issue for fear of being ostracized by the wider community and labelled ‘un-Islamic’ or ‘secular’ by the local media. However, the main reason for strong lack of grassroots support for Law No.44/1999 was the escalating violence on the ground. Amongst the local population, there was a general perception that the provincial government’s emphasis on symbolic issues such as Islamic dress detracted attention away from more important political issues such as trials for human rights perpetrators and a referendum to decide Aceh’s political status. This dominant feeling of mistrust about autonomy in general, and Jakarta’s imposition of Islamic law in particular, rose to the political fore during Abdurrahman Wahid’s visit to Banda Aceh on 19 December, 2000. Although the president planned to use his Aceh visit to pronounce the implementation of Islamic law in accordance with Law No.44/1999, many Acehnese saw the visit as an attempt to divert outside attention away from military plans to launch a full-scale offensive against GAM as the Humanitarian Pause agreement unravelled (see Chapter Four). This perception was reinforced by the deployment of 2,500 additional security forces personnel to secure the presidential visit, and also by fact that the provincial government had already issued five regional regulations about Islamic law several months previously. For SIRA, Abdurrahman Wahid was playing a ‘dirty political trick’ to justify the military’s ‘slaughter’ of the Acehnese people by portraying Islam in Aceh as being of ‘a fundamentalist type’ (Serambi Indonesia, 13 December, 2000). SIRA argued that as the Acehnese were already free to practise Syari’ah under the 1945 Constitution, they did not need a ‘concocted’ government version like that which had been imposed in Aceh during the Dutch colonial era. GAM was equally outspoken in condemning Jakarta’s offer of Islamic law and argued that the Indonesian government was attempting to portray the Acehnese as ‘fanatical’ or ‘fundamentalist’ Muslims. For example, when Governor Abdullah Puteh announced that Islamic law would make GAM ‘happy because they are Muslims and should abide by the religion’, one GAM negotiator, Amni Marzuki, retorted that ‘The Indonesian government wants to make us look like Afghanistan’ (Reuters, 11 December, 2000).


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This was a nebulous claim given that the majority of political leaders in Jakarta had already acknowledged that centre–periphery imbalances and human rights violations were at the heart of Acehnese grievances. Significantly, Abdurrahman Wahid also used his Aceh visit to apologize for his inability to redress these problems, stating that ‘If I were not a Muslim, I would probably have killed myself’ (Asiaweek, 12 January, 2001). At the same time, the president hardly convinced the Acehnese people of the merits of Islamic law when he announced that fears about the hands of thieves being chopped off were groundless because ‘Islam treats all with wisdom’ (Tempo, 19–25 December, 2000: 20). Even if Abdurrahman Wahid had portrayed Islamic law in a more positive light, however, he would have found it difficult to ‘sell’ special autonomy to the Acehnese people while GAM and SIRA remained so politically influential and while the counterinsurgency campaign on the ground continued to claim civilian lives on an almost daily basis. The general lack of support for Law No.44/1999 was more of a backlash against a government that was seen as repressive and illegitimate than it was a rejection of Islamic law as such. Most Acehnese did not oppose Syari’ah and adhered to Islamic principles and rituals in their daily lives. There were, however, certain groups and individuals who enthusiastically embraced Jakarta’s offer of Islamic law and even took the task of interpreting and enforcing Syari’ah into their own hands. This was shown by the jilbab raids and by other forms of extra-judicial violence against those accused of moral misconduct. Transsexuals, couples caught having extra-marital sex and sex workers were publicly humiliated and paraded around the streets of Banda Aceh by moral vigilantes (Aspinall 2000: 7). Non-Muslims, and especially nonMuslim women Batak traders from North Sumatra, were subjected to growing acts of physical violence (Tiwon 2000: 101). Sometimes local community leaders and village heads also independently interpreted and enforced Islamic law. In November 1999, for instance, a group of village elders in Mata Ie village in Pidie ordered a young man to receive 100 lashings (by 10 local men who took turns in dispensing the lashings) for impregnating a young woman. The village leaders ordered the woman, who was four months pregnant, to be similarly punished after giving birth (islamonline.net, 1 December, 1999). When this incident occurred, there was no formal legal basis for public canings in Aceh, and even after bylaws on corporal punishment were later introduced to punish violators of Islamic law, public canings were regulated by strict procedural guidelines (see Chapter Nine). Although lashings constituted a criminal offence under Indonesian national law at that time, provincial authorities took no punitive action against the responsible villagers. Beyond this, however, this violent incident emphasized the limits of Indonesian legality in Aceh. According to the villagers, their interpretation of Islamic law constituted a form of adat (customary law), which they relied upon to protect public order and morality in the absence of a functioning state judicial system. If anything, the introduction of Law No.44/1999 only added to the general state of confusion and chaos in Aceh. Although Aceh’s provincial government would later pass more substantive bylaws on the implementation of Islamic law – on Aceh’s Islamic court system and on the introduction of a Syari’ah law enforcement agency – there was a great deal of confusion after Law No.44/1999 came into

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effect about what form and direction Aceh’s Islamic legal system should take, both within the provincial administration and amongst the civilian population. This confusion in turn created a new kind of lawlessness in Aceh, whereby the primary victims were the most marginalized elements of Acehnese society. The sharp increase in religious violence in Aceh after the introduction of Law No.44/1999 reduced the Indonesian state’s capacity to restore law and order there. And, the growing numbers of moral vigilantes further compromised the Indonesian state’s monopoly over the legitimate means of physical violence. Obstacles to implementing regional autonomy Although the decision to accelerate the implementation of Laws No.22 and 25 of 1999 in Aceh had been made during Habibie’s final months in power (see Chapter Three), this was clearly not possible by late 1999. Aceh’s governing authorities and institutions had lost power and legitimacy in the eyes of the local population. GAM had consolidated control over about 70 percent of the province, and public support was overwhelmingly behind the referendum movement. There were also growing attacks on Aceh’s provincial infrastructure as the security situation deteriorated. In January 2000 alone, more than 400 buildings were burnt down by ‘unidentified gunmen’, compared with approximately the same number for the entire year of 1999 (Radio Nikoya 106.15FM, 1 February, 2000). Under these conditions, it was difficult to see how Indonesia could reassert its governing presence in Aceh. Even harder to imagine was how central state power and responsibility could be effectively devolved to Aceh’s sub-provincial administrations when local governing institutions had ceased to function in many districts, especially in parts of Pidie and North, East and South Aceh. Despite the seemingly insurmountable obstacles towards implementing Laws No.22 and 25/1999 in Aceh, Abdurrahman Wahid’s government decided to start the decentralization process there before the official implementation date of 1 January, 2001, for Indonesia’s other provinces. The Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security General Wiranto outlined his government’s position in November 1999 by announcing that the central government would ‘solve the Aceh problem’ by immediately implementing Laws No.22, 25 and 44/1999 there (Republika, 22 November, 1999). The main reason for this decision was that the rapid implementation of autonomy in Aceh had already been placed on the agenda under Habibie and was generally seen in Jakarta as a positive decision. It is also possible that central government hoped that empowering Aceh’s subprovincial legislatures would gradually discourage Acehnese referendum demands by turning public attention towards local communities (Aspinall and Fealy 2003: 4). Another political consideration in the central government’s decision was that it saw autonomy as a bargaining tool to convince the Acehnese to return to the Indonesian national fold. As General Wiranto explained: The president has already explained that attempts to gain independence will not be tolerated. What can be discussed in a dialogue is Law No.22 about


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regional autonomy, Law No.25 about fiscal balance and Law No.44 about the implementation of Syariat Islam; later the benefits of implementation will become clear (Detik.com, 27 December, 1999). Of course, as past Indonesian governments and the Acehnese had learned through experience, promises about autonomy are more easily made than kept. In early 2000, Abdurrahman Wahid cast doubt over his administration’s capacity to accelerate the decentralization process in Aceh by admitting that ‘there are several obstacles towards the immediate implementation of regional autonomy, such as poor human resources’ (Kompas, 1 February, 2000). Although Governor Syamsuddin Mahmud and Aceh’s DPRD Speaker Teuku Muhammad Yus flew to Jakarta soon afterwards to meet with the president to seek his ‘strong support’ for accelerating implementation of the 1999 autonomy laws, the central government could not or would not take any immediate action (Kompas, 24 March, 2000). Around the same time, Aceh’s provincial parliament also submitted its own draft special autonomy law (the NAD bill) to the DPR. This move cast further doubts over the prospects for rapid decentralization in Aceh as national legislators began to question whether Laws No.22 and 25/1999 would even apply to Aceh if the provincial parliament’s special autonomy bill was eventually passed as legislation. Drafting the NAD law The impetus for the NAD law came from a small but diverse group of Acehnese legislators, government leaders, businesspeople and academics. Although members of this group had different interests and priorities, they agreed that Law No.44/1999 inadequately compensated for what they saw as Aceh’s historically unfair treatment by Jakarta. They also believed that Aceh should remain part of Indonesia and hoped that broader autonomy would gradually reduce local support for a referendum and return power and legitimacy to Indonesian government authorities and institutions. The process of drafting the NAD law began almost immediately after the introduction of Law No.44/1999. Encouraged by MPR Ruling No.IV/1999, which mandated new special autonomy legislation for Aceh and Papua, Acehnese legislators in the DPRD prepared several special autonomy draft laws between late 1999 and early 2000 in consultation with local academics and businesspeople. The first complete DPRD draft, which was submitted before Commission II on Law and Home Affairs in the DPR on 22 March, 2000, proposed ambitious changes to the relationship between Jakarta and Aceh. Moving beyond an earlier Aceh government proposal in January 1999 to return 80 percent of Aceh’s natural resource revenues, the DPRD draft retained 90 percent of revenues generated within Aceh’s borders and returned just 10 percent to Jakarta. The DPRD draft also proposed wide-ranging powers of autonomy for Aceh in the fields of justice, religion and defence, including the right to implement Islamic law and to establish a separate Aceh police force. There were also provisions for several new Acehnese institutions, including a Majelis Rakyat Aceh (Aceh People’s Assembly)

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to take over certain national legislative and executive powers, and a Wali Nanggroe (lit., Guardian of the State) to serve as an official cultural representative of the Acehnese people. Other important symbolic provisions in the draft included changing the name of Aceh to Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam (lit; State of Aceh, Abode of Peace), the formal adoption of Acehnese language as the official ‘state language’ and a separate Aceh flag. Despite these ambitious changes, the DPRD draft contained no references to human rights. Acehnese legislators explained this major omission by arguing that national legislation was required to deal with human rights abuses, which were not specific to Aceh. This argument was not convincing, however, given that a separate special autonomy law for Papua contained substantial human rights provisions (McGibbon 2004: 16). It is possible that Acehnese legislators excluded human rights provisions from the draft NAD law because they believed that any law that made reference to human rights abuses would have sabotaged their entire proposal and would prevent it from being passed by the DPR. It is also quite possible that they were frightened of Indonesian military repercussions. The omission of human rights provisions, however, reflected the lack of public consultation and input into the draft, and later contributed towards the strong lack of grassroots support for the NAD law (see Chapter Seven). In Jakarta, there were mixed reactions to the DPRD draft. The DPR Speaker, Akbar Tanjung, agreed to accept the special autonomy draft for discussion, but emphasized that Aceh must not be granted federal status (Kompas, 24 March, 2000). Somewhat differently, the dominant PDI-P, Golkar and military factions expressed concerns that excessive autonomy could result in Aceh’s secession from Indonesia. Within Abdurrahman Wahid’s cabinet, sharp divisions quickly emerged over the Aceh draft between Regional Autonomy Minister Ryaas Rasyid and Home Affairs Minister Lieutenant General (ret.) Surjadi Soedirdja. Soon after the DPRD submitted its proposal before the DPR, Ryaas Rasyid’s Regional Autonomy Department began preparing a new Aceh special autonomy bill that drew heavily from the DPRD document. According to one senior bureaucrat, Andi Mallarangeng, who worked closely with Ryaas Rasyid in developing the special autonomy draft: We just tidied up the format [of the DPRD proposal] to make it more consistent with existing legislation, but it was rejected by the Home Affairs Minister, Surjadi Soedirdja, who wanted to develop his own draft (interview, 17 October, 2002). Surjadi Soedirdja strongly disagreed with Ryass Rasyid over the Aceh autonomy issue. Unlike Rasyid, who supported broad autonomy, Surjadi believed that the Acehnese had been awarded enough concessions via Law No.44/1999 and shared the concerns of many of his military colleagues that Aceh would eventually separate from Indonesia if granted ‘too much’ autonomy (Suara Pembaruan, 5 September, 2000). It was under Surjadi’s close supervision that the Home Affairs Department went on to prepare a very limited draft law that granted few


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concessions to Aceh beyond those already conferred to the province under Laws No.22, 25 and 44/1999. Reflecting Surjadi Soedirdja’s concern that too much decentralization would threaten the integrity of the unitary state, the most substantive concessions in the Home Affairs draft were the creation of a Syari’ah court, an Advisory Board of Ulama and a Justice Commission to facilitate the implementation of Islamic law. By late 2000, little progress had been made on the NAD bill. Frustrated by Jakarta’s inaction, DPRD legislators worked to expedite the legislative process by watering down their original proposal and incorporating elements from the two government drafts. This revised bill was submitted before the DPR for discussion on 17 January, 2001. At first, the revised DPRD draft attracted sharp criticism from the PDI-P, Golkar and TNI factions over provisions that were seen to accommodate GAM, such as the nomination of Hasan di Tiro to the position of Wali Nanggroe. As one Acehnese DPRD member Teuku Syaiful Ahmad explained, however, the DPRD nominated Hasan di Tiro for the position because ‘he is the symbol of resistance against the central government. How could we ask GAM to surrender if we didn’t give them any positions at all?’ (detikworld, 10 January, 2001). Although the Wali Nanggroe position was only ever intended to uphold Acehnese customs and culture and not to have any direct government role (like the Sultan of the Special Province of Yogyakarta), the title had special significance for GAM, who also referred to Hasan di Tiro by that name. After much protracted debate, the NAD law was passed as legislation on 19 July, 2001. To the surprise of many, the new law included some substantial concessions to Aceh. Previously in March, the DPR had approved the establishment of a 50-member ‘Special Committee for the Special Autonomy Draft of Aceh’ to discuss the different drafts in consultation with Acehnese legislators and community leaders. Within the committee, there was a high level of political support for the DPRD draft, with the majority of legislators agreeing to only treat the Home Affairs Ministry’s draft as ‘an enriching source’ (The Indonesian Observer, 1 March, 2001). In part, this was because of the strong presence of Acehnese political leaders on the committee, in part because Abdurrahman Wahid’s government had become widely discredited, and in part because the DPR was under growing pressure to pass the legislation; the MPR Decree No.IV/2000 had mandated the introduction of special autonomy legislation for Aceh by 1 May, 2001, at the latest. After the DPR missed the May deadline, the Special Committee on Aceh met for six days on 4–9 July, 2001, for a final round of discussions. By that time, Indonesia’s political and military leadership was more preoccupied with the issue of Abdurrahman Wahid’s impending impeachment and did not seriously debate any outstanding contentious issues. By the end of the session, all 10 DPR factions had unanimously endorsed a new Aceh special autonomy law that was largely based on the DPRD bill. The main provisions in the NAD law, which are discussed in depth in Chapter Seven, included the right to impose Syari’ah in Aceh, direct local elections and the return of most of Aceh’s natural resource revenue, including 70 percent of the province’s oil and natural gas revenue for eight years in after-tax proceeds.

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Despite these generous concessions, Jakarta’s ability to accommodate the Acehnese people within the Indonesia through its new offer of special autonomy remained slim. The central government’s portrayal of the NAD law as a ‘political solution’ to the conflict was undermined by the omission of provisions to safeguard human rights and guarantees to end the systemic state violence in Aceh. Other conspicuous omissions from the NAD law were specific political provisions to encourage GAM’s transformation from a militant organization into a political movement. The lack of public consultation and participation in the drafting process effectively precluded the development of representative legislation. Although a provision for direct local elections in the NAD law seemed encouraging, the corrupt and widely unpopular provincial administration, led by Governor Abdullah Puteh, was responsible for implementing the first critical phase of Aceh’s new special autonomy arrangements when public opinion about its benefits would crystallize. The lack of public confidence in Aceh’s governing authorities and institutions made the task of ‘selling’ the NAD law to the public especially challenging. For the majority of Acehnese, whose daily experience of Indonesian authority was violence, Jakarta’s latest offer of special autonomy threatened to bring no tangible improvements to their daily lives.

Part III


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To the people of Aceh, be patient. If Cut Nya’ [name for respected Acehnese woman] leads the nation, I will not allow even a drop of blood to touch ‘tanah rencong’ [lit., ‘land of the Acehnese dagger’] that played a pivotal role in making Indonesia independent. Megawati Sukarnoputri (Kompas, 30 July, 1999). Groups who commit violence and disturb public order have to be sternly punished. President Megawati Sukarnoputri (Serambi Indonesia, 3 July, 2002). At the start of Megawati Sukarnoputri’s presidency, there were more Indonesian security forces on the ground in Aceh than at any time since the New Order’s collapse. There were also more human rights violations against the civilian population, with an average of two to three fatalities per day.27 In addition to the abuses committed by soldiers and police officers, GAM acted violently against non-Acehnese transmigrants, suspected spies and government officials. Within Aceh’s polarized political landscape, the main arena for airing grievances was the battlefield. The referendum movement and humanitarian NGOs that had briefly flourished after the fall of Suharto had been forced underground, and many of their leaders arrested, kidnapped or summarily executed (Miller 2005: 10). In Jakarta, there was much disenchantment with the search for a democratic solution to Indonesia’s internal conflicts by the time Megawati Sukarnoputri came to power. After Abdurrahman Wahid’s chaotic leadership, when separatist activity had sharply escalated in the country’s disaffected regions, political and economic stability had become more important than democratic reforms for the majority of national elites. From Jakarta’s perspective, the Acehnese people had abused the climate of greater political openness during Indonesia’s democratic ‘breakthrough’ to mobilize support for secession, rather than help to build a more democratic nation-state. Amongst the Indonesian public, there was also a strong lack of political support for Acehnese separatism and growing acceptance of a military response to the threat posed by GAM. In stark contrast to the start of Indonesia’s regime change, when the military had been seen as the primary source of Aceh’s

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problems, many Indonesians now saw the TNI as part of the solution and the Acehnese people as ingrates with an unrealistic set of expectations. This chapter explores how and why Jakarta’s Aceh approach hardened under Megawati Sukarnoputri’s presidency and the attitudes amongst Indonesia’s political and military leadership that precipitated this shift. It focuses on the period from July 2001, when Megawati was installed as Indonesia’s fifth president, to May 2003, when she declared martial law in Aceh. After this period, the Indonesian military’s media machine controlled the flow of information coming out of Aceh, making it difficult to construct an accurate picture of what was happening there. The main argument in this chapter is that central government leaders were more concerned with the elimination of separatism than with the search for a democratic solution to the Aceh conflict by the time Megawati Sukarnoputri came to power. Although the daughter of Indonesia’s founding president made some efforts to persuade the Acehnese to remain part of Indonesia by reviving a limited peace process with GAM and by partially implementing the NAD law, her government relied far more heavily on military operations. In part, Megawati’s hard-line Aceh approach stemmed from her deep mistrust of the NAD law and her concern that excessive decentralization would strengthen GAM’s cause. Unlike B. J. Habibie and Abdurrahman Wahid, Megawati Sukarnoputri did not include the TNI amongst her list of political problems and was far more receptive to a military response to threats to Indonesia’s territorial integrity and national cohesion. Since her defeat in the 1999 presidential election, Megawati had maintained uneasy relations with a large cross-section of Indonesia’s political leadership, and granted concessions to the military in order to prevent challenges to her presidency (Meitzner 2006: 34). For this reason, and also because Megawati did not move to interfere in the TNI’s internal affairs, her administration received strong military support. While the TNI’s increased involvement in government decisions threatened to reverse many of the gains that had been made during the early years of Indonesia’s democratization process, it promised to create a higher level of national stability. In Aceh, however, where ‘stability’ had long been associated with repression, the new administration’s hard-line security approach represented a return to DOM in everything but name. The Gotong Royong government In contrast to Abdurrahman Wahid’s patrimonial leadership style, it was clear from the start of Megawati Sukarnoputri’s presidency that her heavy reliance on advice meant that Aceh policy would be largely determined by those whom she selected for key cabinet positions. While Megawati’s detractors saw this characteristic as a sign that she had ‘no strategy of how she wants to run the country’ (Reuters, 23 July, 2001), her supporters argued that ‘for Mega, making a decision is important’, which is why ‘she gives full authority to anyone who she thinks deserves it’ (FEER, 17 May, 2001). Somewhat differently, one senior minister who had worked with Megawati in her former capacity as vice president predicted


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that her passive leadership style would be the key to her political survival because ‘she doesn’t do enough to create annoyances’ (FEER, 23 August, 2001). Megawati Sukarnoputri’s Gotong Royong (Mutual Cooperation) Cabinet, which was sworn in on 9 August, 2001, was characterized by at least two noteworthy features. The first was that, like the B. J. Habibie and Abdurrahman Wahid administrations, generals were once again awarded senior cabinet positions. The second was that several ministers shared Megawati’s personal reservations about decentralization. Vice President Hamzah Haz, for instance, argued that ‘excessive’ decentralization would lower foreign investor confidence and weaken the Indonesian state (Harian Suara Merdeka, 22 October, 2001). As vice president, however, Hamzah Haz generally had little to say about Aceh after Megawati ordered him to deal with the conflicts in Kalimantan, Sulawesi and Maluku, while she followed in the footsteps of Indonesia’s two previous presidents by ‘personally’ resolving to deal with Aceh and Papua (The Jakarta Post, 14 August, 2001). Like the two previous administrations, the most senior cabinet position of Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security was again awarded to a general, Lieutenant General (ret.) Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. The politically influential general did not form part of Megawati’s inner circle and was appointed as a payoff for supporting her presidency. Despite this, Yudhoyono played a key role in Aceh decision-making.28 More often than not, it was Yudhoyono who announced changes to Jakarta’s Aceh approach, hinting that he and not Megawati was primarily responsible for Aceh policy choices. Reflecting the new government’s reduced emphasis on decentralization, the Home Affairs and Regional Autonomy Ministry was renamed the Ministry of Home Affairs, which became responsible for administering the implementation of autonomy in the provinces. This politically strategic portfolio was awarded to a military hard-liner and former ABRI faction chairman in the DPR, Lieutenant General (ret.) Hari Sabarno. In his ministerial capacity, Hari Sabarno publicly opposed reviving the internationally facilitated Aceh peace process with GAM on the grounds that ‘GAM is not a state, so no foreign mediator is needed’ (Kompas, 4 January, 2002). He also shared Megawati’s deep mistrust of special autonomy in Aceh, arguing that ‘certain regions rich in natural resources have issued rules to help them boost their own revenue as high as possible’ in order to strengthen their ‘hidden mission to separate from the unitary state some time in the future’ (The Jakarta Post, 18 August, 2001). Although the Defence portfolio was again awarded to a civilian, Matori Abdul Djalil was close to the military and shared its conservative nationalist agenda in Aceh. As Megawati’s Defence Minister, the former head of Abdurrahman Wahid’s National Awakening Party (PKB) had helped to prepare a Defence White Paper that emphasized the importance of the TNI in ‘facing the threat of armed separatist groups in Aceh and Papua’ (21 March, 2003). Conservative-minded nationalists comprised Megawati’s inner circle. The president’s key advisors were State Secretary Bambang Kesowo, State Intelligence Agency Chief (Badan Intelijen Negara, BIN), Lieutenant General (ret.) Abdullah Mahmud Hendropriyono and Lieutenant General (ret.) Agum Gumelar, who was

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reinstated to the post of Transportation Minister that he had held under Abdurrahman Wahid. With the exception of Bambang Kesowo, who was a Harvard-educated lawyer and career bureaucrat, the two generals in Megawati’s inner circle were forthright in expressing their shared viewpoint that GAM could not be peacefully accommodated and had to be crushed militarily. As noted in Chapter Four, Agum Gumelar was one of the few ministers to hold positions in all three of Abdurrahman Wahid’s cabinets because of his personal loyalty to Megawati. Agum had also previously served as Chief of Staff at Kodam Bukit Barisan during Aceh’s DOM period (Robison 1998: 155). Both Agum Gumelar and Hendropriyono (the former Minister for Transmigration and Settlement of Forest Settlers under Suharto and Habibie) saw Acehnese independence demands as ‘not tolerable’ and believed it was the ‘responsibility of the whole nation to contend the rebel group’ in defending ‘an integral part of Indonesia’ (The Indonesian Observer, 10 August, 1999). To balance her military appointments, Megawati assigned the Foreign Affairs portfolio to a political moderate, Hassan Wirayuda, who had served as chief negotiator in the peace talks with GAM under Abdurrahman Wahid. While Hassan’s appointment may have alluded to Megawati’s willingness to revive negotiations with the rebels, many national political and military elites had begun to see the peace process as a futile exercise by the time Megawati came to power. The dominance of conservative nationalists in Megawati’s government also raised questions about whether Hassan Wirayuda would be asked to participate in another internationally monitored Aceh peace process, or whether Jakarta would attempt to restrict further negotiations with GAM to the domestic arena. While Megawati Sukarnoputri’s cabinet was characterized by a higher degree of political stability and cohesion than Abdurrahman Wahid’s government, the composition of the new administration did not reassure many Acehnese that there would be any softening of Jakarta’s Aceh approach. Soon after Megawati’s election by the MPR, GAM spokesman Sofyan Dawood announced that the rebels ‘will not forge a relationship with Megawati’ because ‘the policies of Megawati and Sukarno have only harmed the Acehnese people and not solved anything’ (Suara Merdeka, 27 August, 2001). In contrast to the mood of cautious optimism that had surrounded Abdurrahman Wahid’s election, when many Acehnese hoped that their referendum demand would be met, Megawati Sukarnoputri only threatened to bring further repression. Insurgency and counterinsurgency The general feeling of pessimism in Aceh about Megawati Sukarnoputri’s appointment was reinforced by the new president’s policy agenda. Although Megawati followed the precedent set by B. J. Habibie by apologizing to the Acehnese people ‘who have long suffered as a result of inappropriate national policies’, she did not order the withdrawal of any non-organic troops from Aceh or move to reduce the intensity of the counterinsurgency campaign on the ground (Republika, 9 September, 2001). Despite her own ‘bitter experience with


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violence’ under the New Order, Megawati also took no immediate action on human rights issues or provide a clear commitment towards ending the statist violence in Aceh and other conflict areas.29 What Megawati did upon coming to power was pronounce a six-point working programme that identified the defence of national unity ‘within the NKRI framework’ as her government’s top priority (Berita Tanah Air, No.6/VIII August 2001). Like many Indonesian nationalists, Megawati was said to be ‘still bitter’ over East Timor’s independence and refused to tolerate a break up of the country her father had founded (FEER, 10 May, 2001). This concern about national disintegration was reflected in Megawati Sukarnoputri’s Aceh approach. Like Abdurrahman Wahid and B. J. Habibie before her, Megawati Sukarnoputri adopted a dual-track approach that combined security operations with limited negotiations with GAM and special autonomy. Beyond her rhetorical commitment towards personally resolving the Aceh problem ‘in a peaceful manner’ and through ‘a responsible political process’ (speech transcript, 19 September, 2001), however, Megawati Sukarnoputri was principally concerned with safeguarding Indonesia’s territorial integrity. This was underscored by her decision to continue the joint TNI–Polri ‘Security Restoration Operations’ that had begun in April 2001, despite the proven ineffectiveness of the counterinsurgency campaign in restoring law and order. By mid-2001, approximately 30,000 security forces personnel were stationed in Aceh to eliminate some 3,000 GAM rebels. Even with a ratio of 10 TNI–Polri personnel to one GAM combatant, however, Indonesia’s security forces had made little progress towards achieving their goal of crushing the rebels. In part, this was because the systemic problems of poor discipline and troop coordination had not been addressed. The relative weakness of Indonesia’s civilian leadership and the absence of human rights trials had provided the military with little incentive to submit to civilian control. Even the head of the TNI’s Information Department, Brigadier General Ismet Herdy, acknowledged that the troops stationed in Aceh were ‘not disciplined, in fact they violate the law’ and ‘as a consequence maybe their function needs to be changed’ (Kompas, 18 September, 2001).30 There were also ongoing confusing chains of command under the joint TNI/Polri security operations command. As one Acehnese MP, Said Muchsin, explained, ‘Aceh is different to safe regions’ because in Aceh, there are ‘clear divisions between the TNI and Polri’, resulting in ‘chaos in the field’ (Kompas, 11 July, 2002). Related to these behavioural and disciplinary problems was the inadequate defence budget. As one former TNI Territorial Affairs Assistant Chief of Staff, Major General (ret.) Saurip Kadi, explained, ‘When soldiers finish their duties, we have to turn a blind eye if they want to look for other work because how else will they feed their families? (interview, 16 October, 2001). Although soldiers stationed in Aceh were supposed to receive meal allowances of Rp.17,500 per day (US$1.90), many only received Rp.10,000 (US$1.10) daily (The Jakarta Post, 22 July, 2002). The shortfall in the defence budget posed a dilemma for the Megawati administration, which was reluctant to reduce the large security presence in Aceh, but at the same time could not fund the military’s minimum

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requirements. In an attempt to provide some redress for this problem, the Megawati administration increased the defence budget by 18 percent in September 2001 (Pikiran Rakyat, 6 October, 2002) and gave the TNI and Polri each an additional Rp.1 trillion (US$115 million) for the 2002–3 financial year. These increases were generous, given that Megawati’s government had inherited a foreign debt of about US$150 billion (Asia Times, 1 August, 2001). In real terms, however, the total defence budget of approximately US$1 billion continued to provide only about 25–30 percent of funding required by the military (Sukma and Prasetyono 2003: 35). In order to meet their basic budgetary requirements, the TNI remained largely reliant on independent businesses for funding, which Aceh’s war economy offered in abundance. As discussed in earlier chapters, the military’s business interests in Aceh covered the entire economic spectrum, from providing security to big business to selling fishing licences to foreign fishing vessels, selling arms to GAM, extortion, drug smuggling and the illegal trade of exotic wildlife such as Sumatran tigers and elephants. It is worth noting though, that the TNI was not the only group to financially benefit from the conflict. For every financial scandal that rocked the military in Aceh, the police, Brimob, local government officials, Acehnese businesspeople and/or GAM were involved. However, GAM’s illegal business activities were obviously on a far smaller scale, given their proportionately smaller numbers and lack of direct access to state power and resources. It was well known, for instance, that GAM sold marijuana to TNI–Polri personnel in return for guns, ammunition and logistical information (Serambi Indonesia, 4 March, 2000; Kompas, 5 August, 2002; Kompas, 7 August, 2003). The rebels continued to purchase weapons directly from TNI’s own PT Pindad arms factory in Bandung (Kompas, 7 April, 2001; Pikiran Rakyat, 16 December, 2002; Republika, 11 August, 2003), which also sold commercial weapons to militant groups in other conflict areas such as Poso and Maluku (TempoInteraktif, 22 October, 2002; Jawa Pos, 14 October, 2003; Sinar Harapan, 10 November, 2003). There were also many ongoing reports of extensive business networks between Indonesian security forces, local government officials and GAM in Aceh’s illegal logging industry (Serambi Indonesia, 27 May, 2002; Serambi Indonesia, 28 October, 2000; Liputan6.com, 21 January, 2003). While Aceh’s conflict economy provided powerful incentives for the TNI, police, Brimob and other groups and individuals to perpetuate the conflict, it also provided corrupt local government officials with an excuse for failing to effectively deliver public services and implement government projects. Unlike B. J. Habibie and Abdurrahman Wahid, who at least made some effort to respond to Acehnese justice demands by launching human rights investigations and by granting amnesty to Acehnese political prisoners, Megawati Sukarnoputri only approved the conditional release of six political prisoners soon after coming to power. On 20 August, 2001, she ordered the release of six GAM negotiators who had been charged with subversion following a final unsuccessful round of talks between the two sides on 16–18 July in Banda Aceh (Mediaindo, 21 August, 2001). According to central government spokespeople, this move demonstrated


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Megawati’s commitment towards reviving negotiations with the rebels. However, only five of the GAM negotiators were conditionally released, while the sixth remained in jail for holding a fake passport.31 Meanwhile, arbitrary citizen arrests continued. According to Kontras, 110 civilians were unlawfully arrested between April and July 2001 (Kompas, 23 August, 2001). It could be argued that by the time Megawati came to power, Jakarta had no choice but to militarily respond to the threat posed by GAM in order to restore an effective governing presence in Aceh. By mid-2001, GAM had stepped up its campaign of violence against suspected spies (cuak), non-Acehnese transmigrants and state facilities (Kompas, 27 August, 2001). While it seemed that nothing short of force could contain the insurgency, the rebels were vastly outnumbered by the better resourced and equipped Indonesian security forces. The only way to break this vicious cycle of violence, it seemed, was by reforming the security sector and by building the capacity of Indonesia’s governing institutions in Aceh. This monumental task would have challenged even the most capable president. But Megawati Sukarnoputri brought little in the way of leadership to her presidency and gave the unreformed security forces free reign in Aceh. By mid-2001, the majority of ministers in Megawati’s cabinet had also run out of patience with GAM and were not serious about pursuing a political solution to the conflict. This assessment may invite criticism given the intractable nature of GAM’s militant struggle, but the findings of a ministerial delegation to Aceh in August 2001 left little room for a more generous appraisal of Jakarta’s lack of commitment towards a negotiated settlement at that time. On 22 August, 2001, Megawati Sukarnoputri sent a delegation of 13 senior ministers and generals to Aceh to ‘assess the needs of the Acehnese people’ and to convey her administration’s desire to negotiate with GAM ‘to stop separatism and bring back our brothers who want to break away from us’ (Suara Karya, 24 August, 2001). Headed by Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, the high-profile delegation aimed to search for short-to-medium term solutions to the conflict. Yudhoyono concluded that GAM did not want peace, as shown by their ‘campaign of terror amongst the Acehnese with a series of killings, bombings and arson attacks’ (Kyodo News, 26 August, 2001). In stark contrast with the position he would later adopt as Indonesia’s sixth president, Yudhoyono added that ‘no country solves its armed movement problems with dialogue’ (Kyodo News, 26 August, 2001). The ministerial delegation therefore decided that it was necessary to continue the joint TNI–Polri Security Restoration Operations against GAM. Although the delegation announced plans to review Inpres No.4/2001 because ‘the guidelines on implementing the six steps are not yet perfect’, the ministers believed it was unrealistic to reduce the security presence in Aceh while separatist sentiment and activity there remained high (Kompas, 9 October, 2001). Somewhat differently, the TNI Commander in Chief, Admiral Laksamana Widodo Adi Sucipto, argued that it was impossible to revoke the decree because it provided ‘the legal rationale to deal with the Aceh issue’ (The Jakarta Post, 12 September, 2001). This did not mean that military leaders were entirely happy with Inpres No.4/2001, as many wanted greater power and protection for

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security forces personnel by imposing a state of military emergency in Aceh. According to the Army Chief of Staff, Endriartono Sutarto, ‘because a state of emergency hasn’t yet been declared’, the TNI was only authorized to ‘provide assistance to the police to deal with armed groups’ (Kompas, 9 October, 2001). This was incorrect, of course, as the joint TNI–Polri security command that was established in April 2001 was led by former deputy Kopassus commander Brigadier General Zamroni. Although the central government replaced Inpres No.4/2001 on 9 October with Inpres No.7/2001, the new decree included no substantive changes to Jakarta’s Aceh policy and only extended the Security Restoration Operations for another four months on the grounds that they were necessary to ‘maintain peace’ (The Jakarta Post, 12 October, 2001). In Aceh, there was widespread opposition to the Inpres. GAM, which dismissed the official visit to Aceh as a mere ‘tourist trip’, described Inpres No.4 and No.7/2001 as ‘legal frameworks for the barbaric actions of the TNI in Acheh’ (ASNLF 2002). Similarly, Kontras Coordinator Munarman concluded that the decrees exacerbated Aceh’s ‘biggest problem of human rights [abuses]’ ([email protected], 13 September, 2001). Since April, only the ‘security’ component of the Inpres had been implemented, with the result that from April until the third week of August, 539 people became victims of violence in 193 incidents (Kompas, 23 August, 2001). This represented a sharp increase from January to April 2001, when 256 victims were reported in 79 incidents. Although GAM and the TNI–Polri also incurred casualties, most victims were civilians caught in the crossfire. Of the conflict related deaths between 15 January and 5 June, 2001, 406 civilians were killed compared with 68 GAM rebels and 48 TNI–Polri fatalities (Elsam, August 2001). In the absence of the rule of law, most perpetrators of the violence remained at large. By the time Megawati came to power, there were only 22 serving judges in Aceh, well below the recommended number of 126 judges (The Jakarta Post, 11 June, 2001). The International Crisis Group reported that only two of Aceh’s 18 civil district courts retained their normal contingent of three judges (27 June, 2001: 13). In some districts where there were no judges, penitentiary authorities released suspected criminals after their maximum legal detention period of 120 days without trial expired (The Jakarta Post, 11 May, 2002). As Indonesian security forces personnel were almost never prosecuted in Aceh’s civilian courts, GAM was widely seen as responsible for threatening and intimidating the judges. Although the central government installed 25 new judges in Aceh in mid-2001, by 2002 only 29 remained (The Jakarta Post, 29 May, 2002). However, it is unlikely that a few more judges would have made much difference to Aceh’s dysfunctional civil legal system, especially while it remained tarnished by corruption allegations and while Indonesian security forces personnel continued to commit abuses against the civilian population with impunity. This situation, however, further increased public disorder and encouraged individuals to settle their grievances outside the law. One disturbing sign of the rising lawlessness was the renewal of mass killings on a scale not seen in Aceh since the Bantaqiah incident of July 1999. In the worst of


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these massacres on 9 August, 2001, 30 workers and a two-year-old child were summarily executed at the PT Bumi Flora palm oil plantation in Julok sub-district in East Aceh. Eyewitnesses claimed that the victims were shot dead by a unit of about 20 soldiers (Tapol: October 2001). This claim was supported by SIRA, which identified the killers as non-organic troops from an elite Rajawali counterinsurgency unit that had recently established a command post in the area. The ‘independent’ Komnas HAM investigation, which was so poorly handled that it inadvertently protected the perpetrators, allowed TNI officers to accompany Komnas HAM staff on their factfinding visit to Julok, preventing witnesses from speaking freely. Though Komnas HAM probably had no choice but to accept their TNI escorts, the commission waited for five months before announcing plans to establish a Commission of Inquiry into the Julok massacre that led to no arrests. Komnas HAM had not conducted any serious investigations into rights violations cases since late 1999, in large part because it had become increasingly dominated by conservative nationalists who enjoyed close relations with the military (HRW: March 2002). The growing ineffectiveness of Komnas HAM also stemmed from the government’s formation of the largely symbolic Human Rights Ministry and subsequent Justice and Human Rights Ministry, which generated confusion regarding overlapping areas of authority. While Indonesian security forces were widely feared and hated for their depredations against the civilian population, GAM was also criticized by sections of Acehnese society for scaling up its attacks on the Indonesian state machinery and for violent acts against suspected spies and transmigrants. The rebels justified their attacks on Indonesian facilities by arguing that ‘in a state of war, public and economic facilities belonging to the warring nations are legitimate targets’ (The Jakarta Post, 21 May, 2002). GAM saw their attacks on suspected spies and migrant communities in Central Aceh as equally legitimate. Central Aceh is dominated by three main ethnic groups: ethnic Acehnese, Aceh’s largest indigenous Gayo minority (comprising about 200,000 people, or 5 percent of the total population of Aceh), and the biggest non-indigenous ethnic minority of Javanese transmigrants, government employees and security forces personnel (about 275,000 people, or 7 percent of the total population) (Reid 2006: 4–5). Since 1990, violent clashes had been reported between GAM and Javanese settlers who had relocated to Central Aceh as part of the New Order’s transmigration programme. In late 2000, these tensions intensified when GAM attempted to gain greater influence amongst poorer Acehnese and Gayo people by attacking Javanese transmigrants and burning their homes. In one particularly violent incident on 5–6 June, for which GAM was widely seen as responsible, 42 Javanese settlers were killed in and around the Central Aceh capital of Takengon (Kompas, 17 June, 2001). In retaliation, the TNI and its militia proxies, or ‘People’s Resistance’ (Perlawanan Rakyat, Wanra) took up arms against GAM. By the end of July, about 150 people had been killed in Central Aceh. By October, this number had further risen to 299 fatalities, with an additional 1796 injured and 144 disappearances. Some 1640 homes were also burnt down, and 56 villages were ‘emptied’, leaving about 11,800 civilians internally displaced (FPDRA Atjeh News, 31 October, 2001).

