The International Peoples Tribunal for 1965 and the Indonesian Genocide (Wieringa, Melvin and Pohlman, eds., 2019)

=== [PDF page 1] === TRAP Sec i DFP agua BLT aNA VE a rs Sts ee y os Lee Perec tae NT oe en eed eee Routledge Contemporary Southeast Asta Series THE INTERNATIONAL PEOPLE'S TRIBUNAL FOR 1965 AND THE INDONESIAN GENOCIDE Edited by Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin, and Annie Pohlman Ccspsemaearamtscmemmaweoa inn! 21 > Noae % Rea tee tre err ne ead Petes Aro eens ON og ND wees Beze eke ee 20> pT To): esd ON BER are === [PDF page 2] === The International People’s Tribunal for 1965 and the Indonesian Genocide The International People’s Tribunal addressed the many forms of violence during the period of the massacres of 1965–66 in Indonesia. It was held in The Hague, the Netherlands, in November 2015, to commemorate 50 years since the killings began. The Tribunal, as a people’s court, holds no jurisdiction and was an attempt to achieve symbolic justice for the crimes of 1965. This book offers new and previously unpublished insights into the types of crimes committed in the 1965 genocide and how these crimes were prosecuted at the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965). Divided thematically, each chapter analyses a different crime—enslavement, sexual violence, and torture—perpetrated during the Indonesian killings. The contributions consider either general patterns across Indonesia or a particular region of the archipelago. The book reflects on how crimes were charged at the IPT 1965 and focuses on questions relating to the place of people’s tribunals in truth-seeking and justice claims, and the prospective for transitional justice in contemporary Indonesia. Positioning the events in Indonesia in 1965 within the broader scope of comparative genocide studies, the book is an original and timely contribution to knowledge about the dynamics of the Indonesian killings. It will be of interest to academics in the field of Asian studies, in particular Southeast Asia, Genocide Studies, Criminology and Criminal Justice Studies, and Transitional Justice Studies. Saskia E. Wieringa is honorary professor at the University of Amsterdam, the Netherlands. She chairs the International People’s Tribunal on the 1965 Crimes against Humanity in Indonesia. Her latest books include Heteronormativity, Passionate Aesthetics and Symbolic Subversion in Asia (with Abha Bhaiya and Nursyahbani Katjasungkana, 2015). In 2018 the volume Propaganda and the Genocide in Indonesia: Imagined Evil (with Nursyahbani Katjasungkana) was published by Routledge. Jess Melvin is Postdoctoral Research Associate with the Sydney Southeast Asia Centre at the University of Sydney, Australia. She is the author of The Army and the I ndonesian Genocide: Mechanics of Mass Murder (Routledge, 2018) and the co-editor, with Katharine McGregor and Annie Pohlman, of The Indonesian Genocide of 1965 (2018). Annie Pohlman is Senior Lecturer in Indonesian Studies at the University of Queensland, Brisbane, Australia. She is the author of Women, Sexual Violence and the Indonesian Killings of 1965– 66 (2015) and the co-editor of Genocide and Mass Atrocities in Asia (2013), also published by Routledge, and also the co-editor, with Katharine McGregor and Jess Melvin, of The Indonesian Genocide of 1965 (2018). === [PDF page 3] === Routledge Contemporary Southeast Asia Series The aim of this series is to publish original, high-quality work by both new and established scholars on all aspects of Southeast Asia. Torture and Peacebuilding in Indonesia The Case of Papua Budi Hernawan Family and Population Changes in Singapore A unique case in the global family change Edited by Wei-Jun Jean Yeung and Shu Hu Islamic Education in Indonesia and Malaysia Shaping Minds, Saving Souls Azmil Tayeb Islam, State and Society in Indonesia Local Politics in Madura Yanwar Pribadi The Appeal of the Philippines Spain, Cultural Representation and Politics José Miguel Díaz Rodríguez Propaganda and the Genocide in Indonesia Saskia E. Wieringa with Nursyahbani Katjasungkana The International People’s Tribunal for 1965 and the Indonesian Genocide Edited by Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin and Annie Pohlman For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge. com/Routledge-Contemporary-Southeast-Asia-Series/book-series/RCSEA === [PDF page 4] === The International People’s Tribunal for 1965 and the Indonesian Genocide Edited by Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin, and Annie Pohlman === [PDF page 5] === First published 2019 by Routledge 2 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon OX14 4RN and by Routledge 52 Vanderbilt Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2019 selection and editorial matter, Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin and Annie Pohlman; individual chapters, the contributors The right of Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin and Annie Pohlman to be identified as the authors of the editorial material, and of the authors for their individual chapters, has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Names: Wieringa, Saskia, 1950– editor. | Melvin, Jess, editor. | Pohlman, Annie, editor. Title: The International People’s Tribunal for 1965 and the Indonesian genocide / edited by Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin and Annie Pohlman. Description: New York: Routledge, 2019. | Series: Routledge contemporary Southeast Asia series | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Identifiers: LCCN 2018048191 (print) | LCCN 2018049802 (ebook) | ISBN 9780429427763 (master) | ISBN 9780429764967 (Adobe Reader) | ISBN 9780429764950 (Epub) | ISBN 9780429764943 (Mobipocket) | ISBN 9781138371071 | ISBN 9781138371071 (hardback) | ISBN 9780429427763 (ebook) Subjects: LCSH: Indonesia—History—Coup d’âetat, 1965. | Human Genocide—Indonesia—History—20th century. | Crimes against humanity—Indonesia—History—20th century. | International People’s Tribunal for 1965. Classification: LCC DS644.32 (ebook) | [Unreadable] LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018048191 ISBN: 978-1-138-37107-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-0-429-42776-3 (ebk) Typeset in Times New Roman by codeMantra === [PDF page 6] === Contents List of figures, map, and tables Foreword Acknowledgements List of abbreviations List of contributors 1 The Indonesian genocide and the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 vii xiii xxiii Saskia E. W ieringa, J ess M elvin, and A nnie P ohlman 2 Organisation and impact of the International People’s Tribunal on 1965 crimes against humanity in Indonesia 22 N ursyahbani K atjasungkana and Saskia E. W ieringa 3 How the military came to power 44 J ess M elvin 4 Mass torture in 1965–66: a continuing legacy 60 Galuh Wandita, I ndria F ernida, and K aren Campbell -N elson 5 Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses: the case of Buru Island 80 A svi Warman A dam 6 Sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage as crimes against humanity during the Indonesian killings of 1965–66 96 A nnie P ohlman 7 Persecution through denial of citizenship: Indonesians in forced exile post 1965 R atna Saptari 115 === [PDF page 7] === Contents 8 Mass graves, memorialisation, and truth-finding 135 Saskia E. W ieringa 9 Propaganda and complicity, 1965–66 157 A dam H ughes H enry 10 What’s in a name? Naming and shaming in the Indonesian 1965 mass violence discourse and the IPT 1965 179 S ri L estari Wahyuningroem 11 Ingat65: how Indonesia’s young generation share their discovery of a forgotten massacre 198 Prodita Sabarini, E llena E karahendy, I ka K rismantari, F ebriana F irdaus, and R ika T heo 12 The Indonesian massacres as genocide 215 H elen Jarvis and Saskia E. W ieringa Epilogue: the way forward 237 Bradley Simpson Index 241 === [PDF page 8] === List of figures, map, and tables Figures Atmosphere at the IPT 1965 hearings, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission The witness Martono, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission Prosecutor Team 1, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission Prosecutor Team 2, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission 28 Map of Indonesia 23 25 Map Tables Perpetrators of torture identified in victims’ testimonies Patterns of torture committed in Aceh and Timor-Leste 62 69 === [PDF page 9] === [Blank page; publisher placeholder logo: Taylor & Francis, Taylor & Francis Group, http://taylorandfrancis.com] === [PDF page 10] === Foreword Zak Yacoob The foreword to the volume is written by Retired Justice Zak Yacoob, who chaired the hearings of the International People’s Tribunal for 1965. It introduces the themes of the volume and the crimes dealt with by the IPT 1965. It also discusses transitional justice efforts in Indonesia and internationally. I was one of the judges of the hearings of the Independent Peoples’ Tribunal held at The Hague during November 2015. I start by expressing deep appreciation for this well-researched compilation by academics of note who have left no stone unturned in their efforts. The publication goes far beyond a description of the proceedings of the International Peoples’ Tribunal itself. The study contextualises the events of 1965 both in the past and the international scene. The horrendous happenings during the period 1965 until almost the beginning of the twenty-first century are appropriately and graphically described. I sincerely thank each of the writers, every person who gave evidence before the tribunal, all the lawyers and researchers who worked so very hard to prepare for the proceedings, all the people and entities who contributed financially and organisationally, as well as my fellow judges. For me, the tribunal proceedings and events were, and remain in the first place, a pungent, disturbing, yet illuminating experience of the suffering of humanity. It also recalls to me, in an unforgettable way, the courage and anguish of the survivors and others who gave evidence. Third, it clearly demonstrates the determination of the organisers to ensure that the events of that time do not become buried in history but remain alive to contribute to the improvement of the quality of life of human beings everywhere. And this publication serves amongst other things as a vivid and successful effort to achieve the same laudable results. The many, many thousands of people who died and disappeared, who were maimed physically and psychologically, and who were abused physically and sexually were all victims of a huge international conspiracy. Let us not interpret these events as if they concerned Indonesia alone. The people of that country were really victims of the conflict between the East and the West, the so-called Cold War between communism and capitalism, and === [PDF page 11] === x Foreword the competition between world forces for control and domination not only of the world value system, but perhaps more importantly, also of world resources. This book raises the real and inevitable inference that there was a perception and a real fear both among conservative political forces in Indonesia and among western imperialists, and that the brand of communism and the way in which it was being practised by President Sukarno and his political allies, was in fact succeeding. Hundreds of thousands of people were all sacrificed at the altar of western imperialism and anticommunism. The Indonesian military was in effect a tool of these evil, imperialistic forces. These forces are still at work despite what is referred to as the end of the so-called Cold War. This publication makes it plain that the ushering in of a new humanitarian order in Indonesia in 1998 has not changed much. There has not been a real acknowledgement of, and acceptance of, responsibility for these atrocities either by Indonesian authorities or representatives of western imperialism. This despite the fact that, given every opportunity to present their version, all these perpetrators preserved their silence during the tribunal, rendering its conclusions irrefutable. The international forces inexcusably and heartlessly continue in their silence. The present Indonesian regime, however, demonstrates the truth of the evidence at the tribunal. While calling the proceedings and results of the tribunal a ‘joke,’ they express no concern, sympathy, or support for the efforts to memorialise and help achieve retribution and compensation for victims, survivors, and families. Instead, they are agitated and appear to be afraid of these developments which seems to signify them, a rearing of communism’s ‘ugly’ head. Yet the so-called end of the Cold War should mean that there should be true freedom of expression, belief, and opinion. It should mean that believers and supporters of the communist, capitalist, or any other political system are free to peacefully propagate their persuasions. True democracy does not mean a capitalist democracy, as capitalists think. If a majority of people prefer a particular political alternative, whether communism or something else, their views must, in any realistic definition of democracy, be allowed to prevail. There is no room for oppressive and violent crushing of alternative political views. The authoritarian Indonesian vilification of communism is contradictory of the new era of political democracy. Hopefully, it is not a threat to resume the unspeakably cruel purge of 1965, and equally hopefully, the Indonesian authorities will confirm that it is definitely not. The publication also shows without doubt that the conflict and struggles in Indonesia during the 30-year Suharto regime and the struggle of the people of Indonesia to obtain reparation, justice, and fairness today are integral to a broader world struggle that has existed for centuries and is not yet at an end, with human beings trying to achieve a just and equitable world order. It is the struggle between authoritarianism on the one hand and true democracy on the other; between a culture of exploitation and oppression, and a === [PDF page 12] === Foreword culture of humanism and human rights; between the absolute dominance of capital and power, and the achievement of fairness for labour; between arbitrary discrimination, and true acceptance of equality; and between the rich and powerful, and people who are poor and vulnerable. The crimes against humanity in Indonesia and elsewhere in the world really represent an offensive by violent and powerful authoritarian forces aimed at the destruction of human dignity, equality, and freedom, and an offensive against the reduction of poverty, improvement of the quality of lives of human beings, and social justice for all vulnerable people. The opposite is the struggle by people all over the world for the meaningful survival of humanity and a struggle that I support without qualification. We must all call upon the United Nations and other international structures with jurisdiction to prosecute these crimes; we call upon responsible international forces to accept responsibility for their role and commit to reparation, justice, and true democracy in Indonesia; and finally, we call upon the Indonesian authorities to desist from their vilification of communism and to contribute instead to true reparation, reconstruction, and democracy. This publication is an important step forward in our struggle for a better and more humane world order. === [PDF page 13] === [Blank page; publisher placeholder logo: Taylor & Francis, Taylor & Francis Group, http://taylorandfrancis.com] === [PDF page 14] === Acknowledgements This volume could not have been possible without the help and contribution of many. First, we wish to thank the hundreds of volunteers who worked on the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965). Their efforts to highlight the 1965 case and to achieve some measure of justice for the victims of these crimes have kept this dark chapter in our shared history alive. As editors, we also have to thank one another, for the friendship and professionalism with which we worked on this project. We were all involved in compiling the material for the research report for the Prosecutors of the IPT 1965. Each of us has a different trajectory that brought her to work on this anthology. Saskia did her PhD research on the history of the Indonesian women’s movement including Gerwani in the early 1980s. That was the first time she heard the story of the slander against Gerwani. Shocked, she was determined to bring the story to the public. For many years, she could not return to the country and was finally able, only in 2002, to publish the unpurged version of the results of this research. Later she wrote a novel (Crocodile Hole, 2014) and collaborated on a film on the topic (The Women and the Generals, by Maj Wechselman, 2012). Appalled by the continued impunity of the perpetrators, and the stigma that the victims/survivors of the genocide and other crimes against humanity still carry, she co-founded the IPT 1965 and has chaired the Foundation IPT 1965 since its establishment in 2014. Jess came to the case of 1965 from Aceh. She saw the end of the separatist conflict in the province in 2005 and heard many stories of military brutality. When she later began to hear stories about 1965, she was struck by how similar the two cases sounded and was determined to uncover the role of the military during 1965. Her book, The Army and the Indonesian Genocide: Mechanics of Mass Murder, was published in 2018. Annie first met survivors of the 1965 killings while studying in Indonesia in 2002. In the years since then, she has been awed and humbled time and time again by the strength and resilience of survivors. Her work has focused, in particular, on the gendered forms of violence perpetrated against women and girls during 1965–66. === [PDF page 15] === xiv Acknowledgements Saskia would like to thank the Amsterdam Institute for Social Science Research and particularly the Amsterdam Research Centre on Gender and Sexuality for their support to this project. Jess would like to thank the Sydney Southeast Asia Centre at the University of Sydney for their support to this project. Annie wishes to thank the School of Languages and Cultures at the University of Queensland. We also give our sincere thanks to the artist Koes Komo for allowing us to reproduce four of his works which he created at the International People’s Tribunal public hearings in 2015. Lastly, we wish to thank the team at Routledge (Dorothea Schaefter and Lily Brown) for assisting us along the way with the production and finalisation of the manuscript. This anthology is dedicated to the victims and survivors of the genocide and other crimes against humanity committed in Indonesia after 1 October 1965. We hope that the anthology will contribute towards reconciliation and that it will help the younger generation in their efforts to unlearn the history lessons they received at school. Truth-finding is a necessary first step to ending impunity. === [PDF page 16] === List of abbreviations AAKI (Aliansi Anti-Komunis Indonesia, Indonesian AntiCommunist Alliance) AAPSO (Afro-Asia Peoples’ Solidarity Organisation) ABRI (Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia, Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia), former name for the Armed Forces, now called the TNI (Tentara Nasional Indonesia) (Angkatan Darat, lit. Land Forces), the Army’s name during the New Order AGO (Attorney General’s Office) AJAR (Asia Justice and Rights) AJI (Aliansi Jurnalis Independen, Alliance of Independent Journalists) Ansor, youth wing of Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) APIK (Asosiasi Perempuan untuk Keadilan Indonesia, Indonesian Women’s Association for Justice) Banser (Barisan Serba Guna Ansor, Multipurpose Ansor Brigade), a paramilitary militia formed within Ansor in the early 1960s BAPEPRU (Badan Pelaksana Resettlement Pulau Buru, Buru Island Resettlement Implementation Body) BAPERKI (Badan Permusyawaratan Kewarganegaraan Indonesia, Deliberative Association for Indonesian Citizenship), an Indonesian Chinese political organisation with ties to the PKI BTI (Barisan Tani Indonesia, Indonesian Peasants’ Front), peasant organisation affiliated with the PKI CAH (Crimes Against Humanity) CAT (Convention against Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman, or Degrading Treatment or Punishment) CCFD (Catholic Committee against Hunger and for Development) (Consentrasi Gerakan Mahasiswa Indonesia, Indonesian CGMI Student Movement Centre), a leftist student movement disbanded after the 1965 coup attempt (Corps Polisi Militer, Military Police Corps) CPM === [PDF page 17] === xvi List of abbreviations DGI (Dewan Gereja-gereja Indonesia, Indonesian Council of Churches) DKN (Dewan Kerukunan Nasional, National Harmony Council) DOM (Daerah Operasi Militer, Military Operation Region) DPR (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, People’s Representative Council) dwifungsi (dual function), the name given to the dual military and political function of the Indonesian Armed Forces Dwikora (People’s Double Command), the name given by Sukarno for the involvement of civilians in Konfrontasi in May 1964 ECCC (Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia) ELSAM (Lembaga Studi dan Advokasi Masyarakat, Institute for Policy Research and Advocacy) FAKI (Front Anti-Komunis Indonesia, Indonesian AntiCommunist Front) FPI (Front Pembela Islam, Islamic Defenders’ Front) FUI (Forum Umat Islam, Forum of Believers/Islamic Community) FUIK (Forum Ukhuwah Islamiyah Kaloran, Kaloran Islamic Fraternity Forum) G30S (Gerakan Tiga Puluh September, 30 September Movement), formal name of the movement which launched the 30 September 1965 coup, led by Colonels Untung and Latief, which kidnapped and killed six generals and one general’s aide (Crush Malaysia), a Konfrontasi campaign launched Ganyang Malaysia by Sukarno in September 1963 (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia, Indonesian Women’s Gerwani Movement), a mass-based women’s organisation with close links to, but not formally affiliated with, the PKI acronym for the 30 September Movement, coined by Gestapu, Brigadier General Sugandhi, Direct of the Armed Forces’ daily newspaper, Angkatan Bersendjata (Gereja Kristen Indonesia, Indonesian Christian GKI Church) (Gerakan Mahasiswa Nasionalis Indonesia, Indonesian GMNI Nationalist Student Movement) (Golongan Karya, Functional Groups), the name of Golkar the New Order government’s electoral party (Pertahanan Rakyat, People’s Defence), civilian militia Hanra under Army control === [PDF page 18] === List of abbreviations xvii Hansip (Pertahanan Sipil, Civil Defence), civilians under Army control, similar to Hanra HMI (Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam, Islamic University Students’ Association) HRC (Human Rights Council), of the United Nations HSI (Himpunan Sarjara Indonesia, also spelled Himpoenan Sardjana Indonesia, Indonesian Graduates’ Association), an organisation associated with the PKI ICC (International Criminal Court) ICCPR (International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights) ICTJ (International Centre for Transitional Justice) ICTR (International Criminal Court for Rwanda) ICTY (International Criminal Court for the former Yugoslavia) IDR (Information Research Department), special unit within the UK Foreign Office IKOHI (Ikatan Keluarga Orang Hilang Indonesia, Indonesian Federation for Families of the Disappeared) Inrehab (Instalasi Rehabilitasi, Rehabilitation Installation), later name of prison camps on Buru Island IPPI (Ikatan Pemuda Pelajar Indonesia, League of Indonesian Student Youth), a students’ association affiliated with the PKI IPT 1965 (International People’s Tribunal for 1965), a people’s tribunal held in 2015 ISSI (Institut Sejarah Sosial Indonesia, Indonesian Institute for Social History) Jardokber (Jaringan Pendokumentasian Bersama, Joint Documentation Network) (Jaringan Perempuan Indonesia Timur, Women’s Research JPIT Network of Eastern Indonesia) (Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Indonesia, Indonesian KAMI Students’ Action Front), an anti-communist group formed in October 1965 (Komite Aksi Pengganyangan Gerakan Tigapuluh KAP-Gestapu September, Action Committee for the Destruction of the 30th September Movement) (Kesatuan Aksi Pelajar Pemuda Indonesia, Indonesian KAPPI Student and Youth Action Front), an anti-communist group made up of mainly university students, similar to KAMI (Komunis Gaya Baru, New Style Communism) KBG (Kiprah Perempuan, Women’s Progress), an association of KIPPER women survivors based in Yoygakarta (Koalisi Keadilan dan Pengungkapan Kebenaran, KKPK Coalition for Justice and the Disclosure of Truth) === [PDF page 19] === xviii List of abbreviations KKR (Komisi Kebenaran dan Rekonsiliasi, Truth and Reconciliation Commission) KODAHAN (Komando Daerah Pertahanan, Joint Regional Defence Command), later called KOHANDA (Regional Defence Command) in Aceh KODAM (Komando Daerah Militer, Regional Military Command) KODIM (Komando District Militer, District Military Command) KOLAGA (Komando Mandala Siaga, Area Alert Command) Komnas HAM (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia, National Commission on Human Rights) Konfrontasi (Confrontation), the Indonesian military campaign to oppose the formation of Malaysia, 1963–66 KontraS (Komisi untuk Orang Hilang dan Korban Tindak Kekerasan, Commission for the Disappeared and Victims of Violence) KOPKAMTIB (Komando Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan dan Ketertiban, Operational Command for the Restoration of Security and Order), the military organisation with special powers created by Suharto after the 1 October 1965 coup which oversaw much of the killings and which remained in various forms throughout the New Order KORAMIL (Komando Rayon Militer, Military Sub-district Command) KOREM (Komando Resort Militer, Sub-regional Military Command) KOSEKHAN (Komando Sektor Pertahanan, Defence Sector Command) KOSTRAD (Komando Cadangan Strategis Angkatan Darat, Army Strategic Reserve Command), commanded by Suharto at the time of the 1965 coup (Komando Operasi Tertinggi, Supreme Operations KOTI Command) (Lingkar Pemberdayaan Perempuan dan Anak, Women’s LAPPAN Empowerment Circle), based in Ambon, Maluku (Lembaga Bantuan Hukum, Legal Aid Foundation) LBH (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat, Institute of People’s LEKRA Culture), a cultural organisation made up of writers, artists and performers associated with the PKI (Lembaga Pertahanan Nasional, National Defence Lemhanas Institute) (Lembaga Perjuangan Rehabilitasi Korban Rezim Orde LPR-KROB Baru, Institute for Struggle for the Rehabilitation of the New Order Regime’s Victims) (Lembaga Perlindungan Korban dan Saksi, Victim and LPSK Witness Protection Agency) === [PDF page 20] === List of abbreviations xix Lubang Buaya (Crocodile Hole), the name given to the well in which the seven victims of the 30 September Movement were thrown, and a central feature in the New Order regime’s propaganda about the 30 September coup Mahid (Mahasiswa Ikatan Dinas, University Students’ Bond or In-Service Students), for Indonesian exchange students travelling overseas Mahmillub (Mahkamah Militer Luar Biasa, Extraordinary Military Tribunal), a court created to try leaders of the 30 September Movement during the New Order Mandala Satu (First Mandala) Command (also Mandala Dua, Second Mandala Command), set up in Sumatra during Konfrontasi Manipol (Manifesto Politik, Political Manifesto), part of Sukarno’s political rhetoric during the Guided Democracy era, also written as Manipol-USDEK (Mahkamah Konstitusi, Constitutional Court) MPR (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat, People’s Consultative Assembly) Muhammadiyah (Followers of Muhammad), a mass-based modernist Islamic social organisation, founded in 1912 MUI (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, Indonesian Council of Ulama/Religious Leaders) NASAKOM (Nasionalisme, Agama, Komunisme, Nationalism, Religion, Communism), a political slogan created by Sukarno to try to unite various factions during the Guided Democracy era (New Emerging Forces), a political slogan created by NEFOS Sukarno (Nusatenggara Timor, East Nusatenggara), the name of NTT the province in southeast Indonesia (Nahdlatul Ulama, Revival of the Muslim Scholars), a mass-based Islamic organisation, founded in 1926 (Operasi Khusus, Special Operations), a domestic Opsus intelligence agency dominated by Lieutenant General Ali Murtopo during the early New Order period involved in creating propaganda (New Order), the name coined in 1966 for the new Orde Baru Army-led regime under Suharto (Old Order), the name coined in 1966 to refer to former Orde Lama President Sukarno’s reign (Orang Terhalang Pulang, Persons Prevented from OTP Returning Home) (Panglima Angkatan Darat, Commander of the Armed Pangad Forces) === [PDF page 21] === xx List of abbreviations PBHI (Perhimpunan Bantuan Hukum dan Hak Asasi Manusia Indonesia, Indonesian Legal Aid and Human Rights Support Association) PDI (Partai Demokrat Indonesia, Indonesian Democratic Party) Pemuda Pancasila (Pancasila Youth), an anti-communist youth militia group Pemuda Rakyat (People’s Youth), the youth wing of the PKI Perdoi (Perkumpulan Dokumentasi Indonesia, Indonesian Documentation Association) Permesta (Piagam Perjuangan Semesta, Universal Struggle Charter), a regional rebellion movement based in Sulawesi established in 1957, associated with the PRRI rebellion PETA (Pembela Tanah Air, Homeland Defenders) Petrus (Pembunuhan/Penembakan Misterius, Mysterious Killings/Shootings), the extrajudicial executions of alleged criminals by Indonesian security forces during the 1980s PKI (Partai Komunis Indonesia, Indonesian Communist Party) PNI (Partai Nasionalis Indonesia, Indonesian Nationalist Party) PP/I Brotherhood Association) PPI (Perhimpunan Pelajar Indonesia, Indonesian Students’ Association) (Permanent People’s Tribunal) PPT (Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia, PRRI Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia), a regional rebellion based in West Sumatra between 1958 and 1961 (Pengadilan Tinggi Tata Usaha Negara, State PTUN Administrative Court) (Rencana Pembangunan Jangka Menengah Nasional, RPJMN National Medium Term Development Plan) (Resimen Para Komando Angkatan Darat, Army ParaRPKAD Commando Regiment) (Sarekat Buruh Kehutanan Republik Indonesia, SARBUPRI Plantation Workers’ Union of the Republic of Indonesia), affiliated with the PKI (Special Courts for Sierra Leone) SCSL SEKBER 65 (Sekretariat Bersama 65, Joint Secretariat for Victims of 1965) === [PDF page 22] === List of abbreviations xxi SKP HAM (Solidaritas Korban Pelanggaran HAM, Solidarity for Victims of Human Rights Violations) SOBSI (Sentral Organisasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia, All-Indonesia Organisation of Labour Unions), a unions’ federation associated with the PKI Supersemar (Surat Perintah Sebelas Maret, Letter of 11 March 1966), the letter signed by Sukarno on that date granting Suharto the authority to take whatever measures he deemed necessary to restore order in the aftermath of the genocide; letter used by Suharto to usurp executive powers from Sukarno Tameng civilian militia group involved in the killings primarily in Bali TAP MPRS XXV 1996 (Ketetapan Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat Sementara, No. XXV, tahun 1996, People’s Assembly Decree No. 25 of 1966), the ban on ‘all activities that spread or develop Communist/ Marxist-Leninist ideas or teachings’ tapol (tahanan politik, political prisoner); also ‘E/T’ which stood for ‘ex-tapol’ was stamped on former political prisoners’ identity cards after release TAPOL, The British Campaign for the Release of Indonesian Political Prisoners TEFAAT (Tempat Pemanfaatan, Place for the Utilization of Labour), prison camp on Buru Island UGM (Universitas Gadjah Mada, Gadjah Mada University) (Universitas Indonesia, University of Indonesia) (Universal Periodic Review) UPR (Yayasan Pengabdian Hukum Indonesia, YAPHI Foundation for the Service of Rights in Indonesia) (Yayasan Hidup Baru, New Life Foundation) YHB (Yayasan Lembaga Bantuan Hukum Indonesia, YLBHI Indonesian National Legal Aid Foundation) (Yayasan Penelitian Korban Pembunuhan 1965, YPKP 1965 Foundation for Research on the Victims of the Killings of 1965) (Yayasan Sejarah dan Budaya Indonesia, YSBY Indonesian History and Culture Foundation) === [PDF page 23] === [Blank page; publisher placeholder logo: Taylor & Francis, Taylor & Francis Group, http://taylorandfrancis.com] === [PDF page 24] === List of contributors Asvi Warman Adam is Research Professor at The Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI), Jakarta, Indonesia. He obtained his PhD from Ecole des Hautes Etudes en Sciences Sociales, Paris, in 1990, and is the author of 14 books on Indonesian history, primarily on the 30 September Movement, Sukarno and Suharto. He was a member of the team formed by the Indonesian Human Rights Commission in 2003 to investigate grievous human rights abuses committed during Suharto’s New Order regime. Karen Campbell-Nelson’s work in gendered transitional justice, human rights, and participatory research spans many years. She has also worked with the Indonesian Women’s National Commission (women and human rights documentation in Aceh) and with the Timor-Leste Commission for Reception, Truth-Seeking and Reconciliation (CAVR; coordinator of the women’s research team), and has been a gender consultant for UN Women and the International Center for Transitional Justice to truth commissions in Liberia and the Solomon Islands. Karen also works on issues of human trafficking and advocacy for 1965 survivors with several faith-based organisations in West Timor. She holds a PhD from the University of Massachusetts. Ellena Ekarahendy is an art director and graphic designer based in Jakarta, Indonesia. Over the last few years, Ellena has been supporting various civil initiatives in human rights, freedom of expression, gender, and other social-political issues through design thinking and practices, including Ingat65 in which she contributes as an illustrator. She is currently the chairperson of SINDIKASI (Media and Creative Industry Workers Union for Democracy) and now focusing on digital labour discourses. Indria Fernida is a human rights lawyer who works as the Regional Program Coordinator of Asia Justice and Rights (AJAR). She is an advocate for human rights and state accountability in Indonesia and Asia for more than 15 years, her professional human rights skills include issues of international human rights law, transitional justice, and security sector reform. She was Deputy Coordinator of the Commission for the Disappeared === [PDF page 25] === xxiv List of contributors and Victims of Violence (KontraS), an Indonesian non-governmental organisation from 2006 to 2012, joining the organisation since 1999. She obtained a BA in Law from the University of Parahyangan, Indonesia, and a master’s from the University of Oslo, Norway. Febriana Firdaus is an independent investigative journalist based in Jakarta, Indonesia, and is New Naratif’s Consulting Editor for Jakarta and Papua. She has reported on politics, corruption, human rights and LGBT (lesbian, gay, bisexual, trans) rights, the 1965 purge, Papua, and ISIS (Islamic State). She is an editor of Ingat65 and manages the Voice of Papua newsletter. She has previously worked at Tempo and Rappler. Her freelance work has appeared in TIME, among others. In 2017, she received the Indonesian Oktovianus Pogau Journalism Award for Courage for her fearless reporting on human rights, including LGBT issues. Adam Hughes Henry is an honorary lecturer, School of Culture, History and Language, Australian National University (ANU) and a Lecturer in Global Studies, Faculty of Arts and Design, University of Canberra. He is currently a holder of a Whitlam Fellowship (Whitlam Institute, University of Western Sydney) examining the Australian diplomatic relationship with the United Nations in regard to human rights. He was a visiting fellow at the Human Rights Consortium (HRC), School of Advanced Studies (SOAS), University of London in 2016–17. He has published two books: Independent Nation, Charles Darwin University Press (2010) and The Gatekeepers of Australian Foreign Policy 1950–1966, Australian Scholarly Publishing (2015). His third book, Blind Spots (under contract), examining violence, nationalism, human rights, and war, is planned for later 2018. Helen Jarvis studied political science and Indonesian language and literature at the Australian National University and holds a PhD from the University of Sydney. She first visited Indonesia in late 1965 and worked in Jakarta during 1969 as a translator. Since the mid-1990s, Helen has worked on issues relating to crimes against humanity and genocide, mainly focusing on Cambodia. She was a member of the Panel of Judges at the IPT 1965. ribunal and a member She is a Vice President of the Permanent People’s T enocide and Justice of the Advisory Board of the Center for the Study of G ambodian nationin Dhaka, Bangladesh. She holds both Australian and C ality and is currently living in Phnom Penh. Nursyahbani Katjasungkana is a human rights lawyer, the Director of the Jakarta Legal Aid Institute, and the President of Indonesian Environmental Forum (WALHI). She was a Commissioner of the National Commission on Violence against Women (1998–2003). She is the co-founder of APIK, Asosiasi Perempuan Indonesia untuk Keadilan (Indonesian Women’s Association for Justice), and the National Coordinator of the Indonesian Federation of the Women’s Legal Aid Society. She was a member of the People’s Consultative Assembly (1999–2004) and a Member of Parliament === [PDF page 26] === List of contributors xxv (2004–09). Her most recent publication (with Saskia Wieringa) is Propaganda and the Genocide in Indonesia: Imagined Evil (Routledge, 2019). Ika Krismantari is a journalist, editor, and a mother of two lovely daughters. She co-founded Ingat65, a participatory digital storytelling project for the young generation to collectively remember the 1965 period in Indonesia in 2015, and is currently its managing editor. Jess Melvin is Postdoctoral Research Associate with the Sydney Southeast Asia Centre at the University of Sydney. She was Postdoctoral Associate in Genocide Studies and Rice Faculty Fellow in Southeast Asia Studies at the Macmillan Centre, Yale University, in 2016–17. She is the author of The Army and the Indonesian Genocide: Mechanics of Mass Murder (2018) and the co-editor of The Indonesian Genocide of 1965: Causes, Dynamics and Legacies (2018). Annie Pohlman is Senior Lecturer in Indonesian Studies at The University of Queensland, Brisbane, Australia. She is the author of Women, Sexual Violence and the Indonesian Killings of 1965–1966 (2015), and the co-editor of The Indonesian Genocide of 1965: Causes, Dynamics and Legacies (2018) and Genocide and Mass Atrocities in Asia: Legacies and Prevention (2013). Her current research maps the development of torture under Indonesia’s New Order regime. Her research interests include Indonesian history, comparative genocide studies, gendered experiences of violence, and oral history. Prodita Sabarini initiated Ingat65, a storytelling movement for young people to remember 1965 events in Indonesia. She is a journalist and currently editor of The Conversation Indonesia. She was the Elizabeth Neuffer Fellow at the Massachusetts Institute of Technology Center for International Studies in 2013–14. Prodita has a master’s degree in Human Rights Law and Policy from UNSW and a bachelor’s degree in Communication Science from Universitas Padjadjaran. Ratna Saptari holds a PhD from the University of Amsterdam. She is currently teaching at the Institute of Cultural Anthropology and Development Sociology, Leiden University, and her specialisations are gender and labour relations, migration, social movements, collective memory, and social history. She has written mainly on cigarette factory workers, domestic workers, and the politics of memory. Her concern with human rights issues in Indonesia started with her involvement in the labour movement in the mid-1980s. She was part of the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) research team based in the Netherlands and helped to prepare the report for the IPT 1965. Bradley Simpson researches the global history of self-determination, exploring its political, cultural, and legal descent through post-1945 US foreign relations and international politics. He is also the founder and director === [PDF page 27] === xxvi List of contributors of a project at the non-profit National Security Archive to declassify US government documents concerning Indonesia and East Timor during the reign of General Suharto. He is the author of Economists with Guns: Authoritarian Development and U.S.–Indonesian Relations, 1960– 68 (Stanford, 2008) and is an associate professor at the University of Connecticut. Rika Theo, originally trained as a journalist, has written on a wide range of topics surrounding economic, political, and social issues in Indonesia. In the middle of her journalistic career, she was awarded a scholarship to study in the Netherlands. She completed her master’s degree in development studies in 2010 and went back to Indonesia, continuing her work as a journalist. In 2014, she started her PhD at Utrecht University researching international student mobility of the Indonesia-China corridor. Since finishing her PhD in June 2018, she has lived in the Netherlands and currently works as a researcher on labour migration at Utrecht University. Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem was one of the researchers for the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 and assisted in the preparation of the tribunal in Australia and Indonesia. She teaches political science at the University of Indonesia and the University of Pembangunan Nasional Veteran, Jakarta. She received her PhD from the Australian National University, doing her thesis on transitional justice and democratisation in Indonesia, and her Master of Art from Central European University, Budapest. With a background in political science, she has research interests in the areas of transitional justice, civil society, peacebuilding, and gender studies, with a geographic focus on Indonesia and Southeast Asia. Galuh Wandita has been working and writing about gender, peace, and conflict issues since the 1990s, working with Oxfam and civil society groups in Indonesia. In 1998, she co-founded a women’s organisation, Fokupers in Dili, joining the UN Human Rights Unit from 2000. She was appointed the Deputy Director of Timor-Leste’s truth commission. She worked as a senior associate for the International Center for Transitional Justice, an international non-governmental organisation based in New York, working on accountability in Indonesia and Timor-Leste. In 2012, she co-founded Asia Justice and Rights and continues to lead the organisation as its executive director. msterdam. Saskia E. Wieringa is an honorary professor at the University of A She is also the co-founder and presently secretary of the Kartini Asia Network. Since the late 1970s, she has done research on women’s movements, sexual politics, and the same-sex relations in many parts of the world, particularly in Indonesia. She has written and edited more than 30 books and more than 200 articles. Her latest book (with Nursyahbani Katjasungkana) is Propaganda and the Genocide in Indonesia: Imagined === [PDF page 28] === List of contributors xxvii Zak Yacoob, Retired Justice, has been blind from infancy and studied at a school for blind children in Durban, South Africa. While at university and during practice as an advocate from 1973 to 1998, Yacoob was a member of the underground of the African National Congress and of community organisations involved in anti-apartheid and community activities including the United Democratic Front. After the fall of apartheid, he was a member of the committee that prepared the Bill of Rights in the 1993 Interim Constitution; of the Independent Electoral Commission, that was responsible for South Africa’s first democratic election in 1994; and of the Independent Panel of Experts that advised the Constitutional Assembly in preparing the 1996 final Constitution. He was appointed as judge of the Constitutional Court of South Africa from 1998 to 2013. Among other activities, he participated in the International Commission of Enquiry into the case of the ‘Cuban Five’ held in London in 2013, chaired the hearings of the 1965 Peoples’ Tribunal in The Hague, and chairs The People’s Commission into Economic Crimes in South Africa which began in February 2018 and is still ongoing. === [PDF page 29] === [Blank page; publisher placeholder logo: Taylor & Francis, Taylor & Francis Group, http://taylorandfrancis.com] === [PDF page 30] === The Indonesian genocide and the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 Saskia E. Wieringa, Jess Melvin, and Annie Pohlman In the wake of an attempted coup on the night of 30 September 1965, the Indonesian Army took over the government and wiped out its main political rivals, the members and affiliates of the mass-supported Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI). The mass violence that engulfed Indonesia in the months following resulted in the death of hundreds of thousands and the political imprisonment of more than one million others. These mass killings are perhaps the clearest example of a genocide against a sociopolitical group from the twentieth century, though they are rarely understood as a case of genocide. The regime that rose to power during these killings, General Suharto’s ‘New Order’ (1966–98), established a military-led, authoritarian government which lasted 33 years (Cribb 2001; Kammen & McGregor 2012). The regime was brought down in 1998 amid nationwide calls for democratic reform and for the redress for the New Order’s many state-sponsored human rights abuses. In the two decades since, Indonesia has developed into the world’s third largest, albeit low-quality, democracy (Bünte & Ufen 2009; Aspinall 2010). The promise for redress of past crimes, however, has largely been ignored by successive administrations (ICTJ & KontraS 2011; Ehito 2015). To this day, there has never been an official acknowledgement or apology by the Indonesian government for the killings of 1965–66 or for a host of other cases of grievous, state-led abuses committed by the New Order regime. These cases include, amongst others, the occupation of Timor-Leste (1975–99), the abuses committed under military occupation in Aceh, the many human rights ‘incidents’ in which civilians were killed and disappeared, and the ongoing serious human rights violations in West Papua (see Robinson 1998; Tanter, van Klinken & Ball 2006; Human Rights The contributors to this volume re-examine the 1965–66 mass violence in Indonesian history in the light of attempts to seek justice for the crimes committed during that period. Specifically, the chapters in this volume analyse a range of crimes committed following the events of 1 October 1965 and how these crimes were dealt with at the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (known as the ‘IPT 1965’). This People’s Tribunal was held in 2015 in === [PDF page 31] === Map 1.1 M ap of Indonesia. Source: Robert Cribb, Digital Atlas of Indonesian History (Copenhagen, NIAS Press, 2010), reproduced with permission. === [PDF page 32] === The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965 The Hague to mark 50 years since the killings began in order to seek some measure of justice for the victims. The opening chapters of the book outline the People’s Tribunal and discuss some of the main crimes dealt with by the court. The remaining chapters explore thematically a range of topics, including a focus on specific locations, specific types of crimes committed, propaganda, and memorialisation of the killings. The volume concludes with a reflection on the work of the Tribunal and on developments in Indonesia since. In this introduction, we outline the establishment of the Tribunal within the context of ongoing impunity for gross human rights violations in Indonesia, before sketching a brief background to the 1965 killings. The International People’s Tribunal on 1965 The Foundation for the International People’s Tribunal on the 1965 Crimes against Humanity in Indonesia (hereafter, ‘Foundation IPT 1965’) was formally established in March 2014. A year prior, in March 2013, a small working team was formed who drafted an initial concept note that set out the aims of the Foundation. The main aim was to hold a people’s court for the crimes committed in 1965–66 in order to raise awareness about these events and to promote reconciliation in Indonesia. Further, the Foundation aimed to ‘affirm the uncompromising hope that justice is still possible […] and to contribute to the creation of a political climate in Indonesia where human rights and the rule of law are recognised and respected’ (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b, p. 6). For the following 18 months, the Foundation commissioned and coordinated research reports to be compiled as evidence for the Prosecutor. These reports were written by victims’ advocates and researchers from Indonesia and several other countries, including by researchers based in North A merica, Europe, and Australia. These reports detailed the killings and mass imprisonments across several regions of Indonesia. They also made thematic explorations into particular forms of violence, such as sexual violence or the exile of Indonesian citizens following the coup. The International People’s Tribunal then held its public hearings at the Nieuwe Kerk in The Hague from 10 to 13 November 2015. At these hearings, survivors, researchers, and activists gave testimony before a Panel of Judges; these public hearings were held in the Netherlands rather than in Indonesia to ensure the safety of participants, and the proceedings were live-streamed on the internet to reach a wider audience (see Foundation IPT 1965 2016a, 2016b).1 In July 2016, the Panel of Judges handed down their judgement. The Panel of Judges was made up of seven international experts, including former judges and prosecutors (Zak Yacoob and Geoffrey Nice), those with a career in other international courts (Helen Jarvis and Mireille Fanon MendèsFrance), experts in international law (Cees Flinterman) and human rights (Shadi Sadr), and scholars (John Gittings).2 In their judgement, the Panel addressed the arguments made by the Chief Prosecutor, the leading Indonesian === [PDF page 33] === 4 Saskia E. Wieringa et al. human rights lawyer, Todung Mulya Lubis, and his team. This team included other Indonesian human rights prosecutors and lawyers, Antarini Arna, Uli Parulian Sihombing, Rinto Tri Hapsoro, and Bahrain Van Halen, as well as Silke Studzinsky, an international expert on sexual violence.3 As will be explored further in the chapters in this volume, the Prosecutor and his team alleged nine crimes against humanity were perpetrated in 1965 by the Indonesian state and its proxies: murder, enslavement, imprisonment, torture, sexual violence, persecution, enforced disappearance, hate propaganda, as well as the complicity of other states in these crimes (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b, p. 1). In their findings, the Panel of Judges assessed the evidence presented on each charge, confirming that the state of Indonesia was guilty of crimes against humanity, but also went further to address other issues not raised by the Prosecutor. In particular, as will be addressed in Chapter 12, the judges also addressed whether the mass killings of 1965–66 constituted genocide (Figure 1.1). The Indonesian government has yet to make any official response to either the holding of the International People’s Tribunal itself or the judgement, though several government officials have made generally condemnatory statements about both (Amindoni 2016; Wieringa 2016). Following the public hearings, for example, Indonesia’s Vice President, Jusuf Kalla, condemned the public hearings outright (Hasibuan 2015), while the Foreign Minister, Retno Marsudi, stated that it was not a real tribunal but rather a type of freedom of expression (Manafe 2015). The reaction from rightwing and conservative groups in Indonesia was more severe, with some of the Tribunal organisers personally targeted for their involvement after they returned to Indonesia (see McGregor & Purdey 2015). Figure 1.1 A tmosphere at the IPT 1965 hearings, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission. === [PDF page 34] === The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965 This lack of government response, and the severe response by conservative groups, is in no way surprising. For half a century, the crimes of 1965–66 have remained an unacknowledged and un-redressed dark period in Indonesian history. Indonesia’s political elites, with their close ties to the military and their oligarchic tendencies, have shown that they have little interest or political will to redress the violence of 1965 or any other past gross human rights violations. Indonesia’s vast security services, along with their conservative allies, have also shown that they will resist efforts to open up this dark past, let alone allow any official remedies for justice for victims and their families. It is in the face of this ongoing impunity for gross abuses that the IPT 1965 was held, in the hope that some measure of justice could be achieved. Justice denied and redressing impunity In the two years prior to the establishment of the Foundation IPT 1965 in 2014, there had been a number of events which had provoked public interest in this largely ignored and mostly forgotten case of mass violence amongst both domestic Indonesian and international audiences. These events, and the increase in domestic and international interest in the 1965 case, led to the establishment of the Foundation and then the Tribunal itself. One significant event leading up to the establishment of the Foundation IPT 1965 was the completion in 2012 of a landmark investigation by the independent Indonesian National Human Rights Commission (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia, Komnas HAM). The 2012 report was based on an investigation conducted by a team from Komnas HAM in six regions of Indonesia over four years: Flores, Bali, Maluku, North Sumatra, South Sumatra, and South Sulawesi provinces. During their investigation, the Komnas HAM team took 359 statements from witnesses and survivors, and amassed a wealth of evidence of gross human rights violations committed after the 1965 coup (Komnas Ham 2012).4 Although the report did not attempt to extrapolate the numbers of victims nationwide based on their six regional case studies, the Komnas HAM team concluded that there was overwhelming evidence of ‘widespread and systematic’ killings and other crimes against civilians by Indonesian state actors and their proxies. Specifically, the report concluded that there was evidence of nine categories of crimes against humanity: killings, extermination, enslavement, enforced evictions/banishments (pengusiran atau pemindahan penduduk secara paksa), arbitrary deprivation of freedom, torture, rape and other forms of sexual violence, persecution, and enforced disappearances (Komnas HAM 2012: section 5.1.1). In the report’s final section, the investigating team also recommended that the Attorney General carry out further investigations so that, under Indonesian domestic Law No. 26 of 2000, an ad hoc human rights court could be established to redress the crimes against humanity committed in 1965–66 (Komnas HAM 2012: section 5.2). === [PDF page 35] === 6 Saskia E. Wieringa et al. This report was delivered by the Komnas HAM team to the Indonesian Attorney General’s Office (AGO) in July 2012. Under Law No. 26 of 2000, once Komnas HAM has conducted its investigation (known as a pro-justicia inquiry) and found sufficient evidence that gross human rights violations have occurred, they must submit their findings to the AGO. The AGO is the only body which can conduct full criminal investigations and seek prosecutions in these cases; after this step, an ad hoc human rights court may be established by the national parliament (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat, DPR) and the President (Herbert 2008). Although two such courts were established in the early 2000s—one for crimes committed in Timor-Leste and the other for the 1984 Tanjung Priok ‘incident’5 —both were unmitigated farces; senior military officials identified for prosecution in the two preceding Komnas HAM pro-justicia inquiries were never put on trial and, in both courts, all defendants were acquitted either at the original trials or on appeal (Cohen 2003; Linton 2004; Tapol 2005). Since the East Timor and Tanjung Priok cases, not one of the reports submitted by Komnas HAM to the AGO has been accepted for further criminal investigations, let alone taken further to enable prosecutions at an ad hoc human rights court. To date, the AGO has failed to follow the recommendations made by Komnas HAM in their reports for a long list of cases, including Trisakti (1998), Semanggi (1998, 1999), the May Riots of 1998, W asior (2001–2002), Wamena (2003), the ‘Petrus’ killings of the early 1980s, and the 1965–66 killings (Herbert 2008; Budiwan & Walsh 2015; Pohlman 2016). Over the past decade, the AGO has rejected each of the Komnas HAM reports submitted for further investigations on spurious grounds; in the case of the 2012 report on 1965, the AGO rejected it out of hand, saying that the four-year investigation detailing evidence of crimes against humanity across six provinces was ‘insufficient’ and that it failed ‘to satisfy the requirements’ for a legal inquiry (Prakoso et al. 2012). Shortly after the 2012 Komnas HAM report was rejected by the AGO, a documentary film entitled The Act of Killing (Indonesian title Jagal) was released internationally. The film by American director Joshua Oppenheimer (co-directed by Christine Cynn and an Indonesian person listed as anonymous) opened in Indonesia and several other countries in late 2012 and early 2013 and received widespread international acclaim. The film was based on recorded interviews with perpetrators of the killings in North Sumatra, which Oppenheimer had begun filming in 2004 and dramatised the recollections of one of these men, Anwar Congo, along with his henchmen (Oppenheimer 2012). The film, and subsequent international a cclamation, including a nomination for best documentary at the Academy Awards the following year, turned a spotlight on the 1965 killings and significantly raised international awareness about these events (Dwyer 2014; Pulver 2014). Significant also was the impact that The Act of Killing and its companion film, The Look of Silence (2014, Indonesian title Senyap), had on generating debate about the 1965 mass violence domestically in Indonesia. Activists and human rights === [PDF page 36] === The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965 organisations in Jakarta and numerous other cities in I ndonesia held underground screenings of both films (Smith 2013), despite neither receiving an official release in that country; indeed, screenings of both films were later banned (see Hukum Online, 5 January 2015). Both films have, in the last few years since their release, drawn greater attention to the mass killings of 1965 both domestically in Indonesia and internationally and have been the topic of numerous academic and activist discussions (Mack 2016). Another significant event that propelled increased public discussion about 1965, particularly in Indonesia, was the October 2012 release of a comprehensive report on the mass killings by the Indonesian national magazine, Tempo. The special edition, entitled ‘Requiem for a Massacre’ (Indonesian release title ‘Pengakuan Algojo 1965’), covered perpetrators’ testimonies, details of mass graves, and how victims had been systematically murdered and their bodies dumped. The special edition also featured a number of interviews with elderly former perpetrators from a number of regions in Java, Flores, and Bali (‘Requiem’ 2012). The Tempo special report quickly sold out across Indonesia and prompted fierce debate amongst a number of groups whose members had taken part in the killings, such as amongst members of Indonesia’s largest Muslim organisation, Nahdlatul Thus, the Foundation IPT 1965 was formed just as public interest in, and debate about, the events in 1965–66 gained momentum in Indonesia and internationally. It was this momentum, along with the approaching 50th anniversary of the killings, which led those who established the Foundation to set up the Tribunal. The primary impetus for establishing the Foundation and the Tribunal was to confront the ongoing impunity for the crimes committed by state and civilian actors following the 1965 coup and, indeed, for subsequent state-led atrocities committed since that time under the New Order regime (Meijer 2006). The primary responsibility for ending the impunity for perpetrators and providing justice for victims lies with the Indonesian state (Orentlicher 2004). When the Foundation IPT 1965 was formed in 2014, it was clear that no administration since the end of the New Order was willing to investigate, let alone redress, the crimes perpetrated in 1965–66 (ICTJ & KontraS 2011; Wahyuningroem 2013; Pohlman 2016). For more than 50 years, the Indonesian state has failed to investigate the extent and nature of these crimes, to prosecute perpetrators from all ranks and backgrounds, to apologise for these atrocities, or to provide reparations or any other meaningful remedies to the victims and their families. These failures by respective Indonesian administrations, and their clear unwillingness to act, have persisted in spite of repeated demands for action made by victims’ groups, human rights activists, and scholars over the past two decades since the end of the New Order in 1998 (Wahyuningroem 2013; Suh 2015). There were hopes that the election of the current President of I ndonesia, Joko Widodo (known as Jokowi), would open up a new era of open discussion === [PDF page 37] === 8 Saskia E. Wieringa et al. about past atrocities; during his Presidential campaign in 2014, Jokowi claimed that he would address serious human rights violations, including the 1965 massacres (Setiawan 2016). Since Jokowi’s election at the end of 2014, however, those hopes have been disappointed. In 2015, Jokowi set up a Reconciliation Committee, headed by retired General Luhut Pandjaitan, the then Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal and Security Affairs. Partly as a response to the International People’s Tribunal’s ‘public hearings’ which had been held in November 2015 in The Hague, Pandjaitan and the Committee then held a ‘national symposium on the 1965 tragedy’ in April 2016 (Wahyuningroem 2016). The national symposium was attended by more than 200 people, including government officials and survivors, the purpose of which was to hold an official discussion about the killings (Soloway 2016). The tone of the symposium was set, however, when Pandjaitan opened the event by making it very clear that there would be no apologies from the Jokowi administration for the massacres (Heryanto 2016; McGregor & Purdey 2016). The April 2016 government symposium provoked a strong reaction from a variety of conservative and hard-line groups in Indonesia. A group of military personnel (active and retired) and hard-right religious leaders held their own symposium in response in early June. These military leaders included numerous key New Order-era generals, such as Try Soetrisno and Sayidiman Soerjohadiprodjo, as well as Islamic leaders such as Muhammad Rizieq Shihab from the ultraconservative and hard-right Islamic Defenders’ Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI). At this June symposium, these groups rejected any attempts to investigate or redress past crimes, particularly those committed in 1965–66, and reaffirmed their commitment to preventing the return of communism to Indonesia (‘Symposium nasional’ 2016). The reaction by these hard-line groups was not surprising; these groups are, in many cases, the same groups which have conducted various repressive and violent measures against survivors, community groups, and human rights activists who campaign for truth-telling and justice for past violations (see Jakarta Globe, 24 February 2015). These measures include the violent disruption of meetings of former political prisoners, as well as other forms of intimidation against victims’ families, such as regular harassment by police and other security personnel, particularly in rural areas.6 Since the April 2016 national symposium, there have been no further moves by the Jokowi administration to address past human rights violations. In the two years since the release of the Tribunal’s judgement, no one from the current government has made any move to take up the recommendations made by the Panel of Judges, including that the AGO should accept the Komnas HAM 2012 report and carry out criminal investigations (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b, p. 83). In March 2017, survivors’ groups together with a number of human rights organisations, including the Indonesian National Legal Aid Foundation (Yayasan Lembaga Bantuan Hukum Indonesia, YLBHI) and the Commission for the Disappeared and Victims of Violence (Komisi untuk Orang Hilang dan Korban Tindak Kekerasan, KontraS), held === [PDF page 38] === The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965 a three-day ‘Road to Justice for Survivors’ seminar in Jakarta. At this event, the organisers called on the Jokowi administration to consider the findings of the IPT 1965 and to redress the crimes of 1965 (Erdianto 2017). At the time that this volume was compiled, victims and the families continue to wait for a response. Historical background: the coup and its aftermath To contextualise the crimes examined in this volume, we offer here a brief historical background on the 1965 coup and the killings and mass arrests that followed. The events of 1 October 1965 and the propaganda created by the Army to incite popular participation in the killings have been discussed in further detail elsewhere (see, for example, Roosa 2006; Pohlman 2014). In the early morning of 1 October 1965, a group of middle-ranking Indonesian national army officers, led by Colonels Untung and Latief and calling themselves the 30th September Movement (Gerakan 30 September, ‘G30S’), abducted and murdered six top Army generals. Three of the generals were killed during their kidnapping, and the other three murdered after their arrival at Halim, an air force base and training ground in south Jakarta. The conspirators were strong supporters of President Sukarno and claimed to have taken the President under their protection to prevent a military coup against him (see Roosa 2006). The actions of the Movement were blamed on the PKI. While PKI Chairman, DN Aidit, and PKI Special Bureau member, Sjam, were involved in the planning of the group’s actions, the military was aware that the PKI’s mass membership knew nothing of the Movement’s plans (American Embassy, Telegram, 20 November 1965). The surviving military leadership under General Suharto deliberately used the actions of the Movement as a ‘pretext’ to launch its long-planned-for attack against the Left in Indonesia (Roosa 2006). It has been alleged that Suharto, the then leader of the Jakarta-based unit, the Army Strategic Reserve Command (Komando Cadangan Strategis Angkatan Darat, Kostrad), was informed by Latief (and possibly also Untung) of the impending action by the Movement but took no measures to inform or protect his superior officers (see Kasenda 2002; Soebandrio 2006). Regardless of whether or not Suharto had fore-knowledge of the Movement, he took control of the Army directly after the G30S coup attempt, despite repeated orders from Sukarno that he should stand down. The military then proceeded to launch an attack against Movement members in Jakarta, before launching an aggressive nationwide attack against the PKI and all those alleged to be associated with the party. There were some scattered attempts by groups supporting the Movement’s attempted coup to resist the military’s attack in a few other cities in Indonesia, but these were quickly put down (see Wertheim 1966). Although many details remain unclear, it seems that only some men from the Army’s Tjakrabirawa unit (tasked with protecting the President), as well as some volunteers from the PKI’s youth === [PDF page 39] === 10 Saskia E. Wieringa et al. wing, Pemuda Rakyat (People’s Youth), actually took part in the Movement’s kidnapping and execution of the generals (Roosa 2006). The events that took place on the night of 30 September/1 October have been known in Indonesia as the ‘1965 incident’ (peristiwa 1965), and they remain a topic of ongoing scholarly debate and conspiracy mongering (see, for example, Wertheim 1970; Anderson and McVey 1971; Crouch 1978; Sundhaussen 1982). Until the recent discovery of thousands of pages of classified military documents, produced during the time of the killings in Aceh, it remained unclear exactly how the military had coordinated its attack against the PKI (Melvin 2018). Several events and actors remain unknown or unclear, including the role of General Suharto. The stated intention of the Movement was to bring the kidnapped generals before President Sukarno; why some of them were shot when they resisted arrest and the others murdered on a training field for nationalist volunteers in South Jakarta remains a topic of debate (Crouch 1978; Sundhaussen 1982; Roosa 2006). The lieutenant in charge of the abductions, Dul Arif, went missing, and so his statement was never recorded. PKI Chairman, Aidit, went on the run but was captured a few weeks later and killed extrajudicially, and so his statement was never recorded either.7 A recent analysis of the trial of Colonel Untung suggests that the order to kill the generals came from ‘trusted sources,’ sources which are described as higher-ranking officers who may have headed the military operations of the G30S Movement (Holtzappel 2015). During his trial, Colonel Latief revealed that he himself had gone to Suharto and informed him of the Movement’s plans (Latief 2000). Suharto swung into action only after he learnt that the country’s top generals had been killed (excluding General Nasution, who had managed to escape), and that President Sukarno did not support the G30S Movement. Suharto’s handling of the situation was so uncannily effective that some observers suspect that he may not have been improvising (Kasenda 2002; Roosa 2006; Suroso 2008). Indeed, it is now clear the military had been actively preparing to seize state power prior to 1 October 1965 (Melvin 2018). At the time the attempted coup was launched by the G30S group at the end of September 1965, Indonesia was experiencing crises on several fronts. In domestic politics, tensions between political groups had grown steadily worse, particularly during Sukarno’s ‘Guided Democracy’ period since 1959, a period which had also seen the growing influence of the Indonesian military in civilian governance (Lev 1966; Cribb 2001). In particular, deep cleavages had formed in society along sociopolitical lines, with enmities growing between the mass-supported PKI, various religious groups, and the group which Cribb calls the ‘developmentalists,’ which were essentially pro-capitalist forces who became increasingly identified with Indonesian Army interests (Cribb 2001). These political tensions were in part fuelled by rumours of Sukarno’s ill health and the worsening economic crisis in Indonesia. By 1965, Indonesia was experiencing triple-digit inflation and === [PDF page 40] === The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965 11 deepening economic stagnation. The threat of a rice shortage and mass starvation immanent, poor economic planning, and years of financial mismanagement was driving Indonesia into abysmal levels of widespread poverty (Mackie 1964; Mears 1984). In this climate of worsening sociopolitical relations and fears of an economic collapse, there was strong contention over who would take over the leadership of Indonesia after Sukarno and how this takeover might be achieved (Roosa 2006). Added to these internal dynamics was interference by foreign powers, including the US. At the height of the Cold War, President Sukarno’s increasingly close links with the PKI, the third l argest communist party in the world and an ally of China, caused great concern amongst Western powers. When Suharto took over, the US and other Western countries quickly gave support for his leadership (Scott 1985; Simpson 2008; Suroso 2008). Immediately on 1 October 1965, General Suharto claimed a coup attempt had occurred and vowed to annihilate those involved in the G30S Movement. On 5 October, it is likely that Suharto and the Army leadership met and decided to launch an open offensive on the PKI (Roosa 2006, p. 63). On 6 October, the party was specifically linked to the G30S Movement in the now Army-controlled media (Melvin 2018, p. 43). In the meantime in Aceh, a province in a state of high military alert as a result of Sukarno’s policy of Confrontation (Konfrontasi) with Malaysia, it had already become clear which group was targeted for annihilation, and the killing of PKI members had already begun (Melvin 2018). Indeed, the whole of Sumatra was placed under martial law from 1 October in order to facilitate the military’s annihilation campaign against the PKI (American Embassy, Telegram, 18 November 1965; Melvin 2018). The PKI was totally unprepared to respond to the military’s aggressive attack (see Cribb 1990). On 6 December, General Suharto established the Command for the Restoration of Security and Order (KOPKAMTIB), an extraconstitutional security and intelligence agency in charge of political prosecution and control with extralegal powers8: their first task was to destroy the PKI and hunt down and arrest its members and sympathisers (see Crouch 1978; Southwood & Flanagan 1983). From early October, the Indonesian Army fabricated and disseminated a propaganda campaign designed to incite popular loathing and violence against the PKI and its supporters (Wieringa 2002; Henry 2014; Pohlman 2014). This campaign was strongly misogynist in nature; in particular, a mass campaign of sexual slander was carried out against members of the progressive women’s organisation, Gerwani (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia, Indonesian Women’s Movement), whose members were accused with entirely false allegations that they had castrated and tortured the generals on the night of 30 September (see Wieringa 2002). The propaganda was extremely successful, the effects of which persist more than five decades later. The PKI and its supporters were depicted as having betrayed the nation and as being dangerous atheists who were against religion (Islam) and against === [PDF page 41] === 12 Saskia E. Wieringa et al. the national ideology, the Pancasila (the five pillars, the first of which is belief in one god) (Melvin 2018). This propaganda was accompanied by a campaign of terror against suspected communists and alleged associates of the party, including socialist women (Wieringa 2002; Pohlman 2015), left-wing activists, progressive artists and intellectuals, members of peasant groups and labour unions, sympathisers of President Sukarno in general (Cribb 1990), as well as against members of the Chinese community (Melvin 2013). In addition, artists and groups associated with popular culture and those who practised animist religions were harassed (Ross 2011). As will be explored in further detail in this volume, those targeted in the purges were imprisoned in inhumane and overcrowded conditions, tortured, and forced to perform labour, and many of them were murdered in extrajudicial executions, and their bodies were dumped in rivers and mass graves across the archipelago. From mid- October 1965 onwards, the Army trained and armed militia units and recruited religious groups, student organisations, and right-wing trade unions to help implement the massacres. These killings were under way in many parts of Sumatra and Java by mid-October and continued apace across most regions of Indonesia over the following six months; the mass arrests lasting through to the end of the 1960s. It is estimated that between 500,000 and one million people were killed, and more than 1.7 million people were imprisoned without trial (Cribb 2001; Kammen & McGregor 2012). Those connected to the PKI or with other communist and socialist movements who were travelling outside Indonesia at the time of coup were also affected; as discussed in Chapter 7 (Saptari), the New Order government revoked the passports of hundreds of students and others; many of them were eventually granted asylum in other countries. In 1966, Suharto managed to officially oust President Sukarno from power, and the following year he was inaugurated as the new President. He established a repressive military regime which lasted until 1998 when he was forced to resign. The political, military, and economic machinery he established, however, has largely remained intact, and this partly explains why the ghost of communism can still be conjured up when elite groups deem it necessary, and why the stigma of being associated with the PKI still remains strong (Heryanto 2006; Wardaya 2007). Until today, the victims of the mass killings and other crimes against humanity which followed the ‘events of 1965’ are blamed for their suffering, while the perpetrators walk free. Judgement of the IPT 1965 The Prosecution for the IPT 1965 submitted that inhumane acts were committed in Indonesia and that these acts constituted crimes against humanity under international law. The Prosecution also argued that, under customary international law, the prohibition of crimes against humanity is a jus cogens norm and derogation is not permitted under any circumstances (Foundation === [PDF page 42] === The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965 13 IPT 1965 2016a; see also Bassiouni 2011, p. 263). Crimes against humanity in customary international law are fundamentally inhumane acts that are crimes in most national criminal law systems and committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack against civilians.9 Over the four days of the public hearings in November 2015, the Panel of Judges considered testimony from survivors and expert witnesses, as well as the arguments presented by the Prosecution, arguing that a range of acts committed by state actors constituted crimes against humanity. After some months of deliberation, the panel of judgements handed down their findings. Their report, which was launched in five cities around the world on 21 July 2016, was accompanied by a video made available on YouTube in which Presiding Judge Zak Yacoob read the major conclusions and recommendations (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b).10 In summary, the Panel of Judges concluded that The State of Indonesia is responsible for and guilty of crimes against humanity consequent upon the commission and perpetration, particularly by the military of that state through its chain of command, of the inhumane acts […]. All these acts were an integral part of a broad and widespread systematic attack against the Communist Party of Indonesia (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI), its affiliate organisations, its leaders, members and supporters and their families (as well as those alleged to have been sympathetic to its aims), and more broadly against many people having no connection at all with the PKI, in what became a widespread purge, which included many supporters of President Sukarno and progressive members of the Nationalist Party of Indonesia, PNI. Each inhumane act was, in addition, a crime in Indonesia and in most civilised countries of the world. The attacks began with the false propaganda discussed below and consisted of […] inhumane actions that were part of the broader attack. (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b, p. 79) The Panel of Judges further condemned the Indonesian state for having ‘failed to prevent the perpetration of these inhumane acts or to punish those responsible for their commission’ (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b, p. 79). In so doing, the judges upheld the Indonesian state’s responsibility to prevent these crimes against their citizens, both those committed by the state’s security services and those acts committed by non-state actors; ‘to the extent that some crimes were committed independently of the authorities, by so-called “spontaneous” local action, this did not absolve the state from the obligation to prevent their occurrence and to punish those responsible’ (Foundational IPT 1965 2016b, p. 79). Of the nine forms of crimes against humanity from the original indictment, the Panel of Judges upheld that the state of Indonesia must be held responsible for mass killings, imprisonment, enslavement, torture, enforced === [PDF page 43] === 14 Saskia E. Wieringa et al. disappearances, and sexual violence (Foundation IPT 1965 2016b, pp. 79– 81). These findings were consistent with the evidence collected and presented in the 2012 Komnas HAM report (Komnas HAM 2012). These crimes, as well as the treatment of exiles, the role of the military’s propaganda in inciting the violence, and the complicity of other states in the killings, will each be explored further in this volume.11 Conclusion: a People’s Tribunal and a culture of impunity Although the IPT 1965 was not a formal juridical institution, its pronouncements carry weight and will be recognised in international and national fora for many years to come. Certainly, the Final Report by the Panel of Judges contains a number of controversial findings that will spark further debate, particularly the findings regarding genocide (see Chapter 12).12 Undoubtedly, the findings of the Panel of Judges, along with those of previous reports conducted by Komnas HAM (2012) and the National Commission on Violence against Women (Komisi Nasional Anti-Kekerasan Terhadap Perempuan, Komnas Perempuan) (2007), and in addition to the findings by human rights organisations and researchers from their own investigations into the mass violence (for example, Sasongko & Budianta 2003; Roosa, Ratih & Farid 2004), all add to the mounting―and undeniable―weight of evidence that Indonesian state forces led a campaign on terror and mass murder against their own citizens and that these crimes demand redress. What impact the Tribunal will have in Indonesia remains to be seen (discussed further in the epilogue of this volume by Brad Simpson). The culture of impunity for gross human rights violations is strong; as one recent report described, Indonesia has a seemingly ‘impenetrable climate of impunity’ for past crimes which is unlikely to be breached in the near future (Hernawan & Walsh 2015, p. 3). The utter lack of leadership or political will by successive administrations since the fall of the New Order to deal with past crimes is produced by, and significantly exacerbates, this culture of impunity. Thus far, in their reactions to the Tribunal and other recent calls for justice, government officials and lawmakers in Indonesia have gone to great pains to avoid any concrete measures to deal with the 1965 case or, indeed, to address any of the other cases of past gross violations. The rhetoric invoked in the barely disguised back-stepping on human rights protections privileges perceived ‘local values’ over universal human rights and pointedly avoids putting into effect the laws and protections promulgated during the early Reformasi period, including by establishing ad hoc human rights courts under Law No. 26 of 2000 (see, for example, Mahatma 2016). Worse still, hard-line religious and conservative forces remain powerful in Indonesia and show their willingness to use violence and intimidation to repress any attempts to deal with this past. It is therefore clear that, if left up to the Indonesian government, there is likely never to be any form of official redress or remedy for past crimes. This === [PDF page 44] === The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965 15 injustice of justice delayed―and therefore denied―is precisely the reason that the IPT 1965 was established. As Simm and Byrnes have argued, there is a ‘gap’ in the official structure of accountability for grave human rights violations, as the international human rights structures built to ensure peace and security often fail to do so, particularly when states refuse to uphold their responsibility to protect their own citizens (2014). People’s tribunals, such as the one established for 1965, both expose the inadequacy of international legal standards and, in their very recourse to international human rights law, attempt to strengthen the legitimacy of this system. Both victims and human rights activists have a ‘desire for law’ and demand accountability of the state for past suffering. If the state, in this case Indonesia, is unwilling to provide truth and justice, a people’s tribunal can validate experiences of suffering and humiliation and confirm the hope that justice is still possible through international recognition (Byrnes & Simm 2013, p. 743). It will remain impossible to seek true justice for the events of 1965–66 as long as perpetrators of this event continue to enjoy complete impunity for their actions. In such a climate, the IPT 1965 could only ever hope to take small and imperfect steps towards exposing this dark and silenced period in our shared Cold War past. This book is but another small contribution to this process. Notes 1 For a full account of the public hearings on 10–13 November 2015, see the ‘narrative report’ (Foundation IPT 1965 2016a). 2 For background information on each of the judges, please visit the Tribunal website, available at: <www.tribunal1965.org/1965-tribunal-hearings-the-judges/> (viewed 5 March 2017). 3 For a background on the Prosecuting team, see the Tribunal website, available March 2017). 4 Only the Executive Summary of the 2012 Komnas HAM report is available publically (Komnas HAM 2012). 5 For a report on their investigation into the Tanjung Priok case, see Komnas HAM (2000). 6 Cases of violent intimidation by hard-line conservative and religious groups against survivors of 1965 and their families have been a feature of human rights activism in this area since before the end of the New Order regime, for example, see McGregor (2010) and Safari (2015). During the lead-up to the IPT 1965, a group called the ‘Forum 1965,’ which is an alliance of various victims’ organisations, held a number of meetings. As reported to Saskia Wieringa (through personal communications), a number of these meetings were broken up by hard-line groups. 7 It is also unclear why Aidit was brought to the Halim base (see Roosa 2006, pp. 42–44). 8 Suharto first announced his intention to establish the KOPKAMTIB on 10 October 1965, it would take two months before it was established. This meant the early stages of the military campaign were coordinated centrally from Jakarta using a range of military command structures that operated in different territories. See Chapter 3 (Melvin). === [PDF page 45] === 16 Saskia E. Wieringa et al. 9 Under Indonesian domestic law, see Article 9 of Law No. 26, Year 2000, Establishing the Ad Hoc Human Rights Court (UU Nomor 26 Tahun 2000 tentang Pengadilan Hak Asasi Manusia); under international criminal law, see Article 7 of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (1998) (see ICC 2000). 10 This video is available online; see Foundation IPT 1965 (2016c). 11 In their findings, the Panel of Judges also made recommendations for further investigation into exile, propaganda, and the complicity of other states as crimes against humanity, as well as addressed whether the 1965–66 mass killings should be understood as genocide (see Foundational IPT 1965 2016b, pp. 79–82). Regarding exiles, for example, the judges found that they had been deprived of their full and unconditional rights of citizenship. The policy of involuntary or forcible exile, apart from being inhumane conduct, formed part of a widespread systematic state attack against a substantial and significant targeted sector of the civilian population, and may well be a crime against humanity in the form of persecution. (Foundational IPT 1965 2016b, p. 81) 12 For a discussion of how the term ‘genocide’ has been used in relation to the 1965–66 killings, both within Indonesia and by Indonesia and genocide scholars internationally, including by the IPT 1965 see Melvin (2018). References American Embassy, Telegram, 18 November 1965. Published by the National Security Archive, 17 October 2017, <https://nsarchive2.gwu.edu//dc.html?doc=4107023Document-13-Telegram-1485-from-American-Embassy>. American Embassy, Telegram, 20 November 1965. Published by the National Security Archive, 17 October 2017, <https://nsarchive2.gwu.edu//dc.html?doc=4107024Document-14-Telegram-1516-from-American-Embassy>. 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Cohen, D 2003, ‘Intended to fail: the trials before the ad hoc human rights court in Jakarta’, International Center for Transitional Justice, Occasional Paper Series, August, viewed 20 March 2017, <www.ictj.org/images/content/0/9/098.pdf>. Cribb, R 1990, ‘Introduction: problems in the historiography of the killings in Indonesia’, in Cribb, R (ed.), The Indonesian killings of 1965–1966: studies from Java and Bali, Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, Clayton, VIC, pp. 1–44. Cribb, R 2001, ‘Genocide in Indonesia, 1965–1966’, Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 219–39. === [PDF page 46] === The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965 17 Crouch, H 1978, The army and politics in Indonesia, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, Dwyer, LK 2014, ‘Picturing violence: anti-politics and The Act of Killing’, Critical Asian Studies, vol. 46, no. 1, pp. 183–88. 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Heryanto, A 2016, ‘Massacre, memory and the wounds of 1965’, New Mandala, Australian National University, 2 May, viewed 5 March 2017, <http://asiapacific.anu. edu.au/newmandala/2016/05/02/massace-memory-and-the-wounds-of-1965/>. Holtzappel, C 2015, ‘The thirtieth September movement as seen by the perpetrators: between registered facts and authoritative opinions, part one’, in Haltzappel, C & Drooglever, P (eds.), Professional blindness and missing the mark: the historical analysis of four major crises during the first two decades of the Republic of Indonesia, EHV Academic Press, Bremen, viewed 20 March 2017, <http://rozenbergquarterly.com/ professional-blindness-and-missing-the-mark-the-thirtieth-september-movementas-seen-by-the-perpetrators-between-registered-facts-and-authoritative-opinionspart-one/>. === [PDF page 47] === 18 Saskia E. Wieringa et al. 