Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia: Provincial Proliferation 2011048395, 9780203116975

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Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia

What makes large, multi-ethnic states hang together? At a time when ethnic and religious conflict has gained global prominence, the territorial organization of states is a critical area of study. Exploring how multi-ethnic and geographically dispersed states grapple with questions of territorial administration and change, this book argues that territorial change is a result of ongoing negotiations between states and societies where mutual and overlapping interests can often emerge. It focuses on the changing dynamics of central–local relations in Indonesia. Since the fall of Suharto’s New Order government, new provinces have been sprouting up throughout the Indonesian archipelago. After decades of stability, this sudden change in Indonesia’s territorial structure is puzzling. The author analyses this “provincial proliferation,” which is driven by multi-level alliances across different territorial administrative levels, or territorial coalitions. He demonstrates that national-level institutional changes including decentralization and democratization explain the timing of the phenomenon. Variations also occur based on historical, cultural, and political contexts at the regional level. The concept of territorial coalitions challenges the dichotomy between centre and periphery that is common in other studies of central–local relations. This book will be of interest to scholars in the fields of comparative politics, political geography, history, and Asian and Southeast Asian politics. Ehito Kimura is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of Hawai’i at Manoa. His research interests include contemporary Indonesian and Southeast Asian politics.

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Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia Provincial proliferation

Ehito Kimura

First published 2013 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada by Routledge 711 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2013 Ehito Kimura The right of Ehito Kimura to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by him in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilized in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data Kimura, Ehito. Political change and territoriality in indonesia / Ehito Kimura. p. cm. Includes bibliographical references and index. 1. Central-local government relations–Indonesia. 2. Indonesia–Administrative and political divisions. 3. Indonesian provinces. 4. Decentralization in government–Indonesia. 5. Indonesia–Politics and government–1998- I. Title. JQ766.S8K56 2012 320.809598–dc23 2011048395 ISBN: 978-0-415-568613-6 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-203-11697-5 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by Taylor & Francis Books

To my family

Contents

List of illustrations Acknowledgments Abbreviations 1

2

3

Territorial change in post-authoritarian Indonesia Averting collapse 1 Territory and mobilization amidst political change Methods and approach 5 Structure of the book 7

xii xiii xvi 1 3

Breaking boundaries, splitting regions: the politics of territorial coalitions Introduction 10 Making, unmaking, and scaling territory 11 Territorial coalitions and mobilization 15 Territorial coalitions in comparative perspective 16 Territorial coalitions in the Indonesian context 17 The process of coalitions 19 Conclusion 20 Origins and dilemmas of territorial administration in colonial Indonesia Introduction 22 Pre-colonial geography and territorial diversity 23 The spice trade and choke-point economics 25 Constructing the center and the shift to Java 27 Consolidation, centralization, and expansion 28 Ethical policies and decentralization 31 Nationalist resistance and the failure of federalism 34 Conclusion 36

10

22

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Post-colonial territorial administration and the imperative toward centralization Introduction 38 The post-independence era and the weak state 39 Rebellions without secession 41 New provinces in Indonesia: the first wave 44 “Guided Democracy” and the solution to state weakness 46 Centralization under the New Order 49 Separatism and territorial conflict in the New Order era 54 The territorial impact of political change 57 Territorial change and shifts in territoriality 61 Conclusion 64

5

Marginality and opportunity in the periphery The birth of a province 66 Compartmentalized diversity in North Sulawesi 68 The historical foundations of privilege and marginality 70 Transition and opportunity and territorial coalitions 78 Reflections and conclusions 85

6

Territoriality and membership: the case of Kepulauan Riau Introduction 87 The movement for a new Kepri 88 Diversity and territoriality in the Riau region 90 Economy: regional development and economic trajectories 93 A rejection of membership 96 National membership 102 Conclusion 104

7

Elite conflict and pressure from above: dividing West Papua Introduction 106 Ethnicity, religion, and development 108 Early clashing visions of Papua 110 International pressure and the act of free choice 112 Papua during the New Order: forced integration 113 Human rights and resistance 115 Competing visions of Papua for the Indonesian elite 116 An alternative vision 118 The un-breakup of Papua 119 The move to split the regions 121 Conclusion 125

38

66

87

106

Contents 8

Politics of territorial change: comparisons and conclusions Politics, coalitions, and territory 127 Comparisons in two multi-ethnic states 128 Competition and cooperation in post-authoritarian Indonesia The centripetal effect of territorial change 134 Appendix: Data on Indonesian provinces Glossary Notes References Index

xi 127

132

136 142 143 148 158

Illustrations

Maps 1.1 5.1 6.1 7.1

Map of Indonesia Map of the new Gorontalo Province next to North Sulawesi Province Map of the new Kepulauan Riau Province next to Riau Province Map of the new West Irian Province next to West Papua Province

xx 66 87 106

Tables 4.1 4.2 5.1 5.2 5.3 5.4 5.5 5.6 6.1 6.2 6.3 6.4 7.1 A.1 A.2 A.3 A.4 A.5 A.6

New provinces in Indonesia 1950–99 Legislation for new provinces in Indonesia Ethnic groups in North Sulawesi Province in 2000 Kabupatens and kotas in North Sulawesi Religion in North Sulawesi Province Governors of North Sulawesi, 1961–2005 Social development indicators I in North Sulawesi Social development indicators II in North Sulawesi Ethnic groups in Riau Province in 2000 Ethnic groups in Riau Province in 2000 Ethnic groups in Riau and Kepri in 2000 Religion in Riau in 2000 Religion in Papua in 2000 Provinces by population Provinces by area Provinces by population density Provinces by gross regional domestic product (GRDP) Provinces by foreign direct investment (FDI) Provinces by poverty rate

44 62 69 69 70 77 78 78 91 92 93 93 109 136 137 138 139 140 141

Acknowledgments

Like many academic books, this one began as a dissertation and so my debts are heavy to the mentors and supporters in graduate school. Three professors have profoundly influenced my interest in comparative politics and Southeast Asian studies. David Wurfel lit the flame, James Scott fanned it, and Paul Hutchcroft helped me to try to harness it. Paul Hutchcroft was a dream advisor striking just the right balance between a hands-off approach and interventionism during my dissertation. His many insightful comments made this study better, though he should not be implicated in its remaining flaws. Paul was also upbeat and encouraging throughout, even on the days when it seemed the process would never end. I would also like to thank the other members of my dissertation committee who provided ideas and encouragement along the way including Aseema Sinha, Mark Beissinger, Joe Soss, and Al McCoy. The vibrant community of scholars studying Southeast Asia was invaluable during my time as a graduate student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison. I am convinced that the Center for Southeast Asian Studies under the Institute for International Studies at UW is among the very best of its kind. Michael Cullinane and Mary Jo Studenberg were fixtures in the Center office and always had time for the harried grad student. Larry Ashmun, Andy Sutton, Peggy Choy, Ellen Rafferty, Monita Manalo, and Dustin Cowell are a few of the faculty who were supportive and encouraging of my work. Fellow grad-students-in-arms from many academic disciplines included Amelia Liwe, Ruth De Llobbet, Ying Limapichart, Prajak Kongkirati, Dadit Hidayat, Sisca Oroh, Fadjar Thufail, Cisco Bradley, Steve Laronga, Jennifer Munger, and Jonathan London. I would especially like to thank Eunsook Jung, Erick Danzer, Cleo Calimbahin, and Kevin McGahan for their support as fellow political scientists studying Southeast Asia. I could not have completed this book without the generous support of the US Department of Education. They funded several language grants that I was fortunate to receive during my graduate career including the COTIM Advance Indonesian Language Program and the Foreign Language Assistance Scholarship (FLAS). I am also grateful for their support in funding my dissertation research though the Doctoral Dissertation Research Abroad

xiv Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia (DDRA)—Fulbright Hays program. Once in Indonesia I received invaluable assistance from Nelly Pailima and Rizma Fadilah at the American Indonesian Exchange Foundation (AMINEF). The staff at the Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI), particularly Pak Reuben Silitonga, were kind and efficient dealing with all of our preparations after arrival and before departure. In the field, I benefited greatly from the company of many fellow researchers and friends, including Yosef Djakababa, Nelden Djakababa, Richard Payne, Takeshi Ito, Tom and Julie Pepinsky, Adam and Kate Day, Dar and Anissa Rudnyckyj, Doreen Lee, Birgit Berg, Savitri Soegijoko, and Lala Amiroeddin. Yosef and Nelden provided our home away from home in Jakarta and we became like family. In Manado, Ibu and Oma opened up their home during my extended stays and took me touring around the region to boot. In Gorontalo, I was generously hosted by Hasanuddin and his family. There is not enough space to list all of the people who helped me in my research while in Indonesia but several people deserve special mention. These include Pitres Sombowadile, Hasanuddin, Basri Amin, Alex Ulaen, Riwanto Tirtosudarmo, Syarif Hidayat, and Tri Ratnawati. I would also like to thank my institutional sponsor, the University of Sam Ratulangie, under the able leadership of Rector Lefrond Sondakh. At various stages of my research I was also privileged to have some very helpful exchanges with Donald Emmerson, Michael Malley, Bill Liddle, and Dwight King. I also had the privilege of meeting several Japanese scholars of Indonesian politics including Mariko Urano, Jun Honna, and Masaaki Okamoto. Honna-san and Okamoto-san were kind enough to invite me to a panel on local politics at the University of Indonesia toward the end of my time in Jakarta. I was fortunate to secure a post-doctoral fellowship at the Walter H. Shorenstein Asia Pacific Research Center at Stanford University after completing my dissertation. I am very grateful to my host Don Emmerson and other colleagues there who made my time so enjoyable and fruitful, including Gi Wook Shin who was the director at the time. Since 2007, I have had the privilege of being on the faculty of the Department of Political Science at the University of Hawai’i at Manoa where colleagues and staff have offered immeasurable support. I have also benefited from the colleagues at the Center for Southeast Asia including Barbara and Leonard Andaya, whose combination of intellect, energy, and generosity are unparalleled. In countless ways the University of Hawai’i has been an ideal place to be a scholar of Southeast Asian politics. I would also like to take this opportunity to thank the editorial staff at Routledge, including Dorothea Schaefter, Leanne Hinves, and Jillian Morrison, for patiently and expertly shepherding this project to its conclusion. Finally, I would like to thank my family for all their support. My sisters were always curious about their little brother’s latest antics. My parents have always been supportive of their children’s endeavors and the journey through graduate school and beyond proved no different. In so many ways, they have shaped who I am, and where I am today. I’d also like to thank my wife, my partner in crime and much, much more. I’ve never won a lottery of any kind,

Acknowledgments

xv

but with Aya I really hit the jackpot. As for our two children, Isato and Emma, they have nary a clue about this book their father has struggled to write, but they have brought great joy into our life. Parts of this manuscript have appeared elsewhere in print. Modified sections of Chapter 4 have appeared in “Changing the Rules: Historical Conjunctures and Transition in Indonesia,” Asia Pacific Viewpoint 51(3), (December 2010): 248–61. Sections of Chapters 1, 2, 4, 5, and 6 have appeared in “Proliferating Provinces: Territorial Politics in Post-Suharto Indonesia,” South East Asia Research 18(3), (September 2010): 415–49. A slightly modified version of Chapter 5 has appeared in “Marginality and Opportunity in the Periphery: The Emergence of Gorontalo Province in North Sulawesi,” Indonesia, no. 84 (October 2007): 71–95. Sections of chapters 1, 2, 4, 5 and 6 were originally published in Ehito Kimura’s article, Proliferating provinces: territorial politics in post-Suharto Indonesia, South East Asia Research, Volume 18, Number 3, September 2010, pp 415–449. Reproduced by permission. A slightly modified version of chapter 5 was previously published in the journal, Indonesia. See Ehito Kimura, Marginality and Opportunity in the Periphery: The Emergence of Gorontalo Province in North Sulawesi, Indonesia 84 (October 2007): 71–96. Sections of chapter 4 were originally published in the article Changing the Rules: Historical Conjunctures and Transition in Indonesia, Asia Pacific Viewpoint, vol. 51, no. 3 (December 2010): 248–61.

Abbreviations

ABRI Bakin BIA BIDA BIN BP3KR

BPS CNRM DPD DPR DPRD FALINTIL FKGMIJ FORERI FSRKKR GAM GMPPK GMTPS

Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia—now the TNI) Badan Koordinasi Intelijen Negara (State Intelligence Coordinating Agency) Badan Intelijen Abri (Armed Forces Intelligence Body) Batam Industrial Development Authority Badan Intelijen Nasional (State Intelligence Agency) Badan Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Kepualuan Riau (Body to Prepare for the Creation of Archipelagic Riau Province) Biro Pusat Statistik (Central Bureau of Statistics) Conselho Nacional da Resistência Maubere (National Council of Maubere Resistance) Dewan Perwakilan Daerah (Regional Representatives Council—Indonesia’s upper house) Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (People’s Representatives Council—Indonesia’s lower house) Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah (Regional People’s Representatives Council—Indonesia’s regional parliaments) Forças Armadas da Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste (Armed Forces for the National Liberation of East Timor) Forum Komunikasi Generasi Muda Irian Jaya (Forum for Communication of the Younger Generation of Irian Jaya) Forum Rekonsiliasi Rakyat Irian Jaya (Forum for Reconciliation of the Peoples of Irian Jaya) Forum Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten Kepulauan Riau (Solidarity Forum for Reform in District Riau Archipelago.) Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (Free Aceh Movement) Gerakan Mahasisan Perjuangan Provinsi Kepri (Student Movement to Struggle for Kepri Province) Gerakan Mandau Talawang Panca Sila (Pro Panca Sila Cutlass and Shield Movement)

Abbreviations Golkar HMI ICG IGGI Kepri KODAM KODIM Kopassus Koramil Korem KP3GTR

KPKR Lemhannas MRP MUBES NGO NKRI NU OPM P4GTR

PAN PBB PBR PDI PDI-P Permesta PKB PKI PKS PNBK PNI Polri

xvii

Partai Golongan Karya Party of the Functional Groups Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam (Islamic Students’ Association) International Crisis Group Inter-Governmental Group on Indonesia Kepulauan Riau (Archipelagic Riau) Komando Daerah Militer (Military Regional Command) Komando Distrik Militer (Military District Command) Komando Pasukan Khusus (Special Forces Command) Komando Rayon Militer (Military Rayon Command) Komando Resort Militer (Military Resort Command) Komite Pusat Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo Tomini Raya (Central Committee for the Formation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province) Komite Pemekaran Kepulauan Riau (Committee for the Dividing of Archipelagic Riau) Lembaga Ketahanan Nasional (National Resilience Institute) Majelis Rakyat Papua (Papuan People’s Council) Musyawarah Besar (great deliberation) non-governmental organization Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia (Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia) Nahdlatul Ulama (traditionalist Sunni Islamic organization) Organisasi Papua Merdeka (Free Papua Movement) Panitia Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo Tomini Raya (Committee to Prepare for the Formation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province) Partai Amanat Nasional (National Mandate Party) Partai Bulan Bintang (Crescent Star and Moon Party) Partai Bintang Reformasi (Reform Star Party) Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (Indonesian Democratic Party) Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan (Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle) Piagam Perjuangan Semesta (Universal Struggle Charter), rebel movement in Indonesia 1957–61 Partai Kebangitan Bangsa (National Awakening Party) Partai Konumis Indonesia (Indonesian Communist Party), outlawed since 1965 Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (Prosperous Justice Party) Partai Nasional Benteng Kerakyatan (Indonesia Indonesian National Populist Fortress Party) Parti Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Party) Kepolisian Negara Republik (Indonesia Indonesian National Police)

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PPP PRESNAS PRRI SIJOHRI TNI UNSF UNTEA VOC

Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (United Development Party) Presnas P2G (Presidium Nasional Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo) Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik (Indonesia Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia) Singapore Johor Riau (reference to the regional growth triangle) Tentara Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Army—title of the Indonesian armed forces after 1998) United Nations Security Force (in West New Guinea) United Nations Temporary Executive Authority Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (United East India Company)

Map 1.1 Map of Indonesia

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Territorial change in post-authoritarian Indonesia

Averting collapse Amid Indonesia’s economic and political upheaval in the late 1990s also loomed the specter of its territorial collapse. The Soviet Union and Yugoslavia had each splintered earlier in the decade and observers at the time raised the prospect of Indonesia’s “balkanization” (Bolton 1999; Hadar 2000). Experts and pundits alike cautioned that transition and political reform could weaken the state, embolden the regions, and lead to a domino effect beginning with the breakaway of East Timor followed by a general fragmentation of the archipelago into a dozen or so states. As things turned out, Indonesia survived and has since remained largely intact. East Timor gained independence in 1999, but along with West Papua, it had not been part of the Indonesian nation-state at independence in 1950, and was forcibly incorporated in 1975. Dominoes did not fall and the archipelago did not splinter the way many had feared. In fact, the state has territorially been quite resilient in recent years. Indonesia’s political transition did spur on a territorial shuffle of another less expected kind. Instead of external fragmentation and collapse, Indonesia experienced an internal fission where provinces and districts were divided into ever smaller units resulting in an unprecedented proliferation of new subnational territories. The number of provinces has grown from 27 to 33 and the number of districts from 292 to around 450. These internal territorial changes have attracted much less attention than the challenges of Timor, Aceh, and West Papua but they affect many more people and suggest a need for a different way to think about territorial politics in Indonesia and elsewhere. People living in areas with newly-drawn local boundaries experience an immediate change in patterns of everyday life. Their leaders suddenly change because new districts or provinces come with new mayors, district chiefs, or governors. Rules change for a range of issues from tax codes and local budget allocations to public service provisions. And the fragmentation affects the physical aspects of everyday life. Where you go to perform even the most mundane tasks such as registering your car or filing for a marriage license may suddenly change because of new boundaries.

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Politically, local territorial changes affect election outcomes. Locally, it can form a function similar to gerrymandering where constituencies might be divided or split off altogether leading to a changing political calculus of candidates running for office. Incumbents might be threatened in such new schemes but it also offers opportunities for new players who can fill the ranks of executive, legislative, and bureaucratic offices that accompany new regions. Even before new provinces or districts are approved, prospective candidates may see the virtue of campaigning for potentially new seats. In a richly diverse and multi-ethnic country such as Indonesia, there is also an important cultural aspect to local territorial politics. Imagine how one area splitting off from another could shift majority–minority relations in both regions. In a new district or province, a former Muslim minority could find itself the new majority. Alternatively, those formerly in the majority could find themselves suddenly the minority. From the national state perspective, territorial change may be useful to split up groups seeking to mobilize against the state along lines of identity. In other instances, it may serve to compartmentalize different groups into discrete ethnic units, such as the ethno-federal system of the Soviet Union (Brubaker 1996). The local territorial changes that occurred in Indonesia then raise some compelling theoretical questions. What explains the sudden onset of territorial change in states? Why do some states fragment externally while others seem to fragment internally? And what can this phenomenon tell us more broadly about political change and territoriality? This book addresses these questions and argues that local territorial change is not a mild or incremental form of secession occurring throughout the archipelago. Instead, it needs to be seen in the context of an increasingly fragmented and competitive political system. This means that analyses of territorial politics needs to go beyond the older frames of center–periphery upon which scholars have long relied. In Indonesia, theories of center and periphery took on particular salience between Java and the so-called “Outer Islands.” The questions about territorial politics then were inevitably framed around this division. Did Java over-extract from the resource wealthy and less densely populated Outer Islands? Did a process of Javanization impose a cultural and political model outside of Java? How can political representation be balanced between the two regions? In short, most discussions of Indonesia’s territorial politics began and ended with this split which came to represent other dichotomies such as modern vs. traditional, richer vs. poorer, import-dependent vs. export-dependent and so on. More recently, East Timor, Aceh, and West Papua attracted the bulk of international attention when it came to thinking about territorial politics during the New Order. The spotlight shone on issues of human rights, economic development, and self-determination. These regions were seeking to break away from the Indonesian nation-state and while their motivations were many, their vision of territorial independence was uniform. Even after the fall of Suharto, the interpretations of ethnic and religious conflict throughout the

Territorial change in post-authoritarian Indonesia

3

archipelago often came to be framed as residues of the old state fighting emergent challengers. These kinds of analyses also seeped into questions about Indonesia’s territorial survival in the late 1990s. The narrative of a highly centralized, militarized, and “Javanized” core suggested that many in the periphery wanted out. In fact I argue just the opposite. Territorial change in post-Suharto Indonesia is characterized by profound centripetal tendencies where local and national groups are coming together to form what I call territorial coalitions. These coalitions which consist of an array of groups at the local, regional, and national levels can also be seen in other countries. In many places, national politics is bound together with local demands in a way that sees territorial change as a preferred political outcome. The Indonesian case clearly shows how this happens, but the phenomenon is more general.

Territory and mobilization amidst political change The internal fragmentation occurring in Indonesia is puzzling because borders are institutions that have rules governing their own behavior which become self-perpetuating and resistant to change. In other words, we expect boundaries to be sticky (Newman 2006: 102). Although political boundaries are often contested and resisted, when they do change, they merit explanation as to why and how that occurs (Shapiro 1996). The official narrative in Indonesia, articulated by countless bureaucrats, local executives, and policy advisors, is that the creation of new administrative regions improves economic and democratic efficiency. The mantra repeated almost word-for-word by proponents for new districts or provinces is that it would “bring government closer to the people and the people closer to the government.”1 Theoretically, efficiency arguments are rooted in economic approaches that assume the role of government is to minimize negative externalities and provide positive ones. States are relied upon to provide public goods such as accessible education systems, transportation infrastructure, public libraries, public transportation, and so on, which would otherwise be under-supplied. Often, these kinds of goods can be delivered more efficiently if they are administered by smaller, more localized units. Thus, an increase in the number of local administrative units should match some optimally efficient territorial size with which to deliver a particular set of goods.2 Territorial change can thus be explained by the increasingly complex and specialized provision of goods and services (Sack 1986). But one problem with this functionalist explanation is that it cannot explain the timing and variation of territorial change. If this were a purely efficiency oriented phenomenon, the increases in new provinces should be steadier and not cluster around a particular time period. Similarly, there is no clear pattern of territorial change based on even the most cursory of administrative efficiency indicators. For example, we might expect that larger, more

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populous, or demographically-dispersed provinces would split but no such patterns emerge in a broad comparison (see Appendix for more details). In other words, efficiency explanations assume a rational state that administers affairs to maximize local utility, a perspective that ignores politics. In fact bureaucratic and efficiency explanations are often invoked in order to obscure politics and confer legitimacy on a process that is otherwise dubious (Ferguson 1994). A second problem with this explanation is that it approaches territory with a kind of cold materialism that assumes regions and territories are ripe and ready to be divided and administered as states see fit. In fact, much of the literature on regionalism and decentralization tends to assume the essential existence of territories as enclosed spaces that can be empowered or weakened depending on state policy. But we know that this is not the case. As Paasi notes, territories are not “frozen frameworks where social life occurs. Rather, they are made, given meanings, and destroyed in social and individual action” (Paasi 2003: 110). To that end, this study makes three arguments about territorial organization, reorganization, and change. First and most immediately, territorial change often results from new or shifting political institutions. If we talk about territories being made through “social and individual action,” the political institutions and changes within them help shape and direct what those actions will be. Institutional reforms change the “rules of the game” in a way that territory at the regional and local level become highly desirable. In Indonesia, the reforms of democratization and decentralization that emerged in the wake of Indonesia’s political transition are identified as the key changes that spurred and shaped the process of territorial change. While this book focuses on recent changes, early chapters of the book explore how changes in the institutions of colonial rule and their particular political, economic, and cultural context led to shifting definitions and organizations of territorial administrative units in the archipelago. Furthermore, institutional change has also driven territorial change in other countries as well. Second, territorial change of the kind seen in Indonesia needs to be understood in the context of both competition as well as mutual gain. These are highly politicized and contentious processes, but we should not assume that new administrative territories emerge simply because local regions demand them and the national state gives in. Local demands exist, but change emerges in the context of what I call “territorial coalitions,” coalitions that span different levels of territorial administration and create linkages between different levels. Instead of taking center and periphery as unitary actors this study argues that each level is fragmented with multiple actors. In turn, their interests are shaped by various economic, political, identity, and security related motivations. In this way, the arguments presented here challenge the prevailing binary of center and periphery. Finally, the book argues that coalitions are possible at certain historical junctures because territories have a conceptual plasticity to them. Instead of

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taking the notion of territory and debating or assuming some exclusive material or ideological essence, territory needs to be recognized for its inherent flexibility. People imbue territory with different meanings and understandings, and for this reason, it can take on a kind of multi-dimensional nature. The different ways that individuals and groups think about and see value in territory can lead to conflict. But in many ways it can also lead to the basis for cooperation in the form of the territorial coalitions mentioned above. In other words, the flexibility or plasticity of territory is what allows for interests to overlap and coalitions to occur. In this sense, territory is a kind of focal point that allows groups to coordinate and mobilize for territorial change. In Indonesia, decentralization and democratization offered a number of different ways to think about territory. Local groups saw new opportunity to create a new region of their own either at the district or the provincial level. A people living in a northern Sulawesi region called Gorontalo, as we will see later, saw an opportunity to become their own Muslim majority province and break away from a Christian dominated province. At the same time, territory had a different meaning for national legislators who saw opportunities for electoral and patronage gains. Territory had profoundly different benefits for each of these groups, but still provided an underlying basis of cooperation which was necessary for the new territory to be approved. The overlapping interests between local groups and national growth then laid the foundation for a political coalition that pushed for and achieved the creation of a new province. These alignments, or coalitions, are striking in the context of Indonesian politics where the conventional wisdom dictates that social groups tend to avoid broad coalitions. The common interpretation of Indonesia’s political transition in 1998 and 1999 attributes success to social movements despite the inability to work together (Aspinall 2005; Weiss 2006). This study suggests that where aims have been narrower and more concrete, there have emerged alliances that cut across levels of administration as well as categories of groups that do not typically work together. Instead of focusing exclusively on national level politics or local level demands I show how national, regional, and local levels are linked through webs of networks and alliances. It is these territorial coalitions that help us understand the redrawing of boundaries, the emergence of new provinces, and the changing patterns of regional politics in Indonesia and elsewhere. This study thus explores the linkages between groups and actors in both the center and in the peripheral regions and how that can lay the groundwork for territorial change.

Methods and approach The study of territorial change and territorial coalitions as framed above requires various approaches looking at politics at different territorial levels. This book takes a broad historical approach at the national level to understand the relationship between political institutions and territorial change. At the

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same time, local-level politics and histories are also a critical part of the story and this requires digging around in far-flung regions where national media are often absent. The first chapters in the book focus on the national-level political institutions during colonial, post-colonial, and contemporary times to examine patterns of territorial change. During each period, shifts in territorial administration emerge due to the overlapping interests of national-level actors and local societal actors. During the colonial period, this was manifested in the tension between the state imperative for homogeneity versus its recognition of immense social and political diversity throughout the archipelago. In the post-colonial era and especially during the authoritarian New Order period, a similar dynamic can be framed in the context of state–society relations. Finally, in the contemporary reformasi era, I show how national and local actors collaborate to form coalitions to produce a shifting terrain of new provinces and districts. The historical chapters are based on secondary and some primary materials. In many ways, they tread familiar ground for those knowledgeable in Indonesia’s history, but it seeks to do so in a way that sheds light on how events formed and shaped the territorial institutions of the Indonesian state. In this way, they seek to de-naturalize territorial administration as simply technocratic or efficiency based and instead highlight the deeply politicized nature of territorial administration. The second section of the book consists of three in-depth case studies aimed to better assess the mechanisms and processes taking place on the ground. National institutional change trickled down to local levels and affected politics in contrasting ways. In Gorontalo, territory came to be framed as “marginality in the periphery” where local groups mobilized around grievances with the ethnic majority in the region. In Archipelagic Riau (Kepri) province, debates for a new province centered around membership and what it meant to be an orang Kepri in post-Suharto Indonesia. Finally, I examine how the politics of national security takes on a profoundly top-down form of territorial change in Papua, but one that still requires alliances with local actors below. The chapters in this section rely on both primary and secondary materials to examine both regional historical context and contemporary events. Local historical studies sometimes available only in the local regions were useful in examining how regions portrayed themselves vis-à-vis the nation and their regional neighbors. Local and national newspapers, magazines, newsletters and the like were highly useful in recreating and understanding more contemporary events and arguments. Interviews with dozens of people in the local, regional, and national levels were instructive in clarifying details about events but more often about ideas and how they were articulated in the context of political and territorial change. The three cases were not chosen randomly to gain a sampling of a general picture of Indonesia. Instead, they were chosen deliberately to highlight variation across cases and contrasting the different processes by which the recent

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territorial changes have emerged. Though many approaches in the social sciences caution against “choosing on the dependent variable,” this exercise is particularly useful when comparing across cases to highlight different kinds of processes that are taking place (Evera 1997; Ragin 2000). In the case of Indonesia, there are consistencies regarding territorial change in all three cases which support the argument that territorial coalitions are a key component of these changes. However, the point is that these coalitions are also manifested in profoundly different kinds of ways. In some places, they emerged due to issues of marginality and redress, in others out of issues related to membership, and in yet others out of national concerns about security. These three cases then help us see the different ways in which the national articulates against the local in a way that is much harder to see if exploring only one case, or multiple like cases. Close observers of Indonesia will note that this study focuses on the provincial level while much of the power has been decentralized to the district level. To be sure, districts are the main units of autonomy in Indonesia today. But this study focuses on new province formation because that can capture both regional-level politics as well as district-level politics since the new province aspirants are usually districts or groups of districts. This then raises the question of why districts would want to become provinces in the first place and here the answer is that provinces are still important. They have historically become the main level of identity for ethnic groups (as opposed to districts) and it was in fact the potential threat of strong provinces that led the government to devolve power to the district level. Furthermore, despite the lack of official power, provinces are still located in urban centers whereas districts are smaller and can often be located in backwaters. And while the landmark decentralization laws of 1999, and their subsequent amendments have devolved power to the district level below the province, this was precisely because policymakers feared devolving power to provinces would result in further agitation and instability. And despite laws to the contrary, provinces still matter. Governorships, for example, are still highly contested and remain sought after as a source of political influence, prestige, and patronage. An underlying goal of this study is the development of theory based primarily on an inductive analysis of case studies within Indonesia and proceeding to broader cross-national comparative reflections in the concluding chapter. Comparative case studies in Nigeria and India show similarities and confirm some of the lessons emerging from the Indonesian experience including the coalitions that emerged between national and local actors in the process of territorial change in those countries.

Structure of the book The next chapter explores some of the theoretical underpinnings of the argument made in the book. I elaborate on the definitions of territory and offer

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some broader claims about the phenomenon beyond Indonesia. I conclude by exploring the utility of using coalitions as a conceptual framework and as a practice of mobilization. Chapter 3 begins by asking why Indonesia’s territorial administration takes the form that it does today. It argues that the legacies of colonialism are evident in Indonesia’s post-colonial territorial administrative structure. Territoriality shifted significantly during the colonial era due to broad changes in economic conditions, colonial objectives, and changing local contexts on the ground. In particular, changes in trade patterns, the collapse of the Dutch East India Company (Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie—VOC), and the onset of World War II all had important if partial effects on territoriality today. Chapter 4 examines Indonesia’s territorial administration and change from independence in 1950 to the fall of the New Order regime in 1998. A puzzling feature of this period is that the weak Indonesian state saw extensive social turmoil but limited secessionism after independence in contrast to the subsequent New Order. The chapter argues that during times of state weakness, Indonesian social forces seek to change the state itself through a process of “rebellion without secession.” This also explains an inverse trend, where new provinces emerged during the immediate post-independence era in Indonesia while new province formation became a rare event as the state grew in strength. The last section brings us to the contemporary period addressing territorial politics after the fall of the New Order. Chapter 5 explores the struggle for territorial change in Indonesia through the experience of Gorontalo province in North Sulawesi. Gorontalo offers an example where local actors mobilized for a new province based on what I call “marginality in the periphery.” After briefly outlining the demographic characteristics of the region, it explores the historical process of state formation in the region and how it produced discourses of marginality. Against this backdrop, it shows how this discourse helped spark and fuel the movement for a new province in the wake of reformasi. Chapter 6 explores the territorial split which occurred between Riau in Sumatra and Island Riau (Kepri). It argues that territorial split was driven by a debate about different kinds of membership. Membership refers to the way people see themselves as part of a given community whether at the local, regional, national, or even global level. The chapter begins by examining the ethnic, religious, and economic background of both the mainland and the archipelago, showing that stark differences do not appear to exist between mainland and island Riau. It then examines the narrative of the civil society movement that advocated for a new province. The chapter goes on to address tensions embedded in mobilization by exploring the questions of membership within Kepri, within Riau province, and ultimately within the Indonesian nation-state. Chapter 7 examines the case of West Irian’s split from West Papua. This split differs from the previous cases in that it occurred suddenly and seemingly

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with little local support. Papua’s fate was tied up in intra-elite conflicts in Jakarta about the region’s future in the Indonesian nation-state. While few in Jakarta supported full independence, there were splits among policymakers and elites about how much and what kind of autonomy Papua should have. This case of territorial change shows how the central state pushed for the process for the sake of “national interests.” Chapter 8 takes stock of the theories and arguments presented in the book. It summarizes the main arguments laid out in each chapter. It also addresses two comparative cases, India and Nigeria, which are multiethnic states with shifting internal boundaries. In doing so, the cases highlight the larger argument about the relationship between political institutional change, coalitions, and territorial change, namely that political realignments created territorial coalitions to spur on the creation of new provinces. Finally, the territorial changes discussed, whether intended or not, seem to have had a centripetal effect on Indonesia’s territoriality.

2

Breaking boundaries, splitting regions The politics of territorial coalitions

Introduction The process of territorial change occurring in Indonesia today, dubbed pemekaran wilayah (regional blossoming) or pembentukan daerah (new region formation), refers to the splitting or dividing up of provinces, districts, and sub-districts into multiple new territorial administrative units. Since 1999, the number of provinces in Indonesia has grown from 26 to 33 and the number of districts from 290 to 450, reconfiguring the political territorial map of Indonesia. This process of fragmentation can be distinguished from two related phenomena. First, this is not a proliferation of regions that results from conquest or other forms of territorial acquisition. The number of states in the United States, for example, has risen from the original 13 to the present-day 50, but most of the increase is accounted for by westward expansion and territorial acquisition.1 In Indonesia, the incorporation of Western Papua in 1961 and East Timor in 1975 technically represent a territorial change, but their annexations fall outside the realm of this study because they were added through expansion rather than internal change.2 Second, this form of territorial change is distinct from the practice of gerrymandering. Gerrymandering refers to the redrawing of political boundaries for electoral benefit. While there is an electoral component to the current phenomenon, gerrymandering does not imply an aggregate increase in the number of regional or local territorial administrative units. In fact, the assumption behind gerrymandering is that the number of electoral districts stays constant while their shape, size and composition may change, sometimes drastically. While focusing on creation of new provinces may seem like a relatively narrow scope of inquiry, it is worth noting that this phenomenon is not unique to Indonesia. In fact, administrative reorganization in many countries has included significant territorial changes. In Southeast Asia, countries such as Vietnam and the Philippines have also experienced a similar jump in the number of new provinces.3 In Nigeria and India the creation of new provinces or states has also historically been a major bone of contention.4 Canada too recently carved out a new province called Nunavut.

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In Indonesia, the implementation of decentralization has brought renewed attention to politics in local regions and their connections to Jakarta (see Aspinall and Fealy 2003; Erb et al. 2005; Nordholt and van Klinken 2007). However, less attention has been paid to understanding the creation and production of the local and its broader implications. The following sections attempt to build a framework to understand the broad processes of territorial change and new province formation in Indonesia today. To do so, I put forward the concept of territorial coalitions and explore linkages between groups spanning center and periphery that helped to make possibly territorial change and the creation of new regions.

Making, unmaking, and scaling territory The launching point of this study rests on the observation that new territories are being created in Indonesia, but my argument is that this is more than just a change in territory; the creation of new provinces also represents an important change in territoriality. By this I mean that the rules and norms around territory are changing. It is useful then to first explore what is meant by the terms territory and territoriality and how they differ from each other conceptually. Territory is usually defined as bounded space. We live in a world where virtually every imaginable space has been bounded and delimited; to wit, we cannot go anywhere without being within a defined territory. On the one hand, boundaries divide space in ways that are mutually exclusive, like dividing up a pie. We cannot be in two different cities or countries at the same time. On the other hand, territories are nested within one another and so we can be in a country, a state, and a city all simultaneously. This nesting or scaling of territories within territories means among other things that the potential for human beings to create new territories is practically limitless. Territorialization is, then, the process by which space becomes increasingly bounded and divided, or territorialized. Scholars have argued that forces such as modernity, capitalism, and technology have led human beings to think and act more and more territorially (Sack 1986). For example, the enclosure of forests by the crown in England during the medieval period represented the beginning of a process by which commoners were forcibly excluded from previously common property land (Thompson 1968). Political order, as we will discuss later, has also become territorialized in the form of the nationstate. But more generally the rise and spread of property rights has meant that territory has become increasingly individualized in the form of land tenure. Territoriality is then defined as the formal and informal rules of the game regarding territories. More specifically, it refers to the ways territories are organized, governed, and contested. Referring to the territoriality of a state such as Indonesia is not merely to describe its physical characteristics but also to assess the underlying norms and practices on which it is based. How is

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power exercised within the territory? What are the rules regarding territorial boundaries? How autonomous is the territory from external influences? Sack conceptualizes territoriality as the way individuals or groups “affect, influence, or control people, phenomena, and relationships, by delimiting and asserting control over a geographic area” (Sack 1986). Territoriality is thus inseparable from concepts of authority, control, and power. While most scholars in the social sciences have accepted that human territoriality is more than simply a manifestation of biological behavior, the concept itself has usually been assumed and taken for granted (Sack 1986). The way human society has shaped notions of territoriality is a relatively recent area of inquiry and three key insights derived from this revelation are particularly useful for purposes of this study. First, states organized along territorial lines emerged at a particular historical moment. Second, if states and territories are made, they can also be unmade. And, finally, to say that they can be unmade is to say territoriality can shift and change. I elaborate on each of these points below. While scholars as early as Weber had recognized territory as a key characteristic of states, much of the subsequent scholarship in the field of political science tended to take this characteristic for granted. Marxist and structural functionalist approaches in political science differed starkly but neither paid much attention to territoriality per se. It was resurgence in interest about the state itself that led to more attention about its territorial components (Evans et al. 1985). One example of this is the debate among scholars of state formation and how the clearly demarcated territorial state ultimately won out over other competing forms of political organization such as city-states and empires over the long historical trajectory (Tilly 1990; Spruyt 1994). Another example is the scholarship about the extension of modern state forms to the colonial world including work that highlights the legacies of colonial rules to present day conditions in many development countries (Young 1997). Scholars of international relations have also recognized that states emerged in a particular historical context, traditionally pointing to Europe and the Treaty of Westphalia in 1648 as the key turning point when the authority of the Church was made subservient to the authority of the sovereign as well as the states over which they ruled (Bull 1977). But there remained a disjuncture between historians and theorists, the latter of whom assumed states to be largely static and unchanging. This was particularly true among proponents of realism and neo-realism (Agnew 1994). In a seminal article, John Ruggie bridged these two schools by arguing that political authority and territoriality had changed over time and that the modern state which had been “territorially defined, fixed, and mutually exclusive enclaves of legitimate domination” was becoming increasingly “unbundled” in the modern age (Ruggie 1993: 168). Ruggie’s observation, among others, launched a new trajectory on research around territoriality which argued that in an era of globalization states were being undermined with their territorial boundaries becoming less and less relevant. The rise of regional trading agreements around the world heralded a

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new age accompanied by the end of the nation state and the rise of regional economies (Omae 1995). While some celebrated the triumph of a global market liberalism, others lamented the process as one of westernization. For those who saw the centrality of the state and economic development in places such as East Asia and Latin America this represented a large-scale rollback of state authority within its territorial boundaries (Strange 1996). This intellectual trajectory on territoriality was an important step forward in that it recognized the discontinuous nature of the modern state system and its potential erosion. Overwhelmingly this perspective saw forces such as Europeanization and globalization as fundamentally weakening states, trivializing boundaries, and undermining territorial sovereignty. Though the state formation and the state erosion perspectives differed in many ways, they did share the tendency to link territoriality to the level of the nation-state. A third trajectory of scholarship has helped to chip away at this trend. This third perspective actually countered the premise of weakening territoriality in an era of globalization. According to these scholars notions of territorial “unbundling” or “deterritorialization” were problematic in their simplistic depiction of changes occurring in the world. As the early projections of the sweeping impact of globalization abated, these scholars observed that states and territoriality remained remarkably resilient. The changes taking place were not that of “deterritorialization” but of reterritorialization (Kahler and Walter 2006). In making these arguments, scholars employed the concept of scale which highlights the way territories of differing size are nested within one another such as the global, national, and local levels (Delaney and Leitner 1997; Cox 1998). Because scales are malleable and dynamic, territoriality can then move upwards and downwards along the scale. Globalization is thus not destroying territory but rather rescaling it upwards to the supra-national level and downwards to the sub-national level. It is leading not to deterritorialization of the state, but rather to its denationalization (Brenner 1999). Said differently, rather than an unbundling of territory, there has been a process of rebundling, for example, upwards to the European level (Ansell and Palma 2004). In this sense, what is emerging today is a world where territory and authority are more fragmented, and not wedded to strict national territorial boundaries (Ansell and Palma 2004). This reconsideration of eroding territoriality has forced scholars to shift their gaze upwards above the states and downwards below the state to reconsider notions of territoriality. The former has mostly been the realm of international relations scholars and Europeanists. In contrast the latter downward gaze below the state level has been dominated by anthropologists and area studies specialists who conduct in-depth research on the ground (Vandergeest and Peluso 1995; Wadley 2003; Peluso 2005). In this way, while the study of territoriality is very much in flux scholars have taken seriously the need to look at how it is changing at various levels but particularly above and below the state.

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Despite key advances in understanding territoriality including the emerging attention to territoriality above and below the state, one continued shortcoming of the scholarship is the implicit assumption of the indivisibility of territoriality. There tends to be an assumption that territorial arrangements are inherently zero-sum and that the benefit of say, national territoriality comes at the expense of local territory. One reason for this is that many scholars see territoriality in largely materialist terms. Areas rich in natural resources such as petroleum, minerals, and timber benefit those who can access and control them. If natural resources are distributed unevenly across a territory of a given state the central government may extract the resources either to redistribute it across other regions, or simply to plunder it for its own benefit. Local resources can of course be captured locally by local power-holders which can create tensions with the center and other regions. Any of these conditions can lead to domestic imbalance and resentment (Ross 2004). Even without natural resources, certain regions may feel marginalized by a central government leading to a conflation of marginality, territory, and identity or “internal colonialism” which then gives rise to separatism or rebellion (Hechter 1975). If territories are conceived in material terms, then it makes sense that they would remain inherently conflictual because in a world of fixed goods, one side’s gain is the other’s loss. For that reason most research on politics and territory has emphasized rebellions, civil wars, separatism, and ethnic violence (Brown 1988; Bertrand 2004). An over-emphasis on the materiality of territory, however, tends to obscure other critical aspects. We know that people also have emotional attachments to land that are often independent of its material benefit. Anthropologists and historians have sought to understand the symbolic dimensions of territory including the sources of territorial attachments (Kahler and Walter 2006). While early work tended to assume attachments as primordial, more recent scholars have tried to understand why and how those attachments emerge (Basso 1996; Goemans 2006). But understanding the sources of symbolic attachments that individuals and groups have to territories and the process by which they emerge also reinforces the incompatibility of territoriality between different actors. The moving of indigenous peoples from their land or a development project built on sacred places typically show how materialist aspects of territoriality trump and overpower the symbolic or cultural dimension. In turn, it also shows how these kinds of symbolic attachments can be used as a way to mobilize and resist territorial encroachments by the state (Afiff and Lowe 2007). Yet a third dimension of territoriality is political or institutional. Territory has political value that emerges out of the political institutions of a national state. Again, this dimension stands independent of the aforementioned two. Where regional representation in the political system is institutionalized, territory means having a voice on national matters (Bartolini 2004). For example, the total number of states or provinces can play an important part in

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determining the overall make up of the legislative and executive branches of government as they form the basis of electoral districts. While legislative seats may be distributed according to a party-list system, there is often close attention paid to the balance of representatives between different regions. These differing notions of territoriality—material, cultural, and political— can and do exist simultaneously, and this opens doors not just to conflict but also to forms of cooperation. Although difference does not lead always to cooperation it does not necessarily assume conflict either. The multi-dimensional nature of territory forms the basis by which individuals and groups may decide to mobilize around territorial issues. Interests along economic political and social dimensions may often overlap in surprising and unexpected ways. In the next section, I elaborate more on these mobilizations.

Territorial coalitions and mobilization The multi-dimensionality of territoriality is key to understanding the territorial reorganization of the Indonesian state. Territorial change, I argue, is not the product of a single actor but rather a collaborative effort among individuals and groups at multiple territorial levels. In other words there is a coalitional politics that is taking place. Coalitions are typically defined as groups of individuals and organizations that work together toward a common objective. The concept has been used to analyze politics in a variety of settings. The field of legislative politics, for example, has explored how coalitions between political parties emerge and their implications for political outcomes (Riker 1962; Tsebelis 2002). Coalitions between classes have been studied as a major force for political change (Moore 1966; Rueschemeyer et al. 1992). And political economists have explained outcomes such as open or closed economic policies or the rise of welfare states as resulting from different kinds of sectoral coalitions (Rogowski 1989; Doner 1990; Esping-Anderson 1990). Drawing on notions of scale introduced earlier, this book introduces the concept of territorial coalitions, coalitions that span different levels of territorial administration and in the process embody both the hierarchy as well as the different power relationships embedded in that structure. While scholars typically highlight class or sectoral coalitions, territorial coalitions illustrate how alliances often cut across these groups. The main actors in such coalitions include local civil society organizations, local-level political elites, provinciallevel political elites, national-level political elites, political parties, and different state institutions such as the military and national-level ministries. Others have also explored linkages and alliances between different geographic scales. Cox explores how marginal or peripheral regions can transform from “spaces of dependence” into “spaces of engagement” by allying with groups at different territorial levels leading to “scale jumping” where local issues are given national or international prominence through the construction of coalitions (Cox 1998). Similarly, scholars have explored local

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NGOs or workers who ally with supra-national organizations in order to put pressure on that national state (Keck and Sikkink 1998; Tarrow 2004). In all these cases, “jumping scales” provides a critical way in which local interests can become nationalized or internationalized. This book’s concept of territorial coalitions explores how “scale jumping” can occur between local, region, and national levels in the domestic political context. The concept of cross-cutting territorial alliances helps us to understand territorial politics, but one difference is that we typically assume that allies share a certain set of values and norms, say about human rights or workers’ rights or other issues. Similarly, the assumptions in coalitional politics is that values and norms are either shared or need to be put aside in pursuit of specific goals (Gamson 1961: 374). My argument here is that simultaneous and differing values can form the basis for a coalition. Said differently, coalitions can work because of difference, not just despite them. Cooperation may depend on the fact that groups have different values and attitudes toward their goal, in this case, territory. To that end, the plasticity of territory ends up being a useful feature that brings groups who may usually not work together to engage and mobilize.