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The growing number of civilian militias exacerbated the chaos on the ground. According to GAM Spokesman Sofyan Dawood, there were 5,000–6,000 active civilian militias in Aceh by 2001 (interview, 27 July, 2006). Like in East Timor and Papua, the TNI had attempted to strengthen its campaign against GAM in Aceh by recruiting, training and arming militias. Though Indonesia’s military establishment politically distanced itself from these Aceh militias, there was strong anecdotal evidence linking the TNI, and particularly Kopassus, with them. In July 2001, one regional commander, Lieutenant Colonel Rochana Hardiyanto, even admitted that the TNI recruited militias, and ‘especially transmigrants from the island of Java’, who had been active in Aceh since 2000 (Radio Nederland Wereldomroep, 12 July, 2001). According a report by the non-governmental organization Aceh-Eye.org, these militias were either recruited voluntarily or through coercion (July 2004). Voluntary recruits joined militias for financial gain or to protect their (usually ethnic minority) communities. Militias were also recruited through coercion pursuant to Law No.23/1959 on Military Emergency Authority, which instructs residents to contribute their time and service towards national defence in a state of emergency. Under Megawati’s tenure, the TNI also initiated a series of ‘neighbourhood watch’ schemes in Aceh, in which villagers who refused to join militias risked being labelled as GAM members or sympathizers. Amidst the escalating violence, the political middle ground that had gradually narrowed under Abdurrahman Wahid’s tenure was lost. In the propaganda war for Acehnese hearts and minds, GAM and Indonesian security forces moved to restrict freedom of speech and association. By 2001, both sides had increased their acts of intimidation and attacks on journalists and local media offices. According to the Indonesian Journalists Association, 53 journalists had been attacked in Aceh since 1999, mostly in the worst conflict areas of Pidie and North and East Aceh (Reporters Without Borders, 2002; The Jakarta Post, 9 July, 1999). On 12 May, 2001, for example, Abbas Gani, a journalist for Fakta magazine, and Umar HN, an RCTI television correspondent, were beaten by TNI officers for their negative coverage of the military’s activities in Aceh (IFEX, 2001). Then in June and August, the Banda Aceh–based Serambi Indonesia newspaper was forced to briefly cease publication under threat by GAM. The movements of foreign journalists were also increasingly restricted. During Abdurrahman Wahid’s final months in power, the central government had loosely imposed a ban on foreign journalists travelling to Aceh due to ‘security concerns for their safety’ (TempoInteraktif, 29 January, 2001). Under Megawati, these restrictions on the flow of information coming out of Aceh further increased. By May 2003, when Megawati pronounced martial law in Aceh, all foreigners were banned from entering the province and Indonesian journalists were forced to undertake nationalist military indoctrination training courses before being embedded with TNI combat units on the ground (The Jakarta Post, 18 June, 2003). Another sign of the narrowing political space was the retreat of Acehnese civil society groups from political life. Many of these civil society groups and organizations had already been forced underground by the political developments


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of mid-2000. As discussed in Chapter Four, it was around this time that HUDA ulama returned to their dayah (Islamic boarding schools) under threat by Indonesian security forces and GAM following the aborted Aceh People’s Congress (KRA). When the independent ulama eventually returned to political life in mid-2001, it was not as supporters of the referendum movement, but as political allies of the provincial government. Seizing the opportunity to promote their conservative Islamic agenda, the sub-provincial HUDA ulama joined forces with the urban-based MUI ulama under the auspices of the MPU (Consultative Council of Ulama) and began to exert growing influence over provincial government policy (see Chapter Seven). By contrast, SIRA became increasingly radicalized and suppressed. Following the police campaign of early 2001, which had aimed to discredit the students by portraying them as ‘terrorists’, some SIRA leaders were arrested and their members and supporters threatened or intimidated. Muhammad Nazar, for instance, who was first arrested on 20 November, 2000, was subsequently charged with subversion and sentenced on 28 March, 2001, to 10 months imprisonment (TempoInteraktif, 28 March, 2001). The SIRA Coordinator was later rearrested on 12 February, 2003, and sentenced to five years imprisonment on 1 July, 2003, under Article 154 of Indonesia’s Criminal Code for failing to obtain permission to hold a public rally in Lhokseumawe (Kompas, 16 February, 2003; Kompas, 2 July, 2003). The Megawati administration’s efforts to discredit GAM were assisted by international political developments. Following the 11 September terrorist attacks on the United States of America, Jakarta increasingly sought to position GAM within the US global ‘war on terror’. In her post-11 September speech in Washington Megawati Sukarnoputri attempted to win US support for her government’s military campaign against GAM by describing the ‘terrorist acts’ committed by the rebels in the form of ‘a series of bombing campaigns that destroyed more than 50 school buildings in Aceh’ (Speech transcript, 19 September, 2001). Even political moderates like Foreign Minister Hassan Wirayuda warned that if GAM should ‘resort to terrorism, as the separatists have done in recent times, burning school houses and escalating the violence, we will not hesitate to administer a firm but measured military response’ (Media statement, 12 October, 2001). Concerned about their international image, GAM’s political leadership in Stockholm issued a press release condemning the ‘senseless and brutal attacks’ on the United States and conveying the empathy of the Acehnese people, who ‘feel and share the grievances of the Americans during these difficult days, as we too have been subject to a brutal terrorist campaign’ by the Indonesian government (Press Release, 15 September, 2001). GAM could not escape the ‘terrorist’ stigma, however, and soon became embroiled in a number of conspiracy theories surrounding 11 September. The Hong Kong-based Far Eastern Economic Review (FEER) magazine reported that Hasan di Tiro was ‘worried’ because the Bush administration suspected al-Qaeda of raising revenue from Aceh’s illegal marijuana industry (1 November, 2001). This theory stemmed from a Philippines military intelligence report that Osama Bin Laden’s senior aide, Ayamane al-Zawahiri,

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and former al-Qaeda military chief, Mohammed Atef, had visited Aceh in June 2000, where they were said to have been ‘impressed by the lack of security, the support and extent of the Muslim population’ (Kompas, 18 December, 2002). While there was strong anecdotal evidence that al-Qaeda operatives had visited Aceh, GAM never sought allies in other Islamist organizations. According to GAM, the real terrorists in Aceh were ‘Muslim hardliners like Laskar Jihad’ militias, who incited ‘racial and religious sentiment’ in Aceh and detracted international attention away from GAM’s nationalist campaign (CNN, 14 July, 2002). The Megawati administration’s hardening Aceh approach was indirectly influenced by Washington’s changing foreign policy towards Indonesia in at least two ways. First, in the aftermath of 11 September, the administration of George W. Bush worked to secure cooperation from the world’s most populous Muslim nation in its war on terror by promising to finance TNI–Polri education and training programmes. Second, the Bush administration developed an increased interest in preventing further TNI massacres that could have led to a revision of its warmer relations with Jakarta. The US therefore adopted a pro-active stance in encouraging Jakarta to revive the Aceh peace process. This was shown by Washington’s deployment of high-profile negotiators – including special adviser to the US Secretary of State, retired Marine, General Anthony Zinni, and the US Deputy Assistant Secretary of State, Matt Daley – to meet with Hasan di Tiro in early 2002. Though these ‘wise men’ from Washington failed to persuade Hasan di Tiro to accept Jakarta’s offer of special autonomy, the involvement of mediators of international political stature contributed towards GAM’s decision to eventually return to the negotiating table (The Age, 18 June, 2002). By early 2002, there was growing confidence in Jakarta that GAM could be coerced into compliance. In part, Jakarta’s hardening Aceh approach was related to international developments. Following the US invasion of Afghanistan in October 2001, governments around the world had seized the opportunity to finish off their separatist movements. As Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono explained, ‘Any separatist movement must be crushed, and we have the international support to maintain our national territorial integrity’ (The Indonesian Observer, 8 February, 2002). By January 2002, Indonesia’s security forces had also made some progress towards reducing GAM’s military strength. By the rebels’ own admission, Indonesian security forces had limited their control over Aceh to 30–40 percent, compared with 60–70 percent the previous year (ICG 27 March, 2002: 1–2). Despite GAM’s forced retreat, the security forces in 2001 had only killed 315 of an estimated 3,000 rebels, or 10 percent. By contrast, the 2001 civilian death toll was 1,028 fatalities, which exceeded that of any year since the fall of Suharto (Laksamana.net, 5 March 2002). TNI–Polri casualties also mounted, with 134 security forces personnel killed the same year. Despite the growing numbers of casualties on both sides, Jakarta’s confidence that it could militarily defeat GAM was reinforced by the assassination of the iconic AGAM commander Abdullah Syafi’ie on 22 January, 2002, which central government leaders believed had weakened the rebels’ morale. Certainly, the killing of Abdullah Syafi’ie (along with his wife Fatimah and five bodyguards) by


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Indonesian security forces was a major blow to GAM. Abdullah Syafi’ie’s assassination also deepened hostilities between the rebels and provincial government leaders. According to GAM, Governor Abdullah Puteh sent a letter to Abdullah Syafi’ie three days before the rebel commander’s death containing a green microchip tracking device, although this claim was never proven (Tempo, 28 January, 2002). In his defence, the governor argued that he had only invited Abdullah Syafi’ie to participate in peace talks, describing him as ‘a leader agreeable to dialogue’ with ‘a fairly modern perspective’ (Serambi Indonesia, 25 January, 2002). By contrast, Abdullah Syafi’ie’s replacement, the former deputy AGAM commander, Muzakkir Manaf, reportedly had a reputation in Jakarta as a ‘temperamental commander’ who was ‘quick to make decisions’ and ‘likely to bring the political temperature in Aceh to boiling point’ (Tempo, 28 January, 2002). Given the deep hostility between GAM and Governor Abdullah Puteh, the latter’s support for the reinstatement of a permanent military command (Kodam) in Aceh was not surprising. In January 2002, Abdullah Puteh, Vice-Governor Ir Azwar Abubakar and several DPRD leaders flew to Jakarta to request the reinstatement of Aceh’s controversial Kodam Iskandar Muda. In contrast with the views of other post-New Order Acehnese politicians, Abdullah Puteh claimed that Aceh needed its own Kodam because of the province’s geographical largeness, distant proximity from Jakarta and to improve the behaviour of troops in the field by strengthening the military’s chain of command. An Acehnese parliamentarian, Nasir Jamil, similarly argued that placing the military in ‘full control of defence and security matters’ would reduce the problem of poor inter-force coordination and ‘help the government to seek a comprehensive solution to the conflict’ (The Jakarta Post, 10 January, 2002). In fact, the real impetus for the Aceh Kodam came from military leaders with whom Abdullah Puteh enjoyed close relations. For the TNI, their goal of establishing a permanent military presence in Aceh was less likely to attract harsh public criticism if formally requested by Aceh’s civilian leadership. Within days of the Aceh delegation’s arrival in Jakarta, President Megawati personally approved the Aceh Kodam, which was formally ratified on 9 January, 2002 (Kompas, 4 January, 2002). Also on Abdullah Puteh’s recommendation, an Acehnese commander, Brigadier General M. Djali Yusuf, headed Kodam Iskandar Muda. According to Abdullah Puteh, an Acehnese commander was more likely to be culturally tactful in dealing with the civilian population. When Djali Yusuf was formally installed as Aceh’s new Kodam commander on 5 February, 2002, much was made of his Acehnese credentials. But Djali Yusuf was not known for his sensitivity. While serving as former deputy to Brigadier General Zamroni in the Security Restoration Operations, he had consistently advocated a hard-line security approach. Shortly before his promotion, Djali Yusuf had ordered ‘all security personnel to shoot on sight those found intentionally disturbing the peace or public interests’ (The Jakarta Post, 17 January, 2002). Although he announced plans to ‘recruit Acehnese to serve under the new Kodam’ in order to create ‘better relations between the security forces and the local population’ (McCulloch: January 2002),

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this did not happen. Less than 20 percent of the organic troops recruited under the new Kodam were ethnic Acehnese, reflecting the deep mutual mistrust between the TNI and the local population (Aspinall and Crouch 2003: 62). The reinstated Aceh Kodam represented a major victory for the TNI. As discussed in Chapter Two, the military had been trying to expand its territorial command system into Aceh since 1999. Despite this success, military leaders still attempted to deflect public criticism by portraying the Aceh Kodam as consistent with the TNI’s reform process, which envisaged the military’s gradual consignment to an external defence role. It was for this reason that TNI spokesmen downplayed the domestic security threat posed by GAM and emphasized Aceh’s susceptibility to border incursions due to its geopolitically strategic location astride the Malacca Straits. As the Director General for Strategy and Defence in the Defence Ministry, Major General Sudradjat, argued, ‘The TNI’s consideration is more than [GAM]. We consider the province to be vulnerable to external threats’ (The Jakarta Post, 4 February, 2002). In terms of Indonesian state capacity, it was difficult to see how a permanent military command would help to improve security conditions in Aceh while the problems of budgetary constraints and poor professionalism remained. Indeed, a minority of older generation generals saw Kodam Iskandar Muda as a costly mistake that would weaken the integrity of the military as an institution by perpetuating its reliance on independent funding (interviews, Lieutenant General (ret.) Hasnan Habib, Lieutenant General (ret.) Sayidiman Suryohadiprojo, 2001). Proponents of this view generally argued that a smaller military command, such as an operational executive command (Kolakops) or another military resort command (Korem), would have sufficed to deal with the Aceh problem. For some generals, there was also the risk that the TNI’s reputation would be further tarnished in the eyes of the Indonesian public if they failed to contain the Aceh conflict and continued to commit atrocities against the civilian population. As Deputy MPR Speaker Lieutenant General (ret.) Agus Widjojo pointed out, the Aceh Kodam represented ‘a backward step’ because it involved no substantive changes to the security operations on the ground but threatened to negatively ‘influence public opinion about us in many respects’ (interview, 28 October, 2002). In Aceh, the reinstated Kodam reinforced public perception of the TNI as a hostile occupying force. SIRA saw the Kodam as a government strategy ‘to strengthen the concentration of repressive [forces] in order to kill every political aspiration of the people’ (Gatra, 12 January, 2002). GAM interpreted it as a ‘declaration of war’ and ordered a three-day public strike, which caused about 75 percent of the province to shut down on 16–18 January, 2002. Beyond the widespread public opposition to Kodam Iskandar Muda, this mass strike reflected the prevailing climate of fear in Aceh. According to Aceh’s Serambi Indonesia newspaper, most civilians stayed at home because they were too ‘confused and afraid’ to know how to act after being told by GAM that they ‘had the right to strike’ and by TNI–Polri that they ‘had the right not to strike’ (16 January, 2002). In Jakarta, the reinstated Kodam reinforced the general feeling of confidence amongst government leaders about the strength of their own position. This confidence


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was reflected in Megawati Sukarnoputri’s pronouncement of a new Aceh approach less than one week after Kodam Iskandar Muda was reestablished. On 11 February, Megawati replaced Inpres No.7/2001 with Inpres No.1/2002, which prioritized the NAD law and other socio-political, legal and economic approaches over security operations. Although the new decree ordered the continuation of the Security Restoration Operations and clarified Jakarta’s designation of GAM as ‘a separatist movement’, 8 of the 10 points focused on non-coercive strategies. The new Inpres, which was drafted by Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, also outlined a ‘comprehensive and integrated’ interdepartmental effort to improve communication, uphold the rule of law, promote economic development, create job opportunities, and develop health, education and social programmes in Aceh. To implement this fusion of programmes, an ‘Aceh Desk’ office was created in Banda Aceh. In contrast to previous Inpres, the new decree included a provision to hold a ‘Joint Consultative Meeting in Geneva’ with GAM that would be ‘separate from, and not influenced by Indonesian security forces’. In fact, this was not the case as the military interpreted Inpres No.1/2002 as an extension of their existing counterinsurgency campaign. According to the hard-line Kostrad Commander Ryamizard Ryacudu, there would be no change to the TNI’s strategy to ‘exterminate provocateurs, shoot rioters’ (Tempo, 1 April, 2002). The chasm between the conciliatory nomenclature of Inpres No.1/2002 and the conflict on the ground could be measured by the number of fatalities. From January to August, 974 people were killed in Aceh, while hundreds more civilians were arbitrarily arrested, kidnapped or tortured (USAID, August 2002). As the security operations in Aceh intensified, the central government began to apply pressure on GAM to return to the negotiating table. While the TNI and its civilian supporters in the national executive and legislature remained fundamentally opposed to reviving an internationally facilitated Aceh peace process, some, including Megawati Sukarnoputri, pragmatically acknowledged that there was strong international support for it. The United States had taken a special interest in democratically resolving the Aceh conflict. Even under international pressure, however, the Indonesian government made it clear that it would not tolerate indefinite negotiations with GAM, which ‘must soon reach an “end state” that is moulded to the framework of Acehnese thought as part of the NKRI, and the Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam law’ (Inpres No.1/2002). Jakarta’s impatience to reach this ‘end state’ reflected both the reservations amongst central government leaders about international mediation, and the aspirations of some ministers to hold domestic peace talks. By early 2002, the successful peace process in Malino to stem sectarian conflicts in Poso and the Moluccas raised hopes amongst some government leaders that the Aceh conflict could be similarly resolved. On 6 March, for instance, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono announced during a two-day visit to Aceh that if the Geneva talks failed then Jakarta would consider Malino-style talks in Aceh (Serambi Indonesia, 7 March, 2002). In Jakarta, there was also growing support for the idea of excluding GAM’s political leadership in Sweden from any negotiated

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settlement. As Susilo argued, ‘Is it fair to let our land continue to suffer a tragedy that has been masterminded by a Swedish citizen?’ (Republika, 27 August, 2002). Somewhat differently, Home Affairs Minister Hari Sabarno felt there was ‘no need for the central government to hold a dialogue with GAM’, who should only ‘negotiate with the provincial government, as the central government’s representative’ in Aceh (Kompas, 4 January, 2002). Not surprisingly, GAM vowed to only deal with Jakarta and urged the Indonesian government to immediately resume the Geneva talks ‘to decide once and for all whether to resolve the Aceh case by dialogue or war’ (Gatra, 27 January, 2002). The rebels were eager to resume negotiations to lobby the international community to support their cause, and also in the hope of a ceasefire that would enable them to consolidate their depleted fighting forces. To buy time, GAM reluctantly agreed to accept the NAD law ‘as a starting point’ during the first round of peace talks in Geneva on 2–3 February, 2002. Although further talks were planned for April, these were postponed until May after GAM demanded a ceasefire as a precondition. By 8 May, when the two sides met in Bavois for two more days of negotiations, GAM’s options had been further reduced after Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono obtained a statement from the Swedish government that supported Aceh’s special autonomy status and rejected Acehnese independence. By the end of these talks, both sides signed their first agreement under the Megawati administration. The limited ‘Joint Statement’ comprised two points. First, GAM and Jakarta agreed ‘on the basis of the acceptance of the NAD law as a starting point’ to hold a ‘democratic, all-inclusive dialogue involving all elements of Acehnese society’ that would lead to a ‘review of elements of the NAD law’ and the election of a democratic government in Aceh, Indonesia. Second, they agreed to establish an ‘agreement on cessation of hostilities with an adequate mechanism for accountability’ in order to build trust and facilitate the delivery of humanitarian assistance. Despite this small step forward, the Indonesian government and GAM managed to dispute four issues in the two-point agreement. The first was that GAM interpreted the statement to mean a ‘cessation of hostilities’, whereas Jakarta’s chief negotiator to Geneva, Wiryono Sastrohandoyo, explained that this was impossible as no ‘mechanism for accountability’ existed (Tempo, 21 May, 2002). Second, GAM understood ‘the election of a democratic government in Acheh, Indonesia’ to mean a vote on Acehnese independence, while Jakarta maintained that the clause referred to Indonesia’s 2004 general election. Third, GAM rejected the inference in the Joint Statement that ‘Acheh’ was part of Indonesia, while Jakarta opposed GAM’s preferred spelling of ‘Acheh’. The most substantive issue dividing the two sides, however, was their irreconcilable end goals. For GAM, the NAD law was only ‘a starting point’ for future talks that would eventually result in Acehnese independence. For Jakarta, however, special autonomy was the only acceptable final solution to the conflict. The peace process did not reduce hostilities on the ground. The new AGAM commander, Muzakkir Manaf, described Jakarta’s refusal to commit to a ceasefire


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as ‘treacherous’ and pledged to prepare his troops for war (Tempo, 21 May, 2002). The Acehnese Iskandar Muda Kodam Commander Djali Yusuf also confirmed that he had received no orders from Jakarta to recall troops to their barracks, and vowed to ‘tie GAM up and slowly tear apart those people who are camouflaged with their lies’ (Kompas, 5 August, 2002). Like other military commanders, Djali Yusuf resented the arrival of HDC peace monitors in Aceh, whom he accused of taking sides with GAM. Aceh’s Police Chief Inspector General Yusuf Manggabarani similarly urged the central government to closely monitor the HDC’s activities in Aceh to ensure that they behaved in a ‘neutral and transparent’ manner (Kompas, 7 August, 2002). For the military, which had opposed the peace process from the outset, the lack of clear progress in Geneva presented an opportunity to press for a military ‘solution’. According to the head of the TNI faction in the DPR, Major General (ret) Slamet Supriadi, ‘GAM only want to negotiate when they feel inferior. If they consolidate their forces again they’ll want to fight again’ (interview, 28 October, 2002). Indonesia’s new TNI Commander in Chief, Endriartono Sutarto agreed that ‘We cannot continue with the way things are…I am trained for war so I would choose war to end the Aceh problem, not negotiations’ (Analisa, 13 August, 2002). Like other generals and many central government officials, Endriartono resented what he saw as the ‘biased’ media coverage of the peace process, which portrayed GAM ‘traitors’ as ‘heroes’. For Kostrad commander Ryamizard Ryacudu, there was to be ‘no more dialogue…the rebellion has to be crushed’ (The Jakarta Post, 10 August, 2002). It was becoming increasingly clear that the military wanted a state of emergency to annihilate GAM. The timing of the military’s renewed push for emergency rule in mid-2002 coincided with two important political developments. The first was the termination of Inpres. No.1/2002 on 30 July, which had provided the military with some protection by positioning its counterinsurgency campaign within a political framework. Second, in June, an ad hoc human rights court was established in Jakarta to prosecute senior generals who were implicated in atrocities committed in East Timor. Though the East Timor Tribunal had mainly resulted from pressure by the international community, and 16 of the 18 suspects tried by the court were later acquitted, the trials nevertheless invoked some disquiet within the military hierarchy. It was becoming apparent that the TNI wanted more power and security than an Inpres could provide. A state of emergency offered greater legal protection and promised to increase the military’s control over Aceh. Although the idea of declaring emergency rule in Aceh had been raised under the previous two governments, it was rejected by those in power who favoured a negotiated settlement. By mid-2002, however, the central government was becoming more sympathetic to the military’s growing frustration with the peace process. As Defence Minister Matori Abdul Djalil explained, while the central government would continue negotiations with GAM, he personally could see ‘no way forward other than a security approach’ (Indonesia.com, 20 June, 2002), although this statement may have been a tactic to pressure GAM into

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accepting special autonomy. Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, who had in the past advocated a comprehensive solution to the conflict, was especially outspoken in supporting the military’s calls for a state of emergency. In July, Yudhoyono approached the DPR to seek formal support for the central government’s ‘plan to take stern measures against GAM, including imposing a state of emergency in the province to keep out country united’ (The Jakarta Post, 19 July, 2002). As Yudhoyono explained, the government was finding it ‘very hard to sustain dialogue with terrorists’, so if the DPR declared emergency rule in Aceh then ‘it follows naturally that [the] government should explain to the world that we have given enough opportunities to no avail’ (Serambi Indonesia, 5 July, 2002). The only member of Megawati’s cabinet to openly question the logic of imposing emergency rule was Vice President Hamzah Haz, who pointed out that GAM was not the only ‘terrorist group’ operating in Aceh, alluding to the activities of ‘disgruntled generals’ and ‘external parties who want Indonesia to be unstable’ (Laksamana.net, 10 July, 2002). In Jakarta, the high level of political support for emergency rule was partly related to growing frustration with Aceh’s ineffective civilian leadership. For some national political and military elites, it was easier to blame Abdullah Puteh’s government for the worsening conflict than to address the serious issues of human rights abuses and security sector reforms. According to Home Affairs Minister Hari Sabarno, ‘the worst possible scenario would be a civilian emergency status in Aceh and not a military emergency’ because Aceh’s civilian political leadership had done nothing towards restoring Acehnese faith in Indonesian authority (The Jakarta Post, 9 July, 2002). While the poor performance and financial mismanagement of Abdullah Puteh’s administration undoubtedly contributed towards the erosion of Acehnese faith in Indonesian authority, the provincial government was not primarily responsible for the violence. As Deputy MPR Speaker Lieutenant General (ret.) Agus Widjojo pointed out, the provincial administration had traditionally been ‘squeezed into a dilemma’ by having to balance their responsibilities to Indonesia’s unitary state on one hand, while facing the ‘reality of being part of a region that is always typically facing a situation of counterinsurgency’ on the other (interview, 28 October, 2002). In Aceh, almost the entire population opposed a state of military emergency. Even Abdullah Puteh, who had supported the reinstatement of Kodam Iskandar Muda, rejected the plan, arguing that about 90 percent Acehnese were still traumatized by the concept of emergency rule, which reminded them of the DOM period (Kompas, 17 July, 2002). It is possible that Puteh saw civil emergency rule as being preferable to martial law, which would have curtailed civilian authority. Despite strong local opposition to emergency rule, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono paid a visit to Aceh in July to gauge support for his government’s proposal. His visit was counterproductive, however, and invoked panic amongst the civilian population. Hundreds of Acehnese men who feared being linked with GAM fled the province (Kompas, 11 July, 2002). Hasan di Tiro compounded these fears by issuing an ‘Order of the Day’ to all Acehnese to be on ‘full alert’ in preparation for ‘almost 100,000 fully-equipped combat troops’ who were about


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to wage ‘total war against Acheh’ (Press Release, 21 July, 2002). SIRA, too, warned the Acehnese people to ‘be prepared to face the worst situation’ (Kompas, 5 August, 2002). The international community, too, and especially the governments of the United States and the United Kingdom, were concerned about a new wave of violence. In addition to Washington’s improved bilateral military ties with Indonesia and related interest in improving the TNI’s professionalism, the US had major oil and natural gas investments in Aceh and wanted to avoid costly disruptions to production. It was for these reasons that the Bush administration warned Jakarta in July of a possible ‘hardening of Congressional attitudes’ if Indonesia completely abandoned the Aceh peace process (The Jakarta Post, 31 July, 2002). Then in August, US Secretary of State Colin Powell only agreed to deliver US$50 million in funds for military and police training and education on the condition that Megawati Sukarnoputri promised to proceed with security sector reforms. The UK was also concerned that its bilateral military ties with Indonesia would suffer if the armed forces resorted to excessive force in Aceh. Tensions between the two governments had already arisen in May 2002 after Jakarta deployed 10 British Hawk fighter jets to Aceh to conduct a 60-day Operasi Rencong Terbang (Flying Dagger Operation). The three official aims of this air operation were to: (1) secure Indonesia’s vital economic interests in the region, including the oil and gas industries around Lhokseumawe, (2) monitor the use of Indonesian airspace in Aceh and North Sumatra and (3) ‘help restore security in Aceh’ (Waspada, 14 June, 2002). Concerned that British aircraft were being used for acts of internal repression, the British ambassador to Indonesia approached Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, who described the operations as merely an ‘annual reconnaissance exercise over Western Indonesia’ to deal with piracy in the Malacca Straits. Unconvinced, the UK warned Indonesia that it would continue to closely monitor improper usage of Hawk jets. As a result, when Operasi Terbang Rencong Udara 2002 was launched in Aceh in September, the British Hawks were replaced by North American OV-10F Bronco fighter jets. This second round of operations were described by the Indonesian air force as ‘both directly and indirectly…related to the TNI operation’ to ‘administer shock therapy to GAM’ (Angkasa, January 2003). Under national and international pressure, the central government decided to postpone declaring emergency rule in Aceh. At the same time, Megawati Sukarnoputri sought to appease the military by stepping up the counterinsurgency campaign against GAM. On 19 August, 2002, the central government announced a new seven-point Aceh policy programme that comprised two key parts. The first was to ‘intensify law enforcement measures’ through more counterinsurgency operations to ‘crush GAM’. Second, the central government gave the rebels an ultimatum to accept the NAD law by the end of the Muslim fasting month of Ramadhan in December or face the military consequences. As Megawati explained on 1 August in her Annual Progress Report in the MPR, ‘This standpoint is aimed at compelling the GAM to accept special autonomy’ as a final solution to the conflict.

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Although many generals were displeased that their calls for emergency rule were not met, regional commanders used the opportunity to intensify operations against GAM. Aceh’s regional commander, Djali Yusuf, announced that Kodam Iskandar Muda would start collaborating with Kodam Bukit Barisan to conduct more intensive intelligence operations and anticipate the rebels’ movements (Gatra, 18 August, 2002). But the TNI’s new emphasis on military intelligence did not lead to a reduction in fatalities. By late November, the Banda Aceh Legal Aid office (LBH) reported that 1,228 people had been killed since the start of the year, in addition to 1,854 torture cases, 330 disappearances and 973 arbitrary arrests (Media Indonesia, 29 November, 2002). While Aceh remained awash in violence, the HDC worked behind the scenes to secure a formal peace agreement. A series of scheduled meetings between Indonesian government officials and GAM were postponed, but by late October a draft agreement had been finalized and almost 90 percent of the items had been discussed. There were only two substantive outstanding issues. First, GAM opposed any law enforcement role for Polri and Brimob under a ceasefire because of the reputation of the paramilitary police for poor discipline and brutality against the civilian population. Second, GAM opposed a provision in the draft agreement requiring them to deposit their weapons in 10 designated sites to be locked and co-guarded by the rebels and a third neutral party (Media Indonesia, 2 November, 2002). GAM’s concerns were heightened when, on 29 October, about 1,200 TNI troops encircled the marshland surrounding the rebel stronghold of Paya Cot Trieng village in North Aceh. The siege appeared to be aimed at forcing GAM to accept a ceasefire. Some government and military leaders denied this, claiming that they believed AGAM commander Muzakkir Manaf was hiding in the area along with dozens of other rebels with unauthorized weapons. Public statements by Indonesian officials, however, linked the siege to the impending peace talks. Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, for example, argued that ‘it is not logical to ask the TNI to stop their armed action [in Cot Trieng] while GAM refuses to sign the peace agreement’ (Analisa, 11 November, 2002). TNI Commander in Chief Endriartono Sutarto similarly warned that the TNI would destroy the rebels ‘if they do not accept that peace agreement’ (mediaindo.com, 14 November, 2002). Although GAM was commonly believed to have escaped from the Cot Trieng marshland area by mid-November, the rebels resented what they saw as an ultimatum and did not want to negotiate under pressure. Under these conditions, GAM’s presence in Geneva for the signing of the new peace agreement on 9 December, 2002 was uncertain until the last moment. GAM threatened to boycott the signing if Jakarta continued to use coercion to force a ceasefire. Defence Minister Matori Abdul Djalil retaliated by threatening to close down Aceh’s ‘land, sea and air communications from both within and outside’ if GAM refused to sign (Pikiran Rakyat, 25 November, 2002). Despite their reduced military capability, GAM would not have agreed to sign a peace deal under duress if not for international community attention and funding. Though the peace deal did not advance the cause of either side, the international community was able to offer enough incentives to encourage the warring parties


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to put aside their differences and, at least temporarily, to focus on humanitarian concerns. CoHA32 On 9 December, 2002, when both sides signed the Cessation of Hostilities [Framework] Agreement (CoHA), it was largely due to the efforts of the international community. On 3 December, the USA, Japan, the European Union and the World Bank, along with 24 donor country representatives, convened a ‘Preparatory Conference on Peace and Reconstruction in Aceh’ in Tokyo, Japan, where they pledged to establish an Aceh trust fund to deliver humanitarian aid and support provincial reconstruction and development projects in the event of both sides signing an agreement. Jakarta recognized the diplomatic imperative of signing the peace deal and welcomed the substantial injection of foreign humanitarian assistance. GAM wanted the international attention and the chance to consolidate their depleted fighting forces. Beyond these cynical objectives, however, the signing of the peace agreement did seem to reflect, at least in part, an interest by both sides to stop fighting and start working towards peace. This did not mean that the limited ‘framework’ agreement brought either side any closer to their end goal. The nine-point CoHA only stipulated a ‘cessation of hostilities’ in the hope that more substantive issues could be later addressed. The first phase of the peace pact stipulated a two-month ‘confidence-building period’ which included the establishment of peace zones. It also provided for the activation of a Joint Security Committee (JSC) to resolve disputes arising from the implementation of the agreement to encourage GAM and the TNI–Polri to revert from offensive to defensive positions. The police were in charge of law enforcement throughout the peace process. Following GAM’s earlier objection to the involvement of Brimob in police operations, the agreement further stipulated that the paramilitary police must ‘strictly conform to regular police activities’. Pending the success of this initial period, a five-month demilitarization phase was envisaged, in which GAM agreed to the ‘phased placement of its weapons’ in designated sites. Jakarta agreed to the ‘simultaneous phased relocation of TNI forces’ and the eventual withdrawal of non-organic troops from Aceh. If, by the end of the second phase, a cessation of hostilities was achieved, then a third phase was planned in which ‘an all-inclusive Aceh dialogue’ would be held that would lead to ‘the election of a democratic government in Acheh, Indonesia…in accordance with the review of the NAD law’. At least initially, the CoHA generated high hopes in both Aceh and Jakarta that peace was possible. On the eve off the signing, hundreds of civilians gathered at the Baiturrahman mosque in Banda Aceh to pray for peace. Megawati Sukarnoputri demonstrated her confidence in the process by paying her first overnight visit to Aceh on 17–18 December. For the first month, GAM and the TNI largely adhered to the terms of the agreement, when the JSC only reported 28 known violations and 12 civilian casualties, compared with 87 fatalities in the month before the ceasefire (The Jakarta Post, 8 January, 2003).