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Melvin, J 2018, The army and the Indonesian genocide: mechanics of mass murder, Routledge, New York. Orentlicher, D 2004, ‘Independent study on best practices, including recommendations, to assist states in strengthening their domestic capacity to combat all aspects of impunity’, UN Commission on Human Rights, E/CN.4/2004/88, 27 February 2004. Prakoso, R, Sihite, E, Marhaenjati, B & Novialita, F 2012, ‘AGO rejects Komnas HAM ebruary 2017, report on 1965 massacres’, The Jakarta Globe, 10 November, viewed 24 F <www.thejakartaglobe.com/archive/ago-rejects-komnas-ham-report-on-1965massacres/>. Pohlman, A 2014, ‘Incitement to genocide against a political group: the anticommunist killings in Indonesia’, PORTAL Journal of Multidisciplinary International Studies, vol. 11, no. 1, pp. 1–22. Pohlman, A 2015, Women, sexual violence and the Indonesian killings of 1965– 66, Routledge, New York. Pohlman, A 2016, ‘A year of truth and the possibilities for reconciliation in Indonesia’, Genocide Studies and Prevention, vol. 10, no. 1, pp. 60–78. Pulver, A 2014, ‘Oscars 2014: Act of Killing pass over, but leads to change in Indonesia’, The Guardian, 4 March, viewed 24 February 2017, <www.theguardian.com/ film/2014/mar/03/the-act-of-killing-change-indonesia-oscar>. ‘Requiem for a massacre’, Tempo, 1–7 October 2012, viewed 25 February 2017, <http://thelookofsilence.com/wp-content/uploads/TEMPO_Magazine_ACT_ OF_KILLING_Edition.pdf>. Robinson, G 1998, ‘Rawan is as rawan does: the origins of disorder in New Order Aceh’, Indonesia, vol. 66, pp. 127–57. Roosa, J 2006, Pretext for mass murder: the September 30th movement and Suharto’s coup d’état in Indonesia, The University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, WI. Roosa, J, Ratih, A & Farid, H (eds.) 2004, Tahun yang tak pernah berakhir: Memahami pengalaman korban 65 [The year that never ended: understanding the experiences of the victims of 65], ELSAM, TRuK & ISSI, Jakarta. Ross, LM 2011, ‘The artist registry’, Indonesian and the Malay World, vol. 39, no. 114, pp. 145–69. === [PDF page 49] === 20 Saskia E. Wieringa et al. Safari 2015, ‘KontraS kecam pembubaran paksa acara temu korban pelanggaran HAM [KontraS criticises the forced break up of a meeting of victims of human rights violations]’, Harian Terbit, 22 February, viewed 5 March 2017, <http://nasional. harianterbit.com/nasional/2015/02/22/20227/43/25/KontraS-PembubaranPaksa-Acara-Temu-Korban-Pelangarran-HAM>. Sasongko, H & Budianta, M (eds.) 2003, Menembus tirai asap: Kesasksian tahanan politik 1965 [Piercing the smoke screen: testimonies by political prisoners from 1965], Amanah Lontar, Jakarta. Scott, P 1985, ‘The United States and the overthrow of Soekarno, 1965–67’, Pacific Affairs, vol. 58, no. 2, pp. 239–64. Setiawan, K 2016, ‘The politics of compromise’, Inside Indonesia, vol. 123, January– March 2016, viewed 1 March 2017, <www.insideindonesia.org/the-politics-ofcompromise/>. Simm, G & Byrnes, A 2014, ‘International peoples’ tribunals in Asia: political theatre, juridical farce or meaningful intervention?’ Asian Journal of International Law, vol. 4, no. 1, pp. 103–24. ‘Simposium nasional “anti-PKI” hasilkan sembilan rekomendasi [The “anti-PKI” national symposium results in nine recommendations]’, Salam Online, 3 June 2016, viewed 4 March 2017, <www.salam-online.com/2016/06/simposium-nasionalanti-pki-hasilkan-sembilan-rekomendasi.html>. Simpson, B 2008, Economists with guns: authoritarian development and U.S.- Indonesian relations, 1960–1968, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA. Smith, M 2013, ‘The Act of Killing: how the film everybody’s talking about might change Indonesia forever’, The Huffington Post, 25 August, viewed 24 February 2017, <www.huffingtonpost.co.uk/mikey-smith/the-act-of-killing-_b_3506480. html>. Soebandrio, H 2006, Yang saya alami: Peristiwa G30S [What I experienced: the G30S incident], Bumi Intitama Sejahtera, Jakarta. Soloway, H 2016, ‘After 50 years of denial, Indonesia takes shaking steps toward historical reckoning’, Foreign Policy, 29 April, viewed 2 March 2017, <http:// foreignpolicy.com/2016/04/29/after-50-years-of-denial-Indonesia-takes-shakysteps-toward-historical-reckoning/>. Southwood, J & Flanagan, P 1983, Indonesia: law, propaganda and terror, Zed Books, London. Suh, J 2015, ‘Pre-emptive transitional justice policies in Aceh, Indonesia’, Southeast Asian Studies, vol. 4, no. 1, pp. 95–124. Sundhaussen, U 1982, The road to power: Indonesian military politics, 1945–1967, Oxford University Press, Oxford. Suroso, S 2008, Bung Karno, korban perang dingin [Sukarno, victim of the cold war], Hasta Mitra, Jakarta. Tanter, R, van Klinken, G & Ball, D (eds.) 2006, Masters of terror: Indonesia’s military and violence in East Timor, Rowman & Littlefield, Lanham, MD. Tapol 2005, ‘Tanjung Priok acquittals a travesty of justice’, Tapol, Press release, 14 July, viewed 20 February 2017, <http://tapol.gn.apc.org/press/files/pro050714. htm>. Wahyuningroem, SL 2013, ‘Seducing for truth and justice: civil society initiatives for the 1965 mass violence in Indonesia’, Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, vol. 32, no. 3, pp. 115–42. === [PDF page 50] === The Indonesian genocide and the IPT 1965 21 Wahyuningroem, SL 2016, ‘Justice denied?’ Inside Indonesia, vol. 125, 18 July 2018, viewed 20 March 2017, <www.insideindonesia.org/justice-denied>. Wardaya, BT 2007, Menelusuri akar otoritarianisme di Indonesia [Unravelling the roots of authoritarianism in Indonesia], Lembaga Studi dan Advokasi Masyarakat, Jakarta. Wertheim, WF 1966, ‘Indonesia before and after the Untung coup’, Pacific Affairs, vol. 29, nos. 1–2, pp. 115–27. Wethheim, WF 1970, Suharto and the Untung coup: the missing link’, Journal of Contemporary Asia, vol. 1, no. 2, pp. 50–57. Wieringa, S 2002, Sexual politics in Indonesia, Palgrave Macmillan, New York. Wieringa, S 2016, ‘Indonesia’s 1965 genocide is a global affair’, New Mandala, The Australian National University, 28 July, viewed 8 March 2017, <www.new mandala.org/indonesias-1965-genocide-global-affair/>. === [PDF page 51] === Organisation and impact of the International People’s Tribunal on 1965 crimes against humanity in Indonesia Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa Introduction The Foundation for the International People’s Tribunal on the 1965 Crimes against Humanity in Indonesia (hereafter ‘IPT 1965’) was formally established in March 2014.1 The hearings of the Tribunal were held in N ovember 2015 in the Netherlands. The Final Report of the Panel of Judges was presented in July 2016 and was published in early 2017. This ad hoc Tribunal was organised to break the silence around the crimes against humanity committed by the Indonesian military as it rose to power during the aftermath of the actions of the 30 September Movement on 1 October 1965 (see Melvin, this volume). It also sought to lay bare the continued humiliation and stigma faced by its victims, and to expose the impunity the perpetrators have enjoyed until the present day. The IPT 1965 in Indonesia was, like the first international people’s tribunal—the Russell Tribunal on the war in Vietnam—set up to ‘prevent the crime of silence’ (Byrnes & Simm 2018b, p. 12). The Russell Tribunal provided the inspiration for the holding of other tribunals in which international legal standards were applied to the (past) actions of governments.2 As Zunino (2016) argues, the Russell Vietnam War Crimes Tribunal was an early instance of transitional justice, in its critique of legalism and the judicial monopoly of the state. So far, over 80 people’s tribunals have been held. In the wake of the Russell Tribunal, in Rome in 1979, the Permanent People’s Tribunal (PPT) was established by the Italian Senator Lelio Basso. It has held over 40 hearings since then (Tognoni 2018). The PPT has been criticised as being ideological and not basing its conclusions on formal legal arguments; Moita (2015), however, disagrees and points to the ability of these tribunals to move people’s conscience and for offering legally innovative arguments. An international peoples’ tribunal can be defined as a ‘civil society initiative establishing a forum for a body of eminent persons and/or experts to consider allegations of violations of specific standards of international law in the light of documentary and other forms of evidence presented to them in formal proceedings’ (Byrnes & Simm 2018b, p. 14). This is an apt description for the hearings held by the IPT 1965. Its Panel of Judges === [PDF page 52] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 23 Figure 2.1 The witness Martono, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission. and the team of prosecutors were all highly respected persons in their fields. The hearings had the form of a formal session, and the judges based their judgement on international legal standards (Figure 2.1). International people’s tribunals have used a variety of evidentiary and procedural rules (see Libaridian 1985; Nayar 2001; Klinghoffer & K linghoffer 2002; Clark 2011; Simm & Byrnes 2014; Simm 2016; Akhavan 2017; Byrnes & Simm 2018a; Dolgopol 2018). People’s tribunals have, however, also been criticised as wanting in terms of legitimacy and authority, and are sometimes seen as biased and as impotent ‘kangaroo courts’ (Chinkin 2006). The IPT 1965 followed closely the format of a formal court but, as with most people’s tribunals, did not seek to judge individual perpetrators but to interrogate state responsibility. As in other peoples’ tribunals, the IPT 1965 was also unable to formally prosecute individual perpetrators. But, as advocates of such tribunals argue, they fill in the gap between the international legal system and domestic courts, demanding recognition of crimes against humanity which are not recognised elsewhere and by creating an archive of the crimes committed. Critically, as these advocates argue, people’s tribunals also highlight the harm done to the other victims of such crimes, the family members confronted with stigma, and the brave human rights defenders who advocate transitional justice (see Dehm 2018). In this chapter, we discuss how the IPT 1965 juggled the strong and weak points of people’s tribunals. We focus on the organisation and impact of the IPT 1965 and ask, what authority and legitimacy did it have? Was it just a kangaroo court or an important step in achieving justice for the victims of 1965? We begin with a discussion of the rationale, the === [PDF page 53] === 24 Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa organisation, and the impact of the IPT 1965. Like other people’s tribunals, the IPT 1965 was relevant not only for assessing past crimes against humanity. As outlined in Chapter 1 of this volume, after 1 October 1965, the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI) was annihilated, its members and sympathisers slaughtered or imprisoned (Kammen & McGregor 2012). Yet present-day propaganda still paints the PKI as anti-religion and against the state philosophy, the Pancasila (see Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). Although the party was banned in 1966, to this day the military continues to insist that a ‘New Style Communist Movement’ (Komunis Gaya Baru) is waging a proxy war with the help of human rights activists in Indonesia (see Miller 2018). Speaking truth to power, as the IPT 1965 did, is therefore pertinent not only to expose the continued impunity of the perpetrators but also to reveal the fabrications about the genocide and other crimes against humanity that are still being spread by hardliner groups.3 Setting up the tribunal In March 2013, a group of human rights activists, exiles, and researchers decided to organise an international people’s tribunal. This group was convinced that the failures of the Indonesian state to deal with the crimes against humanity committed during the aftermath of 1 October 1965 must not be allowed to silence the voices of victims and their families, nor allow the Government of Indonesia to escape accountability for these crimes. They had come together after the Dutch launch of the film, The Act of Killing (TAOK).4 Also present at this meeting were the film director, Joshua Oppenheimer, and a former member of the National Human Rights Commission, who had worked on the report of the 1965 mass crimes against humanity. In Indonesia, TAOK had led to much debate, as the film was widely shown on university campuses and amongst activist circles. The conclusions of the 2012 report produced by the National Human Rights Commission on past human rights violations had also alerted a wider public to the crimes committed by the military. But the Prosecutor’s Office of the Attorney General had returned the report, citing lack of evidence. The report had also been submitted to the UN Human Rights Committee, which advised the Government of Indonesia to set up a joint investigation team.5 This advice was not followed up. In the light of these developments, those at the meeting in March 2013 decided to act. Considering that even after the end of the military dictatorship in 1998 (a period known in Indonesia as Reformasi), the government had taken no action to end the impunity of the perpetrators and, in view of the unlikelihood that a domestic solution for the crimes committed would be reached, it was felt by those at the meeting that an international people’s tribunal was the only path still open to bring attention to these crimes. Two people’s tribunals served as immediate examples (Figure 2.2). === [PDF page 54] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 25 Figure 2.2 Prosecutor Team 1, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission. The IPT 1965 general coordinator, Nursyahbani Katjasungkana, had served as the Indonesian prosecutor for the Tokyo Women’s Tribunal. Its formal setup, its rigorous examination of evidence, and its emphasis on truth-telling inspired the organisers of the IPT 1965.6 In the following months under her guidance, a small group of activists compared the formats of various people’s tribunals, including that of the PPT. It was ultimately decided to establish an ad hoc tribunal for the crimes against humanity committed in Indonesia. Another source of inspiration was the Iran People’s Tribunal held in The Hague in 2012. The Iran Tribunal had sought to address the impunity for the extrajudicial execution of young activists after the 1979 Islamic Revolution. As in the case of Indonesia, the International Criminal Court could not prosecute the perpetrators and the Iranian government refused to do so as well. The Iran Tribunal was established to fill that gap and to provide ‘grassroots justice’ to the mourning mothers. As Akhavan (2017) concludes, ‘healing past wounds, speaking truth to power, holding leaders accountable for crimes against humanity is about achieving national reconciliation and building a better future, liberated from hatred and violence’ (p. 36). Over the following months, Katjasungkana prepared a Charter for the Panel of Judges and a Concept Note. The latter document stated that the aim of the 1965 Tribunal was to ‘redress the tendency to trivialise, excuse, marginalise and obfuscate this genocide and the other crimes against humanity, particularly the rapes and other forms of sexual violence and torture of women prisoners,’ and further, that ‘out of the belief, expressed repeatedly by the victims as well as their families, that acknowledging and === [PDF page 55] === 26 Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa assigning responsibility for the crimes will help to ensure that they live out their remaining years in greater dignity, peace and security.’7 In March 2014, the Foundation for the International People’s Tribunal was formally established, chaired by Saskia Wieringa. Acquiring enough funding was very difficult. Many potential donors were hesitant to touch this issue, fearing that the Indonesian government would be offended. The Dutch government, afraid of rousing anti-colonial sentiments and mindful of the large business interests between the two countries, was concerned that the hearings would be held in The Hague and suggested that they be held in Jakarta. The organisers explained that they would prefer that as well, but that it would be much too dangerous to hold the hearings in Jakarta, and that The Hague, with its image as the City of International Justice, the seat of the Yugoslav Tribunal, and the International Criminal Court, would be best qualified. Initially the organisers harboured the hope that the excellent 2012 report by Indonesia’s National Human Rights Commission (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia, Komnas HAM) could be used as the basis for the information for the Prosecution.8 As stated above, so far the Attorney General has not accepted the report nor acted on its recommendations; one impact of this is that the full report cannot be released to the public. Therefore, the research coordinator (Wieringa) had to start from scratch in preparing a research report for the Prosecution on which it could base the indictment. Wieringa approached as many researchers and activists who had collected data on the crimes against humanity in Indonesia as possible. In the end, 40 researchers and activists collaborated, sending in whole chapters based on the template sent out, summaries of their research work, or sometimes databases. More than half the researchers were Indonesian, and most of those submitted their work in Indonesian. In the end, the research team prepared a report of some 1,000 pages, less than half of which was still in Indonesian, which most of the prosecutors but not the judges could read. A small group of editors worked almost non-stop for a year and a half to prepare this evidence report.9 The challenge was whether sufficient data could be produced to substantiate the charge that the human rights violations that had occurred after the ‘events of 1965’ were systematic and widespread. The researchers were able to present to the Prosecution data from 13 geographically diverse regions of Indonesia, ranging from Aceh and Nias in the western part of the country to Alor in the eastern part of Indonesia (the Komnas HAM report collected evidence on six locations). The authority of an international people’s tribunal to a large part depends on the political, moral, and legal prestige of its Panel of Judges and its prosecutorial team. IPT 1965 organisers were fortunate that seven renowned persons accepted the invitation to act as judges. Judges Zak Yacoob and Geoffrey Nice had eminent legal backgrounds. Judges Helen Jarvis and Mireille Fanon Mendès-France had distinguished careers in other international === [PDF page 56] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 27 10 courts. Judge Cees Flinterman is a leading international rights expert.11 Shadi Sadr is an expert in advocacy on human rights, whereas Judge John Gittings is a highly respected scholar on Asia and human rights.12 The team of prosecutors was likewise outstanding. The Tribunal’s Chief Prosecutor was Indonesia’s leading human rights lawyer, T. Mulya Lubis. The other Indonesian prosecutors were all respected human rights lawyers as well: Uli Parulian Sihombing, Suparyati, Bahrain Makmun, and Antarini Arna. The prosecutorial team was completed by Silke Studzinsky, an internationally respected authority on sexual violence. The indictment and the conclusions of the Panel of Judges Based on the data collected in the research report, the prosecution submitted that the inhumane acts committed in Indonesia after the ‘events of 1965’ were crimes against humanity under both domestic and international laws. It also argued that because, under international customary law, the prohibition of crimes against humanity is a peremptory norm ( jus cogens), derogation is not permitted under any circumstances (Bassiouni 2011, p. 263). Crimes against humanity in international customary law are fundamentally inhumane acts that are crimes in most national criminal law systems and committed as part of a widespread or systematic attack against civilians.13 Written material submitted to the Tribunal was supplemented by four days of hearings in November 2015 in The Hague at which testimonies of both live and expert witnesses were heard and further arguments were presented to the judges.14 When considering the work of the Tribunal, we must first ask, was the evidence brought before the Panel of Judges sufficient? The researchers had only been able to work for a year and a half, on a voluntary basis beside their other jobs. Fortunately, two commissioners from both Komnas HAM and Komnas Perempuan (Indonesia’s National Commission on Violence maruddin against Women) were also able to attend the hearings. Mariana A of Komnas Perempuan had received official permission to attend the hearings. Her testimony was impressive, and she fully confirmed the materials on sexual violence that had been compiled by our researchers. Sadly Komnas HAM did not accept our invitation to have a commissioner attend our hearings. Yet Commissioner Dianto Bachriadi came of his own accord. He too testified that the material brought before the judges was consistent with the report of the Commission. These two testimonies supported the case the prosecutors brought before the judges (Figure 2.3). After some months of deliberation, the Panel of Judges of the Tribunal presented its final conclusions in a report that was launched in five cities around the world on 21 July 2016.15 The launch was accompanied by a video in which Presiding Judge Zak Yacoob read the major conclusions and recommendations. The organisers had hoped to be able to organise a small formal session with some members of our Panel of Judges and some victims === [PDF page 57] === 28 Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa Figure 2.3 Prosecutor Team 2, by Koes Komo, reproduced with permission. and witnesses present, but the political situation at the time did not allow that: the safety of those present could not be ensured. The organising team opted to launch the Final Report simultaneously in Jakarta, Amsterdam, Melbourne, Stockholm, and Phnom Penh, for two reasons. In the first place, if the event was disrupted in Jakarta, the report would still be launched in the other cities. Second, in this way a broader audience would be reached. Following the live broadcast of the event, press statements and seminars were held. The Final Report was published in both English and Indonesian in early 2017. As discussed more extensively in the introductory chapter, the Panel of Judges concluded that the State of Indonesia was responsible for crimes against humanity consequent upon the commission and perpetration, particularly by the military of that State through its chain of command, of the inhumane acts detailed in their report (Foundation IPT Final Report 2016, p. 79). On four issues the judges were able to go beyond the conclusions of the Komnas HAM report.16 Unlike Komnas HAM, the judges deliberated the situation of exiles affected by the events of 1965–66 (see Saptari, this volume). The judges also fully supported the emphasis the prosecutors, basing themselves on the researchers’ report, had laid on the critical role the propaganda campaign played in facilitating the violence of 1965–66 (see Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). A third issue that the Panel of Judges emphasised, which cannot be found in the Komnas HAM report, is the count regarding the complicity of other states, notably the US, Great Britain, and Australia (see Henry, this volume; Scott 1985; Simpson 2008). All three countries were invited to defend themselves at the hearings, as was Indonesia, === [PDF page 58] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 29 but none accepted this invitation. Lastly, the Panel of Judges concluded, based on the Tribunal’s research report and an amicus curiae letter from the Argentinian genocide specialist, Dr Daniel Feierstein, that the mass killings by the army and the militias from 1 October 1965 constituted genocide (see Jarvis & Wieringa, this volume). Practical matters Several factors enabled the organisation of the hearings in 2015. In the first place, the political timing seemed ripe. The submission of the 2012 Komnas HAM report had been preceded by the Report on Sexual Violence by the National Commission on Violence against Women (2007) which had received far less attention.17 Both reports contain detailed analyses of the types of violence and violations committed by the state after 1 October 1965. This momentum was further increased by the wide attention received by the two documentaries directed by Joshua Oppenheimer. His second film, The Look of Silence (Indonesian title, Senyap), was released in 2014 and was circulated internationally and in circles of students and activists in I ndonesia, where it was later banned.18 Within Indonesia, the influential magazine Tempo devoted two issues to the 1965 crimes against humanity which were widely read among circles of victims, intellectuals, and human rights activists.19 In 2014, a new President was elected, Mr Joko Widodo (Jokowi). In his campaign, he had promised to prioritise the investigation and reconciliation of past human rights abuses.20 This promise was repeated in his Declaration, the ‘Nawacita.’ This Sanskrit term means nine dreams or priorities. Priority number four, on the reform of law enforcement agencies, includes the intention to resolve past human rights violations. Unfortunately, he did not follow this up with concrete actions.21 The timing of the Tribunal was also important. Held 50 years after the killings started and the rise of the New Order regime to power, the Tribunal was able to draw on the slogan ‘breaking 50 years of silence.’ The success of the Tribunal was also aided by the willingness of so many specialists, victims-survivors, and students to contribute their expertise, experiences, and time to help organise the Tribunal. Researchers undertook research, film-makers documented the process and prepared the live streaming, and media specialists ran the social and other media and set up the website. Furthermore, security experts devised a security plan, the prosecutors and the registrar gave legal advice and prepared the indictment, the translating team worked as hard as they could to translate Indonesian materials into English for the judges, and the student volunteers made themselves helpful in numerous ways. And, of critical importance, the judges devoted their time and expertise prior to, during, and after the hearings and finalised the report which was released in July 2016. During the hearings, some 100 volunteers were working towards the success of the Tribunal. They had come from all over the world; some had even risked === [PDF page 59] === 30 Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa their Indonesian scholarships, following a threat to that effect from the Indonesian embassy in The Hague.22 A major concern of the organisers of the Tribunal was to guarantee the safety of the victims-survivors. They and their families have suffered discriminatory policies, and violence perpetrated by Muslim hardliners and members of other anti-communist groups in Indonesia until today. The spectre of a communist revival is still used by particular military or political groups, who control the militias of thugs who carry out raids or other forms of violence (Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). Consultations had to be held with the victims but those meetings attracted the attention of such militias (see Wahyuningroem, this volume). Several planned meetings had to be orum cancelled. For instance, on 27 October 2013, the Anti-Communist F (Forum Anti-Komunis Indonesia, FAKI) attacked and broke up a meeting organised by victims and survivors in Yogyakarta. Similarly, a meeting organised in Bukittinggi on 22 March 2015 was forcibly disbanded by thugs, forcing Nursyahbani Katjasungkana to return without meeting the victims. In Salatiga the following day, right-wing militia supported by the police dissolved the meetings organised by the victims’ support organisation, Foundation for the Service of Rights in Indonesia (Yayasan Pengabdian Hukum Indonesia, YAPHI) in collaboration with the victims’ organisation, Foundation for Research on the Victims of the Killings of 1965 (Yayasan Penelitian Korban Pembunuhan 1965, YPKP 1965). This meeting was attended by members of Komnas Perempuan, Komnas HAM, and the Victim and Witness Protection Institute (Lembaga Perlindungan Koran dan Saksi, LPSK). The purpose of this meeting had been to discuss a new regulation on health allowances for victims of past human rights violations. These attacks were reported to President Joko Widodo, the Chief of Police Headquarters, and the Chief Military Commander in Jakarta, but there was no response. In the second half of 2015, tensions increased. The major issues triggering these strains were the 50th anniversary of the ‘events of 1965’ and the impending hearings of the Tribunal. For example, on 2 July 2015, members of the mass organisation Ansor (the youth wing of the Muslim mass organisation, Nahdlatul Ulama, which had been heavily involved in the killings), and leaders of other religious groups attacked people whom they identified as making up a ‘New Style’ Communist Movement. These latter groups were identified as various human rights organisations which had been supporting victims of the crimes against humanity after 1 October 1965. The attackers had prepared themselves by watching the notorious film, The Betrayal of the G30S/PKI, which was compulsory viewing during Suharto’s New Order (McGregor 2007; Herlambang 2013). They burned so-called PKI flags in the centre of Blitar.23 The yearly presidential address to the nation on 17 August 2015 (Independence Day) was also very tense. Victims of the 1965 crimes against humanity hoped the President would apologise, while right-wing groups fiercely protested. In the end, human rights activists were disappointed, and the President did not apologise.24 === [PDF page 60] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 31 Ultimately, Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and other activists managed to hold a series of successful preparatory meetings in Solo, Jombang, C irebon, Jepara, Kupang, Surabaya, Bali, Aceh, Semarang, and Medan in 2014 and the beginning of 2015 to discuss the idea of holding a people’s tribunal. The members of the various victims’ organisations welcomed the idea of the Tribunal, though they were warned that the Tribunal would not be able to ensure any perpetrator would be brought to justice or that they would get compensation. They were pleased that international attention would be paid to their plight and hoped it would minimally reduce the stigma they still experienced. Most of the human rights activists also welcomed the efforts of the IPT 1965 to break the 50 years of silence surrounding the massacres and other human rights violations after the murder of the generals on 1 October 1965. They agreed that internationalising the violations might be the best way forward. A few other organisations were afraid to provide support, out of concern that a narrow form of nationalism would rear its ugly head. It did indeed, but xenophobia has been part of the arsenal of conservative forces in Indonesia for a long time and the Tribunal organisers did not want to be deterred by that.25 The team preparing the hearings in Jakarta was also directly targeted. The General Coordinator was called a ‘traitor to the nation’ by hardcore retired General Kivlan Zen on a TV show on 29 September 2015 (International Lawyers’ Club). Conservative generals accused human rights activists working on the ‘1965 case’ of waging a ‘proxy war.’26 Human rights lawyers accompanied the witnesses to and from the Tribunal. During the sessions themselves, extra security officials were employed, and the police were on standby. For each charge or crime, at least one direct and one expert witness were invited and prepared. Ultimately, seven factual/eye witnesses appeared before the Tribunal at its hearings from 10 to 13 November 2015. Due to the quickly deteriorating security situation prior to the hearings, a number of witnesses were forced to use a pseudonym or to testify behind a screen. Fortunately, no incidents occurred during the sessions, and all witnesses and prosecutors were able to leave the Netherlands and to return home safely. Members of the Indonesian Anti-Communist Alliance (Aliansi Anti- Komunis Indonesia) were waiting at the gate of Soekarno-Hatta Airport when the delegation arrived back in Jakarta on 16 November 2015, where they unfurled a big banner reading: Welcome Home Traitors of the Nation (Selamat Datang Pengkhianat Bangsa) and Don’t Come Back to Indonesia, Traitors (Pengkhianat Jangan Kembali ke Indonesia).27 Organisational matters People’s tribunals are, by definition, set up by members of civil society. The organisers of the IPT 1965 started from scratch; they had no prior association they could fall back on. Their motivation was the shared anger at === [PDF page 61] === 32 Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa the long silence of the respective Indonesian governments on the gross human rights violations committed after 1965. The management structure of the IPT 1965 was quite horizontal and based on trust. This fitted the social movement character of the organisation. All members of the organising committee, including the general coordinator, the leaders of the working teams, and most members of those teams themselves, were working on a voluntary basis and recruited to do what they were best at. Submitting a solid amount of evidence to support the indictment was critical. However, there was no budget at all for research, so the team had to rely on voluntary submissions of data. The challenge was that the evidence provided should relate to all counts, and that the materials collected would be presented in such a way that they could be digested by the judges in a short period. The media team, both in Indonesia and in the Netherlands, was technically and politically strong. Because the issue was politically sensitive, the website was attacked constantly, particularly during the hearings. Strikingly most attacks were recorded during the sessions on sexual violence and the slander campaign against the progressive women’s organisation, Gerwani.28 Impact of the tribunal: moral and political issues Naturally, the significance of the IPT 1965 cannot be estimated according to the number of convictions, as there were none. Its impact must be judged in different ways: in its moral and political consequences and in its legal arguments. As a People’s Tribunal, it derives its power from the voices of victims and from national and international civil societies. Though the Tribunal had the format of a formal court, it was not a criminal court.29 Conservative generals and political leaders continued to point this out after the hearings were over. The Indonesian Vice President, Jusuf Kalla, called it a mock trial (pengadilan semu).30 Coordinating Minister for Politics and Security, Luhut B. Pandjaitan, opined the Tribunal had just been a joke (dagelan).31 The same opinion was voiced by Prof. Dr Mahmud MD, former Chair of the Constitutional Court, who stated, ‘this is just a joke, some foolishness (lucu-lucuan) of an NGO.’32 But convictions of perpetrators had never been the intention of the organisers and judges of the IPT 1965. Its goal was to raise international attention about the crimes committed; to restore the agency of the victims, who spoke out and helped provide evidence; and to contribute to the ‘archive of truth’ around the massacres. As a People’s T ribunal, its power lies in its capacity to examine evidence, develop an accurate historical record of the genocide and other crimes committed, and apply principles of international law to the facts as found. Further, the Tribunal stepped into the lacuna left by the State of Indonesia but it did not purport to replace the role of the State in the legal process. Other international people’s tribunals have contributed to creating a climate of respect for human rights and to the healing process of the victims and their families.33 In that sense, it can be === [PDF page 62] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 33 asserted that the IPT 1965 was a meaningful intervention as it had tangible results, some of which will be mentioned below. The Tribunal has had success in breaking the silence around the genocide and other crimes against humanity. As discussed above, this was a major motivation for other people’s tribunals as well. Hundreds of articles have been written on the IPT 1965, particularly in online media but also in mainstream print media in Indonesia.34 Some major international papers also reported on the Tribunal, such as The Guardian.35 Approximately 300 participants attended the tribunal daily, including about 30 representatives of the media, both from Indonesia and from other countries. The sessions were live-streamed and were accessible all over the world. In Indonesia in several places collective screenings were held, with moderators from various associated human rights organisations. Tens of thousands of people watched the sessions which are still accessible via YouTube.36 In Indonesia, nobar (watching together) sessions and discussions were organised in several cities. In Yogyakarta, the nobar was banned by a fundamentalist group and people from the intelligence services. Film-makers and photographers were invited to make a visual documentation of the Tribunal and its background.37 This will serve as documentation, educational, and advocacy material. The nationalist backlash after the November 2015 hearings, however, had an unexpected result. To prove Indonesia could resolve its own outstanding human rights issues, Coordinating Minister of Politics, Law and Security, Luhut B. Pandjaitan, ordered his staff to organise a national seminar on the topic which took place in 18 and 19 April 2016. It generated enormous media exposure.38 Both victims and supporters of the New Order participated. Through online media, TV shows, and news reports, hundreds of thousands of Indonesians were able to listen to the gripping stories of some survivors. Angry that the national seminar generated sympathy for the victims, conservative retired Generals such as Kivlan Zen and the Minister of Defence, Ryamizard Ryacudu, then organised a counter seminar on 1 and 2 June 2016, in which only military and other supporters of the New Order participated.39 Many concluded on social media that the djinn (genie) was out of the bottle, and that the silence behind which New Order strongmen could hide the crimes committed by the army and militias trained by them after 1 October 1965 had definitively been broken. Both seminars sent their conclusions and recommendations to the President. So far, these have not been made public. After the April symposium, news of a ‘red scare’ began to spread (again) in the media. A group of the FPI (Front Pembela Islam) led by Syeik Misbahul Anam Attijani produced a book with ‘proof’ that the PKI was organising itself underground. In a news conference, he handed it over to General Agus Sutomo.40 The book was reported to contain photos from a Facebook account with two young men wearing a t-shirt with the hammer and sickle image. Another ‘proof’ of the rise of the PKI was that they had organised the April symposium because they wanted to push the President to apologise. === [PDF page 63] === 34 Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa This campaign is in line with statements of the virulent anti-communist leader Habib Rizieq who claimed this ‘new style PKI’ was linking up with the ‘liberal movement’ so they could spread books, have seminars, and show films.41 Therefore, the FPI and the army should work together to stem the growing influence of the new PKI, he concluded. Meetings were again disrupted. When 80 victims from all over Indonesia came together on 14 April 2016, organised by the YPKP in Cipanas, Cianjur, they were told to disband by the FPI and Pemuda Pancasila.42 Has the dignity of the victims been restored? Based on discussions with victims’ organisations, we can conclude that the process of the IPT 1965 has indeed contributed to reducing the shame and guilt many victims experienced. The violence of the militia against them may not have been reduced but more and more people are beginning to realise the effects of New Order propaganda. Also, from being passive victims some of them have claimed agency in denouncing the crimes they have been subjected to. The realisation that the outside world has not forgotten them and that their suffering has been and will continue to be documented, even after they will have gone, gives them some peace. A new umbrella organisation has been formed, Forum 1965, in which representatives of various victims’ associations come together with human rights activists and members of the IPT 1965. Due to divisive tactics of the regime, infighting, and discouragement, they had not come together earlier. In discussions prior to and directly after the Tribunal, routinely members of all victims’ groups were invited. The Forum 1965 meets regularly and discusses issues of general interest to the victims at the national level. Legal issues One of the major objectives of the Tribunal was to fight against the persistent impunity for the crimes of 1965. As proposed by Orentlicher (2004), impunity involves the following aspects: – A failure by States to meet their obligations to investigate violations and to take appropriate measures in respect of the perpetrators, particularly in the area of justice. This could be done by ensuring that those suspected of criminal responsibility are prosecuted, tried, and duly punished; – A failure to provide victims with effective remedies and to ensure that they receive reparation for the injuries suffered; – A failure to ensure the inalienable right to know the truth about violations and to take other necessary steps to prevent a recurrence of violations.43 Key concepts thus are the right to truth, to justice, and to rehabilitation and the guarantee of non-recurrence. Even in the more liberal Reformasi era (after the fall of Suharto in 1998), the Indonesian state has done virtually nothing to guarantee these rights. === [PDF page 64] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 35 In a formal sense, impunity still continues. Nobody has faced criminal charges for involvement in the events of 1965–66. But the Tribunal did contribute to creating an ‘archive of truth,’ and the researchers and activists involved will continue to extend that archive. Through publications, social media, and our website, those involved in the IPT 1965 process will contribute to the rewriting of Indonesian history which so far has been dominated by New Order historians, who wrote a ‘history of the winners’ (see McGregor 2007). This public ‘archive of the oppressors’ (the Indonesian military archives are still closed) must be replaced or at least complemented by an ‘archive of the oppressed.’44 The massacres and mass incarcerations took place over such an enormous region and over such a long time that only a massive research project, preferably instigated by the Indonesian state, will ever be able to account for the magnitude. So far, it has not cared to do so, so that even now there is no certainty about how many people were murdered or imprisoned.45 As is outlined in Chapter 8, even the locations of victims’ graves are often not known. After the two seminars in 2016, the Indonesian government has seemingly closed ranks and decided that the truth would not be revealed, as far as they are concerned. Instead of a formal investigation by the National Prosecutor’s Office or a truth commission, in January 2017, a ‘National Harmony Council’ (Dewan Kerukunan Nasional) was established, the purpose of which was not made clear at the time.46 What did transpire was that it would not offer a judicial response and would not engage in formal truth-seeking. Thus, impunity would not be lifted, and the truth about the genocide and other crimes against humanity committed in 1965–66 and the years thereafter would not be revealed through this Council. In communication about this Council, the government again used the term ‘horizontal conflict,’ a term consistently deployed by the New Order ideologues, to hide the command structure behind the military involvement in the genocide and to present the mass killings as the outcome of tensions between supporters of the PKI and Sukarno and their civilian opponents (see Melvin, this volume). In the absence of a judicial state response to the massacres, the Final Report of the IPT 1965 contains legal arguments on the application of international customary law to the massacres and other crimes against humanity committed by the military and the militias trained by them. The argumentation of the Panel of Judges of the IPT 1965 supports the conclusion of the 2012 Komnas HAM report that widespread and systematic crimes against humanity were committed in that period. But the report of the IPT 1965 goes beyond the report of Komnas HAM. It considers four more counts than the Komnas HAM commissioners did: the plight of the exiles, propaganda as incitement to mass murder, the complicity of other states, and it argues that the massacres fall under the 1948 Genocide Convention. Apart from orthodox legal analysis, the judges also advanced arguments to extend the scope of the law. The pronouncement of the Panel of Judges on the applicability of the term ‘genocide’ for the mass killings in Indonesia after 1 October 1965 is === [PDF page 65] === 36 Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa significant, as further discussed in Chapter 12 of this anthology. The Final Report of the IPT 1965 contributes to the arguments advanced by Feierstein (2012) to expand the scope of the 1948 Genocide Convention in that it also refers to the elimination of a national group not solely based on criteria of ethnicity and religion.47 Complicity of other states and the situation of the Indonesian exiles are also discussed in this volume. The propaganda campaign is the topic of Propaganda and the Genocide in Indonesia: Imagined Evil by Wieringa and Katjasungkana (2018).48 The judges carefully considered the evidence presented by the prosecution. They concluded that the false propaganda campaign was essential to the widespread systematic attack on the PKI and all those deemed to be connected with it. The false propaganda campaign was the first significant step in the attack and is therefore a crime against humanity. The propaganda version of the events of 30 September – 1 October 1965 had a significant dehumanising impact, helping to justify the extra-legal persecution, detention and killing of alleged suspects and particularly to legitimise the use of sexual violence against women. Unchallenged for more than five decades, this propaganda also contributed to the denial of civil rights of survivors, and the absence of any attempt to remedy injustices against them. (IPT 1965 2017, pp. 93–94) Conclusion Although the Tribunal was not a formal juridical institution, its pronouncements carry weight and will be recognised in international and national fora in times to come. As most other people’s tribunals, the IPT 1965 interrogated the responsibility of the state, not that of individual perpetrators. It was set up as domestic mechanisms to end the impunity of the perpetrators had been exhausted, in spite of pressure from Komnas HAM, as well as national and international activists and the promises of the President. It was a ‘one-off tribunal’ not a ‘repeat player’ such as the PPT. A characteristic of such repeat players is that they are able to develop their own ‘jurisprudence’ to make the international legal system better able to respond to the needs of victims whose call for justice is ignored by their own states.49 Yet this onetime tribunal has contributed to the growing body of arguments to broaden the definition of genocide and to include national groups defined by their political views.50 The Final Report of the Panel of Judges of the IPT 1965 contains some other interesting arguments which will spark further debate. These concern the role of propaganda in relation to incitement to hatred and mass murder and to the position of the exiles who lost their citizenship. The Tribunal has been a meaningful intervention in a world in which impunity from === [PDF page 66] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 37 prosecution for the perpetrators of the genocide and other crimes against humanity in Indonesia still continues and in which the victims are still experiencing shame, stigma, and humiliation. The international recognition of the suffering of victims and survivors helps them hope that in the future the injustice done to them will be formally acknowledged, also within Indonesia. In contrast to formal tribunals, no immediate consequences will follow from the IPT 1965 process. But as with other people’s tribunals, its impact will be more gradual and indirect. Evidence has been brought into the public domain.51 The lack of enforceability of the carefully argued judgement of our Panel of Judges is of course deeply regrettable but the Final Report will continue to shame Indonesia internationally. How the Indonesian state will react ultimately is not known as yet. The establishment of the National Harmony Council is an indication that the government is not interested in truthfinding, an essential requirement for reconciliation. Narrow nationalist forces at the time of writing this chapter call for the uniqueness of Indonesian human rights as opposed to the alleged foreignness of international human rights standards.52 The lawmakers who advance these arguments are apparently unaware that the present Indonesian human rights law is based on the Rome Statute.53 So when they denounce human rights as foreign, they also ignore their own national law. Whether Indonesia will resort to the international or domestic adjudication of its past human rights abuses in the near future is doubtful, but the Final Report of the Judges of the IPT 1965 strengthens the demands of both National Human Rights Commissions to deal with these past abuses. It has already boosted the morale of victims and will help ensure that the world will not forget these crimes. We conclude that the IPT 1965 has produced an important body of legal arguments. It has helped restore the dignity of the victims-survivors who by their appearing at the hearings reinstated a sense of agency. The formal surrounding of the impressive church in which the hearings were held augmented the spectacle of justice for the many thousands who watched the live streaming (Simm & Byrnes 2014). The IPT 1965 has also disrupted the hegemonic image of the rise to power of the military after 1 October 1965. The museums, films, and other means of propaganda they produced, demonstrating their power as conquerors, have been challenged by the moving museum of the hearings, available via film and video. This living archive of the oppressed augments the documents collected, which in their turn build on the work of activists and researchers preceding the IPT 1965. The IPT 1965 was no kangaroo court; the dignity of the court process, the moving testimonies of the witnesses, the impressive venue, the convincing arguments of the prosecutors, and the sharp legal analysis of the Panel of Judges exposed the travesty of justice the Indonesian state so far has seen fit to display. It also provided the legal arguments Indonesian state prosecutors could use if they decide to prosecute the perpetrators. The IPT 1965 is part of an ongoing process to demand justice for the genocide and other === [PDF page 67] === 38 Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa crimes against humanity committed by Indonesia’s military against unarmed civilians. As such the work of the IPT 1965 is not yet over. The results of the Tribunal must be made more widely known both within Indonesia and internationally. In Indonesia, advocacy to stimulate the development of a political, legal, and sociocultural process to deal with the genocide and other crimes against humanity committed after 1 October 1965 will have to be continued, in collaboration with other organisations working on human rights, in order to help create a climate in which truth can be established, the victims and their families rehabilitated, their dignity restored, and possibly reparation effected. This may stimulate a process of reconciliation in the country. Also, educational materials for various target groups must be prepared, as knowledge of this period is still dominated by army propaganda. The members of the IPT 1965 will stimulate efforts to build an integrated documentation and archive system and assist where possible with various national, international, and local efforts at memorialisation. Notes 1 Parts of this chapter, particularly the sections ‘setting up the tribunal,’ ‘indictment and conclusions,’ and ‘practical matters’ have been based on Wieringa’s earlier analysis of the IPT 1965 process (Wieringa 2018). 2 Since then four more Russell Tribunals have been held. See for a list of the Russell Tribunals and the sessions of the Permanent People’s Tribunal, Byrnes and Simm (2018a, pp. 274–77). 3 The relationship between truth and reconciliation is complex. As Clark (2011) argues, though it is clear that denial of truth obstructs reconciliation, whether and to what extent the utterance of truth helps reconciliation must be further researched. The author includes in her discussion an evaluation of South Africa’s Truth and Reconciliation Commission. 4 In the ‘Movies That Matters’ festival organised by Amnesty International. 5 Indonesia has ratified the ICCPR (International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights) and is obliged to report regularly to its Human Rights Committee in a procedure called the Universal Periodic Review. 6 See Dolgopol (2018) and Dudden (2001) for an analysis of the Tokyo Women’s Tribunal. 7 See Concept Note, available in the Narrative Report of the IPT 1965, written by Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa (2016). 8 This report is officially only available in summary form (KomnasHAM 2015). It is based on over 349 detailed interviews in six regions in Indonesia. It concludes that the Indonesian state is responsible for grave human rights violations. 9 Co-editors were Sri Lestari Wahyuningrum, the late Wijaya Herlambang, Ratna Saptari, Annie Pohlman, and Jess Melvin. 10 Both have been involved in the PPT and in various other international, national and hybrid tribunals and inquiries. 11 As a member of the ICCPR Human Rights Committee, Flinterman had been involved in the Universal Periodic Review in which the Komnas HAM report was discussed. 12 For a fuller background of the Panel of Judges of the Tribunal, see the 2016 Narrative Report, accessible via www.tribunal1965.org (Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2016). === [PDF page 68] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 39 13 Article 9 of Law No 26, Year 2000, Establishing the Ad Hoc Human Rights Court; Article 7 of the Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court (1998); Article 5 of the Statute of the International Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia (1993); and Article 3 of the Statute of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (1994). 14 See for a summary the 2016 Narrative Report (Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2016). 15 The final editing was largely completed by John Gittings and Helen Jarvis. 16 Although the full report is not yet released, the executive summary, officially released in 2012, here cited in the 2015 version, is lengthy and gives an excellent and detailed overview of the results of the research. 17 Komnas Perempuan (2007). The full title of Komnas Perempuan is Komisi Nasional anti Kekerasan terhadap Perempuan (National Commission on Violence against Women). It was set up in 1998 after the so-called May riots of that year in which many ethnic Chinese women were raped. It is an independent state institution, based on Presidential Decree 181/1998, renewed by Presidential Regulations 65 and 66 of 2005. 18 www.thejakartapost.com/news/2015/01/10/lsf-moves-silence-senyap.html. 19 In the first week of October 2012, the special issues ‘Pengakuan Algojo 1965’ (Acknowledgement by Butchers of 1965) was published. In the first week of September 2013, a special issues on ‘LEKRA dan Geger 1965’ (LEKRA and the Tumult in 1965) was issued. Later, Tempo published an issue on the ‘Footsteps of the CIA in the 1965 Tragedy’ (Jejak CIA pada tragedi 1965), first week of October 2015. 20 See, for example, www.thejakartapost.com/news/2015/10/27/jokowi-human-rightsand-us.html. 21 Nawacita literally means ‘nine dreams.’ On the President’s inaction after the promulgation of this grand vision, see, for instance, www.thejakartapost.com/ news/2014/12/10/time-jokowi-resolve-past-human-rights-abuse-cases.html. 22 www.thejakartapost.com/news/2015/11/05/embassy-tells-ri-students-not-attend1965-tribunal.html. 23 www.adakitanews.com/ormas-di-blitar-aksi-perangi-pki-gaya-baru. Accessed July 2 2015. The flags were brand new; as the PKI does not exist any more and it is very dangerous to produce or to be seen with such a flag, activists suspect that the security services produced the flags as a provocation. 24 www.ifex.org/indonesia/2015/08/17/jokowi_shackle_pressfreedom/. 25 See Katjasungkana and Wieringa (2016) for several xenophobic press statements of conservative generals. See also, for instance, <https://asiancorrespondent. com/2016/11/xenophobia-rears-ugly-head-streets-jakarta/#ZPrUDXvITAjB flE6.97>. 26 See, for instance, www.thejakartapost.com/academia/2016/12/22/a-case-against -the-militarys-newfound-proxy-war-obsession.html. Strikingly, the other group singled out for accusations of waging a proxy war against the Indonesian state is LGBTI activists. See Wieringa (2017) for an analysis on the relation between communist phobia and homophobia. 27 www.rappler.com/indonesia/112911-aliansi-anti-komunis-indonesia-timipt-1965. 28 See for literature on that topic Wieringa (2002, 2003, 2011) and Wieringa and Katjasungkana (2018). On sexual violence, see Pohlman (2015). 29 There was a Panel of Judges, a team of prosecutors, a Registrar with her own team and eye, and expert witnesses. The only element lacking was the defence. We had asked lawyers of Leiden University to prepare an amicus curiae letter stating the position of the Government of Indonesia, but they were unable to do so. === [PDF page 69] === 40 Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa [Unreadable] 31 Newspaper Tempo, 21 July 2016. 32 www.suaramuhammadiyah.id/2016/07/24/mahfud-md-ipt-itu-pengadilandagelan/. 33 A broader perspective on a number of People’s Tribunals can be found in Byrnes and Simm (2018b). 34 Media statistics released at the end of November 2015: During the hearings, 32 journalists themselves registered their presence, for instance, from Antara, Tempo, Kompas, and The Jakarta Post. The BBC, CNN, and Deutsche Welle reported the trials in their Indonesian channels. During the hearings, the ranking of IPT 1965 on YouTube was the highest, 1227 with a total number of 773 visitors. The live stream IPT 1965 was accessed 19,802 times. The total number of visitors to our website was 84,494 from August till November. Our website was attacked continuously, most frequently the writings on Gerwani by Saskia Wieringa, with 4,966 attacks. For details, see the Narrative Report of the IPT 1965. 35 In its issue of 11 November 2015. 36 The tag IPT 1965 lists a number of testimonies, documentaries, and other products many of which were prepared by our media team, with English subtitles where necessary. Narrowing down to live stream gives access to the hearings, including the testimonies in Indonesia. 37 Lexy Rambadetta (‘Road to Justice’) and Stéphane Roland (‘The Mutes’ Soliloquy’) have produced documentary films on the IPT 1965. 38 See, for instance, http://time.com/4295474/indonesia-1965-1966-killings-pkimassacre-reconciliation/. 39 See, for instance, https://nasional.kompas.com/read/2016/06/02/18240131/kivlan. zen.biar.saya.ajari.luhut.soal.pki. 40 www.kaskus.co.id/thread/57461bdbc0d770183b8b4567/fpi-bekerjasamadengan-tni-siap-antisipasi-lahirnya-pki/. 41 See, for instance, a book he published with Suara Islam Press (Jakarta), entitled Hancurkan liberalisme tegakkan syariat Islam (2011). 42 http://historia.id/modern/pertemuan-penyintas-1965-dibubarkan-kelompokantidemokrasi. 43 Diane Orentlicher, Report of the independent expert to update the Set of Principles to Combat Impunity, UN Doc E/CN.4/2005/102/ Add.1, 7. 44 Louis Joinet, ‘Le rôle des archives dans la lutte contre l'impunité’ (2003) 72 Matériaux pour l'Histoire de Notre Temps 50, 50, cited in Simm (2016, pp. 250–51). 45 See Cribb (1990, 2002) for discussions on the magnitude of the massacres. 47 See Chapter 12 for a discussion on the arguments of Feierstein. 48 Apart from the false accusation that communist girls had castrated and murdered the generals in the morning of 1 October 1965, the campaign also accused the PKI of being against Islam and against the national philosophy. 49 See Byrnes and Simm (2018c) for an analysis of the spectrum of international peoples’ tribunals. 50 See Feierstein (2012) for a further elaboration of these arguments. 51 Discussions are underway to digitise the evidence brought before the Panel of Judges. See Byrnes and Simm (2018c) for a discussion on the indirect impact of peoples’ tribunals. 52 www.thejakartapost.com/news/2016/12/23/lawmakers-want-nationalist-figuresfor-komnas-ham.html. 53 See Wieringa and Katjasungkana (2018). === [PDF page 70] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 41 References Akhavan, P 2017, ‘Is grassroots justice a viable alternative to impunity? The case of the Iran People’s Tribunal’, Human Rights Quarterly, vol. 39, no. 1, pp. 1–40. Bassiouni, MC 2011, Crimes against humanity: historical evolution and contemporary application, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Byrnes, A & Simm, G (eds.) 2018a, Peoples’ Tribunals and International Law, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Byrnes, A & Simm, G 2018b, ‘International peoples’ tribunals: their nature, practice and significance’, in Byrnes, A & Simm, G (eds.), Peoples’ Tribunals and International Law, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 11–42. Byrnes, A & Simm G 2018c, ‘Reflections on the past and future of International peoples’ tribunals’, in Byrnes, A & Simm, G (eds.), Peoples’ Tribunals and International Law, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 259–73. Chinkin, C 2006, ‘Peoples’ tribunals: legitimate or rough justice’, Windsor Yearbook on Access to Justice, vol. 24, pp. 201–20. Clark, JN 2011, ‘Transitional justice, truth and reconciliation: an under-explored relationship,’ International Criminal Law Review, vol. 11, pp. 241–61. Cribb, R (ed.) 1990, ‘The Indonesian killings of 1965–1966: studies from Java and Bali’, Monash papers on Southeast Asia, no. 21, Monash University, Clayton, VIC. Cribb, R 2002, ‘Unresolved problems in the Indonesian killings 1965–66,’ Asian Survey, vol. 42, no. 4, pp. 550–63. Dehm, S 2018, ‘Accusing ‘Europe’: articulations of migrant justice and a popular international law’, in Byrnes, A & Simm, G (eds.), Peoples’ Tribunals and International Law, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 157–82. Dolgopol, U 2018, ‘The Tokyo Women’s Tribunal: transboundary activists and the use of law power’, in Byrnes, A & Simm, G (eds.), Peoples’ Tribunals and International Law, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 84–107. Dudden, A 2001, ‘“We came to tell the truth”: reflections on the Tokyo Women’s Tribunal’, Critical Asian Studies, vol. 33, no. 4, pp. 591–602. Feierstein, D 2012, Memorias y representaciones; sobre la elaboración del genocidio, Fondo de Cultura Económica, Buenos Aires. Foundation for the International People’s Tribunal for Crimes against Humanity of 1965 (Foundation IPT 1965) 2016, Final report of the IPT 1965: findings and documents of the International People’s Tribunal on crimes against humanity Indonesia 1965, IPT 1965 Foundation, The Hague and Jakarta. Herlambang, W 2013, Kekerasan Budaya Pasca 1965: Bagaimana Orde Baru Melegitimasi Anti-Komunisme Melalui Sastra dan Film, Marjin Kiri, Jakarta. IPT 1965 Foundation 2017, Final report of the International People’s Tribunal on crimes against humanity in Indonesia 1965, Ultimus, Bandung (English and Indonesian). Kammen, D & McGregor, K 2012, The contours of mass violence in Indonesia, 1965– 68, NUS Press, Singapore. Katjasungkana, N & Wieringa, SE 2016, Narrative report hearings of the international people’s tribunal on the 1965 crimes against humanity in Indonesia 10–13 November 2015, The Hague 172 p, <www.tribunal1965.org>. Klinghoffer, AJ & Klinghoffer, JA 2002, International citizens’ tribunals: mobilising public opinion to advance human rights, Palgrave, London and New York. === [PDF page 71] === 42 Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Saskia E. Wieringa KomnasHAM 2015, Ringkasan Eksekutif; laporan penyelidikan pelanggaran HAM berat. English translation: Executive summary of the research on grave human rights violations, Komnas HAM, Jakarta. Komnas Perempuan 2007, Laporan Pemantauan Ham Perempuan: Kejahatan Terhadap Kemanusiaan Berbasis Jender — Mendengarkan Suara Perempuan Korban Peristiwa 1965, Komnas Perempuan, Jakarta. English translation: Gender-based crimes against humanity: listening to the voices of women survivors of 1965, Komnas Perempuan, Jakarta. Libaridian, G (ed.) 1985, A crime of silence, the Armenian genocide: Permanent peoples’ tribunal, Zed Books, London. McGregor, K 2007, History in uniform; military ideology and the construction of Indonesia’s past, NUS Press, Singapore. Miller, S 2018, ‘Zombie anti-communism? Democratisation and the demons of Suharto-era politics in contemporary Indonesia,’ in McGregor, K, Melvin, J & Pohlman, A (eds.), The Indonesian genocide of 1965: causes, dynamics and legacies, Palgrave Macmillan, Cham, pp. 287–310. Moita, L 2015, ‘Opinion tribunals and the permanent peoples’ tribunal,’ JANUS>NET e-journal of International Relations, 6/1 May–October, consulted on July 15 2018. Nayar, J 2001, ‘A people’s tribunal against the crime of silence? The politics of justice and an agenda for people’s law’, Social Justice & Global Development Journal, <www2.warwick.ac.uk/fac/soc/law/elj/lgh/2001–2/nayar>. Orentlicher, D 2004, ‘Independent study on best practices, including recommendations, to assist states in strengthening their domestic capacity to combat all aspects of impunity’, UN Commission on Human Rights, E/CN.4/2004/88, 27 February 2004. Pohlman, A 2015, Women, sexual violence and the Indonesian killings of 1965– 66, Routledge, London and New York. Scott, P 1985, ‘The United States and the overthrow of Soekarno, 1965–1967’, Pacific Affairs, vol. 58, no. 2, pp. 239–64. Simm, G 2016, ‘The Paris peoples’ tribunal and the Istanbul trials: archives of the Armenian genocide’, Leiden Journal of International Law, vol. 29, pp. 245–68. Simm, G & Byrnes, A 2014, ‘International peoples’ tribunals in Asia: political theatre, juridical farce or meaningful intervention?’ Asian Journal of International Law, vol. 4, pp. 103–24. Simpson, B 2008, Economists with guns: authoritarian development and U.S.- Indonesian relations, 1960–1968, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA. Tognoni, G 2018, ‘The history of the permanent people’s tribunal’, in Byrnes, A & Simm, G (eds.), Peoples’ Tribunals and International Law, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 42–59. Wieringa, SE 2002, Sexual politics in Indonesia, Palgrave/McMillan, Houndmills. Wieringa, SE 2003, ‘The birth of the new order state in Indonesia: sexual politics and nationalism,’ Journal of Women’s History, vol. 15, no. 1, pp. 70–92. Wieringa, SE 2011, ‘Sexual slander and the 1965/6 mass killings in Indonesia; political and methodological considerations,’ Journal of Contemporary Asia, vol. 41, no. 4, pp. 544–66. Wieringa, SE 2017, ‘Sex, lies and communism’, paper presented at AISSR, University of Amsterdam, Amsterdam, 30 March. === [PDF page 72] === The Organisation and impact of IPT 1965 43 Wieringa, SE 2018, ‘The International people’s tribunal on 1965 crimes against humanity in Indonesia; an anthropological perspective’, in Byrnes A & Simm G (eds.), Peoples’ Tribunals and International Law, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 107–33. Wieringa, SE & Katjasungkana N 2018, Propaganda and the genocide in Indonesia; imagined evil, Routledge, London and New York. Zunino, M 2016, ‘Subversive justice: the Russell Vietnam war crimes tribunal and transitional justice’, International Journal of Transitional Justice, vol. 10, pp. 211–29. === [PDF page 73] === How the military came to power Jess Melvin For the past 50 years, the Indonesian military has disguised its accountability for the 1965–66 genocide.1 This obfuscation began with its insistence that the ‘1965 Affair,’ as events surrounding the genocide are known in Indonesia, began with a ‘communist coup’ (Staf Angkatan Bersendjata 1966). In fact, it was the military that launched the coup. This chapter will explain how the military came to power. It will examine the military command structures that existed on the eve of 1 October, before detailing how Suharto was able to take advantage of the situation presented to him. I argue that Suharto’s actions from 1 October represent the culmination of two distinct, yet overlapping processes: one, a long-term plan developed by the military leadership under then Army Commander Yani to confront and seize control of the state through the activation of existing military command structures; and the other, a reactive and largely opportunistic course of action undertaken by Suharto when he found himself in control of the Indonesian armed forces following Yani’s murder. This military coup led to a brutal, self-described, ‘annihilation campaign’ that was centrally coordinated by the surviving national military leadership under Suharto. The new information contained within this chapter has been drawn from internal military documents, produced during the time of the genocide. The first and only of their kind to so far be discovered, these documents have become known as the Indonesian genocide files. Written in the military’s own words, they break through 50 years of public misinformation.2 The IPT 1965’s findings on command responsibility behind the 1965–66 killings are, in part, based on my early analysis of these files. Since the time of the Tribunal, I have been able to extend this analysis to provide a more comprehensive explanation of the military’s actions nationally. The following chapter provides an overview of these findings. What did the military command look like on the eve of 1 October 1965? On the eve of 1 October 1965, the military command was headed by Sukarno, in his position as Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces. Directly under him stood General Ahmad Yani, Commander of the Armed === [PDF page 74] === How the military came to power 45 Forces (Pangad), who had practical control over the armed forces. Since the time of the national revolution (1945–49), the Indonesian military has been organised along a territorial warfare structure, meaning that an internal command, known as the Kodam (Komando Daerah Militer) command, paralleled civilian government down to the village level. Yani, as Commander of the Armed Forces, had control over the Kodam territorial command structure. He also had control over a number of special command structures, including the Komando Cadangan Strategis Angkatan Darat (Kostrad) strategic command, which was headed at the operational level by Major General Suharto, and the Resimen Para Komando Angkatan Darat (RPKAD) Special Forces, which was headed at the operational level by Colonel Sarwo Edhie Wibowo. Yani was additionally the Chief of Staff of the Supreme Operations (Komando Operasi Tertinggi, KOTI) command. The KOTI command had been established in 1960. Originally created to coordinate the military’s campaign to seize West Irian from the Dutch (known as Trikora), the KOTI command was repurposed in 1964 to coordinate the military’s involvement in the ‘Crush Malaysia’ (Ganyang Malaysia) campaign (known as Dwikora) (Sundhaussen 1982, pp. 155–56). On 1 January 1965, the Mandala Vigilance Command (Komando Mandala Siaga, Kolaga) was established under the KOTI chain of command to facilitate the G anyang Malaysia campaign at the local level (Crouch 2007, p. 78). The Commander of the KOTI and Kolaga commands was Air Marshal Omar Dhani (who would later become involved in the 30 September Movement), with Suharto as his First Deputy. The territories of Sumatra and Kalimantan were the most heavily affected by this campaign due to their physical proximity to Malaysia. The military’s campaigns in these two territories were coordinated through two ‘Mandala’ commands: the Mandala I command in Sumatra and the Mandala II command in Kalimantan. The KOTI command was of major strategic importance to whichever political faction wished to control the military. This was because of the major powers that it had accrued to itself. Indeed, it would appear that a long-term struggle for control over the Indonesian state was being played out through control over the KOTI command. The military leadership had originally shown no interest in participating in Sukarno’s Ganyang Malaysia campaign, which had first been supported by the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI). It would seem, however, that the military leadership became aware that its participation in the Ganyang Malaysia campaign could be useful. The campaign presented the military leadership with the ability to restore to itself the powers it had lost following the conclusion of the West Irian campaign, when martial law had been repealed nationally (Melvin 2018, pp. 65–66). New legislation passed in September 1964, known formally as the ‘Decision to Enhance the Implementation of Dwikora,’ presented the military leadership with new powers akin to Indonesia’s existing State of Military Emergency and State of War Legislation (‘Keputusan Peningkat’ 1964, p. 1244). Most significantly, it enabled military commanders === [PDF page 75] === 46 Jess Melvin under the KOTI and Kolaga structure (specifically those in areas under the control of the two Mandala commands) the ability to implement martial law internally, without first having to seek approval from Sukarno. Following the activation of Dwikora legislation in Sumatra and Kalimantan, civilian rule was subordinated to military rule, with the local Regional Authority to Implement Dwikora (Pepelrada), a position held by the local military commander, becoming the supreme local authority under the command of the KOTI commander nationally (Melvin 2018, pp. 68–71). The military leadership was not the only group to be aware of the new possibilities that this legislation presented. Indeed, it is possible that Sukarno saw the KOTI command as the route through which he would funnel further power to left-wing forces in the country to counter the control of the national military leadership. It would otherwise appear inconceivable that Sukarno would knowingly consent to such an undermining of his own powers. Similarly, this can help explain why Dhani, a staunch critic of the army leadership (Crouch 2007, p. 84), was appointed to the position of KOTI command leader by Sukarno, though this suggestion remains conjecture. Meanwhile, documents from the Indonesian genocide files show that the military leadership was actively positioning itself to make use of these new powers. The Mandala I commander in Sumatra, Lieutenant General Ahmad Junus Mokoginta, was a staunch anti-communist known as Yani’s ‘right hand man’ in Sumatra (Evans 1989, p. 28). From March 1965, he began implementing dry-run tests to mobilise the civilian population throughout Sumatra as if the Dwikora legislation had been activated. This training, known as ‘Operation Singgalang’ (Operasi Singgalang), included exercises between civilian militia groups and local military commands in order to institute a working chain of command able to reach down to the village level (Melvin 2018, pp. 71–74). Participants in these training exercises in North Sumatra and Aceh, where internal military documents and a memoir by one such civilian militia leader have been recovered, show that these same individuals were later mobilised by the military as its shock troops from 1 October (Melvin 2018, pp. 71–74). On 1 August 1965, the military leadership established a new chain of command known as the Kodahan (Komando Daerah Pertahanan) command under the KOTI command, and parallel to the Kolaga command, to coordinate these new efforts. The military would later activate this new chain of command during the morning of 1 October 1965, changing its name to the Kohanda command, for the specific purpose of implementing the military’s annihilation campaign (Kodam-I 1966, pp. 16–17).3 But how did Suharto seize control of the armed forces? It is well known that during the early hours of 1 October, Suharto assumed the position of Commander of the Armed Forces after he learnt that Yani had been kidnapped by the 30 September Movement. In doing so, he did not initially step outside official military protocol. His actions became insubordinate when he refused to relinquish this position when ordered to do so by Sukarno at 4pm (Roosa 2006, p. 58; Crouch 2007, p. 129). It is less well known that, === [PDF page 76] === How the military came to power 47 in addition to assuming the position of Commander of the Armed Forces, Suharto also assumed the position of KOTI commander during the morning of 1 October. There is no record that Dhani attempted to mobilise the KOTI command, although it was theoretically under his control as he became embroiled in the actions of the 30 September Movement. This meant that Suharto now had direct control over the Kodam territorial command; the Kostrad command; the RPKAD, which remained headed at the operational level by Wibowo; and the KOTI, Kolaga, and Kodahan/Kohanda commands. He was thus able to coordinate domestic military operations, special operations, and ‘external’ operations, which included the ability to declare martial law over large swaths of the population, without so much as needing to request the permission of Sukarno. It was through his seizure of these multiple chains of command that Suharto implemented his undeclared coup during the morning of 1 October. Intentions of the military command and its power struggle with the PKI It is worth reflecting on the intentions of the military command during the lead-up to 1 October. It is known that the military and Indonesia’s communist forces were engaged in a contest to wrest control over the Indonesian state (Melvin 2018, pp. 62–109). This was not, however, an overt contest. The PKI was, by early 1965, the largest communist party in the world outside the USSR and Communist China. Like all communist parties, it desired to one day come to power. This was not, however, its short-term aim. Similar to the Chinese Communist Party, the PKI sought to work together with Indonesian nationalists to create an anti-imperialist state (Törnquist 1984). It saw Sukarno as an ally rather than an adversary and had thus supported the end of parliamentary democracy in 1957, despite this being its only foreseeable peaceful road to power. Instead, the PKI positioned itself as a protector of the Indonesian state. Aware that it could not directly confront the military, not least due to its lack of arms, the PKI placed all its bets on the hope that Sukarno would reward the party for its loyalty with greater influence within his cabinet, such that the party could seize the state from within (Mortimer 1974, p. 58). This hope was not so far-fetched. A self-declared Marxist, Sukarno had indicated that he considered communism to be a fundamental stream within Indonesian political identity that should be protected and allowed to grow in influence. Enshrined within his ‘Nationalism-Religioncommunism’ (NASAKOM) policy, Sukarno proposed that Communist ideology be propagated not only within Indonesia’s civil service but also within the armed forces.4 The military leadership, meanwhile, was deeply ideologically opposed to the spread of communism within Indonesia. Following a string of regional rebellions during the 1950s and early 1960s, which had been led by dissenting military commanders who resented the Java-centric nature of the === [PDF page 77] === 48 Jess Melvin postcolonial state, the national military leadership had staved off national disintegration by projecting this frustration against Sukarno, who was accused of being under the sway of the communists (Kahin & Kahin 1995). Behind the scenes, this position was encouraged by the US government, which had initially helped to arm the rebel military commanders (Kahin & Kahin 1995, p. 170). Following the reunification of the nation’s military leadership, the US continued this influence by offering special training to the cream of the Indonesian officer corps at Fort Leavenworth (Evans 1989, pp. 25–48). From January 1965, the military leadership began to develop a plan to seize control of the state (Roosa 2006, pp. 189–91). In order to implement this plan, the military was to establish itself as a ‘state within a state’ and then wait for an appropriate pretext, such that the military’s actions could be portrayed as defensive rather than offensive in nature (Roosa 2006, pp. 177–78). This defensive stance was considered necessary due to the widespread popularity of both Sukarno and the PKI. The actions of the 30 September Movement presented the military leadership with its longed-for pretext to attack the PKI. The military leadership helped to provoke the 30 September Movement by spreading rumours that the military was planning to launch a coup. This ‘Council of Generals’ (Dewan Jendral) plot was the official rationale for the 30 September Movement’s decision to move against the military leadership during the early hours of 1 October. It can be assumed, however, as John Roosa has proposed, that the military leadership was not aware of the 30 September Movement’s plans in advance, or, at least, that the 30 September Movement went beyond its original plan and acted in an improvised manner that exceeded the bounds of what had been predicted by the military leadership, as it is highly unlikely that the military leadership foresaw its own kidnap and murder without acting to forestall such an eventuality (Roosa 2006, p. 129). This curious situation, in which the military’s actions from 1 O ctober appear both pre-planned and spontaneous, and in which the military was both preparing and hoping for an action that could be blamed on the communists, while being caught off guard by just such an action, has led several scholars to speculate that Suharto may have, in fact, orchestrated or have had foreknowledge of the actions of the 30 September Movement in order to double-cross his superiors and bring himself to power. While this is possible, I do not believe such an explanation is necessary to explain the military’s actions from 1 October. As noted above, it is my contention that the military’s actions from 1 October were the result of two separate but overlapping processes: both a long-term plan by the military leadership under Yani to seize control of the Indonesian state, and an opportunist and at least partially spontaneous response by Suharto to events as they unfolded during the morning of 1 October. When the 30 September Movement kidnapped and murdered six key members of the military leadership along with a lieutenant taken instead of the Army Chief of Staff, General Abdul Haris Nasution, it decapitated === [PDF page 78] === How the military came to power 49 the national military leadership. In severing the national leadership of the Kodam territorial command structure, the 30 September Movement effectively broke the nation into its four component territories: Sumatra, Java, Kalimantan, and Eastern Indonesia. It released Kostrad and the RPKAD to act independently and decapitated the KOTI, Kolaga, and Kodahan commands. What was it hoping to achieve by doing this? It is likely that these most significant consequences of the Movement were unintended. There is certainly no indication that the Movement attempted to take advantage of this situation in any meaningful way. During the morning of 1 October, the 30 September Movement asked Sukarno to replace Yani with a more sympathetic Army Commander but it did not dictate who this replacement should be. Nor did it attempt to make use of the KOTI command that was already theoretically under its control. Indeed, the Movement does not appear to have had any specific plan for controlling the military other than hoping that it would be swayed to support the Movement through a last ditch announcement that sympathetic officers who came out in support of the Movement would be rewarded with promotion (‘Decision No. 2’ 1965, p. 139). The Movement had not planned to murder the kidnapped generals, but rather to convince Sukarno to move against the armed forces leadership (Roosa 2006). It was thrown into a deep and paralysing confusion when its plans went awry. Suharto emerged out of this vacuum of power created by the Movement’s actions to seize not only Yani’s position of Commander of the Armed Forces, but also to replace Yani and Dhani as KOTI commander. In conjunction with his position as Kostrad commander, Suharto now had unparalleled control over the armed forces. Instead of relinquishing these powers when ordered to do so, he established himself as the uncontested kingmaker of the moment. In doing so, he built upon the preparations made by Yani and the national military leadership while making some adjustments of his own. Not content to punish the handful of individuals involved in the 30 September Movement and enact Yani’s plan to activate martial law, he chose to launch a bloody campaign of terror against the entire Indonesian Left such that his reign might remain unopposed. National coordination of the genocide The military’s attack against the PKI was coordinated from the morning of 1 October by Suharto through his positions as Army Commander, Kostrad commander, and KOTI commander. Until the discovery of the Indonesian genocide files, it was believed that Suharto’s main activities on this day were conducted through the Kostrad command, which he mobilised to rout and then crush the 30 September Movement at the Halim air base and Merdeka Square. These actions were localised to the city of Jakarta and began at 5.30am, when Suharto is believed to have first become aware of the actions of the Movement (Roosa 2005, p. 59). It was likewise known that Suharto === [PDF page 79] === 50 Jess Melvin acted in an overtly insubordinate manner from 4pm, when he refused to follow Sukarno’s order to step down from his assumed position of Commander of the Armed Forces. Little else, however, was known about his actions and communications on this day other than that he subsequently issued an order at 9pm declaring that ‘now [the Army] are able to control the situation both in the centre and the regions’ (‘Pidato Radio’ 1965, pp. 59–60). It was not known what was meant by this order as it was not known what interactions Suharto had with regional military commanders on this day. It is now known that Suharto engaged in far more extensive communications on this day than it has previously been possible to prove. The document trail discovered in Aceh—the most comprehensive ever to be found from the time of the genocide—shows that communication between the surviving military leadership was much more intense than previously known. Suharto began to coordinate with regional and interregional Kodam commanders from the early hours of 1 October, when he sent telegrams to regional military commanders throughout the country declaring that a coup had occurred in the capital (‘Chronologis’ 1966, p. 92). In Sumatra, Mokoginta, acting in his capacity as Mandala I commander under the Kolaga command (Panglatu), then relayed this order to the regional military commanders under his command, with the added instruction that they should await further instructions from him (‘Chronologis’ 1966, p. 92). The significance of this order is that it signalled to Kodam commanders in Sumatra that Dwikora legislation and thus the Kodahan command had been activated—a fact verified by the command’s name change to the Kohanda command during the morning of 1 October. The military’s long-term plan to seize state power in Sumatra was now being put into action. It is significant to note that it is possible that Mokoginta was acting out of loyalty to Yani, rather than to Suharto, who, until that morning, was Mokoginta’s junior. Acting under the authorisation of Suharto in Jakarta, Mokoginta would issue his promised orders at midnight that night, declaring, ‘it is ordered… all members of the Armed Forces resolutely and completely annihilate this counter-revolution’ (‘Tetap tenang’ 1966, p. 152). This is the first-known order issued by the military announcing that it was mandatory for the military to ‘annihilate’ the 30 September Movement. By this time, the 30 September Movement in Jakarta had been isolated and for all practical purposes defeated. It had issued its final radio announcements at 2.05 and 2.10pm during the afternoon of 1 October, while Suharto had retaken Merdeka Square and the radio station by 6pm (‘Decision No. 1’ 1965, pp. 136–39; Roosa 2006, p. 222).5 Regardless of whether or not the military leadership truly believed that the 30 September Movement still presented a national security threat during the evening of 1 October, it was abundantly clear over the next 24– 48 hours that the Movement has been effectively crushed. Yet, it is from this time that the military began to accelerate its attack, not only against members of the 30 September Movement, but against anyone who was considered to be identified with the PKI and Indonesia’s communist group in === [PDF page 80] === How the military came to power 51 general. By midnight, the military had already stated that it intended to launch an annihilation campaign against this group. By 4 October, as will be outlined in further detail below, the military would begin to announce that it was mandatory for civilians to participate in the military’s annihilation campaign. It is thus clear that Suharto’s seizure of the position of Commander of the Armed Forces was important, as it allowed him to communicate directly with each of Indonesia’s interregional and regional military commanders. It is also clear that the other, less well-known, military chains of command he now controlled were just as important. A division of labour began to develop across the country, based on the existing resources and chains of command available. In Sumatra, it made most sense for the military leadership to make use of the KOTI, Kolaga, and Kodahan/Kohanda commands, under the Sumatra-wide leadership of Mokoginta. Internal US embassy files produced during the time of the genocide suggest Sumatra was being used as a ‘test case’ by the military at this time, as it was the area where the military had the greatest freedom of operation due to its ability to internally implement martial law (Melvin 2017b). The fact that Suharto did not openly declare a coup on 1 October can, I believe, be largely attributed to the fact that this was made unnecessary by his ability to seize such wide control over the armed forces and—through these commands—control such large sections of the civilian population. On Java and Bali, the military coordinated its attack through the K ostrad and RPKAD commands. These special commands were, by nature, highly mobile. They were also able to operate independently of local Kodam commands, which, in places on Java at least, were considered to have been compromised by sympathy towards the 30 September Movement. The only area nationally where local military commands came out in support of the 30 September Movement was Central Java (Roosa 2006, p. 222). Both Bali and North Sumatra hosted PKI-affiliated governors; they did not, however, pledge their support for the Movement. While Kostrad was used primarily to put down the 30 September Movement in the capital, the RPKAD under Wibowo was used, first, to assist in the crushing of the Movement, before it was used to spearhead the military’s subsequent annihilation campaign in Central Java from 18 October (Roosa 2006, p. 222). In December, the RPKAD would move on to Bali (Crouch 2007, p. 154). Wibowo was additionally tasked with coordinating a national network of civilian death squads that helped to lead the military’s annihilation campaign around the country (Melvin 2018, p. 300). When it came to military operations in Kalimantan and Eastern Indonesia, Kalimantan, like Sumatra, possessed its own Mandala command under the KOTI and Kolaga commands. Yet, although the Mandala II command under Major General Maraden Panggabean possessed the same operational potential as the Mandala I command, it does not appear that the military’s annihilation campaign began in earnest in the territory until October 1967 === [PDF page 81] === 52 Jess Melvin (Davidson 2008, pp. 60–80; Komnas HAM 2012, p. 185). This outbreak of violence occurred relatively late and was