The Battle for History after Suharto (van Klinken, 2001)

van Klinken, G. (2001). The battle for history after Suharto: Beyond sacred dates, great men, and legal milestones. *Critical Asian Studies, 33*(3), 323–350. https://doi.org/10.1080/14672710122604 PDF: 02 Secondary Sources/2.2 1965 Violence, Memory and Historiography/van Klinken (2001) - The Battle for History after Suharto.pdf PDF PAGES 1 to 29 of 29. Text from the PDF text layer where present, otherwise Tesseract OCR (ind+eng); OCR errors remain. === [PDF page 1] === Critical Asian Studies ISSN: 1467-2715 (Print) 1472-6033 (Online) Journal homepage: www.tandfonline.com/journals/rcra20 THE BATTLE FOR HISTORY AFTER SUHARTO: Beyond Sacred Dates, Great Men, and Legal Milestones Gerry van Klinken To cite this article: Gerry van Klinken (2001) THE BATTLE FOR HISTORY AFTER SUHARTO: Beyond Sacred Dates, Great Men, and Legal Milestones, Critical Asian Studies, 33:3, 323-350, DOI: 10.1080/14672710122604 To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1080/14672710122604 Published online: 09 Nov 2010. Submit your article to this journal Article views: 585 View related articles Citing articles: 1 View citing articles Full Terms & Conditions of access and use can be found at https://www.tandfonline.com/action/journalInformation?journalCode=rcra20 === [PDF page 2] === Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001), 323-350 TH E B ATTLE FOR H I STORY AFTE R SU H AR TO B eyond Sacred Dates, G reat M en, and Legal M il estones G erry van K li nken Historical discourse has become an important aspect of post-Suharto Indonesian politics. The nationalist instrumentalization of the past, always strong in Indonesia, took on a martial aspect under the New Order. Even today, the establishment remains reluctant to abandon it. But new visions of history have arisen out of the widespread protests against the New Order. Some preserve the form of a martial nationalist historiography, but displace it to the regions (especially Aceh and Papua), thus turning it against Jakarta. Others, both at a national and a local level, embrace more societal historiographies in which the state and national unity are not idealized, and in which internal conflict is not taboo. When Indonesian President Habibie announced in late January 1999 that an independence ballot would be held in East Timor, teachers there panicked. The teachers association pleaded with Jakarta to transfer out the non-locals among its teachers, saying they were being constantly harassed. “Their presence is rejected by the bulk of society,” the association said. Soon after, money was made available to move thousands of them out.1 A year later, the same thing happened in what is now officially called Papua (formerly Irian Jaya, or West Papua in much Western activist terminology). History teachers in remote highland postings in February 2000 found themselves fleeing to the safety of town after parents threatened them for teaching a version of national history in which Papuans had no role. 2 Nor was the post-authoritarian revolt against official versions of history confined to Indonesia’s “colonial” periphery. In West Kalimantan, a teacher confessed: “To be honest, our students often accuse us of lying to them, for example about the Communist Party and the 11 March letter of 1966 [in which General ISSN 1467-2715 print / 1472-6033 online / 03 / 000323-28 ©2001 BCAS, Inc. === [PDF page 3] === Suharto obtained wide-ranging emergency powers from President Sukarno — see below]. It hurts, but it is an occupational hazard. We’re just sticking to what the government has laid down.” 3 Pressure of this kind — as well as internal criticisms that often preceded the public outcry — led Habibie’s education minister to initiate a review of the school curriculum. As we shall see, the review limped along for a couple of years before being buried under the weight of institutional inertia. Such neglect will not restore the faith here so obviously lost. Ever since nationalism became a key new element in the nation-states of Western Europe in the early nineteenth century, history has been conscripted in order to define a national identity that suits modern demands. In Indonesia, historical argument early on became an important weapon in the anti-colonial discourse.4 After independence the precariousness of the state, as most Indonesian elites soon perceived it, lent the “history for nation-building” project a sense of urgency and raised its stakes. Nationalism has inclusive, democratizing forms that emphasize attachment to a set of political ideas and institutions (sometimes called “civic nationalism,” following Kohn), as well as exclusionary, essentialist forms that highlight myths of origin (“cultural nationalism” or “ethnic nationalism”). The nation-building project in Indonesia has made use of both of these forms, while co-opting them for a statist ideology that was asserted in the mass media and especially in the classroom.5 School history lessons, ignoring every other social, cultural, and economic dynamic, turned the previous three centuries into one continuous struggle for the Indonesian state against an array of enemies — first the colonial Dutch, then internal enemies such as communists and separatists. The loss of faith among Indonesian pupils in 1999-2000 signified a revolt against a historical discourse that has been mainstream since the Japanese Occupation. Klooster, in his survey of Indonesian historiography, describes how the Japanese introduced the anti-colonial historiography of Muhammad Yamin and Sukarno into Indonesia’s formal schooling during 1942-45.6 These two ardent and romantic nationalists had in the 1930s developed a three-stage concept of Indonesian history for use in their struggle. Sukarno called it the trimurti: What about activating nationalism? How do you bring it to life? There are three steps. First, we show the people that the life they led long ago was a good life; second, we intensify the realization that theirs is a dismal life today; third, we turn their gaze to the bright and shining rays of a future day, and we show them ways to reach that promise-filled hour. In other words, the PNI [Sukarno’s nationalist party] arouses and activates in the masses an awareness of their “bounteous past,” their “dark ages,” and the “promise of a brightly beckoning future.” 7 (emphasis in original) The first national school history text, written under the Japanese, remained in print for many years. Its author, Sanusi Pane, a mild-mannered and sophisticated intellectual, later acknowledged with some regret that his textbook was a history of wars. Other authors followed, equally gifted, yet equally unable to extract themselves from the idea that history’s main task is to create patriots. 324 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 4] === Muhammed Ali was Indonesia’s major historiographer during the Sukarno period. He too held sophisticated, original ideas, wanted to write a history of “ordinary” Indonesians, and rejected Yamin’s romanticism about the past. Yet he approved of government intervention in history writing to promote a national mentality. Only one participant in the key “history seminar” that brought together Indonesian historians for the first time in 1957, Soedjatmoko, argued that history should not be used to promote nationalism.8 Official nationalist history took a martial turn under Suharto’s New Order — a turn not unlike that once promoted by the Japanese. Its mandarin was Nugroho Notosusanto, who directed the military historical center (Pusat Sejarah Abri) before becoming education minister in the early 1980s. Under his supervision, the historical establishment churned out one cardboard cutout “national hero” biography after another. Nugroho also directed the writing of the key final volume of the six-part official national history text Sejarah Nasional Indonesia (1975). This dealt with Indonesia’s living history, from 1945 to 1965. It was largely this volume (or rather the school texts based on it) that provoked the backlash described above. Its stark anti-communism privileged the military as national saviors at every crucial moment. The sheer anti-intellectualism of this particular martial view of national history, reinforced by countless monuments, films, and national commemorations, must bear much of the responsibility for the appalling historical ignorance even among liberal arts university students today.9 In private, Indonesian historians often squirmed at the manipulations that this monological project required of them — so many biographies (no doubt interesting in their own right) forced into the narrow mold of the “national hero,” so many internal conflicts (the seeds of change in any unconscripted history) written out of the record, so much context abandoned the better to see great men and glorious moments. Yet when the publication date approached for a new school textbook, they usually complied. The alternative, they told themselves, seemed to be confusion and chaos.10 Indonesia’s leading elder historian, Sartono Kartodirdjo, said in 1997 that he had not changed his mind on the importance of history in the nation-building project since the history seminar of forty years earlier. National history was a “symbol of Indonesian national identity,” he said, and therefore had to have a high “affective value” for its young consumers.11 More to the point, most historians were dependent on the state. Bintang Prakarsa has shown that protest against what the historian Taufik Abdullah called the “hegemonic knowledge” of the state in the historical area was limited to a few individuals. Mostly Western-trained academic historians, they felt outnumbered by the well-endowed and well-connected “state intellectuals” and their equally dependent “educator” colleagues, and they kept their protest muted.12 Yet all notions — even those of national identity — are fragile. When the press in 1 998 ex ploded some of the key historical myths upon which the nation-building project had been built, and parents began to accuse hapless teachers around the country of teaching “lies,” the custodians of national van Klinken/Battle for History 325 === [PDF page 5] === history faced a difficult choice. They could transform their subject into something more popular and less statist, or try to hang on to the old formula. So far, it looks as if they have chosen the latter course. Their indebtedness to state officials, and hence their inability to respond creatively to societal pressures, exacerbated the legitimacy deficit of Indonesian nationalism created by Suharto’s militarism. However, the battle for history after Suharto was not theirs alone. Out in the marketplace of ideas, now much less controlled by state censors, were a host of alternative histories, whose persuasive power could determine not merely the future of the nation-building project, but perhaps that of the Indonesian nation itself. As I have argued elsewhere, the Indonesian nation-state has been conditioned since colonial times as a centralized and non-democratic affair. The 1950s saw an experiment in both decentralization and democratization, but this effort was undone by the military. In many ways Indonesia has served Indonesians badly. 13 The emergence of alternative histories heralds new beginnings that we should welcome in principle. “History,” in what follows, is not the stuff of specialized academic journals (which in any case in Indonesia today resemble ivory towers where academics hide from the demands of nationalist politics). 