The State and Religious Violence in Indonesia: Minority Faiths and Vigilantism [1 ed.] 0367248573, 9780367248574

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Table of Contents
List of figures
List of maps
Acknowledgements
Glossary and abbreviations
Terminology
1 Introduction
Introduction
State capacity and the weak state
Indonesia is a weak state?
The state
The Indonesian state and the role of vigilante groups
State complicity in communal violence
Argumentation, research method, and the organization of this book
Notes
References
2 Escalating heresy campaigns against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities
Introduction
Sunnism, Shi’ism, and Ahmadiyah teachings
Ahmadiyah village in Manislor
Anti-Ahmadiyahviolence in Manislor
The Shi’a of Sampang
Violence against Shi’a communities
Conclusion: comparing and analysing the violence in the Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities
Notes
References
3 State officials’ entanglement with vigilante groups
Introduction
Security officials’ entanglement with vigilante groups in Kuningan regency
The state officials and the role of kiais in Sampang vigilantism
Vigilantism and the question of state authority
Conclusion
Notes
References
4 The judiciary and the law
Introduction
Legal ambiguity and state practice
The constitution, Pancasila, minority rights, and state practice
Legal ambiguity and violence against Ahmadiyah
Legal ambiguity and violence against Shi’a
Legal ambiguities and state strategies
Conclusion
Notes
References
5 Local bureaucrats
Introduction
Indonesian bureaucracy practices and human rights
Kuningan regency’s bureaucracy practice
Sampang regency’s bureaucracy practice
Bureaucracy’s role in Bakorpakem
Democracy infrastructure and minority rights
Conclusion: bureaucracy capacity and human rights
Notes
References
6 The president
Introduction
The president’s declining power in the post-New Order era
Cultural values: the preservation of a majoritarian social order
Belief in One God
President Joko Widodo’s administration
Conclusion
Notes
References
7 Conclusion: state capacity and communal violence against minority faiths
Introduction
Key findings of this book
Lessons learned from the (in)capacity of the state to address violence
Future research
Conclusion
References
Index

Citation preview

The State and Religious Violence in Indonesia

This book analyses the response of the Indonesian state to violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a minority communities by foregrounding the close connections between state officials and vigilante groups, which influenced the way the post-­Soeharto democratic Indonesian governments addressed the problem of violence against religious minorities. Arguing that the violence stemmed in part from the state officials’ close connection with vigilante groups, and a general tendency for the authorities to forge mutual and material interests with such groups, the author demonstrates that vigilante groups were able to perpetrate violence against the minority congregations with a significant degree of impunity. While the Indonesian state has become far more democratic, accountable, and decentralized since 1998, the violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities shows a state that is still unwilling in assisting or allowing minority groups to practice their religion. The research undertaken for this book draws upon a lengthy period of ethnographic fieldwork in the communities of West Java and East Java. Research material includes in-­depth interviews with community and religious leaders, state officials and security forces, and other prominent politicians. A novel approach to the problem of Islam, violence, and the state in Indonesia, the book will be of interest to researchers studying Southeast Asian Politics, Islam and Politics, Conflict Resolution, State and Violence, and Terrorism and Political Violence. A’an Suryana is a lecturer at the School of Government and Public Policy (SGPP), Indonesia.

Routledge Contemporary Southeast Asia Series

The aim of this series is to publish original, high-­quality work by both new and established scholars on all aspects of Southeast Asia. Religious Actors and Conflict Transformation in South East Asia Indonesia and the Philippines Edited by Jürgen Rülend, Christian von Lübke and Marcel M. Baumann Power Interconnection in Southeast Asia Anthony David Owen, Anton Finenko and Jacqueline Tao Southeast Asia and the European Union Non-­traditional Security Crises and Cooperation, 2009–2016 Naila Maier-­Knapp Securitising Singapore State Power and Global Threats Management Syed Mohammed Ad’ha Aljunied The European Union and Myanmar Interactions via ASEAN Ludovica Marchi The State and Religious Violence in Indonesia Minority Faiths and Vigilantism A’an Suryana For more information about this series, please visit: www.routledge.com/ Routledge-­Contemporary-Southeast-­Asia-Series/book-­series/RCSEA

The State and Religious Violence in Indonesia Minority Faiths and Vigilantism

A’an Suryana

First published 2020 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2020 A’an Suryana The right of A’an Suryana to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-­in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-­in-Publication Data A catalog record has been requested for this book ISBN: 978-0-367-24857-4 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-28472-4 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Wearset Ltd, Boldon, Tyne and Wear

For my wife, Hisma Pratanti, and my parents: Masruch bin Pasmin, and Sriatun binti Pasimin. Thank you for having me.

Contents



List of figures List of maps Acknowledgements Glossary and abbreviations Terminology

1 Introduction

viii ix x xii xvi 1

2 Escalating heresy campaigns against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities

24

3 State officials’ entanglement with vigilante groups

59

4 The judiciary and the law

81

5 Local bureaucrats

104

6 The president

128

7 Conclusion: state capacity and communal violence against minority faiths

146



161

Index

Figures

2.1 Warga Usai Salat Jumat di Masjid An Nur, Kuningan [Ahmadiyah Residents after Performing Friday Prayers at An Nur Mosque, Kuningan] 2.2 Polisi Berjaga Usai Serangan Terhadap Jemaah Ahmadiyah [Police Paratroopers Are on Guard Following the Attack against Members of Ahmadiyah Congregation] 2.3 Penyerangan Komunitas Syiah di Sampang, Madura [Attacks against Shi’a Community in Sampang] 5.1 Istigotsah Penolakan Aliran Syiah di Pengungsian Syiah [Mass Prayer Rejecting Shi’a Faith near Shi’a Refugee Shelter]

35

39 48 117

Maps

2.1 Map of Manislor village, the location of Sunni–Ahmadiyah conflict 2.2 Map of Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets, the location of Sunni–Shi’a conflict

31 41

Acknowledgements

Turning my dissertation into this book is not an easy task. I thank an anonymous reviewer and Routledge Editor, Dorothea Schaefter, for giving me useful feedback on how to improve the draft of this manuscript. I also thank Alexandra de Brauw for helping me with any administrative matters that are important to be completed to ensure the smooth preparation of my proposed book. I am grateful to three anonymous reviewers of my PhD thesis, who all recommended that my dissertation be published as a book. Their endorsement boosted my spirit in doing this endeavour. Dr Ross Tapsell, Professor Ariel Heryanto, and Associate Professor Greg Fealy did their best to assist me in meeting the standards required for the completion of a PhD thesis. I thank all of them for their guidance, advice, and caveats that they gave me during the thesis-­writing process. I benefited from their world-­class expertise in Indonesian studies. I thank my good friend, Associate Professor Julie Chernov-­Hwang, for her continuous support and encouragement to me in pursuing my academic career. I thank numerous people who, in their own ways, helped me finish my fieldwork in Kuningan and Sampang regencies, West Java and East Java provinces respectively in 2013. Aang Kunaefi became a good host, and I benefited from his wisdom and knowledge about the socio-­history of the Ahmadiyah congregation in Manislor village, Kuningan regency. Subaidi served as my resourceful and knowledgeable informant in Sampang regency. Two chapters in this book (Chapter 3 and Chapter 6) earlier appeared respectively in Asian Studies Review and South East Asia Research. Chapter 3 was published by Asian Studies Review in 2019 (vol. 3, no. 3). Southeast Asia Research published Chapter 6 of this book in its 2018 edition (vol. 26, no. 2, pp. 147–160). I thank the editors and the publishers of these two reputable journals for allowing me to use the aforementioned articles as part of this book.

Acknowledgements   xi I thank PT Geo Alam Teknika Indonesia for helping me provide maps to show where the religious conflicts occurred. Tempo Media Group helped me provide photographs that could boost the visual aspect of this book. In the course of turning my dissertation into this book, I have come across people who made this journey enjoyable. I thank some top officials and senior staff at the School of Government and Public Policy (SGPP) Indonesia (Safendrri Komara Ragamustari, Ony Jamhari, and Yuni Katrin) for their friendship, encouragement, and professional support. For a similar reason, I also thank academics and staff at Swiss German University (SGU): Deborah Simorangkir, Muninggar Sri Saraswati, Ezmieralda Melissa, Loina Perangin-­angin, Munir Waspada, Sharon Schumacher, and Sema Suri Titiasopha. I am grateful to have my family who unconditionally love me and always give me support when I need it: Jepara and Pondok Kelapa extended families. Special thanks go to our parents: Masruch bin Pasmin, Sriatun binti Pasimin, Achmad Islah, and Endang Heruwati. Finally, and most importantly, I thank my wife, Hisma Pratanti, for her moral support and patience. She is always the source of my inspiration.

Glossary and abbreviations

ABI Agama AGO Ajengan AKKBB ANEV Bakorpakem BARAK Barisan Maut Bassra

Beppa-­bheppu BJP BKKI BPD BPUPKI Candah Da’i DDII

Ahlulbait Indonesia, an Indonesian Shi’a organization Religion Attorney-­General’s Office  Similar to kiai, but having higher stature due to their additional role, for example, in Indonesian freedom fighting  Aliansi Kebangsaan Untuk Kebebasan Beragama dan Berkeyakinan (National Alliance for the Freedom of Faith and Religion) Analysis and Evaluation Badan Koordinasi Pengawas Aliran dan Kepercayaan Masyarakat (Coordinating Body for Monitoring Mystical Beliefs in Society) Manislor-­based anti-­Ahmadiyah group Death Front Badan Silaturahmi Ulama Pesantren Madura (Madura Communication Forum of Islamic Boarding Schools’ Ulema). It is an association of kiai owning and running Islamic Boarding Schools in Madura Island Parents Bharatiya Janata Party Badan Konggres Kebatinan Indonesia/the Indonesian Mysticism Congress Body Village Consultative Body Investigating Committee for Preparatory Work for Independence  Personal financial contribution Muslim preacher Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia

Glossary and abbreviations   xiii DKM DPR Fatwa FBR FORPIMDA FPI Gafatar GAMAS GARIS GERAH Gerjih GIBAS Hadith Haji Halal HAMOT IJABI Ijma’ IKSAM Imam Imamate Istighotsah JAI Jalzah Salanah JAT Kampung Kantor Kementerian Agama Kaur kesra Kecamatan Keroyokan

Dewan Kemakmuran Masjid (Mosque’s Welfare Council) House of Representatives Edicts Front Betawi Rempug (The Front of Betawi Rempug) Forum Pimpinan Daerah (Local Leaders Forum) Front Pembela Islam (Islam Defender’s Front) Gerakan Fajar Nusantara (Fajar Nusantara Movement) Gerakan Anti Maksiat (Anti-­Vice Movement) Islam Reform Movement Gerakan Anti Ahmadiyah (Anti-­Ahmadiyah Movement) Madurese culture that refers to mutual self-­help and high sense of social solidarity Gabungan Inisiatif Barisan Anak Siliwangi (Joint Initiative of the Sundanese Sons of Siliwangi) Reports about Prophet Muhammad’s Sunna A Muslim who has been to Mecca as a pilgrim Permissible in Islamic law Hare Majesteit’s Ongeregelde Tropen/Her Majesty’s Irregular Troop Association of Indonesian Ahlulbait Congregation, an Indonesian Shi’a organization The consensus of the community and ulema Karanggayam Islamic Boarding School of Associations  Leader Leadership doctrine in Shi’ism Mass prayer/gathering to request Allah for assistance at times of crisis Jemaat Ahmadiyah Indonesia (Indonesia Ahmadiyah Congregation) Ahmadiyah gathering Jamaah Anshorut Tauhid Urban area Regency Office of The Ministry of Religious Affairs Head of people’s welfare Districts Mobbing or lynching

xiv   Glossary and abbreviations Ketib or khatib Kesbangpol Kiai KOMNAS HAM KOMPAK Kontras KUA Kuwu LPPI MA Ma’mum Mantri Polisi MPR MTA MUI Mut’a NDA Nizam NU OKP Orang kulon Orang wetan Organisasi Masyarakat Ormas Pagar Akidah Pakem Pembinaan Pesantren PHR PKI

A person who delivers sermon during weekly Friday prayer Kesatuan Bangsa dan Politik (The Nation’s Unity and Politics Office) Informal religious leader Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia (the National Commission on Human Rights) Komponen Muslim Kabupaten Kuningan (The Muslim Component of Kuningan regency) Komisi Orang Hilang dan Korban Tindak Kekerasan (The Commission for Missing Persons and Victims of Violence) Kantor Urusan Agama (Religious Affairs Office) Old Sundanese term that refers to head of village Institute of Islamic Research and Study Mahkamah Agung (Supreme Court) Followers Regency’s public order agency Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat (People’s Consultative Assembly) Muslim Television Ahmadiyah Indonesia Council of Ulema Contract marriage in Shi’ism National Democratic Alliance The organization’s rules Nadhlatul Ulama Organisasi Pemuda Karya (Youth Social Organization) People of the west People of the east Local names for mass organizations  Organisasi Kemasyarakatan (Community Organization) Faith fence Mystical Beliefs Supervisory Body  Briefing sessions to persuade Ahmadiyah adherents to embrace the teaching of Sunni Islam Islamic boarding school Physicians for Human Rights  Partai Komunis Indonesia/the Indonesia Communist Party

Glossary and abbreviations   xv PP PPM PPP Preman PRI Qiyas Rabi’ al-­awwal Rabiul Akhir Rato Reformasi RUDAL Satpam (Satuan Pengamanan) Satpol PP SBY SKB Solat Sunna Tahajud Taqiyya Ustadz

Pemuda Pancasila or OKP – Organisasi Pemuda Karya (Youth Social Organization) Pemuda Panca Marga Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (United Development Party) Thug Pemuda Republik Indonesia (youth militia) Analogic reasoning The third month in the Islamic calendar The fourth month in the Islamic calendar State or government officials Reform Remaja Masjid Al Huda (The Youth of Al Huda Mosque) Private security guards Satuan Polisi Pamong Praja (Public Order Agency) Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, Indonesia’s sixth president Surat Keputusan Bersama (Joint Decree) Islamic mandatory prayers five times a day The prophet’s established practices, which are in the form of sayings, exemplary deeds or tacit approvals that Muslims need to follow Night prayer Dissimulation practice in Shi’ism Muslim teacher who teaches how to read the Al Quran

Terminology

Throughout this book, I use the collective Arabic plural word “Shi’a” to refer to Shi’a collectively. Shi’i refers to a particular person who subscribes to Shi’ism. The use of the word “Shi’a” follows international academic convention. I use Ahmadiyah, instead of “Ahmadiyya”, following the official spelling used by the organization in Indonesia. Ahmadiyah also refers to the religious teachings disseminated by its founder Mirza Ghulam Ahmad. Hence, when referring to a group of people who subscribe to these teachings, I use the term “Ahmadiyah adherents”.

1 Introduction

Introduction As part of his job, Sampang police Chief, Adjutant Senior Commissioner (Adj. Sr. Comr.) Solehan, routinely received guests at his office for a variety of reasons. But a gentleman’s visit on 13 December 2011 was rather special. The gentleman, Faruq, the head of Blu’uran village, informed the police chief that three people, including two Blu’uran residents, had discussed possible attacks against a Shi’a school building located in the neighbouring village of Karanggayam.1 This school was set to be the target of these three people’s violence due to their suspicion that Shi’ism was being propagated in the school. The information alarmed the police chief as he knew tension was building in the two villages, following protracted social conflict between majority Sunni residents and their Shi’a neighbours. Later, on the same day, the police chief summoned Rois Hukama, an anti-­Shi’a campaigner and influential Sunni preacher who lived in Karanggayam village. At night, Solehan assembled his personnel, ordering them to conduct regular patrols in the two villages, in particular in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets, where a significant population of Shi’a minority communities lived. Two days later, the officer held another round of meetings with four local figures, including a councillor (Aksan Jamal) and the Chief of Gading Laok hamlet (Munaji), in a popular local restaurant to discuss the significance of the threat, and how to ease the tension. The officer then continued to discuss the matter with the regency’s senior officials in Sampang’s government building. Despite these efforts, the violence against the Shi’a communities took place. Unidentified people burned the veranda of a house belonging to a Shi’a resident in Gading Laok hamlet in the early hours of 17 December 2011. The resident, Matsiri, and his wife were safe, because they had left their house immediately after they smelled burning bamboo materials. The

2   Introduction attackers disappeared before the elderly couple was able to identify them. The attackers singled out Matsiri’s house as a target, apparently because Tajul Muluk, then a Shi’a community leader who had earlier been expelled from the village and then resided in the city of Malang, occasionally visited the house when he returned to the village for a couple of days (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p.  109). Local Sunni residents often considered Tajul Muluk, the Shi’a leader, as a trouble-­maker because he was accused of introducing Shi’ism, which was different to mainstream Sunni beliefs.2 The incident was a warm-­up for a much bigger incident of violence against the Shi’a communities. Two weeks later, over 1,000 Sunni residents burned down three houses belonging to Shi’a leaders in the two villages, including that of Tajul Muluk. The police arrived at the scene when Sunni residents were vandalizing and destroying the houses, but they did nothing to stop the vandalism because according to the police, “the number of police personnel was too few in comparison to the sheer number of angry Sunni residents” (Komisi Orang Hilang [The Commission for Missing Persons], 2012, p. 11). The police named seven people as suspects for the attacks in the aftermath of the incident, but arrested only two for prosecution. The Sampang district court sentenced one of them, Musikrah, to three months and 10 days in jail for damaging other people’s properties (“Rentetan Kekerasan [String of Violence]”, 2012). The police released the other suspect, Saripin, without charge due to strong protests by Sunni community figures demanding his freedom (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p.  110). On the other hand, the Supreme Court upheld the verdict by the lower court, sentencing Tajul Muluk to four years in jail for committing blasphemy, although he was not at the site of the incident when it occurred. The story illustrates the state officials’ response to the violence that became commonplace in post-­New Order Indonesia, where minority communities (Shi’a and Ahmadiyah) were regularly and violently set upon by Sunni Muslims and others.3 Human-­rights organizations in Indonesia, such as Setara Institute and Wahid Institute, found that such violence, in the form of attacks on places of worship, attacks on houses belonging to minorities, forced evictions targeting minorities, and banning of religious activities, have commonly occurred in Indonesia since 2007. Researchers at the Setara Institute reported 135 incidents of intolerance and violence against minorities in 2007, 265 in 2008, 200 in 2009, 216 in 2010, and 244 in 2011 (Hasani & Naipospos, 2012, p. 28). Another organization, the Wahid Institute, reported 121 incidents in 2009, 184 in 2010, 267 in 2011, 278 in 2012, 245 in 2013, and 154 in 2014 (The Wahid Institute, 2014, p. 29). Most of the victims were Ahmadiyah, Shi’a, and Christian minorities, although in some

Introduction   3 places, where Muslim-­Sunni became minorities, they were also victims. The majority of Indonesians are Muslim-­Sunni. Christians had been long-­time targets, but the increase of violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a was a novelty under a government in the post-­New Order era. Hence, this trend becomes the subject of this research. This rising trend of “religious intolerance” was a major concern for democracy in Indonesia. Although predominantly populated by Muslims (around 87 per cent of the total 237 million population in 2010), Indonesia’s Constitution is religiously neutral. Indonesia is not governed according to sharia laws, except in Aceh province. The Constitution acknowledges freedom of religion or belief, as exemplified by Article 29.4 Hence, these incidents of religious violence that seemingly stand in contrast to the Indonesian Constitution, began to define the post-­New Order period, leading many to question the sustainability of a “tolerant” pluralistic democratic Indonesia. Scholars, human right activists, and the national and international media all began to wonder why the Indonesian state, in its various forms, was not doing more to address these types of violence. This book seeks to explain, through local and global discussion, why the Indonesian state failed to do more in addressing this type of communal violence, mainly against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. The role of the Indonesian state has been a core focus of scholarly attention since the outbreak of violence in the aftermath of the reform movement in 1998. Scholars often describe the Indonesian state as incapable of addressing the violence. Rizal Sukma (2003, pp. 247–248) argues that the Indonesian security forces were incapable of overcoming such conflicts because, since the collapse of the New Order in 1998, they had not been trained to use democratic means to cope with violence. As a result, they dragged their feet to end the violence, which explained why it took so long for the government to resolve the Ambon conflict. Other factors that contributed to the state’s capacity to end the violence, according to Rizal, were state financial constraints, lack of discipline among the security forces, the chaotic politics resulting in politicians in Jakarta being ignorant of the outbreak of the violence, and the impotence of the judicial system and law enforcement agencies. Echoing Rizal, Yuhki Tajima (2008, p. 452) explains that the military’s withdrawal from politics resulted in the loss of legal and security deterrence, and paved the way for people to unleash violence. Other scholars (Van Klinken, 2007; Hicks, 2014) contend that the state’s complicity in the violence reduced its capacity to maintain security in the country’s territory. Gerry van Klinken shows that, instead of promoting peace, local elites mobilized crowds along ethnic and religious lines to obtain material and political benefits, which resulted in violence

4   Introduction (Van Klinken, 2007, p. 139). Jacqueline Hicks argues that a heresy campaign targeting minority faiths was part of religious and political elites’ endeavours to reclaim religious and political authority after they lost their power following the collapse of the New Order regime (Hicks, 2014, p.  332). Michael Buehler also shows that state officials were seeking to regain power, in his South Sulawesi case study. Through the case study he argues the weakness of the state stemmed from its elites adapting to the changing nature of the post-­New Order politics by reaching out to those societal groups that were able to provide them with the resources they needed to win elections, including the promulgation of intolerant bylaws (Buehler, 2014, p. 174). Through Ahmadiyah and Shi’a case studies, I will contribute to this scholarly discussion about the response to violence in the post-­New Order era by state officials, especially those in the government of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. This book will explain state practices in handling violence against minority communities. It contributes to explaining the state’s response to the violence, by examining in depth two areas which were the sites of such violence. Fieldwork for this research was conducted in Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities over a seven-­month period, enabling extensive access to discuss the situation in these communities and hear people’s stories. Studying state practices at the local level is important because it helps scholars to understand the effects of the state on citizens (Gupta, 1995, p. 376). It is at the local level where state practices are most keenly felt by citizens, and where the manifestation of the state is most apparent. It is at the local level “where many people’s images of the state are forged” (Gupta, 1995, p. 376). This book shows local officials struggling to exercise their authority.

State capacity and the weak state The aim of this book is to discuss the state’s response to religious violence. This book will use the discourse surrounding “state capacity” as a framework of analysis. State capacity refers to a state’s ability to formulate, to develop, and to implement policies which fulfil the collective needs of the citizens, such as security, welfare, and law and order in a legitimate way (Paul, 2010, p. 5). Discourse on state capacity starts from the premise that the state as a political institution has sovereign power assigned to it through a social contract. In return, the state needs to uphold the rights of the citizens, among others, the right to security. When the state is barely able to provide for the needs of the citizens, it is said to be a “weak state”. The least functional state is called a “failed state”, which refers to its incapacity to provide for the needs of its citizens (Dupont, Gaborsky, & Shearing, 2003, p. 332).

Introduction   5 In the early 1990s the US government commissioned a team of scholars to conduct a large survey to investigate what made states fail. The team, called the State Failure Task Force, then collected a large set of social, political, economic, and environmental data from countries across the world, spanning 1955 to 1998. The data were used to determine the causes of the failed state, which the task force defined as a state plagued with types of events that indicate severe political instability, namely: revolutionary wars, ethnic wars, adverse regime changes, genocides, and politicides (State Failure Task Force, 2000). The task force concluded that, based on the data, factors that facilitated the failed state were: partial democracy instead of a full or authoritarian state, high infant mortality, low trade openness, and the presence of major civil conflict in two or more bordering states (State Failure Task Force, 2000, p. 6). These underlying factors were used to predict the occurrence of a failed state within the next two years. Research conducted by the Harvard University Failed States Project offers broader criteria to identify state capacity or incapacity to deliver the public good. Their research established criteria for classifying states in terms of four categories: strong, weak, failed, and collapsed states (Rotberg, 2003, pp.  4–5). First, strong states refers to states’ successful capacity to control their territories and to deliver high-­quality political good to their citizens. Second, in weak states, the state is structurally sound, but temporarily weak due to internal antagonism, management flaws, greed, or external attacks. The capacity to deliver political good, such as security, becomes diminished within weak states. Ethnic, religious, or other communal tensions are rife in weak states, but may not yet have become overtly violent. Rule of law is regularly breached in weak states, but failed states are plagued by warring factions. Collapsed states have no ruling authority at all. According to a key academic on the project, Robert I. Rotberg (2003, p. 2), the classification is based on the level of the state’s effective delivery of political good. Based on the criteria for each category, the research offers a case study for each of 11 countries across the world that represents the four categories. In contrast to the State Failure Task Force’s findings, the Harvard University research offers more immediate factors that facilitate state failure, such as a deteriorating economic situation, authoritarian politics, and a rising level of violence. These two major studies offer insights that are useful for this book. Both research projects measure the state’s capacity based on its ability to deliver the public good. This is the yardstick that I use in this book to determine the Indonesian state’s effectiveness in providing for the public good through the provision of a safe and secure environment for Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities.

6   Introduction

Indonesia is a weak state? Much of the literature on the Indonesian state in the New Order period (1965–1998) argues that Soeharto’s authoritarian regime failed to deliver security to many of its citizens. John Pemberton (1994, p. 9), for example, argues that despite seemingly total order, the New Order environment led to rampant repression of particular cultures. R. E. Elson (2002, p. 173) writes that, during its rule, the New Order regime was responsible for numerous occurrences of state-­sponsored violence. A long list includes state-­sponsored violence against communists in the 1965–1966 period and beyond, extrajudicial killings against thugs in the 1980s, and attacks against political parties and pro-­democracy activists. According to scholar Dwight Y. King (1982, p.  111), the New Order regime achieved this violence through repression and co-­optation of its opponents, and development of a corporatist system. Soeharto sat as a patron in the corporatist system, through which he oversaw close or distant clients while repressing other dissenters. Karl D. Jackson (1978, pp. 10–11) shows that the New Order restricted political power to a small elite circle within the Army, bureaucrats and technocrats, while oppositionist others were violently repressed. In summary, state-­sponsored violence was rampant during the New Order, hence the regime can be categorized as a weak state in the sense that it failed to provide security for its citizens. However, it was not a failed state, since it was not at the stage of revolutionary wars, ethnic wars, or adverse regime change. Indonesia in the post-­New Order era, in particular the era of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s government (2004–2014), was clearly not a failed state either. The respect for human rights was much better in the era of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, in comparison to the Soeharto era. But there were still many problems that the Yudhoyono government and its administration needed to address in the post-­New Order period, including the frequent violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. So, was Indonesia, at the time of the Yudhoyono government, a weak state, a strong state, or somewhere in between? Rotberg argued that Indonesia was “temporarily or situationally weak because of internal antagonism, management flaws and greed” (Rotberg, 2003, p. 4), but, certainly, the country was not under external attacks or despotism. Indonesia experienced religious and ethnic intercommunal tensions, but the tension did not end up in sweeping violence across the country. The state institutions sometimes harassed civil society, but on a smaller scale than in a failed state. Similarly, the government and its administrations breached the rule of law, but not totally, as would have been the case if the rule of law had been largely absent in society.

Introduction   7 The frequent incidents of religious violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a minorities during President Yudhoyono’s government were evidence that the state was not effective in protecting these communities. The rate of violence was substantial enough to draw public concern. Some scholars even suggested that the phenomenon defined interreligious relations in the era of the Yudhoyono government. This book will deal more with why the state was unable to deliver the public good (safety and security) to these minority communities, and will conclude with an assessment of the state’s weaknesses and strengths. To understand the state’s security capacity in Indonesia we must first turn to an examination of how existing scholarship assesses the role of the Indonesian state in hindering or supporting ethnic and religious violence. First, I discuss the state’s capacity for violence in the New Order and immediate post-­New Order period. Then I turn specifically to examine the existing scholarship on Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities.

The state The subject of the role and importance of the state has a long history in scholarship. A snapshot is provided here to introduce the concept of “the state” before we turn more specifically to scholarship on the Indonesian state. Max Weber’s (1968, p.  54) definition of the state as a compulsory political organization in a given territory that continuously operates in the duration of the state’s life is regarded as seminal. Weber further argues that the organization is powerful because its officials claim a monopoly on the legitimate use of violence. Weber’s theory of the state substantially influenced other scholars (Nordlinger, 1981; Mann, 1984; Skocpol, 1985), who also supported the idea that the state plays a significant role in shaping the structure and behaviour of society. Weber’s definition suggests that the state is seen as a coherent and autonomous entity, with leeway to exercise its authority upon society. Subsequent scholarship has focused on the limitations of Weber’s definition of the state. Bob Jessop (2008, p. 6) argues that the state, in its narrow sense, has powers and resources at its disposal and has relative autonomy in certain cases, but is vulnerable to resources produced by the environment (social forces) outside the state boundaries. Hence, according to him, whether the state is effective in shaping the behaviour or the structure of these social forces depends on the resources and powers that the social forces possess and operate. The state practices, policies, and decisions are thus the result of negotiations between state officials and social forces. Bob Jessop’s argument is more relevant to the aim of this book, in the sense that state power is subject to negotiation between the state and social forces (Jessop, 2008, p. 6).

8   Introduction Philip Abrams (1988) argues that the state is not just an actual organization of men and women who hold a monopoly on legitimate violence, but is “a hidden reality of politics; a backstage institutionalization of political power behind onstage agencies of government” (Abrams, 1988, p.  63). Abrams refers to the state as the sum of practices, or the condensation of practices of state agencies (for example, police officers) and government officials (for example, elected politicians). Abrams (1988, p.  82) proposes that the state should be analysed through the “state-­idea” and the “state-­system”. The state-­ idea refers to the ideological or discursive construct that presents “politically institutionalized power” (Abrams, 1988, p. 68), or structural power that looks cohesive in the eyes of society, that appears cohesive and is therefore accepted by society, albeit reluctantly by some. The state-­idea offers an intelligible schema to conceive, analyse, and define the nature and relations of a whole set of already established state institutions (Foucault, 2007, p.  286). According to Abrams (1988, p.  82), the state-­system is understood as the nexus of institutions and practices governing and dominating the society. Ralph Miliband (1977, p. 50) explains state institutions to include the government, the administration, the military and police, the judiciary, sub-­central government, and parliamentary assemblies. The practices of the officials working for these institutions are called the state, in Abram’s sense. The state idea plays an orientating role for the state and government officials. The officials materialize the state ideals. However, these officials are not merely automatons or apparatuses as suggested by the structural-­ functionalist scholars or Miliband himself. But the state officials can be innovative and able to contribute to the direction of the state, for example in the form of amending the Constitution, which is the materialization of the state-­idea.5 The officials can be innovative agencies, which are capable of producing decisions or policies that contradict the state idea. In summary, the state gives an orientating role to the government. The government materializes the state’s ideals, but on the other hand, the government can transform the state. The institution of government has a temporary character, or less permanent than the state. Government officials are given a mandate from the people through regular elections. Their jobs are temporary. Hence, elected politicians are part of the government, and so are personalities who are appointed temporarily by elected politicians to assume bureaucracy positions. The judiciary and the police are state agencies; in this book their officials are referred to as state officials.

The Indonesian state and the role of vigilante groups This section discusses the state’s entanglement with vigilante groups, which is the core topic of this book. This topic has a long history but due

Introduction   9 to limited space, the discussion on the topic only covers the period between the New Order era and that under the Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono government. In contrast to Weber, the discussion on the state’s entanglement with vigilante groups is framed within the premise that the state is not as monolithic as it appears to be. The state is a space where the interests of various groups – such as among state officials, or between state officials and members of society (among others: preman or thugs and the members of vigilante groups) – collide. In this space, the various parties negotiate with each other to fulfil their interests. In pursuing these interests, the state, on some occasions, cajoles the members of the vigilante groups. However, on other occasions, the vigilante groups might be capable of claiming the state’s space. Factors that determine which parties are going to prevail in this negotiation process are contingent. Drawing on his study on regional security-­providing mass organizations in Jakarta and Sulawesi Island, Laurens Bakker argues that “the popular legitimacy of both [the state and the vigilante groups] are inherently unstable, localized, and depending upon regular demonstrations of their will and capacity to rule” (Bakker, 2016, p. 253). However, rather than always being rivals embroiled in a zero-­sum-style game of social, political, or economic competition, at times, the state and the vigilante groups conspire together and support each other. Joshua Barker, for example, argues that the Indonesian state has not only supported and celebrated the practice of vigilantism, but “rather has actively cultivated them” (Barker, 2006, p.  204). The widespread use of the services of private security guards or Satpam (which stands for Satuan Pengamanan) by factories, firms, government institutions, or even individuals is the manifestation of the state supporting vigilantism practice. Satpam are hired to protect the security of their employers and the employers’ properties. However, the state has worked to absorb Satpam into the state structure to help the police or the Indonesian military perform surveillance processes to prevent crime, and also to perform political functions, especially during the New Order era. Satpam were introduced by a top police official in the 1980s, and have been part of the Indonesian social fabric ever since. These perpetual negotiations to claim the state’s space are manifested in, among others, the system of protection rackets. During the New Order era, Soeharto consolidated his power through the patronage system. Civil society organizations, including vigilante groups, were incorporated or absorbed into the state system. Those who refused to join the New Order network would be punished, while those who joined this network would get rewards, including in the form of state protection. Pemuda Pancasila

10   Introduction (PP) was one of the organizations that chose to join the state system to work together with the state, as their interests were “matched” (Ryter, 1998, p.  65). This organization made itself available to and needed by the state. PP could serve as a tool for social control, for example, when the state needed them to address social and political upheaval. When the implementation of social control gets out of hand, PP is ready to bear the brunt from the fall out, and none of the state institutions or apparatuses could be held responsible, since those who do the job of performing social control for them are civilians (PP members). In return for “this concrete service”, PP expects the state to grant them “concrete concessions” to help PP executives and members obtain material compensation for providing such a service (Ryter, 1998, p. 69). These concessions are in the form of the state’s permission for PP to extract revenue from, among others, the management of on-­street parking lots, the provision of security for bars and night clubs, and the provision of services in other businesses, which are also run at the margins of the law, such as debt-­collection businesses. In the New Order era, PP was not the only preman group who obtained benefits from state protection and cooperation. Its rivals included Pemuda Panca Marga (PPM) (Ryter, 1998), which is also the supporter of the Army and the Golkar (Golongan Karya) Party. Golkar was the ruling party in the New Order era. The collapse of the authoritarian regime of New Order in 1998 changed the landscape of Indonesian politics. The New Order corporatist system developed by Soeharto was gone. Many of his clients, especially the politico-­business families who depended on Soeharto’s patronage (and also vigilante groups such as PP and PPM), then struggled to survive in the more open, democratic, and decentralized system of the post-­New Order era. The members of Soeharto’s networks, including so-­called “New Order oligarchs”, competed with the new players (non-­New Order actors) to gain social, political, and economic resources in the more fragmented state (Robison & Hadiz, 2004, p. 245). Competition also occurred at the local level where state-­elites, namely the new players or ex-­members of New Order networks, adapted to the new democratic environment to gain public posts. Van Klinken contends that the rapid changes in the state structure, due to the processes of decentralization and democratization, facilitated the violence (Van Klinken, 2007, p. 139). Democratization created competition for local public posts. Access to power was no longer the privilege of those who were the cronies or clients of the New Order regime; hence, the situation encouraged local actors to participate in the elections. Unlike in Java, the state played a bigger role in the economy in the areas studied, which increased the incentive for local actors to win public posts, because winning the posts meant

Introduction   11 controlling the economic resources. Hence, the change of state structure compelled actors who were close to the levers of local power to seize the opportunity to mobilize people along ethnic and religious lines to regain power, or even to expand it, by resorting to violence if necessary. Van Klinken indicates that local state actors contributed to the violence (Van Klinken, 2007, p. 139). According to van Klinken, these state actors, who feared being marginalized in the era of open competition in the post-­ New Order period, negotiated with non-­state actors to form informal coalitions. They did this through the use of extra-­parliamentary forums, such as ad hoc ethnic or religious forums (Van Klinken, 2007, p.  156), to gain support in regional elections. The practice heightened polarization among the local community, which resulted in communal violence. The practice demonstrated how officials became complicit in the violence in order to maintain their access to the state. Van Klinken’s study implies that the state had the capacity to prevent the violence, but chose not to do so, for electoral reasons. Michael Buehler (2014, p.  174) shows evidence, for South Sulawesi, that the state elites reached out to the Islamists, or those who were receptive to Islamist demands, by alleging support for sharia bylaws in a new government, as compensation for Islamist support in the run-­up to local elections. Non-­state actors also seized the opportunity in the open system to gain social, political, and economic benefits, on the pretext of fighting for Islamic causes. These groups rose to power at the expense of other uncivil groups (formal youth groups), whose legitimacy rested on, among other things, nationalism, Pancasila, and the 1945 Constitution – ideologies that had been used to strengthen Soeharto’s power against the opposition (Heryanto, 1990, pp.  290–291; Langenberg, 1990, p.  124). The secular-­nationalist gangsters lost their institutional and ideological backers after the New Order regime collapsed, and the situation gave way to the rise of the new form of preman (thug) groups that employed religious precepts and collaborated with the state to gain and to maintain territory (Ryter, 1998, p. 72; Wilson, 2008, p. 193). Some Islamic (vigilante) groups exploited the situation to gain greater influence in the community. These groups worked independently, exploiting religious minorities and committing violence against them to gain social and religious authority. Other Islamic groups opposed the religious minorities for faith reasons, and not for political reasons. The political milieu which permitted freedom of expression made them more open to articulating their genuine concern about the presence of minority communities whose faith contradicted theirs, such as Ahmadiyah and Shi’ism. Unlike during the New Order, the state was highly fragmented in the post-­ New Order period. The open system saw old and new political actors

12   Introduction compete for social, economic, and political resources, which often resulted in violence. Existing work on the state and violence in the post-­New Order period has focused on state officials’ interactions with members of society. Ian Douglas Wilson (2015) focuses his book on the changing nature of relationships and alliances between the state and the violent entrepreneurs (the vigilante groups) in the aftermath of the collapse of the New Order regime, characterized by the democratization and the decentralization processes. In the New Order era, due to the corporatist system overseen by Soeharto, state agents had some leeway in imposing social control over society. These agents lost much of their comfortable control over society following the demise of the New Order regime in 1998. The state was more fragmented. As a result, old and new social forces (of the state and society) competed to get access to social, political, and economic resources in the era of freedom, which created “an open, dynamic, and at times unstable market in violent entrepreneurship and political brokerage” (Wilson, 2015, p. 18). Other research using similar approaches includes Samsu Rizal Panggabean and Ihsan Ali-­Fauzi’s comparative study on the policing of religious conflicts in eight areas in Indonesia between 2002 and 2013. The research looks at how the police negotiated conflicts with social groups, such as religious figures, vigilante groups, and minority communities. The comparative research (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014) asked why the police were effective in handling incidents of religious violence in some cases but not in others. The police are considered effective if the security institution is successful in preventing religious disputes turning violent. The study argues that police effectiveness depends on three variables: structural, knowledge, and interactions (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p.  308). Structural variables include the legal framework and standard operating procedures that guide police officers in doing their jobs, the character of the precinct being policed, policing culture, local politics, and pressure of public opinion. The knowledge variable refers to police knowledge of: the legal framework and standard operating procedures, issues pertaining to conflict, and perception of conflict. The interactions variable refers to relations between and interaction among conflicting parties; and between conflicting parties and the police. The study found that the police were successful in preventing religious disputes from erupting into full-­blown religious violence in six areas, but failed in two, namely in Sampang and Pandeglang regencies. The study posits that provocation and people’s mobilization to commit violence contributed greatly to police ineffectiveness in preventing the violence against Shi’a and Ahmadiyah adherents respectively in Sampang and Pandeglang regencies. Widespread mobilization occurred in the two regencies, with

Introduction   13 Sunni Muslim leaders using sectarian doctrines, idioms, and symbols to spark a heresy campaign against the minority communities (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p. 309). The problems worsened after local officials, the Sampang regent, and the village head in Pandeglang, supported the heresy campaign and obstructed police in preventing violence against the minority communities. In contrast, the police handling of violence was successful in Bangil and Pasuruan regencies because local bureaucracies and the Sunni religious leaders were supportive of police efforts to prevent the violence. In his book, Nicholas Herriman (2012) explores the state’s response to numerous killings of alleged sorcerers in Banyuwangi regency, East Java province, in the aftermath of the reform movement in 1998. His study looks at power relations between the state and society. Using an anthropological approach, Herriman argues that the state was weak in controlling the killings due to local state officials’ affinities with local residents who perpetrated the violence. These affinities (in the form of local and kinship ties) made the state officials reluctant to take a firm approach against the perpetrators, to impose law and order. In addition, local officials were also intimidated by strong community feeling against the alleged local sorcerers. This resulted in the absence of a so-­called deterrence effect, leading to more violence. The local state officials’ shared belief that the alleged sorcerers were guilty comprised another factor behind the state’s weak response to the violence. Herriman’s research contributes in revising previous prevalent descriptions that the Indonesian state is repressive, monolithic, and overbearing. The arguments of these three studies fit with the fragmented character of the Indonesian state in the post-­New Order era. The Indonesian state, during the government of President Yudhoyono, was a democratic and decentralized state. The devolution of power to the regions brought social and political actors, either state or non-­state actors, into competition for social, economic, and political resources for their own gain. This approach is useful to reveal “the evident divisions and internal contradictions that make the state a site of struggle among many competing groups” (Barker and Van Klinken, 2009, p. 2). The state may increase its power by projecting itself as unified, drawing the submission of citizens into the will of the state. Such images can be powerful cultural constructs, but Barker and Van Klinken (2009, p. 2) warn that they “should not be dismissed, but neither should they be allowed to blind observers to the reality of how state power is deployed and contested in myriad ways”.

State complicity in communal violence A key subject that arose from the existing literature on the state and its response to violence is the concept of state “complicity”. As I described in

14   Introduction the previous section, while some old forces were scrambling for survival in the post-­New Order era, the fragmented state in this era gave opportunities for a new type of violent entrepreneur to enter the more open system of protection rackets. Ian Douglas Wilson describes this practice as “moral racketeering” (Wilson, 2008, p. 208). In contrast to the previous groups of violent entrepreneurs that abused nationalist ideals for private gain, the new preman groups exploited Islamic discourses to claim the state’s space in the new era of freedom. Apparently, seeking popular legitimacy through exploiting Islamic discourse struck a chord in society in the country’s period of transition in the aftermath of the demise of the New Order’s secular regime. As a result, more and more groups of violent entrepreneurs using Islam credentials appeared in public and competed head-­to-head with their nationalist predecessors. It should be noted, however, that just like the state, the sovereignty of the violent entrepreneurs over a territory “is usually partial, patchy and limited to specific social and economic spheres” (Wilson, 2015, p. 35). To stay relevant, this new type of violent entrepreneur often played on religious issues and directed their allegations towards religious minorities or religious deviants. They counted on state officials to discipline the members of the “deviant religious faiths”. At times, this resulted in the production of conviviality between the state officials and the members of these violent entrepreneur groups, which “pushed local politics in a xenophobic and authoritarian direction” (Telle, 2013, p.  207). In some cases, the state officials were neutral and tried to serve as mediator between the members of the minority faiths and their opponents, namely members of the vigilante groups. Many times, the state officials entertained the violent entrepreneurs’ demands to ban the members of the minority faith from practising their religion. The state officials did so for electoral reasons, and for the sake of the maintenance of social order. In some cases, the state officials even “operate[d] directly with the civil society groups which agitate against Ahmadiyah” (Hicks, 2014, p. 332). This complicity in violence emboldened the vigilante groups in perpetrating more violence. State complicity in violence against its minority citizens is of course not exclusive to Indonesia. Steven Wilkinson (2004, pp. 4–5), in his study on the state response to violence against minorities in India, argues that the will and capacity of the government are crucial to prevent violence against minorities. The argument is drawn from comparative studies that contend that “large scale ethnic rioting does not take place where a state’s army or police force is ordered to stop it using all means necessary” (Wilkinson, 2004, p. 5). Wilkinson (2004, pp. 94–95) found that in almost all cases, the police and the magistrates in India had the capacity to curb the violence, but refrained from doing so due to orders from politicians in power or fear

Introduction   15 of political backlash from politicians in government. The politicians in power chose to withhold protection from minority communities for electoral reasons, which resulted in frequent violence against those communities. According to Wilkinson, politicians would only order the security forces to offer security to minority communities when the latter supported them in elections. In his book, Dave McRae (2013, pp. 159–160) follows this line of argument, that to explain the violence, it is more sensible to look at the state’s political will, rather than at the state’s capacity. Hence, in his study of regular violence in the Poso regency, he argues that the central government intervened when violence triggered a sense of social and political crisis in the area. The intervention served as a deterrent against irresponsible parties inciting violence. When the central government loosened its security in Poso regency after some time, due to other pressing affairs, violence flared up again. McRae then argues that the central government’s lack of political will explained why the security situation fluctuated in Poso regency between 1999 and 2004. To conclude, the collapse of the centralized regime of the New Order paved the way for democratization and decentralization, which subsequently created a more open environment for state and society to compete for social, economic, and political resources. This competition in the transition period to democracy resulted in the outbreak of violence in the regions. The state struggled to rule in a new democracy. In light of the state’s consolidating democracy, the existing literature does not focus on how the state accumulates or dispenses power, but rather examines the state and government officials negotiating conflicts and violence, either among themselves or with members of society.

