Chapter 3

The Islamist Cluster: Organisation and Functioning

p. 105-180


Texte intégral

1The resurgence of Muslim radicalism in Indonesia from the end of the 1960s is schematically the outcome of three successive developments that affected the religious outlook of the country. The first was an identity politics movement that arose from the failure of various attempts to Islamise the country from the top. Darul Islam, through a series of rebellions, and Masyumi, via the democratic route, had both sought to create an Islamic state. In both cases, this quest failed when confronted by the alliance between the secular nationalists and the army. Thus the successors of Masyumi, like those of Darul Islam, retreated from the political arena in their own ways. The second stage of this radicalisation was part of a wider evolution, that of international Islam. In 1973, the Arab defeat by Israel in the Yom Kippur War and the ensuing oil shock gave the little kingdom of Saudi Arabia legitimacy and unprecedented wealth, boosting its religious foundations and the aid it extended to different preaching movements in the world, with Saudi universities throwing open their doors to scholars from poor countries. These two developments meant that from the mid-1970s, Indonesia was the receptacle of rigorist Wahhabi propaganda, which led to the conversion of a section of the modernist groups to radical neo-fundamentalism. This movement, generally known as Salafism,1 fuelled the Afghan jihad networks, and a section of the Indonesian fighters subsequently plunged into a nihilistic terrorism. The third juncture of radicalism occurred around the time of the fall of Soeharto’s regime and the democratic renewal of Indonesia. This period, as we have seen, stimulated the growth of extremist movements that benefited from the encouragement of New Order supporters as well the political vacuum of a nascent Reformasi.

2Each of these moments defined above saw the emergence of a new generation of militants whose thinking and mode of operation remained marked by the circumstances of their beginnings. But beyond certain differences, the radical Islamist movement on the whole shared some common traits, which contributed to its success in the Archipelago but also limited its development.

An Inward-looking Movement

3As political Islam adapted to the reality of a New Order that constrained its political expression — as the regime did for leftist ideologies be it socialism or Marhaenism — the majority of political Islam’s militants chose the path of preaching, predication or dakwah (da’wa).2 This new type of militancy gave rise to organisations such as the Indonesian Islamic Propagation Council (DDII), which was a major influence on the evolution of Indonesian Islam (see Chapters One and Two). Apart from these big dakwah movements, smaller, marginal groups were formed. These were even more inward-looking than DDII and had more sectarian tendencies.

4The ‘internal Hegira’, both modus operandi and cause of radicalisation, had its origins in the 1960s and 1970s (see Chapter One).3 Religious isolates purported to embody virtue and fidelity to religion in the face of an impious and corrupting power and a society ‘perverted’ by modernity. Within these very closed communities that took the form of either political groups or Islamic boarding schools flourished the conviction that they alone upheld the sole truth and a legitimacy that rivalled the states.

Pesantren, Islamic Villages and Salafi Networks

The ‘Reconversion’ of Darul Islam

5As mentioned above,4 the execution in 1962 of S.M. Kartosuwiryo, founder of the Darul Islam movement and emir of Negara Islam Indonesia (NII), did not lead to the disappearance of his movement. Some of his lieutenants managed to reach a compromise with the authorities, thus preserving a certain capacity for mobilisation. After many failed attempts to revive DI, the militants tried very early on to reconstruct the rebellion unit through Daud Beureueh, the only leader of the movement who had not been executed, by exploiting the manoeuvrings of the secret service, BAKIN, to their advantage. These manoeuvrings caused the first scission in 1971, after which the unit was dismantled due to the arrests linked to Komando Jihad between 1974 and 1978. In spite of the successive arrests of its imams (Daud Beureueh was placed under house arrest and Adah Djaelani was imprisoned) and in spite of its divisions (seven, later nine, regional commands that developed into groups agitating in the former strongholds of the movement), DI stayed on course and even expanded in the 1980s. The battle for the leadership of the imamate intensified, with two men fighting for the position:5 Abdullah Sungkar and Ajengan Masduki. Both recruited abundantly through intensified dakwah activities, particularly in Jakarta between 1983 and 1987; the escape of Sungkar and Abu Bakar Ba’asyir in Malaysia in 1985 did not stem the recruitment activities by way of dakwah. For a long time, it was difficult to pin down the effective operations of these movements in the 1980s and 1990s. Numerous rumours circulated about these operations; the occasional written material that surfaced were by former discontented militants and consequently not without a strong tinge of partiality.6 More light has since been shed on these networks thanks to the investigations conducted after the 2002 bombings in Bali attributed to Jemaah Islamiyah. They seemed to conclude that, given the lack of structured organisations, numerous former supporters of Darul Islam partially transmitted the memory of their struggle through the pesantren they created.

6A few of these establishments played a major role in the radicalisation of young Indonesian Muslims who were later recruited by terrorist organisations. Long-standing organisations, the Islamic boarding schools had the advantage of blending naturally into the social and educational landscape and operating under very loose controls.

The Ngruki Network

7One of these pesantren, which has since become the symbol of ideological training in terrorism, was founded by two ex-leaders of the Youth Movement of Masyumi (Gerakan Pemuda Islam Indonesia, GPII),7 both of Yemeni origins: Abu Bakar Ba’asyir and Abdullah Sungkar. Abu Bakar Ba’asyir was part of Al-Irsyad, the organisation created at the beginning of the twentieth century with the aim of providing a modern education for the Hadrami community (the Arab community that had migrated from Hadramaut, south of the Arabian peninsula) of the Archipelago. Its founder — Ahmad bin Soorkati — as we have seen, was himself a religious scholar from Sudan (Africa), a disciple of Rashid Rida, and nowadays derided as having been too tolerant of “non-Salafis”.8

8Along with this generation of modernists condemned to abandoning politics, they also fell back, as did a section of the groups close to the former Masyumi, on dakwah.9

9In 1967, they started a clandestine radio station called Radio Dakwah Islamiyah Surakarta, then founded in 1971 their pesantren Al-Mukmin at Ngruki, in the vicinity of Solo (Surakarta). Although they never belonged to Darul Islam in its heyday (they were perhaps too young then), they became close to the new leaders of the movement. In 1976, they were presented to Haji Ismail Pranoto (‘Hispran’), leader of Komando Jihad in East Java, and were supposedly sworn in (bai’at) to DI. They were arrested in November 1978 as a result of these contacts. According to the indictment report revealed during their trial, Sungkar was said to have been made the military commander of the Islamic State of Indonesia (NII) for Central Java and the leader of an organisation called Jemaah Mujahidin Anshorullah in February 1977 — all of which he denied. He did, however, admit to having come to an agreement with an ex-militant of Darul Islam in 1976 to form an ‘Islamic community’ (jemaah) in view of fighting against the communist threat, whose influence was increasingly felt in the region since Vietnam had joined the Soviet camp. Sungkar exhorted the population not to recognise the Indonesian Constitution, a ‘product of Man, not God’. The other major accusation held against the leaders of the Ngruki pesantren was the distribution of a pamphlet by one of the teachers in the school, Abdul Qadir Baraja. Entitled Jihad dan Hijrah (Jihad and the Hegira), it called on fellow believers to rebel against “the enemies of Islam” who resisted the application of Islamic law.10 The DI-Ngruki network thus stretched to Central Java and after its dismantling in this region, continued to develop in Jakarta. With the passing of the years and the travels of its mentors, it nonetheless grew into several Islamic boarding schools. The most prestigious of these schools — Al-Muttaqien in Jepara and Dar us-Syahadah in Boyolali, both in Central Java; Al-Islam in Lamongan, East-Java; and Lukmanul Hakiem in Johor, Malaysia — played a capital role in the formation of new jihadists. Within its closed walls were nurtured some of the most active militants of the clandestine organisation.11

10Aside from the pesantren linked to Ngruki, several other networks using a similar approach of closing ranks and expanding through isolated communities linked up to each other, contributed to the birth and development of radical Islam in Indonesia.

The Hidayatullah Network

11In 1971, five young preachers stripped of their hopes of seeing political Islam rehabilitated after 1965 under the New Order, decided to set up a community in Gunung Tembak, a secluded spot about 30 kilometres from Balikpapan, administrative centre of the province of East Kalimantan. The leader of this small group, Abdullah Said (sometimes also called Mushin Qahhar) was an ex-militant of the Indonesian Student Action Front (Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Indonesia, KAMI),12 a multi-confessional organisation that played a crucial role in the fall of Soeharto. Abdullah Said was an admirer of Kahar Muzakkar, the Darul Islam leader in Sulawesi, and was also a student of Aceng Kurnia, one of the instigators behind DI’s revival in West Java in 1967. The desire for autarchy was evident at the creation of this community called Hidayatullah. Occupying an entire village, its members administered diverse institutions devoted to preaching and religious teaching, but also to the economic survival of the movement.13

12As of the mid‑1980s, Hidayatullah started to propagate its model. In 1986, a group of students from the Institute of Technology of Surabaya (East Java) opened a pesantren affiliated to the headquarters and operating under the same principles.14 In Sulawesi it expanded by attracting those close to the former Darul Islam movement. The Hidayatullah pesantren of Makassar was thus created by Abdul Aziz Qahhar Muzakkar, son of Kahar Muzakkar, a former Darul Islam rebel leader.15 In the early 2000s the organisation had branches in dozens of Indonesian cities and in 2003 it was pointed out that a network of 127 pesantren was affiliated to it.16 The monthly Suara Hidayatullah (The Voice of Hidayatullah), inaugurated in 1986 and with a circulation of 35,000 copies, was an efficacious tool in the promotion of its Salafism-inspired ideas. As of 1998, this monthly was an active channel of the radical Islamic movement’s anti-Christian themes. Hidayatullah was often mentioned in investigations on Jemaah Islamiyah: its networks were purported to have sheltered bombers on several occasions and served as a passageway towards the organisation’s camps in Mindanao.17

The FKAWJ Pesantren Network

13The case of the Followers of the Sunna and the Community of the Prophet (Forum Komunikas Ahlu Sunnah wal-Jama’ah, FKAWJ) attests to the remarkable influence that some Salafist pesantren networks exercised on the mobilisation of the radical fringes of Islam in Indonesia. Indeed, it was from FKAWJ that emerged the Laskar Jihad group, which played a major military and media role in the Moluccas conflict (1999–2002). In 1994, Ja’far Umar Thalib, a Salafist leader to whom we shall return, founded the Jam’ah Ihya al-Sunnah pesantren in Kaliurang, not far from Yogyakarta. An informal network of Islamic boarding schools and organisations led by former students of Ja’far gradually materialised, structuring itself in February 1999 during a huge manifestation in Solo that marked the end of a series of tabligh akbar (big-scale gatherings featuring popular preachers) which had been taking place over the past months. The objective of these gatherings was to lend support to President Habibie who was under attack, and to prepare the umma to defend itself against the machinations of the ‘infi dels’ (the confl ict in the Moluccas had just begun). Henceforth regrouped within FKAWJ, Ja’far’s supporters opened branches in the quasi-totality of Indonesia’s provinces. In 2004, close to 80 pesantren, mostly situated in Central and East Java, but also in the Moluccas, East Kalimantan, Sulawesi and the Riau Archipelago, were affiliated to the network.18

14These few examples are a good illustration of the diversity of the origins of the Salafist (and not Salaf) pesantren (see Glossary). Originating from different organisations — Al-Irsyad in the case of Ba’asyir in Ngruki, KAMI for Abdullah Said in Hidayatullah, Persis and Al-Irsyad for Ja’far Umar Thalib of FKAWJ — a new generation of militants, with or without direct links to the movements connected to Darul Islam, were able to extend its influence thanks to its new Islamic boarding schools. Clandestine in the beginning, this movement grew rapidly from just a few pesantren in the early 1980s to close to 80 some 20 years later.19 From these have emerged networks centred on charismatic personalities.

15The development of these networks linking pesantren and ‘charity’ foundations were due largely to more open organisations that worked efficiently for dakwah in a challenging context. One branch played a preponderant role: that of uniting DDII with the Institute of Islamic and Arabic Studies (Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Islam dan Arab, LIPIA) and the universities of Saudi Arabia. But dakwah also and especially progressed because of the introduction of Muslim Brotherhood’s organisational method, adopted by student groups as well as pesantren linked to Darul Islam.

Usroh, Tarbiyah: Clusters of Young Militants and Students

16The dakwah movement that developed under the New Order sprung forth essentially from two traditions: Darul Islam fighting for an ‘Islamisation from the top’ (the creation of an Islamic state) at the risk of a confrontational relationship with the authorities, and the Indonesian Islamic Propagation Council (Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia, DDII), advocating an ‘Islamisation from below’, which would eventually give rise to a new political society. These two traditions sometimes joined forces, with some of the groups plunging into violence while others engaged in politics, and yet others maintaining a distance from all non-religious activities.

Dakwah and Clandestine Action

17As early as the end of the 1960s, Mohammad Natsir, former chairman of Masyumi and head of DDII, proposed to his supporters to steer their efforts in three directions — pesantren, mosques and the campus — future bastions of the religious revival he felt was necessary. Hoping to reach out all at once to these three milieux, DDII implanted its first Islamic boarding schools near to the universities.20 As of 1968, it permeated campuses in order to train a young generation of teachers (for religion and non-religious disciplines). A training programme for cadres was implemented and meetings in Jakarta were held at low costs in the official premises of pilgrims departing for Mecca. Then in 1974, its efforts targeting the student milieux were systemised under a programme called Bina Masjid Kampus (Management of Campus Mosques), which led to the building of mosques in about 15 university centres in the Archipelago, from Jakarta to Padang, Semarang and Ujung Pandang. Several future cadres of Islamism emerged from this programme: Abdul Qadir Djaelani (imprisoned for many years and subsequently a member of the People’s Consultative Assembly after the fall of Soeharto) and especially Imaduddin Abdulrahim, who made the Salman Mosque of the Bandung Institute of Technology (ITB) one of the bastions of the militant Islamic revival. The three-day course called Training of Preacher Combatants (Latihan Mujahid Dakwah, LMD), organised by Imaduddin was a great success. The students who underwent this training, including Zaenal Muttaqien, future chief editor of Sabili, then introduced these training sessions into the prestigious University of Indonesia in Jakarta, followed by other universities. Subsequently these religious training programmes took off in a remarkable way. In the space of about ten years, they had spread throughout all the universities in the Archipelago.21 But they suffered a first setback with the arrest of Imaduddin in 1978, the ban of LMD and tighter control by the regime under the slogan of the Normalisation of Campus Life (Normalisasi Kehidupan Kampus, NKK).