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Despite this improved security situation, unresolved differences between the two sides soon resurfaced. One week after the signing, the abrasive Ryamizard Ryacudu reflected the military’s opposition to the peace pact by announcing that ‘There should be no questions asked about the presence of a million troops in an area because that’s where they belong’ (The Jakarta Post, 17 December, 2002). The Iskandar Muda Kodam Commander Djali Yusuf, added that ‘What is clear is that until now there is no policy to withdraw our troops from their existing posts’ (Media Indonesia, 21 January, 2003). The military, it seemed, had decided to tolerate the peace process under national and international pressure, but it had not abandoned its goal of crushing GAM. One dispute arose over the international contingent of the 150-member tripartite JSC monitoring team, which equally comprised 50 GAM, Indonesian and ‘senior third party’ representatives ‘of high standing agreed upon by both sides’. Although Jakarta made a significant concession by agreeing to allow foreign peace monitors from Thailand and the Philippines, GAM argued for a larger international presence. The rebels also accused the Filipino monitors of siding with Jakarta because of their experience in fighting Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) separatists back home (Kompas, 12 January, 2003). As a result, Jakarta made a further concession by agreeing to bring in Indian weapons inspectors to oversee the first phase of GAM’s disarmament. The biggest dispute concerned nature of an ‘election of a democratic government in Acheh, Indonesia’. Jakarta, fearing that local elections would reduce central government control over Aceh and strengthen GAM’s cause, maintained that the Acehnese people would only be allowed to participate in the 2004 general election. Importantly, this decision contravened both the CoHA and the terms of the NAD law, which stipulated direct local elections for Aceh’s governor, vicegovernor, bupati and mayors (see Chapter Seven). GAM too, interpreted the electoral component differently from the CoHA and NAD law. GAM maintained that two elections would be held in Aceh: Indonesia’s 2004 general election and a separate election on the government of an independent ‘State of Acheh’. By 9 February, 2003, when the five-month disarmament phase officially started, deep cracks had emerged in the peace process. Presaging a return to the past, Army Commander Endriartono Sutarto warned that the TNI had developed a ‘contingency plan’ if GAM continued to violate the agreement (The Jakarta Post, 5 February, 2003). Although GAM had agreed to deposit 20 percent of their weapons into 32 hidden caches in eight districts every month until July, no weapons had been placed in any of the designated sites by mid-March. Nor had the TNI adhered to their part of the agreement by organizing the ‘simultaneous phased relocation’ of troops. In fact, Brig. Gen. Djali Yusuf admitted that TNI troop levels in Aceh had actually increased from 22,000 to 26,000 personnel since December (The Jakarta Post, 16 April, 2003). With some 12,000 police and Brimob forces already stationed in Aceh, this brought the total number of security forces in the province to 38,000 personnel, the highest in the post-New Order period. GAM also used the relative peace to recruit new members and strengthen their civil administration in rural Aceh. According to the TNI, GAM


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had reinforced itself to 5,000 personnel and 2,300 weapons, compared with 3,000 members and 1,800 weapons before the signing of the agreement (Laksamana.net, 6 March, 2003). Despite these growing tensions, the inauguration of ‘peace zones’ initially went smoothly. Unarmed GAM and Indonesian security forces were allowed to enter the demilitarized areas, which were marked at the entrance by blue signs. The first of eight planned peace zones was established on 25 January, 2003, in Indrapuri sub-district south of Banda Aceh. Over the next two months, six more ‘safe havens’ were created in South, West, North and East Aceh, Bireuen and Pidie. On 8 March, however, hundreds of villagers waving little GAM flags at the opening ceremony for a peace zone in Hasan di Tiro’s birthplace of Tiro village in Pidie was interpreted by the TNI as a violation of the CoHA (Kompas, 10 March, 2003). Meanwhile, on 3 March, the first JSC office closed in Takengon, Central Aceh, after being attacked by an angry mob claiming to be ‘frustrated’ because JSC monitors had ignored their complaints about extortion by GAM (Kompas, 5 March, 2003). GAM blamed the TNI and its ‘invisible hands’ as part of the military’s broader strategy to sabotage the peace process (Laksamana.net, 6 March, 2003). These ‘invisible hands’ were ‘Laskar Jihad’ militias, said to be recruited, trained and armed by the TNI. Military spokesmen characteristically denied the militias’ existence and blamed GAM for the attack. Unlike its namesake, the Central Aceh ‘Laskar Jihad’ largely comprised Javanese transmigrants, although the Central Aceh militias wore the same distinctive headbands and saw jihad (holy war) in Indonesian nationalist terms. For both ‘Laskar Jihads’, the purpose of jihad was to eliminate ‘infidel’ separatists who threatened Indonesia’s territorial integrity and national cohesion. As one Central Aceh resident explained, ‘the militiamen, who call themselves members of Laskar Jihad, have terrorized villagers not to support GAM’ (The Jakarta Post, 25 March, 2003). More JSC offices shut down as the security situation further deteriorated. Like the attack on the Central Aceh JSC office, the other attacks were all conducted by angry mobs with putative grievances against GAM. This pattern created the general impression that the TNI was behind the attacks. On 6 April, the JSC office in Langsa, East Aceh, was burnt down by an angry mob demanding the release of civilians whom they claimed had been abducted by GAM (Suara Karya, 7 April, 2003). The next day, a mob stormed the HDC office in Tapaktuan, South Aceh, in protest over the JSC’s failure to end extortion and acts of intimidation by GAM. Most peculiar were the protests over extortion by GAM and demands for a stronger TNI presence in the rebel stronghold of Pidie (Media Indonesia, 27 March, 2003). Unsurprisingly, Jakarta portrayed GAM as the primary violators of the peace deal. Soon after the JSC ‘temporarily’ relocated all 100 of its international JSC monitors to Banda Aceh, Susilo Bambang Yudhoynono warned that if the rebels continued to sabotage the agreement then Jakarta would ‘have to make other plans…that is military operations to maintain the country’s territorial integrity’ (Suara Karya, 11 April, 2003). In fact, the TNI had already made such plans and ‘only await[ed] government instructions’ to launch a full-scale military offensive against the rebels (Analisa, 10 April, 2003). Previously, on 26–28 March, the TNI

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had convened its annual strategic planning session at the PT Arun LNG company in Lhokseumawe to discuss the military’s priorities for 2003, which included defending Indonesia’s coastal borders and eliminating separatism. The choice of location was controversial because such meetings had previously been held in Jakarta. According to Ryamizard Ryacudu, TNI leaders had decided to meet in Aceh to provide moral support for the troops stationed there, and to convey to the Acehnese the military’s commitment towards ‘solving their problems’ (Suara Karya, 27 March, 2003). GAM, however, interpreted the meeting as a show of force in violation of the CoHA As the central government became increasingly concerned about GAM’s growing strength and its earlier concession to allow foreign monitors into Aceh, it began to reassess its commitment towards the peace process. Sensing the government’s wavering position, TNI leaders became more outspoken in articulating their expectations. Djali Yusuf announced that he would be able to eliminate GAM in just six months if 50,000 troops were deployed to Aceh (The Jakarta Post, 16 April, 2003). Soon afterwards, the National Police Chief, Da’i Bachtiar, placed some 6,000 Brimob troops in Aceh on high alert, while the navy concurrently made plans to despatch 14–17 warships to the province. Thousands of TNI troops also began to assemble along the North Sumatra border in preparation for war. Amidst these advancing military preparations, the Megawati administration looked towards its exit from the CoHA. In what seemed like an obvious appeal to an international audience, Jakarta accused GAM of being ‘in material breach’ of the ceasefire (the US and the UN Security Council had used the same terminology in condemning Iraq for non-compliance with its disarmament obligations). In April 2003, the central government called an emergency Joint Council Meeting, which was permissible under the terms of the CoHA if the JSC failed to resolve a dispute between the two sides within 30 days. If the Joint Council Meeting was unsuccessful, then either party was entitled to unilaterally withdraw from the agreement. At first, GAM refused to attend the meeting, arguing that the JSC was capable of handling the peace process. But the rebels capitulated after Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono warned that the central government would ‘paralyse’ them if they refused to attend (Tempo, 23 April, 2003). Faced with the threat of a largescale military offensive, GAM reluctantly agreed to attend a Joint Council Meeting in Tokyo on 17–18 May to review the terms of the CoHA. Even though five GAM negotiators were arrested in Banda Aceh on the eve of the talks, the rebels reiterated their commitment towards the peace process.33 They refused, however, to sign two new government conditions demanding that they end their armed struggle and accept the NAD law in its entirety. For GAM, these conditions, which effectively called for their total surrender, were unacceptable. Instead, GAM made two considerable compromises by agreeing to refrain from advocating independence within the context of the CoHA, and to abandon their armed struggle if reciprocal steps were taken by Jakarta to reduce the military deployment in Aceh to preCoHA levels. However, Jakarta’s ultimatum did not seek to extract GAM’s compliance as much as it aimed to prove to the international community that all avenues for peaceful conflict resolution had finally been exhausted.


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What happened next showed that Jakarta had pre-determined the outcome of the Tokyo meeting. On 18 May, 2003, the day the peace process collapsed, Megawati Sukarnoputri imposed martial law in Aceh by issuing Presidential Instruction No.18/2003. The following day, an elaborate ‘shock and awe’ military offensive was captured by television crews positioned at an airfield outside Banda Aceh, which broadcast live images around the world of hundreds of descending paratroopers, aerial rocket attacks and low-flying jets. This spectacular performance could not have been coordinated or televised as it was without prior planning. It is also unlikely that the 30,000 TNI troops and 14,000 Polri–Brimob personnel who were involved in the ‘Integrated Operations’ (Operasi Terpadu) would have arrived in Aceh so quickly if the decision had not already been made by Jakarta to withdraw from the CoHA. In a departure from previous Aceh security operations, the central government did not attempt to justify the military emergency by positioning Operasi Terpadu within a broader political framework. With its sole long-term objective of annihilating 5,251 GAM rebels with 2,000 weapons (Kompas, 20 May, 2003), Operasi Terpadu addressed none of the primary or secondary causes of Aceh’s conflict, and the ‘integrated’ operation only outlined short-term humanitarian relief and economic recovery programmes. Reflecting Jakarta’s political priorities, the central government allocated an initial budget of Rp.1.2 trillion (US$144 million) to fund the military operations and Rp.400 billion (US$48 million) for humanitarian assistance to the civilian population (Liputan6.com, 21 May, 2003). In the first week of martial law alone, there were worrying signs of an emerging humanitarian crisis. Seventy-seven ‘GAM rebels’ were killed, 20 people were arrested and about 23,000 civilians were internally displaced (Kompas, 28 May, 2003). Like the DOM period, independent verification of events and conditions was precluded by the military’s strict control over the flow of information coming out of Aceh. The TNI drew from the US strategy in Iraq to develop more sophisticated media control techniques, such as establishing its own media centre in Banda Aceh and embedding journalists in combat battalions to ensure that the conflict was reported from a ‘nationalist’ viewpoint. The TNI’s record of events, however, did not always make sense. At the start of martial law, the TNI claimed there were 5,251 GAM rebels, but a year later boasted that 5,871 GAM members had been deactivated (Laksamana.net, 22 July, 2004). Such figures cast doubt over the accuracy of military intelligence and how many of the casualties were GAM rebels or civilians. Like past Aceh operations, of course, the decision to declare martial law was as much about national political developments as what was happening on the ground. The Aceh peace process formally collapsed at an historic interval when millions of Indonesians were preparing to commemorate the fifth anniversary of Suharto’s downfall. However, what should have been a celebration of Indonesia’s transition to democracy was more obviously marked by the lack of festivity as demonstrators in Jakarta and elsewhere demanded the resignation of Indonesia’s political leadership. Megawati Sukarnoputri’s government had come under growing criticism for its failure to meet the aspirations of Indonesia’s democratic reform movement by implementing economic, political and security sector

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reforms. The crackdown in Aceh, which was generally supported by the wider population, created an opportunity to deflect public attention away from Megawati’s growing leadership crisis and exploit nationalist sentiment during the build-up to the 2004 presidential election. There were also international considerations in Jakarta’s decision to declare martial law instead of civil emergency rule. The US invasion of Iraq in March 2003 had provided governments around the world with the international legitimacy they sought to crack down on their separatist rebellions. With world attention focused on Iraq, Indonesia’s hard-line Aceh approach attracted very little criticism from the international community. The declaration of martial law in Aceh also coincided with another historic moment. Over the other side of the archipelago, the East Timorese people were preparing to celebrate their own more successful separatist struggle on 20 May, 2002, the day the international community formally recognized East Timor’s independence from Indonesia. East Timor’s secession still sat uncomfortably with many Indonesian political and military leaders and a large cross-section of the wider population. For the majority of Indonesians, the ‘mistake’ of releasing East Timor could never be repeated. As Indonesia’s experience in both East Timor and Aceh highlighted, however, states cannot rule through coercion alone. The more depredations committed against these ethnic minority groups by Indonesia’s security forces, the stronger their desire for freedom from Indonesian state repression became. The Megawati administration’s capacity to restore security in Aceh was limited as much by a lack of political will as it was by the behaviour and priorities of the armed forces. Megawati Sukarnoputri brought to her presidency a passive leadership style, and generally allowed the TNI and police to follow their own agenda in Aceh rather than attempt to subordinate the armed forces to civilian control. This lack of initiative and leadership was reflected in the myopic policy debates in Jakarta about territorial integrity and national cohesion, which did not seriously consider the needs and aspirations of the Acehnese or attempt to redress their grievances. Although Megawati pledged to peacefully end the Aceh conflict by implementing the NAD law, she remained fundamentally opposed to decentralization and expediently relied on military force to coerce GAM into compliance. The limited peace process with GAM represented a brief departure from Jakarta’s otherwise hard-line Aceh approach. Though the CoHA primarily came into being as the result of the efforts and funding provided by the international community, it would not have been possible without some level of political will in Jakarta. That is, the interest in reform and a peaceful solution to the Aceh conflict did not disappear entirely during Megawati’s presidency. The decision to unilaterally withdraw from the limited peace process and impose martial law in Aceh was the response by a weak central government to a more powerful military. As the successful Aceh peace process under President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono would later show, the military’s strong power and presence in Aceh meant that political will would be a decisive factor in the search for peace there. Political will is what Megawati lacked, and what the TNI and other conservative nationalist forces were able to manipulate to their political advantage for the duration of her presidency.

7

The NAD law Reasons for its failure

... the government’s offer of the Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam special autonomy law failed to take into account what the Acehnese people really need. Special autonomy is only a shift of authority from the Minister of Home Affairs to the governor, but not of the power itself. Jakarta has to listen more to the Acehnese people and consider more of their ideas. Munir, Kontras Coordinator (The Jakarta Post, 4 September, 2001). In the case of Aceh, the main pillar for conflict resolution in the area is the Law No.18/2001 on Special Autonomy for the Province of Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam. Megawati Sukarnoputri (Presidential address, 1 August, 2002). Officially changing Aceh’s name to Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam (lit., State of Aceh, Abode of Peace), the NAD law became the ‘main pillar’ of President Megawati Sukarnoputri’s persuasive strategy to resolve the Aceh conflict. The legislation was passed by the DPR on 19 July, 2001, during Abdurrahman Wahid’s final days in power and was formally ratified by Megawati Sukarnoputri on 9 August as one of her first presidential acts. The rationale for granting Aceh special autonomy was to create a political alternative to secession that would persuade the Acehnese people to remain part of Indonesia. In practice, however, Megawati’s government made little effort to implement the NAD law and primarily relied on security operations aimed at pressuring GAM into accepting special autonomy as a precursor to peace. This chapter considers the capacity of Megawati Sukarnoputri’s government to manage the Aceh conflict through the implementation of the NAD law. It begins by exploring the attitudes about decentralization within the central government and the complex challenges involved in enforcing special autonomy within Aceh’s volatile policy environment. It then looks at the extent to which the three key tenets of the NAD law were actually enforced. These were: revenue-sharing arrangements, the implementation of Islamic law and direct democratic local elections. Finally, the chapter takes a look at the ‘Galaksi’ (an acronym for Aceh’s Gayo, Alas, Kluet and Singkil indigenous ethnic groups) movement, which acted on Jakarta’s offer of special autonomy to try and sever all ties with Aceh and

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create a separate ‘Leuser Antara’ province within the Indonesian state. The focus is on the period from 1 January, 2002, when the NAD law formally came into effect, until 18 May, 2003, when further decentralization was postponed by the imposition of martial law in Aceh. The argument presented is that the implementation of Aceh’s special autonomy law was impeded by the dominant attitude of mistrust about special autonomy within the central government, which contributed towards its heavy reliance on military operations and delegitimized the NAD law amongst the Acehnese people even as aspects of it were enforced. At the level of implementation, there were also serious structural and political obstacles. The ongoing conflict almost crippled the state infrastructure and provided corrupt local government officials with opportunities for self-enrichment. Finally, the NAD law lacked grassroots support. GAM and SIRA rejected Jakarta’s unilateral offer of special autonomy as an unacceptable compromise, and there was a strong perception amongst the local population that Jakarta could not be trusted. While Aceh’s marginalized ethnic minorities accepted Jakarta’s generous economic concessions, they were not otherwise accommodated by the NAD law, as shown by the resurgence of the Galaksi movement whenever local security, economic and political conditions dramatically deteriorated. Jakarta’s decentralization dilemma From the start of Megawati Sukarnoputri’s presidency, it was clear that decentralization would be less of a policy priority under the new administration than it had been under the two previous governments. Most ministers in Megawati’s cabinet believed that the regions had received enough concessions and viewed ‘too much’ autonomy as a recipe for national disintegration. Despite this prevailing attitude, Indonesia’s decentralization process had gone too far to be easily reversed by mid-2001, and the central government could not have rolled back autonomy without provoking an angry backlash from the regions. Megawati Sukarnoputri’s personal reservations about decentralization were well known. In her former capacity as vice president, she had condemned Laws No.22 and 25 of 1999, which devolved political, administrative and economic powers to the other regions, for being ‘on a different path, or even against the basic principles adopted by the constitution’ (AFP, 23 May, 2001). Megawati also believed that radical decentralization posed a threat to national unity and, as vice president, she had urged Abdurrahman Wahid to review the 1999 autonomy laws in order to strengthen the ‘NKRI’ framework (Kompas, 18 May, 2001). For Megawati, any solution to the Aceh conflict should seek not only to accommodate Acehnese aspirations, but also those of the entire Indonesian nation. Despite her personal suspicions about decentralization, Megawati Sukarnoputri was forced to adopt a more nuanced approach as president in order to accommodate centrifugal forces. For this reason, President Megawati acknowledged in her first state address on 16 August, 2001, that all regions had ‘the right to regional autonomy’ to ‘allow us to realise the national motto of Bhinneka Tunggal Ika

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[Unity in Diversity]’. She also pledged her commitment towards respecting the ‘cultural identities and specific characteristics’ of the people in Aceh and Papua by allowing those provinces ‘to manage their respective regions within the framework of special autonomy’. Although Megawati Sukarnoputri realized that her administration could not reverse decentralization without attracting harsh criticism from the regions, her concerns about autonomy had not been abated. She surrounded herself with ministers who shared her suspicions. Megawati’s closest advisor, State Secretary Bambang Kesowo, was said to be especially opposed to decentralization and reportedly encouraged her to move towards the ‘recentralization’ of state power: Bambang Kesowo stated in notes to the president that regional autonomy is inconsistent with the principles of a unitary state. Although [name withheld] attempted to convince Megawati that this notion is incorrect, she remained basically opposed to the idea of decentralization. This was evidenced by her rhetoric and also through her reactions to any report from Bambang Kesowo that negatively interpreted the implementation of regional autonomy. She always looked excited by the negative reports (confidential interview with former Indonesian minister, 6 October, 2002). Jakarta’s reduced emphasis on decentralization was underscored by the renaming of the Home Affairs and Regional Autonomy Ministry back to its former title of Ministry for Home Affairs. Like Megawati, Home Affairs Minister Hari Sabarno saw the 1999 autonomy laws as inconsistent with Indonesia’s unitary state because ‘we are not a federal system’ (TempoInteraktif, 29 August, 2001). Soon after his appointment, Hari Sabarno announced that resource-rich regions like Aceh and Papua had a ‘hidden mission’ to use their increased power and resources to pursue independence For this reason, the Home Affairs Minister stated that his department would work to reduce ‘regionalistic chauvinism’ and lessen the ‘disparity between the regions so they would not leave the unitary Indonesian state’ (The Jakarta Post, 18 August, 2001). Somewhat differently, Vice President Hamzah Haz argued that excessive economic autonomy would weaken the national economy and create a ‘boomerang effect’ amongst foreign investors, who risked being ‘lied to’ by local government officials (Harian Suara Merdeka, 22 October, 2001). Although Megawati formally pronounced the NAD law as the key tenet of her government’s Aceh approach, her suspicions about special autonomy and those of many of her ministers helped to explain her administration’s primary emphasis on security operations against GAM. She expressed her concerns in a public message to the Acehnese people during the Malaysian leg of her ASEAN tour: You’ll have all the freedom to implement Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam… I have already signed the special autonomy law so please make good use of it…But should it be distorted to support a separatist movement, the government will initiate stern law enforcement measures in the province (The Jakarta Post, 29 August, 2001).

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Megawati’s speech also pointed to another common perception within the central government that as the Acehnese had been awarded a fair opportunity to manage themselves with unprecedented control over their natural resources, Jakarta could disavow responsibility for the decentralization process. A variation of this view was articulated by the Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, who told the Acehnese people to ‘please solve the Aceh problem yourselves’ through special autonomy (Satunet.com, 24 August, 2001). Such attitudes impeded the smooth transfer of resources and responsibility to Aceh’s provincial authorities and allowed the central government to blame Abdullah Puteh’s government for any problems arising from the implementation of the NAD law. Challenges to implementing the NAD law The Security Restoration Operations on the ground represented one of the biggest, if not the biggest, obstacle towards implementing special autonomy. By 1 January, 2002, when the NAD law came into effect, the counterinsurgency campaign had made some progress towards reducing GAM’s military capabilites. Despite the large Indonesian security presence on the ground, however, law and order had not been restored. For many Acehnese, their daily experience of Indonesian authority was violence as more depredations were being committed against the civilian population than at any time since the New Order’s collapse. In January 2002 alone, when the NAD law came into effect, some 200 people were killed (Laksamana.net, 5 March, 2002). Under these conditions, the strong lack of grassroots support for special autonomy was not surprising. As one Acehnese Member of Parliament, Waisul Qarani Ali, explained, ‘Most Acehnese are cynical of [the NAD law] due to the chain of violence over the last four months’ (The Jakarta Post, 23 August, 2001). The general unpopularity of the NAD law also stemmed from Jakarta’s past broken promises about special autonomy. Reflecting public opinion, an Acehnese ulama and academic, Yusny Saby, stated that ‘the root of the problem is a feeling of betrayal’ about Jakarta’s broken promises (Reuters, 20 August, 2001). GAM’s intractable independence struggle presented another serious obstacle towards implementing special autonomy. Despite their reduced military capacity, the rebels retained a high level of political influence amongst the local population. On Jakarta’s insistence, GAM had accepted the NAD law ‘as a starting point’ to revive the limited peace process. They made it clear, however, that ‘this does not mean we will ever agree with, or accept the NAD law’ (Gatra, 7 February, 2002). For GAM, the only acceptable solution to the conflict was ‘independence from Indonesia through an international procedure’ (Kompas, 20 August, 2002). After the NAD law was passed, GAM also demonstrated its total rejection of autonomy by increasing its attacks on Indonesian state facilities (Kompas, 27 August, 2001). SIRA, too, rejected the NAD law. For the referendum movement, the campaign of violence on the ground demonstrated Jakarta’s non-commitment towards both special autonomy and towards resolution of the conflict through democratic

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processes. For SIRA, the NAD law did not reflect the aspirations of the Acehnese people, which could only be decided by holding a referendum on Aceh’s political status. SIRA therefore urged Megawati to resolve the conflict through ‘democratic mechanisms’ instead of ‘forcing GAM to accept special autonomy in the form of the NAD law, or any other form’ (The Acheh Times, 22 November, 2002). Within the context of the conflict, it would have been extremely difficult, but not impossible, for the government to have developed more responsive special autonomy legislation through ‘democratic mechanisms’. For instance, Jakarta could have invited wider community input into the legislative process in the form of public discussion forums and by encouraging written submissions by civil society groups about their expectations of autonomy. Of course, it is also possible that GAM would have ordered the Acehnese people to boycott any discussion forums, or that SIRA would have dismissed such a process as irrelevant while the security forces continued to commit atrocities against the civilian population with impunity. Many drafters of the NAD law genuinely believed the legislation had conflict-mitigating potential. Their failure to consult Acehnese civil societal groups about what the Acehnese people wanted and needed, however, reduced the government’s capacity to ‘sell’ special autonomy. It also created obstacles regarding implementation. Poor public knowledge about the content of the legislation created risks that the civilian population would reject or ignore the NAD law. As one civil servant in Lhokseumawe complained: What is Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam? I’ve never heard of it. I am saddened that the local government and legislators have never informed the public about it. They have done nothing (The Jakarta Post, 23 August, 2001). Although the government made some attempts to ‘socialize’ the NAD law, these initiatives were generally restricted to Islamic law. In a large part, this was due to the political assertiveness of the newly formed MPU (Consultative Council of Ulama) and Syari’ah Agency (Dinas Syariat Islam), which were established in July and August 2001, respectively. Both of these institutions worked diligently to promote their Islamic agenda by distributing pamphlets about Islamic law, by convening public forums and by launching Syari’ah ‘socialization’ programmes in primary schools throughout the province (Serambi Indonesia, 8 October, 2002). By contrast, the Home Affairs Minister Hari Sabarno, who visited Banda Aceh in August, never acted on his department’s promise to launch ‘socialization’ programmes about the NAD law (Kopitime, 22 August, 2001). The central government, it seemed, was content to allow the MPU and Aceh’s Syari’ah Agency to assume responsibility for disseminating information about the NAD law, if only to try and reduce special autonomy to a reconstituted version of Law No.44/1999. It could be reasonably argued that if the NAD law had been properly implemented then it would have been felt by the Acehnese people without the need for a public awareness campaign. Another serious obstacle to implementation, then, was the incapacity of Aceh’s provincial and sub-provincial administrations to properly

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function because of the insurgency. According to local government officials, 12,275 buildings had been destroyed since 1999 (The Jakarta Post, 17 June, 2001). Many state officials at the sub-district and village levels either abandoned their offices or reached arrangements with GAM members in rebel-controlled areas. Similar arrangements were made in areas dominated by Indonesian security forces. In large parts of the province, where both GAM and the TNI–Polri operated, extortion was a particular problem. Local government officials and businesspeople were extorted (or charged ‘income tax’) by TNI–Polri personnel and GAM rebels at a standard rate of 8–10 percent, or 30 percent for government projects (ICG 27 June, 2001: 15; McGibbon 2004: 15). Aceh’s civilian population was not likely to derive significant material benefits from special autonomy while the business interests of those who perpetuated the conflict remained firmly entrenched. The war economy also reduced governmental accountability and transparency as local government officials often blamed the fighting for the diversion of state resources and their failure to implement development projects. Though Jakarta hoped that the NAD law would provide a comprehensive political solution to the conflict, it did not comprehensively address the entire spectrum of Acehnese grievances. In particular, it did not respond to Acehnese demands for justice for human rights violations. Nor did the NAD law contain any provisions to form local political parties which could have, and later did after the introduction of a Law on Governing Aceh (see Chapter Nine), encourage GAM’s transformation into a political movement. The intensive counterinsurgency campaign provided no incentives for the rebels to lay down their arms. The only cosmetic alteration to Aceh’s security arrangements under the NAD law was the establishment of a ‘regional police force’, which comprised police and Brimob officers already stationed in Aceh who were inadequately resourced and vastly outnumbered by TNI battalions. Although the regional police chief was appointed by, and coordinated security policy with, the governor instead of the national police chief under the new system, the military remained largely removed from civilian control and often acted independently in the joint TNI–Polri operations. Finally, there was the issue of timing. The NAD law contained many ambiguous clauses and required more than 70 supporting qanun (regional regulations) to enable its implementation. These qanun were to be developed by Aceh’s provincial parliament and would take several years to complete. Abdullah Puteh’s administration, which was implicated in a series of corruption scandals, was in charge of implementing the first critical phase of the NAD law, when public opinion would largely determine the positive benefits of special autonomy in the form of improved public service delivery and increased employment and business opportunities. Without responsible and accountable civilian leadership during his critical phase, the NAD law was unlikely to gain popular acceptance. Revenue-sharing arrangements If handled correctly, Aceh stood to derive substantial economic benefits from the NAD law. In a major concession, Jakarta returned 70 percent of Aceh’s oil and

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natural gas revenues for eight years in after-tax proceeds, compared with the 30 percent offered to the other (mostly poorer) provinces under Law No.25/1999 on Fiscal Balance Between the Central Government and the Regions. In the ninth year of implementing the NAD law, these profit-sharing arrangements were to be reduced to a 50:50 split. Under the new system, Aceh received 80 percent of general mining, fisheries and forestry revenues, like Indonesia’s other regions. Under a more stable political system with responsible, transparent and accountable governing institutions, the fiscal decentralization could have produced immediate and widespread benefits. But in Aceh, which lacked effective leadership and functional mediating institutions, the realignment of centre–periphery fiscal relations created more problems than it solved. Instead of improving local living standards, economic decentralization in Aceh heightened pre-existing tensions between the provincial administration and the civilian population, and between the provincial and central governments. The first difficulty concerned the transfer of revenues from Jakarta. Under the new system, the Finance Ministry remained responsible for collecting Aceh’s resource revenues before redistributing funds back to the province. Acehnese political leaders were unhappy with this arrangement and believed Jakarta would withhold a portion of their increased budget. Such concerns were not ill-founded because Jakarta had withheld funds in the past. In September 2001, for instance, the MPR Speaker Amien Rais warned that ‘the people of Aceh might be furious because the province has only received some 30 percent of the allocated state budget, although it has been in effect for more than six months’ (The Jakarta Post, 4 September, 2001). A particular problem was the refusal by the Finance Ministry and the stateowned Pertamina oil company to disclose their profits from oil and gas production in Aceh. This generated confusion over how much revenue Aceh was actually entitled to receive. The central government compounded this uncertainty by issuing conflicting statements about Aceh’s budget. On 7 May, 2002, the Finance Minister, Boediono, stated that Aceh would receive Rp.2.1 trillion (US$210 million) for oil and gas production, while the Minister for Energy and Mineral Resources Minister, Purnomo Yusgiantoro claimed that Aceh’s entire 2002 budget would be Rp.1.8 trillion (US$180 million) (Serambi Indonesia, 23 May, 2002). Frustrated by this discrepancy, Governor Abdullah Puteh and a party of Acehnese politicians flew to Jakarta to lodge a formal complaint with MPR Speaker Amien Rais and DPR Speaker Akbar Tanjung. In their submission, the Aceh delegation rejected a revised offer by the Finance Ministry to return Rp.1.8 trillion of Aceh’s oil and gas revenues, claiming that they would not settle for less than Rp.2.9 trillion (US$290 million) (Asia News Network, 24 May, 2002). Akbar Tanjung sympathized with the delegation’s demands and conceded that the budgetary discrepancy aggravated centre–periphery tensions. More candidly, Ahmad Farhan Hamid, an Acehnese DPR member, pointed out that ‘the government has violated the law, indicating an absence of commitment to the law, which it made’ (The Jakarta Post, 23 May, 2002). Even with the reduced central government funding, Aceh still stood to receive a massive budgetary increase under the NAD law. The provincial administration’s

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inability to properly manage its increased budget was therefore one of the biggest obstacles towards effective economic decentralization. After the NAD law came into effect, Banda Aceh’s Syiah Kuala University Law Faculty conducted a series of governance-strengthening workshops in an effort to prepare local government officials for managing their increased budgets (USAID, March 2002). In the absence of regulatory mechanisms to promote accountability and transparency, however, good governance was difficult to achieve. Instead of emerging as one of Indonesia’s wealthiest provinces, Aceh was instead ranked the most corrupt in two studies conducted in 2002, when there were 766 reported cases of corruption in Aceh, compared with 374 cases the previous year (Serambi Indonesia, 4 January, 2003; Sinar Harapan, 31 March, 2003). Most of these cases were never prosecuted, resulting in the loss of hundreds of billions of rupiah to the Indonesian state. Many of the financial scandals that rocked Aceh’s provincial administration directly involved Governor Abdullah Puteh, whose use of government funds for vanity projects rather than for community development attracted widespread criticism. One particularly controversial project that even attracted criticism from within the DPRD was Abdullah Puteh’s purchase of a Ukrainian helicopter for his personal use. The helicopter was purchased above market rates and with funds that had been allocated to replace outdated electricity installations at the State Electrical Company (PLN), which was in dire need of repair and caused frequent power disruptions in Banda Aceh, Aceh Besar and Pidie (Serambi Indonesia, 7 September, 2002). In another scandal, Abdullah Puteh purchased cars for himself, Aceh’s vice-governor, regional secretary and three DPRD members at a total cost of Rp.2.928 billion (US$292,800) (Sinar Harapan, 31 March, 2003). Although the NAD law stipulated that the provincial government had to use its increased budget to improve the ‘welfare of the community’, this clause alone did not guarantee the equitable distribution of state funds. Provincial authorities were responsible for deciding what constituted community welfare, which they saw as macro-development projects aimed at transforming Aceh into a regional business centre. Though the provincial administration announced plans to improve public health, education, electricity and running water supplies, its top spending priority was to improve Aceh’s transportation infrastructure. In September 2002, Governor Abdullah Puteh launched an ambitious ‘transportation revolution’ aimed at alleviating the isolation of Aceh’s remote communities (Kompas, 24 September, 2002). In fact, this ‘revolution’ started almost immediately after the NAD law was passed. On 10 September, 2001, Abdullah Puteh revived plans to build a controversial 1,586-kilometre highway, which, when completed, would dissect the famous Gunung Leuser National Park that is inhabited by some of the world’s most endangered wildlife (Serambi Indonesia, 11 September, 2001). Deriving its name from an acronym of the overland route from the Indian Ocean to the Malacca Straits (Lautan Hindia Gayo Alas Selat Malaka), the Ladia Galaska highway was estimated to cost Rp.1.5 trillion (US$165 million) (Serambi Indonesia, 9 January, 2002). Although Abdullah Puteh optimistically announced that the highway would be completed as early as 2004, there were setbacks almost