14 It is the important stories about the past that to some extent have become common property. Everyone can read the stories in school texts, newspapers, and books, or see them in films and on television, and can then discuss them. In reality, there is no single Indonesian history; there are numerous histories. The processes by which those many histories are reduced to a handful of more or less “accepted” ones within the nation tell us how power, and resistance to it, together shape what is seen as the national past. Under the New Order, ordinary Indonesians had that past served up to them from above as a “legacy.” All that was required was assent, in the name of some increasingly passive notion of nation-building. Suharto’s New Order history textbooks, like their Stalinist counterparts, were mind-numbingly dull accounts liberally sprinkled with bad photographs of soldiers and rows of grim men at diplomatic conferences. After Suharto’s resignation in May 1998, a much freer publishing environment saw long-suppressed historiographies reemerge and vie for new adherents. Something similar had happened when Thailand began to emerge from military rule. Thongchai Winichakul observed several currents of historical discourse emerging in that country after the student anti-military protests of 1973.15 The four new streams he noted were a critical reaction to the conventional nationalist school, a Marxist economic history school, a non-racist revision of early history, and a greatly increased interest in local histories. Indonesia has not seen the greatly increased enrollment in university history departments that Thongchai reported, but it has seen a similar proliferation of historical debate in the public arena. We can identify four historiographical streams in post-New Order Indonesia. The first is the orthodox nationalist stream, which remains dominant even after Suharto, though challenged from within on some details and increasingly 326 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 6] === disbelieved without. The three others all have precedents, as Klooster’s survey shows, but each has emerged with fresh energy.16 We might characterize these three as societal historiographies on the national level, ethno-nationalist historiographies in some sub-national regions, and an expression of renewed interest in local (not necessarily political) histories that can be seen as the local equivalent of the societal historiographies on the national level. First Post-Suharto Challenge Com es from Within Studies of historical discourse in other post-authoritarian countries suggest that, even under sustained challenge, myth-making is too useful to be simply abandoned. Much more likely to happen is that the effort is redirected to new ends.17 In Indonesia, too, authoritarian nationalist historiography is by no means dead. It has abandoned Suharto, but not the central role of the army in recent national history, nor the statist ideology that underpins it. The post-Suharto reaction was initially directed mostly against a version of recent Indonesian history in which Suharto’s role had been elevated to almost cultic heights in films, monuments, museums, and annual ceremonies, despite his feigned protests against a “personality cult.” Two films made at the height of the New Order depicted Lt.-Col. Suharto’s heroic role in a historical episode of Indonesia’s war for independence in 1945-49: the recapture on 1 March 1949 of Yogyakarta, the revolutionary capital of the Republic of Indonesia.18 When republican troops managed to re-enter Yogyakarta, which Dutch troops had seized in December 1948, they helped turn the tide of world opinion. This then led by the end of 1949 to international recognition of Indonesia’s independence. By placing the military, under Suharto, at the center of this event, Suharto’s admirers were implying that he personally had brought the nation to birth. The message was reinforced in two huge Yogyakarta monuments built in the Suharto era: one to commemorate the 1 March 1949 attack, and the other to commemorate the return of Yogyakarta to its position as the republican capital four months later. Suharto also played the central role in the film Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI (“The treachery of the 30 September Movement/Indonesian Communist Party,” also directed by Arifin C. Noer, in 1981). This violent account of the way Suharto decisively took over the reins of power in the days following the coup attempt on 1 October 1965 highlighted the “treacherous” role of the Communist Party. Communist women were portrayed as frenzied killers at Lubang Buaya, the air force base in Jakarta where several generals were murdered. For nearly two decades thereafter, this film was all but compulsory viewing every 1 October. Television broadcast it in prime time. Although school children used to violence on screen increasingly found it slow moving, whole classes were taken to see it at the local cinema (at their own expense). Like the 1949 event, the 1965 event was immortalized in massive monuments and graphic museum dioramas — the latter routinely included in school history tours. Every 1 October, named Hari Kesaktian Pancasila in honor of the “supernatural efficacy” (kesaktian, from sakti) of the national ideology Pancasila, President Suharto led a solemn ceremony at Lubang Buaya. On this day the van Klinken/Battle for History 327 === [PDF page 7] === nation was saved from communism. Nothing was said about the murders of hundreds of thousands of communists and others that followed this event.19 Armed Forces Day, 5 October, commemorating the 1945 birth of the military, underlined the message with large military parades. The eleventh of March 1966 was another sacred date in the “hegemonic knowledge” of the New Order. On this day each year, newspapers carried “eyewitness accounts” of the decisive manner in which General Suharto restored order by arranging for President Sukarno to sign over most of his powers. There had long been challenges to these versions of Indonesian history, and persistent attempts to deal with them by censorship and book banning. Over 2,000 books are estimated to have been banned over the three decades of Suharto’s rule.20 One report on these bannings discusses twelve historical titles in the last decade alone. Most dealt with the events of 1965-66, but others took up the regional revolts of 1957-58 and the role of Indonesians of Chinese descent. Mostly the attorney general maintained that the banned works “inverted the facts,” which could “lead the public astray” and ultimately “disturb public order.” In the New Order’s later years, repressive attempts became less effective. Hegemonic knowledge was being undermined by new technologies. The uncontrollable Internet began to flourish in the mid-1990s and, combined with the photocopy machine, its reach extended to large numbers. Private television, more attractive than the under-funded state broadcaster, began to test the bounds of censorship. Publishers brought out bannable books very quickly, knowing they could recoup their investment before officials had time to react. Newspapers introduced a skeptical note into the obligatory “eyewitness” accounts printed on the New Order’s sacred dates, for example, by asking where the original 11 March Supersemar document had gone. 21 The first to openly challenge the Suhartoist version of history upon his resignation were former state actors whom Suharto had purged for their association with his predecessor Sukarno. No doubt they were hoping to turn the tables. Though their historical appeals still privileged state actors and so did not renounce the statist spirit, the challenge in itself was a revelation to the public. On 1 June 1998, not yet two weeks after Suharto resigned, Sukarno’s daughter Megawati Sukarnoputri joined a group of retired military officers, a Sukarnoera foreign minister, and even some serving Foreign Affairs Department officials to commemorate the day in 1945 on which her father Sukarno had formulated Pancasila.22 Suharto had eliminated the day as part of an anti-Sukarno purge, preferring to link Pancasila with his own intervention on 1 October 1965. Megawati became vice-president in 1999. If she goes on to become president, we may expect 1 June to be restored as a national day. Next, ex-officers who had been prominent in the Sukarno era teamed up with student demonstrators to challenge Supersemar, the 11 March 1966 letter General Suharto wrung from President Sukarno to obtain his emergency powers. Although the original document has never been seen in public, New Order spokespeople have routinely cited this letter as the real legal basis for the New Order. However, this challenge did not go unanswered. In July 1998, the 328 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 8] === military faction in parliament told protesters that “straightening out the historical record” should be limited to discovering the missing Supersemar document. 23 In late 1998 the police called in a former Sukarno bodyguard who had challenged the New Ord er accou n t of Supersemar on some crucial details. He was indicted for “false testimony.”24 Refo rmer s had mor e su ccess w i th their assault on the Suhartoist version of th e 1 M a r c h 1 9 4 9 dawn attack on Yogyakarta. The event lay in the distant past, and more importantly, the official version had deeply offended the Commonly available books like this one — Controversies in then-Sultan of Yogya- Indonesian History (2000) — show that historical debate does karta, Hamengkubuexist in Indonesia and is welcomed there. (Courtesy: Gerry van wono IX, w ho had Klinken) played an important role in conceptualizing the diplomatic thrust of the attack but had been written out of the story. That sultan had since passed away, but his son (Hamengkubuwono X) had taken over as governor of the Yogyakarta Special District, had inherited his father’s sense of resentment over Suharto’s claims about the episode, and was an important figure in the reformasi politics of 1998. In September 1998 retired general Nasution, more senior than Suharto in the 1945-49 revolution and a central figure in the Guided Democracy years (although sidelined by Suharto in 1966), said Suharto never fired a rifle during the Yogyakarta attack, contrary to the claim of the sycophantic film Janur kuning. He was in fact sheltering with the sultan.25 By the time the 1 March anniversary came around in 1999, the remark had swelled into a storm of contempt. Some old guerrillas who had fought for Suharto tried their best to maintain their commander’s prestige, but in the end moved their commemoration to a secret location for fear of disruption. The New Order version of history had on this issue van Klinken/Battle for History 329 === [PDF page 9] === been decisively discredited. 26 By March of the following year, it was possible for state radio RRI to broadcast a panel discussion that completely undermined Suharto’s claims regarding the event. 27 The prestige of the Yogyakarta sultanate rose considerably and, on 29 June 2000, the sultan was present at the unveiling of a new (though modest) monument to commemorate his father’s role in the return of Yogyakarta to republican hands. The air force was another once powerful group aggrieved by the Suharto version of history, especially the 1965 history. Its leadership had sided with Sukarno and with members of PKI-affiliated groups against the army leadership for years before 1965. The propaganda film Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI depicted leftist militias training on the Halim air force base in Jakarta in September 1965. Soon after winning power, Suharto had removed the air force from all positions of influence. Late in 1999, to considerable advance publicity, former air force chief of staff Air Marshall Sri Mulyono Herlambang and a group of retired air force officers brought out a book to “straighten out the historical record” and clear the air force’s reputation of its alleged communist stain.28 The book traced the 1965 event to rivalry between the services, with the army as the bad guy, and not to ideological conflict within society. Former air force chief of staff Omar Dhani, imprisoned in 1965 and not released until thirty years later, kept his lips sealed, but published his 1966 defense speech. 