Indonesia’s War over Aceh
Since 2001, Indonesia’s military commitment to Aceh province resulted in one of Southeast Asia’s largest wars for decades. Indonesia’s War over Aceh presents the background and history of this war, investigating its domestic and international implications, at a time when the recent tsunami catastrophe has brought Aceh to world attention. From monitoring and coercing Aceh’s civilians to manipulating overseas perceptions, Indonesia’s military-dominated state deployed its fighting forces in politically repressive campaigns aimed at destabilizing and eliminating Acehnese resistance. Rebellious Aceh exposes many fundamental vulnerabilities of the Indonesian state itself, where possible secession has often provoked extreme and uncompromising reactions from Jakarta’s ruling elites. So severe are the challenges posed by Acehnese separatism that Indonesia’s post-New Order government has lobbied aggressively, and re-embraced censorship and disinformation, all of which have distorted many important facts about the war and its causes. Using military doctrinal references and extensive, original research, Davies reconstructs reported events, combatant forces, terminology, and statistical data to expose many of the war’s sensitive issues. He challenges others’ preceding research by detailing the Indonesian military’s mission, structures, combat strains, and activity within political, operational, and paramilitary realms. Drawing on Indonesian–Malay sources normally unseen by the English-speaking world, Indonesia’s War over Aceh will be essential reading for regional specialists and those interested in contemporary conflict. Matthew N. Davies is a member of the Australian Institute of Professional Intelligence Officers (AIPIO), Indonesian linguist, and former Australian Department of Defence intelligence analyst.
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Indonesia’s War over Aceh Last stand on Mecca’s porch
Matthew N. Davies
First published 2006 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 270 Madison Ave, New York, NY 10016
This edition published in the Taylor & Francis e-Library, 2006. “To purchase your own copy of this or any of Taylor & Francis or Routledge’s collection of thousands of eBooks please go to www.eBookstore.tandf.co.uk.” Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2006 Matthew N. Davies 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. 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 Davies, Matthew N., 1966Indonesia’s War over Aceh: last stand on Mecca’s porch / by Matthew N. Davies p. cm. — (Politics in Asia series) Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Aceh (Indonesia)—History—Autonomy and independence movements. 2. Aceh (Indonesia)—Politics and government. 3. Political atrocities—Indonesia—Aceh. 4. Indonesia—Armed Forces—Political activity. I. Title. II. Series. DS646.15.A8D39 2006 959.803–dc22 2005025821 ISBN10: 0-415-37239-9 ISBN13: 978-0-415-37239-8
Contents
List of tables List of illustrations List of maps Acronyms and frequently used terms Outline of basic military symbols Acknowledgements Introduction: intelligence and the Aceh war
viii ix x xi xvii xviii 1
1
The Aceh battlespace
10
2
Divide, dismember, and military rule
44
3
Military dynamics and “lines of concentration”
68
4
TNI–POLRI morale and motivation
101
5
Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead
130
6
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam
158
7
Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism
195
8
A people defamed
225
Notes Bibliography Index
239 255 281
List of tables
i “Spook-speak” 101: sample terms and their class registers 1.1 Comparative counterinsurgency lexicon: Jakarta’s Acehnese resistance enemy and own forces 2.1 Indonesia’s official Aceh population figures, 2003–4 2.2 Electoral gerrymander: Aceh’s regency-level parliaments (DPRD-II) 3.1 Identified special forces officers’ Aceh-related appointments 3.2 KODAM Jayakarta recruit training, 1991–2 4.1 Low-level civil war? Reported TNI–POLRI internecine combat, 2001 6.1 Loyalist Indonesian militia formations in Aceh from October 2003 7.1 Identified key MP-GAM (aka MB-GAM/FAME) membership
6 26 48 51 86 91 115 185 202
List of illustrations
2.1 “Gray area”: defining “war,” “non-war,” and “shadow” districts 5.1 TNI–POLRI underreported Aceh troop deaths and their extrapolation 5.2 Aggregates of detailed local reporting: TNI–POLRI and civilian deaths, May–August 2003 7.1 Relationship diagram: covert Acehnese groups, “JI,” and Al Qaeda 7.2 Retrospective analysis of Indonesian counterintelligence operation (“JI”)
49 133 136 212 220
List of maps
1.1 “Strategic convergence” 1.2 Deforestation 1981–96, terrain effects, and mobility to 2004 1.3 Identified GAM units, names, weaponry, and TNI-assessed area of GAM control 2.1 Dutch zoning, new regencies, and gerrymander 2.2 Plans and proposals for new provinces, 2001–5 2.3 Aceh’s identified TNI organic-territorial and base formations, 2002–5 3.1 Independence Day: TNI Aceh deployments, August 2003 3.2 Reorganization: TNI Aceh deployments to November 2004 3.3 Dutch and Indonesian search and pursuit in North Aceh 3.4 Sampled POLRI unit deployments, 2001–4 5.1 North Aceh combat, 3 March–7 May 2002: GAM public reports of firefights and claimed Indonesian KIA 6.1 Reported North Aceh atrocity and Central Aceh militia 6.2 Militia: SISKAMLING expansion from October 2003 8.1 Banda Aceh, 26 December 2004: tsunami destruction to TNI–POLRI HQ and base facilities 8.2 Post-tsunami emergency deployment, January–March 2005
14 18 32 46 53 60 80 81 83 95 140 163 184 233 235
Acronyms and frequently used terms
AP
–
antipersonnel
AR ASNLF
– –
babinmas
Bintara Pembina Masyarakat Bintara Pembina Desa Badan Intelijen Strategis
assault rifle Acheh-Sumatra National Liberation Front Community guidance NCO
babinsa BAIS BAKIN BAKORSTANAS
BARMEPA bela negara BIA BIN BKO
Badan Koordinasi Intelijen Negara Badan Koordinasi Bantuan Pemantapan Stabilitas Nasional Barisan Merah Putih Aceh – Badan Intelijen ABRI Badan Intelijen Nasional Bawah Kendali Operasi
black flag/ PSYOPS/Ops
–
BPG
Balai Penataran Guru
BRIGGEN
Brigadir Jendral
Village guidance NCO Strategic Intelligence Agency (TNI) State Intelligence Coordination Agency Coordinating Body Assisting Consolidation of National Stability Acehnese Red and White Front defense of the state ABRI Intelligence Agency National Intelligence Agency under operational command and control covert operations to infiltrate, discredit, divide, and destabilize the enemy and/or third parties special teacher tasking schools brigadier general
xii
Acronyms and frequently used terms
BRIMOB
Brigade Mobil
Mobile Brigade
CAPT
[Kapten]
captain
clandestine
–
intentionally concealed entity or activity colonel
COL
[Kolonel]
covert
–
COY
[Kompi]
entity or activity deliberately posing false identity (infantry) company
cu’ak
–
(Acehnese) spy/turncoat
denkul DEPDAGRI
Detasemen Pemukul Departemen Dalam Negeri Departemen Luar Negeri
strike detachment Interior Ministry/Home Office
DEPLU DOM DPR FALINTIL
FAME FKPPI
FMA FPDRA Gadapaksi GAM GEN GL GPMP GWOT HANSIP HBMB
Foreign Ministry “area of military operations” (1989–98) Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat People’s Legislative Assembly East Timor National Forças Armadas de Liberation Army Libertaçao Nacional de Timor Leste – “Free Acheh Movement in Europe” Forum Komunikasi Putera Children of ABRI Veterans Puteri Purnawirawan Communication Forum ABRI Front Mujahidin Aceh Aceh Holy Warriors Front Front Perlawanan Aceh People’s Democratic Demokratis Rakyat Aceh Resistance Front Garda Pemuda Penegak Youth Guard for Upholding Integrasi Integration Gerakan Aceh Merdeka Free Aceh Movement* [Jendral] general – grenade launcher Gerakan Pemuda Merah Red and White Youth Putih Movement – “Global War on Terror” Pertahanan Sipil civil defense Daerah Operasi Militer
Himpunan Barisan Muda Bersatu
Front of the United Youth Echelon
Acronyms and frequently used terms HE Holistic Operation IED inf bn
– [Operasi Terpadu] –
xiii
high explosive (also transl. as “Integrated Operation”) improvised explosive device
IPK
[Yonif] Ikatan Pemuda Karya
IRGEN
Inspektur Jendral
infantry battalion (GOLKAR) Youth Association inspector-general
JI
Jema’ah Islamiyah
lit. the “Islamic faithful”
KAMRA
Keamanan Rakyat
People’s Security (POLRI Auxiliaries)
KIA
–
killed in action
KNPI KODAM
Komite Nasional Pemuda Indonesia Komando Daerah Militer
KODAM I.M.
KODAM Iskandar Muda
KODIM
Komando Distrik Militer
KOLAKOPS KOOPS KOPASSUS
Komando Pelaksana Operasi Komando Operasi Komando Pasukan Khusus
Indonesian National Youth Committee military area command (province-level)** Aceh Military Area Command** military district command (regency-level)** Force Operations Command
KORAMIL
Komando Rayon Militer
KOREM
Komando Resort Militer
KOSTRAD
Komando Strategis AD
KTP-MP
Kartu Tanda Pengenal – Merah Putih – – [Letnan Satu /Lettu – Dua/Letda]
Laskar Jihad (LJ) LAW (1/2) LT LTCOL LTGEN
[Letkol] [Letjen]
Force Operations Command Special Forces Command (army) military subdistrict command (district-level)** military regional command (regency-level)** Army Strategic Reserve Command “Red and White” ID card Army of Holy Struggle light anti-armor weapon (first/second) lieutenant lieutenant-colonel lieutenant-general
xiv Acronyms and frequently used terms MAJ
[Mayor]
major
MAJGEN
[Mayjen]
major-general
MB-GAM
Markas Besar GAM
MG (S/L/M/H))
[Senapan Mesin]
GAM headquarters (“front/faction”) machine gun (sub/light/medium/heavy)
milsus MP-GAM
Militer Khusus Majelis Pemerintahan GAM
special military GAM governing council (“front/faction”)
MPR
Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat Majelis Permusyawaratan Ulama Majelis Ulama Indonesia –
People’s Consultative Assembly Clerics’ Consultative Assembly Indonesian Clerics’ Council holy warrior(s) Regional Leadership Council
NII NU
Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam [bintara] [Lembaga Swadaya Masyarakat – LSM] Negara Islam Indonesia Nahdlatul Ulama
OCM
Operasi Cinta Meunasah
oknum
–
OKP
Organisasi Kemasyarakatan Pemuda Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan – Operasi Terpadu orang tak dikenal
MPU MUI mujahiddin MUSPIDA NAD NCO NGO
OPSLIHKAM OSINT OT OTK PAMOBVITNAS
pengamanan obyek vital nasional
Aceh Land of Peace non-commissioned officer non-government organization Islamic State of Indonesia Association of Muslim Scholars/Clerics Operation “Love the (Acehnese) Mosque” usually criminal/rogue/ wayward element community youth organization Security Restoration Operation open source intelligence Holistic/Integrated Operation unidentified people (armed groups) vital national asset security
Acronyms and frequently used terms PAMPROVIT PAMSWAKARSA
pengamanan proyek vital pengamanan swakarsa
xv
vital project (asset) security self-generated security (vigilante) Air Force Special Forces
PASKHASAU PDMD
Pasukan Khas AU Penguasa Darurat Militer Daerah
Regional Martial Law Power
PDMP
Penguasa Darurat Militer Pusat
Central Martial Law Power
POLDA
Kepolisian Daerah
POLRES
Kepolisian Resort
Police Region (provincelevel)** Police Precinct (regencylevel)**
POLRI
Kepolisian Republik Indonesia Kepolisian Sektor
POLSEK PP PPM PPRC preman
Pemuda Pancasila Pemuda Panca Marga Pasukan Pemukul Reaksi Cepat (from Dutch: vrij man)
PSYOPS PUAN
– Pejuang Amar Makruf Nahi Mungkar
PUSA
Persatuan Ulama Seluruh Aceh Pusat Penerangan TNI purn (purnawirawan) Republik Islam Aceh Rabitatul Mujahiddin Satuan Tugas Mobil Satuan Tugas Pengamanan Satuan Tugas Tempur Satuan Tugas Teritorial Satuan Taktis
Puspen TNI ret’d RIA RM SATGAS MOBIL SATGASPAM SATGASPUR SATGASTER SATTIS SGI
Satgas/Satuan Gabungan Intel
Indonesian National Police Police Sector (districtlevel)** Pancasila Youth Youth of the “Five Oaths” Rapid-Reaction Strike Force gangster/plain-clothed military or police psychological operations struggle for following the teachings and avoiding the forbidden (Koranic) Aceh-Wide Union of Clerics TNI Information Center retired (officers) Islamic Republic of Aceh Holy Warriors’ League Mobile TF Security TF Combat TF Territorial TF (SGI) Tactical Unit Joint/Intelligence TF
xvi
Acronyms and frequently used terms
SIRA
Sentral Informasi Referendum Aceh
Aceh Referendum Information Center
SISKAMLING
Sistem Keamanan Lingkungan Tenaga Bantuan (Pembantu) Operasi
Local/Neighborhood Security System Operational Auxiliaries
TF Tgk
[satgas] Teungku
Task Force Ulama (Acehnese honorific: cleric)
Tk
Teuku
Uleeblang (Acehnese honorific: gentry/equites)
TMD (TMMD)
TNI (Manunggal) Membangun Desa
TNI Civil Works (Unity) Program
TNA TNI
Atjeh National Armed Forces Indonesian Defense Force
tontaipur TRIPIDA ulama uleeblang
Teuntara Neugara Atjeh Tentara Nasional Indonesia pleton pengintai tempur Tri Pimpinan Daerah – [hulubalang]
UPS
Unit Perintis Sabhara
WANRA WIA yon-gab YONKUL YONTER
Perlawanan Rakyat – Batalyon Gabungan Batalyon Pemukul Batalyon Teritorial
TBO (TPO)
combat recon platoon Local Leadership Triumvirate Islamic cleric (Malay equivalent for “equestrian class”) regular police “line” patrol (non-traffic) People’s Resistance wounded in action combined battalion strike battalion territorial battalion
* For the many Indonesian variations on “GAM,” see Table 1.1, p. 26. ** Equivalent Interior Ministry zoning only as applied to Aceh: hierarchical levels differ between provinces.
Outline of basic military symbols
( (
Unit
Infantry Special BRIMOB Airborne / Marines Recon 'Cavalry' Engineers Forces / equiv Airmobile (Lt Armor)
(
(
Air Ground-Air Field Maintenance Health / Nuc-Bio-Chem Signals Headquarters Defense Radar Artillery / Workshop Medical Decontamination (HQ) Element Task force / battlegroup KOP composite formation (fmn) Division Planned / Army Business Transport Army / joint TNI Brigade being raised Cooperative & Supply Navy, Air Force Battalion Service HQ Symbol Key Company Platoon Unit Size Unit Unit Type / / Level of Identity Fmn Name KODAM / POLDA Command / Vehicle KOREM / POLWIL Type ( ) Unit Unit KODIM / POLRES/TA # Parent bn / regt ID Rotation KORAMIL / POLSEK/TA Date of Identified # Formation Deployment or Police Origin Activity # Locator Marine Corps (at staff for HQ elements) '?' denotes unconfirmed Sources: Mabes ABRI 1986 pussenif 1995 MIL-STD-2525B 1999 FM 1997c
POLRI: see Map 3.4 Abbreviations for non-organic POLDA (Police Region) units: 'UPS' / BRIMOB UPS - Unit Perintis Sabhara (Police 'General Duties') bn / regt ID Metro - Jakarta Metropolitan Police Region Unit Identity Jabar - West Java Police Region Jateng - Central Java Police Region Parent Unit Date of Identified Jatim - East Java Police Region / Origin > Tour start Deployment or DIY - Yogyakarta Special Area Police Region Tour end < Activity Sumsel - South Sumatera Police Region >< Tour duration (same unit) Sumbar - West Sumatera Police Region Adjacent dates indicate unit rotations in place Sumut - North Sumatera Police Region Rotations NOT always consecutive - gaps may be 2 years Kalbar - West Kalimantan Police Region UPS explicitly marked - BRIMOB for all other Kalsel - South Kalimantan Police Region Symbol Key Kalteng - Central Kalimantan Police Region Kaltim - East Kalimantan Police Region Units from bases under central command: NTT - East Nusatenggara Police Region I,II,III - Regiment (later 'Unit') under Deops Sulsel - South Sulawesi Police Region Pusdik - Training Centre, POLRI HQ, Jakarta Sultra - Southeast Sulawesi Police Region Sulut - North Sulawesi Police Region Mako BRIMOB - Central BRIMOB HQ, Jakarta
X
X
x
Acknowledgements
Some six years’ study fed this book, which actually began its life as a briefing and draft chapter about the Indonesian military and police. Aceh’s war soon changed that, as I realized that increasingly available detail about the Aceh situation best defined the organizations I studied anyway. Nonetheless, contrary to Australian interest in East Timor, Papua, or Indonesia in general, it became obvious that the subject was often “off the radar screen”: trivialized, ignored, or shrouded in flippant orientalist caricature. The recent tsunami changed the focus further, lending it more international urgency. But it was ultimately many people who enabled that process. Indirectly, and in lieu of a separate dedication, this work is meant as a general tribute to all who care and dare to report sensitive political events in the Southeast Asian region. Mostly from Indonesian-Malay, the work’s references are intended to honor those sources and their typically unrewarded courage, and unrecognized skill, in recording important facts both for others and posterity. In late 1999 I spoke with Aceh Human Rights NGO Coalition’s Maimul Fidar, who was my first direct contact. From its altogether different seed as a study of armies, this book’s gestation began at that pivotal time when Maimul patiently and intensely explained Aceh’s nightmare and its peculiar, sinister terrors. I could not confirm Maimul’s whereabouts since, though I understood he was in Central Aceh’s countryside in mid-2003, “on the run” to avoid the grisly fate of many peers, especially around that time. From 2002, Acehnese contacts Reyza Zain and Muhammad Nur Djuli endured my repeated long-distance interrogations, supplying thoughtful and qualified answers, or introducing me to other contacts and sources where necessary. The two showed great forbearance, because my views and pointed enquiries probably seemed eclectically distant and irrelevant to their own partisan priorities. Several Indonesian (and non-Acehnese) people too provided valuable information, though they had no idea how the detail would be processed, much less its results. Those contacts asked to remain anonymous. The book’s research began as a trek into the realm of “open source intelligence” (OSINT) when I was still in official government service. Several Australian Army “old hands” steered me into that pursuit, though tact demands that I not name them here. Many will remember these guides as legend for their skillful mix of professional integrity, political nous, and, in some cases, fatalistic courage as Western intelligence agencies suffer disrepute from the manipulations and
Acknowledgements xix protective publicity by their masters. Another important source of encouragement from that time was the Australian National University’s Desmond Ball, an agent of OSINT long before the term’s invention, and a specialist whose prolific bibliography speaks for itself (as do his many prescient, lasting assessments). For at least part of the journey since, volunteered help or mutual self-interest from de facto colleagues, interlocutors, and fellow travelers overcame the inertia from occasional cross-purposes, partisan sensitivities, and the war’s direct interference to sources. From 2001, Damien Kingsbury of Deakin University shared contacts, “insider” advice on manuscript preparation, and feedback on my research. From early 2004, US journalist Billy Nessen became an essential source whose attention to detail stood him out from his peers. Others worth special mention are: the tireless activist source Watze Kamstra in the Netherlands; activists Vanessa Hearman in Melbourne and Robert Jereski in New York; Australian journalists John Martinkus (now SBS TV) and Jonathan Harley (ABC TV), who covered part of this work in The Bulletin magazine and Lateline, respectively; and the Australian Institute of International Affairs’ (AIIA) John Cohen, whose invite to the institute helped spur the book in its finishing stages. It must be stressed that the study was not made for any sponsoring institution, lobby, or other advocacy, but was entirely independent and self-financed. Therefore, out of convention rather than priority or order of merit, my closing mention goes to the most important help, i.e. from home, whereas fairness in this case would put my family first. My wife Lis deserves most thanks for her moral support and great sacrifice of years going without holidays and other luxuries, while withstanding my often cantankerous and stubborn responses to her ongoing insightful criticism which, due to her broad mercurial knowledge was mostly correct, but always sincere and necessary regardless. And of course to my mother Marlene who worked full-time to nurture me with five siblings after our father’s death when we were very young: her example set a high standard of sacrifice and strenuous rigor, without which this book could not have begun. Again by way of dedication, I thank Lis for the “X factor” of love and good guidance she continues to give our children: Zahira Victoria; Yasmin Samira; and Tristan Umar William, our son born during the draft. There is no price or other worldly measure for such sustaining family love. Matthew N. Davies Melbourne, July 2005
Introduction Intelligence and the Aceh war
We want no half-measures, but will go all out. GEN Endriartono Sutarto, TNI chief, 7 May 2003 (PK 2003a; TI 2003b) …so don’t even dream of independence while the TNI’s still in Aceh. COL A. Y. Nasution, Commander KOREM 011 Lilawangsa, 20 September 2003 (Kmp 2003s)
Lasting most of the 130-plus years since Dutch invasion, Aceh’s resistance war portended the demise of the Indonesian state by the twenty-first century. Phenomena from early anticolonial phases uncannily resurfaced, ghost-like, suggesting at once the intractable nature of Aceh’s environment and inhabitants as well as colonialism’s profound influences on Indonesian political culture. After East Timor’s eventual independence victory from 1999, comparisons helped measure the challenge Jakarta’s regime faced: Indonesia’s Aceh troop commitments doubled and even tripled those in East Timor during Indonesia’s 25-year occupation of that ex-Portuguese colony.1 Aceh’s modern war has been waged by Indonesia’s military (TNI), police (POLRI), and other government apparatus against the Acehnese independence struggle represented by the Free Aceh Movement (GAM).2 The contest’s political and strategic dynamics, and economic stakes, showed many similarities to such contemporary campaigns in Papua and, formerly, East Timor, as well as past and concurrent insurgencies in the Philippines’ Mindanao region, the Middle-East, Algeria, Latin America, and even Ireland. But Jakarta’s anti-GAM campaigns showed local peculiarities in more intensive effort than other Indonesian counterinsurgencies. The devastating late-2004 tsunami seemed to overshadow the war, yet its aftermath brought the struggle’s local and international dynamics into sharp relief. The guerrilla war’s savagery produced many scandals of civilian trauma from war crime and crime against humanity, accentuated by political attention on Aceh’s fossil fuel wealth and ethnoreligious identity.
2
Introduction: intelligence and the Aceh war
Approach General This book comprises several interrelated layers of research, or subject categories, each using methods deemed most productive for the available data. It is overwhelmingly a document study from printed and electronic local records, with some minor use of interview. The research assumes normative theoretical bases of military and intelligence doctrine and subculture, seeking to analyze detail from protagonist perspectives. In promoting that more specialist approach into a prevailing discourse, an activist agenda criticizes contemporary studies’ source and methodological limitations, and wider public misperceptions. Sources Focusing on an Indonesian war, the work prioritized Indonesian-Malay language documents for their direct relevance and authenticity (not necessarily veracity), so necessary to monitor local views and issues, while exploring pertinent linguistic nuance, register, shifts in meaning, and identifying common English mistranslations. Due to limited space, most of the work’s collation, mapping, tabulation, and other analysis do not appear, although they were important in lengthy sifting, confirmation, and estimation from several gigabytes of data. The bibliography therefore covers a minority of all textual sources used. Most cited noncombatant sources came from Indonesian journalism, dominated by the Banda Aceh-based Serambi, followed by Medan’s Waspada, then several Jakarta dailies and weeklies, with some useful reporting in other regional centers. Investigation depended much on local NGO coverage and Indonesian government references, followed by international NGO, “think-tank” and other studies in books, seminars, and working papers. Analysis of topographical and cadastral detail was essential to plot strategic and operational developments (easily an entirely separate study) but like most textual sources, many maps do not appear in the bibliography. The war’s combatants were the preferred primary and secondary sources, cited where feasible, with some local and international noncombatant studies filling source gaps, or at least qualifying combatants’ claims. While warring parties’ use of disinformation3 and selectivity may be regarded as a given or operational norm in military “deception” and “security,” comparison of combatant sources was nonetheless a useful dialectal tool to assess plausibility. Both sides’ security considerations often gave way to those of morale and popular support, to subtly reveal force strengths and capabilities. Such primary reporting of people, events, and their detail in time and space, deserved serious recognition, analysis, and crosschecks. References use writers’ names where their private capacity was obvious, or otherwise arbitrarily substituted by names of sponsors or periodicals where that institutional role seemed more significant.
Introduction: intelligence and the Aceh war
3
Methodology Research scope and method were adjusted to the subject’s subcategories. Macroresearch gauged various strategic developments and operational trends, using such units of analysis as: area demographic records and survey quotes; other hierarchical and administrative data; reported casualties; organizational identities; maps; and various timelines. Where a pool of data was unavailable for presenting a wider scope in some aspects, micro-research treated individual cases of reported activity. In general, source detail was processed for its relevance to the war’s different levels spanning between individual actions and relationships to strategic factors in the international realm. Consistent with an effort to prioritize Indonesian language sources was the study’s underlying assumption that military doctrine and philosophy best translated the dynamics of Aceh’s war from the perspective of its largest and most directly influential participant, i.e. Indonesia’s military. By turns contemporary and historical, Indonesian and Western, military terminology and concepts provided the basis to closely assess behavior throughout TNI–POLRI hierarchies. An important, related concept was perception management, or “information operations,” by which source detail often reflected propagandistic purposes and other self-interested peculiarities. That doctrinal area permeates the text, though the nature and priority of modern “info ops” mean that its very discussion is contentious. Doctrinal references are by no means exhaustive in all these areas, but alternating Indonesian and Western professional concepts were generally compatible and major differences are explained where necessary. In the same way, the book’s mapping uses a hybrid of Western (FM 1997c; MIL-STD-2525B 1999) and Indonesian (Mabes ABRI 1986) military symbols. These do not strictly conform to current official usage, but remain easily recognizable to practitioners. The use of symbols here entirely avoids recent standards’ “affiliation categories” (“friendly,” “enemy,” etc.), because of their problematic nature for a public audience. It also ignores recent standards’ greater use of text in symbols, on the grounds that text defeats the purpose of creating universal pictorial standards. These hieroglyphics of military power helped reconstruct events, trends, and capabilities, including force strengths. Beside modern antiguerrilla templates, the work emphasizes other subcultural peculiarities within Indonesian language sources and their local context in a broad ethnomethodological effort at empathic understanding. Indonesian military operational and organizational concepts were fundamental to investigating those forces’ publicity, internal processes, institutional culture, member interaction, and other conduct. This approach’s relevance may be self-evident in the way that engineering applies to study of bridges and construction projects, geology to soil types, strata, and seismic events, or English language sources in any study of Northern Ireland. In that basic sense, chapter sequence betrays elements of an “orders group,” covering such matters as “situation, mission, execution,” etc.4 The study’s research process can be termed “open source intelligence (OSINT),” a term developed since the 1980s to identify the intelligence value of
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Introduction: intelligence and the Aceh war
vast public information outside of state-monopolized secret sources.5 As OSINT was initially proselytized to reform state business, a state-defined “intelligence cycle” applied to OSINT’s process in “direction, collection, processing and dissemination.”6 Apart from OSINT’s distance from traditional intelligence work’s constraints of secrecy, another important difference was its “collection” stage, whereby OSINT acquired available open sources whereas states secretively tasked dependent assets to gather certain information, including public sources in veils of classification.7 Agenda There is of course a trap for the intellectual in the professional world, and that is his/her own propensity to acquire power and to be interested in it within his or her domain. Said (1995: 196) Knowledge is what you are after. Information is the raw material you use. Intelligence is what finds and processes information. Friedman, Chapman, and Baker (AIPIO 2004) Two related polemics drove the book’s creation and approach. Polemics are, by definition, not popular, and this work may seem aggressive in challenging sources used, sometimes biting hands that fed the study itself. Nonetheless, such sources’ informative value usually remains clear elsewhere, whether as reports and studies from orbits of international relations and political theory, legal rights discourse, journalism or variously specialized “think tanks.” Moreover, the work’s critical examination of military–diplomatic publicity and perception management carries a more strident underlying polemic, targeting less the flawed methodology of others’ research, assessment and “group-think” discourse than its constraining, encouraging, and sustaining superstructure of commerce and ideology. The discussion comments on other studies’ failure to grasp the most relevant source detail, including Indonesian and outside military perspectives. It is argued here that the prevailing public discourse often assumed if not pretended that military considerations were a straightforward rather than complex and specialized field. But to comprehend properly TNI–POLRI intentions and capabilities in Aceh, actual military technologies must necessarily inform the war’s study. Whether fearing propagandist deception, justifying funds and local presence, or seeking exclusivity in celebrity-style marketing, many observers even avoided the combatants’ own vast public records and statements altogether, preferring personal contacts or alluring “secret intelligence” sources of a presumed special value and reliability. In those respects, while Indonesia remained a political scientist’s laboratory for reform and diplomatic troubleshooting, this work contends that reformasi was overdue both in the lab and the wider “observatory.” As advisers focused much on Indonesia’s military and police, failures to appreciate
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those organizations’ subcultural peculiarities and planning negated much of the observatory’s discussion and recommendation. Related criticism concerns many observers’ lack of local language skills, and their exaggeration of institutional hierarchies of reputation (“name-dropping” in less rarefied milieus), both threatening bureaucratic-style “group-think” and other corruption. If, say, Chinese researchers or journalists with negligible English sought to study Northern Ireland, they would likely face derision and dismissal from two directions: first at home before the flight and later, more emphatically, on arrival. Perhaps hegemony’s most pervasive byproduct, conceits of high double-standards applied especially to the West, where non-English language information assumed at best exotic “bonus” value: local sources were expected to speak “our” language if they were to be heard at all. How could monolingual foreigners develop enough empathy and critical insight about warring or neutral parties? Who were their local translators, and what was their background and motivation? Whether conservative or dissident, English-speaking Aceh investigations risked the appearance of tourist indulgence, or “big game hunting” after trophies of political favor and other attention. True, “the natives were restless” and thereby distracted with their own pressing interests, but their local knowledge dwarfed that of their inquisitive guests; local sources too often became passive bystanders or quarry, where not relegated to anonymity as local guides or porters in the hunt. Such unbalanced privilege could show among those with Indonesian language skills too, where using local public sources dishonestly, unattributed, to propel the foreigner’s own reputation.8 But foreign studies’ overriding conceit reappeared in uncritical tendencies and dependency on judiciary-style precedent of peer discourse, to cascade error, obfuscation, or ethno-caricature. The book’s second target is widespread misperception surrounding “intelligence” work. At the time of writing in particular, politically motivated publicity about war, international migration, and nonstate terrorism confused “intelligence” with concepts of “evidence” (Peppler 2003), rumor, or information in general, dangerously misleading citizens, but immediately benefiting state power and its gnostic aura. Especially between 2001 and 2004, commentary in Englishspeaking news media and official releases repeated many intelligence clichés from states’policy-making levels. Whether from presidents, ministers, or executive bureaucrats, related terms “source,” “agency,” “covert,” “collection,” and “analysis” all transformed at higher government levels into a kind of internal doublespeak, inexcusable and technically nonsensical if uttered among “coal-face” operators in their indoctrination and work routine. Against a mystique of official obfuscation and fetishistic secrecy, comparison with publicly available professional doctrine9 revealed stark class divisions between those in actual intelligence work and those using a separate, more politicized language register to describe it. Shifts in meaning away from doctrinal intelligence terminology probably arose unconsciously among secrecy’s beneficiaries, i.e. fetishist-bureaucrats and politicians, but the mystification caused dissidents too to ape the leadership elite’s terms.10 That “high” register dominated public discussions by senior functionaries closer to politicians, and thereby more
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removed from most intelligence processes, along with journalists and academics. Only by mid-2005 was there discernible change away from Australian policylevel use of intelligence cliché, probably due to belated advisory insistence after practitioners’ exasperated, internal protest. Table i generalizes the linguistic registers’ extremes from elite-level (or “ownership”) views of intelligence as material information, to the practitioner-operator views of a function and process, without which any information may have little or no value, however superficially relevant or urgent. Deconstruction is included here to prepare readers for the book’s presentation of an intelligence process, and to warn against unreferenced “intelligence sources”: information unexamined is hardly worth communicating.
Table i “Spook-speak” 101: sample terms and their class registers Register: “Practitioner”. Basic, original, doctrinal level. Equivalents: vernacular, AngloSaxon/plain English, Javanese Ngoko, etc.
Register: “Executive-managerial”. High, elite, policy level. Equivalents: exclusive, Latinized/ euphemized English, Javanese Krama, etc.
Usage: Military/police, from patrols to force HQ reporting situation and related phenomena in course of duties; translators at intermediary stage between sources and agencies
Usage: Politician/lawyer, executive and others in policy discourse, e.g. academic, journalist, whether in favor or accredited as class peers; adjusted and exceptional interlopers shifted from “practitioner” as subject matter and source experts
Intelligence
1. Systematic process & function in making sense of phenomena. Protected depending on threat 2. General ability of entity to make sense of phenomena for individual and collective survival and progress
1. Special information, “evidence”, imagery, recordings, stuff, etc. 2. Exclusive abilities of bureaucracy, protected by state’s injunctions about sensitivity, legislated powers, and prohibitions 3. Special faculty to gain dominance
“Hard” intelligence
N/A. No equivalent. All meant to be a “hard” process. Sources graded from “A-1” to “F-6”
1. Information from trusted source 2. Information considered reliable and accurate
“Raw” intelligence
N/A. No equivalent. Terms “raw data” or “raw material” may be used, but only where referring to information
1. Original source material 2. Original translation (both 1 and 2 to reassure that information is not “warmed” or “sexed up” by “hot air”, etc.)
Intelligence agency
Supervisory intelligence body to analyze and assess information from various sources
Any intelligence body contained by exclusive security restrictions and recruitment
Term
(Continued)
Introduction: intelligence and the Aceh war Table i
7
(Continued)
Intelligence analyst
1. Appointee from within other branches of state executive esp. defense forces. Induction officially via aptitude testing or background in collection among junior-ranked members. Explicit accreditation via training in formats, responsibilities, briefing, policy, and procedures of “The intelligence cycle”(Intensive vetting for real and conceivable political, financial, criminal, sexual, religious, and ethnic background – also applies to “high” register)
1. Appointee charged with summarizing and/or filtering intelligence reporting. Induction via favored graduates and commissioned officers 2. Specialist consultant, e.g. scientist, cleared to assess reporting in field of expertise 3. Bureaucrat/adviser trusted to represent information within agenda of state policy (also “policy analyst”) 4. Adjusted and exceptional interlopers shifted from “practitioner” as subject matter and source experts
Intelligence collection/ gathering
“Intelligence collection” (adj.) to describe the stage in the intelligence process whereby information needs are defined and met
The getting of information in exclusive context of secrecy and “never revealing how such activity is done” or otherwise discussing it
Information collection/ gathering
The getting of information in data, records, intercepts, etc. Secrecy may apply to protect sources
N/A. Usage stigmatized as coarse, betraying speaker’s origin as a practitioner. Generalized into “intelligence gathering” (above)
Analysis
Systematic process to make sense of information and judge its accuracy and authenticity. Using: collated data collected over a period; “order-of-battle”; source grading; relationship diagrams; net reconstruction; demographic, terrain, statistical, linguistic, trend studies, etc.
1. Assessment of other’s analysis 2. Considered opinion, or received idea or opinion, about subject 3. Treatment of information based on policy determinations (also “policy analysis”)
Covert
Identity camouflaged by false or feigned identity, i.e. as deceptive “cover”
Activity or entity deliberately concealed from awareness of a certain party/parties
Link
1. Communications connection between two separate stations 2. Identified relationship between targets under surveillance
N/A. Usage stigmatized as coarse, betraying speaker’s origin as a practitioner. Equivalent to ‘linkage’ (below)
Linkage
1. The process of linking separate entities 2. A specific connecting mechanical part
Identified relationship between targets under surveillance
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Introduction: intelligence and the Aceh war
Thus did intelligence processes seem increasingly remote to most audiences, including researchers, just when useful public sources continued to expand. Via “leaks” and controlled releases alike, states’ intelligence publicity by journalists, commentators, and politicians tempted audiences with an aura of credibility and authority, mystifying “intelligence” as special information deemed reliable because of its very secrecy, expense, and presumed strict scrutiny. Public misunderstanding worsened by the 2003 Iraq invasion, when politicians and state executives publicized as “intelligence” much undisciplined assessment based on scant information. That Middle-East adventure further misled publics about a wellestablished professional discipline, combining deception with executive ignorance of intelligence work and its rigors. State agencies became foils in assessments since exposed as speculative “conspiracy theory,” if not fraud: 81 mm projectile tubes “spun” into nuclear centrifuge components; fake documents purporting to detail Iraq–Niger nuclear deals; vague radio intercepts; fictitious imagery interpretation of “mobile bacteriological laboratories” and “decontamination” trucks (as unspecified “signature vehicles”); and a decade-old academic research paper on Iraqi weapons programs passed as a more recent official study. This work aims to demonstrate open sources’ value as detailed intelligence information, and OSINT processes’ utility to nonstate observers. Public use of intelligence processes posed inherent challenges to state monopoly, mystique, and abuses, because OSINT’s “collection” stage offered a more inductive “acquisition” of source material, potentially less vulnerable to disinformation than states’ more deductive tasking, and less scrutinized assessment, of exclusive assets. OSINT’s diverse sources compelled critical treatment precisely because of the public scrutiny allowed. Secret eavesdroppers, by contrast, claimed intelligence supremacy in the bizarre fashion of “peeping tom” deviants boasting sexual prowess merely because of their preoccupation with select keyholes of voyeurism. Post-2001 trends in Western governments’ war publicity and self-abusive intelligence politicization were equally obscene in that regard. With bloated budgets and extra legal powers at stake, voyeurs and politicians could hardly be expected to discuss any likelihood that objects of their attentions knew how and when they were being watched, as indicated by Indonesia’s State Cypher Institute chief MAJGEN (ret’d) Nachrowi Ramli about Australian intercepts since at least 1991 (Age 2004; BjmP 2004; JwP 2004). Whether unwitting or complicit, voyeurs could be fed enough information laced with carefully planned deception, all within secrecy’s mystique and self-justifying beliefs that sources, rather than the voyeurs themselves, were compromised. While not shunning useful detail from “insider” anecdote, this study’s emphasis on primary textual records is intended to locate such exclusive and less verifiable sources against their most relevant public context wherever possible. Both sides in Aceh’s war showed ambivalent dealings with outsiders, at once “telling them what they wanted to hear” while manipulating their foreign audiences’ prejudices and conceits. Indonesian and Acehnese public sources often had a “confessional” quality as confirmatory information, sometimes at odds with both sides’ publicity in statements claiming legitimacy, justice, progress, and success. GAM was usually
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the more discreet, but in Jakarta’s case, publicity often advertised state actions and policies to domestic audiences, while presenting more innocuous accounts to outsiders. OSINT inadvertently demonstrated its challenge to state intelligence pretences and exclusivity when, outside of the author’s knowledge, academic Lesley McCulloch obtained and carried some of this study’s earlier mapping into Aceh itself (see Kingsbury 2003: 71, 137). In early October 2002 Indonesian prosecution lawyers intended to use that material as evidence in espionage charges against McCulloch: “They have all the State secrets about our defence structure” (EPN World 2002; SMH 2002).11 Those efforts foundered after public explanations by McCulloch’s colleague, Damien Kingsbury, but the initial prosecution stance seemed to validate OSINT’s potential. OSINT’s threat showed at higher levels in Jakarta too, when TNI chief Endriartono promoted “open intelligence” (intelijen terbuka) while addressing graduating officers of a BAIS (TNI Strategic Intelligence Agency) defense attache course, emphasizing to them the field’s importance to their postings in neighboring countries (puspen 2003i). Thus did Indonesia’s own information war and diplomacy set OSINT into the TNI’s “battlespace,” or defined operating environment. Following the controversial publicity of “intelligence” surrounding a US-led coalition’s promotion of the Second Gulf War, Jakarta’s position signified a determination to prevent adverse foreign perceptions so influential in their loss of East Timor: purported versions of OSINT could become weapons to dominate the “information battlespace.” Therefore this study is itself part of that contested battlespace.
1
The Aceh battlespace
Terrain is a tool of war. Reading an enemy’s thoughts brings about his defeat and one’s own victory, as the superior commander takes into consideration the flat and the steep, open and confined, near and distant. Sun Tzu (from Widjaja 1992: 102 and Sun Tzu 1963: 128) What’s good for M & M Enterprises is good for the country. Milo Minderbinder. Catch 22 (Heller 1961: 460)
Natural features determine much in human experience, both in peace and war. Artificial features too may become dependent upon the natural surrounds, or dominate them, but always lending extra meaning to a nature that otherwise seems beyond human influence. In these layers of a perceived space permeate other perceptions of time, or senses of history imagined and memorized, also surviving in records and other traces. All perceived time and space inform discourse about political and economic interests, which in turn often subordinate both terrain and people. The very communication of these perceptions becomes an important realm in itself, emanating from physical space but affecting human perceptions in a subtler internal process. Study of a war almost inevitably considers such influences on the circumstances, plans, perceptions, and actions of its participants. Together these aspects make up this study’s broad application of the term “battlespace” as the boundaries defining combatants’ strengths and weaknesses, opportunities and constraints. Such considerations allow combatants to decide their best courses of action, and to anticipate those of their adversaries.1 This study tries to translate an Indonesian military perspective on local conditions in its Aceh operations, while considering the wider battlespace and its effects on both sides’ decision-making. This approach provides a basis to reflect on courses of action taken and the combatants’ more likely future decisions. Not limited by the mission or intent of local combatants and their allies, the study’s approach can more freely define the Aceh battlespace out to its wider international realms. Therefore, this chapter discusses the war’s various spheres as contested by Jakarta’s regime and its local resistance challengers, in a prelude to examining Indonesian strategies, operations, and tactics.
The Aceh battlespace
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A regional view: dissonant identities and rivalry From a bird’s-eye view, Aceh’s land mass bore an uncanny superficial resemblance to Indonesia’s former twenty-seventh province of East Timor, with a seeming mirror-image shape: both with land boundaries dented in the middle; broad southern coastlines; a sharp turn northwards along the coasts; and tapering extremities. Both Aceh and East Timor could be visualized as reptilian, with shallow foreheads extending to elongated snouts. In its economic, administrative, and population centers the mirror image matched too, with Dili at the middle of the northern coast, while Aceh’s own industrial, demographic, and military concentrations gathered around the corresponding north coast site of Lhokseumawe. However, Aceh more than quadrupled East Timor in demographic and geographic scale. Aceh flanked the western sea passage giving access to many of the world’s richest and busiest ports in the Far East. The Malacca Strait trade highway supplied goods from most of the world, thereby serving also as a favored path for migration, expansionist adventure, and the less official and deliberated opportunism in piracy. Upon Portugal’s colonial ventures in the sixteenth century, the Acehnese sultanate gained suzerainty over the vital Malacca Strait, with military power often defeating the Portuguese, the Malacca sultanate, and Johor, briefly extending direct control over part of the Malay Peninsula (Ryan 1965: 26, 31, 51–6, 63–5). With prolonged hegemony over Perak and other areas of the Malacca Strait’s western approaches and northern Sumatera, the Acehnese sultan’s influence extended to Jambi, Riau, and elsewhere in southern Sumatera. An intermediary in India–Java cloth trade, Aceh was a major regional maritime power, holding a Turkish alliance, and a 50-vessel fleet sighted by Venetians in the Red Sea (McKay 1976: 102–3). Until more aggressive Dutch expansion by the late nineteenth century, Aceh was an established sultanate and sovereign regional power in its own right. Historically, too, Aceh had a deeper and more complex relationship with Indonesia if compared with East Timor’s past as a leftover of Portuguese empire. Beneath Indonesia’s postcolonial multiethnic unity, Aceh’s relationship with Jakarta revealed historical rivalries, if not resentment. The Javanese state of Mataram expanded at around the same time as Aceh’s precolonial sultanate, but the former quickly reduced and dissipated under intense and aggressive European attention. Aceh’s power gradually waned too, but it successfully resisted to become the last major challenge to the Dutch East Indies by the early twentieth century. Records showed Aceh’s sultanate in precolonial diplomacy with several European powers and the United States. Notions of archipelagic commonality in Nusantara, artificial throughout Indonesia, could seem yet more abstract and contrived to Acehnese mindful of their established precolonial sovereignty. The postcolonial Indonesian state centered on the island of Java, with Javanese forming the country’s single largest ethnicity, followed by Sundanese of western Java. Ethnic and demographic predominance combined with Jakarta’s centralist administration, industrial and educational concentration, and “transmigration” programs to implant settlements into outlying regions: all at odds with explicit state rhetoric for regional autonomy and against indigenous ethnic discrimination.
12 The Aceh battlespace Beneath mutual, more primordial divisions of ethnicity and parochialism, two factors indicated a “psychological fault line,” or cognitive dissonance, in the wider Indonesian, and especially Java-based, collective psyche of attitude towards Aceh. The first factor could be found in Indonesia’s nationalist mythology, which fostered an identity born of the mid-twentieth century independence struggle against the Netherlands. The second was Islamic religious identity, closely related to nationalist mythology via legendary and uncompromising anticolonial militancy of various Muslim guerrilla forces raised in the 1940s. But Islam’s role in Indonesian identity covered much deeper discourses such as morality and ethics, social justice and political utopianism, self-sacrifice and charity, and mystical transcendence. For Indonesia’s mostly Muslim inhabitants, Aceh represented devout faith as the primary link to Southeast Asia’s Islamic heritage. This link was understood as Aceh’s strong Islamic presence since barely a few centuries after the Prophet Muhammad’s death, and its colloquial nickname as “Mecca’s porch” (serambi Mekkah) from whence pilgrims in the region would traditionally depart by sea to the sacred sites of Arabia. In that sense, a resurgent Indonesian Islamic identity from the 1970s appeared increasingly disturbed by Acehnese rejection of Indonesian statehood, introducing competitive elements of Islamic nationalism traced to the NII (Islamic State of Indonesia) rebellion joined by Aceh in 1953. Prominent in Indonesia’s centralist state, Aceh stood out in the country’s nationalist and religious mythology. Whether many Indonesians became conscious followers of Jakarta’s nationalist mythologies, or merely absorbed its symbolism with passive indifference, the nationalist identity was very relevant to most of the country’s population, reared and informed as it was from the center. Aceh featured as heroic archetype of exemplary resistance in Indonesia’s story. From the elite Jakarta suburb of Menteng itself to towns elsewhere, many main streets took the names of Aceh’s early anticolonial guerrilla heroes such as Cut Nyak Dien, Teuku Umar, and Cut Meutia, as did movies,2 books, and civic buildings. Aceh’s anti-Dutch struggle embedded into many levels of Indonesia’s self-projection, and was co-opted into a nationalist consciousness with some success (Susanto 1995: 123–4). However tenuous, mistaken, or even contrived and romantic such a proto-nationalist connection may appear to the outsider (including Acehnese), iconography of “Acehnese anticolonial heroism” became integral, with many examples from Indonesia’s education system at least from the Soeharto era (PDIA 1977; Supartono 1991: 48–52). The TNI itself played a major role publicizing the incorporation of some Acehnese culture, especially in displays of the famous Acehnese Seudati and Saman dances (Susanto 1995: 155; SP 2002b). Despite Jakarta’s own centralist prominence, Aceh was usually first in the state’s alphabetical and numerical lists, and even in the thought patterns of mapreading “from Sabang to Merauke,” giving it conspicuous primacy in the state’s self-definition. The province ranked first in the order of provincial governments and in national command formations not only for defense against foreign aggression, but in Jakarta’s nationwide internal security, or “regime maintenance.” It
The Aceh battlespace
13
was a fitting coincidence that Aceh’s administrative order, historical rivalry, and myth were brought into sharp relief by its material value in Jakarta and overseas.
Geopolitics and vital assets Fields of natural gas, gas condensate, and oil (all abbreviated to migas in Indonesian) constituted the most profound battlespace effect of all. Where other industry had a certain local impact, Aceh’s migas assets carried political, military, and economic priority directly into Jakarta and overseas. Aceh’s migas was of critical value to Jakarta, comparable in importance to the political value of keeping Indonesian borders around Aceh. Jakarta’s intense corporate interests in northern Aceh were represented by the area’s main Indonesian player, the stateowned and state-supervised Pertamina firm, as the Jakarta-based beneficiary of the world’s single largest source area for liquefied natural gas (LNG) making up to 30 percent of Indonesian gas and oil exports (II 1999a). Northern Aceh’s gas and oil reserves, and to lesser extents their downstream beneficiaries in paper, fertilizer, and electricity production, became the war’s “vital ground” of traditional military doctrine. As the war’s main underlying determinants, LNG facilities set the tactical conditions for the greatest concentrations of Indonesian forces and Acehnese guerrillas alike. In these areas too, Acehnese civilians experienced some of the most frequent effects of ongoing warfare. International energy interests in northern Aceh ventures extended to Japan, South Korea (Poten.com n.d.) and, in fertilizer production, Malaysia (Petronas), Thailand, and the Philippines. The Blang Lancang LNG project had a mixture of Jakarta-owned, Japanese, and US interests. But the dominant US interest was clear from the status of the area’s major economic power, the Exxon-Mobil corporation, which ranked first and second among the world’s leading profit-makers in 2001–2 and the largest firm on the planet (Fortune 2001; The Ecologist 2001). Mobil, forerunner to the merged Exxon-Mobil at the turn of the twenty-first century, held contractual rights for petrochemical exploration of Aceh since December 1965 amid the rush of Western, mostly US-based investment upon the anti-Communist mass murder and internment after Soeharto’s putsch. Mobil’s expanded operations from the 1980s reached the point where Aceh’s giant Arun gas condensate field made up one quarter of the firm’s global revenue in the early 1990s (WSJ 2000). US commercial involvement had a long history in the region: ExxonMobil had an ancestral forerunner in the Standard Oil Company’s first Java-based office in 1898. Regional interests added to Aceh’s importance as a resource target, with some surveys of its projected petrochemical assets begun by a Singapore-based firm in concert with Indonesian and provincial governmentlinked businesses. This project involved development of downstream services around the offshore port of Sabang, a project first authorized by the Habibie administration in 1998 (Asia Pulse 2002). Map 1.1 shows concentrations of Aceh’s petrochemical assets, and their direct connection to foreign corporate interests. Geographical divisions between companies’ 1970s exploration and extraction represent basic commitments, without
14 The Aceh battlespace TENNECO Spratly Is. BP AMOCO Yulin Taiwan GULF Hong Kong (Hainan) Mindanao Malacca CONOCO 1,300km 2,000km UNION Strait (India) 250km TENNECO ESSO Pattani BP AQUITAINE MOBIL, GULF, AMOCO CLARK 4 sq km ea AGIP ESSO SHELL JAPEXMOBIL MOBIL TEISEKI Natuna Is. CONOCO Ligitan ? Aceh C&T SHELL Sipadan -GETTY CALTEX JAPEX CONTINENTAL ARCO Singapore PERTAMINA TOTAL BP FRONTIER KALTIM SHELL UNION ARCO UNION GULF ROY M HUFFINGTON TOTAL PERTAMINA STANVAC JAPEX PERTAMINA JENNEY JENNEY CONTINENTAL UCPI ROY M HUFFINGTON KYUSHU GULF UCPI IIAPCO ? TOTAL GULF Divisions between ARCO CITIES SERVICE company operations AMIN JAWA SHELL AMOSEAS PHILIPPINES VIETNAM Madras 1,500km
Spratly Is Pattani MALAYSIA Aceh Sumatra
Jakarta
Mindanao Sipadan-Ligitan Ambon PAPUA
(Thailand)
Malacca
EAST TIMOR
NSO A NSO J
Java Strategic 'fault line' Timor Gap 0
1000
2000 km
Exploration mid 1990s?
(Malaysia)
Strait
AUSTRALIA P
Lhokseumawe
?
'H' Field 'LANGSA'
'L' Field
P
Bireuen
P
LNG Plant Pipeline Gas Condensate Gas Field Oil Field Offshore TAC/PSC FPSO Tanker Fertilizer Plant 0 Paper Mill
ARUN North Aceh LHOK SUKON A Central Aceh East Aceh
'ASAHAN' Langsa
20
40
Map 1.1N“Strategic convergence.”
60
80
100 km
The Aceh battlespace
15
reference to mergers, rights sales, and changed company names. Later Aceh ventures, as elsewhere, involved more detailed delineation in production sharing contracts (PSC) with the Indonesian state-owned Pertamina, or technical assistance contracts (TAC), and share ownership divided between separate companies in the same operation (top portion of Map 1.1, adapted from Witton 1972; Cribb 2000: 177). Some studies claimed that Aceh’s existing gas projects were expected to run out by 2014 (CRS 2002; FEER 2002), including the giant Arun field by Lhoksukon, North Aceh, which prompted replacement sources found in exploration to sustain, if not add to, the area’s energy interests. Expanded offshore oil drilling ventures north of East Aceh in November 2001 revealed that some of Aceh’s natural riches had escaped attention (lower portion of Map 1.1, adapted from OT n.d.). Besides a mooted expansion in drilling operations, ExxonMobil referred to three fields from the Block A acreage near Arun and into East Aceh Regency, expected to “come online” in 2003 (ExxonMobil.com 1999). Blunt assessment at the time (RNW 2001a) claimed that the war’s escalation came from US pressure for a secure environment around ExxonMobil’s planned Bireuen Regency operations. By that same account, US energy bosses would only make the large investment in the Bireuen area if the potential GAM threat was negated. It therefore seemed no accident that Indonesia’s 2003 campaign first concentrated its more aggressive deployments in the Bireuen area. Migas and its byproducts became a conspicuous motive for Aceh’s war into the twenty-first century, but heavy exploitation of those finite commodities brought urgency and strenuous, uncompromising commitment by both sides and their allies. Initial revenues from these vast energy riches yielded under five percent for Aceh, and then mostly to its provincial government apparatus. Its “trickledown” effect from fossil fuel refineries and “downstream” industry was minimal, because employees came largely from outside (ICE 2001). In an echo of Australian “generosity” to East Timor in contemporary migas exploitation and its selectivity when designating mapped revenue rights and actual drilling zones, Gus Dur’s presidency publicized a fairer seeming “70 percent” for Aceh via autonomy laws.3 Jakarta’s revised calculations were on net revenue, and entirely missed Aceh’s larger offshore deposits beyond the 12 km nautical zone even though yields piped into Floating Production Storage and Offloading (FPSO) vessels near the coast (FEER 2002). Timed with an expanded government and military apparatus, including martial law, the autonomy promises were misleading. Moreover, Indonesian tenacity was driven by the great value of Aceh’s petrochemical assets in helping to service Jakarta’s overseas debts. Accounting confirmed that Jakarta’s use of Aceh’s resource wealth had long taken the form of a well-established dependency. In many respects, Jakarta’s rule was a debt regime, with servicing of foreign debt taking an enormous toll on the Indonesian economy. By 2001, total foreign debt amounted to some 170 percent of the country’s gross domestic product, taking 40 percent of the Indonesian government’s entire operating costs merely to service that debt (DTE 2001). Despite their pledges about “poverty reduction” advertised to the general public, international banking
16 The Aceh battlespace bodies made reliable profits for their investors in the unequal relationship with the Jakarta regime. As dependent bank clients, Jakarta’s elite benefited too, whether in loose, corrupt opportunism or in a more regulated spread of credit among that elite. It should have been a truism to state that large investors were the chief beneficiaries in the lender–client relationship that governed a “stable” Indonesian state, i.e. one that continued to allow such a web of exploitation which, in modest and less formal arrangements, would be simply termed “loan-sharking.”4 The province was positioned along the Malacca Strait sea-lane, the western avenue of approach for an entire region of lucrative Western-led investment in resources. At the start of the twenty-first century, growing Chinese economic strength in particular loomed to challenge US-led air–sea dominance of that region. A volatile boundary of diplomatic tension and military stand-off ran from Aceh through many fragile areas: the ongoing Spratly Islands disputed by six nations; a US wish for Vietnam naval bases; intrigue and dispute around Taiwanese efforts at Chinese reunification; the Mindanao independence war similar to Aceh’s; and Chinese interest in resource and other commercial ventures extending to East Timor, PNG, and the Pacific island states. Aceh’s location gave it disproportionate significance to the economic and military interests of states near and far. Nonetheless, supporters of the Indonesian state and its boundaries exaggerated the Malacca Strait’s strategic importance, as Huntley and Hayes (2000) observed after the 1999 East Timor crisis. Euphemism drove much commentary and argument by influential supporters of Jakarta’s status quo advocating “stability,” i.e. the preservation of existing sovereignty and power relations. In conservative terms, sovereignty was inviolable and any serious challenge would mean “war,” and thereby an implicit failure of advocacy and diplomacy. By such definition, “stability” implied that any changes to sovereignty would adversely affect more people than it would benefit. That dominant euphemistic language thrived in a corrupt discourse: loyal functionaries of stability policy routinely anesthetized perceptions of actual war and its consequences into “unrest,” “instability” (Rundle 2000),5 or at best “conflict.” Driven by original sovereignty disputes, Aceh’s war exposed another aspect of the “stability” norm, i.e. its implied claim to “balance” in international relations. In practice, status quo prioritized the established control of resources and trade, relegating local inequities and challenges to a lesser importance. Such a subjective stability paradigm could justify conservative enforcement and aggressive manipulation in advance; Acehnese were to be pragmatically sacrificed to some implicit, notional “greater good.” The stability norm was policy advice masquerading as analysis in a self-fulfilling prophecy to help justify dysfunctional polities and unequal international relations. It was no “given,” or fluke of geography, that Aceh held high “strategic value,” but, if unexamined, the term “strategic” in this context (like its etymological cousin “national interest”) could seem a mapped truism, or an innate geographical adjective fixed by grid coordinates. Aceh’s “strategic importance” reduced to several practical considerations of resource wealth held by a powerful minority and its followers. Whether in Aceh or adjoining disputed sites along Southeast
The Aceh battlespace
17
Asia’s “strategic fault line” (roughly along the region’s volcanic fault), sovereignty disputes could affect any new exploration and extraction contracts, or potential renegotiation of existing ones. That the world’s busiest international sea-lane straddled these zones was a coincidental matter, but more relevant to concerns for maintaining the dominant air–sea power of the US Pacific Fleet and its allies. The Malacca Strait was no Suez or Panama Canal: sovereignty and even security in and around it could not seriously threaten trade between nations while Indonesian and Australian waters offered alternative routes at little extra cost. Repeated euphemism in such diplomatic politesse helped to rally policy-makers into tactical ploys against emerging Chinese and Indian economic and naval powers. But properly understood, Aceh’s strategic importance was determined by a web of economic and military superpower confronting those emergent regional powers at its flanks, giving Aceh a greater enduring value than any single currency could give printed paper.
Battlefield environment Aceh’s topography set separate economic and environmental effects to limit operations. The most dominant natural feature is the steep Bukit Barisan mountain range arching from the northwestern end down to and past the border at neighboring North Sumatera Province, leveling gradually towards the northern coastline, with the major valley and lower populated areas around the center at Laut Tawar, almost a miniature replica of North Sumatera’s famous inland Lake Toba over the southeastern provincial border. The Bur Ni Telong volcano in the northern-center last erupted seriously in 1924, and vulcanologists expected activity there from at least 2002. That major feature posed a potential danger to concentrated populations and industry in Bireuen, if not also Lhokseumawe and the Arun area. Seismic activity since the tsunami and serial earthquakes from late 2004 suggested heightened volcanic danger. Thick forest and jungle cover both the mountain range and islands, combining to make near-ideal sanctuary for guerrillas, but the hardest and most dangerous going for patrolling infantry. The harsh interior saw much less combat activity, though Indonesian air force and army aviation made aerial reconnaissance and bombardment in response to GAM sightings. Several coastal swamp areas hampered operations on the lowest terrain. Basic, partial terrain analysis (Map 1.2) draws on “Intelligence Preparation of the Battlespace” (IPB) doctrine as standardized in US and allied militaries (FM 1997a: 2–22). Aceh’s terrain compelled two extremes in Indonesian infantry operations. Elevated forest, undergrowth, and swampland were limited to small, specialized reconnaissance and rapid reaction units, including small boat teams and marines in coastal-estuary patrols. Most common for Indonesian soldiers were operations along the northern coastal lowlands, either from vehicles or in heavily armed defensive posts on high ground and along communications routes. These areas contained the highest concentrations of populated clusters in kampung (townships) and villages adjoining the strips of paddy and plantation merging into
18 The Aceh battlespace
Map 1.2NDeforestation 1981–96, terrain effects, and mobility to 2004.
The Aceh battlespace
19
hilly and often heavily vegetated country. Map 1.2 indicates Aceh’s restriction on movement by supply convoys, armored truck personnel carriers, and other armored vehicles, which had greatest use as highway escort along “clear” lowlands. Avenues of approach are exaggerated for clarity, but tactically unfeasible routes appear where flanked by restrictive forest and steep terrain. The depiction of “restricted going” does not rule out infantry or armored operations, but indicates impracticality and greater vulnerability for vehicles, and company- and higherlevel infantry patrols. Primary industries had a chaotic environmental effect, severely affecting landscape and inhabitants in many areas. Rapid clear-fell logging generally extended ranges of observation, fire, and movement since the mid-1980s, but ground-level visibility could actually worsen where low and dense vegetation replaced tall rainforest in some areas. Although largely replaced by scrub regrowth in many heavily logged areas over time, forest canopy seriously decreased over the two decades during Indonesia’s major campaigns from 1989 and again from 2001. On the one hand, removal of forest canopy limited concealment from the air, especially for GAM units and their civilian logistical and information networks but, on the other hand, canopy reduction allowed more effective use of GAM’s many grenade launchers. Environmental impacts were therefore mixed at the tactical level, with broadened intervisibility for surveillance, convoy protection, and easier use of direct-fire weapons, and interference to the same from dense regrowth. Indonesia’s military recognized the tactical value of forest clearance, but operations sometimes became a pretext to exploit civilians for TNI business interests. In Bireuen Regency, for example, after two months of the 2003 campaign, Army Special Forces (KOPASSUS) Group 3 Sandi Yudha counter-intelligence members (SGI from Sattis-3) conscripted local civilian labor to clear vegetation deemed GAM ambush country (Wsp 2003t). As in Papua and elsewhere, TNI– POLRI units gained revenues in burgeoning illegal clear-felling rackets (CIFOR 2000: 6).6 This was not done from specific operational considerations, but from routine business ventures described by Indonesian and other commentators as “military-dominated forestry companies.” The industry caused large-scale forest burn-off in mid-2003, smothering Aceh in haze from heavily logged Singkil and Central Aceh regencies (JkP 2003a). Despite earlier violent community resistance to logging and associated plantation enterprises, local control over traditional lands was vulnerable to national-level Interior Ministry powers and corporate interests. Across Aceh, GAM’s civilian activists demanded state forestry agencies’ disbandment (RMAP 1999), and the situation contributed to violence additional to the war itself. Business interests posed a lethal threat to activists such as Sukardi, found dead after torture in a fate very similar to that of many human rights activists in areas of actual military operations (DTE 2000). The situation likely became more drastic with increased TNI–POLRI numbers and their formalized powers in martial law from 2003. GAM’s response included a warning of environmental catastrophe from a planned 10,000-hectare palm-oil plantation on Simeulue Island (ASNLF 2003a), but GAM was ambivalent in its concern.
20 The Aceh battlespace Some logging areas offered a valuable source of resistance funds (GAM: “taxation”; in Jakarta’s view: “extortion”), but opportunities weighed against industry’s potential intrusion into GAM sanctuary and lines of communication. Soil erosion showed that logging could impede Indonesian forces’ operations, with greater risk of land- and mudslides, and unbalanced water tables rendering some valleys impassable. Drastic flooding affected Central Aceh in 1996 (mapped by DPU, Indonesia’s public works department), while both erosion and flooding destroyed the southeastern Leuser ecosystem border areas extending into North Sumatera in November 2003, and adjacent watercourses suffered seasonal extremes of flooding and drying (LDP n.d.). Lewis noted early 1990s woodland destruction as “clandestine logging” in which “multinational timber firms were clearing Indonesian forests at the rate of tens of thousands of acres a day,” from which officially protected areas of Aceh’s centre and southeast did not escape (Lewis 1995: 21, 53–4). Combined mountainous obstacles, poor roads, and a well-armed rebel presence prevented devastation on Kalimantan’s scale over the same period. But logging exceeded 70 percent in most of East Aceh and areas in the west and south, though there was no National Forest Inventory data for Leuser National Park (IHN n.d.). Road degradation regularly plagued the highway along the steep western and southern ranges, shown in more extreme effects to 40 m above sea level after the December 2004 tsunami. Official sources gave inconsistent information about Aceh’s infrastructure. Some maps showed “national” and “provincial” roads as part a confident spread of alternative and established overland routes. DPU claimed that the province and its capital Banda Aceh linked to the rest of Sumatera via three main traffic routes: the “eastern” route of the Medan–Banda Aceh highway along the northern coast; “central” meandering through the mountainous interior; and “western” paralleling the southern coast (kimpraswil 2001). Detail revealed the western and central routes’ narrowness and vulnerability to bad weather. Other DPU maps showed flood-prone areas, with major portions of western and central routes removed or not completed. As barely linked secondary and unsealed roads by 2002, the “central” route was particularly unreliable (DPU 1999, n.d.; bakosurtanal 2003). Erosion, general degradation, and GAM’s operational priorities made overland transport to the interior most vulnerable to ambush, whether along Pidie Regency’s southern “death road,” or its parallel to Central Aceh (Bireuen–Takengon), where landslides blocked supply convoys in early 2002 (Wsp 2002a).
Civilians: ethnicity and religion Aceh contained several ethnic and subethnic groupings in a population totaling 4–4.7 million. Foreign observer and official Indonesian figures into 2003 regularly claimed totals of 4.1–4.3 million inhabitants, but sums were confounded by several inconsistent official sources numbering constituent populations into a possible “floating” figure of around 500,000 people (see p. 48). The study needed more reliable information to the time of writing, but ethnicity was clearly one of
The Aceh battlespace
21
its critical aspects: the largest ethnic group of Acehnese was said to comprise between 75 and 90 percent of the population. Calculations were hampered by large and frequent exodus by indigenes and migrants, but an economically driven influx in formal and unregulated migration was an ongoing and often unrecognized challenge in counting totals and ethnic proportions. A distinct “Acehnese” ethnicity subdivided in seven separate dialects predominated throughout the province, but less so at the north Sumatera border, the central and southeast interior, and southern islands. Acehnese were most populous in settlements from Banda Aceh in the west and across the northern and eastern lowlands. Mixture and assimilation flowed with the Malacca Strait to leave no genetically identifiable Acehnese “racial” type, though some scholars traced Tamil and highland Indochinese influences. Pre-Dutch sultanates established some lasting Acehnese presence elsewhere in northern and other areas of Sumatera7 (and to a lesser extent in modern Malaysia), which helped explain the ASNLF’s rejection of Indonesian sovereignty over several other areas in Sumatera (FK 1999g). Besides refugee movement overseas and into other provinces, many itinerant (perantau) Acehnese men carried on a wanderer tradition common to many ethnic groups in Sumatera and elsewhere. The next indigenous ethnic group was the Karo Batak-descended highland Gayo people, covering two subethnic groups (Toa and Uken), and four dialects8 at some five percent of the population. Similar indigenous groups included the southeastern Gayo-related Alas people mixed from other Batak (Pakpak and Mandailing) origin from north Sumatera, and the mixed Batak-descended Kluet peoples in south Aceh communities. Other parts of south and west Aceh were home to small groups of the Minangkabau-descended Aneuk Jamee. The mixed Ulu–Singkil (Acehnese–Karo Batak–Minangkabau) settled by the border’s south, with three outlying subgroups identified as the Simalur (also called Long Bano) in the southern islands including Simeulue. In the eastern wetlands by north Sumatera, the Tamiang group related to their Malay cousins in Deli-Serdang further from the provincial border. Established in centuries of residence, settler groups generally mixed into the wider native Acehnese and Gayo populace. For example, local anecdote used “Acehnese” to identify descendants of less cohesive migration by Javanese workers in the Dutch period; or in parts of Aceh Jaya Regency “Acehnese” included discernible European descent (believed to be Portuguese, if not also Dutch). Aceh’s largest migrant communities came from Java. Often generalized as “Javanese,” these groups also comprised ethnic Sundanese, Betawi, and Madurese, for example, and transplanted ethnic Javanese dubbed Puja Kesuma (Putra Jawa Kelahiran Sumatera, “Sumatera-born ethnic Javanese sons”), long separated from their original home. A centrally planned influx of government-sponsored transmigrants from the island of Java combined with less official contracted and seasonal workers from elsewhere in Sumatera, especially Medan, in a fluctuating nonlocal workforce. However, most nonindigenous civilians were ethnic Javanese, just as most TNI–POLRI nonorganic troops came from the country’s most central, densely populated island and its single largest ethnicity. Publicly available transmigration and workforce statistics left obvious gaps in explaining the
22 The Aceh battlespace province’s ethnic composition, which could partly explain anomalous population figures. Despite a large ethnic Javanese exodus from Aceh since the late 1990s, a senior Javanese loyalist militia leader claimed a total of half a million Javanese there by late 2003 (API 2003), apparently missed in many observer and government hierarchy sums. Islam influenced Acehnese resistance in two main senses: firstly as a foundation of moral and political guidance in concepts of justice; and secondly as a distinct Islamic culture with inherited local political roles incorporating theocratic elements. Islamic practice in Aceh has been variously described as “fundamentalist orthodox” and “devout syncretist.” Arbitrary genealogical accounts emphasize Aceh’s inclusion within the Sunni strain of Islam, but this generalization tends to obliterate subtle yet strong differences from other areas of the archipelago. Bakker (1993) and Kingsbury (2003: 224) noted animist, Sufist, and other mystic influences, while Aceh’s idiosyncratic and sometimes unorthodox Islamic traditions even appeared in British tourist-writer Norman Lewis’ (1995: 19, 23) brief encounter. Javanese cultural historian Simuh (1995: 52–5) recognized Acehnese Sufism’s profound effect, from one extreme in a “polytheistic” version under Sultan Iskandar Muda in the seventeenth century, to its more orthodox monotheistic Islamic mysticism, consolidating then spreading to Java. Acehnese Islam had stronger Shi’ite and Indic origins than most other areas in the archipelago (Bakker 1993; Nasir Tamara 2000). Sufist and other local Islamic heritage helped explain Aceh’s rejection of the revivalist twentieth-century Muhammadiyah movement so influential in the rise of Indonesian nationalism (Flynn 2000). Islamic political tradition was at least part of the distinction, by which Aceh’s peculiar systems made traditional Acehnese Islamic clerics (ulama) integral to bicameral-style power structures (Pragolapati 1982: 40–1). Especially important in village-level political life, ulama maintained a leading influence seen amid the public groundswell of referendum demands (II 2000b), and obvious in the teungku titles among GAM’s field commanders.9 Indonesia’s centralist government tried to streamline and control the ulama through MUI (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, Indonesian Clerics Council), just as it sought to impose fundamentally different templates upon complex Acehnese systems of gampong (township), mukim (roughly subdistrict), and meunasah (mosque) in a web of place-names often confounding visitors, and not easily fitting Indonesian hierarchies of civil administration (II 1999b). Tension continued between centralist Indonesian Islam and its idiosyncratic Acehnese cousin. From 1998, Jakarta facilitated discrete jihadist elements into nonindigenous settlements of Aceh. Coupled with Jakarta-based Islamist preaching and syariah codes, Aceh’s war contained obvious elements of intrareligious conflict.
Pollution, poverty, and “resistance as collective reason” In Indonesia all movements that smack of opposition are labeled “subversive.” The government targets participants of these movements wherever they may hide. One day, a middle-aged man named Rapi appeared at the Office of
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Social Services, before President Gus Dur suspended that office’s business. Rapi asked the staff member on duty: “Is this the headquarters for forces fighting the war on poverty?” “Yes, you’ve come to the right place,” the official replied. “Well, I’m here to turn myself in!” Kartini M. Sabi, Sigli high school student, Pidie, June 2000 (Kontras 2000a) Environmental effects on the population went beyond poor infrastructure. Soil erosion, mostly from logging by Bob Hasan’s PT Alas Helau, muddied the Laut Tawar mountain lake and adjoining waterways to nearly annihilate traditional fishing livelihoods, while average temperatures rose to the point that traders no longer provided leaf-wrapped solid palm oil traditionally possible because of the cool valley air. Pollutants from iron ore mining ventures in Pidie and Greater Aceh regencies affected coastal fisheries. People of South Aceh reportedly suffered rapacious methods of PT Hargas Industri Timber in intimidation, setting alight rural huts, seizing woodcutting tools, denying local access to forests, and casting accusations of timber theft. Uncompromising economic pressure produced another case of non-insurgency violence when enraged locals and students burned down base camps of PT South Aceh and PT Medan Remaja Timber (DTE 2000). Petrochemical resources in migas altered the ecosystem too. Gas extraction, processing, and downstream local industry in fertilizer, paper, and electricity production generally affected the population’s welfare (ICE 2001). Degraded water quality reduced earning capacity for many small fishery businesses in the northern lowlands. Pollution’s harm to local livelihoods became an indirect operational effect on the war, because more people were available to support directly or even join GAM with an urgency born of hostile resentment and nothing to lose, exacerbated by Indonesian forces’ reported plunder and extortion of these lucrative businesses, especially the prawn farms in the northern lowlands. Aceh’s populace enjoyed little of the riches gained from pollution: Tempo cited a 1997 budget record showing a portion of just 0.05 percent (Tempo 1999d). Indonesian sources listed Aceh as the state’s seventh-poorest province (Aksara 2000; Tempo 2000–1). An Indonesian Islamist charity backed the view in mapping families living in poverty per province (forumzakat n.d.). Official figures claimed over half of Aceh’s recognized village settlements as poverty-stricken (Ant 2000), and at least around half its working population (over 1 million adults) unemployed (Aceh Center n.d.). Those figures were potentially misleading as a picture of actual Acehnese living standards and wealth distribution: if not ameliorated by the relatively high incomes for largely non-Acehnese technical and administrative support both within government and the fossil fuel industry, Aceh could have listed as Indonesia’s poorest province. Impoverishment had not reduced by the time of martial law in 2003, though some official statistics graded levels of poverty, rendering some 36 percent as “absolutely poor,” or more generally at 44 percent (around 1.6 million people), and severest in rural areas at 72 percent of townships and villages classed “unsatisfactory” by Indonesian
24 The Aceh battlespace living standards (Kmp 2003p).10 Although Indonesian statistics obviously varied in their interpretations of “poor,” the population’s wretched condition had clearly changed little by 2004, when 60 percent of Acehnese were classed as “poor” by national standards (Anl 2004c). In education Aceh fared arguably worse as the lowest state-funded per capita, but a 2001 UN Development Program survey conversely rated it ninth in schooling duration, and fourteenth in adult literacy rates (UNDP 2001). Those statistics probably did not specifically reflect the existence of unofficial, or non-Indonesian, education systems then run in GAM-controlled areas. However, the UNDP’s recourse to funding figures for Indonesiancontrolled areas of highest population density around the northern regencies and the capital indicated the wider inequality and indifference, if not active discrimination, practiced by Jakarta. Despite the generally recognized poverty, Aceh’s conversely higher schooling and literacy rates suggested education’s importance in Acehnese society (the Gayo too had a reputation in that regard). Important to the war’s escalation from 2001 was the tide of Acehnese referendum demands following the granting of the same to East Timor in late 1998. The war’s civilian dimension became clearer when considering ethnicity and history under the superstructure of overseas- and Jakarta-based profit from Aceh’s natural resources. In this sense, resistance expressed as a collective demand for referendum in parallel to that passed in East Timor. Whether explicitly articulated in text, voice, or action, such collective “resistance will” emphatically expressed not a belief or obedience to direction by a GAM elite, but a clear “situation awareness” based on experience and mature human intelligence: the Indonesian state could not initiate an adjustment into any meaningful fairness, even if it so wanted. The swell of Acehnese pro-referendum protest in late 1999 reached a crescendo from throngs numbering to seven figures in the capital, and at highest estimates of 2 million people, or more than half of Aceh’s entire adult population (BB 1999b; Radio68H 1999a, b; RNW 1999; Srb 1999k; Lindorf 2002). Jakarta daily Berita Buana (BB 1999c) estimated pro-independence sentiment at 90 percent in the event of a referendum, which political insider Jusuf Wanandi saw as the country’s greatest regional challenge (Maher 2000: 248). Such was the additional demographic challenge set for the TNI, POLRI, and the Indonesian government: if the 90 percent figure was accurate, then Acehnese independence sentiment arguably exceeded East Timor’s in its late-1999 internationally supervised referendum. A small poll gave a slightly lower independence support at 83 percent, while internet polling at 52.74 percent smacked of nonlocal and loyalist overuse of that open ballot. GAM itself initially kept a distance from the referendum issue, apparently unconvinced of its usefulness, and not as some central coordinating hierarchy driving public demonstrations for a self-determination ballot (FK 1999b, c). Indonesian forces made little distinction between civilians and guerrillas. Historical TNI–POLRI counter-insurgency success involved the targeting of both, albeit separately and in detail, causing widespread civilian injury and death. In 1999 activist Munir Said Thalib brought attention to TNI documents explicitly revealing institutional TNI hostility to Acehnese civilians. On the surface, the
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25
documents seemed routinely bureaucratic: details pertaining to the Jaring Merah (lit. ‘Red Net’) operations numbered I to VIII from 1994 to 1998; demographic maps of Acehnese civilian concentrations; and KOPASSUS operations in Aceh. But buried within the documents’ text were TNI categorizations of the civilian community as “the enemy,” contradicting TNI claims to Indonesia’s parliament (Radio68H 1999c). While hardly remarkable for a military used to protracted, local insurgency warfare, basic TNI doctrine seemed to confirm Munir’s concerns. Doctrinal formats for patrol orders made no allowance for civilians: anyone encountered in the area of operations could only be regarded as either enemy or friendly (mabesad 1984: 28; pussenif 1995: 71–8, 90). Those operational templates probably made some in conventional militaries wince, but they reflected a basic reality of Indonesian statehood. The TNI engaged in continual internal security operations from its birth to maintain “unity in diversity” (bhinneka tunggal ika): its combat patrols invariably confronted insurgents to various extents supported by, and based within, local civilian populations. Contrary to generally conservative “low” death counts of “2000–3000” from operations to 1992, Aceh’s war-widows reportedly exceeded 100,000 thereafter (Tempo 1999d).11 While popular support for GAM already appeared high, many victimized civilians would become more direct contributors to Acehnese resistance as guerrillas or unarmed agents, in civilians’ response to economic pressures (including opportunistic corruption), environmental destruction, population displacement, and related demographic tensions. Non-native groups generally concentrated in busiest areas of primary industry, i.e. around the petrochemical projects of North Aceh, areas of heavy logging in the center, east and southeast, and intensive plantations throughout the lowlands, especially in monoculture palm-oil plantations replacing forest or smaller, diverse local agriculture. Industrial forest clearing often tied specifically to future transmigrant settlements, planned ostensibly to rescue areas “from backwardness and isolation” (Srb 2003c). As seen throughout Indonesia, aggressive Indonesian forestry and plantation enterprises could excite local antipathy, especially amid allegedly unlawful appropriation of traditional farming lands. Applying more “rule of averages” than counter-intelligence rigor, Indonesia’s authorities typically accused such protesting farmers as GAM members. But natural resource depletion was crucial to GAM motivation, suggesting its deadline for viable independence. World Bank estimates of forest clearance in Sumatera (Tempo 2002b) located the year 2010 as the limit for Aceh’s timber resources; another study (DTE 2000) mooted the same time for gas reserves, though that was possibly the more alarmist, worst-case perspective missing those fields found in ongoing exploration, but still awaiting production.
GAM strength Indonesian acronyms showed a preoccupation with the threat posed by the armed Acehnese resistance, or GAM. Just as variations of the word “rice” reflected its dietary importance in Indonesian-Malay (and other local languages and dialects), Indonesia’s government and military tried replacing the basic, commonly
26 The Aceh battlespace understood GAM acronym into various permutations, increasingly pejorative as resistance strength grew. The nonexhaustive list of Table 1.1 shows far more names than those given GAM’s counterparts in East Timor’s FALINTIL or Papua’s OPM, both of which typically fell under the generic GPK (Gerakan Pengacau Keamanan, lit. Security Disturbers Movement) in TNI–POLRI records. Bureaucratic creativity in derogatory, generic epithets intended mainly to minimize any sense of GAM’s military strength, sophistication, and popular support.
Table 1.1NComparative counterinsurgency lexicon: Jakarta’s Acehnese resistance enemy and own forces GAM Acronym
Expansion
GAM Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (original) GPK Gerakan Pengacau Keamanan GPK-AM Gerakan Pengacau Keamanan – Aceh Merdeka GPK-HT Gerakan Pengacau Keamanan – Hasan Tiro GBPK Gerakan Bersenjata Pengacau Keamanan GSA Gerombolan Separatis Aceh GSAM Gerombolan Separatis Aceh Merdeka GSBA Gerombolan Separatis Bersenjata Aceh GPL-HT Gerombolan Pengacau Liar – Hasan Tiro GBSL-HT Gerombolan Bersenjata Separatis Liar – Hasan Tiro Pok krim Kelompok kriminal – Gerakan Islam Aceh Merdekaa –
Gerakan Negara Islam Aceh Merdekaa
Translation Free Aceh Movement Security Disturbance " Free Aceh " " " Hasan Tiro’s " " Armed " " Aceh Separatist Gang Free " " Armed " " Hasan Tiro’s Wild Disturbance Gang Hasan Tiro’s " Armed Separatist " Criminal group Free Aceh Islamic Movementa Free Aceh Islamic State Movementa
" " " "
Note a Less frequent epithets in KOPASSUS usage from at least the early 1990s, cited interchangeably with ‘GPK’, ‘GAM’, etc.
TNI–POLRI operational terms for ground formation/task force (TF) types Category
Compatible term /subcategory
General administrative
Remarks Applicable to various specific categories
Organic
Integral formation HQ, units & troops
Contextual term, also applied in sub-units
Non-organic
Units & troops detached by other hierarchy
Attached into base or separate new command (Continued)
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Table 1.1N(Continued) Varying with doctrine & level of command
Specific operational Territorial (satter/apter – territorial units/ apparatus) ‘static’
Territorial command (Koter)
Combat (satpur – combat units) ‘mobile’
Operations command (Koops) Combat TF (Satgas Tempur)
“Under operational control” (BKO) Territorial TF (Satgaster) “Framework” unit (kerangka) “Security” force (pengaman)
Mobile TF (Satgas Mobil) “Strike” unit (pemukul) “Pursuit/hunter” company (pemburu)
Covering local (‘organic’) HQ & units Generic term for transferred command & control Units under territorial hierarchy Applicable to tactical level Applicable to tactical level Previously Kolakops Also previously termed ‘Land TF’ (Satgas Darat) Interchangeable with later ‘Combat TF’ Also covering ‘raider’ battalions Can cover some POLRI ‘hunter-attack’ (buser)
Intelligence & recon
Intelligence TF (SGI) Special Forces “Combat Reconnaissance” platoon (taipur) “Scout/reconnaissance” force (pengintai )
With Intelligence Support TF (Satgasbanintel) Previously ‘Reconnaissance and Security’ (taikam) Applicable to tactical level
Other/support
Civil aid works (bhakti / TMMD)
In Aceh, mostly by engineer units Various rear-echelon troops
Administrative Support TF (satgasbanmin)
Note “Ground formation” covers all army, police, marine (navy), and air force troops in ground role. Sub categories not mutually exclusive, but defined by distinctive primary role or separate chain of command. For example: “strike” detachments (denkul) comprised “pursuit companies”; some “territorial” units could perform local “scout” or “pursuit” tasks; and special forces units deployed into territorial structure and “combat” TF formations, depending on role.
While obviously criminalizing labels in many cases, another subtler and cunning aim was to describe Indonesia’s Acehnese enemy as an essentially divided or at least gullible group of malcontents with differing and unclear goals, whether merely criminal and opportunistic, or ethnoreligious. Few of Jakarta’s names for GAM suggested an exclusively Islamist enemy: those that did apparently came from KOPASSUS usage, reflecting that elite command’s sinister reputation for manipulating inter- and intrareligious tensions; “playing the Green (Islamist) Card” in Indonesian political culture.12 In light of the near-universal secular nomenclature for GAM, KOPASSUS’ emphasis on GAM as an “independent Islamic state” perhaps said more about KOPASSUS and its shrewd marketing of
28 The Aceh battlespace itself as a dependable force standing between mullahs and Western embassies, mining interests, etc. Regardless, all such lexical energy describing Acehnese resistance suggested the cognitive dissonance in Jakarta’s war against the direct descendants of the archipelago’s most enduring anticolonial struggle. Assessments of GAM’s total military membership needed to distinguish between standing, auxiliary, and reserve strengths. By 2002, the total force reached between 25,000 and 27,000 “active members” (Ross 2002; Martinkus 2004: 72) including reserves of age,13 with a realistic increase to 35,000 from trained reserves of age mobilized in March–April 2003. GAM’s base “standing” strength of 5000 was reached by the end of 1999’s pro-referendum demonstrations: its own oft-quoted figure actually minimized rather than inflated membership total, despite defector Yusuf Daud’s mischievous comments that the number was used to justify increased TNI deployment (Srb 2000a). Kingsbury (2003: 224) conservatively estimated over “10,000 armed part-timers” additional to 3000–4000 regulars over the same period. By mid-2003, the standing or regular strength had mobilized to at least 6000 – Ayah Sofyan’s basic figure in 2002. An auxiliary part-timer force moved between townships and GAM’s highcountry bases, usually armed, often preferring pistols or submachine guns for concealment. In TNI counter-insurgency parlance, GAM auxiliaries were the klandestin revealed in details of earlier East Timor operations (Budiardjo 1984: 169–244). GAM could theoretically mobilize a maximum armed force more than doubling its standing main force. Issues of logistics, command, communications, intelligence, and strategy all deterred any wider mobilization of the standing main force: ammunition compatibility was essential, while command and communications needed an experienced leadership cadre, not merely extra troops. Most importantly, commitment of auxiliaries or part-timers could place them at greater risk, for little gain, sacrificing their contribution as support networks of underaged trainees, couriers, “sleepers,” and other agents. It would be incompatible with guerrillas’ mission: GAM’s priority was not to seize and hold ground from its enemy in a conventional sense, but to survive while reasserting its threat via “hit and run.” In the New Order’s DOM period from 1989, TNI generals trivialized GAM’s actual strength into a small band of local malcontents and opportunists, or even nonindigenous bandits and TNI deserters. Rizal Sukma, for example, traced such curious official Soeharto-era accounts, including statements by Try Sutrisno and other generals claiming an insignificant GAM threat (as low as 30 members) against a subsequent increased troop deployment (EWC 2004b), and GAM’s Libya training for at least two battalion-sized leadership and instructor cadres in 1986–9, as summarized by Schulze (EWC 2004a). A cadre of Libyan-trained guerrillas remained within GAM’s ranks, including many commanders and GAM Commander-in-Chief Muzakkir Manaf. However, the bulk of GAM troops come not from that long-discontinued internationalist training regime, notwithstanding later sensationalist, unsubstantiated, and, at least initially, contrived reports of some GAM–Al Qaeda link. Upon reformasi, POLRI later made similarly loose and inconsistent claims: between 500 and 1000 GAM fighters, and just 2000
The Aceh battlespace
29
GAM if counting sympathizers (Kasminto 2003: 27, 44). KODAM Chief Endang Suwarya (Srb 2004g) stated 8500 GAM in May 2003 reduced to 2500 by October 2004 or Ryamizard (SM 2003c, d), paralleling POLRI’s hyperbolic fantasy: “600–700 remaining GAM” after just over two months of operations to July 2003. To replace those killed, wounded, and captured, GAM field units and their auxiliaries replenished from local area reserves. Contrary to some bombastic TNI claims, GAM was an all-volunteer organization, and by the time of writing there was no identified shortage of volunteers for the Acehnese resistance. One SBS TV report (Dateline 2003) contradicted TNI disinformation on this point by revealing a clumsy TNI set-piece in Bireuen (either Jeumpa or Peusangan), where five Marine Battalion presented roving journalists with an Acehnese youth purportedly “admitting” that he was “forced to join GAM.” The claim was hotly rejected and ridiculed by local female civilians, who described the youth’s beating at the marines’ hands, while the recording made clear his own facial injuries, loss of teeth, and barely suppressed indignation and insolence. Other cases described youths, almost certainly trained reservists, individually taking initiative against Indonesian forces, especially in cases of scouts coerced by TNI patrols when they reasoned there was nothing left to lose. Both sides misled on the issue of total GAM membership. GAM was discrete about its auxiliary (klandestin) network and its part-timer operations in and out of populated areas, broadly claiming all non-main force casualties as non-GAM civilian victims, i.e. as additional cases of Indonesian atrocity. TNI–POLRI spanned extremes of presenting GAM’s membership and wide support base as small or trivial, on the one hand, while on the other claiming many “GAM KIA” from among auxiliaries, reserves, relatives, and other civilians with little or no incidental relationship to the resistance. Basic induction training of six and a half weeks appeared the norm for GAM’s reserve pool in 2002–3, though this varied with many volunteers achieving crash course shortcuts in field mentoring as reward for seizing TNI–POLRI weapons on their own initiative in order to gain fast entry to GAM units. Systematic effort built sophisticated training facilities: a TNI report from East Aceh noted an extensive base with firing ranges, obstacle course, drill area, and observation towers (LIN 2003a). Jawa Pos (JwP 2003c) indicated hundreds of GAM recruits training in Bireuen as late as May 2003, noting a sudden absence of young men in the streets of nearby townships, simultaneous with the hundreds known to be in training under Darwis Djeunib, GAM’s Bireuen chief. Some speculative reports claimed GAM training elsewhere in Indonesia, or even the Philippines, but that was implausible given practical issues of security, logistics, and redundancy from (post-Libya) local experience and training areas. POLRI outlandishly claimed a GAM training center in Garut Regency, West Java, but that probably covered a more sensitive and sinister threat in a local jihadist training area (SH 2003g). Another indicator of GAM’s wide membership was its cells outside of Aceh itself. GAM had significant support in North Sumatera’s borderlands, helped by a population up to 60 percent ethnic Acehnese in some areas (Wsp 2003u). Established ties brought GAM into presence in other areas of Sumatera: the
30 The Aceh battlespace ASNLF’s inclusion of “Sumatera” in its title was no mere ambition. That wider spread embarrassed Jakarta’s administration, as Medan daily Analisa (Anl 2001) gingerly reported TNI–POLRI operations in North Sumatera’s Deli-Serdang as some general law-enforcement drive, only to publicize the war’s spread in later reporting two months later (Anl 2002a) and subsequently. As Indonesian forces extended operations to GAM’s outlying networks, some fierce firefights took place between GAM’s North Sumatera units and local territorial TNI–POLRI troops. Conversely, GAM networks had only a minor, clandestine presence in metropolitan Java, although nowhere matching the interethnic suspicion and paranoia that grew after Jakarta’s Governor MAJGEN (ret’d) Sutiyoso and others warned of covert and clandestine GAM threats. Arrests and interrogations based on subsequent rumors apparently yielded little besides an apparent TNI-linked ammunition supply to Jakarta’s south (Tempo 2002e), and antagonizing many Acehnese-descended citizens probably converting some assimilated loyalist Jakartanese into GAM supporters by default. Metropolitan Java’s clandestine GAM presence would take form as very informal human intelligence and logistics networks, despite whatever exaggerated military formation it called itself in order to confuse and disturb Jakarta’s leadership into a disproportionate response.
