government efforts to introduce Koranic bylaws. Meanwhile, Defence Minister Juwono Sudarsono argued that the military would never stand for the creation of a strictly Islamic state, even one achieved democratically, as it would see the secession of the Hindu island of Bali and the Christian islands of eastern Indonesia, thus violating the pancasilaprinciple of unity.
It would also, he argued, dismantle Indonesia’s ‘sublime blend’ of Islamism and secularism (Donnan 2006).
When SBY became president in 2005, with similar internal concerns as well as a desire to please Western allies by silencing radical Islamic opposi- tion, he looked set to further reinforce the military’s central role in Indonesian society. SBY was equally aware of the importance of the TNI.
On his election to the position of president, he overturned a Megawati appointment made before she stepped down, to replace TNI chief General Endriartono Sutarto with Army chief General Ryamizard Ryacudu, known as a conservative and an ‘intense nationalist’ (Powell 2004). SBY asked Endriartono to stay on at the TNI’s helm, until he had consoli- dated his administration (Kurniawan 2004). SBY was attempting to deny Megawati continued influence with the military, as he continued to cement the TNI at the centre of the Indonesian state (Siboro 2005).
MEDIA LIFE AFTER SUHARTO: THE MEDIA
in the same period. The number of newspapers grew from 79 to 172 between 1998 and 1999 (Djalal and Reen 2003). The world’s fourth largest population, ‘fascinated by the sudden free flow of information, read, watched and listened in droves, fuelling a media boom when most of the economy was bust’ (The Economist11 January 2003).
According to the Southeast Asian Press Alliance (SEAPA), by the end of 1999 there were some 299 newspapers, 886 tabloids, 491 magazines, 11 bul- letins, 12 TV stations and 1110 radio stations, as well as an unknown number of media-related websites (Goodman 2000). And yet, despite the apparent health of the media industry, there were continuing concerns about interference. When RSF published its 2005 worldwide press freedom index, Indonesia sank to 117 out of 167 countries – slipping seven places from the previous year, and 60 places from the first report in 2002, along- side a warning that press freedom in Indonesia remained ‘under serious threat due to the existence of outdated laws, and killings and physical attacks targeting journalists’ (Saraswati 2004).
Indonesia’s elites were clearly uncomfortable with what they saw as an industry unfettered. At a time when Indonesia was being likened to the former Yugoslavia, and media discussion ranged around the possible
‘Balkanization’ (Bostock 2002) of the country, Major General Sudrajat, media advisor to then President Megawati (who succeeded Walid in 2000), speaking at Newsworld Asia in July 2002, expressed his concern over media freedom. Sudrajat explained that technological change was making the media increasingly difficult to control. He maintained that although the industry’s lack of maturity impacted unfavourably on the reputation of the country, the media was the single institution in Indonesia that could not, he contended, be criticized. ‘The media needs to be more professional’, he told the conference. ‘The lack of control costs Indonesia in its bilateral relationships, for example with Singapore. Indonesian media flows across the border are disturbing relations. Internally, the media, both local and international, has ramifications for stability, for example the problems in Timor’.1
Sudrajat clearly reflected his President’s unease with the media. During her time in office between 2000 and 2004, Megawati Sukanoputri developed a troubled relationship with the press. She reacted to criticism with the rejoinder that journalists lacked in professionalism and were ‘biased and irresponsible’. As we will see with Singapore, Megawati believed that the responsibility of the national press rested in ‘its ability to protect and promote national unity’ (RSF 2004). The daily newspaper, Rakyat Merdeka, which was particularly critical of the President, had its editor sentenced to six months in prison in November 2003 for libelling the pres- ident (Hantoro and Nurhayati 2003). This was the first time since the fall
of Suharto in 1998 that a journalist was convicted for insulting the President.
Even after the end of Suharto’s rule, ownership and control of the media was largely in the hands of his family and friends. ‘Most of the urban TV channels are owned by Suharto’s daughter Tutut and other Suharto cronies. The press has been bought,’ according to Gus Dur in 2001. At the time, at least four TV stations, including TVI and SCTV, were owned by Tutut. The government owned only one TV station. The most established and prestigious daily newspaper, Kompass, belonged to Catholic media mogul Yacob Oetama. The English-language daily Jakarta Postwas also part of the Kompass Group. There was, evidently, a high degree of con- centration of ownership and control in the media industry, such that even the rich, powerful and famous would think twice before deciding to take on the media (Sng 2001).