Argumentation, research method, and the organization of this book This book is one of the first scholarly studies of religious minority violence in the era of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY) (2004–2014). Its focus is on the Indonesian state and the Ahmadiyah and Shi’a religious minority groups. This book argues that the state was reluctant to address the violence because it was entangled in relationships and had mutual interests with vigilante groups, which affected officials’ judgements either in preventing the incidents of religious violence, or in making stern legal charges against them. This entanglement was the result of a blurred boundary between the state and society which allowed state officials and vigilante groups to explore and forge areas of mutual material and political interests (symbiotic mutualism). The situation facilitated vigilante groups to appropriate some of the power of the state,

16   Introduction and hence, gave them leeway to perpetrate religious violence as a form of social control. This book expands upon existing literature on the state and violence described in the previous section in a number of ways. First, Ian ­Wilson’s book discusses the changing nature of relationship and alliance between the state and the violent entrepreneurs in Jakarta following the collapse of the New Order regime in 1998, highlighting the system of protection rackets that become the basis for the state and the violent entrepreneurs in forging their alliance. My book, instead, highlights and describes in detail the close connection between the state and the violent entrepreneurs, which made the state reluctant to take stern measures against them. Second, other books do not emphasize the importance of close connections between state officials and vigilante groups. Van Klinken’s study on violence between 1997 and 2002 argues that it was the local elite, close to the levers of local state power, who were responsible for inciting violence to maintain their access to state resources. Herriman’s study of violence in Banyuwangi in 1998 focuses on kinship and local ties. Samsu Rizal Panggabean and Ali-­Fauzi’s 2014 study argues that local elected politicians were adept at hindering police from stopping the violence during the SBY era in the Sampang and Pandeglang regencies. My study expands on this literature by arguing that state complicity in violence against religious minorities stems from state officials’ close connections with vigilante groups. Third, this book explains the internal contradictions of the state, rather than seeing the state as a monolithic institution which has enormous capacity to curb violence. Dave McRae’s study on Poso regency between 1999 and 2004 argues that the central Indonesian state’s willingness to address the violence explains the fluctuation of the capacity of the state to address the recurring violence. McRae argues that the state had enormous capacity, and that the security forces and bureaucracy were merely adhering to the politicians’ wishes. This book will show that the state is not as autonomous, powerful, and monolithic as McRae suggests. Panggabean and Ali-­Fauzi’s 2014 study argues for the examination of internal contradictions of the state, an approach with which this book agrees. They show that security forces and bureaucracy had their own roles in the state structure; hence they were expected to adhere to these roles. Internal contradictions thus marred the state’s internal structure, despite its appearance of uniformity. Panggabean and Ali-­Fauzi only examine this at a local level. Similarly, Ian Wilson’s book focuses only on the changing nature of relationship and alliance between the state and the violent entrepreneurs in Jakarta. However, this book will examine the internal contradictions of

Introduction   17 state arms at both the local and national levels, to provide more convincing evidence that the state is not as monolithic as some scholars describe, or imagine. This book draws upon a seven-­month period of fieldwork conducted in 2013 in religious minority communities in West Java and Madura Island respectively. Research data was gathered about state practices through in-­ depth interviews and ethnographic research. Two local areas were chosen as sites of research: Manislor village, West Java province, where 70 per cent of the village’s population are Ahmadis, making it the biggest Ahmadiyah community in Southeast Asia; and former residential areas of Shi’a followers in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets, Sampang regency, East Java province. These sites became the locus of my research because incidents of religious violence had frequently occurred there during the period from 2002 until 2012. Given that state officials performed their bureaucratic and security functions more intensively in the former conflict areas, collecting data in these areas allowed me to observe closely and understand the practices of state officials in preventing and handling incidents of religious violence. Further, residing in the former conflict areas provided me with the opportunity to ask questions of those people involved in, or who had knowledge about, the conflicts. The main method of data gathering comprised in-­depth formal and informal semi-­structured interviews. I formally interviewed over 40 people – either victims or those who had knowledge of the incidents of religious violence. I either made an audio recording or took notes during the interviews, with the consent of each interviewee. I also conducted informal semi-­structured interviews with dozens of other people in similar categories. They were, among others, local state officials, members of the minority communities, and leaders of the vigilante groups. In the formal semi-­structured interviews, I prepared some key questions about why the violence occurred, and the role of the state officials in handling the violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. For the state officials, I formulated questions about the problems that they faced when handling the violence. The semi-­structured interview format was useful as it allowed interview participants “to diverge in order to pursue an idea or response in more detail” (Gill, Stewart, Treasure, & Chadwick, 2008). The ethnographic method was used to complement the formal and informal semi-­structured interviews. The data derived from this method were useful to uncover certain biases that I became aware of in the data-­ gathering process. The ethnographic method allowed me to observe closely the everyday lives of the police officers, and hence, it was useful for me to get a deeper understanding of police views on the minority communities. Their views against Ahmadiyah or Shi’a communities, or the vigilante

18   Introduction groups, were the subject of probing, because in the field sites I observed that a police officer’s stance often affected their attitude and actions in handling incidents of religious violence. I stayed in the Ahmadiyah Guest House in Manislor village, Kuningan regency between May and August 2013. During this time, I closely observed interactions taking place in the Ahmadiyah community between state officials and members of the Ahmadiyah communities. The police officers occasionally visited the Ahmadiyah housing complex to conduct patrols and to visit leaders of the Ahmadiyah communities to discuss security issues. These interactions demonstrated patterns of state officials’ practices in handling the violence. For example, I found the attitude of the police towards the communities to be inconsistent. When the police officers were visiting Ahmadiyah leaders, they always emphasized that the police were neutral in the conflict between the Ahmadiyah communities and the vigilante groups. However, when I met with other police personnel in different events and venues, comparatively less sympathy was expressed for the Ahmadiyah communities; some even described Ahmadiyah teaching as heretical. Understanding the patterns of state officials’ practices was useful for me to make sense of how they handled violence during the episode of prolonged conflict in the field sites between roughly 2002 and 2012. The situation was still tense in the former conflict area in Sampang regency during the period of my fieldwork; hence I spent time mostly in urban Sampang between September and November 2013. Additionally, I spent five days in the former conflict area of Gading Laok hamlet to learn first-­hand about the character and culture of the local population. My stay in the hamlet, a remote rural area some 45 minutes by motorcycle from Sampang, also gave me opportunity to interview state officials and Sunni figures who had been involved in or had knowledge about the conflict. I then moved to Surabaya city, some three hours’ drive from Sampang regency, to be closer to Shi’a residents who lived in a government shelter in the neighbouring regency of Sidoarjo. The Shi’a residents occupied the apartment building in Sidoarjo after Sampang vigilante groups, under the supervision of police personnel, forced them to leave their refugee shelter (Sampang indoor tennis stadium) in June 2013. The Shi’a residents had lived in the stadium for almost a year after they had left their homes in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets, following clashes on 26 August 2012 between Sunni and Shi’a residents. My stay in Surabaya allowed me to interview leaders of Shi’a and some government officials at the East Java provincial government to gather information on how the state officials handled the prolonged violence against the Shi’a communities. The ethnographic method was less effective in Sampang regency as Shi’a residents had already left for Sidoarjo regency at the time of my fieldwork.

Introduction   19 Hence, I relied on formal and informal interviews, secondary resources such as academic publications in the form of journal articles and theses, and media reports to make sense of the practices of state officials in handling violence against the Shi’a communities. These resources complemented the data gathered through formal and informal interviews, and ethnographic methods involving participation and observation. Undertaking fieldwork across two sites allowed me to compare the state officials’ practices, and identify some similarities in these practices. State practices were different from one area to another, and were also different from one time to another. The violence itself was multifaceted and context­dependent. Numerous factors interacted in complex ways to produce the violence including: historical legacies, rational calculation, triggering events, and political factors (Aspinall, 2008, p. 558). This book is organized in the following order: the first chapter discusses in greater detail the existing literature in which this book is situated, and explains the significance and originality of my research. The second chapter addresses why the heresy campaign arose in the reform era and how the heresy campaign became transformed into incidents of religious violence. The chapter also identifies causes behind the rising heresy campaign. The third chapter examines the role of the security forces. In particular, it aims to investigate the security forces’ handling of the vigilante groups, which were often responsible for the production of violence. The chapter asks why security officials so often failed to impose stern measures against vigilantes and considers whether it was due to security forces no longer having a monopoly over legitimate violence in the post-­New Order era. The chapter argues that the security officials were entangled in relationships and mutual interests with vigilante groups, which affected the officials’ judgement either in preventing the incidents of religious violence, or in bringing serious legal charges against them. The entanglement was the result of a blurred boundary which allowed the security forces and the vigilante groups to explore and forge areas of mutual material and political interests (symbiotic mutualism), which facilitated the groups to appropriate state power, and hence, gave them leeway to perpetrate the religious violence as a form of social control. The fourth chapter discusses the legal ambiguity that prevented the state from applying laws equally to citizens. The legal ambiguity refers to unclear and occasionally incoherent laws being applied discriminatively, which resulted in perpetrators of violence being exempted from legal prosecution. This chapter also looks at local regulations and bylaws in the provinces of my field sites. The fifth chapter examines local bureaucracy. This chapter argues that bureaucratic practices were a result of historical and political contexts rather than Indonesian cultural values that, among other things, promote harmony in

20   Introduction society. The bureaucracy revived a discriminatory practice that targeted Ahmadiyah and Shi’a in the post-­New Order environment of Indonesia, in response to a heresy campaign against the minority faiths. The practice emboldened the anti-­heresy groups to commit more violence. By giving in to the demands of the anti-­minority groups, the bureaucracy reduced the state’s capacity to promote security for its citizens, in particular the minority communities. The sixth chapter discusses the role of the president. The president’s role cannot be ignored because, in the reform era, religious affairs were still under the jurisdiction of the central government, presided over by the president. At times, the president carried out initiatives to promote the rights of minorities for some particular reason. However, such initiatives faced constraints from other state institutions due to the inclination of the bureaucracy and the judiciary to preserve the existing social order and the hegemonic interpretation of the “Belief in One God” article in the state’s foundation. The president’s reduced power in the post-­New Order era compounded the problem. This chapter further argues that, so long as these constraints exist, any president would have difficulties overcoming violence against minority communities. The seventh chapter concludes on the role of the state in post-­New Order Indonesia with regard to religious minorities.

Notes 1 Internal presentation by Adj. Sr. Comr. Solehan, then chief of Sampang regency police, in a routine police session called Analysis and Evaluation (ANEV). The presentation, in which the soft copy is available to the author, is titled: “Presentation of Chief of Sampang Regency Police Related to Horizontal Conflict between Kiai Tajul Muluk & Kiai Rois in Karanggayam Village, Omben District and Blu’uran Village, Karangpenang District.” 2 After experiencing several intimidating incidents, Tajul “accepted” the local government’s “suggestion” to go into exile in Malang city, a six-­hour drive from the village for one year, starting in July 2011. The East Java provincial government gave him financial assistance to support his life in exile. However, Tajul several times returned home “to visit his wife and his father’s graveyard” (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p. 109). 3 John T. Sidel discusses the shifting pattern of religious violence between 1995 and 2005. Sidel argues that the first two years (1995–1997) were characterized by riots in provincial towns and cities, followed by anti-­witchcraft campaigns in Java and interreligious pogroms in Central Sulawesi and Maluku in 1998–2001, and paramilitary mobilization and terrorist bombings under the sign of “jihad” in 2000–2005 (Sidel, 2006, p. xi). The religious pogroms that Sidel was referring to, which pit Muslims against Christians, mainly occurred in Poso city (Central Sulawesi) and Ambon city (Maluku province). The violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a frequently occurred after the conflict between Muslims and Christians had subsided.

Introduction   21 4 Article 29 of the Constitution, verse 2, declares that the state guarantees all persons the freedom of worship, each according to his/her own religion or belief. 5 Daniel Lev also has a similar understanding. Law, according to him, records the structure of the state (Lev, 1985, p.  57). The laws in Indonesia are obliged to follow the materials of the Constitution; otherwise the laws have to be revoked.

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2 Escalating heresy campaigns against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities

Introduction This chapter examines two regencies of Indonesia, Kuningan and Sampang, where sizable Ahmadiyah and Shi’a minority communities respectively reside. It explains the history of these regencies and how minority groups came to live there, before explaining how heresy campaigns increased in the period of Yudhoyono’s presidency. This chapter aims to identify the causes behind the escalating heresy campaign. In doing so it elaborates on the dynamics between the religious communities and their respective relationships with state officials. This chapter reveals that anti-­minority groups mobilized the masses to build social pressure against the minority communities through large and frequent protests, which often led to religious violence against the minority communities. The definition of “religious violence” used in this book draws on Sidel’s (2006, p. 7): “collective physical attacks on persons or property launched in avowed defense or the promotion of religious beliefs, boundaries, institutions, traditions or values, and behind religious symbols and slogans”. This working definition distinguishes it from other forms of communal violence such as keroyokan or mobbing (lynching) (see Welsh, 2008), inter-­village brawls, or ethnic violence. I will organize the chapter in the following order. First, I will explain the definition of Sunni, Ahmadiyah, and Shi’a, and the religious teachings to which they subscribe. The second and third sections describe and discuss the territorial and social settings of Manislor village of Kuningan regency, and the revival of old village politics that facilitated the escalating heresy campaign against Ahmadiyah in the village. The fourth section discusses the territorial and social settings of Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets in Sampang regency where Shi’a residents lived. The fifth section discusses the political and economic forces that laid the groundwork for ensuing violence against Shi’a communities. The sixth section

Escalating heresy campaigns   25 concludes as to the precise role of anti-­Ahmadiyah and anti-­Shi’a groups in the religious violence against the minority communities.

Sunnism, Shi’ism, and Ahmadiyah teachings This section explains differences between Sunnism and Shi’ism, and between Sunnism and Ahmadiyah teachings. The information is crucial for us to make sense of how Sunni religious figures capitalized upon differences to wage heresy campaigns against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a, and to claim social, political, and religious authority over them. This is not to say that the differences were the sole source of conflict. In some other areas in Indonesia, peaceful co-­ existence has prevailed for years among the adherents of the three different teachings. But different teachings were a passive factor in the occurrence of religious violence. Instead, as I argue later in this chapter, it was largely the active role of the anti-­minority groups that contributed greatly to the occurrence of violence against Shi’a and Ahmadiyah communities. Sunnism is the largest Islam denomination in the world, comprising more than 80 per cent of the world’s total Muslim population (Gaiser, 2012; Oxford Reference, 2015). The term Sunni came into being following the death of Prophet Muhammad in the early part of the seventh century. Without direct spiritual guidance, Muslims gradually developed different interpretations of Islam. Among the different denominations, Sunni Muslims strove to adhere to the practice of Islam followed by the earliest generation of Muslims, considering that practice to be authentic. Sunni Muslims believe that the primary source of the authentic Islam is Al Quran, which serves as the highest source of legal and ethical guidance for Muslims. The secondary source is the Sunna (the Prophet’s established practice) in the form of Muhammad’s sayings, exemplary deeds, and Muhammad’s tacit approvals. The report in which these practices were accounted was called hadith. Sunni Muslims generally accepted that the most authoritative hadith was the one collected in the six books written by Islamic scholars in the ninth century, or less than two centuries after Prophet Muhammad passed away (Rahman, 1979, p.  43; Oxford Reference, 2015). Given the importance of Sunna to Sunni Muslims, they are often referred to as “the people of tradition and community (Ahl al-­Sunna wa ‘l-­Jama’a)” (Picken, 2008, p. 625; Gaiser, 2012). The third and fourth sources of Islamic laws are ijma’ (the consensus of the community and ulema) and qiyas (analogic reasoning). Sunni Muslims use ijma’ and qiyas as reference when rules for particular issues are absent from Al Quran and Sunna. Ijma’ and qiyas cannot contradict Al Quran and Sunna. Sunni can be found in most Islamic countries in the world, including Indonesia. Indonesia had a population of 207 million Muslims in 2010, the

26   Escalating heresy campaigns overwhelming majority of whom were Sunni Muslims (Biro Pusat Statistik [Central Bureau of Statistics], 2010). Hence, most state officials whom I interviewed, and whose roles are mentioned in this book, are Sunni. Unless stated otherwise, the non-­state actors whose roles are described in this book are also Sunni, although their social and religious organizations had diverse visions and missions. Shi’ism is Islam’s second largest denomination in the world. Similar to Sunnism, Shi’ism adherents (Shi’a) also believe that Al Quran and the hadith are the primary sources of legal and ethical guidance for them (Tabataba’i, 1989, p.  136; Shihab, 2007, p.  60). However, Sunnism and Shi’ism differed in their view of who would assume leadership of the believers after the death of Prophet Muhammad. Muhammad did not leave any sons nor designate a successor. The Islamic community was then split between those who believed that the caliph candidate had to be drawn from Muhammad’s family or relatives, and the rest who aspired to elect a person from outside that family. The first group backed the candidacy of Ali ibn Abi Thalib, the prophet’s cousin and son-­in-law, and hence, they are called Shi’a, which is literally translated as “partisans of Ali” (Feener, 2004, p. 12). The other group supported the candidacy of Abu Bakr al-­Shiddiq, the prophet’s oldest companion. Abu Bakr al-­Shiddiq was eventually elected as the first caliph, despite the argument that Ali was the right one to lead the Islamic community due to his familial relation to the prophet. The second and third caliphs of the post-­Muhammad Islamic empire, Umar ibn al-­Khattab and Ustman bin Affan, were also former companions of Muhammad. Ali was eventually elected as the fourth caliph, following the unexpected murder of the third caliph (Ustman bin Affan). Following the assassination of Ali in the middle of the sevenh century, Shi’a continued to emphasize the spiritual authority and leadership of Prophet Muhammad’s family (Ahl al-­Bayt) and their descendants, especially Ali and his lineage (Picken, 2008, p. 596). Shi’a reverence for Ali and his descendants resulted in their opposition to Muhammad’s companions becoming caliphs, and their legacies. Unlike Sunni Muslims, Shi’a considered that Muhammad’s companions’ narratives in the hadith were not trustworthy (Picken, 2008, p.  597). Their view was in opposition to Sunni Muslims who respected the legacies of Muhammad’s companions who became the caliphs, as well as Ali, but they did not worship Ali. Sunni Muslims considered that Ali ibn Abi Thalib did not have “any special religious or political role beyond his being one of the rightly guided caliphs” (Gaiser, 2012). After splitting from Sunni, the Shi’a retained core Islamic teachings and traditions, based on Al Quran, and hadith, with the exception of narratives

Escalating heresy campaigns   27 from other companions of the Prophet. However, as time passed, the denomination also developed beliefs and practices that were different from Sunni, especially a doctrine that centred on the Imamate (Gobel, 1989, p.  2). Through this doctrine, Shi’a believe that God always appointed an infallible imam (leader) to guide the Muslim community at all times, with Prophet Muhammad as the first leader, followed by Ali ibn Abi Thalib and subsequent lineages. Shi’a further split into at least three groups, because each group acknowledged the leadership of different imam (out of a total of 12 imam). The biggest Shi’a group, Ithna ‘Asharis, considered the twelfth imam (Muhammad ibn Hasan) as their imam, while the Isma’ilis Shi’a submitted to the leadership of the seventh imam (Isma’il ibn Jafar). The other group, Zaidiyyah, acknowledged the leadership of Zayd ibn Ali, a Shi’a leader in the eighth century. Tajul Muluk, the leader of Shi’a in Sampang, whose social role in the Sunni and Shi’a conflicts will be discussed further later in this book, subscribed to Ithna ‘Asharis Shi’ism and offered the teaching to his followers in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets starting in 2002. Some Shi’ism doctrines taught by Tajul that differed from Sunnism were, among others, the emphasis that the issue of leadership was crucial for Shi’a, given the Shi’ism doctrine that stipulated that God always appointed an infallible leader to guide humans at all times (Tajul Muluk, personal communication, 4 December 2013). Other doctrines that were different to Sunnism were taqiyya (dissimulation practice) and mut’a (contract marriage). Tajul taught his followers that Shi’ism adherents were allowed to implement taqiyya in order to hide their identities for the reason of personal safety. The practice was common among Shi’a because Shi’ism adherents often became the object of persecution due to their minority status. Shi’ism also granted permission for its adherents to pursue contract marriage (mut’a), as long as certain conditions were met, including payment of dowry and that neither partner was already engaged or married to someone else. Tajul Muluk (personal communication, 4 December 2013) admitted that contract marriage is permissible (halal), but he and his followers did not practice it because “it is hard to implement it in Indonesia”. There were also other minor differences, such as the practice of prayer. Male Sunni Muslims are obliged to participate in Friday noon communal prayer in mosques, but according to Tajul (personal communication, 4 December 2013), Shi’a can skip the Friday communal prayer if they have already performed individual noon prayer. Local residents did not immediately recognize that Tajul was introducing Shi’ism to students at his brother’s school. Tension occurred after local Sunni figures, such as Muslim teachers, found that Tajul’s teachings were different from Sunni tenets, which local residents had followed for years.

28   Escalating heresy campaigns In general, Shi’ism has attracted followers in Indonesia for a long time, and in some places, Shi’a rituals have even shaped or influenced Sunni Muslims’ rituals, such as in Padang, West Sumatra, or Bengkulu province. Many adherents of Shi’ism practised their faith among themselves or within the circle of their families. However, the Iranian revolution boosted the confidence of the Shi’a. Shi’a propagation efforts increased the popularity of Shi’ism in Indonesia in the aftermath of the Iranian revolution in 1979. Shi’ism adherents began to organize religious gatherings and held intellectual discussions in public about their beliefs and practice (Amin, Ilyas, Sam, & Amirsyah, 2013, p. 89). Shi’a strengthened their movements with the formation of the Association of Indonesian Ahlulbait Communities (IJABI) in 2000. Another large Shi’a organization, Ahlulbait Indonesia (ABI), was established in 2011. However, the size of the population of Shi’a in Indonesia remains unclear; estimates by Shi’a figures range from 20,000 to 3,000,000 adherents (Zulkifli, 2013, p. 15). Suffice it to say that Shi’ism has modestly thrived in Indonesia, with numerous foundations and schools maintaining their existence despite rising social pressures against them in post-­New Order Indonesia. “Ahmadiyah” in this book refers to Ahmadiyah Qadian, especially its communities in Manislor branch, Kuningan regency, whose properties frequently became the target of violence between 2002 and 2010. Ahmadiyah in Indonesia forms part of the international movement of Ahmadiyya founded by Mirza Ghulam Ahmad in the city of Ludhiana, India in 1889. The movement was split into the Lahore and Qadian groups about a decade later, due to a dispute about the founder’s prophethood status. The Lahore group believed that Mirza Ghulam Ahmad was merely a reformer within Islam and not at the level of prophet, as the Qadian group proposed. The Lahore group advanced the view, to conform to the belief of mainstream Muslims, such as Sunni and Shi’a’, that the Prophet Muhammad is the “seal” of prophets and there are no more prophets after him (Lavan, 1974, pp.  57–58). In contrast, the Qadian group insisted on their interpretation that Mirza Ghulam Ahmad was a prophet; although they acknowledged that, unlike Prophet Muhammad, Mirza did not bring the new tradition embodied in the presence of the holy book (Al Quran). This view stems from Mirza Ghulam Ahmad’s final statement, before he passed away, that he is a prophet. Mirza further argued that prophethood was necessary after the death of Prophet Muhammad, otherwise Islam would die like other religions, and would not possess a distinctive sign (Khan, 1974, p. 182). As a result, Ahmadiyah Qadian often became the target of persecution, because in the eyes of Muslims, both Sunni and Shi’a, the prophethood issue was controversial, including in Indonesia. For Muslims, belief in Muhammad’s prophethood is important because it comprises one of the

Escalating heresy campaigns   29 five pillars of Islam.1 Muslims, be they Sunni or Shi’a, believe that the Prophet Muhammad is the last prophet. Muhammad is considered as the messenger of God, perfecting the religious teachings conveyed by earlier prophets such as Jesus Christ and Moses. In response to the controversy, Ahmadiyah leaders often conveyed to Muslim Sunni figures that, although they believed Mirza Ghulam Ahmad to be their prophet, which means that Mirza Ghulam Ahmad is the last prophet, they acknowledged Prophet Muhammad as the supreme prophet among all prophets. Other Ahmadiyah figures acknowledged publicly that Muhammad is the “seal” of the prophet (Ahmadiyah Akui [Ahmadiyah Admits], 2011), although this statement was apparently a defensive mechanism to ease opposition against Ahmadiyah organizations in Indonesia. However, the statements did not dampen Sunni figures’ objections to Ahmadiyah. As I will show in the later part of this chapter, the anti-­Ahmadiyah groups developed a discourse that claimed Ahmadiyah as heretical because the teaching contradicted beliefs of mainstream Muslims. The majority of Ahmadis in Indonesia were part of the Qadian organization, with a smaller number following the Lahore group. There is no official figure for the total number of Ahmadiyah followers in Indonesia. A senior official with Jemaat Ahmadiyah Indonesia (Indonesia Ahmadiyah Communities) (JAI) claimed the number of Ahmadiyah Qadian adherents at 500,000 people, mostly residing in West Java province (Ahmadiyah Akui [Ahmadiyah Admits], 2011). They lived in over 300 communities across Indonesia, organized and governed as a branch of a central body, the JAI, which is headquartered in Jakarta. JAI is part of the international Ahmadiyah Qadian organization, based in London. Ahmadiyah Qadian’s operations span over 200 countries with tens of millions of members, including in Indonesia (Al Islam Organization, 2014). In contrast, the number of Ahmadiyah Lahore adherents was small. According to an estimate in early 2000, the number of adherents of Ahmadiyah Lahore in Indonesia was about 2,000 people (Mustafa, Februana, Indirani, & Wahyuni, 2005, pp.  95). Unlike adherents of Ahmadiyah Qadian, the Lahore communities rarely found themselves in violent conflict with the Sunni population, and hence they are not mentioned in this book. The previous section has explained the key concepts of Sunni, Ahmadiyah, and Shi’a, and their teachings. Later in this chapter, I will explain how the Sunni Muslim figures, especially the vigilante groups, often highlighted different belief to justify their accusations of heresy against the Ahmadiyah communities. The Sunni figures also capitalized on other differences – at the levels of belief and practice – in order to justify and build social pressure against the communities. These differences are, among others, Ahmadiyah objections to becoming ma’mum (followers) in

30   Escalating heresy campaigns prayers in communities with other adherents of Islam; the habit of Ahmadiyah women and children of participating in Friday prayers, in contrast to Sunni practice, in which only men partake; and predawn tahajud prayer in communities once a week held at An Nur Mosque. However, in the eyes of Sunni adherents, tahajud is an individual prayer, and is not supposed to be conducted communally as Ahmadis always do in Manislor. We now turn to discuss the territorial and social settings for those areas where Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities resided in Indonesia, in order to further understand their historical links and political networks within a specific region of the archipelago.

Ahmadiyah village in Manislor Manislor village is located in Jalaksana district, Kuningan regency, West Java province. It is situated on the slope of Ciremai Mountain, the highest mountain in the province, and hence has a cool climate and fertile land. The village is adjacent to the province’s main road that stretches between downtown Kuningan regency and Cirebon city in the northern coastal area of Java Island. It is about 9 kilometres north of the downtown Kuningan regency, and about 26 kilometres south of Cirebon. In terms of religious orientation, 2013 statistical data show that the majority of the Kuningan population are Muslims (1,123,171 or 99 per cent of the total Kuningan population) (Biro Pusat Statistik Kabupaten Kuningan [Kuningan Bureau of Statistic], 2014).2 They are mostly of Sundanese ethnicity, as is the case for most of West Java. Ancient religions of the Sundanese, such as Sunda Wiwitan, were still being practised by their adherents, especially in the Cigugur area of Kuningan regency. But their influence was small, and the adherents were a minority in the regency. Some discrimination was experienced by Sunda Wiwitan adherents,3 but they enjoyed a relatively peaceful co-­existence with the majority of Muslim Sunni. Conflicts with other minorities also rarely occurred. The treatment of Sunda Wiwitan contrasted to what occurred to the Ahmadis. While Sunda Wiwitan and other adherents of minority religions were, in most cases, free to practise their faiths, Ahmadiyah adherents became the subject of prolonged persecution and discrimination in Kuningan regency. Adherents of Ahmadiyah (around 3,200) are the majority in Manislor village. Yusuf Ahmadi, then head of Manislor village, estimated Ahmadiyah members to comprise 70 per cent of the total Manislor population (personal communication, 29 August 2013). Ahmadis mostly lived in the western part of the village, leading to Ciremai Mountain, and hence, they were known as orang kulon (people of the west).4 Those who lived in the middle part of the village to the east,

Escalating heresy campaigns   31

Map 2.1 The location of Sunni–Ahmadiyah conflict, Manislor village, Kuningan regency, West Java province, Indonesia. Source: Indonesia Geospatial Portal, quoted by PT. Geo Alam Teknika Indonesia, 2019, © A’an Suryana, PhD. Note Scale 1:18,000,000.

especially between An Nur (the Ahmadiyah main mosque) and Al Huda5 (the Sunni main mosque in the village and the village’s official mosque), comprised a mix of Ahmadiyah and Sunni. Almost all residents of the eastern part of the village were Sunni, who were known as orang wetan (people of the east). Most of the residents in Manislor worked in industries related to farming, services, and building construction, and a significant number of Kuningan people became migrant workers. Sunni and Ahmadiyah residents mingled in professional life. Some residents met each other and worked together in paddy fields and farming areas. However, there was a gap in social and family relationships between Ahmadiyah and Sunni residents. Social distance occurred as a result of the differences in faiths, although Ahmadiyah and Sunni residents often met at social activities such as wedding parties or circumcision events of either Ahmadiyah or Sunni male

32   Escalating heresy campaigns children. An Ahmadiyah preacher – who was not a Manislor native and started his posting in the Ahmadiyah branch in the village in 2012 – recalled that Ahmadiyah and Sunni teenagers did not mix readily (personal communication, 24 May 2013). For example, when they played an informal soccer game on the village’s soccer field, the Ahmadiyah teenagers would naturally form a team, while the Sunni teenagers would gather as one group in the opposite team. The gap was generated by parents who discouraged their children from socializing and making friends with children of the other faith, probably out of fear of the risk of conversion. Salimin, a senior anti-­Ahmadiyah figure in the village, recalled that this practice had occurred when he was a child, and continued in subsequent generations (personal communication, 27 August 2013). The gap in religious activities was even greater. Ahmadiyah and Sunni residents did not mingle during religious festivities, such as an event to commemorate the birth of Prophet Muhammad and Isra’ Mi’raj.6 The Sunni’s Al Huda Mosque committee often invited representatives of Ahmadis to participate in the religious festivity events held in the mosque, but these invitations were always turned down for fear that they would be required to act as followers in prayers, which is prohibited by Ahmadiyah teachings. Ahmadiyah teachings conveyed that Ahmadis could only be followers of prayers which were led by Ahmadis. According to Nurhalim, then chairman of the Manislor branch of Ahmadiyah, the argument behind the teaching is “why do you become followers of prayers led by people who despise and denigrate you?” When Mirza Ghulam Achmad was still alive, Ahmadiyah became the subject of persecution by Muslim Sunni, and hence, his teaching – “why do you become followers of prayers led by people who despise and denigrate you?” – was a response to Sunni persecution (Nurhalim, personal communication, 12 May 2013). Interfaith marriages occasionally occurred in the village, and husband or wife would either convert to follow their spouse’s faith, either Ahmadiyah or Sunni, or stay with their own faith. This was of great concern for Ahmadiyah preachers. I witnessed Buldan Burhanuddin, a regional preacher of Ahmadiyah,7 speak against interfaith marriage during at least two different events in Manislor. When I asked Buldan’s colleague, an Ahmadiyah preacher of the Manislor branch, why Buldan expressed such concern about the matter, the preacher (personal communication, 27 June 2013) said that the increasing number of interfaith marriages threatened Ahmadiyah sustainability. Apparently, interfaith marriage was rising as more young Ahmadis pursued tertiary education or worked in urban centres, and hence, had more chances to meet and marry Sunni Muslims. Ahmadiyah preachers were concerned because many Ahmadis had left the organization and abandoned their faith after they had married Sunni

Escalating heresy campaigns   33 Muslims. The preachers argued that, if this situation continued, Ahmadiyah would no longer exist, whereas the organization wished for it to exist for another 300 or even 1,000 years (personal communication, 27 June 2013). According to the preacher, even if, in the event of interfaith marriage, Ahmadiyah adherents chose to continue following the Ahmadiyah faith, in many cases the Sunni husband or wife would discourage their spouse from participating in Ahmadiyah religious events or prayers and hence, the inactivity of the Ahmadi spouse could erode the organization’s existence. The branch preacher (personal communication, 27 June 2013) also observed that children from interfaith marriages were not as obedient or active as those of Ahmadi parents. The children of interfaith marriages tended to have little knowledge about Ahmadiyah and cared less about the organization. The Ahmadiyah organization in Manislor was part of the larger international Ahmadiyah movement based in London, and hence, it was not an independent entity. For example, in terms of national leadership, representatives of Ahmadiyah branches elect their chairman in the national meeting, but in order for the election outcome to take effect, the Ahmadiyah caliph based in London has to approve the election result (Abdul Basit, 2011). The centralized system can also be found in the appointment and authority of Ahmadiyah preachers. Ahmadiyah Qadian’s preachers (da’is) at every level – be they regional, national, or international preachers of an Ahmadiyah branch – are an extension of the caliph. According to an Ahmadiyah preacher posted at Manislor (personal communication, 24 May 2013), the organization educated and paid preachers to ensure that Ahmadiyah organization’s executives and members complied with the organization’s rules (nizam). The international connection was evident through the presence of a television set in the Ahmadiyah Missionary House (Guest House) in Manislor, whose channels included Muslim Television Ahmadiyah (MTA). MTA is a non-­commercial global satellite TV network that consists of four international channels. The television network is funded by the Ahmadiyah Muslim Community, the Ahmadiyah organization based in London. This organization also regularly sent an international preacher to Indonesia to observe Ahmadiyah development as well as to disseminate the latest policies of the caliph. In politics and governance, Manislor used to be part of Manis village. However, Manis village reportedly faced difficulties administering the area, given its vast territory and growing population (Rosyidin, 2010, p.  209). Therefore, in 1835, the local government divided Manis village into Manislor (North Manis) and Manis Kidul (South Manis) to make the governance process more manageable. The transition of governance took three years, and in 1838, Manislor elected its own chief of village (locally

34   Escalating heresy campaigns known as kuwu). The village was served by 15 kuwu from 1845 until 2013.8 Since the arrival of Ahmadiyah in Manislor, all kuwu have been Ahmadis, except one (Udin Maduri), a Muslim Sunni with a military background whom the local government appointed as acting chief (kuwu) of Manislor between 1987 and 1991. Udin took up the post after strong protests from non-­Ahmadiyah Manislor residents, who demanded that the previous Ahmadi kuwu (Rusja Sutadasim) step down on account of his alleged discriminatory attitude towards the development of Al Huda Mosque (a Muslim Sunni mosque and the village’s official mosque). Kuwu candidates of Ahmadi background had always won the kuwu election due to religious affinity and unity among Ahmadiyah residents, who were in the majority in the village (Yusuf Ahmadi, personal communication, 29 August 2013). The chief of the village oversees the village’s governance, including management of the village budget and assets, provision of government administrative services, and conflict resolution. At the time of my fieldwork, Yusuf Ahmadi was kuwu of Manislor. There were ten village officials in Manislor village administration, including Yusuf Ahmadi. Five were Ahmadis and five others were non-­ Ahmadi. Among the ten officials, only one was a non-­Manislor resident, namely Kusman, a Sunni Muslim who was appointed by the Kuningan regency administration to be secretary of Manislor village. Kusman, an experienced bureaucrat from another village of Kuningan regency, ran the day-­to-day administrative functions of the village.9 Besides the executive branch of the government led by Yusuf Ahmadi, the village also had a people’s representative body, called the Village Consultative Body (BPD). BPD provides checks and balances on governance matters being carried out by the executive branch of the government (the kuwu and his staff ). Manislor had eleven BPD members with six Sunni and five Ahmadis (Rosyidin, 2010, p. 223). They were elected positions. BPD sat together with the kuwu to regulate the village and to serve as a channel of communication for village residents. The disproportionate number of Muslim Sunni sitting in the post of village official or BPD member was apparently a conciliatory gesture on the part of the Ahmadis to maintain a stable political environment in the village. The conciliatory move was the result of a series of protests staged by non-­Ahmadi groups from the late 1990s, demanding a “fair share” of political posts in the village (Rosyidin, 2010, p. 223).

Anti-­Ahmadiyah violence in Manislor The establishment of anti-­Ahmadiyah groups in Manislor dates back to an old rivalry between two prominent families in Manislor village. The

Escalating heresy campaigns   35 f­ amilies in question were first, Bening’s family, whose patriarch (Bening) served as the kuwu of Manislor; and second, the family of Marjan. Marjan, the chief patron of his family, served in the role of kaur kesra (head of people’s welfare) in the village administration. Based on village convention, Marjan inherited this role. Hence, although Marjan was formally Bening’s subordinate in the village administration structure, he and his family had considerable political clout due to this position being traditionally reserved for them. Serving as kaur kesra automatically granted opportunities for Marjan to assume other roles in the village’s religious and political life, namely to serve as ketib or khatib, who is responsible for delivering the sermon during the Friday prayer. The Friday prayer is an important agenda in the religious life of Manislor, in particular for Sunni Muslims, because it is obligatory for the men of this faith to participate in the weekly prayer.10

Figure 2.1 Warga Usai Salat Jumat di Masjid An Nur, Kuningan [Ahmadiyah Residents after Performing Friday Prayers at An Nur Mosque, Kuningan]. Source: TEMPO/Tony Hartawan. Note Some adherents of Ahmadiyah leave An Nur Mosque, the Ahmadiyah’s biggest mosque, in Manislor village, Kuningan regency, West Java province, after performing communal weekly prayers that are held every Friday. The photo was taken on 30 July 2010, a day after a big clash between Sunni and Ahmadiyah adherents on a village’s thoroughfare.

