A Nation of Pieces, Provinces of a Piece

Indonesia, besides being an archipelago, is a nation of

provinces. Depending on the population of any one province,

it might consist of several islands or, as in the case of

Java, an island may contain several provinces.(Footnote).

Each province consists of districts (kabupaten), and each

district, sub-districts (kecamatan), each sub-district,

villages (desa), and each village, a constellation of

hamlets (dusun; kampung), and, finally, settlements or, in

Lombok, gubug, and within the gubuq, mini-governing units

called RT/RW. Unbelievable as it may seem, in many areas

throughout Indonesia each of these officially delineated

boundaries also consign specific cultural, linguistic,

regional, stereotyped, or religious identities. As may be

obvious from the previous chapters, Lombok’s myriad

identities (some regional, religious, linguistic, political,

partisan or historically contested) compose webs of meaning

capable of bringing world modernist identities such as

“reformist Islam” to bear on conflicts as ur-local as inter-

familial squabbles over the position of a tree in a shared

cemetery.(Footnote; karang genteng vs. petemon). Such

conflicts pose a challenge to the anthropologist precisely

because it threatens to rupture anthropology’s rule of thumb

assumptions about the forever contested, yet persistently

present term, “locality”. “Local” knowledge and its

1

significantly spatial category, locality, are not

hermetically sealed entitites, however. Instead, these

terms are born of a situated presence in the world, in time,

in history and the coincidence of modernities, nationalism,

authoritarian military institutions, “traditionalist”

discourses and religious modernism in the lives of, well,

locals. In his most recent book, Clifford Geertz (2000)

addresses the problem of the “local” through an allegory

indigenous to physics but applicable here:

Local” clearly is a “relative” term. In the Solar System, Earth is local (as has been brought home, in good anthropological manner, by leaving it at least temporariy tolook back at it from the Moon and other orbits); in the Galaxy, the Solar System is local (Voyager should help with that); and in the Universe, the Galaxy is local (a while to wait, perhaps, for this). To a high-energy physicist, the particule world-or zoo-is, well, the world. It’s the particle, a thread of vapor in a cloud of droplets, that’s local.1

(Geertz, 2000, p. )

Indonesia’s galaxies of cultural, regional, economic,

religious and inter-communally identified “localities” are

also one, local pieces of a globally local piece: a country.

Indonesia’s national motto, Bhinneka tunggal Ika, University

through Diversity, aspires to just such a notion of “one

language, one people, one nation” across cultural, regional

or historically contested boundaries. Still, Indonesia’s

multiple, over 100, ethnic groups have been, from the

1 See C. Geertz, “Available Light”

2

outset, intensely sensitive to the presence or absence of

ethnic representatives of their respective regions in the

political positions of the nation’s center, Jakarta.(Beyond

Suharto argument on regions). Simultaneous with concerns

over regional representation, there has always been an

Islamic push for “proportional” representation of Islamic

leaders within the armed forces, presidential cabinets and

parliamentary positions of Indonesia’s national

institutions.(see ICMI). While heated debate over issues of

regional, partisan and religious representation dominated

Sukarno’s early rule over the archipelago, Suharto’s

assumption of the reigns of the state ushered in a

collective hush where ethnic and religious representation

were concerned.

Suharto’s famous SARA (tribe, religion, race, inter-

communal) policies forbade the use ethnic, religious,

communal or racially based argumentation or demands in the

public sphere. As a result the persecution of Chinese or

indigenous minority religious or ethnic groups was forbidden

(by extra-institutional groups) during the New Order.

Instead, a harmony ideology pervaded inter-communal ties

where the appointment of national and regional officials had

more to do with maintaining order than ensuring a “local”

sense of balance or proportional representation within a

particular province. As a result, everyday discussions and

dialogue were not unaffected by such “harmony ideology”

3

where religious or ethnic differences were overcome through

the identification of “similarities”.

For instance, a common question often posed to me in

New Order Indonesia was, “what is your religion?” After

answering that I was Catholic the common refrain was, “Semua

agama sama sebenarnya, cuman caranya masing-masing beda (all

religions are the same only their respective style of

worship are different.) During the same period I was party

to long, more complicated, discussions between Indonesians

of different ethnic groups who, in the face of difference,

identified a “same”. For instance, discussions of treatment

of afterbirth siblings across ethnic differences, districts,

villages or even families would, with the emergence of a

“difference”, be reduced to the same silencing Same.

Minangkabau bury a child’s afterbirth far from the door of

their home while Balinese bury them within the home or at

the gate of their home depending on local practice, status

or gender of the newborn child and their family’s position

in their historically situated locality and genealogically

situated offspring. Javanese, among others, treat a newborn

child’s afterbirth offspring differently but, when speaking

across ethnic boundaries, find a Same where different

practices and locally construed notions of household and a

child’s future health and prosperity prevail. Oddly enough,

during the several years I spent living in Suharto’s

Indonesia, I never heard an appeal to a common unity with

4

the nation. Only in Jakarta did I hear a young university

student say, “I’m no specific ethnic group. I am

Indonesian.” In the villages and towns outside of the

metropole elite of Jakarta, the unanimous identification of

differences as the justification for the rhetorical Same

prevailed over nationalist sentiments of nationalist

Indonesian identity.

The power of the Same was endurable for some, most

especially those minorities who felt that the State

protected their communities from discrimination by dominant

religious or ethnic groups in their regions. The Buda of

Tebango is one such group. Granted, the previously

discussed military led inquisitions held in the village

soccer field (1972) and their subsequent surveillance

campaigns (1972-1998) set the frames for Buda Buddhist

leaders to institute and police their community’s religious

practice according to institutional notions of progress and

development-oriented religion. Agreement between ritually

and religiously gestured discourses was enforced and

monitored, as a result. Within this process of internal

conversion according to national development and security

prerogatives, however, the confluence of development

ideologies with religious modernism did afford Buda

practitioners a novel form of national modernity unavailable

to them among their primitivizing Muslim peers in North

Lombok. They could be, without inter-communal interference,

5

as modern (and equal) as the government wished them to be.

Meanwhile other historically primitivized communities were

not as fortunate. These traditional communities were

assigned the handicapped identity of the “traditionally

challenged” or “suku terasing”, literally meaning alienated

ethnic groups. (Steedly, Kuipers, Tsing, Keane). Perceived

as at once living outside the fold of modernity and within

the norms of their tribal pedigree, during Suharto’s New

Order, suku terasing were often treated as impoverished and

unwise to the destructive effects of their primitive forms

of slash and burn technology (quote from Walhi report and

Anna Tsing).

After Suharto had successfully estranged the political

from the religious, the peasant from the leftist and

participation from the public, New Order politicians took

interest in expanding the cultural frames of the center

(pusat) by standardizing the cultural face of the

“provincial” (daerah). The frames of ethnic and regional

identity were often subject to ambivalent identification of

the “ethnic” with at once religious progress and romantic

aspects of the “cultural”. Suharto himself practiced a form

of mystical “kejawen” ritualism and was never considered a

santri Muslim. Nevertheless, Suharto saw the importance of

Indonesia’s cultural and religious traditions as potential

mediums for both resistance and state propaganda.2 By

2

6

empowering local traditions through art institutes and

educational bodies New Order institutions could also

manipulate the nature of performance traditions and

localized discourse to suit their own agendas.(Geguritan

Panca-Sila). So as not to confuse the standardization of

local performance genres with undue delegation of power to

local authorities, regional cultural forms were employed to

socialize family planning and social control ideologies to

the audiences of their respective cultural regions. Whether

puppeteers or priests, dancers or traditional singers, the

ability to perform one’s claim to regional “art” rest solely

in the state-friendly sanctity of the performer’s

discourses. Perhaps the greatest and best documented emblem

of the New Order image of cultural uniformity within

diversity can be seen in the mini-Indonesia theme park

called, “Taman Mini”, of Jakarta.(Footnote Pemberton). In

the early 1970’s, each Indonesian region was required to

“surrender” (menyerahkan) a material example of the region’s

dominant cultural identity to “Taman Mini” in the form of a

ritual house or an otherwise idiosyncratic example of the

region’s “high culture”. Assembled according to the first

lady’s own design of Indonesia’s cultural center’s and

periphery, Taman Mini served as a cultural index for the

State’s authority over Indonesia’s sprawling and diverse

archipelago.

7

Most recently, as early as 1998, Indonesian reformist

politicians began referring to increased regional autonomy

as one of the most important features of national reform

after the fall of the New Order. The demands of eastern

Indonesians, most specifically Makassar, Kalimantan, Aceh,

East Timor and Irian Jaya (now West Papua) could no longer

be neglected or censored out of the national press by

Suharto’s intelligence organizations or the, now disbanded,

Department of Information. The fundamental economic reality

of Suharto’s New Order economics was that all of the timber,

oil, and other dividends from predominantly non-Javanese

areas were pipelined to Jakarta before subsequent

distribution to outlying areas. After 1979, New Order modes

of economic and political centralization were mirrored in

the Jakarta-based standardization of education curriculae,

military policy, bureaucratic appointments and the

distribution of power and monies normally relinquished to

regional authorities. Suharto’s control over virtually

every aspect of national commerce, knowledge production and

governmentality of the general populace concretized his

power and, in some cases, expedited economic and policy

development by avoiding complicated (or democratic)

legislative or judicial cooperation.(Beyond Suharto book).

The economic boom of the early 1990’s expanded the

economic sector and empowered educated regional elites

economically and politically. Suharto’s economic success

8

and conservative centralization of resources and decision-

making was, as a result, less tenable during the rise of the

regional private sector and pribumi elites outside of

Jakarta.(refer to Beyond Suharto article). The economic

crisis of 1997 further exacerbated center-periphery tensions

through a two-fold focus on Jakarta-based corruption and the

inequalities between resource rich (but institution poor)

regions such as Aceh and the politically strategic (but

overpopulated) regions of “inner Indonesia” such as Central

Java.

The miracle of Suharto’s development feats, his ability

to build schools, meet family planning goals, stimulate

economic growth and remove the ideological battles from the

war-battered nation tate inherited from Sukarno made it

easier for most of the world’s development institutions to

overlook the increasingly obvious social problems growing

out of Suharto’s centralized erasure of regional or civil

society participation in the habitus of statecraft.

Suharto’s gallactic politie as development model was accepted in part

because there were no other foreseeable options on the

horizon.(see Anna Tsing’s criticism of gallactic politie

models). By 1997, the truth of Suharto’s corruption made

his centralized policies appear to be less a means of

maintaining regional loyalty to his control over the purse

strings of the state than it did a strategy to control his

political rivals through the selective allotment of funds

9

and benefits to the military and regional loyalists. There

was, at the time, a commonly held assumption among the

student leaders, development workers and the liberal minded

scholars of Indonesia that if levies and funds were

controlled by regional leaders then the process could be

more accountable, more transparent and, inevitably, less

corrupt.

Aside from the idealist assumptions of activists, the

reformation (reformasi) era also demanded that economic

benefits be allotted to historically oppressed regions lest

they begin a separatist movement. In fact, as regional

leaders grew increasingly suspicious of reformist leaders’

“real” interests in reforming the nation, regional autonomy

legislation appeared to be the only means to quell the storm

of regional foment against Jakarta-based initiatives to

reform and develop their neglected brethren in the

“provinces” (daerah). After the 1999 elections, when local

reformists and otherwise newcomer politicians were appointed

to regional parliamentary seats by their respective parties,

there was a general surprise over how many “familiar” faces

remained among the regional leadership.(quote, 90 percent of

the regional figures were old faces). Understanding that

even though reformist parties may have secured seats in

parliament, the bureaucratic apparatus, the means of

governance, remained in the hands of old-style New Order

politicians.

10

In areas previously controlled by Jakarta appointed

military officials such as Lombok (province West Nusa

Tenggara), heated arguments and rumors of inter-elite

battles filled the local newspapers as rival Sasak noble

families fought over crucial political positions in their

respective regions.(Footnote, Suhaimi, Iskandar). Even

after district or provincial officials were elected, it was

the “smear campaigns” and not news of region-specific

legislation that dominated the local paper or even village-

level devolopment meetings.(LKMD, Pak Sutra on Pak

Iskandar).

Among Lombok’s “smear campaigns” was the Sasak noble-

backed effort to depose the recently appointed commoner

district-head (bupati) of West Lombok, Iskandar. After

discovering that Iskandar had married for the fourth time,

and during the fasting month of Ramadhan no less, the local

press and pro-Sasak NGO’s under the control of West Lombok’s

noble communities found this unconventional marriage to be

sufficient grounds for his removal. Not only was Iskandar a

civil servant, a famously contested status category allowing

marriage to only one spouse, he was also a commoner from

Eastern Lombok’s nationalist township, Kopang. Outside of

his recent infidelities, there was nothing (politically)

wrong with Iskandar. Even though he was not a native to

West Lombok, he was from Kopang. Kopang was known for

taking an unusually nationalist partisan affiliation, PNI,

11

during the 1950’s when the rest of Eastern Lombok had chosen

the Islamic party, Masyumi. Iskandar’s personal party

affiliation was Golkar and his corruption record was spotty

although cleaner than most. In short, he was accepted to be

a “player” (in the political sense) and capable of toeing

the government line. Nevertheless, Iskandar’s commoner

status endangered noble control over the regional

bureaucratic appointments and outside of his recent betrayal

axis of Islamic marital calender when he married (under

another name) during the fasting month.

The moral dimensions of regional entitlement began to

show their colors not long after H. Iskandar’s “sins” were

made public. The most obvious sign came from the

traditional leaders of Bayan, the axis mundi of wetu telu

adat and regional authenticity. According to awig-awig Bayan

(traditional regulations) Iskandar’s decision to marry

during the fasting month made him susceptible to traditional

fines and punishments. The district head of West Lombok,

the most valuable Bupati position in the island and second

only to Governor in rank and prestige was, by mandate of

Bayan’s elderly priests, forced to carry two bunches of

coconuts around their village as many as three times. Why?

He was their district-head and he, in their opinion, was as

susceptible to their fines as they were to his. It was

never mentioned, of course, that he also possessed two acres

of prime coffee producing gardens in one of Bayan’s vast

12

properties. Nevertheless, the Bupati did head their call

and, in a symbolic gesture, carry the coconuts a short

distance and make apologies to the ritual leaders of the

village. The Bayan leaders were pleased and, after a spell,

the rest of Northern Lombok fell in behind H. Iskandar’s

claims that these charges should have nothing to do with

determining whether he was “fit and proper” for office.

The moral rightenousness of his opposition’s position

dissipated somewhat after the general public got wind of the

conspiracy to replace him with a Gerung nobleman from

Western Lombok. In fact, as public suspicion over the

legitimacy of the regional smear campaign many local

reporters claimed that Iskandar was di-monicalewinsky-kan.

