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Reproduced from Realpolitik Ideology: Indonesia's Use of Military Force, by Leonard C. Sebastian (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2006). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

The Institute of Southeast Asian Studies (ISEAS) was established as an autonomous organization in 1968. It is a regional centre dedicated to the study of socio-political, security and economic trends and developments in Southeast Asia and its wider geostrategic and economic environment. The Institute’s research programmes are the Regional Economic Studies (RES, including ASEAN and APEC), Regional Strategic and Political Studies (RSPS), and Regional Social and Cultural Studies (RSCS). ISEAS Publications, an established academic press, has issued more than 1,000 books and journals. It is the largest scholarly publisher of research about Southeast Asia from within the region. ISEAS Publications works with many other academic and trade publishers and distributors to disseminate important research and analyses from and about Southeast Asia to the rest of the world.

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Realpolitik Ideology Indonesia’s Use of Military Force Leonard C. Sebastian

Institute of Southeast Asian Studies Singapore

First published in Singapore in 2006 by ISEAS Publications Institute of Southeast Asian Studies 30 Heng Mui Keng Terrace Pasir Panjang Singapore 119614 E-mail: [email protected] Website: http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. © 2006 Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore The responsibility for facts and opinions in this publication rests exclusively with the author and his interpretations do not necessarily reflect the views or the policy of the publisher or its supporters.

ISEAS Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data Sebastian, Leonard C. Realpolitik ideology : Indonesia’s use of military force. 1. National security—Indonesia. 2. Internal security—Indonesia. 3. Indonesia—Military policy. 4. Indonesia—defenses. I. Title UA853 I5S441 2006 ISBN 981-230-310-3 (soft cover) ISBN 981-230-311-1 (hard cover) Cover photograph by Edy Wahyudi of Sinar Harapan showing Army Chief of Staff Ryamizard Ryacudu preparing to cut tumpeng (rice cones) to commemorate the 52nd anniversary of Kopassus at its headquarters in Cijantung, East Java, on Friday, 16 April 2004. Typeset by International Typesetters Pte Ltd Printed in Singapore by Utopia Press Pte Ltd

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For my mother, Regina Sebastian, my brother-in-Christ, Joseph C. Quinn, and my wife, Boon Ngee, for your support and prayers.

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Contents

List of Figures List of Maps List of Tables Preface Notes on the Spelling of Proper Names Glossary and Abbreviations

ix x xi xiii xvii xviii

Introduction Chapter 1

1 Enframing Indonesian Concepts of National Security

27

Internal Operations and the Weak Infrastructural Power of the State

67

Chapter 3

Strategy and Defence: The Indonesian Approach

177

Chapter 4

Formulating a Comprehensive Approach to Defence and National Security Planning

275

Democratic Consolidation and Reform of the TNI in the Post-Suharto Era

320

Chapter 6

Conclusion: Redefining National Security

373

Appendix

Law No. 3 of Year 2002 on National Defence Law No. 2 of Year 2002 on the Police Force of the Republic of Indonesia Text of Order to Develop a Security Plan The Report of the Politics and Security Team in Dili, Memo Number: M.53/Tim P4-OKTT/7/1999 The Anti-Subversion Law (1963)

389

Chapter 2

Chapter 5

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404 420 423 428 433

viii

CONTENTS

1959 National Emergency Law Government Regulation in Lieu of Legislation of the Republic of Indonesia No 1/2002 List of Civilian Militias based on Political and Ideological Affiliations The Bill of Republic of Indonesia No. 32 Year 2004 on the Indonesian National Military Bibliography Index About the Author

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439 459 476 479 517 545 560

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LIST OF FIGURES

2.1 2.2 2.3 2.4 2.5 2.6 2.7 2.8

Indonesian Intelligence Structure Army Intelligence and Staff Line Organizations Sub-Region Military Command (Korem) Headquarters District Military Command (Kodim) Headquarters Sub-District Military Command (Koramil) Headquarters Organization of Infantry Battalion Structure Regional Military Command (Kodam) Headquarters Spectrum of Threats

79 90 92 93 93 124 125 151

3.1 3.2

Regional Security Coordination (formerly Siskamwil) Air Defence (Kosek, Air to Air) and Air Support (Koopsau, Ground to Air) Operational Chain of Command Naval Operational Chain of Command Defence Operational Structure for Joint Operations Forms of Joint Operations Organization of an Infantry Battalion (Kostrad) TNI Chain of Command Indonesian Armed Forces Personnel 1968–2004

190

3.3 3.4 3.5 3.6 3.7 3.8 4.1 4.2 4.3

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Japanese Occupation Neighbourhood Watch System Parallel Civilian Administrations and Army Territorial Command Military and Police Foundations and Their Associated Companies

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194 198 210 211 214 220 229 279 289 299

LIST OF MAPS

3.1 3.2 3.3 3.4

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Division of Regional Military Command/Strategic Compartments since 1999 Air Force Boundaries and Main Bases Fleet Boundaries and Main Bases The Proposed Kowilhan Concept

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187 193 196 213

LIST OF TABLES

3.1 3.2

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Indonesian Armed Forces Personnel 1968–2004 Major Weapon Acquisitions since the 1970s

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228 234

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Preface

This book is a product of three years of research and writing. It is an intellectual journey that I have only just begun. The more I read about Indonesia and discover during my many visits, the more I realize the complexities inherent in a country rich in diversity and multifaceted in the myriad of interpretations that can be brought to bear on the important issues of the day. Mine is but one interpretation. Numerous individuals and institutions have provided assistance which directly or indirectly contributed to the completion of this book. My initial task is to thank two wonderful scholars, who are sadly no longer with us, the late Huynh Kim Khanh of Cornell University and Kernial Singh Sandhu, who was Director of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies until his untimely demise in 1992. Both these scholars did the most to stimulate my interest in Southeast Asian Studies and start me off in the right direction. K.S. Sandhu had a vision for Southeast Asian research that he articulated to me in January 1992 before I left Singapore to begin my doctoral studies at the Australian National University. He had observed that while Southeast Asians tended to write prolifically on the countries of their origin, little cross-cultural research was undertaken within the region. He pondered whether it was due to a lack of inclination by Southeast Asians to comment on the internal affairs of each other’s countries, but emphasized that such an impediment should be overcome as cross-cultural research would add a unique dimension to Southeast Asian Studies. Next, he stressed to me that the development of local expertise on Indonesia was particularly critical as Indonesia was Singapore’s neighbour and Singaporean scholars should attempt to make their own inimitable contribution to Indonesian studies. This book, in its own modest way, aspires to fulfil that vision articulated to me all those years ago. I would be amiss if I failed to acknowledge the special debt of gratitude I owe to those who have contributed to my early intellectual development when I did degrees in History and Political Science at York University in Toronto, Canada. Robert W. Cox, Cynthia Dent, David B. Dewitt, Paul M. Evans, Gerald S. Jordan, Willard Piepenberg, Richard Stubbs (at McMaster

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xiv PREFACE

University) and Neal Wood made immense contributions to helping me lay a firm academic foundation that has served me well during my career. My initial acquisition of a good deal of knowledge on the technicalities of defence planning and policymaking was acquired while at the Strategic and Defence Studies Centre (SDSC) at the Australian National University, a richly rewarding academic experience, though no less challenging, that complimented the highly theoretical international studies education I had received at York. In Canberra, at the SDSC, I was privileged to know Desmond Ball, Lezsek Buszynski, and Paul Dibb. More importantly, early knowledge on the intricacies of the TNI as a defence institution and its involvement in Indonesian politics and society was due in no small part to the numerous talks I had with Harold Crouch and Robert Lowry who as research advisors shared their knowledge with enthusiasm and generosity. The excellent collegial environment I enjoyed at the SDSC was due also to the friendship of Nicola Baker and Khoo How San. There are institutions and individuals in Singapore whose support has been significant and to whom I owe a debt of gratitude. The Institute of Southeast Asian Studies (ISEAS) where the initial research and writing began in mid-2000 was a wonderful place to begin my academic career. I particularly thank Chan Heng Chee who gave me my first appointment and Chia Siow Yue who guided my early career and provided me a good appreciation of economics which allowed me to grasp better the salient issues of the Indonesian economic crisis in 1997. Just as important was the presence of a magnificent group of colleagues who were generous with their knowledge and friendship. I particularly want to thank Chandran Jeshurun, Patricia Lim, Surin Maisrikrod, Manuel Montes, Mya Than, Ng Chee Yuen, Kim Ong-Geiger, Sorpong Peou, Joseph L.H. Tan, Naimah Talib, Tin Maung Maung Than and Diana Wong. I have also been very fortunate that through their association with ISEAS I have been able to benefit from the wisdom of Donald E. Weatherbee, James Cotton and the late Michael Leifer all of whom exemplify the qualities of excellent scholarly role models. Lee Yeoh Lay, Ch’ng Kim See, Triena Ong and N. Nagarajan were marvellous in generously sharing their knowledge relating to the intricacies of administration, library management, publications and computing services so essential to the smooth running of an academic institution. As a young academic, I am thankful to them not only for their friendship but for imbibing me with an understanding that there is more to an academic institution than merely research, the knowledge of which I am certain will hold me in good stead for the future.

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PREFACE

xv

I would also like to record my thanks to S.R. Nathan, who as founding Director of the Institute of Defence and Strategic Studies (IDSS), led by example and was never too busy to confer an encouraging word while always generous to share his vast knowledge with young academics like myself. His insights on regional trends and perspectives on the policy process in Singapore helped sharpen the objectivity of my research and he remains a continuous source of encouragement to me in my career. IDSS, where I finished the writing of the book, contributed towards funding two of my field trips to Indonesia. Another was done under the auspices as a consultant to the Singapore Trade Development Board. These field trips were undertaken during 2000–2002. In this regard I would like to record my appreciation to Barry Desker who was instrumental in my appointment as a consultant to the Trade Development Board and as Director of IDSS has always been willing to share his wide-ranging expertise on Indonesia. At IDSS, my greatest intellectual debt is to Alastair Iain Johnston of Harvard University, who as the S. Rajaratnam Distinguished Visiting Professor in 2003 took the time to comment on the draft of my introduction and made useful suggestions. Recounting his earlier experiences, he advised me to avoid using value-laden terms like strategic or security culture which had the propensity to confuse readers. Since it was really small “c” culture that I was really interested in, he suggested I use the term security ideology since it reflected clearly how culture and the politics of national security intersected in my own research. Hence, my use of the term realpolitik ideology to describe the micro processes by which this ideology of threat manifests itself in security policy and in the behaviour of security elites in Indonesia. Similarly, I would also like to thank Chong Ja Ian of Princeton University who provided useful comments on the Introduction at a critical juncture of the writing phase. At IDSS, I particularly want to thank Chong Yee Ming who provided superb library assistance and both Tng Eng Cheong and Calvin Wong for their advice on computer matters. Last but not least, I would like to express my gratitude to the wonderful friendships I have enjoyed with Indonesian scholars and practitioners who through their association with IDSS have shared with me and continue to share a multitude of perspectives on Indonesia, namely, Yuddy Chrisnandi, J. Soedradjad Djiwandono, Tatik S. Hafitz, Irman G. Lanti, Ryaas Rashid, Sukardi Rinakit, Rizal Sukma and Agus Widjojo. Of particular significance are the Indonesian students who participated in my “State and Politics in Modern Indonesia” course which is part of the IDSS Masters in Strategic Studies Programme. They shared many wonderful insights and their goodnatured criticisms helped nullify some of my typically orang asing

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xvi PREFACE

misperceptions of Indonesia, but more importantly, for their enduring friendship over the years. Despite the travails of reformasi, Indonesia’s younger generation fill me with hope that the country will once again emerge as a leading player in Asia-Pacific international relations. Many Indonesian institutions and individuals made possible and enriched my learning experience in Indonesia. Most significantly, I am deeply grateful to the Directors and Staff of CSIS, CPS-SSS, Habibie Center, LIPI, LPEM-FEUI, RIDEP Institute and numerous others from the NGO sector, academics, businesspeople, journalists, politicians, bureaucrats and military officers who I have enjoyed the privilege of meeting since my first visit to Indonesia in 1994. I was extremely gratified at the access I was granted particularly to high-level serving and retired military and defence officials. More surprising to me was the degree of openness and candour with which these officials were willing to discuss important matters of national policy. To them and the numerous Indonesians who contributed to the book which due to the nature of this topic must remain anonymous, I extend my heartfelt appreciation and thanks. I am also appreciative of the comments of the anonymous referees who provided important feedback to help me improve the quality of the manuscript. I would also like to acknowledge my gratitude to Triena Ong for her advice and thoughtful stewardship of the entire publication process from manuscript to book. I am indeed honoured to be given the privilege to publish my work with ISEAS. For moral support, I am grateful to my family especially my mother, Regina Sebastian and my parents-in-law, Lim Tei Tong and Mok Sock Khin who were extremely supportive in providing assistance to my wife and children during my long absences from Singapore while on fieldwork. I have been blessed with many good friends, but I specifically want to thank Joseph C. Quinn, A. Selvadurai and Derwin Pereira for their encouragement. Finally, the completion of this book is due in large measure to my wife Boon Ngee and my children Ryan and Emma, who shared with me the excitement, trials and tribulations all authors go through when writing a book, but significantly, for their efforts (by and large successful) to remind me that life does not revolve purely around research and writing. More importantly, I would like to thank the Omnipotent God who makes all things possible.

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Notes on the Spelling of Proper Names

Over the years, a number of changes have been made in Indonesian spelling conventions. Early in the history of the Republic, it was decided to change the Dutch “oe” to “u” in official use. Subsequently further steps were taken to bring Indonesian and Malay conventions into line with each other, with Indonesian adopting the following forms: “c” replaces the former “tj”, “sy” replaces “sj”, “j” replaces “dj”, “y” replaces “j”. In the following pages the new conventions have been used for place names (Jakarta, not Djakarta, Aceh, not Atjeh, Surabaya, not Surabaja), but this is not so easy for the names of individuals who may have their preferences for the old or new spelling. For this reason, no attempt has been made to impose a consistent usage. The current rules have been followed where there is no other guide. However, where a person is known to have a preference for the old usage (Soedjatmoko) that has been respected. Again, the old spelling has been used for persons, now dead, who are better known in that form (Sjahrir rather than Syahrir). Sukarno rather than Soekarno follows the President’s declared wish even though he always signed himself Soekarno.

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

abangan ABRI ACDA AD ADGE adil makmur Advocaat-General Akabri

aman AMD Anpol Hankam Anpolwil APRA ARD Asas Tunggal ASEAN Asintel ASIS Astagatra Aster asuhan ASW authoritas warganegara

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nominal Muslim Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia) Arms Control and Disarmament Agency (U.S.) Angkatan Darat (Army) Air Defence Ground Environment justice and prosperity Solicitor-General Akademi Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (Indonesian Armed Forces Academy) peaceful, secure ABRI Masuk Desa (“ABRI returns to the Villagers”) Analisa Potensi Pertahanan-Keamanan (Analysis of Defence and Security Potential) Analisa Potensi Wilayah (Analysis of Regional Potential) Angkatan Perang Ratu Adil (Army of the Just King) Algemeene Recherche Dienst (General Investigation Bureau) “Sole Ideological Foundation” Association of Southeast Asian Nations Asisten Intelijen (Intelligence Assistant) The Australian Secret Intelligence Service Eight Aspects of National Life Asisten Teritorial (Territorial Affairs Assistant) to guide and stimulate subordinates anti-submarine warfare civilian authority

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS xix

Aza cho Azajokai

District leader District Advisory Meeting

Ba Intel Ba Tuud

Bintara Intelijen (Intelligence NCO) Bintara Tata Usaha Urusan Dalam (Internal Administration NCO) Bintara Pembina Desa (Village Guidance NCO) Regional Security Authorities Body

Babinsa Badan Pengamanan Penguasa Daerah BAIS Bakin Bakorinda Bakorkamla Bakorstanas

Bakorstanasda Balhanpus Balhanwil Bappenas Bater Baurkonsos Baurwanra Bebas-Aktif berbahaya bersih desa BIA

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Badan Intelijen Stratejis (Armed Forces Strategic Intelligence Agency) Badan Koordinasi Intelijen (State Intelligence Coordinating Agency) Badan Koordinasi Intelijen Daerah (Regional Intelligence Coordination Body) Badan Koordinasi Keamanan Laut (Maritime Security Coordination Agency) Badan Koordinasi Bantuan Pemantapan Stabilitas Nasional (The Coordinating Body for Assisting in the Maintenance of National Stability) Bakorstanas Daerah (Regional Bakorstanas Executive) Bala Pertahanan Pusat (Centralised Strategic Reserve) Bala Pertahanan Wilayah (Regional Defence Forces) Badan Perencanaan Pembangunan Nasional (National Planning Board) Babinsa Teritorial (Territorial NCO) Bintara Urusan Kondisi Sosial (NCO Managing (local) Social Conditions) Bintara Urusan Perlawanan Rakyat (NCO Managing Peoples Resistance Force) Active and Independent (Free) dangerous village cleansing Badan Intelijens ABRI (Armed Forces Intelligence Agency)

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

Bimmas BIN

Bimbingan Masyarakat (Community Guidance) Badan Intelijens Negara (State Intelligence Agency) Pembinaan Perlindungan (Protection and Management of Labour) Pembinaan Keamanan Kewilayahan (Regional Security Management) Pembinaan Masyarakat Desa[POLRI] (Village Social Management NCO)[Police] Babinsa Polisi Daerah (Area Police NCO) Resistance Bureau Bantuan Kendali Operasi (Non-Organic Troops) Badan Pusat Intelijens (Central Intelligence Agency) Badan Pemeriksa Keuangan (State Auditing Board) Barisan Pemberontakan Republik Indonesia (Insurgent Corps of the Republik of Indonesia) Brigade Mobil POLRI (Police Mobile Brigade) Outer Islands (areas outside Java and Madura) Buku Pembinaan Teritorial (Territorial Management manual) Badan Urusan Logistik (State Logistics [Food Procurement] Board) Regent

Binalindung Binkanwil Binmas Desa Binpolda Biro Perjuangan BKO BPI BPK BPRI Brimob Buitenbezittingen Buku Pinter Bulog Bupati Cadek

Catur Dharma Eka Karma (Doctrine of Struggle of the Armed Forces) subdistrict officer confidence Building Measures hired thugs Conselho Nacional de Resistencia Timorense (National Council of Timorese Resistance) Cessation of Hostilities Agreement

camat CBM centeng CNRT COHA Daerah Perhancuran Daerah Pertahanan Penyanggah

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declared destruction zone Defence Buffer Zone

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS xxi

Daerah Pertahanan Utama Dan Dandim

Main Defence Area

dayatahan Den 88 Den Inteldam Den Pintel Pom

Dephan DIA dinamisator diplomasi Dirjen DI/TII DitIntelPam

Ditsospol Mendagri

DO Doktrin Perang Wilayah DOM DPKN DPR DPRD DPRD-DIY dukun durhaka Dwifungsi

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Komandan (Commander) Kommandan Kodim (District Military Commander) durability Detasemen 88 (Detachment 88) Detasemen Intelijen Daerah Militer (Military Region [Kodam] Intelligence Detachment) Detasemen Pelaksana Intelijen Polisi Militer (Military Police Intelligence Operative Detachment) Departemen Pertahanan (Department of Defence) Defence Intelligence Agency (U.S.) dynamiser diplomacy Director-General Darul Islam/Tentara Islam Indonesia Direktorat Intelijen dan Pengamanan Polisi (Police Directorate for Intelligence and Security Service) Direktorat Sosial-Politik Kementerian dalam Negeri (Ministry of Home Affairs SocioPolitical Directorate) Daerah operasi (Area of Operations) Doctrine of Territorial Warfare Daerah Operasi Militer (Military Operations Area) Dinas Pengawasan Keamanan Negara (State Security Service) Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (House of Representatives) Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah (Regional People’s Representative Council) Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah — Daerah Istimewa Yogyakarta soothsayer sinful Dual function

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

EDS EEZ ekstrim kanan ekstrim kiri

early detection teams Exclusive Economic Zone extreme right extreme left

FBOTT

Front Bersama Pro Otonomi Timor-Timur (Joint East Timor Pro Autonomy Front) Federasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia (AllIndonesia Labour Unions Federation) Five Power Defence Arrangement Frente Revolucionaria de Timor Leste Independente (Revolutionary Front for Independent Timor) Broad Front

FBSI FPDA Fretilin

Front Lebar G30S/PKI

gak ana apa apa Gali GAM Garda Paksi gawat GBHN Generasi Pendendam Gewestelijke Recherche Gestapu Golkar GPK Gubernur Hankam

Pertahanan dan Keamanan (Defence and Security) Pertahanan Sipil (Civil Defence) inner conscience

Hansip hati nurani

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Gerakan 30 September/Partai Kommunis Indonesia (30th September Movement/ Indonesian Communist Party) nothing is going to happen (to anyone) Gabungan anak-anak liar (wild gang or gangster) Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (Free Aceh Movement) Garda Muda Penegak Integrasi (Youth Guards for Integration) serious Garis-Garis Besar Haluan Negara (the Broad Outlines of State Policy) “Generation of the vengeful” Research Investigation Gerakan September Tigapuluh (Thirtieth of September Movement) Golongan Karya (Functional Groups) Gerombolan Pengacau Keamanan (Security Threatening Elements) Governor

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS xxiii

Hijrah

TNI’s withdrawal from West Java to Yogyakarta (1948) Huria Kristen Batak Protestan (Batak Christian Congregation)

HKBP

IBRA Ikrar Kesetiaan ICMI

Indonesian Bank Restructuring Agency Oath of Loyalty to the State Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim Indonesia (Association of Muslim Intellectuals) International Monetary Fund Industri Sarana Pertahanan (Directorate for Defence Facilities and Industries) “Native Administration” Instruksi Presiden (Presidential Instruction) Intelijen Pengamanan Polisi (Police Intelligence and Security) International Force in East Timor Ikatan Pendukung Kemerdekaan Indonesia (League of Upholders of Indonesian Freedom) Ideologi (Ideology), politik (politics), ekonomi (economy), sosial (social), budaya (culture), militer (military) and agama (religion) Industri Pesawat Terbang Nusantara Inspektur Jenderal TNI (Inspector-General of the Armed Forces) Internal Security Act

IMF Indranahan Inlandsch Bestur Inpres Intelpampol Interfet IPKI

Ipoleksosbudmilag

IPTN Irjen TNI ISA Jabotabek Jalan Tengah Jamintel JI

Jakarta-Bogor-Bekasi-Tanggerang region Middle Way Jaksa Agung Muda Bidang Intelijen (Deputy Attorney-General [Intelligence]) Jema’ah Islamiyah (generic term for Islamic community – but also the name for the transnational terrorist organization operating in Southeast Asia currently outlawed by the UN)

Ka

Kepala (head)

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xxiv GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

kabupaten Kadin KAL KAMI Kamtibmas

KAPPI Kasad kasektan Kasi Kassospol ABRI Kaster Kasum TNI Katuas keagung-binataraan keamanan kebijaksanaan kecamatan keibodan kekaryaan keluarga keluarga besar kerawanan Kesatuan Gurita Ketahanan Nasional ketentraman terganggu ketertiban keterbukaan kewaspadaan

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regency (administrative unit) Kamar Dagang dan Industri (Chamber of Commerce and Industry) Kelompok Aksi dilapangan (Field Action Groups) Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Indonesia (Indonesian Student Action Front) Keamanan dan Ketertiban Masyarakat (Security and Orderliness of Society better described as “Public Order and Security Operations”) Kesatuan Aksi Pelajar Pemuda Indonesia (Indonesian Student and Youth Action Front) Kepala Staf Angkatan Darat (Chief of Staff of the Army) Supernatural power of the king Kepala Seksi (Head of Section) Kepala Staf Sosial Politik ABRI (Chief of the Armed Forces Social and Political Affairs Staff) Kepala Staf Teritorial (Chief of Staff for Territorial Affairs) Kepala Staf Umum TNI (Chief of the Armed Forces General Staff) elders (in Timorese-Tetum) celestial grandeur a state of security policy sub-district auxiliary civil defence military officer’s assignment to a civilian post family greater family turbulence/cause for concern Marine special forces unit National Resilience Disturbance of peace order/orderliness openness vigilance

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS xxv

KEEM

Kecil tetapi efisien, efektif dan modern (Small but efficient, effective and modern) disturbance Kommunis Gaya Baru (New-style Communism) Komando Intelijens Negara (State Intelligence Command) Korps Komando Angkatan Darat (Army Commando Corps) Korps Marinir or Korps Komando Operasi Angkatan Laut (Marine Corps) Konsep Kapal Lini Utama (“leading edge ship concept”) Koninklijke Nederlandsch Indische Leger (Royal Netherlands Indies Army) Komando Daerah Angkatan Laut (Naval Regional Command) Komando Daerah Militer (Regional Military Command) Komando Daerah Angkatan Udara (Air Force Regional Command) Komando Distrik Militer (District Military Command) Komando Pengamanan Sulawesi Selatan dan Tenggara (South and Southeast Sulawesi Pacification Command) Komando Gabungan Terpadu (Integrated Joint Command) Komando Gabungan Khusus (Specified Joint Command) Komando Tugas Gabungan (Joint Task Force) Komando Pertahanan Udara Nasional (National Air Defence Command) Komando Pertahanan Keamanan (Defence and Security Command) Komando Pelaksana Operasi (Operations Implementation Command) Komando Lintas Laut Militer (Military Sealift Command)

kerusuhan KGB KIN KKAD KKo KLV KNIL Kodaeral Kodam Kodau Kodim Kodpsst

Kogabpad Kogabsus Kogasgab Kohanudnas Kokanham Kolakops Kolinlamil

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xxvi GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

Komando Jihad Komisi I Komnas Ham

Holy War Command Commission I Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia Indonesia (Indonesian National Human Rights Commission) conflict confrontation Conceptions Komando Operasi Angkatan Udara (Air Force Operations Command) Komando Operasi Keamanan Timor-Timur (Security Operations Command East Timor) Komando Operasi Keamanan Laut (Maritime Operations Security Command) Komando Pasukan Katak (Frog Force Command) Komando Pasukan Sandhi Yudha (Special Warfare Force) Komando Pasukan Khusus (Special Warfare Forces) Komando Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan dan Ketertiban (Operations Command to Restore Order and Security) Komando Rayon Militer (Sub-District Military Command) Komando Resort Militer (Sub-Region Military Command) Korps Karyawan Pegawai Republik Indonesia (Civil Servants’ Corps of the Republik of Indonesia) Komando Sektor (Sector Commands) Komando Cadangan Strategis TNI-AD (Army Strategic Reserve Command) Komando Strategis Nasional (National Strategic Command) municipality Komando Teritorial (Territorial Command) Komando Operasi Tertinggi (Supreme Operations Command) Komando Taktis (Tactical Command)

konflik konfrontasi Konsepsi Koopsau Koopskam Koopskamla Kopaska Kopassandha Kopassus Kopkamtib

Koramil Korem Korpri

Kosek Kostrad Kostranas kotamadya Koter KOTI Kotis

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

Kowilhan KPP HAM Tim-Tim

KPU kritis Kuathan Kucho Laksusda lasykar latihan ronda kampung Lemhannas

LIN Linmas Litsus LSN lurah

xxvii

Komando Wilayah Pertahanan (Regional Defence Command) Komisi Penyelidik Pelanggaran Hak Asasi Manusia di Timor Timur (Commission of Inquiry for Human Rights Violations in East Timor) Komisi Pemilihan Umum (National Election Commission) critical Kekuatan Pertahanan (Directorate-General for Defence Strength) Village Military Commander Pelaksana Khusus Daerah (Regional Special Executive) partisans (militia) “neighbourhood watch” exercises Lembaga Ketahanan Nasional (National Resilience Institute, previously National Defence Institute) Lembaga Intelijen Negara (State Intelligence Agency) Perlindungan Masyarakat (Protection of Society or People’s Protection) Penelitian Khusus (Special Investigations) Lembaga Sandi Negara (The State Cryptography Institute) village head

mahasiswa Malari mandala

student Malapetaka 15 Januari (15 January Disaster) concentric rings pattern where the first circle is closest to the centre of power Mantri Indigenous Police reporting to the Wedana Masjumi Majlis Syuro Muslimin Indonesia (Consultative Council of Indonesian Muslims) menang tanpa ngasorake winning without humiliating memanunggalkan integration

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xxviii GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

Menhan Menhankam

Menteri Pertahanan (Minister of Defence) Menteri Pertahanan dan Keamanan (Minister of Defence and Security) Menteri Koordinator Politik dan Keamanan (Coordinating Minister for Defence and Security Affairs) Modernization Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat (People’s Consultative Assembly) Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat Sementara (Provisional People’s Consultative Assembly) consensus Majelis Ulama Indonesia (Indonesian Council of Ulama) Holy Warriors of God

Menko Polkam

modernisasi MPR MPRS mufakat MUI Mujahidin Fisabilillah Murba Muspida

Partai Murba (Proletarian Party) Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah (Regional Consultative Leadership) Musyawarah Pimpinan Kecamatan (Sub-district Consultative Leadership) consultation

Muspika musyawarah NAM NATO negara kebudayaan NGO Nglurug tanpa bala NORAD

Non-aligned Movement North Atlantic Treaty Organization state of culture non-governmental organization an invasion without deploying troops North American Aerospace Defence Command normalization Nahdatul Ulama (Muslim Teachers’ Party)

normalisasi NU OKPH

Operasi Pemulian Keamanan dan Penegakan Hukum (Cooperation for the Restoration of Security and Upholding of Law) Operasi Militer Selain Perang (Military Operations other than War) Organization of Petroleum Exporting Countries

OMSP OPEC

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS xxix

Operasi Manunggal Operasi Reboisasi Operasi Terpadu OPM Ops Bin Ter Ops Intel Ops Pur Ops Ter Ops Wan Ter Opskamdagri Opstibpus Opsus OTB OTW P4K

Pokok Pelaksanaan Pemulihan Keamanan (Pacification strategy) Central and Regional Councils for the Resolution of Labour Disputes Perindustrian Angkatan Laut Indonesia Pengawasan Aliran Masyarakat (Social Supervision) Pasukan Pengamanan Swakarsa (Voluntary Security Guards) self-interest (usually defined as tanpa pamrih or selfless) Partai Amanat Nasional (National Mandate Party) Five Aspects of National Life Five Principles of the Republic of Indonesia Panglima ABRI (Armed Forces Commander) Panglima Daerah Militer (Regional Military Commander) Commander

P4P/P4D PAL PAM Pam Swakarsa pamrih PAN Pancagatra Pancasila Pangab Pangdam Panglima

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Operation to integrate ABRI with the People Operation of Forest Replanting Integrated Operation Organisasi Papua Merdeka (Free Papua Movement) Operasi Pembinaan Teritorial (Territorial Management Operations) Operasi Intelijens (Intelligence Operations) Operasi Tempur (Combat Operations) Operasi Teritorial (Territorial Operations) Operasi Perlawanan Teritorial (Territorial Resistance Operations) Operasi-operasi Keamanan dalam Negeri (Internal Security Operations) Operasi Tertib Pusat (the Centre for Operation Order) Operasi Khusus (Special Operations) Organisasi Tanpa Bentuk (Organisations without form) Operations other than War

29

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xxx GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

Pangreh Pradja Panitya Doktrin Angkatan Darat Paradigma ABRI Baru Paraku Parkindo Parmusi Partai Katolik Paskhasau PDI PDI-P pembangunan Pembantuaan Pembinaan Teritorial PEMDA pemersatu pemuda pengamanan pengasuh penggalangan pe-nonaktif-an penugaskaryaan penyaluran penyelamat penyelidikan Pepabri Pepelrada Peperda peran perang wilayah

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30

“Guardians of the Realm”, Colonial Civil Service Committee on Army Doctrine ABRI New Paradigm Pasukan Rakyat Kalimantan Utara Partai Kristen Indonesia (Indonesian Protestant Party) Partai Muslimin Indonesia (Indonesian Muslim Party) Catholic Party Pasukan Khas Angkatan Udara (Air Force Special Forces) Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (Indonesian Democratic Party) Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan (Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle) development Provision of assistance to the civilian sector Territorial Management Pemerintah Daerah (Regional Government) unifier armed youth counter-intelligence guardian covert action/psychological warfare made non-active secondment to a civilian post channelling from a military to civilian position saviour research, investigation Persatuan Purnawirawan ABRI (Indonesian Armed Forces Retired Officers Association) Penguasa Pelaksanaan Dwikora Daerah (Regional Authority to Implement Dwikora) Penguasa Perang Daerah (Regional War Authority) role territorial warfare

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS xxxi

Perata perdesan Perlawanan Permesta Perpu

Perti pesantren Pesindo PETA Petrus PGRS Piagam Jakarta PID PKI PKM PNI Polda Politiek-Politioneele Overzichen Polri Pos Siaga Naker Posko Kewaspadaan Pothan PPI PPKI

PPP

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Perang Semesta (Total War Operations) rural areas Opposition or Resistance Piagam Perjuangan Semesta Alam (Universal Struggle Charter) Peraturan Pemerintah Penganti Undangundang (Government Regulations in lieu of law) Persatuan Tharikat Islamijah (Tharikat Islam Party) traditional Islamic boarding school Pemuda Sosialis Indonesia (Indonesian Socialist Youth) Pembela Tanah Air (Volunteer Army of Defenders of the Fatherland) penembak misterius (mysterious killers) Persatuan Gerakan Rakyat Sarawak Jakarta Charter Politieke Inlichtingendienst Partai Kommunis Indonesia (Indonesian Communist Party) Pengawasan Keamanan Masyarakat (Social Security Supervision) Partai Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Party) Polisi Daerah (Police region) (Police Political Surveys) Polisi Republik Indonesia (National Police) Early Warning Posts Alert/Vigilance Centres Potensi Pertahanan (Directorate-General for Defence Potentialities) Pasukan Pejuang Integrasi (Integration Struggle Force) Panitia Persiapan Kemerdekaan Indonesia (Investigating Committee for the Preparation of Indonesia’s Independence) Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (United Development Party)

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xxxii GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

PPRC preman Protap PRRI

PSI PSII PT pusaka Pusat Pelaksana Pencegahh Konflik Pusat Pengelolaan Masalah KetenagaKerjaan Pusat Pengelola Tenaga Kerja Pusat Pengembangan Intelijens ABRI Pusintelstrat Puspi

PWRI

rasa

Manpower Conflict Management Centre

Manpower Management Centre ABRI Intelligence Development Centre Pusat Intelijen Strategis (Strategic Intelligence Centre) Perhimpunan Urusan Sosial Ekonomi Pengusaha Indonesia (Indonesian Federation for Entrepreneur socio-economic matters) Persatuan Wredatama Republik Indonesia (ABRI Wives Organization) A sense of calm satisfaction and absence of tension rationalization Rakyat Terlatih (Trained Population) troubled, disturbed incidents of sheer conflict/disruptive events reformation reconstruction

rasionalisasi Ratih rawan rebutan reformasi rekonstruksi

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Pasukan Pemukul Reaksi Cepat (Fast Reaction Strike Force) criminal/thug Prosedur Tetap (Standard Procedures) Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia (Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia) Partai Sosialis Indonesia (Indonesian Socialist Party) Partai Sarekat Islam Indonesia (Indonesian Islamic Union Party) Perseroan Terbatas (Limited Liability Company) heirlooms charged with magical power Conflict Prevention Centre

32

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS xxxiii

Renstra

Rencana Sasaran Strategis (National Strategic [Defence and Security] Plan) Rencana Pembangunan Lima Tahun (FiveYear Development Plan) Perencanaan Sistem Pertahanan (DirectorateGeneral for Defence System Planning) 1945 Revolution Republik Maluku Selatan (Republic of South Maluku) Family Groups neighbourhood watch Para Komando Angkatan Darat (Army Paratroop Commando Regiment) conflict avoidance village/neighbourhood association neighbourhood association citizen/neighbourhood association Republik Indonesia Serikat (Republic of the United States of Indonesia) peace and order Rancangan Undang-Undang Penanggulangan Keadaan Bahaya (Bill on the Management of National State of Danger)

Repelita Rensistan Revolusi 45 RMS Roemah ronda RPKAD rukun Rukun kampung Rukun tetangga Rukun warga RUSI Rust en orde RUU PKB

santri Sapta Marga sapu jagad SAR

devout Muslim Seven Principles (Soldier’s Oath) clean sweep Search and Rescue Nasional (National Search and Rescue) Suku (ethnicity), Agama (religion), Ras (race), Antar-Golongan (conflict among interest-based groups) Air Force counter-terrorist unit Satuan Tugas Intelijen (Intelligence Task Force) Satuan Pelaksana Bakin (Bakin Operational Unit) satuan pengamanan (private security guards) Satuan Tempur (Combat Unit)

SARA

Satgas Atbara Satgas Intel Satlak Bakin satpam Satpur

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xxxiv GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

Satsus Intel

Satuan Khusus Intelijen (Special Intelligence Unit) Satuan Pelaksana Intelijen (Special Intelligence Operatives Unit) Serikat Buruh Sejatera Indonesia (Indonesian Trade Union for Prosperity) Home-made guns Sekolah Staf Komando Angkatan Darat (Army Staff and Command College) Satuan Gabungan Intelijens (Intelligence Task Force) Seksi (Section) Singapore, Johore and Riau Growth Triangle principle Seksi Intelijen Distrik Militer (Military District Intelligence Section Staff) Staf Intelijen Rayon Militer (Military SubArea [Koramil] Intelligence Staff) Stockholm International Peace Research Institute Sistem Pertahanan Keamanan Rakyat Semesta (Total People’s Defence and Security System) Sistem Pertahanan Semesta (Total Defence System) Sistem Keamanan Linkungan (Environment Security System) Sistem Keamanan Wilayah (Regional Security Coordination System) Sense of well-being power to hold back the forces of disorder/ Reassertion of general order Serikat Pekerja Seluruh Indonesia (All Indonesia Federation of Workers) Regeling op de Staat van Oorlog en van Beleg (State of War) Sentral Organisasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia (Central Organization of Indonesian Workers) integrated fleet weapon system

Satsus Pintel SBSI Senjata rakitan Seskoad SGI Si SIJORI sila Sinteldim Sintelrem SIPRI Sishankamrata

Sishanta Siskamling Siskamwil slamet slametan SPSI SOB SOBSI

SSAT

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GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS xxxv

stabilitas Stabilitas Berlapis STI

stability Layered Stability Satuan Tugas Intelijen (Intelligence Task Force) Perencaanan Sistem Pertahanan (DirectorateGeneral for Defence Strategy) Direct translation – Civil Supremacy – used in relation to Civilian Supremacy letter of permission for travel purposes

Stratan Supremasi Sipil surat jalan T&T tanah-air tapol tata tata-tentram karta rahaja TBO terapi goncangan tertib Tim Bantuan Masalah Perburuhan Tim Khusus Tim Mawar Tim Pembina Desa Tjaduad TNI

TNI Masyarakat Tokubetsu Keibotai Tonari Gumi Tonari Gumi Cho Tonari Gumi Jokai Tontaikam transmigrasi Trigatra

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35

Tentera dan Territorium homeland tahanan politik (political prisoner) order order, peace, prosperity and happiness Tenaga Bantuan Operasi (Operational Support Forces) shock therapy orderly Labour Assistance Teams Special Team Rose Team (Kopassus) Village Guidance Teams Tjadangan Umum Angkatan Darat (Army General Reserve); predecessor of Kostrad Tentara Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Army), currently referred to as the Indonesian National Military, the collective term referring to the Army, Air Force and Navy People’s TNI Auxiliary Police Neighbourhood Watch Neighbourhood Group Leader Neighbourhood Group Meeting Pleton Pengintai Keamanan (Security Surveillance Platoons) transmigration Three Aspects of National Life

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xxxvi GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

TRIP

Tentara Pelajar Republik Indonesia (Student Army of the Republik of Indonesia) tugas task Tumprape wong linuwih Superior men always seek the safety of tansah ngudi others out of their own goodwill keslametaning liyan, metu Saka atine dhewe Tut wuri handayani Javanese expression describing how a father supports his young children from behind as they learn to walk UDT

Uniao Democratica Timorense (Timor Democratic Union) United Nations Mission in East Timor United Nations Development Programme United Nations Transitional Authority in Cambodia Unit Pelaksana 01 (Operational Unit 01) Undang-Undang Dasar 1945 (1945 Constitution) Undang-Undang Dasar Sementara 1950 (Provisional Constitution of 1950)

UNAMET UNDP UNTAC UP01 UUD 1945 UUDs 1950

Wa wahyu wahyu kedaton walikota Wankamnas Wanjakti Wanra Wantannas Wapangab Wawasan Nusantara wayang Wedana Wehrkreise

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Wakil or Deputy divine revelations Divine radiance mayor Dewan Pertahanan Keamanan Nasional (National Defence and Security Agency) Dewan Jabatan dan Kepangkatan Tinggi (Council for High Ranks and Promotions) Perlawanan Rakyat (People’s Resistance) Dewan Pertahanan Nasional (National Defence Council) Deputy Commander of the Armed Forces Archipelagic Principle/Outlook shadow play Indigenous Intelligence Personnel drawn from the Pangreh Pradja Military Regions

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Reproduced from Realpolitik Ideology: Indonesia's Use of Military Force, by Leonard C. Sebastian (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2006). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

INTRODUCTION 1

Introduction

This book traces and analyses Indonesian national security policy as it evolved through the post-independence era and the significant changes evident since May 1998, when nearly four decades of authoritarian rule under Sukarno and Suharto gave way to the reformasi era. The role of the military and the rationalization of its role through various security doctrines and strategies, though contested, remain the overarching ordering structure of the Indonesian state. These operational doctrines and the security structures that evolved out of them generated a sense of confidence in the custodial role played by security institutions, whose views on Indonesia became the lenses through which the world’s political and investment communities viewed the country. Much of the current disenchantment with Indonesia stems from the perception that stability can only be achieved if there is a return to the outmoded and imposing security structures of the Suharto era. The democratic transition began in earnest in 1999, remains messy and uncoordinated, with some laments in Indonesian society that “things were better under Suharto”. But while Indonesian culture, particularly Javanese culture, extols the virtues of stability, Indonesians would not substitute hard-won freedoms for policies that empower security institutions at the expense of human security. Such perspectives were evident in the acrimonious debates surrounding anti-terrorist legislation. Indonesians, while appreciative of the need for instruments to tackle terrorism, preferred to take incremental steps in devising laws with adequate safeguards to prevent the kind of human rights violations associated with the Suharto regime’s exploitation of Dutch colonial antisubversion laws.

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REALPOLITIK IDEOLOGY

The core values for national security (see Chapter 1) and the security doctrines that supported the hegemony of the Suharto era state are under scrutiny as the country democratizes. Progress, while slow, is taking place and that the Indonesian people should be allowed the opportunity and scope to make a success of their democratic experiment. Indeed, while mindsets and rhetoric remain conservative, many of the structures of Indonesia’s national security state will likely become redundant over time. I hope that this book will aid readers, whether experienced Indonesiawatchers or those with a developing interest in the country, to formulate insights into the political–security nexus of change in Indonesia and, more importantly, that this change, while at times unpredictable, is by no means anarchic. Hence, this book attempts to address the issue of change in three ways. First, it analyses the development of the Indonesian national security state and the core values that it sustained. Second, it illustrates how doctrines developed to support the national security state were implemented and operationalized. Third, it explains the context of reform and how the reform agenda will inevitably result in the demise of the national security state. Much of the research on Indonesian military revolves around its role as a political force.1 Little emphasis is placed on the significant security doctrines that under-girded the military’s immense presence in politics.2 Even recent writing on the Indonesian military reflects a nearly three decade obsession over issues related to intra-military politics; the “custodial” role played by the military in Indonesia’s political transition; the nature of military disengagement from politics; and the ever-continual discourse pertaining to the movers and shakers in the military hierarchy.3 This preoccupation while understandable seemingly ignores the context whereby military power is exercised, namely, the security doctrines and the concomitant ideology that reinforces it. How was it possible for the military-dominated New Order state to maintain its hegemony for 32 years without real challenge from the Indonesian population? If the assumption has been that the military was the backbone of the state, then the answer should lie in a diagnostic assessment of the security doctrines that evolved during the Sukarno and Suharto eras. More importantly, what were the sources of these security doctrines? How were security doctrines legitimated? How were they employed for regime security? And what are the options for reforming Indonesia’s security doctrines so that military reform initiatives keep in step with the momentum generated by reformasi

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INTRODUCTION 3

(reformation) and democratization? These are questions to be answered in this study as the book attempts to understand the roots of Indonesian security ideology; what were the core values that underpinned this security ideology (Chapter 1); how security ideology manifested itself in operational doctrine and rationalized the application of military force (Chapters 2 to 4); and finally how military reform and changes to security ideology could consolidate Indonesia’s democratic transformation and improve the TNI’s military effectiveness as a modern defence force working within democratic structures (Chapter 5 and Conclusion). Throughout the post-independence era the themes “unity, security and stability” whether expressed through the medium of cultural discourse, or subliminally relayed through the wayang (shadow play), or articulated within official speeches, convey a sense that the greatest challenge for Indonesians is to maintain the unity and integrity of a vast archipelago. The “Unity of the Republic of Indonesia” is one of the five principles enshrined in the Pancasila4 state ideology, while “security and stability” are the doctrinal preconditions for national development. Following that logic, national development in turn provides “national resilience” against dissolution. These ideas, conveyed through a complex interplay of ideology and the politics of national security also find resonance in military norms. The first principle of the Soldier’s Oath or Sapta Marga, “We are citizens of the unitary Republic of Indonesia based on Pancasila”, mirrors Article 27; Paragraph 1 of the 1945 Constitution, which requires the military to defend the integrity of the Indonesian republic out of hati nurani (inner conscience).5 Put another way, ideological-political ideas have the power to shape national security policy. The major theme of this book is to demonstrate how agents of the Indonesian national security state jointly devised the ideological and national security doctrines that became the essential building block of the Suharto regime. Thirty years of Suharto’s rule had effectively ossified security doctrines and its rationalization along Javanese cultural lines. Change has been excruciatingly slow because the rump of the Suharto regime still exists, though divided into many competing political streams. Significantly for this study, the overarching structure of Javanese culture and norms reinforce the beliefs and value structure of the TNI, making it impervious to reform, particularly with respect to core security values (see Chapter 1). Nevertheless, Indonesia since the economic crisis of 1997 has a more open environment where greater accountability and

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REALPOLITIK IDEOLOGY

transparency are the norm. The greater discipline being imposed on the economy through IMF conditionality; programmes funded by the UNDP to improve governance; and significantly, initiatives funded by international non-governmental organizations (NGOs) 6 linked to schemes propagating civilian democratic control of the military apparatus are all having an impact. Local NGO groups7 aspire to incrementally socialize the TNI into reshaping its national security perspectives but more importantly shaping its culture so that as an institution, it will keep pace with the spirit of reformasi in Indonesia and global norms. Will this marriage of local factors (the reformasi agenda) and external factors (global norms pushed by international actors, i.e. democratic accountability of the military) bring about the demise of the national security state in Indonesia? Or will factors drawn from Indonesia’s cultural past and recent history continue to shape security thinking? Throughout, I attempt to demonstrate that, while Suharto’s political success since consolidating power in the early 1970s was due to material factors such as an accumulation of the capacity for and disposition to use organized violence, as important were Suharto’s Javanese cultural perspectives which were meshed with Indonesian national security concerns and policies. The boundaries of Javanese culture and the politics of national security were not only permeable but were jointly constructed within an interdependent framework which nested within the context of Indonesia’s intra-state security dilemma8 and the Cold War. Ideals informing security doctrines were essentially causal: they prescribed not only how to develop security doctrines and plan for security but how to do so in an ideologically correct way. The term culture, in the context of this book, is not employed as a means to explain that Indonesians behave in a certain way because of their culture. Rather, culture is an important lens that offers us a way to interpret actions whose roots may lie elsewhere. In this regard, what is interesting is to investigate how security ideology is culturally determined and, by extension, how such ideologies are then utilized to shape the national security. The case for seeing Suharto’s perspectives on Javanese culture as the epitome of national security policy rest with his actual role in the construction of the national security state and his obvious sharing of views with the predominantly Javanese officers who formed his inner circle of advisors.9 The failure of the Indonesian military to resolve the many security problems in the country’s restive provinces could be attributed to the fact that national security policy was compromised by

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INTRODUCTION 5

its identification with the themes that resonated with Suharto’s broader cultural formation. The pivotal position of stabilitas (stability) and ketertiban (orderliness) as dominant symbols of Javanese10 culture arguably reached its zenith during the Suharto era. The legitimacy of the New Order state was founded on its role as the “restorer of order” (Van Langenberg 1990, p. 126). Such a perception accords with the manner in which “order” or specifically the “avoidance of disorder” is the ultimate obsession of all Javanese villagers. According to Javanese tradition, superior men always seek the safety of others out of their own goodwill or tumprape wong linuwih tansah ngudi keslametaning liyan, metu saka atine dhewe (Patty 2003, p. 25). Hence, any leader attempting to claim legitimacy has to demonstrate an ability to maintain tata-tentram, a Javanese concept that is better translated by the Dutch term, rust en orde (peace and order). For most Javanese the price for avoiding disorder is surrender to authority, or to conform to the needs of community life because continuity and stability are the higher good. New Order cultural discourse with its emphasis on stability and order had an ethnographic history tied to the concept of slamet.11 The Javanese according to Geertz define slamet with the phrase gak ana apa-apa or “nothing is going to happen (to anyone)" (Geertz 1976, p. 14). MagnisSuseno (1997, p. 86) refers to slamet in the context of a “homogeneous space where individuals live and in which one’s well-being (slamet) is secured when everything is in harmony”. Thus, periods of disorder, namely, the Indonesian revolution of the 1940s, the tensions that accompanied the highly politicized decades of the 1950s, and the violence accompanying Suharto’s rise to power in the mid-1960s, would be anathema to slamet. In a sense, the need to establish a peaceful and secure Indonesia to shore up his legitimacy accounts for Suharto’s obsession with stability and order, which in turn accords with his Javanese worldview where “slametan represents a reassertion and reinforcement of the general cultural order and its power to hold back the forces of disorder” (Geertz 1976, p. 29). In light of the numerous tensions and security challenges faced by Indonesia since independence, slamet represented a “wished-for state” used by Suharto to underwrite a model security order with strong cultural undertones. In tandem with post-1965 “security”, a culture of slamet appeared to have been achieved with the term slamet routinely linked with other terminology associated with the maintenance of the state security apparatus. Within the discourse of slamet appeared,

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REALPOLITIK IDEOLOGY

for instance, tata (order), tertib (orderly), and aman (safe, secure), with the word keamanan (a state of security) featured prominently in the names of various state security agencies. For example, the security institution that came to embody the state’s formidable security powers was called KOPKAMTIB or Komando Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan dan Kertertiban (Operations Command to Restore Order and Security). Organizations like KOPKAMTIB implicitly rationalized Suharto’s need to overcome all hindrances or rawe-rawe rantas malang putang that would undermine his legitimacy (Patty 2003, p. 104). Such a perspective was evident in the views of the late General H. Amirmachmud, then Chairman of the People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR, Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat) when justifying the Petrus12 killings of the early 1980s. He stressed that “to secure the welfare of more than 146 million Indonesian inhabitants, it is preferable to sacrifice X hundreds of criminals … We are not only creating a state of law, but moving toward a state of law, a state of slamet, and a state of culture” (negara kebudayaan).13 In his biography, Suharto also gave his imprimatur to the killings (Suharto 1989, pp. 389–91) by virtue of the fact that those who “disturb the tranquility of others will be punished by the Lord because of their own deeds” or Sing sapa seneng ngrusak katentremaning liyan bakal dibendu dening Pangeran lan diwelehake dening tumindake dhewe (Patty 2003, p. 76). With a securitized14 perspective of slamet dominating New Order discourse, the traditional-cultural practice of slamet according to Pemberton became “purely tradisional culture free of political and historical implications, a culture dedicated to, as if by nature, its own celebration” (Pemberton 1994, p. 15). In this regard, the ancient bersih desa rituals where farmers give thanks for the bestowal of good fortune in the form of the size of the harvest became an important New Order ritual. Although such prosperity is still commonly glossed by the term slamet (a sense of well-being), here the special resonance of slamet in New Order discourse is made quite explicit, a state of security (keamanan) with all its associations of policed security. To the twin ends of success and security, thus, are dedicated rituals of a “traditional nature”, representations of a generalized “culture of the Indonesian people” (Pemberton 1994, p. 241). Within the broader context of Javanese culture, the polar opposite of slamet is rebut.15 Rebutan according to the Javanese refers to struggles

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INTRODUCTION 7

among rivals fighting over power-laden objects, or in the context of the Javanese historical chronicles, the king’s throne itself. Such acts of rebutan appear as disruptive events, incidents of conflict (konflik) ultimately intolerable and under the New Order mantra of order and stability.16 Although the controlled environment of the New Order meant that the regularity of rebutan was curtailed, however, the tendency to rebut lingered much to the dismay of security authorities. Pemberton concludes: Controversial issues, conflict, disorder, and so on, all of these are associated with the term rebutan within the guarded language of New Order politics. Since the late 1960s, the implicit threat of rebutan disruptions has been countered by constant reference to ‘order and concord, welfare and being, respect and deference,’ and all the other formulations of political stability couched in patently cultural terms. These are terms that would place rebutan outside the realm of possibility because such acts appear to undermine a distinction most essential to New Order rule: that between culture (kebudayaan) and politics (politik) (ibid., p. 258).

As a mainstay and reinforcer of “cultural order”, for example restrained individualism, controlled emotions and so forth, New Order-influenced slametan events epitomized by village-level bersih desa rituals held in Central Java set the tone and enframed major national events like the General Elections. New Order discourse has constantly portrayed the conduct of national politics during the Parliamentary Democracy era of the 1950s as a chaotic period in Indonesian history. For the sake of order and security, the national elections or “Festival of Democracy” (as it was called), was enframed during the Suharto era in a form of orderliness characteristic of the slametan rather than from the more precarious vantage of rebutan rivalry and contestation. The need to suppress the desire to rebut gained a quiet intensity among the security elite in the New Order era as the tension between slametan and rebutan became exaggerated within official discourse, associating the former with culture and the latter with politics. That no stark distinction existed in Javanese culture (precolonial or otherwise) between order versus disorder in which rebutan and slametan performed as cosmological polar opposites were immaterial to Suharto-era security planners. There are two explanations for this. First, Suharto, aware of Javanese philosophy, knew that if he as a ruler did not provide his people with security, from within their (the people’s) midst would emerge

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others who could challenge his legitimacy, as reflected in the saying penguwasa iku kudu gawe tentrem para kawulane, marga yen ora mengkono bias dadi kawula ngrebut negara. A ruler has to provide his people with security lest they seize power (ibid., p. 231). Second, the logical extension of such rationale required the all encompassing pursuit of security — slamet — ensuing that the possibility of rebutan struggles would be contained for the sake of stability (stabilitas) and the preservation of Suharto’s legitimacy. Arising from the troubled legacy of the mid-1960s and the conflict-ridden post-independence years, rebutan related to issues pertaining to SARA (an acronym covering Suku [ethnicity], Agama [religion], Ras [race], AntarGolongan [conflict among interest-based groups] needed to be separated from events of those years and recast in the extremely guarded terms of New Order appeals to maintain security at all costs — terms in which struggle of any sort suggests disaster. To achieve such stability, but more importantly, a condition of rasa (a sense of calm satisfaction and absence of tension), an elaborate series of security doctrines were promulgated along with a remarkable array of surveillance and coercive assets employed to secure the state during the Suharto era.17 In pre-colonial times, Indonesia was physically fragmented comprising of a number of smaller nations, each with its own mode of governance. Indonesian “national consciousness” was, according to Kahin, a product of Dutch colonial policy that welded the various ethnic and religious groups in the archipelago into one political unit.18 Although the majority of the population lives on the island of Java with the Javanese the biggest ethnic group, there is religious, cultural and ethnic diversity, and Indonesia’s leaders have adopted the national motto Bhineka Tunggal Eka (Unity in Diversity) and the state ideology Pancasila to promote the norms of consensus and harmony. Throughout the course of this study, references will be made to political– security concepts like Pancasila (the five basic principles of the Indonesian state) or for that matter its military-ideological extension — the Sapta Marga (the seven milestones of the Indonesian army). For Indonesians, symbols are important. What is empirically meant by such “concepts” (konsepsi) is generally marginalized when such words take the form of a “sacred” word. Such words are taken from Sanskrit and are not generally understood by the population. However, what these words are expected to convey is “that circumstances are essentially in order when they are placed into the right category, within the

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correct conceptual framework” (Magnis-Suseno 1997, p. 94). Indonesians are often heard lamenting, with a smile: “It’s only a question of implementation!”. Unfortunately, despite the fact that policies are conceptualized coherently, implementation can be compromised through a tendency toward fatalism where one individual is expected to come up with a right formula to address a problem, thereby giving a particular event or problem “its place in the cosmic order and placing it into cosmic harmony” (ibid.). The task of implementation depends purely on the work of cosmic forces rather than the efforts of an individual. If the urgency to solve Indonesia’s myriad security problems are not apparent, a certain degree of understanding is required for the observer to comprehend Indonesia’s security dilemma within the context of its beliefs and norms. By no means do common people feel overwhelmed by their circumstances. To overcome such insecurity, Indonesians are apt to place their trust in those they feel can manipulate the cosmic forces that determine their lives. Therefore, it is not surprising for Indonesians to put their trust in individuals who are perceived as having great inner strength and are able to sustain their powers by concentration and meditation. Such people can “bring benefit to society, heal sickness, calculate propitious times, and determine favourable sites or places, and effect the fecundity of mothers and fields … These powers can also be used to further egoistic interests or to harm others” (ibid., pp. 94–95). Suharto filled this role perfectly and in the process was very successful in weaving a security ideology that revolved around Javanese norms that provided a sense of reassurance to a population weary after the tribulations of the Sukarno era. The twin norms of stability and development (stabilitas dan pembangunan) not only became Suharto’s ideology where development-with-security became the hallmark of the New Order but also a legitimizing tool as Suharto sought to replicate the qualities of a powerful Javanese king. According to Magnis-Suseno: ... from a powerful king, peace and prosperity streamed outwards across the breath of the land … no external opponent, nor internal unrest can disturb the peasants working in the paddy-fields because the power concentrated in the king is so great that all factors that could instigate unrest are rendered powerless, dried out as it were; their power to upset things have been sucked off into the king. Throughout the land, peace and justice reign and everyone can go about his business free from fear and from

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surprises of any kind … Indications of the strength of rulers are therefore order and fertility in society and nature, thus when peace prevails, good harvests have been put away, everyone has enough to eat and clothes to wear and there is a general climate of satisfaction, a condition the Javanese call adil makmur (justice and prosperity). Such a society is said to realize the Javanese ideals of tata tentrem karta rahaja (order, peace, prosperity and happiness) (ibid., p. 103).

Such Javanese conceptions of authority, leadership and power characterized much of Suharto’s tenure. Power and authority were in the hands of a small group and their agencies, namely the President himself, the military and the state’s intelligence apparatus, The power of a Javanese king is total. To create an aura of keagung-binataraan,19 all obstructions had to be overcome and those responsible for such obstructions were severely punished. Here, again, the proverb, rawe-rawe rantas, malangmalang putung (Moedjanto 1986, p. 152; Patty 2003, p. 104) is instructive in explaining the ruthless methods employed by the security agencies in dealing with opposition movements. A Javanese king’s greatness and power is measured in material terms by the expanse of his kingdom; size of his army; his wealth, titles and fame; faithfulness of his regents and officials in carrying out his orders; his pusaka (heirlooms) and desire to control all aspects of life and socioeconomic activities of the community as well as the government of the country (Moedjanto 1986, pp. 102–16). In return, the kasektan or supernatural power of the king would ensure the welfare of his subjects and they would feel a sense of security because the king would give his protection (ibid., p. 106). According to Javanese cosmology, society is characterized as a big family founded on mutual obligations and social hierarchy is structured in such a way that obligations are not equal to all in so much as some are expected to guide while the rest follow. Hence, the concept of leadership is characterized by the belief in “leading by example in the front; inspiring in the midst of the people; and encouraging from behind” (ing ngarso sung tulodo; ing madya mangun karso; tut wuri handayani) (Said 1991, p. 142). For the Javanese, a leader should possess qualities of a guardian (pengasuh) to lead, guide and to stimulate ones under him (asuhan). Those in power and authority are accorded extreme reverence and they should be followed and honoured. It is considered sinful (durhaka) for followers to go against their leaders.

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Suharto portrayed himself as embodying such virtues and sought through his security policies to prevent disorder or unrest which would imply a disturbance in cosmic harmony and thereby a threat to society. To avoid such a situation, the most reasonable outcome is for a Javanese to avoid conflict (rukun). As a consequence, the rukun principle requires a security ideology to be crafted “to prevent disturbances of social peace so that conflicts never rise to the surface” (Said 1991, p. 96). Throughout its post-independence history, Indonesia has faced challenges in its quest for national unity. Indonesia’s security planners, barring in mind the rukun principle, moved away from approaches to define security in terms of military threats and the attendant military forces needed to define such threats. They chose to define Indonesia’s approach to security in multidimensional terms thereby, targeting issues that have a propensity to give rise to conflict. As defined by Hasnan Habib: “Indonesia’s experience since independence has shown that the term ‘security’ denotes and connotes all aspects of national life that is ideology, politics, the economy, society, culture and the military”.20 Under-girding this approach to national security is the concept of National Resilience (Ketahanan Nasional), which incorporates a holistic approach to the nation’s capacity to overcome internal and external threats. In the words of Suharto’s leading strategist, Ali Murtopo: The concept of national resilience is aimed at the creation of an all embracing national order or system that would embody the capability of the nation to defend itself and at the same time to foil any threat from within as well as from without to its security and its continued existence … national resilience in total integral and strategic way covers all aspects of the life of the State and the Nation: ideological, social, political, economic, cultural, technological, defence and security (1976, p. 21).

Muthiah Alagappa has referred to five factors that have shaped Indonesia’s concept of national resilience’s deep focus on internal security: first, the legacy of Indonesia’s long struggle for national liberation and subsequently its difficult process of nation building; second, its complex ethinc and cultural divisions creating strong centrifugal forces; third, a weak military in terms of capability; fourth, the challenges faced by the regime’s desire for stability and survival in the face of domestic political challenges; and fifth, the concern that domestic conflict could create conditions for external intervention (Alagappa 1988, p. 58). Based on

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these perspectives, the Indonesian concept of national resilience is inwardlooking and its quest for national security revolves around domestic factors based on political stability, economic and social progress and a sense of nationalism and self-reliance rather than alliances or great power guarantees. As the cornerstone of the New Order security doctrine, national resilience justified the military’s involvement in national life but more importantly allowed it to define a range of groups as threats to security, namely communists and left-wing organizations, religious groups, secessionist movements, trade unions and political dissidents (Lowry 1996, pp. 3–6). The epistemological rigidity of such a holistic system was easily rationalized and reinforced the notions of Javanese culture that Suharto used to legitimize his regime. The agents of the state responsible for implementing such a holistic security strategy were the military. In this regard, the military’s Dual Function or Dwifungsi not only gave it a dual role in the external defence of the nation and its internal security but it elevated the military into a central force in national life, while projecting a powerful perception of strategic, political and existential vulnerability into the heart of Indonesia’s sense of self. The military in a sense became a conduit to link the government to the masses. The formal expression of this role was the Sishankamrata (Sistem Pertahanan Rakyat Semesta) or Total People’s Defence and Security System. As Robert Lowry contends: A feature of Indonesian conceptions of defence and security has been their holistic nature which has, in part, evolved from discussion of the nature of the state by early nationalist leaders, from the experience of the 1945–49 Revolution, from the internal security campaigns conducted thereafter, and from 1960s system theory. Doctrinal manuals are laced with systems theory diagrams in which every element is part of a component which is part of hierarchy of subsystems comprising a system. In such structures individualism has no place and deviation of the most basic element can cause the entire system to malfunction. The holistic approach, which attempts to locate all elements of nature and human endeavour in a macro system or universal order, strikes a chord in Indonesia because it reflects the traditional view of the Javanese, in particular, which sees the individual as merely a thread in the cosmic fibre (ibid., p. xx).

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The logic was simple. The regime’s security doctrine which reflected the ideology and values of the 1945 generation of officers assigns the military a dual function which accorded with the romanticism and tradition associated to the TNI’s origins as a guerrilla army. This doctrine validates that the military’s role encompasses a defence and security function as well as a socio-political role, thereby making it a guardian of the state and a participant in the political process. In this latter role, the TNI not only becomes an instrument of the state but a guardian of the regime, along with right-minded citizens and social groups. The military’s approach to strategic, operational and tactical doctrines stresses the preeminence of interrelationships. This explains the penchant for all-encompassing acronyms such as Ipoleksosbudmilag, which stands for ideology, politics, economics, society, culture, the military and religion. The rationale for such an approach relates to the idea “that if all these elements are considered and analysed for any given problem, a balanced solution can be arrived at and harmony restored or created” (ibid., p. xx). This allowed the military enormous scope to shape societal norms, identity and culture. A significant offshoot of this process is a militaristic culture manifested specifically in the behaviour of non-military groups. Paramilitary groups drawing legitimacy from the independence-era pemuda21 tradition and through identification with military procedures such as organizational structure (command, troops, units, corps, strategies, logistics, equipment), military symbols (uniforms, ranks, medals of merit, auxiliary instruments), attitude and actions such as speech, appearance and personal relationships may convey the impression that they are more militaristic in outlook than orthodox security forces. The development of paramilitary groups is a good example of how the norms and values of a military-dominated structure have shaped behavioural patterns in such a way that aggressiveness,22 alertness, discipline and obedience become the hallmarks of people who work as security guards (Satpam, Satuan Pengamanan) or are associated with people’s defence, taskforce units, and vigilante groups complete with military-like symbols and equipment. Public acceptance of the existence of extra-constitutional paramilitary groups has its roots in the country’s militaristic history. School classes, women’s groups and workers’ associations take pride in their paramilitary parades and military-style hierarchies. As long as such paramilitary organizations adhere to prevailing laws and function effectively in compliance with current regulations, their

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activities could be considered complementary to military and police efforts to maintain law and order. However, militia activity has sometimes resulted in the escalation of violence and contributed to acute intra-state conflict in Aceh, East Timor and Maluku. The strategic focus of Indonesia’s military doctrine expressed in the Kebijakan Pertahanan Negara 2000 by the Department of Defence (DEPHAN, Departemen Pertahanan) is premised on minimizing the severity of its regional security dilemma and the financial burden placed on the state resulting from a military buildup. Despite its size, strategic geographical position and its potential as a middle power characterized by an assertive foreign policy (with varying emphasis) during both the Sukarno and Suharto eras based on what Michael Leifer (1983, p. 173) defines as its “regional entitlement”, Indonesia chooses to arm itself modestly. On the basis of its resource wealth and preAsian crisis economic growth rates, Indonesia should have possessed a credible defence force.23 The key to resolving this puzzling enigma lies in the nature of the Indonesian domestic political process rather than the nature of the international system. Economic development norms and the need to preserve national unity became the dominating logic for of the Suharto-era privileging of an inward-looking security perspective.24 Due to its historic sensitivity to threats to Indonesia’s territorial integrity, the Indonesian military has been conditioned to use force against any domestic challenge to the state. Such feelings of insecurity can be attributed to Indonesia’s experience, particularly in the first two decades immediately after independence when a series of rebellions nearly brought the country to its knees. Such feelings of insecurity are heightened by the Javanese cultural norm of pessimism, inherent fear and suspicion of the unknown. These perspectives have given rise to a readiness to employ coercion and account for why power politics or realpolitik approaches remain a significant factor in Indonesian security ideology. However, despite the fact that the ability to use lethal force against external security contingencies developed progressively as the country’s economic circumstances improved, the TNI’s military capabilities had been hamstrung by Suharto’s desire to meet national development objectives and a focus on internal security contingencies rather than policies aimed at boosting defence spending for external defence. Suharto was aided by a generally benign external security environment during the Cold War. Added to this, Suharto’s immense stature within Southeast Asia allowed a leading role for

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Indonesia in shaping ASEAN security norms — in the process ensuring a propitious external security outlook. While the reliance on diplomacy within Southeast Asian to compensate for Indonesia’s lack of external defence capability was an indication that purely material explanations for Indonesia’s external defence strategies cannot suffice, it also indicates the acute sense of internal insecurity since independence. Hence, the need to formulate a security ideology to compensate for Indonesia’s material inadequacies has given rise to an ideological formulation asserting the “organic totality of the state”, the Wawasan Nusantara (archipelagic concept) as Van Langenberg correctly describes: envisages, in both abstract and material form, the unification of the archipelagic nation-state as a total organism. In the context of the state-system, it places central-regional relations in a specific context of national defence and security, stressing unity above decentralization (1990, p. 124).

Such an outlook no doubt reinforces not only the TNI’s strong aversion to the post-Suharto decentralization laws as well as a propensity to use coercion in dealing with “threats” to Indonesia’s territorial integrity.25 Would such a latent sense of “insecurity” that is part of the Javanese cultural makeup compromise Indonesia’s external security outlook thereby making it threatening to its regional neighbours? Not according to Dewi Fortuna Anwar, who concludes that Indonesia’s view of the outside world does not entirely fit materialist or power accumulation perspectives, arguing that geography insulates Indonesia from anarchical world conditions due to its location away from the major powers and the seas surrounding it, allowing some protection from external threats. This has led to the development of an inward-looking defence posture where ruling elites view domestic threats to national unity as the key security concern. Defence priorities are oriented towards maintaining national unity against domestic challenges to the regime, which are seen as likely to stem from remnants of communism, religious extremism, foreign cultural influences and separatist movements. To strengthen her assertion that Indonesia’s security doctrines are benign, Anwar points to the essentially inward-looking nature of Indonesia’s main security doctrines, namely, the Wawasan Nusantara concept, the National Resilience (Ketahanan Nasional) Doctrine and the Total People’s Defence and Security System (Sishankamrata). She argues that because of its

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geographic fragmentation and basic military weakness, Indonesia has adopted a strategy to insulate itself from hostile external forces thereby relying on diplomacy and regional cooperation (Anwar 1998, pp. 477– 512). Are there instances where Indonesia has behaved aggressively or displayed expansionist tendencies in the region? Here it is useful to revisit the mandala concept. According to Zimmer, mandala political perspectives reinforce the perception that enemies rather than friends surround the centre of power (Zimmer 1956, p. 113–18). Adopting a mandala approach, the first circle (in concentric rings where the first circle is closest to the centre of power) always comprises the enemy, which invariably refers to the states closest to the centre. Such states, due to their proximity are considered more belligerent than those located further away from the centre of the mandala. There is no necessity to use examples going back hundreds of years to understand whether Indonesian security perspectives are benign. Here, the aggressive nationalism pursued against the Dutch in the War of Independence; the strong anti-colonial policy that formed the backdrop of Confrontation against Malaysia and Singapore in the mid-1960s; the sentiment of “meta-geography” (Cribb 2002, pp. 230–31) which existed since 1945 and may have rationalized the invasion of East Timor in 1975; the military’s callous scorched earth policy in the aftermath of the UNadministered referendum there in 1999; the brutal conflict in Aceh which began in 1989; plus the countless incidences where the use of force has been employed against its own citizens, may suggest that there is a cultural basis to Indonesian realpolitik, which shapes Indonesia’s strategic outlook.26 Indeed Suharto felt he could never be respected if he did not have his territory intact, which is my interpretation of the saying pengged hening Negara dialem kuwasa, kendel dan pinter yen ana daerah (Patty 2003, pp. 168–69). In this regard, Javanese culture extols the virtues of war and stresses that combatants should not be afraid because wars are fought for truth or akeh wong kang wedi kahanan perang, awit hokum kang becik akeh kang ora kanggo, mula banjur wedi perang. Iku kabeh keliru, jalaran perang iku uga kepingin mbelani kabeneran (ibid., pp. 208–9). Yet, such an outlook has to a certain extent been ameliorated by Indonesia’s lack of material capabilities; a weak external security dilemma; and a heavy dependence on diplomacy as the first line of defence. Such ideas have found expression in Javanese proverbs on going into conflict without military forces and by stressing the value of

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diplomacy. In diplomacy, a country should try to win a battle without going to war, and without causing the opponent to lose face or menang tanpa ngasorake (ibid., p. 103). Such an approach epitomizes the Javanese principle of tolerance. While non-military approaches to national security are a constant theme in Indonesian security policy, there is enough empirical evidence on the record to challenge Anwar’s emphasis that Indonesian security ideology is pacific. For example, Indonesia’s doctrine of Territorial Warfare does stress the value of violent solutions to security conflicts and of offensive over defensive strategies. No doubt, the doctrine does emphasize the need for flexibility. Indonesia is expected to use noncoercive means when confronted with a more powerful adversary. However, such actions are more for the sake of expediency until a situation arises where its defence forces are confident of prevailing against the enemy. In this regard, Indonesia’s security planners in the mid-1990s had identified a Defence Buffer Zone (Daerah Pertahanan Penyanggah) comprising of an area located beyond its Exclusive Economic Zone, and a Main Defence Area (Daerah Pertahanan Utama) within its territorial waters, where it envisages its conduct of military operations against a direct external attack.27 While this explains its defensive strategy, it may also shed some light on its offensive doctrine, which is to fight beyond the territories of the state. It could be argued that Indonesia’s desire to develop more offensive strategies has been thwarted considerably not only due to resource limitations but advantages Suharto calculated could accrue as a consequence of activist diplomacy and economic incentives.28 Nevertheless, among Indonesia’s neighbours, there will always be apprehension of the lurking threat posed by Indonesia due to its sheer geographical size and bellicose history. In theory, Indonesia’s strategy of “active defensive deterrence” allows for a pre-emptive strike and the conduct of operations against an aggressor’s home bases and lines of communication. However, Indonesia’s strategic strike capability is almost non-existent and its ability to lift, protect and sustain offensive forces is extremely limited. Its strategy relies on deterring potential aggressors with the warning that any invasion will be met by “total people’s defence”, that is, Indonesia’s conventional defence forces would be backed by a trained and motivated populace who would wear down any occupying force with unrelenting guerrilla war. Indonesia’s overall strategic goal is to maintain internal security and to reduce the intensity of its domestic intra-state security dilemma and its mild external security dilemma in Southeast Asia. To

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achieve its goal, Indonesia maintains a force structure that privileges the Army over the Air Force and Navy in a bid to maintain the integrity of the archipelago. To ensure that its sovereignty is not compromised places a high degree of emphasis on diplomacy to compensate for its modest and purely defensive military capabilities. In this regard, the approach to national security does not limit itself purely to domestic security contingencies; it has an indirect implication for its external strategic environment. The approach to national security focuses attention on the nexus between national and regional security in the form of regional resilience. From the Indonesian perspective, regional resilience is obtained on the basis of a consolidation of the national resilience of every domestic regional actor. The success of this Indonesian formulation becoming the leitmotif of ASEAN regional security cooperation has resulted in Indonesia generally having what could be considered a mild external security dilemma. Though we may be stretching the argument a little, there is a sense that regional resilience is a form of “ideological forward defence” construed in Javanese terms as an invasion without deploying troops or nglurug tanpa bala (Patty 2003, p. 101). Any other security approach would intensify the security dilemma surrounding Indonesia as well as generate a financial burden on its economy therefore compromising economic development priorities. As long as Indonesia works in tandem with its ASEAN neighbours, the security dilemma it faces remains moderate. With the existence of a strong web of bilateral military linkages within ASEAN, such solidarity has the mutual benefit of keeping Indonesia’s ambitions within a regional framework at the same time acting as a buffer insulating its porous archipelago from external threats. In sum, the combined causal factors that shape the realpolitik ideology of Indonesia’s security elites are a consequence of an acute intra-state security dilemma and mild regional security dilemma predicated on a security strategy structured to conserve economic resources while targeting low-intensity threats which compromise national development goals. These elements form the theoretical core when assessing the sources of Indonesia’s defence and security doctrines.29 REFLECTING ON RESEARCH STRATEGY Research for this book was based on both primary and secondary materials. I interviewed officials mostly from the Indonesian military

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establishment and the Defence Ministry who have been directly involved in policy planning specifically in defence and national security operations. Fieldwork was conducted initially in 1994 while based at the Strategic and Defence Studies Centre at the Australian National University. Parts of this book first appeared as a doctoral dissertation entitled “Indonesian National Security and Defence Planning” awarded at the Australian National University in late 1997. The collapse of the Suharto regime the following year required me to take stock and analyse the ramifications of change as Indonesia’s complex transition impacted on the defence and security establishment. The helter-skelter nature of the Habibie era was witnessed primarily from the confines of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies (ISEAS). Though resources for fieldwork were not available, this was to be a small impediment as ISEAS became a useful transit point for scholars from Indonesia who while ensconced in Singapore, regularly provided a sense of reassurance for concerned Singapore audiences horrified by the “unravelling” of Indonesia and the scale of violence graphically depicted by the local media. Many of these scholars, who became close personal friends, provided useful alternative perspectives based on their own experiences, which contrasted with the pessimism displayed by the media and the regular contention by security analysts that the “Balkanization” of Indonesia was imminent. Through insights from such seminars and the numerous conversations I had with a large number of Indonesian visitors, I was able to develop a draft manuscript that I was reasonably satisfied with in September 2000 as the promise of the Abdurahman Wahid presidency began its slow descent into another “rebutan” phase characteristic of the Habibie interregnum. Wahid’s conflict with General Wiranto in early 2001 brought with it another crisis of civil–military relations and frustratingly for the author, another period of delay in finishing the book as friends in Jakarta alerted me to discussions taking place within policy circles on a new Defence Law and Police Law. It was a difficult choice to make in January 2001 as to whether to proceed with plans to have the manuscript published in the politically fluid era of the Wahid presidency where the pace of change in Indonesia would invariably make the book absolutely irrelevant when published or wait until some semblance of stability returned to the field of defence and security as Wahid took on the DPR and the TNI in mid-2001 in his quest to save his embattled presidency. I felt for the sake of credibility, the wise, though not necessarily “career-correct” choice would be to

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wait and see what the outcomes would be as the Parliament (DPR, Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat) deliberated on the key national security laws in question. These two critical pieces of legislation passed in late 2001, particularly the National Defence Law, missing in much of the latest research31 on the Indonesian military, are significant developments bolstering my argument that the legal instruments for the demise of the national security state in Indonesia are well and truly entrenched and resistance by the security apparatus while understandable, is futile in the long-run. I was now at the Institute of Defence and Strategic Studies (IDSS) at Nanyang Technological University, Singapore. For the first time, since a short visit to Jakarta for a CSCAP conference on Indonesia hosted by the Centre for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS) on 8 March 2000, I finally had access to funds for fieldwork. A brief consultancy with the Trade Development Board (now International Enterprise Singapore) was also useful in allowing me an opportunity to have an extended visit to Indonesia. These were valuable opportunities to meet many senior officers of the TNI, bureaucrats, politicians, academics, NGO activists, journalists and businesspeople to develop a deeper understanding of Indonesia and the immense changes taking place not only in the defence and security establishment but the country as a whole. The writings of Indonesians both within and outside the military establishment were analysed and they generally encompassed two categories. Those who were knowledgeable and had an active interest in military matters and others selected on the basis of their personal influence, even though they may not necessarily have enjoyed first-hand experience of involvement in the military, namely journalists, politicians, intellectuals and others representing civil society. Visits were also made in 2002 as the implications of the September 11 attacks made its profound mark on Indonesian society. Over a period of two years (2001–02), I was able to achieve some distance from the original manuscript which benefited me in three ways. First, it allowed me greater objectivity (though I leave such judgements to my readers). Second, if the initial manuscript allowed me an opportunity to delve into the historical aspects of Indonesian national security planning, my interests had evolved over the past two years, making the historical element only part of what challenged investigation. Armed with new insights, I wanted to consider further the ramifications of Indonesia’s complex transition and its impact on the entrenched logic of the national security state struc-

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tures that for so long regulated life in Indonesia. Third, I felt, this new approach, namely an expansion of the timeframe, would relate to a wider audience, specifically those who have developed an interest on Indonesia since the economic crisis of 1997. My hope is that readers will come away not only with a more comprehensive portrait of the TNI, through the details of its doctrine, organization and equipment of TNI, but an understanding of where the TNI can be best positioned in a democratizing Indonesia. NOTES 1

2

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Regularly cited works are: Salim Said, Genesis of Power: General Sudirman and the Indonesian Military in Politics 1945–49, (Singapore: ISEAS, 1991); Harold Crouch, The Army and Politics in Indonesia, (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1988), David Jenkins, Suharto and His Generals: Indonesian Military Politics 1975–1983, (Ithaca: Cornell Modern Indonesian Project, 1984); and Ulf Sundhaussen, The Road to Power: Indonesian Military Politics 1945– 1967, (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1982). The exception is Robert Lowry, Armed Forces of Indonesia, (St. Leonard’s, NSW: Allen & Unwin, 1996). Lowry’s is an excellent study on defence planning and force structure. While not the emphasis of the book, the reader would have benefited from a deeper analysis of the “sources” of security doctrines and defence operational concepts. See, Sukardi Rinakit, Indonesian Military after the New Order, (Singapore/ Copenhagen: ISEAS/NIAS, 2005); Damien Kingsbury, Power Politics and the Indonesian Military, (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003); Jun Honna, Military Politics and Democratization in Indonesia, (London: RoutledgeCurzon, 2003); Siddarth Chandra and Douglas Kammen, “Generating Reforms and Reforming Generations: Military Politics in Indonesia’s Democratic Transition and Consolidation”, World Politics 55, no. 1 (2002): 96–136; Angel Rabasa and John Haseman, The Military and Democracy in Indonesia: Challenges, Politics, and Power, (Santa Monica: RAND, 2002); Salim Said, Tumbah dan Tumbangan Dwifungsi: Perkembangan Militer Indonesia 1958–2000, (Jakarta: Aksara Karunia, 2002); Bilveer Singh, “Civil-Military Relations in Democratising Indonesia: the Potentials and Limits to Change”. (Canberra: Strategic and Defence Studies Centre, The Australian National University, 2001); Harold Crouch, “Wiranto and Habibie: Military-Civilian Relations since May 1998”, in Reformasi: Crisis and Change in Indonesia, edited by Arief Budiman, Barbara Hatley, and Damien Kingsbury, (Clayton: Monash Asia Institute, 1999); Damien Kingsbury, “Reform of the Indonesian Armed Forces”, Contemporary Southeast Asia 22, no. 2 (August 2000): 302–21. 2000; Vatikiotis 1999; Takashi Shiraishi, “The Indonesian Military in Politics”, in The Politics

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4

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of Post-Suharto Indonesia, edited by Adam Schwarz and Jonathan Paris, (New York: Council of Foreign Relations Press, 1999): and articles by J. Kristiadi, Patrick Walters and Marcus Mietzner, in Post-Soeharto Indonesia: Renewal or Chaos?, edited by Geoff Forrester (Singapore: ISEAS, 1999). The Seven Pledges of the Armed Forces or its commonly used Sanskrit version, Sapta Marga, is the military code of conduct. Formulated in 1951, it requires the military to defend the Pancasila. Robert Creveling, an American officer who was a student at the Army Command and Staff College in Bandung commented that “the most significant ramifications of TNI indoctrination is that it requires officers to mindlessly obey illegal orders, rationalizing that their actions preserve national integrity and promote the greater good of stability and national development … within this context we also understand why an officer or soldier would convey or obey orders to abduct, torture and murder student activists: activists create unrest and instability, which threatens the integrity and growth of the nation. Moreover, it explains allegations that the TNI is arming, training and supporting pro-integration forces in east Timor, in contradiction to the civilian government’s orders: a vote for autonomy in Timor will fuel separatist’s movements in Aceh, Irian and other regions in the archipelago and threaten national integrity”. See Major Robert Creveling, USAR, “Loyalty and Integrity in the Indonesian Armed Forces”, Foreign Area Officer Association, available at http://www.faoa.org/journal/ indonsia.html, pp. 3, 6. Here, I refer particularly to the various programmes designed to promote dialogue between the Indonesian military and local NGOs by the U.S.– sponsored Office of Transitional Initiatives (USAID) and National Democratic Institute (NDI); Sweden’s International IDEA; and United Kingdom’s Department for International Development (DFID). For example, PROPATRIA; Joint Committee Baku Bae Maluku; Faculty of Law, Gadjah Mada University (FH UGM); Faculty of Social and Political Studies, Gadjah Mada University (FISIPOL UGM); RIDEP Institute; Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia (LIPI); Institut Politik dan Pemerintahan (ISSP), Yogyakarta; Institute for Research and Empowerment (IRE); Pusat Studi Demokrasi dan HAM (PusDeHam), Surabaya; Local Government Studies (LOGOS); Lembaga Studi dan Advokasi Masyarakat (ELSHAM); Yayasan Peduli HAM (YP HAM), Aceh; and Voice of Human Rights, Kontras (VHR). I am indebted to Marcus Meitzner of the Office of Transitional Initiatives for this information. The term “security dilemma” used to describe the dynamic of the arms race between the two superpowers during the Cold War is a useful concept in explaining the escalation of inter-state conflict. The disintegration of Yugoslavia provided a new context for the widening of this concept to incorporate analysis of war at the intra-state level between neighbouring

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INTRODUCTION

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ethnic groups. See Posen (1993); Collins (2000); Melander (1999); and Roe (2000). Official data on the ethnic composition of the officer corps in the TNI is difficult to obtain and sensitive in a country with such a multi-ethnic, multiracial and religious background. However, it is accepted in the scholarly literature that the Javanese dominate the officer corps. Suryadinata (1998, p. 82) observed that the Javanese were always predominant in the military where out of 97 decision-making positions (in 1974), 75 were held by Javanese. Sundhaussen (1982, p. 15) observed that the Javanese officers provided about 70 to 80 per cent of the total number of officers, and by their sheer numbers, played a key role in the army. See also periodic updates (“Current Data on the Indonesian Military Elite”) on the composition of the Indonesian military in the journal Indonesia. Koentjaraningrat’s definition of the term “Javanese” refers to the people occupying only the central and eastern parts of the island of Java (approximately 80 million), as the western part of Java is the homeland of another ethnic and linguistic group called the Sundanese (about 30 million). Most Javanese belong to four major cultural-linguistic ethnic sub-groups: (1) the Javanese of Central and East Java; (2) the Sundanese of West Java; (3) the Baduis (2,000 to 4,000) who live on an isolated mountain off Bogor, and the Tenggerese (about 300,000) who live around Mt Bromo in East Java; and (4) the Madurese who live on Madura Island off East Java (Koentjaraningrat 1990, pp. 1–3. Slamet can be given ritual form through slametan practices, for example through Javanese communal events in the form of feasts associated with a variety of domestic and village-wide observances ranging from weddings to annual preparations for tutelary spirits. Slamet is supposed to reflect a state of being that is at once ideally incidentless and religiously neutral. Concerns over the rise in crime in late 1982 and 1983 coincided with a total solar eclipse on 11 June 1983, the first time such a phenomenon had occurred in the archipelago since 1626. Estimating that approximately twenty million visitors would flock to Indonesia for the event, the security authorities decided as early as April 1983 to mount an operation to rid the country of its criminal elements so as not to jeopardise the potential rewards of the tourist influx. The ensuing penembakan misterius (mysterious killings) or Petrus were thus justified by then Yogyakarta military commander M. Hasbi: “Frankly, this operation joins in ‘smoothing out’ a secure atmosphere as the solar eclipse on June 11 approaches. If the foreign guests are disturbed, they will say: ‘Don’t go to Indonesia. There are many pickpockets, robbers, and so on.’ We will lose out.” Cited in Pemberton (1994), pp. 313–14. Suara Merdeka, 29 July 1983, cited in ibid., p. 317.

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The use of the term “securitized” is consistent with the framework employed by the Copenhagen School, which regards security as a socially constructed concept. Thus, political concerns becomes a security matter through a process of securitization (Buzan, Waever and de Wilde 1998). Feasting at a slametan usually involves little more than a few quiet bites before departing with a packet of one’s remaining portion, for the slametan’s focus is the distribution of exchanged food. What attracts Javanese to a slametan is the promise of returning home with a designated portion of empowered slametan food. The bersih desa slametan, while symbolizing abundance and orderliness, can be compromised by acts of rebutan, for example, when a struggle ensues when villagers surge forward to get a handful of slametan food. While a tension between acts of rebutan and scenes of slametan has long been accepted in Javanese culture, such tension was frowned upon during the Suharto era and deemed intrinsically threatening to New Order constructs of cultural orderliness. To demonstrate that the term rebut and its reference to a “disturbance”, note the number of male children who were named Rebut during the mid-1960s, reflecting the tumultuous events of the time. Rebutan occurs within many occasions within the context of local tradition, namely village observances, ascetic pursuits, and sometimes weddings. New Order era security measures reinforced Javanese beliefs. Many Javanese carry talismen (jimat) of various kinds with them, supposed to protect them from evil spirits, or inherited pusakas (heirlooms), especially the traditional dagger (kris), which is stored in a special place in the home and brought out for special occasions. When Javanese have taken appropriate measures, they feel slamet, a condition of well-being. George M. Kahin, Nationalism and Revolution in Indonesia (1970), cited in Anwar (1999), p. 203. The king’s keagung-binataraan did not occur just by itself, but through a long process which involved a hard struggle and at times encountered obstructions. As the Mataram dynasty evolved from humble origins, the struggle to develop keagung-binataraan was even more significant. See G. Moedjanto, The Concept of Power in Javanese Culture, (Yogyakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press, 1986), p. 186. Cited in Desmond Ball, “Strategic Culture in the Asia-Pacific Region”, Security Studies 3, no. 1 (Autumn 1993): 44–74, p. 61. Literally “youth”, pemuda have been immortalized through the historical role played by young activists who led the opposition to the Japanese in the closing months of the war. Pemuda culture, glorifying the role of the younger generation during the War of Independence between 1945 and 1949 and during the student demonstrations in 1965–66, condones tough behaviour.

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INTRODUCTION 22

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The purpose of aggressive behaviour is to damage or cause loss to the party under attack. Usually such behaviour will surface when there is an action that offends the dignity and respect of an individual or group. In other instances, aggressiveness is exhibited when there is a need to gain attention and show superiority. In that sense, Indonesia is a structural realist’s enigma. The rationalist and materialist assumptions of neorealism would posit that, considering the logic of international anarchy, that is the expectation that no higher political authority exists above sovereign states, any major state should arm itself to the maximum extent that its economic resources permit. Another novel way of describing the inward-looking security priorities of the Suharto-era security elite and the outcomes of their policies could be the terms “state-induced security dilemma” and “(inter)societal security dilemma”. See Roe (1999). Such logic can be seen at work in the way decisions are taken independently of central authority when TNI personnel operating at the regional level deem a development “threatening”. The TNI’s complicity in the militia rampage in East Timor in September 1999 is a prime example. Another is the killing of Theys Eluay, the leader of the Presidium of the Papuan Council on 11 November 2001. It is unlikely that the murder of Eluay by TNI soldiers had the backing of the TNI leadership in Jakarta. However, the manner in which TNI personnel are trained and socialized to recognize threats to Indonesia’s security ultimately resulted in the soldiers who did the killing (and their superiors, who gave the orders) concluding that the pro-independence activities of Eluay were a threat to the territorial integrity of Indonesia and hence that it was their “duty” to eliminate such “threats”. The likely explanation is that a decision independent of central authority was made at the regional level to eliminate Eluay for the sake of ‘keamanan’ (Confidential interview, October 2003). See Johnston (1996). Johnston’s thesis revolves around the idea that while China’s strategic outlook is informed by realist principles, there is a cultural dimension to its realpolitik behaviour. By examining the Ming dynasty’s grand strategy against the Mongols (1368–1644), Johnston concluded that Chinese strategic thought emphasized war as a central feature of interstate relations. This contention is borne out from the author’s interviews with senior officers at Mabes ABRI and General (Ret) Benny Murdani in 1994. Robert Lowry (1996, p. 6) alludes to the presence of such a strategy. Neorealism sees states driven by the pressure of international anarchy to arm themselves with offensive weapons for their worst-case scenarios. In contrast to neorealism, postclassical realism envisages states as actors who, while

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highly sensitive to the economic costs of defence, maximize their security without threatening their neighbours (Brooks 1997). Such an interpretation of Indonesia’s security priorities, which incorporate postclassical realism with variables such as the impact of Javanese norms on Indonesia strategic thinking, may have greater explanatory power for states which conceptualize security both in material as well as ideational terms. On the subject of the impact of norms, values and culture on national security priorities, see Katzenstein (1996). See, for example, Rinakit (2005); Kingsbury (2003); Honna (2003); and Rabasa and Haseman (2002).