36   Escalating heresy campaigns Bening and Marjan continuously used their positions to gain influence among Manislor residents. The rivalry worsened in 1953, after the central government legally recognized the Ahmadiyah organization, based in Jakarta. The recognition energized Ahmadiyah dissemination across Indonesia, including in Manislor village. Following the recognition event, an officer with the regency’s public order agency (Mantri Polisi), Sutardjo, introduced the Ahmadiyah faith to the Chief of Manislor village, Bening (Tisna Prawira, 2012, p. 14). Bening was interested in following the faith. The village’s chief then facilitated an Ahmadiyah preacher to disseminate the faith to Manislor residents, who were mostly nominal Muslims. Many of them practised folklore religions and believed in supernatural powers embodied in such objects as stones (Tisna Prawira, 2012, p. 6). The effort was fruitful. At least 262 people, the first generation of Ahmadis in the village, took the oath to become members of Ahmadiyah on 28 February 1954. The mass conversion drew resistance from other residents of Manislor, spearheaded by Marjan. I will show in the later part of this chapter that Marjan’s descendants continued their father’s political and anti-­Ahmadiyah aspirations in the village. There were no serious incidents during the initial arrival of Ahmadiyah in Manislor, although Kuningan residents’ resistance to the coming of the new faith “was quite fierce” (Tisna Prawira, 2012, p.  33). Kulman Tisna Prawira, former figure of Ahmadiyah in Manislor and among its first generation, said Sunni preachers spread false facts about the practice of Ahmadiyah, such as that “Ahmadiyah taught Muslims not to conduct regular prayer in full form, but reciting intention of doing prayer is considered as enough” (Tisna Prawira, 2012, p.  33). However, the social tension died down in a couple of months. The social situation in Manislor village was generally calm between 1954 and the Indonesian reform year of 1998. Several incidents of violence occurred, but Ahmadiyah houses and mosques had not yet been targeted. The incidents were usually in response to events held by Ahmadiyah, such as the national-­level gathering (Jalzah Salanah), in which many outsiders (non-­Manislor residents) participated. According to Salimin, an anti-­Ahmadiyah figure in Manislor and the descendant of Marjan, such an incident occurred in 1974, when the Manislor Ahmadiyah branch participated in the book fair held in downtown Kuningan, shortly after the branch had successfully organized the national Jalzah Salanah (Salimin, personal communication, 27 August 2013). Ahmadiyah participation in Jalzah Salanah prompted the executives of an organization that conducted activities in the Grand Mosque of Kuningan, Dewan Kemakmuran Masjid or DKM (Mosque’s Welfare Council), to put social pressure on Ahmadiyah. For example, the organization demanded that the provincial

Escalating heresy campaigns   37 police ban Ahmadiyah from participating in the book fair held in the regency’s Women’s Building, but the police ignored the demand. The organization and its members then took the law into their own hands, and “destroyed Ahmadiyah’s books being exhibited in the book fair, or upended the bookshelves” (Salimin, personal communication, 27 August 2013).11 No fatalities or injuries were reported in the incident. In general, anti-­minority groups were reluctant to act publicly during the New Order regime out of fear of a backlash by the New Order security apparatuses, who did not tolerate social disturbance. However, the democratization and decentralization drive in 1998 changed the social and political constellations in the village. The anti-­ Ahmadiyah groups began to be more open in expressing their opposition against Ahmadiyah, following the Ahmadiyah caliph’s visit to Indonesia in 2000, including to Manislor village. The discovery of an internal Ahmadiyah audit report, which revealed that the Indonesian Ahmadiyah organization received hefty funding, prompted a small but persistent purist organization, the Institute of Islamic Research and Study (LPPI), to hold an anti-­Ahmadiyah seminar in Jakarta. The finding alarmed LPPI, which subsequently organized a national seminar at Istiqlal Mosque on 11 August 2002, titled: “Ahmadiyah: Kesesatan dan Bahaya-­nya [Ahmadiyah: Its heresy and danger].” LPPI invited several anti-­Ahmadiyah youths to participate in the seminar to testify how Ahmadiyah ran the organizations in their Ahmadi-­majority village. The seminar was a turning point for the relationship between the Sunni and the Ahmadiyah communities in Manislor. Machmud Silahudin, then chairman of Nadhlatul Ulama’s Kuningan branch, acknowledged the seminar “opened up the eyes of the participants about Ahmadiyah being heretical” (Machmud Silahudin, personal communication, 13 July 2013). After returning to Manislor, the youths who had attended the anti-­Ahmadiyah seminar in Istiqlal Mosque, stepped up protests against Ahmadiyah. They also demanded that the local government and security apparatus put social and political pressure on Ahmadiyah. At times, the latter succumbed to the demands to repress Ahmadiyah, such as when Kuningan’s Prosecutor Office requested that local government not issue identity cards and marriage licences to Ahmadis unless they were willing to sign documents to testify that they had converted to mainstream Islam. However, the government never acted on demands for the disbandment of Ahmadiyah, which further frustrated the anti-­Ahmadiyah groups. The protests became more frequent, not only in Manislor but in other Indonesian areas, after the central board of executives of the Indonesia Council of Ulema (MUI) reissued an edict12 – that Ahmadiyah is heretical – during its annual congress in Jakarta in 2005. The edict gave further justification for the anti-­Ahmadiyah groups to commit violence against the

38   Escalating heresy campaigns minority communities. Manislor was no exception. Protests and violence also escalated in the village after the MUI edict. Knowing that a significant number of adherents of Ahmadiyah resided in Manislor, anti-­Ahmadiyah groups in neighbouring regencies of Kuningan often joined forces with Manislor and Kuningan anti-­Ahmadiyah groups to press for restrictions on Ahmadiyah, through protests and even violence. The village’s anti-­Ahmadiyah elites, who were natives of Manislor and were active in organizing events at Al Huda Mosque, assumed crucial roles in bringing outsiders into Manislor to assist them to protest against Ahmadiyah. Salimin assumed a prominent role in the anti-­Ahmadiyah protest and violence in 1974. In 1999, Salimin was behind a protest to demand fair representation of Sunni Muslims in the BPD. The effort finally succeeded in 2007, when Sunni Muslims gained 6 of a total of 11 positions on the BPD. Salimin was even chosen as its chairman. Salimin’s older brother, Nasrudin Sa’dilah, was also a proponent of protests against Ahmadiyah (Sulhan, 2008). Nasrudin had inherited his ancestor’s position as the village’s ketib, but Kulman Tisna Prawira, then head of Manislor village (and an Ahmadiyah figure), discharged him from the position for alleged corruption in 1998. The incident prompted Nasrudin to be more resolute in his fight against Ahmadiyah, and he became known as the fiercest enemy of Ahmadiyah. Nasrudin established Gerakan Anti Ahmadiyah [Anti-­Ahmadiyah Movement] (GERAH), which was active in campaigning for the disbandment of Ahmadiyah, collaborating with his brother Salimin and the Remaja Masjid Al Huda [RUDAL] (Youth of Al Huda Mosque). The movement continued the old rivalry between Marjan (Salimin and Nasrudin’s ancestor) and Ahmadiyah elites, who had facilitated the arrival of Ahmadiyah in the village and popularized the teachings. After the 1998 reforms, Nasrudin and Salimin inspired the movement that frequently organized anti-­Ahmadiyah campaigns in Al Huda Mosque. RUDAL often invited preachers and leaders of mass organizations (locally known as organisasi masyarakat or ormas) outside Manislor to give fiery anti-­Ahmadiyah sermons. While the sermons were usually held to commemorate Islamic events, such as to celebrate the birthday of Prophet Muhammad, the anti-­Ahmadiyah campaign was often inserted into the festivities. The events involved a large number of people, as the organizers not only invited the leaders of organizations residing outside Kuningan regencies, but also their members. Such events were used as a pretext to apply social pressure on Ahmadis. The presence of a huge number of protesters showed serious intent, and the events were prone to violence because the masses were hard to control. At times, anti-­Ahmadiyah figures in Manislor also requested direct assistance from anti-­Ahmadiyah groups residing outside Manislor, such as the case in late July 2010, when public

Escalating heresy campaigns   39 order officials were about to seal off several Ahmadiyah mosques in the village but met stiff resistance from the Ahmadis. Nanang Subarnas, then secretary general of the Gerakan Anti Maksiat [Anti-­Vice Movement] (GAMAS) – headquartered in Garawangi village some 45 minutes’ drive from Manislor – recalled that he had read in the online news that Ahmadiyah adherents had “pelted stones at public order officials” when the officials were trying to seal off the Ahmadiyah mosque on 29 July 2010 (Nanang Subarnas, personal communication, 18 July 2013). Nanang responded by asking Manislor’s anti-­Ahmadiyah figures whether Ahmadis had indeed resisted their mosque being sealed. After these figures confirmed that the story was true, GAMAS sent its members in ten trucks to Manislor to ensure that the officials’ efforts to seal the mosque were not hampered by Ahmadi resistance. GAMAS members then joined with members of other anti-­Ahmadiyah organizations, who were already in the

Figure 2.2 Polisi Berjaga Usai Serangan Terhadap Jemaah Ahmadiyah [Police Paratroopers Are on Guard Following the Attack against Members of Ahmadiyah Congregation]. Source: TEMPO/Tony Hartawan. Note Scores of police paratroopers participate in a roll-call held in the premises of Al Huda Mosque frequented by Sunni adherents in Manislor village, Kuningan regency, West Java province. The photo was taken on 30 July 2010. Police beefed up security in the village following a big clash between Sunni and Ahmadiyah adherents a day earlier on the village’s thoroughfare.

40   Escalating heresy campaigns village to protest against Ahmadiyah and to force them to close down the mosque. In some cases, the police confiscated sharp weapons and other objects from anti-­Ahmadiyah protestors, indicating that the latter were prepared for physical confrontation with Ahmadiyah residents. The events above show the crucial role of the village’s anti-­Ahmadiyah elites in setting up and producing tense situations which materialized into real violence. The local feud between adherents of Ahmadiyah and non-­Ahmadiyah became entangled with the new system of politics after 1998. Earlier, the secular Golkar and New Order regime dominated politics in Kuningan regency. But direct elections during the Reformasi (reform) era allowed local residents, including Kuningan residents, to choose their own leaders, especially the positions of regent and deputy regent. Although the regents, from one term to another, were often involved in, or even initiated peace negotiations between the feuding parties, they often produced or condoned policies that were in favour of the Muslim mainstream in order to secure their votes. These policies were pursued at the expense of Ahmadiyah residents. For example, two regents, Arifin Setiamihardja and Aang Hamid Suganda,13 subsequently endorsed the policy of the Kuningan office of the Ministry of Religious Affairs that banned Ahmadis from obtaining marriage certificates unless they underwent conversion to mainstream Islam. Aang Suganda, successor to Arifin Setiamihardja, signed the letter that ordered public order officials to seal off Ahmadiyah mosques, after anti-­ Ahmadiyah mass organizations threatened to attack Ahmadiyah if the government failed to meet their demand for closure of Ahmadiyah mosques.

The Shi’a of Sampang The Sunni–Shi’a conflict in Sampang regency took place in two neighbouring hamlets, Nangkernang and Gading Laok, which are located in Karanggayam village, Omben district, and Blu’uran village, Karang Penang district, respectively. They are remote hamlets on the mainland of Madura Island, some 45 minutes by motorcycle from the capital of Sampang regency in the island’s south-­coastal area. The area is a four-­hour drive from Surabaya, the capital of East Java province. Farming is the main occupation of hamlet residents. Farmers can only grow plants during the rainy season, which lasts for a few months. They usually grow paddy in the rainy season, or tobacco in the transition between the rainy and the dry seasons. During the dry season, people work as seasonal migrant labourers or find whatever work they can for families, friends, or relatives (Gading Laok villager Nurain Alfi, personal communication, 2 November 2013). A substantial number of residents also become

Escalating heresy campaigns   41

Map 2.2 The location of Sunni–Shi’a conflict, Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets, Sampang regency, East Java province, Indonesia. Source: Indonesia Geospatial Portal, quoted by PT. Geo Alam Teknika Indonesia, 2019, © A’an Suryana, PhD. Note Scale 1:18,000,000.

migrant workers in the capital of East Java province, or even as far as the neighbouring country of Malaysia.14 These migrant workers regularly send remittances back home, and the money acts as a social safety net for family members when they experience crop failure during the dry season. Many teenagers and young people in their twenties dreamed of working in Malaysia on account of the comparatively higher wages offered; however Malaysian government restrictions on foreign workers limited this possibility. The population of the two hamlets in 2012 was approximately 2,200 residents, with some 585 of them Shi’a.15 Hence, the number of Shi’a residents was quite substantial in the two hamlets, although minuscule when compared to the total population of Karanggayam and Blu’uran villages (19,822 residents) (Afdillah, 2013, p.  41). The hamlets in Sampang regency, including Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets, comprised the poorest area in East Java province. The Human Development Index in the

42   Escalating heresy campaigns regency was 60.78 in 2011, which was the lowest in the province. This figure was far below the index’s national average in the same year, namely 72.77 (Biro Pusat Statistik [The Central Bureau of Statistic], 2010, p. 84). Religion is important for the Madurese. Madurese are generally devoted to Islam, and Sunnism in particular. Many Madurese work hard, with the primary aim to accumulate sufficient capital to fund pilgrimage to Mecca. Many Madurese parents send their children to Islamic boarding schools (pesantren). Respecting religious figures, referred to as kiai, is part of Madurese life. Kiai is not a formal title, but rather, it is the community that informally grants an Islamic scholar this title, on the basis that the person has demonstrated deep knowledge of Islam, capacity for leadership, and exemplary character (attitude). The man can lose this informal title if he loses the trust or respect of the community, for example, if involved in sexual or corruption scandals. In Madura Island, the cultural title of kiai is extremely highly regarded in comparison to in other areas in Indonesia, due to the existence of a cultural hierarchy of loyalty. Loyalty of the Madurese goes to the parents (bheppa-­bheppu) first, then to the kiai, followed by respect for state or government officials (rato). Hence, it is common in Madura Island, when the kiai has social or political disputes with the state or government officials, the local community (especially the students of the kiai) automatically sides with him because of his charisma and cultural authority. In addition to kiai, the Madurese also respect the ustadz, or religious teacher. However, the social status granted to ustadz is less than for kiai. The title ustadz is used to refer to people who have knowledge of Islam, including reading Al Quran and understanding its meanings. But, compared to kiai, their knowledge of Islam is less advanced and their leadership, either social or moral, is not publicly recognized. The other culture that stands out among the Madurese is that of gerjih (mutual self-­help and high sense of social solidarity). This culture is deep-­ rooted in the Madurese community, especially among those who live in rural areas. The culture refers to the habit of the community to assist their neighbours when the latter need help. Madurese, for example, are eager to lend a hand when their neighbours are organizing family events at their house, such as a wedding party, or when they help fix neighbours’ houses damaged by natural disaster. While the culture of gerjih can enhance social bonds in the community, it can also have negative consequence, for example where residents lend physical support to their neighbours’ cause despite it being a bad one, such as supporting them in aimless brawls (Afdillah, 2013, p. 49). Before the arrival of Shi’ism, the hamlets were religiously cohesive. Residents followed Sunnism. Religious authorities, such as kiai or ustadz, perpetuated Sunnism hegemony through sermons that they delivered to the

Escalating heresy campaigns   43 residents at least once a week during compulsory Friday prayer for men. They also delivered the sermons at annual religious festivities organized by local residents’ associations, or at family special occasions, such as weddings or circumcision events. Many children either attended schools managed by the Ministry of Religious Affairs, where the majority of subjects studied orthodox Islam (Sunni Islam) while the remainder pertained to secular sciences, or they attended Islamic boarding schools managed by kiai. The arrival of Shi’ism in 2002, introduced by Tajul Muluk, challenged the religious cohesiveness in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets. Several Sunni residents, whom I interviewed during my fieldwork in the area, complained that the arrival of Shi’ism had polarized the community.16 Social disputes frequently occurred. The residents often picked quarrels with each another over the religious teaching that they believed to be the most truthful. People ceased social relations with family members or relatives because they could not accept their different faith. In response to the rising social tension, Sunni residents blamed Tajul Muluk for damaging the social harmony that had existed. They argued that, had Tajul not introduced Shi’ism to the community, the social tensions and even violence would not have happened. The polarization created fertile ground for physical conflicts as Sunnis and Shi’a became easily provoked to engage in social disputes that led to violence. Sunnis were prone to commit violence, given they were the majority. The Shi’a communities led by Tajul Muluk was not part of any larger national or international organization. The movement was purely local. Tajul Muluk introduced Shi’ism motivated by his passion for the sect. However, following social pressure for the disbandment of his organization, in 2007 Tajul Muluk and his followers joined the Indonesian Ahlul Bait Association (IJABI), the largest Shi’a organization, based in Jakarta. Tajul was appointed branch chairman of IJABI. However, four years later, Tajul left the organization due to an internal dispute with IJABI executives. The dispute occurred after Tajul became dissatisfied by the way the IJABI executives negotiated his exile to Malang city with local government officials (Penyerangan ke Syiah [Attacks to Shi’a], 2011). Sunni residents demanded that Tajul leave their neighbourhood because they considered that he had caused polarization, leading to violence. To meet this demand, local government officials persuaded Tajul to leave the neighbourhood. Tajul left his kampung (or urban area) after he had accepted the terms offered by the local government, which included financial compensation for Tajul during his scheduled one-­year exile in Malang city. In summary, unlike Ahmadiyah branches, Tajul and his followers acted independently.

44   Escalating heresy campaigns

Violence against Shi’a communities The history of anti-­Shi’a movement in Sampang regency dates back to the late 1970s when a respected kiai of Blu’uran village, Makmun Achmad17 became interested in studying about Shi’a following the Iranian revolution in 1979.18 Makmun obtained a regular supply of Shi’a books from one of his former students, who resided in Surabaya, the capital of East Java province, a three-­hour drive from Makmun’s village (Afdillah, 2013, p. 58).19 Makmun discussed Shi’ism with his wife and their four children, but he never shared his thoughts about it or disseminated the teachings to his students and local community for fear of a public backlash, since Shi’a teaching was understood to be different from that of the majority (Sunni).20 In 1987, he sent his two children, Tajul Muluk and Rois al Hukama, to a Shi’a school in Bangil, Pasuruan regency, in the same province. The decision caused an accumulation of negative feeling against Shi’ism among Makmun’s relatives. One of the influential members of Makmun’s broader family, Kiai Ali Karrar Sinhaji (Makmun’s uncle), openly expressed his resistance to Tajul Muluk and Rois al Hukama being sent to a Shi’a school. Karrar was worried that they would convert to Shi’ism. Four years later, Kiai Karrar – the most prominent kiai in Madura Island, who owns a big Islamic boarding school in the neighbouring regency of Pamekasan – demanded that Makmun recall his children from the Shi’a school so that he, Karrar, could supervise their study. Kiai Makmun complied with the demand. However, Tajul – who was already deeply interested in Shi’a teaching following his study at the Shi’a school in Bangil – only spent a couple of months at Karrar’s school. When his father offered to send him to Mecca, Saudi Arabia, to study Islam, in 1993, he took up the opportunity. Kiai Karrar again insisted that Tajul be sent to a Sunni school in Mecca, so that “Tajul was not infected with Shi’a teaching” (Tajul Muluk, personal communication, 4 December 2013). Tajul enrolled in a Sunni school, as recommended by Kiai Karrar, but his interest in Shi’a teaching remained intact.21 Instead of studying Sunni teaching in his spare time, Tajul studied Shi’a teaching through the books that were available for purchase in Mecca. He also spent much of his time working as a waiter or shop attendant to earn money (Tajul Muluk, personal communication, 4 December 2013). Tajul Muluk went back to his village in 1999, where he started a small business selling basic necessities (Tajul Muluk, personal communication, 4 December 2013). But then he followed local tradition, helping Rois (his younger brother) to run an Islamic boarding school that belonged to their father, Kiai Makmun (Afdillah, 2013, pp.  61–62). The Islamic boarding school, Misbahul Huda, gained much popularity among local residents.

Escalating heresy campaigns   45 His followers numbered 50 families in 2004 (Afdillah, 2013, p. 62), rising to 136 families or 585 residents by 2012 (Afdillah, personal communication, 3 December 2013). Tajul’s popularity was due to his education and cultural capital. Tajul had already obtained the title haji, had a Saudi education and was the son of an influential kiai, (albeit at village level). A good number of local residents sent their children to Tajul’s school; enrolments totalled 150 children (Tajul Muluk, personal communication, 4 December 2013). Besides teaching students, Tajul also introduced some social reforms to the community of Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets. He observed that lack of education was the cause of widespread poverty in the village; hence he encouraged locals to enrol their children in higher education, whether Shi’a-oriented Islamic education or secular education, to ensure that the village children obtained a solid education. He called upon people to end their old practices of borrowing money from usurers, which led them to become trapped in an endless cycle of debt. Tajul helped organize a voluntary night patrol system to reduce the high rate of cattle theft in the hamlets. Besides being intelligent, Tajul also served as a moral role model in the community, and demonstrated a capacity for leadership. He was attentive to villagers’ problems, organizing and even providing a social security net for the needy. Ustadz Muhammad Nur, a former follower of Tajul, recalled how Tajul had generously loaned money to the needy (a small but significant amount of money for poor villagers of Rp 200,000); often he did not demand the debt be repaid. Tajul also often raised money for a family experiencing the sickness or death of a member, to help them cope with the hospital or burial costs (Ustadz Muhammad Nur, personal communication, 3 December 2013). The establishment of Tajul’s school and reforms, and Tajul’s rising popularity drew a backlash from various quarters of the community affected by the reforms, especially the village-­level kiais and ustadzs, who saw their incomes decreasing after a substantial number of their students transferred to Tajul’s school. The kiais and ustadzs learned in 2004 that Tajul was presenting Shi’a teachings to his students, albeit discreetly because he was aware of the potential backlash. The kiais and ustadz then reported their findings to Ali Karrar Sinhaji, their former teacher and Tajul’s relative, in order for him to persuade Tajul Muluk to stop disseminating Shi’ism. Iklil al Milal, Tajul’s brother, recalled that Kiai Karrar responded to the reports by personally approaching Tajul and asking him to return to Sunni teaching. The lobbying apparently fell on deaf ears. In a large religious event in Karanggayam village, Karrar expressed his opposition to Tajul publicly, warning local residents that Tajul was disseminating “heretical” Shi’a teaching (Iklil al Milal, personal communication,

46   Escalating heresy campaigns 1 December 2013). The village-­level kiais and ustadz joined in the chorus, by condemning Tajul Muluk through their sermons in a variety of events in the village, which drew Tajul’s anger. In response to the accusation of heresy against him, Tajul became more open in disseminating Shi’a teachings, and started to recruit Sunni residents (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p.  105). He expanded his reform agenda, for example, by setting up a small non-­governmental organization (NGO) in 2006 that helped monitor the government programme to distribute rice to poor people. Tajul was becoming more openly resistant to the accusations by the kiais that he was disseminating heretical teachings, and he even fought back by undermining their religious authority. One of the reforms that challenged the religious establishment was the reorganization of the communal feast commemorating the birthday anniversary of Prophet Muhammad (Maulid Nabi), which falls during the month of Rabi’ al-­awwal, the third month in the Islamic calendar. This cultural event was already deeply embedded in the social fabric of the Madurese community. In the event, people chant prayers to express their love for the Prophet. It becomes a month-­long festival, in which Madurese households organize the feasts on different dates by inviting their neighbours and their kiais, who lead participants in chanting Arabic prayers and give a sermon. The event is traditionally the most important communal feast organized by Madurese households throughout the year.22 Many Madurese believe that by organizing the feasts, Prophet Muhammad will help the hosts convey their prayers to God so that the hosts will gain prosperity and God’s redemption for their past sins (Djakfar, 2012, pp. 48–49). Given its importance, many Madurese migrants returned home to organize the Maulid feast in their respective households. Tajul Muluk criticized the tradition, as it burdened people financially. The hosts not only spend a substantial amount of money to provide the feast for the participants of the event, but also for the kiais’ honorarium.23 Many families, although poor, forced themselves to organize the feast, as it is considered a source of family pride in the community. Tajul Muluk proposed that instead of each household organizing an independent event, it would be more efficient and less burdensome to organize a single community-­wide event in the mosque during the month of Rabi’ al-­awwal. Tajul implemented his proposal, and some followed his lead by attending the communal Maulid event in the mosque, instead of hosting an individual feast. The reform alarmed the kiais because it challenged their authority and potentially deprived them of lucrative income. The month of Rabi’ al-­ awwal is considered “the harvest month” for the kiai, as they generate a substantial amount of money by leading numerous Maulid events in a variety of households during the month.24

Escalating heresy campaigns   47 Tajul’s campaign against the powerful kiai establishment suffered a setback with the death of his father in June 2004 (Bagaimana Kronologi Syiah [How Was Chronology of Shi’a], 2012). Following the death of his father, a man who drew widespread respect in the community, local Sunni residents were less hesitant to fight against Tajul. In February 2006, thousands of Sunni residents forcibly halted Tajul’s Maulid event held at his house in Nangkernang hamlet, Karanggayam village, despite the attendance of some 100 Shi’a residents from Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets as well as the neighbouring regency of Pamekasan. Tajul was placed in an even more difficult social and political position after his brother, Rois al Hukama, left their partnership in 2008 and returned to Sunni teaching. Rois (personal communication, 5 November 2013) was aware that their pursuit of developing a Shi’a community faced opposition that they could not hope to overcome, hence he often reminded Tajul to listen to the anti-­Shi’a protests by the Sunni community. An incident involving a female student of Rois worsened the relationship between brothers. According to Tajul, he had proposed that a female student of Rois marry a friend of his. The proposal was made without Rois’ approval, angering him. Another factor that fuelled Rois’ animosity to Tajul was that some of Rois’ students left to become students of Tajul because Rois had a reputation for readily divorcing his wives in order to remarry someone else (Tajul Muluk, personal communication, 4 December 2013). Rois was upset after the female student sought to leave his Islamic boarding school without his approval. He believed that it was Tajul himself who had fallen in love with her and wanted to marry her. This was considered unacceptable in Madurese culture, as dignity is paramount for the Madurese. Given that Tajul was, by all accounts, monogamous, his account was more convincing. Rois’ antagonism increased after more students left him to study at Islamic boarding schools run either by Tajul Muluk or by Sunni Muslim preachers in the village (Rois al Hukama, personal communication, 5 November 2013). After leaving Tajul’s camp,25 Rois became very active in the anti-­heresy and personal campaign against Tajul and his followers. Rois seized opportunities to publicize “the ideological flaws of Shi’ism” being propagated by Tajul, in a variety of religious events and through the village mosque loudspeaker (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p. 117). Rois (personal communication, 5 November 2013) also complained that he had been misguided by Tajul and that this had led him to join his brother’s movement. Despite Rois’ reputation for being a womanizer, his verbal attacks still gained credibility, as he had been part of the inner circle of Tajul’s camp as his second in command.

48   Escalating heresy campaigns The incident involving Rois’ female student galvanized the Sunni community’s animosity against Tajul’s camp, which further deepened the polarization in the community. The occurrence of heated arguments, splits, and even clashes within and among families became more frequent between followers of Shi’a led by Tajul and the rest of the Sunni community. The tensions accumulated and resulted in an incident of religious violence on 29 December 2011 (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p. 117), when some 1,000 people from several villages destroyed houses belonging to Tajul Muluk, Iklil al Milal, and their sister Ummu Hani in three different locations.26 The violence became catastrophic in the following year when some 500 Sunni residents engaged in clashes on the morning of 26 August 2012 with around 20 Shi’a followers (Inilah Kronologi Kekerasan [Chronology of Violence], 2012), resulting in one Shi’a resident (Muhammad Hasyim alias Hamama) dying from a stab wound and at least 12 Shi’a and Sunni

Figure 2.3 Penyerangan Komunitas Syiah di Sampang, Madura [Attacks against Shi’a Community in Sampang]. Source: TEMPO/STR/Fully Syafi. Note A police paratrooper is set to transport a Shi’a resident somewhere else, following an attack against Shi’a community and their properties a day earlier in the latter’s kampong in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets, Sampang regency, East Java province. The attacks on 26 August 2012 left a Shi’a resident dead, at least 12 Sunni and Shi’a residents were injured and 49 houses belonging to Shi’a residents were vandalized and burned.

Escalating heresy campaigns   49 residents injured. As morning turned into afternoon, the Sunni masses grew in size, reaching some 3,000 people. The masses then vandalized and destroyed 49 houses belonging to Shi’a residents.27 The incidents on 26 August led to the eviction of Shi’a followers from their kampung. While Rois Hukama was charged with provoking and taking part in the clashes that led to the death of Muhammad Hasyim, an East Java district court exonerated him of the charges.

Conclusion: comparing and analysing the violence in the Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities The violence which occurred in these two regencies was part of a wider outbreak of religious violence that swept across many areas in Indonesia in the post-­New Order era. Some scholars and commentators argue that different interpretations of faith were behind the outbreak of violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a in Kuningan and Sampang regencies, while others posit that the violence occurred not only because of religious differences, which had been present in these areas for decades, but largely due to the changing political situation in Indonesia. Slamet Mulyono, who belonged to the first group of scholars, argues that Sunni residents evicted Shi’a Sampang because they opposed the presence of the different faith in their neighbourhood (Mulyono, 2012, p.  246). According to Mulyono, polarization ran deep in the community, hence they could no longer live in harmony. Mohammad Sulhan, another scholar of the same group, concurred that different interpretation of faith topped the list of causes of the violence against Ahmadiyah in Manislor village (Sulhan, 2006, p. 30). He further argued that the anti-­minority groups used different interpretation of faith as a justification for committing violence against Ahmadiyah communities, for their own short-­term benefit (Sulhan, 2006, p. 11). In contrast, the second group of scholars suggested that the disputed interpretation of faith was a secondary factor in the materialization of violence. These scholars acknowledged the important role of the anti-­minority groups in producing the violence. Samsu Rizal Panggabean and Ihsan Ali-­ Fauzi (2014, p. 30) found that the prolonged violence against Ahmadiyah in Manislor village occurred after the Institute for Islamic Study and Research (LPPI) organized an anti-­Ahmadiyah seminar in Jakarta in 2002. Inspired by the seminar, some youths, who had participated in the seminar, began to hold series of anti-­heresy protests against Ahmadiyah, which often resulted in violence. These youths also benefited from the democratization of the post-­New Order era, as they were free to express their grievances, unlike in the previous era. The two scholars acknowledged that protests and violence had occurred previously, during the New Order, but

50   Escalating heresy campaigns on a smaller scale and at a lower frequency. My research – which was based on interviews with Manislor residents and figures, and secondary sources such as books and news items – supported the finding that the scale of the violence after 2002 was unprecedented. Among the secondary sources was a detailed historical account of the Manislor village Ahmadiyah branch, written by Kulman Tisna Prawira, an Ahmadiyah figure of Manislor village, who died in 2013 (Tisna Prawira, 2012). Similar to Panggabean and Ali-­Fauzi’s findings, my research found that the activities of anti-­Ahmadiyah groups intensified after the seminar, facilitated by freedom of expression. These activities often turned into violence as large numbers of supporters massed, making control difficult. The rise in the activities of anti-­Ahmadiyah groups explained why frequent violence occurred within certain periods of time and not others. The rising heresy campaign against Ahmadiyah in Manislor was part of a larger phenomenon in the post-­New Order era, especially during the presidential term of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. Jacqueline Hicks, who studied violence against Ahmadiyah during this time, argues the violence occurred because the old forces, including figures of the state and the anti-­ minority groups, used the heresy campaign to reclaim their authority. State officials, such as those in the military, the police, and the bureaucracy, were complicit in the violence against Ahmadiyah (Hicks, 2014, p. 332). Hicks argues that these officials worked together with the vigilante groups to agitate against Ahmadiyah to incite violence as part of their efforts to remain in existence after having lost authority following the collapse of the New Order regime. A similar situation occurred in Sampang where the role of anti-­Shi’a groups and figures was instrumental in fomenting violence against the communities. Masdar Hilmy argues that the local elite, including religious figures and state officials, used the violence as a way to gain benefits in the economy and politics, as well as through cultural hegemony and the use of symbols (Hilmy, 2015, p. 48). In both field sites of my study, the Ahmadiyah and Shi’a in Kuningan and Sampang regencies, it became clear that other factors, besides religious difference, were involved in the violence. This chapter has followed the line of argument of the second group of scholars detailed earlier. The anti-­Ahmadiyah and anti-­Shi’a figures developed discourses and justifications to mobilize the masses to enact protests that led to violence against the minority communities. These figures had the opportunity to intensify the heresy campaign that led to the violence because of freedom of expression in the post-­New Order period, a leeway that was only possible because of the changing political situation occurring in these provinces. In Ahmadiyah village of Manislor, the anti-­Ahmadiyah groups sustained a relatively low-­key heresy campaign against Ahmadiyah in the

Escalating heresy campaigns   51 New Order era, for fear of state backlash. The collapse of the New Order regime in 1998 paved the way for the anti-­Ahmadiyah camp to advance their cause, and they began to campaign against Ahmadiyah teaching aggressively. The campaign was carried out through the establishment of some village organizations, such as GERAH and RUDAL, whose activities were centred in Al Huda mosque, the village’s official mosque. The newly established freedom of expression regime facilitated an old rival of Ahmadiyah to revive the anti-­Ahmadiyah campaign. The descendants of Marjan (Mohammad Nasrudin28 and Salimin29) were active proponents of the anti-­Ahmadiyah campaign in the village, inspiring and taking active roles in the violent protests against the Ahmadiyah communities there. These protests became frequent after the village’s anti-­Ahmadiyah group (RUDAL), under the tutelage of Nasrudin and Salimin, participated in the anti-­Ahmadiyah national seminar organized by LPPI in Jakarta in 2002. The scale of the protests became significant after vigilante and other anti-­minority groups based outside the village (and even outside Kuningan regency) joined forces with them following the re-­issuance of an anti-­ Ahmadiyah edict by the national board of the Indonesian Cuncil of Ulema (MUI) in 2005. The coalition facilitated the assemblies of large crowds, which would become energized after listening to a fiery anti-­heresy speech against Ahmadiyah, usually organized at the Sunni mosque of Al Huda, which stood several hundred metres away from the Ahmadiyah housing complex. The anti-­Ahmadiyah figure, Salimin, recalled that the mobilization of a large crowd could lead to violence as field coordinators often found it hard to control the masses (Salimin, personal communication, 27 August 2013). Such a mobilization occurred on 18 December 2007 when protesters with the Komponen Muslim Kabupaten Kuningan [Muslim Component of Kuningan] (KOMPAK) vandalized the small Al Hidayah mosque and 14 houses belonging to Ahmadis (Empat Belas Rumah [Fourteen Houses], 2007). The violence occurred after the Ahmadiyah communities upheld their religious right to conduct regular prayers in the mosque despite the regent’s order to close it. The role of Sunni religious and community figures was also instrumental in the violence against Shi’a adherents in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets. The violent conflicts broke out in these areas after some ustadz and village-­level kiais began to wage a heresy campaign. As explained in the previous section, the ustadz and kiais were motivated by loss of income and social influence as a result of some congregation members becoming Shi’a. Sampang ustadzs and kiais joined forces, albeit in uncoordinated ways, to undermine Tajul Muluk and the credibility of his teaching by labelling him and his followers as heretics. His younger brother Rois’s switch of allegiance to the Sunni camp and his relentless

52   Escalating heresy campaigns heresy campaign against Tajul energized the Sunni community to intensify social pressure against Tajul, which resulted in a series of violent protests between 2009 and 2012. Unlike in Manislor, the movement had a loose organizational form, with groups spearheaded by disaffected local ustadz who had lost income and influence due to the substantial number of students migrating to the Shi’a school. The movement burgeoned with the additional patronage of influential regency-­level kiais, who feared the growth of Shi’a teaching in the hamlets, and a former top Shi’a figure, Rois, who had switched allegiance to the Sunni cause. What differentiated the episodes of violence in Kuningan and Sampang regencies was the type of violent organizer. The Ahmadiyah case shows that actors within the state structure were responsible for facilitating the violence, which confirmed the earlier finding that it was elites close to local levers of power who orchestrated the violence to gain or to regain their privileged access to the state (Van Klinken, 2007, p.  139) by using “heresy charges to consolidate a centralized political authority” (Hicks, 2014, p.  334). Nasrudin had held an elite role within the state structure before being fired by an Ahmadi village chief for alleged corruption during the New Order era. Salimin lobbied for fair representation of Sunni Muslims on the BPD – the village consultative body to which he was eventually elected as chairman in 2007 and to which a significant number of non-­Ahmadiyah residents were elected (Rosyidin, 2010, p. 223). But the case of Shi’a reveals that the violent organisers were mainly non-­state actors, who mobilized people along religious lines to undermine their opponents and to maintain public influence for social and economic reasons. Finding that their influence and authority were being challenged by Tajul Muluk, the kiais and ustadzs resorted to making charges of heresy to undermine Tajul and his camp. Their heresy campaign was not aimed at getting access to the state or winning official public posts, but directed at maintaining their established position in the Sunni community, which brought not only social recognition but personal prosperity. This chapter has shown that the social and territorial setting of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a neighbourhoods is important to understand why and how violence occurs against minority groups. Further, it has shown that the role of anti-­minority groups was crucial in the materialization of violence against the minority communities. It has argued that violence not only stemmed from the different interpretation of faith but that the dispute over different interpretation of faith had existed in the Ahmadiyah neighbourhood for a long time. However, the conflict escalated after groups of youths initiated a heresy campaign against the communities, facilitated by the new freedom of expression regime. The arrival of Shi’ism in the Shi’a neighbourhoods polarized the community. However, physical violence

Escalating heresy campaigns   53 only occurred after intense provocation by anti-­Shi’ism groups. To conclude, the different interpretation of faith assumed a passive role in the violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. It was the active role played by the anti-­minority groups, mostly vigilante groups, which materialized the violence. The next chapter will show how the heresy campaign often avoided a backlash from the security forces, which emboldened the vigilante groups to perpetrate further violence against the minority communities. In order to do so, this book will now turn to a thorough investigation of the state actors involved in the violence, namely, the police, and will examine their role.

Notes   1 The five pillars of Islam are: first, declare there is no god except Allah, and Muhammad is God’s Messenger; second, perform prayer five times a day; third, give annual alms (about 2.5 per cent of one’s income) at the end of the fasting month of Ramadhan; fourth, perform fasting during the month of Ramadhan; and fifth, perform haj pilgrimage to Mecca, if capable mentally, physically, and financially, at least once.   2 The number of other religious adherents is much smaller. They are, respectively, Catholic (6,876), Protestant (2,166), Hindu (33), Buddhist (167), and Other (2,896). Interestingly, those who are categorized as Other, except for one resident, live in Jalaksana district, which includes Manislor village, where the majority of residents are Ahmadiyah adherents. The number of people categorized as Other (2,895) is quite close to the estimated number of Ahmadis living in Manislor village (3,200 people). Hence, apparently, what was meant by the category “Other” was Ahmadiyah, in the sense that the data from the village official refer to the estimate of 3,200 Ahmadis in Manislor. When I checked the number with the relevant authorities in Kuningan regency, they acknowledged that the data from the village official was more accurate. Manislor village is one of 376 villages/sub-­districts in Kuningan regency.   3 The discrimination was in the matter of marriage. Sunda Wiwitan is not classified as a recognized religion in Indonesia, so that when Sunda Wiwitan adherents sought to marry, they had to convert first to one of the six recognized religions in Indonesia, in order to obtain a marriage certificate issued by the state. The six recognized religions are Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Confucianism.   4 However, during tensions in the village, some Sunni residents placed stickers Umat Muhammad (Muhammad followers) on the glass windows of their houses to distinguish their houses from Ahmadis ones, to avoid being targeted for vandalism by anti-­Ahmadiyah protesters.   5 Al Huda is Manislor’s official mosque. Prior to the arrival of Ahmadiyah in Manislor, villagers performed Friday prayers in the mosque and attended Islamic festivities there. Those villagers who converted to Ahmadiyah subsequently built their own Ahmadiyah mosque (An Nur), located about 400 metres from Al Huda mosque. Al Huda mosque became the symbol and camp of the anti-­Ahmadiyah movement.

54   Escalating heresy campaigns   6 Isra’ Mi’raj commemorates the Prophet Muhammad’s journey from Mecca to Jerusalem and his ascent into heaven.   7 Ahmadiyah in Indonesia has three ranks of preachers: branch, regional, and national. Buldan Burhanuddin is a regional preacher based in Cirebon, overseeing six regencies, including Kuningan regency.   8 The data were based on a diary written by Kulman Tisna Prawira, twice kuwu of Manislor and an influential Ahmadiyah figure in the Manislor branch. Data on the name of kuwu who served the village between 1838 and 1845 is not available.   9 At the time of my fieldwork, the House of Representatives (DPR) was still deliberating the Village Governance Bill, so that the structure of village government followed the previous Government Decree on Village No. 72/2005. The DPR passed the Village Governance Bill into law on 18 December 2013. 10 The roles of ketib and kaur kesra are hereditary positions in Manislor’s village structure. 11 DKM requested Salimin, a native of Manislor, who is also a DKM member, to make inquiries with the Kuningan police about the permit issued to Ahmadiyah allowing participation in the book fair. Salimin learned that the provincial police issued the permit, but when he, on behalf of the organization, demanded that the police ban Ahmadiyah from participating in the book fair, the demand was not acted upon. 12 The first edict stating that Ahmadiyah is heretical was issued in MUI’s annual congress in 1980 in Jakarta. 13 Arifin Setiamihardja assumed the role of Regent of Kuningan between 1998 and 2003, while Aang Hamid Suganda led Kuningan regency for two terms, between 2003 and 2013. 14 Out of the total Gading Laok population (1,557 people), 200 were working in Malaysia, mostly as construction workers (Munaji, then head of Gading Laok hamlet, personal communication, 2 November 2013). 15 Of the combined population totalling 2,200 residents, some 600 resided in Nangkernang hamlet (Achmad Hasan, then head of Nangkernang hamlet, personal communication, 5 November 2012), while the remainder were residents of Gading Laok hamlet (Munaji, personal communication, 2 November 2013). In 2012, prior to eviction, Shi’a followers had numbered 585 (Tajul Muluk, personal communication, 3 December 2013). 16 They were, among others, a teacher and a hamlet chief in Gading Laok hamlet (personal communication, 27 October 2013). 17 Kiai Makmun and his family previously resided in Gading Laok hamlet, Blu’uran village, but later moved to Nangkernang hamlet, Karanggayam village. 18 The success of the Iranian resistance group toppling a Western-­backed regime inspired some Muslims in Indonesia, including Kiai Makmun. 19 It is common practice in Madura Island for former students to maintain contact with their kiais after they have left Islamic boarding school (pesantren). The former students often visited their kiais during the Idul Fitri holiday, or when they sought blessings from the kiai when facing important events in their lives, such as school examinations or preparing for promotion in the workplace. 20 Makmun (d. 2006) had four children, Iklil al Milal followed by Tajul Muluk, Rois al Hukama and the only female child of the family, Ummu Hani. 21 During the interview, Tajul admitted that he was more interested in subscribing to Shi’a beliefs, since Shi’a teachings offered him a more convincing argument,

Escalating heresy campaigns   55 compared to Sunni teaching. For example, in one of the books that he read when he was studying in the Shi’a school in Bangil, it was claimed that Prophet Muhammad prophesied that there would be 12 leaders (imam) following his death. Tajul claimed that he asked Sunni clerics about the truth of Prophet Muhammad’s prophecy but none of them was able to give him a convincing argument that successfully challenged the truthfulness of the belief. 22 Another communal feast often organized by Madurese households is for the celebration of Isra’ Mi’raj – the heavenly ascendance of the Prophet Muhammad to receive order from God to start performing daily prayers five times a day – held during Rabiul Akhir, the fourth month in the Islamic calendar. 23 The hosts often invited between two and four kiais to the event, each of whom assumed different roles. The multiple invitations are for the sake of social appropriateness, as it is impolite if the host fails to invite his former kiai or a kiai living close to the host’s neighbourhood. Tajul Muluk said the going rate for inviting village level kiais was between Rp 50,000 and Rp 100,000; while for the kiais “having car” (referring to district or regency level kiais) the going rate was between Rp 300,000 and Rp 500,000 (interview with Tajul Muluk, 3 December 2013). Ustadzs in the host’s neighbourhood are invited, but as participants. Ustadzs are not usually assigned a role in the event, as they are considered to have comparatively less expertise in Islamic teaching and less social stature than kiais. 24 Kiais could lead, or just merely attend, three to five Maulid events in different households daily (Afdillah, 2013, p. 68). 25 Iklil al Milal, Tajul’s older sibling, filled Rois’ position in the Tajul camp. 26 Sampang regency police’s internal presentation by then Adj. Sr. Comr. Solehan, Chief of Sampang regency police, in a session called Analysis and Evaluation. The copy of the presentation made available to the author, is titled: “Presentation of Chief of Sampang Regency Police Related to Horizontal Conflict between K. Tajul Muluk & K. Rois in Karanggayam Village, Omben District and Blu’uran Village, Karangpenang District.” 27 PowerPoint presentation by then head of operations division at Sampang regency police, Comr. Alfian Nurrizal, who was invited as a speaker in a focus group discussion about conflict resolution in the Shi’a case in Sampang regency. A copy of the presentation was made available to the author. 28 Nasrudin established the anti-­Ahmadiyah group GERAH; served as chairman of Al Huda Mosque’s People’s Welfare Council; and was patron of RUDAL (which had ties with LPPI and was among the first group to provoke violence against Ahmadiyah following the LPPI anti-­Ahmadiyah seminar in Jakarta). 29 Salimin was then a figure in the MUI’s Manislor branch.

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58   Escalating heresy campaigns Sulhan, Mohammad. (2008, 10 September). Akar Kekerasan Minoritas dan Problem Pluralisme [Root of Violence against Minorities and The Problem of Pluralism]. http://crisisinstitute.blogspot.com/. Retrieved from http://crisis institute.blogspot.com/2008/09/akar-­kekerasan-minoritas-­dan-problem_7876. html. Accessed on 4 June 2015. The article can also be found in Sulhan, Moh. (2006). Akar Diskriminasi Minoritas dan Pluralisme Agama: Studi Kasus ­Kekerasan terhadap Jamaah Ahmadiyah di Kuningan [Roots of Discrimination against Minorities and Religious Pluralism: Case Study on Violence against Ahmadiyah Community in Kuningan Regency]. Holistik, Journal for Islamic Social Sciences, Vol. 7, No. 1. Tabataba’i, Allamah. (1989). The Historical Growth of Shi’ism. In Seyyed Hossein Nasr, Hamid Dabashi, & Seyyed Vali Reza Nasr (Eds.), Expectation of the Millennium: Shi’ism in History (pp.  132–153). Albany, NY: State University of New York Press. Tisna Prawira. (2012). Sejarah Desa Manislor dan Sejarah Jemaat Ahmadiyah Cabang Manislor [History of Manisor Village and History of the Ahmadiyah Community’s Manislor Branch]. Manislor: Ahmadiyah’s Manislor Branch. Van Klinken, Gerry. (2007). Communal Violence and Democratization in Indonesia: Small Town Wars. London: Routledge. Welsh, Bridget. (2008). Local and National: Keroyokan Mobbing in Indonesia. Journal of East Asian Studies, Vol. 8, No. 3, pp. 473–504. Zulkifli. (2013). The Struggle of the Shi’is in Indonesia. Canberra, Australia: ANU E Press.

