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Bulletin of Indonesian Economic Studies

ISSN: 0007-4918 (Print) 1472-7234 (Online) Journal homepage: http://www.tandfonline.com/loi/cbie20

INDONESIAN POLITICS IN 2008: THE AMBIGUITIES

OF DEMOCRATIC CHANGE

Gerry van Klinken

To cite this article: Gerry van Klinken (2008) INDONESIAN POLITICS IN 2008: THE AMBIGUITIES OF DEMOCRATIC CHANGE, Bulletin of Indonesian Economic Studies, 44:3, 365-381, DOI: 10.1080/00074910802395328

To link to this article: http://dx.doi.org/10.1080/00074910802395328

Published online: 06 Nov 2008.

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INDONESIAN POLITICS IN 2008:

THE AMBIGUITIES OF DEMOCRATIC CHANGE

Gerry van Klinken*

Royal Netherlands Institute of Southeast Asian and Caribbean Studies (KITLV), Leiden

The ‘normal’ politics of 2008, in between the big electoral events of 2004 and 2009, illustrated the ambiguities of democratic change. Hung gubernatorial elections in North Maluku and South Sulawesi led local elites to ask Jakarta to intervene. A long campaign of demonstrations and violent intimidation by fundamentalist groups against the unorthodox Islamic group Ahmadiyah persuaded the government to impose a semi-ban on the group. At the same time, a senior intelligence ofﬁ_{cer was}

put on trial over the 2004 murder of the human rights activist Munir. And the Cor-ruption Eradication Commission continued to arrest powerful people for corrup-tion, although these arrests also began to stimulate increasingly organised resist-ance. All in all, politics in 2008 demonstrated an openness, and even a willingness to learn, that augurs well for the future.

INTRODUCTION

Indonesia has made an astonishing transformation in the last 10 years. Since 1998 it has become a decentralised democracy, a ‘normal country’ as MacIntyre and Ramage (2008) put it. The greater ﬂ_{uidity of politics today continues to create}

space for popular reforms, while also enabling the re-emergence of some less than democratic patterns of action. This paper focuses on four controversial issues that created headlines in 2008. Two of them saw groups within society appar-ently yearning for the centralised power and even the capacity for repressive intolerance of the Soeharto era. Deep divisions in provincial civil societies in two places caused them to turn to Jakarta for mediation when gubernatorial elections were hung. This led some observers to think the decentralisation movement had reached a certain limit. Militant religious fundamentalists, long repressed under the New Order, learned how to invoke old patterns of cultural authoritarianism when they succeeded in obtaining a semi-ban on the long-standing unorthodox Islamic movement Ahmadiyah.

Two other developments, meanwhile, made it clear that the reformasi energy for breaking with the past is by no means all spent. Popular and diplomatic pres-sure on the government to take action against military impunity led to the trial

* klinken@kitlv.nl. An earlier version of this paper was presented at the Indonesia Up-date conference, Australian National University, 19 September 2008. With thanks to Ross McLeod, Chris Manning, Ken Ward, Sebastiaan Pompe, Mas Achmad Santosa, Marcus Mietzner, Indonesia Corruption Watch and Greg Churchill for helpful discussions. The responsibility, naturally, remains mine.

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of a senior intelligence ofﬁ_{cer for the 2004 murder of human rights activist Munir}

Said Thalib. And the campaign against corruption continued to score successes throughout the year, although it also faced increasing resistance in powerful places. This last topic dominated the headlines, not least because the politicians were gearing up for elections in 2009, and it will take up most of our attention below.

TWO HUNG GUBERNATORIAL ELECTIONS

We begin with the ﬁ_{rst of two storylines that suggest local civil societies are not}

always up to the increased responsibilities that decentralised governance carries with it. Democratic decentralisation has brought a new dynamism to provincial political life. Although revenue collection remains highly centralised, more control over how revenues are spent now resides with local elected assemblies, district heads and provincial governors. Free elections for local government heads and legislators have become routine, and losers have generally accepted their defeats peacefully. A niggling question remains: could this apparently well institutional-ised process somehow be reversed? The answer is surely: not in the short term, but the long term is less certain. One possible route to re-centralisation is a local disagreement that drives the opposing sides to look for a referee in the centre. On two occasions in the past year, direct gubernatorial elections failed to produce a clear winner. Local elites were unable to resolve their differences, and they asked Jakarta to intervene.

North Maluku was the scene of bloody communal conﬂ_{ict among a complex}

array of localised and religious factions in 1999 and 2000 (Wilson 2008). The politi-cal context was the struggle for control over a new province that had been carved out of the existing province of Maluku. The winner of that contest, Thaib Armaiyn, came up for re-election in late 2007. His main opponent was Abdul Gafur, a retired air force ofﬁ_{cer and former minister for youth and sport under the late President}

Soeharto. Gafur had also been a strong candidate in the disputed election process of 2001–02. As then, so now both candidates cultivated connections with power-ful factions in Jakarta. Thaib was backed by (among others) the Democrat Party of President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY), Gafur by the Golkar Party chaired by Vice President Jusuf Kalla.

A few days after the ballot, the provincial electoral commission (KPUD) declared Thaib the winner, but the margin was narrow: Thaib received 179,020 votes to Gafur’s 178,157. Complaints about vote-rigging in some districts then led the national electoral commission (KPU) to take over from the KPUD. This was an unprecedented move. The KPU announced that the winner was not Thaib but Gafur. Media reports suggested the KPU chairman owed a political debt to Golkar, which was backing Gafur (Tempo, 10–16/12/2007; JP, 24/4/2008). Both candi-dates then rushed to Jakarta. Thaib took the case to the Supreme Court, which in March 2008 ruled in his favour by declaring the Gafur election invalid. It was now up to home affairs minister Mardiyanto to make a decision, and he chose Thaib. This immediately triggered Golkar protests in the national parliament, including a threat to withdraw support for the president. Golkar had grown increasingly frus-trated after losing a number of such local direct elections. All this took place amid continual demonstrations by rival factions in Ternate, North Maluku’s provincial

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capital. Sometimes these descended into riotous house-burning and blocking of the airport. It took until 29 September for Thaib to be ofﬁ_{cially sworn in.}