Territorial coalitions in comparative perspective If the aforementioned helps us understand the immediate causes of territorial change in Indonesia, it also helps us to understand internal changes in other parts of the world. India experienced a massive territorial reorganization in the 1950s as groups demanded territorial boundaries along ethnic and linguistic lines. Subsequently, there have been some new states created but generally to the chagrin of the central government. However, more recently, a new wave of territorial change has emerged in the context of decentralization initiatives and the changing landscape of electoral competition. As state-level parties have become politically stronger, national parties often appealed to neglected sub-regions for electoral support, exchanging the promise of a new state for votes at the ballot box (Stuligross 2001: 18). This has led to the creation of several new states that emerged with the blessing of national players. This suggests an alliance between marginalized groups and aspiring parties who can gain more seats nationally and locally by catering to local demands. The importance of the national role and its alliance with local politics is also evident in Nigeria. Established as a federal system by the British in 1958, Nigeria had just three states at independence, organized loosely around the three dominant ethnic groups, the Hausa-Fulani, the Yoruba, and the Igbo. Even before independence, politics took on a tri-polar dimension which culminated in a civil war and humanitarian disaster. Since then, the number of states in Nigeria has risen dramatically. In part these came from local demands, but a variety of interests at the national level were also crucial. Early on, a singular interest in unity, led the military rulers to split the three

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regions into smaller units as a way to “divide and rule.” At other times, patronage politics led to incentives from legislators to advocate splits between states. Shifts from authoritarian rule to democratic rule also shifted the incentives of parties at different territorial levels (Kraxberger 2003). Nor are the territorial coalitions or alliances suggested here exclusive to the developing world. Canada saw the creation of a new province in 1999 as a result of landmark legislation passed in 1993. The new province of Nunavut emerged from social mobilization on the part of those in the region who sought to create a provincial homeland for indigenous Inuits. In this sense, the story of Nunavut could follow a classic narrative of indigenous groups mobilizing along lines of ethnic identity to push for more autonomy under a federal structure. However, the political alliance with national parties is also crucial. In 1993, the Progressive Conservative Party was deeply unpopular and seeking ways to appeal to a more liberal constituency. Indigenous issues had become prominent in the political discourse and the Oka crisis, a standoff between Mohawk Indians and the government, over land rights issues marred the government’s reputation. Furthermore, a single settlement around land claims issues in the contested area of the Mackenzie Valley also collapsed in the early 1990s leading to desperation in the government party. This led the government to introduce and approve a new Nunavut province, in many ways for their own political survival (Loukacheva 2007). In fact, if we look even at some historical examples in the United States such as the creation of West Virginia, we see a similar kind of dynamic. West Virginia actually seceded from the state of Virginia in 1862, soon after Virginia declared secession from the Union. In part, West Virginians felt little kinship with Virginia, they were geographically separate, lived in more mountainous territory, and thus did not rely on slavery, the political issue of the day. But the split between the two states can only be understood in the national context of the civil war where West Virginia joining the Union had important political and strategic implications (Rice and Brown 1993). All of this is to say that territorial change and the notion of cross-regional alliances can be understood as a global phenomenon. The cases of India and Nigeria are explored in more detail in the conclusion. While there are distinct differences in terms of institutions and historical context, the larger patterns in these multi-ethnic and often territorially fragile states bear striking similarities to Indonesia.

Territorial coalitions in the Indonesian context In the context of Indonesia, discussions of alliances and coalitions have often been examined between political elites, political parties, and political classes. For example, much of the discussions of Indonesia’s transition and reformasi explore the ways that figures such as Abdurrahman Wahid, Megawati Sukarnoputeri, and Amien Rais forged an otherwise unlikely alliance to oppose Suharto in the waning days of his presidency (Hefner 2000; Aspinall

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2005). Others have discussed coalitions in the context of political economy and how the capitalist class initially supported, then later abandoned Suharto and the New Order regime (Bellin 2000). It is also clear that among political elites, alliances between what Hadiz calls “predatory interests” have also increasingly mobilized alliances, often between center and periphery (Hadiz 2004). In some cases, these alliances go even beyond elites. At the societal level, Tsing describes how urban middleclass environmentalists and local rural villagers formed an unlikely alliance to protect forests. Despite these groups having significantly different views on environment she observes that “sometimes, difference can lead to new forms of unity and struggle” (Tsing 2005). But while these alliances span territory, the interpretation is usually that geography serves as a proxy for class. In this study, the notion of territorial coalitions is explicitly geographic and cross-class and cross-sectoral. I suggest we take actors along three different territorial levels: national, regional, and local. Initiatives for territorial changes are likely to come either from the local level and scale upwards or vice versa. Groups at the local level are the most obvious proponents for new provinces because territory may be viewed symbolically as a homeland with provincehood a long-held aspiration. In multi-ethnic provinces, such as North Sulawesi, key groups may feel marginalized or slighted, and this aspiration may be particularly strong. A new territory may also be seen as a solution to economic woes. Depending on how the state is organized, a new province can bring new fiscal resources to the region that promises to promote development. At the same time local elites may have an interest in new provinces both for the prestige as well as the economic opportunity to create their own bailiwick. If local sentiments for new provinces make sense, how should we view national level support for territorial change? These groups have a different take on territory. For example, security may be an overriding priority for Jakarta. Supporting a new administrative region in an unstable area of the country may serve to divide and rule different players in the region. In the creation of West Papua, for example, military officers played a major role in brokering deals with local groups in the process of negotiating for new provinces. At the same time national legislators who have to approve new provinces may also see the political benefits for their own political party. A new province can reshape the legislature at the national level especially when the electoral lines are drawn around provinces. If a party has hopes to capture a particular region they may back the local demands for provincehood. Party politics may also be influenced by patterns of patronage as new provinces and districts can offer new opportunities in branch offices as well. The regional or provincial level in this situation is much more ambivalent. We are not likely to see a proactive movement for a new province emerge from the “mother” province itself. The alliance with either national or local level actors is likely to be more contingent. Provincial-level actors, often governors or legislators, are sometimes reluctant to see new provinces created

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because it generally means that their province will become smaller and wield less influence. On the other hand, they may sometimes be convinced with side payments or assurances of other kinds of compensation.

The process of coalitions It is also useful here to explore the process of territorial coalitions. What kind of role do they play and how do they work? Why are they so important for the creation of new provinces in Indonesia? The argument presented in this book should be understood as speaking against an exclusively statist interpretation of proliferation as well as exclusively populist ones. To be sure, the creation of new administrative boundaries at the sub-national level falls within the authority of the central state and for this reason, support from actors in the center is critical. But national actors can not merely create new provinces on a whim, particularly in the context of a democratic and decentralized state. Some kind of legitimating rationale is necessary and this often takes the form of local popular demand. At the same time, the argument also illustrates the limits of purely local or popular movements for new provinces. Local actors may push hard for new provinces, but in most cases actors in the center must also have some sort of incentive to change local boundaries. In this way the framework of territorial coalitions incorporates both the logic of state power as well as social forces. Instead of arguing the importance of one or the other, it addresses the alignment of interests between actors in both arenas. Instead of perpetuating the problematic binary of center and periphery, which conceives of the two as unitary actors, we should understand the fragmentation of both actors and interests in both the center and the periphery. This fragmentation is what allows for territorial coalitions to occur. In this context, what are the different kinds of linkages and how do they function? Adapting from Sinha’s work on regional politics in India, I explore three kinds of linkages: institutional, social and personal (Sinha 2004).5 For example, political parties based in Jakarta have relationships with local-level political parties that are formal and institutional. There are also social linkages, links between social groups at both the center and the periphery. One example of this is the ethnic diaspora groups that form in places like Jakarta and play an important role in lobbying and pushing for change including new province formation. Finally, personal linkages also play an important role in linking actors between center and periphery. Although these personal linkages may emerge in the context of an institutional or social context, they are independent in the sense that links between actors can play an important and independent role in seeing new province creation succeed. These territorial coalitions function through different kinds of coordination and collaboration. One clear way is that they pool resources. Politicians and business leaders in the “center,” for example, may give money to the provincial cause. Beyond merely pooling resources, these groups may coordinate

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mobilization at different levels of administration. For example, demonstrations to show support of new provinces may occur in the locality where the new province is proposed, the capital of the “mother province” as well as in the national capital. Finally, there may be a functional division of labor among different groups at different levels. In the locality, for example, organizations supporting proliferation may socialize and garner support for the initiative. In the center, the activities may consist of lobbying the state for approval of creating a new state. The presence and need for coalition implies that there are opposing forces to provincial proliferation. If there were no opposing forces, then a coalition would be unnecessary. Opponents of proliferation are also often present at every single level of administration. However, as the forthcoming case studies show, many of the opponents to proliferation are particularly clustered at the provincial level. Many provincial-level actors are likely to lose when a new province is carved out of their own territory. For example, the province may lose revenue generated from the territory. Incumbents may lose important electoral districts which could hurt them and help their opponents. Local legislators could lose their seats altogether if their districts are allocated to a new province. And if the provincial split occurs along ethnic lines, then ethnic groups in the mother province may resent their new-found minority status. Provincial-level opponents may also try to align with groups both above them in the center and below them in the locality. For example, at the local level, bureaucrats and other public officials from outside the area may be concerned about their sudden status as minorities. This reflects a concern throughout Indonesia that decentralization and territorial reorganization would lead to an ethnification of politics where native sons or putra asli daerah would be given preferential policies positions over outsiders. Similarly, national-level actors including bureaucrats and legislators were opposed to the notion of territorial change because of the potential ethnification and threat to Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia (NKRI), or the concept of the Unitary Republic of the Indonesian State. While these opponents of new province creation also aligned vertically, they may not have pooled resources or worked collaboratively to the same extent the proponents did. By positing the importance of territorial coalitions and alliances, this argument avoids a long-running debate about whether societal conflict in Indonesia is elite-led or bottom-up. Instead, an institutional approach looks at the way in which political changes gave both societal groups and elites different kinds of interests and incentives such that they decided to work together to create new territorial boundaries. In other words instead of arguing for an “either–or” explanation, it examines how each interacts with the other.

Conclusion Territorial change in the form of new province creation is an important but under-theorized phenomenon. This chapter has tried to present a new

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framework on territorial change by emphasizing the importance of territorial coalitions. It has suggested national and local factors influence the ways actors think about provinces and how, under certain conditions, enough actors’ interests can overlap to create coalitions in order to achieve the status of a new district or a new province. I have suggested that a coalitional approach dispels the idea that this phenomenon is simply driven by national state interests or local agitation. Instead, it is the marriage of the two through coalitions that have made these changes possible. To be sure I note that triggers can come from either the national level or the local level depending on the particular regional context in which territorial change is being proposed. But eventually there must be support beyond a single territorial level. It is important to note that because of the weaknesses of existing theoretical foundations, this framework has been constructed inductively looking closely at contrasting and comparing different experiences. In this sense, it does not claim to explain all kinds of proliferation everywhere. Seeing how well this framework works in other contexts will require further research. However, given the examples explored in Indonesia, this framework seems to provide a more complete explanation of the phenomenon of provincial proliferation.

3

Origins and dilemmas of territorial administration in colonial Indonesia

Introduction Indonesia today is organized as a unitary state with territorial administrative units at the provincial and the district level. Territorially, this reflects the way modern states are organized, but one of the puzzling aspects of the province in Indonesia is its lack of historical precedent. Provinces date back only to the early twentieth century when the Dutch colonial government introduced them to replace the older and smaller regional territories called residencies. How did Indonesia then come to be organized in this fashion? While territorial structures and their subunits often appear to be natural, stable, and fixed, scholars have long noted the social construction of territory and territoriality, identifying particular moments where notions of boundaries, territory, and sovereignty have shifted and political and social institutions and practices have changed.1 The present system of territorial administration is no different and has deep roots. Nor did the system result from some evolutionary process that is the result of linear or gradual improvement. Rather, this chapter will show territoriality in the archipelago shifted due to changes in economic conditions, colonial practice, and the imperative of the modern state. The colonial era in Indonesia, measured in centuries, has a long and complex history. While doing injustice to this complexity, this chapter identifies a number of key turning points including the shift from the spice trade to commercial agriculture, from corporate rule to state rule, and from economic logic to political and ethical imperatives. Such shifts also led to changes both in territory, but more importantly, territoriality and they way in which the archipelago would be run. Throughout, colonial administrators faced a constant dilemma between the desire for uniformity versus the recognition of diversity on the archipelago. Cribb describes this as “bureaucratic pressures for uniformity and continuity, and political and economic pressures for change and diversity” (Cribb 1999: 124). On the one hand, a system of indirect rule sought to preserve local hierarchies and forms of political authority that predated colonial rule. At the same time, the Dutch bureaucracy sought to make legible and coherent the vastly diverse region over which they governed (Scott 1998).

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As we shall see the Dutch colonial state also met ample resistance and much of the way the territories emerged was a response to threats from the local population. Territorial change occurred not as a sudden process of topdown administration but one negotiated by the Dutch and the local population. In this regard, it is worth noting that three and a half centuries of Dutch colonialism remained a project of rule rather than an accomplishment. Neither can we say that this system was one simply imposed by Europeans by a reluctant indigenous group. In many cases, native elite groups including the priyayi were well integrated into the Dutch colonial administrative system in a way that served their own interests. This chapter explores these tensions and how the production of territorial administration emerged in an environment punctuated by economic conditions, colonial policy, and changing local contexts on the ground. The next section discusses territoriality in the pre-colonial period and the way in which early colonial powers changed the territorial calculus on the archipelago. It then examines the VOC’s initial ambivalence, even reluctance, for territorial administration to their eventual embrace of territorial conquest as one of its key goals. Finally, it examines the way in which the Dutch colonial state sought to build the Indonesian state through its own system of territorial administration. Ultimately, legacies of colonialism are evident in today’s territorial administrative structure, even as Indonesians rejected the final Dutch push for a federal Indonesian state.

Pre-colonial geography and territorial diversity Territoriality on the Indonesian archipelago prior to colonial rule is difficult to assess for several reasons. For one, there is simply a dearth of written records that lay out how political administration took place. Historians have typically relied on inscriptions and chronicles to piece together evidence about previous eras. There is also a certain ambiguity in labeling some kingdoms as “pre-colonial.” Given how slowly colonial rule evolved, any number of kingdoms and sultanates that existed prior to, say, the sixteenth century thrived well into later periods when European colonial rule had ostensibly taken hold. Finally, even in the case of empires existing well before any significant European political influence in the region, from the eleventh to fifteenth centuries, for example, political arrangements varied so widely that it makes little sense to think of the archipelago as a single coherent region or political unit. We do know that many of the ancient pre-colonial kingdoms did extend influence outward beyond their immediate political centers into outer lying and peripheral regions. For example, the Srivijaya empire based itself on Sumatra but evidence suggests it exerted influence across the Straits of Malacca onto the Malay peninsula as well (Wolters 1967). Similarly, the Majapahit empire based itself in eastern Java from the late thirteenth century to about 1500, and extended power outwards far beyond Java to Borneo, Sumatra, Bali, and the Malay Peninsula (Cribb 2000: 87). In fact, Majapahit

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is often cited as the largest pre-colonial empire in Southeast Asia, with its size measured in terms of how much territory it controlled. In this sense, pre-colonial empires have, by definition, been characterized in territorial terms. At the same time, there are unresolved questions about the degree to which territory was clearly delineated in ancient polities. Many scholars argue that political boundaries as we understand them today did not exist in pre-colonial times. Instead, power radiated outward from the center of a kingdom like a penumbra, with influence waning in proportion to distance from the center (Anderson 1972). The underlying rationale for this theory is that Southeast Asia as a region tended to be land abundant and labor scarce, making territory and land a low priority. Wars tended to be less about securing territorial gains than about capturing populations who could be brought back and put to work, usually in agricultural cultivation (Reid 1988: 22). In this type of system, political authority over distant regions proved weak and sovereigns ceded substantial authority to local lords and vassals. Political alignments and loyalties also lay with sovereigns rather than with any particular territory or piece of land and that loyalty was not necessarily exclusive but could typically be distributed to several different sovereigns. On Java this kind of arrangement is commonly referred to as a “system of limited kingship” (Ricklefs 1993: 17). For example, the empires such as Srivijaya and Majapahit, while having extensive territorial reach, are often depicted as cocentric circles where their influence is strongest within the inner circle, and weakest along the circumference of the outer circles. On the other hand, archaeological evidence suggests that some ancient kingdoms did operate in systems with clearly marked territorial boundaries. For example, the Airlangga Kingdom in Eastern Java was split into two kingdoms in the early eleventh century. The source and meaning of the boundary that divided the new kingdoms of Janggala and Panjalu is a point of scholarly debate, but the division suggests that lines were drawn politically and demarcated clearly (Nihom 1986). Why some polities employed boundaries while other did not is unclear. One possible explanation may lie in the contrast often drawn between the maritime kingdoms and the inland agrarian kingdoms of the region. Inland kingdoms, particularly on Java, were more rural, agrarian, and inward looking. In contrast to maritime Southeast Asia, agricultural-based kingdoms tended to be more bureaucratic and therefore more likely to administer their societies in a systematic way and this logic may extend to territoriality as well (Lieberman 1993). On the other hand, the maritime city states may have had little ability or interest to rule in such a bureaucratic and administrative manner and thus been much less interested in notions of territorial control. The point here is not to resolve any debate on where and when territorial boundaries were used across the archipelago prior to colonialism. What is clear is that on the eve of European arrival a diversity of political systems flourished with very different conceptions of territory and territoriality. Some kingdoms ruled over territory but did not rule territorially. In other cases,

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territorial boundaries and divisions seem to have been employed in the way modern states function today. This diversity then presented the dilemma that Dutch and other colonial powers would face in their attempts to colonize the archipelago. And it was on these varying conceptions of territory that colonial powers layered their own notions of territoriality.

The spice trade and choke-point economics At the outset, the European colonial powers that arrived in the region had little interest, much less ability to conquer or rule territorially over the Indies archipelago. The Portuguese who arrived in the early part of the sixteenth century sought to secure control of the spice trade including pepper, nutmeg, cloves, and sandalwood, all of which flourished on particular islands within the archipelago. They sought simply to buy cheap and sell dear and extensive territorial administration was deemed too costly and unnecessary. The Portuguese aimed to monopolize the spice trade by occupying key production points in the eastern part of the archipelago including the Moluccas, the lesser Sunda Islands, and parts of Sulawesi. They also sought to control strategic ports that served as a clearinghouse for the export of spices such as Melaka on the Malay peninsula. For the most part, the Portuguese secured these regions through coercion and built forts in order to protect their interests. Areas outside of these ports went largely untouched by Portuguese administration.2 By the latter half of the seventeenth century, the Portuguese were no longer able to exclude other players from the thriving spice market. The Dutch capitalized on their improved seafaring skills as well as their growing economic might and set out to the East Indies intent on carving out a share of the lucrative spice trade. In 1602 a group of businessmen formally established the VOC, which was then granted a charter by the Dutch crown that gave it semi-sovereign status throughout Asia including powers to build alliances, build fortresses, conclude treaties, and where necessary to wage war (Ricklefs 1993: 27). In 1603, the VOC assembled an expeditionary force and small armada of a dozen ships and set out for the spice islands (Gaastra 2003: 39). The VOC’s stated mission was to procure spices and other valuables and, where possible, engage and displace Portuguese forces. Though both of these objectives were grounded in economic interests, disrupting the Portuguese monopoly had the unintended consequence of introducing free competition in the local and regional spice trade, thereby driving prices up and cutting into profits at home (Van Niel 1978a: 282). The VOC realized early on that they would have to use political authority to secure an economic monopoly of their own (Vandenbosch 1941: 52). This shift from “merchant adventurer” to “merchant prince” had two broad implications for territorial governance. First, the VOC’s governance would have to be restructured. The original governing council composed of “Seventeen Gentlemen” (Heeren XVII) represented different regions of the

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Netherlands and made decisions and issued orders out of Amsterdam. But communication between the council and the representatives abroad proved slow and inefficient and the council agreed to delegate a broad range of authority to agents headed by a newly created governor-general office in the region (Angelino 1931: 7). Moving political authority from the motherland to the colony proved the first step in conceiving of the archipelago as its own territorially autonomous entity. This new structure also meant that the VOC would have to search for a more permanent base of operations. After moving from the Eastern region of the archipelago in Ambon to the more centrally-located Banten on Java, the company finally settled on Batavia on the north western tip of Java to base their activities (Ricklefs 1993: 28). Initially Batavia served as a coordinating center for a loose network of branch offices making up VOC operations throughout Asia. These included offices in Nagasaki, Taiwan, Vietnam, Sumatra, Surat, Ceylon, and Goa. Even though places on the archipelago such as Malacca, Ambon, and Ternate would later be consolidated into the Dutch East Indies, they were initially simply part, albeit an important part, of the wider Asian network of port offices and factories that promoted VOC trading interests in the region. The governor general in Batavia appointed residents to manage each of these offices, dubbed residencies. In the long run, Batavia, later renamed Jakarta, would become the political keystone for an increasingly centralized colonial state. As they established their base of operations on Batavia, the VOC systematically employed a combination of negotiated contracts and brute force in order to secure their monopoly on spices in the region. Early agreements with the Ambonese (for cloves), the inhabitants of Pulo Ai (for nutmeg and mace), and Ternate for other spices, collapsed as contracts were easily broken by both sides and oversight and enforcement proved difficult. On the small island of Pulo Ai, VOC forces turned to violence and wiped out a large portion of the population, replacing them with perkeniers or traders who subsequently controlled the nutmeg and mace market. The Dutch initiated warfare in their push for the clove market in Ambon, in some cases also destroying some of the very clove trees they sought to control. Not until 1655 were they able to make Ambon submit to their rule. The control of Ternate also proved elusive with a strong sultanate and competition from the Spanish empire. Ternate did not fall under full Dutch control until the latter part of the seventeenth century. Overall, these efforts by the VOC did not try to establish complete control over the entire archipelago. Rather they sought to secure key “chokepoints” just enough to manage and monopolize the spice trade. In this sense, for both the Portuguese and the Dutch VOC, market control for spices defined how political control would occur. With spices growing on islands throughout the archipelago, they relied on maintaining a network of offices and ports which allowed them to monopolize production and transportation of the spice trade. Territorial administration remained limited to those key pockets and elsewhere much of the archipelago remained free from heavy colonial political control.

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Constructing the center and the shift to Java As time progressed, the Dutch came to find that securing only the chokepoints was not necessarily as cheap or efficient as they hoped. In fact, it came at an enormous cost in terms of resources particularly on Java where VOC efforts to secure Batavia resulted in political entanglements. The Company’s aims there were deceptively simple: to control coastal areas to enable trade and to prevent a power vacuum on the island (Gaastra 2003: 64). Both of these tasks proved immensely challenging and the VOC became mired in conflict on Java until the late eighteenth century. This involvement formed the basis of centralization and state consolidation of the archipelago including a systematic basis for territorial administration. By establishing a presence on Java, the VOC bumped up against two kingdoms; Mataram to the west and Bantam to the east. Both kingdoms proved resistant to the Dutch presence on the island and fought fiercely against VOC forces on Java. Only by the mid-1650s, after a long taxing war with Mataram was the VOC able to secure an agreement on a boundary separating Dutch and Mataram territory to the east of Batavia. A similar agreement with Bantam to the West was reached a few years later (Ricklefs 1993: 7). By the late 1600s and early 1700s, the VOC would also be firmly embedded in the internal politics of the larger island of Java siding with different groups in wars of succession and in return gaining access and rights to build forts and garrisons, as well as concessions over maritime rights in the Eastern seas off of Java. Where the Dutch secured political authority on Java, they implemented a system of indirect rule which governed through the so-called “native chief.” Indirect rule refers to a system of colonial administration where a European administrative bureaucracy is layered on top of pre-existing political arrangements of pre-colonial kingdoms. On Java in the seventeenth century, this meant employing bupatis or regents who were part of the Mataram kingdom. The origins of the bupati system are unclear but they date back at least to the sixteenth century and possibly much earlier. By the early seventeenth century, the Kingdom of Mataram employed an administrative system of governance centered around the capital city of Karta toward the southern central coast of Java. The lands immediately around Karta were called negara agung and administered directly by the Mataram court. Outer lying regions too distant for direct control were dubbed mancanegara and ruled by bupati or regional lords (Cribb 2000: 90). These were usually appointed by the King of Mataram and often related to the royal family through kinship or marriage (Van Niel 2005: 71). With indirect rule, the Dutch sought to expand their commercial activities by extracting commodities such as rice and maize which could also be used to feed troops, servants, slaves, and quiescent natives in and around Batavia.3 The Dutch used the bupatis initially to coordinate the system of forced deliveries (verplichte leveringen) and tributes (contingenten) as well as to maintain law and order in their district. The bupatis in turn were rewarded with a

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percentage, say 10 percent of goods, for their services delivered to the Dutch. The VOC dubbed these officials “regents” and the areas that they administered “regencies.” Indirect rule thus led to the territorial division of Java into regencies, which were in turn divided into sub-districts known today as camat. Below that existed a hierarchy of lower heads who administered affairs at the village level (Van Niel 2005: 72). The need to formalize this system of deliveries increasingly hardened and bureaucratized the regency structure into the colonial administrative system. And so it was arguably on Java in the mid-seventeenth century that the Dutch turned from a maritime political force into a land-based empire seeking territorial control over Java and the rest of the archipelago. The particularities of timing and place-Java in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries with the shifting currents of the global spice trade-shaped what would become the foundations of the territorial administrative structure of the archipelago. The VOC’s involvement on Java also presaged a larger shift in colonial strategy from spices on the outer lying islands to cash cropping on the island in the nineteenth century. In other words, shifts in the economic needs of the Dutch from spice trade to extraction helped to shape the shift in territorial management from choke-point rule to more expensive rule coordinated through the sub-national territorial units in the form of regencies. However, by the eighteenth century the VOC could find little way of turning a profit on the archipelago despite their increased political control. A shift in trade patterns in Asia, poor management and corruption, inadequate financing, bad debts, and war in Europe, all led to the VOC’s decline (Van Niel 1978a: 282). On January 1, 1800 the VOC was dissolved and the Dutch government took over the colonial enterprise on the East Indies.

Consolidation, centralization, and expansion The change in colonial administration from the VOC to the Dutch government introduced several important trends on the archipelago, particularly as they pertain to territorial administration. First, the VOC’s collapse illustrated a broader economic change in the region. As the spice trade declined in the eighteenth century, so too did the economic importance of the islands on which they grew.4 The Dutch shifted the majority of their economic activity to Java growing export commodities such as coffee, indigo, and sugar (Van Niel 1978a: 282). Java became both the political and economic center of the East Indies archipelago which then accelerated the imperative for territorial administration already in place as the Dutch sought to transform the East Indies into a coherent colonial state. As the colony changed hands from business to government, so too did notions of territoriality. While the VOC had been a business interested primarily in the economic efficiency of political rule, Dutch government administration of the colonies introduced political questions alongside economic

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ones. This raised questions about who should be given local authority and how much. In particular, colonial powers remained deeply ambivalent about the native bupatis at the district level at once appreciative of the administrative efficiency yet frustrated at the abuse of power and the entrenchment of aristocracy that resulted. The Dutch therefore experimented often with administration, moving authority upwards and downwards and then back to the regency level depending on the political climate and the colonial leadership at the time. One of the most significant changes to territorial administration occurred under the governor-generalship of Herman Wilhem Daendels, appointed by Louis Bonaparte in 1807.5 During his four-year tenure, Daendels made sweeping changes to centralize administrative power on the archipelago. Until Daendels, much of the archipelago was composed of larger regional bodies dubbed gouvernementen loosely coordinated by Batavia. Daendels replaced them with a system of territorial administration based on smaller units dubbed gewesten, or regions, that would be more directly accountable to the Governor-General in Batavia. Daendels divided Java into nine regions, or prefects, and placed Europeans in charge of each prefecture or landrostambten. These regions, also called residencies were run by residents who were given full charge of the interior of their districts including supervision over the smaller districts (Bastin 1954: 36). Residents were given broad-ranging authority and encouraged to promote agriculture within their areas. The total number of these regions on Java fluctuated between a dozen and twenty regions as new residencies were created and old ones absorbed and amalgamated (Cribb 2000: 123). Sir Stamford Raffles, the British administrator who succeeded Daendels from 1811 to 1816, had a notable impact on the colonial practices of the Dutch in later years. Raffles reinforced some of his predecessor’s initiatives such as centralizing administrative power and creating new residencies.6 He also sought to undermine the power of the aristocratic class of Java, the priyai, who occupied the offices of regents. In that regard, he helped solidify the basis of the territorial administrative structure on the island by strengthening the residencies above the traditional regency structure (Sutherland 1979: 81). At the same time, Raffles also sought to subvert the bupati at the regency level by introducing the land-rent system of Java. This system drew on the British colonial experience in India and proved a major shift in the way land and territory was conceptualized. Essentially, instead of focusing on the commodities produced by peasants, the land-rent system declared that all the land of a particular country was owned by the sovereign who thus had the right to draw rent on any kind of land-based productivity. Under this system, land would be “rented” out to village chiefs who in turn would divide up the land and collect rent on it (Van Niel 1992: 6). After the British interregnum, the Dutch expanded on the land-rent system. This helped shift their economic focus from spices, which had fallen in price

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on world markets, to export crops on Java. The British introduced the Cultivation System in the 1830s, which applied the principles of the land-rent system to agricultural production of these export commodities across Java. The system required the mandatory cultivation of specific crops and villagers to set aside a portion of their crops which would be allotted for the Dutch and sold at a fixed price. Ultimately, it amounted to a practice of forced labor as the Javanese peasants had little control over the commodity price and were often forced to sell at extremely low prices.7 While the British had undermined the power of the bupati at the regency level through the introduction of the land-rent system, the Dutch actually strengthened it by administering village tribute indirectly, through the regents at the district level. This had the effect of greatly expanding the native bureaucracy of chiefs and priyayi. At the same time, the Dutch also recruited European staff to oversee production and transaction and goods also marking an expansion of a European bureaucratic administration on the archipelago (Van Niel 1978b: 282). Territorial administration off of Java proved a study in contrasts. For much of the nineteenth century, the Dutch practiced a policy of abstention on the Outer Islands (Vandenbosch 1941: 149). Fearing that they might overburden the financial surpluses from Java, particularly after a long, grueling war with Aceh, the Dutch Minister of the Colonies J. C. Baud ordered the withdrawal of all posts on Sumatra and banned further expansion outside of Java (Locher-Scholten 1994: 96). However, as colonial competition in the region intensified toward the end of the nineteenth century these policies were reversed and the Dutch launched major initiatives on the Outer Islands. After quelling a large insurrection on Lombok in 1896 and on Aceh in 1898, the Dutch pacified Jambi (1901–7), Kerinci (1902–3), Southeast Kalimantan/Borneo (1904–6), South and Central Sulawesi/Celebes (1905–7), Bali (1906) and Flores (1909) (Locher-Scholten 1994). By 1910, most of the regions of present-day Indonesia had been at least nominally pacified and brought under Dutch rule (Ricklefs 1993: 131). Territorial administration on the Outer Islands or Buitengewesten varied considerably. A majority of the territories were ruled indirectly but arrangements differed according to context. In some regions, the Dutch ruled as they did on Java reproducing indirect administrative structures that mixed native and European officials overseeing administrative territories in parallel (Cribb 2000: 124). In some areas the Dutch also recognized “Native Communities,” which were self-governing territories that employed local rulers with only minor oversight by the Dutch. On the other hand, in the directly ruled territories of the Outer Islands, Europeans filled the most senior administrative positions and native officials with varying titles reported directly to them (Cribb 2000). The boundaries and the number of regions in the Dutch administrative system shifted considerably both on Java and in the Outer Islands during the nineteenth and early twentieth century. For example, between 1832 and 1931,

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the number of residencies on Java increased, then fell after a process of consolidation, then rose again (Cribb 2000). In the Outer Islands, states were also sometimes annexed, abolished, amalgamated, or split depending on local factors and colonial interests including demographic changes, economic interests, lines of communication, and political circumstances (Cribb 2000). Nonetheless, the late nineteenth and early twentieth century marked the true beginnings of the modern Indonesian state as we see it today. Territorially, the Dutch focus remained on Java, but they would also expand their presence and administration over the Outer Islands. But even as this happened, Java’s shadow and the state logic of uniformity loomed large. As both the political and economic center of the East Indies, the Dutch administrative experience on Java had long-term implications for state formation over the whole of the archipelago. More broadly, the shift from business to government meant that more expansive notions of territory were adopted and the gradual territorialization by colonial powers became a salient reality on the ground. Yet efficient management of that territory was a complex calculus and colonial powers faced a constant dilemma in how best to balance political authority vis-à-vis native elites.

Ethical policies and decentralization Toward the latter half of the nineteenth century, a growing sentiment opposing the Cultivation System and the practices embedded within Dutch colonialism began to emerge in Europe. Forced cultivation and the way it impoverished the Javanese peasant were exposed and popularized in the Western imagination through novels such as Max Havelaar by Eduard Douwes Dekker.8 This era then introduced elements of ethics and morality into the political discourse in the Netherlands about how to administer the East Indies colony and the solution took on a profoundly territorial dimension. Initially, the Dutch responded to the changing sentiment by shifting to a more “liberal” set of policies with the belief that they would promote Dutch enterprise and improve the well-being of the Indonesian “natives” at the same time. The ideas embedded in the liberalism of the day translated to mean a dramatic reduction in government intervention in the colonial economy, which would lead to a corresponding promotion of growth in free enterprise, and an end to the practices of forced labor on Java. Despite the idealistic vision of many liberal promoters, the reality was that the liberal system did little to increase the welfare of most of the natives in the colony. Problems included the continued imposition of a land tax (20 percent of household income by some calculations) as well as an inadvertent tightening of wages and rents of Indonesian farmers in order to increase profit margins (Ricklefs 2001: 162). Given the failures of the liberal era, the Dutch swung the pendulum to the opposite extreme, abandoning those liberal policies and replacing them with

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an “Ethical System” in the early 1900s. Echoing the condemnations of the earlier Max Havelaar, C. Th. van Deventer, a lawyer who worked in several judicial posts throughout the Dutch East Indies, penned an article in 1899 entitled Een Eereschuld, or “Debt of Honor,” arguing that the Dutch were morally obligated to help Indonesians after years, indeed centuries, of economic exploitation which they had inflicted. The key policy instruments devised to make these ethical concerns a reality was a set of decentralization laws. The Dutch initiated the first of these in 1903 and a second more sweeping reform was passed in 1922 and implemented in 1925. These decentralization reforms gave residencies and their subunits the authority to look after their own affairs, giving them the requisite funds to be able to do so. To accomplish this, the 1903 legislation established three different kinds of governing councils: regional or residency councils, local or sub-residency councils, and urban councils (Vandenbosch 1941: 128–9). Despite these institutional reforms, the actual authority devolved to these councils in the 1903 legislation was limited and thus deemed largely ineffective. New policies implemented in the 1922 decentralization laws proved more sweeping.9 In addition to devolving power, the laws also outlined major changes in the territorial administrative structure. The archipelago was reorganized into 36 regencies, each with a regional executive. In most cases, the regional executive was given the title of “regent” or bupati though in a few instances they were called governors.10 In addition to the 36 regions, the 1922 laws established provinces for the first time under Dutch colonial rule. The provinces were thus dubbed first level units and governed above what became the second-level regencies. Provinces consolidated the regional units that were formerly designated as residencies and usurped their power. Soon after the passage of the decentralization law in 1925, the first three provinces were established: West Java (1926), East Java (1929), and Central Java (1930) (Vandenbosch 1941: 131). While the regencies or regentshappen were at least ostensibly based on precolonial boundaries on Java, provinces had little analog on Java or elsewhere. They were even larger than the residencies established under Daendels and reinforced by Raffles. Because these provinces were artificial creations, scholars have argued that they tended to lack any intrinsic cohesion and thus tended to be less efficient and less self-reliant than the regencies (Benda 1972). Yet the Dutch took the province as the primary site of their purported “ethical” polity and portrayed it as a democratic space. Politically, governments of the provinces were organized into three institutions: a Provincial Council, a Board of Deputies, and the Governor. Provincial Councils were composed of the major representative groups in the colonial Indies: the Dutch, the so-called natives, and “non-indigenous Asiatics.” Thus for example in West Java, the allocation among groups was roughly 20 Dutch, 20 Indonesian, and five “non-indigenous” Asian, meaning that indigenous Javanese were outnumbered on the council. Of these, half were elected and the other half were appointed by the Governor-General who was

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appointed by the Dutch government (Vandenbosch 1941: 132). In addition, while they issued laws in key areas delegated to them by the central government, some legislation such as tax collection and joint regulations between provinces still had to be approved by the Governor-General. The territorial translation of the ethical policy in the Outer Islands also came through decentralization but the process came much later. For one, the sheer diversity on the Outer Islands meant that the Dutch realized uniformity in the way it had largely been achieved on Java would be a much greater challenge. For this reason, provincial status was put on hold until future developments could be worked out and then implemented only if necessary. Thus, while the government of the Moluccas was officially instituted on January 1, 1926 it was not elevated to a provincial status because of its “backward social conditions” (Vandenbosch 1941: 130). Three additional “governments”—Sumatra, Borneo, and the ‘Great East’—were instituted in 1938 but again denied provincial status (Royal Institute of International Affairs 1941: 25). In this sense, colonial administration on the Outer Islands was, at least in design, more diverse in character than on Java. There was also a growing sentiment that administrative reform should reorganize, restore, and strengthen adat, or indigenous customary law communes and associated ethnic groups. For example, in communes, considered too small for proper administration, communities were encouraged to establish “group communes” or “communal confederations.” The governments of these group communes were given more power and autonomy than their parallel regencies on Java. In principle, many of these communes were given the authority to administer responsibilities ranging from irrigation, public health, veterinary service, agricultural information, and local education (Vandenbosch 1941: 139). On the Outer Islands, the Dutch also allowed the creation of “native states.” Regions qualified as “native states” once local leaders agreed to a contract called a “Short Declaration,” which included the following principles: (1) the ruler of the self-governing area recognizes the sovereignty of the Netherlands; (2) the region does not enter into political relations with a foreign power; and (3) agrees to execute and maintain all regulations which with respect to the state are issued in the name of the Queen or the GovernorGeneral (Vandenbosch 1941: 149). By the mid-1940s, some 60 percent of the Outer Islands was considered to be under the Status of “Native States” (Royal Institute of International Affairs 1941: 26). From approximately 1900, the number of principalities that acceded to the Short Declaration numbered about 250 as laid out in the Native States Regulations of 1938 (Royal Institute of International Affairs 1941: 26). In contrast, the Dutch East Indies only recognized four principalities on Java and Madura that they considered Native States. Native states were technically located within provinces or governments but they wielded a wide range of autonomy. To be sure, serious impingements on the autonomy of these regions existed. For example, they could not sign

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treaties or otherwise engage in international relations. Europeans, non-indigenous Asiatics, Indonesian employees, and migrant workers were also exempt from the power of these native states under agreement of extra-territoriality (Vandenbosch 1941: 153). Nonetheless, compared to the administration on Java, Dutch rule gave more recognition of the diversity and the differences and agreed that institutions needed to adapt to that reality. In sum, the Ethical Policy changed territoriality in a significant way by implementing decentralization and promoting more local governmental autonomy. Furthermore, it did so in profoundly different ways on Java and the Outer Islands illustrating the continued dilemma the colonial state had with the diversity it dealt with throughout the archipelago. The extent of decentralization and whether such shifts in territoriality resulted in actual improvements in people’s welfare is a separate question (Benda 1972: 599). What is clear is that on the eve of World War II the Dutch state continued to grapple with the territorial administration of a colony it had maintained for a century and half.

Nationalist resistance and the failure of federalism The last jolts to Indonesia’s colonial territorial structure occurred in the context of World War II. During the war, the Japanese colonial administration introduced their own territorial organization of the archipelago, but very few of these remained after their defeat. Instead Japan’s unconditional surrender sparked a clash between the old Dutch colonial power and an aspiring Republic of Indonesia. On August 15, 1945, President Sukarno called for the “conscientious” and “swift” transfer of power to the new Republic. The Dutch ignored Indonesian aspirations, sought to retake their former colony, and found themselves up against strong nationalist sentiment and a hastily assembled but formidable opposing army. Shortly after their declaration, Indonesia’s Republican leaders formed a government in Jakarta in late August, 1945, adopted a provisional constitution, and selected Sukarno as president and Mohammed Hatta as Vice-President of the Republic. A Central National Committee was also created as well as a cabinet that would be responsible to the President (Feith 1962: 8). Indonesian advisors and officials, including vice-residents, under the Japanese were appointed Republican officials and governing authority was handed over to them (Ricklefs 1993: 263). The new government also obtained Japanese arms and forged a military consisting of Indonesian soldiers trained by the Japanese in Peta (Volunteer Army of Defenders of the Fatherland) as well as less organized military bands that sprouted up in different parts of the archipelago. The ensuing conflict between the Dutch and the Republican government was territorial in two fundamentally different ways. On the one hand, the two sides fought bitterly over land and soil. The Dutch sought to retake their former territory and the Indonesians defended their newly-declared nationstate. The Dutch reestablished rule in the Eastern part of the archipelago and

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met resistance when entering Java and Sumatra. By 1948 the Dutch engaged in a series of “police actions” and occupied much of Java and key urban areas on Sumatra. However, fierce resistance and international pressure continued. Parallel to the physical territorial struggle also emerged an ideational struggle about territorial governance and organization of the archipelago between unitarists and federalists. The Indonesian Republic clearly wanted an independent and autonomous state organized along unitary principles. As such the Republic consolidated areas they controlled into a coherent and centralized territorial administration with provinces resting atop the Javanese bupati system. Even outside of Java, for example on Sumatra, the Republic replaced preexisting systems of “self-governing” rajas, hereditary chiefs, and adat heads with the bupati-camat system at the local level in mid-1946 (Reid 1974: 123). To further consolidate regions under their control and strengthen their relations to the Republican government representatives from the central government organized an all-Sumatra council and promoted leaders most favorable to the Republic. While initially assigning one governor and three deputy governors for the north, central, and southern regions of Sumatra, eventually Sumatra was organized into three separate provinces by 1948 mirroring Java’s three provinces at the time (Reid 1974: 123). The Dutch for their part pushed for a federal system revolving around autonomous sub-national states organized under the authority of the Dutch crown. To promote this agenda, they convened a conference in Malino on Celebes in July of 1946, bringing together various representatives of kingdoms, ethnic groups, and religious groups particularly from Eastern Indonesia and Kalimantan (Ricklefs 1993: 224). This conference endorsed the concept of a federal republic of Indonesia that would have a “strong relationship” with the Dutch. In subsequent negotiations the Dutch and the Republic forged agreements including the Linggadjati Agreement and the Renville Accords where a compromise emerged; the Dutch would recognize the Indonesian Republic as the de facto authority on Java, Madura, and Sumatra in exchange for the creation of a federal United States of Indonesia in which the Republic would be one of the constituent states. As Dutch forces gained more and more territory they began to organize the areas they had taken into states that would eventually form the basis of a federal Indonesia. First, they established the State of Eastern Indonesia Negara Indonesia Timur, including Celebes, the Moluccas, and the Lesser Sundas (Legge 1961: 4). Over the next three years as they made territorial gains in the archipelago, the Dutch established six new states: East Sumatra, South Sumatra, Pasundan, Madura, and East Java in addition to a number of “special regions” such as Bangka and West Borneo which the Dutch felt were not ready for separate statehood (Legge 1961: 4). By controlling most of the Outer Islands and creating states out of them, the Dutch sought to balance any power the Republic would have in a federal system. Indonesia’s Republican forces also established numerous regions in

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Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia

areas that they controlled in order to counter-balance these Dutch moves. For this reason, newly-established states and districts were confined to areas either under Dutch or Republican control respectively. The resulting boundaries were little more than what Legge calls “accidents of war” with no firm political or social basis to them (Legge 1961: 4). By 1949, the Dutch military had made major advances, capturing Yogyakarta, the Republican capital, and most of the key leaders including Sukarno and Hatta. But despite these gains, international and domestic sentiment turned against the Dutch. The Dutch “police actions” brought harsh rebuke from the United Nations Security Council, and the United States shifted their policy to a markedly pro-Indonesian position (Feith 1962: 11). As a result, cabinets of East Indonesia and Pasundan resigned their positions in protest against the attacks thus expressing solidarity with the Indonesian Republic, despite Dutch expectations that they would serve as puppet regimes (Feith 1962: 12). By the end of the year, the Dutch were forced to the negotiating table and agreed to transfer full sovereign power to the Federal Republic of Indonesia (RIS) in the Round Table Agreement at The Hague (Reid 1974: 162). However, by this time, the idea of federalism had become highly unpopular among Indonesia’s elites (Reid 1974: 162). Many of the newly-established constituent states were seen as randomly bounded areas of land that reflected Dutch military positions more than any kind of social boundary. Furthermore, the regions that would become states and their appointed leadership were largely deemed puppets of Dutch influence, rather than fully independent entities. More broadly, federalism was perceived as a strategy intended to divide and rule by capitalizing on suspicions some on the Outer Islands harbored against the Republican government based on Java. All of this resulted in the rejection of federalism as the political foundation of the Indonesian Republic. The RIS would be short-lived and by 1950, most of the constituent states withdrew from the Federal Republic and merged into the Republic of Indonesia. In short, while the Dutch appeared to be on the verge of winning the physical battle over territory it ultimately lost the ideational one.

Conclusion On August 17, 1950 the government abandoned the old revolutionary constitution in place of a new one establishing the Republic of Indonesia and a unitary state. Despite the decision to reject federalism, the Republic remained aware of regional challenges and sought to address them by establishing large administrative areas-provinces, or “first-level regions,” and endowing them with a broad range of autonomy. For the first time then, the entire archipelago came to be organized under a systematic uniform administrative code. Outlined in Law 22 of 1950, it installed a hierarchical structure with a central administrative corps operating from the Home Affairs Ministry in Jakarta. Below the national level rested a

The origins of territorial administration in Indonesia

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provincial level headed by a governor. Provinces (provinsi) were in turn divided into residencies, which in turn were divided into regencies (kabupaten). Regencies were in turn divided into districts (kewedanaan), districts into subdistricts, and finally into villages (desas). To be sure, there would still be significant fluctuation in Indonesia’s territorial structure both in terms of where boundaries would be drawn as well as how much authority and autonomy provinces and districts would be given. But the institutional framework at the end of this period would hew closely to the model adopted by the Republic of Indonesia in the latter half of the twentieth century. The path to this territorial administrative system was long and erratic. This chapter has suggested that the product that emerged from centuries of colonial rule depended on the vagaries of economic conditions, colonial policies, and changing local contexts on the ground. Major turning points included the arrival of colonial powers, the changing patterns of trade in the archipelago, the shift from commercial rule to government rule, and war. Throughout, colonial administrators faced the tension between the desire of homogeneity in administrative structure and acknowledgment of the diversity throughout the archipelago. This led to major differences in the way various regions were administered, particularly between Java and the Outer Islands. It also led to a persistent question about how much power to devolve to “natives” within the territorial administrative system, something which changed with relative frequency. It is for these reasons too that the regional units of the administrative structure fluctuated frequently from residencies to regencies and so on, before finally settling on provincial units. In part, then, this chapter emphasizes the social and political construction of provinces in Indonesia. At the same time, this does not imply that provinces are fictive or lack meaning with the political imagination in Indonesia. In fact, they become imbued with strong meaning and eventually came to embody many regional struggles along cultural, economic, and political lines in subsequent years. These struggles and tensions emerge and persist in post-independence Indonesia and it is to this that we now turn.