3 State officials’ entanglement with vigilante groups

Introduction This chapter discusses police responses to violence against the Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. The role of the police deserves special attention in this book because the police were responsible for handling domestic security following the separation of the military from the police in 1999. The separation meant that the police were no longer under the military’s command. After the separation, the duties to maintain order and security and to enforce the law were in the hands of the police, while the military was restricted to a back-­up role. Given the central role of the police in domestic security, the frequent violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities between 2002 and 2012 gives rise to the question of whether the police were effective in addressing violence during the government of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. Some studies about violence in post-­New Order Indonesia point to the complicity of security officials, including the police, in contributing to the violence. Jacqueline Hicks found that in some cases officials were neutral, and even tried to help mediate conflicts between Ahmadiyah and vigilante groups; but in other cases, officials “operated directly with the civil society groups which agitating against Ahmadiyah” (Hicks, 2014, p. 332). Hicks, in her study of violence against Ahmadiyah, argues that the heresy campaigns against this minority faith, and the attacks that followed, were used “to support fragments of the New Order state to claw back some lost powers” (Hicks, 2014, p. 334). The violence happened because state officials – such as those from the military, police, and bureaucracy – failed to take a tough stance against vigilante groups perpetrating the violence (Hicks, 2014, p. 331). Gerry van Klinken (2007) argues that the frequent violence in the post-­New Order era occurred because local elites, including state officials, provoked or engineered violence as part of their efforts to gain, or regain, access to state resources. Panggabean and Ali-­Fauzi’s

60   State officials and vigilante groups 2014 study found that mobilization of people along ethnic or religious lines were key factors in outbreaks of violence (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, pp. 309–310). Instead of helping the police, bureaucrats and politicians in the government supported mass mobilization of people by the vigilante groups and Sunni religious leaders. These mass mobilizations were peaceful or violent depending on where protests were held, that is, in Sunni or minority communities’ areas of residence. This complicity, according to Panggabean and Ali-­Fauzi (2014, pp. 310–310), hindered the ability of the police to address the violence. In addition, in his study on violence against Shi’a in Sampang regency, Masdar Hilmy argues that state officials and religious figures there manipulated the violence for economic and political gain through cultural hegemony and the use of symbols (Hilmy, 2015, p. 48). This chapter expands on these previous studies by arguing that the state’s complicity in the violence stems from state officials’ entangled relations with vigilante groups. I posit that these relationships hampered the officers’ ability to prevent incidents of religious violence before they occurred, and to bring charges against perpetrators afterwards. The entanglement was the result of blurred boundaries where state officials and the vigilante groups often ended up pursuing mutual social, economic, and political interests, for instance to win elections or to get access to government contracts. I argue that vigilante groups were given considerable leeway to perpetrate religious violence because it was seen as a form of social control. This chapter also discusses security officials’ entangled relationship with local vigilante groups, using case studies of violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a in Manislor village, Kuningan regency, West Java province, and in Gading Laok and Nangkernang hamlets, Sampang regency, East Java province. This chapter is organized in four parts. The first part discusses the establishment of vigilante groups in Kuningan regency and their entangled relationship with security officials. The second part examines the topic of vigilantism and state officials in Sampang regency. Since formal vigilante groups were scarce in this regency, I focused on entangled relationships between the police and the kiais, or local religious figures, who assumed important roles in Sampang vigilantism against Shi’ism. The third part provides an analysis of how this entanglement affects state officials’ responses to violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities, and the fourth part is my conclusion.

State officials and vigilante groups   61

Security officials’ entanglement with vigilante groups in Kuningan regency There are several vigilante groups in Kuningan regency, but this chapter will discuss Gerakan Anti Maksiat [Anti Vice Movement] (GAMAS) and Gabungan Inisiatif Barisan Anak Siliwangi [Joint Initiative of the Sundanese Sons of Siliwangi] (GIBAS). GAMAS and GIBAS were chosen as subjects of this research because they were among the biggest vigilante organizations operating in this regency and had the most active members. GAMAS and GIBAS regularly protested against the presence of Ahmadiyah minority communities. In 2007 and 2010 they were the backbone of violent protests against the community which lived in the Manislor village of Kuningan regency. GAMAS was founded by the leaders of some Islamic boarding schools (pesantren), just few months after Soeharto stepped down from power in May 1998. The vigilante organization mainly aimed “to revive the fight for Islamist ideals which were suppressed during the Soeharto era” (Nanang Subarnas, then secretary-­general of GAMAS, personal communication, 18 July 2013). Among their causes was the fight against vice in society, including gambling, drug use, prostitution, and distribution of alcohol. To act on its vision, the organization regularly deployed its members to patrol the streets to halt activities that they considered immoral. At times, the organization also cooperated with local government institutions in combating activities that they considered to be vice. As reported in the local media, on 12 June 2008, hundreds of GAMAS members joined forces with officers from the Kuningan Government’s Public Order Agency (Satuan Polisi Pamong Praja) [Satpol PP] to raid restaurants and entertainment establishments suspected of selling alcohol (GAMAS Kecewa [GAMAS Upset], 2008). On 23 November 2015, working together with the Kuningan Government’s Nation’s Unity and Politics Office, GAMAS organized an anti-­drug and anti-­alcohol retreat. Local youths and junior high-­school students participated in the retreat held in a remote area of Kuningan regency (Pemkab Kuningan Tingkatkan Peran Ormas [Kuningan Government Enhances Role of Ormas], 2015). GAMAS also participated and supported protests that promoted civil-­society ideals, such as anti-­corruption and pro-­environment drives. For example, in 2010, the organization questioned the Kuningan government’s decisions to name a police cooperative (Induk Koperasi Polisi [Main Police’s Cooperative]) as the winner of a tender to provide education facilities, such as students’ laboratory equipment and books, worth Rp 27 billion. In a hearing at the local council building, the GAMAS leaders argued that the cooperative was not supposed to win the project,

62   State officials and vigilante groups because the members of the legal body were civil servants (Status Inkoppol Dipertanyakan [Inkoppol Status Questioned], 2010). However, GAMAS also engaged in religious issues. This organization regularly and aggressively launched heresy campaigns against Ahmadiyah adherents in Manislor village. GAMAS members often participated in the joint protests against Ahmadiyah communities in the village, especially those of 2007 and 2010 that resulted in considerable violence (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, pp. 33–38). GAMAS’ aggressive involvement in a variety of issues, not only anti-­vice activities, shows that the organization seeks to increase its social and political legitimacy in this regency. The organization’s involvement in public service is aimed at increasing its popularity among Kuningan residents. The organization’s legitimacy and popularity could be used to influence local government to allow the organization to get, for example, access to government contracts. Nanang Subarnas (personal communication, 18 July 2013) acknowledged that the organization was active in securing business contracts from the Kuningan government. For example, members of GAMAS who owned firms often proposed and negotiated contracts, such as road construction and renovation, with the regency government. Once they acquired and implemented the contracts, the firms had to allocate a certain percentage of the profit to GAMAS. However, not all methods of acquiring economic benefits were through rent-­seeking activities: the organization also requested that its members be economically independent through more legitimate businesses. An example is getting together to establish a tofu factory (Nanang Subarnas, personal communication, 18 July 2013). This organization has a significant presence in the regency, which had 1.1 million inhabitants. GAMAS boasted of having 600 members and about 3,000 sympathizers residing in 18 out of a total of 32 districts (kecamatan) across Kuningan regency. Members of GAMAS were mostly small entrepreneurs, workers in the private sector, and students at Islamic boarding schools. Since a substantial number of GAMAS board members were executives of Islamic boarding schools in the regency, the organization had the capacity to mobilize students quickly in large numbers. Hence, given the size of its organization and their mass mobilization capacity, state officials were mindful of their potential power. For example, as noted earlier, the Kuningan government joined forces with GAMAS in some anti-­vice projects. The local police often invited GAMAS’ executives to participate in the commemoration of Islamic festivities and sports competitions held by the police. When the Kuningan government and the police organized events to destroy bottles of alcoholic drinks, they usually invited GAMAS executives to witness the events.1 One such event was captured

State officials and vigilante groups   63 in several pictures published on GAMAS’ Facebook pages dated 27 January 2010 (Gerakan Anti Maksiat Kabupaten Kuningan [Anti-­Vice Movement Kuningan regency], 2010). Nana Nurudin, GAMAS’ chairman, was seen as one of the guests of honour having a conversation with then Kuningan Regent, Aang Hamid Suganda. Local police and military leaders were also present at the event. Besides GAMAS, the other organization that had an instrumental role in the heresy campaign against Ahmadiyah was GIBAS. This organization is not based on religious values; instead, it is a Sundanese ethnic organization. Some Sundanese figures, who had links with the Indonesian military, established the organization in 2001, which was the same year the central government began the decentralization drive. Amidst the euphoria of the decentralization drive, the organization’s ethnic character quickly won appeal throughout West Java province, which is the home of the Sundanese. In 2009, the organization claimed to have approximately 26,000 members (26,000 Anggota GIBAS [26,000 GIBAS Members], 2008),2 spread over the organization’s many branches across West Java province, including in Kuningan regency. The organization’s headquarters is located in Bandung, the capital of West Java province. The organization claims that it runs “social activities in broad terms”, to promote the nation’s unity, to enhance people’s education, to fight for people’s rights and sovereignty, and to organize charity events (GIBAS [Joint Initiative of the Sundanese Sons], 2009). However, media reporting shows that the organization’s executives and members often used the organization’s name to profit from dubious business activities, such as protection rackets. A local online publication reported a fight between members of GIBAS Kuningan and the Cirebon branch of the youth social organization, Pemuda Pancasila, on 25 January 20153 resulted in the closure of some nightclubs near the fight area.4 The incident began when members of GIBAS became upset at seeing Pemuda Pancasila members operating in their area, apparently in an attempt to get security money from the entertainment establishments. The police arrested six members of GIBAS and Pemuda Pancasila for carrying sharp weapons, but the case never went to court (Mediasi Bentrok Ormas [Mediating Ormas Clashes], 2015). GIBAS’ Kuningan branch, which claimed to have some 1,000 members, had clout in this regency. One case, that shows GIBAS’ social power and connection to security officials, was an incident that occurred on 16 April 2013 when three members of the Al Jabbar community organization based in Cirebon City demanded the Kuningan office of a motor-­ cycle credit financing company (PT Wahana Otomitra Multiartha Tbk) write off debts incurred by one of their members. Al Jabbar is a local community organization that focuses on consumer protection. During that

64   State officials and vigilante groups protest in front of the firm’s regional office, these Al Jabbar’s members became involved in heated arguments with GIBAS members protecting the firm’s office and employees. Police arrived at the scene and detained two members of Al Jabbar, while the third person escaped from the scene. Five days later, apparently as part of the negotiation with the police and GIBAS, Al Jabbar headquarters declared that Al Jabbar’s Kuningan branch was defunct (Al Jabbar Kuningan Resmi Dibubarkan [Al Jabbar’s Kuningan Officially Defunct], 2013). The case was (circumstantial) evidence that GIBAS had significant influence with, and closeness to, the police, perhaps explaining why Al Jabbar folded. The opening of a restaurant belonging to the chairman of GIBAS Kuningan, Manaf Suharnaf, provided more evidence as to GIBAS’ closeness to government and security officials in Kuningan regency. Key elites in the regency attended the function on 14 January 2015 (Bupati Resmikan Warung [Regent Inaugurates “Klaten”], 2015). Then Regent of Kuningan, Utje Suganda, officially opened Manaf ’s restaurant. Others present at the function were: former Regent of Kuningan for two terms, Aang Hamid Suganda, who is Utje’s husband; then chief of Kuningan police Adj. Sr. Comr. Jhony Iskandar and his deputy, Comr. Dian Setyawan; and head of Kuningan Education Office, A. Taufik Rahman. The presence of both the chief and deputy chief of police at the event suggests Manaf ’s importance. The head of the education office was invited because he is Manaf ’s superior in the Kuningan regency administration.5 GAMAS and GIBAS often worked together to build temporary alliances with other community organizations, such as the Manislor-­based anti-­Ahmadiyah groups GERAH, RUDAL, and BARAK, and also the Kuningan branch of national organizations such as Islamic Defenders Front (FPI), Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia (DDII), and Jamaah Anshorut Tauhid (JAT), to stage anti- Ahmadiyah protests. These groups established this alliance because it was valuable to boost the protest’s legitimacy, as well as to bolster the protesters’ ranks to create greater impact, as shown when the heresy protests peaked in 2007 and 2010. The support of GAMAS and GIBAS was important because they could mobilize large numbers of people. These protests were usually preceded by a flurry of accusations of heresy against Ahmadiyah to build support among Kuningan residents for the groups’ cause. One month before the protest in December 2007, for example, the Manislor organization, RUDAL, unfurled a banner in the village stating that “Ahmadiyah teaching is heretical; Ahmadiyah blood is halal [religiously permitted to be spilled]”, while GERAH’s banner read: “Ahmadiyah is not Islam. Those who support Ahmadiyah are apostate” (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p.  34). Copies of the government’s

State officials and vigilante groups   65 a­ nti-­Ahmadiyah joint decree6 were distributed during Friday prayers or at other religious events across the regency, while the leader of the anti-­ Ahmadiyah group renewed heresy charges against Ahmadiyah through an opinion article published in the local newspaper (Tisna Prawira, 2012, p. 66). The heresy claims were then followed by demands for the government to seal Ahmadiyah mosques. When the demands failed to materialize due to Ahmadiyah resistance,7 this anti-­Ahmadiyah alliance – which comprised anti-­Ahmadiyah groups based in and outside Manislor village – joined forces by mobilizing their members to manifest their demands. Some 700 protesters, including from GAMAS and GIBAS, were involved in the 2007 protest, while in a similar protest three years later, the number of protesters was estimated at between 1,000 and 1,500 people (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p. 41). The large number of people participating in the protests, preceded by provocations, increased the likelihood of violence. The protest in 2007 ended with the alliance of anti-­Ahmadiyah (which was grouped under the name of the Muslim Component of Kuningan) vandalizing the Al Hidayah mosque and 14 houses belonging to Ahmadis on 18 December 2007 (Empat Belas Rumah [Fourteen Houses], 2007). In the protest of 2010, this alliance, grouped under a different name (Coalition of Indonesia Muslim Community), engaged in stone-­throwing against the Ahmadi communities defending their lives and properties; five people were injured from hurled stones (one Ahmadi, one police officer, and three protesters), and several Ahmadis houses were damaged (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p. 39). In summary, the establishment of GAMAS and GIBAS was part of a broader national phenomenon in the aftermath of reformasi (reform) in those vigilante groups, when old and new players seized democratization and decentralization opportunities to gain social and political legitimacy and authority (see Robison & Hadiz, 2004, p. 245; Wilson, 2006, p. 266; Hicks, 2014, pp.  334–335). These local organizations (GAMAS and GIBAS) were relatively new players, albeit some of their leaders had links to the New Order establishment. In gaining social and political legitimacy and authority, these vigilante groups actively engaged in public affairs, by setting up or joining campaigns on various issues that mattered to the public, such as anti-­corruption, environmental management, and education. These campaigns included religious issues, such as heresy campaigns against Ahmadiyah. In the case of anti-­Ahmadiyah protests, we should not discount the possibility that these groups have genuine religious objections to the Ahmadis. GAMAS, for example, has opposed the existence of Ahmadiyah in Manislor since 2001, because this vigilante organization considered, among other things, that Ahmadiyah deviated from the path of mainstream

66   State officials and vigilante groups Islam. Ahmadiyah hold dear the teaching that the organization’s founder, Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, was one of Islam’s prophets. This contradicts Islam’s mainstream teaching that there was no prophet after Muhammad (Nanang Subarnas, personal communication, 18 July 2013). GAMAS always claimed this religious factor was behind their anti-­ Ahmadiyah protests. However, had this vigilante organization conducted protests to advance their religious cause, they would have carried out sectarian or religious protests. In fact, as I have shown in preceding paragraphs, protests against Ahmadiyah were just one among many other issues on which these organizations (GAMAS and GIBAS) campaigned. This supports my analysis that the organizations were using Ahmadiyah and other issues to enhance their social and political legitimacy before state officials and the broader Kuningan community, putting them in a better position to obtain government contracts or to earn electoral benefits, for example.

The state officials and the role of kiais in Sampang vigilantism There were contrasts in the ways protests and attacks against minority faiths were organized in Kuningan and Sampang Regencies. Unlike in Kuningan, there were few organized vigilante groups in Sampang regency.8 Such groups failed to grow in number in Sampang due to the institutionalized role of kiai in the social fabric of Madura. Madurese respect three social institutions: family (parents), kiais, and governments, reflected in their culture of bheppa-­bheppu [parents], guru [teachers/ kiai], rato [government]). This means that Madurese’s greatest respect and loyalty goes to their parents first, then to the kiais, and then to state or government officials (Rozaki, 2004, p. 4; Wiyata, 2013, pp. 30–35). I spoke to various sources during my fieldwork in Madura in 2013, including a police officer and a government official, and they emphasized the importance of this deep-­seated culture in the fabric of Madurese society (personal communication with the Deputy Chief of Sampang Police, Comr. Alfian Nurrizal, 7 October 2013; personal communication with then Head of Nation’s Unity and Politics Office at Sampang regency administration, Rudy Setiady, 24 September 2013). In this culture, when government officials are in dispute with the kiais, Madurese usually choose to support kiais, even though this social, political, or physical support might land them in jail or even costs them their lives. The hegemonic standing of kiai is sustained through Islamic boarding schools, which are the dominant educational institution in Madura, allowing the kiais to maintain their higher status.

State officials and vigilante groups   67 My visit to the house of a prominent kiai in Sampang illustrates the enormous influence of the kiai. During my visit on 9 November 2013, I met with three people, one of whom was this kiai’s former student. The former student’s father brought him and a relative to meet the kiai to seek blessings from the latter so that his son could successfully pass a university admission exam. It is common in Madura Island for the kiai’s former students to visit the kiai from time to time, especially during the Idul Fitri festive season, to seek his blessings for various reasons, such as when they are about to be married, to help get a promotion, or simply to give gifts to the kiai as tokens of gratitude. After these three guests had left, I had an interview with the kiai, with my Madurese informant sitting next to me. The interview was held on the floor of the veranda of the kiai’s house. It is a custom in Madura that the kiai receives guests who are foreign to him on the veranda of the house, or in a small hut outside the house. The veranda and the hut have no furniture, so guests usually sit cross-­legged. I don’t usually sit cross-­legged on the floor and felt uncomfortable after a while. I understood that it was going to be disrespectful to the kiai if I straightened my legs during the interview, but eventually I did as I could not bear to sit cross-­legged for the whole two hours of the interview. After the interview was done, the Madurese informant scolded me on our way to a café in Sampang town, saying that I had been disrespectful to the kiai. Another event that shows the influence of the kiais in Madura Island was the meeting between President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and 15 Madurese kiais in Surabaya in 2013. President Yudhoyono set up the meeting on 1 August 2013 in a hotel in the city, to request the kiais to allow Shi’a communities to return to their former kampongs. Earlier, over 100 Shi’a families had been forced to leave their homes in rural Sampang regency after a violent incident occurred on 26 August 2012, which took the life of a Shi’a resident, injured some 14 Sunni and Shi’a residents, and burned down 49 houses belonging to Shi’a. The families of these Shi’a stayed temporarily in a government shelter in downtown Sampang, but they moved to another government shelter in Sidoarjo regency a year later, after Sunni vigilante groups and religious clerics forced them to leave Sampang. Sidoarjo regency is a three-­hour drive from Sampang. Instead of approving the President’s request, the kiais from Badan Silaturrahmi Ulama Pesantren Madura (BASSRA) – an association of kiais owning and running Islamic boarding schools in Madura Island – politely rejected his request by telling him that “the Shi’a refugees could return home only after they agreed to convert to Sunnism” (Suryana, 2018, pp.  5–6). Due to resistance from the kiais, the President’s proposals were in limbo. Until Yudhoyono stood down from office in 2014, Shi’a refugees remained in the government shelter. These two events show how kiais possess ­premiere

68   State officials and vigilante groups social standing in Madurese society. To sum up, the kiais’ institutionalized role and affiliation prevented the establishment of the culturally independent vigilante groups that were seen as the competitors of Nadhlatul Ulama (NU) and BASSRA to which kiais were usually affiliated. This monopoly of social power in the hands of kiais was not found in the Kuningan regency, West Java province, but many religious figures in the Sundanese province of West Java earned the informal title of kiai. The Sundanese also recognized religious figures as ajengan, similar to kiai, but having higher stature due to their additional role, for example, in Indonesian freedom fighting. However, the role of kiai and ajengan is much less institutionalized in West Java province, so they had less social influence compared to kiais on Madura Island. The role of kiais in the political landscape in Madura became much more important in the post-­New Order era. During the New Order, the Soeharto government successfully co-­opted the kiais by providing them with access to government funds. Scholar Yanwar Pribadi argues this co-­ optation ensured Golkar’s election victory in Sampang regency in 1992 (Pribadi, 2013, pp. 199–204). This successful approach ended the domination of the kiai-­backed Islamist party, the United Development Party (PPP), in elections in Sampang regency which had lasted since 1971. But the downfall of the New Order in 1998 meant the kiais were no longer under social and political pressure from the centralized, corporatist power of the New Order. The democratic infrastructure, free and direct elections, enhanced the kiais’ political standing because they possessed the capacity to deliver votes during elections. Some kiais chose to support politicians whose vision and interests were in line with their own. Others chose to enter into the state structure, by participating as candidates in Sampang’s direct elections for local heads of government. In 2015, three out of four regencies in Madura Island were led by regents of kiai background (Ruji, 2016, p. 2). Since kiais had important social and political roles in Madurese society, the police often requested their assistance to help in domestic security tasks, namely, to maintain public order, to enforce the law, to safeguard and serve the public. The police made kiais partners in performing their duties because ordinary Madurese respected and usually obeyed the kiais. A senior police officer acknowledged that, when tension was simmering in Madura, the appeals for peace by kiais to the conflicting parties were effective in calming the situation down (Panggabean and Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p. 102). On the other hand, the kiais did not hesitate to request assistance from the police when they needed it. For example, when local residents’ demands were mounting for Shi’a eviction from Madura in August 2012, the kiais responded by requesting assistance from the Chief of the

State officials and vigilante groups   69 Sampang Police to arrange a high-­level meeting to discuss the demands. The Chief of Police followed up the request by facilitating a meeting between the kiais and the Sampang government and security officials on 7 August 2012 (Afdillah, 2013, pp. 97–98). This suggests that the kiais had special access to the police due to their respected social status in Madurese society. This close connection between the kiais and the police resulted in an tangled relationship that could compromise their formal role in society. For instance, the police were supposed to enforce the laws equally for all citizens, but they often gave concessions to the kiais because the police understood that, at times, they needed kiais’ assistance in preserving peace and social order. The tangled relationship often undermined police authority in settling the cases that involved kiais. The police were often unable to fully exercise their authority over the kiais when this was not in the kiais’ interests (Panggabean and Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p.  102). For example, on 29 December 2011, in the aftermath of the violence against Shi’a properties, the police released without charge a suspect due to strong protests from Sunni community figures, notably the kiais, who demanded the suspect’s freedom (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p. 110). While vigilante groups were often held responsible for provoking the violence against Ahmadiyah community in Kuningan regency, those who took part in the protests and violence against Shi’a in Sampang regency were mostly unorganized local residents. During my fieldwork, I asked different persons, including evicted Shi’a residents, who, or which groups, had started or provoked the conflict, but they often came up with the names of different provocateurs. I interviewed one ustadz and one kiai who were often suspected of provoking people to commit violence against Shi’a residents, but they claimed that they had no idea about who or what caused the significant incidents of 2011 and 2012. They claimed that, when the incidents broke out, they were at home, and only heard sounds of explosions in the distance (personal communications with the ustadz and the kiai, 5 and 6 November 2013). The protests seemed to be mostly spontaneous. An event on 9 April 2007 illustrated such spontaneity: on that day, some 1,000 people from three districts (Robatal, Karangpenang, and Omben districts/kecamatan) promptly descended on Tajul Muluk’s house in Nangkernang hamlet, Omben district, after they heard that Tajul had organized an event to commemorate the birth anniversary of Prophet Muhammad.9 The mobilization of such a large number of people was quickly done through cell-­phone text messages and mosques’ loudspeakers. The masses were not pleased that Tajul had invited four Shi’a preachers who hailed from other districts, and were considered as outsiders. The masses demanded Tajul cancel the event. Tajul only complied with the

70   State officials and vigilante groups demand after police officers ordered him to do so, for fear of communal clashes. Instead of condemning the spontaneous violence, the kiais affiliated with the powerful organizations, such as NU, BASSRA, and the Sampang branch of the Indonesian Council of Ulema (MUI), who were sympathetic to the perpetrators. They insinuated this through speeches delivered at various religious events, or via meetings or gatherings held by the three organizations, which often excused the violence. The meetings or gatherings, especially the public ones, served several purposes, according to Afdillah, a researcher at Sunan Ampel State Islamic University who wrote a master’s thesis on Sunni and Shi’a conflict in Sampang (Afdillah, 2013, pp. 89–90). First, through these forums, the kiais disseminated heresy discourse against Shi’ism promoted by Tajul Muluk. Second, the kiais used the public forums to press Tajul Muluk and his Shi’a followers to stop practising and disseminating Shi’ism. Third, the forums allowed the senior kiais to make anti-­Shi’a decisions, to be implemented in the field by their students or other followers. Hence, the forums served as inspiration and legitimation for people to act against the Shi’a minority community. The Sampang episodes show the police had a tangled relationship with the kiais for mutual interests. The police needed the kiais, as the latter possessed the social-­cultural capital that was useful to assist the police in ensuring security in the regency. On the other hand, the kiais needed the police to secure their social or political interests. The police were caught in a dilemma in which the kiais were becoming part of the problem in Sunni and Shi’a conflict, in the sense that the latter were taking sides at the expense of Shi’a communities. Often, the police gave in to the demands of the kiais due to their special social and cultural status in Madurese society, thus reducing the capacity of the police to protect the rights of the minority to live freely and to practice their religion.

Vigilantism and the question of state authority The history of the Indonesian state shows that vigilante groups have always been an integral part of the state’s official security arrangements. This arrangement has existed since the reign of the Netherlands East-­ Indies colonial authorities. The Dutch relied on indirect rule through Indonesian local officials – whom the Dutch administration controlled – to maintain security throughout the sprawling territory of their colony. These Indonesian officials collaborated with local strongmen to maintain security in their respective areas, at a time when the colonial administration was overstretched in financial and human resources (Schulte Nordholt, 1991, pp. 88–89). These strongmen – who lived outside state structures but were

State officials and vigilante groups   71 embedded in society – acted as agents of information, people mobilization, and policing, and, in return, received protection from the state so long as they did not commit unacceptable crimes or perpetrated other actions that undermined the colonial government’s authority. Activities that obtained dispensation from the regime included organized protection rackets for gambling dens, brothel complexes, and nightclubs. However, the state was not always in full control of the strongmen since the degree of the autonomy that these strongmen enjoyed (in practicing these crimes at the margin of the law) was “highly variable” (Barker, 2016, p. 188). Not only did the state often have little enough control, but in some cases, it completely failed to rule these strongmen. Sartono Kartodirdjo shows local strongmen led uprisings against the Dutch colonial forces in 1888 (see Kartodirdjo, 1966). Robert Cribb shows that the Japanese administration (1942–1945) also recruited some local strongmen to serve as chiefs of local police in order to maintain social order in their respective areas (Cribb, 2009, p. 41). But the Japanese administration failed to control others, who instead joined the youth militias (Pemuda Republik Indonesia [PRI]) and the ex-­PETA groups to fight against the Japanese military in Indonesia, who were already much weakened by their defeat against the Allied Forces (see Abdulgani, 1980, pp. 18–19; Lucas, 1989, pp. 101–118; Padmodiwiryo, 2015, p. 119). During the Indonesia revolution (1945–1949), a variety of parties used the services of vigilante groups, hoping to benefit from their networks, their physical prowess, and their skill in people mobilization. Dutch troops, for example, incorporated gangsters into a unit known as Hare Majesteit’s Ongeregelde Tropen [Her Majesty’s Irregular Troop] (HAMOT), either as agents of information or to serve as additional combatants (Cribb, 2009, p. 151). Some groups of strongmen, such as Barisan Maut [Death Front] in West Sumatra (Erman, 2002, pp. 124–125), set up their own groups to benefit socially and economically from the chaotic social situation during the revolution. In the New Order era (1966 onward), such strongmen were often called preman (free man) or street hoodlums. Preman, whose habitat is primarily urban communities, refers to persons who are not reluctant “to put society ill at ease” (Ryter, 1998, p. 48). Barker shows that the New Order regime appropriated the territorial power of the preman “to give it a place within the confines of the state” (Barker, 2001, p. 21). These premans – whether they belonged to organized entities or were individuals – had symbiotic mutualism with the state apparatus, in the sense that the apparatus allowed them, and others, to operate in an economy at the margins of the law. In return, the premans provided kickbacks to the state apparatus to let them do their jobs respectively. The result of this symbiosis was that “violence and criminality were normalized as state practice” (Wilson, 2006, p. 266).

72   State officials and vigilante groups The collapse of the New Order regime in 1998 allowed the state and non-­state actors at local level10 to renegotiate boundaries of power (Schulte Nordholt & van Klinken, 2007). Those who claimed to be Muslim activists were among the first to fill the power vacuum left by the fragmented regime. These activists, who thought that their Islamic aspirations were being suppressed by the New Order’s secularist tendencies, established organizations within months of the demise of the regime, to advance their social, political, economic, and ideological interests. Among these organizations were the Islam Defenders’ Front (FPI) at national level, while at local level, the Islam Reform Movement (GARIS), which is based in Cianjur regency, West Java province, and GAMAS were active. The decentralization drive in 2001, followed by direct elections of regional and provincial heads of government in 2004, further extended the power reconfiguration at the national and local levels. With this decentralization process, many politically connected business families, who depended on the New Order’s patronage, lost their patron and had to compete for social, economic, and political resources with new players in the more open system of the post-­New Order era (Robison & Hadiz, 2004, p.  245). Community organizations (locally known as organisasi kemasyarakatan [Ormas]) – which were part of the New Order network – also faced the same situation. They had to struggle to survive as they lost privileges given by the New Order elite. These groups, such as vigilante and paramilitary militias, did not hesitate to employ “violent mobilization of supporters” (Wilson, 2006, p.  266). They challenged the sovereign power of the state through “the exercise of violence and the policing of territory” (Telle, 2013, pp. 184–185). In doing so, these groups appealed to ethnicity, class, and religious affiliation to legitimize the use of violence (Wilson, 2006, pp.  266–267). In their pursuit of maintaining control over access to political and economic resources, these groups often engaged in violent conflict with new players arising through the reconfiguration of power in the new era of freedom. Politicians – either newcomers or those who had links with the New Order elite – used the opportunity to set up their own organizations that appealed to local Betawi and Sundanese ethnic groups; such an organization as Front Betawi Rempug (FBR) [The Front of Betawi Rempug] and GIBAS. These groups were useful for local politicians to use as vehicles to mobilize voters as well as to gain access to government contracts. The laws, especially the 1985 Law on Community Organizations, allowed legal recognition of their establishment. The close connections among state officials and members of the vigilante groups in Kuningan and Sampang Regencies shows both the continuities and changes in this social phenomenon. This chapter gives numerous

State officials and vigilante groups   73 examples of how police built close relationships with vigilante groups and kiais. A police officer acknowledged that the Kuningan regency police tried to stay close to vigilante groups because by doing so, the vigilante group “would feel loath to commit strange things” (Panggabean and Ali-­ Fauzi, 2014, p. 55). In the case of the Shi’a, the police often consulted with the kiais before making decisions that affected the public well-­being. Given the high level of trust that people had in the kiais, the police often sought the kiais’ assistance when they were involved in reconciliation between conflicting parties. The police needed the help of the kiais calm the public down. Hence, it was common for the police to approach and stay close to kiais and involve them in police strategies to maintain security and order. On the other hand, because of this close connection, the police did not hesitate to assist the kiais when the latter needed help. The police engaged in relationships with vigilante groups because the groups could be beneficial for the police in that they had networks and could mobilize people. Also, the police could use these groups for other purposes, such as for surveillance and intelligence gathering. As part of these processes, the police often met the leaders of vigilante groups in formal and informal settings to gather information on the latest security situation in their respective areas of jurisdiction. Then Chief of Kuningan Police, Adj. Sr. Comr. Wahyu Bintono, recalled he met these leaders once every two weeks, either by visiting them at their houses or offices or receiving them at his residence or at his office (Wahyu Bintono, personal communication, 12 June 2013). Suryana Nur Fatwa, the chairman of a vigilante group Pagar Akidah [Faith Fence] that operates in West Java province, including in Kuningan regency, acknowledged that the police were in close contact with his group. The police often visited him at his office or his residence or contacted him by text on his mobile phone to ask about the latest security situation, whether there was a possible threat to social order, or to question his organization’s response to events related to security (Suryana Nur Fatwa, personal communication, 31 May 2013). The police also regularly invited vigilante groups to attend police events, including mass prayers organized by the police to commemorate Islam religious festivities (Nanang Subarnas, personal communication, 18 July 2013). In addition, a senior police officer who works at Kuningan police precinct revealed that he occasionally asked a leader of a vigilante group in the regency to assist the police maintain social order (personal communication, 12 June 2013). The police needed the assistance of the group to thwart potential unrest when anti-­Ahmadiyah protesters from outside Kuningan regency descended on Manislor village to stage demonstrations against Ahmadiyah communities. In Sampang regency, the police made the kiais partners in performing their duties due to the kiais’

74   State officials and vigilante groups enormous influence in Madurese society. The kiais’ influence was useful to assist police, for example, in addressing social conflict. The relationship of the police with vigilante groups and with the kiais was not a one-­way relationship but involved constant negotiation between them in order for their mutual interests to be served. The state constantly negotiated and renegotiated its boundaries with the vigilante groups, which resulted in a blurring of boundaries between them (Mitchell, 1991; Migdal, 2001; Jessop, 2008). Under the fragmented regime of the post-­New Order era, spurred by freedom of expression, the vigilante groups in Kuningan regency, and similar groups led and inspired by kiais in Sampang regency, had more leeway in voicing their aspirations. They renegotiated their boundaries with the state, arguing that their heresy campaign was justified because they performed the campaign in the context of fighting those whom they claimed were heretical sects, namely Ahmadiyah and Shi’a. Under the pretext of defending Islamic values, the vigilante groups and the kiais did not hesitate to resort to repression and even violence, to force these minority communities to convert to mainstream Sunni belief. This repression and violence against the minority faiths intensified due to popular support from the Sampang and Kuningan mainstream faith communities. This support emboldened the vigilante groups and the kiais in their social vendetta against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a minority communities. This kind of popular support, lifting the confidence of vigilante groups to perpetrate violence, is quite common in the recent history of the Indonesian state. Laurens Bakker, in his study on organized violence and the state in three areas of Indonesia (Jakarta, East Kalimantan, and Minahasa), showed how popular support helped vigilante groups become more powerful in local settings (Bakker, 2016, p.  249). Nicholas Herriman found that local popular support for the killing of alleged sorcerers in Banyuwangi in the aftermath of reformasi in 1998 prevented the local representatives of the state from obeying the central state’s demand to enforce the law to restore social order (Herriman, 2012, pp. 150–151). This situation resulted in more killings of alleged sorcerers as the state’s ineffective actions emboldened local residents to continue killing with impunity. These two studies show how popular support was crucial in giving legitimacy to the violence of vigilante groups. Further to the Sampang and Kuningan violence, since the police response was subject to constant negotiation and renegotiation of the state’s boundaries, the police in these regencies failed to stick to one type of effective strategy in responding to the violence against the minority communities. At one moment, they were taking stern measures against vigilante groups, but at others, they were more lenient. At the beginning of the wave of demonstrations against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a

State officials and vigilante groups   75 in the two regencies, the police tolerated vandalism against houses or mosques belonging to the minority communities. No stern measures against these vigilante groups were taken unless their members physically injured the minority communities. Vandalism was considered a minor offence. The police failed to arrest the perpetrators, in fear of local public backlash that would threaten the maintenance of social order. This was in line with the deep-­seated police culture that prioritized the maintenance of security and social order above all else. Samsu Rizal Panggabean found that when the police were faced with two choices, maintaining security and social order or enforcing the law, they would choose the first (Panggabean, 2016, p.  274). The police did so because they feared that failure to prevent social disorder would result in demotion or a transfer to a less prestigious post (personal communication with a middle-­ranking police officer handling Sunni-­Shi’a conflict in Sampang, 6 November 2013). Only after criticism from human rights activists, did the police begin to take sterner measures against the vigilante groups. For example, in Kuningan regency in 2007 when they arrested six members of GAMAS for vandalism of Ahmadiyah properties, these people served jail sentences of one and a half months each, but, three years later, in 2010, the police did not arrest the perpetrators in another big heresy protest, even though some Ahmadiyah houses had been damaged. In response to this violence, the Chief of Kuningan police only rounded up the leaders of the organizations and warned them that if it were to happen again, stern measures would be taken (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p.  39). This event shows that the police negotiating and renegotiating their social relationship with the vigilante groups and kiais resulted in the law not being strictly implemented. Again, this situation emboldened the vigilante groups and kiais in inspiring, endorsing, or even perpetrating violence against the minority faith communities.

Conclusion The case studies above expand existing scholarships on the causes and effects of vigilantism in the post-­New Order Indonesia. This chapter argues that the violence occurred chiefly owing to state official’s tangled relationships with vigilante groups. This tangled relationship, in the form of a close connection between the police and the instigators, or even perpetrators, of violence, resulted in ineffective law enforcement in those regencies. This situation emboldened members of the vigilante groups to commit more violence against members of the minority faiths and their property.

76   State officials and vigilante groups

Notes   1 It is common in Indonesia for the police to regularly hold public events to destroy drugs or alcoholic drinks confiscated by the police.   2 Its chairman, Suhaya Jati Prakarsa, claimed in 2006 that it has a membership of three million (Laskar-­Laskar dalam Sorotan [Militias in Limelight], 2006). However, the figure seems exaggerated, given that that number is 7.5 per cent of the total population of West Java province in 2006. A more realistic figure is 26,000, as earlier, Manaf Suharnaf, chairman of GIBAS Kuningan regency, said that GIBAS would mobilize 26,000 members and sympathizers across West Java and Banten provinces to participate in the function that would see then presidential hopeful Prabowo Subianto being appointed chairman of GIBAS honorary body in Bandung, the capital of West Java province. Of the total, GIBAS Kuningan would contribute 1,000 members and sympathizers (26,000 Anggota GIBAS [26,000 GIBAS Members], 2008).   3 GIBAS is often called Ormas, which stands for Organisasi Kemasyarakatan (Community Organization), while Pemuda Pancasila is called OKP, which stands for Organisasi Pemuda Karya (Youth Social Organization).   4 Cirebon is a big city, about 45-minute drive from Kuningan.   5 Manaf is a civil servant at the Kuningan education office.   6 The Kuningan regency government and the Kuningan police and prosecutor’s office signed a joint decree in late 2004 that banned Ahmadiyah from publicly conducting religious events based on Ahmadiyah teachings in the village and prohibited Ahmadiyah from disseminating their teachings in the regency. The decree rules that the violation of the decree would result in legal proceedings. The decree was to accommodate demands by anti-­Ahmadiyah groups.   7 Given the Ahmadiyah’s substantial population in Manislor village (some 3,200 people, including women and children), they easily thwarted the threat from the authority to close their mosques.   8 The presence of vigilante groups can be traced to a lawsuit filed by Karanggayam Islamic Boarding School of Associations (IKSAM) against Tajul Muluk on 16 October 2009. But, in the course of the Sunni–Shi’a crisis, the role of the association was never mentioned in academic or press reports, or in the author’s conversation with residents of Nangkernang hamlet, Karanggayam village and Gading Laok hamlet, Blu’uran regency.   9 Internal police presentation by Adj. Sr. Comr. Solehan, then Chief of Sampang regency police, in a session called Analysis and Evaluation (ANEV). The presentation, in which a copy was available to the author, is titled: “Presentation of Chief of Sampang Regency Police Related to Horizontal Conflict between Kiai Tajul Muluk & Kiai Rois in Karanggayam Village, Omben District and Blu’uran Village, Karangpenang District.” The data can also be found in a report jointly written by members of the National Commission on Human Rights (KOMNAS HAM) and other state institutions (The Fact Finding and Recommendation Team, 2013, p. 2). 10 They were local economic bosses, thugs, influential politicians, civil servants, or religious establishments.

State officials and vigilante groups   77

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State officials and vigilante groups   79 Panggabean, Samsu Rizal. (2016). Policing Sectarian Conflict in Indonesia: The Case of Shi’ism. In Tim Lindsey & Helen Pausacker (Eds.), Religion, Law and Intolerance in Indonesia (pp. 271–288). London: Routledge. Panggabean, Samsu Rizal & Ali-­Fauzi, Ihsan. (2014). Pemolisian Konflik Keagamaan di Indonesia [Policing Religious Conflict in Indonesia]. Jakarta: Pusat Studi Agama & Demokrasi [PUSAD] Paramadina. Pemkab Kuningan Tingkatkan Peran Ormas dalam Pemerintahan [Kuningan Government Enhances Role of Ormas]. (2015, 23 November). http://kuningan.cirebontrust. com. Retrieved from: http://kuningan.cirebontrust.com/pemkab-­kuningan-tingkatkan-­ peran-ormas-­dalam-pemerintahan.html. Accessed on 13 January 2017. Pribadi, Yanwar. (2013). Islam and Politics in Madura: Ulama and Other Local Leaders in Search of Influence 1990–2010. PhD Thesis. Leiden: Leiden University. Robison, Richard & Hadiz, Vedi R. (2004). Reorganising Power in Indonesia: The Politics of Oligarchy in An Age of Markets. London: RoutledgeCurzon. Rozaki, Abdur. (2004). Menabur Kharisma Menuai Kuasa, Kiprah Kiai dan Blater sebagai Rezim Kembar di Madura [Sowing Charisma, Harvesting Power: The Role of Kiai & Blater as Twin Regimes in Madura]. Yogyakarta: Pustaka Marwa. Ruji, Mohammad. (2016). Pengaruh Trah Kiai Dalam Kontestasi Politik Pemilukada di Kabupaten Bangkalan Periode 2003–2013 [The Role of Kyai Descendants in the Regional Election Political Contest in Bangkalan Regency between 2003 and 2013]. Undergraduate Thesis. Surabaya, East Java Province: Sunan Ampel State Islamic University (UIN Sunan Ampel Surabaya). Ryter, Loren. (1998). Pemuda Pancasila: The Last Loyalist Free Men of Soeharto’s Order? Indonesia, No. 66, pp. 44–73. Schulte Nordholt, Henk. (1991). The Djago in The Shadow: Crime and “Order” in the Colonial State in Java. Translated by Ernst van Lennep. RIMA, Vol. 25, No. 1, pp. 74–91. Schulte Nordholt, Henk & van Klinken, Gerry (Eds.). (2007) Renegotiating Boundaries: Local Politics in Post-­Soeharto Indonesia. Leiden, Netherlands: KITLV Press. Status Inkoppol Dipertanyakan [Inkoppol Status Questioned]. (2010, 16 December). www.radarcirebon.com. Retrieved from: www.radarcirebon.com/status-­ inkoppol-dipertanyakan.html. Accessed on 13 January 2017. Suryana, A’an. (2018). Indonesian Presidents and Communal Violence Against Non-­Mainstream Faiths. South East Asia Research (Online First) [First Published 15 April 2018], pp. 1–14. https://doi.org/10.1177/0967828X18769393. Telle, Kari. (2013). Vigilante Citizenship: Sovereign Practices and the Politics of Insult in Indonesia. Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land- en Volkenkunde, Vol. 169, pp. 183–212. The Fact Finding and Recommendation Team. (2013). The Fact Finding and Recommendation Team on Attacks against Adherents of Shia in Sampang, Madura. Jakarta: The National Commission on Human Rights [Komnas HAM], The National Commission for Anti-­Violence against Women [Komnas Anti-­ Kekerasan terhadap Perempuan], The National Commission for Children’s

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4 The judiciary and the law

Introduction This chapter discusses legal ambiguities that prevented the state from responding effectively to violence against religious minorities in Indonesia. By “legal ambiguity” I refer to unclear and occasionally incoherent laws being applied discriminatively, which resulted in perpetrators of violence being exempted from legal prosecution. The situation emboldened the perpetrators to commit more violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a minority communities. This chapter is important to this book because laws and regulations shaped the state officials’ practices. Since this book mainly investigates Indonesian state practices at the local level, this chapter also looks at local regulations and bylaws in my field sites. This chapter will be organized in the following way: the first section provides a historical background of the legal ambiguity that became part of the life of the Indonesian state, beginning in the early Dutch colonization era. The second section introduces the first article of state foundation, Pancasila: The Belief in One God, and Article 29 of the Constitution. These articles serve as the highest source of law and regulation pertaining to freedom of religion or belief and minority rights in Indonesia. The third section discusses legal inconsistencies in the form of incoherence between Article 29 of the Constitution, and laws and regulations, especially the 1965 Blasphemy Law. Sections four and five discuss how local governments use the legal ambiguities to further restrict the activities of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a respectively. The sixth section analyses how the state negotiates legal ambiguities in Indonesia, resulting in discrimination of minority faiths.