North Maluku’s disputed gubernatorial election illustrated the dependence of provincial elites on Jakarta, as well as deep divisions in Jakarta a year before the national elections of 2009. The case of South Sulawesi’s hung gubernatorial elec-tion went further because it saw Jakarta install an alternative governor, albeit tem-porarily. The direct election for provincial governor in November 2007 produced a close result. The Golkar incumbent, Amin Syam, at 38.7%, was narrowly beaten by his wealthy challenger Syahrul Yasin Limpo, at 39.5%. Limpo ran on a PDIP (Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle) ticket, but was a Golkar politician as well. The result was close enough for the loser to question it. The bureaucracy in South Sulawesi—important opinion makers for this gubernatorial election—was evenly divided between Amin Syam and Syahrul Yasin Limpo supporters. Dem-onstrations and strikes paralysed government for weeks. Amin Syam took the case to the Supreme Court, which in December 2007 accepted his argument that there had been ballot-rigging in some districts and ordered a fresh ballot in those districts. This enraged Syahrul’s supporters, and the local KPUD felt so slighted it refused to implement the partial re-vote.

In the meantime the incumbent’s term of ofﬁ_{ce expired. In January 2008 the}

president appointed an outsider—Major-General Tanribali Lamo, an active mili-tary ofﬁ_{cer—as caretaker.}1_{Parliamentarians in Jakarta immediately protested}

that this was tantamount to bringing the military back into politics. They had a point. Law 34/2004 on the Indonesian military forbids active ofﬁ_{cers from taking}

part in politics. But the military remains an important part of the establishment in Indonesia. When the president, himself a retired ofﬁ_{cer, had to replace his ailing}

home affairs minister in August 2007, he chose another ex-military man, retired Major-General Mardiyanto. The home affairs ministry is the backbone of the bureaucracy. It has been a military bastion since the New Order (JP, 30/8/2007: editorial).South Sulawesi’s losing incumbent governor, Amin Syam, was also a retired military ofﬁ_{cer, and Syahrul Yasin Limpo has been provincial head of the}

Communication Forum for Sons and Daughters of Retired Military and Police Ofﬁ_{cers (Buehler 2008). President SBY and Vice President Jusuf Kalla (who comes}

from South Sulawesi) agreed that appointing an otherwise uncontroversial mili-tary ofﬁ_{cer was the best way to restore order. In the end, no fresh ballots were held}

in South Sulawesi, but a re-count in the disputed districts conﬁ_{rmed the victory of}

Syahrul Yasin Limpo, who was installed in April.

The hung gubernatorial elections of North Maluku and South Sulawesi do not signify a reversal of the decentralisation policy. But in the complex dynamic between the centre and the regions, it was a reminder that centralising forces can also come from the provinces, particularly when regional civil societies are deeply divided.

1 Tanribali Lamo’s father, Ahmad Lamo, also a military officer, had been appointed caretaker governor of South Sulawesi under similar circumstances of electoral deadlock in 1966 (Tempo, 29/1–4/2/2008).

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THE SEMI-BAN ON AHMADIYAH

The second storyline is about a meeting between authoritarian ofﬁ_{cialdom and}

conservative religious movements. Indonesia has a vibrant religious life. There are hundreds of sects whose teachings and practices deviate from mainstream Islamic orthodoxy. Most offer simpliﬁ_{cations of the traditional ritual duties, for}

example by not requiring fasting, having fewer prayer times, offering prayers in Indonesian, or performing the haj (pilgrimage) on a local mountain-top. Some draw inspiration from more recent revelations than the Qur’an. Some of these practices are old, like the three prayer times in Lombok (Wetu Telu), others more recent, like the honour Ahmadiyah members pay to Mirza Ghulam Ahmad, the 19th century founder of the sect in what was to become Pakistan. Most are rural, but some are urban, like the 1990s ‘Eden Community’ in Jakarta led by Lia Aminudin that attracted well-known artists and intellectuals.

The New Order was a secular developmentalist regime that had little time for the theological quibbles lying behind this diversity within the great family of Southeast Asian Islam. But it did worry that the sects might draw people out of its ideological reach. They were a security risk. As Major-General Mardi yanto said when he was commander of the army’s Diponegoro division in Central Java in the late 1990s, each time a political movement is about to appear, it is preceded by the spreading of a deviant sect.2_{To monitor these ‘deviant’ beliefs, the New}

Order government established a coordinating body known as the Coordinating Agency to Oversee People’s Beliefs (Badan Koordinasi Pengawas Aliran Keper-cayaan Masyakarat). Its acronym is Bakor Pakem. Residing in the attorney gener-al’s ofﬁ_{ce (AGO), Bakor Pakem was dominated by military intelligence of}ﬁ_cers.

Many sects were banned throughout the New Order period on the basis of their beliefs or ritual practices. Most were non-violent in nature. In some cases resist-ance led to bloody repressive action.

Reformasi put an end to this authoritarian surveillance. Freedom and diver-sity were major themes in the popular protests of those years. But four years ago Bakor Pakem was revived (ICG 2008). In January 2005 a meeting of an AGO body with a function like that of Bakor Pakem (but unnamed in the report on the meet-ing) recommended that the government should ban the Ahmadiyah movement. Three years later, on 9 June 2008, retired Major-General Mardiyanto, by then the home affairs minister, co-signed a ministerial decree, together with the attorney general and the Minister for Religious Affairs, ‘freezing’ the activities of the sect. The semi-ban permitted them to congregate but not to ‘disseminate’ their beliefs. Ahmadiyah is not like the underground or rural movements that were the target of New Order bannings. It has been in Indonesia since the 1920s. ‘They fought in the Revolution’, say the group’s civil society sympathisers. Some of its hundreds of thousands of adherents are quite wealthy. Its veneration for Mirza Ghulam Ahmad has long irked orthodox Muslims, who believe there can be no prophet after Muhammad.

A big difference between the current semi-ban and the New Order bannings is that this time the initiative has come from militant fundamentalist groups once regarded with suspicion by the establishment in Jakarta. In the past, the

2 ‘Jakarta’s own prophet’, Tempo Magazine, No. 10/VIII, 6–12/11/2007, and other cover stories in the same edition.