4

Post-colonial territorial administration and the imperative toward centralization

Introduction While the Dutch colonial experience laid the territorial foundations for the Indonesian state, the new Republic of Indonesia would take those building blocks and fashion an independent and autonomous state on their own terms. After fighting off the Dutch and rejecting a federal model, the state began a gradual process of centralization first in the latter years of the Sukarno administration and further tightened during the New Order under President Suharto. Only after the fall of Suharto and his regime did this process come under drastic reconsideration and reform. The process of centralization in post-colonial Indonesia was anything but smooth and the Republic’s territoriality shifted considerably. In particular, this chapter highlights two puzzling features of this period. On the one hand, the initial period after the revolution of the late 1940s saw a great deal of social turmoil, but relatively few explicit threats to the new state’s territorial integrity. On the other hand, it did see a burst of new provinces formed in the 1950s and 1960s. In contrast, the relatively more stable New Order era saw less social turmoil but more threats to its territorial integrity, and conversely almost no new provinces. In this chapter, I argue that these changes in territoriality were critically linked with the state’s relations vis-à-vis society. Simply put, in times of state weakness, social forces sought to change the state itself through what I call “rebellion without secession.” While often based in peripheral regions of the archipelago, I argue that these were not secessionist movements seeking to break away from the state but instead embraced an idea of Indonesia while seeking to redefine its character. In contrast, the authoritarian New Order under Suharto closed off many options for new province formation. Thus, later movements seeing little possibility of transformative change at the state level sought to pursue what Hirschman would call the “exit option” (Hirschman 1970). This then also explains the inverse trend, where new provinces emerged during the earlier period of Indonesia’s republic while new province formation became quite rare as the state grew in strength. By extension, I argue that the most recent territorial changes in Indonesia loosely reflect the “weak state” era when few regions felt the dire need to

The post-colonial imperative toward centralization

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secede from the Republic. The larger point made is that political institutions affect the territorial organization of states and changes in those institutions then can have drastic and often unintended consequences on territory. The next section outlines the character of the weak state in the postrevolutionary era. It then illustrates several serious rebellions which threatened the new state. These conflicts presented alternative visions of Indonesia rather than its outright rejection. The following section highlights the transition to Guided Democracy and the New Order where state institutionalization occurred at the expense of social forces. This process took on a profoundly territorial dimension and the way in which it produced separatism and threats to the territorial integrity of the state. The final section examines the postSuharto era and the way in which democratization and decentralization shifted and aligned incentives that encouraged new provinces to be formed.

The post-independence era and the weak state One way scholars have typically understood states are as organizations or bureaucratic structures. While there has been extensive debate and refinement the basic idea that capacity and autonomy are important characteristics of a well-functioning state is widely accepted (Evans et al. 1985). Many new states, particularly post-colonial states, are weak and are subverted by actions of societal actors who maintain alternative organization structures and are able to garner the loyalty, support, and obedience of the local population (Migdal 1988). In part, Indonesia’s state weakness early on can be attributed to the Japanese invasion and occupation during World War II. Japanese forces destroyed much of the Dutch colonial administrative structure and while they instituted their own administration, their presence only lasted three years, much of it spent fighting the Dutch or Allied forces. This contrasted sharply with other colonies such as Taiwan, Korea, and Manchuria where some scholars have argued that colonial policies helped lay the foundations for strong developmental states (Sato 1994: 25). Indonesians also faced a war of independence after World War II which lasted five years further depriving the Republic the power to stabilize and consolidate the state. Thus once the Japanese and the Dutch were ousted, societal elements thoroughly penetrated the state. Administrative structures were filled by those who had previously been barred by the Dutch/Japanese. For example, Islamic kiyais became district officers, and local teenagers joined the public services. The newly created political parties were often also dominated by societal elites and had patrimonial characteristics. They had little in the way of strong social base or ideological coherence to give direction on social and economic policy issues (Robison 1982: 50). As Anderson notes, individuals who filled state roles often had divided loyalties where society trumped the state (Anderson 1983: 483). Furthermore, the 1955 elections, the only fully free elections in Indonesia until 1998, produced parliamentary deadlock, further weakening the state.

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Twenty-eight parties gained at least one seat in the legislature and the largest four parties split the electorate resulting in a deadlock where the largest plurality had only 22 percent of the seats. In this way the parliamentary election served to exacerbate the emerging tensions in the archipelago rather than resolving them (Ricklefs 2001: 304). Strong states are also often considered superior economic managers because they are autonomous from predatory interests that extract resources from the state and have the capacity to implement good economic policy (Evans 1995). Again, post-revolutionary Indonesia faced myriad economic problems. The state inherited heavy debts from the Dutch colonial state. Furthermore, few indigenous groups or individuals could step into the shoes of the Dutch or Chinese who controlled agriculture and mineral exports (Robison 1982: 50). For this reason, many of the Dutch companies remained operational in Indonesia and dominated the domestic industries until 1957. The oil industry, for example, was overwhelmingly operated by Dutch, American, and British companies. The state also lacked a good tax-levying capacity was thus faced constant fiscal instability. Only in the late 1950s did the government begin to show some semblance of authority by forcibly nationalizing all Dutch enterprises in Indonesia and the government banks financed the establishment of state-owned enterprises (SOEs). This led to a state commitment to industrialization through intervention and protection. However, the inability to enforce macro-economic discipline in the early 1960s saw continued economic instability inducing widespread inflation and underutilization of productive capacity. In short, the autarchic national economic policy was largely ineffective and produced continued economic stagnation. Finally, strong states are supposed to have autonomous coercive powers, of what Weber called the “monopoly on the use of force over a given territory” (Weber 1978). Indonesia’s military had little coherence and a “monopoly” on the use of force meant very little, early on. For one, Japan had ruled the Indonesian archipelago as three separate administrative units and there was little interaction between these three areas during World War II. The revolution against the Dutch, encouraged by the Japanese when defeat was imminent, was thus fought by local guerilla forces, not a centralized well-coordinated military force (Anderson 1983: 482). Furthermore, many of the guerilla fighters did not join the army as individuals, but as members of party-affiliated youth organizations that had set up their own “laskars” or fighting forces. Many of these units thus had extramilitary and extra-statal political loyalties, and individual soldiers often had more loyalty to the unit commander than to the army as a whole or the leaders in the chain of command (Crouch 1978: 27). The central leaders in the national military thus had little real authority, preventing it from becoming a politically cohesive force (Anderson 1983: 482). If anything, early in its history, Indonesia’s military itself posed the biggest threat to the regime and to the state because of its regionally fragmented

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nature. The Indonesian resistance was decentralized by design during the revolution. During the war against the Dutch, Indonesian strategists recognized that they were at a technological disadvantage and thus adopted a system of guerilla warfare which took advantage of their own knowledge of the local landscape. This meant giving a high degree of operational autonomy to the local commanders on the ground such that regional units would operate independent of any kind of centralized command (Pauker 1963: 59). These territorial divisions became regional commands after independence. Accustomed to a high degree of autonomy during the Revolution some regions devolved into a kind of “warlordism” after the Revolution that the central government could not control. Regional commanders in the peripheral areas of the archipelago began to resent the encroachments of Jakarta. The relative weakness of the post-colonial state is not entirely surprising in Indonesia, many states in a similar situation lacked coherent state capacity after long periods of colonialism and battered by war. Indonesia faced the challenge of both a Japanese invasion and colonization followed by a revolution against the Dutch. And even a decade after independence, the Indonesian state remained relatively weak and as state weakness persisted, it began to threaten the Indonesian Republic in fundamental ways.

Rebellions without secession What is perhaps more novel is how most conflicts in the early part of the life of the republic, even those with strong territorial dimensions to them, focused their efforts on transforming the state rather than breaking away from it. To be sure, strong disagreement about the meaning of the Indonesian state existed from its earliest inception, including how it should be organized and who should wield influence. But state weakness ironically gave opportunity for societal groups to express their goals in the language of state transformation. Thus the domestic conflict during this era can be characterized as “rebellion without secession.” The following section highlights how these “transformational” conflicts came to be. In particular the uprising of Darul Islam, PRRI-Permesta, and the communist uprising offer instructive examples. Among the first and most contentious debates in Indonesia’s early history revolved around the question of whether Indonesia would include Islamic principles in the constitution. While some called for Indonesia to be a secular state that embraced a variety of faiths including Christianity, Buddhism, and Hinduism, others wanted the state to embrace Islam exclusively and incorporate religious principles in the legal and political system (Hefner 1999: 221). While the constitutional debate raged among politicians in Jakarta, the rift also took on a territorial dimension with the rise of Darul Islam. In the late 1940s, Islamic leaders including the movement’s founder S. M. Kartosuwirjo proclaimed that President Sukarno and Vice President Hatta were sacrificing

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Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia

Islamic principles in their negotiations with the Dutch for a ceasefire and independence (Cribb 1999: 29). In 1949, leaders declared the formation of an “Islamic State of Indonesia” in 1949. Darul Islam simmered as a guerrilla movement for over a decade controlling many parts of West Java and later gained adherents in other areas of the archipelago including South and Central Sulawesi. But despite the concentration of Darul Islam in key regions, the movement identified itself as pan-Indonesian. While the movement brought together an array of groups with different goals, all agreed that the new Indonesian Republic should be based on shari’a. In other words, Darul Islam presented an alternative vision to the secular character of the new Indonesian Republic (van Bruinessen 2002: 118).1 The PRRI rebellion constitutes another example of “rebellion without secession.” The movement began in Sumatra in the 1950s due to the perception that the central government, run mostly by Javanese, was attempting to impose its will on the periphery of the archipelago. The economic arrangements in place distributed a disproportionate amount of revenues generated from natural resources (petroleum, timber, minerals) to Java. There was additional concern, similar to Darul Islam, that Sukarno associated too closely with the PKI, which was generally unpopular on the outer islands. By the mid-1950s this frustration led many, particularly regional army commanders, to smuggle and sell goods in the international market place instead of selling them to Jakarta at fixed, below-market rates. When the military leadership in Jakarta tried to rein in the regional leaders, the conflict finally came to a head and officers from Sulawesi declared a mutiny and took control of the region. As we shall see in Chapter 5, in the case of North Sulawesi, this would have profound consequences for territorial politics later on. Around the same time, regional elites in West Sumatra also expressed concern over Jakarta’s influence in their region. In 1958, regional leaders in West Sumatra demanded that President Sukarno’s powers be curtailed, that Vice President Hatta (from Sumatra) be empowered to form a new cabinet, and that General Nasution, the top military commander, be dismissed.2 With none of their demands met, the rebels in Sumatra declared a Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia or the PRRI in February of 1958.3 Two days after the declaration, Permesta forces in Sulawesi backed PRRI leading the movement to adopt the name PRRIPermesta. The movement failed to spark a broader backing and became isolated to West Sumatra and North Sulawesi. The movement was quickly quelled and only a handful were involved in the guerilla resistance movement that lasted until 1962. In light of PRRI’s declaration, many interpreted this to be a separatist movement of sorts. But supporters argued that, as the “RI” in PRRI indicated, their demands were framed in terms of the Indonesian Republic. Their objective was to transform the government in Java, not create an independent

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nation. Specifically, PRRI-Permesta’s main point was to create a more equitable economic deal of the Outer Islands of Indonesia. For example, a key demand included the creation of a senate in Jakarta in order to protect the rights of the region. In this sense, their declaration can be interpreted as a bluff and bargaining tool that rebels were forced to carry out after the central government rejected their demands (Cribb 1999: 32). The final example of transformational conflict during the Sukarno era came in 1965 with the September 30th movement that eventually led to the downfall of President Sukarno. On October 1, members of President Sukarno’s presidential guard kidnapped and killed six military generals who were known anti-communists (Anderson et al. 1971: 1). Palace guards claimed they were initiating a counter-coup to defend against an imminent army takeover of government. No conclusive evidence exists to the veracity of the alleged coup. But the event itself proved pivotal in Indonesia’s history. The communist “counter-coup” essentially collapsed and led to the supreme ascension of the army in Indonesian politics. It also led to the downfall of Sukarno, and the rise of his successor, General Suharto, who led a massive purge of communists immediately following the coup/counter-coup attempt. Five hundred thousand to a million suspected communists are said to have been killed in the purge (Crouch 1978: 100). The larger point here is that the army and the Communist Party were two large forces struggling for influence in the state. Neither the communists nor the army saw secession as a logical course of action. Instead their objective was to transform the Indonesian state and its ideological content. Each was presenting an alternative vision, much like Darul Islam, on how Indonesia should be run. Among the transformational conflicts of the period, this one paved the way for the rise of Suharto and the New Order regime. The September 30th movement and the subsequent massacre were not regional conflicts in the same way as Darul Islam and PRRI-Permesta. However, there was a clear territorial dimension in that a vast majority of the PKI’s growth was confined to Java, in part because it was more developed and thus had more salience toward issues of labor unions and workers’ rights. But even as it spread into the rural areas, the movement gained ground in Central and East Java with much less on the Outer Islands. In this regard, the regional support behind the PKI was much stronger on Java while opposition stood stronger elsewhere. In sum, Indonesia’s state emerged highly vulnerable and weak and remained so for the first two decades since the end of colonial rule. Conversely strong societal groups along religious, regional, and ideological lines thrived and persistently challenged the state. For this reason, the opportunity to transform the state arguably outweighed the decision to try to break away and secede from the state. All of the aforementioned conflicts had a territorial dimension to them, but even the most regionally focused rebellions called for revolution rather than secession. It is against this backdrop that it is possible

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to understand the flurry of territorial change that did occur in Indonesia in the 1950s and 1960s.

New provinces in Indonesia: the first wave We have seen that few regions tried to break away from the new nation-state, and none succeeded in their efforts in the early years of the Indonesian Republic.4 However, there were significant territorial changes that did occur in the peripheral regions. In what we might call a first wave of territorial change, various provinces were split into multiple units. The splits foreshadowed the current wave, to be discussed in Chapter 4, in a number of ways but particularly in the way that new provinces emerged as a result of negotiation and cooperation between national interests and local ones. Precisely because state capability was still relatively weak and local interests were strong, national actors formed alliances with local groups in order to achieve divergent goals through the process of new province creation. State interests in the creation of new regions included the desire to quell regional rebellions and violence. Local groups sought new provinces for a number of reasons including identity, patronage politics, and more regional autonomy. On the one hand, the creation of new provinces in the first decade of Indonesian rule might be considered the result of trial-and-error administration

Table 4.1 New provinces in Indonesia 1950–99 Province

Mother province

Year

Yogyakarta West Kalimantan South Kalimantan East Kalimantan Aceh West Sumatra Riau Jambi Bali NTT NTB Central Kalimantan South Sulawesi North Sulawesi West Irian Lampung Bengkulu Southeast Sulawesi East Timor

Central Java Kalimantan Kalimantan Kalimantan North Sumatra Central Sumatra Central Sumatra Central Sumatra Lesser Sundas Lesser Sundas Lesser Sundas South Kalimantan Sulawesi Sulawesi Dutch Administration South Sumatra South Sumatra South Sulawesi Portuguese Administration

1950 1956 1956 1956 1956 1957 1957 1957 1958 1958 1958 1958 1960 1960 1962 1964 1967 1974 1976

Source: www.statoids.com/uid.html

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over territories. Many regions particularly on the outer islands such Kalimantan, Sumatra, and Eastern Indonesian had been administered by the Dutch with smaller territorial units. After the revolution, many of these units had been lumped together into single provinces. Thus many of the calls for new provinces emerged from the local level as a way to restore older boundaries which were also sometimes along cultural or ethnic lines as well (Legge 1961: 67). However, there was also a deeper politics to the creation of many of these regions as a weakened government faced rebellion and instability. This comes across in the experiences of two places, Sumatra and Kalimantan. The new provinces on Sumatra, for example should be understood as the government’s attempt to isolate the PRRI movement based in West Sumatra by splitting new provinces away from it. In December of 1956, in the lead-up to PRRI, a group of disaffected military officers seized local control and formed a “Banteng Council” protesting the long arm of Jakarta. The problem was that while support for the Banteng Council was concentrated mostly in West Sumatra, the political administration of the region included the whole of Central Sulawesi province. Jakarta recognized a West Sumatra province in 1957 in part as a concession to the Bangteng Council (Anderson and Kahin 1983: 110). But they also recognized the local demands for provincehood in Riau and Jambi as a way to contain West Sumatra and their leaders’ influence on the island. Initially, West Sumatra refused to recognize the new provinces and continued to claim Riau and Jambi as part of the larger Central Sumatra province (Legge 1961: 76). Less than a year later, however, with the outbreak of a full rebellion in the form of the PRRI, the Indonesian government quickly moved to suppress the Banteng Council and its supporters (Anderson and Kahin 1983: 110). Once the military offensive by Jakarta began, Jakarta easily retook the region and Riau and Jambi were able to establish its own provincial status. A similar politics negotiated between national and local leaders also occurred on Kalimantan. While the Dutch administered Kalimantan as three regencies (technically one regency and two sub-regencies) divided into West, East, and South, the new Indonesian Republic collapsed those distinctions and created a singular province of Kalimantan. This led to collective discontent among representatives and, in 1956, the government agreed to re-create the older administrative boundaries though as first-level provinces. One issue that remained unresolved by these reforms related to the Dayak communities who resided in the southern central part of the island. Technically, a Greater Dayak Region had been introduced briefly from 1946–50, roughly in the area known later as Central Kalimantan, as part of Dutch attempts to win support for a federal Indonesian state but this region was also merged into the larger province after the Revolution (Miles 1976: 112). In 1956, as the regional rebellions of PRRI-Permesta and Darul Islam festered, a group in South Kalimantan also declared the Council of Lambung

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Mangurat and began to barter trade with foreign ports in contravention with national law. A counter-rebellion emerged soon after in the Dayak majority area of area and declared its opposition to Banteng, the PRRI, and the newly formed Lambung Council, as well as the larger goals of Darul Islam. This group called itself Gerakan Mandau Talawang Panca Sila (GMTPS), or the Pro Panca Sila Cutlass and Shield Movement. Much of this conflict must be understood in the larger context of ethnic and religious contestation in south central Kalimantan during the period. While most groups in the region were Muslim, many Dayak had historically been converted to Christianity or remained animist. Dayak political identity began to emerge as they contrasted themselves to Banjar and the Muslim ethnic groups that resided in the most coastal areas of the island of Borneo. This identity became more salient in the elections of 1955 when elites were able to garner strong electoral numbers for an ethnic Dayak party (Davidson 2003: 16). An ethnic party is an aberration in Indonesian electoral history and the rules have since been rewritten to prevent just such an outcome. However, at the time, it showed the power of the Dayak identity and its power to mobilize politically and electorally GMTPS and its more moderately political counterpart, the Committee for the Representation of the People’s Demands for Central Kalimantan Autonomy, petitioned the government to declare a province of Central Kalimantan as a way to ease the tensions between the different groups. Faced with the prospect of two rebellions just in Kalimantan, Sukarno decided to meet the demands of the group more aligned to his political goals, namely, the GMTPS. In 1957, he signed an emergency degree declaring Central Kalimantan and autonomous province (Miles 1976: 121). This first wave of new provinces being formed in Indonesia represents the way territorial politics was articulated in this era. Rebellions were, more often than not, debates about the foundational principles of the Indonesian state. New provinces emerged from the negotiations and counter-movements within those debates. We shall see in the next chapter some similarities between this first wave and the second wave in the immediate post-Suharto era. Both, I argue, show a convergence of national interest with local interests, though the political context differs starkly.

“Guided Democracy” and the solution to state weakness So far, I have suggested that the regional and ideological tensions during the early years of post-revolutionary Indonesia threatened state collapse, but not necessarily territorial integrity. The violence and tensions did not threaten Indonesia territorially because these were conflicts about the political and ideological foundation of the Indonesian state rather than a rejection of Indonesia itself. Even where movements were concentrated around key regions, they cannot be described accurately as ethnic nationalist or separatist movements.

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However, this is not to say that the threats to the Indonesian state were trivial. Certainly the threat of collapse existed led by various rebellions exacerbated by national level party politics occurring in Jakarta, and punctuated by the 1955 elections which produced a deadlocked parliament. It was in this context that we begin to see drastic institutional reforms designed to strengthen the state and prevent its collapse. The rest of this chapter narrates this process and shows how it produced an ironic outcome, one where political stability was achieved, while simultaneously producing new movements seeking to break away from the state territorially. In order to address the tensions discussed above, President Sukarno made a number of institutional changes, all of them eventually centralizing power politically and territorially. First, he organized his cabinet in what can be described as an informal consociational arrangement. This began at the top where Sukarno (from Java) and Mohammad Hatta (from Sumatra) ruled as president and vice-president respectively. However, as the regional tensions strengthened, they produced a split in the cabinet with the Islamic parties expressing sympathy for the rebellion while nationalist parties tended to be more Java centric. The mostly Java-based Communist Party was also hesitant to aid the strongly anti-communist Outer Islands. This produced a political deadlock in Jakarta that led to the dissolution of the cabinet. The combination of deadlock in Jakarta and instability in the regions turned out to be the last straw as Sukarno began to abandon parliamentary democracy and centralize power. Centralization of power during this period refers to two related but distinct processes. We can imagine unitary states for example that continue to diffuse power in a variety of political institutions. These may be territorially centralized polities but they continue to be democratic with power diffused throughout the political system. In Indonesia territorial centralization occurred alongside political centralization. Political centralization refers to the abandoning of parliamentary democracy and the centralization of power in key institutions, in particular the presidency. Sukarno had begun to abandon parliamentary democracy as early as 1957 but in 1958, he suspended the constitution, implemented martial law and declared that Indonesia was under a system of what he called “Guided Democracy” (Feith 1962). Guided Democracy chipped away at the constitutional foundations of the state by curtailing political parties and carving out a place for “functional” groups which represented major societal groups such as workers, peasants, women, youth, and intellectuals, as well as the military (Feith 1963: 345). The government asserted control over the press, legal institutions, intellectual life, voluntary organizations, and the like. They also expanded the scope of the government’s power (Feith 1963: 374). In short, Guided Democracy would end Indonesia’s experiment in any kind of meaningful democracy and marked the onset of authoritarian rule. At the same time, centralization also referred explicitly to the process of territorially consolidating power away from the regions and into the hands of

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the central government. This meant undermining the influence of leaders in the region including religious leaders, communal elites, and military commanders many of whom contributed to the instability of the regime. Territorially, this entailed changing the regional organization of the state. In 1957, Sukarno issued Law 1 / 1957 which introduced the regional levels I, II, and III or the province, regency, and village respectively. It also established the local government which would consist of a local legislature and an advisory body which would be headed by the regional executive. Two years later, in Presidential Decree 6 / 1959, Sukarno declared that the local executive would no longer be accountable to the local legislature but instead would be the representative of the central government in the region. This consolidated state control of the regions by structuring local accountability upwards instead of downwards (Legge 1961). These actions then usurped the power of regional actors and placed them squarely under the authority of Jakarta. Similar steps were taken to centralize the military as well. Early reforms were instituted in order to undermine the territorial autonomy that many of the regional commanders retained after the revolution. To do so, the military’s top commander, General Nasution, broke up the seven regional commands into 17 commands, thereby dispersing power. Also, regional military commands (Kodam) were established in every province, military resort command (Korem) in the large towns, and then military district commands (Kodim) at the district or kabuapaten levels (Crouch 1978: 222). By the early 1960s, Kodims were built in nearly all districts across Indonesia, and Koramils (Military Resort Commands) were established in each sub-district. In 1963, non-commissioned officers were given the role of Village Guidance Non-commissioned officers or Babinsa (Said 1991: 47). Thus by the end of 1963, the military had a presence throughout the archipelago through their territorially organized network. But more importantly, the authority and accountability of the regional posts fell under a centralized military command structure. In addition to territorial expansion, the military also adopted an ideology that proved highly expansive. The army formulated the doctrines of “territorial warfare” and “territorial management” in the 1950s, calling for the “total nature” of war and population management including “political, economic, social, psychological, and military forces” (Pauker 1963: 67). In practice, this might have meant soliciting the help of the local population in counter-insurgency operations and also going to regions affected by warfare and repairing roads and buildings such as schools, mosques, and even rice fields (Pauker 1963: 37). In this sense, “territorial warfare and management” matched the philosophy of giving the military expanded functions to address socio-political functions in addition to military ones. This philosophy was articulated particularly through the doctrine of dwi fungsi or “dual function” mandate formed during the Sukarno era. In November of 1958, amidst Sukarno’s turn toward “Guided Democracy”

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Nasution gave a speech about the role of the military as carving out the “middle way” between political activists and mere spectators (Vatikiotis 1993: 70). In the speech, he argued that the armed forces should play both a military security function as well as a social-political function, thus paving the way for military officers to occupy positions in government as well as economic enterprises. This served to widen the scope of the military and foreshadowed the central role the military would play in the future regime of Suharto’s New Order.

Centralization under the New Order Overall, Sukarno’s shift from parliamentary democracy to Guided Democracy marked the beginnings of political centralization in Indonesia. As much as Suharto’s New Order represented a break from many of Sukarno’s policies, politically, it represented a continuation and acceleration of this centralization. Suharto centralized power both institutionally and territorially, beginning with the military, but extending on to the bureaucratic administration, economic management, and even along cultural lines. Military centralization The highly unusual and destabilizing consequences of 1965 allowed Suharto to centralize authority in unprecedented ways (Anderson et al. 1971: 1). For one, the coup attempt gave him the opportunity to fill the void in military leadership (Crouch 1978: 229). Immediately after the event, President Sukarno bestowed Suharto with broad military powers to reestablish order in Indonesia marking the beginning of the transition to the New Order era. By mid-October, Suharto was formally installed as minister/commander of the Indonesian army. The circumstances of his appointment also meant that Suharto had exceptionally free reign in appointing members of his general staff. In a matter of weeks, the army’s general staff consisted almost entirely of officers hand-picked by Suharto himself, and thus formed the building blocks of his regime (Crouch 1978: 229). It was under Suharto, then, that the military became the foundation of the state and able to finally exercise its Weberian monopoly on the use of force. Suharto was committed to eliminating both communism and regional rebellion and ensuring that Indonesia would not collapse. He moved gradually in 1966–7 in removing potential challengers particularly among the regional commanders throughout Indonesia. Having gained supremacy in the army, he also consolidated his authority in the other branches of the armed forces including the Navy and the Air Force. In 1969, he integrated the armed forces and transferred full operational command of all four branches to himself, as commander of the armed forces (Crouch 1978: 228). On the one hand, the military served as the key coercive arm of the state under the New Order. They eliminated their key political rival, the PKI in the

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wake of September 30, 1965. The army also had a special forces unit such as Kopassus which operated in trouble spots such as East Timor, Papua, and Aceh where they conduced low-intensity anti-insurgency operations. Kopassus became infamous for their brutal practices including torture, kidnapping, and executions. Also, agencies like the Special Command for the Restoration of Order, or Kotkamtib was infamous for conducting security and intelligence operations. Reporting directly to the President, the body had wide purview in their operational mandate essentially to eliminate threats to the regime (Hill 1994: 24). Less visibly, they were the force behind the “mysterious killings” or Petrus in the early 1980s that sought to eliminate criminal elements in society (Hill 1994: 24). Bureaucratic centralization But aside from the coercive aspects, the military became a critical part of the state apparatus with military officers filling many posts in the bureaucracy and political offices (Emmerson 1978: 102). By design, Indonesia already had a highly-centralized administrative structure around the Ministry of Home Affairs (Mackie and MacIntyre 1994: 22). The structure was inherited from the colonial government and had broadly defined powers to coordinate and supervise the world of other departments at all levels (Mackie and MacIntyre 1994: 22). Suharto took the structure and strengthened its ability to penetrate all layers of state and society. The central government had the authority through the provincial and district levels all the way to the village-level government to exercise social and political control throughout the rural areas. The system of regional administration was also further centralized under the New Order. One of the main institutional reforms for the regime was Law No. 5 1974 on Regional Administration. This law reorganized the structure of regional government throughout the archipelago (Bertrand 2004: 193). It created two parallel sets of vertical institutions that intersected three different levels of administration. At the province (Level I) and district (Level II) levels, legislative bodies were established with a mix of appointed and elected positions. Each legislature in turn had a bureaucratic implementing arm to them called the “autonomous regional government.” At the same time a parallel bureaucratic institution was established at each level, accountable to the central government. These were known as offices for “regional administration” (Malley 1999b: 152). Known collectively as the pamong praja, they technically fell underneath the bureaucratic structure of the Ministry of Home Affairs. A legacy of Dutch colonial structures, the regional offices had sweeping power to both coordinate and supervise the work of other departments at all different levels (Mackie and MacIntyre 1994: 22). Within the military, postings in the regional divisions were considered prestigious because they had a great deal of local authority. Army officers

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could exercise influence over electoral outcomes at the local level. There was often also very close coordination between a chief executive of a particular locality and a local military commander (Jenkins 1984: 21). This also meant a close relationship between the army and the local executive as well. In some cases, local-level bureaucrats were also former military officers. But even when that was not the case, a bupati would often coordinate policies with a local military commander (Jenkins 1984: 264). Under Suharto, a large percentage of governors and district chiefs emerged from the armed forces, often after their retirement from service. In 1966, half of the 24 governorships were occupied by army officers. This number rose to 16 by 1968. Between 1965 to 1968 the percentage of military district chiefs rose significantly on Java where many of the district chiefs had been members of the PKI party. In 1969, 147 or 271 district chiefs were from the military and, by 1971, that had risen again to two-thirds. A survey of six provinces also suggested that about 60 percent of all district heads including mayors were from the armed forces. The proportion of military appointee governors was stable at around four-fifths until 1977 when it gradually began to decline and as late as 1983, 21 of 27 provincial governors were still from the military as were 40 percent of district leaders (Malley 1999b: 83). By and large, these appointments were directly controlled by Suharto though often rubber stamped by a Golkar dominated legislature (Crouch 1978: 244). Electoral centralization The legislature was another part of Suharto’s strategy to centralize the state. Suharto centralized his own power and that of the military’s by dismantling the party system, a process Emmerson (1978) dubs “departyization.” Suharto established a functional party called Golongan Karya (Golkar) and required all government officials to join as members. This gave Golkar a strong advantage in membership throughout the archipelago. At the same time Suharto also proceeded to rationalize and thereby weaken other parties in the system. The Communist Party (PKI) was thoroughly dismantled beginning with the massive purge and killing spree in 1965 (Anderson et al. 1971). Four Muslim parties were also combined to form the United Development Party (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan or PPP), as were five non-Muslim parties which formed the Indonesian Democratic Party (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia or PDI). In addition to the restrictions of party formation, the government also restricted party mobilization in the lead-up to and during campaign periods. While PDI and PPP were not allowed to organize below the district level, Golkar had sub-district and village heads as well as regional military commanders who were constantly close to the voters (Liddle 1996: 45). This gave Golkar a large advantage during each election because of their infrastructure and organization at the local level, an advantage that persists even today.

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By dismantling the party system, Suharto was then able to dominate national politics in the MPR and DPR and manage that support to ensure his electoral victories. Of 500 seats in the national assembly, one hundred were reserved for military appointees. The rest of the seats were open to electoral contestation, but mostly dominated by Golkar (Mackie and MacIntyre 1994: 20). Fully half of the members of the legislature were appointed by the Suharto regime directly and every candidate from every party was screened (Liddle 1996: 46). Economic centralization Indonesia’s system of regional finance was also highly centralized under the New Order. Local assemblies for example, were empowered to make laws and budgets but were always subject to approval from above (Ranis and Stewart 1995: 43). All major sources of revenue including income and value added taxes as well as levies on oil and gas went to the central government. Inferior sources of revenue were left to the provinces and districts such as motor vehicle registration, title transfers, and so on (Malley 1999b: 80). This ad hoc regional approach to finance gave the central authorities greater flexibility to keep the provinces beholden to them than if there was some sort of formal structure and regulatory mechanisms in place (Malley 1999b: 80). In part, this was because of a weak tax base on the part of local governments and the resulting dependency on the central government. That dependency was particularly strong from 1974 to 1982 during Indonesia’s boom years, where oil revenue determined the amounts allocated to localities (Ranis and Stewart 1995: 45). This led to very little administrative efficiency incentives at the local level. By 1994, 76 percent of all sub-national expenditure came from the central government and much of the remainder was “heavily influenced” by the center (Hill 1998: 7). In the latter half of the New Order era, the Indonesian economy expanded rapidly due to the global oil boom. With the quadrupling of oil prices on the world market, the government financed the manufacturing of petrochemicals, steel, aluminum, cement, and paper. The end of the oil boom meant another readjustment period for the economy. From the mid-1980s, the government reintroduced deregulation including liberal policies for domestic and foreign investment and liberalization of the financial sector. In addition to economic growth, Indonesia received a great deal of international aid from the Inter-governmental Group on Indonesia (IGGI) (Anderson 1983: 489). Cumulative aid until 1973 totaled some three billion dollars. These inflows in some years, covered 50 percent of the cost of all imports. The money came directly and exclusively to the center without any significant state outlays in the form of a tax-gathering apparatus (Anderson 1983: 489). A strong economy allowed Suharto to finance his building of a strong state. State power was enhanced vis-à-vis society through the accumulation of

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economic resources. Much of the state revenue went directly into supporting the military regime. For example, from 1969 to 1973, the army’s official budget trebled (Crouch 1988: 292). Indonesia under Suharto also became one of the most corrupt regimes in the world. Corruption on a large scale typically took the form of allotting the “surplus” of certain key sectors of the economy to favored officials or cliques of officials. In addition to corruption it helped to finance a whole subsection of the administrative apparatus and where cuts and commissions were often standardized enough to be called benefices in the tradition sense (Crouch 1988: 292). Cultural centralization Finally, there was arguably a cultural component to Suharto’s centralization policies. We have already seen how Islamic groups resented the embrace of a secular state, and how ethnic groups in the Outer Islands resented Jakarta’s economic and political stranglehold. Critics often framed their frustrations in terms of the “Javanization” of the Indonesian nation. At the same time, many of the governors, district heads, and high-level bureaucrats on the Outer Islands were not only Golkar and military, but also mostly from Java. This created a great deal of resentment with many places demanding the appointment of “native sons” or putra daerah in key leadership positions. This feeling was so strong that in some places, the local legislatures actually tried to reject government appointments with their own chosen candidates, but to little avail (Malley 1999b: 412). In addition to this broad “Javanization” of Indonesia, there were also specific attempts to “modernize” some of the poorest and most marginal regions of the archipelago. In this instance, “Javanization” referred to the process of integrating “backwards” peoples into the modern Indonesian nation state. The main vehicle to accomplish these goals was through transmigration programs where people living on Java were encouraged to move to the Outer Islands through government-run programs. The main objective of these programs was to ease the overpopulation on Java, but an added benefit was how it brought modern Javanese farmers into contact with “isolated” and “primitive” indigenous peoples. Transmigration programs sought to “modernize” the rural inhabitants in several ways. First, their settlements were modeled after “Javanese” villages, typically defined territorially, densely populated, divided into neighborhoods, and hierarchical (Elmhirst 1999: 824). Settlements also usually sanctioned “traditions” and national ceremonies such as the national anthem, parades, and displaying of flags on independence day often tied to ceremonies of Javanese ritual feasts slametan. Lastly, the state promoted modern agriculture defined as sedentary high-input agricultural production over swidden and other forms of agriculture typically practiced on the Outer Islands. This kind of “Javanization” was particularly prominent in areas such as Irian Jaya and Kalimantan and fed further into the resentment of Java.

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Separatism and territorial conflict in the New Order era The above-mentioned developments illustrate how Suharto transformed Indonesia’s state from a weak and fragmented apparatus to a strong and centralized one. While only some of these reforms were explicitly territorial, I argue that they helped to produce a politics that ironically threatened the territorial integrity of the state. If the internal conflicts during the Sukarno era are characterized as “rebellion without secession” then the main conflicts of the New Order can be described as “insurgency and separatism.” Direct challenges to transform the state largely disappeared as Suharto strengthened his state apparatus. Instead the option to exit and the formation of ethnic nationalism became more appealing. The examples of Aceh, West Papua, and East Timor prove instructive. The experience of Aceh provides a useful example because it was part of the broader Darul Islam movement in the 1950s, before transforming into an ethnic nationalist movement in the 1970s and 1980s. We have seen earlier in this chapter that Darul Islam broadly as a movement challenged the foundational basis of the Indonesian nation-state, namely its secular underpinnings in the constitution. Aceh proved an important part of the movement, and despite its long history as an autonomous sultanate, their demands did not call for breaking away from the Indonesian state at that time. Instead it proved a moment that conflated Islamic, Achenese, and Indonesian identities and goals (Aspinall 2009: 33). The shift to separatism for actors in Aceh dates back to the mid-1970s Suharto regime. Hasan Muhammed Tiro, the grandson of a famous Acehnese war hero, helped found the movement after spending extensive time in the United States (Sjamsuddin 1984: 113). In December 1976, Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (GAM) unilaterally declared independence based on ethnic Acehnese identity, thus claiming to represent the province’s four million people (Kingsbury 2002: 151). GAM began as a small guerilla organization numbering less than two hundred people and only a few old guns and limited financial resources (Sjamsuddin 1984: 114). By the late 1980s, GAM benefited from the provisions of Libyan arms and training (Rabasa et al. 2001: 30). This led to a surge of unrest between 1989 and 1990, with stern reprisals from the military. Northern Sumatra was designated an Operational Military Zone and the army was given virtual free reign to crush the rebels by any means necessary (Rabasa et al. 2001: 30). On the one hand, the strong armed rule of Suharto and its policies in Aceh are arguably at the root of why and how the movement transformed from a pan-Indonesian religious movement to an ethnic nationalist one. As Indonesia’s economy developed, it came to be a significant contributor to state coffers through its oil revenues, but relatively poor compared to surrounding areas during the New Order era. Infrastructure development outside the main towns was low relative to other regions and only about 5 percent of total

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revenues from oil and natural returned back to the province (Kingsbury 2002: 151). The expansion of economic interests of Java often led to the dislocation of local people who were forced to move from their homes and give up landholdings. Environmental damage was also extensive. All of this created an intolerable situation for many Achenese. At the same time, New Order governance structures meant that government elites undermined and marginalized local religious leaders in Aceh (Webster 2007: 94). The restructuring of administration away from traditional lines and along more Javanese lines also led to great antagonism toward the central government (Kingsbury 2002: 152). Brown argues that Jakarta’s promotion and favoritism of Javanese abangan in resource allocation and elite recruitment left the Outer Island santris and the Acehnese, in particular, highly disaffected (Brown 1994: 156). By the 1970s and 1980s, little opportunity existed for negotiations with the New Order state. The frame of mobilization thus took on an ethnic nationalist character with a strong Islamic flavor. Papuans, like Acehnese, were resentful of being governed by “racist and corrupt” bureaucrats (Mote and Rutherford 2001: 120). In Papua during the 1960s, in the process of officially transferring the territory from Dutch to Indonesian rule, the United Nations supervised a series of “consultations” before setting up the “Act of Free Choice,” a referendum on whether or not to join Indonesia. This act was voted on by 1,025 leaders and a majority accepted integration (Mote and Rutherford 2001: 121). But the process has always been considered highly suspect. Only selected village leaders were gathered and the “Act” and it was held in and Indonesian controlled area in order to confirm a pre-established outcome (Kingsbury 2002: 156). The anger against the central government came through in other ways. During the New Order, the Suharto regime prohibited the use of the term “Papua” replacing it with “Irian.” A person from Irian was called “orang Irian” and the territory was renamed “Irian Jaya” or “Glorious Irian.” Papuans were taught in their schools how they were “liberated” from Dutch rule and about their progress under the Indonesian state’s paternal guidance (Mote and Rutherford 2001: 120). Their attempts to wipe out the collective memory of Papuans and assimilate them into Indonesians were heavily resented. The Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM) emerged out of the Manokwari region during the Suharto period. This loosely organized guerilla and political resistance movement sprang up to demand independence and challenge what they saw as occupation by a colonial force. OPM operated two main wings, and fielded between seven and nine armed units, totaling several hundred guerillas (Kingsbury 2002: 156). The ability of these units to attack the army was extremely limited and the few that were successful prompted fierce army reprisals against the local civilian population (Kingsbury 2002: 156). Low intensity warfare between OPM and the military ensued, resulting in OPM disarray with many leaders fleeing to Holland. Nonetheless, OPM attacks on government troops peaked around 1977–8 when about 40 government

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soldiers and perhaps several hundred OPM guerillas were killed (Kingsbury 2002: 158). Much more about Papua is discussed in Chapter 7, but the point here is that like in Aceh, little opportunity of redefining the state was available for malcontented Papuans. The New Order state closed off opportunities for negotiation and the only alternative strategy appears to have been separatism. While this movement was substantially weaker and less organized that the Acehnese resistance, it garnered considerable attention from Jakarta and the military. The final example of Indonesia’s separatist conflict is East Timor. The Suharto regime “annexed” the former Portuguese colony of East Timor after the fall of the Salazaar regime in Portugal in 1974, which led to the collapse of the Portuguese Empire. In 1975–6, frustrated with their inability to make headway in resistance held areas, Indonesians began a mass campaign of terror. They destroyed villages, committed atrocities, and used chemical weapons to wipe out much of the civilian population (Pinto and Jardine 1997). Army tactics were brutal. Large swaths of the population were shot, beaten, stabbed, raped, tortured, relocated, starved, intimidated, and otherwise abused. International human rights and relief organizations contend that the invasion of East Timor directly or indirectly (through famine and disease) claimed as many as 200,000 lives, nearly one-third of the pre-invasion population (Taylor 1991: xi). There was widespread organized resistance for independence. The threepronged strategy of the movement involved a political wing, Conselho Nacional da Resistência Maubere (CNRM—National Council of Mauber Resistance); an armed resistance, Forças Armadas da Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste (FALINTIL—Armed Forces for the National Liberation of East Timor); and an underground student movement. Individuals such as Jose Ramos Horta represented the political wing of the movement seeking international support for CNRM. Domestically, FALINTIL was led by various leaders who were captured or killed, but ultimately by Xanana Gusmao (Dunn 1996: 281). The student resistance was dispersed in villages and towns and helped to organize spontaneous demonstrations, carry secret messages, and help hide fugitives of the Indonesian army. As a result of this armed opposition and political resistance, East Timor continued to be a nuisance for Indonesia, souring its international diplomatic relations and human rights standings. Like Aceh and Papua, East Timor was an ethnic nationalist movement that framed their identities as different from Indonesia’s. East Timor’s case is somewhat exceptional because it shared none of the Dutch or post-colonial history in the way other regions did. However, because it was incorporated into Indonesia during the height of the New Order, it is instructive in terms of how the strong state sought to incorporate it into the larger Indonesian nation state on its own terms. Little possibility of negotiation or reframing existed in that context and the only option was seen as secession.

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In all three cases, there was no way to think about transforming the Indonesian state given that they were fighting for their very survival. This was a significant change from the internal conflicts of the Sukarno era where rebels claimed they held the true meaning of “Indonesia.” The state strength under Suharto and the relative weakness of society meant that there was little possibility of “rebellion without secession.” Since transforming the state was perceived as risky, ethnic nationalism and secession became the preferred mode of resistance The structure of the New Order was designed to counter the problems of societal conflicts in the immediate post-war era. It squelched open displays of ideological conflict, tried to quell regional tensions, and depoliticized the legislatures. In so doing, ironically, it produced stronger ethno-nationalist movements that sought to exit from the Indonesian nation-state. It is instructive to note here also that there was very little demand for new provinces or districts and little opportunity to achieve such aims. In fact the only instance of new province formation during the New Order would be by fiat. In 33 years of the New Order, only three new provinces were created, and one of those was East Timor’s annexation. Local demand was unlikely because the local government had very little power vis-à-vis the central government. Thus, there was little incentive to create a new regional government under those circumstances. Economically, there was also little incentive since the finances of the government were also highly centralized. Culturally, some groups might have had an interest in more autonomy but the costs of pushing for autonomy were high. In short, there was very limited incentive to push for a new province and such movements would have easily been quelled by the military.

