Far Eastern Economic Review, Issue cover-dated June 27, 2002
ISLAM AND EDUCATION
A Tale of Two Madrassas
The American-led war on terror is eroding Southeast Asia's image of tolerant,
moderate Islam. A visit to two very different centres of Islamic education shows that
tolerance remains, but isolation and poor funding can leave young Muslims open to
manipulation by radicals
By Michael Vatikiotis/JOGJAKARTA and NAKHON SI THAMMARAT
IT COULD BE a village anywhere in Central Java. Two small girls in colourful dresses
play noisily on a verandah. A mother nurses her child. Scrawny chickens scratch the
bare earth. Then a woman clad from head to toe in black wanders by wearing gloves.
A group of young boys, all wearing white robes and caps, appears at a street corner
on the way back from prayers.
Nestled in the bosom of this bucolic Javanese community, the Ihya Us Sunnah
Islamic boarding school could easily be overlooked by a casual passer-by. Yet this is
no ordinary school. It was founded in 1994 by Ja'far Umar Thalib, the leader of Laskar
Jihad, a militant Muslim group that sent hundreds of young men to battle Christians in
far-flung Maluku.
If this is the heart of Islamic darkness in Indonesia, it is hard to fathom. Ihya Us
Sunnah doesn't look like a Muslim fundamentalist stronghold. It's a humble set of
buildings, populated by a handful of young boys, with no walls separating it from the
nearby village. Given its openness, its proximity to the city of Jogjakarta 13 kilometres
away and the easy coexistence with secular village life, it hardly seems to be one of
those corners of Indonesia some United States officials believe international terrorists
may be considering using as a base.
In reality, traditions of tolerance still prevail in most Muslim communities of Southeast
Asia. But in places like Ihya Us Sunnah, there's also a vulnerability. The hard
scrabble for resources and a lack of integration with secular society can leave Islamic
schools and their students open to manipulation. If it has sufficient funding, and
leadership that stresses integration, the Islamic education system will likely uphold
moderate traditions. Without those factors, there's a danger it can become a fertile
ground for militancy.
Teguh, a mild-mannered third-year information-technology student at the nearby
Islamic University, helps run the Ihya Us Sunnah school. He gestures towards the
mosque, where Koranic verse wafts out of open windows. "The mosque belongs to the
village," he says in a quiet voice. "We rent some land. The lease is up in two years."
Teguh isn't concerned about his more secular neighbours. At the time of this
unannounced visit no security was evident. Indeed, Ja'far himself was arrested in May,
leaving his three wives and numerous children in a gaily painted house at the back of
the school.
But two years ago, Teguh spent a year in strife-torn Ambon with the Laskar Jihad. As
he casually puts it, he "went to war." He doesn't say much about his experience
except that he saw Muslim villages attacked by Christians and was in dangerous
situations. He denies carrying arms and is oddly offhand about it all. "I went because I
was on holiday between school and university," he says. "I won't go back until I've
finished my studies."
If it's hard to determine what motivated Teguh to join the Laskar Jihad, it's easy to see
how difficult it would be to dissuade him. The school is dependent on Ja'far for
patronage and funding. There is no secular balance to the conservative Salafi Islamic
dogma taught at the school.
More than 2,000 kilometres to the north of Jogjakarta, on the outskirts of Nakhon Si
Thammarat in southern Thailand, another Islamic boarding school presents a different
picture. Much as at Ihya Us Sunnah, the 1,200 students at a school called Pondok
Bantan spend their mornings praying, reciting the Koran and studying Arabic and
Malay language.
But in the afternoon, they are taught the national Thai-language school curriculum.
The pupils, roughly the same age as those at Ihya Us Sunnah, live in tidy bamboo
huts scattered over a spacious compound that has been the site of a religious school
for 60 years. More than half the pupils are girls. Tuition is free, though families support
their children by supplying food and clothing.
Here in Pondok Bantan there is no apparent stress on narrowly interpreted dogma, no
evidence of radical ideas or intolerance. "We see dakhwa [missionary] people who try
to stir things up from time to time, but not very often," says Surin Pitsuwan, the
former Thai foreign minister and member of parliament. Surin, a leading advocate of
civil society, was born and raised in the school grounds, where his mother, now in her
80s, still teaches the Koran.
