Latitudes Magazine, 17 June 2002
Waging Peace in Maluku: Civil Society on the Frontline
by Nicola Frost photographs by Tantyo Bangun
Arriving in Ambon was a shock. After four years away, I'd lost sight of the striking
beauty of this little island. Since January 1999, conflict between Muslims and
Christians across the region has left at least 7,000 people dead. Hundreds of
thousands more have been forced to leave their homes, as each side attempts a kind
of 'religious cleansing.' Newspaper reports of ransacking, burning and murder had
shrouded the bright emerald horseshoe in smoke and darkness, and tales of snipers
in speedboats had somehow dulled the sparkling blue bay in my mind. The lush green
hills edged with small coastal villages now spread before me as we prepared to land,
marked only (at this distance) by ugly red gashes sprinkled with gray dots where
refugee settlements have been carved out of the hillside. Ambon both is and isn't what
it once was.
After three difficult years, no one imagines achieving lasting peace in Maluku will be a
simple matter. What prospects for reconciliation really exist in Ambon today, and
perhaps more importantly, who exactly is on the ground making it happen? A peace
agreement was signed in February 2002 at the Sulawesi hill resort of Malino, though
not all parties are satisfied with its terms. Does this hold the only hope, or are there
other possible channels for reconciliation on this embattled island? Our recent visit
showed us that a dynamic blend of tradition and innovation is motivating a range of
people in Ambon to think beyond the formal political process in the quest for a
functioning society.
A Divided City
Ambon city remains strictly segregated along religious lines, although it is so
compact that the sounds of the muezzin from the mosque and the choir from the
church mingle freely in the evening air. Nevertheless, it is surprising how little
information passes between the Christian and Muslim communities. Local media is,
at best, full of dry official speeches and announcements, and at worst is outwardly
provocative. It has little room for the more everyday details that can help bind a
society together.
In a street dividing the two communities a group of drivers, both Muslim and Christian,
wait together for vehicles requiring a driver of the appropriate religion in order to be
able to cross into the other area. Brisk business for the drivers indicates that trade
between the two sides remains largely intact, partly because the main port is in
Muslim territory, and many of the goods being exchanged here are coming from
warehouses on the quay. Some suggest this is a hopeful sign, and that normal
trading relations will quickly resume once the violence ends, bringing the two
communities closer together. Others fear that the division has already gone on far too
long, especially for young people, who are growing up in segregated schools, playing
with pistols and homemade bombs, and rarely meeting anyone from the other side.
Much of the center of the city has been destroyed, or grotesquely altered. The
Mardika market was once a noisy, bustling food and dry-goods market, home to the
city's bus and bemo terminals. There one could buy almost any kind of household
equipment, the latest releases by Ambonese pop singers, or take one's pick from
spice warehouses, filled with towering piles of cloves, nutmeg and mace. Now the
noise and bustle remains, and some of the buses-although only those going to
Muslim areas. But the vast concrete market complex now houses 2,000 refugee
families, in intolerably cramped and dirty conditions. The area around what was once
the main bemo terminal lies empty; charred concrete steps lead up through the
skeletons of the buildings to the open sky. On Jalan A.Y. Patty, previously the main
shopping and entertainment area, half the buildings have been destroyed. Karaoke
bars and discos have been transformed into a major army base. Miraculously, the
Matahari department store! remains open, although only for Muslims. Citra, a
supermarket in the Christian area, also seems to have a charmed life-bombs have
been defused there on four separate occasions.
One of the only areas considered safe for Christians and Muslims to meet is the area
around the Amans Hotel. The Amans forecourt serves as a morning market, open to
all, which has been in operation for the last year and has grown considerably. During
our visit, the soldiers responsible for maintaining security were busy overseeing a
clean-up operation in order to impress a visiting dignitary. There are still those who are
afraid to come here, but the sight of women selling fish, vegetables and clothing was a
comforting glimpse of normality in a situation still very far from normal.
'You know, the most serious violence in Indonesia has not been the physical conflict,'
says Lina Uktolseja, one of the staff of Baileo, an Ambon-based NGO network. 'It has
come from the government's consistent and ongoing denial of people's rights.