18In the meantime, Mohammad Natsir had used his contacts with some intellectuals from the Middle East to obtain scholarships, notably in three universities: Madinah al Munawarrah and Ibnu Saud in Saudi Arabia, as well as al-Azhar in Egypt. Upon their return, the students were tasked, especially by DDII, to translate from Arabic numerous works by the Muslim Brotherhood, whose ideology was relatively unknown to the Indonesian authorities at that time. These translations were a means to evade the restrictions imposed on DDII militants.22 Little by little, training on campus was done directly via the literature of the Muslim Brother-hood, henceforth abundant in the Indonesian language, while the model of Imaduddin Abdulrahim’s Salman Mosque, more ‘Indonesian’ in its objectives and methods,23 lost its influence in some universities, notably the University of Indonesia.24 Neighbouring Malaysia also had a decisive influence. Study trips to Malaysia were common and the influence was reciprocal. Many expressed their admiration for the Malaysian Islamic Youth Movement (Angkatan Belia Islam Malaysia, ABIM) and its leader Anwar Ibrahim, himself a disciple of Mohammad Natsir.25

19It seems then that the methods of the radical faction of HMI led by Imaduddin gave way, on the one hand, to the moderate wing of HMI led by Nurcholish Madjid (already predominant in the Islamic universities) and, on the other hand, to increasingly clandestine networks operating on campus using the methods of the Muslim Brotherhood. Potential sympathisers were invited to participate in increasingly secretive training sessions called tarbiyah (education) or halaqah (circle). The most motivated amongst them were then regrouped within a cell (usroh, ‘family’ in Arabic), under the direction of a leader, the naqib. The usroh constituted an informal network of mini-communities attempting to live entirely by the rules of Islam. They were supposed to be as homogenous as possible and comprised about ten persons of the same sex, age and level of education. Through mutual aid (takaful ), understanding (tafahum) and knowledge (ta’aruf ), members were supposed to forge a Muslim character (syaksiyah al-Islamiyah) and together form a Muslim family (usroh al-Islamiyah), thus prefiguring a Muslim society (ijtimaiyah al-Islamiyah), an Islamic state (daulah al-Islamiyah) and finally an Islamic caliphate — a general union of all Muslims in the world (khilafah al-Islamiyah).26 This reference to the caliphate was a distant ideal, envisaged as the establishment of a world order rivalling that transmitted by the United Nations, perceived as dominated by the Christian West. The classic conception of a caliphate seemed to have won followers, especially for Hizbut Tahrir, which also carried out recruitments on campus in the 1990s (see Chapter Four). The activities of these usroh were generally financed through zakat donations (2.5 per cent of salaries) and by jointly run commercial activities.

20Paradoxically, this movement ultimately benefited from the Normalisation of Campus Life (NKK) decreed by the New Order regime in 1978: by banning all political activity in universities, the authorities contributed to the growth of religious activities, as they were the only pursuits tolerated. Campus mosques became the sole venue for students to socialise: increasingly Islam became a vehicle of protest and protestation was thus Islamised.

21In time, the movement extended beyond the university and reached the level of secondary education: two organisations close to the DDII movement, Nurul Fikri and Lembaga Pendidikan Islam al-Hikmah, pro-posed to help college students prepare for entry to university. Initially concerning themselves only with general subjects, these institutions considerably increased the proportion of religious teaching in their programme to give it equal prominence from the mid-1990s onwards. Their success was indubitable: from 1997–1998, one out of four students entering the University of Indonesia was supposedly a former student of Nurul Fikri.27 The majority of them also became efficient transmitters of dakwah in the student circles.

22Thus the irreversible transformation of Indonesian campuses occurred over three decades: from LMD, which were but simple training sessions for preaching in the 1970s, steered by the radical but fundamentally ‘Indonesian’ movement of HMI, they came under the influence of a more international ideology, that of the Muslim Brotherhood, in the mid-1980s. Loosely structured, the dakwah centres on campuses (Lembaga Dakwah Kampus, LDK) soon became the setting for a renaissance of political Islam. As of 1994, these new dakwah cadres succeeded in being elected into senates representing students at the University of Indonesia and kept their seat in the ensuing years.28

23Four years later, in March 1998, during the Tenth Forum of Lembaga Dakwah Kampus in Malang, representatives of some 60 universities and institutes of higher learning formed the Indonesian Muslim Students’ Action Committee (Komite Aksi Mahasiswa Muslim Indonesia, KAMMI), which played a decisive role in the birth of the Justice Party (Partai Keadilan, PK) soon after.29

24The usroh linked to LDK and later to KAMMI were thus relatively well structured. The teaching dispensed was inspired by the puritanical and often sectarian ideology promoted by DDII and the rigour was a reproduction of that of the pesantren, previously unknown to these students now in search of more reassuring certainties.30

Negara Islam Indonesia and Usroh in Universities

25Nonetheless, here too, heterodoxy took root amongst some of these usroh, notably those linked to the hatching of a multitude of small groups claiming to be followers of Kartosuwiryo’s Islamic State (Negara Islam Indonesia, NII or ‘N sebelas’, [N eleven], according to the terminology adopted by the young recruits) and his ideology of the Islamic State of Indonesia. These small groups adopted totally heterodox attitudes at times, using NII simply as a label. This propensity of some DI militants to compromise with the pillars of Islam (notably the five daily prayers), under the pretext that the Republic of Indonesia was not yet an Islamic state, was also found outside the campus and provoked growing scissions with the stricter Salafists.31

26Within the universities, Islamic militancy sometimes sheltered very profane occupations. For example, Fachrully Rachmayati, student at the Islamic University of Yogyakarta and ex-member of one of the networks, never felt that she was militating for Islam. Aside from her participation in a lucrative business, which we shall examine later, she felt like she be-longed more to a sect than to a political movement.32 The investigation carried out by the weekly Tempo in the region of Bandung in March 2000 confirmed this analysis: the sectarian aspect of these movements characterised by secrecy, members’ devotion to a charismatic member and the difficulty of leaving the group, spurred deviation. The student groups claiming to be from NII encouraged their members to cut themselves off totally from their family and to revolt against their parents who were presented as bad Muslims, while squeezing large sums of money from them. Once the membership oath — a refusal to recognise the Republic of Indonesia as long as it was not an Islamic state — had been taken, any attempt to leave these groups became a very tricky matter.33 These small clandestine groups grew considerably at the approach of 2000 because of their millenarist character. Miftah Faridl, head of the Council of Indonesian Ulama (MUI) in the West Java province and religious teacher at Bandung Institute of Technology, thus confirmed that in his province alone, several hundreds of thousands of students were affected by this phenomenon.34 The management of the Institute of Technology (ITB) also received several dozen complaints from parents who were worried about the indoctrination of their children by NII for the Islamic state cause. Some well-known Muslim intellectuals also expressed their fears at the growth of this phenomenon.35

Usroh and Darul Islam

27Darul Islam was one of the beneficiaries of the new methods of organisation originating from the Middle East. These methods were also taken up outside of the university, fulfilling the same function in the only space where dissident political expression was still untouched.

28In the mosques established outside of campuses, where young people were grouped within associations (Remaja Masjid), the usroh methods were utilised namely by the Communication Body for Indonesian Mosque Youth (Badan Komunikasi Pemuda Masjid Indonesia, BKPMI). Founded in 1976, this organisation was said to be one of the first to adopt the methods of the Muslim Brotherhood and was even ahead of the Salman Mosque in the Bandung Institute of Technology (ITB) campus. These groups did not subscribe unanimously to Darul Islam but included some supporters, notably amongst the Association of Muslim High School Students (Pelajar Islam Indonesia, PII) and the Youth Movement of Masyumi (Gerakan Pemuda Islam, GPI).36

29Muslim Brotherhood methods were adopted most effectively by Darul Islam in Yogyakarta, where some leaders were able to optimise its utilisation even as the movement was suffering a great setback because of Komando Jihad-related arrests. Abdullah Sungkar’s disciples in Ngruki adroitly exploited these methods for recruitment purposes.37 One of them, Irfan Awwas, who later became head of the Indonesian Council of Mujahidin (Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia, MMI), confessed that the usroh methods proved to be “very efficient” for training cadres “in the very repressive political conditions of the 1980s”.38 The networks of the usroh close to Darul Islam were very compartmentalised. Cell members took turns to host meetings in their homes, and only the leader could contact the other members of the group.

30The method was optimised for yet another type of teaching — the pesantren kilat (literally, ‘accelerated Islamic boarding school’, or intensive three-day religious classes). The name seemed to indicate that these schools were dispensing traditionalist Islam teachings but they were, in fact, giving free rein to anti-Soeharto sentiments. To systemise these teaching methods, a special body was created, the Body for the Development of Muslims of Indonesia (Badan Pembangunan Muslimin Indonesia, BPMI), which were also very successful.39

31This combination — pesantren, then usroh and pesantren kilat — was adopted by the Indonesian Salafist movement as the flexibility of these structures brought together individuals of varying degrees of engagement. They helped to identify the most committed militants to whom was handed the task of expanding the network within their own milieux.40

32Ideologically, the Iranian Revolution as model boosted the popularity of the movement, which apparently inspired not only sweet dreams of the fall of Soeharto but also, according to Indonesian courts, several plans to assassinate Soeharto between 1982 and 1983. All these attempts came to naught and dreams of revolution crumbled when the first arrests of usroh militants of Central Java started at the end of 1983.41

33These usroh militants of Central Java thus spent the rest of the 1980s in prison — depriving them of the Afghan experience — but those of Jakarta survived clandestinely in the refuge of the big city where Sungkar had already established connections. The criminalisation of DI’s funding, started by Warman (see Biographies), increased when some mosques in Jakarta became the hideout of petty criminals targeted by a campaign of summary executions called ‘petrus’, short for pembunuhan misterius (mysterious killings). It was only in 1986 that the movement was discovered to be still alive in Jakarta, when a businessman who backed the movement was assassinated. The round-up that ensued sparked off a flurry of activities: some joined Sungkar and Ba’asyir in Malaysia; others continued to fight in East Jakarta under a certain Broto, who started recruiting for Afghanistan; yet others flocked to join a former leader, Nur Hidayat, resulting in an aborted rebellion attempt in Lampung in 1989.42 The army laid siege to this community after an officer was killed during investigations, leading apparently to some 100 casualties.

34It was the wish to dissociate themselves from these DI usroh, often linked to criminal acts such as those of Komando Jihad, that pushed the student usroh movements advocating Islamisation from below — and thus patience — to detach themselves by taking on the name of tarbiyah (education).43

A Breeding Ground for Violent Action

35The Salafist movement, although itself very divided on the use of violence, contributed greatly to the growth of Islamic radicalism in Indonesia. The majority of the leaders of Salafist movements certainly maintained their condemnation of all violence exercised in the name of religion (except in the case of legitimate defence — a very subjective concept as we shall see, especially in the Moluccas). Moreover, the majority of Indonesian Salafists can be qualified as “purists” as opposed to “Salafi-Jihadists”,44 who are but a very small minority fringe group within the Salafist cluster. However, it is indisputable that the separatist tendencies, intransigence and hate-filled views in Salafist pesantren was an element that encouraged the inter-faith violence at the turn of the twenty-first century.

36In this regard, two factors explain the crossover into violence: ties with the Darul Islam movement and integration into the networks of the Islamist Internationale struggle. In fact, it was the regions where Darul Islam had been influential three decades ago that showed the clearest tendencies towards violence within the usroh movement. In the vicinity of Banten (West Java), Imam Samudra, the Bali bombings organiser who passed through Malaysia and Afghanistan, was the promoter of numerous halaqah (groups) in state Islamic senior high schools (madrasah aliyah negeri ) and in pesantren headed by former sympathisers of Negara Islam Indonesia (NII). After 1999, students were invited to meetings where they were shown videos of atrocities supposedly committed by Christians in the Moluccas and in Poso in central Sulawesi. These videos had been made by KOMPAK (Komite Aksi Penanggulangan Akibat Krisis) or Action Committee for Crisis Response, a Muslim charity established in 1998 under the DDII. The most motivated of the participants were then invited to sessions of intensive training, where the teachings of Abdullah Sungkar, founder of Jemaah Islamiyah, were inculcated. It was these daurah (circle of ‘cadres’) that constituted the hotbed of recruitment for the terrorist movement. Gradually, calls to jihad became more concrete and training took on a more practical nature: little by little the handling of arms and the making of bombs superseded theology lessons.45

Opening Up to the Networks of International Islamism

37The political manoeuvrings of President Soeharto’s entourage and the heritage of Darul Islam were not the sole motors of the radicalisation of Indonesian Islam. The political frustration of ex-members of Masyumi, as we have seen, was another. This took on a special dimension when the inward-looking intolerance of former cadres of the Muslim party converged with the financial means of Wahhabi propaganda. Mohammad Natsir, ex-chairman of Masyumi, was the principal architect of this internationalisation. Vice-president of the World Islamic Congress (Mutamar al-Alam al-Islami, based in Karachi, Pakistan) since 1967, he became member of the World Islamic League (Rabithah al-Alam al-Islami, based in Jeddah in Saudi Arabia) two years later. This latter organisation rapidly became the proselytising instrument of the Saudi monarchy on large scale and was endowed with considerable means after the oil shock of 1973. The Saudi monarchy used Islam as an instrument to combat the influence of Arab nationalism and then in 1979, the Iranian Revolution.46 Within this structure, DDII, representative of the World Islamic League in Indonesia since 1973, was one of the essential vectors of Wahhabist propagation in the Archipelago.47 The ties between networks of the former Masyumi, one of the most liberal parties in the Muslim world, and supporters of a fossilised and retrograde Islam contributed greatly to the conversion of some of its cadres to an Islamist rhetoric that blended identity politics with an anti-Christian perspective.48

38This movement was somewhat echoed in the student circles by the International Islamic Federation of Student Organisations, IIFSO, whose secretary-general, Imaduddin Abdurrahmin, was close to Mohammad Natsir.49 DDII was charged with giving out scholarships generously allocated by the Islamic League to Indonesian students to pursue their studies in the Middle East.50 In the early 1970s, it opened an office in Riyadh to facilitate links with Saudi Arabia, and when the Riyadh-based Imam Muhammad bin Saud University decided to open a branch in Indonesia some ten years later, Mohammad Natsir supported this project enthusiastically. Founded in 1980, the Institute of Islamic and Arab Studies (LIPIA) bankrolled the undergraduate education of thousands of Indonesians at the prestigious Saudi Institute, where the best students were also invited to further their studies.51 Apart from its involvement in teaching, the DDII and LIPIA network also played a pivotal role in the distribution of funds from major Salafist foundations in the Gulf countries and Saudi Arabia. Several hundred mosques were fi nanced through this channel, thanks to funds from Kuwaiti foundations such as Bait al Zakat and Haiah Khairiyah Islamiyah or Syarikah al-Rajhi in Saudi Arabia.52

39Not all the Indonesian students who benefited from the largesse of these diverse institutions turned to radical Salafism.53 Nonetheless, by allowing them access to the major universities in the Gulf and more importantly, enabling them to follow the teachings of the leading Salafist ulama of Saudi Arabia, Yemen and Pakistan, DDII and LIPIA facilitated the emergence of a new generation of Islamist leaders at the start of the 1990s. For these latter, the prestige of an education acquired in the Arab world, and what more, from former mujahidin who had fought in Afghanistan, inspired them to be charismatic leaders. Profoundly marked by their experience in the heart of the sacred sites of Islam and convinced of their greater legitimacy compared to their former mentors, these Indonesians often failed to find a place for themselves within the traditional religious hierarchy in their own country, leading them to start their own movements.