In short, he was being monicalewinskied by his regional

rivals.(find sources) To American readers who may have

followed the Monica Lewinsky case with former US president,

Bill Clinton, the moral grounds of such a campaign appears

obvious yet its relationship to Lombok “locality” obscure.

Some discussion of the shifting dimensions of popular

“entitlement” since the fall of Suharto might help to

illuminate the increasingly complicated roles such concepts

came to play in the forging of center-periphery relations in

Indonesia-at-large and, Lombok, in general.

The Moral Boundaries of Entitlement

13

Suharto’s uniform depoliticization of Indonesia’s

populace meant not only the denial of any sense of political

participation for once dynamically involved partisan

Indonesians, it also meant that “entitlement” (hak milik,

hak nuntut) had ceased to be a part of the popular role of

citizenship for most Indonesians. Suharto’s New Order was

neither a revolutionary nation nor a democracy. Instead,

recognition, the approval of one’s behavior and identity by

the State, was the coveted social capital underlying State-

civilian relations during the New Order. The rise of ICMI

(The Muslim Intellectual Federation) during the early 1990’s

was the first civilian organization to make demands for the

“proportional” representation of Muslims (or anyone for that

matter) since Suharto came to rule. It was only through

conference with Suharto, however, that ICMI’s demands were

made public and were, as a result, subsequently recognized

by the state and the general populace as legitimate. In

1993, a major cabinet shift introducing Muslim politicians

and ousting nationalist technocrats displayed the efficacy

of ICMI’s strategy. Outside of these initial efforts by

ICMI politicians and subsequent think tanks of a similar

ilk, few organizations or popular groups it was virtually

impossible to successfully lobby the government prior to

Megawati Sukarnoputri’s (PDI-P) slow rise to reformist fame

in 1995.(Hefner)

14

The rise of PDI-P under Megawati Sukarnoputri combined

with the earlier successes of ICMI left Suharto’s government

increasingly anxious of primoridialist movements capable of

pushing for more corporatist representation in local

institutions. Suharto had built his empire on a politics of

recognition motivated by selective and strategic allotment

of powers by appointment. By 1997, not only was PDI-P’s

nationalist influence more powerful since Suharto’s violent

crackdown on their headquarters in Jakarta, organizations

throughout Indonesia were voicing their demands with greater

courage than ever before. As a result, NGO’s were referred

to as OTB (formless organizations) and were subject to

greater restrictions and surveillance. Agents of modernist

reform were perceived as “primordialist” and counter to

national interests. Inter-communal violence between ethnic

and religious communities in Kalimantan, East Java and

elsewhere appeared at once as signs of the times and as well

as an indication of Suharto’s inability to address the

developed and educated populace he had helped create. In

January 1997, prior to the 1997 election, the following

article was printed in the Bali Post, entitled, “Waspadai

Primordialisme Sempit, Perbedaan Perlakuan Munculkan

Keresahan” (Beware of Narrow Primordialism, Favoritism gives

rise to Instability”. The article quotes interviews with

members of the local parliament regarding a recent legal

study suggesting that narrow primordialism was on the rise

15

in Indonesia. The parliamentary figures commented on

primordialism as follows:

Brigidier General Dr. Taheri Noor, M.A. (Military Faction):

All Indonesians are bound together not by tribal sentiment

(suku), language (bahasa), or race but instead by the

bitterness of the past and the desire to improve their lives

in the future. If they all think about how to do this on

their own, this will give rise to the seeds of

primordialism. They will all see the future differently and,

in doing so, form their own groups based on tribal

loyalties, race, religion etc.. This is what primordialism

means.

H. Muhsin of the Islamic Faction (PPP) said, “The term

primordialism is still unclear. People who are religiously

devout or fanatic about their cultural background are blamed

for being primordial. What is wrong with that? The question

we need to be asking is how come the people are so easy to

believe issues (false rumors) announced by irresponsible

provocateurs?”

The author closed the article as follows:

In the context of living in a nation and State,

primordialism with the goal of maintaining unity

16

(persatuan/kesatuan) of the nation is badly needed. Narrow

primordialism, however, exploits any number of issues to

stimulate riots and this is what must be monitored. For

instance, the PKI (Indonesian communist Party), the anti-

prosperity party, manipulated any issue and momentum

available to produce chaos (kekacauan).

In the pre-election calm of Suharto’s last “fixed”

election in 1997, violence and student demonstrations,

activist kidnappings were becoming increasingly common.

(Footnote: Student kidnappingsSitubundo, etc.)

Characteristic of New Order jargon neither of the men

interviewed above made any mention to ethnicity or regional

inequalities as part of the problem behind “narrow

primordialism”. Instead, both of the men, most especially

the writer, implicated “embittered groups”, provocateurs

and, finally, the PKI as capable of pitting primordialist

groups against one another to effect chaos. The

“traumatized” or embittered of the nation thus identified

with the silent enemy of the State, the PKI, refers at once

to the violent events marking the beginning of Suharto’s

rule and serves as a reminder to contemporary critics that

criticism and subversion of the State continue to be equated

with PKI-style propaganda or “subversion”. The message was

simple, its resonance redundantly pervasive throughout the

New Order security apparatus and its own propaganda to

17

remind the forgetful critic of the State how populist

movements were being treated in Jakarta.

The situation transformed dramatically during the

economic crisis of 1997-98. As soon as the price of basic

goods (Sembako) rose to as much as three times their normal

market value, merchants and government distribution agencies

were accused of stockholding their wares to further inflate

prices for their own profit. During the early months of

1998, scores of Chinese shops and government distribution

agencies were stormed and robbed of their stores. While

students took to the streets and demanded governmental

reforms, communities throughout Java, Lombok, Sumatra and

elsewhere began to act on a sense of entitlement denied to

them during the relatively “cheap” years of Suharto’s rule.

This novel sense of entitlement was not directed solely at

Chinese shop owners or corrupt government distribution

agencies, however. As signs of Suharto’s immanent removal

from office became inevitable communities throughout

Indonesia began to exercise their entitlement in ways local

to their respective villages. Pak Kosim, an East Javanese

laborer in Malang, East Java described the events in his own

village outside of Banyuwangi:

After Suharto stepped down all of the members of our village

made a coffin and joined to the home of our village head

18

(kepala desa). He had corrupted monies from the village

development organization (LKMD) and had been appointed

village head for five successive terms. He had been village

head for almost as long a time as Suharto had been

president. We demanded that he step down as village head or

be prepared to get into the coffin we had built according to

his measurements. He stepped down that night. Other

villages around East Java did the same thing even though, in

many cases, they were just acting on orders from the village

head’s rivals.

Meanwhile, by mid-May, the police and the military

behaved more permissively towards the student

demonstrations. In most areas, they even allowed the

students to march to their local parliamentary buildings and

demand that their representatives, for the first time since

1958, represent them. In many places, most notably Jakarta,

the students occupied their regional (or national)

parliaments thus transforming the space into a kind of an

activist slumber party. Indonesia’s students and their

critical politics were no longer confined to their campuses

but were able to occupy governmental spaces, the hitherto

mystified objects of their movement’s critique. Having

participated in these demonstrations against local

parliaments, there was an uncanny sense of marching through

a living museum, among figures and spaces once sanctified by

19

the government’s agents. During the first Balinese student

march to parliament in Denpasar, it was the police

intelligence officers (and not the media) carrying handycam

recorders to film the event and its participants. The head

of the local parliament was bathed in bottled water and his

head wrapped with a reformist headband. He pleaded the

students to calm down and appeared to us, like most of

Indonesia’s parliamentary figures at the time, as a clownish

caricature of the once austere man quoted in Bali’s

newspapers.

Parliamentary sit-in’s aside, reformist entitlement

occurred simultaneously with the real and imagined fears of

rogue elements and mercenary figures (oknum-oknum gelap)

forcing communities and ethnic groups round-up their

cultural wagons against suspected “foes”. The rise of

communal vigilance was, as discussed in the last chapter, at

odds with the broader themes of economic and political

entitlement resonating throughout the national and micro-

scale “localities” of Indonesia’s villages and kampung

settlements. While millions of Indonesians participated in

economically motivated riots and vandalism against

government property to take back what had been economically

or politically denied them for so long, communal vigilance

also encouraged Indonesians to protect the localities which

were culturally, spatially and politically theirs and theirs

alone.

20

This ambivalent mixture of communal propriety and

nationalist entitlement characterized much of the political

and economic discourse of pre-1999 election Indonesia. This

contemporary ambivalence was not peculiar to

State-citizen/communal-outsider relations either. The

economic crisis had ushered in a host of international donor

and conservative economic organizations to “settle”

Indonesia’s debtor-nation crisis with an iron hand. Even in

the relatively remote area of Tebango, North Lombok, people

were intensely aware that the world’s eyes were upon them.

While the economic crisis forced Indonesia’s economists to

bow to the prerogatives of institutions such as the IMF, the

internal needs of the nation and its increasingly poor

peasantry made these very prerogatives appear unjust and

overly liberal for such a politically and economically

destitute nation. This feeling was most poignantly captured

when I sat side-by-side with Tebango’s Buddhist leaders as

we watched satellite-feed TV coverage of the Central Lombok

anti-Chinese riots aired by CNN France. “This is humiliating

(memalukan). The whole world will know our faults,” said

Amaq N. in a discussion after the blow-by-blow reports

shifted to Jakarta and then, Solo. Indonesia, the silent

giant of Southeast Asia, was silent no more. Thirty-two

years of international anonymity, political stability and

economic growth had, however, set an unreal stage for the

events of 1998-1999 when violence, economic despair and

21

accusations of corruption and murder filled the once placid

political commentary of the nation’s daily’s.

A mixture of nationalist shame and wide-eyed awareness

of the scale of Suharto’s corrupt control over the country

added contemporary ballast to regionalist demands for

autonomy and control over tariffs in 1998 and 1999. It was

Amien Rais, the notoriously strategic politician and present

head of the People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR) who first

proposed that a more federal and, thus, more parliamentary

style of governance be used to replace Suharto’s executive

branch-based controls over the apparatus of the State.

While Rais’s proposed plans was initially lauded for its

reformist appeal and sympathy for outer island populations

hitherto leeched of their resources, the economic and

political complexities of the autonomy plan became clearer

when, in late 1999, the socialization of the regional

autonomy legislation began.

Densely populated islands such as Java relied heavily

on government subsidies for the upkeep of the provincial

institutions while resource rich islands such as Irian Jaya

would become a province of millionaires if its tariffs were

not redistributed throughout the archipelago. Another

concern was the lack of sufficient SDM (sumber daya manusia;

human resources) or, to put it simply, trained local

bureaucrats capable of managing local monies without

reproducing the corrupt practices of Suharto’s bureaucratic

22

politie. Over the past year Indonesia had lost its

integrity. By October 1999, half of Indonesia was

traumatized by collective violence while another half (40

million) was unemployed and living below the poverty line.

Indonesia had only recently lost East Timor to a UN run

referendum and Abdurahman Wahid, a brilliant but blind and

ailing Muslim cleric, had been elected president over the

majority vote winner, Megawati Sukarnoputri. The initial

sense of “national shame” and raised political awareness

had, with regional autonomy legislation appearing on the

troubled national horizon, brought the shame home to

regional elites and bureaucrats concerned with, and rightly

so, the liability implicit in responsible governance.

Regional autonomy legislation in West Nusatenggara was

a welcome change to most Sasak citizens. Lombok elites had,

since the 1980’s fostered movements to replace primarily

Javanese civil servants and political authorities with

“putra daerah” or “regional sons”. For the first time in

modern Lombok history, Sasaks would have the opportunity to

appoint and elect their own officials without intervention

from Jakarta. To some this was a sign of progress; to

others it marked the emergence of political accountability

and inter-elite rivalries.

West Nusa Tenggara (NTB) experienced this ambivalent

sense of anxiety and promise far in advance of most

Indonesian provinces. In the Fall of 1998, less than six

23

months after Suharto stepped down from office, massive

demonstrations were held at the provincial parliament of NTB

in Mataram. The demonstrations demanded that an ethnic

Sasak Putra daerah be elected governor of the province over,

yet another, military appointee. The problem was that West

Nusatenggara (NTB) consists of several ethnic, island, and

linguistic communities (Sasak, Balinese, Sumbawanese, Bima,

Dompu). Even though the primary goal of the demonstrations

was to replace the military candidate with a civilian

“provincial son” (Putra daerah) there was some contention

over which provincial son would rule the province. In an

article entitled “Gubenorial elections: Protecting the

Spirit of Reformation” dated September 4th, 1998, a

JakartaNet (www.jakartanet.com) reporter wrote as follows:

In NTB (West Nusatenggara), the governor who was

initially from the military (ABRI) was replaced with a

civilian. The reason for choosing a non-military candidate

was that since Indonesia won independence from the Dutch NTB

had yet to have a civilian governor much less a provincial

son (putra daerah)…Nevertheless, the election of Sumbawanese

candidate, Harun Alrasyid, was not without its own region-

specific political dilemmas. Several methods were used to

discount his candidacy ranging from charges of infidelity to

money politics. According to the NTB NGO PILAR, there was

some proof behind the charges waged against Harun Alrasyid.

24

Nor was Harun the sole culprit. His Sasak noble rival, Lalu

Mujitahid (District head of West Lombok) was also charged

with vote-bartering through political connections in NTB and

Jakarta. Luckily, Lalu Mudjitahid’s strategies failed and

Harun Alrasyid was elected as governor. Behind these

backhanded strategies there is a positive lesson to be

learned. If these charges of corruption were, in fact,

validated and yet another election were to be held, the

three civilian candidates would have lost their chances and

yet another military candidate would take the governor’s

chair. If this were to have happened, this conflict would

only empower the long standing thesis held by leaders in the

center (Jakarta) that NTB cannot be ruled by a provincial

son. (ed. They would say) Whoever rises to power in Lombok

is bound to be impeached by their local rivals. The

rivalries rest in long standing competition between three

ethnic groups: Sasak, Bima, Sumbawa.

(author’s translation JakartaNet;

September 4th: p.1-2)

The tone of the article is hopeful, its message

uplifting. Civilian leaders were finally allowed to lead

regions hitherto controlled by the military. Civil-ization

of the government bureaucracy was also one of the primary

goals of the reformist movement’s efforts to demilitarize

New Order style governance. Again, the writer highlights

the threat to such democratization was the primordialist

25

rivalries between Sasak and Sumbawanese civilian candidates.