The territorial impact of political change In Indonesia, the end of the New Order regime came swiftly. The Asian financial crisis triggered economic turmoil across the region and Indonesia experienced widespread capital flight with the rupiah depreciating nearly 10 percent just in the month of August. Currency speculators also bet against the rupiah and the Bank of Indonesia was unable to sustain their interventions to keep the currency stable. By January of 1998, the rupiah lost 85 percent of its value trading at around 5,000 rupiah to the dollar, and the stock market fell by more than 50 percent, from 743 to 335 (Bird 1998: 175). In early 1997 unemployment hovered at around 14 percent but by 1998 it had risen to around 40 percent. Amidst violent protests in the street and abandonment of his political and economic allies, Suharto stepped down from power in May of 1998. It was amidst this political instability and territorial fragility that we can understand reformasi as a moment of institutional change. One of the primary concerns of policy makers who came to power after Suharto was precisely about the future of the Indonesian nation-state itself. Institutional

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reforms always had the territorial integrity of the state as a key consideration. In particular, the twin reforms of democratization and decentralization helped to shape the future of the new Indonesian state. In part, they did so by taking away the main rationale of many separatists, the continued presence of the New Order and its repressive and extractive presence in the regions. At the same time, the way in which these reforms were designed were arguably more reformist and incremental rather than revolutionary. Habibie, Suharto’s hand-picked successor, and other political elites also clearly wanted to retain power and thus worked to make the institutional rules advantageous to themselves. To do this they needed to separate themselves from the New Order regime and offer themselves as a legitimate and forward looking alternative. In this regard, the institutional reforms during the critical historical juncture are not simply reforms demanded from below, nor policies implemented by neutral experts (Smith 2008: 213). They were profoundly political with many actors who had their own strategic interests in mind. In this sense, it is important to note that the territorial instability that emerged after the Suharto years was thus both a cause of and a product of key institutional reforms. Democratization: electoral and party reform Democratization can mean any number of things when regimes move from authoritarian to democratic systems. In Indonesia, these included the removal of restrictions on the press, releasing of political prisoners, and the weakening of the military’s stronghold on power. But among the reforms, the revival of political parties and the designing of a competitive electoral system were the most important vis-à-vis Indonesia’s territoriality. Political party reform in Indonesia was simultaneously liberalizing and constraining. On the one hand, political parties which had been merged and then emasculated during the New Order gained new life. New laws allowed political parties to form with only 50 signatures from citizens 21 years of age or older and registration with a court and the Ministry of Justice (D. King 2003: 51). As a result, dozens of new political parties emerged in 1999. New laws also limited the number of military parliamentarians from 75 to 38 in the 1999 elections, and eventually to zero (Kingsbury 2003: 164). During the New Order one-fifth of the seats in the national legislature were allocated to the military and senior officers held key posts in the bureaucracy, regional administrative services, governorships, and key cabinet posts (Mackie and MacIntyre 1994: 24). Increased professionalism and reform also saw the military disengage from the electoral process other than to ensure minimal violence and disruption whereas in the past, the military had been instrumental in rigging elections in favor of the regime (Kingsbury 2003). At the same time the new laws laid out strict rules about which parties could participate in national elections. Specifically, the new rules required parties to have offices established in at least one-third of Indonesia’s provinces

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and at least half of all districts in those provinces as a way to prevent regional or ethnically based parties (D. King 2003: 51). The party system has also had enormous influence on the composition of legislative bodies. For example, election laws eliminated the possibility of non-party candidates and gave a high degree of control to the central party leadership over the selection of candidates (Sherlock 2004: 8). The rules of a new electoral system also came under considerable discussion in 1999. The government put forth a proposal for a mixed system which would see 76 percent of seats contested on a district-plurality basis and 24 percent contested according to the rules of proportional representation (D. King 2003: 60). The system sought to make legislators more accountable to their local geographic communities while still retaining some aspects of the PR system so smaller parties would not be disadvantaged. However, this proposal was rejected both because it was likely to give the government party, Golkar, a broad advantage and because it weakened the ability of political parties to control their own candidates (D. King 2003: 61). All parties agreed on a completely proportional electoral system. The question then turned to the size of the electoral districts. Again, the government sought to make electoral districts smaller. This too was seen by opposition parties as distinctly advantageous to Golkar which had a much firmer presence in the local level during the New Order. Thus in 1999, the electoral districts were established at the provincial levels, regardless of population. Seats were allocated proportionately with the average per province being 17 seats but varying widely depending on population density. West Java, for example had 82 seats, while Bengkulu and East Timor each had four seats (Suryadinata 2002: 9). The election committee also came up with a formula to balance representation between Java and the Outer Islands. If representation mirrored the demographic distribution of the population, then legislative seats would have been divided along a 60:40 ratio between Java and the Outer Islands. Instead, legislative seats were divided nearly evenly, 234 (50.6 percent) for Java and 228 (49.4 percent) for the Outer Islands. Seats were distributed to cities with more than 450,000 people first. The remaining seats were redistributed between the provinces based on population (Suryadinata 2002: 89). For this reason, the number of votes needed to secure a seat varied widely depending on the location of the district. In the densely populated province of East Java, one parliamentary seat required 287,199 votes. A seat from Irian Jaya (West Papua) in contrast would only require 63,547 votes (Suryadinata 2002: 89). Thus in the 1999 elections, PDIP won 34 percent of the votes and received 33 percent of the seats (153) because many of its votes were concentrated on Java. In contrast, Golkar won 22 percent but received 26 percent of the seats because they secured many votes from the less densely populated Outer Islands (Sherlock 2004: 8). Other parties faced more or less similar kinds of disparities, gaining or losing advantage depending on where their votes came from. These early decisions in representation and electoral competition laid the foundations for the next several elections. Although the rules changed,

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sometimes in significant ways, the overall principle around political parties did not. The political party reforms went a long way toward giving organizational representation to some of the key cleavages in Indonesian society. At the same time, there were simply too many social or cultural groups in Indonesia for all to be represented, particularly along geographic or ethnic lines. In this way, the new electoral rules both liberalized and limited party formation. Decentralization: devolving power downward The second pillar of reformasi after 1999 was the design and implementation of far reaching decentralization. Again, it is worth reflecting on why this became such an important reform measure. During reformasi one of the tensions that began to emerge was the articulation of regional frustrations against the central government. Regionalists included a spectrum of groups who agreed broadly about the problems inherent in the over-centralized regime. At one extreme were ethnic nationalist groups who sought independence, arguing that Indonesia had forcibly integrated them into the nation-state without their approval including East Timor, Aceh, and West Papua (Aspinall and Berger 2001). But plenty of other groups in the regions expressed frustration with Jakarta, well into the Suharto era. Those in natural resource rich regions such as Riau and Kalimantan also resented the centralized policies of Jakarta arguing that they should be able to keep more of the revenue generated from their region for themselves. As a response, the Habibie government initiated milestone legislation that passed in 1999 and was implemented under the Wahid administration in 2001. Two laws, Law 22 of 1999 on Regional Administrations and Law 25 of 1999 on Inter-Government Financial Balance, devolved almost all substantive power, except in a few key areas (foreign affairs, international trade, monetary policy national security, and legal systems) to the regency, a sub-provincial level known in Indonesian as the kabupaten (Alm et al. 2001). On the one hand, Law 22 on administration devolved a broad range of public service delivery functions to the regions such as planning, financing, implementing, evaluating, and monitoring of such services. More importantly, the new laws devolved significant political powers downward by strengthening the role of the elected regional councils Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah (DPRD). The regions were given far-reaching autonomy and accountability for the most part bypassed the province and was directed to the central government. Thus new responsibilities included work in the areas of environment, labor, public works, and natural resource management (Aspinall and Fealy 2003: 4). Local parliaments also gained power independent of the local chief executive with the power to hold the leader accountable. Law 25 on fiscal balance focused on empowering and raising local economic capabilities. Local government was given the power to tax, charge local fees, and collect revenue from local businesses (Alm et al. 2001). In the case

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of any budgetary shortfalls, they would also be allotted regional development or “equalization” funds from the central government. The justification for the new decentralization laws was based along two principles, efficiency and equality. By devolving power to the local level, proponents argued that government would be “closer to the ground” and thus better able to assess the needs of the local population and be more responsive to their demands (Ranis and Stewart 1995). At the same time, proponents also argued that decentralization would give more incentives to local actors to provide better services, based on economic theories that people could move if they were not happy in their particular district (Tiebout 1956). Decentralization was also seen as a way to alleviate the regional tensions in Indonesia that had risen to fever pitch during the period of political turmoil. On the one hand, devolving power to the local regions alleviated resentment about the way the New Order government had controlled local offices and officials. Similarly, the new fiscal arrangements allowed several regions to retain a larger portion of revenues from natural resources which was ordinarily sent to Jakarta and redistributed accordingly. Although separate from Laws 22 and 25, the government also gave special autonomy to key regions and in the case of East Timor, let it go altogether.5 Strategically, districts, not provinces, were chosen as the main level of autonomy in a newly decentralized Indonesia. This was because of the fear that autonomy at the provincial level would exacerbate regional tension rather than alleviate them. Decentralization as designed in Indonesia actually then weakened provincial power by strengthening the districts. All of this is to say that the 1999 decentralization plan was a compromise reacting to pressures for increased autonomy, increased freedoms, yet deeply concerned about maintaining national unity. In sum, democratization and decentralization formed the two pillars of political reform during Indonesia’s transition. More importantly, they both had important territorial dimensions to them. Democratization and electoral reform in particular was consciously designed to prevent regional parties from being able to wield any kind of political power. Similarly, decentralization was in part implemented as a way in which to address the increasing territorial pressures on the Indonesian polity. It did so by giving more power to the local level and to some degree by circumventing the provinces and devolving power to the districts. These reforms changed significantly over the course of the transition in terms of particular rules but they never changed fundamentally in their promotion of political competition, accountability, and devolution of power. Ultimately, these reforms produced incentives for actors at a variety of levels to act together in coalition to push for territorial change.

Territorial change and shifts in territoriality Amidst these reforms, new provinces and districts began to sprout up throughout the archipelago. The formation of new districts appeared in a

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number of “waves” from 292 districts in 1998 to nearly 500 a decade later. Most of the new provinces (West Irian Jaya, North Maluku, Banten, BangkaBelitung, Gorontalo, West Sulawesi) were approved in 2000. Riau Islands province was approved two years later in 2002. Most recently, West Sulawesi province was approved in 2004. Most of these initiatives for new provinces emerged in 1998 and 1999 and several others still remain shelved in the legislature. Table 4.2 Legislation for new Provinces in Indonesia Province

Legislation

West Irian North Maluku Banten Bangka-Belitung Gorontalo Riau Islands West Sulawesi

Law Law Law Law Law Law Law

No. No. No. No. No. No. No.

45 46 23 27 38 25 26

1999 and UU No. 5 2000 1999 and UU No. 6 2000 2000 2000 2000 2002 2004

*compiled from various sources

The timing of these new provinces and districts must be understood in the context above. First, we can attribute exogenous shock or what Bertrand calls “critical junctures” to the timing of territorial change (Bertrand 2004). “Critical junctures” are defined as moments when particular actors have a wider than normal range of possible options, and the choices they make create a significant impact on subsequent outcomes (Capoccia 2007). On the one hand, the period of reformasi beginning in 1998 embodied a moment of uncertainty leading in turn to instability and violence (Sidel 2006). But more broadly, we can see this as a period when political mobilization and new negotiations about political membership occurred both at the national level as well as at regional and local levels (Schulte and van Klinken 2007). The critical juncture helped to shape the particular institutional reforms in the late 1990s. Democratization and decentralization both provided ways in which actors could hold simultaneously different interests in territory and for this reason, work together to effectively carve out new provinces. Said differently, these institutional reforms shaped both capacity and interests. On the one hand, democratization created a more liberal political system where individuals and groups could protest and mobilize without excessive fear of state retribution. Such mobilization would have been unlikely if not impossible during the period of New Order authoritarian rule. In these instances, latent demands for new regions was mobilized on the grounds of regional marginality. Proponents often argue on ethnic or religious grounds that they have been marginalized in a particular region and thus would be better served if they could have “their own” region with “their own” government officials. But beyond what we might call “political opportunity” democratization also spurred territorial change because of the clear institutional incentives of

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territory for key groups. Depending on the organization of electoral districts and the rules for forming political parties, the creation of new territories could be an enormous boon to some political parties at the national, regional, and local level. Democratization and party competition meant that there were clear electoral implications for creating new provinces. In this sense, while distinct from gerrymandering, proliferation might share some of the same motivations. Democratization thus adds a new dimension of competition particularly through the party system. For example, the political party reforms of 1999 gave newly empowered parties the ability to boost their seats in the legislature through territorial proliferation. A cursory look at the 2004 election results suggests that several parties were able to add to their total number of seats with the creation of new provinces. Golkar in particular was the largest beneficiary of new seats because of their strong support base in the Outer Islands, and the tendency of territorial proliferation to occur outside of Java. Golkar and PDI-P together had half the gains while seven other parties share the remaining half. The largest parties then may have seen this as an opportunity to consolidate their dominant position in the national legislature and keep open the possibility of a cross-party alliance. At the same time, the requirement that parties have offices in at least a third of all provinces also given larger parties an advantage making it harder for smaller parties to compete (KPU 2003). To be sure, it is difficult to ascribe electoral motives based on results alone. Party interests likely depended on the particular matrix of conditions on the ground and in any case, efforts to contest and win seats may not have translated to victories. At the same time, new provinces meant the creation of new seats in the newly created Dewan Perwakilan Daerah (DPD—Regional Representative Council). While the DPD is a less powerful institution than the Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR—People’s Representative Council), prominent political, social, and cultural elites in these provinces often contest these seats as well. Finally, it is important to note that the advantage for political parties did not come simply in terms of legislative seats, but also in terms of party patronage and recruitment. Creating a new province meant a new party office needs to be built and a new set of officers needs to be chosen. National interests did not only benefit political parties. The state as well as its institutions such as the military also had autonomous interests in actually creating new provinces as well. The experiences illustrated in later chapters in Riau and West Papua provinces show the involvement of military and state institutions who were interested in dividing local movements for independence or autonomy. In this light, the national level actors’ incentives to ally with local groups makes a great deal of sense. Similarly, the devolution of fiscal authority and responsibilities created powerful incentives for local executives, legislatures, and bureaucracy and other public officials to maximize rent seeking possibilities. In fact, critics of decentralization have long feared the potential negative problems of devolving power, such as low capacity, local corruption, and clientelism (Brueckner

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2000; Persson and Tabellini 2000; Ahmad and Tanzi 2002). Malley suggests that decentralization of power has already also decentralized corruption in some places (Malley 2003: 115). New regional positions gave added incentives for rent-seeking starting from the governor on down, as well as a new legislative assembly. A new province in particular requires certain start up infrastructure including a new governor’s house, a new legislative house, new bureaucratic offices, and the like. Thus it also promoted a short construction boom in the area and fill the pockets of those who control contract bids (Fitrani et al. 2005: 63). Finally, the incentive to create a new region also came from “legitimate” economic interests such as gaining a larger share of development funds. The creation of a new province or regency thus meant an attempt to divert more funds than is typically received by an area that is part of the older territory. This type of pork-barrel politics may also have driven incentives for a new district of province. In this instance, political elites interested in the offices and benefits that come along with new province creation also attracted potential supporters by arguing about the economic benefits of a new region.

Conclusion In sum, Indonesia’s territoriality changed significantly over the course of the post-colonial era. This chapter has identified broad shifts in the way state– society relations influenced territorial politics during this period. It has argued that in the first decade or so after independence, a feeble and vulnerable state faced tremendous pressures from societal groups and actors. These included groups wanting a more Islamic state, a more decentralized state, and a more ideologically leftist state. But while the specter of state collapse was a real possibility, it was not necessarily manifested in demands for territorial separatism. Instead, societal actors took as given the territorial boundaries of the state and sought to transform the state itself in line with their particular vision. This does not mean that social conflict lacked territorial dimensions; indeed, territoriality was important, in several instances. However, even where conflict took on a starkly territorial dimension, the vision of social actors assumed a territorially united Indonesian state. In contrast, this pattern shifted as the state gained more strength toward the end of Sukarno’s rule and under his successor, Suharto. On the one hand, both Sukarno and Suharto implemented institutional reforms that sought to clamp down on social uprising by strengthening the military and centralizing power. By the 1980s and 1990s, this had proved quite effective, to the extent that few threats to the state itself existed. In contrast, several societal groups sought to break away from the archipelago thereby posing a threat to the territorial integrity of the archipelago. This shift symbolizes a larger pattern of territoriality in the New Order that was largely defined and controlled by the state. State interests dictated

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whether new provinces or districts could be formed and, for the most part, they were not because the state had little interest or need to cooperate with local demands for new regions. Local groups for their part had few actors with whom to form coalitions in a state so tightly controlled by the New Order elite. Thus whereas domestic territorial changes in the form of new province creation was commonplace in the early post-colonial era, it proved much less common during the New Order. This pattern shifted once again amidst the collapse of the New Order state.

5

Marginality and opportunity in the periphery

The birth of a province On January 23, 2000, about 30,000 ethnic Gorontalo from all over the Indonesian archipelago gathered at the local stadium in Gorontalo City. They were there to celebrate “Hari Patriotik, 23 Januari 1942.” Patriot Day commemorates local hero Nani Wartabone and the anti-colonial rebellion he led that ousted the Dutch from the region. On that fateful day in January, Wartabone famously declared Gorontalo “free from colonialism” (Niode and Mohi 2003: 38). As a practical matter, Gorontalo would endure Japan’s brutal wartime occupation as well as Dutch attempts to return to the archipelago after World War II. But the Gorontalo are fiercely proud of Wartabone’s words, often noting that they were the first in Indonesia to declare independence, well ahead of Sukarno’s declaration in August of 1945.1 The story of January 1942 is therefore one woven into the larger tapestry of Indonesia’s nationalist

Map 5.1 Map of the new Gorontalo Province next to North Sulawesi Province

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struggle. The annual event is performed complete with the raising of the merah putih (Indonesia’s “red–white” national flag), singing of the Indonesia Raya, and speeches by government dignitaries. But the ceremony in 2000 had a slightly different tone. The crowd was larger than in other years, a buzz filled the air, and many of the attendees wore traditional Gorontalo dress. When the official ceremony ended, a new group of speakers took the stage. These were leaders of P4GTR2 and PRESNAS,3 two leading organizations advocating the creation of a new Gorontalo province. Addressing the large crowd at the stadium, H. Natzir Mooduto, a key organizer of the new-province movement, recalled Wartabone’s famous words and continued, “Fifty-eight years later to the day, on this Sunday 23 January 2000, we, all the people of Gorontalo, whether inside or outside the region, declare the formation of Gorontalo Province!” (Nurdin 2000: 77). A few moments later, Nelson Pomalingo, another leading figure, underscored Mooduto’s words: “With the blessing of Allah all powerful, on this day, the 23rd of January 2000 that is honored by the January 23 Patriotic Movement, we officially declare the separation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya!” (Nurdin 2000: 80). If one resisted the excitement and emotion, this might have appeared a slightly awkward moment. New provinces cannot simply be declared into existence. They require extensive bureaucratic scrutiny at multiple levels of government, capped by legislation passed in Jakarta. Though a lobbying process was already underway to establish Gorontalo Province, such a bold pronouncement entailed considerable risk. But like Wartabone’s declaration in 1942, the statement of provincial independence proved prescient, if premature. Less than a year later, Gorontalo did succeed in its aspirations.4 A new province called Gorontalo, mostly Muslim and ethnically Gorontalo, split away from North Sulawesi Province, which had a Christian majority and was multi-ethnic. Why were the Gorontalo so anxious to form their own province? And how did they achieve their objective so quickly? I argue that, historically, state formation and centralization divided—rather than unified—different groups in North Sulawesi, creating a situation I call “marginality in the periphery.” By this I mean that, while the North Sulawesi region as a whole has historically been a peripheral area in the national context, stark differences in power relations evolved within the province such that some groups dominated and others felt marginalized. With the foundations for this argument in place, I will also argue that the timing and success of the new-province movement can be attributed to Indonesia’s political transition. A weakened state and institutional changes affected the situation at a key juncture, when a variety of actors at the local, regional, and national level developed an interest in seeing through the creation of a Gorontalo province. Together, the historical and more contemporary narratives explain why a new-province movement in Gorontalo emerged and why its advocates were successful.

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More importantly, the experience of Gorontalo shows us how territorial change was triggered by concrete material kinds of exclusions. A new province was seen as a mechanism for redress after years of economic and political marginality. While the movement articulated itself through differences highlighted in ethnicity and religion, I argue that the main source of grievance emerged in the context of Minahasan dominance in the province. At the same time, movement actors worked hard to make connections and build coalitions at the national and regional levels. This was possible, I argue because national actors had their own incentives for creating a new province including political institutional incentives. Groups worked together both in Jakarta and in the regions to make a new Gorontalo province a reality. The case of Gorontalo also reinforces two broader arguments in the book. First, the process is not simply being undertaken in the interests of administrative efficiency, as many policymakers and public officials at both the national and local levels claim.5 This phenomenon of territorial change needs to be seen as a profoundly political process, undertaken by actors with clear political and economic interests at the local, regional, and national levels. Nor should this trend toward new-province formation be understood as a general movement seeking regional autonomy in the conventional sense. This chapter argues that examining territorial change tells us important things about regional politics, particularly about the alliances and cooperation that take place within and between regions and centers. The experience in North Sulawesi illustrates that regionalist aspirations in the so-called “periphery” can actually be “positive-sum.” I show in depth the actors at multiple levels who had interests and worked together to form the territorial coalitions. The following section highlights North Sulawesi’s diversity, noting how the province has been compartmentalized according to religion, ethnicity, and territory. The chapter then shows how attempts to incorporate North Sulawesi into the state formed the basis for an imbalance of power among different groups, and it examines Indonesia’s political crisis of 1998 and the way democratization and decentralization reforms triggered the movement to create new provinces. Finally, it addresses how the interests of political elites converged with those of various societal groups, facilitating the establishment of Gorontalo province.

Compartmentalized diversity in North Sulawesi Located on the northern tip of Sulawesi Island, North Sulawesi Province is remote, geographically closer to Manila than to Jakarta. It is also a highly diverse region with a population consisting of half a dozen ethnic groups split evenly between Christians and Muslims. Before the province was divided, in 2000, its population hovered at around three million, divided roughly into six major ethnic groups: the Minahasa, Gorontalo, Bolaang-Mongondow, Sangir, Talaud, and Javanese (see Table 5.1).6

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Administratively, the province consisted of four districts, or kabupaten— Minahasa, Gorontalo, Sangir-Talaud, and Bolaang-Mongondow—and encompassed three cities—Gorontalo, Manado, and Bitung (BPS 2000). Gorontalo, located in the southwestern portion of the province, occupied the largest land area. Bolaang-Mongondow lay to its northeast. Minahasa district occupied the northern tip of Sulawesi. And Sangir and Talaud, two island groups classified as one district, were neighboring islands located north of the mainland and due south of the Philippines. In 2000, about half of the region’s population was Christian, with most residing in the northern area of Minahasa, and Sangir-Talaud. This was the result of an effective proselytizing campaign conducted by Dutch missionaries in the nineteenth century. To the south and west, the Gorontalo ethnic group and a majority of the Bolaang-Mongondow remained staunchly Muslim. Islam had made its way to Gorontalo and Bolaang-Mongondow in the sixteenth century thanks to the influence of the neighboring Ternate Sultanate, and later, in the early seventeenth century, it had radiated from the south with the rise of the Kingdom of Gowa. The Christianizing influence of the Dutch missionaries did not reach down to Gorontalo, in part because the Dutch did not have a strong presence in the area.

Table 5.1 Ethnic groups in North Sulawesi Province in 2000 Name

Population

Percent

Gorontalo Minahasa Sangir Bolaang-Mongondow Talaud Javanese Other Total

897,235 824,700 396,810 224,749 79,838 64,619 314,735 2,802,686

33 29 14 8 3 2 11 100

Source: BPS 2000 Table 5.2 Kabupatens and kotas in North Sulawesi Name

Square kilometers

Percent of area

Gorontalo Bolaang-Mongondow Minahasa Sangir Talaud Gorontalo City Manado City Bitung City Total

12,150.65 8,358.04 4,188.94 2,263.95 64.8 157.25 304.00 27,487.63

44 31 15 8.25 0.25 0.5 1 100

Source: BPS 2000

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Table 5.3 Religion in North Sulawesi Province Name

Number

Percent

Islam Protestant Catholic Hindu Buddhist Other Total

1,396,513 1,285,588 93,678 11,606 3,981 12,258 2,803,624

50 46 3 0.5 0.1 0.4 100

Source: BPS 2000

These demographic patterns not only highlight the diversity in the region. They also illustrate the way in which ethnic identity and territory correspond closely with one another. This correspondence—or compartmentalization— provided an important precondition that facilitated the breakup of North Sulawesi province. Compartmentalization should be understood as more than just the clustering or concentration of different groups in close proximity to one another. It refers to the particular way in which different groups are brought together under the same overarching territorial institutions (in this case, the province) by the state. Most ethnic groups in the region formed a majority population in their own districts; only in urban areas, such as the provincial capital of Manado, was this not true. Thus, each of the sizable ethnic groups arguably had its own “homeland.” Circa 2000, the Gorontalo could be characterized as an ethnic group with most of its members living in the district of the same name, where most people adhered to Islam. This kind of correspondence between ethnicity, religion, and territory made it easy, when the time came, for advocates to highlight the differences among groups in the region and claim the right to “upgrade” the territory, from, say, a district to a province.7 To be sure, compartmentalization alone cannot fully explain why certain provinces split apart. Many provinces throughout Indonesia have multiple ethnic or religious groups occupying a single administrative region, and most have remained intact. The process by which territorial administration in North Sulawesi has historically been carried out is also critical to understanding group relations in the region and explaining the impetus toward the formation of a separate Gorontalo province.

The historical foundations of privilege and marginality In North Sulawesi, the historical process of state building created economic and political imbalances between different groups in the region. Specifically, state practices historically privileged the ethnic Minahasa at the expense of the ethnic Gorontalo. The movement for a new Gorontalo province emerged from this feeling of marginalization experienced by the Gorontalo within the

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original province. In this sense, while North Sulawesi itself is often included as part of Indonesia’s Outer Island “periphery,” this chapter highlights the power dynamics of privilege and marginality within that periphery.8 Four key periods of state formation in North Sulawesi are particularly instructive in highlighting the development of these intra-regional relations: the colonial period, the nationalist period, the era of regional rebellion, and the New Order era. Each shows how attempts by the state (both colonial and Indonesian) to consolidate power and incorporate the region into a larger territorial entity served to create a fragile and internally fragmented province. Colonial interventions and legacies Though group identities in North Sulawesi predate colonialism, European intervention in the region influenced group relations in three fundamental ways. First, colonialism introduced the practice of territorial administration into the region. Second, Dutch missionaries actively transformed regional identity by converting large numbers of people to Christianity. And third, the colonial administration actively privileged one group, the Minahasa, above others in the region. One distinctive characteristic of pre-colonial Indonesia was its relative abundance of land and shortage of labor (Ricklefs 1993). A high land-tolabor ratio meant that the pre-colonial kingdoms on Java and elsewhere tended to be more interested in people than in territory. Labor, particularly in the context of agricultural cultivation, was critical to the growth and survival of these kingdoms. Wars were thus less often about securing territory than about capturing populations who could be brought back to the home city of the victors and put to work. Like many other regions, political affinities in North Sulawesi prior to the Europeans’ arrival also tended to be aterritorial (Henley 1996: 29). Locals aligned themselves with sovereigns or rajas rather than identifying themselves with a piece of land. For example, different members of a single village might have been loyal to different rulers despite living next door to one another. But the Dutch arrived in the region in the seventeenth century intent on securing territory in order to harvest rice for troops in the Moluccas (Henley 1996: 31). This plan proved a threat to the Bolaang-Amurang-Manado raja based to the south and west of the region, and he launched periodic attacks against the Dutch. The Dutch then fortified their territory in the north and established clear boundaries, which they stipulated in treaties and enforced with troops (Henley 1996: 32). Initially, the Dutch East Indies Company had dealt with Gorontalo indirectly from their post in Ternate. Once they had established clear boundaries, however, the Dutch entered the Gorontalo region in the early 1700s and set up a trading post (Niode and Mohi 2003: 33). In the 1730s, the governorgeneral of Maluku concluded an agreement with the king of Gorontalo to build a residence for the representative of the Dutch East Indies Company in

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Gorontalo (Niode and Mohi 2003: 33). But the company’s hold on the area remained tenuous at best, forcing it to withdraw its forces periodically. Nearly a century later, in 1824, the Dutch East Indies Company separated Gorontalo from the residency of Ternate and appended it to the residency of Manado (Hasanuddin 2004: 63). Thus, for the first time, the Minahasa and the Gorontalo populations were governed by the same administrative structure. The Manado residency was composed of two large sections: the Minahasa region, including Manado and various small kingdoms in the west and south, and the kingdoms of Gorontalo, Limboto, and others in Teluk Tomini (Hasanuddin 2004: 63). The islands of Sangir and Talaud, in the waters to the north of the region, were added a short time later (Hasanuddin 2004: 63). By the late nineteenth century, the Dutch had territorially consolidated North Sulawesi into four regions: Minahasa; the areas to the north and west of Minahasa; the areas along the Southern Coast of Teluk Tomini; and the islands of Sangihe Talaud (Hasanuddin 2004: 63). The Dutch residency was headquartered in Manado, while assistants to the residents were stationed in Gorontalo and the other administrative regions (Hasanuddin 2004: 64). This structure of administration would form the basis for the modern North Sulawesi Province. Beyond introducing the practice of territoriality and territorial administration, the Dutch also brought Christianity to the region on a large scale. In the 1820s, two Dutch missionaries from the Calvinist organization, the Netherlands Missionary Society (Nederlandse Zending Genootschap, or NZG), conducted a mass campaign to convert the local residents to Christianity (Henley 1996: 6). Conversion in the region accomplished two things. First, it created additional cultural markers to distinguish groups in the area. Because most of the missionary work took place among the Minahasa, where the Dutch had established a strong presence, Christianity would be concentrated in the north. By the 1880s, over 75 percent of Minahasans were converted to Christianity, leading some contemporaries to reflect that the experience was “unequaled in the history of Christian missions” (van Klinken 2003: 33). Meanwhile, most other groups in the region, including the Gorontalo, were not converted. Second, Christianity among the Minahasa served to exacerbate inequality among different groups in the region. In addition to proselytizing, Christian missionaries also sought to educate the “indigenous masses.” While most schools were initially concentrated in the immediate area where Dutch missionaries worked, their influence slowly spread to the broader Minahasa region. Only a small number of these schools were exclusively religious institutions, but the Dutch invested heavily in general education throughout the area and often recruited the help of missionary teachers for secular schools. By the turn of the twentieth century, residents in the Minahasa area had become one of the most educated Native groups in all the Dutch East Indies. In the 1930 census, Minahasa had the highest literacy rate in the entire archipelago (Buchholt and Mai 1994). Of 539 government-run schools in the Dutch East Indies, 74 were found in Minahasa (Leirissa 1991). This

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combination of education and Christianity proffered high status to Minahasans in the colonial order, where they were given priority in the KNIL (Koninklijk Nederlandsch-Indisch Leger, or Royal Netherlands-Indies Army), the bureaucracy, and other government positions (Leirissa 1991). Even prior to the mass Christian conversion in this territory, the overwhelming presence of the Dutch in the Minahasa region often led indigenous elites to ally with the colonial regime in order to improve their own social standing. For example, in military recruitment, Minahasans made up a disproportionately large part of the colonial army. From 1825 to 1830, the Dutch faced a strong rebellion on Java led by Prince Diponegoro. To counter Diponegoro’s forces, the Dutch recruited from their various strongholds such as Bali, Ternate, and Makassar. In Manado, the Dutch were able to recruit 1,400 soldiers out of a population of roughly 80,000.9 (In contrast, only 150 soldiers from Gorontalo were recruited and participated in the Java war; see Schouten 1998.) Colonialism thus laid the foundations for future relationships among ethnic groups in North Sulawesi. Colonial treaties demarcated the region territorially and dictated who would be included in it. Dutch practices also shaped identity, particularly among the Minahasa in the north through religious conversion. And finally, colonialism distributed power unevenly in the region in such a way that the Minahasa gained a disproportionate share of social, political, and economic benefits under the colonial system. Divergent nationalisms If colonialism sowed the seeds of emerging differences and inequality in North Sulawesi, nationalism might have been expected to ease them. A common enemy often forces groups to set aside their differences. However, the nationalist experiences of the Minahasa and Gorontalo diverged during this period, in part due to their respective colonial relationships with the Dutch. The Minahasa viewed nationalism through the lens of their special colonial status, making their support of the budding Indonesian independence movement more complex and conditional than it was in Gorontalo. In the early twentieth century, at least three different models of Minahasa’s political future stood side by side. One model advocated for Minahasan integration into the Dutch Republic as its twelfth province (Twaalfde Provincie) (Henley 1996: 154). Others, such as supporters of the Perserikatan Minahasa, pushed for more autonomy and, ultimately, national independence (Henley 1996: 154). But by the 1920s, considerable communication between the Minahasa and other groups in the Dutch East Indies led to a growing sentiment for the third model: pan-archipelagic, Indonesian nationalism. Leaders such as Sam Ratulangie thus attempted to straddle Indonesian and Minahasan nationalist interests (Leirissa 1991: 101). Intent on preserving Minahasan volk identity, with the long-term goal of establishing an independent nation-state, Ratulangie ultimately compromised by agreeing to a federal model for the Indonesian state that would give states a great deal of autonomy (Henley

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1996: 132). All of these experiences served to make Minahasans conscious and self-aware of their own identity during the nationalist period. Notably, each model sought to highlight and institutionally preserve Minahasan identity and privilege in one form or another. In contrast, the ethnic Gorontalo faced fewer internal dilemmas when responding to the archipelago’s nationalist experience. Leaders, including Nani Wartabone, had studied on Java, attending schools such as MULO (Meer Uitgebreide Lagere Onderwijs, or Extended Elementary Education) in Surabaya, and mixing with other future nationalist leaders from Java. In 1923, Wartabone pushed to establish Jong Gorontalo, a branch of a national youth organization, and in 1928, he also established the local office for the Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI, or Indonesian Nationalist Party) (Hasanuddin 2004: 158). When PNI disbanded in 1931, it was replaced by Partai Indonesia (Partindo), and a new branch was established in the region with many of the same PNI leaders and organizers in place (Hasanuddin 2004: 159). PNI and Partindo were secular nationalist organizations, but Islam also played a key role in the nationalist movement in Gorontalo. By this time, Sarekat Islam, an Islamic political party, had reached Gorontalo, having been introduced into the region by the 1923 visit from H. Umar Said Cokroaminoto, leader of the organization. Cokroaminoto and others saw Islam as a way of opposing Dutch colonialism and forming the basis for national pride. In 1928, Sarekat Islam officially opened a branch office in Gorontalo (Hasanuddin 2004: 154). For these reasons, the Gorontalo did not harbor pro-Dutch sentiments nor have clear aspirations for independent statehood in the way the Minahasa did. Their experiences embedded them firmly in the nationalist struggle and strengthened their desire to throw out the Dutch occupiers. Note the explicitly nationalist message in this statement made by Nani Wartabone on Patriot Day in 1942: “Pada hari ini tanggal 23 Januari 1942, kita, bangsa Indonesia yang berada di sini, sudah merdeka, bebas lepas dari penjajahan bangsa mana pun juga. Bendera kita Merah Putih. Lagu kebangsaan adalah Indonesia Raya” (Niode and Mohi 2003: 38).10 Only World War II and the experience of Japan’s brutal occupation began to bring the Minahasa and Gorontalo into the same Indonesian nationalist fold. The Dutch had made some effort to suppress notions of Indonesian nationalism, but when Japanese troops invaded, they forced their way into houses with bayonets and demanded to know whether occupants were “Dutch or Indonesian?”, to which the only safe response was, “Indonesian” (Henley 2002: 150). This meant that, for the first time, a pan-archipelagic nationalism would be embedded in North Sulawesi, with the Minahasans and the Gorontalo expressing similar aspirations and nationalist goals. A lonely rebellion The Japanese occupation ended in 1945, after which the Dutch attempted to retain power over Indonesia. Those attempts ultimately failed, and in 1949

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the Dutch granted Indonesia sovereignty. The different groups in North Sulawesi jointly opposed Dutch attempts to regain a foothold in the former colony. In order to fight the returning Dutch forces in Northern Sulawesi, reinforcements were sent from other regions, including Makassar (Niode 2002: 68). But by the end of the 1950s, the rise of regional rebellions put the Minahasa on a different trajectory from its local neighbors yet again. Whatever affinity the Minahasa and Gorontalo felt in their shared opposition to the Japanese and the Dutch in the 1940s was largely shattered in the post-independence era. From 1958 to 1961, North Sulawesi waged war against the central government in what became known as Permesta (Perjuangan Semesta, or “General Struggle”). The rebellion began as a reaction against the perceived overcentralization of the Indonesian state, and particularly its “Java-centric” focus, imposed at the expense of the archipelago’s “Outer Islands.” Leaders cited the economic imbalance and, in particular, Jakarta’s restrictions on the export of natural resources. The military officers in the region had a substantial stake in commodities such as coconut (copra, the dried kernel of the coconut) and wanted to export it abroad at the international market price. But Jakarta maintained a monopoly on the commodity and required Indonesia’s “Outer Islands” to sell their commodities to Java at slightly above half the international price, thereby infuriating regional producers (Harvey 1977: 3). Initially, Permesta was based out of Makassar in southern Sulawesi and consisted of a relatively broad coalition of dissatisfied Outer Island officers.11 But in independent consultations, officers in the south decided to negotiate with the central government and quickly reached a settlement.12 The officers from North Sulawesi, largely Minahasan, were not satisfied with the terms of negotiation and opted to fight. The Minahasa in North Sulawesi proved to be the most determined combatants in the Permesta rebellion, in large part because they had the most at stake. Since they were Christian, and economically better off, they also made up a disproportionate percentage of the military. But those very characteristics also made them the object of resentment regionally, and thus the Minahasa received little support from their neighbors after government retaliation began. Permesta thus became a Minahasan problem.13 Though initially successful in confronting the central government’s military force, Permesta quickly collapsed once the central government captured Manado through aerial bombardment and the dispatch of army troops. Even a cursory study of Permesta brings the experiences of the Gorontalo and the Minahasans into sharp relief. Narratives in Gorontalo emphasize how the people of Gorontalo opposed Permesta. The nationalist Nani Wartabone took part in resisting this rebel movement, declaring that “we did not recognize PRRI/Permesta as a part of the Unitary State of the Indonesian Republic.” Wartabone joined with battalion 512 and a detachment of battalion 715 Hasanuddin and led a sweep of Gorontalo to clear the region from the threat of Permesta, a feat accomplished by 1958 (Niode 2002: 68).

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Permesta proved a defining moment in the history of the region. It not only affected relations between the Minahasa and the central government, but also served to further distance the Minahasa from the other groups in North Sulawesi. Looking back, we find that many of the Minahasan interpretations insist that the rebellion was primarily about reforming a system of governance skewed toward Java. But the narratives of other groups, like the Gorontalo, tend to identify the Minahasa and their rebellion—rather than Jakarta—as the most notable threats during this period. New Order rehabilitation After the failure of the rebellion, the main leaders were captured and flown to Jakarta, where they were jailed. However, the fall of Sukarno and the ascendancy of Suharto and the New Order improved the rebel leaders’ fortunes markedly. After taking office, Suharto pardoned many of the key figures of Permesta and then brought them into his patronage network. Many found development and consulting jobs, including Ventje Sumual, a Minahasan Christian and the leader of the Permesta movement. Sumual established a company called P. T. Konsultasi and worked on lucrative development projects doled out by the Suharto regime (Matindas and Supit 1998: 369). At one level, Suharto may have let Sumual and other leaders of Permesta off the hook for personal reasons. He and key Permesta leaders were apparently old friends who had fought side by side against the Dutch during the Indonesian revolution. At the same time, Permesta’s anti-communist and anti-Sukarno ideology were closely in line with the New Order’s own logic and thus may well have formed the basis for the rehabilitation of this cohort. The New Order had emerged in the context of an alleged coup and countercoup that had led to anti-communist massacres in 1965. Those events had left a smaller imprint on North Sulawesi, in part because the Christian population in Manado was largely hostile to communism as an ideology, and because the experience of Permesta had also wiped out much of the leftist influences in the region. By the 1980s and early 1990s, some were attempting to reinterpret Permesta as an anti-communist rebellion rather than an anti-government or anti-Indonesian rebellion (Leirissa 1991). This partial rehabilitation of a rebel force that had challenged the central government exacerbated tensions between different ethnic groups within the administrative boundaries of North Sulawesi. It appeared that the Minahasans had been forgiven and regained their political dominance under the New Order. Back in Manado, ethnic Minahasans retained the governorship over the long term, while Javanese generals rotated in and out of the governor’s office in other provinces (see Table 5.4).14 Minahasans also tended to dominate the bureaucracy and military disproportionately. Within the military, access to development funds (keuangan pembangunan) meant officers generally enjoyed informal privileges and often held personal financial stakes in

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Table 5.4 Governors of North Sulawesi, 1961–2005 Name of governor

Years in office

Ethnicity

A. A. Baramuli SH F. J. Tumbelaka Sunandar Prijosoedarmo (interim) Abdullah Amu (interim) H. V. Worang Willy Lasut Erman Harirustaman G. H. Mantik C. J. Rantung E. E. Mangindaan A. J. Sondakh H. Sarundayang

1961–1962 1962–1965 1966 1966–1967 1967–1978 1978–1979 1979–1980 1980–1985 1985–1995 1995–2000 2000–2005 2005

Sangir/Makassar Minahasa Java Not recorded Minahasa Minahasa Not recorded Minahasa Minahasa Minahasa Minahasa Minahasa

Source: Hasil Karya (North Sulawesi Provincial Government 2004)

infrastructure development projects (Schouten 1998: 221). Thus military patronage and corruption were perceived to have a Minahasan bias. Politically, to be sure, some power-sharing arrangements did exist. The vice governor, or the head of the provincial legislature, was usually from BolaangMongondow or Gorontalo or Sangir—that is, not Minahasan. In addition, there were attempts on the part of the provincial government to mitigate the ethnic tensions. During the New Order, government leaders promoted the idea of “BOHUSAMI,” an acronym referring to the four different groups in the province at that time: Bolaang-Mongondow, Gorontalo (Hulontalo), Sangir/Talaud, and Minahasa (Henley et al. 2007: 323). This was an attempt to create a “trans-ethnic” regional identity, one of the priorities of the New Order government (Jacobsen 2002: 8). But these kinds of efforts tended to ring hollow, particularly when one saw that Manado’s political structure granted so much power to the Minahasa. By the 1990s, many non-Minahasa were venting their frustrations. Politically, many Gorontalo resented the fact that, although they had the largest population and the largest land area, Minahasans occupied most of the key positions in government. At Jalan Roda, a local watering hole for politicians in Manado, discontented patrons were often heard to gripe that “no matter how good the gubernatorial candidates from other ethnic groups might be, they can never compete with the Minahasa” (Pariwisata 2003). And because the Minahasa historically have been economically much better off relative to the Gorontalo, the Gorontalo tended to blame neglect by North Sulawesi’s provincial government for their own underdevelopment. Gorontalo informants complained that development funds dispersed to Gorontalo often did not reach their area because the money was redirected by the provincial government to development projects in Minahasa. One respondent said of the situation, “Gorontalo is an area that is always treated as a step-child [anak tiri].”15

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Table 5.5 Social development indicators I in North Sulawesi Name

Primary school completion rate

High school completion rate

Minahasa Gorontalo

75.2 57.3

19.8 8.8

Source: Gavin and Sondakh (Sondakh and Jones 2003)

Table 5.6 Social development indicators II in North Sulawesi Name

% > 50 meter2 floor space

Minahasa 31.4 Gorontalo 25.2

With private toilet

% owning stoves

% owning TVs

62.1 26.6

60.8 37.4

33.9 15.0

Source: Gavin and Sondakh (Sondakh and Jones 2003)

Marginality in the periphery The drive to separate Gorontalo from North Sulawesi was thus motivated, in part, by a feeling of marginalization, engendered by the perception that the province was dominated by the Minahasa. The advantages enjoyed by the Minahasa were particularly irksome to the Gorontalo, who saw themselves as having been loyal to the Indonesian nation during a time when the Minahasan relationship with the Indonesian nation was troubled. To be sure, even the Minahasans’ own position in the Indonesian state was largely peripheral during the New Order era, as this ethnic group never fully regained the status it had enjoyed under the Dutch. But in North Sulawesi province, they controlled the economic and political institutions. The campaign to form a new province was an attempt by the Gorontalo to break away from a Minahasadominated province. This historical context shows how resentment between different groups in North Sulawesi was created, persisted, and, in fact, intensified during the course of Indonesian state-building and well into the New Order.