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Soeharto government bound the major Islamic organisations to the corporat-ist state through the Indonesian Ulema Council (MUI), set up in 1975. MUI had issued a fatwa against Ahmadiyah in 1980, to little effect. But after 1998, as part of the ‘shifting contests over ideology’ described in a previous Indonesia Update politics paper (McGibbon 2006), several hard-line groups moved to support the MUI. From being a docile group of religious notables who echoed government views on communism and national security, MUI has become a strident platform for conservative moral reform. A recent International Crisis Group report on the Ahmadiyah decree (ICG 2008) describes the key groups in the activist coalition Forum Umat Islam (Forum of the Islamic Community), which has been vocal in its support of the more controversial MUI agenda items. Most of these groups emerged after 1998, while some had been active underground before then. The most important of them is Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia (Indonesian Liberation Party), a rather secretive organisation with a highly educated leadership (the interna-tional headquarters of Hizbut Tahrir are believed to be in Amman, Jordan).

The radicals within MUI use the techniques of civil society to move public dis-course to the right and to build pressure on the government. They have made alliances with street-level organisations such as the thuggish Islamic Defenders Front (FPI), which is able to mobilise protesters and often deploys violence. Devi-ancy—of which Ahmadiyah is supposedly an example—is just one of the issues MUI has been pushing. The Danish cartoon controversy of 2006 was another, and MUI’s support for the draft anti-pornography law introduced in 2005 has proved a sustainable issue that remains on the public agenda today. The oil price hikes of 2008 have also been an occasion for protest against ‘American imperialists and Israeli Zionists’. The joint ministerial decree on Ahmadiyah was issued as a mas-sive demonstration calling for a ban took place in front of the presidential palace. It followed a long campaign of demonstrations, attacks on Ahmadiyah mosques and, increasingly, clashes with more moderate Muslim groups who resented the growing inﬂ_{uence of the radicals. (A major inspiration for these moderates has}

been former President Abdurrahman Wahid of Nahdlatul Ulama.) On 1 June 2008, FPI attacked a large group at the National Monument in Jakarta that had been demonstrating in favour of religious tolerance, and injured several leading Muslim ﬁ_{gures. The partial ban on Ahmadiyah was a blow to religious tolerance,}

but it did not go far enough for the radicals. Both MUI and ofﬁ_{cials from the}

Min-istry of Religious Affairs have said they want ‘the public’ to monitor Ahmadiyah’s compliance with the decree. This is tantamount to ofﬁ_{cial acceptance of vigilante}

violence and of the ﬂ_{awed logic that Ahmadiyah is the problem and not the}

vio-lent agitators burning its mosques.

In certain respects this is a new situation. Security ofﬁ_{cials are appeasing groups}

whose ideology they do not share, because they fear that more violence might erupt if they try to uphold the law. President SBY is forgetting the large mandate he has from a broadly tolerant public out of a desire to retain the goodwill of a vocal religious minority. Perhaps thinking of the unhappy General Musharraf of Pakistan, he fears their inﬂ_{uence ahead of the presidential elections in 2009.}

However, much else is uncomfortably familiar to students of the New Order. The tactic of blaming the victims of human rights abuse for the ‘unrest’ they caused was deployed often under Soeharto. Bakor Pakem, the security-oriented appara-tus that monitors beliefs, started a list of ‘deviant sects’ in 1986 that now contains

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250 organisations and is still growing (Tempo Magazine, 6–12/11/2007). Most disturbing is the tactical alliance that has repeatedly emerged between religious hardliners and security ofﬁ_{cials at critical junctures. Of the radical groups now}

backing the various MUI campaigns, several have had friendly relations with military ofﬁ_{cers such as Soeharto’s former son-in-law, retired Lieutenant-General}

Prabowo Subianto, and retired general and former presidential aspirant Wiranto; and some armed forces generals and police ofﬁ_{cers have made use of FPI in}

crimi-nal activities (ICG 2008: 10, 13).

Like the story of the hung gubernatorial elections and decentralisation, the Ahmadiyah story is not the last word on religious politics in Indonesia. There are many countervailing forces that stand in the way of the radicals. However, the meeting that has come to light here between conservative religious militants and security ofﬁ_{cials with equally authoritarian instincts shows that democracy can}

also create new spaces for groups that are fundamentally anti-democratic.

THE MUNIR MURDER TRIAL

Now we turn to two storylines of the past year that suggest continuing movement towards greater democracy and better governance. The ﬁ_{rst may foreshadow an}

end to military impunity. The impunity deals that have often been made at the moment of transition to democracy to protect military human rights abusers tend to unravel over time. During the 1980s, Argentina enacted a number of laws that granted the military impunity for the abuses they had committed during the ‘dirty war’ of 1976–83. But in June 2005, under President Nestor Kirchner, the Supreme Court declared these laws unconstitutional. This led to the prosecution of former ofﬁ_{cials involved in the war and the reversal of pardons granted by a}

previous president to three military leaders. Similar developments led the Chil-ean Supreme Court in August 2000 to strip former President Pinochet of his par-liamentary immunity. He was ordered to stand trial for the kidnapping in October 1973 of 19 supporters and ofﬁ_{cials of the government of the late President}

Salva-dor Allende.

No formal impunity laws were passed as the New Order era ended in 1998, but the failure to convict anyone for the abuses committed during the 1965–66 anti-communist pogroms, during counter-insurgency operations in Aceh, Papua and East Timor, and in the course of many other repressive incidents throughout the New Order suggests that similar guarantees were indeed made behind the scenes. If so, the prosecution of retired Major-General Muchdi Purwoprandjono, former Deputy Director V of the powerful State Intelligence Agency (BIN), for the 2004 murder of human rights activist Munir Said Thalib could be the point at which such guarantees begin to unravel.

Munir was by far the most prominent human rights activist in Indonesia in 1998. His relentless pursuit of ofﬁ_{cers who had caused student activists to disappear}

contributed to the dramatic drop in prestige that the armed forces experienced in those days (Bourchier 1999). Major-General Muchdi was among those demoted for human rights abuses at the time. Munir was poisoned with arsenic on a ﬂ_{ight to}

Amsterdam on 7 September 2004. It took only six months for press reports to link the murder to Muchdi at BIN, through an operative named Pollycarpus Budihari Priyanto (Laksamana.Net, 25/3/2005). Good police work, persistent pressure by

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civil society and continuous questioning by foreign diplomats led to the trial and conviction of Pollycarpus in December 2005. The Supreme Court acquitted him on appeal in October 2006, but then re-opened the case and once more convicted him in January 2008, increasing the prison sentence from 14 to 20 years. ‘This country is being destroyed at the hand of the law enforcers’, Pollycarpus shouted to journalists as he was led off to prison (Tempo Magazine, 29/1–4/2/2008).