GAM organization and command The most important aspect of GAM’s structure was its essentially decentralized and flexible nature, nearly opposite to military and other bureaucratic uniformity. Those organizational dynamics were not immediately apparent in the resistance’s basic government administrative regions (wilayah) divided along traditional lines, further subdivided as districts (ulee sagoe), subdistricts (mukim), and down to villages (gampong) headed by local chieftains (keuchik). Centralized control moderated into customary local grass-roots councils, and GAM’s “territorial” divisions rarely corresponded to Indonesia’s Interior Ministry (DEPDAGRI) regency and district divisions, except in the former’s expansion from 2002, when GAM apparently responded to Indonesian government restructure. Acehnese naming of territories often differed too, and not only in distinctive spelling. Subdistricts were numbered in a simple hierarchy seen in the Dutch era, though the coexisting structure for field command was apparently streamlined in mid-2002.14 Field units were categorized into “company” level, though most operations used rough equivalents of “fire team” (UK “brick”), section- or platoon-strength subunits. “Battalion” identities had little practical meaning beyond local coordination of companies under the direction of the most senior company commander, who usually doubled as wilayah chief. GAM’s use of “battalion” referred to an arbitrary grouping in some areas, rarely over 400-strong, but by the TNI’s mid2003 campaign GAM rapidly restructured its forces into basic maneuver elements equivalent to independent companies.15 Although unconfirmed at the time of writing, the actual combined strength of GAM’s standing forces in higherpriority areas from Pidie to Peureulak probably reached between three and five “battalions” per regency. For example, the local TNI Strike Detachment
The Aceh battlespace
31
commander in Sawang District, North Aceh, assessed some 400 local GAM fighters (Tempo 2003b) in a rough numerical battalion equivalent to his own Satgas Rajawali formation. Applied throughout North Aceh alone, such distribution of GAM strength calculated approximately to a strong force of some 20 GAM independent “company-minus” units.16 Map 1.3 depicts discernible main force deployments and operational emphases of Acehnese resistance with TNI territorial boundaries superimposed for comparison. That snapshot arbitrarily categorizes “subordinate” areas relegated to support roles in GAM’s hierarchy of operational priority. Within the traditional wilayah structure, operational priorities determined mobilization, weapons distribution, and effective seniority in field command. Those priorities could change, and not all main areas contained a corresponding emphasis on military force: Teumieng and Langkat areas concentrated on logistics activity, whereas Linge became a distinct counter-intelligence focus in response to Indonesian geopolitical campaign of paramilitary infiltration and civilian migration. GAM’s own reporting over time made it clear that its forces did not distribute in proportion to its civil administration. In most cases in the field, GAM’s lower command levels followed the ASNLF supreme executive’s leadership process: area commanders made general direction, limitation, and supervision for subordinate “company” units. In 2003–4 the nearest GAM forces had to an active reserve force were the units of the western highlands and southern Pidie: logistical and security constraints prevented GAM from concentrating a “commander’s reserve” in the more conventional sense. In practice, GAM’s northern forces would draw from local trainees to meet immediate needs in covering losses and shifting operational priorities. Press reports of GAM parades exaggerated the Inong Balee “units” comprising female victims of TNI–POLRI repression, including wives of KIA or imprisoned guerrillas. GAM publicity effectively exploited the memory of female militancy embodied by such legendarily heroic female anti-Dutch resistance commanders as Cut Nyak Dhien and Cut Meutia; Inong Balee took their name from the female soldiers centuries earlier led by a woman admiral, Keumalahayati, against the imperialist Portuguese. The Inong Balee theme often influenced Indonesian news magazine coverage to strengthen impressions of GAM’s popular legitimacy. An implied revenge motive in Inong Balee could spook the soldiers of the all-male TNI–POLRI combat units, while aiding resistance morale by seeming to demonstrate retributive justice for crimes against Aceh’s women. GAM units involved many females in weapons and other training, and individual females were reported in several firefights. However, GAM’s females mainly served auxiliary functions in intelligence and communications.17 Probably out of pragmatic concern for Aceh’s child-bearers, GAM higher command ordered its all-female units back to populated areas by the start of the TNI’s mid-May 2003 campaign. Extensive networks of auxiliaries and civilians collected information on TNI– POLRI forces, while a cadre of GAM veterans and police (bentara) monitored local Indonesian collaborators, covert Indonesian infiltration, and discipline within GAM itself. A counterpoint to generally larger-scale targeting of GAM networks
32 The Aceh battlespace Pulo Acheh Sabang (PAS)
Putoih Kawat
Muzakkir Manaf (-)
RAJEUK
Gajah Keng
(+)Tgk Hamzah
(+)
Leuek Banggona Tgk Darwis Djeunib
BATÉE BATEE ILIEK
(-) Rimueng Nagan Tgk Geulawa Puntong MEUREUHOM DAJA (-) Tjiek Tgk Syukri Ahmad Di Kila Tgk Ramli Syarif Meulaboh (-) Badeuek Pungo Tgk Djuragan (-) Kaye Raya Tgk Arifin Seudong Aweuk Badeuek Unit name Pungo Tgk Darwis Djeunib
TUNONG Luwes
40
60
80 100 km
(-)
Tgk Abu Sofyan Dawood
PIDIE
TIRO
20 (+)
(-) Rimueng Bueh Tgk Syamsul Bahri
Sarjani Abdullah
(-)
SAMUDRA PASEE
PEUREULAK LINGE
Tgk Ishak Daud
TEUMIENG Luwes
TUNONG
(-) Rimueng Tapa Tgk Mukhlis Subordinate operational area
Unit / area commander Operational area
TNI-assessed GAM support / control
Alas
LANGKAT DeliSerdang
Tapaktuan Asahan
(Mid to late 2003) Singkil Tgk Din
Sinabang Frequency Assault & single-shot rifles More (b) AR: SS-1 etc., AK-101 etc., AUG High AR: AK-47 / AKM / Type 56 etc., M-16A1, SS-1 etc., SKS etc. Moderate AR: SP-1 etc.,* VZ-58 M-1 Garand* Low AR: HK-33, G-3 etc. SMLE*, Arisaka* M-1 & M-2 Carbine* Notes: “ “
Full-auto: machine guns HE & other weapons LMG: Minimi, Ultim ax IED. Improv. GLM (40mm) LMG: RPD. SMG: Madsen, Suomi, LAW: RPG7 etc. Carl Gustav ‘K’, Improv. GLM (40mm). IED LMG: Minimi LAW: RPG2 etc., improv. SMG: M-3, M-12S, PPS-43 etc.* GL: M-79. Shotgun (12 ga)* LMG: ZB-26 / Bren etc.*, BAR GL: M-203 MMG: SG-43*. HMG: M-2* / DShK* LAW: Bazooka (3.5")*, 3rd & SMG: M-3, Austen, Owen, MAT-49*, 4th gen. LAW (c) Sten, Thompson, MP-5, VZ-61 M-18A1 Claymore AP mine
”
”
Map 1.3NIdentified GAM units, names, weaponry, and TNI-assessed area of GAM control.
The Aceh battlespace
33
and suspects by KOPASSUS–BAIS counterparts, select teams and bentara featured in assassinations and detentions of Indonesian informers and other collaborators deemed threatening to GAM operations and personnel. Similar counter-intelligence duties included the 2001 detention of three TVRI technicians allegedly complicit with Indonesian forces in fatal atrocities against civilians (Srb 2001h). More publicized was the 2003 detention of Ersa Siregar’s RCTI television crew traveling through East Aceh in the company of two wives of TNI officers, allegedly spying on GAM locations under cover of a journalist’s vehicle. The most serious GAM internal security matter came to light in the defection of GAM’s senior treasurer in April 2003, accused of defrauding local funds when he fled into TNI–POLRI protective custody before GAM minders could detain or kill him. Partly due to its traditional semi-autonomous civil administration, GAM’s lack of uniform control gave localized grass-roots energy and durability under pressure. GAM’s reporting reflected local style and conditions: East Aceh units, for example, differed from those in Pidie and West Aceh, as local networks gathered and passed information according to their own priorities and capability. Units in the west and south usually depended on those near the capital for passing detailed information. Observer Kirsten Schulze (EWC 2004a: 13, 14) assessed GAM’s decentralized command structure as one that “undermined coordination, discipline and control” thus: “…the Sweden leadership issues only general directives or parameters to the Panglima AGAM/TNA…The actual decisions on strategy and tactics are made at the field commander level.” Contrary to that critique, and ignoring its apparent confusion of “strategy” with “tactics,” Schulze’s description of GAM’s command style fulfilled the expectations of modern flexible armies. If preferring remote, linear control as some (imagined) normal military hierarchy, field commanders would have no independence of thought or action in response to local conditions. Schulze’s implied “micro-managerial” norm would hinder local initiative, passage of information, planning, and coordination in the field, causing clumsiness and unnecessary vulnerability in a conventional standing army; for a guerrilla force like GAM it would fast bring disaster. Such strict, distant direction could also jeopardize morale: commanders and troops would perceive their chiefs (in a separate hemisphere and climate) treating subordinates as irresponsible, unthinking, and immature. Therefore, Schulze’s critique ironically revealed ASNLF–GAM’s use of “directive control” principles from modern military philosophy’s “maneuver theory” in “third-generation warfare.”18 GAM could take heart from such encouraging criticism; it was less clear whether GAM’s Indonesian enemy nurtured similar freethinking leadership culture and philosophy. ASNLF command of GAM units indicated the resistance strategy adopted in 2004: probably the intended focus of Schulze’s critique. Potential GAM– ASNLF coordination weaknesses appeared in the strategic-political context, or international realm of “fourth generation warfare” (4GW), as arguably alluded in McCulloch’s (II 2005b) discussion on international solidarity for Acehnese resistance. Nonetheless, GAM’s higher-level deficiencies were less a problem
34 The Aceh battlespace of command style or philosophy than practical matters of communications and security, along with diplomatic vulnerabilities in international legalistic perceptions of their struggle and a relative indifference (especially in the West) to a Muslim people’s resistance. Therefore, GAM adopted a high-risk strategy informed by Jakarta’s earlier krismon (monetary crisis) from 1997 and the opportunities it afforded both East Timorese and Acehnese independence struggles. Accordingly, the ASNLF’s Malik Mahmood specified GAM’s operational aim to strain Jakarta’s economy to the extent that expensive military repression would cause enough domestic and international impatience to make Acehnese independence a feasible international solution, if not a fait accompli in an Indonesian state implosion. Before the December 2004 tsunami, emphasis on nonviolent political agitation with negligible armed resistance (similar to FALINTIL) was not a realistic option for GAM: international support was inadequate, while Jakarta would more easily attack and infiltrate unarmed networks.
Resistance armament GAM’s total armory was a more meaningful measure of its military strength, but the prevailing discourse offered little except reiterated guesswork. Some were identical, stating that around 2001: “most observers (estimated that GAM had) between 1000 and 1500 modern firearms…a few grenade launchers, even fewer rocket-propelled grenade launchers, and perhaps one or two 60 mm mortars” (ICG 2001b; EWC 2004a); or another: “were thought to have between 1000 and 2500 modern firearms, one or two 60 mm mortars, a handful of grenade launchers and some land mines” (Ross 2002). Others avoided detail altogether, generalizing “group-think” conclusions of GAM weakness into some 1500 weapons in 2003 (EWC 2004b: 25), or “a few thousand poorly armed men” (EWC 2003: 4). Precise-looking TNI “intelligence data” (EWC 2004a) insinuated that GAM used the late 2002 ceasefire to increase a purportedly modest armory: 1822 weapons in August 2002 raised to 2134 by April–May 2003 (another put “2500”, see Srb 2004g). In July 2001, however, GEN (ret’d) Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, then coordinating security minister overseeing all Aceh operations, stated 2,000 weapons (EWC 2004b), while local subordinate BRIGGEN Djali Yusuf claimed “1400 weapons” in 2002 (SktK 2002). Repetition, formal authority, and intelligence mystique helped make TNI–POLRI understatement of GAM strength an influential standard. The tendency was clear in late 1999 when KOREM 012 Chief Syarifuddin Tippe cannily quoted two intelligence estimates: “175” and “600–800”, adding his own guess of “no more than 1000 weapons” (BB 1999d). Thus did TNI–POLRI officers separately take the initiative in intelligence assessment, despite TNI Chief Endriartono’s own indiscreet admission of ignorance about GAM’s armory (see EWC 2003: 38). As in claims about total GAM membership, TNI “enemy weapons” assessments were politically loaded creations in Indonesia’s bureaucratic style of ketok magic: dubious data presented as rigorous, detailed precision from continual observation.19 The practice evolved from DOM’s more extreme denial into “plausible threat minimization” from 1998:
The Aceh battlespace
35
DOM censorship and international distraction over East Timor helped the former, whereas higher post-Soeharto interest and scrutiny of the latter merely acknowledged some resistance strength but, like Jakarta’s creative lexicon for GAM– TNA, rarely an actual army. Whether or not temporarily halted from late 2002, GAM’s procurement indicated a much stronger armory built over many years of taxation, extortion, and donation receipt. For example, “$10 million spent on weapons,” as attributed to ASNLF’s Malik Mahmood (EWC 2004a), would yield between 10,000 and 100,000 additional small arms on simple net calculations of official prices in Indonesia’s 2003 weapon buy-back scheme (Anl 2003s; Wsp 2003o). As former chief Tgk Abdullah Syafei’i explained (FK 1999g), GAM secured the bulk of its armory in caches for regulated distribution to the field, obviously rationed for operational needs and long-term force preservation. But GAM’s standing or main force of 5000–6000 was fully armed with “first line” assault rifles, light machine guns (LMG), and other support weapons. The total armory reflected four source categories: a select mixture of surplus and new production from the region’s arms market; standard and superceded TNI–POLRI weapons; incorporated leftovers from past local wars, and; improvisation. Unlike Indonesia’s more remote Papua and East Timor insurgencies, Aceh’s fed almost directly from nearby trade of Bangladesh, Burma, Indochina, Thailand, and Malaysia. The Malacca Strait gave GAM close access to competitive markets arisen from persistent regional war and gang activity linked to busy conduits of narcotics and other illicit commerce. Much weaponry was Southeast Asian war surplus, especially from Cambodia, but demand also tempted military, police, and manufacturers into the lucrative trade. A second important GAM source was local transactions with Indonesian troops, including some senior officers (Kingsbury 2003: 209), or GAM volunteers’ theft of Indonesian stocks by direct and near-suicidal weapon seizure from TNI–POLRI facilities or troops on duty. Third was GAM’s large local surplus apparent in US- and Scandinavianmade “signature” weapons of covert US supplies run via the Philippines, Singapore, Malaya, and North Sulawesi during 1950s CIA “destabilization” and its sponsorship of several anti-Sukarno insurgencies including that of GAM’s ancestral predecessors under Daud Beureueh. US histories recorded large quantities of US and European arms sent by sea from Pakistan, and CIA covert operators’ last direct shipment in Aceh’s direction in December 1958, or even as late as February 1960 (Kahin 1997: 88, 202; Conboy 1999: 156).20 Last were GAM’s “stand-in” grenade launchers and rocket launchers, and improvised explosives (see list on Map 1.3). The main force’s first line direct-fire weapons comprised those deemed most effective and easily serviced with ammunition and spare parts. Commonest were the sturdy, battle-proven Kalashnikov series (AK) and variants, especially licensebuilt Chinese models; all enduring triumphs of efficiency, mass production, and a designer’s care for user needs. The AK’s prevalence could seem unclear: TNI–POLRI nomenclature relied on informal nicknames rather than designations, regularly suffixing AK with numbers 45–7 and 56–8, whether for AK-47 variants
36 The Aceh battlespace or superficially similar rifles, such as Czech Vz-58 with a different mechanism and operation in some respects superior to that of the AK series. A global transition in standard caliber inconvenienced GAM, not to the extent of a critical operational vulnerability, but US-led post-1960s change to the 5.56 mm × 45 cartridge eventually meant less access to ready-made Kalashnikov-compatible ammunition: itself a revolutionary design traced to the end of the Second World War.21 Indonesia’s standard SS-1 assault rifle, a PINDAD license-built variant of the Belgian FNC,22 increasingly supplied GAM units in place of surplus ex-TNI and imported M-16A1, so that some units held more of these than the AK series. From 2002, GAM’s armory began to include captured BRIMOB stocks of newly purchased 5.56 mm × 45 Kalashnikovs (AK-101 series and its Chinese AK-2000 copies) as also used by the KOSTRAD–KOPASSUS Cakra reconnaissance force. The earlier AK series and its 7.62 mm × 39 cartridge allowed incorporation of many SKS-series rifles and RPD LMGs: the latter drum-fed weapon remained GAM’s standard LMG to the time of writing, but the 5.56 mm × 45 transition affected GAM units’ critical LMG firepower. Accordingly, GAM’s armory included newer 1980s TNI-standard Minimi (US, M-249; Australian, F-89), both purchased and captured, as also seen in FALINTIL hands by the 1990s, or in an April 2003 theft from 521 Battalion (puspen 2003a). GAM usually could not store or buy enough ready-made ammunition, so much of the guerrillas’ stock was replenished via “reload” machines (as used by frugal sporting shooters), at clandestine town workshops and remote forest cottages, some of which fell to TNI–POLRI patrols. These would become more important GAM sources as Indonesian naval and coastal police blockades increased from 2002. Spent machine gun cartridges and belt-links too needed to be caught in bags attached to weapons’ ejection ports. Some photos showed GAM members with improvised bags to collect LMG belt links, conceptually like Israeli-produced FN-MAG pouches; however, GAM had no comparably reliable solution. Many high-explosive weapons added to GAM units’ LMGs to make a “heavy infantry” capability. Both sides’ publicity over ambushes and raids demonstrated GAM’s frequent use of grenade launchers (GLM). These light weapons used a shotgun-action design, allowing GAM’s fast production of raw-steel local copies (GLM rakitan) to augment stocks of M-79 originals. GLM’s effectiveness (and its logistical challenge for GAM) came from their 40 mm propelled-grenade rounds, ranging to 400 m of direct fire with a potentially devastating effect on troops.23 Other simple, standard GAM weapons in attack were the AK-contemporary RPGseries hollow-charge rocket launchers, much used in convoy ambushes and raids on fixed patrol posts and TNI–POLRI HQ buildings. GAM made simple RPG copies in order to effectively spread rocket munitions to units, and cover losses from TNI–POLRI cache seizures and after-action capture. Examples of RPG use included successful GAM raids on the Simpang Ulim KORAMIL HQ in East Aceh, and just two days later on the Syamtalira Bayu Police Sector HQ, North Aceh (atjehtimes 2002; fpdra 2002a). Indirect fire by mortar (Wsp 2002o) posed a lesser threat to TNI–POLRI, rare compared to far more frequent RPG and grenade launcher attacks too numerous to cite here. Another common threat was
The Aceh battlespace
37
GAM’s combat engineering capability in widespread remote- and trip-detonated bombs (IED, improvised explosive devices), shocking Indonesian patrols and convoys in isolation, or combined with roadside ambushes in elaborate concealed mining of roads, or by bridges and other choke points. Indonesian media from mid-2003 helped advertise overall TNI technological superiority in Aceh: an operational fact GAM conceded. However, besides regular seizure of various-sized IEDs, other reported captures suggested an upgraded GAM capability. Since 2002, TNI–POLRI reported seizing previously unseen GAM rockets, such as the Skykornikon (puspen 2004b) and the French-made Wasp. Though still few, the reports followed greater TNI armor deployments along northern Aceh’s highway, possibly reflecting GAM’s shift to launchers more easily concealed in shipment and distribution. Several Indonesian sources reported patrol seizures of large rocket launchers of unknown designation, such as a long 150 mm rocket tube, a Vietnamese-style detached rocket artillery piece, in a large sweep in North Aceh, December 2004 (Ant 2004). By then depth and sophistication was clear in reported detail of GAM’s armory, which even included the M-18A1 Claymore antipersonnel mine (SP 2003g), indicating an aggressive confidence in ambush expected of conventional infantry. In that same regard, GAM held some stocks of fragmentation grenades (ex-Soviet Bloc and Chinese, South Korean, and Indonesian PINDAD copies), GPS (Global Positioning System) navigation, and surplus Soviet Bloc night-vision devices. Pyrotechnics gave room for night action in attack and perimeter defense, as well as control during firefights (Marinir 2004a). There was no confirmation of GAM’s acquisition or use of surface-to-air missiles, despite a 2000 report claiming GAM’s purchase of the shoulder-launched Stinger (Nurharyoko 2000). Wider international fear of such weapons post-2001, and a corresponding price increase, would have attached a yet higher political price in aggravated suspicion, and susceptibility to “black,” or covert Indonesian use in order to invite international enmity. GAM’s electronic communications covered various means at all levels. UHF cellular-satellite telephony was the most flexible and numerous. Non-uniform issue of UHF and VHF hand-held transceivers (handy talky) aided by relay stations offered more reliable links between units, alongside some use of larger, longer-range HF sets from bases in the interior. Some power supply came from solar power generated in portable cell-mats as used by many special forces in long-range tasks. Another power source was portable combustion engine generators, which East Aceh Commander Ishak Daud claimed ran at every GAM encampment (Srb 2002a).
Opposing force ratios As Jakarta’s deployed forces increased in April 2001, March 2003, and the end of 2003, Indonesian press and outsider reports made much of opposing TNI–POLRI and GAM force ratios. Typically describing the war in conventional terms, TNI chiefs claimed to work on a minimum ten-to-one force ratio, thereby expressing
38 The Aceh battlespace confidence in military victory, as though the combat and the war occurred in some vacuum of conventional warfare removed from its essentially political character. Such conventional calculations had limited value, because the maximum tento-one advantage of Jakarta’s forces only sufficed to guarantee retention of vital assets, main routes, headquarters, and major bases. By contrast, an ICG report (2001b) disputed whether that ratio was appropriate in Aceh’s case, claiming TNI advantages in training, weaponry, and intelligence. Here, ICG touched on the matter of “force multipliers,” i.e. other objective factors enhancing forces’ basic strength in troops and arms. These views invariably missed GAM’s own force multipliers: auxiliaries and a large reserve; considerable self-sufficiency in its armory; extensive networks of information-gathering and dissemination; and, most importantly its own people and terrain, which favored guerrilla operations and could only be bettered by vast urban sprawl as the guerrilla’s hypothetical “battlefield of choice.” Regardless, the war’s circumstances meant that force ratios hardly applied. Short of annihilation by nuclear, biological, or chemical weapons, GAM could not be defeated by mere attritional “zero-sum” war in which one side’s gains necessarily translated into the other’s losses. Nevertheless, some viewed the war’s force comparisons in conventional set-piece terms, as though an ability to repeat Dien Bien Phu, for example, properly measured GAM’s strength or weakness. Jakarta’s numerical might held considerable fascination among Indonesian observers otherwise critical of the TNI, such as the senior legal aid lawyer Hendardi (Tempo 2001c).24 The view was not limited to Jakarta’s intelligentsia, so used to Indonesia’s paraded military spectacles. In late 2002 Ross (2002) asserted that “GAM remains vastly outnumbered by government forces, and has no chance of achieving a military victory,” a view Ed Aspinall voiced in a May 2003 SBS TV interview at the Holistic Operation’s start. It was true that ground retaken by TNI–POLRI forces meant a tactical victory for Jakarta’s operational commanders, but it cost the regime much to deploy the units to reassert territorial control: the more ground regained, the more it would continue to cost the regime to keep it. GAM faced a similarly ambiguous predicament: any successful GAM ambush risked nearby TNI–POLRI reprisal against civilians who could be reserve cadres, or otherwise known or related to the attackers. Yet GAM forces clearly achieved tactical military victories and Jakarta’s ensuing costly troop commitment was itself an affirmation of Acehnese resistance strength.
Battlespace and causality Personal experience of a safe, comfortable life causes some to automatically view pursuit of combat and other violence as curiously irrational, emotional, and even visceral. Historical examples of states’ mass mobilization could cause others to regard such pursuit as an exclusive obligation compelled by elite hierarchical authorities upon subservient common ranks. In Aceh’s traumatic chaos, however, both sides committed to their war as conscious, rational, and self-interested entities making decisions under extreme economic, military, and environmental
The Aceh battlespace
39
pressures and constraints. The combined effects of regional geography, local terrain, and economic interests all set conditions for harsh insurgency warfare between sides distinguishable by history and ideology. As in the Dutch period, all of Aceh’s civilians faced invasive occupation and intrusive surveillance by troops of almost entirely “foreign” ethnicity. Restrictive terrain, small, dispersed population centers, and proximity to the region’s arms markets helped the Acehnese resistance to prepare and deploy a realistic military challenge to Jakarta’s forces. Nonetheless, as GAM and its wide network of informers, suppliers, and activists knew, they confronted an enemy specialized in, and to a great extent created for, counter-insurgency. TNI–POLRI forces, like many of their predecessors in the Dutch period, had waged continual antiguerrilla and other repressive operations since their inception: another Aceh campaign was unlikely to be any less brutal. Indonesian ranks well knew that repressive terror and coercion usually kept power and, at least eventually, interfered with the guerrillas’ civilian support and its terrifying expression in attacks and ambushes. Liberalist emphasis on Soeharto-era DOM repression risked a spurious attribution of GAM’s post-1998 strength to its “New Order” regime enemy. Such presumptions of irrational motivation denigrated Indonesian troops, GAM, and GAM’s support base alike into subhuman caricature. Distortion of DOM’s significance to popular resistance sentiment depicted Jakarta’s pervasive surveillance networks and patrols as devoid of human intelligence, in the term’s normal and military senses. By such measures, TNI–POLRI agents of reprisal and other repression became predictable reactors of emotion and indiscriminate vengeance, if not monsters, converting a supposed Acehnese indifference or even “Red and White” loyalty into greater GAM membership and support. Acehnese resistance fighters, their families, and associates thereby appeared as mirror images of mindless reaction. The historical caricature portrayed all but both sides’ senior command as ignorant beings, or at best brainwashed thugs, as though unaware of the war’s political, economic, cultural, or historical implications and stakes. But it could ignore or trivialize the combatants’ leaders too, whether ASNLF Chief Hasan di Tiro in his account of profound local opposition to Indonesian statehood (Tiro 1984), for example, or in senior TNI–POLRI officers’ indiscreet admissions and brazen, public press-ganging of civilians into loyalist ceremony and sentry duties. Idealism in homegrown assumption and uncritical opinion underlay presumptions of Aceh’s combatants’ irrational motivation. Such views could perpetuate cultural supremacist if not sublimated racist beliefs about creditor states’ superior military “professionalism,” “discipline,” and, most bizarre, “nonviolence,” though that mythology was being discredited for posterity, and sometimes even in media publicity, in the Middle East at the time of Jakarta’s 2003 Aceh campaign. “Smart weapon” myths about rich countries’ “civilized and humane” killers were almost invariably at odds with, for example, English-speaking armies’ often grislier albeit more detached carnage inflicted by warlord proxies, or bombing and indirect fire. Civilian casualties could be much higher in latter cases (The Lancet 2004), though unseen victims were typically unreported, unlike their media networks’
40 The Aceh battlespace preferred spectacles in those cases showing high-tech delivery (bombers, cruise missiles, etc.). “Ironic causality,” or liberalist arguments of “authoritarian inevitability,” minimized the role of lender states’ support to the Indonesian government, and the political significance of regular US, European, and Australian training for TNI officers tasked with state repression. Creditor states supported Soeharto by promoting military cooperation, joint training, and arms sales, while welcoming the spread of the New Order elite’s vast kleptocratic riches into the West itself. Close links with Soeharto’s military ran before, during, and after its DOM brutalities of ruthless antiguerrilla warfare, including after Soeharto’s resignation. Self-interest made money-lending powers support Indonesia’s centralist state and its sovereignty: the rule of that relationship was proven by its exception in 1950s interventionist mayhem against Soekarno’s nonalignment and asset nationalization. Just as colonial historians used discredited “white man’s burden,” or “big white man” theories as apologia and tribute for racist imperialism, “big bad guy” views of Soeharto were a pressure valve for many observers safely avoiding or minimizing the dominant role of Western-derived capital interests intensifying Aceh’s war. Post-Soeharto liberalization opened Aceh to freer local and outside examination, but emphasis on DOM censorship reinforced the implication that GAM’s renewed strength was primarily due to Soeharto regime repression and exploitation, in a regional phrase from the “New Order criminality and injustice” leitmotif. Liberalization in reformasi (or its mocking alternative: New Orba, New New Order) covered Aceh with a perception-management blanket replacing censorship. Like earlier and rarer DOM coverage, that new blanket had holes and gaps allowing glimpses into underlying actualities. In the post-Soeharto period, a greater presence of outside observers was widely supposed to confirm meaningful progress towards justice. Professional scrutineers could claim or imply that relative openness proved a sincere pursuit of truth and justice by their financialelite sponsors too, automatically ruling out any possible scrutineer or sponsor stake in obfuscation or even perpetuation of injustice. By such discourse, international and especially Western media, NGO, and academic access to Aceh was meant to measure just how much useful information was available to the public, in contributions advertised for their “on the ground” authenticity. Almost invariably funded by powerful state and other corporate networks, foreign observers’ views often intertwined with Jakarta’s wartime perception management into a multinational amelioration of scandal. Thus, when an Australian journalist (Dateline 2003) questioned the commander of 403 battalion about alleged “abuses,” he could casually reply “that was then…during DOM.” Blaming DOM, it seemed, was now part of commanders’ predeployment briefing too (see also Kasminto 2003: 17–19). After 1998, Aceh’s battlespace extended much further into the global news media, challenging the communications of both Jakarta and the Acehnese resistance into a wider sphere of contest. International assumptions about the Indonesian state’s internal reform, excluding as they usually did issues of external
The Aceh battlespace
41
dominance and hegemony, joined to views of Aceh’s war as an Indonesian-caused problem. Worse yet, while Indonesia’s press marketed nationalist “Red and White” messages, outsider counterparts often limited to brief mystification in news travelogues or adventurous entertainment-as-morality tale focused on Indonesian or even “Javanese” oppression. Besides, “liberalization” really worked for whom, when a few detentions and public fuss over visas for Australians, Americans, or Japanese contrasted with open assaults, hospitalization, and even murder for Indonesian activists and journalists? Acehnese counterparts could expect worse still, with even less publicity. The exception demonstrated the rule in the June 2003 shooting of two German tourists, killing one, by 521 Battalion.25 Within the same “infowar” sphere, creditor nations’ NGO and academic scrutiny gave a similar isolated focus, adding an impression that their financiers cared about Aceh (and Indonesia) beyond matters of resource profits, share prices, and their associated umbrella of regional military dominance. It was axiomatic that these observers could not seriously challenge the interests of their financiers, while Jakarta’s general tolerance of their presence “on the ground” reflected the same constraints of dependency. International NGO scrutiny often used commercial terms like “accountability” and “stakeholders,” at best recommending contractual or supervisory adjustments to the prevailing financial dependency, or diplomatic symbolism via “suspension of military aid, cooperation,” etc. Such NGO business interests sanitized the war of its more scandalous political and legal implications, confirming their regulatory business function and nonchallenge to international power structures, despite Aceh’s compelling evidence in vast detail of crimes against humanity, and timely mass appeals for an independence referendum. That assignment of responsibility for the war set boundaries for GAM and the wider resistance of Acehnese NGOs. Even clandestine opposition to the interests of international capital in Aceh could add risk of official Western hostility via “international terrorist” and “jihadist” labels, with potentially adverse implications for the Acehnese resistance and Indonesian military alike. Lindorf Nielsen’s critique of “victimization discourse” traced the importance of Indonesia’s failure to accommodate an Acehnese elite, and that elite’s influence in making a politically viable narrative for armed resistance (Lindorf 2002). However, that case risked an “elitist inevitability” in place of the prevailing liberalist-ironic version depicting DOM repression inevitably venting its reaction upon reformasi. A loyalist ethnic Acehnese business and technocrat elite persisted to confound that case, which mirrored Jakarta’s own template of manipulative provincial politics. Overriding the many objective circumstances driving GAM’s militancy, strength, and support was a collective consciousness, intelligent enough to perceive Indonesia’s constant Aceh failure on the one hand, and on the other to identify GAM with Acehnese self-interest, whether expressed openly or clandestinely for another day. From its historically martial inheritance and (underrated) military savvy, GAM’s ethnonationalist project offered a viable domestic alternative to loyalist elites within, and the “victimization narrative” that sought to usurp from outside.
42 The Aceh battlespace
Centers of gravity Together then let’s finish off those few who want to break from the Indonesian Republic’s Unitary State. MAJGEN M. Djali Yusuf, Commander KODAM Iskandar Muda, 23 April 2003 (Anl 2003j) We don’t have to win the war, we only have to stop them from winning. GAM veteran Nasir, KIA North Aceh, May 2003 (Nessen 2003) Detailed study of the battlespace’s various strata gave observers insights into adversaries’ and third parties’ “centers of gravity” (COG), i.e. critical unifying elements or dynamics giving forces their driving purpose (see Echevarria II 2002, 2003).26 COG was not an absolute concept necessarily applicable to all situations or even to TNI–POLRI or GAM planning; COG best suited “zero sum” or “win–lose” scenarios of conventional war. This study’s use of the concept is not to imply that the adversaries observed such COG and its assessments here. But the concept allowed for useful critical assessment of whether combatants and allies could realistically achieve their goals, and how those goals could change with future circumstances. At least for these arbitrary purposes, COG could apply to every level of warfare, from the tactical realm of direct individual field combat to the strategic and diplomatic level of international relations.27 Distinctions were not always mutually exclusive: many tactical situations contained wider operational or even international significance. At GAM’s highest level, the process of COG definition reduced to GAM’s ability to be a credible alternative government to Jakarta’s provincial rule: not far from Xanana Gusmao’s succinct “to resist is to win.” That objectively defined aim-cum-capability could have seemed the best, relatively easy choice, but GAM chose a more aggressive approach: the leadership knew it had to race if it hoped to sustain post-Timor momentum and become a viable independent state with enough remaining migas and other resources. In this respect, GAM’s approach in economic attrition was harder and “high risk” precisely because of the war’s international stakes (Time 2004). Deliberate attrition meant international lenders were to either help cover Jakarta’s extra costs in Aceh or possibly face higher costs protecting their investments in a yet more volatile, if not disintegrating state, with ominous potential for a larger-scale repetition of East Timor’s 1999 “scorched earth.” Correspondingly for Jakarta, COG manifested at the highest level as its ability to sustain international support for Indonesian sovereignty. The repressive means remained much the same as before, but their presentation would be energetically adjusted: measures of success included the extent of neutralizing international support for and even acknowledgement of Aceh’s resistance. To this effect, much reformasi discourse about Aceh well suited the TNI’s need to be seen for what it was not, i.e. a tool of the Soeharto regime. This “last stand” was to hold Aceh at
The Aceh battlespace
43
least until its resource wealth was exhausted, and Western geopolitical concerns could take a more direct hand in the area. In Aceh and throughout Indonesia, the war’s conduct showed many other goals at lower levels, complementing or sometimes contradicting the core, objective dynamics discernible in both sides’ entire war effort. Subsequent discussion examines various Indonesian efforts in their other battlespace sublayers, alongside consideration of that most influential international realm, where applicable.
2
Divide, dismember, and military rule
Jakarta’s reassertion of sovereignty over Aceh revolved around an expanded government infrastructure of centralized, mutually supporting military and civilian bureaucracy. Against GAM’s wide control and presence, Indonesia’s government apparatus superimposed new, additional hierarchies of professional dependency and loyalty. That program was an essential part of the war’s more openly military campaign, within which Jakarta’s armed power guided and merged into civilian government operations aimed ostensibly at greater regional autonomy and fairer revenue distribution, hence its Holistic Operation (Operasi Terpadu) title from mid-2003.1 New structural arrangements had far-reaching implications for many related activities, such as Islamist syariah legal codes, militia programs, and later, posttsunami humanitarian relief and reconstruction (discussed separately in Chapter 8). Key to all such activity was greater funding, implicit in the literal business growth in military operations and civil government, but more apparent in official records and planning as increased opportunities in loyalist contract, employment, and repopulation efforts. However, all expansion combined with basic strategic aims to disrupt Acehnese resistance control of populated areas, and interdict GAM logistics for less accessible, remote sanctuaries. Details of rezoning showed interlocking and overlapping layers in the bureaucratic expansion. The TNI’s base structure lent the program its active leadership and hierarchical coordination, with protection by numerically strong ranks of armed subordinates. Under that protective and coercive military umbrella, the centralist regime’s main civil bureaucracy, the Interior Ministry (DEPDAGRI), offered civilian participation. Jakarta’s regime claimed representative legitimacy in Aceh by financially enticing, and creating, local elites at every DEPDAGRI government level in the province, i.e. regency (kabupaten), district (kecamatan), subdistrict (kelurahan), and village (desa). The territorial hierarchy of Indonesia’s police (POLRI) closely matched the DEPDAGRI hierarchy, reflecting its own closer administrative arrangements and cooperation in local government chains. Indonesia’s military (TNI) had its own separate territorial apparatus along similar hierarchical levels, but with generally higher grouping of authority, i.e. less exact matching between its own jurisdictions and those of POLRI and DEPDAGRI.2
Divide, dismember, and military rule 45
Gerrymander, corruption, and ghost populations Mapping from the Dutch period revealed major changes in Aceh’s administrative subdivisions as the central power adjusted to stubborn Acehnese resistance, leaving blueprints for its Indonesian replacement. Most obviously, boundaries and numbering of Dutch afdeeling (divisions) became the basis of Indonesian regencies and KODIM (military district command) formations. In changes from 1999, 2002, and plans for 2005, Aceh’s new regencies more or less matched Dutch onderafdeeling (subdivision) precedents. New regency subdivisions (pemekaran) exaggerated local subethnicities, apparent from public DEPDAGRI statements touching on the project (JwP 2002b), including earlier comment by Governor Abdullah Puteh (Srb 2001i). The restructure sometimes used the pretext of Tamiang, Alas, and Gayo minorities in Aceh’s east and center, the Kluet in “Southwest Aceh,” and the Simalung and Singkil in the south, presenting these subethnic groups as hitherto neglected due to agitation and armed resistance by majority ethnic Acehnese. Other onderafdeeling reappeared in obvious fidelity to Dutch boundaries, or at least their names based around major population centers.3 Nagan Raya Regency was the exception, though other reported population figures indicated a higher unofficial influx there by outside logging workers and their families. All new subdivisions had little or no justification on grounds of population size: Malang Regency in East Java, for example, held over two million people. The aim in Aceh was to reassert government authority via increased government surveillance and inducement of indigenous and migrant populations. Attracting migrants seemed the main vehicle of greater surveillance, as most new regencies had generally higher proportions of nonindigenous workers in logging, plantation, and infrastructure projects, such as intensively logged Gayo Lues Regency with barely 1.5 percent of the province’s total population. Central Aceh Regency’s administration fared nearly as well with its further subdivision into the Bener Meriah Regency enclave of infiltrated loyalist militia. From Central Aceh’s original population of up to 263,000, Bener Meriah at its strategic north contained between just 81,000 and 135,000 inhabitants.4 Government projection across Aceh’s center and provincial border was a concerted development (Srb 2002c, d; Wsp 2002i, l), resembling programs for Papua Province (formerly Irian Jaya), which had hitherto minimal regency-level expansion (see Davies 2001: 14). Against the restructure’s claims to subethnic considerations and organizational flexibility in regional autonomy, and among many development proposals, fund diversion fuelled the strategy of increased Indonesian government apparatus in Aceh. Participation by subethnic opportunists could distract outsider perceptions of the bureaucratic and cadastral project, and there was some divisive policy along indigenous ethnic lines, such as a modest scholarship scheme for minority Gayo youths in the newly partitioned Gayo Lues Regency (Wsp 2002m). But autonomy laws passed in 2001 were widely seen as a subtle deception to claim that Aceh got a better share of its wealth, whereas funds actually went from Jakarta to the separate regency administrations (II 2000a), in a twist on the spirit
46 Divide, dismember, and military rule Groot Pidie Noordkust Ostkust Sabang met Sabang Atjeh 0101 Banda 0102 0103 Alaslanden Aceh PIDIE Gajoloeos en Lhokseumawe JAYA Sigli Lho 1 BIREUEN Meureudoe Soemawe Serbo GREATER SeuliTAMIANG Djadi meum 2 ACEH Bireuen 3 Lho N. Langsa KoetaLam ACEH 0104 ACEH Idi radja 0106 PIDIE Tjalang Meulo JAYA E. B.M. 4 ACEH * Takengon *Langsa C. W. 1908 ACEH ACEH Meulaboh 3 1935 * Teumieng Afdeeling Gajo- 6 5 NAGAN GAYO 1939 RAYA loeos * Afdeeling Tapa S.W. LUES Pre-1999 0108 ACEH 1939 oe AlasOnderafdeeling 0105 S.E. New, 1999--2004 landen ACEH * Re-set borders Zuidlijke Planned, 2005 S. 0102 Indonesian Previous & additional ACEH Atjehsche KODIM Landschappen 1902 boundaries SUBULUS0107 SALAM Simeuloeë * 1903 Westkust Singg SIMEULUE SINGKIL
Dutch precedent & Indonesian regencies (1930s / 1950s–2005)
Sabang Banda Aceh
GREATER ACEH
Lhokseumawe BIREUEN NORTH ACEH Langsa BENER EAST MERIAH ACEH CENTRAL ACEH TAMIANG
PIDIE ACEH JAYA
540,000 480,000 420,000 360,000 300,000 240,000 180,000 120,000 60,000 0
WEST ACEH
NAGAN RAYA SOUTH WEST ACEH
0
GAYO LUES
SOUTH
20 40 60 80 100 km SOUTH
Regency-level populations August 2003
EAST
ACEH
ACEH
SIMEULUE
SINGKIL
Map 2.1 Dutch zoning, new regencies, and gerrymander.
Divide, dismember, and military rule 47 of “autonomy” not lost on local NGO critics (MI 2001c). Funding combined with Aceh’s multiplied regency-level administrations in greater opportunities for institutional corruption. Official statistics supported corrupt processes via overt, cumulative mark-up of at least one-quarter of funding in various budgets and projects, whether as infrastructure, humanitarian aid, health and education services, or TNI–POLRI “security” budgets. A key to unlock the strategy’s hidden modus operandi was Indonesian government sources’ wide divergence in Aceh’s population figures. Serambi (Srb 2004e) reported one instance of apparent mark-up in West Aceh’s population figures and some government salaries diverted to “ghost” appointments. The local BPS (Central Bureau of Statistics) chief asserted that his agency was the sole source, urging against “dualism” in recorded population numbers. But dualism would have been a relatively trifling matter: official documentation showed routine statistical enterprise in widely divergent population counts by at least three other government branches, including two inconsistent records sourced to the TNI. Comparisons in Table 2.1 reveal four fictitious counts of Aceh’s inhabitants by three of Jakarta’s agencies, but that compilation is probably a nonexhaustive sample missing yet other separate departmental tabulations. The official data are assessed here as “fiction” because of the implausibility depicted, i.e. a near-constant circulation between regencies by almost half the province’s adults in just a short period. Tabulation of government data (Tables 2.1 and 2.2 and Figure 2.1) shows some of the organizational depth in such creative statistics. Whichever (if any) source in Table 2.1 most closely approximated actual regency population totals, the administrative structure was a strategic gerrymander distorting proportions of political representation among the regencies. Already gerrymandered, the northern lowlands’ densely populated regencies compared worse after the new post-2002 regency subdivision. Jakarta’s planners could claim the imbalance had a defensive aim in marginalizing areas of GAM’s highest recruitment. But such an argument would be specious, predicated on the truism that a higher Acehnese population would yield higher GAM membership. It would also rest on equally unsustainable assumptions that higher combat activity and GAM strength in the north proved local resistance sympathies, whereas those areas of GAM priority actually reflected the higher TNI–POLRI deployments around vital resource migas assets. The northern lowlands’ continued under-representation best suited TNI–POLRI military operations, mainly because weaker civil government there would mean less overall “trickle down” to GAM in taxation, extortion, and direct infiltration of the government apparatus itself. After the December 2004 tsunami, refugee resettlement, flows of national and international aid and reconstruction projects, donations, and loans would all aggravate and entrench Indonesia’s profoundly corrupt political culture in and around Aceh. Foreign aid agencies apparently accepted the fictitious population statistics (HIC 2005a, d): they had little choice if they sought to continue their business there. The population spread of Map 2.1 anticipated similar Indonesian mapping in early 2005 (i-RSGSIF 2005a, b), but the two maps differed over source
48 Divide, dismember, and military rule Table 2.1
Indonesia’s official Aceh population figures, 2003–4(a) Source
Regency/ municipality Sabang Banda Aceh Greater Aceh Pidle Bireuen North Aceh Lhokseumawe(d) East Aceh Langsa Tamiang South Aceh Southwest Aceh Singkil Simeulue West Aceh Aceh Jaya Nagan Raya Central Acelt(f) Southeast Aceh Gayo Lues
KPU
BPS
27,447 264,091 301,718 517,452 350,964 400,800 156,478 253,151 141,138 238,718 167,052 153,411 174,007 76,629 227,278 93,547 152,749 231,000 168,034 83,695
24,804 226,643 299,682 524,232 399,070 530,312 169,470 335,809 124,411 227,843 200,210 116,812 126,392 59,836 197,454 100,039 145,798 275,879 152,677 67,286
Actual sum totals: 4,179,359 4,304,659 Source ‘totals’: 4,227,000 4,271,596
Based on TNI Issued Extreme Infonad KTP-MP(b) KTP-MP(c) variation 23,975 218,198 292,082 473,348 299,557 599,383 153,147 569,134 123,980 254,338 296,305 –(e) 116,142 – – 96,009 – 252,738 268,015 72,147 – –
30,191 273,628 301,172 509,206 352,557 439,780 140,717 460,293 129,240 220,191 202,049 123,811 118,358 80,337 180,931 83,288 127,675 255,592 152,266 64,373
18,852 170859 188,058 317,959 220,144 274,608 87,867 287,417 80,700 137,492 126,164 77,310 73,905 50,164 112,977 52,007 79,723 159,597 95,078 40,196
6,216(21%) 55,430(20%) 9,636(3%) 50,884(10%) 99,513(25%) 198,583(33%) 28,753(17%) 315,983(56%) 17,158(12%) 34,147(13%) 129,253(44%) 36,599(24%) 57,865(33%) 20,501(26%) 29,824(13%) 16,751(17%) 25,074(16%) 44,879(16%) 115,749(43%) 19,322(23%)
4,245,655 –
2,651,077 –
1,312,120 (avg 23%)
Sources: KPU 2003; perpus TNI 2004: 3–4; pdmd 203f; Srb 2003al. Notes a Bold type indicates poles for calculating variations. b KTP-MP (Red & White ID card) figures adjusted from averaged province-wide KPU and BPS population totals to calculate additional numbers not required to bear ID card, i.e. minors. c Calculated from total ‘issued KTP-MP’ by mid-August 2003, reported as percentages of total populations targeted and eligible for card issue. d Adjusted Lhokseumawe figure probably much lower than actual population due to higher proportion of non-indigenous official/corporate workforce not registered for ‘Red & White’ ID card. e Dash indicates nil entry in source, or not applicable to calculations. f KPU listed ‘Bener Meriah’ separately with 81,247 people, included here in ‘Central Aceh’ counts.
credibility. The UN and others apparently accepted BPS population statistics. However, of all Indonesian government agencies in Aceh, the TNI and its territorial hierarchy had the overwhelming numbers in the field, extended access into dangerous areas, and real authority. Most important, TNI commanders’ mission had a direct vested interest in thoroughly databasing Aceh’s inhabitants for its Phoenix-style counterintelligence program and its KTP-MP identity checks. That point is not to assume that the TNI’s program and its publicized claims (Srb 2003al) were necessarily accurate, but BPS had no comparable means or compelling motive to make reliable demographic statistics in Aceh.
Divide, dismember, and military rule
49
(War) PERANG
GAWAT (Critical)
TNI O P E R A S I M I L I T E R S E L A I N P E R A N G (Military operations other than war - MOOTW)
kimpraswil / SEKDA Prov NAD: security status sub-total White Grey Black 2 2 9 9 22 16 6 30 1 18 11 10 (a) 6 3 1 22 8 3 11 3 3 20 12 8 3 3 8 5 3 16 8 8 6 6 13 13 8 8 11 5 1 5 6 6 5 5 17 17 7 7 5 4 1 223 144 25 54
”
“ “ ”
(equiv: 'Major Theatre War') OPERASI MILITER PERANG
POLRI
pdmd / BAPPEDA: Regency / Disparity (new districts) & sub-total municipality Sabang (0) 2 Banda Aceh (5) 9 Greater Aceh (8) 22 Pidie (5) 28 +2 Bireuen (a) (6) 13 -3 North Aceh (6) 22 Lhokseumawe (0) 3 East Aceh (9) 19 / 21 -/+1 Langsa (1) 3 Tamiang (1) 8 South Aceh (b) (1) 10 (b) +6 Southwest Aceh (c) (1) (c) 6? (c) ? Singkil (9) 13 Simeulue (c) (3) (c) 8? (c) ? West Aceh (d) (4) (d) 9 (d) +2/4 Aceh Jaya (1) 6 Nagan Raya (c) (1) (c) 5? (c) ? Central Aceh (8) 17 Southeast Aceh (2) 7 Gayo Lues (1) 5 Total districts: (72) 223? (c) - 4 / + 13
DARURAT PERANG (War emergency)
DARURAT MILITER (Military emergency)
DARURAT SIPIL (Civil emergency)
KONFLIK INTENSITAS RENDAH (Low-intensity conflict) (Peace) T E R T I B S I P I L DAMAI (Civil order) E S K A L A S I A N C A M A N (Threat escalation) AMAN RAWAN (Secure) (Unstable)
“
”
Figure 2.1 “Gray area”: defining “war,” “non-war,” and “shadow” districts.
50 Divide, dismember, and military rule Restructure offered obvious incentive in official government salaries, but greater opportunity came in simultaneous funding initiatives, especially in the new regencies for the period of intensified military operations from mid-2003. Most of these schemes involved construction works for communications infrastructure, including airports and seaports, a fast-ferry project, and overland routes. Airport construction early centered on the loyalist paramilitary strongholds in Central Aceh’s populated areas north of Lake Tawar, where nonindigenous militia played a greater role since 2000. Another airfield was produced for Southwest Aceh’s Blangpidie, relatively secure near the coast, linking the new regency to faster communications from outside (Srb 2003af). More tentative plans promised to restore the old 400 km Dutch railway line paralleling the Medan–Banda Aceh Highway. Estimated at US$400 million, the project’s funding was contingent upon adequate restoration of security and may therefore be regarded as another of the development “sweeteners” to entice both local Acehnese loyalty and progovernment perceptions by the wider Indonesian public (Indosiar.com 2003). Major projects planned to upgrade and expand Aceh’s existing roads, including two highway routes for the new Nagan Raya Regency, and the more ambitious eastcentral Ladia Galaska plan (Anl 2003b, j; Srb 2003z, ah). Publicity of infrastructure budgets clearly excited loyalists’ self-interest, as seen in demonstrations supporting military operations and their implicit guaranteed security for infrastructure projects (see also Map 1.2, p. 18). Provincial government publicity omitted mention of the infrastructure projects’ benefits to the Indonesian military. New and upgraded airfields offered alternative, faster, and more secure options for some troop deployment. Direct TNI interest in Ladia Galaska showed when two TNI major-general parliamentarians examined the project for Indonesia’s parliamentary equivalent (Wsp 2003z). Local environmental NGOs opposed the plans from the outset because of its expected disastrous impact on biodiversity in and around Leuser National Park. But apart from greater logging revenue, Ladia Galaska would most obviously aid Indonesian patrols and convoys within Aceh’s east-central areas, lending a more secure tactical environment in government and military command centers. With easier TNI–POLRI access, Ladia Galaska would interfere with GAM’s logistical, reconnaissance, and raiding operations near some existing communications routes and main centers. All of the projects portended local demographic changes from greater non-Acehnese employment in logging and construction work controlled from outside, with related implications for strengthening loyalist militia networks. Notwithstanding official promises of the projects’ local “trickle down” benefits, the industries concerned had a well-established history of employing outside preman thugs and other itinerants already tied to TNI–POLRI business, especially in North Sumatera. Ladia Galaska took off slowly in 2003, with some help “offered” by army engineers, and its operational and economic benefits for the TNI made later cancellation unlikely. Regency subdivision had electoral implications too, though apparently incidental to the overriding nonpartisan strategy. The 2004 elections indicated active TNI support in Aceh for then President Megawati’s PDIP (Indonesian Democratic
Divide, dismember, and military rule
51
Party of Struggle), with preferential treatment of Aceh residents who held party membership cards (GLW 2004). However, that probably reflected lower-level competition for funding access and works tenders amid rising PDIP local influence from party networks and related paramilitary gang cadres (satgas parpol) in their nearby Medan strongholds. Table 2.2 shows how electoral data from KPU (General Election Commission) reinforced Aceh’s provincial gerrymander by carrying unbalanced representation into Indonesia’s regency-level parliamentary equivalents (DPRD-II).5 Financial incentives in party politics were also a venue of competition with GAM. The resistance detained Indonesian government leaders until they could arrange to pay fines for unpaid GAM taxation. Many characterized GAM’s political economy as one of ransom-kidnappings and other extortion comparable to that done by Indonesian forces. But reports in 2003 finally conceded GAM’s infiltration into the Indonesian political system itself. The war’s “active phase” set out to purge “white collar GAM” (GAM berdasi) through intensive special investigation (litsus). Some arrests were made of local
Table 2.2
Electoral gerrymander: Aceh’s regency-level parliaments (DPRD-II)
Division of # Average 7,288 inhabitants = DPRD-II seat less representation − Pidie −26 Bireuen −13 Aceh Utara −10 Aceh Besar −6 Banda Aceh −6 Aceh Timur −5 Aceh Tamiang −3 Aceh Barat −1 Singkil Aceh Selatan Aceh Tenggara Aceh Tengah Nagan Raya ABDya Lhokseumawe Langsa Aceh Jaya Simeulue Gayo Lues Bener Meriah Sabang Source: KPU 2003.
representation per DPRD-II seat + Extra representation
########################## ############# ########## ###### ###### ##### ### # # # ## ## #### #### #### #### ###### ####### ######### ######### ######### ################
+1 +2 +2 +4 +4 +4 +4 +6 +7 +9 +9 +9 +16
52 Divide, dismember, and military rule representatives in 2003, and the next year Governor Puteh himself was suspended and detained amid allegations about payoffs to GAM. Although additional regency administrations were conspicuous, lower district units (kecamatan) proliferated largely unnoticed. District levels affected the TNI’s leading, tactical role in Indonesia’s territorial reassertion over Aceh, and its measures of operational success. As in regency populations and their related gerrymanders, official Indonesian records produced apparent statistical deceptions on district numbers, with the same potential for brazen embezzlement. Aceh’s total official district administrations rose from 133 to 136 from the late 1980s to 1991 (Gayo 1991, 1994), 149 in 1998, 193 in 2001, from 215 to 223 in 2003, and 231 by 2004. But in 2003 district totals’ arbitrary arithmetic resembled that used in regency population sums: government agencies’ totals rarely matched the sum of their parts (see Map 2.2). Despite the draconian centralized controls of provincial martial law, sampled official records effectively rendered at least 17 districts as limbo or “shadow” entities. Creativity possibly more than doubled that number, when post-tsunami UN mapping (HIC 2005d) identified 198 districts in Aceh 18 months later, while Indonesian mapping (i-RSGSIF 2005b) used BPS data depicting 231 districts. At higher levels, DEPDAGRI’s Aceh plans resembled planned division of Papua into three provinces (Davies 2001: 15–16) quietly became a two-province split after initial protests. The Aceh plans first came in late 2001 from meetings in North Sumatera by Central Aceh bureaucrats and gang leaders (fpdra 2001h, n). In both cases, the strategy harked to late proposals to create a separate loyalist western province from East Timor, thereby ceding partial East Timorese independence in the event of Indonesian referendum defeat. Among the various plans and proposals for Aceh’s provincial subdivision, the new regencies and accompanying infrastructure projects were preliminary stages towards at least one new “buffer” province bulging across the central highlands from the border. Plans sometimes merged between regency and provincial levels, as when roadworks of Ladia Galaska inspired a proposed new regency name in Central Aceh’s split (Srb 2003e). Whether named Leuser Antara (fpdra 2001a), Galaksi/Galaska (Astaga.com 2003), or Aceh Nusantara (Wsp 2003w), initial resistance reporting of the plan was repeatedly confirmed in later mainstream Indonesian sources (Anl 2003k). Besides an implicit long-term East Timor-style contingency, new provinces aimed to flank GAM’s operational and demographic concentrations via a preemptive seizure of high ground already underway from 2000 in Central Aceh’s militia program.6 But unlike the stillborn East Timor precedent, provincial splits for both Aceh and Papua showed thorough and lengthy preparations in administrative, funding, and forced demographic changes: Aceh was set eventually to follow Papua’s provincial breakup, with a likely interim use of “assistant governors” (Jaknews.com 2004). The late 2004 tsunami disaster would cause extra expense for any new province, but that did not necessarily mean the plan’s indefinite delay. Indeed, foreign aid could help realize that subdivision, backed by general reference to “administrative necessity” of dedicated reconstruction of tsunamidevastated areas in a separate province. However, later proposals for a southern
Divide, dismember, and military rule
Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam
53
Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam
ACEH PASE
LEUSER NAGAN ANTARA RAYA
ACEH NUSANTARA
Planning (2 versions) 2003-2004
Proposals & lobbying 2001-2002
'GALAKSI' Gayo-Alas-Lukup-Singkil / Gayo-Alas-Tapaktuan-Singkil
Late lobbying 2004 Aceh Barat-Selatan Leuser Antara
Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam
PASE
Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam
RAYA ?
ACEH
GALAKSI
Proposals & lobbying (2 GALAKSI versions) 2001-2003
?
NUSANTARA
Plausible realization 2006
Map 2.2 Plans and proposals for new provinces, 2001–5.
coast province could be ruled out in these circumstances, not because of Governor Puteh’s refusal, which possibly contributed to the official disfavor he confronted by late 2004 (TVRI 2004b).
Reducing impressions of ASNLF government GAM’s territorial gains inspired Indonesia’s administrative restructure in Aceh and partly measured its implementation. A vacuum of Indonesian government
54 Divide, dismember, and military rule was reported by September 1999, when only ten of North Aceh’s then 27 districts were deemed “functioning” (Srb 1999h). The provincial government defined “nonfunctioning” districts, or TNI “black” areas, as those with no civil government presence or activity whatsoever (Srb 2003k, w). Protecting government services was the TNI’s ostensible raison d’etre, but Indonesia’s control of the area’s petrochemical and downstream industries around Lhokseumawe and Langsa depended not on DEPDAGRI but rather TNI–POLRI troop concentrations. While the TNI was preoccupied with the unprecedented situation of postreferendum East Timor in 1999, Indonesian units in Aceh confined themselves to a vital asset protection (pamobvit) enclave linked by defensive outposts maintaining nodes of government. Jakarta’s dire situation in North Aceh hinted at dysfunction elsewhere: of Aceh’s 193 districts (kecamatan) in May 2001, around 157 of these were deemed functioning to some degree almost a year (and many troop deployments and population dispersals) later – up from the initially meager total of 69, or barely 36 percent, of the province’s kecamatan (puspen 2002c). TNI claims of restored Indonesian control varied, when the deputy KODAM commander claimed the increase was actually 93 to 149 from March 2001 to November 2002 (DM 2002), i.e. eight less than the mid-2002 official claim. Whatever the extent of Jakarta’s re-imposed bureaucracy after increased deployments, “government function” still referred to offices largely isolated from one another. Even senior TNI sources’ fluctuating figures reflected the transience and uncertainty of “functioning Indonesian government” in Aceh. Wider de facto ASNLF (Acheh Sumatera National Liberation Front) government was clear in village-level statistics. Of Aceh’s 5,615 villages in May 2001, the TNI described 1,687 as “governed.” A year later, the TNI (puspen 2002c) could claim its government apparatus restored in barely 700 more of those villages to a total 42 percent. Those TNI figures were qualified with the uncertainty of a plus or minus sign, and did not cover the vast sprawl of settlements yet to gain “village” status in Indonesia’s bureaucratic surveillance. Notwithstanding those anomalies, such statistical detail effectively confirmed GAM boasts that the greater part of Aceh was under ASNLF control for some time (WP 2001),7 and that the 1999 reaffirmation of its 1976 independence declaration merely reflected local reality. Whether in district or village numbers, it seemed Western audiences were the exclusive consumers targeted in contrasting claims of “restoration of government activity to 90 percent” and “98 percent” in Aceh’s two army territorial sectors (JIR 2002a). As planned or token entities, the new regencies, districts, and villages were the administrative shell and public justification for the more important expansion of the TNI’s and POLRI’s own armed territorial bureaucracies. In most newly announced districts, there was no actual Indonesian district government apparatus for GAM and its bolder civilian supporters to subjugate: its “replacement” was often a formality in that “black” areas had no functioning Indonesian government anyway. Governor Puteh announced the martial law replacement of district chiefs by some 60 serving and retired TNI soldiers, while remaining district staff were to work directly with serving territorial troops (JwP 2003c). In June,
Divide, dismember, and military rule 55 retired TNI–POLRI members replaced chiefs at all levels in black-coded districts. The provincial secretary politely expressed martial law’s fait accompli, whereby another layer of militarized bureaucracy struck out as superfluous those officially listed DEPDAGRI district chiefs in GAM-controlled areas (Srb 2003e). Volatile Pidie Regency’s new black-coded Jangka Buya District demonstrated the arbitrary and propagandist nature of this proconsular expansion in its appointment of Air Force Commando (PASKHASAU) First Lieutenant (1LT) Khairul Arifin as district chief. The “district” had no office building, leaving 1LT Arifin to camp out at the local fish market in the humble makeshift fashion of his colleagues in the field. Apparently without intended irony during his talk with Aceh’s press in August 2003, Arifin described his daily eight-hour “office” routine. As samples of the district’s work regime, he emphasized that all staff “ate lunch together,” while he personally inspected houses in receipt of emergency rice rations (Srb 2003aj), probably to ensure that food had not been redistributed. Indonesian publicity greeted Jangka Buya District’s official downgrading to “gray” level, showing off petrushka-style construction materials trucked in for a new mosque, and official clothing for the district’s staff (Srb 2003as). Nonetheless, security status categorizations bewildered local civilians: a Jangka Buya elder commented that his area was “black” but had not been bombed or shelled like many of the so-called “white” districts (Wsp 2003x). The “black–white–gray” codes, echoing their colored precedents in East Timor (Moore 2001: 13–14),8 gauged Indonesian territorial forces’ reentry “bridgeheads” or toeholds on the TNI’s terms. Official security status fluctuated in apparent negotiation between TNI–civil functionaries, probably in contest for Jakarta’s funding. In East Aceh for example, Governor Puteh boasted in August 2003 that no “black” districts remained, while local KODIM Commander LTCOL Sunari bluntly contradicted, stating five “black” districts in his area alone (Anl 2003o; Srb 2003am). Days later the governor in Banda Aceh still differed with TNI operations HQ in Lhokseumawe (Anl 2003p), but figures streamlined in another TNI statement (puspen 2003o). The anomaly came from the new districts, probably explaining another purpose in their creation. Sunari’s claim added five more districts to those classed “dysfunctional” in the martial law government’s releases, while at least 14 of the above-mentioned “shadow” districts confounded any calculations (see Figure 2.1). From eight new districts in East Aceh, the TNI artificially carved out direct control of civil government apparatus and funding via “black” status (only one black district there was a preexisting entity). Governor Puteh seemed to challenge the military monopoly, and its inconsistent reporting, on behalf of his own network of party and business allies. Whatever the opportunistic internal competition between elite Indonesian interests, the effect was much the same. The overall security picture was distorted into perceptions of Jakarta’s control of Aceh. Three months into the 2003 campaign, Indonesian government presence and control changed little beyond the district centers. Of 215 districts in late May, 36 were labeled “not functioning,” lowered to 13 such “black” districts into July, with 70 “partially functioning” districts. In August TNI admissions conceded 83 districts as “gray,” i.e. still largely
56 Divide, dismember, and military rule outside Indonesian control, although Indonesian forces deployed in strength to most of them (Srb 2003ai; puspen 2003m). The profusion of new districts (eight extra during that period) gave an impression that GAM’s territorial challenge had reduced to 36 percent of district centers after three months of intensive operations by far more TNI–POLRI troops than had hitherto been seen in Aceh (or East Timor). But if based on the 1998 structure of 149 districts, over 55 percent of Aceh’s district centers had little or no Indonesian control in “functioning” loyalist government. Martial law government’s creativity presented the situation as clear and precisely quantifiable military and political success, but whether “black,” “white,” or shades of “gray,” officially functioning Indonesian government in Aceh advertised a “Red and White” facade. To reconstruct Aceh’s actual district composition was to realize that many barely even existed beyond their announced establishment and security status. These dubious entities had some parallel at regency level too: migrant-heavy Nagan Raya was “born” in 2002, but only established its government offices in July 2003 (Srb 2003aa).
Triumvirates and the warlike state Irrespective of Jakarta’s “emergency” edicts, all Indonesian government levels effectively ran a de facto state of emergency, if not martial law by any state’s practical definitions. For the period 2001–3, intensified Aceh operations were coordinated and supervised by Indonesia’s security coordination minister (MENKOPOLKAM, instituted in 1965, later MENKOPOLHUKAM), GEN (ret’d) Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY), with deputy, and later senior election campaign staffer and cabinet secretary, LTGEN Sudi Silalahi. Before appointed as MENKOPOLKAM secretary, Sudi was KODAM chief in then President Wahid’s political base of East Java in 2000, during the Surabaya departure of up to 10,000 jihadists to the Maluku civil war. Sudi’s senior staff positions closely followed as deputy to SBY, as in the propagandist “social communications” role (ASKOMSOS) under SBY’s executive tenure of the national-level territorial chain (KASTER, territorial chief of staff). From 2002, SBY’s and Sudi’s supervision of Aceh operations became more explicit in the creation of an “Aceh desk.” It was no coincidence that MAJGEN Djali Yusuf also joined SBY’s election campaign team after serving as Aceh’s KODAM chief until wider operations resumed in mid-2003. In microcosms of MENKOPOLKAM’s co-opting of civil agencies at national level, the TNI–POLRI territorial hierarchy regularly participated in the similarly centralized civil government via regional consultative leadership councils, or MUSPIDA (Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah), articulated to their more obviously military-influenced executive form in leadership triumvirates, or TRIPIDA (Tri Pimpinan Daerah).9 MUSPIDA functions originated from Indonesia’s early years, but Soeharto’s 1965 coup introduced the term with its formalized duty under the new office of MENKOPOLKAM. Supporters usually explained these authorities as “culturally suited” to local traditional society, emphasizing notional “consensus” models (from the Arabic musyawarah). Such opinion ignored not
Divide, dismember, and military rule 57 only the varieties of local political tradition, and their modern evolution and discourse, but also the virtual TNI–POLRI leadership of MUSPIDA. Beside an outnumbered civilian administrator-cum-triumvir, “consultation” was actually security forces’ coordination of support from civilian agencies that were military subordinates for most practical purposes. Examination of these basic, standard Indonesian political structures gives a necessary perspective on Aceh’s Martial Law Power (PDMD), its national control (PDMP), and its succeeding Civil Emergency (PDSD) form, enacted over 2003–4, and preceding mechanisms from 1976.10 Special edicts gave direct judicial authority, and formalized subordination of the civil apparatus (and direct access to its funding), but historical and doctrinal comparisons better defined the situation. Australian Army 1960s doctrine, focused explicitly on Southeast Asia, specified many features of counterinsurgency government identical to Indonesia’s normality, including: a territorial intelligence structure paralleling civil administration; use of absolutist control in martial law when “scale and tempo of military operations” had grown in the “Active Phase until the Counter Offensive” [sic]; and a “passive phase” for “identifying the dissidents.”11 According to that historical Western source, the Indonesian state was structured for counterrevolutionary warfare, in which the military coordinated government committees at all levels (Army HQ 1965: 45–7, 92). Normalized Indonesian powers also resembled contingency legal provisions in the Australian government’s DFACP (Defence Force Aid to the Civil Power), for example. It therefore seemed that Indonesia’s “martial law” and “civil emergency” periods in Aceh were operational adjustments to counterrevolutionary warfare normalized in government structure and state ideology. This is not to imply that Western military doctrine led its Indonesian counterpart. In many respects, Indonesian doctrine surpassed others by its effective militarist infiltration of society through complex formulation of territorial staff functions and procedures learned from local experience. Another aspect of Indonesia’s practical counterinsurgency refinement was its implicit economic incentives for successful subjugation of disaffected areas. That point was demonstrated by Aceh’s administrative restructure in new local government entities and associated development projects, which helped motivate and sustain the TNI, allowing its hierarchy to remold Indonesia’s Aceh presence in an image suiting its own institutional self-interest. Some imitation appeared in a 2003 Indonesian Defence Department White Paper’s adaptation of contemporary Western interventionist and peacekeeping doctrine on “military operations other than war” (MOOTW, Operasi Militer Selain Perang/OMSP). In common with Western parlance, OMSP were any operations not involving combat with another state. But the Indonesian state’s usage covered all domestic “peacetime” functions of TNI–POLRI forces in constant and usually warlike operations. Revealing warfare’s broader scope in a primarily domestic TNI–POLRI mission, the schematic deviated to a term superceded in the West by the 1990s, i.e. “low-intensity conflict” (LIC). In its sliding scale over the MOOTW concept, Jakarta’s policy document (Dephan 2003: 10–11, 20, 53–4, 57) mixed that obsolete and contemporary Western jargon with local
58 Divide, dismember, and military rule contexts of TNI–POLRI antiguerrilla war and other “regime maintenance” roles. Map 2.2 translates the official template’s arbitrary distinctions and interchangeable levels of internal military operations. Despite the essentially militarist foundations and glue of Indonesia’s civil governance, and its deep structural and economic causes, an ICG report (2001a: 18–19) justified the continuation and even increase of Indonesia’s emergency powers while urging “a psychological break from the military.”12 But the TNI’s mesh of territorial commands and civilian leadership functions meant that a “psychological break,” even if possible in the military-dominated governmental system, would only further alienate civilians from real political power. Several bureaucratic changes in post-1998 reformasi led many to assume a TNI retreat from political power, as in its removal of the “sociopolitical” (sospol) branch titles, but transfer of those functions to its territorial branch merely confirmed the territorial structure’s essentially political purpose. A different psychological break would arise nonetheless in the presidency of territorial supremo SBY, whose style and Western support worked into a deliberate campaign to shift perceptions of Indonesia’s militarized politics, counterinsurgency culture, and arbitrary justice.
Territorium Obvious superiority in uniformed ranks and weaponry was not the TNI’s only vehicle to ensure the prominence of security policy and military dominance in triumvirate-led MUSPIDA governing committees. TNI zoning of Aceh (as elsewhere) reinforced that military power and authority through strategic hierarchical overlaps descending into village communities. For many observers, immediate impressions suggested superficial parallels between the civil government hierarchy and its TNI territorial counterpart. Others (Lowry 1996: 59–60; Kingsbury 2003: 72, 85) identified TNI–civil hierarchical differences as exceptions to a general rule of parallel military–civil administration. At several points of the command chains, however, TNI authority preempted civilian and police in the triumvirate and committee system. Mapped cadastral detail revealed how the TNI, and to lesser extents POLRI, structured its territories at intervening levels of irregularity, thereby containing several civil administrations within its boundaries. In Aceh such hierarchical overlap was most obvious at KOREM (Military Regional Command) and, in restructures since 1999, KODIM levels, but almost invariably throughout villages too. Such vertical preemption via triumvirates all but guaranteed a “security approach” in Indonesian government policy, planning, and discipline. In that last aspect, the TNI’s triumvirate dominance meant that any efforts at “reform,” “anticorruption,” transparency,” etc., would need to suit the military’s institutional and operational priorities. KODAM (Military Area Command) formations provided the most direct TNI supervision of the provinces. Shortly before Aceh’s expanded civil structure in new regencies, TNI HQ resurrected KODAM Iskandar Muda (I.M.) on 6 February 2002, keeping to an early 1999 plan to restore Indonesia’s more numerous pre1985 KODAMs closer to provincial boundaries (see Davies 2001: 8–9, 59;
Divide, dismember, and military rule 59 Kingsbury 2003: 77–8, 80–4, for example). To outsiders, though less superficially so to historically conscious Acehnese, KODAM I.M.’s return echoed the first Dutch “Atjeh military government” carved from its North Sumatera Command. From 1985 to 2002, a similar provincial overlap preceded KODAM I.M.’s return, when Medan-based KODAM I Bukit Barisan oversaw Aceh with three other provinces. The restored KODAM gave another impression, as though TNI structure necessarily matched the civil pattern, automatically requiring increased subordinate commands (see Wandelt 2002). In political power’s expansion, however, the TNI’s territorium was the cart to DEPDAGRI’s horse. In another historical echo, KODAM I.M.’s martial law status from May 2003 mirrored late-nineteenth-century Dutch abandonment of Aceh’s civil government residentie for direct military rule after unsuccessful antiguerrilla campaigns. The ensuing removal of cadastral overlap at that level did not mean diminution of TNI authority, or any significant power transfer to Aceh’s DEPDAGRI apparatus. On the contrary, KODAM I.M.’s martial law was the TNI’s territorial system in its absolutist proconsular mode, effectively consolidating the reshaped Aceh administration stamped a year earlier. The TNI’s next lower territorial layer in Aceh, KOREMs 011 and 012, ensured military supremacy in triumvirates now covering ten regency-level administrations each in the northern and southern halves, respectively. KOREM 012 shifted back to its pre-1985 HQ in the West Aceh capital Meulaboh. According to Indonesia’s ideologically organicist view of antiguerrilla war, the restructured civil government entities spread, under KODAM I.M.’s return, in a stimulated multiplication like white blood cell response to infection. Source detail confirmed that the territorial apparatus at lower KODIM and KORAMIL (military subdistrict) levels continued close TNI supervision of multiple civil jurisdictions in Aceh’s government restructure. That hierarchy grew to match new regencies and districts only where compelled more by budgetary and other economic needs than operational priorities. New, small KODIMs arose in areas of least intense combat activity, but offered potentially lucrative army revenues: tourist destination Sabang with its planned “freeport” trade zone, and logging zone Singkil with high migrant concentrations. As if to emphasize the TNI’s priorities by striking contrast, the Sabang and Singkil KODIMs even overtook Bireuen Regency, an area of the most intense fighting, noted much earlier with an interim (persiapan) formation status headed by northern Aceh’s KODIM 0103 chief of staff: by March 2005, that other new KODIM apparently remained “interim” (Dtk 2005b). Political overlap extended also to most KORAMIL formations: approximately 130 KORAMILs covered 215 districts to May 2003. By 2004, the KORAMIL level expanded gradually in a corresponding “stagger” of just 18 new formations in a total of 231 districts, mostly within eastern Aceh’s KODIM 0104, in a longerterm plan of 72 new KORAMIL formations (Srb 2003ap; TI 2003c; MI 2004c). During the martial law phase from mid-2003, TNI officers repeatedly complained to Indonesia’s press about delays to the KTP-MP ID card distribution because of too few KODIM and KORAMIL formations. In light of the TNI’s benefits from structural overlap, thousands of additional troops, and TNI boasts to have
60 Divide, dismember, and military rule *
0110 ?
209
16
(late 2003) (la 113 II 0101 <+17
07 1109 04
15 ? 02 02 1312
SGI
16 13
I.M.
I.M.
?
05 ?
16 ?
06
A
I
29
05
?
DARMU AN D SK
*
204
12 09 25 20 2304 01 22 13 14 05 02 1012 15 V SGI ? 07 08 ? < 0106 < +13 +5 I.M. 04 01 06 ? 05 04 13 VIII SGI 03 02
14 ? ? <+3
17 ?? 112
I.M.
IV
18
03 012
SGI
? 111
*
001
SGI 0111 ?
18 20 22 21 ? 17 115
? I
III
09
01
08 07
0103 <+12
23
12
28
011
I.M.
0102 <+5
1314 Banda Aceh
114
I.M.
02
16 06
07 ?
04
0304
+5 03
VI
SGI
116
I.M.
07 10
09 0107 < +15 (inc.) 01
? ? 02
11 13 VII
14 17
SGI ?
Aceh-based but not
* 'organic' to KODAM I.M.
12
0109 15
< +# Estimated total new KORAMIL #
Identified new KORAMIL formation from late 2003
Notes: Unit HQ location 111 Inf Bn Eastern Aceh 112 Inf Bn Greater Aceh Pidie 113 Inf Bn Central Aceh 114 Inf Bn 115 Inf Bn Bireuen West Aceh 116 Inf Bn I Cbt Engr Det Greater Aceh I Asslt Cav Det Greater Aceh
16 (late 2003)
Remarks Probably extending to East Aceh boundary Earliest KODAM I.M. 'raider' nucleus; partial shift to western & northern regencies Probably shifted from Bireuen, with eastern limit at Samalanga Possibly extending to Bireuen's southern districts Probably extending to East Aceh boundary Extending from West Aceh to Singkil From KODAM I/BB (1 Cbt Engr Bn); nucleus for KODAM I.M. battalion entity From KODAM I/BB (6 Asslt Cav Bn); nucleus for KODAM I.M. battalion entity
Map 2.3 Aceh’s identified TNI organic-territorial and base formations, 2002–5.
Divide, dismember, and military rule 61 completed new cards issues by late 2003, these complaints were disingenuous. True to its political mission, such public comment amounted to lower-level TNI lobbying for, or justifying receipt of, more central funds. In a local sense, such complaints sought gain from an unsavory situation or, more colloquially, “fishing in foul waters” (memancing dalam air keruh). Nonetheless, as an antiguerrilla weapon KODAM I.M.’s apparatus was not the “white elephant” of its totemic crest: opportunism interfered little with the expansion’s counterinsurgency goals, rather offering incentive to members willing to perform in that system. Throughout village levels, the TNI increased its array of NCOs in surveillance duties over the local population, adding over 1,000 Village Guidance NCOs (babinsa) for the operation’s “counteroffensive phase” from the end of 2003 (TVRI 2003d). Mostly from territorial and some KOSTRAD infantry on Java, the NCOs’ assignment coincided with the deployment of newly designated “raider” battalions. GAM’s threat redefined the NCOs’ usual first-line human intelligence (HUMINT) function into a “combat” title as babinsa tempur, probably also to impart a sense of elan among those so discarded into the onerous posting far from home. Certainly not disbanded in reformasi, babinsa appointments increased throughout Indonesia, and press reports detailed their routine continuation beyond 2000, not just in Aceh but elsewhere (Ant 2001b; Kmp 2001d; PR 2002a; SM 2002a; Palagan 2003b; Setda Jabar 2003).13 The place for babinsa in village triumvirates (TRIPIDES) meant similar chicanery of territorial overlap to that of their superiors in enforcing political authority. But the NCOs’ was less an administrative or bureaucratic function than a direct role of leadership and coercion, facing an often hostile populace and danger from GAM. More crucial to TNI planning and operations, the wide babinsa network fed hierarchies with local knowledge and early warning. In that task it was backed by the KODAM’s Intelligence Detachment (Denintel) distributed through the apparatus in specialist platoons and sections, delegating further to another NCO functionary monitoring “societal affairs and conditions” (baurkonsos).14 Elitist and more autonomous counterintelligence forces deployed to KODAM as SGI/Satgasintel (Intelligence Task Force/TF), and its Sattis (Satuan Taktis, tactical unit) subunits at KODIM–KORAMIL levels, in rotations of Java-based TNI special forces troops. Drawn mostly from Army Special Forces (KOPASSUS) Covert Warfare (Sandi Yudha) Group III, SGI included a BAIS (Strategic Intelligence Agency) analyst team reporting directly to BAIS HQ despite SGI’s nominal KODAM subordination (unlike other “base” elements, SGI had direct liaison authority for work among both “organic” and “non-organic” units). By 2003, SGI doubled its unit strength and formed another unit (Sattis 3) within Bireuen Regency’s boundaries. SGI often accompanied infantry patrols, clearly photographed and described from a July 2004 firefight in Greater Aceh Regency, for example.15 Usually plain-clothed in civilian cars, these counterintelligence troops performed more sinister tasks of assassination, kidnapping, interrogation, disappearances, higher-level agent-handling, and related psychological operations (PSYOPS).
62 Divide, dismember, and military rule Total strength and composition of the secretive BAIS-tasked counterintelligence and PSYOPS forces were the most challenging of all TNI Aceh deployments. In mid-July 2002 TNI press liaison officer MAJ Zaenal Mutaqqin (RRI 2002b) claimed that a KOPASSUS Covert Warfare company had rotated out of Aceh. The timing was conspicuously odd: for many years, SGI finished its unit rotations each February, in 12-month tours. But Zaenal’s statement was unsurprising given Aceh’s 2002 context of international monitors and peace negotiations. Were these “130 KOPASSUS troops” a “para-commando” line unit or an advance party additional to SGI’s battalion? The latter was more plausible, because subsequent details in TNI reporting indicated a doubling of SGI through its Covert Warfare “support” element (Satgasbanintel ), only publicly admitted from late 2003. From at least 1999, even less official and “nonmilitary” elements outside the normal chains of command swelled the special operations commitment in Aceh. The local Islamic Students Association (HMI) reported in 1999 around 1,000 KOPASSUS members deployed via two channels: more formally as part of a unit, e.g. SGI, para-commando companies, and less officially in “shadow units,” such as covert roles as civilian employees of contracting firms. Aceh’s NGO Forum, comprising 78 separate local NGOs, backed HMI’s claim, reporting covert troops’ breakup of NGO refuges established for victims of violence in North Aceh. Such forces’ increase was a deliberate process for the war’s “passive phase.” Gatra (1998b) indicated up to 2,000 members in an Aceh branch of Satgas Tebas (Tenaga Bantuan Sukarela, Volunteer Support TF) as covert operators and militia cadres, with links to trained militarist PPM youths (Pemuda Panca Marga) and jihadists. During Central Aceh’s post-1998 militia expansion, a BRIMOB (Mobile Brigade) member reported KOPASSUS’ increased strength to some 1,000 members in that regency alone (fpdra 2001m). Most of these numbers did not fall directly into KOPASSUS’ SGI or paracommando companies, but could only come under the more secretive milsus (special military) category outside of official SGI–BAIS hierarchies (see also Kingsbury 2003: 103).16 Paramilitary youth gangs mixed with informers and agents in another unofficial TNI–POLRI force, whether directed by special forces or territorial formations. While commanding Jakarta’s KODAM Jayakarta, then MAJGEN Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin (later TNI public relations chief) explained that territorial intelligence staff worked closely with “businessmen or academics, for example” (FK 1997b). Sjafrie’s examples were euphemistic: his troops’ main civilian partners were Jakarta’s street gangsters and their quasi-political umbrella in paramilitary youth organizations, all more or less networked to major political parties and extortion “business.” In Aceh, such groups also covered individual civilians enlisted or coerced, and often locally reviled, as cuak (Acehnese “spy”), or apasuh. The latter term seemed a wordplay mixing KOPASSUS or aparat and the term for “kept, nurtured” (diasuh), similar to the Javanese for “dog” in related contexts (asuhan): perhaps a universal thought pattern describing the selfinterested loyalty of planted state agents and informers.
Divide, dismember, and military rule 63
Aceh-based combat units As KODAM I.M.’s base formations expanded their powers and some hierarchies, the KODAM’s locally based subordinate, or “organic,”17 territorial infantry battalions increased from three to six, and enlarged their personnel strength to a nonstandard 1,000 troops each. The strengthened organic combat capability included plans for a KODAM I.M. brigade, a rare formation in TNI territorial forces (MI 2004c), but standard for newly formulated “type A” KODAMs. Organic increase was the prerequisite to offset any later publicized “troop reductions” via withdrawals of non-organic units. Newly raised infantry and support units in Aceh paralleled expansion plans for territorial battalions (and another infantry brigade HQ) in Papua (Kmp 2003a; Srb 2003g; Wsp 2003a).18 Increases in Aceh’s conventional organic units showed a blend of KOPASSUS influence and underground elements of TNI business and paramilitary enterprise. The original organic infantry battalions, 111, 112, and 113, underwent “refresher training” at KODAM I’s Pematang Siantar garrison and elsewhere in North Sumatera, ostensibly as relief for prolonged strain in Aceh. The training involved liaison with paramilitary youth groups (OKP), infamous for their bases and strong gang presence in nearby Medan. KODAM I’s chief of staff, KOPASSUS veteran BRIGGEN Zamroni, emphasized paramilitary liaison in his parade farewell address to the Aceh-based infantry, exhorting them “to increase their solidarity with the people,” as OKP ranks watched beside KODAM staff. Except for its context of aggressive militia and agent coordination, Zamroni’s order would be bizarre for territorial units long posted into population centers. The three battalions’ North Sumatera sojourns combined with “raider” training at KOPASSUS’ Batujajar center, and related in-country training for the newly raised 114, 115, and 116 battalions’ recruits (SCTV 2003l; SIB 2003a, ae; Wsp 2003b; API 2004b). The retrained organic infantry appeared in regular TNI combat reports as expansion cadres, operating alongside the non-organic raider battalions in 2004. More importantly, the strengthened local territorial presence facilitated and supervised militia expansion in siskamling (local security system) networks run by retired TNI–POLRI and OKP gang cadres. Ethnicity was an important clue in tracing Aceh’s expanded organic units and their Medan gang links. Some reports named such battalions’ members, revealing multiple casualties in noncommissioned ranks all with distinctive Batak clan names of neighboring North Sumatera, or a few others from further south (Koalisi 1999; Srb 1999b; Wsp 2001c; Info-RI 2002; Widayat n.d.). Combined with territorial forces’ sponsorship (beking) of metropolitan gangs in underworld business nationwide, forces’ ethnicity reflected a discreet regional competition used at Jakarta’s convenience, just as Medan alternated as an official then de facto base for Aceh operations. The same ethnic pattern appeared in repressive actions against Daud Beureueh’s 1950s resistance and TNI atrocities against Acehnese civilians (Mohammad Ali 1996: 75). This is not to imply ethnic tendencies in that criminality or gangsterism, over which no monopoly fell to Batak, Acehnese, Javanese, etc.
64 Divide, dismember, and military rule Emmerson (1999) urged that the TNI deploy only “Acehnese units” in Aceh, but that advice was predicated on an assumption that such units existed. The perception resembled previous misunderstandings about East Timor’s territorial battalions (744, 745) that never exclusively, or even mostly, comprised native East Timorese, instead characterized by higher proportions of Javanese and Sundanese officers. The territorial effect in both areas was intentional, even doctrinal: state repression was depicted as a locally popular and voluntary activity. The notion of “locally recruited” or “Acehnese” battalions seemed to have been accepted in the same way many assumed East Timor’s “home” battalions to have been largely indigenous (JIR 2001d). As with the “East Timorese” battalions until 1999, some members were recruited locally to join such “home” units over time, but not beyond a large indigenous minority. To propose only “Acehnese units” would amount to a radical development and, for Jakarta, a very risky one. Of course, GAM largely comprised “Acehnese units,” but recommendation to Jakarta in this regard made sense if only hinting at covert operations of “turned” guerrillas, as done in East Timor, and earlier in South Vietnam’s chiu hoi auxiliaries. Various non-infantry and non-army units were posted in Aceh, in the literally “organic” forces under KODAM I.M., or other TNI units under separate national commands. KODAM I.M.’s non-infantry force comprised engineers, military police, and other smaller support, administrative, and specialist staff units, all of which bore higher tsunami casualties due to their concentrations in Banda Aceh (organic infantry fared better due to their one-to-two ratio between KOREM 012 and 011). Reflecting its pivotal regional location, Aceh contained National Air Defence Command (KOHANUDNAS) elements in radar and antiaircraft units, conducting routine defensive patrols of their own assets against GAM attacks, but also crowd control and point security in support of local KODIMs. Other smaller, dispersed air force and navy base/port units are not depicted in Map 2.3.
POLRI’s base expansion POLRI’s Aceh structure followed new DEPDAGRI subdivisions much more closely than its TNI counterpart. Aceh Police Region (POLDA DIA, later POLDA NAD) was not a new or restored formation, but new police precincts (POLRES) arose almost concurrently with most new regencies from 1999 then 2002 and later. From early 2002, POLDA NAD’s status remained at “Type B,” but matched “Type A” regions in that it had significant armored and BRIMOB infantry assets, for example. However, POLRI’s situation was anomalous in that regard, because the POLDA chief’s rank raised to the major-general level without the formation’s official lift to “Type A.” On a par with the rank held by chief of Aceh’s new KODAM’s raised at the time, the POLDA chief’s promotion was more internal diplomacy to save POLRI’s self-image in Aceh, and careerist compensation for senior POLRI officers’ pressing institutional concerns: POLRI’s senior bureaucratic interests demanded that their POLDA chief have enough rank seniority to at least seem on par with local TNI command and staff, as well as TNI–POLRI formations in neighboring North Sumatera (Wsp 2002e).