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Reproduced from Realpolitik Ideology: Indonesia's Use of Military Force, by Leonard C. Sebastian (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2006). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

ENFRAMING INDONESIAN CONCEPTS OF NATIONAL SECURITY 27

1 Enframing Indonesian Concepts of National Security

In the context of Indonesia, any attempt to understand what constitutes security hinges on the issue of “whose security?” Four or more distinct securities may be at issue simultaneously: the security of the state, the security of the regime, the security of the nation and the individual citizen. For a society composed of communal groups with distinctive ethnic or religious identifications, their perceived securities may also be at stake, making the interplay and competition among the various players even more complex and irresolvable. The terms state, regime, and nation will be distinguished here as follows. The term “state” has two contexts, an external and an internal. In the former, the state is an actor in the international system, with a distinct territorial base and exercising sovereignty. In its internal context the state is usually equated with the set of institutions that organizes, regulates, and enforces interactions of groups and individuals within its territory. It is the state, in the Weberian tradition, that holds the right to maintain and exercise coercive force to maintain order and to settle disputes. But, when the agencies and bureaucracies of the state are difficult to define, or proceed separately or in competition, for instance, when the military acts to displace the legislature, distinctions become complicated. The locus of the state and the coherence of its functional capacities at any point in time may be tenuous notions. Thus, it is necessary to distinguish the state from the regime, where “regime” refers to the small set of persons who hold the highest offices in the state and/or are the elite that effectively command the machinery, especially the coercive forces of the state.1 The preservation, that is, the security, of the regime will perforce involve differing notions of threat and response than those entailed in the security of the state. Finally, there is the nation2 — a collective of persons whose self-identification on the basis of common ethnicity, language, race, religion, historical

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experience, common future or a combination of these factors is viewed as the basis for the expression of legitimate political identity and power. Simply sorting out the various national/communal actors with their contending definitions and demands for security presents great difficulties. What is of primary concern for this study is to avoid making assumptions that the security interests of the state, regime, and nation are always congruent and harmonious. There are two important reasons why the study of the Indonesian case could yield insights into the nature and the dynamics of national security during the different stages in the history of a developing country. First, during the half century since it proclaimed its independence on 17 August 1945, Indonesia has encountered many, if not all, of the problems faced by developing nations in its search for order, national security and a viable leadership. Second, what makes it more interesting is the fact that the Indonesian case, even after a prolonged period of consolidation during the Suharto era, is still an unfinished experiment with further challenges ahead as it proceeds along the arduous road towards overcoming the sources of its underdevelopment. This chapter highlights the development of Indonesian concepts of national security3 and sets the framework for what constituted the Suharto era national security state. During the first twenty-one years (1945–66), the central themes in the prevailing political language and in government policies were revolution, imperialism, and state- and nation-building. From 1966 onwards, concepts like national stability and national development replaced revolution and the struggle against imperialism as the central themes. The following analysis is an attempt to understand what constitutes national security from the perspective of the Indonesian leadership during these two distinct periods in Indonesian history with the aim of understanding which security concerns have impacted on Indonesia’s domestic and external security interests. NATIONAL SECURITY AND CORE VALUES The extent to which Indonesia feels threatened internally and externally is fundamental to its sense of security and well-being and reveals much about its character, psychology, social development and value system. The problem with security concerns, particularly in the Indonesian case, is that they come in various forms both concrete and amorphous, vary enormously in range, scope and intensity, pose risks which cannot be assessed accurately and depend on probabilities which cannot be calculated. By surveying

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ENFRAMING INDONESIAN CONCEPTS OF NATIONAL SECURITY 29

Indonesian history to pin-point and identify what could be construed as the principal themes and strands in Indonesian thinking about its threat environment, we are able to ascertain how certain core values have evolved and why the preservation of such values have become crucial to the maintenance of national security. In Indonesia, security concerns tend to be complex, multi-level and not easily susceptible to change. Defence Policy moves simultaneously in psychological as well as operational environments. By this, it is meant that policies are formulated not on the basis of objective reality as such but on the basis of interpretations of that reality. The process of receiving and transforming real data into analyses and decisions is always influenced by pre-existing psychological predispositions. Thus, any study of Indonesian national security should consider how Indonesian policy-makers themselves perceive their security concerns. The perception of Indonesian policy-makers has been influenced by the country’s history of turmoil and the fragility of its state structures. Such a legacy has made decision-makers acutely sensitive to potential dangers. Ingrained in their consciousness is the perception that the margin of survivable error is small. For Indonesia’s policy-makers, the main preoccupation of national security is the preservation of the state. To understand the dynamics behind national security, the state has to be related to the sub-state and international levels. The relation to the substate level may reveal disharmony within the state and thus explain the internal security concerns that impinge on national security and the vulnerability of the state to external intervention. Under such conditions, a holistic approach to security had been developed by the military, which minimizes the distinctions between internal and external security. This can be best illustrated in a discussion analysing the core values to be protected under the label of “national security”. The core values to be assessed can be divided into five dimensions. These core values have evolved as a direct result of history and have their origins in the painful lessons learned during the first two decades of independence. They are psychological reactions to the events of history and are a product of evolution. The five core values are as follows:

• • • • •

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Political-Doctrinal Dimension Socio-Cultural Dimension Military Dimension Economic Dimension and Regime Legitimacy Geopolitical Dimension

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It is through history that these core values will be revealed. Hence, the following historical survey will attempt to provide a background where the various core values can be extracted in a systematic manner. THE IMPACT OF HISTORY4 The Revolution Experience (1945–49) While the Revolusi 45 (1945 Revolution) saw nationalism burgeon in Indonesia on the basis of national mobilization against foreign rule and foreign domination, the historical, cultural and civilization factors which provided the country with a sense of pride on one hand helped in the consolidation of the nation–state. On the other hand, these qualities also stirred up age-old animosities frozen during the colonial era. The period of revolusi (revolution) brought to the surface tensions based on religious, sectoral, linguistic and ethnic animosities that predate the colonial era. What was most disturbing for Sutan Sjahrir, the Republic’s first prime minister, and the members of his cabinet, was the uncontrolled violence of these movements of social revolution. In the guise of spontaneous revolutionary action, these movements were expressed in the disturbances in Pekalongan, Tegal and Brebes (the “Tiga Daerah [Three Regions] Affair”) in late 1945, or in the Aceh upheavals and in the “social revolution” in East Sumatra in early 1946.5 In their differing ways these were all popular movements against established authority — against the pangreh praja in the “Three Regions” against the Uleebalang in Aceh, and against traditional rulers in East Sumatra — but they contained also elements of cultural, religious, or ethnic rivalry.6 Another source of disturbance, especially in 1946, were the radical nationalists under the leadership of Tan Malaka. The uncompromising stance taken by them against the Dutch during the negotiating process seriously undermined the stability of the government.7 Conflict involving religion was another source of tension. Although close to 90 per cent of Indonesia’s population professes to be of Muslim faith, making Indonesia the world’s largest Islamic nation, the Republic is strikingly secular in character. Yet the debate between those for and against the establishment of Islam as a state religion and those for and against the creation of an Islamic state has been and continues to be a source of such friction that it has given rise, on occasion, to armed conflict. In June 1945, two months before the proclamation of independence was issued, the nominal and moderate Muslim majority of the Committee for

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the Preparation of Indonesian Independence (Panitia Persiapan Kemerdekaan Indonesia), in a concession to orthodox Islamic demands, adopted the controversial Jakarta Charter (Piagam Jakarta). The Charter made it obligatory for Indonesia’s Muslims to adhere to Islamic law but, significantly, the Charter was not incorporated into the 1945 Constitution nor has it been incorporated into law since then, although in 1959 Sukarno linked this document by decree with the 1945 Constitution. Similarly, in a speech before the Committee for the Preparation of Indonesian Independence, Sukarno enunciated the five principles which were to become enshrined as the Indonesian State’s guiding philosophy. The five principles or Pancasila8 are Nationalism, Internationalism (later Humanitarianism), Democracy, Social Justice and Belief in God. The Pancasila was incorporated by amendment into the 18 August 1945 Constitution. The most important of the five principles is the belief in one supreme God, which permitted every Indonesian to believe in a supreme diety of their choice. By taking such an approach, Sukarno was able to avert a confrontation with devout Muslims who promoted the idea that Indonesia should become an Islamic state. Likewise, this strategy was also aimed at ensuring that religious pluralism and tolerance would be ingrained as a common value in the culturally heterogeneous Indonesian archipelago. The state and the nation were only in an embryonic stage after the proclamation of independence. Only the Pancasila ideology and the 1945 Constitution provided substance to assertions of independence. The state with all its institutions, laws and procedures was not yet in place. The home-grown organizing ideology of the state did not have deep historical roots. Hence, attempts to apply the Pancasila to justify the incumbent regime had the effect of alienating significant segments of the population. One result of this saw the republic facing its first regional rebellion in May 1948. Islamic guerrillas led by a Javanese mystic named S.M. Kartosuwirjo proclaimed a new state called Negara Islam Indonesia (Indonesian Islamic State), more commonly referred to as Darul Islam (Arabic dar al-Islam, territory or house of Islam). Between 1949 and 1959 the strain between Muslim radicals and the secularists led to the spread of the Darul Islam movement and armed rebellion in West Java, South Kalimantan, South Sulawesi and Aceh. This rebellion was contained but never successfully eliminated until 1962.9 New global alignments also had the effect of compromising the Republic’s security. Even before the end of World War II the Grand Alliance of the war years was subjected to strain as the Allies competed in

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the race for Berlin; and thereafter the Soviet Union and the Western bloc led by the United States was concerned to stake out their area of influence. Great power rivalry was reinforced by ideological differences. To Washington, Soviet communism was necessarily expansive and to Moscow the contradictions of capitalism were bound to lead to a new imperialism. These trends were given graphic expression in Churchill’s Fulton speech of March 1946, which popularized the term “iron curtain” as part of the vocabulary of international relations and the cornerstone of global security. In March 1947, the Truman Doctrine confirmed American determination to keep Greece and Turkey within a Western sphere of influence. On the other side of the great divide, the policies of international communism were reflected, in particular, in the formation, in September 1947, of the Cominform, a new version of the Comintern which had been dissolved in 1943 in the interests of Allied cooperation, and in the evolution of Zhdanov’s “Two Camps” doctrine with its emphasis on the futility of attempts to find a middle way in the demands of East and West. Significantly, this transnational security doctrine undermined the cohesiveness of the Republic’s war of liberation, as it become an arena of East–West competition as well as an independence struggle. The sharpening East–West tensions provided the Partai Kommunis Indonesia (PKI, Indonesian Communist Party), the opportunity to put forward its view on national security which was derived from a plan composed by Musso entitled “A New Road for the Indonesian Republic”. This new tough party line called the “Djalan Baru Musso” which was essentially the pure Zhdanov line with a few Indonesian overtones,10 made it clear that in the struggle against Dutch colonialism, there was only one way possible and feasible; siding with the Soviet Union. This new PKI policy began to stir the Republican territory, which after the first Dutch “military action” was confined to the provinces of East and Central Java, most of the rural areas in West Java and the hinterland of Sumatra.11 It was during this period, in response to threat to the regime from forces of the extreme left that Hatta formulated the basis of Indonesia’s active and independent foreign policy (bebas-aktif ). Replying to the PKI view, Vice-President Mohammad Hatta made on 2 September 1948 the following statement: It is true that Indonesia, which is fighting imperialism, belonged to the anti-imperialist camp. It is equally true that the Soviet Union, on the ground of its own ideology, sides with the colonial countries. But this does not imply that the Republic of Indonesia, which is confronted by its own specific problems, has to follow in the wake of the Soviet

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Union, which in the course of its own history has followed a zigzag course, in conformity with the issues confronted. The Government holds the view that this should be our stand: We should not become an object in the international struggle, but should remain a subject which has the right to determine its own point of view, and seek the accomplishment of its own goal, a complete independent Indonesia.12

This policy of Hatta was an important catalyst, which combined with the insurmountable policy differences between the government and the PKI, saw the Communists under the leadership of Musso and Amir Sjarifuddin mount a challenge against the Sukarno-Hatta Government. Strikes in many weaving factories and estates were mobilized by the PKI trade union SOBSI (Sentral Organisasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia, Central Organization of Indonesian Workers). Armed clashes broke out between communist irregulars and the regular troops loyal to the Sukarno-Hatta government. The climax came on 19 September 1948, when in Madiun (East Java) Musso and Amir proclaimed a rebel Government.13 If the Madiun revolt demonstrated yet again how local rivalries could easily escalate into violence, it also highlighted the intrusiveness of the new international environment. The Cold War system that the newlyindependent state entered into meant that the new state would become part and parcel of the global security architecture. Sukarno and Hatta resisted this absorption primarily because they wanted to emphasize their own internal programmes of independence and development. For this reason, they were later strong supporters of the Non-Aligned Movement because the movement insisted on cultural equality, political sovereignty, economic redistribution and multilateral decision-making at the global level. Over and above this, the proclamation of independence created a fundamental conflict between the Republic of Indonesia and the Kingdom of the Netherlands. Both claimed to be the sovereign power over Indonesia or the area called the Netherlands East Indies. There was an awareness that the Dutch would go all out to destroy the young republic. Hence, the sense of euphoria which accompanied the proclamation of independence was tempered by a strong sense of vulnerability. The Post-Independence Experience (1950–65) Like most developing countries, Indonesia entered the world system as a sovereign state with heavy baggage. Indonesia carried with it the burden of colonialism which excluded it from meaningful participation in the

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preservation and security of its own society.14 This was exacerbated by the fact that the years of revolutionary struggle had left a heritage of radicalism which in turn generated intense conflicts within Indonesian society and left a legacy of complex social groupings and alignments in the archipelago. The imposition of a Federal system15 on 27 December 1949 meant that the new nation-state did not have a common nationality; rather, it inherited an irrational and arbitrary division of their sub-societies into an equally irrational and arbitrary new social formation. Hence, it would be more appropriate to call Indonesia a “state-nation”, since the state preceded the nation and civil society rather than nation-state in the fashion characteristic of Western history. The primary task of Indonesia’s leaders was to define their society and to provide a semi-official concept of nationality. This was to prove impossible because the Dutch left behind multiple structures of authority in actual or potential competition with the authority structure of the “legitimate” post-colonial state.16 The Pasundan revolt, which interestingly adopted Javanese symbols of legitimacy,17 and the rise of the Republic of South Maluku, which arose out of the Ambonese revolt, were classic cases of regional rebellions against perceived Javanese hegemony. A claim was also made by the Jakarta government that its security was being impaired by the continuing Dutch role in West Irian. Though the Republic of the United States of Indonesia was quickly replaced by the Unitary Republic of Indonesia on 17 August 1950, there was to be no respite for the young republic as its security problems escalated dramatically. As a newly independent state, Indonesia had to provide individuals living within the state with personal security on two levels: first, security against external aggression, and secondly, protection of individual rights within the framework of competing national groups. It was in this second requirement that the state failed badly. The Federalist interregnum brought to the forefront a problem that was to continually plague security planners in their quest to establish the new government’s authority in those parts of the archipelago where the commitment to the new state was overshadowed by other values and commitments. As in so many new states, the population in Indonesia was divided by what Geertz (1963, p. 108) has called “primodial ties”, loyalties owed by particular groups relating to blood ties, race, ethnic, linguistic, regional and economic entities, religion and customs. These loyalties block the process of turning a state into a nation-state, in which the allegiance of the people is directed towards the nation as a whole.

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Moreover, the relative strength of the Javanese proved to be a liability since most ethnic and regional groups feared Javanese domination. These were specifically the concerns of a group of ethnically, culturally and linguistically distinct Sundanese who revolted in an attempt to maintain the statehood of Pasundan and its identity. These new “double” identity or sub-national identities created concepts of dual loyalties that in some instances led to secessionist movements and with them the growing threat of national dismemberment. Primodial loyalties would continue to plague Indonesian security planners and would later be manifested in Aceh,18 in Sumatra and Sulawesi during the PRRI/Permesta Rebellion,19 the sectarian violence which accompanied the aftermath of the abortive October 1965 coup, and in Irian Jaya and East Timor. The second major task for the new Republic was to provide economic security for its people. The old colonial system was not designed to provide economic security or to protect the welfare of Indonesians who were regarded as residents and not citizens. For example, after decades of neglecting traditional subsistence agriculture, this sector of the population was suddenly faced with the responsibility of providing food security for the nation if the country was to achieve economic independence. The state recognized that the ravages of underdevelopment inhibited the agricultural sector in its ability to provide basic food security. Consequently, a very fragile political state was expected to administer an equally feeble economy and provide citizens with two basic types of domestic security: political participation (citizenship) and economic well-being (employment and food security). In the final analysis, the state’s failure to secure the economic wellbeing of its citizens gravely undermined the legitimacy of the incumbent regimes during the periods of Liberal Democracy, Guided Democracy and Suharto’s New Order, leading to their ultimate demise. Absence of Legitimacy The most crucial national security concern faced by successive regimes since the proclamation of independence was the lack of what could be termed “legitimacy”. Since the proclamation of independence on 17 August 1945, successive regimes in Indonesia have faced challenges both armed and unarmed, to the prevailing state boundaries as just and definitive lines of political, social and economic division; to the ruling regimes as appropriate orders of distributive justice; and to governments as fair and effective instruments of security and progress.

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Throughout the post-independence era, there has lacked a common commitment to the prevailing political and social order. From the time of independence, the commitment to the Pancasila ideology was strongest in Java where the revolutionary republic was based, but moderate in the Outer Islands. In the Outer Islands, there was considerable support for the Indonesian Revolution but not for the Pancasila. This made them susceptible to regional rebellions and ethnic or religious separatism. Even within the ruling elite in Java, the advent of political parties and the rise of competing ideologies made loyalty to the Pancasila ideals a contentious issue. Furthermore, the polarization of party politics along ideological lines had the effect of seriously crippling the functioning of government and thereby greatly exacerbating centre–periphery relations. Each state has its own value and belief systems; this is inculcated into individuals more or less as part of the socialization process and forms prisms or lenses through which they view their society and the world. Where two parties’ values and belief systems conflict, there is a tendency towards polarization and mutual security concerns. Indonesian history throughout the post-independence era is riddled with conflicts that have occurred as a result of these differences. A good example was the danger of conflicting elite perceptions of national security brought about by the introduction of political parties with their competing ideologies and differing security agendas.20 This brought about the fall of the Sjahrir cabinet in 1947; paralysed the functioning of the government during the period of liberal democracy and polarized the TNI; and was the paramount factor in the stand-off between Sukarno and the PKI on the one hand, and the TNI on the other, which led to the collapse of Guided Democracy. The result was armed conflict throughout the 1950s and well into the early 1960s. Partly because of the structural problems discussed above, partly because of their own failings and impatience, and partly because of additional problems generated in the process of change, successive regimes in Indonesia have seldom been able fully to justify their claim to the right to rule and make good their promises to confer benefits to the ruled. This has been evident in the area of economic development — its lack of fulfillment perhaps the most significant cause of instability in Indonesia since 1945. Under such circumstances, it is not surprising that the internal problem of legitimacy becomes externalized and the promotion of external conflict behaviour particularly under Sukarno became a useful method for unifying the divided and fragile state. Sukarno used both the West Irian and Konfrontasi crises as means for promoting internal cohesion as well as preserving the external structure of power within the body politic.

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Security Dilemma of a Post-Colonial State A common theme emerging from any analysis of the period 1945–66, was that Indonesia had to cope with and function within a unique and particularly troublesome security environment — a condition which could be characterized as its security dilemma. Diplomasi and Perjuangan (struggle) were strategies employed during the Revolution to reduce or alleviate the deep sense of insecurity, the state and the regimes in power suffered both domestically and internationally. Although independence was conceded by the Dutch on 27 December 1949, this did not help ameliorate the state’s security dilemma. Like all states, Indonesia once established, had an open-ended guarantee on the part of the international system that its legal existence was assured. The traumas that Indonesia now had to confront, specifically, the process of translating juridical statehood into empirical statehood, now took on the garb of challenges to their security rather than threats to their existence. The Republic lacked three critical qualities necessary in all cohesive states. First, it lacked adequate coercive capacity. While the Indonesian army was a credible deterrent force to Dutch military operations, it certainly did not have the capability to militarily defeat the Dutch which led to unfavourable bargaining terms at the Round Table Conference in The Hague; nor could it overcome the internal threat posed by Darul Islam; and significantly, the military had no external defence capability whatsoever and was internally divided.21 Second, the state had no infrastructural power. This could be seen primarily in the state’s inability to control its citizens — particularly the “struggle organizations” or badan perjuangan and the proponents of social revolution — and its inability to prevent civil unrest in Java and the Outer Islands. Third, regimes in office during the revolution, liberal democracy period, Sukarno’s guided democracy, and Suharto’s New Order were unable to sustain legitimacy, which led to their dramatic collapse. The inability of these regimes to ensure stability, economic development, and in Suharto’s case, equitable economic distribution, was a significant reason for their demise. To sustain their legitimacy, all these regimes had to depend on the Army who in the aftermath of the abortive coup of 1 October 1965, became the most powerful political, economic and administrative force, effectively seizing control of the state. The Army and National Security For the Indonesian army,22 national security implied their readiness to defend the Proclamation of Independence and the Unitary Republic based on the

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Pancasila. It was natural, therefore, for the Army to oppose the presence of any foreign army on Indonesian soil after independence had been proclaimed. Its struggle against Allied forces23 culminated in the Battle of Surabaya which began on 10 November 1945. After the proclamation of independence, the overriding national security issue was the conflict with the Dutch over sovereignty. The importance and prestige of the Tentara Nasional Indonesia (TNI, Indonesian National Army)24 grew significantly through its successful quelling of the Madiun revolt and was further enhanced by its actions in defence of the Republic in December 1948 when the Dutch launched their second “police action”. If these two incidents highlighted the fragility of the new Republic in the minds of the Army elite, they also served to highlight the indispensable role the Army played in defending Indonesia against external aggression and internal disturbances. Leading the people’s war provided the Army with the experience of direct control over political, economic and social matters. This experience gave the Army greater selfconfidence and a stronger sense of mission. The Army developed a dual-faceted approach to strategy. As the first line of defence, the Army participated in negotiations. When negotiations broke down prior to the first Dutch attack on 21 July 1947 and again prior to the second Dutch attack on 19 December 1948, the Army were forced to fall back on its second line of defence, namely the military option. The military option implied preparations for a people’s war to be based in villages outside the cities, especially in the mountainous areas aimed at exhausting the enemy. For this purpose, defence areas were to be created, which would be able to continue the people’s war even if a particular area was isolated from other defence areas.25 The experience of leading the people’s war, after almost the entire political leadership surrendered following the Dutch capture of Yogyakarta on 19 December 1948, left a lasting imprint on the Army. Most officers regarded the sudden willingness of the Netherlands to grant independence to Indonesia not as a result of either the policy of diplomasi (diplomacy) or the efforts of Indonesia’s friends in the United States26 and Asia, but a consequence of their military achievements. These achievements, although rarely spectacular, must have convinced the Dutch that Indonesia’s freedom could not be prevented by the application of force. This interpretation of the independence struggle was naturally not acceptable to civilian leaders, and General Simatupang, in an attempt to reconcile the two views, concluded in 1949 that “the combination of diplomacy and the force of arms, not diplomacy alone, and not force alone, has brought about the results which have been achieved so far”.27 However, for the purpose of this study it is only of secondary importance to understand the motives behind these official views;

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what is more important in this context is the perception of events and how such perceptions shape the security thinking of the Army. The Army’s perception clearly was — and remained — that it was their military efforts which ultimately brought about the Dutch recognition of Indonesia’s independence, thereby realizing the primary national security goal of the period of revolution. This perception of its role in gaining independence for Indonesia gave it a new sense of achievement, a feeling of pride, a distinctiveness as compared to those who shied away from the battlefield at a time when the Republic’s fortunes were at its lowest ebb. While this was an enormous boost for the cohesiveness of the Army, other factors as well had consolidating effects. These factors had the impact of providing the Army with the basis for defining threats both to itself and the nation as a whole. First, after almost four years of continuous arguments with the political leadership, the Army developed its own distinctive view of national security. Sjahrir’s and Amir Sjarifuddin’s denunciations of officers with Dutch or Japanese training as mercenaries and fascists had created a resentment of politicians which army officers were never to lose. Second, the Socialists’ attempts to indoctrinate the Army with their own brand of ideology28 had taught the officers to be on guard against party ideologies, and had encouraged them to develop their own perspectives of nationalism. This ideological independence effectively prevented any civilian government formed on the basis of party orientations and ideologies from gaining total control over the Army. The earlier governments’ policy of playing off the lasykar (partisans or militia)29 against the Army at the expense of the defence interests of the nation had forced the Army headquarters to seek the backing of the President and opposition parties in order to overcome the political interests of the Socialist cabinets in the defence field. This gave the army a greater say in defence matters and little tolerance for civilian interference. The third factor became evident when the purge of the leftist sections as a result of the Madiun affair and the desertion of radical Islamic elements to Darul Islam narrowed the diversity of the officer corps. Both the Madiun uprising and the proclamation of an Islamic State of Indonesia were regarded as treason, and were instrumental in the Army’s rejection of both communism and militant Islam. The Stabilizing Role of the Army The restructuring of the Indonesian army in 1950 was an important component in General Nasution’s short-term goal of setting up a defence

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organization covering the whole territory of the new Republic to deal with the worsening security situation; it was modelled after Operational Order No. 1 of November 1948, which came to be known as the “territorial concept”.30 This concept was based on Nasution’s experience gained in organizing a people’s war during the war for national liberation and encapsulated the Army leadership’s perception of national security. Contained in this strategy were the basic concepts in facing threats from internal and external enemies. The key element in this concept was what was then called the territorial control network starting at the village level. An important short-term goal for the Army hierarchy in this context was the reduction in size of the army to meet the government’s drive for curbing expenditure, and to enable Army leaders to implement their reorganization. Efforts to demobilize the Army faced strong opposition particularly among the ex-PETA (Sukarela Tentara Pembela Tanah Air, Volunteer Army of Defenders of the Fatherland) trained officers. In July 1950, Lieutenant-Colonel Kahar Muzakkar, a leading Republican commander in the Revolution joined some 20,000 troops who refused to be demobilized and took to the mountains of South Sulawesi in open rebellion. In January 1952, Kahar Muzakkar contacted Kartosuwirjo and formally made his rebellion a part of the Darul Islam movement which continued unabated in its West Java homeland. The rebellion in South Sulawesi was indicative of a new type of security problem that would dominate much of Indonesian history after 1950, namely: who was to control the army, how it was to be structured and what was its role in the life of the nation? The conflict between the ex-PETA officers who resented priority given to formal skills rather than dedication to revolutionary values and the exKNIL (Koninklijk Nederlands Indisch Leger, Royal Netherlands Indies Army) Army leadership who promoted rational achievement and effectiveness provided radicals and leftist-nationalist politicians the opportunity to seek influence within the Army in an attempt to control it. This was accompanied by an attack on the Army leadership in parliament by Zainal Baharuddin, the chairman of the Parliamentary Committee on Defence, who in the dying days of the Amir Sjarifuddin cabinet in 1948 had led the attack on the existing defence structure. This encouraged Nasution’s enemies within the Army to become more vocal and organize themselves in their opposition to their commander. This led to the 17 October 1952 incident and Nasution’s dismissal as Army Chief-of-Staff.31 As factional conflicts developed within the Army, the effectiveness of its internal security operations declined.

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Similarly, Nasution’s plan, in November 1955, after his reappointment as Army Chief-of-Staff, was for a large-scale transfer of officers in an attempt to break the powers of the panglima (commander) who were well on their way to setting themselves up as warlords. This had the effect of causing the Army and the civilian interests associated with it to split into two main factions. While these groupings did not replicate those of the 17 October affair, this was the alignment of factions that underlay the Sumatran rebellion of 15 February 1958 (known as PRRI, Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia, Revolutionary Government of the Indonesian Republic). It was a protracted internal military crisis that brought the political system of the Liberal Democracy period crashing down. With the political parties increasingly polarized along a Java– Outer Islands division and the bureaucracy being so ineffectual, the Army was virtually all that held the national administration together. As it divided, the nation divided. In like manner, attempts by the PKI to try to force the Army to dismantle its Territorial structure (a core Army national security concept) and its endeavour to infiltrate and factionalize the Army succeeded in stimulating factional conflict within the TNI culminating in what was called the GESTAPU (Gerakan September Tigapuluh, Thirtieth of September Movement) Affair or the October 1965 abortive coup. The Army’s response to this challenge brought the nation to the brink of catastrophe. This national security crisis came in the wake of Sukarno’s proposals for the formation of a Fifth Force in conjunction with the PKI (Polomka 1969, pp. 194, 235). While Sukarno’s policies would have strengthened the security of the government against the threat it saw coming from the Army, such moves were viewed by the Army as endangering its monopoly of arms and curtailing its ability to prevent Indonesia taking a Communist path. This policy was seen by the Army as a repetition of policies attempted unsuccessfully by the Socialists in the forties. Such policies are recognizably about the most dangerous policies civilians can adopt vis-à-vis the military and usually lead to direct confrontation. The creation of a Fifth Force would have made the security dilemma in Indonesia irresolvable if various factions within society were able to compete effectively as security providers. In the aftermath of the abortive coup of October 1965, the military — as the most organized institution — seized power. Implicitly, its leaders understood that the unity of the nation depended on the unity of the Army. When it fragmented, as it did in 1958 and 1965 (the coup attempt was launched by dissident Army units) the Republic followed suit. Thus, due

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to its pivotal role at the apex of Indonesian society, the maintenance of Army unity became an important national security concern. Hence in 1966, the need was felt by a coterie of generals led by Nasution and Suharto for an expanded military role. As such, over and above the arrests, purges and transfers of politically unreliable officers, the military was to be indoctrinated with values adjusted to the requirements of the New Order. Representatives of the Army leadership sought to convince its members that the Army, if necessary, had to exceed the role stipulated by Nasution’s Front Lebar (Broad Front) or Middle Way (Jalan Tengah) concept of 1958 of being just one of the forces that determined the fate of the nation.32 Under the leadership of General Suharto, the Army assumed the dominant role in Indonesian politics. The Origins of Dwifungsi An army seminar was convened in Bandung at the end of August 1966 at the Army Staff and Command School (SESKOAD, Sekolah Staf dan Komando Angkatan Darat) to reconsider the Army’s defence doctrine Tri Ubaya Cakti33 first formulated in 1965. This Sanskrit formula is not without significance since its symbolism invokes in the mind of its Javanese beholder traditional notions of power. Sanskrit was the language of the Hindu-Buddhist priest scholars of the ancient kratons (royal courts). Tri means three, containing (1) the Doctrine of Basic National Security, (2) the Doctrine of Kekaryaan (civic action), and (3) the Doctrine of Development. Ubaya means promise. Cakti means sakti (supernatural or divine power) in Bahasa Indonesia, and Anderson (1972, p. 4) has rightly noted the conceptual and linguistic problems in the translation of this latter term. Suffice to say that the nuance is that of spiritually reinforced power or the notion of power in Javanese culture. Indeed the continuity with tradition has been reflected in the linguistic sanskritization undertaken generally in the postcolonial period which became particularly evident in the early years of the new order. This is inextricably connected with the resurrection of Javanese kepercayaan (literally “belief” but more accurately Javanese mystic belief) and was given the imprimatur of Suharto himself when he later became President. Where the seminar of 1966 went beyond what Nasution had postulated in 1958 was in its assertion that now “all the people’s hopes for well-being are focused on ABRI in general and the Army in particular (as agents of national integration, political stability and modernization)”. This implied, in TNI parlance, that the Army had no choice but to live up to the expectations of the people, which entailed securing the formation of a

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responsible, strong and progressive government.34 The seminar’s findings and conclusions closely reflected the demands in Suharto’s address to the Army Strategic Reserve Command (KOSTRAD, Komando Strategi Angkatan Darat) on 15 August that the Army had to assume a leading role in all fields concerning the well-being of the nation and the people, and elevated them to the status of an official doctrine. Not only were senior Army officers present but, as MacDougall (1976, p. 1166) has noted, a team of western trained professor-economists from the University of Indonesia also joined the SESKOAD seminar. In an effort to commit the other three services to a similar stand, Suharto ordered the convening of another seminar in November in which officers of all services were to participate. This seminar in principle accepted the values and commitment of the Army’s revised Tri Ubaya Cakti doctrine and incorporated them into an Armed Forces national defence and security doctrine. 35 According to Sundhaussen: While the formulation of these doctrines did not in itself tie all officers automatically and unreservedly to new order policies, the doctrines came to provide a degree of guidance for the vast majority of officers in all services who had remained largely professional and politically inactive or under-committed, and who with relief welcomed an authoritative set of principles which allowed them to continue to abstain from making difficult political choices (Sundhaussen 1982, p. 243).

The concept of an expanded military role became encapsulated in the doctrine of dwifungsi (dual function), which was formulated to provide a rationale, a direction, and to some extent, limitations to that expanded role. According to that doctrine, the Armed Forces became both a “military force” and a “social-political force”. The latter was formalization of the existing historical reality at that time that the Armed Forces claimed a responsibility in the ideological, political and economic fields in addition to its responsibility of maintaining security in the narrow sense.36 It is important to note, though, that the dual function of the Armed Forces did not create that situation. That situation was already there when the doctrine was formulated.37 Hence, in concluding this section on the impact of history, it is important to stress that Suharto and the Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (ABRI or the Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia)38 have memories of “bad” experiences from which come images of those thought to be responsible for such experiences. An image of an enemy once formed is

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not easily changed. Such perceptions continue to be maintained and preserved through propaganda, ideology, oral history and so forth, thus becoming part of the socialization process or concretized in government policies, contingency plans and such like. These experiences have come from three specific areas. The first of these experiences comes from past wars, particularly recalling the war of independence, conflicts involving armed separatism and regional rebellions and low-intensity conflicts like the Irian Barat (West Irian)39 and Konfrontasi (Confrontation)40 crises. The second experience concerns past domination or interference in domestic politics by foreign powers. The former refers specifically to the Netherlands and Japan and the latter to China and to a lesser extent the United States and the Soviet Union. The final category would refer to feelings of insecurity that arise from particular “traumas”. The Army’s encounter with the abortive 1 October 1965 coup attempt and lingering memories of the Darul Islam revolt reflect its aversion for Communism and Islamic fundamentalism and are specific examples of these traumas. POLITICAL-DOCTRINAL DIMENSION The first dimension is what might be termed the political-doctrinal dimension. An important core value of the New Order regime was its belief in a depoliticized polity. The regime rejected Western liberalism and the competitive political party system associated with it. For the New Order’s rulers, the competitive electoral democracy practised between 1950 and 1957 was the source of ideological conflict and represented a dark era in Indonesia’s political history. The term “liberal democracy”, for them, had entirely negative connotations. Instead they aspired to a depoliticized political system, encapsulated in the “floating mass” (May 1978, p. 285) concept which envisaged the insulation of the masses from political activities except during limited election campaigns held every five years. Under the New Order’s elections the government always ensured that its own arm, Golkar (Golongan Karya, Functional Groups), defeated its two rivals who could never be described as “opposition” parties. Being beholden to Suharto for patronage, they were obliged to support him by endorsing the Pancasila as their “sole ideological foundation” (azas tunggal). The lack of consensus over the organizing ideology of the state has been a source of tremendous instability in Indonesia since the proclamation of independence on 17 August 1945. The Pancasila ideology, because of its due emphasis on the preservation of the status quo, was opposed by

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groups seeking changes in the political and economic order of the state. In Indonesia, this phenomenon could be traced to the pre-independence period when several groups (e.g. nationalists, democrats, socialists and theologians) were engaged in the struggle for independence. Of particular importance was the insemination of Western ideas. Partly due to colonialism and partly due to the growth of communications in the postwar world, influences of such beliefs as liberalism and socialism had penetrated Indonesia. This induced a breakdown of basic consensus concerning the values of distributive justice, for not only did such Western ideas conflict with each other fundamentally but they also challenged, and often provoked reactions from those who adhered to traditional belief systems. At the same time, by clearly holding forth attractive images of ideal political and social orders they were apt to create radical discontent with the existing transitional ones. Similarly, just as divisive were the introduction of Islamic ideas by orthodox religious elements in mass Muslim organizations like Masjumi (Majlis Syuro Muslimin Indonesia, Consultative Council of Indonesian Muslims). As a result of this, the inefficiency and disorder characteristic of the Liberal and Guided Democracy periods were essentially a reflection of intense party rivalries brought about by the existence of competing and incompatible ideologies and interests.41 Hence, for the New Order regime, the reformation of the political system based on the Pancasila was of paramount importance. The anticommunist fervour which was part and parcel of the aftermath of the 1 October 1965 coup made it easy for Suharto to quickly ban the PKI. Suharto was reluctant at that time to implement any radical structural transformations of the party system for fear of provoking the largest parties, Nahdlatul Ulama (NU or Muslim Teachers’ Party) and the Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI or Indonesian National Party), both of which retained their mass bases. Furthermore, the young regime was eager to present a democratic, civilian face to its domestic constituency and to its foreign allies. So Suharto retained the parties and co-opted several of their representatives, as well as intellectuals and technocrats, into the provisional MPR (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat, People’s Consultative Assembly). On paper this parliament was the supreme authority in the nation, but it soon became apparent that it enjoyed little power. Its persistent requests for an election, for example, were not met until 1971. The lead-up to the 1971 elections, then, saw a progressive erosion of the power of the political parties. A “Special Operations” body called Operasi Khusus (Opsus) was assigned the task of steering them all towards

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acquiescence and impotence.42 Several means were adopted, from intimidation of branch members to direct installation of party heads. Particularly hard hit were the modernist Muslims who had been excluded from politics since 1960 when Sukarno banned their large and active party, Masjumi. Having supported the rise of the New Order, they expected to reemerge as a powerful political force. As it was, the activities of their new election platform, Partai Muslimin Indonesia (Parmusi, Indonesian Muslim Party), were heavily circumscribed by Opsus (May 1978, 252–55). The PNI’s mobilization capacities received a major blow when Korps Karyawan Pegawai Republik Indonesia (Korpri, Civil Servants’ Corps of the Republic of Indonesia), was established. The PNI had traditionally dominated the civil service, and the party had used the huge administrative hierarchy as a means to dispense patronage and support (ibid., p. 238). Now as members of Korpri, civil servants were required to renounce their ties with the old parties and be “mono-loyal” to the government. The great beneficiary of all the “retooling” was Golkar, the corporate assemblage of military, religious, youth, trade union, business and other “non-ideological” groups, sponsored by the government. Golkar’s main function was to win elections. Because it had the services of both the military and Korpri at its disposal, it was able to exert leverage at every level in Indonesian society, from the capital to the smallest village (Bouileau, 1983, pp. 98–101). Emboldened by the Golkar landslide, Suharto called on Opsus to emasculate the parties even further. In 1973, the nine parties that had contested the elections were dragooned into forming two blocs, the Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP, United Development Party), a conglomerate of Islamic-oriented parties and the Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (PDI, Indonesian Democratic Party), a nationalist, secular hybrid. 43 It was the Suharto regime’s national security objective to depoliticize society, to render independent political activity impossible by either eliminating autonomous organizations with political potential or co-opting them into government-controlled umbrella groups. As the regime’s political hegemony and ideological monopoly took hold, it became a core value to be protected. Hence, any threat to the Pancasila ideology and the 1945 Constitution by any group proclaiming or subscribing to a competing ideology became a threat to national security. Since the onset of the New Order period, this “political-doctrinal element” has been significant in the TNI’s fierce opposition to communism and in the 1990s its opposition to a purely Western definition of human rights (particularly the West’s preoccupation with political rights). Such Western

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approaches are considered by Army leaders to be incongruent with indigenous conceptions of order and justice and cannot sufficiently be reconciled to ameliorate their prevailing security concerns. THE SOCIO-CULTURAL DIMENSION The second dimension is socio-cultural. As discussed earlier, Indonesia is a heterogeneous region where a number of different ethnic, cultural and religious groups live in close proximity to one another and where postindependence political boundaries are by no means coterminous with ethnic, cultural or religious dividing lines. Thus, for Indonesia, the task of building unity out of diversity, of forging modern nationhood out of centrifugal elements, is a most immediate, demanding and sensitive one. In this context, perceptions of threat can arise from three factors. First, enmity or antagonism with other socio-cultural groups (e.g. Javanese versus non-Javanese interests as seen in the regional rebellions of the 1950s) or rivalries within one’s own ethnic group (e.g. the problems relating to santri–abangan relations). Second, fear that another country may give help and succour to a (potential) dissident or rebellious group within Indonesia — an important consideration in Indonesia’s relations with Malaysia and Sweden (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka), Papua New Guinea and Australia (Organisasi Papua Merdeka), Australia and Portugal (Fretilin) and previously China (with reference to ethnic Chinese Indonesians). Third, fear that its socio-cultural balance may be upset by another government’s actions, behaviour or influence (past fear of Chinese communism). In the aftermath of independence, structural problems brought forth pains of birth and adolescence, as it were, and because they could not be easily coped with, concerns for “unity”, “stability”, “order”, and “security”, which were all too often identified with regime preservation, became of paramount importance. Accordingly, the dominant ethnic group, in this case the largely Javanese leadership, which manipulated themselves into effective political control of the state, took the view that the constitution of the state at the time of independence is sacrosanct and therefore denied any further right to national self-determination. Under such conditions, democracy and political participation became at best “guided” by the values of distributive justice of the rulers for the sake of stability and order; and civil liberties and individual rights become circumscribed by more or less coercive and repressive measures for the sake of “national security”.

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Such approaches aggravate grievances in minority groups, and their responses have ranged from attempts to alter in their favour the structure and process of the political authority in the state (e.g. PRRI/Permesta) to the demands of separatism (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka or Organisasi Papua Merdeka). In the event that political loyalties of minority groups are not directed toward the state, there is disharmony between the interests of the subgroup and that of the state. The subgroup may view the state and its nation-building policies as a threat to its security, whereas the state may view the efforts by the subgroup to preserve its own identity and security as a threat to national security. These “SARA”44 issues, as termed by the Armed Forces, are considered to be as potentially dangerous as the ideological ones, hence making national unity an important core value to be protected. Therefore, for the TNI, any threat to national unity became a threat to national security. Javanese unity and regime security Security concerns also involve two interrelated stages of observation and judgement, both of which are psychological processes that operate at the individual and group levels. In Indonesia, threat definition is the prerogative of government leaders and bureaucracies. Consequently, psychology, preconceptions, belief systems and values, and motives and interests of the leaders and related organizations need to be taken into consideration in analysing security concerns. While in most instances, security concerns are not assessed in a vacuum but in relation to geopolitical and domestic environments, there are times, particularly in the context of Indonesia, when allowances have to be made to accommodate the “nebulous” side of the dimension. For example, despite their vastly different respective calls for “revolution”, “development”, or “reformation” (reformasi), there lay an important similarity shared by Sukarno, Suharto, Wahid and Megawati; namely their adherence to a conservative ideology derived from Javanese tradition (Hanna 1967). Jenkins’ observations in 1984 are remarkably prescient and could as easily be applied to the leadership style of reformasi leaders like Wahid and Megawati as they could to Sukarno and Suharto. Describing a self-assured Suharto in 1981 Jenkins observed: It is a very Javanese thing. You are very cautious at first. Then you get overly confident … In the fifteen years since he had come to power Suharto had changed quite considerably. He had become more rigid,

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more authoritarian, more feudalistic, more mystical, more cynical, more corrupt, and very much less inclined to listen to criticism. In his early years as acting president and then president, Suharto had relied to a quite considerable degree on his civilian as well as military advisers, and in particular on Sultan Hamengku Buwono IX and Adam Malik, the two other members of the initial ruling triumvirate. He always sought — and listened to — their advice. Before long, that began to change. Increasingly confident of his ability to handle his new responsibilities and with the close support and advice of military associates like Ali Murtopo, he began showing signs of irritation at the advice proffered by men like Malik and the Sultan. Once he had made a decision, it was impossible to persuade him to change his mind, even if it could be shown that the decision was wrong. At the same time, there were factors at work that made such a change almost inevitable … he had also achieved much in his years as president … confronted wherever he went by this physical evidence of Indonesia’s successful development … he can only have become increasingly convinced that Indonesia was locked on a correct course, that he knew what was needed, what worked, and that the carping of his critics was not worth considering … As his power continued to grow, the president became increasingly preoccupied by ‘threats’ to the Pancasila and to the 1945 Constitution, threats which many felt were greatly overstated (Jenkins 1984, pp. 159–60).

Indeed, Suharto’s emphasis on traditional values seemed to become more prominent with his perception that modernization could undermine regime stability by introducing a new criterion of legitimacy, learned by Indonesian civil society from other societies as a consequence of increasing communications and cultural exchanges. This problem is almost universal to developing countries — the notion of legitimacy has been increasingly influenced by Western concepts of political participation. Hence, the exposure of students or the middle-class to liberal democracy became a source of concern for Suharto and his allies in the TNI, who feared that civil society would some day have the potential to challenge existing power structures and norms in their own society. Legitimacy in the classical tradition of Javanese government (referring to the Hindu-Javanese ideals which found their most elaborate expression in the Mataram Kingdom of the sixteenth to nineteenth centuries), was contingent to some extent on the possession by the king of wahyu kedaton, a form of divine radiance.45 This aura could either be cultivated through asceticism or received via revelation, called wahyu or wangsit. Proof of the king’s wahyu was to be found in the overall success of his rule, his

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possessions of pusaka (power-charged heirlooms), his liaisons with leaders of the spirit realms, and in the general welfare of his subjects. If, however, the king exhibited signs of self-interest at the expense of his obligations to society, or pamrih, this was interpreted as a signal that the candescence of his wahyu was failing.46 Without the wahyu, he would enjoy neither the right nor the ability to rule. Thus, in 1976 an adherent of Javanese mysticism, Sawito Kartowibowo, asserted that Suharto had lost the wahyu and therefore the right to rule, and advocated the transfer of power from Suharto to former vice president Hatta.47 Although the late Ali Murtopo initially admitted that the “Sawito Affair” was hardly more than a “storm in a teapot [sic]”,48 the regime, upon reflection, decided to demonstrate its power vis-à-vis the potentially enormously influential community of dukuns49 (shamans) by prosecuting Sawito for “acts which clearly can overthrow/damage/undermine the legal state power or government authority”.50 An observation could be deduced from this incident. The Sawito affair was essentially a crisis within the Javanese community. In the context of Indonesian politics, Javanese unity is essentially the building block of Indonesian unity since the Javanese in terms of sheer numbers dominate Indonesia’s tapestry of cultures. Hence, any instability in Javanese society would have severe consequences for the country as a whole. Consequently, relatively minor political crises like the “Sawito Affair” were blown up to major proportions. This, in turn allowed the government to treat even nonviolent dissident politics as a danger to national security likely to be prosecuted as crimes against the state if the regime leaders felt sufficiently threatened. MILITARY DIMENSION The third dimension is the military itself. Political or bureaucratic machineries and institutions tend to be rigid in their viewpoints in that they are predisposed to gather, select and analyse data to conform with the logic of their vested interests and past advocacy of certain standpoints or policies. These views may be influenced by a number of exogenous factors but once formulated acquire a life, momentum and importance of their own, and dissent within the machineries or institutions concerned is minimized through institutional self-doctrination, structural rewards and promotion and habit. For example, during the Suharto era, with the military playing a highly influential role within the body politic, “national” interests and “national” security concerns may be no more than the interests and security

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concerns of TNI, which may or may not conform to the concerns of other parts of society. With the military playing such a pivotal role in the formation of security concerns, its unity becomes paramount for the national security of Indonesia. In the event that the military becomes fragmented, and different perceptions of national security emerge, the dangers of a repetition of the PRRI/Permesta conflict could become imminent. It is interesting to note that one of the pronouncements of the rebel grouping in 1965 was their desire to continue the Revolution whose objectives they felt were unfulfilled. The Suharto regime’s concerns regarding its lack of legitimacy and fragility forced it to depend on the TNI and other instruments of coercion. In the 1950s, division within the TNI was exacerbated further by civilian interference in military affairs, which severely curtailed its ability to undertake internal security operations successfully. When TNI unity disintegrated as a result of the PRRI/Permesta rebellion, the nation was on the verge of falling apart. Hence, the unity of TNI has important consequences for the nation as a whole. Under TNI’s current defence doctrines, the preservation of territorial integrity is still based on the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare (Doktrin Perang Wilayah). The unity of TNI is paramount to the successful prosecution of this doctrine. Hence, for the TNI, the maintenance of its unity implicitly becomes an important core value to be protected. Thus, any threat to the unity of the TNI or for that matter their institutional interests could have repercussions for national security. Linked to this is an extreme aversion to civilian intrusion into defence and security matters meshed with an outlook which remains disdainful of civilian competence in the matters of state. The extreme manifestation of this logic could be seen in the TNI’s reaction to Sukarno’s attempt to create a fifth force in 1965. By extension, any challenge to the TNI’s domination of defence and security matters could result in a national crisis with serious national security consequences. ECONOMIC DIMENSION AND REGIME LEGITIMACY The fourth is the economic dimension and its links to regime legitimacy. Here, security concerns could arise from three factors. First, a fear of economic domination by a minority within Indonesia which may have ties with a foreign country. In this context, economic dominance of ethnic Indonesian Chinese and their links to China have been one of the causes

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of periodic tension and instability. The worst outbreaks of violence against ethnic Chinese took place in Bandung and several cities of West Java in 1963; and in the aftermath of the October 1965 coup as well as in 1973; and later in the cities of Solo, Semarang and others in Central Java in 1982, at Tanjung Priok in 1984, in Medan in 1994 and more recently in May 1998, prior to Suharto’s resignation. Much of this discontent stems from poverty and the growing gap between the rich and the poor. Troops were used to break up the rioting, resulting in some casualties. The damage, however, was more psychological than real, as normalisasi (normalization) of life and commerce returned in a matter of days. Another concern is the fear of economic domination or exploitation by another country or group of countries. Indonesia’s desire during the Suharto era to support the agenda for a new international economic order was a reflection of these concerns and dates back to Sukarno’s anti-imperialist economic stance. Lastly, and possibly the most significant aspect of the economic dimension, is its pivotal role in ensuring the survival of the regime — hence, the importance of economic development in ensuring national stability. The New Order regime’s approach to national security was not merely national security for its own sake but national security for the sake of development. Hence, the basis of the New Order regime’s legitimacy depended largely on its ability to successfully implement its economic development goals. Justifications and claims to the right to rule are predominantly based on promises of economic performance which would bring “development”, “progress”, “justice”, “resilience”, and “security” to the ruled. Therefore, in the quest for legitimacy through promises to deliver “economic goods”, national development became an important core value to be protected. Hence, for the TNI, any threat to national development is a threat to national security. THE GEOPOLITICAL DIMENSION Indonesia is the most extensive archipelago in the world, comprising over 13,000 islands that straddle the Equator and stretch for over 4,800km in a southwesterly direction from south of the Indian sub-continent to north of Australia. The Indonesian sea area is four times larger than its land area, which is about 1.9 million sq. km. The sea area is about 7.9 million sq. km. (including the EEZ, Exclusive Economic Zone) constituting about 81 per cent of the total area of the country.

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Indonesia as a political entity did not exist before the completion in the early years of the twentieth century of a process of administrative and territorial consolidation set in train in the archipelago by the Dutch colonial authority. Empires of varying importance had existed previously in the same area and had exercised suzerainty or some measure of control over surrounding waters. But the present territorial shape of Indonesia is a recent historical phenomenon. Since its independence as a state, Indonesia with its successive governments has never taken its boundaries for granted because of a sense of vulnerability that derive not only from the fissiparous tendency of both geography and ethnicity, but also from the historical experience of foreign intervention involving the use of sea power. That sense of vulnerability drew sustenance also from the relative defenselessness of Indonesian governments against external forces with appropriate capability to penetrate the soft exterior of the archipelago. Maritime capability, a decisive element in any external challenge within the archipelago, had been demonstrated before the colonial period by the Chola Tamil raids on Srivijaya in the eleventh century and the Mongol punitive expedition to Java at the end of the thirteenth century. Subsequently, a superior Dutch naval power had overcome that of the Portuguese, while the actual process of consolidation of Dutch control through the archipelago depended, in part, on the protection of dominant British naval power. The effective use of naval force majeure by the Japanese was another example of the vulnerability of the archipelago. This leads us to the fifth dimension influencing security concerns in Indonesia; namely, the geopolitical dimension. Security concerns may arise from a number of factors for an archipelagic country like Indonesia. Its geographic configuration, combined with social diversity has encouraged centrifugal political tendencies. It has been pointed out that during the Sukarno era, regional rebellions broke out in Maluku, Aceh, Sumatra and Sulawesi. As such, development policy under Suharto had reflected a concern over regional inequalities and as a consequence new investment was directed disproportionately to outlying islands, especially regions in Eastern Indonesia.52 Indonesia’s physical structure and location have also nurtured two contradictory perspectives. Because it is an island-nation with as much territorial water as territorial land, it is sometimes viewed as open, porous, and vulnerable. The weakness is aggravated by discrepancies in its geostrategic capabilities. It lacks significant air and maritime capabilities to effectively defend the archipelago. On the other hand, it could also be

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viewed as surrounded by a “great moat” that provides protection. Its strategic location in the middle of several major sea arteries forces the country into the mainstream of international politics even if it should prefer to remain aloof (Tilman 1987, p. 40): “For Indonesia, the main objective of external security has been unchanged since independence, namely security in the sense of state survival and territorial integrity” (Tilman 1987, p. 40). The experience of upholding independence in both domestic and international dimensions generated an abiding concern for the integrity of a state beset by social diversity and physical fragmentation. That concern was reinforced by a conviction about the country’s attractiveness to external interests because of its bountiful natural resources and important strategic location. A common and consistent theme of Indonesia’s foreign policy has been the need to overcome an intrinsic vulnerability (Leifer 1983, p. 173). In order to protect the integrity of the state and overcome intrinsic vulnerability, Suharto era policy-makers and the TNI have shown little interest in regional autonomy and an aversion towards foreign enclaves, which might be used as stepping stones for interference by outside powers. Thus maximizing autonomy in the political and military sense had been viewed merely as a supporting, secondary objective. Paradoxically, as Leifer again points out, “the continuous sense of vulnerability has been combined with an equally continuous sense of regional entitlement based on pride in revolutionary achievement size of population, land and maritime dimensions, natural resources and strategic location” (ibid., p. 173). The sense of entitlement has been reflected in the foreign policies of both regimes; Indonesia under both Sukarno and Suharto aspired to regional leadership and ultimately, to world leadership of the Non-Aligned Movement. But these aspirations have seldom motivated attempts at territorial aggrandizement. Nevertheless, the West Irian campaign, Konfrontasi, and the invasion of East Timor in 1975, demonstrate that Indonesia was willing to take military action across its borders when it felt its own security was potentially endangered. Hence, where security concerns cannot be resolved diplomatically and reach a level where they are preceived as a direct threat to national security, military actions to achieve security take precedence. Although regime change has brought changes in foreign policy, they were less in aspirations and goals than in priorities and above all, in idiom and style. Although President Suharto, Wahid, Megawati and now Yudhoyono have exhibited cautious pragmatism, it is highly unlikely that

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they would disavow Sukarno’s strategic perspective, regional ambitions and archipelagic doctrine (Wawasan Nusantara).53 Hence in the context of national security, the protection of sovereignty from external security concerns which arise as a consequence of the impact of history and geography are core values to be maintained and protected under the label of national security. CONCLUSION This chapter has stressed the importance of avoiding assumptions that the security interests of the state, regime and nation are congruent and harmonious. Definitions of Indonesian national security surveyed in the chapter draw attention to the following: the multifaceted character of national security, the core values to be protected, the external and internal security concerns associated with these values, and the impact of exogenous elements on internal security concerns. Hence, in the context of Indonesia, national security could be described as that part of government policy having as its objective the creation of national and international conditions favourable to the protection and extension of vital core values against existing and potential adversaries. The number of core values to be protected is rather numerous and reflective of the complex dynamics underlying the conception of national security in Indonesia. National security in Indonesia has been compromised as a result of a lack of consensus extending to confrontation over the organizing ideology, weak political institutions (politicaldoctrinal dimension) — and conflict over the physical base (sociocultural dimension). Thus, Indonesia, despite its existence for over six decades as an independent political entity, is still vulnerable to numerous internal security concerns that are primarily directed to the issue of who or what constitutes the state. The internal security concerns have political, economic, military, and socio-cultural dimensions and hence account for the conception of national security in these terms. The internal security concerns are also linked to exogenous forces and provide the latter with the opportunity to intervene in Indonesian domestic affairs. Hence, the emphasis by the Indonesian elite on the need to build inner strength or ketahanan nasional to reduce and eventually eliminate internal security concerns and simultaneously minimize the opportunities for external intervention and interference. The security of the immediate regional environment continues to be a primary objective of national security as seen by Indonesia’s desire to

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promote the development of an ASEAN Security Community in Southeast Asia.54 From an international perspective, Indonesia with the exception of its invasion of East Timor in 1975, has sought the preservation of the status quo and thus far has not sought to propagate its value system through spatial extension. However, this needs to be qualified in relation to Southeast Asia. Indonesia’s perceived permeability as an archipelagic country requires a strategic outlook that seeks to ensure that Southeast Asia be maintained as a buffer against a possible sea-based threat from the north through the South China Sea or to the west through the Strait of Malacca. Therefore, Indonesia, since the advent of the New Order, has sought to maintain friendly relations with the countries of the region and pursue the concept of regional resilience through ASEAN as a means of maintaining a favourable regional environment (geopolitical dimension). The conception of national security by the Indonesian political elite is also bound up with the legitimacy and security concerns of the incumbent regime (economic dimension and regime legitimacy). The problem of legitimacy which plagued successive political regimes since 1945 has not been satisfactorily resolved and is a veritable Damocles’ sword over any incumbent regime thereby maintaining this sense of insecurity, which in turn sustains the strategies of a national security state. Yet, holding on to such strategies can be a double-edged sword for any regime lacking unconditional legitimacy. Therefore, it is not surprising that Suharto’s military-supported regime has used the label of national security and national security instruments to justify their monopoly over political power and their subsequent political actions using the formidable power at its disposal to unilaterally define a favourable political framework and the accompanying distributive justice. Any opposition to such a monopoly of power would be viewed as a threat to national security and would feel the brunt of the state’s coercive apparatus. Of significance in this connection was the institutionalization of the dominant role of the military in Indonesian politics under the mantle of national security. Under these circumstances, the military was not only assigned the traditional role of national defence but also assigned the custodial role of the traditional institutions and a leading role in defining and building a cooperative framework suitable to Indonesia (military dimension). The lack of consensus over the exercise of state authority makes it exceedingly difficult to differentiate normal political intercourse from activities that may be considered as threats to national security. In the context of Indonesia, although national security is related to core values, it is not a value in its own right. Achieving national security

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objectives allowed the state to maintain its values. The question of when a security concern becomes a national security issue depends not just on what type of security concern it is and how the state perceives it, but also on the intensity with which the security concern operates. The main factors affecting the intensity of a security concern are the specificity of its identity, it nearness in space and time, the probability of its occurring, the weight of its consequences and whether or not security concerns are amplified by historical circumstances. Because these factors are extremely difficult to measure, the study of core values helps elucidate our understanding of Indonesian national security. It is important, though, to note that core values to be protected under the label of national security are not absolute and permanent but relative and subject to interpretation. Thus the determination of whether national security has been violated — with the exception of gross violations — is a subjective issue and dependent on the perception of decision-makers of the Indonesian state. The discussion on core values provides a useful starting point in understanding how the linkage of internal and external security factors have shaped a particular doctrinal view of national security among Indonesian elites, particularly the TNI. Core values have evolved as a result of its history and hence, security concerns among the Indonesian elite reflect anxieties not only in regard to the anarchic character of the international environment and the need to make Indonesia secure, but, equally important, the domestic environment, the interaction of the domestic and international environments, and the problem of legitimacy and survival of the incumbent regime. This is clearly reflected in the holistic, comprehensive approach to national security promoted by the TNI since 1966. In sum, the core values that have been identified can be further organized in a more coherent manner by distinguishing between values for different types of security. Three distinct forms of security may be at issue simultaneously. First, the security of the state (against external threat) coupled with the aspiration to maintain Indonesia’s independence in political, economic, and military terms. Hence, Indonesia has always strived to be non-aligned and sensitive to foreign attempts to dominate by political and economic means. Second, the security of the nation against internal disintegration, SARA issues and sustained economic development. Thirdly, the narrow security interests of the regime in power and its guardians (namely military unity and the preservation of the TNI’s institutional interests) and the preservation of a political system

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commited to Pancasila (that is, resistance to Muslim aspirations for an Islamic state). Notes 1

2

3

4

5

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Speaking of a regime and its security interests in a singular sense may in some instances imply a unity that is unwarranted. Thus, individual officeholders may see their security interests threatened by others within the same regime cohort. The results of such intra-regime security contention are seen in coups and in the shuffling of regime members. However, within the larger scheme of things, these security interests are narrowly defined and usually do not involve actions with larger societal impacts. The Indonesian “nation” is an artificial construct which came into being at the outset of the War of Independence. It achieved formal legitimacy internationally as the successor state to the Netherlands East Indies. A Round Table Conference took place in The Hague from 23 August to 2 November 1949 to prepare a formal transfer of sovereignty to a fully independent Indonesia, draft a constitution for the new state, and prepare an agreement of Union between the new state and the Netherlands. Essentially, Indonesia is a country of nations representing a variety of ethnic groups. The region now called Indonesia is a construct of the nationalist movement, which in 1928 formally adopted the name Indonesia to designate the future nation, its citizens and language. This was long rejected by the Dutch implying a false unity of the colony’s ethnic groups, but in their 1948 Constitution, the Dutch formally adopted the term Indonesie for the colony. See Akira Nagazumi. “The word ‘Indonesia’ and the Growth of its Political Connotation”, Indonesia Circle 17 (1978), pp. 28–34. Possibly, the most useful study to date on the subject of Indonesian national security is that by Dewi Fortuna Anwar, “Indonesia: Domestic Priorities define National Security”, in Asian Security Practice, edited by Muthiah Alagappah, (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1998). References to Indonesian history were a constant theme with individuals that I interviewed. In all my interviews, the testimonies of both civilians and military personnel regarding their views of national security were spiced with recollections of certain historical incidents or events and their subsequent impact on national security concerns. The indelible imprint history has left on the minds of Indonesians, I feel, adequately justifies the need for a brief survey of the events from 1945 to 1965 that have shaped the thinking of the Indonesian elite. For an account of the Tiga Daerah Affair, see Lucas (1985), p. 23. For Aceh and East Sumatra, see Reid (1979). See also Robert Cribb’s discussions of the problem posed for the Republic by local forces which resented the constraints placed on their resistance to the Dutch by the Republic’s policy of presenting

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6

7 8

9

10

11

12

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itself as a legal government and seeking international support in a very fluid power situation: “Jakarta: Cooperation and Resistance in an Occupied City” in Kahin [1985]; and “Jakarta in the Indonesian Revolution, 1945–1949” [1984]. The artificial amalgamation of villagers by the Dutch had sometimes brought firm Muslim (santri) and nominal Muslim (abangan) communities under a single headman. Abangan-santri tensions within these villages had grown throughout the century as a result of heightened pressures for religious orthodoxy, but foreign rule had prevented any serious conflict between the two sides. Now as the revolutionary spirit rose, members of one or the other of these communities often overthrew the headman if he was from the other community and replaced him with a man from their own side, all in the name of “people’s sovereignty”. In the confusion, actions in the name of the Revolution were sometimes difficult to distinguish from simple robbery, looting, extortion and the settling of old scores. Anderson, Java in a Time of Revolution (1972), chapter 12. On 1 June 1945, the Panitia Persiapan Kemerdekaan Indonesia (Committee for the Preparation of Indonesian Independence), in the course of discussion about the basis for the new state of Indonesia, heard an impassioned speech from Ir. Sukarno arguing that the only way to ensure unity and integrity of purpose among its diversity of peoples would be to enshrine the five principles Panca Sila, of Nationalism, Internationalism (later Humanitarianism), Democracy, Social Justice, and Belief in God, as its founding ideology. A compromise of sorts was embodied in a document known as the Jakarta Charter (Piagam Jakarta), which provided that the President should be a Muslim and that Muslims should be subjected to Islamic law. Further debate, however, excised even this from the Constitution with which Indonesia proclaimed independence on 17 August 1945. Thus, Pancasila, though containing the principle of Belief in God (variously expressed, and elevated later to the number one position), became a symbol of political resistance to the introduction of an Islamic state. For a good assessment of the Darul Islam Campaign in West Java, see Jackson and Moeliono (1973); and Van Dijk (1981). Djalan Baru untuk Republik Indonesia (Jakarta: Pembaruan, 1953). This is the only available copy of this document, which was republished after the revolt by the PKI. Ruth McVey comments that it does not seem to have been altered from the original document. See McVey (1957), p. 58. Musso transformed the PKI from a badly led, innocuous organization of 3,000 to a mass-based party including the powerful armed fighting unit Pesindo (Pemuda Sosialis Indonesia, Indonesian Socialist Youth) and a massive labour wing SOBSI (Sentral Organisasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia, Central Organization of Indonesian Labour Unions). Cited from Abdulgani (1973), p. 27.

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14

15

16

17

18 19

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On the Madiun Affair, see David Charles Anderson, (1976): Ong Hok Ham (1983), Kahin (1962), pp. 284–303; Aidit (1955); Kain (1949), McVey, op. cit; Kreutzer (1981); Swift, (1989). The exception to this would have been the Inlandsch Bestur (“native administrator”) or the Pamong Praja (“guardians of the realm”), the civil service on Java conceived as an institution dating from pre-colonial times. In Java and elsewhere, the participation of the Inlandsch Bestur in Dutch rule was often resented and there were violent social revolutions against it in many areas at the start of the Revolution. See Sutherland (1979) for a good discussion of the subject. The Republik Indonesia Serikat (RUSI, Republic of the United States of Indonesia) was a federal state, incorporating the fifteen states and territories which the Dutch had built during the previous three years in the areas under its control, as part of their struggle against the revolutionary Republic of Indonesia. It was essentially a loose union of the Netherlands and RUSI with the Dutch queen as the symbolic head. Sukarno was the President of RUSI and Mohammad Hatta its Prime Minister (1949–50) as well as Vice-President. Regional nationalists argued that with the Dutch withdrawal in the mid-20th century, the Outer Islands should revert back to their former independent status since these areas functioned independently under sultans and rajahs before the arrival of the Dutch in the 16th century. In the view of strident regionalists, the concept of “Indonesia” was a colonial creation. The Pasundan Revolt was exploited by Dutch mercenary Raymond “Turk” Westerling, an adventurer and ex-KNIL (Koninklijk Nederlandsche Indische Leger or Netherlands East Indies Army) captain just discharged from military service. He proclaimed himself the Ratu Adil, the King of Justice, who according to Javanese and Sundanese mythology, will descend from heaven to create a just and prosperous society. His stated aim was to preserve the federal system, and protect the Sundanese from Javanese hegemony. Like the Sawito affair in 1976, the Westerling Affair can be located in the same current as the rural millenarian movements of the nineteenth century and more firmly, with those which appeared with the rise of nationalism in Indonesia. For an interesting discussion on this subject, see Stange, in Alexander (1989), pp. 113–34. For a useful study on the Aceh issue, see Sjamsuddin (1985). In 1957–58, the Outer Islands, including large parts of Sumatra, Kalimantan and Sulawesi took up arms against Sukarno’s increasingly dictatorial rule, his deepening relationship with the Communists, particularly in Java, and to demand a greater share in the country’s wealth — which was produced by the Outer Islands and spent chiefly in Java. Initially, the revolt’s objective was to curtail Sukarno constitutionally and to strengthen the Outer Islands politically and economically vis-à-vis Java. These objectives, however, soon developed into a demand for a rival government capped by the proclamation in March

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20

21

22

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1957 of the Permesta rebellion (Permesta: Piagam Perjuangan Semesta Alam or “Universal Struggle Charter”) and in January 1958 of the Permerintah Revolusi Republik Indonesia (PRRI, or Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia). On 17 February 1958, these two movements joined forces. By now the rebels were assured of clandestine support from the United States, which was equally worried by the left-leaning nature of the Sukarno regime. No foreign government accorded official recognition to the PRRI/Permesta rebellion but the United States and her Pacific allies provided arms and ammunition. The American backing for the rebels is a recurrent theme in the accounts of the regional rebellion by two journalists, James Mossman (1961); and William Stevenson (1964). For a thorough discussion of this subject, see, Harvey 1977, Leirissa (1991) and Kahin and Kahin, (1995). This could be illustrated in two ways. First, the multi-party system ushered in by Sutan Sjahrir and Amir Sjarifuddin during the revolution resulted in the proliferation of political parties none of which were based on the Pancasila. The political parties with their competing ideologies and differing security agendas created a climate of perpetual conflict in Indonesian society. Second, from these diverse political parties emerged two groups of politicians whom Feith (1962) dubbed “administrators” and “solidarity makers”. The former consisted of followers of Hatta who represented the “Islamic-entrepreneurial” approach with its emphasis on efficiency, discipline and a modern form of Islamic faith. The latter, led by Sukarno, represented the “Javanese-aristocratic” political culture with its emphasis on “revolution”, mass mobilization, and a combination of Javanese mysticism, secularism and traditions. An interesting picture of the military commander’s independent powers during the revolutionary war could be seen in U.S. Consul Foote’s angry observations on what he felt was the role of General Sudirman (Commanderin-Chief of the TNI) and Sutomo (Commander of one of the Surabaya lasykar-BPRI) in blocking agreements between the Republic and the Dutch in 1947. See, the U.S. Department of State, Foreign Relations of the United States 1947, Vol. 6, The Far East (Washington: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1969–1972), pp. 952, 958, 968, 984, 1005 and 1050. TNI disunity has been the source of several conflicts which racked the Republic since its inception, from the Sjahrir kidnapping (1946) to the Madiun Revolt (1948), through the Darul Islam movement and the PRRI/Permesta Rebellion (1958) up to, and including, the GESTAPU (Gerakan September Tigapuluh or Thirtieth of September Movement) Affair (1965). In early 1948, there were two armed forces commands on Java. The Army in this context refers to the Tentara Nasional Indonesia (TNI, Indonesian National Army) under the command of General Sudirman. The other armed forces command made up of lasykar (partisans or militia) were formally under the TNI Masyarakat (People’s TNI). The reason behind the two command

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23

24

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structures was essentially a political one. In 1946–48, it would have been almost impossible politically to bring the individualistic and widely varying lasykar under strict TNI control; therefore, some form of looser coordinating organization was needed. Thus, the TNI Masyarakat structure, which was originally called Biro Perjuangan (Resistance Bureau) was officially set up to coordinate the hundreds of independent fighting units. Since the first Sjahrir Cabinet, Amir Sjarifuddin having control over the Defence Ministry and the TNI Masyarakat had perhaps been his most important weapon in trying to consolidate leftist power in the armed forces. In reality, however, the TNI Masyarakat was little more than a paper organization. It had little control over units other than those already in the socialist camp. The Masjumi’s Hizbullah and Sabilillah, Isman’s TRIP (Tentara Pelajar [Republik Indonesia], Republic of Indonesia Student Army), and Bung Tomo’s BPRI (Barisan Pemberontakan Republik Indonesia, Insurgent Corps of the Republic of Indonesia) were not obedient to its orders. The Allies had decided in early 1945 that American forces would concentrate upon the Japanese home islands. Responsibility for Indonesia thus fell to the British Southeast Asia Command under Lord Louis Mountbatten. Hence Allied troops in this context refer to British and Commonwealth troops. The majority of the soldiers for the Java campaign were of Indian origin and the Australians were responsible for the major cities of East Indonesia. Unlike the armed forces of many decolonized Asian states, such as India and Pakistan, the armed forces of Indonesia, like those of Vietnam, are self-made. Albeit, while many of the field grade officers in the TNI received their initial training in either the pre-war KNIL or the Japanese wartime military organization Sukarela Tentara Pembela Tanah Air (PETA, or Volunteer Army of Defenders of the Fatherland), the TNI was essentially an Indonesian creation. During the revolution it was a composite of Dutch and Japanesetrained units; hastily recruited, poorly trained and inadequately armed youth; members of student, Islamic, and Marxist-Leninist paramilitary organizations; and criminally-tainted bands of terrorists collectively known as lasykar over which the TNI command exercised little control. The attitudes of the small but influential ex-KNIL officer group with regard to strategy were largely determined by books on military history and politics which they studied, often together, during the occupation period. LieutenantGeneral T.B. Simatupang remembers the writings of Clausewitz impressed him, and he also studied Liddell-Hart and de Gaulle. “A book written by Tom Wintringham when England was threatened by a German attack, but especially several books on People’s Warfare in China, opened my eyes and thoughts towards the new way of warfare in which a people already possessing political consciousness, participates”. (See his Laporan Dari Banaran, [Jakarta: Pembangunan, 1959], p. 102). Simatupang also makes reference to the Strategie der Ermattung (a strategy of exhausting the enemy) which could be found in

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the works of German military historian Hans Delbruck. See Simatupang (1989), p. 125. The Republic’s defeat of a communist rebellion turned vague American sympathy based upon anti-colonial sentiments into diplomatic support based upon global strategy. American strategic thinking was now dominated by the idea that a “cold war” was under way between an American-led “free world” and a Soviet-led bloc. Within this framework, the Indonesian Republic had shown itself to be anti-communist and hence worthy of American support. When the Dutch now made their last bid for conquest, they found the weight of the United States thrown onto the diplomatic scales against them. Simatupang, Laporan dari Banaran, op. cit., p. 217. For a discussion on the government’s intention to indoctrinate the TNI and the officers’ reaction to this, see Abdul Haris Nasution, Tentera Nasional Indonesia, Vol. I, (Jakarta: Jajasan Pustaka Militer, 1956), pp. 262–70. See also Statement of the Minister of Defence, dated 17 November 1945, cited in ibid., pp. 124–27; and Sundhaussen (1982), pp. 25–27. The lasykar were fighting units composed of students or young men under the control of local or, at times, national leaders. These units were often small and locally centred, but they could, like Bung Tomo’s BPRI, Usman’s TRIP, or Pesindo, have wider bases. Their main common feature was independent leadership often unresponsive to government commands. For more details on the role of the lasykar, see Cribb (1991). Abdul Haris Nasution, Tjatatan-Tjatatan Sekitar Politik Militer Indonesia (Jakarta: Pembimbing, 1955), p. 252. In order to understand the background to the 17 October incident, one must examine the attitude of the military towards the civilian politicians immediately after the transfer of sovereignty. The bitter experience with the “surrender” of Sukarno and the Cabinet on 18 December 1948, the ceasefire of 1949, and the powerful position of the civilian politicians under the new constitution were the background against which the affair unfolded. Moreover, most of the members of the provisional parliament at that time and some of the ministers did not belong to groups fighting for independence. This was because the Republic of Indonesia, post-1950, was a product of integration between the original Republic, whose capital was Yogyakarta, and the areas formerly under the federal states created by the Dutch. This raised the question of the legitimacy of this parliament: what right did “collaborators with the Dutch” have to sit on judgement over the TNI which had liberated Indonesia? (See, Abdul Haris Nasution, 17 Oktober dalam Proses Mencari Posisi TNI dalam Kehidupan Bernegara [Bandung: n.d., p. 6]). While factionalism within the military was also a contributing factor in the crises, the primary cause of the crises was the hostility of the TNI leadership towards the politicians concerned and the performance of parliament, a feeling widely shared in the community.

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The sitting parliament failed to provide necessary legislation either in the defence field or in any other. In the seven years since the proclamation of independence, Indonesia had had twelve cabinets, the majority of which were brought down by parliament. This was considered by the officers and other sections of the community as evidence of the incompetence and selfishness of parliamentarians who were putting their own well-being and group interests above the interests of the nation. The political elite were therefore seen as having failed utterly to provide national leadership. Unlike other developing world military leaders, Nasution did not advocate total military domination; in fact, in his writings there are constant references to the dangers of creating another Latin American-style military junta. Instead, he developed the concept of the “middle way”, whereby the military would play an important but not dominant role in government. That is, it would secure participation at all levels of decision-making as one of the forces to determine the fate of the nation. See Penders and Sundhaussen (1985), passim. Doktrin Perdjuangan TNI-AD “Tri Ubaya Cakti” (n.pl., n.d.). Doktrin Perdjuangan TNI-AD “Tri Ubaya Cakti” (Bandung, 1966), p. 18. See, Doktrin Pertahanan-Keamanan Nasional dan Doktrin Perdjuangan Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia “Tjatur Darma Eka Karma” (Jakarta: Defence and Security Staff, 1967). Research and writing during the Suharto era focused primarily on the political aspects of the dwifungsi doctrine For useful examples, see Habib (1992, pp. 83–94); (1984); Nasution (1971); Notosusanto (1984); Liddle (1985, pp. 68–90); Muhaimin (1982); Singh (1995); and Crouch (1988). For example, the proclamation of martial law on 14 March 1957 gave the officer corps vast responsibility over civilian affairs. This was followed by the takeover of Dutch properties in December 1957, as well as control of the economic life of the country at large, which gave the officer corps additional responsibilities and the opportunity to acquire managerial experience. The formation of a National Front for the Liberation of West Irian in January 1958, with the Army Chief of Staff as general chairman and the territorial commanders as local chairman, provided the officer corps with the task of organizing and directing a political mass movement. The military campaigns against the rebellions in Sumatra and Sulawesi, since 1958, strengthened the discipline of the army, improved the training of officers and troops, and forced the government to make resources available for the increase and modernization of its equipment. Furthermore, the numerous conferences for territorial commanders, held frequently since Nasution’s reappointment as army chief, created the habit of joint examination of military, political, economic and social problems and of policy-making by the senior officers. Finally, the return to the Constitution of 1945, initiated by the army, provided the institutional framework for a strong executive and eliminated the

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parliamentary system and the controlling influence of politicians, while coping with the danger of growing communist influence without a frontal attack on the PKI. The term ABRI was first used in June 1962. Sukarno created ABRI as a central body over the previous separate individual forces with himself as the supreme commander to be directly assisted by an armed forces staff headed by a chief of staff. General Nasution was appointed as Chief of Staff of ABRI, but at the same time was forced to relinquish his position as Chief of Staff of the Tentara Nasional Indonesia (TNI or Indonesian National Army) to his Second Deputy, Major-General Achmad Yani. Furthermore, the chiefs-ofstaff of all four services were elevated to commanders of their respective services, and became responisible directly to Sukarno. This made Nasution little more than the administrative head of the Ministry of Defence and a central armed forces command which had little power over the separate services. See Nasution (1967, pp. 132–35). For an interesting perspective of the conflict in the province of Irian Jaya now known as Papua, see Osborne (1985). For a comprehensive discussion on the anti-Malaysia campaign, see J. Mackie, Konfrontasi: The Indonesia-Malaysia Dispute 1963–1966 (Kuala Lumpur: Oxford University Press, 1974). Under Guided Democracy, the role of the parties except the PKI had greatly diminished. The main conflict was between Sukarno, the TNI and the PKI. Without Sukarno’s knowledge, Opsus, a clandestine intelligence agency, was established within Kostrad in 1963 by General Ali Murtopo, then, a confidant of Suharto and later a presidential advisor. Opsus was used initially to establish covert contacts with the Malaysian government during Konfrontasi. Opsus later helped to ensure pro-government votes in the 1969 “Act of Free Choice” in Irian Jaya. It was officially disbanded in 1974, partly in response to the Malari Affair. On the manipulation and weakening of parties before 1971, see Crouch (1988), Ch.10; May (1978), Ch. 8 and 9; Ward (1973, pp. 67–82); and Rogers (Winter 1988, pp. 247–72). The Muslim Nahdlatul Ulama, Parmusi, PSII (Partai Sarekat Islam Indonesia, Indonesian Islamic Union Party), and Perti (Persatuan Tharikat Islamijah, Tharikat Islam Party) became PPP, and the remainder, the PNI, Murba (Partai Murba, Proletarian Party), Partai Katolik (Catholic Party), IPKI (Ikatan Pendukung Kemerdekaan Indonesia, League of Upholders of Indonesian Freedom), and Parkindo (Partai Kristen Indonesia) became PDI. The contradictions within each of these amalgamations further served to incapacitate them. “SARA” is an acronym referring to Suku (ethnicity), Agama (religion), Ras (race), or Antar-Golongan (conflict among) interest-based groups. Reference to this term can be found in Dorojatun Kuntjoro-Jakti and T.A.M. Simatupang, “The Indonesian Experience in Facing Non-armed Movements: Lessons

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from the Past and Glimpses of the Future”, in Kusuma Snitwongse and Paribatra (1987, p. 98). For the most useful studies on the interplay between cultural/mystical conceptions and the magical role of kingship in traditional Java, see, Moertono, (1968); Ong (1976, pp. 14–15); and Magnis-Suseno and Reksosusilo (1983). In a broader sense, pamrih signified personal indulgence, selfishness, or any other forms of behaviour considered immoral. See Anderson, p. 39. For an in-depth study on the “Sawito Affair”, see Bourchier (1984). See Liddle (1977, p. 103). For references to other obscure so-called security threats, see Sinar Harapan, 31 October 1977; and Liddle (February 1978, 181). If many of the more influential dukuns were in agreement with Sawito’s interpretation, Suharto could have been in real trouble. But it was uncertain whether any attempts were made to coordinate the opinions of these dukuns. See Kompas, 28 October 1977. Two implications follow from this. The first is that although Indonesia’s defence expenditure is not usually high and their armaments are not always of the latest vintage or of the most formidable power, there is a constant propensity to increase such expenditures over time with limited procurement of increasingly modern weapons, some with undeniable offensive capabilities. The second is that although much has been said about the need to find political solutions to problems of internal dissent, armed or otherwise, there seems to be a constant predisposition to use military force to control and suppress such dissent. For the most comprehensive study on this subject, see Lowry (1993 and 1996). For a useful overview of such policies, see Hill (1989). The principle argued by Indonesia since the 1958 Convention on the Law of the Sea, that an archipelagic nation is entitled to claim all waters between its islands as internal waters, was upheld by the United Nations International Convention on the Law of the Sea in 1982, though the Sunda and Lombok straits are recognized as international waters. On 21 March 1980, Indonesia claimed a 200km EEZ around its outer perimeter and this was formalized by law in 1983. With the promulgation of the Declaration of ASEAN Concord II at the Ninth ASEAN Summit in Bali on 7 October 2003, ASEAN has pledged to achieve an ASEAN Community by the year 2020 resting on three pillars of an ASEAN Security Community, an ASEAN Economic Community and an ASEAN Socio-Cultural Community. Indonesia’s proposal for an ASEAN Security Community is a restatement of the principle of comprehensive security revolving around the common vision or perception that the countries of the region regard their security as fundamentally linked to one another and bound by a common vision or perception of security concerns and the common objectives for overcoming them. For an overview, see, Leonard C. Sebastian and Chong Ja Ian, “Towards an Asean Security Community”, Straits Times, 7 October 2003.

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Reproduced from Realpolitik Ideology: Indonesia's Use of Military Force, by Leonard C. Sebastian (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2006). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

INTERNAL OPERATIONS 67

2 Internal Operations and the Weak Infrastructural Power of the State A leitmotif in the ideology of the Suharto regime that continues to be an abiding obsession with the Indonesian military is the concept of ketertiban “order” (Bourchier 1990, p. 195). Suharto described stability, order and security “as an object of development itself, namely, to make (people) ... feel physically secure and have peace of mind, free from fear of threats without and from worrying over disturbance from within”.1 As a consequence, the military developed a strategy intended to extend its control deep within society thereby penetrating all levels of government for the purpose of maintaining Kamtibmas (Keamanan dan Ketertiban Masyarakat, literally “security and orderliness of society”).2 Underpinning this imposition of what amounted to a military command structure on society was an elaborate ideological apparatus, the basis of which was the doctrine of dwifungsi. While reformasi has effectively consigned dwifungsi to history, the ossification of such philosophies in the TNI will be difficult to eradicate in the short term. One of the fundamental justifications for the military’s takeover of power in 1965 and the New Order’s subsequent dismantling of political parties, trade unions and social organizations was their perception that civilians had failed to maintain order in the economic and political spheres. As a consequence, TNI personnel are socialized to believe that the military is the only force in society with the proven capacity to perceive and protect the interests of the state. Hence it is imbibed not only with the “right but also the duty to act as guardian of the state and the pengayom or “protector” of an immature and volatile society” (ibid.). This mindset continues to manifest itself in statements by the TNI elite in support of the military’s role in internal security, specifically in relation to maintaining Indonesia’s territorial integrity. It is a role that is ironically supported by civilian politicians who seek close personal ties to the TNI

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elite to replace the formal institutional linkages which existed during the Suharto era. Civilian leaders, conditioned through years of military rule and motivated by self-interest, who look to the TNI to “secure the effectiveness of the bureaucracy and save local elites from an increasingly impatient mob”3, help perpetuate and rationalize the dwifungsi mentality among the TNI when in reality the dwifungsi (see Chapters 4 and 5 for a more detailed discussion) does not exist as a legitimate military doctrine. Since 1965, but more prominently during the 1980s, criticism of the military has revolved around cases of the military’s abuse of power primarily in the form of human rights violations. After the abrupt end of the Suharto era, the TNI’s close association with Suharto’s authoritarian rule proved a liability as civil society focused on the TNI’s privileged position within the state and its role in politics, concluding that the dwifungsi doctrine was an obstruction to democratization and should be abolished. Responding to criticisms from ordinary Indonesians and the civilian elite that there was a crisis of confidence in an institution which prided itself as the “people’s army”, the TNI’s leaders sought to restore the army’s image by embarking on institutional changes that would make it relevant to post-Suharto Indonesia. In the wake of mounting calls for accountability following allegations of its complicity in the abductions of anti-Suharto student activists, the killings of student demonstrators at Trisakti University; and riots of May 1998, the TNI introduced its Paradigma Baru ABRI, or ABRI’s New Paradigm, in September 1998. The New Paradigm was a statement of intent by the TNI that it was undertaking internal reform and keeping pace with the reformasi movement. While a more detailed discussion on the New Paradigm can be found in Chapter 5, for the purposes of this chapter, it is important to articulate why the New Paradigm tentatively signals the effective demise of the national security state as devised during the Suharto era. Why tentative? Close reading of the Bahasa Indonesia text of TNI Abad XXI: Redefinisi, Reposisi, dan Reaktualisasi Peran TNI dalam Kehidupan Bangsa4 gives the impression of the TNI’s grudging reluctance to give up its custodial role in Indonesian politics. For example, the first principle that “it is not always necessary for the military to be at the forefront of politics”, has generally been interpreted as the military’s retreat from politics.5 In reality, the original statement in Bahasa Indonesia articulates that “at all times it is not necessary for the military to be at the forefront of politics”.6 Such a formulation suggests that there may be occasions where it may be necessary for the TNI to come to the forefront of politics. However, the following three principles are an effective representation of

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the reality facing a TNI no longer enjoying the environment of impunity that existed within the structures of the Suharto era national security state, namely:

• • •

the military no longer seeks to “occupy” positions in the state but would only “influence” government decisions; the method to influence the political process would be changed from “directly” to “indirectly” the military would act upon the principle of “role-sharing” (a partnership in making decisions on important state and governmental affairs) with other national components.7

While the beginnings of the dismantling of the Indonesian national security state are evident, the process is by no means finished and remains a workin-progress. The military still wields significant political clout — coupled with the inherited security norms of its officer corps and the continuation of entrenched internal security doctrines and institutions perpetuating such beliefs and value systems, reform will not be a straightforward process. This chapter aspires to explain the evolution of internal security policy in Indonesia and the pivotal role played by the TNI in strengthening the despotic power of the state at the expense of “infrastructural power”.8 If we are to understand why the Indonesian national security state can no longer function in the way it did during the Suharto era, we need to understand the doctrines and structures that underpinned it. Hence, this chapter explains what strategy was devised to deal with internal threats to the state; the institutions created to deal with such threats; in what circumstances and with what results such mechanisms were used; and why the modus operandi of the national security state is no longer viable for a democratizing Indonesia. CONCEPT OF INTERNAL SECURITY OPERATIONS During the Suharto era, the military refered to its dual function in terms of its roles as a “stabilizer” and “dynamizer”9 As stabilizer, the Armed Forces aims to provide a framework of unity and stability within which development can occur. As dynamizer, the military endeavoured to assist in the achievement of development goals.10 From the military’s perspective, development (pembangunan) had both a physical and psychological dimension and thus encompassed a range of factors including economic development, political development and social and cultural development.

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For the military, development depended largely on the maintenance of internal stability, and internal stability was in turn related to the prosperity and welfare of the people. The interdependence between welfare and security meant that development assumed a high degree of importance to military authorities. Any matter that hindered development became a threat to security. As mentioned in Chapter 1, a risk for a state which relied so heavily on paternalistic ideology and the rhetoric of order was that any increase in “disorder” reflected directly on its credibility. The New Order state was extraordinarily sensitive to “disturbances” of all descriptions and, as a consequence, made great efforts, through its internal operations, to nip “potential unrest” in the bud. Internal operations against sources of domestic disturbances and insurgencies are divided into Intelligence Operations (Ops Intel, Operasi Intelijens), Combat Operations (Ops Pur, Operasi Tempur) and Territorial Operations (Ops Ter, Operasi Teritorial). LieutenantGeneral Sayidiman Suryohadiprojo neatly summarizes the nature of internal operations: Intelligence operations are the start of the use of military forces to eliminate an insurgency. If by intelligence operations the insurgents can be made to surrender or stop their actions, territorial operations start. If intelligence operations, however do not suffice to eliminate the insurgency, combat operations have to be executed to finish the enemy. Hereafter territorial operations end the entire insurgency by consolidating the infected area politically and ideologically (Suryohadiprojo 1973, p. 72).