In September 2008 Muchdi himself went to trial. Encouragingly, there have been no military protests on his behalf. And this is despite Muchdi having been the deputy chairperson of a new political party called Gerindra, which is backing the presidential aspirations of retired Lieutenant-General Prabowo Subianto. Per-haps the reason is that the (ex-military) president had personally given the nod for the prosecution to go ahead—something journalists assumed but no ofﬁ_cial

confi_{rmed. By contrast, senior of}fi_{cers had made de}fi_{ant ultra-nationalist remarks}

about foreign pressure on Indonesia during the East Timor trials of 2002–03. Uni-formed men turned up en masse to intimidate judges by sitting in the front rows of the court-room (Cohen 2003). If the Muchdi process reaches a fair conclusion—by no means certain, as some witnesses have already withdrawn their testimony in the absence of strong witness protection (JP, 22/10/2008)—it will be a major mile-stone for the rule of law in Indonesia.

ANTI-CORRUPTION EFFORTS

The ﬁ_{nal storyline is also hope-giving, though in the same ambiguous way as the}

Muchdi prosecution. Popular protest over corruption was central to the reformasi

movement of 1998. Corruption was among the biggest topics of the past year. In media terms it is today what human rights were under the New Order.

Political will is the bottom line for all anti-corruption work. The ambiguity inherent in that slippery concept was nicely symbolised when over 1,000 inter-national delegates at a Bali conference on the UN Convention on Corruption on 28 January 2008 were asked to stand for a minute’s silence in honour of Soeharto, who had died the day before. Four months previously the World Bank and the UN had declared the former president the biggest on a list of ten most corrupt leaders. The Stolen Assets Recovery initiative (StAR), which the two world bod-ies had established in August 2007, offered to help the Indonesian government recover the $15–35 billion they estimated Soeharto had salted away. Of the ten, Soeharto is the only one never declared guilty by his own government. Not so lucky, for example, were Nigeria’s General Sani Abacha, Peru’s Alberto Fuji-mori and Ferdinand Marcos of the Philippines (JP, 28/1/2008; Tempo Magazine, 25/9–1/10/2007). On the contrary, a Supreme Court panel led by a retired major-general in September 2007 ordered Time magazine to compensate Soeharto one trillion rupiah ($100 million) for a report on corruption that had damaged his reputation (Tempo Magazine, 18–24/9/2007).

The difﬁ_{culties facing anti-corruption work were illustrated in 2008 through the}

aftermath of the banking bail-out of 1998. A 2000 Supreme Audit Agency (BPK) report on this episode found that ‘last-resort lending’ by Bank Indonesia (BI) to dozens of commercial banks in the early months of the Asian crisis amounted to some Rp 144.5 trillion ($14 billion), and that a substantial part of this BI Liquid-ity Assistance (BLBI) had been used for various illegal purposes by the recipient

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banks (Joedono 2004: 61–172). It was not clear who was responsible for 96% of the funds disbursed to the banks and, of the dozens of recalcitrant debtors and errant bankers implicated in the scandal, only three have ever been imprisoned (Crouch in press [2009]: ch. 6).

The institutional choice is whether to improve the regular judicial system from the inside or to set up a powerful independent body outside it. Indonesia is doing both. The regular system has the means to deal with corruption, but it has contin-ued to perform dismally in this area, despite reforms such as the de-politicisation of the courts and the frequent appointment of new ‘clean’ attorneys general by successive presidents since 1998. The civil society organisation Indonesia Corrup-tion Watch has detailed the complex of techniques that are deployed by police, prosecutors and judges at every step of the way to extort bribes from those who enter the system (Zakiyah et al. 2002). Elements of this complex once more became painfully public in 2008 in the case of the so-called ‘Lobby Queen’. One of the few not to escape the threat of prosecution over misuse of BLBI funds was the tycoon Sjamsul Nursalim, who has chosen to live in Singapore for the time being. The case against Sjamsul Nursalim has been repeatedly dropped only to be revived again. Attorney General M.A. Rachman dropped it as a ‘special gift’ in June 2004. Six months later the new attorney general, Abdul Rahman Saleh, re-opened it. It took his successor, Hendarman Supandji, actually to form a team to take the case forward in mid-2007. Heading the team was prosecutor Urip Tri Gunawan. Press accounts say Sjamsul Nursalim employed Artalyta Suryani, a skilled business-woman, to try to get the case dropped again. She lobbied effectively through the busy round of receptions by which members of Indonesia’s elite keep in touch, focusing on developing a friendship with Deputy Attorney General for Special Crimes, Kemas Yahya Rahman. On 29 February 2008, Kemas Yahya announced that the case against Nursalim had been dropped for lack of evidence. Two days later the Corruption Eradication Commission (KPK) caught prosecutor Urip, one of Kemas’s underlings, carrying $660,000. It also arrested Artalyta. The embar-rassed attorney general, Hendarman Supandji, made a public apology and removed Kemas Yahya and another implicated colleague named Muhammad Salim from ofﬁ_{ce. It was the}ﬁ_{rst time an active deputy attorney general had been}

removed. Artalyta was sentenced in July 2008 to ﬁ_{ve years in prison, and Urip in}

September to an unprecedented 20 years. But the attorney general did not resign, nor was he sacked. He said he might re-open the Nursalim case (Tempo Magazine, 18–24/3/2008, 25–31/3/2008).