“Whoever rises to power in Lombok is bond to be impeached by

their local rivals,” the reporter wrote criticizing the

ethnic-centric selfishness of inter-noble rivalries at the

provincial level. The military, on the other hand, lacked

such rivalries and were subject only to a military

hierarchy. Such hierarchical coordination rendered them

incapable of inter-ethnic rivalries and, thus, disciplined

in ways civilian governance would never be. The inter-

ethnic violence breaking out in Kupang, Kalimantan, East

Java, Medan, Jakarta and, later, Maluku only re-enforced the

regimist theory that civilian governance was domed to be

mired in inter-ethnic rivalries.

The Indonesian military, however, has always been a

creature of the times. After recognizing that “provincial

sons” and the rise of regional and ethnic nationalism marked

the beginning of a new style of quasi-federalist governance

in Indonesia, the military changed their hierarchical tune

to suit the new regionalist developments. After the 1999

elections, when proportional representation (and not

presidential decrees) determined the composition of regional

parliaments the future of regional military commands was,

for the large part, contingent on their ability to integrate

themselves into localized dynamics in ways consistent with

military goals. For instance, in the following article from

the national paper, Suara Pembaruan (03/06/99), entitled

26

“The Provincial Son Factor in Military Appointments”

questions the “nationalism” and “professionalism” behind

“ethno-centric” placements in Indonesia’s conflict torn

region of Maluku.

The provincial head of police (Kapolri) General Pol.

Roesmandhadi stated today that the provincial police chief

of Maluku would be handed over to Colonel Pol. Bugis

Muhammed Saman (53) as the new Police chief, a provincial

son, under the assumption that he would have a deeper

knowledge of the regions in conflict…A few weeks earlier,

the Military Resort Commander (Danrem) of Maluku was also

changed with a provincial son.

The problems of provincial sons and outsiders became a

national issue a couple of years back, particularly in the

selection of governors. On the one hand, the central

government argues that the governor is a representative of

Jakarta at the provincial level so the center must decide

who will represent their interests there. Subsequently, many

of the candidates for governor who receive “agreements” from

the Center are also Jakarta politicians, be they ex-civilian

officials or ex-military officials.

We can only hope that in appointing a new Police head (in

addition to the military commander) who is also provincial

son is merely a coincidence and that the suitability of his

position is based on his professionalism as a military

27

officer. If this is not the case, this is the first

precedent of “provincial son” favoritism. Such favoritism

betrays the principles of national defense, national

regionalism, discipline and professionalism within the ranks

of soldiers commissioned with defending the national

ideology of Panca-sila.

(author’s translation;

3/6/99)

The apparent negativity of “primordialism” over

“nationalism” implicit in military appointments are, as in

the other articles quoted above, based in a lingering belief

that primordialist appointments betray either the equality

inherent in military nationalism and defense or, from a

reformist angle, undermine the advancement of civilian (over

military) rule. In a nation where, over the past thirty-two

years of authoritarian governance, Javanese military and

Jakarta-based officials filled the strategic political

positions of Indonesia’s provinces the appropriateness of

provincial son placements was more defensible than not.

Nevertheless, there was real anxiety over whether post-

Suharto Indonesians had the human resources (SDM) and

political wherewithal to invigorate popular political

participation without falling back on inter-communal

violence. There was an underlying worry that Indonesia, a

post-authoritarian nation, would suffer what commentators

28

began to call the “Balkanization” of the world’s largest

archipelogo country. The Suara Pembaruan reporter voiced

the same worry stating, “Brave and firm action must be

employed to bring to justice the powerful figures behind the

tragic and violent events tearing Indonesia apart. Ambon,

most particularly, should be solved as soon as possible for

we do not want Indonesia to be bathed in brotherly blood as

occurred in the tragic conflicts of Kosovo or Bosnia.”

(ibid, p.2). Between a desire to relinquish

responsibilities and regional autonomy to Indonesia’s

hitherto military-run provinces and a very real fear that

inter-ethnic/religious/racial tensions would result in

warlordism and bloodshed, pre-elections Indonesia appeared

to be resting on the brink of either disintegration or

democracy.

The elections of 1999 were capable of putting some of

these worries to rest. In the short period of three months,

new election laws, parties, campaigns and a sense of

national promise pushed the majority of Indonesia into a

nationalist frame of mind. Regional representation and a

secret, monitored, ballot was something that Indonesians had

not seen since the first national elections in 1955.

Millions of foreign aid dollars for NGO’s, student

organizations and political party trainings mobilized

hundreds of thousands of gainfully unemployed youth to the

service of their country and its future. Still millions more

29

participated in partisan campaigns held only a year after

Suharto was deposed from office. Whether by design or by

coincidence, the rupiah had stabilized to a safe 7,000 to

8,000 rupiah per dollar and lacked the volatility of the

previous year of economic uncertainty. Police and military

guards were equally employed to insure that political party

events and campaigns progressed with sufficient “democracy”

for both local and foreign monitors to witness and evaluate.

The push for provincial sons found a temporary hiatus in the

struggle for national transparency. The nationalism of the

1999 elections was only further strengthened by the UN run

referendum in East Timor where 90 percent of East Timor’s

populace opted for an independent, and not semi-autonomous,

nation status free from Indonesia.

On October 17th, 1999, Abdurahman Wahid was elected

president and one of the first issues on board for

discussion was the immediate implementation of regional

autonomy laws (UU No. 22/99). UNDP funded seminars were

held throughout Indonesia where regional officials and

recently elected parliamentarians were indoctrinated in the

first early principles of what regional autonomy actually

meant. Since the elections in June, 1999, Lombok in

particular experienced a virtual flowering of regionalist

social organizations (ORMAS) and, as discussed previously,

religious-regionalist security organizations called

pamswakarsa. Organizations such as Desak Datu Sasak (The

30

Council for Sasak Youth)) were founded in Mataram with the

solitary goal of struggling for proportional Sasak

representation in local government. For instance, on

October 29th, just after President Wahid announced his

cabinet, Desak Datu led a demonstration at the West

Nusatenggara’s governor’s office demanding that the central

government appoint a minister from NTB. In an interview

with Lombok Post, Head of Desak Datu, Lalu Winengan, stated

“Thirty-five of the cabinet members were appointed according

to compromises with outer-islanders and other parties. How

come West Nusatenggara doesn’t have a place in the cabinet?

After all, the Javanese don’t own Indonesia.” (Lombok Post,

10/29/99, p.4). In a style characteristic of the regional

nationalism of the period, in October 1999, Desak Datu Sasak

members searched tourist vehicles in Lombok for Australian

nationals as an act of resistance against Australian led

invasion of former East Timor. Known by other NGO’s in

Mataram as a “demo-for-hire” organization, Desak Datu Sasak

activists afforded themselves to virtually any cause capable

of putting conservative Sasak nationalism on the media’s

map. Supported by Lalu Mudjitahid, the defeated Sasak

candidate for the position of governor, Desak Datu Sasak led

demonstrations against Javanese NGO’s, non-Sasak bureaucrats

and even Sasak commoner district head, Iskandar.

The rise of regionalist pamswakarsa’s, the formation of

staunchly primordialist Sasak NGO’s and the blatantly

31

territorial rivalries between Sasak royal families over

bureaucratic control of the regional government differed

radically from the “anti-primordialist” messages of media

reports written only a year hence, not to mention during the

New Order. Instead of criticizing arch-primordialist

critiques of the nation, much more concern was voiced over

the relative absence of an ethnic Sasak culture of “speaking

out” or political action. In a province where the ethnic

Sasak inhabitants composed 60% of the provincial population,

Sasak public intellectuals complained over their ethnic

group’s inability to represent their proportional dominance

with sufficient power. In an interview with the Rector of

Mt. Rinjani University, Dr. Ali Dahlan, it is clear that

“primordialism” had shifted from the position of “weakening

agent” to “weak-link”. Printed in the Bali Post article

entitled, We need a Neo-Sasak vision to Face the

Competition” (Bali Post, 11/13/99), Dahlan makes the

following statements:

Bali Post: If we look to our national history, Sasaks

almost never take positions in the national government?

Ali Dahlan: It’s like this. Sasaks scattered throughout

the archipelago are the same as Sasaks on Lombok. When I

ran for the office of district head people said that it

wasn’t very “Sasak” of me to run for office. Nah, it is

about time that we created a different kind of Sasak, a Neo-

32

Sasak. A Neo-Sasak has to be willing to rid themselves of

their tolerance, rid themselves of their silent nature. We

have to speak out. We need action. We need to follow the

national trends. If we don’t we’ll never be trusted. We have

to remember that even though Sasaks are the majority

population of West Nusatenggara (NTB) there has yet to be a

Sasak governor or national minister.

Bali Post: Take the recently formed National Unity Cabinet

as an example. There are no West Nusatenggara ministers

accommodated in the cabinet structure It forces us to ask

what West Nusa Tenggara’s place is in the ethnic

competitions (kompetisi etnis) at the national level?

Ali Dahlan: I’ll give you an example. The majority of West

Nusatenggara residents are Sasaks. There are only 400

thousand Sumawa (Sumbawanese), 400 thousand Bimanese, and

160,000 Dompu-ese. But if we look at the distribution of

resources and funds it is the minorities that are the most

prosperous. Actually, we should look to the bloodbaths of

Kosovo, East Timor, Aceh, Ambon and other areas. The

problems are based in the inequitable distribution of

resources across ethnic lines. The reason is that ethnic

inequalities are not represented in the distribution of

resources. In the long run, we can see that the majority,

ethnic Sasaks, have been in practice treated as the

minority. History has taught us that this inequality will

eventually explode. The early signs of such an explosion

33

are already evident in the regionalist organizations

struggling in the name of their ethnic Sasak heritage.

Ali Dahlan’s remarks are particularly interesting

precisely because he himself vacillates ambivalently between

“primordialist” and “critically historical” stances

regarding the rise of Sasak social movements. For instance,

he supports a pro-primordialist stance in support of Sasak

representation while, on the other hand, he also offers an

objectivist reading suggesting that the pro-Sasak movements

under Desak Datu and pamswakarsa groups are also “symptoms”

of immanent conflict similar to “bloodbaths” in areas such

as Ambon, Kosovo and, odder still, East Timor.(Footnote,

Ambon is a religious conflict, Kosovo an post-authoritarian

ethno-religious, and Timor a civilian-military conflict).

Sasaks were, in Ali Dahlan’s approximation, quiet, tolerant

people given to submission after centuries of subjugation to

foreign and centralized national powers. They needed to

aspire to a more aggressive and demanding approach to inter-

ethnic competition, a Neo-Sasakism, in order to succeed in

the increasingly parochialized politics of representation in

their regions and nation’s capital. At the same time Ali

Dalan also stated that history has its laws, and this new

desire to form social movements across ethnic lines

signified that these movements were not merely a product of

renewed Sasak political rationality but also a symptom of

34

future violence caused by historical inequalities between

Sasaks and wealthier minorities in the province. This

ambivalence, between a liberatory movement for “regional

autonomy” (as opposed to authoritarian centralization) and

symptoms of regional chaos (as opposed to militarized peace)

permeated media coverage and discourses internal to

Indonesia’s ambivalent struggle for at once regionally

equitable reform and a more strategic (even militarized)

vision of controllable Indonesian unity. On the one side,

Indonesia appeared to be moving forward through a daring

attempt to include regional elites and civil society in the

management of the nation, while on the other, it appeared to

be following the “spirit” of the global era where nation-

states lost authority to equally modernist but more

community based (Islam, ethnicity, racialist) movements.

From either perspective Lombok’s colonial and national

history seemed to predispose it to a “poor” performance.

From the national chaos perspective, Lombok consisted

of villages with almost urban diversity (multiple religions,

ethnicities). Different from cities, however, Lombok’s

village communities held century old claims to their slice

of the heterogenous village pie. Seen from a regionalist or

“pro-autonomy” approach, Lombok’s historical diversity also

denied any standardized ethnic homogeneity as a reference

point for regionalist legitimacy in Lombok or NTB in

general. At best they held the lion’s share of the

35

provincial population, statistical dominance, without the

resources (human, mineral or otherwise) capable of pushing

the tables in their favor.

Part in parcel with anxieties over Sasak’s abilities

to respond to the challenges of governing their own region

was an anxious awareness that Sasak culture was not defined,

did not have a cultural philosophy of governance or power

relations. Regions such as Bali, Java, Sumatran Minangkabau

or Acehnese possessed long colonial and regional traditions

committed to the study of “adat” (tradition) and legal or

philosophical texts devoted to such topics. Sasaks in

Lombok had neither. Their Islamic literature hailed from

the Suluk texts of Java or the Malay Hikayat of Sulawesi.

Their philosophical texts were derived from a history of

Balinese Hinduism rejected by Islamic reformists in the 19th

century. Sasak Lombok possessed the reformist and,

therefore, decidedly egalitarian Islamic traditions of

shariah law and ahli Sunnah scripturalism. Neither colonial

nor nationalist historians took much interest in Sasak

social institutions or regional philosophies primarily

because they lacked the philological purity of the Javanese

or Balinese. Hence, the name of Lombok’s literary genres,

rerampungan, or hybrid-mixtures betrays the very purity a

philological scientist is trained to unveil. Neither during

the colonial period nor after independence was there any

movement to construct or standardize a unified Sasak

36

cultural vision. The same could be said of Lombok-based

Islamic movements. Because Sasak Islamic clerics (Tuan Guru)

were not known for their writings or even recorded khotbah

(religious lectures) their notoriety and following remained

contained to Lombok and, at best, Sumbawa. While several

Kyai in Java, Sumatra and Jakarta were famous for their

Indonesian and Javanese language diatribes on culture, Islam

and national life, “the land of a thousand mesjids”, that

is, Lombok, remained isolated from such populist Islamic

developments. With neither a clear image of what kind of

synthetic cultural-religious “image” or “philosophy” could

be foregrounded as their regional culture, Sasak officials

and cultural elite posed the question and often times,

assumed the position of victim for lack of a monolithic

vision of Sasak culture.

After the elections in 1999, there was a desire to

reinvestigate what cultural frameworks would prevail as

“Sasak” in post-Suharto Lombok. The power of Islamic

cultural (as opposed to political) identity during the New

Order was, for lack of a better term, absorptive. The

dakwah missionizing movement, the explosion of pesantren

boarding schools and religious activities, had committed

ethnically Sasak culture to the past. In place of culture,

religious modernity became the founding basis of ethnic

Sasak identity. Nevertheless, the immanent rise of “regional

autonomy” at the level of nation coincided with important

37

transitions within Lombok’s religious leadership. The slow

rise of cultural institutions among NTB’s cultural elite

fell on the tails of the death of one of Lombok’s strongest

advocates of the modernist Islamist purification of the

residual and “irrational” aspects of Sasak identity. The

death of Lombok’s most powerful pesantren leader, Tuan Guru

Haji Zainuddin Abdul Madjid in 1997 left Lombok’s largest

religious community without a singular beacon for their

religious identity or institutional representation. In

1999, organizations such as the more conservative noble-

oriented institution, Masyarakat Adat Sasak (MAS), developed

side by side with the youth movement on behalf of Sasak

representation in government, Desak Datu Sasak (Youth

Council for Sasak Unity). Together both organizations

struggled to re-define a Sasak cultural stance on the major

societal and political issues of the day. While Masyarakat

Adat Sasak (MAS) categorized ritual language according to

imagined discourses of the ancient Sasak kingdom,

Selaparang, Desak Datu Sasak imagined (in equally unlikely

ways) the importance of Sasak political representation in

Jakarta.(Footnote, Lombok Post article on representation of

NTB in the most recent cabinet).