Internal security policy then and now is predicated on two principles. First, that the state is under constant threat from internally and externally motivated forces trying to fragment the nation, change its ideology or compromise its independence. Second, the security forces should never allow themselves to be alienated from the people. Internal security operations in reality revolves around the ability of the security agencies and security approaches created during the New Order era to penetrate society, regulate social relationships and maintain national security in order to ensure that the development goals of the state are achieved. This mindset remains deeply entrenched in the TNI psyche. Ideas for a coherent concept of internal security operations evolved at the Army Staff and Command College (Seskoad, Sekolah Staf dan Komando Angkatan Darat) since the early 1960s and continued to be revised and strengthened during the New Order. The concepts of internal operations

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were a combination of knowledge gained from the Army’s experiences during the Revolution, and its campaigns against regional rebels combined with important new ideas derived from British and U.S. counterinsurgency experiences in Malaya and Vietnam gained by Army officers sent to Malaya in the late 1950s and the United States in the ensuing decades thereafter for training.11 These Army officers symbolized a theoretical and practical link between evolving “internal” Indonesian military practice, and “external” British and U.S. models and training. Knowledge pertaining to the features of Armed Forces internal operations is generally limited. Though information about the actual workings of the internal security apparatus is not extensive, there exists notable research on the subject, providing useful insights, particularly into the structure and modus operandi of the intelligence system in Indonesia.12 The most outstanding work in this regard remains Richard Tanter’s dissertation entitled “Intelligence Agencies and Third World Militarization: A Case study of Indonesia, 1966–1989” which in my estimation is the locus classicus in the field. Tanter, through his assessment of Indonesian Army intelligence reports and manuals which came into the public domain13 in the 1980s, was able to provide insight into the nature of intelligence operations in Indonesia. In reviewing the Armed Forces’ territorial affairs strategy, emphasis will be placed on Tanter’s use of the Indonesian Army Staff and Command College manual for the year 1982, Vademecum: Pengetahuan Pertahanan Keamanan, particularly Part 3 of the manual, which was devoted exclusively to the strategy for territorial affairs. Remarkably, the threat assessment formulated then remains relatively unaltered despite the changing political context. This will provide the conceptual basis for this chapter’s analysis of the role of internal security operations in securing the state’s national security objectives and allow us to assess whether such security methodologies are sustainable in a democratizing Indonesia. Throughout this chapter, what we are interested to investigate are three issues. First, how did threat perceptions derived from military manuals and doctrines shape the behaviour of the TNI? Second, how were such threat perceptions operationalized within the security institutions of the Indonesian state? And finally, we address the issue of whether new norms introduced during the reformasi era have helped moderate such perspectives? In the Seskoad manual, internal operations refer primarily to Regional Management (Pembinaan Wilayah) and Territorial Management (Pembinaan Teritorial). The two approaches should be differentiated in the following manner. Territorial Management stresses the organization

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and coordination of resources for the defence of Indonesia against an external aggressor and will be discussed at length in Chapters 3 and 4, while Regional Management concentrates more on political control and welfare and its utility for internal stability which will be the focus of this chapter. According to Tanter, three factors influence territorial issues: Geography as the framework, within which is demography as the content, and social conditions (Ipoleksosbudmil) as the factor of social life that results from the synthesis of the other two elements. In accord with this, and the reality of the whole way of life, these three factors also change and develop continuously. For that reason, territorial issues are always influenced by changes in these factors, and must be followed and analyzed continuously, so that the latest and most appropriate data can be obtained in response to every challenge, at each time and place, and as many resources as possible for potential use by territorial elements can be provided.14

It would be useful at this juncture to highlight the Indonesian acronym ipoleksosbudmilag. The acronym which recurs throughout Indonesian military thinking forms the first syllables of ideology, politik, ekonomi, sosial, budaya (culture), militer (military) and agama (religion)15 refering to a range of security concerns to cover the brief of internal operations varying from covert to supportive actions. A distinction was made between Internal Operations in two modes, corresponding to the degree and type of threat and, consequently, the level and complexity of operations to regain control of the situation. The lesscommon form dealt with cases of physical threat, whether violent or otherwise, in which Internal Operations would be carried out in the context of a state of emergency or war, as either Internal Security Operations (Ops Kamdagri, Operasi-operasi Keamanan Dalam Negeri) or War Operations (Perata, Perang Semesta), and in this case would be termed Territorial Resistance Operations (Ops Wan Ter, Operasi Perlawanan Teritorial). The more common, and ongoing form, was termed Territorial Management Operations (Ops Bin Ter, Operasi Pembinaan Teritorial), with the aim of improving territorial development activities for re-stabilizing “slack social conditions”.16 This last mandate during the Suharto era could be exercised at any time, as a result of general coordination, or through the Regional Consultative Leadership (Muspida, Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah) or Sub-district Consultative Leadership (Muspika, Musyawarah Pimpinan Kecamatan) or under Kopkamtib (Komando Operasi Pemulian Keamanan

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dan Ketertiban, Operations Command to Restore Order and Security) or Bakorstanas (Badan Koordinasi Bantuan Pemantapan Stabilitas Nasional, Coordinating Body for Assisting in the Maintenance of National Stability) auspices, as well as in States of Emergency or of War. Regional Security Management The seemingly “omnipresent and omniscient” nature of the Suharto era internal security structure should not be viewed in isolation but analysed inductively as a logical process of learned behaviour having its origins in institutions developed during the Dutch colonial interregnum. It was Ricklefs’ contention that the new Indonesian Republic had inherited from the Netherlands Indies the “traditions, assumptions and legal structure of a police state” (Ricklefs 1981, p. 225). Indeed, a comparison of operational styles between the colonial Politieke Inlichtingendienst (PID) and Gewestelijke Recherche (Research Investigation) bureaus and the activities of the Suharto era intelligence institutions will reveal a similarity in political intelligence activities, particularly a strong focus on the surveillance of radical political organizations.17 The PID was formed by decree on 6 May 1916 and survived as an organization until 1919, though the fact that the term PID continued to be part of Indonesian vocabulary long after the organization was dismantled was testimony to the fact of its impact on nationalist activity. A subsequent reorganization of the Indies police triggered by concerns raised by the AdvocaatGeneral (Solicitor-General) to the Governor-General regarding the need for an organization to gather political intelligence to “ascertain the degree of revolutionary fervour now existing among various political groups in this country, to ascertain what effects of this revolutionary activity are and will be on the local population, to ascertain the probability of excesses that could threaten country, people, and authority” (Poeze 1994, pp. 232) resulted in the formation of the Gewestelijke Recherche to assist regional government, and a national level organization called the Algemeene Recherche Dienst (ARD) or General Investigation Bureau (ibid., pp. 231–32). Both the Gewestelijke Recherche and the ARD utilized primarily indigenous officials drawn from the pangreh pradja, the traditional Javanese administrative corps and intelligence personnel retained civil administrative titles like wedana for the senior ranks and their immediate subordinates the police mantri. Not only did the wedana and mantri maintain a high profile by being visible during the public gatherings of political, social and

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cultural organizations, keeping a close watch on the activities, but their attempts at political intervention made ARD a contentious organization during the colonial era (ibid., pp. 236–37). The ARD prepared assessments on particular political parties and political leaders when necessary and monthly Politiek-Politioneele Overzichen (Police Political Surveys) covering a variety of political developments in the Indies that were viewed as threats. They were categorized in the following ways: 1. extremist movements, including millenarian and messianic movements, and efforts towards a revival of a communist party in the Indies; 2. the nationalists and Muslim (Mohamedaansche) movements, forming by far the most extensive category; 3. activities of Chinese organizations in the Indies, especially those related to revolutionary developments in the mother country; 4. trade unions; 5. foreign developments, dealing with international communism, events in China, and radical activities in the Netherlands, particularly those involving Indonesian students active in the Perhimpoenan Indonesia in the Netherlands (ibid., p. 239).

A phobia of communism; a fear of Islamic radicalism; concerns over the activities of the ethnic Chinese; an apprehension over the activities of political organizations and student activism; combined with a penchant for “evaluating political situations from a narrow point of view of the consequences for law and order” were replicated by Suharto era internal security agencies like BAIS (Badan Intelijen Stratejis TNI, Armed Forces Strategic Intelligence Agency) and BAKIN (Badan Koordinasi Intelijen Negara, State Intelligence Coordinating Agency). During the colonial era, this preoccupation with political monitoring was a consequence of the fact that government officials had relatively few channels of information outside ARD sources and thereby resulted in an attitude towards perceived “security threats” and Indonesian political organizations being coloured solely by ARD influences (ibid., p. 241). Again, such a pattern replicated itself during the Suharto era where BAIS and BAKIN, with their strong emphasis on political monitoring and SARA-influenced threat perceptions, reinforced Suharto’s own security perceptions. Similar to the Dutch era, public opinion during the Suharto era did not act as a counterweight since the majority of the public held these “law and order” perspectives.18 The domination of internal security institutions over security policy interpretations effectively insulated Suharto from public opinion as a counterweight even though by the 1990s vociferous

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civil society movements were beginning to articulate alternative views. The influence of security agencies was so pronounced that even though domestic communism was effectively eliminated and international communism no longer posed a threat after the collapse of the Soviet Union, Suharto continued in the 1990s to echo the realpolitik ideology of his security advisors that the communists were a significant threat to his regime.19 At the operational level, during the Suharto era, there were the specific strategies for Internal Security Operations under the State of Emergency or full Defence Operations under a State of War. Significantly, for much of the New Order, internal pacification was not attempted through the imposition of a state of emergency. The model for internal security operations adopted by the Armed Forces stressed that the effective deployment of internal security options requires a framework for the understanding of the level and character of the security concerns and a guide to the selection of appropriate response. To aid this process, the Armed Forces devised a doctrine of Regional Security Management (Binkanwil, Pembinaan Keamanan Kewilayahan)20 aimed at ensuring peace and security in any locality. Citing the 1982 Seskoad manual, Tanter explained that Regional Security Management consisted of: All activities and efforts connected with planning, organization, development, direction and control in the context of realising a situation which is secure and calm in a given region. Such activities are carried out in a coordinated and integrated manner by Community Guidance authorities which aim to give a feeling of security and comfort to the community so that the government apparatus is able to fulfil its obligations in peace (Tanter 1991, pp. 360–61).

For the purposes of aiding Armed Forces personnel in gauging the levels of internal unrest, certain “Situation Levels” were devised providing a framework of analysis where internal military operations could be conducted on the basis of levels of intensity ranging from “Secure” (Aman), at the lower end to “Unsettled” (Rawan), “Dangerous” (Berbahaya), “Critical” (Kritis), to “Alarming” (Gawat) at the extreme end of the spectrum. These operational settings within which the territorial apparatus were to act upon were translated by Tanter in the following manner:21 Secure “Secure” is a condition where all of society is free from danger and fear so that livelihoods can be pursued in an ordered and calm way.

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The indications of secure condition are as follows: First, Government policies and programmes can be carried out in an effective and efficient way by each level of the government apparatus. Second, the wellbeing of the community in its life and livelihood is protected and guaranteed. Third, in the community, there is an ambition to work which stimulates creativity, critical attitudes and advances a feeling of mutual responsibility. Unsettled “Unsettled” refers to a situation where there are interest conflicts between community groups or between the government and community groups so that order and calm are disturbed. Dangerous “Dangerous” refers to a condition where interest conflicts take the form of social tensions between community groups or political tensions between government apparatuses, or between community groups and the government apparatus as a result of the growth of subversive elements. A dangerous situation generally disturbs the stability of order and security. Critical “Critical” refers to a situation where social and political conflicts have led to the use of physical force, taking the form of sabotage, strikes and boycott actions, as well as killings. Such conflict may be between community groups or between community groups and the government. These crises usually threaten national security. Alarming An “alarming” situation occurs when the life of the nation and the state is threatened with destruction because of violent efforts to change the Constitution and philosophy of the Government by force.

Over and above the classifications of levels of security concerns, the nature of internal operations depended ultimately on a further three sets of criteria. First, were the security disturbances physical or non-physical in form? Second, were they criminal or subversive in nature and content? Finally, were they motivated from ideological, political, economic, sociocultural or security circumstances? Similarly, these security disturbances could also be evaluated by intensity: for instance, were they light, moderate or heavy?22 Light or moderate socially motivated disturbances as a consequence of dissatisfaction or socio-economic issues which have yet to

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boil over may only require monitoring, whereas, moderate or heavy politically motivated turmoil could expect the security apparatus to be placed on a higher scale of alert with preparations made for decisive action.23 The varied nature of security disturbances in the Indonesian archipelago required a variety of internal security operations and intervention options. Five methods of internal operations were devised, depending on the level of security disturbance. First, the Armed Forces would engage in investigative intelligence and counter-intelligence operations in an attempt to disclose the background to a specific problem and the main protagonists behind it, assessing the strength, motivation and distribution of the “disturbing element” in the area. Second, the Armed Forces may resort to psychological warfare intelligence operations if a large part of the community or a specific group is influenced by an extreme or “dissatisfied” group. Third, territorial operations would be required in the likelihood that “enemy forces” are still relatively limited to cells and not yet successful in influencing the community in a general way. Fourth, public order and security operations or Security and Orderliness of Society (Kamtibmas, Keamanan dan Ketertiban Masyarakat) as it is literally translated from the TNI military terminology, are considered necessary, whenever the disturbing “essence” takes the form of organized crime or is alarming the community but is not sufficiently threatening to pose a serious defence and security challenge. Such operations were conducted by the Police under the guidance of the TNI.24 Finally, combat operations are vital whenever the “threatening body” has either political or armed strength, and is already an organized force endangering societal security as well as the authority of the government or the state itself.25 To be able to assess how such a model for internal security operations functions in practice is extremely difficult considering that secrecy is the norm in a subject of this nature. However, there is, fortunately, enough information available from the public record to give us a general impression of how internal operations were conducted. INTELLIGENCE OPERATIONS This section begins with an examination of the Seskoad textbook model of intelligence operations as posited by Tanter. The theory set out in this textbook approach will then be juxtaposed with the institutional structure of the intelligence and security apparatus and finally this section will conclude with an assessment of the textbook approach as compared with

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the evidence about such operations in Indonesian political life over the past two decades. The Seskoad model revolved around an elaborate sociological model of Indonesian society, concentrating on the issue of stability as a goal, and the generation of disturbances from various kinds of social change, including rapid urbanization, unemployment and inadequate housing. The model distinguished a number of different types of activities and operations in the social-political sphere: intelligence, territorial, socio-political, internal security and defence operations and activities. According to Tanter the definition of intelligence operations distinguishes investigation or intelligence proper (penyelidikan), counter-intelligence (pengamanan), and supportive operations (penggalangan) — or more appropriately, covert action.26 Utilizing the 1982 edition of the Seskoad manual, Tanter defined intelligence operations to cover all activities and measures — both overt or covert activities and measures — which are planned and guided with the aim of collecting information or data, creating a situation or climate which is needed to achieve the desired objective, and taking action to oppose or frustrate the operational arrangement of enemy intelligence.27 From Tanter’s perspective, the function of intelligence was conceived to be much more than just information-gathering and security. The operational aims of counter-intelligence and supportive operations or covert action were principally twofold. First, intelligence activities performed a useful role by providing the backdrop or conditions where the defence and security potential in the political, economic and social fields, as well as in the psychological and other fields can be maximized. Second, effective intelligence strategies help curtail enemy intelligence activities, and help secure the population through operations focused on issues with ideological, political, economic, social and cultural (Ipoleksosbud) potential able to compromise national security.28 Such a holistic approach confirms the definition given in a 1964 publication which stated: Our intelligence activities must encompass all sectors of society including the political sector (political organizations, youth, labour, farmers etc); the economic sector (import and export trade, industry, farming, transport etc); the social sector (international co-operative bodies, scientific, religious, cultural etc); and all elements of Government and administration (Napitupulu 1966, p.14).

Tanter goes on to add that “covert, supportive actions are specific operations to be carried out by special intelligence facilities ... to support policy

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Army Intelligence

Navy Intelligence

Navy

Air Force Intelligence

Air Force

Ministry of Defence

Deputy AttorneyGeneral (Intelligence)

Deputy AttorneyGeneral (Special Criminal Affairs)

AttorneyGeneral’s Department

State Cryptography Institute (LSN)

Assistant for Security and Social order (ASKAMTIBMAS)

Directorate of Social and Political Affairs

Secretary General

Ministry of Home Affairs

Police Directorate for Intelligence and Security Services (DitIntelPam)

National Police (POLRI)

National Intelligence Agency (BIN)

Source: Adapted from Tanter, “Intelligence Agencies and Third World Militarization”, p. 263 and updated courtesy of an Indonesian source.

Assistant for Intelligence (ASINTEL)

Army

Armed Forces Intelligence Agency (BAIS)

Armed Forces Headquarters

President

Figure 2.1 Indonesian Intelligence Structure

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(kebijaksanaan) which is being attacked or is about to be attacked, and to remove obstructions. For example, in an operational environment like East Timor in the early 1980s, the “intelligence function” required “investigation, consolidation and security” and concentrated on “the field of operations, the weather, the GPK (Gerombolan Pengacau Keamanan, Security Threatening Elements) and the community which is the object of contest between the GPK and ABRI units” — the “total control over all aspects of the life of the community is the key efforts to separate the GPK from the people”29 being the key intention in such a strategy. Such actions were carried out on a covert basis, although this may be a matter of carrying out an ostensibly open activity in such a way that “the aim is always covert or kept secret”.30 Similarly, strategic intelligence, according to Tanter, encompasses any and all issues of national interest. It involves the continuous practice of all three types of operations, varying in combination and intensity according to the contextual need, but always under a single command and design. Foreign targets are dealt with covertly. Domestic targets can be dealt with overtly or covertly.31 To all intents and purposes, this specification of the brief of intelligence operations is close to the normal range of western agencies.

MILITARY INTELLIGENCE ORGANIZATIONS Bakorstanas Through a Presidential decree No. 29, dated 5 September 1988, President Suharto announced the abolition of Kopkamtib, and its replacement with Bakorstanas (Badan Koordinasi Bantuan Pemantapan Stabilitas Nasional, Coordinating Body for Assisting in the Maintenance of National Stability). The new body was charged with the task of “restoring, maintaining and reinforcing national stability”, and would be advisory in character. It was headed by the Armed Forces Commander who would report directly to the President. Before assessing the significance of this institution, it would be best to understand the full dimensions of its predecessor, which dominated the Indonesian state for almost a quarter of a century, and which in many important respects, lives on in its successor. Kopkamtib32 was arguably the centrepiece of the entire New Order state. Through Kopkamtib, the nominally civilian government machinery was bypassed at any point deemed appropriate by the head of state, to allow direct military intervention.

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Moreover, the procedures under which Kopkamtib operated allowed it to work free of the existing political restraints on the Armed Forces itself. By the employment of its considerable military resources in the service of extraordinarily vague and broadly-defined political ends, Kopkamtib was the means by which Indonesia was ruled by what amounted to permanent martial law, intermittent and uneven in application, but constant in doctrine and potential. In fact, it is possible to assert that Kopkamtib was a de facto long-term martial law command with a mandate to use all the resources of the Indonesian state to destroy whatever it conceived to be a threat to the state, the Pancasila state ideology and the 1945 Constitution, or to national development. For this reason, special attention should be paid to the terms in which Kopkamtib was presented, its political mandates, and its conception of its own role. Kopkamtib did not exist in any separate organizational form from the Armed Forces. From Tanter’s perspective, Kopkamtib was a “concept” more than an organization, an ideological formulation that allowed the reorganization of Armed Forces resources for total internal warfare and social engineering without political restraints.33 Ever since its inception in October 1965, Kopkamtib functions and operational procedures have focused on Ipoleksosbudmilag issues, be it the crushing of remnants of the 30 September Movement/Communist Party (G30S/PKI); groups which “threaten security and social order” and “endanger the well-being and integrity” of the state and nation based on the Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution; the cultural streams which are opposed “morally, mentally and culturally to the Pancasila”; or even labour disturbances which compromise economic development. As coordinator of government policy in the area of security, Kopkamtib was pre-eminent within the state in its role. This pre-eminence was underlined by the powers granted to the Kopkamtib commander to use all instruments of state and elements of the government apparatus, as well as taking all other measures in accord with and based on legal decisions which observe security rights in keeping with the Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution.34 Just what the final clause means is unclear — as is the term “security rights”. In the absence of a functioning judiciary there were, in reality, few legal limits on the powers of the Kopkamtib commander and his officers. For the purposes of investigation, it had its own Intelligence Task Force (STI, Satuan Tugas Inteligen).35 As Cooke puts it, Kopkamtib’s powers of interrogation, arrest and detention were not subject to the restriction of the nation’s regular legal and political channels (Cooke, 1983, p. 261).

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The reasons for the replacement of Kopkamtib with Bakorstanas on 5 September 1988 are not completely clear. When General Benny Murdani stepped down as Armed Forces Commander on 29 February 1988, both Murdani and the then State Secretary Sudharmono commented in the media about the need to reconsider the suitability of Kopkamtib for the “tasks” of the present period.36 On the national security front, Kopkamtib’s successes were considerable. From the regime’s point of view, a good example was its role in the crushing of the Blitar Selatan revolt in 1967. It was, however, a transitory mechanism which allowed the Suharto regime to consolidate power and deal with any security crises. According to General Try Sutrisno, it was simply a matter of Kopkamtib having done its job well, and circumstances having changed: Kopkamtib had served a “preventive-educational” role, and a limited repressive one in the past, and had “restored security and order”. Now what was needed was “stability that is dynamic”. He went on to specify the kind of stability that Bakorstanas had intended to achieve covering “political stability, economic, social, cultural, and defence and security stability”.37 Though Bakorstanas seemed to adopt a definition of security as broad, and wide-ranging as the institution it supplanted, Bakorstanas was ostensibly to be advisory in character, and responsible directly to the President. The body was described as “non-structural” — like Kopkamtib. Kodam commanders switched from being the Regional Special Executives (Laksusda) for the Kopkamtib Commander to being Regional Bakorstanas executives (Bakorstanasda). As the statements of then state secretary Moerdiono below indicate, there seem to be considerable similarities between Bakorstanas and Kopkamtib. Moerdiono explained that Bakorstanas would coordinate efforts by government departments and agencies towards the restoration, maintenance and reinforcement of national stability in the face of various obstructions, challenges and threats.38 The basic work towards these objectives, Moerdiono said, would be done by the various departments and agencies of the government. But if “fast and effective measures” needed to be taken, especially in the face of physical threats to national stability, then the President could authorize the Armed Forces Commander to use the powers at his disposal. Any department or agency facing difficulties or obstructions, he said, may request the assistance of the Armed Forces. The essential difference between the new security body and the old lay in its theoretical powers rather than its everyday structure. Attention had been drawn to the fact that even if rarely used, Kopkamtib could theoretically intervene in the interests of security without reference to the President. Now the role of the President at the apex of the new body made reference

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to Suharto on all security problems, unambiguous, unlike the situation in the 1970s where the Kopkamtib Commander had immense powers and independence. In essence, the decision to diminish the powers of the Kopkamtib Commander was a reflection of Suharto’s desire to weaken Murdani’s powerbase within the intelligence apparatus as a consequence of Murdani’s role in instigating strong opposition within the TNI towards Suharto’s choice of Sudharmono as his vice president in 1988. Bakorstanas, was hence, part of an attempt to institutionalize the range of powers that were available to military commanders under Kopkamtib and more importantly centralize them under the authority of the president. Hence, the bottom line was that no one had the power to act without the president. From a public relations perspective, this was an opportunity for the military elite to make the case that Kopkamtib’s continued preservation would “not be good for the image of the country as its continued maintenance would give the impression that Indonesia was unstable”.39 In reality, the new name and supposedly humane face were merely cosmetic. As Honna was to emphasize, the collapse of the Soviet Union and the demise of the Communist bloc in 1988 was to usher in a doctrinal shift promoted by Lemhannas called Kewaspadaan (vigilance) specifically focused on social forces deemed as anti-Pancasila elements.40 In reality, the new doctrine was promulgated to neutralize the challenge posed by groups advocating democratization, which included NGO groups and student activists who campaigned against the culture of impunity that was the hallmark of the TNI’s practice of dwifungsi and grievances related to the abuses of power by the Suharto elite and lack of social justice perceived in the ever growing gap between the rich and poor. As a response to this situation, the Suharto administration established Alert Centres (Posko Kewaspadaan) in January 1997 in almost every military district in the country to monitor activities. The inputs of these Alert Centres were collated by Bakorstanas officials. With the range of perceived “threats” so broad, Bakorstanas fulfilled an important coordinating function. Officially though, Bakorstanas was not supposed to enjoy Kopkamtib’s wide-ranging powers to intervene in all sectors of Indonesian government. Theoretically, it had to be invited by the Minister concerned to bolster a particular government department or agency. Again, official perspectives conveyed that Bakorstanas had no authority to detain people. Political matters were handled by the Ministry of Home Affairs while criminal offences were dealt with by the Police. Furthermore, certain problems required the cooperation of a number of government agencies. For example, with regard to drugs and alcohol, the need may

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arise to coordinate the activities of a number of government departments involved in these matters like Home Affairs, Industry, Trade, Social Welfare and so forth. Bakorstanas provided an ideal platform where information could be shared and coordination enhanced to ensure an adequate response to such problems with minimum overlap.41 Over and above this, Bakorstanas seemed to be trying to distance itself from the image of Kopkamtib by engaging in welfare activities. For example, Bakorstanas had acted as intermediaries for people who owed money and were afraid of reprisals from debt collectors.42 The broad, flexible mandate allowed Bakorstanas scope to form a relationship with IBRA (Indonesian Bank Restructuring Agency) in 1998 when the Jakarta branch of Bakorstanas (Bakorstanasda Jaya) was approached for protection and security.43 The board of Bakorstanas was chaired by the Armed Forces Commander. Permanent members included Secretaries of the Coordinating Ministers for Political and Security Affairs, Economy and Finance, and People’s Welfare, delegates from the Armed Forces Headquarters, the various services including the National Police, the Attorney-General’s Department, and from BAKIN. Other members would be co-opted as necessary. A Secretariat was located at Armed Forces Headquarters, and headed by a senior officer responsible to the Armed Forces Commander. The cost of central Bakorstanas activities was paid out of the Armed Forces budget; and that of its technical and regional operations came from the budgets of the departments concerned, including that of the Armed Forces. Hence, except at the national level where the Armed Forces Commander reported to the president, the heads of the regional agencies (Bakorstanasda) became de facto local rulers, with the power to override civilian administrations, allowing the agency and its regional units to become tools of Suharto and his military commanders to ensure full control over the country. Most importantly, since there was no specific legislation to the contrary, the web of regulations proclaimed under Kopkamtib auspices over the past two decades remained in force, and Kodam commanders retained their effective authority as Laksusda. With such powers, Bakorstanas could still intervene in all sectors — from matters related to perceived communist activities to trivial issues like controlling the payment of the television licence fees. A classic example was Bakorstanas intervention into the long-simmering conflict which broke out in November 1992 over the leadership of the Batak Christian Congregation (HKBP, Huria Kristen Batak Protestan). In December, the North Sumatra Bakorstanasda intervened on one side of the conflict and issued a decree appointing its own choice for Ephorus. The Bakorstanasda’s

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selection of a convicted embezzler as its choice of Ephorus created an outcry and the ensuing protests resulted in dozens of church members being arbitrarily detained. The Bakorstanasda claimed that intervention was justified on national security grounds given that in March 1993, the People’s Consultative Assembly was meeting to re-elect Suharto for president and there were concerns of increased religious polarization between Muslims and Christians. That such an outlook predominated despite the fact that the tensions within the Batak church had been ongoing for years and had little to do with recent political developments but was more symptomatic of the ipoleksosbudmilag mindset of the TNI personnel who ran Bakorstanas. Also cited as justification for intervention were two other decrees to settle the HKBP dispute. The first was a Bakorstanasda decree dated 27 February 1991; the second was a Ministry of Religious Affairs decree dated 21 October 1992, indicating clearly that the military had decided to intervene long before the Synod was ever convened.44 Despite its change of name, the culture of intervention that Bakorstanas inherited was Kopkamtib-like in the manner of its operations. At the end of the Suharto era, it became evident that the freedom of control enjoyed by Bakorstanas was not only anathema to the credentials of a democratic administration under the leadership of Abdurrahman Wahid but such an interventionist culture could also make it a liability when the country faced a political crisis that involved a stand-off between the military elite and the government. Whether the closure of Bakorstanas was associated with a process called de-wirantoisasi (de-wiranto-ization), where key officers close to General Wiranto were replaced in February 2000 by officers perceived to be amenable to Wahid, is difficult to determine. Any administration wishing to brandish its democratic credentials would have had to disband a structure so closely associated with Suharto-era repression. It is tempting to speculate that the abolition of Bakorstanas could, have been part of a chain reaction triggered by a damaging human rights report sanctioned by the Indonesian government on the East Timor atrocities in 1999. The report drew attention to the role of General Wiranto and recommended that he should be held responsible for the violence.45 The response within the TNI was negative and in January and February 2000, rumours abounded that a coup d’état was imminent. Responding to the rumours, Wahid, who was on an overseas visit, issued a statement stating that Wiranto should resign. For the two weeks that Wahid was abroad, Wiranto, who felt he was being made the scapegoat for the East Timor debacle, vacillated wanting to gauge his support. Within hours of Wahid’s return, Wiranto was removed or as Wahid euphemistically described pe-

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nonaktif-an (made non-active or suspended from his post). On 8 March 2000, two weeks after Wiranto was removed, Bakorstanas together with the “special investigations” (Litsus, Penelitian Khusus)46 system, a structure which traced state official candidates’ history and background to ascertain whether they were involved with banned organizations like the PKI, were officially disbanded. BAIS BAIS remains a significant element of the current Indonesian intelligence structure.47 In its inception, BAIS epitomized the effects of Murdani’s efforts to centralize and transform the Indonesian military, particularly the intelligence and security streams. It was formed in the reorganization of 1983 out of the smaller Strategic Intelligence Centre (Pusintelstrat, Pusat Intelijens Strategis).48 BAIS helped paper over the cracks created by the Malari crises and provided a united front for coordination. According to Murdani’s biographer: In the ABRI/HANKAM command system existing at that time, each military unit intelligence slot was filled internally. This confusing situation, it is said, resulted from the ABRI leadership trying to develop an inter-generational policy of solidarity and provide opportunities for their brother officers to occupy equivalent positions within the officer rankings and be able, in turn, to be promoted. For example, if a unit was commanded by an officer with the rank of colonel, his unit would have to be re-classified as autonomous in order for him to be promoted to the higher rank of general, the equivalent rank accorded to the commander of other autonomous units. Over time, these moves resulted in the intelligence organization, which had previously been united, becoming totally fragmented ... such fragmentation, he observed, only created overlapping areas of operations and confused responsibility. Also there was a strong probability that crucial intelligence could be mislaid or misdirected by a less than professional subordinate, making it impossible to make proper evaluation at the top (Pour 1993, pp. 312–13).

In order to prevent the repetition of a Malari situation where overlapping roles provided opportunity for rivalry between various security agencies (Hankam, Opsus, Kopkamtib and BAKIN) with various factions of Indonesian society, Murdani attempted to trim the organization and command structure within the state’s intelligence bodies. This process

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was greatly facilitated by the appointment of allies like Yoga Sugama as Head of BAKIN. Little by little, the intelligence establishment was reorganized under one person (Murdani) and no longer fragmented as it had been in the past, confusing the flow of intelligence. Murdani assumed the pre-eminent role in Indonesian intelligence affairs and became the focal point for practically all intelligence reports and information going up to the President. Thus, by the time he was appointed Pangab (Panglima ABRI, Armed Forces Commander) in 1983, Murdani was in a position to overhaul the entire intelligence structure. Under Murdani’s tenure as Pangab, BAIS was able to broaden its operations considerably to assist the implementation of the Indonesian government’s internal and external security policies. The experience of liberal democracies, as well as other state forms, shows a constant tendency, unless otherwise checked, for intelligence agencies to become autonomous and insulated from effective control either by social groups or other parts of the state executive, the legislature or judiciary. Hence, it was not surprising that with unconstrained powers, BAIS became a personal power base for Murdani and a “state within the state” apart from the military.49 Such a situation was anathema to many from the mainstream of the officer corps who felt that the President should be protected from a single source of information similar to the situation that prevailed in the sixties when Sukarno relied completely on Subandrio for intelligence analysis.50 Rumours of moves to clip BAIS’ wings had been rife since July 1993, not long after Suharto dropped Murdani from his Cabinet in a move seen to reflect his displeasure at the minister’s political manoeuvrings. BAIS was a casuality of a process known informally as “deBennyisasi”. Despite its change of name, and with some of its functions being dropped, plus the dispersing of some of its powers in January 1994, the BIA (Badan Intelijen ABRI, Armed Forces Intelligence Agency), the successor organization of BAIS, remained the pre-eminent intelligence agency during the Suharto era. In 1994, the office of the BIA Head, now downgraded to the rank of a two-star general, was separated from the Armed Forces Commander and reported directly to the office of the Assistant for Intelligence. By 1998, the contentious nature of civil– military politics during the Habibie era saw the term BIA dropped in favour of BAIS as General Wiranto sought to strengthen the organization in the wake of the institutional challenge posed by BAKIN now under the control of Habibie protégé Lt Gen (Ret) Z.A. Maulani. The “new” BAIS then reverted back to the old formula where the Deputy Head of

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BAIS reported directly to the Armed Forces Commander who concurrently served as Head of BAIS. During the Wiranto era, competition between BAIS and BAKIN was intense. To strengthen BAIS’ position and compete with the Maulani influence at the national level, Wiranto reverted to the Murdani era approach of placing BAIS under the command of a threestar general. It was rumoured that the intense rivalry between BAIS and BAKIN was often illustrated by observations that BAIS chief Lt Gen Tyasno Sudarto rarely attended BAKIN coordinating meetings during the Habibie era.51 Since the Wahid era, BAIS has been under the TNI chief of staff for general affairs, and under the stewardship of a nonarmy officer, Air Vice Marshall Ian Santoso Perdanakusumah. Despite the presence of a non-army officer at the helm of BAIS, the majority of personnel at BAIS Headquarters were people with a Special Forces (Kopassus, Komando Pasukan Khusus) background. Such a situation allows BAIS to retain significant operational contact with the Kopassus plainclothes intelligence unit (Group 4) whose members gained infamy for their abduction and torture of student activists in February 1998. In its heyday BAIS epitomized a trend first initiated by Murdani, namely, the centralization and regularization of the intelligence structure.52 Its hierarchical and formal structure is the antitheses of the amorphous personally-controlled Opsus operation employed on an almost private basis by Ali Murtopo from the mid-sixties to the late seventies. BAKIN, the previously pre-eminent intelligence organization in the early part of the Suharto era, was effectively marginalized in the 1980s and regarded merely as a sleepy sinecure with a somewhat elastic staff. Staffed exclusively by military personnel, BAIS has better resources than BAKIN and if we assume that in the 1990s Kopkamtib arrangements were unchanged in practice, had an operational arm through the Laksusda structure that BAKIN lacked. However, what made BAIS influential was the fact that its senior officers had powerful positions elsewhere. For instance, Maj Gen Nugroho was appointed Director A (Internal Affairs) for BAIS in 1983 also served as Deputy Attorney-General (Intelligence) between 1984–88. In 1988 he moved to become the Secretary-General of the Ministry of Home Affairs while maintaining his BAIS position throughout his career. This was a clear indication that the military had effectively penetrated the intelligence activities of civilian institutions. Over and above their modest Jakarta headquarters staff is the intelligence organization per se which actually does the work of surveillance and during the Suharto era enjoyed preventive and repressive intervention capabilities and was given executive authority in Kopkamtib

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mode.53 The discussion of the Army line and staff structure which follow indicates the manner in which intelligence and socio-political control concerns increasingly dominate Army structure the closer it gets to the village level. Intelligence staff are assigned to the various army regional commands (Kodam, Komando Daerah Militer) whose reports are coordinated by the Assistant for Intelligence to the Army Chief of Staff (Asintel, Assisten Intelijens) for submission to the Armed Forces Commander. According to Tanter, at the Territorial Command (Koter, Komando Teritorial) level, structural arrangements for intelligence gathering begin at the Regional Military Command (Kodam) level54 (see Figure 2.2), where the commander is assisted by an Intelligence Staff, usually headed by a colonel, whose responsibilities require coordinating the Kodam’s intelligence policies, operations, units and resources in the areas of investigation, counterintelligence and covert action/psychological warfare. This staff coordinates its objectives with the Kodam Intelligence Detachment (Den Inteldam) — a unit responsible for carrying out intelligence operations, and regularly monitoring security-related Ipoleksosbudmilag for such operations and for the Kodam commander.55 Davies, recalling his stint during a bilateral Australia-Indonesia military cooperation exchange, made a useful comparison with Australian army structures. Referring to the Indonesian Army Infantry Centre’s pocket manual Buku Pinter (Buku Pembinaan Territorial or Territorial Management manual), he observed that TNI operational procedure unconventionally placed the battalion intelligence section (S-1) ahead of Tactical (S-2), Personnel (S-3), and Logistics (S-4) sections, respectively. While the functions of the battalion intelligence section were generally similar to its Australian counterpart, Davies elaborates on the specific distinctions by stressing that: The ‘tactical’ staff appear to perform much the same duties as our own operations staff, but are only described this way in conjunction with their intelligence staff colleagues in the staff planning phase. Also whereas the Indonesian battalion’s intelligence section is responsible for coordinating with all collection assets, the tactical section directly coordinates reconnaissance activities, in an obvious contrast with its Australian (Ops) counterpart … The above aspects go beyond the mere semantic distinctions of staff nomenclature at battalion level, and the difference from the Australian tradition of an interdependent battalion Int Cell-Recon Platoon. The primacy enjoyed by ABRI battalion intelligence personnel indicates a wider central role of intelligence staff in ABRI compared with conventional western

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Figure 2.2 Army Intelligence Staff and Line Organizations

Kodam Commander (Pangdam) Kepala Staf Asintel Pangdam Aspos Aspers Aslog

Intelligence Detachment Commander (Dan Den Intel) Korem Commander (Dan Rem)

Head of Korem Intelligence Section (Kasi Intelrem)

Head of Korem Territorial Section (Kasiterrem)

Intelligence Platoon (Dan ton Intel)

Kodim Commander (Dam Dim) Kodim Territorial Affairs (Si Terdim)

Kodim Intelligence Section Officer (Si Inteldim) Koramil Commander

Admin NCO (BaTuud) Peopleʼs Resistance Training NCO (BaWanra)

Social Conditions NCO (BaKonsos) Village NCO Babinsa

Source: Adapted from Tanter, “Intelligence Agencies and Third World Militarization, op. cit., p. 300, and updated courtesy of an Indonesia source.

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defence force models … The Buku Pinter gives another clue as to why ABRI’s intelligence personnel have such a relatively more central role than their western counterparts. One of the battalion section’s stated tasks is ‘protecting battalion members’ loyalty towards the Pancasila ideology’. This may equate to the commissar’s role in Warsaw Pact model armies. Hence, the implicitly wider political importance attached to ABRI intelligence functions, consistent with Indonesia’s history and contemporary socio-political environment (Davies 1999, p. 27).

A similar system is maintained throughout the territorial apparatus; at the Sub-Region Military Command (Korem) level (See Figure 2.3), where a Korem Intelligence Staff (Sintelrem), with a Major as Head of the Intelligence Section (Kasi Intelrem), and an Intelligence Platoon headed by a company grade officer are responsible for the intelligence functions.56 Moving to the District Military Command (Kodim) level (See Figure 2.4), there is a Kodim Intelligence Section Staff (Sinteldim) commanded by a junior officer, usually a captain (Pasi Inteldim), supported by a few warrant officers acting as assistants. It is at this level where the intelligence and territorial functions are fused. Over and above the intelligence duties highlighted above, this unit is responsible for a further five functions. In the operational language of the TNI, these are first, the development of geographic, demographic and social conditions to produce reliable locations, instruments and conditions of struggle. Followed by the development of the Armed Forces as a Social Force, including the organization of the “Armed Forces Sacred Duty” (Penyelenggaraan Bhakti ABRI) in that area. The next function would require the development of Armed Forces functionaries (Karyawan) and the Greater Family of the Armed Forces (Keluarga Besar ABRI) in the particular area of responsibility. This task would be accompanied by the requirement to assist in making arrangements for the management of social and political conditions in the area. And the final task would be the need to maintain close communications with the community as well as organizing the relevant authorities concerned in the vicinity charged to carry out their specific duties in the event of a state emergency being enacted according to law.57 At the base of the territorial apparatus is the Koramil or Sub-District Military Command (see Figure 2.5), under the command of a Captain or a Warrant Officer, with the responsibility of maintaining a small headquarters staff made up of three NCOs — each charged with a special task — namely, for managing administrative duties (Ba Tuud, Bintara Tata Usaha Urusan Dalam); for managing People’s Resistance Force activities

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Figure 2.3 Sub-Region Military Command (Korem) Headquarters

The commander is a colonel, the deputy commander a lieutenant-colonel, section heads are majors and company commanders are captains. Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

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Figure 2.4 District Military Command (Kodim) Headquarters

The commander is a lieutenant-colonel, the deputy commander is a major and the section heads have the rank of captains. Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

Figure 2.5 Sub-District Military Command (Koramil) Headquarters Commander

Orderly Room NCO Trained Population NCO Social Condition NCO Village Management NCO (Babinsa)

The Koramil commander is a junior officer or senior non-commissioned officer. Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

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(Baurwanra, Bintara Urusan Perlawanan Rakyat); and for the management of local social conditions (Baurkonsos, Bintara Urusan Kondisis Sosial) which also includes intelligence gathering duties. Based within the village is the Village Guidance NCO (Babinsa). The NCO in the villages, though at the bottom of the Army Intelligence structure, plays a crucial role considering Indonesia’s predominantly rural population. The NCO’s duties range from providing general advice to the village population, to alerting the Territorial structure with “early-warning” through reporting anything unusual that happens, and carrying out active intelligence work by investigating the activities of any formal/informal organization or grouping be it social, political, cultural or economic in orientation operating within the area and having the potential to create socially motivated disturbances. In a counter-insurgency environment like East Timor, a Babinsa would be expected to monitor a village in order to provide an early-warning mechanism to ascertain whether there was any GPK influence over the village. Looking at the ‘inner workings’ of every village: Instruction manual No. JUKNIS/01/XI/1981 concerning the keeping of a book for the Babinsa’s data and events, explains that in order to know a village well, it is essential to have data and notes on events within the village. These include: a. b. c. d. e. f. g.

Sketch map of the old village (pre-upheaval). Sketch map of the present village. Village security system. Genealogy of the chieftain List of village government officials. List of catechists. List of other community figures.58

The range of duties required to be fulfilled by the Social Conditions NCO (Baurkonsos) and Village Guidance NCO (Babinsa) highlight the importance placed on population surveillance and national security objectives. The Social Conditions NCO is required to prepare reports on social forces and their potentials in rural areas (perdesaan) connected to Defence and Security affairs; collect information and maintain records in the intelligence area; and assist the Koramil commander in protecting the development of social conditions in the area. In areas prone to civil disturbances or regions like East Timor where for over two decades a low-

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intensity war environment had prevailed, a series of countervailing methods were instituted to prevent the GPK from implanting a clandestine network within the military’s security cordon. Every single activity of the population must be known exactly, in the following ways: a. Appoint reliable people at Katuas (Elders) to help neighbourhood chiefs (heads of rukun tetangga). Arrange it in such a way that each Katuas has responsibility for 10–15 families. Each katuas must be able to know exactly the activities of the families under his guidance; for example, when they go into their field, go the collect wood, get permission to go to another village, to tend flocks, go to market, and so on. b. Appoint an “informer” in each of these groups of 10–15 families led by one katuas. This informer should be able to follow, secretly, all the activities of these 10–15 families. c. Every time anyone goes out of the village, he/she must have a travel pass (surat jalan), and every person who comes into the village from another village must report. d. Inspection posts must be set up to keep a check on everyone who enters or leaves the village. e. Maintain an element of surprise by holding extraordinary rollcalls, or by having check-ups on the population by the katuas, to check whether anyone has left the village without permission or whether anyone has arrived from another village without reporting. f. Take other actions, according to the circumstances in each village, for the purpose of intensifying control over the population. For instance, house-to-house visits, and patrols inside the village to prevent illegal meetings from taking place there.59

The Village Guidance NCO is required to train the People’s Resistance (Wanra) units; lead People’s Resistance in the villages; give instruction in awareness of the defence of the state; provide instruction in village community development in the area of State security and defence; protect Hankam facilities and resources in rural areas and; give reports to the Koramil commander on a regular basis and in connection with unusual village social conditions.60 If this structure is fused with the local resources, namely, the village-based organization and the nation-wide system of rukun warga, rukun tetangga and rukun kampung (neighbourhood associations in towns and villages), then in theory at least, an impervious structure for control exists.61 Such organizations may aid the territorial

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intelligence apparatus by providing it with another source of low level intelligence particularly on the nature of population movements in a particular vicinity. At present, BAIS does not have an operational role but primarily concentrates on information gathering and analysis. BAIS is organized into seven directorates: an Internal (Directorate A); Foreign (Directorate B); Defence (Directorate C); Security (Directorate D); Psychological Operations (Directorate E); Budgeting and Administration (Directorate F); and Intelligence Production (Directorate E). Independent field units either operating as part of the Territorial Command structure or Kostrad’s Security Surveillance Platoons (Tontaikam, Pleton Pengintai Keamanan) are tasked with collecting information in the field and relay the information through intelligence units attached at the various regional commands. Field reports are then dispatched to BAIS headquarters where they are collated and analysed by Directorate G (Intelligence Production) for submission to the Armed Forces Commander.62 Non-Military Intelligence Organizations According to Cooke (1983, p. 263) prior to the establishment of BAIS in 1983, BAKIN63 was “the principal national body responsible for centralizing and coordinating domestic and foreign intelligence gathered by such organizations as the Army, the Police and Kopkamtib”. According to its long-serving (1974–89) former head, Yoga Sugama, “BAKIN is formally responsible for political intelligence outside the defence and security field”.64 BAKIN was distinct from both Kopkamtib and the military more generally. It had its own communications network outside both regular military and civilian systems (Cooke 1983, p. 263). It was a nominally civilian organization, directly responsible to the President. BAKIN, though, by the late 1980s was no longer paramount in the intelligence structure but remained important and was without doubt, the pre-eminent non-military intelligence institution. According to Rizal Sukma: BAKIN is nominally a civilian agency, in practice it is run by the military and responsible directly to the President. As an agency in charge of intelligence affairs, BAKIN is primarily responsible for three main tasks: evaluating the state of internal security, identifying problems and in presenting possible policy alternatives for the government. In carrying out such tasks, BAKIN assumes the authority for an annual evaluation as to whether Indonesia’s internal security

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and stability was “terkendali” (under control) during which it also identifies the sources and types of threat to national security coming either from within or from without Indonesia. More importantly, as part of its task to present possible policy alternatives, BAKIN prepares a daily intelligence report for the President’s personal use (Sukma 1998, pp. 80–81).

BAKIN was not integrated directly into the command structure of Hankam, nor was it a completely military organization, although it is certainly dominated by TNI personnel at all levels. Since BAKIN had to operate secretively to be an effective intelligence agency, many Indonesians were misinformed about its activities, and its role was sometimes exaggerated. Basically, during the 1980s and 1990s, BAKIN functioned as an information-gathering body. It was responsible to the president and prepared a daily intelligence report for the president’s personal use. BAKIN staff members also meet regularly with members of other government agencies and even sit in on high-level economics meetings. It also maintained cooperative relations with intelligence agencies of friendly nations. BAKIN routinely handled security checks and screening for important Indonesian government appointments and monitors foreign embassies, journalists and scholars in Indonesia. It kept tabs on ex-PKI members, Islamic political activity and subversives of all types both real and imagined, and during Murtopo and Murdani’s close association with it, was involved, on a regular basis, in certain kinds of special operations. For example, the successful assault and rescue of a Garuda airliner that had been hijacked to Bangkok in 1981. The confusion over BAKIN’s actual role stems from the fact that the authority of BAKIN also overlapped with Murtopo’s other intelligence network, Opsus (Operasi Khusus, Special Operations) formed by him in 1964 when he was the then Assistant-1 (Intelligence) at the Army’s Strategic Reserve Command (Kostrad, Komando Stategis Angkatan Darat).65 By the early 1970s, it was difficult to distinguish between the work of Opsus and the work of Murtopo as Special Deputy for Covert Action of BAKIN. The operation most closely associated with Opsus was the preparation for the 1971 general election, including the transformation of Golkar into a political party. However, in terms of black operations, Murtopo’s most significant intelligence operation was connected with the militant Islamic group Komando Jihad or Holy War Command. It was evident that Murtopo’s agent provocateurs had infiltrated Komando Jihad and incited the group to acts of violence.66 Hence, in the past, the name BAKIN was synonymous

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with the politicized military of Indonesia, with an aggressive intelligence, counter-intelligence and covert action posture, and while under Ali Murtopo’s influence, explicit political intervention. BAKIN had authority, de facto or otherwise, to mount active intelligence operations at home and abroad. BAKIN’s major strength was its counter-intelligence surveillance work targeted against foreign spies which was the responsibility of BAKIN’s Operational Unit 01 (UP01, Unit Pelaksana 01).67 Its ambit was extensive, covering not only surveillance on operatives from communist nations like the Soviet Union, North Korea, Vietnam but also the activities of those perceived to be sympathetic to international terrorism. In this regard, prime Middle Eastern targets of interest to BAKIN in the 1970s were specifically Palestinian and Yemeni. These targets were continually monitored in the 1980s and surveillance activities on new Middle Eastern targets like Iran, particularly after the Iranian revolution, and Libya, specifically for its linkages with the Free Aceh Movement (GAM, Gerakan Aceh Merdeka), also grew in importance during this period. In the midseventies, diplomatic relations with Libya were severed briefly due to the Qaddafi regime’s provision of paramilitary training to Acehnese separatists. In the 1990s monitoring Iraqis, particularly after the Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait in August 1990, was an added responsibility and while diplomats posted to the Chinese embassy since the normalization of relations in 1990 were rarely targeted, great interest was directed to Indonesians of Chinese descent, particularly those with extensive business dealings in China.68 BAKIN’s role in East Timor is a source of contention. Some accounts state that the organization played a prominent role in covert operations in East Timor prior to the Indonesian invasion in December 1975 (Munster and Walsh 1982, pp. 65–89). Other accounts have relegated its role to merely that of surveillance of specific Portuguese targets travelling through Indonesia by Satsus Intel and the indecorous task pertaining to the “opening of all letters going to the province from foreign nations” (Conboy 2003b, pp. 91, 166). The prime explanation for BAKIN’s waning influence stemmed from the growing influence of Benny Murdani when he assumed command of Kopkamtib’s intelligence task force after the Malari Affair. In the late seventies he had assumed command of the Ministry of Defence and Security’s intelligence apparatus and in 1978 was BAKIN’s new Deputy Head. The prominence of the Murtopo-era BAKIN was effectively neutralized by Benny Murdani who began using his influence as a consequence of Suharto’s patronage to consolidate all military intelligence functions within the Ministry of Defence and Security. Such initiatives not

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only compromised BAKIN but undermined Kopkamtib’s operational capabilities. In 1983, having risen to command the Armed Forces, he was then in a perfect position to establish BAIS as a hierarchical structure totally opposite to the amorphous nature of Opsus under the personal control of Murtopo69, significantly bringing the intelligence structure under the formal control of the military. Though BAIS was designed to neutralize Murtopo’s intelligence empire, in the end, ironically, it became Murdani’s own personal intelligence empire in time, threatening Suharto’s hold on power. The emasculation of BAKIN’s could be seen in the downsizing of its operational capability. In 1973 BAKIN had six deputies controlling six directorates. Deputy I handled domestic intelligence; Deputy II was responsible for state security; Deputy III covered special operations; Deputy IV looked after foreign intelligence; Deputy V focused on clandestine operations and counterintelligence; with Deputy VI overseeing administration. In the wake of the hijacking of a Garuda DC-9 in March 1981 by the Imran Group70 and a successful rescue operation led by Murdani,71 BAKIN’s marginalization in the operation was further evident in a shift in power relations when its Deputy III directorate was liquidated and its responsibilities transferred to military intelligence. In a major pruning process, BAKIN lost three deputies (down from seven to four). BAIS now not only took over much of Kopkamtib’s investigation and enforcement powers but absorbed BAKIN’s authority over military attachés based abroad (Conboy 2003b, pp. 84–85, 154). During the late 1980s BAKIN’s traditional structure of informers and agents still seemed to be in place, its bureaucratic and surveillance resources remaining relatively substantial. For example, during the Suharto era, within the major ministries and departments, Tanter (1991, p. 314) implicitly claims that there were BAKIN “advisors”. Nevertheless, BAKIN’s official functions by the 1980s had changed. During the Suharto era, it conducted active intelligence operations abroad and was only allowed to engage in limited internal operations.72 Its role was purely limited to intelligence gathering and coordination,73 the growing realization of its diminishing role further reinforced by events signifying the end of the Cold War evident after the settlement of the Cambodian conflict and China’s adoption of “market socialism”. Since the beginning of the Suharto era so much of its raison d’etre revolved on the need to monitor communist targets. The actual nature of the coordination is not clear considering the fact that Bakorstanas, a more powerful institution, also had a coordinating brief. Tanter has made reference to the fact that there was a weekly meeting

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chaired by BAKIN of representatives of all the significant intelligence organization — BAIS, Police intelligence, Home Affairs, Attorney-General (Intelligence) and Foreign Affairs74 and this function remains unaltered.75 BAKIN was reconstituted in the post-Suharto era as the State Intelligence Agency (BIN, Badan Intelijen Negara). BAKIN’s emergence from the doldrums could obliquely be attributed to B.J. Habibie when he became president in 1998. Distrusted by the military and at least initially without a substantial following in Golkar, he sought to develop a powerbase to consolidate his embattled presidency by appointing a protégé, Z.A. Maulani, as the new BAKIN chief. Habibie’s short tenure as president left Maulani little time to resuscitate BAKIN. His most significant initiative was to oversee BAKIN’s acceptance as a member of the Islamic Intelligence Service Conference whose members comprise five Middle Eastern nations, Malaysia and Brunei (Conboy 2003b, p. 203). The next civilian president also found that he had few friends within the military. As part of president Wahid’s desire to have greater control over the TNI’s monopoly of security, particularly in lieu of the fast deteriorating security conditions within the country, the president had hoped to restructure the intelligence apparatus by creating a new body called the State Intelligence Institute (LIN, Lembaga Intelijen Negara) reporting to the Minister of Defence (ibid., p. 204). The hope was that with LIN reporting to a confidant of his running the Defence Ministry, the entire military intelligence apparatus could slowly be brought under civilian authority. Part of this proposed restructuring would see all the overseas military attachés reporting to LIN instead of BAIS. If implemented, not only would the intelligence apparatus be completely in civilian hands, but the TNI would also have had to concede its jurisdiction “to manage its lucrative and prestigious attaché slots” (ibid). This would have been too much for the generals to stomach. To avert a major confrontation, incremental moves were made instead by the Wahid administration to reorganize the intelligence network first through a presidential decree in October 2000 and then given substance a few months later by beefing up BAKIN’s organization structure through an increased budget and the expansion of its directorates on 22 January 2001. A new position, Deputy 4 was created and tasked to look after security and had responsibility for four directorates: “Directorate 42 handled liaison with other government agencies, such as customs, immigration, and the post office, Directorate 43 absorbed UP 01’s surveillance teams”. A further new position Deputy 5 was a throwback to the days of Ali Murtopo responsible for “social conditioning”, meaning,

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“discreet lobbying of Islamic groups, the media, students, and other key community leaders” (ibid., p. 205). Simultaneously BAKIN was named BIN and made responsible to Parliament and the President. The rationale behind this restructuring exercise according to Parliament Commission I (Komisi I) chairperson Yasril Ananta Bahruddin was to reorientate the focus of intelligence gathering to preventative security functions focused on providing early warning to threats facing the state rather than the New Order obsession with surveillance of political activities (Ingo 2000). Perhaps, the more significant rationale for the creation of BIN was the ever-deteriorating security conditions in the country evident from the spate of social unrest (kerusuhan). If anything, the decision by Wahid to scrap the authority of BIN to coordinate intelligence activities — arguing that people did not need such tight surveillance proved counterproductive. Failing to see the folly of his decisions, an erratic Wahid chose to blame the terrorist attacks (Jakarta Stock Exchange and Christmas bombings) in 200076 on the weakness of the intelligence apparatus due to poor coordination between BAIS and BIN. The new status accorded to BIN did little to improve the security situation. Indeed, a familiar gripe of Wahid during that period was his inability to secure good intelligence estimates from the formal intelligence apparatus, requiring him to depend on his coterie of palace “whisperers” for information. BIN now enjoys greater scope in the collection and analysis of intelligence information and is able to conduct intelligence operations and is under the command of an Intelligence head (KA BIN, Ketua BIN). Presidential Instruction No. 5/2002 shortly after the Bali terrorist attacks give the BIN chief authority to organize the planning and coordination of all intelligence operations in the country with the TNI Police and the Attorney-General’s office required to report their findings to BIN.77 Megawati loyalist Lt Gen (ret) A.M. Hendropriyono, whose relationship with the TNI elite remained strained during his tenure as BIN Chief, enjoyed greater prestige when his position was given cabinet status. This was the first time an intelligence official was conferred such status since the Sukarno era when Subandrio held similar office. Such moves did little to enhance Hendropriyono’s ability to improve the coordination of the various intelligence agencies. Indeed, such conditions were made worse by suspicions that abounded over Hendropriyono’s intentions and whether with a new mandate, presidential sanction and an increased budget, he was attempting to structure BIN operations along similar lines to the Murdani era BAIS by specifically asking for more authority, and with particular reference to an increase in

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powers in areas like investigation and arrest.78 Such concerns had been raised over President Megawati’s desire to support a decree authorizing the expansion of BIN to open offices in all provinces, regencies, and municipalities across the country. There is nothing inherently wrong for a national intelligence agency to have branch offices. The relevant question here is whether BIN will be run professionally. Echoing public misgivings, then DPR Speaker Akbar Tandjung raised the issue that BIN with such expanded powers should be led by a person who is free from political power and solely devoted to state duties”79 in apparent reference to Hendropriyono’s relationship with the president and his possible aspiration to be a power broker for Megawati.80 Similarly, perceptions remain that the presence of former Kopassus Commander Muchdi Purwopranjono81 as a BIN deputy chief, and other Kopassus officers sidelined due to their roles in human rights violations in East Timor may first, reinforce a militaristic mindset which would pervade this supposedly civilian institution and second, provide an umbrella that Hendropriyono and his former TNI colleagues could use to reactivate former military networks.82 Under President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, the BIN Chief will no longer be a member of Cabinet but simply an “official who heads a nondepartmental state agency”.83 BIN is expected to become a “nationallevel” intelligence agency with BAIS responsible specifically for combat/ military intelligence. How such arrangements will work in practice is puzzling. At the moment, such aspirations are merely an extension of political announcements. As explained above, the bulk of intelligence capability for archipelagic-wide monitoring of internal security concerns reside with BAIS including a significant database. These assets are likely to be grudgingly handed over to BIN and under current circumstances. With the working relationship between BIN and the TNI compromised by intense competition between Hendropriyono and the TNI elite, while the former was BIN chief, such cooperation is unlikely to be envisaged. Recognizing the imbalance between the two institutions, it is not surprising to observe Hendropriyono further expand BIN to include seven deputies plus a new post for technology and another for research and planning (Conboy 2003b, p. 296). He also announced an initiative to establish provincial representative offices across the country to enhance information gathering and “coordinate operations among other intelligence offices”.84 Under the newly reconstituted BIN, the Police Directorate for Intelligence and Security Services (DitIntelPam, Direktorat Intelijen dan Pengamanan) was expected to become its operational arm.85 Such arrangements, apparently, have not worked in practice as relations between BIN and

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Police intelligence have become bogged down over who should be the lead agency in Indonesia’s war on terror.86 The first police intelligence organization of the independent state was the Pengawasan Aliran Masyarakat (PAM), formed in 1945. It was succeeded by three organizations: the Dinas Pengawasan Keamanan Negara (DPKN), the Pengawasan Keamanan Masyarakat (PKN) and finally in 1972 by Intelpampolri (Intelijen Pengamanan Polisi Republik Indonesia). Numerous police regions (Polda, Polisi Daerah) shadow the civilian administrative structure perhaps more closely than the Army territorial structure where Police intelligence assets particularly during the Suharto era were utilized in coordinated operations. Intelpampolri now known as DitIntelPam have units at Polda level. DitIntelPam’s duties cover “Early Detecting” and “Early Warning” in the context of Police Operations and activities, and Public Order and Security (Kamtibmas) Operations. The techniques of carrying out DitIntelPam’s functions cover all efforts, activities and work, including investigation, counter-intelligence and support/covert operations in the context of carrying out preventive and repressive Police operational duties including security operational duties allocated to the Police within the context of activities conducted under the auspices of the Police Mobile Brigade (Brimob, Brigade Mobil Polri).87 Brimob as a paramilitary organization is designed specifically for tasks like crowd and riot control, internal security operations and specialist tasks like counter-terrorism, armed hold-up response, bomb disposal and search and rescue. Since the 1950s when Brimob units played an important role in the PRRI-Permesta rebellion, they have become an influential element within the Police emphasizing the orientation away from the maintenance of law and order and greater priority placed on internal security and close relations with the Army. Since the definition of criminality in Indonesia is so broad and subject to political direction, DitIntelPam officers necessarily become involved in political surveillance and intervention. In fact there is evidence that police intelligence officers, presumably from DitIntelPam, have been involved in highly political cases.88 The National Police, including DitIntelPam, have been undergoing expansion in recent years, with increased responsibility for internal security. While this internal security role has yet to be defined conclusively, it is likely to be built upon the Police’s original strategy, which is governed primarily through an “environmental security system” (Siskamling, Sistem Keamanan Lingkungan), described by Barker as a “way of organising the local security apparatus so as to give police the responsibility of coordinating and supervising neighbourhood ronda

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(neighbourhood watch), and for training and supervising private security guards (satpam) for use in commercial and public settings”.89 This strategy represented the New Order government’s attempt to impose state control over local security practices which was monopolized by private gangs or as they are colloquially referred — preman or centeng (gangsters or hired thugs). The growth of such private security services constituted a threat to the authority of the Police. However, Siskamling did not merely focus on the business of providing “security” — it was also geared towards monitoring and control. A significant aim was to deter acts of communal violence against suspected thieves, sorcerers and adulterers. In some instances, Siskamling acted as an early warning system to protect the Police when they became targets of violence from the community.90 It is likely that the Siskamling structure will grow in importance as neighbourhood night patrols are stepped up to improve counter-terrorism efforts. In the context of Indonesia’s own attempts to eradicate terrorism in its territory, there are suggestions that neighbourhood night patrols could improve public alertness and be a useful source of information on the movements of people in and out of neighbourhoods.91 The competence of Police intelligence, however, has always been questionable. In 1993, then Armed Forces Commander General Feisal Tanjung blamed poor Police intelligence for the emergence of security troubles that had dented the credibility of the military and police. Poor coordination between officials of the various agencies of the Armed Forces in handling critical problems and insufficient managerial skills especially in data processing were among the weaknesses leading to the waning credibility of the Police. Cases which tarnished the image of the Police were the clash between police officers and followers of the banned Islamic sect Haur Koneng, in Majalengka, West Java in which four people died. Another was the land case in Rancamaya (Bogor, West Java), when local residents protested against the low compensation payments they got from the developer who acquired their land, and the violent clash between the Police and the local people in Nipah on Madura Island, similarly blamed on poor Police intelligence.92 This was not a surprising revelation but a reflection of a Police force that lacked sophisticated intelligence skills necessary for investigative work and trust within the community. During the Suharto era, Police relations with the community followed an ethos premised on protecting the interests of the government rather than responding to community demands for protection and security from crime. The continuation of a militaristic mindset among members of the Police is a manifestation of the predominance of officers with a paramilitary

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background who occupy senior positions in the Police force. Police education and training were militarized during the Suharto era and there has been a steady decline in the technical competence of the Police force (Djamin 1999, pp. 89, 184–85). Though the Police have emerged out of the Bali bombing investigations with great credit, it is difficult to assess whether the speed and competence of the investigation process, which led to the arrest and convictions of a number of terrorists in 2003, was a product of international assistance rather than homegrown competence. Unfair as it may sound, is likely that the former may be closer to the truth. Observations seem to point to the fact that crucial information relating to terrorism has often not been shared due to rivalry between DitIntelPam and BIN. Under current operating frameworks, the Police are required to conduct operations and investigations while BIN is expected to analyse the information and determine the scope of threat and the response necessary. For instance, six months before the Bali bombings, Police knew the entire makeup of the cell that carried out the terrorist operation. Similarly, information relating to the possibility of a suicide operation was available six weeks prior to the Marriot bombing due to a Police intercept of an email sent by the alleged suicide bomber.93 What happened to the information remains unclear. Another example was the reported statement of then Army chief Gen Ryamizard Ryacudu who was quoted as saying “our (BAIS) very strong intelligence network detected terrorist cells in Indonesia a long time ago. We didn’t act because it is no longer within our jurisdiction to do so”.94 Rivalries between the various agencies no doubt impede the sharing of information but such problems are symptomatic of a view prevalent in the military that Police intelligence has always been of secondary importance simply because the military has always monopolized intelligence gathering and processing. Prior to the separation of the Police from the military in 1999; Police officers enjoyed secondments to BAIS where they were at least able partake in the intelligence process. In the final analysis, the separation will compromise capabilities within the Police to do effective intelligence work owing to a lack of the necessary skills and an effective database.95 GOVERNMENT-BASED INTELLIGENCE ORGANIZATIONS There has also been considerable and increasing interpenetration of intelligence and legal activities in Indonesia. During the Suharto era, the intelligence apparatus extended into the judicial system through the office

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of the Deputy Attorney-General for Intelligence Affairs (Jamintel, Jaksa Agung Muda Bidang Intelijen). Jamintel is responsible for legal intelligence which in turn aids the functioning of the prosecutory machinery by supporting a case for screening, investigation, sentencing requirements, through the implementation of the judges’ decision. Over and above this, it also seems that Jamintel’s operational scope has increased to include not only domestic, but regional and international issues. The latter possibly refers to its role in bolstering the intelligence network by stemming the entry of “foreign intelligence contrary to the Pancasila and the Indonesian nation”. This may refer to the fact that it may possess a limited counterintelligence capacity. 96 The position of Deputy Attorney-General (Intelligence) has been occupied during the Suharto era by experienced senior military intelligence officers and as a consequence ensured that the TNI’s security priorities dominated its agenda. Intelligence provided by Jamintel during the Suharto era was seen by the government as increasingly important — partly for purposes of legitimation of the legal process, and more importantly to ensure that the legal system is used effectively for purposes of political control. In a sense, like all institutions in Indonesia, Jamintel’s functions were corrupted by the narrow political interests of the Suharto regime where the Attorney-General functioned more like a “Prosecutor-General” when the organization should function ideally as an investigation body, that is, a “Jaminvestigasi”.97 Significantly, similar to the problems faced by the Police, the professionalism of the Attorney-General’s office has been corrupted by years of militarization. An audit of the Public Prosecution Service done by Price Waterhouse made the following observation: The PPS (Public Prosecution Training Center) has a strong military culture … Officers regularly wear uniforms, conduct military ceremonies, give ritual salutes, and bring a military shape to everyday life … More importantly, the military culture is reflected in a rigidly hierarchical structure in which lower ranks do not speak when their superiors are present, orders come from above, discretion is limited, initiative is not encouraged, and punishment for failing to fall in line can be swift … Detailed rules, the seeking of consent in planning prosecution work and extensive review seem to leave little room for discretion at any level … Training and induction for new hires … focus on military values and administrative technical matters with little emphasis on prosecuting a criminal case. The course subjects include: Marching; Military Ceremony; History of the Prosecution Office of Indonesia; Organization Structure; and Prosecution

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Administration … The concepts of loyalty and enforcement of the dictates of the regime became paramount … [T]he role of the PPS was to enforce the policy of the government and not necessarily to independently uphold the law.98

What has become increasing clear over the years is that as a consequence of increasing militarization, the Attorney-General’s office has long been seen as a quasi-military body and “part of the institutional structure of a legal system that the military has largely co-opted” and structured to maintain a “commitment to the values and goals of the state’s policies rather than the legal system and the values of justice it nominally serves”.99 As its major function was to serve the security interests of the New Order, it was not surprising that under such circumstances, the Attorney-General’s office functioned as the legal protector for Suharto’s New Order and its supporters, particularly the military. The State Cryptography Institute (LSN, Lembaga Sandi Negera) is the body formally responsible for all state encoding and cryptography policy especially in the field of security. This organization appears primarily concerned with developing and protecting government secret communications capabilities in both civilian and military sectors. This can be ascertained by a simple glance through the basic structure of the LSN. The LSN is made up of at least four bureaus, namely, Education; Research and Development; Equipment and Security. It is run by a Chairperson who is directly responsible to the President.100 Tanter stresses that the LSN has an external electronic intelligence-gathering role which is not evident from this list. Lowry, though, contends that the LSN’s limited budget suggests that any strategic signals intelligence capabilities that exist would probably be controlled by TNI through BAIS (Lowry 1995, p. 55). What is not clear, though, is the division of labour in foreign electronic surveillance between the LSN, and other organizations including BIN and BAIS. From what the author has been able to gather, the LSN essentially focuses on non-military affairs, that is, it safeguards communications. It also designs and develops codes for embassy communications. It has some codebreaking capability but no facilities for data and surveillance.101 Little information about the precise activities of the LSN is available, and more research into the whole area of electronic intelligence, foreign and domestic, is required. There also exists a Socio-Political Directorate within the Ministry of Home Affairs called Ditsospol Mendagri, Direktorat SosialPolitik Kementerian Dalam Negri, which in the past used to work with the now defunct office of the Chief of the Armed Forces Social and Political

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Affairs Staff (Kassospol ABRI, Kepala Staf Sosial Politik ABRI) for the conduct of the General Election. Such a role no longer exists in a democratic Indonesia where an independent National Election Commission (KPU, Komisi Pemilihan Umum) now manages the country’s entire election mechanism. Ditsospol Mendagri though would still continue to watch over the variously categorized ex-political prisoners (and presumably their families) in coordination with information provided by the civil administration part of the neighbourhood watch programme (rukun tetangga/rukun warga). INTELLIGENCE OPERATIONS IN RETROSPECT Intelligence operations in Indonesia are varied and can be distinguished, according to a mix of surveillance and coercion, and according to the degree of sophistication of the control apparatus compared with the number of target groups. Surveillance by the complex of military and other intelligence and security agencies had grown to a remarkable degree in the New Order period. With the Armed Forces adopting a holistic approach to national security, intelligence and surveillance has become all-pervasive. While pre-1966 intelligence agencies were politically active, their powers were nothing compared to the articulated system of surveillance reaching from BAIS headquarters through the Army intelligence staff and line structure into the villages, the parallel military and civilian social-political affairs “commissars”, and the village and kampung based rukun tetangga structure that constitutes the “base level of political intelligence” in Indonesia that were the hallmark of the Murdani era. Specialist intelligence divisions were located in the prosecutor’s office, and elsewhere. Elsewhere, as we shall soon discuss, in industrialized zones of Indonesia, an elaborate industrial relations system was instituted, controlled by Kopkamtib/Bakorstanas intelligence officers coordinating “industrial monitoring” and “crisis intervention” teams. The example of the control of labour being brought under the rubric of national security illustrates the Suharto regime’s paranoia over national security matters. In most other societies, the issue of labour control would never reach such proportions. According to Tanter: Much of this surveillance is unseen and unfelt because it is only a matter of catching the dust of history, noting only the normal patterns of life and untoward variations. Moreover, the grand design of

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intelligence bureaucrats is always unevenly realized, somewhat ineptly practiced, and intermittently acted upon. But all the same, the evidence suggests that the monitoring and surveillance of the Indonesian citizenry, especially those who are in social or political categories considered by the state to be “susceptible to subversion”, is comprehensive and penetrating (Tanter 1991, p. 411).

During much of the Suharto era, a complex apparatus of surveillance attempted to deal with a much broader range of “obstructions” to state policy, with an overall lower level of sophistication as opposed to Singapore and Malaysia, where a relatively small number of groups come under extremely close and sophisticated attention. But where necessary, surveillance resources can be mobilized and focused closely on a small number of target groups — such as dissident Islamic groups or organized labour. The Suharto era lines of intelligence coordination that converged in the office of the President were thrown into disarray after the collapse of the regime. Suharto’s impregnable position at the apex of the New Order hierarchy made control over the intelligence apparatus less complicated since military commanders were responsible to him. The security apparatus in Indonesia remains personalized, making it difficult for the intelligence services to fulfill their intended roles for the benefit of state security in a professional manner. Indonesia’s intelligence system “has always been more a player than a servant of its masters” (ibid.) and reformasi has yet to correct this shortcoming, with an effective coordinating mechanism for its intelligence agencies and clear lines of command and control still elusive. Under the current structure, BAIS reports to TNI headquarters, while BIN reports directly to the President. The Police, since its separation from the Armed Forces, also reports to the President. Theoretically, the Armed Forces Commander could pass on BAIS intelligence to the President and the President could do likewise by passing on BIN intelligence to the Ministry of Defence (Ingo 2000). It would be useful at this juncture to briefly assess how the integration of surveillance, evaluation and intervention arrangements worked in practice. Attempting such analysis is a difficult task, since secrecy is characteristic of even this relatively overt portion102 of the intelligence apparatus. The following examination of TNI intelligence operations will utilize materials gathered from open sources, mainly documents derived from Indonesian military forces on operational duty in East Timor that have come into the public domain as well as evidence of the

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practical intelligence and security operations from more central parts of Indonesian society. This analysis should bring us closer to an understanding of the military’s modus operandi pertaining to territorially based activities. What becomes clear from this analysis is the level of instrumental rationality, systematic surveillance of the population and general continuity with the interventionist approach adopted by the TNI.

MODELS OF INTELLIGENCE OPERATIONS Labour Control as an Intelligence Target Being a country with a large agricultural sector, the bulk of Indonesia’s labour force can be found in the rural areas. However, labour unrest and labour-related issues have been politically significant in Indonesian politics, most obviously through unions affiliated with the PKI prior to 1965. The memory of militant of labour activism during the Guided Democracy period coupled with the need to create a stable investment environment to kick-start a stagnant economy became the logic guiding New Order government policies aimed at “de-politicizing labour”103 for the purposes of establishing “pancasila labour (industrial) relations” in accordance with a security ideology that stressed harmony, orderliness and development. In practice, this has meant a policy of state political involvement to ensure that labour cannot mobilize to oppose government policies at a collective, political level, or to carry out effective industrial action. This section provides a brief glimpse into the nature of surveillance and intervention controls developed during the Suharto era particularly since the late 1970s for the purposes of maintaining control over an increasingly volatile labour force. The issue of the penetration of the intelligence system into labourrelated issues was first highlighted in the work of INDOC (Indonesian Documentation and Information Centre) 104 based at Leiden, The Netherlands, and subsequently built upon by Tanter (1991, pp. 385–94) as a useful case study in his doctoral thesis. According to evidence uncovered by Tanter, Kopkamtib was deeply involved in efforts to control an increasingly assertive and expanding industrial labour force. In concert with the Department of Manpower, headed from 1983 to 1988 by the former head of Kopkamtib, Admiral Sudomo, and government-controlled union groups and client business groups, Kopkamtib established a comprehensive system of labour surveillance and intervention capacities,

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especially in the industrially vital Jakarta-Bogor-Bekasi-Tanggerang region (Jabotabek) (ibid.). Role of Intelligence in Labour Crises Intervention According to Tanter, the involvement of intelligence operatives in labour relations go as far back to the middle or late 1970s and were closely identified with Admiral Sudomo’s command of Kopkamtib. The legacy of the turbulent 1960s could not be simply wished away and the common though under-reported instances of strikes required a new corporatist framework typified by three approaches: ideological, organizational, and intelligence surveillance and intervention. Tanter (ibid., pp. 388–90) elucidates these procedures: The first step was both ideological and organizational. The state ideology of Pancasila was extended into the realm of Pancasila Industrial Relations built around the concepts of musyawarah (consultation) and mufakat (consensus) with according to Admiral Sudomo, ‘worker and employer as an example/symbol of one big family which works together’. To complement this paternalistic ideology, a corporatist labour relations structure has been erected around a tripartite relationship between government-sponsored unions, employers federations and the Department of Labour Power … The second step was organizational – plugging the organizational loopholes in FBSI (Federsi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia, All-Indonesia Labour Unions Federation). In 1986, FBSI was replaced by a new peak union organization, the All Indonesian Federation of Workers (SPSI, Serikat Pekerja Seluruh Indonesia) … The third and most important element in the control of labour, however, has been the involvement of the intelligence and security agencies, especially Kopkamtib.

This symbiotic link between intelligence and labour was further concreticized after Sudomo’s transfer in 1983 to the Department of Manpower (formerly refered to as Manpower and Transmigration) and later with the appointment of former BAKIN chief, Lt-Gen Sutopo Yuwono as Director-General of the Department of Manpower (1983–87). With the announcement of August 1981 of the creation of Labour Assistance Teams (Tim Bantuan Masalah Perburuhan), Sudomo brought together a new structure to complement the Central and Regional Councils for the Restoration of Labour Disputes (P4P/P4D) with the expressed purpose of detecting and preventing industrial disputes (ibid., pp. 39–92).

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Such Labour Assistance Teams were to be mainly “preventive in nature, designed to pre-empt the development of strikes and lockouts and similar disturbances that threaten national security” (ibid., p. 391) and comprised officials from the then Department of Manpower and Transmigration; business/employers organizations like the Chamber of Commerce and Industry (KADIN, Kamar Dagang dan Industri) and the Indonesian Federation for Entrepreneurs Socio-economic matters (PUSPI, Perhimpunan Urusan Sosial Ekonomi Pengusaha Indonesia); the Central Executive Council of Indonesia’s solitary trade union FBSI; officers from the then Opstibpus (Operasi Tertib Pusat, the Centre for Operation Order)105 and Kopkamtib. These Labour Assistance Teams were under the stewardship of the Director-General for the Development and Protection of Labour (Dirjen Binalindung) (ibid.) Regional Binalindung officers were instructed by Sudomo in May 1983 to: 1. ...constantly to monitor and follow industrial relations between employers and employees as part of the plan of detecting situations and building information on such relations. 2. Apart from regular routine reports, they are instructed to report every day to the Ministry on the situation in their area... to discuss developments concerning Collective Labour Agreements, strikes and any other unrest.106 According to INDOC’s analysis: It seems that the team has a special concern to prevent labour conflict in regions which have been designated ‘strategic areas’, i.e., Jakarta (where over half the strikes have occurred in the Pulogadung free trade zone), West Java, Riau, East Kalimantan, North Sumatra, South Sumatra, Central Java, East Java and South Sulawesi. The Team at the national level appears to operate local-level ‘Detection teams’ in the ‘strategic areas’ and in particular locations, which monitor the situation and are ready to act at the first sign of trouble... They are not always called ‘Detection Teams’; sometimes ‘Early Detection System’ (EDS), sometimes ‘special team’ (tim khusus), or ‘tripartite council’; also, their exact composition varies, sometimes including the judiciary and others, but always representatives of employers, the government (including police and military intelligence) and the FBSI.107

In April 1983, a decision was taken to replace the Early Detection Teams and Labour Assistance teams with Manpower Management Centres (Pusat Pengelolaan Masaalah Ketenaga-Kerjaan). These Centres now housed two

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new organizations, namely, a Policy Centre and Field Action Groups (KAL, Kelompok Aksi Dilapangan) responsible for preventing the rise of industrial conflicts and facilitating labour crises management. The following year, Sudomo’s department also initiated the establishment of Early Warning Posts (Pos Siaga Naker) for “24-hour non-stop monitoring and resolution of labour affairs” in the industrial concentration of Jakarta-Bogor-TangerangBekasi region. The Officers of the Department of Manpower responsible for manning these Early Warning Posts were required to handle reports direct from the public, plus comments emanating from the press. Referring to the new initiatives instituted by the Department of Manpower, Tanter observed an attachment to the notice highlighting the creation of a Manpower Management Centre (Pusat Pengelola Tenaga Kerja) headed by the Minister and a second regional-level organization called the Conflict Prevention Centre (Pusat Pelaksana Pengecah Konflik) controlled by the Kopkamtib (Tanter 1991, p. 393). In fact, INDOC reports do substantiate Tanter’s claim that dissenting workers have been brought before Kopkamtib officers109 and in the case of PT Textra in 1980, the Kopkamtib Regional Special Executive not only acted as the company spokesperson against workers, but actually signed the employer’s “Data on the Reason for the Dismissals”.110 This short overview, while brief, is an attempt to highlight the seriousness with which the state approached labour issues.111 Though legislation (Regulation 342/1986) which legitimized military intervention in labour disputes had been repealed in January 1994, regulations which authorize intervention such as Bakorstanas Decree No. 02/Stanas/XII/1990 still continued to be active until the demise of Bakorstanas in March 2000 and explain the expansion of intelligence activities in the labour sector particularly in the wake of periodic labour-related unrest which began in the 1990–91 (Harries 1995, p. 2). The most serious unrest occurred in Medan and its satellite towns in April 1994, lasted for more than a week, with tens of thousands of workers taking to the streets, leaving one person dead, 12 injured and 150 shops ransacked and looted and cars set ablaze. Workers had demanded an end to military intervention in labour disputes and that the daily minimum wage be raised from 3,100 to 7,000 rupiah; the right to organize, and specifically that the government recognize the independent Indonesian Trade Union for Prosperity (SBSI, Serikat Buruh Sejahtra Indonesia); and the reinstatement of 360 workers dismissed by P.T. Korek Api Deli, a match factory, following a strike in March 1994. Workers’ representatives were prevented from meeting the Governor of

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North Sumatra and the negotiations, from the very beginning, were essentially under the control of Bakorstanasda. Despite an agreement that the worker’s representatives could meet with the Governor to put forward their grievances, such a meeting was not forthcoming as the security forces moved in to crush the demonstration, triggering violence. Up to that point, the rallies were peaceful. In the aftermath of the violence, the official response was to politicize the issue. Then Armed Forces Chief of General Staff Maj-Gen H.B.L Mantiri accused SBSI and the striking workers of using tactics “reminiscent of the methods of the PKI” while in Medan, Police Lt-Col Sukardi “verified” that the motivations behind the worker’s protests were “anti-Chinese”.112 No doubt there was underlying anti-Chinese sentiment among workers, generally fuelled by growing disenchantment over the collusive practices between Chinese businesspeople and members of the Suharto family. However, there are reasons to speculate that the violence was engineered. At the start of the demonstrations, banners with anti-Chinese slogans were not visible. Unlike the hand-drawn placards held by protesting workers, banners with anti-Chinese slogans were professionally printed and could not possibly be produced on a worker’s salary. Similarly, anti-Chinese leaflets which were distributed during the time of the demonstrations made no mention of workers’ demands but were written in “extremely provocative and cultivated language”.113 This fortuitous change in “strategy” by the workers provided the military with the legal façade to take the necessary measures to control SARA-related “racist violence”. Others within the TNI pointed to the fact that the orchestrators of the Medan riots had used communist tactics and by that logic adopted the perspectives that communists were behind the riots. Such explanations were the vogue in the TNI lexicon during the 1990s. Similar explanations were used to blame organizations and individuals prominent in the labour movement as perpetrators of the 27 July 1996 riots (Hadiz 1997, pp. 172, 176). Cheap labour which accounted for 5 to 7 per cent of total production costs allied to repression of worker’s rights were a vital driving engine for the country’s economic boom up to 1996. Stable labour relations remains crucial to Indonesia’s economic prospects and it is hard to imagine securityoriented perspectives changing overnight even though the post-Suharto era has seen the emergence of a plethora of new unions. Management and workers now have to adjust to the new environment but have little time to socialize a new pattern of interactions based on proper principles of collective bargaining. In the absence of such principles, in the backdrop, remains the corrupt, violent legacy of the Suharto era which continues to

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tarnish labour relations. SBSI contends that the police, military and local government officials were responsible for 135 cases of workers’ rights violations in 2000. While there are no government-sanctioned methods to repress workers rights, the close relationship between business and the security mechanism does means that Suharto-era violence associated with labour relations continues to be entrenched in the system. In the words of labour leader Muchtar Pakpahan, “officially, there is freedom to associate, the freedom to bargain, the freedom to express … the law on the books is different from the law in the field”.114 The Petrus Campaign and the use of coercion The wave of state-orchestrated extrajudicial executions of suspected criminals (gali or gabungan anak-anak liar) which took place between 1983 and 1985 by highly-trained hit squads was known popularly as Petrus, an acronym of penembak misterius or “mysterious gunmen”. Much has been written about the repression of political dissidents in Indonesia and the military operations against armed opponents of the Indonesian state in such places as East Timor and Irian Jaya. What was unique about the Petrus campaign was that coercion was used not to silence criticism or defend the Indonesian state from perceived threats to its physical integrity, but also as an instrument of social policy. According to Bourchier (1990, p. 177): “It was a carefully planned and orchestrated military-intelligence operation intended, in the words of President Suharto, as ‘shock therapy’ to curb radically the incidence of violent crime”. Despite some initial reluctance on the part of the authorities to try to avoid responsibility, such prevarication was seemingly replaced by an attitude of nonchalance as if these killings were explainable and perfectly acceptable for the purposes of public order and stability. According to Tanter, those participating in the killings were in the main Armed Forces personnel: in some instances police; but typically Army Special Forces troops (Kopassandha) (see Tanter 1991, p. 374). By the time the killings had run their course, (Bourchier 1990, p. 186) estimated that the number murdered was in excess of 5,000 and possibly as high as 10,000. Confidential sources quoted by Tanter indicated that both the military and police hierarchies at the time independently claimed that the operation was in fact a centralized military campaign under the control of the then new Armed Forces and Kopkamtib Commander, Murdani. The Petrus killings were made possible by the enormous coercive capacity of the Indonesian state which was streamlined in 1983 when Murdani was given control over both operational and intelligence wings of the Armed Forces.

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The operation resulted from a specific plan generated in the newly created BAIS in response to Murdani’s request for action. Both sources maintained that the usual practice was for lists of potential targets to be drawn up locally by Police intelligence. Action against nominated targets would then only proceed on the basis of a signed authorization from the Area Police Commander (Tanter 1991, p. 375; Bourchier 1990, p. 187). Theories abound but there seemed to be little consensus regarding what motivated the killings. Tanter speculated that there was “considerable public dissatisfaction with the failure of the police to protect the public and with allegedly lenient and ineffective sentencing practices by the judiciary” to prompt the need for drastic measures within an environment where “orderliness” was prized and the short-term gains seemingly justified and reinforced the security ideology of those in power. The campaign was a classic case of an intelligence-based operation utilizing purely coercive methods to obtain its objective. More importantly, the campaign fits into the Seskoad conception of a “socially based threat” originally identified by Tanter. As specified by the Seskoad manual, Public Order and Security Operations are vital whenever the disturbing element takes the form of organized crime or is alarming the community but does not yet have political strength or a Defence and Security character.115 The model recommends intervention by the Territorial Apparatus in its own right or under Kopkamtib auspices. In this context, the social consequences of increasing crime in the country were beginning to concern the security apparatus. The application of the Seskoad guidelines resulted in the most extreme application of organized coercion, making it abundantly clear that when necessary, surveillance, intelligence and coercion are inextricably and instrumentally linked. The rise in the rate of violent crime in the early 1980s was in a sense a new kind of problem. It arose spontaneously from society and was not politically motivated. Yet, it is clear from statements of senior military figures that crime was seen by the New Order leadership to have an immediate bearing not only on national stability but also on the authority of the government.116 The point here is that the government saw the high level of crime, or the public’s perception of the high level of crime and the failure of the police to deal with it, as a direct challenge to its credibility which demanded a decisive response. As Suharto recalled in his 1989 autobiography, The peace was disturbed (ketentraman terganggu). It was as if there was no longer peace in this country. It was as though all there was was

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fear... We had to apply some treatment, take some stern action. What kind of stern action? It had to be with violence. But this violence did not mean just shooting people, pow! pow! just like that. No! But those who tried to resist, like it or not, had to be shot... Some of the corpses were left (in public places) just like that. This was for the purpose of shock therapy (terapi goncangan). This was done so that the general public would understand that there was still someone capable of taking action to tackle the problem of criminality.117

The killings, and the gruesome public spectacle of the corpses, were designed not only to terrorize the galis into submission but also to demonstrate to the rest of the populace the resolve of the government to crush any challenge to its authority. The Petrus killings were viewed as an attempt by Suharto to assert the authority of the government in the face of rising social unrest and justified ostensibly due to the failure of the Police to control a sharply increasing rate of violent crime. In a more general sense, the killings were facilitated by the dominance within the New Order of the security apparatus and ultimately, by the extreme concentration of power in the hands of the President. They demonstrated the ease with which the state was able to sidestep constitutional restraints and deploy extra-legal violence against its people when it chooses to do so. However, whether intended or not, such processes, socialized and rationalized within a context where security disturbance had to be eliminated by whatever means possible, has the undesired effect of providing military personnel with an “officially sanctioned” method of operation that could be applied elsewhere in the archipelago to combat threats. In the ensuing years, the Petrus-style approach has re-emerged in conflict environments like Aceh and East Timor, particularly in operating environments where the TNI Headquarters has had relatively little control over the types of policies developed at a local level. Generally, a pattern seems to have emerged at the Kodim level where intelligence officers in concert with their Kopassus colleagues would engage in covert assassination to eliminate members of local groups perceived to be engaged in subversive activities (Killcullen 2000, p. 109). Militia-style operations in East Timor It would be impossible to discuss militia-style operations in East Timor or elsewhere without a discussion of the structural relationship between the Kopassus118 elite troops and militia forces.119 After the invasion of East

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Timor in 1976, a special Defence and Security Command (Kohankam, Komando Pertahanan Keamanan) was created for the specific employment of Kostrad and Kopassus elements for combat operations under the direct command of TNI headquarters in Jakarta while the territorial troops came under the jurisdiction of the Udayana/Military Regional Command 9 based in Denpassar. A combat structure has always been pre-eminent in East Timor although operational strategies were altered depending on security contingencies as the focus of the war shifted from intermittent guerrilla warfare in the rural vicinities to the major cities where urban resistance in the form of an intifada-like uprising began to take shape in the 1990s. In 1984 the name Kohankam was changed to East Timor Security Operations Command (Koopskam, Komando Operasi Keamanan Timor Timur), and changed again in 1989 to Operations Implementation Command (Kolakops, Komando Pelaksana Operasi).120 In 1993, though Kolakops was dissolved, the combat sector commands A and B remained intact under the command of Kostrad personnel while covert operations were devolved to Kopassus Group 3 (Training) and its Intelligence Task Force (SGI, Satuan Gabungan Intelijen) (Kammen 2001, p. 166). The first sign that there would be an increase in psychological warfare operations to instill terror in the East Timorese urban population was the use of “blackclad and masked ninjas” which appeared in February 1995 (ibid., p. 167). The use of “shock therapy”, specifically, Petrus-style killings to intimidate pro-independence supporters were similarly employed elsewhere in other troubled spots in the archipelago during that era. In the mid-1990s, Operasi Jaring Merah was well underway in Aceh as the TNI began to use terror systematically to eliminate the Free Aceh Movement (GAM, Gerakan Aceh Merdeka). Aceh became designated as a Military Operations Area (DOM, Daerah Operasi Militer) where “tens of thousands of men” were mobilized into local vigilante groups and night patrols to support military operations.121 The increased use of psychological warfare in East Timor in the late 1990s went in tandem with the expansion of Kopassus into a force numbering 7,000 troops, as an undisclosed number of personnel from Group 3 were transferred to the newly formed Groups 4 and 5 under the instructions of Suharto’s son-in-law Prabowo Subianto, who became Kopassus commander in 1998.122 Though officially designated as an intelligence unit, analysts have speculated that Group 4 special skills involve “infiltrating opposition groups and acting as provocateurs”, while Group 5, an anti-terror unit, “was set up to kidnap or kill influential opposition figures in the closing years of Suharto’s rule”.123 Evidence of

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the modus operandi of Group 5 became glaringly evident when eleven members of Tim Mawar (Rose team) were given a 22-month jail sentence for the abduction of anti-Suharto activists in early 1998. Kopassus Groups 1 and 2 (Operations) generally focus on combat tasks. For a Kopassus force largely made up of Javanese soldiery, penetrating the clandestine Timorese resistance movement would be difficult and hence as a logical consequence, the thrust of Kopassus operations involved the creation of militia forces in an attempt to get Timorese to fight Timorese. Kopassus proved adapt at fine-tuning such a strategy and Army intelligence turned to them for the answers in the wake of the 1991 Santa Cruz massacre. In 1992, having taken stock that the “Wanra, Hansip and special Teams” were unable to prevent the large-scale demonstrations leading up to 1991 Santa Cruz massacre, Army intelligence contended that the use of nonorganic troops were an ineffective deterrent to the clandestine movement (Moore 2001, p. 28). More effective had been the Nanggala Unit, run by Kopassus, and made up of captured Fretilin fighters who had better success in combat situations where they had a better appreciation regional terrain and the tactics of Fretilin. The Kopassus-run East Timorese militia teams operating in the eastern sector (Sector A) also enjoyed better success in penetrating the clandestine movement (ibid.). By the mid-1990s, Kopassus had been given effective control over non-organic troops and began to play a more significant role in nullifying the influence of the clandestine resistance movement. Drawing on their experience of organizing East Timorese militias, they created the Youth Guards for Integration (Garda Paksi, Garda Muda Penegak Integrasi). Garda Paksi trainees like Eurico Guterres and Manuel de Sousa were to become influential militia leaders and responsible for the large-scale terror campaign that occurred in 1999 (ibid., p. 29). Habibie’s decision in January 1999 to hold a referendum in East Timor on its future led to the mushrooming of militia units124 in each of the thirteen districts that made up the former province. According to Kilcullen (2000, p. 134–35), these militia groups were generally organized into a three-tier structure: The top tier consisted of groups that were armed, trained and provided with cadre staff by the TNI. The second tier consisted of groups that armed themselves or received only limited TNI arms and were provided with training and cadre staff by Tier 1 Groups, rather than directly by TNI. The third tier consisted of localized auxiliary groups, operating on an entirely part-time basis and providing labour, guard duties and recruits for the higher organizations.