Divide, dismember, and military rule 65 Upgrade to POLRI’s Aceh Region was a major project involving years of new precincts (POLRES) and sectors (POLSEK). Most new regencies had new precincts matching their boundaries within two years, except in new zones for western and municipal areas (see Map 3.4). After a force validation process in October 2002, four grades covered police formations at the different levels, from A1 to B2 (hitherto, POLRI graded its regions A, B, or C). The later system was more flexible, recognizing the different demands among subordinate regions, precincts and sectors, with wide disparities in total police posts in response to local conditions. In Aceh, local recruiting shortages affected POLRI’s permanent base strength. Inertia from budgetary and recruitment problems affected POLRI’s expansion across Indonesia, achieving only one-sixth of 120 planned new POLRES facilities, and just 2.5 percent of POLSEK by mid-2003, in a gradual process still underway a year later (TI 2002, 2004b; Kmp 2003l). Whereas the TNI had many more troops and vehicles to at least reestablish its larger territorial hierarchy, co-located police bases relied on large levies of members from various branches throughout Indonesia. Additional to police combat forces in rotated BRIMOB infantry and their own substitutes, Jakarta’s national HQ deployed many members to Aceh in an effort to cover that gap between “real” (riil, posted) strength and “established” (DSP, daftar susunan personil) numbers on paper. These extra non-organic territorial forces made up between half and all the police numbers actually posted in Aceh. For example, Yogyakarta’s Aceh commitment by late 2004 comprised 360 members, one-third of which deployed as backup police in traffic, detective, and other conventional police branches, with the other two-thirds BRIMOB (Dtk 2004d). POLRI’s force composition in Aceh was the most complex of all the services, so assessments needed to distinguish carefully between permanently posted and ad hoc troops both in territorial and combat formations. Amid the chaos of the tsunami of December 2004, POLRI revealed several precincts where non-Aceh territorial police significantly offset POLDA Aceh’s base shortages, including attached HQ and other specialist staff in the Banda Aceh command itself. In a similar process to DEPDAGRI’s effective subordination to the TNI in MUSPIDA–TRIPIDA, police hierarchy in Aceh underlay the army’s at KODIM–KOREM levels. Within those institutional constraints, POLRI’s own intelligence branch (intelkam, formerly intelpampol) complemented the TNI’s Intelligence Detachment overseeing human sources spread down to villages. At those lowest levels, routine information gathering, detention, and interrogation fell to police counterparts of the TNI’s babinsa in police babinmas (community guidance NCOs), also known by the more specific but unwieldy babinkamtibmas (guidance in security and order) formerly named for “village” level in babinkamtibdes (TSM 1990) and the more generic binpolda. A uniformed paramilitary element slightly reduced POLRI’s personnel shortages in Aceh via standard recruitment of KAMRA (keamanan rakyat, people’s security) auxiliaries. These forces linked in functional networks to intermediate police functions of DEPDAGRI’s auxiliary police in accordance with POLRI’s closer post-reformasi institutional relationship. Especially at sector and village levels, POLRI’s Bina
66 Divide, dismember, and military rule Mitra (Guidance Partnership) branch participated directly in militia expansion, and management of some 2,500 Islamist “syariah police” (Anl 2003a, q; Reuters 2003), the latter often reported by its Javanese but generically applied polisi pamong praja. All police and their auxiliaries regularly took part in joint operations with TNI patrols, usually under command of TNI officers.
Reassertion and East Timor’s precedent Militarist apparatus in TNI–POLRI de facto government constituted at once the foundation and ambition of Jakarta’s Aceh campaigns. Indonesian military operations could run without DEPDAGRI’s parallel civil apparatus, but the reverse was never the case. Nonetheless, Jakarta’s strategy to reenter, retake, and hold Aceh could not be achieved through violent coercion and force alone, but alongside a profit motive: DEPDAGRI offered many established avenues of such opportunity. Any state structure would likely run such inducement (and coercive threat and deterrence) in at least discreet measure, but extreme pressures in the Indonesian state made it impractical to conceal the associated exploitation and venality behind strict secrecy and earnest mythologies of community, noblesse oblige/“duty of care,” “aspiration,” etc. Directly armed power also made it unnecessary. Indonesia’s public was at least generally aware of TNI–POLRI violence in Aceh, and its accompanying theatre of selective and ineffectual legal disciplinary mechanisms. In parallel, publicized official detail implied an encouragement of state corruption by the use of fabrications, as both preemptive smokescreen (backed by the circular excuse of inadequate budgets) and blatant, cynical contempt for facts and principle. Indeed, venality’s public display in Jakarta’s often transparent public information suggested venality’s conscious advertisement, reinforcing the aura of unchallenged power and its international support. Paternalistic or racist attitudes in creditor states could dismiss these phenomena as “incompetence,” “chaotic native self-rule,” “Javanese duplicity,” “ignorance from poverty,” etc. But for most Indonesian citizens, such state behavior was long established, as was its nonchallenge in “anticorruption” drives or, at best, their reformist publicity in formal regulation and its often arbitrary and selective enforcement. Most importantly, corruption in Jakarta’s complicit civil government sustained its protective umbrella of militarist governance, more in a dependent than symbiotic relationship. Some commentary (ABC 2003c; ICG 2003a; EWC 2004b; Schulze 2004) claimed the TNI had no “exit strategy” for operations from mid-2003, implying that Jakarta headquarters would normally devise such plans as a matter of course. The reason the TNI had no Aceh “exit strategy” was that it did not want one: Indonesia’s intense territorial force and administrative expansions proved the cliché’s irrelevance, at least for the foreseeable future.19 TNI executives’ rhetoric was sincere when emphasizing Aceh’s “nonnegotiable price” (harga mati) for peace, i.e. GAM accepting the Indonesian state’s indivisibility. Under the supervision of former TNI territorial chief SBY, Jakarta’s military and administrative apparatus conducted a reentry, consolidation, and offensive in Aceh, with any
Divide, dismember, and military rule 67 “exit” limited to gradual withdrawal of some non-organic forces, relieved by new organic-territorial formations after the expanded territorial base was deemed secure. The TNI’s post-2004 counteroffensive (or “combat”) strategy aimed to weaken GAM enough to facilitate that consolidation. From 2001 to the time of writing, Jakarta’s Aceh operations were its “last stand” in this basic, counterinsurgency sense: more so than operations against Papuan resistance, the state sought to disprove perceptions of any continued Acehnese success in challenging the center’s militarist dominance and territorial inviolability. In an altogether different sense, but consistent with the official “nonnegotiable” stance, a latent TNI “Aceh exit strategy” did hover behind operations from 2001. If circumstances or ASNLF diplomatic efforts brought international pressure favoring Acehnese independence, an East Timor-style “scorched earth exit strategy” around Aceh’s gas and oil fields would certainly materialize unless, of course, the Indonesian state imploded as the ASNLF hoped. This was a nightmare scenario for the West’s ruling elites: East Timor’s sacking on a larger scale, with far greater potential for material loss and other high risk to energy resources already in production (unlike East Timor’s in 1999). In East Timor’s case, offshore resources were vulnerable to initial foreign exploitation: an independent Aceh was a larger and better-armed prospect to bargain over its own natural riches. Behind state-led perception management, Aceh’s case showed networks of militarized government in sharp relief, and their aggressive campaigns timed conveniently with TNI networks’ Trojan horse reinforcement at the national level. It was no accident when those networks stabilized their power to produce SBY as a president from the territorium’s apex; yet less surprising that supportive overseas lobbies seized on SBY’s Bogor Agricultural Institute doctorate to call him “Doctor” not “General” Yudhoyono. While international eyes were shown a play of “progress” and “democracy,” Indonesian perceptions came under projections of Jakarta’s power in the TNI–POLRI–DEPDAGRI Aceh expansion, where impressions of “teamwork” in mutual self-interest, venality, and corruption were integral to reasserted dominance. The message to Aceh’s population was that they could try to join in the opportunism or miss its benefits altogether and thereby remain subject to worse extortion. The Indonesian government’s system of normalized de facto martial law meant any domestic “political solution” in Aceh was necessarily a military one, however it may have presented itself as “holistic” or integrated with civilian efforts. But in displaying that political reality, Jakarta’s mission still required its soldiers to advance and retake Aceh to prepare the territorium’s spread inland into “black,” “white,” and “gray” areas.
3
Military dynamics and “lines of concentration”
Now come on you Ambonese man! You too from Manado and Ternate! Hit the enemy again and again, ’Til all their fight abates… And you too, Javanese friend! Get stuck into your duty, So we can have a laugh again, Once the enemy’s pacified [Excerpt: “Samalanga,” by Iz. Thenu, in Gedenkboek van het Korps Maréchaussee (1944)] (Alfian 1987)
Jakarta’s forces in Aceh overwhelmingly comprised nonlocal, or “non-organic,” units. Where the organic-territorial base increased its political and surveillance powers over the province, non-organic forces gave the territorium its protective shield and forward fighting elements to expand that organic base. Although often not mutually exclusive in practice, the attached non-organic territorial “shield” performed local security duties while other, less conventional but more aggressive non-organic combat units took the fight directly to GAM. Together, Indonesian forces in Aceh formed “layers” of different force types from the TNI’s three services and POLRI. In a microcosm of the TNI’s coercive, vertical relationships with police and civil government agencies in mapped bureaucracies, overlapping layers of TNI–POLRI units filtered up into local command supremacy by much the same elite army hierarchy that dominated other Indonesian counterinsurgencies. Evolution of antiguerrilla forces and operations in Aceh reflected technological changes applied to the Indonesian military’s own ancestry in basic patterns from the Dutch and Japanese eras. Force types and command structure in Aceh closely resembled those of earlier operations, but total troop numbers far exceeded commitments in East Timor, Papua, and Maluku. Early cases’ close cooperation between TNI and POLRI troops increased in Aceh from 2001, only part due to policy responses to institutional and operational strains. POLRI in particular suffered the worst strain from Aceh operations, in an invidious situation whereby
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expectations of greater POLRI domestic security responsibility (including foreign aid) increased tensions with the army, which continued its institutional dominance and near-monopoly of counterinsurgency powers. Interservice conflict indicated ineptitude to some, but Indonesia’s aggressive martial tradition and economic competition ensured that TNI–POLRI clashes generally affirmed esprit de corps in a de facto training capacity for “the real thing”: antiguerrilla war. Though extraordinary by many states’ standards of stricter control, the traditional aggression of Jakarta’s security forces contributed to offensive spirit in TNI–POLRI doctrine, training, and class structure, in a mesh of complementary structures.
Force types On first glance by many observers, Indonesian forces in Aceh made up a “bewildering array” of various armed services, commands, branches, and composite satgas (task force, TF) formations (see HRW 2001: 14, for example). Indonesia’s military history and mixed colonial heritage bequeathed force structures and traditions unlike most conventional armies, challenging Indonesians and foreigners alike with complex layers of parallel commands, deployments, acronyms, and jargon. Militaries are universally notorious in the latter respects, but the TNI–POLRI lexicon probably led the world for its relative impenetrability of inventiveness, inconsistency and contradictions, tautology, and permutations. Confusion arose from the many reported satgas formations, their respective service identities, operational titles, and uniforms, often misrepresented by Jakarta along service lines as though operational function was secondary to bureaucratic identity. Each service named satgas entities for internal administrative processes ordering the assembly, transport, and supply of units into operational areas (daerah operasi). Once in Aceh, these units fell under other distinct satgas formations for direct operational command and control. Indonesian force structure was much simpler when viewed as a matter of operational tasking and chains of command, in key distinctions between “administration” and “operations,” or deployment and employment. Separate service hierarchies and identities misled some observers nonetheless. Kirsten Schulze (JIR 2001d) and Rizal Sukma (EWC 2004b), for example, divided Indonesian Aceh operations into “four key elements”: police; territorial army; mobile Rajawali; and navy and air force. That division merely reiterated that the war involved all TNI–POLRI branches, including territorial and mobile forces, or “water is two parts hydrogen, one oxygen.” But Indonesia’s counterinsurgency was less the sum of its parts than a distribution of TNI–POLRI units by primary mission, or operational responsibility. All forces actually divided along such practical, functional lines as “static” territorial; “mobile” combat; reconnaissance (“recon”) and intelligence; and support units. “Administrative and logistic” functions fell into a further fifth category identifying a smaller part of posted and deployed troops, but is included here in the TNI’s definition (and general public understanding) of “support.” Jakarta’s depictions of separate service commands in Aceh were consistent with other politically expedient claims that the 2003 Holistic Operation balanced
70 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” separate pursuits by state bureaucracies in: governance; local autonomy measures including syariah law; humanitarian relief; policing; and actual warfighting. But operational names and TF (satgas) titles were secondary and potentially misleading details, important only to identify different services’ logistical and administrative routines, whatever the independent service elan evoked by such “operational titles” as the marines’ Rencong Sakti, POLRI’s Wibawa, Sadar Rencong, Cinta Meunasah, or Rencong Terbang of the air force’s PASKHASAU commandos, for example. Even POLRI’s titular Aceh supremacy during the Habibie and Gus Dur presidencies, and in “civil emergency” from mid-2004, meant little in what were always essentially army-led operations. Other TNI services and POLRI (let alone other government branches) could initiate their own plans and activity, but they would do so at their own peril if not approved by the army, Jakarta’s strongest and best-equipped force. Activity not in accord with army plans would risk isolation from protective and rapid-reaction army units; any perceived interference with army priorities risked internecine reprisal from that same quarter. TNI–POLRI forces defined themselves primarily by function, derived from basic doctrinal concepts for internal security and actual warfighting, beyond traditional arms and service branches (infantry, cavalry, engineers, supply, etc.). Aggressive TNI tactics, training, and institutional culture profoundly influenced Indonesian forces’ organization in counterinsurgency, adding separate offensive dynamics and attitude to the more staid territorial base of occupation troops. TNI–POLRI force structures could seem convoluted when compared to simpler Western unit identities and hierarchies, even in the latter’s flexible, arbitrary battlegroups, etc. Indonesian forces’ working structure grew from historical influences of foreign armies, political expediency by a dominant army, and consolidation in generally successful field application. Notwithstanding separate service responsibilities and specializations, the army-dominated structure compelled widespread joint-force (pasgab) patrols as the functional basis of operations. Patrols regularly acted as composite units of army territorial, mobile, special forces, and/or POLRI’s Mobile Brigade (BRIMOB) soldiers, especially in routine security tasks near the main supply route of the northern highway. Army troops generally formed the majority of pasgab patrols, though some TNI support units comprised an even mix of the three services, such as the composite Military Police TF (puspen 2003c). Whether static, mobile, or specialist support, force roles were not mutually exclusive in the field, but defined units’ main mission and primary operational chain of command. Outside of various composite pasgab and mobile formations, other TNI–POLRI forces acted in near-exclusive support roles in counterintelligence, engineer, logistics, communications, medical, administrative, air, and maritime duties. Tactical foundations and origins TNI patrol methods explained much about Indonesian forces’ structure and operational philosophy (see mabesad 1984; pussenif 1995). At basic levels, most
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TNI infantry doctrine was conceptually similar to Western counterparts, defining forces by arbitrary categories familiar to any military in the world. Generic Indonesian infantry tactical formats described teams or patrols acting as tactical command (kotis, “tac HQ”), reconnaissance (pengintai, “recon”), static and “overwatch” security (pengaman), fire-support (bantem/bantuan), and attack/destroyer (penyerbu/penghancur) elements. At subunit levels from fire team–platoon-sized patrols, the command group translated directly as pokko, while other equivalents altered: pengintai (recon) to the lead “scouts,” or US “point”; pengaman (security) to “flank/rear protection”; and bantuan (support) to “gun/MG” groups. Commanders led maneuver-strike elements in attack, with patrol deputies controlling suppressive fire-support as “holding” elements (pengikat). Such tactical terminology is only generalized here into Australian/US equivalents, because formats did not always translate: the TNI’s “security” group, for example, performed much as an Australian “scout” group would in most obstacle crossings. However, such doctrinal definitions, based on operational tasks and intended functional relationships to their enemy (see Table 1.1, p. 26), more broadly distilled TNI– POLRI force roles up to battalion, brigade, and even divisional levels of command: static “framework/security” (kerangka/pengamanan), mobile “attack/pursuit” (penyerbu-pemburu, also “raider”), recon/counterintelligence (pengintai/ intel), and support (bantuan). “Open formation” (formasi terbuka) translated exactly to the Australian threesection platoon in “one-up open file, two-back single file,” but many tactical concepts and methods were conspicuous by their difference from Western norms. Whether large or small, TNI mobile patrols used a conceptually more aggressive approach emphasizing junior officer leadership. Typical TNI patrols relied less on the basic ternary formations familiar to Western and Warsaw Pact-style armies, i.e. where battalion hierarchies distributed section (or “squad”) patterns across platoons and companies as technically “organic” subunits. TNI patrols often contained many specific functional groups (up to ten), dissolving the subunit integrity of sections, just as TNI companies in Aceh divided into numbered section-plus teams. TNI battalion commanders relied on such fighting patrols and larger composites as standard formations, rather than Australian counterparts’ greater preservation of section–platoon integrity, and a recommended maximum of four groups per patrol. Some formations bore no resemblance to Australian models. The TNI “oval” (telur) formation, for example, was similar to Australian infantry’s maximum section-plus “diamond” concept, but telur was platoon-strength or even larger, with directly subordinate attack and fire-support groups available at both flanks. Another was the TNI’s paruh lembing concept, usually translated as an Australian “arrowhead” equivalent. More correctly, paruh lembing variously elongated or widened as a “spearhead” in the advance, concentrating firepower and maneuver in groups ready for attack or fire support under the patrol leader’s direct orders (mabesad 1984: 42–5, 164–6). These approaches’ potential advantages were obvious: a predisposition for attack, terrifying to any light enemy force; flexibility, whereby patrols were less limited by the strength of subunits, but could arbitrarily
72 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” attach TNI–POLRI troops to many functional groups as required; and immediate fire and movement by larger forces upon the commander’s decision. Potential disadvantages were: more challenge to control; lack of team cohesion between troops barely known to one another; and more vulnerability if the commander and deputy failed to appreciate the threat nearest their flank groups, or if they were themselves hit first. Indonesian Army doctrine taught conventional procedures for ambush (penghadangan), with controlled dispersal and rendezvous points, flank (early warning) and rear protection, firepower concentrated on a “killing ground,” and even the patrol’s deputy using communication cord when laying night ambush. But like basic patrolling, TNI ambush doctrine offered more daring variety than its Australian counterpart: the former taught many specific formations in place of the latter’s simpler “linear,” “triangular,” and “area” concepts. In this deadliest of infantry business, TNI patrol commanders learned seven ambush formations (line, L, Z, T, V, triangular, and square) to suit mission, terrain, threat, and patrol strength. Another general difference was size: Indonesian training allowed lowerlevel spread than Australian ambushes’ “small” (minimum section) and “large” (minimum company) scales. TNI “triangular” and “square” formations were recommended at platoon level (about 30 men), whereas TNI definition of “area ambush” could be as low as company level at about 100 men (mabesad 1984: 140–66). Size and definitions of “area ambush” were broadly compatible with Australian doctrine, though TNI theory posed more challenging standards for field application, especially where more ambitious layouts risked problems of control and vulnerability to counter-ambush.1 In practice, larger, nonstandard TNI fighting patrols in Aceh showed their common deployment of extra firepower as one compensation in that regard. Ambush’s essential aim of murderous surprise was qualified both in doctrinal purpose and in reporting. Instead of other Australian distinctions between “immediate” (or “hasty”) and “deliberate” ambushes denoting the extent of preparations aimed at annihilating enemy patrols, the TNI laid ambush to either “harass” (mengganggu) or “destroy” (menghancurkan). From at least the late 1990s, most TNI sources ambiguously described their own ambushes as “concealed surveillance” (pengendapan) and “assault” (penyergapan): the former implying stealthy recon, and the latter evoking a sense of Indonesian troops’ elan in confident attack. TNI standing patrols and harbors often acted to much the same effect as ambushes, though that point probably reflected inevitable gaps between doctrinal theory and operational reality in the threat posed by GAM’s own patrols. By contrast, the same Indonesian reports attributed actual ambush in penghadangan, with its negative literal connotations of “obstruction” or “interference,” almost exclusively to GAM.2 Lowest levels showed the TNI’s most emphatic doctrinal cases of tactical aggression. Again, strict section-strength formations featured little, with the only depictions of such exclusively sized patrols appearing in evasive drills to break contact where facing a superior enemy force. Larger fighting patrols’ action on contact was to automatically respond with immediate assault (recommended in
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Australian doctrine as generally the best method). However, junior TNI leaders most clearly demonstrated their organization’s aggressive approach in smaller “security patrols” detached from the main force to seek and eliminate lone enemy sentries and snipers (penembak runduk). By Western standards, theirs was less routine recon or scouting than a “hunter-killer” mission by NCO-led two-team formations of light, agile soldiers. Fanning ahead of the main force’s (induk) approaches, these teams either spaced apart in simple two-point sweeps, or alternating “caterpillar” or “leapfrog” bounds (mabesad 1984: 81–9, 171–2). The dangerous and stressful task risked annihilation by well-sited enemy ambush or defensive positions, especially if the main force’s general movement was already known. But however simple and high-risk, the tactic inculcated the attitude patrol commanders most expected of their junior ranks: keep moving forward, seek out, and destroy. Reports from field actions in Aceh showed fighting patrol leadership overwhelmingly from junior officer ranks. Top-heavy tendencies also appeared where company commander-captains often directly led small recon patrols. By contrast, trusted and experienced NCOs were exceptions to the general rule of junior officer command in the field. The often-incidental place given junior NCO leadership was an obvious weakness in standard TNI patrol tactics, with section commanders (danru) acting more as foremen than potentially autonomous field leaders ready to replace killed, wounded, or incompetent officers or platoon NCOs.3 As a general calculation from TNI releases, NCO-led patrols made barely one-third of all recon and fighting patrols, averaging around 16 troops, or nearly two sections strong. Nonetheless, the TNI’s tendency to create bigger single patrol formations of platoon or higher level theoretically gave commanders immediate access to high firepower. In recon, advance to contact, attack, or ambush, such larger patrols predominated in TNI–POLRI Aceh field reports too. But doctrinal emphasis on bigger patrol formations added to already high demands on infantry officers’ leadership skills. TNI patrols’ success depended more on commissioned officers from lieutenant to even lieutenant-colonel ranks, where initiative, good communication, experience, toughness, and intelligence, or any lack thereof, became especially critical in the tactical environment. Much expert opinion presumed Indonesian military culture’s deep, if not archetypal, authoritarianism compared with Western armies. But TNI patrol doctrine gave much scope for imaginative and daring commanders, even allowing Cannae/ Austerlitz-style feint and entrapment of their enemy in multiple harassing ambushes – extraordinary for such lower levels of field leadership. At their best, TNI field tactics offered mature, intelligent infantry commanders the power of shattering, overwhelming surprise by creative aggression leading determined, hardy, and combat-experienced troops, with meritocratic command-sharing among officers and NCOs. But generally larger patrol formats, and greater elevation of a socioeconomic commissioned officer elite in practice, brought the TNI higher risk of authoritarian habits further endangering tactical goals and troops’ lives. At that other extreme, TNI patrol methods could encourage mediocre, overconfident fools into unmitigated fiasco, unconstrained by simpler tactical standards or
74 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” stronger NCO influence: troops’ field discipline and stoicism would be wasted, if not bring about worse losses in such cases. The territorium’s “static” war “Static” non-organic units attached as reinforcements to Aceh’s territorial hierarchy, incorporating local Military Sub-District (KORAMIL) and Police Sector (POLSEK) command and staff functions. Territorial TF (satgaster) deployed either as entire battalions or pared to their core strength of rifle and support companies. Positioned among bases of infrastructure and local knowledge with posted organic-territorial forces, external satgaster augmented the territorium in activities of population surveillance, local security patrols, protection of facilities and transport routes, and militia mobilization.4 Patrol tasks involved more straightforward infantry work in convoy, guard, and observation posts at “vital asset” installations, close recon and searches of nearby populated areas, and the manning and creation of vehicle and pedestrian checkpoints. Among Aceh’s 16 regencies from 2002 to 2003, these more defensive functions concentrated some 40 percent of all deployed TNI–POLRI forces in Bireuen, North Aceh, and East Aceh, surrounding the area’s resource riches. The vast majority of Jakarta’s territorial infantry operations screened and occupied vital economic and communications links from Banda Aceh to the northeastern petrochemical projects. After a century of technological adjustments, much of territorial infantry operations resembled the Dutch “concentrated line” (linie konsentrasie) from the late nineteenth century, when a defensive enclave tried to control what it deemed “vital ground,” i.e. the sultanate’s base in Kutaraja (Banda Aceh). Jakarta’s closest parallel to linie konsentrasie appeared around the ExxonMobil, Pertamina, and downstream ventures of the Lhokseumawe Industrial Zone (ZIL), where a “vital asset security” (pamprovit/pamobvitnas) commitment was the largest of all similar TNI–POLRI deployments throughout Indonesia, even dwarfing its eastern counterpart at Papua’s Timika–Tembagapura Freeport mining complex. Satgas Pamobvitnas EMOI (ExxonMobil Oil Indonesia) divided into protective linear “rings” of “defense in depth” by overstrength composite battalions. Officially, four static battalions (SCTV 2003a) guarded that area, but on closer examination, these battalions comprised units from at least two different battalions, discreetly omitted from the TNI’s publicized force structure in 2003. By early 2001, troops from five TNI infantry battalions and around two armored cavalry companies, or squadrons (MI 2001a) combined with BRIMOB companies as pasgab (joint units) and even private sector security guards, in the TNI’s most consistent non-organic Aceh deployment over a decade. As seen from units at Papua’s equivalent, troops around Aceh’s ZIL flaunted special nonregulation embroidered apparel over their issue uniform dress, consistent with their status and resource-sector pay benefits.5 Dutch practice also had descendants in TNI–POLRI fortified posts, separated by weapons’maximum effective range (about 300 m), as main supply route security (Pam RPU). The northern lowlands Dutch rail and its troop escorts, long-defunct,
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echoed in armored truck convoys and their TNI–POLRI armored vehicle guards from an equivalent of over three full armored cavalry battalions by late 2003 (Maps 3.1 and 3.2 show main subunits only). Indonesian armor in northern Aceh exceeded East Timor and Papua comparisons. Convoys used armor in piecemeal fashion at files’ front and rear, with a TNI–POLRI vehicle potpourri as protective and deterrent firepower: upgraded first-generation Cold War-era British (Saladin, Saracen, and Ferret), French–Dutch (AMX-13 and VCI), Soviet (BTR-40, -50, PT-76, and BRDM); later-era French (VAB), US–Canadian (V-150), British (Scorpion series); and most recent Czech (BVP-2), and Russian–Ukrainian (BTR-80). POLRI also deployed light armor to Aceh, such as their older BRDM and most recent PINDAD-made Ahmad Yani (Indonesian license-built ACMAT VBLI) and APR, the latter temporarily shifted in large orders also to the Army Strategic Reserve Command (KOSTRAD). In the absence of enough armored personnel carrier fleets for infantry, improvisation brought a near-mechanized capacity in trucks modified for ballistic protection against GAM ambush. Known as truk reo (lit. “reinforced trucks”), these varied armored vehicles had at least section-plus capacity (about 15 troops), fitted with frame-mounted welded-steel plating at unit bases before deployment, or more optimistic local expedients in makeshift parapets of coconut tree logs and sandbags. Some use of mere corrugated iron too may have seemed like ketok magic customization, but that expedient, like all reo, aimed to minimize damage by causing premature detonation of incoming GAM RPG projectiles. Not that reo trucks were all defensive: units added automatic grenade launchers or heavy machine guns, and cupolas, consistent with such improvisation’s “Mad Max” style commonly seen in modern African wars. Navy and air force increased their numbers available for Aceh “static” duty, concurrent with army territorial and other expansions planned since 1999. The navy’s Marine Corps experienced combat in Aceh since intensive operations as early as 1955–61 (Marinir 2004b), but that capability grew by half during 2003–5, adding three infantry battalions, with comparable growth in armor and other combat arms. Some marine deployments integrated with other rotations of the TNI’s territorial reinforcement, though marines regularly allocated subunits as pamobvitnas (POVN) to wetlands by North Aceh’s ZIL. Air Force commandos (PASKHASAU) spread new battalion-minus “squadrons” to Pontianak, Pekanbaru, and elsewhere as part of a long-planned increase,6 further to its own airfield defense rotations. With a nationwide strength of 31,000 (Angkasa 2001a) increasing to some 40,000, BRIMOB police infantry’s Aceh presence far exceeded that of both other non-army services together. Unlike most KOSTRAD and other TNI troops, BRIMOB deployed to Aceh with a maximum organic company-level command, attached in direct support (bawah kendali operasi, BKO) under formal, titular local responsibility of POLRI’s territorial apparatus. Regional police commands throughout Indonesia tasked BRIMOB units in demanding rotation schedules, sometimes unable to deploy whole companies. BRIMOB’s other component in centrally organized regiments in western Java were the closest police counterpart
76 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” to KOSTRAD, used as a reserve deployment force directly under POLRI’s national Deputy for Operations (DEOPS). But despite their administrative hierarchies of battalion and regiment, BRIMOB’s reserve infantry too operated at the most austere tactical units of section–company levels, ruling out significant independent action, institutional strength, and command seniority. That structural peculiarity was a POLRI inheritance borne of the army’s political supremacy, making BRIMOB troops effectively subordinate to TNI operational command, except for some joint-service police-led patrols at platoon and company levels. Contrary to several observers’ assumptions, BRIMOB were infantry, not riot police,7 with 2- to 3-month training courses recognizable to any of their more institutionally “military” counterparts. The Police Training School at Singaraja, Bali, for example, ran instruction for officer, NCO, and other junior ranks in recon, and command at company, platoon, and section levels (Mabes POLRI 2001: 5). Internal map-marking too depicted BRIMOB unambiguously as “infantry” (Mabes ABRI 1986: 187). BRIMOB’s historical ancestors were the elite Dutchled commandos of Korps Maréchaussee, created specially for the European colonial war in Aceh. Maréchaussee relied on small aggressive patrols, or “brigades” of under 100 troops, with obvious BRIMOB parallels: lightly armed companies organized as groups of riflemen with a bare minimum of HQ, administrative, and support “tail.” An obvious influence on the Gewapende–Veld Politie from 1912, Maréchaussee survived colonialism to merge with the Netherlands’ border police. BRIMOB’s very name evoked its Dutch precedent too, using “brigade” not for conventional formations above battalion–regiment levels but more as a nickname. Ghosts of Maréchaussee: “mobile” forces …Today Meureudu – in two days we march on, From Meureudu patrolling the paddies – a really hard bound that, Take your time past the swamps – so long as we keep moving up [“Samalanga,” by Iz. Thenu in Gedenkboek…] (Alfian 1987) As historical rules of thumb, TNI–POLRI territorial genealogy traced structures, ideology, and militia mobilization to Japanese militarism’s brief occupation of the archipelago. Combat traditions, on the other hand, harked to guerrilla warfare experience with Indonesia’s first committed enemy, the colonial Dutch, whose own influence on Indonesian forces went beyond BRIMOB’s etymology and subunit organization. During Maréchaussee’s Aceh blooding, South Africa’s Boer komando inspired Dutch special forces and recon training (Khatulistiwa 2000) to sustain that corps’ prominence up to World War II, as recalled of an Ambonese Aceh veteran and Melbourne-based businessman (Tahija 1998: 43–4). Most troops then in Aceh were Dutch East Indies indigene-volunteers from elsewhere, sent after West Java predeployment training, like their Indonesian post-1995 Satgas Rajawali (Eagle TF) successors. POLRI’s economic and political weaknesses fixed BRIMOB to static territorial duties (more so than for any TNI infantry), drawing on Dutch commando heritage
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little beyond the superficiality of tradition. Even BRIMOB’s rapid-reaction Gegana elite only performed “mobile” tasks at local levels, mostly restricted to bomb-disposal and related search duties, as during GAM’s series of 37 coordinated explosions against key facilities in the capital Banda Aceh and adjoining Greater Aceh Regency on Indonesia’s Independence Day, 17 August 2001 (Wsp 2001c). It was the TNI who would continue Maréchaussee’s true legacy, using BRIMOB’s original concept while police infantry’s full potential was left unrealized. Since earlier incarnations as KKT III, KKAD, RPKAD, and KOPASSANDHA, KOPASSUS was the main inheritor of mobile antiguerrilla elan in its para-commando (parako) units. To a lesser extent, TNI infantry performed related combat duties as “strike battalions” (yonkul), alternating between tours as “static” territorial reinforcement. Such tasking of whole “mobile” battalions continued, but since the mid-1990s introduction of the Rajawali program, KOPASSUS’ aggressive parako commando tactics spread the Red Berets’ influence deeper into regular units’ ranks. By the time of writing, most TNI battalions had Rajawali experience, as TNI infantry internalized their elite’s attitude, methods and very mythology of specialist superiority. Rajawali meant that KOPASSUS had already begun consolidating its disproportionate institutional power, unaffected by late1990s scandals from its loyal service to the Soeharto clan. Rajawali spawned later variations in such infantry training, reasserting KOPASSUS’ seniority while the TNI embarked on broad force expansion and intensified campaigns in Aceh and elsewhere. Rajawali applied to all three TNI services, including marine and PASKHASAU, retraining infantry as “hunter” or “pursuit” companies (ki buru), specifically for Jakarta’s East Timor, Papua, and Aceh campaigns from 1995. Separate infantry companies underwent three-phase courses over three months at KOPASSUS’ Batujajar training center and ex-Dutch special forces base in West Java. KOPASSUS imparted its specialist knowledge and experience to qualify units in such areas as rapid reaction (“spiderweb” tactics), recon, field interrogation, and fast, light maneuver (see, for example, Dispen Kormar 2000: 334–5), often without webbing, packs, or helmets, but with maximum portable firepower. Rajawali patrols operated from lighter, semiautonomous command structures in jointservice “strike detachments” (denkul) grouped into brigade-level command as mobile TF (satgas mobil), called combat TF (satgaspur) formations upon raider battalions’ entry in counteroffensive from 2004.8 BRIMOB too belatedly imitated Rajawali, but in a limited internal response capacity, such as three BRIMOB buru, or “hunter,” companies operating near the capital and in Pidie Regency (Kmp 2001h; RRI 2002c). The KOPASSUS-led reforms started under then BRIGGEN Prabowo Subianto, himself an accomplished combat leader, mobile force commander in Aceh’s DOM period, and FALINTIL archenemy. Rajawali offered the potential realized in field success against East Timorese resistance leadership, when Prabowo operated alongside the short-lived (1978–9) Parikesit TF: a half-hearted Rajawali forerunner of combined battalions with just one week of Batujajar predeployment training (Conboy 272–4; Dispen Kormar 2000: 276–9). Confirming his prominence
78 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” among KOPASSUS’ many politically influential luminaries, Prabowo’s reforms survived his executive-level ostracizing and dismissal after Western investment circles had no more political use for a President Soeharto and his calcified kleptocracy. Prabowo’s pedigree, brilliance, cultural nonconformity, professional loyalty, and marriage to Soeharto’s clan all made him the most obvious excuse for a nationwide and systemic TNI–POLRI criminality that dwarfed its 1998 Jakarta mayhem, and was itself presaged by Soeharto’s own rise.9 But from Prabowo’s tenure, Rajawali transformed TNI antiguerrilla operations in three key respects of managerial efficiency. The first was its separation of most Rajawali companies from original parent battalion hierarchies and their higher, remote direction, thereby allowing company commanders to prove their mettle without a battalion commander’s interference born of concern for his own reputation. By invoking the Maréchaussee structural concept of smaller-scale counterinsurgency agility and aggression, Rajawali companies left little choice but “leadership from the front,” reducing potential communications hiatus, or interference from, and dependency on, battalion-level direction in the field. In that respect, at least theoretically, the TNI was ahead of GAM until 2003. A subtler, subcultural effect was the temporary denkul entities’ separation of infantry officers from ties of economic and careerist patronage so important in their original battalion bases. The further-reaching non-organic chain of command in battalion-level denkul removed Rajawali pursuit companies from usual considerations of personal allegiance, favor, or debt, unrelated as they were to the force’s mission. Rajawali detachments encouraged KOPASSUS-style solidarity and fairer resolution between distinct company identities in such issues as workload, internal discipline, political machinations, or profiteering in graft and other opportunity. Denkul commanders led one, sometimes two, of their own original companies beside the attached colleagues, but arbitrary mixture of companies demanded some self-regulation. After all, denkul chiefs could hardly count on attached troops’ obedience unless they bore only the same hardships, and enjoyed at least the same benefits, as those allocated their own original (“organic”) subordinates. The third product of Rajawali was standardization in combined-force and joint-service cooperation. A marine company from Surabaya, for example, joined army territorial infantry from Manado, both for the intensive training and its application in field operations; or KOSTRAD with PASKHASAU, KOPASSUS with combat engineers, etc. Although battalion-level denkul command had less direct vested interest in their attached companies, the program ensured streamlining in various standard operating procedures (SOPs, protap). The army could remove units’ idiosyncrasies, and at least understand other services’, as developed over years of habit in routine details not always covered by doctrine, e.g. reporting formats, radio communications, field signals, dress, passwords, etc. Even terminology could be streamlined to rid potential confusion arising from units’ regionalism (kedaerahan), and woe betide the Javanese radio operator using Ngoko nicknames for standard TNI-Indonesian terms if overheard by his Batak satgas mobil operations officer (kasiops, TNI’s “S-2”), for example.
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Rajawali started a long-term process consolidating with “joint-service battalion” (yon-gab) missions from 2000–2 and army “raider” battalion conversions for 2003–4. Yon-gab first appeared in Maluku in 2000, but Aceh’s mobile forces included such battalions of KOPASSUS, marines, PASKHASAU, and various company-level army units.10 By mid-2002, the yon-gab term was dropped from formal TNI reporting on such Rajawali elements, replaced by specific joint-force names of Baladika, Hantu, and Srigunting. Avoidance of yon-gab titles probably responded to scandalous publicity surrounding swift and ruthless 2001 yon-gab operations against hitherto rampant Laskar Jihad in Maluku, who had threatened to provoke greater Western condemnation of apparent TNI indifference to actions by that avowedly religious, yet freelance nationalist army. The TNI and government in general were anxious to avoid alienating loyalist Muslim public opinion against Jakarta’s repressive actions in Aceh. Over ten years of uniform retraining and operational testing, KOPASSUS had retrained TNI infantry companies so that original parent battalions could more reliably deploy in mobile “strike” functions. Rajawali influenced marines too: the navy’s proud 6 Battalion infantry of the Coastal-Estuary TF (Satgas MuaraPesisir, MUPE) in East Aceh used facetious wordplay on Rajawali to call themselves Satgas Bajul Rawa (Swamp Pirate TF). That final stage of mobile forces’ reform became the “raider” battalion conversion training, timed with Aceh’s increased organic-territorial forces (TVRI 2003d). Eight military area command (KODAM) “strike” (pemukul, commander’s reserve) battalions and two from KOSTRAD were thus retrained and redesignated in the program run between West Java’s Cipatat infantry and Batujajar KOPASSUS training centers, and Cilacap, Central Java, from March to October 2003 (Bernas 2003; LIN 2003d; SCTV 2003b).11 Each comprising around 800 experienced and trained soldiers, Army Chief Ryamizard Ryacudu boasted that the ten “raider” battalions were “worth 30” standard infantry battalions already in Aceh, and therefore enough to fill the void otherwise left by many units sent home. However, force numbers did not reduce, but actually increased upon raiders’ early 2004 deployment on counteroffensive operations. TNI recon capability expanded with more KOPASSUS guidance, from the same sites of Rajawali–raider training, in KOSTRAD’s new recon-security platoons (tontaikam, renamed tontaipur: combat-recon platoons) from early 2001 (Kmp 2001c). Concurrent with yon-gab deployments, tontaipur were raised as KOSTRAD brigade assets of platoon-plus strength, or around 40 soldiers each, though some confused them with “battalions” (JIR 2001c; JkP 2001a; TAPOL 2002).12 KOPASSUS helped train tontaipur in long-range reconnaissance, surveillance, small-craft handling, diving, and airborne insertion, later operating with KOPASSUS troops as the Cakra detachment in Aceh (JkP 2001c; Tempo n.d.). This recon force performed more independent roles in long-range detection of GAM bases and supply routes, reporting to Rajawali detachments and raider battalions for their mobile/combat TF areas of operational responsibility. By 2004, these units possibly formed company-equivalents attached to each combat TF.
80 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” VAB V-150
7 Jaya
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Force shift (serpas) Territorial TF (Satgaster) main deployment axes / area of operations Mobile TF (Satgas Mobil) area of operations
Map 3.1 Independence Day: TNI Aceh deployments, August 2003.
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408 305? Aug III
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Raider battalions 100: ex-100 Abn Inf Bn 200: ex-145 Inf Bn 300: ex-327 Abn Inf Bn 400: ex-401 Inf Bn 500: ex-507 Inf Bn 600: ex-612 Inf Bn 700: ex-700 Indep Abn Inf Bn 900: ex-741 Inf Bn 323: ex-323 Inf Bn (13 Inf Bde KOSTRAD) 412: ex-412 Inf Bn (6 Inf Bde KOSTRAD)
Map 3.2 Reorganization: TNI Aceh deployments to November 2004.
82 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration”
Combined operations Beside regular point and route security, Indonesian infantry’s most common counterinsurgency operations in Aceh were house and township “cordon and search” (pungdahmah, pungsihpung): more systematically thorough than “clearing patrols” colloquially termed penyisiran (combing) or sweeping in Indonesian sources.13 Static units performed most of all these tasks, acting also as controlling “filters” in checkpoints along transport routes through populated areas; mobile units acted as rapid-reaction and “strike” functions. These basic searches can be arbitrarily categorized as: “hasty,” i.e. in response to isolated information just received through an informant or interrogation, or after sniping, bomb explosion, ambush, or raid; and wider “deliberate” operations planned to identify, interdict, and deter GAM presence among the population, whether in a passive civilian support base, klandestin couriers, or infiltrated guerrilla teams. Specific counterintelligence information and its assessment led to routine, localized operations by smaller forces targeting single kampung areas or even several dwellings, relying on listed suspects, descriptions, and addresses. The “deliberate” battalion-group cordon and search operation in Matang Kuli District, September 2001, shows a typical joint-force operation between static and mobile forces (Map 3.3). Reporting indicated GAM’s high levels of activity in Matang Kuli to that time, so the operation was based less on tactical-level tip-off or interrogation reports than obvious trends. The wide-area raid was directed from higher TF level in coordination with territorial KODIM HQ, SGI (Intelligence TF), and its analyst team. Matang Kuli’s terrain showed counterinsurgency’s constraints at the perimeters of Aceh’s fossil-fuel riches. The district’s southernmost reaches of less populated surrounding hills and forests offered GAM ideal sites for surveillance, long-range sniping and other harassing fire, or form-up points for attacks and raids. Plantation and scrub interspersed between kampung strips to offer ambush sites and concealed communications routes. Comparison with the area’s farther-reaching Dutch patrols a century earlier showed the benefits late-twentieth-century technology afforded the Acehnese resistance when combined with terrain effects. In place of their ancestors’ limited supply of arquebus-style muskets against Dutch breechloaders and repeaters, GAM’s occasional local parity or advantage in assault rifles and light machine guns (LMG) further restricted Indonesian operations. Combining mobile and static territorial elements, including armor, the action reasserted control over the area by sealing off routes in and out, and building new posts as patrol bases. That Indonesian force’s spread into southern Matang Kuli aimed for maximum possible intervisibility, and thereby clear lanes of fire, both within and between built-up areas, and mutual support among posts for rapid response in the event of GAM attack. Under supporting “overwatch” by their armor and MG positions, static TNI–POLRI forces conducted the cordon and search of Acehnese civilians’ houses and farming huts. With their weapons ready for unauthorized movement, checkpoint troops halted all civilian traffic to and from the ring of 11 sealed-off villages. Forward-based Rajawali pursuit patrols
Military dynamics and “lines of concentration”
Map 3.3 Dutch and Indonesian search and pursuit in North Aceh.
83
84 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” waited for reports of likely GAM klandestin runners tasked with intelligence, logistical, or other communications, fleeing to outside scrub and high ground. The show of force served a more provocative purpose, demonstrating Indonesian force projection, by which to enforce “Red and White” flag-raising under threat of arrest, beating, or even death for dissenters, while challenging GAM into a raid or larger-strength attack. The aggressive techniques were not unique to Indonesian counterinsurgency; neither were their effects on local civilians. Civilians often chose to flee operations such as these: over 1,000 reportedly did so from the Matang Kuli sweep, only to return at the action’s end (see ASNLF 2001a, b). Several motives drove such exodus. Most obvious, GAM members’ relatives often chose to avoid detention as hostages in case their family ties had become known to the territorial counterintelligence apparatus. Others sought to save money and other property from TNI–POLRI looting, or escape the risk of being made examples in impromptu interrogation, with its potential beatings, shootings, or humiliation. Possibly the greatest dread was “disappearance” in interrogations by SGI’s KOPASSUS’ Sandi Yudha (Covert Warfare) sattis “tactical units,” nominally a territorial KODAM support asset, but with a status hovering over both territorial and mobile TF in a de facto authority and operational independence. TNI–POLRI “cordon and search” assumed a provincial scale from the mid2003 campaign, or “active” phase of the war, when SGI and the territorium’s intelligence staff directed the “Red and White ID Card” (KTP-MP) population database to make these processes more thorough. Nonetheless, the focus on civilians, officially described as “separating the populace from GAM,” had more extreme results during sweeps and mobile forces’ drives in the interior, effectively creating free-fire zones endangering civilians in more remote, isolated settlements and any who missed “sweeping” forces’ direction to evacuate, or stay confined indoors. Into this environment, the TNI increased its support forces for interdiction and shock by artillery, mortar, helicopter gunship, and air force fixedwing sorties in close air support (CAIRS). State publicity exaggerated these assets, closely (and self-consciously) following the US-led coalition’s Iraq invasion. Their psychological effect was intentional: low-altitude F-16 sound barrierbreaking “sonic boom” flypasts to “show Acehnese civilians that TNI is stronger than GAM,” according to TNI Chief Endriartono (Pelita 2003b), while encouraging TNI–POLRI troops ordered to retake GAM-held villages and high ground. One prominent case depicted the conventional weaponry’s use as part of set-piece maneuver warfare among “big battalions” (SH 2003e), but that operation mainly involved a shift by KOPASSUS para-commandos from East Aceh across its North Aceh boundary, with several unit patrols and a 105 mm marine howitzer battery performing operational deception. Bombardment was sometimes used to initiate civilian evacuations: naval gunfire added explosive shock effect in some operations, notably in amphibious landings at Sabang and Samalanga coast, with navy and air force national-level Rapid-Reaction Strike Force (PPRC) assets so used. The maritime TF (satgasla) comprised over 20 vessels, including four POLRI craft. Air force contributions
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were modest by conventional standards: three air force flights (OV-10 Bronco, F-16, and Hawk). Air Force Chief Air Marshal Hanafie Asnan signaled their aggressive use in September 2001, promising combat-ready aircraft for strike missions into Aceh (Kmp 2001g). CAIRS missions and other air strikes by late 2002 measured in daily missions flown in up to two daily sorties from Polonia base in Medan, North Sumatera. Their routine tasking, often with minimal forward observer direction, indicated the extent to which GAM-held and remote areas had become free-fire zones.14 Long-range missions were additional to those flown locally from Lhokseumawe’s Malikussaleh base by Indonesian Army helicopters fitted with rocket launchers and machine guns for the attack role. Most air force and navy effort involved transport for troop deployment, withdrawal and resupply, but “support” also covered various attached ground forces to sustain and coordinate troop movements, equipment, and other administration. Engineer-based TF (with some infantry) regularly performed infrastructure works (bhakti TNI), armed and otherwise prepared as normal infantry, in important aid to forces’ transport and supply functions especially after the late-2004 tsunami. A battalion-minus of TNI military police (satgas POM) was parceled out for provost duties where unit coordination problems complicated after May 2003. The same central control distributed minor operational support via a battalionequivalent TF (satgasbanmin) of ancillary supply, maintenance, transport, medical, legal, and other administrative staff. However, most of those supporting functions applied to the territorial apparatus in practice, as direct ground unit support was minimal. Deployed forces were expected to make do with their own resources, though subject to the enlarged territorial apparatus’ disciplinary and health processes, for example, where needs could not be met by local unit and TF means.
Command and control KOPASSUS, far from being marginalized after kidnapping and other scandals since May 1998, enjoyed a resurgent prominence commensurate with its grant of honorary membership and beret to Megawati Soekarnoputri in her presidential term. In similar arrangements to East Timor’s KOLAKOPS by the early 1990s (see Moore 2001: 26), officer networks from KOPASSUS and the other TNI elite in KOSTRAD supervised Aceh’s territorial and mobile operations, leading the fight against Jakarta’s resistance enemies. Senior command and staff functions merely reinforced those forces’ broader influence seen in the continuation of Rajawali, its changes in yon-gab and raider battalions, and KOSTRAD recon units. In the TNI’s training programs and infantry expansion, KOPASSUS reaffirmed its praetorian status. Counterintelligence and related militia programs kept special forces in leading active roles throughout the “passive” 1999–2000 phase of Aceh operations, while special forces otherwise caught public and political scrutiny in metropolitan Java. Often shifted between territorial, KOSTRAD, and national HQ and training positions, KOPASSUS officers’ backgrounds were not always obvious, but their non-KOPASSUS postings aided the red berets’ dominance.
86 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” Table 3.1
Identified special forces officers’ Aceh-related appointments
Officer
Most recently noted
Related appointments and remarks
2002: KODAM I/BB Medan
1998: Chief of Staff KODAM VIII Jayapura 1996: KOPASSUS Deputy Chief
2001–2: KODAM I/BB Medan
2001: Force Operations, Aceh 1999–2000: KOPASSUS Deputy 1996–7: KOPASSUS “Counter-Terrorism” Gp
2003–4: KOPASSUS–SGI Intelligence Support TF, Aceh
2002: KOPASSUS “Covert Warfare” Gp 2000: KOPASSUS Intelligence Deputy 1997: KOPASSUS “Covert Warfare” Gp Battalion
Andogo Wiradi
2003–4: East Aceh Sector
2003–4: KOPASSUS Gp I
Anuri
2001–2: Deputy Force Operations, Aceh
1999–2000: KODAM VIII Jayapura Intelligence 1998–9: KOPASSUS-SGI (Tribuana), Aceh
Chairawan Kadarsyah Nusyirwan
2005: KOREM 011
2004: TNI HQ “domestic affairs” intelligence staff. Guide for attaches visting Aceh 1996–8: KOPASSUS “Covert Warfare” Gp chief. Moved upon unit’s Jakarta activist-kidnapping scandal
Eko Wiratmoko
2002: KODAM I.M. Intelligence
1997: KOPASSUS “Covert Warfare” Gp Battalion 1992: KOPASSUS–SGI junior officer, Aceh. Cited ordering interrogators to shoot detainees
Iwan Prilianto
2000–2: KODAM I/BB Intelligence
Tempo cited phone records in Medan churches bomb plot. 1998: KODAM VIII Jayapura Intelligence Deputy
Lodewijk F Paulus
2004: KODAM I/BB Operations
2001: KOPASSUS “Counter-Terrorism” Gp 1997: KOPASSUS Gp II Battalion
Soenarko
2004: KOREM 022 (North Sumatera–Aceh border)
2003: KODAM I.M. Operations 1998–9: Sector A East Timor. KOPASSUS intelligence
Sunindyo
2003: East Aceh Sector
2003: KOPASSUS Gp II 1998–9: Sector A East Timor deputy
MAJGEN Idris Gassing
Zamroni
COL Agus Suryo Bakti
(Continued)
Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” Table 3.1
87
(Continued)
Officer
Most recently noted
Related appointments and remarks
LTCOL Ardiyansyah Triono
2003: Pidie Sector
2003: KOPASSUS Gp II Battalion
Catur Gunanto
2003: KOPASSUS’ Aceh Command and Control Centre
Handy Geniardi
2003: KOPASSUS Gp II Battalion
1995–6: KOREM 164 Dili Intelligence 1992: SGI–KOPASSUS platoon, Aceh. Described orders to kill detainees
Hendra Heri Sapari
2003: KODAM I.M. Infantry Centre
2001: KOPASSUS Gp I Battalion
I Made Agra S
2002–3: KOPASSUS Commando Battalion Aceh. Killed in South Aceh convoy
2002–3: KOPASSUS “Counter-Terrorism” Gp Deputy 2002: KODIM Cilacap, West Java 2001: 401 Battalion Semarang, Central Java 1991: Commando platoon, East Timor. Pursued Xanana’s HQ
Kisenda Wiranata Kusuma
2003: SGI Sattis Greater Aceh
PASKHASAU (Air Force)
Sudjono
1999: KOREM 011 Intelligence
Officially “deserted” and absent from hearing into Bantaqiah massacre. Later seen with other TNI members in Jakarta. Still on KODAM I.M. personnel list 2003–4.
Note Appointments in command of formation/unit, except where otherwise specified.
Tactical foundations and related force structures explained the army elites’ command primacy and their formations’ dominance over TNI–POLRI territorial base structures. Just as patrol commanders led recon and attack groups, and deputies the security and fire-support, operational seniority fell to corresponding commands at national and provincial levels, i.e. “operations” under mobile/ combat, or operations command (KOOPS) and “security” under the territorial KODAM base apparatus. From the TNI’s smallest formations up to the national apex, actual seniority so alternated by function, between commanders in a forward “scout” capacity, with deputies responsible for “security” and “support.” Through networks of sector commands, deployed forces’ operational lead replicated patterns of army political supremacy in the territorium. Arbitrary sector and subsector commands were conventional divisions of effort and areas of operational responsibility. In July 2004 TNI chiefs exaggerated Aceh’s sector restructure as a self-critical “reevaluation,” as though allocating colonel-sector
88 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” chiefs and lieutenant-colonels to subsectors as an afterthought in poor planning. Certainly the greater unit concentrations challenged KOOPS in Lhokseumawe with confusion and patrol clashes, but the practice was not new. Rather, the sector system continued the TNI’s exercise of real operational command and control, which could otherwise seem to outsiders an informal “paratroop mafia” similar to France’s colonial Indochina and Algeria wars. On the surface, confusion and indecision could seem inevitable among the multiple organic-territorial and non-organic hierarchies. But Jakarta’s forces did not fit standard Western military templates of single pyramidal hierarchies and joint-service HQ. The army’s complementary territorial apparatus, in particular, ensured that deployed non-organic formations prevailed where they wanted. This gave TNI–POLRI command structures a redundancy of army officers in the area of operations, forming a critical leadership mass emphasizing functional priority over rank seniority and pyramidal hierarchy. Peers in rank often occupied higher positions in the chain of command, most obviously where colonel-KOREM chiefs coordinated several sectors under colonels commanding brigade-equivalent TFs.15 The system encouraged regency-level command autonomy, collective teamwork, internal surveillance, and self-regulation among overlapping command positions at TF HQ and KOOPS. Air force, POLRI, and navy each attached their command and staff in mostly supporting roles (except where KOOPS directly appointed several individual marine officers). TNI–POLRI territorial command and staff hierarchies then concentrated more on local business, service administrative matters, and political–civil liaison. With non-army commands virtually guests in such an arrangement, titular supremacy by Aceh’s provincial KODAM, POLDA, or civilian governor meant little as every army territorial level deferred to its own institutional elite. Earlier periods of less non-organic (including KOSTRAD and parako) deployments always had KOPASSUS’ SGI to take the initiative in unofficial leading roles.
TNI “basic” and predeployment training KODAMs’ territorial infantry garrisons prepared recruits for all regular army noncommissioned ranks, in programs emphasizing infantry combat and field skills. In the early 1990s Jakarta’s KODAM Jayakarta used a thorough training template, run by its infantry command, with specific reference to many TNI doctrinal publications (see Kodam Jaya 1991; Lowry 1996: 120–1). Basic recruit training lasted 16 weeks, long enough to consolidate significant levels of proficiency while reinforcing the army’s infantry as its most fundamentally important corps. Non-infantry soldiers too undertook comprehensive grounding in infantry work, inculcating enough “grunt” experience for easier operational deployment of artillery, engineers, and others in infantry roles, or transfer of such troops into infantry positions to meet unit needs. That stronger “grunt” base was important for operations in Aceh, as in Papua, Ambon, and elsewhere. Marine Corps units’Aceh preparations most clearly indicated the TNI’s serious combat training. From mid-2002, Jakarta’s 2 Marine Battalion held thorough
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predeployment covering all essential tasks awaiting it: contact, ambush, counter-ambush (including for vehicles and waterways), and mine incident drills. Their first training phase retested proficiency in the battalion’s diverse weaponry, from various LMGs to grenade-launchers and light mortars, applied to live-fire attacks and night firing, with sniper skills honed as well. Navigation was tested in marshlands of the Jampang area, Sukabumi Regency, West Java, resembling 2 Battalion’s destination of North and East Aceh. HQ command and staff tested SOPs in reporting, resupply, casualty evacuation, and field interrogation in Banten Province’s nearby peninsula areas (Cakrawala 2002). From early 2003, 5 Marine Battalion ran similar activities at the corps’ Karang Tekok combat training center in Situbondo, East Java, followed in May 2004 at five other East Java training areas by 5 Battalion’s replacement drawn together from Surabaya’s marine garrison. The larger contingents added testing in prisoner handling, neighborhood cordon and search (pungsihpung), house searches (pungdahmah), long-range navigation, and swamp–waterway patrols (Marinir 2004c). Such preparations appeared to reach standards at least equaling Western infantry units’ “best practice,” but with the added benefit of veteran instructors recently exposed to the area of operations. The navy’s published training summary suggested no prosaic or unchallenging routine in marines’ predeployment, contrary to foreign caricatures of nations with greater socioeconomic disparities and poverty. Marines even undertook confident “over-training” for all ranks, i.e. testing on tasks beyond their ranks and formal job descriptions. Perhaps most remarkable, a brigade commander conceded that predeployment exercises had not met all training objectives: open self-criticism contradicting the “zero-defect” or “face-saving” mentality common to military and civilian careerist-bureaucrats.16 KOSTRAD held its own similar (but drier) predeployment in West Java’s large, rugged Sangga Buwana training area. Other joint-service preparations, such as the airborne exercise between KOSTRAD’s II Division and the air force, mirrored near-identical operational Aceh deployment in the active escalation from mid2003 (Kmp 2001f). Fleet exercises with marines combined with KOSTRAD and airborne drops in Papua and Sumatera. US cooperation helped deployment techniques of Indonesia’s navy and marines, as 5 Battalion conducted joint amphibious activities with US Pacific Fleet marines (Tempo 2002c), contributing to the battalion’s amphibious operation less than a year later off Samalanga coast, Bireuen Regency. That exercise’s avowed aim was to train forces for “humanitarian relief,” but its warlike value and underlying diplomatic message were obvious. Other politically driven training publicity reported a “four-second reaction time” in rules-of-engagement-style range practices simulating “civilian” and “armed guerrilla” targets (JkP 2002c). This apparently meant simple, police-style alternating pop-ups: “civilians” clutching Kalashnikovs and others unarmed. Such aptitude tests explained some observers’ perpetuation of Jakarta executives’ spurious excuses for civilian deaths as combat accidents (“crossfire,” “GAM dressed as civilians,” etc.) amid general accusations of GAM mendacity opening fire from civilian crowds, echoing those against the IRA after the 1972 Derry Bloody Sunday massacre. Rizal Sukma (EWC 2004b), for example, claimed there was a
90 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” “classic problem of how to distinguish ordinary civilians from the rebels so that civilian casualties can be minimized,” while accepting a notion that Rajawali troops had “taken special care in distinguishing combatants from noncombatants through professional intelligence operations”. These were abstract, handsome notions of “military professionalism” preventing stray bullets and hair triggers in some “smart, new” counterinsurgency. By contrast, even POLRI Aceh veteran Kasminto’s (2003: 17–19) partisan “Red and White” account explained the actual “classic” causes of Acehnese civilian deaths, i.e. “caught in a slaughter” (terbantai) of frequently deliberate TNI–POLRI reprisal, frustration, and hostile suspicion, albeit during the earlier DOM period (another apologia, or political excuse).17 Against views of TNI troops “developing” like robots with programmable artificial intelligence, other observers regarded them as “underdeveloped” automatons with essentially simplistic if not deficient programming. As with much about Jakarta’s military culture, underestimation and stereotype prevented even superficial regard for TNI–POLRI soldiers’ actual conditioning. Kingsbury (2003: 34–5, 87–90) generally disparaged TNI troops, claiming they lacked initiative, as reflected in “a great deal of attention…paid to drill.” But the sample at Table 3.2 shows a relatively minor drill component in basic training: later specialist courses would reduce drill modules further. Despite the Indonesian military’s public, political prominence, drill was not its professional emphasis or stock-in-trade. Militarized Indonesia already prepared its population with drill and parades in school, youth/paramilitary groups, and the civil service, while most other countries’ armies kept comparable regimens of close-order drill. The TNI’s more onerous element of recruit training “bull” was ideological, though state philosophy (pancasila) and related indoctrination on state and “development” were mercifully brief compared to universities’ compulsory parallels in “P4” and kewiraan subjects (including reformasi substitutes).18 TNI–POLRI ideological training had subtle Western counterparts too, where states devised exclusive commissariats of chaplain- and lawyer-officers and, more recently functionaries supervising harassment and other criminality, mainly to convince troops, families, and other citizens of their forces’ supposed justice and moral superiority. Indonesian soldiers were not “poorly trained,” contrary to prominent assumptions that they fell short of some anecdotal or imaginary “professional” Western military norm (see ABC 2003c; MRGI 2005, as further examples). TNI recruit training regimes set high standards of infantry skills for all noncommissioned members, including non-infantry troops, long before unit exercises, specialist and promotion courses, and advanced retraining in KOSTRAD, KOPASSUS, or Satgas Rajawali and unit predeployment. Beside their frequent exposure to combat once graduated, TNI troops showed little “softness” or dilettantism in training either. KOPASSUS trainees reputedly underwent the severest program, risking 3–5 percent deaths (SM 2001b), thereby ineligible for the post-mortem honor roll at Cijantung HQ, Jakarta: those losses apparently covered new parako members still being evaluated on their first KOPASSUS operations. Most skills taught in TNI recruit training had Australian equivalents at recruit and infantry center stages, but Indonesian troops’ formative junior-level unarmed
Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” Table 3.2
91
KODAM Jayakarta recruit training, 1991–2
Category
Main training modules
Hours %
Field/ operations
Navigation, field signals, and judging distances; camouflage, concealment, and “digging-in”; weapons inc. M-16A1, Minimi and SS-1 live-fire, zeroing– basic marksmanship, and grenades; section-level patrol, attack, and defence (conventional and counterinsurgent); first aid and casualty evacuation; knots, basic traps, and obstacles; radio and phone
429
51.5
Physical
Aerobic, anaerobic, and skills exercises, also inc.: forced marches; rope-crossings and obstacle courses; bayonet and unarmed combat, knife- and axe-throwing
154
18.5
Ideological and “SOSPOL”
Tradition and history; state constitution; philosophy and religions; warrior ethos, oaths and pledges; territorial liaison and community involvement; doctrinal foundations
92
11.1
Drill
Collective close-order and individual marching, parade and ceremonial; saluting
90
10.8
Processes and military law
Reporting procedures and obligations; uniform scales and ranks; obeying and objecting to orders; offences, punishments, and appeals
25
3.0
Intelligence and security
Information and sources; counterintelligence (personnel, equipment, and document security); prisoner-handling; sentry challenge procedure
18
2.2
Extra
Addresses by commander; inspections; added/ substitution lessons as required
16
1.9
Maintenance
Equipment preservation and repair
8
1.0
Total
832
100
Source: Kodam Jaya 1991: annex A. Note Categories and modules arbitrarily translated into Australian equivalents, where possible.
training conspicuously emphasized more individual aggression under infantry (not “all-corps”) influence. Moreover, TNI recruits were introduced early to information-gathering and “prisoner-handling” (police arrest–detention procedure), territorial population surveillance and liaison with civilian elements – all absent in such Western indoctrination, if not left to later courses or exclusive specialization in recon, intelligence, and policing. In a broader demographic difference from Western counterparts, Indonesian forces’ applicant base was proportionally larger; less hampered by compromises over recruits’ age, obesity, height, eyesight, or expectations about pay, living standards, and compensation, personal danger and life expectancy, or “equal employment opportunity.”
92 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration”
TNI institutional pressures Interrelated problems of budgetary limits, corruption, and de facto privatization challenged TNI–POLRI units in meeting their Aceh commitments. Units were under pressure not only to obey Jakarta HQ operation orders in strict deployment timetables, but to run their own private-sector economies to acceptable levels of logistical preparedness. The situation could become a major disciplinary problem if any link in the chain of command greedily hawked unit equipment, embezzled funds, or failed to replenish via local sources. One such TNI business scandal appeared in Medan, North Sumatera, with 1 Combat Engineer Battalion’s postponed Aceh deployment.19 Inspection of the unit’s kit revealed poor-quality food (and weevils in rice rations), rusty cooking utensils, wet clothing in packs, and battery failure in metal detectors used by the bomb disposal team (engineers’ corps specialization). The inspection failure earned the battalion commander a scathing, public humiliation by then Army Chief Endriartono (Kmp 2002a). It was unlikely that the sloppy show was due to any aversion to active service in Aceh, which was apparently extended as punishment anyway. The debacle probably resulted from the battalion’s command and staff falling foul of Medan’s notorious black-market gangland and related competition among TNI–POLRI units: Endriartono would care little regardless. Aceh continually placed severe demands on many army units, for whom one year in the combat area was broken by as little as a year or even less at base, where troops prepared either for return or another tour elsewhere. Heavy operational loads fell to adjacent Sumatera territorial infantry from 121, 122, 133 of KODAM Bukit Barisan, and 144 of Sriwijaya. Comparable timetables applied to army mainstays from the “center,” in most of KOSTRAD’s 18 infantry battalions, and territorial battalions: 301, 312, 315, 320, and 327 of western Java’s Siliwangi; 401 and 403 of Central Java’s Diponegoro; and 527 from East Java’s Brawijaya. For some, like 122, active service merely exchanged North Aceh’s scenery for Papua’s in early 2002, or 712, which spent six months tasked in Poso’s civil war, near its Sulawesi Wirabuana base area, then just three months preparing for a much longer Aceh tour. At different stages, most battalions committed company sub-units simultaneously to both far-flung Aceh and Papua. Marines had it no easier. Brigade commander at the large Cilandak (Jakarta) marine complex almost complained that his base would soon be empty due to Aceh tasking (RP 2003a). The navy raised new units: 7 Marine Battalion officially by May 2003, 8 Battalion by December, and 9 shortly after. Formed into a whole new Marine Infantry Brigade at Lampung, these additional troops were ready just in time to replace Jakarta- and Surabaya-based colleagues after their year’s operational duty in Bireuen, and North and East Aceh regencies (Berita AL 2003; Solo Pos 2003). On Aceh’s coasts, some marines’ battalion designations were misleading where various harbor defense, HQ, support, and administrative units predominated in makeshift substitutes around infantry battalion nuclei. Many units’ Rajawali company commitments coincided with deployment of “battalions” pared to essential maneuver elements in rifle companies,
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unaccompanied by conventional support, administration, or main HQ. Incremental deployments involved the despatch of a mobile company as “advance guard” for companies following months later. In April 2002, for example, 511 and 527 battalions in East Java deployed a Rajawali company each for the period before those battalions’ full commitment to Aceh operations (mabesad 2002). Typical was East Java’s KODAM V and its despatch of 1,000-plus troops in companies from 507, 516, and 521 infantry battalions: 516 Battalion being the “static” infantry force with others sent as Rajawali elements (MI 2001b). In 2001–2 Jakarta’s infantry garrison sent companies from each of its battalions, 201, 202, and 203, into Rajawali TF and local composite formations in North Aceh. The general ratio of outside force commitment to Aceh operations was two-to-one line or territorial infantry to Rajawali pursuit companies. TNI Aceh operations revealed some organizational deviations and doctrinal self-contradictions. Noted since late 2001, TNI special forces’ counter-terrorist (CT) units were drawn into infantry patrol tasks to bolster mobile and recon strength despite their official contingency standby status. Several reports detailed the presence of KOPASSUS’ Unit 81 Gultor (penanggulangan teror), air force PASKHASAU Bravo 90 detachment, and the marines’ Denjaka (Jala Mengkara detachment). POLRI’s Detachment 88, on rapid-response duty on Java, appeared to be the only CT unit left out of such nonspecialist Aceh combat assignments. Other departures from training norms were similarly systemic consequences of political and command priorities, compromising the institution’s own basic training in camouflage. “Red and White” scarves advertised the soldiers’ nationalist mission as literal flag-bearers in Aceh’s populated areas. Once the scarves had been pocketed or discarded for inland patrols, bright rank patches (army red, marine blue) had the same hazardous effect, offering GAM some useful aiming marks. Over-compensation for Aceh’s dangers caused TNI troops to stray from their own training in less formal ways. Some symptoms were displays of adolescent machismo: mystical snake cuisine as “rites of passage” in field training; and overdeveloped upper bodies in nonregulation tee shirts (on troops’ own initiative), though that narcissism was common in Western armies too, especially since US teen mania for steroid-induced delusions of invulnerability. Nonissue bandanas commonly replaced hats and helmets into 2003, probably following fashions of Vietnam War movie and “gangsta” genres. Some TNI troops in Aceh advertised their Muslim identity, wearing the yarmulke-descended kopyah on patrol where their commanders’ discretion allowed. The “fashion statement” was ambiguous: on the one hand, Indonesian revivalist Islam stridently claimed a moral superiority and messianic duty to protect Acehnese from GAM’s alleged Western- and Zionist-led corruption. On the other, troops with overtly Islamic items of dress could hope for some deterrent against being shot at, as if appealing to conscientious GAM members and Islam’s prohibition against “fratricidal” intrareligious warfare. Or it could be a conscious reminder for Christian/Hindu comrades to properly conduct last rites, or (unconsciously) serve as talisman-style protection in the event of being ambushed. In any case, KOOPS itself expressly forbade such
94 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” indiscipline in field dress from mid-2003, though recon and special forces would continue exercising their own exclusive privileges. Other symptoms were less from individual bravado or discretion than a collective primal fear of GAM ambush and sniping. Sense of vulnerability caused many TNI troops to patrol too close together, offering GAM better targets, although TNI doctrine actually set the militarily near-universal and much safer spacing rule of “visual distance” between troops (the situation would challenge any state’s training and disciplinary systems). Systemic and personal strains combined in more extreme effects on Indonesian troops’ Aceh experience, discussed in the next chapter.
Police institutional crises BRIMOB’s infantry training lasted for comparable time as their TNI colleagues’, using compatible skills and weaponry. BRIMOB units’ lower levels of deployed organic command compelled their regular subordination to TNI patrols in joint units, but POLRI infantry’s doctrinal and operational compatibility with TNI units was streamlined in training even before the New Order period. There was no technical or doctrinal reason, let alone issues of combat experience or courage, to prohibit BRIMOB from becoming an autonomous antiguerrilla force in its own right. POLRI’s infantry suffered political and economic constraints at institutional service levels (besides international lobbying). In POLRI’s own considerable Aceh commitments, such institutional challenges affected BRIMOB and the wider noncombat police ranks. POLRI had minimal armored vehicle support, and generally deficient and delayed issue of helmets, body armor, and more modern sidearms. Selection of police for Aceh tours was much more piecemeal than the TNI’s standard block allocation of battalions in clear rotation cycles. Chronically under-strength POLRI had no shortage of other tasks in metropolitan Java and elsewhere, causing complex timetables and force composition for Aceh. Indonesia’s police regions (POLDA) sent troops based on considerations of their own formation’s strength, local priorities, and business clout. The obvious exception was DEOPS’ central reserve of BRIMOB regiments, POLRI’s KOSTRAD counterpart based in and around Jakarta, for whom Aceh tours became so regular as to make the province a second or final home to many. By comparison, POLDA Bali’s tourist haven, like the army’s co-located KODAM Udayana, enjoyed relatively light operational demands. POLRI’s institutional weaknesses affected predeployment training for all its troops. Even some BRIMOB infantry suffered neglect in that respect, as a West Kalimantan BRIMOB contingent in August 2003, for example, had just two weeks to prepare for modern infantry combat in Aceh’s guerrilla war (PtkP 2003c). Unit integrity suffered too, when an early 2002 East Java deployment brought together far-flung platoon-strength units from three separate BRIMOB battalions (Wsp 2002h). Preparations were worse for non-infantry police tasked to fill BRIMOB’s gaps. “Blue line” general patrol-duty UPS (Unit Perintis Sabhara) had short-notice BRIMOB crash courses before sent to the combat area
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Map 3.4 Sampled POLRI unit deployments, 2001–4.
Provincial units' deployment areas not shown
96 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” (PR 2002b). BRIMOB itself was notorious for low pay and conditions even by TNI line infantry’s Spartan standards. But pay and allowances for their temporary non-infantry UPS colleagues appeared worse, prompting POLRI Aceh veteran, Central Java Police Region’s Usman Kasminto (2003: 86–92), to make detailed public complaints in his book drafted during a 2002 six-month tour of West Aceh. Kasminto bluntly criticized police chiefs for the inadequate and inconsistent UPS training across the country. For a rudimentary force like POLRI’s UPS, every minute of infantry training would count, but the longest preparation in the deadly, specialized business lasted just one month for isolated Jakarta and West Java contingents. East and Central Java regions’ UPS contingents trained two weeks before their combat tours, while a West Java UPS company got ten days (PR 2002c). A mere one week’s predeployment training ran for a Palembang (South Sumatera) half-company UPS contingent in March 2001 (sripo 2001), matching Yogyakarta Region’s UPS training the next year, described by Kasminto as a “yet more tragic” predicament. In meeting POLDA Aceh’s personnel gaps, other “blue line” contingents (beside UPS) became an organizational equivalent to builder’s putty. POLRI chiefs ordered other police branches into war with similar indifference to predeployment training, in an extraordinarily high-handed approach suggesting both the severity of personnel shortages and drastically harsh management. Yogyakarta’s BRIMOB unit gave just three days’ predeployment for its mixed contingent of detectives, intelligence, public relations, special civil liaison, communications, health, etc. As with UPS colleagues, the mixed-branch trainees deployed into Aceh as makeshift unit identities, often as half-companies with members of similarly mixed noncombat origin from other provinces (KR 2003b). That practice was additional to tasking of individual members covering shortfalls in organicterritorial police, both continuing throughout the post-2001 TNI buildup. With all police branches committing troops to Aceh, POLRI lowered its recruit entry standards to between 3.5 and 5 NEM Points (spers 2003b). NEM standards (Nilai Ebtanas Murni, roughly “pure matriculation grade”) were secondary school-level decimal grade-point averages, i.e. 3.5 NEM points being a 35 percent graduation score. Curiously, despite resistance sentiment against Jakarta’s forces, and severe disruptions to civilian society, police recruitment in Aceh itself set a NEM standard lowered from 4.5 to 4, not the lowest standard of 3.5 in some other POLRI regions. Aceh’s paradoxically high unemployment levels may have offset POLRI’s local recruiting problem in that regard.
Total force strengths From late 1999–early 2001, Indonesia’s Aceh troop totals were complicated by greater TNI covert and clandestine activity, including by special forces. Three KOSTRAD battalions were rumored to have worn BRIMOB uniform in late 2000 (ICG 2000), as in East Java mayhem around the same time. Covert deployment would have confounded public and presidential opposition to KOSTRAD from late 1999, after details emerged about the Bantaqiah pesantren (Islamic boarding school) massacre, in which KOSTRAD’s 328 Battalion paratroopers played a
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subordinate though prominent role. That case led to an announced withdrawal of all KOSTRAD units from Aceh and a suspension on future assignment there.20 Nonetheless, the ICG’s (2000) tentative estimate of troop totals at 3,000 POLRI and 7,000–8,000 TNI were far below total official standing strength even for organic-territorial TNI–POLRI (spers n.d.), and less than one-half of actual totals during that late 1999–April 2001 period.21 Wandelt’s (2001b) detailed study was much closer at around 30,000 troops for the same period. Satgas formations’ flexible and often ad hoc nature was essential to determine where units fitted in the operational command, and whether they “rotated” (relieving equivalent forces in place), or added to deployed numbers. Discussion about “how many battalions” deployed to Aceh could be very misleading: a focus on only whole battalions could understate force strength by missing the significant deployment of composite forces (JIR 2001d; II 2003). A total of 40,000 TNI–POLRI was certainly reached by early 2002. Aceh’s KODAM itself later provided a useful, though in parts misleading, force list (pdmd 2003b). GAM Commander-in-Chief Muzakkir Manaf accurately claimed “more than 50,000” Indonesian personnel in early June 2003 (ASNLF 2003e), in stark contrast to GAM spokesman (later defector) Amri Abdul Wahab’s wild sum of Indonesian troops at 95,000 in January 2002, possibly misleading ASNLF leaders (ASNLF 2002b). Some civilian activists too, notably TAPOL (2003) and the Geneva-based World Organization Against Torture (OMCT 2003a), gave accurate and timely assessments of Indonesia’s martial law troop numbers, after the TNI gave a reduced figure of 23,000 (Srb 2003f) during an actual pre-campaign buildup just before peace negotiations formally halted. Police numbers were the most problematic and challenging, as POLRI’s national HQ staff planners themselves had continual trouble meeting personnel and funding costs of the service’s Aceh and other commitments. Senior-level statements repeatedly claimed between 12,000 and 14,000 police in Aceh Police Region (POLDA Aceh/NAD), but there was no reliable indication of reduced POLRI numbers (or eased ad hoc tasking of non-BRIMOB substitutes) from Haseman’s (JDW 2002) assertion of over 20,000 POLRI members on Aceh duty. Later statements by POLRI chiefs confirmed that number as the required total, while tactical-level detail emphasized POLRI’s high concentrations paralleling the army territorial apparatus. In the absence of convincing dispute over Haseman’s figure, and given BRIMOB’s continued national expansion and POLRI deployments revealed during their post-tsunami communications hiatus, police totals matched Haseman’s earlier claim, with none of the claimed post2001 reduction. From Endriartono’s September 2003 admission (puspen 2003n) and likely police numbers, 52,000 Indonesian troops was a cautious sum: the total probably reached 62,000 between August 2003 and December 2004, not including militia cadres and covert forces.
A “different-model army” TNI–POLRI anticolonial guerrilla roots spread with time into an unconventional capability in defense (and deterrence) against foreign invasion, but the four
98 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” services combined as a demonstrably more powerful tool in antiguerrilla warfare. In theory and practice, TNI–POLRI counterinsurgency mixed defensive and protective roles with aggressive pursuit and interdiction as an established operational norm regularly applied by units in Indonesia’s several operational areas. Unlike comparable coalition 2003–5 Iraq operations, Jakarta’s forces in Aceh did not “start from scratch” or depend on separate “native” units as intermediaries and more remote proxies informing human intelligence processes (HUMINT), other communication and liaison, or performing basic stationary protection and deterrence. Jakarta’s militias were an additional complementary antiguerrilla element in that regard (see Chapter 6). Liberal-reformist advocacy to conventionalize the TNI and restrict police to “law-enforcement” roles sometimes helped Jakarta’s forces to acquire foreign technology in weaponry, communications, and training. TNI–POLRI executives placed much value on Western training and exchanges, not because it was necessarily more advanced, or even technically necessary. Exchanges’ political value lay in the career incentive they offered individual officers, as well as the public respectability of apologia depicting TNI–POLRI repression as some unfortunate byproduct of “underdevelopment,” local incompetence, and ignorance. Most importantly, exchange training eased service expenditures and, for creditor-state providers, helped circumvent approaches by other competing militaries. Another factor was candid TNI–POLRI detail about its force strengths, activity, and locations – actually Assyrian-style advertisement of repressive state power, but probably adding to foreign impressions of an Indonesian militarism oblivious to basic “professional” notions of operational security. Misperceptions of such TNI– POLRI self-representation led many to assume that Western militaries were substantially superior to Indonesia’s in theory and practice: assumptions causing bizarre policy advice. Calls to fit Jakarta’s forces into “advanced” models also distracted from the essential reasons for both repression and resistance. But TNI–POLRI organizational complexity and practical durability together defied if not mocked critiques by supportive Western-led patrons, who either failed to grasp those aspects, or studiously avoided them. In this sense, ICG (2004) gave policy advice in a report on Jakarta’s force structures, but evoked a post-modern orientalist chimera in the process. At its head was the comfortably retrospective, post-1997 financial crisis (krismon) excuse: Soeharto. Indonesia’s supposedly dysfunctional internal security was, ICG claimed, “a legacy of President Soeharto’s New Order rule.” Despite ICG’s local presence and contacts, its argument’s body could seem extraterrestrial, misdiagnosing local complexity as “unclear institutional division of labour” and “roles…poorly defined” for counterinsurgency. Contrary to services’ self-interested, free-market enterprise in de facto security force privatization with minimal state budgeting, ICG deemed TNI–POLRI “interagency competition” inherently “inefficient.” And against a redundancy of command, control, and reporting networks at all levels, ICG implied that TNI–POLRI forces had no real leadership, urging that Jakarta “establish a mechanism that can direct and supervise their operations”! By such circular thinking, a system little
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understood must be “dysfunctional,” while “reform” unconsciously strove to make the target subject resemble more familiar systems, and thereby comprehensible to Western observers and their local acolytes.22 And the chimera’s tail contained a “sting”: Jakarta’s executives could humor their influential guests by “acknowledging” some problems (“gray areas”), so both parties entered legalistic, reformist “review” in seminars, attracted by extra publicity, diplomatic respectability, and “developmental” aid funds. Indirectly led or even sponsored by an elite international commentariat, many Indonesian academics and writers earnestly joined discussions about “security sector reform.” The “debate” often seemed indulgent, as if in some craze for cosmetic surgery and face-bleaching. Whatever superficial changes appeared in bureaucratic reforms, the systems’ functional tenacity and complex structural integrity defied normal Western definition. Foreign prescriptions could carry superficiality to naïve or absurd extremes. In 2002 Aceh, for example, foreign truce monitors’ tried limiting BRIMOB infantry to normal police duties,23 apparently oblivious to BRIMOB’s “grunt” roles, structure, and training, effectively encouraging TNI reaction just when POLRI had gained much greater power and funding. Even mooted abolition of the TNI’s territorium could preserve its essential function and power by replacing formation titles with conventional military units, as seemed to be planned for as early as 2010. For Jakarta’s service chiefs, such theoretical, diplomatic, and professionally extraneous pondering by policy advisers, other experts, and credulous audiences became a distraction, albeit one demanding politic response and accommodation. Troops were generally oblivious, even though lofty, abstract notions of “human rights” and “rules of engagement” entered the TNI–POLRI lexicon (see also KPTPI 2004) but, like Western legalistic parallels for internal crimes, “harassment,” etc., more as publicity, and extra tools to monitor dissent and apply discretionary discipline than any intrinsic operational need. Evolution in TNI–POLRI antiguerrilla warfare produced systemic flexibility and techniques for close surveillance of GAM’s civilian base. TNI–POLRI business rivalry highlighted long-established budgetary limits and their compensations in approved private enterprise of forces’ self-regulated revenue systems: counterinsurgency operations offered incentives, beyond token official “allowances” (tunjangan), to elaborately structured corporate entities. That motivation would not necessarily diminish with greater TNI–POLRI budgets: the services could simply lobby in competitive tender-style processes, using established methods of extortion and brinkmanship. Prospects of budgetary largesse from overseas aid ironically threatened to seriously aggravate TNI–POLRI competition, which hitherto sparked local conflict in black-economy “turf wars.” But potential civil war ensured that “reform” reverted to conservative compromise, yet again affirming the TNI’s extortionate power (see Table 4.1, p. 115). Indonesian soldiers’ experience in Aceh seemed from another world than that of reformists, in a perceptual gulf dividing the war’s main beneficiaries and influential experts from the vast majority of its participants. Certainly, TNI– POLRI forces faced severe challenges in their antiguerrilla campaigns, in which
100 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” structural changes and troop numbers displayed those institutions’largely energetic and pragmatic response. Whether inspired by reformist, conservative, or reactionary political views, Jakarta’s civilian leaders endorsed their soldiers’ commitment into a war to which TNI chiefs were committed almost by default anyway. Some equipment limitations and organizational expediency reflected strategic shortcomings affecting economic and political life in Indonesia’s wider population. Nonetheless, most of Jakarta’s troops were prepared for active service as best they could be in training, doctrine, and organization, at levels matching if not surpassing foreign counterparts. But very few humans, if any, could fully prepare for war’s trauma and other extremes, where background compromises around investment, diplomatic pragmatism, political power, and state sovereignty effectively endorsed the spread of war’s brutalizing effects. Orbits of bureaucratic and diplomatic privilege barely defined any of the combined results of TNI–POLRI institutional culture, mission, or the war itself, where glimpses into soldiers’ closeknit circles and experience showed much that was informal, illegal, and unofficial, if not taboo – and much else beyond expert contemplation.
4
TNI–POLRI morale and motivation
Enemy soldier: “The King is taken!” Louis VI: “No, Sir, a king is never taken, not even at chess”. Hastings (1985: 69) Friars: “God give you peace”. Hawkwood: “God take away your alms! Is not begging your profession? And is not war mine? If you wish me peace, how shall I live?” John Hawkwood, English Condottiere warlord, fifteenth-century Italy (Chamberlin 1982: 30) Just because the soldiers are in such an enclosed world, and because they force themselves to sublimate their own individuality…to the unit, any lowering of morale therein can also spread remarkably quickly…a feeling of panic and despair can swiftly grow, persuading even those that were prepared to stand firm that all is lost. Ellis (1993: 255)
In order to make sense of many reports from the Aceh War, it is important to consider the severe human effects of TNI and POLRI institutional subcultures and their hierarchically supervised ambition, aggression, conformity, and discipline. Whether from TNI, POLRI, press, or GAM, the war’s source material often left unexamined the human predicaments of Indonesia’s soldiery, but some details did emerge from Aceh to reveal the dangers and hardship they faced there. Detail also revealed official and subcultural mechanisms to prevent, overcome, or at least cope with problems of motivation, discipline, and morale.1 Complementing analysis of operational and political developments, this chapter examines personal conditions (not mutually exclusive) of Indonesian troops’Aceh war service as: self-interested economic motives; ideological foundations; damage to unit discipline and force cohesion; and coercion and victimization. It also assesses executive efforts at welfare, reward, and punishment for troops in conspicuous cases where TNI–POLRI members clearly exceeded normal tolerance to fear and other pressure. Personal levels of TNI–POLRI Aceh experience offered observers useful insights into the challenges faced by Jakarta’s troops when applying armed
102 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation power from the side with the stronger bases of material and political support. Subcultural and psychological factors explained various deliberate and unintended ways that the Indonesian military and police actors used their considerable, dangerous force. Human responses often brought dire consequences when the forces’ leadership either failed to control its forces, or simply made no effort to do so beyond reassuring rhetoric and promises to the public. While problems of tension, fear, aggression, and indiscipline were not set to cause wholesale collapse of unit cohesion and discipline, Jakarta’s troops in Aceh showed signs of just such a possibility if circumstances saw say, another major enemy or internal state breakdown to add insuperable pressure on Aceh operations. This chapter connects closely to some of the war’s further-reaching causes and effects detailed in the immediately following chapters, i.e. the extent of TNI–POLRI casualties, and repressive measures against Aceh’s population. Such brutalization of civilians, as examined in this study, could not have occurred without some surrounding, correspondingly systemic process against the perpetrators. Forming as it did a relatively small noncombatant minority, executive command and staff had little direct relevance to force morale, except as role models of institutional success, or in their brashly confident commentary resonating in loud counterpoint to the less audible mutterings of the troops. The generals’ main role was to enforce order and reinforce subcultural norms. As an elite body overseeing state and institutional interests, the TNI–POLRI “brass” or senior executives’ own normally high motivation and morale were implied by their favored status and prominence from a typically deferential press. Nonetheless, some motivational anomalies at these executive levels hinted at a sublimated morale problem: a certain preemptive and legalistic self-protection appeared to drive their public comments. Most publicity gave little real insight into the war’s actualities for troops on the ground, but it sometimes illustrated vastly different priorities between soldiers and their most senior commanders’ preoccupation with “public image.” At the start of Aceh’s 2003 Martial Law and Holistic Operation, the Aceh Police Region (POLDA) advertised an “appeal” urging Indonesian forces in the field to distinguish between Acehnese civilians and GAM fighters. Given that TNI–POLRI troops had very little internet or intranet access, much less any extraordinary wireless internet access for direction during operations, POLRI’s advertised statement amounted to little more than a cover-note exonerating senior police officers in advance (poldanad 2003c). Around the same time, TNI chief GEN Endriartono made something of a “motivational speech” to troops, with the extraordinary aside demanding true and accurate field reporting of civilian casualties (Wsp 2003f). If these points had to be emphasized to reassure the Indonesian public, what was the practice in the many years of war beforehand? And what was the likelihood of the troops heeding their chief’s platitudinous rhetoric, or of reading between the lines of that dictum in light of President Megawati’s reassurance that the troops need not worry about whether they be tried for abuses? It seemed Endriartono’s speech unconsciously betrayed a sense of insecurity over his own greatest mission, and that of his forces. Perhaps he
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made these statements for the public record with a view to future international press, or even judicial, scrutiny of his forces’ repressions in Aceh. His comments also cast doubt about the nature of TNI reporting mechanisms, and did little to counter critics who continued to warn of an unofficial TNI culture of brutality, atrocity, and cover-up into the post-Soeharto reformasi era.