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immediately after road construction work started in late 2002. In January 2003, road work was postponed after a herd of angry elephants attacked the construction workers. Then, in February, more than one million environmentalists worldwide signed a protest petition, prompting the European Union to offer to build a new airport in Southeast Aceh to compensate that district for future income losses along the planned trade route (The Jakarta Post, 27 January, 2003). Although road construction resumed shortly after the imposition of martial law, the highway’s close proximity to an earthquake-prone geological fault line meant that the government potentially stood to incur massive ongoing costs for road repairs. Abdullah Puteh’s other ‘revolutionary’ transportation initiatives were similarly ill-fated. In September 2002, the provincial government launched an Aceh airline called ‘Seulawah Air’ at a cost of Rp.30 billion (US$3 million), which went bankrupt seven months later amidst allegations of embezzlement (Serambi Indonesia, 9 April, 2003). Another of Abdullah Puteh’s ambitious transportation initiatives was to revive plans that had been made under the administrations of B. J. Habibie and Abdurrahmn Wahid to rebuild Aceh’s Dutch colonial railroad. Although President Megawati Sukarnoputri found Chinese investors (who also had shares in Aceh’s crude palm oil export industry) to finance the railroad, they pulled out because of the worsening conflict (Serambi Indonesia, 12 April, 2002; Indonesian Business Perspective, April 2002). Provincial government plans to expand the transportation revolution to Aceh’s remote fishing villages by procuring boats also did not materialize after Abdullah Puteh instead spent the allocated funds on a luxury speedboat (Kompas, 19 August, 2002). The NAD law stipulated that the provincial government had to spend at least 30 percent of its increased budget on education. Based on the Finance Ministry’s conservative allocation of Rp.1.8 trillion (US$198 million) for 2002, Aceh’s education budget was expected to increase by at least Rp.54 billion (US$5.94 million) in the first year of implementation alone. In addition to this massive budgetary increase, Jakarta and foreign donors pledged millions of dollars in humanitarian assistance to rebuild Aceh’s destroyed schools and to provide scholarships to Acehnese students (Serambi Indonesia, 6 September, 2001). While these funds were more than adequate to meet Aceh’s educational needs, tens of thousands of Acehnese children remained deprived of an education, either because their schools had been burnt down, because their teachers were threatened or attacked, or because their parents were poor or displaced by the violence. Throughout 2002, school attendance rates in Aceh continued to fall well below the national average. According to a World Bank survey, Acehnese school attendance rates in 2002 were about 14 percent below the national average for primary school students, and 11 percent lower for high school students (WB 2002: 5–6). This was largely due to the conflict. In September 2001, the Banda Aceh–based Serambi Indonesia newspaper reported that 135 teachers had become victims of violence, and 30 of that number had been killed (6 September, 2001). Schools also continued to be incinerated. By March 2003, at least 850 schools had been burnt down by unknown arsonists (Miller 2005: 10). In addition to the worsening conflict, however, the provincial administration allegedly misappropriated some,

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or all, of Aceh’s education budget. In September 2002, Serambi Indonesia reported that the provincial government had not yet spent any of Aceh’s annual education budget, which remained ‘concealed’ in a Regional Development Bank (5 September, 2002). General living standards in Aceh further declined after the NAD law came into effect. In 2002, local government officials estimated that 60 percent, or 2.52 million, of Aceh’s 4.2 million people lived below the poverty line (The Jakarta Post, 13 December, 2002), representing a disturbing increase from the previous year when an estimated 1.1 million Acehnese lived in poverty. By late 2002, about 10,000 homes had also been destroyed by the unabated fighting (The Jakarta Post, 13 December, 2002). Although salaries in Aceh were not below the national average, local government officials estimated that 40 percent of the civilian population was unemployed by 2003, representing a 10 percent rise since June 2001 (The Jakarta Post, 8 February, 2003; ICG 27 June, 2001: 5). Only about half the province had access to safe drinking water and electricity (WB 2002: 4–5). Health levels also remained significantly worse amongst the poor in Aceh than in Indonesia’s other provinces due to inadequate access to health centres and medical treatment. While the escalating violence on the ground severely restricted the government’s capacity to effectively redistribute state resources under the NAD law, Abdullah Puteh’s administration did not pursue a reformist agenda or treat community development and rehabilitation programmes as a policy priority. Through its mismanagement of its increased budget, wasteful expenditure and culture of corruption, Aceh’s provincial government exacerbated the already dire circumstances experienced by most of the civilian population. As a result, the dominant public perception that special autonomy would only serve elite interests and not community needs was reinforced rather than reduced. Islamic law The Islamic law component of the NAD law aimed to establish an institutional and procedural basis for Law No.44/1999. The preamble of the legislation stipulated that Law No.44/1999 must ‘be harmonised with’ Law No.18/2001. Reflecting the prevailing view amongst Indonesia’s political leadership that the contemporary conflict had stemmed from Jakarta’s failure to honour the terms of the Darul Islam settlement, the preamble further made reference to the ‘high resilience and fighting spirit’ of the Acehnese people derived from their ‘strong Islamic culture’. Although limited efforts had been made to implement the Islamic law component of Law No.44/1999 under Abdurrahman Wahid’s presidency, one of the factors that had restricted the capacity of provincial authorities to enforce religious regulations had been the absence of a legal body to decide on Syari’ah cases. To redress this oversight, the NAD law provided for an Islamic court system (Mahkamah Syari’ah) that was only applicable to Muslims domiciled in Aceh as non-Muslims remained subject to national civil law (Chapter XII).

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Appellate cases from the Mahkamah Syari’ah were to be heard by Jakarta’s Supreme Court, and Syari’ah judges were to be appointed by the Indonesian president on the recommendations of the Justice Minister, the governor of Aceh and Indonesia’s Supreme Court judge. Further regulations on the court’s jurisdiction were to be mandated by qanun passed by Aceh’s DPRD in accordance with existing national legislation. While provincial authorities and Acehnese ulama welcomed the opportunity to implement Islamic law, questions remained about whether it could be successfully enforced in Aceh. First, there was a high level of confusion over what form the Islamic legal system should take, despite the fact that Mahkamah Syari’ah were not new in Aceh. Islamic courts had operated in Aceh in the late 1940s and 1950s with ‘jurisdiction over a wider subject matter than Islamic courts anywhere else in the archipelago’, although the courts had no legal basis until 1957 (Salim 2004: 227–28). Despite this precedent, there was debate amongst ulama, academics and politicians over complex legal issues such as what school(s) of Islamic law (madzhab) to apply in Aceh, the relationship between adat (customary law) and Syari’ah, and punishments for different offences. For these reasons, some legislators predicted that the implementation of Islamic law in Aceh would take ‘more than one hundred years’ to complete (interviews with Ir. Sudarsono 21 November, 2001; Abdul Gani Abdullah 22 November, 2001). Acehnese authorities were also concerned about the extent to which Jakarta would allow the Mahkamah Syari’ah to develop separately from the civil judicature, and whether its decisions would be upheld by the Supreme Court under appeal. Faced with these difficult issues, the provincial government decided to prepare for the establishment of the Mahkamah Syari’ah by passing a slate of new qanun. In 2002, the DPRD passed two new qanun on forming a Syari’ah court and implementing aspects of Islamic law on faith (aqidah), religious devotion (ibadah) and the magnificence/greatness of Islam (Syi’ar Islam) (No.10/2002; No.11/2002). In 2003, when the Mahkamah Syari’ah was established by Presidential Instruction No.11/2003, more qanun introduced specific penalties for the sale of alcohol (khamar), gambling (maisir) and intimate contact between men and women (khalwat) who were not related by birth or marriage (No.12/2003; No.13/2003; No.14/2003).34 Another important procedural qanun that was introduced in 2003 outlined the functional relationship between the MPU, the provincial executive, the legislature and other Aceh institutions (No.9/2003). The main impetus for draft qanun on Syari’ah came from the MPU. Although the NAD law granted no new powers to the ulama, the MPU acted upon its increased political leverage pursuant to Law No.44/1999 to exert influence over the legislative process. The goal of the MPU was to restore Islam, and the ulama themselves, as a powerful socio-political force in Aceh. Despite his secular nationalist Golkar credentials, Abdullah Puteh ingratiated himself with the MPU in an attempt to strengthen his administration’s moral and political legitimacy. Praising the ulama as ‘people who believe in Allah and light up the earth’, the governor encouraged the MPU’s political ambitions by inviting them to ‘step

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forward and give advice to all sides’ to resolve the conflict though an Islamic approach (Serambi Indonesia, 4 December, 2001). As a conflict management tool, Islamic law was highly unsuccessful. Though the government achieved its limited goal of securing the cooperation of the ulama, it did not realize its broader objective of reducing anti-Jakarta sentiment. That the political ascendancy of the MPU did not translate into reduced support for GAM was partly due to the organization’s close relationship with Abdullah Puteh’s widely discredited government. In Aceh, the biggest criticism was not of Islamic law itself, but of the provincial government’s handling of Syari’ah, which critics claimed had reduced Islamic law to a political elite commodity. According to one Acehnese legislator, Muchlis Muchtar, the ‘rampant’ moral and political corruption within Abdullah Puteh’s administration meant that ‘people have halfheartedly welcomed the decision [to implement Syari’ah] despite the fact they had eagerly awaited it’ (islamonline.net, 5 January, 2002). On 15 March, 2002, for instance, Aceh’s Islamic New Year (1 Muharam 1423 Hijriah) celebrations were tainted by allegations that the governor had paid Rp.7,500 (US$0.75) to some 20,000 people to march as ‘Syari’ah supporters’ in the New Year parade (Serambi Indonesia, 16 March, 2002). This sort of behaviour undermined the objectives of Syari’ah advocates and prompted the head of the Syari’ah Agency (Dinas Syari’at Islam), Alyasa Abubakar, to call on the DPRD to introduce a ‘qanun anti-korupsi’ (Kompas, 24 October, 2002), a demand that he would later drop as his own power increased (see Chapter Nine). The most vociferous critics of the provincial administration’s interpretation of Islamic law were GAM and Acehnese women’s groups and organizations. GAM accused Jakarta of using Islamic law to create a new horizontal conflict based on ‘SARA’ [Suku, Agama, Ras, Antargolongan/Ethnic, Religion, Race and Intergroup]. As GAM spokesman Sofyan Dawood pointed out, ‘The Aceh conflict cannot be resolved with Syariat Islam that is offered by outside forces, because Syariat Islam is already the flesh and blood of the Acehnese nation’ (Kompas, 16 February, 2002). Acehnese women’s organizations also expressed frustration over the provincial administration’s emphasis on wearing the jilbab at the expense of their protection. These fears were not groundless, especially as a billboard was erected in Banda Aceh in March 2002 ‘with the picture of a young woman without a jilbab cowering in fear with an image of a [pair of] scissor[s] near her, next to a smiling woman in a jilbab’ (The Jakarta Post, 8 April, 2002). Meanwhile, the provincial government moved to implement Islamic law by placing Aceh’s regional police force in charge of its implementation until such time as a separate Syari’ah police force could be established. On 15 February, 2002, police ordered the owners and employees of beauty salons, barber shops and hotels to refrain from wearing ‘sexually arousing clothing, which does not reflect Islamic law’ and to provide separate services for men and women to prevent anyone from committing ‘an act that could lead to a sinful deed’ (Serambi Indonesia, 16 February, 2002). The police also began to enforce the Islamic dress code (Wajib Tutup Aurat), which required women to conceal all body parts except for their faces, hands and the soles of their feet, and men to conceal their midriff

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and wear shorts covering their knees (Kompas, 14 March, 2002). To start enforcing punishments for violations of Islamic law, Aceh’s DPRD decided to employ a ‘lashing executioner’ (algojo hukuman cambuk) from the start of Ramadhan that year (Serambi Indonesia, 18 October, 2002). Although the NAD law stipulated that non-Muslims were not subject to Islamic law, the new qanun included penalties for anyone who propagated un-Islamic beliefs or who disturbed or prevented Muslims from worshipping (punishable by up to 12 strokes of the cane or two years imprisonment). Muslims who failed to attend prayers for three consecutive Fridays without an acceptable reason also faced punishment by three strokes of the cane or six months imprisonment. Other punishable offences included a maximum sentence of nine public lashes, a 10 million rupiah fine (US$1,100), or up to six months imprisonment khalwat offences (close proximity between unrelated men and women). The maximum penalty for gambling was 12 strokes of the cane or a minimum fine of Rp.1.5 million (US$1,640) and a maximum fine of Rp.35 million (US$3,800). Consuming alcohol/narcotics carried a fixed sentence of 40 lashes, up to Rp.75 million (US$8,200) in fines, or a maximum one-year jail sentence. Street vendors and restaurateurs who sold food or beverages during Ramadhan were also liable to six lashes, one year in jail or a fine of Rp.3 million (US$330), while anyone caught consuming food or beverages during Ramadhan faced up to four months imprisonment or two strokes of the cane. Some of these punishments were difficult to enforce and reflected the inexperience of the legislators. Many MPU ulama who drafted the Syari’ah qanun came from Islamic boarding schools and did not have legal backgrounds. Their traditionalist thinking was reflected, for instance, in the punishment for Muslims who failed to attend the mosque for three consecutive Fridays, which failed to take into account travel for work or visits to family members in other areas. While it would have been relatively easy to monitor mosque attendance in villages with only one mosque where most villagers lived below the poverty line, it was more difficult in urban centres. There was also ambiguity over what constituted propagating unIslamic beliefs and how this would apply to non-Muslims who were supposed to remain subject to civil law. Interestingly, the caning qanun attracted little criticism from either the Acehnese or from Jakarta. Although MPR Speaker Amien Rais had previously strained Indonesian–Malaysian relations in August 2002 by accusing Malaysia’s Prime Minister Dr. Mahathir Mohamad of imposing the ‘inhumane’ and ‘insulting’ punishment of caning illegal Indonesian workers, he remained conspicuously silent on the issue of Aceh’s caning qanun (Pikiran Rakyat, 28 August, 2002). In Aceh, there were few critics of the caning qanun, largely because of the entrenched acceptance of conservative religious norms and values amongst Acehnese society. A notable exception was Hamid Sorong, an Islamic law lecturer at the IAIN, who called on Abdullah Puteh’s government to refrain from tarnishing the image of Syari’ah by using it to perpetuate the cycle of violence in Aceh (Serambi Indonesia, 29 October, 2002). The implementation of aspects of Islamic law did not lead to a reduction in violence. When the Mahkamah Syari’ah was inaugurated by Presidential

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Instruction No.11/2003 on 4 March, 2003, the court was only authorized to decide on moral offences such as the consumption of alcohol and the failure to attend Friday prayers (Republika, 5 March, 2003). Although provincial authorities envisaged that the court’s jurisdiction would later expand to settle more serious criminal cases such as theft, adultery and murder, depredations committed against the civilian population by Indonesian security forces personnel continued to fall under the jurisdiction of military tribunals or connectivity courts. In practice, there was no legal recourse to justice for most Acehnese as the rule or law did not exist and many judges in Aceh’s civil courts had fled the province under threat by GAM. Local elections? For the Indonesian government and GAM, the most politically contentious component of the NAD law was a provision granting the Acehnese people the right to directly elect their own government representatives. Chapter VIII of the NAD law required Aceh’s governor, vice-governor, mayors and bupati (regents) to be ‘directly elected for 5 years through an honest, fair, democratic, free, and confidential election’. This concession went beyond Law No.22/1999 on Regional Government, which only granted the other regions indirect elections. To manage and supervise gubernatorial elections, the NAD law created two new institutions: an Independent Electoral Commission and a Supervisory Electoral Commission. The provision for democratic direct local elections in the NAD law seemed to reflect a genuine desire by its drafters to restore Acehnese faith in Indonesian governing institutions and processes. As one of the Acehnese drafters, Farhan Hamid, explained, the aim of direct local elections was to demonstrate Jakarta’s confidence in the capacity of Acehnese society to ‘self-govern in accordance with national life’ and ‘in accordance with what the Acehnese people see as important’ (interview, 29 October, 2002). Other reform-minded legislators believed that it had been a mistake to hold indirect sub-provincial elections because after the 1999 autonomy laws came into effect many regents allegedly saw themselves as more important than their appointed forebears, earning reputations as ‘little kings’ or ‘mini-Suhartos’. The first sub-provincial elections across the country had been marred by allegations of ‘money politics’, or vote-buying (Takeshi 2006: 146). For this reason, political reformers in Jakarta envisaged that ‘with direct local elections, there will be more pressure on bupati to be accountable’ (interview with Andi Mallarangeng, 17 October, 2002). The direct elections provision in the NAD law seemed to be aimed at encouraging greater governmental accountability as well as more inclusive participation in Aceh’s political processes. One conspicuous omission from the NAD law, however, was the right to form local political parties. When the NAD law was passed, only parties with a nationwide presence could legally register with state authorities. This omission effectively precluded GAM’s ability to transformation into a political movement. Within Megawati’s government, there was a strong perception that if GAM were

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allowed to form a party then the rebels would openly campaign for independence. There was some truth in this belief as GAM had up to that point refused to participate in the state from which they sought to secede. During the limited peace talks under Megawati, the elections issue was a major sticking point for both sides. For Jakarta, any elections in Aceh had to aim to strengthen the Indonesian state, whereas GAM saw local elections as being about Aceh’s political status. GAM’s exclusion from the electoral process, however, heightened the risk that the rebels would sabotage them, as they had already done in Aceh’s 1999 general election. Apart from GAM’s total rejection of the NAD law, there were positive signs that many Acehnese civilians supported direct democratic local elections. In August 2002, the Jakarta-based Centre for Electoral Reform (CETRO), the newspaper Kompas and the Foundation for Human Rights Care in Aceh conducted a joint opinion poll in 14 of Aceh’s then 20 districts, which found that 91.3 percent of 1,114 respondents wanted to directly elect their own government representatives (CETRO, 2002). Encouraged by this outcome, CETRO organized a highly successful mock election campaign in Tamiang district in October 2002 in association with volunteers from the Tamiang-based NGO Ma’arif Education Foundation. Tamiang residents enthusiastically welcomed the educational exercise, which included a public forum on electoral procedures and a simulated political campaign at five local high schools, where six candidates explained their visions, missions and work programmes to about 700 students. While GAM did not participate, the rebels reportedly asked many ‘indirect’ questions about the process. As CETRO’s Executive Director Smita Notosusanto explained, ‘if GAM are given incentives like allowing them to contest elections, then maybe there will be incentives for GAM to lay down their arms’ (interview 30 October, 2002). As it turned out, this is exactly what happened in December 2006, when independent GAM candidates contested and won Aceh’s first direct democratic local elections (see Chapter Nine). After the Cessation of Hostilities [Framework] Agreement (CoHA) came into effect in December 2002, however, the Megawati administration made it clear that it had no intention of holding direct local elections under the NAD law. The elections issue arose after both sides disputed a provision in the CoHA to elect ‘a democratic government in Acheh, Indonesia’. At first glance, it seemed that Jakarta had agreed to allow the Acehnese people to democratically elect their own government representatives. It soon became apparent, however, that both sides had very different ideas about what the elections entailed. Contrary to the position that he would later adopt as Indonesia’s sixth president, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono announced that ‘There will be no so-called local election [in Aceh]…It would go against our local constitution’ (Kompas, 13 December, 2002). As Yudhoyono explained, the Acehnese people would only be allowed to vote in Indonesia’s forthcoming 2004 general election. Significantly, Jakarta’s position contravened both the spirit of the CoHA and the NAD law. GAM, too, misinterpreted both documents by arguing that ‘There will be two elections in Aceh in 2004, one for Indonesia and one for Aceh. The latter will shape a new Acehnese government’ (The Jakarta Post, 14 December, 2002).

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Although Indonesia’s chief negotiator to Geneva, Wiryono Sastrohandoyo, agreed with the central government that the Acehnese should only be allowed to participate in the 2004 general elections, he urged the government to ‘find a way to enable GAM to participate in the political process’ since ‘what we want is to ask them to return as citizens who are able to participate in politics in Indonesia’ (Serambi Indonesia, 11 January, 2003). However, Wiryono’s comments were made as the DPR deliberated a bill on national elections, which, when passed included no reference to the formation of local political parties or any other mechanisms (such as allowing independent candidates) that could have encouraged GAM’s constructive participation in Indonesian political processes.35 Birth of a new Galaksi One under-reported dimension of the contemporary conflict in Aceh has been the sometimes strained relationship between Aceh’s ethnic minority groups and the ethnic Acehnese majority. Political studies of Aceh have tended to artificially construct the Acehnese as a singular ethnic and cultural entity. During the conflict, GAM promoted this representation to support their ethnonationalist struggle. For different reasons, Jakarta also portrayed the peoples of Aceh as a singular ethnic group within the Indonesian nation. What has often been overlooked in studies of these competing nationalisms is how Aceh’s ethnic minorities have viewed themselves and their relationships with both Aceh and the Indonesian state. As noted in Chapter One, almost 20 percent of Aceh’s population is not ethnic Acehnese. It is worth briefly considering here, then, how one group of indigenous ethnic minority representatives in Aceh reacted to the NAD law, which is noteworthy in terms of the Megawati administration’s sympathetic response to their demands. This group of ethnic minority representatives called themselves the Galaksi movement, an acronym for Aceh’s Gayo, Alas, Kluet and Singkil indigenous ethnic minorities. In late 2000, members of these four ethnic minority groups decided to form the Galaksi movement with a view to cutting all ties with Aceh and creating a separate ‘Leuser Antara’ province. Citing closer ethnic and cultural ties with the Batak people of North Sumatra than with the Acehnese, Galaksi comprised a small group of bupati, ulama, students and NGO leaders from Central Aceh, Southeast Aceh and Aceh Singkil (Kompas, 31 August, 2001). According to Galaksi advocates, Indonesia’s decentralization process had failed to accommodate Aceh’s ethnic minorities, who wanted ‘rights like the people in Gorontalo, Banka-Belitung and other new provinces’ (Republika, 4 August, 2001). Galaksi’s emergence was also linked to the escalating conflict in Central Aceh. By mid-2001, Central Aceh had become the scene of strong racial violence. Preexisting tensions between Central Aceh’s three main ethnic groups (Acehnese, Gayo and Javanese) resurfaced as GAM attempted to gain greater influence amongst the poorer Acehnese and Gayo people by attacking Javanese transmigrants and burning down their homes. In retaliation, the TNI and its civilian

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militia proxies attacked GAM. Although Galaksi advocates also formed a civilian militia group which had close ties to the TNI (Serambi Indonesia, 11 October, 2000), the movement was born from, and later expanded because of, a unique set of ethnic, political and socioeconomic grievances. The Galaksi movement provoked a hostile response from both GAM and Aceh’s provincial government. For GAM, Galaksi advocates were ‘slaves of colonizers’ and ‘national traitors’ who had no knowledge of Acehnese history and betrayed the Acehnese people by promoting the national disintegration of their homeland (Serambi Indonesia, 11 October, 2000). For the provincial government, Galaksi proponents were troublemakers with ‘illogical’ demands (Suara Karya, 11 September, 2000). Provincial government authorities also resented attempts by Galaksi advocates to discredit them through accusations of corruption and neglect. For example, the Southeast Aceh bupati, Syahbuddin BP, claimed at the time of his movement’s inception that people in his district wanted to break away from Aceh because, for the past five years, Southeast Aceh’s budget had been 20 percent lower than that allocated by the provincial government (Suara Karya, 11 September, 2000). Although Jakarta initially ignored the Galaksi movement, Megawati Sukarnoputri and some of her ministers began to pay attention to their demands after the NAD law was passed. Conservative nationalists in Jakarta who were suspicious of special autonomy sympathized with the Galaksi movement’s complaint that the nomenclature in the NAD law made Aceh’s indigenous ethnic minorities feel ‘confused because our language is different from that in Banda Aceh. We don’t know the meaning of nanggroe, qanon, and some other different terms in the government legislation’ (Kompas, 4 August, 2001). When Galaksi advocates flew to Jakarta in July 2001, they were warmly received by Indonesia’s most senior political leaders, including President Megawati Sukarnoputri, Vice President Hamzah Haz, Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security Suslio Bambang Yudhoyono and Home Affairs Hari Sabarno. According to Central Aceh bupati Baihaqi A. K., Hari Sabarno had been especially enthusiastic about the idea of partitioning Aceh and only ‘awaited a formal response from Mrs Mega and Mr. Hamzah’ (Tempo, 3 September, 2001). Though Megawati Sukarnoputri and Hamzah Haz shared the Galaksi movement’s reservations about the NAD law, they were reluctant to adopt a divide-andconquer strategy that could have further exacerbated Acehnese sentiment and separatist activity. Hamzah Haz was concerned that creating a new administrative division (pemekaran) would have further drained the state’s limited resources by excessively expanding the bureaucracy (Kompas, 5 December, 2001). Megawati may also have had reservations because her husband Taufiq Kiemas had business interests in Aceh and was friends with Governor Abdullah Puteh, who opposed the partition. Like most Acehnese political elites, Abdullah Puteh did not want any changes to Aceh’s territorial borders that could have jeopardized the financially lucrative NAD law. As Aceh’s provincial government spokesman Husni Bahri explained, the idea of dividing Aceh was ‘just a dream’ because the government had no intention of revising the NAD law. Husni further pointed out that

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those minority groups who sought to break away from Aceh for ‘ethnic’ and ‘cultural’ reasons were actually indigenous Acehnese (Antara, 3 January, 2002). Another common perception in Jakarta was that Aceh’s marginalized ethnic minorities would be satisfied by the implementation of the NAD law. There was some truth in this as the Galaksi movement temporarily lost momentum after the special autonomy legislation came into effect in January 2002. It was around this time that Galaksi advocates began to question whether they would accrue the same financial benefits in a separate province, especially as Central and Southeast Aceh and Aceh Singkil had no oil and natural gas reserves and relied upon revenues generated by the industries in North Aceh. As the Southeast Aceh bupati Armen Desky explained, he had grown ‘hesitant’ about pushing for a Leuser Antara province because under the NAD law ‘the balancing of finances has already become sufficient, so we are bargaining to find the best solution’ (Serambi Indonesia, 10 January, 2002). Similar doubts were expressed by Aceh Singkil bupati Makmur Syahputra, who admitted that his district could incur considerable financial losses through partition, especially during the first eight years of special autonomy when Aceh stood to receive 20 percent of oil and natural gas revenue generated within its borders (Kompas, 1 May, 2002). Despite these strong economic incentives for remaining part of Aceh, the Galaksi movement periodically resurfaced over the next few years whenever Aceh’s security and socioeconomic conditions dramatically deteriorated. For instance, the renamed ‘Aceh Leuser Antara’ (ALA) movement emerged soon after martial law was imposed in Aceh (TempoInteraktif, 29 September, 2004). Following the December 2004 tsunami, there were also calls by community leaders in 16 districts to create two new provinces of ‘ALA’ and ‘ABAS’ (Southwest Aceh) (Suara Karya, 29 May, 2006). Under Megawati’s presidency, Galaksi again resurfaced in July 2002 amidst fears that Jakarta planned impose emergency rule in Aceh. By that time, the movement had expanded to include delegates from the new Aceh districts of Tamiang and Gayo Lues, who wanted to escape the violence engulfing rural Aceh (Republika, 27 July, 2002). According to one Galaksi advocate, Munawir Rajali, a furniture salesman, Aceh’s ethnic minorities were afraid they would be forced to follow Islamic law under the NAD law, which he claimed the ‘people in the five regencies are not serious about’ (The Jakarta Post, 15 August, 2002). Although the Megawati administration did not flatly dismiss the Galaksi movement’s demands, Hari Sabarno admitted that a Leuser Antara province was ‘still a long way off’ due to strong opposition from Aceh’s provincial administration (Media Indonesia, 27 July, 2002). However, the central government did offer to compensate Galaksi advocates for their loyalty to Indonesia. In August 2002, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono flew to Takengon to reward Galaksi advocates for their loyalty by promising to prioritize future development projects in their districts (The Jakarta Post, 13 August, 2002). Though the Galaksi movement is a mere footnote in any discussion of the NAD law, it is noteworthy in terms of Jakarta’s sympathetic response. It is unlikely that Galaksi advocates would have received the attention they did from Megawati Sukarnoputri and some of her ministers if the central government had been more

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enthusiastic about implementing the NAD law. Of course, it could be argued that Jakarta would have welcomed support for Indonesian integration wherever it could be found in Aceh. Yet, Aceh’s provincial government leaders also enjoyed warm relations with Jakarta, but openly opposed the Galaksi movement. Jakarta’s decision to reward rather than dismiss Galaksi advocates by agreeing to increase development projects in their districts suggested that Megawati and sections of her government supported their reservations about the NAD law. It was no secret that Megawati Sukarnoputri remained fundamentally opposed to decentralization. It was also clear from her heavy reliance on military force that her administration was not genuinely committed towards pursuing a special autonomy solution to the Aceh conflict.

Part IV


8

Waves of reform

Peace in Aceh was a priority that I publicly set for myself during last year’s presidential campaign and after my government took office in October. But real political opportunity came knocking only after the tsunami last December. President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (International Herald Tribune, 16 August, 2005). When the Indian Ocean tsunami struck on 26 December, 2004, Aceh was still under emergency rule. The martial law status that had been in place since the collapse of the limited peace process between the Megawati administration and GAM had been downgraded to civil emergency rule in May 2004. Despite this, little had changed in terms of the unabated fighting on the ground. After almost two years of intensive counterinsurgency operations Indonesia’s security forces had severely weakened GAM’s military capacity and had regained control over Aceh’s urban centres, forcing the rebels to retreat to the countryside. Yet, while Jakarta’s repressive approach had succeeded in reasserting Indonesian authority over the most densely populated parts of Aceh, it had failed to achieve its goal of crushing GAM and the war continued in the province’s rural areas. Three days before the tsunami, Aceh’s regional military commander Major General Endang Suwarya announced that 2,500 GAM combatants with 844 guns remained at large (Mediaindo, 23 December, 2004), indicating that the military saw its mission in Aceh as being far from over. This chapter considers how and why the government of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono decided to depart from its repressive Aceh policy approach to pursue a non-military solution to the conflict after the tsunami. It begins by briefly looking at why Yudhoyono decided, upon coming to power in October 2004, to continue the ‘Integrated Operations’ (Operasi Terpadu) that had begun under Megawati Sukarnoputri. It then considers the rationale for the Yudhoyono administration’s Aceh policy shift immediately after the tsunami and the factors that contributed towards the success of the subsequent Helsinki peace process with GAM. The central argument is that political will was the most critical variable in the success of the Helsinki peace process. This political will was certainly reinforced, and to a large extent created, by the 2004 tsunami and subsequent

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international assistance and pressure. Without political determination, however, Jakarta would have been unable to subordinate the Indonesian military to civilian control at a time when its political influence was strong and when an unprecedented number of troops were stationed in Aceh. Though GAM’s military and political reach had become seriously attenuated under emergency rule, past counterinsurgency operations had shown that the rebels could not be defeated by military force alone. If not for GAM’s own commitment towards a peaceful settlement, the rebels could have used the cessation of hostilities under the Helsinki agreement to recruit new members and fortify their shadow civil administration. However, because both sides remained firmly committed towards reaching a negotiated settlement, the Helsinki peace process held, even though it remains fragile and by no means assured. The Yudhoyono–Kalla government The second round of Indonesia’s first direct democratic presidential elections on 20 September, 2004, brought to power two former coordinating ministers from Megawati Sukarnoputri’s government. Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, who comfortably won the run-off presidential election against Megawati Sukarnoputri with 60.87 percent of the vote, had served as her Coordinating Minister for Security and Political Affairs until his resignation in March 2004. Yudhoyono’s running mate, Yusuf Kalla, had been Megawati’s Coordinating Minister for People’s Welfare and chairman of the Golkar party. In their previous ministerial capacities, both men had argued for an integrated Aceh approach that combined counterinsurgency operations against GAM with broader political, economic, legal and social policies. But they had also managed senior portfolios in a cabinet that was known for its traditional security approach in dealing with separatist insurgents and limited efforts to democratically accommodate the Acehnese people. Given this, their determination to achieve a negotiated solution to the Aceh problem was uncertain and later came as a welcome surprise to many observers. Much has been made by analysts of the deep personal commitment by President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono towards peacefully resolving the Aceh conflict long before the start of the Helsinki peace process (ICG August 2005; Aspinall 2005: Morfit 2007). However, this is not entirely accurate. Although Yudhoyono instructed Kalla after becoming president to search for avenues though which to reopen formal peace talks with GAM (discussed later), he took no immediate steps to change the repressive Aceh approach that had been in place under Megawati Sukarnoputri, and which he had played a central role in crafting (see Chapter Six). Though Yudhoyono had advocated a ‘comprehensive’ Aceh approach under previous administrations, it should be remembered that he had also supported the military’s calls to impose a state of emergency in Aceh while serving in Megawati’s government, and had frequently referred to GAM as terrorists who could not be negotiated with. It could be argued, of course, that as a minister in Megawati’s cabinet, Yudhoyono had no choice other than to comply

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with her policies, which were heavily influenced by military hawks such as Ryamizard Ryacudu and Hendropriyono. As the most senior minister in a government that was led by a president who provided little in the way of leadership, however, Yudhonono had to assume some responsibility for his own rhetoric and policy advice, which was often unhelpful in the case of Aceh. Despite this, after Megawati, most Acehnese believed that Yudhoyono represented a change for the better, as shown by his landslide electoral victory in Aceh with 78 percent of the provincial vote, as compared to Megawati, who won just 22 percent (Sebastian 2004: 6). As vice president, Yusuf Kalla would later become a leading figure in the Helsinki peace process. A successful businessman with an ideological commitment towards resolving conflict through dialogue, Yusuf Kalla believed in seizing opportunities as they presented themselves (Aspinall 2005: 15). Under Megawati, this was shown by his active involvement in helping to bring an end (along with Yudhoyono) to the sectarian violence in Ambon in the Moluccas and in Poso on his native island of Sulawesi. In February 2004, he had also taken the initiative of holding secret informal discussions with trusted intermediaries to search for options to revive the Aceh peace talks, even though this did not fall directly under his ministerial portfolio (ICG August 2005: 2). Like Abdurrahman Wahid, Yudhoyono reshuffled his Indonesian Unity Cabinet (Kabinet Indonesia Bersatu) twice within his first few years in power (on 5 December, 2005 and again on 7 May, 2007). While these rotations fuelled public speculation about the government’s declining popularity and a growing rift between the president and vice president, the cabinet rotations under Yudhoyono were nowhere near as unsettling as they had been under Abdurrahman Wahid, and were marked by a higher level of continuity as the three coordinating ministers were retained, as was the politically influential Defence Minister. The new cabinet was also far more cohesive and united on Aceh policy. The most senior cabinet position of Coordinating Minister for Political Affairs and Security was awarded to Admiral (ret.) Laksamana Widodo Adi Sucipto, the first naval officer to have been appointed TNI Commander in Chief (1999–2002). In that capacity, Widodo had supervised a series of increasingly intensive security operations against GAM. As Yudhoyono’s long-standing friend and ally, however, Widodo refrained from publicly criticising the Helsinki peace process and even participated in the first two rounds of negotiations. During and after his direct involvement in the talks, Adi Sucipto had attempted to ban foreigners from the talks (Kingsbury 2006: 66), but he later publicly defended the Helsinki agreement, as did the entire cabinet. The Defence portfolio was awarded to Juwono Sudarsono, who had briefly held the same position in Abdurrahman Wahid’s first cabinet until a stroke in January 2000 forced his resignation. Though Juwono, a civilian, had close ties to the military and had received his previous appointment on the recommendation of General Wiranto, he had adopted a reformist position during his brief ministerial term. In that position, he had proposed phasing out the military’s territorial command system, starting with Aceh, and had attempted to address the problem