aimed primarily against the area’s Chinese population. Similarly, the military’s annihilation campaign in Eastern Indonesia did not begin until December 1965 (Lamasitudju 2014; McGregor, Melvin & Pohlman 2018, p. 13). The reason for this delayed start appears to be the diminished strategic importance of these areas to the central government. Both Sumatra and Java were the nation’s two key population and economic centres. Sumatra, in particular, due to its large plantation economy and oil reserves, was closely integrated into the international, capitalist economy.7 Sumatra and Java thus became the primary focus of the military’s initial attack. Bali, a well-known PKI hotspot, became the priority of the military’s second-wave attack. By late 1965, an attempt was made at the national level to centralise the military’s annihilation campaign. Suharto established the Operations Command to Restore Security and Order (KOPKAMTIB) on 6 December (Komnas HAM 2012, p. 163).8 Although the KOPKAMTIB command has received much attention for its role in coordinating Suharto’s attack, it was, in fact, irrelevant to the early initiation and coordination of the military’s annihilation campaign. The worst of the killings in Aceh, for example, were over by the time KOPKAMTIB was established in Sumatra. That the military should choose to coordinate its annihilation campaign through a series of semiautonomous and territory-specific military chains of command does not lessen the centralised nature of military coordination behind the genocide. Nor is such a multi-chain of command approach unique to Indonesia. To provide only the most well-known example, the Nazi Holocaust was also coordinated through a number of different military chains of command that operated semiautonomously in their various areas of operation.9 Not only is it now clear that Suharto played a central coordinating role behind the military’s annihilation campaign, it is also clear that this coordination was replicated at the local level before local level decisions were relayed back up the chain of the command. The Indonesian genocide files show a sophisticated system of two-way communications that reached from Suharto as Commander of the Armed Forces and de facto arbiter of the Indonesian state down to the village level in even the most rural and isolated areas of Aceh: a pattern that can be expected to have been repeated around the country. It is also now possible to prove, from examination of these same documents, that the military clearly understood its ‘annihilation campaign’ to be a national campaign (Melvin 2018, pp. 298–302). From intent to actuality: phases in the military’s annihilation campaign The fact that the national military command under Suharto issued statements from 1 October declaring its intent to annihilate Indonesia’s communist group is not, by itself, able to explain the scale and intensity of the === [PDF page 82] === How the military came to power 53 subsequent killings. These statements needed to be disseminated down to the local level, and coordination was required to mobilise not only local military personnel but also local civilian groups to participate in the killings. Indeed, it is possible to see four clear phases in the military’s annihilation campaign as it was implemented in Aceh province, the only area so far where detailed records of the military’s internal communications from the time of the killings have been recovered. The first of these phases was an initiation phase, which began on 1 October and continued for the first two weeks of this month; the second phase was a period of public violence, which began on 7 October; the third was the phase of systematic mass killings, which, beginning on 14 October, can be understood as the genocide proper; before a fourth and final consolidation phase that lasted into 1966. During this final phase, civilian participants in the killings were demobilised as the military turned into attention towards governing (Melvin 2018, pp. 290–95). During the first, initiation phase, the military leadership communicated its orders to launch an annihilation campaign. These orders were passed down the military chain of command to the village level. Civilian government was also brought under the control of the military as coordinating meetings were held at the provincial, district, and sub-district levels. It was at one of these coordinating meetings on 4 October in Banda Aceh that Aceh’s top executive body, the Aceh Pantja Tunggal (which had been placed under military control from 1 October), declared it was mandatory for civilians to participate in the military’s annihilation campaign (‘Pengumuman’ 1965). Aceh’s military commander, Djuarsa, helped to coordinate these meetings throughout the province. He engaged in a coordination tour between 4 and 8 October for this purpose (Melvin 2018, pp. 138–61). In each district, the military leadership met first, before the military leadership met with the local civilian leadership. A public meeting would then be called, usually in a sports field, where the local civilian population was ordered to participate in the military’s annihilation campaign; there they were warned that if they did not assist the military, they themselves could expect to be targeted for attack (Melvin 2018). In each of Aceh’s districts, public killings began after these coordination meetings: in no area did killings erupt before these coordination meetings were held. Similar coordination can be seen during the second phase of public killings. Following the public meetings called by Aceh’s military commander, public demonstrations were held in each of Aceh’s districts. These demonstrations, held under the watchful eye of the local military leadership, marched on the offices and homes of suspected communists and quickly descended into pogrom actions (Melvin 2018, pp. 162–93). These offices and homes were often ransacked and burnt, while their occupants were driven out into the streets. Some were killed by the demonstrators, and their bodies left in the streets. Others were abducted by civilian militia groups and taken to be detained and tortured before they were killed, and their bodies likewise dumped in the streets (‘Death Map’; Kodam-I 1966, pp. 6–7). Civilian === [PDF page 83] === 54 Jess Melvin perpetrators from this time explain that the military, despite ordering civilians to participate in the military’s ‘annihilation campaign,’ attempted to distance itself from this first phase of violence, either by refusing to accept the detainees—telling the militia groups that they should ‘deal’ with the detainees themselves—or by encouraging targeted individuals to surrender themselves to the military as a means of escaping the violence on the streets (Melvin 2018, pp. 166–71). Contradicting this public stance, the military established a large network of civilian death squads and militia groups during this period and armed these groups with machine guns for the explicit purpose of carrying out the military’s annihilation campaign (‘Pertahanan Sipil’ 1966). As noted above, it appears that this national web of death squads was coordinated by Wibowo in his position as RPKAD commander. Large-scale arrest campaigns were also conducted during this period for the purpose of bringing surviving members of the PKI and other individuals associated with Indonesia’s communist group into military custody, where they were held in military-controlled jails and other government-owned buildings (Melvin 2017a, p. 498). As a consequence, not only was violence normalised during this period, but the military now found itself with a large detainee population which it needed to decide how to deal with. The military chose to systematically murder this prison population. The military became directly involved in the killings from 14 October. Under the cover of darkness, truckloads of detainees were transported from the above-mentioned military jails and government buildings throughout the province to killing sites. Detainees were systematically killed there, often directly by the military or by its civilian proxies by being shot by firing squad or decapitated (Melvin 2017a, pp. 498–99). The bodies were routinely buried in mass graves dug by surrounding civilian populations, dumped off cliff faces, or thrown into rivers. Similar patterns in these systematic killings can be seen not only throughout Aceh, but throughout Indonesia (McGregor, Melvin & Pohlman 2018, pp. 13–15). It was this aspect of the killings that was most widely known to the international community as stories of public killings and night-time executions began to trickle out of Indonesia from the late 1960s and especially from the early 1990s, though the specifics of how the military coordinated and implemented the killings remained unknown (Rey 1966; McVey & Anderson 1971; Cribb 1991). Indeed, until the discovery of the Indonesian genocide files, it was unknown whether the military had produced any written orders during the time of the killings.10 In Aceh, as the genocide files show, the start of direct military involvement and the beginning of systematic killings coincided with the establishment of a ‘War Room’ by Djuarsa on 14 October (Melvin 2018, pp. 194–240). The stated purpose of this ‘War Room’ was to enable the local military command to ‘carry out non-conventional war in accordance with the Concept of Territorial Warfare [and enabled it to] succeed in annihilating them [Indonesia’s communist group] together with the people’ (Kodam-I 1966, p. 17). It is thus now possible to prove that the genocide in Aceh was conducted as official === [PDF page 84] === How the military came to power 55 state policy. The creation of this War Room was not kept secret. News of its creation was transmitted back up the national chain of command to Suharto.11 It can be assumed that similar orders were issued in other regions of Indonesia. The killings in Aceh were brought to an end in December 1966, after both Djuarsa and Mokoginta toured the province (Melvin 2018, pp. 226–29). The killings, it was ascertained, had achieved their purpose of destroying Indonesia’s communist group and terrorising the remaining population into submission to military rule. A second wave of violence would erupt in early 1966, aimed specifically at Aceh’s Chinese community, who were targeted for killings and mass expulsion (Melvin 2018, pp. 246–64). This second wave of violence was led by civilian militia groups who resented being told to demobilise by the military. This violence was brought to an end when Djuarsa forcibly expelled Aceh’s Chinese population from the province and brought key civilian militia leaders into leadership positions within the new regime.12 In other areas of Indonesia, where the killings had been less intense,13 once the military’s main target group had been destroyed, the mass killings transitioned into long-term detention of second- and third-tier target groups.14 It is believed that approximately one million political prisoners (known in Indonesia as ‘tapol,’ an abbreviation of tahanan politik or ‘political prisoner’) were detained nationally, many of whom were tortured during this period (van der Kroef 1967; Komnas HAM 2012). Most tapol were released during the 1970s after a sustained campaign by international human rights groups, though some would remain in detention until the 1990s.15 Although the files discovered in Aceh provide more internal documentation of the killings in that region than in other areas of Indonesia, there is every indication that the killings in other areas were just as coordinated. Indeed, not only do the documents from Aceh show that the killings throughout Sumatra were coordinated, they provide evidence that from 1 October, ultimate chain of command responsibility for the killings lay with Suharto. Not only was Suharto informed of developments in the region, the military’s entire annihilation campaign was conceptualised as a national campaign. Not once, in the thousands of pages of documents that have now been recovered and analysed, is the military’s annihilation campaign depicted as a regional campaign. Instead, it is consistently described as a campaign intended to secure the entire Indonesian state from the perceived threat of a communist coup. It is now clear that it was the military itself that conducted the actual coup on 1 October. In mobilising the KOTI, Kolaga, and Kohanda chains of command in Sumatra, unleashing Kostrad against the Movement in the capital, and the RPKAD against key population centres in Java and Bali (before activating the KOPKAMTIB chain of command to centrally coordinate the military’s campaign nationally, including in Kalimantan and Eastern Indonesia, from 6 December), Suharto enacted the military’s long-term plan to wrest control over the Indonesian state as a whole. The actions of the === [PDF page 85] === 56 Jess Melvin 30 September Movement during the morning of 1 October not only acted as the pretext for this military coup, they launched this plan into hyperdrive, allowing the military to not only seek further control for itself but to brutally murder anyone who might stand in its way. Conclusion In seeking to understand how the military came to power, it is vital to understand the resources it had available to it during the lead-up to 1 October. It is also important to understand the military’s plans prior 1 October to seize state power for itself. Not only had the military leadership been waiting for a pretext event for it to launch its own bid for power, it had been actively preparing the KOTI, Kolaga, and Kodahan/Kohanda chains of command to act as a mechanism through which the military could declare martial law without first having to seek the permission of Sukarno. Although the military leadership under Yani was caught off guard by the actions of the 30 September Movement, this potentially catastrophic severing of the military’s national leadership did not succeed in freezing the surviving military leadership, as the 30 September Movement had hoped. Indeed, surviving military commanders under the Kodam, Kostrad, RPKAD, and KOTI structures continued to function with renewed determination under the leadership of Suharto. The utter failure of the 30 September Movement to achieve its goal of halting a military coup, while ironically intensifying the coup it sought to forestall, should serve as a reminder of the capacity of the Indonesian military. Enabled though its territorial warfare structure and radical politicisation, the Indonesian armed forces was able to operate at every level of Indonesian society to seize power for itself. By 1 October, the Indonesian military had established itself as a ‘state within a state.’ Suharto did not declare a military coup on the morning of 1 October because he had no need to. Although the military justified its subsequent annihilation campaign as necessary to halt a ‘communist coup,’ it was, in fact, the military that launched the coup on 1 October 1965. Notes 1 This chapter builds on the ‘Responsibility and Chain of Command’ section in the ‘Final Report of the IPT 1965.’ 2 I discovered the Indonesian genocide files in the former Indonesian Intelligence Agency’s archives in Banda Aceh in 2010 during research for my doctoral thesis. I was additionally sent a copy of the ‘Complete Yearly Report’ (Laporan Tahunan Lengkap) of the Aceh military command for the year 1965 by my colleague Douglas Kammen. A full account of how these documents were discovered, along with an analysis of their content, can be found in Melvin (2018). 3 The command’s name change was presumably implemented to indicate that the command had been activated. That it was activated on this morning, at a time when the military leadership was ostensibly still deciding how to react, suggests the military’s actions were, at least in part, pre-planned. === [PDF page 86] === How the military came to power 57 4 The PKI described this campaign as ‘Nasakomisation in all fields’ (Crouch 2007, pp. 87–88). 5 Radio communications would later become a central component of the military’s propaganda campaign. To assist in this effort, the US government supplied the military leadership with state-of-the-art mobile radios, flown in from Clark Airbase in the Philippines, in late 1965. This occurred after the majority of events discussed in this chapter. 6 For a discussion of the composition of Indonesia’s communist group and how it might constitute a protected group under the 1948 Genocide Convention, see Melvin (2018, pp. 43–46). 7 As noted above, anti-communist elements within the national military leadership, along with their allies in the US government, had previously attempted to separate Sumatra from Java in an attempt to ‘stem’ their losses should Java fall to the communists. 8 Suharto first announced his intention to establish the KOPKAMTIB on 10 October 1965. 9 Four battalion-sized (Einsatzgruppen) killing units, for example, were deployed from 1941 in the Soviet Union. Each of these units reported directly to the Reich Main Office in Berlin. These units were not used outside this territory (Rozett & Spector 2013, pp. 201–202). 10 Crouch, for example, proposed in 1978: ‘Suharto did not send formal, written orders instructing [regional military commanders] on how to deal with the PKI’ (2007, pp. 141–42). Cribb echoed this statement in 2010 (p. 453). 11 The War Room was implemented through an ‘Instruction’ issued by Djuarsa, acting in the position of Pangdahan ‘A’ (Instru-1/10/1965 tanggal 14-10-1965) under the KOTI/Kohanda commands. 12 This expulsion order was issued by Djuarsa on 8 May 1966 (Coppel 1983, p. 69). 13 Adjusted for population size, the intensity of killings seen in Aceh was similar to that in Central Java, one of the worst affected areas nationally (Melvin 2018, pp. 298–99). 14 A formal list of organisations deemed to be ‘affiliated’ with the PKI was signed by Suharto on 31 May 1966. This list included groups that were not officially affiliated with the PKI, such as the Indonesian Women’s Movement (Gerwani) and the Consultative Body for Indonesian Citizenship (Baperki). (‘Keputusan Presiden’ 1966, pp. 190–94). 15 Former political prisoners (‘ex-tapol’) continue to face discrimination to this day (Bedner 2015). References Bedner, A 2015, ‘Citizenship restored’, Inside Indonesia, Edition 122, October– December. ‘Chronologis’, in Kodam-I 1966, Laporan Tahunan Lengkap: Kodam-I/Kohanda Atjeh, Tahun 1965, Kodam-I, Banda Aceh. Coppel, C 1983, Indonesian Chinese in crisis, Oxford University Press, Kuala Lumpur. Cribb, R (ed.) 1991, The Indonesian killings of 1965–1966: studies from Java and Bali, Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, Clayton, VIC. Cribb, R 2010, ‘Political genocides in postcolonial Asia’, in Bloxham, D & Moses, AD (eds.), The Oxford handbook of genocide studies, Oxford University Press, Oxford and New York. Crouch, H 2007, originally 1978, The army and politics in Indonesia, Equinox Publishing, Jakarta. === [PDF page 87] === 58 Jess Melvin Davidson, JS 2008, From rebellion to riots: collective violence on Indonesian Borneo, University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, WI. ‘Death Map’, in Kodam-I, 1966, Laporan Tahunan Lengkap: Kodam-I/Kohanda Atjeh, Tahun 1965, Kodam-I, Banda Aceh. ‘Decision No. 1 Concerning the Composition of the Indonesian Revolution Council’, in ‘Selected Documents Relating to the “September 30th Movement” and Its Epilogue’, 1966, Indonesia, vol. 1 (April). ‘Decision No. 2 Concerning the Demotion and Promotion in Rank’, in ‘Selected Documents Relating to the “September 30th Movement” and Its Epilogue’, 1966, Indonesia, vol. 1 (April). Evans III, B 1989, ‘The influence of the United States army on the development of the Indonesian army (1954–1964)’, Indonesia, vol. 47 (April), pp. 25–48. Kahin, AR & Kahin, GMcT 1995, Subversion and foreign policy: the secret Eisenhower and Dulles Debacle in Indonesia, University of Washington Press, Seattle. ‘Keputusan Peningkat Pelaksanaan Dwikora’, Keppres/ Plm Tert. ABRI/ KOTI/ KOTOE No. 52/ KOTI tahun 1964; mb 14 September 1964, in Muhono (ed.) 1966, Ketetapan MPRS dan Peraturan Negara jang Penting bagi Anggauta Angkatan Bersendjata, Tentara Nasional Indonesia, Jakarta. ‘Keputusan Presiden No. 85/KOGAM/1966’, in Dinuth, A (ed.) 1997, Dokumen Terpilih Sekitar G.30.S/PKI, Intermasa, Jakarta. Kodam-I 1966, Laporan Tahunan Lengkap: Kodam-I/Kohanda Atjeh, Tahun 1965, Kodam-I, Banda Aceh, 1 February. Komnas HAM 2012, ‘Laporan Akhir Tim Ad Hoc Penyelidikan Pelanggaran HAM yang Berat Peristiwa 1965–66’, Komnas HAM, Jakarta, 5 May. Kroef, JM van der, 1976, ‘Indonesia’s political prisoners’, Pacific Affairs, vol. 49, no. 4 (Winter), pp. 625–647. Lamasitudju, NAK 2014, ‘Rekonsiliasi dan Pernyataan Maaf Pak Wali Kota Palu’, in Wardaya, B (ed.), Luka Bangsa Luka Kita: Pelanggaran HAM Masa Lalu dan Tawaran Rekonsiliasi, Galang Press, Yogyakarta. McGregor, K, Melvin, J & Pohlman, A 2018, ‘New interpretations of the causes, dynamics and legacies of the Indonesian genocide’, in McGregor, K, Melvin, J & Pohlman, A (eds.), The Indonesian genocide of 1965: causes, dynamics and legacies, Palgrave MacMillan, Cham. McVey, R & Anderson B 1971, A preliminary analysis of the October 1, 1965 coup in Indonesia, Modern Indonesia Project, Cornell University, Ithaca, NY. Melvin, J 2017a, ‘Mechanics of mass murder: a case for understanding the Indonesian killings as genocide’, Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 19, no. 4, pp. 487–511. Melvin, J 2017b, ‘Telegrams confirm scale of US complicity in 1965 genocide’, Indonesia at Melbourne, 20 October. Melvin, J 2018, The army and the Indonesian genocide: mechanics of mass murder, Routledge, New York. Mortimer, R 1974, Indonesian communism under Sukarno: ideology and politics, 1959–1965, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, NY. ‘Pengumuman: Peng. No. Istimewa P.T.’, Banda Aceh, 4 October 1965. ‘Pertahanan Sipil/ HANRA’, in Laporan Bupati Kepala Daerah T. Ramli Angkasah dalam memimpin Pemerintahan Kabupaten Aceh Utara mulai April 1965 s/d Mei 1965 disampaikan dalam Sidang Paripurna ke 1/1966 DPRD-GR Kabupaten Aceh Utara di Lhokseumawe, tanggal 15 Juni 196[6]. === [PDF page 88] === How the military came to power 59 ‘Pidato Radio Pimpinan Sementara Angkatan Darat Major Djendral Soeharto’, Pimpinan Sementara AD Republik Indonesia, Major Djeneral Soeharto, 1 October 1965, in Dinuth, A (ed.) 1997, Dokumen Terpilih Sekitar G.30.S/PKI, Intermasa, Jakarta. Rey, L 1966, ‘Dossier of the Indonesian drama’, New Left Review, vol. 36, no. 1, April, pp. 26–40. Roosa, J 2006, Pretext for mass murder: the September 30th movement and Suharto’s Coup d’Etat in Indonesia, University of Wisconsin, Madison, WI. Rozett, R & Spector S 2013, Encyclopaedia of the holocaust, Routledge, New York. Staf Angkatan Bersendjata 1966, 40 Hari Kegagalan ‘G.30.S’: 1 Oktober-10 November 1965, Pusat Sedjarah Angkatan Bersendjata, Jakarta. Sundhaussen, U 1982, The road to power: Indonesian military politics, 1945–1967, Oxford University Press, Kuala Lumpur. ‘Tetap tenang dan penuh kewaspadaan terhadap setiap anasir jang merusak dan ingin menghantjurkan Pantjasila-Revolusi Negara dan Bangsa Kita, baik dari luar maupun dari dalam’, in Letdjen AJ. Mokoginta 1966, Koleksi Pidato2/ Kebidjaksanaan Panglima Daerah Sumatra, Koanda Sumatera, Medan. Törnquist, O 1984, Dilemmas of third world communism: the destruction of the PKI in Indonesia, Zed Books, London. === [PDF page 89] === Mass torture in 1965–66 A continuing legacy Galuh Wandita, Indria Fernida, and Karen Campbell-Nelson Sujilah was an 18-year-old student when she was first arrested and tortured as part of the anti-communist purges that began in 1965. She was eventually released but arrested and tortured again in 1969 at which time she was pregnant with her second child. I was bombarded with questions: ‘Were you involved in the killings of the generals?’ I kept answering that I didn’t know … Then I was beaten, burned with cigarettes. My hand was burned with a cigarette, then I was hit with a doorknob, and was stripped naked … [In 1969] they told me to take off my clothes, and began to shout out instructions. They shouted, ‘Sideways, on your back, on your stomach.’ [Then they] touched me everywhere, stripped me, while I was three months pregnant. (Wandita et al. 2015, p. 43) Those who study, document, and defend human rights may unwittingly succumb to a hierarchy of violations in which genocide trumps all. This may be the case with the anti-communist purges in Indonesia that began in 1965. A preoccupation with ‘proving genocide’ may eclipse other serious crimes that occurred and whose legacy continues, such as torture. A study of the breadth and forms of torture and ill treatment by Indonesian security forces in 1965 helps us to better understand its reproduction in subsequent armed conflicts that have contributed to a culture of impunity and a weak judicial system in Indonesia. Since 2014, Asia Justice and Rights (AJAR) and partner non-governmental organisations (NGOs) have been compiling testimonies of torture and ill treatment experienced by victims detained during the 1965 atrocities.1 By gathering interviews from different areas of Indonesia—Lampung in South Sumatera; Jakarta, Bogor, Tangerang, and Bekasi in West Java; Yogyakarta in Central Java; Kutai Kartanegara and Balikpapan in East Kalimantan; Central Sulawesi; Minahasa in North Sulawesi; Bali; Kupang in East Nusa Tenggara; and Buru Island in Maluku—we were able to get a bird’s eye view of a practice that has become entrenched in Indonesian society. === [PDF page 90] === Mass torture in 1965– 66 61 In this chapter, we outline the findings of the project, which were given as evidence to the Prosecutor for the International People’s Tribunal for 1965. These findings were used to support the charge of torture as a crime against humanity in the indictment against the Indonesian state. The data collected and presented to the Prosecutor shows clear evidence of the systemic abuse of political prisoners at the hands of Indonesia’s security forces and their proxies following the 30 September 1965 coup. We then outline the forms of abuse perpetrated and the long-term impacts on survivors and their families, drawing on the testimonies of those who participated in our research throughout. Finally, we reflect on the stagnation of transitional justice in contemporary Indonesia and the failures of the current regime to redress these past acts of violence and their legacy of impunity. We argue that the work of the 1965 People’s Tribunal, as well as other civil society initiatives, forms critical steps in demanding accountability for the many crimes committed in 1965, including the widespread and systematic torture of detainees. Documenting torture and ill treatment in 1965 The evidence gathered and presented by AJAR for the Prosecutor covered the experiences of survivors and witnesses, and gave detailed information on the forms of torture and the perpetrators who committed these acts of violence. Torture and many forms of prohibited ill treatment were perpetrated routinely and systematically against political detainees (known as tapol, an abbreviation of tahanan politik, or political prisoner) rounded up and illegally imprisoned following the 30 September 1965 coup. Detainees were held for their alleged connections to the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI) and for their supposed ‘involvement in the 30 September Movement’ (see van der Kroef 1976; Fealy 1995). Hundreds of thousands were illegally detained in the waves of arrests that began in October 1965 and continued on through to the early 1970s, carried out under the supervision of the military’s newly created Operational Command for the Restoration of Security and Order (KOPKAMTIB) (Tapol 1976; Flanagan & Southwood 1983). As part of the work to document the experiences of survivors from the 1965 period, we began this project to investigate the forms of torture and ill treatment used against political detainees. In conjunction with AJAR and partner NGOs, we began compiling information about torture and ill treatment during political detention through interviews with survivors and witnesses. To date, we have collected information on 295 victims of torture and ill treatment—235 males (79.7%) and 60 females (20.3%). The data includes 215 cases of forced labour, 9 cases of rape or other forms of sexual violence (all women victims), and 7 cases of extortion in order to secure release from detention. Of these, 173 victims had to regularly report to authorities upon release, while 31 reported that they experienced discrimination. Most of === [PDF page 91] === 62 Galuh Wandita et al. Table 4.1 Perpetrators of torture identified in victims’ testimonies Perpetrators of Torture Military Police Prosecutors Civilian Groups 240 51 32 the men were victims of forced labour, particularly those detained on Buru Island; in North and Central Sulawesi; in Yogyakarta, Central Java; and in East Kalimantan. From the information provided by the 295 victims’ testimonies, 326 perpetrators of torture and ill treatment were mentioned. The perpetrators can be categorised into different groups as seen in Table 4.1. From this evidence, it is clear that the overwhelming majority of perpetrators of torture and ill treatment during this period were members of the security forces. Civilian groups did not feature consistently in victims’ testimonies and, compared to state actors, were a significant minority of the perpetrators reported. The systematic and widespread nature of torture and ill treatment From the evidence gathered, we have concluded that members of the I ndonesian security forces and civilian militia groups ordered, condoned, encouraged, and participated in the widespread and systematic torture of detainees. Most of the victims suffered arbitrary arrest and detention without trial. Sometimes victims died as a direct result of the torture they experienced and sometimes as a result of injuries sustained during torture that were left untreated. One victim spoke of a detainee friend who committed suicide after witnessing the brutal torture of another detainee. Victims were tortured in order to obtain information, and to punish, threaten, humiliate, and intimidate them or others who shared their political allegiance (or were suspected of doing so). They were accused of plotting rebellion against the government and being members of the PKI or its affiliates, including Gerwani (the Indonesian Women’s Movement).2 The victims were also tortured to force them to change their political loyalties. Torture and ill treatment also occurred outside detention sites. For example, victims were assaulted in public spaces, in their homes, in fields and other places of work, or during the journey to a detention location. Torture and other cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment usually took place when detainees first arrived at a detention centre or during interrogation. It was perpetrated in cells, in front of other detainees, and in specific interrogation rooms or buildings (Roosa 2008; Pohlman 2015). === [PDF page 92] === Mass torture in 1965– 66 63 Women victims experienced sexual violence such as rape or attempted rape, sexual harassment, forced nudity, being accused of prostitution, and other sexual forms of torture and ill treatment. For some, this sexual violence caused serious injury and trauma. Most women victims were accused of being Gerwani members. Gerwani was targeted because some of its members were accused of being involved in the murder of army generals as part of the so-called attempted communist coup. The women were beaten, stripped, and groped as soldiers claimed to be searching for a communist hammer and sickle tattoo on their bodies (see Komnas Perempuan 2007; Pohlman 2015). One victim spoke out about her experience of sexualised torture at a public hearing of the National Coalition of Justice and Truth (KKPK) with the theme ‘Violence against Women,’ held in Jakarta on 25 November 2013: During the investigation (in 1968) I was stripped naked on a table. They burned my pubic hair and the hair on my head. I passed out and when I woke up I was herded to the Military Police Corp jail in Yogyakarta at four in the morning. I was put in a cell and handcuffed to a man who was in there. On the second day we were interrogated together. They said whether we confessed or not we were political agitators and we would be forced to admit that we were PKI. They stripped both of us. I was ordered to sit on his lap naked, or confess. Then they picked me up and put me on his lap in a sexual position. They laughed in satisfaction. One time when I was called back (in 1971), I was forced to confess that I had implemented political guerrilla acts. In that interrogation I faced great inhumanity; I was stripped and my head was forced down. They ordered me to kiss their genitals one by one, all eight people in the room. My spirit was broken and I couldn’t walk, but they forced me to. Then they lay me down in the middle of the room and shaved my head. I couldn’t do anything but beg the Lord for strength. The use of torture and other cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment by security forces during the 1965 atrocities was common. From the information contained in survivors’ accounts, we know that victims were Kicked, including around the head, eyes, face, hands, and feet, usually by men wearing heavy military or police boots; Punched and slapped; Beaten with an object: objects included belts, large wooden rulers, wooden clubs, tree branches, rattan, rifle butts, electric cables, chains, the tail of a stingray, and a stick covered in barbwire. Some victims were forced to beat one another; Electrocuted: victims received electric shocks, including by being forced to sit on an electrified chair; === [PDF page 93] === 64 Galuh Wandita et al. Forced to work without rest: victims were forced, for example, to farm in gardens and rice paddies; build roads; dig trenches; clear forest; work on construction sites, including building a dam; and work in the houses of security personnel; Whipped; Crushed: victims’ toes were placed under the leg of a chair or table that one or more people then sat on; Subjected to having their hair pulled; Forced to eat hot chilli peppers and rotten, dirty food, sometimes mixed with rocks or glass shards; Soaked in a river or cold water; Burned: victims reported being burned on their cheeks and fingers with cigarette butts; Stoned: some victims were stoned with pebbles and rocks; and Subjected to sexual violence: women victims experienced rape or attempted rape, sexual harassment, groping, and being stripped naked. In addition to physical abuse, detainees were subjected to mental and psychological cruelty that included the following: Arrest without trial; Indefinite detention without access to family and friends; Extended periods in solitary confinement in dark cells with poor ventilation; Verbal abuse that included insults (degrading remarks about a victim’s religion), threats (threatening to torture victims in front of other victims), harassment, intimidation, and scolding; Interrogation under the threat of a drawn sword or traditional dagger; Interrogation or torture in a room with blood-spattered walls; Forcing victims to beat one another; Sexual abuse including sexual harassment, being stripped naked, being accused of prostitution; Torture of other victims in an adjoining room so that screaming and other sounds of the torture were clearly audible to victims; Being forced to clean up urine or faeces; Being forced to view the bodies of other victims who had been tortured and killed; and Detention in a small, empty cell without proper light, ventilation, or sleeping mat. These practices of mass torture and ill treatment were reproduced by I ndonesian security forces in conflict areas at other times during its history. As we discuss below, the forms of torture perpetrated routinely against those detained in 1965 were often replicated during the conflicts in East Timor and in Aceh. === [PDF page 94] === Mass torture in 1965– 66 65 Ongoing discrimination against victims after release Authorities often exercised extortion, such as a demand for payment in cash or kind, upon a victim’s release. Once released, most victims still had to report to authorities on a regular basis, sometimes for years, and were also forced to make payments to them. Furthermore, official government policies restricted the access of victims and their families to jobs, education, and social services. In 1981, the Ministry of the Interior issued an instruction (No. 32/1981) that called upon provincial governors and local administrative officials, in coordination with security forces, to conduct surveillance and reconstruction of all aspects of victims’ lives, including their attitude; behaviour; and all social-cultural, political, and economic activities (Birks 2006). For decades, victims suffered discrimination; they were prohibited from voting and from pursuing professions such as the civil service, military, teaching, and journalism. They were also prohibited from engaging in normal civic activities such as meeting with other survivors. The homes, land, businesses, and/or government pensions of many victims were confiscated and never returned. They were also subjected to heavy surveillance and travel restrictions. Under various policies, victims of 1965 suffered from purgings of Indonesia’s civil service and government agencies, ideological screening, vetting, and disenfranchisement (see Flanagan & Southwood 1983; Asia Watch 1988; Heryanto 2006). Survivors continue to suffer physical trauma resulting from ill health and socio-economic deprivation as a consequence of their previous torture and ill treatment. Many of those who took part in our research spoke about the long-term physical, psychological, and emotional trauma. Some have urgent needs that are not being addressed; for example, they have not received medical assistance and trauma counselling for injuries resulting from violence, torture, and detention. Discrimination against victims continued throughout the New Order. They also received a stamp on their identity cards that marked them as former political prisoners, had their marriage certificates marked as ‘detainees of the Communist/30th September Movement,’ and were not permitted to vote or run for political office. They often faced great difficulties in obtaining study and work opportunities. Victims’ ownership documents and certificates for houses, land, and farms were also confiscated by military officers. In some cases, they were forced to sign a letter stating they had given their land to the state. The labelling and stigmatisation of the 1965 victims were established through the teaching of an undisputed version of history in Indonesian schools, and perpetuated in popular culture through memorials and a state-commissioned film. This film, entitled The Betrayal of the 30th September Movement/PKI (Noer 1984), was televised annually and its message incorporated into the standardized school curriculum (Sen & Hill 2000, p. 148). Since the start of Reformasi in 1998, the film is no longer officially === [PDF page 95] === 66 Galuh Wandita et al. shown. However, since the campaign in 2015 to push for acknowledgement around the 50th commemoration of these atrocities, military officers, with support from militant anti-communist groups, have sought to revive a fear of communism by showing the film again (Mukti 2015). Generational impact of unlawful detention, torture, and ill treatment Family members such as the spouses and children of communists or alleged communists also suffered discrimination (ICTJ, IKOHI & KKPK 2011). AJAR’s documentation of women’s and men’s experiences of 1965-related torture, intergenerational discrimination, and victims’ struggles to survive make clear that these traumas have had a lasting impact on their families. Findings based on participatory research with hundreds of survivors confirm that the practice of torture in 1965 bears a legacy. Survivors of past abuses continue to suffer discrimination, poverty, psychological trauma and health issues long after their release. Thousands of survivors of torture from the 1965 atrocities continue to struggle on their own against ongoing discrimination in politics and society as they become increasingly elderly and infirm. (AJAR & KontraS April 2016, p. 7) AJAR’s 2016 joint submission to the Special Rapporteur on Torture includes a sample of case studies that document experiences of torture and their legacy. One participant in our research, ‘BU,’ describes how he dropped out of school when his father was arrested as a communist supporter. BU was later arrested and tortured in North Jakarta. I was shocked … they wrapped a cord on my left and right index fingers; the cable was connected to some sort of engine battery. [The shock caused] an unusual taste and I became unconscious. My armpits felt like they were being hit repeatedly. My clothes were stripped [off]. I was also beaten and whipped. They used rattan, the tail of a stingray, and chains to hit me. (AJAR 2016b, Appendix case study, p. 9) Due to poor nutrition, forced labour, and torture, BU was unable to walk for a period of time during his detention. As with the majority of 1965 detainees, his identity card was also marked with ‘ET,’ eks tapol, former political prisoner. This branded him for continual discrimination after his release. A particularly significant finding from AJAR’s research is that most 1965 torture victims were economically disadvantaged even before they suffered conflict-related violence. The experience of torture and === [PDF page 96] === Mass torture in 1965– 66 67 systematic discrimination as former political prisoners, however, made their poverty even worse. The loss of family (especially husbands, fathers or sons), destruction of property, lack of access to land and livelihoods, and exclusion from educational and employment opportunities, and basic services all undermined their socioeconomic wellbeing. The impact has often extended over many years, if not decades. (AJAR 2015, p. 344) Kina (Frankina) Boboy’s story describes the intergenerational impact on family members of detainees and how the vicious cycle of poverty—and limited access to justice— exacerbates the negative effects on women victims. Kina’s father was arrested in October 1965 as an alleged member of the PKI. Although his detention was brief, he was essentially held under house arrest for many years. Kina’s story of survival as a teenage girl who had to support her family marks the beginning of a lifetime of hard labour. Because of her father’s status as a former political prisoner, she and her sisters lost access to his land that was appropriated by distant male relatives. [After his arrest and release, my father] was not allowed to work outside the house. If they saw him, they could beat him to death. Mama was nursing the baby. I was 15 years old. That’s why I had to be the father. I worked in the rice paddies and broke land. Just imagine a tall sugar palm … I had to connect two pieces of bamboo [and lash them to the trunk] so I could climb to the top [to tap its sap]. I had to earn a living, working like an adult … I took bananas and firewood to sell in Kupang … I went by boat from Pariti. Because I worked like that I usually wore shorts like a young boy … At the time there was an exceptionally harsh famine, but I tried, so I could provide enough food. We were always considered PKI. I felt like we were powerless … We were forbidden from church. I approached the pastor … ‘What is the reason we are forbidden to attend church?’ He started crying and answered, ‘It is a matter of the state.’ When I went to church, people said, ‘What is the PKI child going to church for?’ Once I asked my father, ‘What have we done wrong? What is the PKI?’ … We were always hated; I don’t know what we did wrong. People always scoffed at us, our lives, our income, even the education of our children. But I remained staunch and calm because I know that when you lean on God there is always a way out. When I became old in the 1980s, my husband and I still faced this burden. But we do not feel deprived even though we were hated. My father had land in Lasiana—a house and rice fields—but because he was accused of being PKI, his family took it. We [my husband and I] had nothing, and had to squat on land that was actually owned by my === [PDF page 97] === 68 Galuh Wandita et al. parents … When my father wanted to report them, they said, ‘To hell with the PKI!’ … When people accused my father, he was just quiet and submissive. Distant relatives from the same clan as my father assume their entitlement as men … They just came from Rote Island to this place. They have already sold the land. I feel that since dad and mama died there is no longer violence, but we don’t have rights to anything that we owned. We are no longer called PKI, but everything we owned has been taken… (AJAR 2015, pp. 82–83) As if it were not enough to endure a lifetime of hardship, Kina went on to lose her livelihood as a traditional midwife in 2010 when the government forbade the practice. That is when she returned to doing farm labour, much as she did when she was a teenager. She also relies on support from her two sons who send her a little rice and money every month. She quips, ‘But not to worry, I still have legs and arms to work.’ Mass torture reproduced in other conflicts In the early years of Reformasi, a commitment to acknowledge the truth about atrocities committed by the New Order was articulated by the highest institutions of the country. A resolution by the Upper House (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat, MPR) in 1999 recognised the New Order’s ‘fractured protection and promotion of human rights, demonstrated by various human rights violations, in forms that include violence, discrimination, and abuse of power,’ and called for a ‘just solution’ and the establishment of ‘a legal system that guarantees the supremacy of the rule of law and human rights based on justice and truth’ (cited in ICTJ & KontraS 2011, p. 13). However, two decades later, Indonesia has yet to come to terms with its past. Smaller (and partial) truth-seeking initiatives have taken place in various contexts, such as an independent commission established by President Habibie in July 1999 to investigate violations in Aceh (Presidential Decree 88/1999). In Timor-Leste, a truth commission examined the patterns of human rights violations that took place between 1974 and 1999 (Chega! 2005). Unsurprisingly, both truth-seeking mechanisms independently found a similar list of acts of torture to those perpetrated in 1965 (Table 4.2). As our research into the experiences of victims from 1965 has shown, the patterns of torture and ill treatment which they experienced were repeated against other victims; in the military campaigns in Aceh and occupied East Timor, thousands of civilians were also rounded up and tortured. Given the similarities between the methods of torture used in 1965, Aceh and Timor-Leste, these illegal forms of violence are likely to have been trained techniques within Indonesia’s security forces (Berueh 2013). === [PDF page 98] === Table 4.2 Patterns of torture committed in Aceh and Timor-Leste Presidential Commission on Violence in Aceh (1999) A. Types of torture and ill treatment conducted by Nasional Indonesia): • Stripped naked; • Stripped naked inside a room (a daughter and father); • Ordered to commit immoral acts with other victims; • Kicked without shoes and with shoes; • Electrocuted; • Beaten with empty hand; • Beaten with thin rattan; • Beaten with wooden plank; • Beaten with the tail of a manta ray full of thorns; • Beaten with water hose; • Beaten with iron bar with 10 mm diameter; • Ordered to beat each other, with an object or empty hands; • Put on a cross; • Hanged; Chega! Truth Commission Report on Timor-Leste (2005, Vol. III, Part 7.4) The following acts of torture and other cruel, inhuman, and degrading treatment were commonly used by the security forces: • Beating with fists or with implements such as a wooden club or a branch, an iron bar, a rifle butt, chains, a hammer, a belt, and electric cables; • Punching and slapping; • Kicking, including around the head and face, usually while perpetrator is wearing military or police boots; • Whipping; • Cutting with a knife; • Cutting with a razor blade; • Placing the victim’s toes under the leg of a chair or table and then having one or more people sit on • Burning the victim’s flesh, including the victim’s genitalia, with cigarettes or a gas lighter; • Applying electric shocks to different parts of the victim’s body, including the victim’s genitalia; • Firmly tying someone’s hands and feet or tying the victim and hanging him or her from a tree or roof; • Tying the victim behind a car and forcing him or her to run behind it or be dragged across the ground; • Using water in various ways, including holding a person’s head underwater; keeping a victim in a water tank for a prolonged period, sometimes up to three days; soaking and softening a victim’s skin in water before beating the victim; placing the victim in a drum filled with water and rolling it; pouring very hot or very cold water over the victim; pouring very dirty water or sewage over the victim; • Placing lizards with sharp teeth and claws (lafaek rai maran) in the water tank with the victim and then goading it to bite the softened skin on different parts of the victim’s body including the victim’s genitalia; (Continued) === [PDF page 99] === Presidential Commission on Violence in Aceh (1999) Chega! Truth Commission Report on Timor-Leste (2005, Vol. III, Part 7.4) • Sexual harassment, sexual forms of torture and ill treatment, or rape while in detention. Women were the main victims of this kind of abuse; • Humiliating detainees in front of their communities, for example, by making them stand or walk through the town naked; • Cutting a victim’s ear to mark the victim; • Pulling out a victim’s fingernails and toenails with pliers; • Running over a victim with a motorbike; • Forcing a victim to drink a soldier’s urine or eat non-food items such as live small lizards or a pair of socks; • Leaving the victim in the hot sun for extended periods; and • Threatening the victim or the victim’s family with death or harming a member of the victim’s family in front of them. Neck pulled by rope; Neck is wounded; Buried alive; Held in a sewage hole; Verbal abuse; Legs in chains; and Pinned under a big piece of wood that was sat on by members of the special forces. === [PDF page 100] === Mass torture in 1965– 66 71 Rehabilitation still denied Although mostly for show, the Suharto regime ratified two human rights treaties that recognise the right to rehabilitation for victims of human rights abuses (Redress 2009).3 Needless to say, this right was never upheld during his rule. After Reformasi, a human rights amendment that was grafted onto the Constitution, and Indonesia’s ratification of two more treaties—the Convention against Torture (28 October 1998) and the International Convention on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination (25 June 1999)—strengthened the right to rehabilitation. Triggered by international pressure in response to the atrocities committed in East Timor in 1999, Law 26/2000 was passed to establish, for the first time in Indonesian history, a human rights court with jurisdiction over crimes against humanity and genocide. The catch, however, is that the court can only prosecute crimes that take place after the promulgation of this law (see Herbert 2008). Exceptions can be made by Presidential Decree and if sanctioned by Parliament, as in the case of the ad hoc trials on crimes committed in Tanjung Priok (1984) and East Timor (1999). In Article 35(1), the law states that ‘Every victim of a violation of human rights and/or his/her beneficiaries shall receive compensation, restitution and rehabilitation.’ It further stipulates that the court must grant such measures in its ruling. In response to relentless advocacy by victims, their families, and civil society, the Indonesian National Commission on Human Rights (Komnas HAM) formed an ad hoc team to investigate serious human rights violations related to the 1965 tragedy, the first step under this law towards the creation of an ad hoc human rights court. The team worked for nearly four years, from 2008 to 2012, conducting interviews with 349 survivors, with special attention to crimes in seven locations believed to be representative of similar crimes throughout Indonesia. Serious human rights violations documented by the Commission included extrajudicial killings, enforced disappearance, torture, and slavery (Komnas HAM 2012). However, the Attorney General has essentially paralysed the judicial potential of this initiative, saying evidence in the report was insufficient to warrant an official legal investigation (Prakoso et al. 2012). Thus, this stalemate has blocked any effort to push for formal reparations, as Law 26/2000 requires a conviction by the human rights court in order to grant reparations. There is little precedent to receive compensation for crimes under the Indonesian civil procedure.4 Victims of 1965 filed a class action suit at the Jakarta District Court on March 2005. However, the suit claimed to represent an estimated 20 million victims and demanded compensation for violations of social economic rights against those detained in 1965 and their families. The civil suit claimed the responsibility of five presidents—Suharto for his actions, and the following four for failing to rehabilitate victims’ rights (Conroe 2017). The court, however, declared that it had no jurisdiction to rule on this claim. A precedent for rehabilitation by Presidential Decree does, however, === [PDF page 101] === 72 Galuh Wandita et al. exist. In 1961, President Sukarno issued a decree to provide amnesty and abolition to those who were involved in the Permesta/Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia (Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia, PRRI) rebellion, a secessionist movement on the island of S umatra (Kementerian Dalam Negeri September 2011). The Supreme Court, in a letter dated 12 June 2003 to then President Megawati Soekarnoputri, reiterated Presidential discretion to grant rehabilitation (Danusubroto 2013). Although the government has yet to provide 1965 victims with reparations, some civil society groups have worked to ensure that the victims can access basic services and assistance from government agencies. Some victims’ groups are challenging regulations that deny them rights, particularly abuses related to identity; pension claims; and the appropriation of land, buildings, and businesses (KontraS & ICTJ 2012). Hundreds of survivors of torture related to the 1965 atrocities have been able to access psychosocial support and medical services through the Witness and Victim Protection Agency (see Wahuningroem, this volume). This is mainly because the National Human Rights Commission completed its investigation of these cases and has formally recognized them as victims of gross human rights violations, including torture (see Evanty & Pohlman 2018). At the local level, too, survivor groups and their advocates have worked to provide support for victims and their families. In Palu, Central Sulawesi, SKP-HAM (Solidarity for Victims of Human Rights Violations), together with another victims’ association, worked with the mayor of Palu to help the city provide redress and services to victims of unlawful detention and torture related to the 1965 atrocities. This has included assistance such as home repairs, scholarships, and access to government health services, sanitation facilities, clean water, and economic empowerment training for victims (Kutner 2016). In Maluku, victims received new official marriage certificates to replace those that had identified them as a political prisoner. In Yogyakarta, some victims have also received medical assistance from the local government (see ‘Documentation’ 2013; Wahyuningroem 2018). These local efforts to support survivors and their families, however, are few and far between; the vast majority of 1965 survivors have no access to any form of reparations. Acknowledgement, then denial Dealing with past human rights violations was a campaign promise made by President Joko Widodo (Jokowi) under his Nawacita program (see Evanty & Pohlman 2018). On 9 December 2014, President Jokowi spoke for the first time after his election on the plight of victims of human rights violations at an event organised by Komnas HAM in Yogyakarta. Jokowi reiterated his commitment to human rights, but neither apologised to victims nor made any mention of accountability for serious crimes affecting tens of thousands of Indonesian citizens (see Rosana 2014). Although a presidential committee === [PDF page 102] === Mass torture in 1965– 66 73 ‘to resolve past human rights violations’ is written into the national plan and budget, to date there has been little progress. In April 2016, the government organised an unprecedented national symposium on 1965 bringing together state officials, academics, survivors, and civil society. One stated aim of the symposium was to recommend that the government seek a comprehensive resolution to gross human rights violations related to the 1965 atrocities that could include rehabilitation, compensation, and other remedies (see the Introduction, this volume). However, several current and former high-ranking officials speaking at the symposium voiced their reluctance to acknowledge and apologise for the violence of 1965. Some asked that the nation merely forget the past (AJAR 2016a). Retired Army General Luhut Panjaitan, the then Coordinating Minister for Politics, Law, and Security, questioned the extent of the 1965 massacres (Harsono 2016). Following the symposium, Panjaitan challenged human rights organisations to ‘show [...] where the mass graves are,’ presenting it as a condition for issuing a government apology for 1965 (BBC Indonesia, 25 April 2016). Several civil society organisations responded to the government’s challenge by submitting lists of massacre sites, but the President’s reshuffle of the cabinet seems to have pre-empted any official response (see Chapter 8, Wieringa, this volume). Refuting the symposium’s findings and, more broadly, as retrenchment from democratic reforms, government and military proponents of denial held their own counter-symposium within weeks of the first. In his opening address at the second symposium, Defence Minister Ryacudu sought to obscure history with ideology, conflating demands for historical truth and justice with an accusation of the resurgence of the Indonesian Communist Party (Firdaus 2016). These two conflicting government positions as seen in the public events on 1965—one offering space for victims’ participation, the other denying victims’ history—may suggest some cracks are beginning to appear in the armour of government propaganda about 1965. Nevertheless, the state continues to officially deny the event itself, for without the event of a widespread or systematic attack against a civilian population (IPT final report 2016) there are neither victims nor a need for formal reparations.5 Efforts at a national level to discredit calls for truth and justice (Ismail 2016) have been accompanied by communist fear-mongering (Harahap 2016) at a local level, causing new trauma among victims. In 2016, banners warning off a resurgence of communism emerged in Yogyakarta (P. A mbarmirah 2016, pers. comm., 21 November), while local news in the eastern province of NTT (Nusatenggara Timor, East Nusatenggara) reported the arrest of several youth in remote villages for wearing T-shirts bearing a hammer and sickle symbol, and calls by police and military officials to beware of a new style of communism (Malehere 2016; Redaksi 2016). Despite some expressed concern regarding violations of civil liberties (Saragih 2016), the anti-communist posturing has had some effect. In Yogyakarta, efforts to access aid for 1965 victims from the Witness and Victims’ === [PDF page 103] === 74 Galuh Wandita et al. Protection Agency were curtailed when the emergence of anti-communist banners frightened some victims and their families into withdrawing from the process. Voices seeking accountability and reparations for victims of 1965 have become more circumspect, if not silenced, as they are also increasingly drowned out by the broadcasting of fundamentalist agendas, both religious and political. Interviewed by AJAR on 29 November 2016, Nurlaela Lamasitudju stated, I am worried about the current political situation. I see that efforts to resolve cases of past human rights violations will have to take a back seat as long as the government must respond to the current political situation... I’m worried that the government will be more serious about Jokowi’s campaign [for re-election] than giving serious attention to resolving past human rights violations. Torture still not a crime, not learning from our past This climate of denial has another far-reaching impact. Indonesia’s judicial system does not recognise torture as a crime. Consistent with I ndonesia’s denial of mass torture that took place in 1965, there is no specific legal provision in Indonesia that criminalises torture, despite the ratification of the Convention on Torture (1998), and provisions that prohibit torture found in Indonesia’s Human Rights Law (1999) and in the human rights amendment to the constitution (2000).6 However, neither the judicial system nor Indonesia’s criminal code complies with these human rights obligations. According to Indonesia’s criminal code, the only offense that covers acts similar to torture is penganiayaan, which means ‘maltreatment’ or ‘assault.’ The severity of punishment for this crime depends on the state of mind with which the perpetrator committed the maltreatment and the degree of harm that results. Additional penalties for officials who use maltreatment as a means of coercion to extort a confession or obtain information are recognised, yet anyone who acts under the authority of official orders will not be convicted. Because the act of torture per se is not recognised as a crime, it cannot be prosecuted. Although the government claims that the criminalisation of torture is included in the planned overhaul of the criminal code, progress has been delayed for many years. The police and military have taken the initiative to produce internal regulations designed to end torture, such as the Chief of National Police Regulation on Human Rights (Perkap No. 8, 2009). This regulation prohibits torture during investigation, prosecution, and detention, yet does not establish torture as a criminal offence. The Commander of the Indonesian Military has issued a similar prohibition of torture in investigations, prosecutions, military courts, and === [PDF page 104] === Mass torture in 1965– 66 75 military prisons (Perpang No. 73/IX/2010). However, without official acknowledgement of the widespread and systematic torture that took place in 1965, the practice of torture persists. In reality, torture is widely used as a tool for ‘investigation’ and continues to be tolerated as ‘business as usual.’ Without a way to reckon with Indonesia’s systematic use of torture and assert institutional reform, the practice of torture lingers. It is still routinely used to force confessions and extract information from detainees during criminal investigations. Accountability is lacking in state policy and practice, with a culture of impunity and denial of past crimes forming a foundation for continued torture. (AJAR & KontraS April 2016, p. 3) The 2015 indictment on torture by the Prosecutor for the International People’s Tribunal on 1965 states, In many cases, the torture carried out by Indonesia’s military forces led to death as a result of the torture itself and at other times death occurred due to wounds sustained during torture being left untreated. The torture took place in a widespread and systematic manner... The Tribunal goes on to emphasise that torture is considered a crime against humanity, that there are provisions in Indonesian law that should protect individuals from torture, and that torture is included among crimes to be retroactively applied according to Law 26/2000 (IPT final report 2016, pp. 45–46). A challenge for Indonesian civil society is to continue leveraging these important findings by an international forum, not only for government acknowledgement of serious crimes committed in the past, but to develop a national movement against torture and legislation that will recognise torture as a crime in the present. As Indonesia faces the challenges brought about by the rise of violent extremism and moves into a period of contentious political debate leading up to another Presidential election (in April 2019), strong legislation on torture and the implementation of it is an urgent need. Notes 1 From 2014 to 2015, AJAR, together with LAPPAN (Women’s Empowerment Circle; Ambon, Maluku), JPIT (Women’s Research Network of Eastern I ndonesia), SKP-HAM (Solidarity for Human Rights Victims of Central Sulawesi), KontraS (Commission on the Disappeared and Victims of Violence), and KIPPER (Women’s Progress; Association of Women Survivors of 1965 in Yogyakarta, Central Java) have submitted reports on this work to the National Coalition for Justice and Truth (KKPK), the research team of the International People’s Tribunal, and the UN Special Rapporteur on Torture and Other Cruel, Inhuman, or Degrading Treatment or Punishment. === [PDF page 105] === 76 Galuh Wandita et al. 2 Gerwani aimed to achieve ‘equal labor rights for women and equal responsibilities with men in the struggle for full national independence and socialism’ (Wieringa 2003, p. 74). 3 Indonesia ratified the Convention on the Elimination of all Forms of Discrimination against Women in 1984 and the Convention on the Rights of the Child in 1990. Indonesia is also signatory to the Geneva Conventions of 1949 that were signed on 30 September 1958 under the Sukarno government. Furthermore, Law 39/1999 on Human Rights states that international law ratified by Indonesia is recognised as legally binding. 4 In accordance with the Indonesian civil code, compensation can be claimed for any unlawful act. The state can be held responsible for the conduct of its employees. Compensation can also be claimed, under Law No. 14 on Judicial Authority of 1970, for unlawful arrest, detention, or prosecution. According to Government Regulation No. 92 related to implementation of the Indonesian Criminal Procedural Code (KUHAP), victims of false arrest and detention can submit a petition for damages in the amount of IDR 500,000 to IDR 100 million (~USD 36 to USD 7000), whereas victims of false arrest and detention who suffer severe injury may seek damages from IDR 25 million to 300 million (~USD 1800 to USD 21,800) (see Pramuditya 2017). 5 The IPT 1965 triggered a chorus of government protest and denial. For a compiled selection of this response, see Weekly Update Human Rights in weekly_update_16-11-2015.pdf>. 6 The Second Amendment to the 1945 Constitution, Article 28G (2) states: ‘Each person shall have the right to be free from torture or inhuman and degrading treatment, and shall have the right to obtain political asylum from another country’; Human Rights Law No. 39/1999, Article 33(1), states: ‘Each person has the right to be free from torture, cruel, inhuman or degrading punishment or treatment’ (our translations). Furthermore, the definition of torture found in Law 5/1998 conforms to the international definition of torture. On this, see Pohlman (2013). References Asia Justice and Rights (AJAR) 2015, Enduring impunity: women surviving atrocities in the absence of justice, AJAR, Jakarta. 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Pramuditya, AME 2017, ‘Legislative framework on torture in Indonesia’, ICLU | Indonesia Criminal Law Update, Issue No. 2, p. 19, viewed 21 March 2018, <http:// icjr.or.id/data/wp-content/uploads/2017/04/ICLU-Issue-2-rev.pdf>. Redaksi 2016, ‘Babinsa amankan kaos lambang palu arit’, Timor Express, 28 June, viewed 12 August 2016, <http://timorexpress.fajar.co.id/2016/06/28/babinsaamankan-kaos-lambang-palu-arit/>. Redress 2009, Rehabilitation as a form of reparation under international law, Redress, London, 18 November, viewed 20 November 2017, <www.redress.org/downloads/ publications/The%20right%20to%20rehabilitation.pdf>. Roosa, J 2008, ‘The truths of torture: victims’ memories and state histories in Indonesia’, Indonesia, vol. 85, pp. 31–50. Rosana, FC 2014, ‘Presiden tegaskan penyelesaian kasus HAM masa lalu’, Satu Harapan.com, 9 December, viewed 20 November 2017, <www.satuharapan.com/ read-detail/read/presiden-tegaskan-penyelesaian-kasus-ham-masa-lalu>. Saragih, M 2016, ‘PGI surati Presiden Joko Widodo terkait berkembangnya isu “anti-komunis”’, Berita PGI, 24 May, viewed 18 June 2016, <http://pgi.or.id/ pgi-surati-presiden-joko-widodo-terkait-berkembangnya-isu-anti-komunis/>. Sen, K & Hill, D 2000, Media, culture, and politics in Indonesia, Oxford University Press, Oxford. Tapol 1976, Indonesia: the prison state, Tapol, London. Wahyuningroem, SL 2018, ‘Working from the margins: initiatives for truth and reconciliation for victims of the 1965 mass violence in Solo and Palu’, in McGregor, K, Melvin, J & Pohlman, A (eds.), The Indonesian genocide of 1965: causes, dynamics and legacies, Palgrave Macmillan, Cham, pp. 335–56. Wandita, G et al. 2015, Enduring impunity: women surviving atrocities in the absence of justice, AJAR, Jakarta, viewed 20 November 2017, <www.asia-ajar.org/files/ ENDURING%20IMPUNIY%20final-23%20Nov-press.pdf>. Wieringa, SE 2003, ‘The birth of the new order state in Indonesia: sexual politics and nationalism’, Journal of Women’s History, vol. 15, no. 1, pp. 70–91. === [PDF page 109] === Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses The case of Buru Island Asvi Warman Adam The Panel of Judges of the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (hereafter ‘IPT 1965’) gave close and particular attention to the treatment of political detainees in many detention camps set up by the Indonesian government across the archipelago following 1965. After consideration of the evidence presented before the Tribunal on the conditions within their camps, the Panel came to the following conclusion: Given the extreme work requirements and inhuman working conditions and the total control exercised by military and civilian officers of the state, it is clear that the prisoners or inmates of what may have been known as ‘labour camps’ were subject to enslavement, a crime against humanity and a crime under Indonesian domestic law No. 26/2000, Article 9 (c). (IPT 1965 2016, p. 70) The Panel reached this conclusion after consideration of the conditions prevailing in various prison camps in Indonesia set up after the 1965 k illings, such as Monconglowe in South Sulawesi, Buru Island, Nusa Kambangan, Balikpapan in East Kalimantan, and the women’s prison camp of Plantungan in Central Java. Research by a team of experts in the early 2000s, i ncluding the present author, under the auspices of the Indonesian National Commission for Human Rights (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia, Komnas HAM), had earlier reached this conclusion (see also Komnas HAM 2012). This chapter discusses the mass incarceration of thousands of political detainees between 1969 and 1979 on Buru, an island located in Maluku province, eastern Indonesia. Held for their alleged political affiliation with the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, known as the PKI), these political detainees (known as tapol, an abbreviation of tahanan politik or ‘political prisoner’) were imprisoned without due process and many experienced torture and ill treatment, starvation, and forced labour. This chapter draws on the findings of an investigating team established by Komnas HAM in the early 2000s into human rights abuses committed === [PDF page 110] === Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses 81 during former President Suharto’s regime, the ‘New Order’ (1965–98). These findings were presented to the Prosecutor of the IPT 1965 and brought before the Panel of Judges; they documented the evidence of grievous abuses against political detainees held on Buru Island during this period. This chapter argues that the forced transportation of political prisoners from the island of Java to the island of Buru and the inhuman conditions under which they had to work constitute crimes against humanity. In the Final Report of the IPT 1965, the Judges concluded that this represents the crime of enslavement, as a crime against humanity (2016). This chapter details the human rights violations committed on the island of Buru and focuses on the chain of command. Investigating grievous human rights abuses during Suharto’s New Order The Team to Investigate Grievous Human Rights Abuses committed by Suharto (Tim Penyelidikan Pelanggaran HAM Berat Suharto) was established by Komnas HAM in January 2003. The team was made up of 15 people; four commissioners from Komnas HAM in addition to 11 investigators drawn from civil society (including the author).1 The team knew that the period under investigation, General Suharto’s New Order regime (1965–98), was long and that it would not be possible to include all cases of human rights abuses which had been committed during this time. The team therefore divided their investigation into four chronological periods: 1965–75, 1975–85, 1985–95, and 1995–98. For each of the four periods, one or two cases of grievous human rights abuses were selected for investigation. The criteria used to select the cases were that they had to be considered relevant and significant towards the larger investigation. For the first period under investigation (1965–75), the mass killings of 1965 and the political detentions on Buru Island were chosen. For the second period (1975–85), the ‘Petrus’ or ‘Mysterious Killings’ (pembunuhan misterius) case was selected, investigating the kidnap and murder of thousands of alleged ‘criminals’ whose mutilated corpses were then displayed in town centres, particularly during the early and mid-1980s in Java (see Bourchier 1990; Barker 1998). For the third (1985–95), two cases were investigated: first, the Tanjung Priok ‘incident’, in which hundreds of civilians were killed, disappeared, and tortured in the northern Jakarta area (see Burns 1989; Friend 2003); second, the state-sponsored ‘military operation regions’ (daerah operasi militer, DOM) in Aceh and Papua provinces (see Robinson 1998; Human Rights Watch 2007). Meanwhile, for the fourth period (1995–98), two cases were investigated: the 27 July 1996 ‘incident’—in which security services attacked the Jakarta office of the Indonesian Democratic Party (Partai Demokrat Indonesia, PDI), which was followed by a widespread crackdown against students and democracy activists (Heryanto 1997)—and the mass violence of May 1998 (see Siegel 1998; Purdey 2002). === [PDF page 111] === 82 Asvi Warman Adam Members of the team were divided into sub-teams, each to investigate one of the periods. The sub-team assigned to the early period chose not to pursue an investigation into the mass killings of 1965–66 as a whole; given how widespread the killings had been, it was decided that it would not be possible to carry out research across so many regions in the short amount of time the team had in order to prepare the report. Given too the complexity of the killings across these regions and the variety of actors involved, the sub-team felt that an investigation into the full extent of the 1965–66 killings was not possible. Instead, the sub-team elected to focus its attention on a particular case, the mass detention of political prisoners on Buru Island. In the Buru case, the violations of the law which had been perpetrated were very clear. These violations had occurred in a set location (the island of Buru, in the Maluku Province), at a set time (between 1969 and 1979), and there was a clear set of victims (the roughly 10,000 mostly men who were forcibly transported to this island, many of whom were alive to testify). The perpetrators and those responsible for these violations were also clear: in particular, they were members of the former Buru Island Resettlement Implementation Body (Badan Pelaksana Resettlement Pulau Buru, BAPEPRU), which was formed by the Attorney General on the order of the Operational Command for the Restoration of Security and Order (Komando Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan dan Ketertiban, KOPKAMTIB), the military agency set up by Suharto in October 1965 which oversaw much of the subsequent massacres (TAPOL 1976; Kessler 1978). The team therefore gathered materials from in and outside the country, and interviewed a range of survivors who had been detained on Buru Island. The sum of this evidence gathered by the sub-team on the Buru violations found that alleged crimes against humanity had been carried out and should be investigated further under Law No. 26/2000 regarding a Human Rights Court. Background: the ‘resettlement’ of political prisoners to Buru Island The mass killings of 1965–66 were a tragedy that affected all parts of the nation. This tragedy was accompanied by the mass incarceration of thousands, for instance, on the Buru Island detention camp between 1969 and 1979. According to the analysis of Herb Feith, there were three main pillars of political power in the mid-1960s: the PKI, Sukarno and the Army (Angkatan Darat, AD) (Feith 1964). As Cribb explains, tensions between these three powers drove a process of political ‘pillarization’ whereby Indonesian society became increasingly divided along sociopolitical lines (Cribb 2001). As discussed in Chapter 1 of this volume, these societal tensions were exacerbated by several factors, including regional land disputes in some areas incited by the PKI’s land reform agenda (see Fealy & McGregor 2010), and the rumours that the PKI was planning to arm a ‘fifth force’ made up mostly of workers and the landless poor with Chinese weapons (see Crouch 1978). === [PDF page 112] === Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses 83 The actions of the G30S Movement were used by the Army to consolidate their power and to destroy their political enemies, the PKI. The disastrous economic conditions at the time, in addition to the deep political divides in society and the prevailing international context of the Cold War, all provided the conditions for the Indonesian military to take over the government. As outlined in the opening chapters of this volume, the mass killings which followed swept across the archipelago, with some of the highest death tolls in Central and East Java, Bali, and North Sumatra (see also Cribb 2001; Kammen & McGregor 2012). Although civilians, particularly youths from various militias, were involved in the killings, in numerous places, there was evidence that the violence only began after the arrival of the Army Para-Commando Regiment (Resimen Para Komando Angkatan Darat, RPKAD) or other military troops in those areas. RPKAD, a Special Forces paratrooper unit, was led by Colonel Sarwo Edhie Wibowo and was sent into Central and East Java provinces in October 1965 by Suharto (see Jenkins & Kammen 2012; McGregor 2013). ‘Destroying the PKI down to their roots’ (hancurkan PKI sampai ke akar-akarnya) reportedly was the command for the RPKAD troops in the field (see Robinson 2017). The number of victims killed during the massacres is estimated between 78,000 (according to the Indonesian government’s official fact finding commission) and three million, as boasted by the RPKAD Commandant, Sarwo Edhie (Cribb 1990, pp. 12–13). While the majority of the killings were over by the first half of 1966, in some areas, the violence continued through to the late 1960s. In the southern areas of Blitar, East Java, for example, there were killings of Leftists in 1968 as part of Operasi Trisula (Operation Trident), aimed at wiping out remaining ‘PKI bases’ in the region (see Hearman 2010). The New Order regime’s warnings of a potential return of the PKI were reinforced with a range of official measures against former Leftists, their families, and associates (Southwood & Flanagan 1983). These restrictions began with those imprisoned in the waves of arrests after the coup. Those arrested and accused of involvement in the 30 September coup because of their affiliation with the PKI were divided by level of perceived guilt: Category A prisoners were those against whom there was sufficient evidence to be brought to trial; Category B were those against whom there was insufficient evidence to be put on trial but who still remained in custody for a decade or more, whereas Category C were those ‘fellow travellers’ of the PKI who were influenced by communist ideology (Amnesty International 1977; Fealy 1995). Category C detainees were by far the largest group, numbering in their hundreds of thousands; they were mostly released by the late 1960s (van der Kroef 1976). Category A prisoners were the select few who were put on trial periodically during the New Order for political purposes and who spent decades in detention (Heryanto 2006). The Category B detainees were never put on trial; they numbered in their tens of thousands and many of these prisoners were held until the mid-to-late 1970s.2 === [PDF page 113] === 84 Asvi Warman Adam Those held as Category B prisoners were amongst those detainees sent to Buru Island from 1969 onwards. Around 11,500 people were ‘thrown away’ in waves on boats to Buru (the Indonesian euphemism used, dibuang, means to be ‘thrown away’ like refuse). The detainees were not told for how long they would have to remain on the island; it was only due to international pressure from a range of countries in the 1970s that Indonesia was forced to release the political prisoners detained there in 1979 (Fealy 1995; Glasius 1999). The removal of a large number of the Category B political prisoner population from Java to a more remote part of Indonesia must also be considered in light of the Indonesian government’s planning for the elections in 1971. In 1966, the upper house of the national parliament (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat Sementara, MPRS) had decreed that national elections would take place in July 1968 (Pauker 1967, p. 148). By March 1968, however, when General Suharto was invested with full presidential powers (he had held de facto presidential power since March 1966), he decided that Indonesia was not yet ready for elections and that they should be delayed (Feith 1968). In order to ensure the ‘safety’ (read the victory of Suharto) of the upcoming elections, therefore, more than 10,000 Category B tapol were thrown away onto this small island in the eastern part of Indonesia. Many of them were influential intellectuals, who, it was feared, might have an impact on the elections. This move was in part justified by the government at the time as they were in the middle of Operation Trident (Operasi Trisula), the military campaign to wipe out remnants of the PKI in South Blitar (see Liem 2004; Hearman 2010). Why Buru? By the late 1960s, the Indonesian government viewed the large political prisoner population as a problem which could be solved by sending detainees to more remote areas of the archipelago. As reported by Amnesty International in the 1970s, The Indonesian Government’s tendency to think in terms of penal settlements for political prisoners has been evident for a number of years. Instead of releasing prisoners, the Government has conceived plans to remove them from their home provinces, transport them to penal settlements, and to explain such projects as ‘transmigration’ in furtherance of national development schemes. In this way, the Government has hoped for several years to ‘solve’ the problem of political prisoners. (Amnesty International 1977, p. 90, emphasis in original) The transmigration program, originally introduced under the Dutch in the early part of the twentieth century, was expanded by the independent Indonesian state (Jones 1979). Sukarno had planned to resettle millions of === [PDF page 114] === Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses 85 people from the overpopulated islands (including Java, Madura, and Bali) to areas in the outer islands (such as Sumatra, Kalimantan, and S ulawesi), but had failed to implement such a large-scale programme (Budiardjo 1986). During the early years of the Suharto era, the transmigration program was expanded, with the programme tied to each of the five-year development plans of the New Order (Repelita) (Fearnside 1997). With the transmigration scheme underway, the removal of the thousands of Category B tapol who were filling up the prisons and other detention centres on Java to more remote areas of the archipelago was a welcome solution for the government. According to Soegih Arto, a former Army General and later Attorney General partly responsible for setting up the prison camp on Buru Island, the Indonesian government felt burdened by having to look after as many as 120,000 political prisoners after the 1965 mass arrests (Arto 1989, pp. 289–98). As Arto recalls, to alleviate the costs, the military government decided to move as many as 11,611 Category B political prisoners— those who were considered still dangerous to society—to a resettlement area, which would be isolated, far from the political centre (Jakarta), have few inhabitants, and have fertile land that could be made into productive farms. Thus the island of Buru was selected; with 13,200 km 2 of land, the island was the third largest in Maluku, yet it was sparsely inhabited, with only 47,700 people. The specific area where the prisoners were to be located was carefully selected. The low-lying Wai Apu valley forms a natural prison. It is bordered by the sea, an impenetrable wall of prickly underbrush and a steep mountain range (Toer 1988; Krisnadi 2001). Many of those sent there had belonged to intellectual and artistic circles. All of a sudden, they were required to do hard physical labour under inhuman circumstances.3 They had to first clear the soil from alang-alang (sharp strong grass) and jungle; build barracks, roads, and other infrastructure; and grow their own food. Later they also cut wood which was sold by the soldiers, as was the surplus from their agricultural labour. The prison camp was first called Tefaat (Tempat Pemanfaatan, meaning ‘place for the utilization of labour’) and later renamed Inrehab (Instalasi Rehabilitasi, meaning ‘Rehabilitation Installation’; see Setiawan 2003, p. 287). This shift indicates the rhetorical change from viewing the camp as a productive place, to the camp as a site of indoctrination. According to Soegih Arto, the Government created the Buru ‘Inrehab’ not with the intention of wreaking vengeance, but with the wish to ‘release’ its inhabitants back into an environment where they could actively participate in the country’s development. The government’s aim was to create good citizens, who believed in the Pancasila. The methods that were used weren’t coercive methods, but rather they were persuasive ones. (Arto 1989, p. 298, emphasis in original) === [PDF page 115] === 86 Asvi Warman Adam To look after the health of all those who were ‘released,’ only six doctors were employed. What the former Attorney General Soegih Arto claims were the intentions and methods of the Indonesian government are at odds with the reality of the prison camp. Based on the findings of the investigating team, several serious human rights violations are alleged to have occurred at the detention camp on Buru Island. With reference to those violations, as defined in Law No. 26 of 2000 on a Human Rights Court, the investigating team found evidence of the following crimes against humanity: Forced transfer of persons (Section 3, Article 9-d, regarding crimes against humanity); The detention of persons in an isolated camp, which constituted an arbitrary deprivation of liberty and a deprivation of their physical freedoms in a way which violated international legal norms (in violation of Section 3, Article 9-e); Enslavement and forced labour (violation of Section 3, Article 9-e); Violence perpetrated in the detention camp on Buru Island included killings, persecution/mistreatment, torture, and isolation (in violation Section 3, Article 9-a, f, h, and i); Other inhumane acts, including attrition of food and health facilities. Further, these acts were carried out in a systematic and widespread fashion. The Buru detainment complex itself grew to include numerous sections and buildings over time. It lay at the south side of the bay; on the north side was the capital, Namlea. A total of 22 units were built, dotted along the rivers that crossed the valley, each housing around 500 prisoners. The original landing place, Jiku Kecil, on the main river, Kayeli, was turned into a penal camp. In 1974, it was cynically renamed Ancol, after a recreation area along the beach in North Jakarta. The camp was led by a commander and his deputy. They had assistants for intelligence, logistics, mental guidance (that is, Pancasila indoctrination), and planning. Every unit had its own commander with a platoon of 20–40 soldiers (Krisnadi 2001). Widespread violations The crimes listed above were carried out repeatedly on a massive and widespread scale. More than 10,000 detainees were unlawfully imprisoned on Buru Island. While some wives, children, and other family members of some male detainees were later also sent to the island, this should not be seen as alleviating conditions; rather, this further infringed the rights and freedoms of those forced to move there. As an 1976 Amnesty International report details, in July 1972, the first group of 84 women and their children (some of whom were conceived by being raped by security personnel) joined their husbands on Buru Island. In February 1974, a second group of 62 women arrived. The === [PDF page 116] === Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses 87 last group of women joined their husbands in 1975 from J akarta. The families were all placed in unit 4, known as Savanajaya. In 1976 a total of 400 children were in the camp. The women and children shared the same conditions as their husbands and fathers. The relatively small number of women who agreed to be resettled illustrates that most of the women refused to be relocated to the slave labour camp. One prisoner, the renowned author Pramoedya Ananta Toer (1988), called it immoral to invite his wife to join him. Neither women nor children were allowed to leave the island. The few women who ultimately did come arrived under pressure: either direct force or, because of the desperate circumstances under which they lived, with their property confiscated, and many stigmatised by neighbours.4 These crimes were carried out in a continuous manner. For ten years, the tapol on Buru were forced to carry out the work of developing the island, under threat of death, torture, and ill treatment. Of the 334 cases of death documented by Toer and his colleagues, most were from preventable illnesses. There were also 17 cases of suicide. The following case is an illustration of the conditions under which such a suicide took place: Kayun was a cheerful hard-working young man from Malang. One day he fell ill and had to be hospitalized. He felt so guilty that his comrades had to look after all his needs that he ended up in a severe depression. In this condition he was beaten up by our commander. Two days later he ran away and hid in a corn field. There he drank Endrin [an insecticide] and died under the most horrible pains, on 11 March 1972.5 Most tapol were forced to perform labour for ten hours per day, much of it under close control and supervision by guards and armed soldiers. The labour which the detainees were forced to perform was also on a massive scale and involved building the essential physical and agricultural infrastructure of Buru Island. Initially, this involved building the essential buildings of the detention camp and its surroundings, such as the barracks where the detainees and their guards would live. The land was also developed for agriculture, so detainees were forced to break ground in order to sow wet rice sawah and other crops. Later, as the various building projects progressed, detainee labour was also used to build roads and other infrastructure on the island, such as a primary school in the village of Savanajaya, about 20 km from the main camp area (Setiawan 2015). These various forced labour projects were all part of a wider system of violence against, and infringement of the rights of, the political detainees held on Buru Island. At all times, this forced labour was accompanied by the threat of, and actual, murder, torture, and various forms of unlawful ill treatment. The conditions under which the detainees performed this forced labour was also inhumane: starvation was rife amongst prisoners, with inadequate food rations provided, and minimal health facilities set up to care for those afflicted with the numerous forms of injury, diseases, and illnesses on the island. === [PDF page 117] === 88 Asvi Warman Adam Systematic abuses The materials presented to the Prosecutor at the IPT 1965 in relation to crimes perpetrated on Buru Island included their widespread and systematic nature. As crimes against humanity, one element of the crimes is that they are systematic in nature and perpetrated on a widespread scale against a civilian population. These acts of enslavement, murder, torture, and other serious human rights violations were systematic in the sense that they were planned and organised, and were perpetrated regularly and routinely over the ten years that the camp was operational. Forced labour Detainees on Buru Island were forced to perform labour according to an organised schedule of work. This work was carried out under the control of the Commandant of each unit. Each morning at 4am, the Commandant of the unit would make a morning roll call (apel pagi), which would signal the start of the work day. An evening roll call at 6.30pm marked the end of work for the day. At certain times throughout the day, the Commandant might make other roll calls, should he need to give further orders or assign new tasks. The Commandant would nominate one of the tapol from each set of barracks to be the ‘head of the barrack,’ who would be responsible for rounding up his fellow detainees and ensuring that they were ready to perform their work. Meanwhile, platoon guards would escort the detainees and watch them perform the labour each day. The prisoners performed this labour without pay and under conditions of extreme coercion. If they were unable to work, or refused to work, they would receive harsh physical punishments. Ill treatment, torture, and killings Acts of torture, ill treatment, and murder were mainly perpetrated by platoon guards, who were tasked with carrying out and performing guard duties, patrols, and ensuring the security inside and around the Tefaat Buru complex (Krisnadi 2001). These acts of violence were also on occasion perpetrated by the unit Commandant and other officers, particularly as part of punishments for detainees. On a number of occasions, when one of the Tefaat officers deemed that a detainee had broken the rules or made some infraction, an operations or intelligence assistant, sometimes aided by intelligence officers from the Namlea prison or Jakarta, would interrogate and torture the detainee. The operations or intelligence assistant would also be the one to determine whether the detainee was to be sent to the Jiku Kecil interrogation house or to Namlea prison.6 The interrogation and torture would be carried out by the unit Commandant, who was tasked with planning and organising safety, security, surveillance, and patrols (Krisnadi === [PDF page 118] === Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses 89 2001). The torture and ill treatment meted out to detainees included a wide range of physical and mental forms of violence, including beatings, caning, and a range of deprivations. The operations and intelligence assistants were also tasked with surveillance and monitoring of the platoon guards and with organising their rotations, though these tasks were often given over to the Tefaat Commandant. Other inhumane treatment There were numerous acts of inhumane treatment, including through the deprivation of food and adequate healthcare, which were intentional on the part of the Tefaat officials. Every tapol received 500 g of food per day, with salted fish for the first six to eight months. After that they had to find or grow their own food. If tapol were absent or late for the daily roll call, or violated some other Tefaat rule, the punishment was collective: the food of all tapol in that unit was reduced (Krisnadi 2001, p. 127). The unit Commandant not only allowed but actively encouraged acts of violence, including against people suffering from illness, forcing them to say that they had recovered under threat of exiling them to another location. The personnel and logistics assistants, who were tasked with planning, preparing, and provisioning the Tefaat Buru complex, were in charge of looking after all facilities but did nothing to improve them or prevent these acts of inhumane treatment. Food deprivation was perhaps the most pervasive intentional act of inhumane treatment for detainees on Buru Island. The production and marketing assistants were in charge of planning and providing all advice on and facilities for food production. They were derelict in this duty, allowing food rations to fall to extremely minimal levels. They even appropriated a large proportion of the food produced on the island. These acts of forced labour, ill treatment, torture, murder, and other inhumane forms of treatment continued throughout the period that Buru Island was maintained as a prison camp, between 1969 and 1979. These actions were all taken in accordance with a decree, issued by the head of KOPKAMTIB, or the Operational Command for the Restoration of Security and Order (Keputusan Pangkopkamtib SK No. Kep-044/Kopkam/12/1970), which laid out the duties and organization of Tefaat Buru. Under this decree, the political prisoners were under the command of the unit Commandants, working together with the platoon guards and other officials in the camp. The unit Commandants were responsible for submitting regular reports to the Commandant of Tefaat. The Commandant of Tefaat was responsible for coordinating the various assistants who worked in the units. This included coordinating acts of murder, such as in the Wanareja Unit II in 1974. On 12 November of that year, 48 prisoners from that unit attempted to escape. Of these, 21 were immediately arrested and taken to the prison at Namlea, whereas 27 were killed while on the run. On that same night, a soldier was === [PDF page 119] === 90 Asvi Warman Adam shot dead, but that death had nothing to do with the escape; it was the consequence of a brawl after a card game. The next day from evening until the following morning, all prisoners in the Wanaraja unit had to stand on roll call. They were beaten by the guards, until some of them fainted (Toer 1988). The chain of command on Buru Part of the evidence presented to the Prosecutor for the IPT 1965 related to the chain of command on Buru Island. It was through this chain of command, involving several layers of military and bureaucratic personnel, that the crimes against humanity detailed above were perpetrated. These acts were enabled though the chain of command on Buru, which included a range of violations: The forced removal and isolation of political prisoners to Buru Island was carried out as part of the policies issues by the head of KOPKAMTIB. These forced removals were ordered under a policy of detaining Category B political prisoners on Buru Island (Surat Pangkopkamtib no. Kep-009/Kopkam/2/1969), signed by General Panggabean, in the name of General Suharto. In this policy statement, endorsed by the then Attorney General, these political prisoners were to be detained and put to work on Buru Island; the cost of carrying out these orders was borne by the Attorney General’s Office, which was responsible to the head of KOPKAMTIB. To carry out this decree, the Attorney General established Bapreru (Badan Pelaksana Resettlement Buru), or the Buru Resettlement Implementation Body. Bapreru was tasked with evaluating, planning, and implementing these forced removals. In a decree issued in 1970 by the head of KOPKAMTIB (Keputusan Pangkopkamtib SK No. Kep-044/ Kopkam/12/1970), the tasks assigned to Bapreru were then given over to another body based in the Buru region, the Special Implementation body of the Maluku region’s KOPKAMTIB (Pelaksana Chusus, or Laksus Pangkopkamtib), headed by the regional commander of the Pattimura Army Division. Thus the regional commander of Pattimura was also the head of the Special Implementation body and the head of the Bapreru implementation body. The forced removal and isolation of prisoners on Buru Island was overseen by a chain of commands which was as follows: the unit Commandant was responsible for reporting his activities to the Tefaat Buru Commandant, the Tefaat Buru Commandant was responsible for giving periodical reports to the head of the implementation at Bapreru, the head of implementation at Bapreru was responsible for reporting all activities to the head of Bapreru, and the head of Bapreru was, in turn, responsible for making reports to the head of KOPKAMTIB. Thus all activities on Buru Island, including the forced removals, the forced === [PDF page 120] === Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses 91 labour, murders, torture, ill treatment, and other inhumane acts were known of and approved by the head of KOPKAMTIB. Those who were forcibly removed to Buru Island came from the Category B group of political prisoners. These prisoners were categorized as ‘B’ not as a result of legal evidence or procedure but according to the results of a psychological test, which was carried out under another government decree (Kebijakan Inpres No. Instra-13/Kogam/7/1966). This testing was conducted by a university psychology team along with the security services in each detention centre. The university team was headed by Professor Fuad Hasan, Dean of the psychology department of the University of Indonesia. The prisoners were tested several times, as the accounts of ex-Buru prisoners Toer (1988) and Setiawan (2004) testify. Their wives were investigated by psychologist Dr Saparinah Sadli, of the same psychology department, during a 1974 visit ( Wieringa & Katjasungkana, 2018). The mass detention of thousands of political prisoners was carried out under a decree signed by the head of KOPKAMTIB, dated 18 February 1969 (Kep. Pangkopkamtib no. Kep. 007/Kopkam/2/1969), regarding the ‘Resolution Organising Team for G30S/PKI Detainees,’ and was also signed by Suharto. This mass detention was without due process and was for an unspecified length of time, all violations of human rights under the 1999 Human Rights Law (specifically, Article 18 (1 and 4)). From the activities and structure of the detention camp system of Buru I sland, it can be argued that these many grave human rights abuses committed were known about and endorsed by KOPKAMTIB and its policy makers. From this, it can also be argued that Suharto was involved in these abuses on Buru. Based on this analysis of the structure of KOPKAMTIB, which was under the direct authority of the President, and given the clear chain of command from the head of KOPKAMTIB to those carrying out these actions on the ground on Buru Island, Suharto must be seen to hold command responsibility for these abuses. Suharto was responsible for these uharto abuses, therefore, by commission. Based on the facts uncovered, S knew about the process of imprisonment on Buru Island from the start. This indicates that he also allowed these violations to occur on Buru by omission. Conclusion Significant and systematic human rights abuses were committed against the approximately 11,500 Category B political prisoners detained on Buru Island between 1969 and 1979. The forms of these abuses—including forced labour, torture, and ill treatment—were detailed in the report given to the Prosecutor and used as evidence of crimes against humanity perpetrated on Buru in the IPT 1965. The IPT 1965, as a non-judicial but people’s call for === [PDF page 121] === 92 Asvi Warman Adam justice, stands as the only court to date which has considered the widespread and systematic crimes committed against thousands on Buru Island. Based on the evidence presented, the Judges at the IPT 1965 found that crimes against humanity had been perpetrated on Buru (2016). These forced removals of political prisoners to Buru Island were later followed by other examples of the New Order government’s removing and isolating unwanted prisoners. The detention centre of Atauro Island, off the coast of Timor Leste, is another example of how the regime forcibly isolated political prisoners, this time during the occupation of East Timor (1975–99). The Atauro Island prison held thousands of prisoners between 1980 and 1987. Even after the end of the New Order, this pattern of forcible isolation of prisoners continues, such as on Nasi island, off the coast of Aceh, which was prepared as a site for holding political prisoners from the Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, GAM) (Adam 2003). It is therefore important to reveal the full truth about these slave labour camps, so as to help prevent the recurrence of these crimes against humanity. Notes 1 Parts of this chapter are drawn from the Epilogue to Hesri Setiawan’s Memoar Pulau Buru (Memoir of Buru Island, Adam 2004). Other parts of this chapter are drawn from the report written by the Subcommittee on 1965 of the Team to Investigate Grievous Human Rights Abuses committed by Suharto, written by Ita F Nadia, MM Billah, Asvi Warman Adam, Agung Putri, Ahmad Suaedi, and Elfansuri. This chapter was translated from Indonesian into English by Saskia Wieringa and Annie Pohlman. 