Aceh operations as business opportunity Pressures from vested institutional commercial interests and personal financial obligations within Indonesian forces combined to make Aceh’s natural resources and civilian property particularly vulnerable during intensive counterinsurgency operations. From the highest levels of command and staff to the tactical settings of individual deployed troops in the field, private and mostly informal profit motives rarely isolated from the TNI–POLRI pursuit of official state business. As seen earlier in the summary of ventures associated with Aceh’s petrochemical, timber, and other industries, Indonesia’s security apparatus had significant stakes in the province’s economic life. Besides basic wages and official benefits from the state, self-regulated TNI–POLRI income and budgeting followed the general patterns of Indonesia’s black economy and its well-known reliance on payoffs by large companies and powerless minions alike. As with Freeport–McMoran in Papua, observers claimed that ExxonMobil paid large sums of virtual protection money in this manner, including the equivalent to AU$1 million (Australian dollars) to BRIMOB troops in 2001, for example, and 6 million to the more numerous and, per soldier more expensive, TNI troops (IM 2001). That security levy was reportedly challenged in a competitive offer from GAM during negotiations that year, but disrupted by an Arun refinery grenade attack that could have come from any of the armed parties seeking either a favorable diplomatic position from the firm, or more protection money (ICE 2001).2 This discussion does not cover in any depth the economic motives of the TNI and POLRI as institutions. Very important as this aspect is for a rounded appreciation of Indonesian troops’ motivation, other recent studies (McCulloch 2002; Kingsbury 2003: 188–221; King 2004: 105–6, 118–26) examined the issue in considerable depth, especially as larger-scale TNI and POLRI business interests generally working on a national level. Various detailed studies described between 70 and 90 percent of TNI funds coming from such nonbudgetary sources in large corporations and foundations. That subject deserved fresh investigation by early 2005, especially after the huge flow of post-tsunami foreign relief aid via TNI depots from Medan to Sabang.3 A harder related task was examining such private sector interests in the organizations’ bulk of personnel at lower ranks, and the ensuing effect such interests had on those troops while on active service in Aceh. Economic pressures from within TNI–POLRI ranks were important motives for the institutional misappropriation of local and international material sent as disaster relief. In cases of Indonesian police corruption, notoriously low pay in the ranks compelled a certain informal graft and extortion simply to help make ends meet.
104 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation However, for both TNI and POLRI ranks, onerous debt drove the uniformed subcultures into routine property crime. This normalized at the lower levels of the forces in a parallel with the effects of continuous foreign debt pressures on the widespread corruption in the Jakarta regime itself. But while the nation was saddled with continuous foreign debt in a highly organized financial system, lower levels of TNI–POLRI command extracted debts in a more arbitrary manner just for employment in the state’s armed services. Merely applying to enlist in the military or police required prospective recruits to either pay, or promise to pay, large sums through informal channels of calo (“scalpers”) with access to the command and staff hierarchy. Paneling for entry to NCO and officer training, and later promotion and specialist courses, all contained the same unofficial process of payment and/or debt, driven and enforced by hierarchical authority. Of course, the informal nature of these patronage networks allowed dishonest officers, or even impostors, to gain by making false promises of future employment or promotion. Compliance with corruption was by no means a guarantee of advancement, as the formal recruitment and promotion mechanisms still required that aspirants pass written and physical examinations, along with background suitability checks elsewhere in the bureaucracy. It could often be something of a lottery, but within which debtor-applicants held an advantage over those paying up-front, because of their prospect of longer-term profit to the payee. The system all lent extra bureaucratic power through patrimonial leverage: subordinates literally owed loyalty in direct and indirect pecuniary bonds to their commanders. Where recruits and career aspirants incurred debt, the debt itself may have been from recognized civilian money-lending sources, or from selling off family property: the many who bought into the system (including those fewer entering as officers) inevitably saw their sacrifices as an investment. But it was the holders of formal authority in Indonesia’s most powerful armed institutions who ultimately enforced repayments of informal transactions for enlistment and promotion opportunities. The TNI was sensitive to the popular distaste for such practices. The army web site’s “recruitment” page (mabesad 2003c) stressed in bold red text: “enrolment to become a soldier does not incur fees.” True enough, prospective recruits could submit their applications free of charge. In that way, scalpers knew the applicants’ contact details in order to extract subsequent “administrative” and other charges to “facilitate” the recruitment process. The cycle of informal lower-level usury combined with executive opportunism in TNI–POLRI hierarchies in a momentum propelled into much of Indonesia’s civilian life. Within the institutional microcosm of rich senior officer-creditors and their many debtor-subordinates, soldiers obviously formed the lowest level of the exploited in TNI and POLRI units, ameliorated only by close gradations of rank and a tacit approval from higher command to pursue outside commercial interests. Enlisted ranks (and many officers) normally held second or even third jobs as supplementary income outside of their military and police service. These activities were a separate self-employment or business enterprise, albeit informally linked to units and even whole corps, often involving networks of street thugs, or
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preman, in parking and timber rackets, for example, or extortion rackets against more legitimate commerce. Moreover, for the forces’ readily trained and armed ranks, private sector “security” work could conveniently blend into many of these potentially very lucrative unofficial business pursuits. Local civilians were the next-lower layer in the pyramid of market and extortion, or debt and credit, but the extent of civilian contact with that informal security economy varied depending upon the stability of Indonesian forces’ local presence. From the normal home bases, and territorial postings of KODAM and POLDA, troops pursued their commercial interests behind certain buffers, especially those comprising the “business partners” in preman gangsters and their ilk from the paramilitary youth groups, who typically became the direct civilian points of contact. In that way did the military and police ranks keep a certain distance from many civilians, especially those of the middle classes, just as more senior officers operated the many TNI- and POLRI-owned formally registered businesses outside of their institutions’ official responsibilities. Like East Timor, Papua, Maluku, and (to lesser extents) Central Sulawesi and West Timor, Aceh’s economy was usually a very different case from the more normal situations where a stable troop presence gave rise to the more regulated versions of the military and police black economies. In Aceh since 2001, nonorganic TNI–POLRI troops would soon more than triple those in locally posted units. Detached from their home networks, non-organic troops could hardly expect directly to impose their commercial needs on Aceh’s territorial apparatus and thus upset a local balance, though gangster-style turf war still arose with often violent results. On the surface, the non-organic forces were mercenaries away from their market, or fish out of water. But with a frequently harried, displaced, and most vulnerable populace, the chaos of Aceh’s war could more than compensate: external combat troops could try to take all as a kind of operational bonus, or expect nothing. Extortion of Acehnese civilians and plunder of their property featured regularly in reports of Indonesian forces on operations. For just over two months in 2002, in North Aceh Regency alone, at least 189 cases of military and police theft and extortion were reported in detail from resistance sources (see Map 6.1, p. 163). Theft cases covered seizure of vehicles, household appliances, cash, jewelry, livestock, and other farming produce. Extortion could involve arbitrary roadside “taxes” of drivers and passengers at vehicle checkpoints from static route-security posts. Other extortion could be on a more regular basis, requiring shrimp-pond farmers to pay weekly levies to local commanders, for example. A routine tone in the reporting of these crimes gave a sense that the problem was far greater than stated by the available detail itself. TNI and POLRI troops extorted other payments as a daily business. One itinerant from Jakarta (itself hardly a haven from officials’ graft) complained in detail of TNI–POLRI extortion of the bus crews working the Medan–Banda Aceh highway. The high-handedness of such extortion extended into a widespread predatory attitude to Aceh’s female population. The Jakarta woman went on to denounce the security apparatus’ preoccupation with harassing women who passed by their posts in Banda Aceh itself. In her own anecdote,
106 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation the transitory Jakartanese witness could only imagine Indonesian forces’ common and protracted abuses against Acehnese civilians (Tempo 2002a). Upon the mid-2003 campaign, martial law, disrupted communications, encroachment on GAM control in populated areas, and shifted reporting priorities all caused a reduction in reported detail of various property crime by TNI– POLRI forces. For the first three months of the Holistic Operation, only 100 specific cases entered the sporadic province-wide detail compiled by the Acehnese activist Pageu Nanggroe (State Fence) team (PN 2003). Based on the team’s apparent under-reporting of civilian deaths for that period (see p. 136, p. 163), a projected doubling of its total listed TNI–POLRI theft and extortion would still be very conservative. An increase in forced mass evacuations of Acehnese civilians left much property crime out of sight to all but the perpetrators. Most importantly, property issues seemed quite trivial compared to a higher civilian toll from execution, bombardment, bashing, and the “disappearances” following arbitrary arrest: why be petty and selfishly materialist by reporting the theft of a video player or refrigerator when still grieving over a relative’s sudden and brutal death, or distressing reappearance as an abandoned corpse?
Ideological underpinnings The political philosophy of the Indonesian state was the theoretical basis for a clinical but inhumane approach to insurgents and disaffected populations. Apparent in TNI rhetoric from the 2003 Holistic Operation, a process of dehumanization was at work in the discretionary targeting of Acehnese civilians and resistance forces ostensibly for “incision” between the two, and the aggressive excision of the whole province for “special treatment.” In a logical parallel, the process realized its practical expression from ideological motives of Jakarta’s military and police personnel, themselves taught by institutional brutalization undergone since recruitment. More fundamentally, effects of state theory and indoctrination directly influenced the functions of the Indonesian military and police as institutions in “defense of the state” (bela negara), a term which applied more often to internal security tasks and “regime maintenance” than to more generally understood defense against “external” threats. That the TNI, POLRI, and their loyalist paramilitary proxies transferred their own dehumanizing treatment onto targeted areas could not have surprised those familiar with Indonesia’s ideologically “organicist” inheritance from Japanese militarism, equating the state to a human body, encouraging its loyal servants to regard those opposed to it as bacillus, or dangerously infected parts needing traumatic surgery (Bourchier 1996; Kingsbury 2003: 64). Senior TNI officers openly used savage and dehumanizing language to describe the aims and methods of a war waged against people who were still technically their fellow citizens: GAM and its supporters were “traitors” who had to be “eradicated.” Not that armed executors of the state’s will could be exempt from the potential threat of organicist excision, purge, or eradication themselves. Indeed, TNI–POLRI troops arguably risked harsher treatment if deemed infected or foreign to the state
TNI–POLRI morale and motivation
107
“body.” As soldiers in democracies well knew, “human rights” rarely applied to the state’s protectors in practice, whatever the extent of their legislated or implied recognition for civilian citizens. Indonesia’s organicist ideology sometimes expressed itself as a metaphorical slip unconsciously justifying separatist resistance. On 21 May 2003, South Aceh’s KODIM commander LTCOL Jamhur Ismail likened Aceh operations to surgery for appendicitis, against “a disease that has to be operated on and cut off so as to save the human body as a whole. If not, the whole body suffers” (Wsp 2003e). Indeed, the secessionist groundswell of Acehnese pro-referendum masses in 1999 could not have agreed more, though their argument was for a far less traumatic medicine, preferably by a team of international clinicians. Meanwhile, for GAM’s part, the Indonesian body would be made to suffer more yet, with the precise aim of severing Aceh from Jakarta’s corporeal limbs in military, paramilitary, and technocrat agencies.
Career carrots and lethal sticks Amid the mayhem and terror of a guerrilla war that sometimes took the scale of more conventional infantry operations, and against the distractions of meeting financial pressures, TNI–POLRI troops needed the maximum possible attention to their personal discipline. To this end in 2003, TNI chief Endriartono made the savage threat of summary field execution to “soldiers making mistakes and disobeying orders in the field, along with (any) acting on his own whim.” His recommendation specifically alluded to shooting disobedient troops “through the forehead” (Wsp 2003f).4 The chief’s arbitrary and public coercion of his soldiers highlighted the often extrajudicial nature of his organization’s tasks. Discipline must have been a problem if field commanders could arbitrarily shoot their own disobedient (but note: non-mutinous) soldiers out of hand with the express approval of the TNI’s most senior officer. If officers did take these draconian steps for unit discipline, how was it reported in the chain of command, and what were the legal grounds for such action? Implicit and explicit threats of summary field execution were not new to TNI soldiers, as revealed in testimony about orders to kill dozens of wounded Acehnese during the 1999 Bantaqiah-Beutong massacre, and the mortal risk of disobedience (Srb 2000h): TNI executive statements from 2003 merely reinforced the subcultural standard.5 These points also touch on the wide informal and discretionary nature of the Indonesian forces’ conduct on operations. The country’s highest civilian office-bearers quickly moved to the opposite pole of reward. An example was the publicized presidential offer of rapid promotion to successful troops (Anl 2003l), and the forces too made symbolic compensation in promotions for battle amputees and troops killed in combat. This too was not new, but a reminder of traditional TNI bureaucratic incentive, as seen in instant promotions for members of KOSTRAD’s 330 Airborne Infantry Battalion team that killed GAM Commander-in-Chief Abdullah Syafei’i in early 2002, or the promotions and bounties paid to infantry of 500 Raider Battalion and KOPASSUS for killing GAM’s East Aceh Chief Ishak Daud and his wife in
108 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation September 2004. At least as well known from 1978, soldiers of then 1LT Prabowo’s Nanggala 28 KOPASSUS team all jumped rank after killing East Timor’s President Nicolao Lobato in that campaign’s early stages. The opposing poles of extreme deterrence and enticement were remarkable enough sign of some deficiency in troops’ self-motivation, and their leaders’ strenuous reaction to determined regional resistance to Jakarta’s rule. In typical style, army chief GEN Ryamizard even promised his own four-star commando dagger to any soldier who captured a GAM leader (SM 2003f). Conversely, TNI–POLRI family compensation was minimal for members killed in combat. Ryamizard was properly credited with introducing a housing benefit with Rp 25 million (about AU$5,000) and other aid to families of soldiers killed (mabesad 2003b). It was unclear whether those sums were universal for all army combat dead, or (most likely) a base rate incremented according to the corpse’s rank. The effort showed a general’s rare concern for troops’ welfare, an exception that would help justify Ryamizard’s reputation as a “soldier’s soldier” and, by contrast, scourge of many officers. Police death compensation schemes made a simple rank distinction in the three broad categories of officers, senior NCOs, and other enlisted ranks, at around 32, 24, and 19 million Rupiah, respectively, or roughly AU$4,000–6,500 (CC 2003c). Death bonuses had relevance for militia cadres too, with civil servants offered financial incentives in TNI–POLRI style posthumous promotions (and increased pensions) in the event of being killed on duty (Wsp 2003n). Of course, just as enlistment was normally quite expensive, the long table of arbitrary “administrative charges” could affect how much money ended up in the hands of widows and children. More vexing for bereaving families was the challenge of conclusively proving their breadwinner’s death in combat, about which even official Indonesian records and statements left much obfuscation and outright denial (see Chapter 5). Publicized compensations may have become lip service with very tenuous legal grounds, or weak and self-interested enforcement at lower levels throughout the vast TNI–POLRI bureaucracies. POLRI HQ promulgated offers of education, promotion, and branch transfer benefits to POLRI combat veterans, prompting some formal requests for Aceh combat duty (Kasminto 2003: 93–4), but executive promises did not guarantee the schemes’ fulfillment. One angry BRIMOB soldier used the name “Andi” in web-based e-mail to a POLRI personnel branch working unit (spers 2002) to demand some confirmation of the police chief’s promises in that area at BRIMOB’s Corps HQ a month before. That Andi’s enquiry got no quick answer on POLRI’s web mailing list elicited a sarcastic and impatient follow-up. But Andi’s discontent had both compassionate and pragmatic justification, as he emphasized that active service had crippled many colleagues who therefore deserved their commanders’ concern.
Morale down: TNI–POLRI self-destruction Reports of suicide, and inter- and intra-unit fratricide, were barometers ominously measuring some of the nadirs in mood and peaks of pressure felt among Indonesian
TNI–POLRI morale and motivation
109
troops in Aceh. These problems haunted Jakarta’s armed representatives there for years and, as usual in many other respects, POLRI revealed some of their starkest details. For example, two organic-territorial police members listed as suicides within a space of eight months, in Pidie and North Aceh regencies in August 2000 and April 2001. POLRI’s public sources did not reveal the corresponding suicide rate among POLDA Aceh’s more numerous rotated non-organic combat troops, let alone those from the TNI. Force ratios, and a reasonably assumed greater psychological burden in those other categories, projected the total suicide rate to at least six times that of organic police. By 2003, increased deployments would project such fatal “morbidity” in Aceh operations to at least 20 suicides per year. When such news did appear, non-organic units from throughout Indonesia showed signs of extreme operational stress and personal alienation, as in a later recorded suicide by a Central Java BRIMOB soldier in South Aceh, 19 May 2003. The harrowing account of the young BRIMOB soldier’s traumatic noncombat death in May 2003, immediately reported by his superior as suicide, highlighted POLRI’s inconsistent official information management, and dishonesty when treating unpalatable facts of their own side’s considerable suffering. On the worldwide web, a coldly formatted police report described in bland prose the suicide of the soldier, Eko Sandi Yudha, himself the son of a veteran (probably ex-KOPASSANDHA, given that Eko’s name referred to the army elite’s counterintelligence force). But that POLRI record (poldanad 2003b) contrasted sharply with the later glowing, near-hagiography given by Indonesia’s press. Jawa Pos (JwP 2003b), for example, said on 22 June 2003 that Eko died “a hero’s death on the battlefield…while wiping out GAM” and “defending the nation and the state.” Understandably POLRI tried to hide from Eko’s family the distressing witness evidence of their son/brother/father weeping before chambering a cartridge, then discharging his rifle into his own head, and the inglorious location in the local primary school building used as his BRIMOB unit’s barracks at the time. But most incongruous in this case was that POLRI made public the straightforward and disturbing evidence of Eko’s superior, drafted in the detached tone of any internal administrative matter, then altered the facts so brazenly through the press in Java, not just out of compassion, but for routinely bombastic nationalist publicity. Whatever actually caused Eko’s death may never be widely known. However, despair at the experience of active service in Aceh was one conspicuous facet reflecting a wider TNI–POLRI problem. It appeared that at least one TNI soldier died by his own hand shortly after Eko’s death when martial law had just begun: Navy Shore/Military Police (MP) Corporal 1st Class Jatmiko, in the area of his service’s intensive drives through Bireuen Regency in July 2003, after the conventional-style amphibious landings at Samalanga coast. Jatmiko’s case showed two striking oddities: firstly, his role as an MP in the area of operations, which was publicized to a warily skeptical country as a strict disciplinary measure to counter their forces’ infamous criminality against Acehnese civilians. Given the many reported atrocities committed in Bireuen around that time, often allegedly by the newly deployed marines, Jatmiko’s death may have connected in some way to his conscientious (naive?) belief in the reassuring publicity around his MP
110 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation duties there. The other anomaly was that the TNI reported the death as suicide at all. It was apparently included in the official honor roll to balance the hasty and rashly open news about the BRIMOB suicide in South Aceh at the operation’s start, already revealed to the world online. After all, the honor roll would otherwise make Eko’s suicide conspicuous among the comparatively few admitted POLRI casualties, so institutionally unfair implications for police and BRIMOB morale were obvious. This was just an example of the senior brass’s many Acehrelated “issues management” problems, albeit an internal one. As in other aspects, headquarters’ inconsistencies in internal and public communication bespoke of the stress and chaos on the ground. Before martial law’s formal absolutist controls, the press (SH 2003a) only vaguely alluded to an earlier TNI Aceh suicide when a TNI soldier killed himself by a headshot from his own pistol. Such a guarded reference suggested a wider and potentially debilitating TNI problem. The journalist’s coyness was at least part due to a severe taboo within the TNI’s own more segregated, strictly military, and very morale-sensitive culture.6 Another later example, KOPASSUS Private Kurniawan’s January 2004 murdersuicide, only appeared some eight months after the incident. The official explanation was that malarial delirium caused the young Kurniawan to shoot several civilians (killing two) outside a shop in Takengon, Central Aceh, then turn his pistol on his own head (AK 2004d). In both publicly reported mid-2003 cases, whether actual suicide, or merely “fratricide” concealed for posterity or administrative and legal simplicity, such deaths of Eko, Jatmiko, and others were not the only signs of troops’ pressure on Aceh operations. TNI–POLRI conduct of the war created altogether separate security problems from that directly posed by GAM. Several points of comparison with the TNI showed that police suffered the far greater disparity between personal welfare and potential sacrifice. A relative lack of adequate pay benefits was the most obvious police disadvantage and, perhaps more serious in the field, an often scant supply of individual body armor. Motivational effects manifested in different ways, revealing embryonic symptoms of mutiny. POLRI loyalty and belief in their country’s leaders looked very thin in GAM’s Pidie Regency stronghold in late 1999 amid the public euphoria in rallies for an East Timor-style independence referendum. A European journalist (AP 1999) contrasted cold and surly TNI attitudes with Indonesian policemen’s open shows of moral support to the Acehnese civilians, brazenly joining the calls for Acehnese self-determination. By June 2003, an anonymous POLRI officer in Banda Aceh was so disgusted by his participation in brutal torture of suspected rebels that he publicized his account via a former detainee, UK academic Lesley McCulloch (AT 2003). US journalist Billy Nessen told a similar account from his own detention in Banda Aceh, noting the subversive sympathies of one nonAcehnese POLRI member guarding him. On points of historical, economic, and human rights justice, Nessen’s policeman guard fully appreciated GAM’s cause as a just one (Nessen 2003). Such dissent did not always escape the attention of police commanders, whose reaction could be as severe as the arrest, search, and investigation of a soldier from BRIMOB’s 3rd Regiment, B Battalion, in East
TNI–POLRI morale and motivation
111
Jakarta for displaying an ASNLF flag in his barracks after his return from a tour of duty in Aceh (JwP 2003e; MI 2003e).7 That case’s disciplinary measures may have been a mere excuse for symbolic publicity to the wider force in a warning, but it was more likely that the targeted BRIMOB Private Tarmuji had already attracted higher scrutiny not only for his choice of interior decor, but for indiscreetly expressing “alternative” opinions about his job. Suicide and barely concealed disloyalty were major signs of Indonesian troops’ stress in Aceh, with visible and audible evidence from among POLRI ranks indicating more widespread morale conditions under the surface. Far more sensitive were cases confirming TNI–POLRI subordinates deliberately killing their commanders. Given Jakarta’s general reticence and deceit about Aceh combat casualties, it was unlikely that this potentially more volatile problem’s true scale could become public. Due to the severity of military discipline, many such killings would be clandestine, carefully chosen for factors like complicit witnesses (if any), or visibility and deniability, as when done surreptitiously in a firefight, for example. Those most sinister killings could compare closely to America’s fabled Vietnam War experience in notorious “fraggings,” the prelude to which could see fragmentation grenade retaining pins appear by an officer’s bedspace, in blunt warning that an armed (pinless) grenade would next visit him unless he embarked on some “attitude adjustment” towards his subordinates. Sporadic reports of rebellious killings in Aceh showed no concern by Indonesian troops for such precautionary courtesy towards their own superiors. Reporting only touched extreme cases of deliberate “blue-on-blue” killings, where private soldiers’ hatred, anger, or despair drove them to open murder. A conspicuous case was the 2002 Waspada story (Wsp 2002g) of a Bengkulu BRIMOB soldier in Blangpidie, Southwest Aceh, who shot dead his commanding officer with at least six rounds to the mid-section. The local precinct chief concealed the identities of those involved, vaguely (and probably prematurely) citing “stress” as the cause. Or another in early 2003, in the Sinar Harapan report (SH 2003a) of a 131 Battalion soldier who fired five rounds killing his sergeantpost commander in Matang Kuli District, North Aceh, while there was no combat at the time. In October 2003 POLRI (poldanad 2003e) did not even try to explain a BRIMOB private who shot his commander twice in the head while on guard duty at the sports stadium of Greater Aceh’s Police Training School; the murder flatly contradicted a local police spokesman’s later boast (AK 2004d) that POLRI had no such fratricidal killings during the martial law period. These open acts were not necessarily spontaneous eruptions in complete disregard for the dire legal (let alone career!) consequences to the perpetrators. Perhaps some TNI– POLRI commanders wanted these warning signs to reach wider view, and hence their occasional publicity. Notwithstanding institutional claims to obedience and loyalty nurtured in martial esprit de corps, military cultures at the lower ranks’ grass roots naturally produce strong personal bonds and self-sacrificial spirit in the solidarity, team ethos, and intense pressures of training, arbitrary discipline, and combat. The offending soldiers may have just as likely intended that their actions become as public as possible, in conspicuous warnings to TNI–POLRI
112 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation executives in particular, if not to the country’s politicians and general public “back home.”
Internecine conflict and “combat rage” Despite the presence of a deadly common enemy, and trends towards more TNI–POLRI interoperability and cooperation since 2000, interservice enmities throughout Indonesia carried over into the Aceh war itself. Greater post-2003 troop numbers and operational tempo would proportionally intensify such problems, giving further cause to withhold facts and forbid journalist investigation of such scandals on grounds of “operational sensitivity.” Chiefs and liaison officers made the usual explanations of “stress” or errant criminality to explain cases that reached public attention. But reported facts often showed more systemic causes, with whole subunits taking the initiative to launch fratricidal attacks. Of course, similar action by soldiers acting alone had more personal motives, and generally caused much less destruction. But such individual action would only be encouraged by a surrounding frequency, if not normalcy, of gang-style violence in collective TNI–POLRI criminality, especially when troops returned home from Aceh. Many Indonesian cities and towns saw cases of all-out urban combat between police and army units, including several attacks by fully armed soldiers against police stations. In East Java, for example, KOSTRAD’s 501 Airborne Infantry Battalion launched such a raid on police in September 2001. Or around Medan, late 2002, when the northern Sumatera KODAM’s strike battalion – 100 Airborne Infantry – made two armed attacks on a POLRI HQ and base after police arrested a drug dealer linked to battalion members. Both high-readiness battalions were on Aceh operations as of writing; the latter unit reformed and redeployed to Aceh from late December 2003, having rotated units in long Aceh tours just before its 2002 attacks on police. The Medan battle left at least six policemen, four civilians, and one paratrooper dead, while the paratroopers’ second raid even fired grenade launchers on the Binjai BRIMOB base summoned to help their outgunned “blue line” colleagues (LBH 2002; Wsp 2002r; Kmp 2003a).8 In the heart of the capital Jakarta too, in March 2004, TNI members of the Presidential Guard (Paspampres) itself confronted a local police station with rifles at the ready, at the same time one of their number in another incident nearby fired three pistol shots, wounding two civilians, after a street collision (Anl 2004a; Kmp 2004c; TI 2004a).9 KOSTRAD brigade commander Colonel Fransen Siahaan, on North Aceh operations in 2004, was himself hospitalized in 2000 for wounds by BRIMOB fire at the Freeport complex of Timika, Papua. Fratricidal “fragging” deaths within units were one problem, but the potentially larger-scale interservice conflict highlighted TNI–POLRI subcultures’ savagery. In their extreme form as shooting and killing each other out of mere business or more generalized institutional rivalry, military–police blood-lettings could hardly bode well for Acehnese civilians, regardless of whether they had the misfortune to be labeled “GAM” at the time. But official explanations of interservice conflict tended to mirror those
TNI–POLRI morale and motivation
113
hasty diagnoses of suicides on operations. When a marine MP officer shot dead four army troops at the Banda Aceh barracks complex in late August 2004, nonmedical spokesmen cited “depression” as the cause. The official response preempted more scandalous rumors among journalists, i.e. the enraged MP lieutenant suffered heroin withdrawal, or rage in an amphetamine rush, suggesting either his supply had hitherto come via the lower-ranked army troops for a keen profit, or they had tried exploiting his addiction as further leverage in blackmail. Of course, “rivalry” was much too polite a term for what could become open armed conflict, regularly recorded over so many years throughout Indonesia to be an uncontroversial point. Besides street shootouts, fierce internecine warfare in Aceh manifested in quasi-legal business disputes between Indonesia’s two most numerous security forces, POLRI and the TNI’s army. A senior-level example was the East Aceh case involving an army lieutenant-colonel acting as Pertamina security chief and alleging impropriety by a local POLRI chief who impounded business records. The case was rejected (Wsp 2002k). But senior officers were not exempt from the lethal threat posed by hostile members from their own, albeit differently uniformed side, as in the fatal grenade attack on the deputy POLDA chief’s house on 8 June 2001, killing one of his police guards and wounding another (SA 2001a, b). This reported attack was separate from the GAM grenade attack by different means nearly two months later at the same address (Kmp 2001e). Originating from a subculture of competing business and political interests, mutual TNI–POLRI enmity in Aceh became more obvious in internecine fighting between the lower ranks. Shootouts among TNI and POLRI noncommissioned ranks were typical, as in the fatal shooting of at least three POLRI members over the army theft of a police motorbike (DJN 2000). More bizarre and chilling were the deaths from a savage KOPASSUS–BRIMOB clash in Lhoksukon on 6 April 2002, in which a plain-clothed KOPASSUS junior commander callously shot dead two BRIMOB soldiers who had just escaped with wounds from a GAM roadside ambush. BRIMOB witnesses at a nearby post then shot dead the KOPASSUS member, Mulyono, in payback. Besides other Indonesian troop casualties in the ensuing melee, two civilian bystanders were shot dead and three wounded.10 Another interservice conflict broke out over a “territorial” dispute with a meaning quite different from its institutional usage. BRIMOB troops retaliated against a TNI unit’s timber-smuggling racket encroaching on the police troops’ part of the Medan highway (DTE 2000). Some may have been confused on this issue by unsourced claims alleging plain-clothed BRIMOB members as instigators of armed TNI–POLRI clashes, but that report’s generally pro-TNI thrust, liberal use of local TNI command and staff interlocutors, and warm praise for the TNI’s Satgas Mobil Rajawali, suggested the TNI itself as source (JIR 2001d, 2002a).11 That anti-police twist seemed strange given many conspicuously contrary cases of army aggression against police, especially in the Lhoksukon melee’s initial shootings of uniformed BRIMOB troops were identified to a characteristically plain-clothed KOPASSUS officer. Bloody incidents outside of Aceh also revealed “unit pride” and other personal motives as returning units kept waging the reprisal and interservice warfare for
114 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation which Indonesian forces were already infamous, though aggravated by prolonged active service. The spontaneous savagery of Aceh infantry operations’ instinctive teamwork was hard to shake off. A three-truck convoy of 143 Battalion, just home in Lampung, southern Sumatera, after a long tour of North Aceh’s gas facilities, attacked an entire shopping zone in March 2004, apparently in reaction to mob violence against two of its members accused of theft (MI 2004a). It seemed 143’s troops had not readjusted to the behavioral norms of less certain impunity outside of Aceh. Or in Kalimantan, after a hit-and-run bus driver killed a soldier from Pontianak-based 643 Battalion in December 2003, his comrades hunted down the perpetrator, bashed two policemen and strafed the local police HQ in a unit-level raid. 643’s troops reportedly shot three policemen, killing one, while POLRI return fire maimed a 643 officer. Like Lampung’s incident with 143, 643’s impulsive gangster-style rage flared when the unit had just started its return to West Kalimantan from Greater Aceh, after a combat tour lasting well over a year (BjmP 2003b; Kmp 2003u; MI 2003f).12 Such cases’ temporal connection to Aceh combat duty suggested that experiences there had spilt more arbitrary field justice back into Indonesian “peacetime” society. But even a new unit being raised for Aceh deployment, 9 Marine Battalion with its transferred cadre of Aceh veterans, displayed the same readiness to attack local civilians near its home base in Lampung, using bayonets to kill one and wound several others at National Independence Day celebrations in 2004. “Reportedly” was a key term when analyzing these events: local journalists depended on senior commanders for explanation and whatever details of causality and bodycount they saw fit to release in preempting grittier witness or even participant accounts. With so many cases reported to become an enduring public scandal, TNI–POLRI clashes assumed the style of ongoing “low-level civil war” or, to twist that term’s more recent and sometimes euphemistic military parlance, “operations other than civil war”.13 The issue was so sensitive that POLRI claimed in a September 2002 Suara Merdeka interview that such clashes decreased from 2001 into half their total casualties of the previous year. Human rights NGO ELSAM’s detailed list implied the opposite: almost six times that number killed for the year (larger still if counting local reports). Paralleling official concealment of Indonesian combat casualties in Aceh, Jakarta’s executives misrepresented the problem of internecine combat into positive publicity. And such statistics were not exhaustive: ELSAM missed several cases, most notably in Aceh and Ambon. Even the sparse death tallies in Indonesia’s press contradicted POLRI Chief Da’i Bachtiar’s more positive account of TNI–POLRI fratricide, with Pikiran Rakyat and Kompas aware of a higher death count from just twelve and nine cases, respectively, between 1998 and August 2002. Delicate political tensions underlay Da’i Bachtiar’s misleading comments to Suara Merdeka (see Table 4.1). After all, the TNI’s senior military police chief MAJGEN Sulaiman, among others, seemed to use the problem to justify a return to POLRI’s Soeharto-era subordination under the TNI in ABRI: any POLRI admission of the problem’s real extent could imperil police gains in status and institutional autonomy. Worse still, open POLRI politicization around this hidden warfare could provoke a wider TNI
7
TOTALS:
“3”
20
5
1 – 1 – 1 – 1 1 – – – –
POL
Killed
8
– – – 3 2 – – – – – 3 –
Civ
54
– 1 17a 7 – – 2 1 5 – 20a 1
56 “70”
TNI-POLRI
Wounded
2
– – – – – – – – – – – 2
Civ
Various Various Various ELSAM ELSAM ELSAM ELSAM ASNLF ELSAM ELSAM ELSAM ELSAM
Source
(<Suara Merdeka, 4 Sep 2002)
Ambon: 4; Sampit & Aceh: 2 ea.; Serui, Madiun, Jambi & Palu: 1 ea.
Ambon Ambon Ambon Sampit, C.Kalimantan Sampit, C.Kalimantan Kotabaru, Jambi Meulaboh, W.Aceh Banda Aceh Serui, Papua Palu, C.Sulawesi Madiun, E.Java Ambon
Location
Notes Detail amended from ELSAM list using “various” sources, including press, fixing slight deficiencies in date, unit identity, or casualty total for three incidents. Generic “TNI”/“POLRI” used where specific unit detail was unavailable. a Action included seizure of POLRI weapons.
Sources: SA 2001 a, b; SM 2002d; PR 2002; Kmp 2002b, 2003t, v; ELSAM 2004.
POLRI chief’s “52 cases”:
– 1 – 1 1 1 – – 2 1 – –
Yon Gab>BRIMOB BRIMOB>Yon Gab POLRI–Marines TNI>BRIMOB TNI>POLRI KODIM 0415>POLRI TNI>POLRI TNI>POLRI 611 Inf Bn>BRIMOB TNI>POLRI 501 Abn Inf Bn>POLRI BRIMOB>408 Inf Bn
22 Jan 24 Jan 1 Feb 27 Feb #? Mar 21 Apr 12 May 8 Jun 28 Aug 2 Sep 15 Sep 27 Dec
TNI
Relative instigation by warring parties
Low-level civil war? Reported TNI–POLRI internecine combat, 2001
Date (2001)
Table 4.1
116 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation response. Typically army-initiated, such violence was a lethal threat to the bulk of police not so organized, and much less equipped, for a more open war against TNI infantry and armor. Intra-service tension too sometimes showed in blatant criminality when individual soldiers carried home the rage and reprisal of Aceh operations. For example, KOSTRAD’s 432 Airborne Infantry Battalion rotated companies in and out of Aceh, or “back-to-back,” throughout 2002–3, apparently contributing to a family murder by one of its soldiers. 432’s Senior Private Jusman killed his wife and her unborn child in a premeditated attack: the term of pregnancy confirmed Jusman was not the biological father (KP 2003a), whereas many of the paratrooper’s colleagues at base had already done their Aceh tours before his. An apparently similar scandal afflicted BRIMOB’s 4th Company, A Battalion, in Madura, though with less fatal results. A BRIMOB soldier was charged for immorality due to an alleged affair with the wife of a comrade detached on Aceh duty from early 2002. The arrest was based on reports by the aggrieved husband’s colleagues, who kept checks on the soldier’s wife, herself formally implicated in the internal POLRI prosecution for adultery. Interestingly, several members of the BRIMOB company had managed to stay back at base while the husband went on operations in Indonesia’s fiercest combat zone, possibly revealing the cheated soldier as one of those less fortunate members specially selected for Aceh duty (Surya Online 2002). Regardless, judging from the case’s sensitivity seen in its concealment of main identities, some legal solution was at least preferable to a returned Aceh veteran sorting out the matter on his own terms.
Special treatment for whistleblowers and other “troublemakers” Other internal conflict appeared in the way senior officers selected POLRI members for “non-organic” assignment to Aceh. One POLRI expedient to help meet personnel shortages was to use the Aceh war as a convenient disciplinary tool, tasking select police members from various branches in order to keep the wider force in line. That an Aceh tour could be used as a punitive measure suggested that the job was an unwelcome prospect for many troops, especially in POLRI’s lesser-armed ranks. Generally, this issue reinforced other details of internal institutional harshness, with all its likely bloody spillover into Aceh’s civilian society. At least in some cases, this was a matter of deliberate and considered policy directly affecting those troops deployed, showing that the force morale and motivation problem was partly created even before their entry into the area of operations. Among the tasking of mixed-branch and other non-BRIMOB contingents from 2000, if not earlier, police whistleblowers were specially selected to fight and die in Aceh. Having dared to challenge or expose internal corruption, honest police found themselves sent to war in order to save their commanders at home from risks of personal or institutional scandals. One POLRI contingent from metropolitan Java, made up of over 100 police members, comprised without exception
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men whom commanders had deemed “troublesome types” with “outstanding cases” or “issues.” In June 2003 the same internal source described the case of a POLDA East Java junior detective sent to Aceh upon refusing his boss’s direction to support lucrative black-market teakwood rackets. The source added that the entire POLRI contingent sent to Aceh at that time were members who had such “cases” pending against them, sometimes with trumped-up charges and other administrative torments, as is usually the lot of whistleblowers worldwide, but with a potentially lethal twist.14 With the traumatic and possibly fatal career prospect of Aceh to offer their subordinates, POLRI commanders could exploit the war for their own interests closer to home. At least from the cynical official perspective of senior police chiefs, members denied the chance properly to uphold justice in their home postings could get the chance to do so in a combat area at the edge of the archipelago. That perverse selection of POLRI’s noncombat police for Aceh infantry tasks best explained the non-BRIMOB replacements’ consistently negligible predeployment training: on reflection, a deliberate policy of callous neglect. Similarly informal and discretionary selection criteria probably applied in many TNI cases, especially among the 4,000 troops drawn mostly from Java and Sumatera as additional babinsa territorial NCOs and as members of Aceh’s three new territorial battalions. Little detail became public, though some TNI soldiers in criminal cases made extraordinary public pleas for Aceh deployment as a substitute “punishment.” Probably as a result of the TNI subculture’s enjoyment of a generally higher status, available funds, and more severe internal discipline, it was much harder to ascertain corresponding indicators of the TNI’s use of such expedients in tasking any of their own “troublesome” personnel. Without POLRI’s at least official and public attachment to notions of due legal process and civilian values of transparency, the TNI’s treatment of whistleblowers could have been yet more brutal than that by police counterparts. And there were signs of internal brutality meted out to TNI officers in higher ranks. Indonesian Foreign Ministry (DEPLU) employee Sugito’s (2000) brief personal memoir described harshly conformist TNI culture at senior levels.15 The DEPLU bureaucrat specified the fatal result of a relative’s efforts against army criminality in East Aceh Regency, probably during the early–mid-1990s. Soni Harsono Sugito claimed that his brother, an army colonel, was shot twice in the head after trying to tackle corruption in the infantry battalion he was sent to command (probably 111 in Langsa). The late LTCOL Sugito’s brother explained that their father, BRIGGEN J. Sugito, sought clarification about his son’s death, but got no reply and was frozen out of his army job. Cold, humiliating treatment preceded Sugito’s dismissal on contrived disciplinary grounds: his office was emptied down to its light globes, and his hierarchy’s communication ceased, though he still technically served in the army. In Indonesian bureaucratic parlance, BRIGGEN Sugito was dikotakkan (placed into a box), as a pagugas (perwira tanpa tugas, officer without a task). If senior TNI officers faced potentially lethal threat in secret when challenging their institution’s practices in Aceh, lower ranks could expect at least the same with less likelihood of follow-up enquiries: utter
118 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation powerlessness would deter potential TNI private, noncommissioned, and junior officer whistleblowers in parallel predicaments to that of the late infantry colonel Sugito. In formalized administrative action and dealt with discreetly “off the record,” the “troublemakers” would be deemed “maladjusted” to the normalized corruptions and brutalities of Indonesian military culture. If daring to speak out, TNI lower ranks could hardly expect the reassurance of publicity or even posthumous subversive glory. Such cases were important when considering the resilience of TNI criminality, as well as official attempts at its concealment by disinformation and “reformist” publicity. Army Chief Ryamizard himself shed some light on the matter of “special treatment” within his organization. Since senior TNI command and staff were aware of the major sacrifice demanded of their common soldiers in Aceh, some positive encouragement was needed in demonstrations of top-down solidarity in the rank structure. To this end, the yawning socioeconomic gap between “top brass” and private soldiers got a publicized symbolic shake-up. The training regimes alone, for example, took much from TNI troops’ personal lives, whether as normal unit predeployment training or as special mobile unit preparation under KOPASSUS. Therefore, Ryamizard ordered senior-ranking TNI officers to attend separate “raider” training run from KOPASSUS’ Batujajar training center, dressed, equipped, and organized as standard “grunts” for the dirty, uncomfortable, and demanding program normally set for their troops. Instructors in such a subculturally awkward situation would remain deferential to their new and unusually esteemed trainees, and on the surface the exercise offered senior officers a chance to boost their own morale in a nostalgic get-together, while refreshing their basic soldiering skills away from the office. But the TNI’s most senior executives spent just four days on the raider program from late March 2003 to evaluate some content for later courses stretching several months. The generals heartily enjoyed the activity, with junior officers (ADCs, aides de camp) scurrying after packs, weapons, and tents on their behalf (Palagan 2003a). The unusual officer training took on a rather different mood, with some dark political overtones, when the turn came in a less genteel timetable for raider battalions’ field chiefs at lower officer levels from major to lieutenant-colonel ranks. This time there was no “evaluation process” either, except that made of the officers themselves. Ryamizard sacked two prospective raider battalion commanders during the activity in August 2003. In a “shattering” address to the group of visibly sullen and upset senior trainees, the army’s boss castigated the two officers as “rebels” who had “made protests (mendemo) against their instructors”: all language taken straight from Indonesia’s civilian political tumult featuring radical student dissidents, a TNI bête noire, if not “enemy,” in Soeharto’s time. Ryamizard’s explanation for arbitrarily firing the two battalion commanders was extraordinary, and ran against basic military protocols of respect: in normal settings a junior instructor could channel experienced field commanders’ challenges into written submissions for constructive review of the training syllabus. But in the notorious style of many generals throughout world history, the army chief instead made offhand smears against the colonels, alleging “fatigue” and some
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“mental” problem. From these facts it seemed Ryamizard had used the course as a tool to humiliate and punish, if not purge, outspoken officers. Both sacked men were certainly not shirkers or headquarters types unaware of conditions in the field. Their units, KOSTRAD’s 323 and Ujungpandang’s 700 airborne strike battalion, had in fact both seen recent Aceh combat time: the “rebellious” commanders would not have been without their own usefully informative experience as contribution to the training. In part, their Batujajar upbraiding by Ryamizard stemmed from the classic confrontation between experienced and informed field soldiers against the favored “regimental” instructor-martinet type who could faithfully recite doctrine by rote, imbued with a dogmatic faith in long-established procedure. However, Ryamizard’s ire, and his public insinuations, also suggested that the harsh treatment aimed to scapegoat some subordinates for the army’s wider morale and casualty problems, in which the Acehnese resistance continued to play the major role. On those critical issues, Ryamizard instead alleged a lack of resolve, or an army-wide malaise of “laziness and whingeing” throughout the ranks at all levels (PR 2003c; SM 2003e).16 Ryamizard’s added public insult to the injury of publicized dismissal was unfair. The context of his concern about casualties was the TNI’s thinly concealed debacle two months earlier involving troops of 712 Infantry Battalion (based Manado, North Sulawesi), who toured Aceh at the same time as the drummed-out colonels’ units. Reports of 712’s major action would have still been fresh both in their minds as well as the army chief’s, while 700’s sacked commander, as a member of 712’s KODAM formation, would have known the action’s less official and even less palatable detail. 712 took the brunt of KIA and WIA at the Matang Kumbang–Bukit Sudan fiasco against GAM’s veteran commander Darwis Djeunib (see p. 141). In that June 2003 action, 712 members operated in a joint force with marines as part of a KOPASSUS Batujajar-trained mobile strike detachment (denkul), with BRIMOB support. Their action at Matang Kumbang brought about the greatest loss of Indonesian troops in any single engagement of the 2003 campaign. But contrary to Ryamizard’s sweeping claims about halfhearted reluctance and shirking of duty, that Rajawali force’s counter-ambush against Darwis’ well-sited forces demonstrated much more aggressive spirit and “commitment” than the tactical situation warranted.
Duty of care? Health treatment for veterans, and for soldiers on active service, was one area showing whether TNI–POLRI executives had any substantial concern for their troops’ welfare and longer-term morale. All but the most psychopathic soldiers dread their own mortality, while all troops, however hardened and desensitized, could discern from their health systems whether their superiors really cared about their survival and rehabilitation. Basic welfare matters also helped measure the standards by which TNI–POLRI troops in Aceh felt any need to maintain norms of civilized conduct on duty. A widespread lack of official concern in this regard reinforced a view that the soldiers’ high degree of brutalization, amid much
120 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation institutional apathy, made troops more likely to inflict brutalities on civilians in Aceh, and even on each other. KOPASSUS appeared to lead Indonesian forces in treating post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD), but that was probably a minimal token effort commensurate with the corps’ exclusive nature, relatively high budget, and its preoccupation over “elite” status and the “best practice” of its Western counterparts (SAS, US Special Forces, GSG-9, etc.). Public references to TNI–POLRI combat trauma reflected a certain stigma or taboo within the forces’ subculture. Chief army psychologist BRIGGEN Heriyono played down the issue, claiming it was a “fitness” problem and that just one percent of troops fell into diagnosed PTSD. Heriyono’s own approach seemed to be that of denial, as he instead shifted attention from the subject onto vaguely “tactical” matters quite outside his own official and specialized field (PR 2003c). Despite Heriyono’s confidence, some battle trauma cases may have come to light only once it was too late. In August 2003 Marine Corps diver (pasukan katak, “frogman”) Ragil Puryono, just returned from an Aceh tour, fired three shots to wound two people at a North Jakarta bar, including one member of POLRI’s Intelligence Branch. A Naval Police investigation stated that Ragil suffered from stress related to his recent combat service: Ragil himself said that a woman in the bar had told him that a nearby patron was in fact a GAM district commander. That account was unlikely to satisfy POLRI in Ragil’s unsympathetic treatment at the hands of arresting police. Worse yet, senior navy sources seemed to confuse the issue of PTSD with “paranoia,” “shock,” implied cowardice, or even “drunkenness” (from one glass of beer in Ragil’s example!). Whether just a camouflaged interservice “turf squabble” or, more likely, a genuine post-trauma incident, the TNI handled the case to the overall detriment of its traumatized veterans by publicly drumming Ragil out of the service with the ignominiously conclusive assessment: “unfit for the special forces” due to his diagnosed disorder. The official damnation of Ragil hardened with the charge of “desertion,” technically correct given that he had run away after the shooting before arrest hours later outside a church (Kmp 2003m; PdgX 2003; PK 2003b; SCTV 2003k). POLRI’s culture expressed a similar stoic disregard, nay contempt, for the war’s profound psychological damage to its members. In September 2001 the police’s Psychology Bureau posted a distressed message from POLDA Aceh pleading for attention to local members’ “heavy stress” levels. The desperate appeal urged that transfer requests be granted to those of the region’s territorial members posted in from POLDAs outside of Aceh. In other words, POLDA Aceh contained a number of police who begged to get out of the province, but their pleas had simply been left unanswered. The Psychology Bureau gave no official reply to the “virtual” message-in-a-bottle either. On the contrary, the Bureau’s site posted replies up to a year later heaping scornful derision on the Aceh region member’s plea for help. One merely asked: “Did you join up to be a cry-baby cop?” Another taunted: “Who ordered you to join the police in Aceh?”, advising that he should have applied for a “Metro” posting (Jakarta), but ignoring that
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there was most likely no choice in the matter, especially if cornered by unpaid debts to superiors or other lack of internal “push” and favor. Though still anonymous, that facetious response strutted the online identity “I, who want to be in Aceh.” A later reply, from the May 2003 campaign, and claiming to be from Aceh’s capital, made the swaggering challenge: “Who’s scared?” (spers 2001a).17 If TNI–POLRI psychologists seemed callously indifferent to mental trauma, POLRI’s medics back at Jakarta HQ betrayed signs of inhumane bureaucratic apathy amid budgetary and communications hiatus. Denial of medical funds for lower ranks forced families to pay for private treatment (including surgery) upon wounded members’ return home, appalling at least one BRIMOB field commander (Kasminto 2003: 91–2). But even onerous family debt for rehabilitation was better than simply being left for dead, as happened in other cases. In November 2001 a soberly written e-mail to POLRI’s Personnel Development Office asked, from humanitarian concern, that the Police Health Directorate advise its medics on proper evacuation procedure for combat casualties. The message complained that medics in Aceh were confused and had no SOP (standard operating procedure, protap) for removing “the many operational casualties” from the field. How was it to be done, and via what means? On these more visible matters of troops hemorrhaging and dying in Aceh, there was no macho mockery or braggadocio. Indeed, it was precisely the opposite, as a desperately cynical if not traumatized writer on the POLRI site replied first, just ten days afterwards: “So now there’s no medical staff? Oh, no wonder so many are dying. How about the Red Cross or another outfit lending some help, eh?!” Curiously, the writer omitted “the TNI” as a possible (and geographically most practical) alternative for police casualty evacuation, suggesting that either the military had the same problem or rather, would impose rapacious fees on POLRI for the privilege of timely army ambulance trips. Worse still would be the prospect of cruel indignity at the less-thantender mercies of TNI medics setting lower priorities for wounded police, beside some brutal army Schadenfreude if making their bleeding police colleagues wait at the end of the “dustoff” line. But whatever the TNI’s place in the grisly crisis of handling police corpses and wounded, the situation’s urgency was not in doubt. Regardless, it took some seven months for the distress call over POLRI casualties to elicit this impassive, pedestrian reply from the Center for Police Health in baku “EYD” Indonesian, the standard “high” and polite bureaucratese: Thank you for your enquiry. Please accept our apologies as it only came to our attention on 07 May 2002. We will immediately convey your enquiry to management at Medicine & Health and the relevant sub-directorate. We will be glad to accept any further information, which may also be sent via
[email protected]. Much later still in June 2003, twenty months after the original request for responsible treatment of POLRI’s casualties on Aceh’s battlefields, a member of the Medicine and Health Directorate replied that, in time for the recent imposition of martial law, procedures and resources had been prepared for medical evacuation.
122 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation As if to reassure with an impression of soldierly solidarity borne of the same experience of horror and danger, the medical clerk signed off as “a member of the Center of Medicine and Health, ready to depart for Aceh” (spers 2001–3), though unverifiable behind the desk’s safety buffer of personal anonymity (italics added). But TNI psychologists’ cultivated denial exceeded their POLRI counterparts’ public indiscretions and indifference towards policemen’s personal health and motivation. Following the prevailing trend in TNI instigation of internecine combat with POLRI, such events in the field even contradicted proud and eager TNI self-publicity, highlighting the TNI’s political priorities in aggressive institutional dominance, distinct from the organization’s formal roles and mission. In late November 2004 senior army psychologist teams ran a paternalistic course in “internal conflict prevention and resolution” for North Aceh Regency’s civil administration. As the course entered its second day, a whole company of the army’s 111 Battalion traveled to a BRIMOB post in neighboring East Aceh to perform their own version of “internal conflict resolution,” starting a firefight that killed at least one BRIMOB soldier and wounded three others. This time TNI Chief Endriartono himself played an impromptu and rather confused military psychologist, citing “fatigue” and “stress” as the cause, along with some “misunderstanding” expected of young soldiers (puspen 2004c; Srb 2004i, j).
Deserters and defectors Conspicuous accounts spoke of a motivational crisis around Jakarta’s more basic discipline problem in simply keeping its troops on the job. Remarkably, TNI–POLRI sources themselves contributed much to press stories and a publicly accepted secret implying a rather high desertion rate in Aceh. This often expressed as a variation of the oknum phenomenon (best translated as “rogue element” in the context of its disingenuous subcultural usage in “plausible deniability”) in Indonesian press reporting, popular culture, and rumor (see Murbandono 2003, for example), as denial and apologia for forces’ systemic criminality operating beyond the letter and spirit of their own laws and procedures for military discipline, and human and property rights for civilians. As will be seen later, oknum also blurred distinctions between normal uniformed troops and those on covert operations. Besides the genuine infiltration and other covert operations of a “fake GAM” on the ground, and their purpose of deliberate confusion, an Indonesian mythology about TNI Aceh desertions went so far as to attribute the rise of GAM itself to a wayward TNI corporal-deserter in the late 1970s (PR 2003a). Confirming serious preexisting morale problems, such tales dramatized the extreme tension of a morale problem made secret, displacing common but unspeakable facts into a bizarre but politically acceptable fiction. Such antidotes to the disciplinary and motivational malaise confirmed the subcultural savagery in a circular process that reinforced discretionary and arbitrary authority, or simply “more of the same.” Meanwhile, reported arrests of wayward soldiers living
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it up would add the curious official disclaimer to emphasize that they were not members of units deployed to Aceh at the time, as in the case of two soldiers detained in a Medan disco in late 2002 (Wsp 2002q). Some accounts of defectors arose from the vast no man’s land of disinformation, political skullduggery, and expediency. For example, KOSTRAD deserter Corporal 2nd class Ibrahim Hasan escaped from custody in Jakarta after arrest for the bombing of the city’s stock exchange building in September 2000. He was later reported as captured in a firefight in North Aceh in August 2001 (PR 2001b), but evidence against Ibrahim appeared scant. A very tenuous connection made between Ibrahim and powerful networks of Tommy Soeharto suggested a deliberate effort to implicate GAM in a seemingly endless saga of organized crime and government corruption on a monumental scale, the infamy of which probably exceeded any wider Indonesian public concerns about Acehnese separatism. The army chief himself, then GEN Tyasno Sudarto, alluded to involvement in the bombing by a KOPASSUS senior NCO, wounded during a shoot-out with Bandung police, along with KOSTRAD’s Corporal Ibrahim (Kmp 2000e, f). Another issue to cast doubt on the findings was torture, including the police’s blindfolding and kicking of detained suspects to extract confessions (TI 2001). Desertion charges were brought in 2003 against at least five POLRI members in Aceh (three officers and two senior NCOs), including a deputy chief of Southeast Aceh Precinct, a police sector chief in Southwest Aceh, and a chief detective of Pidie Precinct. These were not cases of the more trifling charge of “absence without leave (AWOL),” which POLRI defined to within 30 days of failing to report for duty. Those cases were really “siege desertion,” because the five senior local police had left their official duties for periods totaling between one and two years, yet were all quickly brought before court at the same time in a planned crackdown. Most remarkable was that the charges took so long to be laid at all, and that they included some quite senior commissioned officers (PtkP 2003b; Srb 2003ab). Troop numbers mattered, because desertion by more numerous and mortally vulnerable junior members could be reasonably expected to total much higher. Characteristically for the TNI, little detail became public about their own desertion cases, one of which saw a conviction, around the same time as the above POLRI hearings, against a senior territorial NCO: Master Sergeant Irianto in Pidie Regency’s KODIM apparatus. The strange case saw Irianto sentenced to only three months in prison. The military tribunal’s verdict backed the astonishing mitigation to the charges by stressing that the offence “took place in peacetime” (Wsp 2003q). The judges’ rosy view of the Aceh war can be best understood as a measure of the broad discretionary powers available to a military justice system and culture, perhaps in any state. Thus would the Indonesian Army Legal Corps make its own considered and esteemed contribution to force morale and public perceptions by reinforcing the doctrinal fictions interpreting actual war to mean “peace,” and in a regency that constituted the very command center, heart, and historical core of popular Acehnese armed struggle.
124 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation If the military’s typically very harsh sentencing provisions were applied in a strict, consistent, and honest manner, a firm deterrent example would make sense in the sentencing of Irianto. After all, the TNI had a reputation for brutal internal discipline, by which subordinates could be savagely beaten for a petty mistake in a barracks office, for example. Predictably omitted from the account of Irianto’s desertion proceedings were less formal deliberations over his fate. NCOs like him were precisely the type of personally compromised recruits for more sinister, high-risk, and plain-clothed “special military” (milsus) operations in which assassination and other terror could be carried out behind a protective barrier of selfmotivated secrecy and plausible deniability. Although a harsh sentence could reassure troops who faithfully stayed on duty with all the associated risk and suffering, probably all but the “greenest” TNI soldiers understood their force’s internal culture and their commanders’ and lawyers’ discretionary powers. In a tight maze of institutional coercion, and more expendable than ever, compromised soldiers like Irianto had nowhere else to go.18 Desertions had obviously more damaging effects in cases where TNI–POLRI members actually defected to fight for their former enemies in the GAM resistance. The problem was serious enough to elicit comment in 2001 by then KOSTRAD Chief Ryamizard to the effect that defectors be shot out of hand, i.e. ignoring due legal process, or “shoot first, don’t ask questions later” (Srb 2001f). That decree appeared to be followed to the time of writing when, in a February 2004 house raid in Pidie, and probably acting on an interrogation tip-off, a unit from West Java shot dead 45-year-old army KORAMIL deserter-cum-allegedGAM member Zainuddin. For propriety, the official record claimed troops fired “disabling” shots to stop Zainuddin’s escape, but made no effort to conceal the fact of close-range headshots. Strangely for an alleged military defector, Zainuddin’s corpse left only a cellular phone and notebook at the scene (poldanad 2004), hinting that all deserters in Aceh were now to be regarded as defectors too. Patrolling troops so informed in orders would probably never find out anything different, especially in light of Ryamizard’s imprimatur to take no prisoners when confronting such “traitors.” Official detail suggested total TNI–POLRI Aceh-related desertions may have exceeded 1,000 per year by 2004. Former Dili-based 744 Battalion in West Timor convicted 16 of its soldiers in absentia for desertion shortly after the unit’s deployment to western Aceh in late 2003 (LIN 2003e). There was no reason why 744 should have been exceptional: its “Red and White” loyalties were proven over two decades in East Timor operations, keeping strong associations with militia remnants after East Timor’s independence. But desertion was a potential crisis if 744’s example only typified the forces’ more likely higher pre-embarkation shirking of combat duty. Unless troops sought to transfer their services to GAM as defectors, absconding before deployment was the deserter’s only sensible choice: he needed an environment better suited to evasion, anonymity, and survival than Aceh’s operational area could conceivably offer. By mid-2004, army prosecutors listed just 24 cases of higher-risk desertions within the area of operations (AK 2004e), but actual total cases were probably higher for those unlisted
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desertions processed for summary execution on junior officers’ initiative in line with Ryamizard’s more convenient extrajudicial decree. An Indonesian reference to defectors (Kmp 2003h) cited several ex-TNI– POLRI soldiers in Bireuen Regency fighting for GAM forces under pugnacious Darwis Djeunib, who had established for himself a high military reputation among Indonesian and GAM troops alike. Two committed defectors among them had deliberately volunteered for the Indonesian forces in order to get “inside” training before taking their place in GAM. One was an ethnically mixed (Acehnese–Javanese) youth who deliberately joined POLRI as a volunteer for POLDA Aceh’s own (organic) BRIMOB unit. After just six months’ service, he feigned illness while his comrades went to Friday prayers at the mosque, then crammed over a dozen of their issue assault rifles into a pack before heading inland on a unit trail bike to the nearest GAM base. The bold and valuable weapon theft brought the defector instant acclaim from his new colleagues: “queue-jumping” GAM recruits were normally only required to seize one weapon to be instantly admitted to the guerrillas.19 Another defector operating in East Aceh, Fauzi, apparently with GAM’s Ishak Daud, led a large company-level attack on a TNI post in 2002 (poldanad 2002a). From GAM came detail of five Acehnese TNI members who defected from 100 Battalion after the notorious Binjai Incident described above, when troops attacked one local police HQ and a nearby BRIMOB base. That defection appeared to arise from some counterproductive “damage control” publicity by TNI Chief Endriartono, who insinuated the mayhem’s cause as mischief by ethnic Acehnese paratroopers with a belatedly alleged record of dubious enlistment documentation. Rather than wait for the Military Police investigators to conveniently label them as “GAM infiltrators,” the five soldiers took into their preferred GAM unit at home a total of 12 rifles and 3,000 rounds of ammunition.20 Another such individual defection through ethnic loyalty was the Acehnese “Ayah Kodim,” killed in action in February 2004. Ayah Kodim had defected from his North Aceh territorial base a couple of years earlier with four M-16s and a similarly large quantity of ammunition. Understandably in the morale environment, desertions were usually anonymous and less explicit. A December 2002 POLRI report (poldanad 2002c) seemed either oblivious or tactful, but obvious to the reader, when East Aceh villagers handed in a soldier’s personal field kit they claimed to have found on a nearby beach. The equipment included patrol webbing and six magazines with ammunition, but without its most valuable matching item, i.e. an SS-1 assault rifle. The recovery’s location meant it very likely that the deserter sold his issue weapon to GAM or fishermen in exchange for a one-way boat trip to Malaysia. Others thought it wiser to realize their fate with Aceh’s literally “organic” forces in a sure line of work they already knew. An equally strong motive was escape from onerous long-term debt to the service hierarchy, especially for some Muslim soldiers educated against the sins of usury. Some decisions may have been conscientious, others more from calculations of personal survival, or preference for freedom from worries over where and when GAM would strike next, and
126 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation whether sitting at the reo truck’s rear was better for its quick exit, or worse for being more likely to catch the first GAM rounds fired into the passing convoy. If most infantry soldiers detest anything more than combat danger and chaos, it is the continuous fear of the unseen and the unexpected threat.
Morale up: operational distractions Soldiers, their families, and Indonesia’s public knew well enough that prolonged operational stress and a relatively “free hand” in Aceh could only worsen criminality and other chaotic behavior among the soldiers. Pressures came not only from facing GAM ambushes and attacks (and their memory), but also from the forces’ savage role among Aceh’s traumatized civilians who could seem, at best, indifferent to their occupiers’ welfare. Internecine hostility and mercenary competition could even intrude on troops’ “quiet time” or routine boredom in static guard duties, while harsh and arbitrary hierarchical discipline overlay all. By mid2003, in a campaign larger and more publicized than the 1975 Seroja invasion of East Timor, service chiefs, their retired comrades, and the state civil bureaucracy responded to the general concerns. In Jakarta prominent citizens including presidential candidate GEN (ret’d) Wiranto organized special blue-ribbon fund-raising events for unspecified relief donations to refugee programs and deployed Indonesian soldiers (SCTV 2003j). Serving command and staff in Aceh adopted a similar publicized approach, but different in that money was not so much to be collected, but rather spent on events hosted within the province itself. Aceh’s martial law regime arranged lavish entertainment to briefly compensate Indonesian troops for their higher operational tempo and its greater risks to their own physical and mental health. Of the country’s leading artists hired for the morale-raising exercise, perhaps the most prestigious was the unique virtuoso band Dewa (formerly Dewa 19), covered genres from metal to soft pop, and its own style of “alternative” popular music, all at least as innovative and good as overseas’ exponents. But as Dewa keyboard player–vocalist Ahmad Dhani told the press, the tours were primarily for the TNI and POLRI (Kmp 2003r; SCTV 2003n), regardless of the shows’ novelty for remote Aceh’s civilians, and troops accordingly had priority access to the venues. Sometimes these entertainment treats touched raw cultural nerves central to Jakarta’s information war and volatile politics. An early dilemma arose when it was mooted that event organizers sought top-billed artist Inul Daratista to appease the typical TNI–POLRI taste, if not mania, for the highly erotic dangdut chanteuse and her famous pelvis-gyrating stage act.21 It turned out that they could not get Inul to join the tours, apparently citing conservative Acehnese Muslim propriety. However, any such decision was at least as likely due to strategic and ideological bickering over a loud domestic Indonesian minority hostile to the phenomenal dangdut star’s Lopez-ian sensuality, which threatened scandal if deployed to a province just recently brought under the yoke of a straight-laced Indonesian take on medieval-era religious modesty in syariah. Acknowledged or
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not, puritan reaction in metropolitan Java was a critical factor. The strongest lobby in that regard came from the army’s barracks and training heartland of western Java’s Sundanese, Banten, and Betawi areas, home to the bulk of Laskar Jihad, FPI, Hizbullah and other romantically robed “holy warrior” groups, along with their own local agitation for drastic syariah codes.22 Elsewhere, Inul’s presence in Aceh would have been generally viewed with pragmatic acceptance by more middle class “moderate” Muslims, and even some bemused parochial pride by the devout NU stronghold of East Java, Inul’s home province. But faced with a drawn-out campaign against her by prominent (mostly male) puritans, especially in metropolitan western Java, Inul already had security concerns of her own. Whether or not she and her management assessed it for themselves from Indonesia’s notorious reputation for mischievous political “scenarios” and intrigue, any attack against her in Aceh would have been a neat pretext for popularizing the war among Indonesia’s more secular-oriented citizens and Inul fans, not to mention in the remote perceptions of many foreigners. A news article in early 2003 seemed to prepare such perception management as two vexatious men, purportedly Acehnese and identified only as “Bukhari” and “Abdullah” (almost generic names for Acehnese men), took time out from pressing local matters of war, death-squad murders, hunger, refugee crises, and regular intrusive surveillance and interrogation, to denounce “Inul sensuality” to Jakarta news magazine Gatra. From this dubious source material, the Jakarta press agency loudly claimed: “Acehnese Citizens Criticize Inul.” The published Indonesian response to the article (Gatra.com 2003) predictably enough heaped scorn on the mythical Acehnese killjoy-critics, as some demanded that Acehnese pay attention to their own “bigger problem”: not the war, but local cannabis production! It was likely many Acehnese would have much preferred a visit by Inul Daratista to those made repeatedly by senior TNI brass Ryamizard and Endriartono, in which there was no “song” except belligerent and threatening monotone speeches, and no goyang dangdut dance in place of photo-opportunity posturing while dressed in field uniform and webbing, as if for infantry combat. In any case, the Inul–Aceh connection did eventually appear in Indonesia’s press in time for the mid-2003 campaign and its strenuously patriotic all-things-Aceh focus, albeit via a new-born Acehnese baby elephant being named after the starlet during her suitably publicized tour visiting exotic fauna at West Java’s Bogor Safari Park. The tours unwittingly exposed other cultural dissonance between the reality of Indonesia’s sexual and gender politics and the ultra-conservative ambitions of martial law and syariah. Transgender (waria) comic and talented falsetto singer Dorce Gamalama, another controversial celebrity (also a long-term East Java resident), and no stranger herself to salacious innuendo and brazen challenge to repressive sexual mores, did make the Holistic Operation trip. Caricatures of “staunchly Islamic Aceh” met a blunt contradiction in Dorce’s popularity with civilians in the capital Banda Aceh, when local crowds demanded to see the star in the opening celebrity motorcade (Srb 2003an).23 Unlike the other prominent entertainers in the visiting party, Dorce kept behind tinted glass, apparently on the
128 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation military government’s direction. From her spontaneously positive and popular Acehnese reception as a waria, it seemed Dorce’s humor, and charity in donating to orphans, had more local credibility as an example of Indonesian good works than did any of the Holistic Operation’s avowedly humanitarian aid, and muchadvertised Islamist campaign for Indonesian syariah piety. The nature and scale of these staged entertainments were unprecedented for the Indonesian military. Clearly the TNI’s senior command and staff took their cue from the Australian Defence Force’s public relations after its 1999 East Timor deployment: established pop idol and sex symbol Yuni Shara’s role and local status were equivalent to those of Kylie Minogue in the Dili Christmas concert. Also echoing their Australian precedent, the events served a triple purpose in helping to fight the information war. Most obviously, the high-profile Aceh shows could improve Indonesian troop morale by demonstrating senior command’s concern for their soldiers’ personal welfare via a rare and expensive leisure. However, this was a trivial short-term fix for the troops themselves, because the moraleraising effort was so brief: the emphasis was on being seen to try caring for the troops’ own hearts and minds. Secondly, the concerts intended to demonstrate repeated assertions that the 2003 Holistic Operation had brought adequate levels of security and thereby high public esteem and success: the latter notions symbolically embodied by famous pop stars. That claim to security was actually dubious, further insinuating a false official view defining GAM as a terrorist group given to attacking such events if the chance arose (see pp. 222–4). Unmentioned was the high probability that the shows ended up playing to some young covert GAM cadres and supporters in the military-dominated audience, especially where agents fitted the term “white collar GAM” (GAM berdasi), already infiltrated into pro-government political organizations and paramilitary youth groups. To a great extent in lieu of a serious welfare system for soldiers, these highprofile events revealed conflicting priorities in a wide gulf between practical personnel management and TNI–POLRI political imperatives, reflecting the wide socioeconomic gap (kesenjangan sosial-ekonomi) both in the forces’ ranks and Indonesian society generally. As functioning institutions, Indonesian forces in Aceh held together thanks mostly to a combination of arbitrary discipline, coercion, and unofficial inducement and opportunity in graft and plunder. As allies in the fight to maintain Indonesia’s centralist state, many TNI and POLRI units in Aceh only held together at all in pragmatic, but informal and grudging truce, itself broken by frequent violations. Formal processes of trials, bureaucratic obligations (rules of engagement, senior commanders’ promises, etc.), and official salaries, entitlements, promotions, or medals were minor, though symbolically necessary, accompaniment to the TNI–POLRI routine. The pop concerts existed in that symbolic world, crossing far into the “information battlespace.” Besides stamping onto the public a self-congratulatory and elitist impression of an Indonesian process of winning the war, the celebrity tours’ publicity had a subtler third purpose. The concerts played to broader sensibilities of political identity, displaying national unity with the armed forces
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through a shared Indonesian popular culture, and force solidarity in a veneer covering embryonic civil war. Having verged on (some may say confirmed) pariah status from the chaotic violence around Soeharto’s resignation, East Timor’s 1999 break, highly publicized Papua murders, inter-religious Maluku mayhem, and regular fratricide, the military and police could try seeming “in touch” and “cool” to Indonesia’s younger generation: a large potential source of favorable public opinion and, more importantly, future troop replacements.
5
Bodycount Jakarta’s own dead
Don’t make news of something that doesn’t accord with reality while we’re raising spirits to boost our troops’ performance. News like that could demoralize the troops. GEN Endriartono Sutarto, TNI chief, 27 May 2003 (Kmp 2003d) How could there possibly be TNI dead there? We always admit when there are, and don’t need to conceal it. MAJ Zaenal Mutaqqin, TNI press liaison, refuting GAM report, 9 June 2002 (SP 2002a)
Any who doubted that Jakarta’s generals literally needed new blood for their war would find emphatic confirmation from careful and thorough check of Jakarta’s public casualty records and statements. Viewed in isolation, most cursory official Indonesian casualty figures for Aceh showed a steady but manageable bloodletting on their side, but various detailed sources contradicted the standard official line of a moderate Indonesian mortality rate incurred trying to defeat GAM. Despite TNI and POLRI press liaison officers’ severe filtering and modifying of information for release, facts slipped through to show Indonesian forces’ vulnerability in Aceh, and in so doing backed many of GAM’s own claims to significant and ongoing tactical success, and the resistance’s long-term operational viability. The typically arcane sources’ disturbing details also helped explain the fragility of Indonesian force morale and discipline, and the concurrent record of atrocity and other callousness towards Acehnese civilians. Several observers of the East Timor war long recorded anecdotal claims of a high rate of covered-up Indonesian casualties, even after FALINTIL’s short-lived international radio links were tenuous, very limited, and targeted for shutdown at both their local control and Australian-based outstation ends. The internet age, despite its own new risks and problems, afforded GAM a certain advantage in this regard over its earlier DOM incarnation and its still earlier East Timorese counterparts. Electronic records were available to the point of “virtual” redundancy, becoming widely accessible. Yet the best sources to compromise facts of Indonesian troop losses came from those forces’ own information organs. Nonetheless, in a
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victory for official censorship and deception, such scale and detail of the Aceh war’s savagery generally failed to attain any mainstream coverage in both Indonesian and overseas journalism. Anecdote repeated accusations that Jakarta’s forces regularly exaggerated claims of GAM dead by counting unarmed civilians, sometimes including GAM members’ relatives, in the war’s bodycounts. Underreporting of Indonesian casualties would be a necessary counterpoint to such distortion. That more defensive process became routine perception management intended primarily to prevent any adverse affect on the moral commitment to the war, both by Indonesia’s civilians and the troops themselves, while denying recognition of GAM as a formidable military force in its own right. As an instinctive prevention against public disdain, TNI–POLRI executives’ concealment of their war dead also conveniently shielded reputations and political ambitions.
The Jakarta generals’ zeal to conceal Isolated and unintentional betrayal of individual Indonesian combat casualties confirmed an otherwise strict regime of censorship and falsification via the country’s press. But upon checks made from 1999, publicly released collective bodycounts did not add up. The scale of the deception was first apparent in POLRI’s own internal records from 2002, presented to their own members in a coy design to prevent a potential disaster in the forms of public opposition to the war, and epidemic desertion stemming from fragile own-force morale. Close analysis of an eight-page Indonesian police document, against separate isolated releases to the local press, revealed serious numerical anomalies and proportional trends. The extraordinary POLRI document was a Rosetta Stone fragment essential to reconstructing the extent of actual Indonesian troop losses in Aceh, and decoding Jakarta’s generally routine official deceptions on the subject. In a 19-month period over 2000–1, the internal Aceh Police Region (POLDA Aceh) document conceded 120 locally posted police deaths on duty in Aceh: a modest sum on the surface. On the official web site used by POLRI’s Personnel Branch, an early link to the document brazenly claimed to list “POLRI deaths in Aceh for 2000–2001 [sic]”, in a half-truth with even greater statistical significance. Extra check of the dead policemen’s service/regimental numbers (Nomor Register Pokok, NRP) confirmed their organic-territorial status (and nearly all non-BRIMOB), exclusive from POLRI’s majority of nonlocal units attached in direct support under local command (bawah kendali operasi, BKO), i.e. nonorganic troops (spers 2003a). The revelation betrayed several aspects of an official cover-up of POLRI’s losses in Aceh, marking as certain the far greater bloodshed among the actual combat soldiers of the police’s BRIMOB infantry and their army, marine and air force special forces comrades. The POLRI Personnel Branch document’s (spers 2001b) other important anomalies needed consideration when assessing total officially conceded Indonesian casualties against actual personnel losses.1 At their most challenging, TNI–POLRI press releases about Aceh losses ranged from very selective and cryptic in
132 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead 2000–1, to outright censorious and false by 2003. An April 2000 public statement fell far short of the POLRI territorial list, in the study’s earliest confirmation of Jakarta’s own-force bodycounts as falsehoods. One part of the release actually confirms that BRIMOB indeed comprised the bulk of POLRI deaths, thus verifying as disingenuous the incomplete figures from the above-mentioned official POLRI casualty list abbreviated in Figure 5.1: the nation’s police chief himself admitted that BRIMOB troops made up POLRI’s largest share of casualties (SP 2000).2 Another aspect apparent from the April 2000 release was the extent of TNI fatalities, still roughly equaling total POLRI dead for the period (56 TNI–64 POLRI), despite POLRI’s official role during this early period of Gus Dur’s presidency as the first line of contact with separatist guerrillas. This was hardly surprising given the TNI’s at least equal (though usually higher) deployed numbers. The challenge of that April 2000 release was its time span. As done in several such public statements about Indonesian troop losses, the totals were cited disingenuously as if for the entire duration of Aceh operations up until that date. Such public Indonesian statements combined with press and GAM reports to reconstruct the probable scale of Indonesian troop fatalities in Aceh operations. The apparent earlier falsification over TNI–POLRI Aceh deaths preceded similar statements in 2001. Regional chief of the police OPSLIHKAM (Security Restoration Operation) BRIGGEN Ramli Darwis told Indonesian journalists in 2002 that the total of POLRI’s Aceh fatalities the entire previous year reached 64 dead. Ramli made the claim to back up his assertion of improved security and a reduced Indonesian casualty rate (Wsp 2002b).3 Yet based on the official internal document from POLDA Aceh’s Personnel Branch, as well as separate and isolated Indonesian press reports (directly citing POLRI or TNI officers), the said total police deaths had already been exceeded by mid-May, and then mostly from just within that minor “blue line” portion of POLRI’s personnel there, i.e. the organic police.4 Keeping in mind the sporadic and incomplete quality of the press reports of non-organic deaths, the “64” bodycount was certainly reached several months earlier, possibly as soon as February 2001. As Figure 5.1 shows, the public record merely sampled non-organic (external BRIMOB–UPS) fatalities, including a token five non-organic killed-in-action (KIA) for 2001. Once again, the recorded organic-territorial police deaths, themselves by no means confirmed as complete, speak volumes for an otherwise invisible carnage implied by the statistical absence of non-organic fatalities. It must be reemphasized here that, by POLRI’s own admission, these latter non-organic police formed the majority of POLRI’s deployed personnel in the province, and bore the lion’s share of combat risk. Furthermore, the sample of non-organic POLRI KIA was obviously not exhaustive given the disproportionately high multiple KIA from single actions. The minimal non-organic samples covered several multiple deaths from single actions, whereas the majority of actual KIA were single deaths from GAM harassment and sniping (guerrilla “hit and run”), and brief meeting engagements on patrol, in proportions similar to those depicted for POLRI’s organic KIA for the period. Less circumspect releases to the press hinted at the proportional share of organic and non-organic POLRI casualties. For 12 March–12 April 2001,
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– Tally Jan 2000 Feb Mar Apr May Jun Jul Aug Sep Oct Nov Dec Jan 2001 Feb Mar Apr May Jun Jul Aug Sep
1 25 08
2 27 09
3 04 13
05 08 28 04 07 17 25 01
10 19
20 01 07 22 02 01 13 05 01 08 01 07 14 02 03 01 05 19 10
4 20
5 22
14
7
8
21 30
28
20 21
05
26
22 19 25
19 25
9
10
11
12
13
31 25
28
13 06 10 18 28 02
12 31 29 29 03 19 13
15 04 08 19 02 03 08 05 24 16
6
14
12 10 22 09 05 14 07 26
13 11 15 09
17 07
02 26 10 03 15 25
31 13 24
16
16 14 15 26 27 28
22 12 23 18 15 16 11
03
29
21 25 29
17 28 29
24 20 31 12
28
05
14
(+22)
31
20
(c) Schulze / IO 12 Mar-12 Apr 24 31 ?
15 15
16
19
20
28
29 15
19 9
Category of POLRI dead (X = day of month) Via sampled news reports, Via sampled news reports, Via POLDA Aceh report, admitted organic-territorial non-organic, non-Aceh additional territorial BRIMOB & UPS* & KAMRA* (a) X (b) X (b) X X
1998–2003: TNI–POLRI summary 50 TREND PROJECTION: TNI & POLRI WEEKLY ACEH KIA RATES 45 * Timeline TNI & POLRI all POLRI: all 'organic'-territorial POLDA NOT TO SCALE 40 POLRI: all non-POLDA / 'non-organic' Resistance detail (max) TNI all 35 PROJ Projection on FORCE RATIO only Officially admitted totals (all TNI & POLRI) 30 Resistance detail (min) 25 Schulze PROJ Projections citing 20 by force AND COL Syarifuddin IO Aspinall ? combat role Tippe (Serambi) 15 & Crouch ratios citing HDC 10 POLDA PROJ ? ? 5 Aceh PROJ 0 18 May 31 Aug 99 Feb 00 12 Mar 01 Aug 01 Jan?/Sep? 1998
18 Oct 99
12 Apr 01
Dec 02
03 18 Aug 03
Figure 5.1 TNI–POLRI underreported Aceh troop deaths and their extrapolation.
134 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead Indonesian Observer (25 April 2001, see EWC 2004a) quoted POLDA Aceh’s spokesman Dido Widayadi conceding 36 POLRI killed, with a near-equal TNI toll at 33: a sum of over two Indonesian troops killed per day. That sample figure of just POLRI KIA nearly tripled POLDA Aceh’s official organic bodycount list (see Figures 5.1 and 5.2) for that single one-month span: hardly unexpected given other 2000–1 samples. However, the recorded causes of death even cast serious doubt on that ratio as conservative. With five organic police “ill, died normally” in that brief period, the ratio could have been as low as one-fifth organic to nonorganic POLRI KIA. The vague official record of those five other deaths (“ill, died normally”) more likely indicated late reporting and death from unhealed wounds, backed by POLRI’s own contemporary indications of inadequate medical treatment and chaotic or nonexistent casualty evacuation in the area of operations. At first POLRI may have seemed extraordinarily lax or incompetent to release details of its organic Aceh deaths for that period. The isolated leak may make more sense for its likely intended political effect, i.e. depicting ordinary line police as GAM’s unlawfully targeted victims. Strict legal interpretations of these facts could thus present GAM as a force essentially opposed to civilized norms of law and order.5 The argument collapses when examining the nature of POLRI’s territorial duties in Aceh. Jakarta had officially defined GAM as a criminal organization, so the fight in Aceh was waged as a shared responsibility by all TNI and POLRI personnel. Whether in the traffic, detective, or intelligence branches, for example, “noncombat” police roles hardly existed in practice, because all police had formal duties to detect, kill, or capture GAM members. Although organic police did not necessarily take part in the patrol and point security tasks of their BRIMOB colleagues, some of them often did. With BKO BRIMOB infantry in greater numbers throughout posts in lower POLSEK jurisdictions, organic police typically co-located with BRIMOB (and TNI) infantry, and locally based POLRI territorial commanders sometimes led BRIMOB and joint-force patrols in operations. While most local territorial POLRI were at least notionally base personnel, the war left no front line to recognize the distinction: POLRI’s “thin blue line” wove intricately into the wider fabric of BRIMOB gray and TNI jungle camouflage. But POLRI’s legal predicament was clear even without its operational peculiarities. By officially branding GAM members as criminals instead of enemy combatants, Jakarta effectively ensured that police in Aceh became, for practical intents and purposes, legitimate military targets. The problem compounded with international legal and diplomatic positions: if GAM could not be recognized as an “army of national liberation…fighting against colonial domination and alien occupation” (as it claimed), and the Geneva Conventions Protocol II of 1977 were not applied, then POLRI would engage in warfare of potentially the most vicious kind, i.e. undefined and unacknowledged in law.6 Officers’ statements to Indonesia’s press from 1999 to 2001 showed the respective TNI and POLRI war dead to be roughly equal (only slightly higher POLRI fatalities). Such proportions invited skepticism because of the TNI’s higher troop numbers over police in Aceh (especially from late 2000), and the TNI’s combat
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role against POLRI’s ostensible main law enforcement duty. From 2001, when the TNI deployed a much higher proportion of troops compared to their POLRI counterparts, it can be reasonably concluded from casualty figures that combat service in Aceh was more dangerous for Indonesian police members than for those from the army, marines, and air force. Another possible explanation was manipulation of the statistics for a period when POLRI had titular Aceh command responsibility, which brought its own political friction as TNI commanders claimed POLRI was not suited to the task. For POLRI in this period, service primacy must have seemed dubious compensation for their losses, as the more numerous TNI forces in Aceh were hardly disposed towards subordinate status even if it was mere lip-service to government policy. The picture becomes intriguing with assembled sample detail of Indonesia’s Aceh fatalities set against other official TNI–POLRI casualty statistics over a period of several years. Figure 5.1 extrapolates from publicly released Indonesian forces’ casualty statistics for the war from August 1998 to November 2003. The inconsistencies in official figures are striking, not least so from the earliest sample for 31 August–18 October 1999, where then KOREM 012 Chief COL Syarifuddin Tippe conceded a TNI death rate of nearly two per day, without mentioning POLRI’s deaths (Srb 1999l). What must be remembered from that time was Aceh’s operational environment: not an intensification of patrols or deployments, but an actual withdrawal by TNI and POLRI back to their base facilities and vital asset protection tasks, along with reduced deployments to the province. Both army and police were in defensive “hedgehog” mode in anticipation of a GAM show of force via raids around the resistance’s 4 December anniversary. Jakarta news magazine Forum Keadilan (FK 1999e), for example, reported the troops’ withdrawal to their bases and their guardedness, warning that the “prospect of war was looming,” i.e. not actually underway. It was supposed to be just the lull before the storm. The atmosphere in Aceh was one of confident and relatively free expression by vast masses of civilians (reaching seven figures), heartened by East Timor’s successful passage of an independence referendum. Indeed the mood and guarded military defensiveness may be compared with East Timor in late 1998 upon the announcement that an independence referendum would be held the following year. To be sure, GAM did not desist from making its own violent, uncompromising expressions to Jakarta’s rule, encouraged too by foreign developments two time zones away to the east. But this was essentially a political phase of the war, as GAM’s leadership eventually welcomed and cautiously joined the groundswell of agitation for a political solution in referendum. Why did Syarifuddin open up on the TNI casualties in late 1999, so uncharacteristically for a senior TNI commander in a sensitive area (in fact, the most sensitive given East Timor’s recent exit)? His statement’s overriding local context was a province that had just witnessed a demonstration of mass activism with up to 2 million of Aceh’s residents flocking to the capital to demand an independence referendum, easily rivaling anything seen from Jakarta’s students. Another important part of the explanation were the surrounding facts of political turbulence at
136 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead REPORTED TNI-POLRI FATALITIES First 3 Months 'Holistic Operation' 2003
35
59 TNI-POLRI publicly admitted detail 364 GAM/TNA minimum claimed detail 424 GAM/TNA maximum claimed detail
30 25 20 15 10 5
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01
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REPORTED CIVILIAN FATALITIES First 3 Months, 'Holistic Operation' 2003
120 110
862 773 63 78 914 1,003
100 90 80 70 60
Killed by TNI-POLRI (max. claimed detail in resistance reports) Killed by TNI-POLRI (min. claimed detail in resistance reports) Killed by GAM/TNA (claimed / assessed in POLRI reports) 'UNIDENTIFIED' perpetrators (POLRI reports) TOTAL (min. reported detail) TOTAL (max. reported detail)
50 40 30 20 10
MAY
01
01
01
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JULY
18
AUGUST
Figure 5.2 Aggregates of detailed local reporting: TNI–POLRI and civilian deaths, May–August 2003.
that time, not only in East Timor, but in Jakarta itself, and metropolitan Java in general. The transition from Habibie’s short-lived presidency to Abdurrahman Wahid underwent an inordinate delay of several months even though polling had finished well beforehand. Predictable rumors of coup d’etat and/or mass unrest
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surrounded the installation of Gus Dur’s presidency and its governing multiparty coalition. A mixture of panic and reaction greeted the news of East Timor’s break, including some feverish claims that Indonesian sovereignty had been violated, extending in their extreme to calls for war with the UN-sanctioned deployment sent to restore order (with Jakarta’s consent under eventual US pressure). GEN Wiranto, overseer of the TNI’s “scorched-earth exit strategy” in East Timor, was increasingly perceived as a potential coup-plotter, while the military demanded a “state of military emergency” for Aceh as just earlier granted it in East Timor. New President Gus Dur resisted those calls, wary of military ambitions amid yet another possible TNI-led local and international scandal at a time when the East Timor aftermath had barely begun to resolve itself, while Aceh daily told of similar mayhem from plain-clothed provocateurs and hit-squads. In these circumstances, Syarifuddin’s frankness about TNI fatalities appears very politically motivated in agitating for a transfer to Aceh of the extraordinary TNI powers granted it in East Timor, and to help face off the ascension to the country’s highest office by one of their old arch-critics known to challenge the forces’ interventionist and other political powers. That the much higher-than-usual TNI own-force bodycount figure was a politically selective release was confirmed from an earlier and starkly contradictory statement by the same official source. Previously the KOREM chief himself admitted to just 12, then 13 TNI dead (with 12 for POLRI) for a slightly longer period covering the same dates (Srb 1999i, j). Other official death counts for 1999 gave 57 POLRI and 50 TNI, or 48 POLRI and 43 TNI: about the same ratio and totals for public admissions over the next two years (TNIWatch! 2000; Wsp 2000). Syarifuddin’s exceptional statement baldly contradicted those, posing another disturbing question from the rule of minimized Indonesian death statistics for Aceh, i.e. whether the TNI and POLRI concealed the facts from the National Government, or at least major parts thereof, and from its many elected representatives throughout the state. Since Indonesia’s public received only those same accounts of total Aceh troops losses, it is fitting to wonder whether that same information went to the elected representatives of Jakarta’s DPR and MPR (loose equivalents to lower and upper houses). Given POLRI’s misleading internal link and document listing its 2000–1 own-force bodycount, that organization’s executives seemed not above misrepresenting unpleasant facts to their own subordinates. Why would civilian politicians be regarded any more deserving of the brutal facts? On balance, especially in light of Syarifuddin Tippe’s politically loaded late 1999 statement, it is reasonable to assess that at least a major part of the government was told the same false, public casualty figures. Serious deficiencies in less official sources were also apparent from these early stages of the study. Similar to problems in reporting the scale of civilian casualties in 2003, NGO statistics for Indonesian combat casualties also reflected a chronic underreporting. This was for quite different reasons than the case with official figures: the NGOs had major communications problems, not least of which was a wide distrust and reluctance among the population to give details for fear of antagonizing Indonesian authorities and, in lesser applicable cases, the GAM forces. Furthermore, Indonesian forces’ distrust and targeting of NGOs
138 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead there meant that these sources would hardly dare risk the dangers posed by openly disputing official versions of the battle records, and thereby be seen as effectively publicizing GAM’s battle successes. One example of such NGO underreporting was in the first three months of the negotiated “humanitarian pause,” or Indonesia–GAM ceasefire, from May 2000. Forum Peduli HAM Aceh claimed that a total of just 14 Indonesian troops had been killed in the period. As can be seen from records abbreviated in Figure 5.1, POLRI sources revealed a bare minimum total of 27 police dead on duty for that three-month period starting at the negotiated pause on 12 May 2000. Over half of the dead were “organic” POLDA, with just four days of sampled reports covering the non-organic POLRI dead in the three-month window. Adding a correspondingly limited death rate for TNI troops that year, the total Indonesian dead reaches a minimum of around 50: nearly quadruple the NGO’s figure. But that is a very cautious extrapolation, keeping in mind that the non-organic POLRI KIA of Figure 5.1 were only a sample from available press reports. Based on a reasonable comparison with force ratios, total Indonesian KIA would calculate to a minimum of 100 dead just for that brief period of official, albeit limited, truce. These details are important for studies about the effect from the negotiated “pauses,” and must alter the findings of one study’s claim of “noticeable decline in violence” based on the NGO’s record (Kontras 2000d; EWC 2003). Some reexamination was warranted not just for Indonesian casualties in general, but for general claims of major reduction in combat around that time of truce. In 2000, the Ramadhan fasting month too brought no apparent drop in combat deaths: the toll stayed high after Ramadhan’s 27 November start.7 During June 2000–April 2001, the TNI officially conceded just 50 of its troops KIA (EWC 2004a), but the incomplete samples of Figure 5.1 confirm police dead to at least 124 for the same time span. The TNI distorted the casualty situation after the second “humanitarian pause” from September 2000, though for different reasons, even underreporting their KIA while accusing GAM of truce violations.8 Another contradiction of official TNI–POLRI Aceh losses arose from the Henry Dunant Center (HDC) observers monitoring ceasefire negotiations. According to an East-West Center (EWC 2003) paper, HDC noted an average of 45 TNI–POLRI troops killed per month to the December 2002 truce. That revelation alone contradicted the standard official averages of 120 per year. EWC also cited Koran Tempo apparently claiming “75 Indonesian soldiers were killed” for an entire year to mid-2002. Although HDC and Tempo figures were cited together, the EWC writers avoided making the connection more explicit, i.e. HDC’s figures far exceeded the Tempo attribution around that period.9 The disparity in those casualty rates was significant: comparative monthly averages of as low as six against 45. But doubtful too was whether HDC observers could ascertain the full scale of combat casualties, if at all. Suspicion towards the foreign peace brokers, especially from the TNI, and open loyalist militia harassment of visiting HDC delegations, all suggested that the HDC themselves may not have become fully privy to TNI–POLRI information about actions occurring throughout the province.