Reformasi has changed little-corruption is still rampant, and the government still
doesn't listen to people.' She offers the example of the way the government has
requisitioned land for refugees from local residents, who are now demanding a share
of the crops produced on it. 'This kind of action simply stores up trouble for the future,
which is something we really don't need right now.' There is a real fear that nothing
has been learned from the last few years, and that the same mistakes are still being
made.
These concerns are shared by many of those following the progress of peace
initiatives, such as that signed in Malino. Asmara Nababan, Secretary General of
Indonesia's Komnas HAM (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia-the national,
independent Commission for Human Rights) sees all such processes as positive and
necessary, although he believes the Malino Agreement should be seen as only the
first step in a much lengthier process. The bottom line, he feels, should be the
government's willingness to take responsibility for what is happening in Ambon and to
take decisive steps to stop it. Others, however, including the Baileo staff, worry about
how representative these kinds of meetings really are, and complain that the NGO
sector was not appropriately represented at Malino. Another aggrieved party is
Ambon's ethnic Butonese, Bugis and Makassarese (BBM) community, the majority of
whom are now refugees in Sulawesi. They feel their interests, which they see as
distinct from those of ! the ethnic Ambonese, whether Christian or Muslim, were
ignored at the Malino talks. Add to this the row over the Islamic militant group Laskar
Jihad's participation in Malino (or lack of it), which could have important implications
for its eventual success, and the future doesn't look particularly bright.
With all this dissatisfaction, the large scale 'socialization' promised at Malino seems
a long way off. But there are encouraging signs at the local level that could make all
the difference in the long term. Civil society in Ambon has taken a heavy beating over
the last few years, but the new forms that are emerging, and the traditional systems
that are being reconsidered as a result of the social devastation of the last few years,
could help provide the stimulus needed to overcome the destructive patterns of the
past, and move on.
Crossing Borders
The Amans Hotel is home to many of the international aid agencies that have crowded
into Ambon since the conflict began. The underground garage is full of white 4x4s with
smart logos and flags on the bonnet. Ambon's transition from NGO backwater to
humanitarian center-stage has, in the eyes of local organizations, been a decidedly
mixed blessing. In 1998 there were maybe five or six fully fledged local NGOs
operating in Ambon. Now there are estimated to be over 300, many of them
established without well thought-out operational procedures or longer-term strategies,
intent on winning some of the international funds now flooding the province. Baileo is
worried that this rash of newcomers could taint the reputation of the more responsible
and well-established organizations, and is busy campaigning for a code of ethics to
provide guidelines on good practice. Another concern is the difficult relationship
between local NGOs and international agencies: some locals feel they are onl! y
included in communication lines when their priorities fit with those of the monied
West.
But the Amans is also the venue for one of the more encouraging initiatives in
operation in Ambon today. Every afternoon at five o'clock, a team of volunteers meets
to discuss its work. The team was established by Baileo within a week of the first
outbreak of violence in January 1999, as a way of helping those affected by the
conflict. It began with just seven members, both Muslims and Christians. As the
conflict spread, and refugee camps sprang up all around Ambon, the team grew
steadily, and there are now around 50 volunteers.
The team is a close-knit and motivated bunch. Jusmalinda Holle, known as Linda, an
economics student at Pattimura University in Ambon, chairs the meeting, with only
occasional input from the Baileo staff. The atmosphere is friendly; jokes and gentle
teasing fly around the room. But everyone is serious about the work. The team has
been involved in many aspects of the emergency refugee program in Ambon, including
healthcare, water and sanitation, and information and documentation. They have also
participated in a campaign to end violence against women and children, and in some
of the many discussions aimed at ending the conflict. During our visit the volunteers
were trialing a questionnaire designed to gauge the psycho-social impact of the
conflict on refugee populations on both sides. The discussion is lively-everyone
participates, and everyone is keen to make the questionnaire as useful as possible.
Nevertheless, there are occasional hints of the stress of living and workin! g in such
difficult conditions, day in and day out. 'We're bored with living like this,' says Linda, a
rare shadow passing over her sunny face.