Transition and opportunity and territorial coalitions The historical process of state centralization in North Sulawesi fed the growing frustration of the Gorontalo. But that frustration lay latent until triggered by Indonesia’s political turmoil in the late 1990s. Political transition accelerated the call for a new Gorontalo province for two reasons. First, the national crisis weakened the central government’s capacity to govern. Increasing disaffection with the New Order and the weakness of the central state during the economic crisis led to bolder initiatives by regional actors. At the same time, the institutional changes that emerged in the wake of the political transition

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also provided incentives for political elites. The following sections examine both of these processes and how they served to facilitate coalitions among groups with a shared interest in seeing the establishment of a new Gorontalo province. The foundation of the coalition The timing of new-province movements in Indonesia can be understood in the context of an opportune political environment.16 The collapse of the New Order proved to be a critical juncture that unleashed new kinds of political and economic demands (Bertrand 2004). Thus, Gorontalo’s initiative can be understood in the framework of other regional movements that emerged during the late 1990s. These included the separatist movements in East Timor, West Papua, and Aceh, mentioned earlier, but also reform movements in resource-rich areas such as Riau and Kalimantan, where residents demanded more autonomy and insisted that a greater share of the revenues earned through sales of regional commodities must remain in those regions. As early as 1996, students in Gorontalo district had begun forming discussion groups that met regularly to address themes such as democracy, “national success,” balancing national power (limitation of powers), civil society, and economic development (Niode 2002: 71). In the political turmoil of 1997 and 1998, these discussion groups morphed into sites of political organization and activism. The reformasi movement grew and spread throughout the archipelago in part because many of the students studying in Jakarta returned to their home towns (pulang kampung), joined the local movements there, and took to the streets. In Gorontalo, the emerging student movement adopted the slogan “Dulowo Limo Lo Pohalala,” or “Two from Five that are Brothers,” referring to the different sub-ethnic groups that together form the larger Gorontalo ethnic family.17 Initially, student demonstrations and demands in Gorontalo mirrored the broader student movement nationwide. They raised issues such as inflation, the distribution of foodstuffs, and economic security. In 1998, local newspapers also began running stories on the corrupt practices of the Gorontalo district chief, Imam Nooriman. Nooriman was Javanese, a military officer, and a member of the dominant party, Golkar. The news stories prompted student organizations to redirect their frustrations from the national to local government. The students staged ongoing demonstrations in front of the local government house for the next six months, calling on the regent to resign. In response, Nooriman summoned the military and police to break up the demonstrations with force.18 Over 30 students were hospitalized as a result of the ensuing clash. In ordinary times, such incidents may have ended with that firm act of repression, but now the violence marked a turning point in the student movement. The event sparked outrage from the students and the broader community, and a wide range of civil-society groups issued a demand to then-provincial governor E. E. Magindaan, calling for Nooriman to be sacked. The governor

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met with the students of Gorontalo and promised to resolve the issue. He reshuffled the military bureaucracy in the region by firing Ali Fatam, chief of the local military depot, and replaced him with an officer from Manado. But despite the demands of the Gorontalo, reinforced by a new provincial law against corruption, Governor Magindaan did not follow through on his promise to hold Nooriman accountable. This situation aroused widespread resentment against the governor and in essence shifted the target of student grievances from the local district to the provincial level and to the governor.19 The students demanded that either the governor act decisively, or face the prospect of a Gorontalo region that would split from North Sulawesi. So frustrated were some students that they marched to the Radio Republik Indonesia station and declared on-air that if, their demands were not respected, they would call for Gorontalo to become its own negeri (state), which could have been interpreted as a demand for independence either from North Sulawesi or from Indonesia.20 During renewed demonstrations in January 1999, students began calling for the establishment of a new province of Gorontalo. In February of 1999, students organized a large meeting (Musyawarah Besar, or MUBES) in Gorontalo city. MUBES meetings usually occur annually and are opportunities for group members to air grievances and address important issues. At this MUBES, student organizers officially declared their support for a new province of Gorontalo.21 This decision proved critical, as it brought together a broad array of student groups under the same umbrella, groups motivated to pursue the creation of a new province. Groups included Kerukunan Keluarga Indonesia Gorontalo (KKIG), Forum Solidaritas Intelektual Muda Indonesia Gorontalo (FSI-MIG), Himpunan Pelajar Mahasiswa Indonesia Gorontalo (HPMIG), Forum Komunikasi Mahasiswa Indonesia Tinelo Gorontalo (FK-MITG), Himpunan Pelajar Mahasiswa Indonesia Bualemo Gorontalo (HPMIBG), Ikatan Sarjana Gorontalo (ISG), and Forum Komunikasi Mahasiswa Gorontalo (FKMG) (Intim 1999). In addition to the secular Gorontalo student groups, the Islamic student association in Gorontalo also supported the cause. Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam (HMI) and its local branch office in the area took the initiative to organize an open dialogue, or dialog terbuka, to promote the idea of establishing a new province.22 It is worth noting that, in the wake of Muslim and Christian violence in Ambon and the Malukus, the North Sulawesi region has often been held up, rightfully, as one place that did not experience religious or other identityrelated acts of violence (Henley et al. 2007: 323). While this is true, the prominent role of Islamic organizations shows that tensions latent within the province did emerge, but manifested themselves in a different kind of way: as a demand for provincial separatism. While anti-Christian rhetoric was never used publicly to justify the demands for a new, predominantly Muslim, province, religious differences clearly played an important role in people’s desires to have a separate province.23

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On December 7, 1999, the first official organization with the specific goal of promoting the establishment of a new Gorontalo province was formed. Headed by H. Natsir Mooduto, the organization was dubbed Panitia Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo Tomini Raya, the Committee to Prepare for the Formation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province (or P4GTR for short). With the formation of P4GTR, the role of the students was folded into the wider movement for a new province. The movement supporting the creation of a new province spread to include a broad array of groups from Gorontalo society. Those involved performed a wide array of tasks, including mobilization, education, lobbying, and negotiation. Perhaps most importantly, these groups framed the debate in a way that identified the Gorontalo as a marginalized group seeking separation from a dominant power. The head of HPMIG, Ethon Parman, noted that the Gorontalo region should be entitled to half of the regional budget since it occupies half of North Sulawesi.24 “That should be 15 billion rupiah out of the 29 billion for North Sulawesi province. What we [Gorontalo] receive is only two billion. Obviously, this is unequal” (Kompas 1999a; Harian Gorontalo 2000a).25 Aleks Oli’l, head of the forum in Makassar, noted that Manado takes advantage of Gorontalo’s resources without then taking care of the people in the society. “Manado is like a new imperialist in relation to Gorontalo,” he stated.26 Still others noted that “For dozens of years, Gorontalo has been cow’s milk for the people of Manado” (Intim 1999).27 The social mobilization that built support for creating a new Gorontalo province was a critical part of the political process. Social forces took advantage of the economic and political crisis in Jakarta and advocated for regionspecific goals. In particular, the demonstrations that emerged shifted the frustrations that had been concerned with general national issues to specific localized ones. Furthermore, the violence and the subsequent intransigence of local and regional leaders triggered the concrete demand for a new province. But the “political opportunity” argument only takes us so far. It can help explain the emergence and growth of the movement, but in the case of Gorontalo political elites also played a critical role in supporting the initiative for a new province. Decentralization and local elites In Gorontalo, two kinds of local elites were active in supporting the movement for a new province. The first were prominent figures in society who had political aspirations related to the new province. These “out-of-power” or “aspiring” elites included prominent educators, religious figures, and business leaders. They lent the movement credibility as efforts to lobby and forge alliances became more important. These elites were also able to use the newly created civil-society organizations as vehicles to promote their own political agendas.28

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For example, despite the creation of P4GTR as the primary advocacy vehicle for the formation of a new province, other groups such as PRESNAS and KP3GTR also emerged.29 The official rationale for having several groups outlined a division of labor: P4GTR’s activities would be “local,” PRESNAS would be “medium size,” and KP3GTR would lobby in Jakarta. But there was no compelling reason why one organization could not operate at different levels. In fact, the situation was determined by a leadership conflict among the different organizations because the leaders of each party aspired to become governor of a new Gorontalo province.30 Local elites who already held positions of power, such as local district heads and members of the district level legislature, also supported the formation of a new province. Many of their considerations were electoral. The movement was already popular, and to oppose such a movement could have consequences later. At the same time, creation of a new province would also funnel more development funds to the region, funds that had previously gone to Manado. This would mean increased development projects, projects of the kind that typically benefited local elites who could profit from fixed bidding and other practices.31 The prospect of these benefits led the district heads of Sualemo, Gorontalo, and Gorontalo City to support the new province movement and they stood in solidarity at the Patriot Day rally on January 23, 2000. The mayor of Gorontalo City, Medi Botutihe, also supported the movement, claiming that he sympathized with the aspirations of the local people (Manado Post 1999). Botutihe was another local leader who tried to run for governor of the new province, but he failed to garner broad support (Harian Gorontalo 2000b). To be sure, some elites were more willing to participate than others. In contrast to their counterparts in Gorontalo district, the ethnic Gorontalo elites in the provincial legislature did not initially support splitting the province.32 One might expect that such leaders would be interested in establishing a new political unit where they could exert more power and influence without other groups, like the Minahasa, interfering in their affairs. However, elites in their position tended to be risk-averse and conservative. The Gorontalo legislators in Manado already had secure positions, and it was not in their interest to contest a new election where the outcome would be uncertain. Thus, of eight ethnic Gorontalo in Manado, all initially opposed the provincial split.33 The initial reluctance of the provincial elite formed the basis for a coalition opposed to the creation of the new province. In addition, ethnic migrants who had relocated to the provincial capital in Manado as part of a regional diaspora also expressed reservations about a new province. Gorontalo migrants who lived and worked in Manado were concerned that they would now be unwelcome in the city based on their race and ethnicity; they feared being told to “go home to your new province.”34 The same was true of ethnic minority groups in the proposed new province of Gorontalo. Bureaucrats and other public officials from outside the region who served in Gorontalo were concerned about facing potential discrimination.

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Recognizing the obstacle posed by provincial opposition, pro-Gorontalo forces brokered a deal. They agreed that if the legislators supported the recommendation for a new province, they would be given seats in the new Gorontalo legislature without having to campaign for them in the first election cycle.35 Out of the eight leaders who had originally been opposed to splitting the province, seven of them now agreed and supported the initiative, while one remained in his seat in Manado. Once the provincial leaders were bought off, the remaining opposition receded. There was little coordination or any impetus to mobilization among remaining groups inclined to oppose the split. Thus, in February, the provincial legislature formally approved the division of North Sulawesi province into two parts (Suara Pembaruan 2000). Throughout this process, the support of elites was critical at both the local and provincial levels, as government regulations dictated that before any such initiative would be considered at the national level, it must have the support of the local society and the local government. The provincial legislatures and the district chiefs and governors functioned as checkpoints on the path to Jakarta. Political party reform and national elites Civil-society organizations and political elites in the periphery had clear reasons for promoting the establishment of a new province. But what of elites at the national level? Why would political elites in the center join a coalition supporting a regionalist initiative? On the one hand, the politics of personality and patronage played an important role here. Gorontalo had strong allies in Jakarta who rallied to the cause. At the same time, the transformation of the party system also shaped the interests of the various political parties, motivating them to advocate for a new province. The best-known advocate in Jakarta for Gorontalo provincehood was President Habibie. Though he had been raised in South Sulawesi, Habibie’s family roots are in Gorontalo, and he strongly supported the provincial cause based on personal affinity to the region.36 He both gave financial support and lobbied on behalf of Gorontalo with key leaders in the legislature. General Wiranto, army chief-of-staff under the Suharto regime and 2004 presidential candidate for Golkar, was also a strong advocate, in part because his wife was a native of Gorontalo.37 Powerful businessmen such as Rachmat Gobel, a native of Gorontalo and head of Panasonic Indonesia, also strongly supported the new province. While individual political elites in Jakarta may have had personal interests in creating a new province, national-level legislators had clear material incentives in advocating for a new province. It is an open secret that new provinces and new districts often require bribes paid to the national-level legislators who are ultimately the ones to write the law that establishes the fledgling administrative unit (a law that must then be signed by the president). Lobbyists’ visits to legislators are then as much about distributing money as

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they are about presenting convincing arguments. In the case of Gorontalo, relevant legislators were apparently paid a sum of five million rupiah each in exchange for their support of the bill.38 But the monetary incentives paid to individual legislators were not the only factors influencing policy at the national level. Political parties as institutions played a critical role in new-province formation since approval for such an action requires legislative consent. Recall too the extensive reform of political parties during this period. As noted earlier, new-province formation in Gorontalo and elsewhere may have been part of a longer-term strategy to increase the number of seats in the legislature through the creation of new provinces. In 1999, electoral districts were organized along provincial lines, and thus the creation of a new province effectively meant that broad-based parties could gain more representation in the DPR-RI (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat–Republik Indonesia, People’s Representative Assembly of the Republic of Indonesia or the House of Representatives of the Republic of Indonesia).39 The largest parties, including PDI-P and Golkar, may have seen this as an opportunity to consolidate their dominant position in the national legislature and keep open the possibility of a cross-party alliance. At the same time, the requirement that parties maintain offices in at least a third of all provinces also gave larger parties an advantage, making it harder for small parties to compete. What is clear from the Gorontalo experience is that supporting a new province also gave central elites in Golkar a great deal of influence over the future of its provincial leadership. Prior to 2004, the governor was elected by the province’s legislature. In Gorontalo, Golkar dominated the legislature and controlled the outcome of the gubernatorial election. Gorontalo has historically been a stronghold for Golkar. At the provincial level, out of 25 members, 13 were from Golkar, two from PAN (Partai Amanat Nasional, National Mandate Party), one from PDI-P, one from Kebangkitan Bangsa, one from Partai Bulan Bintang, four from PPP (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, the Unity Development Party), and three from TNI/Polri (Tentara Nasional Indonesia/Polisi Republik Indonesia) the armed forces and national police party (Niode 2002: 72). Because parties remained highly centralized, local legislators in Gorontalo were put under heavy pressure to elect Fadel Mohammed, a candidate chosen by the national Golkar party. Mohammed was Muslim, but not a putra daerah, or “son of the soil.” Though he had spent some time in the region, his roots were in Ternate, and he lived and worked in Jakarta. But he had been a high-ranking and influential member of Golkar. Previously a businessman, Mohammed had risen through the ranks and established close ties with the Golkar leadership. His election dismayed the students and other local activists who insisted the ethnic Gorontalo take care of their own political future by electing one of their own. In this sense, national elites benefited from a new Gorontalo province mediated through political parties. In sum, a strong national party seeking to maintain its legislative dominance had incentives to form a coalition with local proponents so they could

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carve out a province that would provide electoral gains at the national level. In addition, support from powerful patrons in Jakarta significantly aided in Gorontalo’s cause. The role of central elites would also form a point of conflict among the local societal groups that had supported the creation of a new province for very different motives. However, this rift would emerge only after a new province was already created.

Reflections and conclusions The coalition that emerged in the movement for a new Gorontalo was based on a push by local actors as a remedy to what I have called “marginality in the periphery.” This marginality was a product of the long process of state formation in the region but in particular, of the New Order regime. The new institutional changes in the post-New Order period gave impetus for local groups to forge coalitions with regional and national supporters. These groups had their own interests in a new region and were thus open to the idea of joining such a coalition. In this sense, this chapter has tried to demonstrate the starkly political nature of new-province formation in Indonesia by examining the experience of Gorontalo. In Gorontalo, perceptions of historical marginalization led to popular resentment of Minahasan dominance. That dominance had emerged from the process by which the Dutch and Indonesian states sought to incorporate far-flung regions of the archipelago into an administratively coherent state. Gorontalo’s opportunity to split away from North Sulawesi grew out of the political turmoil in the late 1990s and the subsequent institutional changes to Indonesia’s political system. These provided the foundations for an alliance between social actors and elite actors spanning local, regional, and national levels. Over a long span of time—through the colonial period, the nationalist era, the era of regional rebellion, and the New Order—the relationship between North Sulawesi and the state created tensions between the Minahasans and the Gorontalo. Both the colonial and Indonesian central state tended to privilege the Minahasa over the Gorontalo via the administrative structures of North Sulawesi province. These conditions left North Sulawesi compartmentalized ethnically and religiously. The timing of Gorontalo’s provincial movement can be attributed, in part, to the Indonesian financial crisis of 1997, the collapse of Suharto’s government, and subsequent political reforms in Indonesia. The students’ demands for a new province emerged from localized events that occurred in the context of the national reformasi movement. Students vented their frustrations against North Sulawesi’s governor for refusing to hold local leaders accountable for violence and corruption. As it happened, the interests of these social reformers overlapped with the interests of elites at the local, regional, and national levels to such a degree that, once initiated, the process moved quickly and smoothly.

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A key implication of this study is that, in the context of center–region ties, the process of new-province formation is closely connected to national politics. The road to creating a new province is paved through Jakarta. Initially, national elite support for such regional objectives and ambitions may seem puzzling, but if examined in relation to political institutions, especially the larger political parties that might gain legislative seats and regional influence through such initiatives, the motives of national elites became much more clear. This is critical because the ultimate decision for or against a new province rests on their approval. This insight also suggests that the relationship between center and regions in Indonesia is more complex than is typically portrayed. In Gorontalo, the movement to institute a new province was not about severing relations with the central state, but rather about creating new ties and new relationships previously not possible when the area was subsumed under North Sulawesi’s larger provincial administrative structure. In this sense, a new Gorontalo province was less about a region seeking to isolate itself from the state and more about new and different kinds of access and relationships between center and region. In other words, there seems to be a centripetal element to new-province formation. The pattern becomes clearer as we turn to other cases including Archipelagic Riau and West Papua.

6

Territoriality and membership The case of Kepulauan Riau

Introduction In Gorontalo, territorial change emerged in the context of national institutional change and local difference which became territorially politicized and made a new province easy to imagine. However, it is important to note that not all experiences in Indonesia mirrored Gorontalo’s. Despite all the mobilization that took place in the push for a new province, the overall process in Gorontalo proved remarkably smooth. Furthermore, the idea of a new province as a form of political, cultural, and economic redress is not the only way in which new province movements have been triggered. This chapter explores the experience of Riau province, which split into two in 2004. Located on the eastern coast of Sumatra, the district of Archipelagic Riau, or Kepulauan Riau (Kepri), split away from its mainland counterpart of Mainland Riau, or Riau Daratan, after several years of wrangling. Here, actors in both regions shared the same religion (Islam), the

Map 6.1 Map of the new Kepulauan Riau Province next to Riau Province

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same relative ethnic diversity, and approximately the same level of economic development. Furthermore, as one of the wealthier provinces in Indonesia, some groups in the region pushed for a pan-Riau autonomy and independence movement after the fall of the New Order. Contrasted with Gorontalo, Riau’s split can tell us then about the variety of ways in which territorial change has occurred in Indonesia and what that says about territoriality more broadly. The debate about territoriality in Riau reflects a debate about different kinds of membership. By membership, I refer to the way individuals see themselves and others as part of (or not part of) a given community. At least three different kinds of memberships were at stake. On the one hand, there was a fundamental question about membership within the larger Riau province and Kepri’s relationship with the Riau daratan. At the same time, there was also a question about who could truly claim to be an orang Kepri. And finally, interwoven between these two tensions was the question of Kepri’s place in the larger Indonesian nation-state. These local, regional, and national memberships are not mutually exclusive from one another, nor are they necessarily nested within one another. Instead, the experience in the Riau region shows the dynamics between different kinds of memberships and the conflict and struggle that can emerge in times of change. I begin with a narrative of the movement for a new province of Kepri. I then take stock of the ethnic, religious, and economic background of both daratan and kepulauan, arguing that stark differences such as those that appear in Gorontalo do not exist in the same way in Riau. Instead, contestation over membership within Kepri, in the larger Riau province and ultimately within the Indonesian nation-state, help to explain the provincial split.

The movement for a new Kepri The initial narrative of Kepri’s path to provincehood does have some similar parallels to Gorontalo. The movement for a new province was triggered by political turmoil and change at the national level. And these events were articulated in the region in highly context-dependent ways where local groups and individuals played key roles in mobilization. For this reason it is useful to review this narrative as a starting point to understanding the larger dynamics that emerged in Kepri. During the political upheaval in the late 1990s, local concerns among civil society in Kepri centered around national issues such as corruption, nepotism, and economic policy. For example, local actors convened groups such as the Forum Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten Kepulauan Riau (FSRKKR), or the Solidarity Forum for Reform in District Riau Archipelago. This organization pledged to “support the reformasi movement in the Center and in the large cities so as to implement the reformasi movement in the regions.”1 They held demonstrations against the district chief who was seen as a vestige of the New Order government. Groups also burned down nightclubs, gambling joints, checkpoints, and other places associated with political corruption.2 These

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early movements tended to include an array of groups including civil (secular) society, religious groups, as well as students. As the upheaval in Jakarta quelled, the overall direction of political movements in the region shifted from national issues to local ones, and this shift resulted in the emergence of a narrower focus on territory as embodied by organizations such as the Komite Pemekaran Kepulauan Riau (KPKR), or Committee for the Dividing of Archipelagic Riau. The organization sought initially to divide what was then the district of Kepri into six separate districts. Their justifications included administrative efficiency, empowering previously marginalized sub-districts, and being better equipped to deal with border related issues including trade and immigration.3 Nowhere was there mention of a proposal to create a new province. Groups such as KPKR undertook a broad array of activities. They organized regular discussion meetings, lobbying of regional governments, and conferences and panel discussions on the region. They also reached out to the local residents including the various sub-districts sending letters of support and also to Kepri’s social leaders who reside outside of Kepri in Jakarta; Pekanbaru, Bandung and other cities. They also conducted comparative studies in other regions with similar aspirations, organized hearings with the local governments, and organized a Kongres Rakyat Kepulauan Riau, or People’s Congress of Archipelagic Riau, in order to gain a consensus and mandate on the initiative for new districts. And finally they formed links with national actors such as national policymakers in the Ministry of Interior and the national legislature in Jakarta.4 However, the push for new districts proved a precursor to a larger effort to promote a new province. The articulation for a new province of the Riau Islands emerged from a large societal meeting, the Musyawarah Besar Masyarakat Kepri, on May 15–16, 1999, and another in 2000 which brought together representatives from all the sub-districts of Kepri (Koran Tempo 2002). This gathering was financed by powerful elites in the province including the governor of Riau, the district chief of Kepri, and higher-ups at the Riau Pos, the regional paper based in the provincial capital. These groups financed the meeting in order to encourage the splitting of districts under the strict agreement that a new province would not be proposed.5 Thus, the original proposal at the meeting was only for creating new districts, out of the single Kepulauan Riau district. These included the proposed new districts of Natuna, Lingga, Karimun, Bintan, as well as two cities, Tanjung Pinang and Batam. However, as the meeting proceeded, participants turned to the idea of a new province that was “sesuai dengan program reformasi” (or “appropriate with the reformasi program”). Movement participants stated that to address the problems of poverty, to promote prosperity, participants decided a new province was necessary.6 With the need for a new province declared, proponents established another new organization, Badan Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Kepulauan Riau (BP3K), or Committee to Prepare for the Creation of Island Riau Province.7 The organization was headed by local leaders such as Abdul Razak and

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Sarafuddin Aluan both highly respected community leaders in Riau Archipelago (Koran Tempo 2002; Kompas 2002a). Like its counterparts elsewhere, the organization also had representatives in Jakarta to support lobbying efforts in the national legislature as well (Republika 2002). Claiming to represent a broad swath of society the organization leaders noted that “the desire for a new provinces is through all components of society including Kepri, Tanjung Pinang, Batam, Karimun, and Natuna” (Kompas 2002a). The civil-society groups such as BP3K started to pursue this goal in full force in 2002 at the local level by organizing demonstrations and publicizing their demands. They held events in multiple venues including in Jakarta, in mainland Riau, and in the archipelago itself. In May 2002 for example, thousands of people marched in separate rallies in Riau demanding a new province. In their marches, they burned effigies of Riau’s governor Saleh Djasit, the provincial council chair H Chaidir, the deputy chair Wan Abubakar, and Tabrani Rab, prominent mainland Riau proponent. All of these figures from the provincial-level government opposed the split. Other civil-society organizations also emerged to support the creation of a new province, for example Gerakan Mahasiswa Perjuangan Provinsi Kepri (GMPPK), or Student Movement to Struggle for Kepri Province, and Panitia Hari Marwah Masyarakat Kepri, or Committee for Rose Day of Kepri the People. The latter demonstrated near Kepri’s port in 2002 and attempted to declare their own province and even inaugurate their own leader as the governor of the province. This demonstration was broken up by military and police. In December the same year, residents from all parts of Kepri traveled to Jakarta to rally the central government for support for Kepri to become its own province (Kompas 2002a). Hundreds of residents marched in front of the president’s palace, the Ministry of Home Affairs, and the Bundaran Hotel Indonesia (Kompas 2002b). Amidst all this fervor, the legislature passed a bill in 2002 to allow Kepri to split from Riau, finally implementing it in 2004. In many ways, the narrative of Kepri sounds similar Gorontalo’s. Events at the national level triggered a movement at the local level that articulated problems and objectives locally. Groups at the local level formed a set of demands and lobbied and linked up with groups at the national level in order to push through their demands. And while there were opponents to the split at the provincial level, these are depicted as challenges that were overcome by the local community. How then do some of the arguments made about Gorontalo fit in the context of Kepri? The next section sets the demographic and economic backdrop that is arguably quite different from the North Sulawesi case.

Diversity and territoriality in the Riau region In Gorontalo, demographic differences overlapped with territory and identity in a way that made a new province easily conceived. In Riau, the situation was more complex. Before the mainland/island split, Riau province consisted of 12 regencies. The mainland of Riau lay in the watershed of four major

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river systems including some of the islands immediately off its coast. Archipelagic Riau, or Kepulauan Riau, included the islands that lie further off the coast that form an archipelago stretching from the Straits of Malacca all the way to Borneo. Most of Kepri’s three thousand-plus islands are uninhabited, a majority of the population clustered on the five main islands of the archipelago: Karimun, Riau Island, Singkep-Lingga, Anambas, and Natuna. The entire region has always been characterized by a high degree of ethnic diversity. However, ethnic or religious groups were not organized in a neat and compartmentalized way in the way they were in Gorontalo. For example, in the 2000 census, respondents self-selected at least eight different ethnicities to identify themselves. Of the eight largest ethnic groups in the region, the Malays are the only group that are considered truly “indigenous” or “native” to the area. To be sure, the notion of ethnicity in the region is highly complex (L. Y. Andaya 2008). Some groups such as the Minang and the Bugis have been in the region for hundreds of years. On a census form, they could check off “Malay” because of intermarriage and assimilation, but these identities are likely to be fluid and may depend on who was being asked and in what context. The second largest group, the Javanese, arrived in the region mostly under the transmigration program pushed by the Suharto government in the 1970s and 1980s. The government sought to relocate two and a half million people from the “inner” islands of Java, Bali, and Madura to the less densely-populated “Outer Islands.” Many were sent out to places such as West Papua, Kalimantan, and Sumatra. In Riau transmigrant sites were often located around oil palm plantations (Hoshour 1997: 558). The Minangkabau from neighboring West Sumatra province were also economic migrants to the region. Minang culture has a strong emphasis on migration, and even in pre-colonial times there were strong connections between the western upland side of Sumatra and the coastal regions in the east. Many arrived via the Kampar, Siak and Indragiri rivers and capitalized on the trade routes to China and India that had been established. Many of the Table 6.1 Ethnic groups in Riau Province in 2000 Name

Percent

Number

Malay Java Minang Flores Banjar Bugis Sunda Batak Sunda Total

38 25 7 1 4 2 2 7 2 100

1,828,107 1,190,015 347,450 14,869 179,380 107,648 80,282 347,450 80,282 47,551,776

Source: BPS 2000

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Minang in Riau had been there for generations and considered themselves a part of hybrid-Malay culture (B. W. Andaya 1997: 489). After World War II, Minang migration to Riau surged, nearly doubling between the years 1943 and 1961.8 The remaining ethnic groups in Riau were also predominantly migrants to the region.9 Many also tended to make up a disproportionate amount of the labor workforce that arose from the booming petroleum, timber, and oil palm sectors on the mainland, and the factory and service jobs that have appeared on the archipelago. This posed a tension in Riau among many of the ethnic Malays who saw their more “Malay” province overrun by “outsiders.” This sentiment would later feed into the autonomy movement on the mainland, which would in turn affect the island movement for a new province. The high inflow of migrants also meant that ethnicity, religion, and territory in Riau also did not overlap in ways they have in other parts of the country. Recall that in North Sulawesi each of the large ethnic groups had their own territorial “homelands” in the form of sub-provincial regencies such as Minahasa, Gorontalo, and Bolaang-Mongondow. In Riau’s 15 administrative regions the relationship between ethnicity and territoriality is much more complex. Table 6.2 indicates that ethnic Malays tended to be the majority throughout the province and in each of the districts, though to varying degrees. Table 6.3 shows that the census does not indicate a significant difference in the ethnic composition on the mainland vs. Kepri. The same can be said about religion. While other provinces that faced severe conflict including Maluku and Central Sulawesi, violent inter-religious conflict was virtually non-existent since the vast majority of the population is Muslim. Table 6.4 shows that in comparing the two regions that split, there do not appear to be major differences between the mainland and archipelagic Riau in terms of religious breakdown. Table 6.2 Ethnic groups in Riau Province in 2000 (percent) Region

Malay

Java

Minang

Other

Total

Kuantan Singingi Indragiri Hulu Indragiri Hilir Pelalawan Siak Kampar Rokan Hulu Bengkalis Rokan Hilir Island Riau Karimun Natuna Dumai Pekanbaru Batam

68 52 26 51 32 55 31 38 39 41 50 85 25 26 20

22 32 20 27 35 24 37 23 36 22 17 6 26 15 26

3 4 2 4 11 6 3 14 0 6 4 0 23 37 14

6 10 50 16 20 13 27 23 23 30 27 7 24 19 37

100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100 100

Source: BPS 2000

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Table 6.3 Ethnic groups in Riau and Kepri in 2000 (percent) Region

Malay

Java

Minang

Other

Total

Riau Kepri

38 37

25 22

11 9

23 31

100 100

Source: BPS 2000 Table 6.4 Religion in Riau in 2000 Name

Number

Percent

Islam Catholic Protestant Hindu Buddhist Other Total

4,214,294 68,697 252,764 9,059 198,710 11,652 4,755,176

89 1 5 1 4 1 100

Source: BPS 2000

The differences between mainland and archipelagic Riau seem minimal in comparison to provinces which included varying ethnic and religious groups. Together, both island and mainland Riau formed Indonesia’s Malay province. In part, as we shall see, the census and other statistical information fail to capture more subtle differences that emerge both within Kepri proper and also between the mainland and the archipelago. But before exploring these differences, it is useful to examine another possible culprit in causing regional tensions: economic inequality.

Economy: regional development and economic trajectories Ethnic and religious diversity appear to have limited impact in explaining the split between Kepri and the mainland. Perhaps economic differences drove the division between the two regions. In Gorontalo, we saw how the deep inequality layered on top of religious and ethnic differences drove the resentment in Gorontalo to split from its Northern Sulawesi counterpart. This kind of pattern does not seem to match the experience of Riau province. Economically, the two regions were integrated into the national development framework and both regions grew relatively prosperous compared to other regions in Indonesia. In fact, as a province, Riau was one of the richest provinces in Indonesia during the New Order. During the 1960s and 1970s, Riau’s wealth increased in the context of the global oil boom when the Indonesian government invested heavily in the petroleum industry based mostly off of the mainland regions of Riau. It developed the Minas oil fields off the coast of the province and then sold oildrilling concessions to foreign companies. By the 1970s, the Minas fields had

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become the largest source of oil in the entire country. By 1974, the revenue equaled approximately 4.2 billion dollars, or one-sixth of the total Indonesian GDP by 1974 (Ascher 1998: 40). The state petroleum company, Pertamina, headed by a key Suharto ally, General Ibnu Sutowo, became part of the patronage machine for the New Order government. It also became part of a larger strategy of the Suharto government to pursue off-budget development to promote industrialization and infrastructure expansion. This meant investing not only in the oil business, but also in tourism, insurance, automobiles, telecommunications, and airlines (Ascher 1998: 40). Although oil revenues fell after the bankruptcy of Pertamina, the New Order was able to shift to other resources abundant in mainland Riau such as logging and Riau’s economy remained robust.10 The broader point is that, by the mid-1990s, Riau had the highest per capita gross regional domestic product per capita in all of Indonesia (Mubyarto 1997: 543). To be sure, a high degree of inequality emerged in the region between those working in oil and industrial-related sectors versus those working in farming and small scale plantations (Mubyarto 1997: 545). Economic development had a negative impact on groups living in forest areas due to the unprecedented rates of deforestation during the New Order. Other groups such as the orang laut sometimes referred to as “sea gypsies” were also economically marginalized (Mubyarto 1997: 545–6). In many ways, Riau resembled a dual economy in which urban dwellers linked to industrial sectors did well while those in other sectors lagged behind. However, relatively speaking the province was no worse off than most other Indonesian provinces, and in fact better off in aggregate. Although much of the engine of Riau province’s economy rested on the mainland, the Riau Islands were also integrated into the national economy though arguably in a different fashion. The region did benefit from rich deposits of natural resources such as bauxite, tin, and natural gas offshore from some of the islands. But more importantly, since the 1970s, the islands in the region were developed under the New Order as a free trade zone, capitalizing on its proximity to Malaysia and Singapore. In particular, President Suharto transformed one of the main islands in the regions, Batam, into an industrial development zone. Suharto established the Batam Industrial Development Area (BIDA) in 1971 and initially appointed Ibnu Sutowo to head the organization (Delta Orient Private Limited 1975: 9). In fact, Pertamina invested a great deal of capital in Batam and the initial function was to serve as a base for offshore drilling (Gill and Sri-Aksarakomunika 1998: 18). Thus the earliest investors on Batam were oil- and gas-related companies. After the bankruptcy of Pertamina, Sutowo was quietly dismissed and one of President Suharto’s closest confidantes B. J. Habibie was appointed as chair of BIDA in 1978. Although technically in Riau province, the lines of authority in BIDA were drawn directly to Jakarta. To promote the development zone and reduce red tape, Suharto declared Batam a city by decree in 1983 and all economic responsibilities were assigned to BIDA and its leadership.

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Under Habibie’s management BIDA shifted from an offshore base, to a free trade zone concentrating on manufacturing and export.11 The island also built up a sizable tourism industry with world-class resorts and hotels. BIDA’s business model was to lease land to industrial factories as well as to hotels and resort developers and then charge a high tariff on them. Archipelagic Riau in many ways then became a region that piggy-backed on the growth of neighboring countries. In 1989, Singapore’s Prime Minister Goh Chok Tong proposed a growth triangle between Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia dubbed SIJOHRI.12 This removed restrictions on foreign ownership and allowed for foreign and joint ventures with Singaporean companies. What resulted were dozens of joint ventures. One example was the creation of Batamindo, a 400 million USD venture between Singapore Technologies Industrial Corporation, Jurong Environmental Engineering and the Indonesian Salim Group (Gill and Sri-Aksarakomunika 1998: 106). The growth triangle essentially served as a zone where Singapore could capitalize on abundant land and labor. While technically, SIJOHRI encompassed all of the Riau province and later expanded to several other provinces, the bulk of the economic benefit was focused around BATAM and its industries. Exports on Batam grew from a 1978 base of 330,000 USD to over 1.3 billion USD in 1994 and over 3 billion USD in 1995 (Gill and Sri-Aksarakomunika 1998: 67; Sari 2002). This dwarfed the gross domestic regional product of about 0.8 billion USD in 1995. In addition 45 percent of total investment on Batam was made up of foreign direct investment. And in taking into account the tourism industry, the whole of foreign exchange income for Batam was about 3.5 billion USD (Sari 2002: 126). By 1996, BIDA accounted for 10 percent of all non-oil and gas exports from Indonesia.13 All of this is to say that economically speaking, the Kepri region performed well during the New Order era. Like the mainland, there did remain a high level of inequality in Kepri between those linked to the services and tourism sectors on Batam vs. those relying on more traditional sectors in other parts of the archipelago. Furthermore, the growth on Batam relied on high concentrations of migrant workers not just from other parts of Indonesia, but also from Malaysia and other parts of Southeast Asia. In this sense, the economic developments in daratan and kepulauan paint a more complex picture, not simply two relatively wealthy regions, but two regions with aggregate wealth but also high levels of inequality. Nonetheless, by the end of the New Order, both Riau and Kepri were firmly embedded in the national Indonesian economy and were thus important economic and political assets for the New Order regime. Both areas were also relatively well developed though Archipelagic Riau was much more tied into the international economy with their export processing zone. This separateness would become important once the differences between the two regions began to re-emerge because it meant that Kepri had its own viable economic base to separate from the relatively wealthy mainland neighbor. Nonetheless, the capacity to split from Riau with an independent economic base still does not answer the question of why it would choose to do so.

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A rejection of membership If ethnic, religious nor economic differences appear to be the root of the territorial division in Riau, what kinds of factors might drive the two regions apart? The case of Kepri shows how territory was more than just a set of material resources to rectify economic and political marginality. A new province was also about redefining the question of membership in the Riau region. For many this meant recovering a lost sense of status and recognition from an idyllic past. In many ways, Kepri came to be defined by what it was not. Winachakul, in talking about nationalism in Thailand, calls this a “negative identity” (Winachakul 1997b: 3). For Kepri, the boundary between the new province and the old province established was both political as well as cultural. This rejection was not based fundamentally on economic differences or ethnicity per se. Instead, it was based on a desire for recognition and prestige. The new province movement for Archipelagic Riau can be seen then as, ironically, a reaction against the move for an independent Riau province that emerged in the mainland in the late 1990s. Mobilizing pan-provincial autonomy In the wake of political changes occurring in Indonesia in the late 1990s, the reformasi movement fueled deep resentment against Jakarta in many parts of Indonesia, including Riau province and especially among those in the capital of Pekanbaru. On the one hand, local Malays felt marginalized and underrepresented in the provincial government and locals argued that leadership positions in the government were going to outsiders instead of locals or putra daerah. As the state gradually centralized power in the post-revolutionary period, territorial reorganization carved out a Riau province out of a former Central Sumatra province as described in Chapter 3. But under the New Order government, the province came under an even tighter grip of the central government in Jakarta. The top officials in the regional administration were mostly from the government Golkar party (Malley 1999a: 387). Most key positions such as governor were typically held by ethnic Javanese and Minangkabau rather than Malays (Derks 1997: 705). The only local Malay to hold the governorship during the New Order was Arifin Achmad, in 1967–78. A member of Golkar and appointed by Suharto he helped strengthen and channel votes to the government party. But Golkar’s and Arifin’s popularity waned in later years. In order to shore up support among his local constituents, Arifin demanded 1 percent of the oil revenues of Riau be returned in order to benefit his own people. As a result he was quickly marginalized by Jakarta and allegedly the government launched a smear campaign in order to discredit him (Derks 1997: 706). Subsequent governors were Javanese military generals firmly in Suharto’s control and well embedded in Golkar as well. These included leaders such as Imam Munandar who Suharto appointed in 1980 and the appointment of Soeripto from 1988 to 1993.14

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In addition to the feeling of political exclusion, proponents of an independent Riau felt they were getting a raw deal in terms of economic distribution in the archipelago. There was a significant disjuncture between the amount that Riau contributed to the national economy and the relative amount they received back in return. This sentiment was not new and in fact had been increasing since the mid-1970s. As late as 2000, 15 percent out of two billion dollars in oil revenue went to Caltex Pacific Indonesia, the primary contractor while the remaining 85 percent went straight to Jakarta (Colombijn 2000). During the New Order, resistance to Jakarta was seen largely as futile. To that end elites prioritized maintenance and strengthening of a Malay cultural identity (Derks 1997: 704–5). Cultural revitalization took place through the establishment of cultural centers and research on language and literature (Wee 2002: 502). For example, the University of Riau established a Center for Malay Language and Culture Studies, including a new cultural journal called Dawak (Ink). The Malay Chamber of Commerce which brought together business people not just from Malaysia and Indonesia, but from other diasporas in the region. Organizing along ethnic Malay lines whether cultural or economic then helped to strengthen the Malay identity, even as resentment of outside rule festered. These sorts of activities then helped to lay the foundations for a Riau Malay identity in the province. Thus it came as no surprise when, during the reformasi movement, some groups in the region began to push for more independence from Jakarta. In March of 1999, amidst the demonstrations for reformasi, students from the University of Riau and other local universities in Pekanbaru began to call for an independent Riau or Riau Merdeka. They marched to the office of a leading cultural figure, Professor Tabrani Rab, demanding he declare independence for Riau. Rab read the statement handed to him by students calling for Riau’s sovereignty or berdaulat.15 The act of students forcing a respected leader to declare independence was likely meant to recall the circumstances of Sukarno’s declaration of independence which was forced upon him by students on August 15, 1945. Rab eventually endorsed the notion of a free and independent Riau and along with Al Azhar, another respected leader in the community, organized a large scale movement calling for Riau’s independence. In addition to those pushing for independence, there were also groups and individuals arguing for more autonomy. A more reformist group headed by Governor Saleh Djasit did not demand immediate independence but rather called for a 10 percent increase in oil revenues, and threatened violence and unrest if not accommodated (Colombijn 2000). Djasit also worked closely with national-level elite figures from Riau who sympathized with their predicament. For example former Minister of Interior Syawran Hamid argued for a federal model of the Indonesian state rather than the unitary model (The Jakarta Post 1999a). However, federalism was broadly dismissed by most Indonesians who associated it with a Dutch legacy of divide and rule. Riau Merdeka then was a smaller but vocal political movement pushing for an independent state but one which raised eyebrows in Jakarta in the context of widespread regional instability in the early years after the fall of Suharto.

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Their actions included demonstrations, declarations, and lobbying with national elites. It did not include an armed resistance as in other regions. Nonetheless, while it may have been a relatively small movement in retrospect, the uncertainty at the time led to concerns among key national-level actors. However, for activists of Kepri province, the notion of Kepri joining the Riau Merdeka movement largely rang hollow. While many of the activities identified above helped to lay the foundation for a more pan-Riau identity in the area, it also belied a cultural and political competition between mainland and archipelago. With many of these activities centered in the capital of Riau, Pekanbaru, there was also a sense that the agenda was being set by the daratan rather than the kepulauan. For many in Kepri the creation of a new province trumped the idea of joining Riau Merdeka. Rejecting Riau Merdeka As political change at the national level in Indonesia trickled down to the regions, one of the key questions that emerged revolved around the issue of who could legitimately claim to be a member of the local community. In the post-Suharto era, the term putra asli daerah came to be a popular term that captured this dilemma. Putra asli daerah, or “true son of the region,” refers to the idea that ethnically local individuals should reclaim positions in the political system after years of having outsiders occupying government positions during the New Order. In Kepri, this emphasis on local identity emerged strongly and came to be epitomized in the push for a Kepri province, in which at least two different kinds of groups emerged. One group can be called the cultural elite. For these proponents a new province would restore the ancient Sultanate of Riau Lingga (Faucher 2005). These individuals were often referred to as the local aristocrats because of their lineage to an ancient sultanate. A second group of mobilizers included a more secular elite who saw new political potential in a new province. In terms of aristocratic elites, these included cultural figures who could trace their lineage back to the traditional Riau-Lingga kingdom (Faucher 2005: 128). They saw a new province as an opportunity to revive the old sultanate and among other things, reintroduce traditional social practices such as adat and Shariah or Islamic Law (Faucher 2005: 128). Wee has called this a process of “atavism” which she defines as a “reversion to a past style, manner, outlook, or approach” (Wee 2002: 503). Atavism on Kepri was characterized by several different kinds of discourses that justified the split between mainland and archipelagic Riau. Often these emphasized different historical origins or experiences while underplaying the various similarities that might exist. In Kepri, the elites who pushed these discourses included the raja-raja or local kings from the island of Penyengat and their kin. These raja were revered for the study and preservation of Malay language and culture. The backdrop to this reverence is that historically, Kepri is said to have been home to the last line of royalty of the Sultanate of Malacca that dominated the region in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. While the previous Srivijaya

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empire had largely operated from Sumatra, the locus of regional power shifted to the Malay peninsula with the rise of Melaka. Melaka however, would bump up against the arrival of colonial powers and power would be redistributed in the region based on European attempts to monopolize the spice trade. The Portuguese arrival in 1511 led eventually to the fall of the Melaka sultanate. Melaka’s last ruler before the Portuguese invasion, Sultan Machmud, fled and eventually established himself on Bintan Island in the Riau archipelago. From this base, he hoped to fight and ultimately oust the Portuguese and take back his realm. After several unsuccessful attacks against Melaka, the Portuguese proceeded to destroy Bintan and the Sultan escaped again, this time to Johor on the southern tip of the Malay peninsula where his descendants established a new sultanate (B. W. Andaya and L. Y. Andaya 2001: 59). The arrival of the Dutch in the early 1600s proved to be of great benefit to the Johor sultanate, the successor to Melaka. In the Dutch, Johor saw an ally with which to counter both the Portuguese and the growing influence of Aceh to the north. By 1606, the VOC and Johor negotiated an alliance where the Dutch would control Melaka, while Johor would control the Riau-Lingga Islands and their surrounding areas (B. W. Andaya and L. Y. Andaya 2001: 72). This allowed Johor and the Riau islands to claim the mantle of Malay culture for much of the eighteenth century. In the nineteenth century, Johor and Riau-Lingga split into competing kingdoms with the Malay-Bugis establishing a new Riau-Lingga sultanate in the Riau archipelago. The remnants of this sultanate continue on in the Kepri archipelago today, embodied in the aristocratic elites that still occupy relatively high social status in Kepri. During reformasi, many of the aristocrats, numbering in the hundreds, participated in the mass rallies and lobbying efforts of the local organizations (Faucher 2005: 135). Also highlighted in the justification for a new province were the cultural differences of the Kepri Malays vs. the mainland Malays. One oft-cited difference consisted of the lineage patterns, which on Kepri were traditionally patrilineal while those on the mainland, perhaps due to West Sumatran influence, tended to be matrilineal.16 For these groups, a key way to membership revolved around archipelagic Riau’s royal lineage. But because of the historical arguments, religious elites defined Malay identity based on a relatively narrow scope of lineage. This in turn meant that orang Kepri should be “Malay” and, in fact, “true Malay.” If the “true Malays” were ready to revitalize a new territory it implied that those without similar lineage and particularly migrants were by definition, second class citizens. Ironically, this ignored the lineage of the Bugis in the Riau/Lingga sultanate who historically came from Sulawesi (Faucher 2005: 129). Still the vision of aristocrats who supported Kepri then was ultimately exclusive. While many of the culturally Malay elite in Kepri advocated the new province as a way of “purifying” Malay culture, mainland opponents argued that splitting up the provinces would equate to splitting Malay culture. In response, Kepri advocates insisted that the new division would be administrative only and that cultural ties between the mainland and the islands could

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and would remain strong. As one Malay leader noted, “In the movement at the time, we wanted to protect the relationship with Pekanbaru. If we separated with Pekanbaru then Melayu would be separated. So we kept the relationship. Melayu is like water. Even if chopped, it cannot be divided.”17 In this sense, we can interpret the cultural elites not as dismissing the larger Malay identity but seeking to strengthen their own status within it. A second set of supporters for a new province consisted of individuals and groups who saw the political potential in a new province. These individuals and groups were markedly less religious in their outlook. Members in this camp included a broad array civil society groups but particularly student groups, other Malay groups, and migrants. For these supporters, a new province had to do with the political and economic potential of the region. Many informants in Kepri emphasized that the city of Tanjung Pinang in the archipelago had historically been the capital of the region until 1961 when it was moved to the mainland city of Pekanbaru. Part of this was because of the influx of non-citizen Chinese who made up some 11.7 percent of population in Tanjung Pinang at the time. There may have been doubts about the loyalty of the Chinese given their strong connections to Singapore and Malaysia (B. W. Andaya 1997: 509) But for many, the move represented the theft of their political status. A new province would mean Tanjung Pinang’s role as provincial capital could be restored. Among the key leaders of this secular vision of Kepri included Huzrin Hood, the district chief or bupati of the Kepri regency. Hood played an active leadership role in BP3K, the civil society organization calling for a Kepri province. Huzrin Hood also headed the Forum Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten Kepulauan Riau, founded during the reformasi period, and local supporters noted that Hood’s leadership and abilities were critical in Kepri’s success for new province formation. Hood’s intention was to become governor of the new province and he himself claimed to be the strongest candidate for the governorship (Faucher 2007: 246). However, in November 2003, he was found guilty of swindling Rp 4.3 billion from the local budget. He was given two years in prison and ordered to repay Rp. 3.4 billion of the funds and since then lost all of his legal appeals. Hood is largely seen by his supporters as a victim of the successful Kepri province. Playing on his name, many referred to him as Kepri’s Robin Hood who stole from the government to help the common people.18 While Hood was not the only person involved in pilfering he was the only one convicted and serving time. Other local political elites saw advantages to a new provinces. Their own political aspirations they saw as having been limited by Kepri’s relatively minor status within the larger Riau province. Provincehood opened the door to many new higher ranking positions than those available under a “mainland-centric” province. Although Hood and other elites had their own interests and agenda, they also came to embody the secular, non-aristocratic, elements of the movement. Civil-society groups and individuals who did not have the same lineage connections as the aristocrats of Kepri rejected support for the resurrection of a neo-

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sultanate in any shape or form. For these groups, membership in Kepri was seen as something more secular, more open, and ultimately more cosmopolitan. In this sense, two competing visions of members in Kepri emerged during the movement for a new province. On the one hand, those with lineage ties to the Riau Lingga sultanate clearly supported a vision of the future that emphasized the past including a reversion to traditional practices rooted in Islamic law. A second group proved more secular and cosmopolitan. However, for both of these groups, the question of who is orang Kepri came to be defined by what they were not, with a strong rejection of membership in their inclusion in Riau. Because of the way the debate came to be framed, the movement for Kepri province did face strong opposition among actors in the mainland, particularly those based in the capital of Pekanbaru. The main disapproval stemmed from governor Saleh Djasit, though the provincial legislature was also split on the issue. As noted earlier, the provincial opposition must be understood in the context of the movement within Riau for more autonomy. Djasit’s opposition to a new province was seen in the context of his extremely weak position in Riau. He was unable to forge strong networks at the provincial level because many in Riau supported the movement for merdeka or independence. On the other hand, he also lacked credibility with the central government. As a representative of the central government in the regions he had been unable to prevent the movement for an independent Riau. In that regard, he saw the importance of holding Riau together lest that be another permanent stain on his record as governor. The political parties in the legislature were initially split over this matter. The main supporters of Kepri were the larger parties such as PDI-P and Golkar which saw the potential benefit of a new province for their respective parties both in the national arena as well as on the ground. Many of the other parties opposed the process. However, it is unclear exactly what their motivations were. Both opponents and proponents of Kepri claimed that the DPRD had been bought off by the opposing side. The Jakarta Post, for example, reported that every member of the Riau provincial legislative council, composed of 55 members, had been bribed (Tanjung 2002). In an earlier vote in 2002, only 25 of 55 councilors voted in favor of the proposal while 32 opposed it. Twenty-five were from the Golkar and PDI-P party (Tanjung 2002). In a later vote the same year, all members of the council supported the new province. Allegedly, each member was paid 50 million rupiah for their support (Tanjung 2002). But others argued that the original opponents of the bill were also bribed receiving some 60 to 70 million rupiah in the process. Corruption aside, the conflicts over creating a new province of Kepri had few clear ethnic or religious lines. Rather there was the sense of lost status visà-vis the mainland among Kepri’s activists and elites. Joining a Riau Merdeka movement would do little to recover that status, while new provincehood would break relations with the mainland and recover some degree of lost status and power. Kepri residents felt that with more resources flowing from Island Riau to the mainland than vice versa, there was little advantage to

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joining a separate sovereign state which would, as Wee notes, “lead to only a change of masters but no change in the current relationship” (Wee 2002: 511).