Although media ownership is apparently dominated by Abangan and Christian interests, radical Muslim groups have managed to penetrate Kompass since 1991, when it was threatened by Muslim fundamentalist groups who attacked a Kompass Group tabloid for printing the results of a poll which alleged that the public regarded Suharto as more famous than the Prophet Mohammad. Consequently, Kompass’s editorial line often reflected the views of radical Muslim groups who became very critical of Gus Dur.
As a result, the Megawati government tried to instigate a control policy over the media, working to limit the effects of the proliferation of the media and attempting to transfer power away power from Suharto’s family and friends to the reconfigured post-Suharto elites. A new broadcast law went before the Indonesian parliament in November 2002. It was aimed at increas- ing regional programming and diversifying ownership beyond Jakarta’s busi- ness elite – namely the Suharto siblings. It attempted to break their influence by revoking national licences and restricting licences to a single province (of which Indonesia has 32), forbidding cross ownership of newspapers and TV stations, and limiting the stake allowed to foreign investors in local media to 10 per cent. Outside commentators were sceptical the new law would work:
‘in a country where capitalists were all cronies, business and politics are not so easy to disentangle’ (The Economist11 January, 2003).
The law did little to assuage the growing concerns that centralized own- ership was stifling diversity, and that the message the media conglomerates were sure to convey would be one of overzealous patriotism. The concen- tration of media ownership increased, with a ‘concerted effort by the busi- ness community to buy up’ media outlets (Djalal and Reen 2003).
Some of these business tycoons were former associates of President Suharto, such as Sjamsul Nursalim, a joint owner of Sinar Harapan, one
of Indonesia’s leading newspapers. Hary Tanoesoedibjo, another tycoon who was a former partner of Suharto’s daughter Titek, controlled more than 30 per cent of the industry. He was president director of the con- glomerate Bimantara, formerly headed by Suharto’s son, Bambang Trihatmodjo and, through Bimantara, owned 69 per cent of shares in Indonesia’s largest television station, RCTI, and 70 per cent of shares in Global TV. Through another vehicle, Bhakti Investama, he owned 33 per cent of SCTV. Tanoesoedibjo, personally, took control of RCTI and dis- missed the former managers. While the official explanation was commercial concerns, the station’s new news director was quoted as saying RCTI was to be ‘red and white’, that is super patriotic (Djalal and Reen 2003).
What was of more concern for journalists was the fact that the law also proposed the limitation of foreign programmes and allowed for the estab- lishment of a new censorship board. The new legislation was aimed at tack- ling the biased reporting of Indonesia and the promotion of Western viewpoints, at the heart of which was Indonesia’s image in the international media as a haven for Islamic militants and terrorists. One of the law’s arti- cles prohibited ‘slander, misleading information, highlighting military vio- lence or provoking one group against another’. It reminded many, however, of the Suharto era of ‘SARA’, when discussion of race, religion and eth- nicity was forbidden. To reintroduce such a prohibition could potentially prevent the media covering ethnic clashes. For many in the industry both inside and outside Indonesia, alongside the growing number of libel and defamation cases, it marked a further move to regain control over the media, and mirrored similar efforts by governments across the region to stem the flow of controversial news and entertainment products.
When Tempo’s Harymurti was found guilty of libelling businessman Tomy Winata in a story that suggested Winata, who had strong ties to the military and to the Suharto family, stood to benefit from a fire that destroyed a Jakarta textile market in 2003, not only did supporters of Winata attack Tempo’s offices, but his lawyers also filed a series of civil and criminal complaints against the magazine. It was ‘the vigour’ with which government prosecutors pursued Winata’s complaints that worried those keen to encourage the nascent pluralism in the country (Mapes and Hindryati 2004).
The court’s decision had a ‘chilling effect on freedom of expression in Indonesia’ (Jakarta Post23 September 2004). The use of libel and defama- tion laws to silence criticism became increasingly commonplace, as the country’s political elites, stung by the loss of East Timor in 2002, and con- cerned that Indonesia might fragment, moved to quash the media genie and place it firmly back in its traditional containment bottle. In this context, the elite see court trials as a legitimate weapon to curb press freedom rather
than merely refusing to comment or denying inaccurate reporting (AMCB January–February 2004).