29 Similar accusations that Suharto had sacrificed brothers-in-arms under the cloak of an ideological civil war he himself had helped instigate could be read in books published by A. M. Hanafi, an old navy man and a key Sukarnoist soldier who, in 1965, became Indonesia’s ambassador to Cuba. 30 More important was the defense speech of Abdul Latief, an infantry commander in Jakarta in 1965 and a Sukarnoist. He was arrested on 11 October 1965 for his involvement ten days earlier in the kidnapping and murder of six generals, whom he and his colleagues had suspected of plotting against Sukarno. He was not sentenced until 1978. After suffering terrible privations, he was finally released on 25 March 1999. His book accused Suharto of complicity in the murder of the generals of which he himself had been accused.31 Largely under pressure of this internal kind (remember that the popular protest against teachers had not even begun!), interim president Habibie’s education minister Juwono Sudarsono announced in October 1998 that he had formed a team to review the school history textbooks and produce a more “balanced” curriculum.32 Juwono then said he had ordered changes in five areas: the 1945 birth of Pancasila, the 1 March 1949 Yogyakarta attack, the 1 October 1965 event, the 11 March 1966 Supersemar letter, and the 1976 “integration” of East Timor into Indonesia. 33 However, rather than a new curriculum the Education Department on 19 October 1999 issued a guide for teachers on how to cope with the discrepancy between “official” (resmi) and media accounts of history. 34 The guide — apparently one of several for different school levels — illustrates the fact that even in the post-Suharto period there is little enthusiasm for fundamental change among officials in the political and cultural establishment (most of whom, of 330 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 10] === course, attained their positions under Suharto). The curriculum development project was coordinated by departmental historian Anhar Gonggong, a protégé of Nugroho Notosusanto.35 The given reason for writing the guide was that “uncertainty” would end in “negative consequences for national togetherness.” It did not challenge the orthodox nation-building historiography of the New Order, and did no more than faithfully reflect the slight shifts within the power elite after Suharto. It no longer highlighted Suharto’s role in the 1 March 1949 Yogyakarta attack, but still reserved the honor for the military rather than for the Sultan of Yogyakarta. It retained the view that the PKI was responsible for the 1 October 1965 event. While adopting somewhat more subtle language (in which the army responds to popular anti-communist outrage), it still failed to present the Supersemar document of 11 March 1966 as a military takeover. And, seemingly lost for non-New Order ideas on how to deal with the 1999 independence ballot in East Timor, it offered no resolution (other than an international anti-Indonesian conspiracy) to the question of how the East Timorese could beg for integration with Indonesia in 1975 but vote against it in 1999. There was no mention of an invasion or of deaths following. These were the only changes in the curriculum. Meanwhile, the military remained powerful enough to suppress other dissident accounts. Sukarno’s Foreign Minister Subandrio, imprisoned by Suharto for thirty years, also prepared his memoirs, but his Jakarta publisher got cold feet and trashed all 10,000 copies just before release in late 2000.36 In May, 2001, a newly formed alliance of anti-communist vigilante groups held a public burning of books they considered to be “leftist.” The alliance, which the press alleged had links with both the Suharto-era state political party Golkar and the army, threatened to raid bookstores on 20 May, National Education Day. In response, big bookstores removed books by Pramoedya Ananta Toer and other authors from their shelves. The starkest illustration of the power of inertia within the establishment after 1998 was the failure even of the democratically elected president to deflect it. In March 2000 Abdurrahman Wahid took up the demand of a group of former civilian communist prisoners to revoke as undemocratic the ban on communism brought down by the People’s Consultative Assembly in 1966.37 On 14 March he took a further step towards national reconciliation by issuing an apology, unofficial but unprecedented nevertheless, on behalf of the Islamic organization he led, Nahdatul Ulama, for the violence its youth organization committed against communists at that time. The storm of establishment outrage that greeted Wahid’s announcements highlighted as much as anything the failure of reformasi. Without the military needing to raise their voice, civilian commentators from all sides of parliamentary politics united to depict Wahid as an “unpredictable,” “controversial,” and “confusing” figure. In May 2000, all factions in parliament rejected Wahid’s proposal to lift the communist ban. Wahid had been isolated and appeared to be practically the only liberal figure in government. Hostility to “communism” remained the key conviction of the great majority of state actors. True, President Habibie’s Information Minister Yunus Yosfiah van Klinken/Battle for History 331 === [PDF page 11] === These two Indonesian books explore the events of 1965. Palu Arit di Ladang Tebu (left) is a scholarly study of the massacres in villages in East Java. The book on the right, also published in 2000, is the 1978 defense speech concerning the events of 1 October 1965, given by a military man long imprisoned by Suharto. (Courtesy: Gerry van Klinken) canceled the annual broadcast of the unpopular film Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI (more immediately because of air force objections), but a less bloodthirsty anti-communist film was screened in its stead.38 President Habibie still led the 1 October Hari Kesaktian Pancasila ceremony in honor of the murdered generals in 1998 and 1999, just as Suharto had done since 1966. In 1999, newly elected PDI-P parliamentarians boycotted the event, saying it was time to “desacralize” the day, but the next year all was forgiven. 39 Renamed the Commemoration of the National Tragedy due to the Betrayal of Pancasila, the year 2000 ceremony watered down the military emphasis but remained an occasion for anti-communist speeches.40 Societal H istoriographies at the N ational Level The reactionary official nationalism described in the previous section, part intellectual inertia among opinion-makers still comfortably dependent on the state, part generated by the interests of powerful state officials, even in the post-Suharto period, shows how little had changed among the power elite. For this nationalism to succeed in recovering even some of its former dominance, it would have to deal with a variety of counter-hegemonic movements whose combined effect was stronger than anything it had ever faced before. One element of this resistance is an intellectual ennui that parallels the protests of primary school pupils with which this article began. The deceits of the New Order, remembered amid the multidimensional crisis the nation faced in its aftermath, were so deeply rooted that for some little remained to inspire the thought that Indonesia remained a worthwhile project. Journalist and historian 332 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 12] === Parakitri Simbolon chose to open the thick end-of-millennium volume 1000 Tahun Nusantara with the following pessimistic reflection: During the crisis [of the last two years] it became clear that Indonesia really is a “make believe” country, a heap of delusions. Of all the ideals that have been paraded for decades and that people have believed in, not one could survive. Even so, this harsh reality was still not strong enough to produce any satisfactory change.41 This rarely heard view — one not reflected by other authors in the same volume — does suggest the possibility, of which Robert Cribb has written briefly elsewhere, of a loss of the will for empire at the center.42 Empires often crumble not inward from the edges but from the center out. Emerging Turkish nationalism, Cribb recalls, caused the Ottoman empire to collapse at the beginning of the twentieth century, while at its end resurgent Russian nationalism helped topple the Soviet empire. Yet that all is not lost for the Indonesian project is evident in a renewed leftist historiography that grips many readers around Indonesia. Bravely democratic thinking such as that displayed by the long-banned leftist author Pramoedya Ananta Toer is not nationalistic. At a certain level, it is deeply ambiguous about the national project. But it also contains the seeds from which a new Indonesian historiography could grow — perhaps the only kind of historiography that could still save Indonesia for the national imagination. Societal or populist historiographies on the national level present themselves as histories of ordinary Indonesians struggling for justice against an oppressive state. Most are leftist, but some are Islamist. While always outvoted within a deeply nationalist establishment, leftist historiography has long been important. Its most significant difference with the nationalist mainstream is that it recognizes the reality of conflict within Indonesian society, and traces it to the greed of the powerful. Its best-known early exponent was Tan Malaka, who rejected the glorious first phase of Sukarno’s trimurti because he saw nothing but authoritarianism and feudalism in the distant past.43 Ibu Sulami was secretary-general of Gerwani, a leftist women’s organization that was banned early in the New Order. Active in women’s movements since late colonial times, she was arrested by the military early in 1967 and horribly tortured. It wasn’t until 1975 that she was actually sentenced. International pressure helped bring about the release of most political prisoners by 1979, but Ibu Sulami was not let out until 1984. In April 1999 she and some other ex-political prisoners set up an organization to recover the historical truth about the 1965-66 massacres, with a view to eventually laying charges of crimes against humanity. In the face of occasional harassment, the group has since then held seminars on the history of 1965-66 that regularly make the news. Their efforts have helped several foreigners make film documentaries about those events. One of her associates in this organization has published a thick autobiography with the provocative title Struggle of a Communist Muslim (Pergulatan Muslim Komunis).44 A reemergent leftist historiography goes far beyond the demand for justice for one’s own political group. With New Order xenophobia seriously eroded, van Klinken/Battle for History 333 === [PDF page 13] === long-ignored investigations of the 1965-66 killings by several foreign authors have begun to appear in translation and Indonesian commentators now feel free to publish work they researched overseas and to collaborate with foreigners who once would have been described as “anti-Indonesian.” 