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It was evident to Kilcullen that Tier 2 and 3, militia were often tasked to do the “dirty work” and were “unceremoniously abandoned” by their erstwhile protectors in Tier 1 or their SGI and Kodim intelligence patrons when international pressure forced Jakarta to distance itself from the militia in December 1999 (ibid., p. 140). Tier 3 elements were generally “unemployed, socially underprivileged and members of the criminal or extremely poor elements of village society” thereby allowing the TNI to “exploit resentment against the more prosperous elements of East Timorese society” with a “provision of narcotics and alcohol” as well as opportunities for “money and the chance to plunder” (ibid.). Another interesting observation by Kilcullen was that Tier 3 militia were almost invariably controlled and directed by members of traditional, military or political elites within village or town areas” (ibid.). No doubt once effective controls were loosened by the TNI, the influence of local leaders over the militia would make it very difficult for the local TNI command structure, let alone TNI headquarters in Jakarta to exercise effective control at ground level. From an analysis of the various secret documents that became available in the public domain there were two principal operations called Sapu Jagad (Clean Sweep) conducted in March and September 1999. Operasi Sapu Jagad I (March/April 1999) was initiated to create an environment of disorder and intimidation to cajole the East Timorese, specifically influential members of society and the CNRT (National Council of Timorese Resistance) into supporting autonomy as well as creating conditions which would discourage the population as a whole from registering and exercising their vote during the referendum. If the East Timorese were sufficiently cowed into not exercising their voting rights through engineered intimidation, then the hope was that a lack of a significant voter turnout would show the world that the East Timorese had rejected the referendum. Once the referendum results were announced on 4 September, the militia gangs embarked upon a scorched earth policy. Operasi Sapu Jagad II was intended to give the impression that the destruction wrought on East Timor was the consequence of a spontaneous outpouring of anger by pro-autonomy groups. However, the selective targeting of pro-independence leaders and neighbourhoods and symbols associated with the pro-independence movement like the Catholic Church; the seeming loss of “tactical” control by TNI personnel over their militia proxies; as well as the looting and plundering perpetrated by the militias done right under the very noses of the TNI conveyed the impression that it was a well-prepared military operation. At the outset, suspicions that elements within the TNI would strive to undermine the

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referendum was reinforced by the curious appointment by Habibie of the then BIA Chief Maj-Gen Zacky Anwar Makarim as liaison to the UNAMET (United Nations Mission in East Timor). This appointment sounded alarm bells for those who have analysed closely TNI strategy in East Timor. 125 Zacky Anwar Makarim was responsible for Army intelligence during the time of the Santa Cruz killings in 1991 and reputed to be a close associate of Prabowo Subianto who in the run-up to the collapse of the Suharto regime in May 1998 had contested control of the TNI with General Wiranto. The KPP HAM Tim-Tim investigations brought to light evidence that when the results of the referendum became known, the existing and newly formed militia groups were amalgamated into an Integration Struggle Force (PPI, Pasukan Pejuang Integrasi) which was to become the military wing of the Joint East Timor Pro-Autonomy Front (FBOTT, Front Bersama Pro Otonomi Timor-Timur). Civilian complicity became evident when former Governor Abilio Soares testified that he had ordered all the province’s Bupati (Regent) to establish pam swakarsa (the Bahasa code-word used in East Timor for militia) groups to ensure that the proautonomy vote prevailed during the referendum. The use of the widelyused term pam swakarsa legitimated the militia groups particularly when its elements were drawn from official bodies like Kamra, Binpolda and Babinsa sources. Official imprimatur was provided by the provincial leaders and military commanders who acted as advisors to the pam swakarsa. The East Timor Governor and Regents who had administrative control over the militia while the Police played the role of supervisor with the military assisting with the provision of physical support. Indeed, the financing of militia activities was derived from the annual regional budget allocated by Jakarta. There were a number of examples used by KPP HAM Tim-Tim to further illustrate Government and TNI support for militia activities. For instance, the headquarters of most of the militia groups were located on Kodim or Koramil premises. Another was a witness account conveyed through a written testimony under oath stating that Maj-Gen Zacky Anwar Makarim was responsible for the coordination of all militia activity. The KPP HAM Tim-Tim report also highlighted that witnesses also testified that in areas where systematic attacks were perpetrated, militia were seen in tandem with military personnel conducting joint patrols. General Wiranto had under questioning admitted to KPP HAM Tim-Tim investigators that the government had provided weapons to the militia. Eyewitnesses had also given testimony that the military often gave weapons to militia groups.126

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Furthermore, months after the sacking of East Timor, documents127 began to surface intimating that a calculated, scorched earth policy was sanctioned by elite security planners. The Garnardi documents gave a glimpse of what was to happen if the referendum results rejected the proautonomy option, specifically, its speculation that infrastructure would be destroyed by departing TNI troops in the wake of a pro-independence victory. Maj-Gen (Ret) H.R. Garnardi’s credentials lent credence that this document, written in Dili, could be treated seriously. Garnardi was then an assistant to the Coordinating Minister of Politics and Security Feisal Tanjung128 and served on two task forces sent out from Jakarta to Dili to liaise with UNAMET and assess developments in East Timor. Though he acknowledged his signature on the documents in question, he steadfastly denied its contents. Another source was a classified telegram sent from Army Headquarters by Lt-Gen Johny Lumintang on behalf of the Army Chief of Staff dated 5 May 1999. This telegram gave an indication of the existence of contingency plans authorizing the military commander in East Timor to prepare plans for evacuation in the event the pro-independence vote succeeded.129 The final source, giving further indication that plans existed for forced deportation and displacement of the population from East to West Timor was found in a general plan entitled the “Contingency Plan for Post-Referendum Period in East Timor” issued from Armed Forces Headquarters on August 1999.130 In the overall analysis, if the TNI’s counter-insurgency operations were able to contain Timorese resistance in the countryside in the 1980s, then the emergence of a clandestine front in the 1990s required a different set of tactics. To neutralize the Timorese resistance in the cities, the TNI adopted operational methods specifically developed in Java to eliminate urban-based “threats”. In the 1990s, the use of covert and clandestine paramilitary and intelligence groups in a campaign of counter-terror and counter subversion was introduced signalling a shift from large-scale conventional operations to small group counter insurgency. The change of emphasis in strategy gave Kopassus an enormous amount of influence on military matters in the province. A significant tactic employed was Petrusstyle killings ordered by local commanders with the aim of assassinating local elements deemed subversive. No doubt some of these executions may have been sanctioned by central military authorities, but the majority of these killings would have been the initiative of local commanders and a source of much embarrassment to the central government and TNI elite in Jakarta. This apparent loss of centralized control over the employment and tactics of Kopassus elements at the local level would have disastrous

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repercussions for the international reputation and domestic stability of the country. First, when Prabowo’s Tim Mawar employed the strategy of kidnapping and assassination well-honed from their East Timor experiences against “anti-Suharto elements” in Jakarta; and second, when the overarching influence of Kopassus over local matters in East Timor, specifically control over the militias, made it impossible for TNI Headquarters at Cilangkap to exercise control over events at the local level. The overarching dependence of a national security model premised on military impunity and realpolitik when applied to its extreme resulted in total loss of control, which became the catalyst for international intervention and the irrevocable loss of a province. COMBAT OPERATIONS One of the most important activities of the Army is its combat role against rebellion. Overt coercion through the use of combat operations is however considered an option of last resort. The preferred tactic of the Armed Forces is consultation and persuasion. An Army officer mediates, at times he cajoles and, if required, he threatens those who disturb the peace. When violence erupts, the Armed Forces would adopt a graduated response. The Regional Commander (Pangdam, Panglima Kodam) has at his disposal battalions assigned to the Kodam referred to as territorial battalions. These battalions have four rifle companies but no support company. This is a clear indication that, for the time being, their task is one of internal security rather than conventional warfare (See Figures 2.6 and 2.7). Initially, the Pangdam might send in a unit of the Police Mobile Brigade or call on a company of troops operating in the geographical area where the disturbance has occurred. If the problem cannot be handled, there may be the need to send in elements of the Kodam’s reserve battalion. If that is not sufficient, the Pangdam can call for elements of the Rapid Reaction Strike Force (PPRC, Pasukan Pemukul Reaksi Cepat) which draws on the resources on the TNI’s various service rapid deployment forces, for example, the Army Strategic Reserve Command (Kostrad, Komando Strategis Angkatan Darat).131 Since the 1950s, the Army has adopted unique counter-insurgency strategies to combat domestic rebellion. These began in the 1950s in Ambon and various other Outer Islands insurrections like the PRRI/ Permesta and Darul Islam movements. Under the New Order, major operations have been carried out in Irian Jaya, East Timor and Aceh. It is not possible to cover comprehensively all the various counter-insurgency

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Figure 2.6 Organization of Infantry Battalion Structure Organisation of Territorial Battalion

Kodam Korem

Battalion (Dispersed)

Command Element

Battalion (Dispersed)

Headquarters Section

Battalion (Dispersed)

Rifle Company

Note: 2 or 3 territorial battalions are assigned depending on the size of the Korem.

Organization of an Infantry Battalion (centralized)

Brigade Headquarters

Infantry Battalion (Centralised)

Command Element

Headquarters Company

Rifle Company

Combat Support Company

Note: Combat units are essentially housed at brigade level. Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

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Figure 2.7 Regional Military Command (Kodam) Headquarters

Commander Supervision & Finance Inspectorate

Personal

Deputy Commander Plans Staff

Logistic Intelligence Operations Personnel Territorial Staff Staff Staff Staff Staff

Orderly Room

Cryptographic Unit

Data Collection & Processing

Veterans & Reserves

Public Moral Physical Relations Development Education Area Health

Support & Transport

Finance

Law

Advisory Navy/air Staff Liaison Headquarters Detachment

Adjutant General

Communications

Engineers

Military Police

Equipment Topographic

Separate Infantry Armour Engineers Battalions

Artillery

Anti-Aircraft

Intelligence Detachment

Infantry Brigades Separate Kodim (Kodim Berdiri Sendiri) e.g. Bandung Surabaya

Korem Headquarters Kodim

Infantry Battalions

Support Component

Note: Separate Kodims are generally employed for big cities in the event of security contingencies, it may be time consuming to move troops from another location. Commander is a major general and chief of staff a brigadier-general. Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

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operations conducted by the Army due to space constraints. However, a brief analysis of combat operations against Darul Islam in Java, Sulawesi, Kalimantan and Aceh, together with recent offensives against the Free Aceh Movement (GAM, Gerakan Aceh Merdeka) in Aceh plus the Fretilin in East Timor will illustrate clearly the Army’s modus operandi. The War against the Darul Islam and GAM Most incidences of civil war in Indonesia were fought largely in the rural areas. There have been times when attacks have been carried out on towns and cities, specifically by the Darul Islam and less so by the Fretilin. But as time went by, such attacks were a rare phenomenon. Darul Islam used a hit-and-run strategy in regions not firmly under its control. Areas would be occupied for a few hours and isolated Army posts attacked with great speed, then the rebels would retreat into the forests and mountains before the Army had time to react. The initial concentration on search-and-destroy missions generally ended with predictably frustrating results. Repeatedly, the public was assured that the Darul Islam had been eliminated from an area, only to find, after a successful Army sweep, that the guerrillas had returned to their mountain bivouacs to begin raiding again. The turning point arrived in 1957 when the tactical direction of the conflict came under the charge of the newly appointed General Abdul Haris Nasution. He came to the conclusion that lack of coordination and up-to-date counter-insurgency techniques were the principal reason for the Siliwangi Division’s ineffectual performance on the field. To rectify the situation, Nasution adopted two strategies. First, a group of Siliwangi Division officers under the leadership of Col Ishak Djuarsa were sent to Malaya for jungle warfare training to upgrade their skills on the latest counter-insurgency techniques.132 Second, Nasution became the motivating force behind “Basic Plan 2.1” (Van Dijk 1981, p. 124) which was formally constituted as a “pacification strategy” or (P4K, Pokok Pelaksanaan Pemulihan Keamanan). According to Kilcullen P4K divided West Java into areas of operations (DO, Daerah Operasi), categorized as type A (normalized security situation), B (TNI dominated, but guerrilla action ongoing) and C (fully dominated by DI/TII). Most major towns in West Java were ‘A’ areas. Most rural lowland districts were ‘B’ areas. By contrast, at the outset of the strategy in 1959 virtually every forested hill-mass in the province

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was a ‘C’ area, or guerrilla base. The areas between ‘C’ areas were declared destruction zones (Daerah Perhancuran), loosely equating to the free-fire zones later employed in Timor and elsewhere. In these areas all movement was assumed to be enemy, infrastructure was destroyed, villages fortified or evacuated and surveillance and cordon activities established. The aim was to defeat DI/TII manoeuvre by restricting their ability to move from one ‘C’ area to another. Simultaneously, by denying the guerrillas the ability to communicate (by courier) with either the local people or other base areas, TNI attacked the guerrillas popular support and C2 systems (Kilcullen 2002, pp. 63–64).

In essence the plan was to contain the Darul Islam in specific areas. The Army was to be concentrated on one area at a time, wiping out rebel bases one by one. Lack of manpower, however, made it difficult to implement this strategy and by itself was unable to administer the final blow to the Darul Islam. Even with increased manpower from the Diponegoro and Brawijaya Divisions, it was unable to finish off the Darul Islam. Hence modifications were made to the plan. The first technique employed to force the rebels to surrender was to occupy the rice-fields owned or worked by their relatives in order to prevent the harvest being used to feed the Darul Islam troops. The chief tactical innovation, though, was the pagar betis (literally, fence of calves) or “human fence”. In order to finish off the Darul Islam, the tacticians of the Army reasoned that the civilian population of West Java should be drawn into the operations as part of the strategy. Acccording to Van Dijk: In these battues, lasting sometimes for days, the civilian population would form a slowly advancing line, with at certain intervals, not too distant from each other, small units of three to four soldiers. In theory, the human fence (pagar betis) was supported by military units in the van as well as the rear. The van was supposed to ensure the advancing fence of a free zone. The soldiers at the rear acted as kind of reserve that could be directed to threatened points on the fence. In ill-accessible places another tactic was adopted, however. Instead of entering these, they would be put under siege. By cutting off all supplies, it was endeavoured to starve the bands in these places and thus force them to surrender. In practice the Republican Army sometimes used the ‘human fence’ as a “human shield”. After the mountain was entirely surrounded by civilians the TNI would march them up the mountain, forcing the D.I. to fire upon the civilians. Once having drawn enemy fire with the civilians, the TNI

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military forces would reconcentrate to close in upon the D.I. detachments. According to former Dar’ul Islam officers, the effectiveness of the pagar betis varied according to the religious beliefs of the civilians used to bait the trap. The D.I. commanders said it was difficult to shoot non-combatants in cold blood if they were “good muslims’’.133

Such a strategy had numerous benefits for the TNI. First, through the use of a civilian cordon, the TNI no longer needed to deploy large numbers of troops. Furthermore, the TNI were now allowed greater flexibility to employ their troops as rapid reaction forces throughout the military operations zones without having to be tied down to static positions. Second, the military now enjoyed greater levels of contact with the local population and the accumulated benefit of such a situation was greater control over the local population and leaders. Third, once rebel areas were smothered and effectively linked to pacified zones, territorial operations could begin which would involve a significant development programme aimed at rewarding the local population who had chosen to support the Republican cause (Kilcullen 2002, p. 67). In Central Java, the Army adopted an incremental approach by attempting to isolate or cauterize problematic regions, one by one. Towns which were heavily infiltrated by rebel troops, or were in an area with a history of turbulence, were declared prohibited areas. For example, the towns of Brebes and Tegal in Central Java were sealed off so that no-one could move in or out. A count was made of the population and the firearms in its possession. These completed, minor operations were conducted with the objective of isolating rebel leaders and their soldiers from establishing contact with West Java. The bulk of the operations were directed against Darul Islam strongholds along the border with West Java with the aim of preventing Darul Islam troops from breaking through the cordon and escaping to West Java. Hour-long sometimes even day-long battles were fought, in which many people lost their lives. The rebels were ultimately worn out by constant harassment. Partly by persuasion, backed by military force, a number of important Central Javanese Darul Islam leaders were made to surrender. The Republican government claimed that one of the factors which induced the Central Java Majelis Islam leader Amir Fatah to surrender was lack of support from the local population. In South Sulawesi, Kahar Muzakkar and his troops operating from their base at the Latumojang mountains were difficult to overcome. By being

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forced to move further inland in the direction of Siwa, the rebels located themselves in a region suitable for guerrilla warfare and difficult for an outside force to attack. To resolve this problem, the Army employed the fortress or benteng strategy. Before the Second World War, the Dutch had used this strategy with some measure of success. The strategy involved the establishment of small outposts all over South Sulawesi, from which detachments were frequently sent on patrol into the interior. The Army, nevertheless, found it difficult to engage the rebels. They merely engaged in minor skirmishes with the rebels and only a few large-scale battles where guerrilla bands between two and three hundred men were attacked. By avoiding battle, the latter were able to extend their range of operations. Initially, the rebels operated in small numbers in small and isolated pockets. By the mid-fifties, the guerrilla force displayed a vast improvement in its maneouvering ability. At the height of the Darul Islam rebellion in South Sulawesi, Kahar Muzakkar and his troops controlled large parts of rural districts, isolating the Army in the towns and cities. One of the reasons for the Army’s early lack of success in the area was that the partially East Javanese units had to fight on unfamiliar terrain and in unfriendly surroundings. This put them at a serious disadvantage, the more so because the topography of the region made it difficult for them to benefit from their superior arms. It was sometimes impossible to give soldiers on field patrol artillery support because of the lack of communication, artillery or air support, it usually came either too late or not at all. The benteng strategy also proved unsuccessful as it required many more soldiers than the Army were able to provide, while communications between the outposts were poor because of the impassable terrain, making the isolated posts easy prey for Kahar Muzakkar’s bands. Forced by circumstances, the Indonesian government opted for a peaceful settlement. In February 1952, it was decided that a “politico-psychological” solution should have priority over a military one (Van Dijk 1981, p. 187). Social and religious leaders of the region were co-opted to persuade the population not to support the rebels. Periodic offers of amnesty were accepted by part of Kahar’s troops. Opportunities were also re-opened for the rebels to be incorporated into the Army or return to society without further ado. Some of his sub-commanders were prepared to accept the offer. But attempts by the government to persuade Kahar Muzakkar to resume peace negotiations were in vain. The PRRI/Permesta rebellion brought about a drastic change in the situation. In the first place, the government saw itself obliged to deal with

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yet another rebellious movement in Sulawesi. Second, the uprising once more impressed on the government the urgency of the regions’ claims for wider autonomy and a greater share of the state revenue. It was now forced to give in at least partly to these demands and to remove some of the causes of regional discontent which had also inspired Kahar Muzakkar and his followers. Aside from the occasional concurrence in the increase in activities, there does not appear to have been much coordination between various Darul Islam units. Local commanders acted independently. The Army was able to take advantage of quarrels among the guerrillas themselves as conflicts between sub-commanders about the territories under the control of their respective units and the rights of other units to enter these constituted a rebellion within a rebellion at the end of 1952. Aided by such advantages, the Army gained notable victories where it was able to engage larger concentrations of the rebels in battle and bring into action its heavy artillery as well as the combat planes of the Air Force. The bulk of the successful operations were those carried out along the coast where in some operations, the Navy participated for the purpose of shelling the coast. The Army’s success in the interior was a consequence of a change in tactics. Instead of spreading its troops over a large number of small field posts, it now began concentrating them in large units. A special military command, Komando Pengamanan Sulawesi Selatan dan Tenggara (Kodpsst) or South and Southeast Sulawesi Pacification Command were also established to suppress the Darul Islam revolt (Harvey 1974, pp. 313–20). By the end of the 1950s, the Army’s operations, better organized and coordinated, were finally beginning to bear fruit. Kahar Muzakkar was pushed further and further into the interior. The Army owed its success partly to the fact that it was able to bring more troops into action, but partly also to the circumstance that soldiers originating from South Sulawesi itself were playing an increasingly important role in the planning and execution of these operations. The latter included the military commander of South and Southeast Sulawesi, Andi Mohammad Yusuf, a native of Bone, who in the late 1970s was to become Armed Forces Commander. In South Kalimantan, the Army’s tactics were directed at isolating the enemy in the mountains and starving them into surrender. Accordingly, it closed all roads leading to the areas to which the guerrillas had retreated, allowing anyone wishing to travel along them to take with them only enough food for one day. Consequently, many rebels gave themselves up because of lack of food (Van Dijk 1981, p. 251). Others were captured by

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the local population, who were promised a monetary reward for every guerrilla turned in. This provided a welcome source of extra income. In various areas where the Police and Mobile Brigade still could not cope with the situation, military assistance had to be called in. A proportion of the troops brought into action were local troops who had gained experience in anti-Darul Islam operations in West Java. Occasionally the population would assist in these actions, participating in mass battues in the jungle and mountains. An amnesty option together with calls by religious leaders requesting rebels to give themselves up resulted in large surrenders. Contrary to other Darul Islam-inspired revolts, the Aceh rebellion ended peacefully through conciliation instead of military defeat. While the rebels were able to occupy a few towns and cities, they were not able to hold them for very long. Counteroffensives by the Army were able to drive the Darul Islam troops out of them with relative ease. Adjustments were made by the Darul Islam as a result of the failure of the plan to occupy the towns and cities. The Darul Islam was prompted by the realization that the strategy had to be changed from frontal attacks on the Army to one of guerrilla warfare. From their positions in the mountains and forests, the rebels continued harassing traffic and attacking army patrols and outposts, operating in groups of sometimes a few hundred. Nevertheless, from a military point of view, the rebellion was over and that all that remained for the Army to do was to launch a pacification campaign. This would be no easy matter. The rebels would be impossible to subdue by military means alone. This was due to the special character of the region and more particularly in view of the strength and significance of Islam in the operating environment. Hence, martial law was not declared. By mid-1954, almost half of Aceh was safe enough for military assistance to be withdrawn, leaving the maintenance of law and order to the regional Police force. However, the key to resolving the conflict was a consequence of the Government’s willingness to study the question of autonomy for Aceh and to give more attention to the area’s economic development. The separatist issue was to re-emerge in the late 1970s. This time economic development rather than religious issues were the root cause of the emergence of the Gerakan Aceh Merdeka.134 In contrast to the Darul Islam movement in the 1950s, GAM’s propaganda in the late 1970s was predominantly secular in nature and essentially an ethnic appeal to rise up against Javanese economic domination of Aceh’s natural resources, specifically its natural gas. Religious issues were conspicuously absent at the beginning of the movement but emerged with greater potency in the late 1980s.

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GAM began to become prominent as a military force in mid-1989. A wide range of attacks were carried out on suspected government informers, the Indonesian police and Army and members of the civil authorities. By the middle of 1990, insurgent activity reached its peak, particularly in the areas around the Lhokseumawe industrial zone. In North Aceh, Javanese settlers became targets and thousands of people fled their villages and sought protection in the big towns or left the region altogether (Kell 1995, p. 72). To combat the insurgents, the Army maintained tight control of village life. Freedom of movement was restricted and the Army systematically moved people resident in isolated areas to locations close to main roads, where they could be easily supervised and protected. Similar to the military campaign against the Darul Islam in the 1950s, the essential building block of the counter-insurgency strategy was the creation of village militias, which would help the Army in its operations. Rudimentary training was provided and the Indonesian military took the precaution of arming the militiamen only with primitive weapons such as bamboo spears, not with firearms. This was done ostensibly to prevent weapons being seized by GAM in a combat situation. The role of these militias was to accompany the Army in the pagar betis operations, where the irregulars would participate in sweeps of areas believed to be inhabited by guerrillas (ibid., p. 75). By late 1990, the assumption was that the Indonesian military had succeeded in their primary objective of neutralizing the military threat posed by GAM. The remnants of the movement were forced to take refuge in remote highland areas and their access to the towns and the population was cut off by a string of Army posts established at the edge of these areas. However, by 1998, three issues compromised the effectiveness of TNI operations. First, the TNI was stretched to breaking point, having to contend with a succession of security crises in various parts of the archipelago including the island of Java. Second, a significant rise in intra-military tensions in Aceh between centrally-controlled non-organic troops who dominated military operations and local troops responsible to the regional command became evident. Third, after years of military abuse, a relatively autonomous military mafia entrenched itself in the province and refused to buckle to attempts by central TNI command to regain control over the security apparatus.135 Such fortuitous situations allowed GAM the time to effectively reconstitute its forces and the very sparseness of the guerrilla movement by 2000 began to work in its favour. Hidden in terrain or population, armed with better information on TNI operations through

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closer contact with the people, GAM was able to either avoid combat and disperse, or seize the element of surprise thereby making a significant comeback. The War against Fretilin The military dimension of the war can be divided into a number of phases (Magalhaes 1992, pp. 39–43). The first phase effectively began on 7 December 1975, and lasted until August 1977 and ended in stalemate with the Indonesian forces occupying the main towns and Fretilin occupying the interior and the mountains. From the moment the Indonesian military landed in Dili, the Fretilin leadership withdrew to the mountains with the bulk of the population. From their locations, they harassed the Indonesian forces by ambushing troop movements and carrying out surprise attacks on Indonesian occupied towns. Fretilin at this point held certain advantages, namely familiarity with the terrain, and adequate supplies of food and weapons and they suffered little casualties. The second phase, September 1977 to December 1978 saw the Armed Forces start to operationalize its counter-insurgency strategy. Following a much publicized offer of amnesty by President Suharto on 17 August (lasting until 31 December 1977), the Armed Forces moved to quell the Fretilin threat. The strategy, devised by the recently appointed Armed Forces Commander General Andi Mohammad Yusuf was aimed at severing Fretilin’s links with the civilian population as well as denying them food supplies. An additional 15,000 troops were brought into the province to bolster military operations, which were further enhanced by the introduction of thirteen U.S. supplied Bronco OV-10 anti-insurgency aircraft and six Australian Nomad Searchmaster planes. These aircraft complemented the TNI’s sixteen A-4 Skyhawk aircraft, which during the recently concluded Vietnam War was the mainstay of the U.S. arsenal. The A-4 Skyhawk was particularly suited for bombing missions against guerrillas and had the capacity to spray wide areas with weapon fire and high explosives. Massive offensives of encirclement began with one in the border and coastal regions moving inwards towards the centre of the country. Search and destroy missions, constant strafing from the aircraft and lack of food made it impossible for the Fretilin to protect the population, forcing them to make for the lowlands, thus coming under Indonesian control. Attacks on November 1977 and January 1978 drove the population in the border areas eastward and pushed the population in the southern coastal areas northwards so as to encircle them and gather them into strategic hamlets controlled by

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the military. A similar encirclement campaign was launched in September 1978. This time the area of concentration was the Matabian mountain range and the lowland coastal plain of Natabora where there were two major concentrations of population, including many who had escaped earlier encirclement operations further to the west. These regions were strongly defended by Fretilin and the Indonesian Army, confronted with a motivated guerrilla force and fighting in unfamiliar terrain, lost five battalions. A scorched earth policy and sustained campaign of intensive air and sea bombardment allowed the Army to tighten their encirclement of the region. Matabian fell on 22 November and Natabora followed in December 1978. Many guerrillas were captured or killed during the mopping-up operations which lasted until March 1979.136 Internal squabbling among the Fretilin leadership regarding the conduct of the war, the capture of its mobile transmitter (its only link to the outside world), and the loss of key political and military leaders, resulted in Fretilin’s strength being greatly dissipated. The third phase from 1979 to 1980 was the crucial period of the war. The Indonesian forces were considerably aided by the lack of coordination and participation between Fretilin commands in various regions. When one region was attacked, the forces in other regions failed to launch attacks in order to distract and disperse Indonesian forces. They were merely interested in defending their own sectors. Hence, by focusing their operations in one region at a time, the Indonesian military were able to gain some semblance of control over the population. By 1980, the Armed Forces’ military campaign had exacted a heavy toll on the Fretilin with key leaders either killed or captured and its supply lines disturbed by the encirclement strategy. Nevertheless, Fretilin did launch a daring six hour attack on Dili, dismissing the notion that it was a spent force (Taylor 1991, pp. 111–15). The fourth phase between July and September 1981 saw the Armed Forces launch a new campaign, Operasi Keamanan. This campaign saw the introduction of the pagar betis tactic. Though tried briefly in the Matabian and Natabora areas in late 1978, on this occasion, the pagar betis was used on an unprecedented scale. Using a conservative estimate, Taylor contends that 80,000 men were involved in the operation. Taylor (ibid., pp. 117–18) recounts the view of a participant: Those recruited for Operasi Keamanan were given no advanced warning. The army marched into villages and press-ganged the men and boys then took them to the region from which the fence of legs

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was to begin. Once assembled, they were organized into small groups and forced to walk in front of units of soldiers, searching the countryside for Fretilin cadres. The groups advanced some 500m apart ... The fence consisted of three lines. The front line consisted of Indonesian troops, then there were a line of people with more Indonesian troops, and behind them a third line consisting of Indonesian troops. The fence started in the extreme west of the country, went down south, then along the coast to the east, then up north and along the north coast to complete the circle. It was like a huge fence encircling the whole country which moved slowly forward, getting smaller and smaller ... Each day we moved forward. The Indonesian plan was to push Fretilin forces back to the region of Aitana. The huge fence reached Aitana region at the end of July.

Subsequently, the attack was made on the Fretilin forces surrounded in Aitana. Some Fretilin troops were able to pass through the fence with the aid of sympathetic Timorese. Many in fact surrendered. When the attack was over, mopping-up operations were required for a period of a week or two to consolidate the area. The fifth phase, covered the period August 1983 to December 1989. This period saw the intensification of the Armed Forces’ effort to wipe out the remnants of the Fretilin through major campaigns launched against them as on 8 August 1983, the 1 September Operasi Persatuan, the 20 March and 14 July 1987 operations and 27 July 1988 Operasi Bersih, plus another campaign ordered on 14 September 1988 specifically by Suharto. Despite these operations, Fretilin remained a military irritant. While they were not a potent threat, Fretilin remained of nuisance value to the Armed Forces. Although the terrain provided an ideal environment to hide, the dwindling force of a few hundred fighters which constituted Fretilin could no longer win the guerrilla war. East Timor was declared an open province by the Indonesian government in January 1990. With the symbolic abolition of Koopskam, the province was considered no longer a “combat zone” as the Armed Forces “claimed” at that point that they were primarily involved purely with territorial operations. TERRITORIAL OPERATIONS Territorial Operations cast a potentially wide net. Territorial Operations is essentially population control based on counter-insurgency techniques; the creation of an administrative structure under the close supervision of the military and the appointment of reliable local personnel to occupy

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administrative posts such as village, sub-district and district heads but always shadowed by military officers holding equivalent posts to ensure strict adherence to Indonesian government objectives. Territorial operations have its origin in seminars conducted at Seskoad in the late 1950s and early 1960 which became the basis of the Army’s Territorial Management and Civic Mission doctrines (for a more detailed discussion, see Chapter 4). Territorial operations are devised for the purposes of creating or changing conditions in a particular vicinity based on strategic objectives and involve either territorial troops or conventional forces depending on whether the operations conducted are territorial operations (construction) or territorial operations (perlawanan — opposition/resistance). During the Suharto era, such operations were intended to carry out, or to create a situation where it was possible to carry out, the vital tasks of the Armed Forces as a social force ensuring the security and success of each government programme in the field of development. As elsewhere, the stabilization of social conditions (Ipoleksosbudmilag) was to generate the basis for national development and security. Hence, the purpose of making society the object was to direct public opinion towards a situation favourable to the regime.137 On the one hand, the usual form of Territorial Operations, namely “construction” operations tends to be overt, due to its potential as a public relations tool. In TNI language such operations emphasize education and persuasion by giving understanding, guidance, direction, support and stimulus in the face of a point of view which is not yet able to accept (particular) concepts, thoughts or ideological, political, economic, social or cultural conditions as desired.138 Such operations are aimed at improving conditions in particular areas with a potential for political and social instability. On the other hand, special circumstances may require “opposition/resistance” operations in order to eliminate social disturbances through covert means. During the Suharto era, when the Police were a subordinate service under the military, they also contributed to territorial operations through “public order and security operations” known as Kamtibmas operations. Essentially, territorial operations (construction) are aimed at winning the “hearts and minds” of the population where in any given area the needs of the people are addressed adequately to nullify any influence by elements of the extreme left (ekstrim kiri) or extreme right (ekstrim kanan) thereby maintaining political stability. In order to prevent the emergence of any political, religious or social movement that might challenge the legitimacy of the government, three types of preventive operations are adopted. The first, socio-political operations are devised to structure,

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organize and control the lives of the population and local social and political affairs to meet the objectives of national development. Second, bhakti operations make specific use of the technical skills of the military to improve the quality of life in any given area. Third, kekaryaan operations require a military officer to perform non-military tasks in the civilian sector for the purposes of national development. Such territorial operations (construction) are done in tandem with government agencies and the local population through the use of special territorial battalions and involve the construction of houses or schools, assistance by way of the introduction of modern farming practices, or the building of dams, irrigation systems and a variety of public works projects. These initiatives are primarily targeted at populations residing in rural areas or may be part of an assistance programme to settlers involved in the government’s transmigration initiative. In general, the aims of these operations are laudable and are geared ideally towards prevention. The idea being that if the Army engages in a strategy to improve the overall conditions of an area as part of a government initiative to thwart the influence of insurgent groups, then there will be no necessity for the military to enter the area at a later date to put down an armed insurrection. In a conflict zone, the style of territorial operations alters significantly particularly in areas when subversion arises due to the development of cells that threaten to influence the population against norms of the Pancasila state. In such instances, intelligence operations are initially attempted to counter such propaganda or less serious situations, territorial operations (construction) would be attempted to restore the public’s confidence in the government. Failing which, if the location concerned becomes a guerrilla base for the conduct of armed insurrection, then the TNI would conduct territorial operations (opposition/resistance). Such an area would for conduct of operations be divided into four zones: an annihilation zone; a consolidation zone, a stabilization zone; and a rear zone. In the annihilation zone where the insurgents have complete control, TNI forces would focus their combat capabilities to physically eliminate insurgent elements. As the TNI slowly gains control over the annihilation zone, the pacified areas would become a consolidation zone. With the guerrilla base destroyed coupled with the declining influence of the insurgent element in the consolidation zone, a new operations area would be created, namely, a stabilization zone. Within this area, as combat operations decrease, they are slowly replaced with Territorial operations (construction) aimed at reestablishing the political and economic infrastructure of the affected area and rebuilding public confidence in the government.139

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How does the TNI ascertain whether the territorial apparatus is functioning smoothly in an area previously prone to civil disturbances or being resuscitated after a prolonged period of counter-insurgency warfare? Evidence from captured documents in East Timor suggests the following criteria: The apparatus is working well if: i. Every change occurring within the community is known. To achieve this, every official must be sensitive to his environment. ii. Every time an inhabitant goes out of the area, the direction, destination, time and reason are known. iii. Any time that goods that could be used as logistics for the guerrillas are shifted to or from the area to places suspected as GPK areas, information of this is speedily available and preventive action is taken. iv. No inhabitant’s home is being used as a hide-out for the GPK, with periodic checks being made. v. In all fields of life, it is possible to discover efforts to set up GPK support networks and detect the existence of such networks and to keep informed of the relationship between these two aspects of life (Budiardjo and Liem 1984, p. 210).

The above example outlining the intricacies of surveillance methodologies employed gives a sense of the immense priority given to intelligence work. Operations will continue in the annihilation zone, consolidation zone and stabilization zone until all opposition is totally eliminated. Once such a condition is achieved, such areas would be deemed rear zones. In these zones, attempts will be made to assess what was wrong with government policies or TNI practice that drove the population to seek other alternatives. Through reviews, attempts would be made to correct such shortcomings and the TNI would simultaneously engage in activities aimed at alleviating the psychological and physical trauma suffered by the local community as a result of its operations. Overt coercion is generally an option of last resort. Prevention is the key operating principle in internal security operations. Hence, in instances where the combat option is taken, it may be possible to conclude that inefficiency and lack of vigilance had the effect of nullifying the effectiveness of a territorial operations-based strategy. For instance, in the case of the Lampung incident in February 1989, there was a clear breakdown in the territorial apparatus. In the village of Talangsari in Lampung Province, anti-government sermons preached by

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members of a Muslim sect called the Mujahidin Fisabilillah (Holy Warriors of God) were not monitored. The sermons often drew hundreds of people. It was clear that there was ongoing indoctrination, but none of these activities were reported by the Babinsa. The information was there but no one was reading the signals. Lack of resources may compound the problem and undermine the objectives of a territorial operations based strategy. For example, in Lampung, some of the Babinsas would have been responsible for up to nine villages. It is impossible to maintain control without the Babinsa having adequate personnel, transport and equipment including modern communications facilities. Often he lacks all three. Had the territorial apparatus done its job well, there would have been no need for the Armed Forces to resort to combat operations. Like the Lampung Incident, the Tanjung Priok killings (1984), the Dili Killings (1991) and the Madura killings (1993) could also be seen as a reflection of instances where the territorial apparatus did not function in accordance to the ideals espoused in territorial operations. The major objective of territorial operations is “to supervise and prod civil authorities” (McDonald 1980, p. 34). Another objective is for the military to be accepted and supported by the people because Indonesia’s defence doctrine is based on the people and the Armed Forces defending the nation in concert (ibid., p. 33). These objectives are encompassed under the term territorial management (pembinaan teritorial). Territorial management aims to foster a condition in which the people are imbued with a desire to support the national ideology, the government and its policies. Territorial management also involves training the people to defend the nation and implementation of civic action programmes to create a sense of unity between the people and the Armed Forces.140 The objectives of the civic action programmes or AMD (ABRI masuk desa, “ABRI returns to the villages”) operations are both physical and ideological. Aside from construction or refurbishment of infrastructure, national awareness, welfare and defence goals are pursued.141 Areas chosen for civic action tasks may have some or all of the following charcteristics: a relatively low-level of development, insecure (rawan) in security terms, strategically located and identified in regional development programmes as suitable for development projects. The civic action programmes may offset some of the negative aspects of internal security operations. In areas where rebel activity was prevalent, the civic action operation was crucial to the Armed Forces in its efforts to win the “hearts and minds” of the rural population. Activities consisted of the construction of village facilities and infrastructure. Rural development funds of a certain

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size were no longer put out to tender, but instead were handled directly by the military and local government authorities in charge of the programme. A further element of these activities was “mental upgrading” aimed at engendering a sense of national awareness and patriotism. In the case of Aceh in the late 1980s, prominent religious leaders in the province, whether functionaries in the regional branch of the ulama council (MUI, Majelis Ulama Indonesia) or individual heads of pesantren, were drawn into the Army’s counter-insurgency campaign as spokesmen for the government cause in order to win support within the pesantren community.142 The Army Territorial Staff, through the Assistant for Territorial Affairs (Aster, Asisten Teritorial) to the Army Chief of Staff, held responsibility for Territorial Activities and Operations, which were understood as being generally “to uphold and protect the authority of the Government”. During the Suharto era, the implementation of social and political operations was not only a matter for the Armed Forces: but also a responsibility of organizations such as the Wives of the Armed Forces or PWRI, Persatuan Wredatama Republik Indonesia (which shares the same “foundation and principle of struggle” as TNI), Defence and Security Civil Servants (who have “a greater durability (dayatahan) and capacity in the fields of ideology, economics, politics, society and culture” — as also does the Wives’ organization); and the members of the Indonesian Armed Forces Retired Officers Association (PepTNI, Persatuan Purnawiran TNI) and their families who are spread in every corner of Indonesia and are established in all areas of social life, ensuring great capacity in aiding the execution of territorial operations.143 This logic extended to the political arena where the territorial apparatus was expected to ensure a Golkar victory in the general elections (Jenkins 1989, pp. 158–59). There is a third context where territorial operations are conducted specifically to thwart an enemy invasion through the use of territorial operations (opposition/resistance). If the TNI is unable to defeat the invading force enroute or if the enemy is successful in establishing a beachhead, then the military will have no other option than to become a guerrilla force conducting territorial operations (operations/resistance) until all of Indonesia is under the control of the TNI. In the final analysis, the concept of territorial operations revolves around the logic of counter-insurgency. This subject will be discussed in greater detail in Chapter 4. For the time being, it is useful to reflect that while territorial operations did help to consolidate the state’s control over a region compromised by insurgent activity, invariably such a situation provided optimum conditions for the TNI to reinforce its presence in the region concerned.

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THE REFORMASI AGENDA AND ITS IMPACT ON MILITARY OPERATIONS IN ACEH — 2003 The TNI’s approach to internal security operations have been shaped very much by their experiences during both the Sukarno and Suharto era. If we analyse its counter-insurgency operations in Aceh in 2003, it would be useful to ask the question: Has the emphasis on democratic norms ushered in by reformasi made an impact on a field previously impervious to democratic scrutiny, namely the counter-insurgency operations of the TNI? As we have examined, counter-insurgency operations in Aceh and East Timor have been shaped by the TNI’s experiences in fighting the Darul Islam in West Java. Some of the common characteristics are as follows: First, an emphasis on killing or capturing key leaders. Second, an overdependence on a strategy premised on gaining victory in the field rather that winning over the population in order to separate them from influence of insurgents. Territorial operations tend to be emphasized only after insurgent forces are defeated in combat. Third, the use of locallydevised counter-insurgency techniques like the pagar betis, which were successful when applied in a rural setting. If the insurgency develops an urban dimension, then the security apparatus utilizes Petrus-style assassination and terror techniques to eliminate subversive elements (Kilcullen 2002, pp. 113–14). Security operations in Aceh during the reformasi era continued despite Habibie and Wiranto’s public acts of contrition on the hardship endured by the Acehnese population after ten years of military operations during the DOM period, when extrajudicial killings, human rights abuses and insecurity characterized life in Aceh. As a departure from previous policy, a six-point plan devised by the Wahid administration in April 2000 through Inpres 4/2001 aimed at evolving a strategy that would not be predicated solely on security operations but also incorporate economic and political incentives aimed at winning over the population and drawing them away from GAM.144 This was a different approach compared to previous strategies aimed at resolving the conflict purely through a military solution as seen during the DOM era in a series of military operations, namely Wibawa 99, Sadar Rencong I, II, III, and Cinta Meunasah I and II. These operations were purely punitive — with the TNI’s tactical creativity limited merely to responding to a growing insurgency by pouring more and more troops into Aceh coupled with the strategy of having whole villages punished as retaliation for GAM attacks. The government’s strategy now involved a special autonomy package for Aceh with wider concessions offered to the Acehnese than available to the other administrative districts under the

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decentralization laws. Since, the “state of civil emergency” required the constitution of a new security structure called the “Operation for the Restoration of Security and Upholding of Law (OKPH, Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan dan Penegakan Hukum), the effective security authorities were the Police with the TNI playing a supporting role. Newly trained Rajawali units, schooled in counter-insurgency techniques by Kopassus trainers, were better disciplined and contributed well to the gathering of intelligence. These non-organic TNI troops (BKO, Bantuan Kendali Operasi) were also expected to accord with new rules of engagement that restricted soldiers from pursuing GAM into areas of population concentration. TNI troops were also expected to exercise care in minimizing civilian casualties through selective targeting of combatants. Better intelligence was not only the result of more professional techniques employed by troops but due to greater cooperation from the Acehnese population. These early successes were negated by the inability of the Rajawali troops to consolidate secured areas due to a shortage of skilled troops and the vast tracks of territory to be covered. Such a situation necessitated the need for more units to be introduced. Though the numbers increased, discipline deteriorated in the field. Professional standards were particularly compromised by the performance of Brimob troops and their damaging rivalry with the TNI that was to contribute to “regular intimidation of civilians”.145 By 2003, the scope for a secure environment for special autonomy as well as initiatives to find a political solution to the problem were proving more and more elusive. The collapse of the Cessation of Hostilities Agreement (COHA) signed in December 2002 after six months on 18 May 2003 ushered in a new period of conflict.146 The following day, a presidential decree 28/2003 was issued placing the province under martial law. This action set the stage for an Integrated Operation (Operasi Terpadu)147 which comprised four aspects incorporating a military operation, a law enforcement programme, humanitarian aid initiatives, plus an aspiration to improve local government. The four-pronged strategy aimed at “winning the hearts and minds” of the Acehnese people would be aimed at neutralizing GAM as a security threat and curbing its political influence; securing important development projects particularly in Lhokseumawe; and isolating the local population from the separatists. The TNI’s three-phased military strategy involved the separation of GAM from the people; its effective isolation; and neutralization.148 The military operation budgeted by the government at 1.2 trillion rupiah involved the use of 30,000 TNI soldiers and approximately 15,000 Police and Brimob. The TNI’s strategy was unlike that employed previously in

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Aceh and the final years of the conflict in East Timor, where the principal aim was to use either task forces and/or mobile units like Kopassus to locate and decapitate the separatist leadership. This time, the separation of the people from GAM became the key objective in the first phase of the conflict. This involved clearing GAM from urban areas and securing the major transport arteries. Following which TNI troops swept through villages in an attempt to push GAM back into the jungle. The securing of provincial cities and the industrial zones were accomplished without too much resistance as GAM rarely enjoyed much support in the urban areas and a sense of normalcy returned to these areas. Where the TNI faced criticism were claims that part of their counter-insurgency strategy was the strategic hamleting of villages alleged to have sympathies for the separatist cause. However, there is little evidence to suggest that strategic hamlets were ever established. There was though the “shock and awe” strafing of rural areas which had a psychological rather than military purpose on the opening day of the military emergency suspected of being GAM strongholds by aircraft previously used in East Timor for counter-insurgency operations like the OV-Bronco and A-4 Skyhawk and in some instances the F-16 Falcons and followed up by the deployment of Kopassus troops to secure the areas in question. A key aspect of severing links between GAM and the people was the TNI’s need to cut off GAM’s logistical supply through better naval coastal surveillance to prevent the resupply of weapons and restrict the entry of food supplies into certain areas. Traders are also limited in the amount of food they can buy or sell. Similarly only a handful of middlemen deemed “loyal” are authorized to engage in trade. Curbs have also been introduced to place time limits on the number of hours a farmer or fisherman can work. Consistent with the past security operations, the military campaign had gone hand in hand with an ideological campaign.149 At a societal level, loyalty tests, mirroring the Kopkamtib/Bakorstanastype litsus tests have been employed to gauge the loyalty of civil servants. Mass recitations of oaths of loyalty to the state or ikrar kesetiaan have also been the norm and performed all over the province and high-profiled by the press. Phase two stepped into gear after three months when TNI troops began operating in all the districts of the province. This phase coincided with the trickle of previously hamleted villagers to their original homes as the fighting now moved to the jungles where GAM had consolidated itself for guerrilla warfare. The focal point of operations now was the location and elimination of GAM’s 17 senior commanders through the employment of

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additional Kopassus elements. Government officials, having learned from their East Timor experience, were keen to ensure that the physical incapacitation of GAM’s military arm went in tandem with efforts to prevent the internationalization of the Acehnese conflict. In this regard, initiatives were launched at the United Nations to have GAM declared as a terrorist organization and pressure placed on the Swedish government to take action against the “terrorist” activities of Hassan di Tiro. The third phase involved the elimination of the separatists’ military wing and the liquidation of the GAM political structure in Aceh. A sum of 1.4 billion rupiah has also been allocated for the rehabilitation of former GAM members through loyalty classes and skill programmes which offer schemes that enable them to develop alternative forms of employment. At the six month juncture of the operation, the TNI claims that half of GAM’s 5,000 personnel have either been captured or killed. However, only 459 of an estimated 2,000 weapons contained in GAM’s arsenal have been captured. The separatists have succeeded in slipping through the military cordon imposed on them and have dispersed themselves over a wider area in the remote regions of the province where there have embarked upon a familiar guerrilla warfare strategy. Interesting to note is that the reformasi agenda has placed greater pressure on the government and the TNI to take into consideration humanitarian concerns. The ideas of incorporating humanitarian aid plus the greater accountability of troops in the field were a welcome departure from past military operations. The idea of “embedding” journalists to observe military operations, adopted for the first time, probably had more to do with imitating American actions in Iraq rather than any association with new norms of accountability associated with the reformasi movement. Unfortunately, there is a sense that the authorities concerned do not really understand what an integrated operation really entails. The poor implementation of the nonmilitary aspects of the Integrated Operation has not helped alleviate or cushion the impact of the military operation. Humanitarian aid and the development assistance promised has been compromised through corruption and mismanagement.150 At the end of six months of operations, law enforcement simply refers to an increase in arrests. For most Acehnese, a major grievance is that the central authorities have yet to adequately address repeated demands for past injustices. Even if there was a commitment to law enforcement, the legal infrastructure in Aceh is in disarray. Many district courts have been destroyed by GAM with judges and lawyers intimidated. With the lack of functioning of the legal system, a question arises as to the welfare of those arrested suspected GAM members. Scepticism also abounds

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in the case of soldiers involved in human rights abuses. The TNI have quickly arrested and put on trial a group of soldiers responsible for arbitrarily executing villagers in Lawang. Sceptics would ask if the TNI by moving so quickly in one particular case could be hoping to deflect attention from others. Furthermore, considering its track record, could the TNI be trusted to investigate itself? No doubt these are difficult questions but it is encouraging to note the vigour with which such issues are being debated within civil society as the then Coordinating Minister for Political and Security Affairs Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono announced the extension of martial law in Aceh in November 2003.151 So far, the military aspects of the operation have been the dominating feature. With a military emergency in place, the “strengthening of local government” aspirations of the Integrated Operation strategy seems to mean the replacement of non-functioning local officials at the village and sub-district level with retired TNI personnel. Even though the government has stated that these appointments are temporary, they are cause for concern for civil society on two fronts. First, the post-Suharto reform agenda has focused on the removal of the military from government administration. Such a move, while not necessarily a reversal of the TNI’s stance, goes against the spirit of the TNI’s commitment to reform. More worryingly, it emphasized the influence the TNI had over president Megawati Sukarnoputri. Conditions in Aceh continued to deteriorate as the country approached the general elections in April 2004, prompting questions of why qualified civilians could not be found to run the civil administration. Such issues will inevitably be raised as history has proven that Aceh has long been a fertile ground for the military’s economic activities, many of which are illicit. There is a common catchphrase in Aceh: a soldier arrives with an M-16 but leaves with 16 million rupiah! Furthermore, once retired officers are entrenched in civilian positions, it may be difficult to dislodge them. There are also questions marks being raised over the accuracy of TNI intelligence. Of the number of GAM killed or captured, how many were really GAM or merely victims of people trying to settle personal scores? Equally controversial have been the use of civilian militia or Wanra, known in Aceh as People’s Protection (Linmas, Perlindungan Masyarakat), for paramilitary tasks like helping to hunt down GAM or their sympathizers among the population. This pattern, which has been in existence in Aceh since 1999, disturbingly mirrors strategies employed in East Timor and Papua. Villagers are given rudimentary paramilitary training and are expected to use traditional weapons or home-made guns (senjata rakitan) to relieve the TNI of more mundane tasks like village patrolling

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and security. These activities are being rationalized by the TNI as an important component of the TNI’s Total Defence (Sistem Pertahanan Semesta) doctrine but have the propensity to incite “horizontal conflict” among the Acehnese themselves. As seen in East Timor and Maluku, such roving bands of unrestrained militia can be even more brutal. Unlike the 1990s, when the military ruled Aceh with impunity, it is unlikely that civil society forces in Indonesia will allow martial law to run indefinitely without a resolution to the conflict involving a certain degree of civilianization of the administration as part of the normalization of the province. In a sense, such forces were at play when a year of martial law was subsequently replaced by a year of civil emergency beginning on 19 May 2004. However, the extension of civil emergency for a further six months by President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono after the decree signed by Megawati elapsed on 18 November 2004 is a more troubling reflection of a sense of dependence on the part of the Acehnese for military protection and cooption. Community groups in Aceh now fear the consequences of the absence of military protection, which in turn is an indictment of the futility of martial law to not only create a secure environment but become the starting point in a process leading to normal life in society as the TNI had hoped in early 2003. Can such a strategy be sustained? Three issues will compromise the TNI’s ability exercise de facto control over events in Aceh. First, humanitarian costs of the war will ultimately prove a liability. The pattern of dislocation, which has seen the number of internally displaced persons fluctuate between 8,000 and 25,000, will be further exacerbated by the poor living conditions in makeshift camps around Aceh. This has caused hardship, illness and a number of deaths long before the province was cruelly decimated by the tsunami disaster of December 2004. The inability of the TNI to provide security by protecting schools and infrastructure other than those owned by “vested interests” like the investor community has increased hardship and insecurity. The displacement of the population has complicated the government’s bilateral relationship with key neighbouring countries concerned about refugee flows; the donor community over the wisdom of utilizing a military approach to solve the problems of the province; and key international agencies who have raised concerns over the government’s restrictions on media coverage, diplomatic visits and humanitarian activities in Aceh. Hundreds of Acehnese have fled across the Strait of Malacca to Malaysia, where they have joined the growing Acehnese diaspora. The plight of internally displaced people in Aceh has been made worse by the fact that the government has restricted access to the province by international humanitarian agencies to provide

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relief. Aspinall, explaining the ability of GAM to rejuvenate itself, cited interviews given by new GAM recruits in 1999 where the majority of respondents rationalized their membership through a “desire to extract revenge for family members who had been killed, tortured or sexually abused by security forces earlier in the decade” (Aspinall 2003). He suggests that the creation of “a generation of the vengeful (generasi pendendam)” sustains GAM resilience and in turn is nourished by “kinship and other networks that permeate Acehnese society”, allowing GAM to develop an “elaborate formal organization” which in its rural heartland over time “blurs imperceptibly into the traditional structures of village communities” (ibid). Second, the deployment of such a large number of troops constitutes a major reallocation of manpower and other resources for the TNI and Police and is unlikely to be sustained due to pressing security contingencies elsewhere in the archipelago and huge amount of revenue expanded. Furthermore, major business concerns like ExxonMobil are likely to have their operations “taxed” heavily to ensure their security. Third, the political and diplomatic costs are bound to escalate. Domestic human rights groups and other social-political forces favouring political reform are likely to condemn the government’s tolerance of human rights abuses in the province, especially those alleged to have been carried out by the military. Despite the public’s initial support of the need to eliminate GAM, the concerns over the military’s human rights record will no doubt be raised in tandem with overall concerns of the military’s reassertion of their role in domestic politics. REFORMASI, THE WAR ON TERROR AND THE DEMISE OF THE NATIONAL SECURITY STATE The clearest indication that the structures epitomizing the logic of the national security state so evident during the Suharto era could no longer be employed arbitrarily with strong opposition from civil society was clearly manifested in the crisis facing the state following the Bali terrorist attacks on 12 October 2002. During the intervening period between the terrorist attacks in New York and Washington on 11 September 2001 and the Bali bombings, increasing pressure was placed on the Indonesian government to investigate and arrest alleged terrorists perceived to be sheltering in Indonesia. The Suharto era government would have succumbed and forced its citizens to accept and comply with draconian national security measures not necessarily as a consequence of international pressure but because such Islamic groups representing ekstrim kanan (extreme right) were

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considered a threat to national security under the logic of SARA. The democratic Megawati government would be expected to respond differently, particularly in addressing a problem so closely associated to the conservative Muslim community. Stressing its democratic credentials, the government responded by saying that with no proof of who had committed the crime, it had no legal basis to act against anyone. Likewise, the government reiterated that, unlike Malaysia and Singapore, it was unable to use measures such as preventive detention, wiretapping or investigations without a warrant. External pressure, specifically from the United States, resulted in the Ministry of Justice and Human Rights submitting an anti-terrorist bill to Parliament three months before the Bali terror attacks. The proposed legislation faced strong opposition from those who feared it would be used to stifle legitimate dissent. Muslim groups opposed it for fear that it would be used against them, and not just the terrorists. The government, in the face of such opposition, placed the matter of the anti-terrorist bill on the backburner until the Bali bomb attacks brought the issue back on the national agenda. Such a situation would never have arisen during the authoritarian rule of the Suharto regime and is symptomatic of the difficulties faced by an Indonesian political elite attempting to revive the structures of the old Suharto era national security state within the context of a democratizing Indonesia even though the heinous nature of the terrorist attacks may have dictated a need to introduce stringent security measures. Almost a week after the Bali bombings, the Indonesian government issued two anti-terrorism regulations in lieu of Law. In view of the atrocities, the Indonesian people did support their government’s initiative, but such perspectives were qualified by concerns that the authorities could abuse the regulations in the same way as the Suharto regime treated the antisubversion law before it was scrapped in 1998. Similarly, the Bill on the Management of National State of Danger (RUU PKB, Rancangan UndangUndang Penanggulangan Keadaan Bahaya) issued in September 1999 during president Habibie’s tenure and crafted to replace the repealed antisubversion law of 1963 was never enforced due to strong public opposition. Such reactions were a reflection of the fact that Indonesia’s postindependence history did not provide reassurance to its citizens that such security laws would not be abused or end up strengthening the position of the military. The military emergency in Aceh was declared through the use of the 1959 Law on Emergency; a relatively “more democratic”152 RUU PKB, which would have required consent from both the governor of Aceh

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and the (DPRD) was never signed by president Habibie.153 Regardless, despite the deteriorating security conditions in Aceh, it would have been unlikely that the Governor of Aceh, Abdullah Puteh, would have been “brave enough” to recommend such a policy to Jakarta. Nevertheless, the belief that the local DPRD was perceived to have been “co-opted” by GAM, and the pressure being applied by the TNI elite seeking a decisive mandate by the civilian leadership, would have forced the Megawati administration to calculate that any prolonged political wrangling over consent would effectively become an impediment to neutralizing GAM’s growing influence in the province.154 The issue of how to contain a national security crisis has been an everpresent reality in Indonesia since independence. During the 1950s the fledgling republic was threatened by a series of regional rebellions in Java, Sumatra, and Sulawesi. The only mechanism available to deal with such threats were the Dutch era “state of war” decree or the Regeling op de Staat van Oorlog en van Beleg commonly known as SOB. The state needed an effective legal basis on which to respond and as a first step the SOB was replaced in 1950 by new government regulations (Perpem No. 7 1950) and the Emergency laws (UU Darurat No. 8 1950). After four years, these laws were replaced by a new legislation on military powers (PP No. 55 1954) that accorded with prevailing norms. By 1957, in the context of deteriorating circumstances in Sumatra and Sulawesi, all emergency legislation on the books were withdrawn and replaced by another new law on the “state of danger” (keadaan bahaya) and “state of war” (keadaan perang) (UU No. 74 1957).155 According to Widjajanto and Kammen, there were two reasons why the measures were adopted. First, periodic changes to the constitution made it necessary for the state to devise mechanisms ensuring that the legal status of military powers accorded with the constitution. Second, and more important, these legal instruments were necessary in order to bolster the state’s ability to deal conclusively with the regional rebellions when the authorities adopted law No. 23 on the “state of danger” (keadaan bahaya) in 1959. The new law demarcated three distinct conditions: civil emergency, military emergency, and state of war. As supreme commander of the armed forces, the president was empowered with the legal authority to declare any of these emergency conditions in all or part of the country.156 For the state elites in the 1950s, the enacting of such security legislation was not a straightforward process. The experiences of the revolution and vociferous party political process that characterized the early 1950s had conditioned legislators to be wary of the legal complexities that

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accompanied the initiation of any options that required the use of special military measures. New legislation, in this regard, was a necessity to provide the legal basis for enhanced military authority. The New Order adopted a completely different approach. Devoid of legitimacy, due to the manner in which it seized power and the violence that accompanied it, the Suharto regime never sought a legal basis to accommodate increased military authority or operations especially while Law No. 23 1959 referring to a “state of danger” was still in force. The Suharto regime’s preoccupation was to find a mechanism that would legitimate its political status and not its use of military force. This was done first via the Executive Order of 11 March, 1966 (Supersemar), and then in 1967 by formally appointing Suharto as president of the republic.157 The anti-subversion law passed under the Sukarno in 1963 allowed for the jailing of individuals who publicly opposed Guided Democracy was continued during the Suharto era. Under the statute any genuine opposition contravening the political status quo was labelled a threat to national security, and enabled imprisonment without trial. The law also operated in the New Order to deal with political opposition and was the legal basis for the detention of political prisoners (tapol, tahanan politik). Such perspectives, that any opposition to the political status quo could be labelled a threat to national security, found its operational logic through ipoleksosbudmilag threat dimensions devised by the TNI. The range of security concerns that would cover the brief of internal security operations premised on ipoleksosbudmilag concerns would be too wide to make any sense for operational purposes. As a consequence situation levels were devised ranging from “Secure” (Aman) at the lower end of the scale to Alarming (Gawat) at the extreme end of the scale. Such an approach to national security was rooted in the security interests of the Suharto regime and the military establishment and became so wide in its identification of threats to become counter-productive to the long-term stability of Indonesia and the welfare of its citizens. Despite criticisms that the 2003 Defence White Paper Mempertahankan Tanah Air Memasuki Abad 21158was authored without any “public debate” and reflected a “domination of military interests and views”,159 the policy document, while rudimentary in its approach, is at least progressive in moving away from the all-encompassing approach taken by the Suharto era military. During the Suharto era, the TNI felt that it was responsible for all spectrum of threats. Under the 2003 Defence White Paper, the spectrum of threat escalation from Aman to Gawat is accompanied by a classification of various security conditions requiring either TNI or Police intervention

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Figure 2.8 Spectrum of Threats

Source: TNI, Mempertahankan Tanah Air Memasuki Abad 21, op. cit., p. 53.

(See Figure 2.8).160 In the context of a civil emergency, overall authority would lie with the Regional Government (Pemda, Pemerintah Daerah) and responsibility for establishing order would lie with the Police. Generally, in conditions of a civil emergency, Brimob troops would be employed to conduct internal operations with the TNI in a supporting role. The roles are reversed under a military emergency where operational and administrative authority passes on to the designated military commander with military operations conducted by TNI troops with Brimob in support, participating in counter-insurgency operations. The 2003 Defence White Paper also distinguishes between military operations for warfare and non-military operations stressing the urgency for the TNI to develop capabilities to engage themselves in Military operations other than war (OMSP, Operasi militer selain perang). Although a division of security responsibilities is implied between the TNI and Police, such a demarcation is too nebulous to provide the reader with a sense of what the actual division of labour would be in practice. Nevertheless, the attempt to define responsibilities along a spectrum of

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threats in Figure 2.8 is a useful start. However, from a public relations perspective, any positive perspectives that can be gleaned from this TNI initiative have been undermined by the inability of the TNI to gauge public perceptions over suggestions that it would share the responsibility of national security with the Police. Similar scepticism abounds with the suggestion by the TNI that it should be configured to deal with Military Operations other than war. Without the TNI specifying clearly under what circumstances it should be brought in to bolster the Police force, the public are apt to question whether OMSP is another way to rationalize the TNI’s intervention in domestic security. While the public may realize the shortcomings of the Police force in dealing with national security contingencies, the perspective conveyed by a Jakarta Post editorial was a stark reminder to the TNI that though the public recognizes the weakness of the Police force, such perceptions should not be “used as a pretext for returning power back to the TNI from the hands of the Police”.161 The point being that the TNI’s attempt to craft a role for itself in the post-Suharto era should not “run counter to one of the goals of reforms, which is to demilitarize the nation as we march toward civil society”.162 Such sentiments have also been reflected in the acrimony evident in the debates over need for national security legislation to combat terrorism. NEW ANTI-TERRORIST LEGISLATION163 On 6 March 2003, after three hours of heated debate, Parliament in its Plenary session passed by majority vote two Government Regulations in lieu of Law (Perpu, Peraturan Pemerintah Penganti Undang Undang), namely Perpu no. 1 on the Eradication of Criminal Acts of Terrorism and Perpu no. 2 of 2002 on the Eradication of Criminal Acts of Terrorism in Relation to the Bomb Explosion Incident in Bali, 12 October 2002 to be enacted into Law.164 The contentious nature of the debate ensured that there was no consensus in the House and two Parliamentary factions, the Reform Faction and the United Development Party faction, staged a walkout when the decision came to a vote. A total of 220 legislators out of the 266 present voted for its enactment. The Bali bomb attacks occurred at a time when Parliament was in a period of extended recess. Taking into account that DPR was still debating the anti-terrorism bill, president Megawati had the authority to issue government regulations in lieu of law during a state of emergency based on article 22 of the 1945 Constitution. While the president has the authority to issue a Perpu in

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the event the country is in a state of emergency, such legislation, unlike the situation in the Suharto era, must be forwarded immediately to Parliament, which is empowered to accept the Government Regulations thereby passing it into Law. From a legal perspective, the new regulations (Perpu Anti Terorisme)165 were considered progressive and served as an important building block in strengthening the rule of law in Indonesia. The new regulations also demarcated various categories of terrorist acts; broader powers for law enforcers and intelligence agencies to take specific measures; and included a retroactive principle. The strength of the new legislation, reflective of democratizing trends, was that terrorism was not defined as a political crime based on political motives. Hence, legislation was crafted to be sensitive not to curb public freedom of expression be it through demonstration, protest or advocacy. Another plus point was the upholding of the principle of non-discrimination on the basis of ethnicity, religion, and race. Suspicions of terrorism are based on individual actions and not as a consequence of group membership. The law also provided important protection for the rights of the suspect and the accused through the involvement of the judiciary. More important, the regulations could not be used to arrest someone who articulated different views or supported a different ideology. In short, the laws have to accord with the new Chapter XA of the amended Constitution, which introduced a significant proportion of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights into Indonesian law. Nevertheless, a point of concern remains the ambiguity in the definition of terrorism. As it is currently structured, the definition is loose enough to be applied against Acehnese and Papuan separatists. “Terrorism” in the context of Indonesia can encompass a “broader spectrum of enemies” as opposed to an American definition of the term particularly as the TNI’s enemy is not the Al-Qaeda but local separatists (Weatherbee 2003). Hence, it was not surprising that, as the TNI stepped up its military offensive on 19 May 2003 as part of an overall objective to, stamp out the 26-year rebellion in Aceh, Jakarta toyed with the idea of asking the United Nations to put the GAM on the list of terrorist groups.166 The government’s attempt to have GAM listed as a terrorist organization has so far been unsuccessful, it is highly unlikely that Indonesia would be able to convince the Security Council and the international community that the rebellion and separatist movement in Aceh qualify as situations that have the propensity to harm international peace and security.167 The legislation does enable the Police to detain those suspected of terrorist activities for three days on a lower threshold of evidence than required in other cases. It provided the government the right to form anti-

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terror teams consisting of various departments, including the TNI and Police, in an attempt to conduct wide-ranging intelligence operations.168 The results of intelligence operations could be used as prima facie legal evidence after being approved by a court of law with the approval process taking no longer than three days. This is in stark contrast to the situation during the Suharto era when a person could be held under custody for an indefinite period. Similarly, during the New Order era, security institutions like Kopkamtib had absolute authority to act against those found or suspected of disturbing security and order. However, the new anti-terrorism regulations deal with terrorism-related issues only. The security institutions will not be granted any extra powers or authority to enforce the regulations. Such considerations were once again evident in the aftermath of the 5 August 2003 J.W. Marriott Hotel bombing, when hardliners close to president Megawati Sukarnoputri, namely Defence Minister Matori Abdul Djalil, TNI Commander Endriartono Sutarto, BIN Chief Hendropriyono and Home Affairs Minister Hari Sabarno, stated unequivocally that Indonesia needed an Internal Security Act (ISA) similar to that of Malaysia and Singapore. Such views sparked a public outcry that the military was striving to recoup their previously dominant role and sideline Police authority over internal security matters. Similar calls were made by TNI leaders that the military’s role be enhanced in order to enable it to assist the police in their efforts to strengthen internal security. Likewise, security agencies were united in their calls that the new anti-terrorism law be revised on matters relating to the legal conditions of arrest and detention of terror suspects. In short, calls were being made to give more power to the securityrelated agencies. However, the DPR, aside from the Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle (PDI-P, Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan), while in agreement about the need to revise anti-terrorism law, were united in their stance not to give more power to the security agencies. In anticipation of widespread protests over the plan for an ISA, the likely follow-up will be that existing laws will be strengthened rather than the creation of a separate internal security act. The terrorist bombing of the Australian embassy in Kuningan, Jakarta on 9 September 2004 has become an important catalyst in facilitating such moves. President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono is a keen advocate on the need for special provisions empowering the government to take pre-emptive measures. During his tenure as Coordinating Minister for Politics and Security he had criticized the current anti-terrorism laws for being retroactive in practice, requiring law enforcement officials to wait for acts of terrorism to occur before

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taking action. As president, he is likely to oversee the enactment of stiffer laws including a specific set of administrative requirements. For instance, under the auspices of a revised bill, investigators may have the right to detain suspected terrorists for 30 days during the investigation. In reality, suspected terrorists can be detained for up to 240 days during the investigation and indictment process. Coupled with the provisions evident in the proposed Intelligence Bill, there is a strong likelihood that detention periods could extend to a period of nine months. The existing AntiTerrorism Law only allows investigators to detain suspected terrorists for a period of seven days during preliminary investigations and allows a total detention period of six months during the investigation and indictment period. The revised bill would also cover the issue of testimony by teleconference. This specific matter became a source of controversy when testimony given by two witnesses from Malaysia during the Bali bombing trials by teleconference in the trial of terrorist suspect Abu Bakar Ba’asyir was rejected due to lack of adequate legal provisions to support such evidence. Likewise, the revised bill would also allow the use of intelligence reports as preliminary evidence, an issue left ambiguous in the current Anti-Terrorism Laws. Furthermore, such reports would not only be limited to those issued by BIN but also extend to the departments of Home and Foreign Affairs, Justice and Human Rights (for immigration matters), the Department of Defence, the Military, and the Attorney General’s Office. The members of the Parliament’s Commission for Defence and Foreign Affairs (Komisi 1) during the Megawati era remained sceptical over the necessity to revise the Anti-Terrorism Law, stressing that Indonesia’s problems have its origins in the poor coordination between state intelligence and security officials rather than inadequate legal provisions.169 It is likely that the new legislators will face similar pressure from human rights activists preferring a higher degree of competence and professionalism in the manner the security agencies carry out their duties rather than the strengthening of existing regulations. In clearer terms, what civil society may want to see is more effort being devoted to addressing the need to reduce corruption and improvement of intelligence coordination rather than increased powers for Indonesia’s security institutions. Before leaving Indonesia for the APEC leaders meeting in Mexico in late October 2002, president Megawati had signed two presidential instructions. The first, Inpres No. 4/2002 assigned the then Coordinating Minister for Politics and Security, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, the task of formulating a comprehensive and coordinated policy for the “eradication of criminal acts of terrorism” with specific reference to the Bali bombings.

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The Coordinating Minister was also given the task of compiling operational measures to cover aspects of “preventing, avoiding, tackling, halting and solving criminal acts of terrorism and all the legal measures needed for their eradication”. The second Inpres No. 5/2002 specifically related to the task of coordinating all intelligence activity, “in order to create a unified Indonesian intelligence community, which either singly or in concert is able to work efficiently and effectively”. BIN’s function would now be enhanced as it would now be empowered to become a coordination agency. All this sounds good in theory. As mentioned in the chapter, there remains considerable concern whether such coordination mechanisms can work in practice owing to personality differences or institutional rivalry. Coordination generally works well if the security elite concerned have developed a good working relationship strengthened by friendship. Without such personal links, a Minister could argue that having received a letter of appointment directly from the president, there is no necessity to comply with directions given by a Coordinating Minister. Hence, the problem in Indonesia is not that more security norms or institutions (similar to the Suharto era) need to be developed but that modern management structures that accord with a modern democracy should improve the efficiency of security management. In the wake of accusations that police and military intelligence services were intent on “keeping vital information to themselves rather than sharing it with ‘rival’ agencies and with BIN” and worse that intelligence information may have been willfully leaked allowing terrorist suspects the “opportunity to escape”,170 it comes as no surprise that President Yudhoyono intends to revitalize the intelligence apparatus through strengthening the preemptive capabilities of the various intelligence agencies by getting “BIN, the police and military to sit down together and plan a course of action, not to fight among themselves for the limelight”.171 CONCLUSION After five years of reformasi, changes are evident in internal security policy but change is more a reflection of fresh air coming into a house now that windows are being opened after years of being shut. In short, although the winds of reformasi are beginning to shape the new Indonesia, change has been excruciatingly slow, and the internal security apparatus, particularly the intelligence agencies, continue to be led by individuals whose mindsets are indelibly shaped by the realpolitik ideology of the Suharto era and for the short-term will remain stumbling blocks. The experiences of post-communist states in Eastern Europe do suggest that

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changes in the authoritarian structure of the state have usually resulted in the dismantling of intelligence agencies. At best, while democratization in Indonesia has invariably led to the activities of security agencies being scrutinized by NGO groups, the pace of reform has been glacial because civilian political elites still view military endorsement as a key factor in ensuring political survival. The slow pace of security sector reform corresponds with the fact that civilian politicians find their bargaining position vulnerable under a structure of coalition politics and are seemingly unable to govern the country without the help of the military. TNI chief Gen Endriartono Sutarto lobbied unsuccessfully for the creation of its own anti-terrorist task force to operate under TNI supervision. In this regard, the Police had jumped ahead of their TNI rivals when they unveiled their new 75 member counter-terrorism unit called Detachment 88 (Den 88, Detasemen 88) in September 2004.172 Though not having control over anti-terrorism operations, the TNI still has major responsibilities for domestic security. Without question, its intelligence capabilities exceed that of the Police and BIN. Considering that good intelligence is a bulwark in any war on terrorism there is a possibility that in time, the TNI may take a more high profile role in counter-terrorism considering its vast territorial structure. Another advantage it holds is its formal link in the international intelligence sharing network where its counterparts have greater confidence in the coherence and dependability of TNI’s intelligence than its civilian counterparts, be it BIN or the DitIntelPam. Whether this means that the twin combination of a pervasive intelligence structure and shadow military administration that supported the Suharto regime would find justification in the war against terror and reemerge remains to be seen. Elements of such thinking seem to be embedded in the bill on state intelligence currently under examination by the Ministry of Justice and Human Rights. Possibly the most controversial aspect of the bill is the proposal for BIN to be allowed the right to detain people for 7 x 24 hours for questioning without being accompanied by a lawyer. The detention could be increased for up to 90 days, and for further investigation it could be extended up to three times the 90-day period. The location and reason for such practices would be determined solely by the BIN chief. BIN had unsuccessfully tried to insert such recommendations in the government regulations in lieu of law No. 1/2002. It is likely that such regulations will cause anxiety among the Muslim community as most of the current crop of terror suspects have had connections with radical Muslim groups.

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In the final analysis, the TNI’s political influence has been strengthened in the “war against terror”. Megawati implicitly demonstrated that the TNI was her most important political constituent and hoped that their mutually beneficial relationship would help her secure victory in the 2004 presidential election. President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, not wanting to alienate the TNI, also wants to give it a yet unspecified counter-terrorism role within a division of labour that would involve BIN and POLRI. Yet, despite TNI’s undoubted qualities, would it be a reliable partner for the U.S. in the “war against terror”? The TNI is engaged in its own “war against separatism”. While Al-Qaeda may be the principle enemy of the U.S. and its coalition of the willing, combating separatism remains the defining operational priority of the TNI. Nothing could have illustrated this point more clearly than the incident on 31 August 2001 near the Freeport McMoran enclave in Papua where a group of American schoolteachers were ambushed, resulting in two people killed and seven wounded. American eyewitness accounts have claimed that the attackers were military personnel, a view supported by Police investigations who apparently uncovered evidence implicating Kopassus. The TNI countered by stating that the attackers were Papuan separatists. The situation was grave enough for a State Department official to acknowledge that “a very great deal lies on the outcome (of the investigation)”.173 The TNI have been exonerated through an FBI investigation. However, even if any external elements decide to champion the cause of the TNI, such initiatives could hit a bedrock of resistance within Indonesia where the prevailing belief remains that the TNI has been actively promoting conflict and fomenting unrest as a means of control. Public trust in the TNI remains weak. Internal Operations during the Suharto era provided surveillance and information considered useful for state policy formation and execution. The model for societal control and monitoring was developed by the TNI from its counter-insurgency experiences in the 1940s and 50s and applied as a military superstructure over the state during the Suharto era. In the 1950s, if TNI had little control over the local population at the start of the insurgency, by the end it had developed a structure of effective control measures, which allowed TNI leaders to exercise de facto administrative authority over a region at all levels. As a consequence, internal security operations have had the tendency to increase the degree of control over the civilian population by military leaders at the expense of local and central leaders. Furthermore, local military leaders were able to exert direct authority and coercion as well as indirect control that was just as strong as

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the direct control exercised by local leaders. Suharto and the TNI were able to take advantage of such propitious conditions for political and military intervention, be it in the form of close monitoring, covert action or combat operations, which were carried out for the purposes of maintaining normative or ideological systems as well as steering the society towards specified system goals. Will the approach change drastically? A glance at the recent history of Indonesia suggests that intelligence structures have survived repeated reorganizations with little change, and although the turnover of appointees to most senior civilian and military positions may be rapid, the senior figures in the state’s internal security apparatus have had exceptionally long tenures. Despite reformasi, Habibie, Wahid, Megawati and now Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono have continued the practice of appointing generals to key cabinet posts related to security, the exception being the Ministry of Defence where the fledgling “tradition” of appointing a civilian seems to be retained by Yudhoyono. Similarly, even though BIN is a civilian intelligence agency, the practice of having a retired general at its helm is still retained. While they may remove their uniforms, their service attitudes still indelibly remain. Unfortunately, the continuation of such practices reflect a belief among the civilian political elite that only those with a military background have the required expertise to handle security matters. While there is an element of truth to such perspectives, no doubt political expediency is also a factor as insecure politicians look to the military to secure their fragile positions. Hence, will the attitudes of the national security state prove enduring? Perhaps in the short-run such attitudes will be difficult to eradicate. However, changes in ethics, while slow to be adopted, will in time become more prevalent. In older democracies, society as a whole supports the requirement for internal security institutions to be accountable, hence, there is less need to promote a “responsibility ethic” (Bruneau 2001, p. 336). Yet open debate on the role of security institutions is growing as evidenced in the proliferation of articles in Indonesia’s mainstream press on security issues. The legal basis for the roles of the TNI and the Police has become increasingly important and ambiguities in that regard are unlikely to be tolerated as civil society becomes more assertive in wanting to see norms and structures in place ascertaining who has the authority to initiate internal security operations; what the authority structure is; and where its limits are (Widjojo 2001, p. 18). More and more, the logic of realpolitik ideology, while still entrenched, can no longer be used to justify internal security operations.

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Notes 1

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Jim Schiller, “Development Ideology in New Order Indonesia” (1978), p. 21. Cited in Mas’oed (1989), p. 10. Bourchier, “Crime, Law and State Authority in Indonesia”, op. cit., p. 195. Meitzner 2003, p. 251. See TNI ABAD XXI: Redefinisi, Reposisi, dan Reaktualisasi Peran TNI dalam Kehidupan Bangsa (1998), pp. 16–17. See, for example, Lee (2000), p. 699. Confidential interview (November 2000). TNI ABAD XXI, op. cit. “Infrastructural power” in contrast to “despotic power” is power gained through society, not over society. Whereas despotic power over a people is maintained with a powerful and active military, infrastructural power is maintained through intertwining the state with society and vice-versa. In practical terms, “infrastructural power” refers to the level of sophistication, effectiveness and reach within the state’s territorial domain of state institutions. A state having effective infrastructural power will obviate the need to exercise more than a modest use of its coercive power. A state deficient in good “infrastructural power” generally exercises arbitrary power exercised through the use of force, to impose rule upon civilians. Michael Mann, who devised the term “infrastructural power”, would possibly view the initial period of reformasi as an instance where “infrastructural power” made gains at the expense of “despotic power”. The focus would be on the quality of interactions between the state and other actors rather than the interaction between between society and the state in zero-sum terms. See, Michael Mann (1984), pp. 88– 104. See Harold Crouch, The Army and Politics in Indonesia (1988), pp. 246, 251 and 273. The armed forces judges its own success by two measures — security and development. See Maynard (1986), p. 212. The officers of the Siliwangi Division in West Java — like Col Ishak Djuarsa, who bore the main responsibility of dealing with the Darul Islam revolt — benefited immensely from training in counterinsurgency techniques from the British forces in Malaya. Prior to being exposed to such new tactics, the TNI had enjoyed relatively little success in the field. By the late 1950s, the new tactics employed began to pay dividends as the tide slowly began to turn against the Darul Islam (Confidential interview, November 2003). Richard Tanter, “Intelligence Agencies and Third World Militarization: A Case Study of Indonesia”, Ph.D. dissertation, Department of Politics, Monash University, 1991. Parts of this study were reproduced as “The Totalitarian Ambition: Intelligence Organisations in the Indonesian State”, in Budiman (1990), pp. 213–84. A further three sources, who through their affiliation with the Australian Defence Force developed significant personal knowledge of the

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Indonesian military and must be commended as authoritative studies which were beneficial to the author in his research, are Lowry (1996), Kilcullen (2000), and Corporal Matthew N. Davies, AUST INT “The ABRI Intelligence Apparatus: A’Corps’ of Many Lanyards”, Australian Defence Force Journal no. 134 (January/February 1999): 25–35. Available from: http://www.defence.gov.au/publication/dfi/adfj134.pdf and finally the essays in Anderson (2001). In 1982, Seskoad published the second edition of Vademecum: Defence and Security Studies, a 700-page manual for middle-ranking officers taking the one year Seskoad course. Tanter’s description of the Seskoad curriculum illuminates the emphasis placed on different aspects of military training. In his words: “The manual was divided into seven sections, several of which are straightforward military science subjects as one would expect in a comparable western manual: Command and Communications, Operations (from Amphibious to Intelligence), Administration and Management, Military Science Studies, and Strategic issues. Not all of these subjects have the content that would be expected on a western model: Military Science Studies deals mainly with social analysis: three of its four chapters are Social Research Methods, Survey Instrument Construction, and Territorial Development as a Development approach. Some of the other parts would be unusual in a western military curriculum; for example Struggle (Perjuangan), which discussed the Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution, the Dwifungsi of the Armed Forces, their Sacred Duty as Inheritors of the Values of 1945, the Foundation of the Armed Forces Leadership (of Indonesian Society), and the History of the Struggle of the Armed Forces. Most important of all was part three which typified the longstanding social and political preoccupations of Indonesian military thinking, namely, Territorial operations”. See Tanter (1991), pp. 355–56. For a discussion of the course in the early 1980s by an American participant, see McFetridge (1983), pp. 87–98. Other notable works published in the 1980s were: Budiardjo and Liem (1984) and Osborne (1985). See Tanter (1991), p. 358. Note: Tanter used the 1982 version of the Vademecum: Pengetahuan Pertahanan Keamanan in his analysis. Later versions seen by the author have not varied significantly in their emphasis. In places it becomes Ipoleksosbudmil, to emphasize military matters, or in some instances Ipoleksosbudmilroh, to assert a temporal rendering of spiritual (rohaniah) affairs. The more common usage among security elites incorporates religion as a factor, hence the term Ipoleksosbudmilag due to historical legacy of groups like the Darul Islam and their attempts through the use of force to implement their vision of an Islamic state. Vademecum, p. 324. For a useful study, see Poeze (1994), pp. 229–46. Ibid., p. 240. The Japanese occupation, which followed the Dutch colonial era, also significantly shaped Indonesian attitudes to intelligence operations.

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Intelligence operations were an important component of military training — that PETA was itself a creation of the Japanese Beppan intelligence agency in Java. The individual identified as laying the groundwork for an embryonic Indonesian intelligence apparatus in 1945, Zulkilfli Lubis, was trained by the Japanese. Indeed, the Japanese Imperial Army may have the dubious distinction of initiating Indonesians into the unsavoury aspects of intelligence work all too common in the Suharto era. In the words of Davies (1999, p. 26), “The local underworld, too, was not exempt from active collaboration. Sendenbu, 16th Army Psyops section, embraced local ethnic Chinese, and Europeandescended Indonesians to form secret guerrilla groups. Japanese manipulation of street gang thugs and vagabonds clearly anticipated the present era’s shadier side of Indonesia’s internal security used for harsh and violent repression of dissent”. See Goodfellow (1995). In theory, the separation of the Police from the TNI in 1999 would require that the BINKANWIL function should now be the responsibility of the Police. However, in practice there has been no executive decision as to how the responsibilities would be transferred and more importantly implemented. It is unlikely that such “new thinking” has filtered down to the level of the territorial commands (Confidential interview, July 2002). Tanter (1991), pp. 361–62, citing “Meaning of Situation Levels”: (Hankam Combined Operations Doctrine NS 02/76) found on page 330 in the 1982 edition of the Vademecum. Ibid., p. 362, citing source found on page 413 in the 1982 edition of the Vademecum. Ibid., p. 362, citing source found on pages 414 to 415 in the 1982 edition of the Vademecum. Under current conditions, KAMTIBMAS operations are still the responsibility of the Police. However, such operations are no longer under the jurisdiction of the TNI. Since the separation of the Police from the TNI in April 1999, KAMTIBMAS operations are now completely under the authority of the Police who are entrusted with the role of internal security. Tanter (1999), pp. 362 and 364, citing source found from pages 415 to 516 in the 1982 edition of the Vademecum. Tanter was the first scholar to grapple with the difficulties inherent in directly translating these three terms into English (ibid., p. 356). According to him, while penyelidikan is literally “investigation”, as in the Police Criminal Investigating Bureau, in practice it refers to the analytical and research parts of intelligence work. Pengamanan is literally “the activity of security” or “the rendering secure” of an object, as opposed to keamanan (“security”). It is the Indonesian term used for its English equivalent, that is, “counter-intelligence”. Penggalangan is a difficult term to translate. For example, Conboy prefers to translate the term to mean “conditioning” in describing the intelligence

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priorities of a BAKIN Deputy III official. In an interview, the official stated: “We focused on the five M’s: Muslims, the military, mass media, mahasiswa (students), and money (business leaders). We tried to shape their views, to bring them over our side in order to further national development”. See Conboy (2003b), p. 86. In practice, though, the term penggalangan is used to cover black operations, psychological warfare, covert action and so forth. I prefer Tanter’s broader interpretation of the term meaning “supportive operations”. Tanter (1991), citing source found on page 308 in the 1982 edition of the Vademecum. Ibid., pp. 356–57, citing source found on page 310 in the 1982 edition of the Vademecum. “In 1985 Amnesty International published a series of captured Indonesian Army documents emanating from Military Resort Command (Korem) 164/ Wira Darma based in Dili. All appear to have been written around 1982, and were substantiated by the signatures of the Korem Commander, Colonel Adolf Sahala Rajagukguk, and his Intelligence “Chief”, Major Williem da Costa. Those documents endorsed by da Costa were either Instruction Manuals or a training plan. Rajagukguk’s name appeared over three sets of Standard Procedures (Protap, Prosedur Tetap)”. The documents concerned focus on two specific themes. The first sought to provide TNI personnel with information pertaining to Fretilin’s influence within the Timorese community and the type of political and military tactics utilized; the second laid down specific operational procedures necessary for nullifying Fretilin’s strategy. The Protap was fairly comprehensive divulging Fretilin’s clandestine networks, strategies for enhancing village security and methods for interrogation. See Amnesty International (1985), p. 12 and Burdiardjo and Liem (1984), Documents 1–9 and p. 204. Tanter (1991), p. 357, citing source found on page 309 in the 1982 edition of the Vademecum. Ibid., p. 357, citing source found on pages 311–12 in the 1982 edition of the Vademecum. The legal status of Kopkamtib was always vague and often contested. The preferred legitimation was always President Sukarno’s Instruction of 11 March 1966 (Surat Perintah Sebekas Maret, Supersemar) to the then Major-General Suharto, empowering him to take all steps necessary to guarantee security, order and stability of government. In 1974, President Suharto named Kopkamtib as the vehicle for carrying out the task assigned to him by the People’s Consultative Assembly the year before to “maintain the unity and integrity of the nation, safeguarding national development, Pancasila Democracy and the 1945 Constitution”. See TAP MPR No. X/MOR/1973, and Presidential Decision No. 9, March 2, 1974. Also see Kopkamtib, The Role and Function of Kopkamtib in the National Security System (Jakarta: Komando Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan dan Ketertiban, January 1977), p. 3.

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See Tanter (1991), p. 262. Ibid., p. 411. Similarly, a special intelligence unit was created in 1965 within the Military Police called the Military Police Intelligence Operative Detachment (Den Pintel Pom, Detasemen Pelaksana Intelijen Polisi Militer) reporting to Kopkamtib for purposes of tracking the movements of the PKI. See Conboy 2003b, pp. 49 and 59. See, for example, Sudharmono’s comments on Murdani’s retirement as armed forces commander, Kompas, 28 February 1988. “Bangsa ini Memerlukan Pertahanan Total”, Tempo, 17 September 1988, p. 29. Ibid., p. 30. Confidential interview (January 1994). The Kewaspadaan doctrine was a product of a ten-year study (1978–88) conducted under the auspices of Lemhannas. The purpose of the doctrine was to map out a range of threats brought about by the infusion of new ideas via globalization. Concerns ranged from the activities of groups who rejected liberal capitalism and sought to mobilize support through the use of neoMarxist strategies, the so-called “new style commuists” (KGB, Komunis Gaya Baru), to those societal elements who promoted democratization, and nebulous extremist groups who posed a danger to the “Pancasila, UUD45, national integration and development”. See Honna (2003), p. 114. Confidential interviews (January and February 1994). See “Pangdam Jaya: Bakorstanasda Masih Diperlukan”, Kompas, 18 January 1994; and “Bakorstanas, Masih Perlu?”, Forum Keadilan no. 22 (17 February 1994), p. 96. Bakorstananasda Jaya assigned 17 intelligence personnel to IBRA, who in turn, transfered Rp 750,000 to their personal bank accounts. Between 1999 and 2001 the number of intelligence personnel increased to 33 with wages increasing to Rp 1 million each per month. When Bakorstanas was disbanded in 2000, IBRA then extended the contract with the Jakarta Military Command. See, “Soldiers moonlighting at IBRA called back”, Jakarta Post, 8 October 2002. See “ABRI interferes in HKBP”, Asia Watch press release, Vol. 5, no. 3, 5 January 1993, cited from http://basisdata.esosoft.net/1993/01/25/0000.html. The Commission of Inquiry for Human Rights Violation in East Timor (KPP HAM Tim-Tim, Komisi Penyelidik Pelanggaran Hak Asasi Manusia di Timor-Timur) was established by decree No. 770/TUA/IX/99 during Komnas HAM’s (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia Indonesia or Indonesian National Human Rights Commission) plenary session on 23 September 1999 which was revised accordingly on 22 October 1999 with PERPU 1/1999 (Peraturan Pemerintah or Government Regulations in Lieu of Law). KPP HAM Tim-Tim was tasked with the responsibility to gather

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information on human rights violations in East Timor since January 1999 and submitted a 47-page report based on its findings, along with all the preliminary evidence to the Attorney-General on 31 January 2000. A reproduction of the KPP HAM Tim-Tim report can be found in McDonald et al., 2002, pp. 15–59. Litsus refers to a special examination for civil servants established by Presidential Decree No. 16 in 1990 to prevent anyone suspected of being a communist or members of their families from entering the Armed Forces, the civil service, and many other institutions of society and the economy. For discussions on the introduction of the BIA, see “Mutasi pada Jajaran ABRI Buktikan Adanya Dinamika”, Pelita, 20 January 1994; “Format Baru dalam Markas Tebet”, Tempo, 22 January 1994; “Hanya Ganti Baju?” Editor, 27 January 1994; “Perubahan Bais jadi BIA Direncanakan Bulan Ini”, Republika, 19 January 1994; and “Kassospol ABRI Diganti, Bais Punya Struktur Baru”, Suara Pembaruan, 19 January 1994. See, Editors, “Current Data on the Indonesian Military Elite after the Reorganization of 1969–70”, Indonesia 10 (1970), p. 194. Confidential interview (February 1994). Ibid. Confidential interview (November 2002). BAIS had been prepared for with the establishment of a school for Armed Forces Intelligence. The ABRI Intelligence Development Centre (Pusat Pengembangan Intelijens ABRI) at Ciomas near Bogor was intended to supplement the existing, less sophisticated service schools, especially the Army’s Intelligence School nearby at Ci Kemeuh in western Bogor. The new ABRI Intelligence School runs a six-month course for all services, with army entry at captain level. Although a military organization, BIA/BAIS remains oriented towards political analysis — in line with the general Armed Forces concern for social engineering and social control. It operates an archipelago-wide day-to-day monitoring of all social conditions deemed politically significant. During the Suharto era, it worked closely with the Army’s Social and Political Affairs and Territorial Staff structure, and with the Social and Political and Special Directorates of the Home Affairs Ministry and the Office of the Deputy Attorney-General (Intelligence). Much of the discussion which follows presenting briefly the army intelligence line and staff system has benefited from the detailed analysis presented by Tanter (1991), pp. 293–302. The analysis remains relevant with the exception of the fact that the highly political office of Kasospol has been abolished and the linkage with the Ministry of Home Affairs diminished considerably in that regard. This does not mean that coordination ceases to exist. While there is consultation at the official level, much depends on the personalities of the various office holders. If they get along, as in the case of the Megawati era

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where Hari Sarbano, Minister of Home Affairs, was a military man close to the President, then cooperation can be significant. Nevertheless, through the Assistant for Territorial Affairs (Aster), the Territorial staff structure is still maintained. See Markas Besar, TNI-AD, Pokok-Pokok Organisasi dan Tugas Komando Daerah Militer (Kodam), Keputusan Kepala Staf TNI-AD, (Markas Besar, TNI-AD, No. KEP/4/I/1985, Tanggal 12 Januari, (1985), Pasal 10 and 49. Cited in Tanter (1991), p. 298. “The total Korem Intelligence Section presonnel is about ten — a major, a captain, a brace of NCOs and one or two privates”. See Markas Besar TNIAD, Organisasi dan Tugas Komando Resort Militer (Korem): Keputusan Kepala Staf TNI-AD (Markas Besar, TNI-AD, No. KEP/14/XII/1984, Tunggal 26 December 1984). Cited in Tanter (1991), p. 298. Despite the fact that the socio-political role of the TNI has diminished, it is unlikely that in the short-term the TNI will leave aside ingrained habits. Indeed, the comprehensive nature of the threats to be monitored and the acute lack of capability within the ranks of the Police will require the TNI, particularly at the regional level, to monitor ground conditions closely. Markas Besar TNI-AD, Organisasi dan Tugas Komanda Distrik Militer (Kodim): Keputusan Kepala Staf TNI-AD (Markas Besar, TNI-AD, No. Kep/ 2/I/1985, Tanggal 10 Januari 1985), Pascal 9 and appendix. Cited in Tanter (1991), p. 298. The procedures charged to the Military District Commands (Koramil) and the Village Guidance Teams (Tim Pembina Desa) and Village Guidance NCOs (Babinsa) correspond with the general territorial intelligence methods suggested by the Seskoad manual cited by Tanter, namely, “establishing the level of turbulence (kerawanan) of the village” (Tanter 1991, p. 367) by reference to specified criteria. Like the Seskoad model, the Established Procedures and instruction manuals issued to TNI personnel in East Timor stressed the importance on surveillance of the population. See Instruction Manual No. JUKNIS/01/XI/1981, cited in Budiardjo and Liem (1989), p. 212. Instruction Manual No. JUKNIS/04-B/IV/1982, ibid., pp. 218–19. Markas Besar TNI-AD, Organisasi dan Tugas Komando Rayon Militer (Koramil): Keputusan Kepala Staf TNI-AD, (Markas Besar, TNI-AD, No. Kep/3/I/1985, Tanggal 10 Januari 1985), Pascal 9 and 10. Cited in Tanter, (1991), p. 300. See Sullivan (1986), pp. 63–88. Cited in Tanter, ibid., p. 302. Discussion with BAIS officer (July 2001). BAKIN’s origins lie in the demise of a Guided Democracy period organization, the Central Intelligence Agency (BPI, Badan Pusat Intelijens). The BPI was founded in 1959 by Sukarno with Djuanda as Prime Minister and General Nasution as Minister of Defence, in response to an armed forces desire for an integrated intelligence service. In the face of inter-service rivalry, Foreign

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Minister Subandrio, at that time acceptable to the military, was appointed as its head. In the latter part of the Guided Democracy period, the BPI became something of a personal political vehicle for Dr. Subandrio who had become First Minister after the death of Djuanda in 1963, and where his swing to the left was bitterly resented by the anti-Communist mainstream army leadership. After Sukarno’s hand-over of power to Suharto on 11 March 1966, the BPI building was occupied by HANKAM intelligence units under Asintel Magenda, and the organization effectively disbanded after Subandrio’s arrest a week later. The army was concerned to secure the entire troubled intelligence apparatus through an integrated organization. A new, military body, the State Intelligence Command (KIN, Komando Intelijens Negara) was established to take over the functions, but not the personnel of the BPI, majority of who were considered by the Army leaders to be implicated in the 30th September Affair. The new organization, however, was found wanting, apparently because it was military in conception, and possibly because of the haste with which New Order institutions were being constructed at the time. In 1967, KIN was reorganized into BAKIN. Sundhaussen (1978), p. 65, paraphrasing Yoga Sugama in Sinar Harapan, 12 December 1969. See note 42, Chap. 1. For more information, see, International Crisis Group (ICG), Al-Qaeda in Southeast Asia: The Case of the “Ngruki Network” in Indonesia (Jakarta/ Brussels: Indonesia Briefing, 8 August 2002). UP 01’s early incarnation was the Special Intelligence Operatives Unit (Satsus Pintel, Satuan Khusus Pelaksana Intelijen formed on 16 November 1968 and this intelligence unit drew most of its operatives from a special intelligence unit within the Military Police called the Military Police Intelligence Operative Detachment (Den Pintel Pom, Detasemen Pelaksana Intelijen Polisi Militer). By March 1973 it became known by its familiar name, the Special Intelligence Unit (Satsus Intel, Satuan Khusus Intelijen). In March 1976, the organization was redesignated as the BAKIN Operational Unit (Satlak BAKIN, Satuan Pelaksana BAKIN), reflecting the complete severing of its ties with the Military Police and its full integration into BAKIN. According to Conboy: “By December 1989, there were five autonomous operational units answering directly to the BAKIN chief. The first UP 01, was the new name for the Satsus Intel spycatchers. The second, UP 02, was a signal intelligence formation intended as a miniature version of the U.S. National Security Agency; never provided with adequate equipment, UP 02 was stillborn. UP 03 oversaw the administration of BAKIN compounds, UP 04 was in charge of training and education, and UP 05 handled documentation”. See Conboy (2003b), op. cit., pp. 59, 63, 185, and 197. Ibid. The bulk of Conboy’s book essentially focuses on BAKIN’s various intelligence operations against foreign targets.