The courts are as contaminated as the AGO (Pompe 2006), and two big cases in the past 12 months did nothing to alter this image. Most corruption cases still go to the regular district courts, and most of the accused have been regional parlia-mentarians.3_{The regular courts have a high acquittal rate—just over half in 2008}

(Jawa Pos, 25/7/2008, quoting Indonesia Corruption Watch). The bulk of West Sumatra’s provincial parliament was convicted of corruption by a district court in 2004 for embezzling half a million dollars of state funds two years earlier. But

3 ‘In 2006, there were 265 corruption cases involving local legislative bodies with almost 1,000 suspects handled by prosecutorial offices across Indonesia. In the same year, the same offices had 46 corruption cases implicating 61 provincial Governors or District Heads’ (Rinaldi, Purnomo and Damayanti 2007: 5).

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upon appeal, the Supreme Court threw out the charges against them all between late 2007 and mid-2008, without any prison time being served (Tempo Magazine,

6–12/11/2007; Harian Singgalang Online, 12/7/2008).4_{In November 2007 the}

Medan district court acquitted ‘Timber King’ Adelin Lis of all charges of illegal logging in North Sumatra’s protected forests. Adelin’s case had been strength-ened by a letter from the forestry minister, M.S. Kaban, stating that this case was ‘only’ an administrative matter. On the day of his release, the police announced they were laying fresh charges against Adelin, for money laundering. However, he had already slipped out of the country. The Judicial Commission announced it was preparing to investigate the ﬁ_{ve judges who ruled on this case (}_Tempo

Maga-zine, 13–19/11/2007).

Increasingly, ofﬁ_{ce-holders hoping to be re-elected on their record}ﬁ_{nd such}

embarrassing failures a political burden. They therefore supported the estab-lishment of an anti-corruption ‘superbody’ outside the regular system (Fenwick 2008). The need for foreign approval also played a role at ﬁ_{rst. The World Bank}

and USAID had done preparatory studies on legal development in the 1990s, and their recommendations proved inﬂ_{uential in designing many reforms in 1998–99.}

When Law 31/1999 on the Eradication of Corruption required the establishment of a Corruption Eradication Commission, the Asian Development Bank helped with the planning and the International Monetary Fund made success one of its conditions for continued assistance.5_{The law on the KPK and its associated}

Anti-Corruption Court was enacted in 2002, but it took until the last days of former President Megawati’s term in ofﬁ_{ce in mid-2004 for it to become a reality. The}

KPK replaced the Civil Servants Wealth Audit Commission (Komisi Pemeriksa Kekayaan Penyelenggara Negara, KPKPN), which had made many embarrassing revelations.

The KPK’s terms of reference are designed to short-circuit problems with the existing system, such as police–public prosecutor rivalry, excessive prosecutorial discretion, and judicial procrastination. It has a substantial budget ($25 million in 2007) and around 450 ‘embedded’ staff from the police and the AGO. Even so, it can only take on the most high-proﬁ_{le among the corruption cases that arise. The}

AGO and the police continue to handle the bulk of the cases. The KPK sees itself as a ‘trigger mechanism’ for further reform.6

4 Similarly, nearly all the members of the Padang municipal assembly were convicted of corruption in 2005, but were freed by the Supreme Court in August 2008 (Suara Karya, 1/8/2008).

5 The IMF–Indonesia ‘Letters of Intent’ are available at <http://www.imf.org/external/ np/cpid/default.aspx?view=loi&sort=cty>. Loan agreements with the Consultative Group on Indonesia (CGI) similarly included anti-corruption targets, until the group was disbanded following a request from Indonesia in January 2007.

6 Other anti-corruption initiatives included the National Law Commission, the National Ombudsman Commission, the Judicial Commission, the Prosecutorial Commission, the National Police Commission and the anti-money laundering agency PPATK (Pusat Pelaporan dan Analisis Transaksi Keuangan, Financial Transaction Reports and Analysis Centre). Most have been either ineffective or (in PPATK’s case) are still taking shape (Nasution and Santosa 2008).

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The outsider presidential candidate Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY) made

ﬁ_{ghting corruption a central plank of his 2004 election campaign. When he}

entered the palace in October 2004 he gave the KPK its head. On the strategy of starting with ‘low-hanging fruit’, it kicked off by detaining Aceh’s governor, Abdullah Puteh, that December. The president issued a ﬂ_{urry of instructions}

(Inpres 5/2004), plans (RAN-PK) and letters authorising the investigation of senior ofﬁ_{cials, and in 2006 he signed the UN Convention Against Corruption}

(UNCAC).

Over the period 2005–07, KPK pursued 27 high-proﬁ_{le cases through the}

spe-cial Anti-Corruption Court, located in South Jakarta, and won convictions in every case that went to trial (Tempo Magazine, 11–17/12/2007). The KPK owes much of its grit to four deputy directors who come from outside the AGO. Most famous among them was Amien Sunaryadi, who left the giant multinational business advisory and auditing ﬁ_{rm PricewaterhouseCoopers in 2003 to join KPK,}

report-edly taking a 90% pay cut for the privilege. He introduced new forensic auditing and investigative techniques, which led to some spectacular arrests.

In the past year, however, the KPK has discovered that there are limits to its autonomy. Indeed, limits are inherent in its formal role of ‘coordination’ with other anti-corruption agencies. Once again, the liquidity assistance given to the banks in 1997–98 by the central bank provided the setting for this discovery. BI was unable to recover much of these loans from the recipient banks. In 2003 it formulated a draft amendment to the Law on Bank Indonesia that transferred the repayment obligation to the government. BI knew from experience that the larger the amount of money involved, the more it would cost to ‘persuade’ par-liament of the virtue of this move. ‘BI has been under extortion for so long’, a source in the central bank told Tempo Magazine. A meeting of the BI board of governors in June 2003 decided to set aside Rp 100 billion ($10 million). Two-thirds was to help several indicted BI ofﬁ_{cials pay off prosecutors, and a third}

was for the parliamentarians. It was borrowed or otherwise appropriated from an educational fund intended to support the central bank’s training institu-tion, LPPI (Lembaga Pengembangan Perbankan Indonesia, Indonesian Banking Development Institute).7_{On 28 January 2008—the day the Bali convention stood}

to honour Soeharto—the bank’s governor, Burhanuddin Abdullah, was arrested for misappropriating bank funds. This humiliation came just a few months after

Global Finance magazine had named him the best central banker in 2007 and the Indonesian government had conferred on him the prestigious Mahaputra Award. In February 2008, KPK placed travel bans on all those present at the 2003 meeting that had taken the bribing decision along with Burhanuddin. One of them was deputy bank governor Aulia Pohan, who is related by marriage to President SBY. He had arranged to obtain the money from the educational fund. Whether being related to the president is enough to put one beyond the reach of the KPK is sud-denly a big question (JP, 11/9/2008).