Despite the strain of dealing with the effects of conflict on a daily basis, or maybe
even because of it, team members are committed to their work. Volunteers have
developed a sophisticated understanding of the political and psychological complexity
of this conflict. "The most valuable lesson I have learned from the activities of the
volunteer team is to be able to understand the attitude of someone who occasionally
gets swept along by their emotions," says Kace, one of the volunteers. "But for me
this is a spur to continue working without reward to help people who are suffering."
The volunteer team is an example of a successful grassroots initiative with a practical
purpose. Not only that, its very existence also provides a valuable opportunity for
young people from both communities to meet, exchange ideas, and work together for
a brighter future in Ambon.
The lack of unity in the voluntary sector could pose a real challenge to the
effectiveness of innovative work like that of the volunteer team, and is likely to remain
a problem as long as international attention remains on Maluku. That said, the
emergence of a new "class" of engaged, talented young people, with a new
confidence and levels of experience could be a real bonus in a society where authority
is usually based on seniority, and where there have traditionally been few
opportunities for educated young people who want to contribute to community life.
A Future For Ambonese Adat?
OT Lawalatta is a lecturer in law at Pattimura University, and a leading member of the
protestant church in Ambon, as well as the chairman of the local branch of Komnas
HAM. We meet late one night in the elite suburb of Karang Panjang, consistently a
target of violent attacks. He was present at Malino, and is cautiously optimistic about
the future of Ambonese society. One potentially fruitful avenue for reconciliation, he
says, is adat or local customary law. The practice of pela gandong, ancient alliances
between villages, often one Christian and one Muslim, in central Maluku and its
supposed ability to prevent conflict along religious lines has received overwhelmingly
bad press over the last few years. Those, however, who see a future in Ambonese
adat argue that this is largely due to a misunderstanding of pela's origins and current
practice. Though pela has never been a guarantee of solidarity between the Muslim
and Christian communities as a whole, still there remains s! ome potential in pela
relationships at the individual level. Lawalatta describes his experience at Malino,
finding himself sitting opposite a Muslim man from a village with which his has a pela
relationship: "I held out my hand to him, and he hesitated for the longest time before
taking it. The next day he came to me and said he'd not been able to sleep a wink all
night, thinking about how he'd nearly rejected the pela bond."
Despite examples like this, skepticism about adat's potential for regeneration and
peacebuilding remains widespread in Ambon. Not so in the Kei Islands, 500
kilometers southeast in the Banda Sea. Here, adat leaders on the island of Kei Besar
were strikingly successful in achieving a swift resolution to the violence that broke out
there in early 1999. They conducted a labor-intensive "roadshow," traveling to all
villages and hamlets on the island to remind people of the priority of adat law over
religious affiliations. Opinion is divided as to whether this experience has any
relevance to the Ambonese situation. Can such a system work on a larger scale in a
mainly urban area, one with (at least pre-conflict) a large immigrant population?
Ambonese society has a reputation for being extremely difficult for outsiders to
penetrate, with settlers regarded as pendatang (newcomers) for several generations.
On the other hand, some argue that immigrants from other regions have made no!
great effort to integrate with indigenous society, preferring to settle in ethnically
homogenous ghetto communities. Without a doubt, if adat structures are to play any
significant part in community reconstruction in Ambon, they are going to need radical
reform. Lawalatta sees no problem with this, suggesting that any traditional system
has only ever remained relevant if it is responsive to social change.
Around midnight, as we career down the hill from Karang Panjang to the city, we stop
at a roadside kiosk to buy cigarettes. "My wife says they're poison," says OT, "but
living like this I need something to keep me going." He drops me off at my hotel, and
speeds off to yet another meeting. The next morning we're on a plane to Bali,
exchanging military checkpoints for the exclusive sanctuary of Sanur. But for OT,
Lina, and the volunteer team, it is simply another day of hard work and uncertainty
about the future. However, as tension and doubts about the Malino agreement hold
the future of Maluku on a knife-edge, it's good to know that they are there.
Nicola Frost is a doctoral candidate in the anthropology department at Goldsmiths
College, University of London. Tantyo Bangun is a Jakarta-based photographer. This
article is based on research for the Indonesia Country Profile, to be published by
Oxfam GB in October.
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