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Indonesian casualties: views from “the other side of the hill” Each foot of ground must be held with drops of blood GEN Soedirman, spiritual father of the Indonesian Army (pussenif 1995: 30) Curiously, the above-cited HDC statistics may have exceeded those for the same (late 2002) period from GAM itself. Nonetheless, in challenging official Indonesian KIA statistics, GAM’s own considerable local, very detailed and public records deserved serious consideration. Many press and international NGO observers would often be either oblivious to, or casually dismissive of, GAM’s public combat records.10 Of course, there could be no presumption of impartial honesty or accuracy in GAM’s incident reports either, but the scale of disparity between these two primary sources, i.e. the combatants themselves, should have at least prompted thorough analysis. For example, Map 5.1 shows GAM’s chronicle for North Aceh Regency from 1 March to 7 May 2002, claiming total engagements and nearly 300 TNI–POLRI troops killed in GAM attacks. Figure 5.2 shows GAM’s detailed KIA claims for the active phase in 2003, when TNI interdiction caused some disarray in ASNLF communications. However, even if resistance claims are assumed to be optimistic exaggeration on their part, official Indonesian statistics’ anomalies confirmed significantly higher casualty figures than official TNI public statements reflected before analysis. In many cases the weight of available public records favored GAM claims of TNI–POLRI casualty rates over nearly all separate, unanalyzed admissions by Indonesian forces themselves. GAM’s claimed TNI–POLRI casualties in North Aceh for that period in 2002 came from a total of just 97 after-action reports, but their bodycount claim mostly comprised multiple deaths from single actions. That imbalance hinted at GAM’s internal reporting deficiencies: an underreporting similar to statistics of Acehnese civilian deaths in 2003, and probably earlier too. It was no surprise that Acehnese resistance channels failed to report many actions causing casualties among their enemy (and their own side): valuable resources would need to be sacrificed if GAM hoped to make a more thorough reporting effort. In several cases, details of their claimed enemy KIA came from confirmation via Puspen TNI (TNI Information Center). One obvious reason for these deficiencies was the transitory situation of GAM units and their networks of couriers, agents, and other covert and clandestine communications links. Another equally important and related factor was simple priority. If eluding TNI–POLRI patrols, as often during Indonesian active and offensive phases, GAM units would be preoccupied with defensive and surveillance tasks. GAM units had little time to make reports from encounter battles or sentries and standing patrols hastily returned to the main force when “bumped” by Indonesian fighting or recon patrols. Another impediment to GAM reporting by mid-2003 was the concerted assault on its electronic and human communications networks. But above all, GAM was primarily a fighting force of relatively autonomous nodes of guerrilla strength, with strong local tactical intelligence capabilities. It was not properly structured to collect and disseminate
140 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead 2 Muara Batu Dewantara
Bireuen
6
2 Lhok Samudera 1 Seumawe Muara Banda Tanah Pasir Dua Sakti 4 4 1 1 Syamtalira Aron Blang Mangat
Nisam
7
2
Kuta Makmur
22
3
Baktiya 2
Meurah Mulia
Tanah Luas
Lhok Sukon
Matang Kuli
1 12
1
59
13
Lhok Samudera Seumawe
Muara Banda Dua Sakti 14 Blang Mangat
Tanah Jambo Aye
East Aceh
Central Aceh
5 Muara Batu Dewantara
15
3
8
Syamtalira Bayu
Sawang
Seunuddon
18
5 Sawang
6
Tanah Pasir
Seunuddon
2 Baktiya
12
10
9
Syamtalira Aron
8
17
Nisam Kuta Makmur
14
6
32
Meurah Mulia
Syamtalira Bayu Tanah Luas
67
Lhok Sukon
Tanah Jambo Aye
Matang Kuli
Map 5.1 North Aceh combat, 3 March–7 May 2002: GAM public reports of firefights and claimed Indonesian KIA.
intelligence information to the outside world. Although the ASNLF and its armed wing energetically used wider human intelligence networks, such assets were appendages tasked where possible, important but not intrinsic to their own local mission. Moreover, useful though such external assets were, they strained enough
Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead
141
in trying to cover atrocities against civilians: a potentially scandalous issue in international politics and, more subjectively, from GAM reporters’ own exasperated perspective. It was no coincidence that generally higher troop concentrations in North Aceh, Bireuen, and Pidie showed the most frequent combat in operational priorities of both Indonesian and Acehnese resistance forces. In the sample period March–early May 2002, North Aceh Regency experienced the most frequent violence, with both sides’ reports of armed clashes there exceeding similar activity in other regencies, and GAM’s doing so in detail on a near-daily basis. The most striking point to note in comparing the two sides’ reports was the generally disciplined vetting of details revealing own losses. Attention to local and international public perceptions partly explained the selectivity, but the disparity between Indonesian reported and apparently severe actual loss of life indicated concerns for own-force morale, if not also some manipulation of records to maintain dead troops’ pay or save on compensation funds. At least in North Aceh Regency, attrition of conventional infantry combat continued to characterize the war, threatening troop and civilian morale in both sides’ respective infowar efforts. The above description touches on some of the generalities and “big-picture” statistical issues of GAM reporting. However, prolonged analysis of separate reported combat confirmed that GAM itself generally underreported due to a lack of resources. Moreover, sporadic and opportunity sniping was almost absent in GAM reports, although its contribution to total TNI–POLRI casualties would have been considerable. Opposing forces’ starkly divergent claims over TNI–POLRI KIA continued into the 2003 campaign, but thanks to Puspen TNI’s “information operations,” both sides’ textual versions of events sometimes allowed detailed comparison. An Acehnese resistance periodical merely repeated the losses conceded on the TNI’s PDMD web site, but noted some striking inconsistencies in official figures released to different local press sources. Rampagoë identified whole gaps in the Indonesian reporting of own-force casualties: three months for POLRI, and over seven weeks for the TNI (Rampagoë 2003).11 Disparities in claimed TNI KIA showed in specific cases, such as the 19 June Cot Kruet (Baktiya District, North Aceh) engagement, where TNI press liaison conceded two soldiers KIA, while GAM claimed to have killed 19 (ASNLF 2003h; puspen 2003g). Yet both TNI and GAM sources cited ten GAM guerrillas killed from that action. A clearer example of the contrasting records came earlier in the large and protracted 9 June 2003 company-level battle at Matang Kumbang–Bukit Sudan, Peusangan District, Bireuen Regency. Puspen TNI’s briefings and press releases were typical of the traditional one-sided “combat” view of the war, evoking romantic and otherwise old-fashioned imagery to concede the engagement’s TNI losses. The battle’s reported dynamics smacked of American films of the “Pork Chop/Hamburger Hill” war genre well-known to the Indonesian middle class and broader TV-viewing public, wherein strong-willed, heroic soldiers forced their way against the odds up slippery gradients of between 45 and 70 degree steepness, under fire from well-sited enemy defensive positions. The first Indonesian post-engagement reports (largely dependent on Puspen TNI) unremarkably gave three Indonesian KIA. Strangely this later altered to seven, then eight after one
142 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead of the BRIMOB soldiers died in hospital of wounds. The adjusted bodycount appeared to come from a check of all corpses unable to be returned from the scene. The combined force of Rajawali’s Strike Detachment I withdrew from the area after firefights lasting from the afternoon of 9 June into the next morning. Based on army accounts, the casualty evacuation needed around two extra companies drawn from Strike Detachment II, non-organic territorials from 301 Battalion (probably D Company), and Jakarta-based BRIMOB Gegana police. GAM’s tactic at Matang Kumbang was not of the usual hit-and-run, at least for the time being: after initial convoy ambush, the strong Acehnese guerrilla force held its tactically dominant positions in the style of conventional infantry in fixed area defense. The TNI’s mobile force could not evacuate or retrieve all of its dead as the action continued. GAM could have risked a clearing patrol to capture weapons and ammunition, and search TNI dead for identification. In the tense stand-off they did not, knowing better than to relinquish the great advantage afforded by the terrain. Instead, GAM harassed the TNI–BRIMOB troops sent in to a very dangerous evacuation. Read together, all Indonesian reports of the action indicated that GAM had pinned down the TNI mobile force beyond the patrol’s “point” and tactical HQ group. Early Indonesian admissions of just three TNI dead changed lest GAM later demoralize their enemy by specifying just whose corpses still lay at Matang Kumbang’s steep and bloodied jungle slopes and reentrants. TNI confusion over its total dead also showed that their forces had been out of communication amid the bloody turmoil. Meanwhile, according to GAM’s record, some 23 other Indonesian dead had been spirited away for disposal, both as physical evidence and as records for historical posterity (ASNLF 2003f; Kmp 2003e; mabesad 2003a; MI 2003a; RP 2003c; SCTV 2003e; Tempo 2003d).12 As if to emphasize the defeat, an entirely separate force of KOSTRAD and BRIMOB (Strike Detachment II and North Sumatera BRIMOB) went in a few days later seeking the GAM company in that area. For that second push on Darwis Djeunib’s force, GAM strength was reckoned at around 100 guerrillas: up from the early 40, then 60, in the previous patrol there. This time however, TNI press liaison claimed not to know of any casualties (sripo 2003a). Many reports of individual incidents were publicly available for analysis of the 2003 campaign’s contradictory casualty figures. Comparison of ASNLF reports with public TNI–POLRI records for this period showed many, if not most, officially conceded Indonesian KIA conspicuously absent in GAM reports. Such officially acknowledged TNI–POLRI combat deaths found no match in GAM’s regular news, and the ASNLF leadership did not cover for this to make up for their communications deficiencies. Besides GAM’s own internal limitations, many KIA Indonesian soldiers’ location prohibited the information from reaching GAM’s concentrated and better equipped main force units stretching along the vital northern coast from Greater Aceh–East Aceh regencies. Central, southeastern, and southern regencies, in particular, reported relatively few detailed GAM claims of TNI–POLRI casualties, whereas Indonesian forces themselves admitted to several specific cases that would have otherwise gone unnoticed by this study, if not also by GAM’s own commanders.
Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead
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A foreigner’s direct eyewitness account supported the conclusion that TNI–POLRI casualties in the field were not only minimized in Jakarta’s reporting, but from GAM’s own reporting at that time. GAM’s reason for this deficiency was a practical problem in getting and processing detail from the field into records for dissemination to the Acehnese Diaspora and the wider world. In his time with one GAM company in North Aceh Regency, US journalist Billy Nessen noted a total 50 TNI–POLRI dead just for that company’s local district in the campaign’s first month. GAM’s local structure set four districts in the Pasee (North Aceh) area, suggesting a total as high as 200 Indonesian troops killed in the regency for the month. Nessen’s account was based on his own observation and discussions, to which he was privy, between four GAM company commanders within the one local district.13 The trend of deception via minimized casualty figures spiked upwards for mid-2003, when GAM was already fully mobilized in advance of the sensationalized and militarily unnecessary parachute and amphibious landings of extra troops, and the more frequent but mundane insertions by landing ships at Aceh’s main ports. By Jakarta’s own albeit self-justifying admissions, GAM was far better armed in 2003 than it had been in 1999. Yet official own-force bodycounts were very low for an operation of such intensity, size, and scope, perhaps the main prompt for the International Crisis Group (ICG 2003a) to accept as confirmed fact that Jakarta’s generals were underreporting their side’s losses. Another earlier indicator, apparently informing ICG’s assessment, came via Human Rights Watch (HRW 2001: 5) in a mid-May 2001 interview with a Banda Aceh nurse who explained that Indonesia forces’ discreet corpse evacuation exceeded combat deaths reported in the press. The official total bodycount of dead Indonesian troops, TNI and POLRI, was also slightly higher than its version for previous years: 88 dead after six months starting 19 May 2003 (TI 2003c). That official 2003 Holistic Operation six-month total precisely matched Syarifuddin Tippe’s 1999 figure for TNI killed, for a period of just seven weeks, in smaller deployments, and with much-reduced operational tempo under a largely static and nonaggressive mission. But by late 2003 none of it seemed to matter to the TNI–POLRI brass anymore, as the six-month figures differed between Indonesian sources: the TNI claiming both services’ dead at 88; POLRI showing just over 100; and a separate martial law government site, i.e. under formal TNI control, listing the same slightly higher bodycount as POLRI. The TNI and police’s macabre bodycount fantasy had degenerated into cruel farce against their dead soldiers’ memory. Whereas previous honor rolls tried placing the dead into their respective units and general area of occurrence, the newer method was far more frugal, confusing details of actual human identity. Beyond the usual clerical typing errors at the campaign’s start, names of the dead now became a jumble of consonants, as if SOP (standard operating procedure). Names and ranks appearing previously missed out in the “updated” release for the six-month mark. Regimental service numbers were often scrambled too, if not falling out of the record altogether: often these troops’ “ghosts” could not even claim to be “numbers” in the normal military-bureaucratic
144 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead substitution for a human self (pdmd 2003d). Upon their demise, the institutionally disposable TNI–POLRI troops took on a more generic form in text to reflect the harsh physical reality of brutalized lives sometimes treated hardly better than their enemies and victims. In these organizations noted for their simultaneously fierce competition in political and commercial ambition, many of the dead’s former comrades and superiors would regard those deaths as natural selection’s removal of failures, or “double-losers” in an economic and professional race. Based on an all-source public domain analysis, the trend from May 2003 rose to around twice the previous casualty rates, though continually minimized further still by official public releases listing POLRI casualties as a far smaller proportion to those borne by the TNI, which itself now listed around five percent of its own war dead. From a logical extrapolation of available statistics adjusted for force ratios and combat function, Indonesia’s military and police Aceh war dead during 1999–2002 projected to an average of around two whole normal-strength battalions’ worth of soldiers per year, or up to 1,200–1,300 troops.14 The roughly doubled projection for the 2003 campaign set around the same number reasonably presumed dead after just six months. These projections were conservative too, especially for the TNI, which was only buffered by its greater post-2001 use of body armor and Kevlar helmets. On these matters Jakarta could take some heart from its infowar achievement, because corresponding GAM bodycount efforts simply failed to keep up.
Body armor, Kevlar helmets, and blood How come all you guys sit on your helmet? “Chef” the machinist (Apocalypse Now 1979) Surrounding all analysis of Indonesian casualties (and GAM’s) was the straightforward factor of “force multipliers,” in which military doctrine nearly always demands that an attacker holds a calculated superiority over the defender at any point of actual contact seeking decisive tactical victory. As a general rule, the TNI and POLRI needed force ratios of at least three to one, and up to ten to one, depending on terrain, technology and other force multipliers, to overcome the local defender’s natural advantage, notwithstanding TNI Chief Endriartono’s comments to the contrary (KR 2003a). The Indonesian forces (especially the TNI) used all available means to reduce this disparity of risk by raising their own force multipliers via heavy weapons, armor, close air support, wider issue of protective vests, Kevlar helmets, night vision equipment, and the use of counterintelligence networks to seek out GAM members, their families, and associates within the populace. But all this must be weighed against GAM’s own “force multipliers”: terrain favoring the local guerrilla forces by its concealment and local knowledge, and intelligence networks within the population. Worse for the Indonesian troops, GAM did not operate by quite the same conventional measures of military success. The ambush, raid, or sniping attack would typically be made with no aim of annihilating the targeted enemy force or seizing and holding its
Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead
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ground. “Hit and run” remained the Acehnese resistance’s defining guerrilla quality, which few conventional force multipliers could affect. GAM itself was not above making loose calculations about enemy bodycounts, and the guerrillas’ combat-oriented mentality rarely put distance from the heat of the action when assessing and proclaiming its own efficiency at killing. In such a state did GAM’s central command spokesman Sofyan Dawood make an early bellicose statement (ASNLF 2003c) claiming an average GAM bodycount of 150 Indonesian troops each day, reaching a total of over 600 KIA for the operation’s first six days [sic]. On the surface, Sofyan’s boast seemed more a spontaneous war cry issued out of a provoked anger, initially dismissed by this writer as indignant hyperbolic optimism to meet the unprecedented Indonesian assault, whether as a deliberate ploy or from a rushed and distracted misreading of GAM’s own information. On further consideration, however, it appears most likely that GAM had not yet adjusted to the TNI’s far greater use of personal body armor and concern for attrition warfare. Whereas previously GAM could expect up to one-third of their enemy’s casualties to actually die if hit in a successful ambush, for example, the more recent prevalence of TNI flak vests may have reduced such losses to less than one-fifth of hitherto projected KIA and WIA (wounded in action). This meant GAM members seeing many of their targets fall upon being hit, just as in 1999, but with the advent of near-compulsory TNI body armor for static troops by 2003, many of those same “fallen” targets would later return to the fray. This relatively new development in Aceh was an altogether more sobering matter for GAM, despite repeated confirmation that Indonesian forces were suffering far worse bloodshed than their press liaison organs were allowed to admit. The new trend became apparent from another later GAM report sourced to within Sigli General Hospital, Pidie Regency, one month into the active phase of 2003. With no heading or other style to draw special attention to its contradiction of Jakarta’s perception management, the report cited a total 220 dead and 1,050 wounded Indonesian troops evacuated there for martial law’s first month. Those TNI–POLRI casualty ratios apparently went unexamined by GAM: the guerrilla force’s central Pidie command was probably far too busy with its own threatened tactical area of responsibility. That Pidie report of 100 TNI and 120 POLRI local combat deaths in one month reflected earlier ratios of nearly equal total deaths between the services (ASNLF 2003k), and closely paralleled Nessen’s recollections from North Aceh. Conspicuously different in the unofficial 2003 Pidie reference was the uneven ratio of TNI and POLRI wounded, which reversed the KIA ratio: around 550 TNI wounded compared with 500 of their wounded POLRI colleagues. Those statistics indicated higher TNI survivability through wider issue of body armor. True, some police troops too obtained the protective vests and Kevlar helmets, such as those within BRIMOB’s Gegana elite, but examined footage and unit presence revealed that to have been a minority of POLRI’s deployment. An asymmetrically higher total of TNI wounded reflected their superior ballistic protection, reducing the incidence of death and wounding in shots to the head and torso, but overall
146 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead increasing the ratio of WIA against KIA.15 This service inequality arose from the TNI’s earlier self-funded purchases of the equipment (Kingsbury 2003: 191 fn. 7), reflecting the TNI’s institutional strength over POLRI’s relative pauper status. A more difficult equation was extrapolating the survival odds between TNI and POLRI troops in Aceh. For one thing, Pidie Regency, containing GAM’s central command, may not have been the most representative sample area (neighboring Bireuen Regency in the campaign’s first month was a charnel house by comparison). Another problem was confirming the actual nature of combat in Pidie at that time: was it truly representative of the wider action, or were POLRI units simply more vulnerable there? Such specific assessment needed comprehensive and rigorous examination taking the time and internal source material not available for this study. But considering TNI–POLRI force ratios with their greater proportion of TNI troops than ever before, including in Pidie itself, the early Sigli hospital source showed at least twice the short-term probability of death for Indonesian police in Aceh over their TNI colleagues. That apparently higher risk to non-organic BRIMOB troops would explain their generally shorter tours of duty compared to TNI units: six months against TNI battalions’ 12 or even 15 months. The Pidie hospital report was only a local record of action in that regency, because the Indonesians’ casualty clearing stations in Aceh worked on the regency level based around pre-2002 administrative boundaries (more closely matching the TNI’s territorial KODIM boundaries). This was not done out of mere bureaucratic tunnel vision or pedantry, but due to existing hospital infrastructure, and normal administrative and financial responsibilities requiring units to keep their wounded members “on the books” until a decision to either ship home or return to unit after successful healing and rehabilitation.16 Public statements from the very same hospital supported GAM’s inside information. The hospital’s director, Taufik Mahdi, worked on an assessed need of up to 1,250 blood bag units per week, or 5,000 per month, in June 2003. Compare the incongruous official casualty claim for Pidie in the same reference for the same period: just one TNI death (LIN 2003c).17 Based on these figures, the higher operational tempo and risk, and previous trends, the total Indonesian wounded must have been much higher than the admitted 52 for the entire province after the operation’s first month (MI 2003d). Furthermore, blood satchels would not always be needed to treat those suffering gunshot wounds except with severe bleeding: cheaper saline solution could often suffice. Note also that common Indonesian practice with civilians was for accompanying family members to donate compatible blood for their injured relatives (GAM and NGO activists repeatedly detailed the same procedure in Aceh). East Timor precedents from the early 1980s revealed the hospitals’ higher priority reserved for Indonesian soldiers, as well as their commanders’ preference for “motor vehicle accident” to explain their injuries (Budiardjo 1984: 115–6). Pidie Regency was not without its high rate of civilian casualties, though a ratio of 17 to 1 civilian to TNI did not correlate with detailed reporting, even when counting for a high proportion of civilian wounded either refusing or unable to go to hospital.
Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead
147
In some bad news for TNI soldiers and junior officers, body armor would not necessarily mean less risk of death or wounding during a tour in Aceh, even though the troops would be mad or perhaps suicidal if choosing to not use it when they could. Besides, in many highly mobile patrol tasks of the Satgas Mobil Rajawali and their raider battalion successors, type-IV flak vests were totally unsuited to such missions in the area of operations. Such troops would leave their body armor at base, sometimes going “clean skin” (even without webbing) in order to lend units greater stealth, or more personal stamina and agility with less noise. Body armor’s impracticality in some jobs was a trouble, but the troops’ main problem from its greater use (and of Kevlar helmets instead of bush hats) was that it meant more work and could add more personal risk over time. The real beneficiaries of protective equipment were the aggressively competitive operationallevel commanders and their very success-dependent executive seniors. To them, armor was to enhance offensive capability, not to preserve life and limb as an end in itself. Senior TNI command and staff echelons’ professional ideology viewed the war as an industrial process applying rational efficiencies to the military concept of long-term attrition: the TNI–POLRI recourse to regular publicized bodycounts confirmed that brutal perspective. Just as early factory and office automation were wrongly mooted as ways to increase human leisure and learning time, armored protection throughout history merely forced adjustments and even escalation in the workplace of warfare. Added personal protection could substantially improve individual soldiers’ lot in peacekeeping, normal policing work, and low-level defensive roles. But upon Jakarta’s aggressive, and rarely defensive, military policy for Aceh by 2003, body armor’s benefits would simply leave more troops disposed for more patrols, with higher cumulative exposure to enemy fire and roadside bombs. Put another way, if units depleted at a slower rate in each separate firefight, those units would be available for more frequent combat tasks from battalion- and brigade-level headquarters. As if to underscore the TNI infantry’s ambivalent predicament, some Indonesian TV and photojournalist footage from 2002 inadvertently revealed cannier TNI “grunts” wearing flak vests underneath their field uniform. This was clearly not for reasons of comfort, fashion, or ergonomic practicality in Aceh’s equatorial heat and humidity: it was to prevent GAM ambush patrols and snipers from choosing to fire headshots.
Official euphemism beyond the grave The nature of Indonesian fatalities was rendered ambiguous by command’s and staff’s greater reference to noncombat causes. The contrary case of a Central Java BRIMOB soldier’s reported suicide-turned-heroic battlefield sacrifice in the press was not surprising, possibly a sign of some compassion for the soldier’s family and/or their social standing (see p. 109). However, POLRI command distorted far more numerous causes of death in the opposite direction. POLDA Aceh vaguely obscured the causes of deaths in its 2000–1 list of organic losses, citing a normal illness without specific ailments or time frames for hospitalization. Road accidents made up a separate and much smaller category. The term “ill/died
148 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead normally” (sakit/meninggal biasa) covered up to 40 per cent of POLDA Aceh’s “organic” dead, implying either some mystery epidemic or extraordinarily poor physical health among police ranks (spers 2001b). It is more plausible to assess that such a high rate of death by “illness” covered the many police members who died of wounds in, or even en route, regency hospitals. Some “road accidents” were questionable too, especially in the combat zone. A check of press reports showed that one listed death from a head-on traffic accident on 7 August 2000 was in fact a “hit and run” killing by an unidentified local truck driver against an Indonesian soldier on a motorbike. Perhaps Indonesian police could stoically accept that a “normal death” in Aceh typically involved high-velocity bullets or explosives. But whatever their own gullibility, cynicism, or other regard for their superiors’ public claims, POLRI rank-and-file were in no position to question the official version, let alone stir a scandal. On the other hand, the personal motives for cover-up may have had less to do with Jakarta’s lofty and defensive infowar ambitions in the matter of its own casualties. They could have just as easily arisen from discretion by senior command and staff in a much more mundane bureaucratic concern to delay and minimize next-of-kin compensation costs for combat deaths. If POLRI suffered immediate loss of life and the associated training costs “written off” for its dead members, why snowball those costs with compensation by strictly acknowledging causality? Given that the 2000–1 Aceh Region report circulated internally for other police members, surviving family members could hardly be better off trying to disprove the official record of their relative’s death. If facts were changed to minimize compensation payments, POLRI would not have monopolized the practice: TNI reports of their troops’ deaths in 2003 had an unusually high proportion of “noncombat” drowning deaths, albeit during combat. More brazen was the statistical anomaly of an internal postoperation report (classified “secret”!) by 312 Battalion from Subang, West Java (kosektor 2004), claiming just four own troops wounded and none killed in its one-year tour to February 2004:18 prosecution of a teenager confirmed at least one 312 soldier KIA in a grenade attack (Gatra 2003a; puspen 2003e; SM 2003a; AK 2004c). Death by poisoning was inconsistently concealed. Madurese Private 2nd class Ahmad Sahruddin’s death listed officially as a “malaria” case (pdmd 2003a). Typically, Ahmad’s unit identity was unclear, with both 501 and 502 parachute battalions in his brief obituaries, and his official “noncombat” death contrasted with “shot while pursuing GAM” (SCTV 2003i). Yet the soldier’s battalion commander himself described how Ahmad died shortly after drinking from a poisoned well. In Ahmad’s case, it appeared that the alleged poisoned well was either GAM’s own scorched earth tactic, or a lingering effect from the TNI’s earlier expulsion of civilians from the village. The former seemed highly improbable, because GAM would be denying the most basic subsistence commodity both to itself and its local civilian support base, with near-negligible tactical value in the remote area. After all, TNI troops had forcibly evacuated the villagers in order “to separate GAM from the civilian populace,” so rendering these high-priority patrol areas unlivable would help achieve the Indonesian commanders’ aim (RP 2003d;
Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead
149
Tempo 2003f). The very nature of such primitive “area denial” was a matter too sensitive and criminal for wide briefing to TNI troops, thus causing accidental fratricidal death which demanded attribution of well-poisoning to GAM. This is not to suggest that the Acehnese resistance was above using such a vicious tactic against its enemies. Another soldier from the same unit reportedly died from poisoned coffee given by an Acehnese civilian. GAM itself reported such a death from bottled drink left out by a hostile civilian for patrolling TNI infantry in Pidie Regency in 2002. The poisoning was obvious, though not explicitly stated as such by GAM, who preferred to bring about and publicize those of their enemies’ departures from direct fire.
Soldiers and officers “gone AWOL” from death reports The cover-up and manipulation of Indonesian deaths in Aceh can be established as a matter of official record. The extent of actual casualty rates and totals can be logically projected in a process of informed discourse. A closer examination of named individual casualties shows the problematic nature of TNI–POLRI suppression of such a human or universally sensitive issue. It may be said that in attempting to obviate the unpleasant results of GAM’s armed power and its threat (and thereby help annihilate the very idea of GAM’s existence as a political challenge), TNI–POLRI press liaison officers diminished their organizations’ political credibility, including from within. A disciplined bureaucrat’s militaristic and somewhat ascetic self-denial was one thing. A more general and persistent attitude of denial regarding fundamental facts of individual mortality could seriously affect the denier’s own confidence, faculties of reason, and social life. While there was no public data on these other of the war’s effects, it seemed that Indonesian forces’ psychologists had another problem, further to PTSD from combat, and one covering far more senior TNI–POLRI officers as their subjects. Not that commissioned officers were spared the risk of anonymous death in Aceh, though their ranks were mostly junior subunit commanders. At the start of the mid-2003 campaign, GAM claimed five TNI platoon commanders in just four hours of combat in the Peusangan “peace zone” (Zona Damai) in Bireuen Regency (ASNLF 2003b), though Jakarta’s sources revealed nothing of this. A later more detailed GAM account described a similarly “anonymous” combat death of a BRIMOB captain, in six hours of harassment by GAM’s Ranggo 21 unit against a joint TNI–BRIMOB force in Teupin Raya, Pidie Regency. Besides beatings and arbitrary arrests of some 30 nearby civilians, the Indonesian force meted out reprisal in the form of forced Red and White flag-raising to symbolize “ground taken,” and hung at half-mast to honor their dead and company commander (ASNLF 2003i). Conveniently combined with the widespread compulsory hoisting of Indonesian flags in the province, that action may explain as a half-truth the earlier statement by a TNI spokesman that Jakarta’s “openness” about its KIA in Aceh was “proved by flags at half-mast every time a soldier was killed” (Tempo 2001e). The grave danger to Indonesian officers could not be so easily concealed in those attacks against more prominent commanders and officials. A mid-2001
150 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead GAM roadside ambush in Julok District, northern East Aceh Regency, began with the explosion of a remote-controlled bomb laid in a tree, causing casualties among troops riding in the armored trucks escorting the local leadership delegation comprising the regent himself with the KODIM and POLRES commanders. Despite the presence of several armored vehicles and many troops in the convoy, the leadership delegation was lucky to escape alive (Srb 2001e). Just over a year later in Bireuen, another more successful GAM attack on a higher-level delegation with Governor Puteh took the North Aceh police precinct commander out of action with severe trauma from gunshot to the head. The very senior officials were also lucky to survive, though there was little mention about casualties among the numerous lower-ranked guard escort (Rpk 2002b; Srb 2002g). For the 2000–3 period, publicly admitted detail in press reports recorded the deaths of eleven KORAMIL and ten police sector commanders (danramil, kapolsek) from GAM action: up to eight per cent of all subdistrict commanders.19 That significant total killed among Indonesia’s territorial leadership (nearly all officers) was from a category with lower exposure in the field, proportionally far fewer than those commanders deployed in field units. For the same period, Indonesian press reported around one dozen corresponding deaths from the numerically far larger pool of officers in TNI–POLRI combat units, including just one from the consistently high number of non-organic police: BRIMOB’s 1LT Surojo in Pidie on 26 October 2000. The territorial officers’ identities would be better known to GAM due to their regular closeness to the civilian population and thus, harder to conceal when killed. But these were not members of combat units in the field, whose relatively anonymous deaths in Aceh still kept the larger picture from general view, revealing class distinctions as no guarantee against officers’ disappearance from public memory upon physical death. Other deaths among junior officers brought some poorly controlled TNI statements to the Indonesian press, revealing efforts to reduce reports of individual TNI–POLRI troops KIA. Names and unit identities often appeared in samples of the Indonesian press’ own near-forensic public records of combat, when the information came at all (usually relayed from prepared official statements). Perhaps best illustrating this was the case of 327 Infantry Battalion from West Java, which began its last Aceh tour in April 2002, before its 2004 tour newly designated as “300 Raider.” In a speech to the unit on its departure from the province in April 2003, then TNI deputy commander of non-organic deployed forces (KOOPS), Bambang Darmono, almost boasted when claiming the battalion had had just one soldier killed during its one-year tour of duty. However, Indonesian press reports and TNI releases showed strange statistical discrepancies over 327 Battalion’s casualties, calling into serious question Bambang’s claim. Speaking to press at the end of his tour in GAM’s stronghold of Pidie Regency, 327 Battalion’s commander cited “Private 2nd Class Agussalem” as KIA (Srb 2003h). But other reports showed a “Private 2nd Class Ahmad Salim Jainata” KIA at the very start of 327’s tour (Srb 2002f). Though of the same basic rank, the two names were definitely not the same, and lent no hint of a nickname confusing the different quotes. The fate of one 327 officer, a “Captain Heri,” may also explain the unit’s
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casualties. GAM claimed to have shot dead an officer, “1st Lieutenant Hery,” at 9am on 10 April 2003, as the 327 patrol attacked a GAM base in the resistance’s Sakti District stronghold. In the story’s immediate follow-up, Indonesian journalists confirmed GAM’s claim via the local KODIM commander himself (SH 2003c), though press liaison officer MAJ Edi Fernandi later refuted that any casualties were taken there, denied any incident occurring in the area (Tempo 2003a), adding another denial that 327 “had any officer by that name” (JwP 2003a).20 Certainly, records confirmed a “1st Lieutenant Heri” with 327 in 1998 East Timor as part of his units’s Satgas Rajawali detachment (TNIWatch! 1999). Heri was therefore ready for promotion to captain at least by the start of 327’s 2002 Aceh tour.21 Furthermore, POLRI reported a “Captain Heri” leading 327 Battalion patrols in Pidie in November 2002 (poldanad 2002b). This would be the same man GAM mentioned. No mean feat in a contact situation, GAM obtained the detail about their slain enemy then reported it. Therefore, after talking to the local KODIM boss, Jakarta’s Sinar Harapan merely confirmed GAM’s account of the action, only to be later confounded by the local TNI “public information manager.” In the same action for which Jakarta daily Sinar Harapan reported the combat death of “1st Lieutenant Hery,” GAM named two other 327 Battalion soldiers KIA, privates first class Basri and Surata, indicating that this was not the usual GAM “hit and run” ambush but a stronger force’s prolonged engagement to hold ground. As with the 327 officer’s death, the loss of the two private soldiers was backed by the local KODIM commander, LTCOL Supartodi (SH 2003c),22 but the press liaison officer altered the record again, claiming the two were “wounded” (Kmp 2003b). Maintaining morale for replacement troops was the likely motive for concealing 327 Battalion’s misfortunes in Pidie. For several years, Indonesian Army units deployed to Pidie came almost exclusively from Western Java. Off-duty soldiers would naturally talk about what they were to face in the area, and know in advance that Pidie was their destination. They would also more likely get a truer version of the expected dangers there than press reports suggested. But the insiders would have to guard this knowledge from their families and the wider community, with TNI and police press releases to help them do so. If not, the units themselves would probably have more than the usual number of personnel problems before deployment. An ensuing rise in attempts to transfer, discharge or desert could disrupt TNI unit stability and planning. The truth could easily snowball into a morale nightmare or, in military psychologists’ jargon: “increased levels of morbidity.” Following 327’s return to Cianjur in West Java, convolutions between the official honor roll and press releases showed from the Holistic Operation’s start. One West Java BRIMOB soldier, Bambang Murdianto, died of a headshot in Singkil (Kmp 2003c). But in the official honor roll publicized on the government web site (pdmd 2003a), Bambang’s identity changed to another name and another regency: “Bambang K” in South Aceh. That challenge in simply identifying Indonesian dead got worse by the end of the year, but another official source, POLRI’s magazine for the Central Java POLDA, Caraka Candi, contradicted the
152 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead honor roll’s version of their casualty’s unit identity: Bambang was apparently not from West Java after all. In an extraordinary piece of hyperbole, the provincial police periodical described the death of the Semarang-based BRIMOB soldier, 25-year-old Bambang Murdianto, in a firefight in Singkil on 25 May 2003. The GAM unit fighting Bambang’s was said to have been pushed back from North Aceh all the way to Singkil: a distance of over 200 km of mostly mountainous forest, with no overland roads worthy of the noun. For the benefit of police Caraka Candi readers, the article added that it was another BRIMOB unit that had originally chased the GAM force from North Aceh (CC 2003e). Perhaps in normal circumstances such tall stories would be lost on POLRI’s Caraka Candi readership of mostly office-based police and their families in Central Java. But in this case the article’s clumsiness probably caught harder scrutiny due to the higher number of Aceh deployments for local police in the various non-BRIMOB branches. The soldiers’ exasperated moans and guffaws would be heard as clearly in Semarang as in Aceh itself. All the same, such contributions to the infowar doubtless placed a heavy burden on the sense of humor within POLRI’s rank and file, itself in an already delicate state of morale. If the bogus triumphalism of Caraka Candi was an exceptional tone reserved for obituaries, Indonesia’s official disinformation denying war deaths applied more persistently in wide reporting that was of inestimable influence on Indonesian and international perceptions of the war. Close attention in all-source analysis of “Red and White” reports repeatedly compromised Indonesia’s statistical manipulation and falsification of its own forces’ deaths on duty in Aceh, both as collective totals and individual cases. In effect, Jakarta’s official public statements about own force deaths in combat tried to drastically minimize the severity of the situation, with disinformation aimed both at their own troops as well as the wider public. Indonesia’s security forces consciously portrayed a successful antiseparatist campaign based on a public scoreboard of bodycount-style attrition. POLRI’s Caraka Candi magazine again: “Although there are TNI–POLRI troops that have fallen in firefights, the total number of fallen GAM members is far higher” (CC 2003f). Ryamizard echoed such vague hyperbole to claim that American troops concurrently on Iraq occupation duties suffered higher casualties than the TNI in Aceh (PR 2003c). Or the very circumspect statement by BRIMOB’s Deputy Corps Chief: “Over 80 BRIMOB troops have fallen in the area of conflict,” but without saying over what period or for how long (MI 2002). Here again, POLRI’s own documented organic (and overwhelmingly non-BRIMOB) Aceh casualties for just 2000–1 emphatically contradicted such figures and statements.
Clues and extrapolations From detailed GAM reports up to mid-2002, casualty totals in North Aceh for around three explosive months totaled up to 300 Indonesian troops KIA. A leaked statistic from 1998–mid-2001 cited 2,468 TNI and police confirmed dead in the province. This stern contradiction of official public comment came from a
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bellicose Acehnese involved in a heated discussion on a Jakarta-based website’s chatroom. Citing an unofficial survey, “Abu Mahyuddin” (almost certainly a pseudonym for a GAM liaison figure) challenged Indonesian readers to ask after military families whose sons had been sent to Aceh. Another pseudonymous contributor, wong jowo paleh (possibly of mixed Acehnese–Javanese background) described the simple and brutal way Indonesian higher command concealed the scale of their own forces’ losses: corpses were often disposed of in the area of operations.23 In an effort to keep firm control of the issue and protect troop morale, then press liaison officer for Indonesian forces, POLRI’s Drs Sad Harun, reportedly rebuked any staff who released detail of own force casualties (Koridor. com n.d.). That expedient seemed at odds with some elaborate publicized funerals, but that expensive process was kept for soldiers selectively publicized as “official” KIA. A careful reading of contemporary Puspen TNI reports showed the Indonesian military’s strict selectivity in coverage. Using merely seven days of combat in April 2003 for the entire province, Puspen TNI releases cited five clashes each in separate areas for two of those days. If not extremely circumspect in revealing the Aceh chaos around the prized gas fields, the TNI info-managers at least betrayed a chronic lack of resources, if not indolence, in their severe information rationing. Even before the greater influx of troops by mid-2001, a spontaneous account from a gas field employee in North Aceh certainly supported GAM’s reporting of continual armed clashes in that area (CNN 2001). TNI improvement in information operations would only be apparent once regular, rapid and detailed public statements refuted or at least minimized the impact of GAM’s record of tactical successes and relative freedom to operate. In casualty reports, the trend in such Indonesian disinformation increased and consolidated into the mid-2003 Holistic Operation, when the detailed official TNI count reached some 53 dead by after three months (pdmd 2003a), and just under 90 after six months (pdmd 2003d; TI 2003c). However, those totals represented a further underreporting of casualties, albeit within more frequent public TNI– POLRI releases for the period, in which stronger censorship activity had to match the higher operational tempo. As seen from above-cited official statements for 2000–1, POLRI kept to an annual reporting limit of 64 dead police alongside slightly lower totals for the TNI of between 50 and 60. The official POLRI version for 2003 advertised a somewhat lower Indonesian loss than that claimed to have been suffered by their GAM enemy: the whole point of making bodycount publicity in the first place. POLRI claimed a much sharper drop in own-force losses too. Unfortunately for POLRI, and indirectly for their TNI compatriots, the publicly available list of organic police dead clearly compromised that earlier disinformation campaign run against both the public and their own ranks. The TNI’s publicized post-2003 casualty figures were a far more aggressive, and more boldly dishonest, misrepresentation of a bloodletting among their noncommissioned and junior officer members. Another specific motive for such lying was largely political in that the claimed success could justify expanded, expensive and, for many Indonesians distasteful if not illegal, military action in Aceh.
154 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead Note that this tactic worked in the perversely opposite sense during Gus Dur’s ascendancy when Syarifuddin Tippe’s revelatory statement exposed high casualties during a period of lower force posture and presence, deliberately warning of reduced TNI strength in Aceh at the time. The precedents of 2000 and 2001 were less ambitious than what was to come in martial law from 2003. Previously, an apparent official ratio of about 1.5 to 1 GAM to Indonesian troops killed may have seemed credible, at least if ignoring POLRI’s contemporary list of organicterritorial dead. The 2003 Holistic Operation saw official claims rise to an astonishing 10 to 1 ratio of GAM to Indonesian dead. Put another way, the TNI’s information managers grossly distorted figures, expecting the Indonesian and international audiences to believe that their forces had increased their combat efficiency by around seven times their performance some two years earlier. In isolation of their TNI colleagues, POLRI’s information directorates asserted an improved survivability in 2003, some 50 times better than that gleaned from 2000–1. Viewed against the detail from GAM reports and their own publicly available claims and records, hyperbolic TNI–POLRI claims about their own Aceh combat losses in 2003 amounted to creative bodycount fantasy: Puspen TNI claimed increased efficiencies of at least 600 percent by 2004, and more than ten-fold by mid-2005 (AFP 2005).
An impossible secret Jakarta’s own losses in Aceh were an official secret, though a very awkward one to keep, and made worse by clumsy guarding. Probably at least as much for fear of some future home or street “accident” as distaste for the grisly subject itself, Indonesian journalists knew better than to make investigative reporting of the traumatic hell awaiting their nation’s troops. In another irony typical of Indonesia’s information war, the situation was described by one of the journalists’ public nemeses in Aceh reporting, the paramilitary Pemuda Panca Marga. As a nationalist youth movement made up of dead and retired soldiers’ sons, PPM members were in a unique position to know the scale of their own side’s losses as they made impassioned public appeals for their fathers’ memory, hinting that they themselves had a far better idea of just how many troops were dying in Aceh. The generally “voiceless” enlisted soldiers in Jakarta’s war machine too knew better than to try publicly broaching the painful subject of their dead comrades, and thereby risk hostility and isolation from their peers, families, and superiors. After all, the justification for the concealment was logically valid from the Indonesian nationalist and professional military points of view, i.e. release of the true casualty picture would damage force and public morale, increasing chances of Indonesian defeat and thus rendering the sacrifice completely futile. In the largely unregulated TNI–POLRI economies too, there were obviously strong corruption motives for casualty concealment as a means to maintain and divert dead soldiers’ formal pay and entitlements. But an army’s secretive rules, policies and culture cannot always contain emotions stemming from the senses of deep sorrow, paternalistic responsibility, and associated guilt felt by its more humane
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commanders. The death rate and other danger faced by Indonesian troops in Aceh were so serious as to prompt one Jakarta general to claim anonymously (at odds with Ryamizard’s later allusion to 2003 Iraq) that it was “worse than what the Americans felt in Vietnam,” with TNI and POLRI troops “threatened 24 hours a day” (WP 2001). From a proportional comparison, Indonesia’s notoriously underpaid and oftdisparaged police force bore the brunt of combat action in bringing the fight to the Acehnese resistance. Against 2003’s officially minor fraction of police casualties compared to the TNI’s, the unofficial hospital source clearly signaled the two forces’ continued disparity in battle risk. Contrary to the TNI’s official and widely accepted role as the country’s primary war-fighter, their police counterparts caught a disproportionately higher risk from military operations. As a definite conclusion from reports in the period covered, TNI troops were more likely to be wounded, and POLRI killed. This situation of POLRI’s relative vulnerability was all the more remarkable at a time when the police in Aceh drew increasingly on ordinary “blue line” (noncombat branch) personnel to bolster their already consistently high numbers of BRIMOB infantry. If individual soldiers bothered with the indulgently futile speculation, the equation was a tough one to make: better a standard six-month Aceh tour as policemen without so much armored vehicle and flak-vest protection as enjoyed by the TNI, or a 12- to 14month stay as generally better-equipped TNI infantry? Though extraordinary that senior command and staff would conceal Indonesian casualty figures from their own troops, the rationale for such practice was identical to that for keeping the wider public in the dark: indeed, troop morale was obviously a more pressing concern than civilian perceptions. As the 1999 East Timor case proved in the TNI’s intelligence summaries of the loyalist militia campaign and referendum prospects (Moore 2001), classified TNI documents probably supported the publicly official fictions about their own side’s losses. The paucity and inconsistency of detail on the subject in publicly available records hinted at corresponding deficiencies in the archives of Jakarta’s own headquarters and bases. How else could BRIGGEN Mochamad Sochib, chief of staff in Central Java’s KODAM IV Diponegoro, assert a total of just two soldiers KIA from all local battalions sent since mid-2003? Not that Sochib’s subordinates were about to interrupt the senior officer in his January 2004 interview with Semarang’s Suara Merdeka upon 403 Battalion’s homecoming. But even by 15 December 2003, the TNI’s carefully rationed official releases more than tripled that modest loss for just two of KODAM IV’s six deployed battalions in the period. A similarly outlandish reassurance came with 408 Battalion’s return home in September 2004: just two soldiers killed in combat, contradicting Puspen TNI’s sparse chronicle doubling that Battalion’s total dead from only two engagements by December 2003. These discrepancies were less a result of subterfuge by KODAM IV than a TNI command failure to coordinate the institutional taboo: clearly Central Java’s KODAM was unaware of the “official” own-force bodycount, ignoring an implicit need to monitor carefully Jakarta’s selective fictions.
156 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead In its detail about troops’ cause of death, KODAM IV’s case replicated the misleading POLRI leak in 2002: “in combat” (dalam pertempuran) was the TNI’s immediate, explicit reason for the death of 408’s Sergeant 1st Class Sucipto on 14 December 2003, but that loss of Cipto became a “death from illness” upon his unit’s return (puspen 2003p; Srb 2003au; SM 2004a, b). POLRI’s information blunders and leaks on casualties, however important by comparison, were less regular than the TNI’s more casual inconsistency. Frequent anomalies in senior TNI statements arguably betrayed TNI executives’ aloofness, and a “double standard” on discipline as the quoted officers continued on, unquestioned, to higher appointments. POLRI’s lower-level information used here, on the other hand, suggested that Indonesian police were more comfortable with notions of openness than most of their military counterparts, including those in the West. Far from betraying a characteristically repressive and antidemocratic attitude, POLRI showed in this regard a transparency often sought of bureaucracies, but rarely achieved, contrasting starkly with brazen TNI self-contradiction combined with standards of obsessive secrecy about its personnel. Under serious scrutiny of Vice-President Jusuf Kalla by 2005, POLRI engaged in some near-revolutionary crackdown on crime, including within its own ranks, imprisoning many middleranking officers, while lower ranks’ pay and conditions vastly improved. Sacrifice in Aceh and its attendant morale strains were probably contributing factors to reforms improving the police’s lot. Both TNI and POLRI documentary evidence confirmed that publicized casualty figures were routinely manipulated and falsified to protect own force morale and domestic civilian support for Aceh operations. By contrast, service chiefs were surprisingly candid about force deployments, unit identities, and other operational details: publicized unit locations often covered platoon and even section levels. Such public postures could only be understood in the context of TNI–POLRI political roles in the Indonesian state, generally displaying repressive force to domestic audiences but keener to ensure that most troop losses happened in a public silence. That inconsistent stance was compatible with the TNI’s new doctrinal aim of “dominating the information battlespace,” i.e. saturating audiences with media coverage as the authoritative source. But openness about deployed force strengths probably deceived many observers into assuming that Jakarta was similarly candid about its combat losses. Behind their obvious institutional implications, Indonesian combat casualties affected another aspect of the war: treatment of Aceh’s civilians. It was no apologia to identify Indonesian war deaths as an important factor in Indonesian state atrocity against civilians. Atrocity was not inevitable; certainly some of Jakarta’s armed representatives were men of strict conscience and morality, evident in cases where they could take no more. But as more or less cohesive units exposed to mortal danger and subcultural pressures of conformist “group think,” TNI–POLRI troops had much less room for free will and conscience than their senior commanders. Their conditioning in combat training often confounded by guerrilla “hit and run,” soldiers’ collective frustration and fear fuelled the urge for fast, cruel reprisal on the one hand. On the other, TNI–POLRI antiguerrilla and
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“regime maintenance” doctrine helped normalize and endorse reprisal into more routine, nonreactive, and wanton cruelty. Links between concealed Indonesian troop losses and atrocities against Acehnese civilians defined Indonesian troops’ internal political function. GAM’s strength, post-1998 territorial gains, and very existence, all demonstrated a regional political victory from the outset, whereas military reprisal against Acehnese civilians was at once deterrent and punitive example for such challenges to Jakarta. To assume of Indonesian forces’ innate criminality, immorality, or poor training and discipline would ignore those institutions’ essentially political role. Both general and specific reprisals were essential means to suppress if not obliterate the concept and memory of Acehnese political victory which GAM-led resistance embodied. In short, Indonesian state repression “worked.” In this more aggressive sense of “perception management,” regular concealment of Indonesian losses created an almost omnipotent counterinsurgent aura, while less directly minimizing the extent of determined Acehnese opposition to Jakarta’s rule. Without the deception, Indonesian (and overseas) citizens would better understand just how popular Acehnese resistance had become, and how necessary a just and sincere political solution for the killing to stop. To paraphrase Fussell’s (1992: 654) quote of an American officer in Vietnam, Indonesian forces in Aceh “…were looking for quantitative measurements in a war that was qualitative,” in dubious definitions of “victory.” “Bodycount” syndrome exposed state callousness to its soldiers; at least comparable coercion, manipulation and denial would apply to Aceh’s civilians.
6
People’s war Atrocity, militia, and Islam
Why should we follow this crap policy from the United States that the TNI is using? Eko Maryadi, director advocacy, Alliance of Independent Journalists, June 2003 (SEAPA 2003) These regulations were sent to us by the US Pacific Command. It is what they used in Iraq… Of course, we have adapted them to our local environment. MAJGEN Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin, TNI information chief (SEAPA 2003) It doesn’t matter how cynical a pretext may be, how gratuitous the act, how cruel its execution, so long as mouths move, words are said, statements issued, then anything can be justified. Timothy Mo (Schwarz 1994: 194)
In many ways, civilian experience and perception of Aceh’s war spanned wider extremes between reality and propaganda than that seen from the TNI–POLRI and GAM battlefield. Indonesian troop casualties were a sensitive operational matter for generally strict unit and service censorship, but Jakarta’s main concealing effort went towards its repressive action against noncombatants, as Jakarta sought to criminalize GAM and Acehnese resistance, denying them political legitimacy, and thereby justifying antiguerrilla war. Meanwhile, widespread TNI–POLRI violence against civilians continued, serving some deterrent and punitive effect both on civilians and GAM alike. Not that GAM passively looked on: assassination threatened Jakarta’s government officials and alleged informercollaborators, especially where Jakarta’s territorial control was weaker. At strategic levels, Indonesian perception management of the war concentrated on projecting its combat and territorial strengths via regular publicity, a general fact that much of this study almost inevitably replicates in its sources. Part of such public projection concerned paramilitary, or militia, mobilization; other highlevel focus emphasized ethnoreligious issues. In these positive and negative approaches to communications, TNI executives self-consciously applied themselves to the military doctrinal concept of
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 159 “information operations”: the TNI Information Center (Puspen TNI) even translated the term directly, i.e. operasi informasi. “Info ops” (also termed IO) encompassed “all actions taken to affect enemy information and information systems while defending friendly information and information systems” (MCWP 2001). Doctrine since the 1980s systematized info ops into specific staff appointments and planning, whereas precedents typically relied on less formal coordination between functions of counterintelligence, electronic warfare, community liaison, and publicity organs. Jakarta’s chiefs oversaw info ops to suit established local peculiarities, but their mission was consistent with overseas practice: domination of the “information battlespace.” MAJGEN Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin, Puspen TNI chief during the Aceh war’s intensification, best symbolized Indonesian adjustment to the paradoxical standards of successful modern warfare. Sjafrie’s own KOPASSUS background covered much operational experience in counterintelligence, especially PSYOPS and covert tasks, beside an informal reputation for popularity among middle class Jakartanese women, who began a “Sjafrie fans [sic] club” after he passed investigative scrutiny over his tenure as Jakarta’s KODAM chief during the city’s sinister 1998 mayhem of anti-Chinese murder, rape, arson, and looting. Puspen TNI media guidelines (puspen 2003b) set formal terms for the war’s reporting. Sjafrie, as the document’s authority, used the infamous phrase “Daerah Operasi Militer” (DOM) in the title, apparently boasting his “old school” status from that earlier period of counterinsurgency, while ignoring its scandalous implications. Regardless, Aceh military operations’ press endorsement was obvious: state-owned Berita Pagi TVRI and the private-owned SCTV Liputan 6, for example, covered the Holistic Operation’s elaborate, expensive beachhead landings, paratroop drops and airstrikes as displays of TNI strength. As in late 2001 Papua, 25 TNI warships combined with aircraft and battalion-strength drops in spectacles designed to impress Indonesia’s public in metropolitan Java at least as much as disaffected local populations and insurgents (Rpk 2003a; SIB 2003b; swara 2003). Generally vigorous, uniform press support for the war did not go unnoticed by journalists. One Gatra analysis of coverage focused on five news organs: Kompas; Media Indonesia; Tempo; Suara Pembaruan; and Sinar Harapan, finding universal backing for operations, with official TNI releases as the dominant source (Gatra 2003d). Some sarcastic hyperbole could be seen in Jakarta’s Suara Pembaruan, whose regular stories on operations from mid-2003 fell under the category heading “Peace in Aceh” (Damai di Aceh), with an iconic Baiturrahman Mosque cupola. Direct military censorship came with the closure of Aceh’s biweekly Beudoh paper in late 2003, after army counterintelligence personnel arbitrarily detained its editor-in-chief, Maarif, interrogating him for ten hours (RSF 2003). Censorship applied to reporting of GAM information, which martial law forbade on risk of prosecution. The TNI’s copycat “embedded reporters” system symbolized the institutional support of the press, while reinforcing its effective subordination in the field. As Nessen observed from close range, compliant Indonesian journalists had no access to TNI “sealed off” areas (or “free-fire zones”) where much of the population was evacuated at short notice,
160 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam or where sustained bombardment caused indiscriminate massacres by mostly indirect or airborne fire. In public relations industry terms, those areas posed risks of an “issues management crisis”: Jakarta’s leadership elite had not forgotten international protest over the 1991 Santa Cruz, Dili massacre and its iconic benefit to East Timor’s independence struggle. The November 2002 Cot Trieng fiasco (ASNLF 2002d) highlighted the gulf between Jakarta’s military and propagandist ambitions and the reality of fighting an elusive, motivated enemy. After TNI executives boasted of a set-piece siege reducing the swampy GAM position in North Aceh (including artillery and air strikes), GAM troops exaggerated their own strength, falsified radio communications, provoked Indonesian troops into accidental “blue-on-blue” fratricide, and successfully broke out. Jakarta’s response was to reverse its belligerent advertising, claiming to have “compassionately” allowed GAM’s escape. But GAM’s Cot Trieng success, however brilliant, lucidly documented, and newsworthy, nonetheless failed to reach wider audiences, effectively reaffirming Puspen TNI’s advantage of media dominance through constant journalist access and TV presence: in infowar, the medium was the message, as it were, marginalizing less endowed sources as merely dissident. Info ops psychology was in some ways much simpler than infantry patrolling and, for more ambitious, institutionalized officers, far more comfortable: avoid any defensive posture, keep communicating, and use as much airtime, print, and webspace as possible. More conventional TNI–POLRI action interdicted GAM communications, both human and electronic. TNI officers sometimes boasted of a deployed electronic search capability, claiming their radio intercepts revealed GAM movements all the way across the mountain range from South Aceh Regency to strengthen resistance in Bireuen Regency, for example (RP 2003c). Other reports alluded to routine monitoring of GAM radio communications, and use of “captured GAM” guerrillas to process GAM’s Acehnese language transmissions and decode their operational cover-terms (Kmp 2003h).1 Radio direction-finding work was seen from the seizure of GAM VHF relay stations in remote high ground, made possible by greater force presence from mid-2003 (Kmp 2003j; SP 2003f). Civilian fears from experience of arrests and informer activity interfered with resistance phone communications. One revealing case indicated rapid response by KOSTRAD Rajawali troops to a phone call made by two men from a public booth on the outskirts of Lhokseumawe. The TNI troops had already decided to kill the two after their immediate detention and hasty interrogation over the phone call. The troops’ use of phone intercept only became known because of the desperate escape by one of the detained after severe physical injury under torture (fpdra 2001b, d). Around the time of GAM VHF station captures, Puspen TNI announced its coordinated efforts with telecommunications carrier PT Telkom blocking 120 cellular phone numbers identified to GAM members (Anl 2003n). That action’s timing suggested a longer-term process of “net reconstruction” based on GAM’s previous contacts with Indonesian journalists, for example, along with stored, dialed, and incoming numbers gleaned from GAM phones seized in the field: phone confiscations were a standard priority in TNI–POLRI
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 161 units’ contact reports. Limitations on phone number blocking were due to GAM’s greater reliance on short-burst SMS and temporary SIM cards, but GAM’s wide phone use in the field seemed to underestimate the technological risks of compromising transmitter locations. Some use of satellite phones at higher field command avoided such danger by leaving wider direction-finding “footprints.” Upon the May 2003 “active” counterinsurgency phase, simpler, less painstaking processes compromised GAM communications by deliberate targeting of computer files. Civilian computer owners were made to register with the martial law authority. The defection of GAM command staff member Amri bin Abdul Wahab was probably the single greatest of Jakarta’s counterintelligence coups in this regard: Amri reportedly provided his new protectors a file of GAM membership with contact details.
Reprisal and assassination Martial Law Operations Chief: Not true that TNI shot civilians. POLDA Aceh web-site home page, 27 May 2003 It is demanded of security forces operating in the field that they work more attentively. They are asked to clearly discriminate between Acehnese civilians and GAM members. Ibid. Although the general methods of repression are always the same, the enemies of the people act in a more or less intensely criminal fashion according to the specific social, historic and economic circumstances of each place. Che Guevara (1961: 80) Civilian bodycounts Indonesian sources acknowledged 1950s precedents for their forces’ Aceh atrocities: at least 4,000 civilian deaths, hardly the “low levels of violence” claimed by Ross (2002). GAM claimed the death toll was much higher; Hasan di Tiro described it as “genocidal” (FK 1999d; MeunaSAH 1999a). Earlier TNI massacres of Aceh’s civilians included a slaughter by just one platoon from 142 Battalion, where troops shot dead around 100 inhabitants of two villages close together (see van Dijk 1983). Upon press and NGO liberalization after Soeharto’s resignation, mass graves discoveries in northern Aceh brought to light the grisly campaign of clandestine TNI killings in the 1989–98 DOM period. Aceh’s death toll may have reached 39,000 civilian and GAM deaths (PrjU 1998), a calculation generally at odds with standard pedestrian press figures of “ten thousand killed in the conflict,” or even lower. Media minimization of Aceh’s war dead continued, conventionally “summed” to 12,000–15,000 for the entire 1976–2005 period. However, intermittent post-DOM detailed reports of atrocity, “disappearance,”
162 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam and combat casualties very conservatively averaged to 2,000 killed per year, but probably exceeding a total of 20,000 from 1999 to the time of writing. In 2002 resistance sources specifically alleged Indonesian soldiers’ atrocity and other criminality across northern Aceh, in particular, in reports nearly always naming victims, dates, times, locations, sequence of events, and sometimes also associated detail identifying perpetrating units and participating members. Map 6.1 covers a period of routine counterinsurgency more than a year before the highertempo campaign from May 2003. Exposure to such prolonged, frequent violence explained severe trauma among Aceh’s civilians, with over half suffering some form of mental illness and social dysfunction, and over one-quarter of those clinically depressed (AK 2004b). Source comparison of later reported detail showed that of all violence against Aceh’s civilians, that perpetrated by Indonesian state actors by far predominated. Consolidating GAM and POLRI reports of violent civilian deaths for the Holistic Operation’s first three months, Figure 5.2 (p. 136) shows that alleged and possible (“unidentified assailant”) GAM assassinations made a minority against more regular widespread killing by Jakarta’s forces. Aceh’s POLDA chief claimed GAM had killed 106 civilians after one month (Kmp 2003g), but POLRI’s own separate reports indicated his exaggeration probably by covering deaths from “unidentified” perpetrators and possibly other killings in remote areas advised second-hand via TNI communication. Unlike POLRI’s own detailed, formatted incident reports, often several daily, Puspen TNI’s voice was peripheral, despite its energetic infowar effort describing unit patrol activity. The TNI issued no comparable reports to POLRI’s record, preferring instead to claim its own separate, and usually different, total statistics covering several months. One cause for statistical disparities on civilian deaths was the increased practice of ordering the immediate burial of victims, often in remote sites; other factors were the serious interdiction of (already uncoordinated) resistance communications; and attribution of “GAM KIA” to many noncombatant deaths, especially where victims had activist background, or real or assumed GAM family ties. POLRI ranks’ own war deaths, lethargy, and brutalized indifference would have inhibited any rigorous attempt to document Aceh’s civilian toll. But with time, police HQ sums were increasingly accepted as an authoritative source, with little questioning of anomalies. A POLRI press release for just the first three months of 2000 stated a total of 457 civilians killed (SP 2000), against 319 Acehnese civilian deaths for the same duration from May 2003, risen to 470 by year’s end, when force strengths, activity, and civilian vulnerability were all far higher than in 2000. Unlike the specific reported detail showing higher tolls and POLRI’s small attribution of GAM victims, the “319” figure in 2003 spread far and fast, also relayed verbatim by KOMNAS HAM, the National Human Rights Commission (ABC 2003d; AFP 2003; Age 2003a; Anl 2003r; BBC 2003b; Deepikaglobal.com 2003; DPA 2003; JkP 2003c; Kmp 2003q; SCTV 2003m; Srb 2003aq; Xinhua 2003).2 Curiously, the police sum was announced shortly after similar underreporting by human rights sources.
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam
163
1 c.10> 1 c.11> Muara 5 1 Dua Banda 1 c.20> c.10> Seunuddon c.30> 1 3 Muara Sakti c.30> c.10> Batu c.10> 9 c.11> 1 1 1 1 2 Lhok Samudera 1 1 6 26 2 Seumawe Bireuen 3 7 7 8 9 Tanah 2 c.21> 2 Pasir 2 c.50> 2 Baktiya 1 1 c.21> c.21> c.35> 2 11 3 2 9 c.11> Syamtalira c.12> 4 c.10> c.10> 1 Aron Blang c.13> 34 1 Mangat c.23> 4 c.11> 4 Tanah 1 20 Sawang 4 c.22> 1 Luas c.20> Kuta 1 21 Nisam Makmur 5 2 3 28 7 4 7 6 c.53> 1 Matang 5 c.21> 2 Kuli c.50> Lhok Tanah c.12> Syamtalira c.10> Sukon Jambo Bayu Aye Meurah 5 Killing 1 Victims unarmed. Most by gunshot Mulia 6 Gunshot wound c.56> Victims unarmed c.25> Torture (various methods) 47 East 6 Most cases probably spontaneous Central Aceh Assault & battery Aceh Extra-judicial arrest – Property destruction Mostly dwellings - some vehicles Theft & extortion Dewantara
Brigade Sapu Jagad Leuser Antara Agustiadi Harja Syukur Khobat Tagore Ikmal Hakim Aman Asri KETOL (Amris?)
1,500 300 Komando Jul 01 Dec 01 Jihad H Misriady MS Suyatiman Mangger BANDAR 5x
JAGO
TIMANG GAJAH
?
7,000
SMI SILIH NARA
West Aceh
X X
BEBESAN
BUKIT
SYIAH
Buaya Putih
Regency boundary District boundary Reported militia unit Identified militia leaders Identified militia base Township evicted by militia Refugees & no. reported
Sep 00
UTAMA TAKENGON
PEGASING ?
North Aceh
?
LINGE ISAQ
BINTANG
Seroja Galuh Misri
East
Aceh Puja Kesuma H Marsito Mertorejo
–
Map 6.1 Reported North Aceh atrocity and Central Aceh militia.
Close examination of urgently disseminated separate Acehnese resistance incident reports confirmed an underreporting by most observers. A widely distributed Acehnese source, apparently an ASNLF-linked group (PN 2003), stated 391 civilian deaths: actually close to POLRI claims. Similar results came from
164 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam NGO “Kontras Aceh” (Kontras 2003c) at 329; other monitors (CPMTA 2003) at 176 civilian deaths in the operation’s first month. Another Kontras report stated 110 civilian deaths for the month while qualifying the figure by saying “those numbers must be more” due to communication problems (Kontras 2003b). Despite these groups’ frequent overseas communications urging attention to civilians’ plight, their disconnection from many locally reported killings caused misleading impressions from the Holistic Operation’s start. Forced evacuations and TNI–POLRI “sealing off” of areas further hampered such reporting. Much information did get out as separate reports, as compiled for Figure 5.2, but took much time for collation and analysis. Even where eyewitnesses were available, threat of death also deterred reporting of atrocity and other crime. Civilians interviewed on Indonesian television ran risks if contradicting official statements, as seen from 11 July 2003 Indosiar and TV7 broadcast interview with 58-year-old Bachtiar Musa of Barat Layan village, Jangka District, Bireuen Regency, about BRIMOB’s claimed killing of a local GAM commander. Bachtiar said that after the BRIMOB unit’s attack, troops torched the house of local woman Ummi, who earlier fled the area to seek safety in Banda Aceh. Bachtiar’s first-hand account dispelled official versions of events: TV7 screened the local precinct chief claiming that the torched house belonged to the dead alleged GAM boss. The very next day Bachtiar’s corpse was found in a paddy field, shot after being accosted by a roving group in a car. Jakarta journalists then described Bachtiar’s killers by the vague “unknown people” (orang tak dikenal, OTK), an indifference contrasting with previous concern to broadcast Bachtiar’s identity in his brave account of BRIMOB troops’ arson against his neighbor’s house. Despite such press reports’ apparently innocuous objectivity if regarded in isolation, their essential detail left little doubt of Indonesian troops’ commission of a crime, the very exposure of which caused the murder of the civilian source (see Sudirman 2003). Local anecdote suggested extreme sadism and even atavism in some TNI–POLRI atrocity. “Disappearance” killings, allegedly a KOPASSUS–SGI specialization, often impeded post-mortem victim identification due to deliberate facial mutilation or dismemberment, especially by beheading: Muslim burial traditions gave such practice extra potency because of beliefs that heavenly afterlife became impossible for souls of the headless. A related theme was sexual assault, arisen from similar primordial logic to other extreme crimes against Aceh’s populace, i.e. perpetrators’ assertion of physical dominance to dispel personal insecurity. Troops’ rape and public molestation appeared proportionally minor in resistance accounts; much less still in TNI-POLRI and Indonesian press reports. Underreporting was probably due to universally applicable emotions of shame among victims, family, and community on the one hand and, and on the other the outright public and overseas ignominy expected by perpetrators’ institutions. A prosecution of three KOSTRAD 411 Battalion soldiers was exceptional, probably realized either for its expedient value against individual troops deemed otherwise disobedient or disloyal, or even because the four rape victims had enough loyalist connections and sympathy from senior TNI command. Even GAM’s
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 165 likely exceptional reports of rape far exceeded cases reaching Jakarta’s press. TNI–POLRI patrols demonstrated brazen cruelty targeting mentally ill or impaired civilians, such as two fatal shootings of mentally ill people within a month (Srb 1999f, g), a tendency noted from 2003 too. Days after the Holistic Operation’s start, a brief (but still thorough) GAM report gave bizarre indications of TNI troops’ ritual cannibalism at Cot Bat township, Peusangan District. GAM shied from drawing conclusions or making further accusations in recounting the reprisal-raid for a nearby GAM strike which claimed Indonesian KIA and WIA. Local 22-year-old Yasli Ibnu was shot through the head, his corpse set alight and his calf-muscle flesh removed by departing troops (ASNLF 2003d).3 Photographed East Timor precedent survived into Indonesian civilian tales of troops’ primitive, occultist rites of protection and martial potency in headhunting of FALINTIL guerrillas. Rumor spread of cannibalistic treatment of some FALINTIL targets (see Budiardjo 1984: 133–4), traced also to accounts by veterans deemed insane among the general community and even their peers, but linked to darker, more extreme subcultural aberrations reported from individual civilian cases. Even in Java, one of the world’s longest-civilized areas, a contemporary case shocked when police arrested a man who had eaten five humans after dukun (sorcerer) instruction about gaining supernatural powers (CC 2003b). Another complication to civilian bodycounts was GAM’s own military priorities, paralleling TNI–POLRI underreporting of casualties. GAM sources generally acknowledged deaths among their main force combat units, but understated or omitted losses among its many klandestin part-timers during their dangerous movements between bases and townships. The TNI eventually claimed around 1,500 GAM KIA for the period 2003–5 which, from their reported context and photographic record, showed mainly klandestin runners isolated from the protection of guerrilla lines. Not all TNI–POLRI claims of GAM KIA were accurate in that broader sense either: many civilians became “GAM” in death via cynical, defensive expedients of planted ammunition or small arms. Arbitrarily defined free-fire patrol zones, and Indonesian troops’ mission to “separate guerrillas from the populace,” ensured presumption of civilians’ klandestin status. Many male youths in particular ran to avoid being interrogated, or shanghaied as part-time TPO auxiliary scouts. Activists and civilian leadership targets simultaneously measured both sides’ savage reprisal for perceived disloyalty while indicating the civilians’ general partisan affiliation. As the POLRI record for Figure 5.2 showed, GAM assassination made a minority of civilian deaths. Killing of civilian activists escalated from 2001 (SMH 2001): TNI–POLRI targeting of independence referendum campaigners and human rights agitators attacked the very notion of Acehnese self-determination. Some viewed the matter as the war’s deliberate polarization by Jakarta’s forces to “increase business” from vengeful Acehnese civilians, or mindless incompetence to the same effect. But such views missed the political nature of the TNI–POLRI repressive mission against resistance to the centralist state: “polarization” already occurred in operational planning. In the same sense, GAM’s diplomatic figures became targets, such as peace negotiator Zulfani in late 2001, despite a formal
166 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam truce (NZH 2001). Violence escalated against resistance and loyalist leadership, though Jakarta’s attribution of GAM action against village elders (keuchik), claiming 196 such deaths in martial law’s first three months (pdmd 2003c), typically covered corresponding covert and clandestine “hits” by SGI teams and Red and White “freelancers.” Whatever their loyalty, affiliation, or even indifference, Aceh’s civilians suffered to varying degrees the more peculiar terrors, trauma, and intense paranoia of drawn-out insurgency. Infiltration, kidnapping, interrogation, and assassination spread fear far beyond battlefields into civilians’ daily lives. Wary of others’ potential covert purposes, civilians would become actors. But to feign ignorance or refuse to express an affiliation could sometimes be equally dangerous. Both sides’ counterintelligence assessment considered implications of risk in cases of apparent civilian informers, while (potentially related) combat losses, arrests, and kidnappings demanded urgent reaction. No statistics or chronicle of atrocity could impart the sense of extreme torment in people made aware of their reported treason against the official state or grass-roots resistance but, almost inevitably, deliberate purges targeted many innocent or unwitting civilians too. Overwhelming predominance of state violence against Aceh’s civilians was consistent with established practice and, in key respects, force doctrine. Whereas Indonesian forces could be high-handed, if not wanton, in so many such documented cases, GAM too was a rival, nascent (or re-nascent) state entity, determined to enforce hierarchical authority and organizational unity. In the same way arms trading could create discreet local collusion between warring parties, Aceh’s corruption and other criminality offered other avenues by which people could even be targeted at both sides’ convenience, especially in negotiations and truces. International law, and Indonesian partner states’ diplomatic postures and sometimes example, all effectively permitted that nation’s atrocities in Aceh and elsewhere. So did the war’s fundamentally political nature compel GAM to act, or at least threaten to act, in similar fashion within the population. The situation affected observers too, to the extent that much of the war’s reporting could appear partisan, polarizing accusations, facts, and lies against either side, or indifference by superficiality and avoidance of incriminating detail and its brutal, statistical reflection of political injustice. Aceh’s case demonstrated how terrorizing coercion and punishment could be crucial elements for preservation or attainment of statehood and sovereignty. Unbalanced, cursory, and false representation of those aspects confirmed information’s importance in guiding perceptions into any side’s diplomatic and military expediency. Good TNI, bad cop? On the subject of (conventionally understood) “criminality” against Aceh’s civilians, influential commentary favorably depicted TNI troops against an image of police, especially BRIMOB, roguishness and atrocity. Kirsten Schulze, who acted as “conflict resolution” consultant with Indonesia’s Defense Department (JkP 2002b), described post-2001 TNI operations as generally progressive, reformist
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 167 development in that sense. Schulze referred to Satgas Rajawali as evidence of a more “professional” and disciplined Indonesian Army, regarded well “behind closed doors” by Acehnese civilians. Schulze’s was not an isolated case, though her original article gained traction in Jakarta (see JIR 2002b; JkP 2002c). Australia’s press (WA 2002; Age 2002c) took up the theme too, even naming Acehnese interviewees, apparently without considering those sources’ safety concerns as motive for pro-TNI “spin.” In interview with Hilversum radio service (RNW 2001c), HRW’s Sidney Jones (later with ICG) generally backed such views, based on hearsay “from people in Lhokseumawe,” then further (unspecified) opinions of “all sources.” By contrast barely a year earlier, a branch of Indonesia’s provincial government quoted an 87-year-old Acehnese Muslim elder, who made no distinction about service origin to say that Indonesian troops were repeating Dutch colonial practice by their spread of terror into communities. He compared troops generically to that era’s Korps Maréchaussee: the writer then listed over 12,000 Acehnese civilian deaths attributed to those Dutch-led ancestors of both Rajawali and BRIMOB (Suara Aceh 2000b).4 Around that time, Rajawali already had a reputation among some Acehnese as self-proclaimed “body-snatchers” or “life-takers,” advertising the title on their bandanas worn in the casual fashion then typical of Indonesia’s infantry elites in the field (anon 2000).5 That such intimidating display arose at the festive end of the Ramadan fast suggested troops’ disregard for local inhabitants’ piety and chronic fear. From mid-2000 to May 2002, TNI actions seemed to speak louder than words, as detailed “in country” reports bluntly contradicted lobbying around reformist TNI “professionalization,” or humane TNI conduct versus wanton POLRI brutality. In East Aceh, Rajawali troops: played thug, indiscriminately beating civilians, contrasted with attached BRIMOB troops’ restraint (Srb 2000n); beat dozens of civilians (AIC 2002j); or worked in KOPASSUS-led Yon-Gab Tactical HQ’s use of civilians as human shields deterring GAM attacks in Simpang Ulim District (fpdra 2002b). Or in Central Aceh: a Rajawali platoon arbitrarily detained a local businessman and leader of Amien Rais’ PAN (Partai Amanat Nasional, National Mandate Party) in front of his family: the unit ignored the wife’s enquiries about her husband’s fate (Koalisi 2001); Rajawali worked with about 200 militiamen expelling native inhabitants, including arson against some 300 houses, in operations approximating the offensive euphemism “ethnic cleansing” (fpdra 2001f). Or in North Aceh: arbitrarily seizing civilian properties to set up command posts (fpdra 2001c); more extrajudicial detention, with beatings and interrogations of suspects (fpdra 2001d, 2002c); 201 Battalion’s pursuit company detaining the wife of an activist, who returned home to find the house burned down (JMH 2001), around the same time another Rajawali unit shot dead a farmer in nearby Tanah Jambo Aye District (fpdra 2001e); or in a morning raid, severely beating a 12-year-old boy at his house, before setting alight the boy’s house and that of a nearby widow, then taking the boy away to be shot dead that night (AIC 2002d). In extortionate opportunism too, BRIMOB’s infamous roadside “taxes” seemed trifling compared to the reported Rajawali appropriation of Central Aceh coffee farmers’ business incentive funds (Wsp 2002j). Against a tide of apparently
168 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam unsubstantiated general favor and demonization over the two services, Kingsbury (2001) noted obvious TNI “sniping” at BRIMOB “discipline problems” via foreign interlocutors, consistent with TNI aims for unchallenged institutional supremacy. Contrary to executive spin and manipulation of overseas lobbyist and investor circles, teamwork usually characterized tactical-level TNI and BRIMOB conduct against civilians, just as it did against GAM. Functional structures in operations compelled it so (see Chapter 3). Both services’ troops commonly appeared in resistance reports of savage reprisal and deterrent raids on population centers (JMH 2002; AIC 2002b, c, d, f, g, h, i) and routine building of joint-force posts for KOPASSUS, KOSTRAD, and BRIMOB troops together (AIC 2002e). The KOPASSUS elite too worked with the oft-disparaged and underpaid BRIMOB, as reported from a dawn mutilation by dismemberment and killing of five unarmed men randomly taken from a prayer house where they slept among two dozen villagers. That raid was retaliation for a GAM attack killing two KOPASSUS soldiers the previous week (JMH 2002). Legal definitions could describe Aceh’s as a civil war. Accordingly, war crimes variously attributable to warring parties against noncombatants (and unarmed captives) included: violence of murder, cruelty, torture; violence to the dignity of the person; and arbitrary sentences and summary executions without due legal processes. Those definitions broadly covered the extent of legal concern for civil war, i.e. one in which GAM membership and support had no recognized statehood. If based on crimes applicable to wars between signatory states, the Geneva Conventions covered far more crimes and many more specific infringements. Legal literature was clear on “reprisal” against civilian noncombatants too, which remained a war crime, considered exceptional only when the accused relied on a defense of “following orders,” at least in the 1950s US standard (see FM 1956: Ch. 1, Sec. I, para 11 and Ch. 8, Sec. IV, para 509b). “Investigative powers” into Aceh atrocities dissipated in various separate nodes of reformist human rights advocacy, usually dependent on refugee interview. Acehnese resistance reports, however forensically detailed, missed the follow-up needed for thorough and specific allegations, and publicity about a process of regular state atrocity over many years. Aceh atrocity became at most a legalistic study, not legal intervention per se. If World War II’s French maquis or Tito’s partisans had suffered comparable overseas disregard, Europe’s peace and reconstruction would have been considerably delayed. States’ diplomatic support leaned to Jakarta’s claimed moral superiority, where atrocity was a crucial matter. To that effect, Australian Foreign Minister Alexander Downer condemned “slaughter by GAM…of Indonesians, whether in the military or…civilians” (DFAT 2003), or similar US State Department’s exclusive criticism of GAM for “human rights abuses” (CRS 2002). Any expectation or demand for justice in cases of violent TNI–POLRI crimes in Aceh and elsewhere seemed very ambitious. Potential legal and diplomatic action over atrocity were more remote when NGO research seemed to prioritize institutional prestige or “branding” in separate, uncoordinated reporting. Resources and motivation were not the problem:
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 169 Acehnese resistance and overseas supporters generally failed to consolidate information, partly due to GAM’s decentralized nature (a source of operational resilience in the field), but the resistance lacked systematic treatment of information at international levels. Despite its generally canny appreciation of tactical priorities, the ASNLF failed to galvanize its sources into a strategic intelligence effort compelling attention to civilians’ plight. Not that East Timorese precedents were necessarily more effective: GAM simply had none of FALINTIL’s default international legalistic and religionist support.