45 The list of books about 1965-66 now runs into the dozens, too many to list here. Many are by long-silenced witnesses, others defend the New Order viewpoint. 46 Another significant educational effort was the film produced early in 2000 on the 1965 killings by Indonesia’s best-known filmmaker Garin Nugroho. Puisi tak terkuburkan (“Unburiable poetry”) shows a few days in the life of a prison cell in Aceh in 1965, where condemned leftists await execution. It was funded from overseas and did not make the commercial cinemas, but was widely reviewed nonetheless. 47 A compassionate discourse on the healing importance of remembering the dark 1965-66 tragedy has, for the first time, become regular fare in the better print media. A chapter on “victims” by feminist Karlina Leksono-Supelli in a thick end-of-millennium historical volume, a column on “remembering” by political analyst Kusnanto Anggoro, and similar columns by the scholar Budiawan and by the popular short story writer Seno Gumira Ajidarma, all opened up new horizons of civil discourse on what was once the greatest of taboos.48 Tempo, the prestigious weekly news magazine once banned by the New Order, has run many special supplements detailing historical debate around key national episodes, from the revolution, through the 1950s regional revolts, to 1965-66. On the left, there are now new books about (or reprinted books by) Semaun, Tan Malaka, and Marco Kartodikromo, all late-colonial communists whose names were never mentioned in public during the New Order.49 That the left has been more active in reoccupying the post-authoritarian historiographical imagination is largely due to the towering talent of Pramoedya Ananta Toer. 50 This man was already an important novelist when Suharto’s military arrested him soon after 1 October 1965 for belonging to the leftist literary group Lekra. Somehow, amidst the privations of his fourteen years on the penal island of Buru, he managed to write prodigiously. Most of his writing is historically inspired. All of his Buru works were smuggled out (some remain lost even today) and some were first published overseas. Until the regime collapsed in May 1998, the New Order routinely banned them, though often only after large numbers had been sold. Today his Jakarta publishers are producing one best seller after another as the company struggles to keep up with demand for reprints of his older work, as well as for his Buru books. Pramoedya’s historical work should certainly be read as a veiled attack on Suharto’s militarism, but it will prove to be much more enduring and universal than that. Space does not suffice to do justice to its sheer scale. His first tetralogy, named after its first title Bumi manusia (This earth of mankind), was a reinterpretation of the origins of Indonesian nationalism in which he gave a major place to leftist and internationalist influences (including the Chinese revolution in 1911). One of the central characters in that early movement, fictionalized as Mike in Bumi manusia and described biographically in another of Pramoedya’s works — Sang pemula (The initiator) — is the journalist Tirto Adhi 334 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 14] === Soerjo. President Abdurrahman Wa h i d o n c e d e cl a r ed B um i manusia, to be among the two best novels in Indonesian. 51 The next tetralogy, named after its third title Arus balik (Backwash), remains partly lost and has not yet been translated into English. Its dramatic stage is not the early twentieth century but the pre-colonial East Javanese kingdoms of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries CE. Perhaps along the lines of the Lekra project of the 1950s, these historical novels reinterpret the popular legends of these kingdoms in a determinedly democratic, egalitarian spirit. Gone is the feudal subtext that even today underlies popular per for mances (ket oprak) and television serials of Of Military Spies and a Coffeeshop (2000). Sobron these stories, in which kings have Aidit is the exiled younger brother of DN Aidit, divine right on their side. Here chairman of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) killed in 1965. This is the first of his works not the kings are portrayed as ruth- banned in Indonesia. (Courtesy: Gerry van Klinken) less operators who face resistance from strong figures arising from the common people. Gone too is the myth and magic that normally places these forebears in a different kind of time — here they acquire a psychological depth with which modern urbanites can identify. 52 In his old age Pramoedya has addressed the 1945 revolution, bringing out a two-volume chronicle that apparently aims to re-include long-neglected social forces, including leftists, in the dynamic history of this period, however without engaging in a polemic.53 Pramoedya’s stories are all filled with strong, authentic individuals. He once said: “I think history is important. It is a house from which people go out to travel the world. If they don’t know where they came from, they won’t understand their destination.” 54 History held no interest for him as the justification for any particular political regime. Its purpose, he seemed to be saying, was to make those who learn to understand it stronger human beings. Populism is not confined to the left. An Islamist historiography also exists in Indonesia (that is, one in which religion becomes the central ideological motif). I have not included this historiography as a separate category in this discussion because Islamism tends to be contextual — a shade of opinion within larger streams of historiographical debate. Some of it is nationalist, some regionalist, while some is clearly societal in the sense in which we use that word here. van Klinken/Battle for History 335 === [PDF page 15] === Kartosuwiryo, who was executed in 1962 for having led an Islamic rebellion in West Java for fifteen years, was revered as the model “radical Muslim” in some religious student circles during the New Order. In 1999, two biographies of him appeared celebrating him as the “proclamator of the Indonesian Islamic State.”55 Muslim activists have also pushed more insistently than ever before for justice for Muslims who died in several army massacres in the Suharto era. The two key horrors were a bloody confrontation between troops and demonstrators in the Tanjung Priok harbor area of Jakarta on 12 September 1984, and an army attack on an Islamic sect in Lampung, southern Sumatra, on 7 February 1989. The activists’ demands met much opposition from within the establishment — once more underlining the tenacity of pro-military views there. Nevertheless, the relative paucity of Islamic historical revisionism in the post-Suharto era is somewhat surprising in view of the new freedoms. Very little among the explosion of pious literature flooding the market today is historically oriented. Regional E thno-nationalism s Post-colonial nation building in Indonesia has taken place in the context of a variety of ethnic units, each of which occupies a more or less distinct territory. Before an all-Indonesian nationalist movement emerged, colonial and indigenous elites shared the assumption that each of these units would become an independent nation in the (perhaps distant) future. After independence in 1945, the nation-building discourse recognized them not as “nations” (bangsa) but as ethnic groups (suku bangsa) that were part of the Indonesian nation on the basis of, as the national slogan phrased it, “unity in diversity” (bhineka tunggal ika). This history explains why the group awareness of these ethnic groups can take on a variety of relations with all-Indonesian nationalism, ranging from ethnic identity within a pluralist nation-state to separatism. In the years since Suharto resigned, ethnic consciousness has grown rapidly in many parts of the country, always informed by long-repressed historical memories. For example, some of the more militant Ambonese on the Protestant side of the Maluku wars of 1999-2000 announced in December 2000 that the separatist Republik Maluku Selatan (RMS) movement of 1950 had been a valid declaration of the independence of the “Alifuru” people “based on history that began with the Haria proclamation of 1817.” 56 (The Haria proclamation was part of the short-lived Pattimura revolt against the Dutch.) In August 2000 a Greater Minahasa Congress in largely Protestant North Sulawesi declared that the people of “Tanah Toar Lumimuut” would demand their “right of self-determination” if Muslim interests succeeded in even slightly compromising the religiously neutral 1945 Indonesian constitution, for which Minahasans had also fought. 57 The names Alifuru and Tanah Toar Lumimuut have been rarely heard in Indonesia since independence. Both evoke ethnic identities rooted in place and ancient mythologies. The Maluku and Minahasa statements were ambit claims made by local leaders to pressure Jakarta. Similar claims were heard in West Sumatra, Riau, East Kalimantan, Flores, and elsewhere. There are racial connotations to the word bangsa that actually make the conceptual transition from one to the other 336 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 16] === rather easy. However, they were hardly part of a separatist movement. Arguments about a noble history of autonomy prior to the birth of the Indonesian republic have become important weapons within Indonesia politics. Two new provinces — Banten and Gorontalo — were created in late 2000 on the basis of such arguments put forward by their respective elites; others are likely to follow. The ethno-nationalist historical claims heard in Aceh and Papua, on the contrary, were well-developed and clearly separatist in intent. The enthusiasm with which many Acehnese and Papuans have taken them up reflects a widespread disappointment with the Indonesian state, which they have experienced in its most violent imperialistic mode. It demonstrates again that historical discourse does not stand alone, but is an effect of contemporary politics. However, an ethno-- nationalist instrumentalization of the past often contains anti-democratic assumptions that, if they were examined more carefully, would rob it of much of its appeal. There is one simple reason for the longevity of nationalist historical mythmaking: it works. In its early anti-colonial phases, it has about it the fresh purity of a societal historiography, a movement for justice written from below. It inspired thousands of young revolutionaries to make the supreme sacrifice in 1945-49. As the revolution fades from memory, however, and those who profess revolution most ardently come to be moved less by the need for justice than for survival, revolutionary fervor is increasingly turned inward upon backsliders and traitors. In view of the senility of the nationalist model at the level of Indonesia, perhaps the most striking development in post-Suharto historiography is the emergence of ethno-nationalist discourses in various regions. They differ from the Indonesian model in subject but not in form. They, too, adopt Sukarno’s trimurti of a glorious past, a dark present, and a bright future reached through struggle. They, too, are written by dissident elites aspiring to power, this time in the regions. And they, too, are strong on sacred dates, great men, and legal milestones. We do not yet know a great deal about these accounts. More research will show us who creates them, how they are disseminated, how much variety