A New Generation of Islamists

40Two different routes illustrate perfectly how these international channels contributed to the reconsideration of traditional legitimacies within Indonesian Islam. The first is that of Abu Nida, founder of the Jamaah at-Turats al-Islami movement in Yogyakarta.54 Chamsaha Sofwan (his real name) was born near Gresik (East Java) in 1954 into an ordinary Muslim family. Unimpressed by the quarrels between reformism and traditionalism, his parents sent him to a Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) pesantren, then to a Muhammadiyah school devoted to the training of religious teachers. He distinguished himself by his dynamism and joined a DDII programme training preachers for the distant regions of the Archipelago. Upon graduation, he was sent to Kalimantan along with one of his friends. This initial contact with the dakwah was challenging. His companion fell ill, “hit by the black magic of which the Dayaks were ardent followers”. Abu Nida also faced strong competition from Protestant missionaries, who were endowed with more means (which he exploited on occasions to enter the most inaccessible zones). He then joined the cluster of organisations close to DDII, particularly the networks of the former Youth Movement of Masyumi (Gerakan Pemuda Islam Indonesia, GPII) under Abdul Qadir Djaelani.55 He used his contacts to go to Saudi Arabia with the financial support of the World Islamic League. In Riyadh, he divided his time between the local branch of DDII and his studies at the Ibn Saud University, where he was taught by the leading ulama of the Salafist movement. Like many others, he made a detour to Afghanistan before returning to the Archipelago. Together with two compatriots he had met in Riyadh, he joined the mujahidin of Sheik Jamil ul Rehman.56 Upon his return to Indonesia in 1985, he rallied the pesantren Al-Mukmin in Ngruki, near Solo, cradle of the future Jemaah Islamiyah, then got married and started a business. However, he maintained his interest in dakwah and continued to teach in a pesantren (Ibnul Qayyim) in Yogyakarta. Thanks to Saefullah Mahyudin, professor of political science at the Gadjah Mada University and head of the local DDII branch, Abu Nida penetrated the student circles. He made himself known amongst the Ja’ma’ah Salahudin activists and from there, the Association of Muslim Students (HMI). Little by little he increased his influence in the faculties of exact sciences and built up a small core of activists. His prestige and capacity for mobilisation were due largely to the links that had been woven between groups of international radical Islamism. He was thus asked by the World Islamic League to help the Indonesian Islamic Propagation Council (DDII). In Yogyakarta, he was assisted and supported in this task by his former course mates in Saudi Arabia (Ahmas Fais, Rofik, Asmuji). Thanks to these contacts, he managed to organise and finance overseas trips for his young recruits. He thus sent Shaleh Su’aidi, with whom he had become friends, to his previous Pakistani mentor, Jamil ul Rehman. Over the years, the small group led by Abu Nida became more structured, set itself up on the route of Kaliurang at the exit of Yogyakarta and took on the name of at-turats (heritage), in reference to the Kuwaiti organisation Jum’iah Ihya at-Turots al-Islami (Revival of Islamic Heritage Society, often designated by its acronym RIHS).57

41By organising halaqah (circles) and daurah (cadre meetings), the organisation’s influence grew in the region. In 1992, it was bolstered by a new recruit of some leverage, Ja’far Umar Thalib, another leader of Arab descent. This latter, founder of FKAWJ, the parent organisation of Laskar Jihad, was born in Malang in 1961, into a family of Arab origins — his father was a militant of the Al-Irsyad organisation.58 Ja’far had initially followed the classic path of the pious Muslim bourgeoisie with reformist tendencies. Educated in a school that trained teachers for public religious education (pendidikan guru agama), he went on to the pesantren of the Islamic Union (Persis, Persatuan Islam) in Bangil. This prestigious Muslim organisation had for a long time represented the most radical wing of Indonesian reformist Islam while remaining legalist. In Bangil, Ja’far attended the classes of Abdul Qadir Hassan, a grandson of Ahmad Hassan, thus continuing an old family tradition.59 He left Bangil for Jakarta where he attended courses given by LIPIA. Three years later, funded by DDII, he left for Ibn Saud University in Riyadh. Attracted for a while by the Muslim Brotherhood, Ja’far Umar Thalib ended up detaching himself from the movement and joined instead one of the thinkers behind the Afghan jihadists, Jamil ul Rehman. In 1987, he decided to join the Islamist Internationale fighting against the Soviet Union in Afghanistan, rallying the movement of his new mentor, Jama’at al-Da’wa ila al-Quran wa Ahl-i Hadith, which was close to the Pakistani movement Ahl-i Hadith.60 Like many of his fellow combatants, Ja’far absorbed during this period a rigorist and Manichean doctrine, one in which the jihad authorised the most extreme forms of violence. Later, his experience in Afghanistan would greatly inspire the devotion of his disciples.

Jemaah Islamiyah, Paradigm of the Islamist Internationale

42Since a series of arrests in August and December 2001 by the security services of Malaysia and Singapore, and more importantly, since the Bali bombings of October 2002 and the bombing of the Marriott Hotel in Jakarta in August 2003, one organisation, Jemaah Islamiyah has personified the deepest fears concerning the internationalisation of Indonesian radical Islamism. Through the relations of some of its members with the Al Qaeda network, the contacts other members have established with various Islamist movements in the region, and most of all because of its supposed desire to create a daulah islamiyah nusantara, a regional Islamic state, Jemaah Islamiyah quickly became portrayed as the missing link in an analysis that views the radical Islamist organisations in the region as so many national avatars of the Al Qaeda hydra. This combat at the regional level thus became at the end of 2001 the pressing priority of countries that followed in the footsteps of Malaysia, Singapore and the Philippines in aligning themselves with the United States in the ‘war on terrorism’, which had become the defining element of US foreign policy. By contrast, the cooler attitude of Indonesia, which initially refused to arrest Abu Bakar Ba’asyir, portrayed as the emir of Jemaah Islamiyah, earned it international finger-pointing as the weakest link of the ‘camp of freedom’, made vulnerable by the workings of Islamist networks from within.

43This vision dispensed with complex social and political explanations and with national particularities that are difficult to grasp, offering instead a reassuring solution: by undermining the organisation that supposedly controlled a large section of the Islamist movements of the region, the whole problem could hopefully be circumvented. Yet, the origins of Jemaah Islamiyah actually necessitate the delineation of a more complex picture of the regional and international connections of Indonesian radical Islam and the roles played by different countries in its evolution. Jemaah Islamiyah sits, in fact, at the crossroads of several narratives.

44The first is that of the leaders of the Ngruki movement, evoked earlier. Sentenced to nine years of imprisonment in 1978 for their links with the Darul Islam networks, Abdullah Sungkar and Abu Bakar Ba’asyir were freed in 1982.61 The Court of Appeal had in fact reduced their sentences to three years and ten months, that is, the duration of their detention. Three years later, in 1985, upon learning that the Supreme Court had confirmed their initial sentences and would be sending them back to prison, they decided to escape to Malaysia. In the meantime, they had organised a series of usroh in Central Java, mentioned above, which they were to exploit. Dismantled by the authorities between 1983 and 1985, this network nonetheless became the breeding ground in Indonesia of the future Jemaah Islamiyah. Upon reaching Malaysia, they were joined by several activists who considered them as the spiritual heirs of the struggle for Darul Islam.

45Abu Bakar Ba’asyir and Abdullah Sungkar ended up settling in the small town of Sunggai Manggis, some ten kilometres to the south of Kuala Lumpur. During their exile the two radical preachers took advantage of the favourable conditions enjoyed by Islamist militants in Malaysia then. Having already launched a policy of conspicuous piety a few years ago, the Malaysian authorities hoped that by accompanying and encouraging the Islamic revival in the country, the Malay (that is, Muslim) community could somewhat catch up with the Chinese and Indian communities, which although only the minority (representing 45 per cent of the 22.8 million population), dominated the country’s economy. This policy achieved part of its aims, but it also had unwelcome effects, as former Prime Minister Mahathir acknowledged on the eve of his exit in December 2003. It helped to create a veritable caste of Muslim clerics educated in universities in the Middle East who, once back in Malaysia, spread a deep hatred of the West and the ‘corruptions’ of the modern world wherever they had planted themselves (particularly in Islamic boarding schools and universities). Hundreds of religious schools promoting ideas similar to the values of the most intransigent Salafist groups flourished throughout the country. One of them became a veritable hotbed for the recruitment of the future Jemaah Islamiyah: the Al-Tarbiyah Lukmanul Hakiem school situated in the city of Johor, where many young leaders of the JI organisation were trained.62

46Most of all, the encouraging conditions in Malaysia in the 1980s and 1990s made it a real haven for radical Islamist militants of diverse origins and enabled many networks to develop and flourish. Sungkar, Ba’asyir and company mingled freely with Muslim activists from all over the world. Soon they started espousing the ideals of a holy war designed to unite the Muslim world and aspired to participate in its first stage — the jihad launched in Afghanistan against the Soviet empire with the participation of Indonesian recruits. The majority of these recruits were already not far from the exile track, either because their political activities had made them cross the Soeharto regime, or because they were on study trips in Islamic institutes in Malaysia, Pakistan or the Middle East.63

47In total, slightly more than 200 recruits from these networks were thought to have undergone training in the Pakistani camps, that is, almost all of the Indonesian recruits; those who had trained in Afghanistan were generally designated as ‘Movement of 272’ (Gerakan 272).64 Upon arriving in Peshawar, Pakistan, the young recruits were welcomed to Maktab al-Khidmat, a centre run by Abdullah Azzam, a Jordan-Palestinian and ideologist of the jihad who greatly influenced the Jemaah Islamiyah members.65 Then they went to the Saddah camp, a training site in Parachinar, close to the Afghan border. This camp was run by a colourful personality, Abdul Rasul Sayyaf, leader of a Salafist group close to the Saudis and to Osama bin Laden called Islamic Union for the Liberation of Afghanistan (Ittihad-i Islami Bara-yi Azadi-yi Afghanistan). Sayyaf played a leading role in the birth of terrorist networks in Southeast Asia.66 The camp was divided into qabilah or tribes, with everyone from Southeast Asia placed in one camp. Indonesian, Malaysian, Thai and Filipino combatants trained together, using a mixture of Malay and English to communicate. For many Indonesians unaccustomed to the climate and food, this period proved to be a real trial. As a report by the Pakistani secret services noted very prosaically, diarrhoea was a common occurrence.67 Soon after, Sayyaf positioned their training in a perspective that transcended the Afghan jihad. He oversaw the involvement of his Southeast Asian recruits with great care, explaining to them that they would be more useful if they carried the holy war over to their respective countries than if they were to die on Afghan soil.68 The Indonesian combatants were good students — not a single one of them was on the list of martyrs fallen during the anti-Soviet war. The majority lent their talent to the jihad, be it within Ajengan Masduki’s Darul Islam or Jemaah Islamiyah, founded in 1993 after the scission in Afghanistan in 1992 between two men: Masduki, of NU training with Sufi tendencies, and Sungkar, a “purist Salafist” according to the ICG terminology.69

48Almost all leaders underwent training in Sayyaf’s camp. Riduan Isamuddin, alias Hambali, the future head of operations of Jemaah Islamiyah made contacts there that earned him his selection as head of operations of Al Qaeda for Southeast Asia.70 Zulkarnaen, formerly of Ngruki then head of the armed section (markaziyah) of JI, and potential successor of Hambali, is said to have acquired great prestige in the eyes of the Indonesians while in Afghanistan. Abu Rusdan, who briefly replaced Abu Bakar Ba’asyir as emir of JI in October 2002 after the latter’s arrest, as well as Mukhlas, one of the alleged organisers of the Bali bombings, and many other second-rank leaders, were all from this Sayyaf branch.