Legal ambiguity and state practice Legal ambiguities relating to the status of minorities can be traced back to the Dutch colonial era when the then colonial government classified the

82   The judiciary and the law Dutch East Indies colony population into three groups: Europeans, Natives, and Chinese/Orientals. Unlike modern democracies that apply laws evenly to all citizens, the Dutch colonial government assigned different laws to different groups with the main objective being to facilitate exploitation of the Indonesian economy for the benefit of the Netherlands (Lev, 1985). Some legal privileges or exemptions were created to advance this objective. For example, the laws excluded the Javanese aristocracy – the backbone of the Indonesian bureaucracy, police, and military – from prosecution under the criminal code, instead allowing them to be tried through the privileged forum of the Dutch court, which was dedicated to the prosecution of Dutch and European subjects. The Chinese and other foreign Orientals were treated as Indonesians under the criminal law, but to promote the state’s commercial interests they were treated as Europeans under commercial law (Lev, 1985, p. 62). Given its primary objective of exploiting the Indonesian economy, the Dutch paid little attention to administering laws for native Indonesians (Lev, 1985, p. 58; Cribb, 2011, p.  36), except when the state’s commercial interests were at stake. After independence, the Indonesian state elite retained some Dutch laws and revised others, in line with the needs of the state. Some Dutch laws were still in effect up until the post-­New Order era, and the statute revisions were still influenced by Dutch legal traditions. The perpetual presence of the Dutch-­derived criminal and civil court procedures was a case in point. The discriminative legal traditions were carried over to the post-­ independence era. Lev argues that it occurred because it is the nature of the legal system that “the concepts and structures developed in one age carry over as myth thereafter, transforming what were once straightforward matters of interest and power into principles and habits [among the state officials]” (Lev, 1985, p. 69). The legal system was not wholly discriminative. Indonesia was not a lawless society either, “but rather one in which law is unevenly implemented” (Cribb, 2011, p. 33). In the system, some citizens obtained preferential legal treatment due to the social class or power that they possessed. These citizens escaped the arm of the law because it is considered that punishing them will severely disrupt the social order. In other cases, the system discriminated against certain segments of society, such as minority communities, as I will show later in this chapter. The discriminative legal system was not exclusive to Indonesia – it also existed in other parts of the world (Gvosdev, 2001) – but the use of discretionary powers by state officials was still rampant in the Indonesian system in the post-­New Order era. Nikolas K. Gvosdev (2001) introduces some legal strategies that the state has commonly used to restrict freedom of religion. First, the state inserted the clause “interests of the state” into the Constitution, giving

The judiciary and the law   83 power to the government to prohibit groups of people from embracing and practising certain religions or beliefs that are considered to be in conflict with the state’s goals. Second, the Constitution contains contradictory articles that erode the religious liberty of the people. Third, the state defines religious freedom in the Constitution in a narrow or restrictive sense. Fourth, the state’s Constitution contains vague or undefined clauses that can be used by the state to limit the exercise of religious freedom. This book will show, in the later part of this chapter, that the third and fourth strategies are relevant for explaining, in the context of the Yudhoyono government, the state’s response to violence against the Ahmadiyah and Shi’a minority communities. Additionally, this book will show that in further restricting the religious activities of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a, government officials often worked with vigilante groups, as they were bound by what Jeremy Menchik calls “godly nationalism” (Menchik, 2014, p.  594). Jeremy Menchik defines godly nationalism as an imagined community bound by a common, orthodox theism and mobilized through the state in cooperation with religious organizations in society. In this society, the state gives protection to the religions or beliefs sanctioned by the state, while at the same time, the state discourages citizens from subscribing to religions or beliefs other than the official ones. Challenging the doctrines of the official religions is discouraged, and bears the risk of being branded as blasphemous. The violence against Ahmadiyah is a contemporary “manifestation of long-­ standing effort to promote godly nationalism while dislodging secular or Islamic alternatives” (Menchik, 2014, p. 595). We learned from this section that legal ambiguity is not a contemporary phenomenon of the Indonesian state, but rather, its roots can be traced back to the birth of the Indonesian state. We also learned that the state was inclined to manipulate legal ambiguity for its own gains. The next section shows that in the post-­independence era, the Indonesian state sustained this practice, especially in discriminating against non-­recognized religions (non-­mainstream faiths).

The constitution, Pancasila, minority rights, and state practice The state foundation (Pancasila) and the 1945 Constitution are the highest sources of law and regulation in Indonesia. All laws and regulations in the country must align with the contents of Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution. If society find laws and regulations that contradict Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution, they have the right to file judicial reviews to the Constitutional Court. The court will determine whether the laws or regulations

84   The judiciary and the law should be revoked because they have violated the state foundation and Constitution. Hence, the role of Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution in the Indonesian legal system is paramount. There are two articles stipulated in Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution which relate to the freedom of religion or belief. They are the first Article of Pancasila, namely “the Belief in One God”; and Article 29 (2) of the amended 1945 Constitution, which stipulates that: The state guarantees all the citizens of Indonesia the freedom to embrace their religion and to worship in accordance with their religion and belief. (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat [The House of Representatives], 2016) The first Pancasila article dates back to an initial round of meetings, by a body preparing for Indonesian independence (BPUPKI), to discuss the contents of Pancasila. The meetings were held in Jakarta between 29 May and 1 June 1945. Soekarno and Mohammad Yamin were among those who proposed that an article relating to belief in God (religion) should be included in Pancasila. Following the meeting, a small committee comprised of nine members discussed the proposals and came up with a draft of Pancasila that was subsequently discussed in the second batch of the body’s meeting on 22 June 1945. The contentious article relating to belief in God (religion) was worded “Belief in God with the obligation for the Muslims to implement Islamic sharia”. However, the wording faced opposition from Protestant and Catholic figures in the eastern part of Indonesia as they considered the article to be discriminative. In response to this resistance, the committee’s nationalist faction convinced its fellow Islamists to withdraw the latter proposal to maintain the nation’s unity. The first article was subsequently rephrased as “Ketuhanan Yang Maha Esa” (“Belief in One God”). However, by using the phrase “One God”, the article did in fact accommodate Islamist aspirations, given that Islam is monotheistic (Ropi, 2013, p. 96). Hence, the rephrasing of the article was an act of compromise to serve the interests of the Islamist faction and the minority communities represented by Protestants and Catholics. The article became the basis for the BPUPKI to develop Article 29, which guarantees freedom of religion for Indonesian citizens. The Islamists gained a significant concession after their aspiration for the establishment of an Islamic state failed to materialize. To accommodate Islamist interests, the post-­independence government established the Ministry of Religious Affairs on 3 January 1946, around four months after Indonesian independence was declared on 17 August 1945 (Sejarah Pembentukan Kementerian Agama [The History of the Establishment of

The judiciary and the law   85 the Ministry of Religious Affairs], n.d). In effect, the Islamists controlled the Ministry of Religious Affairs, continuing to advance their social and political agendas. Since establishing an Islamic state was no longer an option, the Islamists diverted their efforts into Islamizing the Indonesian state (Ropi, 2016, p. 139). This was achieved through establishing regulations that furthered this cause. An early challenge faced by the Islamists occurred after the handover of sovereignty from the Dutch to the Indonesian government, namely, the mushrooming of spiritual and mysticism groups in the early 1950s (Kroef, 1961, pp.  18–19). This phenomenon mostly occurred in Java Island, the most heavily populated region in Indonesia. According to scholar Justus M. van der Kroef (1961, p. 24), these new religious sects grew rapidly due to a seismic shift in the social and cultural milieu in the country. Indonesians lived constantly under chaotic and emergency situations in the 1940s while their country confronted revolution which culminated in independence. After independence, Indonesians were faced with new difficulties, including high rates of poverty and the problem of urbanism. Thus, people’s sense of insecurity and instability, experienced as a result of the social and political turmoil earlier in the decade, persisted. Then, as Kroef argues, after the situation returned to normal, people began to establish sects as “a means of restoring the lost toto tentrem [peace and order in harmony] condition so deeply embedded in Javanese life as a paramount cultural ideal” (Kroef, 1961, p. 24). The political situation that influenced the mindset of the people also contributed to the burgeoning of spiritual and mysticism groups. In the quest for Indonesian independence, politicians, especially nationalist ones like Soekarno, introduced “concepts and slogans” that “came to be taken as symbolic absolutes by means of which the nation can supposedly at last overcome its problems and rise to greatness” (Kroef, 1961, p. 24). People became inspired to seek their own spiritual calling by establishing new sects that were different to the mainstream religions. The rapidly increasing number of new sects alarmed figures of the mainstream religions, especially Islamists. The Islamists were concerned that this phenomenon could undermine Islam, and could result in mass conversion of Muslims into the new sects. In 1952, through the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the Islamists introduced a formal definition of agama (religion), namely, that in order be acknowledged by the state, a religion should contain “a prophet, a holy book and also be acknowledged internationally” (Hidayah, 2008, p. 11, footnote). The political manoeuvre aimed to hinder the creation of further sects. The criteria established for classification as agama was meant to inform followers about those faiths considered illegitimate or legitimate before the state.

86   The judiciary and the law The ministry continued this hostile attitude towards new sects by setting up the Mystical Beliefs Supervisory Body (Pakem) in 1954, to monitor mystical belief organizations across the country. The body was also tasked with persuading followers of a mystical belief to return to those mainstream religions or beliefs recognized by the state. The measure was taken amidst increasing tension between members of the mystical beliefs organization and followers of the mainstream religions. Hence, by establishing Pakem, the Ministry of Religious Affairs also aimed at preventing potential conflicts between different adherents of faiths. Alongside the social reason, there was also political reason behind the body’s establishment. Scholar Trisno S. Sutanto argues that the new sects constituted a political threat to Islamic-­based parties, as they campaigned to persuade people not to vote for the latter (Islamic) parties in the 1955 election. These campaigns significantly reduced the vote for the Islamic-­based parties in Indonesia’s first democratic election (Sutanto, 2011, p. 380). Facing discrimination and restrictions from the government, especially through the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the spiritual and mysticism groups established Badan Konggres Kebatinan Indonesia [the Indonesian Mysticism Congress Body] (BKKI) in 1955, in Semarang, Central Java province. Representatives from at least 100 spiritual and mystical organizations from various parts of Indonesia participated in the BKKI’s first congress. After political consolidation, the body repeatedly made demands on the government, during the 1950s and 1960s, to accept mystical beliefs as recognized religions, on a par with Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Confucianism (Ropi, 2016, p.  141). BKKI’s political influence grew after Partai Komunis Indonesia/PKI (the Indonesia Communist Party), which was looking for political support at that time, defended the organization’s cause (Arianingtyas, 2014, p. 73). In 1959, President Soekarno revoked the 1950 Constitution, and reinstated the 1945 Constitution. Unlike the 1950 Constitution, the 1945 Constitution literally did not discriminate against non-­recognized religions. In Article 29 verse 2, it ruled that: “the state guarantees all the citizens of Indonesia the freedom to embrace their religion and to worship in accordance with their religion and belief ”. Despite the non-­discriminative article in the Constitution, state practices that discriminated against non-­ recognized religions or beliefs (non-­mainstream faiths) persisted. Due to the perceived growing threat from BKKI, the then Minister of Education, Priyono, proposed that the status of Pakem be recategorized as a “coordinating body” (Sutanto, 2011, p.  381). This change, which took effect in 1961, allowed the government ministries and bureaus to develop a comprehensive response to the problems resulting from the growing number of new sects. Under Priyono’s proposal, the Ministry of Religious

The judiciary and the law   87 Affairs would be involved in handling matters related to the sects, but the coordinating responsibility would be in the hands of the Attorney-­ General’s Office (AGO). By shifting coordinating responsibility to the AGO, the move provided prosecution authority to the coordinating body Badan Koordinasi Pengawas Aliran Kepercayaan Masyarakat [the Coordinating Board for Monitoring Mystical Beliefs in Society] (Bakorpakem). It also aimed to create a deterrence. Besides the Ministry of Religious Affairs, other members of Bakorpakem included the Ministry of Home Affairs, the Indonesian police and military, intelligence officers and other bureaucrats. Bakorpakem acted as a powerful tool of the state to determine which religious sects or beliefs were heretical and needed to be curbed (Sutanto, 2011, p. 381). The government set up local coordinating bodies at regional level, with the main task being the regular monitoring of religious sects considered to be heretical. Bakorpakem met at least once a month. The Attorney General acted as Bakorpakem coordinator while chiefs in the Attorney-­General’s office at provincial and regency or municipality levels acted as Bakorpakem coordinators for the regions. In doing so, the government officials acting through Bakorpakem across the country conducted regular monitoring against religious sects considered heretical. In the same year (1961), the Ministry of Religious Affairs tightened its definition of “religion” that it had introduced nine years earlier. The new version of this definition stated that, in order to be recognized as a religion, religious teachings shall exhibit the following: (1) An encompassing way of life with concrete regulations; (2) A teaching about the oneness of God; (3) Led by a prophet; and (4) Shall include a holy book, which codifies a message conveyed by a prophet(s) through a holy spirit (Hidayah, 2008, p.  11). This definition became the basis from which Bakorpakem could monitor and persuade members of non-­mainstream faiths (spiritual and mysticism sects) to return to the mainstream faiths. The Ministry of Religious Affairs won the political contest against BKKI, after President Soekarno several times rejected BKKI’s demand for mystical belief to be included as a state-­recognized religion. Instead, Soekarno gave the coordinating body (Bakorpakem) a potent legal tool to perform its task of monitoring the mysticism groups. In 1965, Soekarno passed an anti-­ blasphemy presidential decree to tackle “the rampant presence of religious sects deviating from the mainstream religions”, which it claimed threatened the security of the nation. The decree, locally known as UU No. 1/Pencegahan Penyalahgunaan dan atau Penodaan Agama (PNPS)/1965 (Law No. 1/1965 on Prevention of the Abuse and/or the Desecration of Religion), aimed to prevent the proliferation of mystical belief groups, and possible social and political instability.1 For the first time in Indonesia’s history, the state, through the decree, stipulated that it recognized six official religions (Islam,

88   The judiciary and the law Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Confucianism). Two years later, Soeharto issued a presidential instruction that banned Chinese-­ Indonesians from expressing their religion and culture in public, but did not mention Confucianism. The exclusion of Confucianism was made explicit in the Ministry of Home Affairs’ 1975 decree which omitted Confucianism from the list of state-­recognized religions. President Abdurrahman Wahid repealed the decree when he took office, and in 2001 reinstated Confucianism as one of the state’s recognized religions. The policy determined government support and protection for recognized religions or beliefs, in the form of institutional, legal, and financial support. As a result of the policy, a directorate general was established in the Ministry of Religious Affairs that accommodated the six official religions; and “religion” was inserted into national identity cards requiring each citizen to (compulsorily) identify one of the six official religions listed. The 1965 Blasphemy Law, still in effect at the time of this book being written, consists of four articles. Among the four articles, Article 1 and Article 4 are mainly used by state officials to restrict freedom of religion or belief. Article 1 bans minority communities from expressing their (non-­ mainstream) faith: (1) Every person is banned from intentionally sharing stories, recommending, or rallying to gain public support, in the interpretation of a religion embraced by people in Indonesia; or performing religious activities that look similar to the religious activities of the religion in question, where such interpretation and activities deviate from the basic tenets of the religion. The article’s implementation reinforced the practice of state officials that discriminated against religions or beliefs other than those recognized by the state: Islam, Protestant, Catholic, Buddha, Hindu, and Confucianism. The law explained that those religions or beliefs eligible for protection had deep historical and sociological roots in Indonesian society, and were embraced by the majority of Indonesians. The law further stipulated that the state did not prohibit citizens from embracing other religions or beliefs, such as Taoism, Judaism, or Zoroastrianism. However, followers were not permitted to publicly share interpretation of a religion that was considered to represent a deviation from the basic tenets of an official religion. Figures from the respective official religions were authorized to determine which religious teachings represented deviation. Hence, the law prohibited non-­ recognized faiths from challenging the content of the recognized ones. The coordinating body Bakorpakem used the Blasphemy Law to carry out surveillance of religions or beliefs other than the official ones, or

The judiciary and the law   89 against people who promoted new religious teachings that deviated from the mainstream teachings. Bakorpakem officials usually considered those religions or beliefs not conforming to the majority teachings as posing a danger to the nation’s stability. For example, a former senior official at Kuningan prosecutor’s office (personal communication, 24 June 2013) labelled these religions or beliefs as potential “threats to the state and the nation”, and hence, they needed to be monitored for the maintenance of social order. Ahmadiyah and Shi’a experienced difficulty in disseminating and expressing their faiths in public because many aspects of their faiths contradicted Sunnism, the faith of the Indonesian majority. The Blasphemy Law offered a vague legal solution to address the problem. The law claimed that it supported freedom of religion or beliefs, by giving space to followers of religions or beliefs other than the recognized ones to believe in their faith. But, on the other hand, the law prohibited them from communicating publicly their faith in fear of social instability. Article 4 provided for jail sentences for people charged and convicted of performing blasphemy. (4) Maximum jail sentence of five years shall be imposed for whoever publicly and deliberately expresses their feelings or engages in actions that: a. Basically hostile, abusive or defamation against a religion in Indonesia; b. In which the acts are intended to prevent somebody to embrace a religion based on Belief in One God. The phrase “insulting or defaming a religion” generated multiple interpretations. These vague legal terms opened up loopholes, through which religious establishments or citizens could make a legal case against fellow citizens, whom they accused of insulting an official religion in Indonesia. Melissa Crouch (2012a, p. 1) found that the number of people prosecuted in court for blasphemy charges was high. Between 1998 and 2011, at least 120 people in Indonesia faced prosecution after being charged with insulting a religion. The number of people reported to police on similar charges, but whose case did not progress to court, could be even higher. Due to the draconian nature of the Blasphemy Law, a group of human rights activists and non-­governmental organizations brought a case to the Constitutional Court in 2009. The plaintiffs argued that the law was unconstitutional on several grounds. First, the law failed to guarantee constitutional rights to the citizens, as stipulated in the 1945 Constitution, especially in its chapters on human rights and religion. Second, the Blasphemy Law failed to acknowledge the longstanding existence of the

90   The judiciary and the law followers of mystical beliefs, which made them victims of discrimination. Third, the law created legal uncertainty, because groups that represented the majority could abuse the law to repress the minority groups. Fourth, the Blasphemy Law was no longer relevant in the social and political milieu of the post-­New Order era; instead of determining which religious tenets were right or wrong, the law’s role was supposed to be confined to managing people’s behaviour. Fifth, the formulation of the law created multiple interpretations, hence the situation opened up opportunities for the state to intervene in interpreting and in enforcing the law (Putusan Mahkamah Konstitusi (Constitutional Court Verdict), 2010, pp. 66–67). However, the Constitutional Court rejected the lawsuit. In contrast to the plaintiffs’ argument, the judges maintained that the Blasphemy Law guaranteed citizens’ rights to make their own interpretation about religious tenets, or to practise their religions or beliefs. So long as citizens performed their activities in private, they would not be subject to legal prosecution. They would face prosecution only when they intentionally and publicly promoted, interpreted, or practised religious tenets that deviate from the mainstream religions. The judges posited that such activities are blasphemous, which can potentially trigger social tension and even conflict among members of society. Hence, the judges argued that the Blasphemy Law was necessary to give society useful legal certainty and guidance for the prevention of violence. In other words, the judges argued for the limitation of freedom of religion or belief. One’s freedom of religion or belief is limited both by freedom of religion or belief possessed by others and by prevailing laws (Putusan Mahkamah Konstitusi (Constitutional Court Verdict), 2010, pp. 72–73). The judges in the Constitutional Court argued that the Blasphemy Law does not discriminate against any particular religion or belief. The law does not prohibit the existence of mystical beliefs in society. The law, according to one of the judges, Muhammad Alim, merely encourages the government “to guide the adherents of the mystical beliefs to embrace the mainstream faiths, based on the principle of the Belief in One God” (Putusan Mahkamah Konstitusi (Constitutional Court Verdict), 2010, p.  74). The judges further argued that the law is still needed to prevent the abuse of the followers of mystical beliefs. In their considerations, the judges explained that one of the reasons why the Soekarno government issued the anti-­blasphemy decree was due to the phenomenon of human sacrifice in some mystical belief rituals. The judges argued that if discrimination occurred as a result of implementing the law, it occurred due to state officials’ failure to implement the laws evenly. The state officials’ discriminative practices should not be used as an excuse to abort the Blasphemy Law, according to the judges, quoting constitutional expert Yusril Ihza Mahendra (Putusan Mahkamah Konstitusi (Constitutional Court Verdict), 2010, p. 85).

The judiciary and the law   91 In summary, this section has shown that successive governments of the Indonesian state often used the legal ambiguity in the state’s foundation and Constitution to facilitate the production of laws that restricted dissemination of minority faiths. This was seen as necessary to prevent horizontal conflicts among the adherents of the different faiths. The production of these laws underpinned the state practices that discriminated against minority communities.

Legal ambiguity and violence against Ahmadiyah This section, and the following ones, discuss how local governments used the legal ambiguities described above to advance their agendas, and how this practice affected the rights of the minority faiths in practising their religious teachings. The sections are based on in-­depth interviews and field-­based ethnographic research in Kuningan and Sampang Regencies where Ahmadiyah and Shi’a adherents lived. As discussed previously, the Blasphemy Law contained legal ambiguity. For example, the Law acknowledges freedom of religion or belief, but, on the other hand, bans followers of unofficial religions or beliefs, such as Ahmadiyah, from disseminating their faith in public. Many regional governments used this ambiguity to produce bylaws that reflected their interests, for example, for electoral purposes. Anti-­Ahmadiyah bylaws have existed in Indonesia since the 1970s, but increased in number after Indonesian democratization in 1998 (Crouch, 2012b, p. 558). The 2011 Kuningan regent decree, for example, banned Ahmadiyah adherents from disseminating Ahmadiyah teachings through speeches, sermons, seminars, religious gatherings, books, and print and online media. Unlike the Blasphemy Law, the regent’s decree did not acknowledge freedom of religion or belief. This occurred because the decree was issued in the relatively homogenous regency of Kuningan, where 99 per cent of the population are Sunni. In contrast, the Blasphemy Law applied to the more heterogeneous national population. In addition to the Blasphemy Law, local governments also took advantage of other ambiguous laws and regulations issued by the central government. A case in point was the issuance of the 2008 Joint Ministerial Decree on Ahmadiyah that enabled local governments to further restrict the activities of the Ahmadiyah organizations through executive orders or bylaws. The joint decree was the culmination of protracted protests that demanded the disbanding of Ahmadiyah during the government of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. The anti-­Ahmadiyah protest began in Manislor in 2002, but widened to the neighbouring regencies of Kuningan. The anti-­Ahmadiyah protests escalated and spread across Indonesia after

92   The judiciary and the law the Indonesian Council of Ulema (MUI) reissued an edict in its national annual congress in Jakarta in 2005, which stated that Ahmadiyah is heretical. The edict reaffirmed a similar edict made in 1980. The 2005 edict emboldened anti-­Ahmadiyah groups to intensify their protests. Media coverage, including internet and television media, amplified the protests. Following rising demands for the disbandment of Ahmadiyah in 2006, representatives of central government negotiated with the Ahmadiyah board of executives and with groups that represented anti-­Ahmadiyah protesters in order to respond to what was being asked for. While negotiations were initially protracted over many months and seemed aimless, they regained momentum following an incident on 1 June 2008 at the National Monument (Monas). It began when some 1,500 pluralism activists held a rally to commemorate the birth of the state ideology (Pancasila). The event ended in chaos when hundreds of people wearing the uniform of the Islamic Defender’s Front (FPI) attacked the activists, resulting in the hospitalization of 34 people (Hard-­Liners Ambush Monas Rally, 2008). President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono issued a strong condemnation of the violence and ordered the attackers to be apprehended. The police responded to the president’s order, and arrested two executives of FPI. But about a week later (9 June 2008), thousands of protesters from several groups descended on the state palace to demand the disbandment of Ahmadiyah, even threatening to overthrow the government if it failed to act. In an attempt to calm the protesters, the Minister of Religious Affairs, the Minister of Home Affairs, and the Chief Prosecutor issued a Ministerial Joint Decree on Ahmadiyah that same day. The timing and the substance of the decree gave the impression that the government had buckled under the pressure of the mob. The decree had actually been drafted long before the 9 June protest. It was the result of discussions among government, security, and prosecution officials within Bakorpakem, held in three separate meetings on 12 May 2005, 15 January 2008, and 16 April 2008. President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono was personally involved in drafting the decree. In his memoir, noted lawyer and then Yudhoyono presidential adviser Adnan Buyung Nasution wrote that, in the drafting process, Yudhoyono had already made up his mind on how to resolve the demands for the disbandment of Ahmadiyah (Nasution, 2012, pp. 100–101). However, Nasution did not say specifically which part of the decree was the result of Yudhoyono’s work. The decree is titled: “Ministerial Joint-­Decree Minister of Religious Affairs, Attorney General and Minister of Home Affairs on Warning and Order to the Followers, Members, and/or Executives of Indonesia Ahmadiyah Communities (JAI) and the Indonesian Community”. The decree’s

The judiciary and the law   93 first article adopts an article from the Law on Blasphemy, with one minor modification: it applies to anybody. The decree’s first article states that: (1) The government warns and orders people not to share stories, to recommend or to support in the interpretation of a religion embraced by people in Indonesia; or performing religious activities that look similar to the religious activities of the religion in question, where such interpretation and activities deviate from the basic tenets of the religion. The decree’s remaining articles are as follows: (2) The government warns and orders the followers, members and/or executives of JAI, so long as they affirm that they are Muslim, to stop dissemination of interpretation and activities that deviate from the basic tenets of Islam, namely dissemination of the belief that there is another prophet with his own teachings after Prophet Muhammad. (3) The followers, members, and/or executives of JAI who fail to adhere to the warning and order mentioned in the decree’s first and second articles can be subject to prosecution in line with the laws and regulations, including its organization and legal body. (4) The government warns and orders members of the community to maintain and to nurture inter-­religious harmony, peace and order in people’s lives by not doing unlawful acts against followers, members, and/or executives of JAI. (5) Members of the community who fail to adhere to the government’s warning and order can be subject to legal prosecution in line with the prevailing laws and regulations. The stance of the first article was a continuation of previous government policy, reflected in the contents of the Blasphemy Law that give preference to recognized religions. As stated in the 2008 Joint Ministerial Decree, the government guarantees adherents of minority communities the freedom to practice their faith, albeit in private, but prevents them from expressing their faith in public. The government usually justified this restriction by claiming that freedom of religion or belief has limits. Successive governments maintained the practice of discriminating against non-­official religions or beliefs, hence this approach became state practice. The decree’s remaining articles indicate that the Yudhoyono government sought the middle ground. The government banned Ahmadiyah adherents from disseminating and practising their teachings in public in

94   The judiciary and the law order to accommodate the protesters; but, on the other hand, they refused to disband Ahmadiyah. The government warned Ahmadiyah members that it would prosecute them if they disseminated their faith in public, but also warned the public, including the anti-­Ahmadiyah groups, that they would be subject to prosecution if they committed violence against Ahmadiyah communities. The government’s position shows that pursuing security and order was the top priority. The decree drew mixed responses. Human rights groups and minority communities, including Ahmadiyah, opposed it, arguing that the decree violated freedom of religion or belief, mandated by the Constitution. Human Rights Watch urged the government to promote tolerance, instead of prosecuting people for their religious views (Human Rights Watch, 2008). Senior state officials were divided, with some endorsing the decree, while others were sceptical and questioned the decree’s ambiguous tone. Mohammad Mahfud MD, then chief of the Constitutional Court, supported the decree, arguing it was needed “to maintain harmony among the citizens, to prevent deviant interpretations of religious teachings as well as to protect the Ahmadiyah communities” (Mahfud, 2012). He further argued that the decree did not violate the Constitution, because it “does not prohibit the existence of adherents of Ahmadiyah in Indonesia”; it merely “orders the adherents of Ahmadiyah to cease all of their activities which are contradictory to the Islamic teachings” (Mahfud, 2012). In contrast, local state and government officials, including officials in the Kuningan Regency Government, demanded that central government produce a more emphatic decree to guide them in addressing horizontal disputes between Ahmadiyah and anti-­Ahmadiyah groupings. These officials wanted central government to give legal certainty about the existence of Ahmadiyah and the legality of its teachings, as well as whether the Ahmadiyah teachings defiled Islamic teachings (Agus Abdul Kholik, chief of the Kuningan office of the Ministry of Religious Affairs, personal communication, 7 June 2013). A local religious figure, who represented the quasi-­state organ MUI, voiced a clearer stance, demanding the disbandment of Ahmadiyah. Hafidin Achmad, then chief of MUI’s Kuningan branch, claimed Ahmadiyah teachings harmed Islam because, in contradiction to Islamic tenets, Ahmadiyah failed to recognize Prophet Muhammad as the last prophet and hence the state had to impose a ban. He further argued that human rights had limits, namely, that human rights are limited by law. Hafidin Achmad (personal communication, 20 June 2013) claims that Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia [the National Commission on Human Rights] (KOMNAS HAM) had been unfair when it explained human rights to MIU from the point of view of the (Amended) 1945 Constitution Letter

The judiciary and the law   95 E that states a variety of freedoms, but failed to mention Letter J that limits freedoms.2 Hafidin Achmad was referring to Article 28 of the (Amended) 1945 Constitution, Letter J2, which states:  In exercising his rights and liberties, each person has the duty to accept the limitations determined by law for the sole purposes of guaranteeing the recognition and respect of the rights and liberties of other people and of satisfying a democratic society’s just demands based on considerations of morality, religious values, security, and public order.  (Asian Human Rights Commission, n.d.) Regardless of these debates, the decree’s ambiguity opened up opportunities for regional governments to produce bylaws or executive orders that suited their interests. The regional governments used the decree’s provision that bans Ahmadiyah adherents, members, and/or leaders from publicly disseminating their faith as justification to further restrict Ahmadiyah members, not only in preaching their faith, but also in practising it. Another case in point is the West Java Gubernatorial Decree, dated 2 March 2011, which expanded on the 2008 Joint Ministerial Decree. Similar to the Ministerial Joint Decree, the 2011 regulation bans members of Ahmadiyah from predicating or expressing their faith in public, while at the same time, warns of legal sanctions for members of the public perpetrating violence against Ahmadiyah members and their properties. While the 2008 Joint Ministerial Decree only stipulated a general point about Ahmadiyah members being banned from expressing their faith in public, the West Java Gubernatorial Decree detailed the prohibited activities. As stipulated in Article 3, verse 2, the banned activities include: (1) Disseminating Ahmadiyah tenets through spoken, written forms, or through electronic mediums. (2) Erecting Jemaat Ahmadiyah Indonesia (JAI) organization signs in public places. (3) Erecting any signs in the premises of place of worship, education institutions and other places by using the identity of Jemaat Ahmadiyah Indonesia (JAI). (4) The use of Jemaat Ahmadiyah Indonesia attributes in any form. The 2008 Joint Ministerial Decree was used by the Kuningan regent as the basis for an executive order to close eight Ahmadiyah mosques in 2010. The planned closure aimed to prevent Ahmadiyah adherents from praying in those places of worship, which the anti-­Ahmadiyah groups perceived as “public” places. The decision was made in the wake of a series of protests

96   The judiciary and the law demanding the closure of Ahmadiyah mosques. The demands followed the 2008 Joint Ministerial Decree that banned Ahmadiyah from expressing their faith in public. The regent implemented the executive order by mobilizing personnel from Kuningan’s public order agency to force closure of the mosques on 26 July 2010. But the personnel met strong resistance from Ahmadiyah communities, who comprised a majority in the village. Hence, the effort failed. On 29 July 2010, the agency officials made a second attempt after gaining support from some 1,000 anti-­Ahmadiyah protesters. The crowd of Ahmadiyah and anti-­Ahmadiyah protesters engaged in a stone-­throwing battle; the showdown made national headlines. As a result, a member of Ahmadiyah, three members of vigilante groups, and a police officer were injured, while several Ahmadiyah houses were damaged (Panggabean and Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, pp. 38–39). The executive order shows how local government took advantage of the 2008 Joint Ministerial Decree. The executive order was the result of negotiation between the regent and the anti-­Ahmadiyah protesters. Earlier, the regent had rejected the demands to disband Ahmadiyah in Kuningan through violence, as the government did not condone force. But subsequently, the regent supported the demands for the closure of the Ahmadiyah mosques as it was considered to be in accordance with the provision of the 2008 Joint Ministerial Decree that banned Ahmadiyah from expressing their faith in public. Closing down Ahmadiyah mosques was seen as a midway solution for the government and the anti-­Ahmadiyah protesters, at the expense of Ahmadiyah communities. The Kuningan Ahmadiyah case shows how regional government took advantage of the legal ambiguity, by issuing executive orders or bylaws that further restricted the activities of Ahmadiyah communities. Local governments issued regulations after social pressure from local religious figures and vigilante groups that demanded the disbandment of Ahmadiyah. These local regulations acknowledged the legality of the Ahmadiyah organization and the rights of its adherents to practice in private, but in contrast with the 2008 Ministerial Joint Decree on Ahmadiyah, they went a step further by restricting Ahmadiyah religious practice.

Legal ambiguity and violence against Shi’a In East Java, local government regulations reinforced the state’s discriminatory practices against Shi’a minority communities. East Java Gubernatorial Decree No. 55, issued on 23 July 2012, acknowledges freedom of religion or belief, but on the other hand, it bans minority faiths from disseminating or practising in public their teachings that contradict official

The judiciary and the law   97 religion or belief. In addition, Gubernatorial Decree 55, titled “Nurturing Religious Activities and Monitoring Deviant Sect in East Java province”, added an article that strengthened the role of MUI, the quasi-­government institution, in the anti-­Ahmadiyah and anti-­Shi’a campaigns. The decree’s most contentious article section was Article 5, verse 2 which authorized the local chapter and branches of MUI in East Java province to determine which religious sects are heretical. It was a significant boost to MUI’s role, given that earlier, MUI’s East Java chapter and branches only had the right to recommend action to East Java’s provincial Bakorpakem. Hence, the gubernatorial decree raised MUI’s status from an advisory agency to that of an institution with power to decide which religious sects are heretical. Such powers are prone to abuse. The decree was politically motivated, as the incumbent governor issued it to help his re-­election campaign in 2013 (Ahnaf, Maarif, Asyhari-­ Afwan, & Afdillah, 2015, p.  28). By issuing the decree, the governor obtained electoral support from MUI’s East Java chapter. MUI’s support was crucial, given that it held an informal monopoly on Islamic religious interpretation. By helping the incumbent, MUI would boost its chances of winning the election. The gubernatorial decree was in support of MUI’s long-­running campaign against Shi’ism developed by Tajul Muluk in Sampang regency. Before the gubernatorial decree was issued, MUI’s Sampang branch had already participated in the campaign against Shi’a, including in seeking Tajul Muluk’s prosecution. MUI worked together with the Sampang Regency Government to make a legal case for blasphemy against Tajul Muluk in 2012. This is evidenced by the timing of the prosecution process (Afdillah, 2013, p. 112). On 1 January 2012, three days after a Sunni and Shi’a incident, the Indonesian Council of Ulema (MUI) Sampang branch issued an edict that Shi’a teachings by Tajul were heretical, and that Tajul had to be brought before a court. The following day, the Nadhlatul Ulama’s Sampang branch issued a statement supporting MUI’s edict. The political support of Nadhlatul Ulama was influential, as it was the biggest civil society organization in the regency. On 3 January 2012, Rois Al Hukama, Tajul’s younger brother, who became his nemesis, reported Tajul to the police so that he might be charged (Afdillah, 2013, p.  112). On 4 January, the joint body (the Sampang Bakorpakem) announced its findings that Shi’ism taught by Tajul was heretical and hence, Tajul needed to be prosecuted. The police actioned the report, and on 12 July 2012 the Sampang District Court eventually sentenced Tajul to two years in jail for committing blasphemy. When Tajul appealed the decision, the Surabaya High Court handed down a four-­year jail term. The High Court verdict was upheld by the Supreme Court on 3 January 2013, holding Tajul Muluk

98   The judiciary and the law responsible “for spreading heresy teaching that caused disharmony among the Muslims, created people’s anxiety and led to the mass-­burning of people’s houses” (Mahkamah Agung [Supreme Court], 2013). The gubernatorial decree raised tensions in Sampang regency where Tajul disseminated Shi’ism. Only a month after the decree was proclaimed, a small dispute between Sunni and Shi’a adherents turned into a violent clash that left 1 Shi’a follower dead, 12 Shi’a and Sunni people injured, and 49 houses belonging to Shi’a burned. The decree had been used as a pretext by vigilante groups to further repress Shi’ism, resulting in that fatal clash (Inilah Kronologi Kekerasan [The Chronology of Violence], 2012). The Sampang Shi’a episode was similar to the event in Kuningan regency, in the sense that the Sampang Regency Government took advantage of the legal ambiguity to further repress minority communities, especially Shi’a. The Sampang government was motivated by electoral considerations to issue the decree that further restricted activities of minority communities.

Legal ambiguities and state strategies As previously mentioned, Nikolas K. Gvosdev (2001) introduces four legal strategies that the state can use to restrict freedom of religion. They are: first, inserting the clause “interests of the state” in the constitution to allow the state to curb religious freedom; second, producing contradictory articles in the constitution to restrict religious freedom; third, defining religious freedom in the constitution in a narrower sense or restrictive fashion; and fourth, producing vague clauses in the constitution that can be used by the state to limit exercise of religious freedom. The third and fourth strategies are more relevant to explain the Indonesian state’s strategies to restrict freedom of religion or belief. Through the third strategy, the state acknowledges freedom of religion or belief mandated by Article 29 of the amended 1945 Constitution. However, the state limits freedom through other articles in the same Constitution, namely Article 28 of the Amended 1945 Constitution, verse J2. The verse stipulates that:  In exercising his rights and liberties, each person has the duty to accept the limitations determined by law for the sole purposes of guaranteeing the recognition and respect of the rights and liberties of other people and of satisfying a democratic society’s just demands based on considerations of morality, religious values, security, and public order. It means that citizens cannot freely exercise their freedom of religion or belief, if that exercise is considered to have infringed on the rights of other

The judiciary and the law   99 people as determined by law, or the demands of society based on considerations of, for example, public order. In the fourth strategy, as shown in the previous section, successive governments took advantage of the loose meaning of the Belief in One God, by producing laws and regulations that restrict freedom of religion or belief embraced by minority communities. This book shows that governments upheld discrimination against minority communities, starting with the Ministry of Religious Affairs in 1952 setting up parameters for what constitutes a religion in Indonesia. The Blasphemy Law established the state practice of discrimination by giving preference to the state’s acknowledged religions. In the case of the government of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, it is clear that regional governments often took advantage of the ambiguous legal system to affirm the discrimination practice for their own benefit, such as for electoral gain. The East Java Gubernatorial Decree No. 55 on anti-­heresy was one of the regional regulations aimed at obtaining re-­election of the governor. The decree was targeted to win the hearts and minds of influential Sunni clerics so that they would re-­elect the incumbent in the election for governor in 2013 (Ahnaf et al., 2015, p.  28). Clearly, some local administrations made their own interpretation of the Joint Ministerial Decree by selecting articles that suited their position and implementing them in order to further restrict minority communities’ religious practice. This chapter acknowledges that the state and vigilante groups, and the state and religious figures (kiais), form alliances through godly nationalism, as suggested by Jeremy Menchik (2014), to repress minority faiths. However, the Ahmadiyah and Shi’a cases show the alliance was casual, not permanent. The alliance was the result of negotiation and renegotiation among members of the state and religious or vigilante groups that claimed to represent the majority. As part of the negotiation process with vigilante groups, the Kuningan Regency Government attempted to close down Ahmadiyah mosques to appease Muslims. The West Java and East Java governors produced anti-­Ahmadiyah and anti-­Shi’a decrees, respectively, that further restricted the religious activities of the minority communities in order to remain popular among the majority Sunni population. As I show in the preceding section, local government officials, religious figures, and vigilante groups worked together to ensure that Tajul Muluk, then leader of Shi’a, was jailed for blasphemy, on the grounds that Tajul Muluk was considered to be inciting division. The perception of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a as incendiaries often resulted in unequal treatment by state officials. Yusuf Ahmadi (personal communication, 29 August 2013) recalled incidents of police discrimination against minority communities. The local police often dragged their feet when Ahmadiyah

100   The judiciary and the law reported that groups from the Sunni community had vandalized their places of worship or houses. Police often ignored reports by Ahmadiyah, while they took reports seriously from Sunni side. Ahmadis reporting attacks against their places of worship or their houses became the subject of police bullying. They processed our reports for so long; we were intimidated … I was often assigned to hand over our organization’s letter seeking protection from the police. But, being a courier, I was often ridiculed by police officers receiving the letter, saying that “You already know that you are wrong. You are heretical [then, how dare you seek protection from the police].” (Yusuf Ahmadi, personal communication, 29 August 2013)3 The police mindset, which construed Ahmadiyah as heretical, gave them less of an incentive to pursue cases where Ahmadiyah were victims. Additionally, the police feared a Sunni backlash if they pursued such cases, as the local Sunni community did not consider vandalism to the houses and places of worship of the minority communities as serious crimes requiring prosecution by the law. Between 2002 and 2010, while vandalism against Ahmadiyah houses and places of worships often occurred in the course of anti-­Ahmadiyah protests, the police arrested violent protesters during only one event, in 2007, after an attack against Ahmadiyah houses and places of worship made headlines in the national media. It should be acknowledged, however, that causing intentional harm to Ahmadiyah adherents was not considered acceptable by the local Sunni community or the law enforcers. There were several cases where the police actively pursued perpetrators of physical violence carried out against Ahmadiyah; their pursuit of perpetrators in the Cikeusik incident in Banten province in 2011, which left three Ahmadis dead and five others seriously injured, offers one such example. Also, in 2008, the police had swiftly arrested FPI executives accused of violently targeting people campaigning for pluralism at the National Monument in Jakarta. FPI’s violent response to the campaign, which included promotion of the Ahmadiyah cause, left at least 34 people seriously injured.

Conclusion This chapter has found that regional governments in the era of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono took advantage of the incoherence that existed between Article 29 of the amended 1945 Constitution and the ­Blasphemy Law, by issuing regulations that further restricted the activities of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. Such a policy was either in

The judiciary and the law   101 response to the demands voiced by anti-­Ahmadiyah and anti-­Shi’a groups, who were seeking the disbandment of the minority communities, or to initiatives from regional governments designed to ensure their re-­election. The bylaws gave justification for vigilante groups to further increase pressure on minority communities, which often resulted in violence against the latter, in the form of vandalism against their properties. At times, local governments worked together with vigilante groups to maintain the supremacy of the mainstream religion, in this case Sunnism. The state’s complicity in the violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities is manifest in its lenient stance towards the vigilante groups that perpetrated violence against the minority faiths.