2 See Wieringa and Katjasungkana (2018), for a further discussion of the classification system. 3 As Pramoedya Ananta Toer bitterly writes, in relation to the conditions of starvation under which the prisoners had to toil, to hope for compassion from the New Order was like dreaming that you saw a goat with a moustache. A system of power that is built on massacres will always be extremely busy with cleaning its own conscience. Don’t hope that they can be bothered to think about your food. (Toer 1988, translated from the 1989 Dutch version by Saskia Wieringa, pp. 68–69) 4 The Military commander on Buru, General Wasli Prawirasupradja, declared in October 1972 that the government aimed that ultimately all prisoners would be joined by their families, although the government would not be able to guarantee the food security of the total expected population of 50,000 inhabitants (Amnesty International 1976, p. 16). 5 Translated and paraphrased by Saskia Wieringa (Toer 1989, p. 100). 6 The isolation camp Jiku Kecil on the border of the sea and the Kayeli River was notorious. Of the 11 cases of death recorded for that unit, only 1 was because of ill health (asthma), the others were murdered or committed suicide, usually after heavy torture (Toer 1989). === [PDF page 122] === Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses 93 References Adam, AW 2003, ‘Mencegah Pulau Buru kedua [Prevent a second Buru Island]’, Kompas, 30 June. Adam, AW 2004. ‘Epilogue’, in Setiawan, H, Memoar Pulau Buru [Memoir of Buru Island], IndonesiaTera, Magelang, pp. 592–601. Amnesty International 1976, Politieke gevangenen op het eiland Buru; Indonesië’s systeem van permanente gevangenschap, Amnesty International, Amsterdam. Amnesty International 1977, Indonesia: An Amnesty International Report, Amnesty International, London. Arto, S 1989, Sanul daca: pengalaman Pribadi Letjen (pur) Soegih Arto, Merdeka Sarana Usaha, Jakarta. Barker, J 1998, ‘State of fear: controlling the criminal contagion in Suharto’s New Order’, Indonesia, vol. 66, pp. 6–43. Bourchier, D 1990, ‘Crime, law and state authority in Indonesia’, in Budiman, A (ed.), State and civil society in Indonesia, Monash University, Asia Institute, Clayton, VIC, pp. 117–214. Budiardjo, C 1986, ‘The politics of transmigration’, The Ecologist, vol. 16, pp. 111–16. Burns, P 1989, ‘The post Priok trials: religious principles and legal issues’, Indonesia, vol. 47, pp. 61–88. Cribb, R 1990, ‘Introduction: problems in the historiography of the killings in Indonesia’, in Cribb, R (ed.), The Indonesian killings 1965–1966: studies from Java and Bali, Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, Clayton, VIC, pp. 1–44. Cribb, R 2001, ‘Genocide in Indonesia, 1965–1966’, Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 219–39. Crouch, H 1978, The army and politics in Indonesia, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, Fealy, G 1995, The release of Indonesia’s political prisoners: domestic versus foreign policy, 1975–1979, Centre for Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, Clayton, VIC. Fealy, G & McGregor, K 2010, ‘Nadhlatul Ulama and the killings of 1965–66: religion, politics, and remembrance’, Indonesia, vol. 89, pp. 37–60. Fearnside, PM 1997, ‘Transmigration in Indonesia: lessons from its environmental and social impacts’, Environmental Management, vol. 21, no. 4, pp. 553–70. Feith, H 1964, ‘Dynamics of guided democracy’, in McVey, R (ed.), Indonesia, HRAF, New Haven, CT, pp. 309–409. Feith, H 1968, ‘Suharto’s search for a political format’, Indonesia, vol. 6, pp. 88–105. Friend, T 2003, Indonesian destinies, Belknap Press, Cambridge. Glasius, M 1999, Foreign policy on human rights: its influence on Indonesia under Suharto, Intersentia, Antwerp. Hearman, V 2010, Guerrillas, guns, and knives? Debating insurgency in South Blitar, East Java, 1967–68’, Indonesia, vol. 89, pp. 61–91. Heryanto, A 1997, ‘Indonesia: towards the final countdown?’, in Singh, D (ed.), Southeast Asian affairs, 1997, Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore, pp. 107–26. Heryanto, A 2006, State terrorism and political identity in Indonesia: fatally belonging, Routledge, New York. === [PDF page 123] === 94 Asvi Warman Adam Human Rights Watch 2007, Out of sight: endemic abuse and impunity in Papua’s central highlands, Human Rights Watch, New York. International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) Foundation 2016, Final report of the IPT 1965: findings and documents of the International people’s tribunal on crimes against humanity Indonesia 1965, IPT 1965 Foundation, The Hague, Jakarta, 20 July 2016. Jenkins, D & Kammen, D 2012, ‘The army para-commando regiment and the reign of terror in Central Java and Bali’, in Kammen, D & McGregor, K (eds.), The contours of mass violence in Indonesia, 1965– 68, NUS Press, Singapore, pp. 75–103. Jones, GW 1979, ‘Indonesia: the transmigration programme and development planning’, in Pryor, RJ (ed.), Migration and development in South-East Asia: a demographic perspective, Oxford University Press, Kuala Lumpur, pp. 212–21. Kammen, D & McGregor, K 2012, ‘Introduction: the contours of mass violence in Indonesia, 1965–68’, in Kammen, D & McGregor, K (eds.), The contours of mass violence in Indonesia, 1965– 68, NUS Press, Singapore, pp. 1–24. Kessler, J 1978, ‘Indonesia’s tropical gulag’, Index on Censorship, vol. 7, no. 5, pp. 22–29. Komnas HAM (National Commission for Human Rights) 2012, ‘Statement by Komnas HAM on the results of its investigation into grave violations of human rights during the events of 1965–1966 (unofficial translation)’, TAPOL, viewed 30 May 2018, <http://thelookofsilence.com/wp-content/uploads/Komnas-HAM1965-TAPOL-translation.pdf>. Krisnadi, IG 2001, History of political prisoners on Buru Island 1969–79, LP3ES, Jakarta. Kroef, JM van der 1976, ‘Indonesia’s political prisoners’, Pacific Affairs, vol. 49, no. 4, pp. 625–47. Liem, A 2004, ‘Perjuangan bersenjata PKI di Blitar Selatan dan Operasi Trisula’, in Roosa, J, Ratih, A & Farid, H (eds.), Tahun yang tak pernah berakhir: memahami pengalaman korban ‘65, ELSAM, TRuK & ISSI, Jakarta, pp. 163–200. McGregor, K 2013, ‘Mass violence in the Indonesian transition from Sukarno to Suharto’, Global Dialogue, vol. 15, no. 1, pp. 134–145. Pauker, GJ 1967, ‘Indonesia: the year of transition’, Asian Survey, vol. 7, no. 2, pp. 138–50. Purdey, J 2002, ‘Problematizing the place of victims in Reformasi Indonesia: a contested truth about the May 1998 violence’, Asian Survey, vol. 42, no. 4, pp. 605–22. Robinson, G 1998, ‘Rawan is as rawan does: the origins of disorder in New Order Aceh’, Indonesia, vol. 66, pp. 127–57. Robinson, G 2017, ‘“Down to the very roots”: the Indonesian army’s role in the mass killings of 1965–66’, Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 17, no. 4, pp. 465–86. Setiawan, H 2003, Kamus Gestok, Galang Press, Yogyakarta. Setiawan, H 2004, Memoar Pulau Buru [Memoir of Buru Island], IndonesiaTera, Magelang. Setiawan, K 2015, ‘Masa lalu yang tersembunyi [The hidden past]’, Inside Indonesia, vol. 120, April–June, viewed on 15 August 2017, <www.insideindonesia.org/ masa-lalu-yang-tersembunyi>. Siegel, JT 1998, ‘Early thoughts on the violence of May 13 and 14, 1998 in Jakarta’, Indonesia, vol. 66, pp. 74–108. === [PDF page 124] === Suharto’s grievous human rights abuses 95 Southwood, J & Flanagan, P 1983, Indonesia: law, propaganda, and terror, Zed Books, London. TAPOL 1976, Indonesia: the prison state, TAPOL, the British Campaign for the Release of Indonesian Political Prisoners, London. Toer, PA 1999 [1988], Nyanyi tunggal seorang bisu: catatan-catatan pribadi Pramoedya Ananta Toer dari tahanan Pulau Buru, Hasta Mitra, Jakarta. Wieringa, SE & Katjasungkana, N 2018, Propaganda and the genocide in Indonesia: imagined evil, Routledge, New York, London. === [PDF page 125] === Sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage as crimes against humanity during the Indonesian killings of 1965–66 Annie Pohlman This chapter examines some of the tensions between conceptualisations of crimes against humanity in contemporary international criminal law and the prosecution of historical cases of this violence. In particular, I discuss these tensions in light of how crimes related to sexual enslavement were prosecuted at the 2015 International People’s Tribunal for the Indonesian killings of 1965–66. Extant international criminal law at the time of the Indonesian killings classified all sexual crimes as ‘other inhumane acts’ under crimes against humanity. In the five decades since then, gender jurisprudence has progressed considerably: if these same acts of sexual violence occurred today, were they investigated for a criminal tribunal, they would likely be prosecuted as separate, named charges. Based on the evidence which I gathered as the investigator into sexual crimes for the 1965 Tribunal, I argue that there was sufficient evidence for three separate, yet closely-related offences: sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage, each as a crime against humanity. The evidence gathered for the Tribunal on sexual offences, collected mostly from the testimonies of women survivors, showed clearly that grouping these offences together as ‘other inhumane acts,’ as they were charged at the Tribunal, was insufficient to describe and prosecute these offences. I argue that the I ndonesian case, though charged in a people’s tribunal and nonlegally binding, lends weight to arguments within feminist jurisprudence for gendered forms of violence to be conceptualised and prosecuted as separate violent crimes within international criminal law. In this chapter, I begin by drawing a broad sketch of sexual violence perpetrated against predominantly women and girls during the 1965–66 killings and how evidence of this violence was collected and presented to the Prosecutor of the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965). I then move on to describe briefly how gender jurisprudence has developed over the past few decades, focusing on how sexual violence charges and prosecutions have evolved in recent cases before international and hybrid national tribunals. I focus on how there is growing recognition of the need to distinguish === [PDF page 126] === Sexual crimes in 1965– 66 97 and separate sexual crimes by type, with particular attention paid to the separation of the three closely related but distinct crimes against humanity: sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage. I then move on to outline the evidence collected and given to the Prosecutors of the International People’s Tribunal for each of these sexually based crimes. Last, I revisit the dilemma of applying current-day gender jurisprudence to an historical case of mass violence. I argue that sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage were closely connected crimes against humanity perpetrated after 1965 in Indonesia, but that they should and must be understood as separate crimes. Sexual violence during the 1965–66 mass killings in Indonesia: evidence before the IPT 1965 Sexual violence was pervasive during both the massacres of 1965–66 and the mass political detentions that followed the 1 October 1965 coup in Indonesia. This violence took many forms including rape, sexual violence as torture, sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, forced marriage, and other forms of sexual violence, including sexual assault and other forms of degrading treatment.1 These forms of sexual violence were perpetrated predominantly against women and older teenage girls; however, there were rarer cases of some of these forms of sexual violence perpetrated against men, boys, and younger girls. Sexual and gender-based crimes were committed in a wide range of settings: in victims’ homes, in public, in prisons, police or military barracks, and in the many ad hoc facilities used to hold people illegally detained following the 1965 coup (on these facilities, see Margiyono & Yunanto 2007; Kammen & Zakaria 2012). The time frames for these crimes also varied considerably: from individual assaults, to repeated assaults over days and weeks, to conditions of sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced ohlman marriage, lasting months or years (Komnas Perempuan 2007; P 2015a, 2015b). The range of sexual offences, and the many conditions in which they were perpetrated, are evidence for the widespread and systematic nature of sexual violence as crimes against humanity during the anti-communist violence in Indonesia. The forms of sexualised crimes perpetrated after 1965 in Indonesia were inhumane in nature and character, and caused great suffering and/or serious injury to the body and to the mental or physical health of the victims. As argued by the Prosecutor of the IPT 1965, these acts were committed as part of widespread or systematic attacks directed against a civilian population, that is, against civilians deemed ‘communist sympathisers’ following the 1965 coup in Indonesia (IPT 1965 Foundation 2016; see also Chapters 1 and 2, this volume). Count 5 of the indictment for the Tribunal was sexual violence as crimes against humanity. It was decided by the Prosecutor that these sexual === [PDF page 127] === 98 Annie Pohlman offences would be charged as ‘other inhumane acts’ because, at the time that these offences were committed in the mid-to-late 1960s, sexually based crimes against humanity such as rape, sexual slavery, forced prostitution, and others did not yet exist in international criminal law (Askin 2003; de Brouwer 2005; see also IPT 1965 Foundation 2016). There was, however, sufficient evidence for each of the types of sexual violence enumerated in the evidence brief on sexual violence for the Prosecutor so that each could have been considered a separate and distinct crime against humanity. As has been the trend in gender jurisprudence for international crimes over the last two decades, by separating these crimes based on the forms of sexual and gender-based violence, this aids both to define these crimes and to raise them to the level of a jus cogens norm, perhaps therefore increasing the means to prevent these crimes in the future (see Sellers 2002; MacKinnon 2006). The evidence presented to the Prosecutor of the IPT 1965 regarding sexual and gender-based violence was drawn from the research of academics, non-government organisations, community and survivor advocacy organisations, and one of Indonesia’s two national human rights institutions, Komnas Perempuan (the National Commission on Violence against Women) (Komnas Perempuan 2007).2 Most cases of sexual and gender-based crimes presented in this evidence brief were taken from oral history testimonial accounts given by survivors to these researchers, advocates, and commissioners. In most cases, these testimonial accounts were recorded on voice recorders and transcribed over the past two decades since the end of the New Order regime in 1998. These testimonial sources were obtained from, among others, the oral historical records collected by Komnas Perempuan, the Lontar Foundation, LPR-KROB (the Institute for Struggle for the Rehabilitation of the New Order Regime’s Victims, Lembaga Perjuangan Rehabilitasi Korban Rezim Orde Baru), ISSI (the Indonesian Institute of Social History, Institut Sejarah Sosial Indonesia), and as part of the interview work conducted by myself and other researchers over the past 15 years (Pohlman 2015b). Around 300 testimonial sources were consulted in preparing the evidence brief on sexual violence, though only 58 of these were entered as individual cases in the brief (see Pohlman 2017). These individual case files that made up the evidence brief on sexual violence for the Prosecutor were listed under the categories of rape, sexual violence as torture, sexual slavery, ‘other’ sexual violence, forced pregnancy, and forced abortion. The category of ‘other’ sexual violence covered a range of sexual assaults and other outrages against personal dignity, including sexualised forms of mutilation and other acts meant to demean and humiliate victims.3 For the purposes of this chapter, however, the acts which were grouped under the category of ‘sexual slavery’ will be explored in further detail, that is, the cases of sexual enslavement, forced prostitution, and forced marriage. === [PDF page 128] === Sexual crimes in 1965– 66 99 A new era of gender jurisprudence and separating sexual and gender-based crimes It has only been in the last three decades that specific attention has been paid to defining and prosecuting sexual and gender-based violence in international criminal and humanitarian law (see Hagay-Frey 2011). This new era of ‘gender jurisprudence’ has been developed primarily at the international and hybrid tribunals since the mid-1990s, including at the International Criminal Tribunals for Rwanda (ICTR) and the former Yugoslavia (ICTY), the Special Courts for Sierra Leone (SCSL), and more recently at the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC) and the International Criminal Court (ICC), amongst others (see Askin 2003; de Brouwer 2005; Halley 2008; Killean 2015; Oosterveld & Sellers 2016). As feminist legal scholar Fionnuala Ní Aoláin has argued, these tribunals over the last 25 years have made great progress ‘addressing women’s experiences of war and conflict and inserting them into the material scope of application engaged by [these] International Tribunals’ (2014, p. 625; see also Ní Aoláin, Cahn & Haynes 2011). A core component in the development of this new gender jurisprudence has been the recognition and prosecution of some of the many sexual and gender-based forms of violence commonly experienced by women and girls during conflict (de Brouwer 2005, 2009; Chinkin 2014). While much of this case law has focused on sexualised forms of violence with less attention paid to a more nuanced range of gendered harms, the development of this jurisprudence has nevertheless done much to define the range and scope of these crimes committed during wars, mass atrocities, and other conflicts (Henry 2014). One of the outcomes of these prosecutions of sexual crimes has been to expose how sexual violence includes a wide range of offences. Up until the 1990s, if sexual violence were mentioned at all, it was discussed in either generalised terms of outrages against ‘honour’ or as a blanket charge of rape (Brownmiller 1975; Sellers 2007; Koenig, Lincoln & Groth 2011). Not all sexual violence, however, should be understood as rape. Rather, sexual violence during wars and mass atrocities is better understood as a spectrum, with rape one of the numerous sexualised and gender-based crimes perpetrated predominantly against women and girls (Wood 2006, 2008). To see the many forms of sexual and gender-based violence as a group of related but separate crimes (rather than all violence of this nature undifferentiated as rape), neither denies the serious harm caused by these offences nor hierarchies one above others. Rather, the gender jurisprudence of the last few decades has shown that sexual and gender-based crimes require separate and special attention if we are to understand, punish, and hopefully prevent, these many forms of harm perpetrated during wars and mass atrocities. The complex relationship between the crimes of sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage exemplifies this need to separate and define closely-related, but essentially distinct, crimes against humanity (O’Brien 2016). === [PDF page 129] === 100 Annie Pohlman Sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage as crimes against humanity: elements of crime and case law Sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage were three very similar yet different crimes perpetrated against women and girls during the mass violence that followed the 1965 coup in Indonesia. Each was a crime against humanity which was used against an unknown number of women and teenage girls across various regions of the archipelago. The elements of each crime, while overlapping in many respects (as do the acts of crime themselves), need to be distinguished in order to understand better the harms that each causes. In addition, it is important to understand how each of these crimes has undergone considerably different paths of development in terms of its treatment in the relevant case law over the past two decades. This case law is instructive when considering these three crimes in the Indonesian context. Across these three crimes against humanity, there are key elements in common. First, as crimes against humanity, they necessarily occur in the context of a widespread or systematic attack against a civilian population, and the perpetrator must know this context and that his acts were part of this attack (van Schaack 1999). Second, all three, where they have been defined in either relevant statutes or case law, involve ongoing abuse of a sexualised nature as well as some element of deprivation of liberty and/or enslavement.4 Although not defined by the length of time endured by the victim, all three crimes tend to involve repeated acts of sexual and other violence over an extended period or periods. In the Indonesian case, discussed in the following section, women survivors have described conditions of sexual slavery and enforced prostitution lasting months or years and, in the case of forced marriage, sometimes decades. Third, the elements for all three crimes are also similar in that the perpetrator exerts control over the victim in some way. In cases of sexual slavery, the perpetrator exercises ‘powers attaching to the rights of ownership’ over the victim to ‘engage in an act of a sexual nature by force,’ often also ‘exacting forced labour or otherwise reducing a person to a servile status’ (ICC 2000, cited in Oosterveld 2011b, p. 62).5 These elements which involve the deprivation of liberty and power over the victim are key in understanding the force used against the victim to engage in sexual acts: this definition thus places the sexual abuse at the heart of the crime, while also emphasising the removal of the victim’s autonomy. Further, by drawing out the conditions of enslavement which characterise this crime, these elements also highlight that other abuses may be fundamental aspects of the experiences of victims of sexual slavery. These include a range of other ‘tasks’ that women held in such conditions are likely also forced to perform, such as domestic chores (cleaning, cooking, washing), as well as giving birth to and raising children (see Oosterveld === [PDF page 130] === Sexual crimes in 1965– 66 101 The elements of enforced prostitution and forced marriage are strikingly similar to those of sexual enslavement, but each also involves further distinguishing elements. As would be expected, the element which differentiates sexual slavery from enforced prostitution is the monetary or other advantage which the perpetrator obtains from forcing the victim to perform sexual acts. In most cases, this crime involves a victim being forced by the perpetrator to perform sex acts on others, and the perpetrator receiving money or goods in exchange for these sex acts. As discussed in the ICC’s Elements of Crimes document, under Article 7(1)(g)-3, a key element involves how the perpetrator ‘obtained or expected to obtain pecuniary or other advantage in exchange for or in connection with the acts of a sexual nature’ (ICC 2000). The elements of forced marriage as a crime against humanity—and whether or not it should even be considered a separate crime from sexual slavery or as an ‘other inhumane act’—remain a highly controversial area in gender jurisprudence (Gong-Gershowitz 2009; Oosterveld 2011a, 2012; Clark 2012; O’Brien 2016). The Special Court for Sierra Leone (SCSL) has made a range of somewhat contradictory judgements on forced marriage, all to redress the crimes perpetrated against ‘bush wives’ during the conflict in Sierra Leonne (see Coulter 2009). In these various judgements, the elements of crime which distinguish forced marriage from sexual slavery revolve around the harm inflicted through ‘forced conjugal association.’ While still somewhat unclear in these judgements, forced conjugal association is tied to arguments made in these trials before the SCSL, amongst others, that the imposition of the label ‘wife’ for the victim carries with it a separate form of harm and stigma for the victim (Clark 2012; Oosterveld 2012). These arguments have attempted to highlight that forced marriage is a compounded form of crime against humanity, which involves many of the elements of sexual slavery as well as other crimes, including enslavement, forced labour, and often forced pregnancy, over long periods of time (Oosterveld 2012).6 When reflecting on the case law, it is clear that these three crimes have undergone very different trajectories over the past few decades. Sexual enslavement and enforced prostitution, since the late 1990s, have both been recognised as crimes against humanity. Both were included in the 1998 Rome Statute for the International Criminal Court; previously, provisions for sexual enslavement had been listed in the Statutes for the tribunals for Rwanda and the former Yugoslavia, while the ICTR Statute had also recognised enforced prostitution (de Brouwer 2005).7 Sexual enslavement and enforced prostitution were also listed as crimes against humanity in the Statute for the SCSL set up in the early 2000s, but only enslavement was subsequently listed at the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of C ambodia (ECCC).8 By comparison, while forced marriage has been successfully prosecuted in Sierra Leone, provisions for this crime were not included in the SCSL Statute and have not been included in any other statutes for international or hybrid courts to date (Oosterveld 2011a).9 === [PDF page 131] === 102 Annie Pohlman Sexual enslavement and forced marriage have both featured heavily in the case law as part of the post-1990s development of gender jurisprudence. Sexual enslavement as a crime against humanity was successfully prosecuted for the first time in the Foča case before the ICTY in 2001. In this case, the Prosecutor argued that two of the accused, Kunarac and Kovać, had treated women and girls as personal property, detained them over a period of months and forced them to perform acts of sexual nature, as well as domestic labour; acts which the court accepted amounted to sexual slavery (Sellers 2011).10 Subsequently at the SCSL, sexual slavery has also been prosecuted in three major cases, each judgement reinforcing the enslavement of victims, and the sexual nature of the acts these victims were forced to perform (Sellers 2011; Oosterveld 2012). As mentioned, the prosecution of forced marriage at the SCSL has caused considerable legal conjecture over whether forced marriage should be considered a separate crime against humanity in its own right or subsumed within the elements of sexual enslavement. This debate continues as the jurisprudence around forced marriage in its many and different forms is taken up in ongoing tribunals. At present, this is particularly the case at the ECCC, where the Court (potentially in Case No. 002/02) will need to consider the very different dimensions of male and female victims forced into marriage by the Democratic Kampuchea regime (Christensen 2015; O’Brien 2016). In stark comparison to the development of case law regarding sexual slavery and forced marriage, although recognised as a crime against h umanity in the Rome Statute since the 1990s, enforced prostitution has yet to be indicted or prosecuted at any of the international or hybrid tribunals set up since that time. The only times when this crime has come under investigation have been in relation to the treatment of the so-called comfort women as war crimes by the Japanese army before and during the Second World War. These were addressed first at the largely forgotten Temporary Courts Martial located in Batavia (Jakarta) in the Dutch East Indies (now Indonesia), which were unique among the post-Second World War trials to examine enforced prostitution as a war crime in four trials in the mid-to-late 1940s, though they only addressed the victimisation of Indo-European and Dutch nationals (Jөrgensen & Friedmann 2014). The second time was before another People’s Tribunal, the Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal for the Trial of Japan’s Military Sexual Slavery established in 2000. Although also a nonlegally binding judgement, as is the case for the IPT 1965, the Women’s Tribunal delivered a landmark judgement condemning the kidnap and enslavement of hundreds of thousands of women who were repeatedly raped at Japanese military ‘comfort stations’ (Chinkin 2001; Knop 2011).11 Thus, although very similar in scope and nature, these three crimes against humanity—sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage—have distinguishing features, and the elements of crime for each reflect this. Each has also undergone very different paths of development in the relevant case law. When considering the experiences of women and girls === [PDF page 132] === Sexual crimes in 1965– 66 103 who were forced to perform sexual acts over weeks, months, and years in the aftermath of the 1965 coup in Indonesia, these elements of crime and arguments in the case law help to illuminate both the similarities and differences between the experiences of being forced into sexual slavery and prostitution, and forced into marriage. Evidence of sexual enslavement, forced marriage, and enforced prostitution at the IPT 1965 In the evidence brief on sexual violence prepared for the Prosecutor at the IPT 1965, a wide range of acts was listed under a group heading of ‘sexual enslavement.’ These acts, described in accounts given by mostly women survivors and witnesses, involved cases of what should be understood as separate crimes of sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage, each as a crime against humanity. Each of these cases listed involved acts of sexual violence against the victim perpetrated over prolonged periods of time; each case was also inhumane in nature and character, and caused great suffering and/or serious injury to the body and to the mental or physical health of the victims. Here, I discuss each of these crimes in turn and draw on some of the cases presented as evidence for the Prosecutor at the IPT 1965 to illustrate the nature of these crimes. Sexual slavery For the 25 cases of sexual slavery listed in the evidence brief for the Prosecutor, all involved repeated acts of sexual violence over extended periods of time (weeks, months, sometimes years) as well as some form of deprivation of liberty. In most cases, this meant detention of some form, whether at one of the prisons, guard posts, or one of the many ad hoc detention centres across Indonesia, or at another location where the victim’s movements were restricted (for example, at the home of a soldier). In all cases, it was clear that women and girls were forced or coerced, through violence or threat of violence, to remain in these conditions of enslavement. In many cases also, aside from experiencing repeated acts of sexual violence, women were additionally forced to undertake some form of forced labour, including cooking and cleaning. In many of these cases listed, the women who experienced sexual slavery were also detained at some point by members of the security services. Some women, for example, described shorter periods of initial detention in a camp or prison which was followed by some other form of detention at their own house or the house of the perpetrator who kept them enslaved. Other women described their sexual enslavement lasting throughout the period of their detention at a camp or prison, including cases lasting months or years. The case of Ibu ‘K’ is an example of the former. After the coup in October 1965, Ibu K’s husband, a member of a communist-aligned association, went === [PDF page 133] === 104 Annie Pohlman into hiding, and she never saw him again. ‘The military was searching for her husband for more than a month and could not find him. Around the end of November, the security services captured her to “replace” her husband.’12 Detained for over a month at her local military command post in East Java, she was then forcibly removed to the home of one of the soldiers from the command post, a Lieutenant ‘L.’ She was forced to remain at Lieutenant L’s home for nine years ‘where she had to work as a maid. She washed and cooked and had to submit to the sexual wishes of Lieutenant L. K was not allowed to leave the house, not even to see her family’ (Komnas Perempuan 2007, p. 107). During that time, she gave birth to and raised two children, a girl and a boy. When Lieutenant L was transferred to a new post in 1975, he gave Ibu K a small amount of money to look after their daughter, and took their son with him. She never saw either again (Komnas Perempuan 2007, pp. 107, 157). The testimony of Ibu ‘B’ is one of several cases listed which describe long periods of sexual slavery during detention. Ibu B was a university student in a town in Central Java in 1965 and a member of a Partai Komunis Indonesia-aligned youth organisation. About a month after the coup, she was arrested and taken first to the local military command post, where she was kept for three days without food or water before being transferred along with a group of other women to an Army barracks in a nearby city. Ibu B recalled what happened to her at these barracks: [Myself and the women with me] were raped by many men there almost every night. I don’t remember how many times I had to submit myself for those soldiers, and I can’t recall all their faces. When I was called at night, I had to submit to the sexual desires of those soldiers. I would lie there with my eyes closed and try to kill all of my senses. This was the only way I could resist their treatment, and it was a way to avoid being killed. (cited in Komnas Perempuan 2007, p. 97) Ibu B and the other women held with her were kept in conditions of sexual slavery for several months at the Army barracks. Later, she was moved to another prison camp, where she remained until her release some years later Enforced prostitution Amongst the cases listed under sexual slavery, there was a handful of testimonies in which women recalled being ‘rented out’ (disewa), ‘called’ (diapel), or ‘picked up’ (dijemput) during their time at particular detention facilities. Such cases described women raped and forced to perform sex acts either at the detention facility itself (for example, in an interrogation room, or in the sleeping quarters of the guards) or at another location. During my === [PDF page 134] === Sexual crimes in 1965– 66 105 research interviewing women survivors in West Sumatra, for example, Ibu Tati (a pseudonym) talked about how she and other women who were being kept at a local police headquarters were ‘lent out’ to visiting policemen and other men. As she explained, ‘[the women] were “borrowed” (dibon), lent out at night. First they’d be taken. Then the next day, they’d be returned to [the police] headquarters.’13 This ‘lending’ or ‘borrowing’ of women detainees from the police headquarters was a regular occurrence organised by the policemen who were in charge and went on for the several months that Ibu Tati was imprisoned there. In cases such as the one described by Ibu Tati, it was clear that these women were sexually enslaved by their guards, and that they were forced to perform these sex acts with not only the men who ran these detention centres but also other men to whom they were ‘rented out.’ In very few of these accounts, however, were women explicit about any monetary or other advantage gained by the soldiers or guards running these detention facilities in exchange for this ‘renting out’ of women political prisoners. Certainly, as in the experience of Ibu Tati and the other women held at that police headquarters, there was some benefit derived by the officers in charge, but rarely did women mention this aspect of pecuniary or other benefit in their accounts. One woman who did discuss the direct benefits derived by a perpetrator and whose account was included in the evidence brief was Ibu ‘C.’ In her account, Ibu C describes what happened to her after many years of political detention. Originally arrested in 1965 at the age of only 14, she spent 12 years in various detention centres in Java. In 1977 when she was finally released, she ‘had nothing and no one to support her,’ and there was no ‘transitional process to help former prisoners’ (Komnas Perempuan 2007, p. 107). Ibu C described what happened to her after this: A prison guard, Pak H, offered to let me stay at his house. I accepted the offer because I had no other choice. The rented house was very simple. He did not live there, but stayed at his wife’s house. On the first day of my stay there, Pak H raped me. Then he took me to his wife’s house to use me as a maid, but I was not allowed to stay there. After that, every morning at four I went to the home of Pak H’s wife and worked as a maid. After completing my work, I would return to Pak H’s rented house and had to submit to his sexual desires. I could not refuse because I had no other choice. (cited in Komnas Perempuan 2007, p. 107) Sexually enslaved by Pak H, and forced to perform free domestic labour every day, after one month, Pak H then began inviting colleagues to the house which he had rented for Ibu C. Initially ‘two of his military friends’ came to the house, and she was forced to ‘serve’ them as well. Later, more and more men came to the house every night. === [PDF page 135] === 106 Annie Pohlman Sometimes it was three or four men a night. Later on I found out that Pak H was receiving money from these men I’d had to serve. I felt like Pak H made me into a whore. For a year [… he made me] a woman who’d been traded in exchange for money. (cited in Komnas Perempuan 2007, p. 107) As Ibu C made clear, Pak H first sexually enslaved her and then prostituted her for his own material gain. Without family or anyone else to turn to, she was forced to remain at the house for over a year; there are no details in the account about how or under what conditions Ibu C’s enforced prostitution ended. Forced marriage While there is a long history across all human populations of women being taken as ‘wives’ during conflicts and genocides, it is only in recent years that forced marriage has been understood as a crime (Askin 1997). Forced marriage is also a crime which must be understood in terms of the circumstances in which it is perpetrated. In Sierra Leone, prosecutions for forced marriage have related to women and girls who were abducted during rebel attacks and forced to become ‘bush wives’ to men in these rebel forces (see Coulter 2009; Oosterveld 2011a). In Cambodia during the Democratic Kampuchea regime, by comparison, both men and women were forced into marriages by Angkar officials, with estimates that 400,000 men and women being forcibly married during the regime (Oosterveld & Sellers 2016, p. 325). The evidence collected thus far towards ongoing cases before the ECCC (Case 002/02 and potentially Case 004) describe a set of circumstances in which forced marriage, forced conjugal and sexual relations between men and women were regulated by the regime in Cambodia, which is quite different from the kidnap and forced marriages perpetrated against women and girls in Sierra Leone (Oosterveld & Sellers 2016; O’Brien 2016). The cases of forced marriage which were listed in the evidence brief for the IPT 1965 reflect the circumstances and the context of the Indonesian case, and bare closer resemblance to the forms of this crime in Sierra Leone than in Cambodia. In the Indonesian case, forced marriages were perpetrated against women and older teenage girls and were described by survivors and witnesses in a variety of ways. Most were cases in which the wives of men who were either detained or killed were diambil (‘taken’) by other men. These included both official second marriages, women becoming second wives in polygamous Muslim marriages, as well as women being kept as ‘secret’ or unofficial wives (sometimes called istri gelap). The women most often ‘taken’ were the wives of men killed or imprisoned, as well as other female relatives, particularly daughters, as well as women detainees. The circumstances in which these women entered these marriages varied widely: in some cases, women chose to enter into new relationships as a means of protection for === [PDF page 136] === Sexual crimes in 1965– 66 107 themselves or children, but it seems that, in the majority cases, these women were clearly forced or coerced (see Budiawan 2012; Pohlman 2015a, 2016). The testimony of Ibu ‘HII,’ listed in the cases of forced marriage in the evidence brief, illustrates some of the coercive conditions in which women were forced into marriage. As she explains in her testimony, many members of Ibu HII’s family were imprisoned or murdered during the anti-communist purges, including her husband and almost all of her siblings. A man from the local village soldier’s unit in their little hamlet in East Java preyed upon her, threatening her only remaining sibling if she did not consent to sex and to marriage. That soldier knew that all my family was gone, I only had my younger brother [CI] left. The soldier kept coming to my house and trying to force himself on me, to go along with what he wanted, to serve him. I would try to avoid him, or refuse him, so then the solider along with another man from the village council came and threatened me, [saying] ‘I’ll put CI in prison, and then I’ll kill him if you don’t come with me!’ I was distraught, what would they do? My younger brother was only little, and even now I hurt to think of it. But I thought to myself, I can’t let my brother be killed, because all my other siblings, and my husband, all of them had already been killed, and all I had left was CI. So in the end I was forced to go along with what the solider wanted, and finally we were married. (cited in KontraS 2012, pp. 38–39) Conclusion: people’s tribunals and the question of retrospective application of modern laws to address historical cases This chapter has explored three specific yet closely related crimes against humanity committed against women and girls during and after the 1965–66 mass killings in Indonesia: sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage. All three affected an unknown number of women and girls across Indonesia and yet all were subsumed under a blanket indictment of ‘sexual crimes’ in Charge 5 at the IPT 1965. While the development of the growing body of case law at the international and hybrid tribunals gives much hope that these crimes will be punished, and perhaps prevented, in the future, the core dilemma to be faced in this chapter remains that these acts were not defined as crimes when they were perpetrated in Indonesia. Sexual enslavement, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage were not crimes in the mid-1960s, either in international criminal law or domestically in Indonesia. While rape was prohibited at this time under international humanitarian and international law (Sellers 2007; O’Brien 2016)14, and non-marital rape under the domestic criminal code in Indonesia (Idrus & Bennett 2003; Blackwood 2007), none of these could be used to prosecute adequately the crimes described in the survivor and === [PDF page 137] === 108 Annie Pohlman witness accounts discussed in this chapter. So how do we redress acts which are crimes today but which were not crimes when they were committed? One of the core safeguards in criminal law is that there is no crime without a law which criminalises it, nullum crimen sine lege. This principle goes to the heart of protections of the rights of a defendant to know the charge brought against him and, critically, to not be held criminally responsible for a crime that did not exist at the time when he committed it (see van Schaack 2008). Yet, as various legal scholars have shown, arguably from the beginning of the modern international criminal law system with the Post-Second World War Tribunals, and certainly in the post-Cold War renaissance of this law at the various international and hybrid tribunals since the 1990s, these courts have continuously pushed the boundaries of this principle with retrospective condemnations of past crimes (Boot 2002; van Schaack 2008). In order to try defendants for the crimes they committed before these crimes were specifically articulated, these modern tribunals have invoked ‘a complex interplay among immorality, illegality, and criminality,’ and drawn on a host of human rights instruments to show that although acts may have not have been outlawed as crimes at the time of their commission, they were unlawful and immoral (van Schaack 2008, p. 133). There is another pressing reason the violent acts committed against the women and girls discussed in this chapter should be understood as crimes, and should have been considered with greater weight at the IPT 1965: simply because acts have not been prosecuted in the past does not mean that they were lawful when committed. As Oosterveld and Sellers have convincingly argued regarding the lack of charges relating to sexual crimes before the ECCC, ‘impunity does not prove that a law does not exist’ (2016, p. 341). They make this argument regarding acts committed under the Democratic Kampuchea regime between 1975 and 1979, most of which would also be applicable when considering the 1965–66 massacres in Indonesia. They outline how sexual violence as a crime against humanity, specifically rape, was explicitly prohibited in international law from 1945, though (for a long list of reasons), was substantially ignored in the post-Second World War tribunals’ case law. Oosterveld and Sellers’ argument is that, by ignoring these sexual crimes, this perpetuates this ‘historical wrong’ of impunity for these crimes, privileging ‘formalist considerations of whether the crime against humanity of rape was explicitly delineated as such in international law’ at the time above the fact that ‘the conduct itself was unlawful’ (Oosterveld & Sellers 2016, pp. 341–42). When reflecting on the crimes committed against women and girls in Indonesia, and how these crimes were dealt with at the IPT 1965, I believe more could have been done. The IPT 1965 was a significant step in the very long road for justice for the crimes committed against millions in Indonesia, yet more could have been done. Specifically, more could have been done to address the range of sexual and gender-based crimes presented as evidence for the Prosecutor, such as by separating the three crimes discussed in === [PDF page 138] === Sexual crimes in 1965– 66 109 this chapter. For is that not the purpose of a people’s tribunal, to seek justice for crimes in a non-judicial people’s forum in the absence of any judicial measures for redress? In seeking that justice, we must be careful not to perpetuate the historical harms of impunity for crimes against women. Modern gender jurisprudence has shown us that, in order to redress gender-based and sexual crimes, we must understand, and prosecute, the separate and distinct harms of each. The cases of sexual slavery, enforced prostitution, and forced marriage which women and girls endured for weeks, months, and years following the 1965 coup in Indonesia were distinct crimes and should have been treated at the IPT 1965 as separate, named charges. The purpose of a people’s tribunal is to seek justice for historical harms and, in doing so, should not perpetuate the inequities and impunities for crimes against women. Notes 1 This chapter draws some materials from the Evidence Brief on Sexual Violence, a 200-page document which I prepared for the Prosecutor of the IPT 1965, delivered in October 2015 (unpublished, Pohlman 2015b). I wish to thank Cassandra McConaghy and Nikola Care from the University of Queensland Pro Bono Centre for their kind assistance in the preparation of a guide to preparing evidence of crimes against humanity. In particular, I wish to thank Cassie and Nikola for their attention to detail in providing details on the relevant case law. On sexual violence as torture as a crime against humanity in 1965, see Pohlman (2017). 2 The Indonesian National Commission for Human Rights (Komnas HAM) has also prepared an extensive report on the mass violence of 1965–66. This report was presented to the Indonesian Attorney General’s Office in July 2012. The report includes numerous findings of sexual violence but, as the report remains unpublished and closed (after being rejected by the AGO), these findings were unable to be included in the evidence brief for the Prosecutor (see Prakoso et al 2012). 3 On recent jurisprudence on how such acts have been prosecuted as outrages upon personal dignity in the Charles Taylor case before the Special Court for S ierra Leone (Prosecutor V. Charles Taylor, Case No. SCSL-03-01-T, Trial Chamber II, Sentencing Judgement, 30 May 2012), see Oosterveld (2012, pp. 24–25). 4 Article 7(1)(g)-2 of the Rome Statute addresses sexual slavery and Article 7(1) (g)-3 with enforced prostitution as crimes against humanity. Specific elements of sexual slavery and enforced prostitution are given in the ICC’s Elements of Crimes document in 2000: Report on the Preparatory Commission for the International Criminal Court, Finalized Draft Text of the Elements of Crimes, add. Part II, UN Doc. PCNICC/2000/1/Add.2 (2000), p. 13 (ICC 2000). The elements of crime for forced marriage have been seriously contested, but most clearly defined in the SCSL Appeals Chamber Judgement in the AFRC case, see Prosecutor v Alex Tamba Brima, Brima Bazzy Kamara and Santigie Borbor Kanu (Case No. SCSL-04-16-A), Appeals Chamber Judgement, 22 February 2008, at paras. 195–196. 5 ICC’s Elements of Crime document (2000), Art. 7(1)(g)-6. As Oosterveld (2011b, p. 62) notes, this definition also draws strongly on elements of enslavement and makes an additional footnote regarding the deprivation of liberty of the victim. 6 In this article, Oosterveld compares the previous judgements in the AFRC Appeals and RUF Trial Chambers, with how forced marriage was reassessed as === [PDF page 139] === 110 Annie Pohlman ‘conjugal slavery,’ making a critique of each approach. As she explains, ‘conjugal slavery’ takes on the formula of ‘sexual slavery plus enslavement’ (see Oosterveld 2012, pp. 20–22). 7 Article 7(1)(g) of the Rome Statute lists sexual enslavement, and Article 7(1)(g)-3 lists enforced prostitution. For the elements of each under the Statute (International Criminal Court 2011: Article7(1)(g)–7(1)(g)-3). For the ICTR, see Statute of the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda, annexed to Resolution 955, SC Res 955, UN SCOR, 49th sess, 3453rd mtf, UN Doc S/RES/955 (1994) (amended in 1998, 2000 and 2002). For the ICTY, see Statute of the International Criminal Tribunal for the Former Yugoslavia, annexed to Resolution 827, SC Res 827, UN SCOR, 48th sess, 3217th mtg, UN Doc S/RES/827 (1993), amended in 1998, 2000 and 2002. The ICTY and ICTR statutes contain enslavement as CAH (Articles 5(c) and 3(c), respectively). Enforced prostitution was listed in the ICTR Statute as an ‘outrage upon personal dignity’ in IHL; it was not included in the ICTY statute. 8 Article 2(g) as crimes against humanity, see Statute of the Special Court of Sierra Leone, annexed to the Agreement between the United Nations and the Government of Sierra Leone on the Establishment of a Special Court for Sierra Leone on 16 January 2002, pursuant to SC Res 1315, UN SCOR, 55th sess, 4186th mtg, UN Doc S/RES/1315 (2000), 14 August 2000. The ECCC’s statute and rules of procedure combine domestic and international law, as at the time that the crimes were committed, thus the exclusion of more recent developments, see Law on the Establishment of Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia for the Prosecution of Crimes Committed During the Period of Democratic Kampuchea (2004). Article 5 deals with CAH, in which enslavement is listed. See Studzinsky (2012) and Meisenberg and Stegmiller (2016). 9 The Appeals Chamber at the SCSL first upheld forced marriage as a distinct CAH, despite its not being listed in the Statute, see Prosecutor v. Alex Tamba Brima, Ibrahim Bazzy Kamara and Santigie Borbor Kanu [2008] SCSL-200416-A (Special Court for Sierra Leone, Appeals Chamber), 28 May 2008, at paras. 187–203 (the ‘Armed Forces Revolutionary Council’ or ‘AFRC’ case). 10 These acts were charged as enslavement (Article 5(C) of the ICTY Statute), see Prosecutor v. Dragoljub Kunarac, Radomir Kovač and Zoran Vuković (2001), ICTY-IT-96-23-T & IT-96-23/1-T, Trial Chamber Judgement, 22 February 2001, at paras. 883 and 886. This case was followed by Prosecutor v. Jonkovic et al., in which one of the accused, Radovan Stanković, was charged with the crimes against humanity of enslavement and rape. The original indictment listing eight accused became known as the Foča indictment, which became the Kunarac et al. case (IT-96-23). Two of the accused died before they could be transferred for prosecution, and so the remaining six were separated into two cases, the Kunarac et al. case and Prosecutor v. Jankovic, Zelenovic and Stankovic (IT-9623/1, IT-96-23/2), which was later separated again. 11 Prosecutors and Peoples of Asia Pacific Region v Japan, Summary of Findings and Preliminary Judgement, Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal, Case No. PT-2000-1-T, Judgement, 4 December 2001. Please note that the Tribunal addressed the experiences of ‘comfort women’ as sexual enslavement, not enforced prostitution. 12 The information on Ibu ‘K’ (the initial is used in the source documents) was gathered by researcher Ita F. Nadia from her interviews with the victim in 1997, and sourced from two documents, the Komnas Perempuan report (2007, pp. 107 and 157), and from a document supplied to me by the interviewer for the purposes of preparing the evidence brief, entitled ‘Daftar Narasi Perempuan Korban ‘65’ (undated). This quote is from that document (my translation). === [PDF page 140] === Sexual crimes in 1965– 66 111 13 Interview with Ibu Tati and Ibu Susi (both pseudonyms), together with Narny Yenny and myself, West Sumatra, September 2005. This interview is also discussed elsewhere (Pohlman 2015a, pp. 157–59). 14 With regard to international humanitarian law (to govern the wars and conflicts), the Leiber Code, drafted for the Union army during the American civil war, outlawed rape specifically, while the 1907 Hague Convention and the 1949 Geneva Conventions categorised sexual violence as ‘outrages against personal dignity.’ Post Second World War, rape was listed as a crime against humanity in the Allied Local Council Law No. 10, thought there was no case law stemming from this (see Sellers 2000; Oosterveld & Sellers 2016). References Askin, KD 1997, War crimes against women: prosecution of international war crimes tribunals, M. Nijhoff, The Hague. 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Park, ASJ 2006, ‘“Other inhumane acts”: forced marriage, girl soldiers and the special court for Sierra Leone’, Social and Legal Studies, vol. 15, no. 3, pp. 315–37. Pohlman, A 2015a, Women, sexual violence and the Indonesian killings of 1965–1966, Routledge, New York. Pohlman, A 2015b, Evidence brief on sexual violence, report for the prosecutor, the International people’s tribunal on crimes against humanity, Indonesia 1965, IPT65, The Hague. Unpublished report. Pohlman, A 2016, ‘Janda PKI: stigma and sexual violence against communist widows following the 1965–1966 massacres in Indonesia’, Indonesia and the Malay World, vol. 44, no. 128, pp. 68–83. Pohlman, A 2017, ‘Sexual violence as torture: crimes against humanity during the 1965–66 killings in Indonesia’, Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 19, no. 4, pp. 574–93. Prakoso, R, Sihite, E, Marhaenjati, B & Novialita, F 2012, ‘AGO rejects Komnas HAM report on 1965 massacres’, The Jakarta Globe, 10 November, viewed 20 November 2016, <http://jakartaglobe.id/archive/aog-rejects-komnas-ham-reporton-1965-massacres/>. Schaack, B van 1999, ‘The definition of crimes against humanity: resolving the incoherence’, Columbia Journal of Transnational Law, vol. 37, no. 3, pp. 787–850. Schaack, B van 2008, ‘Crimin sine lege: judicial lawmaking at the intersection of law and morals’, The Georgetown Law Journal, vol. 97, pp. 119–92. Sellers, PV 2000, ‘The context of sexual violence: sexual violence as violations of international humanitarian law’, in McDonald, GK & Smaak-Goldman, O (eds.), Substantive and procedural aspects of international criminal law: the experiences of international and national Courts, vol. 1, Kluwer, The Hague, pp. 263–332. Sellers, PV 2002, ‘Sexual violence and peremptory norms: the legal value of rape’, Case Western Reserve Journal of International Law, vol. 34, no. 3, pp. 287–303. Sellers, PV 2007, ‘The prosecution of sexual violence in conflict: the importance of human rights as means of interpretation’, Office of the High Commissioner for Human Rights, viewed 20 November 2016, <www.ohchr.org/Documents/Issues/ Women/WRGS/Paper_Prosecution_of_sexual_violence.pdf>. === [PDF page 143] === 114 Annie Pohlman Sellers, PV 2011, ‘Wartime female slavery: enslavement?’, Cornell International Law Journal, vol. 44, no. 1, pp. 115–44. Studzinsky, S 2012, ‘Neglected crimes: the challenge of raising sexual and g ender-based crimes before the extraordinary chambers in the courts of C ambodia’, in BuckleyZistel, S & Stanley, R (eds.), Gender in transitional justice, Palgrave MacMillan, Basingstoke, pp. 88–114. Wood, EJ 2006, ‘Variation in sexual violence during war’, Politics and Society, vol. 34, no. 3, pp. 307–41. Wood, EJ 2008, ‘Sexual violence during war: toward an understanding of variation’, in Kalyvas, S, Masoud, T & Shapiro, I (eds.), Order, conflict and violence, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 223–51. === [PDF page 144] === Persecution through denial of citizenship Indonesians in forced exile post 1965 Ratna Saptari Introduction Between 1965 and 1967, hundreds to thousands of individuals who happened to be abroad at the time lost their Indonesian citizenship because they were alleged to be communists by Suharto’s newly established regime.1 The International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) gave specific attention to the plight of those exiled from Indonesia following the coup in 1965, finding that Upon consideration of the evidence presented before the Tribunal, the fact was established that many Indonesians were subjected to forcible exile, which constitutes deprivation of right to free passage, right to return and enjoyment of full citizenship rights (fundamental rights laid down in international customary or treaty law), and this may well reach the same level of gravity as other forms of persecution as a crime against humanity. (IPT 2017, p. 82) Most of those who became exiles during this period were students supported by individual scholarships or the government student exchange program (Mahasiswa Ikatan Dinas, Mahid), journalists, or official delegates who were invited as guests to attend official commemorations or international conferences in various parts of the world, particularly in the communist or left-leaning countries. Since the second half of the 1950s and early 1960s, Sukarno’s foreign policy had been to endorse various agreements and collaborations with non-aligned governments in Asia, Eastern Europe, and Latin America to organise activities which would strengthen the bond between these countries. In practice, this meant encouraging young political leaders to participate in conferences and solidarity organisations to increase their organisational or political skills or sending students to further their knowledge in various disciplines. Within this political framework, scholarships and grants were offered to these young Indonesians with the hope that they would contribute to the development of the Indonesian Republic when they === [PDF page 145] === 116 Ratna Saptari came back. Others who were already leaders or members of organisations were sent as delegates to specific events such as Chinese National Day on 1 October 1965;2 the 1966 Tricontinental Conference in Havana; the 1965 International Organisation of Journalists Conference in Santiago, Chile; or the 1965 Conference of the Afro-Asian People’s Solidarity Organisation in Algeria. Following the downfall of the Sukarno government and the takeover by the Suharto regime, the structures of power within the Indonesian embassies abroad also changed as the military attachés took over control of these offices abroad. In 1966, screening processes were conducted by the Indonesian embassies and the passports of those considered to be in the ‘wrong’ political category were revoked, bringing them into a position of statelessness. This was either because they were unwilling to let go of their loyalty to President Sukarno or because they were alleged to be involved in organisations directly and indirectly affiliated with the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI). For all of them, not returning to Indonesia was not a matter of choice but of state intervention and exclusion. Through the stories of exiles who after the 1965 purge eventually came to reside in countries which at the time provided opportunities for exiles, such as the Netherlands, Germany, and France, one can obtain a notion not only of their formal deprivation of citizenship but also their tenacious sense of belonging and affinity with the Indonesian nation. This condition of deprivation has been particularly augmented by the fact that the stigmatisation attached to those who were considered part of the communist movement affected the lives of their family members back home. In this chapter, I focus on the experiences of exiles and their strategies to deal with the political and social barriers which they faced as a consequence of institutional and social exclusion not only of themselves but also of their family members both at home and abroad. This involves examining the conditions under which they could not return home, the consequences for their relations with family and friends back home, and their movement from country to country in search of safety and a viable existence.3 The involuntary or forced migration of people due to conflict or war situations has been a recurrent phenomenon in global history, and the circumstances under which this has occurred varies from country to country.4 In broadly defining the condition of exiles and the politics of exile in Latin America, Sznajder and Roniger stated that The broadest analytical elements denoting exiles are, first, their forceful institutional exclusion and displacement … under constraining conditions and persecution. The second is their move to a foreign environment …. The third is their impaired yet persistent will to return to the home country. (Sznajder & Roniger 2009, p. 23) === [PDF page 146] === Persecution through denial of citizenship 117 In the case of the Indonesian exiles, since their departure to foreign countries was mainly undertaken prior to the October 1965 massacres and violence, their becoming exiles was, in general, as Hill and Dragojlovic have emphasised, ‘not a conscious decision to emigrate … or fleeing an outbreak of war or violence in their homeland’ (Hill & Dragojlovic 2010, p. 1). As Hearman has argued, in contrast to the situation of Vietnamese refugees for instance, who left their homeland because of their rejection of the newly formed nation, the prevention of Indonesians abroad to return home or the revocation of their citizenship status was more a rejection by the Indonesian New Order state, which made them ‘accidental exiles’ (2010, p. 84). Wrapped within the rhetoric of ‘maintaining national security’ and ‘saving the nation,’ the Suharto regime legitimised the persecution of anyone associated with leftist (whether nationalist or communist) organisations. It was indeed the profound institutional exclusion and stigmatisation of those who happened to be in socialist or communist countries during this period, which characterised the condition of Indonesian exiles who could not return home after the state induced violence of 1965. Djumaini Kartaprawira, who studied to be a teacher in Solo and was then sent to West Sumatra for four years to teach, was offered a scholarship by the Ministry of Higher Education and Science and sent to the Lumumba University in Moscow to study law. He asserted that although they did not experience the same physical abuse and torture as those who were persecuted in the homeland during that period, the experience of being suddenly excommunicated from one’s family and community was equally torturous.5 Not only was the act of returning home considered to be dangerous, since it would imply immediate imprisonment or torture, but it could also mean the possibility of the Indonesian government tracing the exile’s network of friends and family, which would be dangerous for them. Since the post-New Order period, popular and academic attention towards the 1965 purge, and the various forms of human rights violations perpetrated by the regime has increased significantly, but it is only in the last decade that scholarly work on the position of Indonesia’s exiles has started to emerge.6 These studies provide revealing stories of the Indonesian exiles and the geopolitical conditions which have shaped their lives. Despite obvious commonalities in the process of exclusion, the stories of these exiles who were at the time in the Soviet Union, China, Romania, Hungary, Bulgaria, Albania, Cuba, or Vietnam, among others, also show somewhat different trajectories in their political, social, and personal lives following the revocation of their passports. For those who were members of left-wing organisations, this can also be seen by the different degrees of involvement they had with the organisations, where some were non-active official members and others were active members or organisers.7 There were also differences in discipline and specialisations chosen, whether it was medicine, engineering, art and cinematography, chemistry, law, or political science (Hill 2014, p. 625). However, studying or being abroad at a === [PDF page 147] === 118 Ratna Saptari particular time and place in history and being placed within particular stigmatised categories apparently had fatal consequences for their (public and private) life trajectories. Indonesian politics in the Cold War period Sukarno’s attempt to strengthen Indonesia’s position within global politics especially vis-à-vis the western world can clearly be seen in his promotion of Indonesia as host of the 1955 Bandung Conference. Despite the significant differences between the Asian and African countries, the Bandung conference was ‘a watershed moment’ which served as a critical historical juncture connecting ‘anticolonial activism with visions of future accomplishments’ (Lee 2010). It was in this spirit also that the Afro-Asian Peoples’ Solidarity Organisation (AAPSO) was founded in 1960, and its Permanent Secretariat was then established in Cairo. Ibrahim Isa, who additionally served as the secretary of the Indonesia Peace Committee, established in 1951, was appointed by Sukarno as the Indonesian Permanent Representative to the Secretariat of the AAPSO and therefore sent to Cairo.8 Navigating between the competing powers of the two major communist countries, Indonesia opened up formal diplomatic relations with China in 1953 and with the Soviet Union in 1954. Ever since Sukarno’s visit to the Soviet Union in 1956, Indonesian civilians were encouraged to study there with scholarships from Khrushchev’s government, and by 1965, Indonesians were the Soviet Union’s largest foreign student population.9 Sungkono, the son of small farmers from Binjai, North Sumatra, for instance, obtained a scholarship from the Department of Higher Education and Science (PTIP) and left for Moscow in August 1962 to study mechanical engineering. Ahmad Supardi also went that same year to study economics at the L omonosov University and with a grant from the Soviet government managed to continue with his PhD in the history department, whereas Soeranto went to the Patrice Lumumba Friendship University to study English (Hill 2014, p. 623). Similarly, the Chinese government, also eager to promote its alliance with the Indonesian government, offered support and funding for young Indonesians to study in China or to offer Indonesian language lessons in their Foreign Language Institute based in Beijing (Hill 2010, p. 29). These grants were allotted to those who were already linked to government departments and the students were sent as Mahid (in-service students) (Hill 2010, p. 29). Other students were sent to China because they were members of organisations affiliated with the PKI, which had sister organisations in that country. Sarmadji, who was a reporter and editor of the rubric on children’s education in the newspaper Harian Rakyat, was sent by the Indonesia-China Friendship Institute (Lembaga Persahabatan Indonesia-Cina) to study the children’s educational system in Beijing (Fanggidaej 2006). Tom Iljas, who was a member of the Pemuda Rakyat and also the Indonesian Youth Student League (Ikatan Pemuda Pelajar Indonesia, IPPI), was also one of those === [PDF page 148] === Persecution through denial of citizenship 119 who obtained a scholarship from the Indonesian Department of Education to study agriculture at the Agricultural Institute, also in Beijing (Hill 2010, p. 47, n. 62). Political fluctuations and competition between China and Russia in defining the direction of the communist bloc shaped the circumstances in which Indonesian students found themselves when they were sent abroad. As Hill has shown, Sukarno’s initial orientation towards the Soviet Union slowly shifted towards China. This adjustment was manifested in the formation of the Conference of the New Emerging Forces (CONEFO) which was meant to include the developing countries outside the Soviet and US blocs. The different political orientations of the students were also reflected in the split between those who considered themselves as the PKI’s representatives abroad, namely between Adjitorop who was the head of the PKI ‘Delegation’ based in Beijing and Sinuraya who positioned himself as the Secretary of the International Bureau of the PKI based in Moscow (Hill 2010, p. 33).10 The Indonesian students who later became exiles were confronted with these different political orientations and the larger Sino-Soviet tensions. This also resulted in tensions and splits between these students where political boundaries became strongly defined. Even within the PKI itself, there were already tensions regarding the policy to follow, so that it was not only between those who were party members and non-members that differences in attitudes ensued but also between those who were active in left-wing organisations. Dharmawan Ishak, who was part of the Indonesian delegation to participate in the commemoration of Chinese National Day on 1 October 1965, stated that two weeks after the commemoration, of the 40 PKI members who came, only one went back home and among those who stayed, there was a split between those who agreed to be sent to the rural areas following the instruction of the PKI Delegation under Adjitorop and those who did not agree (Hill 2010, p. 33). Later on, when the situation became untenable and the move to leave China became a major pattern, those who were collaborating with the Delegation would also be financially supported and given funds to set up small enterprises in Europe. Others went to the Soviet Union, which was eager to welcome them since their rival country was in political turmoil and the Soviet Union wanted to maintain relations with Indonesia (Panggabean 2015). Becoming an exile The 1965 purge brought a dramatic change to the lives of the hundreds to thousands of students or members of organisations who were sent abroad to the Socialist- and communist-bloc countries during this period. The shift in the fate of the nation that started with these waves of state-induced violence became further endorsed by the introduction of the 11 March 1966 Letter of Command (Surat Perintah Sebelas Maret 1966, Supersemar) by President Sukarno to General Suharto.11 This letter gave the latter the === [PDF page 149] === 120 Ratna Saptari authority to take the necessary steps to regain stability in the country. On 5 July 1966, a Decree was passed by the Provisional People’s Consultative Assembly (No. XXV/MPRS/1966) which stated that (a) Communist-MarxistLeninist teachings were against the national Pancasila philosophy; (b) those individuals or groups who followed the Communist-Marxist-Leninist ideology, particularly the Indonesian Communist Party, had, since the time of the national revolution, clearly shown attempts to demolish the legitimate government of the Republic of Indonesia through violent means; (c) therefore, firm measures should be taken towards the PKI and also towards their activities to spread Communist-Marxist-Leninist ideology.12 Based on this Decree, the PKI was disbanded, and all the organisations directly or indirectly affiliated to the PKI were prohibited and their members screened and persecuted. Control and surveillance of Indonesians abroad were conducted through all Indonesian embassies. Although there were some variations in the procedures, the screening process adopted by the Indonesian embassy in the Soviet Union provides a good example of how it was conducted. During the screening in the embassy, Indonesians living in the Soviet Union were given forms which they had to fill in, which said that they were loyal to the Sukarno government. Many of the students signed these forms. Those who had or were to finish their studies abroad received reminders from the Indonesian embassy to report immediately to prepare their return home. As Sungkono, who was summoned by the Indonesian embassy in Moscow to undergo screening along with other Indonesian students, states, In 1966, at the time I had not finished my study programme, suddenly we were summoned to go through a screening process. At that time, I had already heard that a big incident had happened in the homeland (di tanah air). This screening was meant to determine who had to go home and who didn’t have to. We were asked to fill in a form with questions around the G30S events, I was asked what my views were regarding the events. I said that I didn’t know exactly what had happened because I was far away. But I did say that I have a strong belief that Sukarno would be just. (Sungkono 2017, p. 9) However, by June 1966, he and other students, whose loyalty to the (new) Indonesian government was in doubt, had their passports revoked. This meant he was supposed to return home (with a laissez-passer letter) and could certainly expect harsh treatment on arrival. In an official letter, the Deputy Minister of Higher Education also stated that all students in communist countries had to be returned home to undergo ‘intensive indoctrination’ (Kurasawa 2015, 141). A more specific, step-by-step procedure can be seen in the case of Soeranto, who was a student of the English Faculty of the Patrice Lumumba === [PDF page 150] === Persecution through denial of citizenship 121 Friendship University in Moscow. In a letter, written on 4 June 1966 and signed by the Indonesian Cultural Attaché in Moscow, it was stated that the Central Government in Jakarta requested (without any explicit reason why) that he should go back to Jakarta and report to the Ministry of Higher Education and Science. If by the end of July 1966 he was not yet in Jakarta, the Indonesian embassy was ordered to revoke his passport. On 28 June 1966, a reminder (Surat Peringatan) was then sent to him, signed by Brigadier General M Jasin, who was the military attaché in Moscow and also the head of the screening team, stating that Indonesians should report to the embassy at the latest by 15 July 1966 (Letter No. 828/C/1966). It was stated in the letter that if they failed to report, their passports would be revoked by 1 August. It was also declared that Soeranto’s passport had been revoked as of that date, and that a certificate for Soeranto’s return to Indonesia would be available until the end of August. Simultaneously, a list of 25 students whose passports had also been revoked was circulated in a written announcement to the Indonesian community in the Soviet Union. The announcement also warned that ‘the Indonesian community … should not give any help to these persons, either material or moral in nature (Letter No. 852/R/1966).’13 Other students who heard about this process were dissuaded from complying with the request by the embassy to come and report themselves, and therefore they became stateless as soon as their passports expired, irrespective of whether they were part of an organisation affiliated to the PKI. The Soviet Union, with which Sukarno initially had good relations, was also the country to which DN Aidit, the head of the PKI, had sent his family prior to the military’s rise to power. His wife, Soetanti, studied medicine in Moscow and their two daughters had accompanied their mother since their primary school years. They would continue their student years in exile (Ibarruri 2015). Their mother returned to Indonesia on 27 September 1965, just a few days before the killing of the generals and although she went into hiding, she was eventually captured in December 1966 and imprisoned for 11 years (Isnaedi 2010). It was evident after the summary execution of DN Aidit on 22 November 1965 (Ricklefs 2001) that neither of his daughters could return home, not only because their passports were revoked but also because of the threat to their safety. In her testimony during the IPT 1965’s website launch, held on 17 December 2014, Ibarruri stated how being the daughter of Aidit was a guarantee for being excluded and excommunicated from the Indonesian community abroad.14 In Bulgaria, Aminah had obtained her scholarship to study medicine not from the Department of Higher Education and Science but from a grant provided within the framework of a collaboration between Gerwani (the Indonesian Women’s Movement) and the Bulgarian national women’s organisation. In 1966, students received invitations for a meeting at the embassy in Sofia which was followed up by subsequent meetings. These meetings usually took hours each time. If a meeting started early in the morning, === [PDF page 151] === 122 Ratna Saptari it would end late afternoon and if it started in the afternoon, it would end late at night. Sometimes the students had difficulty getting back to their dormitories because they closed at midnight. In the meantime, the embassy requested the students’ passports with the excuse that they would get new passports. The students subsequently received papers which were valid for three months. After a few days, when the students did not send statements of support for the new regime, their passports were revoked and new passports were not given to them. Only a few people who stated their support for the new regime got their passports back.15 Aware of the disappearances and violence already occurring in I ndonesia during that time, many of the students who were loyal to Sukarno were afraid and unwilling to report to the embassy. Since the summons were not all implemented at once, these individuals heard from others who had been interviewed and screened what the questions were that the embassy officials had asked them. These were, among others, their place of origin in Indonesia, the names of their parents and other family members, where they lived, where they worked, and which parties they were members of. For their own safety, and for the safety of their families, many were unwilling to respond to these summonses. Through this screening process, the Suharto regime would be able to obtain data regarding who they felt should be detained and discharged from their jobs. Relatives of exiles still living in Indonesia also faced problems if found to have contact with these individuals. In contrast, those who were able to prove their loyalties to the new Indonesian government were allowed to return home safely.16 In Romania, the procedure was conducted differently than in Bulgaria. The Indonesian embassy invited students to come to the embassy to be screened.17 A few students who were considered communists did not receive the invitation and most of those who did get invitations did not want to come. A decree issued by the embassy on 24 March 1965, signed (on behalf of the Indonesian Ambassador in Romania) by the TNI (Tentara Nasional Indonesia) Major General, Sambas Atmadinata, stated in summary that Since the G30S/PKI, there was a group of Indonesians, specifically students in Romania, who showed their sympathy to the G30S/PKI; The activities, attitude, and statements made by this group of students were hostile towards the Indonesian government; There were no good intentions from this group of students despite attempts by the Indonesian government as represented by the embassy in Romania; In an attempt ‘to prevent the political movement of the G30S/PKI,’ the passports of this group of students were to be revoked as of 24 March 1967. As was the case for all the students or individuals who had gone through this screening process, this decree instigated and reinforced the process of exclusion and stimulated also their alienation from the homeland. Chalik Hamid, === [PDF page 152] === Persecution through denial of citizenship 123 who was in Albania at that time, recalls that the passports of 15 people were revoked by Indonesian embassy officials.18 Having lost their Indonesian citizenship, they were given a permit by the Albanian government to stay in Albania for 25 years, but they were not allowed to travel more than 50 km outside Tirana, so that they never left Albania during all those years. He worked as an Indonesian translator for Tirana radio and also had to work in the iron factory producing tractors. Many Indonesian Student Association (PPI) members were also unable to return to Indonesia as they did not feel comfortable visiting the embassy to extend their passports, which expired after a number of years.19 Ibrahim Isa, who at the time was a representative of the AAPSO, attended the Tricontinental Conference in Cuba with nine other Indonesian students. Not long after he made a presentation at the conference, he was declared a ‘Gestapu agent’ and his passport was immediately revoked. The passports of students as well as representatives who had come to Cuba to attend the Tricontinental Conference were revoked in January 1966.20 In an interview with Endang Nurdin (2015), he stated, When my passport was revoked and my identity was eliminated (dicabut) it was as if I had lost my soul. It was very painful…. Since I was 15 I was already part of the Badan Keamanan Rakyat (People’s Security Council) which later became the Tentara Rakyat (People’s Army). I participated in the struggle against Dutch colonialism. My life is for Indonesia. I was also a teacher to educate … how come it can be like this now? Ibrahim Isa himself remained in Cuba for some time before moving to China for his own safety. He was offered work at the Asia Africa Research Institute in Beijing and stayed there for 20 years before he eventually moved to the Netherlands in 1986. Others in China also went through a similar process.21 Some were members of left-wing organisations or media, but others had been officially sent by the Sukarno government. Among the first category was Tom Iljas, a member of Pemuda Rakyat and IPPI at the time, who went to study at the Agricultural Institute in Beijing. Following the 1965 purge, he could not return to Indonesia and moved to Sweden in 1972 (Hill 2010, p. 47, n. 62). Among those who were sent to China by the government in December 1964 was Sarmadji. As already noted above, he was a school teacher and journalist who was in charge of the children’s rubric in Harian Rakyat (Aleida 2017, p. 52) and wanted to further his knowledge on extracurricular child education. When the military attaché took over the Indonesian embassy and the students were screened one-by-one, Sarmadji did not want to submit his passport, insisting he was a Sukarno loyalist. When he lost his right to Indonesian citizenship, he then lived in the school dormitory of the Peking National University (Aleida 2017, p. 53). Another example of someone who could be brought under both these two categories (as part of non-government and government === [PDF page 153] === 124 Ratna Saptari exchange) was Sobron Aidit, the brother of DN Aidit, who was a journalist for the Harian Rakyat and Bintang Timur newspapers and who had additionally worked as a high school teacher in Jakarta until 1963. He received an invitation to become a Professor in Indonesian Literature and Language at the Foreign Language Institute in Beijing in 1964. He additionally kept his role as a journalist, working for the Peking Review and later became a teacher at the Foreign Language Institute (Isa 2007). At first he stayed in Peking with his family, but during the Cultural Revolution (1966–76), many party members were sent to the rural areas to work as peasants, and he was also forced to stop his teaching and go to an isolated village about 220 km from Nanchang. As Hill recounts, he spent the mornings having to learn the theory of the Indonesian labour movement and the thoughts of Chairman Mao and in the afternoon he had to work in the fields (Hill 2010, p. 35). Slightly different from the experiences of those who came to study abroad with scholarships was the case of Suparna, one of the founders of the plantation union Sarbupri (Sarekat Buruh Perkebunan Republik Indonesia), established in 1947. He had become the Sarbupri secretary general in 1965 and a member of the Central Committee of the Central All Indonesian Workers Organisation (Sentral Organisasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia, SOBSI). Being part of the Gotong Royong Parliamentary delegation,22 he left for North K orea and China in September 1965, and it was during his visit to China, where he had to be hospitalised for health reasons that the putsch occurred. He could not return to Indonesia and spent the next 12 years in China, during that time, he could not have any contact with family members. He was one of the first of the 1965 exiles to obtain asylum in the Netherlands in 1978.23 Within Asia, apart from China, Vietnam was also a major receiving country for young students. One female student was sent to Vietnam by the Indonesia-Vietnam Friendship Association to study history in 1964 when she was about to turn 20.24 When the 1965–66 purge occurred, the Indonesian Ambassador, unwilling to accept the takeover of the government by the Suharto regime, resigned from his position, and the Embassy was then placed under the control of the military attaché. She only got information from the Japanese newspaper Asahi Shin Bun and from other Indonesians in Vietnam and decided not to come to the embassy for the screening process. Nevertheless, when an official form, which was a statement supporting Sukarno, was circulated by the Indonesian embassy in Hanoi for the students to sign, she still signed it, which further determined her fate of becoming an exile.25 In Japan, when the G30S purge occurred, Indonesia’s Minister of Religion, Saifudin Zuhri happened to be in Tokyo for medical care and discovered that he was placed on the list as a member of the Revolutionary Committee (Dewan Revolusi). Harsono, the ambassador in Japan, who was also a Sukarnoist, made a statement on 14 October 1965 that Sukarno had scorned the sadistic killing of the generals and rejected the Dewan Revolusi. When the Supersemar was announced in March 1966 and the news was received in Japan, the right wing PPI members attacked the Indonesian === [PDF page 154] === Persecution through denial of citizenship 125 embassy and took down the photo of Sukarno from the wall (Kurasawa 2015, p. 140). In the screening process, which was conducted by the Indonesian military attaché, the PPI leaders who were anti-communist, and who supported the decision to form an investigation team, were requested to make a list of names of those to be screened. In a PPI meeting on 21 May 1966, a resolution, mentioning 17 names of those who were thought to be ‘Gestapu puppet’ (antek Gestapu), was announced and signed by the head and the secretary general of the PPI.26 Twenty-five years after the screening process by the embassies abroad, these same lists of names of students whose passports had been revoked were sent to Indonesian embassies in Western Europe because it was known that many had moved there with the disintegration of many socialist countries following the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991. However, investigating the whereabouts of these former students was not an easy task, since many had died and others had moved from one place to another such that their residence could no longer be located. The sound of silence: the family situation of the exiles The forced exile of those who were abroad during the 1965–66 purge had clear and direct psychological, social, and political effects on them and their family members back home. When Chalik Hamid became an exile in Albania, his wife who had remained in Indonesia and who was seven months pregnant was taken away and put into prison. He was not able to be present not only when his wife gave birth but also when his mother, father, and brother died (Nurdin 2015). He explains, During the period in Albania, when my mother, father and brother died, I could not see them. Not only that, I also heard that my brother was hacked to death, and he was buried but then because they were not sure of his identity, they dug him up again and then just left him without burying him again. It is constantly in my thoughts, but what can I do?27 Sungkono, the student from North Sumatra who became an exile in Moscow, only heard about his mother’s death months after she had passed away. His brother communicated to him that his mother had gone to the Russian consulate in Medan a number of times to find out where her son was, but during that time, they could not make any contact at all. In other cases, communication was avoided because either the family in Indonesia did not want to run the risk of endangering their lives, or the exiles did not want to put their family at risk of being taken away by the New Order state apparatus. This is the case of one female exile who during her 14 years of exile in Vietnam intentionally did not try to contact her family and friends in Indonesia because she did not want to put them at risk. Highlighting the situation at the time she explained: ‘well, as you know, I lived === [PDF page 155] === 126 Ratna Saptari in the country of Ho Chi Minh, which was despised by Suharto.’28 It was in the last months of 1965 that a Vietnamese man who had just returned from his official post in Indonesia gave her letters from her family members. During this period, her father still took the risk of writing a short letter to her which said that she should stay in Vietnam and integrate with the Vietnamese community to struggle against American aggression there. Her mother also wrote to encourage her to stay optimistic. Many years later, in 1992, when her mother was able to visit her in the Netherlands, she told her that some military people had come to her house and said that her daughter’s passport was no longer valid and that she should return home. They also insisted that once she was home her mother should report her to state officials. Her mother answered them by saying, ‘please Sir look for my daughter and bring her back to me because I really don’t know where she is. I fear she has been killed by one of those horrible US bombs!’ According to her mother, the men left her alone after that. It was only after she managed to move to the Netherlands in 1981 under the family reunification policy that she and her husband were able and dared to get information about her family in Indonesia through her friends in Europe.29 Persecution by the state towards those who were labelled as ‘communists’ established political and psychological barriers on both sides, as exiles did not want to place their family members at risk by directly communicating with them while family members in Indonesia did not want to make any contact with those abroad for the same reason. In some cases, family members still in Indonesia knowingly misstated that their family members abroad were already dead. In the latter case, the psychological erasure of the existence of a living family member from their collective memory was done to protect their position within their own community. At the soft launching of the IPT 1965, held on 17 December 2014, Yusuf Sudrajat, as one of the younger generation of survivors, gave testimony to the fact that during his youth he was always told by his parents that his grandfather Suparna, who as noted earlier was a founder of Sarbupri (the plantation workers’ union) and also a PKI member, had died, although in fact he was still alive and had been in exile since 1965.30 It was only when he went to Holland to stay with his father who had moved to the Netherlands to further his studies, that he found out that his grandfather was still alive. Yusuf had always been taught in school about the horrendous cruelty of the PKI and therefore was at first scared to communicate further with his grandfather, but when he had learned more about the real history of 1965 he regretted that he had not been able to get to know him and his past more intensively.31 In some cases, it was only through support and intervention from international organisations or from other concerned individuals that the exiles were able to obtain information regarding their family members. Aminah who went to Bulgaria to study medicine in late September 1965, lost contact with her family members not long after she arrived in Bulgaria. She only learned about her father who died in 1966 and about her sister, a prominent member === [PDF page 156] === Persecution through denial of citizenship 127 of Gerwani, who was persecuted and imprisoned since 1966, from a member of Amnesty International, who went to Indonesia in the 1970s to visit her sister. In a somewhat different situation, Ibrahim Isa, who was living with his family in Cairo, but, as explained earlier, was attending the Tricontinental Conference in Cuba, had his passport revoked by the Indonesian embassy in Cuba. Being stateless in Cuba but under protection from the Cuban government, he then moved to China. After his move to China, he obtained information that his wife and children were to be arrested by the Indonesian military representative in Cairo and were to be brought back to Indonesia to force him to come back to Jakarta. However, with the help of his friends, his family were able to move to China and reunite with him there.32 The move to Western Europe After having resided for years in the socialist countries, with the upheavals in international politics, the fall of the Berlin Wall in 1989, the dissolution of the Soviet Union in 1991, and also the transformations in the relations between both Russia and China and the Indonesian government, the position of the Indonesian exiles in these countries became more vulnerable. In the late 1980s, the Indonesian government demanded that the Chinese government no longer protect the 1965 exiles (Hill 2014; Gurning 2011, p. 45). Letters coming from China were censored and the recipients of these letters were exposed to the risk of being linked to communism. Therefore, most of these exiles decided to move to Western Europe, in the hope that they could be safer there because of the idea that stateless people would be given some protection. In the period between the mid-1970s and early 1990s, many moved to the Netherlands because of Indonesia’s historical link with the Netherlands but also because of Dutch policy that immigrants born before 1949 in the (then) Netherlands Indies would be granted Dutch citizenship without too much difficulty. They were eventually able to obtain citizenship in these countries, but rarely could obtain jobs that matched their educational qualifications. Sungkono, who moved to the Netherlands in 1981 asserted that many Dutch people were sympathetic to the Indonesians who migrated to the Netherlands during that time. He stated that the head of the Dutch immigration department used to be a police commander in Indonesia and according to him this historical connection made it easier for them to follow the integration process. After arriving in the Netherlands and searching for employment left and right, he worked in a flower auction in Aalsmeer (Sungkono 2017, p. 10). Sarmadji was one of the first to move to the Netherlands from China, in 1976. He was able to obtain a residence permit and not long after that he found a job in a glass company where his daily task was to cut glass. Later, he became acquainted with a Surinamese group who could speak Javanese and was then asked to teach them how to write in Javanese (Nurdin 2015). One female exile arrived in the Netherlands in 1981 from China (and before that Vietnam) and was given refugee status. === [PDF page 157] === 128 Ratna Saptari As a refugee, she was allowed to take Dutch lessons in Nijmegen, and within three years she was able to get Dutch citizenship. In the same way, Ibrahim Isa, after having lived for 11 years in China with his family, decided to ask for asylum in the Netherlands in November 1987. Chalik Hamid moved to the Netherlands in 1989, because of the economic crisis in Albania, and not long after that took up Dutch citizenship because that was the only way for him to obtain the right to work and live in the Netherlands. In a situation where they were able to escape further persecution by the Suharto regime, many exiles initiated various organisational activities to highlight human rights issues and reflect on social and political conditions in Indonesia. Chalik Hamid, for instance, having studied literature and arts in Albania also became a member of the Indonesian History and Culture Foundation (Yayasan Sejarah dan Budaya Indonesia, YSBI) and has remained active in writing and reflecting on the political situation in Indonesia. Sarmadji attempted to provide a counter to the New Order version of the history of 1965 by setting up the Indonesian Documentation Association (Perkumpulan Dokumentasi Indonesia, Perdoi), which aimed to collect archives and documentation on Indonesian history related to the 1965–66 tragedy. A number of volunteers were mobilised to help in setting up a library consisting of documents related to the 1965–66 period. In France, Umar Said set up the Political Prisoners Committee in Paris together with Philippe Farine (head of the Catholic Committee against Hunger and for Development). They collected signatures from many prominent members of the French Socialist Party in a campaign for the rehabilitation of ex-political prisoners and against the prohibition of Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s books. Not all activities organised collectively were aimed at focusing on the history of 1965. For many, the past was too painful to constantly become the focus of attention and therefore some organisations concentrated more on social and cultural activities such as the Brotherhood Association (Perhimpunan Persaudaraan), chaired by Sungkono, and the Dian Foundation, which focuses on women’s issues and activism in Indonesia and also welfare policies for migrants in the Netherlands.33 Indonesian government responses in the post-New Order era During the New Order period, the political narrative and moral order maintained by the government prevented any form of contact between the former Mahid, the Persons Prevented from Returning Home (Orang Terhalang Pulang, OTP), and the Indonesian government. But during the presidency of Abdurrahman Wahid (1999–2001), this situation started to change. To deal with the situation of the OTP, Abdurrahman Wahid sent the then Minister of Law and Human Rights, Dr Yusril Ihza Mahendra, to the Netherlands in early 2000 to conduct a dialogue with political exiles regarding the rehabilitation of their political and civil rights. Prior to the arrival of Dr Mahendra, meetings had already been held in Jakarta on 6 January 2000 between the === [PDF page 158] === Persecution through denial of citizenship 129 Minister and exile representatives, including Gustaf Dupe and other activists from the Committee for the Release of Political Prisoners (Komite Pembebasan Tapol-Napol), Rahlan Nashidik, and others from the Indonesian Legal and Human Rights Support Association (Perhimpunan Bantuan Hukum dan Hak Asasi Manusia Indonesia, PBHI) and Wiyanto from the Indonesian Legal Reform Working Group in the Netherlands. The meeting between Yusril and exiles in the Netherlands was organised by the Indonesian embassy in The Hague. As many as 200 invitations from the embassy were given to MD Kartaprawira to distribute to exiles in Europe (including in the Netherlands, Germany, France, Sweden, and Czechoslovakia). The Indonesian ambassador at the time, Abdul Irsan, managed to improve relations between the embassy and the OTP community during his period in office (1998–2002) (Kartaprawira 2000). Abdurrahman Wahid, while President, intended to allow Indonesians who had been exiled to return to Indonesia and reclaim Indonesian citizenship.34 However, by the time Yusril Mahendra returned to Indonesia real change had yet to be implemented. This would remain the case until Wahid was removed from power and the cabinet fell in 2001. During the presidency of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, Law No. 12/2006 on Indonesian Citizenship was introduced. This law was an attempt to find a middle road to deal with Indonesians living abroad who had lost their citizenship, by giving them the opportunity to apply for a passport under the condition that they do so by 2009. According to this law, they were considered to have lost their citizenship because they had been away for five years or longer without reporting themselves to an embassy. In September 2008, Mohammad Andi Mattalatta, the Minister of Law and Human Rights, came to the Netherlands to conduct a ‘Socialisation of the Law on RI Citizenship.’35 The Indonesian exiles themselves had prepared an agenda to discuss with the Minister an alternative to the Citizenship Law. However, from the beginning, this event was clouded with a specific agenda. The Minister did not invite representatives from the exile organisations such as LPK65 (Institute for the Defense of 1965 Victims) and the Indonesian Brotherhood Association (Perhimpunan Persaudaraan Indonesia). This raised various questions among the exile communities, who asked whether this oversight implied their exclusion from those entitled to recognition. In 2010, another meeting was held in the Netherlands between Indonesian government officials and the exiles. Those present were the Director General of Public Law Administration of the Ministry of Law and Human Rights, Aidir Amin Daud; the Immigration Attaché, Sarno Wijaya; and staff and members of the LPK65, represented by MD Kartaprawira, Sungkono, Ibrahim Isa, and Gde Arka. The question raised by the Ministry was why the OTP issue had not been resolved, even though there had been opportunities to obtain passports and citizenship according to the procedure stated in the Citizenship Law No. 11, 2006. The answer given by Kartaprawira was that this meant they could go home but there would be no acknowledgement === [PDF page 159] === 130 Ratna Saptari that their statelessness and forced exile was a gross violation of human rights. The idea behind the provision of these passports at the time was, first of all, that there should be acknowledgment that a grave humanitarian injustice had been perpetrated against them and that there must be an apology to those whose rights had been transgressed. Furthermore, these violations should be resolved with the recognition and reinstatement of full civil, economic, and political rights. Therefore, the restitution of their citizenship is only one part of the resolution of this situation. They did not want their status to be considered as identical with those who had just disappeared or did not report to the embassy. There was also a suggestion by the Director General of the General Legal Administration (AHU) that they should write a petition to various state institutions including the President, The Constitutive People’s Assembly (MPR), People’s Representative Council (DPR), and Komnas HAM (National Commission on Human Rights). This suggestion was well received by the exile community. The exile representatives also stated that data regarding the 1965–66 mass killings had been circulating for the last 45 years and published in various media outlets, which should be sufficient grounds to enact a just and humane policy. However, there has yet to be a resolution to this issue. Conclusion It is clear that those who happened to find themselves outside Indonesia at the time of the 1965 purge continue to face many challenges. They also struggle to trace family members that disappeared during the 1965 purge. When Tom Ilyas, the exile who lived in Sweden, together with other family members, visited a mass grave in West Sumatra on 11 October 2015 with the hope of knowing where their father was buried, they were confronted by the local police and taken away for interrogation. This interrogation was conducted not only by the police but also by immigration officials which lasted for four days, eventually resulting in Ilyas’s deportation and prohibition from entering the country again. His two family members who lived in the area also heard that their houses were visited by military officials who approached the village head and questioned their neighbours regarding their daily activities in the neighbourhood. They were also warned that they would be regularly monitored. This case, together with the other narratives presented above, symbolically represents the persistent denial by the Indonesian State of the extreme injustice conducted by the state towards those considered to be communists or left wing who happened to be abroad during the 1965–66 purge. Acknowledgement I would like to express my deepest gratitude to Saskia Wieringa, Annie P ohlman, and Jess Melvin for their efforts in editing this book, and particularly to Jess === [PDF page 160] === Persecution through denial of citizenship 131 Melvin and also to Ben White who have carefully edited this chapter. My respect and admiration also go to the exiles, who have shown their perseverance throughout these years. Notes 1 The actual figures of these involuntary exiles are difficult to determine and can only be deduced from diverse sources, written or verbal. Referring to various sources, Hill estimates that the numbers were between 600 and 800 students by 1965. However, this may also have been an underestimation (Hill 2014, p. 624, n. 11). Agnes T Gurning, in her MA thesis on the 1965 ‘Political exiles in the Netherlands’ points to a government report on Indonesian Communism published by the Pusjarah TNI (2009), which stated that the number of Indonesian PKI members who were abroad during the regime change was as follows: 700 in China, 120 in the USSR, 11 in Czechoslovakia, 11 in Poland, 11 in Bulgaria, 5 in Hungary, and 16 in East Germany (Gurning 2011, p. 7). 2 According to Dharmawan Isak, an Indonesian delegation of around 40 people attended this event (Aleida 2017). 3 Apart from the scholarly work done by Hill, Dragojlovic Hearman, Mudzakir, and others, the data obtained for this chapter is based on interviews conducted in the Netherlands, in preparation for the 1965 International People’s Tribunal, between April and June 2015 and also in the period after the Tribunal. 4 A few examples can be mentioned. For the exile question in Chile, see Angell & Susan (1987) and Wright & Zúñiga (2007); for Latin America, Sznajder & Roniger (2009); for South African exiles in the UK, see Israel (1999). 5 Personal interview with MD Kartaprawira, 20 June 2015. This idea can also be seen in Ibrahim Isa’s choice of title for his book: Bui tanpa jerajak besi (Prison without Iron Bars) (Isa 2011). 6 Of particular significance are the works of David Hill (2010, 2014), Ana Dragojlovic (2010), and Vannessa Hearman (2010). 7 These organisations included among others: the Indonesian Youth Student League (Ikatan Pemuda Pelajar Indonesia, IPPI), People’s Youth (Pemuda Rakyat), Concentration of Indonesian Student Movement (Consentrasi Gerakan Mahasiswa Indonesia, CGMI), Institute for People’s Culture (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat, Lekra), Indonesian Women’s Movement (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia, Gerwani), or the PKI itself. Both Hill (2010) and Hearman (2010) also address the fact that there were internal tensions between the Russian- and Chinese-based exiles because of their different political orientations. 8 Personal communications with Ibrahim Isa before his passing in 2016. He was a school teacher from 1949 and then moved with his family to Cairo in 1960. Until his death in 2016, he was consistently active in following and commenting on human rights’ violations in Indonesia. See also Triyana (2011) and Isa (2011). 9 As Hill has also pointed out, the exact figures, based on country of origin, are difficult to obtain (2014, p. 624). 10 This conflict only to a certain extent reflected the ideological dimension representative of the different approaches of Russia and China. The Communist Party in Russia emphasised a more diplomatic approach, whereas the Chinese Communist Party emphasised a more militant approach. Both Sinuraya and Adjitorop wanted to be the ‘true’ representative of the PKI abroad (Hill 2010, p. 33). 11 There has been much debate and controversy regarding this document as (copies of) three versions have been found. These show, among other things, different formats, types of signatures by Sukarno, wording and length (both one and two === [PDF page 161] === 132 Ratna Saptari page versions have been found). Pambudi, among others, questions whether the disappearance of the original Supersemar document was intentional (2006, p. 90). 12 This decree was signed by General AH Nasution as the Chair of the MPRS and also by the vice chairs: Osa Maliki, HM Subchan, M Siregar and Brigadier General Mashudi. See www.hukumonline.com/pusatdata/download/lt50768aac11ee6/node/ lt50768a41ad5ab 13 The letter is dated 1 August 1966 and signed by the Indonesian Ambassador in Moscow. 14 Report by Hendra Pasuhuk, at the Soft Launching of the IPT 1965, 19 December 2014. See also, Pasuhuk (2014). 15 Personal communication with Aminah, 9 May 2015. 16 Personal communication with Aminah, 9 May 2015. 17 In 1965, according to the memories of the exiles, there were around 40 students. 18 He was the head of the Medan branch of LEKRA (Institute for People’s Culture) and was already involved in organising theatre events, and poetry readings in Medan. He then obtained a scholarship to study cinematography in Albania. These officials came from Czechoslovakia because the Indonesian embassy in Czechoslovakia and Albania were amalgamated. 19 Chalik Hamid was the head of LEKRA in Medan. See Mudzakkir (2015, p. 177). 20 For a study on the Indonesian exiles in Cuba, see Hearman (2010). 21 The Indonesian ambassador to China, who was considered to be pro-communist, was replaced by the pro-Suharto military attaché who took over control of the 22 The Gotong Royong Parliament (or the DPR-GR, People’s Representative Council of Mutual Assistance), was established in 1960 by Sukarno. The members of this parliament were appointed by the President during the Guided Democracy 23 See www.vijfeeuwenmigratie.nl. The documents are also kept at the International Institute of Social History in Amsterdam. 24 She was given a scholarship to study history and to investigate the question of whether the people of the archipelago were descendants of Vietnam or vice versa. Her name is kept anonymous upon request. Personal communication, 9 March 2016. 25 Personal email communication, 2 April 2017. 26 Kurasawa also referred to an announcement, made by the government through the national media, that those who were not willing to be repatriated would be dealt with accordingly. The national newspaper Harian Angkatan Bersendjata (21 May 1966) reported that 28 diplomats would be sent home, including one from Japan. 27 Due to the economic crisis in Albania, Chalik Hamid moved to the Netherlands in 1989 and became the editor of the YSBI (Nurdin 2015). 28 Personal email communication, 2 April 2017. 29 Personal email communication, 2 April 2017. 30 Suparna was part of the Indonesian DPR-GR delegation that went to North Korea in September 1965. He was hospitalised in China during the 1965 putsch. 31 International People’s Tribunal 1965 website launch, 17 December 2014. See also, https://socialhistory.org/en/events/international-peoples-tribunal-1965-websitelaunch 32 Personal communication, 22 March 2015. 33 Discussions with Sungkono and Aminah, 16 February 2018. Today, according to them, most second-generation exiles are rather distant from the history of their parents. However, there are signs that the third generation is more interested in finding out the background of their grandparents. 34 Abdurrahman Wahid went further and gave permission for 1,400 exiles to return home: 400 in Holland, 500 in Germany, 200 in England, 50 in Sweden, 100 === [PDF page 162] === Persecution through denial of citizenship 133 in France, 50 in Poland, 20 in Italy, 20 in Rumania, and 50 in Russia. They were mainly former diplomats, students, and journalists (Budiawan 2004, 44). 35 It was also during this period that Law No. 27 of 2004 on a Reconciliation and Truth Commission was annulled by Indonesia’s Constitutional Court. References Aleida, M 2017, Tanah air yang hilang: wawancara dengan orang-orang ‘Klayaban’ di Eropa, Kompas, Jakarta. Angell, A & Susan, C 1987, ‘The exile question in Chilean politics’, Third World Quarterly, vol. 9, no. 1, pp. 148–67. Budiawan 2004, Mematahkan pewarisan ingatan; wacana anti-komunis dan politik rekonsiliasi pasca-Soeharto, ELSAM, Jakarta. Dragojlovic, A 2010, ‘“Sukarno’s students”: reconfiguring notions of exile, community and remembering’, Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs, vol. 44, no. 1, pp. 53–81. Endang, N 2015, Kisah para eksil 1965: Mereka yang ‘dibui tanpa jeruji’, BBC Indonesia, 29 September 2015, viewed 27 August 2018, <www.bbc.com/indonesia/ berita_indonesia/2015/09/150928_indonesia_lapsus_eksil_bui>. Fanggidaej, F 2006, Memoar perempuan revolusioner, Galang Press, Yogyakarta. Feith, H 1963, ‘Dynamics of guided democracy in Indonesia’, in McVey R (ed.), Indonesia, Human Relations Area Files, New Haven, CT, pp. 309–409. Gurning, AT 2011, ‘Memory, experience and identity of the Indonesian political exiles of 1965 in the Netherlands’, MA Thesis, International Institute of Social Studies, Den Haag. Hearman, V 2010, ‘The last men in Havana: Indonesian exiles in Cuba’, Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs, vol. 44, no. 1, pp. 83–109. Hill, DT 2010, ‘Indonesia’s exiled left as the Cold War thaws’, Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs, vol. 44, no. 1, pp. 21–51. Hill, DT 2014, ‘Indonesian political exiles in the USSR’, Critical Asian Studies, vol. 46, no. 4, pp. 621–48. Hill, DT & Dragojlovic, A 2010, ‘Indonesian exiles: crossing cultural, political and religious borders’, Review of Indonesian and Malaysian Affairs, vol. 44, no. 1, Ibarruri, PA 2015, Kisah pengembaraan Ibarruri Putri Alam, Penerbit Ledarero, Jakarta. IPT 2017, Final report of the IPT 1965: findings and documents of the IPT 1965, viewed 27 August 2018, <www.tribunal1965.org/en/final-report-of-the-ipt-1965/>. Isa, I 2007, ‘Ibrahim Isa- berbagai cerita- Sobron Aidit sudah direhab masyarakat’, 31 March, viewed 27 August 2018, <http://ibrahimisa.blogspot.com/2007/04/ ibrahim-isa-berbagi-cerita-sobron-aidit.html>. Isa, I 2011, Bui tanpa jerajak besi. pikiran seorang eksil Indonesia di luar negeri, Klik Books, Jakarta. Isnaedi, HF 2010, ‘Roman cinta dan politik: Membaca novel ini kita seolah tak menemukan diri menulisnya, atau kekuatan karya-karya dia sebelumnya’, Historia, 23 March, viewed 27 August 2018, <https://historia.id/film/articles/romancinta-dan-politik-PzQ8v>. Israel, M 1999, South African political exile in the United Kingdom, St. Martin’s Press, New York. === [PDF page 163] === 134 Ratna Saptari Kartaprawira 2000, ‘Jalan pulang yang penuh perintang: antara kebijakan rekonsiliasi dan kekuatan pro-status quo’, Kabar Indonesia, no. 6, 1 February. Kurasawa, A 2015, Peristiwa 1965: persepsi dan sikap Jepang, Kompas, Jakarta. Lee, C 2010, Making a world after empire. The Bandung moment and the political afterlives, Ohio University Press, Athens, OH. Mudzakkir, A 2015, ‘Hidup di pengasingan: eksil Indonesia di Belanda (Living in exile: the Indonesian political victims in The Netherlands)’, Jurnal Masyarakat & Budaya, vol. 17, no. 2, pp. 171–84. Nurdin, E 2015, ‘Kisah para eksil 1965: Mereka yang ‘dibui tanpa jeruji’, BBC Indonesia, 29 September, viewed 27 August 2018, <www.bbc.com/indonesia/berita_ indonesia/2015/09/150928_indonesia_lapsus_eksil_bui>. Pambudi, A 2006, Supersemar palsu: kesaksian tiga jenderal, Media Pressindo, Jakarta. Panggabean, R 2015, ‘Eksil’, 1000 kata, viewed 27 August 2018, <www.1000kata. com/2015/02/eksil/>. Pasuhuk, H 2014, ‘Waktu tau saya anak Aidit, teman saya lari…’, DW, 19 December, viewed 27 August 2018, <www.dw.com/id/waktu-tau-saya-anak-aidit-teman-sayalari/a-18139880>. Pusjarah TNI 2009, Komunisme di Indonesia jilid V: penumpasan dan pemberontakan PKI dan sisa-sisanya 1965–1961, Pusjarah TNI (Center for the History and Tradition of the Indonesian National Army), Jakarta. Ricklefs, MC 2001, A history of modern Indonesia since c. 1200, 3rd edn, Palgrave Macmillan, New York. Sungkono, 2017, ‘Transparansi adalah tekanan kuat’, in Santoso, A, Mualim, Y & Pamungkas, L (eds.), Friends of International People’s Tribunal 1965, Dari beranda tribunal: bunga rampai kisah relawan, Friends of International People’s Tribunal 1965 & Ultimus, Bandung, pp. 8–12. Sznajder, M & Roniger, L 2009, The politics of exile in Latin America, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Triyana, B 2011, ‘Pengantar: sekelumit kisah Ibrahim Isa’ in Isa, I, Bui tanpa jerajak besi. pikirian seorang eksil Indonesia di luar negeri, Klik Books, Jakarta. Wright, TC & Zúñiga, RO 2007, ‘Chilean political exile’, Latin American Perspectives, vol. 34, no. 4, pp. 31–49. === [PDF page 164] === Mass graves, memorialisation, and truth-finding Saskia E. Wieringa On 2 May 2016, Bedjo Untung, Chair of the YPKP 1965 (Yayasan Penelitian Korban Pembunuhan 1965, Foundation for the Research on the 1965 Murder Victims), handed over to the National Commission on Human Rights (Komnas HAM, Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia) a list of 122 mass graves across Java and Sumatra which are estimated to contain the bodies of at least 13,900 victims of the 1965–68 massacres (Sapiie 2016).1 This number, though in itself staggering, may only be the tip of the iceberg. The list includes graves in 12 provinces across the archipelago; the highest number is in Central Java with 50 graves alone. But in each region, the number of mass graves is high. In Tuban, East Java, the site of one of the case studies discussed in this chapter, informants said they knew the location of 20 mass graves.2 Only a few mass graves in Kalimantan, Sulawesi, Bali, or further to the east of the archipelago have found a place on the list, which suggests that there are many more than the ones included in the list supplied by the YPKP 1965.3 Why did Bedjo Untung entrust the data to the National Human Rights Commission and not to the then Coordinating Minister of Security and Defence, Luhut Panjaitan, who had asked for them? Sadly, the reason is that the integrity of the graves cannot be guaranteed if the armed forces, via the Ministry of Defence, gets a hold of the data. The Minister had expressed his doubt that there were any massacres after the 30 September 1965 coup and had denied the existence of any mass graves (Jong 2016). He had also expressed his distrust of the often-cited number of 400–500,000 murdered after the 1965 coup, on the occasion of the National Symposium on 1965, held 16–18 April 2016. This National Symposium had been organised by the government in reaction to the hearings of the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) in November 2015. The activists from YPKP 1965, IPT 1965, and other human rights organisations were afraid that if they handed over the data on the mass graves, the YPKP 1965 had collected to the Ministry, the graves would be disturbed or even made to disappear before they could be properly investigated.4 In this way, important evidence of crimes against humanity might be destroyed, as happened in the process of exhuming the mass grave in Wonosobo, discussed below. === [PDF page 165] === 136 Saskia E. Wieringa This episode is symptomatic of both the silence which surrounds the existence of the many mass graves in Indonesia and the importance they have for both survivors and right-wing deniers of the genocide that began after the alleged 1965 coup (known as the ‘G30S Affair’; G30S—an acronym for the ‘30 September Movement’). Mass graves are both proof of the extrajudicial killings that were carried out at this time and proof of potential lieux de mémoire as sites of genocide (Nora 1984). To date in Indonesia, only a limited number of mass graves have been discovered, and even fewer are publicly acknowledged or have been exhumed. This chapter examines mass graves of victims from the 1965–68 genocide. I first discuss some issues around mass graves in Indonesia more generally: as genocide sites, as elements in the incomplete and halting process of truth-finding, and as locations for memorialisation. I will then discuss three mass graves located in Java: in Plumbon, near Semarang, Central Java; in Purwodadi, East Java; and in Tuban, East Java. Mass graves in Indonesia On the basis of the IPT Research Report and the 2012 Komnas HAM Report, the Panel of Judges of the IPT concluded that enforced disappearances occurred in the period following the G30S Affair (Gitting & Jarvis 2017, p. 75).5 Not only were the disappearances a serious violation of h uman rights, but the bodies of those victims were concealed and their names not released to relatives.6 This in itself is a violation of the G eneva Conventions. Under international customary law, the dead must be buried, if possible, according to the rites of the religion to which they belonged and, in principle, burial should be in individual graves.7 These graves should also be respected, marked and protected, and made accessible to relatives. None of this occurred in Indonesia. Probably, all those who disappeared were murdered and their bodies dumped in mass graves, rivers, deep wells, caves, or ravines. In contrast to Cambodia and Rwanda, where comparable genocides have taken place, there is scant attention paid in Indonesia to the mass graves and other genocide sites. In these two countries, the perpetrators of the genocides were defeated. In Indonesia, even after the fall of the military dictator, President Suharto in 1998, the power is still in the hands of those who prefer to deny a genocide took place and who thwart any effort at truth-finding (see Wahyuningroem 2013). Memories of the human rights violations after the G30S Affair are still shattered and dominated by the discourse of the perpetrators who blame the victims for their suffering. The army hides behind the fiction that the murders took place in a situation of ‘horizontal conflict,’ whereby the population carried out ‘spontaneous’ killings against suspected communists (see Melvin 2018). There is no institutional, discursive, legal, or political space in contemporary Indonesia to build a collective memory (Halbwachs 1992) or, rather, to build counter-memories to === [PDF page 166] === Mass graves, memorialisation 137 the hegemonic discourse of the army (McGregor 2007; Herlambang 2013; Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). Research on the mass graves might reveal a different truth and point to army responsibility, so that kind of research is not welcome in Indonesia. In Rwanda, the 1994 genocide formed a watershed in its history, which the state acknowledges in commemorations, memorials, and monuments (Brehm & Fox 2016). Thanatourism is well developed as every town and village houses its own genocide memorial, particularly for educational purposes (Friedrich & Johnston 2013). In Cambodia too, genocide sites such as the Tuol Sleng Museum in Phnom Penh help to establish a genocide narrative that encourages both the survivors and the younger generations to learn from the country’s genocidal past.8 Cambodia’s ‘killing fields’ have been extensively documented; hundreds of burial sites, prisons, and memorials have been recorded under the Cambodian Genocide Program (Jarvis 2002).9 Remembering and commemorating are important practices to create a climate in which ‘never again’ is a dominant theme. In Indonesia, on the other hand, while ‘1965’ was also a historical watershed, the victims of the genocide that followed are perversely still considered to blame for their own suffering and remain the subject of repression and stigma (Hutabarat 2011; Adam 2015). Efforts to shatter the hegemonic image of an anti-national, atheist, hypersexual, and murderous PKI (Partai Komunis Indonesia) whose members deserved to be murdered, by directing attention to the immense cruelty of the army and their civil henchmen, are thwarted by all means. Thus, the genocide sites across Indonesia have remained unmarked, and the atrocities committed there unremembered or at least unacknowledged, leaving the perpetrators free to commit more crimes; the sites can even be reused with impunity. This happened, for instance, in the cave of Luweng Grubuk, Gunung Kidul (Yogyakarta Special Region, Java), where possibly thousands of people were murdered and thrown into the 90 m-deep fissure in 1966. Many bodies were washed out to sea by the underground river that runs along the bottom of the underground karst system but human remains still lie scattered amongst the rocks at Luweng Grubuk. For many years after 1966, the local people refrained from collecting seaweed in the nearby beach at Baron for fear of coming upon rotting corpses or bones. In the 1980s, the location was seen as a convenient spot for the extrajudicial killings of criminals in nearby Yogyakarta, during the so-called Petrus killings (penembak misterius, ‘mysterious shootings’) (see Bourchier 1990).10 When climbers discovered the bodies, victims from both the 1960s and the 1980s were found, with bullet wounds in the backs of their heads. Forensic research at this site might yield information on the patterns of killings during both periods. Although the exact number of the mass graves in Indonesia is not known, the existence of genocide sites is an open secret (Roosa 2016). It is likely that local people all over the archipelago know the location of most sites; such knowledge has not been collected at the state level. After all, it was villagers === [PDF page 167] === 138 Saskia E. Wieringa who often dug the many mass graves or heard the shootings at night during the massacres. Or they themselves or relatives, or neighbours, participated in the killings. But such witnesses have kept quiet for fear of retaliation from the army or militias and many of them have died in the meantime, taking their stories with them. Only organisations of victims such as the YPKP 1965 have taken it upon themselves to collect such data. Occasionally, mass graves are detected when corpses are discovered, such as happened in Jembrana, Bali, in October 2015 (see Jaya 2015). This secrecy at the state level stands in sharp contrast to the shrill exclamations about the actions of the G30S Movement (see Chapter 1, this volume). The site where their victims were buried at Halim in South J akarta contains a museum and a monument; films were made, novels written, and history rewritten about these alleged events (Wieringa 2002; McGregor 2003, 2007; Herlambang 2013; Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). In contrast to these loud protestations about the G30S Movement, the actions of the perpetrators of the genocide were stealthy. Holes were dug at night, and people were arrested, collected from prisons, and murdered in the dark.11 After the killings, the army made institutional, legal, political, and cultural arrangements to hide its involvement in the mass disappearances, leaving families in despair and often destitute. During the New Order, mention of the killings was censored and public discussions prohibited (see Vickers 2010). Until now the brutal reactions against meetings of victims and efforts at truth-finding such as those of the IPT 1965 are intended to prevent the hegemonic army version of history from being disrupted (Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018).12 These memory wars are intended to keep the New Order’s ‘cultural archive’ intact (Said 1993). To this day, school curricula recycle the New Order’s version of history. The army is also trained to repeat the New Order propaganda in their regular training programmes.13 Exhumation of mass graves might disrupt the myth that the main victims of the ‘1965 tragedy’ were the 12 people murdered by the G30S group and that the PKI deserved to be annihilated as it was areligious, anti-national, and sexually perverse (Budiawan 2000, 2004; Wieringa 2002; Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). The Indonesian military power holders and rightwing religious groups are invested in the denial of the existence of the mass graves. If they were publicly acknowledged as lieux de mémoire―as sites where prayers for the dead would be held and flowers strewn―the perpetrators could no longer pose as victims of allegedly evil communists. Instead, inevitably commemorating the murdered would call attention to the actions of the perpetrators. The clearly defined New Order ideological dichotomy of victim/hero would be reversed. What glory is there for an army who shoots unarmed civilians in the back? What religious justification is there for slashing the throats of neighbours whose hands are tied by their thumbs? Personal memories are unreliable, seditious, shifting, and tendentious. But transformed into collective memory they turn into, as Ricoeur (2004) maintains, the ‘bedrock of history.’ How is this collective memory produced === [PDF page 168] === Mass graves, memorialisation 139 and reproduced? If they are hegemonic memories, they are consolidated in textbooks; street names; TV shows; and other cultural, political, and legal products. For the past must be kept alive, maintaining a community’s cultural archive is an active, conscious process. Identities are formed through this memory work (Brehm & Fox 2016). As Nandy observes, however, vulnerable, silenced communities also have shared memories where privileged truths are contested. The survivors of the 1965 genocide in Indonesia can be seen as a mnemonic community which, assisted by human rights activists, continues to engage with their traumatic past. These ‘memory banks … wait for appropriate moments to return as a form of resistance, to out manoeuvre the certitudes of policy elites, official histories and familiar canons of scholarship’ (Nandy 2015, p. 598). Through violence, sustained propaganda, and a hegemonic cultural praxis, the memories of the suffering of the victims of the 1965 massacres are not so much obliterated as replaced. This defiant memory is essential for selfhood in order to remind the victims that they are not evil, less-than-human as the perpetrators have portrayed them (Stone 2010). Or, as Nandy says, ‘the mnemonic does not obediently dissolve itself’ (2015, p. 599). These rebellious mnemonic processes can be brought to life by genocide sites such as mass graves. This is a major reason for the opposition by the perpetrators to their exhumation. Commemoration helps define the past and construct the future. This work is disrupted for those whose histories are abjected and whose memories of trauma are ejected from the cultural archive. In the process they are not only excluded from their own past, the past during their time of suffering, but also the time that came before, a time when they and their organisations were respected. For many survivors of the 1965 genocide, a proud history of involvement in the PKI and its associated organisations has also been lost. They are further denied their part in the present and the future of their communities. Indonesia has to come to terms with its genocidal past so that these atrocities may ‘never again’ happen. For this promise to be fulfilled, the survivors of the Indonesian genocide need to (re)appropriate their memories, which is an essential process to rebuild their families and their communities and to bring their defiant memories into the public sphere, so the Indonesian nation, as a whole, can incorporate them into the ongoing processes of nation formation. Genocide sites such as mass graves can help reconstitute the shattered subjectivities of the relatives of those who are no longer alive to bear witness. But this process is not only one of personal healing. The silence of the dead gives those muted by the New Order machinery the mandate to speak. Memorialisation then is not only a process of ‘homecoming,’ as Aguilar (2016) realises, writing about the violent history she experienced, but also of bearing witness to the atrocities committed. This need to bear witness motivated Sulami, a survivor of torture and unspeakable humiliation during her 20 years in prison and former leader of the women’s organisation, Gerwani, to document the truth about the massacres.14 As one of the founders of YPKP, set up in === [PDF page 169] === 140 Saskia E. Wieringa 1999, she initiated the first successful exhumation of a mass grave in the village of Dempes, Wonosobo, Central Java, in 2000.15 A list of those murdered at the site was available, as well as a family member of a victim. With the help of a forensic specialist (Dr Handoko from the University of Indonesia), several bodies were identified. The investigation also proved that the prisoners were shot with rifles used by the military. Unfortunately, the group did not manage to get the collaboration of Komnas HAM, so the exhumation did not fulfil the legal forensic requirements, aborting this effort as a step towards a judicial process, one of the aims of YPKP (see McGregor 2012). The remains of the identified victims were given to their families to be reburied. When the remains of the others were going to be reburied one year later, the process was brutally disrupted by a mob of militia members. These militia belonged to the right-wing Muslim group, Forum Ukhuwah Islamiyah Kaloran (FUIK). Coffins were broken open, and remains scattered and burnt (Zurbuchen 2002, pp. 579–580; Adhivira 2016). As McGregor (2012) suggests, the military was wary of a possible trial in the future and of the scope for memorialisation that the new burial site might provide. Yet the initial exhumation was preceded by a careful process of negotiation with religious and local authorities.16 At the time when this mass grave was exhumed in 2000, much of post-New Order euphoria after the disposal of the dictator, Suharto, still lingered. Even members of the youth organisation of Nahdlatul Ulama, Ansor, which had been involved in mass murders all over Java and Bali, helped in the excavation. Unfortunately, the possibility of reconfiguring history and memory was only partially realised in those early years of Reformasi (1998–the present). The most obvious remnants of the mnemonic technologies of the New Order had been removed (for instance, the atrocious film on the G30S Affair produced during the New Order was no longer shown on TV and in cinemas, while it had been compulsory viewing for the nation and particularly its school children since 1983). Yet the military caste has remained in control and educational reform has been halted, stultifying the capacity of the younger generations to critically explore their own past (van Klinken 2005; Leksana 2009). The mass graves in Indonesia resulting from the 1965–68 genocide are widespread. There are reports of mass graves from the far west of the country in Aceh to the far east on Alor Island, near Timor. In both cases, the military were the perpetrators (see Melvin, this volume; Melvin 2018). As Sir, Hinadang and Tiluata (2017) write, drawing on the testimonies of women about the sites in Alor, holes were dug at night in isolated places, where their husbands were murdered. Only recently have these women dared to visit them and to share their ‘forbidden memories’ (Kolimon, Wetangterah & Campbell-Nelson 2015).17 Mass graves then are sites for research, for truth-finding, and for memorialisation, both for the direct survivors and for younger generations. They can provide proof of particular overriding patterns the perpetrators used. They can also become genocide sites for transgenerational education. For === [PDF page 170] === Mass graves, memorialisation 141 the relatives of those murdered, they are sites of healing where they are able to honour the dead and conduct proper burial rites. Thus, they are both possible sites for the reconstruction of crimes and of mnemonic excavation. These are complex processes, however, and do not necessarily directly lead to reconciliation or justice. As Müller warns, ‘a shared truth might be impossible as long as political opponents remain trapped in collective memories of trauma and victimhood—or alternatively in the defensiveness and self-righteousness of the perpetrators’ (Müller 2002, p. 32). Visiting mass graves in Java After the wide reports on the militia violence which had affected the attempt to rebury the remains of the unidentified bodies in the mass grave in Wonosobo, victims’ organisations worked in silence to document the locations of other mass graves. Around the 50th anniversary of the G30S Affair, and during the preparations for the hearings of the IPT 1965 in November 1965, political tensions in Indonesia regarding 1965 increased. In October 2015, for example, the IPT coordinator in Sweden, Tom Ilyas, was detained while trying to visit a mass grave in West Sumatera where his father had supposedly been buried.18 He was interrogated for 18 hours by local authorities then deported. These examples show the great sensitivity surrounding the issue of the mass graves in contemporary Indonesia. Yet victims, human rights activists, and researchers are gingerly navigating the resistance of the army and militias, and several efforts have been made to visit and mark mass graves. Below I present an account of three mass graves I visited as part of research on the Indonesian genocide. Plumbon, Semarang In the last week of November 2015, Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and I visited Semarang, on a longer trip to socialise the results of the IPT 1965 hearings. We spoke with a journalist from the newspaper Suara Merdeka, Yunantyo Adi S, who is the coordinator of the Semarang Society for Human Rights (Perhimpunan Semarang untuk HAM) and an IPT activist. We also spoke with a group of students from various universities in Semarang (among them Rian Adivira, Arifin, Randy, and Unu Herlambang) who had conducted research around a local mass grave the existence of which was made public in 2014 (Aditya 2014). Probably, 24 bodies are buried in this mass grave. The students reported their finding to Komnas HAM so the mass grave could be legally exhumed, but Komnas HAM did not act. The group then wanted to rebury the bodies, but that too proved impossible. In the end, they managed to mark the grave and put up a headstone with the names of the victims which they had been able to ascertain. The ceremony inaugurating the headstone included Muslim, Catholic, and Javanese (kejawen) religious elements. === [PDF page 171] === 142 Saskia E. Wieringa As with other locations of mass graves, the site in Plumbon was known to the villagers as a haunted (angker) place.19 Stories about the mass grave included that, when it rained softly, a woman’s cries could be heard. She was identified as having long hair, covering her back. She was the one woman victim, and a well-known puppeteer (dalang) believed to have strong powers (kesaktian). She was also a local leader of Gerwani, and it was believed that she still had those powers. Visitors came from afar to make offerings and ask for her advice on lucky lottery numbers.20 On 25 November 2015, we visited the site itself. It is located some ten minutes’ walk into the forest on the edge of the village of Plumbon, in the Semarang regency of Central Java. We first picked up an older man called Pak Kelik who had first alerted Adi and the students about the mass grave in 2014. Pak Kelik is a lean man who was tending to his cassava plants on the field behind his home. He quickly changed into more formal clothes. He then guided us along a muddy road along the edge of the forest until we encountered a wooden sign with an arrow. Veering into the jungle, a narrow footpath led some 50 m away, invisible from the main path to an oblong space, surrounded by a low wall of bricks, about 7 × 10 m. In the middle of the open space, on a raised standard of bricks between two circles of round stones, a simple headstone is placed with the names of eight people whose identities the research team managed to ascertain.21 The text above the names reads: ‘Here lie 12 to 24 corpses.’ Below the names is written: ‘They fell [gugur] during the events of 1965. May they be received by His side. At the initiative of human rights activists, historians, journalists, students, religious leaders, the community and the regional government.’22 The local villagers in Plumbon of course knew all along about the grave. Out of respect for the dead, they themselves had placed the stones around the two burial sites. At first the owner of the forest, the state forestry corporation, Perhutani, was sympathetic to the request of Adi to mark the grave. Then for eight months he and his group of volunteers visited every house in the hamlet (dusun) close to the grave, as well as religious leaders and village and city officials, arguing that this was a humanitarian issue, and that the dead must be respected and remembered. Finally, these leaders and the villagers agreed that the grave should be marked. Though supportive, Perhutani remained wary and did not allow any trees to be cut down to make space for more people to visit or for the path to be paved. The civil and religious leaders whom they had approached attended the inauguration of the simple headstone on 1 June 2015, as did some police officers.23 Also in attendance were some relatives of the murdered (see also McGregor 2015). The Catholic priest who attended the ceremony, Father Aloysius Budi Purnomo, spoke about the need for reconciliation. Even the leader of Banser of Central Java, Hasyim Ashari, attended the event. Religious scholar Kyai Hambali and the priest offered prayers, the latter accompanying the event with his tenor saxophone. Flowers were strewn. The kyai also spoke conciliatory words, but added that ‘even terrorists and drug === [PDF page 172] === Mass graves, memorialisation 143 traffickers’ get proper burials, so these people should be buried properly as well (see Nurdin 2015). During the research prior to the inauguration of the headstone, the activists and students met Pak Sukar, who as a young villager out of curiosity had followed the truck with soldiers and prisoners when they had come roaring into the village one night. He had been ordered to light the place of execution with a torch.24 He had seen how the prisoners, between 12 and 24 of them, one of whom was a woman, had been forced to kneel at the edge of a big hole and were shot. Some died immediately; others, according to Pak Sukar, had some kind of special power, which made them invulnerable. But, he explained, to prevent them from being tortured they indicated themselves where their weak spots were so they could be killed straightaway. Some needed to be shot in their shoulders, others in their genitals. Before they were murdered the prisoners were allowed to say their prayers. Clearly, these were not the atheistic devils that the propaganda machinery of the generals made out. Pak Sukar recalled that he fainted. The military roughly covered in the holes which held the corpses with mud and left the scene. As it was the rainy season, the soil sank and feet and legs stuck out. The villagers then covered it up with a thicker layer of earth. This hamlet had few internal conflicts in the early 1960s. Most of the villagers were members of the Marhaen Youth of the Indonesian Nationalist Party (Partai Nasionalis Indonesia, PNI). They protected their few neighbours who were members of the PKI, Indonesian Farmers’/Peasants’ Front (Barisan Tani Indonesia, BTI), or any of the other leftist organisations. When the soldiers or members of Banser came hunting for remnants of leftist groups, the villagers hid them. No one in that village was murdered, but in neighbouring villages all PKI members and sympathisers were slaughtered. The prisoners who were killed in their forest all came from the other villages in the nearby district of Kendal. Moetiah, the female dalang who was killed, was also well known to the villagers for her efforts in combating illiteracy. The men who were killed and buried in the mass grave with her were members of the PKI, BTI, or Pemuda Rakyat (People’s Youth, the youth wing of the PKI). The soldiers who carried out the killings were from the RPKAD (Resimen Para Komando Angkatan Darat, Army Para-Commando Regiment), the unit led by Sarwo Edhie.25 They had ordered villagers from a neighbouring dusun to dig three holes. Eventually, two holes were filled with bodies. The third one remained empty. The two holes with bodies were marked by the villagers with a circle of stones. Later the activists added an oblong wall 1 foot high around the whole site. Adi told us that initially Perhutani was accommodating to their requests to establish a memorial site at the mass grave, but that their attitude changed in August 2015 when the military started meddling. According to the group, this was related to the heightened attention to crimes against humanity committed after the G30S Affair, when hopes were raised that President Jokowi === [PDF page 173] === 144 Saskia E. Wieringa would offer an apology and when the 50th anniversary approached. Adi and his group wanted to replace the trees on the site which have long roots with Cambodja trees which have short roots and which are normally seen at cemeteries as they do not damage the bones. So far, however, P erhutani has not given permission to replace the trees. As far as I am aware, this is the only marked mass grave in Indonesia which has been officially inaugurated as a memorial site. The process of researching and commemorating the mass grave has allowed Adi and his group to increase awareness of the ‘events of 1965’ among the local population. They held seminars and press conferences, have screened Oppenheimer’s film Senyap (The Look of Silence, 2014), and organised a book launch of the Final Report of the Panel of Judges of the IPT 1965. East Java: mass grave in Kebun Raya, Purwodadi It has long been known by locals in the area that there was a huge mass grave in the botanical gardens (Kebun Raya) of Purwodadi, East Java, next to the village where Nursyahbani grew up. The villagers consider the place haunted (angker). Journalist and novelist, Nusya Kuswatin, who grew up close by, had said in the documentary ‘The Women and the Generals’ (2012) that she had been prohibited to play there when she was a young girl.26 But until we heard the story of Pak Sakimin (a pseudonym), we had not known the exact location of the grave in the vast gardens. He was a family friend and often came to visit Nursyahbani. On one of his visits (26 December 2013), a conversation began about the massacres of 1965–66 in the neighbourhood. Nursyahbani and her friend, Patria, who had been primary schoolgirls at the time, talked of how they had watched prisoners being forced to crawl along the road to the botanical gardens, after which they were never seen again. Many perished along the way, or were murdered and thrown into the river. On their way to school they often saw decapitated bodies. Pak Sakimin nodded; he had attended the lower secondary school at the time and had witnessed similar sights. But this happened before the mass killings, he added. The women then discussed the fate of Mrs Asiong, who allegedly had been raped and murdered by one of the killers of her husband. Suddenly, Pak Sakimin spoke up and gave his own version of the murder of Pak Asiong and the fate of his wife. He knew what had happened to them, he said, as he had been forced to accompany the band of killers that night. We all sat in shock. That day Pak Sakimin hesitantly, crying at times, told the terrible things he had witnessed and participated in during the killings in their area in 1966. For almost 50 years, he had told no one that he had been involved in one of the most gruesome mass murders in East Java. He was afraid that we would now see him as a butcher (algojo). He worried that his family would be very upset, and that they would be harassed by the Muslim groups, some of whose members are their neighbours and were also involved in the mass === [PDF page 174] === Mass graves, memorialisation 145 murders, when word got out that he had spoken about the ‘open secret’ of the involvement of Ansor in the massacres in their region.27 He and his family might be seen as syrik, polytheists. More than six months later, on 9 August 2014, he agreed to be interviewed formally. During this interview, Pak Sakimin spoke about how he had been first told to join a group of friends of his elder brother to murder the popular Pak Asiong, the trainer of the village’s Pemuda Rakyat soccer team. Pak Asiong had been accused of refusing to train the rival team of Ansor members who now came to take revenge. He was dragged out of his house and brutally slaughtered in front of the sub-district office. The next day neighbours found his mutilated body and buried him next to the river in front of the office. After this gruesome night, Pak Sakimin was ‘invited’ again to join the gang of murderers. He was told that he would be murdered himself if he refused. For one month, he was forced to join the gang of Banser murderers and tasked with carrying the Petromax, the big oil lamp to light the way and the scene of slaughter. Thus, he saw how people were killed first-hand. As Pak Sakimin explained, every night for at least 30 days in the months of February and March 1966, a truckload of people―between 20 and 30 men―would arrive, their mouths gagged, and their hands tied behind their backs by their thumbs. They were sent by military headquarters from nearby villages and the Koramil office in Purwodadi, where some Banser members would join in loading them on to confiscated trucks. They were unloaded from the open truck around midnight in the middle of the botanic gardens. A rivulet runs through the gardens, which makes a large bent—which was where a big hole had been dug, 5 × 5 m wide by 3 m deep, to construct a fish pond. It would never be used for that purpose. Once unloaded, the prisoners were led to the edge. They were made to kneel and their throats were slit. Sometimes their ears and noses were also cut off or their genitals. Or their eyes were gouged out. Thus, hacked to death, they were thrown forward over the edge, in a neat row. They were then covered with sand, so the next night a fresh batch of prisoners could be murdered, and their bodies dumped on top. The prisoners were all classified A, B, or C. Here in Purwodadi, Pak Sakimin said, most of them were Category C. The Category A group was mostly in Jakarta or in Surabaya. He described the Category C prisoners as the ‘lightest’ category, they could still be ‘guided’ (dibimbing), for they ‘could still become more religious.’ So most of them were saved. That is, they were not abducted, but detained and guarded by Banser, on the orders of the soldiers at the Koramil (local military command post).28 So that they would not revolt. They were all passive, not dangerous (dingin, lit. cold). But class B prisoners were the leaders of the branches of the leftist organisations so they were abducted and brought to the Koramil office. There were Category C people too, particularly those thought to be ‘clever’ (cerdas). Most of them were later released and had to report to the Koramil every week. But if they were Category B prisoners, they were taken during the night. They never came home. === [PDF page 175] === 146 Saskia E. Wieringa Pak Sakimin never went back to the botanical gardens. In May 2014, we decided to search for the location of the mass grave. We set off in our jeep, Pak Sakimin nervously looking for signs he remembered from nearly 50 years earlier. While we were slowly driving around, Pak Sakimin cried out: ‘There! That palm tree! That is the border!’ We got off and descended to the small rivulet, to an open spot surrounded by palm and other trees. A nisan (small grave stone) was placed by the side, confirming that this was indeed a grave. We prayed for the souls of those who were so brutally murdered there. Pak Sakimin passed away in May 2015. In the meantime, he had taken us to the locations of three more mass graves in the tea plantation of Wonosari (on the slope of the Arjuna volcano towering above the nearby village of Lawang) where he had worked his whole life. Once, after heavy rains, a landslide had occurred near the upper edge of the plantation. When the workers went there, they saw the remains of nine people sticking out of the mud. One of them was a woman. Her pelvis was broken by a bamboo stick. Their clothes revealed they had belonged to the middle classes. Pak Sakimin later found out that guards in early 1966 had heard the trucks coming into the plantation at night but that they had never known the exact location where they went until the landslide had uncovered the bodies. Nobody knew the identities of the victims. Pak Sakimin and the other plantation workers prayed for the dead and covered their bones again. Two smaller graves were found in the same huge plantation, closer to the houses of the workers. The plots were left vacant, though the edge of the village was nearby. In the botanical gardens there is another, smaller mass grave, we later heard, but we have not yet found the exact location. Villagers living near the edge of the gardens told us that they heard the trucks, the shouts of the soldiers and Banser members, and the cries of their victims. The following morning they found places where the soil had been dug up. We have not yet been able to interview these villagers. We discussed the mass grave with a victims’ organisation in Surabaya, the capital of East Java. On 4 October 2014, members of KontraS Surabaya (the Surabaya office of the Commission for the Disappeared and Victims of Violence) and the IPT 1965, accompanied by some survivors from the region around Surabaya, held a modest memorial service at the mass grave in the botanical gardens, offering flowers and prayers. When we last visited the mass grave (17 February 2017), the nisan had been removed again, on the orders of the director of the gardens. In the deteriorating political climate following the hearings of the IPT 1965 and the 50th anniversary of the G30S Affair, he was afraid the nisan would attract undue attention. He did not want the site to become a lieu de mémoire, nor did he want to attract the attention of Muslim hardliners. The director of the botanical gardens back in 1965 was amongst those who disappeared at the time. It took us some time to find the spot again, as we could not openly inquire where the mass grave was. This time we were accompanied by Pak Herlambang (a pseudonym). As a teenager, he lived in the village across === [PDF page 176] === Mass graves, memorialisation 147 from the main gate to the botanical gardens. Pak Herlambang recalled how, during the massacres, each morning he and some other villagers would go to find the place where they had heard shouts the previous night. The bodies were not always covered carefully and one morning he saw two of his uncles who had disappeared a few months earlier. His father had also disappeared and, after this gruesome discovery, his mother sent him away; she did not want to lose her son as well. Pak Herlambang also knew that many members of the local football team who had been coached by Pak Asiong were buried there. The leader of the Banser gang responsible for the slaughter, Pak Santoso (a pseudonym), had let it be known that anybody who wanted to join his team had to bring three right ears.29 It did not matter to whom these ears had belonged. If they could not find members of leftist organisations, love or business rivals would do just as well. Thus around the neighbouring villages of Lawang and Purwodadi, there are at least five mass graves, among which is the large one in the botanical gardens, containing approximately 6–800 bodies. The locations of these mass graves are still known by plantation workers and villagers, but this information is not publicly shared. People speak in whispers under conditions of anonymity. The fear of reprisal, more than five decades after the mass killings, is still great. None of the bodies have been exhumed and so far hardly any names of the dead are known. Research in the villages closest to the mass graves has not yet been carried out, as the atmosphere is still very tense. Genocide sites in Tuban, East Java After the hearings of the IPT 1965, a small Dutch feminist funding organisation offered a modest amount to do ‘something festive and nice’ with women survivors. The Dutch feminists were shocked by the testimonies of sexual violence and by the conditions of stigma and poverty in which their Indonesian sisters lived, and hoped that this small gesture might alleviate some of their pain. After some consultations, we decided that the money could be most fruitfully used by a group of survivors in Surabaya with whom we had worked previously. When Nursyahbani and I discussed the offer with them, they decided their priority was to visit the site where most of them had been imprisoned in Lamongan, as well as a nearby mass grave in Tuban, where relatives and comrades had been buried. After their release from the detention centre in Lamongan, they had never visited those places again. On the way we could stop for a nice lunch in a restaurant along the beach. The preparations for the event took many months. Ibu Dewi (a pseudonym), who is the informal leader of the group, went up and down to Tuban a few times with a friend of hers, Pak Gus (also a pseudonym). During these consultations, we gradually became aware of the difficulties these women faced. The difficulties arise, first of all, from the threat posed by external groups. The women spoke about how they were all under surveillance from neighbours or even family members. The threat from fundamentalist === [PDF page 177] === 148 Saskia E. Wieringa groups is real for these women and other survivors of the 1965 genocide. The threat posed by these groups has been exacerbated in recent years; the neo-fascist campaign among right-wing groups in Indonesia which began in mid-2015 called the ‘New Style Communist Movement’ (Komunisme Gaya Baru, KGB) is one example of recent campaigns which directly threaten those who would allegedly ‘bring back communism.’ Such campaigns have incited a new wave of anti-communism in contemporary Indonesia (see Miller 2018). Survivors fear not only for their personal safety, but also for the abjection their children and other family members may experience. If it would become known that a group of ex-political prisoners was planning to visit mass graves, the trip might be stopped by violent means, as happened to Pak Ilyas. Thus, the women’s journey to visit the former detention camp and mass grave sites had to be planned to ensure everyone’s safety. This was achieved by ensuring that all logistical arrangements were taken care of by teman (lit. ‘friends’)—in this case, people belonging to victims’ families or sympathetic rights’ activists. The restaurant chosen for the lunch, located near the beach, has a chef who is the son of a 1965 victim. More importantly, the driver of the bus was Pak Herlambang, who had also accompanied us to search for the mass grave in the botanical gardens in Purwodadi. Pak Herlambang had been a fugitive from violence himself, moving around and doing odd jobs all over the archipelago for 30 years. He had been looking for his father all this time, searching among the labourers in the harbours he passed through and among the beggars in the streets he travelled. He never saw his father again. Now he has returned to his village and found a job as a guard in a newly established Islamic religious school (pesantren). This school has a big bus, which has been used, for instance, to transport right-wing Muslim protesters to the mass demonstration in Jakarta on 2 December 2016.30 For our event, however, it was rented to drive a group of survivors of the killings. The bus is green, and has the name of the pesantren prominently displayed, in Latin and Arabic script. Everybody, including the film-maker who joined us, was warned not to take pictures with the name of the school on it, out of fear that the identity of Pak Herlambang would be revealed. With this teman as our driver, everybody was relaxed. It meant we would be able to talk freely inside the bus. The bus itself was also seen as a type of protection, as it would guard the participants against the probing eyes of local militia members or of members of the security apparatus. But there were also internal difficulties to resolve. Ibu Dewi’s group of women survivors is a tight-knit one made up predominantly of former teachers, who all trust one another. Ibu Dewi runs a small fund (arisan) from which many members profit, but which is always losing money as it is also used to contribute towards the funerals or medicines of members. Relations with the teman in Tuban also had to first be established before the outing could be planned, and a mass grave selected among the many in the area which would be safe to visit. === [PDF page 178] === Mass graves, memorialisation 149 We left early in the morning of the event to pick up the old women and men from nearby Sidoarjo and Surabaya. By noon we had arrived in L amongan, where the notorious rice warehouse is located and where the women had been imprisoned in inhumane conditions for many years. Ibu Dewi herself was only 19 when she was arrested; she had just started her first job as a kindergarten teacher in a nearby village. She and her fellow detainees were tortured and starved at the warehouse. From the road, there are no signs of the atrocities committed behind the row of houses and restaurants. We parked in front of a bus from a pesantren, full of old people hungry for a tasty bowl of soto Lamongan (Lamongan soup). While we were waiting for our soup and drinks, Ibu Dewi and I peeped out the back door. There, she said, in that far corner, sometimes a sympathetic former employee of the warehouse would leave some rice for us. We were so hungry, we were even eating banana leaves at the time. When the employee was discovered, he too was arrested and later murdered. After a few years, Ibu Dewi was released with hundreds of other women. The remaining women from the warehouse detention centre were taken to the women’s concentration camp at Plantungan in Central Java. I walked to the old shed which stands in the middle of a large yard. Inside, there were a group of men playing snooker. The men only knew that the old warehouse had been a shed where bicycles were parked for the cinema next door, which had itself already been demolished. Tuban was still some way off, and the group decided to skip the planned early dinner and visit the mass grave first. Before we went to the mass grave site, we first had to pick up some other teman from Tuban; they were the ones who would take us to the village where sympathetic inhabitants knew the location of one of the largest graves in that district. We were interrupted by a heavy downpour, and it was already late afternoon when we finally arrived at our destination and we all set off along a 3 km walk into the former teak plantation. The father of the present owner of the plantation had heard the trucks and the gunshots. We were brought to a far corner of his land which, unlike the rest of the former plantation, was not planted with corn and cassava under the towering teak trees. Instead, the land is covered with secondary jungle. The plantation owner cut back the bushes for us, and we filed into the space between two big mounds of clay which had not been smoothed over; between them was a hole into which the victims had been thrown. Here too inhabitants of another village had been ordered to dig a hole 3 m deep and 6 m long. We prayed and distributed the flowers we had bought along the way. One of the survivors said his elder brother was killed here. His grandfather was one of the soldiers on duty that night. When he saw his grandson among the prisoners who were about to be killed, he asked to shoot him himself, so that he would not have to harbour a grudge against one of his colleagues. He would rather bear the grief himself. Everybody was deeply moved. The teman in Tuban know the locations of some 20 mass graves. But not all are accessible; some are surrounded by villagers who are not sympathetic. === [PDF page 179] === 150 Saskia E. Wieringa The farmers of the dusun where we visited the mass grave site are helpful; they are all related, and there are no fanatical Muslims among them. We thanked them profusely. Though we did not have the lunch on the beach as planned, the survivors were satisfied. They were happy that they had at least been able to honour the dead and that they had been together and sharing stories. The nice lunch could be enjoyed another day. The solidarity from the feminist friends in faraway Holland was also deeply appreciated: the world has not forgotten us, though our own country’s leaders do all they can to intimidate and haunt us, they said. Conclusion Of the three mass graves discussed here only one, in Plumbon near Semarang, can be visited openly. Though it is not easily accessible, it is a place of commemoration. The names of those who were known to be buried there will be remembered. Their relatives and other survivors can honour and remember them. Having a place to mark and commemorate the dead is important for the surviving family members. As long as they remain uncertain about the fate of their disappeared relatives, they cannot properly mourn. As Adhivira (2016) reminds us, making the names of those murdered known to the public also allows the victims themselves to rise from their anonymity and from their ambiguous state between being alive and dead. As disappeared, their fate was unknown. As people killed, and buried in a mass grave, their deaths can be spoken of as a crime, and they become witnesses to the genocide in which they were murdered. The memorialisation can turn an anonymous, haunted place into a lieu de mémoire, giving both the survivors space to mourn and the victims a voice. At the collective level, these genocide sites should become educational tools to help the younger generations to understand their own history and to contribute to a shared commitment to ‘never again.’ In this way, the impunity of the perpetrators is not lifted nor is criminal justice served, but a form of symbolic justice may be achieved (Wolfe 2014, cited in Adhivira 2016), and the heavy stigma faced by the survivors lifted. In another way, the sharing of the stories of those involved in the mass graves may contribute to some form of reconciliation. This may not be the case in relation to the direct perpetrators, but perhaps for the many people who were complicit in the genocide: those forced to dig holes and to hold the lamps at the places of execution, the guards, the administrators, the judges, the doctors, and all the many others who have so far not spoken about their acts during the killings may be encouraged to share their horrific, guiltridden stories with the survivors and come to some kind of closure. This kind of memory work is needed to establish mnemonic communities within which reconciliation can be attempted, even if only at the local level. Pak Sakimin, for instance, was consumed by shame, fear, and guilt. The horrors of what he had witnessed weighed heavily on him. He was greatly relieved to finally === [PDF page 180] === Mass graves, memorialisation 151 be able to share his story. His closeness to the actual horrors of the time did not allow him to forget or deny the extreme cruelty with which the army and the associated militia had treated their victims. In him, the continued terror exercised by the military and the right-wing religious groups among which he lived effectively caused him to keep his stories secret, even from his beloved wife and children. His silence during the past 50 years testifies to the effectiveness of the campaign of terror and the hate propaganda of the S uharto regime. His speaking up allowed his children a unique insight not only into the history of their father but also into that of the nation. And it allowed us to better understand the mechanisms which the murderers had used. Research into these mass graves which lie across Indonesia can bring to light overriding patterns of the genocide. Even the few examples discussed above are revealing. In their similarities they clearly suggest common patterns, particularly with regard to how the killings were coordinated by the military. These patterns also relate to the secrecy of the operations (the care taken to hide the traces of the mass murders) and to the methods of killing (only the army had firearms and the militias used sharp weapons). The mass graves may also reveal more about how the executions were organised and the logistics of these operations (for example, usually trucks were confiscated, and prisoners were systematically selected from the overcrowded prisons where they were held). Preliminary conclusions that can be drawn from these mnemonic excavations point to a chain of command, an army hierarchy in which the militias played the role of implementing orders from above. The precautions that must be taken to visit these mass grave sites and make them public expose the continued dominance of New Order ideology and institutions. Only one mass grave so far has been turned into a lieu de mémoire, and that only after years of research and work with the community. This site is hidden from view, in contrast to the glaring monuments erected to celebrate the victory over what was the third largest communist party in the world. It will take many years before all mass graves will be properly marked and the victims buried in them recognised and honoured. Then, hopefully, can the memory work needed to heal the nation and to lift the stigma of the survivors be done in earnest. Notes 1 YPKP 1965 was formed after YPKP (Yayasan Penelitian Korban Pembununah 1965/66), established in 1999 by the ex-political prisoners Sulami and Pramoedya Ananta Toer, split. Toer went on to lead the LPKP (Lembaga Penelitian Korban Pembunuhan, Institute for the Research on Victims of the Killings). See also Purbaya et al. (2016) which contains a map with the rough locations of the mass graves Bedjo Untung submitted. 