Militia background, components, and expansion In the case of Indonesian criminals…the state imitated the criminal, striving to become like him. James T. Siegel (1998: 9) It’s said there are militias in Aceh. What militias? MAJGEN Endang Suwarya, Commander KODAM Iskandar Muda, June 2003 (MI 2003c; SK 2003a) Indonesian militia ancestors appeared during the Dutch and, more influentially, Japanese occupations (see Khatulistiwa 2000; Lebra 1977: 75–112). By the early 1970s, formal procedures of raising, funding, and training paramilitary civilian formations transferred from TNI–POLRI to the Interior Ministry (DEPDAGRI) due to “inefficiencies,” implying rivalry and control problems when separate militias previously subordinated to each of the four TNI–POLRI services. Basic militia types were People’s Resistance, Civil Defense, and People’s Security (WANRA, HANSIP, and KAMRA, respectively), all raised as “social” and “technological weapons” for separating guerrillas from the populace, in direct response to classic guerrilla doctrine from Mao Zedong to Che Guevara. Militia functions were emphasized in “intelligence” and “territorial” operations, or “passive” and “active” counterinsurgency phases, while organicist ideology directed militias against the “infection” of “subversion” (dephankam 1972a, b, 1973). By then, Aceh had higher-than-average militia recruitment and training targets: the small population of “Atjeh” contributed some seven percent of Indonesia’s total. Ironically, despite militia doctrine’s claims to anticolonial origins, TNI antiguerrilla approaches recognized GAM’s continuation of the anticolonial independence struggle (perjuangan) claimed by the TNI itself. Counterintelligence veteran of the East Timor War MAJGEN Williem da Costa (2003) stressed the point, contrasted with his resurrection of Jakarta’s East Timor-“communist” bogey (MI 2003g), an altogether different resistance characterization. Less formally, TNI units directly recruited militia as part-time TPO/TBO auxiliaries (Tenaga Pembantu /Bantuan Operasi, Operational Support Resource) in local, nondepartmental processes. As a general arbitrary distinction apparent from sources, “TBO” applied to auxiliaries in East Timor, and “TPO” to Aceh. In both cases, auxiliaries offered the TNI’s territorium a potential cadre for flexible
170 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam expansion via a coerced local populace. Acehnese commonly called TPO auxiliaries cu’ak (spy), East Timorese used the Tetum mauhu, while panah koramil (KORAMIL arrows) was an interchangeable term applied by the TNI’s territorial apparatus. Aceh’s early 1990s groups around TPO cadres included the Unit Ksatria Penegak Pancasila (Pancasila-Upholders Warrior Unit), Lasjkar Rakyat, and Laskar Teuku Umar (Yudhoyono 1998: 145; MeunaSAH 1999b). Syarwan Hamid, KOREM 011’s chief during the intensified DOM counterinsurgency from the early 1990s, boasted that an auxiliary militia cadre of 600 conscripted around 60,000 civilian aides in two years (RNW 2001d). Thousands of armed militiamen already held a public rally in Lhokseumawe, North Aceh, in early 1997 (Wsp 1997), similar to loyalist rallies by East Timor counterparts. North Aceh established 26 district-based civilian security groups. Targeting 150,000 for KOREM 011’s then five northern regencies, a further 125,000 auxiliaries were planned for later stages as PKD – Pemuda Keamanan Desa, Village Security Youths (Kmp 1997). Like East Timorese TBO, Acehnese TPO performed basic tasks as local spies or informers, besides scout and tracking duties for TNI infantry patrols. TNI troops often compelled civilians into agent work by threatening to label them “GAM” (or “FALINTIL/OPM/GPK”) if they refused. As in East Timor, the sinister cu’ak phenomenon had disruptive terrorizing effects on civilians, where TPOs’ information could lead to mass detentions, interrogations, torture, and executions. The paranoiac environment around TPOs equated to that of policeinfiltrated crime syndicates in peacetime. TPOs’ TNI handlers could manipulate civilian fears by punitively contriving wider collaboration where there was none, in efforts to incite misdirected GAM payback killings (see, for example, fpdra 2001b). Meanwhile, either from a fatalistic sense of no return, or genuine loyalist commitment, some TPO initiated shootings of civilians after interrogation yielded no information on GAM members (Srb 2000j), or merely participated in TNI atrocities such as the Bantaqiah-Beutong massacre. Case study: elite-level collaboration Of all TNI auxiliary recruitment, KOPASSUS’ SGI counterintelligence teams ran probably the most energetic and ambitious, even using several Acehnese TPO as trusted interrogator-torturers (Gatra 1998a). In army special forces’ journal Baret Merah, CAPT Handy Geniardi’s generally frank account described a nine-month agent-handling process for SGI–Sattis counterintelligence operations in Pidie Regency, December 1992, to find and kill senior GAM leader Umar Ibrahim (see Geniardi 1998). Geniardi used his Aceh experience in near-identical agenthandling processes for East Timor overseeing loyalist Gadapaksi paramilitaries, which drew prominent recruits from turned FALINTIL klandestin supporters (Moore 2001). Best known of these was Eurico Guterres, whose parents had died at TNI troops’ hands before his cultivation, after which he became infamous as a Gadapaksi cadre leading Aitarak militia in East Timor’s 1999 terror. Others served as a “training enemy” in KOPASSUS’bilateral engagement with Australia’s
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 171 SASR (Special Air Service Regiment), in dangerous, undiplomatic mischief against the Australians in a West Java jungle exercise. Geniardi’s Acehnese agent Tarmizi had a similar background to Eurico Guterres’. Tarmizi’s family and house had been annihilated, Geniardi claimed, by local civilians hostile to their “Free Aceh Islamic State” sympathies (Gerakan Islam Aceh Merdeka, a religionist characterization Geniardi used ten times). The “civilian” killers were likely loyalist paramilitary, if not TNI–POLRI members out of uniform. Implicit coercive threat was apparent in that the KOPASSUS troops knew in detail the identities and addresses of Tarmizi’s surviving relatives, from whose normal communal bonds of support he was kept isolated (orphan care being a basic Muslim tenet). Therefore, the vulnerable orphan Tarmizi became hostage to KOPASSUS’ “protection,” informally detained but completely dependent, cooking and cleaning around the Sattis unit’s post. After three months of such virtual slave labor, KOPASSUS gave Tarmizi some wages and access to extended family as prompts motivating his reeducation and training for infiltration into GAM’s logistical network. To that end, Tarmizi traded cannabis on behalf of his KOPASSUS masters, eventually snaring a key GAM liaison contact named Maksum, who was effectively tortured for information on GAM’s Umar Ibrahim. Geniardi used the terms “persuasive” and “coercive” to euphemize the harsh interrogation process against Maksum, who was threatened with death at least three times for refusing to cooperate, but Geniardi’s account could seem flippant on these points. First, his commander, Sattis chief CAPT Eko Wiratmoko, ordered him to take Maksum to Sigli beach to be shot dead using silenced weapons. Geniardi then described his threat to kill Maksum if he refused to betray his GAM contacts in the jungle by scouting for a TNI patrol hunting Umar Ibrahim. The hunt began, with Maksum trekking at point for the KOPASSUS-led fighting patrol, but Geniardi had to spend two hours reapplying such “persuasion” of his conscripted scout after Maksum reverted to his uncooperative attitude, refusing to indicate precisely the GAM hideout’s location. Thus did Geniardi’s platoon-size force raid a GAM camp to kill Umar Ibrahim, in a coup of similar significance to Xanana Gusmao’s capture in East Timor around the same time. Geniardi’s success attracted immediate high-profile attention in a snap helicopter field visit by then KOREM 011 and KOLAKOPS chief Syarwan Hamid. Syarwan’s flash of sudden prominence in the mission showed these counterintelligence tasks’ high priority compared with more routine TNI operations. Himself a KOPASSUS officer, Syarwan Hamid was the commander ultimately responsible for the mission’s conduct and would have well known the methods used to gain information and other cooperation from detainees. Indeed, Syarwan got much credit for the raid, just as his colleague and contemporary in East Timor, Theo Syafei, was first lauded after Xanana’s capture by Mahidin Simbolon’s counterpart KOPASSUS–SGI unit. Such operational background was important to explain the nature of counterintelligence activity and related militia programs in Aceh. That case’s higher-level mission affirmed KOPASSUS’ elitist supremacy above more routine territorial processes of surveillance and coercion, though both levels’ methods could be
172 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam similar. Specialist agent-handling and infiltration skills carried SGI veterans into yet higher national or even international tasks with BAIS (Strategic Intelligence Agency). KOPASSUS counterintelligence intrigues in Aceh could also help to qualify Syarwan Hamid’s later 1999 reformasi role avowedly agitating for Riau Province’s independence. KOPASSUS’ Sandi Yudha infiltration and manipulation of civilians defined much in TNI “sociopolitical” and territorial missions, and their practitioners’ potentially greater political status. Just as Theo Syafei eventually became a prominent Megawati stalwart, Syarwan would later embellish his sometimes bloody career in loyal, repressive “regime maintenance” by coauthoring a book with Australian academic Harold Crouch. Gangland: “black PSYOPS,” paramilitary youth, and jihadists Although useful for local knowledge and infiltration, recruitment of local TPO never sufficed in more aggressive, covert TNI operations. Counterintelligence activity drew on Indonesia’s vast networks of mostly Lumpenproletariat gangsters (preman) variously allied to political parties, but invariably dependent on TNI–POLRI patronage and sponsorship. In this broader paramilitary activity, Aceh showed some more substantial parallels, and key differences, with contemporary and preceding East Timor and Papua cases. In practice, party-affiliated youth groups, jihadist fanatics, opportunist fellow travelers, TNI–POLRI veterans, and freelancers often formed groups in which such recruitment categories were not mutually exclusive. From the late 1990s to early 2001, preman groups were prominent in Jakarta’s “intelligence” phase of Aceh operations. Several reports during that time emphasized a “fake GAM” allegedly comprising preman, freelance soldiers, “deserters,” and “prison escapees,” raised as a deniable resource for general destabilization, premeditated killings or assassination, and infiltration (see Davies 2001: 32–3). Such terrorist mayhem fell under the counterintelligence craft of PSYOPS, almost by default a KOPASSUS specialization: “actions intended to convey selected information and indicators to foreign audiences. They are designed to influence emotions, motives, reasoning, and ultimately, the behavior of the enemy” (MCWP 2001: 35). Besides irregular “fake GAM” black operations, earlier approaches showed deployed forces’ direct hand in such sinister tasks, exposed by Acehnese civilian sources reporting territorial battalion troops compromised as “ninja” provocateurs (Widayat n.d.; Wsp 1998b, c), or detained while posing as students as angry civilians sought out covert assassins (Srb 1999c). President Abdurrahman Wahid and Minister of State for Human Rights Affairs Hasballah M. Saad (FK 1999f) both alluded to gangster elements among non-Acehnese provocateurs infiltrated to initiate unrest and intimidate Acehnese civilians. In Aceh, the most readily available and plausibly deniable human resource for such “black flag” operations were the overtly nationalist “community youth organizations” (Organisasi Kemasyarakatan Pemuda, OKP): Pemuda Pancasila, PP; Ikatan Pemuda Karya, IPK; Pemuda Panca Marga, PPM; and Angkatan Muda Partai Golkar, AMPG, Golkar Party Youth Force, formerly AMPI (Pelita
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 173 2003a).6 Although often competing with one another, including gang or “turf” warfare, these groups were regulated by nationalist control, ideology, and a coordinating centralist bureaucracy in the Indonesian National Youth Committee (Komite Nasional Pemuda Indonesia, KNPI) and a more overtly military-linked Communications Forum for Children of TNI–POLRI Veterans (Forum Komunikasi Putera Puteri Purnawirawan ABRI, FKPPI). The KNPI’s informal subordination to TNI–POLRI was already clear in late 1999 when the group’s Lhokseumawe office became a detention site for four Acehnese youths interrogated by police, then beaten to death by around 50 soldiers from territorial units (Srb 1999a). At the same time, the FKPPI led anti-Australian protests, during which a bullet was fired through an Australian Embassy window, all reacting to the belated (and consensual) Australian-led INTERFET occupation of East Timor’s scorched earth. OKP numbers in Aceh, along with their more public activities, closely matched the PKD militia program. For example, the PP had 120,000 of its members in Aceh in 1999 (FK 1999f),7 and 110,000 in mid-2003 (SP 2003c), while the IPK worked openly with the TNI in repressing Acehnese pro-referendum demonstrations (SIRA 1999). PAMSWAKARSA was a general term for “community-initiated” or selfgenerated (swakarsa) vigilantism, used notably for jihadists in 1998 Jakarta and loyalist militia the following year in East Timor. PAMSWAKARSA’s use in Aceh followed close on those precedents: in an early 2000 incident in Lhoksukon GAM shot dead one militiaman so described (Anl 2000b). But to suit its local incarnation, PAMSWAKARSA used the Acehnese name Pageu Gampong (Township Barrier), trained under close supervision by KOPASSUS’ SGI in late 2002 in Krueng Batee, Southwest Aceh, for example, where the entire local TNI–POLRI territorial command structure officially witnessed inaugural ceremonies. DEPDAGRI performed the administrative functions via its KESBANGLINMAS (National Unity and Community Protection Agency) branch as part of the Gema Assalam (peace vibrations) program launched with the syariah initiative (Wsp 2002s). Aceh’s then Governor Syamsuddin Mahmud claimed to have initiated such action by late 1999, urging the Interior Ministry apparatus “to conduct SISKAMLING or ‘pageu gampong’ activity”: the Indonesian report self-consciously applied inverted commas to the functionary’s quote (Srb 2000f, i, l; Suara Hati 2000). The use of “turned” GAM defectors appeared as part of the later official pageu gampong campaign and its “Acehnized” names for loyalist Indonesian hierarchies in superficial autonomy. Covert turncoats of the loyalist MP-GAM/MB-GAM mischievously appealed to independence fighters to join pageu gampong activity “to protect against security disturbers” (pengacau keamanan: the classic TNI term for resistance fighters), simultaneous with the governor’s appeals to the same end (MB-GAM 2000).8 Students and activists had already taken the initiative well ahead of the provincial government (Srb 1999m), rendering the governor’s claims suspect and more likely a retrospective measure for the sake of political credibility. Early pageu gampong mobilized official mass youth organizations like the Greater Aceh Youth Organization, IPAR (Srb 2001b). However, student referendum activists did take
174 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam an initiative, at least in the early heady days of nonviolent mass protest, using the Indonesian term PAMSWAKARSA to agitate for popular volunteer security patrols outside of supervision and involvement by the Indonesian government or GAM. Observers could reasonably assume that GAM sought to influence such initiatives, but those activist efforts to appropriate PAMSWAKARSA at least appeared to most closely match the term’s very definition of voluntary civilian, grass-roots security (Koalisi 2000b). A precedent for such popular security patrols arose near the capital Banda Aceh in 1999, when referendum activists of the NGO SIRA (Aceh Referendum Information Center) ran “Black Cat Brigade” patrols detaining covert “provocateurs” (FK 1999e; Wsp 1999d). For the TNI’s “enclave” efforts in Central Aceh, militias mixed as OKP gangsters and some TPO-style ethnic Acehnese (RNW 2001c). The imported gang cadres usually described themselves by more generic acronyms than their partylinked affiliates in Medan: Puja Kesuma (Putra Jawa Kelahiran Sumatera, Sumatera-born Javanese Youth);9 the preman gangster term Jago (lit. “champion,” but also a play on the acronym Jawa Gayo); and perhaps more ominous but remote, Seroja, suggestive of veteran youth welfare associations that took the term from the operational name for the open invasion of East Timor in 1975. The militia title Sapu Jagad (see fpdra 2001j, l, o) used the same name as the April 1999 militia operation in Dili. Another similarity to 1999 East Timor’s militia program was the plan to expand the Jago militia to “battalion” strength (RNW 2001b), in a process seen in latter stages of East Timor’s expanded pre-referendum groups, such as Halilintar and Saka. Nonetheless, the PPM was reported among loyalist paramilitary youths in Central Aceh (MI 2003c; puspen 2003f), with an earlier mention in such activities in Bireuen (Srb 2003l). Medan-based OKP boss Olo Panggabean’s patronage of Javanese transmigrants fleeing Aceh indicated the IPK as the most likely source of militia elements in central Aceh: Gatra (2000) described the IPK as a “player” in Aceh, suggesting its prominence from at least the early 1990s.10 Enclave militias’ planning and preparation apparently developed as early as 1998, with PP, PPM, and “Golkar” (almost certainly IPK) affiliates seeking weapons from the local KODIM. The IPK was probably the most openly party-aligned loyalist of the Golkar-inspired New Order gangs beside that parties’ own internal satgas trusties (fpdra 2001o). But Medan remained the gangs’ operational base for increased targeting of nonviolent Acehnese activists in deception, harassment, and attacks (fpdra 2001a). Loyalist gangster interests in Aceh had serious implications at the national level. Against the usual official versions of militias’ PAMSWAKARSA grassroots civilian legitimacy (TV7 2003), Indonesia’s National Human Rights Commission (Komnas HAM) Chief Billah identified TNI training of loyalist paramilitaries in Aceh, whether by policy or local command decision (Kmp 2003f; SCTV 2003f). Characteristically for Indonesia’s nationalist gang coercion of their compatriots by violent threat and action, Billah endured ongoing pillory and harassment from paramilitary loyalists. Komnas HAM at least had some protection from its leavening of retired TNI generals and their own soft criticism
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 175 and favorable observations of the 2003 Holistic Operation. But NGO Kontras (Commission for the Disappeared and Victims of Violence) fared worse: paramilitaries attacked its Jakarta office because of allegedly treasonous findings and public comments by outspoken campaigners Ori Rahman and Munir. In late May 2003 distinctively yellow-green camouflage garbed PPM members, previously known for their group’s loyalist East Timorese underworld connections in Jakarta,11 launched their violent daylight attack on Kontras. More a standard punctuation to such a story than actual scandal, four POLRI members were directly aware of PPM threats against Kontras in a smaller raid the previous day, though no police protection came: echoing 1999 East Timor violence, police at the raid merely looked on as the PPM ransacked the Kontras office and assaulted several staff (OMCT 2003b; Tempo 2003c). TNI Chief Endriartono thinly veiled his criticism of the PPM raid’s victim, lauding the PPM’s patriotic spirit, and adding a qualification of “respectability” by voicing support for due legal process. Some militia recruitment for Aceh went public, when Suyanto, public relations officer of a Surabaya paramilitary enlistment post, boasted to journalists (Dtk 2003d) that up to 1,000 “anti-separatist volunteers” from East Java were to be offered to local TNI–POLRI commanders for service in Aceh, if not elsewhere too. Suyanto admitted that none of the applicants was ethnic Acehnese: the 1,000recruit target seemed extraordinary for its one-week deadline. The program was funded by an unnamed “ethnic Chinese businessman” suggesting either local extortion or, more likely, backing by army-favored kongsi tycoons like Tomy Winata; TVRI news (2003a) more vaguely described “participating ethnic Chinese.” OKP interest in the recruitment was obvious from TVRI’s mention of “unemployed, party activists…and elderly veterans”: all characteristic descriptions of OKP membership. PP boss Yapto Soerjosoemarno was more explicit, telling Indonesian press (SP 2003c) that his paramilitary network was ready to send its most reliable members to “clean up” Acehnese separatists. In parallel with the PP’s infiltration of Papua’s overt independence movement under Theys Eluay, PP boss Yapto conceded that some PP rank and file were also GAM members. Upon the campaign from May 2003, OKP paramilitaries appeared in various activities reasserting Indonesian government presence, from the expensive EU-funded airport project in Central Aceh (Anl 2003d), early security tasks around the 2004 general elections (Wsp 2003v), to elaborate and highly publicized province-wide “loyalty pledge” ceremonies. In the latter case, OKP were filmed, mentioned directly, or identified by the conspicuous role of KNPI, the national body administering all OKP groups (MI 2003b; Srb 2003m, s, ac; Wsp 2003k, r). Sometimes, serving army officers were masters-of-ceremony (Wsp 2003l), and TNI armored vehicles became orators’ platforms (Srb 2003v). A Lhokseumawe rally at the start of martial law showed clearly the TNI’s local KODIM apparatus directing KORAMIL subordinates to marshal civilians into place (Dateline 2003). As the administrative hub of Indonesian paramilitary organization, Aceh’s KNPI later contributed, albeit unofficially, to the Front for the United Youth Echelon (HBMB), headquartered in an old Lhokseumawe army office. The
176 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam HBMB and BARMEPA (Acehnese Red and White Front) mirrored the FPDK–BRTT political wings of 1999 East Timor’s aggressively intensified militia campaign.12 These senior-placed militia cadres functioned in coordination, liaison, funding and materiel distribution, besides certain ideological leadership and perception management in their capacity as local figureheads. Whether in East Timor or Aceh, the existence of two political cadres showed the likely “reserve” capacity drawn up for the militia hierarchies: not a “reserve” in the conventional military, operational sense, but a form of political insurance for their Indonesian paymasters. If one loyalist branch was deemed disloyal or too heavily infiltrated, the other branch could be relied upon as backup. In routine practice, the duality amounted to basic “divide-and-rule” manipulation as each branch vied for greater favor by showing more loyalty and diligence. Funding of preman was essential preparation for paramilitary cadres’ later role as nuclei for conscription of civilians: special KNPI-run loyalty pledge ceremonies in North Aceh were promised Rp150 million, or up to US$20,000 (Wsp 2003m). KNPI was tasked with administering refugee camps in GAM’s traditional Pidie Regency stronghold (Srb 2003p), echoing East Timor militias’ notorious rule over civilians evacuated across the West Timor border. Similar opportunity motivated the FKPPI cadres, also prominent in TNI–POLRI-supervised loyalty ceremonies, and synonymous with the TNI’s WANRA auxiliaries in a Central Aceh parade (KP 2003b). In East Aceh, August 2003, the FKPPI played coordinator for sterilization of Acehnese women in refugee camps (Srb 2003ag), joined by members of 621 Battalion (Mobile TF I), and the Dharma Pertiwi TNI’s wives association, reported innocuously as a “humanitarian” initiative in the 2003 Holistic Operation. State largesse in infrastructure works (using much foreign aid) coincided with central Aceh’s expansion in “Red and White” and jihadist paramilitaries, who invariably rallied to support such projects. Just as World Bank social security safety net funds diverted to military, police and loyalist militia in 1999 East Timor, creative bureaucratic double-entendre offered easy militia funding: “PPG,” for example, doubled as “Township Barrier Youth (Force)” and “Township Development Program” (Program Pengembangan Gampong/Pemuda Pageu Gampong). At least a major part of PPG’s Rp10 billion (about AU$2 million) for Matang Kuli District would entice loyalist militia, who held de facto “development” priority (fpdra 2004; pdmd 2004b). East Aceh (and Tamiang) was the enclave’s main flank, where other political party influence appeared, i.e. Megawati’s People’s Democratic Party of Struggle (PDIP). There the militia first applied the ubiquitous Merah Putih-MP (Red and White) acronym-tag as the FPMP (Red and White Defenders’ Front), later altered from “defenders” to “saviors,” possibly to deflect attention from connections to the East Timorese militia trusty Eurico Guterres’ national FPMP “defenders.” So named since at least August 2001, Eurico’s FPMP was otherwise know as the Laskar Merah Putih (Ant 2001a), a nationwide loyalist paramilitary gang with provincial franchise-style branches, or mergers of allies. FPMP’s Papua expansion fast became an issue in the Western press, and their Timika efforts reportedly slowed down. No such parallel happened in East Aceh, and military protection
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 177 helped ensure FPMP’s continued active presence there.13 The FPMP militia leaders’ essentially militaristic purpose and mentality showed early through their ambitions as local chief Mansyur became his group’s self-proclaimed panglima, or “commander,” and another senior FPMP figure, Iskandar SH, called himself the “Tiger Brigade Commander” (Anl 2003i). In interview, the TNI frowned on the vigilantes’ military or guerrilla pretensions (Age 2003b), since that challenged the insistent official claims that these groups had no substantial military ties and were not “militia” per se. More typical militia leader titles used the innocuously bureaucratic titles of “chairman”, “coordinator,” or “officiator” (ketua, koordinator, pengurus). A closer East Timor parallel arose in the province-wide militia force GPMP (Red and White Youth Movement), whose 1990s East Timor equivalent was the Gadapaksi cadre which produced Eurico Guterres and other militia leaders. Like Gadapaksi before them, the GPMP claimed to contain some former guerrillas cultivated for their new-found state loyalty and inside knowledge. These claims were probably exaggerated, because “former guerrilla” was often applied to those detained from GAM’s support logistics and informant networks (in TNI parlance: klandestin), and even relatives of GAM fighters. Like Gadapaksi precedents in foundation-run workshops in Java, GPMP avowedly prepared youths in vocational training in strict regimes for over five months at “BPG” facilities (special teacher tasking schools) within Aceh itself. Unlike KOPASSUS’ earlier Gadapaksi initiative and its shadowy funding via army-linked foundations and Soeharto’s daughter Tutut, the GPMP–BPG program openly used state education facilities (and almost certainly budgets) in publicized “boot camp” by uniformed TNI instructors. Greater Aceh Regency’s Red and White LPMP reeducation camp stood for Guarantor Institute for Education Quality, but another LPMP expansion matched the loyalist militia acronym in East Aceh: Laskar Pembela Merah Putih (Guerrilla Defenders of the Red and White). In isolation, that superficial coincidence could distract from the avowed GPMP–BPG aim towards a provincial loyalist cadre. The TNI’s BPG “reform schools for GAM” mirrored established TNI campaigns targeting preman gangs for militarization, and control of the cities’ Lumpenproletariat, via austere uniform and more austere discipline to help territorial formations like Jakarta’s KODAM Jaya keep OKP youths subservient and cooperative for routine extortion ventures. Both claimed to provide trainees with vocational (especially automotive) skills, close-order parade drill, along with guidance on becoming good citizens, which Indonesians knew involved severe ideological indoctrination. In trainee numbers both BPG and Gadapaksi corps of indoctrinated students totaled around 600 each: roughly a battalion. The very nature of compulsory indoctrination and boot camp was designed to play out, on a small concentrated scale, wider divisive strategies applied throughout Aceh. Close, continual surveillance by NCOs and officers would ensure scrutiny of trainees’ attitudes, personal foibles, and peer relationships. Where solidarity, or even plain commonality, once existed between the trainees, the BPG program’s pedantic discipline and disproportionate punishments would aim to sow rivalry,
178 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam suspicion, and jealousy in order to facilitate a transfer of allegiance upwards to the military police and other TNI instructors. Whatever the actual extent of trainees’ past GAM connections or commitment, or their conscious efforts to resist TNI indoctrination, the intensive BPG process would leave them compromised both as personalities and as members of their indigenous community. From there Aceh’s martial law government had a pool of Acehnese youth conscripts, responsive to commands, mindful of consequences if disobedient or uncooperative, and ready to work in direct liaison and supervisory roles within the towns’ and villages’ vast (and similarly compulsory) SISKAMLING ranks. As with Gadapaksi too, GPMP had a key component of TNI-sponsored martial arts training. In the East Timor case from the mid-1990s, the martial arts style was the SMI, or Satria Muda Indonesia (Young Warriors of Indonesia), under the then-ascendant KOPASSUS and later KOSTRAD chief Prabowo Subianto. Following mutations in political and business blocs since 1999, militias’ martial arts and freelance links clearly shifted from overt KOPASSUS and Soehartoist sponsorship to wider army involvement, including KOSTRAD, but the TNI’s institutional backing of youth gang and covert Islamists remained.14 The martial arts style in Aceh’s loyalist militia campaign was the Tarung Derajat school, which boasted practical “full contact” sparring in a more aggressive public appearance than SMI’s advertised shamanic esoterica. Through martial arts the GPMP also had a more senior sponsor than Gadapaksi predecessors’: army chief GEN Ryamizard Ryacudu, who began his Tarung Derajat training in the late 1980s while deputy and commander of KOSTRAD’s 305 Battalion, acted as general administrator of the West Java-based fighting style. The founder and national training supervisor of Tarung Derajat was Achmad Dradjat, the Sundanese BRIMOB soldier’s son also known as “Aa Boxer” (Aa abbreviated for the Sundanese akang, “elder brother”). One cultural difference between the nationalist deployments of SMI–Gadapaksi and Tarung Derajat–GPMP was the latter’s involvement in helping enforce Aceh’s new syariah edicts (Kmp 2002b; PR 2003b; pdmd 2004a).15 Explicitly Islamist militia (mujahiddin) added to the loyalist pool of OKP paramilitaries, especially in Jakarta’s efforts to establish a loyalist enclave in Aceh. Best known in the Islamist infiltration was Laskar Jihad (LJ), which was confronted by serious challenges in Aceh. Wider GAM response in interviews and press releases overseas left no doubt the resistance message to Indonesian jihadists: either go to an Aceh graveyard or “back to Indonesia.” Acehnese student activists and GAM spokesmen identified LJ as direct agents of the Indonesian government, deliberately allowed entry to Aceh by the TNI (AFP 2002; fpdra 2002e; IO 2002; Laksamana.Net 2002; MdoP 2002). Accordingly, veteran Bireuen chief Darwis Djeunib barely concealed his lethal threat to LJ, and expressly forbade any friendly greeting of them by Acehnese civilians (Srb 2002b). Darwis’ comments about Indonesian government–LJ ties were no exaggeration: the Maluku war continually revealed tacit and explicit TNI–POLRI backing, including actual TNI logistical aid and POLRI requests for LJ support on operations (MI 2001d). It was also clear that LJ’s membership was almost
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 179 entirely from Medan, and western and Central Java, as it entered Aceh under the auspices of the FKAWJ in a process begun openly from around August 2001 (DPP FKASWJ 2001). Manipulation of different religions played little part within Aceh’s almost entirely Muslim populace, though GAM’s East Aceh chief Ishak Daud (Srb 2001i) warned of just such a development in one small area, where at least one infantry battalion (probably 142) so meddled among locals and migrants of different faiths. LJ’s explicit use of the sinister Komando Jihad title in Maluku from 1999 (DPP FKASWJ 2000a, b, c) coincided with its Central Aceh namesake. In contrast to the regular jihadist advertising in the Maluku war, however, corresponding Aceh operations seemed ever shrouded in secrecy and deception: a source in Solo at that time confirmed that some Java-based (non-Acehnese) jihadists had moved to Aceh, after claiming to do so in order “to join GAM”!16 Central Aceh’s Komando Jihad militia best symbolized the jihadists’ usefulness to Jakarta as unitarian loyalists, well before the LJ’s official disbandment just before the October 2002 Bali terrorist attack. However, Komando Jihad also shared more sinister historical origins with the less publicized Islamic Republic of Aceh (RIA), whose latter-day existence underwent thorough infiltration and use by Indonesia’s intelligence bureaus, especially KOPASSUS’, in a case managed since Ali Murtopo’s time as BAKIN’s dirty tricks supremo (see Chapter 7). Transplanted jihadist resources eventually fell under closer government regulation and public senior-level endorsement. Indonesia’s Defense Department used the Arabic insya Allah in its 2002 reporting on (officially secular) bela negara (defense of the state) indoctrination programs elsewhere in the country (pothan 2002). In Medan, a jihadist youth “brigade” from BKPRMI (Indonesian Mosque Youth Communication Body) graduated from bela negara, as army chief Ryamizard warned them of dangers from “foreign spying” (MI 2004b). Within state structures of funding and political organization, populist ethnoreligious Muslim chauvinism was the main energy driving Jakarta’s anti-GAM jihad. LJ itself characteristically denounced Acehnese separatism (DPP FKASWJ 2000d), injecting some anti-Christian and anti-Jewish prejudice in the poorly attended early 2002 “inaugural” opening of its Aceh chapter in (Laksamana.Net 2002). LJ’s infiltration appeared later that year in a demonstration by FAIZ (Front Anti Israel Zionis, Anti-Israeli-Zionist Front): around 200 young men and women, conspicuous by their anonymity, with children in tow. Ignoring the local war, the rally displaced attention onto an altogether distant, separate issue: the occupation of Palestine and US support for Israel (Rpk 2002a). TNI–POLRI ranks revealed such sentiment, probably influenced by underground NII networks. A reo truckborne masked BRIMOB unit defaced NGO SIRA’s Banda Aceh office on 15 May 2001, using anti-“Zionist” graffiti (HRW 2001). POLRI’s Kasminto (2003: 15) similarly transferred anti-Jewish hostility into its effort to discredit Acehnese resistance, describing Hasan di Tiro’s Belgian ex-wife Dora as “living in Jew America [sic].” The FPDRA web chat forum recorded diligent ultra-nationalist mail claiming GAM’s leadership was Jewish (fpdra n.d.)! In 2003 GAM radio operators monitored an Indonesian unit’s VHF communications in North Aceh:
180 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam aware that GAM regularly eavesdropped, BRIMOB troops taunted GAM guerrillas with abuse, calling them “Jewish GAM pigs.”17 Strategy: “seize the high ground” Indonesian militias attracted more international attention after the TNI–POLRI 1999 East Timor “scorched earth,” or “exit strategy,” but they were not some new phenomenon. Intensified militia programs in Aceh properly began as early as 1997, almost two years before East Timor’s open militia terror. Although mostly reported from 2000, the increased central Aceh militias began their new life at that earlier time too (SH 2003f), but the local offensive began almost a year before the first wave of increased TNI deployments. Combined with new regency and district subdivisions, loyalist militias were essential in establishing an Ulster-style “Red and White” enclave in central and eastern Aceh, strategically flanking Aceh’s concentrations of fossil fuel riches. The area’s larger subethnic Gayo population gave a useful cover for the non-indigenous militia, while informal migration combined to force a change in the ethnic make-up of central and eastern Aceh’s population centers. East Aceh, and North Aceh’s eastern flank, showed reinforced nonindigenous populations concurrent with new district administrations (see Map 6.1). The effort soon sparked an outcry over atrocities of murder and ethnicity-based depopulation by terror, including one massacre of up to 100 civilians allegedly by loyalist militia under KOPASSUS supervision (ASNLF 2001c; see also HotNews 2003). Troops forbade Central Aceh’s refugees from forming encampments, instead making them pay rent to nominated militia and government officials (fpdra 2001m). Gus Dur’s minister Hasballah M. Saad protested the phased infiltration of gangsters from Medan and Jakarta into Central Aceh’s militia groups (RNW 2001b), but elected reformist politicians’ ineffectual efforts against these activities highlighted Jakarta’s real source of power, i.e. the TNI, especially the army. Open reporting of these facts probably worsened the persona non grata status of involved politicians and journalists (Age 2001), though mainstream Indonesian press still reported local antimilitia opposition by March 2003 (Anl 2003c). Central Aceh paramilitaries brazenly wore TNI uniform (Kontras 2003a) or sponsoring unit emblems, such as KOSTRAD’s 431 (SH 2003f) and 501 airborne battalions. For these militias based around ethnic Javanese among a predominately Gayo population, TNI–POLRI troops gave daily training and tacit support, including five rifle cartridges per week, plus improvised home-made ammunition (fpdra 2001k, m; Rpk 2001a).18 Upon martial law, TNI spokesman LTCOL A. Yani Basuki doubled as public relations for the Central Aceh militias when describing one of their attacks, led by Sukadji, killing three alleged GAM members (Wsp 2003g). Militia rationalization and conscription Jakarta’s post-1999 Timor public and international relations concerns inspired some elaborate, creative depictions and misrepresentations of militia programs:
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 181 euphemism talked around a long-established process of civilian mobilization. National policy set explicit planning and budgetary considerations for active and close TNI–POLRI involvement, albeit couched in characteristically bureaucratic language leavened with many acronyms. Much merely continued New Order practice with Preliminary Education for Defense of the State (Pendidikan Pendahuluan Bela Negara, PPBN), especially among civil servants and students. The Defense Department, TNI, and BIN, among others, were tasked with “communalizing bela negara awareness…among the education (and) labor” sectors and populated settlements, issuing performance-based reports on “bela negara awareness levels.” MENKOPOLKAM, central martial law chief and future president GEN (ret’d) Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY) himself ordered militia expansion within a preemptive apology decrying “TNI–POLRI funding deficiencies” (Dtk 2001). The role of POLRI and DEPDAGRI was more direct, tasked with actually “increasing community participation in siskamtibmas swakarsa (community-generated order and security system).” Bela negara functioned at a general, national level of policy framework, while kamtibmas denoted its lowest POLRI responsibilities (BAPPENAS 2003). The paramilitary system routinely subordinated to centralized campaign, as demonstrated in SBY’s inspection and address to 5,000 SISKAMLING conscripts in offshore Simeulue Regency (Srb 2003ak). By 2003, amid routine TNI denials of militia activity in Aceh, publicity repeated the counterinsurgency principles behind militias’ creation, i.e. separating GAM from its civilian base (puspen 2003f; MI 2003c; SCTV 2003g, h; SK 2003a; Srb 2003f).19 The TNI itself annually reported its indoctrination of civilians, or “nonphysical targets” for “illumination/enlightenment” (penyuluhan) in matters such as religion, “state and nation awareness,” and bela negara duty. Local government officials received instructional and other materials for the “integrationist” projects with bela negara preparations for militia expansion (puspen 2001). Puspen TNI chief Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin later categorized bela negara recruitment and training in 2000 as “social works” or “hearts-and-minds” programs run from KOREMs 011 and 012 (puspen 2002d). By mid-2003 in southeastern Aceh for example, bela negara paramilitary training assumed the familiar and tried form of past militia training, as 154 of a planned 300 villagers trained as HANSIP militia in Kutapanjang District, Gayo Lues Regency, progressing to “basic military training” (latsarmil) for 20 selected trainees (Wsp 2003c). TNI units made inhabitants build SISKAMLING security posts (LIN 2003b), using precise military handbook-style templates specifying measurements for sandbagging and revetment as issued throughout the provincial hierarchy. TNI commanders addressed civilians in general terms of bela negara duty, while police chiefs reiterated DEPDAGRI formal orders for SISKAMLING conscription (Wsp 2003p). By late 2003, southern Aceh KODIM chief LTCOL Jamhur Ismail alluded to the TNI’s role in “optimizing” (mengoptimalkan) bela negara training, though referring to militias by an old generic WANRA acronym (Srb 2003at). The ostensible humanitarian and civil infrastructure works program (Bhakti TNI) was openly contradicted by its early involvement in starting SISKAMLING conscription, with apparent
182 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam connections made to community religious life in that area (puspen 2003k). The inclusion of militia- and informer-management within “TNI social works” projects seemed to have been lost on one observer, who located the works to exclusively “hearts and minds” sincerity (JIR 2002a). TNI chief Endriartono made ambiguous denials that TNI units had trained civilians, conceding a defensive capacity in TNI bela negara civilian programs: “a la military training” (SK 2003b). But whatever euphemisms and prevarications were used, widespread training and organizing of militias was clearly a matter of actual TNI policy (see Dansatgaspen 2003; JwP 2003d; SCTV 2003f). The acronym Latsarmil (Basic Military Training) described the program for Aceh’s civil servants in June 2003 (Srb 2003r; Wsp 2003i),20 and KODAM I.M.’s military supervision of SISKAMLING was called “guidance” (puspen 2003h). TNI– POLRI militia mobilization coordinated with regions outside of Aceh: Jakarta’s KODAM commander MAJGEN Djoko Santoso specified one of the five core competencies of babinsa (Village Guidance NCO) as “an ability to organize the (civilian) community for training to carry out bela negara” (Palagan 2003b); or a July 2003 joint POLRI–DEPDAGRI training activity in Central Java raising “community intelligence networks…and PAMSWAKARSA” vigilantes (Setda Jabar 2003). By mid-2004, loyalist Aceh cadres expanded to 4,000, streamlined in bela negara training: directly by KODAM I.M. and both KOREM formations, while DEPDAGRI’s paramilitary Kesbang Linmas (National Unity and Community Protection) branch ran lower pageu gampong levels via the national Boy Scouts (pramuka) movement and local mosques (Anl 2004d). In place of militias’ various recruitment means and many acronyms, SISKAMLING (Local Security System) was used almost exclusively by 2003: the system combined with new militia “opposition front” pseudonyms expressly targeting “GAM,” but reinforcing population surveillance in practice. SISKAMLING was the more coercive use of civilians for security duties than East Timor’s rushed post-1998 militia chaos. In Aceh, the policy and guidelines materialized as SISKAMLING conscription, begun by dress rehearsals for civilian mobilization, i.e. the compulsory “loyalty pledge” ceremonies (ikrar kesetiaan) from the mid2003 campaign’s start. In Darul Makmur District, Nagan Raya Regency, for example, OKP militias based in 51 villages numbered over 1,000 at the local “loyalty pledge” rally, and the district had already set up 342 SISKAMLING posts, with other security posts at government facilities and schools (Srb 2003o). As with the “loyalty pledge” ceremonies, SISKAMLING parades occurred within the infrastructure of the party- and government-sponsored paramilitary youth gangs (Wsp 2003s). To many observers, the clumsy, insincere, and unwilling nature of such stage-managed “loyalty” suggested that the activity was a waste of time and energy, if not counterproductive for Jakarta’s war aims. Behind the tasteless theatre of coerced patriotism lay simple counterintelligence aims: closer scrutiny and control of civilians targeting shirkers and dissenters as the more likely strong GAM sympathizers, guerrilla relatives, and klandestin part-timers. Such crude calculation was not precise, but based on rational probabilities: absenteeism indicated more likely participation in GAM
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 183 support. Hostage-taking of GAM relatives, ostensibly “protective custody” against local community anger, was another activity aided by close SISKAMLING surveillance under TNI–POLRI coordination. An example of that increased practice from 2003 was KOSTRAD 431 Battalion paratroopers’ detention of eight women reportedly married to GAM members in the field (KP 2003c). 1950s precedent was clear in a memoir by an Acehnese loyalist civil servant (Mohammad Ali 1996: 74–6) appointed to restore Indonesian control over Daud Beureueh’s uprising, as rebel families became TNI bargaining chips. Compulsory participation in SISKAMLING also took time away from resistance involvement, besides forcing a severe conflict of interest. Detail from these prosaic, totalitarian nationalist rallies (see TVRI 2003c for example) showed no serious intention to “win” civilians’ hearts and minds beyond implanting fear and instinctive obedience in real demonstrations of local military control. Aceh’s martial law government (PDMD) ordered the establishment, expansion, and monitoring of SISKAMLING posts for coordination with the TNI–POLRI territorial hierarchy (Srb 2003n; Wsp 2003j). SISKAMLING conscripted several hundred thousand of Aceh’s villagers and refugee camp dwellers into forced sentry and patrol duty, reporting of any activity indicating a local GAM presence, and deterrence against GAM attacks on escorting TNI–POLRI troops and their facilities (SM 2003b). SISKAMLING compelled all the routine minutiae of guard duty: identities, entry, exit, time, and date, backed by a new KTP-MP database for simple collation, analysis, and retrieval of any suspected GAM and associates. POLDA chief Bahrumsyah publicly alluded to such compulsion with references to citizens’ “rights and responsibilities in maintaining order,” though the Western Aceh KODIM chief of staff was less vague, citing SISKAMLING work as both a “responsibility” and “community duty” (Srb 2003ad). At the most basic levels the SISKAMLING guards and sentries were organized into section formations (regu), after the standard military concept (SK 2003a). Indonesian forces’ control and guidance was thinly concealed, as when South Aceh’s police chief told youths what was expected of them: “to catch GAM members” (Srb 2003ao). Central Aceh’s earlier mobilization was the blueprint for the program’s expansion under martial law (Anl 2003g). The process would take time, but its proved to work: after the Holistic Operation’s six month-mark, MAJGEN Endang Suwarya admitted that his regime had not achieved SISKAMLING targets for Aceh’s town and village participation (TI 2003c). Human shields Whatever the repeated preemptive denials of senior TNI officers, and however prohibitive Aceh’s populace to any prospect of voluntary loyalist militancy, the intensified SISKAMLING campaign was a program of militia networks almost by superlative definition. Based around relatively small cadres of loyalist paramilitary OKP preman, military-trained civil servants, and retired TNI– POLRI members, the large SISKAMLING numbers flaunted by provincial government officials were generally accurate. Nonetheless, Jakarta’s claims that
184 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam Ahmad Munir ? FORPIBNAD BARMEPA Syukur Munadi HBMB Agustiar LMP-AGAM * Syahrul Badruddin FPSG GPMP Said Samsul Khalid Wardana Suhaimy (I Omy) GEURASA Militia cadre FPMP BERANTAS Zulkifli Gede FPS-GAM M Satria Insan Kamil Marzuki AR ? Iskandar Sofyan Ali ('Yan PT') Mansyur
Ormas-NKRI
Adnan Hasyim GPA-RI Agus
*
FBA FBP
?
Korps SPS FAGSAM
FPSG
011 012
Hasbi Yunus
*
*
FPAP Syarifuddin Latief
Syukur Khobat FPRMP H Misriady MS
?
FPGSA
T Ismuhuddin
See Map 6.1 for origins
Syaifuddin Amnur Front-TUM T Hasyim Ubit
*
FPSG
FPAP-GAM
FPR-GMP
Habib Suhaimi H Iskandar
Tjut Ali
M Salam FPSG
GPSG-TP
FPSG
Nasruddin
Abu Bakar Karim
REGIONAL SUPERVISION FPGAM? H Marsito Mertorejo M Satria Insan Kamil
X* X
GPSG-TCA
022
Hafidh
I? Sofyan Ali III? II? T Sukandi IV
Province-wide Militia group Political cadre Sub-group Identified leaders KODAM KODIM Interim KODIM Sub-boundary (civil)
Syaiful Bahri (Langkat)
023 GPSG Ali Hazmy Tomy Adnan Hasyim
Map 6.2 Militia: SISKAMLING expansion from October 2003. See also Table 6.1 for full titles and strengths.
SISKAMLING proved popular hostility to GAM were disingenuous hyperbole, at best. The 2003 SISKAMLING-PAMSWAKARSA campaign in Aceh was a reactivation of late 1990s efforts which, due to lower troop numbers, had barely gone beyond the largest population centers (Srb 1999e). SISKAMLING covered routine jaga malam (night watch) duty at posts monitored by Indonesian forces
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 185 Table 6.1
Loyalist Indonesian militia formations in Aceh from October 2003
Title(a)
Cadre–conscripts
Noted
FPSGA/FPGAM? F. P. S. GAM Aceh HBMB Himpunan Barisan Muda Bersatu(b) BARMEPA Barisan M. P. Aceh(b) GPMP G. Pemuda M. P.
(generic?) (coord)
Oct 03 Apr 03
> 4,000 (2004)
Aug 03
BERANTAS Benteng Rakyat A. S. Korps SPS Korps Sipil Pemburu S.
[500(c)] 60–10,000 –
12 Nov 03 Jun 04
FPSGA Forum Pemberantas S. GAM Aceh FPSG F. P. S. GAM, FPAS-GAM F. P. A. S. GAM
20–10–12,000
1 Oct 03
− 5,000
Nov 03(d)
GPA-RI G. Penyelamat Aceh RI FBP Fron [sic] Blang Padang FPA F. Penyelamat Aceh. FPSG, FPASA
14–10–15,000 – 22–15,000
Nov 03–4 Jan 04 24 Dec 03 7 Feb 04
Ormas–NKR1 Organisasi Massa Negara Kesatuan RI
37–10,000
Nov 03
GEURASA G. Rakyat A. S. Aceh
38–10–15,000
Nov–18 Dec 03
FORPIBNAD Forum Pemuda Indonesia Bersatu Nanggroe Aceh Darussalam
[400, prob. separate coord]
FPMP F. Penyelamat/Pembela M. P. FPS-GAM, FPAP F. P. A. Pemberontak LMP-AGAM Laskar M. P. A. GAM
[600(c)] 25–10,000 80–10,000 –
FAGSAM F. A. G. S. Aceh Merdeka, FPGSA Forum Pemberantas G. S. Aceh, FAS–SAM, F. Milisi A. S.
24–10,000(d) Nov 03–Apr 04 [90,000, claimed total] Oct–17 Dec 03
Apr 03 Jan–Mar 04
Front–TUM F. P. and Pembela Rakyat Bumi Tk Umar FPAP-GAM F. P. A. Pemberontak GAM
50–15,000
Nov–26 Dec 03
FPR-GAM F. P. Rakyat Garuda M. P.
34–10,000
Nov–24 Dec 03
GPSG G. P. S. GAM GPSG-TCA G. P. S. GAM – Tk Cut Ali GPSG-TP G. P. S. GAM – Tk Peukan
39–3,500 34–15,000 38–2,500
21 Jan 04 15 Dec 03 6 Jan 04
FPSG F .P. S. GAM
47–5,000
27 Feb 04 (Continued)
186 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam Table 6.1 Title
(Continued)
(a)
FPRMP/PPRMP F./Persatuan P. Rakyat M. P. PUJA KESUMA Putra Jawa Kelahiran Sumatera Sapu Jagad, Buaya Putih, Komando Jihad, Seroja, Brigade Leuser Antara, JAGO Jawa Gayo SMI Satuan Milisi Indonesia
Cadre–conscripts
Noted
39–1,000
4 Mar 04
2000–25,000
>1998
Abbreviations (where not expanded separately): A: Anti; AM: Aceh Merdeka (Free Aceh); F: Front; G: Gerakan (Movement); MP: Merah Putih (“Red & White”); P: Perlawanan (Opposition); RI: (Republic of Indonesia); S: Separatis. Notes a Italics used for subgroupings, previous names, or permutated acronyms in reporting. b Central “political” cadre appearing in earlier militia preparation via “loyalty pledge” and SISKAMLING ceremonies held throughout the province post-May 2003. c Probably temporary “membership” upon brief, local OKP mobilization. d Sofyan Ali (aka “Yan PT”) and “Cut Ali” probably identical, indicating “leadership” across areas.
and paramilitary cadres. Pagar betis (fence of legs) was more active coercion of civilians into TNI patrols. Demoralizing both the guerrillas and civilians themselves, it put civilians into a human shield role in sweeps of the interior on foot, or in convoys, following precedents from Aceh’s DOM period and East Timor (Budiardjo 1984: 41–5, 80–1). A generic concept, pagar betis would broadly translate into the common military “extended line” formation of ground searches, single-front attack, or aggressive advance-to-contact: the TNI used the term in that latter sense too, as reported from the late 2002 Cot Trieng siege (SCTV 2002).21 The antiguerrilla sweeping tactic was used in West Java against 1950s Darul Islam insurgents (Sudirman 2000b), later anticommunist drives in Kalimantan, and when KOSTRAD soldiers tasked Muslim civilians in 1999 Ambon (Gamma 1999). As elsewhere in Indonesia, any civilians avoiding SISKAMLING guard duty could expect an arbitrarily determined fine, or worse. In heavily militarized Aceh, consequences for refusal to take part in SISKAMLING could be much worse. Andi Widjajanto, an observer in Jakarta, anticipated pagar betis in Aceh as an unremarkable likelihood in future TNI Aceh operations (Komnas HAM 2002). Once the expanded networks of SISKAMLING posts got underway by mid2003, their OKP paramilitary cadre became more prominent targets for GAM attacks (poldanad 2003d): POLRI reports confirmed GAM’s targeted killing of several among Aceh’s new wave of loyalist paramilitaries. They also risked GAM infiltration, already clear from POLRI Intelligence and Security (intelkam) Branch’s seizure of the conspicuous orange and black PP uniform from a Southeast Aceh GAM hideout in new year 2002 (Wsp 2002c, in just one of several similar examples). GAM’s use of PP attire was not out of any practical necessity in the field: however flexible their approach to combat uniform, the PP’s near-fluorescent orange-based “camouflage” made it most unsuitable in the jungle except as a potential large aiming mark for TNI–POLRI troops, or perhaps in a forest fire.
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 187 Transmigration and ethnic shifts Formal non-indigenous settler migration contained militia components as a matter of official priority. Mostly from the densely populated “center” (the island of Java), “transmigration” (transmigrasi) to outlying regions had paramilitary training formulated in pre-embarkation plans. A pilot program launched in September 1998, especially targeting Aceh and Papua, in an explicitly “militant” project explained by its chief sponsor: then minister for transmigration and still-serving TNI general Hendropriyono, later to become State Intelligence Agency (BIN) chief. Using the more traditional term WANRA, Hendropriyono labeled the plan’s opponents “traitors to the people.” Such “treasonous” opposition arose immediately in Papuan activists’ protest demanding the program’s halt, and denouncing it as a colonialist project (SP 1998). Among its pleas for international investigation of allegedly deliberate TNI-sponsored interethnic conflict, the ASNLF reported specific use of transmigrants in September–October 2003 (ASNLF 2003k). Just as East Timor’s expanded militia aggression grew from gangs recruited locally and across its border in West Timor, Central Aceh’s aggressive militia activity from 2000 indicated a migrant influx from neighboring North Sumatera. Population data (JkP 2002d) suggested that formal transmigration was small, as itinerant workers made up a large part of the non-indigenous influx, including nominal “Christians,” from North Sumatera. The formal transmigration program itself halted as its department merged with the Labor Ministry (DTE 2000) to become Depnakertrans (Department of Labor and Transmigration). Budgetary crisis was the explanation for postponement of an Aceh settlement target for 16,200 families over 1999–2004, but semiprivate sponsorship of contractual migrant workers offered flexible solutions to the centralized program’s troubles, especially where Medan-based OKP groups attached to infrastructure projects in autonomy programs. Migrant shifts into Aceh altered the population over decades and would continue. Traditional land ownership on the island of Java fell more to a minority of plantation owners and property developers, thereby contributing transmigrants to Aceh at official averages of 15,000 per year from 1975 to 1992 (see Foisy 2001), apparently restored to around that rate by 2003. A Javanese transmigrant community elder numbered Aceh’s total ethnic Javanese community at a total of half a million (API 2003), though that number covered non-transmigrants and probably also Aceh-born descendants. Approximately one UPT (Unit Pemukiman Transmigrasi, Transmigration Settlement Unit) would be designated for each district (kecamatan) in key areas of Aceh, provided factors of security, logistics, and economic opportunity were not deemed prohibitive. In western Aceh, for example, UPT nodes formed across the regency’s districts in a sequential numbering added with each year of new intakes. High transmigrant concentrations moved to South Aceh, with an official record listing some 4,500 families for 2003 (nakertrans 2003). A well-known example of transmigrant candidates were displaced villagers from the late 1980s Kedung Ombo dam project in Central Java, where thousands
188 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam of Javanese farming families were evicted from traditional lands with scant or no compensation. The local government and security apparatus siphoned off the project’s World Bank funding that had been set aside to minimize just such human catastrophe, but little came from either Jakarta or the World Bank in response to protests over the scandal. Displacement usually took less spectacular form than vast development projects attracting big loans and publicity. In 1996 the author met one facilitator in land appropriation, a Yogyakarta notary, who became rich and politically influential by gathering vast tracts of property for one of Soeharto’s half-brothers. The notary could pay for his children’s expensive American and European education, souvenirs of which they proudly flaunted. Imbued with the glossy development ideology of modernization, the notary’s children actually regarded their father’s work as a benevolent social reform by which Javanese peasantry could raise their living standard via transmigration to some imaginary, fertile outer island sparseness – areas the notary’s children had never visited, or wanted to. From 1998, evictions of transmigrants from Aceh became a contentious issue, for which GAM denied responsibility. ASNLF chiefs knew the adverse publicity potential, accordingly making senior statements forbidding the practice. Eviction of Javanese transmigrants was noted in West Aceh in 2001 (SbyP 2001), and by order of a lower-level North Aceh GAM commander in late 1999. Examples reported of such actions would elicit some sympathy for security force operations, especially among newspaper readers in metropolitan Java (Rpk 2001b), but where resistance “border protection” did occur, it ignored mixed families and others integrated within Acehnese society (Wsp 1999c). Moreover, reporting at that time was undermined by complicating factors of loyalist covert forces’ mayhem, murkier in 2001 Central Aceh, where an unspecified group of “armed civilians” attacked migrants, killing infants and elderly (Wsp 2001a). Acehnese resistance references to “Java,” and even “Javanese” reflected more a spectrum of political– cultural contest than ethnicity. Generations of Javanese had mixed in Aceh, especially around early Dutch enterprises in the center and east. A GAM commander commented that many did not even identify themselves as “Javanese.” Of those that did, Kontras (2000b) noted from East Aceh violent Javanese resistance against Indonesian forces deemed extortionate and, for all practical considerations, actual enemies.22 The deliberate population shifts were less characteristic of actual guerrilla warfare than a most primeval manifestation of human conflict itself, or political and tactical dynamics over ethnic demographics. Dispute over land ownership, local discrimination in employment, centralized loyalist militia elements, and the creation of strategic enclaves all presented GAM with another dimension of Jakarta’s war and assertion of sovereignty. Thus was the inauspicious return of that aspect of national policy after Soeharto’s resignation into the reformasi era. The fate of this officially sponsored itinerant population was clearest in plans to return 14,000 of them in 2002, with the only hope offered being a different regency than the ones from which they were originally evicted. While ethnically sensitive Indonesia generally avoided explicit reference to the refugees’ largest
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 189 ethnic group, their locations stretched from North Sumatera to throughout Java, therefore certainly comprising a wretched majority of ethnic Javanese poor (Anl 2002b), at once stigmatized and exploited by opportunistic elites as “backward, underdeveloped,” etc. Violence around migration to Aceh involved very serious crimes. The greatest scale of relevant offence was that committed by the very beneficiaries of Javanese peasantry’s impoverishment, whereby transmigrasi offered a short step up in life from abject destitution at home to near-desperation in an alien landscape. Assessment of GAM’s responsibility for migrant evictions ignored both the strategic goals of formal and informal population shifts to Aceh (as well as Papua, etc.) and contradictory indicators of other players. Many observers scathingly and confidently criticized GAM as the sole responsible party for migrant eviction, but paradigms of universal human rights and multiculturalist “tolerance” (HRW 2001, for example) hardly applied to the conditions driving Indonesia’s migration programs, much less their prioritization of the state’s “internal security” measures. Such strategic, demographic tension was fundamental to ancient warfare, and more recent examples in North America, Australasia, southern Africa, Palestine–Israel, and Tibet. The issue’s cursory treatment seemed an exaggerated distortion when viewed against increasingly severe and punitive migration controls into the twenty-first century, by states whose sovereignty, or at least strong international recognition, were barely disputed.
“Islamist battlespace”: syariah and Hurgronje’s ghost Unlike most of its other counterinsurgencies, Indonesia’s Aceh war involved a contest over and within the Islamic religion. The most constant, structural demonstration of that “war within a war” was the introduction of syariah legal codes and punishments, and increased use of Arabic text and Koranic verse in official communications (alongside Acehnese terminology to reflect “autonomy”). The TNI led Jakarta’s governing apparatus in the formulation, supervision, and use of syariah. It was believed COL Syarifuddin Tippe pioneered the initiative in 1999 when KOREM 012 chief, if not earlier; it further developed under Wiranto’s watch as security minister (Dtk 1999). Both volunteer jihadist and nonviolent commercial interests added informal syariah promotion in a uniform Indonesian interpretation of Islam against more parochial Acehnese tradition. The responsible TNI territorial staff branch was BINTAL (Pembinaan Mental, Mental Guidance), whose POLRI equivalent was the Da’i Kamtibmas cadre, or “public security and order Islamic preachers” (see Kasminto 2003: 31). The TNI’s dominant, guiding supervision of syariah showed in “safari” tours with Ministry of Religion (DEPAG) officials under KODAM I.M.’s head of Mental Guidance MAJ H. M. Risman RS (Anl 2004b), who effectively acted on behalf of the KODAM’s chief and staff to exert influence far beyond his rank. With a more overtly missionary task, POLRI’s Da’i Kamtibmas closely attended the creation of Aceh’s Syariah Police Branch, coordinating with staff from DEPDAGRI, DEPAG, its Religious Affairs Office (KUA, Kantor Urusan Agama), and another
190 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam site of surveillance, lobbying, and opportunity: the Indonesian Muslim Clerics Council (MUI, Majelis Ulama Indonesia). The Justice Ministry, with its own Jamintel (Jaksa Muda Intel, Junior Attorney for Intelligence) apparatus, gave Aceh-posted judges syariah legal training in Egypt (PesantrenOnline.Com n.d.), and recruited executioners (algojo) of corporal and capital punishment. All ministries were leavened with retired TNI–POLRI officers, and some still serving, though the latter category was at reduced numbers from New Order dwifungsi practice, and more concentrated to departmental “security” functions. To some extent, Syariah Police added further competitive drive to security forces, obviously so in normal police business. But early syariah enforcement was often a soft and symbolic “warm up” prior to authorization for the initiative’s more ominous totalitarian potential. Nonetheless, early tactfully gradual syariah publicity revealed strategic calculation for Jakarta’s “infowar”. Focusing on personal morality, not political allegiance and armed resistance, an orthodox Indonesian Islam deployed to seize a “moral high ground” in domestic perceptions beyond, though complementary to, TNI–POLRI tactical and territorial actions. Much of syariah involved “fashion police” enforcing interpretations of medieval Middle East Islamic dress norms and modesty: Syariah Police in TNI–POLRI patrols detained women not wearing a jilbab,23 or members of the opposite sex sharing company where unmarried. Transgressing Achenese women were usually given a jilbab to wear after being stopped (Koridor.com 2001; Srb 2003a, b, d, 2004e), and their male company detained as part of the same coercive public education process (SIB 2004b). Intoxication was also targeted: alcohol seizures (Anl 2003h) applied stricter prohibition than Indonesia’s generally deterrent controls. Gambling, and prostitution, became Syariah Police matters too, although sex trade was illegal in Indonesia anyway: in the early 1990s POLRI shaved the heads of women so accused. Adultery was already punishable by Aceh’s earlier police too (Lewis 1995: 16), but syariah applied more formal, aggressive prohibition. Cannabis caught the same “zero tolerance” but, as with dress codes, Acehnese attitudes there appeared ambivalent: areas varied between acceptance and prohibition. Some local dishes used ganja leaf as a spice, as elsewhere in traditional Southeast Asian cooking. GAM and resistance NGOs vehemently decried the rigidly orthodox system as an affront to a people already suffering at the hands of the same Indonesian institutions, stressing that syariah initiatives were imposed from outside, not as sought by Acehnese (IFA 2001). Moreover, Syariah Police attitudes had vague implications for non-Muslim minorities, expected to accommodate syariah in some ways (Srb 2004h). The initiative’s punitive and deterrent anti-guerrilla purpose became clearer when a senior loyalist cleric revealed that syariah was ready to activate throughout Aceh by late 2004, extending flagellation (Tempo 2002h) to severer punishments by beheading, stoning to death (API 2004c), and probably handamputations too. Jakarta’s Islamist mobilization refined and developed Dutch precedent in orientalist scholar-bureaucrat Christiaan Snouck Hurgronje’s colonialist propagation of orthodox Arabian standards into pre-Indonesian societies’ otherwise more
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 191 syncretist, mystical Islamic traditions (see Suminto 1995: 120–6). Like Aceh’s internal boundaries, Indonesian administration copied central elements of Dutch colonial efforts to control local ulama. Jakarta’s mirror policy appeared in constant bureaucratic efforts, especially by DEPAG and KUA branch which, despite their universal titles, paid particularly energetic, almost exclusive, attention to regulated Muslim education and state administration of Muslim birth, death, marriage, and divorce. Focus on Aceh’s religious leaders sharpened upon conversion of the province’s legal statutes into syariah edicts (qanun), formally standardized under Indonesia’s DEPKEH (Justice Ministry). Close scrutiny of traditional Acehnese ulama religious elders followed Snouck Hurgronje’s recommendations to the Dutch military government and their application from the early twentieth century (Srb 2003q). Hurgronje identified the local power of Acehnese clerics (ulama) as the primary source of resistance to Dutch rule. From his studies of Acehnese society, the Dutch East Indies’ “Aceh Policy” prioritized ulama as enemy targets, where not co-opting them into bureaucratic control via Islamist educational organs throughout most of the archipelago. Local power within Aceh itself was deliberately shifted to willing members of a mercantile petty gentry, the uleeblang (Malay: hulubalang). This divisive policy led to a bloody purge upon the post-World War II absence of their Dutch protectors, as uleeblang collaborator–beneficiaries were hunted down in Daud Beureueh’s ulama-led PUSA revolution (van Dijk 1983). Deliberate involvement of religion in Jakarta’s war appeared when mobs destroyed pesantren (Islamic colleges) and clerics’ houses in 1998, for example, though political context escaped international press depiction of intrareligious upheaval (Reuters 1998). The line sometimes blurred between cu’ak/TPO agents and loyalist ulama clerics. One TPO auxiliary in East Aceh used a car with POLRI number plates (zxbakri n.d.), in precisely the same identifying feature of ulama lured by GOLKAR technocrats into cooperation with Jakarta’s regime in 1998. Meanwhile, some ulama in the ASWAJA (Ahlus Sunnah Waljamaah Acheh) formally denounced GAM as “rebels” based on Indonesia’s enactment of syariah. GAM simply noted that ASWAJA submitted their statement not through religious hierarchy, but via the POLDA apparatus (ASNLF 2002c). Associations were obvious between Indonesian nationalist politics and its Islamist proxy scheme: even the governor’s wife from Yogyakarta, Marlinda Purnomo, led a Banda Aceh syariah “socialization” sweep in April 2002, besides “homely” speeches in her appointed family planning program role, urging pregnant Acehnese women to Koranic prayer to help bring syariah righteousness to the province (DP 2002; Wsp 2002n). By mid-2004, no more was heard of Marlinda’s new Muslim activism when her husband faced charges alleging corrupt helicopter dealings and bribe payments to GAM. “Islam Inc.” Acehnese society had long exposure to Indonesian government and political party manipulation of ulama, among whom several became GOLKAR functionaries in
192 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam return for houses and POLRI-owned cars (Ummat 1999a). Encouragement of politicized and mercenary Muslim piety was part of an Indonesian equivalent to the commercial success and electoral lobbying power of modern Christian evangelism’s aggressive forms. Zainuddin MZ, a regular visitor to Aceh on provincial government invitation to speak on religious topics, was an earlier Indonesian Islamic exponent of such worldly religiosity. Heading the Star of Reform Party (PBR) for the 2004 elections (with some public TNI backing), Zainuddin’s government and military links reflected the gulf between traditional Islam among most Acehnese people and official Indonesian uses of populist Islam from the time of Soeharto’s New Order regime. GAM sought to highlight their differences with Jakarta’s officially endorsed and well-paid ulama, quipping that Zainuddin was used as the Indonesian government’s own “Snouck Hurgronje” (SA 2001c). Jakarta’s manipulation had limits, however, as wily or independent-minded ulama could conform to such religious bureaucratization merely to better protect their communities, if not on GAM’s specific direction to infiltrate and monitor loyalist Indonesian campaigns and networks. For Jakarta’s Islamist infowar, syariah publicized private enterprise ideology as a cure for Aceh’s poverty. To this end, Indonesia’s leadership arranged Aceh tours by another latter-day “evangelical” Islamist: Abdullah Gymnastiar, known by his Sundanese nickname “Aa Gym.” The preacher and Islamic college head from Bandung, West Java, offered guidance on material and spiritual growth, including avowedly “kosher” (halal) business opportunities for the faithful. Mixing missionary and entrepreneurial zeal, Aa Gym promoted MQ (Manajemen Qalbu, “heart and mind management”) as “syariah business network marketing,” branding his other interests accordingly: television (MQTV, Manajemen Qalbu Televisi); radio (MQ FM); and a Qolbu Cola soft drink challenging Western cola giants in the fashion of France- and Iran-based Mecca Cola and Zamzam Cola. Some of his online “business opportunities” resembled pyramid-selling ventures (not illegal or especially regulated in Indonesia), as promoted for decades in the West, and Indonesia, by some US-based evangelical Christians. Using the worldwide web, e-mail, and SMS text, MQ network members urged Indonesian Muslims to get “supplementary income” reselling processed food and other household perishables. Aa Gym’s enterprises also offered packages for prospective haji pilgrims to Mecca, apparently via special membership points accumulated from a sales record deemed successful, i.e. “blessed by the Almighty” (see aagym n.d. a, b, c).24 Aceh Governor Abdullah Puteh himself had a successful business reputation of sorts from transactions around the Mecca pilgrimage, though it was unconfirmed whether he had any such interest in bringing Aa Gym to Aceh in 2002 and 2003. Nonetheless, the high-profile preacher’s 2003 visit demonstrated other temporal pursuits, related more to Aceh military operations and martial law, which Aa Gym endorsed by claiming “far improved” conditions since his 2002 trip. Backed by at least a platoon of soldiers standing guard at the rear of sports stadiums, he addressed assembled groups of alleged “former GAM guerrillas” in the capital and in towns across Aceh’s northern coast, calling on them to “repent and pray
People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 193 for God’s forgiveness,” appearing also with the “contrite” Zulkifli, brandished by the TNI as a redeemed ex-GAM commander. Attending Aa Gym’s sermons were prominent TNI command and staff, including press liaison chief COL Ditya, the military police chief, assistant for territorial affairs, and assistant for mental guidance (aagym 2003b; Wsp 2003y). At least in his sermon at North Aceh’s KODIM HQ, Aa Gym’s literally captive Acehnese audience looked uninspired, though a little amused, if not exasperated, by his earnest appeals. Several hunched, slumpseated youths could not hide a cynical smirk or even chuckle, though older men hid their faces in the apparently demeaning public spectacle of powerlessness against worldly forces posing as spiritual revelation (SCTV 2003o). In his December 2003 tour, Aa Gym made his way between regency capitals, spreading his message of peaceful and prosperous piety. But the war still seemed close, and may have nearly claimed Aa Gym himself. In an incident on the preacher’s convoy through GAM’s traditional Pidie Regency heartland, two BRIMOB soldiers died in his escort truck. Puspen TNI quickly stressed that the deaths were “purely by accident,” claiming the driver had lost control after speeding to catch up from the convoy’s rear. By that time, GAM publicized only the plight of Pidie’s civilians, and issued no record of combat there for the entire period around the “accident,” despite the area’s intensified operations from August 2003. Journalists faithfully repeated the official version (there was no other), though overstated loyalty by one lent the story sarcastic effect: “Accidents killing TNI–POLRI members frequently happen in Aceh” (AK 2003). Less overt Islamist mobilization was Jakarta’s tacit sponsorship of revivalist networks boasting a shadow Indonesian Islamic State (Negara Islam Indonesia, NII) claiming lineage to the late-1940s Darul Islam rebellion. The latter-day NII claimed affiliation with, if not membership by, around half of all TNI–POLRI ranks, though that was possibly an exaggeration inflating NII members’ sense of their own power (Mahfud 2002). NII inductees could be required to recruit, pyramid-style, up to four more new members before acceptance and active participation in NII activities. Members’ identity was often clandestine in the classic manner of insurgent cell structure pioneered by Algeria’s FLN in its independence war against French colonialism: triangular cells tried to limit personal recognition among the rank-and-file identities to just two others. The subject’s sensitive, underground nature made it a difficult one, ever susceptible to sensationalism and conspiratorial deception. Certainly the phenomenon had some Western parallels in revivalist “born again” Christian networking, including that by political party members within military and civilian bureaucracies. An elite-level NII offshoot was the controversial West Java-based Al Zaytun sect infiltrating powerful business and government circles. Secret collaboration in fundamentalist Islamic projects included Middle East-based funding in medical, educational, and other aid, all with their own potential for infiltration and other skullduggery where secrecy was crucial to success. Jakarta’s selective Islamic revivalism disingenuously pushed a half-truth about the economic injustice inflicted on Aceh. Omitting mention of the Jakarta establishment’s own dependency on Aceh’s resource wealth, Aa Gym aspirationalism
194 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam (aagym 2003a) and conservative Islamist politicians (Wsp 2001d) blamed Aceh’s exploitation and paradoxical poverty solely on the US. LJ’s “ultra” populism did the same, using Indonesian memory of 1950s CIA destabilization to claim that an independent Aceh would serve US interests (DPP FKASWJ 2002). In Aceh itself, such political and cultural expediency got more oblique support from TNI– POLRI lobbyists, who gave a yet “greener” image (in Western terms), cloaking rhetoric in veils of environmentalist concern (Anl 2003e). To some extent, these anti-US positions smacked of the brinkmanship Jakarta’s elites sometimes played to set terms in its relations with the West. But the obvious hypocrisy on Aceh’s wealth betrayed Red and White Islamists’ fake nationalism and pragmatic collusion with Western powers. Jakarta’s comfortable leadership did not address, much less plan, nationalization for Indonesia’s natural resources, or rejection of foreign debt and its accumulated interest. That perilous path had been lit by Soekarno, a Red and White chief who pretended no moralist propriety in his private life, and had no truck with religious zeal. Many foreign observers perceived syariah as a “concession” by Jakarta to Acehnese tradition, or as essentially legalistic compromise acknowledging “the authority of Aceh’s courts to implement Islamic laws” (Emmerson 1999). Remote publicity assumed that syariah helped defuse resistance by achieving the aims of Aceh’s 1950s independence leader Daud Beureueh, whom Jakarta loyalists depicted more as religious agitator than Acehnese nationalist (see Suara Aceh 2000a, for example). By contrast, all except culturally reductionist assessments of East Timor’s independence struggle (see Huntington 1997: 256–7) usually (and correctly) saw East Timorese Catholicism as a neutral, nonmilitant catalyst for solidarity in survival – not the basis for conflict, even though East Timorese church affiliation rose sharply during occupation (Budiardjo 1984: 118–9). Local organization and enactment of syariah from 2001 revealed its actual role in an intra-Islamic contest between traditional Acehnese idiosyncrasy and revivalist Indonesian orthodoxy, each intrinsic to their respective warring political structures. Although advertised to domestic Indonesian and foreign audiences as a “battle for hearts and minds,” syariah added another layer of war by bureaucratic expansion, funding, and compatible paramilitary infiltration.
7
Shadow war Infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism
At those moments he returned from his home village to talk about the Free Aceh Islamic Movement, we would start implanting in him an outlook on the history of struggle, the concept of nationhood, through to religious fanaticism, in order that he understood just what NKRI [the Unitary State of the Indonesian Republic] actually meant. CAPT Geniardi, Sattis Pidie, KOPASSUS–SGI, 1992, on agent-handling of an Acehnese war orphan (Geniardi 1998) Whenever the army wanted to assert its political authority, it would use Islamicists in acts of violence and sabotage, so that sectarianism could be blamed and justify the inevitable “crackdown”… John Pilger (2002: 46)
One of the Aceh war’s least examined aspects was Jakarta’s strategic- and international-level infiltration and “black” (covert) operations against Acehnese resistance. Such infiltration activities related closely to the formation of “Red and White” paramilitaries in both the Aceh and East Timor cases. Unlike the East Timor case, Indonesian forces faced much less international opposition over Aceh, because GAM enjoyed less foreign sympathy and support than FALINTIL. Nonetheless, such operations in both regions had the same essential goals: division and destabilization of both the resistance and its sources of civilian support. But in the rise of loyalist militias outside of East Timor from the late 1990s, not only in Aceh but Papua and elsewhere, obvious Indonesian jihadist elements were discernible within broader operations partly aimed at local and overseas perceptions. Aceh’s war saw Jakarta’s use of culturally specific Islamist camouflage to aid deception processes. By the time of the post-2001 “Global War on Terror” (GWOT), this aspect assumed greater significance in Jakarta’s Aceh infowar, hitherto directed more at local audiences. Close examination of Indonesian sources revealed that a highly publicized regional “Jema’ah Islamiyah (JI)” terrorist group was connected to loyalist Indonesian elements, whether as Acehnese or Aceh-related players.1 Compatible efforts in Aceh manifested more openly as syariah and its orthodox Islamist political and cultural trappings. Together,
196 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism these developments helped perpetuate misrepresentation of Aceh’s war as a predominately Islamist matter, with all of the potentially sinister connotations of fanatical anti-Western militancy. “Terrorism” here is not a strict definition, but rather a conventionalized keyword as attributed to non-state agents since attacks on the mainland USA in 2001, and subsequent lesser events such as that on Bali in 2002. Vengeful reprisal strikes against Aceh’s civilians amounted to “terrorism” by any reasonable understanding, whether in TNI–POLRI antiguerrilla sweeps and hostage-taking, or GAM assassination and kidnapping of alleged collaborators. Similarly, “PSYOPS” here denotes Jakarta’s more sensitive, sophisticated, and aggressive manipulation of perceptions, but at strategic levels beyond such counterintelligence activity within Aceh. “Infiltration” covers the “turning” of GAM members, usually upon compromise from interrogations, searches, capture, and coercion on families, as seen in operational-level covert action. Strategically, “infiltration” applies also to the creation and sponsorship of so-called “splinter” groups to undermine GAM and its civilian support networks, especially overseas. Related terms covering all of the above aspects are “black flag,” “false flag,” and “black PSYOPS,” denoting covert “front” entities, their activity in infiltration and aggressive PSYOPS, deception plans, and other disinformation run to destabilize an enemy outside of normal combat.
Background of Jakarta’s strategic-level Aceh “black” operations Jakarta’s counterintelligence and PSYOPS leaders aimed to sow division in the GAM camp and its civilian base, while cultivating some useful local loyalist proxies for information-gathering and local covert tasks. A key mission was to try undermining their enemy’s local and international credibility by fostering and exaggerating divisions and enmities within the Acehnese Diaspora, especially via sponsorship of black flag entities. This destabilization effort aimed at neutralizing the ASNLF’s very political existence on the world stage. A complementary perception management task arose for diplomatic and national political purposes, guiding foreign and domestic Indonesian perceptions into depictions of GAM resistance as a “terrorist” enterprise. This was a much subtler mission than the routine statistical challenges in claiming to control more terrain with reduced own-force bodycounts, while attributing civilian killings and other crimes to enemy action or “crossfire.” Arithmetical inconsistencies were often obvious in Jakarta’s infowar, as statistics were concealed, manipulated or even manufactured to suit predetermined results. More difficult was the cultivation of an Acehnese shadow of GAM for infiltration into pan-Islamic terror networks. Merely studying this last aspect was itself difficult, because its potentially explosive implications also made it dangerous. Specific and conclusive information on that peripheral part of the Aceh war may never become publicly available. If it ever should come to light, researchers may risk the same lethal danger as posed to some of the shadow war’s participants, several of whom had been publicly assassinated during the time of this research.
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To suit the yet more aggressive and internationally ambitious PSYOPS mission for Aceh, the covert infiltration and its official depictions were necessarily more imaginative than the infowar’s typical defensive and reactive approaches. Whereas Puspen TNI and, more typically, POLRI spokespeople occasionally made sweeping claims in this area to label GAM a terrorist group, the TNI’s experienced black PSYOPS practitioners took control in the field. As a counterintelligence specialty, PSYOPS’ task was to ration out just enough information about loyalist Acehnese activity to prepare the infiltration, then build into subsequent counterintelligence phases. Having boasted of US training in sinister PSYOPS activity under the IMET (International Military Education and Training) program, KOPASSUS’ MAJGEN Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin’s involvement was repeatedly identified in earlier stages of these operations. Some of Sjafrie’s training paralleled US military sponsorship of Latin American armies at Fort Benning’s School of the Americas, but under IMET and other schemes could apply to so-called bilateral “engagement,” tutoring select Algerian, Egyptian, and Turkish army officers, for example.2 An Aceh veteran, Sjafrie’s connections to the covert warfare of “fake GAM” activity were well established, as were those of his fellow KOPASSUS officer and covert warfare luminary, and later BIA (BAIS) chief, MAJGEN Zacky Anwar Makarim. However, Sjafrie and his contemporaries almost certainly handed on direct responsibility to other officers as part of the normal cycles of TNI career progression and routine transfers of command. Nonetheless, as chief TNI public relations officer by 2002, Sjafrie was well positioned to oversee the results of PSYOPS programs well underway during his much earlier Aceh duties. Any serious antiguerrilla campaign attempts some degree of infiltration into insurgent movements, ideally “turning” guerrillas into counterinsurgent agents. Chapter 6 touched on East Timor’s prominent examples of that tactic, whereby the best-known militia boss and ex-klandestin youth Eurico Guterres arose from KOPASSUS counterintelligence operations “turning” a core of East Timorese for training, finance, and management in Gadapaksi, which became the cadre militias Aitarak, Besi Merah Putih, Mahidi, and Laksaur Merah Putih, and preexisting TNI auxiliary (TBO) groups Halilintar, Saka, and Alfa. Basically similar to Aceh’s parallel loyalist auxiliaries, East Timor’s militias operated on two planes. At “ground” level, expanded militia gangs monitored and terrorized the population, while an educated elite political cadre, e.g. Basilio Araujo, ran loyalist militias’ public relations effort in Indonesian and overseas media and campuses. TNI militia sponsorship offered some insight into these Sandi Yudha (covert warfare) processes, but Indonesian Army training policy unambiguously specified standard practices of infiltration, agent-running, and shadow operations against its enemies. Timed with 1999 East Timor’s endgame of proxy militia violence, the army’s Sandi Yudha administrative instruction included “kidnapping,” “terror,” PSYOPS, “infiltration,” and penyurupan among 11 KOPASSUS subunit competencies for revision and testing in classroom theory and the field. “Infiltration” (penyusupan) is well understood, but the more sinister penyurupan deserves special examination here. Derived from Javanese, penyurupan could traditionally imply “demonic possession” or shamanic “channeling” of spirits. Superficially,
198 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism the term seemed related to paranormal esoterica in KOPASSUS’ martial arts exercises. But the high-level (army HQ) training reference stated an operational priority as a “unit activity,” not as some merely individual occult pursuit. In its proper context, penyurupan revealed the sophisticated extent of KOPASSUS’ far-reaching and longer-term infiltration via black PSYOPS or, more correctly, “penetration.” The Sandi Yudha instruction (mabesad 1999: 35) expressed TNI executives’ endorsement of such sinister KOPASSUS’ enterprise.3 Whereas the 1999 East Timor precedent showed hasty, even haphazard, execution, its parallel Aceh process was subtler and far more deliberate. The cu’ak/spies and infiltrators were often less obvious to outsiders, and Jakarta’s timetable for action less frantic. Covert loyalists in Aceh could also assume a more clandestine “sleeper” status than counterparts in East Timor’s rushed prereferendum phase. This was understandable given the wide presence of GAM’s armed strength, derived from easier access to weapons than could be hoped by East Timor’s FALINTIL. At least in 1999, GAM clearly had much greater means to counter loyalist militias that dared announce their presence. But such was not the case in wider political spheres, where reports influenced Indonesian and international perceptions of GAM’s agenda and support base. Just when Acehnese resistance rode a wave of open local popularity inspired by FRETILIN’s political gains, a carefully timed and manipulated issue of “divisions within GAM leadership” distracted from GAM’s own successes and growing armed strength.
Covert infiltration: the MP-GAM “faction” Prior to the openly raised local militia networks of the expanded siskamling from 2003, the best known of Indonesia’s covert loyalist Acehnese fronts was MP-GAM (Majelis Pemerintahan GAM, lit. “GAM government council”), which made its existence public from 1999. The disingenuous use of “GAM” in its title was conspicuous as the group’s representatives aggressively sowed division into the Acehnese separatist movement, criticizing GAM’s leadership as un-hinged (in Hasan di Tiro), and claiming that ASNLF leaders (especially Malik Mahmood) had taken for themselves Acehnese money donated to GAM’s armed struggle. Added to the self-proclaimed “faction” was a proliferation of titular “branches”: Secretary General (Sekjen GAM), MB-GAM (Mabes, lit. “HQ”), and the anglicized “FAME” (Free Acheh Movement in Europe). These functionary terms confused a minor noncombatant entity into apparently genuine GAM status while falsely imparting a sense of grass-roots diversity, thorough organization and numerical strength to what was always a single generic group. Although occasionally active in minor covert roles in Aceh itself, MP-GAM’s main focus was the Acehnese Diaspora, especially in Europe and Malaysia. For their own part, MP-GAM leaders could justify their actions and words, however covert and inconsistent, as a reasonable compromise towards a Philippines–MNLF-style accommodation with Jakarta’s essentially unmovable stance on sovereignty. Indonesian loyalist militia activity in Aceh was especially significant for GAM and Aceh’s civilians at the war’s tactical level. But priorities of anti-GAM
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counterintelligence activity focused largely overseas, and generally removed from the actual ground war. Human resources in cu’ak spies, local collaborators and infiltrators typically appeared the same at both levels of these counterintelligence operations. However, some of the strategic-level loyalist players affected a certain media sophistication and political intellect in the activist and diplomatic circles within which they operated. In these critical areas, MP-GAM usurped its GAM target very early by posing as the latter during formal discussions in Estonia, the USA (Srb 1999d), and elsewhere, repeatedly interdicting foreign media and academics seeking direct contact with GAM.4 Dutch enlistment of support from the uleeblang class had close parallels with later Indonesian administration of Aceh, especially since the time of Soeharto’s New Order regime. Venal opportunism was alleged in cases of several prominent indigenous Acehnese business figures who profitably adjusted to the Soeharto network’s commercial dominance. Perhaps best known was former head of the State Logistics Board (BULOG) Bustanil Arifin, who was tied to the Soeharto clan by marriage, and cited as a key financier for the MP-GAM faction of renegade or “turned” GAM figures (ICG 2002). MP-GAM’s creation formed around a disaffected GAM figure Dr Husaini Hasan (aka Habib Adam), sacked from his GAM functions in 1988. Bustanil’s largesse with Dr Husaini was said to be crucial to MP-GAM’s birth, reaching up to 100,000 Malaysian Ringgit. Southeast Asian business tycoon Ibrahim Risyad was another Acehnese in this category, with links to Soeharto business crony Liem Sioe Liong, also known as Sudono Salim (II 1999b). Aceh’s governor in 2003, Abdullah Puteh, was himself identified to lucrative schemes taxing haji pilgrims to Mecca, besides his main wealth from deals exporting Indonesian workers overseas. In a corrupt twist to the traditional regional view of Aceh as the Middle Eastern holy lands’ porch, it became for Abdullah Puteh the front porch to riches along with exclusive influence and access among Jakarta’s elites. “Integrated” as Indonesians both locally and in Jakarta, these Acehnese technocrat circles connected to MP-GAM as the shadow force’s financial and diplomatic support base. Aside from GAM’s own accusatory dismissal of the MP-GAM organization, several reasons immediately indicated its compatible, though more discreet, function as a front organization for Indonesian counterintelligence: (1) its members’ reportedly free association with Jakarta’s political and military elite and movement within the Indonesian capital, and their freedom from targeting by Jakarta; (2) inconsistent and incompatible ideological positions publicly expressed by MP-GAM’s leaders; (3) lack of any actual military wing of operational significance in Aceh; (4) near-exclusive concentration by Jakarta’s leaders on Hasan di Tiro (and the ASNLF of GAM itself) in diplomatic moves, despite the occasional extreme militancy publicly expressed by MP-GAM; and (5) a prominence in Indonesian press reporting out of all proportion to its actual membership. The last point was most apparent when the Jakarta Post (JkP 2002a) claimed “many GAM leaders” formed MP-GAM, when in fact the total core membership hardly exceeded two dozen people, if discounting barely linked immediate family. In typical fashion, MP-GAM later proclaimed a campaign of nonviolent activism,
200 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism probably in response to facetious Acehnese enquiries about MP-GAM’s actual lack of armed guerrilla units. The organization still lacked any guerrilla force worth the description, whereas MP-GAM leaders ostensibly called for armed struggle, infusing its copycat public statements with belligerent anticolonial rhetoric. That was not to discount the reported use of some Acehnese linked to MP-GAM within Aceh itself, either as TBO auxiliaries or militia cadres, and in special armed covert action. Jakarta’s leading news magazine Tempo carried the first signs of MP-GAM’s public birth in January 1999. Daud Paneuk (“shorty”) was the only one identified of three Tempo interviewees in that high-profile publicity. Two others used the aliases “Arif Mahmud” and “Dr Daud Raja,” i.e. MP-GAM figures Mahmud Idris and Dr Husaini Hasan, respectively. “Mahmud” told his story while still in prison, indicating that he was “turned” with the help of a much-reduced sentence, probably encouraged further by a promise of paid employment. “Daud Raja” spoke at greater length by telephone interview from Sweden, matching the location, doctoral title, and leadership status of Dr Husaini Hasan. The Tempo reports’ substance was otherwise unremarkable for avowed GAM figures: the broad heritage of Acehnese sovereignty and nationalist resistance; uncompromising fighting spirit; Scandinavia- and Malaysia-based support networks among the Diaspora; and grievances over alleged Indonesian crimes including the exploitation of Aceh’s vast natural resource wealth. Daud advised Tempo that his “head of state” Hasan di Tiro “could not perform the interview due to poor health.” This Daud used as a pretext to speak on Hasan di Tiro’s behalf, though Daud’s facetious anonymity and later information showed that it was most likely not Tempo who contacted Daud first, or at least the journalists got a tip-off phone number from someone claiming a direct line to GAM’s leadership. Daud’s and Mahmud’s bogus names betrayed either a lack of imagination or a mischievous public provocation to the ASNLF leaders. From around that time, these covert but avowedly “GAM” personalities entered the bizarre phoney war of media disinformation, backed by the credentials of journalists publishing their real names among GAM’s own stock of nationalist ideology and agenda. As early as July 1999, Jakarta news magazine Gatra gave early clues about the new attempt to infiltrate the Acehnese resistance via the purported “faction” calling itself “MP-GAM.” Detail about former veterinary science student and Libyatrained GAM member Arjuna hinted at the campaign’s direction. Despite his resistance credentials, Arjuna actually fled (in relative sanctuary, it seems) to Pasar Minggu and Ciputat in South Jakarta, from where he openly engaged in business (reportedly aided by Bustanil Arifin), directly meeting Gatra journalists for interview. Earlier still, Waspada reported Arjuna’s “repentance” for separatist sins as expressed in his meetings with senior government officials (Rantburg 2002). Arjuna’s case showed MP-GAM attached itself early to the civilian proreferendum activism, claiming to seek a nonviolent resolution to the independence struggle. Arjuna claimed MP-GAM’s very conservative agenda by isolating Islamist politics and identity as the core of the actual struggle and its support base. In his Jakarta interview with Gatra (1999a), MP-GAM’s Arjuna reduced the
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meaning of any Acehnese independence struggle to one exclusively emphasizing a traditional Islamic identity: leaving out the very pressing issues of economic and human rights justice, and especially the resistance’s demands for rights to live free from fear, or self-determination based on Aceh’s heritage as a sovereign state in its own right. Arjuna’s comments would support later claims of MP-GAM’s links with the Islamic Republic of Aceh (RIA), Jakarta’s preexisting front organization countering GAM. Over time MP-GAM’s public ideological positions covered most hues on the spectrum, except for accommodation with the existing ASNLF leadership. The group’s chameleon-like utterances alone were self-contradictory enough to invite doubt and pointed questioning about the supposed GAM “faction.” MP-GAM’s self-proclaimed role as a third force, or peaceful mediator, was perhaps the most incredible claim. Within MP-GAM’s circle appeared several hardly known for nonviolence, besides those later appearing with JI leaders at the regional RM jihadist conferences in Malaysia. In its energetically spun web of entrapment, surveillance, and fund-diversion, MP-GAM early contradicted its own comments in this regard by the avowedly uncompromising and bellicose comments by its members in Scandinavia. Yusuf Daud (FAME 1999) publicly contradicted the “moderate” position from the start, further muddying the waters for the unsuspecting observer as though MP-GAM too was “factionalized”! In a sign of black flag success, distinguishing between GAM and its MP-GAM antibody was rarely easy, especially in the former’s early life or when analyzing isolated reports. One conspicuous difference was seen in Daud’s and Mahmud’s early references identifying with the sinister “Ahmad Kandang group,” which had hitherto taken on a life of its own in Indonesian media reports of a KOPASSUS, “rogue element” and/or “fake GAM” criminality. Another was Daud’s implied preference for nonviolent resistance, strange for a self-proclaimed leader of a veteran armed guerrilla group riding waves of open domestic support, against an Indonesian military preoccupied with Jakarta, Maluku, East Timor, and widespread public opposition (Tempo 1999b, c). But the timing of MP-GAM’s early tactics could not be faulted: well in anticipation of a domino-style eruption of popular Acehnese independence protest in the likely event of a successful East Timorese break under an internationally agreed referendum. Whatever the publicized confidence senior TNI officers had that East Timor would vote to stay, MP-GAM’s early covert entry into the infowar suggested that Indonesian counterintelligence chiefs were less sure, at least preparing a contingency plan against concurrent Acehnese self-determination demands. Creation of MP-GAM’s shadow hierarchy relied on a small core of GAM members and associated “turned” apparently through combinations of inducement and malicious coercion, in cultivation processes used in Indonesia’s prison system (as elsewhere). But the issue of GAM “factionalism” gained much traction in news reporting, despite no detailed or explicit evidence pointing to any significant split within the independence movement beyond Dr Husaini’s disaffection. Based on the handful of shadow force members and their cunning post1999 publicity, POLDA Aceh’s chief casually exaggerated Aceh’s resistance
202 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism Table 7.1
Identified key MP-GAM (aka MB-GAM/FAME) membership
Identity
Locationsa
Remarks
Dr Husaini Hasan
KL, Sweden
Former GAM “education minister”, sacked poss. As early as 1988
Tk Don Zulfahri “Habib Adam”
KL
Senior diplomatic function. Poss. duped into MP-GAM. Assassinated 2000. Prob. no combat experience
M. Daud Husin “Paneuk” (Shorty)
Sweden
Ex-GAM field commander. Died “old age” in 2003
Yusuf Daud “Yusda”
Sweden
Son of Paneuk
Tgk Djalil Ismail
Sweden
Contemporary of Paneuk
Zainal Afif
Sweden
Indonesian language writer. Ex-PKI. Dr Husaini confidant. Died “lung cancer” 2004
Mustafa Djalil
Sweden
Son of Djalil Ismail
Ramli Abubakar
Sweden
Son-in-law of Djalil Ismail
Yusnil Abdullah
Sweden
Son-in-law of Djalil Ismail
Tgk Maulida
Mdn, Aceh
Ex-Libya. “Field commander/ strategist”. PUAN leader
Guree Rahman “Guru”
KL, Sweden
UN refugee visa after Malaysian police stakeout and arrest in KL. Blood relative of Tgk Maulida
Muliana Ibrahim
Sweden
Prob wife of Guree. No known combat experience
Syahbuddin Abdurrauf
KL, Sweden
Ex-Libya. No combat experience
M. Adam Umar
KL, Sweden
Involved via asylum by Swedish govt
Arjuna
Mdn, KL, Jkt, Aceh
Ex-Libya trainee. Sacked 1996. Worked w/ Fauzi Hasbi’s RIA. Assassinated 2003
Idris Mahmud
KL, Mindanao, Mdn, Jkt, Aceh
Fate unknown. Liaised with RM and Fauzi Hazbi’s RIA. Poss. killed by 2004
Muhammad Mahmud
KL
Brother of Idris. Liaised with RM and Fauzi Hasbi’s RIA
Abdullah Krueng
KL, USA (Texas) Granted asylum by US govt
Abbreviations KL, Kuala Lumpur; Jkt, Jakarta; Mdn, Medan. Note a Tentative sequence for places of residence and operations. KL also used as main transit point while asylum or visas organized via Scandinavian-based leadership.
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diversity: from actual decentralized, parochial idiosyncrasy into contrived impressions of Acehnese savagery in Darwinian competition. Most ludicrous was his claim that Acehnese guerrillas totaled just 30 percent of all armed groups, not including TNI–POLRI (Srb 2000b). MP-GAM quickly attached itself to the groundswell of civilian demands for an independence referendum, intensified after East Timor’s break. Against Aceh’s parallel tide of independence agitation, MP-GAM consistently diminished international and Indonesian perceptions of GAM unity, popular support, and legitimacy: Indonesian officials felt confident enough to deny GAM’s strength at precisely the time it was most resurgent and territorially dominant. The process was a political one involving machinations by senior officials with diplomatic influence. MP-GAM’s high-level positioning was evident from the bulk of their members effectively infiltrated into Sweden, the ASNLF leadership’s refuge and adopted home. Infiltration into Malaysia’s Acehnese circles was more difficult. Malaysian police arrested one of MP-GAM’s higher-profile members, Guree Rahman, after a two-day stake-out at his Kuala Lumpur address. Along with an accomplice named Darmawan, Guree was sought over a stock of a dozen or more M-16 assault rifles bought in Thailand and smuggled across the border, either for use in covert MP-GAM action in Aceh, or as a donation to secure internal GAM credibility. The charges’ gravity could have earned him a sentence of death by hanging under Malaysia’s Internal Security Act (ISA). Instead, Guree found himself released and free to settle in Sweden. Mostly according to his own account on a Malaysian anarchist web site, MP-GAM’s leadership helped arrange Guree’s release, UNHCR asylum status, and visa, all the while claiming that GAM’s local leadership had tipped off the Malaysian police from the start. The expatriate Indonesian nationalist source carefully omitted mention of the weapons, stakeout, or Malaysian police’s initial use of ISA powers in the case (MH 2002). Guree’s allegation of a GAM tip-off was plausible in light of GAM’s rapid response in detailed statements by then spokesman Ismail Syahputra, suggesting that GAM was closely monitoring Guree’s activities at the time (Srb 2000a). None of this prevented Guree from organizing a small May Day “GAM” rally in Sweden, photos of which spawned into several MP-GAM web site displays. Another colorful MP-GAM figure was Zainal Afif, a pivotal and trusted liaison and lobbying functionary in Dr Husaini’s inner circle. Afif’s considerable writing purported to serve the interests of “free speech” among the Acehnese Diaspora, claiming an overtly leftist agenda for Acehnese struggle, while trying to scandalize ASNLF leaders and alienate them from the steady streams of refugees forming GAM’s overseas political and logistical networks. A favorite theme was ASNLF head of state Hasan di Tiro’s personal health, over which Afif cast ridicule and doubt over his fitness to lead. Afif’s own background was decidedly integrationist Indonesian from the time of Soekarno’s cooperation with Indonesia’s Communist Party (PKI) and its increased support for Soekarno’s nationalist project in the period of Western destabilization in the 1950s, which including covert and clandestine Western support for regional independence struggles, including Aceh’s.