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After the Malari Affair, Murtopo was forced by Suharto to merge his independent Opsus operation into his last prevailing position of importance, that of BAKIN Deputy III. See ibid., p. 86. For the reference to the Imran Group, see, Major-General Sudrajat, DirectorGeneral for Defence Strategy, Department of Defence, Republic of Indonesia, Politics and Security in Indonesia and the Implications for the Southeast Asian region, Public Lecture No. 1, Political Science Association (Singapore), 31 January 2004, p. 6. On 28 March 1981a DC-9 Garuda aircraft (GA 206) named “Woyla” destined for Medan flying from Talang Betutu Airport in Palembang was hijacked and re-routed to Bangkok. On reaching Bangkok, the hijacker’s demands included the release of 80 extremists some of whom belonged to the Komando Jihad group, a ransom of US$1.5 million and the promise of safe passage to an unspecified destination. The successful rescue operation led by Murdani utilizing 35 Kopassandha troops under the direction of Lt-Col Sintong Panjaitan on 31 March was highly acclaimed considering the TNI’s lack of expertise in counterterrorism operations and resulted in the death of one soldier. For a personalized account, see Julius Pour (1993), Chapter 20. Confidential interview (February 1994). This coordination role includes an external element, although this is shared with the BAIS/BIA. The Australian Secret Intelligence Service (ASIS), to name but one, first appointed a liaison officer with BAKIN in 1977. See Richelson and Ball (1985), p. 172. There seemed to be a division of labour whereby BAKIN liaises with embassy political staff (Foreign Ministry/State Department Staff) and BAIS/BIA with embassy military and other service attachés. See Tanter (1991), p. 314. Confidential Interview, July 2002. It is now evident that the two dozen bomb blasts targeting churches on Christmas Eve 2000 were the work of a shadowy transnational Islamic extremist network called the Jema’ah Islamiyah (JI). See ICG, “Al Qaeda in Southeast Asia”, op. cit. During the Suharto era there existed a Regional Intelligence Coordinating Body (Bakorinda, Badan Koordinasi Intelijen Daerah) which was a local Intelligence Coordinating Body comprising representatives of the four services and where necessary representatives of Ditsospol Mendagri and Jamintel functioning as a provincial level monitoring institution. It would be likely that such an institution would be reconstituted to meet BIN’s requirements once it completes the process of having provincial-level offices for the overall coordination of archipelagic wide intelligence. See, Lowry, op. cit., p. 74. Confidential interview (September 2003). “BIN’s plan not yet final”, Jakarta Post, 9 January 2004. Confidential interview (October 2003).

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In June 1998, Wiranto supported an initiative to form a Fact Finding Team to investigate the abduction, torture and disappearance of activists early that year. The Military Honour Council convened to try the perpetrators courtmartialled 11 members of Kopassus including, significantly, the unit’s former commander Lt-Gen Prabowo Subianto, his successor Maj-Gen Muchdi Purwopranjono and the head of the Kopassus Intelligence and Secret Warfare section, Col Chairawan. Confidential interview (October 2003). “President appoints new BIN chief”, Jakarta Post, 9 December 2004. “BIN plans regional offices to improve intelligence work”, Jakarta Post, 29 November 2002. Confidential interview (July 2002). Within Directorate 43 there now exists a team possessing fluency in Arabic and expertise in Islam tasked with penetrating radical Islamic organizations. The development of such capabilities is a step in what BIN hopes will enable it to become the preeminent counter-terrorism agency. Furthermore, two intelligence schools, one at the undergraduate level, the Institut Intelijen Negara (in cooperation with Institute Technology Bandung) based at Sentul and another at postgraduate level, Institut Intelijen Internasional (in cooperation with the University of Indonesia) in Batam, have been set up and administered by BIN. See Conboy, INTEL (2003b), op. cit., p. 246. See Kepolisan Republik Indonesia: Sekilas Lintas (Jakarta, 1976), p. 72. See, for example, the account of A.M. Fatwa, Secretary of the Petition of 50 Group, of his arrest, interrogation and detention for almost a year before trial: Dakwaan Subversi — Dulu Untuk Darurat Revolusi, Kini Untuk Darurat Pembangunan — Eksepi Drs. H.A.M. Fatwa. See Barker (1998), p. 8. Another useful study is Romain Bertrand, “Masters of Violence: Civil Militias and the Criminalization of Politics in Indonesia”. Paper presented at a Workshop on Organised Crime at the ECPR Convention (Marburg, 2003, mimeo). Ibid., p. 13. “Public participation crucial for antiterrorism movement”, Jakarta Post, 25 October 2002. “Kelemahan Polri akan Rugikan Kredibilitas ABRI”, Kompas, 27 January 1994. Other weaknesses pointed out were poor supervision and monitoring of the use of rifles; lack of professionalism in giving guidance to people; and especially a lack of an effective approach towards elders and ulemas in efforts to solve problems related to the population nationwide. “Rivalry threatens Indonesia’s intelligence network”. Dated 2 September 2003 and available on http://edition.cnn.com/2003/WORLD/asiapcf/southeast/08/ 31/indon.terror.rivalry/index.html. Derwin Pereira, “Terror of Infighting”, Sunday Times (Singapore), 27 October 2002.

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“Military ‘knows’ the bombers, police don’t”, Jakarta Post, 25 October 2002. Jawa Pos and Kompas, 25 April 1988, cited in Indonesia Reports, no. 33, June 1988. Confidential interview (March 2001). Cited from International Center for Transitional Justice, ed., Intended to Fail: The Trials before the Ad Hoc Human Rights Court in Jakarta (Berkeley, CA: UC Berkeley War Crimes Studies Center, 2003), pp. 40–41. Ibid., p. 41. Buku Alamat Pejabat Negara Republik Indonesia 1987 (Jakarta: Badan Penerbit Alda, 1987), pp. 421–22 and Almanak Negara Republik Indonesia 1987, (Jakarta: Badan Penerbit Alda, 1987), pp. 629–32. Cited in Tanter (1991), p. 337. Confidential interview (February 1994). This portion deals with operations of the standard military bureaucratized part of the apparatus and excludes the penggalangan or less standardized activities of Opsus, BAKIN/BIN or BAIS which are part and parcel of intelligence operations, though impossible to document owing to the level of secrecy involved. See Tanter (1991), p. 386. The main thrust of this case study was inspired by Tanter’s original case study summarizing its significant points and the author would like to highlight this fact in order to credit Tanter for his foresight in highlighting such an unusual field of inquiry. See INDOC’s various publications and updates since the early eighties entitled, Indonesian Workers and Their Right to Organise (Leiden: Indonesian Documentation and Information Centre). Opstibpus was established in September 1977 by Presidential Instruction 9/ 1977, following a request in June of that year by the President to Kopkamtib to assist the government in dealing with widespread corruption, especially illegal charges and tolls and bribes (see “Mengenang PO Box 999”, Tempo, 17 September 1988 cited in Tanter [1991], p. 280). The Minister for Reform of the State Administrative Apparatus was responsible for coordination of the operation, with assistance to be provided as required by the Chief of Staff of Kopkamtib (Admiral Sudomo at the time). (For the Presidential Instruction, and Opstibpus’ own explanation of its original task, see Kopkamtib/ Opstibpus, Operasi Tertib [Jakarta: Kopkamtib, Operasi Tertib Pusat, n.d. cited in ibid., p. 280]. According to Tanter, government sources indicated that the first five years of Operation Order yielded Rp. 700 milyar to the government (ibid., p. 280). Later, Opstibpus’s operation broadened somewhat. One exercise commonly referred to was Opstibpus’ assistance in overcoming difficulties encountered in the compulsory acquisition of land for construction of a ring-road around Jakarta — Operasi Pembebasan Tanah. Opstibpus brought in its own surveyors and accountants to ensure that proper compensation was paid to those actually entitled (See “Opstib jamin ganti rugi utuh pada yang berhak”, Kompas, 7 July 1988 cited in

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ibid., p. 280). Although Opstibpus was publicly associated with attempts to regularize the government apparatus, it was in fact involved in a somewhat broader range of activities. When Admiral Sudomo announced the establishment of Labour Assistance Teams in 1981, Opstibpus officers were named as regular members of the teams. (See Kompas, 28 August 1981, cited in ibid., p. 280). The abolition of Kopkamtib went together with the abolition of this relatively obscure organization (on its abolition, see “Opstib dibubarkan sebagi tinjak lanjut pembentukan Bakorstanas”, Jayakarta, 8 September 1988, cited in ibid., p. 280). Menteri Tenaga Kerja, “Telex Nomor: 46/M/V/1983, Tanggal 19 Mei 1983”. Cited in Tanter (1991), p. 392. INDOC, Indonesian Workers and Their Right to Organise, March 1983 Update: Increasing Militarisation of Labour Relations, (Leiden: Indonesian Documentation and Information Centre, 1983), pp. 4–5. Accompanying the decision to abolish these teams in 1983 highlighted the presence of Interdepartmental Security Work Teams (Team Kerja Security Interdep). Also cited in Tanter (1991), p. 391. “Pos Siaga Naker Siap bantu Pengusaha dan Karyawan”, Kompas, 8 June 1984. Cited in Tanter (1991), p. 392. There have been numerous examples reported from the late 1970s onwards in INDOC, Indonesian Workers and Their Right to Organise (1981) Tanter points to one specific example, citing the case of PT Central Star Knitting Corporation, (Bogor: FBSI, Januari 1983), which highlighted the involvement of the local Police Security Intelligence (Intelpampol) unit: “In the case of striking workers at P.T.U.I.P.I., at Cimanggis, Bogor, a territorial operation was carried out by government apparatus consisting of: Village Guidance NCOs (Babinsa), Village Social Leadership NCOs (Binmas Desa), District Officials (Kecamatan), Village Heads (Kepala Desa), and local Neighbourhood Association (RT/RW) officers coordinated by the Military District Chief of Staff (Kasdim) 0621 Bogor Kabupaten, Social and Political Regional Staff, as well as the Cimanggis Police Commandant (ibid., p. 11). See also Tanter (1991), p. 393. See INDOC (1981), pp. 5–22. Subsequent research has also proved Tanter’s observations to be correct. See Hadiz (1997), pp. 104–9. “The 1994 Medan Unrest”, in http://www.peg.apc.org/~stan/asiet/doss1/medan. htm. Ibid. Ian Timberlake, “Union chaos a product of Suharto past”, Straits Times, 31 January 2001. See Tanter (1991), p. 376, citing the relevant reference to the Seskoad manual found in pages 415–16. See, for instance, Kompas 26 August 1981.

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Suharto: Pikiran, Ucapan Tindakan Saya (Jakarta: PT Citra Lantoro Gung Persada, 1989), pp. 389–90. A former Dutch soldier, Major Rokus Bernardus Visser alias Mochamad Idjon Djanbi who defected to the Republican forces helped establish a Special Forces unit with the assistance of Col Alex Kawilarang and Lt. Col Slamet Riyadi through the Army and Territorium III Unit (Kesko) was founded on 16 April 1952 with 400 cadets under the auspices of the Siliwangi Command. The following year, Kesko came under the control of the Army Chief of Staff and its name was changed to Army Commando Corps (KKAD, Korps Komando Angkatan Darat). Since the mid-1950s, the Special Forces have gone through a number of name changes as a reflection of changes in organization and the evolving role of the unit. By 1955 its name was changed yet again to Army Commando Troop Regiment (RPKAD, Para Komando Angkatan Darat). Another name change took place in 1959 to Paratroop Commando Regiment though the abbreviation RPKAD remained. In 1971, it was renamed Covert Warfare Forces Command (Kopassandha, Komando Pasukan Sandhi Yudha) before it became the Special Forces Command (Kopassus, Komando Pasukan Khusus) in May 1985. See “Commandos on the edge” Tempo, no. 32 (April 16–22, 2002), available at http://www.tempointeraktif.com/majalah/eng/cov-1.html. The use of East Timorese in combat operations began as early as 1983. Such troops with their knowledge of regional dialects and the terrain were part of the People’s Militia (Wanra, Perlawanan Rakyat) and assigned to the local military structure. See, Douglas Kammen, “The Trouble with Normal: The Indonesian Military, Paramilitaries, and the Final Solution in East Timor”, in Anderson (2001), pp. 159–60. For a useful discussion of the evolution of the East Timor command structures, see Douglas Kammen, “Notes on the Transformation of the East Timor Military Command and its Implications for Indonesia”, Indonesia, no. 67 (April 1999), pp. 61–76. For a useful overview on the conflict in Aceh, see Geoffrey Robinson, “Rawan is as Rawan Does: The Origins of Disorder in New Order Aceh”, in Anderson (2001), p. 230. See Liem Soei Liong (2002), p. 201, and “The Kopassus-militia alliance”, TAPOL Bulletin no. 154/155, (November 1999), pp. 13–17. Ibid., p. 202. For more details on the various types of militia groups operating in East Timor, see John Roosa, “Info on ABRI’s paramilitaries in East Timor”. Available from http://www.easttimor.com/html/notices16htm, 12 February 1999. Richard Tanter, “The Indonesian Intelligence State Revisited”. Available from http://csf.colorado.edu/bcas/campaign/tanter.htm. See International Center for Transitional Justice, Intended to Fail, op. cit., pp. 83–85.

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For an analysis of such documents, see Robinson (2001), pp. 243–76; and Moore (2001), pp. 9–44. Feisal Tanjung had been involved in a covert operation to ensure an Indonesian victory in the 1969 “Act of Free Choice” in West Irian. See Moore (2001), p. 34. For more information on the Lumintang telegram, see, Richard Tanter, “Practical Justice in Doe v. Lumintang: The Successful Use of Civil Remedies against ‘an Enemy of All Mankind’”, in Hamish McDonald et al., Masters of Terror, op. cit., pp. 230–32. See Intended to Fail, op. cit., p. 87. Confidential interview (February 1994). Confidential interview (November 2003). See Kilcullen (2002), pp. 65–66; Van Dijk (1981), p. 125 and Karl D. Jackson (1980), p. 18. For an excellent discussion of the issues, see Tim Kell (1995). For more information, see Robinson (2001), pp. 234–36. See Budiardjo and Liem, op. cit., pp. 27–33, and J. Taylor (1991), pp. 85–88. Based on the Decision of the Minister of Defence and Security/Commander of the Armed Forces No. Kep/04/III/1977, dated 5 April 1977. See Seskoad, op. cit., p. 396. Confidential interview (February 1994). Ibid. Seskoad, “Sistem Pembinaan Teritorial”, brochure NSS 4112, Bandung, 1985, pp. 1–8; Seskoad, “Aspek Perencanaan dan Pengendalian Pembinaan Teritorial”, brochure NSS 4113, Bandung, 1985. Construction projects may include houses, village halls, places of worship, soccer fields, volleyball courts and the provision of water. National awareness programmes may involve flag raising ceremonies in schools, the singing of national songs and lectures on Indonesia’s struggle for independence. Welfare objectives can involve “neighbourhood watch” exercises (latihan ronda kampung) or lectures concerning juvenile delinquency. “Melepas dengan Perhitungan”, Editor, 6 October 1990. For a useful discussion, see Kell, op. cit., pp. 78–79. Based on the Decision of the Minister of Defence and Security/Commander of the Armed Forces No. Kep/04/III/1977, dated 5 April 1977, See Seskoad, op. cit., p. 400. For a useful analysis of aspects of the Operation to Restore Security and Public Order in Aceh which began on April 2001, see Kirsten Schulze, “Indonesia strives to restore order in Aceh”, Jane’s Intelligence Review 13, no. 9 (September 2001), pp. 28–30. Ibid., p. 30. The COHA required an immediate cessation of hostilities, the creation of a joint security committee, the establishment of peace zones, the cantonment of

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GAM weapons, the restructuring of Brimob’s functions, and the phased relocation of TNI units. For more information on the COHA see, International Crisis Group, Aceh: A Fragile Peace (2003), pp. 8–9. Analysis on the TNI’s Integrated Operation in Aceh was based on the author’s seminar presentation entitled “Military Operations in Aceh” given at the IDSS seminar “The Conflict in Aceh: Implications and Prospects”, 25 June 2003. For a useful analysis on similar issues, see also Rizal Sukma (2004). Confidential interview (August 2003). For an interesting perspective, see, Edward Aspinall, “Anti-insurgency logic in Aceh”, Inside Indonesia (October–December 2003). Available at: http:// www.serve.com/inside/edit76/p23-24aspinall.htm. See International Crisis Group, Aceh: How not to win Hearts and Minds (23 July 2003). “A Pointless Decision”, Jakarta Post, 6 November 2003. “KASTER TNI: Payung Hukum TNI sudah terakomodasi di RUU PKB”, Kompas, 16 October 2000. Wiranto in his memoirs gave some reasons why RUU PKB was a superior law to the 1959 State of Emergency Law. For instance, if the 1959 State of Emergency Law allowed the president to an absolute prerogative to implement a state of emergency without the need to consult any major institutions, then RUU PKB was more discretionary, allowing for a “Special Situation” referred to in the 1959 law as a “civil emergency” to be reported to the president by the provincial governor only after approval by the parliament. The new law would have also included protections for human rights as well as limits established on the length of a state of civil or military emergency. For instance, a civil emergency or Special Situation could not last longer than three months and could only be extended a further three months. Similarly, a military emergency could only last for six months and could only be renewed for periods of three months. Only a state of war could last indefinitely. See Wiranto, Bersaksi di Tengah Badai (Jakarta: Institute for Democracy of Indonesia, 2003), pp. 179–80. Confidential interview (15 January 2004). Bambang Widjajanto and Douglas Kammen, “The Structure of military abuse”, Inside Indonesia, no. 62 (April-June 1999). Cited from http://www. insideindonesia.org/edit62/dom2.htm. Ibid. Ibid. See Mempertahankan Tanah Air Memasuki Abad 21 (Jakarta: Departemen Pertahanan, 31 March 2003). “TNI’s halfhearted reform”, Jakarta Post, 15 April 2003. Mempertahankan Tanah Air Memasuki Abad 21, op. cit., pp. 52–54. The “spectrum structure” for defence and security adapted for the Defence White

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paper was derived from Agus Widjojo, Refungsionalisasi Binter sesuai Paradigma Baru Peran TNI, October 2001, p. 7. “TNI’s halfhearted reform”, Jakarta Post, op. cit. Ibid. An expanded version of this section assessing Indonesia’s new anti-terrorism regulations can be found in Leonard C. Sebastian, “The Conundrum of Jakarta’s Anti-Terrorism Moves”, Straits Times, 2 November 2002. At its inception, a common misperception reinforced by the press was that the anti-terrorism legislation was an emergency decree. For the complete text, see Peraturan Pemerintah Pengganti Undang Undang Republik Indonesia Nomor 1 Tahun 2002 Tentang Pemberantasan Tindak Pidana Terorisme and Tentang Pemberlakuan Tindak Pidana Terrorisme Pada Peristiwa Peledakan Bom Di Bali Tanggal 12 October 2002. The full text is available at http:// www.hukumonline.com, 22 October 2002. The two Perpus formed the basis of the Anti-Terrorism Law. For the full text see, Peraturan dan UndangUndang Tentang Pemberantasan Tindak Pidana Terorisme & Kepolisian Negara Tahun 2002 (Jakarta: CV. Tamita Utama, 2003). The new regulations were a revised version of the Anti-terrorism Bill that had been debated in the DPR for a number of months with little progress over strong public pressure fuelled by fears that the legislation would grant excessive powers to a now discredited security apparatus. The Indonesian police alleged that GAM had been involved in terrorist activities in the country, and that it was responsible for the bombing of the Jakarta Stock Exchange in 2000, Cijantung Mall in South Jakarta in 2001 and a series of bombings in Medan, North Sumatra. The inclusion of GAM in the UN terrorist list, according to UN resolution 1373/2000 on counterterrorism, similar to what Sri Lanka has done with the Tamil Tigers, would have obliged all member states to freeze GAM’s economic resources and was intended to have the effect of reducing their capacity to mount military operations. International law treats civil wars as purely domestic matters, with the possible exception of self-determination conflicts. In this sense, Article 2 (4) of the UN Charter prohibits the threat or use of force in international relations, though not in domestic situations. Only terrorist activities likely to threaten international peace and security could qualify as a basis for the Council to intervene. Likewise, any attempt to link GAM with Al-Qaeda would founder on lack of evidence. Interestingly, in July 2002, GAM’s rejection of claims that it had ties with Al-Qaeda was supported by senior TNI sources in Banda Aceh. GAM had rejected the initiative of Osama bin Laden’s deputy Ayman Al Zawahiri when he visited Aceh in June 2000 with an aim to set up Al-Qaeda training bases in Aceh. GAM possesses significant independent sources of funds as well as an ideology that is secularist. Its intention is to set up an independent sultanate in Aceh and is unlikely to be

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drawn to Al-Qaeda’s cause while fighting for independence from Indonesia. Furthermore, while Aceh may be a Muslim province, its society is pluralistic and minorities are well accepted and protected and therefore unlikely to gravitate to the insular Islamic ideologies championed by the groups like Al-Qaeda. “Hakim Perlu Bantuan Ahli untuk Periksa Laporan Intelijen”, in http://www. hukumonline.com/artikel_detail.asp?id=6713. “House backs plans for Antiterror Law”, Jakarta Post, 20 August 2003. “Intelligence failure?” Jakarta Post, 16 September 2004. Derwin Pereira, “Indonesian intelligence agencies face major revamp”, Straits Times, 29 September 2004. Detachment 88 was a project initiated in 2002 when the United States committed US$12 million for the establishment of a counterterrorism unit located within the Police. It is unclear whether this new force augments or supplants Satgas Gegania which originally functioned as the Counter-Terrorist task force of the Police. The training for Detachment 88 would be conducted at the Police Detective and Criminal Training Centre at Megamendung in south Jakarta with instructors with prior experience from the U.S. Secret Service, the Central Intelligence Agency and the Federal Bureau of Investigation pro-viding training expertise. To complement a funding and training programme, U.S. assistance would also significantly augment Police capabilities with the provision of high-tech communications equipment, night vision equipment, sophisticated detection equipment and an assortment of weaponry including “Armalite sniper rifles, Loch submachine guns, Colt M-4 assault rifles, Glock 9mm pistols, and Remington shotguns”. See John B. Haseman, “Detachment 88: Indonesia’s new counter-terrosim unit”, Asia-Pacific Defence Reporter, vol. 30, no. 2 (February 2004), p. 48. Matthew Daley, Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for East Asian and the Pacific Affairs, in “The Impact of the Bali Bombing”. Report of a Conference at the United States-Indonesia Society, 26 November 2002 in http:// www.usindo.org/Briefs/Impact%20of%20the%20Bali%20Bombings.htm.

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Reproduced from Realpolitik Ideology: Indonesia's Use of Military Force, by Leonard C. Sebastian (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2006). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 177

3 Strategy and Defence: The Indonesian Approach

Historical antecedents, geographical setting and a political ideology as well as knowledge that poorly equipped Indonesian forces could never hope to match a technologically advanced invader, have all conspired to mould a unique territorial defence strategy tailor-made for Indonesia’s national security needs. As early as 1958, Indonesia’s pioneer defence planners devised a doctrine of territorial defence that was based not on retaliation against foreign countries, nor even on conventional military defence along a front, but rather on making Indonesia’s own territory hard to conquer. By the 1980s, however, the Indonesian economy was far more developed than it had been when the territorial defence doctrine was formulated. Since General Murdani’s tenure as armed forces commander, Indonesia’s defence strategy has incorporated another dimension. Namely, a defence programme that reflects a geostrategic appreciation that the most vulnerable borders of the nation are its maritime zones and the Armed Forces must be prepared to meet the enemy there. The adoption of this new approach did not imply abandoning the old one as suggested by a recent study. Rabasa and Haseman in their study The Military and Democracy in Indonesia (2002, p. 26) though correct to assert that, at the strategic doctrinal level, a significant shift has taken place by the adoption of the New Paradigm (to be discussed in Chapter 5) in place of the Total People’s Defence and Security System (Sishankamrata, Sistim Pertahanan Keamanan Rakyat Semesta), the authors concerned did not analyse critically how the doctrinal shift would be implemented in practice. Did the TNI’s New Paradigm mean a repudiation of the strategic and defence component of the Sishankamrata? Six years have elapsed since the introduction of the New Paradigm in 1999: Has the TNI come up with new doctrines for external defence?

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While there is a new commitment for the TNI to orientate itself to external defence contingencies, it must be emphasized that a modern strategy has yet to be devised to deal with a situation where Indonesia needs to combat a superior enemy force invading its territory. The guerrilla warfare emphasis of the old Total People’s Defence and Security System doctrine as an effective strategy to repel an external invasion has yet to be repudiated and will in time be reformulated into a Total Defence System doctrine (Sishanta, Sistem Pertahanan Semesta). The TNI’s New Paradigm is merely a statement of intent that the TNI would strive to focus solely on external defence matters leaving internal security to the Police. However, faced with acute budgetary shortfalls, the result of weak economic conditions since 1997, such an aspiration will be jettisoned as Indonesia opts to retain a strategy which emphasizes guerrilla warfare combined with a frontal defence strategy. Hence, this chapter focuses on the evolution of indigenous strategies and defence doctrines that have been developed by Indonesia’s security planners to ensure its external national security. There will be an assessment of what may evolve as an appropriate defence doctrine predicated on “frontal defence” requiring the TNI to focus on external defence contingencies, which will contribute to the erosion of the TNI’s role as the cornerstone of the Indonesian national security state in the long term.

THE DOCTRINE OF TERRITORIAL WARFARE According to a 55-page Defence White Paper released in October 1995 by the Defence and Security Ministry entitled “The Policy of The State Defence and Security of the Republic of Indonesia”,1 the Sishankamrata2 stresses that in order to prevent war, the philosophy pursued by Indonesia to deter a wouldbe aggressor is based, not on the size of the military forces it can deploy, but on a high level of assurance that any belligerence against Indonesia will be met by the resistance of the whole Indonesian people and thus the aggressor’s aims will never be achieved.3

The Sishankamrata is a defence strategy against external invasion premised on cooperation between the armed forces and the population in waging a war of attrition through guerilla action when confronted with a superior conventional force. The success of General Sudirman’s strategy in denying the Dutch total military control of the Yogjakarta region in the late 1940s

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during its “police actions” was the catalyst in the evolution of the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare and Territorial Management (which was declared formally as the Sishankamrata in the April 1965 army seminar). TNI also uses the terms “archipelagic warfare” (perang nusantara) or “territorial warfare” (perang wilayah) and “territorial management” (pembinaan teritorial) with reference to its doctrine of national defence. This strategy is most conspicuously presented in the Seskoad Doctrine of Territorial Warfare, which exemplifies a new nation’s indigenous doctrinal efforts in the fields of national defence, counter-insurgency and civil– military relations. The value of this Indonesian doctrine is enhanced by the fact that it had been prepared not for external propaganda purposes but as a genuine effort to instruct senior members of the Indonesian officer corps and other high officials of the Indonesian government. The doctrine had its origins in the army’s experience of the struggle for national independence between 1945 to 1949. At that time, military commanders were engaged in guerilla warfare against the Dutch forces that had reoccupied the archipelago after World War II. As the Indonesian government had only very limited control over the country’s territory and population, military commanders were also forced to assume major responsibilities in civil administration. However, the experience of years of guerilla warfare seems to have been forgotten until 1958 when General Nasution decided to set up a Committee on Army Doctrine (Panitya Doktrin Angkatan Darat) headed by Colonel Mokoginta and Lieutenant-Colonel Suwarto to review the armed forces doctrine concerning external defence and counter-insurgency operations. Its findings were based on the assumption that the main type of warfare Indonesia was likely to experience in the near future would be guerilla warfare. This would include anti-guerilla operations against internal rebels like the PRRI and Darul Islam (at that time the rebels denied the Indonesian government control over at least one-sixth of the national territory) as well as guerilla operations against possible external aggressors. The argument that guerilla warfare is the only viable defence against aggression followed Nasution’s well-known postulate that Indonesia had no modern forces to oppose an invader by conventional means, and that it was not likely to possess such forces in the foreseeable future. The report apparently concluded that the army in both types of operation could only succeed if it had the full support of the civilian population in the battle area.5 This conclusion was by no means new: Nasution had argued that course before. But Suwarto, as a former commander of the 11th Infantry Regiment

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stationed in Tasikmalaya in the heartland of the Darul Islam rebellion, had only recently implemented a strategy of combined military, economic and socio-political actions aimed at divorcing the rebels from the population and was thus in a position to add recent evidence to the relevance of such a security and defence concept. In March 1960, the Army Information Centre officially announced that the army had adapted a form of guerilla warfare, or “Territorial Warfare” as it came to be known, as its defence concept. On 3 December 1960, this decision was formalized when the Majlis Permusyawaratan Rakyat Sementara (MPRS, Provisional People’s Consultative Assembly), formally the highest policy-making body under the 1945 Constitution, passed the Eight-Year Development Plan for 1961– 69. Here it was laid down that national defence was based on a “total people’s defence” system,6 and that, given the possible failure of the mobile air and maritime forces in destroying an invading force by forward defence operations, the Armed Forces would have to resort to Territorial Warfare.7 Since these services were in no position to repulse an invading force, not even after substantial purchases from the Soviet Union, this provision was interpreted as the official recognition of territorial warfare as the national defence posture. As soon as the MPRS had “accepted” territorial warfare as the national defence doctrine, Suwarto in December 1960 organized a First Seminar on Defence Problems.8 Throughout 1961, three “task forces” drafted study papers in Seskoad: one group under Brigadier Kosasih prepared a study on territorial operations, a second under Colonel Soebijono wrote a paper on territorial logistics, and a third on territorial management was developed by a group chaired by Colonel A. Kadir Prawiraatmadja. These papers, together with a short introduction, were accepted by a Second Seminar on Defence Problems, on 3–8 January 1962, as the army’s Concept of Territorial Warfare. The doctrine is based on a number of postulates. First of all, “the Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia do not surrender”.9 Second, in the face of superior forces they will resort to guerrilla warfare in the way they fought the Dutch after the second attack, and as Nasution had planned in 1948 and 1950.10 Suharto in presenting the findings of the group studying territorial operations concluded that a “doctrine of region-by-region defence” should be adopted where “the regions of defence form strategic compartments which must have the ability on their own to carry out the activities of war while the nation is in a state of war”. Speaking on behalf of his team, Suharto proposed that Indonesia be divided “into three defence areas, further divided into smaller battle areas, a concept which presupposed

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and depended upon a close relationship between army and a people readied ‘mentally and morally’ for their defence role” (Elson 2000, p. 77). Since active participation and the support of the population are absolutely essential in guerrilla warfare, the armed forces, and especially the army, must win the confidence of the people. Such a relationship has to be developed in pre-war times so that the soldiers can count on it in any emergency. Therefore, the army should take an interest in the material welfare of the people, especially the villagers. Equally, the villager has to be convinced that not only are his own interests at stake in the case of an invasion but the fate of his fatherland. His national consciousness has to be built up by political education to the extent that he will be willing to sacrifice anything in the defence of the higher cause. In return, the army should undertake to provide political stability, internal security and social justice. Simultaneously, specially trained units should be assigned to build the basic structure of a war-time administration and prepare the people for the “total people’s resistance strategy”. These units could also be utilized in administering martial law and — a thinly veiled reference to the PKI — in operations against internal enemies who may function as “agents of external enemies”. Furthermore, the army felt that it had to gain a greater say in the economy. An army is only as strong as the national economy. Therefore, it needed to secure economic development in order to bolster its defence capabilities. Moreover, its ability to participate in economic activities would enable it to carry out aid programmes for the masses, and set up a war-time logistics system necessary for the conduct of territorial warfare. At first sight, the Doctrine seems to deal primarily with Indonesian national defence. On closer acquaintance, it reflects a broader, more interesting doctrinal effort that aims at relating external defence and counterinsurgency operations to the nation’s political and economic development. Its importance lay in the fact that it was the most elaborate document of the army’s attempt to justify its growing involvement in virtually all fields on the grounds of strategic needs. Furthermore, it inspired the Army Headquarters in 1963 to organize Civic Action programmes on a nationwide level, following the example the Siliwangi Division had set in previous years (Pauker 1963, pp. 36–39). It was also partly influenced by politics — the administration of officers assigned to non-military functions. But more importantly, it served as a political guideline for the expanding Territorial Organization of the army, and enabled this branch of the Army

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to secure and rationalize its influence even after the ultimate lifting of martial law. The above subject will be the focus of the fourth chapter, which analyses the role of dwifungsi in enabling the armed forces to apply its concepts of territorial management which in its pristine practical application would have reflected the socio-political dimension of guerilla warfare, a crucial component to the successful prosecution of the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare. The remainder of this chapter will focus on the strategic and military applications of the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare. THE CONCEPT OF TERRITORIAL WARFARE Territorial warfare is defined as “a form of warfare which is total in nature. It utilizes all national forces in a total fashion, but emphasizes military force. It relies on counter-offensive to secure the termination of warfare in such fashion as to maintain the sovereignty of the state” (ibid., p. 61). Its interest is enhanced if one accepts the notion that it presents a theory, independently arrived at, which offers striking parallels with the concepts of revolutionary war developed by Chinese and other Communist strategists.11 While the Seskoad strategists’ main source of inspiration were their own experiences during the 1945–49 struggle for independence, and the application of commonsense to that experience ten years later, it was possibly Yugoslav doctrine, based on experiences parallel to their own, that had strengthened and confirmed their views. The officers had read the 1953 English edition of Vladimir Dedijer’s Tito Speaks and had Yugoslav materials translated into Indonesian. According to Brigadier General Suwarto, the most influential Yugoslav document was an article by Lieutenant-General Dushan Kveder entitled “Territorial War’: The New Concept of Resistance”, published in the American journal Foreign Affairs, in 1953.12 An Indonesian translation of this paper has been in use at Seskoad since 1958. The basic principle of the Indonesian doctrine, namely that enemy victories need not be followed by capitulation if the national army can count on popular support, was indeed clearly expressed by Kveder: The Liberation War in Yugoslav showed unequivocally that manpower is fundamental to victory and should be valued above territory. No territory can be maintained if the army is lost, only territory can be regained if the army remains.

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The collapse of the front need not, therefore, be followed by surrender, but only by a change from classical frontal war to mobile territorial war... In the world as it is today, only a country which has solved its basic social and national problems to the satisfaction of the people — or, at least, shows that it is in process of solving these problems — can find within itself sufficient moral strength to fight in this way. A liberation movement must mobilize the people, its army must win the day-to-day support of the civilian population, especially of the peasants, for without them neither a large territorial war nor a small partisan war can be fought successfully. A territorial war is a people’s war” (Kveder 1953, pp. 93, 97).

Characteristics of Territorial Warfare Territorial Warfare must have the following descriptive characteristics: 1. Uninterrupted resistance. 2. Carried out by large and small units acting separately and with flexibility. 3. Under constant guidance (leadership). 4. Strategy is to be centralized, but implementation of operations (campaigns and combat) is to be decentralized. 5. Time and space are utilized flexibly. 6. No surrender. 7. Carried out in three phases: a. frontal phase; b. containment, challenge, and consolidation phase; c. counteroffensive phase 8. Leadership in accordance with our national identity (Pauker 1963, pp. 55–56).

For Territorial Warfare to be successfully implemented, the following has to be observed: 1. stabilization in the political field. 2. consciousness that the Pancasila is our only ideology and that it has but one official interpretation. 3. A single authoritative leadership which is constantly felt.

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4. Complete integration of the three services (land, sea, and air) and their utilization in territorial warfare on the basis of the capability of the state. 5. Planned over-all development which in turn will maximize the resources for territorial warfare. 6. Territorial Management which will permit self-sufficiency in carrying out Territorial Warfare (ibid., p. 56).

Territorial Warfare is essentially defensive war and it attains its objective through a war of attrition. Under these conditions, all the national potential of the nation is utilized in a total fashion. Resistance, therefore, is uninterrupted and takes place everywhere. The Concept of Grand Strategy According to the Indonesian Doctrine, grand strategy “must be capable of facing all possible situations even though it is directed at achieving longrange and relatively stable objectives, and there must be flexibility in the instruments and methods used to obtain and maintain the initiative” (ibid., p. 67). According to the code-language of the TNI, the main objective of grand strategy is to safeguard the Pancasila ideology and the social and economic systems which result from this ideology on the basis of the 1945 Constitution. In its implementation as regards specific circumstances, three situations are planned for, namely: 1. Before the war: preparation for physical war including the strengthening of state security against subversion, “twilight war”, and so forth. 2. During the war: utilization of all fields of activity as front against the enemy with due regard to specific circumstances. 3. After the war: Overcoming the results of war, which will affect all national forces, in the material and spiritual fields particularly (ibid., p. 68).

With respect to Territorial Warfare, all the universal principles of warfare are valid, though close attention is paid to the “pacification/liberation of territory” and the ability to fight a “war of attrition”. The instruments of war include “physical and psychological forces in the ideological, political, economic, socio-cultural, and military fields”. Economy of force is achieved through the emphasis upon struggle in a single field, namely, the resistance

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front, supported by other national forces according to circumstances and as directed by considerations of grand strategy (ibid., p.68). Command and Control During War Command and control is envisaged according to three scenarios: 1. Before the war Command is centralized and well integrated as regard unity of mind, objective, and effort. Though integrated the armed forces perform their work independently. 2. During the war a. Command is centralized and unified and controls both military and para-military forces. b. Authority is delegated and units act within the framework of a widespread compartment system. 3. After the war There is a gradual return from the wartime situation of centralized command and widespread delegation of authority to the pre-war situation, taking specific circumstances into account. Considering the flexible nature of territorial warfare, authority can be delegated to the lowest (smallest) unit considered to have the necessary capability (ibid., p. 69).

Importance of Geography on Strategic Command and Control The shape of the Indonesian archipelago, with its vast area, gives the aggressor an opportunity to attack targets in different places and at different times by both naval and air forces. To defend such islands, which are separated by seas and channels, is not a simple task. The islands require forces that are very flexible and able to be reassembled in selected points at certain times. At the same time, those islands must be able to defend themselves, in case communications to the power centres and neighbouring islands are interrupted and become isolated. Hence, for the purposes of both external defence, and to a significant extent, internal defence, Indonesia has established strategic compartments13 (See Map 3.1) and depending on political/security exigencies could by 2009 comprise seventeen compartments. The strategic compartment boundaries correspond with the Regional Military Commands (Kodam,

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Komando Daerah Militer) and include the ten Murdani era territorial commands: Kodam II/Bukit Barisan, Kodam IV/Sriwijaya, Kodam V/ Jaya, Kodam VI/Siliwangi, Kodam VII/Diponegoro, Kodam VIII/ Brawijaya, Kodam XI/Mulawarman, Kodam Xiii/Hasanuddin, Kodam XIV/Udayana and Kodam XVII/Trikora. A further four regional military commands were to be established via Decree Number 98/P/V/1998 signed by General Wiranto to include Kodam I/Iskandar Muda, Kodam XVI/Pattimura (both in operation since 20 May 1999), Kodam IX/ Tanjungpura and Kodam X/Lambungmangkurat. By 2009, another three regional military commands are expected to be established: Kodam III/Imam Bonjol, Kodam XII/Sam Ratulangi and Kodam XV/Nusa Tenggara. The territorial command structure was to be constructed in such a manner that “strategic compartments should be composed according to the forms and intensity of the threats”.14 Speaking in 1993, MajorGeneral Hartono, stressed that “to deal with external threats, Indonesia has established ten strategic compartments, each with an organization that needs to be validated. Thus as they revolve, the organization of the strategic compartments will reflect Indonesia’s view of how an enemy might attack its territory”.15 Each of the seventeen strategic compartments were granted responsibility for territorial management which would encompass anything from combating armed domestic threats to training the population to defend the nation. The civil administration flows from the national government to the provincial governments. During the Suharto era, the provincial governments administer the provinces through a number of regencies (kabupaten) which were further sub-divided into a number of sub-districts (kecamatan). Prior to the introduction of the 2001 regional autonomy laws which made district heads (bupati) directly responsible to its local constituents, there was a chain of command where sub-district heads (camat) would report to regents who in turn are responsible to the provincial governor. These changes to regional government structures will in the short-term undoubtedly affect Indonesia’s ability to wage guerrilla war at the local level. In the absence of up-to-date studies on how the new regional autonomy laws affect the country’s defence readiness, we can only speculate about the ramifications by assessing how the old structures worked in practice. Throughout the Suharto era, security and defence coordination at the provincial level was done through a consultative and coordinative forum known as the Regional Leaders Conference (Muspida, Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah).16 The Muspida was established in 1967 after the abolition of the

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4/11/06, 10:37 AM CENTRAL JAVA

Bandung Yogyakarta YOGYAKARTA

WEST JAVA

Jakarta

BELITUNG

EAST JAVA BALI Denpasar

Surabaya

Makassar

SOUTHEAST SULAWESI Kendari

CENTRAL SULAWESI

Gorontalo

MALUKU

Ambon

Seram

Halmahera

TIMOR LESTE

Buru

NORTH MALUKU

NORTH SULAWESI Manado

EAST NUSA TENGGARA

Palu

SOUTH SULAWESI

WEST NUSA TENGGARA Mataram

SOUTH KALIMANTAN

Palangkaraya

Samarinda

EAST KALIMANTAN

CENTRAL KALIMANTAN

WEST KALIMANTAN

I A

BRUNEI DARUSSALAM

Source: Adapted from Lowry, op. cit., p. 52 and confirmed by an Indonesian source.

O C E A N

I N D I A N

Lampung

Pontianak BANGKA

Riau Archipelago

A L A Y S SINGAPORE

SOUTH SUMATRA

JAMBI Jambi

M

BENGKULU

Padang

Pekanbaru RIAU WEST SUMATRA

NORTH SUMATRA

Medan

NANGGROE ACEH DARUSSALAM

Banda Aceh

PAPUA

Jayapura

Main Air Force bases

Map 3.1 Division of Regional Military Command/Strategic Compartments since 1999

STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 187

188 REALPOLITIK IDEOLOGY

Sukarno era Supreme Operations Command (Koti, Komando Operasi Tertinggi), Regional Authority to Implement Dwikora (Pepelrada, Penguasa Pelaksanaan Dwikora Daerah) and Regional War Authority (Peperda, Penguasa Perang Daerah) with the explicit purpose of: guaranteeing unity of action, coordination and integration to overcome disturbances and obstructions to the smooth implementation of government policies and programmes.17 Official TNI perspectives of Muspida legislation were more specific: In the context of cultivating security and order, policies and implementation by officials does not stop the possibility of overlapping (English) with each other and misunderstandings. A body is needed to coordinate misunderstandings, to facilitate explanations and actions between regional leaders, particularly about limits of authority and jurisdiction, and each others’ duties and responsibilities.18

At the regional level, Muspida was made up of the Governor, the military region commander (Pangdam, Panglima Kodam), the police chief, and the prosecutor.19 Muspida’s authority was limited to providing advice and assistance to the Governor in coordination matters, in estimating the intensity and extent of security disturbances, and in securing government policies and programmes.20 In the past, the chair of Muspida was always the military region commander, although during the Suharto era, the governor (more often than not a military man in any case), has taken the chair. In his role as chairman of Muspida, the military commander had all the backup powers and could, if necessary, issue instructions to the governor, the police chief and the public prosecutor (Jenkins 1984, pp. 45–47). These powers could be utilized when prosecuting territorial warfare. In addition to Muspida itself, there is a secondary body attached to it — the Regional Security Authorities Body (Badan Pengamanan Penguasa Daerah), specifically concerned with political questions and security policy, which were generally made up of TNI members.21 With the introduction of the regional autonomy laws in 2001, and the downgrading of provincial-level structures, Muspida is an empty shell. This development will no doubt compromise the effective functioning of the territorial warfare doctrine in the short term. That being said, the Muspida mechanism during the Suharto era was generally structured as a coordinating platform for internal security matters. In time, the way forward may be for a coordinated structure for total defence (to be discussed in Chapter 4) to be devised and placed under

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STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 189

the joint leadership of the Pangdam and the relevant civilian regional authorities. At present, there is a vacuum in the coordination of security matters at the provincial level. The new regional autonomy laws devolve power to the districts, making the district chief responsible for security coordination. No formal mechanism for coordination of security at district level exists. If such a mechanism exists, it may occur informally at the initiative of the district chief who may, for example, invite the respective police and military chiefs to his office to discuss the prevailing security situation (See Figure 3.1). Role of the Regional Commander With respect to territorial warfare, the role of the Pangdam is to “manage the territory (this includes organizing, preparing and utilizing all territorial potential so that the territory becomes the base for and the source of all resistance activities, both military and non-military, carried out within it”).22 The commander has “the authority to train, form, employ, and maintain combat units within the framework of total defence/resistance within the territory”.23 For the purposes of regional defence (Balhanwil, Bala Pertahanan Wilayah) each Kodam has a contingent of approximately one to three battalions with each battalion made up of 700 troops. If there is a crisis in the region, territorial battalions are supplemented by a centralized strategic reserve (Balhanpus, Bala Pertahanan Pusat) made up of Kostrad and Kopassus elements. At the Kodam level, it is possible for brigade level operations and there are considerations for brigades to be established. So far, a trial brigade is in place at the Siliwangi command in West Java. However, no decisions have been made to expand the numbers of troops operating at other regional commands.24 In keeping with the tradition of an Army which sprang up from the regions at the beginning of the Revolution, an infantry training regiment has been established in each Kodam. The infantry training regiment trains NCOs and enlisted men, forms units, and maintains ties between the army and local society, thus hardening the firm unity that is required to accomplish total defence. It is in this context that territorial management was devised to foster national resilience or a condition in which the people are imbued with a desire to support national ideology, the government and its policies. Territorial management also involves training the people to defend the nation and the implementation of civic action programmes to create a

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Figure 3.1 Regional Security Coordination (formerly Siskamwil)

Head of District (Bupati)

Police Resort Commander

Regional Government

Regional Security Special Coordinating Staff

Police

Responsible for Civil Administration Functions

Security and Order

Obstruction (Legal)

Military District Commander

Obstructions (Law Breaking)

Territorial Forces

Responsible for External Defence

Responsible for Law and Order

Note: Previously the Regional Security Coordination System of Siskamwil was under the authority of the District military commander who presided over the Regional Leadership Council or Muspida. Under the new regional autonomy laws, coordination should be the responsibility of the Bupati. However, the issue of who leads or is responsible for coordinating security at the regional level remains unresolved. With the Muspida abolished, the bupati may convene a routine meeting with his military and police counterparts to discuss the prevailing security situation. Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

sense of unity between the people and the armed forces.25 During the Suharto era, trained population (rakyat terlatih) was made up of three paramilitary organizations: people’s resistance (Wanra); people’s security (Kamra) and civil defence (Hansip) (Hadisoetopo 1985, p.123), the postwar equivalent of the Japanese Heiho auxiliaries. In war, people’s resistance units would be expected to provide reinforcements for regular

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STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 191

units, collect intelligence, guard vital installations and harass the enemy. People’s security is an organization of police auxiliaries trained by the police to assist with the maintenance of law and order at village level. Civil defence, controlled by the provincial government with technical assistance from the TNI, is responsible for routine civil defence tasks such as assistance in the event of natural disasters as well as “neighbourhood watch” functions.26 In theory, each village should contain a 10-man section for people’s resistance as well as sections for people’s security and civil defence. Thirty-man platoons for people’s resistance, people’s security and civil defence should be available in sub-district capitals and 150-man companies of the three organizations in regency capitals.27 The Kodim, as part of its territorial management authority under Sishankamrata, is responsible for the training of paramilitary groups in the people’s resistance effort. The Korem also has territorial management and territorial warfare authority over a part of the territory of a Kodam. The boundaries of the Korem are flexible, since the Korem will handle the territorial management of several Kodims and must provide adequate area for the movement of large combat units (brigade or larger). Of the three Suharto-era militia organizations, only the Wanra was controlled by the army and at present only the Kamra who report each year for basic training for approximately three weeks a year as part-time police auxillary exists as a formal paramilitary organization. In time the Kamra will cease to exist when TNI doctrine becomes more pragmatic, seeking to distance itself with the sentimentality associated with the War of Independence and the crucial role played by such militia groups, progressively replacing such paramilitary organizations with a structured national reserve system.28 Control of Sea and Air Routes The impossibility of defending every part of the archipelago due to its terrain and extensive coastline makes controlling sea and air routes of paramount importance. According to Hartono: the main islands are part of a defensive area within the archipelagic territory system. For that reason, the sea and channel territories between the main islands must be set up to function as “defence cover” and channel the enemy’s movement into a pre-planned killing ground (Hartono 1993, p. 161). The Doctrine of Territorial Warfare, hence, postulates that the “enemy must be crippled at sea when he is enroute to Indonesia for the purpose

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of launching an attack. This must be carried out by the navy with air force support” (Pauker 1984, p. 73). In order to facilitate this process, Indonesia has developed a National Air Defence Command (Kohanudnas, Komando Pertahanan Udara Nasional) that includes a surveillance network, identification systems, interceptors, surface-to-air weapons, and a command and control organization. Kohanudnas runs a threelayered air defence system of monitoring radar, anti-aircraft weapons and fighter planes. The layered Air Defence Sectors or Sector Commands (Kosek, Komando Sektor) cover the entire archipelago. Presently, there are four Kosek, but there is no fixed number. Air Defence Sectors can be created depending on need and the nature of threat in any particular vicinity. Air defence artillery personnel, which constitute the various Air Defence Sectors, comprise elements from the army and navy integrated under the National Air Defence Command. The Kohanudnas commander is not responsible to the air force chief of staff but reports directly to the Panglima TNI. For the purposes of air support, the archipelago is divided into two Air Force Operations Commands (Koopsau, Komando Operasi Angkatan Udara). The Kohanudnas, located in Jakarta, is responsible for planning, allocation of resources, and battle management. While it is under the direct command of TNI headquarters for operations, the air force chief of staff has responsibility for raising, training and sustaining the air force elements. The other service chiefs of staff have similar responsibilities for their air defence units, though, Kohanudnas has operational control of all units (of whatever Service) allocated to air defence. The headquarters of Koopsau I is located in Jakarta and is focused primarily on the South China Sea approach while the headquarters of Koopsau II is located in Makassar/Ujung Pandang (Sulawesi) and is focused primarily on the Sulawesi/Makassar Strait and Molucca Sea approaches. The Koopsau are responsible for the operational effectiveness and employment of all air force assets in their respective areas, including fighter, reconnaissance and transport aircraft, bases and systems. The exception to this is that Kohanudnas has responsibility for employing those assets allocated to it for air defence (See Map 3.2 and Figure 3.2). For maritime patrol and reconnaissance there are approximately 18 twinturboprop CN-235 with two equipped with Thales radar, though only one variant is operationally ready (Karniol 2004, p. 50). Supplementing these aircraft are three Boeing 737-2X9 “with side-looking aerial maritime reconnaissance radar”, of which only one is operational (ibid). With respect to naval defence, Indonesia is divided on a north–south line into two fleet (armada) areas covering the east and west of the

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4/11/06, 10:37 AM CENTRAL JAVA

Bandung Yogyakarta YOGYAKARTA

WEST JAVA

Jakarta

BELITUNG

EAST JAVA BALI Denpasar

Surabaya

EAST NUSA TENGGARA

KOOPSAU II

Makassar

SOUTHEAST SULAWESI Kendari

CENTRAL SULAWESI

Gorontalo

MALUKU

Ambon

Seram

Halmahera

TIMOR LESTE

Buru

NORTH MALUKU

NORTH SULAWESI Manado

KOSEK II

Palu

SOUTH SULAWESI

WEST NUSA TENGGARA Mataram

SOUTH KALIMANTAN

Palangkaraya

Samarinda

EAST KALIMANTAN

CENTRAL KALIMANTAN

WEST KALIMANTAN

I A

BRUNEI DARUSSALAM

Jayapura

PAPUA

KOSEKIV

Main Air Force bases

Source: Lowry, The Armed Forces of Indonesia, op. cit., p. 81. Updated with the assistance of an Indonesian source. There are four regional air defence commands (KOSEK, Komando Sektor) — Komando Sektor I (Jakarta), Komando Sektor II (MakassarSulawesi Selatan), Komando Sektor III (Medan-Sumatra Utara, Komando Sektor IV (Biak-Papua).

O C E A N

I N D I A N

KOOPSAU I

Lampung

Pontianak BANGKA

Riau Archipelago

A L A Y S SINGAPORE

SOUTH SUMATRA

JAMBI Jambi

BENGKULU

Padang

M

KOSEK III

Pekanbaru RIAU WEST SUMATRA

NORTH SUMATRA

Medan

NANGGROE ACEH DARUSSALAM

Banda Aceh

Map 3.2 Air Force Boundaries and Main Bases

STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 193

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Airforce Elements

Navy Elements Army Elements Airforce Elements

Kosek II (Jakarta)

Navy Elements Army Elements

Airforce Elements

Kosek III (Makassar)

Navy Elements

Army Elements

KOOPSAU I & II

Airforce Commander

Airforce Elements

Kosek IV (Biak)

Navy Elements

Kosek structures are not fixed. At present there are four with the possibility of more Koseks depending on budgetary constraints. There is a possibility that greater synergies could be achieved if the TNI cooperate with relevant agencies like the Ministry of Maritime Affairs for access to more funding and a sharing of expertise. Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

Army Elements

Kosek I (Medan)

Kohanudas Commander

TNI HQ

Figure 3.2 Air Defence (Kosek, Air to Air) and Air Support (Koopsau, Ground to Air) Operational Chain of Command

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STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 195

country. In time, the two fleets will be integrated into a single command to be headed by a three-star officer with its headquarters based in Surabaya.29 The western area focuses on the South China Sea approaches and the eastern area focuses on the Sulawesi/Makassar Strait approach (see Map 3.3). At the time of writing, Indonesian Navy was organized into three operational commands; that is Eastern and Western Fleets and the Military Sealift Command (Kolinlamil, Komando Lintas Laut Militer). The navy is deployed between the Eastern Command based at Surabaya (Ujung) and the Western Command based at Teluk Ratai on the Sunda Strait with a primary base at Belawan. Naval headquarters are at Jakarta (Tanjung Priok) with subsidiary bases in North Sumatra (Sabang and Medan), in the Riau Islands, in Eastern Kalimantan (Balikpapan), on Sulawesi (Makassar/ Ujung Pandang and Butung) and on the Sunda Strait (Teluk Ratai). Naval air bases are similarly widespread, ranging from Surabaya (Ujung), Pekanbaru, Gorontalo, to Biak. All these bases are equally available to the Military Sealift Command, which operates amphibious and support vessels, and the Marine Corps (Korps Marinir, formerly KKo, Korps Komando Angkatan Laut). The latter was to have been expanded into a divisionsized military unit of three brigades each: an infantry brigade, an armoured brigade and an artillery brigade. These forces will be supported by an auxiliary combat regiment and an administrative assistance regiment.30 With their main centres at Jakarta and Surabaya, the Korps Marinir represents nearly a third of the total naval manpower. In the years preceding the 1997 economic crisis, resources were available to ensure that dedicated amphibious lift was available for at least a quarter of the marine troops. There was excess capacity among the ships of the service forces to provide for the transportation needs of the entire Korps Marinir in times of emergency. Unfortunately, years of acute funding constraints have significantly degraded the navy’s capabilities. With respect to aircraft and ships allocated to specific Koopsau and armada zones, it is possible to conclude that the TNI does not work on the basis of fixed deployments, namely to divide weapons and equipment equally between various service commands. The severe degradation of equipment over the past few years (owing to budgetary shortfalls and lack of spare parts for maintenance) has resulted in acute shortages. Under current conditions aircraft and ships are moved from zone to zone depending on the urgency of the situation. At the time of writing, the TNI’s state of readiness was at a woefully low level as it was estimated that only three F-16 fighter aircraft and eight C120 transport aircraft were air worthy. Similarly, though the Navy possessed 36 warships, only 11 were seaworthy.31

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4/11/06, 10:37 AM CENTRAL JAVA BALI Denpasar

Surabaya EAST JAVA

WEST NUSA TENGGARA Mataram

Makassar

(ARMADA TIMUR)

SOUTHEAST SULAWESI Kendari

CENTRAL SULAWESI

Gorontalo

EAST NUSA TENGGARA

Palu

MALUKU

Ambon

Seram

Halmahera

TIMOR LESTE

Buru

NORTH MALUKU

NORTH SULAWESI Manado

FLEET BOUNDARY

SOUTH SULAWESI

Samarinda

SOUTH KALIMANTAN

Palangkaraya

CENTRAL KALIMANTAN

EAST KALIMANTAN

EASTERN FLEET

Bandung Yogyakarta YOGYAKARTA

WEST JAVA

Jakarta

BELITUNG

WEST KALIMANTAN

I A

BRUNEI DARUSSALAM

Source: Lowry, The Armed Forces of Indonesia, op. cit., p. 77

(ARMADA BARAT)

WESTERN FLEET

Lampung

Pontianak BANGKA

Riau Archipelago

A L A Y S SINGAPORE

SOUTH SUMATRA

JAMBI Jambi

M

BENGKULU

Padang

Pekanbaru RIAU WEST SUMATRA

NORTH SUMATRA

Medan

NANGGROE ACEH DARUSSALAM

Banda Aceh

Map 3.3 Fleet Boundaries and Main Bases

Jayapura

PAPUA

Base boundary

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STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 197

TNI headquarters exercises operational command (see Figure 3.3) and the navy chief of staff with the assistance of the chief of naval operations is responsible for raising, training and sustaining naval forces. Fleet commanders are responsible for all maritime tasks in their respective areas and the resources allocated to perform them. This includes assigned army, navy and air force units, and naval bases and installations. Assigned forces are grouped into operational task groups to perform particular tasks. Responsibility for maritime defence is further delegated to Maritime Operations Security Commands (Koopskamla). To assist the navy in coordinating the several jurisdictions involved, the Maritime Security Coordination Agency (Bakorkamla), headed by a naval officer, was formed in 1972. It was established with regional branches paralleling the naval chain of command. Over and above this, there is the Maritime Safety Agency, which does some surveillance but is responsible essentially for Maritime search and rescue.32 Invasion Scenario According to the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare there is a greater concern that a possible enemy attack will come to the western part of Indonesia rather than the eastern part. Are such perceptions still valid? For a large part of the Suharto era, Indonesia’s threat environment was relatively benign. Recent interviews with armed forces and defence officials have confirmed that security concerns have now shifted to the defence of northern and eastern Indonesia as priority areas on account of two events. In 1993 it became evident that China had claimed part of Indonesia’s Exclusive Economic Zone around the Natuna Islands as part of its territory. This discovery precipitated the need for the TNI to strengthen its capability to manage joint defence operations. As a consequence, for the first time since the invasion of East Timor in the mid 1970s, the TNI embarked on a major defence exercise in the Natuna Islands. Likewise, Australia remains a source of concern for the TNI elite. Despite the improvement of bilateral relations since Australia played a leading role in initiating the Interfet (International Force in East Timor) force under UN auspices to bring stability in East Timor in the aftermath of its referendum in 1999, rumblings exist within TNI elite circles over Australian intentions in Eastern Indonesia.33 As opposed to the situation in 1962, where the Sukarno regime (though not the Army) considered the United States and Australia threats, the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare had to be designed to accommodate

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Figure 3.3 Naval Operational Chain of Command TNI HQ Jakarta NAVY HQ Jakarta Navy Chief of Operations

Marine Corps HQ

Western Fleet

Combat Group (GUSPURLABAR)

HQ Jakarta

Maritime Security Group (GUSKAMLABAR)

Military Sealift Command

Eastern Fleet

Combat Group (GUSPURLATIM)

Naval Fleet Command

HQ Surabaya

Maritime Security Group (GUSKAMLATIM)

Notes: 1. Maritime Security Groups perform a law enforcement function and have a geographical command structure with three subordinate levels of command. 2. Possibility that Western and Eastern Fleets will be amalgamated into a single armada. Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

Sukarno’s concerns. Notwithstanding the issues raised above, the need to protect the “fruits of development” plus Indonesia’s extensive resources in Eastern Indonesia does mean that the defence of Eastern Indonesia is still critical and the Doctrine, in the absence of any other viable doctrine, still has relevance.34 The western part of the archipelago, with its important lines of communication and strategic materials located in Sumatra, Java and Kalimantan make it a vital target. Hence the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare postulates that the main enemy operation will be launched against the western part of the country with the objective of: 1. Occupation of areas containing natural resources in an undamaged condition (targets: Medan, Pekanbaru, Palembang).

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STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 199

2. Occupation of politically important area (Java), (targets: Jakarta, Bandung, Surabaya). 3. In carrying out the above movements a simultaneous effort will be made to: a. Gain control of lines of communication. b. Occupy/cripple military bases. 4. Possible approach routes: a. South China Sea, Karimata Strait b. Strait of Malacca c. Tjilatjap, Sunda Strait d. Lombok Strait (Pauker 1989, p. 122). With respect to the eastern part of Indonesia, enemy attacks will essentially be support operations with the aim of occupying or crippling military bases. Targets would be: 1. Tarakan area, Balikpapan, Makassar, Kupang, Menado, Moratai, Ambon. 2. Lombok Strait, Arafura Sea (ibid). According to the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare, the war will pass through the following phases: 1. Destruction of and/or defence against attacks launched by the enemy from the sea and air by means of interception and interdiction (by the Air Force), opposition to naval landings (by the Air Force), opposition to naval landings (by the Navy and Army), and delaying actions (by the Army). Land operations will be strategically and tactically defensive in nature and frontal combat will be carried out. 2. The objective of the following phase will be to contain and challenge the enemy and to consolidate our forces. The war will be strategically defensive and tactically offensive in nature. This phase can continue for a long time, depending on the situation of the enemy and on our own situation. If this phase is successful we will move on to the final phase, a counteroffensive. If it is not successful, then this strategically defensive and tactically offensive war will become a war of attrition. Ultimately, we will be victorious, however it will take a long time and there will be much suffering and great sacrifice (“a protracted war”).

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3. If consolidation is successfully accomplished, a counteroffensive can be launched and the war will become strategically and tactically offensive in nature. If this is successful, our victory will be assured (p. 121). The Conduct of Each Phase of Territorial Warfare In accordance with the considerations outlined in the above paragraph regarding the characteristics of each phase of territorial warfare, the Seskoad strategists have essentially planned for war utilizing a worst case scenario, that is, a situation where the enemy’s military forces are locally superior to their own military forces. This type of warfare can also be characterized using four criteria: a. b. c. d.

Non-rigid front. No definite boundaries between combat areas and rear areas. Mobility and dispersion. Emergence of a system of regional defence (p. 72).

Phase One In the context of phase one, there are four objectives: i.

When it has been determined that the enemy has begun to attack, we can mount a counterattack. ii. When the enemy succeeds in approaching Indonesian territory in order to attack, measures can be taken to weaken the enemy when he is near Indonesian territory. iii. When the enemy succeeds in landing, a tactical counterattack must be launched to cripple or, if possible, to destroy him. iv. If the counterattack is unsuccessful, there must be established a flexible system of regional defence in order to trade time and space so as to be able to draw upon utilization of the national potential for the development of a greater military power (p. 73). When it becomes apparent that a certain country is preparing to attack Indonesia, measures are undertaken to hinder the enemy. First, counterattacks will be initiated by the air force and navy against enemy troop concentrations, embarkation harbours, airfields and industrial centres. Second, actions will be undertaken by the air force and navy for the

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STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 201

purpose of destroying the enemy’s fleet. Third, raids by the army, navy and air would be carried out either independently or as joint operations, against enemy installations which have strategic value (p. 73). At this juncture, the mobile brigade handles the security and evacuation of the government and people as well as responsibilities pertaining to security of rear areas, including the activation of territorial management. Under the Sishankamrata, the people’s responsibilities include infiltration, sabotage, being informants, messengers and partisans. While the Civil Defence elements will be required to perform tasks in air/sea warning, extinguishing fires, evacuation, first aid, public kitchens and low-level security tasks such as reducing dangers resulting from the effects of warfare (ibid.). The object of these attacks is to strike the invading force a blow which will force it to halt its attack, or at least, reduce the number of forces involved. This may also have the effect of damaging the enemy’s preparations and, at least, forcing a postponement of the impending attack. In the event, the invading force makes a successful landing in the Kodam concerned, it (the Kodam), must defend its territory and if it has the capability, launch a counterattack to cripple and destroy the enemy in the area of penetration. If the military region command does not have the capability to launch a counterattack, and if the balance of Indonesia’s forces outweighs that of the invading force, then Kostrad could be mobilized to carry out a strategic counterattack at that time. If the enemy has offensive superiority, then in principle, the strategic counterattack would be carried out in Phase Three (p. 75). The counterattack would be accompanied by operations aimed at preventing enemy reinforcements from entering Indonesian territory and by the strategic bombing of enemy-held areas, which will be aimed at isolating the enemy troops that have already landed. If the counterattack is not successful, the Kodams will conduct delaying movements on a regional basis in order to gain the time necessary to make possible the greatest possible build-up of military power. This will have as its source the total capacity of the national potential and will be in anticipation of the transition to Phase Two (ibid.). Phase Two The objective of Phase Two is to shift the balance of power from the side of the invading forces to the Indonesian armed forces and to obtain offensive superiority. The indications that Indonesia would be able to

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launch a strategic counterattack (Phase Three) will depend on whether these factors have been observed carefully: 1. The Military Component a. The amount of ready military strength which exists at the outbreak of war and the relative proportion between it and the strength of the enemy. b. The ability of the national potential to increase military strength during Phase Two and thereafter (p. 76). c. The Armed Forces i. With due regard to the equilibrium of the national potential, develop our armed forces mentally, physically, and materially so that they are able to withstand/cripple the first strike by the enemy. ii. Develop the territories while giving attention to the close integration of the armed forces and paramilitary forces in planning, preparations, and implementation. This will provide a capacity for the independent conduct of regional warfare. iii. Prepare for and carry out the relocation of units and installations in accordance with our concept of defence. iv. Always maintain an integrated situation in planning and implementation. v. Complete integration of the four armed forces (in joint operations and in territorial management) (p. 76). 2. Non Military Component a. Within the Country i. Cultivate loyalty to the Republic of Indonesia and a love for freedom and the fatherland based on the Pancasila, as a firm foundation for our defence. ii. Domestic politics must guarantee unification and national unity. iii. Increase the well-being and happiness of the people so that they are convinced that colonization by any nation would be disastrous for Indonesia. iv. Improve the capacity and condition of the national economy and direct it at supplying the requirements of the people and military requirements. b. Outside the Country i. Hold firm to an independent and active foreign policy. ii. Carry out our foreign policy as strategic security, so that an enemy who attacks Indonesia will be given political and material

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support and our armed forces will be allowed the use of foreign bases. iii. When it becomes evident that an enemy exists who may be attacking our country, preparations should be made to undermine the enemy nation politically and economically (pp. 76–77). During Phase Two, there has to be the mobilization of the total national potential in order to achieve offensive superiority as quickly as possible. A successful Phase Two will pave the way for success in Phase Three. As such, the aim is to avoid the destruction of Indonesian forces. In order to preserve the “wholeness of our troops”, a rigid defence strategy is not advocated. Hence, if the invading force executes a breakthrough, Indonesian forces are not to retreat toward the rear but withdraw to the flanks. The rationale behind this is that the further “the enemy penetrates our territory, the more we will surround him”. Resistance will be carried out in all territories using offensive and aggressive tactics. This strategy will be bolstered by total resistance from all the national forces which have been readied and developed in all fields. Therefore, “even though the enemy is successful in occupying our territory, he will be unable to control everything within it” (p. 77). At this stage of operations, offensive and aggressive tactics are used continuously to threaten the invading force by forcing them to concentrate their troops in large garrisons. This would have the effect of creating an area of manoeuvre, which in turn will make it possible for “us to position larger troop units and these in turn will threaten the enemy garrisons ... Thus, we will force the enemy to choose between defending his present positions, with the risk that they will be destroyed by us bit by bit, or concentrating his troops in even larger garrisons” (pp. 77–78). As more land is liberated, free areas will be established with the integration of units from the strategic reserve, units of the military region commands, and territorial/partisan units. These free areas are important because preparations can be made there for the formation of larger units as well as the securing of air force and naval bases; plus the manufacture and accumulation of material, equipment and weapons. They can serve as a base for the preparation and initiation of a counteroffensive. The establishment of these free areas must be planned ahead of time and take into account the needs of Phase Three. In order to develop this situation, the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare recommends that during war infantry units must be organized in Brigades. The Brigades will be constituted as administrative and tactical commands.

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Mobile Battalions can then be positioned in a scattered fashion in the early period of Phase Two so as to avoid destruction or difficulties in the area of manoeuvre. Although they will be given somewhat more liberty and initiative than is customary in conventional warfare, they will not be freed from the control of the Brigade (p. 78). Phase Two emphasizes the importance of ground forces. The role of the air force during Phase Two will be limited. Its efforts will be controlled by the air superiority of the enemy. At this juncture, the role of the air force as an instrument of offence would have been terminated. The remaining naval personnel will be assigned to trade and fishing fleets. They would be required to “defend logistic lines between islands, carry out mine warfare, and serve as frogmen”. The remaining ships will continue to be used in the struggle and will operate from mobile and concealed bases. They will establish blockades, engage in hit and run warfare, and destroy commerce. Other elements will ready themselves in such bases outside the territory as can be used to join the other services in launching a counteroffensive. The roles of the Mobile Brigade, The People’s Defence Units and the Civil Defence forces will be similar to those of Phase One. Phase Three The final phase is essentially the counteroffensive. Its objective is “to cripple and destroy the enemy and to throw him out of Indonesia”(Ibid., p. 79). The following factors will influence the conduct of the counteroffensive: i. Time of Implementation. The counteroffensive is launched after offensive superiority is gained by our side. ii. Superiority of Ground Forces. In order to throw the enemy out of Indonesia we must possess both superiority and the ability to concentrate forces large enough to force the enemy to end the war. iii. Air and Sea Superiority. If air and/or sea superiority is achieved in Phase III, the launching of a counteroffensive will further ensure the termination of hostilities. iv. Total Resistance by the People. During all phases and even earlier all of the people must be prepared to engage in unremitting resistance against the enemy. The people are the basic capital in the waging of total resistance against the enemy”(pp. 79–80).

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A counteroffensive of this nature will only be successful if the mobilization of the total strength of the Armed Forces is accompanied by total resistance on the part of the people. This resistance must take place both in friendly areas and in the areas occupied by the enemy. The launching of the counter offensive is to be coordinated centrally. This situation requires very careful coordination and planning plus intense preparation. This applies also to the political field “for it may be possible to use bases in friendly nations as areas of consolidation and as bases from which our navy and air force can attack”(p. 80). The role of the Mobile Brigade, People’s Defence Forces and Civil Defence Forces will be similar as in Phase One and Phase Two. After the war, there is a gradual return from the wartime situation of widespread delegation of authority to the pre-war situation of centralized command. CAPABILITIES FOR JOINT OPERATIONS At this juncture, it would be useful for us to move away from the theory articulated in the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare and analyse the TNI’s actual capabilities and strategies for joint operations, particularly in relation to conventional offensive operations. The TNI began as a guerrilla army and throughout much of its existence has been used to deal with internal security contingencies. Rarely has it been employed in a conventional sense where joint operations involving the various branches of the armed forces would be utilized to deal with a specific threat. Joint operations were first attempted in 1958 during the PRRI-Permesta revolt in Sumatra and Sulawesi. The strategies employed to deal with that insurrection were a consequence of General Yani’s stint at Fort Leavenworth in the United States as part of a training programme aimed at forging links with the Army. The second instance was the Trikora operation in 1962 under the leadership of General Suharto as Indonesia attempted to wrest control of West Irian from the Dutch. Perhaps the defining experience for the TNI in relation to attempts at joint military operations was the invasion of East Timor in December 1975. It exposed deficiencies which laid bare the actual capabilities of the TNI to function effectively in combined operations. Weatherbee was to contend: There is ample reason to assert that in the Timor campaign serious deficiencies were exposed in logistic planning, tactical intelligence, command and control, training and leadership ... The poor performance was in part a legacy of past budgetary constraints on training time and

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equipment, as well as corruption which contributed to budgetary shortfalls. If the professional education and skill level of the lieutenantcolonels and colonels, let alone the majors and captains, who had to prosecute the campaign on the ground are as high as some would have us believe, then they (the Akabri generation of officers) had to be appalled and bitter about the lack of professionalism, the wastage, and the incompetence of their seniors of the ‘45 Generation who led them unprepared into a nasty little war with such negative international repercussion’(Weatherbee 1982, pp. 160–61).

Furthermore, the Timor operation was hampered by internal differences between the operational and intelligence branches of the Armed Forces. According to Jenkins, these rivalries appear to have peaked at the time of the Timor invasion: The invasion plans were drawn by Maj. Gen. Benny Murdani without the knowledge or participation of key members of the operational staff. The deputy commander of the armed forces (Wapangab), General Surono Reksodimedjo, who was as much in the dark as anyone else, registered his displeasure by going off shortly thereafter on the haj, leaving Murdani’s group to complete the takeover. Surono felt that as Wapangab he should have known what was planned. Surono was not the only officer upset over the invasion. The Kostrad commander, Lt. Gen. Leo Lopulisa, who would in the normal course of events have played a central role in any such operation, was in Paris at that time and received a cable advising him that the invasion had gone through, without ever having been asked if his troops were ready. Lopulisa confided to a retired colleague not long after the invasion, “I am only the manager of a funeral parlor. Only that! I am not involved. I am only in charge of the funerals of the men who didn’t come back.” In the view of some senior officers from the operational side, Suharto was operating outside normal channels in bypassing Kostrad and relying on the Kopassandha (Komando Pasukan Sandhi Yudha, or Secret Warfare Force) and the intelligence community in such an operation. This view did not make allowance for the fact that in many ways an expanded Kopassandha had taken over some of the functions that were formerly the responsibility of Kostrad. However, there were dangers in such methods, quite apart from any considerations of operating “outside” the formal system. Although Kopassandha units fought well and were able to penetrate deeply into enemy territory, they were not good at holding the ground they had taken; “real” infantry, it was argued would be able to do this (Jenkins 1984, pp. 24–25).

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While this point is well taken, it is also important to note that the Kopassandha troops fighting along the Portuguese Timor border especially between October 17 and November 6 were seriously hampered by numerous difficulties. American intelligence reported the problems faced by Indonesian troops: October 18: Indonesian troops attacking into Portuguese Timor have succeeded in occupying five border towns, but have bogged down in some areas after three days of fighting. Fretilin forces are putting up stiff resistance in places according to intercepted messages, and some Indonesian units may be pulling back to their side of the border. One Indonesian unit is apparently surrounded and taking casualties. The commander of the force has asked for reinforcements and a helicopter gunship to provide air support and to evacuate wounded. Other units are reporting extreme shortages of ammunition and supplies. Indonesian field commanders apparently have underestimated Fretilin strength and their own logistical problems. October 20: The DIA (Defence Intelligence Agency) reported, The Indonesian military operation into Portuguese Timor has been temporarily blunted by surprisingly strong Fretilin resistance, by the poor condition of Indonesian war material, and by the effects of the wet season on transportation.’ The drive into Timor by an Indonesian reinforced infantry battalion resulted initially in some territorial gains in the northern part of the island, but it has stalled because of Jakarta’s failure to secure the border town of Lebos. Indonesian troops are receiving heavy mortar attacks, one of which severely damaged their forward command post over the weekend. The Indonesian commanders are continuing to complain about the poor quality of their supporting fire. An intercepted message, for example, revealed that 70 per cent of the Indonesian mortar rounds were duds. October 24: The Indonesian military operation launched last week in Portuguese Timor has bogged down. Field commanders apparently underestimated their logistic problems and the strength of Fretilin forces operating near the border.35

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If the border incursions highlighted deficiencies in the Armed Forces’ ability to prosecute a Limited War, worse was to follow during the main invasion code-named Operasi Seroja (Operation Lotus) held on 7 December 1975. The first operational test of the new integrated Armed Forces command structure was marked by poor coordination and showed up serious deficiencies in the discipline, training and equipment of some of Indonesia’s best units. McDonald describes these inadequacies aptly: Kostrad Eighteenth Brigade paratroops were dropped on top of Fretilin forces withdrawing from the town, instead of behind to block off their retreat. After taking heavy casualties from Fretilin, the paratroops then came under fire from an Indonesian Marine force driving inland. The remnants of the paratroops then rampaged through the town, killing and looting at random... The confusion allowed Fretilin to carry out a planned withdrawal to the mountains, broadcasting details of the Indonesian attack as they went. Follow-up Indonesian attacks captured Baucau, with its jet air strip, and the south coast (McDonald 1980, p. 212).

According to his biographer, Murdani later was to support these allegations by adding: These troops had no discipline at all. They shot one another. Ah, over all it was totally embarrassing ... It would appear that even in the initial planning to seize Dili, several basic military premises supporting an operation like this were overlooked. Any military operation must clearly decide whether it is going to be a land, air or sea operation. On that first day in Dili, what had plagued that joint operation, involving all ABRI elements, was that the planners forgot the fact that not all soldiers had been involved in any joint operational training. Consequently, there arose some elementary confusion. It was reported that aircraft were shot at by their counterparts on the ground and that paratroopers were dropped, although their aircraft was off course and out at sea. Worst of all, because logistic supply was on board a ship, troops who had been ordered to takeover an area had no ammunition or food ... From a military viewpoint, we cannot feel very proud of this operation (Pour 1993, pp. 353–36).

The historical record makes for grim reading. The TNI has never had an opportunity to redeem itself following the East Timor debacle. However, the experience was internalized and structures for implementation of joint operations were effectively devised in the 1990s as the Cold War wound

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down in Southeast Asia and impressive economic growth figures allowed the TNI to consider the purchase of weapons systems for external defence. The need to create a TNI configured to deal with external defence contingencies required the introduction of a formal structure of joint defence operations (see Figure 3.4). There are essentially three forms of joint operations conducted by the TNI. They include Specified Joint Command (Kogabsus, Komando Gabungan Khusus), Intregrated Joint Command (Kogabpad, Komando Gabungan Terpadu), and Joint Task Force (Kogasgab, Komando Tugas Gabungan) structures (see Figure 3.5). The starting point for all joint operations is TNI Headquarters. The headquarters element is in itself a joint command system employing triservice staff. In a Specified Joint Command personnel are usually drawn from one specific service. A classic example is Kohanudnas which is dominated by air force personnel and augmented by army or navy air defence artillery elements. Kohanudnas would be the Indonesian equivalent of the North American Aerospace Defence Command (NORAD)36 with its complement of air defence hardware like missiles and interceptors. An Integrated Joint Command is characterized by permanent bases or geographically assigned bases. The service compositions of such commands are characterized by triservice personnel. An example of an Integrated Joint Command would be the proposed Regional Defence Command (Kowilhan, Komando Wilayah Pertahanan) structure (see Map 3.4) currently under consideration by the TNI. The Kowilhan structure is useful for two reasons. First, it is essentially a move consistent with the original intention expressed in a Seskoad seminar held on 9–15 December 1960 for Indonesia to be divided into three defence areas. Second, it is an ideal structure where army, air force and navy elements can be incorporated, functioning along similar lines to the U.S. Pacific Command. Third, the proposed Kowilhan concept was designed with the aim of allowing TNI Headquarters (now solely responsible for joint operations) the option of devolving operational command responsibilities to a regional command structure. Under the current system, in the absence of a Kowilhan structure, the Kodam by default is given coordinating responsibilities for joint operations, however, under the direction of TNI Headquarters. Since the Kodam is dominated by army personnel, the Panglima TNI would be required to direct his Service Chiefs to provide troops for a combined operation (see Figure 3.4). Service Chiefs have no operational capability. Their roles are confined purely to preparing their troops through training and looking after their welfare. The key player is the Panglima TNI who is solely responsible for giving the orders. For example, in a specific combat

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Figure 3.4 Defence Operational Structure for Joint Operations TNI HQ

Army

Navy

Air Force

Armada

Koopsau

Kohanudnas Kostrad

Kopassus Kodam

Kowilhan (Ideal Operational Structure)

Kodam (Default Operational Structure)

Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

operation he may request the army chief of staff to provide an airborne assault unit as well as an airborne battalion (see Figure 3.6). These units from the army would have to be airlifted to the combat zone. For this purpose, he would order the Air Force Chief of Staff to provide aircraft responsible for transport and air to ground fire support from the relevant Koopsau. If coastal or amphibious operations are required, he would order the navy chief of staff to provide for example a squadron of escort ships and perhaps two landing ships. Panglima TNI may also require an infantry division and may ask the relevant Kodam in the zone of operations to become the service provider. However, until the Kowilhan concept is activated, joint operations will be conducted at the level of TNI Headquarters. For Sishankamrata to be successful, coordination at the Kodam and Korem levels is crucial (see Figures 2.3 and Figures 2.4). Overall control of a strategic compartment is in the hands of a Kodam commander. Under

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Figure 3.5 Forms of Joint Operations TNI Headquarters (Joint Command with Triservice Staff)

Komando Gabungan Paduan (Integrated Joint Command)

Other Uniservice Mission Operations “Regular” Land Operations e.g. Army operations with the assistance of other support elements based on specific needs.

Specified (Joint) Command

“Service heavy” (Joint Command) • based on one service • other services • augment capability when necessary

• Permanent bases • Geographically assigned basis • Triservice staff components

e.g. KOHANUDNAS (Air Force heavy but augmented by Army or Navy Air Defence Artillery

e.g. KOWILHAN

Joint Task Force • Mission oriented basis (temporary) • Joint–consisting of services required for the operation e.g. KOGASGAB or PPRC (ready to be deployed in the event of threats)

Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

the TNI operational structure, Korem-level commanders are also allowed a certain degree of independence. However, for the Kodim level and below, commanders have no operational independence; namely, a Kodim commander would not be allowed operational command over troops in the field. There are a number of reasons why a Kodim Commander is given relatively little responsibility. First, a Kodim’s area of operations is too

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small. Second, there is little or no military role at the Kodim level. Third, a commander’s responsibility is purely to facilitate a support function, namely, to mobilize resources for his troops. Battalions at this level, generally territorial troops, are structured purely for defence purposes. In theory they have no authority to delve into civilian resources.37 In fact, under the current regional autonomy regulations, many of the functions of the Kodim can be devolved to local government authorities making the Kodim redundant. In all likelihood, all territorial functions from the Kodim level below could be abolished without diminishing the fighting capability of the TNI at regional level.38 A Joint Task Force can be formed either through the initiative of TNI Headquarters or under the auspices of the proposed Kowilhan structure. These are essentially mission-oriented bases consisting of various services and would be dismantled after they have accomplished their tasks. The best example of such a task force was the first wave battlegroup put together for the invasion of East Timor in December 1975 called the Combined or Joint Taskforce which was a crucial element of the initial air assault on East Timor. To a certain extent, the Rapid Reaction Strike Force (PPRC, Pasukan Pemukul Reaksi Cepat) performs a similar function. It is made up of a tri-service combination of troops and devised as a rapid reaction force to tackle major security contingencies like enemy encroachments into Indonesia's Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ); the protection of critical natural resource zones; and to quell violent uprisings in the archipelago that are beyond the capabilities of the police force. The PPRC is a major component for an airborne or heliborne operation where speed is the essence. They are required to occupy and secure a strategic objective and are generally expected to engage in temporary operations. Their capabilities are limited. When their tasks (tugas) are completed, these forces are returned to their respective services or in the case of East Timor, dismantled after the initial assault in 1975. The PPRC is earmarked as a joint task force, mission ready to be deployed to protect any vital installations in the event of threat. In gauging the combination of troops utilized for a Joint Task Force, much depends on the nature or context of the operations. If the objective is inland, then an airborne operation requiring army and air force elements may be required. In 1994, during the Natuna Islands exercises, a Joint Task Force was devised on the basis of a threat emanating from Indonesia’s northern approaches requiring a combination of amphibious and airborne operations. In this context, the navy was utilized to establish a beachhead. Army units were required to secure the landing area while the air force

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(Medan) (Palmbang) (Pekanbaru) (Pekanbaru)

SOUTH KALIMANTAN

Palangkaraya

INF. DIV. 1 INF. DIV. 1 FLEET 1 KOOPSAU

WEST NUSA TENGGARA Mataram

Makassar

SOUTHEAST SULAWESI Kendari

CENTRAL SULAWESI

Gorontalo

1 INF. DIV. 1 INF. DIV. 1 FLEET 1 KOOPSAU

(Malang) (Balikpapan) (Surabaya) (Madiun)

KOWILHAN III

MALUKU

Ambon

Seram

Halmahera

TIMOR LESTE Ujung Padang

Buru

NORTH MALUKU

NORTH SULAWESI Manado

EAST NUSA TENGGARA

Palu

SOUTH SULAWESI

(Malang) (Balikpapan) (Surabaya) (Madiun)

Denpasar

BALI

Surabaya

EAST JAVA

Surabaya

KOWILHAN II

CENTRAL JAVA

Bandung Yogyakarta YOGYAKARTA

WEST JAVA

Jakarta

BELITUNG

Samarinda

EAST KALIMANTAN

CENTRAL KALIMANTAN

WEST KALIMANTAN

I A

BRUNEI DARUSSALAM

Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

1 INF. DIV. 1 INF. DIV. 1 FLEET 1 KOOPSAU

Pekanbaru

KOWILHAN I

Lampung

Pontianak BANGKA

Riau Archipelago

A L A Y S SINGAPORE

SOUTH SUMATRA

JAMBI Jambi

M

BENGKULU

Padang

Pekanbaru RIAU WEST SUMATRA

NORTH SUMATRA

Medan

NANGGROE ACEH DARUSSALAM

Banda Aceh

Map 3.4 The Proposed Kowilhan Concept

PAPUA

Jayapura

STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 213

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Figure 3.6 Organization of an Infantry Battalion (Kostrad)

Commander

Deputy Commander

Assistant Intelligence Assistant Operations Assistant Personnel Assistant Logistics Medical Officer Chaplain (Headquarters Company)

Rifle Company

Combat Support Company

HQ

HQ

Rifle Platoon

Support Platoon

MG Platoon

2 x 60mm 2 x LMG

6 x MMG

Anti-Tank Platoon 6 x RCL

Mortar Platoon 6 x 81mm

For an infantry battalion from Kostrad, the command element consists of a commanding officer (Lieutenant-Colonel), a second-in-command (Major); intelligence, operations, personnel and logistics sections headed by captains. Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

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was tasked to provide air transport, air cover and air assault protection. The police mobile brigade was employed for public security or Kamtibmas operations. The composition of the Joint Task Force therefore depends on the requirements of the mission. It could comprise two or three services as was the case in 1994 during the Natuna Islands exercises. The Natuna Islands exercises involved the use of two brigades and with each brigade supported by approximately 25 to 26 ships. The entire exercise lasted approximately 36 hours and required the establishment of a beachhead of 24 square kilometers. The first waves of troops were led by the marines and the police with the army proper comprising the accompanying waves.39 Such joint operations are generally held every three to five years.40 The military operation in Aceh which began in May 2003 was not a full-fledged combined operation utilizing a Joint Task Force. The Aceh operation is principally under the jurisdiction of the army with the other services providing support when instructed by TNI Headquarters. With the Kowilhan structure yet to be implemented, responsibility for supervising operations has been handed over to the Iskandar Muda Kodam located in Aceh. Having jurisdiction over a small operational area, a Kodam in theory is not a joint operation command. Therefore, any joint operational command decisions for the Aceh operation were exercised solely by TNI Headquarters in Jakarta. The Aceh operation was generally a land operation with the army providing the main body of troops thereby making it a uniservice operation under the control of TNI Headquarters. Once again, it is important to reiterate that for the purposes of command and control, the army chief of staff has no independent control over operations despite the fact that the Aceh conflict is purely a uniservice operation depending solely on the army and its resources. Likewise, it may seem logical to think that jurisdiction for air support similarly falls under the control of the air force chief of staff. Operational control is solely the prerogative of TNI Headquarters. While service chiefs have managerial responsibility for day to day affairs, they cannot operate autonomously. CONCLUSIONS The Total People’s Defence doctrine stresses Indonesia’s inability to afford a large, well-equipped military force. Similarly, the doctrine allows for a degree of self-reliance in defence planning in order for Indonesia to maintain its commitment to adopt a non-aligned posture in international

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affairs. As a consequence, the army’s pioneer strategists reasoned that the only way the country could defend itself was to employ a three-phase war strategy. Initially, the armed forces would withdraw in the face of a superior invading force. This would be accompanied by regionally-based guerilla warfare and a conclusive stage where the invading force would be repulsed. The key to the successful prosecution of this type of war lay in the close cooperation between the armed forces and the people. In this context, the civilian population would provide logistical support and intelligence and in some cases, participate physically in the guerilla struggle. For this reason the TNI remain sentimentally locked into the perspective that under no circumstances could the armed forces allow themselves to be alienated from the people. The symbiotic relationship between the armed forces and the people in the defence of Indonesia had been formally recognized in the dwifungsi doctrine, first articulated at a Defence and Security seminar in November 1966. The defence and security dimension of the dwifungsi doctrine will be discussed at length in Chapter 4 and reviewed in light of current political realities and more importantly whether it makes sound military practice. But at this juncture, it will be useful to focus on the nature of defence policy formulation and how these policies give substance to Indonesia’s desire to prosecute the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare effectively. DEFENCE POLICY FORMULATION Developments in the 1980s and 1990s point to efforts by the government to shore up loyalties and provide new directions for defence planning. First, in 1983, the Indonesian government passed a law separating the armed forces from the then Ministry of Defence and Security (Kementerian Pertahanan dan Keamanan) — Presidential Decrees 46/1983; 60/1983. The subsequent reallocation of respective functions and duties reinforced the formal separation, vesting enormous powers in the hands of the commander-in-chief and leaving the Ministry virtually powerless over the armed forces. Before discussing further the armed forces command structure, it would be useful to understand the origins of this new defence legislation and organization. For many years, the Ministry’s role in defence planning was defined primarily by a 1954 Consultative Assembly Law No. 29, based on the Provisional Constitution of 1950. Noticeably missing from the 1954 Defence Law was mention of the TNI’s socio-political role and the dual function doctrine. The government, however, delayed efforts to formulate such a

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bill until the passage of MPR Decision No. IV in 1978, on the Broad Outlines of State Policy (GBHN, Garis-garis Besar Haluan Negara) required a basic national defence and security law. The MPR’s 1978 call for new legislation made it clear that the TNI’s dual function should be enshrined in the new bills. Senior military officers obviously wanted to avoid the distinctions between strict civilian and military spheres and preferred to rely on Pancasila democracy, which is based more on “family” (keluarga) principles. Brainstorming on the new defence legislation began at the Army Staff College in 1979. Four draft bills were submitted to the parliament shortly after the May 1982 national elections, but only the main bill (No. 20) passed prior to the end of the legislative session. Significantly, the new legislation specifically allowed the separation of the minister of defence from the commander of the armed forces. The minister of defence assisted the president in managing the execution of state defence and deciding policies concerning the TNI service as an element of the social force, oversees efficient use of national resources for national defence, and plans and implements the strategic defence plans of the state. By contrast, the commander of the armed forces was to assist the president in executing command authority for state defence. The armed forces commander heads “armed forces headquarters” (as opposed to ministry of defence), using the armed forces both as a defence and social force.41 With the beginning of the new fiscal year in April 1984, the TNI implemented a major reorganization that had long been discussed. Centralization of command involved abolishing the Kowilhan structure, establishing instead two territorial defence commands for East and West Indonesia respectively; the National Strategic Command of the Army (Kostranas, Komando Strategis Nasional) — mainly concerned with external defence, was abolished; military region commands were reduced from 16 to 10; all Navy (Kodaeral, Komando Daerah Angkatan Laut) and Air Force (Kodau, Komando Daerah Angkatan Udara) area commands were abolished leaving only lesser support units; and National Police region commands were increased to 27. The overall effect of these changes resulted in a streamlining of the territorial structure. Responsibility for territorial management was now vested with the army and the national police together. The police, who were responsible for public security and order adopted a command structure which paralleled that of the military. Ostensibly, the rationale for reorganizing the armed forces was to improve communications and coordination. With so many of the intermediary administrative bodies

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scrapped, the existing lines of communication were shortened, reducing the autonomy of territorial commands thereby allowing for greater central military control over regional commands and their units. The new structure did not acknowledge the special characteristics of each service, such as the navy and air force, which are more technically oriented, yet both of which were involved in territorial matters. In sum, the restructuring of TNI under the slogan of KEEM (kecil tetapi efisien, efektif dan modern [small but efficient, effective and modern]) the military leadership under the command of General Murdani attempted to first trim down the total armed forces organization in order to restore a proper pyramidal organizational structure and remove its top heaviness; second, to redefine organizational compartments in general work efficiency and effectiveness and finally, to restructure all strategic elements with the aspiration of achieving improved military operational resilience and shorten chains of command in each service. The Murdani era structures prevailed until 1999 when a new decree (TAP MPR) No. VI and VII/1999 was introduced by the MPR effectively separating the police from the TNI proper. As legislation, TAP MPR No. VI/1999 mandates the separation of the police from the military while TAP MPR No. VII/1999 attempts to differentiate the functions between the military and the police. The impetus for the initiative came from the TNI itself and was promulgated initially through an executive order KEP/02/M/1999 first issued on March 8, 1999 and conveyed through General Wiranto, then the minister of defence and security/commander in chief of TNI. This order effectively revoked an earlier decision by the Minister of Defence and Security KEP/04/1/1997 concerning the “Delegation of Authority in the Police Operational Activities” and effectively came into force on 1 April 1999 with the intention of making the National Police more self-reliant and professional in their duties and principally responsible for internal security (keamanan). The requirement for the TNI to focus on external defence (namely, pertahanan) was also implicit in the Wahid administration’s decision in 1999 to drop “security” from the name of the department of defence and shifting defence priorities to the maritime environment signalling a shift away from internal security in the process providing an outlet for the energies of the military and subsequently justifying the appointment of an admiral, Widodo, as the TNI’s first non-army commander in chief. As further evidence of an emphasis on maritime matters, the Wahid administration set up a new government department responsible for watching over Indonesia’s rich marine resources.