49After the camps were closed in 1995, the organisation moved its training centres to Mindanao in southern Philippines.71 There, some armed groups claiming to be from the Abu Sayyaf movement and some members of the Moro Islamic Liberation Front (MILF) provided logistic help to the organisation.72 Then, as we will see, the leaders of the JI networks took advantage of the conflicts that East Indonesia was embroiled in as of 1999 to install training bases.73

50Between the end of 1999 and the end of 2001, the jihad conducted in the Moluccas and in Central Sulawesi, in the region of Poso, allowed the organisation to train numerous combatants. According to security services, they numbered almost 2,000 by the end of 2003, two-thirds of whom were Indonesians; foreign experts, however, prefer a more conservative estimate of some hundreds of militants, since no accurate figures are available.74 The crackdown following the Bali bombings (October 2002) and the Marriott Hotel (August 2003) led to the arrest and sentencing of more than 100 persons (including three — Imam Samudra, Amrozi and Ali Gufron — who were sentenced to death and executed in November 2008). The main bomb makers, the Malaysians Azahari Husin and Noordin Mohammad Top, as well as the Indonesian Dulmatin, managed to shake off tight pursuit and near arrests on many occasions to organise another suicide bombing in September 2004, this time in front of the Australian Embassy in Jakarta. One year later, on 1 October, Bali was shaken by three more bombings, resulting in 23 casualties and more than 150 injured persons. At the end of 2005, one of the bomb makers, Azahari Husin, was killed in a shootout while Noordin Mohammad Top and Dulmatin continued to flee from the police forces of the Archipelago. The double suicide bombings which struck two luxury hotels in the Indonesian capital on 17 July 2009 showed that, in spite of significant advances by the security forces in the past years, some of the networks more or less linked to Jemaah Islamiyah remained operational. Amongst these, the dissident group organised around Noordin M Top (called Anshar el-Muslimin or Thoifah Muqotilah) seemed to be behind these two attacks that resulted in seven casualties (including the two suicide bombers). The investigation after the attacks confirmed the fears of the specialists — since his breakaway from the principal current of the JI in 2004, Noordin M Top had managed to gather the most radical fringes of several jihadist movements. He had at his disposal networks of support spread out throughout the archipelago and was able to recruit for ‘martyrdom’ young candidates unknown to the police.75 The dragnet operated by the special Department 88 (densus 88), in charge of the anti-terrorism fight, led to the dismantling of several new cells. A plan to assassinate President Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono was foiled, and on 17 September 2009 Noordin M Top was shot by the police after a manhunt that kept the country in suspense for two months. In March 2010, it was the turn of the Afghan-trained Dulmatin to be killed in a raid south of Jakarta (see Biographies).

51Yet Indonesia had not seen the last of terrorism. In late February 2010, the discovery of a training camp in Aceh revealed the alarming capacity of former Jemaah Islamiyah networks to spread and reorganize themselves.76 Led by Dulmatin, this group gathered several currents that were disappointed by the inactivity of Jemaah Islamiyah and Noordin M Top’s lack of vision. Long active in Mindanao, Dulmatin had started a new project called lintas Tanzim (inter- or cross-organisation) with the aim of recreating a sanctuary from which combatants for Islam could launch an attack on the Indonesian state. Their installation in Aceh (under the name of Al-Qaida Indonesia Wilayah Serambi Mekkah) was, however, a failure: supported by the local branch of FPI, it did not manage to gain the cooperation of the local population. The police was tipped off soon after and proceeded to make a number of arrests. Dulmatin and several of his sidekicks were killed, and dozens of others were questioned. At the end of June, Abdullah Sunata, Dulmatin’s presumed successor, similarly trained in the Philippines, was also questioned. The police revealed that many bombings targeting foreign embassies (in particularly, that of Denmark, because of the affair of the cartoons), as well as the police district, were in the making.77 A plan to hit the highest state bodies on 17 August, Indonesia’s National Day, was also uncovered, thereby confirming the latest terrorist strategy of attacking the authorities in the most direct way. But what was most worrisome was the fact that many of those arrested had already been imprisoned before for similar acts. Their involvement in the new organisation showed very clearly the limitations of the ‘deradicalisation’ programmes implemented in prisons for many years now by the anti-terrorist authorities.78

52The Jemaah Islamiyah, its leaders and the personality of its alleged spiritual leader, Abu Bakar Ba’asyir, have been at the centre of much debate, one that constantly returns to the question of how much influence the ‘terrorist network’ — to use the dedicated expression — had on Indonesian Islam. Often muddled and distorted by reciprocal fantasies, these debates should be refocused around three issues. The first is the responsibility of Abu Bakar Ba’asyir in the bombings committed by Jemaah Islamiyah, which heralded the crossover to violence for several of his disciples. Sentenced to four years in prison by a court in Jakarta in 2003, an appeal two months later resulted in the shortening of his sentence to three years when the court rejected charges of heading JI, treason and terrorism and retained only the charge of an infraction of immigration law and the falsification of administrative documents. The Supreme Court finally reduced his sentence to 18 months and he was freed in April 2004, but was immediately re-arrested by the police based on fresh evidence of his leadership role in the JI organisation. A second trial led to his sentencing in March 2005 to two-and-a-half years of imprisonment. This new sentence surprised many countries and reflected the weakness of the Indonesian judicial system whose reform was controversial even within the judicial administration. The rejection by the Constitutional Court to apply a retroactivity of the anti-terrorist law prevented the courts from sentencing Ba’asyir as the ‘mastermind’ of the Bali bombings. The elements put forth to prove the direct implication of Ba’asyir in the bombings of the Marriott Hotel (committed after the anti-terrorist law came into effect) were insufficient in Indonesian law for a heavier sentence to be passed.

53The confessions of several of his former students and disciples (except Imam Samudra), as well as the investigations led by Indonesian researchers into the pesantren of the Ngruki movement, have nonetheless brought to light the overwhelming moral responsibility of Abu Bakar Ba’asyir. Paradoxically the most limpid works on the intellectual and moral responsibility of Ba’asyir have been produced by lecturers in state Islamic universities (Universitas Islam Negeri, UIN), who represent a young and educated traditionalist class trained in the pesantren of Nahdlatul Ulama.79 Two researchers from Jakarta, Jamhari and Jajang Jahroni, have analysed the teachings delivered in the pesantren of the Ngruki network. Their research has clearly revealed the hate-inciting atmosphere in these schools. One of the textbooks used in Ngruki80 opposes, for example, real Muslims (muslim sejati ) and “devils in human guise” (syetan manusia), including: the “infidels” of course but also bad Muslims of all sorts, the munafi k (hypocrites who refused the teachings of Muhammad in its beginnings), the zalim (those who do evil), the musyirik (mushrik, those guilty of associationism, polytheist) and those who belong to parties or organisations that “wish to destroy Islam”. As the “demons in human guise” prepare their troops for war, it is necessary to “do likewise”. “It is for this reason that Allah commands Muslims to wage war upon them until the fitnah (chaos) created by their actions are totally erased and the truly valid rules on earth are none other than the law of Allah”.81 Likewise, translated works of Middle-Eastern authors inciting violence and jihad are present in the pesantren.82 The two researchers demonstrate how those who cross over into violence are marching in tune to the propaganda of their teachers, foremost of whom is Abu Bakar Ba’asyir.83

54Another more hefty work by several lecturers in the State Islamic University (UIN) of Yogyakarta, entitled Negara Tuhan, The Thematic Encyclopedia,84 notably comprises a comparative analysis of the documents from the Indonesian Mujahidin Council (Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia, MMI) and those of Jemaah Islamiyah,85 which highlighted their curious similarity. The author of this analysis, Agus Maftuh Abegebriel, thus rejects the opinion voiced by Ba’asyir’s lawyers that JI was simply an ‘Islamic community’ and not an organisation with a combat ideology. He cites in particular an interview with Abdullah Sungkar where the latter confessed to being the “emir” of an “Islamic group” wanting to build an Islamic state (daulah islamiyah), an objective that is not new since “its embryo was the movement of DI/TII created on 7 August 1945 to counter the Dutch infidels and the secular Indonesian regime”.86 It would use three strategies to create a daulah islamiyah : force of the Faith (quzzatul aqidah), force of fraternity (quwwatul ukhuwwah) and military force (quwwatul musllaha). As such, for Agus Maftuh, Jemaah Islamiyah was definitely not a vague network of believers but a hierarchical and structured organisation from its beginnings in the mid-1990s.87 Thus, in sum, Ba’asyir’s attitude towards terrorist action was highly ambiguous but also perfectly representative of the opportunistic way in which the extremists at the fringes of Islamism operated. As we shall see, Majelis Mujahidin was created in August 2000 with the intention of offering a political window for the JI networks at a time when there were many chances of being heard. Ba’asyir’s advice to his followers against using blind violence was not a condemnation of violence in principle but an evaluation of the outcome of bombings. In fact, on several occasions — notably during a highly publicised visit to the imprisoned bombers behind the Bali attacks of December 2007 — he accorded the status of martyr to all those involved in terrorist attacks.88 Moreover, investigations carried out since February 2010 on the training camp discovered in Aceh have revealed that it was funded by Jama´ah Anshorut Tauhid (JAT), the new organisation founded in July 2008 by Abu Bakar Ba’asyir after his falling out with MMI, debunking the idea that the former ideologue of the radical movement had stopped supporting terrorism.89

55The second issue surrounding Jemaah Islamiyah is its ties with Al Qaeda. The investigations carried out after the Bali bombings leave little doubt as to the reality of these links, tenuous as they might be.90 In some way, the organisation born of the activism of Sungkar and Ba’asyir is inherently linked to Al Qaeda: at the outset, neither was a terrorist organisation but a grouping of networks allowing foreign combatants to join the Afghan jihad. This battle against the Soviets was an initiation to armed struggle that bred a sentiment of omnipotence. It was a formative experience for its participants, Arabs and Southeast Asians alike. Convinced that the Soviet Union had been defeated in their hands and no longer willing to return to a classic militancy stance, some of them sought refuge in a nihilistic terrorism — a common trait of networks that emerged after the dispersion of the Afghan jihad. Thus the Jemaah Islamiyah should not be described as the regional branch of Al Qaeda; rather it is a local variant of the now-classic scenario of combatants wishing to recoup (and transmit) the emotions of their initiation to armed struggle in the name of God. By opening up other territories to jihad — Bosnia, the Philippines or the Moluccas — these organisations hoped to perpetuate themselves by engaging in training camps and Manichean battles in alliance with ‘fellow believers threatened with extermination’. The failure, or at least the relative lack of success, of these offshoots made them orphans of a concrete war. They then slid into an even more phantasmagorical register, taking on the world in a battle of good versus evil, with no palpable objectives or even precise demands but leaving in their wake very real victims.

56Aside from this shared mentality, links with Osama bin Laden’s organisation were limited to a few individuals.91 Hambali alias Riduan Isamuddin, who had joined Sungkar and Ba’asyir in Malaysia, was presented at the time of his arrest in August 2003 as the only non-Arab member of an Al Qaeda-led body, its regional shura (council). Along with Abu Jibril (Mohammad Iqbal Rahman), he is said to have activated the network that was to become Jemaah Islamiyah from 1993 to 1994. An organiser without peer, he is said to have won the admiration of Al Qaeda leaders, notably for his strict management of the budget.92 The Bali bombing, of which he was one of the masterminds, was thus cited within the terrorist organisation as an exemplary operation that delivered devastating results at a low cost. It should be added that when the combatants trained by JI in Afghanistan left for other training sites in the mid-1990s, they benefited from the help of Afghan networks in the Philippines, those of MILF and others installed by Mohammad Jamal Khalifa, a brother-in-law of Osama bin Laden.93

57The third question pertaining to Jemaah Islamiyah is its influence and capacity to mobilise other Islamist networks in Indonesia as well as in Southeast Asia. This is a subject that has at times been simplified by the media, resulting in multiple errors. We have seen that Jemaah Islamiyah, in its history and organisation, shares the same outlook as the Al Qaeda movement. With its resolute and perfectly trained members, it indisputably constitutes a significant danger to Indonesia and beyond that, to the entire region. Yet it may be somewhat of an overstatement to have attributed the role of regional coordinator to JI upon the discovery of its odd project to create a ‘Nusantarian’ Islamic state (daulah islamiyah nusantara). A glance at the history of the region would show the implausibility of this plan: none of the rebellions led in the name of Islam in Southeast Asia since more than half a century ago has had as objective the transcendence of colonial borders, which subsequently became nation-state borders. JI’s project would be a novelty because struggles have always been situated in a much more modest perspective of regional rebellions. In the Sunda region (West Java), in Sulawesi and in many other regions of Indonesia, the Darul Islam movement tried to establish an Islamic state to rival the regime presided over by Soekarno by tapping into regionalist sentiments.94 In the Philippines and in Thailand, the southern regions demanded recognition of their Islamic identity through independence or a large degree of autonomy. In spite of their simultaneous occurrence and geographic proximity, these struggles never joined hands. Similar demands did not constitute a united cause and the Islamist guerrillas of the Philippines, Indonesia and Thailand never envisaged a common destiny. Until today, the perspective of an Islamic state covering the entire Malay world has never been in any way the dominant theme in the rhetoric of Southeast Asian radicals. The idea of a daulah islamiyah nusantara seems to be an extrapolation of scattered data about the effective presence of JI’s regional commands, the mantiqi, which covered parts of Southeast Asia. JI documents examined by Abegabriel Maftuh make no mention of any daulah islamiyah nusantara, which would, in a way, go against the grain of this organisation that does not recognise borders — national or regional — in its vision of a worldwide caliphate.95 The regional dimension of Jemaah Islamiyah seems to relate more to its operations than to any programme: beyond the somewhat utopian ideal of a caliphate, the real focus for JI members was on the building of an Islamic state in Indonesia first. Of course this did not necessarily appeal to non-Indonesian members.96 Be that it may, the idea that JI would one day be able to impose its leadership over a common regional political project sounds rather unrealistic in light of the history and ideology of Southeast Asian Islam. Nonetheless, it is certain that some JI members did cultivate links with other combatant Islamist organisations of Southeast Asia, particularly in the Philippines, which lent them logistic support on many occasions.

58Within the Archipelago itself, the influence of Jemaah Islamiyah remained relatively limited. The numerous political and religious dissensions within the radical Salafist movement make it incapable of envisaging any common action over the long term, even if diverse movements did work together very efficiently in carrying out acts of terrorism. These divisions, to which we shall return, had very real consequences for the financing of Indonesian movements and also affected their allegiances. The conflicts that broke out between Laskar Jihad and Laskar Mujahidin during the Moluccas conflict bear this out.97 This is evidenced too by the failure, aside from gaining considerable media coverage, of the Indonesian Mujahidin Council (MMI), founded by Abu Bakar Ba’asyir in the hope of uniting all the Islamist callings. Contrary to what ‘terrorism expert’ Rohan Gunaratna asserted, neither Jemaah Islamiyah nor Al Qaeda succeeded in really penetrating the dominant political parties of Indonesia through the MMI.98

59In August 2000, the First Congress of Mujahidin succeeded in gathering the pro-sharia political forces in Indonesia, which were still very much a minority. On this occasion, the Ngruki network managed to give itself a legal showcase by seizing most of the posts in the new organisation: Abu Bakar Ba’asyir was proclaimed as the “amir ul-mujahidin” of his Council of Government (Halli wal ‘Aqdi), Abdul Qadir Baraja was nominated to the fatwa division, and Abu Jibril to the executive committee in charge of resources.99 Many members of the usroh movement of Ngruki, some of whom had been imprisoned in the 1980s, received high posts. Irfan S. Awwas thus became head of the executive committee of the Indonesian Mujahidin Council (Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia, MMI) and remained one of its main spokesmen. Publisher in the early 1980s of the periodical Ar-Risalah (The Bulletin), which propagated the ideals of the Iranian Islamic Revolution in the Archipelago, he took over the Yogyakarta branch of the Coordinating Body of Indonesian Mosque Youth (Badan Koordinasi Pemuda Masjid, BKPM). It was in this capacity that he published the minutes of Sungkar and Ba’asyir’s trials, earning him great prestige in the activist milieu but also 13 years of imprisonment.