National membership Also driving the debate for a new province of Kepri was a discussion of its place in the Indonesian nation-state. In part, Kepri’s rejection of Riau was based on what they deemed their already direct connections to Jakarta. At the same time, national-level initiatives to allow Kepri to go forward also show how actors in Jakarta were also concerned about mainland Riau’s membership in the Indonesian nation. In that regard, support for Kepri was in many ways a game of divide and rule for national groups, particularly the military. On the one hand, economic development discussed earlier meant that the archipelago had unusual and direct links to Jakarta. This is particularly evident in the New Order’s involvement in the Batam Islands, one of the engines of the economy in Kepri. Under Habibie, BIDA and Batam became very much a family business. He assigned his younger sister Rejeki Sudarsono as head of the Batam Family Foundation, an organization that was accused of holding an indirect monopoly over the island’s schools and hospitals. He also placed his brother-in-law, Sudarsono Darmosuwito as head of BIDA’s daily operations allowing him to build a small business empire. Habibie’s son Thareq Kemal and his brother Suyatim Abdulrachman were also awarded rights to build ship facilities on the island. The two, along with another son Ilham Akbar, held interests in BatamIndo Industrial Park facility. Suyatim also had separate stakes in sea-transport companies in Batam (Tesoro 1998). President Suharto’s friends and family were also clearly a part of the BIDA patronage structure. One of his closest business partners, Liem Sioe Liong, formed a partnership with two other Singaporean companies to build an industrial park for electronics companies (Malley 1999b: 424). Suharto’s sons, “Bambang” and “Tommy,” were also said to have substantial stakes in business related to BIDA. That the very top leadership of the Indonesian government was invested in large stakes of development in the Riau Islands also suggests the possibility that a major reason for central government support to create a new province was to guard over that wealth.19 Politically, this suggests that part of the fight for a new province was about Batam and its economic resources. Some in Kepri expressed concern that Batam would be extricated from the region altogether and made its own administrative region called Barelang (which includes Batam and some surrounding islands of Rempang and Galang). And so from the local perspective, a swift resolution of a new province and Batam’s place in that province was critical in order to retain the considerable economic resources of Batam.20 At the same time, actors in Riau sought to build national-level support for a new Kepri province by exposing the alleged activities of the sovereignty movement on mainland Riau. In particular, local activists fanned the flames of Jakarta’s apprehension with Riau Merdeka. Supporters of Kepri province

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went so far as to present “evidence” showing how well prepared the groups in mainland Riau were in declaring independence. This raised concern with the President (Megawati at the time) who allegedly called together military advisors from various military branches and departments.21 This resulted in the involvement of two intelligence agencies who aided local groups in the process of Kepri’s split. The first of these was the National Intelligence Agency or BIN. Reports in local media suggested that leaders such as Hood worked to pay off legislators by employing agents of BIN who then carried out the actual payoffs. Allegedly the acting agent was a two-star Army officer (Tanjung 2002). The money used for payoffs was from the government office of Kepri Regent Huzrin Hood (Tanjung 2002). At the same time, in an unusually public move, Major General Muchdi PR a high-level official in BIN, noted that he strongly supported the creation of a Kepri province and called for patience as the administrative details were finalized. The Badan Inteligens Abri or BIA also took a strong interest in new province formation. The commandant of Satuan Tugas at the time lent their support to local activists. Abri’s intelligence unit had closer connections to local leaders of the movement and offered a quid pro quo. Specifically they exchanged support for Kepri as long as they were willing to oppose initiatives from Riau Merdeka.22 Thus in their official declaration of a new province, they explicitly state their rejection of Riau Merdeka in the very beginning of the document.23 Also, activists from Kepri staged a walk-out at a general meeting on Riau Merdeka organized in Pekanbaru.24 The involvement of BIN and BIA suggests that the creation of Kepri was also considered a matter of national security and more precisely a way to undermine the Riau separatist movement. This logic of divide-and-rule makes particular sense because of the potentially complementary economic resources between Riau and Kepri. Riau mainland is rich in natural resources while Kepri has focused on foreign investment, manufacturing, and export growth. Furthermore, the military may have had an interest in new provinces and kabupatens because the process increases the number of postings and thus more places where officers can be posted.25 Thus, one of the most receptive political parties to the efforts of the movement was the ABRI party. Activists noted that key ABRI party members actually introduced the efforts in the parliament and pushed it through.26 But other national parties also had interests in creating a new province. Golkar, for example, was one of the major beneficiaries. They ended up having a plurality of the seats in the provincial legislature. PDI-P, which also supported the bill, emerged with the second largest number of seats in the legislature. In the end, Golkar candidate Ismeth Abdullah also won the election for governorship. Abdullah had also been Habibie’s successor at BIDA after Habibie became vice-president to Suharto. Thus he had close connections not only with Golkar but with the New Order figures invested heavily in Batam.27 Activists for Kepri also lobbied other political parties including organizing a Musyawarah Partai Partai Politik Kepulauan Riau in Jakarta in September

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2003. Representatives of the major parties were all invited, including Golkar, PBR, PNBK, PBB, PKB, PAN, PKS, PDIP, and PPP. This meeting was designed to address and alleviate any perceived problems to new province formation for the national level legislators who would ultimately be voting on the bill to allow the Riau Islands to become its own province. In general, local offices of national parties benefited also because of new infrastructure and new patronage. Each province has a party headquarters which would otherwise have remained in Pekanbaru.28 In fact, in the case of Riau, the national legislature actually passed the law to approve the creation of Kepri province before there was any approval from the governor and the provincial legislature, as stipulated by law. This became so contentious that opponents brought a suit before the Supreme Court of Indonesia. The Court ruled in favor of the legislation arguing that the government did indeed have the right to create a new province, even without the approval of the provincial-level government. National membership then, became a critical way in which the debate about a new province came to be mediated. National political elites in the legislature as well as the military saw national unity as a principle reason to support Kepri’s provincial aspirations especially because it undermined any potential threats of a mainland Riau province that sought independence or even unreasonable levels of autonomy.

Conclusion By 2004, the Riau Islands had finally achieved provincehood after nearly five years of wrangling in Jakarta and at the regional level. On the one hand, Kepri’s case illustrates similarities with other cases of new province formation and territorial coalitions or the linkage politics between center and periphery as well as between social movements and political elites. Political, social, and economic linkages between different administrative levels play important parts in other regional splits. In this sense, the experience of Kepri is consistent with the larger argument made in this book that coalitional politics are critical in understanding the territorial changes undertaken during Indonesia’s transition. Kepri did face major stumbling blocks, most notably from its “mother province.” Because of the autonomy movement on Riau that sought panprovincial integrity, many individuals and groups organized and mobilized against Kepri’s move. But ultimately, they were not able to build as strong a coalition as the proponents. The best they were able to do was to slow the process down. The provincial-level actors were more isolated from allies at the national level because of their support for either independence or federalism. And there was scant collaboration between provincial elites and local-level opponents of proliferation in Kepri proper. In this way, Kepri’s experience also has to be understood as occurring in a particular historical context of the region where post-Suharto reformasi movements led to regional tensions between Riau and Jakarta. These dynamics

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then affected other intra-provincial relations in a way that drew Jakarta and Kepri together with a common objective of marginalizing Pekanbaru. Said differently, national institutional changes can filter down to the locality in different ways and thus create different kinds of experiences in the regions. In particular, much of how we can understand Kepri’s push for a new province can be thought about in terms of membership and the redefinition and interaction of multiple kinds of identity at the local, regional, and national level. Said differently, the movement for a new Kepri province needs to be understood as a triangular politics between Kepri, Riau daratan, and Jakarta where the former sought to restore lost political and cultural status by linking directly with Jakarta rather than joining an independent Riau. Part of this story of membership included a rejection of inclusion in mainland Riau. When Riau mainland wanted to secede from the Indonesian state, Kepri had little need or interest in going along. Whereas the mainland was fed up with its “exploitation” and felt it had the resources to go its own way as an independent state, the Islands were much more cautious. They had benefited greatly from New Order era projects, particularly the Batam Industrial District. But actors in the mainland were reluctant to let such an important source of income go. Riau Archipelago’s international trade ties and industrial development zones could nicely complement the natural-resource-driven wealth on the mainland. Membership is often articulated through particular discourses that have been employed as a way to highlight difference. This was certainly the case between Kepri and Riau daratan. Actors on Kepri highlighted their distinct Malay lineage as well as their different economic development patterns. Some of these narratives, we have seen produced internal tensions between groups including the religious elites and the secular groups. In this sense, there were debates about membership within Kepri itself despite the consensus rejecting membership with Riau daratan. Territory and the drawing of a new provincial boundary between daratan and kepulauan can thus be understood as a way of validating that difference in a legal and physical way. In this way, I argue that while material incentives play an important role in thinking about the new province movement, they underlie a broader notion of cultural and political status that came to manifest itself after the fall of the New Order regime in the context of decentralization and democratization. To be an “orang Kepri” meant not so much a rejection but a refinement of being an “orang Riau” and it did embrace the idea of being a “orang Indonesia.” Ultimately, Kepri’s experience reinforces the notion that the creation of new provinces and new districts does not pose a particular threat to its territorial integrity in the way that the “old” regionalist movements had. The internal fragmentation has a centripetal element that maintains and even strengthens the territoriality of the state. While the long-term impacts are difficult to assess, it suggests that Indonesia’s cohesion, so commonly questioned in the early days of reformasi, shall persist and even thrive despite deep changes in political and territorial structure.

7

Elite conflict and pressure from above Dividing West Papua

Introduction On January 27, 2003, President Megawati Sukarnoputeri issued Instruksi President No. 1 calling for the division of West Papua into three separate provinces (Kompas 2003b). The presidential fiat determined the boundaries among the three provinces, gave guidance on the creation of provincial legislatures, and activated the positions of governor and other parts of the bureaucracy for the new provinces (ICG 2003: 7). Megawati’s Inpres actually revived Law No. 45 passed in October of 1999, calling for a similar division of Papua. That law had been cast aside in 2001 when the government led by then-President Abdurrahman Wahid proffered special autonomy status to Papua Province.1 Thus Megawati’s decision to resurrect Law 45 came as a surprise to many. It had been made without broad consultation among Papuans despite the significant implications of such a move (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 39).

Map 7.1 Map of the new West Irian Province next to West Papua Province

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As such, the 2003 Inpres provoked strong opposition. All the Papuans in the national legislature opposed the split. In addition, major leaders of the provincial assembly, the local Golkar party, senior political figures, academics, major NGOs, and representatives from religious groups all voiced their opposition. The local Papuan Presidium Council, an executive council composed of Papuan leaders, also opposed the split as did most student groups in the area (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 38). Opponents were strong enough to stop the creation of a Central Irian province, while West Irian province was ultimately approved after a significant delay. As in other places, Jakarta’s call for new provinces centered around arguments of efficiency. Since 1999, the number of districts in West Papua had increased from 14 to 28 (Kompas 2003e). No other province in Indonesia had so many districts and thus new provinces would enable better, more effective management of the province (D. King 2003: 91). A local official who supported Megawati’s decision noted, “Every time we go from Manokwari or from other districts to go to Jayapura (the capital of West Papua), it’s hard to meet the governor. He’s either in Jakarta or abroad” (Kompas 2003e). But once again, arguments of efficiency belie a deeper politics. Papua’s reasons for the split seem to have little in common with the previous two examples in Gorontalo and Kepri. On the one hand, there is little evidence that the people in West Irian felt marginalized or frustrated with the rest of the brethren in West Papua province. Similarly there appears to be little debate regarding different types of membership or assertion of local “West Irian” identity. What this case shows is that Papua’s fate was tied up in intra-elite conflicts in Jakarta about its future in the Indonesian nation-state. While few in Jakarta supported full-on independence, there were splits among policymakers and elites about how much and what kind of autonomy Papua should have. In particular, the Wahid administration promoted a vision of “Special Autonomy” for Papua, while his successor, Megawati, envisioned Papua as a much more integral part of the Indonesian nation. Different alliances between these actors and political parties, the military and other elites helped to trigger the push for a new province in Papua. In this sense, this third case of territorial change illustrates an example of a new province created by the central state, largely for national interests including military/security reasons as well as national-level parties. While the security imperative also influenced the case of Riau, it dominated West Papua’s split because of the region’s ongoing separatist movement and its natural-resource wealth. More importantly however, the chapter highlights that even in such a case, actors at the local level, particularly local elites who also had clear interests in seeing new provinces created, worked together with national-level actors to make the new provinces a reality. In this sense, the chapter highlights the continued importance of territorial coalitions as Jakarta could not accomplish its goals alone.

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In the following I give some background to the setting of the region, highlighting the area’s diversity and contrasting it with both the North Sulawesi and Riau cases. I then explore the process of state formation and how Papua’s experience of Indonesian rule influenced regionalist movements. Ultimately these then explain why and how the province of West Papua becomes divided.

Ethnicity, religion, and development The arguments put forth in the previous chapters about differences in identity, economic difference, or even status vis-à-vis the mother province do not help explain the case of the splits on Papua. In Kepri, one characteristic of the region is the relative uniformity of ethnicity (Malay), religion (Islam), and language (Malay). Papua, on the other hand, is one of the most diverse places on the planet. Papua dwarfs both North Sulawesi and Riau in the number of ethnic groups. The official statistics indicate over 250 distinct ethnic groups, and roughly the same number of languages throughout the province.2 It is also the largest of Indonesia’s provinces. The most recent estimates suggest the population is about 2.6 million people, or about 1 percent of Indonesia’s entire population. The province is also just over 160,000 square miles, making it three times the size of Java and Bali combined. The geographical terrain in the province varies highly with coastal regions, deep valleys, snow-capped mountains, lakes, jungles, and river basins. The remoteness and inaccessibility of many parts of Papua has also meant that historically ethnic or tribal groups had limited contact with the outside world. This was particularly true of the inland and highland areas, while the coastal regions did have contact with some groups including traders passing to or from Maluku. Relative to many other regions in Indonesia, Papua has also historically been underdeveloped prompting both the Dutch and the Indonesians to consider the region “backwards” and in need of “modernization,” through investments in education, health, and infrastructure. In fact, the Dutch laid claim to the region only in 1848, almost two and a half centuries after establishing themselves in the East Indies archipelago. The Dutch focus was less on Papua itself, but in the land that could serve as a buffer against British and German interests in the eastern portion of the island. The basis of the Dutch claim on Western New Guinea came indirectly through the Sultan of Tidore. The Sultanate in the Moluccas claimed authority over the region and, by the system of colonial indirect rule, the Sultan was considered a “vassal” of the Dutch (Saltford 2003: 1). It would be another 50 years, in 1898, until nominal administration was finally established in the area under the authority of the Dutch resident in Ternate. The region was allotted a small budget in addition to its new administrative status (Bertrand 2004: 145). This was also the period when Dutch colonial missionaries began to convert Papuans who lived in the accessible and coastal areas laying the ground work for mass conversions later

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on. By 1950, 160,000 Papuans would be Christian (McGibbon 2004: 7). By 2000, a majority of the population would be Christian (see Table 7.1). In addition to the diversity, and the mass conversions on Papua, a third characteristic of the area is the mass migration to the region over the past century. Only in the 1920s and 1930s did the Dutch begin a concerted effort to set up administration offices in the area. Although the numbers tended to rise and fall over the decade, as late as 1939, there were still only 15 official European administrators in West New Guinea and some 200 European residents in total (Bertrand 2004: 145). However, as the Dutch began to take a stronger interest in West New Guinea, the demographic picture would change markedly. Because of the perceived “backwardness” of Papuans due to their relative isolation compared with other groups in the archipelago, government positions were often allotted to outsiders. Although the Dutch employed the system of indirect rule, elevating and governing through local chiefs in much of the archipelago, in Papua, they employed other natives from other parts of the archipelago to rule, particularly those from the Maluku or Minahasa areas (McGibbon 2004: 9). Colonial business enterprises would also employ similar strategies and thus began a pattern of high in-migration for Papua. After being transferred to Indonesian hands in 1963, West Papua (or Irian Jaya as it was renamed) again experienced a jump in migration, both official transmigration as well as spontaneous migration. Many of the early migrants were those coming to fill government positions of the new provincial bureaucracy or skilled employees of large companies (Arndt 1986: 167). In the 1970s, there was also an influx of wage laborers and farmers (McGibbon 2004: 15). While much of the official migration came from Java, much of the “spontaneous” migration came from the island of Sulawesi (McGibbon 2004: 25). Unofficial numbers suggest that between 1979 and 1989, the number of migrants ranged between 70,000 and 150,000, compared to the local Papuan population of about 1.2 million (Bertrand 2004: 152). In 1971, migrants made up about 4 percent of the Papuan population. By 2000, they constituted 35 percent, a total of one million people out of a total population of 2.6 million. Moreover, like in other regions of Indonesia, migrants often took a disproportionate number of jobs in both government and the private sector (Bertrand 2004: 152). They also tend to be clustered in urban areas such that native Papuans were often a minority in these cities. Many in Papua thus came to see migration as the primary source of their own poverty, through intrusion extraction and new forms of colonization (McGibbon 2004: 22). Table 7.1 Religion in Papua in 2000 (percent) Province

Protestant

Catholic

Islam

Hindu

Buddhist

West Papua West Irian

54 58

24 15

22 26

0.3 0.3

0.1 0.2

Source: BPS 2000

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The demographics of Papua then, on the one hand, offer only limited value in explaining the justification for the splits on Papua. With hundreds of groups, there is little compartmentalization of territory and ethnicity as there was in North Sulawesi. At the same time, there is no single dominant ethnicity in each of the regions like the Malays in the case of Riau. Instead, the groups in Papua are much smaller and more fragmented. Ultimately, the high inflow of migrants and the historical experience with the Indonesian state has helped to consolidate a native Papuan identity, based around the Papuan province, despite the high level of diversity. The history of the last 50 years is thus one of consolidation around a Papuan national identity that seeks self-determination and independence. In many ways, it makes the division of West Papua all that much more puzzling. However, it is crucial to understanding the dynamics of the territorial change in the area. This development is the primary focus of the rest of this chapter and the main source of Papua’s recent division.

Early clashing visions of Papua The future of Papua in many ways is co-terminous with the Indonesian Republic itself and exemplifies the problems of state-making in the early years. In particular, West Papua, or “West New Guinea” as it was called at the time, emerged as a point of dispute between the Dutch and the newly declared Republic in the period following World War II. Two days after Japan’s surrender, Sukarno and Hatta declared Indonesia’s independence, while the Dutch were intent on reestablishing their old colony in the East Indies. During the ensuing conflict, the Dutch and the Indonesians engaged in several rounds of negotiations on the future of the Indies. The Dutch vision for Papua was one that would be granted special status so that it could be established as a Eurasian homeland (Lijphart 1966: 11). Aside from this early request, the status of West New Guinea was rarely mentioned in talks and its status remained unclear throughout the remainder of the conflict. But the issue came to a head at the 1949 Round Table Conference when the Dutch formally agreed to transfer sovereignty of the East Indies to the Indonesian Republic. The Indonesian side had understood that “all regions” of Dutch colonial administration would be transferred to them, but the Dutch refused to hand over West New Guinea. For both sides the issue was symbolic. The region had little strategic value and its natural resource potential was largely unrealized. For the Dutch, keeping West New Guinea was a way for them to save face after being expelled from the archipelago and seeing their overseas empire dismantled. For Indonesians, it became a question of nationalism. Refusal to cede Papua was seen by the nationalist leadership as an affront to Indonesia’s right to all of its territories as a newly-independent and sovereign state. Unable to agree on the future of Papua, the parties signed the rest of the Round Table Agreement and the issue of West New Guinea was tabled tentatively for a year.

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The Dutch and Indonesians were not able to resolve their differences in a year. In fact it would take over a decade before they could agree on the future of Papua. In the meantime, the region stayed under Dutch administration and therefore experienced little of the nation-making process in the early formative years of the Indonesian Republic (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 9). Instead, the Dutch directed their efforts to develop the region with the eventual goal of self-determination for the West Papuans. They poured heavy resources into Papua, particularly in education and health, often relying on the help of Catholic and Protestant missionaries in many of the remote areas (Bertrand 2004: 146). They also established a Dutch school system and educated many of the traditional elite, thereby giving rise to a new politicized elite. In 1959, the Dutch established elected regional councils in Papua with the objective of creating a sovereign democratic state by 1970 (Saltford 2003: 10). Two years later, they established the Nieuw-Guinea Raad or the New Guinea Council which had limited advisory powers. Nonetheless, most members were elected either directly or indirectly and 22 of 28 members were native Papuans (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 10). This was the first organization of its kind that represented and promoted the interests of Papuans in West New Guinea. On December 1, 1961, the council signed the Manifest Politik which officially adopted a national Papuan flag (The Morningstar), declared a national anthem (“Oh, My Land Papua”), changed its name (from West New Guinea to West Papua), and named the people of the region “Papuans” (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 11). The Manifest represented the first official articulation of Papuan nationalism and December 1 has since marked the official day of West Papuan national celebration by supporters of independence. While the Dutch prepared West New Guinea for eventual self-rule, Indonesia directed their own efforts toward helping to “liberate” West Papua from Dutch colonialism and integrating it into the Indonesian fold. They first attempted to negotiate bilaterally with the Dutch, but failed to reach any agreement. By 1955, they were frustrated enough that they unilaterally withdrew from the Round Table Conference agreement of 1949 as well as from the Netherlands–Indonesian Union (Lijphart 1966: 16). From the mid-1950s, Indonesia shifted from a bilateral to a more multilateral approach looking toward the United Nations General Assembly for support. Indonesia had strong support among many of the GA members, but it failed over the years to garner the requisite two-thirds majority to pass resolutions in the Assembly (Lijphart 1966: 17). Thus from 1950 to 1957 Indonesia and the Dutch remained at a stalemate over the issue of Papua. Tensions over the issue of Papua continued to escalate and in late 1957 Sukarno expelled all Dutch citizens out of the country and expropriated all of their assets including Dutch companies. The government took over businesses in mining, banking, oil, and agribusiness. Most of these became the basis of Indonesia’s state enterprises and many of these companies were eventually run by the Indonesian military paving the way for their involvement in a broad array of business enterprises (Vatikiotis 1993: 71).

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In 1961, Sukarno declared a “People’s Triple Command” or Trikora policy toward Papua. The three-pronged strategy called for (1) thwarting the formation of a Papuan “puppet state,” (2) raising the Indonesian national flag in West Irian, and (3) preparing for “major mobilization” to defend the freedom and unity of the country (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 12). In early 1962, Sukarno issued Presidential Decree No. 1, 1962 to establish the military Mandala Command to “liberate” West Irian (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 12).

International pressure and the act of free choice While international negotiations for Papua were largely at a standstill at the UN, the United States expressed strong interest in resolving the issue of Papua. The US offered to mediate between Indonesia and the Dutch, but in practice, however, they sided with the Indonesians and pressed firmly on the colonial power to give up their hold over West Papua. The United States’ own vision of Papua included curbing the perceived growth of leftist influence in Indonesia. They were troubled by the support the Soviets provided to the Papuans through diplomatic backing and supplying of weapons (P. King 2004: 21). The US hoped to undermine Soviet support by helping Indonesia broker a deal with the Dutch, thus earning political capital with Sukarno. Several proposals were put forth by the Dutch, but the Indonesians held firmly to the principle that they would only consider a plan that would ultimately leave Papua under their authority. After protracted negotiations, the Dutch and Indonesians finally agreed and the two parties signed the New York Agreement in 1962. The agreement outlined a plan to transfer West New Guinea to the United Nations for a period of nine months, then transfer sovereignty over to Indonesia. For their part, Indonesia agreed to hold a plebiscite in the province before 1969 assessing whether Papuans wanted to be independent or remain part of the Indonesian Republic (Saltford 2003: 13). In 1969, the Indonesian government finally agreed to hold a plebiscite under the auspices of the United Nations. The “Act of Free Choice” was actually a series of assembly votes cast by elected representatives in eight locations scattered throughout West Papua. The representatives totaling 1,025 in all were ostensibly elected by Papuans in the local areas of a particular assembly (Saltford 2003: 160). In practice, the election of the representatives was marred by controversy, often taking place without UN observers and frequent accusations of vote rigging by pro-Indonesia officials (Saltford 2003: 147). Furthermore, several weeks prior to the assemblies, elected representatives were isolated in camps, often under armed guards. Reports later indicate that assembly members were threatened, bribed, and told how to vote. In some instances, their speeches at the assembly sessions were scripted (Saltford 2003: 15). From July 14 to August 2 of 1969, all eight assemblies throughout West Papua each voted unanimously to affirm Papuan integration into the Indonesian republic. The decision was accepted by the United Nations General

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Assembly in Resolution 2504 (XXIV) 11–19–1969. A British diplomat would later call the Act of Free Choice a “meaningless formality” (Saltford 2003: 159). The Act of Free Choice marked the capitulation of the international community on the issue of Irian Jaya in Indonesia’s favor. All parties seemed to have recognized that the Papuans themselves were not interested in integration with the Indonesians, but this fact was studiously ignored and the pretense of the Act upheld. For Indonesia, the Act of Free Choice and the UN resolution thus eliminated any question further questions about West Papua or Irian Jaya’s status vis-à-vis the Indonesian Republic.

Papua during the New Order: forced integration Well before the plebiscite, Indonesia had de facto control of the region. The Act of Free Choice was little more than a temporary blip in their efforts to integrate the area into the larger Indonesian nation-state. In October of 1962, the Dutch transferred West New Guinea to the United Nations under the UN Temporary Executive Authority (UNTEA). Although the function of the UN mission was to establish and maintain peace and security in the territory it was equivalent to de facto Indonesian control. All expressions of West Papuan nationalism were banned (Osborne 1985: 31). The UN played a direct role in preventing organized nationalist demonstrations and marches, including independence day celebrations on December 1 of 1962 (Saltford 2003: 39). Immediately after the New York Agreement, even prior to official transfer to the UN, Indonesian troops also emerged to assert their authority. Meanwhile, Papuans also began to organize militarily, often conducting quick strikes against the military with basic weaponry such as those left behind by the Dutch. This tended to ignite retaliation and an escalation of conflict. To cite one example: in December 1962, Indonesian soldiers opened fire on demonstrators at Merauke air base killing two people, in retaliation for an earlier attack (Saltford 2003: 43). Seven months later, Papua was handed over to Indonesian rule and for the remainder of the decade, Indonesia sought to consolidate its position in Irian. Sukarno, who visited Papua days after it was handed over, proceeded to ban all political parties and prohibit any form of unauthorized political activity in Papua (Saltford 2003: 75). The prohibition was laid down in the Presidential Decree No. 8/1963, as follows: In the region of West Irian, it shall for the time being, be prohibited to undertake political activity in the form of rallies, meetings, demonstrations or the printing, publication, announcement, issuance, dissemination, trading or public display of articles, pictures or photographs without permission of the Governor or an official appointed by him. (Tebay 2003) There was also a wave of migration from Java to fill the new posts of the bureaucracy under the new provincial government based in Jayapura. Sukarno

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appointed Papuan Elierzer Bonay as governor, but he was dismissed after openly expressing nationalist sentiments (Saltford 2003: 79). Bonay fled abroad and later criticized Indonesian repression, noting that the prisons in Papua were full and that his role as governor had been nothing more than to be a puppet for the Indonesian government (Osborne 1985: 33). As Indonesia’s military presence in the region strengthened, it fostered more and more resentment. Under the New Order government of 1965, repression became stronger with many Papuans jailed for petitioning independence (Saltford 2003: 79). The Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM) was formed in 1965 after emerging as a loose resistance force. But OPM lacked strong organization and resources, often fighting with only the most basic of weapons. The Indonesians in contrast tended to be very well armed and used disproportionate force. By 1969, the New Order regime under President Suharto was firmly in place and had already begun to capitalize on the new territory and its rich natural resources. Copper and gold deposits were discovered in the region as early as the 1930s and mining became the single largest industry in the region. The region was also heavily forested providing a boom in the timber sector.3 And it contained several oil and natural gas fields. Papua’s resource wealth fit nicely into the developmentalist ideology of the New Order regime. The exploitation and export of natural resources was one of the cornerstones of the development model and in turn also helped to boost the regime’s legitimacy. To that end, Papua’s role in Indonesia shifted from a predominantly symbolic one to an economic one as well. For the regime, the natural resources provided a large portion of economic growth for the country. In 1967, the Suharto government signed an agreement with New Orleans-based Freeport McMoran Copper and Gold Inc. to establish an Indonesian subsidiary to extract minerals in the south central portion of the province. By 1991, Freeport was mining the Grasberg Ore, the world’s largest gold deposit and the third richest copper deposit. Because of low costs, Grasberg also became the most profitable copper-mining operation in the world (D. King 2003: 23). In the 1990s, Freeport became the largest taxpayer in Indonesia, paying about $180 million per year in taxes, dividends, and royalties. It was also West Papua’s largest employer and the source of over half of the region’s gross regional domestic product (Blair and Phillips 2003: 51). Along with Kalimantan and Sumatra, Papua has been a key center for forestry and logging activities and several international and domestic companies have established a presence throughout the area. In Papua, the logging industry increased more than tenfold over the decade leading up to 1996. The forestry sector in Indonesia at large includes production of tropical hardwood logs, plywood, and pulp for papermaking. The value of the industry in Indonesia is difficult to determine but estimates in 1997 suggested that forestry and wood processing sectors were valued at 3.9 percent of GDP, and exports of plywood, pulp, and paper were valued at $5.5 billion. This amount was nearly

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half the value of oil and gas exports, and equal to nearly 10 percent of total export earnings (Matthews 2002: 4). Also, the petroleum industry has been a significant part of the Indonesian economy particularly in the 1970s. Pertamina has operated in the region, but its oil reserves have thus far been modest relative to the income generated from mining and forestry. In 1997, Pertamina partnered with Arco (later purchased by BP) to build a 24 trillion cubic foot Tangguh natural gas field in the Western Region of Papua. The field is operated by BP and the natural gas from the region is exported to China (Blair and Phillips 2003: 54). The natural resources industry in Papua was closely linked to the cronyism of the Suharto family. This operated in a number of creative ways throughout different industries. To cite one example, in February of 1998, Freeport formed a joint venture with a Suharto-controlled company called PT Nusantara Ampera Bakti, giving the company a 4.7 percent stake in the Grasberg Ore. In return for its stake, Suharto allegedly paid $315 million of which $254 million was borrowed from commercial banks. Under the agreement, if Nusantara could not repay the interest on the loans from the dividends accrued in Freeport, Freeport would make up the difference. In 1999, Nusantara apparently had $7.6 million in arrears, 3 percent of Freeport’s $245 million net income earned by the subsidiary (Celarier 1998). In the timber sector, the Suharto regime was also well known for facilitating business for its close family associates. In Papua, the Suharto regime distributed logging concessions to military officials, business cronies, and family members. For example, one of the largest operations in Papua is the Djajanti group, which has shareholders who include senior military officers as well as Sudwikatmono, Suharto’s cousin. Barito Pacific, another timber company is run by former Suharto ally Prayogo Pangestu. And a smaller company called Hanurata is controlled by the Suharto family (ICG 2002: 15). Since the end of the New Order new local and international actors have also entered the fray. Despite this, the New Order players have managed to maintain a sizable stake in the market.

Human rights and resistance Although the region contributes to the national economy, many Papuans argue that they have benefited little from integration into Indonesia or from the economic activity in the province which they claim was illegal in the first place. Statistics indicate that consumption rates in Papua are extremely low relative to other parts of the archipelago (Elmslie 2002: 112). The difference becomes even starker when distinguishing between the Papuan population who are mostly rural based and the migrants who are predominantly in urban areas. Other statistics suggest that in rural areas, daily protein intake has declined in the 1990s as have health services (Elmslie 2002: 113). Overall, proponents of Papuan independence argue that Papua’s riches have been used for national economic development at their expense.

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At the same time the resentment toward companies such as Freeport and their obvious links to the repressive machinery of the New Order have often led OPM and other Papuan resistance groups to stage attacks on the companies themselves. In turn, the military would retaliate for such attacks, leading to an escalating cycle of violence. Military killings and human rights abuses are said to have occurred on a wide scale during the 1970s and 1980s but there is little concrete documentation of this due to the sparse international attention the region garnered (Osborne 1985). By the 1990s, violence in other parts of the archipelago including East Timor and Aceh directed attention to the human rights violations of the Indonesian regime to West Papua. In 1994, Australian NGOs released a report on human rights abuses in West Papua and reported how military and security forces typically used violent means to suppress the separatist OPM rebels and other groups they deemed disruptive. Military tactics included summary executions, murder, arbitrary arrest, detention, torture, intimidating surveillance, destruction of property, and kidnappings (Leith 2003: 197). Under international pressure, the New Order also sent the national human rights commission to investigate and also found that military activities in the region had violated human rights (Leith 2003: 198). From 1996 to 1997, human rights activists reported a crackdown in the Papua region by special forces unit, Kopassus, led by Suharto’s son-in-law Prabowo Subianto. There were reports of extrajudicial killings of 13 people with many more subsequent deaths from disease and malnutrition after people were driven from their villages (Leith 2003: 204). Amnesty International reported that since 1998, 72 people had been brought to trial by the government for engaging in subversive activities related to West Papuan independence including organizing meetings, engaging in flag-raising ceremonies, and participating in demonstrations (Amnesty International 2005). Other reports highlight dozens killed, injured or missing after flag-raising ceremonies, and other demonstrations turn violent (Amnesty International 2000). By the twilight of the Suharto years, the conditions in Papua garnered international attention mentioned alongside other Indonesian trouble spots such as East Timor and Aceh. Human rights activists demanded that the repression in Papua be lifted. Environmental groups pointed to the environmental impacts of deforestation and mining. Development organizations pointed to the areas poverty. However, as long as the New Order remained in place, there seemed little likelihood to any substantive change in the status quo.

Competing visions of Papua for the Indonesian elite The fall of the New Order presented the new regime with a notable dilemma. On the one hand the unprecedented political liberalization combined with regional governance reforms gave great optimism to the proponents of Papuan autonomy. Facing domestic and international scrutiny, President Habibie expressed interest in investigating some of the grievances articulated by the

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Papuan people. In October of 1998, he lifted the Regional Military Operation status in the region known in Indonesian as Daerah Operasi Militer (DOM). On the other hand, already under pressure for allowing a referendum in East Timor, Habibie could offer little in terms of the political goals of the Papuan movement. In February of 1999 Habibie agreed to meet with Papuan representatives and opened a dialogue with a group called Forum Rekonsiliasi Rakyat Irian Jaya (FORERI). The group was composed of intellectuals, church leaders, traditional leaders, and NGO activists (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 26). At their meeting several representatives spoke about the repression in Papua. One of the key leaders of the group, Tom Beanal, read a statement to the President denouncing integration and requesting Papuan independence (Bertrand 2004: 155). Habibie was reportedly stunned at the statement, unimaginable even a year ago under the New Order government. He rejected the demands and the meeting marked the end of any more dialogue between the two parties. By April, the government exerted a renewed campaign against Papuan independence arresting many of the representatives that attended the earlier meeting that year. That same month, the Director-General for General Government and Regional Autonomy, Ryaas Rasid, announced that the government was preparing a plan to divide Papua into three provinces (Suara Pembaruan 1999a). The government argued that the plan to divide Papua had existed since 1994 and thus was not a new proposal, implying that it should not be regarded as a political or controversial announcement. They also argued that the splits would speed up development and fulfill the “aspirations” of the people of Papua (Republika 1999). Others such as members of the Supreme Advisory Council which acts as a consultative body for the executive also noted that the government should act because “Irian Jaya is in a state of emergency” (Jakarta Post 1999b). But the announcement prompted condemnation on several fronts. Papuan leaders in the national legislature immediately convened a meeting to question the wisdom of such a decision. A key leader of the Papuan movement for autonomy, Theus Eluay, noted that the split was unnecessary and the priority of the government should be for President Habibie, after the meeting in February “to come to Irian so that he can fulfill the aspirations and needs of the people of Irian” (Davidson 2003: 16) (Suara Pembaruan 1999b). Other Papuan groups such as the Forum Komunikasi Generasi Muda Irian Jaya (FKGMIJ) and the Komite Solidaritas Rakyat Irian also spoke out strongly against the government’s announcement. At the national level, some also expressed wariness arguing that changes so close to the general elections could confuse the electorate in the regions or simply reinforce the “status quo.” Feisal Basri of the National Mandate Party argued that the splits were taking places off of Java and thus would be a boon to Golkar and its traditional strongholds (Merdeka 1999). But this was also a period of intense activity in Indonesia with the ongoing preparations for the first free and fair elections since 1955. The debate on Papua’s division

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centered more around its timing, before versus after the general election, than on the soundness of the policy itself. Eventually, it was clear that the splits would have to be implemented after the elections since they would throw additional complications into the elections very close to the voting day itself.

An alternative vision The law to divide Papua was passed in the national legislature and formalized by Presidential Decree on October 4, 1999.4 But the law also came at the heels of a leadership change in Indonesia. In October 1999, Abdurrahman Wahid, the leader of the National Awakening Party, or Partai Kebangkitan Umat (PKB), and the head of Indonesia’s largest Islamic organization, Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), ascended to the presidency. Wahid emerged after fractious negotiations in the national legislature where he outmaneuvered PDI-P’s Megawati Sukarnoputeri, despite the fact that her party won the most votes in the general elections. President Wahid was widely perceived to be both moderate in his religious views and liberal in his political leanings. For Papua, this indicated a new opening for negotiation with the government. Wahid reopened dialogue with the Papuans and effectively canceled the proposal to split the region (Kompas 1999b). In light of the new liberalization, Papuans began to organize once again. On December 1, 1999, marking their commemoration of Papuan “independence” as marked by the Manifest Politik, Papuans organized flag raisings throughout the region. Similar ceremonies took place in 11 of the largest towns in the province involved tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of thousands of participants, and proceeded remarkably without violent retaliation from the military (Bertrand 2004: 155). In late December 1999, President Wahid decided to spend New Year’s Eve in the capital of Papua, Jayapura, and took the opportunity to meet with representatives of Papuan organizations. In these discussions, he agreed that Papua could raise their national Morningstar flag as long as it was hung 30 cm below an Indonesian flag. He also allowed the region to be referred as Papua, rather than Irian Jaya. And significantly, he granted approval for Papuans to organize a Papuan Congress (Mote and Rutherford 2001: 131). In February 2000, Papuans from throughout the province convened a Musyawarah Besar (or MUBES) to discuss the future of West Papua. At the end of their meeting they reaffirmed their goal to separate from the Republic of Indonesia. In turn they elected a Presidium of 18 members including representatives of churches, women’s groups, customary landowners, former political prisoners, students, youth and business professions. The MUBES concluded with a decision to organize a broader and more inclusive Papuan Congress. The Congress, held in June of 2000, brought together 501 envoys from different regions of the Papua and over 21,000 local and international observers. Resolutions adopted at the Congress rejected the outcome of the Act of Free Choice as well as the New York Agreement forged in 1969

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because Papuans were not part of the negotiations (Timmer 2005a: 4). They also stated that Papua had already declared independence as a state on December 1, 1961 (P. King 2004: 49). Despite Wahid’s willingness to dialogue, an independent Papua was unacceptable to the government and they instead set about designing a set of arrangements that would give Papua “special autonomy.” This autonomy would go far beyond the autonomy designed in the 1999 decentralization laws. In addition to devolving a vast array of powers to the provincial government, it also committed to protect and reinforce Papuan values and ensure that 80 percent of Papua’s earnings from forestry, fishery and mining revenues would go to the local government as well as 70 percent of oil and natural gas revenues (Blair and Phillips 2003: 42). Significantly, it also provided for the creation of the Papuan People’s Council or the Majelis Rakyat Papua (MRP). The MRP was designed to be a representative body of Papuan indigenous leaders who would protect and promote Papua’s cultural values. Special autonomy was broadly interpreted as a significant concession on the part of the government and supported among much of the Papuan elite. The law was passed by the national legislature in October of 2001 (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 33).

The un-breakup of Papua Despite Wahid’s moderate and liberal approaches, he faced challenges in the DPR-RI, the national House of Representatives. He was accused by lawmakers of corruption and incompetent leadership as they pointed out the rise in regional and social conflicts under his watch as well as the lagging reform in the economy (Malley 2002: 124). In July of 2001, Wahid was removed from office and replaced by his vice-president Megawati Sukarnoputeri. The change in the presidency marked yet another shift in course for Papua. Megawati was also liberal in her politics but she was also more outwardly nationalist than Wahid. In this sense, she carried on the legacy of President Sukarno, her father, in appealing for a united Indonesia. To cite one example: during her election campaign in 1999, she spoke out firmly against giving East Timor a referendum to decide its fate. It was against this backdrop that we can understand Megawati’s Instruksi President No. 1 of 2003. Despite the importance of Megawati’s personal perspectives, her actions should also be seen in the larger context of Indonesia’s state imperative. In particular there was broad concern at the national level that the Special Autonomy Laws passed under the Wahid administration was a first step toward Papuan independence rather than any final agreement on autonomy between West Papua and Jakarta. They saw the 2001 law as promoting nationalism through its endorsement of “Papuan values” such as the Papuan flag and Papuan anthem (Kompas 2003a). There was also broad concern that the governor of Papua, JP Solossa was also supportive of OPM’s activities, particularly in recruiting international support for the West Papuan cause in

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his frequent trips abroad (Kompas 2003d). And government officials also expressed concern that the Papuan independence movement had gained momentum after the success of East Timor’s independence (Kompas 2003d). Megawati’s position as leader of PDI-P suggests another dynamic at play in the decision to divide Papua, namely the upcoming 2004 elections. Splitting up Papua was seen as a way to break up the Golkar party’s political stranglehold over the province, and their dominance in the Outer Islands more generally (Kompas 2003a). In 1997 Golkar received 86 percent of the vote in Papua versus 7.1 percent for PDI (Kompas 2004). In 1999, Golkar managed to hold on to a plurality of seats (15 of 45) in the provincial legislature as well as the governorship. But the implications of a West Irian province was not likely to help Golkar. Given the changed political climate since the general elections in 1999, Megawati would be likely to gain the political support of two new governors, distribute PDI-P patronage in the new provinces, and also make sure that related business including contracts and concessions in the region would be secured, including ties to BP and Pertamina in Bintuni Bay where they were establishing the Tangguh natural gas plant (Timmer 2005b: 449). Finally, the military imperative also proved to be a factor. Independent of the New Order regime, the Indonesian military also had a large stake in the natural resource wealth of Papua.5 The military historically operated commercial ventures in banking and finance, real estate, manufacturing, construction, recreation, shipping, air services, fisheries, forestry, mining, and transportation (Singh 2001: 15). It operated these enterprises in a number of ways. Charitable tax exempt foundations known as Yayasan as well cooperatives which are established under each of the armed forces often run the businesses. The military also had a dominant presence in state-owned enterprises, most prominently in Bulog and Pertamina but also in many others (Blair and Phillips 2003: 63). They also engaged in informal activities such as protection rackets and were also believed to be involved in illegal extraction of timber, oil, and other minerals. Some even suggest the military was directly involved in activities related to smuggling, piracy, gambling and prostitution rings, and drug trafficking (Singh 2001: 22). On the one hand, the involvement in business serves as a source of income for the military. The military, or the TNI, has historically relied on external sources of revenue to cover its budget. Even as late as 2001, the national budget allocated $1 billion to the TNI which made up only 25 to 30 percent of its operational costs. Military soldiers are also typically poorly paid earning about $60–$95 per month and high-ranking officers earning $110–$350 per month (Blair and Phillips 2003: 62). But military involvement in these businesses also goes far beyond institutional income generation. Military units like Kopassus, a crack commando wing of the army, often served as protection rackets for large firms like Freeport. Even in public reports, Freeport revealed the “logistical support” it received from the TNI and paying $5.6 million for such related services (P. King 2004: 125). In addition to mining, the TNI has been heavily involved in

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logging on Papua, both through legal and illicit means (P. King 2004: 123). In short, new provinces would mean building new provincial commands in each of these regions. This would potentially bring them closer to the Freeport mine as well as the BP Tanggua natural gas development at Bintani Bay in Manokwari (P. King 2004: 92). The marriage of PDI-P and the military and security apparatus at the national level to push for the splitting of Papua thus makes sense at several levels. On the one hand, Megawati herself claimed the mantle of her late father Sukarno and emphasized national unity more than any other viable presidential candidate. This ideology fit well with the military as evidenced by the way Megawati surrounded herself with military brass. The military had thrown their support behind Megawati during her presidency and thus actively supported and shaped the new post-Wahid policy toward Papua. The military/security apparatus for their part also pushed along ideological lines that matched Megawati’s. At the same time, they had their own institutional and economic incentives in a new province. The military, for example, had strong ties to multinational companies such as Freeport which had large mining operations in the region. New provinces would mean building new provincial commands in each of these regions. This would potentially bring them closer to the Freeport mine as well as the BP Tanggua natural gas development at Bintani Bay in Manokwari (P. King 2004: 92).