204 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism Officially an Indonesian language poet, teacher, and broadcaster in North Korea, North Vietnam, and the People’s Republic of China (until 1989), Afif’s public activity showed high-level trust carried from the old centralist PKI leadership into post-1965 cultivation, with easy access to visas and Indonesian journalist circles. In classic covert PSYOPS manipulation, Afif had a photograph (FAME n.d. a) taken in close proximity to Hasan di Tiro at a function in Sweden. Afif posed as if lecturing the ASNLF founder, who looked crestfallen at Afif’s mischievous surprise appearance. Upon his death from lung cancer in October 2004, Indonesian literary journals posted obituaries of Afif as an “Indonesian poet,” “Indonesian literary figure,” and “teacher of Indonesian language and literature” (jaker 2004; swara 2004). Afif had published work by YSBI (Yayasan Sejarah dan Budaya Indonesia, Foundation for Indonesian History and Culture), which advertised Indonesian nationalism with an animated .gif image of Indonesia’s Merah-Putih flag atop its web site (YSBI 2004).5 MP-GAM was agile in putting its camouflage skills to use. Chairman Dr Husaini Hasan and Secretary General Yusuf Daud claimed to decry TNI–POLRI oppression while prioritizing an independence referendum, international lobbying, and, in a sharp and total reversal of previous claims, ethnonationalism, not pan-Islamic radicalism.6 Despite late-1999 referendum demonstrations, Yusuf Daud publicized a derogatory personal attack on GAM’s Dr Zaini and his family via Jakarta news magazine Gatra (1999d), a press organ that was no stranger to TNI patronage. The confusion was deliberate, as near-simultaneous statements actually claimed overt Islamist trappings of state as the priority of Acehnese struggle, in the manner of the syariah system publicly promoted by Gus Dur and later enacted from Jakarta. All of these statements pretended to posit MP-GAM as either an organic competitor or mere complement to GAM itself, if not a political wing of sorts. The conspicuous confusion over religion continued, and MP-GAM was surprisingly fast to publicize one of its supposed policies of a contrary non-Islamist radicalism after the late 2001 attacks on the US mainland. This was a deliberate aping of GAM’s own major diplomatic efforts post-1999. Indeed, the very existence of MP-GAM (and its more overtly jihadist colleague RIA), helped to compel GAM’s strenuous defensive efforts in that direction. Characteristically, MP-GAM’s Scandinavian interviewer for that “revelation” was duped into believing that his subjects were the actual GAM leadership, and not some of GAM’s covert opposition supported from Jakarta (Kivimäki 2001). This most basic of black PSYOPS tactics reflected the classic style of infiltration, whereby (from Jakarta’s clinical organicist view) a front imitates its target, just as in immunology a vaccine may copy a virus pattern in order to neutralize the genuine pathological threat. MP-GAM’s covert infiltration was by turns an amateurish and sophisticated publicity exercise, but compromises of its nature and activities should have become a major scandal for the Indonesian government in the context of international terrorism. MP-GAM leaders’ supposed commitment to nonviolence contrasted sharply with its international terrorist connections. In the year Arjuna and Tgk Muhammad claimed to represent a peaceful solution to Aceh’s war, Al Qaeda
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liaison figure Omar al Farouq visited Aceh on an abortive fact-finding tour, exploring the area’s potential as a possible base. In US custody in 2001, Farouq named MP-GAM member Tk Idris Mahmud and his younger brother Tgk Muhammad as participants in RM (Rabitatul Mujahidin, League of Holy Warriors) operational planning conferences hosted by JI leaders, including Hambali (also known as Riduan Isamuddin and Encep Nurjaman) as one of the most senior (ICG 2002). Idris Mahmud was apparently turned during or after late 1990s trial proceedings in Langsa, East Aceh (FK 1999a).7 If the trial was indeed of the same man alleged to have regular JI contacts, it would help explain how the former senior GAM staff officer managed to travel freely to the Philippines and become a Malaysian resident. For its own part, GAM had denounced MP-GAM as a group of traitors since the avowed breakaway faction’s inception as early as 1999. But by the time of the Bali terrorist bombings of October 2002, Jakarta’s MP-GAM infiltration achieved a success of sorts in international circles. Probably as a result of unscrutinized briefings from POLRI and BIN (Dtk 2002),8 the Australian Federal Police (AFP) immediately counted GAM itself among the suspects, incongruously alongside remnants of anti-separatist East Timorese militia (JwP 2002c). That assessment depended upon bizarre logic requiring that the guerrilla army create new and much more powerful enemies in the West, for no foreseeable gain but much trouble. Due to parallels and links with a preexisting Indonesian anti-GAM shadow operation, the only significant “factionalism” in Acehnese political groups was that contrived among Jakarta’s front organizations themselves. This is not to discount the clear instances of uniform agenda and apparent cooperation by MP-GAM and another more established Jakarta front in RIA. But MP-GAM’s reversal from avowed religiosity to a secular nationalist agenda reconfirmed its truly deceptive black-flag nature. Moreover, at that time MP-GAM’s supposedly nonviolent “foot soldiers,” brothers Tgk Muhammad and Tk Idris Mahmud,9 met with such jihadists as Hambali and Imam Samudra at the Malaysia RM meetings. Although MP-GAM’s activities seemed to comprise an entire disinformation campaign all their own, Jakarta’s guiding hand was never far away. The supposed alternative to GAM had to be given its own meaningful political existence. For the sake of lending separatist credibility to the organization, the TNI went so far as to replicate its infowar efforts regularly made against GAM itself. For example, TNI press releases in mid-2001 reported the death in combat of MP-GAM leader Daud Paneuk (Srb 2001g), just as a chronicle of statements showed the TNI’s many premature claims to have killed actual GAM leaders such as Hasan di Tiro, Abdullah Syafei’i, Sofyan Dawood, “Tgk Jamaika,” etc. The falsehood in the claim was consistent with the “real thing” too, as Daud Paneuk was actually in Sweden at the time of the claim. The main effect of all this was to make an impression that Daud Paneuk was in fact sought as a TNI target, and that MP-GAM had a significant presence within Aceh itself as a genuine component of the resistance. This ruse achieved some success, at least with Western press sources such as CNN and Associated Press, as well as the UN’s Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs, who all bought into the deception without checking
206 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism whether they had in fact reported on an actual “GAM” leader or one of the supposed “factional” rivals. A US source covered MP-GAM so thoroughly as to imply that it was the significant resistance force in the province, entirely neglecting actual GAM forces and commanders (Rantburg 2002). More superficial academic coverage suffered from the same deceptions. Daud Paneuk died in March 2003, reportedly of old age, but his death coincided with those of Arjuna and Fauzi Hasbi and may have been part of some Indonesian intelligence “house cleaning” for deniability, though secretive (and diplomatically riskier) GAM payback also could not be ruled out. MP-GAM sowed confusion over the identity of GAM leaders, thereby serving to exaggerate, if not entirely fabricate, issues about GAM’s diplomatic positions. In perhaps the most obvious example, MP-GAM’s Yusuf Daud claimed to speak for GAM in a Gatra article, stating that GAM did not actually seek independence from Indonesia (Gatra 1999b). As with the case of MP-GAM’s Tk Idris Mahmud and his brother’s JI contacts, the repeated false attribution of MP-GAM leaders to GAM itself helped give rise to ongoing speculation about GAM’s leadership and its stance on negotiations with Jakarta. Amid the Acehnese pro-independence momentum following East Timor’s break, MP-GAM’s Tk Don Zulfahri and Tk Maulida lobbied hard to usurp ASNLF–GAM popular support and political credibility. The two claimed a direct interest in a Malaysia-brokered peace agreement (Sudirman 1999), in precisely the type of divisive diplomatic effort that saw Nur Misuari’s compromised MNLF make a deal with the Philippines government using Indonesian mediation. Don Zulfahri also used the nickname “Don Malindo” (Malaysia–Indonesia) in a direct reference to such a regional lobbying role. If GAM at war may be compared to a crocodile instinctively seeking out its enemies as prey, MP-GAM had been from its inception the chameleon placed on the predator’s back, amongst layers of intriguing deception and counterdeception. MP-GAM press interviews, web sites, and correspondence all drew energetically on Indonesian atrocities and select GAM martyrs (MP-GAM relatives), for example, while urging unity and alertness for any attempts at “divide and rule” (FAME 2000).10 One MP-GAM secretary-general, Yusuf Daud, got editorial opinion space to spread the campaign through the Jakarta Post (JkP 1999) during the crucial period of post-Timor popular referendum demands. Judging from one of the MP-GAM web sites’ html source code, this virtual counterintelligence war began from at least 1998. Another cunningly reproduced a dissident image via simple html script, linking to various activist organizations regularly critical of Jakarta’s record on human rights in East Timor, Papua, as well as in Aceh, including a link to the ASNLF itself (FAME n.d. b).11 The ease of virtual reproduction allowed MP-GAM to paste atrocity photos and critical academic articles too, for extra credibility. The spirals of such disinformation could be very challenging for researchers new to the subject. For example, MP-GAM’s Malaysia-based Tgk Idris Mahmud (connected to the meetings with Hambali and others), warned in Indonesia’s press about a “shadow GAM” set up to undermine and discredit GAM’s struggle, with no discernible ironic tone or intent if read in isolation (Wsp 1999a).
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By such means MP-GAM personalities remained active as a kind of “shop front” for Indonesian counterintelligence. By claiming to channel funds for the independence war, MP-GAM could collect both information and money from deceived, accidental, or simply naive contacts among the Acehnese Diaspora. Indeed, GAM sources claimed that MP-GAM’s overseas covert fund-raising “for the struggle” became a lucrative enterprise in its own right, giving the body selfsufficiency for a time. The details of such approaches would be useful enough for BAIS and BIN Aceh analysts in meeting their main task, i.e. network reconstruction of ASNLF–GAM members and donors worldwide. Compromised MP-GAM figures could console themselves by regarding themselves as pragmatists assured of preferential treatment in Jakarta’s future autonomy offers. Some influential Malaysians apparently had a hand in the process too. Former ruling coalition minister Sanusi Junid was reportedly involved in channeling Indonesian finance to Dr Husaini. Others were ex-Malaysian army Yazid Sufaat,12 linked to the Medan and other bombings, and another Hambali associate Sobri, also ex-Malaysian army, who was one of just two released shortly after police sweeps and detentions of up to 50 suspects (Time 2002b). Such influential but discreet Malaysian connections would explain MP-GAM’s advance knowledge of Acehnese refugee arrivals in Europe from Kuala Lumpur, whereby GAM sympathizers were either directly greeted or later courted for unwitting cultivation into a purported anti-Jakarta resistance network. The future could hardly seem bright for MP-GAM members themselves, who may have considered their work as “buying time” before their true status was eventually confirmed: reviled by the Acehnese independence movement and expendable in the eyes of Jakarta’s intelligence bosses.13 One potential convert to MP-GAM’s ranks may have been found in the defected GAM administrator Tgk Amri bin Abdul Wahab, who surrendered himself to a colonel from the Indonesian Air Force’s PASKHASAU commandos at the end of abortive truce negotiations in May 2003. His fate was in little doubt if found by former GAM colleagues: GAM press liaison officer Sofyan Dawood promised that Amri would meet the same end as the hapless Arjuna (fpdra 2003; Wsp 2003d). Arjuna’s death sometime around mid-2003 may have been a payback killing by GAM, who had Arjuna on a long-standing wanted list of traitors. But again, as in the killing of RIA’s Fauzi Hasbi in Ambon, which Fauzi’s son identified direct involvement by serving POLRI NCO Syarif, Arjuna’s demise could well have been an act of Jakarta’s “house cleaning,” or preemptive damage control, by Arjuna’s Jakartabased Indonesian counterintelligence handlers. That most sensitive part of such Indonesian covert efforts on Aceh became widely known through the International Crisis Group (ICG). The ICG report (2002) caused quite a stir, prompting Puspen TNI chief MAJGEN Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin to threaten litigation against the locally based ICG unless it altered its report, while emphatically denying any link to JI, the Bali attack, etc. (SP 2002b, c, d). But going back to the era of intelligence supremo Ali Murtopo, mastermind of the covert infiltration into East Timor when Portuguese colonialists first released their grip on that hapless young nation, it was clear that Indonesia’s
208 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism black operations over Aceh had a much longer history than that gleaned for the ICG report. It is important to examine these and other public revelations in all their complexity so as to appreciate a long-term Indonesian counterintelligence operation’s background and future, and its effect on the telling of Aceh’s war. As an institution working with other groups under Jakarta’s supervision, MP-GAM was a “shape-changer” in the manner of science fiction creatures surviving and flourishing by deception. The intricacies of MP-GAM’s publicly recorded shifting political positions were problem enough for the organization’s credibility. More difficult was the attempt to portray itself as sufficiently militant and uncompromising to attract trust and donations from the Acehnese Diaspora, while plausibly posing as a “moderate faction” open to legitimate negotiation with Jakarta. Possibly out of greed by MP-GAM, their handlers, or both, the MP-GAM operation could not hope to sustain properly the deception among Acehnese resistance circles. Most likely, MP-GAM’s fund-raising combined with information-gathering in the short term out of a realistic assessment that the operation had a very limited window of opportunity to achieve its main diplomatic and counterintelligence goals. Upon the symbolic and crucially timed year 2000 assassination of Don Zulfahri in Malaysia,14 the more ambitious diplomatic task was indefinitely postponed. Nonetheless, MP-GAM’s routine black flag deception continued, while some MP-GAM members successfully played a separate role by discreet participation in the regional Al Qaeda-linked jihadist terror networks of JI–RM.
Covert infiltration: RIA, MP-GAM, and the Al Qaeda–JI “fit-up” The other main purported GAM “breakaway dissident faction” claimed earlier historical roots than the formal creation of GAM itself, and had more obvious TNI links than its MP-GAM colleagues. Preceding Indonesian infiltration efforts in Aceh referred back to the end of the war’s second phase, i.e. the 1950s rebellion under Daud Beureueh’s leadership and his creation of the Islamic Republic of Aceh (Republik Islam Aceh, RIA). As seen with MP-GAM’s creative nomenclature, and later that of the conscripted loyalist militia groups from late 2003, the purportedly separatist RIA strove to be seen as a significant force of organic and representative Acehnese militancy, containing its own “faction” in the Front Mujahiddin Aceh (FMA).15 The latter-day black flag RIA incarnation formed the foundation of Indonesian infiltration and disinformation against GAM, with some durable effect on overseas opinion, especially where it insinuated local Islamist and international terrorist connections to Acehnese militancy. From the very birth of MP-GAM, RIA revealed its long-compromised nature by its intimate connections to MP-GAM leader Arjuna (ICG 2002: fn 34). Far from inheriting Daud Beureueh’s mantle, new RIA leader Fauzi Hasbi (also known as Abu Jihad) resided, moved, and traded freely throughout Indonesia. With the backing of Jakarta’s generals, Fauzi proselytized a jihadist Aceh from Jakarta. These were his strange credentials in meetings hosted by regional jihadists in Malaysia, many
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of whom appeared as “JI” in the West. Reflecting either gullible or disingenuous sources, both Indonesian and Western sources sometimes wrongly cited Fauzi’s “GAM” credentials in liaison with Malaysian and Indonesian jihadists. The spurious issue of Fauzi Hasbi’s pan-Islamic “GAM” had already been thoroughly discredited by his own admissions in mainstream reporting. After his assassination, his son too asserted that Fauzi had long officially turned loyalist Indonesian (SP 2003d). Indonesia’s covert infiltration of RIA was no late development. By the final stage of Daud Beureueh’s 1950s rebellion, as the TNI effectively quelled rebellions in West Java, South Sulawesi, and elsewhere, Aceh’s part in the anti-Jakarta Darul Islam alliance had officially reverted to its own openly distinct separatist identity known as RIA. Ironically, the benefits of Daud Beureueh’s earlier Darul Islam alliance became Jakarta’s opportunity to undermine Acehnese resistance at a senior level: Daud Beureueh’s camp naturally sought to preserve some of the useful political and logistical links to surviving Darul Islam rebels elsewhere, especially in West Java. The earliest Indonesian agent identified from that stage was one Hasan Gayo, who helped entrap resistance members in BAKIN counterintelligence missions from the 1960s. By the Soeharto era, Indonesia’s intelligence apparatus infiltrated this resurrected form of RIA with its overtly Islamist trappings. The operation’s main handlers were Ali Murtopo’s BAKIN and, later, KOPASSUS units on counterintelligence tasks within Aceh itself. Continuity between Daud Beureueh’s earlier rebellion and Hasan di Tiro’s GAM has been described in Indonesian antiseparatist opinion pieces, and should hardly be deemed controversial, especially in light of Hasan di Tiro’s early prominence in Daud Beureueh’s rebellion (PR 2003a). Despite New Order publicity claiming Daud Beureueh’s “repentance” and “return to the lap of the mother country of the unitary Indonesian state,” his commitment to Acehnese struggle apparently did not wane once the next phase of independence began under Hasan di Tiro’s leadership, and his official support for and inclusion in Hasan di Tiro’s GAM is well recorded (see Conboy 2003: 262–4). Daud Beureueh’s Acehnese, anti-Jakarta uprising was not part of some uniform effort aimed at creating a pan-archipelagic Islamic state to replace the Indonesian one, as is very widely believed. Preexisting grievances caused conditions ripe for armed rebellion, prompting West Java’s Darul Islam leadership to seek out Aceh’s participation for strategic and diplomatic reasons. Detailed accounts described the dispatch by West Java’s Darul Islam of senior emissary Abdul Fatah Wirananggapati, for the express purpose of persuading Daud Beureueh into a strategic alliance with outside rebellions, converting Acehnese grievances and struggle into a coordinated archipelagic alliance against Jakarta’s own centralized power over the regions. The West Java rebels’ main purpose in bringing Aceh’s early rebellion on-side was to take advantage of the ex-sultanate’s proximity and traditional ties to Malaya, which was the West Java Darul Islam rebels’ primary overseas diplomatic focus (see Mahfud 2002; tirtayasa 2002). At the same time, Daud Beureueh’s Aceh was to become the state of Aceh (Negara Bagian Aceh) as part of a confederation of Islamic states, not merely continue as a provincial
210 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism administration within a centralized state renamed and restyled as the Islamic State of Indonesia (Negara Islam Indonesia), or NII (Ross 2002).16 Komando Jihad was one of the New Order entities built on the remnants of certain Darul Islam participants, and was itself the creation of Indonesian intelligence chief, BAKIN’s Ali Murtopo. RIA transformed into a similar entity, though its name implied uninterrupted continuity with Daud Beureueh’s fledgling movement operating by itself after the demise of the West Java Darul Islam insurgency. The overtly Islamist RIA appeared increasingly active in its infiltration into GAM units from the early 1990s, though perhaps successfully exploiting the decentralized nature of GAM’s force and command structure, and the correspondingly decentralized traditional Acehnese society. Perhaps due to GAM’s decentralized nature, with its negative potential for disjointed communications and lack of centralized coordination, the early threat from RIA may have been unnoticed by some GAM elements. That possibility was apparent in the account of a GAM commander imprisoned with Jakarta labor activist Dr Mukhtar Pakpahan, in which he described the RIA followers as a small minority element of the rebellion (probably continuing within GAM as a traditional grouping from Daud Beureueh’s Pidie neighborhood). But given the likely considerations of personal safety, discretion probably compelled the GAM leader and/or Mukhtar to be extra circumspect in referring to so sensitive a counterintelligence issue (Pakpahan 1994). The infiltrated RIA in its latter-day covert form was in many ways the operation’s most important and enduring feature, causing it to reappear in connection with Southeast Asia’s most wanted terrorist, Hambali. High-level Western celebration and publicity around the capture of JI leader Hambali over his role in planning the October 2002 Bali terror attack, but this all seemed to ignore a detailed account of Hambali’s role as an agent of the Indonesian security apparatus. In this respect, both RIA and a JI leader appeared as early participants in the Indonesian counterintelligence and loyalist militia program in Aceh. One report (Adil 2002) cited Hambali as a BAKIN (later restructured into BIN) agent codenamed “G-8,” with earlier Aceh-related duties including the delicate counterintelligence task of infiltrating GAM by using ethnic Acehnese TNI auxiliaries (TBO) gathered under the RIA puppet organization.17 Kompas (Kmp 2003o) reported the Hambali–Indonesian intelligence connection as an issue before the late 2001 GWOT, but added that the Indonesian government flatly refuted the story. Not surprisingly, Hambali made ongoing visits to meet with RIA chief Fauzi Hasbi at his house in Malaysia (Kmp 2002c). Reports of Fauzi’s own admitted senior-level TNI links supported a mooted link between Hambali and the TNI. More widely known was the Hambali case’s intelligence intrigue well outside of Aceh and Indonesia. At a time the Malaysian government detained increasing numbers of political Islamists, and expelled many Indonesian workers, Hambali enjoyed easy and preferential official business status in that country. He continued frequently to enter and exit Malaysia, whereas Indonesian immigrants normally attained only a marginal or temporary working status with few, if any, rights. Hambali’s freedom to move appeared in starker relief in light of a UN
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Security Council Monitoring Group report indirectly connecting Al Qaeda with Malaysia’s ruling National Front (Barisan Nasional, BN) coalition (Lim 2003). By contrast, then Prime Minister Mahathir’s campaign against the Islamist PAS opposition detained many of their activists in a repression that merely expanded from the anti-PAS actions of the Nation’s 1999 elections. RIA’s Fauzi Hasbi revealed to ICG that the JI leader responsible for overseeing Medan operations was Yazid Sufaat, former Malaysian army officer (either captain or colonel, depending upon the source). Yazid had also been described as a “right-hand man” for Hambali. None of that is to automatically conclude TNI or other Indonesian (or, for that matter, Malaysian) intelligence complicity in the 2002 Bali attack. While some argument may be made that Indonesia’s security forces would be best positioned to reap long-term local and international benefit from the bombing, the crude matter of TNI–POLRI business interests in Bali’s economy could contradict such assessment. If there was substance in Hambali’s implied link to the TNI (especially the agent-handlers of KOPASSUS), the whole issue enters into the murky world of double agents and related intrigues. If an agent, Hambali may well have acted as a loose cannon of sorts, hiding his own real agenda from his Jakarta handlers. Alternatively there is the issue of Jakarta’s own factional and institutional competition, which may also explain any alleged involvement by an Indonesian government agency.18 Whatever that case, Hambali’s alleged Indonesian intelligence connection to the Aceh war, cited as it was in Indonesian sources, would at least emphatically disprove as trumped-up the many theories, fantasies, and “faith-based” conclusions mooting GAM connections to international jihadists. Figure 7.1 details apparently substantial connections between international Al Qaeda–JI terrorist networks and Jakarta’s front organizations in MP-GAM, PUAN, and RIA. By contrast, analysis of reports specifying such terrorist links with GAM at best describe actual GAM links as very tenuous, occasional, or even inadvertent. A 2003 Detik article contrived a GAM connection from a POLRI statement about a GAM arms procurer having used “JI community” accommodation in Thailand (Dtk 2003b). The report did not even allude to actual GAM purchase of weapons through the purported JI lair. Not that a weapons deal would in itself suffice as a genuine organizational link given GAM’s well-known reliance on arms deals with enterprising TNI–POLRI members, as police themselves admitted (Kasminto 2003: 78–81). Jakarta-based, Aceh-born pan-Islamist Al Chaidar was a prominent liaison functionary, by turn freelance and Indonesian, and purportedly identified as an Al Qaeda associate in a CIA interrogation document (Adil 2001). Al Chaidar drew no adverse scrutiny from Indonesian authorities, officially registering his latter-day Darul Islam group as a “mass organization” (ormas) in August 2002 (SM 2002c). Strangely at odds with interviews in Jakarta’s press over the period, Time (2002b) called Al Chaidar an Indonesian exile living in (pre-Hambali arrest) Thailand. Al Chaidar’s Darul Islam seemed to perpetuate hitherto tentative Acehnese association with the 1950s West Java-based but pan-archipelagic NII rebellion, like the avowed revival of that movement’s Acehnese remnant in RIA. One RM meeting
Tgk Maulida
*
RIA / FMA
?
?
Raja Husein /Idris
?
Al Chaidar
H Ismail Pranoto
Abu Bakr Baasyir
Hasan Gayo
Hasan Ali
Faturrahman
Lamkaruna Hasbi
Fauzi Hasbi
Hasbi Geudong
Yusuf Daud
?
NII *
custody
Al Qaeda
Mohamed Atef
Husein Ayman al Zawahiri
Omar Farouq
'JI'
Mukhlas
Zulkarnaen
Hambali
Amrozi
Imam Samudra
Yazid Sufaat
Abdullah Sungkar
Syarifuddin
MMI KMM DDII Al Zaytun, etc
?
BAIS-KOPASSUS
TNI
Sutiyoso
Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin
BAKIN 1960-70s Ali Murtopo
?
Figure 7.1 Relationship diagram: covert Acehnese groups, “JI,” and Al Qaeda.
??
Tgk Muhammad
Daud Paneuk
Family (blood) connection Reported liaison & cooperation Reported institutional connection 'Links' via infiltration / payment Assassinated Nominal only - highly factionalized Major lead for identity - link / death
National Front Coalition (Malaysia)
Junid
BN Sanusi
Arjuna
Tk Don Zulfahri
Tk Idris Mahmud
Dr Husaini Hasan
MP-GAM
Guree Rahman
National Mandate Party
PAN
PUAN
Tgk Maulida
GOLKAR
GOLONGAN KARYA
Bustanil Arifin
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reportedly covered planning for a bomb attack against Philippines embassy dignitaries in Jakarta, though Al Chaidar denied that any such attack was discussed there (Tempo 2002f). Al Chaidar admitted his contacts with several people named as captured JI suspects, and boasted of his Darul Islam followers’ military experience with Afghanistan’s Taliban regime, claiming to have sent 100–200 such jihadists there annually since 1989 (Zenit.org 2001). Al Chaidar’s parent NII organization contained an Aceh branch under Tgk Ahmad, possibly the “Ahmad Kandang” hitherto reported in 1999 KOPASSUS intrigues. Almost certainly involved in RIA if not an official member, Tgk Ahmad in Pidie unequivocally opposed GAM and its independence agenda (SM 2001c). RIA’s direct involvement with Al Chaidar’s Indonesia-wide NII was not confirmed, but its ideological compatibility would suggest at least very close cooperation with NII, if not some measure of center–region subordination. In Fauzi’s Ambon abduction-murder, two other victims were his colleagues Edi Putra and Ahmad Saridup, described by Tempo as “NII activists” (TI 2003a). Therefore, Tgk Ahmad was probably included among the anti-GAM RIA cadre, albeit in the disguise of NII’s pan-Islamic radicalism.19 Based on reported detail and logical motive, international terrorist connections with Indonesia’s intelligence apparatus (including TNI and POLRI elements) actually appeared stronger and more established than the alleged GAM–JI links widely publicized to the time of writing. Figure 7.1 depicts some reported organizational links between Jakarta and MP-GAM and RIA, mainly because Jakarta’s press and GAM sources gave little specific detail. Such “institutional” connections were personal links among groups. Personalities’ clandestine and covert histories would make further recovery very difficult for public observers, though specialized coverage by a state’s intelligence apparatus should have posed no great challenge if using the public domain as a knowledge base for more information-gathering via direct electronic and human surveillance. Many observers of the Indonesian military noted TNI involvement in Islamist political intrigue, such as the large-scale Laskar Jihad (LJ) embarkation for the civil war in Maluku. In that case, jihadists departed under the very noses of KODAM V in Surabaya for their avowed holy war, and many returned home courtesy of the Indonesian Air Force and Navy after achieving most of their aims. Significantly, TNI “facilitation” of LJ into Aceh did not go unnoticed in Washington, a fact that must itself count among the failures of Jakarta’s information operations playing the “religionist card” (CRS 2002). TNI manipulation of Islamist, or “green,” radicalism was evident in the careers of such famous counterintelligence commanders as Ali Murtopo, Prabowo Subianto, and Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin. From mid-2003 POLRI seizures of explosives and other materials at a JI Semarang cell, confiscated Islamist literature mythologized Prabowo as a martyred “green” general, with a “white book” dedicated to his memory, probably commiserating the KOPASSUS legend’s career demise amid political intrigues and turmoil of mid-1998 Jakarta (KP 2003d). Views of Prabowo as some genuinely Islamist officer, a kind of loose cannon dangerous by traditional “Red and White,” or nationalist, TNI standards, gained currency
214 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism despite Prabowo’s quick rehabilitation as a leading security consultant to the multinational mining industry in Indonesia: hardly a well-spring or refuge of either revolutionary or militant Islam. The Medan Christmas Eve church bombing in 2000 and that in Cengkareng (Jakarta) airport in April 2003 were the only specific cases of jihadist terrorism consistently alleged against GAM. In both cases, police accused individual Acehnese on strange circumstantial grounds with heavy reliance on “confessions” after detention and interrogation. The Medan prosecution itself indicated very remote and contrived evidence, significant parts of which came from the duress of physical torture, including electrocution. The Medan operation’s alleged Acehnese lynchpin used only a generic familial address polem (Acehnese for Malay kak, or Chinese koh, “older brother”). Tempo magazine’s investigation (2001a, b) revealed phone records linking the accused bombers with a TNIbacked ethnic Chinese businessman and even the local KODAM’s intelligence chief over Aceh, LTCOL Iwan Prilianto, himself a protégé of KOPASSUS’ MAJGEN Idris Gassing from their similar late-1990s postings to Papua. Logically, the Cengkareng case seemed at first to be a daring assassination attempt on President Megawati in reprisal for the corresponding earlier action against GAM Commander-in-Chief Abdullah Syafei’i. However, the motive appeared suspect given that a dead Indonesian civilian president could very likely be replaced by the TNI, in a capacity to more directly mobilize against the Acehnese resistance. Similarly ambiguous cases were the Jakarta Stock Exchange (BEJ) bombing and a grenade attack on the Malaysian Embassy. Indonesian authorities also accused GAM over a planned grenade attack on the US Embassy. Arrests, trials, and convictions over these events targeted many SIRA referendum activists, long accused as a GAM front by TNI–POLRI chiefs, but thereafter more openly hunted much as GAM members had been. In its thorough analysis of JI operations to late 2002, ICG cast serious doubt on GAM involvement and urged that these other two attacks be properly reexamined. While accepting POLRI claims in good faith, a yet earlier ICG (2001c) report noted the widespread doubt of the Indonesian press over these cases. Former BAKIN senior analyst A. C. Manullang expressed suspicion over both the speed and quantity of arrests in the BEJ case, and army members identified in the arrests fuelled speculation over the use of Acehnese cu’ak from a post-1998 exodus of loyalist collaborators to metropolitan Java (Dtk 2000a, b). In its effort to have Hasan di Tiro and other senior GAM leaders arrested in their adopted homeland, Jakarta’s lobbying of Sweden’s government focused largely on that evidence, perhaps in the hubristic belief that the Medan bombing’s symbolically Christian target would excite a less than sober response from the nation whose flag kept a symbolically Christian historical keepsake. Those efforts were unsuccessful as the Swedish foreign minister rejected Jakarta’s approaches up until her assassination. Subsequent diplomatic efforts, especially as represented by veteran Ali Alatas, elicited a more favorable Swedish response: ASNLF leaders were summoned for pointed questioning at the time of writing, based on 1,500 pages of Jakarta’s “evidence” from several bombing cases.
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Sensationalized, but apparently trumped-up, allegations against GAM came in the April 2003 Soekarno–Hatta airport bombing, just prior to President Megawati’s touchdown there. That bombing implicated a Riau-based Acehnese perpetrator named “Idris” using the alias “Raja Husain” (ICG 2003b), possibly the Tk Idris Mahmud cited by many (including convicted Bali bombers) who knew the man from several JI planning conferences in Malaysia since at least 1999, if not also the year before. The name “Idris” may have served as mere Jakarta police disinformation to support the hasty allegations against GAM. Similarly, the name “Husain” may have served as an alias previously used during a 1999 visit to North Aceh in the company of Al Qaeda’s Omar Al Farouq. Once again, Fauzi Hasbi’s comments may help on that point, as he scoffed at the purported Middle Eastern origin of Omar’s traveling companions in those visits. Fauzi Hasbi was arguably Jakarta’s leading Acehnese agent of influence, at least before the rise of MP-GAM. The recruitment of Fauzi helped Jakarta’s infowar, and his cultivation was obvious without media and ICG revelations. Central Java policeman and Aceh-tour veteran Usman Kasminto (2003: i, 240) filled half his aggressive anti-GAM tract’s bibliography to Fauzi’s own anti-GAM works written under the nom de plume “Abu Jihad.” Far from independently composing the book through his own creativity outside of official police duties, Kasminto thanked POLRI’s “Aceh Region Chief and all its forces for the frequent direction given” in completing the text over a six-month tour of the province in 2002. The TNI- and POLRI-favored Fauzi, on the other hand, wrote under the grandly militant Islamist umbrella “Acehnese Mujahiddin Front Information Council,” by which Fauzi (and his unacknowledged sponsors) attached to his publications an emblem of organizational and political authenticity. The TNI featured these publications in a Banda Aceh “Development Expo week” from National Independence Day (17 August) 2002. Fauzi’s son Lamkaruna added his own books to his father’s loyalist-jihadist oeuvre in the TNI’s display. TNI–POLRI commanders gave out copies of these books to prominent Western and other visitors at their Banda Aceh HQ. Regardless, a senior POLRI chief disingenuously claimed a year later that Fauzi’s RIA formed part of GAM (SK 2003c). POLRI’s chief detective Erwin Mappaseng did the same when describing a JI link with a “GAM faction” (Dtk 2003b; SCTV 2003d). By the time of writing, much confirmatory work remained to be done on such details as agent identity and “JI involvement”: a profusion of aliases and secrecy within terrorist cells left inevitable (and deliberate) confusion on these points. RIA’s “Faturrahman,” for example, had no associated detail besides Acehnese ethnicity. Yet only non-Acehnese named “Faturrahman” appeared in any credible detail as JI operators, including: Faturrahman Al Ghozi, killed in Mindanao after his escape from a Manila jail in mid-2003; a Faturrahman from Serang, West Java; and Faturahman Daemugading from Makassar, South Sulawesi (the latter less likely given his age and profile). The Philippines connection pointed to such a shadowy operation as early as 2000, when Manila press sources made the extraordinary claim that GAM was behind the bombing of the Philippines ambassador’s Jakarta address that year: from the outset, Indonesian sources generally
216 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism encouraged suspicions towards the MILF! To support the Philippines story, anonymous sources cited “GAM trainees” at MILF camps in Mindanao (Gamma 2000), as vaguely backed by an official Singaporean source (EWC 2004a), which was all nonsensical for basic reasons of security, logistics, and other costs, besides its redundancy given GAM’s own local training systems. Indonesian infiltrators in Mindanao could have easily claimed Acehnese ethnicity (just one of many regional ethnic groups) and some form of GAM membership, as a way to smooth acceptance among the MILF (and ASG). Such a ruse would displace responsibility for later terrorist actions, while deflecting attention by (at least) accommodating the antiseparatist agendas of the Indonesian and Philippines governments. Certainly Al Ghozi was known to use many aliases (at least six), and possibly attended a Malaysia conference using a RIA cover agreed by his companions and/or handlers. Al Ghozi’s “brother” (possibly a literal translation of generic Muslim “brotherhood”) used an alias “Idris,” reappearing in several cases with little clarification. Confirming the actual identities of “Faturrahman” and “Idris” in these contexts could be crucial to reconstructing the extent of significant Indonesian infiltration into JI’s network (and to lesser extents the MILF). At any rate, Faturrahman al Ghozi confessed to bombing the Philippines ambassador’s Jakarta residence prior to his capture, interrogation, escape, and death, all within Philippines borders. From available public material, it was reasonable to conclude that JI bomber Faturrahman al Ghozi probably infiltrated the Philippines with a covert “separatist Acehnese–RIA” identity. In August 2003, Australia’s ABC TV (2003b) screened a tape purporting to show a young Indonesian jihadist agitating for terror from Mindanao. Echoing the Malaysia JI conferences cited in planning the 2002 Bali attack, “Bobby Mahmud” represented “RM” in a regional pan-Islamic, anti-Western struggle. Oddly, the alias “Bobby” itself was a Christian pseudonym for the young mujahiddin: “Robert,” or its traduced Obert, was LJ’s nickname for its Christian enemies in the Maluku war. Also, “Bobby” was supposedly Indonesian, but he only spoke faltering Arabic from a prepared written statement read aloud with the slow vowel intonation of a prayer recital, even for his purported name! “Bobby” was strangely pronounced as baabi: not an Indonesian pronunciation of the name “Bobby,” but a homonym of “pig” in Malay/Indonesian. Such half-hearted or facetious use of aliases appeared in the 1999 Tempo article introducing MP-GAM’s pseudonymous “Mahmud Arif.” Bobby’s real identity was unconfirmed at the time of writing, but was probably insignificant. His name, use of schoolboy Arabic, and the RM–Mindanao connection all pointed to a mischievous joke by Idris Mahmud at the Western media’s expense. Indeed, MP-GAM’s Idris Mahmud was reportedly a Malaysia–Philippines itinerant around this time and, with his brother Muhammad Mahmud, the only RM participants using the name.
Teuku Umar’s ghost: RIA and the limits of coercion RIA chief Fauzi Hasbi’s many revelations hinted at perhaps the most poignant contemporary parallel with the Acehnese resistance’s Dutch phase. In that earlier
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period, west Acehnese resistance commander Teuku Umar became famous, first for his betrayal under duress, when he became a Dutch ally with his retinue and other forces officially working for the colonial regime. Teuku Umar’s legendary status came later when in 1896 he reneged on a previous pledge of loyalty, betraying the Dutch at the most opportune time for revitalizing the resistance, leading to the prolonged campaign under Teuku Umar’s wife, Cut Nyak Dhien, prior to her 1905 capture. Tactical surrenders for later anticolonial strikes from an unexpected position inside the invaders’ lines became a characteristic of Dutch experience in Aceh, which the Europeans described as “fanaticism,” “extremism,” and “murders” (Atjeh Moord). Fauzi Hasbi’s turbulent family history was similar to the agent Tarmizi’s situation (see p. 171). Fauzi was captured in 1979 by then KOPASSUS junior officer Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin, his brother Muchtar killed by a KOPASSUS patrol the following year, and his father Abu Hasbi Geudong detained from around the same time as KOPASSUS–BAIS counterintelligence began handling Fauzi as a potential GAM turncoat and infiltrator. It is harrowing to contemplate the predicament of people such as Fauzi at that time: his father imprisoned as a virtual hostage; his brother killed by Fauzi’s own new mentors (probably via interrogation of Fauzi himself, as maintained by GAM); and given little choice but to cooperate with Indonesian plans, while all the time threatened with assassination by GAM as a traitor. Or possibly not. Fauzi’s ultimate treachery was his very public revelations detailing TNI cultivation and other sensitive collaboration. In these regards, it is conceivable that GAM had in Fauzi a valuable infiltrator of their own, albeit one who precariously “turned” himself back to his original cause over time. Worst for Indonesia’s counterintelligence bosses, Fauzi revealed much detail about his JI–Al Qaeda and TNI contacts. Besides the damaging Indonesian news media leaks of Fauzi’s connections, and other related details to the Jakarta-based ICG just after the Bali bombings, Fauzi’s third son Lamkaruna specified his father’s ongoing avowedly loyalist relationships to the TNI, as well as the identity of a POLRI intelligence suspect in Fauzi’s murder in Ambon, which happened just a couple of months after Fauzi’s most serious revelations became public. The intrigue compounded with a supporting statement of Jayadi, member of the Indonesian Army’s Maluku KODAM Pattimura and described as one of “Abu Jihad’s personnel in Ambon” (TI 2003a). Naturally enough, the murky world of the double agent would demand that Fauzi’s name remain anathema in GAM circles. But stark facts in Fauzi’s case left it plausible that he and his family tried to perform a redemptive and heroic role akin to that of Teuku Umar, striking a serious blow against Indonesia on an altogether different battlefield of the information war, at a critical time of international terror and counterterror scenarios. As if to confirm such a conclusion, one of Fauzi’s abductors, an Ambon-based jihadist, told RIA’s new leader Lamkaruna that his father was killed for his “treachery” (SH 2003d). Fauzi’s son Lamkaruna confirmed his father’s indiscreet press revelations about loyalty to Jakarta and active cooperation with the TNI, along with reference
218 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism to documentary evidence of Fauzi’s loyalist tasking from Jakarta. Repeated family killings and other coercion by Indonesia’s security apparatus undoubtedly caused Fauzi, his wife Elfi and son Lamkaruna to throw caution to the winds and speak publicly on these sensitive counterintelligence details, adding to Fauzi’s earlier admissions of close contact with JI, Hambali, and Omar al Farouq (Dtk 2003c; SH 2003b). It was important to read such primary sources against a report by Schulze (EWC 2004a), who emphasized the “hearsay” quality of information about Fauzi’s links and anti-GAM record. Fauzi’s case came at a critical time for GAM, especially as many in the West sought the most casual sign of any possible Acehnese connections with international terrorism. In hindsight, Fauzi seemed to have become something of a nightmare for his Jakarta counterintelligence handlers. In 1999 Fauzi indiscreetly admitted to his patronage of MP-GAM’s Arjuna, thus compromising the viability of that new front organization which had carefully presented itself as an internal GAM phenomenon of disgruntled resistance leaders against Hasan di Tiro’s leadership. At several points in the Aceh war, at least since 1999, Fauzi, and later his son Lamkaruna, effectively unraveled years of expensive and painstaking counterintelligence planning, payoffs, coercion, and disinformation. Regardless of Fauzi’s damage to Jakarta’s disinformation campaign and long-term agent program in the counterintelligence war, GAM suffered serious damage as a result of KOPASSUS agent-handling of turned GAM members. Considering that Fauzi’s family was just one among many so targeted and used in Jakarta’s covert war, GAM’s losses in this theatre would be incalculably high, and the resultant number of arbitrary arrests, disappearances, torture sessions, imprisonment, and executions can only be imagined. For international opinion too, GAM certainly suffered from the TNI’s cultivation of an expressly chauvinistic Islamist alternative to GAM. The RIA infiltration in particular enhanced perceptions of GAM’s resistance to Jakarta as an essentially religious issue. RIA’s and MP-GAM’s association with JI networks merely continued that process to its logical climax in tainting GAM, and Acehnese generally, with the smear of an international terrorist agenda pursued by chauvinist ultra-conservative mujahiddin. However incongruous the caricature, and however fantastical the alleged GAM–JI links, many commentators from the news media, academia, and the security industry seized upon the allegations either out of sheer gullibility, opportunistic self-interest, or cynical diplomatic expediency. Notwithstanding justified consideration of official Indonesian government connections to leading JI figures and their associates, equally serious questions concern the positions of Western intelligence bodies in the scenario. Despite statesman-like posturing by US and Australian political leaders proclaiming a need for greater security partnerships with Indonesia post-Bali 2002, international counterterrorist cooperation and so-called “intelligence sharing” was already an established aspect of Indonesia’s relations with supportive Western governments well before the twenty-first century GWOT got underway. For example, Australian secret police aid came in the form of surveillance and deportation of East Timorese independence activists, continuing from the pursuit by electronic
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search measures against FRETILIN contacts in the Northern Territory as part of a domestic counterintelligence campaign in the late 1970s. From at least as early as 1999, US counterintelligence priorities set surveillance targets in certain Al Qaeda figures in Malaysia. Sources confirmed that Fauzi’s RIA and Arjuna’s MP-GAM (if not Hambali himself) operated freely and in liaison with Indonesian authorities from Jakarta and elsewhere in Indonesia, and overseas. Hambali remained the key personality to unlock the secret of Indonesian JI infiltration prior to the Bali bombing. If reports were substantially accurate about Hambali’s status as a TNI agent handler into Aceh during the DOM period, the next pursuit of inquiry was who supervised him. Possible candidates included KOPASSUS counterintelligence veterans and experienced Aceh hands MAJGEN Zacky Anwar Makarim and MAJGEN Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin, with several accounts citing their direct involvement in East Timor and Aceh “black ops.” Indeed, Sjafrie himself admitted to such specialization when he went on record in an extraordinarily careless boast describing his US Army counterintelligence/PSYOPS training (FK 1997a).20 Another question concerns the timing of Hambali’s purported infiltration duties around Aceh. Did he continue to cultivate Afghanistan and Al Qaeda links during this period? If so, how did such networking complement his agent-handling duties, if at all? Most importantly, what did TNI/BAKIN chiefs know of Hambali’s wider circle of associates and their future plans? While some may dismiss these questions out of hand, it must be remembered that mainstream Indonesian press sources carried Hambali’s mooted early links to the Indonesian military. In disregarding Indonesia’s press, some simply regarded Jakarta journalists as very conservative organs of state control, while others cast doubt or ridicule on controversial but detailed reporting from the country’s vast and diversely owned news sources. But such sensitive Indonesian press allegations could not have been made lightly. On the contrary, Indonesian journalists who dared allude to such sensitive security matters endured a risk largely unknown to their Western counterparts. Besides the above two plausible explanations of RIA and MP-GAM involvement with JI, there was only one other conceivable explanation for the intrigues that publicly betrayed Jakarta’s long and close infiltration into the regional jihadists’ networks. It was possible that, via Fauzi and others, GAM had conducted an extremely delicate and sophisticated triple-agent operation to discredit the Indonesian government. Several strong reasons would demolish the possibility: (1) GAM itself announced very little detail around the wider intrigues, suggesting a mixture of shame, disgust, and fury over its turncoats, while GAM had more pressing different priorities than scandals related to the GWOT, otherwise so preoccupying the West; (2) several turncoats’ loyalties to Jakarta had been public for years; (3) Jakarta’s coercion and close surveillance of the turncoats would have ruled out their wayward, or “rogue,” liaison with jihadists if done as part of a GAM plot; and (4) agent preparation time (some 20 years in Fauzi’s case) was prohibitive for GAM’s underground networks. Notwithstanding the possibility of a defensive, rather than offensive black (“Reichstag”) infiltration by Jakarta’s senior counterintelligence cadres, RIA was clearly no GAM operation.
220 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism Indonesian counter-intelligence 'Acehnese' infiltration of Jema'ah Islamiyah
1
2
a
Counterterrorist security
No
Agent loyal? Eliminate
Yes
No
Denial / discredit plan
Access to agent?
Yes Withdraw
Yes
b
No
Yes
Safe to withdraw?
Risk acceptable?
No
Surveillance operation
No
Agent compromised?
Operation
Black ops / 'Reichstag' terror
Yes
Offensive operation?
c Eliminate No
d
Yes Continue
Campaign Other agents & sources
Agency privy to JI operations? No Operation failed
Philippines Ambassador's Jakarta Residence, 2000
e Yes
Operation successful Bali, October 2002 Medan churches plot Marriot Hotel December 2000 Jakarta, August 2003 Australian Embassy (Debriefing & re-assignment Jakarta, September 2004 or elimination)
Notes: a. Entire campaign can contain agents on separate offensive and defensive operation simultaneously. b. Fauzi Hasbi was assassinated for 'treachery'. Another figure, at one time claiming to be from RIA ('Faturrahman') may have been the assassinated Al Ghozi. Hambali's eventual fate was unclear at time of writing, though probably kept as a 'bargaining chip' in detention by US authorities. c. No public sources indicated compromise of Indonesian State infiltrators during their dealings within the JI networks. d. Compromise could demand more active collaboration between Indonesian counter-intelligence and jihadists. Covert sponsorship of, or even recruitment from within, 'JI' and 'NII' elements via inducement and/or coercion. e. Critical: essential goal within courses 1 or 2. Figure 7.2 Retrospective analysis of Indonesian counterintelligence operation (“JI”).
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The most plausible conclusion from all available reports is that Fauzi Hasbi “turned,” did his damage to his original resistance cause, then as a man long condemned sought his redemption by turning again, knowing that his final betrayal should occur as part of Aceh’s vital information war.
PUAN: infiltration and front for NAD–syariah MP-GAM’s publicly claimed ideological shift away from Islamist activism left an obvious void, especially on the ground within Aceh itself. Timed as it was with the popular groundswell of demands for an Acehnese independence referendum, and denounced at every turn as traitors by GAM, MP-GAM’s nature inevitably caught some attention, inviting suspicion and accusations of infiltration. Lack of historical continuity too meant the group could guarantee no longevity under the same name. In time with the Indonesian government’s decrees of Aceh’s status as “NAD,” and its more formalized application of a syariah legal system from 2001, MP-GAM appeared to have been gradually replaced by PUAN (Pejuang Amar Makruf Nahi Mungkar), an acronym loosely translated from Koranic Arabic as “struggle to follow the teachings and avoid that which is forbidden.” PUAN expressed a loyalist ulama position, though usually stating a critical view of both warring parties. Similar to RIA’s superficial historical legacy, PUAN was an ideological and acronymous allusion to the revived anti-Dutch war of Daud Beureueh’s PUSA (Persatuan Ulama Seluruh Aceh, lit. “Aceh-Wide Union of Clerics”) in the resumed resistance campaigns of the 1930s. PUAN press releases adopted an almost evangelical style, replete with an ostensibly pious, but contextually vague, recourse to Koranic verse forced into the subject matter of Aceh’s war, and punctuated by such phrases as Masya Allah, which loosely translates in the English language Christian register to “Lord have mercy.” Most PUAN press releases claimed a neutral position, decrying violence from both TNI–POLRI and GAM. Several details located PUAN’s political agenda, however, such as the morally relativist assertion that atrocities against the civilian population fell “50–50” to both warring parties (Srb 2001d), but sampled casualties from operations in 2003 disproved that PUAN claim. As seen from Chapter 6, the civilian death toll came overwhelmingly from action by Indonesian troops, even if disregarding POLRI’s likely “guesswork” inflation to allege GAM “hits” against Indonesian collaborators. In this light, PUAN’s claimed Islamism, neutrality, and shifted weight of blame for atrocities in Aceh were identical to an early 2002 East Aceh rally formally met by the KODIM and police precinct commanders in the set-piece fashion of the “loyalty pledge” (sumpah kesetiaan) ceremonies held under TNI–POLRI auspices throughout Aceh, especially from mid-2003 (Wsp 2002d). While PUAN was very circumspect and guardedly “neutral” in press releases to Acehnese daily Serambi, its political sympathies became clearer in a release to Medan’s Waspada daily (Wsp 2001b). PUAN’s spokesman Tgk Hidayatullah more emphatically condemned GAM as having “deliberately invited disaster by taking advantage of the people’s hatred for the injustice, mistakes, and barbarity
222 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism of TNI–POLRI during the DOM period.” He then went on to demand that GAM take responsibility for murders of several Acehnese academics, whose actual killers in fact remained unclear. Besides presenting a very discreet public face, with no office address, or other contact means, PUAN claimed an intelligence network placed throughout the province. The avowedly pious and nonviolent Tgk Hidayatullah denounced as “nothing more than losers” those peace negotiators in the mid-2001 TNI–POLRI and GAM dialogue. He also dismissed as completely futile the preceding efforts brokered by the Swiss-based Henry Dunant Centre. Condemning the negotiators’ use of a comfortable hotel as truce venue, for example, this PUAN “activist” invoked images of self-indulgent luxury enjoyed by the foreign observers and GAM leaders alike. It appeared that PUAN formed from Indonesia’s upper house speaker Amien Rais’ National Mandate Party, known by its acronym PAN. Not only were both entities’ acronyms and conservative Islamist agendas similar, but PAN’s regional leadership in western Aceh openly identified itself as “PUAN” in July 2003, mediating a hostage exchange of 25 GAM family members for two loyalist Indonesian teachers (Srb 2003v). It was therefore likely that the PAN party organization in Aceh became in many areas interchangeable with PUAN, though other political parties such as the PPP, PKB, PBB, and PKS (if not GOLKAR) almost certainly played a role too. PAN’s involvement showed a certain ambitious cunning from within PAN at the national level, if not some penetration into that party of its civil leader long reviled by the TNI, Amien Rais. The strategy would co-locate PAN (and other parties) with the interests of Jakarta’s powerful security leaders. PAN’s preeminence was a logical ploy too, given Amien Rais’ previous advocacy of a properly federalist state system for Indonesia, in a shrewd manipulation of the Acehnese body politic. While PAN’s mooted federalist reformism was Jakarta’s only conceivable loyalist alternative to gain wider popular Acehnese support, it was fanciful to imagine that such a change would even be considered given all of the conservative forces arrayed against it, especially those of the military and its allied business and party interests. Nonetheless, the earlier promise of loose federation helped PAN achieve some electoral success in the April 2004 ballot, particularly in Aceh’s north.
“The quiet Indonesian” Jakarta’s official depictions of GAM as a terrorist threat apparently strengthened after the explosion at a 2003 New Year’s Eve concert in Peureulak, East Aceh, killing up to a dozen civilians, wounding many more. The human toll was modest compared to Aceh’s regular civilian losses in executions, “disappearances,” and bombardment. But the attack’s terrorist nature and its timing all helped get Aceh into world news reports as though relevant to the US-led GWOT. Initial TNI- and POLRI-sourced accounts fitted an almost generic format for terror news, claiming the explosion was a body-borne suicide bombing up to the stage where a band played to the crowd. To back the story, a “Mr X” was added on to
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the bombing’s death toll of nine, later revised upwards for those dying from injuries. In a strange self-contradiction of tentative uncertainty and professional investigative rigor, local KODIM commander LTCOL Sunari identified Mr X as “GAM member Saiful Amri” (Srb 2004b). Maintaining a theme of TNI success in the Holistic Operation, Jakarta assigned a motive for the attack, claiming GAM merely wanted to remind people of its existence. For its part, GAM immediately made a scathing condemnation of the attack by castigating the TNI who, they claimed by contrast, organized the New Year celebrations in Peureulak town’s open fields. ASNLF’s release alluded to the obvious oddity in the TNI’s version, clear from Puspen TNI itself: Peureulak town was one of East Aceh’s concentrations of TNI–POLRI troops and a strongly protected node of Indonesian martial law government. Bizarre that GAM would bypass so many enemy targets to indiscriminately attack its own people, but even more so in such a risky area. Like New Year fireworks, the official statements’ accusations against GAM came and went, distracting and oscillating between various permutations of an extremist non-state terrorist bombing. The early police account posed a bewildered open-mindedness over the case, but claiming in first reports a GAM grenade-launcher attack against the civilians. POLRI chief GEN Da’i Bachtiar, much lauded and courted by the West after the Bali bombings, went on to assess a “suicide bomber” as the perpetrator (SIB 2004a), a comment sure to attract much Western attention. That version moderated into “premature detonation,” a theory which carried its own local spin against GAM by attaching both incompetence and lack of resolve, or in LTCOL Yani Basuki’s words: “not high enough militancy” to blow themselves up in the manner of Palestinian bombings against Israel, for example (TVRI 2004a). The official description of the explosion site contradicted eyewitness accounts too. Sunari later claimed the bomb blew from in front of the stage, whereas witnesses reported the explosion as directly underneath it (SMH 2004). In this respect, LTCOL Sunari contradicted Puspen TNI and KOPASSUS’ COL Andogo Wiradi, who personally investigated the site earlier (Srb 2004a). Meanwhile, days after all of the senior officers’ confident but conflicting stories, Aceh Police Region’s spokesman Senior Commissioner Sayed Husaini poured water on the claimed identification of a GAM perpetrator by saying “the police cannot speculate” (RA 2004), after his most senior boss had already done so from the outset. Puspen TNI’s early account was at odds with later press reports relying on TNI and police briefings for details about the blast’s investigation. Casting doubt on the whole issue of a “Mr X” bomber allegedly from GAM, initial TNI detail covered just nine deaths and 22 wounded (puspen 2004a). The fate of Mr X’s corpse was mysterious, unclaimed by the family alleged to be his origin, later said to have been surrendered to a village chief. Perhaps most extraordinary was that the government gave compensation money to surviving victims of the blast and the families of the deceased, including to that of Mr X, the already very quickly pronounced perpetrator and, more incongruously, given a name, GAM membership, and a personal history alongside the anonymous title (Srb 2004d). This time GAM seemed eerily sharp in its assessment that the blast was designed to distract
224 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism from the nearby death of RCTI journalist Ersa Siregar by TNI bullets just days before (ASNLF 2004a). Jakarta’s previous attempts to connect GAM with terror bombings in Indonesia suffered from contradictory case detail, denials by the convicted, or dubious confessions inviting later claims of duress in police interrogation. In the Cijantung car park bombing case, lack of any meaningful damage to the KOPASSUS-owned complex required that the purported GAM attack was at once mistimed and misdirected: hardly credible given the army’s prominence in metropolitan Java. But the extraordinary terrorist bombing of Acehnese civilians in Peureulak probably signaled the start of a new stage in the Aceh war’s latest phase. That bombing was not an immediate escalation by regular acts of such conspicuous terrorism, but it also acted as a warning to GAM to allow the 2004 general elections to proceed unhindered by attacks on Indonesian forces. For the longer term, these tactics could be held in reserve for a time when international focus was again ready to contemplate the war and its often misrepresented subtext of political and militant Islam. Despite “terror” becoming publicly known as a core competency of KOPASSUS’ Sandi Yudha Group III, Indonesia’s army feared no proscription as a terrorist organization by the UN or foreign governments. Along with terror’s deployment within energetic and expensive infiltration and shadow force programs, terrorism would stay in Jakarta’s armory as a most valuable political weapon, cloak of deniability, and potential diplomatic bargaining chip.
8
A people defamed
…as we know, there are known knowns; there are things we know we know. We also know there are known unknowns; that is to say we know there are some things we do not know. But there are also unknown unknowns – the ones we don’t know we don’t know. Donald Rumsfeld, US Secretary of Defense, to questions about Iraq WMD and terrorist links (DoD 2002) The one category of knowledge that the Secretary seems to have omitted is “unknown knowns,” which would be things that we know, but do not realize we know. John W. Durham, Northern Arizona University (Durham n.d.) Much of this war is waged in the minds and among the prejudices of men, none of it photographable. Chet Huntley, NBC News, 16 June 1966 (Army Digest 1967)
The scale of overseas interests around Aceh and Indonesia became clearer after the December 2004 tsunami devastation, when state leadership elites used media publicity to more directly influence audiences on matters of diplomacy, war, and their economic and strategic background, whereas parallel TNI publicity became another useful measure of its claims to humanitarianism. At the time of writing, the catastrophic effects of debt regimes and poverty in Africa were often portrayed as a consequence of local corruption, in a similar process to the belated blame on old Western allies: Soeharto, and Iraq’s Saddam Hussein. Debt rationalization was publicized as charity and magnanimity where accountancy restructured outstanding onerous foreign debt. For Aceh, debt restructure combined with aid bureaucracies and new loans in more direct international participation, enlarging Jakarta’s earlier more token “humanitarian” programs. But behind the advertised altruism and compassion, self-congratulatory “generosity,” and avowed love for peace, the ASNLF leadership’s post-tsunami negotiations with Jakarta were coerced by altogether different forces: a mobilized Western counterterrorist (CT) diplomacy and its market-driven media networks.
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The Al Qaeda–JI “fit-up”: part 2 Post-September 2001 reports around the US-led “Global War on Terror” (GWOT) frequently typecast GAM as “Islamic terrorist” for the international stage. Two related elements profoundly misrepresented both Aceh and its resistance, affecting strategic-political considerations. Both information categories could be broadly identified as nonmutually exclusive dynamics of variously caused misinformation, or error, and variously sourced deliberate deception, or disinformation; all appeared in strident and specific discussion, or incidental reference. Counterterrorist zeal, error, and bigotry Many commentators’ thought process was “faith-based intelligence,” a term derived from US Christian fundamentalist-lobbied education policy. In this spirit, the Jerusalem Institute for Western Defense perceived in Aceh a little recognized threat to a sacred Western civilization. Turning historical fact on its head, “Western Defense” (JIWD 2001a) contrasted East Timor’s history of repression in Indonesia with Aceh’s supposedly soft treatment, adding that the West accepted that “moslem minorities [had] a right to secede from their states,” whereas Christians did not. It ignored Jakarta’s other regional “autonomy” packages and any issues around their substance and implementation, instead assuming that Muslim favoritism prompted autonomy offers to Aceh against neglect of Papua or Maluku. Indonesian troop numbers too were allegedly low in Aceh compared to a supposedly four-fold greater troop presence in “the Christian Moluccas”: the report’s Antara source detail concerned only the (then) newly created special “combined battalions” (Yon-Gab), not deployed TNI–POLRI battalions overall (JIWD 2001b). The actual situation was the opposite to such indignant claims: Aceh caught far more TNI–POLRI attention than the Maluku provinces (see also JIWD 2001c, 2002). More outlandish misrepresentation appeared in a US–Australian group, with military and other governmental input, purporting to be an “open source intelligence” (OSINT) practitioner. The Emergency Response and Research Institute (with the unfortunate acronym ERRI), called GAM “an al-Qaeda linked [sic] group” preparing attacks against the US Navy. ERRI (2002a, b, c) claimed GAM was “responsible for a Muslim–Christian war in…Aceh” with a “main objective…to drive out all other religions and form a Daulah Islamiya.” That ERRI could so spectacularly err on GAM and Aceh was an extreme case of alarmist misrepresentation of Aceh’s war into “thrilling” CT fiction. Aceh’s imaginary Muslim–Christian war took wings, suggesting an energetic orientalist phobia overcompensating for a global dominance begun in colonialist aggression. Australia’s mainstream “secular” press carried flippantly ignorant but passionate commentary depicting an Acehnese anti-Christian pogrom (see ABC 2001; Age 2002b; australian 2001). Australia’s education system sometimes produced little beyond sophistication of similar ignorance. A self-conscious “Ph.D. student” (Howard 2000) condescended to explain the Aceh war’s “real issue,” i.e. sectarian conflict between “fundamentalists” and “liberals” in which “the state”
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combated “fundamentalist separatists…demanding establishment of an Islamic state there and application of Shari’ah laws.” Pakistani commentator Irfan Husain (Dawn.com 2000) showed the fiction’s globalizing ecumenical potential, spreading the notional Muslim–Christian war from a land beset by its own intrigues of militarism and religious violence. The CT-inspired enthusiasm spiked after GWOT’s start, as some Western security experts identified GAM as a major terrorist player, but revealed more about their own mindset in the process. Acehnese and other Muslims were supposed to follow some centrally directed cue from a major jihadist attack, i.e. the destruction of New York’s twin tower icons of a hegemonic culture drawing its power from capitalist organization, money-lending, and dominance of global resources. Oil and Gas International (OGI 2001) warned influential investment and petrochemical industry circles about dangers of anti-American violence in Aceh, as if Aceh’s protracted war hitherto posed no particular danger to Americans or anyone else. Some evangelical Christian contributions suggested their greater sensitivity to unsubstantiated rumor of Acehnese Muslim fanatics than to detailed records of Aceh’s bloodshed and other suffering under the mutually supporting status quo of Indonesia’s state and international investment power. One evangelist (ICC 2001c) claimed many Acehnese were being recruited “to wipe out the Christians” in Poso, Central Sulawesi, in late 2001 jihadist escalation of ethnoreligious gang warfare spread from Maluku. Such misinformation apparently stemmed from POLRI officers’ mischievous tip-off to evangelists, i.e. “Acehnese separatists” contributing to Ambon’s jihadist violence (ICC 2001a, b). Aside from the implausibility of such a risky and costly GAM adventure far from home, Acehnese had no blood-feud with Maluku’s Christians, despite the latter’s high representation as mercenaries during Aceh’s Dutch occupation. By contrast, a supportive Ambonese Christian website (AB 2003) posted GAM “battlefield reports” directly within a prominent crucifix-headed frame-page. Not that Indonesian Christians missed the interreligious manipulation over Aceh: Megawati backer and ex-East Timor KOREM chief MAJGEN (ret’d) Theo Syafei warned a Christian audience from ten churches about GAM’s “Islamic rebellion,” in the same context as Islamist dissent crushed in army massacres at Tanjung Priok and Lampung (Ummat 1999b).1 Reports of a June 2000 Aceh visit by two Al Qaeda leaders, and reference to an Indonesian intelligence report’s mention of “support…of the Muslim population” there (Reuters 2002; Time 2002c), had effective longevity far exceeding the reports’ factual significance. US academic Zachary Abuza (Stanford Report 2002) extrapolated a regional trend from such isolated and vague sources, claiming GAM was “tied” to an international Al Qaeda terrorist network from as early as 1991. Abuza qualified his comments by adding that Al Qaeda had “at least insinuated” itself into “these groups” (the Philippines’ MILF and Indonesia’s GAM), but his own insinuations seemed more substantial.2 Basic errors confused Abuza’s (2003: 176) study: GAM–ASNLF chief Hasan di Tiro became head of an “MP-GAM splinter group”; GAM’s Pase commander Sofyan Dawood “split”
228 A people defamed from Hasan di Tiro; and JI-linked Tk Idris defected to Hasan di Tiro! At least some error came from a Tempo article’s ambiguous wording (both in original Indonesian and translated English versions): its syntax could be misinterpreted to mean an affiliation between Hasan di Tiro and GAM defector-TNI partner Arjuna, as if di Tiro led MP-GAM (Tempo 2002g). Perhaps Tempo editors trusted their target readership’s prior knowledge to prevent any interpretative tip towards a conclusion that Acehnese head of state Hasan di Tiro had rebelled against himself. But Abuza’s (2003: 66 inc. en) other Aceh coverage suggested other reasons for error: on syariah, he claimed the “chador” (also cadar in Malay-Indonesian) became compulsory headdress for Aceh’s women. As many Westerners learnt during increased interest in Islamist politics and cultures, “chador” was actually a full-cover veil associated with strict gender segregation. However, alleged Al Qaeda leader Omar al Farouq recounted from US detention his late-1999 threeday North Aceh visit (Kmp 2002d) where he became exasperated over Acehnese women’s casual scarf-wearing, rather than his group’s preferred full “chador” (ridiculed by some Southeast Asian Muslim women as a “ninja suit”). But even the puritanical orthodoxy of Jakarta’s syariah program allowed traditional loose veils in Aceh: the cadar would actually challenge counterintelligence priorities of identifying inhabitants in routine surveillance (Indonesian universities forbade cadar to ensure students could be recognized). Abuza’s view blurred away Indonesian and Acehnese features through lenses long trained on Iran’s and Afghanistan’s regressive exotica. It seemed that ever since Arab–Israeli wars and the 1979 US Tehran Embassy hostage siege, policy advisers like Abuza saw “Islamic threats” from obsession. If so, the ailment degenerated into fever by the 1990s upon Al Qaeda, JI, and GWOT.3 “Infowar high ground”: diplomatic and journalistic encirclement TNI–POLRI officers sometimes exploited foreigners’ Islamophobia, but support for Jakarta meant that such cynical manipulation was often unnecessary as professional and expert circles contrived a “worry that rebels of the Free Aceh Movement…might establish ties with Muslim extremist groups around the world” (WP 2001). Incidental use of “faith-based intelligence” misled audiences, but the “terrorist” smears were implausible even without the available detail on Al Qaeda–JI links with GAM’s covert loyalist enemies: any local resistance group cultivating terrorist connections could hope for little in return except publicized hostility, denunciation, condemnation, and official international proscription. Notwithstanding subtle differences among the tarnishing of GAM and Acehnese, the effect was to create a “GAM threat” as a factor in coercive diplomacy. Populist, “aspirational” GWOT-inspired opportunism revealed clumsy prejudice and obvious error, but respected media networks made similar contributions, painting GAM into dark diplomatic corners. Before GWOT, Jakarta’s leadership occasionally categorized GAM and other insurgencies under “terrorism.” In the mid-1990s FALINTIL was so accused over an alleged “Black Brigade” (Brigada Negra) bomb plot in metropolitan Java. After
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drawn-out Western counterintelligence intrigues with Libya involving payback bombings, diplomatic coercion, and embargoes, TNI–POLRI officers made much of GAM’s late-1980s Libyan training as self-evident proof of “terrorism.” MAJGEN Gaffar claimed that Libya made GAM specially “trained in terrorism” (SP 1999), later backed by POLRI’s Usman Kasminto (2003: 44). However, Libyan training of international militants began much earlier for Papua’s OPM resistance fighters such as Daniel Kafiar, obviously not in some exclusively Islamist agenda (Djopari 1993: 144), but from Muammar Qadaffi’s idiosyncratically loose ideology of socialist internationalism and self-determination. Nonetheless, senior officers repeated the casual accusation to April 2001, when MAJGEN Adam Damiri, who avoided war crimes conviction for his supervisory role in 1999 East Timor’s mass murder and scorched earth actions, explained his forces’ role as “protecting the community from GAM terror” (MI 2001b). Soon after the September 2001 hijacked-aircraft terror attacks on New York and Washington DC, KOPASSUS too explicitly called GAM a “terrorist” group (SP 2001). The regional press (SCMP 2001) was faster, giving such TNI sources an alluring “Indonesian military intelligence” cover to claim Osama bin Laden (OBL) financed GAM. Others avoided direct accusations of GAM–international terrorist links, instead depicting genuine Acehnese elements in the same sense. An academic view (Acharya 2003) accepted that notion to imply GAM’s JI terrorist involvement as a “protection against state security officials.” Vague, second-hand information from Afghanistan’s jihadist rubble was recycled into a grand scheme transferring Al Qaeda’s Afghanistan base to Aceh, coinciding with official warnings of a strike on an unspecified Aceh target (hint: ExxonMobil). Upon US-led Afghanistan operations, several journalists claimed that documents proved Acehnese–Al Qaeda links, including OBL’s franchise-style Aceh base (DT 2001a, b). One commentator (GlobalSecurity.org 2002) focused on the reported brief Aceh visit by “two Middle Eastern men,” while a US religion commentator (NYP 2002) asserted “strong indications” of an Aceh-based Al Qaeda training camp. The actual Al Qaeda sources amounted to little except background indoctrination and briefings on “Islamic peoples at war around the globe” and records of the (abortive) liaison with RIA’s Fauzi Hasbi. Regardless, “GAM” headed the Washington Times (WT 2003) list above “Jemmah [sic] Islamiyah, Lashkar Jihad, Laskar Jundullah and Rabitatul Mujahideen,” as “Islamic terrorist groups active” in the Malacca Straits. CNN (2002a) went further, assuming a “terrorist network left behind” by the alleged GAM–Al Qaeda alliance. Speculative journalist sensationalism was not some entertaining indulgence isolated from diplomacy. For example, a Canadian journalist (DWO 2001) described LJ, GAM, and others as one vast cohesive network of interchangeable Muslim terror links. Simplistic, misleading murals of fear were the background as US Navy Commanderin-Chief Pacific Theatre Command (CINCPAC 2001) took the public stage, entertaining the possibility of “Al Qaeda links” to GAM and Laskar Jihad, mentioning the two (mutually hostile) groups together. The October 2002 Bali attack subtly added momentum first apparent in the Australian Federal Police’s (AFP) anti-GAM scare, carried into 2004 by an
230 A people defamed Australian journalist’s (Neighbour 2004: 168) assertion of such purported GAM links as established fact. Jakarta tried to exploit the Bali fear, warning of another bomb attack there, this time exclusively pointing to GAM (BP 2003). ICG’s investigation proved that specific efforts to implicate GAM took time and risked compromise, so from 2002 Jakarta and its supporters painted GAM “terror” with a broader brush too. Such general thrust became a diplomatic effort, without much close public scrutiny or critical reflection, lobbying Sweden for ASNLF leaders’ extradition or imprisonment (SP 2003a). In an address to Banten Province’s civilian and territorial army leadership, UK ambassador Richard Gozney backed the accusations in a local context, referring to GAM’s civilian targets to justify a “territorial terrorist” label, distinct from “ideological terrorist” (SP 2003e). By mid-2003, nationalist lobbying in Jakarta’s English language press (JkP 2003b) repeated the discredited fable of GAM–JI leadership links, disingenuously twisting ICG’s reference to TNI counterintelligence intrigues to depict the ICG report as an exposé of “possible links” between GAM and JI. Repetition of hyperbolic claims around superficially relevant snippets were countered by interpretations offering a “moderate” alternative that maintained essential “GAM–Al Qaeda” fictions. The Australian National University’s (ANU) Clive Williams, an ex-Defence Counter-Intelligence chief, gave the story qualified support by claiming GAM had only “marginal association” with OBL (Ramakrishna 2003: 8), apparently oblivious to detail showing actual Jakartabased loyalist “margins.” In these critical matters, detailed, publicly available Indonesian sources seemed to be treated cursorily or ignored altogether. Many experts, including Williams, instead promoted the notion that government intelligence organizations had information supremacy over such matters via official classified records on terrorist groups and individuals. In that view, academics would have no really useful information (or place) to comment on exclusive state business. Such views also disparaged Indonesian (and Philippines) press sources for supposedly greater tendencies to bias and disinformation: “local knowledge” only really applied to exclusive state information. Jakarta’s leadership needed to play a “double game” when stigmatizing GAM as an “international terrorist.” On the one hand, the TNI wanted to prevent any Western GWOT pretext for intervention over Aceh. On the other, tacit TNI– POLRI sponsorship and endorsement of jihadists, along with an Indonesian syariah, meant that local Muslim opinion must not connect GAM to any romantic anti-Western revanchism: the local oligopoly of Laskar Jihad etc. Indonesian jihadists were supposed to regard GAM as a covert Western, even Zionist plant, not some thriving organism in OBL’s hothouse. After its initial GAM–OBL beat-up, CNN (2002b) reported an anonymous “senior military source” rejecting previously alleged GAM–Al Qaeda links, as if the question of “GAM terrorism” was to be answered on the terms of GAM’s main enemy, the TNI! Aceh’s KODAM chief MAJGEN Djali Yusuf himself refuted earlier stories of the OBL Aceh franchise, omitting that OBL’s emissaries had liaised with TNI–POLRI-favored Fauzi Hasbi (ST 2002).
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The specifically forensic or “tactical” nature of terrorist intrigue meant that all news media were particularly susceptible to easy disinformation as they sought marketable stories under tight deadlines. An unnamed US official insinuated GAM into the category of “terrorist groups,” along with the vaguer truism “Islamic radicals” (Time 2002a). The article relied much on an interview with a “GAM spokesman” but, unlike GAM’s record of regularly open press contacts, the interviewee did not even give a nickname, demanding anonymity in a phone conversation. Jane’s alert services (JIW 2002) relayed the story of Al Qaeda’s Aceh role and the much-publicized report of Al Qaeda leaders’ visit there in 2000. Like many mainstream press agencies, the Jane’s group gave no analysis of associated information, probably because that information was unknown or not in English. A double standard applied, whereby Jakarta’s systemic repression aggressively “identified with Islam” in reality, but jihadist terror was presumed more to Aceh’s Islamic tradition and the GAM–ASNLF star-and-crescent flag. In such simplistic commentary, Acehnese religious identity meant by default a “religious element” in Acehnese resistance, in the same context as Maluku–Poso jihadist gangster violence (see JFR 2002).
Tsunami Perception Management combines truth projection, operations security, cover and deception, and psychological operations…Perception Management activities may have increased relevance during humanitarian assistance operations. It may be a key contributor to battlespace shaping efforts. (MCWP 2001: 22. See also FM 46-1 1997: 11–13, 42) The catastrophic underwater Sunda trench earthquake of 26 December 2004 brought several new challenges and opportunities to Jakarta’s public and international relations over Aceh. To some extent, pre-tsunami trends in war publicity intensified as TNI–POLRI commands responded to the disaster. The obvious new challenge came with the unprecedented influx of Western relief organizations, military, and press. Having used blockade, diplomacy, censorship, and publicity to suppress and counter GAM efforts at internationalizing their independence war, the tsunami gave Jakarta a chance to further internationalize its assertion of legitimate sovereignty over the province. Compared to the TNI’s concentration around Lhokseumawe, POLRI had a higher proportion of its troops at HQ, base, and training facilities around the capital. Early reports stated more than an entire battalion’s worth of BRIMOB soldiers “lost” to the waves on Banda Aceh, but 1,700 BRIMOB troops and relatives could not be found or contacted in the area. Bogor’s BRIMOB “Scout” Unit II from the corps’ central DEOPS reserve had some 840 deployed troops, of whom just half reported alive three days after the waves hit. “Decimation” was probably a technical understatement for losses among Aceh’s entire hierarchy of HQ command and staff, whose losses included POLDA spokesman Sayed Husaini.
232 A people defamed POLRI’s total organic and attached non-organic tsunami losses reached up to 7,600. Frantic outside efforts to contact non-organic detachments revealed the general scale of death in police ranks, though Jakarta HQ and POLDA Aceh did not publicize consolidated numbers (see Dtk 2004a, b, c, d, 2005a; RP 2004; Tempo 2004c; Anl 2005a). Ocean water smashed central TNI–POLRI territorial command, communications, training, and other bases in Banda Aceh (see Map 8.1) and Meulaboh, along with much of their subordinate northwestern and southern posts. Outlying coastal bases were also hit, especially at the two national-level radar units, and signals installations (komlek), where marine units were also vulnerable. Notwithstanding higher TNI focus to the north and east, coastal impact from Meulaboh–Banda Aceh destroyed most of that area’s army territorial bases, attachments, and co-located mobile units. Whereas GAM lost many members in detention at those lowland Indonesian facilities, Jakarta’s forces were much harder hit in their deployed areas among the civilian settlements concentrated by the coast. The TNI did not admit its total tsunami dead (AP 2005), but the scale of loss within a space of hours far exceeded combat casualties taken in a year or more. TNI chief Endriartono early claimed 377 members confirmed lost, including one entire organic-territorial company-plus of 180 men (Gatra 2004). Before their removal from public view, TNI reports revealed that such numbers merely counted daily tallies of retrieved and identified TNI dead. Possibly the hardest hit army unit was East Java’s 521 Battalion in its deployment line along the coast from Aceh Jaya Regency to the Meulaboh area, at static posts that caught the tsunami’s full force. No battalion members reported when officers from their Kediri territorial home base tried contacting the unit three days later. Kediri’s territorial chief tried minimizing the problem’s scale, claiming 521 had sent only a company to Aceh from October. Past rotations for years, and the unit’s own (TNI-reported) numbers and western Aceh deployment areas, indicated the tsunami had all but wiped out 521 Battalion and its 600–650 soldiers (JwP 2005). TNI formations were characteristically reticent about their losses, but outside efforts at contact sometimes showed proportional similarity to police tsunami deaths: West Java’s Bogor KOREM 061 confirmed 57 dead just among its detached babinsa NCOs. Many deployed forces initially reacted by moving into affected areas to search for dead and injured colleagues and surviving equipment. Despite widespread severe shock and trauma, opportunistic theft of much weaponry and ammunition was one likely result of the disaster: for several days, entirely collapsed police and army barracks in Banda Aceh had no survivors to guard armories. Territorial formations in particular rushed troops to affected coastal areas. One SGI–KOPASSUS officer in Aceh Jaya made a patrol collecting over 70 surviving troops otherwise stranded near their destroyed posts. Makeshift adjustments occurred at higher levels too, where remnants of territorial infantry and mobile units joined with the less affected 3 Marine Battalion coordinated by Satgas 11 in Lhokseumawe. The recently established Satgas 12 (on KOREM 012) in Meulaboh effectively ceased to exist, while Banda Aceh’s provincial HQ sites offered no feasible replacement.
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1000 2000 3000 4000 m Land left submerged into the sea, coastline altered Total 'devastation' of land & artificial features Total 'serious' destruction Total area of varied damage Dispersed damage out to inundation limit District boundary Municipality boundary
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Map 8.1 Banda Aceh, 26 December 2004: tsunami destruction to TNI–POLRI HQ and base facilities.
Both the infowar and combat continued apace. At the national level, Jakarta’s military executives claimed that an informal truce had taken effect, while government publicity pushed a conciliatory image by calling for GAM cooperation in recovery efforts (SCTV 2005). But offensive action continued, including a “cordon and search” up to 30 km from aid convoys’ main supply route. Official Aceh press organs were clear: “TNI continues to carry out OPSLIHKAM” (Satgas Info 2005), and reports detailed the continuation of inland patrols throughout most of the province. Highway extortion continued too, affecting some aid convoys from Medan (RP 2005). “Security” and control of aid distribution was a simultaneous, complementary TNI “humanitarian” activity, offering troops
234 A people defamed immediate access (and authority) over aid material. Marines became armed escorts for US aid drops, and for the deputy governor in his “observation of aid distribution” in Simeulue, and military police (MP) troops escorted the TNI MP Center Chief. Specific reference to KOSTRAD’s 8 Cavalry Battalion in “humanitarian aid” revealed that unit’s relocation of refugees, precisely as done for population control and surveillance from the start of the May 2003 campaign (puspen 2005b). POLRI had little choice but its own post-tsunami recovery over normal operational commitments, but POLDA Aceh chief Bahrumsyah’s tone was clearly bellicose, threatening: “It’s just a matter of time, when evacuations are done, we’ll strike (GAM) again” (AK 2005). Apart from the regrouping and shifted patrol patterns around tsunami-affected areas, deployed units stayed much in their pre-disaster sectors. Several reports confirmed continued TNI–POLRI patrols in and around the new wastelands too, apparently killing some GAM members checking for relatives. Publicity efforts energetically focused on potential political messages of “humanitarian relief” and nationalist-inspired compassion for Aceh’s massive civilian losses and suffering. Jakarta’s TNI chiefs repeatedly claimed that most deployed troops were involved in relief efforts, including “12 battalions” sent on avowedly “humanitarian tasks” (Srb 2005). Endriartono’s comments differed from his direction to subordinates, ordering them to keep raising their vigilance, while changing operations from “offensive” to “defensive” (puspen 2005a). Public affairs (PA) activity by politicians, military, and NGO executives helped US, Australian, and other foreign diplomacy promoting TNI humanitarianism, with lasting effect, including one NGO’s anonymous account by US military members in Medan. Foreign observers generally accepted the other claims to humane concern, as in one unsourced anecdote stating that most TNI–POLRI troops along the main supply route (RPU, Rute Perbekalan Umum) had redeployed into relief efforts (MRGI 2005: 6, 23–4). But the TNI’s own detail contradicted that and their own executives (see also GLW 2005a). Puspen TNI briefly revealed the actually small official number of troops tasked with “humanitarian aid,” at some 2,000 troops, or barely five percent of all TNI forces in Aceh from mid-2003. Puspen’s (2005c) document, and related serials, were removed from public view after 12 January, just days after their posting. Despite token publicity of an engineer unit in house construction, footage of troops painting school buildings, removing corpses, and supervising civilians doing the same, detailed TNI records confirmed operational priorities: fast replacement of destroyed units to prevent GAM’s reentry; and infrastructure repair essential to unit mobility, logistics, and control in western regencies (Dtk 2005c, d). The new Reconstruction and Rehabilitation Agency (BRR) funding estimates showed up to US$2 million of reconstruction aid likely for at least ten TNI units not based in Aceh, but deployed there when the tsunami struck. That fund-diversion appeared to be compensation for those non-Aceh units nearly annihilated by the ocean surge, but from Jakarta–Medan–Banda Aceh, other less formalized benefits flowed into TNI economies. All civil reconstruction programs were to pay part of their budgets to the Indonesia’s Department of Defense (Dephan) as a
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Mabes TNI 6 I 2 I
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8.9 Richter 0758 hrs 26 Dec 04
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(
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Singkil
2,000
4,000
6,000
8,000
10,000
TNI trainees Medical / Health
Infantry, Army Engineers (construction Armored HQ & combat) & Artillery
Other POLRI Navy various
Map 8.2 Post-tsunami emergency deployment, January–March 2005.
236 A people defamed “security contingency fund,” the nonspecific terms for which implied arbitrary and locally negotiable TNI–Dephan “taxes” on civil bureaucracy, NGOs, construction firms, and other corporate players. POLRI’s Aceh apparatus, by contrast, had firmer, limited allocations in the BRR master plan, with no departmentally linked “contingency fund” (see r3mansu 2005; UN 2005).
Saved by the cavalry? Aceh’s tsunami catastrophe drastically changed the war’s local political dynamics, but also brought together the rubric of international interests in “infowar” and “military operations other than war.” The war was fast “internationalized,” not in the sense of East Timor as TNI chiefs had repeatedly warned. Indonesia’s creditor supporters used their strategic power, including financial mechanisms, to compel a negotiated peace within the status quo of Indonesian boundaries. Such efforts for post-tsunami Aceh were threatened with similar effects, although funding and other political compromises could suspend the Jakarta–Aceh blood feud. But the war’s fundamental dynamics of uncompromising disaffection and absolute sovereignty suggested the temporary value of financial intervention within strategic alliances. Aceh’s preexisting disaffection and vulnerability remained. As King (2004: 111) and Liddle (1996: 32) noted, albeit in different ways, Indonesian military repression “worked,” at least as a practical counterinsurgency weapon to cow disaffected peoples. But Jakarta’s institutional, economic, and diplomatic (if not human) costs and risks of repressive control over Aceh were unsustainable, unable to obliterate GAM’s operational viability as a mountain guerrilla force, and, at most, only delaying the regeneration and reorganization of Acehnese resistance into a more effective diplomatic weapon. The Aceh war’s danger to the Indonesian state also endangered international investment and its protective strategic umbrella of military dominance. The return of Jakarta–GAM peace negotiations was therefore compelled by the combination of Western-led humanitarian intervention and intergovernment financial aid, supported by perception management to match the operation’s strategic goals. Contemporary with an Iraq counterinsurgency waged by far less experienced and specialized (though much better armed) militaries, Jakarta’s last stand in Aceh showed creditor states’ interests and hypocrisies in sharp relief. Post-tsunami Aceh was like a doctrinal template for such noncombat missions: Western senior officers, diplomats, and politicians publicly stated their broad political and cultural goal of positive projection, subtly advertising the intended effect of their combined energies in advance. Together, the humanitarian intervention stated: “We prove our generosity and peaceful nature to Muslim people, deflating terrorist threat from that quarter.” PSYOPS and deception were crucial in achieving the humanitarian mission’s strategic goal. Beside an intense Middle East focus, Indonesia was arguably a more important if less vulnerable area of creditor states’ interest. Senior appointments symbolized such US-based priorities when exambassador to Jakarta and ex-Deputy Defense Secretary Paul Wolfowitz became World Bank director, while former Chevron board member Condoleeza Rice
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became secretary of state. Formal “security agreements,” restored military ties, and direct military and fiscal aid passed almost simultaneously via the publicity machine, as news media scrambled onto the new president and his army’s proportionately more earnest relief efforts in Nias, North Sumatera, upon its aftershock earthquake. Provided that events and their coverage stayed favorable to the Jakarta regime and its dominant military, the return of a full patron–client relationship was assured.4 The mid-2005 Helsinki peace agreements confirmed the Acehnese resistance’s near-impossible diplomatic and strategic position facing: unqualified, even effusive, Western support for its Jakarta enemy; a more direct dependency on aid and credit networks from Jakarta’s international supporters; and enemy forces at once buoyed by the knowledge of such support and the domestic political validation that the new circumstances gave to their own cruel, uncompromising campaigns. Despite Jakarta-friendly nations’ troop deployment, the humanitarian operation’s “stick” did not really threaten GAM with old traditional measures of an antiguerrilla expedition in aid of the ally. Instead, if GAM leaders kept to their self-defining diplomatic stance demanding independence, they would confront the more reliable and user-friendlier cudgel of CT enmity and ensuing international proscription. The process was almost blatant in a period of just several days around the Helsinki peace talks from February 2005. Only days before the resumption of preliminary ASNLF–Indonesia agenda setting, Australia’s government issued one of its vaguest travel warnings: foreign aid workers in Aceh faced a terrorist attack. The source of the threat was not specified and the warning did not apply to deployed Australian troops. Only after ASNLF negotiators dropped “independence” from their negotiating position, an anonymous “Western intelligence official” specified the threat: “JI.” The scenario’s absurdity went unquestioned as “JI operatives” supposedly wandered through Indonesia’s largest antiguerrilla encampment, in its counterintelligence looking glass, unmolested by Australia’s official CT and humanitarian allies (australian 2005). The opportunity (“carrot”) for GAM was protected recognition as a political party, along with some access to the pipeline of loan money and other aid otherwise signed away to Jakarta and President Yudhoyono, its most Western-favored leader since Soeharto’s rise in Indonesia’s massive 1960s anti-leftist pogrom. For the time being at least, the ASNLF would put its mouth where the money was. To that effect, GAM chutzpah pushed all the messages it knew the overseas diplomatic elites wanted to hear, praising Jakarta’s “reform” while pretending that Indonesia’s military had not yet benefited from the post-tsunami relief effort. Straying from the usual signature block of GAM’s field staff under Muzakkir Manaf, the letter was publicized on the ASNLF’s web site in English language version only (ASNLF 2005). Thus did Indonesia’s war temporarily defuse into a Sinn Fein-style accommodation of its enemy. Jakarta’s new “fixer” Jusuf Kalla was keen to apply such precedent to Aceh’s weapon decommissioning, but earlier TNI and expert minimization of GAM’s armory ironically ensured Aceh’s continued power in weapons. The Irish template appeared to come from a retired UK special forces
238 A people defamed general working in Jakarta as a consultant with the Indonesian Defense Department (JkP 2002b). However, Aceh’s shift was more fraught than Northern Ireland’s, because GAM’s support base had no equivalent competitive enclave to the IRA’s unionist opposition, though expansion of such a loyalist enclave would remain one of GAM’s future challenges. Another equally tough, related task was maintaining unity and credibility by ensuring a fair return for resistance sacrifice: if not, the precedent of Mindanao’s resistance MNLF–MILF split could seem minor compared to Aceh’s potential return of revolutionary purge against selfish uleeblang-style collaborators. That fear touched on obvious local anomalies in the new international dynamic, where involvement of Acehnese in reconstruction appeared minimal, briefed almost invariably in English (JkP 2005). Any evolved resistance would not miss those issues. Overriding all other risks was the structural tenacity of Indonesian military power, which had the means and experience to conduct “shadow war” intrigues in a superficially peaceful realm of political compromise. Both Aceh, and the ambitious US-led Middle East adventure contemporary with Jakarta’s “active” Aceh phase, signaled tensions under looming international shifts in power and allegiance. Aceh’s Independence War awaited its next phase of internationalization. Acehnese nationalism would continue to seek alliance where it suited, just as it had the “F (Fujiwara) Organization” of Imperial Japan (van Dijk 1983; Mohammad Ali 1996: 17–22) before their violent eviction first from their own bases, later when reentering as far as Bireuen as rearmed prisoners within British forces; or the calculated alliance with West Java’s Darul Islam–NII (see Conboy 1999: 3, 51, 76, 82; Harvey 1989: 13; Kahin 1997: 88, 201–2; MeunaSAH 1999a; Tempo 1999e). Demands for self-rule, so vociferously expressed alongside East Timor’s in 1999, were still not met. The costs of that failure were borne mainly by common Acehnese and Indonesians. Any continued cost and injustice would be to the glaring ignominy of the world’s rulers and their Jakarta clients, whatever fashionable, expedient contrivances they may use around “Islam” and “democracy.”