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of what he called the ‘lousy professionalism’ of the TNI by increasing the defence budget (The Indonesian Observer, 23 November, 1999). Regarding Aceh policy, the other important portfolio for Home Affairs was rotated under Yudhoyono. Lieutenant General (ret.) Muhammad Ma’ruf, who had served as Home Affairs Minister in the first two cabinets, was replaced in the third after suffering a heart attack and stroke. Ma’ruf was primarily appointed for his loyalty to Yudhoyono and was an executive board member of the Democratic Party that had nominated the new president to power. Unlike many of the generals who received ministerial portfolios in the post-New Order era, however, Ma’ruf was known as a moderate reformer with a clean human rights record, who was believed to have been dismissed from the TNI for opposing the 1996 military attack on Megawati Sukarnoputri’s PDI headquarters in Jakarta.36 Mar’uf’s replacement, Major General (ret.) Mardiyanto, who was installed on 29 August, 2007, was another of Yudhoyono’s loyal supporters and two-time governor in his birthplace of Central Java (1998–2007). Mardiyanto had no direct ties to Aceh, having spent the bulk of his military career in Makassar, South Sulawesi and on the island of Java, where he rose to become assistant to the Indonesian ABRI Chief of Sociopolitical Affairs (1994–95) and later, head of the Diponegoro territorial command that oversees Central Java and Yogyakarta (1995–97) (Antara, 28 August, 2007; Trade and Investment News, 3 September, 2007). The previously powerless Justice and Human Rights Minister was also rotated under Yudhoyono. This department played a greater role in Aceh policy in the new administration as Yudhoyono’s first Justice and Human Rights Minister, Hamid Awaluddin, was the Indonesian government’s chief negotiator at the successful Helsinki talks and was one of its most outspoken defenders when the peace agreement later came under attack by conservative nationalists within the DPR. An ally of Yusuf Kalla, Hamid Awaluddin came from the vice president’s home province of South Sulawesi. Prior to receiving his ministerial appointment, Hamid had worked as a judicial observer for the General Elections Commission (KPU). Hamid was replaced in the third cabinet over graft allegations by Andi Mattalata, who had no prior experience or knowledge of his portfolio, having been chosen for his loyalty to Yusuf Kalla and membership of Kalla’s Golkar party and not for his ministerial capability. While this habit of appointing ministers more for their personal loyalty than for their knowledge and professionalism persisted under Yudhoyono, it was nowhere near as pronounced as under previous governments. Many ministers in the new administration were also selected for their expertise, especially in the fields of economics and finance. In an effort to improve governmental accountability and efficiency, Yudhoyono set a precedent by requiring his ministers to sign contracts, which were reviewed annually and were used to replace poor performers in cabinet reshuffles (TempoInteraktif, 22 October, 2004). The capacity of the new cabinet to effectively function also depended on political leadership. Yudhoyono brought to his presidency a leadership style that was very different from that of Megawati Sukanoputri. Like Megawati, Yudhoyono had a reputation for relying heavily on policy advice and for considering ‘all

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perspectives and opinions before making up his own mind’ (BBC, 20 October, 2004). In contrast to his predecessor, however, Yudhoyono did not remain aloof from decision-making, having played a key role in Aceh policy development while serving in Megawati’s government. Unlike previous Indonesian presidents, Yudhoyono also entered office with a reputation untainted by graft allegations and presented himself as a steady and competent political leader who possessed sufficient education and practical experience to revive the national reform process that had undergone reversals under Megawati. Still, the structural and political challenges facing Yudhoyono remained enormous. The unreformed TNI continued to enjoy considerable political influence and the state bureaucracy and national legal system remained dysfunctional. Such reforms would take considerable political will and time to implement, and there was no guarantee that Yudhoyono, like other Indonesian presidents before him, would move beyond his rhetoric to bring about such positive changes. How and why his administration succeeded in asserting civilian control over the military in Aceh and in bringing peace to the Acehnese people where past Indonesian governments had failed is explored in the following pages. Search for peace When the Yudhoyono–Kalla team was elected, Aceh was no longer a major political issue. Jakarta’s offers of special autonomy to Aceh and the limited peace talks with GAM under the administrations of Abdurrahman Wahid and Megawati Sukarnoputri had created the general impression amongst the Indonesian public that the Acehnese were ingrates with an unrealistic set of expectations, as shown by the high level of national support for Megawati when she imposed martial law in Aceh in 2003. That this support continued throughout the period of emergency rule was reflected in Yudhoyono and Kalla’s election campaign, which did not include any substantive revision of the existing Aceh policy. As Michael Morfit explains in his valuable article on the Helsinki peace process, for which he interviewed both men, they ‘said that Aceh was not a major public issue during their successful presidential campaign’ (2007: 126). Upon coming to power, Yudhoyono expressed his commitment towards a peaceful settlement to the Aceh conflict but remained vague on the details of how this would be achieved. When unveiling his plan for his first 100 days in office, Yudhoyono did not announce any substantive changes to the existing Aceh policy approach of counterinsurgency operations against GAM until the rebels accepted the NAD law as a final solution to the conflict. Like Megawati before him, Yudhoyono did not order any troop withdrawals from Aceh during his first 100 days in power. Nor did he grant amnesty to any Acehnese political prisoners or order human rights investigations in Aceh. Unlike the past three Indonesian presidents, he also did not apologize to the Acehnese for past atrocities committed against them by Indonesian security forces personnel. Instead, on 18 November, 2004, the new president extended Aceh’s civil emergency status for another six months, albeit with monthly reviews to assess the viability of a change of status.

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Although Yudhoyono appointed Yusuf Kalla to continue the search for a negotiated outcome to the Aceh conflict, he remained publicly non-committal about the prospects for another internationally monitored peace process. Following Yudhoyono’s first six-hour presidential visit to Aceh on 26 November, he was criticized by Acehnese human rights groups for his inaction on the Aceh problem after admitting that he did ‘not have a specific agenda in Aceh’ beyond holding informal discussions with a group of government-selected community representatives (The Jakarta Post, 29 November, 2004). From Jakarta’s perspective, there was no reason to radically change a policy that had by all accounts dealt a severe blow to GAM’s military capabilities and to the rebels’ shadow civil administration. If the success of emergency rule in Aceh could be measured by the number of rebels killed or captured, then Indonesia’s security forces had exceeded their original objective. From the TNI’s stated aim of deactivating 5,251 rebels when martial law was declared (Kompas, 20 May, 2003), it had surpassed this target a year later by disarming 5,871 ‘GAM rebels’ (Laksamana.net, 22 July, 2004), suggesting that the military had included civilian casualties in its records. Claims by some analysts, however, that GAM was on the verge of military and political collapse when the tsunami struck are misleading (Schulze 2007: 3). This became clear when Jakarta and GAM signed the 2005 Helsinki MoU and the rebels undertook to demobilize their then 3,000 military troops, which was the same estimated number of GAM fighters before the signing of the CoHA (Laksamana.net, 6 March, 2003). Importantly, the TNI also still saw GAM as a threat, as shown by the military’s announcement days before the tsunami that there were still 2,500 active GAM rebels in Aceh (Mediaindo, 23 December, 2004). Although these estimates show that GAM was definitely not on the brink of military collapse or surrender, the intensive counterinsurgency operations did force the rebels out of Aceh’s urban centres, and, according to the International Crisis Group, made them scale back their activities to the sub-district level (ICG 2005: 4). GAM’s reduced presence was shown by the military’s two-pronged ideological campaign against Acehnese separatism. One component of this campaign was the TNI’s organization of mass rallies in support of the Indonesian state, which were televised nationwide and often featured crowds of Acehnese singing nationalist songs and waving little Indonesian flags. The other was the TNI’s ‘re-education’ programme for ex-GAM fighters, which involved courses on Indonesian nationalism that were supplemented by vocational training courses to teach the rebels new skills in preparation for their reintegration into the wider community. Under martial law, the TNI ran three such re-education programmes involving a total of 1,681 ‘ex-combatants’, although many of this number were said to be civilians who had only provided GAM with food (The Jakarta Post, 22 September, 2004). Because Indonesia’s security forces succeeded in reducing GAM’s military and political reach under emergency rule, a common perception is that Indonesian military operations made the rebels more amenable to entering into negotiations with Jakarta after the tsunami. As past Indonesian governments had found in their

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attempts to engage GAM in dialogue, however, the rebels had never agreed to negotiate with Jakarta based solely on their military capacity, or lack thereof. GAM’s willingness to negotiate had always been contingent on the involvement of an international mediating body, in part because of their basic distrust that the Indonesian government would honour any peace agreement, and in part because GAM had sought international recognition and support for their separatist cause. Military operations against GAM had also only ever forced the rebels to temporarily retreat, and their numbers had always multiplied during periods of relative quietude. When the tsunami hit Aceh, it triggered an immediate change of approach by both parties, despite the ongoing fighting between the warring parties in Aceh’s rural areas. The day after the disaster, GAM declared a unilateral ceasefire to facilitate the massive tasks of collecting corpses and helping the survivors. Two days later, the Indonesian government lifted its ban on foreigners from entering the province to allow humanitarian assistance to reach tsunami victims. One month later, both sides returned to the negotiating table, this time in Helsinki to search for a lasting settlement to the conflict. These dramatic changes by the Indonesian government and GAM in their dealings with each other were made possible by the tsunami, which provided a circuit-breaker and a chance for both parties to reassess their own positions. But the tsunami itself did not end the deep mutual hostilities between the warring parties. What the disaster did was create a new window of opportunity for both sides to reassess their own positions. Either side could have chosen to miss this opportunity, as had occurred in 1998 when Indonesia’s political establishment failed to take advantage of GAM’s reduced military strength and low levels of Acehnese separatist sentiment and activity to pursue a negotiated settlement. But, in January 2005, both sides chose to seize the opportunity presented by the tsunami and run with the political momentum to reach a negotiated settlement before it was lost. In addition to the physical ‘shock’ of the tsunami, several other factors contributed towards the decision by both parties to return to the negotiating table. One was that although the Yudhoyono–Kalla administration had failed to secure a formal commitment from GAM to resume dialogue before the tsunami, the groundwork had been laid to proceed with talks almost immediately afterwards. Two days before the tsunami struck, the former Finnish president Martti Ahtisaari’s Crisis Management Initiative (CMI), which Yusuf Kalla’s trusted intermediaries had first contacted in February 2004, issued a formal invitation to Indonesian government representatives and GAM to meet (Kingsbury 2006: 19). Prior to this, Yudhoyono had appointed Yusuf Kalla to contact GAM, in part because Kalla lacked Yudhoyono’s discomforting links to the TNI, in part because as leader of the powerful Golkar party, Kalla was more likely to win legislative support for a negotiated settlement within the DPR, and in part because Kalla came from South Sulawesi, which, like Aceh, had also been involved in the Darul Islam rebellion (Kingsbury 2006: 15–16). Before the tsunami, however, Yusuf Kalla’s team had failed to convince GAM to resume dialogue because the vice president’s men had only informally approached GAM’s political leadership in

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Sweden, which wanted the transparency and publicity of a formally mediated peace process. Kalla’s team had also mainly concentrated their initial efforts on opening informal channels of communication with local imprisoned GAM leaders and field commanders, who remained loyal to GAM’s political leadership in Sweden (ICG 2005: 2).37 As a result, GAM’s exiled leadership remained deeply suspicious of the new government’s sincerity and rebuffed its earlier initiatives to persuade them to resume formal negotiations. GAM’s change of heart can be largely attributed to the CMI’s offer to provide a formal non-Indonesian structure within which to resume dialogue. Without this, it is improbable that the rebels could have been persuaded to negotiate with a government that continued to sponsor a large-scale military offensive aimed at annihilating them. The involvement of the CMI, like the HDC before it, also provided GAM with the opportunity they craved to attract the international community’s attention. GAM believed that their chances of securing a ceasefire were substantially greater with the international community’s assistance, and if a ceasefire proved unsustainable in the longer term, then they could at least use a temporary cessation of hostilities to replenish their depleted fighting forces. Beyond this, however, Aceh’s exiled rebel leaders, like their compatriots in Aceh, had lost family members and friends in the tsunami, which helped to bolster their resolve towards preventing further loss of life in its aftermath. The Indonesian government’s increased political commitment towards the search for a negotiated settlement after the tsunami was also influenced by international, national and personal considerations. At the international level, the disaster brought Aceh to world attention. The international community’s massive injection of humanitarian funding and assistance into Aceh was accompanied by its increased interest in reviving the peace process. Yudhoyono was also aware of the risk that foreign reconstruction and rehabilitation funds could be withheld if his government did not make a serious effort to end the Aceh conflict peacefully. At the national level, Yudhoyono and Kalla knew that their capacity to peacefully resolve the Aceh conflict had implications for their administration’s credibility, and more broadly, for Indonesia’s democratization process (Morfit 2007: 129). The international community’s strong focus on Aceh presented the central government with an opportunity to finally bring the Indonesian military under civilian control and implement security sector reforms. A successful peace process with GAM stood to discredit the military’s claim that its role in politics was justified by defending Indonesia against separatist threats. In Indonesia, the tsunami also brought about a shift in public opinion about Aceh, and many Indonesians who had previously viewed the Acehnese as perennial troublemakers now hoped that the government would pursue a peaceful settlement to the conflict. On a personal level, Yudhoyono and Kalla’s stronger commitment towards the reviving the Aceh peace process also seemed to stem, at least in part, from their emotional response to the tsunami. As Morfit observed in his interviews with Yudhoyono, the only occasion when the president ‘revealed deep personal anguish and emotion was in his descriptions of what he witnessed on his first trip

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to Aceh after the tsunami’ (2007: 126). Kalla had been similarly shaken when he first visited Aceh after the disaster (RCTV, 27 December, 2004). Both men seemed to genuinely want to overcome their differences with GAM for the greater good of helping the Acehnese to rebuild their lives and livelihoods. As Indonesia’s Justice and Human Rights Minister Hamid Awaluddin later explained, ‘it’s all about the lives of so many people’ (The Jakarta Post, 18 August, 2005). Such statements reflected a shift in the central government’s thinking about the Aceh problem. Before the tsunami, central government leaders had primarily focused on defending Indonesia’s territorial sovereignty over Aceh, as shown by Jakarta’s repressive policy approach there. After the disaster, however, the attention of Indonesia’s political leaders shifted towards providing humanitarian assistance to the Acehnese people, which in turn contributed towards their increased resolve to reach a negotiated settlement with GAM. Despite the enormity of the catastrophe, Indonesia’s armed forces and conservative nationalists within the DPR continued to favour a military Aceh approach. The TNI, which itself lost 199 soldiers and 19 marines in the tsunami, saw the arrival of some 3,000 foreign military troops, more than 2,000 civilian foreign aid workers and dozens of journalists as a threat to its political influence and activities in Aceh. Although the TNI agreed to coordinate its own reconstruction efforts with those of the foreign troops, it sought to minimize coverage of the conflict, which it had successfully controlled via its own media centre since the start of martial law. On 12 January, 2005, the TNI’s disaster mitigation taskforce issued an order that all foreigners had to seek military clearance ‘for their own safety’ if they wanted to travel outside Banda Aceh and Meulaboh in West Aceh, which was completely destroyed by the tsunami. Such concerns were obviously ill-founded as it was in GAM’s interests to have the foreigners stay in Aceh for as long as possible. While the TNI was involved in the post-tsunami reconstruction effort along Aceh’s battered coastline, it continued its intensive counterinsurgency campaign in areas not affected by the tsunami. The arrival of an additional 12,000 soldiers in Aceh in mid-January (Dephan, 14 January, 2005), which brought the total number of TNI troops there to an unprecedented 50,000 military personnel in Aceh, sparked concerns amongst many Acehnese that the TNI would use the opportunity presented by the tsunami to step up its counterinsurgency campaign. Under a different government, the situation in post-tsunami Aceh might simply have represented a return to ‘business as usual’, as indeed it was in terms of the ongoing fighting on the ground. But, in January 2005, when the Indonesian government and GAM accepted the CMI’s earlier offer to host and mediate negotiations, both parties recognized that the disaster, combined with the international community’s assistance and pressure, presented a unique opportunity to work towards a compromise arrangement. On 27 January, 2007, the two sides met in Helsinki for the first of what would become five heated rounds of negotiations over the next seven months. These talks were managed and facilitated by the CMI’s founding president and former Finnish president, Martti Ahtisaari. When the first round of talks was held in Helsinki on 27–29 January, 2005, few expected that the negotiations would eventually produce a meaningful settlement,

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not least because neither the Indonesian government nor GAM had articulated their agenda prior to that point or considered how the negotiations should proceed (Kingsbury 2006: 25). While deep uncertainty and competing expectations characterized each of the five rounds of negotiations, however, the Helsinki peace process was conducted entirely differently to the CoHA and Humanitarian Pause before it and set far more ambitious goals. These earlier peace processes had prioritized a ceasefire with a view to addressing more substantive issues later. By contrast, at the start of the Helsinki negotiations, Martti Ahtisaari, who was actively involved in managing all the talks, adopted the operating rule that ‘Nothing is agreed until everything is agreed’. This procedural principle of not obliging either party to adhere to any agreement that was not complete and final was previously used in the July 2000 Camp David Summit, which had unsuccessfully attempted to negotiate a ‘final’ settlement to the Israeli–Palestinian conflict. Unlike the Camp David Summit, however, during the Helsinki talks the Indonesian government and GAM both demonstrated a willingness to make considerable compromises and to adopt new terminology to debate sensitive issues. In addition, both parties agreed to keep public information to a minimum to prevent the talks from descending into a war of words or being sabotaged by hostile external forces. Although the first round of talks were almost derailed by GAM’s refusal to accept the Indonesian government delegation’s demand that the rebels accept ‘special autonomy’ as a final solution to the conflict, the second round was far more fruitful. It was during this second round on 21–23 February that GAM made the substantial concession of agreeing not to bring their independence demand to the negotiating table. The Indonesian delegation in kind agreed to replace ‘special autonomy’ with the less politicized term of ‘self-government’. Once this breakthrough had been achieved, the next three rounds of talks in April, May and July were then devoted to focusing on what self-government would mean in an Acehnese context and how it could be achieved without compromising Indonesia’s territorial sovereignty. There were, of course, significant hurdles in this process. Even in the final round on 12–17 July, the talks almost fell apart at the eleventh hour when the Indonesian delegation independently increased the number of remaining troops in Aceh from the draft peace agreement, which GAM reluctantly accepted in a leap of faith (Kingsbury 2006: 156). The most divisive issue throughout the talks, however, concerned the formation of Aceh-based political parties. GAM’s demand to establish local political parties had been highly contentious during the peace talks in 2001 and 2002, and had ultimately been rejected by Jakarta on the grounds that local parties contravened Indonesia’s Law No.31/2002 on political parties, which required parties to have regional boards in at least 50 percent of Indonesia’s provinces. Yet, in Helsinki, the Indonesian delegation also took a leap of faith by agreeing to allow Aceh-based parties, a commitment which when honoured through the introduction of supporting legislation, helped to strengthen the peace process and consolidate critical aspects of democratic procedure in Aceh (see Chapter Nine).

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The signing of the Helsinki MoU by both sides on 15 August, 2005, marked the beginning of the most important peace process in Acehnese history, both in terms of the success of its subsequent implementation and the comprehensiveness of the agreement itself. The MoU stipulated the introduction of a new Law on Governing Aceh (LoGA) by 31 March, 2006, which was to be based on the principles of the Helsinki agreement. Although Indonesia’s parliament exceeded this deadline, it was only by a few months and the LoGA retained many of the key provisions in the Helsinki MoU. The core aspects of this law are examined in Chapter Nine. The remainder of this chapter looks at Aceh’s new security arrangements under the terms of the Helsinki agreement and the extent to which these provisions were upheld and implemented. A new beginning From the outset, the Helsinki peace process was threatened by serious security risks, some of which related to weaknesses within the MoU itself. Under the terms of the Helsinki agreement, GAM committed itself towards demobilizing all of its 3,000 military troops and to handing over 840 weapons. The Indonesian government pledged to withdraw all non-organic military and police troops from Aceh, while 14,700 organic TNI troops and 9,100 organic police officers were to remain in the province. For GAM, this arrangement was far from optimal and grossly exceeded the 4,800 TNI and Polri troops that had been originally agreed upon in the Helsinki negotiations; in the final round of talks the Indonesian delegation inserted the higher figure into the draft agreement. Conspicuously absent from the Helsinki agreement was any mention of the TNI’s civilian militia proxies, which multiplied in Aceh after the tsunami and which were a source of considerable consternation to GAM. However, the Helsinki MoU did include provisions aimed at safeguarding the peace process. The document stipulated that the TNI had to revert to an external defence role and that the remaining organic police officers, who were solely responsible for protecting public order, were to receive special training in Aceh and abroad with an emphasis on defending human rights. Importantly, the agreement also provided for the establishment of an Aceh Monitoring Mission (AMM) by the European Union and ASEAN countries to monitor the implementation of the peace process. The AMM was awarded far more authority than any of the foreign monitoring teams involved in previous Aceh peace processes through its mandate to investigate and rule on alleged violations of the peace process and on disputed amnesty cases involving GAM rebels. Although both GAM and the Indonesian government had doubts about Aceh’s prospects for peace under the new agreement, they stood firm in their public and personal commitment to it. Unlike past peace agreements, this time there was also greater reason to be optimistic as a wider range of parties supported the Helsinki agreement. Of critical importance was Yudhoyono’s capacity to convince the TNI to endorse the Helsinki peace process. A retired general himself, Yudhoyono could speak the same language as Indonesia’s military leadership and was

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generally more highly respected by the TNI than his civilian counterparts (Morfit 2007: 131). This was shown on 7 September, 2005, when Yudhoyono convened a three-hour private meeting with Indonesia’s most senior generals at Jakarta’s TNI headquarters to explain the MoU in detail and to answer their questions. Cabinet Secretary Sudi Silalahi described the successful outcome of the meeting as follows: Because of the President’s briefing, and because the (TNI) chief had already explained the accord to the top officers, there were no questions regarding the issue (The Jakarta Post, 8 September, 2005). Of course, the task of persuading Indonesia’s military leadership to accept the Helsinki agreement was not that simple. Most generals opposed any non-military solution to the Aceh conflict and saw GAM’s destruction as a necessary precursor to peace. The other critical factor in Yudhoyono’s ability to bring the TNI under control, then, was his replacement of military hawks from positions of political influence with his friends and allies. The TNI Chief Endriartono Sutarto was well known for his preference for a military solution to the Aceh conflict, having publicly announced soon after his promotion in 2002 that he ‘would choose war to end the Aceh problem, not negotiations’ (Analisa, 13 August, 2002). But Sutarto was loyal to Yudhoyono and followed his instruction to control media statements by military hawks such as the TNI Chief of Staff Ryamizard Ryacudu by telling ‘the TNI leadership that I don’t want any senior officers talking out against government policies. If you want to oppose government policies, then you must leave the TNI’ (Morfit citing Sutarto, 2007: 131–32). This highrisk but highly effective strategy succeeded in censoring the military and had a trickle-down effect to troops in the field. Although there were still detractors of the Helsinki MoU, they became increasingly marginalized as the peace process began to take on a life of its own. Within the armed forces, there was lingering resentment in particular over the AMM’s powers to rule on violations of the Helsinki agreement. Reflecting this sentiment, the retired TNI Chief of Staff Lieutenant General Kiki Syahnakri implausibly argued that: No one’s monitoring [the AMM]. They can monitor and decide and cannot be vetoed, but who can ensure their independence? Who can ensure that what happened in Timor Leste wouldn’t reoccur? (The Jakarta Post, 20 August, 2005). Within Aceh’s regional police force, there was the more realistic concern that Aceh’s organic police officers would be incapable of performing their increased duties after the non-organic troop withdrawal. As Aceh police spokesman Joko Turahman explained, ‘The number is too little to cover Aceh’s 21 regencies’, which he estimated would require at least 18,000 police officers, or double the number of remaining police officers stipulated in the MoU (The Jakarta Post,

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30 August, 2005). The capacity of the police to uphold law and order after the non-organic troop withdrawal threatened to become especially problematic if difficulties emerged regarding GAM’s reintegration into Acehnese society, as they later did, although, given the risks involved in demobilizing a guerrilla army, the process went remarkably smoothly. There were also detractors of the Helsinki peace process within the DPR, the loudest of which were Megawati Sukarnoputri’s PDI-P and Abdurrahman Wahid’s PKB. Members of these parties argued that the central government had undermined the DPR’s authority by failing to consult the House before signing the agreement, and that the Helsinki MoU violated the 1945 constitution. Using the same argument that had been adopted by detractors of the CoHA (implemented under Megawati Sukarnoputri) and the Humanitarian Pause (initiated by Abdurrahman Wahid), PDI-P and PKB legislators claimed that the involvement of foreign monitors in the Aceh peace process threatened Indonesia’s national integrity by ‘internationalizing’ the conflict. These dissenting voices did not entirely disappear from the public realm, but they became more emasculated as international, national and Acehnese support for the Helsinki agreement gathered momentum. This momentum continued to grow the longer the peace process lasted, and the more both parties continued to display goodwill by honouring the terms of the MoU. On Indonesian Independence Day, two days after the signing of the Helsinki agreement, Yudhoyono granted amnesty to the first 298 of a total of 1,782 Acehnese political prisoners who were eventually released. Yudhoyono and Kalla also ordered the Acehnese prisoners to be treated with dignity and rejected demands by PDI-P legislators that the political prisoners be forced to sign statements pledging their allegiance to Indonesia on condition of release. The first phase of decommissioning weapons and redeploying troops generally went smoothly. Less than a week after the official launch of the EU-led AMM mission in September 1999, GAM surrendered 279 guns and the TNI withdrew 800 non-organic troops (Kompas, 19 September, 2005). This process of decommissioning GAM weapons and redeploying non-organic TNI–Polri troops continued each month until December under the AMM’s professional supervision. On 21 December, 2005, in a ‘weapons cutting ceremony’ in Banda Aceh, GAM rebels watched the last of their 840 surrendered weapons being fed by AMM monitors into a circular saw which cut the weapons into three pieces. Then on 28 December, GAM’s military commander Muzakkir Manaf pronounced the demobilization of GAM’s military wing and the establishment of an Aceh Transitional Committee (Komite Peralihan Aceh, KPA) to facilitate the reintegration of ex-combatants into civilian life. According to another rebel leader, Irwandi Yusuf, who was elected as Aceh’s new governor the following year, GAM still existed and would continue to do so until the Helsinki agreement had been implemented in its entirety. But with the demobilization of GAM combatants, Irwandi announced that GAM was prepared to enter a new era by preparing to transform itself into a political party (The Jakarta Post, 28 December, 2005). On 29 December, two days after the dissolution of GAM’s military wing, the last of the 25,890 TNI and 5,791 Polri non-organic troops also left Aceh, thereby

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fulfilling the Indonesian government’s obligation to withdraw all non-organic armed forces from the province. Days before the final troop redeployment, however, TNI Chief Endriartono Sutarto made the inflammatory announcement that the military was preparing to redeploy another 15 battalions (about 15,000 soldiers) to Aceh. Sutarto’s statement was made in response to a request by the director of the government’s Aceh and Nias Reconstruction and Rehabilitation Agency (BRR), Kuntoro Mangkusubroto, for military assistance with the posttsunami reconstruction effort (Republika, 23 December, 2005). That this did not happen was largely due to the combination of Yudhoyono’s political commitment to the peace process as well as Endriartono Sutarto’s personal loyalty to him. Although Yudhoyono’s subsequent decision to redeploy up to 1,000 troops to Aceh violated the terms of the Helsinki MoU, he insisted that because of the sensitivity of the issue on the ground only military engineering units would return to Aceh. GAM naturally opposed Yudhoyono’s decision, but it was supported by the AMM. In an effort to allay GAM’s concerns, however, the head of the AMM, Peter Feith, announced that his mission would monitor the activities of the additional non-organic troops while they were stationed in Aceh and stipulated that ‘They have to leave Aceh before we do’ (The Jakarta Post, 31 December, 2005). Once the first critical phase of decommissioning GAM weapons and withdrawing non-organic TNI–Polri troops was accomplished, the Aceh peace process remained fragile and threatened to be derailed by a number of factors. One risk was that the TNI’s militia proxies, which had flocked to Aceh after the tsunami, and which were not mentioned in the Helsinki agreement, would destabilize the situation and provide the TNI with an excuse to return to the province. However, while sections of the civilian population were reportedly concerned about TNI intelligence operations that included support for ‘anti-separatist fronts’ (ICG 2007: 1), there were no major violent incidents involving civilian militias in Aceh after the troop withdrawal in December 2005. Most of the militias that descended on Aceh after the tsunami were Islamist groups that were more alarmed about the potentially corrosive impact of Western humanitarian workers on the moral fabric of Acehnese society than they were about GAM. For instance, the Islamic Defenders Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI), which was best known for its attacks on Jakarta nightclubs during Ramadhan, claimed they had simply come to Aceh ‘to help’, but warned foreign aid agencies that ‘If anyone who comes here does not respect the Shariah law, traditions and constitution, we must give them a warning and then we must attack’ (The Age, 6 January, 2005). Another TNIbacked militia group, Laskar Mujahidin, which sent 250 troops to Banda Aceh (50 of whom were flown in on Indonesian military planes), were equally antiWestern and set up four base camps marked by English-language signs reading ‘Islamic Law Enforcement’ near the airport and around Western aid agencies. Despite their divisive language and unsettling effect on non-Muslim aid agencies, however, these Islamic militias gained a certain level of respect amongst Aceh’s civilian population for their tireless collection and burial of thousands of rotting corpses. Islamic burials were something that non-Muslim NGOs could not provide, but religious rituals were important for Acehnese Muslims in coming to

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terms with the deaths of their loved ones. As Zulfitri Ahba, a village leader in Lampu’uk, Aceh Besar said of the Indonesian Mujahidin Council (Majelis Mujahadin Indonesia, MMI) militias: During the conflict the MMI were our enemies, but after the tsunami they worked here for three months. They never rested. When they found a corpse, they shouted ‘Allah Akbar’ [God is Great] and prayed for their souls’ (interview, 1 August, 2006). Other potentially serious security issues began to surface within the context of Aceh’s post-conflict policy environment after the non-organic troop withdrawal. Resentment by ex-combatants who did not receive financial compensation for coming down from the hills towards GAM rebels who were financially compensated and given land by the government occasionally manifested into acts of violence. In the bubble economy created by the massive injection of international and Indonesian funding into the large-scale post-tsunami reconstruction effort, there were also tensions between ex-combatants in the fierce competition for contracts and employment opportunities. When the foreign donors and international aid agencies began to scale down their programmes and withdraw from Aceh in 2006, the loss of those employment opportunities translated into an increase in theft and other forms of economically driven criminal activity. As the next chapter will describe, in the absence of a common enemy, internal divisions also emerged within GAM, between a faction led by GAM’s exiled political leadership in Sweden, and a second faction that largely comprised younger-generation ex-combatants. In the final analysis, however, Aceh was transformed by the Helsinki peace process into a completely different polity. Though sporadic acts of violence continued, there was no comparing Aceh’s security situation before and after the signing of the Helsinki agreement. The commitment and considerable goodwill shown by both Jakarta and GAM towards the peace process, buttressed by the international community’s strong assistance and pressure, created a palpable sense of public confidence in the possibility of building a genuinely democratic Acehnese society based not on ethnic nationalism, but on civic nationalism and constructive participation within the Indonesian state. Buoyed by this public confidence, and by the success of their own efforts to overcome their differences, Indonesia’s political leadership and GAM surmounted seemingly impossible structural obstacles to achieve an outcome that was increasingly seen by both parties, as well as by the Acehnese people, as a ‘win-win’ solution. Less than one month after the Indonesian armed forces’ withdrawal, another serious political issue emerged that threatened to sabotage the entire peace process. In January 2006, Home Affairs Minister Muhammad Ma’ruf submitted the first government draft of the Law on Governing Aceh (LoGA) before the DPR, which included clauses that could have led to the partition of Aceh into separate provinces (The Jakarta Post 28 January, 2006). Although the final version of the law did outline Aceh’s territorial borders (Article 3), GAM and

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SIRA pointed out that the clause violated the Helsinki MoU, which required Aceh’s borders to correspond with those outlined in Law No.24/1956 on the reinstatement of Aceh’s provincial status. The law also contained a typographical error that defined Aceh’s western border by the ‘Indonesian Ocean’ instead of the internationally recognized ‘Indian Ocean’. Though GAM, SIRA and several Acehnese NGOs were unhappy with the LoGA for not conforming to the letter and spirit of the Helsinki MoU, however, they eventually agreed to work within its parameters in the interests of peace (see Chapter Nine).

9

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Non-local soldiers and police officers have left Aceh. GAM leaders have returned from abroad. Former enemies are praying in the same mosques and playing soccer together. Recently, as required by the Helsinki Accord, the Indonesian Parliament passed a law that allows former GAM members to run for political office. In short, peace and hope are now the rule rather than the exception in Aceh. President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, 14 August, 2006 (International Herald Tribune 14 August, 2006). The problem of ‘Aceh Merdeka’ [Free Aceh] is incorrect. Our MoU guarantee that was agreed upon by both GAM and Indonesia in Helsinki also addressed the problematic relationship between Aceh and Jakarta. Aceh remains part of NKRI and this does not need to be a problem anymore. Aceh Governor Irwandi Yusuf, 12 January, 2007 (Republika 12 January, 2007). Law No.11 of 2006 on the Governing of Aceh (LoGA) was ratified by the DPR on 11 July, 2006 amidst intense controversy. Although the law was endorsed by the national parliament and conferred unprecedented powers of self-governance to the Acehnese, it drew protests in Aceh. On the day the LoGA was passed, GAM, SIRA and dozens of Acehnese NGOs organized a one-day general strike in condemnation of the legislation, which excluded or diluted several core provisions in the Helsinki MoU. In Jakarta, despite the DPR’s promotion of the LoGA as the key to ensuring peace in Aceh, malcontents in Indonesia’s political and military establishment also viewed the concept of self-government with suspicion and expressed concerns that the Acehnese had been awarded too many concessions. Although the LoGA delivered less than had been agreed upon in the Helsinki MoU, it granted Aceh far more autonomy than Indonesia’s other provinces and redressed some of the key weaknesses in the NAD law before it. In particular, the provision for direct democratic local elections in the LoGA enabled GAM and SIRA to reap political benefits from the new system and to work within its legal parameters to constructively engage with Indonesia’s democratization process.