Other arrests followed that led to further problems for the president. They were of two members of the parliament’s Commission IX on Finance and Banking,

7 _{Tempo Magazine}, 19–25/2/2008. According to Anwar Nasution, head of BPK and former senior deputy governor of BI, neither the withdrawal of these funds from LPPI nor their transfer to BI was recorded in the books of either organisation (Nasution, no date).

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which was responsible for handling the BI law amendment (Tempo Magazine, 8–14/7/2008). During hearings of the case at the Anti-Corruption Court in August 2008, one of the two, Hamka Yandhu, acknowledged he had handled the money, and proceeded to name those to whom he had distributed it. Envelopes contained between Rp 300 million and Rp 1 billion, depending on the seniority of the recipients. Fat envelopes are a common sight in the parliament building.8

Among the recipients this time were two members of parliament who are now in cabinet. M.S. Kaban is the forestry minister. Paskah Suzetta, who joined cabinet in a December 2005 reshufﬂ_{e, is chief of the National Planning Agency and State}

Minister for National Development Planning. In 2003 he was the chairman of the working committee in charge of the BI law amendment. Forestry minister Kaban is close to the timber industry. Tackling illegal logging had been one of SBY’s core election promises, but when in 2007 police arrested loggers who had accu-mulated a gigantic stockpile of illegal timber in Riau province, Kaban accused national police chief General Sutanto of threatening an industry that had created thousands of jobs and was generating foreign reserves. At about this time he also wrote his glowing letter in support of illegal logging suspect Adelin Lis (Tempo Magazine, 11–17/9/2007, 13–19/11/2007).

How would SBY react to these allegations? Another of his election promises had been to sack any minister tainted by corruption. He had actually done this in May 2007, when he dismissed the State Secretary, Yusril Mahendra, and the Minister for Justice and Human Rights, Hamid Awaluddin, after allegations that they had helped Tommy Soeharto transfer corruptly obtained money. He now called Kaban and Suzetta into his ofﬁ_{ce to explain. ‘Being veteran}

politi-cians’ (as Tempo put it), they each said they knew nothing about it. Afterwards the president said he would not suspend them (Tempo Magazine, 12–18/8/2008). Commentators thought that, less than a year before elections, he had acted cau-tiously in order not to endanger support from their parties. President Yudho-yono’s cabinet has representatives from eight different parties, with PDIP being the only large non- participant (Baswedan 2007: 325). Paskah Suzetta is deputy treasurer for the Golkar Party; Kaban chairs the (Muslim) Star and Crescent Party (PBB).

KPK’s daring actions are beginning to stimulate resistance among the poli-ticians who approved its mandate in the ﬁ_{rst place. In 2008, KPK arrested six}

active parliamentarians in various cases. Some had been involved with the BI draft law bribery case mentioned above. Another was arrested over corruption in relation to the re-zoning of a mangrove forest and protected forest (this once more involved forestry minister Kaban as well), and yet another over bribery in the procurement of patrol boats. The most dramatic arrest of the year was that of a member of parliamentary Commission IV in charge of forestry. Al Amin Nasu-tion belonged to the Islamic party PPP (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, United

8 The official anti-money-laundering agency PPATK recently made revelations about another case involving envelopes. It identified 480 travel cheques, each worth Rp 50 million, apparently distributed to members of Commission IX in June 2004. They were related to a campaign by central banker Miranda Goeltom to be appointed senior deputy governor of the central bank. A Tempo investigative report suggests the money came from business interests. KPK is questioning the parliamentarians (Tempo Magazine, 23–29/9/2008).

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Development Party). He had demanded Rp 2.2 billion ($242,000) to expedite the issue of a permit to convert protected forest land on Bintan Island so as to allow an ofﬁ_{ce construction project. The money was to be distributed to all committee}

members, in the usual way. In April 2008, KPK ofﬁ_{cers arrested him at midnight}

in a luxurious Jakarta hotel, in the company of a prostitute and with the cash and paperwork in his car, afterwards releasing transcripts of tapped phone conversa-tions (JP, 22/8/2008).

The jolt of this public shaming caused many parliamentarians to stop carrying large amounts of cash to lunchtime meetings, and to modify their mobile phone habits. Some started speaking out against the KPK. PPP faction head Lukman Hakim Saifuddin said angrily: ‘That extraordinary authority [of the KPK] must be controlled.’ Commission III (legal affairs) called the KPK in for a closed-door session to answer questions about possible violations during the arrests of parlia-mentarians. Commission chairman Trimedya Panjaitan ‘warned the KPK against attempting to discredit the legislative institution’. The commission had begun in May 2008 to draft a law to restrict phone tapping (JP, 4/7/2008, 16/8/2008; Tempo Magazine, 19–25/8/2008). Even the president felt compelled to join the condem-nation of KPK’s strategy. In an opening speech to the National Law Convention in Jakarta on 15 April 2008 he told KPK, along with the Supreme Audit Agency and the AGO, to avoid ‘entrapping’ citizens by taking advantage of their igno-rance of laws and regulations on corruption. They should give priority to preven-tive measures over legal action, he said. Parliamentarians in the audience emitted loud cries of ‘Amen!’ (JP, 17/4/2008). The Al Amin Nasution arrest had triggered the kind of failure of political nerve that has long worried anti-corruption experts at the World Bank.9

The major parties, meanwhile, appear to think of the KPK mainly as a political weapon in the hands of their opponents. The opposition party PDIP has com-plained the loudest (Asia Times, 29/3/2007). In March 2007, a joint KPK and AGO team arrested Widjanarko, chief of the food logistics agency, Bulog, for diverting cash from an Australian cattle import scheme. He was a PDIP member with pow-erful connections. Like most of the large state enterprises, Bulog has long been a political cash cow. The government immediately replaced Widjanarko, but with a Golkar man—former Aceh caretaker governor Mustafa Abubakar. PDIP secretary-general Pramono Anung said the KPK was doing the government’s bidding in undermining the PDIP ahead of 2009 elections (Tempo Magazine, 27/3–2/4/2007: editorial). Commission III chairperson Trimedya Panjaitan, also from PDIP, ech-oed the sentiment. PDIP was exaggerating: in reality, plenty of prominent Golkar members have also been imprisoned (Tempo Magazine, 4–11/3/2008: editorial). But there is no doubt that when corrupt practices are as universal as they are in Indonesia, any efforts to combat them inevitably become partisan and produce ‘Why me?’ reactions.