Meanwhile, Lombok’s largest Islamic organization,

Nadhlatul Wathan, was struggling to redefine its

organization’s future after the death its NW’s founder and

leader, T.G.H. Zainuddin Abdul Madjid. On the one hand, in

38

TGH Abdul Madjid’s absence, other leaders had moved to the

fore through the formation of militant civilian guards or

pamswakarsa. TGH Muntawali’s son, TGH Sibawaih, had, since

June, 1999, single-handedly organized Lombok’s largest

civilian guard in the country. By November 1999, this

organization, Amphibi, had branches throughout all areas of

East and Central Lombok. Meanwhile, within Nadhlatul Wathan

itself, a deep family feud between TGH Abdul Madjid’s

daughters had severed Nadhlatul Wathan’s following into two

distinct camps. Both daughters claimed equal rights to

inherit the leadership position at the helm of NW. Both

daughters also established their own rival pamswakarsa

guards. Both daughters were mothers to heir apparent sons

with Masters degrees in Islamic studies from esteemed

institutions in Cairo. In turn, both of these women leaders

had affiliated their respective groups with rival (yet

connected) parties during the 1999 elections. To illustrate

the ambivalent ambiguity around the dual between these two

sisters a Lombok Post article/eulogy (15/2/2000) entitled,

“Syubli, Leader of NW is No Longer with Us” spoke less of

the virtues of the deceased that to the respective political

positions of powerful widows who survived him:

Ensignor H.M. Syubli, NW’s central leader died in

Pancor, East Lombok last Saturday (12/2). The leader who

was also known as the head of STKIP Hamzanwadi Pancor was

39

buried Sunday (13/2) afternoon, attended by thousands of NW

followers at the Pancor cemetery.

Syabli, husband of Hajjah Siti Rauhun ZAM –eldest

daughter of the founder of NW, TGKHM Zainuddin Abdul Madjid-

was known to be a man of great influence in the development

of NW. In fact he was often considered to be among Lombok’s

top ranking political leaders (pemimpin politic praktis).

This is no doubt due to his influence among millions of NW’s

fanatic followers in West Nusatenggara.

In accordance with the developments of the age, when NW

began to suffer from internal struggles, one by one NW’s

central figures began to pass away. Beginning with the

elder and founder of Nadhlatul Wathan, TGKHM Zainuddin Abdul

Madjid, on October 21 1997. This charismatic ulama, besides

leaving behind a wife was also survived by his two

daughters- Hj. Siti Rauhun ZAM and Hj. Sti Raihanun ZAM.

Raihanun’s husband, nobleman Lalu Gede Wirasentana and

the head of NW at the time, died only shortly after his

father-in-law passed away. He died on November 17th 1997.

Meanwhile, after the death of these two leaders the internal

NW conflict heated to a boil. The two camps (kubu)- Rauhun

and Raihanun- fired one another from NW, and were followed

by the leaders of their respective camps.

The conflict didn’t end even after regional government

officials appealed that they solve their problems. Raihanun,

for example, decided to side with Golkar for the 1999

40

elections while Rauhun (together with HM Syubli) sided with

Partae Daulat Rakyat (a conservative party led by Adi

Sasono, Footnote). This was done regardless of the fact

that Syubli himself had served as a district level

parliamentary member under Golkar and had most recently been

courted by Golkar to serve as a district parliamentarian

after the 1999 elections.

Once again, because the two sides could never concede

to the same path, Raihanaun chose to make a controversial

move. Raihuanan, who was then the acting head of Nadhlatul

Wathan (PBNW), married her own Secretary General, Drs. H.

Abdul Hayyi Nu’man on May 19, 1999. Such controversial

steps were, actually, what motivated Rauhun (with Syubli,

the eulogized deceased) to declare that they were leaving

Golkar and joining Partae Daulat Rakyat (PDR) headed by Adi

Sasono.

The conflict is not over. According to Syubli’s close

family members, the last words of the deceased were, “The

struggle will not end until NW is united once more..” Of

course, the struggle is never over, nor will death itself be

its hindrance. Safe travels (Selamat Jalan).

Never have I read a less poetic eulogy. The man, I

should say, the husband, in question was represented to be

as much a pawn in the political struggles between two

sisters as were their two soon-to-be-heir sons waiting in

41

the political wings of their mother’s respective battles.

As is obvious from the above statement, the complexities of

multi-party, multiple spouses and multiple motives had

transformed NW political strategies in a way unprecedented

for Lombok’s hitherto most powerful and unified religious

organization. What was once Lombok’s most pervasively

successful dakwah missionary front had, in the fall out of

the death of their founder/father and the sudden absence of

New Order backing, found itself searching for political

legitimacy and an heir apparent. Nor is it easy to identify

what endangered the “authenticity” of each camp’s claim to

power over NW. The journalist who wrote the above article,

more of a gossip piece than a eulogy, held that Raihanun’s

marriage to her own Secretary General was the motivating

force behind her sister rival’s decision to leave Golkar

(the historical party-sponsor of her father’s) for the

minority party, Partae Daulat Rakyat (PDR). Was it the

institutionally “incestuous” quality of the marriage that,

as a result, disauthenticated Golkar membership for her

sister? Was the matrilocal emphasis of these two daughters’

marital affiliations and power, itself an inversion of

Lombok’s universally patrilocality, also signify the “local”

to be NW itself? By marrying her own secretary general did

Raihanun marry beneath her political, and thus familial,

station? In so doing, did Golkar, as a political locality

and affine, suffer from the same charges of sinking status

42

by association with Raihanun’s marriage to a matrilocal

political sibling/subordinate? It is not clear.

What is, at the very least, apparent, is the contested

quality of “locality” and the rival legitimacy situated in

the political moves and situations of the sister older and

her younger sister opponent. While the elder sister,

Raihanun, retained her control over PBNW in Pancor, East

Lombok complete with an heir and historical affiliation with

Suharto’s state party, Golkar, Rauhun sustained her own

claim to “revealed” or “illuminationist” authority outside

of NW’s historical center and its equally historical Golkar

backing. The early signs of Rauhun’s claim to

illuminationist glory began when she moved her “counter-NW”

to the village of Anjani, the village named after the

goddess of Mt. Rinjani. As during the kedatu-datuan

movements in the early 20th century, Rauhun began to aspire

to more romantic or mystically charged legitimacy through

the presence of wonder children supposedly sent by the

spirit of her deceased father, Tuan Guru Haji Maulana

(founder of NW). One of the most famous of these gifted

children emerged in 1998, not long after the death of Tuan

Guru Maulana himself. An Anjani resident explained some of

the events unfolding around Rauhun’s NW camp in the

historically messianic site of illuminationist NW

supporters:

43

After Rauhun moved to Anjani, Tuan Guru Maulana began

making appearances in the Mosques during the afternoon

prayers. He would appear before the devout only to

disappear again. All kinds of mysterious things started

happening. A girl disappeared into the forests around

Gunung Rinjani only to reappear with full knowledge of the

Al’Quoran. She could recite and interpret the teachings

like an adult but she was no more than 10 years old herself.

At a pengajian reading of the Al’Quoran at Pancor, she

suddenly disappeared. Everyone thought she had mangkat

(magically risen to heaven) but only shortly thereafter she

reappeared in Anjani, near Rauhun. She had left Raihanun in

Pancor because she doesn’t support Nadhlatul Wathan any

more. Some people even say that she has become NU, Nadhlatul

Wathan and that Rauhun of Anjani is the true heir to NW.

Since Tuan Guru Maulana, Rauhun’s deceased father, started

appearing in Anjani everyone believes that she is the

Chosen.

(author’s fieldnotes,

August 2000)

These sacred children are, according to an Anjani

resident residing in Western Lombok gathered at Anjani as a

sign of Tuan Guru Maulana’s post-mortem support for his

youngest daughter, Siti Rauhun. Again, we come across what

44

Bakhtin calls a “chronotope” discordant to the age. In his

book, Islam Observed, Geertz documents the steady

transformation of Sunan Kalijaga style illuminationist Islam

into an ideologized and, what later critical students call,

a hyper-rationalist school of political Islamic reformism.

In Lombok, we find instead, a rivalry between two sisters,

two daughters, two mothers each with opposing claims to

charismatic legitimacy, one illuminationist and messianic,

the other ideological and political. This is evident in the

description of one Anjani resident who explained the “truth”

behind the disappearance of the wonder child, “The wonder

child (anak ajaib) taught by Tuan Guru Maulana did, in fact,

read the Koran at a Koranic reading session (pengajian) at

the NW headquarters in Pancor. Then she disappeared.

Pancor NW supporters claim she disappeared (mangkat) to be

joined with Tuan Guru Maulana in heaven while in truth she

reappeared to live in Anjani where she was later joined by

the wonder child from China.” Rauhun’s illuminationist

approach to legitimacy had absorbed the wonder child

believed to have disappeared (mangkat) to be with her

teacher TGH Maulana.

While the ke-datu-datuan messianic movements of the

early twentieth century drew the political realism of their

imaginary from the colonial instatement of Sasak nobles

according to their measure of “golden age pedigree”,

Rauhun’s counter-modernist illuminationism, it appeared,

45

drew legitimacy from the resurgence of Sasak cultural

politics and alternative leadership methods voiced by

hundreds of new regionalist cultural organizations and

pamswakarsa’s. Culturalist resurgence had acquired a semi-

modern legitimacy as pamswakarsa paraded villages with court

weaponry and Sasak politicians joined organizations in

support of High Sasak Culture (e.g. Masyarakat Adat Sasak).

Regional autonomy and elected (as opposed to appointed)

political positions (from village head to district head)

energized Sasak political participation in ways

unprecedented in the island’s history. The rise of

discursive autonomy, regional identity, and actual regional

leaders in local parliament and governmental structures

diversified political action and the frames of religious

legitimacy through a mixture of militant moralism (through

pamswakarsa) and modernist traditionalism (through

politically sanctioned cultural institutions).

Regional autonomy did not benefit everyone, however.

In early 2000, even though there was great popular support

for Sasakist organizations and Pamswakarsa spreading

throughout the region, Javanese NGO activists, Chinese and

Boda Sasak minorities were unsure of what their role would

be within the new power constellations growing out of

regionalist, religious or traditionalist movements.

After the riots of January 2000, when virtually every

minority in Lombok was set on edge and Sasak identity

46

appeared to be more exclusively Islamic than ever before,

the ensuing rhetoric of inclusion was less than convincing.

For instance, in a Bali Post article, Lalu Mudjitahid, one

time district head and cultural leader of Western Lombok,

addressed a training for democracy and human rights

volunteers in downtown Mataram saying the following,

Regarding the position of the Chinese, Mudjitahid suggested

that they not isolate themselves and quickly affiliate their

families with Sasak residents. “If they are unwilling to

take on partners (bermitra, “business partners” ) there is a

good chance that conflicts will emerge.” Lalu Wiraputra,

coordinator of the NGO Redam, stated that in order to build

a “Sasak” everyone in Lombok must become a Sasak. Meaning,

all citizens must take a role in the development

(pembangunan) of Sasak. “Sasak means Unity. Even if one is

Chinese (Tionghua), you must be a Sasak Chinese. The same is

true of Javanese. One must become a Sasak Javanese,” he

added. These statements were made not long after Javanese

and Chinese alike received threats from local Sasakist NGO’s

forcing them to cease their monopolies over NGO’s and

business activities respectfully. (Quote article)

The attendant irony that these points marked the

opening of a Democracy and Human Rights training

(respectively inclusive and universalistic discourses) for

47

NGO volunteers went unmentioned in the article. These

statements were made only weeks after the Chinese Christians

of NTB had lost their homes and churches due to the January

riots. Mudjitahid’s desire for greater partnership, a

broader sense of entitlement towards minority properties and

enterprises, was interpreted by Chinese members of the

community to refer not merely to business relations and a

lose sense of social “unity” but also to the carefully

guarded endogamy of Mataram’s Chinese Hokkien and Hakka

lineages. During the chaotic moments following the riots,

this desire for “unity” took on a political dimension not

unfamiliar to readers of this study but, at the moment,

seemed nothing short of abusive to the victims of the

January riots. An elderly Chinese shop owner, Im Long, in

Mataram explained,

In the past, language made you rich. If you spoke Hokkien,

Hakka and Mandarin, you could work your way throughout the

archipelago. I myself took cattle to Jayapura, Bangkok and

Hong Kong using these languages. We bought the cattle from

Muslim traders in East Lombok and exported them to foreign

ports. We needed one another for such trading and

cooperated. Nobody ever told us we had to marry a Muslim or

vice versa. We traded goods not daughters. In 1965, they

(Sasak Muslims) killed a lot of us in Central Lombok. The

Chinese who converted to Islam were able to control trading

48

there. If you didn’t convert they gave you a hard time. Now,

after the Mataram riots they tell us that we should

“bergaul” (mix) and consider marrying our children with

Sasak Muslim families to help bind our communities. Our

women were raped in Jakarta in May 1998 and terrorized in

Mataram last January. These are not relationships to build

a besanan (in-law) ties upon. My wife, children and

grandchildren are with our extended family in Surabaya. I

man the stores alone here. I have a bag with clothes and

cash underneath my bed. They won’t have my daughters but

they can burn my store if they have to.

Mudjitahid’s language of building “partnerships” with

“Sasak Chinese” would mean, in the eyes of Im Long, nothing

short of absolute betrayal of his victimized community.

Although Mudjitahid’s concept of a Sasak Chinese or Sasak

Javanese community was, in the abstract, meant to connote a

locally stylized form of national unity it was also

interpreted as a threat. If Sasak meant the binding force

that nationhood normatively implies, it was not yet clear

what face “Sasak” would take in the months ensuing the

Mataram riots. There were conspiracies afoot, or so it

seemed. While NGO activists such as Soleh saw provincial

and national conspiracies to be of a piece with political

and military backing in toe, the localization of national

politics succeeded in conscribing the conspiratorial

49

dimensions to the confines of Mataram, NTB’s regional

capital and home to the Sasakist movement.