60For a while, MMI seemed to incarnate the cohesion of an Islam mobilised in the face of secularist demands from dominant new political forces (PDI-P in 1999). As such it attracted personalities known as moderates, such as the academic Deliar Noer, and consolidated itself in the months following its creation. The gathering in Solo on 7 and 8 August 2000 of almost 1,800 representatives from 24 provinces of Indonesia and several dozens of delegates from overseas Islamic organisations was a real media coup, imparting an impression of legitimacy. But the Bali and Marriott bombings, and the investigations that incriminated the networks of Ba’asyir in these bombings, dealt an undeniable blow to this fleeting unity. The encouragement of militias tasked with imposing a moral order and sending combatants to the Moluccas fitted in with the discourse of a militant Islam fossilised in a paranoid defence of its values. But the blind and directionless terrorism of Ngruki’s foot soldiers only provoked embarrassment and incredulity, even within the circles of militant Islam. From this moment on, the Indonesian Mujahidin Council had to fall back on the limited network from which it emanated and never became the political vehicle that the radicals had dreamt of, even if it remained for some years still a relatively efficient pressure — and at times intimidation — group.

61This relative failure was certainly an important factor in the rift that occurred within the organisation in July 2008: Abu Bakar Ba’asyir resigned from his position as the emir of the movement and founded a few weeks later a new organisation, Jamaah Ansharut Tauhid (JAT). The split was caused most of all by the falling out of Ba’asyir with his right-hand man Irfan S. Awwas over the strategy to adopt in order to impose their practice of Islam in the country. No doubt disappointed by the lack of results from the involvement of his movement in politics, Ba’asyir insisted in a book written during his stay in prison on the necessity of returning to the method of the Hegira and the construction of a counter-model of society, rather than a counter-state.100 Unable to refocus Jemaah Islamiyah on this primordial objective, he decided to start a new organisation and contributed thus to the weakening of a movement already in decline in a society that was starting to recover its bearings.

Legitimacy Arising from Substitution

62During the so-called Reformasi period starting from 1998, a new generation of Islamist organisations came on the scene, more numerous and active than before. If some of them still drew inspiration and even funding from international networks of radical Islamism, the majority of them flourished due to the political and social mutations taking place in the Archipelago. The ouster of General Soeharto, the presidency of B.J. Habibie, the legislative elections of June 1999, followed by the curtailed mandate of Abdurrahman Wahid, gave these groups many chances to be in the public eye. Their simplistic views reverberated through a population disoriented by the scale of the ongoing political, social and economic crisis. These organisations also stepped up on recruitment, thus enlarging the narrow circles in which Muslim radicalism had been confined thus far.

63As we have seen earlier, this radicalism was defined by the actions of these movements positioned as representatives of religious values and a rival of the Indonesian republican state. This legitimacy arising from substitution was sometimes inscribed in the theoretical foundations of these movements. The groups acting in the name of Negara Islam Indonesia thus asserted that they did not recognise any other authority than that of a hypothetical Islamic republic and considered themselves exempt from existing laws before its advent. But the majority of the other groups in the Islamist movement, even though desirous of an Islamic state, did not directly contest the legitimacy of the country’s institutions. Nonetheless some of their initiatives clearly challenged the legality of the Republic. These organisations confiscated the sovereign functions of the state, which they justified through the inaptitude of the authorities in defending Islamic values they considered fundamental. For them, respect of standards conforming to Islam should take precedence over adherence to laws set down by a government — even if it had been voted in. Therein lies the very clear distinction between, on the one hand, Muslim legitimist organisations that, on occasions, called on the authorities to better defend the interests of the Islamic community and, on the other hand, the radical groups that substituted themselves for the state in this task.

64This process of substitution was patent in two domains: the defence of an Islamic moral order and participation in the bloody conflict in the Moluccas and in Sulawesi.

The Moral Order Militias

65Between 1998 and 2002, at the height of the political, economic and social crisis, several cities in Indonesia witnessed the swarming of their streets at regular intervals by groups of threatening men, spotting dubious uniforms and jostling, destroying and sometimes even torching all that incarnated vice and temptation in their eyes. From the smallest stalls to bigger complexes, drink stalls, gambling joints and brothels were wrecked in numerous cities. This phenomenon has declined considerably: between 2002 and 2006, the few militias still active operate mostly during the month of Ramadan and, as we shall see, their action has since been taken over by the local authorities in many cases.

66The most well-known movement that challenged the state in its control of public order was born in 1998 under the name of Islamic Defenders Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI). Its founder and chairman, Habib Rizieq Shihab, was himself also of Arab descent. After a year of studies at LIPIA in Jakarta, he attended classes at the Imam Muhammad ibn Saud University in Riyadh between 1983 and 1990 with the help of the Organisation of Islamic Conference (OCI). Holder of the equivalent of a Bachelor’s degree (after six years of studies), he returned directly to Jakarta without passing through the Afghan jihad, which was then in its last phase. The legitimacy derived from his stay in the heart of the holy land of Islam was especially important for him since he was returning to his roots. Habib Rizieq was in fact from a family of sayyid — Muslims who are reputed to descend from the Prophet (see Glossary). In 2000 he received visitors under a huge drawing of a family tree that identified him as the thirty-eighth generation after Muhammad.101 His origins and his knowledge of Arabic, which he shared with his disciples during long blessing sessions, greatly enhanced his aura in the working-class district where he lived. Habib Rizieq was not the only example of a sayyid descendent playing a key role in the creation of FPI. There were several others, including Sayyid Ali Baaqil, who was close to Tommy Soeharto, the ex-president’s son.102

67The case of Sayyid Ali Baaqil also hints at the ambivalent ties between FPI and the New Order regime. The path of another of its founding members, Cecep Bustomi is significant in this regard. Born in 1959, he launched into proselytising at the start of the 1980s by founding Majelis Hikmatul Huda. In 1988, he was arrested and imprisoned for incitation of religious, racial and ethnic hatred, based on the evidence of recordings of his sermons. He pursued his proselytising activities in prison by taking over the Preaching Council of the Cipinang Penitentiary until his liberation in 1992. Two years later, in 1994, he founded the first Islamic militia to fight against vice. Under the banner of his Front Hizbullah, his supporters carried out raids on ‘places of bad living’. His actions were nonetheless restricted to the area of Serang (West Java), and they were not approved of by local Muslim leaders.103 In 1998, Cecep Bustomi helped create FPI and became its second vice-president, but continued to administer Front Hizbullah and lead its militias. The activities of one of these militias seem to have led to his assassination in May 2000. During a marriage held in a suburb of north-eastern Jakarta, several dozens of Front Hizbullah members went on a rampage and expelled the guests, cutting short festivities which had included popular Jaipong dances. A member of the family who was part of the armed forces tried to intercede and was killed. The following day, Cecep Bustomi was called up to the headquarters of the Special Forces Command (Kopassus) and was shot in the street as he left the interrogation. Since then, FPI has cited this incident as proof that it did not get along with military networks close to the former regime,104 a denial that is all the more pressing given the close relationship between these militias and the New Order that they defended to the end. Several personalities linked to the Soeharto regime took part in the funeral of Cecep Bustomi, particularly Hamzah Haz, chairman of PPP, the only Islamic party of the New Order (he later served as Megawati’s vice-president), as well as Noegroho Djajoesman, ex-commander of the Jakarta police force.105 FPI itself was a product of militias created by regime loyalists to counter the student opposition against President Habibie in November 1998. This was denied by its leaders for a long time, but General Kivlan Zen acknowledged the operation during the electoral campaign of 2004.106 Upon the defeat of its champion, B.J. Habibie, FPI retreated from the political scene and transformed itself into a militia safeguarding public morality. Under the slogan of ‘Live honourably or die as a martyr’, it attacked the ‘vice dens’ (tempat maksiat ) likely to turn Muslims in the big cities of Indonesia away from the virtuous path.

68At its height, in 2000, FPI counted thousands of members — not quite the several millions claimed by its founder. This sort of patent exaggeration was common in radical Islam circles and was always exposed during the various protests organised by the FPI, which gathered thousands at most.107

69Apart from Front Pembela Islam and Front Hizbullah, local organisations that received less media attention such as Amphibi of Lombok (east of Bali) also launched into the defence of moral order. These militias had the same modus operandi, portraying their actions as an attempt to moralise districts by destroying vice dens. Like Habib Rizieq, their leaders claimed that they were only compensating for the shortcomings of the authorities. They explained that their street raids were only undertaken after they had asked the provincial parliament (DPRD) and the regional government (Pemerintah Daerah) to enforce the law. It was only when the police failed to act that their men stepped in to “solve the problem”.108 This line of argument, which implicitly acknowledged the republican law as the standard to follow, was not without logic when the places targeted were clandestine gambling joints or brothels disguised as karaoke bars. But it was a stretch of reason when raids were carried out against simple drink stalls or billiard rooms (authorised by the law) or when threats were issued to Muslims who did not fast during the month of Ramadan. Then the reference became the sharia, regardless of whether it was recognised institutionally. The mere invocation of the Islamic principle — “the preservation of good and the battle against evil” (amar ma’ruf nahi mungkar ) — was justification enough to take action.

70The militias’ activities provoked different reactions amongst the population. In Jakarta, the so-called informal sector of street side vendors objected to these violent interventions: one did not know when nor where the militias would strike, and when a soup stallholder found himself in a problematic zone (an area where alcohol or lottery was being peddled), he could be affected and preferred to close shop at certain times, notably on Fridays. Taxi drivers, too, felt that their business dipped whenever there were rumours of possible raids. Though less affected, the chic districts of the capital were not spared and some fashionable ‘cafes’ paid the price, much to the displeasure of the Muslim bourgeoisie. In spite of these protestations, the conservative Indonesian press repeatedly reported that people living in areas where raids took place approved of such actions, especially when they led to greater security. According to Gatra, this was the case in Mataram (on the island of Lombok), where the Amphibi militia played the role of supplementing the forces of law and order. Dressed in orange and sporting a badge with the picture of a crocodile, members patrolled the villages armed with machetes. For months, the police tolerated and even encouraged their actions by proposing to provide them with legal training.109 In fact, Amphibi represented a certain institutionalisation of a very widespread tradition of popular justice. Under the cover of a popular and misleading expression, “to play judge” (main hakim sendiri), lynches were frequently carried out when thieves were unfortunate enough to be caught by the crowd before the intervention of the police. The incompetence of the latter was largely blamed for the phenomenon. Apparently the people preferred to call on Amphibi, in exchange for some petrol or money, rather than to complain to a police force whose services were just as expensive and less effective. Sometimes, the police themselves cooperated with the militias.110 Numerous militias thus saw their actions either as a substitute for or a supplement to that of the forces of law and order. They often hoped for, if not collaboration, then at least tacit approval from the police. Aa Gym, head of Daarut Tauhid, who also participated in coercive morality for a while, was open about his affinity with the military. Being unable to join the army as he fell short of the height requirement by five centimetres, he declared in 2000 that he was working closely with the local command. According to him, the fight against drugs, which he made the priority of his movement, received the backing of the military. The members of his militia, Santri Serba Guna, benefited from training at the local military academy while the military gained a more respectable image in the eyes of the public. Aa Gym claimed that his efforts to “convert” the local authorities to the moral order were a great success. He declared that he “moved to tears” an assembly of some 1,500 officers before whom he spoke of his combat.111 He also claimed to have persuaded the Bandung Municipality to “build mosques in place of brothels and to relocate the prostitutes to Islamic boarding schools”.112

71But the relations between the moral order militias and the forces of law and order were not always as edifying as what Aa Gym recounted. In many cases, these operations merely used religion to cover up the protection extended by the forces of law and order to various gambling joints in the suburbs of the big conurbation, in return for payment. During these big punitive expeditions, the ‘anger of the masses’ often proved to be very selective, varying according to how much the owners of these vice dens paid in exchange for ‘protection’ by hooligans linked to these organisations.

72In many cases the local police was quite simply overwhelmed. In October 2000, in Jepara, a small industrial city in northern Java, a representative from PKB, a moderate Muslim party, accused a local milita, the Group of Young Muslims Concerned with Vice (Gerakan Pemuda Islam Peduli anti-kemungkaran) of terrorising the population.113 Masked men on motorbikes with hidden licence plates attacked shops selling alcohol and gambling dens. These actions benefited the mafia milieux, as preman (thugs114 ) of all sorts were hired to protect threatened establishments. There was also a political aspect to the riposte: the muscled men close to PKB were mobilised to react against these militias, which were considered as allies of PPP, one of PKB’s rivals. For several months, traditional leaders as well as the police had to relinquish the streets to these rival clans, contributing to the sense of abandonment felt by a large part of the population.115

73Since 2002, the operations of these ‘militias of virtue’ have become rarer. To demonstrate that the Indonesian government was acting against radical Islam, Habib Rizieq was arrested on October 2002, shortly after the Bali bombings. He was released and placed under house arrest a few weeks later, after FPI announced its intention to suspend raids against vice dens. But in April 2003, Habib Rizieq left his residence for a supposed humanitarian mission in Iraq. He was re-arrested, released by his supporters then went back himself to prison. Sentenced in August to seven months in prison, he put his FPI activities into cold storage. In October 2004, his organisation launched some highly publicised raids during the fasting period, but these were opposed by the forces of law and order as well as the population of the affected districts.116 In August 2005, FPI went so far as to threaten the headquarters of the liberal intellectual Muslims of Utan Kayu. Later, the relative quietening of moral militias seemed to indicate contradictory developments. Less tolerated by a population tired of their excesses, they also received much less media attention, thus depriving them of the crucial element in dramatising the formal requirements of the Islam they represent. However, feared by local leaders in search of symbolic measures and shopkeepers worried about their livelihood, they also contributed to the installation of a moral Islamic order — their raison d’être — particularly during the Ramadan period.