The other side of the selective prosecutions ‘coin’ is selective lack of action. Even the KPK does not dare to touch certain people. Vice President Jusuf Kalla in 2005 became embroiled in controversy after the irregular purchase of 40 used

9 A 2003 World Bank study expressed pessimism about the prospects of the Corruption Eradication Commission, citing ‘unfavorable global experience with such agencies’ (World Bank 2003: xiii). Weak political support is the biggest risk factor.

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German military helicopters. Governor Abdullah Puteh got 10 years in prison for the shoddy purchase of just one helicopter, but in the Kalla case, so far, nothing has been done (Gatra, 6/11/2006; Tempo Magazine, 27/3/2007).

The future of the KPK–Anti-Corruption Court package is threatened from a wholly different direction as well, albeit indirectly and for a good reason. The Constitutional Court ruled in late 2006 that the Anti-Corruption Court was uncon-stitutional because it created ‘legal uncertainty’ for defendants, who could not be sure whether they would be sent to this court or to the regular district court. It gave parliament three years, until the end of 2009, to prepare fresh legislation. If parliament is unable to complete the new law in time to meet the December 2009 deadline, the Anti-Corruption Court will disappear by default. This would not end the effort to eradicate corruption, but anti-graft work could once more become a lucrative part of a predatory bureaucratic system. To its credit, the gov-ernment drafting committee resisted pressure to reduce the role of non-career ad hoc judges, who currently hold three of the ﬁ_{ve positions on the court and are less}

subject than career judges to corrupt inducements within the system. But the draft now being discussed in parliament creates anti-corruption courts in every one of the over 450 districts, where they would fall under the regular district court. Non-career talent may be scarce there. The big question now is whether parlia-ment retains its appetite for a strong Anti-Corruption Court, or whether it will neuter this special body, as has been the fate of other such bodies in the past (JP, 9/9/2008; Tempo Interaktif, 4/7/2008).

As corruption greases wheels all over the world, anti-corruption efforts argu-ably seize them up again. Vice President Jusuf Kalla has openly suggested as much. He has repeatedly expressed scepticism about the value of a punitive anti- corruption drive. ‘In the ﬁ_rstﬁ_{ve years, the KPK frightened us. That is}

important. However, in the future, the KPK cannot remain a frightening entity’, he said in late 2007. A year earlier he told a KPK seminar that the nation’s anti-graft drive was hindering the economy (Tempo Magazine, 11–17/12/2007; JP, 26/12/2006). Though not particularly helpful to his president’s campaign, his words contain some truth. Unspent development funds more than doubled between late 2004 and early 2006, and one credible explanation is that the anti-corruption drive was discouraging government ofﬁ_{cials from making}

procure-ment decisions (Manning and Roesad 2006: 154). Unpalatable as it is to the public, a punitive anti- corruption program in a weak institutional setting can wreak real dislocation. Corrupt exchanges between agencies—such as the BI pay-ments to parliamentarians—build ties that enable control in a fragmented and politicised state machinery. The problem of political control has become more complex in recent years. Indonesia’s political system is experiencing increas-ing competition, greater institutional differentiation and risincreas-ing expectations of accountability. Anti-corruption theory considers such broad changes to herald the gradual shift from corrupt clientelism to a more institutionalised political order (Kitschelt and Wilkinson 2007: 1–49). But if the underlying institutions do not gradually become more effective, then hastening the process with punitive anti-corruption action could in fact make the system less governable. Politicians know this. Indeed, independent observers have also argued that promoting an anti-corruption program as an end in itself could in fact do more harm than good (Dick 2007; Naim 2005).

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THE ELECTION CAMPAIGN

President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s anti-corruption campaign has thus run into some serious and growing resistance. Nevertheless, I think it is fair to say that the most realistic hopes for the anti-corruption campaign still lie with his re-election in 2009. Few believe he is personally corrupt. He and his wife have no personal foundations of the kind Soeharto used as slush funds. But incumbency weighs on his image. He is today no longer the outsider who can promise a fresh start, but the incumbent who let fuel and food prices rise. Contrary to the image created by his 2004 campaign, he turned out to be a reluctant public communi-cator. In his four years in ofﬁ_{ce he has given just six interviews, four of them to}

foreign media (New Straits Times, 18/7/2008).

More problematic, as we have seen, is SBY’s need for political and business allies working towards his re-election. His own Democrat Party remains small. Five years ago, each aspiring presidential team spent around $10 million (Tempo Magazine, 15–21/6/2004). Jusuf Kalla is among the most important of his allies, both as head of Golkar and as Indonesia’s 30th_{richest person (}_{Tempo Magazine}_,

13–19/5/2008). Indonesia’s richest man also sits in SBY’s cabinet: Coordinat-ing Minister for People’s Welfare Aburizal Bakrie’s family owns 40% of Bumi Resources, Indonesia’s largest coal producer (Tempo Magazine, 8–14/1/2008). Both represent potential sources of embarrassment—arising, perhaps, out of Kal-la’s helicopters, or Bakrie’s Lapindo mud volcano in East Java. State agencies are also thought to remain cash cows for anyone who can gain control of them—and the stuff of scandal for opponents. Early in 2008, state oil and gas agency Pertami-na’s directors were once more replaced, amid allegations that the changes were driven by political factions hoping to obtain access to Pertamina funding (Tempo Magazine, 19–25/2/2008). The Corruption Eradication Commission in July 2008 began examining reports from Indonesia Corruption Watch and the Supreme Audit Agency that some Rp 200 trillion ($22 billion) of Pertamina funds had been misappropriated over the period 2000–07. Much of this may have been lost to oil smuggling stimulated by high fuel subsidies, but Pertamina’s role as a slush fund in Soeharto’s days has not been forgotten (JP, 10/7/2008).

