Latitudes Magazine Vol41-June/2004
Dispatch
Ambon April 2004
by Mie Cornoedus
The trip from Ambon's Pattimura airport to the city is mind-blowing. All along the road
lush vegetation covers the shells of houses. Remains of burnt-out churches and
mosques are cruelly 'photogenic'. The skeletons of a university and several schools
are sad evidence of a deep incomprehensible conflict. Ruined buildings whose
windows are covered with cardboard or triplex and roofed with bits and pieces of
rusted corrugated iron sheets are clearly housing people. The villages we drive through
are not referred to by their names, but by their religion.
In 1999, an incident between a Muslim and a Christian bus driver at the bus terminal
in Ambon triggered a tragic conflict throughout the region. It left both physical and
mental scars. Over the next four years it created massive dislocations of people, and
deaths on an unprecedented scale. More than six-thousand people were killed and
some five hundred thousand displaced. The violence, which broke out after riots in
Jakarta that year, is especially perplexing because, until then, Maluku had always
been a role model for inter-communal and inter-religious harmony.
It is difficult to grasp the underlying causes of violence on such a scale. The
Ambonese themselves are struggling to rationalize and diagnose the conflict. They
come up with diverse theories of third-party provocateurs, socio-cultural and economic
polarization, inequalities in local government and power structures, and even magic. It
will probably remain a vague debate whether the conflicts were religious clashes or
whether religion was used as political tool to rouse social conflict.
Mediation attempts by the central government resulted in the signing of the Malino II
peace agreement in February 2002. Recovery programs on the social, economic and
physical level were set up, as thousands of internal refugees were ready to return
home or be permanently relocated somewhere else. The state of civil emergency in
Maluku was lifted in September 2003. All these were signs of an improving situation.
I volunteered for a non-governmental organization (NGO) to document their emergency
aid and development programs for refugees or Internally Displaced People (IDPs) in
the process of return or relocation. I was determined to bring back home with me a
story of peace and reconciliation, a story of trust in human kind. I so wish this story
had a happy ending.
As a small contribution to the peace process, my friend and I, both European, were
put up in Hotel Abdulalie, a pleasant place in the Muslim area of town near the
bustling market at the Al-Fatah mosque. In no time we found favorite kaki lima food
vendors with delicious squid; a salon that offers an excellent cream bath; a newspaper
salesman to discuss the frightening developments in Israel with. We befriended the
boy across the street studying English. The women of the hotel café were very eager
to prepare the best omelettes in town for us. There was not one sign of distrust;
people were simply friendly and curious. They referred to us as tourists. Edo, a becak
(pedicab) driver said, "Seeing you walking around here makes me so happy because
that means tourists are coming back to Ambon. My dream for the future is to work for
a travel company. I have a legal certificate of English but I am driving a becak to
support my family. You can have a free ride wherever you want. I'll show you peaceful
Maluku. But you have to promise me to spread the word." I promise him, but prefer to
walk.
The living conditions of the IDPs in Ambon town and in the surrounding areas vary
from place to place. Those who haven't yet found more permanent housing solutions
are living in tiny shacks, packed together. After living in refuge for almost five years,
most of them have covered their most basic needs after food and clothes: a TV and a
VCD player. Soap operas about uncomplicated life issues of love and despair and
cheesy karaoke music seem to provide a sparkle of happiness.
Both international and local NGOs have set up programs for the IDPs, such as
emergency aid, education and income generating activities, advocacy work and
reconciliation. One initiative strikes me as a brilliant way to break through the strongly
segregated communities. One of the streets in the Muslim area of Ambon town has a
crowded market. On both sides of the street people offer fruits, vegetables and clothes
for sale. The area is known as 'pasar rekonsiliasi' (reconciliation market). It started
with convincing a few Christians and Muslim sales people to set up their little stalls in
the same street. Someone at the market tells me that after the first day she went
home and told her neighbors about her daring adventure to work next to someone of
the 'others', which turned out so well. The message they took home was: nothing
wrong with the Christians/Muslims, they're good people. After a couple of weeks the
street became a lively market with people from different backgrounds working
peacefully together.
The Ambonese community, both the Christians and the Muslims, acknowledge that
they were tired of living in fear. Eko, a young Muslim man who was actively involved in
the fighting and is now working for a Christian NGO, realized after a while that he
didn't want to go on living in an atmosphere of hostility. No more schools, no more
activities for youngsters, food becoming scarce, roads blocked. "We were forced to
open our eyes and to look for a solution."