The move to split the regions In January 2002, the National Resilience Institute (Lemhannas), a militarypolitical think tank that conducts in-depth studies on national resilience, issued a report entitled “The Partition of Irian Jaya: A Solution to the Threat of National Disintegration.” The author of the report was the governor of the Lemhannas, Ermaya Suradinata, who previously had been the DirectorGeneral of National Unity in the Department of Internal Affairs. In the report Ermaya argued that the elite in Papua were essentially proautonomy and therefore posed a threat to national unity. In that regard, he argued that the partition of Papua would have three benefits for Indonesia. First, it would divide the “pro-disintegration forces” and in particular, make it more difficult to hold a referendum on Papuan autonomy in the region. Second, it would fracture Papuan identity and symbolically undermine Papuan nationalism by fostering three different cultures and identities and giving them political representation and territory. Finally, by reducing the nationalist threat, it would stabilize the region from violence and promote more business and economic development in the region (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 38). A year later, Megawati would announce Inpres No. 1. Two weeks after Megawati’s directive, Brigadier General Abraham Octavianus Ataruri officially declared the establishment of the new province of West Irian (Kompas 2003g). Thousand of residents from nearby districts attended the ceremony. At the same time, protests among those who opposed

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the new province also occurred in the area, with some 2,000 people pouring out into the streets. However, the protests were not strong enough to stop the creation of the new province. In August of that same year, the district chief of Mimika in Central Papua’s region, Andreas Anggaibak, declared the establishment of a Central Irian Province. At the official declaration there were also no officials from Jakarta and none from Jayapura (Kompas 2003c). The suddenness of the event ignited several days of protests in Central Papua killing five people and injuring dozens more (P. King 2004: 93). The violence in Central Papua was so strong that the government declared a postponement of establishing a Central Papua province and announced it would review all policies toward Papua (Kompas 2003f). West Papua, in the meantime, would be allowed to stand and Abraham Ataruri was officially installed as governor in November 2003. The security apparatus of Indonesia was clearly critical in implementing the plan to create new provinces. BIN, the National Intelligence Agency, seems to have played a key role. The head of the agency, Hendropriyono, instructed Abraham Atururi on February 4 to establish the new province of West Irian (Kompas 2003a). In a private conversation, Hendropriyono said to Atururi, “I don’t want to have to use a passport to visit Papua” (ICG 2003: 9). Also Andreas Anggaibak, the bupati of Mimika who led the inauguration of Central Papua, later noted that the Ministry of Home Affairs and BIN, had encouraged him to go forward with the ceremony in a meeting in Bali between officials from Papua and Jakarta, including members of the provincial legislature (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 41) (Kompas 2003f). Working with local actors But the split up of Papua was more than simply the central government exerting its influence unilaterally. It is also worth noting that several of the strongest proponents of new provinces were former members of the government. Abraham Atururi, John Djopari, and Herman Monim were all deputies to Governor Freddy Numberi in 1999. Monim and Atururi were allegedly frustrated because they had been promised governorship of the new provinces back in 1999, but these promises never materialized (Timmer 2005a: 6). Both of these men were former deputy governors who ran as unsuccessful candidates for governor in 2000. Djopari noted in public remarks that the advantage to partition was that “three Papuans could become governor” (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 41). Local level elites that had been marginalized and disaffected by the new government were also a crucial part of the picture. Atururi, for example, was schooled in the Dutch education system in Dutch New Guinea. After the Dutch departure he attended the Navy National Academy and made a career in the navy. He rose to the position of Lieutenant Colonel. He also became a member of the intelligence agency Bakin, Badan Koordinasasi Inteligen Negara, which in the current incarnation is BIN. He also served as a member

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of the presidential guard or Paspanpres. He was then assigned to be the district chief in the Sorong district in Papua before becoming one of three deputy governors in Irian Jaya. In 1999, he lost a campaign to become governor to Jaap Solossa (Timmer 2005a: 9). Atururi in turn worked closely with actors such as Jimmy Ijie, who was a Jakarta based Papuan who ran an organization called the Irian Jaya Crisis Center (IJCC). Ijie was a strong opponent of Papuan independence and even opposed the special autonomy status granted to the area back in 2002 (Timmer 2005a: 6). In July of 2002, Ijie allegedly contacted Hendropriyono supporting the partition of Papua. A strong PDI-P activist, Ijie argued that Papuan nationalism unchecked could lead to separatism and even Papuan independence. He also noted that new funds for special autonomy were being diverted by the Governor to ensure a Golkar victory in 2004. He thus suggested partitioning Papua and placing Atururi as governor of West Irian Province (ICG 2003: 8). In 2002, Ijie assembled Tim 315, a lobby group made up of people from the Sorong and Manokwari regions, as well as Papuan students in Yogyakarta and Jakarta who supported Atururi’s bid to negotiate a plan with BIN and the Ministry of Home Affairs (Timmer 2005a: 6). In a meeting set up by General Hendropriyono, Tim 315 met with the president and the Minister for Social, Political and Security Affairs, General Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, demanding the new provinces be established (P. King 2004: 92). Apparently, bribes were exchanged to the sum of $320,000, which went to officers in Ministry of Home Affairs as well as Ijre’s Irian Jaya Crisis Center (Timmer 2005a: 6). Finally, it is important to point out that, for the most part, migrants on Papua are critical of Papuan independence and thus likely supportive of the new provincial divisions. Migrants have already felt the brunt of much ethnic nationalism in Papua, particularly in the immediate aftermath of the 2001 decentralization laws, where affirmative action programs prioritized appointing or electing puteri asli daerah or native sons of the soil in most government jobs. We have already noted that migrants constitute over one-third of the entire population of Papua. Though there were no migrant organizations per se that openly demonstrated to support or oppose the splits, the opposition that did emerge was almost completely ethnic Papuan. As I have noted above, there were also a broad spectrum of groups that opposed the division of the province. In particular, these included groups that supported independence and/or special autonomy. Papuan representatives in the national assembly, local civil-society organizations, religious leaders, academics, and student groups all voiced their opposition. The governor and the speaker of the parliament, both from Golkar, were staunch opponents of new province creation (ICG 2003: 9). Golkar as a party also came out strongly against dividing the province in large part because they saw the Megawati-led government’s strategy there (Kompas 2004). The opposing coalition in Papua came close to defeating the movement for a new province. In addition to organizing large-scale demonstrations to

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oppose the initiative by the central government, the opponents also appealed to the Supreme Court of Indonesia contesting the legality of the division in light of the Special Autonomy status proffered to the region in 2003. The Court declared the creation of the new provinces a violation of Papua’s special autonomy laws, but because one of the new provinces, West Irian, had already been created, it would be allowed to remain. But the Central Irian province was put on hold until the matter could be resolved (ICG 2003). The coordination of local-level demonstrations with national-level lobbying and political pressure was effective in the case of Papua because opposition was so widespread. Territorial politics in the Papua case More than the previous two cases, Gorontalo and Kepri, the Papua case represents a strong top-down initiative. For this reason, one may expect a lack of links to the local level. However, the institutional, social, and personal linkages are also evident even in this case. The political party linkages between the national and local level are one set of linkages that occur consistently across the cases. In Papua’s case, PDI-P seems to have been the key party but the dynamics of the linkages were similar. In the context of a centralized party structure, the national-level party based in Jakarta worked in concert with local-level party members to push the proliferation agenda forward. An opposing coalition composed of Golkar party members tried to oppose the split both at the national and local level within the formal legislative process. Social linkages also spanned both sides of the proliferation. There were both pro and con Papuan organizations at all different levels of administration from Jakarta to the local level. Social-level linkages facilitated mobilization and lobbying efforts. For example, I noted above that Jakarta-based groups organized local Papuans to visit and meet with national-level figures to lobby for a new province. Finally, the personal linkages seem to have played a relatively minor role in this case. In the prior cases, national-level figures such as Habibie had personal stakes and relationships in the regions and thus had a vested interest in seeing new provinces created. To be sure, some of those economic interests are still relevant in the case of Papua. But the overarching personal agenda and their links to the locality were not as critical. The state already had ample rationale to divide Papua such that personal interventions, whether financial, political, or otherwise, were not critical. This is not to say that individual leadership roles were not critical, as they clearly were. When Habibie was president, he pushed forward a conciliatory agenda at first, but then disappointed Papuans with a much more hard-line approach later in his presidency. With the changeover to President Wahid, Wahid overturned Habibie’s first attempts to split up Papua and reopened dialogue and granted broad autonomy to the province. However, when the

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presidency was turned over to Megawati, the idea for dividing Papua was revived again, possibly as a reaction against the concessions that Wahid had given to in his term. But these differences were largely a matter of strategy rather than any personal affinity or connection to Papua per se. Wahid, in particular, had a different approach to dealing with the region based on a more optimistic vision of Papuan autonomy co-existing within the national Indonesian state.

Conclusion There are two broad conclusions to draw from the case of Papua vis-à-vis the phenomenon of provincial proliferation. The first is that the split was very much driven by the military and security rationale and specifically designed as a divide-and-rule strategy by national-level players. In particular it seems clear that the National Intelligence Agency (BIN) working with the Ministry of Home Affairs were key implementers of this policy. BIN’s role was also peripherally evident in the previous case of Riau. The divide-and-rule tactic emerged in the context of a highly-vocal Papuan independence movement that rejected efforts to integrate into the Indonesian state, starting from the early 1960s to the present day. Much of the repression and coercion during the New Order to keep Papua in the Indonesian circle ironically also helped to solidify Papuan nationalism amidst an exceptionally diverse population. When authoritarianism in Indonesia was lifted, these activists demanded that Papua be allowed to go their own way. The Indonesian state’s reluctance to allow Papuan independence can be understood on multiple grounds. At a general level, states by their nature tend to be conservative institutions averse to ceding territory within their sovereign realm except under the most extreme of circumstances. In the Indonesian context, East Timor had already gained independence and the state was highly concerned about the prospect of state collapse and fragmentation. Violence in Aceh and other regions was on the rise and regions such as Aceh and Riau were also demanding independence or at least substantial levels of autonomy. But beyond the logic of state coherence, it is also critical to point out the material incentives the state and its various components had in Papua. The natural-resource wealth in the region generates substantial wealth for the Indonesian economy, largely through mining and forestry. The military has a particularly high stakes given the legitimate and illegitimate business generated in the region. Habibie may also have had personal interests in protecting many of the New Order’s crony interests in the region. The overwhelming interests of so many institutions at the national level, including the executive, key political parties, the military, and the Ministry of Home Affairs/BIN, help explain why this top-down process was able to succeed despite the considerable opposition among local actors including civil-society and student organizations.

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This leads to the second general point of this chapter. Even given the security centric and top-down nature of the splits, the links with local elite actors were vital for the division to take place. In particular, marginalized elites who were seeking positions in the government saw the creation of new provinces as an opportunity to build new patronage networks. In this sense, there are some parallels of this case to Riau, where national and local elites forged a coalition and squeezed reluctant provincial actors in the process. Some may argue that Papua’s case is exceptional because of its historic exclusion from the Republic in the early years of the Indonesian state. It is true that in many ways the position of the Papuans is unique or at least out of the ordinary experience of most other Indonesian regions. Nonetheless, there are important lessons that can be drawn from this case that furthers our understanding both of the motivations for provincial proliferation as well as the nature of its success. Furthermore, the creation of new provinces in Papua actually subsequently led several district chiefs, including those from Maruke, Yapen, Waropen, and Fak Fak, to express a desire for their own districts to become new provinces (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 40). Leaders in smaller cities and towns also began to argue that their municipalities and not Manokwari should be the capital of a new province. Though none of these have come to fruition, it shows that strategy of divide and rule seems to have had some of the effect that the central actors had hoped it would.

8

Politics of territorial change Comparisons and conclusions

Territory still matters. Amidst all the strong assertions regarding the impact about globalization, the end of the nation-state, and its increasingly porous boundaries, we tend to forget that institutions still depend on territory, and people still have strong feelings about the places where they live. The nature of territory may be changing, as it always has, and the Indonesian experience shows us how complex these shifting forces can be. In Indonesia, the national state faced pressures of territorial fragmentation after economic and political turmoil, but emerged mostly unscathed. It has been territorial change at the subnational level that has come fast and furious.

Politics, coalitions, and territory A central argument put forth by this book is that territorial changes occurring in Indonesia have been the result of coalitional politics, what I have called territorial coalitions. Territorial coalitions are alliances formed between groups at different levels of territorial administration, which cut across center and periphery. In Indonesia, linkages emerged between civil society organizations, local-level political elites, national-level political elites, political parties and different state institutions such as the military and the intelligence agencies. These coalitions were initially triggered by national-level institutional reforms that were put into place after the fall of the authoritarian regime, most notably the processes of democratization and decentralization. At the local level, democracy, for example, unleashed new movements for the creation of new territories as opportunities arose for ethnic or religious “homelands” denied to them in the past. At the same time, other local actors also pushed for territorial change because of the potential gains new political territories would bring including the offices themselves as well as the spoils that often come along with them. In many cases, local leaders who supported local movements also had their own political agenda. This meant that local elites often came into conflict with one another as they competed for new local political offices. National-level actors supported territorial change for different reasons. Political parties saw the potential of carving new provinces that would increase representation not only at the regional and local levels, but

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potentially also in Jakarta. National security interests were also a key concern in some regions and territorial change was a way to divide and conquer potential threats to the territorial integrity of the state. A related argument in this book is that territorial coalitions emerged, precisely because territoriality is multi-dimensional in nature. In particular, I have highlighted three different aspects of territory including its material or physical dimension, the symbolic or cultural dimension, and the political institutional dimension. All of these played important roles in the story of Indonesia’s territorial change. It is also this conceptual flexibility of territoriality that allows actors to form coalitions at times when they would otherwise have little incentive to work together. In all cases, the ties between national and local actors proved critical and each of the cases demonstrates how those ties emerged as personal, social, and institutional phenomena. Personal ties included strong supporters of local groups at the national level, social ties included those along ethnic and religious lines, and institutional ties were mostly along party lines where national and local parties saw mutual interests. These ties all reinforced one another and helped to propel territorial change forward. While emphasizing the importance of these coalitions, I have also tried to show how the territorial change that occurred in Indonesia did not occur uniformly, but rather came to be articulated through different local contexts. In other words, territorial coalitions brought varying groups together, but they did so in very different ways. The three cases of Gorontalo, Kepri, and West Papua highlight different paths to territorial change. Gorontalo experienced a process of what I called “marginality in the periphery.” In Kepri the discourse emphasized ideas about different kinds of membership, local, regional, and national, at different territorial levels. In Papua, national security interests drove the territorial changes, though with support among local actors.

Comparisons in two multi-ethnic states A key question of any study, particularly one focusing on a multiple cases within a single country, is the extent to which the findings can be generalized. A cursory investigation of territorial change in other states also suggests similar kinds of processes taking place. Two states that offer useful comparisons are India and Nigeria because of the way they have dealt with territorial challenges in the context of multi-ethnic populations. India India shares many characteristics with Indonesia and its experience of territorial management. Both countries have enormous populations; India has the second largest in the world while Indonesia ranks fourth. Both countries are extremely diverse with hundreds of ethnic and sub-ethnic and language groups. And both have legacies of colonial rule by Western powers, the British

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in India, the Dutch in the East Indies, for hundreds of years. Furthermore, in both countries, the post-colonial demarcation of sub-national units, their size, shape, and composition of administrative units was the result of a combination of historical accident as well as strategic and political calculations rather than any sort of rational or bureaucratic basis (Khan 1992: 39). One key difference between India and Indonesia was that India chose a distinctly federal structure and Indonesia chose to become a unitary state. The diversity of India’s post-colonial state meant that leaders felt there was little alternative but one that accommodated that diversity through a federal structure. In contrast, we have seen that Indonesians discarded the idea of federalism because of its association with Dutch colonial attempts to divide and rule the archipelago. Territorially, Indonesia was organized with relatively few sub-national units that tended to subsume many ethnic groups. For example, Sumatra was initially designated a single province and then it was split up into three provinces, and future years would see a reorganization that divided Sumatra further into more provincial units and thus more aligned along ethnicity. In India, the reverse was true. The post-colonial organization of states were considered too small and did not hew closely to ethnic or linguistic lines and in fact divided many ethnic and linguistic groups. Early proposals to reorganize sub-national boundaries were rejected by national leaders who feared that it would undermine the basis for Indian nationalism. Key leaders like Nehru and Gandhi rejected proposals for reorganizing boundaries along lines of identity. However, by the 1950s, it became clear that state politicians, regional elites, and in some instances, ordinary people wanted their states to be organized along ethnic and linguistic lines. National leaders finally capitulated and, in 1956, India reorganized its internal boundaries and also reduced the number of states from 27 to 14 including six centrally administered territories. Mirroring Indonesia, many of these states were quite large and still heterogeneous despite the realignment. And over the years, India has also occasionally seen the creation of new states but largely in the context of a reluctant government. This experience has shifted in recent years when India experienced a new phenomenon with the creation of three new states: Chhattisgarh, Uttaranchal, and Jharkhand (Mawdsley 2002: 34). As in Indonesia, the new states were justified by the government on the grounds of efficiency. Furthermore, in all three “mother states,” there were ethno-culturally marginalized groups often with different languages and distinct ethnic identities. New provinces were thus usually initiated by civil society movements at the local level (Mawdsley 2002). What was different about this most recent wave of territorial reorganization had to do with the political support from the center. Two institutional changes drove national parties to support the creation of new states (Stuligross 2001). First, state-level parties were increasingly successful in national elections undermining their electoral base. Second, institutional reforms gave state

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governments more budgetary authority over a greater proportion of national development issues. As a result, national parties relied more heavily on neglected sub-regions for electoral support but at the same time were not able to provide substantive developmental benefits for their votes. Thus they promised institutional change, in this case statehood, instead of development policies or resources (Stuligross 2001: 18). This cursory sketch resembles some of the key arguments made for the case of Indonesia. First, it seems clear there was a popular local process of new state creation in India driven by local civil society organizations. At the same time, national-level actors were willing to work in coalitions with local actors as a way for them to secure legislative seats in national level elections. This then supports the notion that territorial coalitions play an important part in new state creation. Furthermore, the entire process takes place in the context of institutional change, in particular decentralization of fiscal authority. Here, in contrast to the Indonesian cases, decentralization leads nationallevel actors to promote new states. In Indonesia, decentralization tended to motivate local-level elites. The main difference between India and Indonesia seems to be the relatively minor role of the state security rationales versus political parties. In Indonesia we recall that in the Riau and Papua cases, the state had a concrete interest in preventing secession. In India, the main political actors at the national level that benefit from territorial change are political parties. Nigeria The second case study with strong parallels to the Indonesian experience is Nigeria. The country itself is an amalgam of different colonial territories consolidated by the British in 1914 (Dent 1995: 129). At independence, Nigeria formed three regions: a large Northern Region, a smaller Western Region, and the Eastern Region. In 1967, regions were renamed states and eight new states were created. In 1976, seven new regions were created. Since then, there have been sporadic bursts in the number of new states. In many ways, territorial change was a tool for national territorial unity as well as a tool for patronage. In terms of state-level changes, Nigeria presents probably the most spectacular example in the world, having expanded from three states in 1960 to 37 as of 2004 (Kraxberger 2003: 11). The territorial change in Nigeria forms a counterpoint to India’s experience in that early on it was very much an elite led process initiated by the national state as a form of constitutional engineering. At independence, Nigeria was organized territorially so that the three largest ethnic groups, the HausaFulani, the Ibo, and the Yoruba each formed a majority in the Northern state, the Western State, and the Eastern State respectively (Dent 1995: 131). Even before independence, politics took on a tri-polar dimension and in 1953, the constitutional agreement outlined that each region would be granted selfgovernment under a federal system (Young 1976: 291). This institutionalization

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created an intense struggle between the three groups culminating in a split in 1964 between the Hausa-Fulani of the north and the Yoruba and Ibo to the East and West. By the latter half of the 1960s, the conflict had escalated into a series of coups and counter-coups. Initially an Ibo general from the East took power, dismantled the federal structure and claimed a unitary government (Dent 1995: 131). This prompted a counter-coup by groups from the North who then re-instituted federalism (Dent 1995: 132). The Ibo, having failed to secure power, then rejected the federal model and pushed for their own secession. The Eastern region where the Ibo reside was also of strategic importance for the state as it contains a majority of its oil reserves. Foreseeing the consequences of such a collapse, Yakubi Gowon, the military head of state at the time, divided Nigeria into 12 states: six in the North, three in the East, and three additional states in the West (Dent 1995: 32). The creation of new states liberated the minorities from regionally dominant groups and paved the way for new political alignments (Horowitz 1985: 604). Said differently, the territorial reorganization shifted power to smaller, previously marginalized ethnic groups, shattering the political monopoly held by the three dominant ethnic groups. Declaring the creation of the first set of new states, Gowon noted that: The main obstacle to future stability in this country is the present structural imbalance … while the present circumstances regrettably do not allow for consultations through plebiscites, I am satisfied that the creation of new states as the only basis for stability and equality is the overwhelming desire of the vast majority of Nigerians. To ensure justice, these states are being created simultaneously (Hale 2004: 188) An example of how this affected regional unity can be seen through the experience of the Northern region. After the splits, only three of the six states in the northern region fell under direct Hausa-Fulani influence (Young 1976: 306). Thus although the identity of the Hausa-Fulani as a distinct group may have remained, the structural conditions for them to achieve national domination was eliminated, and thus the cooperation among the three HausaFulani states was not guaranteed (Young 1976: 305). Other states fell under the control of smaller minority ethnic groups as well. Before the institutional shift, minority parties had little incentive to support candidates because they were destined to lose. However, new states meant new legislative seats, new governorships, and perhaps most critically, new seats to the central legislature in Lagos. A previous minority party from the Northern state subsequently could control a few (smaller) states and gain one or more federal seats at the center (Horowitz 1985: 406). After this initial burst of new states, it became difficult to put the genie back in the bottle. What then began largely at the national level and eventually

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shifted to a situation where new regions began to demand statehood from the local and regional levels. The change emerged because the creation of new states created a localized political environment. Campaigns for new states were thus increasingly initiated by local politicians, civil servants, and traditional rulers who stood to benefit most from the establishment of a new state (Kraxberger 2003). Local elites mobilized support for new states by appealing to pre-colonial and colonial events, institutions, and precedents, thereby emphasizing more local identities (Kraxberger 2003). Dent calls this process “vigorous localism” which he argued enhanced the sense of local ethnic or clan identity and tied it to a territorial identity leading local communities to behave with more self-confidence (Dent 1995: 140). At this point, fears of separatism and state collapse had subsided giving less impetus of the national unity rationale. But national elites now had a different reason to promote new state creation, namely to extend patronage to regional allies. In Nigeria, the practice of prebendalism is common, where individuals gain office through the support of patrons. Often the relationship between patron and client in this context occurs along ethnic lines. The creation of a new state along such lines would be an example of a prebendal arrangement. Furthermore, state creation was seen as the equivalent of promoting development because it meant distributing more development funds (from natural resource revenues) to the new states (Kraxberger 2003: 276). Office holders could skim from the new development funds in order to repay their patrons for their support. Nigeria’s experience thus also suggests several parallels to the Indonesian case. In particular, the notion of constitutional engineering resonates with national state-led approaches to understand provincial proliferation in Indonesia. Worried about the prospect of fragmentation and state collapse, both central governments sought to employ a strategy of “divide-and-rule.” There was also a great deal of local incentives to become a new region. It seems clear that later movements for new states were more “bottom-up” than they were “top-down.” At the same time there seems to be cooperation between national-level actors and local elites in many cases thus lending credence to the idea that territorial coalitions are an important factor in determining the success of new regions. More work needs to be done to compare the dynamics of provincial proliferation in Indonesia with the dynamics of new state creation in both India and Nigeria. In particular, the territorial coalitions framework needs to assess local historical and political factors that may require better regional knowledge and first hand investigation. Nonetheless, a cursory look at these countries suggests that the concepts generated in the Indonesian case have some applicability in other large multi-ethnic states.

Competition and cooperation in post-authoritarian Indonesia One of the most striking aspects of contemporary Indonesia is its political and economic success, now over a decade after the fall of the Suharto regime.

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It is not an exaggeration to call Indonesia the leading democracy in Southeast Asia. Despite this success, scholars have also sounded a cautious note arguing that politics in Indonesia is shifting into an “oligarchy” or a “cartel” (Robison and Hadiz 2004). Local politics too has been characterized as full of “raja-raja kecil” (little kings) or dominated by bossism (Sidel 1999; Harriss et al. 2004). Alongside elements of elite capture in Indonesian politics, this study also highlights the intense competitiveness of politics that has emerged in Indonesia over the last decade. Coalitional politics does not suggest a lack of conflict or competition. In fact, in many ways, there is more conflict and competition in Indonesia than there was during the New Order era. Part of the argument being put forth is that territorial coalitions along “vertical” lines are being mobilized precisely because of the high levels of competition that are occurring horizontally. Competitiveness gets beyond questions of whether Indonesia today has a “strong” or “weak” state. It is safe to say that Indonesia’s state is not as strong as it used to be but not as weak as, say, many African states. Rather, Indonesia’s state may be characterized as one that is divided or fragmented. While all states have some fissures in them, Suharto’s New Order was remarkably resilient in its ability to keep those internal rifts to a minimum.1 The new found competitiveness in Indonesia today is most clearly manifested in the conflict and competition between Indonesia’s political parties. During the New Order era, President Suharto formed his own government party, Golkar, and emasculated the opposition. Elections were thus uncompetitive with the only real question the margin of victory for Golkar. Today, Indonesia’s party system is vibrant and highly competitive, if still uninstitutionalized. For example, nine parties hold power in the legislature, with no party holding a majority. There is also a great deal of competition among institutions. For example, there have been major battles between the legislative branch and the executive. At the same time, intense inter-party competition within the legislature has also been a notable characteristic of recent Indonesian politics. Furthermore, other groups such as the military, the police force, the judicial branch all have independent political interests and are often seen competing with one another, not necessarily in an electoral sense but in terms of mobilizing resources to achieve a particular objective. Nor is this new found competitiveness exclusive to the national level. Moving from an authoritarian and centralized regime to a democratic decentralized system has had enormous implications for the emergence of local political actors (Aspinall and Fealy 2003). The many problems of democratization and “big bang” decentralization became clear in the early part of the transition with the prevalence of elite capture and corruption characterizing many regions (Choi 2004; Hadiz 2004; Okamoto 2008). But with decentralization has also come an intense competition both among elites as well as social actors. Again, elections highlight this competition among elites at the local

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level, and this in turn is often accompanied by societal level conflicts along lines of identity such as religion and/or ethnicity. Territory I argue is a critical component of this competitiveness. The local-, regional-, and national-level actors have divergent but also often overlapping interests around territory. The competition at these different territorial levels induces the linkages that I have called territorial coalitions. As groups seek to gain advantage at their particular level of competition, they draw on the resources and strengths of actors above and below them. Territorial change is a manifestation of competition and specifically a result of the coalitions and alliances that emerge in the context of the intense competition at both the national and local levels.

The centripetal effect of territorial change The experience of Indonesia as well as other places also suggests that there may be an inverse relationship between internal territorial reorganization and external territorial collapse. At the very least, Indonesia, Nigeria, and India have all been territorially resilient states for the most part, while they have had significant changes internally. Especially in a new, uncertain, and highly competitive political environment, groups may form unusual alliances, in this case vertically across territorial administrative levels, in order to mobilize and compete horizontally. For example, political parties seeking more votes or local candidates seeking to outmaneuver opponents may see benefits to linking downwards or upwards with allies and use territory as a means to political ends as well. And where national state-level initiatives appear to have supported territorial change to weaken potential separatist regions, they have done so by fanning intra-regional tensions. To that end, territorial coalitions appear to have in fact strengthened the territorial resilience of the state by creating and strengthening linkages between center and periphery while at the same time exacerbating intraregional tensions. Creating new regions then, is akin to creating new spokes on a wheel, where spokes strengthen the wheel, making it less likely to fly apart or break down. This has ensured that even as power has moved from the hub to the outer rim of the wheel, that the wheel itself remains resilient. In this way, what appears to be territorial instability and fragility at the local level has had the ironic effect of strengthening the cohesion of the national territorial state. In this way, the concerns of those who criticize recent changes as the “ethnicization” of Indonesia into increasingly identity-based provinces actually miss the point. While this has been the case in some places, most notably in Gorontalo in North Sulawesi, territorial change has been a phenomenon that has quelled or weakened moves of separatism in places where it mattered. Even in the case of Gorontalo, the discourse and justification for a new province was framed in the context of Indonesian nationalism and Islam, which

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was contrasted to North Sulawesi’s history of regional rebellion and their Christianity. Territorial politics, in other words, is not a one way street. We typically imagine states expanding outward from some political center and regions fighting their encroachment with one side winning and the other losing, i.e. a zero-sum game. The reality of territorial politics is much more complex where mutual negotiation occurs in the context of institutional change. Territorial changes in Indonesia are not about autonomy as much as they are about access; access to political power, access to economic resources, and access to status and recognition. To be sure, we don’t know what the future holds for the Indonesian state. If history is a guide, political turmoil, identity-based conflict, economic displacement, natural disasters and their various interactions are all possibilities on the long horizon. No state is immune from the possibility of unexpected crises. What is clear is that power does not flow only in one direction, from the center outward. In Indonesia today relations between the nation’s political center and its periphery are fragmented and multi-directional, a condition that political actors at all levels are learning to negotiate.

Appendix Data on Indonesian provinces

Table A.1 Provinces by population Province

Population

East Java Central Java North Sumatra Jakarta South Sulawesi South Sumatra Lampung Riau West Sumatra West Kalimantan West Nusa Tenggara East Nusa Tenggara Aceh Bali Yogyakarta South Kalimantan North Sulawesi East Kalimantan Jambi Papua Central Sulawesi Maluku Central Kalimantan Southeast Sulawesi Bengkulu

34,783,640 31,228,940 11,649,655 8,389,443 8,059,627 7,799,872 6,741,439 4,957,627 4,248,931 4,034,198 4,009,261 3,952,279 3,930,905 3,151,162 3,122,268 2,985,240 2,847,142 2,455,120 2,413,846 2,220,934 2,218,435 1,990,598 1,857,000 1,821,284 1,567,432

Source: BPS 2000 Note: Entries in italics are the “mother provinces” where new provinces appeared.

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Table A.2 Provinces by area (km2) Province

Area

East Kalimantan Central Kalimantan West Kalimantan South Sumatra Riau Maluku North Sumatra Central Sulawesi South Sulawesi Jambi Aceh East Java East Nusa Tenggara South Kalimantan West Java Sumatera Barat Southeast Sulawesi Lampung Central Java North Sulawesi West Nusa Tenggara Bengkulu Bali Yogyakarta Jakarta

230,277 153,564 146,807 109,254 94,560 77,870 73,587 63,678 62,365 53,437 51,937 47,922 47,351 43,546 43,248 42,899 38,140 35,384 32,549 27,488 20,153 19,789 5,633 3,186 664

Source: BPS 2000 Note: Entries in italics are the “mother provinces” where new provinces appeared.

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Table A.3 Provinces by population density (persons/km2) Province

Density

West Java Yogyakarta Central Java East Java Bali West Nusa Tenggara Lampung North Sumatra South Sulawesi North Sulawesi Sumatera Barat East Nusa Tenggara Bengkulu Aceh South Sumatra South Kalimantan Riau Southeast Sulawesi Jambi Central Sulawesi West Kalimantan Maluku Central Kalimantan East Kalimantan Papua

1013 979 959 725 559 198 190 158 129 103 99 83 79 75 71 68 52 47 45 34 27 25 12 10 6

Source: BPS 2000 Note: Entries in italics are the “mother provinces” where new provinces appeared.

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Table A.4 Provinces by gross regional domestic product (GRDP) Province

GRDP

West Java East Java Central Java East Kalimantan North Sumatra Riau South Sumatra Aceh South Sulawesi Lampung Sumatera Barat Papua West Kalimantan South Kalimantan Bali Yogyakarta West Nusa Tenggara North Sulawesi Central Kalimantan Jambi Central Sulawesi East Nusa Tenggara Southeast Sulawesi Bengkulu Maluku

181,629,901 177,273,781 118,404,885 72,177,526 68,212,374 55,429,873 45,668,901 28,625,759 26,596,247 23,252,525 22,367,811 20,713,545 17,863,007 17,688,377 16,509,986 12,964,953 11,937,427 11,761,791 10,871,227 9,061,211 8,240,293 6,329,452 5,730,160 4,539,983 4,531,370

Source: BPS 2000 Note: Entries in italics are the “mother provinces” where new provinces appeared.

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Table A.5 Provinces by foreign direct investment (FDI) Province

FDI

Jakarta Raya East Java Riau Central Java North Sumatra Southeast Sulawesi East Kalimantan Papua South Sumatra West Nusa Tenggara Jambi Aceh Bali South Kalimantan Lampung West Kalimantan North Sulawesi Sumatera Barat Central Kalimantan Maluku Yogyakarta Bengkulu South Sulawesi East Nusa Tenggara Central Sulawesi

38246.2 32997.6 27158.3 17044.8 10152.6 7415.8 6675.3 6113.5 5410.6 5187.7 4631.7 4366 4038.5 3288.8 1599.4 1250.7 1137.6 1079.6 623.1 404.7 322.8 300.7 287.5 163.6 174.1

Source: BPS 2000 Note: Entries in italics are the “mother provinces” where new provinces appeared.

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Table A.6 Provinces by poverty rate Province

Poverty rate (%)

Bali Riau Sumatera Barat Central Kalimantan South Kalimantan North Sulawesi North Sumatra West Java South Sulawesi East Kalimantan South Sumatra Bengkulu Jambi Central Java East Java Southeast Sulawesi Central Sulawesi West Nusa Tenggara West Kalimantan Lampung Aceh Yogyakarta Maluku East Nusa Tenggara Papua

5.68 10.38 11.43 11.97 13.03 13.03 13.05 15.4 15.44 16.3 17.37 17.83 21.15 21.16 22.77 23.88 24.51 28.13 29.42 30.43 31.4 33.39 34.79 36.52 46.35

Source: BPS 2000 Note: Entries in italics are the “mother provinces” where new provinces appeared.

Glossary

bupati

district chief, head of a kabupaten Dual Function, doctrine of the armed forces

Dwi Fungsi

Guided Democracy until 1966 Inpres

political system in Indonesia under Sukarno from 1957

presidential instruction district or regency

kabupaten musyawarah New Order

liberation and consensus Suharto era (1966–98)

pemekaran blossoming, term used to refer to the creation of new districts and provinces in Indonesia reformasi

reform (term associated with the post-Suharto era)

Notes

1 Territorial change in post-authoritarian Indonesia 1 Interviews with government officials in North Sulawesi and Gorontalo in 2005. 2 Alesina and Spolaore (2003) argue that transactions costs essentially force a bundling of particular goods and services instead of having separate and possibly overlapping administrative regions for each public service. 2 Breaking boundaries, splitting regions: the politics of territorial coalitions 1 A notable exception includes West Virginia’s split away from Virginia. 2 Subsequent divisions in Papua, however, are important and fit in the realm of this study as discussed later. 3 Malesky, for example, argues that new provinces in Vietnam are emerging as a result of conflict between conservatives and reformers in the national legislature (Malesky 2009). 4 Stuligross sees the creation of new states in India as a way national parties can court new constituents in an effort to gain legislative advantage at the national level (Stuligross 2001). Kraxberger elaborates on identity based factors that led to the creation of new states in Nigeria which he refers to as “subnational citizenship containers” (Kraxberger 2003). 5 Sinha (2004) has suggested one way to look at linkages along lines of authority, institutions, and personnel. Sinha’s linkages are more formal and bureaucratic but in the Indonesian context, there are also more informal and personalistic ties suggesting a need for a slightly different conceptualization of linkages. 3 Origins and dilemmas of territorial administration in colonial Indonesia 1 See, for example, Winachakul’s work on border construction in Siam (Winachakul 1997). 2 Portuguese attempts to monopolize the trade were unsuccessful and simply dispersed the trade from the region that they sought to control. 3 The Dutch used a system of forced deliveries called verplichte lever. 4 The spice trade waned for various reasons including advances in meat preservation technology in Europe as well as more competition from other colonial powers that were able to circumvent the Dutch monopoly. 5 As Europe was mired in the Napoleonic wars, the Dutch along with other countries fell under French sway under Louis Bonaparte. 6 Raffles was appointed by the British government who had taken over administration of the East Indies on behalf of the Dutch so as to avoid French takeover. The British proceeded to occupy the archipelago for five years from 1811 to 1816. 7 The system was implemented by Governor General J. van den Bosch.

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8 The novel described the deep corruption of the Dutch colonial institutions as well as the deep poverty and starvation among Indonesian peasants that resulted from the Cultivation System. 9 Though these are referred to as decentralization laws, they are probably more accurately characterized as acts of deconcentration. 10 Governors were generally appointed in particular areas where there were outstanding military pacification interests (Aceh), outstanding economic interests (East Coast of Sumatra) or in large remote areas (Celebes) (Vandenbosch 1941: 129–30). 4 Post-colonial territorial administration and the imperative toward centralization 1 The movement peaked in the late 1950s and early 1960s in part because of concern over the growing influence of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) with the government. Islamists considered Communism’s atheism as a threat to their own existence. However, as the state gained strength in the early 1960s, the movement declined and was largely wiped out by the capture of S. M. Kartowirjo in 1962 (Kingsbury 2002: 40) 2 Nasution was also a Sumatran but was identified as an advocate of the central government. 3 Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia or PRRI. 4 One exception might be the Republic of Molucca. Webster (2007) argues that the Republic of Molucca’s declaration of independence was largely a residue of the revolution where Ambonese leaders loyal to the Dutch tried to resist integration into the new republic. 5 The government did establish Aceh and West Papua as Daerah Istimewah and Daerah Otonomi Khusus, respectively, giving them a significant share of natural resource revenue and broad legal authority. 5 Marginality and opportunity in the periphery 1 This fact was recounted to me in numerous conversations with informants in Gorontalo. This discourse was also evident in the local media; for example, see newspaper accounts such as 2000. 2 Panitia Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo Tomini Raya, or Committee to Prepare for the Separation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province. 3 Presidium Nasional Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo, or National Presidium for the Formation of Gorontalo Province. 4 Law Number 38 was passed on December 4, 2000; the official declaration of provincehood occurred on February 16, 2001 (Hasanuddin 2004). 5 For example, at the national level, interviews with Ferry Mursyidan Baldan, chairman Commission II of the Parliament of the Republic of Indonesia, Jakarta, June 3, 2005; and Suparman, head of Technical Commission on Regional Autonomy, Association of Indonesian Regency Government, Jakarta, May 25, 2005. At the local level, interviews with Edwin Silangen, Interim District Chief, North Minahasa, Manado, March 29, 2005; A. G. Kawatu, interim bupati, North Minahasa, April 1, 2005; Abit Takalingan, Provincial Parliament member, Northern Sulawesi, Manado, April 2, 2005. Interviews with government officials in North Sulawesi and Gorontalo in 2005. 6 It is important to note that these identities are malleable and often complicated by sub-ethnic identities as well. For example, there are several languages in Minahasa that correlate to some eight different sub-ethnic groups. See for example, Schefold (1995) and Palar and Anes (1994). These authors argue that these “subethnic” groups consolidated over the years in order to counter domination from a neighboring kingdom, the Bolaang-Mongondow.

Notes

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7 Upgrading inside existing boundaries would be easier than creating a new province with new administrative boundaries. In North Sulawesi, other initiatives for the formation of new provinces and new districts were also often justified along ethnic or sub-ethnic lines in ways that overlapped with territory. For example, in the wake of Gorontalo’s success, there has been an emerging movement for a BolaangMongondow province emerging from people living in that district. At the district level, too, Minahasa was divided into three different districts: Minahasa, North Minahasa, and South Minahasa, again along sub-ethnic lines. 8 Anna Tsing (1993) formulates this notion more eloquently as “out-of-the-way,” albeit in a different context in her aptly titled book. 9 In contrast, only 150 soldiers from Gorontalo were recruited and participated in the Java war. See Schouten (1998). 10 My translation: “On this day, January 23, 1942, we, the people of Indonesia, living here, are independent, free from colonialism by any nation whatsoever. Our flag is the Red and White. Our national anthem is Indonesia Raya.” 11 Permesta was part of a larger uprising that should be understood in the context of Outer Island resentment of Java’s perceived economic and political dominance. Permesta joined up with another rebellion on Sumatra island called PRRI (Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia, or the Revolutionary Government of the Indonesian Republic). Their alliance was dubbed PRRI–Permesta. Though the two movements were separately motivated, they saw benefits in cooperation. 12 In 1960, through Presidential Regulation no. 5 of that year, Sulawesi was divided into two provinces, and later that year assigned the status of an autonomous region (Legge 1961: 68). The formation of a new province may have been one of the key negotiating points and a way for the central government to divide the insurgents and conquer the rebellion. 13 See, for example, reports of resentment against residents of Bolaang-Mondondow (Harvey 1977: 120). 14 One informant suggested that the Minahasa may have been enabled to hold onto the governorship because the military at the time was heavily Christian. 15 “Gorontalo itu, daerah yang selalu dianaktirikan.” Interview, Saiful Ngiu, staff, Ministry of Sport, Jakarta, December 15, 2004. Saiful Ngiu is a native of Gorontalo. 16 In the social-movements literature, this is referred to as the “political opportunity” approach to understanding movements (McAdam et al. 2001). 17 Interview with Jamal Mooduto, former student activist, Bappeda, Gorontalo, July 26, 2005. 18 Ibid. 19 Later, Nooriman, the bupati, stepped down voluntarily. 20 Interview with Jamal Mooduto, former student activist, Bappeda, Gorontalo, July 26, 2005. 21 Interview with Djamaluddin Panna, former secretary, PRESNAS, Gorontalo, July 26, 2005. 22 Interview with Masri Usman, former leader of HMI Gorontalo, Gorontalo, July 28, 2005. 23 Interview with Husein Mohi, journalist, Gorontalo, July 29, 2005. 24 APBD, or the Anggaran Pendapat dan Belanja Daerah, Regional Budget. 25 Note that the budget for a Gorontalo province was reported to be as high as 13 billion rupiah. 26 “Manado seperti imperilisme baru terhadap Gorontalo” (Intim 1999). 27 “… selama berpuluh-puluh tahun menjadi sapi perahan bagi masyarakat Manado.” 28 Interview with Husein Mohi, journalist, Gorontalo, July 29, 2005. 29 Komite Pusat Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo Tomini Raya or the Central Committee for the Formation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province.

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30 Interview, Nelson Pomalingo, and Roem Kohno, heads of PRESNAS, and KP3GTR respectively. Both had clear gubernatorial ambitions. Natsir Mooduto, head of P4GTR had recently passed away. 31 Interview with Rusli Monoarfa, student leader for Gorontalo Province, Manado, July 9, 2005. 32 Interview with Husein Mohi, journalist, Gorontalo, July 29, 2005. Confirmed also by Ismail Moo, businessman, supporter of Gorontalo Province, Manado, July 8, 2005. 33 Interview with Paris Yusuf, member DPRD Gorontalo, Gorontalo, July 25, 2005. 34 Interview with Rainer Emyot Ointoe, local activist from Gorontalo, Manado, April 3, 2005. 35 Interview with Husein Mohi, journalist, Gorontalo, July 29, 2005. 36 In general, Habibie was seen as an advocate for “Outer Island” Indonesia after he replaced Suharto as president. 37 Note that this took place when the army still held a block of seats in the national legislature. Some suggest that Wiranto may have even been the one to broach the subject in the legislature. Interview with Pitres Sombowadile, activist, February 4, 2005. 38 An informant, who was present at the time the bribes were paid, emphasized that five million was quite a small sum, in part because Gorontalo was such an uncontentious case. He claimed that Gorontalo was the cheapest, fastest, smoothest of all the new-province initiatives and that others were more expensive or fraught with complications. 39 This point was suggested to me in various interviews, but I could not confirm through party officials or other participants that it had been an intentional strategy. Furthermore, by 2004, the laws governing electoral districts changed so that they were no longer based solely on provincial boundaries. 6 Territoriality and membership 1 Declaration letter of Forum Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten Kepulauan Riau, May 22, 2998, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia. 2 Interview with Rusli Silin, July 20, 2007, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia 3 Proposal for the formation of Komite Pemekaran Kepulauan Riau (KPKR), Tanjung Pinang, April 15, 1999. 4 Ibid. 5 Interview with Hasim, July 21, 2007, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia. 6 Interview with Idris Zaini, July 16, 2007, Office in DPD Building, Jakarta, Indonesia. 7 Committee to Prepare for the Creation of Island Riau Province. 8 Before 1943, only 8 percent of the Minangkabau migration was to Riau. Between 1942 and 1961 that number rose to 19 percent. And by 1961 it was at 21 percent. Thus alongside Jakarta, Pekanbaru (Riau’s capital city) became a favored destination for the Minang (B. W. Andaya 1997: 51). 9 The main exception being the Toba Bataks. 10 The problem with Pertamina was that along with its high revenues, it also had high rates of borrowing. By the mid-1970s, Pertamina had high levels of debt, higher even than the Indonesian government. Pertamina was forced to default on its debt and declare bankruptcy by 1975 quickly followed by General Sutowo’s dismissal. As oil prices dropped slowly in the 1980s and 1990s, oil became less and less central for government export revenue. 11 By 1995 about 85 percent or about 2.6 billion USD of total export value lay in the electronics industry (Sari 2002: 136). 12 Abbreviated for Singapore-Johor-Riau. 13 See online. Available at: www.pathfinder.com/asiaweek/98/0904/cs\_4\_batam.html.

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14 Malley talks at length about the DPR’s refusal to approve Munandar and the government ignoring that opposition and appointing Munandar regardless (Malley 1999b). 15 He elected to avoid the word “merdeka” or independence at that moment. 16 Interview with Abdul Razak, Director of the Lembaga Adat Melayu, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia, July 20, 2007. 17 Ibid. 18 Interview with Rusli Silin, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia, July 20, 2007. 19 In 2001 BIDA’s authority was devolved to local powers in line with decentralization initiatives that were implemented. There needs to be more research as to how this affected the involvement of the previous stakeholders such as Habibie and Suharto. 20 Interview with Hasim, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia, July 21, 2007. 21 Interview with Idris Zaini, Jakarta, Indonesia, July 16, 2007. 22 Interview with Zulkar Nain, July 20, 2007 in Tanjung Pinang, Kepulauan Riau, Indonesia. 23 The first point of the declaration states “Menolak Negara Riau Merdeka” and is signed by representatives of the people of Kepulauan Riau, signed on May 15, 1999. 24 Interview with Elza Zen, Jakarta Representative for BP3KR, Jakarta, Indonesia, July 23, 2007. 25 Interview with H. Syamsul Bahrum, Assistant for Economy and Development, Batam, Indonesia, July 22, 2007. 26 Interview with Elza Zen, Jakarta Representative for BP3KR, Jakarta, Indonesia, July 23, 2007. 27 See Choi (2005) for an analysis of the most recent local politics and local elections in Kepri. 28 Interview with Rusli Silin, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia, July 20, 2007. 7 Elite conflict and pressure from above 1 Note that West Papua as referred to in this text has gone by several names. Until 1962 it was referred to as Netherlands Guinea or Western New Guinea. From 1962 to 1973 it was called West Irian. In 1973 it was renamed Irian Jaya. In 2000, it was again renamed West Papua or sometimes just Papua. The newly declared provinces were called West Irian and Central Irian and the remaining area was simply called West Papua. Since 2007, West Irian has been renamed West Papua, Central Irian has been revoked, and the remaining area is simply referred to as Papua province. 2 Data downloaded from online. Available at: http://irja.bps.go.id/. 3 Papua also has over 41.5 million hectares of forests of which 27.6 million are classified by the government as “production forests.” 4 See Law 45, 1999. 5 Known in the past as ABRI and more recently as TNI. 8 Politics of territorial change 1 To be sure, there were disagreements among key military elite. And as Suharto’s base waned, it is now commonly accepted that Suharto looked toward other sources, such as radicalized Islam to strengthen his regime. But overall, the regime was solid and unified relative to the intense competition today.