Notes
Introduction: intelligence and the Aceh war 1 Against population sizes (about 750,000–4 million), Indonesia’s troop commitments to invade East Timor (1975) almost tripled its reasserted control in Aceh (2003), though the former was a conventional operation with only limited proxy support “in-country.” Aceh’s 2003–4 counterinsurgency showed between 51,000–60,000 troops compared with an April 1976 quote of 32,000 in conventional East Timor operations (Budiardjo 1984: 23; Taylor 1991: 80). 2 TNI (Tentara Nasional Indonesia) appears interchangeably with “military” to cover army, navy, and air force. This study avoids an additional Western bureaucratic acronym apparent in INP (Indonesian National Police) for POLRI. Clearly different from the authentic Indonesian, INP was probably intended to supplant POLRI with PNI to place police as the TNI’s obvious national counterpart. The conventional GAM is used throughout, except when specifying its ASNLF (Acheh-Sumatra National Liberation Front) executive. From 2002, GAM officially used Tentera Nasional Acheh (TNA), formerly AGAM (Angkatan Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, Free Aceh Movement Forces). 3 From KGB usage (dezinformatsiya), the term appears throughout in place of the more established English “misinformation.” The former defines a deliberate act of misinforming or misleading; the latter to any passage of wrong information. 4 Basic orders formats applied in a near-universal military context. “Orders group” components in the Australian Army’s mnemonic SMEAC (Situation, Mission, Execution [and general outline], Admin [and logistics], Command [and signals]) matched TNI counterparts in direct translation: Keadaan, Tugas pokok, Pelaksanaan (instruksi koordinasi), Administrasi dan logistik, and Komando dan perhubungan (mabesad 1984: 28–9; pussenif 1995: 76–7). 5 Steele and Lowenthal (1998) made thorough introductions to OSINT, adopted in Wing’s (1998, 1999) regional arguments. 6 US and Australian doctrinal examples (MCDP 1997: Ch. 2; MLW 1981: 1-1–1-13) differed on the intelligence cycle’s stages of separation, but both depicted identical sequence and process logic essentially compatible with epistemological concepts in much academic research (Bailey 1987: 12). “Maneuver theory” warfare pushed intelligence processes into more dynamic headquarters functions for decision-making, based on Boyd’s (1986) “OODA loop”: “observe, orientate, decide, act.” 7 OSINT here avoids Steele and Lowenthal (1998) ethical constraint in that it refers to some publicly available classified sources. Reference to redundant “classified” sources here involves none of the diplomatic sensitivities applying to state communications, for which OSINT processes were originally meant. 8 An English language journal article about Indonesian gang violence even presented itself as original investigative journalism, but was based entirely on local journalists’ unacknowledged, courageous work.
240 Notes 9 Sampled “intelligence” definitions reflected the disparities, covering extremes of “intelligence as process” and “intelligence as tangible, institutionally exclusive information,” with other definitions assuming “intelligence as bureaucratic specialization” in between (AIPIO 2004: 3–6). US Marine Corps doctrine gave characteristically practical definitions: “Intelligence should be thought of as not just a product – knowledge – but also the process which produces that knowledge.” And: “Intelligence is something generated through our own efforts, rather than something provided by some outside source” (MCDP2 1997). Later, more formalized USMC definition explained an “information hierarchy” with four information levels in “raw data, processed data, knowledge,” and “understanding” (MCWP 2002: 1-3–1-5), thereby clarifying the terms “information” and “intelligence” just when “intelligence” clichés began to dominate public imagination in “Global War on Terror” (GWOT) news and propaganda. 10 Nevins (2002) used “elite-policy” language in his stern and accurate critique of Western complicity with Jakarta’s East Timor brutalities: “Given the available evidence in the form of intelligence gathered by Western governments…” Wording in Australian ex-Office of National Assessments (ONA) analyst Andrew Wilkie’s (2004: 12, 179) valuable autobiographical account (unconsciously) confirmed his place in the executive tier; “reformist” ICG (2004) usage suggested the writer’s similar “consumer” background. 11 Martinkus (2004: 121) attributed to McCulloch a potentially misleading claim that map detail “had come from a website owned by the Indonesian Government.” The maps’ reconstructed deployments derived from publicly available sources, mainly Indonesian press, government, and Acehnese resistance. The processes in that work, as here, aimed at confirmation through source redundancy, i.e. avoiding reliance on single reports wherever possible.
1 The Aceh battlespace 1 Due to its focus on US Army command and staff, the early TRADOC (1995: App. B Sect. 2) definition limited “battlespace” to its more “operational” scope. Despite that specialist audience and its frequent doctrinal jargon, the TRADOC reference succinctly explained “battlespace” study’s aims and methodology. 2 Two films demonstrated Indonesia’s problematic relationship with Aceh. The telemovie Meutia (studio17 1992) was shot during the DOM period’s intensified TNI operations, using the “spirit” of heroic Acehnese guerrilla chief Cut Nyak Dien to urge the Jakarta-assimilated lead character to take to the fight beside her people. The lead role’s name, Meutia, merely emphasized Cut Nyak Dien’s legend by reference to another female, contemporary anti-Dutch commander Cut Meutia. A better-known but similar moral tale was the earlier film Cut Nyak Dien, without the ambiguous Aceh–Jakarta context of identity, mostly in Indonesian but interspersed with soliloquy scenes in Acehnese. 3 East Timor’s international legal challenge remained unresolved at the time of writing. It was unclear whether the revenue offer in Aceh “autonomy” was better or worse than that for newly “independent” East Timor: higher total revenue lost by Aceh’s larger population and natural resources, or a higher relative percentage taken from East Timor. 4 Pilger (2002: 17–22) succinctly summarized Indonesia’s intense cycle of debt, corrupt “kickbacks,” and creditors’ complacency and complicity. 5 A representative example of “stability” as mantra or cover term, Rundle’s account of Southeast Asian security issues used “stability” and “instability” six times, especially when discussing Indonesia. The terms did not appear for other areas discussed, i.e. Burma and the Spratlys, even though the latter case involved open inter-state aggression.
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6 The CIFOR paper refers to a Serambi interview of 7 August 1995, in which MAJGEN (ret’d) H. T. Djohan described the direct operation and sponsorship (beking) of illegal logging in Aceh by aparat. Besides specifying army involvement, the Serambi reference to aparat is best understood to abbreviate aparat pengamanan, or “security forces,” rather than CIFOR’s generic translation to “officials.” 7 Acehnese connections were apparent in “Sumatera” itself, derived from “Samudra,” traditionally located to northern Aceh. 8 Probably named arbitrarily from their locales, Gayo dialects were known as either “Lot, Linge, Lokop, and Lues” or “Dorot, Bobasan, Serbodjadi, and Tampur.” 9 Typical of Aceh’s idiosyncratic traditions, the honorific teungku could be interchangeable with teuku if inheritance, position, or consent allowed. Mindful of Western Islamophobia, GAM Field Chief Muzakkir Manaf forbade commanders’ use of “teungku” in official correspondence from 2003. 10 Contemporary Indonesian poverty statistics challenged one late 2002 assessment, relying on 1980 figures from previous studies by other academics in the field, citing below-poverty-line rates of just 1.8 and 1.7 percent for Aceh’s rural and urban populations, respectively (Ross 2002). 11 Paralleling official minimization of GAM strength during the period, a government enquiry appeared to give the lowest death toll for DOM at 430 killed and 320 missing. The “mainstream” range of 2,000–3,000 killed in DOM depended much on official counts and mass grave exhumations since 1999. 12 GAM reports generally referred to TNI, POLRI, and more specific designations of their enemy, though Acehnese resistance creations appeared in the acronyms PAI (Pengkhianat Agama Islam, Traitors to the Islamic Religion), and the less frequent SBI and SBIJ (Serdadu Bandit Indonesia/Jawa, Indonesian/Javanese soldier-bandits). 13 In a July 2003 discussion, the author put the assessed membership figures to John Martinkus, whose own assessment generally concurred. Martinkus’ book did not specifically pursue the issue, but his questioning of GAM about total armed members indicates the background of his own assessment of figures cited by GAM’s late Ayah Sofyan. Another useful indicator was Martinkus’ (2004: 134) account of armed GAM members in the vicinity of a camp held by Darwis Djeunib at that time. See also Gamma (2001). 14 Schulze (EWC 2004a) referred to a Stavanger ASNLF meeting to set field command at four districts per wilayah, confirmed in detailed GAM reporting from that time until September 2003. “Field command” in that sense did not necessarily mean a mobilized main force presence, but rather a cadre or shell for auxiliaries and reserve-replacements (as in conventional “military districts”). Five of Schulze’s listed 17 wilayah contradicted an Acehnese resistance source’s version (Yusra 2003), suggesting mis-/ disinformation or another restructure since the Stavanger decision. 15 Similarly, GAM’s Greater Aceh Gajah Keng “division” was a traditional reference, not a conventional formation size or type. 16 Correspondence and discussion with William Nessen, October 2003–February 2004. 17 POLRI news media (CC 2003a) reported such intrigue about a GAM female in West Aceh. The article’s focus suggested the success of GAM’s Inong Balee-as-Amazon publicity. 18 Autonomous command styles expressed as Auftragstaktik among Frederick the Great’s professional descendants. By comparing Auftragstaktik with its near-antithesis in the “authoritarian” style, Tamsitt (1996) explored the philosophical and cultural implications of maneuver theory and its demand for decentralized leadership systems in a modern army. 19 Ketok magic originated as custom car panel beating and detailing first renowned in such West Java cities as Tasikmalaya, Bogor, and Bandung. At its most creative, ketok magic converted worthless scrap into expensive-looking cars for showing off in the evening (beranjang in Sundanese youth culture, or JJS, Jalan-Jalan Sore). Later,
242 Notes
20 21
22 23
24
25
26
27
more widely applied connotations covered various elaborate presentations posing as authentic or accurate. The metaphor hovers near Siegel’s (1998: 52–65) discussion about the New Order aspal phenomenon in counterfeiting and other falsification. Citing work by Saleh, Lowry (1996: 164) claimed that US support for Acehnese rebels “never materialized,” a view apparent in anti-GAM accusations that ASNLF chief Hasan di Tiro embezzled arms funding for his own enrichment. The world’s current “standard” 5.56mm × 45 cartridge developed late due to conservative US insistence on long-range power in what became the NATO-standard 7.62mm × 51 round. Their contemporary Soviet 7.62mm × 39 Cold War rival improved on the 1942 German-designed 7.92mm × 33 kurz, both weighing less to help full-automatic firepower, while still suiting nearly all ranges in infantry engagements. The “bloody-minded” failure in 7.62mm × 51 had incalculably adverse effects on many nations’ infantry and guerrillas until that cartridge’s eventual replacement by 5.56mm × 45 from the 1960s–90s: Vietnam forced the quickest US rethink. By contrast, 7.62mm × 39 (and the AK series) carried strong into the twenty-first century with many other forces besides GAM. GAM’s “bird-shooter” nickname for the SS-1 may have seemed derogatory, but it probably described the stable FNC design’s accuracy in sustained semiautomatic fire (Angkasa 2003). It was unclear whether GAM or TNI used the more terrifying and expensive 40mm WP round of deep-burning white phosphorous pellets. Normal antipersonnel HE rounds could be destructive enough: the author recalls a colleague’s and fellow training unit’s accident hospitalizing 17 members, including five incapacitated, after tripping one unexploded 40mm HE grenade. Apparently an unwitting victim of TNI publicity, Hendardi asserted that the TNI could have “finished off GAM” after just six months of increased deployments from April 2001. Hendardi’s argument was that the TNI deliberately dragged the war on for its own self-interest. Many anomalies surrounded the killing and its official explanations (GLW 2003b). Around the same time, Jakarta’s return of DOM-style sealing off ofAceh was made clear in thinly veiled threats to journalists O’Shea (Dateline 2003) and Martinkus (2004: 222–34), whose account also revealed media industry constraints on the war’s reporting. Associated with the Clausewitzian Schwerpunkt concept, doctrine is evolving in a discourse on “fourth generation” (4GW) or “asymmetrical” warfare (Lind et al. 1989). Within doctrinal debates of process and emphasis, command levels in COG’s application usually determined its various definitions. From the author’s discussions with Australian Army NCO-instructors in 2001, the doctrinal trend sometimes had unintended extreme consequences, when a few ambitious infantry section commanders identified COG and related maneuver concepts during orders to their 8- to 10-strong units.
2 Divide, dismember, and military rule 1 Abbreviated to OT, Operasi Terpadu was often translated literally to “integrated operation.” This study uses “holistic” to emphasize Indonesian publicity’s claims of the operation’s nonmilitary emphases in avowed humanitarianism and efforts at civilian autonomy: a “healing” process combining the literal meaning of “complementary” (terpadu) branches of state. 2 Some studies translated kabupaten as “district” and kecamatan as “subdistrict.” However, Indonesia’s administrative origins traced to the British imperial “regent,” while separate translations for the coexistent TNI structure better reflect the inconsistencies of its overlapping territorial hierarchy, which usually encompassed several civil administrative units within various levels of its boundaries.
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3 “Group-think” and inaccurate precedent apparently reproduced in other studies’ Aceh maps (Martinkus 2004; UNJLC 2004, 2005), which missed the new subdivisions, probably relying instead on earlier guesswork (Lowry 1996: 163). 4 KPU (2003) election data for Bener Meriah Regency was probably an arbitrary deduction calculated from other statistics out of an estimated 231,000 total within Central Aceh’s previous boundaries. Bener Meriah’s higher figure here was calculated from 1999 General Election district ratios. 5 At the time of writing, KPU was being investigated for serious corruption scandals, not helped by its unfortunate double entendre in “commission,” which also translates to its “mark-up” sense in the Indonesian komisi. 6 Aceh’s restructure concentrated the bureaucracy at levels closer to former province East Timor’s 13 regencies, though troop numbers and population in Aceh exceeded those for East Timor. Comparison showed the strong influence of Dutch and Portuguese colonial precedents in each case. 7 The report noted in passing GAM’s administration of such normal government business as collecting taxes, and issuing property deeds and marriage certificates (also noted later by ICG and others), though without revealing the massive scale of separatist control in the territory. 8 The color codes in Moore’s study probably reflected Indonesian forces’ security alert status, as used in doctrine for aerial threat (see Mabes ABRI 1986: 229). 9 TRIPIDA applied as a generic and provincial term, but appeared most frequently in specific reference to regency levels. Lower triumvirates’ acronyms followed civil administrative terminology, where military (and less often police) members could, like their provincial and regency superiors, oversee multiple TRIPIKA (district-level) and TRIPIDES (village-level). 10 “Martial law” conventionally described PDMD, and is used here with the author’s qualification that the literally translated “military emergency” (PDMD) defined intensification of Indonesia’s routine emergency powers of state. Previous Jakarta–GAM peace negotiations used DMD (Dialog Menuju Damai, dialogue towards peace), suggesting sarcastic insinuation by the ensuing PDMD – a change already decided upon as early as 2002. 11 TNI interpretation of the earlier blueprint set “intelligence, territorial, and combat operations” for “passive, active, and counteroffensive phases,” respectively, in postDOM Aceh transitions identifiable to April 2003 and January 2004. 12 King (2004: 104–5) noted similarly uncritical tendencies from a 2000 ICG report (not cited here). 13 Prematurely reported reforms abolishing babinsa were limited to Jakarta and Surabaya, where “villages” hardly existed according to the term’s literal meanings in Indonesian or English. Those proposals foundered, but Jakarta’s publicity misled observers (e.g. Ravich 2000; Haseman et al. 2002: 18–19; Kingsbury 2003: 77). 14 The author (1999) briefly covered Indonesia’s vast intelligence apparatus with reference to Tanter’s (1989) thorough earlier research. 15 SGI’s main parent formation, KOPASSUS’ Group IV, restructured in early 2000 as Group III (previously “HQ”) after scandals of “dirty tricks” repression in metropolitan Java. Group IV battalions changed to a “3” prefix, subdivided as flexible detachments rather than companies of “para-commando” groups I and II. Group V Gultor (Penanggulangan Teror, Counter-Terror) formally reverted to traditional detachment status as Sat 81 (Unit 81). Deployed SGI units changed nomenclature too, sometimes expanded as Satuan Gabungan Intel (Joint Intelligence Unit), which probably applied to cover Aceh’s later increased non-army SGI composition. A previous SGI Aceh name was Satgassus (Special TF), though probably in informal usage beside the official Satgas Tribuana title from 1996 for units rotated between Aceh–Papua to 2001, and East Timor until 1999 (Davies 2001: 17). Subunits’ continued use of Sattis in Aceh suggested deliberate wordplay on the Indonesian sadis (sadistic).
244 Notes 16 On enquiry in late 2002 discussion and correspondence, Damien Kingsbury confirmed that his source(s) had not confused milsus with the milsas (militarisasi) of East Timor militia programs. Possibly due to rumor and many spurious “insider” claims of BIN’s operational potency, Kingsbury’s account of milsus alluded to a KOPASSUS relationship with BIN, not BAIS – the body properly structured and equipped for such operations, as also established in links with KOPASSUS’ Satgasintel formations. 17 In standard Western (and Indonesian) military terminology, “organic” refers to troops’ or subunits’ place in normal, unmodified subordination to a unit’s chain of command. Many confused the term with “territorial” (Moore 2001, for example). Kingsbury (2003: 80) believed “organic” sometimes applied to “troops…drawn from the region in which they serve.” Kammen (II 2003) added further confusion, defining “organic” as troops “intended to be strongly rooted to their area,” applying another false distinction between “non-organic” battalions and “combat” units of KOSTRAD–KOPASSUS. 18 Though not specified in reports, a similar increase was likely for preexisting battalions (111, 112, and 113) to replace some deployed non-organic units. North Sumatera and its capital Medan were crucial to the expansion, including likely transfer of ex-100 Airborne Infantry Battalion members in their five-month hiatus of temporary disbandment after assaulting a police base and headquarters (Kmp 2003a; Dtk 2003a). 19 That point intentionally echoes King (2004: 105), criticizing ICG “analysis”: “the main reason TNI was unable to prevent the 1999 mayhem in Timor was that the army leadership itself had planned and organized it.”
3 Military dynamics and “lines of concentration” 1 As local comparison, GAM claimed to have killed 17 Satgas Rajawali troops in a fivepoint area ambush in Tanah Jambo Aye District, North Aceh, in July 2002. Northern GAM units’ proficiency contrasted with contemporary efforts in western areas, where one 15-truck convoy ambush became an inconclusive three-hour standoff. 2 From over 100 relevant samples between 1999 and 2005, TNI sources described their own forces’ ambush as penghadangan once: in Simpang Ulim District, East Aceh, June 2003, for a KOPASSUS Group I action. 3 The TNI hierarchy contained more rank gradings, closer to the US Army, than Australian and British armies, or US Marines: “junior NCO” here refers to TNI junior sergeants and senior corporals. 4 Moore’s (2001: 20–6) discussion of East Timor operations erroneously divided TNI forces into “non-organic” and “organic/territorial,” missing that most satgaster were “non-organic” attachments on similar rotation schedules to mobile strike elements. In the context of that counter-insurgency and those in Aceh and Papua, Kingsbury (2003: 70–3) described organic and non-organic territorial units: “less as a defensive force and more as a quasi-military/quasi-‘social’ force,” attaching maps of such units in their deployed areas while asserting that they “cannot be considered as combat ready in any meaningful sense.” Those views seemed at odds with both TNI HQ, who equipped and tasked them for combat operations, and GAM, who regularly fought them. 5 A Liputan6 (SCTV 2003c) news report showed a 143 Infantry Battalion member processing ID cards for civilians while sporting the special nonregulation peaked cap embroidered with bright Garuda badges and text, in the manner of security units at Timika-Tembagapura. A Serambi photo (Srb 2003j) showed another 143 soldier with the same nonregulation cap as shown by SCTV, but in patrol dress clutching SS-1 rifle, hunched over civilian-attired Acehnese corpses. 6 PASKHASAU is not to be confused with the joint-service PPRC rapid deployment force, as done by Kingsbury (2003: 111, 252). 7 The “riot cop” assumption about BRIMOB probably arose from POLRI’s greater crowd-control responsibilities from the late Soeharto period, as if BRIMOB in Aceh
Notes
8 9
10
11 12 13
14 15 16
17
18
19
245
were a makeshift force “armed as infantry” (see Martinkus 2004: ix, 5, 8, for example). Others presumed BRIMOB to be a police “special forces” elite, a term applying only to the corps’ Gegana subunits and POLRI’s “Detachment 88” formed from BRIMOB’s C Detachment, II Regiment Gegana (further restructured and renamed since). Contrary to Kingsbury’s (2003: 85) assertion, Satgas Rajawali was never a “battalion.” Satgaspur Selatan (South) regrouped as Satgaspur V under Satgas 11, Lhokseumawe, after tsunami annihilation to several of its units, including its Meulaboh HQ. Due to his marriage to Soeharto’s daughter Siti Hediati (Titiek), some commentators assumed Prabowo’s rise proved parvenu ambition, but Prabowo used the connection to help achieve his professional military goals. In fact, Prabowo’s background was patrician (via his father Soemitro Djojohadikusumo), suggesting that Titiek’s marriage (at least initially) offered more lasting benefit to the network around ex-NCO Soeharto, than the reverse. In thorough and timely analyses of TNI–POLRI force developments, Wandelt (2001b) mentioned BRIMOB in Maluku’s yon-gab. Many Maluku reports confirmed KOPASSUS, not BRIMOB, as the other yon-gab component, alongside marine and PASKHASAU elements. Wandelt apparently meant BRIMOB’s inclusion in the more generic term pasgab. Yon-gab remained a generic term, as later used for post-tsunami deployment of a KODAM I composite army battalion. SCTV’s (2003b) Liputan6 news made one of the best early descriptions of the “raider” battalion system. Many reports detailed the various battalions slotted for raider conversion training, including a later comprehensive outline in Yogyakarta’s Bernas (2003). Characteristically, Wandelt (2001a) quickly identified such error, clarifying the new recon platoons’ role and structure. Jakarta’s leading aeronautical journal was another useful early reference (Angkasa 2001b). Sweeping had widespread nonmilitary usage in Indonesia. Paramilitary groups such as political party satgas and the jihadist FPI, for example, adopted the term for simpler, less systematic raids and harassment against political opponents and other civilian targets. August 2003 discussion with John Martinkus, of his earlier visit to North Sumatera and Aceh. Former sectors A and B, for KOREMs 011 and 012, respectively, restructured as Satgas 11 in Lhokseumawe and the ill-fated Satgas 12 in Meulaboh, each encompassing lettered sector TFs at brigade-level and numbered subsectors at battalion. Hackworth (1990: 366, 421, 456, 819) used the “zero defect” concept to criticize perceived politicization in post-1950s US Army training, evaluation, and promotion. Many Westerners still unconsciously prefer the stereotype term “saving face” for Asian cases, while typically assigning more sophisticated political or tactical ploys to the non-Asian, e.g. “restoring credibility,” “damage-control,” “toughing it out,” etc. Kasminto clearly attributed the atrocities’ causality to TNI–POLRI troops, but in a broader apologia emphasizing perpetrators’ extreme emotion and other irrationality. Characteristically euphemistic and ambiguous language clothed his admission, prefixing the “slaughtered” verb with ter- (instead of dibantai), implying that killings were still somehow outside of the killers’ volition, i.e. an act of nature. Post-Soeharto reforms abolished the extreme 15-day P4-pancasila course for all university students. Other changes were in compulsory nationalist kewiraan study, (becoming budi pekerti, or “moral consciousness”), and units in history and religion, all made more subtle than New Order predecessors. It was possible that TNI–POLRI soldiers, like many foreign counterparts, endured less of such general state propaganda than most civilians, though such comparative freedom would be offset against other indoctrination and obvious sacrifices. That unit was non-organic to Aceh, and not to be confused with I Combat Engineer Detachment, organic to KOREM 012 (later to Aceh’s KODAM I.M.), and all but annihilated by the 26 December 2004 tsunami.
246 Notes 20 Covert KOSTRAD troops could also explain several anecdotal accounts by observers alleging BRIMOB units’ comparably worse record of wanton cruelty and “indiscipline”: army members in POLRI garb, and their commanders, would feel much less concern for potential scandal from tarnishing their actual unit and service identity. Aside from detailed numbers and unit identities gleaned from local Indonesian and resistance reports, Haseman’s figures (about 20,000 POLRI and equal number of TNI) support that earlier estimate of much higher high police totals at a time long after the rumor had died, and the “prohibition” on KOSTRAD deployment had outlived its usefulness in Jakarta’s perception management. 21 The POLDA list’s own serious anomalies in personnel strengths DSP (Dafter Susunan Personel, or “establishment strength”) and “riil” (actual, or “posted strength”) appeared chaotic by normal bureaucratic standards, though ketok magic creativity could not be ruled out in that case too. 22 Such tendencies afflicted less diplomatically influential levels of Western–TNI “engagement.” The author recalls Australian Army NCOs’ accounts of a 1997 training trip to Indonesia. One racist NCO, a German-descended admirer of National Socialism, derided TNI soldiers as incompetent after a live-fire range practice where TNI instructors performed the weapons’ degrees of readiness (cocking, unloading, etc.) on firers’ M-16A1 rifles, which firers left uncleaned after the shoot. Another NCO, a Dutch-born apologist for Netherlands East Indies colonialism, simply asked the TNI commander, who explained that their training system made instructors directly responsible for weapons’ operation and cleaning at the range, whereas firers themselves performed those functions at their units and in the field. 23 GAM’s Sofyan Dawood (Anl 2003f) perhaps understated the reality when describing BRIMOB’s reformulation as “like a snake shedding its skin for a new one.”
4 TNI–POLRI morale and motivation 1 This study treats “discipline” as a “motivation” to obedience, including its deterrent examples against disobedience. 2 King (2004: 107, 125–6, 134) detailed the parallel practice at Freeport–McMoran’s Papua complex. 3 Shortly after the tsunami disaster, journalist Sarah Ferguson (Sunday 2005) highlighted recent specific examples of the Artha Graha Bank’s local and national prominence in TNI reconstruction activities and assets. Artha Graha was reportedly one of the more profitable business vehicles for magnate and TNI business partner Tomy Winata. 4 Indonesian and English language media reported Endriartono’s comments differently. The former quoted his words directly, while the latter focused on his speech’s other context and concern that troops avoid arousing the “people’s antipathy.” Neither version specifically addressed potential harm to, or antipathy from, Acehnese civilians. 5 While the Bantaqiah and similar massacres did not compare to systematic Nazi programs of racist mass murder, similar dynamics in force structure and command made for useful comparison between the two otherwise distinct cases. Arbitrarily flexible TNI–POLRI satgas (task force) structures often mixed troops’ leadership and unit or service origin, potentially making obedience more systematic and formalized than the more relaxed routine of small-group dynamics in patrols of more stable composition over time; higher casualties would exacerbate such a tendency. A relatively wider class gulf and less familiarity among TNI–POLRI joint-unit members seemed to give Indonesian troops little or no leeway if ordered to commit cold-blooded murder, even compared to the similarly flexible ad hoc German paramilitary police units in 1942 Poland (see Browning 1994). 6 Indonesian suicide taboo was probably inherited from Middle-East religious prohibitions, though not impeding its blunt reporting.
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7 POLRI Chief Da’i Bachtiar publicly mooted the detained BRIMOB soldier’s possible role as a GAM agent reporting on deployed police strengths. In interview, however, the nation’s Police Chief emphasized Tarmuji’s display of the ASNLF flag: the rest was described more speculatively as “under investigation.” 8 The Waspada report showed early official effort to deflect blame for the attack onto GAM. Other reports showed the battle’s toll as another bodycount mystery, with total dead increasing over time from four–six POLRI and three–four civilians: total reported army dead stayed at one. 9 Formal authority to act against TNI offenders remained with the TNI itself, i.e. the military police (POM, Polisi Militer). 10 The KOPASSUS shooting was probably to enforce a local “no withdrawal” policy in the event of GAM ambush. Another anecdotal version of that incident (Kingsbury 2003: 109) mooted possible business rivalry or personal motives, but the AIC’s more rigorous detail (AIC 2002a), and Kingsbury’s allusion to “Brimob officers” and initial TNI denial, left AIC’s version the more plausible. 11 The claim replicated in a Jakarta Post opinion piece (JkP 2002c). That criticism is not to discount the frequent recorded cases of BRIMOB attacking TNI troops, whether individually off-duty or as uniformed bands, especially in towns outside of Aceh. Disparities in funding and status showed POLRI to have a greater motive, but the TNI generally had the greater means to both instigate and prevail. This was emphasized on 29 September 1998 in Pontianak, when an army cavalry unit attacked a BRIMOB base. Four died and 12 were seriously wounded when TNI troops used an armored vehicle to enter directly the BRIMOB base and fire on the POLRI occupants (Bernas 1998). Tajuk (1999c) reported five dead, and five armored vehicles, in that army raid. 12 Banjarmasin Post revealed the case’s political tension at the command level: the local KOREM chief demanded that police firers be prosecuted, claiming that 643 troops had no weapons apart from the officer’s pistol. However, the same report described a TNIinitiated mob shootout, with two buses destroyed and considerable ballistic damage to the police HQ, besides the casualties of three POLRI versus one TNI. 13 King (2004: 206) noted that TNI–POLRI casualties from internecine fighting around Papua’s Freeport–McMoran complex exceeded those from clashes with OPM (Organisasi Papua Merdeka, Free Papua Organization) guerrillas. 14 Due to reasons of personal safety, the POLRI sources for this information must remain anonymous. 15 Deadly corruption intrigue sometimes became apparent at higher levels, indicated by the demise of reformist generals Saurip Kadi, Slamet Kirbiantoro, and Sundanese nobleman Agus Wirahadikusumah (see Davies 2001: 38–45, 83 and 2002; Kingsbury 2003: 28–9, 174–80, 205–6, 249–50; King 2004: 101, 205). Earlier rumors alleged state murders, by poisoning, of special forces luminaries Ali Murtopo and Sarwo Edhie Wibowo (SBY’s father-in-law). 16 The course’s title “Raider Training (for) Senior Army Officers” specified that it was not only for officers from battalions chosen for conversion into raider units, but ran for all field-rank and senior army officers paneled at the discretion of the army’s most senior brass, i.e. GEN Ryamizard Ryacudu himself. 17 POLDA Central Java monthly Caraka Candi (CC 2003d) used the same mocking question in a passing retort to antimilitarism activist Munir’s dissent. 18 The author personally met several times with a former POLRI NCO assassin of the infamous 1980s petrus (penembakan misterius, mysterious shootings) era of Soeharto’s New Order. The man worked in sensitive counterintelligence tasks at the time of meeting. His own start in that world followed an eight-month sentence to an upright coffinlike “mouse cell” (sel tikus) after murdering his extortionate commanding officer for excessive pressure forcing drug deals in Jakarta’s sleazy Tanah Abang underworld. 19 Discussion with John Martinkus, July 2003, in which he referred to the same GAM members in his work distributed at the time of this writing (Martinkus 2004: 143).
248 Notes 20 Endriartono’s effort was contradicted by the Medan Legal Aid Institute incident report shortly after the attacks (LBH 2002; Wsp 2002o), and the army’s later move to all but disband the battalion. 21 TNI–POLRI enthusiasm for Inul went to consumerist extremes. Troops in Aceh took to a remote-control toy: the “Inul car”, which imitated the dangdut star’s stage movements (Ant 2003). 22 Long before the matter caught much Western attention, several Oposisi (1999) reports investigated the rise of jihadists, whose numbers in western Java (about 500,000) exceeded those in East Java, NTT, Ambon, West Sumatera, and Kalimantan combined (about 400,000). 23 It seemed higher celebrity standards of humility were expected of Dorce, who later volunteered to clear corpses for three days in Banda Aceh after the 26 December 2004 tsunami.
5 Bodycount: Jakarta’s own dead 1 Basic facts around this research first appeared in Australia’s press (ABC 2003a; The Bulletin 2003), with later international reference (Time 2004), possibly prompting POLRI’s improved web site security. 2 As comparison, Suara Pembaruan left the following detailed breakdown of officially admitted casualties during the period: Berdasarkan data, akibat adanya gerakan sipil bersenjata di Aceh, hingga saat ini anggota Polri yang meninggal 64 orang, luka berat 157 orang. Sedangkan TNI, 56 orang meninggal dunia dan 83 luka berat. Dari masyarakat yang meninggal, 457 orang dan luka berat 151. Sementara Gerakan Bersenjata Pengacau Keamanan (GBPK) sebanyak 163 meninggal dan 20 luka berat. Dari data tersebut, jelas Kapolri, ternyata korban anggota Polri sebagian besar adalah anggota Brimob. 3 The official 2001 death total (“64 POLRI and 59 TNI”) uncannily resembled the statement for 2000, i.e. “64 POLRI and 56 TNI,” apparently normal KIA “ceiling” figures both for public release and internal TNI–POLRI consumption (see Kasminto 2003: 23). Greater deployments and operational tempo from mid-2001 for the TNI (Tempo 2001e) and mid-2003 proportionally increased such ceilings for admitted KIA totals. 4 The simple count reflects recorded data in Figure 5.1 and a public statement by POLRI spokesman Didi Widayadi (cited in EWC 2004a). 5 In this context, Human Rights Watch (HRW 2001) made a usefully succinct outline of the issue’s “Law of Armed Conflict” dimension. 6 A cursory examination of this legal aspect suggests that states effectively supported Jakarta’s definition of the Aceh war as some violent phenomenon “other than war” (Kewley 1984: 13–46), though they could also apply the polite “armed conflict” to Aceh’s actualities. Besides the absurdity inflicted on the war’s participants and innocent victims, states’ prevailing legalistic mentality on this issue reflected a continued absolutist, nonnegotiable concern for their own sovereignty. 7 The EWC paper’s calculations apparently depended upon long-term reporting by Forum Peduli HAM Aceh claiming reduced TNI–POLRI casualties during the year 2000 pause’s first three months to at least one-third of previous Aceh losses between August 1998 and April 2001 (see Ross 2002). Schulze (JIR 2001d), another EWC writer, earlier stated that a larger TNI campaign from April 2001 was “also a response to the deterioration of the security situation as exemplified by the increase in casualties…from 2 July 2000 to 10 March 2001.” The compilation of Figure 5.1 contradicts the view of an “increase in casualties” for that period: POLRI probably suffered much higher KIA in July 2001; other months appeared to continue the pre-April 2001 casualty rates.
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8 The office of MENKOPOLKAM (political security minister) in Jakarta claimed 17 POLRI dead in the period, whereas sampled records in the public domain detailed 26–28 police dead in Aceh over that same time (PM 2000). See also Indonesiamu.com (2001), which counted “22 total police killed” for August–12 December 2000 (actually POLRI’s organic-territorial toll). 9 The author could not find the listed reference from Koran Tempo dated in the EWC paper at 2 May 2002. The figure attributed to Tempo was more dubious still if (properly) covering POLRI troops within the EWC paper’s term: “Indonesian soldiers.” 10 Widespread neglect of GAM records was evident by their general absence in references, whether from deliberate rejection as “partisan” or simply due to researchers’ ignorance of their existence. A Human Rights Watch report considered Acehnese resistance sources on some detail but favored Indonesian versions. HRW’s report (2002: 4, 7) confidently dismissed SIRA (2001) and GAM claims of over 20 Indonesian troops killed in a major GAM attack on a TNI East Aceh post, explained by both Acehnese sources as background for a TNI mass reprisal killing some 38 civilians in the infamous August 2001 PT Bumi Flora plantation massacre. HRW instead trusted one anonymous non-witness in Banda Aceh: “a well-connected individual.” “Connected” to exactly what or whom was no more specific than “army sources.” HRW thereby preferred “one or two soldiers…fallen” over GAM’s and SIRA’s “more than twenty…killed” (italics added). HRWs esteem for their source was contradicted by its report’s blunt criticism of Komnas HAM and appointed judges “with past links to military officers”! 11 Rampagoë writers almost certainly knew of many GAM sources considerably multiplying the TNI–POLRI bodycount. As a “civil society”-based public relations organ, Rampagoë probably considered it counterproductive to seem belligerent, if not triumphalist, heartless, or bloodthirsty if emphasizing the actual scale of Indonesian combat deaths during the period. Diplomatically, such exposé could adversely diminish the journal’s effectiveness in highlighting civilian vulnerability, while losing the publicity advantage of the underdog. 12 At the time, some believed Nessen was at the 7 June Bukit Sudan engagement (The Bulletin 2003), but he was at least 10–15 km to the east. That early misunderstanding suggested that the hastily revised TNI casualty total arose due to a sighting of Nessen during the battle, whereas his close sighting by TNI was in an altogether separate contact. 13 From correspondence and discussion with William Nessen, October 2003–February 2004. Note that “district” refers to GAM’s more traditional Acehnese structure, not the intensive DEPDAGRI kecamatan divisions further multiplied from 2003. 14 That conservative projection would alter by a few hundred if some police numbers were in fact army units, an explanation predicated on an (unlikely) large-scale, coordinated, and disciplined deception operation running for over one year (see p. 96–7, 246n20). Whatever the substance of those rumors, it was unlikely that KOSTRAD would surrender its troops to operational POLRI command and control. 15 The simple one-sentence report of Pidie hospital statistics contained no corresponding analysis, and was listed quite inconspicuously among much more numerous and very detailed descriptions of the report’s main focus, i.e. atrocities against civilians. 16 This is not to ignore that casualties sometimes shifted to outside hospitals, especially in Medan, where more complicated injuries needed advanced specialist surgery and equipment, apparently beyond Pidie general hospital’s facilities. Note too that references to blood supplies did not touch on blood plasma, whether due to a lack of detail about that product’s use, or its absence. 17 Taufik’s blood bank supply figures contrasted sharply with the same article’s reference to the official total Pidie fatalities for the Holistic Operation’s first month, i.e. “1 TNI soldier and 17 civilians.”
250 Notes 18 Drafted to report overall mission success (hasil tugas), not losses, the leaked document distributed in online mailing lists from mid-2004. 19 Due to greater GAM control in this period, total percentages of subdistrict commanders in the period were difficult to calculate: “8%” possibly covered rotations of appointed subdistrict chiefs after tours of two to three years. Martinkus’ reference to “district commanders” and “regional police chiefs” (The Bulletin 2003) differed from this study’s translations for KORAMIL commanders and POLSEK chiefs. Also, Martinkus’ later reference (2004: 96) to that aspect of this study came from its earlier research when seven kapolsek had been noted as killed for the period. Subsequent trawling of sources yielded a total of ten kapolsek KIA, because some deaths only appeared in the press long after their occurrence. 20 GAM’s reference to Heri’s rank made sense given a 1999 report of a “1st Lieutenant Heri” in 327 Battalion’s previous tour of the area. Subsequent promotion to the next rank of captain was likely. 21 Another possibility was that Heri used provisional or honorary captain rank during transitional promotion formalities, still with a paid, administrative 1st lieutenant rank. 22 More detailed police report of these two infantrymen named “Suratno,” not “Surata” (poldanad 2003a). However, any anomalous misspelling did not explain the two reported KIA, or their confirmation by Pidie’s KODIM chief. 23 Army doctrine (mabesad 1984: Annex E) made corpse evacuation first preference, though in one brief, qualified sentence: “however, situation and task will be the deciding factor.” Eleven sentences of detailed SOP covered corpse burial and concealment in situ.
6 People’s war: atrocity, militia, and Islam 1 The “Acehnese GAM defector” was given a clearly Ambonese name: “Mustafa Watimena,” almost certainly an alias protecting himself and loyalist relatives or associates. 2 Radio Australia’s report said that POLRI’s statement laid no blame for civilian deaths when, in fact, its release was accompanied by attribution to GAM for most deaths. 3 GAM claimed Yasli was a civilian victim, adding that his home address was Cot Seurani, Muara Batu District in neighboring North Aceh Regency. If the sinister treatment of his corpse actually involved cannibal initiation, then he would have needed to be an authentic “enemy” in order for the primitive rite to give full meaning. Yasli was possibly an unarmed sentry posted to report on the TNI unit’s local presence, strength, etc., though many other atrocity reports showed notoriously liberal TNI definitions of “GAM,” especially in areas like Peusangan. 4 The article’s writer remained anonymous, identified only as an IAIN Ar Raniry Islamic history graduate. From a branch of Aceh’s provincial government, the brief online publication did not last after Gus Dur’s liberalization in press and official information. 5 The letter reported Rajawali troops sighted with “Pemburu Nyawa,” or “soul hunters,” written on their bandanas: an obvious play on their formal role as kompi pemburu (pursuit companies). Literal translation of pemburu nyawa misses darker and more sinister Indonesian occult contexts of invoked terror, as associated with mythological examples such as the evil Javanese spirit Banaspati. 6 Jawa Pos (JwP 2002d) gave a useful brief description of main political party paramilitaries and youth groups, explicitly referring to ‘OKP’ as “militia” (milisi). 7 The author noted a TVRI news report in 2000 numbering the PP’s Aceh membership at 200,000, probably reflecting intensified post-1998 proxy roles there. 8 A web-sourced virus of the “VBS.LoveLetter.A” worm attacked the author’s computer upon the last access to the MB-GAM document: previously opened over a year earlier, the site indicated a more recent script modified with the malicious code.
Notes
251
9 Puja Kesuma was long-established prokem, i.e. originally preman slang (prokem n.d.). 10 The Gatra report concerned the PP-IPK gang war in Medan at that time, suggesting intrigues between political party sponsors, while offering an example of how OPK competition could parallel violent TNI-POLRI rivalries, and that within the TNI’s three services. By 2002, the issue was publicized beyond its hitherto arcane status in the West after street firefights between POLRI and a 100 Airborne company. 11 East Timorese Hercules, gang leader in Jakarta’s Tanah Abang, was a well-known 1990s PPM figure, “adopted” by a senior Indonesian army officer at the end of an East Timor tour of duty (see Davies 1999). 12 East Timor remnants and later additions to these political cadres re-formed as Pejuang Pro Integrasi (PPI, Pro-Integration Fighters). 13 Not to be confused with an Indonesian women’s welfare NGO using the same acronym, FPMP’s early establishment in East Aceh indicated the consolidation of Eurico’s group prior to its Papua activities by December 2003. FPMP’s earlier East Aceh presence probably reflected the ascendancy of gangs sponsored by, or affiliated with, then President Megawati’s PDIP, especially in Medan. 14 Several detailed Indonesian sources traced early patterns of coercion, patronage, and training by KOPASSUS of alleged FALINTIL members into Gadapaksi loyalists, offering useful comparisons to Aceh’s covert loyalist militia, the GPMP and Tarung Derajat martial arts. Studies in 1999 risked overemphasis on these activities’ Soehartoist, rather than more enduring, and fundamentally institutional, TNI connections (see Aditjondro 1995, 1996, 2000; Rpk 1995, 1997; SI 1995; Kmp 1996; Lukman 1996; SPRIM 1996; MateBEAN 1997; BMCC 1998; SiaR 1998a, b, 1999a, b; Xpos 1998, 1999a, b). See also author’s related early research (lismat OSINT 1999). 15 Ryamizard’s favorable relationship with President Megawati further indicated the influence of PDIP networks in GPMP–FPMP militia. 16 Conversation with Central Java source who must remain anonymous for personal safety. 17 After Indonesian troops’ name-calling, GAM’s radio operator broke into laughter, calling out to journalist William Nessen who was in the guerrilla unit’s company: “Billy, they know you’re here!” 18 Of the three reports, the Republika article (syndicated Antara) appeared least useful, less for its apparent reliance upon Central Aceh government sources than its lack of statistical and geographical detail, and more limited time span. Although imprecisely dated, the context of FPDRA reports’ detail locates them to the last quarter of 2001. 19 SISKAMLING references from early 1980s East Timor militia operations (Budiardjo 1984: 181, 185) included translation of an Indonesian Army counterintelligence document: “Village/Town Security System.” Although the original Indonesian text was not used, identical associated acronyms, other doctrinal detail, and their context all clearly indicated the same concept, if not the same “SISKAMLING” acronym. 20 Waspada relayed government claims that military training was not to be conducted by the military itself. Even if disregarding repeated statements and reports to the contrary, three key factors made it highly unlikely that such “military training” would omit strong TNI involvement: martial law; appointments of serving and retired TNI–POLRI officers to many government posts; and long-established procedure in Indonesian government structural and cultural norms. 21 By the time of writing, POLRI in metropolitan Java used pagar betis as a broader security concept of “cordoning” an area, without militia connotations. HRW (2003: 39–40) only connected the term’s usage to SISKAMLING. 22 Prolonged interethnic mixture among Aceh’s inhabitants appeared in GAM ranks too. ASNLF stalwart Ahmad Sudirman shared the name of the distinctly Javanese nobleman “father” of Indonesia’s army, as did a GAM fighter reportedly KIA in a POLRI contact report (among others with obviously Javanese names). 23 Gus Dur decried razia jilbab (Jilbab raids) by TNI-garbed troops and/or OKP preman gangsters in South Aceh in 1999, at the height of “black,” or covert, operations
252 Notes (Gatra 1999c). Lower-level, unofficial enforcement of the uniform orthodox jilbab (a closed-neck hood-veil exposing the woman’s face) anticipated Indonesia’s formal syariah initiative. 24 Terms for MQ pilgrimage tours were unclear, but MQ membership tempted the devout with its initial fee of Rp75,000 (about AU$15), far below haji travel and accommodation costs.
7 Shadow war: infiltration, PSYOPS, and terrorism 1 JI is used here as a concession to its conventional use in public reporting. A cover term, its literal meaning had offensive implications, describing networked terror cells hypothetically equating to “Presbyterian congregation” for a UDA splinter-branch, or “Catholic parish” for an IRA counterpart. 2 The National Defense University was another major US training provider for middleto senior-ranking TNI officers, counting several rising stars among its alumni. This is not to ignore other countries’ prominent training contributions in the period, especially by Australia, but to highlight those military education sources probably considered most prestigious and diplomatically influential for TNI command and staff. 3 Relevant excerpts of the Army Administrative Instruction first appeared in the East Timor Action Network (ETAN) website, later published in Kingsbury (2003: 99–101). 4 GOLKAR’s Ghazali Abbas met with Yusuf Daud, later publicizing a favorable response to information from the “GAM leader,” suggesting Ghazali’s possibly conscious involvement in the deception. 5 Whether out of basic respect for the dead and relatives, or to avoid the political intrigue, none of the eulogies mentioned Z. Afif’s “MP-GAM” connection made so explicit via FAME. 6 Most studies seemed to miss MP-GAM’s chameleon-like shifts, by which it could pose as many possible shades of Acehnese “resistance.” A recent example was Schulze’s report (EWC 2004a), claiming “certain ideological differences between the two factions” in this regard. 7 The Forum Keadilan article printed a photo of his trial after capture, but gave no other details. GAM sources claimed that upon release and flight to Malaysia, Idris was frustrated over having to eke out a simple living, despite ex-GAM commander status. Details of Idris’ initial contacts with Indonesian military intelligence and MP-GAM needed more work as at writing, because his purported “TNI links” were based on repeated GAM accusations and circumstantial links to RIA’s Fauzi. 8 The “official” BIN report listed GAM first in several Bali bombing suspects. Alongside the AFP statement, the report’s format and context indicated authenticity. 9 Not to be confused with the reported “Idris” in “JI” associate and alleged bomb-maker Jhoni Hendrawan. 10 The FAME web pages also gave good examples of the “hard line” MP-GAM agitation for independence, and condemnations of TNI–POLRI crimes in Aceh. 11 Previous incarnations of the MP-GAM site were more obviously “black flag,” using the same MP-GAM links and leaders’ names while purporting to be “ASNLF,” via URLs:
and . As the story of a “GAM split” gained currency, Gerry van Klinken took an early circumspect view of the MP-GAM infiltration issue, eliciting a hostile response by MP-GAM’s Yusuf Daud, who vehemently denied contact with Arjuna. With scant public information in 1999, van Klinken’s research was understandably receptive to the “factionalism” notion generally, but admirably qualified (II 1999c; FAME 1999). 12 ABC TV’s Four Corners (Australia) described Yazid as a ‘US-trained biochemist.” 13 Tk Idris, MP-GAM member at JI Malaysia conferences, was reportedly still “on the run” at the time of writing.
Notes
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14 GAM sources continued to deny responsibility for Don Zulfahri’s assassination. If GAM was responsible, it could not admit involvement without risking severely adverse diplomatic consequences, plus bad publicity given wide acceptance of MP-GAM’s “factional” status. It is also conceivable that GAM and Indonesian counterintelligence agreed to the “hit,” if not cooperated, to facilitate serious truce negotiations with foreign observers (as mooted by US-based Stratfor). 15 Referring to some of Fauzi’s Indonesian-published RIA texts, Schulze (EWC 2004a) described this group by its redundant title Front Mujahiddin Islam Aceh (FMIA, named as though mujahiddin could somehow be non-Muslims). The group’s hyperbolic emphasis on “Islam” appears to have been a distraction aimed particularly at Westerners. Schulze mentioned that Fauzi had died, but gave no indication how, where, or at whose hands, much less why. 16 The Soekarno–Hatta regime’s failure to establish a federation of states was fundamental to Darul Islam rebellion motives, widespread skepticism and indifference to Jakarta’s provincial autonomy offers, and Acehnese independence demands. Aceh’s original inclusion within Indonesia followed Soekarno’s personal (later reneged) assurances in 1948 for federalist autonomy to Daud Beureueh, Aceh’s real power at the time (see JkP 2003e). 17 If Hambali did work with both BAKIN and the TNI, his agent status must have been senior, i.e. at the national level and not limited to Aceh-related tasks. However, the “revelation” about BAKIN suggested its further post-1980s use as a foil and distraction for the much larger and more capable BAIS. BAIS was far better staffed, trained, and otherwise equipped for the sinister tasks often attributed to BIN, including the Munir assassination. That point is made in light of glaring anomalies in the Munir case and its bombastic implicating of BIN, although the case increased acceptance of such clumsy depictions (see Dateline 2005, for example). Most TNI agent-handling was managed at provincial level: for the TNI under the KODAMs’ territorial structure as well as KOPASSUS’ deployed SGI (itself reporting to BIA/BAIS). From 2003, restoration of BAKORINDA (area intelligence coordinating body, later renamed KOMINDA, Regional Intelligence Community) returned TNI supremacy in overseeing provincial nonmilitary intelligence bodies. One of the most sensitive aspects of BAIS was its ongoing discreet Western support, regardless of real or cosmetic changes to Jakarta’s civilian regime (creative depictions of BIN probably helped BAIS in the Munir case). Occasional news publicity about “Indonesian intelligence infiltration” into the Australian Intelligence Community (AIC) missed the point that BAIS maintained close cooperation with Western counterparts precisely because of BAIS’ existence beyond presidential and/or parliamentary oversight. During the period of blacklisting by the US Senate, BAIS apparently maintained links with its US military counterparts via the NWC, or National War College (API 2004a). Several influential sources claimed BAIS as the less partisan, more secular and “professional” branch of Indonesia’s state hierarchy. Despite BAIS’ separate PSYOPS directorate, Haseman et al. (2002: xviii, 31–2, 62–3) hinted pro-BAIS advocacy, claiming that “BAIS does not have an operational role” (see also MI 2000; Bernas 2001; JkP 2001b; SM 2002b, 2003g; BjmP 2003a; cepos 2003; EM 2003; Kmp 2003i, 2004a; BP 2004). 18 Any investigation of that matter must also take into consideration earlier failure, or unwillingness, to arrest Imam Samudra, also known as Qudama, whose identity was also revealed in the American Farouq interrogation almost a month before the Bali bombing (KOMPI 2002). 19 The Ambon kidnapping leads were ambiguous about Fauzi Hasbi’s NII associate “Ahmad Saridup,” so named by Detik (Dtk 2003c), but called “Muhammad Syaridun” in Sinar Harapan (SH 2003d): possibly aliases. 20 First public in the Forum Keadilan interview, several observers noted Sjafrie’s extraordinarily indiscreet boasts about his US training.
254 Notes
8 A people defamed 1 2 3 4
Theo included the Tanjung Priok (1984) and Lampung (1989) cases as “rebellions” equivalent to GAM’s, despite the formers’ lack of guerrilla insurrection. Solahudin (JkP 2003d) made a useful critique of Abuza’s wider JI–Al Qaeda discussion. On 4 September 2003 the author asked Zachary Abuza in e-mail for source and other clarification about his points on Aceh and GAM, but no reply came by the time of writing. This study’s basic assessment of the West–Indonesia relationship unintentionally matched the thrust of Peter King’s (2004: 104–5, 108–9) succinct description, which used more references to diplomacy.
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Index
Local names appear by their commonest or most recognizable order and spelling in reports, irrespective of ‘first’ or clan/family names, e.g. Ersa Siregar; Prabowo Subianto, and; Soeharto. Ranks/honorifics omitted for clarity. Aa Boxer (Ahmad Dradjat) 178, 251n14; see also martial arts Aa Gym (Abdullah Gymnastiar) 192–4 Abdul Fatah Wirananggapati 209; see also Darul Islam/NII Abdurrahman Wahid see Gus Dur ABRI (TNI–POLRI); see under separate service headings Abu Jihad see Fauzi Hasbi Abuza, Zachary 227–8, 254n2–3 Acehnese ethnicity/language 21, 64, 160, 215–216, 240n2 A. C. Manullang 214; see also BAKIN Afghanistan 213, 219, 228–9 Afif, Zainal 202, 203–4, 252n5; see also MP-GAM air force: bombing by 17, 84–5, 160; transport 18, 85; see also PASKHASAU Al Chaidar 211–13 Algeria, comparisons 1, 88, 193, 197 al Ghozi, Faturrahman 215–6, 220 Al Qaeda 254n2; Aceh visit 204–5, 215, 227–9, 231; Malaysia presence 211, 219; mooted Aceh-related links 28, 208, 211–2, 226–30; see also Fauzi Hasbi, MP-GAM Ali Alatas 214 Al Zaytun 193, 212 Ambon 14, 114–15, 129, 201, 213; civil war 227; comparisons with Aceh 68, 105, 226, 231; jihadist activity 56, 79, 178–9, 216, 227, 248n22; TNI–POLRI operations in 88, 79, 186, 245n10; see also Fauzi Hasbi, Laskar Jihad (LJ)
Ambonese ethnicity 76, 227, 250n1 Amien Rais see PAN ammunition see weapons Arjuna 200–2, 204, 206–8, 212, 218–19, 228, 252n11; see also MP-GAM armor 37, 144, 235; GAM anti-armor weapons ; marines 83; POLRI 64, 75, 94; reo vehicles 75, 150; TNI 74–5, 82–3, 175, 247n11; see also army battalions, body armor, marine battalions army: engineers 27, 50, 85, 92, 234–5; defection/desertion 122–5; discipline/legal cases 107, 123–5, 164; incentive/reward 107–8; training 88–91; treatment of dissent 117–19; uniform discipline 93–4, 147; see also armor, army battalions, casualties (TNI–POLRI), intra-service conflict, internecine warfare, medical treatment, raider battalions, territorial structure army battalions (KOSTRAD denoted with “K”): 1 Cav (Tank K) 80–1; 1 Cbt Engr 60, 81, 92, 235, 245n19; 10 Cbt Engr K 80; 11 Constr Engr 235; 13 Constr Engr 235; 100 Abn Inf/Rdr 81, 83, 112, 125, 244n18, 251n10; 111 Inf 60, 63, 117, 122, 244n18; 112 Inf 60, 63, 244n18; 113 Inf 60, 63, 83, 244n18; 114 Inf 60, 63; 115 Inf 60, 63; 116 Inf 60, 63; 121 Inf 80, 92; 122 Inf 80–1, 92, 235; 123 Inf 81, 235; 125 Inf 81; 126 Inf 80–1, 235; 142 Inf 80–1, 161, 179; 143 Inf 80–1, 114, 244n5;
282 Index 144 Inf 80–1, 92; 145 Inf/200 Rdr 81; 2 Asslt Cav 80–1; 2 Cbt Engr 235; 201 Inf 93, 167; 202 Inf 80, 83, 93; 203 Inf 93; 3 Asslt Cav 80–1; 3 Cbt Engr 80, 235; 301 Inf 80, 92, 142; 305 Abn Inf K 80–1, 178; 310 Inf 80; 312 Inf 80–1, 92, 148; 315 Inf 80–1, 92; 320 Inf 80–1, 92; 323 Inf/Rdr K 81, 119; 327 Inf/300 Rdr 80–1, 92, 150–1, 250n20; 328 Abn Inf K 80, 96–7; 330 Abn Inf K 80–1, 107; 4 Asslt Cav 80–1; 4 Cbt Engr 235; 401 Inf/400 Rdr 81, 87, 92; 403 Inf 40, 80, 92, 155; 405 Inf 81; 406 Inf 80–1; 407 Inf 81; 408 Inf 80–1, 115, 155–6; 411 Inf K 80, 164; 412 Inf/Rdr K 80–1; 431 Abn Inf K 80–1, 180, 183; 432 Abn Inf K 116; 433 Abn Inf K 80–1; 5 Asslt Cav 80–1; 5 Cbt Engr 235; 501 Abn Inf K 112, 115, 148, 180; 502 Abn Inf K 80, 148; 503 Abn Inf K 81; 507 Inf/500 Rdr 81, 93, 107; 509 Inf K 80; 511 Inf 80–1, 93; 512 Inf 80–1; 515 Inf K 81; 516 Inf 93; 521 Inf 36, 41, 80–1, 93, 232; 527 Inf 80–1, 92–3; 6 Asslt Cav 60, 80, 235; 611 Inf 115; 612 Inf/600 Rdr 81; 621 Inf 80, 176; 623 Inf 81, 235; 641 Inf 81; 642 Inf 80; 643 Inf 80, 114, 247n12; 7 Spec Asslt Cav 80–1; 700 Indep Abn Inf/Rdr 81, 119; 712 Inf 80, 92, 119; 713 Inf 81; 725 Inf 80–1; 726 Inf 80; 741 Inf/900 Rdr 81; 742 Inf 81; 744 Inf 64, 81, 124; 745 Inf 64; 8 Cav (Tank K) 81, 234; 8 Cbt Engr 80; 9 Abn Cbt Engr K 81; see also armor, army detachments, engineers, infantry, KOPASSUS, marine battalions army detachments 1 Cav Det ; 1 Cbt Engr Det 60, 245n19; see also denintel, Rajawali Tak Force, tontaipur ASNLF (Acheh-Sumatra National Liberation Front) see GAM Aspinall, Ed 38, 133 assassination: GAM action 136, 165; TNI–POLRI 165–6, ; see also Fauzi Hasbi atrocity/victimization 39–40, 163; arbitrary detention 30, 51, 106, 149, 159, 167, 170, 173, 190, 214, 218; BRIMOB action 164, 179; killings of unarmed by TNI–POLRI 173; lobbying over 166–8, 246n20; see also casualties (civilian), massacres
Australia: attacks on embassy 173, 220; Federal Police 205, 229; army training 90–1; Defence PR 128; diplomacy 218, 234, 237; “engagement” 246n22, 253n17; OKP hostility to 173; SASR (Special Air Service Regiment) 170–1; see also doctrine, military babinsa (village guidance NCO): added postings of 61, 117; continuation of 243n13; functions 61, 65; militia training 182; tsunami dead 232 BAIS (Strategic Intelligence Agency): “open intelligence” 9; comparison with GAM internal security 33; autonomy within territorial structure 61; infiltration & entrapment 172, 207; operational supremacy 244n16, 253n17; mujahiddin links 212, 217, 253n17; see also BAKIN, BIN, Fauzi Hasbi, KOPASSUS, milsus, SGI, Zacky Anwar Makarim BAKIN (State Intelligence Coordination Agency): early Aceh-related infiltration 209–10, 212; alleged Hambali employment 210, 219, 253n17; see also Ali Murtopo, BAIS, BIN, Komando Jihad Bakker, Hans 22 BAKORINDA 253n17; see also BAKIN, BIN Bantaqiah case see massacres Batak ethnicity 21, 78; organic-territorial troops 63 bela negara (defense of the state): basis for TNI–Defense militia training 181–2; ideological foundations 106; Islamization of 179; see also BIN Bhakti TNI (TNI civil works program) 27, 85; militia–religious aspects 181–2; tsunami response 235 BIA see BAIS BIN (State Intelligence Agency) 207, 210: bela negara role 181; alleged GAM–JI link 205, 252n8; publicized “foil” role 244n16, 253n17; see also BAIS, BAKIN bintal (mental guidance) 189; see also Syariah “black PSYOPS”: “Ahmad Kandang” group 201, 213; arbitrary definitions 196; indications in bombing 222–224; see also KOPASSUS, milsus, provocateurs, terrorism
Index 283 “Bobby” Mahmud 216 body armor 94, 110, 144–7 BRIMOB (Mobile Brigade) 64–5: casualties 131–3, 140, 149–52, 193, 248n2; definition 244n7; “Detachment 88” 93, 244–5n7; deployments & role 70, 74–6, 94–5, 99, 134, 246n23; Gegana 77, 142, 145, 245n7; de facto privatization 103; welfare 108; “pursuit companies” 77; strength 75, 97; suicide 109–10; training 94, 96; tsunami losses 231; see also intra-service conflict, internecine warfare Bukit Sudan (Matang Kumbang), battle of 119, 141, 249n12 Bustanil Arifin 199–200, 212 Cakra Detachment see tontaipur cannabis 127, 171, 190 cannibalism, sign of 165, 250n3 casualties (civilian): 2001–3 period 115, 136, 163, 167–9; DOM period 161, 241n11; Dutch period 167; targeting of NGOs 62; see also medical treatment casualties (GAM) 29, 165 casualties (TNI–POLRI): bodycount 114–16, 131–57; corpse handling 121, 142–3, 153, 250n23; evacuation 89, 91, 121, 142, 145, 234; KIA (killed in action) 248n2 & 3; poisoning 148–9; tsunami 231–3; WIA (wounded in action); see also BRIMOB, medical treatment Chairawan, Kadarsyah Nusyirwan 86 Chevron 236 China: regional context 16–17; Chinese ethnicity: 1998 Jakarta pogrom 159; TNI business links 175, 214 COMINT (Communications Intelligence): Australian 8, 130, 218–19; Indonesian 8, 160 concert tours 126–9 corruption: Aceh’s status 166; administrative 47, 66–7; international 16, 104, 225, 240n4; TNI–POLRI 103–5, 123; see also casualties (TNI–POLRI), ketok magic, KPU, Puteh, whistleblowers Cot Trieng, siege of 160, 186 counter-intelligence: infiltration/penetration 195–222; see also BAIS, BAKIN, BIN, denintel, KOPASSUS, militia, SGI covert operations see “black PSYOPS” Crouch, Harold 133, 172
Da Costa, Williem 169 Da’i Bachtiar 114, 115, 223, 247n7 Da’i Kamtibmas 189; see also bintal, syariah Damiri, Adam 229 Darmono, Bambang 150 Darul Islam/NII 186, 193: early relationship to Aceh 12, 209–11, 238, 253n16; TNI–POLRI “underground” 179, 193; recent incarnations 211, 213; links with RIA 211–13, 253n19; terrorist links 212, 220; see also Al Chaidar, Al Zaytun, Komando Jihad Darwis Djeunib 29, 32, 119, 125, 142, 178, 241n13; see also GAM Daud Beureueh: Acehnese statehood & RIA 209–10; Indonesian loyalist depictions of 194; rebellion causes 253n16; weapon shipments 35; see also Darul Islam/NII, Fauzi Hasbi, PUSA denintel (KODAM Intelligence Detachment) 61 DEPDAGRI (Interior Ministry) 30, 44; district subdivision/security status 49, 52–6; Dutch precedent 45–6; gerrymander 46–8, 51–2; litsus (special investigation) 51–2; provincial subdivision/enclave 52–3, 238; regency subdivision 44–7; villages 54; see also MUSPIDA, Papua, Puteh Dewa 126 districts (kecamatan) see DEPDAGRI Djali Yusuf 34, 42, 56, 230 doctrine, military 3–4, 17–19, 33–4; attrition 147; Australian Army 71–3, 239n4; “4GW” (4th Generation Warfare) 33, 242n26; battlespace 240n1; center of gravity 42, 242n26–7; civilians as “enemy” 24–5; counterinsurgency 57; force ratios & multipliers 37–8, 144–5; Indonesian 9, 25, 49, 57–8, 239n4; intelligence 3–5, 6–7, 8, 239n5–7, 240n9; maneuver theory 33, 239n6, 241n18, 242n27; MOOTW (Military Operations Other Than War) 49, 57, 114; “security status” 243n8; symbology 3; see also information operations, training (under separate service headings) DOM (“Military Operations Zone”, 1989–98): 2003 reuse 159; depictions of GAM 28, 34–5; as resistance spur/apologia 39–41, 90, 221–2; see also casualties (civilian), militia
284 Index Dorce Gamalama 127–8, 248n23 Downer, Alexander 168 Dutch period: administrative comparison 45–6, 59, 243n6; general comparison 39, 68, 82–3, 167, 217; KNIL 83; political manipulation 190–1, 199; linie konsentrasie comparison 74–5, 76; Maréchaussee Corps 68, 76–8, 83, 167; migrations 188; see also Indonesian nationalism, Maréchaussee Corps, Teuku Umar
253n15; RIA (Islamic Republic of Aceh) 179, 201–2, 204–5, 208–13, 215–21; MP-GAM links 202, 252n7; see also Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin, Teuku Umar FKPPI see militia FMA (Aceh Holy Warriors Front) see Fauzi Hasbi FPDRA (Aceh People’s Democratic Resistance Front) 179, 251n18; see also GAM, SIRA
East Timor: Australian deployment to 128, 173; comparison with Aceh geography 1, 11; militia political cadres (FPDK & BRTT) 176; militia groups 170, 177–8, 187, 197, 251n14; officers’ alternating tours between Aceh 86–7, 151, 170; ‘scorched earth’ 42, 67, 137, 229; see also army battalions (327, 744, 745), FALINTIL, KOPASSUS, militia, Rajawali TF, SGI, TNI Endang Suwarya 29, 169, 183 Endriartono Sutarto 1, 84, 127; civilian casualties comment 102; engr bn inspection by 92; field execution threat 107, 246n4; force multipliers comment 144; GAM armory admission 34; internecine fighting explanation 122, 125, 248n20; militia denials 182; OSINT promotion 9; PPM support from 175; TNI–POLRI casualties comment 130, 232; total deployed TNI troops 97; tsunami 234 entertainment see concert tours environment: battlefield effects 18–19; deforestation 18–20, 25; erosion 20, 23; pollution 22–3; seismic instability 17; violence related to 19, 23; see also Bhakti TNI, Ladia Galaska, tsunami Ersa Siregar 33, 224 ExxonMobil 13–15: security 74, 103, 229; see also environment
GAM: ambush/attack 19–20, 36–7, 72, 82, 113, 125, 140, 142, 144–5, 148, 149–51, 168, 186, 244n1, 249n10; ammunition 36, 242n21 & 23; areas 30–2; armory 34, 236; command 30–4; communications 37, 106, 139–42, 160–2, 164; Inong Balee 31, 241n17; internal security 31, 33; “outside” (non-Aceh) areas 29–30; nomenclature 25–8, 171, 195, 239n2; strength 25–9, 32; training 29; weapon procurement 35, 242n20; weapon types 32, 34–7; foreign depictions of 226–31; see also assassination, Libya Gassing, Idris 86 Gayo ethnicity/language 21, 24, 45, 180, 241n8 Gegana (POLRI) see BRIMOB Geniardi, Handy 87, 170–1, 195 geopolitics 13–17 government see DEPDAGRI, MUSPIDA, triumvirates Gozney, Richard 230 Gus Dur (Abdurrahman Wahid) 15, 23, 56, 70, 132, 136–7, 154, 172, 180, 204, 250n4, 251n23, Gusmao, Xanana: resistance principle of 42; TNI pursuit & capture of 87, 171; see also East Timor Guterres, Eurico 170–1, 176–7, 197, 251n13; see also East Timor, militia
FALINTIL 130; GAM comparisons with 26, 34, 36, 169–70, 195, 198; KOPASSUS and 77, 170, 251n14; Indonesian forces’ brutal treatment of 165; “terrorist” labeling of 228 FAME see MP-GAM Fauzi Hasbi: assassination in Ambon 206–7, 213, 217, 253n19; FMA (Aceh Holy Warriors Front) 208, 212,
Habib Adam see Husaini Hasan Habibie, Bachruddin Jusuf 13, 70, 136 Hambali 205–7, 210–11, 212, 218; mooted counterintelligence role 219; 220, 253n17; see also Fauzi Hasbi, “JI” Hasan di Tiro 26, 39, 161, 179, 198–200, 203–5, 209, 214, 218, 227–8, 242n20; see also GAM Hasballah M Saad 172, 180
Index 285 Hasbi Geudong 212, 217; see also Fauzi Hasbi Hendropriyono, AM 187; see also BIN, transmigration hostage-taking see kidnappings/hostages HRW (Human Rights Watch): “bewilderment” over TNI–POLRI forces 69; Indonesian casualty underreporting 143; “law of armed conflict” 248n5; multiculturalist paradigm 189; pro-TNI anti-BRIMOB stance 167; refuting GAM bodycount claim 249n10 Hurgronje, Christiaan Snouck 189–92 Husaini Hasan 199–204, 207, 212; see also MP-GAM ICG (International Crisis Group) 38, 58, 66, 97–8, 143, 167, 207–8, 211, 214–5, 217, 230, 240n10, 243n7 & n12, 244n19 ID card see KTP-MP Idris Mahmud 228, 252n7 & 13; apparent covert press appearances 200, 215–16; jihadist links 202, 205–6, 212; see also MP-GAM Indonesian nationalism: Aceh in nationalist mythology 12, 240n2; organicist ideology 59, 106–7, 169, 204 Indonesian statehood: Aceh’s prominence in linear ordering 12; underlying historical rivalry 11–13, 241n7 information operations: distraction from militarist rule 67; OSINT 9; press 158–60; reformasi context 40; TNI–POLRI casualties 131, 141, 153–4, 156; terrorism context 196; tsunami context 231–4; see also “Black PSYOPS”, concert tours Intelkam/Intelpampol 65, 186; see also POLRI internecine warfare: TNI 133; TNI–POLRI 112–15, 120, 122, 125, 247n11; see also mental illness intra-service conflict 116; “fragging” 111–12; see also internecine warfare Inul Daratista 126–7, 248n21 IPK see militia Iraq war 8, 84, 225; comparison with Aceh operations 98, 152, 155, 158, 236 Irian Jaya see Papua Ishak Daud 32, 37, 107, 125, 179; see also GAM
Islam, political manifestations: Acehnese 22; see also syariah; Darul Islam, Aa Gym, Fauzi Hasbi, “JI”, Komando Jihad, Laskar Jihad, PUAN, PUSA, Zainuddin MZ Israel see “Zionism” “Jamaika” 205; see also GAM Jamintel (Junior Attorney for Intelligence) 190; see also syariah Japan: Acehnese WWII collaboration 238; commercial interest 13; historical influence of 68, 76, 106, 169 Javanese ethnicity/language 6, 11, 21–2, 41, 62–4, 78, 174, 180, 187–9, 197, 251n22 “JI” (Jema’ah Islamiyah): alleged GAM links 211, 214–15, 218, 229–30; definition 252n1; Malaysia liaison 201, 205, 209, 215; alleged TNI links 195–6, 207–8, 210–11, 217, 219–20; Philippines links 215–16; POLRI Semarang raid 213; post-tsunami “threat” 237; 208–10, 215–16, 252n13; see also Al Chaidar, Al Qaeda, Fauzi Hasbi, MP-GAM Jones, Sidney 167; see also ICG, HRW Kalla, Jusuf 156, 237 Kasminto, Usman 90, 96, 179, 215, 229, 245n17 ketok magic (automotive customization & creativity in official statistics) 34, 75, 241n19, 246n21; see also population statistics kidnappings/hostages 166, 222; 1950s precedent 183; GAM 51, 196; late1990s 85–6; TNI 61, 84, 183, 196–7; see also Fauzi Hasbi King, Peter 103, 246n2, 247n13; TNI repression’s effectiveness 236; criticism of ICG 243n12, 244n19; West’s relationship with Indonesia 254n4 Kingsbury, Damien 22, 103: babinsa reform 243n13; depictions of TNI troops 90; GAM strength estimate 28; McCulloch detention 9; milsus 244n16; “organic” definitions 244n17, 244n4; TNI–civil territorial hierarchies 58; TNI–POLRI inter-service lobbying 167–8 Kirbiantoro, Slamet 247n15 Klinken, Gerry van 252n11
286 Index KNIL (Koninklijke Nederlands Indisch Leger) see Dutch period KNPI see militia KODAM (Military Area Command): I Bukit Barisan 59, 92; II Sriwijaya, III Siliwangi, V Brawijaya, VII Wirabuana 92; IV Diponegoro 92, 155; XVI Pattimura 217; VIII/XVII Trikora 86; Jayakarta 62, 88, 91, 177; see also territorial structure KODAM Iskandar Muda (I.M.): 58–61, 63–4, 86–7, 182, 189, 233, 235, 245n19; see also babinsa, SGI KODIM (Military District Command): additions of 59–60; civilian mobilization 175, 221; corresponding Dutch afdeeling 45–6; coverage of civil jurisdictions 58–9, 65, 146; militia supervision 174, 181, 183; use in operations 82; see also territorial structure Komando Jihad 163, 179, 186, 210 KOMINDA see BAKORINDA Kontras 138, 164, 188; paramilitary attack on 175 KOPASSUS (Special Forces Command): alleged mutilation/disappearance hits 164, 168; Cijantung carpark bombing 224; covert warfare administrative instruction 197–8; killing GAM leadership 107–8, 171, 217; TNI-wide influence 63, 77–9, 85–8, 171–2; definitions of GAM 26–8, 229; Group III Sandi Yudha 19, 61–2, 224, 243n15; militia supervision 173, 180; murdersuicide 110; parako (para-commando) 77, 80–1, 84, 244n2; PTSD treatment 120; training 90, 170–1; Unit 81 Gultor 93, 243n15; see also raider battalions, Rajawali Task Force, SGI, TNI, tontaipur KORAMIL (Military Sub-District Command): 2002 GAM Simpang Ulim raid 36; additions of 60; civilian mobilization 170, 175; command deaths 150, 250n19; coverage of civil jurisdictions 59; use in operations 74; see also territorial structure KOREM (Military Regional Command): 1997 militia numbers 170; 2000 militia programs 181–2; command & control 88, 232, 245n15; coverage of civil jurisdictions 58–9, 65; infantry battalion allocation 64; post-DOM
special forces appointments 86–7; see also territorial structure KOSTRAD (Army Strategic Reserve Command) 80–1, 92, 112, 123–4, 142, 186, 235, 244n17; alleged covert action 96–7, 246n20, 249n14; babinsa assignment 61; BRIMOB comparisons 75–6, 94; combined/joint units 78, 160, 168; command seniority 85; martial arts 178; militia links 180; raider battalions 79; predeployment training 89; see also armor, army battalions, TNI, tontaipur KPU (General Election Commission) 48, 51, 243n4 & 5 KTP-MP (Red & White ID Card) 48, 48, 59, 84, 183 Ladia Galaska road project 50, 52 Lamkaruna Hasbi 212, 215, 217–18; see also Fauzi Hasbi Lampung massacre 227, 254n1 Laskar Jihad (LJ) 79, 127, 216; Aceh presence 178–9; alleged GAM links 229–30; anti-GAM stance 179; anti-US stance 194; official disbandment 179; TNI links 178, 213 Lewis, Norman 20, 22 Libya: GAM training by 28, 200, 202, 229 linie konsentrasie see Dutch period litsus see DEPDAGRI Lobato, Nicolao 108; see also East Timor Lowry, Robert 58, 242n20, 243n3 LSN (State Cypher Institute) 8; see COMINT Mahatir Muhammad 211 Maimul Fidar xviii Malaysia 210–11, 212; Aceh interest 13; Acehnese history in 21; arms-deal intrigue 203; PAS 211; peace efforts 206, 208; see also Al Qaeda, “JI”, MPGAM, terrorism, Yazid Sufaat Malik Mahmood 34–5, 198; see also GAM Maluku see Ambon Maréchaussee Corps see Dutch period marine battalions: 1 Mar Inf 80–1; 2 Mar Cbt Engr 235; 2 Mar Inf 81, 88–9, 80; 3 Mar Inf 80–1, 232; 5 Mar Inf 29, 80–1, 89; 6 Mar Inf 79–81; 7 Mar Inf 81, 92; 8 Mar Inf 81, 92; 9 Mar Inf 92, 114; 1 Mar Cav 80; 2 Mar Cbt Engr
Index 287 235; 1 Mar Fd Arty (how) 80, 84; makeshift “battalions” 92; medical & officer cadet 235 Marine Corps 17, 70, 119; 1950s Aceh commitment 75; atrocities 168; command 88; Denjaka (Detachment Jala Mengkara) 93, 235; expansion of 92; field dress 93; force types 27, 77–9, 245n10; military police 109–10; PASKA 120, 235; pre-deployment training 88–9; rotation demands 92; tsunami condition & response 232, 234–5; see also armor, internecine warfare, marine battalions, TNI Marlinda Puteh (Marlinda Irawati Purnomo) 191 martial arts 178, 198, 251n14 Martial Law (PDMD/military emergency) 54–7, 59, 159, 161; centralized direction 56–7, 181; see also DEPDAGRI, MUSPIDA, territorial structure, TNI, triumvirates Martinkus, John 240n11, 241n13, 242n25, 243n3, 245n14, 247n19, 250n19 massacres: 1950s precedent 63; Beutong Ateuh (1999 Bantaqiah case) 87, 96–7, 107, 170, 246n5; PT Bumi Flora (2001) 249n10; see also casualties (civilian) Matang Kuli 111; early-2002 combat & casualties in 140; late-2001 operation in 82–4; potential militia funding 176 Matang Kumbang see Bukit Sudan MB-GAM see MP-GAM McCulloch, Lesley 9, 33, 103, 110, 240n11 M. Daud ‘Paneuk’ Husin 200, 202, 205–6, 212; see also MP-GAM Medan (Nth Sumatera): churches plot 86, 207, 211, 214, 220; infantry expansion 244n18; gang presence 51, 63, 92, 112, 174, 180, 187, 251n10 & 13; hospitalization 249n16; jihadists 179; migratory labor 21; tsunami 103; see also KODAM, PDIP media: civilian vulnerability from 164; “embedding” 158–9; compliance with TNI–POLRI 159, 162; “conventional” war toll 161–2; targeting of ; restrictions 159–60, 242n25; see also information operations medical treatment (TNI–POLRI): blood supplies 146, 249n16 & 17; first aid 91; surgery 121, 249n16; see also mental illness
Megawati Soekarnoputri 214–15; relations with TNI 85, 102, 172, 227, 251n15; see also PDIP mental illness: civilians 162; official claims around internecine violence 111, 113, 122; TNI–POLRI 109–10, 120–1; TNI–POLRI psychologists 120–2 militia: central enclave role 45, 163, 174, 176, 178, 180–3, 188–9, 238; comparison with 1999 East Timor strategy 180; DOM period 170, 186; FKPPI 173, 176; HANSIP 169, 181; incentive/reward 45, 50, 52, 67, 108, 175–6, 187; IPK (Ikatan Pemuda Karya) 172–4, 251n10; jihadists 22, 62, 172–3, 176, 178–9, 186; KNPI 173, 175–6; origins 169, ; pageu gampong 173, 176, 182; PP (Pemuda Pancasila) 172–5, 186, 250n7, 251n10; PPM (Pemuda Panca Marga) 62, 154, 172, 174–5, 251n11; SISKAMLING program 63, 173, 178, 181–4, 186, 251n19 & 21; WANRA 176, 181, 187; see also bela negara, Komando Jihad, KOPASSUS, Laskar Jihad, martial arts, preman, transmigration milsus (special military) 62, 124, 244n16; see also KOPASSUS MP-GAM: among Acehnese Diaspora 198, 200, 203, 207, 252n7; reported finance 199, 207; see also Fauzi Hasbi, Libya Muhammad Mahmud 202, 204–5, 212, 216; see also Idris Mahmud, MP-GAM MUI 22, 190 Munir Said Thalib 24–5, 175, 247n17, 253n17 Murtopo, Ali 179, 207, 209–10, 212, 213, 247n15; see also KOPASSUS, Komando Jihad MUSPIDA (leadership committees) 56–8, 65; see also territorial structure, triumvirates Muzakkir Manaf 28, 32, 97, 237, 241n9; see also GAM Nachrowi Ramli 8 Nasution, Ahmad Yani 1 Navy: blockade 36; bombardment 84; cadet officer deployment 235; Maritime Task Force 84; naval police 109, 120; training 89; transport 18, 85; see also Marine Corps, TNI
288 Index Nessen, William 110, 143, 145, 159, 249n12, 251n17 NII (Islamic State of Indonesia) see Darul Islam/NII ‘ninjas’ 172 Northern Ireland, comparisons with Aceh 1, 3, 5, 89, 180, 237–8 occult 165, 197–8, 250n5 OKP (youth organizations) see militia Omar al Farouq 205, 212, 215, 218, 228, 253n18 OPM see Papua organicism see Indonesian nationalism Ori Rahman 175; see also Munir Said Thalib Osama Bin Laden (OBL) see Al Qaeda O’Shea, David 242n25 pagar betis (‘fence of legs’) 186, 251n21 PAMSWAKARSA see militia PAN (National Mandate Party) 167, 212, 222 Papua 14, 115: alternating deployments 92, 159; comparisons 19, 26, 35, 67–8, 75, 105, 172; deployment training 89; force expansion 63; Freeport 74, 103, 112, 246n2, 247n13; OPM (Free Papua Organization) 26, 170, 229, 247n13; officers’ alternating tours between Aceh 86–7, 214; provincial subdivision 45, 52; sectarian misrepresentation 226; transmigration 187, 189; see also militia, Rajawali TF, SGI parako (para-commando) see KOPASSUS PASKHASAU (Air Force commandos) 207, 244n6; counterintelligence/territorial roles 55, 87; deployment name 70; Detachment “Bravo 90” 93; expansion of 75; force types 27, 77–9, 245n10; see also TNI Paspampres (Presidential Guard) 112 PDIP (Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle) 50–1, 176, 251n13 & 15; see also Guterres, Eurico Pertamina oil company 13–15, 74, 113 Philippines: commercial interest 13; Mindanao War 1, 14, 16; see also “JI”, terrorism Pilger, John 195, 240n4 PKD (Village Security Youth) see militia POLDA: 2002 GAM Bayu POLSEK raid 36; Aceh casualty document 131–4, 147–8; Aceh deployments
94–5; command deaths 150, 250n19; personnel strains 96–7, 120, 246n21; POLRES–POLSEK expansion 64–5; use in operations 74, 134; status 64–5; tsunami losses 231–4; see also territorial structure police see POLRI POLRES (police precinct) see POLDA POLRI: claimed non-combat deaths 147–8; cooperation with TNI 70, 74, 83, 119, 142, 149, 168, 245n10; defection/desertion 123, 125; incentive/reward 108; internal “debt pyramid” 103–6; loyalty 110–11, 247n7; medical deficiencies 120–2; non-combat force deployment 155; property crime 105–6, 163; tour lengths 146, 155; UPS (Unit Perintis Sabhara) 94–6; whistleblowers 116–17; water police 84; see also armor, BRIMOB, casualties (TNI–POLRI), internecine warfare, POLDA, territorial structure POLSEK (police sector) see POLDA population statistics 45–8, 51 poverty 22–4, 241n7 PP see militia PPM see militia Prabowo Subianto 77–8, 108, 178, 213–14, 245n9 preman: “black PSYOPS” and 172; funding channels 176–7; Gus Dur allusion to 251n23; slang 251n9; synonym 174; TNI–POLRI backing for 50, 104–5 Prilianto, Iwan 86, 214 provocateurs 137, 172, 174 psychologists, TNI–POLRI see mental illness PUAN 202, 211–12, 221–2; see also MPGAM PUSA (Aceh-Wide Union of Clerics), rebellion & revolution 191, 221 Puteh, Abdullah 54; alleged bribes to GAM 52; contradiction of TNI security status 55; GAM ambush of convoy 150; Islam-related business 192, 199; subdivisions 45, 53; see also Marlinda Puteh raider battalions 27, 71, 77, 79, 245n11; operations 81, 107; training 60, 63, 118; see also army battalions, Ryamizard
Index 289 Rajawali Task Force 76–83, 90, 92–3, 147, 151; creation 77; lobbying for 90, 113, 167; see also atrocity/victimization, Bukit Sudan rape see sexual assault Red & White ID Card see KTP-MP regencies (kabupaten) see DEPDAGRI RIA see Fauzi Hasbi Riau 11, 172, 215 Rice, Condoleeza 236–7 Rizal Sukma 28, 69, 89–90 RM (Holy Warriors’ League) see “JI” Ryamizard Ryacudu 127, 251n15; execution order for defectors 124–5; GAM strength comment 29; incentive & troops’ welfare 108; jihadist address 179; martial arts training 178; raider battalion promotion 79, 118; scapegoating field-rank officers 118–19, 247n16; TNI casualties comment 152, 155 Sandi Yudha see KOPASSUS, SGI Sarwo Edhie Wibowo 247n15 Saurip Kadi 247n15 Sayed Husaini 223, 231 Schulze, Kirsten: study on GAM strength & background 28; GAM command 33, 241n14; assessment of TNI strategy 66; description of Indonesian forces 69; TNI–POLRI deaths 133, 248n7; pro-TNI/anti-POLRI comment 166–7; Fauzi Hasbi 218, 253n15; MP-GAM 252n6 sexual assault 159, 164–5 SGI (Satgasintel/Intelligence TF) 60–1, 86–7; Aceh force increase 62; agent-handling 170–2, 195; civilian labor 19; command seniority 88, 232; force role 27, 82, 84, 166, 243n15; higher-level BAIS links 61, 172, 253n17; strength 62 shariah see syariah Siahaan, Fransen 112 Silalahi, Sudi 56 Simbolon, Mahidin 171 Singapore: 1950s arms conduit 35; Aceh interest 13; GWOT publicity 216 SIRA (Aceh Referendum Information Center): “Black Cat” Brigade 174; targeting of 179, 214; reporting casualties & reprisal 249n10; see also GAM SISKAMLING see militia
Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin 181, 207, 213, ; counter-intelligence background 159; describing TNI civilian partners 62; PSYOPS & US training 197, 219, 253n20; public affairs & information operations 158–9; RIA links 197, 212, 217; see also “Black PSYOPS”, info ops, KOPASSUS Soeharto era see DOM Sofyan Dawood 32, 145, 205, 207, 227, 246n23; see also GAM Syafei’i, Tgk Abdullah 35, 107, 205, 214; see also GAM Syarifudin Tippe 34, 189; casualty statements 133, 135, 137, 143, 154 Syarwan Hamid 170–2 Syariah 70, 126–8, 189–94: corporal/capital punishment 190; militia role 173, 178; razia jilbab (‘jilbab raid’) 190, 251n23; special police 66, 189–90; see also Syarifudin Tippe Tanjung Priok massacre 227, 254n1 tanks see armor Tanter, Richard 243n14 terrain see environment territorial structure: POLRI 64–6; TNI 56–61; see also babinsa, DEPDAGRI, KODAM, KODIM, KORAMIL, KOREM, POLDA terrorism: 2002 Bali bombing 179, 205, 210–11, 215–20, 229–30, 252n8, 253n18; arbitrary definitions 196; BEJ (Jakarta Stock Exchange) 214; GWOT (Global War on Terror) context 195, 210, 218–19, 222, 226–30, 240n9; Malaysia Embassy warning 214; Peureulak bombing 222–4; Philippines Ambassador, attack against 213, 215–16, 220; see also Al Qaeda, Hambali, “JI”, Medan, tsunami Teuku Umar 12, 216–7; as militia namesake 170, 185 Theo Syafei 171–2, 227, 254n1 TMMD see Bhakti TNI TNI (air force, army, navy): area denial/“free-fire zones” 82, 84–5, 148–9, 159, 164; command & control 56–9, 85, 87–8; definition 239n2; force structure 26–7, 69–71, 74–9; internal “debt pyramid” 103–6; joint military police (MP) 70, 85, 109, 247n9; KOOPS (Operations Command) 27,
290 Index 80–1, 87–8; Parikesit Task Force 77; PPRC (Rapid Reaction Strike Force) 80, 84, 244n6; property crime 105–6, 113, 163; rank structure 244n3; sector commands 54, 86–8, 245n15; yon-gab (combined/joint battalion) 79, 85, 245n10; see also casualties (TNI–POLRI), internecine warfare, Rajawali Task Force (and separate service headings) tontaipur (cbt recon platoon) 36, 79–81; force role 27 transmigration 11, 187–9; population effects 21–2; environmental effects 25; militia links 174, 187 Tribuana TF see SGI triumvirates, leadership 56–9, 61, 243n9; see also territorial structure tsunami 225, 231–6; destruction to TNI–POLRI 64, 231–2, 234–5; administrative corruption and 47–8, 52–3; continued operations 233–4; effect on GAM stance 34, 225, 237–8; jihadist politicization of ; non-organic POLRI territorial 65, 97, 232; relief/ reconstruction operations 85, 103; “terror warning” 237; see also Bhakti TNI Tyasno Sudarto 123 ulama 22, 190–2, see also MUI, PUAN, PUSA uleeblang 191, 199, 238 Umar Faruq see Omar al Farouq Umar Ibrahim 170–1 UN: acceptance of statistics & other information 24, 48, 205; East Timor context 137; on jihadists/Malaysia
210–11; mapping 52, 243n3US: training with TNI 89, 197; Marine Corps (USMC) 89, 240n9, 244n3; see also ExxonMobil; Freeport-McMoran; Hambali, Iraq war; Vietnam war Vietnam war 64, 93, 111, 155, 157, 242n21 Wahid, Abdurrahman see Gus Dur Wandelt, Ingo 59, 97, 245n10 & n12 weapons: buy-back scheme 35; see also armor, GAM whistleblowers, TNI–POLRI 116–19, 121, 247n14–15 Wilkie, Andrew 240n10 Winata, Tomy 175, 246n3 Wirahadikusumah, Agus 247n15 Wiranto 126, 137, 189 Wiratmoko, Eko 86, 171 Wolfowitz, Paul 236 World Bank 25, 176, 188, 236 Yapto Soerjosoemarno 175 Yazid Sufaat 207, 211–12, 252n12 Yudhoyono, Susilo Bambang (SBY): network & Aceh roles 56, 66–7, 247n15; militia endorsement 181; perception management 58, 67 Yuni Shara 128 Yusuf Daud 28, 201–2, 204, 206, 212, 252n4 & n11; see also MP-GAM Zacky Anwar Makarim 197, 219 Zaenal Mutaqqin 62, 130 Zainuddin MZ 192 Zamroni 63, 86 “Zionism” 93, 179, 230
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