This was, in part, due to the fact that the national

Islamist leaders such as Eggy Sudjana and military

commanders such as Wiranto, were out of reach (and touch)

and did not appear at all interested in addressing the local

fallout from the Lombok riots. To both of these rather

different, but equally nationally focused, leaders the

Lombok riots were expressive not of ethnic tensions but,

instead, served as a symptom of Wahid’s inability to bring

peace and prosperity to the crisis torn country. If they

(Wiranto, Eggy Sudjana) were directly involved, the desired

effects had proved successful. President Abdurahman Wahid’s

rivals were satisfied and employed the Mataram riots to

further discredit Wahid’s attempts to bring peace to the

nation while simultaneously reforming and alienating the

land army under Wiranto (TNI-AD). Amien Rais, the head of

the People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR), and political

rival to Wahid, stated the following to the national paper,

Kompas (1/19/00), only two days after the Mataram violence

began.

“Amien Rais stated that the destruction of the churches in

Mataram was further proof that the horizontal conflicts

between Christians and Muslims in Maluku was contagious

(menular) and could spread to other areas. The problems of

50

Maluku have continued for over a year now and appear to be

“nurtured” (Ind. dipelihara) by the government until they

could spread to other areas such as the explosion of

violence in Mataram.”

Within a less than a month, the charges against the

parties responsible for the Mataram riots shifted from Amien

Rais’s style of Jakarta-based controversy to the entrenched

Mataram rivalries between Sasak and non-Sasak elites in the

region. Lalu Mudjitahid, one time Bupati of West Lombok and

Lombok’s main Sasak rival to Gov. Harun of Sumbawa, was the

top on the list of potential “masterminds” behind the riots.

Aimed towards discrediting the Sumbawanese governor,

Mudjitahid was charged with attempting to destroy the

reputation of polygamous commoner, Iskandar, and later, Gov.

Harun to open the corridors of authority for his own

grouping of Sasak noble politicians.(Footnote, ). These

rivalries consumed Mataram-based political discourse for

several months after the riots and were accompanied by

almost weekly bomb threats and rumors of further riots

continued to put minorities on guard.(Footnote: Idul Adha

and the psychological impact of terror).

The constant potential eruption of violence in Mataram,

the expansive power of Amphibi throughout Western Lombok

and, at the level of nation, the rise of more vocal and less

tolerant Islamist militias, made regional autonomy’s initial

51

reformism appear more like a path toward federalist

disaster. While public intellectuals and regional

institutions attended seminars and internationally funded

trainings, conservative regionalist organizations positioned

themselves to intimidate and Sasakize their local

bureaucracies. In an unusual marriage of these two themes,

non-regionalist NGO’s run by Javanese activists and

development workers were terrorized for not representing the

cause of ethnic Sasaks to the World Bank and other funding

institutions.(Footnote: Koslatah confessed their fear

during demonstrations against the World Bank by local Sasak

NGO’s) .The last purely national institution, the military,

had adopted a non-communicative mutism rendering it at once

honorable and conspiratorial to activists, politicians and

Lombok’s citizenry. If there was one institution without a

clear stance on regional autonomy it was the military.

Given that the military relied on the discourse of national

unity and nationalist uniformity, its grid-like territorial

command appeared to be poorly suited for a non-

authoritarian, much less federalist, approach to provincial

governance.

Amidst all of this chaotic projection and conspiracy

theory-building there were some positive developments afoot.

Regional autonomy, more as idea than managerial

administration of levies, had opened the door for new

52

regional definitions of identities. Although several of the

aforementioned regionalist organizations were organized

along more strictly political lines, several groups had

formed according to village-to-village affiliations and

affinities as opposed to instrumental political goals. In

late 1999, several Wetu Telu associations had gathered to

form a collective called, Perekat Ombara. Headed by

traditional and village leaders, Perekat Ambara, held that

at one time, approximately the 17th century, the Sokong

kingdom united Northern Lombok’s now disparate wetu telu and

Boda communities. Given the breadth of the Western Lombok

district, and the historicity of Northern Lombok’s

communities, an NGO was formed to push for Northern Lombok

to secede from Western Lombok and become its own semi-

autonomous district. North Lombok leaders made this rather

bold move, in part, because regional autonomy legislation

allotted so much control to a province’s respective

districts. Under this new and largely undefined

legislation, village heads would be elected by the village

and not according to provincially approved appointments.

Meanwhile, levies and taxes would be collected and

distributed by district-level officials. Northern Lombok,

at long last, would not be run by the modernist militancy of

the military or dakwah missionaries but, instead, by the

collective autonomy of the leaders of their ritual domains,

farming cooperatives and religious associations.

53

Pamswakarasa’s and village security could be organized

according to district-level prerogatives and not the whims

of East Lombok’s militant modernists (e.g. Amphibi). In this

association of traditional communities, the sub-district of

Bayan, the ur-traditional and historical progenitor of wetu

telu traditions, would serve as exemplar for communities

otherwise alienated from their traditions during the New

Order.

Unfortunately, Bayan itself was divided across

religious and traditionalist lines between Muhammadiyah,

Nadhlatul Wathan and wetu telu adat institutions. Regular

conflicts erupted after the riots in January between Bayan

based institutions and Muhammadiyah reformists.(find

source). There was, in this movement, a fundamental belief

in the wisdom of traditional institutions particularly in

regard to resource management. Amaq Kumardi, village head

of Bentek and leader of Lombok’s most progressive Wetu Telu

association was among the proponents of a semi-autonomous

North Lombok district. Amaq Kamardi’s mission was primarily

activist and his justifications, environmental. Kamardi

worked under the environmentalist premise that traditional

communities such as the wetu telu were able to maintain

harmonious relations with one another and nature because of

a communal effort to protect and sanctify valuable forests

and natural resources. In so doing, their springs and

forests would be protected and, through long fallow periods,

54

their bio-diversity guarded. In Amaq Kamard’s

approximation, the New Order’s political matrix was the

culprit. Monoculture initiatives and clear cutting permits

issued by governmental development agencies during the New

Order not only threatened these valuable resources they also

denied “traditional wisdom” (kearifan lokal) any role in

their execution. “In the past, our wooded areas were never

disturbed. Our sacred sites, pemaliq, were always protected

by adat decrees. Our springs had spirits and were holy as a

result. Now, clear cutting and localization strategies

(population redistribution) by the government has resulted

in dry springs and poverty.” Amaq Kamardi also believed

that villages should be renamed according to the archaic

names for settlements (e.g. pamusungan). For Amaq Kamardi,

the future of North Lombok lay in its past and the modernist

strategies of the New Order remained a gross residue upon

its historical golden.

Lucky for Perekat Ombara the frames of recognition were

shifting in their favor. For over thirty years, every

governmental, religious or security institution had, with

few exceptions, identified progress with the absence of

tradition and tradition with subversion to progress. There

was, however, a gap to cross. During the course of the New

Order, many communities (such as the Boda) had affiliated

themselves with national religious organizations separating

them and the members of their community from the ritual

55

domains and the practices that once linked Boda to Wetu Telu

and, by association, North Lombok as a whole. Whether Boda

or Wetu Telu, the priests of each community called the

spirits of their respective domains to be present at their

puja wali, wali tahun, maturan, and other communal rituals

commanding the presence of historical and remembered

authority. Boda, like Wetu Telu, and similar to most

syncretist Muslim communities around the archipelago,

celebrated the hundred and thousand day anniversaries of

their deceased kin. Does this make the Boda Islamicized, old

Wetu Telu, or simply from Northern Lombok? These questions

have yet to be answered. Nevertheless, the opportunity to

identify with a space, and not exclusively a religious

ideology was, or so it seemed, in the grasp of an assemblage

of North Lombok communities once terrorized for being not

Sasak, or not Muslim Sasak, enough.

When I first heard of Perekat Ombara at an NGO meeting

in Mataram I experienced a mixture of disbelief and

suspicion. The person explaining the proposed plan to form

a traditionalist Northern district was not only a very

capable (but self-interested) NGO activist, he also held

that it was Javanese Sufistic beliefs (and not something

Sasaks had cooked up in Lombok) underlying the temper of the

Northern Sasak culture. Aside from being Javanese, and

especially good at writing winning grants, he was also the

object of much reactionary Sasak NGO scorn. If he was

56

involved in setting the stage for Northern Lombok’s district

of the semi-autonomous future, I thought to myself, the wetu

telu and Boda of the North are deceiving themselves and

setting themselves for a hard fall. Regardless of Javanist

religious theories (North Lombok has Muslim Kyai clerics and

Javanese loan terms in abundance to prove our friend’s

academic point) the Wetu Telu and Boda activists who took it

upon themselves to join “Perekat Ombara” did so with great

pride and responsibility. After attending several of their

internal and public meetings (I was lucky to be invited) I

was surprised less with their sense of bitterness towards

the historical oppression of their communities by

missionizing reformists than I was with their sense of

propriety and responsibility over the task at hand.

The first of these meetings was the swearing in and

explanation of the Perembak Ombara’s pamswakarsa or

“Langlang Jagat” (protectors of the community). Langlang

Jagat was a term used during the Balinese (or pre-Balinese)

colonial period for village security against crime or

foreign aggression. Now, in April 2000, “Langlang Jagat”

was to serve as a counter-Islamist pamswakarsa. With

Amphibi and other modernist pamswakarsa’s spreading

throughout the region, Perekat Ombara member communities

decided to avoid the “orange tide” (arus oranye, Amphibi’s

colors) sweeping through other areas of Central and Western

Lombok. By establishing their own pamswakarsa, that is, by

57

separating themselves from the rest of Lombok’s pesantren

(or Tuan Guru cleric) based pamswakarsa they ran the risk of

estranging themselves from the modernist leaders and civil

servants in their communities. Regardless of the

impracticalities of establishing a traditionalist

pamswkarsa, Langlang Jagat branches grew in most of the

villages where Perekat Ombara member communities had

identified themselves with the movement. Under the soft

lens of an alternative, “cultural”, pamswakarsa langlang

jagat was supported by regional government and Mataram-based

institutions for its village-specific (and not pan-regional)

organization methods.

In fact, not long after langlang jagat announced its

first village-wide branches in the village of Bentek,

Northern Lombok, the Bupati (district head) of Western

Lombok urged each village in Western Lombok to form its own

langlang jagat association. Iskandar, mind you, was no

traditionalist. He did, however, have a problem the remedy

for which appeared to resonate nicely with the homegrown

overtones of Perekat Ombara’s village-based pamswkarsa. The

district head’s problem appeared to be due mostly to

regionalist diversity in West Lombok. Because of West

Lombok’s regional and sectarian diversity due to labor

migration from other areas on the island, there could be as

many as seven to eight regionalist pamswakarsa’s in a single

village. Because of the plurality of vigilante security

58

associations, there was a tendency to “saling nguji” (test

one another). Because of so many intra-village scuffles and

“nguji” incidents across pamswakarsa divisions within single

village boundaries, the district head of West Lombok

(Iskandar) hoped that langlang jagat’s style of village

solidarity could be employed as a village-based umbrella

organization for a plurality of pamswakarsa members to

gather. This concept remained theoretical until other

events began to wear away at the universalizing appeal of

Amphibi, Lombok’s largest pamswkarsa.(footnote perampauan

incident). The Parampauan conflict (10/00) between Amphibi

and a village-based pamswakarsa in West Lombok showed most

clearly how village-based definitions of spatial solidarity

were used to counter Amphibi’s modernist appeal. A Mataram-

based activist who observed the conflict from start to

finish described the rival frames of legitimacy claimed by

each warring party before the final showdown began:

Amphibi was acting up in Mataram. The Gerung Bangsawan and

Sospol head, Lalu A., headed their operation there. It

looked as if the nobles wanted to use Amphibi to secure

greater power in the capital as they had lost the power they

once had when the military used them during the New Order.

Amphibi decided to set up an office in the village of

Bongor, just outside of the village of Perampauan. The next

day it had become the Amphibi base camp for Western Lombok.

59

One of the dusun (sub-village hamlets) of Perampauan was the

Balinese dusun (sub-village hamlet) of Sengkongkong. A few

months earlier a Balinese had lost his hand to an Amphibi

knife after he was accused of stealing. The people of

Perampauan residents refused to fight the Balinese in their

own community. They said, “use the dimensions of the

village (skale desa). The village (desa) protects its

hamlets (dusun).” They even refused help from the Balinese

pamswakarsa, Dharma Wicesa, who rushed to Perempauan from

Cakranegara, Pagutan and Pagesangan.. The Balinese came

under the assumption that this wasn’t a matter of protecting

“hometown thieves” (maling dalam desa sendiri) but instead a

SARA attack based in ethnic antagonism between Sasaks and

Balinese (SARA; tribal, racial, religious, communal). The

Balinese failed to persuade Perampauan to allow them to

help. The Perampauan villagers said, “We’ll look after our

own village” (kami urus desa kami). After Amphibi got word

that Perampauan had rejected Balinese protection, they

accused Perampauan Muslims (the majority) of protecting

Kafir (infidels), in this case Balinese. And if Perampauan

protected Kafir, all of Amphibi must fight Perampauan. I

suspect that Sospol had something to do with all this given

that Lalu A. was head of Sospol and Amphibi at the time.

Finally, it came to a showdown between Bongor and Amphibi

with Perampauan as its protector. They were smart,

Perampauan, for not letting the conflict spread beyond the

60

scale of the village. This is largely due to the fact that

District head Iskandar had only recently stated that each

village must have its own pamswakarsa so that there wouldn’t

be constant conflicts between rival regionalist pamswakarsa

scattered unevenly throughout Lombok’s villages. The

district head gave Perampauan their own pamswakarsa as a

result called, Perkasa Pensor (Pamswakarsa Perampauan).

Eventually, news came that Amphibi was going to attack

Perampauan. Over a thousand men packed into trucks from

East Lombok and prepared themselves to fight Perampauan.

There was only one road they could use so Perampauan flooded

it with water from their irrigation ducts. The Amphibi

attackers rushed the village through its flooded entrance.

Amphibi’s front-line fighters were supposed to be kebal

(invulnerable) while in fact they wore “ban dalam” (rubber

tire treads) on their stomachs and chests. The Perampauan

fighters used spears and knives to kill the first assault

team and the rest of Amphibi fled. Amphibi had lost face

and, as a sign of defeat, Tuan Guru Sibawai blamed the

“Pengurus” (organizer) in Mataram for the mishap. This

meant that West Lombok’s Sospol head, Lalu A., would have to

swallow the blame and Amphibi had lost some of its

unbearable arrogance (kajuman) in Mataram.

(October 24th, 2001; author’s

fieldnotes)

61

The power of the village is not to be underestimated.

Amphibi’s pan-Lombok appeal and its reputation for kebal

(invulnerability) was dampened by the reports of Amphibi’s

thousand man flight from only a few hundred home-village

defenders. Polygamist commoner, District-head Iskandar, was

at odds with strategically placed noble rivals such as

SosPol official and Amphibi coordinator, Lalu A.. For a

Sasak noble to wed his interests with an Islamist vigilanty

group was, historically speaking, a disaster in the making.