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The legal mechanisms formally separating the military and police (organizationally) and demarcating the roles and responsibilities of both institutions, namely the National Defence Law (2001) and the National Police Law (2001) were enacted in December 2001 by president Megawati Sukarnoputri. The National Defence Law effectively replaces Law No. 20/ 1982 on National Defence and Security Guidelines and states unambiguously that the TNI is the country’s primary instrument of defence.42 The TNI’s responsibilities under the new National Defence Law are threefold. First, the TNI is responsible for the defence of Indonesia’s “national sovereignty” and the maintenance of its “territorial integrity”. Second, there is a responsibility to “protect and honour the safety of the nation”. Third, the TNI is expected to undertake “military operations other than war”.43 While it is explicit that under the provisions of the National Defence Law that the TNI as the instrument of “national defence”44 has the sole responsibility to defend the country against any external threat, there is also a requirement for defending against any internal security situations which have the potential to compromise the safety, national sovereignty or territorial integrity of Indonesia.45 At the apex of the defence structure (see Figure 3.7), the president exercises control over national defence and the employment of the TNI through the commander-in-chief.46 The commander of the TNI is appointed and dismissed by the president with the approval of the DPR.47 In selecting the appropriate officer for the role of TNI commander, the president’s choice is restricted to the ranks of those who are serving or have served as a service chief.48 Under the National Defence Law, the TNI commander answers directly to the president. Yet this does not mean that the defence minister has a marginal role. In fact, Article 16 of the Defence Law empowers the defence minister to assist the president in formulating defence policy (point 2), in preparing the budget, and in formulating policies relating to force deployment (Article 5).49 Technically, the Defence Law does provide the minister of defence with significant influence. If the reality is somewhat different, where the perception exists that the current decision-making process often leaves the impression that the Minister of Defence (Menhan, Menteri Pertahanan) is often on the periphery, this is a consequence of the lack of expertise on the part of civilians on defence matters. The Menhan though does have limited responsibilities specifically in the area of mobilizing natural resources and material acquisitions. This lack of executive authority with respect to the Menhan would no doubt compromise the ability of the minister to coordinate policy let alone come up with the effective policies for development and acquisition as well as

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General Planning (Asrenum)

Source: Courtesy of an Indonesian source.

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KSAD

Kostrad Kopassus

Kodam

Service Support Units

Asintel Asops Aspers Askomlek Aslog

Chief of General Staff (Kasum)

Assistant Operation Assistant Security Assistant Personal Assistant Logistics Assistant Territorial

Kowilhan

Sesko TNI Pusiara Pusurt Babinku Puslitbang Pusbintal Babek Puspen Puskes BAIS

Inspector-General

Service Support Units

Armada

Assistant Operation Assistant Security Assistant Personal Assistant Logistics

KSAL

Chief of Territorial Staff(Kassospol/Kaster)

Governor National Resilience Institute (Lemhannas)

Commander in Chief of the Armed forces (Panglima TNI)

President

Figure 3.7 TNI Chain of Command

Service Support Units

Koopsau

Assistant Operation Assistant Security Assistant Personal Assistant Logistics

KSAU

220 REALPOLITIK IDEOLOGY

STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 221

the coordination and control of expenditure. These shortcomings would be further complicated by the introduction of civilian defence ministers since October 1999 in line with the aspiration that Dephan over time evolves into a civilian institution. Given the TNI’s general disdain for civilians, the appointment of civilian officials at senior policy-making levels within Menhan is an interesting development (ICG October 2001), though not necessarily the prelude for civilian authority over TNI matters. The National Defence Law does make provision for the TNI commander to work with the Menhan “in fulfilling the needs of the TNI” but does not make him accountable to the Menhan.50 The Menhan though has the duty to “assist” the president in formulating the general policy for national defence” while the TNI Commander “is responsible to the president for the use of national defence components”51, effectively making the president in charge of “policy matters” for the armed forces. On the subject of accountability, the National Defence Law does allow the DPR a supervisory role in the execution of the general policy for national defence and permits its members to request an explanation over the conduct and management of national defence matters.52 However, these provisions are written ambiguously, thereby making it difficult to conclude that any legislative guidance exists on individual accountability for breaches of law. The TNI commander is responsible for strategic and military operations planning, professional and military strength development and the maintenance of operational readiness.53 He then exercises command and control through permanent territorial and functional headquarters or through ad hoc single-service or joint headquarters formed for particular tasks. To recap, the service chiefs of staff have no operational responsibilities. They are responsible to the TNI commander for the raising, training and sustaining of their forces. Under the new National Defence Law, the military cannot take the initiative to launch an attack or commence an operation without the approval of the president and the government in office.54 However, once agreed to, TNI has the option of operating in whatever way it sees fit within the territory that falls within the defined authority of the regional command concerned and as evidenced in the case of Aceh, may include significant domestic security operations. The president is also assisted in policy formulation by the National Defence and Security Agency (Wankamnas, Dewan Pertahanan Keamanan Nasional), a Coordinating Minister for Political and Security Affairs (Menko Polkam, Menteri Koordinator Politik dan Keamanan) and the commander, TNI. The function of Wankamnas is to examine policy issues put to it by the president. It is responsible directly to the president. However, it has no

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executive authority and takes no part in the process of crisis management or strategic planning.55 Nevertheless, the results of its deliberations may inform policy development and strategic planning. For instance, during the Suharto era, it played a role in the formulation of the now defunct GBHN. At the ministerial level, the Menko Polkam coordinates the departments of home affairs, foreign affairs, and defence. He is primarily concerned with coordination, though not directly involved in strategic planning or crises management. Crises are normally resolved by the president directly with the ministers concerned and the TNI commander. The Menhan is responsible for providing human and material resources to TNI, encouraging other departments to incorporate defence and security considerations into their plans and activities, planning the mobilization of national resources for defence emergencies, advising on the development of strategic industries, managing the resource aspects of strategic planning, and promoting security relations with regional countries. The TNI commander is also an ex-officio member of the cabinet.56 He assists the Menhan in the administration of defence, including strategic planning and capability acquisition. CONCEPTUAL BASIS OF DEFENCE PLANNING Defence planning in Indonesia since the 1960s works on the principle of a “short-range concept of defence” taking into account the possibility that war may break out before the development of the armed forces is completed. (Pauker 1963, p. 249) This short-range concept of defence is, essentially, deterrent in nature and remains unaltered in Indonesian strategic thinking. It is based on the following principles: 1. Internal security and defence are closely inter-related and Indonesia must prepare itself to carry out both functions at one time (ibid., p. 202). 2. Our defence policy must necessarily be inspired by a spirit of antiimperialism and anti-colonialism, be actively defensive in nature, and reject participation in military alliances (ibid., p. 203). 3. Modern war is a test of the total strength of a nation. It necessitates the mobilization of all sources of national strength and all the elements of the nation’s war potential. From this it is evident that the destruction of the enemy’s troops on the field of combat, troops which constitute only one element of the enemy’s war potential, is no guarantee of victory.

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We must be able to destroy the entire war effort of the enemy. Therefore, primary emphasis must be placed upon the development of Modern Armed Forces, which possess a strategic offensive element which can be launched against the enemy’s supporting elements in his own territory. The possession of a strategic offensive element will provide important support to our diplomacy and will serve to deter the enemy from starting a war (ibid., p. 204). 4. Furthermore, our defence concept must not impair the assignments now being carried out by the Armed Forces, namely, the restoration of internal security ... rather it must be capable of hastening the completion of these efforts. Finally, in formulating our defence concept, attention should be given to the characteristics of our nation: if forced into a war, it will never surrender but will resist with all the manpower and material that can be mobilized until final victory is won (ibid.). 5. The war potential of a nation is composed of its national spirit, its industrial and economic strength, its armed forces, its capacity for scientific research and development, and its manpower (ibid.). During the Suharto era, defence planning was integrated with the national planning process, which started with a 25-year vision and was distilled into a 10-year plan. The reconciliation of requirements and resources would start with the formulation of the 5-year plan and then be brought into sharper focus during the annual budgeting process. The Defence 5year plans or National Strategic Plan (Renstra, Rencana Sasaran Strategis) are classified but an abbreviated version of the plan was included in the national 5-year development plan (Repelita, Rencana Pembangunan Lima Tahun). If a “rationalized” defence planning process existed during the Suharto era, such a process no longer exists owing to the fact that the political institutions and structures that were responsible for developing the national planning process either do not exist or have been downgraded or restructured in the aftermath of reformasi. In the aftermath of the demise of the Suharto regime, such long-term development plans do not exist. Bappenas, the key development planning agency of the Suharto era no longer draws up the Repelita and currently remains a shell of the once powerful organization that was at the apex of development planning. Similarly, the GBHN is no longer produced due the fact that the MPR is no longer tasked with the responsibility of approving state policy matters. Under the amended constitution, there is no subordinate body under the president. The president is now chosen through a direct presidential election and therefore accountable to the

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people through the DPR. Hence it would be likely that any decisions relating to the defence policy process will be scrutinized by the Komisi I (Commission I) in the DPR responsible for defence, security and foreign policy. The members of the Komisi I may have oversight responsibilities but it is unlikely that they will possess the technical knowledge to scrutinize defence policy effectively. While the Renstra still exists in theory and is the responsibility of Dephan, the planning process has little substance or detail as little time is devoted to such matters because the priority of the TNI is how to reposition and rejuvenate itself.57 In such a context, short-term planning remains the norm often motivated by political considerations as seen in the controversial purchase of the Sukhoi fighters in 2003. Defence policy now is essentially a shared responsibility between TNI Headquarters in Cilangkap and Dephan. Under the reorganization of Dephan in December 2000, policy-making involves five directorate-generals in contrast with the three directorate structure that existed previously. They include the directorate-generals for defence strategy (Statan, Strategi Pertahanan),58 defence system planning (Resistan, Perencanaan Sistem Pertahanan), defence potentialities (Pothan, Potensi Pertahanan), defence strength (Kuathan, Kekuatan Pertahanan) and defence facilities and industries (Indranhan, Industri Sarana Pertahanan). The budget is developed in tandem with the Ministry of Finance and discussed in the DPR as part of the debate ensuing from the president’s budget outline presented to the DPR at the beginning of the financial year. Political direction at the executive level on defence policy matters exists in theory; however, President Megawati during her tenure chose not to exercise her prerogative. Perhaps this is understandable as neither her government nor the Wahid administration had yet to devise a national strategy or a comprehensive defence review. Technically, the Wankamnas should be responsible for this function, however, the new Defence Law provides for the establishment of a National Defence Council (Wantannas, Dewan Pertahanan Nasional), thereby making the Wankamnas redundant. In a sense, the Wankamnas in its current form is more of a think-tank similar to the National Resilience Institute (Lemhannas, Lembaga Ketahanan Nasional), which reports directly to the president. Under the Defence Law, the key institution will be the National Defence Council. The basis for the establishment of this institution can be found in Article 15 of the National Defence Law. The Act states that the president will serve as the chairperson of Wantannas, which also includes permanent and non-permanent members. The permanent

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members are the vice-president, minister of defence, minister of foreign affairs, minister of home affairs, and the TNI commander and national police chief. The President retains the prerogative to appoint nonpermanent members selected from both government and non-government organizations. Wantannas when it is established, should allow the government significant influence over defence policy by serving as an advisory body to the president and in that capacity guide the president in formulating defence policy and decisions relating to force deployment. When it is operational, there is a strong likelihood that Wantannas will function in a coordinating capacity similar to the office of the Menko Polkam.59 It can be envisaged that it may be possible to dissolve the office of the Menko Polkam once the National Defence Council is firmly entrenched. Despite the fact that the Defence Law makes mention of a National Defence Council, there is scepticism over its role and function. Unfortunately, the Defence Law does not outline specifically the functions and authority of a National Defence Council in a clear and unambiguous manner. In the absence of such information, concerns abound that it may become a variant of the Kopkamtib. Likewise, it cannot function like a Turkish-style national security council as the Indonesian people might perceive it to be an anti-democratic structure.60 Dephan have issued Defence White Papers since 1995. Since then, three papers have been issued but they are generally philosophical documents rather than a practical guide to the type of defence force Indonesia aspires to, and the type of force structure necessary to deal with security contingencies. If the latest White Paper is anything to go by, such documents have also become a political tool for the TNI elite to articulate their conservative views. The 2003 White Paper states unambiguously that the TNI play a role in maintaining domestic security along with the police. The second controversial point pertains to the need for the TNI to maintain its presence among the people through its network of territorial commands.61 Though the Dephan may be led by a civilian, the people running the institution including those who drafted the 2003 White Paper clearly come from the TNI. Before concluding this section on the defence planning process, it is important to highlight specific areas where effective planning is of paramount importance if the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare is to be prosecuted effectively (Hartono 1993, pp. 161–62). First, each strategic compartment has to provide a large area for use as a theatre of operation, a communication zone and a rear area. Defence planning needs to take into account the necessary infrastructure and defence facilities. Another

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prime requirement is an effective command and control capability for the whole compartment. The reason for this is that an invading force would have the capability to cut and isolate one island from another. Hence, it is necessary for each strategic compartment to be able to conduct a self-sufficient and protracted defence. Second, defence planning must take into consideration the preparation of a theatre of operations based on the estimate of the enemy’s manoeuvres, including areas which are suitable for the decisive battle. Third, between the designated theatre of operations and the rear-zone administrative base, it is necessary to develop communication lines as early as possible. Essentially, the communication zone must be designed to guarantee the TNI’s mobility and subsequently, it must be defended in order to stop an aggressor’s large-scale land assault. This can be assured if the technical aspects for the development of land, water, sea and air transportation networks in peacetime take account of defence interests in the future, such as road widths, steep curves, harbour depths and the sizes of areas reserved for battle runways. Here, of great benefit would be the presence of more than one main supply route to prevent enemy neutralization. Attempts must also be made to prevent the enemy from destroying dams which might inundate areas or disrupt the whole or part of the communication zone. Hence, if the invading force succeeds in infiltrating deeply into the hinterland, the communication zone must also be prepared for barriers and destructive areas. Finally, defence planning must also take into account that rear zones/areas need to be designed to include logistic resources, spare parts and munition production facilities, and rehabilitation installations to guarantee success in maintaining the protracted defence strategies highlighted in the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare. The hinterland must also be capable of accommodating the influx of refugees fleeing from neighbouring areas. It must also have the capability to defend and secure communication and transport facilities so that the momentum in the war effort can be sustained. Naturally, these concepts have to be adjusted according to the particular circumstances in each strategic compartment. Although the regions have similarities, each region also has unique features. The next issue to consider in discussing how Indonesia will attempt to implement its Doctrine of Territorial Warfare is the force structure. The following section attempts to analyse this subject from a historical and thematic perspective.

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FORCE STRUCTURE Indonesia has gone through three phases in weapons procurement. In the immediate post-independence period, it relied largely on military hardware provided by foreign donors. In Indonesia’s case, the Soviet Union was an important supplier of weapons through the 1960s, with Indonesia receiving MiG fighters and a remarkable range of destroyers, frigates, submarines and other assorted naval vessels.62 With the easing of Cold War competition, a second phase commenced in the early 1970s when military aid to Indonesia and other ASEAN countries began to decline and they were forced to purchase weapons systems at competitive prices. Resource constraints remained severe, however, and the cost-saving response was to purchase second-hand equipment from the industrialized countries of the West. Thus it was that Indonesia came to purchase, for example, Tribal class frigates from Britain and Claude Jones class destroyer escorts from the United States and CA-27 Sabre fighters from Australia. Although much of this equipment was already quite old, it was cheap and thus facilitated force expansion.63 A third phase in arms procurement became evident during the 1980s when Indonesia — by now increasingly prosperous — began purchasing new and sophisticated weapon systems. During the 1980s, Indonesia purchased 12 F-16 Falcons and began equipping its naval vessels with Harpoon and Exocet missiles. Purchases such as these were extremely costly, but they provided access to some of the latest military technologies. The numbers in the Indonesian armed forces have fluctuated substantially in the New Order period (see Table 3.1 and Figure 3.8). The waves of rekonstruksi dan rasionalisasi (reconstruction and rationalization) of the 1950s64 meant that a large proportion of the revolutionary generation were discarded. Nevertheless, by 1968, 340,000 were still in service and a combination of the internal pacification programmes necessary to consolidate the Suharto regime and the growing prestige of the military as a profession could have attributed to an increase in personnel two years later when the size of the armed forces reached a high point of 365,000. The great bulk of that figure — 275,000 of the 365,000 (with further 100– 110,000 in the militia) was made up by the army. Significant downsizing reduced the army size to 180,000 by 1976. For a short period of time strength levels stabilized before increasing to 216,000. The steady decrease size of the army resulted in strength levels contracting to 202,900 in 1992 before rising to its present mark of 233,000.65 The size of the navy was more or less stable at around 40–47,000, but including approximately

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Table 3.1 Indonesian Armed Forces Personnel (‘000) 1968–2004 Year

Army

Navy

Air Force

Police Mobile Brigade

Para military & Police

Total (Active)

1968 1969 1970 1971 1972 1973 1974 1975 1976 1977 1978 1979 1980 1981 1982 1983 1984 1985 1986 1987 1988 1989 1990 1991 1992 1993 1994 1995 1996 1997 1998 1999 2000 2001 2002 2003 2004

275 — 275 250 250 250 200 200 180 180 180 180 — 195 — 210 210 216 216 216 215 215 215 215 202.9 214 214 214 235.2 220 235 230 230 230 230 230 233

40 — 40 34? 34 39 40 38 38 39 39 39 — 52? — 42 42 37 38 42 43 43 43 44 44 42 40.5 40.5 43 43 43 47 47 40 40 40 45

25 — 50? 35 33 33? 30 28 28 28 28 20 — 26 — 29 29 25 27 26 27 24 25 24 24 20 20 20 21 21 21 21 21 27 27 27 24

20 — 20 20 20 20 12 12 12 12 12 12 — 12 — 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 12 8 8 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 6 14 14 14 14

110 — 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 — 70 — 70 70 70 70 115 115 115 115 180 215 174 174 174 174 177 177 194 194 195 195 195 280

340 — 365 319 317 322 270 266 246 247 247 239 — 273 — 281 281 278 281 284 285 282 283 283 270.9 276 274.5 274.5 299.2 461 476 298 298 297 297 297 302

Note: “— ” indicates no data available, “?” indicates questionable data. Source: International Institute for Strategic Studies, The Military Balance (London: IISS, various issues).

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0

50

100

150

200

250

300

350

400

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1972

1970

Army

1974

Navy

1978 Air Force

1986

1984

1982

Police Mobile Brigade

Year

1992

1990

1988

Para-military and Police

1994

1980

1976

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450

500

Figure 3.8 Indonesian Armed Forces Personnel (’000) 1968–2004

2002

2000

1998

1996

Total Armed Forces (Active)

STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 229

2004

1968

Number of Personnel ('000)

230 REALPOLITIK IDEOLOGY

12–14,000 marines. The size of the air force was similarly stable and has hovered around 21–30,000, including air defence units under air force command. The police mobile brigade was cut from 20,000 to 12,000 in 1974, and had in fact declined in size to 6,000 up to 1999 when a breakdown in local governance gave rise to a debilitating period of ethnic strife both in Java and the outer provinces requiring an increase in numbers to 14,000. The size of the militia was stable for many years at 100,000 until 1976, when it was dropped to a stable 70,000. It then rose to 115,000 before doubling in 1992 to a figure of 215,000 and due to General Wiranto’s decision in 1998 to increase the size of the Keamanan Rakyat to support the police in maintaining law and order reached an unprecedented number of 1,500,000.66 However, it is important to note that in numerical terms, military control of the government for the bulk of the Suharto era had not led to an expansion in the size of the armed forces proper. The relative and absolute decline in military expenditure during the 1980s was primarily a reflection of deteriorating economic circumstances.67 Military expenditure rose through the 1970s, reaching a peak in 1982. This rising curve closely follows Indonesia’s increasing earnings from the oil booms of 1973–74 and 1979–80. More broadly, Indonesia’s defence expenditure pattern can be correlated with its level of external indebtedness,68 but this is really just another way of telling the oil-boom story as external debt begins to mount following the decline in oil prices beginning in 1982–83. The rise and decline of oil revenue is the crucial factor in explaining defence spending trends over time, but it is not the only factor. Two other factors are equally important and deserve serious consideration. The war in East Timor sorely tested the armed forces’ ability to conduct a conventional war. Not only were the Armed Forces’ conventional fighting skills tested but the war in East Timor ushered in a new array of combat weapons. A third factor was General Murdani’s tenure as armed forces commander, where serious planning was undertaken to reinvigorate the armed forces as a conventional fighting force in light of the lessons learned in East Timor and the pressing need to formulate a strategy to protect Indonesia’s EEZ. As a consequence, modifications were required not only in doctrine, but new weapons to enhance the Armed Forces skills at Frontal Defence. The moderate defence spending figures that marked the early years of the New Order changed drastically since 1975 due to complications which arose as a result of the invasion of East Timor; had one facilitating factor — the revenues from significant oil price increases in 1974 that began to

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STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 231

be available to the military.69 The invasion of East Timor in December 1975 was meant to be a quick and limited military campaign to overcome the Fretilin-led nationalist government, which had grown stronger rather than weaker as a result of the radio propaganda campaigns and intelligence operations of Ali Murtopo70 in actuality became the most substantial military operation ever undertaken by the Indonesian military. Between 1975 and 1979 spending patterns reflected lessons learned from the fiasco associated with the East Timor invasion and the subsequent occupation. The new weapons acquisition policy reflected the need for advanced weapons, better training, and the introduction of a better range of support elements: • 400 U.S. and French light tanks, armoured personnel carriers and mechanized infantry combat vehicles; • 200 plus Exocet ship-to-ship missiles and 96 Sidewinder air-to-air missiles; • 3 Dutch and 1 Yugoslavian frigates, 4 Korean fast attack craft and 2 Tacoma landing ships, and 2 German submarines; • Boeing, Lockhead Hercules, Fokker and King Air transports; a squadron each of OV-10 Bronco counter-insurgency aircraft, A-4E Israeli fighter/ bombers, F-5E and F-5F fighter/trainer aircraft and British Hawk jet trainer/strike aircraft; in addition to more Nomads for marine patrol and helicopters.71 While on the one hand, these acquisitions covered the needs associated with the Timor War, in the process rejuvenating overall operational deficiencies of the Armed Forces, on the other hand, such unplanned expenditure was a quantum leap in force structure and military capacity. The gathering swell of spending on the military, within and beyond the official budget, has been used, especially after 1975, to effect a radical transformation in the force structure of the Indonesian armed forces. The new strategy involved an attempt to establish a politically dominant but professional military force, with a force structure appropriate to executing two tasks: sophisticated pacification of the domestic population and an externally-oriented conventional strategic military organization. The new approach, associated primarily with the tenure of Murdani as armed forces commander, represented a break from the earlier Indonesian doctrine of total defence based primarily on the capacity for popularly-supported guerilla

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warfare, towards a combination of that system and conventional professional military defence.72 This new stance attempted to embody both sides of these sets of apparent opposites: professional training in advanced military technology and political involvement; concern with domestic security in the broadest sense and an externally oriented conventional defence strategy, consolidating the framework of “total people’s defence and security” based finally on a defensive-offensive guerilla strategy, and acquiring the capital-intensive weapons systems appropriate for defence-at-a-distance strategies and conventional strategic warfare. A significant aspiration embodied in Renstra III, which remains elusive, was the desire to progressively raise the country’s capacity to fight a conventional war. Such aspirations were reflected in the type of programmes proposed: 1. National Air Defence Capability, able to detect, identify, shadow, escort/shadow landings and pursuit, as well as destroying air targets and other foreign air objects, which endanger or could endanger the national interests of the Republic of Indonesia, including development projects and vital objects which are the fruits of development. 2. Strategic Strike Capacity, able to carry out aerial surveillance and strategic air attack, able to watch and control each enemy move and activity, as well as able to destroy land and sea targets, whether in enemy territory or parts of Indonesia occupied by the enemy, as well as able to mount airborne and amphibious assaults in all parts of the country.73

Renstra III also mentioned the need to develop capabilities “to clear Indonesian waters of mines”, together with a “Strategic Transport capability”, the need to develop a “conventional military Land Assault Capability”74 and a “Territorial Control/Surveillance Capability” aimed at securing Indonesia’s “Exclusive Economic Zone (EEZ) and important economic installations” (Tanter 1991, p. 250). Murdani reviewed the TNI’s status in relation to current strategic developments and future defence projections and requirements. The lessons of East Timor plus China’s aggressive behaviour in Indochina and the South China Sea were important catalysts. From the three main components of the TNI, he determined that only structural ability was determined by the 1966 Catur Dharma Eka Karma (Cadek) doctrine, whereas force-levels and force

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deployment are essentially organizational. Murdani saw the need for all round improvement, which in turn necessitated a revision of the above military doctrine.75 The revised military doctrine, first issued in 1988, stressed that the TNI needed to possess a continuously developing and demonstrable military capability. This included a strategic intelligence capability, a defence capability, a security capability, a socio-political capability, a territorial capability, and a support/logistics capability. The main TNI goal pertaining to structural capability was an armed forces — trim, fit and resilient and ready to face all possible contingencies in matters of defence and security, and of a socio-political or socio-economic nature.76 FORCE STRUCTURE SINCE 1987 Murdani’s tenure as armed forces commander has seen Indonesia’s strategic planners opt for a form of frontal defence to complement its commitment to a Doctrine of Territorial Warfare. This by no means indicates a change in strategy, rather, the 1983–86 reorganization was to revitalize the guerilla strategy and territorial structure with the navy and air force playing supporting roles. Furthermore, Murdani envisaged that Indonesia required a mobile, rapid reaction, joint strategic strike force to deal with lower levels of external threats, to respond quickly to domestic unrest and to protect national resources particularly along its vast EEZ. The level of the official military budget rose steadily in the mid1980s, with development spending making up about a quarter of the total. As the domestic budget tightened, foreign subsidies (particularly U.S. aid) for military spending became more important than ever. In 1984, foreign project aid rose to 36 per cent of the total development budget, an all-time high. Weapons acquisition from abroad continued, but at lower levels than during Renstra III. The expansion in size established at the same time was maintained during the mid-1980s. The shrinking budget slowed the rush of major armaments purchases in the mid-1980s (see Table 3.2). After 1983, no aircraft orders were placed until the huge and controversial decision of 1986 to purchase 8 F16A fighter/strike and 4 F-16B fighter/trainer aircraft at a cost of US$432 million. But, as with the F-16, such purchases as were made were generally to expose TNI service personnel to high technology equipment. Four (secondhand) Dutch Van Speijk Class frigates and 2 minehunters joined two modern West German Type 209 submarines, Australian patrol craft and three older British Tribal Class frigates. More important still

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Table 3.2 Major Weapon Acquisitions since the 1970s Aircraft/Helicopters Country of Origin Australia USA USA Federal Republic of Germany USA USA (via Israel) USA

United Kingdom Produced jointly with Spain (CASA)

Spain USA Australia United Kingdom Netherlands USA Germany France Russian Federation Russian Federation Russian Federation

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Armament Type Avon Sabre (Fighters) F-51 Mustang (Fighters) Corsair II (Strike Aircraft) BO-105CB Helicopter F-5E/F Tiger II (Fighters) A-4 Skyhawks (Bombers) F-16/A (8) and F-16/B (4) (Multi-role fighters) Hawk-109 CN-235 and CN-212 (Maritime Surveillance/ Transport) C-212-200 MPA Aviocar MP Aircraft Bell-412 Helicopter Nomad-Transport Hawk 209 Multi-role Fighters F-28 Transport NB-412 Helicopter BO-105 Helicopter AS-332B Super Puma Helicopter Su-30MK Su-27SK Mil Mi-35 attack helicopter

234

Quantity

Date Ordered

16

1973

14

1973

16

1974

45

1976

12

1977

14

1979

12

1986

24 6

1993 ?

6

1996

1 20 16

1996 1996 1996

8 1 3 16

1996 1996 1996 1997

2 2 2

2003 2003 2003

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Table 3.2 – cont’d Maritime Vessels Country of Origin

Armament Type

USA United Kingdom USA Federal Republic of Germany South Korea Netherlands Yugoslavia Federal Republic of Germany United Kingdom Netherlands Netherlands Former East Germany Former East Germany Former East Germany Former East Germany Germany

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Quantity

Date Ordered

Frigate (Claud Jones) Corvette Destroyer Type 209 Submarines

1 4 3 2

1973 1975 1974–75 1975

Missile Gunboats Frigates (Fatahillah Class) Yani Class Frigate Cakra Class Submarines

4 3 1 3

1975 1975 1982 ? 1982–83

Tribal Class Frigate Tripartite Class Mine Countermeasures Vessels Van Speijk Class Frigates Parchim I Class Corvettes Kondor II Class Mine-Sweepers Forsch I Class Landing Craft Forsch II Class Support Ships PB-57 Type Patrol Craft

3 2

1984 1985

6 16 9

1986 1992 1992

12

1992

2

1992

4

1996

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Table 3.2 – cont’d Weapon Systems, Radar and Surveillance Equipment Country of Origin France France France United Kingdom United Kingdom United Kingdom USA USA UK Germany Sweden United Kingdom United Kingdom France United Kingdom France France Slovakia United Kingdom United Kingdom

Armament Type

Quantity

Nord Entac-58 (Anti-Tank ? Missile) MM-38 Exocet (Surface38 Surface-Missile) MM-38 Exocet Missile 2 Launchers Rapier (Surface-Air Missiles) 20 + 100 Sea Cat Missiles (Surface96 Surface Missiles) Sea Cat Missile Launchers 4 RGM-84A Harpoon 64 + 8 RGM-84A Harpoon Launchers 4 Scorpion Tanks 50 SA-N-5 Grail Surface to Air 128 Missiles RBS-70 Ground to Air Missiles ? IFF 3500 Airborne Surveillance ? Radar AR-325 Radar 14 Thomson CSF TRS 6 2215S – Band Radar Stormer Armoured Personnel 91 Carrier VBL Armoured Personnel 36 Carrier Mistral – Portable SAM 120 BVP-2 Armourerd Personnel 9 Carrier Scorpion – 90 Light Tank 45 Tactica Armoured Personnel 14 Carrier

Date Ordered 1968 1982 1982 1985 1986 1986 1986 1986 1986–87 1992 ? ? ? ? 1995 1995 1996 1996 1997 1997

Source: SIPRI Yearbooks (various issues) and The Military Balance (various issues).

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were the weapons systems placed on these platforms: 116 AIM-9P Sidewinder air-to-air missiles for the F-16s; and Harpoon and Seacat ship-to-ship launchers and missiles for the Van Speijk and Tribal Class frigates. Finally, and marking most clearly of all the change in defence posture, a stream of orders for ground based air-defence missiles: Swedish RBS-70 portable SAMs in 1981, 55 Rapier mobile SAM systems and 660 Improved Rapier land mobile SAMs in 1981 to equip them.77 By the end of Murdani’s tenure as commander in February 1988, there had been a drastic change both in force structure as well as the resources available to the military. Numerically, the core of the Army centred on its territorial forces. From the 39 battalions reorganized in 1985, at least one battalion was assigned to each Korem as a local “strike force”, plus one to each of the ten Kodam commanders. Infantry brigades were done away with, which made sense since Indonesian troops had neither fought nor trained regularly at brigade level in any case. Liquidating the brigade structure also had the added benefit of reducing unnecessary costs. During counter-insurgency campaigns crushing revolts from 1950– 1963, military operations virtually never involved mobile forces of more than a battalion.78 Internal security operations like the crushing of the PRRI, the cleaning out of the Blitar South region or operations in East Timor do indeed require forces in large numbers in total, but the actual manoeuvres/ movements have been executed at battalion or company level. “In East Timor I never mobilized a force of more than two companies”, said a four-star officer. “Whereas I had under me a brigade-sized force!79

The establishment of two fully operational elite divisions within Kostrad80 on 9 August 1985 heralded a major step forward in the development of conventional combat capability. These divisions based at Bandung and Malang were composed of the following elements:81 2 infantry division HQ 3 infantry brigades (9 battalions) 3 airborne brigades (9 battalions) 2 field artillery regiments (6 battalions) 1 anti-aircraft artillery regiments (2 battalions) 2 field engineer battalions

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For the purposes of external defence, the territorial battalions are essentially employed as a blocking/holding force intended to delay the advance of an invading army and engage in a battle of attrition before better, troops arrive to mount a counter-attack. In this regard, Kostrad troops, being better trained and equipped are critical in the counterattack phase of the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare. Yet, the ability to mount a quick counter-attack is significantly diminished by the army’s inability to lift a full battalion of troops, a problem that will not be resolved adequately until the purchase of helicopter assets that will meet such aspirations. In addition to a number of independent specialist battalions, like the newly created Raider Battalion,82 Kostrad is supported by 2 Kopassus (Komando Pasukan Khusus, Special Warfare Command) groups and a Kopassus anti-terrorist detachment, namely Detasemen 81 (“81” referring to 1981, the year of the Woyla rescue)83 and since 1984, the Rapid Reaction Strike Force (PPRC, Pasukan Pemukul Reaksi Cepat), intended to provide an immediate response to external attacks of any kind and a quick response to any internal rebellion on the archipelago.84 The combat effectiveness of the TNI was further bolstered in the mid1980s by Murdani’s desire to overhaul the Special Forces command. Using the British Special Air Service (SAS) as a model, the new organization structure for the Special Forces now consisted of a ten-man unit each led by a lieutenant, flexible enough to be broken up into two five-man patrols. All members of the team would have more than one range of military specialization. A combination of three units would constitute a unit invariably led by a captain, and three teams would constitute a detachment, with three detachments in turn forming a battalion. By 27 December 1986, with its members having gone through jungle warfare and counter insurgency training and having received specialized training in a variety of subjects ranging from “intelligence, mountain climbing, demolitions, sharp-shooting, communications, medicine, freefalling, combat swimming, computers, and English”, Groups 1 and 2 were technically ready to carry out a wide array of missions.85 In addition, the marines comprise two infantry brigades and supporting arms. One battalion landing team (BLT) is ready to move anywhere in the archipelago at short notice and another BLT is held in reserve. The aim of Renstra IV was to develop two BLT ready to move at short notice.86 The Marine Corps underwent reorganization in March 2001. Under the new structure the 1st Marine Brigade based in Surabaya and the 2nd Marine Brigade based in Jakarta were disbanded and redesignated.

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In their place came the 1st Marine Corps Group (Pasukan Korps Marinir – Pasker 1) in Surabaya with an approximate strength of 6,500 and the Independent Marine Corps Brigade based in Jakarta with about 3,500 men. Marine detachments are also deployed to defend fleet bases and critical outlying bases, such as that in the Natuna Islands. Indonesia has a mobile marine commando force, previously known as Kesatuan Gurita comprising 250 marines specializing in offshore oil facility security and counter-terrorist operations. Such concerns relating to the possibility of terrorist threats against maritime targets saw the emergence on 4 November 1980 of two units. The first under the authority of the Navy was drawn from its own Special Forces unit called the Frog Force Command (Kopaska, Komando Pasukan Katak) which had its origins in an elite combat dive unit in existence since 1962 specializing in underwater demolition, reconnaissance and naval amphibious operations and was named Task Force Jala Mangkara. Kopaska comprises 300 men divided into two groups, each attached to the Western and Eastern fleet. A second maritime counter-terrorism unit was created within Detasemen 81 and was skilled in scuba techniques and underwater demolition. The Air Force Special Forces (Paskhasau, Pasukan Khas Angkatan Udara) comprises three Wings, whose combined strength is 3,500 personnel. Each Wing is based in Jakarta, Bandung and Surakarta respectively. Their role is to defend air force bases and remote radar and surface-toair weapon sites associated with air bases and to provide close-in air defence of air bases. They also provide search and rescue teams and a limited airfield repair and maintenance capacity. While highly trained as infantry, their numbers are such that it is unlikely that they would be employed on other tasks. The units are deployed to secure the air force’s main bases in Jakarta, Bandung, Madiun, Malang, Makassar, Ujungpandang and Papua. All units are paratroop-trained and two units are trained for deployment with air force units to bases throughout the archipelago as required.87 The air force also hosts an elite counterterrorist task force called Satgas Atbara whose members are selected from the PPRC. This team specializes in hostage rescue involving hijacked aircraft and may have tasks involving anti-terrorist security at air force bases. Satgas Atbara is based at the Soekarno-Hatta International Airport in Jakarta. After more than a decade of substantial replenishment and development, the navy and airforce are competent enough to deal with some external contingencies, as well as make important contributions to domestic counterinsurgency campaigns.88 The Navy has only 117 ships including two

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submarines, 14 warships, 57 patrol boats and 44 support vessels such as tankers and landing ships. Currently, the central focus of naval strategy is the control and security of Indonesia’s sea-lanes, a Herculean task owing to the fact that only 30 per cent of the Navy’s ships are seaworthy.89 With 81,000 km of coastline and 6 million sq km of ocean to guard, such concerns are now being taken seriously by the political elite particularly after the Sipadan and Ligitan islands in the Sulawesi Sea were awarded to Malaysia in December 2002 by the International Court of Justice after a long legal battle. The loss of territory stoked nationalist fervour in Jakarta and the navy has been quick to sound the alarm over the possibility that more islands would be lost if Indonesia failed to assert its sovereignty. Particularly vulnerable are Rondo in Aceh near the maritime boundary with India; Berhala in North Sumatra which is close to Malaysia; the islands of Nipah in Riau province near Singapore; and Sekatung near Vietnam; three islands in north Sulawesi — Marore, Miangas and Marampit — close to the maritime boundary with the Philippines; the islands of Fanildo, Bras and Fani in the Papua province which could be claimed by Micronesia; and the islands of Batek in East Nusa Tenggara and Dana which could be disputed by Timor Leste and Australia. Navy Chief of Staff Admiral Bernard Kent Sondakh expressed his concerns that in time Indonesia could be embroiled in new disputes with neighbouring countries ignited by foreign fishermen setting up shelters on these islands; foreign companies searching for natural resources; or foreign military forces conducting exercises on the islands.90 For the time being though, a greater emphasis will be placed on bolstering the Navy’s coastal interdiction capabilities with the likelihood being that capabilities acquisition will be structured to meet its aspirations to form a coast guard.91 With respect to naval operations, Indonesia has opted to develop a mix of capabilities. The concept for employment of these capabilities is termed the “integrated fleet weapon system” (SSAT). The SSAT is designed to ensure the integrated employment of air defence, anti-submarine warfare (ASW), surface combat, mine warfare, amphibious warfare, afloat logistic support and base support within the fleets as a whole as well as the operational task groups of the fleets. Since 1982 regular fleet exercises called Armada Jaya, have been conducted to practice and test the fleet’s overall preparedness. Marine amphibious landings of battalion strength and live firing of weapons systems including Exocet missiles were a feature of these exercises.92 Within this overall concept, naval policy for 1989–93 derived from Renstra IV has introduced the “leading edge ship concept” (KLV, konsep kapal lini utama) designed to set priorities for the preparation and readiness

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of the core elements required for surface and sub-surface warfare and force projection.93 This includes the capability to conduct tactical maritime strikes out to the limits of the EEZ and a capability to conduct two simultaneous amphibious assaults by landing teams of one battalion each at separate locations.94 In all likelihood, these are the capabilities required to support the PPRC. Maritime defence capability against a conventional threat depends heavily on air power. Effective maritime operations demand adequate air defence of the fleet, maritime reconnaissance and maritime strike capability. So far this capability is limited by the lack of resources, although operational concepts are being developed through the nomination of 14 Squadron (F-5 Tiger) as a naval cooperation squadron.95 Air defence assets are still relatively poor considering the size of the archipelago. Indonesia still does not have any significant technical intelligence capacity such as satellite surveillance, over-the-horizon radar or strategic communications intercept. Such technical systems would also link or bridge the strategic and operational levels and in some instances guide action at tactical level as seen in the way the U.S. used the JSTARS system in the 1991 Gulf War. At the operational level, capabilities are limited. It is estimated that 35 radar units each with a range of 250 nautical miles are required to provide effective nation-wide high-level surveillance of Indonesian airspace.96 By early 1990 there were only about 16 units available, including two civilian systems at Jakarta and Medan which are linked to the system. Lack of funding has resulted in 5 of the country’s 16 radar stations being closed. Such limitations make it impossible to establish an integrated system covering the whole archipelago. Instead, a point air defence system has been established to cover vital points, such as the Malacca, Sunda, Lombok and Makassar straits, plus Jakarta, the industrial cities of Java and the liquid natural gas plants at Arun and Bontang.97 Hence, it is not surprising that existing radar units are concentrated in Java and Sumatra with four other units in Kalimantan and Sulawesi.98 This principle of establishing a point air defence system is readily apparent whenever security concerns emerge. For example, a radar system is now operational in Kupang as a result of lessons learned from the East Timor crisis in 1999 where it was discovered that Australian aircraft transgressed Indonesian airspace regularly. With regard to air defence interception, the air force combat aircraft inventory possesses 70 platforms currently comprising one squadron of General Dynamics F-16 and one squadron of Northrop F-5E Tiger II aircraft. These two squadrons could be bolstered by the two squadrons of McDonnell Douglas A-4E and one squadron of Hawk M-53 aircraft (all

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delivered by early 2002) though the main function of the A-4s are ground attack and the Hawk is used mainly for training purposes. These squadrons have been decimated due to the lack of spare parts so in a sense the Air Force is starting from scratch in trying to put together at least one squadron of 12 to 16 combat aircraft,99 though the ideal remains two squadrons. Plans to acquire nine F-16s at a cost of US$160 million, from a batch originally destined for Pakistan but undelivered, were cancelled in 1997 by the Suharto government due to criticism by the U.S. Congress. In July 1997, the air force announced that 12 Sukhoi Su30K fighters would be purchased from Russia but this order was cancelled due to the onset of the economic crisis. Of the 12 F-16s that arrived in Indonesia in the 1990s, only 10 remain. Two were destroyed in accidents and of the remaining aircraft only three can fly. The same is true for the 12 F-5E/Fs. Although there are still stocks of spare parts obtained before the U.S. arms embargo was imposed, only six aircraft can be flown at most. Of eight Hawk Mk-53s, only five can fly. When the effects of the embargo began to be felt, the air force was forced to obtain spare parts by cannibalizing other aircraft. As a consequence, aircraft are now flown in rotation to prolong their flying life and flying hours are limited with pilots flying an average of ten hours per month thereby compromising their skills and increasing the risk of accidents. Problems abound: even if Indonesia could cobble together one or two intercept squadrons, the effectiveness of these combat aircraft would be limited by the lack of a radar direction capability in the older radars. Another problem is the compatibility of older radar systems with new combat planes. It may be difficult for the French-made Thomson radar systems currently used by the TNI to be adapted to the requirements of the new acquisitions of two Sukhoi Su-27SK and Su-30KI jet fighters in August 2003.100 Due to such shortcomings, these aircraft will be inoperable in the short term, further hampered by the lack of funds to equip the fighters with offensive weapons for combat readiness. The Rapier air defence missile systems deployed at Bukit Barisan, Bontang, Tangerang and Dumai101 may provide a much better air defence intercept capability, though their numbers are limited. This lack of overlapping coverage in many areas as well as an inability to detect low-flying aircraft in large areas of the archipelago is a serious impediment (Lowry 1993, p. 65). This was particularly evident when Indonesia alleged that five U.S. Air Force F-18 Hornet warplanes had intruded into Indonesian airspace while involved in manoeuvres above Bawean Island in the Java Sea in June 2003. Within Indonesia, debates over Indonesia’s sovereignty being

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breached reached fever-pitch when news filtered in that the F-18s were in attack mode and had their missiles locked on the Indonesian Air Force’s F-16 fighters who were scrambled in order to intercept the intruders. The navy possesses 20 ex-Australian Army/Coastwatch Nomad Searchmasters maintained through Australian military assistance aid and an air force maritime patrol squadron equipped with three Boeing 737200s, Two C-130H-MPs, and four HU-16s for maritime surveillance. In the course of a conflict, the Boeings and C-130H-MPs could provide barrier coverage of one major approach, like the South China Sea, or intermittent coverage of a number of approaches. The British government has also approved an export licence for six Westland Super Lynx antisurface/anti-submarine helicopters to replace the Wasps presently deployed on the navy’s six Achmad Yani class (Van Speijk) frigates. The navy’s original plans to acquire two Mi-171 utility helicopters and eight Mi-2 light transport helicopters have been thwarted with priority being given to the army who managed to acquire in August 2003 two Mil Mi-36P assault helicopters. With respect to airlift, the air force has two squadrons of C130 Hercules aircraft, with 12 aircraft to a squadron. One squadron consists of 12 C-130 Hs, the latest model. The other squadron is made up of 12 C130Bs purchased in the 1960s and nearing the end of their usefulness. Both squadrons are barely operable due to a combination of shortages of parts owing to the U.S. embargo on weapons sales to Indonesia and prolonged deterioration due to the age of the aircraft. To put the TNI woes into perspective, a more graphic overall statistic was illustrated by Air Force Marshall Chappy Hakim who told a parliamentary hearing in 2002 that only 93 of the 222 aircraft in the service of the air force were operational.102 One way out of this problem could be for both the air force and the navy to work with ministries having comparable mutual interests. Such cooperation would have twofold benefits, assisting the ministry concerned to better fulfill its mandate with the sweetener being the relevant ministry’s investment in augmenting the capabilities of these services. The Ministry of Fisheries and Maritime Affairs, the Customs services, the Ministry of Communications and Information particularly its maritime communications section and the Transportation Ministry are institutions that would reap benefits by investing in acquisition programmes that would increase the number of platforms available to the air force and navy in terms of coastal radar assets and patrol boats.103 While the territorial structure remained a central feature of all Indonesian military planning during the Suharto era, by the late-1980s it

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no longer guided development. The changes in force structure and weapons acquisition programmes of the past decade and a half have laid the foundation for the change in orientation sought after in Renstra III, IV and V (1993–97). In addition to a counterinsurgency capability and an unprecedented development of territorial control structures, the Indonesian armed forces was in the process of developing a comprehensive, if far from complete, conventional war capacity. During the large-scale reorganization of the armed forces in 1985, General Murdani made the rationale for these changes quite clear. The historic task of the Indonesian armed forces, he maintained, had changed. Its task now was to protect the “fruits of development”, a shift with very important implications. As one observer put it: This means that the TNI must be capable of guarding and securing the numerous and costly “assets” of the country. They must be capable to securing for example, the LNG projects at Arun and Bontang, as well as protecting the maritime wealth of eastern Indonesia from foreign ships.104 A prime example of such a policy is the deployment of expensive surface-to-air missile systems around industrial centres in Jakarta and elsewhere as previously mentioned. Similarly, the acquisition of F-16 fighter aircraft, amongst the most advanced in the world, indicated that external considerations were slowly gaining importance in the minds of defence planners. The choice of the F-16 over the more cost-effective F20 or upgraded F-5 was perceived as inappropriate for a nation with no serious external threat over the short to medium term, and facing severe budgetary constraints. Vietnam, with advanced MiG-23 fighters, was relatively distant from all parts of Indonesia, with the exception of the Natuna Islands. In any case, relations between the two countries were comparatively good, with limited bases for conflict in the near future, other than the Natunas. The real reason for choosing the F-16, conceivably was because two neighbouring ASEAN countries, Thailand and Singapore, had acquired them, and so Indonesia had to do so for reasons related to national prestige than military necessity. There was also the argument that Indonesia needs to keep abreast with the latest technology (Crouch 1990, p. 384). Whatever the merits of this line of criticism, the new acquisitions bore three extremely important implications for future Indonesian military policy. The first was that to service and support such complex technology, the military would require a much higher level of technical training for combat crews, pilots and ground staff first tested in 1981 during Operation Ganesha, and that such programmes will have to expand still further. Invariably, the

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ratio of combat to support staff would change further in the air force and navy.105 The second consequence was a familiar one in the recent history of all militaries acquiring advanced weaponry. Once a state embarks on a policy of commitment to technically advanced weapons systems justified by reference to potential external enemies armed with comparable systems, it is extremely difficult to avoid the follow-on process, namely, a step by step escalation of systems acquisition. The F-16s will no doubt, in a decade or less, come to be seen as inferior in performance to those aircraft held by Australia, Malaysia or Singapore — and their replacement would be more complex and expensive still. Equally, the military logic that views Indonesian defence needs through the prism of high technology deficiencies in one area (strike aircraft; air defence, and so on) would inevitably turn its gaze in other directions, requiring new “gaps” to be plugged with comparably expensive and complex equipment. Such demands for more equipment would presumably not always be met by those deciding the allocation of scarce state resources — but the important point was that an autonomous technical structure of demand has been established. Several of Jakarta’s major arms purchases in recent years appear to confirm that the long-standing inward or internal security focus of the TNI was being augmented by an increasingly external orientation in defence posture.106 F-16 fighters, Van Speijk frigates, Type 209 (Cakra) submarines and Harpoon or Exocet missiles and for that matter the recently acquired Sukhoi fighters are hardly the most likely weapons for containing internal political unrest. And certainly they would be consistent with a move to develop a more outward looking defence posture. Added to this, public sources suggest that Jakarta was considering a number of other advanced weapons procurement and upgrading programmes. Among the options said to be under consideration before the onset of the economic crises or recently purchased are:107 Naval equipment • Up to 23 locally-built FSG-90 light frigates (for which tenders were called in 1989). • 39 second-hand warships from Germany, formerly used by East Germany. Of these 16 are armed corvettes of the “Parchim Class”. Others include 9 “Kondor II Class” minesweepers, 12 “Frosch I Class” LSTs and 2 “Frosch II Class” support ships.

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• 2 more German-built IKL-designed Type 209 diesel-electric submarines. • 4 locally constructed PB-57 patrol craft. • Upgrading of combat systems on 3 of the 6 “Ahmad Yani Class” frigates. • Possibly 2 Dutch Moray-class and 2 Zwaardvis submarines. • 4 second-hand twin-turboprop Fokker 50 maritime patrol aircraft for the Navy. • A Dutch radar system for the Indonesian Navy. • 4 Todak-class PB-57 patrol boats. • Additional ASW/maritime patrol aircraft — probably the locally-built CN-235 maritime patrol aircraft. • 2 type 1300 submarines from South Korea due in 2008. • 2 Sigma-type 1,700-ton missile corvettes from Dutch shipyard Royal Schelde supplied with the integrated platform management system (IPMS), integrated bridge systems and electrical installations from Imtech Marine & Offshore (Rotterdam). Corvettes to be fitted with MM49 Exocet anti-ship missiles and a 76mm Oto Melara main gun. • New engines for three Frosch-class landing ships, KRI Teluk Manado, KRI Teluk Hading and KRI Teluk Cirebon and a submarine, KRI Cakra from South Korea’s Daewoo International Corporation. • South Korea’s Daewoo Shipbuilding & Marine Engineering to overhaul and upgrade one of the two Cakra Type 209 (1300)-class diesel-electric submarines. • Poland to possibly supply Maritime Patrol Aircraft - PZL M28.05 Skytruck with MSC-400 radar. Army-related equipment • Sufficient numbers of the Royal Ordanance 155mm gun. • 50 Alvis “Scorpions” — 30 Scorpion light tanks and 20 of the Stormer variant. • 70 French-built armoured personnel carriers. • Tracked Daewoo K-200A1 Infantry Fighting Vehicles and several hundred transport trucks through a barter deal involving IPTN aircraft. • 105 mm light guns from the United Kingdom. • RPG-7 rocket propelled grenade launchers. • US$113 million contract to Singapore Technologies Kinetics to renovate some or all of the Army’s AMX-13 light tanks to AMX-13SM1 standard. • Locally-designed light armoured vehicle designated APR-1 with PT Pindad expected to manufacture up to 100 platforms.

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• 10,000 Kalashnikov rifles plus a dozen amphibious armoured personnel carriers for the Marine Corps from Russia. Airforce equipment • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • •



• •

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Upgrading 12 F-5E/F Tiger II fighters by the Belgian Company SABCA. 4 E-2C Hawkeye surveillance aircraft. Up to 130 more (locally built) Bell 412 helicopters. Additional Rapier air defence missile systems. 28 F-16 Fighting Falcons. 7 South Korea KT-1B Woong-Bee flight trainer aircraft with another 13 aircraft under consideration pending negotiations. Singapore donation of 19 Aermacchi (SIAI-Marchetti) SF trainer aircraft. 32 Ukraine made BTR-80A Light reconnaissance aircraft. New Combat systems for the recently purchased frigates and fast patrol boats. 24 British Aerospace Hawks. 8 Mk 109 and 16 Mk 209 to replace the ageing A-4 Skyhawks. 5 ex-Australian ASTA (GAF) Nomads. MANPADS in the Starburst, Mistral or Stinger category to supplement the RBS-70s. 5 Socata Tampico four-seat light aircraft together with a simulator. British Aerospace Rapier 2000 or Jernas and the Raytheon/Hughes/ Konsberg Amraam/Hawk Phase III hybrid system. 4 batteries of “Giant Bow” anti-aircraft guns from China. 2 Sukhoi Su-27SK air superiority fighter and 2 Su-30KI strike fighters with another 44 aircraft by 2007 to form four Su-27 and Su-30 squadrons and 8 Mi-2 and 2 Mi-17 helicopters (for Army Aviation Command in based in Semarang) from the Russian Federation. Eight Sukhois to be purchased by the end of 2004 to make up the first squadron of jet fighters. Upgrades to its ADGE (Air Defence Ground Environment)3-D air transportable long-range TRD-1235 radar with SOC-2001 sector control system for new radars at Ambon (Ceram), Timika (Papua) and Saumlaki (Tanimbar). Filling coverage of gaps with CNPEP Radwar’s N-22 lowlevel surveillance radar and PIT’s medium-range TRS-15 Odra 3-D radar from Poland S-300 (SA-10 GRUMBLE) theatre high altitude area defence (THAAD) surface-to-air systems and Tor-M1 from Russian Federation Su-27/30 ALAMO-ARCHER-KRYPTON-KINGBOLT weapons systems from the Russian Federation

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• A 122m landing dock platform from South Korea’s Dae Sun Shipbuilding & Engineering with the possible addition of a further four to six LPD depending on negotiations • Riau province had agreed to purchase patrol craft for the Navy built by PT Pelindo in Tanjungpinang • BTR-60 APCs and Mi-35 helicopters from Libya • Missile development programme based on a July 2005 bilateral memorandum of understanding on defence technology cooperation between Indonesia and China which may include “a 15 to 30 km range system … either a medium-range surface-to-air missile or short-range anti-ship missile”. Notwithstanding enthusiastic speculation about possible arms procurement deals by military magazines in the mid-1990s, Indonesia then or now is in no position to fundamentally reorientate its defence posture drastically or to engage in a mini-regional arms race. In fact, the boosting of naval and air capabilities corresponds to the requirements in Phase One of the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare where Indonesia aims to defeat the invader’s forces at sea through the use of naval and air power. Over and above that, resource constraints make it extremely unlikely that Indonesia will for sometime be making large-scale investments in costly high-tech weapons systems. More fundamentally, there seems little doubt that Indonesia still remains preoccupied with internal security. The first operational priority of the Indonesian military continues to be the ability to respond swiftly and effectively to internal disturbances anywhere in the archipelago. As defence planners in Jakarta are at pains to point out in private conversation, notwithstanding the real progress that has been made with nation-building over the last five decades, the country’s national integrity cannot be taken for granted. Particularly in the eastern half of Indonesia, real problems remain to be overcome. This refers not simply to the loss of East Timor and conspicuous difficulties in Papua and Maluku, but more generally to the fact that the level of economic development in eastern Indonesia remains well behind that of the western half of the country. The economic disparity, together with the existence of distinctive cultural minorities in eastern Indonesia, is a source of continuing concern in Jakarta. For the most part, attention has centred on social and economic “engineering” measures, but inevitably this is also something which commands the active attention of security planners. For the time being, with social conflict and separatism an ever-present reality, acquisitions to facilitate better and quicker movement of troops throughout

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the archipelago will receive greater priority. Similarly, the need to monitor smuggling be it illegal movements of people, small arms and narcotics, coupled with the illegal exploitation of maritime resources will require better capabilities in the area of surveillance — meaning more purchases of maritime patrol aircraft if and when the funding crunch abates.108 Indonesia does of course take a keen interest in strategic developments within its immediate environment as well as the broader Asia-Pacific region. But the view from Jakarta continues to be that Southeast Asia’s security environment is basically benign. At present, Indonesia does not perceive any significant external threats to its security arising from within the immediate region; neither does it seem to base its weapons procurement planning on developments elsewhere in the region. Not even the reduction of the U.S. presence in the Philippines was regarded with major concern in Jakarta.109 The one foreseeable contingency on the strategic horizon, which does appear to be of major concern to Indonesia’s defence policy community, is the sharp deterioration of Indonesia’s relations with Australia and the rise of China as a regional Great Power (though growing rapprochement with China during the Wahid era which continued during the Megawati presidency is ameliorating perceptions). This is not something which has yet impacted upon defence planning though due to poor economic conditions in Indonesia. In short, the point to be made here is that external security concerns are not a major variable in current Indonesian defence planning. This does not, of course, mean that Jakarta is complacent or disinterested in regional developments, but simply that the external environment is less challenging than the domestic one. PROBLEMS IN FORCE MODERNIZATION The argument made so far is that investments by Indonesia in higher technology naval and air capabilities do not at this stage constitute a shift in the country’s basic defence posture or reflect the outcome of any unspoken regional competition in weapons procurement. Recent air and naval weapons purchases are an attempt to maintain some minimum maritime capabilities at the same time as developing a level of technological competence. Attention will now be turned to a consideration of the mediumterm future. Essentially, the question is: will this pattern continue? The fundamental point to note here is that funding for the Indonesian armed forces was becoming increasingly tight even before the onset of the economic crisis in 1997. Indeed the bulk of arms purchased overseas has

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depended on military aid, for example, with respect to U.S. military aid to the ASEAN region in the period 1979–81 amounting to approximately half a billion U.S. dollars, close to 28 per cent was allocated to Indonesia (Soesastro 1994, p. 37). In this situation, finding budgetary resources to invest in high-cost weapons systems will be, to say the least, problematic. An additional factor to be noted here is that despite its prominent role in political life the Indonesian military has had surprisingly little voice in the budgetary process. Spending priorities during the Suharto era were shaped by economists in the Ministry of Finance and Bappenas who were primarily concerned with socially productive investment of resources and, were supported by Suharto in this matter. Such perspectives were born out by an econometric study done by Frederiksen on the relationship between military expenditure and economic growth in Indonesia. He was to conclude from his findings that current military expenditure was significantly influenced by the previous year’s military expenditure, thus intimating that the budgetary decision-making process was the key determining factor relating to the level of defence expenditure. He also contended that a cumulative relationship existed between economic growth and military expenditure — economic growth causes military expenditure to grow which in turn stimulates economic growth (Frederiksen 1989). The inability of the military to win a larger share of the budgetary resources continues to plague the armed forces. As far back as 1994 then minister of defence, General Edi Sudrajat went on record to say that his ministry did not get the allocation in the government’s spending plan for the 1994–95 fiscal year that it needed to replace some of its aging weapons.110 Here again, the commitment to ketahanan nasional required spending in other sectors to reflect the Suharto’s thinking as opposed to those in the Defence Ministry or the TNI who concentrate on conventional options. Similar problems continue to occur. With the defence budget ruined by the economic collapse of 1997 and 1998, hopes were high that the moderate economic recovery buoyed by the election of a new democratic government would bring about much needed budgetary increases. Such hopes were dashed when the state budget was announced on 20 January 2000. Only 5.8 trillion rupiah (US$828 million) was allocated for the military subsector out of 183 trillion rupiah ($US26 billion). Indonesia’s 1999–2000 military budget was 11.6 trillion rupiah, when the previous fiscal year ran from 1 April to 31 March. Such cuts, while realistic, seemingly went against the government’s declared policy, particularly as President Wahid vowed soon after he was elected in October that he would ensure Indonesia possessed a strong navy in order to protect its territorial

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waters. Likewise, Wahid’s defence minister Juwono Sudarsono, in late 1999, spoke about his plea to parliament to approve a 18.9 trillion rupiah budget increase for the military in order for it to become a truly professional force. This would have amounted to a 63 per cent increase in the armed forces budget. Up to 2003, the TNI was still operating on a shoestring budget worth 9 trillion rupiah (US$900 million) which barely covered 30 per cent of its annual needs. Current defence spending amounts to a mere 0.94 per cent of its gross domestic product. The Megawati administration asked the DPR for a 100 per cent increase in defence and security spending amounting to 10.5 trillion rupiah for the fiscal year 2004 with 7.67 trillion rupiah going to the defence sector and the remainder used to enhance international cooperation in combating terrorism, improving the effectiveness of the police force, and supporting government initiatives to restore order in conflict zones.111 Defence spending is set to increase with the outgoing Megawati administration pledging a 2.8 per cent increase in the budget from the 2004 budget with 21.37 trillion rupiah allocated for defence in 2005.112 Such increases, while welcome, are a drop in the bucket considering the welfare needs of TNI troops and the antiquated nature of its weapons systems. Assuming that defence spending increases marginally over the next few years (something considered most unlikely considering the state of the economy) there are three conspicious factors limiting the scope for purchasing new weapons systems. The first centres on salary levels within the armed forces. There is growing disquiet in defence policy circles in Indonesia over military incomes. (This problem in fact applies to the civilian bureaucracy as well.) For several years now, there have been calls from the Indonesian parliament for increased defence spending to overcome this problem. For the present purposes, the significance of concern about salary levels is that it may lead to the routine budget being expanded at the expense of the development budget. At present, routine spending is in the region of 2.62 trillion rupiah while development spending is approximately 705 billion rupiah.113 If this continues, the pool of resources from which arms purchases are funded would be reduced. To some extent, this is already happening, with the Dephan apparently having to dip into the development budget for various informal purposes. More generally, stories of budgetary shortfalls within the armed forces and of officers having to find nonofficial supplementary sources of funding seem to be becoming more common again.111 In a sense, the declared defence budget would account for merely 25 per cent of true defence spending. To make up the short

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fall, the military derives income from military cooperatives, foundations and stock purchases, and from corrupt practices at the institutional and individual level (to be discussed in Chapter 4). The second consideration here pertains more directly to weapons systems. Precisely because Indonesia’s existing array of armaments is uneven and of diverse origins, the task of maintenance and parts procurement becomes costly (see Preston 1991, p. 44). The burden of servicing four different types of frigates, for example, must be considerable. Lack of technological commonality imposes very high logistical costs, which in turn means a smaller slice of the budgetary pie can be made available for purchasing new weapons. There is a Catch-22 dimension to this situation, for in order to achieve greater technological commonality, Indonesia needs to phase out some of its existing weapons systems and seek to standardize by purchasing fewer weapons types in greater numbers. But of course, larger purchases orders are dependent upon greater funding flexibility. The third consideration revolves around the contentious role of defence contractors used by the government in the procurement process. The prevailing policy is based on a presidential decree dating back to the 1970s which required all government ministries to use contractors to procure their needs. This policy makes nearly all government procurements susceptible to exorbitant mark-ups by contractors resulting in corruption and inefficiency. During the New Order era, most of the lucrative defence contracts went to businesses owned by Suharto’s children and cronies. However, while changes have taken place in the political arena, the corruption-laden government procurement system still persists. In such a situation, with accountability for procurement being weak, the Dephan and the TNI often ended up with equipment they did not need or could not maintain. A suggestion to overcome such problems would be an independent body at Dephan, directly responsible to the president,115 to conduct all its procurements. Tight financial constraints mean that the scope for substantial investment in new weapons systems in Indonesia is likely to be quite limited for the foreseeable future. The difficulty for Indonesia, however, is that a number of its existing second-hand weapons systems are now aging and will require replacement before long. For example, the three Tribal class frigates are now 27–30 years old, the six Van Speijk class frigates are now 23–28 years old, and a number of Hercules C-130 are approaching 30 years of service. (A stark reminder of the problems associated with aging equipment took place in October 1991 when a Hercules C-130 crashed, resulting in

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the loss of 133 special air force troops or in 1999 when the TNI were unable to effectively move troops or humanitarian aid quickly to regions plagued with ethnic conflict.) Aaron Karp predicted that this is a problem which will be faced by most Southeast Asian defence forces (Karp 1990), He suggested that during the 1990s, Indonesia along with a number of countries in the region will increasingly be confronted with an unavoidable trade-off between quantity and quality of arms unless they are prepared to increase their level of defence spending considerably. This was because the cost of replacing old technology with new high performance weapons systems would be prohibitive. Karp drew attention to three possible ways out of this quandary. The first two are, in a sense, “supply side” approaches. One option is that Indonesia could forgo hopes of acquiring “state-of-the-art” technology and once again settle for older second-hand equipment. The second possibility is that greater emphasis could be placed upon domestic production of arms requirements via local defence industries. The third possibility suggested by Karp is more of a “demand side” approach: if Indonesia and other countries in the region were to work towards the development of innovative confidence-building measures especially in the area of transparency, then the need for investment in costly high performance weapons systems would be considerably reduced. In order to determine whether any of these courses of action offer Indonesia a way of cutting through the funding quandary associated with force modernization, consideration will be given initially to the first two approaches with the third suggestion highlighted in the concluding paragraph and subsequently in Chapter 5. ALTERNATIVE WEAPONS PROCUREMENT METHODS The first suggested solution — reverting to second-hand rather than stateof-the-art equipment — is in fact nothing new for Indonesia. While nonetheless useful, the earlier stylized periodization of defence procurement needs to be adjusted a little to clearly reflect important continuities in the Indonesian case. There was no marked swing from second-hand to brandnew equipment in Indonesia during the 1980s. Certainly, there were a number of notable high-performance weapons systems purchased directly from manufacturers during the 1980s, but Jakarta continued to buy secondhand equipment as well. This trend continues into the 1990s with the purchase of 39 second-hand warships of the former East German Navy. While there is no doubt scope for greater reliance upon second-hand

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equipment if need be, it should be recognized that this is a policy option which has long been used in Indonesia. Domestic Defence Industries Local production of armaments — Karp’s second approach — is also not a new or untried option for Indonesia either. Indeed, along with Singapore, Indonesia has one of the most developed local defence industries in the Southeast Asia region. But at least as far as armaments production is concerned, this says more about the lack of local defence industry in Southeast Asia than it does about the size of Indonesian production activities. Indonesia’s strategic industries were previously organized under a government agency — Badan Pengelola Industri Strategis (BPIS) which oversaw ten enterprises. Indonesia has four strategic industries which operate in defence or defence-related areas: PT Dirgantara Indonesia (Indonesian Aerospace) previously known as IPTN or Industri Pesawat Terbang Nusantara (aircraft), PAL (shipbuilding), Perum Dahana (explosives) and Pindad (small arms and munitions). Of the four, PT Dirgantara Indonesia is by far the largest operation. The aerospace industry has manufactured helicopters under licence from France (NAS 330/332), Germany (NBO-105) and the United States (BELL-412). It has also manufactured the light fixed wing NC-212 aircraft under licence from CASA in Spain. However, without doubt its most celebrated achievement has been the co-design and production of the multi-purpose CN-235 commuter aircraft.116 The PAL shipyard which services Indonesian naval vessels has produced 28 metre and 57 metre fast patrol boats as well under licence from (respectively) Germany, Belgium and the United States. The munitions company Pindad produces ammunition, mortar and artillery shells as well as producing the FNC rifle under licence from Belgium. Perum Dhana is limited to manufacturing various forms of explosives. In terms of local technological and industrial progress, these are all significant achievements. However, in terms of providing the Indonesian armed forces with a way out of the heavy financial burden of arms procurement, the contribution of local industries is more modest. First, it should be noted that none of these industries produces solely for the armed forces, and much of their output is consumed by the civilian economy. Second, with the exception of munitions and the CN-235 aircraft which are designed and produced (or co-produced) locally, Indonesia’s defence industries manufacture under licence and must therefore still purchase

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designs and technology from overseas. Before the onset of the economic crisis, PAL, the ship industry, was hoping to upgrade its activities in the future by designing and producing up to twenty-three 2,500 ton frigates as well as 600 ton mine-hunters.117 Although such an objective was not inconceivable then, PAL would still have needed to invest heavily in its engineering and technical staff and facilities before it would be able to undertake operations of this sort. The strategic industries for so long cosseted under the patronage of B.J. Habibie were compromised significantly by his political demise. Under his influence, the strategic industries enjoyed favourable financing, and significant long-term sales to the government were virtually guaranteed under the five-year development plans. Enjoying presidential patronage, issues pertaining to quality or competitiveness of such industries were rarely articulated openly and seemingly not a point of contention in relation to public sector contracts including those with the armed forces. Jakarta also subsidized research and development activities. By 1997, the severe economic downturn had a dire effect on the strategic industries which has yet to recover. Finally, notwithstanding the strategic advantage gained from local armaments production through reduced dependence on foreign suppliers, the Indonesian armed forces have at times viewed some of the local defence industries as a “mixed blessing”. It is generally recognized that defence planners have not always been enthusiastic about purchasing some of the big-ticket items produced locally, and have in fact been required to do so to support the development of local industries. The author’s interviews in Indonesia indicate that while the TNI is satisfied with locally produced small arms and munitions, it remains dissatisfied with the patrol boats and aircraft, which it feels are not up to its specifications and of questionable quality.118 In sum, although Indonesia has made some progress with the development of local defence-related industries, they do not yet offer major cost savings. Notwithstanding any other benefits they may offer, they do not yet offer Indonesia a way out of the problem of weapons modernization. Counter-trade deals Apart from the two options suggested by Karp, a third option and one increasing favoured by the Indonesian government is the use of countertrade deals for the purpose of weapons procurement. During President

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Megawati’s official visit to Russia in April 2002, she concluded a purchase contract for four Sukhoi jet fighters and two Mill type Mi-35P helicopters witnessed by State Logistics (Food Procurement) Board (Bulog, Badan Urusan Logistik) chief Widjanarko Puspoyo and Panglima TNI General Endriartono Sutarto worth US$171 million and US$21.9 million respectively. The downpayment of US$26 million to be paid to Rosoboronexport, the Sukhoi agent in Russia, was done through bridging public reserve funds borrowed from Bulog. The rest of the cost would be covered through a list of thirty commodities, which includes crude palm oil, coffee, chocolate, rubber, textiles, bauxite, computer equipment and boots. A second example was a US$143.4 million counter-trade programme between Indonesia and South Korea involving the delivery of a pair of CN-235 multi-role transport aircraft in December 2001 in exchange for 600 military trucks delivered to Indonesia in 1999. These deals though are often fraught with controversy. Owing to suspicion over irregular procedures adopted in the purchase of military equipment from Russia, the House of Representatives have formed a Working Committee in April 2003 to investigate allegations that the purchases violated a number of regulations and the use of funds were not approved by law. Legislators also claimed that they had discovered markups in the cost of four MI-17 helicopters ordered by the TNI. According to the legislators, these helicopters should have been valued at US$17.6 million, whereas the TNI had received US$21 million to make the purchases. The scandal grew more complicated when Russia delayed delivery of the helicopters because the $US3.24 million downpayment disbursed by the Ministry of Finance to the Defence Ministry had seemingly gone missing while in TNI hands.119 Another problem behind the delay was that the Army’s partner, the Singapore-based Swift Air and Industrial Supply Pte Ltd, Singapore “gave false bank guarantees”.120 Essentially from the outset, this particular deal was ridden with a host of irregularities as this Tempo summary indicates: • Violation of Law No. 3/2002 on Defence. The contract should have been signed by Defence Minister, not the Head of Bulog. • Violation of Law on State Budget because there was no official request to the DPR for approval of the financing plan out of the State Budget. • Bypassing budget order. Prior to contract signing, the plan to finance the Sukhoi purchase was not proposed to the Finance Minister.

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• Causing Bank Bukopin to exceed the maximum lending limit and capital adequacy ratio in providing advance funds (if not guaranteed by the State Budget). • Breaking the TNI’s equipment provision procedure. The Sukhoi purchase is not mentioned in the allocation proposal for TNI Export Credit for fiscal year 2004, in the amount of Rp 5 trillion.121

Over and above the crookedness apparent in the deal, the seemingly haphazard logic evident in the decision to purchase such weapons left little to the imagination. Writing in the Jakarta Post, Djoko Susilo, a member of Commission I responsible for defence and foreign affairs lamented at the lack of logic behind the deals, stating that Sukhoi purchases were reminiscent of the costly mistakes made in the purchase of the East German fleet under the Suharto administration.122 In 1994, the government had argued that the East German weapons purchases were cheap, without realizing that the refurbishment of these ships would be substantial. Likewise, with the Sukhoi deal, the initial outlay by the government of US$43 million was, on the surface, a bargain. Yet, such cut-price deals were not without shortcomings. The government would have to pay for further upgrades and sophisticated weapons systems, unlike for example, the Sukhoi package offered to Malaysia, which encompassed upgrades and sophisticated weapons including missiles. Furthermore, the current air defence system uses Thomson radars and these would have to be modified as they are unable to identify the Sukhoi fighters as Indonesian air force aircraft. Such modifications would cost a further US$70 million. Maintaining the Sukhoi would also be expensive. The aircraft would have to be grounded for maintenance and overhaul after 1,000 flying hours. Furthermore, after 5,000 flying hours, the engine had to be replaced. Another strange aspect of the deal is related to engine maintenance.123 As the most expensive component of a fighter jet, an additional cost to be borne by the government would be freight charges as the Sukhoi engines would have to be transported back to Moscow for maintenance. Why the government did not press their Russian counterparts to allow the Sukhoi engines to undergo maintenance in facilities nearer to Indonesia like China or India remains a mystery. By the end of 2004, another controversy was brewing, this time over irregularities in the procurement of 100 Scorpion light tanks from British tank manufacturer Alvis Vehicle Ltd with allegations that the Army priced each tank at US$2.5 million. By contrast, the market value for similar tanks during the same period was US$1 million per tank. Indonesia’s

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Corruption Watch provided the following list, giving the impression that the irregularities witnessed in both the Sukhoi and Scorpion tanks cases were preceeded by other questionable purchases: 1994 39 used ships from Germany US$1.1 billion (the actual market price is $12 million) 1994 25 amphibious tanks $2 million (the actual market price is $500,000) 1995 40 British-Hawk 100/200 $30 million (the actual market price is about $8 million) 1996 18 French-made VAB armor $1.7 million (the actual market price is about $1 million) 1996 A U.S.-made Hercules C-130 $15 million (the actual market price is only $14.1 million) 2001 14,000 Russian AK-47 rifles $360 million (the actual market price is about $300 million 2002 48 MP-5 SD assault rifles $158.40 million (the procurement held without a proper bidding) 2002 Four Russian-made Sukhoi The procurement was not done properly, raising speculation that markups were rampant 2002 Two Russian-made Mi-17 The choppers have yet to arrive here after the contractor, PT Putra Pobiagan Mandiri, failed to pay $3.2 million in downpayment to Roboronexport, the manufacturer in Russia.124

These revelations have embarrassed the TNI and spurred Yudhoyono’s Defence Minister Juwono Sudarsono to stress that he would make “the redefinition of authority between the Ministry of Defence and the TNI Headquarters in accordance with Law No. 34/2004” and the establishment of “good governance in the defence ministry by imposing transparency, accountability and efficiency, especially on the acquisition of defence equipment by each force” a priority. These aspirations are part of the Defence Ministry’s agenda as it strives to fulfill President Yudhoyono call for all government ministries to set an agenda for implementation within the first 100 days of his administration. As a first step, Sudarsono intended to identify all the suppliers and contractors used by the military before embarking on investigations into allegations of mark-ups in the

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purchase of military equipment in the past.125 This will be followed up by a new system of arms procurement initiated at the beginning of 2005 where each armed service is no longer allowed to purchase arms on their own accord and make direct deals with suppliers. A “one gate” policy will mean that the defence ministry will have the sole responsibility for arms procurement. Based on Ministerial Regulation No. 420/2004, the defence minister is now authorized to “buy arms directly from foreign suppliers through a government-to-government agreement”. Dephan will also select contractors through an open tender and based on the regulation, the ministry can now “directly obtain export credit” to cover purchases.126

STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: REFLECTIONS The Seskoad strategists in the 1960s postulated that: The Doctrine of Territorial Warfare can be made the defence doctrine of Indonesia both for the present and for the future. Even though progress in the technological field has reached an optimum level, this doctrine will remain in effect in view of the fact that the waging of war with modern methods and equipment is included in the concept of Territorial Warfare (Pauker 1963, p. 57).

Over and above this, General Sutrisno, then armed forces commander, had gone on record to state that the end of the Cold War has not invalidated the Total People’s Defence doctrine, as it was not designed with any particular situation in mind127 and General Murdani reaffirmed in January 1992 that the Total People’s Defence policy would be retained.128 As discussed in the course of this chapter, the basic Indonesian defence policy of Total People’s Defence System has always been posited on the participation of the people in active support of a military force. In the event of invasion, the defence forces could move from a stance of direct, conventional military resistance in the face of a technically superior invading force, to one of guerilla war on prepared ground. This will guide doctrinal planning when security planners adopt a Sishanta doctrine in the future. Such a doctrine will incorporate the main tenets of the guerilla warfare system evident in the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare and combine it with the type of total defence doctrine adopted by countries like Singapore.129 Leaving aside the question of the political relationship between the Indonesian state and the Indonesian people which is based on democratic

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norms and no longer dictated by the logic of a national security state, would the policy of capital and technology-intensive externally oriented military forces slowly erode support amongst the military for the policy of Total People’s Defence? Could the old defence posture either be abandoned or eroded to a shell of rhetoric? To be sure, there are some states that have pursued policies of total defence (Sweden, Switzerland and Singapore) which have integrated capital-intensive and popularlysupported non-military forms of defence, but they are so far relatively few. Most importantly, there are no examples of such a system where the military concerned came from a tradition where it enjoyed a dominant political role. (This subject will be further discussed in Chapter 4 when assessing territorial management). Encouragingly, if the TNI’s New Paradigm is to be taken at face value, then a Sishanta minus the political dimension, similar to the Singapore model, is now a distinct possibility. One thing is for certain, TNI still does not possess the resources (weapons, surveillance systems and so on) to effectively deter a largescale invading force and, therefore, is incapable of effectively prosecuting Phase One of a Territorial War,130 though it could prevail against a smaller force. Hence, defence planning would still be focused on gaining a successful outcome in Phase Two. Nevertheless, an important characteristic in defence planning is the apparent utilization of a “mixed strategy” in defence planning, that is, the maintainance of the the Total People’s Defence System plus the acquisition of a conventional capability on an incremental basis. Here, Indonesia at least during the Murdani era seemed to be moving toward models adopted by Switzerland and Sweden, namely, territorial defence which involves some element of reliance on “frontal defence”.131 Frontal defence in this context, refers to “actions at state frontiers, or along clearly defined military fronts, whether they be static or mobile, thin or deep”.132 In the Indonesian context, under current circumstances, territorial defence, although involving major reliance on guerilla warfare is by no means confined to it. Territorial defence may include forms of air and naval action not normally associated with guerilla warfare, and it may also include conventional action by regular forces. Conventional military action might be undertaken at the beginning of a struggle, in an attempt at frontal defence; it might be used at later stages in a struggle, after an enemy’s main units had become involved elsewhere or had been dispersed, weakened or demoralized by constant guerilla attacks. In all these cases, guerilla resistance could complement and support regular action, distracting the occupier’s attention and sapping his strength.

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Guerilla action can be an effective diversion during regular action, and also an essential prelude to it. While defence in depth continues to be heavily emphasized, there was if anything a slight shift away from the degree of emphasis on territorial defence which had been implicit in the Murdani reorganization towards defence at or beyond frontiers. The increasing importance of the sea, not just as a neutral medium of communications, but also as a resource for exploitation, suggests that in future some wars might be fought far from land and far from all centres of habitation. The creation of potential to meet conventional security concerns by gradually strengthening the navy with greater air support and amphibious capabilities, plus quick reaction forces, are a consequence of four contingencies: border conflicts; maritime conflict over contested seas and islands; enemy air attacks against remote Indonesian outposts; and intermittent probes against Indonesian territory by hostile land or naval forces.133 In an attempt to address such defence contingencies, the armed forces staged a combined forces exercise reputed to be the biggest in its history in the South China Sea in September 1994. Although territorial defence can clearly involve or be combined with some forms of deterrence against external aggression, it cannot — any more than any other forms of deterrence — provide a perfect guarantee. Hence, to offset these shortcomings, General Murdani had stressed the need to develop what he called stabilitas berlapis or layered stability.131 This concept is essentially a broadening of the national resilience concept to include regional and global security regimes as a second and third layer of defence in Indonesia. This strategy was the conceptual building block of Renstra V.135 The idea of a “layered” defence strategy within the context of national security planning in Indonesia is not something novel. The preponderance of national security concerns in Indonesia’s approach to regional security has been highlighted in an implicit adherence to a “concentric circles” approach as emphasized by a Foreign Ministry official quoted by Gordon Hein: Indonesia views international relations in terms of concentric circles, beginning with the nation itself — meaning independence, national unity, national security and the national interest — and then extending out to include ASEAN, then the rest of Southeast Asia, and then Asia as a whole and the other developing and other Islamic countries and finally global matters. Our pragmatic approach is such that we always look to safeguard the one before reaching out to the next.136

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As suggested by the above quote, the external dimension of national security begins with certain unchanging principles and highest priority tasks and geographic areas and then proceeds — gradually and as changing capabilities, interests and circumstances allow — to “reach out” to involve greater numbers of issues and countries more geographically distant from Indonesia and of less immediate concern to Indonesia’s basic security and well-being. Utilizing this culturally-rooted Javanese “mandala” approach, namely, the idea that the immediate outer rings (in a series of radiating rings of security) must be secured if the centre (the Indonesian state) was to be secure;137 the “concentric circles” concept was effectively crafted by General (Ret) Benny Murdani, in the 1980s as Indonesia’s grand strategy aimed at creating a cordon sanitaire around the country. According to Murdani: In order to prevent an enemy from easily reaching the regional borders of the country, defence planners conjured up the existence of a “cordon sanitaire” surrounding the territory of the sovereign state. The “cordon sanitaire” mentioned were of several kinds and shapes, beginning with countries which were under foreign domination, up to those linked by regional cooperation in politics or economics; all of them were intended both for security and to obtain a longer reaction time to prepare a counterattack in facing an enemy invasion.138

With these considerations, strategic planning during Murdani’s tenure as armed forces commander saw the development of a three-tiered security zone with ASEAN as a area of vital security interest, followed by the rest of Southeast Asia, including Australia and Papua New Guinea, as the area of prime security interest and anything outside it, especially in West Asia, the Indian Ocean region and the area to the east of the Pacific Ocean, as the area of strategic security interest.139 These ideas had been refined succinctly in the 1995 Defence White Paper: In a geostrategic context, Indonesia’s basic defence and security strategy is one providing for layered security. The deepest layer is domestic security, followed by sub-regional (ASEAN) security, regional (South East Asia) security and security of neighbouring regions, in that order. This strategy is also called defence-in-depth.140

According to doctrine relevant in 1995, in its very essence, this “concentric circles” approach has meant that Indonesian security policy must first

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and foremost serve the nation itself: national unity, national security and the national interest.141 For Indonesia, then, the starting point, the primary concern, the “innermost circle” within the concentric circles approach to external security policy-making, has always been the state itself. And even ahead of the state’s material well-being and development, there is the state’s very existence, its unity and territorial integrity, and its security. These security principles continue till today to guide perceptions on Indonesian national security.142 This approach can be accomplished in two ways. First, through the use of diplomacy and second, in the form of defence cooperation (see Weatherbee 1989, pp. 189–220). With respect to the latter, defence cooperation can take a number of forms. There is intelligence-sharing among and between the ASEAN states; regular association through defence and security official visits and constant contact between military and civilian defence officials and their ASEAN-wide counterparts; ASEAN officers training in each other’s military schools; and the mutual use of facilities (ibid., pp. 207–8). Perhaps the most visible element of growing defence cooperation has been the pattern of ASEAN joint military exercises on a bilateral basis.143 While the concept of “national and regional” resilience has provided ASEAN with a unifying theme, embracing their individual policy responses to security concerns, it has not provided common security against direct aggression. What it has done is to change mindsets, that is, to encourage each ASEAN country not to view their neighbours as security threats. For instance, despite the shrill rhetoric that accompanied the Ambalat crisis of early 2005, it is more common to hear Indonesian strategic planners refer to Malaysia as their strategic frontline as well as buffer rather than a security concern.144 In conclusion, it is important to note that a change in strategy and organization has gone hand-in-hand with a change in external national security concerns: Indonesia is seen as reasonably secure, with the most plausible concern being a limited conventional invasion of part of the country. None of this involves a complete abandonment of the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare, or the Sishankamrata in its military application, or even the use of militia. These concepts are still important in the Indonesian approach to strategy and defence and play an important role in limiting Indonesia’s reliance on the purchases of high-technology weaponry and therefore engaging in an arms buildup. However, there is no longer a doctrinaire tendency to put all Indonesia’s eggs in one basket.145

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Notes 1

2

3

4

5 6

7 8

9

10

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The 1995 White Paper was Indonesia’s first attempt at producing a Defence White Paper. For a brief analysis, see, Leonard C. Sebastian, “Kertas Putih Pertahanan Indonesia membina”, Berita Harian, 28 November 1995. A second, though, less impressive White Paper on Defence and Security was released in May 1997, reflecting generally similar themes. For a critical assessment of this document, see, Bob Lowry, “Indonesia plans for its defence”, Asia-Pacific Defence Reporter, vol. 23, no. 7 (December 97–January 98), pp. 8 & 10. Subsequent White Papers focusing on internal security reflecting critical challenges facing the defence establishment in the aftermath of the collapse of the Suharto regime were published in 2000 and 2003. See Sistem Perencanaan Strategik Pertahanan Keamanan Negara (Sisrenstra Hankamneg), Instruksi Pangab Nomor: INS/02/P/X/1984, Tanggal 17 October 1984 (Jakarta: Mabes ABRI, 1984); Indonesia, Doktrin Pertahanan Keamanan Negara (Jakarta: Departemen Pertahanan Keamanan, 1991). An extended statement of the Sishankamrata is in Lt-Gen Sayidiman Suryohadiprojo, Beberapa Fikiran Tentang Sistem Pertahanan Keamanan Rakyat Semesta (Jakarta: Hankam: Lembaga Pertahanan Nasional, 1976). The Policy of The State Defence and Security of the Republic of Indonesia, p. 17. See Guy J. Pauker, The Indonesian Doctrine of Territorial Warfare and Territorial Management, (Santa Monica: RAND, November 1963). This highly useful, though terribly underutilized document is a translation of Document No. NS 1124-01, Indonesian Army Staff and Command School, March 1962. See also Achmad Yani, “The Doctrine of Revolutionary War (1965)”. A short overview can also be found in Salim Said, Tumbah dan Tumbangannya Dwifungsi: Perkembangan Pemikiran Politik Militer Indonesia 1958–2000, (2002), pp. 44–54. Ibid., p. 16. See Ringkasan Ketetapan Madjelis Permusjawaratan Rakyat Sementara Republik Indonesia No. I dan II/MPRS/1960, (Bandung: MPRS and the Department of Information, 1961), p. 55. See extract of the above Edict No. II, translated in Pauker (1963), p. 206. For the proceedings and results of the seminar, see Karya Wira Jati, No. 1, January 1961. Among the participants were Brigadiers Suharto, Sarbini, and Sudirman; Colonels Suwarto, Sokowati, and Darjatmo; and Lieutenant-Colonel Sutopo Juwono. Achmad Yani, “Territorial Warfare Indoctrination within the Framework of the Development of the Armed Forces”. in Pauker (1963), p. 244. Most officers present understood these words to be an unkind reference to Sukarno’s desertion in 1948. For Nasution’s plans, see his Fundamentals of Guerrilla Warfare (1965), passim.