We visit relocation villages and refugee camps throughout the islands of Ambon and
Seram. Everywhere we are confronted with devastating stories of loss and suffering.
Many of the IDPs have high hopes to return to their villages or old neighborhoods,
although trust is still an issue. Although nearly all acknowledge that the problem is
not a religious one, 'the others' are always referred to by their religion. "What God
would ever preach violence?" says Paulus, an ex-political prisoner from Buru island,
now a refugee in Ambon. "But religion has become a dangerous instrument, and
people are easily provoked. That's why I don't dare to return to Buru yet."
Lots of issues still remain unresolved to this day. Land and ownership disputes,
lingering government aid, huge unemployment rates, lack of proper educational
funding and programs, jealousy problems-all these keep people frustrated and on
edge. Scars and traumas are not yet healed. However, in the middle of April 2004, we
found one message of unity among all the different communities: no more fighting,
lets think about the future of our children.
On Sunday the 25th of April, we decide to explore one of the superb beaches of
Ambon. This is also the day that the separatist movement Republic of South Maluku
(RMS) celebrates the 54th anniversary of their Declaration of Independence. The
movement has been banned by both Muslim and Christian leaders, and no more than
a bit of tension is expected. Armed with snorkel gear and fishing lines, we have high
hopes to stun the world with a fantastic dinner. We make a stop at the market to buy
some bait. All of a sudden people around us grow tense. Within five minutes a wave of
terror spreads over the whole area. People start running, vendors pack their stuff in a
panic, young men pick up sticks, the first guys with machetes in hand turn up.
People are moving in different directions. What strikes me is their expressions-so
much aggression in some, in shrill contrast to eyes full of fear and astonishment in
others. We try to find a way out of the crowd.
We see one of the first victims being carried away and lifted into the back of a small
public bus. Some kick our car; others try to open up the road for us to get out. We
are able to get out of town and flee through the mountains to go back into the city via
the Christian part. By the time we approach Ambon city, big clouds of smoke disrupt
the beautiful skyline. The UN building is burning, the old telecommunications building
housing the government is nothing but smoke, a Protestant church, just renovated, is
bombed again. One of our friends in the car says, "We move from the mouth of a
crocodile into the mouth of a lion."
What has happened is unclear. RMS members held a gathering to celebrate their
anniversary and raised their flag. The police intervened and detained the leaders and
about twenty-four supporters, who were led to the police headquarters while RMS
activists followed on foot. Many associate RMS with Christians, and as a response,
mostly Muslim anti-RMS activists took to the streets in protest. Clashes between the
two groups soon got out of control.
In only an hour, the religious communities are segregated again. This cruel reality
feels totally out of place to me. One example is the energy put forward by both
communities in a hazardous mission to collect our luggage a few days later. Two
Muslim NGO workers go to the hotel to gather our things including our passports from
our room. Meanwhile their Christian colleague, escorted by the police, meets them at
a border area prone to heavy fighting. This brief moment is the only time they
physically meet during these days. Just to quickly hand over our bags.
We take refuge and as foreigners have to stay very low profile. More offices of
international NGOs and humanitarian agencies are looted and attacked. Foreigners
are suspected of fuelling the separatist movement with financial and logistic support,
and they become an extra target in this conflict.
My blood pressure reaches unhealthy levels after two sleepless nights disrupted by
bomb blasts and gunshots close to our little haven. Fear is fuelled by the endless
stream of rumors going from phone to phone. When a message reaches us that
foreigners will be sought out and exterminated, there is only one thing on my mind:
how to get out of here safely?
On the third day, with the help of the UN and the police, we are evacuated in
bullet-proof trucks zigzagging through the blockades on the way to a safe area of the
airport. This recent tragic turmoil, which to an outsider seems to have struck from
nowhere, is a serious set back for efforts to create peace in Maluku. In a region still
so sensitive, it doesn't take much to provoke a full-blown war. Hundreds of houses and
public buildings are destroyed. It's not clear how many people are on the run-again.
Is the violence orchestrated? In the light of the upcoming presidential elections,
conspiracy theories about possible masterminds in Jakarta are widely accepted. Will
we ever know?
Mie Cornoedus is a freelance writer and photographer, and manager of the art and
cultural café Via-Via in Jogjakarta.
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