Far Eastern Economic Review, Issue cover-dated May 23, 2002
INDONESIA
Haunted by the Past
The island of Ambon has seen its share of sectarian violence. Though aftershocks are
still being felt, some see an opportunity for a final, lasting peace
By John McBeth/AMBON
BARELY TWELVE KILOMETRES separate the Christian villagers of Passo from their
Muslim brethren in Batu Merah, on the northern outskirts of Ambon city. Yet during
the nearly three years of bloody sectarian violence which raged around Ambon's
picturesque bay, they never once exchanged as much as a harsh word--thanks to an
oath of friendship they sealed by rolling over a large stone five centuries ago.
The traditional pact, known as pelagandong, could prove a small but important
foundation stone in a peace process that analysts believe will take a generation to
resolve. The two neighbourhoods are now tentatively reaching out to each other, wary
of a full embrace because each is also home to thousands of relocated outsiders who
don't share the same affinity.
"We have no problem with the Batu Merah people and we miss them visiting us,"
says Treesh Maitimu, the gray-haired Passo village chief whose high-bred family has
held sway over the seaside town for seven generations. Down the road, past clumps
of burned-out buildings and a roadblock manned by heavily armed North Sumatran
soldiers, her Batu Merah counterpart, Abdurrahman Cirebon, shares the same
sentiment. "All I want," he says simply, "is peace."
From the churches to the mosques, it's a word heard almost everywhere on this
troubled island, even as the April 28 massacre of 14 Christian villagers and other
intermittent acts of violence serve as a grim reminder of the difficulties ahead. More
than 6,000 people died in the communal bloodshed which engulfed the Moluccan
islands in January 1999 and finally petered out in mid-2001. Critics blame an inept
government, compounded by the political gamesmanship of Jakarta's generals and
politicians and the intervention of the military-trained Laskar Jihad Muslim militia, for
allowing the conflict to go on as long as it did.
Sadly, with the Laskar Jihad now establishing an unsettling toehold in nearby Papua
province, the situation could repeat itself in other parts of what up to now has been
Christian-dominated eastern Indonesia. After all, in a country which prides itself on
ethnic diversity, it was shifting demographics and political power balances brought
about by internal migration--along with religious intolerance and a shocking failure of
neutrality and professionalism among security forces--that turned Ambon into a
powder keg.
Last March, after a series of initial contacts, the government flew Christian and
Muslim representatives to South Sulawesi to sign the Malino II Agreement, which
brought a formal end to hostilities on Ambon. Among other things, the pact calls for
the disarming of militia groups and an investigation into how a minor street incident in
late-1999 exploded into an orgy of bloodletting.
Today, the central government and military leadership finally appear serious about
finding a lasting settlement. But that sentiment isn't shared by small groups of Muslim
and Christian hardliners, or by lower-ranking military and police officers--believed
responsible for two bomb incidents in December and mid-March--who are worried
about losing both their status in the security apparatus and lucrative protection
ventures if the current state of emergency is lifted.
Apart from the casualties, what is most disturbing is that the bombings led mobs to
burn Ambon's two main symbols of civilian rule: the local legislative assembly and the
provincial governor's office. The fact that police could not protect the gubernatorial
complex in particular has drawn criticism from community leaders. Leaders also
suspect that because the fire spread so quickly, an accelerant must have been
distributed in the complex.
Jakarta's belated intervention was the only way of breaking a deadlock between two
communities that had fought to the point of exhaustion. Still, critics say that Malino II
was imposed, rather than initiated at the grassroots level, and worry that while the
central government is not an actual signatory to the accord, it is responsible for much
of its implementation.
There are also concerns that the investigation into the causes of the tragedy will
re-open old wounds. The Muslims, in particular, want the Christians to accept blame
for what happened. Christians, for their part, are angry over the local government's
refusal to close a vitriolic Muslim-run radio station and, more importantly, the
continued presence of the Laskar Jihad, even if its numbers have dropped to about
400 from some 3,000 over the past year.
That anger was fuelled on April 28 when masked gunmen--reportedly shouting "Allah
Akbar" (God is Great) in Javanese accents--slaughtered 14 Christian villagers in the
hills east of Ambon city. It was the worst communal violence since Malino II and
came just two days after Laskar Jihad leader Ja'far Umar Thalib, in a fiery speech at
Ambon's Al Fatah mosque, told his followers to ignore the peace pact.
Still, for all the recent tension and uncertainty, there is evidence of a return to
normality. In Ambon city's closely guarded Mardika district, Christians and Muslims
venture
out of their segregated enclaves each morning to shop at a recently opened mixed
market. Peace was a dirty word here until Malino II and, says housewife Fanny
Usmani,"it's still hard to talk about it, because some people want it, and others don't."
Some of the 150,000 refugees of the conflict have begun to trickle homeward. Others
face an uncertain future. Camped out around a cavernous Passo warehouse, the
5,000 inhabitants of Waai, an uprooted Christian village on Ambon's northeast coast,
remain in limbo, waiting for word from the provincial government that they can go back
to their homes.
Meanwhile, authorities have begun cracking down on militant leaders. In mid-April,
they ordered the expulsion of Roestan Kastor, a retired Ambonese general and
member of the so-called Group of 11 Muslim extremist alliance, and a vocal critic of
Malino II. Days later, they arrested Alex Manuputty, head of the Maluku Sovereignty
Front, a tiny Christian separatist group. Then, in early May, police detained Laskar
Jihad's Ja'far for allegedly making threats against the family of founding President
Sukarno, President Megawati Sukarnoputri's father, and for inciting the most recent
violence--a development that also led the government to order the expulsion of
remaining Laskar Jihad outsiders.
Still, by opening up a new front in neighbouring Papua over the past six months,
Laskar Jihad has provided what Western diplomats believe is further evidence of covert
support from elements in the military anxious in this case to keep the Papua
independence movement in check.
In Ambon, meanwhile, the main question is whether everything can be put back
together. Most community leaders feel it can--if the security forces do their job. "If the
government is sincere, then it will happen," says Father Agus Ulahaiyanan, a Malino II
delegate whose office in the hills above Ambon city is close to Laskar Jihad positions.
"If it isn't, then there won't be a natural reconciliation. The government has to show
political will and moral responsibility in dealing with the hardliners."
Copyright ©2002 Review Publishing Company Limited, Hong Kong
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