74In the following years, FPI tried to concentrate its attacks on targets already exposed to public condemnation by organisations with a less choleric reputation. The raids carried out during the Ramadan period decreased considerably and have almost disappeared since 2007. On the other hand, Habib Rizieq’s organisation benefited from the debates surrounding the anti-pornography law to take aim at the people behind the Indonesian edition of Playboy magazine. FPI was especially active in the fight against the Ahmadiyah movement, which the Council of Indonesian Ulama (MUI) in 2005 labelled as heretic in a fatwa, and which was prohibited by a joint decree of June 2008 by the Ministry of the Interior, Ministry of Religions and the Public Prosecutor from spreading its beliefs. For some years now, the Ahmadiyah mosques have been subject to regular raids, often driven by FPI, and it has kept up its attacks sporadically.117

75However, the leaders of FPI seemed to have made a serious political miscalculation by attacking on 1 June 2008 a peaceful protest by prestigious Muslim intellectuals demonstrating, in the name of Pancasila, against the joint decree then in the midst of preparation. Public opinion was shocked by the degree of violence, which left several dozens of people injured. The authorities, who were trying to find a legal framework for the growing intolerance for the Ahmadiyah, were obliged to clamp down on it. Demonstrations of force and intimidation tactics by its supporters notwithstanding, Habib Rizieq Shihab was condemned, after a highly publicised trial in November 2008, to 18 months of prison. As we shall see, this measure, along with the nomination of the officer in charge of the investigation (General Bambang Hendarso Danuri) as head of the national police force signalled the authorities’ new attitude, at least at the national level, towards radical movements, henceforth deprived of the pre-emption of legalised violence that had allowed them to flourish. However, the case of the violent disruption of a wayang show by militias calling themselves Laskar Jihad in Central Java in October 2010, highlights the power Islamist vigilants continue to exercise in the regions and their trouble-making potential, especially in some places in Java.118

The Moluccas, Land of Jihad

76Violent confrontations broke out on 22 November 1998 in Ketapang, a working-class district in central Jakarta, where Habib Rizieq, the leader of FPI had delivered a long sermon in the Khairul Biqa’ mosque the previous day. That morning, a fight broke out between two Ambonese gangs of preman (thugs), one Muslim and the other Christian, attracting parking attendants close to the district’s lottery stalls.119 Some 14 Christians were hacked to death with machetes while 27 Christian buildings were destroyed. Much remains murky about the event but it seemed that the Muslim gang was linked to FPI militias and that the Christian attendants were close to a certain Milton, companion of the notorious preman Yoris Raweyai of Pemuda Pancasila, both groups being close to the Soeharto family.120 This massacre sparked off other incidents in many regions of the Archipelago almost immediately. On 30 November, a demonstration of solidarity for the victims turned into a riot in the city of Kupang, in West Timor. But very quickly, the epicentre of this interfaith violence shifted to the Moluccas whence originated the first victims. In Ambon, the arrival of the Jakarta preman incited violence, at a time when tension was already high over an incident on 16–18 November when the military clamped down on a student demonstration against the army’s ‘dual function’, killing three.121 As early as December 1998, violence broke out in the south-east of the Moluccas. The first riot in Dobo, in the south of the Archipelago, on 14 January 1999 caused eight deaths. Clashes also occurred in Mataram (Lombok), a stronghold of radical Islam on 17 and 19 January.122 At the same time, on 19 January, the last day of Ramadan, a small quarrel between a Christian minibus driver and a Muslim Ambonese grew into a pitched battle that enflamed the whole bus terminal of Ambon, capital of the province carrying the same name.123

77The conflict spread rapidly to the rest of the city and the security apparatus made no attempt to end the violence until the fourth day of the conflict.124 The two camps armed themselves to the best of their abilities (iron rods, bamboo sticks, explosives used in fishing and locally made firearms), organised themselves into district-based militias identifying themselves thus: red for the Christians, white for the Muslims. In a matter of weeks, the whole of the Southern Moluccas province was embroiled in violence. In the neighbouring islands of Seram, Saparua, Haruku and in the Banda Islands, the conflict pitched one village against another depending on the composition of their populations. In July 1999, a second wave of riots broke out in Ambon, this time in a middle-class district. The Catholics, who had been relatively spared up till then in a conflict that pitched Muslims against Protestants, were badly hit. From this period onwards, Ambon and the surrounding islands were separated into two zones — Christian and Muslim — and battles were waged to eliminate enclaves. Ambon became a sort of tropical Beyrouth with almost airtight demarcation lines, zones of no man’s land and lucrative trafficking. The Moluccas degenerated into an apartheid situation that even caused the national maritime company Pelni to organise its dealings between this province and the rest of Indonesia on religious lines in order to avoid confrontations.125 In August 1999, the province of Northern Moluccas was in turn affected. Within a few weeks, the conflict played itself out according to modalities different from those in the south.

78In all, the war in the Moluccas has resulted in thousands of deaths (5,000–8,000 according to estimates) and the exodus of hundreds of thousands of people.126 Indonesia was especially hard hit since the devastating effects of this war were accompanied by a similarly bloody conflict in the neighbouring island of Sulawesi. In the region of Poso, in the centre of Sulawesi, clashes between the Christians and Muslims caused almost 2,000 deaths between 1999 and 2001. These conflicts were similar in nature and ended with the fragile Malino 1 and 2 accords, signed by representatives from different religious communities under the auspices of the Indonesian government in December 2001 and February 2002. In the following years, there were almost no major outbreaks in the two regions but sporadic confrontations occurred. In the Moluccas, almost two-thirds of the refugees were able to return to their original villages at the beginning of 2004. In Poso, where the radical Islamist militants were more deeply entrenched, the situation was tenser and several massacres of Christians occurred again in 2004 and 2005, including the decapitation of three female college students at the end of 2005.

Economic and Social Bitterness, and Religious Violence

79The wars that ravaged the Moluccas and central Sulawesi had similar causes and developments. These were conflicts that broke out in extremely tense contexts as a result of deep demographic and social imbalances, in regions that attracted generally spontaneous migration. We have seen that in the Moluccas, the influx of migrants from regions with a Muslim majority had altered the religious makeup in the 1980s. Figures from the Central Bureau of Statistics showed that Muslims made up 49.9 per cent of the population in 1971 and 56.8 per cent in 2000. Protestants and Catholics respectively accounted for 41.5 per cent and 5.4 per cent in 1971, and 36.9 per cent and 5.8 per cent in 2000. This shift in the religious majority had significant consequences for the institutional equilibrium.

80In Ambon, the resentment felt by the native Moluccans was targeted against the ‘BBM’ (Butonese, Bugis and Makassarese), hailing from the three southern regions of Sulawesi. Mostly Muslim, the ‘BBM’ had made their mark as successful small-scale traders, undermining local businessmen.127 Throughout the 1990s, the fragile status quo of intercommunity relations was challenged. The privileging of Muslims on a national level, supported by the new Indonesian Muslim Intellectuals Association (ICMI), encouraged Muslims to demand a more prominent position within the administration, which the Christians saw as the start of their imminent marginalisation. In Ambon in 1999, the domination of Muslims in the bureaucratic sector was such that they comprised 74 per cent of the first echelon, 69 per cent of the second and 53 per cent of the third.128 All nominations were henceforth examined by the yardstick of religious identity. Pattimura University in Ambon was accused of having too many Christian lecturers, who were themselves accused of reserving too many scholarships for their fellow Christians.129 Everywhere the situation degenerated. Moluccans who had returned from afar after settling in other regions of Indonesia were particularly sensitive to the changes in society. Moluccan society in Ambon had a long tradition of friendly interfaith coexistence in separate villages (negeri-negeri) but this started to disintegrate irrevocably. The ambiance of neighbourliness broke down starkly after the fatwa issued by the Council of Indonesian Ulama in Jakarta calling upon Muslims to keep away from Christian celebrations.130

81A factor of identity amongst others, religion was never at the root of these clashes and became a key issue only as the confrontations developed. The religious element was the glue that effectively held together different threads of cohesion, allowing for a simplistic reading of complex conflicts. Put in place by exterior elements — particularly by the radical press131 — it was quickly imposed on the protagonists of the conflicts, who were viewed on the basis of their religion regardless of their actions. As demonstrated by the turmoil in West Kalimantan during the same period, this conflict was essentially socio-ethnic in nature and need not have turned into a religious confrontation.132

82Intra-religious solidarity was kindled after the first confrontations by the spread of terrible rumours. The islands close to Ambon were seized by a phenomenon of mass fear from March 1999. Two symmetrical sinister legends made their rounds, each feeding upon the other. Tales of savage murders, dismembered bodies and massacres of women and children left no one indifferent and stirred calls for revenge, which were in turn distorted, thus fuelling the infernal cycle.133

83These rumours played a key role in the mobilisation of Islamic soli-darity outside of the Moluccas.134 Throughout 1999, these stories were spread first by the Islamist press (Sabili, Hidayatullah), then by the conservative Muslim press (Media Dakwah). Later the Moluccan Christian press lost half of its readership to a more audacious and sometimes sensationalist press.135

84The case of Northern Moluccas illustrates well the inexorable escalation from ethnic and economic antagonism to a bloody religious war. For Chris Wilson in his remarkable study of the conflict in the north, “economic opportunism, political inequality, high-level political competition, insecurity, ethnic and religious antagonism, territory and natural resources all played no inconsequential roles”.136 It is worth recalling here briefly Wilson’s account of this escalation as it highlights the complexity of how conflicts arise.

85In North Moluccas, tension was heightened by unusual political decisions when, in 1999, President Habibie decided to proceed with the division of the Moluccas province into two. The question of stakes in the administration became a sensitive point. The conflict started when a new subdistrict was created in Malifut without consultation of the local population, the ethnic Kaos. This was a politically expedient measure pushed by the ethnic Makian elite before the June 1999 elections. The Kaos, residents of this peninsula to the north of Halmahera, were mostly Protestant, while the Makian, hailing from the island of the same name situated in the south of Ternate, were mostly Muslims who had been settled in Malifut in 1975 by the Indonesian authorities after the threat of a major volcanic eruption in their region. A gold mine was recently discovered in the disputed territory, adding an economic dimension to the dispute.137 The Makian lobbied in Jakarta to have the mine included in a new sub-district that was originally part of the Kao district and to have the capital moved from Tobelo to Malifut, something all the more unacceptable for the Kao since the recently passed decentralisation law had given 80 per cent of the royalties to the region.

86The inclusion of five Kao villages in the new Malifut subdistrict was the first cause for protest, with the Kao rejecting this ethnic partition. On 18 and 19 August, Sosol and Wangeotak, two of the five Kao villages at the centre of the controversy were wrecked by the Makians in a surprising show of violence after a dispute erupted at a party.138 The father of the village head of Sosol, Yordan Moumou, was killed, another casualty followed, then the whole community fled and had to be evacuated by boat. The entire villages of Sosol and Wangeotak, viewed as posing “the greatest obstacle to the viability of the new sub-district”, were destroyed, including the church and the school.139 The north Moluccan administration in Ternate failed to react: there was neither prosecution nor an effort at rehabilitation for the two villages, leading the Kaos to end their attempts at conciliation, putting their fate instead into the hands of a respected and feared Kao leader Benny Bitjara. After a second incident on 25 October involving Christian and Muslim Kaos on one side and Muslim Makians on the other, Bitjara and some 5,000 armed Kaos attacked Malifut, whose population had already escaped over the preceding weeks, with mostly men (5,000) remaining. Three persons were killed and all the houses of 16 villages were destroyed while schools and mosques were left intact, with the intention of showing that the conflict was “not about religion” (Muslim Kaos also participated in the attack).140 The Kaos repeated their demand that the Makians be evacuated from Kao territory and the remaining Malifut population was moved to Ternate.141

87It was in Ternate and Tidore, the political centres of the new province, that the conflict took a religious turn. So far, much more than religion, it was ties to the land and the conviction of being legitimate inhabitants of the territory with rights to the land that nurtured bonds and subsequently led to what Chris Wilson qualifies as “identity-interest spiral”.142 A key element in the new cycle of violence was the arrival of Makian refugees in the context of the political rivalry opposing the sultans of Ternate and Tidore for the post of governor of the new province of Northern Maluku. This rivalry was exploited by the Makians, who tried in vain to provoke anti-Christian rioting in a bid to gain the support of the whole Muslim community in the conflict that pitted them against the Kaos.143 Besides terrible stories of the carnage in Ambon spread via North Moluccans based in Ambon and back home, a significant trigger in this religious turn of Ternate and Tidore was the circulation of a spurious letter that fuelled theories circulated by the Islamist press of a systematic (and unilateral) massacre of Muslims (pembantaian umat islam). In early November 1999, photocopies of this letter dated July 1999, which carried the letterhead of the synod of the Protestant Churches of the Moluccas (Gereja Protestan Maluku, GPM), and which evoked a grand plan to kill and expel the Muslims from Halmahera, was circulated in Tidore, much to the distress of the local authorities. The forgery was evidenced by the signature “Semi Titaley” (for Sammy Titaley) whereas it should have been “Pdt S.P. Titaley” (pdt for pendeta, the title of a Protestant priest).144 In Tidore, on 3 November, a local pastor, Arie Risakotta, was summoned to the local government office and forced to read the letter. In spite of his explanations and denial, the pastor was punched, chased and hacked to death with machetes as he ran from the office, his corpse set ablaze.145 Riots followed immediately and churches were destroyed in Indonesiana and Soasio on Tidore Island. In the space of one night, 35 Christians were killed, 3 churches were burnt and all 260 houses belonging to the Christians on the island were destroyed. The rioters were said to have been mainly Makians from Ternate and from Tomalou in Tidore, where there was a strong Makian community.146 Many in the crowd were said to have arrived with petrol cans, suggesting premeditation. Tensions spilled over to neighbouring Ternate where red crosses were found painted on the walls of the houses of Christians. But the Christians stayed, confident in the protection of the sultan. On 6 November, Ternate was touched by the riots: 31 people were killed and large numbers injured, and 6 churches and 353 houses were destroyed. The 12,763 Christians fled to the police and military bases as well as the sultan’s palace, where they were protected by his troops Pasukan Kuning, and then on to Tobelo and North Sulawesi. Ternate was left with only 30 per cent of its teachers, while the influx of Muslim refugees weighed increasingly on the system. The violence, the killing of a pastor and the destruction of churches, facilitated by Machiavellian elites, further aggravated the situation: violence spread to almost every area of North Maluku and the two faiths faced off in a bloody confrontation.