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This chapter considers the LoGA as a ‘final settlement’ to the Aceh conflict. It begins by describing how the new legislation corresponded with and departed from the Helsinki MoU and the NAD law. The three core tenets of the LoGA are then discussed: direct local elections, revenue-sharing arrangements and Islamic law. Finally, the chapter considers Aceh’s prospects for sustainable peace and development through its new power-sharing arrangements with Jakarta. Law on Governing Aceh The final version of the LoGA was reflective of the numerous compromises that had been made during the deliberative process. These deliberations, which were conducted by a 50-member DPR Special Committee (Pansus) on Aceh between February and June 2006, centred around a ‘list of issues’ (known as Daftar Inventarisasi Masalah, DIM) arising from two draft laws on Aceh’s selfgoverning status that had been prepared by the central government’s Home Affairs Ministry and by Aceh’s provincial parliament. All parties in the DPR contributed towards this list of issues, which was submitted to the Pansus Aceh on 22 March in the form of a 716-page document (Forum-Asia, 2 May, 2006). Although the DPR failed to meet the 31 March deadline stipulated in the Helsinki MoU, the LoGA was passed remarkably quickly, given the controversy it generated amongst Indonesia’s political and military establishment, both over the concept of Acehnese self-government itself and in relation to particular provisions in the two draft laws. For instance, Megawati Sukarnoputri’s PDI-P, which remained fundamentally opposed to Acehnese self-governance, was the loudest detractor of a provision in the DPRD draft that allowed independent candidates to contest local elections. This provision was also omitted from the Home Affairs Ministry draft, which only allowed local parties to propose candidates, and it was supported by Golkar, the PPP and the Democratic Party that had nominated Yudhoyono to power. By contrast, other major parties such as Abdurrahman Wahid’s PKB and PAN endorsed the introduction of independent candidates, although the latter maintained that such a provision should not come into effect until 2009. In the face of this and other sharp divisions within the DPR, the central government increasingly defaulted to the Helsinki MoU. The Home Affairs Ministry was also able to manipulate the outcome of the deliberations through its payment of bribes to legislators in the Pansus Aceh (Braun 2007). Despite its shortcomings, which were numerous, the final version of the LoGA retained some of the core components of the Helsinki MoU, including the right to field independent party candidates in local elections and the introduction of Aceh-based political parties. These provisions, which are discussed later in this chapter, were instrumental to GAM’s capacity and willingness to continue its transformation from a militant organization into a political movement that could constructively participate in Indonesia’s process of political development rather than in opposition to it. Other concessions included the return of most of Aceh’s natural resource revenue and the right to implement Islamic law, although these provisions were essentially a reconstituted version of the NAD law. Unlike the

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NAD law, the LoGA also emphasized the defence of human rights in Aceh and incorporated legal mechanisms to enforce such rights, albeit in a limited form that remained vulnerable to diminution. Chapter XXXIV of the LoGA stipulated the establishment of a human rights court in Aceh and the formation of a Truth and Reconciliation Commission with a mandate to decide on human rights violations cases. In accordance with the Helsinki MoU, the LoGA also emphasized the importance of human rights education in the basic training of Aceh police recruits and in the conduct of TNI troops stationed in the province. GAM, SIRA and many Acehnese NGOs, however, expressed valid concerns about several provisions in the LoGA that undermined the Helsinki MoU. In a serious violation of the MoU, which required the TNI to be restricted to an external defence in Aceh, Article 202 of the LoGA held the Indonesian military responsible for ‘state defence’, thereby blurring the distinction between the TNI’s internal and external functions. The LoGA also omitted a provision in the MoU that required Indonesian security forces personnel who committed crimes against Acehnese civilians to be tried in civil courts. On Aceh’s self-governing status, the LoGA delivered fewer political and administrative concessions than had been envisaged in the MoU, changing the word ‘consent’ in the Helsinki agreement to ‘consideration’ in the LoGA in relation to Jakarta’s acceptance of Aceh government policies (Helsinki MoU, Point 1.1.2; LoGA, Article 8). Another dispute arose over the administration of Aceh’s revenue-sharing arrangements with Jakarta. GAM and SIRA interpreted points in the MoU that granted Aceh ‘jurisdiction’ over its living natural sea resources and the right to ‘retain’ 70 percent of natural resources generated within its borders to mean that Aceh’s provincial government would completely control those resources and the profits generated by them. Under the LoGA, however, Aceh’s natural resources continued to be collected by the Finance Ministry in Jakarta and redistributed back to Aceh, an issue that had previously strained centre–periphery relations after the introduction of the NAD law (see Chapter Seven). For GAM, SIRA and many Acehnese NGOs, the other major violation of the Helsinki MoU was the lack of retroactivity of the human rights court under the LoGA, which only covered offences after the promulgation of the law, not crimes committed during the conflict (Article 228). Nor did the LoGA specify whether Aceh’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission would be authorized to handle past atrocities committed against the civilian population during security operations. Although the LoGA failed to adhere to the letter and spirit of the Helsinki MoU, it did grant Aceh greater self-governing powers than the NAD law, especially in relation to political rights and representation. The new law’s inclusion of an emphasis on human rights had also been lacking in previous central government offers of autonomy to Aceh, even though the LoGA offered the Acehnese little more than had already been granted to the other provinces via the ineffective Law No.26/2000 on Indonesia’s Human Rights Court. With the introduction of the LoGA, however, Aceh became Indonesia’s most autonomous province and the first to enjoy broad self-governance. The central elements of Aceh’s new autonomy arrangements with Jakarta are considered in the remainder of this chapter.

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Democratic elections If direct democratic Aceh elections were the most politically divisive issue between GAM and the Indonesian government after the introduction of the NAD law, then the opposite could be said after the elections were actually held on 11 December, 2006. President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono congratulated Aceh’s new governor, former GAM rebel Irwandi Yusuf, and his vice governor, SIRA leader Muhammad Nazar, for their landslide electoral victory with 38.2 percent of the Acehnese vote, more than double their nearest rivals. Irwandi Yusuf in turn pledged to support the Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia (NKRI) in his gubernatorial capacity and to cooperate with the central government in the rebuilding of a safer and more peaceful Aceh (Sinar Harapan, 14 December, 2006). The primary legal instruments for Aceh’s first direct democratic executive elections were the LoGA and the 1945 constitution, supported by a central government regulation on Aceh-based parties (No.20/2007) and qanun on local elections and political parties (No.3/2005). In accordance with the Helsinki MoU, the LoGA allowed the Acehnese to directly elect their own governor, vice-governor, mayors and regents, to form Aceh-based political parties, and to nominate independent candidates to contest local elections (Chapter X). These last two concessions went well beyond the NAD law, which had only allowed the election of candidates who were members of parties with a national presence. The provision for independent candidates in the LoGA arguably granted more than had been mandated in the Helsinki agreement, which had allowed the Acehnese people ‘the right to nominate candidates’ for elected official positions, but did not specify whether those candidates would be nominated directly or indirectly by political parties. These provisions in the LoGA made Aceh’s new electoral system more participatory and inclusive than Indonesia’s other provinces, although in July 2007 the Constitutional Court amended Law No.32/2004 on Regional Government (which amended Law No.22/1999) to allow independent candidates to contest direct local elections nationwide. To organize and monitor the local elections, the LoGA stipulated the introduction of two ‘new’Acehnese institutions: an Independent Election Commission of Aceh (Komisi Independen Pemilihan Aceh, KIP Aceh) and an Aceh Election Supervisory Body (Panitia Pengawas Pemilihan Aceh, PANWASLIH). These institutions were included in the NAD law, but the elections component of the special autonomy legislation was never implemented. In the December 2006 elections, KIP Aceh, which served as the regional branch of Indonesia’s National Election Commission (KPU), inspired a high level of public confidence through its organization of the elections in an open and transparent manner. On election day, 42,355 KIP Aceh staff were deployed to man 8,471 polling booths in 19 of Aceh’s then 21 districts and mayoralties where voting took place (EUEOM 2007: 10).38 By contrast, PANWASLIH, which was authorized to supervise and monitor the elections and to resolve election disputes, barely functioned due to serious delays in recruiting and training PANWASLIH staff, especially at the sub-provincial level. Only an estimated one-third of PANWASLIH staff manned

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polling stations on election day, and those who turned up were accused of incompetence (EUEOM 2007: 11). Despite this and other minor setbacks, Aceh’s first direct democratic executive elections went remarkably smoothly. Though the election campaigns were disrupted by 57 ‘conflict incidents’ in the first fortnight of December (representing an increase from 31 incidents in the last two weeks of November), most incidents were non-violent and were largely restricted to reports of intimidation and disputes between rival candidates and their supporters (IFES 2006: 4).39 Election day itself was generally a peaceful affair. The European Union’s Election Observation Mission in Aceh (EUEOM), which deployed observation monitors to 67 polling stations, described the elections as ‘competitive, transparent and well administered’ and compliant with international standards of democratic systems (EU statement, 12 December, 2006). In a remarkable achievement following the displacement of 550,0000 Acehnese civilians by the tsunami, 85 percent of eligible voters were re-registered by election day. Of that number, 80 percent cast their votes. The high level of voter confidence in the electoral process was evident in a pre-election poll survey conducted in September and October 2006 by the non-governmental organization IFES (International Foundation for Election Systems), which found that 93 percent of 1,233 Acehnese respondents believed that the election results would accurately reflect their aspirations (IFES 2006: 4). That GAM won the top gubernatorial position in the local elections came as a surprise to most outside observers, as well as to many Acehnese. Few also predicted that the former rebels would do as well as they did at the sub-provincial level, where GAM won six districts in the first round and another one in a run-off election on 4 March, 2007. In the second round of elections in Aceh Barat Daya and West Aceh, which were held because no candidate secured the required 25 percent of the vote in round one, GAM won its seventh seat in West Aceh with an extraordinary 76.2 percent (ICG 2007: 1). The general lack of confidence in GAM’s capacity to win by such a wide margin, or at all, can be explained by a number of factors. First, in Indonesia, where election campaigns are expensive and outcomes are often determined by ‘money politics’, or vote-buying, parties with a strong national presence have a clear competitive advantage over poorly funded independent competitors like GAM. For example, the Golkar’s party’s betterfunded and well-connected gubernatorial candidate, Malek Raden, received far more television and newspaper coverage than any of his rivals (EUEOM 2006: 7–8). GAM’s decision to run independent candidates rather than form a political party was also interpreted by some observers as an indication of their indecisiveness, their lack of confidence and/or the result of internal factionalism. Indeed, the election campaigns of GAM candidates took place amidst a growing rift between a faction led by GAM’s prime minister in Sweden, Malik Mahmud, and a second faction supported by Irwandi Yusuf, which mostly comprised younger-generation ex-combatants. This rift became public in mid-2006 and deepened throughout the election campaign, with Malik Mahmud’s camp expressing support for a nonGAM candidate, Humam Hamid, and his running mate Hasbi Abdullah, the

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younger brother of GAM’s exiled foreign minister Dr. Zaini Abdullah. This split within GAM’s ranks, which was exacerbated by the disproportionate allocation of reintegration funds and resources in favour of more senior ex-combatants, manifested into a series of squabbles and stand-offs between rival GAM candidates and their supporters during the election campaign, although these incidents were sporadic and rarely descended into violence. Though few predicted their stunning success, the Irwandi–Nazar team were bolstered by their capacity to tap into their respective pre-existing rural and urban grassroots support networks, by GAM’s willingness to claim credit for the Helsinki peace process, by appealing to Acehnese nationalist sentiment and through their self-portrayal as a fresh alternative to the incumbent Jakarta-based party candidates (ICG, March 2007). Under different conditions and circumstances, vote buying by powerful Jakarta-based parties may have been just as rampant in Aceh as it was elsewhere in Indonesia. But the collective memory of the recent conflict was strong amongst the local population, and the nationalbased parties lacked GAM’s structural and political reach into the countryside. In Aceh’s urban centres too, where SIRA’s support base was strongest, Jakartabased parties were widely disliked, and there was a lingering perception that their candidates were pro-Jakarta and pro-TNI, and by inference, anti-Acehnese. Many GAM candidates appealed to this sentiment by portraying themselves as the primary defenders of Acehnese national unity and identity, as shown by their invocation in campaign speeches of traditional Acehnese stories (hikayat) about Acehnese war heroes and about GAM’s deep connection with the Acehnese people (ICG March 2007: 5–6). Irwandi Yusuf and Muhammad Nazar cleverly appealed to this sense of Acehnese identity by wearing traditional Acehnese dress in their ballot paper photographs, which distinguished them from most other candidates who wore suits. There were, of course, negative reports that people only voted for GAM because they feared a return to violence and that GAM candidates had used their influence in villages to coerce or intimidate villagers into voting for them. According to the International Crisis Group, there was also a belief that GAM would end their system of collecting ‘state taxes’ (pajak nanggroe) if they were elected to official positions (March 2007: 6). On the balance, however, the elections were open and transparent, as reflected in a post-poll survey which found that 94 percent of 1,203 Acehnese respondents were satisfied with the electoral process and felt that it had been conducted fairly (IFES 2007). After Irwandi Yusuf and Muhammad Nazar were installed as governor and vice governor, respectively, on 8 February, 2007, many Acehnese activists and GAM’s Aceh Transitional Committee (KPA) began to look towards the formation of local political parties in preparation for Indonesia’s 2009 legislative elections in Aceh. To legally register with Indonesian authorities, Aceh-based parties must have management boards in at least 50 percent of Aceh’s districts and in 25 percent of sub-districts (LoGA/PP No.27/2007, Article 75).40 The first local party to appear, the Aceh People’s Party Preparatory Committee (KP-PRA), was formed on 16 March, 2006, and later changed its name to Aceh People’s Party (PRA) after the LoGA was passed. Largely comprising left-wing NGO activists, local

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businesspeople and farmers, the socialist-orientated PRA strongly opposed foreign investment and promoted Acehnese self-reliance by supporting local businesses and community participation. Of the six other parties that had emerged by late 2007, most supported the implementation of Islamic law in Aceh and adopted a platform based on social welfare and justice according to Muslim principles, ostensibly to attract votes that had previously been won by Islamic Jakarta-based parties. A notable exception was the controversial GAM Party, which remained fundamentally opposed to what it saw as Jakarta’s imposition of Syari’ah on the Acehnese people. When GAM Party was launched on 7 July, 2007, it adopted as its emblem the rebels’ separatist flag, sparking outrage amongst sections of Jakarta’s political and military establishment who saw the party’s existence as a violation of the Helsinki agreement. Amongst the local population there were also concerns that the formation of GAM Party could provoke a return to conflict. Despite claims by GAM Party that it represented the interests of all ex-combatants, it was formed by Malik Mahmud’s minority faction of older-generation rebels and lacked the support of Irwandi Yusuf’s majority younger-generation faction. By late 2007, GAM had split into several factions, but Irwandi’s faction remained politically dominant and provided the greatest employment and business opportunities for ex-combatants. Since Aceh’s December 2006 elections, there remains an ongoing risk that Aceh’s increasingly pluralistic political landscape could create new bases of conflict within GAM. However, the benefits of political pluralism in Aceh have vastly outweighed any costs. The introduction of direct democratic local elections and Aceh-based parties has allowed civil society actors whose voices were repressed during the conflict to freely express themselves in the public domain. This creation of an Acehnese society that is genuinely civil in the sense that political actors and parties can debate their differences without resorting to violence has so far been the crowning achievement of the LoGA, and one of the greatest and least anticipated success stories in Indonesia’s transition to democracy. Expansion of Islamic law In contrast to the overwhelming support for direct democratic elections, few issues have generated as much controversy as Syari’ah in post-tsunami, postconflict Aceh. With the massive influx of foreign and Indonesian NGOs into Aceh immediately after the tsunami, sharp divisions quickly emerged between advocates and detractors of Islamic law about whether Syari’ah has a constructive role to play in the large-scale reconstruction and rehabilitation effort. There have been questions about whether Islamic law as it has been interpreted and implemented has assisted or impeded the reconstruction process. Has it served as a panacea for social disunity and conflict as the Indonesian government and ulama intended, or has it created new destabilizing tensions within Aceh and in its relations with the outside world? Compared with the NAD law before it, the LoGA has not granted Aceh any major new concessions (Chapters XVII and XVIII). Although the drafters of the

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LoGA drew from existing Islamic qanun in an effort to make the new legislation more complete, the Syari’ah component of the LoGA contains many legal ambiguities that require additional supporting qanun. For instance, while the LoGA stipulates that only Muslims domiciled in Aceh must practise Islamic law, all ‘individuals’ in Aceh must respect its implementation (Article 126). What constitutes ‘respect’ for Syari’ah, or lack thereof, is not elucidated. Another confusing provision, Article 129, regulates that: (1) In jinayah [Islamic criminal law] cases where criminal acts are committed by two or more people that include non-Muslims, the non-Muslim perpetrators may voluntarily submit to jinayah law. (2) Every non-Muslim who commits a criminal act that is not regulated by the Indonesian Criminal Code or in the criminal stipulation set outside the Criminal Code will be subjected to jinayah law. (3) Acehnese citizens who commit criminal acts outside Aceh are subject to the Criminal Code. Unsurprisingly, non-Muslims have expressed concerns about how Article 129 could affect their rights to freedom of religion and expression, and whether nonMuslim perpetrators may also ‘voluntarily’ submit to Indonesian civil law in jinayah cases. There have also been questions about whether non-Muslims in Aceh could be sentenced for committing crimes under Islamic law that are not included in Indonesia’s Criminal Code (for example, the sale and consumption of food and beverages during Ramadhan, which in Aceh is punishable by up to six lashes, one year in jail or a maximum Rp.3 million [US$330] fine). Although no new Syari’ah qanun were introduced in Aceh between 2004 and 2007, Islamic law began to take on a life of its own after the December 2004 tsunami. There were at least four reasons for this. First, a basic Islamic legal framework had already been established in accordance with the NAD law and a slate of Islamic qanun. These qanun were by no means comprehensive, covering as they did only rudimentary guidelines on the structure and functions of Syari’ah courts and on legal instruments regarding the implementation of Islamic law and penalties for violations of it (see Chapter Seven). Though Aceh’s Islamic legal system was far from complete, the existence of these laws and by-laws, combined with the 2003 establishment of Aceh’s Islamic court (Mahkamah Syari’ah) and subsequent formation of an anti-vice squad (Wilayatul Hisbah), meant that Islamic law could be enforced, albeit initially in a limited form. Second, Aceh’s religious bureaucracy became increasingly assertive in expanding its own authority after the tsunami (ICG July 2006: 11). In particular, Aceh’s Syari’ah Agency and the Wilayatul Hisbah (WH), which shared the same headquarters in Banda Aceh, became more zealous in their efforts to monitor the implementation of Islamic law. When the green-and-white-uniformed WH was formed in 2004, it only operated in and around Banda Aceh. By late 2006, however, the so-called ‘moral police’ had established a province-wide presence and had become far more vigilant in defending public morality. In the first half of 2007 alone, the WH handled 397 cases involving alleged violations of

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Syari’ah, compared with 373 cases for the entire year of 2006 (Serambi Indonesia, 24 August, 2007). Aceh’s religious administration believed that Islamic law needed to be implemented in full in order for Acehnese society to recover from the conflict and tsunami, and that the past failure to uphold Syari’ah had contributed towards Aceh’s contemporary problems. The WH’s existence and expansion, however, was contingent on the presence of social maladies. As such, its vigilantism could not be divorced from its expansionary tendencies and desire to attract more state power and funding (ICG July 2006: 14). Third, Aceh’s religious bureaucracy was able to assert its authority to the extent that it did because of dramatic changes to Aceh’s political landscape. GAM remained basically opposed to Syari’ah, but after the signing of the Helsinki MoU in August 2005, the former rebels became more circumspect in their public criticism of Islamic law during the build-up to Aceh’s 2006 local elections. As Irwandi Yusuf explained, ‘If we win [the election], we will put an end to Syari’ah. But we have to be careful about how we approach this matter because most Acehnese people accept it’ (interview, 6 August, 2006). Fourth, the accelerated expansion of Islamic law after the tsunami was made possible by a shift in public opinion. The great majority of Acehnese people tried to make sense of, and cope with the disaster through religion. As the Christian NGO World Vision observed, all of their Acehnese interviewees believed that ‘the culture of Islam is an excellent antidote to fear and grieving’ (Mashni et al 2005: 46). Somewhat differently, Médecins Sans Frontiëres found in their psychological evaluation of tsunami victims in Banda Aceh that ‘Without exception, the people we spoke with during the assessment understood the tsunami as a punishment or a warning from Allah for being “immoral”’ (de Jong et al 2005). Related to this popular belief that the tsunami was divine punishment for the collective sins committed by the Acehnese people was the idea that strict adherence to Syari’ah was necessary to prevent another disaster. This message was often repeated by ulama during Friday prayers to advance their own conservative agenda and effectively stifle healthy public debate about what form and direction Aceh’s Islamic legal system should take. For instance, during the first Friday prayers after the tsunami, the General Secretary of the Indonesian Ulama Council (MUI), Din Syamsuddin, told some 2,000 worshippers at Banda Aceh’s Baiturrahman Mosque that they might have caused the disaster. ‘Allah will not love us without also testing our love for Him…Maybe this disaster was because we have forgotten Him and His teachings and failed to implement Shari’ah law’, said Din Syamsuddin (WorldNetDaily, 8 January, 2005). Other ulama implausibly suggested that the tsunami was caused by the immoral conduct of women because far more women died than men, and, unlike many men who wore shorts, more women were found naked because their sarongs were ripped off by the waves. The survival of mosques in Banda Aceh and the nearby fishing village of Lampu’uk were also widely interpreted as testimony of divine intervention in the disaster and a warning to the Acehnese to become better Muslims. Little wonder, then, that Syari’ah was uncritically accepted by many Acehnese who sought solace in Islam and Friday prayers after the tsunami. While few

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Acehnese criticized Islamic law itself, however, some groups and individuals expressed concerns about its interpretation and application in Aceh. The day after his electoral victory, Irwandi Yusuf was careful not to reject Syari’ah as such, but vowed to stop its repressive expansion under his watch because ‘For us, sharia is less about punishment and more about how to improve the well-being of the people’ (Bangkok Post, 12 December, 2006). Somewhat differently, Acehnese human rights NGOs and women’s organizations criticized Aceh’s Islamic legal system for its exclusion of human rights instruments to defend the province’s most socially marginalized groups, namely women and the poor. The humanitarian NGO International Islamic Christian Organization for Reconciliation and Reconstruction (IICORR) pointed out that the ‘extreme interpretation’ of Syari’ah in Aceh was incompatible with, and alien to, previous understandings of Islamic law in Aceh, and that its failure to provide redress for past human rights violations and corruption had produced negative social consequences (ICCO 2007: 9). One Acehnese human rights activist of the London-based NGO TAPOL (Indonesian Human rights Campaign), Aguswandi, similarly argued that in focusing on moral minutiae, Aceh’s conservative religious administration was ‘actually diminishing Islam, reducing it to small things that are inadequate or irrelevant in the face of the challenges of modern life or development’ (The Jakarta Post, 26 January, 2006). Acehnese women’s NGOs were mostly critical of growing acts of religious violence against them under Islamic law. Reflecting a common perception amongst Acehnese feminist groups, and also amongst former GAM rebels, one female journalist Mardiyah Chamin blamed the discriminate targeting of Acehnese women under Syari’ah on ‘Arab cultural imperialism’, or the importation of Arab cultural norms and values rather than the Islamic religion (Indonesia Matters, 16 April, 2006). It is worth noting that Acehnese women’s groups who have been critical of Islamic law have mainly appealed to foreign audiences. Acehnese women who have spoken out against the repressive aspects of Syari’ah have often been labelled ‘un-Islamic’ or ‘secular’. Aceh’s male-dominated conservative Islamic bureaucracy has dominated public debate and dictated the direction of Syari’ah. The expansion of Islamic law since the tsunami also has created growing space for the voices of conservative women’s organizations to be heard. The most prominent of these, the Aceh government’s Bureau for Women’s Empowerment (Biro Pemberdayaan Perempuan, BPP), has sent mixed messages about gender equality to the women they claim to represent by encouraging women to challenge traditional gender stereotypes on the one hand, but on the other hand warning them not to ‘forget their role as determined by God as women’ or their husband’s ‘right to lead their wives and to fulfill their wives biological, sociological, psychological and economic rights’ (Vianen 2006: 5). This has generally been the approach taken by post-Suharto Aceh governments, which have promoted gender equality within an Islamic framework while opposing ‘immoral’ Western conceptions of gender equality. Concerns amongst former GAM rebels, human rights NGOs and women’s organizations about the increasingly repressive interpretation and implementation

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of Syari’ah have been fuelled by the zeal and discriminatory manner in which alleged violations of Islamic law have been dealt with by the Wilayatul Hisbah, especially in the field of criminal law (jinayah). Significantly, although Aceh’s Syari’ah courts are authorized to settle cases in the fields of civil law (mu’amalah), family law (ahwal al syakhsiyah) and criminal law, only the latter body of legislation has expanded in Aceh. Civil and family law cases have continued to be decided according to the nationally applicable ‘Compilation of Islamic Law’ (Kompilasi Hukum Islam, KHI), which is used in Indonesia’s other Islamic religious courts.41 According to Islamic law expert Michael Feener, since 2006, divorce cases have comprised the majority of cases tried in the Mahkamah Syari’at in Banda Aceh, which have been settled in a similar manner to divorce cases in Islamic religious courts elsewhere in Indonesia (interview, 28 September, 2007). Despite this, jinayah cases have generated the most publicity, especially the moral offences of khalwat (close proximity between unrelated men and women), gambling (maisir) and the sale and consumption of alcohol and other illegal substances (khamar). According to Aceh’s Syari’ah Agency, of the 107 Islamic criminal convictions in 2005, 79 were for gambling, 20 were for drinking/substance abuse and 8 were for khalwat offences. In 2006, 44 of the 85 jinayah court convictions were gambling cases, 20 were alcohol/narcotics cases and 21 were khalwat cases (Serambi Indonesia, 8 June, 2007). Although Aceh’s Islamic courts have dealt with more than twice as many gambling cases as khalwat offences in recent years, the media, feminist and human rights NGOs and Indonesian and foreign academics have portrayed Islamic law enforcement in Aceh as primarily focusing on monitoring and preventing khalwat (Serambi Indonesia, 12 June, 2007). There are several reasons for this. First, khalwat cases are more attractive to the mass media than gambling offences. Second, while Acehnese feminists (who, unlike gamblers, have established accessible NGOs) have been marginalized in Aceh, their opinions have been valued by many Western observers, who themselves oppose Islamic law. Third, the great majority of khalwat cases never go to court. Fourth, the Wilayatul Hisbah has gained notoriety for its handling of several high-profile khalwat cases though its raids on segregated beauty salons, hotels and public humiliation of women who do not wear ‘Islamic’ dress. Fifth, the WH has itself expressed considerable interest in searching for khalwat offenders. The WH district secretary for Banda Aceh, Zaki, has described his unit’s civic duties as largely focusing on ‘socializing’ Islamic law, counselling unmarried couples and women to wear Islamic dress and ensuring respect for the ban on gambling and alcohol. Unlike the police, the WH’s authority has so far been limited to conducting identity checks, and they are required to obtain police assistance before undertaking investigations and making arrests. Despite this, there have been numerous reports of the WH’s involvement in more invasive activities. Even Aceh’s WH chief, Rajan Rada, admitted to encroaching on police authority when he said that ‘If we see a woman date her boyfriend, we take her away from him’ (AFP, 6 October, 2006). Such incidents have made the WH widely unpopular and have earned the squad a reputation for aggressiveness and poor professionalism.

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There has also been an increasingly common perception in Aceh that women and poor people have been the primary targets of WH raids. This view that Islamic justice has been unevenly dispensed has been reinforced by the penalty system for jinayah offences. Many of the men caught gambling have only raised the stakes to a few dollars and have been unable to pay the minimum fine of Rp.15 million (US$1,640). In one typical case in 2005, five young men who were arrested for playing dominos only had Rp.30,000 (US$3.30) between them (Serambi Indonesia, 24 August, 2005). People who have been unable to pay fines for gambling, khalwat and alcohol consumption have not been subjected to the public humiliation and physical distress of being caned. This selective application of Islamic justice has created resentment amongst the civilian population and reinforced the general perception that Syari’ah has been reduced to a political elite commodity. Reflecting this sentiment, one Banda Aceh resident asked: ‘Why is the caning sentence only targeting the gamblers, drinkers and those who have committed adultery? It should apply also to the graft convicts’ (The Jakarta Post, 23 June, 2005). From a different perspective, an Acehnese ‘lashing executioner’ (algojo hukuman cambuk) contended that ‘The law is equal for everybody. It’s just that the people who have been caught are poor people’ (Financial Times, 6 October, 2006). Those responsible for monitoring and enforcing Islamic law have also been fond of emphasizing that corporal punishment in Aceh is the most humane in the world because a doctor must oversee public canings, which must stop if the canee is unable to bear the pain, and, unlike parts of the Middle East and Africa, Aceh’s provincial government has so far resisted introducing legislation to amputate the hands of thieves or stone adulterers to death. An interesting paradox in Acehnese perceptions about Syari’ah is that while many people have viewed the implementation of Islamic law as unfair and discriminatory, corporal punishment has been highly popular. Public canings have attracted enthusiastic audiences and have often had a carnival atmosphere. They have also been televised for mass viewing in other parts of Indonesia and in neighbouring Malaysia, where stricter interpretations of Syari’ah in Malaysian provinces such as Kelantan, Negeri Sembilan and Kedah have been viewed by conservative Acehnese Muslims as a model for Aceh. In addition to providing a form of free entertainment, such public spectacles have been supported because of the common belief in Aceh that the Acehnese themselves caused the tsunami through their sins. This lingering sense of collective guilt has been repeatedly reinforced by ulama in mosques at Friday prayers. Still, there remains an ongoing gap between in principle support for Islamic law and public resentment over its practical application. While fines and other punishments have been meted out for moral misconduct and other infringements of Syari’ah, the DPRD has not moved to introduce anti-corruption qanun. Alyasa Abubakar, the head of Aceh’s Syari’ah Agency, has argued that this is not important because ‘there is already national legislation on corruption’ (interview, 25 July, 2006), even though such legislation has rarely been invoked to settle major graft cases. There have also been tensions between Aceh governor Irwandi Yusuf, who has opposed Jakarta’s imposition of Islamic law, and the religious

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bureaucracy, which has been intent on increasing and expanding its own power and jurisdiction. GAM’s opposition to Syari’ah in turn has implications for the capacity of Aceh’s executive to constructively engage with both Jakarta officials and Aceh’s religious administration in resolving ongoing problems arising from the implementation of Islamic law. On the balance, while the expanding application of Islamic law under the LoGA could potentially assist the Acehnese people in coming to terms with their legacy of violence and social trauma (for example, by deciding on serious crimes such as murder, rape and corruption), it has so far reinforced unequal power hierarchies rather than promote the formation of a more egalitarian society. Aceh’s Syari’ah framework is still in its infancy and those legally responsible for interpreting and enforcing Islamic law have been reluctant to search for new ways to address Aceh’s serious social and economic problems through Islamic law. Syari’ah’s defenders have generally been more concerned with morality as an end in itself rather than with the Islamic principles of social justice and welfare as means to a greater end. This narrow focus has in turn contributed towards the growth of a kind of moral vigilantism, making it difficult for the public to hold to account Aceh’s religious bureaucracy, while at the same time enabling opportunistic Islamist groups to take the law into their own hands. Fiscal decentralization Aceh’s revenue-sharing arrangements with Jakarta, which come into effect from the start of the 2008–9 financial year, are slightly more generous than those outlined in the NAD law. The LoGA broadly conforms with the Helsinki MoU, which stipulates that Aceh is entitled to retain 70 percent of natural resource revenues generated within its borders. Like the NAD law, the LoGA returns 70 percent of Aceh’s oil and gas profits, although under the new system the clause from the NAD law that Aceh’s oil and gas proceeds will be reduced to 50 percent in the ninth year has been omitted. Aceh will continue to be awarded 80 percent of revenues in the forestry, fisheries, general mining and geothermal mining sectors, the same as Indonesia’s other provinces. Unlike Indonesia’s other provinces, however, Aceh is entitled to a substantial Special Autonomy Fund (Dana Otonomi Khusus) under the LoGA (Chapter XXIV). This fund derives from a central government discretionary block grant called the General Allocation Fund (Dana Alokasi Umum, DAU), which was created at the start of Indonesia’s decentralization process to reduce economic disparities between rich and poor regions (see Chapter Three). While Indonesia’s other provinces each receive 1 percent of the DAU, Aceh is entitled to an additional 2 percent of the DAU for 15 years under the LoGA to assist in its recovery from the conflict and tsunami, which will be reduced to 1 percent of the DAU in the 16th to the 20th years (2023–2028). From an Acehnese perspective, the main problem with these new financial arrangements with Jakarta is not the amount of revenue Aceh will receive, but the administration of profits derived from the province’s natural resource wealth.

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Under the new system, the Finance Ministry retains responsibility for collecting and redistributing revenues back to Aceh and Indonesia’s other provinces (Chapter IV). This caused tensions between Aceh’s provincial government and Jakarta under the NAD law because neither the Finance Ministry nor the stateowned Pertamina oil company disclosed their oil and gas profits, with the result that Aceh’s political leadership did not know how much revenue they were entitled to receive. When the LoGA was introduced, GAM, SIRA and several Acehnese NGOs argued that in perpetuating this flawed administrative system, Jakarta violated the Helsinki MoU, which states that Aceh is ‘entitled to retain’ 70 percent of its own revenues. The architects of the LoGA attempted to provide some redress for past problems arising from the transfer of funds to Aceh by including a clause requiring the central government to implement ‘the accountability principle in the collection and allocation of revenue deriving from Aceh’ (Chapter XXIV). To achieve transparency, the law stipulates that audits must be conducted by an independent auditor nominated by the State Auditing Agency [Badan Pemeriksa Keuangan, BPK]. The obvious difficulty with this regulatory mechanism, however, is that the BPK, which reports to the national parliament, has a reputation for failing to practise investigative auditing in major graft cases (Holloway 2004). As such, the agency’s capacity to recruit efficient independent auditors to monitor the transfer of funds to Aceh is questionable. Another potential problem with the new system relates to the structure of Aceh’s Special Autonomy Fund, which, like the General Allocation Fund that applies to Indonesia’s other provinces, distributes 90 percent of the fund to subprovincial administrations, while provincial governments receive just 10 percent. That Aceh’s sub-provincial administrations will be the primary beneficiaries of this fund raises the question of whether Aceh’s districts and mayoralties will follow the common pattern since the start of Indonesia’s democratization process of producing corrupt local government leaders, who ignore or oppose provincial government directives. The introduction of Law No.32/2004 (Chapter VIII) on Regional Government, which amended Law No.22/1999, sought to provide some redress for this problem by introducing sub-provincial direct local elections in a bid to make local government leaders more accountable to their constituents, but with little visible success, given the prevalence of vote buying in Indonesian election campaigns. In Aceh, the risk that sub-provincial administrations will ignore or refuse to cooperate with the provincial government may be reduced because, under the new system, provincial authorities retain control over the distribution of Aceh’s natural resource revenues to the districts/mayoralties. The structure of Aceh’s Special Autonomy Fund also increases the risk that more new costly and inefficient administrative divisions could be established, as has already occurred both in Aceh and elsewhere in Indonesia since the start of the national decentralization process. In Aceh, where the number of districts/mayoralties grew from 11 in 1998 to 21 in 2007, routine spending on salaries accounts for about 60 percent of local government budgets (WB 2006: xvi). Funding Aceh’s burgeoning bureaucracy has in turn led to reduced spending on social welfare and public services.