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Index

Abdullah, Ismeth 103 Abubakar, Wan 89 access to political power, importance of 134 Aceh, post-colonial experience in 54–55 “Act of Free Choice” 55, 112–13, 118–19 administration: administrative districts in Gorontalo 69; colonial administrative experimentation 29; establishment in West Papua of 108–9 Afiff, S. and Lowe, C. 14 Agnew, J. 12 Ahmad, E. and Tanzi, V. 64 Airlangga Kingdom in Eastern Java 24 Alesina, A. and Spolaore, E. 143n2 alliances between geographic scales 15–16 Alm, J., Aten, R. and Bahl, R. 60 Amnesty International 116 ancient pre-colonial kingdoms 23–24 Andaya, B.W. 91, 100, 146n8 Andaya, B.W. and Andaya, L.Y. 99 Andaya, L.Y. 90 Anderson, B. and Kahin, A. 45 Anderson, B., McVey, R.T. and Bunnell, F.P. 43, 49, 51 Anderson, Benedict 24, 40, 41, 52–53 Angelino, A.D.A. de K. 26 Anggaibak, Andreas 122 Anggaran Pendapat dan Belanja Daerah (APBD) 145n24 Ansell, C.K. and Palma, G.D. 13 anti-communist generals, assassination of 43 Arifin Achmad 96 army-Communist Party struggle for power 43 Arndt, H. 109

Ascher, W. 93 Aspinall, E. 5, 17–18, 54 Aspinall, E. and Berger, M.T. 60 Aspinall, E. and Fealy, G. 11, 60, 133 Ataruri, Brigadier General Abraham Octavianus 121–23 Badan Inteligens Abri (BIA) 103 Badan Koordinasasi Inteligen Negara (BaKIN) 122–23 Badan Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Kepulauan Riau (BP3K) 89, 100 Badan Pusat Statistik (BPS) 69–70, 91, 92–93, 109, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140, 141 Bahrum, H. Syamsul 147n25 Baldan, Ferry Mursyidan 144n5 “balkanization,” prospect for Indonesia of 1 Bartolini, S. 14 Basri, Feisal 117 Basso, K.H. 14 Bastin, J. 29 Batam Industrial Development Area (BIDA) 94–95, 102, 103, 147n19 Baud, J.C. 30 Beanal, Tom 117 Bellin, E. 18 Benda, H.J. 32, 34 Bertrand, J. 14, 50, 62, 79, 108, 109, 111, 117, 118 Bird, J. 57 Bitung 69 Blair, D. and Phillips, D. 114, 115, 119, 120 “BOHUSAMI” 77 Bolton, J. 1 Bonaparte, Louis 29, 143n5 Bonay, Elierzer 114

Index Botutihe, Medi 82 boundaries: effects of re-drawing of 1–2; regional and boundary shifts 30–31; see also territorial change Brenner, N. 13 bribery, corruption and 101 British interregnum 29 Brown, D. 14, 55 Brubaker, R. 2 Brueckner, J. 63–64 Buchholt, H. and Mai, U. 72 Bulan Bintang 84 Bull, H. 12 bupatis (district chiefs, system of) 51, 100, 122, 142, 144n5; colonial territorial administration 27, 29, 30, 32, 35 bureaucracy, expansion of 30–31 bureaucratic centralization, New Order and 50–51 bureaucratic explanations 3–4 business, shift to government 31 Capoccia, G. 62 Celarier, M. 115 center-region ties in Gorontalo 68, 83, 86 Central National Committee, creation of 34 centralization 28–31; under the New Order 49–54; process of, shifts in territoriality and 38–39, 47–48 centripetal effect of territorial change 3, 134–35 Chaidir, H. 89 Chauvel, R. and Bhakti, I.N. 106–7, 111, 112, 117, 119, 121, 122, 126 Choi, N. 133, 147n27 Christianity, Dutch introduction of 72–73 coalitions: coalitional politics, competition and 133; comparative perspective on territorial coalitions 16–17; foundation in Gorontalo of 79–81, 85; linkages and functioning of 19; mobilization of territorial coalitions 15–16; possibilities for 4–5; process of 19–20, 21; territorial coalitions, politics of 15; territory and 127–28; see also territorial coalitions, politics of Cokroaminoto, H. Umar Said 74 collapse, post-authoritarian prevention of 1–3

159

Colombijn, F. 96, 97 colonial territorial administration 8, 22–37; abstention on Outer Islands, policy of 30; administrative experimentation 29; Airlangga Kingdom in Eastern Java 24; ancient pre-colonial kingdoms 23–24; British interregnum 29; bupatis (district chiefs, system of) 27, 29, 30, 32, 35; business, shift to government 31; Central National Committee, creation of 34; centralization 28–31; colonial competition, intensification of 30; consolidation 28–31; constructing the center and the shift to Java 27–28; decentralization 31–34; decentralization laws (1922) 32; districts (kewedanaan) 37; Dutch and Republican government, conflict between 34–35; Dutch new state creation 35–36; Eastern Indonesia, establishment of State of 35; ethical policies 31–34; “Ethical System” 32; expansion of bureaucracy 30–31; extra-territoriality, agreement of 33–34; Federal Republic of Indonesia (RIS), sovereign power invested in 36; federalism, failure of 34–36; governments of provinces, organization of 32–33; ideational struggle about territorial governance 35; indirect rule 27–28; land-rent system 29–30; liberalization 31; Linggadjati Agreement 35; Majapahit empire 23–24; maritime kingdoms and inland agrarian kingdoms, contrast between 24; nationalist resistance to change 34–36; “Native Communities,” recognition of 30; native elite groups, integration into Dutch colonial administrative system 23; “native states,” creation of 33; Peta (Volunteer Army of Defenders of the Fatherland) 34; political authority, weakness of 24; pre-colonial geography and territorial diversity 23–25; provinces, division of 37; regencies (kabupaten or regentshappen) 32, 37, 60, 69, 103; regional and boundary shifts 30–31; Renville Accords 35; resistance to colonial rule 23; Round Table Agreement (1949) 36; “Short Declaration” 33; social construction

160

Index

of territory 22; spice trade, chokepoint economics and 25–26; Srivijaya empire 23; systematic uniform administrative code (Law 22, 1950), establishment of 36–37; territorial boundaries 24–25; territorial translation of ethical policy to Outer Islands 33; territory, delineation in ancient polities 24; uniformity and recognition of diversity, dilemma of 22, 37; Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) 23, 25–26, 27, 28; villages (desas) 37; Yogyakarta, Dutch military capture of 36 commercial ventures, military operated 120 Committee to Prepare for Formation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province (P4GTR) 67, 81, 82, 146n30 Communist Party (PKI) 144n1; postcolonial territorial administration and 42, 44, 50, 51 compartmentalization 70; compartmentalized diversity in North Sulawesi 68–70 competing visions: Kepulauan Riau, territoriality and membership 101; of Papua for Indonesian elite 116–18 competitiveness in post-authoritarian Indonesia 132–34 Conselho Nacional da Resistência Maubere (CNRM) 56–57 consolidation, colonialism and 28–31 constitutional debate 42 cooperation: in post-authoritarian Indonesia 132–34; territorial coalitions, politics of 16 coordination, collaboration and 19–20 Cox, K.R. 13, 15 creation of new provinces 10, 20–21; first wave 44–46; legacy of 126; legislation for new provinces 62; new-province formation, political transition and 67–68; pembentukan daerah (new region formation) 10; political nature of new province formation 68, 84, 85–86 Cribb, R. 22, 23, 27, 29, 30–31, 42, 43 cross-cutting territorial alliances 16 Crouch, H. 41, 43, 48, 49–50, 51, 52 cultural centralization, New Order and 53–54

Daendels, Herman Wilhem 29, 32 Daerah Operasi Militer (DOM) 117 Darul Islam 42, 43, 46, 54 Davidson, J. 46 Dawak (Ink) 97 Dayak political identity 46 “Debt of Honor” (van Deventer, C.Th.) 32 decentralization: colonial territorial administration 31–34; decentralization laws (1922) 32; implementation of, territorial coalitions and 11; local elites and 81–83; post-authoritarian territorial change 5; post-colonial territorial administration, centralization and 60–61 Dekker, Eduard Douwes 31 Delaney, D. and Leitner, H. 13 Delta Orient Private Limited 94 democratization: post-authoritarian territorial change 5; post-colonial territorial administration, centralization and 58–60, 61 demographc patterns: changes in West Papua 109, 110 demographic patterns: in Gorontalo 69–70 Dent, M. 130, 131, 132 Derks, W. 96, 97 development funds (keuangan pembangunan), military access to 76–77 Dewan Perwakilan Daerah (DPD) 63 Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah (DPRD) 60 Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR) 63 Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat-Republik Indonesia (DPR-RI) 84, 119 Diponegoro rebellion in Java 73 districts (kewedanaan) 37 divergent nationalisms 73–74 diversity: ethnic diversity 90–91, 93; and territoriality in the Riau region 90–92; uniformity and recognition of diversity, dilemma of 22, 37 divide-and-rule: Kepulauan Riau, territoriality and membership 103; territorial change 126, 132; West Papua, elite conflict and downward pressure 125 Djasit, Governor Saleh 89, 97, 101 Djopari, John 122 Doner, R. 15

Index Dunn, J. 56 Dutch government: claim on Western New Guinea 108; development effort in West Papua 111; native elite groups, integration into Dutch colonial administrative system 23; new state creation by 35–36; regional consolidation of North Sulawesi 72; Republican government and, conflict between 34–35; vision for Papua 110 dwi fungsi (‘dual function,’ doctrine of the armed forces) 49, 142 East Timor: Forças Armadas da Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste (FALINTIL) 56–57; post-colonial experience in 56–57 Eastern Indonesia, establishment of State of 35 economic centralization, New Order and 52–53 economic development, negative effects of 94 economic migration in Kepulauan Riau 91 economic problems of post-colonial territorial administration 40 efficiency, principle of 61 efficiency arguments: post-authoritarian territorial change 3–4; West Papua, elite conflict and downward pressure 107 elected regional councils, establishment of 111 elected representatives, isolation of 112–13 electoral and party reform 58–60 electoral centralization, New Order and 51–52 electoral system, discussion on rules of 59 Elmhirst, R. 53 Elmslie, J. 115 Eluay, Theus 117 Emmerson, D.K. 50, 51 environmental groups in West Papua 116 equality, principle of 61 Erb, M., Sulistiyanto, P. and Faucher, C. 11 Esping-Anderson, Gøsta 15 ethical policies 31–34 “Ethical System” 32 ethnic diversity 90–91, 93 ethnic groups in North Sulawesi 69–70 ethnicity, religion, and development in West Papua 108–10

161

“ethnicization,” territorial change and 133–34 ethnification of politics 20 Evans, P.B. 40 Evans, P.B., Rueschemeyer, D. and Skocpol, T. 12, 39 Evera, S. van 7 extra-territoriality, agreement of 33–34 Fatam, Ali 80 Faucher, C. 98, 99, 100 Federal Republic of Indonesia (RIS), sovereign power invested in 36 federalism, failure of 34–36 Feith, H. 34, 36, 47–48 Ferguson, J. 4 fiscal authority and responsibilities, devolution of 63–64 Fitrani, F., Hofman, B. and Kaiser, K. 64 forced integration in West Papua 113–15 forestry and logging 114–15 Forum Komunikasi Generasi Muda Irian Jaya (FKGMIJ) 117 Forum Komunikasi Mahasiswa Gorontalo (FKMG) 80 Forum Komunikasi Mahasiswa Indonesia Tinelo Gorontalo (FK-MITG) 80 Forum Rekonsiliasi Rakyat Irian Jaya (FORERI) 117 Forum Solidaritas Intelektual Muda Indonesia Gorontalo (FSI-MIG) 80 Forum Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten Kepulauan Riau (FSRKKR) 88, 100 fragmentation, process of 10 free choice, act of 55, 112–13, 118–19 Freeport McMoran Copper and Gold Inc. 114, 115, 116 Gaastra, F. 25, 27 Gamson, W. 16 Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (GAM) 54 Gerakan Mahasiswa Perjuangan Provinsi Kepri (GMPPK) 90 gerrymandering, practice of 10 Ghandi, Mohandas K. (‘Mahatma’) 129 Gill, R. and Sri-Aksarakomunika, T. 94, 95 globalization, territoriality and 12–13 Gobel, Rachmat 83 Goemans, H. 14 Goh Chok Tong 94

162

Index

Golongan Karya (Golkar): in Gorontalo 84; in West Papua 107, 117, 120, 123, 124 Gorontalo, marginality and opportunity in 8, 66–86; administrative districts 69; birth of a province 66–68; Bitung 69; “BOHUSAMI” 77; Bulan Bintang 84; center-region ties 68, 83, 86; Christianity, Dutch introduction of 72–73; coalition, foundation of 79–81, 85; colonial interventions and legacies 71–73; Committee to Prepare for Formation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province (P4GTR) 67, 81, 82, 146n30; compartmentalization 70; compartmentalized diversity in North Sulawesi 68–70; decentralization and local elites 81–83; demographic patterns 69–70; development funds (keuangan pembangunan), military access to 76–77; Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat–Republik Indonesia (DPR-RI) 84; Diponegoro rebellion in Java 73; divergent nationalisms 73–74; ethnic groups in North Sulawesi 69–70; Forum Komunikasi Mahasiswa Gorontalo (FKMG) 80; Forum Komunikasi Mahasiswa Indonesia Tinelo Gorontalo (FK-MITG) 80; Forum Solidaritas Intelektual Muda Indonesia Gorontalo (FSI-MIG) 80; Golongan Karya (Golkar) 84; Gorontalo Province, declaration of formation of 67; Himpunan Pelajar Mahasiswa Indonesia Bualemo Gorontalo (HPMIBG) 80; Himpunan Pelajar Mahasiswa Indonesia Gorontalo (HPMIG) 80, 81; historical foundations of privilege and marginality 70–78; Ikatan Sarjana Gorontalo (ISG) 80; inequality, Christianity and 72–73; Japanese invasion and occupation 66–67, 74; Kebangkitan Bangsa 84; Kerukunan Keluarga Indonesia Gorontalo (KKIG) 80; KP3GTR 82, 146n30; local elites, decentralization and 81–83; Manado 69–73, 75–77, 80–83; marginality, historical foundations of 70–78; marginality in the periphery 78; Meer Uitgebreide Lagere Onderwijs (MULO) 74; Minahasa 68–78, 82, 85; Musyawarah Besar

(MUBES) 80; national elites, political party reform 83–85, 86; Nederlandse Zending Genootschap (NZG) 72; New Order rehabilitation 76–78, 85; new-province formation, political transition and 67–68; open dialogue (dialog terbuka) 80; Partai Amanat Nasional (PAN) 84; Partai Dwemokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan (PDI-P) 84; Partai Indonesia (Partindo) 74; Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI) 74; Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP) 84; Permesta (Perjuangan Semesta, or “General Struggle”) 74–76; political affinities in pre-colonial Indonesia 71; political nature of new province formation 68, 84, 85–86; political party reform and national elites 83–85; pre-colonial Indonesia, land-to-labor ratio in 71; PRESNAS 67, 82, 145n21, 146n30; privilege, historical foundations 70– 78; regional consolidation of North Sulawesi by Dutch 72; regionalist aspirations of “periphery” 68; religion in North Sulawesi 70; Royal Netherlands-Indies Army (KNIL) 73; social development indicators 78; social mobilization 81; student demonstrations and demands in Gorontalo 79; Tentara Nasional Indonesia/Polisi Republik Indonesia (TNI/Polri) 84; territorial change, triggering of 68; transition and opportunity 78–85; Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) 71–72; violence, turning point in student movement 79–80 governments of provinces, organization of 32–33 Gowon, Yakubi 131 guerilla fighters 41 Guided Democracy 39, 47–49, 142 Habibie, Bacharuddin Jusuf (‘B.J.’) 58, 60, 83, 94, 102, 103, 116–17, 124, 125, 146n36 Habibie, Ilham Akbar 102 Habibie, Suyatim Abdulrachman 102 Habibie, Thareq Kemal 102 Hadar, L. 1 Hadiz, V. 18, 133 Hale, H. 131 Hamid, Syawran 97

Index Harian Gorontalo 81, 82 Harriss, J., Stokke, K. and Tornquist, O. 133 Harvey, B.S. 75, 145n13 Hasanuddin 72, 74, 144n4 Hatta, Mohammed 34, 36, 42, 43, 47, 110 Hechter, Michael 14 Hefner, R. 17, 42 Hendropriyono 122, 123 Henley, D. 71, 72, 73–74 Henley, D., Schouten, M. and Ulaen, A.J. 77, 80 Hill, H. 50, 52 Himpunan Pelajar Mahasiswa Indonesia Bualemo Gorontalo (HPMIBG) 80 Himpunan Pelajar Mahasiswa Indonesia Gorontalo (HPMIG) 80, 81 Hirschman, A.O. 39 Hood, Huzrin 100, 103 Horowitz, D. 131 Hoshour, C. 91 human rights, resistance in West Papua and 115–16 human territoriality 12 ideational struggle about territorial governance 35 Ijie, Jimmy 123 Ikatan Sarjana Gorontalo (ISG) 80 Imam Munandar 96 Imam Nooriman 79–80, 145n19 independent Papua, unacceptability to Indonesia 119 India 9, 10; colonial legacy 128–29; comparison with Nigeria 128–30; creation of new states 129; decentralization, effects of 130; federal structure in 129; parallels to Indonesia 130; posy-colonial state organization 129; state-level parties, success in national elections 129–30; territorial management 128–29; territorial organization 129; territorial reorganization 129–30 indirect rule 27–28 Indonesia: areas of provinces 137; “balkanization,” prospect for 1; density of populations in provinces 138; foreign direct investment (FDI) in provinces 140; gross regional domestic product (GRDP) of provinces 139; populations of provinces 136; poverty rates in

163

provinces 141; territorial coalitions, politics of 17–19; see also colonial territorial administration; Gorontalo, marginality and opportunity in; Kepalauan Riau; post-authoritarian territorial change; post-colonial territorial administration; territorial coalitions, politics of; West Papua inequality, Christianity and 72–73 Inpres (presidential instruction) 106–7, 121, 142 institutional territoriality 14–15 institutions, competition between 133 Instruksi President No. 1 (Megawati, 2003) 106–7, 119, 121 insurgency, separatist challenges and 54 Inter-governmental Group on Indonesia (IGGI) 52–53 “internal colonialism” 14 International Crisis Group (ICG) 106, 115, 123, 124 international pressure, free choice and 112–13 Intim 80, 81, 145n26 intra-elite conflicts in West Papua 107 Irian Jaya Crisis Center (IJCC) 123 Irian Jaya see West Papua Jacobsen, M. 77 Jakarta Post 97, 101, 117 Japanese invasion and occupation 39–40; of Gorontalo 66–67, 74 Java: constructing the center and the shift to 27–28; “Javanization” 53; and the Outer Islands, balance of representation between 59 Jenkins, D. 51 “jumping scales” 16 kabupaten (district or regency) 37, 60, 69, 103, 142 Kahler, M. and Walter, B.F. 13, 14 Kartosuwirjo, S.M. 42, 144n1 Kawatu, A.G. 144n5 Kebangkitan Bangsa: in Gorontalo 84; in West Papua 118 Keck, M.E. and Sikkink, K. 16 Kepulauan Riau, territoriality and membership 8, 87–105; Badan Inteligens Abri (BIA) 103; Badan Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Kepulauan Riau (BP3K) 89, 100; Batam Industrial Development Area (BIDA) 94–95, 102, 103, 147n19;

164

Index

bribery, corruption and 101; competing visions 101; debate about 87–88; Delta Orient Private Limited 94; diversity and territoriality in the Riau region 90–92; divide-and-rule 103; economic development, negative effects of 94; economic migration 91; ethnic diversity 90–91, 93; Forum Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten Kepulauan Riau (FSRKKR) 88, 100; Gerakan Mahasiswa Perjuangan Provinsi Kepri (GMPPK) 90; gross regional domestic product per capita 93–94; Komite Pemekaran Kepulauan Riau (KPKR) 88–89; Kongres Rakyat Kepulauan Riau 89; Malacca, Sultanate of 98–99; membership, rejection of 95–102; migration, high levels of 91–92; movement for a new Kepri 88–90; Musyawarah Besar Masyarakat Kepri 89; Musyawarah Partai Partai Politik Kepulauan Riau in Jakarta 103–4; narrative of, similarity to Gorontalo 90; National Intelligence Agency (BIN) 103; national membership 102–4; panprovincial autonomy, mobilization of 96–98; Pertamina (state petroleum company) 93, 94; reformasi, effects of 99–100; regional development and economic trajectories 92–95; religion 92, 93; Riau Lingga, ancient Sultanate of 98; Riau Malay identity, foundations of 97; Riau Merdeka 97–98; Riau Merdeka, rejection of 98–102; Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia growth triangle (SIJOHRI) 94–95 Kerukunan Keluarga Indonesia Gorontalo (KKIG) 80 Khan, R. 129 King, D. 58, 59, 107, 114, 120–21 King, P. 112, 119, 121, 122 Kingsbury, D. 54, 55–56, 58, 144n1 Klinken, Geert Arend van 72 Kohno, Roem 146n30 Komisi Pemilihan Umim (KPU) 35–36 Komite Pemekaran Kepulauan Riau (KPKR) 146n3; territoriality and membership in Kepulauan Riau 88–89 Komite Solidaritas Rakyat Irian 117 Kompas 81, 89, 90, 106, 107, 118, 119, 120, 121, 122, 123 Kongres Rakyat Kepulauan Riau 89

Kopassus (special forces unit): postcolonial territorial administration and 50; in West Papua 116 Koran Tempo 89 KP3GTR in Gorontalo 82, 146n30 Kraxberger, B.M. 17, 130, 132, 143n4 Lambung Mangurat, Council of 46 land-rent system 29–30 Law No. 25 (1999) on Inter-Government Financial Balance 60–61 Law No. 5 (1974) on Regional Administration 50 Law No. 22 (1999) on Regional Administration 60 leadership roles in West Papua 124–25 Legge, J.D. 35–36, 44, 45, 48, 145n12 Leirissa, R.Z. 72–73, 76 Leith, D. 116 liberalization: and an alternative vision in West Papua 118–19; colonial territorial administration 31 Liddle, W. 52 Lieberman, V. 24 Liem Sioe Liong 102 Lijphart, A. 110, 111 Linggadjati Agreement 35 local actors, working with 107, 122–24, 126 local elites, decentralization and 81–83 local political actors, competition between 133–34 local territorial changes 2 Locher-Scholten, E. 30 Loukacheva, N. 17 McAdam, D., Tarrow, S.G. and Tilly, C. 145n16 McGibbon, R. 109 Machmud, Sultan of Melaka 99 Mackie, J. and MacIntyre, A. 50, 51, 52, 58 Magindaan, Governor E.E. 79–80 Majapahit empire 23–24 majority-minority relations 2 Malacca, Sultanate of 98–99 Malesky, E. 143n3 Malley, M. 50, 51, 52, 53, 64, 96, 102, 119, 147n14 Manado, Gorontalo and 69–73, 75–77, 80–83 Manado Post 82 Mandau Talawang Panca Sila (GMTPS) 46

Index Manifest Politik in West Papua 111, 118 marginality: historical foundations of 70–78; in the periphery 78 maritime kingdoms and inland agrarian kingdoms, contrast between 24 Marxist political science 12 material incentives in West Papua 125 materiality of territory, over-emphasis on: post-authoritarian territorial change 4; territorial coalitions, politics of 14 Matindas, B.E. and Supit, B. 76 Matthews, V.K. 115 Mawdsley, Emma 129 Max Havelaar (Dekker, E.D.) 31 Meer Uitgebreide Lagere Onderwijs (MULO) 74 Megawati Sukarnoputeri 17, 103, 106–7, 118, 119, 120–21, 123, 125 Merdeka 117 Migdal, J.S. 39 migration: elite conflict, downward pressure and 109–10, 113–14; high levels of, Kepulauan Riau and 91–92; independence of West Papua and 123 Miles, D. 46 military: centralization in post-colonial era 48; centralization of, New Order and 49–50; commercial ventures operated by 120; expansiveness in post-colonial era 48–49; killings in West Papua and human rights abuses by 116; security and military links to PDI-P 121; security rationale in West Papua and 120–21, 122, 125 Minahasa, Gorontalo and 68–78, 82, 85 mobilization of territorial coalitions 15–16 Mohammed, Fadel 84 Mohi, Husein 145n23, 145n28, 146n32, 146n35 Monim, Herman 122 Monoarfa, Rusli 146n31 Moo, Ismail 146n32 Mooduto, H. Natzir 67, 81 Mooduto, Jamal 145n17, 145n20 Moore, B. 15 Mote, O. and Rutherford, D. 55, 118 Mubyarto 94 Muchdi Purwoprandjono, MajorGeneral 103

165

multi-dimensional nature of: territoriality 128; territory 5, 15 multi-ethnicity: multi-ethnic states, comparisons of 128–32; postauthoritarian territorial change and 2 Musyawarah Besar Masyarakat Kepri 89 Musyawarah Besar (MUBES): in Gorontalo 80; in West Papua 118 Musyawarah Partai Partai Politik Kepulauan Riau in Jakarta 103–4 musyawarahde (liberation and consensus) 142 Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) 118 Nain, Zulkar 147n22 Nasution, General 48, 144n2 national and local ties, critical nature of 128 national elites, political party reform and 83–85, 86 National Intelligence Agency (BIN): Kepulauan Riau and 103; in West Papua 122, 123, 125 National Mandate Party 117–18 National Resilience Institute (Lemhannas) 121 national role and alliance with local politics 16–17 nationalist resistance to change 34–36 “Native Communities,” recognition of 30 native elite groups, integration into Dutch colonial administrative system 23 “native sons” (putra daerah) appointment of 53 “native states,” creation of 33 natural resources industry 114–15 Nederlandse Zending Genootschap (NZG) 72 Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia (NKRI) 20 Nehru, Jawaharlal 129 networks and alliances 5 New Order 8, 142; bureaucratic centralization and 50–51; centralization under 49–54; cultural centralization and 53–54; economic centralization and 52–53; electoral centralization and 51–52; military centralization and 49–50; postauthoritarian territorial change 2–3; rehabilitation in Gorontalo 76–78, 85; repressive machinery of 116;

166

Index

separatism in era of 54–57; societal conflict and 57; territorial conflict in era of 54–57; West Papua, elite conflict and downward pressure 113–15 new provinces see creation of new provinces Newman, D. 3 Ngiu, Saiful 145n15 Nigeria 9, 10, 16–17; colonial inheritance 130; comparison with India 130–32; coups and countercoups 131; division into 12 states 131; ethnic groups 130–31; localization of politics 132; parallels to Indonesia 132; politics, tri-polar nature of 130–31; prebendalism 132; regional self-government 130–31; regional unity, effect of new states on 131–32; territorial change in 130–31 Nihom, M. 24 Niode, A. 75, 79, 84 Niode, A. and Mohi, H. 66, 71–72, 74 non-uniformity of territorial change 128 Nordholt, H.S. and van Klinken, G. 11, 62 Nunavut in Canada 10, 17 Nurdin, H. 67 Ointoe, Rainer Emyot 146n34 Okamoto, M. 133 Oli’l, Aleks 81 Omae, K. 13 open dialogue (dialog terbuka) 80 Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM): post-colonial territorial administration and 55–56; in West Papua 114, 116 Osborne, R. 113, 114, 116 Outer Islands: abstention on, policy of 30; Java and, balance of representation between 59; territorial translation of ethical policy to 33 Paasi, A. 4 Palar, H.B. and Anes, L.A. 144n6 pan-provincial autonomy, mobilization of 96–98 Panna, Djamaluddin 145n21 Papua: independence, campaign against 117; post colonial experience in 55–56; see also West Papua Pariwisata, K.K. 77 Partai Amanat Nasional (PAN) 84

Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (PDI) 51–52 Partai Dwemokrasi IndonesiaPerjuangan (PDI-P) 63, 101, 103; in Gorontalo 84; in West Papua 118, 120, 121, 123, 124 Partai Indonesia (Partindo) 74 Partai Kebangkitan Umat (PKB) 118 Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI) 74 Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP): in Gorontalo 84; post-colonial territorial administration and 51–52 party reform 58–60; national elites and 83–85; political party reforms (1999) 63 Pauker, G. 41, 48–49 Peluso, N. 13 pembentukan daerah (new region formation) 10 pemekaran (blossoming) 10, 142 Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia (PRRI) 144n3, 145n11 “People’s Triple Command” policy 112 peripheral marginality 128 Permesta (Perjuangan Semesta, or “General Struggle”) 74–76 personal linkages, role of 124 Persson, R. and Tabellini, G. 64 Pertamina (state petroleum company): Kepulauan Riau and 93, 94; in West Papua 115, 120 Peta (Volunteer Army of Defenders of the Fatherland) 34 petroleum industry 115 Philippines 10 Pinto, C. and Jardine, M. 56 political affinities in pre-colonial Indonesia 71 political alignments, post-authoritarian era 5 political authority: territoriality and 12–13; weakness of 24 political centralization 47–48 political change: territorial impact of 57–61; territory and mobilization in midst of 3–5 political nature of new province formation 68, 84, 85–86 political territoriality 14–15 political transition 1 politics: ban on political activity 113; centralization of 47–48; of territorial change 9, 127–35; territory and 1 27–28 Pomalingo, Nelson 146n30

Index post-authoritarian territorial change 1–9; “balkanization,” prospect for Indonesia of 1; boundaries, effects of re-drawing of 1–2; bureaucratic explanations 3–4; centripetal tendencies 3; coalitions, possibilities for 4–5; collapse, prevention of 1–3; context of 4; decentralization 5; democratization 5; efficiency arguments 3–4; local territorial changes 2; majority-minority relations 2; materiality of territory, over-emphasis on 4; multi-dimensional nature of territory 5; multi-ethnicity 2; networks and alliances 5; New Order 2–3; origins of 4; political alignments 5; political change, territory and mobilization in midst of 3–5; political transition 1; territorial change, timing and variation of 3–4; territorial politics, analyses of 2 post-colonial territorial administration, centralization and 8, 38–65; Aceh, experience in 54–55; “Act of Free Choice” 55; anti-communist generals, assassination of 43; army-Communist Party struggle for power 43; balance of representation between Java and the Outer Islands 59; bureaucratic centralization, New Order and 50–51; centralization process, shifts in territoriality and 38–39, 47–48; centralization under the New Order 49–54; Communist Party (PKI) 42, 44, 50, 51; Conselho Nacional da Resistência Maubere (CNRM) 56–57; constitutional debate 42; cultural centralization, New Order and 53–54; Darul Islam 42, 43, 46, 54; Dayak political identity 46; decentralization 60–61; democratization 58–60, 61; Dewan Perwakilan Daerah (DPD) 63; Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah (DPRD) 60; Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR) 63; “dual function” mandate 49; East Timor, experience in 56–57; economic centralization, New Order and 52–53; economic problems 40; efficiency, principle of 61; electoral and party reform 58–60; electoral centralization, New Order and 51–52; electoral system, discussion on rules of 59; equality, principle of 61; fiscal authority and

167

responsibilities, devolution of 63–64; Forças Armadas da Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste (FALINTIL) 56–57; Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (GAM) 54; guerilla fighters 41; “Guided Democracy” 47–49; insurgency, separatist challenges and 54; Inter-governmental Group on Indonesia (IGGI) 52–53; Japanese invasion and occupation 39–40; “Javanization” 53; Kopassus (special forces unit) 50; Lambung Mangurat, Council of 46; Law No. 25 (1999) on Inter-Government Financial Balance 60–61; Law No. 5 (1974) on Regional Administration 50; Law No. 22 (1999) on Regional Administration 60; Mandau Talawang Panca Sila (GMTPS) 46; military centralization 48; military centralization, New Order and 49–50; military expansiveness 48–49; “native sons” (putra daerah) appointment of 53; new provinces, first wave 44–46; new provinces, legislation for 62; Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM) 55–56; Papua, experience in 55–56; Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (PDI) 51–52; Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP) 51–52; party reform 58–60; political centralization 47–48; political change, territorial impact of 57–61; political party reforms (1999) 63; postindependence era, weak state and 39–41; power, downward devolution of 60–61; Pro Panca Sila Cutlass 46; proportional representation 59; PRRI-Permesta 42, 43, 45, 46; purge of communist sympathizers 43–44; rebellions without secession 41–44; “regional administration,” establishment of offices for 50–51; Shield Movement 46; societal conflict, New Order and 57; society, state relations vis-a-vis 39, 40; sparatism in New Order era 54–57; Special Command for the Restoration of Order (Kotkamtib) 50; state-owned enterprises (SOEs), establishment of 40; state weakness, “Guided Democracy” and 47–49; strong states, characteristics of 40–41; territorial change and shifts in territoriality 61–64; territorial conflict in New

168

Index

Order era 54–57; territorial divisions, regional commands and 41; transmigration programs 53–54; “warlordism” 41; “weak state” era 39; West Sumatra, demands of 42–43 Prabowo Subianto 116 Prayogo Pangestu 115 pre-colonial geography, territorial diversity and 23–25 pre-colonial Indonesia, land-to-labor ratio in 71 “predatory interests” 18 Presidential Regulation No.5 (1960) 145n12 PRESNAS in Gorontalo 67, 82, 145n21, 146n30 privilege, historical foundations of 70–78 Pro Panca Sila Cutlass 46 proportional representation 59 provinces: areas of 137; birth of Gorontalo 66–68; density of populations in 138; division of 37; foreign direct investment (FDI) in 140; formation (and reformation) in West Papua 106–8; governments of, organization of 32–33; gross regional domestic product (GRDP) of 139; pan-provincial autonomy, mobilization of 96–98; populations of 136; poverty rates in 141; proliferation of, opposing forces to 20; see also creation of new provinces 20 PRRI-Permesta 42, 43, 45, 46 PT Nusantara Ampera Bakti 115 purge of communist sympathizers 43–44 Rab, Tabrani 89, 97 Rabasa, A., Chalk, P. and (U.S.), P.A.F. 54 Raffles, Sir Stamford 29, 32, 143n6 Ragin, C. 7 Rais, Amien 17 Ranis, G. and Stewart, F. 52, 61 Rasid, Ryaas 117 Razak, Abdul 89, 147n16 rebellions without secession 41–44 reformasi (reform in post-Suharto era) 6, 8, 17, 57, 60, 62, 79, 85, 88–89, 96–97, 104–5, 142; effects of, Kepulauan Riau and 99–100 regencies (kabupaten or regentshappen) 32, 37, 60, 69, 103 “regional administration,” establishment of offices for 50–51

regionalist aspirations of “periphery” 68 Reid, A. 24, 35, 36 religion: ethnicity and development in West Papua 108–10; Kepulauan Riau and 92, 93; in North Sulawesi 70 Renville Accords 35 Republika 89, 117 resistance: to colonial rule 23; human rights in West Papua and 115–16 reterritorialization 13 Riau Lingga, ancient Sultanate of 98 Riau Malay identity, foundations of 97 Riau Merdeka 97–98; rejection of 98–102 Rice, O.K. and Brown, S.W. 17 Ricklefs, M.C. 24, 25, 26, 27, 30, 31, 34, 35, 40, 71 Riker, W. 15 Robison, R. 40 Robison, R. and Hadiz, V. 133 Rogowski, R. 15 Ross, M.L. 14 Round Table Agreement (1949) 36, 110, 111 Royal Institute of International Affairs 33 Royal Netherlands-Indies Army (KNIL) 73 Rueschemeyer, D., Stephens, E.H. and Stephens, J.D. 15 Ruggie, John 12 Sack, R.D. 3, 11, 12 Said, S. 48 Saltford, J. 108, 111, 112–13, 114 Sarafuddin Aluan 89 Sari, A. 95, 146n11 Sato, S. 40 scale, concept of 13, 15–16 Schefold, R. 144n6 Schouten, M. 73, 77, 145n9 Scott, J. 22 separatism in New Order era 54–57 Shapiro, M. 3 Sherlock, S. 59 Shield Movement 46 “Short Declaration” 33 Sidel, J. 62, 133 Silangen, Edwin 144n5 Silin, Rusli 146n2, 147n18, 147n28 Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia growth triangle (SIJOHRI) 94–95 Singh, B. 120 Sinha, A. 19, 143n5

Index Sjamsuddin, N. 54 Smith, B. 58 social construction of territory 22 social development indicators 78 social mobilization in Gorontalo 81 societal conflict, New Order and 57 society, state relations vis-a-vis 39, 40 Solossa, Jaap P. 119–20, 123 Sombowadile, Pitres 146n37 Sondakh, L. and Jones, G. 78 “Special Autonomy” in West Papua 107, 119, 124 Special Command for the Restoration of Order (Kotkamtib) 50 spice trade, choke-point economics and 25–26 Spruyt, H. 12 Srivijaya empire 23 state-owned enterprises (SOEs), establishment of 40 state system, discontinuous nature of 13 state weakness, “Guided Democracy” and 47–49 states, emergence of 12 Strange, S. 13 strong states, characteristics of 40–41 structural functionalist political science 12 student demonstrations and demands in Gorontalo 79 study of territorial change: arguments about 4; methods and approach 5–7 Stuligross, D. 16, 129–30, 143n4 Suara Pembaruan 83, 117 Sudarsono Darmosuwito 102 Sudwikatmono 115 Suharto 38, 39, 43, 49–50, 54–55, 56, 57–58, 60, 64, 76, 85, 94, 96, 102, 103, 114, 115, 116, 133, 147n1; bureaucratic centralization 50–51; cultural centralization 53–54; economic centralization 52–53; electoral centralization 51–52 Sukarno 34, 36, 38, 42, 43, 47–48, 49, 54, 57, 64, 66–67, 97, 110, 112, 113–14, 119, 120 Sumual, Ventje 76 Suradinata, Ermaya 121 Suryadinata, L. 59 Sutherland, H. 29 Sutowo, General 146n10 systematic uniform administrative code (Law 22, 1950), establishment of 36–37

169

Takalingan, Abit 144n5 Tanjung, H.A. 101, 103 Tarrow, S. 16 Taylor, J.G. 56 Tebay, N. 113 Tentara Nasional Indonesia/Polisi Republik Indonesia (TNI/Polri) 84 Tentara Nasional Indonesia (TNI) 120–21 territorial change: access to political power, importance of 134; centripetal effect of 134–35; coalitional politics, competition and 133; coalitions and territory 127–28; competitiveness in post-authoritarian Indonesia 132–34; cooperation in post-authoritarian Indonesia 132–34; divide-and-rule 126, 132; “ethnicization” 133–34; Gorontalo, example of 133–34; India, comparison with Nigeria 128–30; institutions, competition between 133; local political actors, competition between 133–34; multi-dimensional nature of territoriality 128; multiethnic states, comparisons of 128–32; national and local ties, critical nature of 128; Nigeria, comparison with India 130–32; non-uniformity of 128; peripheral marginality 128; politics and territory 127–28; politics of 9, 127–35; shifts in territoriality and 61–64; study of, arguments about 4; study of, methods and approach 5–7; territorial politics, reality of 134; territorial resilience 133–34; territory, importance of 127, 134; timing and variation of 3–4; triggering in Gorontalo of 68; see also colonial territorial administration; Gorontalo, marginality and opportunity in; Kepalauan Riau; post-authoritarian territorial change; post-colonial territorial administration; territorial coalitions, politics of; West Papua territorial coalitions, politics of 7–8, 10–21; alliances and linkages between geographic scales 15–16; coalitions 15; coalitions, process of 19–20, 21; comparative perspective on territorial coalitions 16–17; cooperation 16; coordination, collaboration and 19–20; creation of new provinces 10, 20–21; creation of new provinces, legacy of 126; cross-cutting territorial

170

Index

alliances 16; decentralization, implementation of 11; ethnification of politics 20; fragmentation, process of 10; gerrymandering, practice of 10; globalization, territoriality and 12–13; human territoriality 12; Indonesian context 17–19; institutional territoriality 14–15; “internal colonialism” 14; “jumping scales” 16; linkages and functioning of 19; Marxist political science 12; materiality of territory, over-emphasis on 14; mobilization of territorial coalitions 15–16; multi-dimensional nature of territory 15; national role and alliance with local politics 16–17; Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia (NKRI) 20; Nunavut in Canada 10, 17; pembentukan daerah (new region formation) 10; political authority, territoriality and 12–13; political territoriality 14–15; “predatory interests” 18; provincial proliferation, opposing forces to 20; reterritorialization 13; scale, concept of 13, 15–16; state system, discontinuous nature of 13; states, emergence of 12; structural functionalist political science 12; territorial coalitions 15; territorial coalitions, geographic, cross-class and cross-sectoral nature of 18–19; territoriality, assumption of indivisibility of 14; territoriality, definition of 11–12; territoriality, erosion of 13; territorialization 11; territory, definition of 11; territory, states and 12–13; territory, unbundling of 13; Unitary Republic, potential threat to 20; United States, historical examples in 17 territorial politics: analyses of 2; in Papua case 124–25; reality of 134; translation of ethical policy to Outer Islands 33 territoriality: assumption of indivisibility of 14; definition of 11–12; erosion of 13 territorialization 11 territory: definition of 11; delineation in ancient polities 24; importance of 127, 134; social construction of 22; states and 12–13; unbundling of 13 Tesoro, J. 102

Thompson, E.P. 11 Tiebout, C. 61 Tilly, C. 12 timber 114–15 Timmer, J. 119, 120, 122–23 Tiro, Hasan Muhammed 54 transmigration programs 53–54 Tsebelis, G. 15 Tsing, Anna 18, 145n8 uniformity and recognition of diversity, dilemma of 22, 37 Unitary Republic, potential threat to 20 United Nations (UN): General Assembly Resolution 2504 (1969) 112–13, 118–19; Temporary Executive Authority (UNTEA) 113 Usman, Masri 145n22 van Bruinessen, M. 42 van den Bosch, Governor General J. 143n7 van Deventer, C.Th. 32 Van Niel, R. 25, 28, 29, 30 Vandenbosch, A. 25, 30, 32, 33, 34, 144n10 Vandergeest, P. and Peluso, N.L. 13 Vatikiotis, M. 49, 111 Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC) 8, 99; colonial territorial administration 23, 25–26, 27, 28; marginality and opportunity in Gorontalo 71–72 Vietnam 10 villages (desas) 37 violence in Gorontalo, turning point in student movement 79–80 Wadley, R. 13 Wahid, Abdurachman 17, 60, 106, 107, 118–19, 124–25 “warlordism” 41 Wartabone, Nani 66, 67, 74, 75 “weak state” era 39 Weber, M. 41 Webster, D. 144n4 Wee, V. 97, 98, 102 Weiss, M. 5 West New Guinea: Dutch preparations for eventual self-rule in 111; Dutch refusal to cede 110 West Papua, elite conflict and downward pressure 8–9, 106–26, 147n1; “Act of Free Choice” 112–13, 118–19;

Index administration, establishment of 108–9; Badan Koordinasasi Inteligen Negara (BaKIN) 122–23; commercial ventures, military operated 120; competing visions of Papua for Indonesian elite 116–18; Daerah Operasi Militer (DOM) 117; demographcs, changes in 109, 110; Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat-Republik Indonesia (DPR-RI) 84, 119; divide-and-rule 125; Dutch claim on Western New Guinea 108; Dutch development effort 111; Dutch vision for Papua 110; early clashing visions of Papua 110–12; efficiency argument 107; elected regional councils, establishment of 111; elected representatives, isolation of 112–13; environmental groups 116; ethnicity, religion, and development 108–10; forced integration 113–15; forestry and logging 114–15; Forum Komunikasi Generasi Muda Irian Jaya (FKGMIJ) 117; Forum Rekonsiliasi Rakyat Irian Jaya (FORERI) 117; free choice, act of 112–13, 118–19; Freeport McMoran Copper and Gold Inc. 114, 115, 116; Golongan Karya (Golkar) 107, 117, 120, 123, 124; human rights and resistance 115–16; independent Papua, unacceptability to Indonesia 119; Indonesian rule 113–14; Instruksi President No. 1 (Megawati, 2003) 106–7, 119, 121; international pressure, free choice and 112–13; intra-elite conflicts 107; Irian Jaya Crisis Center (IJCC) 123; Kebangkitan Bangsa 118; Komite Solidaritas Rakyat Irian 117; Kopassus (special forces unit) 116; leadership roles 124–25; liberalization and an alternative vision 118–19; local actors, working with 107, 122–24, 126; Manifest Politik 111, 118; material incentives 125; migration 109–10, 113–14; migration, independence and 123; military and security rationale 120–21, 122, 125; military killings and human rights abuses 116; military operated commercial ventures 120; Musyawarah Besar (MUBES) 118; Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) 118;

171

National Intelligence Agency (BIN) 122, 123, 125; National Mandate Party 117–18; National Resilience Institute (Lemhannas) 121; natural resources industry 114–15; New Order 113–15; New Order, repressive machinery of 116; Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM) 114, 116; Papuan independence, campaign against 117; Partai Dwemokrasi IndonesiaPerjuangan (PDI-P) 118, 120, 121, 123, 124; Partai Kebangkitan Umat (PKB) 118; “People’s Triple Command” policy 112; personal linkages, role of 124; Pertamina (state petroleum company) 115, 120; petroleum industry 115; political activity, ban on 113; provincial formation (and reformation) 106–8; PT Nusantara Ampera Bakti 115; regions, move towards splitting of 121–25; religion, ethnicity and development 108–10; resistance, human rights and 115–16; Round Table Agreement (1949) 110, 111; security and military links to PDI-P 121; “Special Autonomy” 107, 119, 124; tensions over Papua, escalation of 111–12; Tentara Nasional Indonesia (TNI) 120–21; territorial politics in the Papua case 124–25; timber 114–15; transfer to Indonesia (1963) 109; UN General Assembly Resolution 2504 (1969) 112–13, 118–19; UN Temporary Executive Authority (UNTEA) 113; West New Guinea, Dutch preparations for eventual self-rule in 111; West New Guinea, Dutch refusal to cede 110 West Sumatra, territorial demands of 42–43 West Virginia 17 Winachakul, T. 96, 143n1 Wiranto, General 83, 146n37 Wolters, O.W. 23 Yogyakarta, Dutch military capture of 36 Young, C. 12, 130, 131 Yudhoyono, General Susilo Bambang 123 Yusuf, Paris 146n33 Zaini, Idris 146n6, 147n21 Zen, Elza 147n24, 147n26