Notes 1 Four years later, the then Acting President Soeharto proposed the decree to the House of Representatives and incorporated it into law in the existing criminal code of Dutch legacy, which meant the anti-­blasphemy decree had an even stronger legal standing. 2 The certified translation of the Constitution Article was obtained through: www. humanrights.asia/countries/indonesia/laws/uud1945_en. Accessed on 7 April 2014. 3 Yusuf Ahmadi was sworn in as Manislor village head in 2007, and he said he was seeking re-­election in 2013. A village head assumes post for six years, and he or she can be re-­elected. The post of village head is limited to two terms.

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5 Local bureaucrats

Introduction The previous chapters have demonstrated the role of security forces and legal regulations in the state’s handling of violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities in Kuningan and Sampang regencies respectively. This chapter aims to explain the bureaucracy’s practices in responding to the violence. Some scholars (Furnivall, 1948, p.  238; Willner, 1966, pp. 55–57) argue that Indonesian cultural values, such as promoting social harmony or social order, influenced the practices of the country’s bureaucracy. However, this chapter argues that the bureaucracy’s practice was also shaped by the historical and political context. To support this argument, this chapter shows how a historical event shaped the bureaucracy’s discriminative practices against minority faiths, including Ahmadiyah and Shi’a. The historical event in question was the Ministry of Religious Affairs’ policy, issued in 1952, that recognized some major religions (Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Confucianism) as the state’s acknowledged faiths, but disregarded minor faiths. These latter faiths include traditional religions such as Sunda Wiwitan, mysticism beliefs, and others. After 1952, the policy, which was later strengthened by the 1965 Blasphemy Law, became the basis for the bureaucracy to sustain discrimination practices against those smaller faiths, including in the post-­New Order Indonesia. In addition to the historical context, this chapter will also show that the political situation in post-­New Order Indonesia contributed to the bureaucracy’s discriminative practices against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities in Kuningan and Sampang regencies. The democratic system of the post-­ New Order era, especially in the era of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, paved the way for vigilante groups to wage heresy campaigns against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. Instead of protecting the religious rights of these communities, some sections of the bureaucracy in

Local bureaucrats   105 Kuningan and Sampang regencies were inclined to reinforce discrimination against them. One reason for this was to calm down those vigilante groups demanding the disbandment of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a. To make sense of the bureaucracy’s practices, in this chapter I will consider in detail the practices of three institutions of the bureaucracy that were involved in the handling of religious conflicts in Kuningan and Sampang regencies. The bureaucracies referred to are: first, Kantor Kesatuan Bangsa dan Politik/Kesbangpol (Nation Unity and Politics Office); second, Satuan Polisi Pamong Praja/Satpol PP (the Public Order Agency); and third, (Kantor Kementerian Agama Kabupaten Kuningan or Sampang, often abbreviated as Kemenag Kuningan or Kemenag Sampang (the regency office of the Ministry of Religious Affairs). The following section considers the practices of these bureaucracies in Kuningan and Sampang regencies during the period of my fieldwork. The functions of these three institutions were determined by the missions established by the central and regional governments, respectively. First, the operations of Kesbangpol were guided by the aims of the Kesbangpol office in the Ministry of Home Affairs, among others “to promote social harmony, peaceful community and public order” (Pemerintah Kabupaten Kuningan [Kuningan Regency Government], 2016a). Kesbangpol’s other mission was to enhance coordination among government offices, non-­governmental organizations, community organizations, and other stakeholders in the regency. Second, the mission of Satpol PP was narrower than that of Kesbangpol, in the sense that this agency was only responsible for helping security forces ensure public order without compromising human rights principles (Pemerintah Kabupaten Kuningan [Kuningan Regency Government], 2016b). Third, the Kemenag participated in conflict resolution processes to fulfil the Ministry of Religious Affairs’ missions, including “to improve the quality of people’s religious life” and “to enhance interfaith religious harmony” (Kementerian Agama [The Ministry of Religious Affairs], 2007). The Kemenag was thus involved in governing relations among people of different faiths to promote religious harmony. Although the three institutions pursued their own missions, these culminated in achieving the government’s main objective: to establish security and order in society. This chapter’s data are derived from in-­depth interviews with bureaucrats (and former bureaucrats) in the two regencies responsible for handling violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. The interviews took place in the bureaucrats’ offices or residences. Through my observations made on the ground, I was also able to observe how they worked. Used together, these methods aimed to make sense of bureaucrats’ practices in responding to the violence. To further extend my understanding

106   Local bureaucrats about these practices, I interviewed other stakeholders in the conflicts, including community figures of the minority faiths (Ahmadiyah and Shi’a) and Sunni figures. I also used secondary sources, such as local government documents and media reports, to complement the primary data gained through on the ground research. This chapter is organized into six sections. The first section discusses factors that shaped the practices of the bureaucracy with regard to the protection of human rights in the government of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. The second and third sections discuss the practices of bureaucracy in Kuningan and Sampang regencies respectively in dealing with Sunni–Ahmadiyah and Sunni–Shi’a crises. The fourth section discusses the bureaucratic practices of the members of Badan Koordinasi Pengawas Aliran Kepercayaan Masyarakat/Bakorpakem (the Coordinating Body Monitoring Mysticism Beliefs). The fifth section discusses how the democratic infrastructure in the post-­New Order era helped reduce, but only slightly, the intensity of the bureaucracy’s repression of minority faiths. The sixth section concludes that the bureaucracy’s discriminative practices against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities were not only influenced by cultural values, but, to a significant extent, by historical and political contexts.

Indonesian bureaucracy practices and human rights Cultures are not static, but “ought to be analyzed with reference to the political and historical context in which knowledge about them was generated and reproduced” (Bourchier, 2015, p.  7). David Bourchier uses the statement as a point of reference to challenge the view, held by some scholars, that the practice of the Indonesian bureaucracy emphasized social harmony (Furnivall, 1948, p. 238; Willner, 1966, pp. 55–57), and tended to follow procedures that were not legal, but “fundamentally patrimonial, discretionary and authoritarian” (Lev, 1985, p.  72). Instead, by studying the New Order regime, Bourchier argues that it was Soeharto and his political network that exploited “the traditional cultural values” to make their rule more legitimate and effective. The promotion of “Indonesian traditional cultural values” such as social harmony, family, and community values was used to justify the New Order’s policies. Those who challenged the regime were labelled as disrupting social harmony, hence the regime’s action against the “dissidents” was deemed legitimate. According to Bourchier, the practice of the Indonesian bureaucracy during the New Order era was, rather, shaped by the regime’s exploitation of “traditional cultural values” as an instrument with which to rule. This argument is relevant to explain the practice of the Indonesian bureaucracy, relating to human rights, in the government of Susilo

Local bureaucrats   107 Bambang Yudhoyono. The practice dates back to the discriminative policy formulated by the Ministry of Religious Affairs in 1952 that was reproduced by elites in the bureaucracy during the post-­independence era, shaping bureaucracy practice in dealing with human rights issues. The 1952 policy, strengthened by the 1965 Law on Blasphemy, served as a legal basis for the bureaucracy to sustain discriminating practices against minor faiths, especially mysticism beliefs such as Subud, Pangestu, and Panca Darma. The policy targeted the proliferation of mysticism beliefs, claiming that these beliefs competed with those of the followers of mainstream faiths, causing social tension. The establishment of Bakorpakem to monitor these small faiths reflected the policy’s influence on bureaucracy practice. Through Bakorpakem, the bureaucracy worked to persuade and to coerce these minority communities into conforming to majority teachings in an effort to dissipate threats to social harmony. The political situation in the post-­New Order era required the bureaucracy to make certain adjustments, in the sense that the bureaucracy shifted its target to the Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities following the rising heresy campaign against Islamic sects by vigilante groups. Freedom of expression enabled vigilante groups to express their anti-­minority feelings through series of protests. The bureaucracy’s efforts to persuade and coerce Ahmadiyah and Shi’a adherents aimed to calm down the protesters, albeit at the expense of minority communities. The bureaucracy’s structural practice hindered protection of minority faiths. This structural practice refers to the 1952 policy and the 1965 law which together shaped the culture of the bureaucracy’s attitude towards minority faiths. The next sections will present and discuss evidence gathered in the field through stakeholder interviews and an ethnographic study of the conflict areas of both Kuningan and Sampang regencies.

Kuningan regency’s bureaucracy practice During the period of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s government, the Kuningan regency bureaucrats were inclined to target Ahmadiyah adherents for persuasion and coercion following the resurgence of the anti-­ Ahmadiyah movement in the village. As elaborated upon in Chapter 2, vigilante youth groups began to re-­establish an anti-­Ahmadiyah campaign in the village in 2002 after they had participated in an anti-­Ahmadiyah seminar in Jakarta. Other anti-­Ahmadiyah groups followed suit. The core of their opposition was doctrinal: mainstream Muslims acknowledge Prophet Muhammad as the greatest prophet and seal of prophets whereas Ahmadiyah followers believe in lesser prophets after Muhammad, called zilli prophets (shadowy prophets), including Mirza Ghulam Ahmad,

108   Local bureaucrats Ahmadiyah’s founder (Valentine, 2014, p.  102). Mainstream Muslims, including the vigilantes, considered the Ahmadiyah position to be heresy and used intimidation and violence to bring about its disbandment. Amidst the rising social tension in Manislor, Kuningan Regency Government issued a joint decree on 3 November 2002 (First Joint Decree/ SKB 1) that banned Ahmadiyah teachings and activities in Kuningan regency, and ordered Kuningan Bakorpakem to monitor implementation of the joint decree. The decree assigned to Kemenag Kuningan and Kuningan’s MUI the role of providing “guidance” for Ahmadiyah adherents members so that they might embrace Sunni Islam. The decree was signed by almost all state and government authorities in Kuningan regency, including the Regent Arifin Setiamihardja, the chief of Kuningan Prosecutor’s Office, the chief of Kuningan Police, and the chief of the Kuningan Military District. The head of Kuningan MUI and heads of several Muslim organizations, including the vigilante group GAMAS, also signed the decree. Arifin’s successor, Aang Hamid Suganda, reissued another decree in 2005 (the Second Joint Decree) following further demands for the disbandment of Ahmadiyah (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, pp. 32–33). The decision to issue such a decree, and the events surrounding it, reveal that local government and the mainstream community shared an outright prejudice against the Ahmadiyah minority community. Instead of protecting the rights of Ahmadiyah to practise their faith, local government chose to coerce Ahmadiyah communities as part of their efforts to calm protesters. The decree and subsequent monitoring activities were used as a pretext for maintaining security and social order. These events provide an example of the government’s tendency to acquiesce to the demands of community organizations that claimed to represent the Sunni Muslim majority. For example, Aang Hamid Suganda, then Kuningan regent, argued that by acting against Ahmadiyah, the protesters would see the government responding to their demands, and hence would cease agitation (personal communication at his office, 17 June 2013). Senior bureaucrats at Kemenag Kuningan, Agus Abdul Kholik and Rochaedy, also acknowledged that it was vigilante pressure that led them to resort to implementing the persuasion and coercion policy against Ahmadiyah adherents (personal communication with the bureaucrats at their office, 7 June 2013).1 They stated that these actions were necessary to maintain social order in society. The long-­standing discrimination policy against the state’s non-­ recognized faiths also shaped the practice of the bureaucracy in Kuningan regency. The policy resulted in the continuous monitoring of non-­ recognized faiths. The Blasphemy Law acted as a potent tool for the bureaucracy to curb non-­recognized faiths. In the case of Ahmadiyah, the

Local bureaucrats   109 Blasphemy Law inspired the central and local governments to produce decrees that banned Ahmadiyah communities from disseminating or expressing their faith in public. The bureaucrats at Kemenag Kuningan implemented the decree by persuading and coercing the adherents of Ahmadiyah to embrace the belief of the majority – the teachings of Sunni Islam. Implementation was done through the use of various instruments. For instance, working together with the executives of Kuningan MUI, they invited executives from Ahmadiyah Manislor branch to attend pembinaan sessions (briefings to persuade Ahmadiyah adherents to embrace the teachings of Sunni Islam), on 23 June 2002 in the Jalaksana’s district office hall, followed by another event on 30 November 2002 in the office of Manislor village administration (Tisna Prawira, 2012, pp. 52–53). The sessions aimed to brief adherents of Ahmadiyah on the teachings of Sunni Islam, which the officials claimed to be the correct teachings. Many adherents of Ahmadiyah turned up to the first meeting, apparently out of curiosity. However, only a few of them appeared at the second session, and none showed up for the third session, as Ahmadis argued that the briefing was not in line with the Constitution that guarantees citizens’ freedom of religion and belief (personal communication with Hafidin Achmad, then chairman of MUI’s Kuningan branch, 20 June 2013). Since the sessions had been fruitless, the bureaucrats and the MUI requested the Kuningan Regency Council to facilitate dialogue between the representatives of Ahmadiyah and Kuningan religious leaders (MUI) to find common religious ground. A dialogue format was proposed to replace the unsuccessful briefing method. The dialogues took place at the Kuningan council building, on five occasions between October 2005 and July 2006. While the topics varied from one dialogue to another, the meetings were underpinned by a theme about authentic and truthful teachings. For example, Achidin Noor, representing MUI delegates at the dialogues, said that he articulated reasons why Ahmadiyah was heretical, and his argument was then countered by Ahmadiyah representatives who argued why Ahmadiyah followers had the right to be categorized as Muslims (personal communication, 28 June 2013). The dialogues reached deadlock. Another method, with a similar aim, was to send a state official to give a sermon during the regular Friday prayers, which are obligatory for male adherents of Ahmadiyah and mainstream Muslims. In 2009, state officials, through the secretary of the Kuningan Government and the Kemenag Kuningan, issued a letter of notification that they would send officials to lead a sermon during Ahmadiyah Friday prayers, but Ahmadiyah adherents considered the move to be a grave intrusion into their religious practices. Before 2009, Ahmadiyah’s Manislor branch leadership “usually flatly

110   Local bureaucrats rejected such a request from the state”, according to M. Saifullah, an Ahmadiyah senior preacher posted in the village between July 2009 and August 2011 (personal communication, 1 July 2013).2 Saifullah and other Ahmadiyah leaders in Manislor subsequently changed the way they communicated with state officials. During Saifullah’s stint in Manislor, Ahmadiyah Manislor communities avoided confrontation. Instead, they practiced negotiation. Ahmadiyah’s new communication tactic aimed to “to ease tension between Ahmadiyah and state (government) apparatuses” (M. Saifullah, personal communication, 1 July 2013). The leaders of the Ahmadiyah Manislor branch visited the officials in their office, negotiated with them, and finally struck a deal: the officials from the Kemenag Kuningan would be allowed to give sermons in a weekly religious gathering held every Wednesday in An Nur Mosque (M. Saifullah, personal communication, 1 July 2013). This event was considered less prestigious because fewer people attended, unlike Friday prayers when Ahmadiyah men, women, and children usually crowded into the mosque. However, the officials attended the Wednesday gathering, as it was the sole opportunity available to persuade Ahmadiyah adherents to return to mainstream belief. Their activities lasted three months. The bureaucrats also used more stringent measures to coerce adherents of Ahmadiyah to conform to the belief of the majority. Starting in 2003, the Kemenag Kuningan banned Ahmadiyah adherents from obtaining a marriage certificate until the bride- and groom-­to-be had signed a letter stating that they no longer subscribed to Ahmadiyah teachings. Then head of Kemenag Kuningan, M. A. Syarifuddin, issued the policy on 7 January 2003, through which he ordered the heads of district religious offices across Kuningan regency not to issue marriage certificates to Ahmadis, claiming that Ahmadiyah is heretical and not part of Islam. I found that this policy persisted until at least August 2013. On 20 August 2013, I visited the office of Manislor village administration. I learned through a conversation with a village official that, to obtain a marriage certificate, Ahmadis needed to go through an additional procedure (personal communication with the village official, 20 August 2013).3 This additional procedure did not apply to Sunni adherents. Usually, before Sunni or Ahmadis applied for a marriage certificate at the regency’s Religious Affairs Office (KUA), they visited the village office to obtain an “introductory letter” from the village administration. But, when the village official recognized that the applicants were Ahmadis, the official would request that the applicants sign an additional letter stating that they had left Ahmadiyah organizations and now embraced Sunni teachings. If the applicants failed to do this, they could not obtain the introductory letter and were therefore ineligible to receive a marriage certificate. The policy created problems for

Local bureaucrats   111 adherents of Ahmadiyah in the regency. Many overcame the bureaucratic hurdles by applying for marriage certificates from offices in other regencies where staff did not recognize them as Ahmadiyah adherents. Since a variety of strategies failed to attract and/or force Ahmadis to return to Sunni teachings, the Kuningan administration offered material benefits to “ex-­Ahmadis” (Ahmadis who have converted into Sunni faith). Agus Abdul Kholik, head of the Kemenag Kuningan, acknowledged that the conventional methods, of persuasion and coercion, had been ineffectual because they were dealing with faith. For this reason, the bureaucrats in his office adopted a new strategy to provide economic support to assist ex-­Ahmadiyah who had converted to Sunnism (Agus Abdul Kholik, personal communication, 7 June 2013). The scheme also served as an incentive for existing Ahmadis to convert to Sunni teachings. Through the scheme, the office distributed basic necessity packages containing sugar, rice, and other staples, and planned to organize entrepreneurship workshops. The office even promised to find jobs for ex-­Ahmadi to sustain their loyalty to Sunni teachings. Agus Rochaedy, sub-­head of the People’s Guidance section in the same office, described the scheme as “the gentlest method, and it is not arrogant, and it is in line with our core task” (personal communication, 7 June 2013). The Ministry of Religious Affairs supported the effort and even Minister Suryadharma Ali, at the invitation of the Kemenag Kuningan, visited Kuningan to witness the conversion of 79 Ahmadis into the mainstream belief of Islam on 17 June 2013. This followed a similar event that had taken place a few weeks earlier in the neighbouring regency of Tasikmalaya, where the ministry claimed that 712 Ahmadis had left the Ahmadiyah organization and converted to Sunnism. Minister Ali, a politician from the Muslim conservative party, Partai Persatuan Pembangunan/ PPP (the United Development Party), promised to channel grants worth Rp 40 million to Komunitas Muslim Al Hidayah/Taslimah (Al Hidayah Muslim Community) in Kuningan regency for use by the community to strengthen their belief in mainstream Sunni Islam, once they had left Ahmadiyah. Taslimah is an organization that accommodates former Ahmadis. By 27 August 2013, its membership totalled 69 people. Taslimah was established as a self-­help organization to strengthen solidarity among former Ahmadis. A similar organization also existed in Tasikmalaya regency, called Ikatan Mantan Korban Aliran Sesat Ahmadiyah/ Inkasa (Association of Victims of Ahmadiyah Heretical Sect). Unlike Kemenag Kuningan, Satpol PP and Kesbangpol were directly under the authority of the Kuningan regent. This meant that the Kuningan regent had the power to assign two offices to implement their policies. Then Kuningan Regent, Aang Hamid Suganda, for example, turned to

112   Local bureaucrats Satpol PP, as an arm of his government, to implement his decision to close down Ahmadiyah mosques in Manislor village in 2007 and 2010. The regent issued the order following waves of protests by vigilante groups demanding that the regent close the mosques. With regard to the Ahmadiyah issue, the Kesbangpol played a minor role in Kuningan regency. The office was responsible for promoting security and stable politics through promoting the values of the state ideology (Pancasila) and reducing community conflict. The office carried out these duties through seminars, campaigns at schools, and meetings between government representatives and community organizations. “Communication Forum and Coordination of Social Political Organizations, Community Organizations and Non-­Government Organizations” was one such event, organized by the office on 14 June 2013. Held in a posh restaurant on the outskirts of downtown Kuningan, the forum was the initiative of the regent. It aimed to provide an opportunity for the organizations to give feedback to local government, to promote harmony in society to support development, and to enhance dialogue between members of society and the government. A total of 162 people participated in the function that night, including Regent Aang Hamid Suganda. The participants comprised leaders of social and political organizations, community organizations, student leaders, and heads of offices in the Kuningan Regency Government. The participants discussed local social, security, and economic issues in the two-­hour forum, conducted in the format of a question­and-answer session between the organizations’ leaders and the regent. To sum up, the different offices in the Kuningan bureaucracy played different roles involving different strategies to deal with the Ahmadiyah issue. The Kemenag Kuningan was inclined to use coercive measures involving sanctions, to compel Ahmadiyah adherents to convert to Sunnism, while the Satpol PP used more repressive means. The Kesbangpol mainly performed a facilitating role to maintain security and peace in the regency. The Kemenag Kuningan was not supervised by the regent; however, the evidence shows that the office usually supported the regent’s initiative or policy against Ahmadiyah communities. The other offices (the Satpol PP and the Kesbangpol) followed the regent’s order as they were under the regent’s authority.

Sampang regency’s bureaucracy practice Kiais are respected religious figures in Madura Island. People usually listen to and obey the wishes of the kiais. Given their special socio-­cultural position in the island, politicians needed to win kiai support in order to increase the number of votes received in direct elections in the democratic

Local bureaucrats   113 post-­New Order era. The politicians in the government who sought re-­ election often surrendered to the wishes of the kiais to secure their endorsement. In an interview with the author, the former regent of Sampang, Noer Tjahya, made clear that he always supported the kiais, because the kiais are “Sampang shareholders” (personal communication, 2 December 2013). Noer Tjahya, at that time, was siding with the kiais to shore up his bid for re-­election in 2013, but he was unsuccessful. The regent was supposed to be neutral in the conflict between Sunni residents, who were supported by Sunni kiais, and the Shi’a minority communities. Instead, during his tenure, Noer Tjahya chose to support the determination of the kiais and of Sunni residents’ not to accept Shi’a leaders, including Tajul Muluk, if they returned to their residence in Nangkernang hamlet from their exile in Malang city (personal communication, 2 December 2013).4 The regent gave a controversial and provocative public speech on 12 February 2012 in Nangkernang hamlet; it aimed to gain support from the kiais and Sunni residents ahead of the elections for regent in 2013. While the regent had no direct command over police and military personnel, the provocation carried weight, as it was spoken by an elected leader: If the heretical sect is here, expel them! [audience claps], expel! I will be responsible for this! … Mr. Yusuf, chief of Sampang police planning division is here … Please, if they are coming here, just arrest them! Security is in the hands of the police and the Indonesian military, but I am the chairman of FORPIMDA.5 So, please, the Indonesian military and police, expel them! … I just want to save many of our people … (Afdillah, 2013, pp. 106–107) As part of the local bureaucracy, the Kemenag Sampang were also inclined to give in to the demands of the kiais. For instance, before the major Sunni–Shi’a conflict on 26 August 2012, bureaucrats had taken some initiatives to approach kiais in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets to resolve prolonged conflicts between Sunni and Shi’a in the area. However, the initiatives failed due to resistance from a group of influential kiais grouped under the Sampang MUI, Nadhlatul Ulama, and Badan Silaturahmi Ulama Pesantren Madura/Bassra (Madura Communication Forum of Islamic Boarding Schools’ Ulema). The latter group of kiais argued that the peace process had to follow their terms and conditions (Afdillah, 2013, p. 136); for example, Shi’a residents, residing in a government shelter following vandalism and the destruction of their properties, were allowed to return home and live side by side with Sunni residents, if they were willing

114   Local bureaucrats to sign a letter stating that they embraced the teachings of Sunni Islam. Clearly, the powers of the bureaucrat were limited when confronted with kiai interests. Initially the Kemenag Sampang was not active in helping to resolve the Sunni and Shi’a crisis. The office was following the Ministry’s argument that the conflict was not its business, as it did not constitute a religious conflict, but rather a family conflict between Tajul Muluk and his brother Roisul Hukama, who had converted back to Sunnism. Lack of funds was another reason for the office’s inactive role in the conflict (Panggabean and Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p. 126). After the incident on 26 August 2012, which made national and international headlines, the office became actively engaged. Following the fatal incident, the head of the Kemenag Sampang, Mudjalli and his subordinates, and the police regularly visited Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets to defuse the tension. In cooperation with Sunni figures in the conflict areas (Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets), officials regularly gave sermons in the local mosques during Friday prayers. Through these sermons, the officials subtly disseminated the principle of pluralism to Sunni residents (Mudjalli, personal communication, 25 October 2013). The Sunni residents strongly rejected the government’s plan to allow Shi’a residents to return to the residential areas that they had been forced to abandon following the violence on 26 August 2012. Hence, the sermons had to be formulated carefully to avoid the revival of tension in those areas. These sermons on pluralism led by government officials took place over four months. On the other hand, officials from the office also regularly approached Shi’a residents staying in the Sampang indoor tennis stadium, which served as a refugee shelter. Since Shi’a residents refused to listen to sermons delivered by Sunni religious figures during Friday prayers or at other religious occasions held at the stadium, the government officials – all Sunni – talked informally with the Shi’a refugees. Given the pre-­existing tensions and to avoid offence, the officials subtly inserted principles of religious harmony and Sunni ideas into these conversations. Mudjalli stated that he and his subordinates did not directly ask the Shi’a refugees to convert to Sunni Islam because they could be labelled “provocateurs” (personal communication, 25 October 2013). The officials sought to persuade Shi’a to return to Sunni teachings because they thought that it would resolve the Sunni–Shi’a crisis. Sunni residents in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets were willing to accept Shi’a residents returning to the neighbourhood as long as they embraced Sunni teachings again. The Kemenag Sampang office also established a team to promote reconciliation between Sunni and Shi’a residents. These efforts were not,

Local bureaucrats   115 however, successful despite the organization of five workshops and focus-­ group discussions in the Surabaya mayoralty, and in the regencies of Mojokerto and Sampang, attended by representatives of Sunni, Shi’a, and other concerned parties. The failure occurred because influential Sunni kiais and representatives of Shi’a residents “were already taking a stand”, that is, their positions were entrenched: the kiais insisted that Shi’a residents return to Sunni teachings in order to be accepted by local Sunni residents, and representatives of Shi’a residents were adamant that the requirement violated freedom of religion or belief (Afdillah, 2013, pp. 135–136). As result, Shi’a residents remained indefinitely at the government shelter in Jemundo. The Sampang regency’s Kesbangpol took a more active role in addressing religious conflict in the area compared to its Kuningan regency counterpart. This active role materialized because Sampang Regent Noer Tjahja and his successor, Fannan Hasib, delegated their authority to the head of the office to resolve the conflict (Noer Tjahya, personal communication, 2 December 2013). The delegation of authority boosted the morale of the officers who subsequently actively coordinated or even organized meetings to resolve the Sunni and Shi’a crisis. Rudi Setiady, appointed as head of the Kesbangpol Sampang in 2008, was very active in approaching parties involved in the conflict (Ahnaf, Maarif, Asyhari-­Afwan, & Afdillah, 2015, p.  31). He lobbied Sunni and Shi’a informal leaders and arranged numerous formal and informal meetings and gatherings to reconcile disputes between Sunni and Shi’a adherents. He was tasked by his supervisor, Regent Noer Tjahya, to detect and prevent potential conflict. Rudi’s position and role were retained after Noer Tjahya was replaced by Fannan Hasib in 2013. Rudi also collaborated with a variety of security and judicial institutions, including the police, the Sampang prosecutor’s office, and the Sampang regency military. He served not only as liaison between the regency government and local stakeholders in the conflict, but also between the regency government and outside parties such as the media. Rudi fitted this role, as he had previously served as head of the government’s public relations section. Hence, in addition to being a liaison officer, Rudi was also assigned to improve the image of Sampang Regency Government, which had become the target of criticism from national and international human rights activists for failing to defend the rights of Shi’a. Rudi’s active participation, however, attracted questions about whether he was in fact motivated by self-­interest, namely, promotion as secretary to the regent (Ahnaf et al., 2015, p.  31). Although the Kesbangpol office was very active in facilitating and brokering peace in the Sampang regency, it generally played a secondary role. While it promoted dialogue between Shi’a and Sunni, its role was mainly

116   Local bureaucrats to facilitate and to broker meetings among conflict stakeholders in Sampang. The office also served as the regent’s informant and liaison to outside parties, such as the media and researchers. However, the regent and security forces, especially the police, had a much more prominent role in decision-­making processes pertaining to the Sunni and Shi’a conflict. This secondary role was demonstrated during the manoeuvre of the Sampang Government to convert Shi’a residents to Sunni Islam. Local government officials believed the conversion of Shi’a to Sunnism would resolve the prolonged conflict between Sunni and Shi’a and restore harmony. After the fatal incident on 26 August 2012, the Sampang Regency Government invited evicted Shi’a residents to return to their houses in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets, with one condition: the residents sign a letter stating that, under oath, they would convert back to Sunni Islam. This condition, imposed by the kiais, was approved by the Sampang Government. By 9 November 2013, at least 38 families had taken this oath in front of some kiai and government officials, including the Sampang Regent, the Chief of Sampang Police, and the head of Kesbangpol Sampang (Kiai Syafiudin, personal communication, 9 November 2013). These conversion events were held several times in the house of Kiai Syafiudin in Gersempal village, Omben district, Sampang regency. The government officials, including the head of Kesbangpol Sampang, witnessed the events. Kiai Syafiudin claimed that other kiais had administered the oath, while he only witnessed the events (Kiai Syafiudin, personal communication, 9 November 2013). Still, this testimony shows that it was the kiais who proactively guided the Shi’a residents into taking the oath, while the government and security officials, especially officials from Kesbangpol Sampang, played a lesser role. Sampang Satpol PP also played a role in the Sunni and Shi’a crisis. As an arm of local government, its personnel were deployed when the government wished to maintain public order or implement some other agenda. Similar to Kuningan Satpol PP’s efforts to close down Ahmadiyah mosques, Sampang Satpol PP also resorted to intimidation and repression to carry out the orders of the Sampang Government. This approach was evident during an event on 20 June 2013 where Satpol PP personnel not only permitted some kiais to force Shi’a adherents to leave Sampang regency, but were themselves responsible for intimidating Shi’a to expedite the process (Ini Kronologi [This is a Chronology], 2013). While around 200 Shi’a residents had lived in the Sampang indoor tennis stadium for almost a year, some kiais and Sunni residents were unhappy that other Shi’a adherents remained living in the Sampang regency area. Nuruddin A. Rahman, spokesman of Bassra, argued that Shi’a leader Tajul Muluk, had tarnished Sunni teachings through his controversial speeches and that,

Local bureaucrats   117 to avoid bigger clashes between Sunni and Shi’a residents in the future, Shi’a residents needed to be ousted from Sampang regency (Pemprov Jatim [East Java Provincial Government], 2013). To facilitate the relocation, the kiais planned a large protest to demand Shi’a eviction from the regency, to take place on 20 June 2013. On the morning of 20 June 2013, government and security officials demanded that Shi’a leader Iklil al Milal and 168 Shi’a residents leave the Sampang indoor tennis stadium for another government shelter in Jemundo, Sidoarjo regency, some three hours’ drive from the stadium. The government and security officials, fearing that the large protests would turn violent if Shi’a residents did not leave the area, “persuaded and intimidated” Shi’a residents to leave the area for Jemundo (Ini Kronologi [This is a Chronology], 2013). While officials were making this demand, on the morning of 20 June 2013, thousands of Sunni residents had already gathered in a large

Figure 5.1 Istigotsah Penolakan Aliran Syiah di Pengungsian Syiah [Mass Prayer Rejecting Shi’a Faith near Shi’a Refugee Shelter]. Source: TEMPO/STR/Fully Syafi. Note Islamic boarding school students walk pass a cordon of police officers on a major thoroughfare in downtown Sampang regency. Thousands of Sunni residents, including these students, had just finished attending a mass prayer and rally on Thursday 20 June 2013. At the rally, the protesters demanded the government remove Shi’a adherents from a government shelter in the regency, and also asked the government to relocate the refugees to other places outside of Sampang regency.

118   Local bureaucrats field across the street, chanting “Evict Shi’a from the regency”. Some kiais, led by protest leader Kiai Ali Karrar Sinhadji, broke through the police cordon. Sampang Satpol PP personnel then forced the relocation of Iklil and the other Shi’a to Jemundo using government and police vehicles. This event revealed the power of Kiai Karrar, and the complicity of Satpol PP, in the process of evicting Shi’a from Sampang regency. Kiai Karrar gained such influence in Madura Island due to his status as a “blue blood”; he is one of the descendants of Sayyid Hussein, who was among the first religious figures to bring Islam to the island. Many Madurese still make pilgrimage to the tomb of Sayyid Hussein to seek blessings, demonstrating the persistence of his charismatic appeal. Ali Karrar inherited Sayid Hussein’s charisma. Ali Karrar graduated from the prominent Islamic boarding school, Ma’had Al-­Sayyid Muhammad bin Alwi al-­Maliki, located in Rusaifa, Mecca. Many important religious figures in Indonesia graduated from this premiere Sunni institution. His genealogy and Saudi education made Kiai Karrar’s pesantren, Daarut Tauhid, the top choice as a place for Madurese youths and children to pursue their education. Daarut Tauhid, which is located on the border between Sampang and Pamekasan regencies, is arguably the biggest pesantren in Madura Island. Its alumnae are spread out not only in Madura Island, but also across Indonesia. Many followed in Ali Karrar’s footsteps as religious preachers in Madurese kampungs where they disseminated his views across various segments of Madura society. In addition to this, Ali Karrar was also active in various Madura organizations, including Bassra. The combination of family charisma, Saudi education, and active participation in community organizations made Ali Karrar one of the most influential religious figure in the island (Afdillah, 2013, pp.  55–57). This explains how Ali Karrar gained a kind of impunity when involved in the manoeuvre to force Shi’a to leave Sampang regency; by granting the kiais impunity, government officials further demonstrated their prejudice against the minority community. To sum up, the offices of the Sampang bureaucracy had different levels of involvement in addressing Sunni–Shi’a conflict in the regency. Initially, the Kemenag Sampang office played a minor role in conflict resolution. But as a result of the magnitude of the fatal incident on 26 August 2012, the office began to actively participate in the conflict by promoting pluralism to Sunni and Shi’a residents. However, like their counterparts in the Kuningan regency, Kemenag Sampang officials also took part in persuading and coercing Shi’a adherents to convert to Sunni teachings when they had opportunity to do so. The Sampang Kesbangpol took an active part in brokering peace between Sunni and Shi’a residents, albeit in the role of facilitator. The office had no authority to determine the outcome of the negotiation process, as it was an extension of the Sampang Regency

Local bureaucrats   119 ­ overnment. The Satpol PP played a minor role, as they did not become G involved in the negotiation process; its personnel were deployed when the situation required them to uphold public order. The agency was not neutral and, as demonstrated by the 20 June 2013 event, instead of protecting the Shi’a communities, its agents intimidated Shi’a residents and facilitated their eviction from the Sampang regency area. As elaborated earlier in this chapter, other bureaucracy offices in Sampang regency were also not neutral in the conflict, in the sense that they were involved in persuasion and coercion against Shi’a residents to embrace the Sunni faith.

Bureaucracy’s role in Bakorpakem Bakorpakem consists of bureaucracy personnel (from Kemenag, Kesbangpol, and Satpol PP), the military, police, the intelligence community, and the prosecutor’s office. Officials from Kemenag and Kesbangpol regularly attended the coordination meetings, usually held at least once a month. When required, members of Bakorpakem convened meetings or negotiations with external parties. During the meetings, the body discussed whether an existing or newly formulated faith had “the potential to threaten people’s security and harmony” (Siti Utari, Chief of Kuningan Regency’s Prosecutor’s Office 2007–2011, personal communication, 24 June 2013). As chief of the prosecutor’s office, Siti Utari chaired the coordinating body. The body also discussed possible legal measures against a faith that threatened people’s security and harmony. Bakorpakem thus assumed a prominent role in the handling of Sunni–Shi’a and Sunni–Ahmadiyah crises. Its decisions, which always referenced the Blasphemy Law, evidence how policy shaped bureaucratic practice. The role of the representatives of bureaucracy in Bakorpakem was quite important. The Sampang Kesbangpol assumed an active role in initiating negotiations with Tajul Muluk to resolve the Sunni–Shi’a crisis. Officials began negotiating with Tajul Muluk in April 2011 after receiving a letter from local kiais representing Sunni residents, who demanded that the Sampang Government expel Tajul from his hometown because the kiais considered him a troublemaker (Afdillah, 2013, p.  110). After lengthy negotiations, Tajul Muluk agreed to leave his residence in Nangkernang hamlet, Sampang regency, for Malang city for one year. The August deal satisfied neither the kiais nor local Sunni residents who saw Tajul coming back and forth to his residence despite his exile. The tensions culminated in some people destroying the houses of three Shi’a leaders in Nangkernang and Gading Laok hamlets on 29 December 2011. As the conflict persisted unabated, local government and security leaders considered that the activity of the bureaucracy, represented by

120   Local bureaucrats Kesbangpol, was not sufficient to end the conflict. Bakorpakem, which had legal authority, then took over Kesbangpol’s role. The body held coordination meetings to discuss how to resolve the issue of Shi’a–Sunni conflict. It determined that people held responsible for the conflict, from either side, should be brought before the law. This tough move was part of the coordinating body’s effort to produce a deterrent effect. On 3 January 2012, Bakorpakem determined that Tajul Muluk was responsible for disseminating heretical teachings, and hence the body requested that the police arrest him for disrupting social order. The police finally arrested Tajul Muluk after Rois Hukama, Tajul Muluk’s brother and rival, reported him to police for disseminating heretical teachings and tarnishing the tenets of Islam (Afdillah, 2013, p. 112). On 12 June 2012 the Sampang district court sentenced Tajul to two year’s jail for committing blasphemy. Tajul appealed the decision, but the Surabaya High Court handed down a heavier sentence for Tajul (a four-­year term). The High Court verdict was subsequently upheld by the Supreme Court on 3 January 2013. On the other hand, the police named seven Sunni residents as suspects, although only one was brought to court, namely Musikrah, a resident of Sogian village, the neighbouring village to Karanggayam. Sampang Regency Court sentenced him on 10 April 2012, to three months and 10 days in jail for damaging other people’s properties (Rentetan Kekerasan [String of Violence], 2012). Clearly, the bureaucracy was involved in handling the crisis both through its surveillance efforts against the allegedly heretical faith, but also in leading negotiations when the presence of the minority faith triggered hostile responses from majority faith followers. Bakorpakem further provided a legal basis for handling the crisis by authorizing legal action against leaders of both faiths found to have threatened the security of the wider community.

Democracy infrastructure and minority rights While freedom of expression offers an outlet for people to air their grievances openly in public, the state’s recognition of this fundamental human right also opened up the opportunity for vigilante groups to express their demands for the disbandment of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a. In contrast, the authoritarian New Order regime tended to suppress social actions that threatened the regime’s version of social order. Hence, vigilante groups lay low, out of fear of state reprisals (Machmud Silahudin, then chairman of Nadhlatul Ulama’s Kuningan branch, personal communication, 13 July 2013). The fall of the New Order regime, which was followed by freedom of expression, gave the opportunity to vigilante groups to exert social pressure

Local bureaucrats   121 against the minority communities such as Ahmadiyah and Shi’a. The frequent heresy protests against Ahmadiyah in Manislor village act as evidence that these groups used the freedom of expression regime to demand the disbandment of Ahmadiyah. Prolonged protests such as those between 2002 and 2010 rarely occurred during the New Order era. While Sunni residents in Manislor village and the surrounding areas had protested, since 1954, against their fellow residents who converted to Ahmadiyah, the New Order regime quelled protests through effective use of its surveillance instruments. Sunni residents feared the mighty power of the New Order regime (Machmud Silahudin, personal communication, 13 July 2013). Ahmadiyah was too insignificant to be considered a threat to the New Order regime, which was preoccupied with anti-­Islamic radicalism and anti-­communist phobia. Ahmadiyah obtained state protection, thanks to the community’s access to the local offices of the military and bureaucracy. Kulman Tisna Prawira, former chief of Manislor village, contributed significantly to building Ahmadiyah’s access to state protection. Kulman, who was an influential Ahmadiyah figure in the village until his death in 2013, was close to local figures of the Indonesian military and bureaucracy during the New Order era. He was among those who helped set up the Kuningan branch of Angkatan Muda Siliwangi, the preman-­backed Sundanese ethnic organization, during the early establishment of the New Order in 1966. This organization, whose aim was fighting the remnants (members and sympathizers) of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI), had been close to the Indonesian military. The organization had also worked side by side with the Indonesian military to contain the growth of the Darul Islam separatist movement. Kulman was also an active member of the Kuningan branch of the Golkar Party during the New Order era. His activity in the party provided an opportunity for him to socialize with several regents during this time, and this conviviality was useful to support the implementation of Ahmadiyah programmes (Machmud Silahudin, personal communication, 13 July 2013). These programmes included Jalzah Salanah, the most important programme for Ahmadiyah organizations in Indonesia and elsewhere in the world. This much-­awaited annual event provides an opportunity for Ahmadiyah members to gather with males and females from other branches in the country, and to listen to speeches from important national and international Ahmadiyah figures. Some retreat programmes and games are also scheduled during the Jalzah Salanah, which usually lasts for two or three days, to boost brotherhood among Ahmadiyah members. Besides the annual national programme, a chapter-­wide Jalzah Salanah is also offered. Sunni residents in Manislor village – who already harboured animosity towards the Ahmadiyah community due to it being perceived as

122   Local bureaucrats exclusive – became even more irritated when they learned that the Ahmadiyah Manislor branch was hosting the event. The Sunni residents disliked the idea of the arrival of hundreds of non-­resident Ahmadiyah followers in Manislor to participate in the Jalzah Salanah. During the New Order era, such events usually proceeded without incident due to the state’s protection of Ahmadiyah, facilitated by Kulman’s closeness to the local elites. However, the direct election in 1999 changed the configuration of power in Kuningan regency. Golkar was no longer a dominant force, as the Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle won a greater number of seats in the election held after the collapse of the New Order regime. The military retreated from politics, its role replaced by the police. As a result, Ahmadiyah access to power diminished, which affected the implementation of Ahmadiyah programmes, including the Jalzah Salanah. The Manislor branch no longer held nation-­wide Jalzah Salanah events due to security fears and the absence of the necessary state-­issued permits; officials feared that the event could generate communal violence. Hence, the Ahmadiyah Manislor branch chose to organize a low-­key, chapter-­wide Jalzah Salanah with participants from the Cirebon chapter of Ahmadiyah, which includes Kuningan, Indramayu, Majalengka, and other regencies in West Java province. The organization of the Jalzah Salanah event, held between 14 and 16 June 2013, demonstrated the efforts made by Ahmadiyah to avoid potential threats and disruption. To evade detection of the event by local Sunni residents (especially members of the anti-­Ahmadiyah vigilante groups), the Jalzah Salanah’s core programmes were held in the Al Jihad Mosque, located deep inside the village, surrounded by Ahmadiyah residences.6 The core programmes consisted of Ahmadiyah national and regional leaders’ speeches on a variety of topics, such as updates about contemporary development and challenges confronting Ahmadiyah organization; and less important topics such as marriage and members’ financial obligation to the organization in the form of candah (personal financial contribution). After the conclusion of the core programme, the event’s committee moved the remaining programmes to An Nur Mosque, the main mosque of Ahmadiyah, located on the boundary between the Ahmadiyah and non-­Ahmadiyah residential areas. The committee was prepared to take this risk as the most important part of the programme had been presented. The event’s committee alerted the police after the core programme was finished, for the sake of courtesy. Ahmadiyah did not trust the police. If the committee had informed the police before the event had started, there was a chance that the police would not have allowed it to go ahead. The police often cancelled Ahmadiyah events, arguing that they would trigger reactions from the vigilante groups (ormas) (personal communication with a Jalzah Salanah committee member, 15 June 2013). The problems confronting

Local bureaucrats   123 Ahmadiyah in the organization of the Jalzah Salanah event reveal the different configuration of power after the reform era. It gives rise to questions about how the new democratic infrastructure affected the practices of state officials. However, although the repressive nature of the state remained evident in its handling of violence, the scale of repression was much lower compared to during the New Order era. Freedom of expression and of the press increased the transparency and accountability of state officials. The state no longer depended on open force, unlike the New Order which had sponsored violence. The cases of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a show the persistence of old practices, such as the state officials’ tendency to resort to force under the pretext of the maintenance of social order; however, the intensity was much lower compared to during previous eras. The old practice of using arbitrary power, in the form of issuance of executive orders, indeed revived in the regions in the post-­New Order era, facilitated by decentralization. For example, after obtaining power through the processes of decentralization, regional leaders became caught up in the euphoria of issuing sharia regulations (which included intolerant gubernatorial and regent decrees against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities in Sampang and Kuningan regencies) to enhance their Islamic credentials in their bids for re-­ election. These practices peaked in 2003 and occurred less often after 2007 (Bush, 2008, p. 178), suggesting that public criticism against the intolerant gubernatorial or regent decrees, facilitated by freedom of expression, contributed to the downward trend of the practice. The previous section has shown that state officials persisted in using the old practices of intimidation and coercion, but with comparatively less intensity due to the more open environment generated by freedom of expression. State officials tended to be more cautious in dealing with the stakeholders in the conflicts, such as the minority communities or the vigilante groups, because the open environment forced them to be more accountable. Further, given peoples’ rising awareness about human rights issues, the bureaucracy was more inclined to use persuasion instead of force in asking minority communities to embrace the majority faith.7 To illustrate this point I showed how officials in the Ministry of Religious Affairs’ Sampang office inserted subtle pleas into sermons to persuade Shi’a residents to return to the Sunni faith. Similarly, the Ministry of Religious Affairs’ Kuningan office used a dialogue format to persuade Ahmadiyah communities to embrace the Sunni faith. The officials resorted to the tactic of persuasion to avoid backlash from the Shi’a residents, given that the matter was sensitive.