Nevertheless, these were temporary bonds to counter

potentially powerful foes. Sospol was, at least

institutionally, an intermediary institution for regionally

active pamswakarsa’s. In Bali, for instance, community

level pamswakarsa’s called, pecalang, were used by Sospol to

run identity card campaigns (razia KTP) in predominantly

Javanese settlements to extort and, often, evacuate non-

Balinese Indonesians from their lodgings.(Footnote,

pecalangan). Picking on Javanese laborers is different from

signing off on (or being complacently complicit to) a

thousand man strong offensive against a politically

legitimate unit, a village, for protecting “infidels” or (in

their words) “their fellow villagers”. Wisely, Iskandar

employed the increasingly powerful identity politics of the

“village” to form a counter-modernist village pamswakarsa

called, Perkasa Pemsor (Indo. Potent Pemsor). Perampauan

residents were no longer sheltering infidels they were

62

upholding village solidarity and autonomy, one of the

primary reformist principles of regional autonomy

legislation.(Footnote, regional autonomy laws).

Amphibi’s plural representation in West Lombok

villages, not to mention their disregard for police

authority in the region, left them at loose ends after the

Perampauan disaster. District-head Iskandar also appeared

less vulnerable to attacks by noble officials. Even though

Amphibi led yet another attack against a Balinese temple in

Gerung, Western Lombok, Iskandar met with village officials

there to help them form their own village-based pamswakarsa.

The incident went virtually unreported in national or even

regional papers and Amphibi began to lose their control over

Western Lombok. Even though at the national level Islamist

organizations had grown considerably, Lombok’s Amphibi was

forced to contain their vigilance to its own (considerable)

East Lombok based flock. Meanwhile, in Northern Lombok,

Perekat Ombara, was gaining considerable ground in

consolidating their own association of village-based leaders

and traditionalist supporters. The empowerment of the

village by both regional autonomy laws and the Head of the

District, Iskandar, only helped to re-enforce Perekat

Ombara’s claim to a federation of autonomous villages in

North Lombok. Perekat Ombara used the “village” to

reconstruct a new series of village specific histories out

of the uniform New Order matrix passed and imposed upon

63

Indonesia’s manifold provinces under the legislation of 1979

that effectively wiped out village level institutions to the

benefit of the State.

Perekat Ombara functioned as at once a lobbying force,

a traditionalist movement and an organized attempt to re-

acknowledge the adat institutions of Northern Lombok prior

to their erasure under New Order power matrixes and system

of political appointments. In order for Perekat Ombara to

be recognized as an official district separate from the

district of Western Lombok they required not only full

consensus from the villages and sub-district leaders of

Northern Lombok, they also needed supporting evidence that

Northern Lombok could support itself economically, that is,

be autonomous, as a district sufficient unto itself. With

the goal of consolidating the information needed to appeal

for “district” status the Perekat Ombara members conducted

“social mapping surveys” (Survei Pemetaan Desa) complete

with occupational status, educational levels, religious

composition, village history, pamswakarsa membership and

economic activities. Although many of these mini-

monographies drew off of existing documentation in their

respective villages, much of the historical and adat related

information was composed with regional autonomy plans in

mind. Some of the village “facilitators” took the

opportunity to claim superior “originality” to other

communities, as in Bayan, while other facilitators used the

64

exercise to voice their protests against coersive tourism

development schemes during the New Order.

Province, Nation and “Locality”:

This combination of protest and claims to authenticity

does, however, provide a means for Northern communities to

represent themselves within a broader regional constellation

of equally autonomous units of identity and collaborative

political labor called the Desa (Ind. Village). In the

recent histories of each of these villages, the

transformations after 1967 were dramatically imposed on the

physical divisions of village space. Perekat Ombara

members’ maps of these events display an ambivalent effort

to identify conflict in the language of solidarity and

histories of oppression in the language of reform. Each

mini-history and mini-protest succeeds in conceptualizing a

non-national vision of religious, cultural, security-based

and health-related needs. Each history also manages to

voice criticism in a minefield of inter-regional claims to

authenticity and solidarity.

Northern developments aside, it didn’t take long for

“Perekat Ombara” to acquire instrumental value for the

Sasakist institutions of Mataram’s political elite. When it

became known that the perda (peraturan daerah; regional

regulations) released by the provincial parliament made few

65

concessions to cultural institutions, Sasakist NGO’s used

Perekat Ombara as an example of a cultural institutions

capable of addressing formal economic conflicts. In a Bali

Post article (10/21/00) entitled, “Cultural Fact Abandoned”,

the financial (and not cultural) aspects of autonomy plans

left Lombok’s Sasak activists with little room for cultural

politics to assume a role:

“Cultural Fact Abandoned”

When regional autonomy was first announced its supporters

assumed that, in tandem with decentralized financial

administration of the nation, cultural empowerment would not

be far behind. Nevertheless, the ethical and moral

principles often quoted as part of the regional autonomy

discourse found no place in the recent provincial

regulations for NTB. Instead, the regional parliament (DPRD)

was more prone to “exploit” (exploitasi) economic ventures

at the district level than support the cultural basis that

bound the region’s identity.

The head of Dewan Sasak Muda Bersatu (The Council for Sasak

Youth Solidarity), Ir. Lalu Winegan, saw that there was

almost no mention of the cultural in the perda (regional

regulations) formulated by the parliament. In truth, the

problem of identity and ethnic self-respect in West Nusa

66

Tenggara (Bima, Lombok, Dompu, Sumbawa) must be given

priority so that they can compete, and only later focus on

the financial aspects of autonomy. “Without the cultural,

autonomy differs little from the absence of autonomy,

especially to the people.”

The Head of Pemban Selaparang, Moh. Ali B. Dahlan, indicated

that there are still signs of another ethnic group exerting

its influence over other ethnic groups (suku bangsa). “No

matter how small the ethnic group, it cannot be overrun by

mere regulations. The culture of the ethnic group will live

on and maintain its normative stamp on everyday life because

whatever the people support is equivalent to its wisdom,”

Dahlan added.

Traditions in North Lombok, for instance, could not be

stomped out with violence in any form. Because there are

times for certain ethnic groups to be silent and there are

moments when they will rise again (bangkit kembali). As

most people are aware, wetu telu of North Lombok were, in

the early New Order, charged with subversion to Islamic

teachings and then, later, thought to be communist (for the

benefit of certain groups). Even though, at the time, Wetu

Telu were only preserving their cultural principles.

67

Kamardi, the head of Perekat Ombara, stated in support of

his organization, “We are trying to recover the local wisdom

(kearifan lokal) that was once torn to shreds during the New

Order. For instance, terms such as pamusungan and other old

terms still familiar to our people were erased by national

terms like RW, RT, village head, etc.. But don’t mistake our

efforts with neo-feudalism. Because we have already proved

that our organization is capable of solving conflicts that

formal institutions cannot,” added Kamardi.

Kamardi’s statement has its reasons. When the Monggal forest

conflict came up, specifically in relation to environmental

destruction, the Perekat Ombara was able to mediate with the

company. As a result, the company, HPH PT Angka Wijaya,

decided to leave the area and abandon their project. In

response to the above statements, Reformation Fraction head,

M. Ikrom, admitted that the culture of the people must be

empowered. For that reason, we have drafted a regulation

stating that the village has authentic autonomy (otonomi

asli). The village as an autonomous unit will not be

subordinate to the district (kabupaten). The above

regulation wishes to reverse the effects of the UU5/1979

that centralized village governance according to the

structural authority of the state. Now we will return the

village to its original function. There will be a

traditional council (lembaga adat), village laws (awig-awig

68

desa). Like it or not, autonomy will return our regional

rights, and our village rights.”

The above newspaper article voices a mixture of

opinions worth some unpacking. The Mataram-based

organizations mentioned above, Perekat Ombara aside, focused

on ethnic culture as a monolithic Sasak identity capable of

empowering Sasaks against more powerful ethnic groups at the

level of the nation and province. Remembering that Desak

Datu Sasak (under Lalu Winengan quoted above) once held

demonstrations demanding that Sasak leaders be chosen for

minister (for proportional representation in the

presidential cabinet) and that Ali Dahlan (also quoted

above) argued for a more aggressive Neo-Sasakism to compete

at the national level, it would be difficult for regional

autonomy legislation to accommodate such ethno-nationalist

aspirations. In fact, their definitions of ethnicity and

proportional representation more resembled partisan Islamic

movements during the late New Order period (see ICMI) than a

culturalist approach to regional autonomy legislation.

Regional autonomy, for all of its weaknesses, was primarily

a retributive attempt to isolate (and put to use) regional

resources in the areas where they were collected.(Footnote).

The units for this collection and re-allocation were to be

reconciled at the district level. The implications of the

dissolution of New Order power structures had not, or so it

69

seemed, seeped into the rhetoric of Desak Datu or other

Mataram-based Sasakist NGO’s. Unfortunate for regional

autonomy advocates, Sasakist NGO’s notion of power remained

in the world of New Order power relations where the governor

and the president’s ministers served as the measure for

ethnic or religious power-in-the-State.

Perekat Ombara, on the other hand, endeavored to

strengthen villages against the whims of the parliament, the

State, or the dominant dakwah missionaries operating in

their regions. Regional autonomy, by the sound of it, would

help make such a desire defensible. Whether or not North

Lombok will ever be awarded district status (status

kabupaten) is, as of yet, unresolved. Meanwhile, in the

mini-histories written by Perekat Ombara facilitators and

traditional leaders we begin to get a sense of the micro-

level localities and power-relations in store for Perekat

Ombara’s romantic vision of the autonomous “village as

nation.”

Re-writing Legitimately Local Action:

The head of Perekat Ombara, Kamardi, is also the

village head of Bentek. Excerpts quoted from his “mapping”

will, contrasted against excerpts from a sampling of other

villages in Northern Lombok, reveal what kind of social

historiography he intended when he asked his fellow

facilitators and NGO members to research and re-write their

70

village spaces. As will become clear from other examples,

however, we will see how mapping historical spaces becomes

charged with muted memories and trapped aspirations only

bubbling to the surface at the outset of the regional

autonomy debate. Still greater is the contrast between the

tone of the 1997 article entitled, “Beware of Primordialism”

mentioned earlier in the chapter and the sentiments and hard

facts presented in the following excerpts.

“Mapping the Potential of Bentek Village as a

Data-base

In Northern Lombok”

Introduction:

The government of Bentek Village faces a challenge in the

development of our area specifically in the application of

regional autonomy legislation in Northern Lombok. The

situation is far from perfect. Put simply, each village is,

symbolically, a little country (negara kecil) unto itself.

Each village must struggle to develop its own area,

especially its social strengths, to make development

possible. Politically speaking this is also a strike

against the monolithic paradigm (paradigma penguasa tunggal)

that developed throughout the New Order in accordance with

national standardization of the political structure of the

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country according to national regulation, UU5/1979. This is

also an effort to clarify and support the opportunities

implicit in regional autonomy legislation UU22/1999.

The History of Bentek

Bentek Village was born only 9 years before the corrupt New

Order dictator, Suharto, was born. His nails stretched into

our village as with the rest of the nation making us one of

the poorest “left behind villages” (desa tertinggal) in all

of Western Lombok.

(Bentek, 2000,

p. 1-5)

After listing the composition of inhabitants according

to gender, religion (Muslim, Hindu, Buddhist) the author

also listed the sacred sites (pemaliq) of the village and

the rituals performed in them. He listed dance troupes and

traditional leaders as New Order village monographies listed

criminals or supervised families of the ’65 massacre.

Perekat Ombara also included new information and concerns

not necessarily in agreement with local traditions and

norms. For example, under the section devoted to gender

discrimination, the author wrote, “Women are still treated

as objects especially in divorce law where the woman has no

legal rights and divorce itself has the final say. The local

72

menyon or melembah inheritance rights of a divorcee provide

the woman with only 1/3 of her husband’s estate.” The

author highlighted the contrasts between development-related

policy implementation during the New Order and the reformist

present to emphasize the power of public participation over

authoritarian village rule. Comparing their Reformist style

of village governance with the New Order forms followed

prior to 1998 the author wrote the following:

Reformation Politics:

The communal unit is a gubuq. At the level of dusun

(hamlet) all decisions are made at the banjar meeting hall

and muzakarah (joint gatherings) at the Mesjid or Musholla

prayer room. All decisions regarding village development

are held through the Village Development Council. Prior to

discussion of a development topic, the topic is disseminated

for discussion first. Opposing parties are involved in all

discussions. The head of every dusun is elected directly and

through a free and secret ballot.

The 27 years under the New Order:

It was the opposite of reformation style governance. All

development related decisions were made by the Village head.

As a result banjar meeting pavilions were almost rendered

73

obsolete. Development was static. The Village head

alienated all Villagers who cast ballots in favor of parties

besides Golkar. Until now, the corrupt village officials of

the New Order have not been held accountable for their

crimes.

Health Conditions

Poorly trained traditional healers (dukun) and the absence

of a midwife (bidan) has kept the infant mortality rate of

the village at 55%.

(Bentek, 2000, 1-5)

The resurgence of village institutions, Perekat

Ombara’s success in defending their communities from clear

cutting timber corporations, and the persistent contrast

between “Bentek then” and “Bentek now” suggests that

villages and villagers within the Perekat Ombara network are

able to control and develop their communities as they see

fit. There are some communities, however, for which

experience during the New Order all but denied them any

means to recover their pre-New Order modes of economic

production. For instance, in the village of Malaka, tourism

development thugs had forced the people off of their

productive fields for hotel construction. As a result, the

74

people of the villages were forced to leave their families

to work as day laborers in Bali.

Malaka Village Mapping

Description of the Situation of Malaka:

There is not only bombing for fishing off the coast of

Malaka, the coral reefs off of the hamlet of Nipah are

bombed to mine coral blocks as big as a house. Local

residents are paid 15,000 rps. (US 1.50) per day to remove

the coral so that “the tourists don’t hurt their feet.” A

foreign hotel owner runs the project. Culture (Budaya) and

Adat (tradition) aren’t used any more. I asked people why

and they said, “There are too many of us and too many

opinions too!” Someone else added, “Adat could be

revitalized again but it would be hard in this place.”

We tried to build a mosque for our community based on

donations from our coconut fields. We built most of the

mosque in the 1980’s and then we were forced to sell our

land at a cheap price and had to leave the mosque as it was.

We didn’t want to sell our land but the officials told us,

“if you don’t want to sell it, you will be removed from your

land (digusur).” (New Order, 1989). Now we all wish we had

our fields back. Farmers relied on fishing for tuna off of

the coast of Lombok to make up for their lost fields. The

75

tuna were being over harvested in our area with no controls

on bombing or use of nets and we had almost no tuna for two

years. Almost all of the fishermen left for Bali to work as

laborers on hotel construction contracts. This is our

situation.