exists within particular movements, and how much resistance they encounter. One such ethno-nationalist is Hasan di Tiro, the central figure in the Free Aceh Movement. Now seventy years old, he has been described as the father of the nation (wali negara) and heir apparent to the position of sultan. Yet he is a mysterious man who has lived in Sweden in a kind of double exile for decades. He has not been in Aceh since 1979, and some whisper that he left the United States, where his son and estranged wife still live, because of a business conflict. In interviews he likes to bring out an old letter from “my friend” Ed Lansdale, the cold war CIA operative who won fame and notoriety for his anti-communist techniques in Vietnam and the Philippines.58 Hasan di Tiro’s political manifesto is contained in The Price of Freedom: The Unfinished Diary of Tengku Hasan di Tiro, an account of his leadership of a clandestine movement in the Aceh mountains from late 1976 to early 1979.59 It grounds key statements about the Acehnese nation and its character in the writings of early twentieth-century Dutch authors. van Klinken/Battle for History 337 === [PDF page 17] === Why Sumatra Accuses (2000), left, reflects the views of Hasan di Tiro, exiled leader of the Free Aceh Movement. The book on the right, My Testimony about G30S (2001) is an account of the 1965 events by Sukarno’s foreign minister and intelligence chief. Di Tiro’s historical argument for Acehnese national identity consists of two parts. One is that the Dutch fought but never defeated the Acehnese nation (bangsa Aceh, in Indonesian). Aceh consequently retains its sovereignty — over against the Netherlands and therefore over against the colonial successor state of Indonesia. The other part of di Tiro’s argument is that his own family connections with the most prominent figures in the Acehnese war against the Dutch make him the natural inheritor of Aceh’s leadership. “The family of the Tengku di Tiro is the holiest family that Aceh has ever recognised,” he quotes from a 1925 book by the Dutch colonial author Zentgraaff. A genealogy in di Tiro’s book traces the connections.60 On 4 December 1976 the small group accompanying Hasan di Tiro declared Acehnese independence by raising a flag in the forest at Tjokkan Hill, in Pidie district. It was the day in 1911, Hasan di Tiro said, that the Dutch shot dead the last “head of state,” Tengku Tjhik Maat di Tiro (“my uncle”) in Alue Bhot.61 On 10 March 1977 Hasan di Tiro issued a new calendar that combined sacred Islamic dates with commemorations of great battles in the 1873-1911 war against the Dutch (all of which, he stressed, had been fought by his relatives). The only exception to this central focus on the Aceh war is December 27, remembered as the day in 1639 when Sultan Iskandar Muda died. (Many Acehnese honor the sultan as the personification of the ideal model of Acehnese statehood.) The calendar does not refer to the Darul Islam revolt against Indonesia in the 1950s, which was led by the then powerfully charismatic Daud Beureueh. This was no longer a movement to cut deals with Jakarta, as Daud Beureueh’s had been, but one of genuine separatism. 338 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 18] === The self-interest in Hasan di Tiro’s declarations is obvious. He had oil interests in the United States before he began the guerrilla campaign and he was probably aware earlier than most Acehnese that the recently discovered gas deposits at Arun were very large. But the appeals in his published diary are to romantic notions of history and identity, rather than to economic nationalism. Amid mounting Indonesian army counterinsurgency operations in the second half of 1978, he began writing a historical play entitled The Drama of Acehnese History, 1873-1978. Finished later by his closest lieutenant, Husaini Hasan, the play is apparently still circulating in Aceh today. On 29 March 1979, telling comrades he was going to buy arms, he slipped through the tightening Indonesian army noose and left the country. 62 Hasan di Tiro’s supporters in Stockholm have produced an entire historiography of Acehnese nationalism. It begins with the autonomy of the Islamic Samudra-Pasai kingdom of the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries over against the Indonesian precursor kingdoms (so depicted in the Indonesian historiography) of Sriwijaya and Majapahit. It then goes on to recount Acehnese resistance against the Portuguese and the far more devious Dutch, and closes by claiming that the (federal) Republic of the United States of Indonesia of 1950, which ended the Indonesian war for independence, did not include Aceh. 63 Di Tiro’s historiography is available on the Internet, as well as being published in Aceh’s mainstream print media.64 Like many other nationalist historiographies, these claims do not concern themselves greatly with accuracy. This is a ruthlessly simplistic account designed to conform to the trimurti pattern. Its purpose is purely propagandistic. Aceh in early 1950 was in fact part of the Republic of Indonesia, which was in turn a member of the United States of Indonesia. Daud Beureueh was republican-appointed military governor of Aceh, Tanah Langkat, and Tanah Karo. In August 1999 a small group of Acehnese students occupied the grounds of the Dutch embassy in Jakarta for three days to demand that the Dutch government should withdraw its formal “declaration of war against the sultan of Aceh on 26 March 1873,” and hence acknowledge Acehnese sovereignty. 65 This ambit claim was unlikely to fly, but some Indonesians — perhaps for the first time — were publicly turning on its head the oft-heard argument that Jakarta had spoken for all Indonesians when it signed an agreement to end hostilities with the Netherlands in 1949. The students were probing a distinct weak spot in the nationalist myth that all resistance to the Dutch had been “Indonesian” and not Acehnese, Javanese, Makasarese or Ambonese. After all, if anti-colonial resistance was the yardstick of legitimacy, as it is in the mythology, who was to say which was the more legitimate: resistance in the 1870s by an Acehnese sultanate with a long history of international recognition, or resistance in the 1940s by “Indonesians” with a history of anti-colonial resistance that lacked a military dimension and that did not extend to challenging the very notion of the Netherlands Indies as a state? The students did not pursue the argument in quite such ruthless terms, but the backward-looking appeal to the sultanate was characteristic of much post- Suharto legitimation discourse, and not only in Aceh. “The way we fight is to van Klinken/Battle for History 339 === [PDF page 19] === reclaim the triumphs of Acehnese history, from the time of Sultan Iskandar Muda [1607-36],” one armed Acehnese fighter told the foreign press, in terms reminiscent of Sukarno’s trimurti.66 At the other end of the country, Papuan independence activists have similarly turned to history as an important tool in their fight.67 The large Papuan People’s Congress held in Jayapura, 29 May-4 June 2000, claimed to be the second in a series begun in 1961. Its theme was “Let us straighten out the history of West Papua.” This congress followed a series of conferences and a book with similar themes.68 Using a phraseology that was quite distinct from the Acehnese, key Papuan spokespersons insisted that Papuan history had been “twisted” — by Indonesia,69 but also by the Netherlands, the United States, and Australia — since 1961. 70 The mission now was to “straighten out” this twisted history. This idealized concept of history-as-it-should-have-been may not appeal to professional historians, but its proponents clearly felt it had enormous force. The argument is that Papuans never belonged to the Indonesian nationalist movement, and that Indonesians have been if anything even more colonial toward Papuans than were the Dutch. If Papua had been part of the precursor Majapahit kingdom at all (through the latter’s vassal, the Tidore sultanate), it was as a mere tributary to a tributary. 71 Papua had a different, evidently less destructive memory of Dutch colonialism than did Indonesia. Several of Indonesia’s key founding fathers —Hatta, for example — had argued in August 1945 that Papua did not belong to Indonesia, and its negotiators had agreed with the Dutch in 1949 to exclude Papua from their borders. The transition after 1962 to Indonesian rule (“invasion”), ratified in 1969 in the so-called Act of Free Choice (Pepera), had been a farce whose plot was written by the world’s great powers and in which Papuans had played no part. Papua’s subsequent history under Indonesian rule had been one of oppression and exploitation.72 The key event in Papua’s nationalist history as fashioned in recent years was a flag-raising ceremony on 1 December 1961. On that day the Dutch had agreed to let a Papuan Morning Star flag fly alongside its Dutch counterpart, to signify the Dutch intention to begin a decade-long transition to independence. That event prompted an intensification of Indonesian campaigning (diplomatic, agitational, and military) to push the Dutch out forthwith. By May 1962 it was clear that the campaign had succeeded. One year later Indonesia was in control of what they called Irian Barat and many of the key figures of 1 December 1961 had fled to Holland. On 1 May 1963, Indonesian soldiers lowered the Papuan flag on Sukarno’s orders. The 1961 occasion is remembered today as the declaration of Papuan independence. To be sure, the Dutch decolonization program, of which Papuan independence was a part, is potentially embarrassing and is thus rarely mentioned. Flag-raising ceremonies on this day since 1998 have always been marked with expositions of the Papuan history described above, by way of political education. “Papua has been independent since 1 December 1961. History proves it,” Theys Eluay (self-confessed “Great Papuan Leader”) told Papuan and foreign delegations alike at the Papuan People’s Congress. This event was the 340 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 20] === main symbolic focus of the congress. In a sense that evokes Christian eschatology (where the Reign of God is “among you” through the birth of Christ but will not be seen in its fullness till he comes again in glory), the “not yet” had become an “already” in that flag raising of 1961. Spokespersons for all-Indonesian nationalism have written counters to these militant new historiographies. An Indonesian magazine said Hasan di Tiro was lying when he claimed to have the blue blood of the heroic anti-Dutch fighter Cik di Tiro in his veins — he was no more than a peasant’s son.73 Aceh’s Indonesian military commander published a highly selective history of Aceh to bolster his assertion that GAM (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka/Free Aceh Movement) was a minority phenomenon. 74 In Papua, the military tried holding their own seminar series to “straighten out history,” but this time from a national New Order perspective (the perspective Papuans had declared “twisted”). It was important, the presiding colonel said, to stress that when Indonesia and the Netherlands were at loggerheads over the future of Papua in the early 1960s, Papuans were fighting to integrate Papua with Indonesia.75 Academic Ikrar Nusa Bhakti portrayed the 1961 event as a subset of Dutch colonialism, and an anonymous publisher underscored the point by republishing the 1961-62 speeches of President Sukarno about the “liberation” of “West Irian.” 