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The combination of Aceh’s Special Autonomy Fund (about US$450 million in 2008), natural resource revenues and spending on reconstruction by more than 250 foreign and national organizations on some 1,500 projects is technically adequate to cover the cost of rebuilding Aceh. The province’s total material losses from the tsunami were about US$4.45 billion, or 97 percent of Aceh’s gross domestic product. According to the World Bank, US$4.9 billion in projects and programmes had been allocated for the reconstruction effort in June 2006 and an additional US$3.1 billion had been pledged, bringing the total reconstruction budget to about US$8 billion. Of these allocated projects, most have been funded by donor organizations (US$2 billion) and NGOs (US$1.7 billion), while the Indonesian government has contributed US$1.2 billion. With the introduction of the financial component of the LoGA, Indonesian government funding to Aceh is expected to further increase from Rp.11.2 trillion (US$1.2 billion) in 2006–7 to almost Rp.16.7 trillion (US$1.84 billion) by 2011 (WB 2006: xvi). Like the NAD Law before it, the LoGA stipulates that Aceh’s provincial government must spend at least 30 percent of its increased budget on education (Chapter XXIV). Based on the provincial budget for the 2008–9 financial year, Aceh’s education budget is expected to increase to a staggering US$360 million in the 2008–9 financial year alone. Since the introduction of the NAD law, however, Aceh’s education system has seen few improvements. School attendance rates in Aceh have remained well below the national average, in part because of corruption and financial mismanagement at all levels of the state bureaucracy, and in part because of the conflict, when hundreds of schools were burnt down and tens of thousands of Acehnese families were displaced by the violence. The biggest blow to Aceh’s education system, however, was delivered by the tsunami, which killed some 2,000 school teachers and more than 200 university lecturers, and disrupted the education of about 140,000 elementary school students and 20,000 high school students. Since the tsunami, there have been some improvements in Aceh’s educational facilities because many donors and aid agencies have prioritized education programmes. Western donors such as USAID and its Australian counterpart AusAID have also made no secret of their geopolitical and security interests in containing the spectre of radical Islam in Aceh through their interventions into Islamic education. Despite these substantial increases in education spending, however, there are at least three outstanding problems that could compromise the efficacy of future public education expenditure under the LoGA if left unaddressed. First, most humanitarian and development organizations, which were only introduced to Aceh by the tsunami, have concentrated their efforts on rebuilding schools along Aceh’s battered coastline rather than further inland where about 75 percent of the population live, and where the worst of the fighting took place during the conflict. Even after becoming aware of the destructive impact of the conflict on Aceh’s education system, many donors felt unable to help because their funds had already been locked into post-tsunami recovery programmes. On average, more than 90 percent of students were enrolled in school in Aceh’s coastal urban centres during the conflict, compared with many

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inland rural areas, especially West and North Aceh, where non-attendance rates were the highest in Indonesia. The second problem is that most teachers, like health professionals, have not wanted to work in rural Aceh and have not yet been offered financial incentives to do so. Third, there is the issue of quality education. Although Aceh has the highest per-capita education expenditure in Indonesia, more than 60 percent of the education budget covers routine costs (such as teacher salaries) at the expense of better resources and improved educational facilities. The high number of teacher fatalities in the tsunami also reduced the quality of education in tsunami-affected areas, where university students have replaced deceased trained teachers in many schools. Apart from regulating education expenditure, the LoGA stipulates that Aceh’s provincial government must spend up to 70 percent of its increased budget on economic, social and infrastructural development (Article 183). If Jakarta continues to honour its commitment to the LoGA and return the increased revenues to which Aceh is entitled, then Aceh’s provincial government could improve public service delivery and create better employment and business opportunities. Given the outcomes of the large-scale reconstruction effort, however, which have been mixed at best, Aceh’s provincial government will inevitably encounter serious social and structural obstacles in this pursuit after the departure of the remaining foreign and national development agencies in 2009. Of the 30,000 Acehnese workers who were employed by foreign NGOs after the tsunami, 20,000 are expected to lose their jobs on completion of the reconstruction effort (The Jakarta Post, 29 October, 2007) Despite the massive injection of capital into Aceh since the tsunami, it remains the fourth poorest Indonesian province after Papua, Maluku and Gorontolo, and second only after Papua if the 13 percent of Acehnese who became vulnerable to poverty after the tsunami are included. With 28.5 percent of the local population living below the poverty line (earning Rp.130,000, or US$14 per month), Aceh’s poverty rate is almost double the national average of 16.7 percent (WB 2006: xiv). The provincial infrastructure, which was damaged or destroyed at a faster rate than it could be rebuilt during the conflict, and which was completely paralyzed by the tsunami, has only been partially repaired in Aceh’s urban centres, while entire villages along Aceh’s west coast have been abandoned. Running water and electricity too, which were only available to about half the local population during the conflict, have become increasingly irregular since the tsunami. An important obstacle to fiscal decentralization in Aceh is that this process has not included concerted efforts to improve the capacity of Acehnese government officials to manage their increased budgets and responsibilities. This lack of expertise has severely impeded the effective distribution of state resources. In 2006, a World Bank survey found that most of Aceh’s sub-provincial governments lacked the necessary skills, knowledge and capacity to effectively plan, manage and implement their budgets, and all but three local governments performed poorly in at least one strategic area (WB 2007: 7). The main reason for this was that Aceh’s local political leadership tended to prioritize spending on vehicles, equipment and buildings over staff training, which was limited.

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These restrictions on state capacity in Aceh have occurred at all levels of government, as shown by the delayed implementation of projects and programmes in the post-tsunami reconstruction effort. A 2006 assessment conducted by the nongovernmental organization Greenomics Indonesia found that the Indonesian government’s Aceh and Nias Rehabilitation and Reconstruction Agency (BRR) caused 49.56 percent of delays in the rebuilding of homes, state infrastructure, public facilities and delivery of financial assistance to small business owners, while Aceh’s district-level governments were responsible for 23.01 percent of delays (2006: 4–5). The large percentage of delays caused by the BRR can be explained by its central role in the reconstruction effort; the agency was established in April 2005 with a mandate to coordinate and implement the Indonesian government’s Master Plan (Rencana Induk) for post-tsunami reconstruction and to facilitate the coordination of central and local government, international, foreign and national NGO programmes. With the scheduled withdrawal of the BRR and development organizations from Aceh in 2009, the responsibilities of Aceh’s provincial and local governments in managing state resources are expected to significantly increase. Since October 2007, however, when the BRR began transferring its duties to the provincial government, Aceh’s political leadership has taken few steps towards improving the capacity of local governments to effectively manage their budgets by hiring professionals and training staff. Although Aceh governor Irwandi Yusuf has retained a clean reputation since entering office, he does not have an administrative background. Irwandi’s government has also demonstrated preferential treatment towards former GAM rebels by awarding them reconstruction contracts over other potentially more suitable candidates. While providing business opportunities to ex-combatants could dissuade them from resorting to crime or returning to fighting, such nepotism and patronage networks equally threaten to impede the development of good governance practises as Aceh struggles to rebuild itself. Despite the challenges and obstacles towards implementing self-government in Aceh, the prospects for sustainable peace under the LoGA are substantially greater than they were under the NAD law. Although the LoGA represents a watered-down version of the Helsinki MoU, which may lead to future forms of conflict between Aceh’s provincial government and Jakarta, it also created a democratic framework within which to debate and work towards resolving problems arising from the implementation of self-government. The Yudhoyono administration’s commitment towards protecting this democratic framework allowed the Acehnese, in the first instance, to choose their own political representatives via an open, inclusive and transparent electoral process. The capacity of Aceh’s elected political leadership to strengthen this democratic framework will depend on its willingness to responsively govern and to democratically engage with Acehnese civil society actors. It will also depend on the provincial government’s determination and ability to prevent the repressive expansion of Aceh’s religious bureaucracy through the introduction of regulatory mechanisms to make Aceh’s religious authorities more accountable for their interpretation and enforcement of Islamic law. If Aceh’s democratic context is to be protected, then Aceh’s religious

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bureaucracy would also need to start rethinking how Islamic law could be interpreted and applied in Aceh to create a fairer and more equal society. This would involve, as a starting point, placing more emphasis on defending and protecting the Acehnese people against the threat and physical act of violence, and less emphasis on punishments for minor moral infringements. The introduction of the LoGA only provided a democratic framework for self-government in Aceh. The extent to which Aceh’s provincial leadership uses this framework to work towards building a democratic self-government of Aceh will determine the longer-term success of the LoGA.

10 Conclusion

Democratizing regimes that have attempted to accommodate their separatist movements through offers of autonomy have invariably encountered obstacles. The resolution of national identity problems is always indirect, often involves armed conflict, and sometimes results in the formation of new states born from countries completely dismembered by secessionist movements (such as the former Soviet Union, Czechoslovakia and Yugoslavia). Indonesia’s own difficult dilemma of how much freedom to grant the Acehnese people without relinquishing sovereignty over the territory of Aceh was reflected in the high level of disconnect between Jakarta’s security and autonomy policies about Aceh during the first seven years of Indonesia’s transition to democracy. The remarkable resolution of this almost three-decade old dilemma in the form of the ‘selfgovernment’ of Aceh in Indonesia stemmed from recognition by both parties that they could not militarily defeat each other, as well as their genuine desire to reach a negotiated settlement. This book has proposed that Indonesia’s capacity to resolve its Aceh dilemma since 1998 has depended to a great extent on political agency, or ‘will’. It has acknowledged, however, that the willingness of Indonesia’s political leadership to search for a negotiated solution to the Aceh conflict has been linked to particular structural preconditions and institutionalized power relations. In this, the methodological approaches of structure and agency have been treated as symbiotic rather than separate and irreconcilable. Though this book has focussed more on political actors and their choices, it has attempted to place them within the broader context of their physical environment and requisite networks. An interesting aspect of Jakarta’s political will to end the Aceh conflict between 1998 and 2007 is that it was greatest at two points when the Indonesian state was structurally extremely weak. The first point was in 1998 when Indonesia was embroiled in the political turmoil of regime change and bankrupted by the Asian financial crisis. Yet, President Habibie seized the window of opportunity presented by regime change – when the TNI was internally divided and publicly discredited – to withdraw thousands of non-organic troops from Aceh, launch the first human rights investigations into atrocities committed against Acehnese civilians and grant amnesty to hundreds of Acehnese political prisoners. However, as time elapsed after regime change, the Habibie administration’s resolve and

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capacity to develop ameliorative policies weakened as political and military hawks in Jakarta regained political ground and demanded a return to repression in Aceh. The second point, when the central government’s political commitment towards peacefully ending the Aceh conflict peaked, was after the 2004 Indian Ocean tsunami. Once again, Indonesian state authority was severely structurally compromised in Aceh. Not only was this because of the devastation wrought by the waves along Aceh’s battered coastline, but also because of structural weaknesses within the Indonesian state itself, such as systemic corruption and an unreformed security sector which often acted in ways that ran counter to state goals and objectives. Despite these structural weaknesses, Indonesia’s political leadership and GAM elected to use the window of opportunity created by the tsunami to reconsider their respective positions. One or both parties could have chosen to miss this opportunity or to unilaterally withdraw from the Helsinki peace process at any stage. Instead, both sides seized the chance to negotiate and use the international community’s assistance (and pressure) before the political moment was lost. Such political moments, or windows of opportunity, tend to appear during times of national crisis, when key political actors recognize that some critical aspect of the existing system has failed and decide to work towards instituting positive change. In democratizing regimes with national identity problems, democratic state actors can, but rarely do, use the political opportunity presented by the inherent instability of regime change to provide redress for the failed integration of their minority groups by seeking to accommodate them within the broader nation-state. More commonly, however, separatist minorities tend to exploit state vulnerabilities during the ‘crisis’ of democratic openings to mobilize support for their separatist cause, as the East Timorese successfully demonstrated in 1999 through their separation from Indonesia. In the case of Aceh, Indonesia’s political leadership had two windows of opportunity to democratically accommodate the Acehnese within the Indonesian state. The more time that passed after Indonesia’s democratic ‘breakthrough’, however, the increasingly intractable conflict in Aceh created opportunities for the TNI to become embedded in the state’s nascent democratic institutions and prevent weak civilian authorities from internalizing crucial aspects of democratic procedure. By contrast, after the tsunami, when the Yudhoyono administration signed the successful Helsinki peace agreement with GAM, it effectively delegitimized the TNI’s claim that its suppression of separatist threats justified its role in Indonesian politics. Windows of political opportunity that emerge in times of crisis tend to change the way political actors think about themselves and the range of opportunities available to them. When Indonesia embarked on its uncertain transition to democracy, Habibie quickly sought to distance himself from Suharto by establishing himself as a democratic leader. It was during his first few months in power that Habibie introduced his government’s most substantive political reforms in Aceh. As Indonesia’s democratization process continued, Indonesia’s political establishment either became less serious about national reforms or underestimated how

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difficult the democratization process would be, especially in conflict areas like Aceh and Papua. Under Abdurrahman Wahid, and to a greater extent under Megawati Sukarnoputri, Indonesia’s civilian leadership seemed to function on the assumption of limited state capacity. That is, even though troublesome political issues like the Aceh problem could be put on the table for discussion, they were ultimately seen as too hard to deal with. While Indonesia’s civilian leadership remained divided and indecisive about how to deal with GAM insurgents, however, the TNI continued to offer its traditional, if disingenuous ‘solution’: that any end to the Aceh conflict had to begin with the annihilation of GAM. This attitude remained alive and well until the tsunami, as shown by the unabated fighting on the ground and by Aceh’s ongoing civil emergency status. Though the disaster did not erase hostilities between GAM and Indonesian security forces overnight, it did trigger a change in approach by Yudhoyono’s government and GAM in their relations with each other. In this sense, the political will by both sides to return to the negotiating table was created by the tsunami, coupled with strong international assistance and pressure. What these causal factors did not do, however, was create the necessary political determination by Indonesia’s civilian authorities to control an armed forces that had vested business interests in Aceh and which remained basically hostile to any peace process with separatists. In putting the case that agency supported by structural preconditions was primarily responsible for the resolution of the Aceh conflict, this book has not supported the common argument that the military offensive against GAM played a decisive role in the rebels’ acceptance of the Helsinki agreement (Schulze 2007; Morfit 2007). GAM’s military and political strength was certainly weakest at two points when the political opportunity to end the Aceh conflict was greatest. In 1998, after a decade of military operations (the so-called ‘DOM’ period), and in December 2004, after almost two years of emergency rule in Aceh, GAM’s military reach had been dramatically reduced by the TNI’s counterinsurgency operations against them. Yet, when the tsunami struck, the rebels were not on the verge of collapse or surrender, as some have claimed. This was shown after the signing of the Helsinki agreement when GAM undertook to demobilize their then 3,000 military troops. The assumption that military operations played a key role in conflict resolution also suggests that the TNI’s conduct in Aceh was entirely professional, when in fact there was little or no evidence of security sector reform in Aceh before the 2004 tsunami. Throughout Aceh’s contemporary conflict, military operations were consistently the primary cause of GAM’s regeneration because of the atrocities committed by Indonesian security forces against the civilian population. Although it could be argued that Jakarta would have been unable to start implementing security sector reforms without a ‘shock’ of tsunami proportions, the first three post-Suharto administrations did have opportunities to start reforming Indonesia’s security sector, but for the most part lacked the political determination to do so. Security sector reform laws were passed under Habibie, but as president he refrained from interfering in the military’s internal reform process and

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granted growing concessions to the TNI over the Aceh issue during the 1999 legislative and executive election campaigns when his own political survival hung in the balance. Abdurrahman Wahid also sent non-organic troops back to Aceh just two months after ordering their withdrawal, and later turned his attention away from Aceh entirely when calls for his impeachment mounted. During her non-presidency, Megawati Sukarnoputri made no effort to reign in the TNI, in part because she accepted the military’s self-portrayal as the legitimate defender of national unity, and in part because she courted the TNI to ward off potential challenges to her leadership. Though these earlier presidents arguably had no choice but to grant concessions to the TNI during a period when Indonesia’s governing presence in Aceh was extremely weak and when the TNI was still politically powerful, they had to assume some responsibility in their leadership roles for their reluctance to subordinate the military to civilian control. As the Yudhoyono administration later showed, it was only by compelling the military to comply with the policy directives set by Indonesia’s civilian leadership that an Aceh settlement was possible. It should be remembered, however, that if the first three post-Suharto governments had not introduced initiatives to work towards a negotiated settlement to the Aceh problem, then the Yudhoyono administration may not have secured a peace agreement with GAM so soon after the tsunami, or at all. In historical perspective, the limited peace talks with GAM under the governments of Abdurrahman Wahid and Megawati Sukarnoputri may then be viewed more favourably. Similarly, the offers of special autonomy to the Acehnese people under the first three postSuharto governments could be regarded in hindsight as part of a broader legislative process that contributed towards the introduction of the Law on Governing Aceh (LoGA) in July 2006, which gave Aceh meaningful autonomy within the Indonesian state. The Law on Governing Aceh has by no means ended all of Aceh’s political and structural problems, which remain substantial. The omission from the LoGA of key provisions in the Helsinki MoU is an ongoing source of dispute between Aceh and Jakarta and a potential basis for future conflict. Although the provision in the LoGA allowing Aceh to implement Islamic law has generally proven popular, the interpretation and implementation of Islamic law by Aceh’s religious bureaucracy has sown seeds of discontent amongst sections of the local population. Many people have expressed valid complaints that Islamic law has been used to discriminate against the most marginalized elements of Acehnese society. Various forms of local conflict could also manifest if fiscal decentralization is not effectively managed under the new system. If regulatory mechanisms are not introduced to minimize corruption and to hold local governments accountable for managing and spending their increased budgets, then Aceh’s democratically elected leadership may lose legitimacy, as occurred under past Aceh administrations. The provincial government’s capacity to rebuild the local economy is especially important in a society with a recent history of social trauma, and where criminal activity is more likely to spread if state institutions fail to provide adequate public services and facilities and business opportunities.

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Beyond these lingering problems and the challenges that lie ahead, there has been a palpable sense of renewal in Aceh since the start of self-government. Cities that resembled ghost towns during the conflict have been transformed into bustling hubs of activity. People who were once too afraid to leave their homes at night now flock to social events and night markets throughout the province. Political views that were previously repressed can be openly articulated without fear of violent retribution. Aceh’s renewal was brought about in the first instance by the political commitment of the Indonesian government and GAM towards the Helsinki peace process. It was strengthened through the institutionalization of critical aspects of democratic procedure in the form of direct democratic local elections and the introduction of Aceh-based political parties. Jakarta’s acceptance of the election of former GAM rebels as the legitimate political representatives of the Acehnese people marked a leap forward in Indonesia’s process of political development. The continued political will and commitment by both Jakarta and Aceh’s directly elected government towards protecting the Helsinki peace agreement will have ongoing implications for Indonesia’s transition to democracy, and more broadly, for the future direction of Indonesia’s process of political development.

Notes

1 The original British spelling of ‘Acheh’ is generally preferred by GAM, reflecting the rebels’ rejection of the Indonesian spelling. Despite his outspoken opposition to most other things Dutch, GAM’s founding leader Hasan di Tiro also used the old Dutch spelling of ‘Atjeh’ to establish the ‘Atjeh Institute in America’ and GAM’s ‘Ministry of Information of the State of Atjeh Sumatra’ (Kementerian Penerangan Negara Atjeh Sumatra). See, for example, di Tiro 1965. The Political Future of the Malay Archipelago, Atjeh Institute in America, New York. 2 TNI is an acronym for Tentara Nasional Indonesia, which literally translates as Indonesian National Army. Since 1999, when Indonesia’s armed forces were officially separated, the Indonesian military’s formal title has been TNI-AD (Tentara Nasional Indonesia Angkatan Darat, literally, Indonesian National Army-Land Force). 3 Anthony Reid, for example, points out that Hasan di Tiro, who was already a successful international businessman before his establishment of GAM, wrote ‘all about history and hubris, and very little about gas’. Reid, R. 2004. ‘War, Peace and the Burden of History’, Asian Ethnicity, vol.5, no.3, p.306. 4 The Darul Islam rebellion started in West Java under the leadership of S. M. Kartosuwirjo, who pronounced an ‘Islamic State of Indonesia’ in West Java on 7 August, 1949. Kahin, A. R. 1999. Rebellion to Integration. West Sumatra and the Indonesian Polity, 1926–1998, Amsterdam University Press, Amsterdam, p.175. 5 When the Darul Islam Rebellion erupted in Aceh in September 1953, Hasan di Tiro was working at the Indonesian Representative Office to the United Nations in New York. He resigned from that position to appoint himself the Darul Islam ‘ambassador’ to the United Nations, a move that was supported by Acehnese Darul Islam leaders, and later those in South Sulawesi. Nazaruddin Sjamsuddin, ‘Issues and Politics of Regionalism in Indonesia: Evaluating the Acehnese Experience’ in Joo-Jock, L. and Vani, S., eds. 1984. Armed Separatism in Southeast Asia, Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Pasir Panjang, Singapore, 1984, p.115; Hiorth, F. June 1986. ‘Free Aceh: An Impossible Dream?’, Kabar Seberang: Sulating Maphilindo, no.17, p.182. 6 On 21 July, 2002, the ASNLF changed its name to GAM through the signing of the ‘Stavanger Declaration’, which reflected GAM’s changing vision from the reestablishment of an Acheh sultanate to an independent State of Acheh, based on democracy. GAM’s military wing, AGAM (Angkatan Gerakan Acheh Merdeka) was also changed to TNA (Tentara Neugara Aceh, Aceh National Army). Stavanger Declaration. 21 July, 2002, Stavanger, Norway. 7 di Tiro, H. 1984. The Price of Freedom: The Unfinished Diary of Tengku Hasan di Tiro, National Liberation Front of Aceh Sumatra, London, pp.15–17. 8 Although the military operations in Aceh during this period became commonly known as ‘DOM’, the ‘Red Net’ operations and command structure formed their legal basis, not DOM.

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9 ‘Non-organic’ refers to troops deployed to a province on a short-term basis for specific combat exercises and counterinsurgency operations. ‘Organic’ denotes troops recruited within their own province, which are permanently attached to the local territorial command structure. In provinces like Aceh, however, the deep mistrust between the civilian population and the TNI made it difficult to recruit ethnic Acehnese into organic battalions, so troops organic to other territorial commands were deployed to Aceh to reinforce counterinsurgency operations against GAM. 10 According to one nationwide survey, Aceh was the province with the fewest ‘coping strategies’ (measured by sale of personal assets in exchange for food and reduced participation in community activities) to deal with the crisis. Sumarto, S., Wetterberg, A. and Pritchett, L. 1998. ‘The Social Impact of the Crisis in Indonesia: Results from a Nationwide Kecamatan Survey’, Development Economics Working Papers 112, East Asian Bureau of Economic Research, pp.7, 9, 10, 21, 26. See also Sulaiman, I. ‘From Autonomy to Periphery: A Critical Evaluation of the Acehnese Nationalist Movement’ in Reid, A. ed., 2006. Verandah of Violence, The Historical Background to the Aceh Problem, Singapore University Press, Singapore, p.126; Ross, M. 5 June, 2003. Resources and Rebellion in Aceh, Indonesia, paper prepared for The World Bank Project on ‘The Economics of Political Violence’, Department of Political Science, UCLA, p.24. 11 A national survey conducted in 2003–4 by the research organization Demos found that 47 percent of 800 respondents first identified themselves with the Indonesian nationstate, their province or district, while the other 53 percent primarily identified themselves with their local, ethnic or religious communities. Olle Tornquist. 20 January, 2005. ‘Indonesian Democracy: Facade or underway?’, The Jakarta Post. 12 Support for GAM was limited for more than a decade after the movement’s inauguration. The New Order’s counterinsurgency campaign in Aceh almost succeeded in crushing GAM by the early 1980s. GAM’s growth after 1986, which led to the imposition of ‘DOM’ in Aceh in 1989, stemmed from Hasan di Tiro’s ability to secure GAM funding and military training from the Libyan dictator Colonel Muammar al-Gadhafi, as well as the continuation of centre–periphery imbalances and depredations against the civilian population that had assisted the movement’s emergence. See Miller, M. A. 2004 ‘The Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam Law: A Seroius Response to Acehnese Separatism?’, Asian Ethnicity, vol.5, no.3, p.338. 13 With five serving ABRI officers, Habibie’s government contained a slightly stronger military presence than Suharto’s final Seventh Development Cabinet. 14 ICMI predominantly comprised elite members from Indonesia’s second largest Islamic organization, Muhammadiyah. When ICMI was formed in 1990, it was seen as an attempt by Suharto to counteract a secular nationalist ABRI faction and a growing Muslim upper middle class that were becoming increasingly critical of the New Order regime. For more detailed studies of ICMI, see, for example, Hefner, R. W. October 1993. ‘Islam, State and Civil Society: ICMI and the Struggle for the Indonesian Middle Class’, Indonesia, No.56, Ithaca, New York, pp.1–37; Bahar, A. et al. 1995. ICMI Kekuasaan dan Demokrasi, Pena Cendekia Indonesia, Yogyakarta. 15 In April 1999, the armed forces (Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia, ABRI) were formally separated into the army (Tentara Nasional Indonesia-Angkatan Darat [TNIAD], literally, Indonesian National Army-Land Force), navy (Angkatan Laut, TNI-AL), air force (Angkatan Udara, TNI-AU) and police force (Polisi Republik Indonesia, Polri). 16 During the late New Order, the secular nationalist faction was also known as the antiSuharto, ‘red-and-white’ faction, as opposed to the conservative Islamic pro-Suharto, ‘green’ Islamic faction. These divisions persisted under Habibie, but lessened over time. 17 A notable exception to this trend was the 1987 general election, in which the New Order–backed Golkar party won a majority of votes in all the provinces. See King, D. Y. and Rasjid, R. 1988. ‘The Golkar Landslide in the 1987 elections: the case of Aceh’, Asian Survey, vol. 28, no.9, pp.916–25.

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18 The separation of Indonesia’s armed forces was mandated in two MPR rulings, TAP MPR No.VI and No.VII of 2000. TAP MPR No.VI/2000 separated the police force from the army, while TAP MPR No.VII outlined the functions of the two forces. 19 From 1956 until 1985, Aceh had its own Iskandar Muda Kodam. The decision to close it was part of an initiative by the then ABRI Chief, General Benny Moerdani, to streamline the armed forces by reducing the number of Kodam from 17 to 10, and to cut military expenditure based on a 1982 Defence Review. 20 There were rumours that Ahmad Kandang was a Brimob informer. 21 The 1945 Constitution (Article 179) regulates the ‘right and duty of all able citizens to assist in the maintenance of the independence of the Republic’ and ‘in the defence of the territory.’ Article 180 stipulates ‘compulsory service in the armed forces’ by ‘volunteers and conscripts.’ The constitution provided the basis for Law No.23/1959 on ‘Military Emergency Authority’, which instructed residents to contribute their time and service towards national defence in a state of emergency. Law No.20/1982 on ‘Points for Defence and Security’ further mandates active public participation in emergency situations, although this must be in the form of military conscription. As Aceh was not under emergency rule in 1999, sections of the armed force wanted a supporting regulation, or a separate law, to formally conscript civilian militias. 22 Under New Order, the government’s large-scale transmigration program was widely unpopular in Aceh and elsewhere in Indonesia, where it was seen as a government strategy to ethnically dilute Acehnese culture, religion and traditions. 23 According to the Aceh branch of the Legal Aid Foundation (LBH), there were 332 unlawful arrests in 1999 (Waspada, 29 December, 1999). 24 After Benny Moerdani fell out of favour with President Suharto, it was rumoured that he sponsored sections of the military with links to GAM to undermine the credibility of a rival TNI faction in Aceh. In 1990, for example, Sergeant Robert Suryadarma from Battalion 111 in East Aceh, who was arrested for marijuana smuggling, was later discovered to have close ties with Rizal Gading, the leader of a GAM splinter group, who reportedly had close ties to Benny Moerdani (Laksamana.net, 10 July, 2002). 25 The military’s budget was increased from Rp.11.6 trillion to Rp.18.9 trillion per annum, with an additional Rp.9.12 trillion for military equipment and Rp.5.45 trillion for salaries (TNI Watch!, 15 December, 1999). 26 In 2002, the Henry Dunant Centre changed its name to the Centre for Humanitarian Dialogue, although in Indonesia the HDC acronym continued to be used. 27 There were 203 reported fatalities from April when Inpres No.4/ 2001 was passed until the third week of August 2001. (Kompas, 23 August, 2001; The Jakarta Post, 24 August, 2001). 28 Yudhoyono resigned from Megawati’s cabinet on 8 March, 2004, and announced his decision to run for president soon afterwards. 29 In 1996, Megawati’s PDI party headquarters was ransacked by security forces personnel, and dozens of PDI members were killed. 30 According to the TNI–Polri’s own conservative statistics, 1,508 TNI personnel, 769 police officers and 72 air force staff had broken the law in 2000 (Kompas, 9 March, 2001). 31 The six detained negotiators were Nashiruddin bin Ahmad, Amni Marzuki, Amdi bin Hamdani, Tgk. Kamaruzzaman, Tgk. Mahmud and Sofyan Ibrahim Tiba. Five of the GAM negotiators were arrested on 20 July at the Kuala Trip Hotel in Banda Aceh. The sixth negotiator was later arrested at his home on 4 August. The six negotiators were charged under Article 106 of the Indonesian Criminal Code for waging war against the Indonesian state. None of the negotiators were granted amnesty as the charges against them were not dropped even after their release from prison on 29 August. 32 For more detailed studies of this peace process, see Aspinall, A. and Crouch, H. 2003. The Aceh Peace Process: Why it Failed, Policy Studies 1, East-West Center, Washington D.C.; Huber, K. 2004. The HDC in Aceh: Promises and Pitfalls of NGO

Notes

33 34

35

36 37

38 39 40

41

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Mediation and Implementation, Policy Studies 9, East-West Center, Washington D.C.; International Crisis Group. February 2003. Aceh: A Fragile Peace, ICG Asia Report No. 47, Jakarta/Brussels; Kay, K. 2002/03. ‘The “New Humanitarianism”: The Henry Dunant Center and the Aceh Peace Negotiations’, Woodrow Wilson School of Public Affairs, Case Study; Shie, T. R. 19 December, 2003. Disarming for Peace in Aceh: Lessons Learned, Monterey Institute of International Studies, Monterey, California. After GAM refused to negotiate until their release, the five were freed but not in time to fly to Tokyo. Khalwat is defined in Qanun No.14/2003 (Chapter VII, 26) as ‘the act of being alone by two or more people who are not married or in a relationship sanctioned by Islam (muhrim), which could lead to immoral sexual acts or the opportunity to commit adultery’. The decision by the drafters of the khalwat qanun not to impose a separate punishment for adultery (zina) appears to have been based on the assumption that the khalwat penalties were a sufficient deterrent for would-be adulterers. Indonesia’s law on political parties was not changed before the introduction of the Law on Governing Aceh (LoGA) in July 2006, which allowed the formation of Aceh-based parties and independent candidates (see Chapter Nine). The Indonesian government prioritized the resolution of the Aceh conflict via the LoGA and decided that Indonesia’s existing electoral laws could later be amended to accommodate the new elections provisions in the Aceh legislation. The new National Intelligence Agency (BIN) Chief, Major General (ret.) Syamsir Siregar, also opposed the 1996 attack on the PDI headquarters and resigned from the TNI soon afterwards. It is possible that Yudhoyono and Kalla’s prior involvement in resolving the sectarian conflicts in Poso and the Moluccas under the Megawati administration initially led them to mistakenly believe that domestic talks were the most viable option for reopening the Aceh peace process. Yudhoyono had also publicly promoted holding domestic peace talks with GAM’s local leadership during Megawati’s presidency (see Chapter Six). Elections were not held in South Aceh and Bireuen because the terms of the indirectly elected officials there had not expired. Two notable exceptions were a bomb explosion in Sawang village, North Aceh and a physical attack on the leading non-GAM candidate Humam Hamid by Irwandi Yusuf’s supporters in Bireuen. By October 2007, there were seven Acehnese parties, but none had been able to register with Aceh’s Justice and Human Rights government office, which claimed to lack the necessary ‘technical guidance and finances from the central government’ (The Jakarta Post, 27 October, 2007). The KHI was introduced via Presidential Decree in 1991 to achieve greater national consistency in Islamic religious court rulings.

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Index

Abdullah, Zaini 170 ABRI, see TNI Abubakar, Alyasa 91, 138, 176 Abubakar, Mustafa 34 academics 47, 53, 95, 130, 137, 175, 179 Aceh Barat Daya 169 Aceh Besar 74, 134, 163 Aceh-Dutch war, see Dutch, Aceh war Aceh Merdeka 27, 35, 49, 52, 165; see also GAM Aceh Monitoring Mission (AMM) 159-162 Aceh People’s Congress, see KRA Aceh Singkil 142, 144 activism/activists 52, 63, 69, 84, 170; human rights 63, 81, 174; student 69 adat 41, 43, 52, 91, 93, 137; see also customary law administrations 59, 63, 143, 167, 177-178; GAM 81, 122, 150, 154; national 1-3, 14-15, 17, 21, 23, 33-34, 40-42, 50, 52, 61-62, 65, 68, 82, 95, 102-107, 111-116, 118, 124, 126, 128-129, 135, 141-142, 144-145, 149-150, 152-153, 155-156, 181; local/provincial 35, 41-42, 44, 46, 48, 51, 53, 94, 98, 118, 128, 131-138, 144, 173-174, 177-178; see also government Afghanistan 92, 112 agriculture 13, 32, 48 Ahtisaari, Martti 155, 157-158 air force 35, 87, 119 Akabri 62 al-Qaeda 111-112 ALA-ABAS movement 144 Alas 4, 127, 134, 142 alcohol 137, 139-140, 175-176 Ali, Fachry 34 Ambon 151 Aneuk Jamee 4 Arab 174

Arabic 3, 32, 92 Ar-Raniry Indonesian State Islamic University (IAIN) 44, 53-54, 76, 84, 139 armed forces 4, 15-16, 19-20, 22-25, 27, 30, 33, 35-40, 43, 49-50, 52, 62, 64-65, 69-77, 79, 81-87, 92, 101, 105-113, 115, 119, 122-123, 126, 131-132, 140, 149, 153-154, 157, 160, 162-163, 167, 185; non-organic 5, 14, 19, 21-22, 24-25, 29, 35, 37-38, 60, 66, 71, 73-75, 104, 109, 121, 159-163; organic 23, 25, 71-72, 114, 159-160, 183, 186; see also Brimob, police, TNI ASEAN 129, 159 ASNLF, see GAM atrocities, see civilian(s), violence against; human rights, abuses; violence authoritarian(ism) 2, 5-7, 13, 18, 21, 64, 101 autonomy 5, 8-9, 25, 35, 37, 41-47, 49-51, 53-54, 60, 63, 65-67, 71, 77, 83, 87-96, 128-129, 165, 167, 183, 186; legislation 41, 44-45, 47-48, 50-52, 54, 60, 88-92, 95-97, 103, 127-129, 131, 140, 144; special 1, 3, 5, 14, 33, 40-43, 45, 47-55, 67, 70, 86-93, 95-98, 103, 105, 112, 116, 118-119, 127-132, 136, 143-145, 153, 158, 168, 177-179, 186; see also decentralization, law, autonomy, NAD, Special Region of Aceh Awaluddin, Hamid 152, 157 Bachtiar, Da’i 124 Baiturrahman mosque 33, 55, 66, 80, 92, 121, 173 Bakorstanas 28 Banda Aceh 15, 23, 26, 30, 32-34, 40, 50-51, 53-55, 66-67, 69, 80, 84, 90, 92-93, 106, 110, 115, 120-121, 123-125, 131, 134-135, 138, 143, 157, 161-162, 172-173, 176

210

Index

Bantaqiah, Tgk. 40, 69, 108 Bappeda 32 Batak 93, 142 Beureu’eh, Daud 42; see also Darul Islam Bireuen 84, 86, 123 Brigade Ibadullah 52 Brimob 22, 24, 27, 34, 73, 75-77, 81, 84, 87, 106, 120-122, 124-125, 132 Britain/British, see United Kingdom (UK) BRR 162, 181 Brunei 4, 45, 82 bupati 48, 122, 140, 142-144 bureaucracy, see administrations; government; state cabinet 15, 44-46, 60-67, 72, 80-81, 86, 90, 96, 102-104, 107, 118, 128, 150-152, 160 capacity 1-3, 6-7, 14, 21, 37, 45, 63, 67, 86, 88, 94-95, 107, 114, 126-127, 130-131, 136, 140, 149, 152, 155, 161, 166, 169-170, 177, 180-181, 183-186 ceasefire 79-81, 116, 120-121, 124, 155-156, 158; see also peace process Central Aceh 109, 123, 142-144 centralization 5, 18, 41, 43, 46, 129 centre-periphery relations 2, 5, 42-43, 46, 89, 93, 133, 167 CETRO 141 Chinese 17, 135 Christians 173-174 Ciganjur 60 civil servants 34, 88, 131 civil society 6-7, 19, 25, 29, 31-32, 40, 48, 53, 77, 82, 110, 131, 171, 181 civilian(s) 16, 20, 27, 36-38, 69-75, 80-82, 90, 92, 94, 103, 110, 121, 123, 125, 132-133, 136, 141-143, 151, 157, 159-162, 176; authority/control 23, 29, 35, 40, 63-65, 79, 83, 105, 118, 126, 132, 150, 153, 156, 184-186; leadership 17-18, 35, 39, 61, 71, 105, 113, 118, 132, 185-186; violence against 4, 13, 15-16, 18, 20-21, 23-27, 29-31, 33-38, 40, 61-62, 68-70, 72-75, 81-82, 84, 87, 93, 101, 107-109, 112, 114-115, 120-121, 125, 130-131, 140, 154, 167, 169, 183, 185; see also human rights, abuses; violence CoHA 121-126, 141; 154, 158, 161; see also peace process colonialism 3-4, 46, 87, 143; Dutch 3-4, 41-42, 46, 59, 92, 135; Javanese/ Indonesian 3, 41, 59, 76, 84; pre- 3-4 communism 19, 21, 36

constitution 42, 46-47, 89, 92, 128, 141, 161-162, 168 corruption 62, 75, 82, 98, 106, 108, 128, 132, 134, 136, 138, 143, 174, 176-179, 184, 186 Cot Trieng incident 120 Crisis Management Initiative (CMI) 155-157 cuak, see spies culture 4, 7, 16, 49, 60, 113, 136, 142, 144, 174; Acehnese 3, 52-54, 60, 96-97, 129, 136, 142, 173 customary law 41-43, 48, 51-52, 91, 93, 137; see also adat Czech Republic 46 Czechoslovakia 183 Daerah Istimewah, see Special Region of Aceh Darul Islam 4-5, 41, 43, 47, 52, 54, 136, 155 Darusman, Marzuki 69 Daud, Abu Sofyan 76 Dawood, Dayan 76 Dawood, Sofyan 104, 110, 138 dayah 32, 40, 67, 111; see also schools, Islamic decentralization 18, 41, 44-46, 48-49, 6061, 64, 88-89, 94-95, 97, 102-103, 126, 127-130, 133-134, 142, 145, 177-178, 180, 186; see also autonomy; government, self-; NAD; Special Region of Aceh democracy/democratization 1-3, 5-9, 13-15, 18-19, 21, 29, 31, 35, 61-64, 66-67, 71, 85, 88, 101-102, 115-116, 121-122, 125, 127, 130-131, 140-141, 150, 156, 158, 163, 178, 181-187 Desky, Armen 144 development 14-16, 20, 32, 34, 40, 44-45, 48, 51-52, 115, 121, 132, 134, 136, 144145, 153, 166, 174, 179-181; community 134, 136; political 1-2, 166, 187 Dewantara massacre 35-36 Dhien, Cut Nyak 87 Dili, 16 Dinas Syariat Islam, see Syari’ah Agency Djalil, Matori Abdul 103, 117, 120 Djohan, Tgk. Haji 76 DOM period (1989-1998) 5, 13-16, 18-22, 24-27, 29-32, 34, 36-37, 66, 69-70, 75-76, 102, 104, 118, 125, 185; see also Operasi Jaring Merah DPKSH 28-29, 33-34, 38