(Malaka, 2000, p. 2-10)

Villagers with no land, place with no space, may be the

among the hardest hurdles Perekat Ombara will have to face.

In the above description, the possibility of culture, the

high tones of adat, were all but laughed out of court by the

author’s interviewees. When there are no resources to farm,

no money to build with and no festivals to culture-ize, the

exercise of returning the village to the “people” may

require that, in Malaka at least, their land be returned

first.

The problems of Malaka are not unique. Even in Bayan,

the ur-local spring of Wetu Telu ritual and history,

contradictory economic features emerge where cultural and

political arguments might be waged. Part of the problem

comes from the splintering of the transformation of Bayan

the village into Bayan the sub-district in 1967. Out of the

rubble of 1965 controversies and “communist” purges emerged

Loloan Village, Bayan Village, and Anyar Village. Partly as

a result of the complicated partisan and religious

affiliations of Bayan’s multiple ritual and noble officials,

76

claims to authentic ties to religion, history and tradition

respectively are mapped in the now divided into four smaller

villages of what was once the Village (and kingdom) of

Bayan.

Whether ur-local center, or economically peripheral,

Perekat Ombara’s documents are the beginning of a long

process of self-configuration for Lombok’s Northern

villages. The Wetu Telu rise again? Not necessarily.

Discordant conceptions of whether religion should be

“adatified” or tradition “religionized” are bones of

contention with long histories and deep consequences in

North Lombok. Outside of Perekat Ombara’s initial successes

in both lobbying foreign investment out of their communities

and providing exemplary village-based security measures in

the face of modernist incursion, Northern Lombok’ peasantry

have very few political cards to play at the provincial

level. Until they do, Boda Buddhist communities such as

those in Tebango will hesitate to re-adopt, publicly and

vocally, their desire to re-embrace the traditions Buddhism

taught them to leave.

This was most obvious when Amaq M., Tebango’s leading

Buddhist leader and modernist proponent of Baudayana

77

Buddhism, reminded me of a fact he refuses to overlook.

Amaq M. explained:

“The progenitors of Boda communities came to Lombok at

different times. We have different traditions, different

adat, different dialects. Sure, there was some assimilation

with Hindu and Islamic custom over centuries of

intermingling, but our ancestors were Buddhists from Java.

We were not Wetu Telu Sasaks who refused to embrace Islam.

We were and are still, Buddhists. So what if our mortuary

rituals fall on the same days as the Islamic communities.

Yes, we did practice Hindu Balinese rituals when I was still

a boy. Then we rediscovered our Buddhist identity in the

1970’s and relearned the true teachings of the Buddha and we

had an opportunity to leave that all behind. We couldn’t do

this too quickly, of course. Our pemangku wouldn’t have it.

They were illiterate and confused by the new teachings. Over

time, however, these confused traditions will disappear and

be replaced by our true authentic, modern teachings. If the

rest of Northern Lombok wants to say that we are all the

same and share the same history it will disturb our efforts

to become better Buddhists. If only we could rid ourselves

of all this tradition!”

When faced with Perekat Ombara’s propositions, Amaq M.

recoiled. He, the modern Buddhayana pluralist, argued that

each northern community, each communal self, arrived in

78

Lombok independent of the rest. Although the ties to Bayan

and Tanjung are obvious their rituals are often radically

different, the priestly lines and titles organized along

different ritual domains and cultural practices. As

independent communal selves, their claims to modernity are

equally diverse and their rights to them autonomous unto

themselves. In effect, Amaq M. appeared to be saying that,

regional autonomy or not, Tebango Boda Buddhists were

historically and religiously Buddhists. Liberatory or not,

to join Perekat Ombara’s celebration of northern tradition

would leach authority from their modern claim to historical

religiosity (over tradition) and immanent reform of adat

institutions.

Amaq M. had sent all of his children to the university.

He had sold his property, put himself in debt to local loan

sharks and worked day and night at local construction

projects to bring his goals to fruition. Did Perekat Ombara

discredit these goals? Did this novel desire for Sasak-wide

identity and tradition under regional autonomy threaten the

modernist efforts to develop and educate one’s family,

villages and communities? It was only too obvious that Amaq

M. had replaced his land, wealth and waking days so that his

children (and the children of Tebango) could have the

opportunities to be treated as equal, modern citizens judged

79

not by their “bumpkin” origins but by their performance,

education and rank.

The painful question is, as always, was this a

realistic choice? The painful answer is, to put a chapter

into a phrase, it was the only one available at the time.

Amaq M.’s educated children and brother, after finishing

their university degrees, had all returned home to roost.

They were unemployed, had no connections with officials, and

found field labor to be beneath them. Tremendous bribes were

required of applicants (even for NGO’s) without high-level

contacts or superior attributes to the hundreds of other

university level applicants stewing on the pavilions of

their village homes. Perekat Ombara, irregardless of their

occasional attempts to homogenize northern culture, had

ushered in a few important questions to stay. Amaq M.’s

goals were important and desperately needed by Tebango’s

historically neglected youth and uneducated elders.

Buddhism had taught Tebango’s residents to read, recite, and

identify themselves with a modern, international religion

known for its high morals, philosophical integrity and

peaceful bearing towards the world. It had also, part in

parcel with the transformations ushered into the village by

New Order development strategies, cut down the sacred trees,

neglected the sacred sites (pemaliq) and turned the path of

the ancestors into a porters path for palm wine. Lands had

been sold, and Boda labor had moved to Bali. Over 40% of

80

Tebango land holdings were mortgaged against outstanding

loans to land poor loan sharks in Pemenang Timor. In the

course of thirty years, Tebango had moved from the position

of one of the wealthiest communities in their sub-district

to the poorest dusun of their already destitute village of

Pemenang Timor.

Perekat Ombara had a point. They wanted to protect

North Lombok’s dwindling forest resources. They wanted to

strengthen of village-level decision making bodies and the

recognize customary law (adat) as a potential source for the

protection of valuable watersheds and conflict mediation

methods. Romanticism aside, these efforts did appear to be

the only option going in transitionally autonomous Northern

Lombok. With rumors of riots and pamswakarsa aggression

forever filling the air, there was strength in numbers even

if it was the loosely assembled kind that comes from a

federation of northern villages. Perekat Ombara didn’t want

to push North Lombok into a bygone era of famine and

illiteracy. Perekat Ombara was not against education. If

anything, Perekat Ombara acknowledged education as

consisting of diverse modes of knowledge that they felt, for

the past several centuries, had bound their communities

together. Whether or not Amaq M. recognized other

communities’ claims to a homogenizing bond, the deities of

Bayan, Gondang, Tanjung and other Northern villages continue

to be invited to attend Tebango’s Boda Buddhist rites and

81

maturan rituals. Whether Amaq M. argued that only Tebango

had the “trueist” Javanese heritage of the North, other

Sasak language speakers around the island continue to refer

to Boda and Wetu Telu dialects as Northern speak or, Basa

Daya. Perekat Ombara had become a survivable compromise

where Boda Buddhists and Muslim Sasaks of the North could

use their numbers, use their identities and use their

hitherto “primitive” knowledge to protect and further

develop themselves and their communities.

Amaq M. and the Tebango Boda leaders had difficult

decisions to make. Over the past century, their community

had worn many masks, assumed many identities. They had

fought as the exalted warriors of Lombok’s Balinese colonial

courts. They had used the ancer blowgun to ward off

conversion from Pan-Islamists from Turkey. They had adopted

Hindu-Balinese ritual as their own and rallied behind their

religious flag for protection. After Suharto stepped into

power, his strong-arm concensus building forced Boda to

adopt yet another, this time officially sanctioned, Buddhist

identity. During the heyday of New Order religious

modernity, they assumed still more diverse “ideological”

sectarian positions, one implying the erasure of tradition

the other a negotiated adoption of a Javanized (and thus

civilized) past. Amaq M., like many of the Boda elders of

Tebango, appear to be waiting for a sign from above, a

moment when the powers of Jakarta will turn up the heat

82

again and set the script straight for minorities like the

Boda to imitate.

The young Buddhist initiates of the bawe-bawean rituals

and the hepatitic visionary, Rediassim, have a different

sense of things. They have been given the opportunity to

become wanen (courageous). “Our elders (tuaq loqaq) gave up

the ancer and our blowgun to the government officials back

in the seventies. They were scared and impressed by the

lowland (teben) officials. We’ll die before we give up the

blowgun again. It belongs to us and its sap is in our

blood,” Amaq K. said to me before I left Tebango in the

Summer of 1999. So much had changed since those first

months in the Spring of 1998 when Tebango folks commented

that politics were too far away in Jakarta, with the wealthy

students and their mission, to even force an opinion on the

simple Boda folk of Tebango. Over the past two and a half

years their men had left for labor in Bali, their village

had been threatened by masses of angry Muslim youth, and

their ancestral warriors had acquired the military ranks of

the very men and institutions they feared (and revered) the

most. Their backs had been gorged in bawe-bawean initiation

rites, their leaders had grown increasingly despondent, and

their youth inspired by hunter hero, Rediassim, who

recovered the sacred ancer trees through the guidance of his

forest spirit spouse. They were far away now from Amaq M.’s

famous line announced only a year hence: “the integrity of a

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man’s soul can be measured by the construction quality of

his house of worship”.

Development, with a capital D, remained important but

its resonance, its integrated veracity permeating religious,

institutional, educational and public modes of discursive

authority was being replaced with something profoundly new

and yet resonantly familiar to the local. The veracity of

the past and its presence in the landscapes, emotional and

political, of Tebango residents had resurfaced within the

power dimensions of the present. To some this was a turn

back, a resistance to progress, while to others, like the

elderly woman trance medium Bapuq Sutingin, it was the

rediscovery of Tebango’s muted reality. If Mauss and Hubert

are right, and the victim, in any sacrifice, is sacralized

as placebo to the fate of sacrifier, Tebango’s ancestral

voice, sacrificed to the political forces of modernism, was

sacralized once more to find victims in the neophyte youth

of Tebango’s new ritualized pamswakarsa. The ancestral

military, generals and lieutenants alike, possessed the aged

grandmother trance-medium to demand that Tebango become men

once again and running like mock pigs and mock dogs, evoke

the powers of the forest spirits to fool their enemies. “To

Islam, your village will appear to them as a sea, and your

fields impenetrable forests. The war cry of the seven

priests alone will sound like the screams of thousands

(segubuq-gubuq),” the ancestors told the new initiates.

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Tebango’s power rest not only in the missiles of the ancer

tree but also in the illusory powers it provided Tebango’s

descendents. Tebango’s credibility to the Muslim majority

lay not in the structural “integrity” of their houses of

worship or even in their ancestral army. It lay instead in

the future of its illusion.

After this ritual was complete, the blowgun was hidden

away and the ancer darts placed far from human hands. They

were powerful now, more powerful than the banyan trees of

their pemaliq or the ancer dart sap flowing beneath the

wounds of Tebango’s gouged initiates. Pemenang Timor, the

village of which Tebango was but a piece, had a new set of

heroes. When the village of Pemenang Timor wrote its history

for Perekat Ombara, they did not write about how the

military forced them to confess their faith and prophets

back in 1972 or how every election was a Golkar election.

Nor did they write about how the communities of the village

had histories and copper inscriptions linking them to Java

and the Buddhist lineages of golden age Majapahit. Instead,

they wrote the history that had made Pemenang famous, the

story of Tebango and their brave priests. It was not a

history of origins so much as it was a confession to a feat,

a feat that had conquered the Islamist rebellions and

invited the Dutch to attack the Dutch. It was the role

Pemenang, literally “Victorious”, had played in Lombok and

national history. This was a history separate from the

85

authenticity claims of the wetu telu but revealing of what

muted histories are bubbling to the surface after three

decades of silent consensus:

Mapping Survey of the Village of Pemenang

Timur

Pemenang used to be a part of the kingdom of Anak

Agung, the Balinese king of Mayura. Anak Agung’s sakti was

unrivaled throughout Lombok. Aside from the sakti powers of

Anak Agung, his soldiers also possessed other sakti powers

equally famous throughout the island. One of these soldiers

was from Pemenang. He was an old man who went by the name

of “Bapuq Bayang” or Grandpa Bayang. Grandpa Bayang’s most

famous powers were among the following:

1) Other kingdoms sakti powers were rendered useless if

they approached Pemenang beginning with the Bentek

bridge (to the North) and ending with Menggala

(Southwest).

2) He also possessed internal spiritual powers (ilmu

dalam) capable of forcing those who wished to bring

chaos to the village out of their region.

It so happened that the powers of Pemenang became known

and feared by other kingdoms in the area. Anak Agung’s

kingdom was never disturbed. It so happened that the

86

pendekar Pemenang (Pemenang’s soldiers) were once asked

to bring peace to the area of Praya when chaos and

violence (kekacauan dan keributan) overwhelmed the

area. Anak Agung sent the soldiers from Pemenang to

solve the problems in Praya and, at long last, they

prevailed.

It so happens that many of Pemenang’s residents still

believe in the powers of these great warriors. Many

residents outside of Pemenang, especially healers

(dukun; belian), believe in the tale (kisah) as well.

Pemenang’s fictional figure, “Bayang” (literally,

shadow, illusion) did not come from any specific dusun or

“gubuq” in Pemenang Timor’s history. Instead, he was merely

a sakti (mystically powerful) figure capable of rendering

other kingdom’s sakti worthless in their region. There was

no mention of the pemaliq (sacred sites) surrounding Tebango

and their ritual domain or the spirits invoked to ward off

the powers of other kingdoms or rioters. There was only the

history of a village victorious (pemenang) beneath the

colonial power of Balinese kings. Over a century had passed

since this historic moment and yet no other history, the

arrival of its inhabitants, their ritual practices or

religious diversity was mentioned. There was only Bayang,

the illusory hero of Pemenang and Tebango.

87

Even though Pemenang’s village (consisting of many

hamlets) history draws almost entirely from the

accomplishments of dusun-level “sakti” (from Tebango), such

is it written. With the re-emergence of Pemenang heroes,

both ritually and historically, even Mataram-level

historians re-interpreted the Tebango’s lore as formative of

its modern experience during the New Order. During our

discussion, the historian made no mention of Sang Aji Demen

or Sri Lumendung Sari, the co-founders of Jeliman Ireng and,

later, Tebango inscribed in the copper village charters of

Tebango. When I inquired into the politics behind why he

thought the Boda communities were not terrorized as heavily

by the military in the 1960’s and 1970’s he referred not to

the Islamization strategies of the dakwah missionaries but

instead to the famed Tebango ancer tree. The old historian

explained, “The military wouldn’t dare. Everyone knows how

powerful the Tebango priesthood was back during the Praya

wars. The risks were too high to wage a full-scale

conversion effort on Tebango. As far as I know, that tree

of theirs hasn’t re-emerged since the Praya wars. When it

does, whoever dare attack the Boda of Tebango had better

think twice.” Given that we were speaking at a Pesantren

Islamic boarding school in Northern Lombok (where the

resident Muslim cleric claimed he brought enlightenment to

the primitive people of the North) I chose not to tell him

that the tree had reappeared and that, in fact, the Boda had

88

initiated yet another group of neophyte warriors. He would

learn soon enough.