76 The governor of Papua, Freddy Numberi, adopted a more daring, theological approach, stating: “The God we worship in Jesus Christ is the Lord of history.…We must be open to accept the will of the Lord for this land as it came to expression in the history of the Act of Free Choice, which made Irian Jaya an inseparable part of the unitary state of the Republic of Indonesia.” 77 To true believers, all of these counters were ineffectual indeed. Of course sheer conviction alone — even assuming the ethno-nationalist view is as widely shared as I think it is in those regions — cannot bring about an independent Papua or Aceh. International processes are at the moment almost completely unsupportive. But convictions are important. Local H istories An interest in local history characterizes the final category of history-writing. This is not a new category by any means, but in my view it holds the potential of being more subtly subversive than the ethno-nationalistic historiographies discussed above, precisely because they are not so obviously manipulated by elite interests. Local histories differ from ethno-nationalist ones because they do not explicitly resist the nation-state. Instead, they develop local identities that coexist with the national identity. As a genre, local history remains largely unexplored. Klooster notes that most of Indonesia’s Western-trained historians, especially under the ostensibly depoliticizing New Order, chose to develop a regional specialization. Sartono Kartodirdjo, a historian who was to become as important under the New Order as Muhammed Ali was in the Sukarno era, and who carried himself with the same personal integrity, set the tone with his 1966 study of the 1888 peasant’s revolt in Banten.78 Local issues have continued to preoccupy the academic discipline in Indonesia. van Klinken/Battle for History 341 === [PDF page 21] === Much of this genre finds no particular conflict between the local and the national, yet in so (not) doing helps erode the absolutist claims of the national by resisting its propagandistic simplicity. There is a class of historical novels and biographies that can be read as affirming the realities of local life as much as celebrating local “contributions” to the Indonesian nation.79 Cities around the country have taken to celebrating their “birthdays” with considerable fanfare. Exactly how the precise year of birth is calculated is not always clear, but the historical snippets local newspapers carry connect the city with what its inhabitants know about national history. For the sake of nationbuilding, the New Order in 1971 renamed the South Sulawesi city of Makassar as Ujung Pandang, a name with fewer ethnic associations. When President Habibie gave the city back its original name in October 1999, he was no doubt linking local pride to his own hopes in the upcoming presidential election. Museums devoted to local history and culture often play the same nationally integrating function.80 This growing body of local historical scholarship probably connects more closely with people’s everyday lives than the nationalist myth-making. It does not systematically avoid conflict within society. It interacts dialogically with the local stories kept alive within society. Of course it too is likely to be quarried by political actors — either to the advantage of Jakarta, as Habibie did, or to that of local elites, as warlords did on both sides of the Maluku wars of 1999-2000. But its humanism and rootedness offers some of the same liberating perspective on the local level as the societal historiography of Pramoedya Ananta Toer does on the national. Moreover, the strength of local histories helps inoculate us against fears that the “disintegration” of the Indonesian national state will leave an identity vacuum that can only result in anomic violence. It may be too romantic to say this, but quite possibly, local histories reflect the (re)-emergence of new kinds of more local community that go beyond the exclusive absolutism of nineteenth-century nationalist historiography. Conclusion The search for freedom is as persistent in Indonesia today as it has ever been. It is a search with a history as broad and diverse as it is profound — far more so than the statist history-for-nation-building genre can ever comprehend. The greatest disservice to the cause of freedom was committed at the moment its history was captured by men for whom exclusive loyalty to a state was its only permissible expression. That disservice has been committed against generations of Indonesian schoolchildren ever since independence — especially during the militarized New Order. It is now about to be committed against many Acehnese and Papuans. Having lived through the New Order, they have reason enough to distrust the promise of the modern nation-state. Yet with admirable optimism they are often ready to believe that “their” state will be better than the one they reject. Ethnic nationalism as a vehicle for human liberation has been battered mercilessly by the awful ethnic nationalism displayed in the former Yugoslavia. Even where it did not draw on ethnicity, as it did not in Indonesia in 1945, it became a 342 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 22] === vehicle not for liberation but for authoritarianism. Who can really still believe that nationalism alone, and its attendant historiography of sacred dates, great men, and legal milestones, can bring salvation? History writing, as Pramoedya Ananta Toer has shown, can buttress the desire for freedom in sturdy ways without selling itself into the servitude of today’s or tomorrow’s state elites. At an Indonesian level, the thick but neglected history text written by Parakitri Simbolon to commemorate fifty years of independence could serve as another excellent example.81 Completely eschewing the trimurti concept of history, Simbolon begins with the refreshing announcement that “state-building” and “nation-building” have been two fundamentally contradictory processes.82 Examples of this more liberating historiography are, for Aceh, the way ordinary Acehnese constantly retell old stories (hikayat) asserting female power, as Jacqueline Siapno records,83 and, for Papua, George Aditjondro’s account of an emerging Papuan cultural identity through music. 84 A small book by Benny Giay, a Papuan intellectual whom some regard as the conceptor of the historical emphasis in the Papuan nationalist argument, in fact eschews the standard nationalist formulation and highlights the very human “memory of suffering” (memoria passionis) as part of a liberation theology approach.85 Real liberation often flies in the face of nationalism, as the history of Indonesia’s own revolution abundantly shows. It is important to underscore the difference between Indonesia’s national revolution for independence (which succeeded, but at what price?) from the social revolution for a more equal society (which has so far failed). The distinction remains important but neglected. Inasmuch as Acehnese and Papuans also strive for an equal society, I will strive with them. The histories of those strivings have largely still to be written. N otes This article is based on a paper prepared for “History and Memory in Contemporary Indonesia,” an international conference organized by the Center for Southeast Asian Studies, University of California, Los Angeles, 6-7 April 2001. An earlier version was presented at “East Timor, Indonesia and the Region: Perceptions of History and Prospects for the Future,” a conference held in Portugal 10-15 July 2000. Many thanks to Asvi Warman Adam, Ed Aspinall, John Butcher, Lance Castle, Mochtar Pabottingi, Sylvia Tiwon, Michael Vatikiotis, and, most especially, Herb Feith and Richard Tanter, for helpful and critical comments generously given on earlier drafts. 1. “NTT siap terima PNS dari Timtim,” Pos Kupang, 2 February 1999; “Guru se- Timtim minta segera ditarik,” Jawa Pos, 1 March 1999; “Guru berdemonstrasi, mendesak pindah dari Timtim: Rp 50 milyar untuk pindahkan guru,” Kompas, 9 March 1999. 2. “Guru-guru sejarah di Papua terancam,” Detikcom, 24 February 2000. 3. “Ketika sejarah membingungkan guru,” Kompas, 29 April 2000. 4. Anthony Reid, “The Nationalist Quest for an Indonesian Past, in Perceptions of the Past in Southeast Asia, ed. Anthony Reid and David Marr (Singapore: Heinemann, 1979), 281-98. 5. See Barbara Leigh, “Making the Indonesian State: The Role of School Texts,” Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs 25, no. 1 (winter 1991): 17-43; also Jean van de Kok, Robert Cribb, and M. Heins, “1965 and All That: History and van Klinken/Battle for History 343 === [PDF page 23] === the Politics of the New Order,” Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs 25, no. 2 (1991): 84-93. 6. H. A. J. Klooster, Indonesiers schrijven hun geschiedenis, De ontwikkeling van de Indonesische geschiedsbeoefening in theorie en praktijk, 1900-198 5 (Leiden: Foris, 1985). 7. Sukarno, Indonesia Accuses!, edited, translated, annotated, and introduced by Roger K. Paget (New York: Oxford University Press, 1975; originally published in 1931), 79. Bintang Prakarsa points out that Sukarno’s trimurti was incorporated into the second paragraph of the opening of the 1945 Constitution, was then promoted as the “perspectivist” view in the official historiography under Sukarno, and was finally renamed “trimatra” and incorporated into the official historiography under Suharto by Kharis Suhud. Y. Bintang Prakarsa, Penguasa Orde Baru dan sejarah pada 1980a: Pembicaraan dalam beberapa makalah Seminar Sejarah Nasional III-V (S1/ B.A. thesis in history, Gadja Mada University [Yogyakarta], 1994), 24. 8. Soedjatmoko later edited An Introduction to Indonesian Historiography (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1965). 9. On film, see Krishna Sen, Indonesian Cinema (London: Zed, 1994). On monuments and museums, see Klaus Schreiner, “History in the Showcase: Representations of National History in Indonesian Museums,” in Nationalism and Cultural Revival in Southeast Asia, ed. Sri Kuhnt-Saptodewo et al. (Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag, 1997), 99-117. 10. A glimpse into this soul-searching among historians can be had in a book of papers by a team set up by the Education Department to weed out historical “errors” in school textbooks. See particularly A. B. Lapian and R. Z. Leirissa in Pemikiran tentang penjernihan sejarah, ed. Anhar Gonggong (Jakarta: Depdikbud [Direktorat Sejarah dan Nilai Tradisional, Proyek Pembinaan Kesadaran dan 11. Sartono Kartodirdjo, “Ideologi kebangsaan dan pendidikan sejarah,” in Kongres Nasional Sejarah, 1996: [kertas kerja], Subtema Perkembangan teori dan metodologi, dan orientasi pendidikan sejarah, Kongres Nasional Sejarah (6th: 1996, Jakarta, Indonesia) (Jakarta: Depdikbud, 1997), 118-34. 12. Y. Bintang Prakarsa, Penguasa Orde Baru. Taufik Abdullah himself provided the strongest and most consistent criticism. See for example his writings in Taufik Abdullah and Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo, eds., Ilmu sejarah dan historiografi: Arah dan perspektif (Jakarta: Gramedia, 1985), and in Koentjaraningrat, ed., The Social Sciences in Indonesia (Jakarta: Indonesian Institute of Social Sciences, 1975). He used the phrase “hegemonic knowledge” in “Taufik Abdullah: Orba memang murid Snouck Hurgronje yang paling patuh,” Panji Masyarakat, 29 September 1999. 13. Gerry van Klinken, “Big States and Little Independence Movements,” Bulletin of Concerned Asian Scholars 32, nos. 1-2 (January-June 2000): 91-96. 14. See, for example, Sejarah (Indonesian Academy of Sciences, LIPI), or Lembaran Sejarah (Gadjah Mada University). 