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12

13 14

15 16

17

18 19

20 21 22

23 24 25

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The reader of The Doctrine of Territorial Warfare will be immediately reminded of Mao’s formulation, in his famous May–June 1938 lectures, of “The Three Stages of the Protracted War”: “The first stage is one of the enemy’s strategic offensive and our strategic defensive. The second stage is one of the enemy’s strategic defensive and our preparation for the counteroffensive. The third stage is one of our strategic counteroffensive and the enemy’s strategic retreat”. See Mao Tse-tung, “On the Protracted War”, in Selected Works, Vol. II (Bombay: People’s Pubishing House Ltd, 1954), pp. 183–84. The same idea is tersely expressed by the former Commander-inChief of the Vietnam People’s Army and Minister of Defence of Vietnam, General Vo Nguyen Giap, who incidentally does not cite Mao: “The general law of a long revolutionary war is usually to go through three stages: defensive, equilibrium and offensive. Fundamentally, in the main directions, our Resistance War also followed this general law ... The Dien Bien Phu campaign in early 1954 was a big counter-offensive which ended the Resistance War with a great victory”. See General Vo Nguyen Giap, People’s War People’s Army (Hanoi: Foreign Languages Publishing House, 1961), p. 101. Dushan Kveder, “`Territorial War’: The New Concept of Resistance”, Foreign Affairs 32, no. 1 (October 1953), pp. 91–108. The term “strategic compartment” was first used in Pauker (1963). See Major-General Toni Hartono, “National Defence in an Archipelagic Environment: Indonesia’s Concept”, in Horner (1993), p. 158. Ibid., p. 158. During the Suharto era, a second level of Leaders Conferences existed at the kabupaten level, with comparable make up and responsibilities. See Seskoad, op. cit., p. 38 and Seskoad, “Keputusan Presiden Republik Indonesia Nomor 10, Tahun 1986 tentang Musyawarah Pempinan Daerah”, brochure NSS-4222, Bandung, 27 February 1986. Presiden Republik Indonesia, Penjelasan Instruksi Presiden Nomor 05 Tahun 1967, reproduced in Indonesia, Seskoad, op. cit., pascal 16. Ibid., p. 379. There have been some variations in the make-up over the years according to the needs of different regions, and as the overall military command structure has altered. Seskoad, op. cit., Instruksi Presiden 5/1967, Pascal 6. Seskoad, op. cit., Instruksi Presiden, Pascal 2. See HQ TNI-AD, “Pokok-pokok Organisasi dan Tugas Komando Daerah Militer (Kodam), op. cit., p. 257. Ibid., p. 257. Confidential interview (January 2004). Seskoad, “Sistem Pembinaan Territorial”, brochure NSS 4112, Bandung, 1985, pp. 1–8, Seskoad, “Aspek Perencanaan dan Pengendalian Pembinaan Territorial”, brochure NSS 4113, Bandung, 1985.

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27

28 29 30

31 32

33 34 35

36

37 38 39 40 41

42 43 44 45

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Seskoad brochure no. 3342 “Kodam Dalam Ops Binter”, Bandung, 1987. Responsibility for village-level security in Java was devolved to the police. The effect of this on Wanra and Hansip during that era is not known. See Far Eastern Economic Review, 8 March 1990, p. 19. An assumption based on the standard figures used in staff planning exercises at Seskoad, 1986-87. See also Seskoad, “Cadangan Nasional”, brochure NSS4114-A, Bandung, 1986. Confidential interviews (July 2001 and October 2003). Confidential interview (October 2003). “Indonesian Navy to continue construction of large naval base”, Asia-Pacific Defence Reporter, vol 26, no. 9 (February/March 2000), p. 59. Confidential interview (August 2003). For more information on the structure of the navy see, Lowry, “Indonesian Defence and Security 2019” op. cit., pp. 14–17. Confidential interviews (July 2001). Confidential interviews (February 1994 and July 2001). “The Timor Papers, Part Two”, National Times, June 6 to 12, 1982. This material from the National Times was “drawn primarily from the Central Intelligence Agency, its military counterpart the Defence Intelligence Agency, the State Department, and the code-breaking specialists at the National Security Agency. Unless otherwise stated the documentary extracts printed here come from the National Intelligence Daily. The Daily was a small ‘newspaper’ published by the Director of the CIA for an elite, specially cleared audience in Washington. It was ready for the President’s desk early each morning in 1975”. See ibid., p. 15. Established in the 1960s, NORAD receives indications of nuclear attack and coordinates efforts to determine an appropriate response. It has a direct link to a variety of radar and satellite monitoring installations and is instantly alerted of potential enemy attack. Confidential interview (October 2003). Confidential interview (July 2002). Confidential interview, (November 2001). Confidential interview (October 2003). See Articles 20–21 of Bill on Principles of Indonesian State Defence entitled Undang-Undang Republik Indonesia Nomor 3, Tahun 2002 Tentang Pertahanan Negara, mimeo, thereafter referred to as National Defence Law. National Defence Law, Article 10 (1). National Defence Law, Article 10 (3). National Defence Law, Article 11. National Defence Law, Articles 4, 5 and 10. The need for the TNI to play a role in maintaining domestic security with the National Police was reemphasized in the 2003 Defence White Paper entitled Mempertahankan Tanah Air Memasuki Abad 21 (Jakarta: Departemen Pertahanan RI, 31 March 2003).

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56

57 58

59 60 61 62

63

64 65

66

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National Defence Law, Article 15 (1). National Defence Law, Article 17 (2). National Defence Law, Article 17 (2). National Defence Law, Article 5 and Article 16 (2 and 6). National Defence Law, Article 18 (4). National Defence Law, Article 18 (4). National Defence Law, Article 24. National Defence Law, Article 18 (2). National Defence Law, Article 18 (3). See Law No. 20/1982 concerning Basic Principles of the National Defence and Security of the Republic of Indonesia. Mimeo. The division of responsibility is laid down in Presidential Decrees 46 and 60 of 1983. Confidential interview (October 2003). At the time of writing, this particular Directorate was expected to establish its own intelligence body. Confidential interview (October 2003). Confidential Interview (October 2003). See Mempertahankan Tanah Air Memasuki Abad 21, op. cit., Chapter 5, In the wake of escalation of the crisis between Indonesia and the Netherlands over West Irian in the second half of 1960, the United States refused to sanction additional deliveries of weapons to Indonesia. As a consequence, the Indonesian government sent an arms procurement mission to the Soviet Union in January 1961 and was able to secure a credit of US$450 million in the form of military equipment which included the delivery of MiG-19 fighters, An-12 transport aircraft and as many as 25 Tu-16 bombers, together with Whiskey class sub-marines, a Sverdlov Class cruiser and torpedo boats. Likewise, when Britain in January 1962 suspended arms sales to Indonesia as a consequence of the West Irian crisis, a similar approach was made to the Soviet Union resulting in an agreement signed in May 1962 for the supply of more Soviet arms. The ex-”Claude Jones” class boats, for instance, had been built in the late 1950s. But when two could be obtained for less than US$250,000, Indonesia was more than pleased to take delivery. Even by “friendship-price” standards this was an extraordinary deal. See especially Sundhaussen (1982), pp. 35–111ff. All branches of the armed forces were subject to purges in the years after 1965. Personnel data in this paragraph were drawn from The Military Balance (various issues). While not altogether a satisfactory source, analysis has improved in recent years as the publisher of The Military Balance, the International Institute of Strategic Studies (IISS), has sought to provide more elaboration on its methods of organizing data.

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68

69

70 71 72

73

74

75 76

77

78

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The problems with military expenditure data are notorious and therefore will be excluded from the analysis. Both traditional data sources — SIPRI and U.S. Arms Control and Disarmament Agency (ACDA) data differ from each other and from figures available from official Indonesian sources. Raw expenditure figures (expressed in rupiah at current prices) published by SIPRI vary significantly from annual Indonesian budget papers, for example the Nota Keuangan published by Indonesia’s Ministry of Finance; in some years, the SIPRI figure is higher than that published in the budget papers, while for others it is lower. In addition, there are serious inconsistencies in the time series between one SIPRI yearbook and the next. For a comprehensive discussion of the impact of economic circumstances upon defence spending, see Andrew Ross, “Growth Debt and Military Spending in Southeast Asia”, Contemporary Southeast Asia 11, no. 4 (1989): 243–64. The liberation of Saigon and the subsequent threat posed to the region by a unified Vietnam possessing the most powerful army in the region was viewed collectively by ASEAN security elites as a significant change to the regional balance of power and may have been the impetus for the acquisition of a number of advanced weapons systems (F-5 fighter aircraft and naval equipment) in 1975/76. See Dorojatun Kuntjoro-jakti and T.A.M. Simatupang, “Indonesia: Defence Expenditures in the Period of the New Order, 1967–85” (1987), p. 121. See McDonald 1980, pp. 194–204. See Table 3.1, Major arms imports, Indonesia, 1971–2004. For a useful study of the military thinking of General Benny Murdani, see Bilveer Singh, ABRI and the Security of Southeast Asia (1994). Rencana Pembangunan Lima Tahun Keempat — Repelita IV 1985/86–1988/ 89, ibid., Buku 3, pp. 488–89, cited in Tanter 1991, p. 250. In his analysis of Renstra III, Tanter highlighted its emphasis on the need for “protection against use of nuclear, biological and chemical (Nubika) weapons by the enemy”. He confirms such observations by citing Repelita IV, Buku 3, op. cit., p. 490 as well as the Seskoad manual, which similarly makes mention of operating in such environments. See Vademecum, pp. 260–61. Haseman similarly makes reference to the presence of a Chemical/Biological/Nuclear Branch Centre under the Army Education, and Training Development Command. See, John Haseman, “The dynamics of change: Regeneration of the Indonesian Army”, Asian Survey 26, no. 8 (1986): 890. Confidential interview (February 1994). See Doktrin Perjuangan TNI-ABRI “Catur Darma Eka Karma”(CADEK-88) (Jakarta: Markas Besar Angkatan Besar Republik Indonesia, 1988). See SIPRI, World Armaments and Disarmament, SIPRI Yearbook 1987 (1987). Atmadji, “Untuk pertama kali TNI-AD mempunyai divisi infanteri yang lengkap”, Sinar Harapan, 3 October 1985.

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STRATEGY AND DEFENCE: THE INDONESIAN APPROACH 269 79

80

81 82

83

84

85

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Atmadji, “Melangsingkan tubuh TNI-AD tanpa menimbulkan efek samping”, Sinar Harapan, 16 March 1985. Kostrad, the Strategic Reserve, had evolved from its predecessor Tjaduad (Tjadangan Umum Angkatan Darat, Army General Reserve) in the early 1960s. Kostrad originated from the enthusiasm of officers trained in the U.S. Staff and Command College at Fort Leavenworth for a full-scale airborne strategic reserve corps made up of divisions comparable to the U.S. Army’s 82nd Airborne Division — and from the experience of the PRRI rebellion and the West Irian campaign. Four brigades, mainly paratroops, were assigned to Kostrad. At that time, Kostrad did not have its own exclusive troops until the restructuring of the mid-1980s. Rather, it drew from units within the three Javanese divisions earmarked for its use, at the call of the Kostrad commander. While Kostrad was nothing like its American model, its troops were better-equipped than their territorial peers. IISS, The Military Balance, 1993–94, p. 156. The Raider Battalion was formed in December 2003 from the rump of the Rajawali reconnaissance companies and are designed for aggressive patrolling. These units were formed from “eight battalions drawn from Kodam formations and two from Kostrad divisions. Each comprises nearly 800 personnel and there are ambitions to create more”. See Karniol (2004), p. 48. Detachment 81 became mission-ready on 30 June 1982. No expense was spared to make the unit operationally prepared for counter-terrorist contingencies and, by the standards of the 1980s, its use of state of the art counter-terrorist equipment like Heckler and Koch MP5K assault rifles from Germany, assault suits and leather assault harnesses from Ibcol UK limited (based on designs manufactured for the British SAS) and Bristol Armour Type four vests raised its capability significantly. Adapting its operation formation utilizing the German GSG-9 model, it comprised of a six, five-man unit plus a six-man command section totalling 36 personnel led by a captain. The unit is also tasked with responsibilities relating to VIP security. See Conboy (2003a), pp. 292 and 301. The actual status of the Rapid Reaction Strike Force is not clear. According to one well-informed journalist writing in 1985, “ideally the PPRC should form a stand-alone force for that purpose. But, because of cost restrictions and for reasons of efficiency, its main unit is taken from Division I, Kostrad”. Atmadji, “Untuk pertama kali TNI-AD mempunya divisi infanteri yang ‘lengkap’”, Sinar Harapan, 3 October 1985. According to my interview sources, the PPRC has been used primarily for domestic purposes. A mobile unit of this nature can respond quickly to any domestic unrest in the far-flung reaches of the archipelago. For instance, in the case of Aceh, unrest can escalate quickly and a rapid reaction force of this nature can deal swiftly with such matters. Confidential interview (January 1994). Kopassus Group 1 comprising Batalions 11 and 12 were posted to Serang in West Java with Group 2 which included Battalions 21 and 22 housed in

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86

87

88 89

90

91 92

93

94

95 96

97

98

99

100

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Solo. The original Group 3 unit was transferred to Kostrad and became the 3 Airborne Brigade. The Kopassus commander would be based at the Kopassus training school in Batu Jajar with Detasemen 81 remaining at Cijantung. The overall strength of the unit would be 2,500 personnel (see Conboy (2003a), pp. 307–8. “Korps Marinir disegani kawan maupun lawan”, Angkatan Bersenjata, 16 November 1991, p. 11. “Pasukan Khas TNI-AD Yang Berusia 45 Tahun”, Suara Pembaruan, 19 October 1992, p. 5. Confidential interviews (January and February 1994). Of the 39 former East German naval vessels that were purchased in 1994 during the Suharto era only 17 are seaworthy. Twenty-two of these vessels are inoperable due to damage to their main engines. Due to lack of funds, only 8 can be repaired in Jakarta and Surabaya. At present, only 3 have been fitted with new engines. The 2003 Defence White Paper is specific about such threats to Indonesia’s sovereignty, see Mempertahankan Tanah Air Memasuki Abad 21 (Jakarta: Departemen Pertahanan RI, 31 March 2003), pp. 27–30 and “Indonesia Must Assert Ownership of Distant Islands”, Straits Times, 11 September 2004. Confidential interview (August 2003). “Latihan Armada Jaya untuk capai kondisi siap tempur uang handal”, Angkatan Bersenjata, 5 December 1991, p. 7. “Laksma TNI Wahyono SK PhD Asrena Kasal yang baru”, Angkatan Bersenjata, 12 November 1991, p. 7 Ibid., p. 7, see also “Latihan Armada Jaya untuk capai kondisi siap tempur yang handal”, op. cit., p. 7. Jane’s Fighting Ships, 1991–92, p. 278. “Kesiapan Kanudnas diprioritaskan untuk amankan hasil pembangunan”, Angkatan Bersenjata, 9 September 1985, p. 1. “Bukan TNI-AU namanya kalau bereaksi lambat”, Angkatan Bersenjata, 9 October 1985, p. 1. For an interesting discussion on air defence in Indonesia, see Carlo Kopp “Indonesia’s Air Capability of Critical Concern to Australia”, Australian Aviation, no. 85, (April 1993), pp. 32–38. “TNI wants a squadron of Sukhoi jets next year”, Jakarta Post, 29 August 2003. Farcical as it may seem, the TNI has little choice. The U.S. arms embargo is one obstacle, but another remains a situation where a country agrees to sell combat aircraft under specified conditions. For example, conditions in the purchase contract for the British-made Hawk 200 state that the fighters can only be used for exercises. Russia does not set any restrictions on the use of

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101

102

103 104

105

106

107

108

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the Su-30. The deal partially revives a 1997 agreement with the Russian Federation that was cancelled due to economic reasons. “Wakasad tinjau latihan manembak Rudal Rapier di-Bulus Pesantren Kebumen”, Angkatan Bersenjata, 3 October 1991, p. 7. Derwin Pereira, “Jakarta’s toothless military unable to cope with threats”, Straits Times, 11 July 2002. Karniol, “Interior designs”, Jane’s Defence Weekly, op. cit., p. 53. Atmadji, “ABRI akan membeli sistem senjata modern untuk mengamankan pembangunan”, Sinar Harapan, 1 October 1985. See Repelita IV, op. cit., Buku 3, pp. 479–97; and Atmadji, “ABRI akan membeli sistem senjata modern untuk mengamankan pembangunan”, op. cit. Two questions are relevant here. First, how is the country’s overall supply of technically skilled personnel developing? What are the effects of the technical education programmes in the military industries then under the control of then Minister of Research and Technology Habibie? Second, are the effects of the acquisition of advanced weapons systems going to continue to be mainly limited to the air force and navy as in the past? Are the SAM systems operated by the army or the air force? Do these and other missiles require comparable levels of technical support? A comprehensive discussion can be found in Ninok Leksono Dermawan, “Akuisasi Senjata RI dan Anggota Lain, 1975–1990: Suatu Kajian atas Pola, Konteks dan Logika” (Disertasi, Universitas Indonesia, 1992). See Preston (1991), pp. 38–44; Preston (1995), p. 70; Sengupta (1992), pp. 36–40; “Indonesia: F-5 Update Information”, Asian Military Review 3, no. 3 (June/July 1995), p. 42; “Indonesia and Turkey order Dutch combat systems”, International Defence Review no. 28 (February 1995), p. 20; “Defending Indonesia, Fifty Years On”, Asian Defence Journal, (October 1995), pp. 4–16; “Southeast Asian Air Force Upgrade Programs”, Asian Defence Journal (December 1995); Jacob 1995; Algemeen Dagblad. “Frigates for Indonesia”. In [email protected] 15/08/95; Saw (1990), p. 23; Supartha (1991), pp. 193–96; Ball (1991); Lowry (1993), pp. 118–19 and (2000), p. 60; Karniol and Haseman (2001); Rolls (2002), pp. 92–97; Garekar (2002); Pereira (2002); Farrer (2003), pp. 6–10; “Indonesia Gives Air Defence New Priority”, Asian Military Review, vol. 11, no. 4 (June/July 2003), pp. 46–47; “Navy signs deal to buy two corvettes”, Jakarta Post, 9 January 2004; Haseman (2004), pp. 54– 55; Karniol (2004), pp. 46–52; “Jakarta to buy eight more Russian jets”, Straits Times, 9 April 2004; “Indonesian corvettes receive IPMS”, Jane’s International Defence Review, no. 37 (November 2004), p. 19. “Chinese missile aid for Indonesia: How strategic a partnership?” IISS Strategic Comments 11, issue 6 (August 2005): 1–2. A similar point is also made by Karniol, see, his article, “Interior designs”, op. cit., p. 50.

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114

115 116

117 118 119 120

121

122

123 124 125

126

127

128 129 130 131

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Confidential interviews (January and February 1994). “RI delays plan to replace weaponry”, Jakarta Post, 2 February 1994. “Government to double expenditure on defence”, Jakarta Post, 16 August 2003. “Megawati raises military spending”, Jakarta Post, 18 August 2004. “Govt, House hope for more transparency in TNI budget, Jakarta Post, 13 September 2003. For an account of this phenomenon in the 1960s and early 1970s, see Crouch (1988). “Cut role of contractors, defence official says”, Jakarta Post, 11 July 2002. A useful survey of the Indonesian defence industry has been done by A. Hasnan Habib, “Indonesia’s Defence Industry: Its Role, Mission and Set-Up”, in Arms and Defence in Southeast Asia, edited by Chandran Jeshurun (1989). The following discussion draws on data presented by Hasnan Habib. Ibid., p. 89. Confidential interview (February 1994). “Govt warns Army on chopper deal”, Jakarta Post, 10 March 2004. See “The Chopper Confusion (Part II)”, Tempo, vol. 4, no. 39 (1–7 June 2004). Available from: http://www.tempointeraktif.com/majalah/eng/nat-1.html. “Sukhoigate to take off?” Tempo, vol. 3, no. 42 (24–30 June 2003), http:// www.tempointeraktif.com/majalah/arsip/3rd/edition42/cov-1.html. Djoko Susilo, “The House and the controversial ‘Sukhoigate’deal”, Jakarta Post, 18 June 2003. Confidential interview (November 2004). “Scorpion case opens Pandora’s box”, Jakarta Post, 17 December 2004. See “Govt to revise arms purchase procedure”, Jakarta Post, 4 November 2004 and “Transparency will be instituted in defence ministry”, Jakarta Post, 4 November 2004. “Ministry of Defence to have final say on all arms purchases”, Jakarta Post, 22 December 2004. “ABRI siap menanggung resiko apapun dalam membela negara”, Angkatan Bersenjata, 18 March 1992, p. 1. “RI tak kenal supremasi militer”, Angkatan Bersenjata, 11 January 1992, p. 1. Confidential interview (October 2003). Confidential interview (February 1994). The defence dispositions of Swedan and Switzerland clearly suggest that territorial defence and “frontal” defence can coexist side by side. (For a good discussion on the Swedish model, see Roberts (1986). Chinese military commanders have also emphasized the development of a local war ( jubu zhangzhen) strategy which compliments a Total People’s War with effective projection of both nuclear and conventional military power throughout all of China and the surrounding region. Ibid., p. 35.

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134

135 136

137 138

139 140

141

142

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Alan Dupont makes a very strong argument about the shortcomings inherent in Indonesia’s defence strategy which he contends is “due in part, to Indonesia’s overwhelming preoccupation with internal security … reflects a high degree of doctrinal and conceptual inertia which does not bode well for the Indonesian Armed Forces (ABRI) to deal with the security challenges of the twenty-first century”. His arguments support General Murdani’s view about the challenges confronting Indonesia with the emergence of new defence contingencies, namely transnational security challenges, non-military threats, and conventional warfare issues relating to competing territorial and resource claims in the South China Sea which require Indonesia to address its doctrinal, budgetary and force structure weaknesses. See, Alan Dupont, “Indonesia Defence Strategy and Security: Time for a Rethink?” Contemporary Southeast Asia 18, no. 3 (December 1996): 275–97. For a discussion of this concept, see Lowry, Indonesian Defence Policy and The Indonesian Armed Forces, op. cit., p. 17; and “Tatanan Stabilitas Berlapis harus dijadikan satu Strategi Besar”, Angkatan Bersenjata, 12 January 1993. Confidential interview (February 1994). Quoted from Gordon Robert Hein, “Suharto’s Foreign Policy and SecondGeneration Nationalism in Indonesia” (Ph.D. Dissertation, University of California, Berkeley, 1986), p. 368. Milner et al. (1993), p. 224. Benny Moerdani, Upholding the Unity and Unitary of the Nation: Vision and Views of General of the Army (Ret) L.B. Moerdani 1988–1991 (Jakarta: Yayasan Kejuangan Panglima Besar Sudirman, 1993), p. 187. Ibid., p. 25. See Indonesia, The Policy of The State Defence and Security of the Republic of Indonesia , op. cit., pp. 16–17. Apart from Gordon Hein’s research, different variants of the concentric circle model are also highlighted in the work of Dewi Fortuna Anwar, Indonesia in ASEAN: Foreign Policy and Regionalism (1994) and Anthony L. Smith, Strategic Centrality: Indonesia’s Changing Role in ASEAN (2000). Such perspective common in the 1990s in for example, “Defend Pancasila, ABRI told”, Jakarta Post, 24 January 1994, continue to be emphasized in the author’s discussions with defence officials (Confidential interviews, July 2001 and 2002). See, for example, the annual Elang series of air exercises that Indonesia holds with Singapore (Elang Indopura), Thailand (Elang Thainesia) and Malaysia (Elang Malindo). These exercises are aimed at familiarizing air force personnel with the procedures of joint air force operations and the planning of joint airstrike strategy. Indonesia also holds annual naval exercises with ASEAN partners: Malindo Jaya with Malaysia, Sea Garuda with Thailand, and Englek with Singapore. Malaysia and Indonesia have also developed a regular pattern

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144 145

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of bilateral army field exercises in the Kekar Malindo series. Adding a unique dimension to defence cooperation has been the decision by Indonesia and Singapore to establish a full-time direct communication link since June 1992 as a prelude to exchanging real-time information and launching coordinated patrols to deter piracy, particularly in the Malacca Strait. Confidential interview (February 1994). For an interesting attempt to study the impact of new technology on the Sishankamrata, see Edi Poernomo, Konsep Hankamrata yang diorientasikan pada pengimplementasian Sistem Senjata Teknologi Mutakhir (1986).

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Reproduced from Realpolitik Ideology: Indonesia's Use of Military Force, by Leonard C. Sebastian (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2006). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

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4 Formulating a Comprehensive Approach to Defence and National Security Planning There have been numerous works discussing the role of the armed forces in various fields, particularly in the context of its socio-political functions.1 Another lengthy exposition on these lines would be of little relevance here. However, with the exception of Guy Pauker’s generally neglected Seskoad document (1980), and Sundhaussen’s short monograph (1982), very little research exists on the significance the TNI’s places on sociopolitical strategies to enable the military to successfully prosecute its defence doctrines against external security concerns. In addressing the defence aspects of socio-political strategies, it would be useful to examine first of all, the impact of history on the armed forces’ perception of its defence and security role. Particularly, what factors have shaped a doctrine like the Sishankamrata, which ostensibly was devised for external defence, to be interpreted generally from the narrow perspective of counterinsurgency and public order during the Suharto era? Second, by that extension, it would be relevant to examine the connection between defence and development and specifically the military’s role in national development, which the TNI believed was a logical consequence of its dual role as a custodian for defence and security matters as well as a socio-political force. Third, there is a need to understand how the TNI perceived the significance of its relationship with the civilian forces in Indonesia as a consequence of its defence and security doctrines. In doing so, we will be able to understand how defence and national security priorities have impacted on the socio-political system that has developed under the New Order. That the socio-political doctrines that underpinned the TNI’s privileged role in the political system are irrelevant in the aftermath of reformasi is not the point of contention in this chapter. More important for our analysis is an understanding of how such doctrines came about

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for defence purposes, and whether elements can be retained for the effective defence of Indonesia while doing away with the excesses, specifically, its contentious political role, that have tarnished the reputation of the TNI as one of Indonesia’s critical institutions. Essential in this regard is how the TNI can transform its territorial structure and evolve a total defence role for itself considering the budgetary shortfalls, technological backwardness and the lack of proper political guidance. Taking into account such shortcomings that hinder reform in the shortterm, this chapter, first, analyses the evolution of Indonesia’s doctrine of territorial management; second, reviews the debate on the reform of the territorial structure thus far; and third, explains why the territorial structure that maintained the “national security state” is no longer viable and suggests plausible alternatives for its reform. GUERRILLA WARFARE ROOTS OF DWIFUNGSI There may be a temptation to suggest that the overarching military superstructure imposed on the state during the New Order was Suharto’s own unique creation and a reflection of the acute security situation Indonesia found itself in the aftermath of the abortive 1965 coup, which required the imposition of extreme security measures allowing the superimposing of a military superstructure upon the state with military personnel in a custodial role. Was such a situation abnormal in the context of Indonesian history? In fact going back into colonial history, it was indeed the norm for military officers to be given extensive roles in civil administration, particularly in times of crisis or during a major military operation. This was the case in the French and British colonies. In that sense, the Netherlands Indies adopted policies similar to other colonial governments by giving an administrative role to military officers, specifically in the Buitenbezittingen, the Outer Islands (van den Doel 1994, p. 57). With the lack of qualified civilians available to undertake the administrative tasks of the colony, the colonial government frequently turned to the military to fill the breach. Likewise, the difficult process of pacification campaigns throughout the archipelago created the need for closer coordination between civil government and military operations. The colonial government ascertained that the best way to improve coordination was to empower military officers with effective civil authority (ibid., p. 75). Such perspectives could be best captured by statements of Governor General Johannes van den Bosch who played a leading role in transforming the colonial

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military forces into the KNIL (a source of the Indonesian military’s early leaders) in 1830. With regard to the administration of major towns in the archipelago, he wrote in 1831 that “a senior civil servant should unite himself and military authority” (Ibid., p. 59). If the intention of the colonial government to assign officers to regional administration was at the outset a temporary measure to cover shortfalls in the numbers of civilians available to administer the colony, then the practical demands of Dutch military expansion in the archipelago coupled with the shortage of civilian manpower necessary for the colonial government to administer the archipelago made it imperative for officers to be entrusted with civil authority to boost the military effort. The crisis on the west coast of Sumatra on account of the civil war between the custodians of traditional law backed by the Dutch and the Muslims of the Padri movement and more significantly the pacification of Aceh required the coordination of civil and military resources at the local level resulting in greater militarization. By the late 1880s, officers of the KNIL were to be found throughout the realm assigned to a variety of local civilian tasks. The predominance of the KNIL role in conquering territory and subsequently pacifying it without any clear demarcation of the respective roles of army and police in internal security (Poeze 1994, p. 233) would be a trend that continued to blight the relationship between the two services throughout the course of Indonesia’s post-independence history. A more profound influence was the militarization of Indonesian youth during the Japanese occupation, which indelibly transformed Indonesian society. The Japanese were keen to create an army made up of indigenous elements to repel any Allied invasion. The military exercises, martial training, and simulated fighting with wooden weapons introduced by the Japanese accorded with Indonesia’s own military traditions which had long been suppressed by the Dutch. The military training provided by the Japanese stressed self-denial, meditation and unquestioning discipline and attracted numerous Indonesian youth who were drawn to these Japanese values of spiritual power derived from Japanese Imperial traditions which had similarities to their own traditional ideals and values. This emphasis on the power of the inner spirit to conquer all enemies became a valuable weapon in the fight for independence. However, a significant lesson learned from the Japanese experience was an appreciation of how the Japanese, with a small occupation force, were able to control the whole of the archipelago by cementing local military control over the civilian population through the Tonari Gumi system.

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The Japanese attempt to link the Tonari Gumi system with the ancient Javanese tradition of gotong royong or mutual assistance provided the legitimacy necessary to translate the Japanese Gonin-gumi and Juningumi systems into an Indonesian environment thereby entrenching the neighbourhood watch (rukun tetangga) structures on a firm (culturally acceptable) footing. According to Kilcullen, quoting from the Djawa Gunsiekanbu 1944 regulation, the Tonari Gumi system was established by local military commanders with the aim of forming the “lowest level of government, responsive to the local commander and through him to the Japanese Military Government”. Kilcullen (2000, pp. 33–34) quoting from the above regulation establishing the local security system, emphasized that “in addition to Tonari Gumi, local leaders within each neighbourhood were to form committees known as Aza Jokai, which were to conduct monthly coordination meetings under the direction of the village military commander (Ku-cho)” (see Figure 4.1). The Japanese also established auxiliary civil defence (keibodan) and auxiliary police (Tokubetsu Keibotai) units in each district under the command of the local police commander (Tokubetsu Si-cho). Similarly, it was the Japanese who created PETA, the first military force in modern Indonesian history under the control of Indonesian officers. Auxiliary military structures like the Heiho and numerous other paramilitary and pemuda or youth organizations were also established by the Japanese. In Kilcullen’s analysis, “the Japanese command structure in Java was pyramidal and military commanders operated at every level without central political direction and with only broad directive military control”, thereby laying the “organizational foundations for a highly decentralized military/paramilitary command structure within an authoritarian political culture” (ibid., p. 41). This Japanese originated security system spread from Java to the Outer Islands during the War of Independence and was applied quickly by the Indonesian government in the 1950s to bring all new areas under the control of the Republic (ibid., p. 35). Indeed, if our discussion in Chapter 2 reveals the existence of a distinctly “Indonesian intelligence culture” with its socio-political and paramilitary emphasis augmented by grassroots-level organizations and their less formal hierarchies which provide vast networks of human intelligence supporting military and police elements, then this may be Imperial Japan’s abiding legacy to Indonesia.2 Another pivotal era shaping Indonesian consciousness was the War of Revolution. Throughout the course of the War of Revolution, the Army leadership understood that the chronic feeling of insecurity experienced by the young Republic could not be overcome through the use of military

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Source: Author’s personal collection.

(Family Groups)

Roemah

Tonari Gumi Jokai (Neighbourhood Group Meeting)

Tonari Gumi-cho (Neighbourhood Group Leader)

Roemah

Aza Jokai (District Advisory Meeting)

Aza-cho (District Leader)

Ku-cho (Village Military Commander)

Figure 4.1 Japanese Occupation Neighbourhood Watch System

Roemah

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options only. More important, the experience of leading the People’s War, after almost the entire political leadership surrendered with the capture of Yogyakarta by the Dutch on 19 December 1948, left an indelible imprint on the Army. As mentioned in Chapter One, the army suppressed the communist-led Madiun revolt in September 1948 prior to the Dutch attack. Moreover, while the People’s War against the Dutch in West Java was still continuing, the army had to cope with the armed rebellion waged by the Darul Islam, which had proclaimed an Islamic State of Indonesia. Perhaps more than anything, the responsibility of having to conduct guerrilla warfare against the Dutch and counterinsurgency warfare against domestic uprisings simultaneously forged a mindset and a security ideology that allowed the army to define a role for itself as the defender of last resort of the Unitary Republic of Indonesia against external and internal security threats. The autonomy enjoyed by its commanders operating through a decentralized system of guerrilla warfare during the People’s War provided the army with the experience of direct control over political, economic and social matters. This experience gave the army greater self-confidence and a stronger sense of mission. The experience of the War of Revolution provided the justification for the army leaders to maintain that the survival of the country depended on the Army’s ability to defend Indonesia’s “national interests”, which included ideological, political, economic, socio-cultural as well as military factors (Simutapang 1989, pp. 124–25) and the TNI’s 1945 generation of officers would later internalize these experiences when formulating the comprehensive security doctrines that were to define the national security strategies of the Suharto era. Another significant tactic developed as a consequence of the guerrilla struggle was the experience of fighting in strategic compartments through the creation of Wehrkreise or military regions in October 1947. The province of West Java was divided into five military regions for the purposes of consolidating the command structure and the better coordination of guerrilla warfare.3 The strategy of fighting in compartments as we have discussed in Chapter 3 would later be expanded to cover the entire archipelago and the West Java prototype would later not only become the catalyst but find its counterpart in the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare. In the 1950s, the fledgeling country was thrust into the contemporary international system faced with difficulties such as overpopulation and scarce resources, ideological conflict, regional instability and the threat of external intervention. In the context of Indonesia, these historical factors that shaped the understanding of security directly led to two developments. First, the emphasis on non-military matters has

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had the effect of developing a holistic approach to security. Second, by emphasizing the importance of national security in their socio-political military doctrines, the Army justified and legitimized its role in politics and in the economic development of the country. The Sishankamrata, which advocated the close links between the civil population and the military, provided the perfect justification for the Army to embed itself within the population for the maintenance of public order.

THE SOCIO-POLITICAL NEXUS IN INDONESIA’S DEFENCE AND SECURITY DOCTRINE Much of the development of Indonesia’s socio-political national security strategies had its origins in General Nasution’s book Pokok-Pokok Gerilja, published in 1953 (referred to in this study in its 1965 English edition as Fundamentals of Guerilla Warfare). The book focuses on the Indonesian army’s experiences in the War of Independence (1945–48) as well as its subsequent counterinsurgency operations against domestic challenges to the state. It covers a gamut of military issues ranging from policy prescriptions, theories of warfare and foreseeable military developments. Nasution’s strategic thinking4 was founded on the belief that an archipelagic country like Indonesia required a capable navy and air force for its defence. However, the reality of Indonesia’s situation in the early 1950s with an air force and navy still in its embryonic stage of development necessitated that the primary responsibility for defence rested on the army. Nasution estimated that it would require at least 15 to 20 years,5 for the air force and the navy to reach the necessary standard capable of providing the country with the type of deterrent force competent enough to defend the entire archipelago. These time predictions had not substantially changed when Nasution in 1960 sought official recognition and funding for his defence strategy and given the present operational conditions in the air force and the navy, may very well be valid even today. Nasution’s assertion was made on the condition that the government made the defence of Indonesia a priority by providing adequate funds for weapons procurement and military training. However, in reality, Nasution concluded that in the short term, the onus for defending the nation lay with the army. However, even if training and equipping the army could be done quickly and economically, could the army realistically deter a modern invading force under conventional warfare circumstances? Nasution logically concludes:

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We may consider it a permanent factor of our strategy that guerilla warfare will be an important form of defence for us in the future. For the immediate future, however, guerilla warfare remains our chief form of defence, but gradually, parallel with the development of our army into a modern army, the importance of guerilla warfare will decrease, until at a certain point, we will have a regular army. However, even when we will have reached such a stage, our strategic position, because of geographical factors, is such that a modern enemy will have ample opportunity to land and invade our country because of our long shoreline and the fact that we are an archipelago ... Wherever the area is occupied there is only one way for us to defend ourselves, namely suitable guerilla warfare.6

Similarly, Nasution assessed that the turbulent internal security situation faced by Indonesia might not only have the effect of exacerbating domestic tensions but may have the inadvertent effect of providing a possible avenue for foreign intervention to eventuate. ... in the case of young countries in South East Asia, they must constantly be on the alert for guerilla activities in their territory in peace as well as war. These countries which are backward in all aspects ... are still experiencing internal guerilla movements.7 The unstable conditions of these countries and peoples, the political, economic and social chaos and their demoralization and confusion are all easy targets for hired guerillas who work for the interests of foreign8 and domestic circles ... Domestic political quarrels make use of guerilla activities and underground resistance ... It is clear that any future enemy of ours from abroad will utilize to the utmost guerilla movements and underground movements to weaken us from within, to break us to pieces and to cause our collapse (Nasution 1965, p. 54).

In his assessment, such a strategic outlook necessitated the need to develop an integrated defence and security structure based on guerrilla and antiguerrilla strategies rather than relying on conventional warfare techniques. A strategy of this nature no doubt relegated the air force and the navy to a subordinate role. The major tenets of Nasution’s strategic thinking were greatly evident in the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare, adopted in 1960 by the MPRS, then the highest policy-making body in the Republic.9 Like all theoreticians and practitioners of guerilla warfare, Nasution also came to the conclusion that guerilla forces could only succeed if they enjoyed the active support of the population. His ideas are strongly reflected

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in The Indonesian Doctrine of Territorial Warfare and Territorial Management: Control in the military field aims at preparing society to be a source which can supply adequate numbers of skilled people and as a base from which the personnel requirements of our combat troops can be met. It also aims at preparing the territories and their population so that they can render material and operational support and assistance to our combat troops (Pauker 1963, p. 303).

The opposite is true was when government forces were engaged in an antiguerilla struggle: The main aim of anti-guerilla strategy is to separate the people from the guerilla. Only on this basis can an anti-guerilla operation of a military nature be successful. The elimination of the guerilla bands is of a secondary nature (Nasution 1965, p. 55).

From Nasution’s perspective, “winning the hearts and minds” of the population was essential for both external defence and internal security as he stresses in his Working Guide for Military Government on the subdistrict level: At the bottom, the people struggle for their own interests. For that reason we must make efforts at all times to improve their conditions in questions of economic matters, education, health and the like (ibid., p. 273).

Another method of ensuring the support of the people was the need to share scarce provisions, supply assistance to the people in the fields, provide basic security “and, in general, help wherever possible”. Also special care needed to be taken in order to respect local customs in an attempt to avoiding alienating the people by arrogance or claiming special privileges (ibid., p. 37). However, Nasution concluded that such measures while laudable were not in themselves adequate to ensure the lasting support of the people in a type of warfare where reprisals taken against civilians by both sides were a distinct possibility. Guerilla warfare being more demanding had the effect of creating more hardship for the civilian population than conventional warfare fought out primarily between combatants. Realizing the weaknesses inherent in this type of strategy, Nasution concluded that the best way of

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insulating the population in this type of war environment was to have the people steeled in ideology, that is, psychologically indoctrinated with nationalism as enshrined in the Proclamation of Independence, and the goals of the revolution as outlined in the Preamble of the 1945 Constitution, the Pancasila. The objective of control in the political and psychological fields was to strengthen the people’s “moral” defence power: This is accomplished by indoctrinating them in the ideology of the Pantjasila and by achieving political stability. Conscious indoctrination in the Pantjasila will provide a powerful defence against the penetration of foreign ideologies, ideologies which are raging in the international world at this time and whose areas of influence are increasing. The infiltration of these foreign ideologies into the body of the people can endanger the well-being of the state and the unity of the people... Tradition, culture, education and social welfare are all involved in this matter. Social control, in which custom and traditional methods and channels are employed, is aimed at maintaining national unity in the form of a national self, so that the harmonious union of the hundreds of ethnic groups who are constituted as a single entity, namely, the Indonesian people inspired by the Pantjasila, can be maintained. Education and culture will help lay the mental, moral, and spiritual foundation of the people. The strength and defense power of the people does not reside solely in their numbers, physical ability, and intelligence, rather the ethical and mental outlook of the people and their morale are a very important source of their defence power. Culture is a unifying element used to protect the national identity, which would otherwise be torn apart by the present ideological struggles. The objective of education is to increase the knowledge of the people and create skills and abilities which can be used to stabilize their social and cultural life and to increase their ability to defend against alien attacks (see Pauker 1963, pp. 301–3).

Hence, under these guidelines, any rival ideology that may emerge and inspire guerilla groups apart from the mainstream nationalism must be convincingly exposed as false and undeserving of the support of the people. In these guidelines, we also see the novel introduction of themes such as culture, education and social issues as important components of a comprehensive defence strategy. The importance of control in the abovementioned areas would become the hallmark of the New Order regime as these new tools of an embryonic defence strategy became symbiotically linked with regime maintenance and political order during the Suharto era.

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Nasution’s conclusion that guerilla fighters “are not only pioneers in the battle but above all pioneers of an ideology” (Nasution 1965, p. 23) raised the question of exactly what role he envisaged the Armed Forces would play in the promotion or defence of ideology. His perspectives resonated with his contemporaries like General Simatupang, specifically, Nasution’s notion that defence strategies cannot be planned or implemented in total isolation from other state responsibilities, particularly in the economic and political-ideological fields (Simatupang 1954, p. 79). The Indonesian Doctrine of Territorial Warfare and Territorial Management further emphasizes the importance of control in economics: The logistics of Territorial Warfare are rooted in the national economy. The objective of control in this field is the safeguarding of national economic development plans, the mobilization of manpower for development efforts, and an increase in the efforts aimed at the achievement of a self-sufficient society. Rehabilitation efforts in this field should be aimed at restoring economic livelihood within the shortest possible time after a war. A healthy national economy provides a firm foundation for national defense and can also provide the conditions needed to strengthen national consciousness. When the daily needs of the people are adequately and equally met, the defense power of the people is directly strengthened... If national economic life is not regulated it will have a great influence on our strategic measures, particularly in the field of supply and cost financing. In carrying out thoroughly planned warfare, evaluation of national abilities and capabilities are influenced by the material and financial position and processes of the state. Thus, the control function in the economic and financial fields is an important one (Pauker 1963, pp. 302, 308).

In other words, the military must be to some extent involved in the determination of an overall defence policy covering military as well as non-military strategies, in peacetime as well as war. Unity of command, particularly in a state of crisis, was considered absolutely imperative in order to effect coordinated action in the military, political, ideological, social, and economic fields. Nasution refers in this context to the provisions in the 1945 Constitution stipulating that the posts of president and supreme commander of the armed forces should all be held by one person, and points out crises in which the Indonesian parliament transferred all powers to the civilian head of state (Nasution 1965, p. 52). But the problems of establishing a unified wartime leadership were compounded by the general unwillingness of the political elite in the first

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few years of the revolution to prepare the Republic for battle. Moreover, in the greatest crisis the young Republic had experienced, President Sukarno surrendered the government to Dutch troops. This forced the military chiefs who had decided to continue the struggle, to operate largely without the national political leadership group and to form military governments for the Java and Sumatra defence regions. Elaborating from the model presented in Chapter 3 utilizing the Doctrine of Territorial Warfare, if the resistance against foreign forces deteriorates to the stage where the struggle is to be carried on from isolated guerilla pockets — as was the case in 1948–49 — leadership had to be decentralized and vested in unified command structures in each guerilla pocket or strategic compartment. In planning for this type of warfare, the size and distribution of the population became extremely important: Numerical needs require that the activity of assigning manpower for the requirements of defense be undertaken. As a result the population may be shifted and more widely distributed. This will necessitate the carrying out of the following efforts. 1. The more efficient regulation of population administration. This will make available control data on the amounts of manpower in the regions. 2. Maximum efforts in the assignment and reassignment of the population in each region. This is a measure aimed at creating regions which will function as strategic compartments. 3. Planning the expansion or reduction of the population in each region in conformance with the effort to perfect the resettlement activity. This measure is aimed at achieving a uniform population density in the various regions (Pauker 1963, p. 310).

This need, to create an adequate population base in the various regions of Indonesia for the purposes of creating sustainable strategic compartments would later become the defence rationale for the controversial transmigrasi (transmigration) policy which though inaugurated in the 1950s was expanded significantly during the New Order period.10 This critical population base, to use Nasution’s words, made up of: Political, psychological and socio-economical forces must uninterruptedly develop themselves and this is only possible with a system of guerilla government or military government that we have formerly been acquainted with. In such a total war, the people must be activated and directed from the beginning according to a systematic

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method. The leadership (of guerilla pockets/strategic compartments) is held by the civil authorities, with the assistance of the territorial forces, but in its relationship to war, everything must be brought under the supervision of the military leadership” (Nasution 1965, p. 89).

Thus a guerilla war “is not only a military war but also a political, psychological, and socio-economic war, in short, a total war... The leaders in a war are not military experts only; they must be expert statesmen as well. The activities of these leaders are not limited merely to military operations but include all the political, psychological, and socio-economical phases so that they can activate a total people’s war (ibid., p. 93). Practically the same principle applies for counter-insurgency operations by government troops. As Nasution points out: The anti-guerilla war also must assume a total character. This means that the anti-guerilla movement must be able to realize what are the politico-ideological and socio-economic problems that give rise to and nourish such guerilla resistance... The crux of the problem is whether the anti-guerilla movement brings to the people a better ideology or at least an improvement of their fate, an improvement which can be felt directly (ibid., p. 55).

These statements amounted to a claim for greater political power in crisis situations. Nasution apparently saw no contradiction between the enhanced political roles claimed for the army in his defence and security strategy, and his recognition of the joint prerogatives of the parliament and the cabinet to legislate on defence. He treads a tightrope, though, when he warns that even in peacetime the guerilla soldier will remain aware of political and social issues. Building on the postulate of the wartime commander-in-chief, the late General Sudirman, that the military is “an instrument of the Revolution and the (people’s) Struggle, not only a tool of (unstable)11 governments”,12 he asserts that the Indonesian soldier is not — and cannot be expected to be — “deaf and dumb in politics”: For us, who for many years to come must concentrate on guerilla and anti-guerilla warfare in which the army and the people’s partisans must cooperate, it is not possible to say that a soldier is a soldier, and politics are politics, and that the soldier must keep away from politics. In the past, people used to preach that the army should have an ideology, but that it must not mix in politics. The facts in our guerilla war for independence have twice proven otherwise”.

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However, “with the word ‘politics’ we do not mean ‘petty politics’ in the sense of parties and groups fighting only for positions in the government, as is usually the case in peacetime. It is politics in the wider sense, it is statesmanship; it is fighting and defending a greater policy as is implied in the proclamation and preface of our original Constitution of 1945... The official army and our partisans must in the future be oriented towards the country’s ideology in its wider political implications... The guerilla should be a revolutionary vanguard; this was our ideal in the past and should be our ideal in the future. He must realize that the revolution has not yet ended (Nasution 1965, pp. 94–95).

This amounted to a much more explicit claim for the army’s involvement in determining political, social and economic policies justified by the country’s defence and security needs. Moreover, Nasution implicitly accused the government of incompetence in dealing with the problems of internal insurrections which he, probably somewhat simplistically, reduced to basically one issue, that of the people’s welfare. It took a few more years to realize that the disequilibrium between rising expectations and the inability of governments to respond sufficiently to demand inputs had political, ethno-cultural, and even international dimensions to it as well. But during that era, given the obvious incapacity of the government to pay for the modernization of the armed forces, and its equally obvious inability to settle continuing insurgencies by political means, Nasution’s proposal for an integrated defence and security strategy, as an immediate stop-gap measure to dam up insurrections and cope with possible external threats at the same time, was difficult to refute. DWIFUNGSI AND TERRITORIAL MANAGEMENT In regard to the deployment of troops the army continued to maintain an organizational structure completely geared towards guerilla and anti-guerilla warfare, now termed territorial warfare. In its early formulation at Seskoad in Bandung, the dual function of the military was organically linked with the territorial warfare concept of defence, according to which in the absence of modern weapons and of an industrial base capable of supplying and servicing the requirements of technologically sophisticated warfare, Indonesia could only be defended against external aggression by defensive guerilla warfare, a concept strikingly similar to Mao’s military doctrine. Territorial warfare required the full support of the civilian population, especially in the countryside, on which the military could not count on

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unless the national government was well regarded. Consequently, the military concluded that in addition to their combat role in wartime, they had to assume the dual function of improving and strengthening public administration in peacetime in order to restore the population’s respect for its government. Hence, by extension, the doctrine of territorial warfare thus became also a doctrine of territorial management. Divisions and regiments were each allocated a certain territory for which they had almost exclusive defence and security obligations. Each regimental staff contained a “territorial” section for liaison with the people, with the explicit purpose of keeping the masses “battle-ready” and providing a military government for their area in times of war. The territorial structure was enhanced through the creation in the early 1960s of a new type of territorial unit on the provincial level (Kodam, covering one or several provinces), expanding the number of Kodim, setting up Koramil on subdistrict level, and posting sergeants (babinsa) in villages. Areas strongly contested by rebel forces saw the introduction of territorial commands at the residency level (Korem) as well. This territorial structure was coordinated by a Section for “Territorial Affairs” which was in place since the early 1950s. Set up within army headquarters, it was responsible for liaison with the people and for the planning of the army’s social, political, and economic activities in emergency situations.13 The territorial forces were organized along with the pyramid of regional civilian administration (see Figure 4.2). By paralleling the army command structure

Figure 4.2 Parallel Civilian Administrations and Army Territorial Command Civilian

Army

Government

Head

Command

Rank of Command

Province

Gubernur

Kodam

Major-General

Residency

Bupati

Korem

Colonel

District

Walikota

Kodim

Lieutenant Col./Major

Sub-District

Camat

Koramil

Captain/Lieutenant

Village

Lurah

Babinsa

Sergeant

Source: Author’s personal collection

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with the regional administrative bodies, the territorial forces played the role of front-runner in managing regional security on the day-to-day basis. The equation between the army territorial structure and the civilian administration is further enhanced when the gubernur (governor), bupati (regent), camat (subdistrict officer), or lurah (village head) is an armed forces man serving in a kekaryaan (non-military) capacity. Thus a military man serving as a provincial governor will ideally keep in close touch with the local military commander (Panglima Kodam or Pangdam). A bupati will coordinate his programmes with the local Kodim commander (Komandan Kodim or Dandim). In some cases, the distinction between the two hierarchies becomes completely blurred, as is the case where a Kodim commander is moved across, prior to his retirement, to become bupati in the area where he has already been serving, or a sergeant who has served as babinsa is moved across to become lurah in the same village. This structure gave the army leaders great capacity to implement their defence strategies as well as providing them with the ability to influence the outcome of general elections.14 The latter outcome has become increasingly prevalent during the New Order period. The role diversification of the Indonesian army necessitated new structures and encouraged the development of new skills among military men. But these new structures quickly acquired a dynamic of their own. Officers in the territorial army increasingly sought more scope for applying their newly developed political and “man-management” skills. Under the watchful eyes of army headquarters, they partly transformed their role of supporting the operations of combat troops into one of political support for headquarters policies and general political surveillance and control. It may, then, be concluded that the particular type of defence strategy that evolved in Indonesia, and the premium placed on internal stability involving the army in large-scale security operations, caused the military to develop an immediate interest in the social welfare of the masses. The direct support of the people was deemed imperative if guerilla warfare against external enemies and counter-insurgency campaigns against internal rebels were to be successful. Moreover, in Nasution’s view, internal rebellions had their roots in the authorities’ failure to respond effectively to the people’s aspirations legitimized by revolutionary rhetoric and promises, and the stipulations of the Pancasila. FORMALIZING A COMPREHENSIVE SECURITY DOCTRINE In an attempt to relate the political, economic, social and psychological factors of national development to the tasks of national defence, the armed

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forces introduced in the late 1960s, the Doctrine of National Resilience (Ketahanan Nasional).15 The most straightforward definition of National Resilience16 is as follows: National Resilience is a dynamic condition of the nation consisting in our capability, integrity, perseverance and stamina in the face of all challenges, threats, obstacles and disturbances, both external and internal, directly or indirectly endangering the integrity, identity and the continued existence of the nation and the state... Those capability, integrity and stamina comprises all the aspects of the life of the nation and the state in the ideological, political, economic, socio-cultural and defence-security fields which must continuously be cultivated and promoted.17

The doctrine of National Resilience consists of eight aspects of national life (Astagatra). Those aspects are divided in two categories, namely three natural aspects or Trigatra and five social aspects or Pancagatra. The three natural aspects are geography, natural resources and population. The five social aspects are ideology, politics, economy, socio-culture and defence-security. Hence, in reality, the doctrine of National Resilience was the TNI’s ipoleksosbudmilag outlook neatly designed as a security ideology to enable the Indonesian nation to identify the national problems (including its security concerns) in order to determine the measures to counter them. National Resilence referred to the successful promotion of cohesion in defence and security and its resultant contribution to the realization of society’s welfare through national development. It is in its function as a social force in the context of dwifungsi that the armed forces have been assigned a leading role in national development. In an attempt to achieve this goal, the armed forces focused primarily on two important approaches: 1. Physical security, in the sense that ABRI shall prevent all possibilities for and overcome the emergence of disturbances to security from wherever they may come on the basis of its authority and tasks as a defence and security force; 2. The direct participation of ABRI in the implementation of development through Kekaryaan ABRI and Bhakti ABRI in order to create welfare (Djiwandono 1988, p. 83).

The first approach, kekaryaan, referred to the employment of armed forces personnel outside the military organization, either in government or nongovernment institutions. Armed forces personnel given these assignments

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were known as karyawan, namely, the non-military affairs workers, acting as a social force. The second channel, bhakti referred to the dedicatory services rendered by personnel of the armed forces as a social force. Bhakti or the dedicatory services of the armed forces personnel such as Operasi Manunggal (Operation to integrate the military with the people), AMD or ABRI Masuk Desa (Military Village Assistance Programme), and Operasi Reboisasi (Operation of Forest Replanting). The involvement of armed forces personnel through the kekaryaan and bhakti programmes had the effect of increasing the military’s ability to influence the ideological, political, economic and socio-cultural life of the nation in accordance with the National Resilience Doctrine. This desire for an all encompassing comprehensive approach to security, to reiterate, grew out of and was a logical extension of the army’s concomitant to prosecute a Total People’s War strategy for the defence of Indonesia. In its struggle against the Dutch in 1945–49, the Indonesian army had to develop political, social and economic relations with the population in whose midst it was quartered and whose support it required — dwifungsi as guerilla war. Unfortunately, the introduction and socialization of the armed forces socio-politico military doctrines as an instrument for justifying and legitimizing of military involvement in politics had the unwelcome effect of associating the armed forces with the narrow interests of regime security rather than the broader concerns of state security.18 These are concerns which will be raised later in the chapter — particularly its repercussions in the context of the effective prosecution of a Total People’s War against an external aggressor. The armed forces apprehension that the world was trapped in a situation of a “twilight war”, where longer-lasting peace and stability was practically impossible during the Cold War, saw the extension of the national resilience concept to cover external security concerns. Such a strategy was motivated by an understanding that various domestic political crises were seen as being linked to the turbulent external environment. Hence, the TNI during the Suharto era sought to use the concept of national resilience as an “ideological barrier” against security concerns which could threaten the values and norms of Indonesian society itself. Such disturbances would unhinge Suharto’s desire to establish Pancasila as the sole foundation of the state. Within Indonesia, social control plus the enforcement muscle of the TNI, could aid Suharto as he attempted “the integration (memanunggalkan) of all layers, groups, forces, and generations of our nation with the basis, ideology, and ideals of our country and state”.19 However, the external environment, and the manner in which it had

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impinged on Indonesia’s domestic security equation, was a different matter altogether. Indonesia in the 1970s lacked the material capability necessary to “impose” a cordon sanitaire around the country to immunize its people from subversive influences and direct threats. Nevertheless, as the largest country in Southeast Asia, Indonesia was able to use its influence within ASEAN to convince member states to adopt Indonesian security norms and the external manifestation of this strategy was the “regionalization” of the national resilience doctrine as means of enabling Indonesia to secure it external national security through the regional resilience concept. In a sense, an argument can be made that politically vulnerable states could find regional arrangements useful for coping with their domestic challenges and countering common threats to regime survival. Their common vulnerabilities arising from similar ideological outlooks and domestic political predicaments can provide the basis for unity in dealing with the regional security environment. Shared perception of a common internal enemy can also provide a strong impetus for regional cooperative arrangements, in addition to coordination on measures to ensure internal security. Thus, while alliances of weak powers generally have proven ineffectual in coping with aggression, security cooperation among vulnerable states against threats to domestic and regime security may fare better. Not only do such threats constitute the most pressing security problems of Developing World countries, but dealing with them does not require significant military capabilities and in fact can be pursued through non-military means. For Indonesia, regional cooperation in Southeast Asia was seen as an essential response to the threat posed by communist advances in Indochina and the concern that such advances may rejuvenate the communist movement within the country. Mutual domestic security concerns in Indonesia and the other ASEAN countries also served to strengthen regional cooperation. Similarities in regime values among the ASEAN countries were the basis for the notion of a common enemy, “seen to feed and depend for its success on a cluster of social conditions that are essentially the same in the various countries” (Jorgensen-Dahl 1982, p. 102). The ASEAN regimes all shared three major dilemmas during the 1970s: “the reconciliation of economic growth with equity, national integration and ethnic pluralism, and political stability and participation” (Snitwongse 1983, p. 144). There was a general consensus among ASEAN policymakers that instability resulting from their failure to resolve these dilemmas could be the

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most serious threat to the political and security order in ASEAN. In this sense, the ASEAN countries’ calculation of the mix of security concerns to regional security was weighted heavily towards domestic challenges, even as the external situation for the ASEAN states deteriorated with the intensification of the Sino-Soviet rivalry and the U.S. debacle in Indochina. It is in this context that the Indonesian concept of national and regional “resilience”, advanced by the New Order regime, was adopted as something of an ASEAN motto by the other members of the group, highlighting the regional importance of domestic order and regime stability. According to Irvine, the concept of national resilience is an “inward-looking concept, based on the proposition that national security lies not in military alliances or under the military umbrella of a great power, but in self-reliance deriving from domestic factors such as economic and social development, political stability and a sense of nationalism” (1982, p. 90). In this context, the Indonesian concept of regional resilience is the sum total of national resilience in individual ASEAN states, that is: If each member nation can accomplish an overall national development and overcome internal threats, regional resilience can result much in the same way as a chain derives its overall strength from the strength of its constituent parts (Wanandi 1984, p. 305).

Hence, in the Indonesian perception, every ASEAN country should strive towards its own national resilience. The collective resilience of all the ASEAN countries would constitute regional resilience, which in turn would have a positive impact on the national stability of the respective ASEAN members. Hence, due to the vulnerable nature of the archipelago, the stability of Southeast Asia was deemed important to Indonesia’s own stability. As such, regional resilience forms the ideological basis of forward defence in Indonesian security thinking. National security has been a major foreign policy concern for Indonesia. Throughout the course of Indonesia’s post-independence history, regional and extra-regional factors have impacted on domestic security concerns. As Suharto has articulated: “Our concept of security is inward looking, namely to establish an orderly, peaceful and stable condition within each individual territory, free from any subversive elements and infiltrations, wherever from their origins might be (sic)” (Leifer 1983, p. 161).

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Concern thus was centred on the potential for hostile foreign — especially Communist — powers to encourage destabilizing domestic political movements. This perspective was at the heart of the Ketahanan Nasional concept. At the global level, Indonesian national defence policy thus assumes a responsibility for peace not only in Indonesia but also in other nations, including the elimination of colonialism and restoration of harmony around the world. The country recognizes that peace requires both military action and non-military support for development. As a consequence, Indonesia’s national policies support U.N. operations, and the aspiration to execute them are further enhanced by the TNI’s doctrine and training. The preamble to the 1945 Constitution provides for “maintaining world order based on freedom, eternal peace, and social justice”. As we have discussed, Indonesian military doctrine includes both traditional military roles as well as a non-military functions. It is primarily through its experience in nonmilitary matters that Indonesia possesses soldiers who are relatively well prepared for peacekeeping operations. For instance, citing Major General Tamlicha Ali who served as UNTAC military chief of staff for more than a year, Haseman outlined six lessons from the Indonesian experience in Cambodia: Develop broad knowledge of the area of operations, including geography, demography, socio-economic conditions, culture, customs, and religion. Maintain vigorous standards in selecting personnel and units, including psychological testing. Require high standards of personal and unit discipline since soldiers routinely face situations requiring great restraint. Besides English, key contingent leaders should master the language of the area and individual soldiers should have a basic vocabulary in both English and the local language. Train officers in negotiation techniques and other diplomatic skills. Ensure that civic action and humanitarian assistance are an integral part of military doctrine (Haseman 1996).

Indonesia is one of the most experienced supporters of UN peace operations with an involvement in UN peacekeeping missions spanning a period of almost forty years. While each numbered operation designated Garuda has its own characteristics, Indonesia has evolved a system which integrates preparation and execution in both standard doctrine and training. Its first UN operation was mounted in the Sinai in 1957 and the twelfth in Cambodia. In between, Indonesia has contributed contingents which served on the Iran-Iraq and the Iraq-Kuwait borders as well as in Namibia,

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Somalia, Bosnia and prior to the economic crises of 1997, Cambodia, which remains its largest and most costly UN peacekeeping mission to date.20 The success of Garuda XII can be attributed to a national policy that fosters international participation. This willingness to support international peacekeeping was evident in the commitment displayed at the national level to the Cambodian mission and a reflection of the confidence that the application of homegrown doctrine and tactics were perfectly suited for peacekeeping operations. Within the TNI, participation in UN peace operations is an organizational and personal plum. Units take pride in such deployments and officers view their involvement in them as career-enhancing. Current president Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono came to national prominence after a successful stint in a concurrent role as Chief Military Observer and Indonesian Contingent Commander in Bosnia-Herzegovina in 1995.21 In sum, the concept of national resilience is fundamental to Indonesian foreign policy and emphasizes the need for economic progress, political stability and a high national morale to guard against threats (Van der Kroef 1975, p. 164). Such a comprehensive approach to security is by no means flawed. Indeed, the global security debate during the post Cold War era has broadened considerably to include economic security, resource and environmental security and even cultural security within the broader ambit of human security (Yudhoyono 2001, p. 10). Indonesia’s comprehensive approach to security is within the country’s cultural and military traditions, and draws its legitimacy from its origins. If comprehensive security approaches are to be useful in post-Suharto Indonesia, such doctrines must be divested of earlier excesses and modernized to take into account democratic trends and also reflect defence of the nation as a whole. FROM TOTAL PEOPLE’S DEFENCE AND SECURITY SYSTEM TO TOTAL DEFENCE The territorial command structure, and its enabling of the army to organize itself into geographical compartments, remains the major building block of a strategy to ward off an external invasion. Such a strategy remains the most viable option in the short to medium term, considering the lack of funds to equip the TNI for a conventional war. To be fair, the government has been responsive and understands consequences of budgetary shortfalls. When questioned on what it would take to build a

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capable professional force, Defence Minister Juwono Sudarsono stated that the ideal budget would be 46 trillion rupiah (US$5.06 billion) per year, 22 a point seemingly understood by the outgoing Megawati administration whose allocation of 21.97 trillion rupiah for defence was a 2.8 per cent increase from the 2004 budget.23 This initiative followed up a decision in August 2003 requesting parliament for a 100 per cent increase in defence and security spending to 10.5 trillion rupiah for fiscal year 2004. For fiscal year 2004 approximately 7.67 trillion rupiah would be spent on the defence sector with the remainder allocated for security. The bulk of funds allocated for the defence sector were likely to be allocated towards routine spending, namely, to cover operational, educational and training expenses with the balance going to development spending. The proposals would take defence expenditure to 15.4 per cent of the total proposed 2004 state budget which amounted to 68.1 trillion rupiah.24 Similarly, it remains likely that the TNI will be needed from time to time to deal with regional instability and in the likelihood that such contingencies could eventuate, will need to be better configured to deal with low intensity internal conflict (armed rebellion or insurgency) and non-conventional security concerns like disaster relief. Certain aspects of the territorial structure have utility for a postSuharto TNI now tasked with the responsibility of external defence and for unique situations where a security crisis reaches proportions beyond the capability of the Police to resolve. However, the territorial structure has become the focal point for criticism of the TNI’s role in Indonesian society, specifically, its overarching political presence and past abuses of power. While, as we will see in Chapter 5, the TNI has embarked on numerous structural changes to liquidate overtly “political” positions within its organizational structure, the need to acquire additional income to offset shortfalls in the official budget, which covers only about 25–30 per cent of actual costs, the enduring linkages accrued over the years through lucrative business continue to predominate and the maintenance of such contacts — illicit or otherwise — are deemed necessary for the sake of self-reliance. While the annual defence budget may amount to US$1 billion, approximately US$3 billion is said to have been generated by means of formal, informal and illegal commercial activities, including oil and drugs smuggling and distribution.25 These sources of revenue, commonly known as “off-budget income”, would not be possible without the legitimacy of a territorial structure providing cover for rent-seeking activity as well as lucrative business opportunities with local elites and business

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groups. Such activities proliferated considerably throughout the Suharto era, particularly in the 1980s and 1990s, despite the existence of Government Regulation No. 6/1974 prohibiting members of the armed forces from engaging in commercial activities. The territorial structure not only enables military units to maximize business opportunities in all parts of the country, but through security operations in the regions, they can gain access to further sources of funds by providing security services to large multinational companies like Exxon-Mobil in Aceh26 and Freeport in Papua.27 These opportunities are particularly significant for non-territorial units like Kostrad, Kopassus and Brimob. According to the Van Zorge report (see Figure 4.3), revenue is generated through three sources.28 First, “formal and institutional” sources represented by foundations and cooperatives which are legally registered entities run by every level of the military and police. Second, the issue of “personal involvement”, which refers to the established practice of companies appointing senior personnel from the armed forces and police to senior positions. In a collusive and poorly regulated business environment, such individuals are able to use their influence to assist companies to win lucrative tenders and derive other benefits. Such officers enjoy lucrative commissions as a consequence and generally serve as conduits for companies interested in joint ventures with military-related companies. Third, the controversial “hidden economy” is a sensitive area revolving around black market activities that could range from security protection, to mark-ups of arms procurement and even criminal activities.29 Competition for lucrative “turf” has, since the separation of the police from the military, resulted in tension between military and police units competing for resources and territories. Such a situation also leads to alliances with criminal groups, militia/ lasykar and other violent groups which not only trigger local violence but contribute to the escalating cycle of corruption and human rights abuse. Needless to say, such conditions put a strain on the local business community and the population, particularly because military and police businesses often go hand in hand with compulsion, intimidation, violence and in many instances, environmental degradation. For the territorial structure to remain a relevant and viable part of the defence doctrine, such excesses need to be addressed and financial transparency implemented rigorously. A good starting point has been the introduction of a National Defence Law, a Police Law in 2002 and a TNI Law in 2004. Though Law 2/2002 on the Police does not comment on budget matters, it mentions that a National Commission keep

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Figure 4.3 Military and Police Foundations and Their Associated Companies Military & Police Foundations TNI Headquarters Yayasan Markas Besar ABRI (Yamabri) *est. 1994

Army Yayasan Kartika Eka Phaksi (YKEP) *est. 1972

KOSTRAD Yayasan Kesejahteraan Sosial Dharma Putera (YKSDP Kostrad) *est. 1964

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Associated Companies • PT Manunggal Air Service • Balai Sudirman (convention hall) • Bangkit Adhi Santosa (mining) • Yamabri Dwibakti Utama (construction) • Fajar Multi Dharma (agribusiness) • PT Primasel [Indoprima Mikroselindo] (mobile phone producer from Japan for East Java) • PT Palopo Timber Company (forestry) • PT Tallabu Luna Timber (forestry) • PT Indotruba Tengah (CPO) • PT Meranti Sakti Indonesia (forestry) • PT Sumber Mas Timber (forestry) • PT ITCI Kartika Utama (forestry) • PT Cilegon Fabricator (steel) • PT Kayan River Indah Plywood (forestry) • PT Meranti Sakti Indah Plywood (forestry) • PT Sumbar Mas Indah Plywood (forestry) • PT Bhakti Wira Husada (pharmaceutical) • PT Panca Usaha Palopo Plywood (forestry) • PT Sinkono Indonesia Lestari (quinine trading) • PT Tri Usaha Bhakti (general trade) • PT Truba Raya Trading (shoes) • PT Adi Kartika Satria (LPG distribution) • PT Aerotopografia (mapping) • PT Marabunta (transportation) • PT Puma Sadhana (general trading) • PT Truba Daya Konstruksi (construction) • PT Wahana Bhakti Utama (repair services) • PT Aerokarto Indonesia (mapping) • PT Asuransi Cigna Indonesia (insurance) • PT Truba Jurong Engineering • PT Bank Artha Graha • PT Buanagraha Artha Prima (property) • PT Wisma Kartika (hotels) • PT Grya Kartikak Dharmawangsa (fitness) • PT Kartika Igra’ Utama (travel) • PT Telekomindo Primabhakti (telecommunications) • PT Kartika Airlines • PT Trubaindo Coal Mining • PT Dharma Putera Kencana • PT Dharma Kencana Sakti (holding company) • PT Mandala Airlines • Bank Windu Kentjana • PT Garuda Mataram (VW vehicle assembly) • PT Toyato Astra Motors • PT Federal Motor • PT Bogasari (flour milling) • PT Karuna (plastic sacks) • Wahana Tata (insurance) • Mandala Airlines • Santi Yoga (trading) • Yuasa Battery Indonesia

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300 REALPOLITIK IDEOLOGY Figure 4.3 (continued)

Military & Police Foundations KOPASSUS

Associated Companies • Graha Cijantung

Yayasan Kesejahteraan Korps Baret Merah (Yakobame) *est. 1995 Navy Yayasan Bhumyamco (Yasbhum) *est. 1964

Air Force Yayasan Adhi Upaya (Yasau)

Ministry of Defence

• Jala Bhakti Yashbum Yamabri (holding company) • Admiral Lines (shipping) • Geger Halang (agribusiness) • Yala Mina Yashbum (fisheries) • Bhumyjala Wigantara (ship repairs) • Bhumyamca Sekawan (property) • Yata Trade (trading) • PT Kodja (docking) • Dirgantara Air Service • Angkasa Puri (property) • Dirgantara Husada (pharmacy) • Green Delta (timber) • Jasa Angkasa Semesta (airport management) • Konstruksi Dirgantar (construction) • PT Cardig Air • PT Batam Aircraft Maintenance • SMU Taruna Nusantara • UPN Veteran Yogyakarta

Yayasan Kejuangan Panglima Besar Sudirman (YKBPS) * est. 1990 Main vehicle: PT Multi Eka Karma, 8 subsidiaries (telecommunications, media, data, construction, jewelry, asphalt, oil and gas, infrastructure) Yayasan Satya Bhakti Pertiwi (YSBP) Police Yayasan Brata Bhakti Poiri (YBB Poiri)

• Bhakti Bhayangkara (insurance) • Bhara Induk (timber) • Bhara Union (timber) • Bank Yudha Bhakti (banking) • Braja Tama (timber) • Tansa Trisna (trading) • Universitas Bhayangkara

Source: Adapted from “The Tentacles of the Octopus: The Business Interests of the TNI and Police”, in Van Zorge Report on Indonesia, Vol. V (16 July 2003), p. 12.

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a watch on the development of the police and assist the president in taking decisions concerning the Police. With such an open ambit, the possibility exists for the National Police Commission to become an oversight committee for budgetary matters. Likewise, for the military, article 20, paragraph 2 of Laws 3/2002 explicitly states that “All national resources, formed by human resources, natural resources, infrastructure, values, technology and funds, can be used to enhance the capacity of national defence, as it will be arranged further by Government Regulation”. The TNI Law (No. 32/2004) is even more explicit, banning soldiers from involvement in business activities, adding that all the TNI’s activities and requirements were to be funded out of the state budget. Over a five year period, the requirement is that the government take over the bulk of military business enterprises that have assets worth 5 billion rupiah or more with smaller business enterprises still being retained by the TNI.30 Taken at face value, the laws in question give adequate room for financial transparency and democratic accountability of the military and police. No doubt, this is not an iron-clad guarantee. Much will depend on the role of both the government and civil society in monitoring and socializing such norms. Another significant source of motivation could come from the international donor community. Organizations like the IMF have become acutely aware of the role of military interests in nurturing widespread corruption and as a consequence stagnating economic reform. A way forward to motivate the TNI to restructure its territorial commands and phase out its controversial methods of self-financing could be achieved through a useful suggestion by Lachica that a “military donors club” working informally with a World Bank led Consultative Group on Indonesia be created with the aim of providing Indonesia with military aid. Lachica proposes that in exchange for a commitment from the TNI to sustain the momentum of reform, Indonesia’s modest defence budget could be augmented through contributions from an expanded donor base (See Lachica 2003). This is an option that could be considered in tandem with current methods of financing military expenditure if sufficient procedures for transparency can be implemented. In the final analysis, there is nothing wrong with the military having business interests as long as there is public accountability of such activities and the businesses are run professionally. This may be one area where civil-military interaction can increase through the employment of civilian business expertise. On the subject of accountability, the TNI and Police should be audited by the State Audit Board (BPK, Badan Pemeriksa Keuangan). Defence

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budgets should be treated similarly to budgets from other ministries and therefore accountable to the State Treasury and the Reserves Office under the Directorate-General of State Finances at the Ministry of Finance (Pramodhawardhani 2003, p. 19). Likewise, under circumstances where accountability structures would circumscribe TNI activities, the military should be permitted to retain a number of corporations that are considered important for national security or for the public interest. Similarly, if they can be efficiently run, the TNI should be allowed to control industrial enterprises, maintenance and repair factories and research facilities that have the capacity to provide logistical support for the military establishment. Under transparent conditions, businesses and other entities should be allowed to retain their links to the TNI particularly in circumstances where such organizations provide work and welfare support for family dependants and demobilized troops. One specific area that should be abandoned altogether is the TNI’s formal provision of security protection for businesses in the guise of guarding “vital installations”. The TNI’s record in fomenting destabilizing violence in the vicinity of such business areas has been poor and statements made in late 2003 by TNI Commander Gen Endriartono Sutarto coming in the wake of allegations that TNI personnel were responsible for the killing of two Americans in the vicinity of PT Freeport emphasizing “that he would withdraw troops currently deployed at several installations” and adding that security duties were “not part of our main tasks” will be welcomed by civil society elements in Indonesia.31 By reining in the excesses associated with the Suharto era national security state, and with safeguards in place to control corrupt practices, the TNI would have the credibility necessary to maintain the critical dimensions of the territorial structure that would enable it to prepare to fulfill its role in external defence and assist the police in the event of a national or regional emergency compromising Indonesia’s territorial integrity. As stated in Chapter 3, for the purposes of external defence, the key command structures to be retained would be the Kodam and Korem. The command structures at the Kodim and Koramil are too small to be utilized effectively for a Total People’s war. These suggestions, though articulated in a different context, namely the need for the TNI to embark on reforms in response to the pace of democratic changes taking place in Indonesian society, were introduced by the late Lt-Gen Agus Wirahadikusumah in 1999.32 That the reform of the territorial structure as one of the top reformasi priorities should be considered was not under question, however, the shift in the

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power constellation from the supreme power that once radiated from the presidential palace to a more complex political environment involving power plays between the executive and legislative branches created opportune conditions for those seeking to chastise the genuine reform concerns of unorthodox officers like Wirahadikusumah. His views were conveniently dismissed as politically motivated and he was denigrated personally as someone seeking political alliances for career advancement. As a consequence of Indonesia’s tempestuous transition, the issue of reform has lost its sense of perspective and meaning. Views within the TNI ranged from Agus Wirahadikusumah’s politically unfashionable proposals over the dismantling of the territorial structure, criticized for being made public without the approval of his superiors; to the statements of former Kaster Lt Gen Agus Widjojo arguing for a gradual disbanding of the Babinsa, Koramil and Kodim structures over a period of 20 years; to the conservative stance of the army chief Gen Ryamizard Ryacudu arguing against any change, the issue of the reform of the territorial apparatus has fallen hostage to the changing political landscape.33 As a consequence, the post-Suharto transition has been characterized by significant factionalization within the TNI and at present, the preeminence of conservatives in its higher echelons has not surprisingly been associated with an expansion rather than a contraction of the number of territorial commands. Each of the trouble spots: Maluku, Aceh, East Kalimantan and Papua were to have their own Kodam. New regional commands, Iskandar Muda in Aceh, and Pattimura, in Maluku have been inaugurated while Sumatra and Sulawesi were expected to be divided into four and three regional commands.34 The emergence of such a situation is not surprising. On the one hand the expansion of the military’s territorial structure could essentially be compensation for the abolition of kekaryaan.35 On the other hand, and of greater concern could be its reflection as a statement of intent by the Army elite to uphold, in Liddle’s words, a “self-image and possess resources that predispose and enable them to intervene in national political life in a manner and at a time of their own choosing” based on an accumulating “list of grievances against civilian politicians that can serve as a justification, to themselves and others for eventually taking power” (Liddle 2003). Liddle goes on to add: The self-image has two parts. Looking inward, officers see the army not only as a highly valued institution but also as a corporate or nearly free standing entity whose internal coherence

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and unity they must protect from outsiders. To use a military metaphor, they live in a fortress whose walls are constantly in danger of being breached. They must therefore be built higher and stronger. Looking outward, they identify their own integrity and security with the integrity and security of the whole nation. Whatever threatens the nation and state, external or internal to Indonesia, threatens the army (ibid.).

Liddle’s observations are interesting. Again we are brought back to the issue of the need to reform the TNI’s security ideology. This security ideology coupled with the TNI’s near monopoly of the instruments of violence and the corresponding independent resource base derived through the territorial structure are a threatening combination of factors with the potential of making it impervious to democratic controls. In this regard, we are once again reminded of the need for the government to provide an adequate defence budget for the TNI bearing in mind Liddle’s dictum that a government that cannot pay its soldiers cannot control their actions (ibid.). It needs to be reiterated that there can be no substitute for reform. That being said, without wanting to be too sanguine, if we take the position that reform may take 10 to 20 years (depending on the capability and confidence of civilian leadership) how “dangerous” is the TNI? Are Liddle’s concerns warranted? Since 2000, the 1945 Constitution was amended on a number of occasions. Yet despite the TNI’s oft repeated threats that they would defend the 1945 Constitution with their lives, opposition from the TNI was relatively muted during the 2002 MPR session while its civilian members tampered at will a document that for long had been considered a sacred cow by the TNI. Could the TNI prevent itself from being marginalized in internal security matters by a National Defence Law that effectively consigns it to a predominantly external defence role? Despite the controversial “coup article” (Article 19) in the initial draft of the TNI law, which would have allowed the TNI to “shoot first, in an emergency situation, and report to the president later” (ibid.), could such a situation exist without the TNI bringing disrepute to itself and facing condemnation from the President, the DPR and the international community? Finally, though perhaps there may be an element of hindsight in this observation, despite the TNI’s ideological commitment to the unitary state and fierce opposition to federalism, could it do anything to prevent the introduction of regional autonomy laws in 2001? No doubt, the

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romanticism of its unreformed security ideology sanctions conservative or interventionist thinking but the objective conditions for the TNI to act independently as it did in Indonesia in 1965 is not as conducive as it was in the past due to the introduction of legal mechanisms, the growing assertiveness of parliament and the presence of a vociferous civil society. Yet, it is this unreformed security ideology that is at the heart of most of the problems related to security sector reform in Indonesia. The TNI’s security ideology is not founded on Huntington’s professionalism thesis where he argued that armies develop their professional skills for conventional warfare and hone their skills specifically for external defence (Huntington 1964). In the Indonesian case, the security ideology that undergirds the Doctrine of Territorial Management discussed earlier in the chapter is very much a double-edged sword. While allowing the military the scope to prepare the population for external defence it also lays the groundwork for doctrines concerned with the military’s role in counter insurgency, civic action and nation-building. In this sense, much of the focus of the TNI’s “professionalism” revolved around their approach to internal security not external security. Hence, so much of the postSuharto era discourse on making the TNI “professional” by focusing on external defence often glaringly missed the point and has taken the simplistic perspective that if the TNI simply focused on external defence, then all of the problems relating to the employment of the TNI would be solved. Such a problem simply cannot be wished away. Intrinsic to the TNI “professionalism” is the security ideology that underpins it and it is just as much entrenched in societal attitudes as it is a product of revolutionary myth. Since the late 1950s, the TNI’s training, education and capabilities focused on internal security matters and related capacity building to develop “professional” competence in these fields and were reinforced by significant military assistance programmes provided by countries like the United States and Australia. Effectively, such a situation created what Stepan defined as the “new professionalism” as opposed to Huntington’s “old professionalism” where, instead of a gap between military and political spheres, there developed a growing interrelationship between the two with the military playing a key role in resolving domestic political problems drawing its skills from the greater technical and professional skills acquired in handling internal security matters (Stepan 1973, pp. 47–65). These issues will receive more attention in the next chapter. For the purposes of summarizing this chapter more practical issues to debate would be how doctrines relevant to the TNI as an institution tasked for external defence could be reconfigured in light of

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Indonesia’s unique archipelagic geography and the reality of resource constraints. My argument here is that the Sishanta or Total Defence as a strategy to prepare the population for the defence of Indonesia against an external invasion should be retained but purged of its dwifungsi roots. Such a concept of Total Defence should maintain the comprehensive focus to security that Indonesia has grown accustomed to but oriented towards modern contingencies and removed from the sentimentality associated with the War of Revolution. For example, total defence should encompass guerrilla warfare in its military dimension but would also incorporate economic defence, civil defence, social defence and psychological dimensions similar to doctrine practiced by countries like Singapore.36 For instance, in the context of economic defence, for a country like Indonesia possessing a modern economy, the aim of economic defence is the organization of business, industry and the government in a manner whereby when faced with an external attack, be it military or economic, the economy will not break down. Civil defence is the training of the population for emergencies, therefore reinforcing national resilience on the homefront in times of confrontation and conflict. Similarly, social defence would increase the capacity of Indonesians to live harmoniously as a community. And finally, psychological defence would aim to strengthen an Indonesian citizen’s commitment and confidence in the country. In the final analysis, the role of the TNI in national life is not disputed but determining the level of engagement is the most important aspect. Working together with civilians in determining how total defence strategies can be implemented would be a useful starting point in enabling the TNI to operationalize a comprehensive security doctrine suitable for the security challenges facing Indonesia in the 21st century. CONCLUSION The New Order regime’s emphasis on, or obsession with, national security continues to pervade the mindset of the current TNI elite and despite seven years of reformasi remains the rationale for the armed forces’ involvement in all important aspects of national life. Why do such perspectives endure within the TNI? First of all, the military can claim its twin historical legacies as the heroic force for national independence in the Revolution and as the guardian of national unity against various communist, Islamic theocratic and separatist insurrections since then. More recently, the military had earned legitimacy through the successes achieved by the New Order

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government in the field of economic development. On the more theoretical side, the idea of an activist military was also enshrined in the dwifungsi concept according to which the armed forces have responsibilities not just in the military-security field but as a “social-political force” with a “civic mission” as well. Growing out of the guerilla traditions of the Revolution, which glorified the unity of soldier and civilian population within a military doctrine of territorial warfare and territorial management, dwifungsi values have been given different interpretations at different times by different Indonesian leaders, the most famous being armed forces chief General Nasution’s promulgation of a “Middle Way” for the Indonesian military as “neither divorced from the government nor openly dominating it”. And despite the talk about political development and the strengthening of Golkar as an institution separate from the military during the latter part of the Suharto era, there was little or no serious discussion about a possible return to civilian rule or the toning down of dwifungsi in favour of a narrower, totally “professional” conception of the role of the military.37 The military leadership continues to regard civilian politicians with a certain degree of distrust and disdain, while seeing themselves uniquely able to rise above the narrow, self-interested concerns of competing ideological and interest-group constituencies in order to serve the true long-term needs of the nation as a whole. Yet, historical experience suggests that the involvement of the armed forces in virtually all sectors of public life has the propensity to boomerang. Instead of keeping the social environment stable and unified under military rule, dwifungsi could import the instability and disunity of that environment into the body of the armed forces itself. This is a real and historically justified fear. Repeatedly since World War II — in Madiun (1948), in Sumatra and Sulawesi (1958), and in Jakarta (1965 and 1998) — violent rifts have erupted within the military along faultlines of ethnic, religious, regional or ideological grievance. In this light, the dwifungsi mindset that remains engrained within the TNI psyche challenges it to diversify its commitments without diluting its identity. The military has responded to this challenge by imposing its own agenda, namely, its “New Paradigm” rather than having another agenda imposed on it. The armed forces of the reformasi era continue to remain sentimentally attached to their New Order era mission where they are partisans of modernization where they have defined dwifungsi partly as a means to that end.38 The military, then, views its own nationalism as second to none, having not only struggled in the Revolution to help give birth to the

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nation but also having safeguarded national unity and the nation’s vital interests against the subversions and insurrections, the demagogic, opportunistic appeals, and the political deviations, right and left, that have plagued Indonesia since independence. It is a nationalism, moreover, of toughness, resolve, sacrifice and martial virtue, one prone to err on the side of too much security rather than not enough, and quick to see a threat to Indonesia’s security and to unilaterally take the action it feels necessary to eliminate that threat. This approach, however, has been widely criticized owing to the fact that the ambiguous nature of dwifungsi had served as a licence for direct intervention by the armed forces — anywhere, at any time regarding anything conceived as a threat resulting in the flagrant abuse by the military of its privileges — and the esteem of the military profession in Indonesian society has suffered as a consequence of this role expansion. The TNI’s predominant role will be compromised by other societal factors. First, successful economic development had brought about immense changes in society and new perceptions of upward mobility. Such outlooks have resulted in the best and brightest entering the business sector in the 1980s rather than the military as would have been the case in the 1970s.39 If anything, this societal trend will gravely compromise the quality of TNI leadership in the future, particularly its ability to compete politically with confident civilian elites at the national level. Third, the placement of military officers in non-military posts and the development of Golkar during the Suharto era had earned the military the animosity of students, civilian bureaucrats and political parties. These groups continue to view the military and its ideological orientation as obstructing political development and the entrenchment of democratic civilian rule. While it would be interesting to delve into this subject comprehensively, much of these criticisms are purely or largely of a political nature (concerning for example, the conservative character of the Megawati or Yudhoyono administrations, the political preponderance of military men at the national and regional levels, and the growing controls on political expression, for instance in relation to the reporting of the Acehnese conflict) and given the confines of this study, cannot be discussed here at length. What is of significance, though, would be to assess how this apparent rift between the military and civilian forces over the practice of democracy in Indonesia affects the armed forces ability to execute its defence and security doctrines. Here, we have to take into account the fact that the type of military doctrine chosen for the external defence of Indonesia, namely Sishanta, requires close cooperation between soldiers and citizens in order that the

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population as a whole supports the defence of the country and assists the TNI by allowing it access to the resources necessary for a “Total People’s war”. Many officers, but retired and active, are not only worried about the public image of the armed forces, but feel that the moral integrity of the military and the much-heralded “unity of the Armed Forces and the masses”, so vital for the defence capacity of Indonesia, may be imperilled40 by the government’s inability to find solutions to address the continuing high levels of corruption, the ever-lingering presence of inequality in the distribution of income, and the failure to establish social justice. Of particular concern is the attitude of the rural masses who not only constitute the majority of the Indonesian population but are also the backbone of any war fought on the basis of Indonesia’s official guerilla warfare strategy. Nasution’s words of caution regarding the poor performance of government and its concomitant effect of national defence preparedness need to be given careful consideration. In his admonishment of the Suharto regime, Nasution, who between 1957 to 1964 launched several sincere but largely unsuccessful anti-corruption campaigns, had by the late 1970s become alarmed about the rampant corruption, excesses and “over-acting” of the Suharto regime41 and warned that Indonesia was further away from achieving its ideals of social justice and prosperity than at the time of the guerilla war against the Dutch, or the rise of the New Order.42 For Nasution, the state of affairs was not only a betrayal of the goals of the Revolution, it also endangered the external and internal security of the country. In his Pokok-Pokok Gerilja, he concluded: ...it will depend on the political situation whether there is enough spiritual basis for a guerilla war in the future. If the people continue to be disappointed and miserable, if the government only brings happiness for a small group of corrupt officials, if the government is not the choice of the people, it would be a waste of time to plan a guerilla war to defend the country against a future aggressor. In a country threatened by division, plagued by corruption and suffering from poverty, one cannot expect the people to be willing to fight a guerilla war to defend themselves against an outside aggressor, on the contrary, the people will conduct a guerilla war against their own government (p. 24).