This takes us back to the bottom line, political will. How important is corruption to the public? Anti-corruption measures are certainly popular. The humiliation of high ofﬁ_{cials also has entertainment value. Suggestions that corruptors should be}

shot have been tabloid fare for decades (the supreme penalty actually became a provision in the 1999 law on the eradication of corruption). Local electorates have frequently punished corrupt or incompetent incumbents. Of 211 incumbents who sought a new mandate in regional polls in 2005, 87 were defeated (JP, 17/4/2008: editorial). It is true that some of these contests are won on personal popularity rather than policy. The most famous example was an upset win in West Java’s gubernatorial election in April 2008 by a young challenger who paired with movie and television star Dede Yusuf. But the West Java incumbent was under a KPK cloud, and that was a disaster for him. Similar problems caused defeats in South and Southeast Sulawesi.10

10 Military candidates have done poorly in these elections (Today (Singapore), 10/5/2008).

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Nevertheless, it is wise to be realistic about the extent of public outrage over the issue. Fighting corruption was a major plank in SBY’s 2004 campaign, but security was just as important. The secessionist movement in Aceh and the terror bomb-ings of preceding years were fresh in voters’ minds. And President Yudhoyono knows that another economic crisis will divert attention from an anti-corruption campaign. When he had to raise fuel prices again in May 2008 to reduce bur-geoning (and pro-rich) subsidies, he worried that demonstrations might produce deaths and thus martyrs, as they had done in 1998. He suspected allies of retired General Wiranto—his military senior—of being behind the more vociferous pro-tests (Tempo Magazine, 27/5–2/6/2008). Wiranto’s ambitious little political party Hanura quickly blamed ‘world oil capitalists’ for the reduction in fuel subsidies (Gatra, 29/5/2008). A reasonably effective ‘direct cash assistance’ (BLT) program to compensate the poorest for rising fuel prices helped dampen protests.

Every political act now takes into account the parliamentary and presiden-tial elections of 2009. Parliamentary elections are expected to bring about only marginal shifts in the political landscape, despite many start-up parties claiming otherwise. The two leading presidential candidates are expected to be SBY and PDIP chairperson (and former president) Megawati Soekarnoputri. Polls place them far ahead of the many other individuals expected to nominate. Megawati’s popularity comes from her status as opposition leader, not from fond memories of her mediocre earlier period in ofﬁ_{ce. She led Yudhoyono after he was forced to}

put up fuel prices in mid-2008, but an October poll once more put Yudhoyono in a commanding position. Of the trailing challengers, the only one with a remote chance seems to be retired Lieutenant-General Prabowo Subianto, who has been spending lavishly on television spots for months (JP, 10/10/2008).

The contest between Yudhoyono and Megawati could bring to light differences over the direction in which Indonesia as a whole should be going, including differ-ences over what people want done about corruption. Class is once more making its presence felt in subtle ways. A recent poll shows signiﬁ_{cant class differences}

between supporters of Yudhoyono and Megawati. Better-educated middle class people, many of them civil servants, tend to prefer SBY, whereas poorly edu-cated farmers and ﬁ_{shers, and the unemployed, prefer Megawati.}11_{SBY’s 2004}

anti- corruption campaign, so widely welcomed overseas, resonates in Indonesia mainly with the middle class. Even there it does not have overwhelming sup-port. Vice President Jusuf Kalla, for example, whose scepticism was noted above, belongs to this same middle and upper group.

In any case, an essentially punitive anti-graft program by itself is not enough to transform Indonesian governance. Only a program that connects positively with what Indonesians want their government to do can inspire. Anti-corruption talk, and the increasingly verbalised resistance to it, is part of a much broader

11 In a survey by the Indonesian Research and Development Institute (IRDI) released on 1 September (IRDI 2008), 2,600 respondents were asked who they would vote for as president on that day. Six names dominated the results. Of respondents with a high education, 45% supported SBY whereas only 14% supported Megawati. Conversely, only 30% of those with low education supported SBY, while 47% supported Megawati. Some 50% of those who worked as civil servants supported SBY, as did 55% of those on government pensions, while 46% of farmers and fishers supported Megawati.

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emerging debate about the nature of the state in Indonesia. We need to under-stand the contours of this debate better. What kind of government do Indonesians really want?

CONCLUSIONS

These four vignettes of ‘normal’ politics in 2008 suggest that government respon-siveness to social pressures has grown in the decade since the end of the New Order. The possibility of rejection at the polls for under-performance is now part of the calculus for elected policy makers and legislators. It moved them to persist with a popular anti-corruption program, and to make a start on tackling military impunity in one high-proﬁ_{le case, even though both initiatives threatened}

cer-tain elite interests. Both moves are helping to build a sense of public trust that has been repeatedly deﬂ_{ated for too long. At the same time, both initiatives are}

fraught with ambiguity. Resistance to the anti-corruption measures is growing in parliament, and the president has become reluctant to punish tainted ministers in his cabinet because he needs their political support. Some are arguing openly, and with some reason, that anti-graft efforts are destabilising. The military trial is in its early stages, and the potential for sabotage remains high there too. Whether the electoral calculus will be able to trump these rear-guard machinations will become evident in 2009.

Moreover, not everyone in society is rising to the higher standards of citizenship behaviour that enhanced democracy demands. A few militant religious funda-mentalists, with a narrow view of citizenship, are pulling on vestigial New Order levers of social control, while amplifying their voice with street violence. There are historical precedents—such as Pakistan or Algiers—for an anti-democratic minor-ity that leverages its inﬂ_{uence through a democratic system. Elsewhere, not wilful}

wrecking by a minority but simply the divisions between socially rooted patron-age networks are inhibiting the potential of democratic decentralisation. The two hung gubernatorial elections discussed above bring to light divided provincial societies overly dependent on the civil service. The elites asked their respective metropolitan patrons to solve their problems for them, if necessary by re-inserting the military into the civil administration.

The politics of 2008 have shown a ﬂ_{uidity not easily captured in an}

institu-tional account. Underlying processes of social learning—about provincial civil society, religion, justice, and the separation of public from private affairs—remain as important for the nation’s future as the intricacies of institutional reform. These processes are more open than is often thought.

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