124   Local bureaucrats

Conclusion: bureaucracy capacity and human rights Through this chapter, I have shown that instead of protecting minority faiths, the bureaucracy actively persuaded and coerced minority communities to conform to the belief of the majority. The practice was the result of historical and political factors that shaped the implementation of the cultural values, such as promoting social harmony or social order. If cultural values alone had underpinned these methods, the bureaucracy’s practice of discriminatively targeting Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities would have occurred at the same level of intensity over time. However, the evidence that I have presented in this chapter shows that the discrimination against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a rose in intensity during the government of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. I have shown that a discriminatory policy, issued by the Ministry of Religious Affairs in 1952, later became the legal basis for bureaucrats to sustain discriminative practices against minority faiths such as Ahmadiyah and Shi’a. The practice was further reinforced in the post-­New Order era, especially in the government of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, by institution of the right to freedom of expression. Freedom of expression in the post-­New Order era paved the way for vigilante groups to publicly express their demand for the disbandment of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a, which was prone to result in violence. The bureaucracy chose to persuade and to coerce minority communities, to calm down the protesters, who claimed to represent the majority. Various tactics were used to persuade and to coerce the minority communities to embrace the teachings of Sunni Islam in the name of social order, albeit at the expense of the minority faiths. The state’s handling of violence against the Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities suggests that reform was needed within the state structure to enhance capacity in addressing the problem. The Ahmadiyah and Shi’a cases show that the practices of state officials hindered Indonesia’s efforts at attaining civilized democracy, instead of encouraging it. I show that the state officials in the regions created regulations that emboldened the vigilante groups to resort to uncivil actions in the pursuit of their interests, such as by performing violence against minority communities. Robert Hefner (2000) argues that, “the fate of the democratic movement will ultimately depend not only on the struggle for a civil society, but on efforts to reform the state”. By extension, instead of being complicit in the violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities, the state officials ought to have “act[ed] as guardian of public civility as well as vehicle of the popular will” (Hefner, 2000, p.  215). To prevent regional leaders from taking advantage of their new power, courts must remain independent. The

Local bureaucrats   125 transformation of the state must ensure that the culture of civility will no longer be vulnerable in the Indonesian post-­New Order era.

Notes 1 At the time of interview, Agus Abdul Kholik was head of the office, while Rochaedy was chief of the People’s Guidance section in that office. 2 The interview took place in Bandung, the capital of West Java province. At the time of the interview, M. Saifullah was serving as an Ahmadiyah preacher overseeing the Ahmadiyah Central Bandung chapter. 3 The village official was a career civil servant, who hailed from another village in Kuningan regency but had been posted to Manislor village. 4 Also see Afdillah, 2013, pp. 106–107. Afdillah misunderstood the context of the speech. The speech on 12 February 2012 was meant to prevent Tajul from returning to the kampung and was not meant to drive out Shi’a residents, who had returned to their kampung on 11 January 2012 after living temporarily in the Sampang sports stadium. 5 Forum Pimpinan Daerah/FORPIMDA or Local Leaders Forum, an informal forum, included the chief of Sampang regency police and the chief of Sampang district military. 6 Ahmadiyah mostly resided in the western part of the village. The Jalzah Salanah’s participants from outside Manislor stayed in houses belonging to members of Ahmadiyah’s Manislor branches located near the Al Jihad Mosque. 7 “Persuasion” refers to persuading other people to act in line with what the first person requests them to do, but “there is no willingness to harm, there is no threat and there are choices available for the receivers” (Powers, 2007, p. 126). Meanwhile, “coercion” involves willingness to harm others if the latter fail to comply with the wishes of the first person (Powers, 2007, p.  126; Morris, 2012, p. 34).

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126   Local bureaucrats Bush, Robin. (2008). Regional Sharia Regulations in Indonesia: Anomaly or Symptom? In Greg Fealy & Sally White (Eds.), Expressing Islam: Religious Life and Politics in Indonesia (pp. 174–191). Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies. Furnivall, J. S. (1948). Colonial Policy and Practice: A Comparative Study of Burma and Netherlands India. New York: New York University Press. Hefner, Robert. (2000). Civil Islam: Muslims and Democratization in Indonesia. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press. Ini Kronologi Pengusiran Syiah Sampang [This is A Chronology of Shi’a Sampang Eviction]. (2013, 21 June). http://news.okezone.com/. Retrieved from: http:// news.okezone.com/read/2013/06/21/521/825293/ini-­k ronologi-pengusiran-­ warga-syiah-­di-sampang. Accessed on 6 January 2017. Kementerian Agama [The Ministry of Religious Affairs]. (2007, 26 November). Visi dan Misi Kementerian Agama [The Vision and Missions of the Ministry of Religious Affairs]. www.kemenag.go.id. Retrieved from: www.kemenag. go.id/artikel/12433/visi-­dan-misi-­kementerian-agama. Accessed on 3 January 2017. Lev, Daniel S. (1985). Colonial Law and the Genesis of the Indonesian State. Indonesia, Vol. 40, pp. 57–74. Morris, Christopher W. (2012). State Coercion and Force. Social Philosophy and Police Foundation, pp. 28–49. Panggabean, Samsu Rizal & Ali-­Fauzi, Ihsan. (2014). Pemolisian Konflik Keagamaan di Indonesia [Policing Religious Conflicts in Indonesia] (First Edition). Jakarta: Pusat Studi Agama dan Demokrasi [Center for Religion and Democracy Study], Yayasan Wakaf Paramadina [Paramadina Grant Foundation]. Pemerintah Kabupaten Kuningan [Kuningan Regency Government]. (2016a). Badan Kesatuan Bangsa, Politik dan Perlindungan Masyarakat [The Nation’s Unity, Politics and People’s Protection Body]. www.kuningankab.go.id. Retrieved from: www.kuningankab.go.id/pemerintahan/badan/badan-­kesatuanbangsa-­politik-dan-­perlindungan-masyarakat-­kabupaten-kuningan. Accessed on 3 January 2017. Pemerintah Kabupaten Kuningan [Kuningan Regency Government]. (2016b). Satuan Polisi Pamong Praja [Public Order Agency]. www.kuningankab.go.id. Retrieved from: www.kuningankab.go.id/pemerintahan/satuan-­polisi-pamong-­ praja. Accessed on 3 January 2017. Pemprov Jatim Akan Pindah Warga Syiah Sampang [East Java Provincial Government Will Relocate Shi’a Residents]. (2013, 20 June). www.antarajatim.com/. Retrieved from: www.antarajatim.com/lihat/berita/112535/pemprov-­jatim-akan-­ pindah-warga-­syiah-sampang. Accessed on 6 January 2017. Powers, Penny. (2007). Persuasion and Coercion: A Critical Review of ­Philosophical and Empirical Approaches. HEC Forum, Vol. 19, No. 2, pp. 125–143. Rentetan Kekerasan Pada Warga Syiah Sampang/String of Violence Targeted Sampang Syiah Community. (2012, 27 August). www.tempo.co. Retrieved

Local bureaucrats   127 from: www.tempo.co/read/news/2012/08/27/058425696/Rentetan-­Kekerasanpada-­Warga-Syiah-­di-Sampang. Accessed on 25 December 2013. Tisna Prawira. (2012). Sejarah Desa Manislor dan Sejarah Jemaat Ahmadiyah Cabang Manislor [History of Manisor Village and History of the Ahmadiyah Community’s Manislor Branch]. Manislor: Ahmadiyah’s Manislor Branch. Valentine, S. R. (2014). Prophecy after the Prophet, albeit Lesser Prophets? The Ahmadiyya Jama’at in Pakistan. Contemporary Islam, Vol. 8, pp. 99–113, DOI: 10.1007/s11562-014-0293-z. Willner, Ann Ruth. (1966). The Neo-­Traditional Accommodation to Political Independence: The Case of Indonesia (Research Monograph No. 26). Princeton, NJ: Center of International Studies, Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs, Princeton University.

6 The president

Introduction This chapter discusses the role of Indonesia’s presidents, especially Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, in dealing with the violence against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. Following the decentralization drive that began in 2001, the Indonesian central government maintained responsibility for religious, domestic security, and judiciary affairs.1 Hence the role of president remained crucial in addressing the sectarian violence as it clearly intersected with these areas. In particular, the president retained the moral and political authority to set the tone with regard to the protection of human rights. Consequently, the failure of post-­New Order presidents to adequately address the violence has been the subject of criticism. President Abdurrahman Wahid, who rose to power in 1999, was incapable of curbing the security personnel’s vested interests in the Ambon and Poso conflicts (Carey, 2000, pp.  9–10; also see Wilson, 2015, p.  1319). This failure resulted in protracted communal clashes between Muslims and Christians in these religiously divided cities. President Megawati Soekarnoputri, who replaced Abdurrahman Wahid in 2001, saw communal violence subside during her tenure. However, credit for this went chiefly to her subordinates, such as Jusuf Kalla, then Coordinating Minister of People’s Welfare. Megawati, who was known for being passive and aloof, seemingly played only a small part in de-­escalating the violence (Aspinall, 2010, p.  127) and during her rule communal attacks against minority places of worships continued to happen (U.S. Department of State, 2002). For example, in the second year of the Megawati administration, Ahmadiyah adherents in Manislor village, West Java province, began to see their mosques and houses becoming targets of violent protests perpetrated by anti-­Ahmadiyah groups. Before President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono took office through direct election in 2004, communal violence against minorities, especially Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities, occurred

The president   129 s­ poradically. But, the number of violent occurrences against these non-­ mainstream faiths increased during his reign between 2004 and 2014. Scholars and human-­rights activists argue state complicity was behind this surge of violence against these non-­mainstream faiths, Ahmadiyah and Shi’a. In opening the annual congress of Indonesian Council of Ulema (MUI) in 2005, President Yudhoyono warned that MUI assumed  central role in matters regarding the Islamic faith, so that it becomes clear what the difference between areas that are the preserve of the state and areas where the government or state should heed the fatwas [edicts] from the MUI and ulemas. (Ricklefs, 2012, p. 285) This speech elevated MUI’s legitimacy in national politics, and sent signals to other state apparatus, including police and prosecutors’ office, to consider seriously future MUI fatwas. The speech raised the stature of MUI fatwas, as if they had “the force of legislation” (Ricklefs, 2012, p.  474). Through this speech, President Yudhoyono emboldened conservative Islamists to press their agenda, among others, to combat what they called heretical sects. Wrapping up the Jakarta congress, MUI issued some fatwa [edicts], including one that reinstated the MUI’s 1980 edict that pronounced Ahmadiyah teaching as heretical, hence MUI demanded the government ban this teaching. This fatwa gave justification to the conservatives, and even to violent forms of Islam, to stage protests against Ahmadiyah; many of them led to violence against Ahmadiyah properties in the following months (The Wahid Institute, 2008, p. 32). Some scholars argued President Yudhoyono was responsible for this increasing violence. Robin Bush (2015, pp.  239–255) argues that Yudhoyono’s religious conservatism resulted in his support for individuals, organizations, or regulations which “rolled back religious freedoms and minority rights” (2015, p.  255). Other scholars have suggested that the president’s characteristic indecisiveness lay behind his weak response to the rising intolerance (Takwin & Karim, 2004, p. 241). Meanwhile, Greg Fealy proposes that, to understand Yudhoyono’s political behaviour, scholars must look to his personal life. He claims that Yudhoyono is mired in feelings of insecurity due to an unhappy childhood, and that he manages this “corrosive self-­doubt” by “limiting the risk of criticism while attempting to cloak his emotional fragility in grandiosity” (Fealy, 2015, p.  36). Plagued by a sense of insecurity, Yudhoyono tended to avoid making tough decisions while president, fearing a loss of support among broad sections of the community. This personal trait prevented him from taking bold and unpopular measures to address religious

130   The president i­ ntolerance, which often then led to violence against non-­mainstream faith communities. However, while the ideological outlooks or personalities of the different Indonesian presidents may have been contributory factors to the violence, this chapter will focus rather on the institutional factors that hindered their responses to that violence. At times, the presidents encouraged initiatives to promote the rights of minorities, but these programmes faced constraints from other state institutions due to the inclination of the bureaucracy and the judiciary to preserve majoritarian social order and the hegemonic interpretation of the Belief in One God article in the state’s foundation. These challenges were further compounded by a decline in presidential power in the post-­New Order era. This chapter begins with a discussion of the limited institutional power of the presidents under the post-­New Order political set-­up. Cultural constraints and the constraints of state ideology are then elaborated on through case studies of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. The final section provides evidence that few things have changed since Yudhoyono’s successor, President Joko Widodo, took office in 2014, concluding that, so long as the cultural and ideological constraints plaguing other state institutions persist, any Indonesian president will have significant difficulties in overcoming violence against non-­mainstream faiths.

The president’s declining power in the post-­New Order era The role of president exists within a nexus of institutions and practices that govern and dominate Indonesian society (Abrams, 1988, p.  68). As the highest post within the executive branch of government, it sits on a par with the House of Representatives (DPR), which belongs to the legislative branch, and the Supreme Court and the Constitutional Court, which belong to the independent judicial branch. Under the presidential system based on the 1945 Constitution, the president had considerably greater power than the DPR. However, following the 1998 reform movement, the People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR) – which was concerned about abuses of power by former President Soeharto over a 32-year period – amended the constitution to limit the powers of the president. The amended constitution rules, among others reforms, that the president cannot dissolve parliament. Consequently, the authority of the president and the DPR are equal, with the former needing to seek the latter’s approval before any bill is passed into law, and vice versa. The rising power of the DPR occurred alongside changes enacted to give greater independence to the judiciary. During the New Order era, the

The president   131 president nominated and appointed judges to the Supreme Court, and also discharged them (Hien, 1990, p.  viii). State regulations in the post-­New Order era saw improvements in the mechanism of checks and balances. In future, the president would make the final selection of Supreme Court judges, but they had to be chosen from a list provided by the DPR. In the selection of Constitutional Court judges, the president had the right to choose only three out of the total of nine judges, with the Supreme Court and the DPR also each selecting three judges. The comparatively more independent judiciary limited the powers of the president in relation to such affairs as freedom of religion and minority rights. As the next section will demonstrate, in some cases the various presidents faced difficulties implementing policies due to the conservatism of the state bureaucracy and judiciary, which was driven by certain cultural factors. Hence, even if a president intended to champion human rights, his/her efforts could be constrained by the judiciary and bureaucracy. In effect, this tension between elites prevented any president effectively tackling communal violence.

Cultural values: the preservation of a majoritarian social order The inclination to preserve existing (majoritarian) social order, or “the maintenance of harmony or unity” (Willner, 1966, p.  25), has been historically widespread in the Indonesian bureaucracy. It is a cultural emphasis by no means exclusive to Indonesia: since much earlier times, harmony has existed as an important theme in Chinese thought, the need for it understood as “profound in ontological, ethical and religious senses” (Tao, Cheung, Painter, & Li, 2010, p. 2). Western philosophers have not placed the same paramount importance on harmony, but they have nonetheless recognized it as a significant social and political concept (Neville, 2010, p. 58). Willner’s research (1966) found that the Indonesian bureaucracy seemed to subscribe to certain “cultural values”, stemming from a belief that the diversity exhibited in human life was a potentially destructive force that ought to be subject to control. By extension, successful management of diversity would result in social balance or harmony. The predominantly Javanese bureaucrats in the Batavia-­based system of government of the archipelago had practised these values before the Dutch colonial regime reigned over the territory that became known as Indonesia. Other scholars have found that these cultural values, stressing the need for stability and harmony, persisted across various eras, (Lev, 1985, p.  69; Anderson, 1990, p. 72; Panggabean, 2006), suggesting continuity in their

132   The president preservation and a resistance to alternative, non-­mainstream values that might challenge the established social order. However, despite this relative continuity through time, the degree to which these values of harmony and stability were actively emphasized varied. In the New Order era, the inclination to preserve the existing social order obtained a boost due to the autocratic power of Soeharto. The regime facilitated the revival of these cultural values by depicting “the nation as corporeal entity” (McCoy, 2013, p. 277), which required the silencing of groups expressing dissident. The implementation of these values became more oppressive. State officials, for example, used the state’s foundational philosophical theory (Pancasila) as a tool to suppress dissent. This practice continued after the collapse of the New Order regime, although the repression happened on a much smaller scale and was un-­centralized. The actors were also much more diverse because Soeharto and his networks no longer monopolized power. Mary McCoy shows that in the post-­New Order era, conservative and radical religious figures exploited the jargon of harmony and stability to justify repression against non-­mainstream faiths (McCoy, 2013, p. 277). State officials at local and national levels were complicit in suppressing non-­mainstream faiths on the grounds that their teachings were deemed heretical. For these officials, especially those who remained from the New Order state, suppressing non-­mainstream faiths (for example, the Ahmadiyah community) was also a tactic that they employed “to claw back some of the authority lost after the 1998 political transition” (Hicks, 2014, p.  321). State officials, as well as conservative religious figures, considered Ahmadis and Shi’as as troublemakers who disrupted public order by proselytizing or otherwise insulting Islam. Presidential initiatives to end the violence were hindered not only at the national level, but also by the cultural values of local government officials. For example, in 2013, local security and government figures rejected President Yudhoyono’s request to return Shi’a communities to their former kampongs. The president made his request during a meeting with a group of influential Madurese ulemas (kiais) in a hotel in Surabaya, the capital of East Java, on 1 August. These 15 kiais were members of the powerful Badan Silaturrahmi Ulama Pesantren Madura/Bassra (an association of kiais owning and running Islamic Boarding Schools in Madura Island). Also present at this meeting were civil service and security officials from the central government, East Java province, and Sampang regency. During the meeting, the president requested that Shi’a refugees, who had been staying in a government refugee shelter in Sidoarjo regency for a year, be allowed to return home before the Idul Fitri Islamic festivities in mid-­August, or at the latest, by December that year.2 The Shi’a communities had been forced to leave their homes in rural Sampang after an

The president   133 incident of violence against them on 26 August 2012, which took the life of a Shi’a resident, injured some 14 Sunni and Shi’a residents, and burned down 49 houses belonging to Shi’a residents. After the incident, Shi’a residents stayed in a government shelter in downtown Sampang, but almost a year later, Sunni vigilante groups and religious clerics forced them to leave the regency and travel to the government shelter in Sidoarjo regency, about a three-­hour drive away. Behind the president’s request was the perception that incidents of religious violence in Sampang regency jeopardized Indonesia’s reputation as a pluralist country. The president, who was well-­known for being image-­ conscious, said in the closed-­door meeting that the United Nations and various international human rights bodies were closely following the case, and to salvage Indonesia’s image, the kiais needed to facilitate the return of Shi’a residents to their former homes and allow them to live harmoniously with Sunni residents.3 The president’s request was directed to the kiais in particular because they possessed the kind of social and cultural status necessary to persuade Sunni residents to accept the return of their Shi’a counterparts. In response, the kiais, through their Bassra representative, advised the president that the Shi’a refugees could return home only after they agreed to convert to Sunnism. Most of the refugees refused to accept this condition as they had affirmed from the beginning that they would not convert to Sunni teachings. By November 2013, only 38 out of a total of 136 Shi’a families had accepted the condition. Local Sunni residents accepted these families only after they had taken the necessary oath before some influential kiais and local figures.4 A total of 69 families stayed in the government shelter in Sidoarjo regency,5 while the remaining 29 families chose to relocate to other areas. Clearly, the conditions set down by the kiais became a stumbling block for the reconciliation process proposed by President Yudhoyono. The president’s request was accepted neither by the kiais nor local Sunni residents who opposed the return of Shi’a residents to their homes.6 The Sunni residents blamed Tajul Muluk for disseminating Shi’a teachings and disrupting social harmony.7 Maintaining the status quo by preventing Shi’a residents from returning to their homes was seen by Sunni figures as a way to preserve majoritarian social order. The police also opposed the president’s request. A senior police officer believed that conflict would recur if Shi’a residents returned to their homes without converting first to Sunnism. The officer stated that polarization leading to conflict was inevitable as the two “ways of life” were irreconcilable.8 The officer’s position suggests that he supported the status quo, namely, Shi’a refugees remaining at the government shelter in Jemundo, Sidoarjo regency. Due to resistance from local state and religious figures,

134   The president the president’s wishes failed to materialize. The case illustrates how the cultural imperative of social harmony, entrenched in the practices of local residents and state officials alike, hindered President Yudhoyono’s attempt to resolve the conflict. In addition to bureaucratic conservatism, judicial conservatism also prevailed in various governments in the post-­New Order era. For the sake of maintaining social harmony, judges often used articles in the Criminal Code that were justified by the Law on Blasphemy, to punish people who aspired to reform the existing mainstream faiths or to introduce wholly new sects. During the government of President Megawati Sukarnoputri (2001–2004), judges in a Bandung court sentenced a sect leader, Mangapin Sibuea, to two years in jail for blaspheming Christianity and disrupting social order (Pimpinan Sekte Kiamat [Doomsday Sect Leader], 2004.) The sect leader was charged after he taught that the world would end on 10 November 2003. The judges also found him guilty of disseminating teachings that they considered to have tarnished the reputation of other Protestant preachers, such as a statement that other Protestant leaders were false preachers and deserved to go to hell. During the government of President Yudhoyono, the court practice of jailing people under the pretext of “preserving social order” was commonplace. For example, in the trial of Shi’a leader Tajul Muluk, the Sampang district court sentenced him to two years in jail for blasphemy. Tajul Muluk appealed the verdict. But, instead of exonerating him, the Supreme Court upheld the lower court’s verdict in 2013 for the same reason, namely that he was “guilty of blaspheming Islam and disrupting social harmony” (Alasan MA Tetap Menghukum [Supreme Court’s Reasoning], 2013). The Supreme Court handed down an even stiffer sentence of four years in jail. Earlier in 2005, a case made national headlines after the preacher, Yusman Roy, was found to have taught his students to perform sholat (Islamic mandatory prayers five times a day) in Bahasa Indonesia and Arabic, whereas Muslims traditionally perform the prayers wholly in Arabic. In their verdict, the judges found that Yusman Roy was not guilty of the primary charge of publicly and deliberately expressing his feelings or engaging in actions that were hostile, abusive, or defamatory to Islam. However, he received a jail sentence after the judges found him guilty of a secondary charge of circulating leaflets that sparked hatred among groups in society (Ustad Yusman Roy Bebas [Preacher Yusman Roy Freed], 2006). Obstructing social order was one of the reasons given by the judges for sentencing Yusman Roy (Basyaib, 2006, p. 283). Even if a president possessed the initiative and courage to tackle judiciary conservatism, he or she would find it difficult due to the pervasive cultural inclination of state officials to preserve the majoritarian social

The president   135 order. This practice was not only backed up by legal regulation, such as the Blasphemy Law, it also obtained the support of powerful mainstream political groups in the form of “godly nationalism”. This phrase refers to the “spirit” through which state officials built alliances with religious figures or vigilante groups to maintain an imagined community bound by a common, orthodox theism (Menchik, 2014, p.  594). Even Abdurrahman Wahid, a human rights champion, failed to take initiatives to repeal the Blasphemy Law when he was Indonesian president between 1999 and 2001. Salahuddin Wahid, Abdurrahman Wahid’s brother, proposed that Abdurrahman Wahid might have understood that repealing the Blasphemy Law would result in grave consequences for Indonesian politics and his presidency; hence he chose not to tackle the law while in the role of president (Pencabutan PNPS 1965 [Repealing Blasphemy Law], February 2010). Abdurrahman Wahid filed a judicial review against the Blasphemy Law after his presidential term. Along with other human rights activists, the former president filed the review to the Constitutional Court in 2009, following widespread violence against Ahmadiyah communities in various parts of Indonesia. The petitioners argued the law was detrimental to human rights as state officials could use it to criminalize members of non-­ mainstream faiths. However, the Constitutional Court rejected the petition and argued that the law should remain in place to protect public order. This case demonstrates the political and institutional problems that hindered an initiative to repeal a law considered to be against minority rights. In particular, the independent Constitutional Court has tended to be reactionary when it comes to the issue of addressing minority rights. These various examples reveal how a cultural value of promoting social harmony was embedded in the practices of judiciary and bureaucracy officials in the post-­New Order era. Consequently, presidential efforts to prioritize human rights, potentially at the expense of social harmony, struggled to gain either a legal or political footing. The following section turns now to discuss the ideological value of Belief in One God and its implementation, which has further prevented presidents from being effective in addressing violence against minorities.

Belief in One God The Belief in One God is the first of five articles stipulated in Pancasila, the state’s foundational philosophy.9 The formulation of Pancasila dates back to a meeting held in Jakarta between 29 May and 1 June 1945 where some 60 Indonesian leaders and figures, including a representative of the Japanese government, came together as the Investigating Committee for Preparatory Work for Independence (BPUPKI). The meeting was to

136   The president discuss how an independent Indonesian state should be established. Among the pressing issues deliberated at the meeting was the formulation of an Indonesian state constitution, which would later serve as the highest source for laws and regulations in the country. The meeting failed to reach consensus as the Nationalist and Islamist factions were steadfast in their respective stances: the former wanted the establishment of a secular-­ nationalist state, while the latter wanted the Indonesian state to be based on sharia law. Due to this unresolved issue, the meeting’s participants agreed to assign a small committee comprising nine members to formulate the draft of an Indonesian constitution. Despite tensions among the Nationalist and the Islamist factions in this committee, consensus was reached at the next meeting on 22 June, resulting in the stipulation of the Jakarta Charter (Boland, 1971, pp. 23–26). The Jakarta Charter was the draft of the preamble of the 1945 constitution. This included articles that would be the Pancasila once the Indonesian state was established. The most contentious article was “Belief in God with the obligation for the Muslims to implement Islamic sharia”. The phrase “with the obligation for the Muslims to implement Islamic sharia” faced opposition from Protestant and Catholic figures in the eastern part of Indonesia, because they considered the phrase to be discriminative. These non-­Muslim figures even threatened to leave the state of Indonesia if the phrase was still included in the preamble of the constitution. To accommodate this opposition, in July 1945, the committee convinced the Islamist faction to drop the phrase, for the sake of the unity of the nation. On the other hand, the committee accommodated the Islamist faction’s aspirations by revising the phrase “Belief in God” into “Belief in One God”, given their belief that “Islam is monotheistic” (Ropi, 2013, p. 96). Hence, “Belief in One God” became the First Article of Pancasila, which is included in the preamble of the 1945 Constitution. “Belief in One God” became used by the Ministry of Religious Affairs as “an operative principle in the Indonesian state” (Boland, 1971, p. 188). The Ministry implemented this through various activities, for example, supporting mainstream Muslim institutions in building places of worship, helping determine the start of the month of Ramadhan, and organizing hajj pilgrimages. In addition to this, as an ideological construct, or what Philip Abrams has called the “state-­idea” (Abrams, 1988, p. 82), the Belief in One God served as justification for the establishment of laws that repressed non-­mainstream faiths, in particular the 1965 Blasphemy Law. In its explanation section, the law clearly states that Belief in One God “does not only give moral ground over the practices of the State and the Government, but the phrase also ensures the presence of national unity based on religious principles”.

The president   137 This 1965 law dates back to the time when President Soekarno, under the demands of the Islamists, issued a presidential decree that aimed to prevent the proliferation of mystical belief groups (non-­mainstream faiths) deviating from the mainstream religions. Soekarno’s government considered the mushrooming number of these non-­mainstream faiths to be a threat to the nation’s social and political stability. For the first time in Indonesia’s history, the state, through this presidential decree, stipulated that it recognized six official religions (Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Hinduism, Buddhism, and Confucianism). Four years later, the Soeharto government proposed to the House of Representatives that the anti-­ blasphemy presidential decree be written into law, providing it with greater legal standing. Promotion of the Belief in One God became hegemonic as it was indoctrinated through public culture outlets such as the media, schools, and other state-­sector education and training.10 Hence, the article became entrenched into the set of governance processes and structures which Abrams calls the “state-­system” (Abrams, 1988, p. 82). Through its central and regional offices across the nation, The Coordinating Board for Monitoring Mystical Beliefs in Society (Bakorpakem) routinely implemented the provisions of the Blasphemy Law in order to prevent and to curb what the government claimed to be deviant sects. Bakorpakem consists of officials from the Ministry of Religious Affairs, the Attorney General’s Office, the Indonesian police, the Indonesian military, and intelligence officers. The structure spans central to regency (or municipality) governments. Government officials, through the Bakorpakem, regularly monitor religious sects considered heretical. The Attorney General’s Office coordinates the body, which meets at least once a month. At the national level, the Attorney General is the coordinator for the body; while chiefs of the Attorney General’s Office direct the organization at the provincial and regency levels. Melissa Crouch identifies numerous cases that show how the government in the post-­New Order era used the Blasphemy Law (one of whose articles is manifested in Criminal Code Procedure’s Article 156a), “to imprison leaders of groups considered to be ‘deviant’, to condemn converts between religions, and to silence what are considered to be unorthodox interpretations of the six official religions, primarily Islam and, to a lesser extent, Christianity” (Crouch, 2014, pp. 138–139). These leaders of non-­mainstream faiths easily became victims of prosecution due to the absence of legal criteria as to why they were considered deviant from the  mainstream faiths. The phrase “insulting or defaming a religion” in the  Blasphemy Law generated the creation of multiple interpretations. These vague legal terms opened up loopholes through which religious

138   The president establishments or citizens could make a legal case against fellow citizens whom they accused of insulting official religion in Indonesia. This widespread implementation of the Blasphemy Law has had the potential to hamper efforts by Indonesian presidents to protect minority rights. As a case in point, the issuance of the 2008 Ministerial Joint Decree (SKB) during President Yudhoyono’s presidency drew resistance not only from Ahmadiyah adherents, but also from their opponents and local state officials. The latter even showed active disobedience in producing bylaws that further repressed Ahmadiyah communities, rather than implementing the decree in line with the wishes of central government. The development of the SKB dates back to 2005 when the Indonesian Council of Ulema (MUI) held its annual congress in Istiqlal Mosque, Jakarta. At the congress, the MUI reinstated an edict that declared Ahmadiyah teaching to be heretical. Muslim conservatives and hardliners in various areas of Indonesia responded to the newly reinstated edict with mounting demands for the government to ban the practicing of Ahmadiyah Islam. In 2008, President Yudhoyono’s government discussed a policy response to these public demands and began negotiations with a board of executives and groups representing both radical and conservative Muslims, among others. The negotiations persisted for months without reaching agreement until momentum gathered following an incident on 1 June 2008 at the site of the National Monument (Monas). The incident began when some 1,500 supporters of the National Alliance for the Freedom of Faith and Religion (AKKBB) held a function in the Monas precinct to commemorate the birth of the Pancasila. The function ended in chaos when hundreds of people wearing the uniform of the Islamic Defender’s Front (FPI) attacked the activists, leaving 34 individuals hospitalized. In a rare show of force, President Yudhoyono issued a strong statement and ordered the attackers to be apprehended. The police responded to the president’s order and arrested two executives of the FPI. But a week later, on 9 June 2008, thousands of protesters from several groups demanding the disbandment of Ahmadiyah followers descended on the state palace and threatened that, if the government failed to meet their demands, they would take the law into their own hands. Under public pressure the Minister of Religious Affairs, the Minister of Home Affairs, and the Chief of the Prosecutor’s Office issued the Ministerial Joint Decree (SKB). Adnan Buyung Nasution, a presidential adviser at the time, testified that President Yudhoyono had been significantly involved in the making of the SKB. Earlier, amidst mounting demands for Ahmadiyah disbandment by hard-­line Muslim groups, Yudhoyono had agreed with Adnan’s advice that such disbandment would shatter the country’s principle of pluralism.

The president   139 According to Adnan, President Yudhoyono told him that they “must not give in to pressures by radical elements of Islam” (Nasution, 2012, p. 101). This statement was reflected in the decree’s contents. However, on the other side, the decree also limited Ahmadiyah activities. The joint decree (SKB) indicated Yudhoyono’s position in the case. It represented a middle way, in the sense that the Yudhoyono government partly accommodated the protesters’ demands, but still recognized the legal rights of Ahmadiyah organizations. The joint decree ordered Ahmadiyah leaders and members to cease activities conflicting with the mainstream interpretation of Islam, such as disseminating the belief that Mirza Ghulam Achmad is the last prophet, rather than Muhammad. But the decree did not mention disbandment of Ahmadiyah. This meant that the presence of Ahmadiyah was still legal in Indonesia, despite mounting pressures from the anti-­Ahmadiyah groups. It is clear that through the decree, President Yudhoyono sought to appease both sides and end the controversy to avoid public scrutiny, in the run-­up to the 2009 presidential election. Although the SKB was intended to calm the public mood, its ambiguity created opportunities for regional state officials to further clamp down on Ahmadiyah communities. The West Java provincial government, for example, issued a governor’s decree in 2011, which among other things banned Ahmadiyah groups in West Java from erecting plaques in front of their mosques or offices, and from wearing clothes bearing the emblems of their organizations. These measures were more drastic than those prescribed in the SKB, which only banned Ahmadiyah groups from disseminating their teachings in public. The Kuningan Regency Government, under pressure from vigilante groups demanding Ahmadiyah disbandment, issued an executive order to close down Ahmadiyah mosques in Manislor village as a measure to restrict Ahmadiyah public activities. The SKB also raised tensions in Manislor as rumours swept through the village that vigilante groups were planning to hold a protest against Ahmadiyah communities and use the decree as a pretext for restricting Ahmadiyah religious practices. Hence the SKB resulted in President Yudhoyono becoming even more unpopular among Ahmadiyah adherents, as they felt they were being abandoned by the government. A statement by an Ahmadiyah resident represents the community’s sentiment regarding the 2008 decree: “I don’t understand why the government does not accept me. I am sad, and I am angry. We feel like our hearts are being torn apart” (Indonesian Village Struggles with Ban on Sect, 2008). Instead of adhering to the president’s initiative, regional governments used the SKB as a pretext to produce additional anti-­Ahmadiyah bylaws that emboldened vigilante groups to stage more protests against non-­mainstream

140   The president faith communities. Protests became more frequent in Manislor village, resulting, in 2010, in the biggest clash to date between thousands of Sunni vigilante groups and adherents of Ahmadiyah. During the event, an alliance of Sunni vigilante groups was engaged in stone-­throwing against Ahmadiyah communities who retaliated to defend their lives and properties. In the protest, five people were injured from hurled stones (one Ahmadi, one police officer, and three protesters), and several houses belonging to Ahmadis were damaged (Panggabean & Ali-­Fauzi, 2014, p. 39). The fallout from the 2008 SKB stands as an example of the obstacles faced by presidential initiatives to promote the rights of minorities, particularly in the form of resistance from regional government officials whose views and practices have been shaped by the Belief in One God article of Pancasila. The next section turns to consider the efforts of President Joko Widodo to promote minority rights, and argues that, despite initial encouraging signs, the persistence of political obstacles and limitations has likewise hindered the current president.

President Joko Widodo’s administration Joko Widodo assumed the presidency in 2014 and was seen as having potential for improving the protection of minority rights. Gwenaël Njoto-­ Feillard (2015, p. 7) observed that “there seems to be more political incentives with a new administration in power, in adopting a more pluralist agenda”. The president-­appointed reformist Lukman Hakim Saifuddin, Minister of Religious Affairs, presented a draft law on religious harmony to parliament, which included an item proposing state recognition of religions and beliefs other than the official ones. The Joko Widodo administration also issued a regulation prohibiting foreign religious teachers from teaching in Indonesia, as part of the administration’s efforts to combat Islamic radicalization in the country. Although President Joko Widodo expressed strong commitment to promoting pluralism, he still lacked the power and political will to protect followers of minority sects and mysticism beliefs. For example, he called for the protection of members of a minority cult – the Fajar Nusantara Movement, or Gafatar, which stands for Gerakan Fajar Nusantara – after local residents attacked their homes in West Kalimantan in late January 2016 (Jokowi calls for protection of Gafatar, 2016). Yet despite this presidential call, local government and security officials continued to evict about 1,100 Gafatar members from the province back to their respective hometowns, where they had lived before joining the movement. On 26 May 2016, the police arrested three Gafatar leaders on blasphemy and treason charges.

The president   141 The continuing persecution of the Ahmadiyah faith shows the Joko Widodo administration as similarly incapable of addressing violence perpetrated against minority communities as previous presidents. A group of people, for example, vandalized an Ahmadiyah mosque in Kendal regency, Central Java on 23 May 2016. Elsewhere, in late January 2016, Bangka Regent Tarmizi Saat gave an ultimatum to members of Ahmadiyah communities living in the regency to leave the area. The regent stated that among his reasons to evict Ahmadis from their homes was the fact that their presence in the regency for the past ten years had “disturbed harmony and social order in the community” (Bupati Bangka Ultimatum [Bangka Regent Warns], 2016). The Minister of Home Affairs, Tjahjo Kumolo, prohibited the regent from expelling Ahmadiyah members on the grounds that the head of a regional government needed to protect his people (Mendagri Larang Bupati Bangka [The Minister of Home Affairs Prohibits Bangka Regent], 2016). However, the forced eviction still took place in early February, providing evidence of the limitations of Joko Widodo’s administration’s power and political will.

Conclusion I have discussed the institutional factors that have contributed to Indonesian presidents’ incapacity to handle violence against non-­mainstream faiths, in particular Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. In effect, the amended constitution reduced the power of the president in the post-­New Order era as it enhanced the role of other state institutions in an effort to improve the checks and balances of state power. Hence, technically, the president is no longer able to intervene in the judicial process, as was the case in previous regimes. Even if the president advocates for minority rights, the support of the judiciary is still required to produce verdicts in line with this advocacy. However, the Supreme Court has prioritized the maintenance of harmony over the promotion of minority rights. The inclination to preserve majoritarian social order and the indoctrination of the Belief in One God article are well entrenched in the Indonesian state system. Unless this system is overhauled, any president is likely to experience difficulties in promoting the protection of minority rights. The system reflects broad community support for government policy that grants privilege to the mainstream religions of Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Confucianism, at the expense of much smaller minority sects such as Ahmadiyah and Shi’a, or mysticism beliefs such as Sapto Darmo. Overhaul of the system needs to start with legal reform. Repeal of the Blasphemy Law would result in the bureaucracy and judiciary losing their

142   The president legal basis for practising discrimination against minority faiths such as Ahmadiyah and Shi’a. Following legal reform, a new law providing equal recognition of all faiths would need to be enforced fairly and justly to provide both incentives for people to respect pluralism and deterrents to its infringement. However, this is unlikely to happen under the presidency of President Joko Widodo. The Blasphemy Law enjoys broad community and state support, including from the Constitutional Court, which rejected a petition to annul the law in 2009. It will take a very long time for mainstream Muslims to accept Ahmadiyah, because their respective religious teachings are contradictory, but a balance might be struck through the consistent and continuous promotion and deliberation of pluralist values in the public sphere, including the school curriculum.

Notes   1 Law No. 22/1999 on Regional Governments stipulates that regional governments should manage governance affairs that are under their authority, except in the case of international relations, defence, security, judicial, national monetary and fiscal issues, and religious affairs.   2 The information comes from Prof. Abdul A’la, who was appointed as the leader of a government-­sanctioned team to spur reconciliation between Sunni and Shi’a residents. A’la was one of the participants at the meeting. Tempo online news agency ran the story on 2 August 2013 (SBY Pimpin Rapat Rekonsiliasi Pengungsi Syiah [SBY Chairs Reconciliation Meeting of Shi’a Refugees], 2013).   3 Interview with Kiai Syafiuddin in his house on 9 November 2013. Syafiuddin was present during the meeting.   4 Interview with Kiai Syafiuddin in his house on 9 November 2013.   5 Interview with Edy Purwinarto, East Java Deputy Governor for Social Welfare Affairs, on 16 October 2013.   6 Interview with Achmad Hasan alias Achmad Chomsa, then head of Nangkernang hamlet where the fatal incident on 26 August 2012 occurred. The interview was held on 5 November 2013.   7 Informal conversation with Munaji, head of Gading Laok hamlet, where frequent incidents of religious violence were also taking place. The conversation occurred on 27 October 2013.   8 Interview with the senior police officer at his office on 6 November 2013.   9 Pancasila consists of five articles: First, The Belief in One God; Second, Just and Civilized Humanity; Third, Indonesian Unity; Fourth, Democracy Under the Wise Guidance of Representative Consultations; and Fifth, Social Justice for All the Peoples of Indonesia. 10 The Belief in One God was part of the state’s curriculum. Government Decree No. 10/2010 on Managing and Running Education Institutions ruled that school curriculums had to, among others things, include stipulation that students need “to believe, and to avoid doing what is prohibited by Tuhan Yang Maha Esa …” (The Ministry of National Education – Yogyakarta Office, 2013). The curriculums obliged teachers to teach the subject of Religion and Personal Conduct to students in elementary school and applied only to the six official religions.