These observations may be potentially as valid today as they were when they were written in 1953. There are, however, no certain means of ascertaining whether the present government and the army has already lost the trust of the common people to the extent that they would refuse to

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support the armed forces in a time of crisis. Significantly, protests emanate from small, urban groups whilst remaining moderate in the strategically more important rural population. The government which, in the absence of reliable feedback channels, cannot be sure how its achievements are perceived among the rural masses, remains incapable of closing the gap between rich and poor both in the urban areas and the countryside. Such a development may have important repercussions in regard to the defencewillingness of the rural population. It is highly unlikely that the armed forces will diverge from the Sishanta approach — yet what remains unsettled is how it would continue do so under post Suharto circumstances where it is no longer dominant in the non-military affairs of the country. This would depend on a number of factors. Of import is the future progress and advancement on the part of civilian forces themselves in terms of their ideological orientation, integrity, political capabilities, defence education, sophistication and so on. In comparison to civilian politicians, the military believe that they were the ones who constructed the correct doctrines of national security that met the needs of Indonesia, possessed the trained personnel to implement these doctrines, and significantly, the institutional force to impose such solutions in a time of crisis. Yet years of dabbling in non-military activity have compromised their professional ethos and capabilities requiring them to catch up with the process of modernization arising from the continued advancement of technology. Better military skills are needed in the face of more modern armaments and military equipment. The military will have to develop a higher degree of professionalism. There will be a need for higher quality training and education and consequently for fewer but better qualified members. To a certain extent, going as far back as 1994, “back to basics” (Habib 1994, pp. 94–95). programme sought to address such issues. Thus, there are likely to be opposite trends in the military and the civilian forces as a consequence of modernization, advancement and sophistication in the future. For the former, such developments are likely to reduce participation in non-military affairs both in quantitative and qualitative terms; for the latter it would be the very opposite. Depending on the impact of progress and development on both the military and the civilian leadership, a partnership of the two groups for Indonesia’s transition in the short term has involved the substitution of military dominance for some form of “dynamic balance”43 described by Chrisnandi (2004, p. 437) as “equal-controllable relations” or “hubunganhubungan yang seimbang dan terkendali”. This observation is borne out

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by the fact that at the beginning of his presidency, despite giving his commitment that he would depoliticize the military, Abdurrahman Wahid displayed a lack of a clear strategy, tactics and desire to maintain his pledge in an incontrovertible manner. Political expediency, namely, the dependence of the TNI as her most significant constituency, was the reason why Megawati had no interest in the military reform agenda. Even with an ex-military man at the helm of the presidency, such a situation is no reflection that the military could make a political comeback since Yudhoyono’s mandate was secured through Indonesia’s first direct presidential election in September 2004. Indeed the genie is out of the bottle. No military officer in 1998 could have conceived of the changes that have taken place in such a short period of time. By 2003, the position of the military was no longer as it was during the time of the New Order. No longer does a situation exist where thousands of serving officers were given government jobs. The political ties that bind between Golkar and the TNI have been severed. In the months leading to the 2004 general election, officers from the TNI and the National Police relinquished their positions in the legislature. The TNI’s control over the internal security agenda will be contested by the National Police now that the two organizations have been separated. The TNI, at least in rhetoric, no longer aspires to government as it did in the past. If anything, officers have learned the folly of their ways from experience in May 1998 when they faced the possibility of “rebellion” by the masses in the streets. If today the TNI were to try to seize power directly as it did during the start of the New Order there would be a cacophony of protests not only in Jakarta and the major cities of Indonesia but indeed around the major capitals of the Western world. However, like all institutions that have enjoyed overarching hegemonic control and have successfully side-stepped reforms due to the presence of weak national leadership, the TNI can draw on its historical advantages to defend its interests indirectly. Unlike the current political parties they are better organized and therefore, though their representatives no longer sit in the DPR and Regional People’s Representative Council (DPRD, Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah), the military still has the potential to influence political development in regions via its territorial structure. And it is this potential that makes elected officials pander to TNI interests for fear that the military still possesses the capacity to cause difficulties for them. This explains why the reform process that progressed so promisingly for two years since 1998 ground to a halt. Regardless of the stalling of the reform agenda during the Megawati era, the TNI at some point will have to realize that the lack of progress in reform will stifle their ability to get rid of

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ingrained habits consistent with the security ideology inherited from the 1945 generation and cultivated assiduously by their successors during the Suharto era, but inconsistent with the emergence of democratic norms in Indonesia. Such a situation will hinder the TNI’s professionalism and gravely undermine its ability to maintain the unity of Indonesia. Harold Crouch was correct to assert that the TNI’s record in ensuring the unity of Indonesia during the Suharto era was “unimpressive” (Crouch 2003). He pointed to the fact that despite the ongoing military operations, the rebellions in Aceh and Papua remain unabated, causing him to conclude that the TNI’s ineffectiveness was a product of the “conduct of the security forces themselves that often lead to resistance, even hate, which becomes increasingly intense and deep-rooted” (ibid.). Perhaps heavy criticism of the TNI may be a little unfair due to the fact that the combination of the poor performance of regional government and the brutality of the Brimob were equally contributing factors to why people in “troubled” areas join separatist movements.44 However, as much as we would like to be balanced in our assessment of the causes of grievances in Indonesia’s troubled regions, for the bulk of the Suharto era, it was the TNI and not the regional government or Police who reinforced central government control over the archipelago. It was indeed the TNI’s security ideology legitimized through its doctrines; implemented by the territorial structure; and shaped by New Order priorities that justified its comprehensive security agenda to sustain the Suharto era national security state in Indonesia. Through legislation and societal pressure, the TNI’s comprehensive role has been pruned particularly in the field of internal security. Under the new decentralization laws, territorial management should in time become the responsibility of popularly elected officials in the regions working in partnership with the TNI, while prerogatives relating to internal security will rest with the National Police. According to law, the TNI’s role will now focus on external defence, though scope exists for conditional involvement in matters of internal security, through presidential directives supported by Parliament, at the invitation of the Police or the elected regional administration concerned. That the Suharto era territorial apparatus and other aspects of the TNI which pertain to its internal role must be reformed is indisputable if democracy is to survive in Indonesia. The process of reform and the subsequent demise of the Suharto-era “national security state” will be inevitable but will be a painfully slow process resisted by conservative TNI elites wedded to the security ideology of the past. The process of depoliticizing the TNI has been compromised due to the nature of Indonesia’s democratic transition. Since the outset, the

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process has not been completely controlled by civilians. More important, though the old regime may have elapsed, the old elite are still significant players and therefore the boundaries between the old and new remain vague. This has resulted in a transition that has been more accommodative than confrontational (Fatah 2003). The process of reform is a huge and complex question that the current government and perhaps future governments will have to wrestle with in the years to come and will be the subject of analysis and debate in the next chapter. Notes 1

2

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See, for example, major studies by Crouch (1988); Sundhaussen (1982); McVey (1971 and 1972), Robison (1986); Jenkins (1984); Maynard (1976); Said (1991); Singh (1995); MacFarling (1996); Kammen and Chandra (1999); Honna (2003); Kingsbury (2003); Chrisnandi (2004), and Rinakit (2005). For a useful study on Imperial Japan’s legacy to the militaries of Southeast Asia, see Lebra (1977). Abdul Haris Nasution, Sekitar Perang Kemerdekaan Indonesia, vol 6 (Bandung: Angkasa, 1978), pp. 144–49, 273–77. For a useful analysis of Nasution’s contribution to guerrilla warfare theory, see Cribb (2001), 143–54; and Penders and Sundhaussen (1985). See his Towards a People’s Army (Jakarta: C.V. Delegasi, 1964), pp. 37–48. Nasution, Fundamentals of Guerilla Warfare (1965), p. 71. Indonesia from 1946 onwards experienced a myriad of insurrections. The most traumatic uprising during the revolution was that of left-wing troops under the influence of the PKI in 1948. At the time of writing, the national army was engaged in “mopping-up operations” against radical Islamic Darul Islam in West Java and South Sulawesi and an ethnic rebellion in Maluku Selatan, both to continue for another decade. Nasution saw — at least partly — the PKI-led Madiun rebellion as serving the interests of international communism, and the revolt in Maluku Selatan and especially the putsch attempt by a Dutch army captain, “Turk” Westerling, in West Java as last attempts by Dutch colonialism to subvert the young Republic. Departemen Penerangan, Ringkasan Ketetapan Madjelis Permusjawaratan Rakjat Sementara Republik Indonesia No. I dan II/MPRS/1960, (Bandung, 1961), p. 55. The idea of using the transmigration policy for national defence purposes has its origins in the early 1950s when new forms of village settlements were established to re-establish control over territories previously under the control of dissident movements. In 1952 transmigration aimed to improvement of the welfare and well-being of the people and areas “considered important

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from the point of view of national defence, with a militant population”. (Oey and Sudhana, 1978). Such “Sapta Marga” communities were established specifically in South Sulawesi to become military strongholds and advance settlement areas for military supervision in areas amidst a not entirely welcoming community. Such military settlements in the form of small strongholds all over a rebellious area, particularly where the population was relatively dense, around smaller towns, for example, allowed the government over time to establish some semblance of control over a rebellious area. These tactics were also aimed at the pacification of an area through frequent contact with the local population. These military settlers were expected to form viable units, namely, capable of sustaining themselves fighting and controlling the surrounding areas. These military settlers could live with their families and farm in order to sustain their families. Land cultivation of food crops and perennial crops were also supplied. The New Order state’s aim to implement its security objectives by transmigration continued to endure; however, the emphasis was placed on frontier defence as demonstrated by the report of a Gadjah Mada University village and land research team on Irian Jaya in the mid-1980s: “One border territory which has a sparse population will create difficulties for its government and bureaucracy to find a quick way to create a strong place out of an area with a history of attempts by internal and external forces to weaken our national government … (transmigration) must create a new society at the border which possesses high social, economic, and political integrity, which can function as an effective cordon sanitaire in the border region”. See Soetrisno (1985), p. 17. Sudirman had in mind the rapid succession of cabinets in the revolutionary years when he pronounced that “the cabinet may change five times a day, but the army remains”. See Nasution, Tentera Nasional Indonesia Vol. I, 2nd edn. (1963), pp. 244–45. Ibid., p. 244. Markas Besar Angkatan Darat, Staf Umum, Rentjana-Rentjana dari Komisi Perentjana Angkatan Darat, 2nd edn. (Jakarta, 1951), pp. 1–4 and 33–34. For a discussion of the political significance of the army’s territorial structure, see Jenkins, 1984, pp. 33–52. Ketahanan nasional had its roots long before the rise of the New Order. As early as 1962, the idea of creating a National Security Institute was introduced by Lt-Gen Hidajat. Set up by Presidential Regulation No. 37, dated 25 November 1964, the National Security Institute or as it is now called, Lembaga Ketahanan Nasional (Lemhannas, National Resilience Institute) was created with the objective of giving “practical effect to the development of National Endurance” as it (Ketahanan Nasional) was then called. The role of Lemhannas was to concentrate on “research and development on the dynamics of National Endurance taking into account the various aspects of ideology, politics, socioeconomic conditions, cultural environment and military considerations”. The

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work done at Lemhannas was to become the doctrinal basis of the New Order regime’s security policies. See, Indonesia, National Security Institute Republic of Indonesia (Lembaga Pertahanan Nasional (Jakarta, 197?). Suharto officially articulated the doctrine of national resilience in a State Address before Parliament on 16 August 1969, see Sukito (1974), p. 67. Meaningful definitions of the Doctrine of National Resilience can be elusive. Definitions could be presented as a practical holistic security ideology covering ipoleksosbudmil concerns or could be statements that are abstract and practically meaningless in its articulation, for example: “National Resilience as a doctrine: National Resilience is the best available way to implement prosperity and security approaches, the truth of which is broadly and deeply believed by the Indonesian nation and to be spread to become a guidance in fulfilling the demand of the environmental development for the survival and the development of the nation”. Cited from Doktrin Ketahanan Nasional (Jakarta: Lembaga Pertahanan Nasional, 1982): p. 5. See also definitions found in Departemen Pertahanan dan Keamanan, Fungsi dan Peran ABRI dalam Periode Konsolidasi dan Integrasi: 1969–1970 (1970), p. 3. See, Buku Petunjuk Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia tentang Dwi Fungsi ABRI, op. cit. Quoted in J. Soedjati Djiwandono, “The Military and National Development in Indonesia”, (1988), p. 81. A number of Armed Forces officers interviewed during the Suharto era had indicated to me on numerous occasions their concerns regarding their actual role. Are they entrusted with the authority to defend the state? Or are they there merely to protect the position and interests of the President? Confidential interview (February 1994). Soeharto, Pikiran, ucapan dan tindakan saya: Otobiografi saperti dipaparkan kepada G. Dwipayana dan Ramadhan K.H. (Jakarta: Citra Lamtoro Gung Persada, 1989), p. 409. According to Haseman (1996), TNI training for peacekeeping operations include “area studies to familiarize personnel with conditions in the peacekeeping area of operations … includes lectures on the differences between their home base and the foreign operational area and focus on geography, demography, and socio-economic conditions. Area orientation covers familiarization with climate, weather, and terrain; religion, history, culture, language, and customs; the background of the U.N. mission; operational objectives and rules of engagement — what soldiers should and should not do; and stern indoctrination with respect to local beliefs”. Drawing from its own territorial operations doctrine, the TNI’s initial priorities focused on “winning the confidence of the population”. “We were already very similar in skin color and cultural traits”, one battalion commander observed, a factor which the Indonesian contingent believed was an important ingredient in its success in the field. The TNI felt that its system of territorial operations used for rural development in Indonesia would also work in

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Cambodia. After a brief settling-in period, operations in the province began at the lowest practical level, involving platoon-related activities. Territorial operations had taught TNI commanders the need to place importance on local culture and social systems. While security was an issue, the TNI did not adopt a garrison mentality, Indonesian military camps were open to Cambodians, and they mingled freely with soldiers. Information dissemination and problem-solving revolved around discussions with small groups of villagers and townspeople and became the medium through which all factions were contacted. Patience, which is so much a part of Indonesian, particularly Javanese, culture was an important asset when it came to exchanging views and significantly in approaches made to more recalcitrant groups. Over time, the TNI gained better information on the various factions. Communications emphasized mutual respect and understanding. Soldiers were aware and motivated that each had a significant role and if they did their duties well, the overall impact on the mission would be immense. Informal contacts seemed to achieve the best results. Indonesian commanders sought key communicators such as village leaders, faction chiefs, and unit commanders. “Coffee shops first, formal meetings later,” noted a young officer. The junior officers, namely, platoon and company commanders mediated small local disagreements. When Indonesian soldiers celebrated their holidays, traditions, and customs, they invited Cambodians to observe or take part. They also encouraged Cambodian cultural events and ceremonies and sometimes participated. Cambodians were attracted to Indonesian activities such as medical and dental care, video broadcasts, sports events, and village construction projects planned and executed with the people. Priorities included village sanitation and cleanliness, school repair and construction, and teaching done by rank and file Indonesian soldiers. Daily TNI needs were met by local purchases at fair prices and no rear area supply system was used to obtain food, water, and other necessities. While such cooperative efforts were with the people rather than armed factions, since all the people were members or supporters of one faction or another, these approaches were very effective. Indonesian troops conscientiously conducted development projects in areas controlled by all of the factions, including the Khmer Rouge. As one battalion commander said, the most difficult problem was constantly emphasizing that the rival factions were not the enemy but instead people with other ideas. This emphasis gradually won acceptance by the Khmer Rouge. The advantage for the TNI became apparent as they were always able to enter, visit, and operate in areas controlled by all four factions, a situation not achieved by many other national contingents. See Haseman 1996. “Transparency will be instituted in defence ministry”, Jakarta Post, 4 November 2004.

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“Megawati raises military spending”, Jakarta Post, 18 August 2004. “Government to double expenditure on defence”, Jakarta Post, 16 August 2003. See, “Back to Barracks”, The Economist, 17 August 2002 and Stanley A. Weiss, “Send the Military to Business School”, International Herald Tribune, 19 September 2002. According to McCulloch (2000), “the majority of military personnel earn less than US$ 100 a month depending on their individual circumstances … a Chief Sergeant who has served 14 years, is married and has three children, will earn Rp 894,600 (US$ 105) per month. While a First Sergeant who has served only 4 years and has neither children or wife will earn slightly less at Rp 757, 800 (US$ 89) … a Brigadier General’s salary (supposing he has a wife, three children, and has served 26 years) is RP 3,736,500 (US$ 439), while a Colonel with the same number of dependents and time served will amass RP 1,815,800 (US$213)”. For more details, see ibid., p. 13. According to TAPOL, the list of projects secured by troop deployment include: Exxon-Mobil Indonesia; PT Arun; PT Aceh Asean Fertiliser; PT Pupul Iskandar Mudah; PT Kertas Kraf Aceh; State Electricity Company (PLN) and Tripara Co Warehouse. For full troop deployment data, see, “Troop Deployment to Guard Exxon and other vital enterprises”, available at: http://tapol.gn.apc.org/ r011106acehtroops.htm. For more information, see International Crisis Group, Indonesia: Resources and Conflict in Papua (Jakarta/Brussels: ICG Asia Report No. 39, 13 September 2002). See “The Tentacles of the Octopus: The Business Interests of the TNI and Police”, Van Zorge Report on Indonesia, Vol. V, no. 9 (16 July 2003), pp. 10–11. For activities related to TNI involvement in the illicit small arms trade, see “Illicit small arms trade in region aggravates RI conflicts: Analyst”, Jakarta Post, 15 August 2003. For a useful perspective on TNI involvement in illegal logging, see, “Minister calls illegal loggers ‘terrorists’ after flood disaster”, Jakarta Post, 6 November 2003; with respect to military involvement in the illegal trade of protected animals, see “Police, military told to curb animal smuggling”, Jakarta Post, 29 March 2003; regarding the issue of the collection of protection fees, see, “TNI nothing more than mercenaries: Analysts” Jakarta Post, 17 March 2003; and for a useful article related to the complicity between the Navy and foreign-owned trawlers fishing illegally in Indonesian waters, see, Brian Fagan, “Plundering the sea”, Inside Indonesia (January–March 2003), pp. 21–23. “Govt to take over TNI businesses”, Jakarta Post, 9 December 2004. See “Military might withdraw from Freeport”, Jakarta Post, 11 November 2003; Military told to get out of business”, Jakarta Post, 15 August 2003; “Indonesian probe leads to Army”, Washington Post, 27 October 2002; and

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32

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Institute for Human Rights Study and Advocacy (Elsham), “What’s wrong with Freeport’s security policy?” Inside Indonesia (January–March 2003), pp. 8–9. See, “Controversial General”, Gatra, 25 December 1999. Available from http:// www.gatra.com/_english/VI/6/NAS5-6.html. For an excellent analysis of the debates surrounding the reform of the territorial apparatus during the post Suharto era, see Mietzner (2003), pp. 245–58. According to TAPOL, depending on the security status in a particular area, the regional command structure will be either type A or B (similar to a normal territorial command). Type A style structures will be placed in an area where security conditions are weak and would include an extra combat brigade, an intelligence detachment and a cavalry unit (Tanks and Armoured Personnel Carriers). See, “The TNI’s expanding territorial structure”, TAPOL Bulletin No. 154/155 (November 1999), p. 17. In 1999, the expanded territorial structure became a reflection of the predominance of internal security priorities and the need to create more positions for personnel made redundant through the abolition of kekaryaan. See, ibid., p. 20 and Douglas Kammen, “Akhir ‘Kedigdayaan’ ABRI”, paper prepared for the 12th INFID Conference, Bali, 14–17 September 1999. Available from: http://www.infid.or.id/oldconf/1999/Douglas.htm. For more information on the Singapore approach to total defence, see, Tim Huxley, Defending the Lion City, (2001). These views were prominent in two papers written between 1977 (Abdulkadir Besar, “Dwifungsi ABRI” [Bandung: Seskoad, 1978] and 1980 (Departemen Pertahanan Keamanan, Dwifungsi ABRI: [Kensep 1979]) which dwelt extensively on the role of the Armed Forces in politics. The “Seskoad Paper”, written in 1977–78, took the view that politics was corrupting the armed forces’ spirit and therefore hampering its social function and defence of the Constitution. The paper recommended that the armed forces remain above groups — the politics of a group or the politics of the armed forces as a group. The paper went on to stress that the dwifungsi doctrine should not be viewed as a vehicle for the accumulation of power by the military but, rather, military officials should be appointed to political positions as they are needed and only with the approval of the people. This view implied a distancing of the armed forces from the current regime. Suharto and his group responded by formulating their own version of the armed forces political philosophy, which was that the armed forces must choose sides and cannot remain above all groups. (See Nugroho Notosusanto, Pejuang dan Prajurit: Konsepsi dan Implementasi Dwi Fungsi ABRI [Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, 1984]). Suharto reinforced his position by strongly reiterating these points at the armed forces commanders meeting in the Sumatran town of Pekanbaru at the end of March 1980 (See Jenkins (1984), pp. 157–58). Departemen Pertahanan-Keamanan, Beberapa Penjelasan Mengenai Dwi Fungsi ABRI (Reprinted in six parts by Legislature of Yogyakarta [DPRD-

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DIY] n.p. Dewan Kekaryaan, Departemen Pertahanan Keamanan, 1975), Part 2, p. 8. This observation is borne out of studies pointing out the unusually high numbers of officers graduating from the National Military Academy. For evidence, see, Douglas Kammen, “Akhir ‘Kedigdayaan’ ABRI”, op. cit. Abdul Haris Nasution, Renungan 31 Tahun Merdeka: Kemerdekaan, Keadilan Sosial dan Pembangunan Kita Sekarang (n.p., 1976), p. 12. Abdul Haris Nasution, Kekarjaan ABRI (Jakarta: Seruling Masa, 1971), pp. 65, 104–26. Abdul Haris Nasution “Kearah Masyarakat yang Lebih Demokratis”, Media Indonesia, 4 October 1993. This observation, interestingly, echoes a point first articulated by Ali Murtopo in the early 1980s, though it would be safe to conclude that he would not have advocated total military disengagement. See, Ali Moertopo, Strategi Pembangunan Nasional (Jakarta: Centre for International and Strategic Studies, 1981), p. 256. Independent research conducted in the provinces on the territorial command structure has revealed that the Kodam received strong approval ratings in surveys. In fact, the closer the population was to the military, the greater the sense of animosity. Hence, it was not surprising that the approval ratings for the Kodam and Korem were relatively higher than the Kodim and Koramil, while the Babinsa fared the worst. While most of the people surveyed were generally unanimous in their assessment that the military should no longer be involved in politics, the lack of trust in local government, the almost total absence of confidence in the police, and a yearning for stability has resulted in greater levels of support for the territorial apparatus than normally expected. See, Aliansi Peneliti Muda Hubungan Sipil-Militer, Rekonstruksi Hubungan Sipil-Militer & Konsolidasi Demokrasi di Indonesia (Jakarta, November 2000), mimeo; Tim Peneliti NSEAS, Perceptions of West Java’s Territorial Command (Jakarta/Bandung, October 2000), mimeo; Laporan Hasil Penelitian Persepsi dan Harapan Masyarakat Terhadap Peran ABRI dalam Kehidupan Bermasyarakat, Berbangsa dan Bernegara, Kerjasama Mabes ABRI-PAU UGM, September 2000, mimeo; and LOGOS (Local Government Studies) Refungsionalisasi dan Restrukturisasi Komando Teritorial Dalam Rangka Otonomi Daerah, Hotel Mulia, Jakarta, 21–22 November 2001, mimeo.

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Reproduced from Realpolitik Ideology: Indonesia's Use of Military Force, by Leonard C. Sebastian (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2006). This version was obtained electronically direct from the publisher on condition that copyright is not infringed. No part of this publication may be reproduced without the prior permission of the Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Individual articles are available at < http://bookshop.iseas.edu.sg >

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5 Democratic Consolidation and Reform of the TNI in the Post-Suharto Era It will be a daunting prospect to establish civilian control over the military in a country like Indonesia, particularly as the TNI was the capstone for Suharto’s authoritarian regime. As we have discussed in Chapter 4, the security ideology of the TNI, particularly after 1965, was further infused by a professionalism that epitomized Stepan’s description of the Brazilian military and other military regimes in Latin America premised by the logic of what he called the “new professionalism of internal security and national development”. In Indonesia’s case, this “new professionalism” was a logical product of a military that was politicized, highly bureaucratic, and well schooled in the curriculum of U.S. military assistance programmes that emphasized “counterinsurgency, civic action and nation building”.1 At Seskoad in the early 1960s, American-trained Indonesian officers were preoccupied in studying socio-political underpinnings of revolutionary protest particularly the challenges posed by the Darul Islam and PKI. Consequently, developing doctrines and training techniques to neutralize such movements shaped a “professionalism” that required a greater focus on political problems. Such an outlook was in direct contrast to Huntington’s professionalization thesis and its orthodox emphasis on military professionalism rooted in skills developed for conventional warfare against external threats. The example of Latin American military establishments and their preoccupation with subversion and internal security requiring “institutional professionalization” facilitated by extensive U.S. military assistance cited by Stepan certainly resonates with the Indonesian experience: The formulators of United States military assistance programs and the chiefs of many Latin American military establishments now believed that professionalism led to a belief that there was a fundamental interrelationship between the two spheres, with the military playing a

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key role in interpreting and dealing with domestic political problems owing to its greater technical skills in handling internal security issues. The scope of military concern for, and study off, politics became unrestricted, so that the “new professional” military man was highly politicized.2

This new professionalism of internal security and national development, reinforced by the TNI’s security ideology, invariably led to military role expansion and in the case of Indonesia, the military’s presence in the Suharto regime became so entrenched that Suharto’s Indonesia evolved into the archetypical “military-bureaucratic state” or what I have chosen to describe throughout this book as the “national security state”. Military officers — both serving and retired — held significant positions ranging from cabinet ministers, provincial governors and district heads. They were also well represented in the bureaucracy in the central and regional administrations, as well as occupying high profile positions as heads of state corporations, Supreme Court judges and ambassadors. Similarly, active officers were appointed to represent the military in the national and regional legislatures while retired officers were a mainstay of the government party, Golkar. The military also became Suharto’s chief tool for suppressing his political challengers. Being the chief protector of the Suharto regime, the military had been on the defensive since its capitulation in May 1998. Unable to save Suharto in the wake of the Jakarta riots, the Wiranto-led military themselves were unable to seize power for fear of a massive backlash through popular demonstrations and perhaps even further rioting in Jakarta and elsewhere in the fragile archipelago. Although many in the military elite were not well disposed towards Suharto’s successor B.J. Habibie, a divided military leadership was in a weak position to make any attempt to unseat him through unconstitutional means. The Habibie regime, encumbered by weak legitimacy, sought to win domestic and international acceptance through a series of reforms. The lifting of media restrictions brought with it a new openness never experienced during Suharto’s New Order and in such an environment, the military became a target for intense criticism. Facing outright condemnation from the public for its past behaviour, a severely demoralized military was unable to deal with the social upheavals triggered by the collapse of the New Order as evident in the horrifying scale of communal violence in West Kalimantan, Banyuwangi and Ambon. Gauging the level of public condemnation of its past abuses, reform-minded officers3 within the TNI

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were given the liberty by then armed forces commander General Wiranto to devise a new strategy that would allow the military to structurally disengage from the political process while retaining some semblance of influence in the overall direction of state policy. At an official seminar in September 1998, the military adopted what it has termed its “new paradigm”. While the military did not abandon its political role, its new outlook attempts to moderate the TNI’s overt role in politics considerably. What the “new paradigm” meant in practice was that the military would not seek to dominate the government, but would effectively share power with civilians. Hence, this chapter charts the process of implementation of the “new paradigm” and places it within the context of democratization and its impact on civil-military relations. Whether such a strategy actually moderates the realpolitik ideology of the TNI adequately enough to placate civilian concerns is also the subject of this chapter. The chapter begins with a brief discussion of the military’s perspectives of its role in Indonesia. Here an attempt will be made to analyse dwifungsi, particularly, how the socio-political elements of this doctrine allowed the armed forces an ability to intervene in Indonesian politics. Following which, a brief survey of theories of civil-military relations will be made to gauge whether there exists models of civil-military relations that may be relevant to Indonesia. Finally, from the perspective of defence management, the chapter concludes with policy recommendations on strategies to enhance democratic control of the military thereby setting the stage for the end of the Suharto-era national security state. In this regard, as Indonesia’s democratic transition progresses, a brief attempt will be made to assess how the evolution of civil-military interactions could be a useful barometer to measure the depth and sustainability of security sector reform. The argument presented at the end of the chapter is that the reality of the security situation in Indonesia complicated by the consequences of the “war on terrorism” will require a certain degree of role expansion by the TNI. This situation is exacerbated by the weakness of the police in their internal security role and in the short to medium term a transition period is required in the management of internal security. Such a situation means that the ideal model for the TNI during this transitional phase would be one that falls short of the “old professionalism” ideal of Huntington, where the military is focused on external defence and conventional warfare but no longer replicates the “new professionalism” of national security of Stepan in its extreme sense. What should emerge is a professionalization model that takes into account Indonesia’s unique security environment where separatism and terrorism-related issues may become more pronounced

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over time, exacerbated by weak civilian leadership coupled with an inadequate internal security apparatus, necessitating a role for the TNI. Critical in this regard will be the legal safeguards that will not only define the terms of the TNI’s engagement in Operations Other than War, particularly in respect to the “grey areas” of counterinsurgency and counterterrorism, but more importantly, democratic norms that would moderate the realpolitik ideology of the TNI, preventing in future the repetition of all-embracing attitudes of military managerialism in Indonesia’s political system. BASES OF POLITICAL INTERVENTION The TNI has developed its own security ideology and terms of reference with respect to civil–military relations. Since independence, they have completely rejected a military outlook that would confine their role purely in defence terms. As we have assessed earlier, by adopting a broad definition of security, the TNI have been able to justify their intervention in almost every realm of activity in Indonesia. However, crafting a doctrine of intervention is one thing, also important is the development of a sound justification allied to developmental philosophies located within the realm of Javanese cultural norms which have provided the framework for the military’s involvement in socio-political affairs. Through historical entitlement the TNI have claimed that civil-military relations in Indonesia is unique and dwifungsi had its origins in the nation’s history and culture. TNI has claimed with some justification that the military played a significant role in creating and justifying the state as opposed to being an institution created by the state, hence its advocacy of the perspective that it was created by the people and therefore is an institution independent of the state. According to TNI lore, it evolved from militias, partisans and guerilla fighters. After independence, these disparate fighting forces were then merely formalized under the leadership of General Sudirman into the TNI for the upcoming struggle against the Dutch colonialists. The military was not totally averse to civilian authority, and in response to an order by the Republican Government, Nasution withdrew 22,000 men of the Siliwangi Division out of Dutch-held West Java to the Republican stronghold of Central Java in February 1948. This withdrawal or “hijrah” or “long march” as it is termed in TNI circles was in deference to an order by the civilian government, even though the leaders of the Siliwangi Division realized that the vacuum left by the departing troops would result in Hizbullah militia under the leadership of Kartosuwirjo

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enjoying the advantage of operating without constraints thereby sowing the seeds of the Darul Islam rebellion (Anwar et al. 1997, pp. 85–89). The formal reorganization of the TNI would take place after the settlement of hostilities with the Dutch. As such, the TNI have always claimed that they played a greater role in the independence struggle than civilian politicians who were “merely” engaged in diplomacy. The TNI’s perception of its importance was further justified by its role in keeping the country together during the 1950s when primordial sentiments and ideological cleavages among civilian politicians paralysed Indonesian politics. TNI leaders have pointed out that political gridlock as a result of factionalism and poor leadership by civilian politicians resulted in the poor functioning of Parliament, the regional rebellions in 1957–58, deadlocks in the Konstituante in 1959,4 and the coup d’etat in 1965 with dire consequences for Indonesia. In this context, the TNI claimed that in the absence of nonpartisan civilian politicians, it provided the national leadership and protected the national interest when the country faced numerous crises. Similarly, the TNI had justified its role through its use (in some instances willingly) by politicians as a balancer. Thus by default, it was given a political role by civilian politicians keen to use the TNI to strengthen their positions, for instance, when Sukarno used the military (though with Nasution’s complete approval) as the third force in the Sukarno-Indonesian Communist partyTNI triumvirate of the early to mid-1960s. A similar situation occurred during the Suharto era when the TNI in tandem with Golkar and the bureaucracy formed the basis of the New Order. However, dwifungsi was not static: historical evidence proves that it was a dynamic condition and that the military were not merely pawns in Suharto’s political strategy. Much depended on the calibre of the TNI’s leadership. The TNI has acted variously as a tool of the regime, as supporters of a regime and at times as an independent political force.5 For example, the TNI in the early period of the Suharto era acted as supporters of the regime, while during the mid-1970s Suharto’s peers in the TNI took a more independent stance. To a certain extent, the Malari crises revealed a more independent streak, particularly among a number of senior officers who took advantage of growing popular disenchantment with the regime by the youth of Jakarta over the dominance of Japanese economic interests, the privileged position of the ethnic Chinese in the local economy, and the alleged corruption of those close to Suharto.6 That Suharto prevailed with his power intact in this instance was the result of countermoves by his supporters within the TNI. Changes in the high command strengthened Suharto’s position and the emergence of an external threat in the form of

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an unstable East Timor helped to reorientate the officer corps away from domestic contingencies. Such a situation could not last indefinitely. The regime’s preoccupation with internal security matters would never allow for a lull in reassessments of military doctrine. By the late 1970s, the intellectuals in the TNI were pressing for a doctrinal stance that stressed the military’s neutrality in political matters. As chronicled by Jenkins in his book, Suharto and his Generals (1984, p. 96) the main thrust of the “Seskoad Paper” (written in January 1978) and FOSKO-TNI (Forum for Study and Communication TNI) Working paper of 20 May 1978 which was incorporated into the official Widodo paper in 1979 entitled Dwifungsi ABRI: (Konsep 1979) was that “ABRI must be above all groups” (ibid.).7 Suharto and his supporters within the military repudiated this position. The “HANKAM Paper” of 1980 was crafted deliberately to keep the military focused on its limited brief of regime maintenance. From that point onwards, Suharto brought in loyalists such as Murdani into the fold in the early 1980s. The military then became a tool of the president. However, the TNI then sought to become more independent in the late 1980s, as was evident in the rumblings made by a coterie of senior officers loyal to Murdani about Suharto’s decision to appoint Sudarmono as vice president and the predatory economic activities of his children. The purge of the Murdani group began in the early 1990s and culminated with a complete overhaul of senior military personnel after the 1991 Dili massacre. The new wave of military leaders was essentially drawn from officers who were presidential adjutants or informally linked to Muslim circles like the Habibie-led Indonesian Muslim Intellectuals Association (ICMI, Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim Indonesia). The military had once again reverted to its position as a tool of the presidency. An interesting offshoot of this is the fact that the military is apt to be at its most brutal whenever it becomes a mere tool of the president. The Tanjung Priok, Petrus and Lampung killings and the July 1996 incident are clear instances in point. Hence, the above evidence does indicate that the dwifungsi was a dynamic and not static model of the military in Indonesian politics, the potency of which depended on the calibre of military leadership and their specific ambitions at any given time. The TNI also justifies and claims a right to its socio-political function through an implicit security ideology of intervention as reflecting its guardian role in nation building. It is subtly enunciated through the Sapta Marga or Soldiers’ Oath: We are citizens of the United Republic of Indonesia, which is based on Pancasila

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We are patriots of Indonesia, supporters and defenders of the national ideology who are responsible and unyielding We are knights of Indonesia, who believe in the One God, and are defenders of honesty, truth and justice. We, soldiers of the Indonesian Armed Forces, are the guardians of the Indonesian State and nation. We, soldiers of the Indonesian Armed Forces, uphold discipline, obedience and loyalty to our leaders, and uphold the soldier’s honours We, soldiers of the Indonesian Armed Forces, uphold chivalry in our duties, and are always ready to serve the state and nation We, soldiers of the Indonesian Armed Forces will keep the soldier’s vow.

The first three vows are related to the role of the military in society. The subsequent four vows refer to their functions as soldiers. Of the first three vows that implicitly sanction their socio-political role, it is the second vow that is potentially most problematic. The assertion that the TNI is the defender of the national ideology, and by that definition the guardian of the Pancasila, has the effect of legitimizing its role in political intervention. Similarly, the military’s powers of intervention are strengthened by their assertion of their inseparability with the people. The Indonesian Armed Forces Handbook on the Dual Function of the Military (1982) asserts: The Indonesian Armed Forces was born from the people, raised by the people, for the people, being an inseparable part of the people, raised by the people, for the people, being an inseparable part of the people, and struggles with the people as a logical consequence of the Declaration of Independence, August 17th, 1945, when the whole people struggled to uphold, defend and preserve their independence in the attempt to realize their ideals as a nation … from part of the people arose the TNI. So TNI was really born from the people.

Such statements allowed the TNI to claim that its origins as a people’s army and its historical role during the War of Independence guarantee it a political role. Such a justification allowed military elites to claim that the dual function had existed long before the Indonesia’s independence or the formal legal validation of the dwifungsi doctrine in 1982. This position, consistently articulated by the 1945 generation as an entitlement, was strengthened conceptually by the late General Abdul Haris Nasution who propounded the “middle way” doctrine in 1958. This doctrine was

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encapsulated in an era when the military feared that its independence and collective identity was being compromised by the complexities inherent in a multiparty political system which made it difficult for the TNI officers to remain neutral. While such an approach to neutrality seemed plausible in theory, in practice the “middle way” doctrine actually laid the foundation for the TNI’s involvement in a wide array of non-military areas. Sukarno’s decision to nationalize Dutch assets provided the perfect backdrop for the TNI to increase its economic activities. Politically, the introduction of Guided Democracy and the return to the 1945 Constitution allowed the military the opportunity to claim for themselves a role as one of the country’s functional groups.8 Far from adopting a more neutral “middle way” strategy, the TNI entered the realm of competitive politics as it struggled for political influence at the national level with the PKI for the bulk of the Guided Democracy period. The Middle Way was further buttressed through legislation.9 Act No. 80/ 1958 on the National Development Board gave the TNI a decision-making role in development issues. Similarly, a presidential decree on 5 July 1959 legalized the military as a functional group allowing them the ability to participate in all aspects of state affairs. Likewise, Article 28, Act No. 20/ 1982 promulgated during the New Order era guaranteed the military’s role “as a social force acting as dynamisator and stabilisator, in line with other social forces shall perform the task of safeguarding and ensuring the successes of the national struggle in giving content to independence and promoting welfare for the Indonesian people”. It goes on to add that the military’s function would be “to promote and strengthen national resilience by taking part in decision-making on state and government affairs, to promote Pancasila democracy and constitutional life on the basis of the 1945 Constitution in all endeavours and activities of national development” (Djiwandono 1988, pp. 80–81). The specific functions of the military were further clarified on 20 February 1988 through doctrine which embodied attitudes congruent with the tenets of Stepan’s “new professionalism” requiring the military to develop operational capability in six areas, namely, strategic intelligence capability, defence capability, security capability, socio-political, territorial and support/logistics fields essentially reinforcing rather than supplanting the 1966 Catur Dharma Eka Karma (Cadek) doctrine (Pour 1993, p. 407). The TNI was also able to intervene in political matters through its kekaryaan function where military personnel are assigned to various civilian appointments. Such appointments were facilitated through a number of methods, namely penugaskaryaan (secondment to a civilian position), penyaluran (channelling from military to civilian positions) and

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pembantuaan (provision of assistance to the civilian sector). For penugaskaryaan appointments, the Minister of Defence would appoint active officers to their civilian positions. However, in instances where TNI personnel were given penugaskaryaan roles, these active service personnel were not responsible to the Defence Ministry personnel chief assistant but rather to the armed forces chief of staff for social and political affairs (Kassospol, Kepala Staff Sosial Politik). Once their assignments were over, they were expected to return to the military proper. In other circumstances, for instance, military personnel given pembantuaan roles, an officer may be assigned to temporary duty to provide either specific assistance, to perform special duties or may have the expertise required to resolve a specific problem. Such personnel would be responsible to the Defence Ministry personnel chief assistant. In the last category, military personnel reaching retirement age may be assigned to particular civilian appointments on account of their outstanding service record. When given such penyaluraan roles, military personnel were expected to retire in the civilian positions they were assigned to (Singh 2001, p. 77). The increasing involvement of military men in civilian positions during the Suharto era had prompted growing social criticism of the dwifungsi. The TNI attempted to counter such criticism by insisting that the doctrine is not aimed at militarism but aimed at enhancing democracy based on Indonesia’s own cultural and historical values. During the Suharto era, the TNI’s political role was defined in terms of its commitment to Pancasila democracy, and with some justification, the TNI elite have distanced themselves from the role played by military regimes in the developing world, citing the Indonesian case to be a unique one. The above argument is used in tandem with the often held mantra that Indonesia has not had to endure the politically destabilizing effects of a military coup and hence the need to embark on a discussion related to doctrinal reform is immaterial. Such an outlook has led to a regressive situation where doctrinal changes have failed to anticipate or keep pace with changes in Indonesian political society. Nevertheless, it can be argued that intense factionalism within the military in four instances — October 1952, September 1965, January 1974 and May 1998 — did bring the country close to a situation where a military coup could have been a distinct possibility. Hence, what is in question in the post-Suharto era is whether the TNI’s security ideology which is internalized through a “dwifungsi mentality” could either have the potential or could be utilized to justify political intervention. Such a mindset is borne of conviction and is not rooted in current reality where the dwifungsi as a doctrine no longer exists.

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The above discussion suggested situations where political intervention (via a socio-political role) is possible and how it could be justified. However, under conditions of greater accountability and transparency instituted through a democratic political system is there merit in the military’s kekaryaan approach? This could be a topic for debate and speculation. To be fair, there are many highly qualified military officers, who combining the qualities of discipline, experience in running a large organization, and imbued with a firm grasp of national realities, could make a positive contribution to national life. As one of Indonesia’s most developed institutions, why shouldn’t the TNI be able to play a constructive role in the reformasi movement? For example, under transparent conditions, military personnel could be appointed to ministerial positions but would have to demonstrate integrity and a sound track record in management competence but more importantly, possess a non-partisan outlook. Senior military personnel can be utilized for the public good without fear that their involvement in various civilian sectors would raise fears of creeping militarism. Our discussion thus far has given us a sense of how the dwifungsi doctrine helped justify political intervention on the part of the military. The challenge for Indonesia now is to revise its military doctrines and the mindsets of its soldiers imbued with realpolitik ideology in light of political demands for democratization. THE IMPACT OF REFORMASI ON THE TNI In 1999, Indonesia enjoyed its first democratic elections in over four decades. The general election, conducted in the context of a turbulent and often-perilous internal security environment that characterized the tenure of the Habibie administration ended with the ascension to power of President Abdurrahman Wahid as a compromise candidate. His election was engineered by an Electoral College — the People’s Consultative Assembly — rather than through direct popular elections as was the case in the 2004 general elections. Wahid’s achievement was the outcome of his own considerable political skills and the result of a compromise by pro-Islamic political forces with the support of a faction from the Golkar party and the tacit support of the TNI faction in the MPR. The TNI was concerned about the security implications surrounding PDI-P leader Megawati Sukarnoputri’s threat to “bring the masses out to the street” if she was not appeased in her quest for the presidency. The 1999 presidential election demonstrated that even though the TNI’s image was in tatters owing to its association with the Suharto era, and latterly its inability to guarantee security in the final

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months of the Suharto era and failure to quell social unrest during the Habibie period, the influence it brought to bear on Indonesia’s political elite and processes remained formidable. Much to the dismay of student groups, NGO activists, and anti-military politicians, many in the Jakarta political elite were openly championing General Wiranto’s elevation to the presidency in the run-up to the presidential election as a compromise candidate. In the context of an electoral college where deals and horse-trading were the order of the day, of the PDI-P’s lack of political skills and inexperience were cruelly exposed. The party who had won the majority of the votes in the June 1999 election and its leader Megawati Sukarnoputri were marginalized allowing Abdulrahman Wahid the opportunity to emerge as a compromise choice for the presidency. When the Cabinet was announced, it seemed evident that General Wiranto had emerged from the presidential election with his power intact but not necessarily enhanced, as would soon become evident. Now promoted to the powerful position of Coordinating Minister for Politics and Security, and with his close confidants effectively ensconced within the military, Wiranto and the TNI proceeded to embark upon reform very much on their own terms. Some of the reforms introduced through the TNI’s new paradigm were as follows:





• • •



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The termination of assigning active military personnel to non-military positions (kekaryaan). They must retire from active military duty if they wish to pursue a career outside the military, including political office. Liquidating the Staff for the placement of Officers in non-military positions (Syawan ABRI) and the Babinkar ABRI (an organization for the control and development of Armed Forces officers in non-military positions). Liquidating the Staff for Political Affairs and Babinkar at the Kodam level, as well as at the Korem and Kodim levels. Severing TNI-Golkar ties by assuming a neutral position toward all political parties. Separating the National Police from ABRI with the ABRI resuming its previous name: TNI (Tentera Nasional Indonesia — Indonesian National Military). [Announced on 5 October 1998 and implemented on 1 April 1999]. Appointing a civilian as Minister of Defence, the first since the 1950s. The new emphasis on defence rather than internal security was symbolized by changing the name of the ministry from the Ministry of

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Defence and Security to Ministry of Defence. That the army could no longer presume to dominate the military was indicated by the appointment of a naval officer as Pangab. Similarly, for the first time an army officer did not hold this position (Habib 2000, p. 2). Focusing on restructuring the TNI’s non-military functions, its leaders in the short-term had opted to change the term dwifungsi to peran (role). The rationale it seems is a desire merely to avoid problems arising from a misinterpretation of the term dwifungsi to mean kekaryaan. In the carefully chosen words of Hasnan Habib reflecting compromise, the term peran is: supposed to represent the concept of the “whole integration” of the TNI function (thus: from dual function to monofunction) but still retaining the two aspects of defence and socio-politics, including active participation in political development, i.e. democratisation, and the development of a civil society (masyarakat madani). The only difference is that while previously, the two aspects and functions or roles were called the dual function, now they are integrated in one (two in one) role, called peran. The problem is that one can never distinguish when the military function ends and the political function begins. In other words, military function comprises both military and political actions (ibid., p. 3).

In September 1998 at an armed forces seminar in Bandung, the TNI then introduced its “new (four) paradigms of the social-political role of the TNI”. The relatively ambiguous and bland new four-point doctrine stressed:

• • • •

The military will change the manner and method of achieving its mission as it is not always necessary for it to be at the forefront of politics. The military would no longer seek of its own accord to occupy the positions of state but would seek to be in an influential position so as to help others perform these functions Its method of influencing the political process will change from one of direct to indirect action. The military will demonstrate its will to carry out its political function in a role-sharing partnership with its non-military counterparts.10

In connection with these reforms, the TNI had also embarked upon a number of reshuffles aimed at enhancing its unity. The biggest reshuffle took place in January 1999 involving some 100 officers. The high degree

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of factionalization within the military in the twilight years of the Suharto era, which prompted observers to speculate about possible conflict between the “red and white” nationalist-secularist officers versus the “green” Islamicoriented was claimed to be overcome. Intense factionalization within the military was said to have occurred in the late 1980s and reached a high point in the aftermath of the Dili massacre in 1991, when a new group of officers with close links to political Islam were given important command positions as part of Suharto’s strategy to divide and rule. Attempts at consolidating unity within the military were deemed critical as the country under a new leadership began to deal with separatist issues in Aceh and the communal violence in Maluku. The TNI also agreed to a reduction of its seats in the DPR from 75 to 38. In the negotiations over the new electoral laws, the military agreed to cut its representation in the MPR, DPR and regional DPRs by half. Later it agreed in principle that after 2004, the military would no longer appoint officers to the central and regional DPRs although it hoped to retain some representation in the MPR. The military, however, opposed calls for an immediate reduction in the number of seats in the legislative body on the grounds that their presence was part of a consensus in the post-1965 period, that the military believed it had a share in the making of public policy. It was also decided that the military would no longer place active officers in civilian positions in the government and bureaucracy. While the removal of active officers in civilian appointments did not necessarily prevent retired officers from holding such positions, democratic reforms made it less likely that they would gain political appointments as governor or district head. In national elections, the military was expected to maintain its neutrality. By the beginning of the Megawati presidency, the TNI would effectively signal its intent to withdraw completely from the political process. Unlike the past, the military was also prepared to apologize for any mistakes and abuses that had been perpetrated by its soldiers. This was particularly evident with respect to Aceh where the TNI were prepared to undertake troop withdrawals. Operationally, the TNI had decided to withdraw its soldiers from any involvement in civil issues. A civilian militia or Keamanan Rakyat (People’s Security) was created in 1998 and would support the police in situations where public order was under threat. Only as a last resort would the military be called in. Likewise, as an indication of its attempt to reduce its political role, it was announced on 9 November 1998 that the once formidable post of chief of socialpolitical affairs would be abolished and replaced by a new position, chief

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of staff for territorial affairs (Kaster, Kepala Staf Teritorial). A highly ambiguous position, until its abolition in October 2001 the Kaster was essentially the TNI’s politburo chief and the focal point of coordination for all of the TNI’s territorial activities. Despite these changes, the TNI would struggle to convince its detractors that any substantial changes had been made. A credibility gap still continues to compromise the TNI’s attempts at reform. Hence, with the military’s subtle powers of intervention still seemingly intact, it surprised observers that after two months in office, General Wiranto’s pivotal role in the Wahid cabinet as Coordinating Minister for Politics and Security came under threat, in the process plunging the country into a new civil-military crises. The combustible material for this conflict was stoked by a group of advisors close to President Wahid with strong anti-military sentiments. A Democles’ sword now hung over General Wiranto who had presided over the East Timor debacle where the military’s reputation sunk to a new low following revelations of its sponsorship of a scorched earth policy utilizing pro-integration Timorese militias. This sorry episode brought Indonesia international condemnation. Having repeatedly assured the government and the public that the majority of East Timorese wanted to remain part of Indonesia, the military’s credibility was shattered when an UN-supervised referendum in August 1999 resulted in an overwhelming majority of 78 per cent opting for independence. To make matters worse, the TNI’s inability to meet its obligations under the UN agreement to guarantee security before and after the referendum, plus its tolerance for the violence of the proIndonesia militia, resulted in unbridled destruction of many of East Timor’s towns, including the capital Dili. Roughly a third of East Timor’s population was forced to flee while many in East Timor became internally displaced. The military’s humiliation was complete when Indonesia was forced to allow foreign troops, under the auspices of the UN, to intervene and restore order in East Timor. Domestic demands for an inquiry in the wake of UN support for an international inquiry into human rights abuses in East Timor forced the Indonesian government to address the issue. The investigations covered a wide range of issues ranging from the activities of military officers, East Timorese militia leaders and the circumstances of victims of violence. The subsequent KPP HAM Tim-Tim report implicated General Wiranto for failing to control his troops and named more than thirty officers to be further investigated. The report gave Wahid the ammunition to marginalize General Wiranto. Though President Wahid confounded all analysts by

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making pronouncements on General Wiranto’s fate during his many travels abroad, he had nevertheless a game plan which he executed deftly. To prepare for a possible confrontation with Wiranto, shortly after taking office, he reshuffled key military commanders. Significantly, Admiral Widodo was appointed armed forces commander. This was a canny move. By placing the military under the command of a naval officer who would not be expected to become deeply involved in army politics, President Wahid effectively reduced the backlash from the Wiranto loyalists. Other strategies would be employed to neutralize other rallying points for officers unhappy at President Wahid’s treatment of the military, namely, the new chief of army, General Tyasno Sudarto, the former BAIS chief. General Sudarto, reputedly not favoured by Wiranto for the post of chief of army, had the incentive to ensure that his former commander would not exercise informal control over the TNI. A few months later, in February 2000, another reshuffle of military commanders removed several senior officers close to Wiranto and strengthened the position of a small coterie of unorthodox military reformists led by Maj-Gen Agus Wirahadikusumah. Under Admiral Widodo, the TNI reformulated its New Paradigm doctrine. With Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono denied the possibility of becoming army chief and thereby prevented from playing a leading role in maintaining the reform agenda by being shunted aside to a ministerial portfolio, the responsibility of stewarding the process fell to Lt-Gen Agus Widjojo. Now ensconced as the Kaster, he was tasked with giving more substance to the vapid “four points” first articulated in September 1998. Under Widjojo’s leadership, the New Paradigm now made tentative steps to address the requirement for the TNI to reformulate its roles and mission in light of democratizing trends in Indonesia. Speaking in Singapore in July 2000, Widjojo stressed that the New Paradigm: (1) has always and will always be done in the context of a mission of the state, (2) in the context of the empowerment of functional institutions, (3) based on the consent and will of the people, (4) together with other national components (5) as part of the national system (6) through constitutional arrangements.11

The Widjojo prescriptions kept within official boundaries and accorded with Admiral Widodo’s dictum that the TNI would position itself as an instrument of national defence and become non-political by approaching issues purely from the interest and point of view of defence. Widodo also reiterated the TNI’s commitment to assist the national police and the

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regional governments in the event of a security crisis.11 The “new” New Paradigm advocated: a withdrawal from politics; gradual refunctionalisation of territorial (resources); management for defence by empowering functionalisation institutions; a restructuralisation of welfare management by gradual departure from direct involvement in business enterprises in proportion with larger allocation of defence budget; and a reformulation of doctrine focusing on ‘Jointness’ as a defence force and developing professionalism.13

As a further indication of the desire of the TNI to articulate clearly its new mission, Widjojo went on to add that the TNI’s functions would be broken down into the following components: (1) act as initial deterrence and response to enemy aggression which poses threat to the sovereignty and integrity of the territory of the Republic of Indonesia. (2) train people for defence missions (3) provide surveillance and law enforcement in maritime and air national territory (4) assist the police by request in maintaining public order (5) assist civil authorities by request in times of emergency, and to support nation building and other non military tasks, and (6) conduct international peacekeeping operations.14

Agus Widjojo’s desire to locate his views with close reference to TNI headquarters in Cilangkap differed markedly from the “bull in a china shop” approach adopted by Agus Wirahadikusumah who had achieved notoriety within the military for publicly castigating Wiranto over his performance in the East Timor fiasco while recommending to a parliamentary commission that the military’s political involvement be further reduced. Earlier, at the launching of a book Indonesia Baru dan Tantangan TNI 15 (where he and other like-minded officers laid out their vision for the reform of the TNI) he had controversially referred to the dwifungsi as an “unwanted child”. While such behaviour would have been anathema to an hierarchical institution like the TNI whose conservative elements would consider such comments sacrilege, it was Wirahadikusumah’s open willingness to become an instrument for Wahid to intervene in military matters that destroyed his credibility, allowing his detractors within the TNI to denigrate him as a “political general”. Sensing the TNI’s displeasure at the intrusion of the presidency in areas that since

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the civilian “intrusions” of the 1950s, have traditionally been the sole prerogative of the military, namely, promotions, President Wahid backed away from any tacit recognition of Agus Wirahadikusumah and officers closely associated with his thinking. This was evident in the military reshuffles prior to the critical MPR session where President Wahid was due to present his progress report for the year. In that reshuffle, Lt-Gen Agus Wirahadikusumah who a few months earlier had been appointed to command Kostrad, under a cloud of controversy was forced to relinquish his command and was unceremoniously consigned to an insignificant staff position at TNI headquarters. By effectively silencing criticism from within, the TNI has, for the time being, retained its territorial organization that allows it a formidable political presence. With two-thirds of its battalions spread throughout the archipelago in small territorial units shadowing the civil administration, the potential for intervention in local politics under the guise of maintaining stability remains considerable. Apart from political influence, as we have earlier argued, the territorial structure placed the military within close proximity to the civilian population and allowed many opportunities for underpaid soldiers to obtain supplementary income through legal and illegal means. Furthermore, the territorial apparatus could allow the TNI the ability to pursue strategies that may be contrary to policies adopted by government. A clear example was Aceh during the Wahid era where it became apparent that the security forces seemed intent on pursuing a coercive option though the general tone of government was conciliatory and focused on finding a peaceful settlement. Under such constraints, government negotiators were unable to embark on credible initiatives, further estranging rebel leaders. We must be mindful that the territorial network was used by Suharto to manipulate civilian organizations and repress potential opposition. As long as this capacity remains intact, democratization could be hindered and civilian government could find itself vulnerable to criticisms that arise on account of abuses by units operating independently of central control. With funding constraints acute at the lower levels of the territorial apparatus, TNI headquarters’ control over troops in the field remains extraordinarily weak. Devoid of access to lucrative sources of revenue, there is concern that troops will be susceptible to contributions from politicians hoping to gain TNI favour in future national and local elections. It would be impossible for the TNI elite to control their troops in the field and the likelihood will be a conflict of interest and competition for resources between the TNI and the police leading to further clashes over turf.16

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Nevertheless, the ability of the military to reassert itself politically will grow considerably weaker as the pendulum slowly shifts to elected officials by virtue of legitimacy gained through the electoral process. Indeed, a favourable offshoot of the direct presidential election in 2004 could be the election of a president sufficiently empowered through popular mandate to demarcate the role of the TNI in Indonesia. During the post-Suharto political transition, attempts by the military to assert itself have faced an avalanche of criticism from civil society. However both Wahid and Megawati have not been able to make full use of such advantages and have been forced to compromise with the TNI due to the precarious political conditions that they had inherited. Hence, there has been a tendency for the TNI to define reform on its own terms. This allows a perception to exist that a large proportion of the military’s influence is still intact and by that logic, the TNI’s prospects of making a comeback in the long term are difficult to rule out in its entirely. The great imponderable is what happens if a democratically-elected government is unable to entrench itself and loses legitimacy? Can the military make a comeback? In this regard, it may be useful to investigate cases in other parts of the world where civilmilitary relations have been contentious and assess whether Indonesia could regress into the state where praetorianism (military intervention) becomes a norm. CAN THEORIES OF CIVIL–MILITARY RELATIONS INFORM PRACTICE IN INDONESIA? The frequent occurrence of military intervention in the developing world has resulted in a large volume of a literature on civil-military relations predicated on the rationale for military intervention. For the sake of simplicity, it may be useful to group such theories of military intervention into two categories. The first group of theories place emphasis on political– institutional factors, rather than the internal military dynamics which prompt the military to intervene.17 Arguably, Samuel Huntington’s dictum that “military explanations do not explain military interventions” (1968, p. 194) is the underlying factor for this group of scholars. Though their views vary, each scholar articulates a similar perception on the importance of socio-political and institutional conditions. As such, military intervention is less likely to occur under a strong political institutional structure; however, a weak institutional structure draws the military into civil politics. The second body of theory emphasizes the importance of internal military dynamics as the basis for military intervention.18 As in the first group of

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scholars, this group maintains different perspectives on the internal factors that motivate the military to intervene in politics. Morris Janowitz sees the nature and strength of the military institution itself as the driving force of intervention, Alfred Stepan stresses the changing ideology in the military, while Martin Needler and Eric Nordlinger explain institutional interests as the cause of intervention. Nevertheless, these scholars are in unison on the point that internal military factors are the predeterminants for the military’s intervention in politics. With regard to perspectives related to military withdrawal, using criteria developed by Danopoulos, it may be possible to suggest four factors that determine the military’s motivation to disengage from politics and return to its prescribed professional mission. The first factor refers to the character of the intervention. In its political intervention, does the military function as a praetorian moderator, a guardian of the political system or does it seek to maintain outright control of the country? Second, how competent has been the performance of military personnel in positions of government? Has poor performance or abuse of their non-military activities and privileges led to a crisis of legitimacy? Third, what sort of institutional incentives are provided for the military to return to its normal military function? Fourth, do available and acceptable civilian alternatives exist that allow the military to vacate its role to acceptable civilian elites? (Danopooulous 1988, pp. 7– 13). Much depends on the method of analysis and the need to look at the political status of the military at a given time be it “dominance”, “guidance” or “influence”. From this perspective, it should be noted that LIPI’s dwifungsi study in 1996–97, which produced the first systematic and comprehensive criticism of the dwifungsi by civilians, employed the argument that the TNI should reduce its political role to the level of “participation” from the current level of “dominance”, and should gradually decrease it to “influence” (Samego et al. 1997, p. 231). As a political platform, this study showed collective demand for demilitarizing the Indonesian polity. The TNI may interpret “influence” as synonymous with tut wuri handayani, which according — to its official interpretation — was already manifested in military practice and implemented since the early 1990s.19 On the issue of military professionalism — could it be equated with withdrawal? Such characteristics attached to professionalism such as autonomy, cohesion, corporate interests and loyalty to the nation — may influence the pattern of withdrawal. For instance, a degree of institutional cohesion helps explain the difference between a chaotic or organized

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withdrawal. Research suggests that an abrupt military withdrawal from politics is common in the case of non-professional militaries, whereas professional militaries maintain an effective chain of command and tend to plan their withdrawal (Maniruzzaman 1987, chap 3 and 4). The argument has been made that the military decides to withdraw because it wants to be a professional military. Such a motivation evolves from a desire by the military to improve its public image, or as a strategy to prevent internal military splits. It is also important that as the military disengages, attempts should be made to strengthen their professional training, nationalistic sentiment and shared esprit de corps. African militaries have been riven by political factionalism and patronage systems based on ethnic solidarities in the ranks. Thus a defence of patrimonial material patronage can have the effect of inducing military reintervention. In the African case, a lack of institutional autonomy or high social permeability vis-à-vis the social structure has made it difficult for African armies to adopt stable disengagement plans as compared to their Latin American counterparts who have managed to adopt stable disengagement plans through their command structure. In the Indonesian case, although both Sukarno and more significantly Suharto’s neo-patrimonial manoeuvring had undermined the TNI’s professional standards, such practices have not penetrated as deeply into the military proper as it has in the case of African armies. The TNI’s professional identity is strong and its sense of “national interest” is entrenched. Its command structure is well established, and in comparison with African cases, its ethnically diverse officer corps largely shares the profession’s corporate values. The TNI would seem to possess sufficient professional capacity to transform its institutional role orientation via the decision of its top leadership, if it so decides, unlike the situation in Africa. The TNI’s accommodation to managed withdrawal is therefore a strong possibility if there is a will on the part of the current TNI leadership but more importantly, decisive civilian leadership. How should the military’s political disengagement proceed? Ideally, the first step would be to embark upon a partial withdrawal, namely an elevation of political control without compromising the prestige and special position of the military. There may be the need to share power in the initial period of reform. The main aim is to civilianize the polity and establish a competent civilian control mechanism. The reason for such a strategy is the need to minimize the possibility of new civil-military crises from emerging as attempts are made to address two thorny issues: first, the handling of past human rights abuses by the military, and second, the

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reassessment of professional military missions. Indeed, though the process has not been smooth, the transition has been successfully negotiated through the introduction of the New Paradigm. Most civilian leaders will seek to address these issues as it is a useful strategy to consolidate civilian government (Huntington 1991, pp. 213–14) and the process, warts and all, seems to have made its mark during both the Wahid and Megawati presidencies. Prior to May 1998, it would have been impossible to envisage the phased withdrawal of the TNI from official politics; the liquidation of kekaryaan roles for its personnel; its acceptance of a new mission (external defence); or a commitment to constitutionalism by observing the Supreme Court’s decision in April 2001 declaring Wahid’s attempts to unilaterally proclaim a state of emergency illegal, hence, no longer willing to become a tool of the president. However, will the military be allowed a graceful exit? The example of Latin America is instructive and suggests that in the absence of compromises with regard to prosecution for crimes and human rights violations, the military’s total withdrawal from politics may be unlikely (Fitch 1986, p. 35). Similarly, the need to revise military doctrine and thereby threatening the military’s institutional autonomy may risk creating a possible backlash and therefore should be a matter handled gently. Setting national goals must be provided for the military, within a functioning political democracy. The goals should be clear, namely, to segregate the military from the political arena and to depoliticize the military institution for such strategies have to be adopted sensitively and have to take into account the military’s instincts for self-preservation, which may provide a motive later for reintervention if it is not allowed to withdraw with honour. Devising policy balance is not easy. Huntington has argued that it may be possible for such goals to be achieved by infusing, or restoring, apolitical professional missions by placing emphasis on rewriting politicized doctrines or revising curricula in service academies (Huntington 1996, p. 6). Hence in the next stage, the critical issue will be the reshaping of military doctrines. There may be nothing fundamentally wrong with the current Sishanta doctrine. It is suitable for Indonesia’s current needs considering the meagre budget provided for defence. However, what needs to be done is to reshape current military doctrines to define a clear boundary between military and political affairs and exclude the latter from the professional mission of the military. During the Wahid era, there was partial withdrawal, where complete government responsibility was in the hands of civilians with the military retaining some key appointments and in exchange trying to show tangible

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proof of its intentions to withdraw from politics, preventing it from having resources to threaten the civilian government. Hence, a certain degree of military involvement in government is necessary while the process of demilitarizing the political system continues. Such has been the situation since 1999 as Indonesia successfully avoided the African example, which emphasized the demilitarization of the government while maintaining the militarization of the political system. However, reflecting the Latin American experience, there are signs that the military may view a growing civilian political culture as a threat to military nationalism. When their interests are threatened, as the military tends to fall back on tradition, national values, geopolitics and national security to justify their continued existence. The conservative military elite repudiated calls to reform the territorial structure during the Megawati era in an attempt to preserve TNI autonomy. The opening salvo was fired by Army Chief of Staff General Ryamizard Ryacudu who suggested on 20 February 2003 “that the military’s security role should be reinstated due to the threats of separatism and other security disturbances in the country”.20 This brings into question the prerogatives that should be retained by the military: the maintenance of military prerogatives may hinder civilian governments in their efforts to consolidate new democratic regimes. Stepan in his analysis of the Brazilian military under civilian president Jose Sarney (1985–90) lists eleven areas where the military sought prerogatives: in the constitution; in its relationship with the chief executive; in coordination of the defence sector; in its allocation of cabinet ministers; in the legislature; in the appointment of senior civil servants; in the intelligence sector; in the role of the police; in military promotions; in state enterprises; and in the legal system (Stepan 1988). If civilian leaders during a democratic transition opt out of confronting the military over its scope for autonomy, in cases where the executive and legislature try to impose their will, the military has the ability to disrupt the transition. In such a context, civilian politicians may have to resign themselves to a continuation of military prerogatives. Interestingly, in the case of Indonesia, the military has not, at least overtly, demanded special prerogatives. This is a positive sign indicating that the TNI’s understanding of its limitations and a hint that the Suharto era national security state is slowly being dismantled. The only setback thus far had been the controversy surrounding the initial draft TNI Law, specifically Article 19 which read “… in an emergency where the sovereignty of the nation, the nation’s territorial integrity or the nation’s safety is endangered, the Commander in Chief may employ force as an interim measure”, specifically giving the TNI commander the prerogative

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to use force in an emergency situation, though he must report such action to the president within 24 hours. The initial draft of the TNI Law, which originally was intended to supplant Law No. 20/1982 that legalized the dwifungsi doctrine, had three contentious issues which are useful for discussion and symbolized the imbededness of real politik ideology in the thinking of TNI elites. The first referred to Article 7 which stipulated that current military doctrine and operational strategy should be based on the TNI’s territorial function, which could be construed as the legal means for the TNI to regain its political powers through the territorial apparatus. Second, Articles 14 (d) and (g) stated that the TNI commander has a duty to work together with the defence minister in determining defence policies, and in planning and implementing strategic plans for the use of resources in the interests of national defence. This article contravened the Article 16 of the National Defence Law which stated that the TNI commander is required to implement the policies that have been made by the president through the minister of defence. Under the then proposed TNI Law, the logical interpretation would be that the minister of defence would be responsible for effecting strategic plans drawn up by the military commander. It is possible to see this development as being a transfer of power from the minister of defence to the TNI commander. The third pertained to Article 19, which attempted to establish a legal basis to empower the TNI commander with the authority to unilaterally mobilize troops in a state of emergency. With the preconditions for, and the definition and consequences of an “emergency” left vague, it was tempting to conclude that such legislation if passed could have provided the TNI carte blanche to impose a permanent “Supersemar”21 situation. Another abiding contradiction remains in the manner by which the various security-related legislation are at variance with each other. If the initial draft of the TNI Law had been approved, it would have contradicted the amended 1945 Constitution, the 1959 Emergency Law and Law No. 3/ 2002 on State Defence (Article 14) which clearly stipulate that only the president as the supreme commander of the Indonesian military has the sole authority and responsibility to deploy TNI troops after securing approval from the DPR. Likewise, without proper rules of engagement, Article 19 would have contravened the spirit of MPR decision number 6 of 2000 on the separation of duties between the military and the police where the TNI leaves itself vulnerable to accusations of stepping into what could be perceived as police turf. The initial draft of the TNI law, which was prepared by the militarydominated defence ministry, faced a barrage of criticism from political

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analysts, legal experts and human rights activists when it was made public in February 2003. Such perspectives contrasted with the views of then vice president Hamzah Haz, Amien Rais and Akbar Tandjung, prominent leaders of three major political parties, the PPP, the National Mandate Party (PAN, Partai Amanat Nasional) and Golkar respectively who supported the need for more power to be given to the TNI to maintain national integrity22 no doubt in the process signalling their intention to establish a good relationship with the military ahead of the 2004 general election. There are two tensions here, one based on the need to decisively address the ability of separatist movements to undermine the government, and another expressed by those traumatized by the misuse of the army in the past. Supporters of the initial draft of the TNI law would have rationalized that the controversial clause in question was required to support the TNI with a legal umbrella when dealing with armed separatist movements specifically in an emergency situation where the president was unavailable. Those who opposed it pointed to the patently undemocratic nature of some of the articles, specifically the possibility that the law provided the TNI with the means to launch a coup d’état.23 Owing to the presence of legislators who are unfamiliar with defence and security issues, the TNI has been allowed to determine for itself the nature and substance of the law. With only a day remaining in its five-year mandate, the legislators representing the 1999 elected parliament endorsed a compromise version of the TNI law No. 34/ 2004 on 29 September 2004.24 The following day, 30 September 2004, synonymous with its new doctrine and confirmed by a new TNI law no longer permitting active personnel to be involved in politics, the military and police faction finally terminated their presence in parliament. The government and parliament had redrafted the more contentious parts of the law and instituted long-awaited provisions to bring military businesses under the control of the defence ministry. The functions of the military included both conventional military operations and military operations other than war. These included (Article 7) conventional military activities: securing the sovereignty of the state; defence preparedness through the total defence system; protect border territories; and protecting vital and strategic sites; plus areas which would constitute “military operations other than war”, namely, supporting governance in the regions; supporting the police to protect and safeguard citizens; protecting visiting heads of government and foreign missions; provide support in case of natural disasters and evacuations; in search and rescue missions; assisting local government in cases of piracy or aircraft hijacking and against smuggling; fighting armed separatist movements and insurgencies; support

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world peace in line with Indonesia’s foreign policy; and protect the president and vice president and their families. There was nothing outwardly surprising in the TNI’s intention to demarcate three new fields of operations, namely, politically motivated violence, law enforcement; and emergency management. In 2003, the TNI had served notice through its Defence White Paper that it intended to carve out a new area of operations for itself under the category, “military operations other than war”.25 Yet, many of these responsibilities would have to be shared with the police, for example counterterrorism. To prevent conflicts of interest arising, particularly in the case of communal conflict, consideration would have to be given to a number of factors. For instance, a clear definition of what type of threat required military intervention, how coordination with the police would be accomplished, and under whose authority the TNI would be deployed, needed to be devised.26 With respect to their service in government civilian institutions, the TNI law permits active officers to hold senior civilian positions in defence and intelligence bureaucracies or positions that either require military style-skills or skills deemed in the interests of national defence (Article 47). Military personnel may be seconded to the Office of the Coordinating Minister for Politics and Security; Ministry of Defence; office of the President’s military secretary; BIN; LSN; Lemhannas; National Defence Council or Wantannas (DPN, Dewan Pertahanan Nasional); National Search and Rescue (SAR, Search and Rescue Nasional); National Anti-Narcotics Board and the Supreme Court. Officers in such positions are expected to follow the rules of bureaucracy, although they will still report to the TNI commander rather than the government. There are concerns that such moves allowing TNI officers to rejoin civilian administration would once again militarize the civil service and thereby contradict the spirit of reform initiatives instituted in 1999. Such concerns though fail to take into consideration that the military as an institution should be encouraged to contribute their unique skills to specific strategic sectors for the benefit of Indonesian society. Another positive aspect of the law is Article 13, which states that the position of military commander “may” be rotated among the chiefs of the army, navy and air force, in theory, thereby countering the army’s traditional hold over the other branches of the TNI. Human rights activists and analysts committed to institutionalizing civilian control over the military have expressed concerns that the legislation in question in its current form would enable the military to influence political outcomes or state policy.27 They point specifically to the contentious nature of certain articles that could be abused by the president to hold on

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to power. For instance, Article 17 gives the president the power to deploy troops, with the consent of parliament, but Article 18 (1) seemingly contradicts it by stating that in an emergency, the president can deploy troops without approval from legislators. To minimize the controversy created by Article 18 (1), the legislators added Article 18 (2) qualifying that any emergency deployment requires parliament to be notified within two days and the troops concerned have to be withdrawn if the legislators reject the deployment. Furthermore, there is no indication of what the next line of authority, if for instance the president is out of the country during an emergency. Such ambiguities, unfortunately, are a telling example of one of the many articles in the TNI law that are open to multiple interpretations. For example, Article 66 is decisive in stating that the TNI is to be financed out of the state budget. Clearly, this means that the TNI cannot be involved in business. Yet, there is grace period allowing the TNI to retain its businesses for five years before surrendering their business enterprises, foundations and charities to the government, allowing it during that duration considerable independence from government control. There are also ambiguities relating to the position and powers of the TNI commander in relation to the president, parliament and the minister of defence. With the TNI commander directly accountable to the president and on the same level as the cabinet ministers, such a situation threatens duplication with the powers of the minister of defence. The most contentious aspect of the TNI law is the retention of the territorial structure under a different name. The territorial commands are not explicitly mentioned in the bill; there are articles on the army, navy and air force, stating that each unit supports the TNI’s task in strengthening its capacities. In combination with the TNI’s new mandate to engage in military operations other than war, there exists the likelihood that the abusive aspects associated with the territorial function will prevail in the absence of “clear regulations on how, when and where to use the military”.28 Rather than rushing through the law for political expediency, it would have been prudent for the legislators to examine clearly some of the more contentious issues. The legislators could have explained the nuances between the Tentera dan Territorium (T&T) system that emerged in the 1950s, which emphasized the bond between the TNI and the people for the purposes of archipelagic defence that preceded and was totally different to the Suharto-era territorial system. Such differentiation should have been evident in the composition of the bill and would certainly have aided the process of socializing the law. If they had achieved this objective, the unpalatable nature of the TNI’s non-military-related territorial functions

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could then be further softened through government regulations specifying how the TNI would activate its troops within the context of an emergency. Such clarity is critical to determine the parameters of the police and TNI responsibility in the grey areas, namely, the nexus where internal security operations meet combat operations, specifically in matters which have the potential for national disintegration. The legal basis for the territorial structure, supported by proper rules of engagement and effective public relations by the president reassuring the public that the application of a controlled process of governance, the vigilance of a free press, and democratic checks and balances, would ensure that the TNI could never utilize the territorial apparatus for its own interests, would have gone some way to ameliorating public concerns. That the new bill with its many clauses undermining civilian control was introduced by civilian politicians is an indictment on the poor legislative oversight capabilities of the parliament and will remain a significant problem if the TNI is to fall under civilian jurisdiction.29 The TNI’s initial determination to see the initial draft of the law with its controversial Article 19 go through was a reflection of its disappointment with civilian governments since the onset of reform. The secession of East Timor, and the rebellions in Aceh and Papua, were considered by the military to be the consequence of a weakening of its position in the national security realm. To their way of thinking, the solutions attempted by government have been too little too late. Yet, at issue seems to be the ambiguities that exist relating to the need for a legal basis for TNI’s duties in non-defence areas after the separation of the TNI from the police. Some form of regulation is needed on how the TNI may be used in “assignment duties”, referring to MPR Decision number 6/2002 on civic missions, assisting the police and international peacekeeping or for that matter “military operations other than war” specified in Article 10 of the National Defence Law. Interestingly, for all the talk about the possibility that Article 19 seemingly empowers the TNI to call the shots as well as pull the trigger, it would have been highly unlikely that the article could lend legitimacy to a TNI coup against an elected government. It is very clear in the 1945 Constitution30 that political authority lies with the elected leader, namely the president and while the TNI may have operational authority, it would suicidal for the TNI commander to exercise such independence without facing the wrath of civil society and the international community. If anything, this episode has given observers a glimpse of the mindset of many of the officers currently in charge of the TNI. Their attitude towards reform, the culture of impunity, and contempt for civilian government is a

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clear manifestation that Suharto-era realpolitik ideology remains an enduring legacy within the TNI. Chipping away at that legacy will be difficult, but since 1998, efforts have been underway to address the TNI’s culture of impunity, particularly through addressing human rights concerns. There may be the temptation to sideline the prosecution of human rights issues, taking into account the pressures faced by governments attempting to work out amnesty agreements that serve as the foundation for the military’s withdrawal from politics. However, united, tactically astute civilian politicians may perceive the possibilities that may arise should the military be divided during the transition. In such situations, human rights issues could be used by reform elements within the military to purge hardliners, which may smoothen the transition process. For instance, human rights issues were used to purge Lt-Gen Prabowo Subianto, a core hardline officer who was Suharto’s son-in-law, and a few officers loyal to him, thereby effectively removing him as a threat to president Habibie. In the process a new TNI leadership under General Wiranto with reform elements in key positions loyal to the Habibie government was consolidated. Such developments have the added benefit of creating a ripple effect within the TNI, where televised scenes of generals facing court trials over alleged human rights abuses have sowed doubts in the minds of troops used to acting with impunity who are now haunted by the possibility that human rights norms could be used to gauge actions undertaken in the field. The issue of doctrinal transformation in consolidating political control of the military is crucial. There is a sense that the military’s interventionist doctrines for internal security should be removed from the military’s professional doctrines. In addition to military control of formal political institutions, such internal security doctrines provided the rationale for the use of military intelligence to conduct missions quite different from those associated with external defence, for example infiltrating businesses, universities, labour unions and political parties. It may not be enough for the new government to prohibit these activities if the military retains incentives to engage in them. The loss of such doctrines may demoralize the military and could result in a worse outcome where they become a spoiler in politics. What is more important is the provision of an alternative but credible mission, which does not harm democratic life. Welch (1987, pp. 22–23) suggests that troops could be moved to border areas or outside the country for international peacekeeping efforts. Such strategies are useful. However, TNI’s role in the outer provinces has been a source of great controversy. Increasing the military’s presence in areas like West

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Timor, Aceh, Maluku or Papua may exacerbate the crises in those areas.31 Furthermore, the funds may not exist for sustained peacekeeping operations. Similarly, Desch’s (1999, p. 6) suggestion that military missions emphasize a greater external orientation since “it is easiest for civilians to control the military when they face primarily international (external threats and it is hardest for them to control the military when they face primarily domestic (internal) threats)” while having merit, simply cannot be applied in the Indonesian case for three reasons. First, Indonesia does not face any significant external threat. Second, the ideology of the TNI has meant that its professionalism has revolved around the twin priorities of internal security and national development. Third, any recommendation that the TNI take on a strong external orientation would have to be sensitively reviewed. Indonesia is the largest country in Southeast Asia. With the legacy of Konfrontasi still part of the region’s historical memory, a predominantly external orientation may threaten its neighbours. The best option could be to consider carefully Indonesia’s unique operating environment and determine what would be the most productive use of the TNI. While the TNI should continue to incrementally build its capability for external defence contingencies, it should carefully expand its civic missions or engage in “military operations other than war” under guidance from the political authority, since deploying them in this manner is far less costly than training them for external defence missions and such operations actually prepare the TNI to undertake peace support and humanitarian deployments characteristic of the majority of post-Cold War armies. In fact with donor assistance, the TNI should have an expanded role in peacekeeping. With their successful experience in Cambodia, Indonesia could emerge as logical trainers of other national militaries, including the United States, in the intricacies of international peacekeeping operations. A key to their success in Cambodia was a willingness to quickly establish good relations with the Cambodian people and members of all political factions. Indonesians worked on the premise that there was no “enemy”. This is a difficult concept for Americans to grasp, being used to limited perspectives of who are “good and evil”. The situations in Somalia and now Iraq are poignant examples of the inability of U.S. troops to maintain evenhanded relations with all sides in a conflict. Such a commitment to peacekeeping operations is integrated at the national and individual level in Indonesia. This is a dimension of peace operations that is obviously lacking in the debate within the U.S. policymaking and doctrinal development communities. Territorial operations are ideal preparation for overseas peacekeeping because it provides person-to-person

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experience at the local level, a field of expertise which the U.S. military has little familiarity: the closest experience being disaster relief in which service members provide domestic support when emergencies strike local communities. The evidence on the surface looks convincing but there are two important caveats. First, such strategies may be a disincentive for professional elements within the TNI as the officer corps may consider its civic mission role as less appropriate for soldiers who are professionally trained for external defence. Second, and more important, civic missions may also reinforce its dwifungsi mentality and be counterproductive to the long-term goal of imbuing the military with a civilian-control philosophy. With regard to the first issue, there needs to be a change in mindset in the TNI to moderate standard operating procedures no longer relevant in an era where terrorism and other non-conventional threats will be the norm. A soldier engaged in military operations other than war has to become accustomed to a changed centre of gravity in relation to conflict. The traditional centre of gravity in conventional conflict was the enemy’s armed forces, what Clausewitz’s described as “the hub of all power and movement on which everything depends” advising that this “is the point against which all our energies should be directed” (1993, p. 720). In military operations other than war, there are no enemy armed forces. Likewise, in high-intensity war, armies are expected to apply all force at their disposal. In military operations other than war, they must show a marked level of restraint. This does not mean that soldiers should not employ force, only that the quantity of such use of force has to play second fiddle to its quality. Similarly, the display of force can prove counter-productive as modern armies have found that nurturing instruments of power in the form of cutting-edge weapons systems designed to be effective in high-intensity combat have no psychological value whatsoever in low-intensity conflict zones or for peace operations. If the TNI’s experiences in East Timor and Aceh have any lessons to offer, clearly it is that the most advanced weapons have simply not been relevant to them. Increasingly, soldiers engaged in military operations other than war need to think “out of the box” as they operate in small, isolated pockets away from higher command elements. Further exposure to doctrinal innovations necessary in military operations other than war could pave the way for the TNI to adopt a change of focus on defence diplomacy, rather than combat. This would entail not only a change of structure, but also seemingly, a re-engineering of the warrior psyche associated with the TNI’s realpolitik ideology. Greater civilian authority over defence and security matters, coupled with effective legal

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mechanisms clearly demarcating the TNI’s responsibilities, will provide the basis for the TNI to be configured in the short to medium term for military operations other than war and peacekeeping while police capacity is being developed, without necessarily blurring the lines between them. The discussion above does to a certain extent validate the explanatory value of theory. However, with respect to theories of civil-military relations, transplanting any single case to the Indonesian context is a fruitless exercise. Much of the literature on civil-military relations focuses on the Latin American case as the favoured theory of the mode-of-transition to civilian politics. An important facet of this theory posits that if the military retains too many privileges in the transition to democratic politics, then the full extrication of the military from politics would be difficult. Likewise, the experience of military reform in Central Europe is similarly uninstructive. Following the demise of the communist regimes in Eastern European countries, the military in those countries lost considerable prestige not as a result of the emergence of a democratic society and norms, but because they were perceived as lackeys of foreign (Soviet) and ideological (communist) interests rather than national interests. As opposed to the Latin American experience, democratization in Eastern Europe started with weak military establishments. Under such conditions, countries which adopted presidential systems like Romania and Poland saw the emergence of civilian elites who politicized the military in an attempt to use it for their own purposes. Indonesia would be wise to avoid the pitfalls that have become so apparent in Eastern Europe. In other Eastern European countries, among which Hungary is the best example, the military was inculcated with democratic values and, at the same time, developed into a professional force. Interestingly, in the case of Hungary where a parliamentary system of government was adopted, the military became subservient to civilian politicians and opted not to intervene in politics. In the case of Indonesia, following the introduction of democracy, the military was not in a weak position. Its situation has closer parallels with the state of civil–military relations in Germany between the two World Wars and France in 1958.32 Like the above examples, despite the fractious state of civil-military relations, the Indonesian military remains committed to the constitutional process and have a historical record of never adopting an overt coup strategy similar to the situation in Pakistan in 1999. It is important for Indonesia to build on this foundation. However, to guarantee a stable transition and rational civil-military discourse, Indonesia desperately needs to evolve towards a political system similar to post-war France and Germany where the state is distinct from society and above politics.

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REFORM OF THE TNI IN THE POST-SUHARTO ERA Doctrinal and Structural issues The first thing that needs to be done is the development of a civil-military consensus on what constitutes a democratic transition to minimize a gap in perceptions that could become an impediment to democratic reform. If democracy is to succeed, it needs safeguards. In this regard, the TNI should then configure its national security doctrines to emphasize its role in protecting and defending democracy. Its new role should be to strive to emphasize its position as the guardian of democracy in Indonesia. Many of the doctrines developed at Lemhannas in the 1990s, like the Kewaspadaan approach33 were designed to neutralize democratic developments. Furthermore, these activities were embarked upon in the name of defending Pancasila “democracy”. Similarly, new socio-political pressures unleashed by the collapse of the Suharto regime are beginning to chip away at the edifice of the Pancasila ideology. There is a need for an explicit interpretation of Pancasila that does not see political conflict as a threat to national unity but as a necessary aspect of the political process in transition and not a threat to national security. As Indonesia begins to find its feet in this new era, the military and civilian elite will have to accept that social and political conflicts are part and parcel of a democratic transition. The TNI’s national security doctrines were devised to tighten its grip on society ensuring that any articulation of conflict be repressed. However, military thinking has to be transformed to understand that political conflict is inevitable in a democratic transition until the system finds its equilibrium. Hence, civilians should work with the military in crafting new doctrines of national security that will take into account Indonesia’s changed circumstances and such new approaches should be incorporated into the curriculum. In this regard, the TNI should be commended for its willingness to work with elements from civil society, particularly academics and NGOs interested in defence. TNI headquarters and the Ministry of Defence had actively sought the participation of civilian academics and NGO activists in the preparation of the National Defence and the TNI law.34 It is ironical that the police, which is supposed to transform itself into a civilian organization, is less open than the military in reaching out to civil society. The National Police Bill, proposed and drafted by the police themselves, failed to take into account societal trends for greater accountability and instead was crafted with the intention of giving the police an extraordinary degree of power in carrying out its internal security roles. That both the

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Police and the DPR were complicit in their desire to see the Bill passed without major revision, choosing to ignore strong opposition from civil society, is again another symptom of weak civilian political leadership in defence and security matters. It is a point we will return to later in the chapter. If we define military doctrine as the fundamental principles by which defence forces guide their actions in support of objectives, then the value of the new National Defence Law for the purposes of doctrine would be to provide the TNI with the framework of guidance for the conduct of operations. Article 10 of the National Defence Law provides guidelines and stipulates clearly that the TNI is to perform four major functions: 1. to uphold national sovereignty and maintain the state’s territorial integrity; 2. to safeguard the safety of the people and the nation; 3. to undertake military operations other than war; and 4. to participate actively in international and regional peacekeeping missions.

If the above operational principles are to be transformed into doctrine, then under the authority of civilian leadership, the TNI should be allowed to devise how these operations should be mounted, conducted, commanded, directed and sustained. For successful implementation, the TNI’s new doctrine must be understood, shared and accepted by members of the armed forces and socialized within the circles of civilian officials, politicians, security officials in neighbouring countries and others for whom an understanding of the way military operations will be conducted in Indonesia will be important. Operations will also have to be devised in an integrated manner that is, into four major levels. At the grand strategic level, coordination of the instruments of power should be the responsibility of the president and the cabinet, supported by the National Defence Council.35 Here, the role of the DPR under the National Defence Law in influencing defence policy needs to be assessed carefully. In this regard, it is not clear how they will influence policy even though Article 14 gives the DPR a role in requiring its assent for any government decision to deploy the TNI for military operations. So far, the DPR has not been involved, for example in the case of Aceh. The military strategic level should be the responsibility of the TNI commander and the chiefs of staff. At the operational level, Kodam level commanders should be responsible for planning campaigns. Finally, the tactical level, where the actually fighting

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takes place, is the responsibility of the brigade commander down to the lowest level. To establish the widest possible shared vision about Indonesia’s future security needs and the tasks of the TNI, a comprehensive strategic review is needed to provide the TNI with a new sense of clarity, coherence and consensus. When the strategic review is completed, the next step would be to reform operational doctrine, namely, the TNI’s Catur Darma Eka Karma. It is through this doctrine that all the fundamental issues that have shaped the TNI’s perceptions of itself, of its place and role in the national struggle are defined. Similarly, Indonesia’s total defence doctrine — the Sishanta — requires adjustment. Currently, the focus of much public attention is on the territorial structure of the TNI from Kodam to Babinsa. The original idea had been to prepare the country for Hankamrata (total people’s defence and security) against external threats. Elements of the territorial structure such as the Kodam and Korem could be maintained for the purposes of external defence.36 However, much of the sub-regional military structures can be abolished since they have functioned mainly for internal security and to bolster the power of the military in the regions. Responsibility for law and order should be the responsibility of the police or a constabulary who would come under the overall control of the minister of home affairs and accountable to the regional government in the respective regions. Externally, the TNI should focus on archipelagic defence. The current emphasis on the air force and navy and the establishment of a new Ministry for Maritime Affairs is a useful beginning. This emphasis on maritime matters is also supported by Article 10 of the regional autonomy Law 22/1999.37 The protection of maritime resources, surveillance capabilities to cover Indonesia’s EEZ, anti-piracy patrols and a strategy for enhancing safety and security for the sea lanes will orientate Indonesia towards some of the functional objectives of multilateral forums like the ASEAN Regional Forum. However, the major issue remains the position of the army and how to reorientate its role for external defence. The air force and navy are typically inclined to take on an external orientation. As earlier mentioned, any attempt for Indonesia to develop a greater external orientation will raise a few eyebrows in Indonesia’s regional neighbourhood if it is not accompanied with credible confidence-building measures. Indonesia’s long-term capabilities — its size, strategic location, resource capacity and bellicose past make it seem threatening to its neighbours; Indonesia could be perceived in much the same way as China is in Northeast Asia if a new external defence orientation is not leavened with reassuring strategies. In this regard, it may be useful for Indonesia to help

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build an ASEAN defence community, an initiative that could flourish within the context of the ASEAN Security Community concept proposed by Indonesia. If such a goal is not diplomatically politic, Indonesia could consider the possibility of joining a rejuvenated five-power defence arrangement (FPDA). This defence grouping was initially formulated as a containment strategy against Indonesia in the aftermath of Konfrontasi. Such a move could be a major step in laying a platform for reconciliation in Australia-Indonesia relations. Relations between the two countries have soured considerably in the aftermath of the East Timor crises particularly over Australia’s leading role in marshalling international support for the UN-sanctioned Interfet force.38 Overt Indonesian hostility towards Australia and to a lesser extent New Zealand, both members of the FPDA, could hamper the long-term effectiveness of that organization. Hence, another possibility to be explored is a trilateral defence arrangement between Indonesia, Malaysia and Singapore. All three countries have mutual security concerns with regard to maritime Southeast Asia, specifically, the security of the Malacca Straits which should help them forge deeper defence ties.39 The reform of the police has not proceeded as well as expected and the Police Law in particular faced a fusillade of shots from critics condemning it as “another piece of legislation that has not been fully thought out or subjected to a thorough public debate, with all its consequences”; for giving the president and police unlimited powers; and lacking significant clauses that “preclude abuse”.40 The bill whose passage in the DPR was blocked at the last minute in October 2001 as a result of protests, was expected to be reviewed by the House before its reintroduction. However, without any prior warning, the unchanged bill was reintroduced in December 2001 and endorsed unanimously, prompting speculation that “money politics” had played an influential role in the deliberation process.41 Under Article 8(1) of the Police Law, the chief of police would be placed directly under the president, and is not subject to or required to coordinate with any ministerial department, for example, the Minister for Home Affairs. This is a contentious issue leading to an interpretation that the police force could become a personal tool of the president. Although there is the provision for a National Police Commission, its role will be limited to being advisory in nature to the president. Those who fear the possibility of abuse of power refer to the fact that the commission would be compromised in its ability to play a watchdog role because its members are elected by the president. Furthermore Article ((1) stipulates that the police chief would be solely responsible for the performance of the police unlike the situation with the TNI commander (Article 18[4]) where the president is in

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charge of policy matters. Yet more worrisome, with the potential for increasing the possibility of inter-service rivalry is Article 6 (2) which requires the territory of Indonesia to be divided into “regions of law according to the duty performance interests of the Police Force”. In essence, what could transpire is a police territorial structure rivalling the TNI’s own contentious territorial apparatus. With the instances of armed clashes between the TNI and police over turf since their separation continuing to escalate, such developments have the potential to compromise stability.42 No doubt there have been concerns from all quarters that, despite its separation from the TNI, there has been little improvement in the performance of the police. Corruption, human rights abuses, and an acute lack of skills in handling civil disturbances continue to compromise the public image of the police force. Indeed, reform has been slow and similar to the TNI, impeded on account of resistance from within the police themselves. However to be fair, improvements are evident. The police, with the aid of international police cooperation from Australia, Britain, Japan and the United States, were able to successfully track down the perpetrators of the Bali terrorist attacks and were also successful in the arrest of Tommy Suharto, the fugitive son of Suharto who was finally apprehended after eluding justice for one year for the murder of a high court judge who had earlier sent him to jail for corruption. If anything, police reform is unlikely to make much progress without corresponding reform in the judicial and legal sectors. Furthermore, it would be incorrect to state that the Police Law was passed without sufficient consultation. Public hearings were held in Makassar, Surabaya, Medan and Bandung, while seminars were held by NGOs in Pekanbaru, Samarinda and Mataram to gauge perceptions. Final reporting and recommendations were then delivered to the legislators before the DPR convened to decide on the Bill. It was discovered that during public hearings, there was a marked difference in perception in the regions. Public perceptions in Java contrasted greatly with those outside Java on the role of the police. Where there were intercommunal conflicts or the threat of these, the public wished to see a stronger Police presence and stronger government. Such perspectives differed considerably with attitudes in Java where people would rather see a less powerful executive and a reduced police presence.43 In reality, there seemed to be nothing wrong with the process. The desire to devise a law to give the national police a solid legal footing from which to work effectively is laudable, as is the government’s commitment to derive optimum inputs from the public nationwide before

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decisions on important laws were taken by the DPR. In fact, the latter hopefully sets a useful precedent. There was very little wrong with the process. Unfortunately, the major shortcoming remains the lack of knowledge by civilian politicians unfamiliar with critical issues relating to security sector reform. With little awareness that in a democratic system, security matters should be considered too important to be left to organizations like the police to define for themselves, it was not surprising that, the police took full advantage of the situation and sought an interpretation that favoured their interests. With better knowledge and understanding of their role, civilian politicians will hopefully learn from this experience and improve. Organizational Changes However, arranging new missions may not solve the fundamental problem if the military retains the mental legacy of dwifungsi. What is now necessary is a certain degree of burden sharing in civil-military relations to help socialize the military with democratic realities. A start has been made by the appointment of a civilian Minister of Defence. During the Wahid presidency moves were initiated to establish a National Security Council and a National Economic Council under his leadership. President Yudhoyono seems keen to press ahead with similar initiatives. It is envisaged that the councils will have four functions. First, operate as think-tanks, developing proposals to support Yudhoyono’s agenda. Second, to function as coordinating bodies integrating the work of various government agencies towards fulfilling the aims of his agenda. Third, to function as a forum to develop effective strategies on how best to develop initiatives or bills that would require approval from Parliament. Finally, these councils would serve as mediation channels when policy initiatives overlap at the ministerial level.44 With respect to the Wantannas, nothing eventuated, but the current National Defence Law has made the possibility of such an institution a reality. A civilian-led Wantannas with strong military representation should enhance the capacity for democratic control and the development of such social environment for national security decision-making and interaction which should allow the military scope to defend their institutional interests and become a forum for civil-military compromise. The Wantannas according to Article 15 of the National Defence Law would comprise of permanent and non-permanent members and leaded by the president who serves as chairperson. The permanent members include the vice-president, minister of defence, minister of foreign affairs, minister of home affairs,

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the commander-in-chief of the armed forces, and national police chief. Left out of the equation in this regard is the Minister of Finance. Ultimately, as in any developing country, Indonesia’s security policy will