Judging from a discussion with students from the school, it's clear that these Muslim
youngsters have strong views about the meaning and value of civil society and
democracy. "People must be able to decide for themselves what kind of curriculum
their children have, and everyone must have the right to free education," says an
articulate 12-year-old girl, her eyes flashing from underneath a coloured headscarf.
Healthy funding is the key to this school's security. A new mosque was built with a
grant from a wealthy Indian doctor from Dubai. The same doctor is paying for a new
classroom block. More significantly, some funding for the school comes from Western
countries. The audio-visual equipment, for example, was donated by the German
embassy in Bangkok. Surin believes it is important for Western countries to get
involved in the education of a future generation of Muslim adults. "If Muslim
fundamentalism, Muslim extremism and Muslim radicalism are to be contained, a
global awareness of the need for some kind of educational reform in the Muslim world
is necessary," he insists. "A global cooperation is in order and a global funding of
some sort is the only way out."
In this respect, the contrast between southern Thailand and Jogjakarta is striking. The
Islamic boarding school, or pesantren, of Indonesia traditionally evolved outside the
formal structure of state education, usually founded and run by individual religious
teachers. There is a strong tradition of isolationism and independence, as seen at
Ihya Us Sunnah.
Teguh, the school's helper, waves his hand at the tumbledown, windowless wooden
house where the students stay, and sniffs at suggestions of foreign patronage.
"People say we are funded by Osama bin Laden, but go and take a look. It's not
possible." Ja'far supports the school, Teguh claims, with the help of local donations.
(Teguh says that money for the Laskar Jihad came from elsewhere and he knows
nothing about it.) With meagre local support and no connection with the state
schooling curriculum, Ihya Us Sunnah is isolated and vulnerable to manipulation by
extremists.
Yet things could be different. Central Java has a long tradition of religious moderation,
which makes the appearance of Laskar Jihad in the region rather odd. Some
observers regard the very tolerance of the region as a magnet for extremists. But the
sultan of Jogjakarta, Hamengkubuwono X, who is also governor of Jogjakarta, offers
another explanation.
"For more than 30 years, former President Suharto suppressed all Muslim
organizations," the sultan says at a palace function. Islam, the official religion of the
sultanate, is relegated to a brief mention during prayers. "Even though we have
democracy, the older, established organizations which were more moderate are still
weak, so this gives extremists a bigger voice."
This still doesn't explain how hardline Islamic militants spring from a fundamentally
pluralistic and tolerant society like that of Jogjakarta, where most Muslims believe in
the mystical power of volcanoes and a goddess who lives off the southern coast of
Java.
One view is that whatever militancy has arisen has not come from mainstream
Javanese Muslim society, but rather from manipulations wreaked upon it. Sidney
Jones, an experienced human-rights researcher now with the International Crisis
Group in Jakarta, says some suspected extremists, such as Abu Bakar Sasyir and
Fatur Ahman Al Ghozi, had links in the 1970s to a shady group called Kommando
Jihad, set up by Indonesian intelligence, ostensibly to keep communism at bay. In
fact, Jones says, the group was set up to preach Islamic statehood so that the PPP,
a Muslim political party, would be discredited.
The practice of minting extremist groups to pursue domestic political goals persists.
Laskar Jihad is widely believed to have been organized by military factions angry over
being sidelined from the political scene after the fall of Suharto. Another violent group,
the Jakarta-based Front to Protect Islam, was recruited as a proxy security force by
the police to protect the parliament from student demonstrators in 1999.
None of this suggests that mainstream Indonesian Muslim society is at risk of
becoming "Talibanized." "I'm not sure that the activities of these few extremists are
affecting the wider society of central Java," says Jones. But the danger of economic
discontent spawning support for militants does reinforce the need for politicians and
educators to safeguard the strong traditions of tolerance inherent in these societies.
Surin doesn't believe that Southeast Asian Muslims will veer towards the kind of
fundamentalism practised by the Taliban in Afghanistan, but he warns of the
"corrosion" that could occur if radical movements, small as they may be, aren't reined
in.
Back at the Ihya Us Sunnah boarding school, a young generation of Muslim boys
badly needs a better-funded and broader education so they won't be brainwashed into
believing that Muslims need defending in Ambon.
Copyright ©2002 Review Publishing Company Limited, Hong Kong
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