15. Thongchai Winichakul, “The Changing Landscape of the Past: New Histories in Thailand since 1973,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 26, no. 1 (March 1995): 99-120. 16. Klooster implicitly distinguishes nationalist, ethnic/regionalist, Islamist, and Marxist history writing (Indonesiers schrijven hun geschiedenis,55-59). I have not considered Islamist history-writing a separate category, but have added local histories as a new category. 17. For example, post-Soviet Russian school texts replaced communism with an ideology of “Russianness” that highlighted Dostoyevski, no longer the defender of the poor but of “a unique and superior Russian culture that is hostile 344 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 24] === to Western bourgeois individualism” (Elena Lisovskaya and Vyacheslav Karpov, “New ideologies in postcommunist Russian textbooks,” Comparative Education Review 43, no. 4 [November 1999]: 522). 18. Janur kuning (“Young coconut leaf,” directed by Alam Rengga Surawidjaja in 1979) and Serangan fajar (“Dawn attack,” directed by Arifin C. Noer in 1981). See Budi Irwantono, Film, ideologi dan militer: Hegemoni militer dalam sinema Indonesia, Analisa semiotik terhadap “Enam djam di Jogja” “Janur kuning,” dan “Serangan fajar” (Yogyakarta: Media Pressindo, 1999). 19. On Lubang Buaya, see the forthcoming Ph.D. dissertation by Kate McGregor, University of Melbourne, Australia. 20. Academic Freedom in Indonesia: Dismantling Soeharto-era Barriers (New York: Human Rights Watch, August 1998). URL: <www.hrw.org/hrw/reports98/ indonesia2/>. 21. Some examples of late New Order challenges to official versions of history in book form include Heru Cahyono, Pangkopkamtib Jenderal Soemitro dan Peristiwa 15 Januari 1974 (Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, February 1998), a military biography exposing army intrigues during the January 1974 Malari riots; Bayang bayang PKI (Jakarta: Institut Studi Arus Informasi [ISAI], December 1995), on the 1965 events, banned in December 1996; Julius Pour, Benny Moerdani: Profil prajurit negarawan (Jakarta: Yayasan Kejuangan Panglima Besar Sudirman, 1993), another military biography that discusses the invasion of East Timor and other adventures; and Bambang Wiwoho and Banjar Chaeruddin, Memori Jendral Yoga (Jakarta: Bina Rena Pariwara, 1990), mildly revealing memoirs of former intelligence chief General Yoga Sugama. An interesting example of a vigorous late New Order public debate challenging the New Order version of history is the public discussion about the circumstances under which Sukarno was forced to resign. The discussion was triggered in April 1997 when cabinet minister Hayono Isman suggested holding a seminar to prove Sukarno was not deposed by a coup (the so-called Nawaksara discussion, see Suwoto Mulyosudarmo, Peralihan Kekuasaan: Kajian Teoretis dan Yuridis terhadap Pidato Nawaksara [Jakarta: Gramedia, 1997]). 22. “Peringatan Hari Kelahiran Pancasila 1 Juni 1998: Megawati — Hentikan menghujat Soeharto,” Kompas, 2 June 1998. 23. “Ketua F-Abri soal Supersemar: Saatnya saksi sejarah buka suara,” Kompas, 21 July 1998. 24. “Soekardjo Wilardjito: Saya korban Supersemar,” Bernas, 2 February 1999. The case was still in the courts at the time of writing, April 2001. 25. “Pak Nas ragukan kepahlawanan Soeharto: ‘Inisiatif Serangan Umum dari Sri Sultan HB IX,’” Jawa Pos, 28 September 1998. 26. “Dialog SO 1 Maret bingungkan guru dan taruna,” Bernas, 2 March 1999; “Setengah abad ‘Serangan Oemoem’ 1 Maret: Legenda Soeharto, masih ada misteri,” Suara Pembaruan, 28 February 1999; “Pakar dan pelaku bongkar SO 1 Maret siang ini,” Bernas, 1 March 1999; “Mendikbud instruksikan sejarawan luruskan ‘Serangan Umum 1 Maret,’” Suara Pembaruan, 1 March 1999; “Sultan HB IX: Soeharto berani terima tantangan saya,” Bernas, 2 March 1999; “Serangan Oemoem 1 Maret 1949: Soeharto cuma pelaksana lapangan,” Tajuk, 4-17 March 1999. 27. “Soeharto bukan penggagas Serangan Oemoem 1 Maret 1949,” Kompas, 1 March 2000; “Batara: Fakta baru Serangan Oemoem 1 Maret 1949,” (4 parts), SiaR, 1 March 2000 (URL: <gopher://gopher.igc.apc.org:2998/7REG-INDONE- SIA>); A. Budi Hartono, Tataq Chidmad, and Sri Endang Sumiyati, Pelurusan sejarah Serangan Oemoem 1 Maret, 1949 (Yogyakarta: Media Presindo, 2001). 28. Aristides Katoppo et al., eds., Menyingkap kabut Halim 1965 (Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, 1999). It claimed some continuity with Wisnu Djajengminardo, van Klinken/Battle for History 345 === [PDF page 25] === Kesaksian: Memoir seorang kelana angkasa (Bandung: Angkasa, 1997), written by the commander in 1965 of the Halim air force base. See also the extended interview with Sri Mulyono Herlambang: “Wawancara Sri Mulyono Herlambang: ‘AURI dikambinghitamkan,’” Tempo, 23-29 August 1999. 29. Benedicta Soerojo and J. M. V. Soeparno, Tuhan, pergunakanlah hati, pikiran dan tanganku: Pledoi Omar Dani (Jakarta: Institut Studi Arus Informasi [ISAI], 2001). 30. A. M. Hanafi, AM Hanafi menggugat kudeta Jenderal Soeharto: Dari Gestapu ke Supersemar (Lille: Edition Montblanc, 1998); serialized by LSSPI on the Internet: <gopher://gopher.igc.apc.org:2998/7REG-INDONESIA>. The same author had earlier published a pro-Suharto book: A. M. Hanafi, Menteng 31 (Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, 1996); see the critical review by Alam Puteri, “AM Hanafi menggugat dirinya sendiri (resensi buku ‘AM Hanafi menggugat’),” Istiqlal, 9 June 1998 (available on the Internet: <gopher://gopher.igc.apc.org:2998/ 7REG-INDONESIA>). 31. Abdul Latief, Pleidoi Kolonel A Latief: Soeharto terlibat G30S (Jakarta: Institut Studi Arus Informasi [ISAI], May 2000). See the introduction by Ben Anderson, “Petrus dadi ratu,” which also appeared in Tempo, 10-16 April 2000. See also Suharto’s rebuttal in what may turn out to be his last coherent published interview: “Wawancara eksklusif dengan Soeharto,” Tabloid Siar, mid-April 1999. 32. “Suharto’s Murky Past Written into History,” The Australian, 3 October 1998. 33. “Education Ministry Introduces Major Changes,” Jakarta Post, 30 December 1999. 34. Pedoman bahan ajar sejarah bagi guru sekolah lanjutan tingkat pertama (SLTP/MTs): Kurikulum 1994, Suplemen GBPP mata pelajaran ilmu pengetahuan sosial (Jakarta: Depdiknas, Dirjen Pendidikan Dasar dan Menengah, 1999), 20 pp. This is the guide for junior high school only. I have not seen the others. 35. “Anhar Gonggong: Suplemen pelajaran sejarah tak dikte guru dan murid,” Kompas, 8 April 2000. His office’s publication record included a history of East Timor that angered so many East Timorese in early 1999: A. B. Lapian and J. R. Chaniago, Timor Timur dalam gerak pembangunan (Jakarta: Depdikbud, 1988). 36. The manuscript, which circulated in photocopied form before being brought out by a small Jakarta publisher, has been reviewed in the mass media: Dr. H. Soebandrio, Kesaksianku tentang G-30-S (Jakarta: Forum Pendukung Reformasi Total, 2001); Asvi Warman Adam, “Kesaksian seorang kepala intelijen,” Tempo, 4 February 2001. 37. Stanley, “Opening that Dark Page,” Inside Indonesia, no. 63, (July-September 2000): 6-7; “Sulasmi [sic]: Saya punya obsesi membongkar pembunuhan G30S,” Tempo, 30 August-5 September 1999. The ban is known by the designation Tap No 25/MPRS/1966. 38. “TVRI tidak lagi tayangkan film G-30-S/PKI,” Media Indonesia, 24 September 1998; “TNI-AU meluruskan sejarah, Wiranto marah,” Xpos, 18-24 April 1999. The new film was Bukan sekadar kenangan, directed by Tatiek Maliyati and J. Sihombing, of which little has been heard since then. 39. “Anggota legislatif PDI Perjuangan tolak hadiri upacara di Lubang Buaya,” SiaR, 1 October 1999. It was the day the parliamentarians were sworn in as new MPR members. 40. “Betrayal of Pancasila Tragedy Commemorated,” Jakarta Post, 2 October 2000. 41. Parakitri T. Simbolon, “Indonesia memasuki milenium ketiga,” Seribu tahun Nusantara, ed. J. B. Kristanto (Jakarta: Kompas, 2000), 2-16. 42. Robert Cribb, “Java Is Key to Indonesia Break-up,” Australian Financial Review, 2 November 2000. This will appear in the proceedings of the 2000 Indonesia Update in Canberra, Australia. 346 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 26] === 43. Tan Malaka, translated and introduced by Helen Jarvis, From Jail to Jail, 3 vols. (Athens, Ohio: Ohio University Press, 1991). 44. Hasan Raid, Pergulatan Muslim Komunis: Otobiografi Hasan Raid (Yogyakarta: LKPSM/Syarikat, 2001). 45. Translations of foreign works include Harold Crouch, Militer dan politik di Indonesia (Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, 1999) and Saskia Wieringa, Penghancuran gerakan perempuan di Indonesia (Jakarta: Garba Budaya and Kalyanamitra, 1999). Indonesians who published work researched overseas include Hermawan Sulistiyo, Palu Arit di Ladang Tebu: Sejarah pembantaian massal yang terlupakan (Jakarta: Gramedia, 2000). A forthcoming study by I. G. Krisnadi concerns the political prisoners on Buru Island. Books by Geoffrey Robinson and Robert Cribb on the killings of 1965-66 were often quoted, as was an Indonesian translation published in Malaysia of a book by the British leftist imprisoned by Suharto, Carmel Budiardjo. See Geoffrey Robinson, The Dark Side of Paradise: Political Violence in Bali (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell University Press, 1995); Robert Cribb, ed., The Indonesian Killings, 1965-1966: Studies from Java and Bali (Melbourne: Monash University, 1991); Carmel Budiardjo, Bertahan hidup di Gulag Indonesia (Kuala Lumpur: Wirakarya, 1997). A thick book by the exiled M. R. Siregar, neglected at the time (1995), was rediscovered: Tragedi manusia dan kemanusiaan: Kasus Indonesia, sebuah holokaus yang diterima sesudah Perang Dunia Kedua, 2d ed. (London: Tapol, 1995). A book of memories of New Order violence was published in June 2000 as a special edition of the Manoa Journal: Frank Stewart and John McGlynn, eds., Silenced Voices: New Writing from Indonesia (Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 2000). Two American editors are currently working with Indonesian authors to write a lavishly illustrated popular history of the New Order that will include chapters on militarism, indoctrination, and corruption.The proposed history is to be entitled Soeharto’s New Order (Jakarta: Lontar, forthcoming 2001). 46. Among the most important are some already mentioned: Bayang bayang PKI, Jakarta: Institut Studi Arus Informasi [ISAI], December 1995; Aristides Katoppo et al., eds., Menyingkap kabut Halim 1965 (Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, 1999); Benedicta Soerojo and J. M. V. Soeparno, Tuhan, pergunakanlah hati, pikiran dan tanganku: Pledoi Omar Dani (Jakarta: Institut Studi Arus Informasi [ISAI], 2001); A. M. Hanafi, AM Hanafi menggugat kudeta Jenderal Soeharto: Dari Gestapu ke Supersemar (Lille: Edition Montblanc, 1998); Abdul Latief, Pleidoi Kolonel A Latief: Soeharto terlibat G30S (Jakarta: Institut Studi Arus Informasi [ISAI], May 2000); Dr. H. Soebandrio, Kesaksianku tentang G-30-S (Jakarta: Forum Pendukung Reformasi Total, 2001); Harold Crouch, Militer dan politik di Indonesia (Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, 1999); Saskia Wieringa, Penghancuran gerakan perempuan di Indonesia (Jakarta: Garba Budaya and Kalyanamitra, 1999). Hermawan Sulistiyo, Palu Arit di Ladang Tebu: Sejarah pembantaian massal yang terlupakan (Jakarta: Gramedia, 2000); Hasan Raid, Pergulatan Muslim Komunis: Otobiografi Hasan Raid (Yogyakarta: LKPSM/ Syarikat, 2001). In addition: Pramoedya Ananta Toer, Nyanyi sunyi seorang bisu (Jakarta: Hasta Mitra, 2000) (2 vols., published in 1995 by Lentera [Jakarta]); Pramoedya’s prison diary, translated into English as The Mute’s Soliloquy,trans. Willem Samuels (Jakarta: Hasta Mitra, in cooperation with the Lontar Foundation, 1999); Gerakan 30 September: Pemberontakan Partai Komunis Indonesia (Jakarta: Sekretariat Negara Republik Indonesia, 1994), the official New Order version still available in bookshops in 2001; Sobron Aidit, Kisah intel dan sebuan warung (Jakarta: Garba Budaya, 2000), by the exiled brother of PKI leader in 1965, D. N. Aidit; Putu Oka Sukanta, Merajut harkat (Yogyakarta: van Klinken/Battle for History 347 === [PDF page 27] === Pustaka Pelajar, 1999), novel by a communist sympathizer imprisoned under the New Order; M. R. Siregar, Naiknya para jenderal (Medan: Sumatra Human Rights Watch Network, 2000), describing the 1965 events as a military coup; Syamdani, ed., Kontroversi sejarah di Indonesia (Jakarta: Grasindo, 2001), overview of post-New Order historical controversies including 1965-66. 