2 Interview by the author with a group of survivors in Tuban, 14 February 2017. 3 In Bali, for instance, only one mass grave is mentioned on the YPKP 1965’s list, while Leslie Dwyer before the IPT 1965 testified that she and Degung Santikarma === [PDF page 181] === 152 Saskia E. Wieringa knew of some 80 mass graves on that small island alone. See also Chapter 5 in this collection and Santikarma (2005). 4 These concerns were discussed in several weekly meetings of Forum 1965 in April and May 2016. Forum 1965 was formed after the hearings of the IPT 1965 and consists of representatives of various victims’ organisations and activists of IPT 1965. When in Jakarta, I regularly attend these meetings. The members also have a WhatsApp group of which I am a member. 5 The Komnas HAM 2012 report on 1965 has never been published, see Tim Ad Hoc Penyelidikan Pelanggaran HAM yang Berat Peristiwa 1965–1966 (2012). 6 Relevant International Customary Law includes the 2006 International Convention for the Protection of All Persons from Enforced Disappearance, GA Res. 61/177, 20 December 2006, A/RES/61/177; 14 IHRR 582 (2007). 7 See the 1929 Geneva Convention for the Amelioration of the Condition of the Wounded and Sick in Armies in the Field, Article 17; Second Geneva Convention, Article 20; Third Geneva Convention, Article 120; and Fourth Geneva Convention 1949, Article 130. 8 Violi (2012) calls this museum a ‘trauma site’: a material testimony of the violence and horror that took place there. 9 This programme, with a team of 50 researchers in three locations (Phnom Penh, New Haven, and Sydney), set up the Cambodian Genocide Databases (CGDB) using both GPS and local informants (see Jarvis 2002). 10 See the documentary film, Rantemas (2006), on the mass grave at Luweng Grubug. 11 See, for instance, the accounts of how victims were taken and killed in these mass graves by members of Indonesia’s military and their co-opted civilian militia counterparts in the films The Act of Killing (2012), The Look of Silence (2014), and Jembatan Bacem (2013). 12 See the Narrative Report of the hearings of the IPT 1965 on the website (www. tribunal1965.org) for an overview of meetings disrupted (Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2016). See also Chapters 1 and 2 of this anthology. 13 An example is a PowerPoint presentation probably by the National Intelligence Agency (Badan Intelijen Negara, BIN)—at least the last slide closed with their symbol, velox et exactus, to the Army Training Center in Bandung. It circulated in various WhatsApp groups in February 2017. It calls on the officers to be aware of the danger of communism, and lists Hitler and Mussolini as socialist leaders among Stalin, Lenin, Mao, and Pol Pot. The present-day guise of communism in Indonesia takes the form of ‘soft power’ and allegedly includes NGOs which fight for pluralism and diversity, and are funded by China, according to these intelligence personnel. 14 See Wieringa (2002) for a history of Gerwani. See also Sulami (1999). 15 Earlier they had tried to excavate a mass grave in Blora but failed (McGregor 2012, p. 237). 16 This exhumation is well documented. For instance, Lexy Rambadeta produced a documentary film in 2002, Mass Grave. See also McGregor (2012, 2015). 17 The research carried out about the human rights violations after the G30S A ffair in the Eastern Indonesia province of NTT (NusaTenggara Timor) is the first of its kind there. Besides the military, right-wing Christian groups were involved in the massacres. Under the guidance of progressive church leaders such as Mery Kolimon and the Faculty of Theology of the Artha Wacana University, research was carried out by members of the Network of Women of Eastern Indonesia for the Study of Women in Religion and Culture (Jaringan Perempuan Indonesia Timur untuk Studi Perempuan Agama dan Budaya, JPIT SPAB). Women from this project testified during the hearings of the IPT 1965 in The Hague. === [PDF page 182] === Mass graves, memorialisation 153 18 See Katjasungkana and Wieringa (2016) for references to news coverage. See also El Faruki (2015). 19 In Pati, for instance, villagers reported having seen ghosts without a head around the site of a mass grave there. See Priyanto (2016). 20 From interviews with the activists. See also Purbaya et al. (2016). 21 The names read as follows: (1) Moetiah (the Gerwani member), (2) Soesatjo, (3) Darsono, (4) Sachroni, (5) Joesoef, (6) Soekandar, (7) Doelkhamid, (8) Soerono, and (9) others. Some family members had known their loved ones were buried there and had visited the site. The villagers shared their names with the researchers who then went to visit them. 22 The word gugur is generally used for those who are killed in a war and who are considered heroes. 23 See for a video of the ceremony, go to https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t Ce65TLuEgw (‘Peresmian nisan kuburan massal ’65 di dusun Plumbon Kota Semarang’, Yunantyo Adi S. 2015). See also Parwito (2015). 24 For Pak Sukar’s account, see Parwito (2014). 25 On the role of RPKAD in the massacres, see Jenkins and Kammen (2012). 26 Nusya Kuswatin is the author of Lasmi (2009), a book on an East Javanese leader of the women’s organisation, Gerwani. 27 After that whenever he visited us, we would discuss the horrifying events of those years. Once he was accompanied by his daughter and her husband, a mariner. The daughter was very upset that her father told these stories which she had never heard before. 28 Komando Rayon Militer, military command at the sub-district level. 29 Pak Santoso later raped and killed Ibu Asiong, as she refused to marry him. 30 These mass demonstrations drew more than one million protestors to Jakarta, where they demanded that the Governor of Jakarta, Ahok, be jailed. He faced a charge of blasphemy based on the manipulation of a speech he had held in his campaign for re-election. On these events, see Lim (2017). 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Brehm, HN & Fox, N 2016, ‘Narrating genocide: time, memory and blame’, Sociological Forum, vol. 32, no. 1, pp. 1–23. Budiawan 2000, ‘When memory challenges history: public contestation of the past in post-Suharto Indonesia,’ Southeast Asian Journal of Social Science, vol. 28, no. 2, pp. 35–57. === [PDF page 183] === 154 Saskia E. Wieringa Budiawan 2004, Mematahkan pewarisan ingatan: wacana anti-komunis dan politik rekonsiliasi pasca-Soeharto, ELSAM, Jakarta. El Faruki, A 2015. ‘Kisah Tom Iljas, diusir dari Indonesia karena Ziarah ke makam orang tua’, Tempo.co, 18 October 2015, viewed 30 January 2017, <https://nasional. tempo.com/read/710584/kisah-tom-iljas-diusir-dari-indonesia-karena-ziarahke-makam-orang-tua>. Friedrich, M & Johnston, T 2013, ‘Beauty versus tragedy: thanotourism and the memorialisation of the 1994 Rwandan genocide’, Journal of Tourism and Cultural Change, vol. 11, no. 4, pp. 302–20. Gittings, J & Jarvis, H (eds.) 2017, Final report IPT 1965, Ultimus, Bandung. Halbwachs, M 1992, On collective memory, University of Chicago Press, Chicago, IL. Herlambang, W 2013, Kekerasan budaya pasca 1965: bagaimana Orde Baru melegitimasi anti-komunisme melalui sastra dan film, Marjin Kiri, Serpong. Hutabarat. FR (ed.) 2011, Stigma 65: Strategi mengajukan gugatan class action, LBH, Jakarta. Jarvis, H 2002, ‘Mapping Cambodia’s ‘killing fields’’, in Schiefeld, J, Johnson, WG & Beck, CM (eds.), Matériel culture: the archaeology of twentieth century conflict, Routledge, New York, pp. 91–103. Jaya, GN 2015, ‘Warga Jembrana akan bongkar kuburan massal korban tragedy 65’, Merdeka, 11 October, viewed 30 January 2017, <www.merdeka.com/ peristiwa/warga-jembrana-akan-bongkar-kuburan-massal-korban-tragedi-5. html>. Jenkins, D & Kammen, D 2012, ‘The army para-commando regiment and the reign of terror in Central Java and Bali’, in Kammen, D & McGregor, K (eds), The contours of mass violence in Indonesia, 1965– 68, NUS Press, Singapore, pp. 75–104. 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Leksana, G 2009, ‘Reconciliation through history education: reconstructing the social memory of the 1965–66 violence in Indonesia’, in Bräuchler, B (ed.), Reconciling Indonesia: grassroots agency for peace, Routledge, London, pp. 175–92. Lim, M 2017, ‘Freedom to hate: social media, algorithmic enclaves, and the rise of tribal nationalism in Indonesia’, Critical Asian Studies, vol. 49, no. 3, pp. 411–27. McGregor, K 2003, ‘Representing the Indonesian past: the National Monument, history museum from guided democracy to the new order’, Indonesia, vol. 75, pp. 91–122. McGregor, K 2007, History in uniform: military ideology and the construction of Indonesia’s past, NUS Press, Singapore. === [PDF page 184] === Mass graves, memorialisation 155 McGregor, K 2012, ‘Mass graves and memories of the 1965 Indonesian killings’, in Kammen, D & McGregor, K (eds.), The contours of mass violence in Indonesia, 1965– 68, NUS Press, Singapore, pp. 234–63. McGregor, K 2015, ‘Humiliation and dignity in contested efforts to memorialise the victims of the 1965 violence in Indonesia’, paper presented at Emotions and Memory: Humiliation and Dignity in Asia, Australian, and European Memories of Violence, School of Historical and Philosophical Studies, University of Melbourne, Parkville VIC, 12–15 November, unpublished. McGregor, K 2016, ‘Cold war scripts: comparing remembrance of the Malayan emergency and the 1965 violence in Indonesia’, South East Asia Research, vol. 24, no. 2, pp. 242–60. Melvin, J 2018, The army and the Indonesian genocide: mechanics of mass murder, Routledge, London and New York. Miller, S 2018, ‘Zombie anti-communism? Democratisation and the demons of Suharto era politics in contemporary Indonesia’, in McGregor, K, Melvin, M & Pohlman, A (eds.), The Indonesian genocide of 1965: causes, dynamics, and legacies, Palgrave Macmillan, New York. Müller, J-W 2002, Memory and power: studies in the presence of the past, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Nandy, A 2015, ‘Memory work’, Inter-Asia Cultural Studies, vol. 16, no. 4, pp. 598–606. Nora, P 1984, Les lieux de mémoire, Gallimard, Paris. Nurdin, N 2015, ‘Makam korban 1965 disarankan dibuka untuk umum’, Kompas. com Regional, 3 June, viewed 15 February 2017, <http://regional.kompas.com/ read/2015/06/03/12500781/Makam.Korban.1965.Disarankan.Dibuka.untuk. Umum>. Oppenheimer, J 2012, The act of killing, DVD, Final Cut for Real, Denmark. Oppenheimer, J 2014, The look of silence, DVD, Final Cut for Real, Denmark. Parwito 2014, ‘Ini pengakuan Mbah Supar, saksi mata pembantaian PKI di Semarang’, Merdeka.com, 1 December, viewed 15 February 2017, <www.merdeka. com/peristiwa/ini-pengakuan-mbah-supar-saksi-mata-pembantaian-pkidi-semarang.html>. 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Roosa, J 2016, ‘The state of knowledge about an open secret: Indonesia’s mass disappearances of 1965–66’, The Journal of Asian Studies, vol. 75, no. 2, pp. 281–97. Said, E 1993. Culture and imperialism, Random House, New York. === [PDF page 185] === 156 Saskia E. Wieringa Santikarma, D 2005, ‘Monument, document and mass grave: the politics of representing violence in Indonesia’, in Zurbuchen, M (ed.), Beginning to remember: the past in the Indonesian present, Singapore University Press, Singapore, pp. 312–24. Sapiie, MA (2016) ‘Activists report 122 mass graves of 1965 victims across Java and Sumatra,’ The Jakarta Post, 3 May, viewed 30 January 2017, <www.thejakartapost.com/news/2016/05/03/activists-report-122-mass-graves-of-1965-victimsacross-java-and-sumatra.html>. 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Wahyuningroem, SL 2013, ‘Seducing for truth and justice: civil society initiatives for the 1965 mass violence in Indonesia’, Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, vol. 32, no. 3, pp. 115–42. Wieringa, SE 2002, Sexual politics in Indonesia, Palgrave/McMillan, Houndmills. Wieringa, SE & Katjasungkana, N 2018, Propaganda and the genocide in Indonesia: imagined evil, Routledge, New York, forthcoming. Wiludiharto, Y 2013, Jembatan Bacem, DVD, ELSAM & Pakorba Solo, Jakarta. Violi, P 2012, ‘Trauma site museums and politics of memory: Tuol Sleng, Villa Grimaldi and the Bologna Ustica Museum’, Theory, Culture & Society, vol. 29, no. 1, pp. 36–75. Zurbuchen, MS 2002, ‘History, memory and the ‘1965 incident’ in Indonesia’, Asian Survey, vol. 42, no. 4, pp. 564–81. === [PDF page 186] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965–66 Adam Hughes Henry The report of the final judgements of the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) is an examination of one of the most ignored crimes against humanity committed during the twentieth century. The Indonesian massacres of 1965–66, upon which the IPT 1965 report is based, illustrate how universal human rights (and international law) can be ignored in the pursuit of political self-interest and the human consequences marginalised. The numerous Indonesian victims of this crime have become, in the words of British foreign policy historian Mark Curtis (2008), ‘unpeople.’ This chapter will examine the use of anti-communist propaganda which was an important contributor to political instability during the period and provided justifications for the army-slaughter. The IPT 1965 exemplifies an important and necessary corrective to the deliberate silencing of these crimes in Indonesia. By trawling through the documentary record, collecting eyewitness accounts, and clarifying the nature of these crimes, the IPT 1965 shows that evidence about these atrocities is, in fact, well documented in Indonesia, the US, the UK, and Australia. This research has focused on explaining accountability behind the killings, the methods used, and the demographic scale of the killings. The IPT 1965 found that crimes against humanity had been committed during the time of the massacres. The Indonesian military under the authority of Major General Suharto violated numerous international laws regarding human rights and crimes against humanity.1 The IPT 1965 details throughout its findings how the crimes committed breached standard post-Second World War international law.2 The IPT 1965 also shows how these crimes were knowingly supported by outside actors. The army found strong civilian and religious support within Indonesia which enabled the destruction of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI, Partai Komunis Indonesia), the eventual toppling of President Sukarno in 1967, and the deaths of hundreds of thousands of Indonesians. The IPT 1965 also demonstrates that these crimes received significant outside support from the US, the UK, and Australia among others. One of the ways in which this support was provided from the outside was by anti-communist propaganda and related activities. === [PDF page 187] === 158 Adam Hughes Henry The IPT 1965’s findings regarding crimes against humanity and genocide in Indonesia during 1965–66 closely examine the question of outside complicity (see Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2015, pp. 95–108). In Washington, London, and Canberra, the Indonesian army found strong support for their political ascendency, irrespective of the terrible crimes they committed. These sources of international support go a long way in explaining why crimes against humanity in Indonesia during the Cold War were considered irrelevant. One of the ways in which this complicity was demonstrated was through an anti-Sukarno and anti-communist propaganda conducted by the Americans, British, and Australians. These activities demonstrated the willingness of each country to condone, ignore, and even assist the crimes for political reasons. To explore questions of complicity, the chapter will briefly highlight the motivations of the Americans, British, and Australians, which helped justify their support for the perpetrators of the massacres (the army). Each provided varying forms of assistance such as common propaganda, intelligence, and logistics. Motivations The IPT 1965 narrative report and final judgement called on a wide range of documents, research expertise, and testimony to make its findings (see Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2015). The motivations of those parties such as the Americans, British, and Australians who provided support to the Indonesian army reveal a range of confronting issues of great relevance to scholars. Their diplomatic support was motivated by the hope of strategic and political gain even if this came at the expense of ordinary Indonesians (Hawley 2016). Indifference, or ignoring the suffering of others, when there is no legal obligation of oversight is unlikely to be a crime. If there is legal oversight not discharged, then this could become a question of negligence or at the very least moral cowardice. The complicity (in the context of this chapter) illustrates that outside parties assisted a third party in the commission of an egregious crime. The US, the UK, and Australia were complicit in the mass atrocities in Indonesia in 1965–66 by knowingly aiding the perpetrators of the massacres while they were occurring. They are complicit in their failure to condemn these crimes, and they are complicit by embracing the key perpetrators as an Indonesian government in waiting. These actions were in knowing contradiction to the relevant UN conventions and any notion of universal human rights.3 To outline how various political and strategic motivations led to outside complicity in the events of 1965–66, a brief diplomatic timeline is necessary. Since the late 1940s, particularly after communist victory in China in 1949, Indonesia became a major preoccupation of US planning (Simpson 2008).4 Once the US used its diplomatic clout to finally end Dutch efforts at reclaiming the Netherlands East Indies (NEI) in 1949, Indonesia became central to its regional Cold War planning. The emergence of Sukarno as === [PDF page 188] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66 159 an independent-minded nationalist in the 1950s (interested in the politics of non-alignment), and the growth of the Indonesian Communist Party by the later 1950s and 1960s, corresponded with an uncompromising US anti-communism global in its scope and ambitions (see McMahon 1999). Well before 1 October 1965, Washington, London, and Canberra were hostile toward President Sukarno and fearful of the rise of Indonesian Communism. This hostility had developed throughout the 1950s and was only heightened by political developments in the 1960s. By 1957–58, when grievances between the eastern islands, northern Sumatra, and Jakarta led to regional rebellions against the capital, the rebels were directly supported by the CIA, and this clandestine US effort was secretly supported by London and Canberra (Mann 1994; Kahin & Kahin 1997; Curtis 2007). This intervention ultimately failed to break apart Indonesia and undermine Sukarno, but it did herald a shift in US aid policies toward the Indonesian army.5 Military links through US aid built connections with those in the army Washington considered more anti-communist. While the US engineered a settlement on West New Guinea (WNG), triggering a human rights catastrophe for West Papuans and undermining long-standing Australian objections to the Indonesian claim, by the 1960s there were mounting frustrations that Sukarno’s Indonesia was not cooperating sufficiently with US Cold War objectives (see Doran 1999; Saltford 2003). For the British and Australians, noted allies of the US in the Cold War, there were anti-communist concerns, but each also had distinct interests in developments within Indonesia. British strategic and economic interests in Southeast Asia were heightened (as they were in Africa) with the independence of India and Pakistan in 1947 (see Curtis 2003, pp. 316–43; Thomas, Moore & Butler 2008, p. 16). The economic importance of Malaya after the Second World War saw the British laying the groundwork for maintaining its economic privileges into a post-independence future (Curtis 2003, pp. 335–36). The British war against a communist inspired Chinese-Malay anti-colonial rebellion from 1948, for example, known as ‘The Emergency,’ was in many respects a war ‘in defence of the rubber industry’ (Curtis 2003). In relation to Indonesia, the British also had financial concerns threatened by Sukarno’s economic policies. Dutch investments continued to dominate Indonesian economic life after independence but in 1957 Sukarno nationalised all Dutch-owned plantations (see Redfern 2010). After the failed rebellion of 1957–58, Sukarno (already hostile to colonialism in Asia), hardened his opinions about US and British power. For the Australians, the growth of the PKI by 1957 and the strategic reality of Indonesia being on Australia’s northern approaches had strained relations between Canberra and Jakarta; Australia’s ongoing opposition to Sukarno’s claim over West New Guinea being the strongest example of this reality (see Doran 1999). When British plans to establish The Malayan Federation were opposed by Sukarno as neocolonialism, he instituted the policy of Konfrontasi (‘Confrontation’). From 1962, British and Australian forces were engaged in Borneo in limited === [PDF page 189] === 160 Adam Hughes Henry warfare against Indonesian military incursions (see Mackie 1974; Easter 2004). This period was one of grave concern for the British and for the Australians who feared the implications of a wider war. Ending Konfrontasi by force was seriously considered and, by September 1964, the UK with Australian support had developed plans to attack the Indonesians by destroying its air force and navy, but this plan was not enacted.6 In the case of the UK, the economic costs of dealing with Sukarno by the mid-1960s were a serious source of consternation.7 Propaganda Before 1 October 1965, the US were conducting anti-communist information activities in Indonesia.8 On 23 February 1965, the US government approved continued psychological warfare activities aiming to ‘develop black and grey propaganda themes for use within Indonesia and via appropriate media assets outside Indonesia [to] portray the PKI as … increasingly ambitious, dangerous.’9 Anti-communist propaganda had become a routine part of the US and the UK Cold War activities from the late 1940s, and the UK methods had proved influential in Australia (see Henry 2015). On 3–4 August, there were discussions held between the US, the UK, and Australia about radio broadcasts into Indonesia (see Easter 2005). Bradley Simpson noted that these propaganda activities were designed to encourage tensions within Indonesian society and politics (see Simpson 2008). Political tensions and developments within Indonesia were closely observed by W ashington, London, and Canberra, but they were still surprised by the events of 1 October (see Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2015, pp. 80–81).10 However, they would not fail to quickly use events in Indonesia to their own advantage. Almost immediately from 1 October, information guidance from Keith Shann (Australian Ambassador) framing an anti-communist and antiSukarno narrative was provided to the Australian Department of External Affairs (DEA) with the aim of influencing Radio Australia (Australian Broadcasting Corporation) news broadcasts in Australia and back into Indonesia (see Najjarine & Cottle 2003; Henry 2014). The UK Information Research Department (IRD) in Singapore, a specialist and secretive propaganda unit within the Foreign Office established after the Second World War, were advised by the CIA on 1 October of the need for ‘black radio’ and that the Americans were ‘recruiting Indonesian speakers’.11 Radio Australia, Voice of America and the BBC (and media reporting outside Indonesia itself), were naturally important sources of information. The news organisations broadcasting into Indonesia were viewed differently by many Indonesians from local media, and criticism or hostility from such sources toward the Indonesian army after 1 October would have been noted. From 2 October, Shann informed Canberra that the Indonesian ‘army [had] closed down the communist press while ensuring the continued publication of military newspapers … and the English language Jakarta Daily Mail. === [PDF page 190] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66 161 [The army took] control over Radio Indonesia and the Antara news agency, which was the main supplier of news carried by Indonesian radio stations and newspapers.’12 The Indonesian army were therefore quickly controlling the main local press. While it seemed possible that there was some PKI involvement, assigning clear responsibility for the ‘coup’ was little more than conjecture. For example, on 9 December 1965, the Australian Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC) concluded that ‘evidence of actual PKI involvement―that is of prior planning by the Central Committee―[was] largely circumstantial.’13 Yet from 1 October the Indonesian army, Australians, British and Americans (in Jakarta) found no difficulty in assigning blame for the ‘coup’ (see Henry 2016). A lack of clear evidence made little difference to the US, the UK, and Australian diplomats in Indonesia who were guiding propaganda and other clandestine measures. Even the muted PKI response on 2 October in its own newspaper, advising its members that events were an ‘internal army affair’ and they should not become involved, could be treated as suspicious (see Roosa 2006, p. 63). The main concern of the anti-communist propaganda campaign was never to establish responsibility, but to discredit and undermine the PKI and Sukarno. The Indonesian army, positioning itself to conduct a wide-scale anti-PKI purge, quickly went on the propaganda offensive forming an ‘ostensibly civilian organisation called the Action Front for Crushing the September 30th Movement’ under army oversight on 2 October (Roosa 2006, p. 63).14 On 4 October, George Ball, Under Secretary of State for Economic and Agricultural Affairs in the administrations of John F. Kennedy and Lyndon B. Johnson, told James Reston from the New York Times that ‘this is a critical time for the army…If the army does move they have the strength to wipe up earth with the PKI and if they don’t they might not get another chance.’15 The events of 1 October would provide an excellent opportunity to undermine the PKI and Sukarno through information warfare. On 5 October, military parades for Armed Forces Day were cancelled, becoming a ‘procession for the seven slain’ generals and the army newspaper Angkatan Bersendjata published an article accusing women from the Gerwani organisation of torture and genital mutilation of the dead generals (Roosa 2006, p. 63). As the work of Saskia Wieringa (2002) highlights, this sexual slander was an integral part of the anti-communist backlash to come. There was, of course, no corroborating independent evidence to suggest that this accusation was true, the results of the autopsy were not made public and, as noted by Wieringa, this story was sensational in its cultural implications within Indonesia. In fact, the official autopsies, discovered by Anderson over two decades later found no evidence of genital mutilation at all (Anderson 1987). By 5 October, four days after the actions of the 30 September Movement, the Indonesian army had outlined an entire PKI conspiracy, including the mutilation story through a ‘130-page book that chronicled the events of October 1 and accused the PKI of being the === [PDF page 191] === 162 Adam Hughes Henry mastermind’ (Roosa 2006, pp. 63, 277).16 The Australian and British archival documents highlight there was no interest in testing or being cautious about the allegations being made by the Indonesian army. On 5 October, Sir Andrew Gilchrist, the UK ambassador, informed the Foreign Office that ‘I have never concealed from you my belief that a little shooting in Indonesia would be an essential preliminary to effective [political] change…’17 Also on 5 October, Marshall Green, the US Ambassador, advised Washington about how to ‘shape developments to our advantage’ by [blackening the name] of the PKI and its ‘protector, Sukarno [by spreading] the story of the PKI’s guilt, treachery and brutality.’18 Along with the prominent narrative of communist treachery, the mutilation of the generals would later be explicitly highlighted by Gilchrist as a key propaganda theme. The Americans, British and Australians were quick to support this anti-PKI effort throughout the period and had no way of corroborating the truth of such allegations let alone proving any direct PKI conspiracy in the coup. The PKI had a large membership, but it was certainly not an army designed for military struggle. On 6 October the PKI issued its official denial of responsibility for the events of 1 October (Roosa 2006, p. 64).19 The one sided possibilities of widespread repression carried out by the army were certainly known. On 8 October, the CIA reported that the army leadership had ‘met on that day and agreed to implement plans to crush the PKI’ (cited in Roosa 2006, p. 277).20 In this period, the possibility of widespread army retribution against its perceived enemies was obvious. Shann, the Australian Ambassador, wrote to Canberra on 8 October that ‘if ever there was a time for the army to act to smash the PKI as an effective political force, it is now. But will it happen?’ (Roosa 2006, p. 277). On 12 October, Richard Woolcott, the first specialist Public Information Officer (PIO) in the DEA, briefed superiors about the guidance being provided to Radio Australia: a. Radio Australia should, by careful selection of its news items, not do anything which would be helpful to the PKI and should highlight reports tending to discredit the PKI and show its involvement in the losing cause of the 30th September movement. b. [Woolcott noted that] the most recent briefing given to Radio Australia, yesterday afternoon [11 October], was to the effect that what was emerging was a struggle between the army and the PKI with the former holding the initiative and the later somewhat discredited because of its involvement in the 30th September Movement. Whether or not Sukarno had acquiesced in the Untung coup, his p olitical power and prestige had been undermined to a degree which made it unlikely that it could be restored to its former level even if his health lasted.21 Woolcott’s briefing closely resembled the ongoing information guidance being received from Shann in Jakarta. === [PDF page 192] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66 163 The killings were well underway but there were few concerns from the British about the potential human costs of army retribution. On 13 October, Gilchrist advised the Foreign Office that British propaganda activities ‘should explore PKI brutality in murdering Generals and [General] Nasution’s daughter … PKI subverting Indonesia as agents of foreign communists … But treatment will need to be subtle, e.g. (a) all activities should be strictly unattributable, (b) British participation or co-operation should be carefully concealed.’22 The following day the British also assured the Indonesian army that [it]would not escalate [UK resistance] to the [policy of] Confrontation while the [Indonesian] army was dealing with the communists …With the approval of London, on 14 October [General Nasution’s aide was informed] that the British did not intend to start any offensive military action.23 With the pace of the army response against the PKI quickening, the Australians, British, and Americans were clearly aligning themselves with the ultimate objective of the Indonesian army—the destruction of the PKI. As killings and mass arrests began to increase, contacts between the Indonesian Army and US were emerging; for example, the US embassy compiled lists of various left-wing Indonesians and provided these names to the army (Kadane 1990).24 The killing and repression also corresponded with continued army propaganda efforts to help justify these drastic actions. On 23 October, Suara Islam reported that millions of copies of the text of a proclamation of the counterrevolutionary Gestapu…have been recovered…. The text…was obviously printed in the CPR [People’s Republic of China]. Steel helmets and a large quantity of military equipment have also been found…. There is incontrovertible evidence of the CPR’s involvement…. The arms sent by the CPR were shipped under cover of ‘diplomatic immunity.’ …other important documents offer irrefutable evidence of the involvement of the CPR Embassy and the CPR ambassador… (cited in McGehee 1990, p. 57) Without verifying or being cautious to disassociate themselves from such claims, the US, the UK, and Australia continued to undertake their propaganda operations in the face of increasing killings and repression.25 To enhance British efforts, information warfare specialist Norman Reddaway took control of the IRD in Singapore. Reddaway wrote that he was sent by the FO because Sukarno’s Confrontation of Malaysia and Singapore was costing us [the UK] about 250 Million Pounds a year in the early 1960s. Under === [PDF page 193] === 164 Adam Hughes Henry [Defence] Ministerial Patronage [Denis Healey] and Ambassadorial pleas [Gilchrist], I was sent to Singapore in late October 1965 to ‘do anything I could think of to get rid of Sukarno.26 Reddaway took great pride in his career as an information warfare specialist and Indonesia was an episode he recalled with fond memories. In 1996, he offered a fascinating outline of IRD methods during the massacres: [Stories] would be offered exclusive to the BBC man in Singapore [by the IRD] and form the core of his midday report to Bush House [the headquarters of the BBC]. Their content would come pouring back into the region in the Overseas’ Service’s evening bulletin and be relayed to Radio Australia and [Siaran] Malaysia. Sukarno threw all the Western correspondents out of Indonesia. He hadn’t a clue. The final blow came when the story of his duplicity over Aidit came out as a traveler’s tale from the AP man in Hong Kong—straight into the worldwide plumbing of the news machine.27 Reddaway arrived in Singapore only a short time before Major General Suharto denounced the PKI in a speech before a military audience on 30 October 1965. Although as Melvin (2018) outlines such denouncements and calls for ‘annihilation’ had been made previously (particularly through the chains of military command), Suharto now highlighted that the ‘captured’ documents (of 23 October) proved PKI guilt and demanded that the ‘communists be completely uprooted’ (see McGehee 1990). This was an attempt to use highly suspect booklets to justify the killings that had already taken place and announce that the army would continue its post-1 October programme of repression not only against the PKI, but potentially against anyone they considered suspicious. There is no evidence in the US, the UK, or Australian documents produced by Green, Gilchrist, and Shann advising any path of neutrality, questioning the validity of army propaganda, or of condemning the army for the killings—the goal throughout was to take advantage of the chaos. In November, discussions between Australia, the UK, the US, and New Zealand were directly concerned with reporting the situation in Indonesia. The DEA brief for the Australian delegates, which closely reflected the advice provided by Shann in Jakarta, was clear in its focus. Of concern was that the Indonesian military should be publicly distanced from the past policies of Sukarno and painted in a more positive light. The brief noted: Agenda Item V—Other ways in which the situation (in Indonesia) might be influenced or exploited to Western advantages. The meeting might consider radio broadcasts to Indonesia and examine the sort of treatment which should be given to news items and commentaries in order particularly to avoid the possibility of compromising === [PDF page 194] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66 165 the Generals by associating them with [Sukarno’s policy of] nekolim [neo-colonialism].28 On 2 November, the Indonesian Armed Forces Bulletin asserted that the PKI had a detailed plan for revolution and published alleged PKI directives for the period following the October coup attempt (see McGehee 1990). Although the worst of the killings had largely occurred, such army statements were publicly framing the ongoing slaughter as being justified and necessary. The document claimed that the PKI would ‘directly confront’ the generals whom the coup leaders had accused of planning to overthrow President Sukarno. The document also said, ‘when the revolution is directly led by the PKI, we can achieve victory because our hidden strength is in the armed forces’ (see McGehee 1990). Using advice provided from the Indonesian army, Shann advised the DEA on 5 November how the Indonesian military could be presented in a positive light: (i) Radio Australia should not give the impression that the army alone was acting against the PKI. Civilian organisations should be mentioned as often as possible. (ii) News items critical, by implication or otherwise, about Subandrio [Indonesia’s Foreign Minister] should be used. (iii) Reports on Singapore should always give the impression that the whole purpose of the [UK] naval base was defensive. (iv) Reports should suggest that over the years some Indonesians at least (by implication Indonesian army figures or prominent civilians supporting the army) had tried to make progress towards economic development. (v) Reports should never imply that the army or its supporters were in any way pro-western or right wing.29 The activities of Shann, Gilchrist, and Green can hardly be considered benign diplomacy, particularly in conjunction with their hope for the destruction of the PKI and abject silence about the killings and other activities undertaken by the army and their supporters. The diplomatic priority was to exploit the situation in Indonesia for their own possible gain. In N ovember, John Gittings notes that in response to requests from Indonesian generals, Marshall Green advised that the US should provide covert aid (Gittings 1999).30 There is no question that the US, the UK, and Australian diplomats were aware of the killings. On 9 November, Australian documents highlight the use of knives, machetes, mutilation, stabbings, burning, bayonets, shooting, and beheadings in the mass killings.31 On 12 November, and aware of the purposes to which they would be likely used, Shann reiterated earlier British assurances stating that the Indonesian army ‘would be safe in using their forces for whatever purpose they saw fit.’32 On 1 and 2 December, further === [PDF page 195] === 166 Adam Hughes Henry discussions took place between the Americans, Australians, British, and New Zealanders about their information efforts related to I ndonesia―there is no record of any concern about what the Indonesian army had been doing. The continuing diplomatic emphasis on supporting the army is highlighted by Green’s authorisation of a covert 50-million-rupiah payment (around $US200,000) for the Kap-Gestapu movement closely involved in the anti-communist crack down on 2 December (Simpson 2015). Having taken advantage of the situation for political and strategic reasons―and ignoring all concerns for the human cost there was in late 1965 an opportunity for the Australians and British to analyse the carnage engulfing Indonesia. On 19 December, Shann informed Canberra that in ‘many cases the massacre of entire families because one member spoke to the communists, has occurred. Some of the methods adopted are unspeakable … [It has been] a bloodbath of savage intensity, remarkably unpublicised and locally regarded with a ghoulish cynicism.’33 The nature of the killings and widespread repression did not modify the overall attitude of the Americans, Australians, or British. By February 1966, when the first of the army-sponsored show trials for those accused of involvement in the ‘coup attempt’ of 1 October began, the killing and repression showed little sign of abating. In February 1966, Shann outlined to the DEA in Canberra that the army was in control of the killings and that he was well aware of the way in which these killings were being conducted. As he explained, the army was taking the lead, with apparent widespread popular support, in the methodical slaughter of PKI prisoners. The pattern was one of nightly mass executions, by beheading, of PKI people, ranging from groups of two or three to as many as forty or fifty. Arriving in Flores, for example, the embassy officer happened across the spectacle of two severed heads on public display in the main park. Everywhere he went the story was the same. It was necessary, people said, to exterminate the PKI thoroughly; thoroughly meaning wives and children as well, as some sort of guarantee against future reprisals. As of last week the prisons in the area still contained adequate numbers of PKI detainees, including women, for the grisly process to continue for weeks if not months to come.34 On 9 February, Gilchrist wrote to Reddaway (both being instrumental in the propaganda campaign against the PKI and Sukarno), noting that ‘what have we to hope from the [Indonesian] generals? 400,000 people murdered, far more than total casualties in Vietnam nobody cares. They were communists. Were they? And are Communists not human beings?’35 This was an extremely rare admission of human concern for the killings, yet Gilchrist had been directly involved in framing the propaganda campaign which === [PDF page 196] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66 167 helped to justify the slaughter. By 23 February, Gilchrist wrote to the FO advising deaths in the hundreds of thousands: [The Swedish] Ambassador and I had discussed the killings before he left [on his fact-finding tour of Indonesia] and he had found my suggested figure of 400,000 quite incredible. His enquiries have led him to reconsider it a very serious underestimate. A bank manager in Surabaya with twenty employees said that four had been removed one night and beheaded … A third of a spinning factory’s technicians, being members of a Communist union, had been killed. The killings in Bali had been particularly monstrous. In certain areas, it was felt that not enough people had been killed.36 Such seemingly unhappy reflections on the scale of the atrocities did not herald a shift in the overall policy. For example, Shann, who at one point described the killings in December 1965 as ‘unspeakable,’ continued to hope for the complete destruction of the PKI and fall of Sukarno. On 17 March 1966, he wrote to the DEA in response to Sukarno’s continued attempts at post-1 October government that ‘we can hope with some confidence for the end of [Sukarno’s] Dwikora Cabinet, [and] the liquidation, perhaps brutally, of Subandrio, and many of our current extant thugs, and some sort of new framework of government.’37 While this brief diplomatic summary is not exhaustive―only hinting at the scope of the available documentary evidence―it provides more than enough information for the following reflections. It is also fitting to conclude this section with Shann’s personal hope that Subandrio, Indonesian foreign minister, and someone personally known to him, should be ‘liquidated.’ Shann’s use of such a word in the context of what had been occurring in Indonesia being particularly instructive. Complicity The extensive IPT 1965 Narrative Report (2015) and the Final Judgements of the IPT 1965 (2016), both made after extensive public hearings, highlight complicity by outside parties. The involvement of third parties, particularly the US, the UK, and Australia, in the events of 1965–1966 are not merely ephemeral to the crimes in question, they are the very reason these events have never been subject to legal sanctions. US and British support for the army shielded the army from any potential legal sanctions outside Indonesia. This is also true in relation to the actions of the Indonesian military most notably in Aceh, West Papua, and East Timor (see Chomsky 2005). The relationship forged by Washington, London, and Canberra with the Suharto regime from 1967 was enthusiastic and expansive: large-scale foreign aid, ongoing military support, and many other forms of diplomatic assistance being prominent features (see Simpson 2008). The other notable aspect of this relationship was not only === [PDF page 197] === 168 Adam Hughes Henry official silence about the crimes committed by Suharto and the I ndonesian army, but enthused praise for the new Indonesia. The judgement of the IPT 1965 establishes―through a legal formulation of what scholars of genocide, US foreign relations experts and Indonesian historians have understood for decades―that the massacres were one of the greatest crimes against humanity in the twentieth century.38 This was certainly well known at the time by the diplomats and media; it was always the potential political outcome, namely the crushing of the political left in I ndonesia, which motivated complicity, and it was that outcome which justified their subsequent support for the army. This was the logical extension of the motivations which had inspired their anti-communist activities in Indonesia before and after 1 O ctober and throughout the entire massacre period. There can always be preferred political, economic, or strategic elements favoured by governments within international affairs. Yet in the case of Indonesia, these ‘preferences’ accepted that the deliberate killing of hundreds of thousands of Indonesians was somehow necessary—because it brought about a desired political outcome nothing would be said or done to prevent this slaughter, in fact, it could be encouraged. Scholars as diverse as David Stannard (1992) and Noam Chomsky and Edward Herman (1979) have noted the ruthless selectivity with which human rights can be overlooked in history. The US, the UK, and Australia moved beyond merely disliking Sukarno or the PKI, they moved in 1965–66 to assist and support the perpetrators of the mass killings. That they had felt justified in doing so reflected the narratives of Cold War politics and national self-interest but rendered the lives of Indonesians as being of secondary concern. There were already indications that outside interference into Indonesian domestic affairs were considered fair game in the later 1950s. The extent of this hostility can be seen in US efforts to support Indonesian rebels during 1957–58 to try to break apart Indonesia and undermine Sukarno (see Kahin & Kahin 1997). This US effort was secretly supported to varying degrees by Canberra and London (Kahin & Kahin 1997). By the early 1960s, the Cold War was providing a range of political developments that heightened sources of potential hostility toward Sukarno within Indonesia and abroad. This history is outlined in detail in other sections of this anthology. Therefore, it is neither conspiratorial nor hyperbolic to note here that the US, the UK, and Australia demonstrated a desire to be rid of the troublesome Sukarno, and that the events of 1 October provided the opportunity to contribute toward this outcome. As noted in the work of Bradley Simpson (2008) and John Roosa (2006), foreign aid had also been utilised in Indonesia in the form of US foreign educational programmes designed to train the Indonesian leaders of tomorrow, particularly in the field of economics and the military. The relationship between these programmes, particularly through the Ford Foundation, was connected to US concepts of development economics in the Third world― these would become the dominant dynamic of Suharto’s Indonesia after === [PDF page 198] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66 169 1967 (see Simpson 2008; Herlambang 2013). For the Australians and British, the Colombo Program (and other forms of direct foreign aid) became increasingly important for their diplomatic relations with Asia particularly in projecting a positive image (see Henry 2015). Yet, as demonstrated by the rebellion of 1957–58, clandestine efforts were also utilised revealing strong ambitions to destroy Sukarno’s Indonesia. From the end of the failed rebellion, the US increased its military assistance to the Indonesian military, cultivating connections with anti-communist elements in the army (Roosa 2006, pp. 183–188). The greatest motivation for this interest was strategic and economic as Sukarno’s nationalist politics, and engagement with non-alignment, was (a) denying Washington access to Indonesian resources while allowing the PKI to gain a popular foothold within Indonesian politics; (b) creating issues for the British through Sukarno’s hostile attitude toward colonialism (with implications for continued British economic and strategic interests in Indonesia and crucially Malaya); and (c) causing fear in Australia about the threat of communism on its northern doorstep. When Sukarno sought to oppose the amalgamation of the M alayan Federation, Singapore, Sarawak, and North Borneo (British Borneo) in 1963 with Konfrontasi, armed conflict in Borneo and the prospect of a wider war between Britain, Australia, Malaya, and Indonesia began. By 1964, a year described by Sukarno as the ‘year of living dangerously,’ there were growing economic and political tensions within Indonesia along with serious displeasure from Washington, London, and Canberra toward Sukarno (see McGregor, Melvin & Pohlman 2018). As noted, there had long been efforts to influence Indonesian politics and cultivate networks sympathetic to Western ideologies. Whether outside interference in another country is illegal under international law will depend on the form of these activities; for example, we can consider the US actions against Nicaragua in the 1980s which were found to constitute aggression against another sovereign state.39 Before 1 October 1965, therefore, Washington, London (and Canberra) had certainly been looking for opportunities to advance their preferences for Indonesia. Outside interference in the affairs of another nation (in which the US leads the world by a significant margin) may take many forms―both open and clandestine―but is not uncommon (see Blum 2003). As discussed, diplomatic efforts by the US, the UK, and Australia to influence events during 1965–66 moved beyond mere preferences to using propaganda and clandestine measures to become willing supporters of the Indonesian army. One of the measures that greatly assisted the slide into their complicity were psychological warfare efforts that complimented their diplomatic and intelligence objectives. The IPT 1965’s final judgement regarding outside interference (which focused on the propaganda campaigns of the US, the UK, and Australia) found that these actions (among other examples) constituted complicity. The Tribunal judges found that these states were not neutral in their activities and deliberately supported the Indonesian army for political gain, === [PDF page 199] === 170 Adam Hughes Henry and that they were aware of the crimes being committed and failed in any manner whatsoever to act in accordance with international law (IPT 1965 2016, pp. 62–72). In my own experiences of researching and examining the Australian documents, it is obvious that many old diplomats and intelligence figures have excellent memories of the 1965 period. For some, still convinced of the necessity of anti-communist victory irrespective of the human cost, they will either reject or ignore the finding of complicity by the IPT 1965, but for others troubled by their experiences the finding is long overdue. Yet the evidence for complicity is hardly insignificant as shown in the documentary record compiled for the IPT 1965. The publication of previously classified US documents in October 2017 by Bradley Simpson and the National Security Archive (George Washington University) confirmed the findings of the IPT 1965 (see Simpson 2017). These documents, and, no doubt, other still classified documents which await public access, and unapologetic comments from many figures involved in these propaganda campaigns (or associated with them) highlight that some still believe that the Indonesian massacres were somehow necessary because it destroyed the PKI and the Indonesian left (Henry 2016). Following the events of 1 October 1965, the Americans, British, and Australians saw opportunities to undermine Sukarno and the PKI. Using propaganda each sought to take advantage of the situation. The documentary record shows that the Americans, British, and Australians all hoped that the Indonesian army would use the events of 1 October as an opportunity to confront the PKI leadership. Documentary records highlight that the US, the UK, and Australia knew about the nature of killings, and that the victims could only be overwhelmingly innocent of any crimes connected to the 30 September Movement. This detailed information constitutes demonstrable knowledge of the crimes committed by the Indonesian army. From 1 October, the US, the UK, and Australia aimed to undermine Sukarno and blacken the PKI for being responsible for the coup; there would in fact appear to be general indifference even outright enthusiasm about the prospect of the army arresting or even killing leading members of the PKI. The Americans, British, and Australians all created deliberate propaganda which supported or complimented numerous false claims made by the army and continued to do this when they were aware of mass arrests and killings. Despite the propaganda campaigns, the diplomats did not know whether even well-known PKI members were guilty of anything. However, this was largely irrelevant; communists (and their alleged sympathisers) could be stereotyped as treacherous. The US, the UK, and Australia certainly hoped for the end of the PKI apparatus and did not shy from this position when it was obvious that it would involve mass arrests and widespread massacres. The propaganda campaigns initiated by these foreign states deliberately smeared the PKI (and Sukarno) with blame for the 30 September Movement’s alleged coup. These were the very same themes used by Indonesian army propagandists. This was of course undertaken without clear evidence, === [PDF page 200] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66 171 or legitimate criminal proceedings for the accused communist supporters; the first trials of those connected with the Movement did not take place until 1966. The US, the UK, and Australia each engaged with the I ndonesian army during the killings in varying ways, seeking opportunities to influence international and Indonesian opinion to their preferences. In this regard, they cannot be regarded as mere bystanders but should be seen as siding freely with the Indonesian army. As the killings began to spread to Indonesian civilians well beyond the central leadership (and associates) of the Communist Party, the US, UK, and Australian propaganda efforts continued. The US Embassy, headed by Marshall Green and along with the CIA, not only continued its propaganda campaign but were in direct contact with the Indonesian army and its supporters, providing lists of names and material support, including communications equipment, money, and armaments. The documentary record reveals that those directly involved in such activities through the US Embassy felt not only justified by their actions, but pride (see Henry 2016). The British, through Andrew Gilchrist (Ambassador) and Norman Reddaway (IRD, Phoenix Park, Singapore), conducted a relentless propaganda campaign of falsehoods, innuendo and smears against the PKI, Sukarno, and associated figures. The US, UK, and Australian propaganda and intelligence efforts were (as shown in the documentary record) sympathetic to the perpetrators and supportive of the possibility that they would form a new government. The crimes of the army, the nature of the slaughter, its victims and perpetrators were known, but this was irrelevant, as were notions such as crimes against humanity. This was because, in ideological terms, the propaganda and other forms or support (and silence) embraced the possible outcome, and later reveled in the ‘victory.’40 One does not have to be party to the original conspiracy or planning (in this case a mass slaughter aimed at the Indonesian left) to have engaged in activities likely to encourage and subsequently support the crimes. If this support is also compounded by open political sympathy for the perpetrators and almost total indifference to innocent civilians, this is not only opportunistic and unethical but constitutes complicity in these crimes. Conclusion For scholars of Indonesian studies, international relations, genocide, or human rights, the Indonesian massacres of 1965–66 are a case study in how moral relativism attached to political ideology influences and undermines notions such as the prohibitions against genocide and crimes against humanity in international law. As highlighted by the IPT 1965, this slaughter is undisputed, and key actors and consequences were well known. As noted by the CIA in 1968, these killings are comparable to any of the well-established bloodbaths that form the canon of post-Second World War genocides (CIA 1968, p. 71). The emergence of Suharto and the destruction of the PKI as a political force in domestic Indonesian politics were welcomed by the US, the === [PDF page 201] === 172 Adam Hughes Henry UK, and Australia (and indeed others). In fact, it was celebrated (shown in the diplomatic archives), praised in several diplomatic reminisces and the media (see Tanter 2011; Chomsky 2000, p. 166; Hilton 2001). The New Order regime of Suharto (and the Indonesian army) was lauded in the wake of the slaughter; many academics, governments, and journalists looked forward to a new era elated by the new political landscape. The New Order regime was more than welcomed, it was diplomatically protected until 1997. The events of 1965 were not prosecuted or condemned because they did not constitute possible crimes, but because the perpetrators were supported by the US with the assistance of close allies. Genocide and crimes against humanity can therefore be tolerated by the powerful nations and taken advantage of by smaller ones, if the nameless victims can be considered ideological enemies and the outcome advantageous. The implications of such selectivity toward universal human rights is self-evident not only for the analysis of past events, but in the present tense. The work and judgements of the IPT 1965 are clearly necessary to rectify impunity for crimes against humanity excused on nothing more than ideological and strategic preferences. The Indonesian massacres were orchestrated and coordinated by S uharto and the Indonesian army. Other willing hands were supplied by paramilitary, religious groups, and criminal gangs. These mass killings which claimed the lives of between 500,000 and 1 million people were accompanied by mass imprisonments, torture, repression, and ongoing legal discrimination. The events of 1965–66 are one of the greatest massacres of the twentieth century and heralded the rise of Suharto’s New Order regime, one of the most corrupt, brutal, and repressive regimes yet seen in the Asian region let alone the world. Far from being condemned, the Indonesian army were seen by Australia, the UK, and the US as a government in waiting. They were not mere bystanders before or during the massacres, these governments―through their diplomatic representatives and intelligence services―engaged in an active programme of propaganda designed not only to undermine Sukarno and the PKI, but to augment the objectives of the Indonesian army even during the worst of the killings. Notes 1 To examine specific indictments of the IPT 1965, see Nursyahbani Katjasungkana (General Coordinator, IPT 1965) and Saskia E. Wieringa (Chair, Foundation IPT 1965)’s Narrative Report on the public hearings (2015, pp. 111–33). On the Indonesian military’s command responsibility for the massacres and arrests, see Melvin (2018), and Melvin (this volume). 2 See the Final Report of the IPT 1965 (2016). The report is the most comprehensive legal examination of documentary evidence yet put together into a single collection and covers numerous areas related to crimes against humanity. While much has been known and written previously by various scholars, the legal work of the IPT 1965 has pulled together several strands of expertise, the latest evidence and testimony into its findings. These crimes are also contrary to various national Indonesian human rights laws which closely mirror the Rome === [PDF page 202] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66 173 Statute in its language. See Law No. 39 of 1999 on Human Rights, and Law No. 26 of 2000 on Human Rights Courts. See also Evanty and Pohlman (2018). 3 See International Criminal Court, Elements of crimes (2000), pursuant to Articles 6 (Genocide), 7 (Crimes Against Humanity). See also United Nations General Assembly, Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide, 9 December 1948, United Nations, Treaty Series, vol. 78, p. 277. 4 For examples of the value of Indonesia as a source of strategic ‘raw materials’ to the US and Western Europe, see Central Intelligence Agency (1948). See also Acheson (1950). 5 See Expert witness: Dr Bradley Simpson, Testimony 7.3.9, Count 9: Complicity of other states, in Katjasunkana and Wieringa (2015, p. 78). See also Simpson (2008). 6 See Wilson (2002), Tuck (2016), Easter (2004). See also ‘Plans “Spilikin” and “Hemley” to counter Indonesian aggression against Malaysia, 1959’, Menzies and Holt Ministries, Cabinet Files, ‘C’ single number series, 1958– 67, National Archives of Australia, Canberra, NAA: A4940, C2911, Item 4024; ‘Indonesia, special actions and operational plans (Confrontation), 1964–66’, Correspondence Files, Annual single number series (classified), 1957-, National Archives of Australia, Canberra, NAA: A1209, Item 1963/6637, parts 1–5. 7 Sir Norman Reddaway, ‘Letter from Norman Reddaway’, 28 August 1996, Appendix A, Information Research Department (1948–1977), 4/1/1, Sir Christopher Mayhew Papers, London: Liddell Hart Papers, Kings College. 8 ‘Political action paper’, Central Intelligence Agency, Washington, November 19, 1964, DDO Files: Job 78-00597R, FE/State Department Meetings, 1964, Foreign Relations of the United States, 1964–1968, Volume XXVI, Indonesia; Malaysia- Singapore; Philippines, Office of the Historian, Department of State, viewed 20 November 2017, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1964-68v26/d86. 9 ‘Political action paper’, Central Intelligence Agency, Washington, November 19, 1964, pp. 181–84. See also ‘Memorandum prepared for the 303 Committee’, Washington, February 23, 1965, Foreign Relations of the United States, 1964– 1968, Volume XXVI, Indonesia; Malaysia-Singapore; Philippines, Document 110, Office of the Historian, Department of State, pp. 234–37, viewed 20 November 2017, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1964-68v26/d110. 10 As Brad Simpson noted, while US intelligence officials hoped to encourage an anti-communist move (through intelligence and propaganda activities), the events of 1 October and the mysterious 30 September Movement were still unexpected. John Roosa also makes this point (2006). 11 See ‘Memo for Johnson, October 1, 1965’, Foreign Relations of the United States, 1964–1968, Vol. 26, pp. 300–301. See also ‘Top-secret telegram from political advisor to Singapore, October 1, 1965’, Foreign Office 1011–2, United Kingdom National Archives. Both cited in Simpson (2008, pp. 171–72). 12 Keith Shann, ‘Telegram 1156 Shann to DEA, 2 October 1965, part 1’, Canberra: National Archives of Australia (NAA), NAA: A1838/3034/2/1/8. 13 ‘PKI responsibility for the attempted coup’, 9 December, Canberra: National Archives of Australia, NAA: A1838/3034/2/1/8, Part 7. See also Najjarine (2005). 14 Two days later it would hold its first press conference where anti-PKI themes were prominent. Brigadier General Sucipto [Political Affairs] provided army leadership. 15 ‘Telephone conversation between Ball and James Reston, 4 October 1965’, Ball Papers, Box 4, Indonesia, April 1964—November 1965, cited in Simpson (2008, pp. 177, 313). Reston would later write with great enthusiasm in the New York Times about the destruction of the PKI in Indonesia and the rise of Suharto. 16 The document cited is Pusat Penerangan Angkatan Darat (1965, pp. 15–18). This was a monthly series and the Army issued at least two more books, dated 5 November and 5 December 1965. === [PDF page 203] === 174 Adam Hughes Henry 17 Sir Andrew Gilchrist, 5 October 1965, quoted in Pilger (2002, p. 30). 18 Marshall Green, cited in Chomsky (1993, pp. 124–25). 19 The PKI Politburo’s statement said 1 October was ‘an internal problem of the army and the Indonesian Communist Party does not involve itself in it.’ 20 ‘CIA report no. 22 from US embassy in Jakarta to White House, October 8, 1965,’ cited in Robinson (1995, p. 283). 21 Richard Woolcott (Public Information Officer) to Gordon Jockel, ‘Restricted Radio Australia—Indonesian situation 12 October 1965’, Canberra: National Archives of Australia, NAA: A1838/280, 3034/2/1/8, Part 2. There had been hopes in Washington, Canberra, and London that Sukarno would be forced to retire on health grounds. 22 ‘Telegram 2679 CRO to Canberra’, 13 October 1965, TNA RO 371/181455. 23 ‘Telegram unnumbered’, Jakarta to State Department, 10 October 1965; ‘Telegram 1006 Jakarta to State Dept’, 14 October 1965, Foreign Relations of the United States (FRUS), Indonesia, pp. 317–18, 321–22. 24 The National Security Archive (George Washington University) noted even the official historians of the US State Department concluded that lists of names were passed to the Indonesian army. See Foreign Relations of the United States (FRUS), 1964–1968, Vol. XXVI, Office of the Historian, Department of State. 25 For some select examples, see R. G. Spivack, ‘What Actually Happened in I ndonesian Shake Up?’, Palm Beach Post (USA), 7 November 1965). United Press International, ‘Indonesia Bares Red Chinese Plot,’ Milwaukee Sentinel (USA), 15 March 1966; Times Wire Service, ‘Indonesia Foiled Chinese Plot,’ St. Petersburg Times (USA), 15 March 1966; Singapore Associated Press, ‘Indonesians Rally to Back General’s Communist Purge,’ Miami News (USA), 15 March 1966; Creighton Burns, ‘No More Heroes: Our South East Asian Correspondent Creighton Burns Sees a New Solidarity in Indonesia Following President. Sukarno’s Overthrow’, Melbourne Age (Australia), 13 March 1967; A. Friendly Jnr, ‘Army Leak Links Sukarno to Plot Military Publication Asserts He Was Alerted on Coup,’ New York Times (USA), 24 January 1967. 26 ‘Letter from Norman Reddaway’, 28 August 1996. See Appendix A, ‘The Information Research Department (1948–1977)’ in Sir Christopher Mayhew Papers 4/1/1, London: Liddell Hart Military Archives, Kings College. 27 Sir Norman Reddaway, ‘Letter from Norman Reddaway’, 28 August 1996. On 11 February 1966, Sukarno expelled all US foreign correspondents from Indonesia, see Simpson (2008, p. 201). See also Henry (2014) and Easter (2005). 28 ‘Quadripartite discussions on Indonesia brief for Australian delegates’, Canberra: National Archives of Australia, NAA: A1838/280, 3034/2/1/8, Part 2. 29 Ibid. 30 Marshall Green (US Ambassador), Jakarta, telegram of 6 November 1965, cited in Gittings (1999). 31 ‘Record of a conversation with Marietta Smith’, 9 November 1965, Canberra: National Archives of Australia, NAA: A1838/3034/2/1/8, Part 5. 32 See Telegram 1383 Shann to DEA, 12 November 1965, Canberra: National Archives of Australia, NAA: 6364/JA1965/10. 33 See Telegram 1503 Jakarta to DEA, 19 December 1965, Canberra: National Archives of Australia, NAA: A6364/JA1965/10. 34 Keith Shann quoted by ‘Accomplices in Atrocity’, Hindsight Radio National, Australian Broadcasting Commission, 7 September 2008, viewed 25 November 2017, www.abc.net.au/radionational/programs/hindsight/accomplices-in-atrocitythe-indonesian-killings-of/3182630. 35 ‘Gilchrist to Reddaway’, 9 February 1966, TNA FO 1101/30, cited in Easter === [PDF page 204] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66 175 36 See Sir Andrew Gilchrist, ‘Letter’, 23 February 1966, in Personal Papers of Sir Andrew Gilchrist, Indonesia - Jakarta 1963– 66, Cambridge University: Churchill Archives, Churchill College, GILC 13Dii. 37 Keith Shann, ‘Inward Cablegram from Australian Embassy—Jakarta 304— Secret,’ 17 March 1965, in Radio Australia—Posts—Relations with Indonesia, Canberra: National Archives of Australia, NAA: A1838, Part 3, 570/7/9. 38 Examples of this work includes: Wieringa (2002), Chomsky and Herman (1979), Cribb (1990), Roosa (2006), Simpson (2008), Kammen and McGregor (2012), Melvin (2018), Pohlman (2015), amongst others. 39 See International Court of Justice (1986), and ‘US dismisses world court ruling’ 40 For example, Reston (1966). In one of the more notorious media examples, Reston claims that the ‘transformation’ of Indonesia could not have occurred without the US show of strength in Vietnam and clandestine US support for the Indonesian army by the US government. Another example is Martin (1966); see Simpson (2008) for other examples. References Acheson, D 1950, ‘Memorandum by the secretary of state to president Truman’, Foreign relations of the United States, 1950, East Asia and the Pacific, Vol. VI, Washington, DC, 9 January 1950, Doc. No. 856D.10/1–950, viewed 20 November 2017, <https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1950v06/d608>. Anderson, B 1987, ‘How did the generals die?’, Indonesia, vol. 43, pp. 109–34. Blum, W 2003, Killing hope: US military and CIA interventions since World War II, Zed Books, London. Central Intelligence Agency 1948, ‘The prospects for a United Sates of Indonesia’, CIA, 4 June 1948, Doc No. CIA-RDP78–01617A003200030001-2, released 8 August 2013, viewed 20 November 2017, <www.cia.gov/library/readingroom/ docs/CIA-RDP78-01617A003200030001-2.pdf>. Central Intelligence Agency 1968, Indonesia – 1965: the coup that backfired, US Government Printing Office, Washington, DC. Chomsky, N 1993, Year 501: the conquest continues, Black Rose Books, Montreal, QC. Chomsky, N 2000, Rogue states: the rule of force in world affairs, South End, Cambridge. Chomsky, N 2005, Open letter (December 2005) East Timor Action Network (ETAN), viewed 21 June 2018, <www.etan.org/etan/2005appl.htm>. Chomsky, N & Herman, ES 1979, The political economy of human rights, vol. 1: the Washington connection and third world fascism, Black Rose Books, Montreal, QC. Cribb, R (ed.) 1990, The Indonesian killings of 1965–1966, studies from Java and Bali, Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, Clayton, VIC. Curtis, M 2007, ‘The covert war in Indonesia, 1957–58’, Mark Curtis: British Foreign Policy Declassified, 12 February, viewed 10 November 2017, <http://markcurtis. info/2007/02/12/the-covert-war-in-indonesia-1957-59/>. Curtis, M 2008, Unpeople: Britain’s secret human rights abuses, Random House, London. Doran, S 1999, ‘Western friends and eastern neighbours: West New Guinea and Australian self-perception in relation to the United States, Britain and Southeast Asia, 1950–1962’, PhD thesis, The Australian National University, Canberra, ACT. === [PDF page 205] === 176 Adam Hughes Henry Easter, D 2004, Britain and the confrontation with Indonesia, 1960– 66, IB Tauris, London. Easter, D 2005, ‘Keep the Indonesian pot boiling, October 1965–March 1966’, Cold War History, vol. 5, no. 1, pp. 55–73. Evanty, N & Pohlman, A 2018, ‘After 1965: legal matters for justice?’, in McGregor, K, Melvin, J & Pohlman A (eds.), The Indonesian genocide of 1965: causes, dynamics, and legacies, Palgrave Macmillan, Cham. Gittings, J 1999, ‘The Indonesian massacre, 1965–66, image and reality’, in L evine, M & Roberts, P (eds.), The massacre in history, Berghahn Books, New York, pp. 247–62. Hawley, S 2016, ‘Australia, UK, US all complicit in Indonesian 1965 massacres, international judges say’, ABC News, 20 July, viewed 20 November 2017, <www. abc.net.au/news/2016-07-21/1965-indonesian-mass-killings-were-crimes-againsthumanity/7647274>. Henry, AH 2014, ‘Polluting the waters—a brief history of anti-communist propaganda during the Indonesian massacres’, Genocide Studies International, vol. 8, no. 2, pp. 153–75. Henry, AH 2015, The gatekeepers and Australian foreign policy 1950–1966, Australian Scholarly Publishing, Melbourne, VIC. Henry, AH 2016, ‘Reflections on the Indonesian massacres in Cold War historiography and political economy’, Genocide Studies International, vol. 10, no. 1, pp. 52–64. Herlambang, W 2013, Kekerasan budaya pasca 1965: bagaimana Orde Baru melegitimasi anti-komunisme melalui sastra dan film, Marjin Kiri, Jakarta. Hilton, C (dir.) 2001, Shadow play: Indonesia’s years of living dangerously, DVD, Ronin Films, Sydney. International Court of Justice 1986, Case concerning military and paramilitary activities in and against Nicaragua: Nicaragua v. United States of America, Judgement, 27 June 1986, ICJ Reports. International Criminal Court 2000, Elements of crimes, ICC, The Hague, ICCPIDS-LT-03-002/11_Eng; Doc No. PCNICC/2000/1/Add.2 (adopted 30 June 2000). International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT1965) 2016, Findings and documents of the international people’s tribunal crimes against humanity in Indonesia 1965, IPT Foundation, The Hague, Jakarta, 20 July. Kadane, K 1990, ‘Ex-agents say CIA compiled death lists for Indonesians’, The San Francisco Examiner, 20 May. Kahin, AR & Kahin GMcT 1997, Subversion as foreign policy: the secret Eisenhower and Dulles debacle in Indonesia, University of Washington Press, Seattle. Kammen, D & McGregor, K (eds.) 2012, The contours of mass violence in Indonesia, 1965– 68, NUS Press, Singapore. Katjasungkana, N & Wieringa, SE 2015, Narrative report on the public hearings, 10–13 November 2015, IPT Foundation, The Hague, Jakarta. Mackie, JAC 1974, Konfrontasi: the Indonesia-Malaysia dispute, 1963–1966, Oxford University Press, Kuala Lumpur. Mann, J 1994, ‘CIA’s covert Indonesia operation in the 1950s acknowledged by U.S.: Cold War: state department publishes unprecedented 600-page history documenting anti-communist program’, Los Angeles Times, 29 October, viewed 20 November 2017, <http://articles.latimes.com/1994-10-29/news/mn-56121_1_state-department>. === [PDF page 206] === Propaganda and complicity, 1965– 66 177 Martin, RP 1966, ‘Indonesia: hope… where once there was none’, U.S. News and World Report, 6 June, p. 70. McGehee, R 1990, ‘The Indonesian massacres and the CIA’, Covert Action Quarterly, Fall, pp. 56–59, viewed 25 November 2017, <www.thirdworldtraveler.com/ CIA/McGehee_CIA_Indo.html>. McGregor, K, Melvin, J & Pohlman, A 2018, ‘New interpretations of the causes, dynamics and legacies of the Indonesian genocide’, in McGregor, K, Melvin, J & Pohlman, A (eds.), The Indonesian genocide of 1965: causes, dynamics and legacies, Palgrave Macmillan, Cham. McMahon, RJ 1999, The limits of empire: the United States and Southeast Asia since World War II, Columbia University Press, New York. Melvin, J 2018, The Army and the Indonesian genocide: mechanics of mass murder, Routledge, New York. Najjarine, K 2005, ‘Australian diplomacy towards Indonesia 1965–1972: an examination from the Australian archival record’, PhD thesis, University of Western Sydney, Sydney. Najjarine, K & Cottle, D 2003, ‘The department of external affairs, the ABC & reporting of the Indonesian crisis 1965–1969’, Australian Journal of Politics & History, vol. 1, no. 1, pp. 48–60. Pilger, J 2002, The new rulers of the world, Verso, London. Pohlman, A 2015, Women, sexual violence, and the Indonesian killings of 1965–1966, Routledge, New York. Pusat Penerangan Angkatan Bersenjata (PPAB) 1965, ‘Fakta-fakta persoalan sekitar “gerakan 30 September”’, Penerbitan Chusus No. 1, Pusat Penerangan Angkatan Bersenjata, October 5, 1965, pp. 15–18. Redfern, WA 2010, ‘Sukarno’s guided democracy and the takeovers of foreign companies in Indonesia in the 1960s’, PhD thesis, University of Michigan, Minnesota. Reston, J 1966, ‘A gleam of light in Asia’, The New York Times, 19 June, p. 12. Robinson, G 1995, The dark side of paradise: political violence in Bali, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, NY. Roosa, J 2006, Pretext for mass murder: The September 30th movement and Suharto’s coup d’état in Indonesia, The University of Wisconsin Press, Madison. Saltford, J 2003, The United Nations and the Indonesian takeover of West Papua, 1962–1969: the anatomy of betrayal, Routledge, London. Simpson, B 2008, Economists with guns: authoritarian development and U.S.- Indonesian relations 1960–1968, Stanford University Press, Stanford, CA. Simpson, B 2015, ‘The United States and the 1965–1966 mass murders in Indonesia’, The Monthly Review, vol. 67, no. 7, viewed 25 November 2017, <https://monthlyreview. org /2015/12/01/t he -u n it e d- st at e s -a nd-t he -19651966 -m a s s -m u rder s -i nindonesia/>. Simpson, B 2017, ‘U.S. embassy tracked Indonesian mass murder 1965: newly declassified U.S. embassy Jakarta files detail army killings, U.S. support for quashing leftist labor movement’, National Security Archive, 17 October, Briefing Book No. 607, viewed 25 November 2017, <https://nsarchive.gwu.edu/briefing-book/ indonesia/2017-10-17/indonesia-mass-murder-1965-us-embassy-files>. Stannard, DE 1992, American holocaust: the conquest of the new world, Oxford University Press, New York. === [PDF page 207] === 178 Adam Hughes Henry Tanter, R 2011, ‘Witness denied: the Australian responses to the Indonesian holocaust 1965–1966’, paper prepared for the Indonesian Conference on Indonesia and the World in 1965, Goethe Institute, Jakarta, 18–21 January 2011. Thomas, M, Moore, B & Butler, W 2008, Crises of empire: decolonisation and E urope’s imperial states 1918–1975, Hodder, London. Tuck, C 2016, Confrontation, strategy and war termination: Britain’s conflict with Indonesia, Routledge, London. ‘US dismisses world court ruling on contras’, The Guardian, 28 June 1986, viewed 25 November 2017, <www.theguardian.com/world/1986/jun/28/usa.marktran>. Wilson, D 2002, ‘“Operation Handover” Darwin, September 1964’, Journal of the Australian War Memorial, vol. 37, viewed 10 November 2017, <www.awm.gov.au/ articles/journal/j37/darwin>. Wieringa, SE 2002, Sexual politics in Indonesia, Palgrave Macmillan, Houndmills. === [PDF page 208] === 10 What’s in a name? Naming and shaming in the Indonesian 1965 mass violence discourse and the IPT 1965 Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem Kingkin Rahayu (a pseudonym) was one of the survivors who testified at the hearings for the International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) in November 2015.1 Towards the end of this testimony, she named one of the men who had tortured her whilst in detention, stating, ‘The one who tortured me, the one who was the worst was… can I even say his name? Am I allowed to say his name, ma’am? His name was… Lukman Sutrisno!’ She gave this testimony as part of the hearings related to the charge of sexual violence, within the indictment of crimes against humanity by the Prosecutor. K ingkin had been detained at the end of 1965, was released a short time later, but was then re-arrested after four months in 1966 from her boarding house in Yogyakarta. She was accused of being a member of Gerwani―the mass based women’s organisation with links to the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI)―and of carrying out guerrilla politics.2 At the time, Kingkin had only recently started studying at university, and was a member of the League of Indonesian Student Youth (Ikatan Pemuda Pelajar Indonesia, IPPI), an organisation established in 1948 in support of Indonesian independence from the Dutch. In her testimony, she spoke the name of the ukman man who had perpetrated the harshest forms of torture against her, L Sutrisno, a well-known sociology professor at one of Indonesia’s most ogyakarta. prestigious institutions, Gadjah Mada University (UGM) in Y Sutrisno had received a western education from Cornell University and had been active in studying and advocacy on behalf of farmers in Java. All of a sudden, Kingkin’s testimony became headline news in a number of Indonesian media outlets, not only in Yogyakarta but also in Jakarta and several other places in Indonesia. UGM was forced to release a public statement, saying that the actions of Lukman Sutrisno in the past were in no way connected to the university (see Fikrie 2015). At the time, Lukman had been recruited as part of a program to train young university lecturers and had also enrolled to become a member of the military police (the CPM, Corps Polisi Militer, Military Police Corps). Kingkin had named the CPM in her testimony for their role in capturing and torturing suspects. === [PDF page 209] === 180 Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem Lukman’s involvement could not be separated from the fact, however, that the Supreme Operations Command (Komando Operasi Tertinggi, KOTI) had issued an order on 10 October 1965 to all university rectors, directing them to ‘cleanse’ their campuses (see Triyana 2016). Kingkin’s narrative provides a clear example for my analysis of how ‘naming and shaming’ effects the narration of, and efforts to resolve, the crimes of 1965–66 within the public sphere in contemporary Indonesia. Naming and shaming has often been used as a mechanism of transitional justice, both in prosecutions and truth-seeking, and in reparations and even in the reform of institutions. Usually, this process is used to name the perpetrators of crimes, with the aim of achieving accountability in front of a public audience. However, within the context of dealing with the crimes of 1965–66, naming and shaming has rarely occurred, despite the fact that the names of some perpetrators are well known (even if only within select circles). For the victims, naming names has served only to further isolate them, due to the decades of stigmatization and persecution which they have endured in Indonesia even through to today. In this chapter, I address three primary questions. First, what discourses in Indonesia have emerged related to naming and shaming for both perpetrators and victims? Second, what was the impact of the naming and shaming which happened at the tribunal? And third, what effect will this have for resolving the 1965–66 case domestically? This chapter begins with a discussion of naming and shaming within the context of transitional justice. I then focus on the contestation of two different naming and shaming cases in Indonesia; the first, the government’s hegemonic narrative about the 30 September Movement (G30S, an abbreviation of Gerakan 30 September); the second, the narration of history by survivors from a human rights perspective. I also analyse the repressive practices carried out by the Indonesian government and by hard-line elements within civil society to persecute and stigmatise victims and survivor communities. The following section outlines how this naming and shaming was practiced within the IPT 1965 and the effect that this had in Indonesia. I then conclude by arguing that the naming and shaming performed by the IPT 1965 created a powerful tool for putting pressure on the Indonesian government to deal with the 1965 events. Naming and shaming within transitional justice What’s in a name? Juliet’s question, penned in Shakespeare’s sixteenthcentury play, reflects a similar sentiment in contemporary Indonesia: what does a person’s name matter compared to their acts or achievements? Your name means nothing next to your actions. Yet within public discussion of the events of 1965–66 in Indonesia, your name could mean everything; it could determine whether you lived or died. Within the Indonesian state’s hegemonic narrative, where the PKI were named as murderers and insurrectionists, the names of the perpetrators of === [PDF page 210] === Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965 181 the slaughter have been made analogous with and undifferentiated from those of the heroes of the nation. Meanwhile, the names of those who were arrested, tortured, and killed are the names of those who deserved the retribution meted out against them for their insurrection. Conversely, within the human rights-driven discourse of survivor communities, perpetrators are named as human rights’ violators who must receive moral, if not legal, sanction. The names of ‘victims’ (korban) are those who have proven themselves survivors. In this chapter, I align myself with the second discourse, that of a human rights-centred narrative, in order to discuss the importance of naming names and of naming and shaming within a transitional justice framework. In essence, naming and shaming refers to a formal practice of naming someone in order to shame that person for wrongful acts and, critically, for that person to then take responsibility for the wrong done. Within a transitional justice framework, this practice is one of the instruments or methods with the potential to bring about improvements in the respect for and implementation of human rights. Kinzelbach and Lehmann (2015), for example, have discussed a range of hypotheses for how shaming can influence the behaviour of states in the area of upholding human rights. The first hypothesis is that a change in a state’s behaviour will only happen if there is a material cost to the state through the human rights case. Another hypothesis relates to how international institutions might enforce accountability upon a particular state, depending on the degree to which that state is embedded within these institutions. Finally, there is the hypothesis that relies on how strongly a particular state has accepted international human rights norms, and whether they then comply with those norms, as non-compliance may affect their reputation (Kinzelbach & Lehmann 2015, p. 12). Naming and shaming becomes important when we examine the relevance and currency of international human rights norms, and how these norms are advocated, within a domestic context. Thomas Risse and Kathryn Sikkink (1999), for example, explain that human rights change can only happen when domestic actors (pressure from below) collaborate with transnational networks (pressure from above) to force the state to change its human rights behaviours. With this pressure from above and below, the state runs out of choices and so must make a tactical concession: it must fulfil the demand for human rights to be upheld while, at the same time, not actually be fully compliant by actually upholding those rights. Human rights shaming has the potential to more rapidly change the human rights situation within a particular state. That said, shaming done by an international actor alone is usually not enough to affect change. International and transnational actors need to work together with domestic actors to ensure that this pressure comes from both above and below. Shaming in this way has two functions: one is like a megaphone, putting pressure on the state from above, and the other is a trigger to create mechanisms which might create human rights change, making shaming in itself an effective mechanism for bringing about change. === [PDF page 211] === 182 Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem Within the field of transitional justice studies more broadly, naming and shaming has in recent times been studied to see how it has been successful or not in bringing about change (for example, Friman 2015; de Waardt 2016). Transitional justice is a response to widespread and systematic human rights abuses. This response aims to resolve grievous human rights abuses carried out by a repressive regime by bringing about justice for the civilians whose rights were abused, to acknowledge the truth of the crimes committed, and to ensure that these abuses do not occur again in the future. In general, there are four main mechanisms used in this approach: uncovering the truth through the investigations of a truth commission; trials or other judicial mechanisms; reparations as part of restitutions for the victims; and the reformation of institutions and laws as part of the guarantee of non-recurrence (see, for example, Teitel 2003). Naming and shaming is part of the process of achieving the aims of these four mechanisms. As Wiebelhaus-Brahm (2015) explains, elements of naming and shaming are often part of three forms of transitional justice: truth commissions, vetting and lustration procedures as part of institutional reform, and prosecutions before international courts. In practice, from these three mechanisms, naming is never about shaming the perpetrators. Within truth commissions, non-judicial investigations aim to create an authoritative historical narrative. Stating the names of those involved in abuses in the commission’s report, however, is an area of controversy in the literature on transitional justice (Hayner 2010). In a number of cases, such as in the Guatemalan truth commission, the political and security conditions at the time made it impossible for the commission to name either the perpetrators or the victims. In a number of other cases, such as the truth commission in El Salvador, the perpetrators were named as a central part of uncovering the truth; to not name the perpetrators would have only ensured their impunity (Hayner 2010; Weibelhaus-Brahm 2015). Truth commissions are usually created when the process of naming has become integral towards pushing the state to continue with judicial investigations to achieve justice. Meanwhile, as part of trials or judicial process mechanisms, naming is done as part of attributing responsibility to perpetrators for the crimes they have committed. Different from a truth commission, which attempts to provide a systematic and comprehensive account of the human rights abuses committed, a court seeks to answer a burden of proof for the indictments made against the accused, and thus naming names cannot be separated from the evidentiary tasks of the court itself. Within international courts, as Weibelhaus-Brahm (2015) finds, naming serves a number of functions. First, naming the perpetrators is intended as a way to influence their behaviours and to put pressure on abusers and governments; often called specific deterrence, the ‘threat of punishment is meant to compel individuals to moderate their behaviour’ (Weibelhaus-Brahm 2015, p. 98). Second, naming aims to compel the international community to bring an end to the violence and to resolve the abuses committed, and to impose sanctions if these measures are === [PDF page 212] === Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965 183 not taken. An example of this was when the International Criminal Court (ICC) issued an indictment against the president of Sudan, Omar al Bashir, which had a negative impact on the ability of states, corporations, and other organisations to continue working with the regime (see Human Rights First 2008). The example of Sudan, however, stands out somewhat, as the political interests of donor states and bilateral cooperation tend to have a greater influence on the behaviours of states than any naming and shaming actions (see Esarey & DeMeritt 2017). Aside from this, other studies have shown that naming and shaming in an international forum may make the public in that country have a more negative view of human rights (Ausderan 2014). In addition, naming and shaming is not usually seen as part of reparations. This is because the main aim of naming in reparations is naming the victims, through a process of acknowledgement of harm and commitment to providing reparations, such as compensation, rehabilitation, and restitution (Weibelhaus-Brahm 2015). However, in the Indonesian context, reparations have become a double-edged issue, because there has been no naming and shaming for the state. Reparations for the victims of human rights abuses have taken place without any acknowledgement of wrong-doing by the state, and although the judicial process demands that naming and shaming of the perpetrators, instead it has resulted in the defeat of the victims, the result of which is that the victims are unable to achieve their rights for reparation. Naming and shaming and efforts to resolve the 1965 case in Indonesia Naming and shaming has an entirely different meaning when talking about the 1965 case. On the government’s side, the practice of naming and shaming has been done to identify communists. The aim of this practice is clear: to stigmatise, discriminate against, and persecute victims. For civil society, though, naming and shaming should be for calling out the individual perpetrators and state institutions who have committed violence, as part of efforts to achieve dignity for the victims and a resolution of these wrongs by the State. There have been few such initiatives by civil society involving naming and shaming, however, repressive actions against them; most attract condemnation and violent reprisal either from state agents or from hardline civilian groups. Although not specifically called naming and shaming, I argue that there have been a number of civil society initiatives which have been publically accepted. I elaborate by giving two contrasting examples of naming and shaming in Indonesia. The Indonesian government remains, to this day, determined to deny that the massacres of 1965 were mass atrocities. While state officials should fulfil their responsibilities by acknowledging this dark past and bringing about justice, the government continues to justify the massacres; as one Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal and Security Affairs, Djoko Suyanto, put it, ‘the mass killings were justified to save the country from communism’ === [PDF page 213] === 184 Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem (cited in Aritonang 2012). While there has been a range of developments in the adoption of human rights’ norms―such as through the ratification of various human rights conventions, and the establishment of human rights legislation (such as Law No. 39/1999 on human rights and Law No. 26/2000 on a human rights court)―nevertheless the mass atrocities crimes of 1965–66 remain a Pandora’s box for Indonesia, which must be kept tightly closed lest it open up innumerable other cases that the State refuses to deal with. The solution promoted by the government, particularly since President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY) came to power in 2004, has been reconciliation. Reconciliation, that is, through forgiving and forgetting; this means reconciliation without investigation into or acknowledgement of the truth of past wrongs (see ICTJ & KontraS 2011). Currently under President Joko (Jokowi) Widodo, this pattern of privileging reconciliation as the only way to resolve past abuses has continued. One manifestation of this approach can be seen very clearly in the government’s current planning documentation, such as the RPJMN, the National Medium Term Development Plan, for 2014–19. In the section which addresses the resolution of past human rights’ abuses cases (6.4.1(8)), the Plan stresses the need to build a ‘national consensus’ around past cases; any ‘resolution’ of such cases makes no mention of judicial remedy.3 In reality, the persecution, stigmatisation, and discrimination against individuals and groups connected to the victims of 1965 continue. Furthermore, the country’s security services often mobilise and coordinate with hard-right Islamist groups to attack these individuals and groups, such as with the Islamic Defenders’ Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI), the Forum of Believers/Islamic Community (Forum Umat Islam, FUI), and others (see Jones 2016). Between January 2015 and January 2017, SafeNet (Southeast Asia Freedom of Expression Network) recorded 42 cases of repression against events and groups, involving acts of intimidation and forced dispersal of groups excising their rights of expression and association. This rate of attacks on freedom of expression continues to grow by approximately four to five violent actions each month.4 The majority of these incidents are related to accusations that such groups are attempting to establish a new communist party: the acronym used by the hard-rights groups is KGB (Komunis Gaya Baru), meaning ‘New Style Communist,’ but the term is an obvious play on words to incite popular loathing against liberal and survivor Incidents involving the violent shut down or interruption of meetings are often directed against those being held by survivor groups. The Foundation for Research into the Victims of the 1965 Massacres (Yayasan Penelitian Korban Pembantaian 1965, YPKP 65) is one such organisation whose events have come under attack by these hard-right and Islamist groups. According to the YPKP 65, at least 22 of their larger victims’ meetings have been forcefully broken up by both right-wing militias and the police since they were founded in the late 1990s (YPKP 65 n.d.). One infamous incident was the === [PDF page 214] === Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965 185 attack on YPKP members and other survivors at the ceremonial reburial of remains exhumed from a mass grave outside Wonosobo in Central Java. The reburial ceremony in 2001 was violently attacked by local thugs, and many of the remains were destroyed (see McGregor 2012; Wieringa, this volume). The figure quoted by the YPKP does not include the many repressive and violent acts committed against individuals and smaller groups of survivors.5 While in general the state’s political and legal institutions have given no space for the acknowledgement and resolutions of the 1965 case, there are three independent state bodies which have partly dealt with trying to resolve abuses committed in 1965–66. These three bodies are the National Commission on Violence against Women (Komisi Nasional Penghapusan Kekerasan terhadap Perempuan, Komnas Perempuan), the National Human Rights Commission (Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia, Komnas HAM), and the Witness and Victim Protection Agency (Lembaga Perlindungan Saksi dan Korban, LPSK). In 2007, Komnas Perempuan released their landmark report, ‘Gender-based crimes against humanity: listening to the voice of women survivors of 1965’ (Komnas Perempuan 2007). In this report, based on interviews with 122 women survivors of the 1965 violence, naming was limited to instances where the perpetrators of arrests or torture were given by survivors, or when the names of locations were mentioned, such as particular interrogation or detention facilities. In such cases, perpetrators were usually only identified as being ‘soldiers’ or ‘police.’ The names of perpetrators actually mentioned by survivors in their testimonies were written down as their initials (or with another pseudonym). As the authors of the report explain, this de-identification process, whereby the names of perpetrators (and others) were obscured, was done in order to protect the anonymity and safety of the survivors who shared their testimonies. Komnas HAM has also conducted research into the human rights abuses perpetrated in 1965–66. This research began in the early 2000s with an investigation into the crimes committed against political detainees on Buru Island (see Adam, this volume). This first report on the atrocities on Buru identified the command hierarchy of those responsible for creating and executing the military’s plan to exile thousands of political prisoners to the remote island (Asvi Warman Adam, interview with author in 2012, and testimony before the Public Hearings, IPT 1965). The report, which remains confidential, recommended that further investigation into the 1965–66 case be undertaken; this further investigation by Komnas HAM began in 2008. This second Komnas HAM investigation was much wider in scope; over nearly four years, the investigating team took 349 witness statements from six regions of Indonesia (Komnas HAM 2012). This second investigation was finalised in 2012, and the report named both individuals and institutions involved in the violence. Komnas HAM submitted their report to the Attorney General’s Office in 2012, but the AGO rejected it and, to this day, has yet to follow up on the findings or recommendations (Attorney General Letter, no. 56/A/JA/08/2012; see Evanty & Pohlman 2018). The Attorney === [PDF page 215] === 186 Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem General’s office is the only body that can progress the reports compiled by Komnas HAM to further criminal investigations (see Herbert 2008). The 2012 Komnas HAM report remains under embargo: as an official report, it cannot be released publically because it may be used in further judicial investigations (only the executive summary is available online, see Komnas HAM 2012). As such, this report’s naming and shaming of the individuals and institutions as suspected perpetrators cannot become public, and therefore cannot be used in efforts to hold those individuals and institutions—or, indeed, the state—responsible for these crimes. The AGO’s rejection of the 2012 report did not mean that Komnas HAM stopped trying to initiate alternate efforts for achieving justice for the 1965 survivors. Working together with the LPSK, Komnas HAM recommended that the survivors who had provided the commission with witness statements be able to access the Agency’s health assistance program. This provision of health assistance was a significant breakthrough; previously, under Government Regulation No. 44 of 2008, compensation, restitution, or rehabilitation could only be extended to those whose cases had some form of judicial decision. The health care aid, however, was considered necessary by the LPSK, in light of the serious medical and psychological needs of the victims of past gross human rights violations.6 By May of the year following the release of the 2012 Komnas HAM report, the LPSK had provided 409 medical and psychological services for the victims of gross abuses identified in the report, and aimed to provide a further 1,000 persons with medical assistance by the end of that year. The number of survivors accessing this health care assistance has risen each year since, such that the LPSK budget has required a significant increase in order to cover the costs of the program.7 By the end of 2016, for example, 1,829 people had requested assistance from the LPSK programs; nearly 90% of those requests granted were in favour of 1965 survivors (see Sukoyo 2016). In providing this health care assistance, the LPSK works with medical specialists and a range of hospitals across a number of regions. Interestingly, the LPSK has repeatedly made clear to the hospitals and doctors participating in the program that the Agency will cover all associated costs, making this scheme unusually generous, given the often precarious coverage of health care in Indonesia. Initially, some hospitals in Jakarta and nearby Banten were reluctant to participate, but have subsequently become supporters of the program.8 In this sense, survivors were able to receive some individual acknowledgement of having survived abuses, without naming those responsible for those abuses.9 The elements of naming and shaming used in the initiatives by these three state bodies were, in the end, unable to resolve the 1965 case. This was because their naming and shaming was aimed at achieving justice for past abuses, while the state’s use of naming and shaming has only ever been used in stigmatising the survivors as communists. In the meantime, civil society groups, particularly those which support the 1965 survivors, have used naming and shaming in a different way again. === [PDF page 216] === Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965 187 Since the start of the Reformasi movement in the late 1990s, many human rights groups in Indonesia have focused on efforts for truth-telling and justice for the 1965 case. Until 2005, the International Centre for Transitional Justice (ICTJ) carried out approximately 200 activities with a range of groups on resolving cases of past human rights abuses. Most of these activities were related to dealing with the 1965 case. These initiatives included efforts to uncover information about these atrocities (documentation of victims’ testimonies, exhumations, publications, and memorialisation activities), mechanisms aimed at achieving justice through judicial means, reparations for victims, through to reconciliation activities (see Farid & Simarmata 2004). Naming and shaming has always been a main component of these initiatives. In truth-finding initiatives, the documentation of victims’ testimonies has included uncovering information on both victims and perpetrators, both individual and institutional. The documentation undertaken by various NGOs usually includes taking down information about human rights abuses that cover the identities of the victim/s and perpetrator/s, the forms of violence perpetrated, and where and when these offences occurred. One way in which many of these documentation projects have been structured is by employing pure qualitative methods—such as through open-ended interviews or oral history narratives—to create verbatim records of survivors’ experiences. Examples of those NGOs which have used such methods in their documentation projects include the Indonesian Institute for Social History (Institut Sejarah Sosial Indonesia, ISSI), the Lontar Foundation, and the Institute for Policy Research and Advocacy (Lembaga Studi dan Advokasi Hak Asasi Manusia, ELSAM). Another way in which these documentation projects have been designed is through structured interviews and questionnaires, such as those used by the Jardokber project (Jaringan Pendokumentasian Bersama, the Joint Documentation Network) and the YPKP 65.10 This documentation is carried out professionally and follows a range of protocols in order to ensure the safety of the data collected and of the survivors who provide their testimonies, the results of which cannot be freely accessed by the public. Other documentation initiatives include documentary films, many of which feature narration by victims (for example, Kado untuk Ibu [A Gift for Mother] (Syarikat 2004)). The victim’s name is very often obscured in such films, but there are others which feature well-known figures from amongst the survivor community, such as Putu Oka Sukanta, the poet and member of the Leftist artists’ organisation the Institute of People’s Culture (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat, LEKRA) who was a political prisoner, and the late Sulami, a former leader of the communist-aligned mass women’s organisation, the Indonesian Women’s Movement (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia, Gerwani), who was also a long-term political prisoner. In addition to these films, numerous books have been written by survivors, which narrate their experiences of oppression during and after the 1965 violence, most naming === [PDF page 217] === 188 Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem the names of victims and perpetrators alike (see, for example, Sulami 1999; Setiawan 2003; Sudjinah 2003). Meanwhile, local initiatives for grassroots reconciliation facilitated by regional NGOs have also strongly relied on naming the names of both victims and perpetrators. Syarikat, a local organisation in the central Javanese city of Yogyakarta formed by young members of Indonesia’s largest Muslim organisation, Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), for example, have carried out such grassroots reconciliation programs which bring together victims and perpetrators in dialogue, along with local Muslim leaders (see Sulistiyanto & Setyadi 2009; interview with Rumekso Setyadi, 10 May 2012). In a more recent attempt to bring together a range of these truth-seeking and truth-telling initiatives, a civil society coalition was formed in 2008 called the Coalition for Justice and Truth Telling (Koalisi Keadilan dan Pengungkapan Kebenaran, KKPK).11 One of their main early truth-telling initiatives was the ‘Year of Truth’ campaign, which involved a series of ‘Hearing Testimony’ (Dengar Kesaksian) forums in towns across I ndonesia in 2012 and 2013. The Year of Truth campaign culminated with a major testimony-hearing forum in Jakarta in November 2013 (see Wahyuningroem 2013; Pohlman 2016). These Hearing Testimony forums were a truth commission-inspired activity, organised in public spaces so that the public had the chance to listen to the personal histories, or testimonies, of victims, and were widely covered by national and local media outlets (for example, see Aritonang 2013; Khoiri 2013). The forums also involved prominent public figures who facilitated the events, called ‘Commissioners’ from a ‘People’s Council,’ including religious leaders, academics, teachers, activists, and local community leaders. While these hearing testimony forums were well attended, they did not name individual perpetrators, only institutional actors, such as police or Army units. Aside from Komnas HAM’s pro justicia enquiry between 2008 and 2012, there have been other legal efforts by survivors to obtain justice. One case involved an administrative action brought against the Indonesian government by an individual survivor, Nani Nurani. Nani was a former singer at the presidential palace who was arrested after 1965 and detained for many years, and who, like most former political prisoners, experienced a range of stigmas and restrictions on her rights and freedoms after release. One such restriction was the failure by the local Jakarta government to provide her with a life-time identity card (KTP), a card which is normally given to senior citizens over the age of 60. Nani took the matter to the Jakarta administrative court (Pengadilan Tinggi Tata Usaha Negara, PTUN) and won in 2003, the court agreeing that, under Indonesia’s ratification of the ICCPR and the National Human Rights Law (No. 31/1999), she had been discriminated against based on her status as a former political prisoner (Court Decision No. 60/G.TUN/2003/PTUN-JKT). Nani Nurani then filed a civil suit, asking for compensation (Rp. 7.46 Billion) for her detention and resultant stigmatisation and discrimination; the Jakarta civil court refused the case, === [PDF page 218] === Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965 189 however, stating that it was beyond the purview of the court (Court Decision No. 439/Pdt.G/2011/PN/JKT.PST) (see also Prabowo 2016). Another class action was brought by a group of 16 victims’ representatives in 2005 against the Indonesian state and five former Presidents over the stigma they had experienced and a demand for the restoration for their economic, social, and cultural rights (see ELSAM 2011). This class action failed, however, at the Central Jakarta District Court, which cited that it did not have the jurisdictional authority to preside over the claim (see Conroe 2017). While none of the plaintiffs expected to win the class action, it was an important symbolic attempt to claim back the rights long denied them. There has been a small number of other claims made by survivors, some of which have been successful. One very early example was a civil case brought by Eddy Tanumihardja in Cianjur, who successfully sought compensation in an error in persona (applied to the wrong person) claim before the Economic Court of Cianjur (now the District Court), whose properties were seized in the mass persecution of suspected communists in 1965. The District Court in Cianjur in 1985 acknowledged the error, and awarded compensation to Eddy and his wife for those properties confiscated by the state. Another case was a decision made by the Supreme Court in 2011 on a petition for judicial review of Presidential Decision No. 28 of 1975 regarding the ‘Treatment of Those Involved in the G30S/PKI Group C’, which was brought by a group of victims. In its ruling, the Supreme Court (Decision No. 33 P/HUM/2011) stated that the presidential decision contradicted higher laws and should be struck down (see Directory of Supreme Court Decisions 2011). Despite these successful cases, victims’ rights have yet to be fulfilled. Each of these cases listed above have been brought to courts without consideration of the wider context of violations perpetrated in 1965–66, namely crimes against humanity. In other words, naming and shaming of the main perpetrators of the 1965 crimes has yet to find a political purchase within legal avenues in Indonesia. Naming and shaming at the IPT 1965 and its effects on domestic truth-telling efforts The IPT 1965 adopted an approach which fused truth-telling with a demand for justice, in that it named those individuals and institutions which were perpetrators of crimes against humanity in 1965. In the IPT 1965’s final report (2016), a number of institutions, units, and individuals are clearly named. During the public hearings in 2015 also, these names were stated in evidence by those called to give testimony, such as in the testimony by Ibu Kingkin, quoted at the start of this chapter. Many of these names are not, however, in any way new within discussions of 1965 in Indonesia. The names of individual military units and commands, for example, are notorious: names such as RPKAD (the red beret paratrooper unit, Resimen Para Komando Angkatan Darat, Army === [PDF page 219] === 190 Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem Para-Commando Regiment) and Kostrad (Komando Cadangan Strategis Angkatan Darat, the Army’s Strategic Reserve Command), amongst others. The names of some individuals are also familiar, including both military and civilian actors. From the military, aside from Suharto and Sarwo Edhie (who was tasked with leading RPKAD troops into Java and Bali to carry out the massacres), others were also named as having a pivotal role in ordering and executing the mass killings. Other military men were also named, including Soedomo, who signed the order to remove political prisoners to Buru Island, as well as other soldiers involved in crimes. Amongst the civilians named at the Tribunal, there were a number of leaders from Islamic and other prominent organisations. Those named included Hasyim Muzadi, an NU leader, Yapto Soemarno, a Pemuda Pancasila (Pancasila Youth) leader, and Father Beek, a Catholic priest, all of whom were said to have ordered their followers to carry out killings and arrests as part of the systematic crimes at the time. The names of civilians are less known, but were also mentioned at times during the IPT 1965. One was the academic Lukman Sutrisno, named by Ibu Kingkin in her testimony as a perpetrator of torture, but other University of Indonesia psychologists were also named, including Fuad Hasan and Saparinah Sadli. Lukman Sutrisno had been named by other survivors in their memoirs as someone involved in the detention and interrogation of victims (see, for example, Sriwahyuntari In her testimony at the IPT 1965’s public hearings, Dutch anthropologist Professor Saskia Wieringa also named a number of University of Indonesia psychologists who had carried out psychological tests on detainees, the results of which determined their category as a political prisoner (see IPT 1965 Foundation 2016, p. 39). Some of these names had been mentioned before in the books written by survivors of political detention, such as the renowned author, Pramoedya Anata Toer (1995), Mia Bustam (2008), and Sumiyarsi Siwirini (2010), and were the subject of investigation for a recent Masters thesis by Dyah Ayu Kartika (2016). Sumiyarsi in her book mentions some of these individuals: Towards the end of 1975 I heard the news that we were going to have a guest visit […] and who would conduct a psychoanalytic test on us. […] The group consisted of 25 people who were led by Dr. Zakiah Darajad, Prof. Saparinah Sadli, and Prof. Brigadier General Sumitro. (Siwirini 2010, p. 124, my translation)12 The naming of names before the public hearings of the IPT 1965 caused quite a stir in Indonesia. Particularly within discussions on various social media platforms in Indonesia, there were active debates about the history of 1965 and the work of the Tribunal on uncovering that history, some praising the IPT 1965, others condemning it (on these reactions, see Santoso & van Klinken 2017). Some of those from the UGM community, including === [PDF page 220] === Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965 191 many alumni and calling themselves the ‘UGM Alliance’ (Aliansi UGM)— Lukman Sutrisno’s university—put up a petition which demanded that the university acknowledge and say sorry for the involvement of its academic staff in the crimes mentioned at the Tribunal. UGM did not make a statement on the matter, but one of the university’s rectors, Dwikorita Karnawati, said that the university was not in any way connected with the actions of individual staff members, and that people needed to respect the presumption of innocence for those accused of crimes (see Yuniati 2015). Amidst these public debates following the public hearings of the IPT 1965, there were also strong reactions from the Indonesian government, and particularly from the armed forces. Members of the military in particular reacted to the naming and shaming done at the Tribunal where the Indonesian state, along with the Army and the police, were specially named as perpetrators of grievous crimes in 1965. The then Coordinating Minister for Police, Law, and Human Rights, Luhut Panjaitan, reacted harshly, saying that the Tribunal was an initiative that brought Indonesia into disrepute (see, for example, Gumilang 2016). Along with his colleague Agus Widjojo, the head of the National Defence Institute (Lembaga Pertahanan Nasional, Lemhanas), they initiated their own national symposium to discuss the 1965 case. The event, called the ‘National Symposium Dissecting the 1965 Tragedy, Historical Approach,’ held in Jakarta on 18–19 April 2016, was a clear effort on the part of military men within the government to direct public discourse around the killings towards a form of ‘reconciliation’ which privileges forgiving and forgetting above justice (see Kwok 2016; Melvin 2016). Current and former military officials also felt that the symposium gave too much space to those whom they labelled ‘PKI traitors’ (see Wahyuningroem 2016). Less than two months later, a group of right-wing and hardliner leaders, along with a number of retired military officials, held their own symposium-in-response in June 2016, entitled ‘Securing the Pancasila from the Threat of the Indonesian Communist Party and other Ideologies,’ to counteract the ‘traitorous’ first symposium (see Evanty & Pohlman 2018). During this period, there were also numerous demonstrations and public book-burnings (of books considered ‘Leftist’) by hard-line and Islamist groups in Indonesia protesting what they perceived as a resurgence in communist ideology; what is popularly known by the derogative acronym ‘KGB,’ which stands for Komunisme Gaya Baru (‘New Style Communism’) (see Miller 2018). Such harsh reactions were anticipated by the survivors and their advocates who organised the IPT 1965. Those who agreed to give victim testimony did so from behind a black curtain, and used a pseudonym, as was the case for Ibu Kingkin. To have named those who gave testimony would have made them, their families, and communities, into targets for the security services back in Indonesia. This was the case for both those who travelled from Indonesia to give testimony and those from the Indonesian political diaspora; those exiles who were often made stateless by fleeing Indonesia === [PDF page 221] === 192 Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem in 1965 (see Saptari, this volume). For many in the exile community, giving testimony about their experiences in 1965 presented a real threat to their family members still in Indonesia. The repressive reactions shown by sectors of the Indonesian government, I argue, demonstrate the strong pressure felt by the government and by other institutions, such as UGM, to change their stance and to acknowledge the grievous human rights abuses committed during 1965–66 were in fact crimes against humanity. According to the ‘spiral model’ for state compliance with human rights norms advocated by Risse, Ropp, and Sikkink (1999), with ‘pressure from below’ and ‘pressure from above,’ the civil society groups and their international networks involved in holding the IPT 1965 were able to create effective pressure on the Indonesian government, forcing it to concede human rights norms as a form of tactical concession. The national symposium held by the government in April 2016 was one such tactical concession made by the Indonesian government in order to demonstrate its good will for resolving the 1965 case, albeit without any form of acknowledgement for the harm done. According to this spiral model also, it must be said that sometimes a government (or elements within the government) will initially react repressively after this pressure has been applied, before coming to a tactical concession. Such repressive gestures were clearly exhibited by military elements within the government, particularly from the Army, who also chose to align their interests with the same types of groups which had helped them carry out the crimes in 1965, such as those from the hard-line groups, Pancasila Youth and the Islamic Defenders’ Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI). In order to force a significant tactical concession from the Indonesian government—namely for there to be a meaningful and just resolution to the 1965 case—this pressure must be maintained. There are many ways for this pressure to be kept up by the civil society groups involved in the Tribunal and their international networks. Effective lobbying and diplomatic pressure may, for example, convince those within the state’s various institutions to take responsibility for resolving the 1965 case. For the IPT 1965, naming and shaming by itself is not enough. There must be further, more creative efforts made to follow up on the Judges’ decision and to create enough pressure on the Indonesian government to achieve justice for the victims and their families. Conclusion Naming and shaming is one of many strategies used by human rights advocates and survivors in their attempts to achieve justice for the gross violations perpetrated in 1965–66. Naming and shaming has been done, for example, by civil society groups in Indonesia as part of civil suits against various government bodies. As a crucial part of truth-finding and reparations, naming and shaming has been used to hold the Indonesian government to === [PDF page 222] === Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965 193 account. When it comes to the state’s security services, however, naming and shaming has been a form of persecution and stigmatisation. For the victims, and for whoever else is deemed a threat to national security, to be named a communist is to be branded a traitor. In this context, the naming and shaming done by the IPT 1965 has created strong pressure on the Indonesian state to uncover the crimes committed in 1965–66 and to take responsibility for resolving this case. The IPT 1965 applied two forms of pressure: pressure from below and pressure from above. These two pressures make it increasingly difficult for the Indonesian state to avoid accountability or its responsibility for fulfilling the human rights of its citizens. The tactical concession made to respond to this pressure by the state was to hold its national symposium, as a way to show its good intentions for resolving the 1965 case, notwithstanding its focus on reconciliation about truth or justice. Following the symposium, there have been other measures announced by the government, notably the proposed National Harmony Council (Dewan Kerukunan Nasional, DKN), which appears to be intended as a non-judicial mechanism for resolving cases of past human rights abuses, including the 1965 violations. And yet these tactical concessions cannot force the Indonesian government to create meaningful human rights outcomes. These can only come from sustained pressure from survivors, human rights groups—domestic and international—through effective strategies to force the Indonesian state to come to a full and just reckoning with the past. Notes 1 The chapter was translated from Indonesian into English by Annie Pohlman. 2 To read the full transcript of Ibu Kingkin’s testimony (in Indonesian), go to ‘Kesaksian Ibu Kingkin Rahayu di Tribunal Rakyat Internasional 1965 di Den Haag’, 11 November 2015, viewed 15 January 2017, <www.tribunal1965.org/ kesaskian-ibu-tintin-rahayu-di-tribunal-rakyat-internasional-1965-di-den-haag/>. 3 See section 6.4.1 (Improving Just Law Enforcement), part 8 on ‘Handling human rights’ complaints’, Rencana Pembangunan Jangka Menengah Nasional 2015–2019, 2015, viewed 20 January 2018, <www.social-protection.org/gimi/gess/ RessourcePDF.action?ressource.ressourceId=50077>. 4 For an update on cases, go to the SafeNet reporting page, accessed 30 January 2018 <http://id.safenetvoice.org/pelanggaranekspresi/>. 5 Personal communication with Bedjo Untung, head of the YPKP 65, 10 May 2017. 6 Interview with Kabul Supriyadi, Commission at Komnas HAM, Jakarta, May 2012, and interview with Edwin Partogi, Jakarta, September 2015, member of LPSK. 7 Each year, the LPSK requests and is granted a larger budget, and these are reported by the Agency on their website. See, for example, the latest budgetary release, LPSK (2018). 8 Interview with Edwin Partogi, Jakarta, September 2015. 9 Survivors can only request access to the program if they obtain a letter of recommendation, stating that they are a survivor of gross human rights violations, from Komnas HAM. In many cases, in take anywhere from six months to a year === [PDF page 223] === 194 Sri Lestari Wahyuningroem for this request to be processed, partly because of the slow process of obtaining such recommendation letters from the Commission. Interview with Edwin Partogi, Jakarta, September 2015. 10 The Jardokber project was a working group set up to compile the existing documentation of testimonies by 1965 survivors, and was active between 2008 and 2010. Led by KontraS (the Commission for Disappeared Persons and Victims of Violence), Jardokber’s members included a range of NGOs and victims’ organisations across Indonesia, such as Solidarity with Victims of Human Rights Abuses (Solidaritas Korban Pelanggaran Hak Asasi Manusia, SKP HAM Pal), Syarikat, the Joint Secretariat on 65 (Sekretariat Bersama 65, Sekber 65), Indonesian Foundation Dedicated to Law (Yayasan Pengabdian Hukum Indonesia, YAPHI Solo), amongst others. 11 The KKPK is made up of more than 50 organisations, including victims’ groups, individuals and other human rights organisations. The KKPK does not exclusively focus on 1965, and focuses on a range of human rights’ cases. For more information on their programs, go to their website: <http:// kkpk.org/>. 12 The year was more likely 1973, and at time Saparinah Sadli and Sumitro were not yet professors. For more details on these individuals and their movements, see Kartika (2016). 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IPT 1965 Foundation 2016, Final report of the IPT1965: findings and documents of the International People’s Tribunal on Crimes against Humanity Indonesia 1965, IPT 1965 Foundation, The Hague, Jakarta, 20 July 2016. Jones, S 2016, ‘Islamist civil society and violent extremism in Indonesia: a tactical merger?’, in Lindsey, T & Pausacker, H (eds.), Religion, law and intolerance in Indonesia, Routledge, New York, pp. 257–70. Kartika, DA 2016, ‘The politicisation of psychology: the role of psychologists in Indonesia’s detention camps during the New Order era’, MA thesis, International Institute of Social Studies, The Hague. Khoiri, I 2013, ‘Diskiminasi terhadap minoritas berakar dari kepentingan politik’, Kompas.com, 25 November, viewed 2 July 2018, <https://nasional.kompas. com/read/2013/11/25/1811356/Diskriminasi.terhadap.Minoritas.Berakar.dari. Kepentingan.Politik>. Kinzelbach, K & Lehmann, J 2015, ‘Can shaming promote human rights? 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Kwok, Y 2016, ‘There were no apologies at Indonesia’s first hearing into the savage killings of 1965’, Time.com, 19 April, viewed 5 July 2018, <http://time.com/4298769/ indonesia-national-symposium-1965-killings/>. Lembaga Perlindungan Saksi dan Korban (LPSK) 2018, ‘Ketemu Komisi III, LPSK ajukan tambahan Rp 52 miliar’, LPSK, 4 July, <www.lpsk.go.id/berita/ berita_detail/2838>. McGregor, K 2012, ‘Mass graves and memory of the 1965–66 killings’, in Kammen, D & McGregor, K (eds.), The contours of mass violence in Indonesia, 1965– 68, Singapore University Press, University of Hawai’i Press and KITLV, Singapore, pp. 234–62. Melvin, J 2016, ‘Symposium on Indonesia’s 1965 genocide opens Pandora’s box’, New Mandala, 9 May, viewed 5 July 2018, <www.newmandala.org/symposiumon-indonesias-1965-genocide-opens-pandoras-box/>. Miller, S 2018, ‘Zombie anti-Communism? Democratisation and the demons of Suharto-era politics in contemporary Indonesia’, in McGregor, K, Melvin, J & Pohlman, A (eds.), The Indonesian genocide of 1965: causes, dynamics and legacies, Palgrave Macmillan, Cham, pp. 287–310. Pohlman, A 2016, ‘A year of truth and the possibilities for reconciliation in Indonesia’, Genocide Studies and Prevention, vol. 10, no. 1, pp. 60–78. Prabowo, RA 2016, ‘Pancasila as political identity, bare life, and state of exception: the neglected rights of “half”-citizenship of victim[s] of 1965 Indonesia’, paper presented at the ‘From Clients to Citizens? Citizenship in Democratising Indonesia’ Conference, Universitas Gadjah Mada, Yogyakarta. Risse, T, Ropp, SC & Sikkink, K (eds.) 1999, The power of human rights: international norms and domestic change, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Risse, T & Sikkink, K 1999, ‘The socialization of international human rights norms into domestic practices: introduction’, in Risse, T, Ropp, SC & Sikkink, K (eds.), The power of human rights: International norms and domestic change, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, pp. 1–38. Santoso, A & van Klinken, G 2017, ‘Genocide finally enters public discourse: the International People’s Tribunal 1965’, Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 19, no. 4, pp. 594–608. Setiawan, H 2003, Aku Eks-Tapol, Galang Press, Yogyakarta. Siwirini, S 2010, Plantungan: pembuangan tapol perempuan, PUSdEP and IHJR, Yogyakarta. Sriwahyuntari, FA 2004, Kromo kiwo: memerka yang tak pernah menyerah, Insist Press, Yogyakarta. Sudjinah 2003, Terempas Gelombang Pasang, Pustaka Utan Kayu, Jakarta. Sukoyo, Y 2016, ‘Sepanjang 2016, LPSK terima 1.720 permohonan perlindungan’, Berita Satu, 28 December, <www.beritasatu.com/nasional/406786-sepanjang2016-lpsk-terima-1720-permohonan-perlindungan.html>. Sulami 1999, Perempuan – Kebenaran dan Penjara, Cipta Lestari, Jakarta. Sulistiyanto, P & Setyadi, R 2009, ‘Civil society and grassroots reconciliation in Central Java’, in Bräuchler, B (ed.), Reconciling Indonesia: grassroots agency for peace, Routledge, London, pp. 192–213. Syarikat 2004, ‘Kado untuk Ibu’, video recording, Syarikat, online, viewed 12 June 2018, <www.youtube.com/watch?v=MynGums0A9o>. === [PDF page 226] === Naming and shaming in the IPT 1965 197 Teitel, RG 2003, ‘Human rights in transition: transitional justice genealogy’, Harvard Human Rights Journal, vol. 16, pp. 69–245. Toer, PA 1995, Nyanyi sunyi seorang bisu, Lentera, Jakarta. Triyana, B 2016, ‘Setelah Pengadilan Rakyat selesai’, Historia.id, 21 July, viewed 17 April 2017, <http://historia.id/kolom/setelah-pengadilan-rakyat-selesai/2>. Waardt, M de 2016, ‘Naming and shaming victims: the semantics of victimhood’, International Journal of Transitional Justice, vol. 10, no. 3, pp. 432–50. Wahyuningroem, SL 2013, ‘Seducing for truth and justice: civil society initiatives for the 1965 mass violence in Indonesia’, Journal of Current Southeast Asian Affairs, vol. 32, no. 3, pp. 115–42. Wahyuningroem, SL 2016, ‘Justice denied?’, Inside Indonesia, vol. 125, 18 July, viewed 20 August 2018, <www.insideindonesia.org/justice-denied?>. Wiebelhaus-Brahm, E 2015, ‘Promoting accountability, undermining peace? Naming and shaming in transitional justice processes’, in Friman, HR (ed.), The politics of leverage in international relations: name, shame, and sanction, Palgrave Macmillan, London, pp. 86–102. YPKP 65 n.d., ‘Pembubaran kegiatan korban’, YPKP 65, unpublished paper. Yuniati, N 2015, ‘Guru besar UGM disebut penyiksa pada 1965, Rektor: hormati azas praduga tak bersalah’, KBR Nasional, 13 November, viewed 3 July 2018, <http://kbr. id/nasional/11-2015/guru_besar_ugm_disebut_penyiksa_pada_1965__rektor__ hormati_azas_praduga_tak_bersalah/77263.html>. === [PDF page 227] === 11 Ingat65 How Indonesia’s young generation share their discovery of a forgotten massacre Prodita Sabarini, Ellena Ekarahendy, Ika Krismantari, Febriana Firdaus, and Rika Theo Ingat65 (‘Remember 1965’) is a participatory digital storytelling project in which members of the post-1965 generations share their stories about experiences in their families or communities that were silenced. As a memory project, it aims to fill in the gaps and to heal the trauma dating from the oppressive New Order period (1966–98) and thereafter. This generation grew up with the state-sponsored propaganda film, The Betrayal of the G30S/ PKI (1984) in which the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI) was blamed for the murder of six generals and one lieutenant on the morning of 1 October 1965. The film contains gruesome scenes of members of the women’s movement, Gerwani (Gerakan Wanita Indonesia), mutilating the generals, while PKI leaders are shown plotting to overthrow the state (Wieringa 2002; McGregor 2007; Wieringa & Katjasungkana 2018). This was the hegemonic version of the ‘1965 incident’ that was endlessly repeated in history books and the media (Herlambang 2013). The fear that the PKI might rise up and again commit acts of treachery and unspeakable horror was instilled in these generations who grew up under the New Order. This official history is particularly damaging for those whose families were directly or indirectly affected by the 1965 genocide and other crimes against humanity committed by the army and its associated militias. Many have inherited the traumatic memories of their relatives (see Conroe 2012). The histories of these families contain secrets and missing grandparents or other relatives who were never mentioned. Others contain the stories of elderly relatives who came back from the slave labour camps or prisons. Many returned broken, their psyches destroyed, while they continued to be shunned by neighbours. In other cases, families lost all their assets in ways unaccounted for. The transmission of these traumatic memories can lead to depression, isolation, and dissociation (Fischer 2015; Levine 2015). Since the fall of the New Order regime in 1998, this silence has begun to be broken. Despite many backward steps, there is now more space within Indonesia to speak about this past. The release of Joshua Oppenheimer’s film, The Act of Killing, in 2012 was an important turning point in this === [PDF page 228] === Discovery of a forgotten massacre 199 journey, as was the 50th year anniversary of the genocide in 2015. The International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) built on this momentum and became a defining moment, with thousands of students and activists following the live streamed hearings in The Hague, in November 2015 (see Katjasungkana & Wieringa, this volume). There was wide press coverage of the hearings in Indonesia, particularly on social media (Katjasungkana & Wieringa 2016). The government-sponsored Seminar in April 2016, ordered by President Joko Widodo to show that Indonesia could solve its own human rights problems and did not need an international tribunal, opened the eyes of the post-1965 generations even further. For the first time, not only the voices of hardliner generals were heard, but also those of the victims of the 1965 massacres and other human rights violations. A small group of young journalists who had been reporting on the IPT 1965 and who were involved in activities with the victims decided to provide a platform for young people to share their stories about how they were affected by the genocide and the oppression that followed it. They also wanted to share their thoughts about how the nation might come to acknowledge this dark past. Using digital technology and collective storytelling, they try to make sense of this period, in their own lives and in the nation as a whole. In this way, they hope to disrupt the hegemonic New Order version of history and to reconfigure the past, endowing it with meaning and continuity (Davis 2002). In June 2018, the group’s website contained 105 stories. Photos, videos, and audio recordings (podcasts) are also used to help reach the goals of the group. The project is informed by what memory studies scholar Assman (1997) calls mnemohistory; the history of collective memory.1 The members of the Ingat65 community hope to inspire a movement. In doing so, they build on Marshall Ganz’s proposition that storytelling is how people learn and exercise agency, shape identity, and motivate action (2001). The chapter opens and closes with an account by Prodita Sabarini, a cofounder of Ingat65, which explains how the group was formed. Following Sabarini’s introduction to the work of Ingat65, we provide vignettes from the irdaus, group, written by Ellena Ekarahendy, Ika Krismantari, Febriana F and Rika Theo. Ingat65 stands on the shoulders of activists Prodita Sabarini In late October, 2015, I lay down in bed in a small hotel room in Ubud, Bali. It’s night. I just returned to my room after attending a day at the Ubud Readers and Writers Festival. Faces of a smiling Nursyahbani Katjasungkana and Gadis Arivia talking to plain-clothed police intelligence officers questioning them in front of a restaurant across from the Neka Art Museum where the Ubud Readers and === [PDF page 229] === 200 Prodita Sabarini et al. Writers’ Festival was being held are swimming in my head. Human rights activist Nursyahbani is the coordinator of the 1965 International People’s Tribunal (IPT 1965). Gadis is a philosopher and founder of the Jurnal Perempuan Foundation that had just published an English edition of Saskia Wieringa’s novel, Lubang Buaya (Crocodile Hole). Saskia, chair of the IPT 1965, and who wrote the novel based on her research into the sexual slander against Indonesia’s communist women, was sitting inside the open air Nuri Nacho’s Mama talking to visitors who came to hear her talk (Wieringa 2015). The book discussion was supposed to be part of the Ubud Writers’ Festival. The organisers had announced discussion panels with the theme of the 1965 anti-communist killings as part of their 2015 program in conjunction with the 50th year since the massacre. I bought tickets for the Writers’ Festival to see these panels. But the organisers cancelled the event after the local police threatened to take away the festival’s permit if they included discussions on 1965. Saskia, Nursyahbani, and Gadis chose to hold the book discussion anyway, outside of the festival. I went to see the book launch and saw that four police intelligence officers were monitoring the event. The officers took pictures of people in the restaurant and asked Nursyahbani and Gadis whether they were holding the banned book launch. At one point, the officers sat the owner of the restaurant down and questioned her. Neither Nursyahbani, Gadis, nor the restaurant owner seemed phased as they faced the police. ‘Oh, we’re just having lunch together and chatting,’ Nursyahbani told the police. ‘Feel free to join us,’ Gadis said. Despite the tension that the officers brought, I did not see any fear nor anger in the faces of Nursyahbani and Gadis. They had polite graceful smiles and a quiet determination to not be silenced. A ten-minute walk down the street, there was another book launch. The festival organiser allowed this one, a collection of stories about women who have been victims of State violence in Indonesia, East Timor, and Myanmar, to proceed even though stories of 1965 survivors were part of the collection. ‘Maybe we escaped the police’s attention because the book’s title doesn’t have 1965 in it,’ Galuh Wandita, the director of Asia Justice and Rights that launched the book, joked. Two 1965 survivors, Kadmiyati and Hartiti, whose stories along with photos are recorded in the book, came to the launch. They sang a Javanese song that they composed themselves, about not losing hope and continuing to work for justice. I sat with Hartiti after the book launch, and she told me that her husband disappeared and never came back. He was part of the railway workers’ union considered to be a Communist Party mass base. She opened the book and showed me the picture of her husband. Her eyes lit up while she talked about him. I looked at his picture, he was handsome and looked so young. Official histories in Indonesia are silent on the murders and imprisonments of more than a million people in the 1965 anti-communist purge. === [PDF page 230] === Discovery of a forgotten massacre 201 Through State-sponsored film ‘Betrayal of the G30S/PKI’ (Pengkhianatan G30S/PKI), history text books for students, museums, and memorials on the communists’ betrayal, the State, for the past 50 years, has imposed a collective act of ‘forgetting’ about one of the largest massacres in the twentieth century. My generation grew up under this silence. Many of us did not know about the killings and are taught to fear the victims of the communist purge. Only half a century later, and with a great deal of effort from survivors, activists, academic researchers, and documentary filmmakers such as Joshua Oppenheimer and his anonymous Indonesian co-director and crew, has the Indonesian media begun to end their self-censorship on the 1965 massacres. But the State continues to ignore the call for justice and reconciliation for the 1965 atrocities. Ignoring the killings of 1965 has created a culture of impunity in Indonesia. Impunity has undermined the power of civil society through State terror and ensured Indonesia’s oligarchic political system prevails. The legacy of impunity surrounding the 1965 killings can be seen in the problems of violence, bad governance, economic inequality and environmental degradation that we still experience today. That in 2015, 17 years after Suharto’s rule ended, intelligence officers were monitoring a book launch of a 1965-themed novel was evidence that the nightmare that begun in 1965 hasn’t ended. What can the young people born in the years after 1965 do? This question swirled in my head as I sat on my hotel bed. I know the answer is that the young people should organise and join the dialogue on 1965. I opened my laptop and surfed the Internet, finding article after article by Indonesia’s young generation, expressing their discovery of the 1965 history and demanding the government step up and provide justice for 1965 victims. What if we created a dedicated space for young people to share their reflection and personal stories on 1965? My mind raced. Can I do this? I’ve never been an organiser. In class, during my primary schooling and in university, I always stayed quiet. I am a journalist, and this profession suits me because I let other people speak and I can hide behind the stories I write or essays that I edit. I was scared of executing this idea. But I remember Nursyahbani and Gadis’s fearless yet quiet way of facing the officers. I hear the voices of Kadmiyati and Hartiti singing their song of perseverance and I want to follow their example. Nursyahbani, Gadis, Saskia, Kadmiyati, and Hartiti, without their knowing, they inspired courage in me to start Ingat65, a participatory digital storytelling project to collectively remember the 1965 period in Indonesia through personal family and community experiences. Back home in Jakarta, I spoke to my best friend, Ika Krismantari, who contributes to one of the vignettes in this chapter. Ika, a journalist at The Jakarta Post, had just found out that her grandfather was imprisoned during the purges. He was a military man accused of arming the farmers. She === [PDF page 231] === 202 Prodita Sabarini et al. found out that her father had grown up without his own father because, when her grandfather was released after ten years of imprisonment, he died only a year later. Ika and I agreed to create a storytelling platform for the post-1965 generation to share their reflections about 1965. We are certain that, unlike some of the older generation, who lived through the period and who would like to leave 1965 behind them, the post-1965 generation wants to remember. We know there are many young people who are shocked by their newly found discoveries about the 1965 atrocities and want to see a reconciliation process happen but are perhaps unsure of what to do. Our idea, inspired by social movement studies from which we learn how storytelling is useful in building a movement, was to create a platform that allows the young generation to tell personal stories about what we know about the period, how we learned about what we know, what our parents, grandparents, and older relatives experienced and remember, and our hopes for the future. We believe the act of telling one’s story is one of activism. As Marshal Ganz argues: ‘Storytelling is how people learn and exercise agency, shape identity, and motivate action’ (2001, p. 2). Joseph E. Davis elaborates that the power of stories lies in how the story ‘reconfigures the past endowing it with meaning and continuity and so also project a sense of what will or should happen’ (2002, p. 12). So we got to work. It wasn’t hard to find other young people who shared our concern and believed in the importance of youth participation in remembering 1965. We also asked advice from senior activists, journalists, and researchers, to shape our thinking. In March 2016, on the International Day for the Right to the Truth concerning Gross Human Rights Violations and for the Dignity of Victims, we sent our first newsletter, launched our page in medium.com/Ingat-65 and went live with Ingat65’s social media accounts. In the first year alone, we published 71 authors, from across Indonesia and abroad, with a total reach of more than 2,000 views each month. Our Twitter account is now followed by more than 1,800 people, and on Facebook, more than 2,300 people follow our page. On the 2016 International Human Rights Day, we launched a video campaign of testimonies from Ingat65 writers. This chapter shares just a handful of vignettes of personal stories and analysis. Ellena Ekarahendy analyses the stories from the Ingat65 archive and social media engagement. Ingat65 editors Ika Krismantari and Febriana Firdaus write about their personal stories on why they believed in the importance of Ingat65 and youth participation in remembering the 1965 period. Ika and Febriana, the first two writers for Ingat65, tell the stories of their grandfathers who were swept up in the 1965 turmoil. Rika Theo expands on her video testimony, which we posted on our YouTube channel as part of Ingat65’s video campaign, about how the effects of 1965 have brought systematic discrimination against Indonesia’s ethnic Chinese population. === [PDF page 232] === Discovery of a forgotten massacre 203 A microhistory on 1965 from Indonesia’s youth: an analysis of Ingat65 Ellena Ekarahendy After launching in 2016, Ingat65 compiled approximately 71 personal essays in the first year. Most of the authors (73%) only experienced the New Order regime as children, or were born after the regime ended. Only 21% of the writers whose stories have been published in Ingat65 have any direct family connection with the 1965 tragedy. The rest, the majority of them, have no family members who were victims, perpetrators, or witnesses of the 1965 anti-communist pogroms. Yet, they all felt compelled to reflect on the tragedy. Many of them feel that they are, in a way, also victims of the New Order regime as they were kept in the dark about the killings and were fed propaganda that stigmatised the victims of the killings. From analysing keywords in each of the essays, we found that from all the personal stories that have been published until March 2017, two main themes emerge. First, authors are keen to reflect on the 1965 tragedy. Second, these reflections on this dark past are often related to their thoughts about the present and the future. We found that the most common words the authors used when they describe what they come to know about the 1965 tragedy were ‘Communists/Communism/PKI,’ ‘New Order regime,’ ‘slaughters,’ ‘stigma,’ and ‘(mass-)killing.’ Most of the authors grew up with New Order era propaganda that stigmatised the communists. Most of them wrote that the killings were wrong. Through their encounters with stories from families, survivors, activists, and films, they understand or suspect that the New Order regime was responsible. For example, Nadya Karima Melati, in her essay ‘I’m a millennial, I support the 1965 People’s Tribunal,’ said that the New Order regime had spooked the older generation from speaking about the tragedy.2 She explained that her generation is different: ‘While older people are still spreading fear against a supposed threat of Neo-Communism, the Millennial generation with the current open access to information is finding out on their own what exactly is communism.’ When it comes to how the history of 1965 relates to their present and future, the authors used words such as ‘blurred history and doctrines.’ These keywords appeared in almost half of the published stories. In the view of many of the authors, the official histories of the 1965 period were incomplete and even false. Nearly a third of Ingat65 authors demanded that the truth about this past be revealed. For example, Sebastian Partogi in ‘A scary study tour trip’ wrote: ‘All those horrifying events were fed to us students without any explanation behind them. In primary school, explanations about the PKI, supposedly the mastermind behind the assassinations, were superficial. We were given abstract concepts which now brings up questions as a grown up. What is a party? What is Communism? Why did they emerge? Why do they want to destroy Indonesia? How does the abstract concept of latent danger of Communism manifest in daily life?’3 === [PDF page 233] === 204 Prodita Sabarini et al. Official histories on 1965 are silent about the killings. How did our authors learn about the pogroms in 1965? In 2017, we analysed 71 stories compiled so far. We found that the authors came across stories of 1965 through films (22.64%), family members (18.24%), dialogues with people who lived during that period (14.47%), conversations with those who work on this issue (13.21%), books (12.58%), civil initiatives (for example, IPT 65, Symposium 65, IKOHI, students press, etc.10.69%), museums (5.66%), and art activities (2.52%). Films rank as the most popular medium that introduced the writers of Ingat65 to the 1965 tragedy. The official government propaganda film Betrayal of the G30S/PKI, has invariably created ominous mental images for its audiences. The extreme horror imprinted by the film has generated a pseudo-memory of 1965 history—including for those who had to watch the film for only several years before the New Order collapsed or who weren’t even required to watch the film every September 30 during the regime at all. Aside from Betrayal of the G30S/PKI, many authors also mentioned the documentary films by Joshua Oppenheimer, The Act of Killing (2012) and The Look of Silence (2014), as triggers to re-question 1965 history. For young people who did not live under the New Order era or who only experienced it shortly, Oppenheimer’s films opened their eyes to the horror of 1965. Three of these writers have since been involved in the making of different independent films based on the story of 1965 as their way to build a dialogue about the past. Conversations with family also play a substantial role. Authors write about conversations with their mothers, fathers, grandmothers and grandfathers, who talk about the stories of disappeared family members or horror stories about the communists; or even conversations with their very young children who were driven by pure curiosity about the ‘myths’ about the PKI. Some did not expect to have a personal connection to the 1965 tragedy but found out that they were connected in some way. Others traced back the roots of the violence in the 1998 riots and discrimination against Chinese-Indonesian to the violence in 1965. For some authors, stories from family members were not enough to find out about what happened in 1965, so they sought those who lived through the period, such as former prisoners, members of Gerwani, witnesses, and others. The following story, for example, illustrates how civilians in one village became involved, and the role rumours about rural unrest played in the trajectory of becoming a murderer.4 Kim Al Ghozali tells how her grandmother told her about Sempenan Hill close to their home in the village of Resongo, Probolinggo in East Java. It contains a large mass grave of members or sympathisers of the PKI; a well-kept public secret. At a different location on the same hill, eleven Chinese men and women were killed. They were tied together and then burnt alive. The flames were visible from afar, her grandmother remembered. A neighbouring village was known as a ‘red village,’ Kim’s village was anti-PKI. One year before Gestok (a different name for G30S, the 30 September Movement), a riot started at their mosque. The rumour was that Kim’s neighbourhood would be attacked by inhabitants from === [PDF page 234] === Discovery of a forgotten massacre 205 the PKI village, to steal their land and kill their kyai. In anticipation of the attack, Kim’s villagers began praying, with their weapons ready; a few climbed the trees on a hill that looked in the direction of the ‘red village.’ Nothing happened. But because of that rumour, many villagers became butchers. The elders later called them gangsters (bajingan) or cattle thieves. After the 1965 events, they were recruited by the security services (aparat) to comb the neighbouring villages. They arrested people whose names were on a list. The prisoners were then escorted to Sempenan Hill where they ended up in the mass grave. Those who were murdered were believed to have no religion and to enjoy killing kyai and stealing land. All elements from the propaganda machinery in the countryside are present in this story: a false rumour from the mosque about land conflicts and kyai being killed. The villagers are told they must murder these atheists before the army recruited the future butchers, equipping them with lists, and protected them ever after. The mass graves are now almost forgotten, but the stories live on in their grandchildren, who grew up in fear of something unknown to them and who were lied to in their schools. These same grandchildren now go to great trouble, such as Kim Al Ghozali, to understand what really happened around and after Gestok. Their discoveries about the 1965 massacres have also made them re-examine the narrative of Indonesia and what it means to be Indonesian. Now they have knowledge about the dark past of their country. In other stories, narrators interrogate the ‘truths’ with which they grew up. Yulius Tandyanto, for example, wrote in ‘Re-reading the narrative of the 65 tragedy’: ‘I have to admit I don’t know anything about the 1965 tragedy. I’m not a perpetrator. I’m not a victim. Neither am I a living witness. But I’m a child of the Zeitgeist that inherits all the nation’s tragedy. Therefore, I don’t need to deny that the 1965 tragedy happened. In fact, I should “celebrate” it as part of maturing as an Indonesian.’5 In his story, he recounts how his father, an upright, non-corrupt regional Golkar6 politician, whom he greatly admires, told him only the hegemonic New Order version of events on the night of 1 October 1965. Since he discovered other truths about these events and the genocide that followed it, he plans on his return to his father to ask him why he only told his son the hegemonic New Order version of events. So Yulius, instead of denying and avoiding talking about 1965, embraced his discovery of the past to help him understand more about his country and himself as part of the nation. One of the reasons we chose to explore youth storytelling through digital platforms was because the Internet provides a relatively safe space for young people to share their stories without having to deal with threats of attacks by mass organisations that are against talking about the 1965 tragedy. While Ingat65’s page on medium.com/Ingat-65 became a repository of collected essays, Ingat65’s social media channels on Facebook and Twitter play a big role in spreading the word about the Ingat65 storytelling movement and also function as a space for youth to talk about this issue. Ingat65’s social media managers, === [PDF page 235] === 206 Prodita Sabarini et al. Hanida Syafirani and Priska Siagian, reported that followers of Ingat65 are those who were born after 1965. The age range of our followers is 13–54 years old, with the majority either 18–24 years old (42%) or 25–34 years old (41%). This shows that our followers are mostly from the millennial generation, who live in the open-access information era, and use communication technology on a daily basis. Of these, 54% of Ingat65’s followers live on Java, with the rest from islands other than Java. Our active followers are not just individuals but other communities as well, like @kerjapembebasan and @IPT 1965. Our followers grow organically. We reached more than 1,000 followers on Twitter on 9 May 2016, after we launched Ingat65 on 20 March 2016. Our followers reached 1,905 by mid-February 2017. The engagement from our followers is significant. Based on Twitter analytics conducted between October 2016 and January 2017, we have 18 clicks/day, 13 retweets/day, and five likes/day. These are the main responses for our posts, whether they are about the newest essays or any other posts. Our social media reach helped to encourage our followers to send in their own stories. We have a number of writers who voluntarily send in essays. A comic in Garut, Aris Karisma, used the hashtag #Ingat65 on his campaign T-shirt for his stand-up comedy show, ‘Gestok Lineup’ (Gestok Berbaris).7 He then wrote his reflection for Ingat65. Albertus Prahasta Wibowo, the director of the short film, Ordinary Citizen (Wong Tjilik), shared his reflections on Ingat65, stating that he was grateful to find Ingat65, where he could finally share his restlessness about the 1965 tragedy.8 Our social media page gives insight into what our followers think about 1965. On Facebook, there have been times when our followers commented amongst one another or had discussions related to the posts we shared. Surprisingly, most comments are positive. Of course we have had some negative comments too, but compared to the positive sentiments, we can say that the negative ones are relatively few. Whenever a ‘troll’ shows up, the other followers counter back. It makes us think that more people care about the dark history of 1965. Social media managers Priska and Hanida were at first worried that Ingat65 might face harsh attacks from anti-communist forces. Looking at the results of our journey, our worries were not realised. The negative responses have been manageable. Ingat65’s authors are adding to the chorus of activists and survivors who are demanding an apology, openness, freedom of expression, and wishing for the nation to heal from this trauma. With its personal styles of writing, Ingat65’s narration appears to be a companion to the existing narratives that provide an alternative to the New Order regime’s official account. When its writers talk intimately, based on their daily life and experiences, Ingat65 compiles a petite histoire that has been missing in the grand 1965 narration. From accidental readings and meetings, to dining room conversations, or random family or classroom talks, the stories told through Ingat65 may seem to be fringe stories. But as one story adds to another, Ingat65 contributes to the nation’s collective memory of the 1965 killings. === [PDF page 236] === Discovery of a forgotten massacre 207 Discovery of family histories: stories of granddaughters Ika Krismantari ‘Ika, do you know someone who became a victim of the 1965 tragedy? Maybe someone in your family or your friends’ families?’ My best friend Prodita ‘Odit’ Sabarini asked over the phone when I was in a car on a sudden trip to my hometown, Yogyakarta. It was 25 January 2015. My father had just got a phone call from a relative in Yogyakarta, telling him that his brother, who was recently hospitalised, had passed away. I had been living in Australia for two years, where I had completed my Masters. After returning to Indonesia in early January, I had been hoping to travel to Yogyakarta with my husband and child before I had to return to my office at The Jakarta Post. So, after hearing the sad news, I decided it was the right time to go and we hitched a ride in my father’s car. I have never enjoyed going on road trips with my father. His maneuvers and unexpected schedules have always ruined trips. When I was in college, my father took me on a road trip back to Jakarta during a school break. During the journey, we didn’t do anything; I just spent the whole time sleeping on the back seat. But on the January road trip, I didn’t have a choice, did I? So, when I got a call from Odit, I was excited. At least, I was spared for a couple of minutes from the expected boredom. After I hung up the phone, to break the silence in the car, I started a conversation, asking the same question Odit had asked me. ‘Dad, is there anyone from our family who became a victim of the 1965 tragedy? Or do you know someone?’ I asked casually from the back seat. I didn’t expect much from his answer. I just wanted to keep the good mood in the car after receiving a phone call from my best friend and to anticipate the dread of being stuck in the small confines for the next few hours. I certainly never expected to get a serious response from my father because it was just an idle question amid the worsening traffic. I knew first about the tragedy from school textbooks. I am one of Indonesia’s generations that had been brainwashed on the cause of the bloody incidents in 1965. From textbooks and the government’s propaganda film I ‘learned’ that the Indonesian Communist Party was the culprit behind the murder of seven military generals. The case remained a distant history that I knew only existed in the film and books. It was not until recently that I knew about the roughly one million people who had been killed for their alleged association with the party. Thanks to the technological development of the Internet and a change in the country’s political regime, the current generation has the ability to access much more information about the 1965 tragedy than we ever did. Armed with my new knowledge on the issue, I expected that I could at least start an intellectual discussion with my father on a topic that I had generally kept my distance from. Little did I know that my father’s answer would change the course not only of the trip, but of my life. === [PDF page 237] === 208 Prodita Sabarini et al. ‘Your grandfather was one of the victims. […] He was imprisoned for years,’ my father responded casually from the front seat. ‘Heh? What?’ I reacted spontaneously. I knew from that moment that this trip was not going to be a dull trip. I composed myself despite all the commotion within me. Ignoring the sadness, the anger, and driven by the curiosity inside me, I tried to interrogate my father just like I did when I interviewed my sources, gathering pieces of facts surrounding the existence of my grandfather. I realised that I had never really known my grandfather (I had never seen his face). I had heard that he was a military officer and that he was handsome. But that was it. That day, I learnt more about my grandfather. My grandfather, Sukadi, was sent to prison because he was accused of arming farmers at a time when the government banned the use of guns by civilians, for fears of a coup d’etat. The army had also charged my grandfather for his involvement with the Communist Party after he helped one of his relatives who was a member of the party escape from the anti-communist purge following the 30 September Movement. The details after that are vague. I was busy managing all of my emotions. But I felt a rage rising within me; not against my father or his family that had never discussed this issue. I knew about the pressures and intimidations suffered by the families of 1965 victims and it seems my father’s family is no exception. I was angry at myself. How could I be so ignorant? I, a journalist. I had disappointed myself. Right after the conversation in the car, I tried to find the missing pieces of my grandfather’s stories from my grandmother. During my visits to her house, I asked her to reconstruct events from when my grandfather was sent to the prison in Ambarawa, Central Java, around 82 kilometers from Yogyakarta. I got details about the struggle and pains that my grandmother had to bear after the arrest as she had to take care of seven children alone. Piece by piece I collected this information. I was even shown the one and only photo of my grandfather (and yes, he is very handsome). But after this, what’s next? I thought I had to do something because I was probably not the only one who had encountered this kind of experience. As a writer and a journalist, the easiest thing to do was to share it in writing. I wrote a reflective piece in The Jakarta Post’s famous column, By The Way. I also had the chance to analyze the topic of reconciliation further when I joined the investigation team for the 50th anniversary of the tragedy. I wrote several articles, discussing the topic from different perspectives. But, I knew it was not enough. That is why when Odit came to me with the idea of setting up a digital movement for youths to retell stories they had heard about 1965, I welcomed it enthusiastically. I am excited about this project because I personally consider it to be a chance to redeem my past mistakes for ignoring the issue until I discovered that it also affected my family. === [PDF page 238] === Discovery of a forgotten massacre 209 When Odit came to my house, I had just given birth to my second child. On that day, we agreed to set up Ingat65 as a digital platform for the young generation to tell their version of stories about the 1965 tragedy. I felt that we were celebrating Indonesia’s ‘Mother’s Day’ in the best way possible. 22 December was the day of Indonesia’s first ever Women’s Congress in 1928. But after 1965 and the destruction of Gerwani, Indonesia’s communist women’s group, the Suharto’s regime anointed the date as a celebration of the domestic nature of women. As a mother with two wonderful daughters, I want them to grow up understanding what happened to their great-grandfather and to not be left with an incomplete history. End the propaganda Febriana Firdaus I sometimes imagined that the military had shot my grandfather in the head and throughout his whole body. This scene is brutal and it scares me, but I could not help it. My mother had told me about what happened to my grandfather. He was a member of the Indonesian Communist Party in 1965. The military kidnapped him following the events of 1 October 1965 and he never returned. We still have no idea of his fate. I grew up with the New Order propaganda that the entire Indonesian Communist Party and its associates were ‘the enemy of the State’ that the military had to exterminate them. Through this propaganda, the New Order regime justified the brutal massacre against Indonesian leftists between 1965 and 66. The military, with the support of civilian militia groups, killed not only Communist Party members, but also alleged communist sympathisers, leftist artists from the communist-affiliated group Lekra, and loyalists of the first president and our founding father Sukarno. When my mother told me about my grandfather, my first reaction was: we have to end this propaganda. My family suffered a lot from the military’s brutal purge of Indonesia’s left. The forced disappearance of my grandfather created a lasting impact in my family. After my grandfather was kidnapped, my mother had to drop out of school. She was married to my father at the age of 16. My grandmother, being known as the wife of a communist, was stigmatised and had economic difficulties. Marrying off my mother was, in a way, an effort to provide her with security and safety. But it was, nevertheless, child marriage. After my parents’ wedding, the military accused my father of being a secret communist because of his missing father-in-law. His father-in-law, a Communist Party member, is believed to have been shot to death by the military. After his death, my father had to report to the regional military post every two or three months. My family had to live under this kind of surveillance for more than a decade. === [PDF page 239] === 210 Prodita Sabarini et al. As the third generation of victims, I grew up under the New Order’s propaganda. Suharto’s regime told us lies about the history of 1965. They sexually slandered Indonesia’s communist women. Every year, we memorialise the assassination of the seven military generals, killed by the 30 September Movement on 1 October 1965 and depict the Communist Party as godless and savage, and as being behind the 30 September Movement. The killing of the seven generals was wrong. But the military has used this event, as historian John Roosa has described, as a pretext to mass murder (2006). More than half a million people were murdered by the military. Yet, the New Order regime seemed to force people to forget this had ever happened. History books are silent about the 1965–66 massacres. Suharto fell from power in 1998. But the propaganda is still here. I decided to become a journalist partly to stop this propaganda. I also wanted to find out what had happened to my grandfather. I wanted to be able to find the missing link of the story of my grandfather and write about it. I especially wanted to be able to solve the puzzle that had caused so much misery for my mother. In my first years as a journalist, I focused on being a good reporter. That’s the only thing that I can do. I am drawn to social justice issues and human rights. Perhaps my yearning for justice became a driver in my passion for journalism. In 2016, eight years into my journalism career, I met with fellow journalists Prodita Sabarini and Ika Krismantari who were planning to launch Ingat65 as a digital platform for Indonesia’s younger generation to share their reflections about 1965. Prodita and I were introduced by an Indonesian studies researcher from Australia, Ross Tapsell. Prodita, who is good friends with Ross, had told him about her idea of setting up Ingat65. I was helping Ross during one of his field research trips in Indonesia and told him the story of my grandfather. He said that the two of us should meet and gave each of us our numbers. We did finally meet, and I was so excited about the idea of Ingat65. Prodita, Ika, and me, along with other members of Ingat65 then worked together to launch the website in early 2016, 50 years after the massacre. This will be our long agenda. A lifetime agenda. I believe that by continuing to talk about the 1965 massacre, the third and subsequent generations will find out the truth. I also hope to find a way to find justice for the victims’ families. At least, I hope they will share the same restlessness. In mid-2016, I was targeted by the militant group, the Islamic Defenders Front (FPI). They were angry at my attempts to cover a meeting of militant Islamists and former senior military officials who oppose Indonesia’s attempts toward accountability for the 1965–66 ‘anti-communist’ massacres. Members of the FPI, all men, cornered me and threatened me that I would be arrested by the police. They then identified me on social media and harassed me by circulating my name and picture, labeling me as a pro-communist reporter who publishes ‘lies.’ In an atmosphere where communists are ingrained in Indonesian minds as criminals, this was a serious === [PDF page 240] === Discovery of a forgotten massacre 211 attempt to harm me. My office at the time, however, accused me of crossing the line as a journalist. They said I was crossing the line because of my involvement with Ingat65. I disagree with them. Every young person in Indonesia has the right to demand accountability for what happened in 1965. It is impossible for me to give up the attempt to encourage young people to reflect on the country’s history through Ingat65. This work will continue no matter what. On fear and racial prejudice: the story of Chinese Indonesians post-1965 Rika Theo Ask any young Chinese-Indonesian millennial today to tell you a story about racial discrimination in the country. Most of them will be able to tell you about many cases they have heard from their parents and their family during Suharto’s New Order era. Most will mention the horror of the May 1998 mass riot when many Chinese shops were set ablaze and Chinese women were raped. Now ask them why there has been such racial prejudice and discrimination towards Chinese-Indonesians. The common answers you will hear will vary from racism to economic inequality and the social gap in Indonesian society. There may be a few of them who realise the link of those stories to what happened in 1965. Some who like to read history might refer to Dutch colonialism in Indonesia which first created the race-based social stratification, differentiating the class of Chinese-Indonesians from the indigenous Indonesians. Others might blame Suharto and the New Order government for the assimilation program that led to many discriminatory policies for Chinese-Indonesians. These young Chinese-Indonesians hardly ever relate the roots of this discrimination and prevailing racial prejudices to the events of 1965. As a Chinese-Indonesian from the so-called Y generation, born in the 1980s, and the last generation who experienced Suharto’s discriminatory policies, I too grew up with the fear of racial prejudices. My parents told me that the tough repression experienced under the Suharto regime was harmful to us. It is the reason why we, as a minority group in Indonesia, should behave cautiously and always keep a low profile. ‘Chinese are often made a scapegoat,’ my mother would tell me. Being cautious meant my parents never taught their children the C hinese language. I grew up during the time that the government banned Chinese education and barred any usage of Chinese characters in public. There were no less than 64 legal regulations that were discriminatory towards Chinese-Indonesians. Chinese culture was silenced to the extent that Chinese-Indonesians were compelled to change their Chinese names to === [PDF page 241] === 212 Prodita Sabarini et al. Indonesian names. There was to be no Chinese private mass media, mass organisations, or political activities for the long 32 years of the New Order regime. As politics was barely a topic of discussion at my family’s dinner table, I had no idea that this cultural silencing has something to do with the 1965 tragedy. I finally came to understand this after years of personal curiosity and uneasiness led me to dig up history through books and research. The events of 1 October 1965 were followed by mass killings of Indonesian people, including Chinese-Indonesians who were often seen as communists. It did not stop there. After this date, not only was fear and hatred spread about communism, there was also a deepened stigma and suspicion towards China and Chinese-Indonesians. The ‘C-trio’ (Communists, China, and Chinese-Indonesians) was considered by the New Order government as a threat to national unity. This threat was transmitted to the Indonesian people, through both government discourse and policies. The seeds of suspicion and racial hatred were planted using peoples’ fear of the 1965 tragedy. The prevailing prejudices inherited from the Dutch colonial regime that treated Chinese-Indonesians as foreign aliens and non-indigenous, self-interested brokers were raised, exploited, and re-fabricated. This fear was inflicted upon Chinese-Indonesians too. The traumatic experience of racial violence and property-seizures, combined with 32 years of discriminatory policies, haunted them. In order to be safe and to be seen as loyal citizens, Chinese-Indonesians have had to prove again and again that they are good Indonesians. Yet at the same time, throughout this Indonesianisation process, they have constantly been reminded that they are not ‘true’ Indonesians. Stories of discrimination and how hard it has been to identify as Chinese-Indonesian have been told from generation to generation. It affects how Chinese-Indonesians think and how they live in society. Yet nothing remains static. Newer generations face different challenges to the older ones. And now, it is two decades since Indonesia’s democratic reform finally brought back equal citizen rights to Chinese-Indonesians, more than five decades after 1965. How have these changes reduced the fear felt by Chinese-Indonesians and the fear of being Chinese in Indonesia? On the surface, we see a lot of improvements, from rising political participation by Chinese-Indonesians to more pluralistic social interactions. However, the fear and racial prejudice that have been experienced for decades still lingers. It is not easy to get rid of this fear and prejudice. This is especially the case when racial sentiment continues to be mobilised for political interests during the current trend of identity politics. One way of dealing with this risk is to arm the younger generation with knowledge and understanding. Learning from history and realising the link between 1965 and racial prejudice experienced by Chinese-Indonesian today can be a starting point to understand this fear. === [PDF page 242] === Discovery of a forgotten massacre 213 Epilogue Indonesia is a country of young people. All of them have inherited a system that was built on the violent destruction of not only a political group, but also the destruction of political consciousness and agency. The Suharto regime collapsed in 1998 after the Asian financial crisis without ever having to account for the massacres of 1965. The country is still ruled by people who benefited from the weakening of civil society. Ingat65 is an attempt to re-gain our political consciousness and political power through the collective act of reflecting and remembering the 1965 massacres. We still have a lot of work to do. For the young people of Indonesia, to ignore new research findings about the 1965 massacres, to fail to acknowledge the moral wrong of the killings, and to continue to be disengaged on this issue is tantamount to jeopardising their own future. Notes 1 Cited in Eloiza Slavet, 2010. ‘A Matter of distinction: on recent works by Jan Assman’, AJS Review, vol. 34, no. 2, pp. 383–93. 2 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/international-peoples-tribunal-65-dan-generasiy-5caf89df941. Accessed 1 August 2018. 3 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/pengalaman-karyawisata-yang-menakutkanfbe5df9f539d. Accessed 1 August 2018. 4 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/bukit-sempenan-dan-sejarahnya-yang-merah4db0ed97d50. Accessed 11 January 2018. 5 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/membaca-ulang-narasi-tragedi-enam-l ima237818a0aaa5. Accessed 1 August 2018. 6 Golkar (the Party of the Functional Groups) is a political party in Indonesia. It was the ruling party between 1971 and 1999. 7 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/menertawakan-kekeliruan-sejarah-f 20bd7e 2608f. Accessed 1 August 2018. 8 See: https://medium.com/ingat-65/wong-tjilik-ordinary-citizen-cb3fa711207f. Accessed 1 August 2018. References Assman, J 1997, Moses the Egyptian: the memory of Egypt in Western monotheism, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, MA. Conroe, A 2012, ‘Generating history: Violence and the risks of remembering the families of former political prisoners in post-new order Indonesia’, PhD thesis, The University of Michigan, Ann Arbor. Davis, JE 2002, Stories of change; narrative and social movement, State University of New York, Albany. Fischer, N 2015, Memory work the second generation, Palgrave MacMillan, New York. Ganz, M 2001, ‘The power of story in social movements’, paper presented at the annual meeting of the American Sociological Association, Anaheim, CA. Herlambang, W 2013, Kekerasan budaya pasca 1965: bagaimana Orde Baru melegitimasi anti-komunisme melalui sastra dan film, Marjin Kiri, Jakarta. === [PDF page 243] === 214 Prodita Sabarini et al. Katjasungkana, N & Wieringa, SE 2016, ‘Narrative report of the IPT 1965 Tribunal’, Available online: <www.tribunal1965.org>. Levine, PA 2015, Trauma and memory: brain and body in a search for the living past, North Atlantic Books, Berkeley, CA. McGregor, KE 2007, History in uniform: military ideology and the construction of Indonesia’s past, NUS Press, Singapore. Roosa, J 2006, Pretext for mass murder: the September 30th movement and Suharto’s coup d’état in Indonesia, The University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, WI. Slavet, E 2010, ‘A matter of distinction: on recent works by Jan Assman’, AJS Review, vol. 34, no. 2, pp. 385–93. Wieringa, SE 2002, Sexual politics in Indonesia, Palgrave Macmillan, London. Wieringa, SE 2015, Crocodile hole (translation from the Dutch, Krokodillengat), Jurnal Perempuan, Jakarta. Wieringa, SE & Katjasungkana N 2018, Propaganda and the genocide in Indonesia: imagined evil, Routledge, New York. === [PDF page 244] === 12 The Indonesian massacres as genocide Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa Can the mass killings in Indonesia after the ‘events’ on 1 October 1965 be qualified as genocide?1 The 2012 report of the National Human Rights Commission (Komnas HAM) did not include genocide among the grave human rights violations it had found overwhelming evidence for. In this chapter, we present the arguments put forward in the IPT 1965 research report on why the massacres of that period can be included as one of the genocides in the twentieth century, as well as the conclusion of the Panel of Judges on this topic. The chapter starts with a discussion on the definition of genocide and will also deal with the amicus curiae brief submitted to the Tribunal. Genocide is often the subject of fierce and impassioned controversy. Despite the fact that, under international law, genocide has the same gravity as crimes against humanity and war crimes, genocide is often referred to as ‘the crime of crimes.’ It was not only Komnas HAM that had great hesitation in using the term genocide; in the nearly seven decades since the Genocide Convention entered into force on 12 January 1951, rarely have any courts, international or national, prosecuted the crime of genocide, and fewer still have brought a positive finding. Bangladesh, in which an estimated three million people died in the 1971 war of secession from Pakistan, was the first country in the world to establish a court to prosecute genocide as an international crime, under its International Crimes (Tribunals) Act, 1973, along with prosecution of war crimes and crimes against humanity committed as part of this Liberation War. However, as part of the political upheaval in the country, the new government very soon suspended the proceedings before any trials were carried out, and they were not recommenced until 2009 (Hoque 2014; Rahman 2014). Only in August 1979 did the world’s first genocide trial take place, in the People’s Revolutionary Tribunal of Cambodia. In this trial, Khmer Rouge leaders Pol Pot and Ieng Sary were found guilty in absentia. Despite the fact that some two million people (over 25% of the population) are estimated to have died, this judgement was largely ignored internationally, consistent === [PDF page 245] === 216 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa with the lack of recognition given to the then government of Cambodia due to geopolitical considerations of the Cold War (Fawthrop & Jarvis 2004). After a more than 25-year gap, new legal proceedings for senior leaders and those most responsible for these crimes were commenced in 2006 in the Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC), a national court with international participation (Jarvis 2016).2 Thus, those responsible for the major genocides of the twentieth century that took place in these three South and Southeast Asia countries went free for a generation. Now trials are taking place in Bangladesh and Cambodia, but Indonesia is yet to carry out either judicial or non-judicial proceedings to address the crimes. Nor was this lack of accountability for genocide exceptional. Taking a worldwide perspective, it was not until 1998 that any international court issued a conviction for genocide, when the International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda convicted Jean-Paul Indonesia As we will argue in this chapter, the conventionally narrow definition of genocide plays a critical role in whether or not the massacres in Indonesia, which recently received wide international attention in Oppenheimer’s gripping films The Act of Killing and The Look of Silence (Oppenheimer 2012, 2014), are included in the litany of genocides of the twentieth century. Before discussing the debates on the definition, we first give a short overview of the scale of the killings. The chapter concludes with a discussion on possible future developments. Dimensions of the killing Certainly, in terms of the sheer number of those killed, often understood as one of the keys in defining genocide, Indonesia can be listed as one of the most extreme examples in the twentieth century, although, as with many examples of mass killing, the total numbers of deaths will probably never be known. Figures vary between 400 and 500,000 and three million (see Chapter 1, this volume). The Final Report of the IPT reviewed the many differing accounts from three types of data presented in evidence (contemporary diplomatic and journalistic reports; the very few official Indonesian government reports; and accounts by participants, eyewitnesses and observers, typically confined to one area or one incident) as well as scholarly attempts to analyse all these data and reach a reliable estimate. The judges concurred with the assessment made by Robert Cribb in 2001: ‘A scholarly consensus has settled on a figure of 400–500,000, but the correct figure could be half or twice as much …’ (IPT 2016, p. 40, citing Cribb 2001). === [PDF page 246] === The Indonesian massacres as genocide 217 Only through comprehensive and scientific nationwide research on the extent of the mass murders could an estimate be reached that is closer to the truth. The Indonesian state is the only actor able to organise or facilitate such a massive research project, but so far it has not shown any signs that it might be inclined to carry out or approve of such an investigation. To the contrary, governmental and military authorities have on a number of occasions obstructed attempts to identify mass graves. This is in stark contrast to other nations in which a genocide took place, such as Cambodia, Germany, Rwanda, and Bangladesh, where serious efforts have been made to reach reliable figures.3 Definition of genocide The crime of genocide is defined in international law in the Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of Genocide (known as the Genocide Convention), which was adopted by the United Nations General Assembly on 9 December 1948 and entered into force on 12 January 1951. More than 130 nations (not including Indonesia) have ratified the Genocide Convention and over 70 nations (including Indonesia) have made provisions for the punishment of genocide in their domestic criminal law. The text of Article II of the Genocide Convention was included as a crime in Article 6 of the 1998 Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court. Although the Convention came into force in 1951, it has rarely been invoked. Besides the political reasons, as stated above, such inaction is partly due to the narrow definition of ‘genocide’ as a number of specified acts committed with intent to destroy, in whole or in part, any of four groups— national, ethnic, racial, or religious (Article II and Article III). The major controversy over the definition of genocide in the Indonesian case centres on what is meant by ‘national group.’ Although it has most often been interpreted to apply to national minorities, this is by no means stipulated in the Genocide Convention, and a number of scholars and jurists have argued that it should apply in cases of destruction in whole or part of an entire national group. We argue below that this is so in the Indonesian case, even if most victims were killed ostensibly because of their alleged political beliefs. How should ‘national group’ be defined in the Indonesian case? Robert Cribb argues that the distinctions between the various groups in Indonesia were not only along religious or ethnic lines, and often were blurred with political values. Indonesian national identity has always been defined in terms of beliefs and values … rather than in terms of ethnicity. The communists and their enemies, in effect, sought to create very different kinds of I ndonesian identity for the peoples of the archipelago. In this respect, the destruction of the communist version of the Indonesian === [PDF page 247] === 218 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa identity has much more in common with the destruction of an ethnic group than first appears. (Cribb 2004) Although religious and ethnic motives played a role in the Indonesian mass murders, the part of the ‘national group’ that was destroyed after 1 October 1965 was more strongly characterised in political terms: communist and otherwise leftist supporters of President Sukarno. But belonging to this group had much wider implications than party allegiance alone. The Indonesian term alíran literally meaning ‘stream’ comes closer. Identification with the progressive–nationalist/communist stream brought with it certain cultural practices, a liking for popular art (for instance, drum bands and popular theatre forms), dress codes, social mores (women’s emancipation), and sociopolitical practices (demonstrations for land or labour rights). A distinguishing vocabulary was also developed, largely inspired by President Sukarno, including terms such as ‘capitalist-bureaucrats’ (kabir) or ‘village Ethnic motives played a role in mass killings of Chinese-Indonesian citizens as well, particularly in Medan, Makassar, and Lombok, although most Chinese were probably murdered because they belonged to the Baperki, an association of Chinese Indonesians blamed for being aligned with the Communist Party of Indonesia (PKI). To the extent that they were killed because of their Chinese identity, their murders would plausibly amount to genocide under the Genocide Convention. Religious motives were another factor, with the PKI being deliberately branded as atheist (Wieringa & K atjasungkana 2018). But political motives were overriding. The formulation ‘in whole or in part’ is also relevant here. Perpetrators need not intend to destroy the entire group, as was the intention of the Nazis in murdering Jewish people. Destruction of only part of a group (such as its educated members) may also constitute genocide. Other criteria for genocide The Indonesia 1965 case meets other threshold criteria, such as those stated in Chalk and Jonassohn’s (1990) definition of genocide as a form of onesided mass killing in which a state or other authority intends to destroy a group so defined by the perpetrator, or by another leading genocide scholar, Helen Fein, who notes, Genocide is a series of purposeful actions by a perpetrator(s) to destroy a collectivity through mass or selective murders of group members and suppressing the biological and social reproduction of the collectivity. … The perpetrator may represent the state of the victim, another state, or another collectivity. (Fein 1993, p. 55) === [PDF page 248] === The Indonesian massacres as genocide 219 These considerations were indeed canvassed in the Introduction to the IPT Researchers’ Report, prepared for the panel of judges and the prosecution, which made the case ‘for the applicability of the concept of “genocide” for the massacres following the “events of 1965” and also raised the possibility that the killing of ethnic Chinese Indonesians could possibly amount to genocide under the Genocide Convention’ (IPT 2015, pp. 50, 53). The research report also brought forward recent developments in regard to the killings in Argentina in the 1970s, judged to be genocide by the Spanish Judge Baltasar Garzón in November 1999. The Argentinian genocide scholar Daniel Feierstein has also analysed the violence in Argentina as genocide in terms of an ideological battle with religious characteristics, given the involvement of the Catholic Church and the genocidal regime’s concept of belonging to western Christian civilization, and wanting to impose its values on the whole society (Feierstein 2014). He argued that the use of ‘national group’ is applicable to Argentina because the perpetrators proposed to destroy a specific structure of social relations with the aim of producing a significant change that would alter the life of the entire society. Elsewhere Feierstein has reasoned that the Genocide Convention includes the category of ‘racial group’ based not on a positive discrimination between races but on the imaginary construction of the concept of race as a metaphor for the notion of ‘otherness’ (Feierstein 2012). The research report extended this argument to Indonesia, arguing that members of the PKI and their allies were ‘othered’ to the extent that they were portrayed as atheist, devilish, hypersexual beings, out to destroy the nation. Secondly, the existing social order was radically redefined, implicating not only the present, but also the past (history was rewritten) and the future (social justice was relegated to the sidelines of the political imaginary). Further, PKI members were dehumanised; the hammer-and-sickle was seen as an evil symbol (women prisoners were routinely undressed and their bodies searched for a tattoo or brand of this symbol on their buttocks). (IPT 2015, p. 54) The research report thus suggested that communists, members of the organisations associated with the PKI, and other leftist supporters of President Sukarno were targeted as a part of the Indonesian national group. Even though they were not all physically destroyed (they numbered many millions), their cultural, social, and political existence was totally destroyed. The mass killings, the propaganda that incited the murders and the climate of hatred and fear created by the military and their allies changed the course of Indonesian history. In the process, the pre-1965 history of the nation was rewritten (Lane 2008). To this day, the dehumanising ‘othering’ of the survivors of the genocide continues. The fear of a ‘communist revival’ is used to smear human and women’s rights activists.5 === [PDF page 249] === 220 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa Leading up to the Tribunal, political tensions increased. Meetings with the victims were forcibly disbanded by thugs belonging to anti-communist militias, such as in Bukittinggi, West Sumatra, on 22 March 2015. On 2 July of that year, members of various Muslim youth groups, including Ansor (belonging to the largest Muslim mass organisation the NU), held a large rally against what they called the PKI Gaya Baru (PKB) or ‘New Style Communist Party’. They burned so called ‘PKI flags’ in Blitar, East Java (‘Ormas Di Blitar’ 2015). In October 2015, an issue of the student journal Lentera (vol. 14, no 1, 2015) was banned, and the seized issues burned (after which it went online so it was read by many more people than any of the previous issues). The volume was dedicated to the ‘events of 1965’ around Salatiga, Central Java, the site of their university, and its motto was ‘reject deceit, fight forgetting.’ Many other similar incidents of harassment took place, including the widely reported arrest and subsequent deportation of IPT activist Tom Ilyas, who wanted to visit the mass grave thought to contain the remains of his father, killed in October 1965.6 Decision by the prosecution not to include the charge of genocide in the indictment In its Indictment presented to the Tribunal, the prosecution decided not to include the count of genocide for two main reasons. Some members of the team were reluctant to go beyond previous interpretations of the Genocide Convention regarding the protected groups (national, religious, ethnic, and racial), as they wished to avoid entering contested legal and juridical territory. And a more compelling argument that stayed their hand was that, as prosecutors for this highly sensitive Tribunal, they were already under heavy attack, and if they included genocide their situation would become even more difficult. Genocide as considered by the panel of judges of the IPT Nevertheless, the judges were formally seized with a request to consider the charge of genocide when on 11 November 2015, during the IPT hearings, an amicus curiae brief was submitted to them by Professor Dr Daniel Feierstein, Director of the Centre for Genocide Studies of the Universidad Nacional de Tres de Febrero in Buenos Aires, and lawyer Ms Irene Victoria Massimino, respectively, Director and member of the Sociological Consulting Group for Complaints brought in the national justice system of Argentina for human rights violations committed during the last military dictatorship (see the appendix). The amicus curiae brief reviewed national jurisprudence in different state crimes scenarios around the world applying the national group interpretation of the Genocide Convention, and made the following petition: === [PDF page 250] === The Indonesian massacres as genocide 221 In light of the case under consideration and the evidence presented, we respectfully ask the Honourable Judges of the International People’s Tribunal to analyse such evidence to determine that the events of the case at issue constitute genocide as the partial destruction of the Indonesian national group. Given that the Prosecution had not included this charge in the Indictment, and neither did the agenda for the four days of hearings in November allocate time for presenting evidence on this question, the judges decided that they were not in a position to consider this issue during their deliberations at that time, but that they would do so in their Final Report. The Final Report commenced discussion on this point by refuting the argument that it is superfluous to qualify acts as genocide if they have already been found to constitute crimes against humanity, holding that such a position fails not only to take account of the importance of calling things by their correct name, but in so doing fails to provide a framework to comprehend the true nature of what took place in Indonesia in 1965–66 and beyond. It took note of Daniel Feierstein’s view that The big difference between genocide and crimes against humanity is that the victims are not seen as part of a ‘national group’ but as individuals whose individual rights have been violated. This is the most important legal difference between the concept of crimes against humanity (which refers to indiscriminate actions against members of a civilian population) and the concept of genocide (which refers to the deliberate targeting of specific population groups for complete or partial destruction). (Feierstein 2012, pp. 4–5) In coming to their findings on this matter, the judges asked a number of questions, including the following: Do the facts brought before the Tribunal by the Prosecution include acts that fall within the provisions of the Genocide Convention? The Tribunal found that a number of acts defined in the Genocide Convention had been committed against alleged leaders of the PKI and those alleged to be its members or sympathisers, as well as a much broader number of people including Sukarno loyalists, trade unionists and teachers, and specifically against people of ethnic Chinese or mixed descent. Were these acts committed against a protected group as enumerated in the Genocide Convention? and Were these acts against a protected group committed with the specific intent to destroy that group in whole or in part? === [PDF page 251] === 222 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa i The Indonesian national group The Final Report took into its consideration the original concept of genocide developed by Raphael Lemkin that genocide, in essence, is ‘the destruction of the national identity of the oppressed group [and] the imposition of the national identity of the oppressor’ (1944, p. 79). It noted the recent prosecutions and convictions in Spain and in Argentina, where crimes committed by the Argentine military dictatorships during the 1970s and 1980s were found to constitute genocide in 25 cases heard in 11 different tribunals up until the time of the IPT’s hearings in November 2015. Particular relevance was given to the judgements issued in 2006 by the Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of La Plata (Case No. 2251/06), in 2013 by the Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of Rosario (Case No. 95/2010, ruling on 20/12/2013) and most recently in 2015 again by the Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of La Plata (Case No. 17/2012, ruling on 19/10/2015), which includes the following: … it is clear that the Argentine national group has been wiped out ‘in part’ and in a part substantial enough to alter the social relations within the nation itself …. The annihilation in Argentina was not spontaneous, it was not casual, it was not irrational: it was the systematic destruction of a ‘substantial part’ of the Argentine national group, destined to transform it, to redefine its way of being, its social relationships, its destiny, its future. The Final Report concluded that the Prosecution had indeed demonstrated the extent to which Indonesian society was completely and intentionally reorganised through terror and the destruction of a significant part of the Indonesian national group, namely ‘the PKI and those alleged to be its members or sympathisers, as well as a much broader number of people including Sukarno loyalists, trade unionists and teachers.’ ii The Chinese ethnic group The Tribunal considered the argument advanced in the IPT Research Report that ‘to the extent that they were killed because of their Chinese identity, their murders would plausibly amount to genocide under the Genocide Convention’ (IPT 2015, Part 1, p. 53) together with the detailed examination carried out by Jemma Purdey (2006) as well as Jess Melvin’s research in Aceh, which uncovered events of mass killings of Chinese in that province, indicating that members of the Chinese community were targeted through three distinct waves of violence. Melvin (2013, 2018) proposed that the violence that occurred === [PDF page 252] === The Indonesian massacres as genocide 223 against the Chinese community in Aceh at this time can and should be classified as genocide. In deciding whether to reach a finding of genocide on either or both of the above-mentioned groups, the judges took notice of the recent reflection by Robert Cribb on the fact that denial of intent, in particular the lack of a specifically outlined plan, has been used in what he calls ‘hyper-scepticism’ as a means to deny attributing the label of genocide to situations such as Armenia and Indonesia. Cribb argues that the qualification of acts must be analysed through contextualisation. In the case of Armenia, the context of a supposed civil war has been used to deny the qualification of genocide to the acts; while similarly in Indonesia the context was crafted of a ‘malicious fantasy’ that the PKI had embarked on planned massacres and a seizure of state power, a scenario bolstered by revival of the memory of the alleged role of the PKI in Madiun in 1948 (Cribb 2015). The judges accepted that there is no basis in fact for the assertion that the acts were committed in a context of the need to ‘kill or be killed.’ On the contrary, the very small-scale rebellions instigated by the G30S group had mostly collapsed within several days, and only sporadic resistance to the massacres occurred (IPT 2015 pp. 104–12). On the basis of the above considerations, the IPT judges made the following finding: Genocide—The facts brought before the Tribunal by the Prosecution include acts that fall within those enumerated in the Genocide Convention. These acts were committed against a significant and substantial section of the Indonesian nation or ‘Indonesian national group’, a protected group as enumerated in the Genocide Convention, and were committed with the specific intent to annihilate or destroy that section in whole or in part. This possibly applies also to crimes committed against the Chinese ethnic minority group. The State of Indonesia is bound by the provisions of the 1948 Genocide Convention under international customary law. (IPT 2015 p. 83) Reaction to the IPT finding of genocide Of all the findings by the IPT panel of judges, two attracted the most reaction, as succinctly headlined in the 21 July 2016 Jakarta Post, ‘Indonesia denies foreign involvement, genocide in 1965 communist purge,’ reporting the response by Indonesia’s then Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal and Security Affairs, Luhut Binsar Pandjaitan (Sapiie 2016). === [PDF page 253] === 224 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa Such an outright rejection of the IPT’s finding of genocide was to be expected, in view of the reluctance to invoke this highly sensitive qualification of the crimes. Indeed, as discussed above, apprehension about such a reaction was one reason that dissuaded the prosecutors from including genocide in their Indictment. An enormous body of literature has been penned on the reasons why the Genocide Convention was not activated for 50 years after its adoption. These include political factors, as in the cases of Indonesia, Bangladesh, and Cambodia, as raised above, as well as difficulties in implementing it, especially in proving the specific intent to destroy a protected group in whole or in part, and many different opinions have been voiced concerning the narrow list of protected groups enumerated in the Convention and the even narrower interpretations that have been given to this list (for example, Schabas 2000; Totten & Parsons 2013; Jones 2017). Conclusion The IPT 1965’s finding of genocide for the massacres in Indonesia in 1965 and beyond is the first time such a quasi-judicial institution has come to this conclusion, and it therefore carries more weight than pronouncements of individual researchers. But it will still be a long process until an official national or international tribunal or a more formal human rights body will have issued a similar statement or resolution on this issue. This process is now under way. The Foundation IPT 1965 has submitted a report to the Universal Periodic Review (UPR) of the United Human Rights Council (UNHRC), at which Indonesia’s progress on human rights was discussed in May 2017. The Foundation IPT 1965 submission included 28 recommendations, echoing and going beyond those made in the IPT’s Final Report, as discussed in the introductory chapter of this anthology. Unfortunately, the issue was not mentioned in the concluding document. Lobbying of other states parties is continuing: they are being informed of the results of the Tribunal. The IPT’s qualification of the Indonesian genocide is relevant to the UPR as Indonesia acceded to the International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights (ICCPR) in 2006. This Covenant, supervised by the UN Human Rights Committee, is concerned with the right to life, the prohibition of torture and other civil and political rights. In 2013 Indonesia submitted its first report. In its Concluding Observations on that report the HRC required the immediate attention of the Indonesian State for four issues, including impunity for past human rights violations. Indonesia was requested to report back within one year on progress made, but that report has not yet been submitted. Although these human right violations were committed prior to the date of Indonesia’s accession to the ICCPR, the HRC considers that unresolved prior violations constitute ongoing, continuing violations of human rights (Human Rights Committee 2013). === [PDF page 254] === The Indonesian massacres as genocide 225 The ICCPR stipulates that States are obliged to investigate gross human rights violations, prosecute and punish the perpetrators if found guilty in a fair trial and to provide reparations for the victims. These obligations clearly apply to the violations committed on and after 1 October 1965. Under the ICCPR international action also must be taken. Genocide is a crime which under jus cogens is so serious that it is the obligation of the international community to adequately deal with it. Thus the genocide and other violations against human rights in Indonesia after 1 October 1965 can be tried also by foreign or international penal tribunals—if a national tribunal proves unlikely. This may not happen any time soon, though, as Indonesia is a rich and huge country that few states would like to antagonise. The IPT 1965 therefore aims to achieve, by using international channels, to support the demands of the victims for Indonesia to accepts its obligations under international customary law to investigate the genocide committed on its territory in 1965–66, to prosecute the perpetrators and to provide compensation. That will not be easy. Immediately after the hearings then Coordinating Political, Legal and Security Affairs Minister Luhut Pandjaitan told the press that Indonesia had its own legal system and that no external party could dictate the way it solved its problems and that the government would not bow to the IPT 1965s recommendations. ‘Our country is a great nation. We acknowledge and we will resolve this problem [the 1965 tragedy] in our way and through universal values’ (Perry 2016). Rights activists in those first months after the hearings were hopeful the verdict would push President Joko Widodo’s administration to formally acknowledge the atrocities, including the genocide. Yet, as discussed in the introductory chapter, the two symposia on the 1965 events that took place after the hearings of the Tribunal have not brought the recognition that a genocide took place in 1965 after the actions of the 30 September Movement any nearer. The mandate of the National Reconciliation Council installed in January 2017 is so far very unclear. But it is feared that the push for reconciliation via non-judicial means may not involve a process of truth finding and the recognition of the Indonesian genocide Appendix Amicus curiae Brief submitted by Professor Dr Daniel Feierstein, Director of the Centre for Genocide Studies of the Universidad Nacional de Tres de Febrero in Buenos Aires, and lawyer Ms Irene Victoria Massimino, respectively, Director and member of the Sociological Consulting Group for Complaints brought in the national justice system of Argentina for human rights violations committed during the last military dictatorship. === [PDF page 255] === 226 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa Appendix—Amicus curiae UNIVERSIDAD NACIONAL DE TRES DE FEBRERO Honourable Judges International People’s Tribunal on Crimes Against Humanity in Indonesia 1965 The Hague Reference: 1965 Crimes Against Humanity in Indonesia Amicus Brief Introduction This amicus curiae is respectfully directed to the International People’s Tribunal on Crimes Against Humanity in Indonesia 1965 [IPT] to be held in The Hague, Netherlands, 10–13 November 2015. Introducing this Amicus regarding the case of reference. This Amicus was conducted by Dr Daniel Feierstein, PhD in Social Sciences, and Irene Victoria Massimino, lawyer; both Argentine scholars and, respectively, director and member of the Sociological Consulting Group for Complaints brought in the national justice system of Argentina for human rights violations committed during the last military dictatorship. Legitimacy to present an Amicus Brief: Amicus briefs are internationally considered a tool essential to the protection of human rights within global and regional human rights systems. The value of Amicus briefs has been reaffirmed several times, in accordance with the President of the International Court of Justice, In the system governed by common law countries, the amicus curiae has acted as an institution that provides useful information to Parliament, it allows private parties not to engage in litigation in court to express their views and effects likely the results may cause them and, above all, it has served as a means of integration and to confer the authority and ability to resolve conflicts by courts.7 Within the universal system of human rights protection, General Observation No. 2 (2002) of 15 November 2002, issued by the United Nations Committee on the Rights of the Child, states that national human rights institutions should ‘[p]rovide expertise in children’s rights to the courts, in suitable cases as amicus curiae or intervenor.’8 Moreover, the European System of Human Rights has also accepted the legal figure of Amicus briefs within the European Convention of Human Rights’ Article 36, under Third Party Intervention, which states: === [PDF page 256] === The Indonesian massacres as genocide 227 1. In all cases before a Chamber or the Grand Chamber, a High Contracting Party one of whose nationals is an applicant shall have the right to submit written comments and to take part in hearings. 2. The President of the Court may, in the interest of the proper administration of justice, invite any High Contracting Party which is not a party to the proceedings or any person concerned who is not the applicant, to submit written comments or take part in hearings. Additionally, Rule 1 (q) of the ECHR Rules of Court of the European Court of Human Rights, defines the expression ‘third party’ which [m]eans any Contracting Party or any person concerned or the Council of Europe Commissioner for Human Rights who, as provided for in Article 36 ¶¶ 1, 2 and 3 of the Convention [and in A rticle 3 of Protocol No. 16, has] exercised the right to submit written comments and take part in a hearing, or has been invited to do so.9 Finally, the Inter-American System of Human Rights also incorporates the possibility of introducing amicus curiae within many instances in trials. Article 2.3 of the Rules of Procedure of the Inter-American Court of Human Rights gives us a clear definition of this legal figure, establishing [t]he expression ‘amicus curiae’ refers to the person or institution who is unrelated to the case and to the proceeding and submits to the Court reasoned arguments on the facts contained in the presentation of the case or legal considerations on the subject-matter of the proceedings by means of a document or an argument presented at a hearing.10 Furthermore, Article 44 (also referring to Article 28 of the same legal body), on the arguments of amicus curiae, establishes the formalities individuals or entities must fulfil in order to present such documents: 1. Any person or institution seeking to act as amicus curiae may submit a brief to the Court, together with its annexes, by any of the means established in Article 28 (1) of these Rules of Procedure, in the working language of the case and bearing the names and signatures of its authors.11 Thus, it can be affirmed that amicus curiae constitute an important element in providing evidence to courts concerning the interpretation and application of international treaties on human rights matters. Upon the decision to be made by the [IPT] in the case under consideration, the authors of this Amicus try to limit their comments to the following issue: National jurisprudence applying the national group interpretation in different State Crime Scenarios around the world. === [PDF page 257] === 228 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa National jurisprudence a   Argentina Due to the gross human rights violations committed during Argentina’s last dictatorship (1976–1983), on 2 November 1998, the Spanish Judge Baltazar Garzón, in a case initiated under the universal jurisdiction principle to persecute crimes of torture, genocide, and terrorism committed during such time, first defined those violations as ‘genocide’ by using the concept of ‘partial elimination of the the national group.’ … characterizing national group is perfectly valid to analyse the events in Argentina, since the perpetrators intended to destroy the social fabric in a State to produce a change which is substantial enough to alter the life of the whole …. Following this interpretation and after the re-opening of the trials for the human rights violations committed during the above-mentioned dictatorship, many12 Argentine Federal Courts in charge of carrying the cases, have broadly accepted that what had occurred in Argentina constituted genocide. Thus, the first case to be decided within this new justice, memory and truth process ruled for the recognition of the facts as genocide. The decision was made in 2006 by the Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of La Plata and stated: This new wording [of the Genocide Convention] shows that both political groups and political motivations were excluded from the new definition. From there, and especially regarding what happened in our country during the military dictatorship started in 1976, an interesting question was opened to determine whether the tens of thousands of victims of state terrorism integrate or not the socalled “national group” referred to by the Convention. I understand the affirmative answer imposes itself, and that there is no impediment to the categorization of genocide regarding the events in our country in the period in question, besides the legal qualification given in this case to those facts for the purposes of imposing a conviction and sentence. The foregoing statement derives from the analysis that follows and is the result of using elementary logic. In the judgment of the historical Trial against the Military Juntas, a system of mass destruction orchestrated by those who called themselves “National Reorganization Process” were proven. Thus, in that case (13/84), where former members of the military junta were convicted, it was stated: “The system put into practice – kidnapping, interrogation under torture, secrecy and illegitimate deprivation of liberty and, in many cases, elimination of victims – was substantially the same throughout the territory of the Nation and prolonged in time.” === [PDF page 258] === The Indonesian massacres as genocide 229 To cite another relevant and more recent example, we have included the provisions of the Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of Rosario in the judgement of the case Guerrieri 2013, where it was stated: … according to another position, which is supported, a ‘national group’ is any population group that maintains a legal relationship with the Federal Government it inhabits, due to the mere fact of inhabiting this territory, certain rights and obligations are born, which are a legal expression of a social fact of pertinence and linkage to the National State, as the International Court of Justice has established in the cases “Nottebohm” or “Liechtenstein vs. Guatemala” (06.04.1955), thus giving prominence to the right arising from residence or domicile (ius domicilii) over blood or birthplace (ius sanguinis or ius soli) (…). Then, following this line of argument, we consider that the term national group of art. 2 of the Convention is relevant to describe the facts of the case, if we consider that the Argentine national group was exterminated “in part” (CFME art.2, Convention; … “In whole or in part”) and – as Feierstein says – “in a part that is substantial enough to alter the social relations within the nation itself,” which he sociologically describes as reorganizing genocide. (Feierstein, D. (2014) Genocide as Social Practice, NJ: Rutgers University Press, p. 51 of the Spanish version, published in 2007) In the most recent case decided by Federal Tribunal 1 of the city of La Plata—which was the first tribunal to recognise, in 2006, the existence of genocide during the last civic-military dictatorship in Argentina— the opinion of the president elaborates further on genocide as partial elimination of the national group in the Argentine case. It is stated in his opinion: [a]s appears from the verdict handed down, the accused Gomez Pola and Bracken, were sentenced for complicity in genocide during the last civic-military dictatorship (1976-1983) for taking part in the killing of members of a national group, and in causing serious bodily or mental harm to members of the group and deliberately inflicting on the group conditions of life calculated to have brought about its physical destruction in whole or in part … After a review of the historical background and quoting the first draft of the Convention which included ‘political group,’ the President of the Tribunal goes on to say: From there, and especially considering what happened in our country during the military dictatorship that began in 1976, an interesting === [PDF page 259] === 230 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa question is posed as to whether the tens of thousands of victims of that state terrorism do or do not fall within the so-called ‘national group’ of the referred Convention. As noted in the aforementioned case 2251/06, I understand that an affirmative response is imposed because the events in our country in the period in question must be categorized as genocide. He continues to say that the systematic intentional plan to reorganise the nation was already proven in the first trial of the military juntas: In case 13/84, where former members of the military juntas were convicted, stated, ‘The system put in practice – of kidnappings, interrogations under torture, clandestine and illegitimate deprivation of liberty and, in many cases, elimination of the victims – was substantially the same throughout the territory of the Nation and prolonged in time.’ … This description given by the Court in that judgment and others related to that matter recorded there and those later developed in case 44 in which Etchecolatz was sentenced for 91 cases of torture, marked the beginning of a formal, thorough and official recognition of the plan of extermination carried out by those who ran the country at that time and in which, as seen when analysing accountability, those convicted here had a specific role. It is precisely from that acceptance of both the facts and the responsibility of the Argentine State, where, in my opinion, the process of ‘truth production’ begins, without which there would only be setbacks and impunity. Further on his analysis of the importance of the law as a producer of truth, as affirmed by Michel Foucault, President of the Tribunal Judge Rozanski goes on explaining that the concept of national group has a necessary application to the Argentine case. As to whether what happened in our country should be framed in the concept of ‘national group’, as in the version that finally emerged in art. II of the Convention, an affirmative response was anticipated, which also appears as obvious in the drafting of today’s judgement. He bases his affirmative response quoting the works done by two prominent Argentine sociologists—Daniel Feierstein and Guillermo Levy— on the subject. The characterization of ‘national group’ is perfectly valid to analyse the events in Argentina, since the perpetrators intended to destroy a certain fabric of social relations in a state to produce a change substantial enough to alter the life of the whole. Given the inclusion of ‘in whole or in part’ in the definition of the 1948 Convention, it is === [PDF page 260] === The Indonesian massacres as genocide 231 clear that the Argentine national group has been wiped out ‘in part’ and in a part substantial enough to alter the social relations within the nation itself … The annihilation in Argentina was not spontaneous, it was not casual, it was not irrational: it was the systematic destruction of a ‘substantial part’ of the Argentine national group, destined to transform it, to redefine its way of being, its social relations, its destiny, its future. (op cit p. 76) To conclude, in his opinion, the president of the tribunal also points out the differences existing amongst genocides committed globally and the Argentine one and sets the common ground on the existence of a logic and technology of power. I understand that, from everything highlighted, it becomes irrefutable that we are not, as anticipated, facing a mere succession of crimes but something significantly more, something that can appropriately be called ‘genocide.’ But is clear that this cannot and should not be constructed as contempt of the important differences between what happened in Argentina and the exterminations of the Armenian people (over a million- first genocide of the twentieth century starting in 1915), of the millions of victims of Nazism during the Second World War or of the massacre in Rwanda of a million people in 1994, to cite a few notable examples. … This is not, as was also stated in case 2251/06, a competition about which people suffered more or what community has more victims. It is about giving the right name to phenomena that, even with contextual differences and occurring in different times and spaces, record similarities that should be recognised. Because, as Feierstein concludes, giving the reasons why different historical processes can be called in the same way “… using the same concept implies postulating the existence of a connecting thread that refers to a technology of power in which the ‘negation of the other’ reaches its breaking point: its material (that of its body) and symbolic (the memory of its existence) disappearances. Colombia Colombia’s internal conflict of over 50 years—the longest in the Americas—has brought many cases for crimes against humanity, genocide and other human rights violations within its internal legal system. Regarding the connection between genocide and the principle of equality, Colombia’s Constitutional Court has made some important advances within its rulings. Two of the most relevant examples are the following. === [PDF page 261] === 232 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa The Constitutional Court, in its judgement C-177/01, analysing article 101 of the Colombian Criminal Code, which punishes and defines the crime of genocide as in the Genocide Convention but with the inclusion of political groups, declared unconstitutional the phrase ‘acting within the scope of the law,’ referred to the groups targeted. The arguments used by the Court are based precisely in the hierarchy of the principle of equality before the law. Indeed, the Court concluded: The guarantee of human dignity and the right to life and personal integrity does not admit differentiation of treatment according to the legality of the actions taken by the subjects under protection, because its entails a blatant transgression of superior values constitutionally proclaimed in the Preamble such as human dignity, life, integrity, coexistence, justice and equality, also positively proclaimed an inalienable and inviolable rights within Articles 1, 2, 11, 12 and 13 of the Political Constitution, […]. which, […], means that they do not allow any restrictions or limitations …. Consequently, any interpretation that excludes groups or individuals should be struckout as unconstitutional, for violation of the principle of equality before the law enshrined constitutionally, as has been established by Colombia’s Constitutional Court in Judgement C-177/01. Moreover, in its Judgement C-148/05, the Constitutional Court, referring to the legal rights protected by the legislation on genocide, affirmed [t]he right that is seeking legal protection by penalizing genocide, is not only life and integrity but the right to the very existence of human groups, without restricting that right to the existence by its nationality, race, religious or political beliefs. Moreover, that the crime of genocide involves a special intentional element, which is the partial or total destruction of the human group concerned. Such specific right and such equally specific intent, mean that in the same manner not every racist attack can be regarded as genocide, not all bodily or mental harm to members of the group can be classified as such.13 Following these rulings and concerning the crushing of the political party ‘Unión and Patriótica,’14 Colombian national courts have also recognised the existence of genocide through a broad interpretation of the Genocide Convention in light of the principle of equality. In its judgement of 30 October 2013, in the case brought against Herbert Veloza Garcia, alias HH, commander of the Banana Bloc of the AUC,15 the Superior Court of Bogotá in the Justice and Peace Chamber, in relation to the concept of group, determined: === [PDF page 262] === The Indonesian massacres as genocide 233 if the universal principle of equality before the law is analyzed in deep, it is abundantly clear that genocide follows a systematic action against a group of people who have built or profess or preach a certain set of principles and values aimed at claiming an ideology or identity, whether around a political ideal, sexual orientation, gender characteristics, age, etc. The Court, in an analysis of incalculable value, went on to say: to clarify a bit on the interpretation of the international crime of genocide, the Chamber will take into consideration the following assumptions: (i) the crime of genocide in its systematic and universalist sense cannot include some individuals or groups and exclude others. Accepting the wording of the Convention as excluding political groups, gender, sexual identity, disability, economic, social, linguistic or others, is an open door to the growing trends of instilling a criminal law of the enemy, by accepting that crimes may be differentiated depending on the victims they affect, violating the fundamental legal principles of equality before the law; (ii) it is unreasonable in a transitional justice process such as the Colombian one, trying to exclude from analysis and study a genocide such as that against the Patriotic Union, because what is at issue is to produce historical memory and to seek truth of the crimes committed in the context of the Colombia armed conflict to ensure preventing the repetition of such acts; […]. Hence, Colombia has also advanced with the implementation of the crime of genocide. And this progress is due not only to the inclusion of this figure as a crime under the Penal Code, for it was expanded not only to include political groups, but also, due to the interpretations made by the Constitutional Court and by the Superior Court of Bogotá, to the definition of group and the principle of equality before the law. Petition: In light of the case under consideration and the evidence presented, we respectfully ask the Honourable Judges of the International People’s Tribunal to analyse such evidence to determine that the events of the case at issue constitute genocide as the partial destruction of the Indonesian national group. Signed: Dr Daniel Feierstein Irene Victoria Massimino === [PDF page 263] === 234 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa Notes 1 Helen Jarvis was a member of the Panel of Judges of the Tribunal on the 1965 mass crimes against humanity in Indonesia and responsible (with John Gittings) for co-editing the Final Report, including the section on genocide. Saskia E. Wieringa was the research co-ordinator and wrote the sections on genocide for the research report. 2 See also, the official website of the ECCC, <www.eccc.gov.kh/en>, accessed 20 March 2017. 3 There is abundant literature on the German Holocaust, for an overview, see Liddell Hart (2015). The total number of victims of the Second World War is commonly set at 60 million, see McMahon (2003). Useful reviews on other genocides can be found in Meierhenrich (2014) and Totten and Parsons (2013). 4 For the ideology... the ideology of the time, Mortimer (1974); for women’s emancipation Wieringa (2002), and for the relation of hegemony and language in Indonesia, van Langenberg (1990). 5 This is a conscious strategy of the army. Personnel are trained to perceive the ‘threat of the New Style Communism in Indonesia, the title of a module of the Doctrine Guidance Command, Education and Training of the Indonesian National Army, which was circulated via Whatsapp in February 2017. Stalin, Hitler and Mao Zedong are lumped together as socialist- communist dictators in the Powerpoint presentation of this module. It asserted that this ‘New Style Communism’ uses the ‘soft power’ of media and religion, ‘hiding behind the struggle for democracy and human rights’. See also Wieringa and Katjasungkana (2018). 6 See for these and other incidents prior to the hearings in November 2015 the IPT Narrative Report, pp. 38–40. 7 ICJ hearings, Legal Consequences for States with permanent presence in Namibia notwithstanding Res. 276 (1970) vol. II at 636–37 [of the] Security Council. The editors have been unable to verify this quotation and reference provided in the amicus curiae brief.. 8 GENERAL COMMENT No. 2 (2002) ‘The role of independent national human rights institutions in the promotion and protection of the rights of the child,’ CRC/GC/2002/2, 15 November 2002. 9 Rules of Court, 1 June 2015. 10 Approved by the Court during its LXXXV Regular Period of Sessions, held from November 16 to 28, 2009. 11 Ibid. 12 Up until 31 December 2015, the qualification of these crimes as Genocide has been accepted in 25 cases in 11 different tribunals (in total about 20% and increasing in number). 13 Constitutional claim brought against the expressions: ‘serious,’ contained in paragraph 1 of Article 101 and ‘serious’ (plural in Spanish), contained in Articles 137 and 178 of Law 599 of 2000 ‘by which the Criminal Code is issued.’ 14 Union Patriotica (UP) was a left wing political party formed mainly by former guerilla members (demobilized groups and members of the FARC-EP and ELN). The UP was created in 1985 and exterminated, along with its sympathizers, by the 1990s. 15 Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia. References Chalk, F & Jonassohn, K 1990, The history and sociology of genocide: analyses and case studies, Yale University Press, New Haven, CT. Cribb, R 2001, ‘Genocide in Indonesia, 1965–1966’, Journal of Genocide Research, vol. 3, no. 2, pp. 219–39. === [PDF page 264] === The Indonesian massacres as genocide 235 Cribb, R 2004, ‘The Indonesian genocide of 1965–1966’, in Totten S (ed.), Teaching about genocide: approaches, and resources, Information Age Publishing, Greenwich, CT, pp. 133–43. Cribb, R 2015, Notes for his oral presentation, ‘Modes of denial: Indonesia and genocide in comparative perspective’, International conference, ‘1965’ today: living with the Indonesian massacres, Amsterdam, 2 October 2015 (used with permission). Fawthrop, T & Jarvis, H 2004, Getting away with genocide? Elusive justice and the Khmer Rouge Tribunal, Pluto Press, London and Ann Arbor, MI. Fein, H 1993, Genocide: a sociological perspective, Sage, London. Feierstein, D 2012, ‘The concept of genocide and the partial destruction of the national group’, Logos: a journal of modern society & culture, Winter, viewed 9 January 2017, <http://logosjournal.com/2012/winter_feierstein>. Feierstein, D 2014, Genocide as social practice: reorganizing society under the Nazis and Agentina’s military juntas, Rutgers University Press, New Brunswick, NJ (especially Chapter 6 ‘Shaping social relations through genocide’). Feierstein, D & Massimino, IV 2015, Amicus curiae brief, submitted to IPT 1965, 10 November. Hoque, M 2014, ‘Bangladesh genocide: the long journey to justice’, in From genocide to justice: national and global perspective, Liberation War Museum, Dhaka, pp. 130–9. Human Rights Committee 2013, ‘Concluding observations on the initial report of Indonesia’, 8–26 July, viewed 28 August 2018, <www2.ohchr.org/english/bodies/ hrc/docs/co/CCPR-C-IND-CO-1_en.doc>. ICTR 1998, ‘The prosecutor versus Jean-Paul Akayesu, Case No. ICTR-96-4-T’, 2 September, accessed 28 August 2018, <http://unictr.unmict.org/sites/unictr.org/ files/case-documents/ictr-96-4/trial-judgements/en/980902.pdf>. IPT 1965, 2015, Narrative report, IPT 1965 Foundation, The Hague – Jakarta. IPT 1965, 2016, ‘Submission to the Universal Periodic Review of the UNHCR 2017 Indonesia’, IPT 1965 Foundation, The Hague – Jakarta. IPT 2015, Researchers’ report for the International People’s Tribunal Indonesia 1965, 3 parts, IPT 1965 Foundation, The Hague – Jakarta. IPT 2016, Final report of the IPT 1965: findings and documents of the International People’s Tribunal on Crimes against Humanity Indonesia 1965, IPT 1965 Foundation, The Hague – Jakarta. Jarvis, H 2016, ‘Trials and tribulations: the long quest for justice for the Cambodian genocide’, in Chapter 2 of Meisenberg, SM and Stegmiller, I (eds.), The Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia, Asser Press, The Hague, (International Criminal Justice Series 6), pp. 13–44. Jones, A 2017, Genocide: a comprehensive introduction, 3rd edn, Routledge, New York. Lane, M 2008, Unfinished nation: Indonesia before and after Suharto, Verso, New York. Langenberg, M 1990, ‘The New Order state: language, ideology, hegemony’, State and Civil Society in Indonesia, vol. 22, pp. 121–49. Lemkin, R 1944, Axis rule in occupied Europe, Carnegie Endowment for International Peace, Washington, DC. Liddell Hart, BD 2015, A history of the Second World War, PanMacMillan, New York. McMahon, RJ 2003, The Cold War; a very short introduction, Oxford University Press, Oxford. Meierhenrich, J 2014, Genocide: a reader, Oxford University Press, New York. === [PDF page 265] === 236 Helen Jarvis and Saskia E. Wieringa Melvin, J 2013, ‘Why not genocide? Anti-Chinese violence in Aceh, 1965–1966’, Journal of Southeast Asian Affairs (GIGA), vol. 32, no. 3, pp. 63–91. Melvin, J 2018, The army and the Indonesian genocide: mechanics of mass murder, Routledge, New York. Mortimer, R 1974, Indonesian communism under Sukarno: ideology and politics 1959–1965, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, NY and London. Oppenheimer, J 2012, The act of killing, Dogwoof Pictures, London. Oppenheimer, J 2014, The look of silence, Dogwoof Pictures, London. ‘Ormas Di Blitar Aksi Perang PKI Gaya Baru’, adakitanews.com, 2 July 2015, viewed 28 August 2018, <www.adakitanews.com/ormas-di-blitar-aksi-perangipki-gaya-baru>. Perry, J 2016, ‘Tribunal finds Indonesia guilty of 1965 genocide; US; UK complicit’, CNN Indonesia, 22 July, viewed 28 August 2018, <http://edition.cnn.com/2016/ 07/21/asia/indonesia-genocide-panel/>. Purdey, J 2006, Anti-Chinese violence in Indonesia, 1996–1999, ASAA Southeast Asia Publications Series, NUS Publishing, Singapore. Rahman, W 2014, ‘Background notes on adoption of the International Crimes (Tribunal) Act’, in From genocide to justice: national and global perspective, Liberation War Museum, Dhaka, pp. 105–9. Sapiie, MA 2016, ‘Indonesia denies foreign involvement, genocide in 1965 communist purge’, Jakarta Post, 21 July 2016, viewed 4 January 2017, <www.thejakartapost. com/news/2016/07/21/indonesia-denies-foreign-involvement-genocide-in-1965communist-purge.html>. Schabas, WA 2000, Genocide in international law: the crimes of crimes, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge. Totten, S & Parsons, WS (eds.) 2013, Centuries of genocide: essays, eyewitness accounts, 4th edn, Routledge, New York. Wieringa, SE 2002, Sexual politics in Indonesia, MacMillan, Houndmills. Wieringa, DE & Katjasungkana, N 2018, Propaganda and the genocide in Indonesia: imagined Evil, Routledge, New York. === [PDF page 266] === Epilogue The way forward Bradley Simpson More than 20 years after the resignation of Indonesian President Suharto in 1998, and more than 50 years after he ascended to power amidst an Army-sponsored campaign of mass killing in 1965–66, the movement for justice and accountability in Indonesia continues to grow. The International People’s Tribunal for 1965 (IPT 1965) is an important way station on this path, but it is hardly the end. The essays in this important collection are a testimony to the confluence of three interrelated phenomenon: scholarship, activism, and the maturing of the international transitional justice movement. For decades, scholars researching the events of 30 September 1965 and the massacres, imprisonment, and torture that followed faced daunting challenges in simply reconstructing the events of the period in their full complexity. This author, who wrote a book on US-Indonesian relations more than a decade ago which centres on these events (Economists with Guns: Authoritarian Development and U.S.-Indonesian Relations, 1960–1968) confronted a paucity of firsthand Indonesian accounts of the mass killings, still-classified Western government documents, and the near-complete absence of Indonesian government sources. These gaps posed challenges to scholars seeking to answer fundamental questions about the nature and organisation of the killings, the level of Indonesian state responsibility for them, and the experiences of survivors and victims. In the last decade, a younger generation of scholars and activists, many of them Indonesian, has built on the pioneering work of Saskia Wieringa, Robert Cribb, and others to produce far more rich and detailed accounts of the 1965–66 killings and their aftermath. The painstaking reconstruction of the divergent regional and local dynamics of the killings, particularly through oral histories of witnesses, participants, and survivors, has been especially important. This new scholarship has enabled examination of crucial questions growing out of the mandate of the IPT 1965, in particular whether or not the mass killings meet the legal threshold for genocide, as Jess Melvin suggests, and whether the nature and scope of sexual violence and torture rise to the level of state crimes. Providing more empirically rich and robust answers to these questions has in turn enabled scholars to place === [PDF page 267] === 238 Bradley Simpson the 1965–66 killings in a broader comparative context, both in terms of the killings themselves and in terms of the justice and accountability mechanisms pursued by survivors and activists. New scholarship both builds on and reinforces the work of a generation of activists who, since 1998, have insisted upon a fundamental re-examination of Indonesia’s official accounts of the 1965–66 killings, the acknowledgement of the injustice inflicted upon its victims, and an official truth-seeking and accountability process. While Indonesian human rights organisations have played a crucial role, victims and survivor groups have shouldered much of the political risk, displaying astonishing bravery and perseverance in the face of government indifference or hostility, attacks and threats from ‘anti-communist’, Muslim, and military, and paramilitary groups determined to silence them. One of the most important functions of the IPT 1965 hearings held in The Hague was to provide an opportunity for witnesses and survivors of the mass killings to tell their stories in a setting that elevated and validated their experiences as events of international, rather than merely personal, significance. Many Indonesian witnesses gave harrowing accounts of murder, torture, rape, and other crimes, and the dignity and passion with which they spoke, more than 50 years later, hints at the trauma carried by millions of others who lived through these events. Indonesian activists face continued resistance to their demands for official acknowledgement of state responsibility and accountability for the 1965–66 killings, including from the current Indonesian President, Joko Widodo, who feels threatened by Muslim parties and organisations that view their role in the killings as a source of pride or political legitimacy. The IPT 1965 process and report, however, has established a historical record that will further bolster calls for a genuine official truth-seeking and accountability process. Finally, the IPT 1965 joins a stream of transitional justice initiatives that have become more widely accepted features of post-authoritarian governance. Such initiatives in Indonesia have often provoked enormous hostility, as the reaction to the 2012 Komnas HAM report on the 1965–66 killings, and the IPT 1965 itself illustrates. Local efforts sometimes have proven more successful, but without official acknowledgement by the national government, their impact is necessarily limited. The authors refrain from excessive optimism about the prospects for the kind of official truth-seeking and accountability by the Indonesian government which the IPT 1965 process and Final Report recommend, but they are hopeful that these initiatives will bolster the efforts of survivors and activists whose work will ultimately determine their fate. Many of the survivors and perpetrators of the mass killings of 1965–66 are long dead, and it is easy to be pessimistic about the prospects for genuine accountability. But the experience of other post-authoritarian societies such as Chile, Argentina, Cambodia, and Rwanda, to name just a few, suggests that legal accountability for mass violence and human rights abuses alone is insufficient. Equally, perhaps even more important, are the means === [PDF page 268] === Epilogue 239 by which post-authoritarian societies publicly reckon with the past, incorporate these new reckonings into public discourse and culture, and ensure their transmission to future generations through education. This is a generational process, and one whose results may not be readily apparent until the diffusion of new norms and understandings of the past reach a critical mass. Here too the landscape in Indonesia is daunting, but hopeful. The work of the IPT 1965 has established a historical and legal record that will make an important contribution both to efforts to establish legal accountability for the 1965–66 killings and their aftermath, as well to the reimagining of one of the most important moments in Indonesian history. === [PDF page 269] === [Blank page; publisher placeholder logo: Taylor & Francis, Taylor & Francis Group, http://taylorandfrancis.com] === [PDF page 270] === Index 1 October 1965, events of 9–12, 24, 31, 36, 44, 46–51, 53, 55–56, 160–61, 170, 198, 225 30 September Movement (G30S: Gerakan 30 September) 9–11, 22, 45–51, 56, 83, 136, 138, 143, 161, 170, 173n10, 180, 210, 225 Aceh 1, 10–11, 31, 46, 50–56, 57n13, 64, 68–70, 81, 92, 140, 167, 222–23 ‘Act of Killing’ 6, 24, 152n11, 198, 204, 216; see also Joshua Oppenheimer Action Front for Crushing the 30 September Movement (KAP GESTAPU) 166 ad-hoc detention facilities see detention Afro-Asian Peoples Solidarity Organisation 118 AGO (Attorney General’s Office) 5–6, 8, 24, 26, 71, 82, 85–86, 90, 109n2, 185–86 Aidit, D.N. 9–10, 15n7, 121, 124, 164 AJAR (Asia Justice and Rights) 60–61, 66, 74, 75n1 Akayesu, Jean-Paul 216; see also ICTR; Rwanda Albania 117, 123, 125, 128, 132n18, 132n27 Alor Island 26, 140 Ambarawa Prison, Central Java 208; see also detention Amnesty International 38n4, 84, 86, 127 Amsterdam 28 Ancol 86; see also Buru Island Anderson, Benedict R.O’G. 10, 161 ‘annihilation campaign’ 11, 44, 46, 51–56, 164; see also genocide Ansor 30, 140, 145, 220; see also NU Anti-Communist Forum (FAKI: Forum Anti Komunis Indonesia) 30; see also Anti-Communist groups Anti-Communist groups 30–31, 34, 57n7, 66, 73–74, 125, 148, 160–66, 169, 206, 220, 238 apology, state 1, 73, 130, 144, 206 Argentina 219–220, 222, 225–26, 228–31, 238 Armed Forces Day 161 Armenia 223, 231 Army 1, 9–12, 29, 33–34, 38, 44–56, 63, 73, 82–83, 85, 87, 89–90, 103–05, 107, 136–38, 141, 143, 146, 151, 198, 205, 208, 234n5, 237; see also Indonesian National Army (TNI: Tentara Nastional Indonesia) Army Strategic Reserve Command (Kostrad: Komando Cadangan Strategis Angkatan Darat) 9, 45, 47, 49, 51, 55–56, 190 arrests of suspected Communists 9–12, 54, 60–62, 64, 66–67, 73, 76n4, 83, 85, 89, 104–5, 127, 138, 149, 163, 170, 172n1, 179, 181, 185, 188, 190, 205, 208, 210, 220 artists 12, 85, 187, 209 Arto, Soegih, former Attorney General 85–86 Asia Africa Research Institute in Beijing 123 Asian Financial Crisis 213 Asia Justice and Rights (AJAR) see AJAR asylum, political 12, 76n6, 124, 127–28 Atauro Island 92; see also detention === [PDF page 271] === 242 Index Atheism 11–12, 137, 143, 205, 218–19; see also propaganda Attorney General see AGO Australia 3, 207, 210; Australia, complicity 157–58, 160–72; Australia, concerns about communism in Indonesia 158–60 Australian Joint Intelligence Committee (JIC) 161 Bali 5, 7, 31, 51–52, 55, 60, 83–85, 135, 138, 140, 151n3, 167, 190, 199 Balikpapan 60, 80 Bandung Conference 1955 118 Bangladesh 215–17, 224 Banser 142–43, 145–47; see also NU BAPEPRU (Buru Island Resettlement Implementation Body) 82; see also Buru Island barracks 85, 87–88, 97, 104; see also detention BBC 160, 164 Bekasi 60 Bintang Timur newspaper 124 Blitar 30, 83–84, 220 Bogor 60 ‘borrowed’ (dibon) 105; see also mass killings Britain see UK BTI, Indonesian Peasants Union (Barisan Tani Indonesia) 143 Bukittinggi 30, 220 Bulgaria 117, 121–22, 126, 131n1 burial 125, 136–37, 140–43, 185; see also mass graves burning: of objects 30, 53, 191, 220; of people 60, 63–64, 69–70, 140, 165, 204 Buru Island 60, 62, 80–92, 92n1, 92n4, 185, 190; see also detention Cambodia 99, 101, 106, 136–37, 152n9, 215–17, 224, 238 categorisation of political prisoners 145, 190; Category A 83; Category B 83, 84, 85, 90–91, 145; Category C 83, 145 Catholic Church 128, 219; Catholic religion 141; Catholic priest 142, 190 Central Sulawesi 60, 62, 72, 75n1 chain of command 13, 28, 45–46, 52–53, 55, 81, 90–91, 151; see also KOTI; Kopkamtib Chega! Truth Commission Report on children 118, 123, 140, 203–04, 211; as a result of rape 100, 104; of political prisoners 60, 66–67, 86–87, 104, 107, 127, 148, 151, 166, 205, 207–09 Chile 116, 131n4, 238 China 11, 47, 82, 117–19, 123–24, 132n30, 152n13, 158, 163, 212 Chinese-Indonesians 12; anti-Chinese violence 12, 39n17, 52, 202, 204, 211–12, 218; ‘Chinese ethnic group’ as a target of genocide 55, 218–19, 221–23 Chinese language 118 Chomsky, Noam 168, 172, 175n38 church 37, 67, 152n17, 219 CIA 39n19, 159–60, 162, 171, 174n20 Cirebon 31 Citizenship Law 129 citizenship 16n11, 115; revocation of 36, 115–31 civil liberties, violation of 73 civil service 47, 65 civil society 22–23, 31–32, 61, 71, 73, 75, 81, 180, 183, 186, 188, 192, 201, 213 civilian militia groups 7, 46, 51, 53–55, 62, 83, 152n11, 157, 161, 165, 183, 190, 204, 209; see also death squads Cold War x, 11, 15, 83, 108, 118, 158–60, 168, 216 Colombo Program 169 ‘comfort women’ 102, 110n11 Command for the Restoration of Security and Order (Kopkamtib) 11, 15n8, 52, 55, 57n8, 61, 82, 89–91 Commandant of Tefaar 88–90; see also Buru Island Commander of the Armed Forces (Pangad) 45; see also Army Commission for the Disappeared and Victims of Violence (Kontras: Komisi untuk Orang Hilang dan Korban Tindak Kekerasan) 8, 75n1, 146, 194n10 Communism x–xi, 11, 12, 30, 47–48, 83, also Indonesian Communist Party communists, violence against 12, 24, 103–07, 115, 126, 136–38, 165–67, 215–25; see also genocide ‘communist sympathisers’ see Indonesian Communist Party === [PDF page 272] === Index compensation of survivors x, 31, 71, 73, 76n4, 183, 186, 188–89, 225 complicity: of civilians 150; of other states 4, 14, 16n11, 28, 35–36, 158–72, 173n5 Conference of the New Emerging Forces (CONEFO) 119 Confrontation (Konfrontasi) see Crush Malaysia conservative groups x, 4–5, 8, 14, 15n6, 31–32 conspiracy x, 10, 161–62, 171 Constitution, Indonesian 71, 74, 76n6, 233 Convention Against Torture (1998) 71, 74; see also torture Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide Cornell University 179 Council of Generals (Dewan Jendral) 48; see also 30 September Movement coup, attempt by 30 September Movement see 30 September Movement coup, by national military leadership 9, 44, 47–56 CPM see Military Police CPR, People’s Republic of China see China Cribb, Robert 10–11, 40n45, 82, 216–18, 223, 237 Crimes Against Humanity xi, 3–4, 6, 109n4, 110n8, 110n10, 135, 143, 179, 185, 189, 192, 198, 215, 221–22, 226–33, 234n1 criminal law 13, 16n9, 27, 32, 35, 74, 76n4, 96, 98–99, 107–08, 171, 186, 217, 233 criminal responsibility 34 Crush Malaysia (Ganyang Malaysia) 11, 45, 163–64 Cuba 117, 123, 127, 132n20 Cultural Revolution, China 124 customary law 12–13, 27, 115, 136, 152n6, 223, 225 Department of External Affairs (DEA), Canberra 160, 162, 164–67 death squads 51, 54 243 Democratic Kampuchea see Cambodia deportation 130, 220 deprivation of liberty 5, 86, 89, 100–03, 109n5, 228, 230; see also detention depression 87, 198; see also trauma detention 36, 55, 61–62, 64, 66, 76n4, 97, 190; abuses in 61–66, 68–70, 72, 74, 80–92, 103–06, 179, 190; places of 62, 80–92, 103, 147–49, 185 Dhani, Omar, Air Marshal 45 Djuarsa, Ishak, Brigadier General Dwikora 45; Dwikora Cabinet 167; Dwikora legislation 45–46, 50 East Java 83, 104, 107, 135–36, 144–50, 153n26, 204, 220 East Kalimantan 60, 62, 80 Eastern Europe 115 Eastern Indonesia 52, 55, 75n1, 80, 152n17 El Salvador 182 electric shock 63–64, 69–70; see also torture ELSAM, Institute for Policy Research and Advocacy 187 Embassy, Indonesian 30, 120–25, 127, enforced disappearances x, 1, 4–5, 14, 71, 81, 122, 130, 136, 138, 146–47, 150, 200, 204, 209 enslavement 4–5, 13–14, 71, 80–81, 198; see also sexual violence escape attempts 10, 89–90, 208 Europe 3, 115, 119, 125–29, 173n4, 226–27 exhumation, of mass graves see mass graves exiles 3, 14, 16n11, 24, 28, 36, 115–31, extortion 61, 65, 74 extra-judicial killing see mass killings Extraordinary Chambers in the Courts of Cambodia (ECCC) 99, 101–02, 106, 108, 110n8, 216, 234n2 Facebook 33–34, 202, 205–06 FAKI, Anti Communist Forum see Anti-Communist groups; conservative groups === [PDF page 273] === 244 Index families of political prisoners x, 5, 7, 9, 13, 15n6, 23–25, 30, 32, 38, 61, 64–68, 70–72, 74, 83, 104, 106–07, 116–17, 144–45, 147–48, 150, 153n21, 166, on Buru Island 86–88, 92, 92n4 Feierstein, Daniel 29, 36, 40n47, 40n50, 219–21, 225, 229–31, 233 Fifth Force 82 Final Report of the International People’s Tribunal 14, 22, 28, 35–37, 75, 81, 144, 172n2, 189, 216, 221–22, 224, 234n1, 238 Flores 5, 7, 166 food rations 85, 87–89, 92n4 Food; deprivation of see starvation forced conjugal association 101, 106; see also sexual violence forced labour 12, 61–62, 66–68, 80, 85–88, 91–92, 100–03, 105, 198 forced transportation 54, 81–82, 84 foreign aid 167–69 Foreign Office, Britain 160, 162–63 Fort Leavenworth 48 Foundation for Research on the Victims of the Killings of 1965 (YPKP 1965: Yayasan Penelitian Korban Pembunuhan 1965) 30, 34, 135, 193n5 Foundation for the Service of Rights in Indonesia (YAPHI: Yayasan Pengabdian Hukum Indonesia) 30, 194n10 FPI, Islamic Defenders Front see AntiCommunist groups; conservative groups FUI, Forum of Believers (Forum Umat Islam) 184; see also Anti-Communist groups G30S see 30 September Movement (Gerakan 30 September) GAM, Free Aceh Movement (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka) 92 Ganyang Malaysia see Crush Malaysia gender jurisprudence 96–99, 101–02, 109 gender-based violence see sexual violence Generals, kidnapped by 30 September Movement 9–11, 31, 40n48, 48–49, 60, 63, 121, 124, 161–63, 198, 207, 210 Geneva Conventions 76n3, 111n14, 136, 152n7 Genocide: discussion of definition 36, 57n6, 60, 136–37, 168, 171, 173n3, Indonesia 1, 4, 14, 16n11, 16n12, 60, 71, 136, 138–39, 141, 150–51, 199, 215–33, 237–38; see also Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide Genocide Convention (1948) see Convention on the Prevention and Punishment of the Crime of Genocide (1948) Gerwani see Indonesian Women’s Movement Gestapu, an alternative name for the 30 September Movement (First of October Movement: Gerakan Satu Oktober) see 30 September Movement Gilchrist, Sir Andrew, former UK Ambassador to Indonesia 162–67, 171, 174n17 grave stone 136, 141–42, 146; see also mass graves Green, Marshal, former US Ambassador to Indonesia 162, 164–66, 171, 174n18 guards, in prison 103–05, 145–46, 150; on Buru Island 87–90 Guided Democracy 10, 132n22 Habibie, B.J., third President of Indonesia 68 Hague, the ix, 3, 8, 25–27, 30, 129, 152n17, 199, 226, 238 Halim air force base 9, 15n7, 49, 138; see also 30 September Movement hammer and sickle 33, 63, 73, 219 hardliner groups see conservative groups Harian Rakjat, newspaper of the PKI 118, 123–24 Hasan, Fuad, Professor, Dean of Psychology, University of Indonesia 91, 190 haunted (angker) 142, 144, 150; see also mass graves health facilities 72, 86–87, 89, 186 Hong Kong 164 horizontal conflict, theory of 35, 136 house arrest 67 Human Rights Court 5–6, 16n9, 39n13, 71, 82, 86, 172n2, 184 === [PDF page 274] === Index Human Rights Court Law (2000) 5–6, 14, 16n9, 39n13, 71, 80, 82, 86, 172n2, 184 Human Rights Law (1999) 68, 74, 76n3, 76n6, 91, 172n2, 184, 188 humiliation 15, 22, 37, 62, 70, 98, 139; see also sexual violence Hungary 117, 131n1 hybrid tribunals 96, 99, 101–02, 107–08 ICCPR, International Covenant on Civil and Political Rights 38n5, 38n11, 188, 224–25 ICTR see International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda; see also Rwanda ICTY see International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia identity cards 65–66, 188 Ieng Sary 215–16; see also ECCC ill treatment see torture Ilyas (Iljas), Tom 130, 141, 220 imprisonment see detention impunity 3, 5–7, 14–15, 22, 24–25, 34–37, 60–61, 75, 108–09, 137, 150, 172, 182, 201, 224–25, 230; see also transitional justice indictment, of the IPT 1965 13–14, 27–29, 32, 61, 75, 97–98, 107, 172n1, 179, 182, 220–21, 224 indoctrination 85–86 Indonesian Anti-Communist Alliance (Aliansi Anti-Komunis Indonesia) 31; see also conservative groups Indonesian Communist Party (PKI: Partai Komunis Indonesia) 1, 9–11, 218; members and sympathisers of 61–62, 67–68, 80, 83, 116, 119–20, 126, 131n1, 137, 143, 165–67, 170–72, 179, 189, 191, 218–19, 221–23 Indonesian Democratic Party (PDI: Partai Demokratik Indonesia) 81 Indonesian National Army (TNI: Tentara Nastional Indonesia) 69–70, 122–23; see also Army ‘Indonesian national group’ 36, 217–23, 228–31, 233; see also genocide Indonesian National Human Rights Commission (KOMNAS HAM) 36, 245 193n6, 193n9, 215, 238 Indonesian National Legal Aid Foundation (YLBHI: Yayasan Lembaga Bantuan Hukum Indonesia) 8 Indonesian Student Association (PPI: Perhimpunan Pelajar Indonesia) 123–25 Indonesian Women’s Movement (Gerwani: Gerakan Wanita Indonesia) 11, 32, 40n34, 57n14, 62–63, 76n2, 121, 127, 131n7, 139, 142, 152n14, 153n21, 153n26, 161, 179, 187, 198, 204, 209 inflation 10–11 Information Research Department (IRD), UK, in Singapore 160, 163–64, 171 information warfare 161, 163–64 Ingat65 198–213 Inrehab see Rehabilitation Installation intellectuals 12, 29, 84–85 intelligence officers 33, 56n2, 86, 88–89, International Centre for Transitional Justice (ICTJ) 187 International Convention on the Elimination of Racial Discrimination 71 International Criminal Court (ICC) International Criminal Tribunal for Rwanda (ICTR) 99, 101, 110n7, 216; see also Rwanda International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia (ICTY) 99, 102, 110n7, 110n10 international law 3, 12–13, 15, 22–24, 109n5, 115, 136, 157, 169–71, 215–17, 225 International People’s Tribunal for 1965 115, 121, 126, 132n14, 135–36, 141, 144, 146, 147, 151n3, 152n4, 152n12, 88–89, 104–05, 130, 141, 185, 190, 205, 208, 228, 230; see also torture === [PDF page 275] === 246 Index IPPI, League of Indonesian Student Youth (Ikatan Pemuda Pelajar Indonesia) 118–19, 123, 131n7, 179 Islam 11–12, 40n48, 190; conservative groups 8, 33, 40n41, 140, 184, 191–92, 210; schools 148–49; see also conservative groups Islamic Defenders Front (FPI: Front Pembela Islam) 8, 33–34, 184, 192, 210; see also Anti-Communist groups; conservative groups Islamic Revolution, Iran 25 ISSI, Indonesian Institute of Social History (Institut Sejarah Sosial Indonesia) 98, 187 jail see detention Jakarta 7, 9–10, 15n8, 26, 28, 30–31, 49–50, 60, 63, 66, 71, 81, 85–88, 102, 121, 124, 127–28, 138, 145, 148, 152n4, 153n30, 159, 161–62, 164, 179, 186, 188–89, 191, 201, 207 Jakarta Daily Mail 160–61 Japanese war crimes 102, 110n11 Jardokber, Joint Documentation Network (Jaringan Pendokumentasian Bersama) 187, 194n10 Jasin, Muhammad, Brigadier General 121 Java 7, 12, 47–48, 49, 51–52, 55, 57n7, 104–05, 107, 127, 135–37, 140–51, 179, 185, 188, 190, 204, 206, 208, 220 Jembarana, Bali 138 Jepara 31 Jewish people 218 Johnson, Lyndon B., former President of the United States of America 161 Jombang 31 Judges, for the International People’s Tribunal ix, 3–4, 8, 13–14, 15n2, 144, 169, 192, 215–16, 219–25, 233, 234n1 Kalimantan 45–46, 49, 51, 55, 60, 62, 80, 85, 135 Kalla, Yusuf 4, 32 kejawen 141 Kennedy, John F., former President of the United States of America 161 kicking see torture kidnapping 9–10, 46, 48, 81, 102, 106, 209, 228, 230 Kodam, territorial army command 45, 47, 49–51, 56 Kohanda Command 46–47, 50–51, 55–56, 57n11 Komnas Perempuan see National Commission on Violence Against Women Konfrontasi see Confrontation Kontras see Commission for the Disappeared and Victims of Violence Kopkamtib see Command for the Restoration of Security and Order Koramil, local military posts 145 Kostrad see Army Strategic Reserve Command KOTI see Supreme Operations Command Kupang 31, 60, 67 Kutai Kartanegara 60 kyai, religious scholar 142–43, 205 labour camps see detention Lampung 60 land reform 82, 205, 218 Latief, Colonel 9–10; see also 30 September Movement Latin America 115–16, 131n4 LEKRA, Institute of Peoples Culture (Lembaga Kebudayaan Rakyat) 131n7, 132n18, 132n19, 187, 209 Lentera magazine 220 Lombok 218 Lontar Foundation 98, 187 ‘Look of Silence’ 6, 29, 144, 152n11, 204, 216; see also Joshua Oppenheimer LPR-KROB, Institute for Struggle for the Rehabilitation of the New Order Regime’s Victims (Lembaga Perjuangan Rehabilitasi Korban Rezim Orde Baru) 98 LPSK see Victims and Witness Protection Institute Luweng Grubuk, cave in Kudul Mountain 137, 152n10 machine guns 54; see also mass killings Madiun 223 Madura 85 Malang 87 Malaya see Malaysia === [PDF page 276] === Index Malaysia 11, 45–46, 159, 163–64, 169, 173n6 Maluku 5, 60, 72, 75n1, 80, 82, 85, 90 Mandala Command 45–46, 50–51 marriage, enforced 96–103, 106–07, 109, sexual violence martial law 11, 45–47, 49, 51, 56 Marxism 47, 120; see also PKI mass atrocities 99, 158, 183–84; see also genocide mass graves 7, 12, 35, 54, 73, 130, 152n11, 152n15, 185, 204–05, 217, 220 mass killings 1, 3–14, 16n11, 16n12, 29–30, 35–36, 44, 52–57, 60, 64, 71, 130, 136–38, 143–51, 152n11, 157, 163–72, 181, 183, 190–91, 200–01, May riots of 1998 6, 39n17, 81, 211; see also Chinese-Indonesians Medan 31, 125, 132n18, 132n19, 218 medical services 65, 72, 124, 186 Melbourne 28 memorialisation 10, 31, 38, 65, 136–44, 146, 150–51, 187, 201, 210 Merdeka Square 49–50 Military Operations Regions (DOM) 81; see also Aceh Military Police (CPM: Corps Polisi Militer) 63, 73–74, 105, 179, 188 militias 12, 29–35, 46, 53–55, 62, 83, 138, 140–41, 148, 151, 152n11, 184, 198, 209, 220 Mokoginta, Ahmad Junus, Lieutenant General 46, 50–51, 55 Moscow 117–21, 125, 132n13 murder 4, 7, 9–12, 14, 31, 35–36, 40n48, 44, 48–49, 54, 56, 63, 81, 87–92, 107, 135–38, 140–51, 163, 166, 180, 198, 200, 204–05, 210, 217–19, 222, 238; see also mass killings mutilation 81, 145, 165, 198; sexualised forms of 98, 161; see also mass killings Myanmar (Burma) 200 Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) 188, 190, 220 Namlea Prison 86, 88–89; see also Buru Island; detention NASAKOM, ‘Nationalism-ReligionCommunism’, Sukarno era policy 47, 57n4 247 Nasution, General 10, 48–49, 132n12, 163 National Coalition of Justice and Truth (KKPK: Koalisi Keadilan dan Penungkapan Kebenaran) 63, 75n1, 188, 194n11; see also transitional justice National Commission on Violence Against Women (Komnas Perempuan: Komisi Nasional Anti-Kekerasan Terhadap Perempuan, Komnas Perempuan) 14, 27, 30, 39n17, 98, 110n12, 185 national group, as a target of genocide, 36, 217–23, 227–31; see also genocide National Harmony Council (DKN: Dewan Kerukunan Nasional) 193 Nationalist Party of Indonesia (PNI: Partai Nasionalis Indonesia) 13, 143 Nawacita program 29, 39n21, 72; see also Joko Widodo Nazis 52, 218, 231 Nekolim (Neocolonialism) 165 Netherlands 3, 22, 31–32, 116, 123–24, 158, 226 New Order 1, 7–8, 12, 14, 15n6, 29–30, 33–35, 65, 68, 81, 83, 85, 92, 92n3, 98, 117, 125, 128, 138–40, 151, 172, New Style Communist Movement (Komunis Gaya Baru) 24, 30, 34, 73, 148, 184, 191, 220, 234n5; see also Anti-Communist groups New York Times 161, 173n15 New Zealand 164, 166 Nicaragua 169 North Borneo (British Borneo) 159–60, 169 North Korea 124, 132n30 North Sumatra 5–6, 46, 51, 83, 118, 125 NTT, East Nusatenggara 73, 152n17; see Eastern Indonesia Nusa Kambangan 80; see also detention Operation Singgalang (Operasi Singgalang) 46 Operation Trident (Operasi Trisula) 83–84 Oppenheimer, Joshua 6, 24, 29, 144, 198, 201, 204, 216 other inhumane acts, as a crime against humanity 86, 89–91, 96, 98, 101 OTP, Persons Prevented from Returning Home (Orang Terhalang Pulang) 128–29 === [PDF page 277] === 248 Index Palu 72 Pancasila 12, 24, 85–86, 120, 191 Pancasila Youth (Pemuda Pancasila) 34, 190; see also militias; conservative groups Pandjaitan, Luhut, retired General and former Coordinating Minister for Political, Legal and Security Affairs 73, 135, 191 Pangad see Commander of the Armed Forces Panggabean, Maraden, Major General 51, 90 Pantja Tunggal 53 parliament 6, 47, 71, 84, 130, 132n22, 132n30, 226 Patrice Lumumba Friendship University in Moscow 118, 120–21 Pemuda Pancasila see Pancasila Youth Pemuda Rakyat see People’s Youth pension 65, 72 People’s Youth (Pemuda Rakyat) 10, 118, 123, 131n7, 143, 145 Pepelrada see Regional Authority to Implement Dwikora Permanent People’s Tribunal (PPT) 22, 25, 36 Permesta/PRRI rebellion 72 perpetrators x, xiii, 6–7, 15, 22–25, 31–32, 34, 36–37, 54, 61–62, 69, 74, 82, 100–01, 103, 105, 136–41, 144, 150, 158, 168, 171–72, 180–91, 203, 205, 218–19, 225, 228, 230, 238; see also army, militias, military personal dignity xi, 34, 37–38, 98, 109n3, 110n7, 111n14, 183, 202, 232, 238; see also torture Pesantren, Islamic boarding school see Islam Petrus killings 6, 81, 137 Phnom Penh see Cambodia PKI see Indonesian Communist Party plantations 52, 146, 149, 159; plantation workers 124, 126, 147 platoon guards 86, 88–89 PNI see Indonesian Nationalist Party pogroms 53, 203–04; see also mass killings police 8, 30–31, 62–63, 69, 73–74, 97, 205, 127, 130, 142, 179, 184–85, 188, 191, 199–200, 210 political prisoners 8, 55; imprisonment of 6, 54, 80–81, 143; release of 129; treatment of 25, 54, 57n15, 61, 65–67, 149, 151, 166, 185, 187–90, 204–05, 219 polytheists 145 pregnancy, forced 98, 101; see also sexual violence Presidential Commission on Violence in press, shutting down of 160–61 prison camp see detention propaganda, anti-communist: by Indonesian state 3–4, 9, 11–14, 16n11, 24, 28, 34–38, 57n5, 73, 138–39, 143, 151, 157–72, 198, 203–05, 207, 209–10, 219; by US, UK and Australia 158–72, 173n10 prosecution xi, xiii, 3–4, 6–7, 11–13, 110n10, 172, 179–80, 182, 215, 219–25 prostitution, enforced 63, 96–109, 109n4, 110n7, 110n11; see also sexual violence proxy war 24, 31, 39n26; see also conservative groups psychological testing of victims and survivors 91, 190; see also interrogation; torture psychosocial support, for survivors 65–66, 186 public violence 53; see also mass killings; mutilation punching see torture Purwodadi 136, 144–49 radio announcements 50, 57n5, 160–62, 164–65; see also propaganda Radio Australia 160, 162, 164–65 rape see sexual violence reburial, of remains of victims 140–41, 185; see also mass graves Reformasi 14, 24, 34, 65, 68, 71, 140, 187 Regional Authority to Implement Dwikora see Dwikora Rehabilitation Installation (Inrehab: Instalasi Rehabilitasi) 85; see also detention rehabilitation, of victims 34, 38, 71–73, 128, 183, 186 remains, of victims see mass graves reparations, for survivors xi, 7, 34, 38, 71–74, 180, 182–83, 187, 192, 225 Revolution (Revolusi, 1945–49) 45, 120 rifles 63, 140 Romania 117, 122 === [PDF page 278] === Index Rome Statute of the International Criminal Court 16n9, 37, 39n13, International Criminal Court (ICC) Roosa, John 48, 168, 173n10, 175n38, 210 Rote Island 68 RPKAD see Special Forces Russell Vietnam War Crimes Tribunal 22, 38n2 Rwanda 99, 101, 136–37, 216–17, 231, 238; see also ICTR Ryacudu, Ryamizard, retired general and Minister of Defense 33, 73 Salatiga 30, 220 Sarawak 169 Sarbupri, Estate Workers Union of the Republic of Indonesia (Sarekat Buruh Perkebunan Republik Indonesia) 124, 126 Savanajaya 87; see also Buru Island screening, of exiles 65, 116, 120–22, 124–25 Second World War 102, 108, 111n14, 157, 159–60, 171, 231, 234n3 Securing the Pancasila from the Threat of the Indonesian Communist Party and other Ideologies Symposium (June 2016) 191; see also conservative groups Semanggi 6 Semarang 31, 136, 141–44, 150 Semarang Society for Human Rights (Perhimpunan Semarang untuk HAM) 141 sexual acts, as an element of sexual violence, see sexual violence sexual and gender-based violence x, 3–5, 14, 25, 27, 29, 32, 39n28, 61, 63–64, 69–70, 96–109, 147, 179, 237; related to slander against Communist women 11, 36, 137–38, 161, 200, 210, 219 Shann, Keith, Australian Ambassador to Indonesia 160, 162, 164–67 Shihab, Muhammad Rizieq 8 Siaran Malaysia 164 Sierra Leone 99, 101, 106, 109n3, 110n8, 110n9 Singapore 160, 163–65, 169, 171 Sino-Soviet tensions 119 Sjam 9 SKP-HAM see Solidarity for Victims of Human Rights Violations SOBSI, Central All-Indonesian Workers Association (Sentral Organisasi Buruh Seluruh Indonesia) 124 249 social economic rights 71 socio-political group, as a target of genocide 1, 10–11, 82, 218; see also genocide Solidarity for Victims of Human Rights Violations (SKP-HAM: Solidaritas Korban Pelanggaran HAM) 72, 75n1, 194n10 solitary confinement 64; see also detention; torture Solo 31, 117 South Sulawesi 5, 80 South Sumatra 5, 60 Soviet Union see USSR Special Forces (RPKAD: Resimen Para Komando Angkatan Darat) 45, 47, 49, 51, 54–56, 83, 143, 153n25, 189–90 Special Rapporteur on Torture 66, 75n1 starvation 11, 80, 87, 92n3, 149 State of War 45; see also martial law state responsibility 7, 13, 15, 23, 26, 28, 36, 38n8, 44, 55, 71, 76n4, 85, 91, 137, 161–62, 172n1, 181, 183, 186, 192–93, 237–38 stigma xiii, 12, 22–23, 31, 37, 65, 87, 101, 116–18, 137, 147, 150–51, 180, 183–84, 186, 188–89, 193, 203, 209, 212 Stockholm 28 Student exchange program (Mahid: Mahasiswa Ikatan Dinas) 115, 118, 128 students 12, 29, 60, 81, 104, 115, 118–31, 131n7, 132n17, 141–43, 179, 199, 201, 203–04, 220 Suara Islam 163 Subandrio, former Indonesian Foreign Minister 165, 167 Sudan 183 Suharto, General, second President of Indonesia xi, 1, 9–12, 15n8, 30, 34, 124, 126, 128, 136, 140, 151, 157, 164, 167–72, 173n15, 190, 201, 209–11, 213, 237; see also army; New Order suicide 62, 87, 92n6; see also trauma Sukarno, first President of Indonesia x, 9–13, 35, 44–50, 56, 72, 76n3, 82, Sukarnoputri, Megawati, fifth President of Indonesia 72 57n7, 60, 72, 83–85, 105, 117–18, 125, 130, 135, 141, 159, 220 === [PDF page 279] === 250 Index Supreme Commander of the Armed Forces 44 Supreme Court 72, 189 Supreme Operations Command (KOTI) KOTI Commander 45, 47, 49, 51, 55–56 Surabaya 31, 145–47, 149, 167 surveillance 65, 88–89, 120, 147, 209 survivors, restrictions placed upon 36, Sutrisno, Lukman, Professor of Psychology, Gadjah Mada University 179, 190–91 Sweden 123, 129–30, 132n34, 141, 167 Symposium, ‘National Symposium on the 1965 Tragedy’ (April 2016) 8, 33, 73, 135, 191–93 during the New Order 68–70, 81; sexually based 25, 63–64, 97–98, 109n1, 237; see also sexual violence; trauma transitional justice 22–23, 61, 105, 180–82, 187, 233, 237–38 transmigration 84–85 trauma 63, 65–66, 73, 139–40, 198, 206, 238 TriContinental Conference in Cuba 116, 123, 127 Trisakti 6 trucks, used for transportation of detainees 54, 143, 145–46, 149, 151; see also mass killings Tuol Sleng Museum, Cambodia 137 Twitter 202, 205–06 Tangerang 60 Tanjung Priok 6, 15n5, 71, 81 Tapol see Political Prisoners tattoo 63, 219 Team to Investigate Grievous Human Rights Abuses Committed by Suharto Tempo 7, 29, 39n19, 40n34 Temporary Courts Martial in Batavia in the Dutch East Indies 102 territorial warfare 45, 54, 56 testimony of witnesses and survivors 3, 7, 13, 27, 37, 40n36, 60–62, 96, 98, 104, 107, 121, 126, 140, 147, 158, 179, 185, 187–93, 194n10, 202, 237 ‘The Betrayal of the G30S/PKI’, Indonesian government film 30, 65, 198, 201, 204 ‘The Emergency’, Malaya 159 The Jakarta Post 40n34, 201, 207–08, 223 Timor Leste 1, 6, 64, 68–71, 92, 140, 167, 200 Tjakrabirawa, army unit 9 TNI see Indonesian National Army Toer, Pramoedya Ananta 87, 92n3, 128, 151n1, 190 Tokyo Women’s Tribunal see Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal for the Trial of Japan’s Military Sexual Slavery torture 4–5, 12–13, 53, 55, 60–75, 80, 86–89, 91, 92n6, 117, 139, 143, 149, 172, 179, 181, 185, 190, 228, 230, 237–38; forms of 63–64, 67, 69–70; Ubud Readers and Writers Festival 199–200 UK 131n4; complicity in events of 1965 157–58, 160–72; concerns about communism in Indonesia 158–60 UN Human Rights Committee 24, 38n5, 38n11, 224 United Nations xi, 217, 226 United States 157–58; Embassy of 9, 11, 51, 163, 171; Cold War objectives 11, 48, 158–60, 173n4, 175n40; complicity in events of 1965 28, 57n5, 57n7, Untung, Colonel 9–10, 162; see also 30 September Movement Upper House (MPR: Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat) 68, 84, 120, 130, 132n12 USSR 47, 57n9, 117–21, 125, 127, 131n1 Victims and Witness Protection Institute (LPSK: Lembaga Perlindungan Korban dan Saksi) 30, 185–86, 193n7 Viet Nam 117, 124–27, 132n24; Viet Nam War 22, 166, 175n40 Voice of America 160 Wahid, Abdurrahman, fourth President of Indonesia 128–29, 132n34 Wamena 6 Wanareja Unit 89; see also Buru Island Wasior 6 West Irian 45; West New Guinea 159 === [PDF page 280] === Index West Papua 1, 81, 159, 167 West, the x, 11, 118, 125, 127, 164–65, 169, 219, 237 Whipping see torture Wibowo, Sarwo Edhie, Colonel 45, 83, 143, 190 widespread or systematic attack, as an element of crimes against humanity 5, 13, 27, 35, 61–62, 73, 75, 88, 92, 97, 100, 182 Widodo, Joko (Jokowi), seventh President of Indonesia 7, 29–30, 72, 184, 199, 225, 238 Women: experiences of violence 11–12, 25, 29, 32, 36, 39n17, 61–64, 66–69, 80, 86–87, 96–109, 139, 143–44, 146, 149, 161, 166, 185, 200, 204, 209–11, 219; survival of 140, 147–49; see also sexual violence Women’s International War Crimes Tribunal for the Trial of Japan’s Military Sexual Slavery 25, 38n6, 102, 110n11 251 Wonosobo 135, 140–41, 185 Woolcott, Richard 162, 174n21 Yani, General, former Army Commander 44–46, 48–50, 56 YAPHI see Foundation for the Service of Rights in Indonesia ‘Year of Truth’ 188; see also KKPK YLBHI see Indonesian National Legal Aid Foundation Yogyakarta 30, 33, 60, 62–63, 72–73, 75n1, 137, 179, 188, 207–08 YouTube 33, 40n34, 153n23, 202 YPKP 1965 see Foundation for Research on the Victims of the Killings of 1965 Yudhoyono, Bambang Susilo, retired General and sixth President of Indonesia 129, 184 Yugoslav Tribunal see International Criminal Tribunal for the former Yugoslavia Zen, Kivlan, retired General 31, 33 === [PDF page 281] === Taylor & Francis Group an informa business Taylor & Francis eBooks www.taylorfrancis.com Asingle destination for eBooks from Taylor & Francis with increased functionality and an improved user experience to meet the needs of our customers. 90,000+ eBooks of award-winning academic content in Humanities, Social Science, Science, Technology, Engineering, and Medical written by a global network of editors and authors. 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