Back in Tebango things had, indeed, changed. Tebango

men returned from working in Bali were initiated into bawe-

bawean rites every six months according to their leave from

labor. Only a few years earlier, Tebango Boda men were so

proud of taking off time for work for their nationally

recognized Buddhist holiday, Weisak. Now they found time to

return to Tebango to run with Rediassim and the priestly

lineage and turn their backs to be gouged and, later, healed

by Bapuq Sutingin. As with other pamswakarsa groups in

Western Lombok, however, the ancestors cautioned the new

initiates against “saling nguji” (testing their powers

against others). News of Tebango’s bawe-bawean rites had

spread far and wide. One never knew when, or if, Praya would

want to get even some day. Their ancestral sakti would only

work if they were in real danger. The Boda never sold their

blowgun to the Marines, nor did they divorce themselves from

modernist Buddhism. Much was still the same in Tebango, as

was true of Indonesia.

Something had changed and was changing still. It is

the naming of it, and the separation of the pervasive from

the isolated particular, that is most difficult. Once again,

the distinction between the two seems to rest ambivalently

in their area where Soleh felt most comfortable: military

conspiracy and katharsis of unresolved issues. Pamswakarsa’s

89

and militant Islam were more powerful, more particularly

aligned in their various areas of operation than ever

before. Then again, the Indonesian public was no longer

surprised by the various groups’ operations. Even in

Jakarta, the troublemakers were neighborhood kids now and

not hired hands from other regions. Demonstrations and the

public execution of thieves were more commonplace now and

their actors more familiar. What were more puzzling were

the issues that these hundreds of new groups formed to face.

For instance, ambivalently nationalist Ex-Timorese militia

leaders such as Enrico Guiterres ran anti-leftist book

burning rallies to wipe out the “communist threat” in a

country arguably more politically conservative than during

the New Order days. In fact, in a rather humorous interview

inquiring into the Timorese militia leader’s interest in

fighting terrorism, Guiterres answered that if he didn’t

burn all of the Marxist literature being printed by

Indonesia’s recently liberated presses, “Indonesia will be

overrun by capitalism.” Still other groups, such as the

Muslim militant group, Gerakan Pemudah Kab’ah, were found

eating at a local McDonald’s in Yogyakarta, Central Java

after an exhausting day of tracking down American tourists

in the city’s numerous five-star hotels.

It is too easy to identify the superficial ironies of

global capitalism or recycled nationalisms of the sort that

Guiterres had involved himself. Could it be, after so many

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decades of struggling to be a revolutionary nation (with

Sukarno), an oppressively authoritarian development miracle

(under Suharto) or a more Muslim reformist country (watching

Gus Dur) that Indonesia had happened upon itself in all of

its marvelous and troubling diversity?

We need only to return to Soleh, as I did, in late

2001, once again on his front veranda of his home in

Mataram. Life was busy once again at Soleh’s roost where he

had, a year earlier, shared his theory that pornography had

found a voice in his political fantasies (or was it the

other way around). This time, I came to visit him and ask

him what he thought about September 11th, Megawati

Sukarnoputri’s instatement in office, and, basically, to

hear what was on his mind. He appeared relaxed now. He no

longer assumed the position of the passionate activist,

leaning forward on his knees, issuing commands to young

lieutenants. Instead, he reclined and, tugging pensively on

his kretek cigarette, explained the new strategies of the

times:

Interview with Soleh

Mataram

After September 11th, public opinion was designed to focus

only on Osama Bin Laden. We have to look at the similarities

between the riots here on January 17th and the problems of

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Afghanistan. Al Quaeda was involved here. I think that is

transparent. Both events were used to manipulate pulblic

opinion through the media. I met with one of the organizers

of the riots of 17th of January yesterday and S. said that

he intended to expand his network across SARA lines

(religious, ethnic, communal). We have been talking about

the threats of “sweeping” against foreigners and Americans

here. S. (riot organizer) said he wanted to discuss the

problems of “solidarity” (Islam against the US) and jihad.

Jaringanya I told him, “You will create the same situation

you created prior to the January riots. Those who choose not

to be involved will be accused of not being real Muslims.”

Secondly, the solidarity against the US will be used to

criticize Megawati’s (US friendly) new government. This is

all related to regional economics and bargaining positions

for a future piece of the regional autonomy pie. I just

want to remind the local government officials (Pemda) that

the problems in Afghanistan are based not in religious

commitments but in international relations. Once that sinks

in, only then should they invite religious and local leaders

to come on board. HMI (Islamic students Association) and

all the other religious groups are pro-jihad. If they

really want to get over their problems, invite Tuan Guru and

respected ulama to discuss the matters at hand. Don’t invite

these upstarts. Luckily Haji Achmat (the head of the

national hotel association in Lombok) lobbied all of

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Lombok’s Tuan Guru to make an anti-sweeping statement. It

worked. Then HMI and FPI (Forum for the Defense of Islam,

radical) agreed not to conduct sweeping raids for foreigners

or tourists.

I have taken a back seat in local politics. Instead, I

have decided to support the younger generation to take my

place. Otherwise, they will just attack me and my family

once more. Now I am supporting GEMAS (The Movement for the

Sasak People) to counter balance Desak Datu Sasak (the Sasak

Youth Movement). They used to work with Desak Datu in their

anti-outsider campaing. For instance, their first seminar

was entitled, “Semua Pendatang Diusir” (Remove the

Outsiders!). Their mission was no different from the Buku

Kuning Sasak movement back in the 1980’s: replace

conservative non-Sasak’s with conservative Sasak nobles.

Their backers were none other than the same crowd who

organized the Mataram riots. The Javanese NGO’s and

beaureaucrats were the targets.

The Gemas students were lost after their leaders were

investigated for starting the riots in January, 2000. I

approached them to see how committed they really were to

this ethno-nationalist movement. I saw that they were just

green, easily guided and idealistic. I took them with me to

the areas where I had defended land cases. I told them, “We

need to do real work like this, not seminars!”

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They saw my work and also saw that I was the only one

doing it. I’ve been working with them for six months now. I

let them use my car and fill them with patriotic spirit. I

asked that they replace me and take over my work. They

broke off of Desak Datu. Lalu Winengan, Desak Datu Head

said, “If you’re working with Soleh I want nothing to do

with you.”

Then we heard it all. The men behind the

ethnonationaliss were really being paid off by the governor

to hold off his provincial rivials and get the Javanese out

of the strategic government positions. Desak Datu was used

to replace all of these officials. Provincial sons (West

Nusatenggara natives) in Jakarta paid bribes to the deposed

Javanese officials so that they could take over their

positions. The West Nusatenggara provincial sons from

Jakarta started filing in to fill the vacancies left by the

Javanese. Gemas was involved in making the bribes.

Once they were out of that network I put them on TV,

called the journalists over to get them some popularity.

Now they are more popular than Desak Datu and are feeling

good. “I give them all the Sasak related cases. I tell them,

“Why should a Balinese be doing all this work. Sasaks should

help Sasaks too.” Finally they started taking over issues

like narcotics and corruption. They called the students to

run an anti-sweeping campaign. They even rejected pan-

Islamic solidarity and jihad. You see I told them, “When

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the Afghani refugees fled the Taliban to live in Lombok, you

never showed them any attention, gave them food. Were they

not Muslims? Taliban are roters. They formed a network and

headed a coup against a legitimate Muslim government. Are

these the men you want to fight and die for?”

What about all of these Sasak groups, like MAS (The

Society for Sasak Tradition)

Majelis Adat Sasak (MAS) was formed only after the

military lost their hold on the country. The Sasak nobles

were in the military’s pocket during the New Order so, after

their power decreased, the nobles were without a backer.

The power of PDI-P in parliament (national and local) also

threatened their Golkar state party basis. They wanted to

maintain their authority through a combination of religion

and tradition so they formed MAS. It was headed by the vice-

governor, Pak Asahar. When he wanted to extend his position

as vice-governor MAS supported his appeal. The first

victims of MAS hegemony were the dominant Javanese NGO’s.

They used Desak Datu to put pressure on their Javanese

rivals because they received all of the contracts from the

donors. They formed Pepasek (Pemuda Sasak: Sasak Youth).

(pemuda Sasak) throughout Mataram (Kodya).

Slowly the district head and Mayor got wind of the

broad political shifts happening and started trying to form

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village-level organizations. Perampauan was a success

against Amphibi. Amphibi and Bujak, Ababil in Central

Lombok, were all being run by experienced maling (criminals)

and taking out their rivals one-by-one. They coordinated

their efforts with authorities and seriously threatened any

democratic life in Lombok. The village level pamswakarsa’s

are tough too but at least they are in the village and

listen to their leaders. Their numbers are smaller, their

mission defensive. There have been problems though.

For instance, in Pemenang (my interest tweeked), there

is a new pamswakarsa called Pemenang Bersatu (unite

Pemenang). I went up there on a land case where Amphibi

from Mataram had beaten up people with legitimate claims on

sold land. I met Amaq E. (the troubled ex-military assassin

living in Pemenang) and he decided to form a pamswakarsa

with some other friends in Pemenang. In a month’s time

Amphibi was running scared and Ababil in Central Lombok was

threatened to a whimper. Pemenang feared outside pamswakarsa

no more. Of course, I worry like you do whether E. can

control himself.

The problem is, if I give up now the lost generation

(generasi yang punah) of the economic crisis will be

crushed. My concern is the hightening of Sasak awareness

towards the world, their rights in the nation. My mission

has been all but sucked dry by the ethno-nationalist hard

liners. In the old days, all the officials used to live

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like celebrities. The nobles were used to intimidate the

people to vote for Golkar. Now they have MAS (Sasak

Tradition Society). They are re-creating feudalism under the

auspices of “autonomous tradition” and religon. Tuan Guru

Sibaway (Amphibi head), Rauhun (NW leader in Anjani) and

Raihanun (NW leader in Pancor). They all have pamswakarsa,

they are always behind a conflict of some sort. Is this

religion? They are all children of the founders of the

movement to educate Sasak’s poor. Their fathers were great

men. Can they not live by their example instead of fighting

over inheritance?

Are these Islamic leaders pushing for a more

egalitarian society (reformasi anti-Menak)? This isn’t a

matter of influence either. The ulama (muslim clerics) are

working with the nobles not as an effect of structural

reformation of noble-commoner hierarchies. They are just

taking advantage of an opportunity to seize power. The

effects are deep and troubling. For instance, if a commoner

(Amaq jajar karang) goes on the Haj, when he comes home

people call him Mamieq (nobleman). It has been like this for

the past ten years in West Lombok. People have even started

doing this in North Lombok. Even the Haji’s children are

called Mamiek (nobleman). They call themselves Mamiek.

They want nothing to do with their commoner names. The

ulama (muslim clerics) see this move as a victory? It is

different with NW in the East. NW and the nobles are

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hesitant to gather forces. That makes it easy to pit them

against one another. It makes it easy to push for a radical

Islamic cause. We need to push for some kind of binding

nationalist spirit. Otherwise, democracy will die here.

Once again, I left Soleh with my head spinning. He had

come back from his pornographic fantasies to reveal, once

more, a powerful critique of power-relations during the era

of regional autonomy. What had transformed in his life

appeared as much a part of his personal commitments to

change as it was to the effects of a regional grounding of

politics.

The conspiratorial dimensions of Soleh’s previous

delusions had narrowed to a new grammar of grounded, Lombok

specific, political relations and scenarios. The “dark

forces” of change were not ephemeral military agents linked

to international pornography cartels. Instead, they rest in

the long standing powers and political moves of the island’s

two most powerful modern groups: West Lombok Sasak nobility

and Eastern Islamic modernism. Soleh no longer defined

“action” as demonstrations but instead as concrete advocacy

and the conversion of ethno-nationalist primordialists into

advocacy-oriented activists. GEMAS, the Sasak youth

movement, was one such example. He had, or so he claimed,

helped turn these youth into the heroic homebred activists

that he, an alienated Balinese noble, had once so desired to

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become. Instead of identifying his ethnicity as yet another

symptom of how his rivals would destroy him, he used his

“Balineseness” as a motivating rhetorical skill to get the

Sasak youth to look after their own people (“Why should a

Balinese be doing all this for the Sasaks. It’s about time a

Sasak works on behalf of Sasaks). Digging still deeper,

Soleh was able to release himself from the citizen vs. the

Military State paradign that once grounded his delusions in

2000. Instead, he began to identify how the cultural capital

of nobility and Haji-status had, to the residents of Western

Lombok, converged upon one another to the effect of a

counter-egalitarian Status marker. Haji, and their children

were addressed as Mamieq (nobleman). “They even call

themselves Mamieq!” Soleh protested in amazement.

Although I found Soleh’s links between Al Quaeda and

the January 2000 riots to be a stretch, he himself seemed to

see them more as political capital for Islamic radicals on

the island than a real symptom of a immanent attacks against

Americans on Lombok. Regional autonomy legislation had, for

all of its weaknesses, helped to bring politics home to

roost. The military under Megawati was as powerful as ever.

Nevertheless, its national scope, its hierarchical

uniformity appeared to lag behind the complicated inter-

communal struggles tugging and tearing at politically,

ethnically and religiously charged groups scattered across

Lombok. Amphibi’s modernist claims to moral authority were

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being replaced, steadily, with a turn towards village-level

autonomy and control. There were no “oknum-oknum gelap” or

phantom-like mercenaries looming over the nation’s

communities. Communal foes and allies had names now.

“Provocateur” (provokator), the category almost unanimously

assigned to the military, had addresses and interests, bank

accounts and positions. Was this democracy? Who knows? At

the very least, it appeared to be less of a recipe for

disaster than a new form of participatory and most

definitely, mulitiply-local, politics.

Out of the regional autonomy discourses,

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Bali Post Article: The North Lombok movement.

Pak Kamardi

Datu Artadi

Adat pushes Timber Out

New Form of Activism

New Style of Discursive Identity Building

New Pamswakarsa

New Villages

Dakwah foundations, dakwah revisited

Politics of Entitlement

A. Bayan insisted that he be fined for marrying during

the fasting month.

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B. Local NGO’s agreed.

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