The president   143

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The president   145 https://pemilu.tempo.co/read/news/2013/08/02/078501979/SBY-­Pimpin-Rapat-­ Rekonsiliasi-Pengungsi-­Syiah. Accessed on 5 April 2014. Takwin, Bagus & Karim, Ninik L. (2004). Sang Kandidat: Analisis Psikologi Politik Lima Kandidat Presiden dan Wakil Presiden RI Pemilu 2004 [The Candidates: Political Psychology Analysis of Five Presidential and Vice-­ Presidential Candidates in 2004 Election]. Jakarta: Penerbit Buku Kompas. Tao, J., Cheung, A. B. L., Painter, M., & Li, C. (Eds.). (2010). Governance for Harmony in Asia and Beyond. London: Routledge. The Ministry of National Education-­Yogyakarta Office. (2013). Kurikulum 2013 – Kompetensi Dasar untuk Sekolah Dasar dan Madrasah Ibtidaiyah [2013 Curriculum – Basic Competence for Elementary and Islamic Schools]. www. pendidikan-­diy.go.id. Retrieved from: www.pendidikan-­diy.go.id/file/mendiknas/ kurikulum-­2013-kompetensi-­dasar-sd-­ver-3-3-2013.pdf. The Wahid Institute. (2008). Annual Report 2008 on Belief and Religious Pluralism in Indonesia. Jakarta: The Wahid Institute. Accessed on 3 April 2014. U.S. Department of State. (2002). International Religious Freedom Report 2002: Indonesia. Washington D.C: Bureau of Democracy, Human Rights and Labour. Retrieved from: www.state.gov/j/drl/rls/irf/2002/13873.htm. Accessed on 2 August 2017. Ustad Yusman Roy Bebas, Tetap Ajarkan Salat Dua Bahasa [Preacher Yusman Roy Freed, Will Still Teach Bilingual Prayers]. (2006, 14 November). www. detik.com. Retrieved from: http://news.detik.com/berita/707874/ustad-­yusmanroy-­bebas-tetap-­ajarkan-salat-­dua-bahasa. Accessed on 31 January 2017. Willner, Ann Ruth. (1966). The Neo-­Traditional Accommodation to Political Independence: The Case of Indonesia (Research Monograph No. 26). Princeton, NJ: Center of International Studies, Woodrow Wilson School of Public and International Affairs, Princeton University. Wilson, Chris. (2015). Illiberal Democracy and Violent Conflict in Contemporary Indonesia. Democratization, Vol. 22, No. 7, pp.  1317–1337, DOI: 10.1080/ 13510347.2014.949680.

7 Conclusion State capacity and communal violence against minority faiths

Introduction Across the world, numerous studies have been written on the state’s ability to provide security to its citizens. These studies depart from the premise that a state is considered to be strong if it is successful in providing security to its citizens, and weak if it is not. Despite certain states’ positive abilities to, for example, provide large budgets for security or the presence of well-­trained security personnel, many remain incapable of providing security to their citizens. Hence, some scholars have questioned why this happens. Kleinfeld and Barham, for example, specifically ask: “Why are bureaucratically capable states that ostensibly answer to voters failing to provide security?” (Kleinfeld & Barham, 2018, p. 215). Through the case of Indonesia this book addresses this kind of question. Indonesia during the presidency of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (2004–2014) was a democratic and a relatively stable state. At that time, the capacity of the Indonesian police to safeguard Indonesian domestic security much improved after they took over responsibility for this role from the Indonesian military. Despite the stable social and political environment, the number of communal attacks against minority faiths, especially Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities, rose significantly. Hence, this book poses more specific questions: what factors lay behind the frequent violence that occurred against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities in Kuningan and Sampang regencies, and why was the state not effective in curbing this violence. The following sections deal with these questions. The first section summarizes this book’s findings, followed by discussion on the experiences of other countries’ states in dealing with community violence against minority faiths. In the third section, I propose some topics that scholars or researchers may pursue in their future research on state responses to communal violence.

Conclusion   147

Key findings of this book This book has identified some key factors that caused the state to be ineffective in dealing with violence. First, security officials’ close connection to the vigilante groups (and the kiai) has resulted in the state surrendering its authority to them. How has this situation occurred? This book has provided evidence as to how police officers in Kuningan and Sampang regencies built mutual relationships with the vigilante groups and with some kiais who were involved in the conflict. This symbiotic mutualism created a close connection between these security officials and members of the vigilante groups. This close connection (this tangled relationship) explains why the police did not respond consistently to the violence: they took stern measures against the vigilante groups on certain occasions, but they were lenient at other times. This inconsistent response occurred because the conflict between the majority and the minority faiths became the object of negotiation and renegotiation between police officers and vigilante groups; and between the police officers and the kiai. This inconsistent response emboldened these social groups in waging or inspiring “peaceful”protests against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a, which resulted in further violence. A second key factor which influenced the state’s handling of violence concerns ambiguous legal frameworks which prevented the state from applying the laws equally to all citizens. Unclear and occasionally incoherent laws applied discriminatively resulted in the perpetrators of violence being exempted from legal prosecution. Instead of producing pro-­human rights regulations, regional governments took advantage of the discrepancy between Article 29 of the amended 1945 Constitution and the Blasphemy Law, by issuing regulations that further restricted the activities of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. These local bylaws justified vigilante groups escalating social pressure on these minority communities, which often resulted in violence against them. This book has provided the example of the action taken by a West Java governor to add some stipulations to the Ministerial Joint Decree (SKB) through gubernatorial bylaws, which further repressed Ahmadiyah. The stipulations included prohibitions against Ahmadiyah erecting signs relating to their organization in their mosque’s premises, and against the use of attributes of Jemaat Ahmadiyah Indonesia in any form. The Kuningan Regent used the joint decree as a pretext for the issuance of an executive order to close down eight Ahmadiyah mosques in Manislor village in 2010. Third, instead of protecting minority rights, the local bureaucracy ­reinvigorated and reinforced discriminative practices against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. The bureaucracy, through its officials, persuaded

148   Conclusion and coerced minority communities to embrace the mainstream belief on the basis that conforming to the majority belief would resolve conflicts between Sunni and Shi’a and between Sunni and Ahmadiyah. Bureaucrats were inclined to hold the view that maintaining social order was much more important than protecting the rights of the minority to practise their religious teachings. The bureaucrats, almost exclusively Sunni, either had low awareness or chose to ignore the protection of minority rights, because they shared the view of mainstream Sunni residents that Ahmadiyah and Shi’a beliefs are heretical. Given that Sunni residents in Kuningan and Sampang regencies were mostly anti-­Ahmadiyah and anti-­Shi’a, the bureaucracy had less incentive to fight for the protection of minority rights. This sustained discriminative practices against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a adherents in Kuningan and Sampang regencies. Fourth, President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono at times took the initiative to protect minority rights, but faced constraints from other state institutions. This book has shown that, while the president wished for Shi’a refugees to return home after their forcible relocation to Sidoarjo regency, local bureaucrats and police officers, with support from local influential kiais, chose not to follow the president’s wishes for security reasons. Facing this resistance, President Yudhoyono did not push further to allow Shi’a adherents to return to their homes because he understood that he would lose popular support as a result of being branded pro-­Shi’a. In the Ahmadiyah case, President Yudhoyono initiated the joint ministerial decree (SKB) that offered a middle way for conflicting parties: it rejected anti-­Ahmadiyah groups’ demands for Ahmadiyah disbandment and banned Ahmadiyah from disseminating their teachings in public. Instead of adhering to the decree, Kuningan government officials expressed their resistance by producing more repressive bylaws against Ahmadiyah communities. President Yudhoyono’s failure to protect Ahmadiyah and Shi’a drew concern among scholars, who criticized him for lacking political will. Some scholars argue that President Yudhoyono prioritized his popularity with the electorate rather than seriously pursue the protection of minority rights. However, his apparent lack of political will driven by political calculation. Even if President Yudhoyono had had the political will to protect minority rights, he would not have been able to explicitly oppose the wave of anti-­Ahmadiyah and anti-­Shi’a sentiment, given broad community prejudice against the two communities. Some elements of the Islamic community in Indonesia voiced their antipathy to Shi’a, while all Islamic institutions, including large Islamic organizations such as Nadhlatul Ulama and Muhammadiyah, expressed their opposition to Ahmadiyah, charging the latter with being heretical. These widespread community views were reflected in the stance of (almost exclusively Sunni) state

Conclusion   149 o­ fficials at the central and local levels and explains their discriminative treatment of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a adherents. This discriminative view, which become institutionalized in the minds of state officials, hindered President Yudhoyono’s initiative to protect minority rights. Presidents after the post-­New Order regime, including President Yudhoyono, faced an additional institutional constraint in the form of a conservative judiciary, which tended to favour the established religions (Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Confucianism) against the smaller sects or mysticism beliefs. When human rights activists filed a judicial review in 2009 for the Constitutional Court to repeal the 1965 Blasphemy Law, the court rejected it. The Supreme Court often upheld verdicts produced by the lower courts against people who created new religious teachings, or who promoted innovation in the content or practices of the established religions. This stance manifested the state ideology’s article of the Belief in One God. Hence, this book has argued that institutionalized constraints – such as the inclination on the part of the bureaucracy and the judiciary to preserve the existing social order and the hegemonic interpretation of the Belief in One God article in the state’s foundation – would hinder the initiatives of any Indonesian president to protect minority rights. However, this book does not intend to act as an apologist for President Yudhoyono. In contrast, this book has clearly supported other scholars’ assertions that President Yudhoyono failed to address rising intolerance in his two-­term presidency, despite his other substantial achievements in relation to the economy, international relations, and the consolidation of democracy. Further, this book strongly agrees that President Yudhoyono lacked either political will or the power to end violence against the minority sects of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a. The point of this book, however, is that any president, including President Yudhoyono, would face social and political constraints in the protection of minority rights, so long as those institutionalized constraints existed. I have shown that judicial conservatism, which has prevailed in every administration since the post-­New Order era, has hampered efforts by presidents to enhance protection for minority sects. Abdurrahman Wahid, after his presidential term, submitted a judicial review to the Constitutional Court for the repeal of the 1965 Blasphemy Law that was seen as detrimental to minority rights, but the court rejected the initiative. President Jokowi has also failed to end persecution against Ahmadiyah communities in Indonesia, although scholars were initially hopeful that he would be able to do so. This book expands upon previous research on the role of local state officials in communal violence. Earlier research by Ian Douglas Wilson shows the changing nature of relationships and alliances between the state

150   Conclusion and violent entrepreneurs due to the processes of democratization and decentralization in Indonesia. Samsu Rizal Panggabean and Ihsan Ali-­ Fauzi (2014) show that communal violence occurred partly because elected politicians were able to obstruct efforts made by the government and security officials to provide security to minority communities. Nicholas Herriman (2012) argues that violence broke out in the region due to kinship and local ties between security officers and local residents. Gerry van Klinken (2007) asserts that communal violence took place in the regions due to the role of local state actors, who were often engaged in social or political negotiations with ethnic or religious groups to regain access to state resources through extra-­parliamentary forums. These forums were prone to violence. This book expands upon this previous body of research by showing the state’s close connection to certain vigilante groups or kiais who were responsible for inspiring, inciting, or perpetrating violence. This close connection hindered state officials from taking stern measures against the perpetrators of violence. This book has also expanded upon the discussion of the state’s capacity to respond to communal violence in Indonesia by showing that this internal contradiction occurred not only between state institutions at the local level, but also between state institutions at the local level and those at the national level. This book has considered this internal contradiction in the Indonesian state in the post-­New Order era. Having summarized the key findings of my research, the next section will discuss some lessons that can be learned from the practice of state officials in other countries in dealing with communal violence.

Lessons learned from the (in)capacity of the state to address violence The problem of the incapacity of the state to deal with violence against minority faiths is not confined to Indonesia. India, Pakistan, and Myanmar, to name a few countries, also face a similar problem. In earlier chapters, I have elaborated on how the close connection between Indonesian state officials and the members of vigilante groups reduced the capacity of the state to handle violence. This close connection resulted in state complicity in violence against minority faiths, in the sense that, among others, due to this close connection, state officials often kept silent when vigilante groups provoked people to commit violence, or these officials even allowed the violence to occur. This complicity emboldened the members of vigilante groups to commit more violence. This kind of state complicity, the result of the close connection between officials and the instigators of violence, also occurred in other countries. In

Conclusion   151 India, state complicity in violence against minority faiths has been a recurring problem. Working together with communal organizations, especially Hindu nationalists, state apparatus were “gravely complicit in planning and executing the most brutal massacre, since independence, of women and children of the minorities” (Mander, 2005, p. 5527). State complicity occurred during the Gujarat Massacre in 2002 when state apparatus allowed the violence to continue for weeks and even refused to establish secure shelters and extend other humanitarian aid to the Muslims who became its victims. This close connection strengthened after the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), which was close to, and obtained support from Hindu nationalists, rose to power. This party won the 2014 election following the rise of people’s resentment against the poor performance of the previous ruling party (the Indian National Congress Party), in the sense that the Congress Party had failed to encourage development and put an end to the lingering practice of corruption in India. BJP formed the Indian government, along with other parties, under the National Democratic Alliance (NDA). BJP played a crucial role in the state’s failure to address violence against the Muslim population. The NDA government, led by BJP, “kept silent when Hindu nationalists have perpetrated violence and has only spoken up belatedly and under pressure from politically influential forces” (Basu, 2018, p.  40). This stance taken by central government inspired other state officials, especially the police force, to be complicit in the violence. Due to religious affinity, Indian police are prone to side with the Hindus who provoke or commit violence against Muslims. Living in a country that adopts a democratic system of governance, India police officers often practice discrimination against Muslims because their professional advancement depends on politicians, who are mostly Hindus. These politicians, who fight for the interests of the Hindus, also often protect police officers “from being punished for crimes of commission and omission” (Basu, 2018, p. 35). Myanmar is another country where there are cases of the state failing to oppose violence. A detailed report written by the Physicians for Human Rights (PHR) provides evidence that police officers were responsible for not dealing with violence against Muslim Rohingyas. PHR found that vigilante groups and locals methodically killed 24 Muslim adults and children in March 2013 in Meiktila, Mandalay Division, Myanmar. This number is out of total of some 100 dead, according to an official tally. The police officers did nothing during the massacre (Gittleman, Brodney, & Atkinson, 2013, p. 29). State officials were not only complicit, but some of them, especially police officers, may have been directly involved (International Crisis Group, 2013, pp. 15–16), or even have actively taken part

152   Conclusion in perpetrating the violence against or the persecution of Muslim Rohingyas (Tajuddin, 2017, p.  128, p.  131; Hurd, 2018, p.  16). In the string of fatal attacks in October 2012, security forces abetted Rakhine nationalists to commit violence against Muslim Rohingyas (Marshall, 2013, p. 2). Apart from this close connection between officials and perpetrators, discriminative and ambiguous laws and regulations also contribute to the state’s incapacity to deal with violence. As I have written in Chapter 4, the Indonesian constitution guarantees all citizens of Indonesia the freedom to embrace their religion and to worship in accordance with their religion and belief. However, this stipulation is in contrast to the anti-­blasphemy law that bans the followers of the spiritual and mysticism sects from disseminating and practising those of their beliefs in public that deviate from the tenets of the official religions in Indonesia (namely Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Confucianism). In the case of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a, local governments often abused this legal ambiguity to issue bylaws that further restricted the activities of Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. In some cases, regional government produced the anti-­ Ahmadiyah and Shi’a bylaws on their own initiative for politics reasons, such as to attract voters ahead of local elections. In other cases, regional government issued these bylaws following social and politics pressure from vigilante groups. After these bylaws had come into effect, vigilante groups used them to further restrict the followers of minority faiths in practising their beliefs, or to legitimate oppression of, and violence against, the members of those minority faiths. Against this backdrop, the situation is certainly much worse in a legal system that is wholly discriminative towards the rights of minority faiths. Pakistan offers an example of how a totally discriminative legal regime has paved the way for the social discrimination and even violence that occurs on an greater scale and at an even greater intensity than in Indonesia. The Constitution and the Penal Code in the country restrict the religious freedom of Ahmadiyah (Rahman, 2014, pp. 412–413). Through the amendment of the Constitution in 1974, the democratic state during the government of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto at that time legally changed the status of Ahmadiyah followers to a non-­Muslim minority. This was in contrast to the aspiration of Ahmadiyah followers to be a part of, and identified and associated with, the Muslim community. Ten years later, the military dictatorship led by General Muhammad Zia-­ul-Haq expanded this repression by adding clauses to the Penal Code in 1984 that further prevented Ahmadiyah followers from associating themselves with Islam. This law, for example, bans Ahmadiyah followers from “referring to their place of worship as a masjid, referring to themselves as Muslims, calling their faith Islam and propagating their faith” (Rahman, 2014, p. 413). In addition to

Conclusion   153 this, these new clauses in the Penal Code also include the prohibition against Ahmadiyah followers practising their faith, for example, reciting the Muslim call to prayer, or Azan. These harsher regulations carry jail sentences and monetary fines for those who violate them. Some scholars argue the two different regimes in the state of Pakistan imposed harsher laws against the Ahmadiyah followers due to the demands from Islamist conservatives or extremist groups (Saeed, 2010, p.  359; Curtis, 2016, p. 26). The regimes fulfilled these demands to ensure their survival, given the sheer influence of the Islamists in Pakistan (Rahman, 2014, p. 421). In the earlier part of this section, I stated that the local bureaucracy, including the local offices of the Ministry of Religious Affairs, reinvigorated and reinforced discriminative practices against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a communities. I found during my fieldwork that the officials at these offices resorted to discriminative practices because they shared religious sentiments with the local population, who are overwhelmingly Sunnis. These officials even persuaded Ahmadis and Shi’a followers to follow the Sunni version of Islam. Besides this shared religious sentiment, the officials implemented discriminative practices because they are part of their duty as sanctioned by the state. As I elaborate in Chapter 4, this practice began in the early 1950s after the Indonesian state established a policy aimed at coercing spiritual and mysticism sects to conform to the mainstream religions (Islam, Protestantism, Catholicism, Buddhism, Hinduism, and Confucianism). To implement this policy, the state established a formal definition of religion: to be acknowledged by the state, a religion should contain a prophet, a holy book, and also be acknowledged internationally. Officials in the Ministry of Religious Affairs, down to local level, are then assigned to persuade the followers of the non-­mainstream faiths (namely, the religions or beliefs that do not conform to the religions that are acknowledged by the state) to join the mainstream religions. The policy was initially aimed at reducing social tension between the followers of the mysticism and spiritual sects, and the followers of the mainstream religion, especially Islam. Later, the policy was used to prevent people from becoming communists. The policy continued to be implemented in the post-­ Soeharto era, with the followers of the spiritual and mysticism sects, and other minority sects such as Ahmadiyah and Shi’a, becoming the targets of coercion. While this bureaucratization of religion was the dominant strategy in Indonesia, India left the management of religion to judicial institutions. The bureaucratization of religion in Indonesia was successful in ensuring that the management of religion is consistent “with the larger nation-­ building project” (Sezgin & Kunkler, 2014, p. 450). Since the Ministry of Religious Affairs was under the control of the successive regimes (such as

154   Conclusion those of Soekarno and Soeharto), the ministry was unable to deviate from the state’s objective to consistently pursue “the larger nation-­building project”. This project aims to maintain the country’s harmonious life under the state ideology Pancasila that privileges the mainstream religions acknowledged by the state. In contrast, the courts in India, with their own political preferences, are independent from the regimes, hence “the consequences of India’s policy toward religion have strayed far from the original intention” (Sezgin & Kunkler, 2014, p. 450). In the early years after Indian independence, India courts were reform-­minded and were loyal to the India’s state initial purpose to establish a pluralistic country. However, after the emergency era (1975–1977), the India courts diverged from the objectives of the state established by the Congress government, and began to lean towards the interests of the Hindu right-­wing movements (Sezgin & Kunkler, 2014, p. 450). Policies of bureaucratization or of judicialization have the same outcome: they erode the capacity of the state to prevent violence against minority faiths. Rather than providing a deterrent against vigilante groups, these policies instead embolden groups in perpetrating social repression and, at times, committing violence against minority faiths; such groups know that the policies are not sympathetic to the plight of those minority faiths. The last key point that this book discusses is that even though Indonesian presidents are willing to protect minority faiths, there are some institutional factors that prevent them doing so. These factors are, first, cultural value, in which state officials have the tendency to preserve majoritarian order. This cultural value is already deeply internalized in the hearts and minds of Indonesian state officials; hence, even though an Indonesian president might wish to protect minority faiths, he or she faces the problem of tackling this well-­entrenched value. India, before the government of Narendra Modi, offers a good example of how state officials, especially court justices leaning towards the preservation of majoritarian order, impede the efforts of the Congress government to materialize plurality in India. In addition to cultural value, there is also the ideological value that prevents Indonesian presidents from protecting minority faiths, namely the article of the Belief in One God and its discriminative implementation. No Indonesian president has tried to abolish the ideological value of the Belief in One God, reflected in, among others, the implementation of the Blasphemy Law, because they know that this ideology enjoys broad state and community support. Abdurrahman Wahid, a former president, filed a lawsuit in the Constitutional Court to abolish the Blasphemy Law, only after he had left office, but the court rejected the lawsuit in 2010. In

Conclusion   155 c­ ontrast to Indonesia, instead of trying to use ideological value to protect minority rights, the regimes in power in Pakistan (the governments of Zulfikar Ali Bhutto and Muhammad Zia-­ul-Haq, respectively) abused the institutionalization of Islam in Pakistan’s legal system to give them more legitimacy in leading the country. These two regimes, which ruled Pakistan in different eras, proposed and passed laws that were more repressive against the Ahmadiyah community than those in Indonesia, for example, by classifying Ahmadiyah followers as non-­Muslims and by restricting their religious practices. These regimes repressed Ahmadiyah as part of their efforts to lure political support from Islamist forces (Rahman, 2014, pp. 416–418). In summary, we have learned through this section that states across the world have some similarities and some differences in their strategies and responses to communal violence against minority faiths. Some states are found to be similarly complicit in violence against the followers of minority faiths who live in their countries. In other cases, such as Indonesia and India, states pursue different strategies in dealing with the problems of minority faiths: Indonesia uses a policy of bureaucratization, while India resorts to a policy of judicialization. The strategies and responses are contingent with the nature of the social and political systems in the respective countries. In Pakistan during the military regime of Muhammad Zia-­ ul-Haq, the production and the implementation of laws that are repressive against Ahmadiyah went unopposed. In contrast, during the presidency of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, Indonesia was a democratic state. The government and state apparatus at the national and the central levels responded to the Ahmadiyah case cautiously due to the pressure by the civil society and international human rights activists. This democratic system, which is transparent and more accountable, certainly benefits the followers of minority faiths, in the sense that they experience less repressive treatment in comparison to the Ahmadis who lived in Pakistan during the regime of Muhammad Zia-­ul-Haq.

Future research Future research on the state’s response to communal violence should delve more deeply into how internal contradictions within state institutions at national and local levels occur. Future research may pose the question: why were state officials in central government willing to express sympathy with, or even to implement political initiatives to protect, minority rights, in contrast to the attitude of local state officials, who tended to ignore minority rights, especially the rights of minority sects and believers in mysticism.

156   Conclusion Future research on this topic should also examine vigilante groups’ heresy campaigns and the propagation of hate speech through social media that led to communal violence. and how the state responded to this phenomenon. Research on this topic is timely, as the role of social media in the production of communal violence has become increasingly important in Indonesia, as more and more people are connected to the internet, and also use social media. Users of the internet in Indonesia have risen at a fast pace in recent decades. In 2005 there were only 16 million internet users. The number rose to 88.1 million in 2014 (Asosiasi Penyedia Jasa Internet Indonesia/APJII, 2015), but in 2017, the number of internet users leapt significantly to a staggering 143.26 million people, which is equivalent to 54.7 per cent of the total Indonesia population (Survei APJII, 2018, p. 3). Many in this large number of internet consumers are vulnerable to hate speech, hoaxes, and fake news disseminated through social media platforms such as Facebook, Twitter, Instagram, and WhatsApp (WA) groups. Before social media was invented, hate speech that has the potential to incite violence was largely contained, because the mainstream media often filtered out such speech before it was published or broadcast. In this current era, when many people have unrestricted access to social media, they are able to express their aspirations or feelings to a wider public in a matter of seconds. In the absence of an effective filtering system, the messages that include the hate speech, hoaxes, or fake news are disseminated rapidly and are often amplified. During my fieldwork in Kuningan and Sampang regencies respectively in 2013, the role of social media was not significant in inciting violence. Social media penetration in these rural areas was still low at that point. Instead, vigilante groups in these areas mainly resorted to conventional means of provoking people to commit violence, such as through unfurling anti-­Ahmadiyah or anti-­Shi’a banners or posters in public places, circulating anti-­minority bulletins or pamphlets in mosques during Friday prayers, or giving speeches to crowds that incited violence. But hate speech through social media, generating communal violence, has increasingly become a threat to Indonesian security, especially for the followers of minority faiths. As more and more people have gained access to social media, the problem has become more and more complex. Social media can be abused in order to incite violence: the Tanjung Balai riot in Medan, North Sumatra province, provides a high-­profile example. The Tanjung Balai case began on 29 July 2016 when an Indonesian woman of Chinese descent, who is non-­Muslim, complained to the officials of a local mosque, located in front of her house, about the noise level of the loudspeaker used to call the Friday prayer. The complaint led to a heated argument between the woman and the mosque’s officials. The police and the

Conclusion   157 village officials attempted to mediate the case, but a massive riot occurred later that day culminating in a mob burning two viharas (Buddhist places of worship) and five Confucian temples. The riot was the result of hate speech and misinformation posted on social media by irresponsible parties (False News Spread on Social Media, 2016). The role of social media in the production of communal violence in Indonesia, especially towards minority sects and believers in mysticism, has not yet been adequately investigated by scholars. Social media being manipulated as a tool to incite violence is becoming common practice elsewhere. Some media reports have shown that Facebook contributes to large-­scale incidents of violence in many countries, including in Srilanka, India, and Myanmar. In March 2018 in Sri Lanka, anti-­Muslim Facebook posts provoked Sinhalese Buddhist mobs to vandalize and ransack shops and houses belonging to hundreds of Muslim families (De Sayrah, 2018). This incident prompted the Sri Lanka government to terminate Facebook service in the country that month. In West Bengal, India, a troubled teenager posted an inflammatory graphic on Facebook that angered the Muslim community in the town of Baduria town. A group of Muslims, apparently from another area, set the house of the teenager on fire. This vandalism prompted retaliatory attacks from Hindu mobs, but no fatalities or injuries were reported (Kumari, 2017). A case in Myanmar shows that citizens are not the only perpetrators in the violence generated through posts on social media. Instead of protecting the rights of an ethnic minority (Muslim Rohingyas), the Myanmar military were mounting a systematic campaign through Facebook posts to foment violence against people of this ethnic background. Based on interviews with former military officials, researchers, and civilian officials in the country, Paul Mozur of the New York Times revealed Myanmar military personnel “turned the social network into a tool for ethnic cleansing” (Mozur, 2018). These military personnel created Facebook accounts and acted as if they were fans of pop stars and national heroes. With the consent of top military leaders, they continuously disseminated hoaxes and fake news and stories aimed at provoking the majority Buddhist population to hate and to attack Muslim Rohingyas. The practice had been used since 2013 as part of the military’s psychological warfare against the Muslim Rohingya. Up until the end of 2018, some 700,000 Rohingya Muslims have fled for safety to other countries. The violent incidents generated through social media in these three countries (Sri Lanka, India, and Myanmar) should provide insights for researchers to pursue this topic. Questions that researchers may ask on this topic are, among others, what contributes to the occurrence of the communal violence that is provoked by social media posts): low internet

158   Conclusion l­iteracy or low level of education? In what kind of society does this type of communal violence occur? Does the violence have more chance of occurring in religious societies than in secular societies? Besides looking at what causes this kind of violence to occur, researchers may also look at how the state responds to this violence. One topic to consider is how the state can provide effective tools or strategies to prevent people from posting comments, pictures, or graphics that provoke violence.

Conclusion The experiences of Indonesia and other countries show that there are similarities and differences from one country to another in what causes communal violence. The solutions to this problem depend on various factors, such as culture and the political system in respective countries. One thing that is sure is that the task for the state in dealing with violence is increasingly complex. The increasing presence of social media, as the cases in Myanmar and Sri Lanka show, adds complexity to the role of the state in addressing violence. Given that information, including hate speech, can reach millions of people worldwide through social media, this platform is a potent tool for inciting the hatred that can lead to communal violence. Hence, facing this clear and present danger, states across the world need to intervene to ensure that the social media discourse helps produce positive and conducive situations that foster peaceful coexistence among people of different faiths.

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Index

Abdurrahman Wahid, President 88, 128, 135, 149, 154; see also the Blasphemy Law; Constitutional Court ABI (Ahlulbait Indonesia) 28 Abrams, Philip 8, 136–7 Abu Bakr al-Shiddiq 26 Adjutant Senior Commissioner 1 Ahmadiyah (principal references only): adherents 12, 30, 33, 39, 53n2, 62, 91, 93, 95, 100, 107–12, 128, 138–9; Ahmadiyah groups 139; anti-Ahmadiyah groups 29, 34, 37–8, 50, 64, 65, 76n6, 92, 94, 95, 107, 128, 139, 148; caliph 33, 37; communities/community 17–18, 25, 29, 37, 49, 51, 69, 73, 92, 94, 96, 108–9, 112, 121, 123, 132, 135, 138–41, 148–9, 155; followers 29, 107, 109, 122, 138, 152–3, 155; Lahore 29; leaders 18, 29, 110, 139; mosques 39–40, 65, 95–6, 99, 112, 116, 139, 147; organizations 29, 39, 91, 110, 121; preacher 32–3, 36; Qadian 28–9, 33; residents 31, 34, 40, 52; teaching 18, 25, 32, 51, 64, 76n6, 91, 94, 108, 110, 129, 138 Al Huda mosque 31–2, 34, 38, 51 Ali-Fauzi, Ihsan 2, 12–13, 16, 20n2, 46–50, 59–60, 62, 64–5, 68–9, 73, 75, 96, 108, 114, 140, 150 Ali Karrar Sinhaji 44–5; see also BASSRA; Tajul Muluk Al Jabbar 63–4 Al Quran 25–6, 28, 42

An Nur mosque 30–1, 110, 122 anti-vice 39, 62–3 APJII (Asosiasi Penyedia Jasa Internet Indonesia/The Indonesian Internet Service Providers Association) 156 Attorney General’s Office 87, 137 authoritarian regime 6, 10; see also Soeharto, President Bakker, Laurens 9, 74 Bakorpakem (Badan Koordinasi Pengawas Aliran Kepercayaan Masyarakat/Coordinating Body Monitoring Mysticism Beliefs) 87–9, 92, 97, 106–8, 119–20, 137 Banyuwangi 13, 16, 74 Barker, Joshua 9, 13, 71 BASSRA (Badan Silaturrahmi Ulama Pesantren Madura/an association of kiais owning and running Islamic boarding schools in Madura Island) 67–8, 70, 113, 116, 118, 132, 133 Belief in One God, The 81, 84, 90–9, 130, 135–7, 140–1, 149, 154 beliefs 2, 24, 27–9, 54n21, 83, 86–91, 93, 104, 106–7, 137, 140, 141, 148, 152–3 Biro Pusat Statistik (Central Bureau of Statistics) 26, 30, 42 BJP (The Bharatiya Janata Party) 151 Blasphemy Law 81, 88–91, 93, 99–100, 104, 108, 119, 135–8, 141–2, 147, 149, 154 Blu’uran village 1, 40–1, 44

162   Index BPUPKI (Badan Penyelidik UsahaUsaha Persiapan Kemerdekaan Indonesia/Investigating Committee for Preparatory Work for Independence) 84, 135 Buddhism 53n3, 86, 88, 104, 137, 141, 149, 152–3 bureaucracy 8, 16, 19–20, 50, 59, 82, 104–8, 112–13, 118–21, 123–4, 130–1, 135, 141, 147–9, 153 bureaucratic practices 19, 106 bureaucratization of religion 153 bylaws 4, 11, 19, 81, 91, 95–6, 101, 138–9, 147–8, 152 Catholic 8 central government 15, 63, 91, 92, 94, 128, 132, 138, 151, 155 Christians 3, 20n3, 128 Cirebon 30, 54n7, 63, 76n4, 122 close connection 16, 69, 72–3, 75, 147, 150–2 collapsed states 5–7 communal violence 3, 11, 13, 24, 122, 128, 131, 146, 149–50, 155, 156–8 communists 6, 153 community organization 63–4, 72, 76n3, 105, 108, 112, 118 comparative research 12 Constitutional Court 83, 89–90, 94, 130–1, 135, 142, 149, 154 corporatist system 6, 10, 12 Criminal Code 82, 134, 137 cultural values 19, 104, 106, 124, 131–2 decentralization 10, 12, 15, 37, 63, 65, 72, 123, 128, 150 democracy 3, 5, 6, 15, 120, 124, 149 democratic 3, 10, 13, 68, 86, 95, 98, 104, 106, 112, 123–4, 146, 151–2, 155 democratization 10, 12, 15, 37, 49, 65, 91, 150 discourse 4, 14, 29, 70, 158 discriminative 82, 84, 86, 90, 104, 106, 107, 124, 136, 147, 148, 149, 152, 153, 154 domestic security 59, 68, 128, 146

Dutch 70, 71, 81, 82, 131 East Java 13, 17, 18, 20n2, 40–1, 44, 48–9, 60, 96–7, 99, 117, 132 economic 5, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 24, 52, 60, 62, 72, 76n10, 111, 112 education 32, 45, 61, 63, 64, 65, 76n5, 86, 95, 118, 137, 142n10, 158 elections 4, 8, 10–11, 15, 40, 60, 68, 72, 112, 123 embedded 46, 71, 85 emboldened 14, 20, 53, 74, 75, 81, 92, 124, 129, 139, 147, 150 entanglement 8, 9, 15, 19, 59–61 entrepreneurs 12, 14, 16, 62, 135 ethnic 3, 5, 6, 7, 11, 14, 24, 60, 63, 72, 121, 150, 157 ethnic wars 5–6 ethnographic 17, 18, 19, 91, 107 extrajudicial killings 6 failed state 4–6 fatwa 129 FPI (Front Pembela Islam/The Islamic Defender’s Front) 64, 72, 92, 100, 138 freedom of expression 11, 50–2, 74, 107, 120–1, 123–4 freedom of religion or belief 3, 81, 84, 88–91, 93–4, 96, 98–9, 115 Gading Laok hamlet 1, 17–18, 24, 27, 41, 43, 45, 47, 51, 54n14, 54n15, 54n16, 54n17, 113–16, 119, 142n7 GAMAS (Gerakan Anti Maksiat/AntiVice Movement) 39, 61–6, 72, 75, 108 genocides 5 GIBAS (Gabungan Inisiatif Barisan Anak Siliwangi/Joint Initiative of the Sundanese Sons of Siliwangi) 61, 63–6, 72, 76n2, 76n3 godly nationalism 83, 99, 135 Golkar Party 121 Gubernatorial Decree 95–9 Gvosdev, Nikolas K 82, 98 hadith 25–6 hate speech 156–8

Index   163 heresy campaign 4, 13, 19–20, 24–59, 62–3, 65, 74, 104, 107, 156 Herriman, Nicholas 13, 74, 150 Hicks, Jacqueline 3–4, 14, 50, 52, 59, 65, 132 high infant mortality 5 Hinduism 86, 88, 104, 137, 141, 149, 152–3 human rights activists 75, 89, 115, 129, 135, 149, 155 Human Rights Watch 94 ideological value 135, 154–5 IJABI (Ikatan Jamaah Ahlulbait Indonesia/ The Association of Indonesian Ahlulbait Communities) 28, 43; see also Tajul Muluk Iklil al Milal 45, 48, 54n20, 55n25, 117–18 imam 27 Imamate 27; see also Shi’a India 150–1, 153, 154–5, 157 Indonesian state, the 3, 5–9, 13, 15, 70, 74, 81–3, 85, 91, 98, 136, 141, 150, 153–4 institutional factor 130, 141, 154 Islamic boarding school 42–4, 47, 54n19, 61–2, 66–7, 76n8, 113, 117n 118, 132 JAI (Jemaaat Ahmadiyah Indonesia/ Indonesia Ahmadiyah Community) 29, 92–3, 95 Jalzah Salanah 36, 121–3 joint decree 65, 91–2, 95–6, 108, 138–9, 147 Joko Widodo, President 130, 140–2 judicial conservatism 134, 149 judicialization 154, 155 judicial review 83, 135, 149 Jusuf Kalla, Vice President 128 Karanggayam village 1, 20n1, 40, 41, 45, 47, 54n17, 55n26, 76n8, 76n9 Kesbangpol (Kesatuan Bangsa dan Politik/Nation Unity and Politics Office) 105, 111–12, 115–16, 118–20 kinship and local ties 13, 16, 150 Komisi Orang Hilang (The Commission for Missing Person) 2

KOMNAS HAM (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia/The National Commission on Human Rights) 94 Kulman Tisna Prawira 36, 38, 50, 54n8, 121 Kuningan Regency Government 76n6, 94, 99, 105, 108, 112, 139 Kuningan Regent 63, 91, 95, 108, 111, 147 legal ambiguity 19, 81, 83, 91, 96, 98, 152 local bureaucracy 19, 113, 147, 153 local elite 3, 16, 50, 59, 122 local governments 81, 91, 96, 101, 109, 147 low trade openness 5 LPPI (Lembaga Penelitian dan Pengkajian Islam/The Institute of Islam Research and Study) 37, 49, 51 Madurese 42, 46–7, 55n22, 66–70, 74, 118, 132 major civil conflict 5 majoritarian social order 131, 133, 141 Manislor village 17–18, 24, 30, 34, 36–8, 49–50, 60–2, 65, 73, 76n7, 101n3, 109–10, 112, 121, 125n3, 128, 139–40, 147; see also Yusuf Ahmadi Megawati Soekarnoputri, President 134, 128 Minister of Home Affairs 92, 138, 141 Minister of Religious Affairs 92, 138, 140 Ministry of Religious Affairs 40, 43, 84–8, 94, 99, 104–5, 107, 111, 123–4, 136–7, 153 minority communities 1–2, 4, 7, 11–13, 15, 17, 20, 24–5, 38, 50, 52–3, 60–1, 74–5, 81–4, 88, 91, 93–4, 96, 98–101, 107, 113, 121, 123–4, 141, 147–8, 150 minority rights 81, 83, 120, 129, 131, 135, 138, 140–1, 147–9, 155 minority sects 140–1, 149, 153, 155, 157 Mirza Ghulam Ahmad 28–9, 32, 66, 107, 139 mobilization 12, 51, 60, 62, 69, 71, 72

164   Index MUI (Majelis Ulama Indonesia/The Indonesian Council of Ulema) 2, 37–8, 51, 70, 92, 94, 97, 108, 109, 113, 129, 138 Myanmar 150–1, 157–8 mysticism beliefs 104, 106–7, 140–1, 149 Nadhlatul Ulama 37, 68, 97, 113, 120, 148 non-governmental organization 46, 89, 105 non-mainstream faiths 83, 86–7, 129–30, 132, 135–7, 141, 153 oligarchs 10 Omben district 10, 20n1, 40, 55n26, 69, 76n9, 116 omission 151 Ormas (Organisasi Kemasyarakatan/ mass organization) 38, 61, 63, 72, 122 Pakistan 150, 152, 153, 155 Pancasila 9, 11, 63, 81, 83–4, 92, 112, 132, 135–6, 138, 140, 154 Panggabean, Samsu Rizal 12, 16, 49, 75, 150 partial democracy 5 Pemuda Pancasila 9, 63 Penal Code 152–3 persuasion 107–8, 111, 119, 123–4 political brokerage 12 political instability 5, 87 popular legitimacy 9, 14 Poso regency 15–16 post-New Order 2–4, 6–7, 10–11, 13–14, 19–20, 28, 49–50, 59, 68, 72, 74–5, 82, 90, 104, 106–7, 113, 123–4, 128, 130–2, 134–5, 137, 141, 149–50 preman 9–11, 14, 71, 121 Prophet Muhammad 25–9, 32, 38, 46, 54n6, 54–5n21, 55n22, 69, 93–4, 107 protection rackets 9, 14, 16, 63, 71 Protestant 84, 88, 134, 136 public good 5, 7 reformasi 40, 65, 74 regional governments 91, 95, 99–101, 105, 139, 142n1, 147

religious figures 12, 25, 42, 50, 60, 68, 96, 99, 112, 114, 118, 132–3, 135 religious freedom 83, 98, 129, 152 religious intolerance 3 revolutionary wars 5–6 rising intolerance 129, 149 Rois Hukama 1, 49, 120; see also Tajul Muluk Rotberg, Robert I 5–6; see also state capacity rule of law 5–7 Sampang district court 2, 97, 120, 134 Sampang police Chief 1 Sampang Regency Government 97–8, 115–16 Sampang Regent 13, 115–16 Satpol PP (Satuan Polisi Pamong Praja/ Public Order Agency) 61, 105, 111–12, 116, 118–19 security forces 3, 15–16, 19, 53, 104–5, 116, 152 Setara Institute 2; see also Wahid Institute sharia 3, 11, 84 Shi’a (principal references only): communities/community 1–7, 17–19, 24, 30, 43–4, 47, 49, 53, 59, 60, 67, 70, 100–1, 104–7, 119, 123–4, 128, 130, 132, 141, 146–7, 152–3; followers 17, 48–9, 53n4, 54n15, 70, 153; leader 2, 27, 113, 116–17, 119, 134; neighbours 1, 52; residents 18, 24, 41, 47, 49, 67, 9, 113–19, 123, 125n4, 133, 142n2; school 1, 44, 52; Shi’ism 1, 26–8, 43–4, 52–3, 56, 58, 70, 97; teaching 44–6, 52, 54n21, 97, 133 social control 10, 12, 16, 19, 60 social forces 7, 12 social harmony 43, 104–7, 133–5 social media 156–8 social order 14, 20, 69, 71, 73–5, 82, 89, 104, 108, 120, 123–4, 130–4, 141, 148–9 Soeharto, President 6, 9, 10, 12, 61, 68, 88, 101n1, 106, 130, 132, 137, 153–4 Soekarno, President 84–7, 90, 137, 154 state agents 12 state and society 12–13, 15

Index   165 state apparatus 71, 129, 151, 155 state capacity 4, 5, 146 state complicity 13–14, 16, 129, 150–1 State Failure Task Force 5 state-idea, the 8 state ideology 92, 112, 130, 149, 154 state practices 4, 7, 17, 19, 81, 86, 91 state-sponsored violence 6 state-system, the 8 Sunda Wiwitan 30, 53n3, 104 Sunna 25 Sunni Muslim 2, 13, 25–7, 29, 32, 34–5, 38, 47, 52, 108 Sunnism 25–7, 42, 67, 89, 101, 111–12, 114, 116, 133 Supreme Court 2, 97–8, 120, 130–1, 134, 141, 149 Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, President (principal references only): weak state 6, 9; heresy campaign against Ahmadiyah and Shi’a 50; the police 59; Madurese kiais 67; the 2008 Joint Ministrial Decree on Ahmadiyah 91–2, 99–100; the role of the Indonesian president 128, 148 Surabaya High Court 97, 120 symbiotic mutualism 15, 19, 71, 147 Tajul Muluk 2, 20n1, 27, 43–8, 51–2, 54n15, 54n20, 55n23, 55n26, 69–70, 76n8, 76n9, 97, 99, 113–14, 116, 119–20, 133–4

The 1965 PNPS Law (UU No. 1/ Pencegahan Penyalahgunaan dan atau Penodaan Agama/Law No. 1/1965 on Prevention of the Abuse and/or the Desecration of Religion) 87, 135 The Jakarta Charter 136 vandalism 2, 53n4, 75, 100–1, 113 van Klinken, Gerry 3–4, 10–11, 13, 16, 52, 59, 72, 150 vigilante groups 9, 12, 14–19, 29, 50, 53, 59–75, 83, 96, 98–9, 101, 105, 107, 112, 120, 122–4, 133, 135, 139–40, 147, 150–2, 154, 156 vigilantism 9, 60, 66, 70, 75 violent entrepreneur 12, 14, 16, 150 Wahid Institute 2, 129, 145 weak state 4–6 Weber, Max 7 West Java 17, 29, 30–1, 35, 39, 60, 63, 68, 72–3, 76n2, 95, 99, 122, 125n 128, 139, 147 Wilson, Ian Douglas 11–12, 14, 65, 71–2, 128 Yusman Roy 134 Yusuf Ahmadi 30, 34, 99, 100, 101n3, 113 Zoroastrianism 88