88The apex of violence occurred in the subdistricts of Galela and Tobelo, the main Christian centre in North Maluku where thousands of Christian refugees from Ternate and rural areas of central Halmahera had taken refuge. Weapons and bombs were used on both sides. Numerous other incidents occurred in the area, contributing to a weakening of ethnic ties, a phenomenon already apparent from the 1980s.147 The decision by unknown Muslim leaders to commission the tailoring of jihad white robes exacerbated tensions. Rumours of a “bloody Christmas” led some officials of the Protestant church of Tobelo to ask for outside aid to protect the church and its surroundings during the Christmas celebrations. The security reinforcement came — a truck with 40 villagers wearing red headbands and holding spears, and was taken as evidence of a Christian plan to attack Muslims.148 On 26 December, some young Muslims threw stones at the house of a retired Christian Ambonese police officer in Gosoma, Tobelo City, provoking within the next hour fighting on the streets between hundreds of Muslims and Christians. During the night of 26 December, senior Christian community leaders called on Benny Bitjara in Kupa Kupa, who mobilised thousands of Christian Kaos to travel to Tobelo.149 By mid-morning of 27 December, the central area of Tobelo had come under Muslim control. In the evening, Bitjara galvanised his troops and launched an attack early the next morning. Approximately 100 Muslims died in this attack and the main mosque was destroyed. Over the next few days, more died in surrounding villages (90 in Gorua, 160 in Popilo, 250 or 300 in Togoliua). Calls for retaliation against Christians resonated amid tales by refugees arriving in Ternate of “unprovoked Christian attacks” resulting in “the deaths of hundreds of defenceless people in mosques”. The Muslim militias of Tidore and Ternate, now called Pasukan Jihad, united to expel Christians in Malifut and in the Galela subdistrict.150 In the last two weeks of December 1999, the violence that raged in the region caused more than 2,000 deaths.151 The war had definitely become religious and was a cause for mobilisation outside the region.152 On 27 December, the leaders of the Protestant churches called for international intervention.

89In South Moluccas, the conflict continued to rage and grab national and international attention. National television retransmitted images of the grand church of Silo in Ambon that was torched on 26 December. The international press also published poignant accounts of a few Christian survivors who escaped carnage on the neighbouring island of Buru where on the morning of 23 December, about 100 Christians were killed in a plywood factory.153

90At the end of 1999, demonstrations were organised in different cities in Indonesia at the instigation of organisations such as KISDI. On 7 January 2000, a big gathering was held in the centre of Jakarta and calls for jihad were heard. This was the famous ‘action of a million Muslims’ (aksi sejuta ummat).154 Mobilisation on this day extended well beyond radical Islam with even Amien Rais, leader of Muhammadiyah and chairman of the People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR), giving a speech. A sentiment of Islamic solidarity, combined with patriotism fuelled by persistent rumours of foreign support for a Republic of the Secessionist South Moluccas (Republik Maluku Selatan, RMS), united the crowd gathered around the Monas, the obelisk built to commemorate Independence in Merdeka Square.155

91The fantasy of a Western conspiracy aimed at breaking up the Archipelago was widespread not only amongst the population but also amongst the Indonesian elites. To understand the extent of this fantasy, one has to place it in the context of the East Timor crisis, which saw the territory leaving the bosom of Indonesia as an outcome of a referendum for independence organised under international pressure. The trauma was even greater in the light of revelations of exactions committed by the Indonesian army over a period of more than 30 years in Timor and especially Aceh. In the case of the Moluccas, these rumours of a Western conspiracy enabled the spectre of disintegration from within (once again the threat was foreign) to be exorcised and justified a nationalist reading of events ensuing from the East Timor crisis. The circulation of these rumours ruled out any international intervention, in spite of urgent calls made by dozens of Indonesian NGOs and the Association of the Protestant Churches of Indonesia (Persekutuan Gereja-Gereja di Indonesia, PGI).156

92This unusual context partly explains the aggravation of the Moluccan conflict, which was also caused by the inability of the security apparatus to take the measure of the conflict and contain it. The army could not wrestle back control of the situation. The forces of law and order were accused by both camps of not intervening in time during riots and worse, of participating in them. Indeed, a number of the police officers in Ambon, who were mostly from old Moluccan families, and were generally Christian, were implicated in the confrontations — either while on service or by abandoning their post.157 As for the soldiers, they were often Muslims from other regions of Indonesia and as such, wary of the Christians suspected of irredentism. Many units were particularly swayed by rumours linking the movement for a Republic of the South Moluccas (RMS) to a fundamentalist project for which RMS signified ‘Republic of Christian Moluccas’ (Republik Maluku Serani), implying a policy of ethnic cleansing to wipe out Muslims. The authorities themselves finally implicitly acknowledged the implication of the troops and units from regions known for their strong Islamic identity, such as those from southern Celebes (Kostrad of Unjung Pandang), were replaced by Javanese Marinir battalions, said to be less influenced by Islamist propaganda.

93Accusations levelled against the soldiers went well beyond just im-partiality: several observers suspected the presence of agents provocateurs who had been ordered to inflame the conflicts. The army should not be taken as a homogenous whole but as a reflection of the tensions that were tearing Indonesian society apart then. The dual hierarchy that was seen at work in the 1980s and 1990s (with regional commands and Kopassus taking their orders directly from Jakarta) were, once again, at the heart of this polemic. On many occasions, Kopassus members were seen with Muslim militias.158 Several important political leaders (including Abdurrahman Wahid and Amien Rais) repeatedly denounced the actions of those who wished to ignite the Archipelago. High-ranking militar officers were rumoured to have funded Laskar Jihad activities in Ambon to retaliate against their sacking from key positions in the army by President Wahid.159 Resentment simmered amongst the military elites as the president attempted to reduce the army’s supremacy. He separated the police from the military by bringing it under presidential control, dissolved the Coordinating Board for the Assistance of the Maintenance of National Stability (Bakorstanas) and the Board for Special Investigation (Litsus), and rejected General Wiranto’s plan to reorganise the military territorial units. Finally, Wahid made Wiranto, a four-star general, resign as minister coordinator of political and security affairs. The military elite was aware of Wahid’s intent on placing pro-reform generals in top positions — a project he ultimately abandoned.160 As months passed and the conflict spread, the accusations were narrowed down to military circles led by some officers such as Rusman Kastor, named by the signatories (Muslims, Protestants and Catholics) of the Malino 2 Accords as being one of those behind the spread of the civil war to Ambon.

94Given the importance of rumours in this conflict, one should be careful in giving credence to these accounts, which are, nonetheless, corroborating.161 One of the few tangible elements of this sensitive dossier is the testimony of a leader of a group of young Protestant thugs who were responsible for several cases of arson that sparked off new outbreaks of violence. They testified to having acted — for a fee — on the orders of Kopassus officers.162 Increasingly research carried out on site inclines towards the possibility that provocateurs played a role in aggravating the crisis, but the paralysis of the armed forces can be attributed above all to their disorganisation. In March 1999 soldiers and brimob (mobile brigades, a militarised unit of the police) only numbered 5,300 — clearly insufficient for a territory with two million inhabitants spread over hundreds of islands. Even with the substantial beefing up of numbers (14,000 men in June 2000), the forces of law and order failed to control the situation and even found themselves on many occasions in an alarming position. In North Maluku, fear of large local militias also played a role at times, as did political competition because the security forces were reluctant to antagonise potential provincial power-holders. However, while not in itself a cause of violence, in almost all cases, Wilson concludes, “the response of the security forces determined whether violence occurred, and to what extent.”163

95The Moluccan conflict evolved in nature between 1999 and 2000. From the outbreak of complex antagonisms arising from political, economic and social rancour, this miniature Indonesia had become the land of jihad for fighters from elsewhere.

God’s Warriors

96In April 2000, following a big religious demonstration (tabligh akbar) that saw some 10,000 persons gathering at Senayan Stadium in the centre of Jakarta,164 dozens of members of the Laskar Jihad militia, sporting long white tunics, turbans and long swords, penetrated Parliament to de-mand speedy intervention on behalf of Muslims caught up in the civil war that had been raging in the Moluccas for more than a year now. The lawlessness of their act — penetrating the Assembly while bearing arms — was not questioned by the authorities. Major General Nurfaizi, head of the Jakarta police, declared that he understood their feelings and explained to journalists that the sword was “the customary accessory of warriors of a holy war”.165 The Laskar Jihad then proceeded to the presidential palace, where President Abdurrahman Wahid received their delegation. It was a short and stormy meeting. After attempting in vain to reason with them, the president dismissed them brutally. Barely out of the palace, Ja’far Umar Thalib, leader of FKAWJ, issued an ultimatum to the authorities: If, in the weeks to come, they were not allowed to leave for the Moluccas, they would carry out their jihad in Java.166 The recruitment of volunteers had begun a few days earlier and a training camp had been started at Bogor, some dozens of kilometres away from the capital. In early May, hundreds of Laskar Jihad members managed to depart from Surabaya for the Moluccas. President Abdurrahman Wahid had personally ordered the armed forces to prevent anyone from leaving; yet nothing had been done to stop them. These volunteers — unarmed — had embarked on regular Pelni lines, and their fighting equipment was shipped separately without any difficulty. Laskar Jihad’s first mission met with success: they were welcomed by soldiers who immediately presented them with AK-47 and SS-14 guns.167

97Given its numbers and the arms it possessed, the intervention of Laskar Jihad tilted the balance considerably. It constituted the most significant episode of a phenomenon that was already several months old: the intervention of fighters foreign to the region. As early as February 1999 news had been circulating of the arrival in Ambon of some 50 Indonesian or foreign fighters who had trained in Afghanistan or in the Philippines (see below). One rumoured incident known as Tragedi subuh berdarah (the bloody tragedy of the morning prayers), the supposed attack by Christians on Muslims praying at the mosque on 1 March, boosted mobilisation outside of the Moluccas.168 Numerous demonstrations were organized throughout the Archipelago by groups such as KISDI, KAMMI, HMI-MPO and PII. GPI and some movements in Sulawesi started recruiting for supposed humanitarian missions (see below).169 The demonstrations started since mid-March 1999 questioned the “indifference” of Indonesians and asserted the necessity of waging jihad against Christians. By then, recruiting booths had already been started by several Muslim organisations (including KAMMI, PII, FPI) to send volunteers to the Moluccan islands.170 The conspiracy theories proposed by hard-line Muslims and their presses included Christian irrendentism, cleansing of Muslims and Zionist destabilisation of Indonesia.171 Within most Islamic organisations as well as in Muslim public opinion, the idea of an ethnic, or rather, religious cleansing started to gain ascendance little by little. The massacres in Kao and then Tobelo in December 1999, described above, when seen out of the context of civil war, seemed to confirm the radical Islamist press’ vision of a unilateral massacre of Muslims by Christians.

98Laskar Jihad used the major demonstration organised in Jakarta at the beginning of January 2000 (the famous aksi sejuta ummat) to declare their legitimacy faced with a government they saw as deficient. However, they were resolutely opposed to any notion of democracy and never made any claim to a popular mandate,172 offering instead other sorts of justifications for their intervention in the Moluccas. This intervention was in fact preceded by a series of contacts made with various muftis of the Salafist movement from the Arabic Peninsula, who lent their theological support to Laskar Jihad’s operations. ‘Abd al-Mushin al-‘Abbad, a religious dignitary from Medina, thus issued a fatwa declaring the legality of armed assistance to the Moluccan Muslims, insofar as these latter were in a defensive position and that the intervention did not harm other Muslims. Even more strikingly, Muqbil ibn Hadi al-Wadi’i, a Salafist mufti from Yemen, declared that jihad in the Moluccas was an individual obligation (fard’ain) for Indonesian Muslims and a collective obligation (fard kifayah) for Muslims outside of Indonesia. No fewer than seven fatwas were published by the magazine Salafy in support of armed engagement.173 It is noteworthy that several of these fatwas justified their positions with the illegitimacy of the current government. Ahmad al-Najm, member of the High Committee of Saudi Ulama, thus declared that holy war in the Moluccas was obligatory if the following option were exhausted: Indonesian Muslims should choose representatives to meet the authorities. If these latter accepted to take their demands into consideration, they should be obeyed. Otherwise, Indonesian Muslims could legitimately rebel against the authorities in aid of their oppressed brothers. At the end of a very formal process — characteristic of radical Islamist movements’ attempts to obtain legitimacy — all the measures taken by Laskar Jihad before their departure for Ambon were validated by Muhammad ibn Hadi al-Madkhali, a Salafist mufti from Medina. His fatwa considered that the tabligh akbar of April, followed by the meeting with Abdurrahman Wahid and finally the training at the Bogor camp had sufficiently ensured the legitimacy of their struggle.174 During the first months of their intervention, Ja’far Umar Thalib portrayed Laskar Jihad’s actions firmly in religious terms. For him, the war in the Moluccas opposed Muslims and Christians, evidenced by the fact that the Christians, called kafir harbi (infidels warring against Islam), pursued their operations in Ambon in spite of the flight of Butonese, Bugis and Makassarese migrants.175

99For the first few months, Ja’far Umar Thalib’s men (but also other militias from Java such as Laskar Mujahidin) were well received by part of the Muslim population and benefited from the eager collaboration of local Islamic militias.176 In Jakarta, however, moderate traditionalist Islam continued to oppose their departure, foreseeing serious problems ahead. The Minister of Religions, Tolhah Hassan, expressly demanded that the police ban the Ahlu Sunnah wal Jama’ah Forum because of its dubious intentions: “We have observed that the situation is improving and that these people would only create new problems.”177 As weeks passed, the arrogance of these fighters from Java and their criticism of the religious beliefs and practices of local Muslims were hardly compensated by socioreligious activities such as garbage disposal, the opening of a dozen primary schools and numerous Qur’anic centres.178 Their military prestige was gravely diminished when Wahid declared the Moluccas a civilian emergency zone in August 2000 and ordered TNI to send ‘joint battalions’ (Yon Gab), composed of elements from the special forces of the three branches (Kopassus from the army, Marines and Paskhas, and the special forces of the air force) as of September 2000. Better organised and able to launch massive attacks rather than scatter their forces, Yon Gab inflicted heavy losses on Laskar on many occasions,179 henceforth on the defensive and more focused on imposing a religious order in the regions under their control rather than on new conquests.