Index 211 DPR 20-21, 31, 38-39, 65, 67-71, 75-76, 80-81, 83, 87, 89-90, 95-97, 103, 117-118, 127, 133, 142, 152, 155, 157, 161, 163, 165-166 DPRD 36, 50, 53, 67, 69, 76, 91-92, 95-97, 113, 134, 137-139, 166, 176 DPRD-II 36, 49, 67, 76 Dutch 3-4, 41-42, 46, 59; Aceh war 4, 42; colonialism 3-4, 42, 46, 59, 92; -Indonesia treaty 3, 42 East Aceh 19, 23-24, 27, 29, 31, 36, 74, 81-82, 94, 109-110, 123 East Timor 6-8, 13, 16, 18, 31-33, 37-41, 46, 50, 52-53, 55, 59, 62-67-68, 71, 73, 83, 89, 105, 110, 117, 126, 160, 184 economic(s), see economy economy, 4, 5-6, 15, 18, 24-26, 35, 40, 45-46, 48-49, 63, 75, 85, 88, 101, 106, 109, 115, 119, 125, 128-129, 150, 152, 174; crisis/collapse 2, 5, 7, 13, 15, 26, 32, 44-45, 183; decentralized 33, 41-42, 51, 53, 89-90, 128-129, 132-134, 177; foreign investment 103, 129, 135, 171; local 5, 24-26, 33-34, 59, 74-75, 86, 143-144, 163, 177, 180, 186; war 24, 75, 106, 132 education 16-17, 34, 41-44, 48, 51-53, 112, 115, 119, 134-136, 141, 153-154, 167, 179-180; Islamic 32, 43-44, 52, 77, 91, 179; see also schools Effendi, Col. Sofyan 16 elections 18, 37, 47-49, 59-60, 66, 71, 85, 89, 91, 104, 116, 121-122, 142, 152-153; 1999 general 33-34, 36-37, 39, 49, 55, 186; 1999 presidential 8, 53, 55, 61, 102, 186; 2004 general 122, 141-142; 2004 presidential 126, 150-151; local 1, 34, 85, 97-98, 116, 121-122, 127, 140-141, 161, 165-166, 168-171, 173-174, 178, 181, 186-187 elites 15, 17, 33, 54, 104, 109, 136, 138, 176; Acehnese 45, 47, 49, 143; national 18, 45, 49, 59, 65, 67, 88, 101, 118 emergency 37-38, 74, 108, 110, 117-120, 124, 144, 149, 150, 153-154, 185; civil 118, 126, 149, 153, 185; military 38, 70, 72, 108, 110, 118, 125-126, 128, 135, 144, 149, 153-154, 157 employment 5, 132, 136, 138, 163, 171, 180, 186 ethnic/ethnicity 3-4, 7, 74, 88, 138; Acehnese 3-4, 108-109, 114, 126-128,

142-144, 163; minorities 2-4, 6, 8, 88, 110, 126-128, 142-144 European Union (EU) 121, 135, 159, 161, 169 EUEOM 168-169 extortion 24, 74, 76, 81, 106, 123, 132 ExxonMobil Oil Indonesia (EMOI) 24, 26, 28, 51, 86 Fajar, Malik 17 Farmidia 19, 77 federalism 43, 46-48, 61, 67, 88-90, 96, 129 fisheries 48, 106, 133, 135, 173, 177; see also industry ‘fence of legs’ operations 15 Flower Aceh 55 foreigners 3-5, 16, 25, 80, 83, 86, 103, 106, 110, 121-122, 124, 129, 135, 151, 155-157, 159, 161-163, 171, 174-175, 179-181 forestry 48, 133, 177; see also logging; industry Free Aceh Movement, see GAM Gaffar, Maj. Gen. Abdul Rahman 29-30, 33, 38 Galaksi 127-128, 142-145 GAM 1-5, 7-9, 13, 15-16, 18-22, 24-30, 36-40, 45, 47, 49-50, 53-54, 59-61, 64, 67, 69, 71-78, 80-87, 91-94, 97-98, 101-132, 138, 140-143, 149-151, 153-171, 173-174, 177, 181, 184-187; disarmament of 122, 154, 159, 161-162; and SIRA 32-33, 37, 39, 41, 47, 49-50, 53, 85, 93, 128, 131, 167, 178; shadow administration 81, 122, 150, 154; leadership 1, 9, 54, 78, 80, 111, 113, 115, 155-156, 161, 163, 165, 185; legitimacy of 76, 80, 85, 109; proclamation of independence 5; rallies 27, 31, 35; support base/sympathizers 27, 30, 32, 38-39, 72, 81, 85 GAM Party 171 gambling 137, 139, 175-176 Gayo 4, 109, 127, 134, 142, 144 Gayo Lues 144 Geneva peace talks 79-80, 85, 115-117, 120, 142; see also Henry Dunant Centre (HDC) General Elections Commission (KPU) 152, 168 Golkar 34-35, 38, 49, 52, 76, 96-97, 137, 150, 152, 155, 166, 169

212

Index

government 6, 17, 20, 27, 41, 54, 73-75, 82, 89, 92, 109, 132, 133, 140, 160, 163, 181; central 1, 3, 6, 8-9, 13-15, 17-18, 21, 24-28, 31, 34-35, 37-46, 48-53, 55, 60-63, 65-66, 68-69, 78-83, 85-86, 89-92, 94-95, 97-98, 102-106, 108, 110-111, 114-120, 122, 124-126, 127-133, 136-138, 140, 142, 145, 149-162, 166-168, 171, 177-179, 181, 184-187; factionalism 16-18, 34; foreign 25, 80, 112, 116, 126; local/provincial 35, 37-38, 40, 42-45, 47-55, 67, 70, 77, 88, 90-93, 95, 106, 111, 113, 116, 121-122, 128-141, 143-145, 154, 167-168, 174, 176, 178-181, 186-187; officials 22, 38, 48, 51, 53-54, 79, 101, 106, 128-129, 132, 134, 136, 180; self- 140, 158, 165-167, 181-183, 187; see also bureaucracy, administrations, Law on Governing Aceh (LoGA); New Order government governor 1, 4, 41, 44, 47-48, 51, 63, 67, 70, 90-92, 95, 98, 113, 122, 127, 132-134, 137-138, 140, 152, 161, 165, 168, 170, 176, 181 GPK 20-21, 28, 70, see also GAM Gumelar, Lieut. Gen. Agum 16, 65-66, 103-104 Gunawan, Bondan 79 Habib, Lieut. Gen. Hasnan 17, 23, 114 Habibie, B. J.: and reform, 14-15, 18-19, 21, 29, 31, 37; and Wiranto 15, 21, 29, 33, 35, 37; as president (1998-99) 1, 8, 13-23, 27, 31-34, 37-38, 41-42, 44-47, 49-55, 60-63, 65-66, 68-71, 89, 94, 102-106, 135, 183-185; as vice-president 15, 17; East Timor policy 8, 18, 31, 33; nine-point Aceh plan 34-35, 50 Hadisiswoyo, Gen. Subagyo 35 Hamid, Ahmad Farhan 133, 140 Hamid, Humam 169 Hamid, Maj. Gen. Syarwan 15-16, 29, 50-51, 70 Hasan, Husaini 41, 78 Hasan, Ibrahim 70 Hasan, Lieut. Col. Iskandar 27, 30 Haz, Hamzah 18, 103, 118, 129, 143 health 48, 115, 134, 136, 180 Helsinki peace process 1-3, 9, 149-155, 157-168, 170-171, 173, 177, 178, 181, 184-187 Hendropriyono, Lieut. Gen. Abdullah Mahmud 16, 39, 103-104, 151

Henry Dunant Centre (HDC) 79-80, 117, 120, 123, 156 hikayat 170 Holland, see Dutch HUDA 40, 54, 67, 77, 91, 111 human rights 15-16, 19, 21, 25, 30-32, 51, 63-65, 68-71, 77, 80, 91, 96, 98, 105, 109, 117, 141, 152, 157, 159; abuses 4-5, 13, 15, 17, 20, 25, 31-32, 34-35, 48, 51, 54, 63, 68, 88, 93, 96, 101, 108, 118, 132, 183, see also civilian(s), violence against; state, violence; violence; activism 63, 81; groups/ organizations 25, 31-32, 36, 154; investigations 14-15, 18-19, 21, 25, 34, 37, 60-63, 66, 68, 106, 153, 183; trials 21, 30-31, 36, 68, 71, 92, 105 Human Rights Watch (HRW) 76, 109 Humanitarian Pause 80-83, 85, 158, 161; see also ceasefire; peace process ICMI 15, 17-18, 34, 37, 44, 47, 49, 51, 53 identity 2, 6-8, 175; Acehnese 3, 8, 170; national 2-3, 6-8, 60, 88, 183-184 identity cards 81 Idi Cut massacre 24, 31, 36 Idris, Safwan 54, 76 IFES 169-170 Ikatan Santri Aceh 32 immigrants, see migrants; transmigrants independence 6-7, 90, 94; Acehnese 4-5, 7-8, 19, 32, 37, 41, 45, 49, 52-54, 59, 66-68, 82, 90, 94, 104, 116, 122, 124, 129-130, 141, 158; East Timorese 8, 18, 31, 33, 37, 41, 50, 53, 59, 73, 105, 126; GAM proclamation of 5; Indonesian 8, 42, 59-60, 84, 101, 161 India 122 Indian Ocean 1, 134, 149, 164, 184 industry 16, 20, 24, 30, 32, 48, 70, 106, 111, 119, 135, 144 infidels 4, 123 infrastructure 3, 27, 37, 73, 94, 109, 128, 130, 134, 180-181 Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs), see refugees international community 45, 71, 78-80, 83, 86, 103, 112, 115-117, 119-122, 124, 126, 150, 154, 156-157, 163, 181, 184-185 International Crisis Group (ICG) 108, 132, 136, 150, 152, 154, 156, 162, 169-170, 172-173 International Forum for Aceh 77, 90

Index 213 International Monetary Fund (IMF) 45 Iraq 124-126 Irian Jaya, see Papua Irwandi Yusuf 1, 13, 161, 165, 168-171, 173-174, 176, 181 Islam 3-5, 17, 34, 40, 42-44, 52-55, 77, 84, 92-93, 111, see also Muslim(s); groups/organizations 15, 17-19, 32, 40, 52, 55, 61, 65, 77, 85; law 34, 40-41, 43, 47, 49-50, 52-55, 68, 90-95, 97, 127, 131, 136-139, 144, 162, 166, 171-177, 181-182, 186; schools 43-44, 54; see also dayah Islamic Defenders Front (FPI) 162 Jakarta 1-5, 8-9, 14-15, 19, 21-22, 25, 28, 31, 33, 37-55, 59-60, 63-65, 67-68, 72, 74-75, 77-90, 92-98, 101-104, 107, 111-133, 135-145, 149-150, 152-155, 157-158, 160, 162-163, 165-167, 170-171, 176-178, 180-181, 183-187; see also government, central Jakarta Stock Exchange (JSX) 85 Japan 121, 124-125 Jasin, Col. Muhammad 43 Java 3, 5, 42, 110, 152; Central 152; West 36, 43, 87 Javanese 38, 59, 76, 109, 123, 142; colonialism 3, 76 migrants 4, 39, 42-43; see also transmigrants Jema’ah Islamiyah 85 jilbab 54-55, 92-93, 138 journalists 16, 110, 125 JSC 121-124; see also CoHA judiciary, see legal system kafir, see infidels Kalimantan 103; East 5; West 5, 35 Kalla, Yusuf 150-157, 161 Kandang, Ahmad 27-28, 30-31 KARMA 19 Kasman, Brig. Gen. Bahrumsyah 72, 81 Kesowo, Bambang 103-104, 129 khalwat 137, 139, 175-176 khamar, see alcohol Kiemas, Taufik 143 Kluet (ethnic group) 4, 127, 142 KNPI 29-31 Koalisi NGO HAM Aceh 24-26, 33, 40, 63 Kodam Bukit Barisan 16, 20, 23, 30, 33, 38, 66, 69, 104, 120 Kodam Iskandar Muda 23, 35, 47, 113-115, 117-118, 120, 122

Komnas HAM 19-21, 40, 65, 69, 84, 109 Kontras 70, 81-82, 84, 86-87, 107-108, 127 Kopassus 16, 25, 76, 79, 87, 108, 110 Korem 012 Teuku Umar 23, 69 Kostrad 25, 72, 115, 117 KPA 161, 170 KRA 77, 91, 111 Ladia Galaska highway 134 Lampung 16, 68 Langsa 86, 123 language 4, 67, 78, 92, 143, 159, 162; Acehnese 3, 92, 96; Arabic 3, 32, 92; Malay 3, 60 Laskar Jihad 112, 123 Laskar Mujahadin 162 law/legal, see legal system Law on Governing Aceh (LoGA) 132, 159, 163-168, 170-172, 177-182, 186 leadership: Acehnese 17, 19, 22, 31, 34-36, 38, 40, 42, 47, 51, 53, 59, 90, 92-93, 95, 97, 101, 111, 113, 118, 133, 142, 144-145, 163, 168, 178, 180-182, 186; civilian 17-18, 35, 39, 61, 105, 132, 186; Darul Islam 41, 43, 47; GAM 1, 9, 54, 78, 80, 111, 113, 115, 155-156, 161, 163, 165, 185; military 17, 29, 38-39, 47, 52, 71, 76, 83, 97, 102, 107, 113-114, 120, 126, 159-160; national 3, 8, 40, 42, 46, 49-53, 65-67, 83, 89, 93, 97, 101-103, 107, 112, 114-115, 120, 124-126, 136, 143, 151-153, 155, 157, 163, 183-186; religious 20, 31, 35-36, 51-53, see also ulama; student 14, 19, 31, 38 legitimacy 6, 21, 31, 60, 67, 86, 128, 138, 184-186; of GAM 76, 80, 85, 109, 187; of Indonesian state 7, 14-15, 21, 27 Legal Aid Foundation (LBH) 68, 74-75, 120 legal system, 14, 20-24, 26-28, 34-36, 38-39, 42, 48, 52, 60, 65, 70, 74, 77, 81, 83, 88-98, 102, 105, 107-108, 110, 115-116, 118-122, 125-126, 167; civil 2, 22, 24, 27, 136, 139, 172, 175; Islamic 34, 40-41, 43, 47, 49-50, 52-55, 68, 90-95, 97, 127, 131, 136-139, 144, 162, 166, 171-177, 181-182, 186 Lemhanas 16, 63 Leuser Antara province 128, 142, 144; see also Galaksi Lhokseumawe 21, 23-25, 27-30, 36, 43, 82, 86, 111, 119, 124, 131 Libya 27 Lilawangsa Military Command 16, 20, 23, 25, 28, 30-31, 36

214

Index

logging 24, 106; see also forestry; industry Lopa, Baharuddin 19, 65 Mahendra, Yusril Ihza 65 Mahkamah Syari’ah 136-137, 139, 172, 175 Mahmodin, Mohammad Mahfud 64-66, 83 Mahmud, Malik 78, 169, 171 Mahmud, Syamsuddin 41, 44, 47, 51, 53, 67, 90-91, 95 Makarim, Maj. Gen. Zacky Anwar 70 Malacca Straits 3, 87, 114, 119 Malaysia 19-20, 27, 78, 87, 129, 139, 176 Malino 115 Maluku 35, 103, 106, 115, 151, 180 Mallarangeng, Andi 47, 96 Manaf, Muzakkir 113, 116, 120, 161 Manggabarani, Gen. Yusuf 117 Mangkusubroto, Kuntoro 162 Mardiyanto, Maj. Gen. 152 marines 25, 157 marijuana 24, 40, 69, 76, 106, 111 martial law, see emergency, military Ma’ruf, Lieut. Gen. Muhammad 152, 163 Marzuki, Amni 92 Mecca 43 Medan 23, 28, 30, 37, 72 media 13, 16, 18, 21, 30-31, 38, 59, 63, 76, 84, 92, 102, 110, 117, 125, 175; print 26, 32, 37, 83, 110, 114; television 110, 125, 176; see also journalists Melanesians 60 middle class 32 Middle East 68, 176 MILF 122 military, see TNI, leadership militias 23, 39, 74, 109-110, 112, 123, 143, 159, 162-163 mining 48, 177; see also oil; industry minorities 2, 4, 6-8, 17, 46, 88, 110, 126-128, 142-144, 171, 184 MMI 163 Moerdani, Gen. Benny 70 Muslim(s) 15, 17, 42-43, 52, 91-93, 112, 119, 136, 139, 162, 171-173, 176; see also Islam MP-GAM 78-79 MPR 23, 34-35, 45, 47, 53, 55, 65, 67, 80-81, 83, 89, 95, 97, 104, 114, 118, 119 MPU 91, 111, 131, 137-139 Muhammadiyah 17 Muharram, Col. Jusuf 73 MUI 20, 22, 40, 47, 53-54, 77, 91, 111, 173

Muladi 17, 53 Musnar, Col. Dasiri 20, 25 Nahdlatul Ulama 17, 60, 65 NAD 87, 89, 95-97, 102, 115-116, 119, 121-122, 124, 126, 127-137, 139-145, 153, 166-168, 171-172, 177-179, 181 Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam, see NAD nation 5-7, 60, 63, 84, 101, 104, 109, 112, 128, 138, 142 national identity 2-3, 6-8, 60, 88, 183 nation-state 7-8, 42, 46, 60, 88, 101, 184 nationalism 6-8, 142; Acehnese 2, 4, 8, 84, 163, 170; GAM 3-4, 20, 76, 112, 142-143; Indonesian 2, 4, 7-8, 16-17, 42-43, 46, 52, 60-61, 67, 89, 104-105, 109-110, 123, 125-126, 137, 143, 152, 154, 157 natural resources 4, 25, 45, 47-48, 88, 95, 97, 103, 166-167, 177, 179; control over 5, 25, 45, 48, 95, 97, 130, 167, 178; exploitation of 4-5, 26, 43 navy 35, 62, 87, 124 Nazar, Muhammad 32, 84, 111, 168, 170 Netherlands, see Dutch New Order government 1, 5-8, 14-15, 17-18, 21, 23-24, 28, 43-45, 48, 52, 54, 60, 70, 77, 83, 101, 105, 109; post-era 2, 7-8, 13, 21, 30-31, 54, 87, 113, 122, 130, 152, see also Suharto, post-era NGOs 14, 19, 21, 24-26, 30, 33, 38, 40, 47, 54-55, 63, 79-80, 101, 110, 141-142, 162, 164-165, 167, 170-171, 173-175, 178-181 NKRI 46-47, 105, 115, 128, 165, 168; see also Republic of Indonesia non-governmental organizations, see NGOs North Aceh 15-16, 19-21, 24-29, 35-37, 39, 43, 49-50, 72-74, 76, 84, 86, 94, 110, 120, 123, 144, 180 Notosusanto, Smita 141 oil 4-5, 24, 26, 43, 45, 48, 51, 85-86, 97, 109, 119, 132-133, 135, 144, 177-178; see also Pertamina; PT Arun LNG; ExxonMobil Oil Indonesia Operasi Cinta Meunasah (OCM) 75, 82, 86 Operasi Jaring Merah (1989-98) 5, 20; see also DOM Operasi Rencong Terbang 119 Operasi Terpadu 125, 149 Operasi Sadar Rencong (OSR) 31, 38-39, 48, 50, 62, 71, 75-76 Operasi Satgas Wibawa 99 23, 28-31, 33

Index 215 Pahlawan, Tk. Umar Djohan 87 PAN 46, 166 Panjaitan, Maj. Gen. Sintong 16, 29 Pansus Aceh 69-71, 89-90, 166 Papua 6-7, 18, 35, 38-39, 46, 87, 89, 95-96, 103, 110, 129, 180 paramilitary police, see Brimob parties 1, 35, 47, 62, 73, 77-78, 140, 155, 157-159, 161, 163, 166, 168-171; local 85, 132, 140, 142, 158, 166, 168, 170-171, 187 party system, see parties PBB 65 PDI 66, 152 PDI-P 35, 38, 68, 96-97, 161, 166 peace process 1-3, 9, 60, 64, 71, 77-85, 102-104, 112-113, 115-117, 119, 121-126, 130, 149-151, 153-154, 156, 158-163, 170, 184-185, 187; see also ceasefire; CoHA; Helsinki peace process; Humanitarian Pause peace zones 121, 123 Pertamina 51, 133, 178; see also oil petrus 26-27, 33, 36, 73 Pidie 19, 26-27, 36, 38-39, 72-74, 79, 93-94, 110, 123, 134 PKB 55, 103, 161, 166 police 14, 22-25, 27-30, 33, 35, 38-40, 47, 54, 69, 71-77, 79-81, 84-87, 95, 101, 106-108, 111, 117, 119-122, 124, 126, 132, 138, 159-161, 165, 167, 175; see also Brimob; armed forces political prisoners 14, 17, 27, 34, 40, 60, 66, 68, 106, 153, 161, 183 populations 4, 21, 52, 70, 83, 85, 126; Aceh 3-4, 13, 17-18, 24, 30, 32, 36-40, 45, 48, 53-54, 73-75, 81, 90, 92, 94, 101, 108-109, 112-114, 118, 120, 125, 128, 130-133, 136, 140, 142, 162, 167, 170-171, 176, 179-180, 185-186 Pos Satuan Taktis 23, 29-30 Poso 106, 115, 151 poverty 5, 14, 26, 50, 88, 136, 139, 180 power 45, 48, 54, 60-63, 71, 80, 86-89, 91, 94-95, 117, 126-127, 170, 177, 183; local/provincial 18, 24, 40-42, 48, 52, 64, 66-67, 72, 90, 95-96, 128-129, 137-138, 155, 160, 165-167, 177; presidential 16-19, 38, 127, 129, 149-153, 166, 184; military 14, 23, 35, 66, 70, 74, 80, 186; state 3, 5-7, 13, 42, 46, 48-49, 89, 94, 106, 129, 173; vacuum 22, 25, 37, 50, 59, 72 Philippines 111, 122

PPP 18, 35, 38, 50, 52, 76, 166 PPRM 29, 33, 35-37, 40 Pramono, Maj. Gen. H. R. 16, 20, 70 Prawiranegara, Sjafruddin 42 Presidential Instruction (Inpres) 64, 86-87, 107-108, 115, 117, 125, 137, 139-140 pribumi 17 provocateurs 36, 72-74, 115 PT Arun LNG 24, 61, 124 public opinion 21, 26, 35, 37, 49, 52, 64, 82-83, 89-90, 98, 101, 114, 130, 132, 141, 156, 173 Puloe 4 Puteh, Abdullah 92, 98, 113, 118, 130, 132-139, 143 qanun 132, 137-139, 168, 172, 176 Rabithah Thaliban Aceh (RTA) 32, 40, 54, 67, 77, 91 Rais, Amien 46, 55, 80, 89, 133, 139 Ramadhan 43, 119, 139, 162, 172 Rasyid, Ryaas 44-46, 63-64, 70, 89-91, 96 referendum movement 32-34, 37, 39-41, 47, 49-50, 54-55, 59-60, 66-68, 71, 77-78, 84, 90-92, 94-95, 101, 104, 111, 130-131; see also SIRA reform 14-19, 21, 23, 29-31, 44-46, 53, 61, 63, 66, 71, 79, 101, 126, 136, 140-141, 184; era 15, 18, 45; movement 14, 19, 31, 125; security sector 15, 17, 22-24, 30, 35, 40, 49, 62-63, 75, 83, 107, 114, 118-119, 125-126, 156, 184-185 refugees 26, 36-37, 39, 72-74, 82, 109, 125 regional regulations 43, 50-51, 54, 91-92; see also qanun religion 7, 41-44, 48-49, 51-52, 54-55, 61, 77, 89, 92, 95, 112, 136-139, 162, 172-177, 181, 186; see also Islam; Muslim(s) Republic of Indonesia 4, 7-8, 31, 37, 40, 41-42, 46-47, 168; see also state, unitary Riau 87 Roesmanhadi, Gen. 33, 72 Rusdihardjo, Lieut. Gen. 73, 75, 79 Russia 46 Ryacudu, Ryamizard 115, 117, 122, 124, 151, 160 Saad, Hasballah M. 63-64, 67, 69-70, 80 Sabarno, Lieut. Gen. Hari 20, 103, 116, 118, 129, 131, 143-144 Saefuddin, A.M. 18

216

Index

Santa Cruz massacre 16 Sasono, Adi 17, 21 Sastrohandoyo, Wiryono 116, 142 Sastrosoenarto, Hartarto 44-45 schools 7, 26, 38, 43, 80, 131, 135, 141, 179-180; burnings of 73, 79, 111, 135, 179; Islamic 43-44, 54, 69, 77, 111, 139; see also dayah security 1, 4-5, 8-9, 44-45, 48, 50, 60, 62-63, 65, 70-74, 76-77, 80-81, 84, 86-87, 91, 94, 102-103, 105-108, 110, 112-114, 117, 119, 121-125, 128, 130, 132, 143-144, 150-151, 159, 163, 179, 183; challenges 18, 22; national 29, 38-39; operations 1, 4-5, 8, 13-16, 18, 20-24, 26, 28-31, 33-34, 38-39, 48-50, 54-55, 62-63, 66, 70-71, 73, 75-76, 81-84, 86-87, 127-130, 132, 149-151, 155, 162, 167; sector reform 15, 17, 22-24, 30, 35, 40, 49, 62-63, 75, 83, 107, 114, 118-119, 125-126, 156, 184-185; territorial 35, 37; threats 4, 18, 21, 24, 28, 33, 36, 39, 61, 77, 86, 114, 159, 163; vacuum 22, 25, 37, 50, 59, 72; see also Brimob, police, TNI security forces, see armed forces self-determination: Acehnese 32, 39, 47, 67, 90; East Timorese 8; see also independence separatism/separatists 1-2, 4-9, 13-14, 18, 23-24, 37, 46-47, 50, 53, 66, 68, 74, 80, 83, 89, 101-103, 107, 111-112, 115, 122-124, 126, 129, 143, 150, 154-156, 162, 171, 183-185; see also GAM; nationalism, Acehnese Shihab, Alwi 80-81 Siddiq, Jafar Hamzah 76 Sigli 79, 86 Simpang KKA incident, see Dewantara massacre Singapore 45 Singkil (ethnic group) 4, 127, 142 SIRA 32-33, 37, 39-41, 47, 49-50, 53-54, 66-68, 77, 84-85, 92-93, 109, 111, 114, 119, 128, 130-131, 164-165, 167-168, 170, 178 SIRA-RAKAN 84 Soedirdja, Lieut. Gen. Surjadi 34, 63, 65-66, 70, 72, 76, 81, 91, 96-97 Somaka 19 South Aceh 72-73, 76, 82, 94, 123 Southeast Aceh 135, 142-144 Special Region of Aceh 4-5, 41-44, 47-48, 51-52, 90; see also autonomy, special

sovereignty 3, 5-7; Acehnese 3, 90; Indonesian 3-4, 9, 37, 42, 60, 157-158, 183 Soviet Union 183 special autonomy, see autonomy, special spies 26-27, 76, 101, 107, 109 state 1-8, 20, 23-24, 28, 40, 60, 63, 74, 76, 79, 81, 88-89, 96, 103, 112, 128-129, 132-134, 136, 141-143, 153-154, 163, 167, 178-180, 183-184, 186; Acehnese 3-5, 86-87, 90, 93, 103, 122, 127; authority 3, 5, 7, 13, 15, 24, 33, 37-38, 42, 46, 49-50, 59, 66, 68, 83, 89, 140, 184; capacity 1-3, 6-7, 14, 21, 27, 37-38, 45, 94, 114, 181, 185; federated 43, 46-48, 61, 67, 88-90, 96, 129; infrastructure 3, 27, 37, 73, 94, 109, 128, 130, 134, 180-181; institutions 2, 6, 43, 49, 54, 59, 63, 71-72, 76, 186; Islamic; legitimacy 7, 14-15; power 3, 5, 7, 13, 24-25, 42, 46, 48-49, 89, 94, 106, 129, 173; unitary 8, 46-47, 61, 64, 88-89, 91, 97, 103, 118, 129, 168, 170; violence 5-6, 14, 24, 37, 39-40, 71, 84, 94, 98, 126; see also nation-state students 15, 19, 21, 31-34, 40, 43, 51, 54, 67, 69, 77, 82, 84, 91, 111, 135, 141-142, 179-180; activists 15, 19, 21, 32-34, 69; organizations 13, 19, 25; leaders 14, 19, 31, 38, 59-60, 66, 77, 81 Subianto, Lieut. Gen. Prabowo 16 Sucipto, Adm. Laksamana Widodo Adi 62, 64, 69, 71-72, 107, 151 Sudarsono, Juwono 63, 72, 75, 151 Suharto, President of Indonesia (1967-98) 5-6, 15, 17, 22, 24, 44, 70, 73, 104, 140, 184; fall of 1, 13-15, 18, 55, 77, 101, 112, 125; government, see New Order government; post-era 3, 5, 7, 26, 174, 185-186 Sukarno, President of Indonesia (1945-67) 4, 43, 104 Sukarnoputri, Megawati: as president (2001-2004) 1, 35, 101-108, 110-113, 115-116, 118-119, 121, 124-131, 135, 140-145, 149-153, 161, 166, 185-186; as vice-president (1999-2001) 61-62, 64-65, 68, 86, 102-103 Sulawesi 103, 151; South 152, 155 Sumatra 3-5, 16, 24, 42, 106; North 4, 16, 23, 42, 93, 119, 124, 142; West 23 Sunny, Ismail 34, 49-50 Sutarto, Maj. Gen. Endriartono 83, 108, 117, 120, 122, 160, 162 Sutrisno, Gen. Try 70

Index 217 Suwarya, Maj. Gen. Endang 149 Sweden 1, 53-54, 115-116, 156, 163, 169 Syafi’ie, Tgk. Abdullah 47, 54, 67, 72, 79-80, 85, 112-113 Syahnakri, Lieut. Gen. Kiki 160 Syari’ah, see legal system, Islamic Syari’ah Agency 91, 131, 138, 172, 175, 176 Syiah Kuala University 44-45, 76, 134 symbolism 60, 63, 69, 92, 96, 109 Takengon 109, 123, 144 Tamiang (district) 141, 144; ethnic group 4 Tanjung, Akbar 76, 80-81, 133 Tanjung, Lieut. Gen. Feisal 15-16, 38-39, 70 Tanjungan, Tgk. Bulqaini 32, 77 Tapol 21, 33, 37, 65, 109, 174 teachers 22, 135, 179-180; see also education; schools Team of Seven 44-46, 51, 60, 64 Thailand 87, 122 Tiro, H. M. Hasan di 3, 5, 53, 59, 78-79, 97, 111-112, 118, 123 TNI 2-6, 9, 13, 15-25, 27-36, 38-40, 42-43, 49-50, 54, 61-76, 79-88, 92, 96-97, 102-103, 105-110, 112-114-115, 117, 119-126, 132, 142-143, 151, 154-155, 157, 159-162, 167, 170, 184-186; atrocities, see civilian(s), violence against; budget 49, 75, 152; business 13, 24, 49, 76, 106; factionalism 13, 15-17, 19-20, 61, 183; leadership 17, 29, 38-39, 47, 52, 71, 76, 83, 97, 102, 107, 113-114, 120, 126, 159-160; ‘New Paradigm’ 22, 61; operations, see security, operations; political role 2, 14, 18, 49, 61-65, 70, 74, 150-151, 156, 160, 186; reform 15-17, 22-24, 30, 35, 40, 49, 62-63, 75, 83, 107, 114, 118-119, 125-126, 156, 184-185; territorial command system 14, 22-23, 35, 62 TPPUA 34-35, 37, 39, 49, 51, 60, 63 trade 3, 16, 20, 48, 70, 76, 93, 106, 135, 152 traditions 3, 14, 23, 31, 53, 139, 162, 170, 174, 185; see also culture transmigration/transmigrants 16, 39, 73, 101, 104, 107, 109-110, 123, 142 transportation 134-135 tsunami 1-3, 8, 144, 149, 154-157, 159, 163, 169, 171-174, 176-177, 179-181, 184-186 ulama 22, 34, 40-43, 47-48, 52-54, 60, 67, 69, 77, 81-82, 91-92, 97, 111, 130-131, 137-139, 142, 171, 173, 176 United Kingdom (UK) 46, 119

United Nations (UN) 5-6, 32, 79-80, 84, 124 United States of America (USA) 13, 68, 80, 111-112, 115, 119, 121, 124, 126 violence 18-19, 23-25, 27, 29, 36-37, 3940, 51, 55, 70-71, 73-76, 79-82, 85-87, 92-94, 101, 105, 107, 130, 135-136, 139, 142, 144, 151, 162-163, 170-171, 174, 177, 179, 182, 187; moratorium on 85; state 5-6, 14, 24, 37, 39-40, 50, 66, 98, 105, 107-111, 118-120, 130; see also civilian(s), violence against; human rights, abuses Wahab, Col. Johny 28, 31, 36 Wahid, Abdurrahman 37, 55, 161, 166; as president (1999-2001) 1, 37, 59-69, 71-80, 82-83, 86-97, 101-106, 110, 127-128, 135-136, 151, 153, 161, 185-186; impeachment 64-66, 82, 87, 97 Wali Nanggroe 96-97 Waluyo, Maj. Gen. Bibit 85 ‘war on terror’ 111-112 windows of opportunity 2-3, 8, 155, 183-184 West Aceh 40, 67, 69, 72-73, 87, 157, 169, 180 Widjojo, Liet. Gen. Agus 114, 118 Wilayatul Hisbah (WH) 172-173, 175 Wiranto, Gen. 15-17, 19, 21-22, 24, 26, 29, 31, 33, 35-39, 62-63, 70, 72, 91, 94, 151 Wirayuda, Hassan 79, 104, 111 women 19, 54-55, 92-93, 101, 137-139, 173-176 World Bank 45, 121, 135, 179-180 Yogyakarta 41, 97, 152 Yosfiah, Lieut. Gen. Mohammad Yunus 16 Yudhoyono, Susilo Bambang 16, 62, 64-65, 78, 83, 85-86, 103, 107, 112, 115-116, 118-120, 123-124, 126, 130, 141, 143-144, 150; as president (since 2004) 1-2, 8, 149-156, 159-162, 165-166, 168, 181, 184-186 Yugoslavia 183 Yusuf, Brig. Gen. Djali 113, 117, 120, 122, 124 zakat 43 Zamroni, Brig. Gen. 87, 108, 113 Zamzami, Tgk. Daud 54, 91 ZILS 24, 43 Zinni, Anthony 112 Zulfahri, Don 78

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