47. See, for example, Oren Murphy, “‘Unburiable Poetry’ Digs Up Little on ’65 Coup Attempt,” Jakarta Post, 26 March 2000. 48. Karlina Leksono-Supelli, “Kisah dialektika kaum korban,” in Seribu tahun Nusantara, ed. J. B. Kristanto (Jakarta: Kompas, 2000), 34-54; Kusnanto Anggoro, “Uncovering the Cemeteries of Truth,” Jakarta Post, 7 April 2000; Budiawan, “Menyingkirkan beban masa lalu,” Kompas, 3 May 2000; Seno Gumira Ajidarma, “Indonesia sebagai pasien Jung: Sejarah tak terkuburkan,” Kompas, 6 May 2000. 49. Soewarsono, Berbareng bergerak: Sepenggal riwayat dan pemikiran Semaoen (Yogyakarta: LKiS, 2000); Tan Malaka, Aksi massa (Jakarta: Teplok, 2000); Tan Malaka, Madilog (Jakarta: Teplok, 1999; and another version: Jakarta: Pusat Data Indikator, 1999); Marco Kartodikromo, Student Hijo (Yogyakarta: Aksara, 2000). A translation of a 1976 biography of Tan Malaka by Harry A. Poeze was banned during the New Order: Tan Malaka: Pergulatan menuju republik (Jakarta: Grafiti, 1988). 50. See Alex Bardsley’s Internet resource page on Pramoedya: http://home.earthlink. net/~agbardsley/prampage.html. Among many reviews, see Keith Foulcher, “‘Bumi Manusia’ and ‘Anak Semua Bangsa’: Pramoedya Ananta Toer Enters the 1980s,” Indonesia, no. 32 (October 1981): 1-15. 51. Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s first tetralogy, Bumi manusia, Jejak langkah, Anak semua bangsa, and Rumah kaca, was first published in Jakarta in the 1980s, but the books were soon banned. They were then reissued in the Netherlands and Malaysia. The collapse of the New Order allowed Hasta Mitra in Jakarta to reissue them. Sang pemula (Jakarta: Hasta Mitra, 1985) was similarly banned, and reissued elsewhere. 52. Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s second tetralogy is Arok Dedes (Jakarta: Hasta Mitra, 1999), Mata pusaran (still lost), Arus balik (Jakarta: Hasta Mitra, 1995), and Mangir (Jakarta: Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia, 2000), his only play. 53. Pramoedya Ananta Toer, Koesalah Soebagyo Toer, and Ediati Kamil, Kronik revolusi Indonesia, 2 vols. (Jakarta: Gramedia, 1999). 54. “Wawancara Pramoedya Ananta Toer: ‘Yang tidak setuju, ya minggir saja,’” Tempo, 4-10 May 1999. 55. Irfan S. Awwas, Menelusuri perjalanan jihad SM Kartosuwiryo: Proklamator Negara Islam Indonesia (Yogyakarta: Wihdah Press, 1999); Al Chaidar, Pemikiran politik Proklamator Negara Islam Indonesia SM Kartosuwirjo (Jakarta: Darul Falah, 1999). 56. “Waeleruny: FKM wadah penegakan kebenaran,” Siwalima, 5 January 2001; “Basudara Muslim mendukung RMS,” Siwalima, 30 December 2000; “Independence Calls Grow in Strife-torn Islands,” The Straits Times, 23 June 2000. 57. “Deklarasi Kongres Minahasa Raya,” 5 August 2000, at Bukit Inspirasi Tomohon. Internet: <gopher://gopher.igc.apc.org:2998/7REG-INDONESIA>. 58. Bertil Lintner, “Giving No Quarter: Guerrilla Leader Runs Separatist Campaign from Stockholm Flat,” Far Eastern Economic Review, 29 July 1999; Simon Mann, “Aceh’s Unswerving Prince Plots Revolution from Afar,” Sydney Morning Herald, 23 November 1999. For background information on Aceh, especially the 1989-92 episode of violence, see Tim Kell, The Roots of Acehnese Rebellion, 1989-1992 (Ithaca, N.Y.: Cornell Modern Indonesia Project, 1995), and Geoffrey Robinson, “Rawan Is as Rawan Does: The Origins of Disorder in New Order Aceh,” Indonesia (Cornell), no. 66 (October 1998): 127-56. 348 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001) === [PDF page 28] === 59. Hasan di Tiro, The Price of Freedom: The Unfinished Diary of Tengku Hasan di Tiro (Markham, Ontario.: The Open Press, 1984). Translated extracts of it were republished in March 1999 on the anonymous Indonesian Internet news service MeunaSAH (<gopher://gopher.igc.apc.org:2998/7REG-INDONESIA>). 60. The Zentgraaff quote, we observe incidentally, is an interesting piece of post-coloniality. Di Tiro uncritically lifts quotes about Aceh’s history and national character traits from several such colonial sources. Yet Zentgraaff had in the 1920s a reputation among Indonesian nationalists as a white supremacist. 61. Di Tiro, The Price of Freedom, 14. 62. On Acehnese oral history that remembers the Dutch wars see Jacqueline Aquino Siapno, “The Politics of Gender, Islam and Nation-state in Aceh, Indonesia: A Historical Analysis of Power, Cooptation and Resistance” (Ph.D. diss., University of California, Berkeley, 1997; available from UMI). 63. Ahmad Sudirman, “Kesultanan Aceh, RI, NII-Aceh dan NLFAS,” Stockholm, 28 November 1999. URL: <gopher://gopher.igc.apc.org:2998 /7REGINDONESIA>. 64. “Surat Hasan Tiro kepada Sekjen PBB,” Waspada, 8 January 1999. ASNLF, Hasan di Tiro’s Stockholm-based organization, disseminates an electronic bulletin called “Sumatra Ku” on the mailing list Keyakinan (Internet: <http:// groups.yahoo.com/group/keyakinan/messages>), from whence it is widely reposted. 65. “Maklumat perang terhadap Aceh tidak bisa dicabut,” Waspada, 7 August 1999. 66. Vaudine England, “The Past Is Still Present in Aceh,” South China Morning Post, 24 November 1999. 67. There is still no good political history of Papua in English. See Robin Osborne, Indonesia’s Secret War: The Guerrilla Struggle in Irian Jaya (Sydney: Allen and Unwin, 1985), and R. J. May, ed., Between Two Nations: The Indonesia-Papua New Guinea Border and West Papua Nationalism (Bathurst: Robert Brown, 1986). 68. The Papua Plenary (Musyawarah Besar Masyarakat Papua), held near Jayapura, 23-26 February 2000, had as its theme “straightening out history”; Papuans in Jakarta held a seminar on 24 May 2000 entitled “Reinterpreting the juridical status of Irian Jaya from a historical and international legal perspective”; the First Papua Youth Congress held in Jayapura, 23-27 May 2000, was preoccupied with history. A new book timed to coincide with the People’s Congress presented a well-researched history of Papuan resistance against colonialism from Dutch to Indonesian times: Decki Natalis Pigay, Evolusi nasionalisme dan sejarah konflik politik di Papua (Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, 2000). 69. The standard historical account, which Papuan nationalists would call “twisted,” is Sejarah kembalinya Irian Jaya ke pangkuan Republik Indonesia (Jakarta: Direktorat Organisasi Internasional Departemen Luar Negeri, 1998). 70. The main Papuan spokesperson for this view is Theys Eluay. See “Kongres Rakyat Papua: PNG dukung perjuangan damai,” Kompas, 31 May 2000. 71. Curiously, the revived Tidore sultanate recently made Jakarta an offer to “mediate” in the dispute with Papua, on the basis of its intimate historical knowledge of Papua as preserved in its courtly rituals: “House Supports Tidore Sultanate as Mediator in Papua Issue,” Antara, 2 October 2000. The offer is unlikely to impress Papuans. 72. Coherent recent statements of this historical argument include “Mereka ingin luruskan sejarah Papua,” Kompas, 19 June 2000; articles by Ottis Simopiaref, the Papuan activist in the Netherlands: “Dasar dasar perjuangan kemerdekaan Papua Barat,” Papua (Internet mailing list), 5 June 2000 (email: osimopiaref@ netscape.net), and “Manipulasi sejarah dan pencaplokan Papua Barat,” Suara Mambruk 2, no. 12 (10 February 2000), taken from Bulletin Port Numbay (Port Numbay is another name for Jayapura), August 1999; Tim Studi FOKER LSM Irian Jaya, “Papua merdeka: Latar belakang, akar masalah, persepsi aktor van Klinken/Battle for History 349 === [PDF page 29] === dan peluang solusi,” document produced out of a series of NGO consultations in Jayapura, November 1999; Jacob Rumbiak, “Solusi damai masalah hak-hak kemerdekaan Papua Barat,” Sophia University, Tokyo (conference paper), July 1999. Over against the more purely legal arguments of these histories George Junus Aditjondro, an Indonesian sympathizer with Papuan nationalist aspirations, produced a history of great Papuans, carefully formulated to accord equal weight to various tribal districts: “Bintang Kejora di tengah kegelapan malam: Penggelapan nasionalisme orang Irian dalam historiografi Indonesia,” Cahaya Bintang Kejora (Jakarta: Elsam, 2000), 5-37. 73. “Hasan Tiro pembual besar: Tanjong Bungong sok feodal,” Gamma, 18 August 1999. 74. Syarifudin Tippe, Aceh di persimpangan jalan (Jakarta: Cidesindo, 2000). 75. “Sejarah Papua harus disosialisasikan,” Kompas, 11 April 2000, similarly Hayono Isman, “Papua: Demokrasi, keadilan dan kemanusiaan,” Suara Pembaruan, 16 June 2000. 76. “Sisi lain sebuah kenyataan sejarah,” Kompas, 19 June 2000; anonymous, ed., Bebaskan Irian Barat: Kumpulan pidato Presiden Soekarno tentang pembebasan Irian Barat 17 Agustus 1961 - 17 Agustus 1962 (Yogyakarta: Ragam Media, 2000). 77. “Tak benar gubernur perintah oposan ditahan,” Cenderawasih Post, 12 October 1998. 78. Klooster, Indonesiers schrijven hun geschiedenis, 112-21. Others with regional specializations are Taufik Abdullah (who wrote on Minangkabau), Ibrahim Alfian (Aceh), Edi S. Ekadjati (West Java), A. B. Lapian (maritime history), R. Z. Leirissa (Maluku), Onghokham (Madiun), F. A. Sutjipto (Yogyakarta), and Soemarsaid Moertono (Java). Others did take up national issues: Alfian (Muhammadiyah), Abdurrachman Surjomihardjo (nationalism), and Uka Tjandrasasmita (archaeology). 79. A good example is Y. B. Mangunwijaya, Ikan-ikan hiu, Ido, Homa (Jakarta: Sinar Harapan, 1983), a novel on Ambon’s history. 80. For a description of one Javanese town’s anniversary (Purwokerto) see George Quinn, “The Role of a Javanese Burial Ground in Local Government,” in The Potent Dead, ed. Anthony Reid and Henri Chambert-Loir (forthcoming). On a regional museum in South Sulaw esi, see Kathryn Robinson, “History, Houses and Regional Identities,” The Australian Journal of Anthropology 8, no. 1 (April 1997): 71-88. On the Makassar renaming see Elizabeth Morrell, “Strengthening the Local in National Reform: A Cultural Approach to Political Change” (forthcoming journal article, email author at <emorrell@metz.une. edu.au>). See also the 100-part series on “Old Batavia” in Jakarta Post, late 2000 and early 2001. 81. Parakitri T. Simbolon, Menjadi Indonesia: Buku I — Akar-akar kebangsaan Indonesia (Jakarta: Kompas, 1995). 82. Ibid., 26. 83. Siapno, The Politics of Gender. 84. Aditjondro, Cahaya Bintang Kejora. The latter begins with a chapter extolling the armed resistance movement OPM in the “sacred dates and great men” genre I have criticized in this paper, but moves on to a more interesting plane when it describes the lives of the musicians Arnold Ap and Sam Kapissa. 85. Benny Giay, Menuju Papua Baru: Beberapa pikiran sekitar emansipasi orang Papua (Jayapura/Port Numbay: Deiyai/Elsham Papua, 2000). 350 Critical Asian Studies 33:3 (2001)