100Little by little, the authorities regained control of the situation. On 30 April 2001, it ordered the arrest of Alexander Manuputty, the main leader of Maluku Sovereignty Front (Front Kedaulatan Maluku, FKM), a separatist organisation with a Christian majority, formed on 18 December 2000. Then on 4 May, it was Ja’far Umar Thalib’s turn to be summoned. Of the two charges leading to his arrest, only the second was retained. The charge of inciting racial hatred, although evident, was dismissed. He was tried instead for having attempted to substitute the sharia for Indonesian state law in the zones under his control, in the case of a militia member who was stoned to death for engaging in illicit sexual relations.180 Ja’far’s imprisonment provoked a real outburst of solidarity even from without his own organisation: the majority of Muslim parties (PPP, PBB, PK) and even the Yogyakarta section of PAN protested strongly against it. The secretary-general of MUI, Din Syamsuddin, also vice-chairman of Muhammadiyah, even stepped in to offer protection for the prisoner, and in early August 2001, shortly after his release, Ja’far was received by the vice-president Hamzah Haz. After this setback, Laskar Jihad changed its tack: waging war against Christians (nasrani) guilty for massacring Muslims would take a backseat to the perennial theme of fighting against national disintegration.181

101As we have seen, Laskar Jihad was neither the sole nor the first external militia to descend on the battlefield of the Moluccas and of Poso; however, as it was the largest one and could seemingly count on great support, attention has long been focused on it. In fact Laskar Jihad arrived well after many other groups which were already operating there, including Mujahidin KOMPAK, an organisation for ‘freelance’ mujahidin from all over Indonesia.182

102The Mujahidin KOMPAK militia had been put in place by Arismunandar, a former student of Ngruki and head of the Solo branch of KOMPAK, a Muslim charity under the DDII. He was reportedly supported by some Jemaah Islamiyah militants, but JI itself decided to intervene only six months after the conflict had started in June 1999. Its hesitation in sending men to Ambon was due to divergent views on the Moluccan conflict (the Java-based JI suspected political manoeuvring) as well as on timing (the Malaysia-based JI, being removed from the Indonesian context and more influenced by the Afghan experience, wished to wage jihad soon after the fall of Soeharto in 1998 while Indonesians argued for a long-term strategy183). JI’s intervention in Ambon after June 1999 was first carried out by military trainers who set up a three-month camp on Buru Island for Mujahidin KOMPAK. ICG estimates that JI itself may never have had more than 20 people in Ambon at one time, but their impact was a major one. The recruitment of foot soldiers continued via the intermediary of Mujahidin KOMPAK, which became a real “catch-all force” (to use the expression of the International Crisis Group), reaching out to all the young men who had come from everywhere — mostly pesantren in Java, Sulawesi and Kalimantan or local pesantren — to “save their brothers”.184

103Seven years after the 1992 scission between Sungkar and Masduki in Afghanistan, Darul Islam itself finally rallied to the cause of these mujahidins. New groups also emerged, including the Abu Bakar Battalion, which united some veterans of Afghanistan and Mindanao. A campaign of burglaries based on the fa’i system (the principle that condones burglary for a good cause) was conducted, and so numerous were the recruits that the battalion became a veritable organisation, Nusantaran Islamic Mujahidin Force (Angkatan Mujahidin Islam Nusantara, AMIN). AMIN managed to go to war in the Moluccas as early as December 1999.185 This movement also sent men to the region of Poso in Central Sulawesi,186 where the fighters were also known as Laskar Jundullah, the name of a militia formed by the Organising Committee for the Preparation for the Application of Islamic Law (Komite Persiapan Penegakan Syariat Islam, KPPSI), under the command of Agus Dwikarna.187

104Little by little, in the Moluccas and in Sulawesi, the term Laskar Mujahidin ended up designating a coalition of ideologically close forces that might have included men from JI and DI, as well as Mujahidin KOMPAK and some local groups, but which excluded those of Laskar Jihad. Unity reigned amongst them for a while, as we have seen, and Laskar Jihad was quite well received in April 2000 when they arrived in Ambon. The two militias conducted joint operations including the 21 June attack on the police complex (brimob) in Ambon, from which they recuperated many arms, as well as attacks on Christian villages in October. The production of videos for recruitment and funding purposes was also undertaken jointly with Laskar Jihad. However, relations broke down at the start of 2001 when the latter, not as discreet, were sometimes arrested for acts committed by Laskar Mujahidin. Whether in Sulawesi or the Moluccas, Laskar Mujahidin adopted strategies that were much more offensive than those of Laskar Jihad. Considerably smaller in strength but better trained and armed, they were said to have played a key role in the attack of Christian villages. The Laskar Mujahidin, though not numbering more than 300, including a dozen foreigners from France, Pakistan, Afghanistan, Saudia Arabia and Algeria, appear to have been much more effective than the 7,000 Laskar Jihad combatants. Noorhaidi Hasan attributes this to the sophisticated weapons they received from abroad but also to the poor tactics and strategy of Laskar Jihad that often nullified other militias’ efforts. The Mujahidin also played an important role in teaching local Muslim militias how to assemble bombs.188

105Sentiments vis-à-vis the mujahidins hardened in the course of 2001: Ja’far Thalib was menacing towards their supposed leader, Abu Jibril, alias Fikiruddin, whose path he had crossed on several occasions in the Middle East and in Afghanistan.189 On their website, Laskar Jihad accused them of belonging to NII (Negara Islam Indonesia).

106Other divergences, this time between KOMPAK and JI, disturbed the fraternity built at the start of jihad. KOMPAK was a well-established organisation founded in 1998 by DDII to help Muslim victims of natural disasters, conflicts and poverty. KOMPAK — and particularly KOMPAK Solo — played an essential role in the Moluccan and Sulawesi conflicts. Initiator of the first militias, the organisation channelled funds for jihad activities. It also took over the purchase of arms, production of videos showing victims of violence and the recuperation of funds from overseas Muslims, “partly with the help of men linked to Al Qaeda”.190 KOMPAK Solo distributed the recuperated funds equally between its mujahidins and Jemaah Islamiyah until 2000, when an audit requested by some donors was formally rejected by JI.191

107By this time, JI had already extended its activities to Java, with the assassination attempt on the Philippines ambassador and the bomb attacks of Christmas 2000, as well as to the Philippines, with the 30 December Rizal Day bombings. The Bali bombings followed two years later, leading to the first arrests. For almost two years, from 2000 to 2002, the organisation was able to grow and spread, recruiting and waging its jihad in Indonesia, under the distracted eye of the authorities and “almost all the observers of Indonesia”.192 JI’s system of recruitment was uncovered by some documents during the arrests of 2003.193

108JI’s struggle in the Moluccas and in Poso was certainly aimed at protecting the local Muslims, but in such a way as to bring about an “extension of the perception of the enemy” amongst them. Darul Islam members who had received JI teachings there said they had read Abdullah Azzam, who opined that “the best education is to be found during a time of jihad”. The Moluccan conflict was the occasion to initiate Indonesians who had not undergone the Afghan jihad to wider, more international causes than the establishment of an Indonesian Islamic state.194 Encounters with veterans of Afghanistan and the Philippines, along with fighters from the Arab world, Europe and Kuwait, were supposed to inspire and make of Ambon and Poso the new stepping stone in worldwide jihad.

109In sum, the conflicts in Moluccas and Poso were no different, in their first phase, from ethnic conflicts that erupted in Kalimantan. “In each case,” as Gerry van Klinken highlighted, “ordinary people felt moved to action by the politics of fear, while local elites made their calculations on the basis of the politics of opportunity.”195 In a context of important administrative reforms, these elites mobilised the crowds around ethnic or religious issues in order to preserve or even extend their control over institutions that provide privileged access to the state and its resources. The conflicts were of even greater significance in the cities outside of Java, where the state traditionally played an important role yet was no longer capable of controlling this political instrumentalisation of violence.196 The evolution towards confrontation along religious lines took place in regions where the different religions were in relative equilibrium, with no one religion dominating the other, thus rendering futile any mobilisation of the minority. As such, after the creation of the province of Northern Moluccas (85 per cent Muslim), the Moluccas province was only 49 per cent Muslim in 2000. As for the Poso region, the population was 56 per cent Muslim (while Muslims made up 78 per cent of the population of the entire Central Sulawesi province).197 In contrast to mobilisation along ethnic lines, the religious factor brought about the intervention of exterior players and as such, the persistence of problems long after the resolution of socio-economic conflicts that were at the root of the crisis. Thus, up till 2008, the presence of militias linked to Jemaah Islamiyah in the region of Poso represented a very real threat.198

110Several factors contributed to the duration of the Moluccan and Sulawesi conflict six years after it started. According to ICG’s report published in August 2005, each group continued to demand justice for the massacres committed. Against a backdrop of widespread violence, a new killing sparked off the hunting down of Muslim villagers by Christians.199 These villagers took refuge in an Islamic boarding school named Walisongo, where a hundred of them were massacred on 28 May 2000. Three Christians were sentenced to death for these massacres but some called for more to be sentenced.The massacre of Walisongo in Poso (in 2000) led to the bombings in Tentena (2005). It became increasingly difficult to carry out justice in some regions: in Poso, a Christian public prosecutor was assassinated during a trial of jihadists in 2004. A particular difficulty arose from the fact, as demonstrated by two bloody incidents (Tentena, 22 dead and 53 injured; Ceram, six dead in 2005), that the mujahidins were not the only guilty ones; according to ICG, local officials and gang leaders were sometimes equally implicated.

The Functioning of the Radical Cluster: Recruitment at the Fringes and Quarrels Amongst Leaders

Recycling at the Fringes: From Heirs of the Old Guard to Abangan Neophytes

111The Islamist organisations did not all recruit from the same milieux. The diverse traditions evoked earlier gave rise to different branches and recruitment methods. Thus we should distinguish between networks linked to the heirs of Darul Islam, former militants close to Kartosuwiryo (“pak Imam”, as some still call him, according to Abdul Syukur) and movements that emerged later in universities during the 1980s, which had more in common with the ideology of the Muslim Brotherhood. To these, we can add a third category of militiamen — less militant family men who, in the name of a moral Islamic order, took upon themselves the responsibility of ensuring the security of their neighbourhood. This was a common practice during the New Order and was carried out by an official territorial organisation, but it has since come to be at the call of a habib or charismatic ulama and has taken on a religious aspect. For all these different types of profiles, however varied, the radical Islamist organisations seemed to have provided a path of integration within their social groups. The prospects for recognition, even fame, increased considerably during the 1990s. Hitherto marginal and often clandestine currents suddenly acquired respectability, enabling them to substantially increase their strength and to benefi t from this. For the Salafi st followers of Jafar Thalib, notes Noorhaidi, the jihad was an endeavour to shore up their image as the most committed defenders of Islam: “The entire campaign can be conceptualized as the politics of recognition pursued by the Salafis in order to gain a place in the transnational Salafi Dakwah network and register themselves on the map of Indonesian Islam”.200

112With regards to their recruitment, the radical Islamic organisations fulfill an obvious social function. They allow for individuals in search of ideals, religiosity and a moral compass in a corrupt universe to integrate into marginalised but welcoming networks.

113The campus phenomenon itself is particularly interesting as it seemed to have touched a new category of the population. Hoping to ‘become good Muslims’ (jadi Muslim yang baik), young Javanese whose parents are or were not practising Muslims found themselves sucked into networks that cut them off from their origins. The student milieu was especially affected by this phenomenon, as much via the Negara Islam Indonesia (NII) cells as via the usroh/tarbiyah movement mentioned above.

114These small model cells multiplied especially in the major non-religious universities of the country such as Gadjah Mada in Yogyakarta, Unpad in Bandung or the University of Indonesia in Jakarta, and within the scientific and technological departments, where under the cover of an initiation into preaching (dakwah), radical Islam thinkers trained generations of students. As we have seen, the prestigious Association of Muslim Students (HMI), modernist and assimilated into the establishment, if not the ruling power, lost its influence in the face of new and more audacious groups, often gathered under the banner of dakwah institutes on campus (Lembaga Dakwah Kampus). In the 1980s, the militancy of these new movements and the pressure they exerted on new students drastically narrowed the field of possible attitudes in the universities. On one side were students who were attracted by modernity and who smoked and mixed with the opposite sex; on the other end of the spectrum were youth, often from less cosmopolitan milieux, who became increasingly attracted to the strict way of life advocated in the Islamist discourse.201 The campus mosque became a refuge, a place where one could find oneself ‘amongst students mindful of Muslimness’ (orang yang peduli keislaman). But the ‘virtuous’ path led some to encounter an invasive fundamentalism, much removed from the Islam of their childhood, and even further from that of their parents. Many became estranged from their background and some even gave up their studies. The small radical groups in the student milieu were very critical of the big Islamic organisations, more so of Nahdlatul Ulama than of Muhammadiyah. These big organisations embodied a religiousness well integrated into the traditional social structures and were seen as old-fashioned. They were reproached for having collaborated with a contested social order, if not a downright dishonoured political regime. Above all, they were accused of having ‘cut the Islamic community into parts’ (mengotak-ngotakkan umat islam) and weakened it through its inability to unify the community. They were also blamed for not protecting the young militants who gathered in groups of mosques (remaja masjid) under a repressive and corrupt Soeharto regime. The opening of Indonesia to the grand causes of Islam (Bosnia, Kashmir, India in general and Iraq) was also a powerful motor for the mobilisation of students. When the Bosnian crisis erupted, unprecedented crowds of militants demonstrated around the major mosques of Jakarta and the Al-Azhar Mosque to the cries of ‘Allah u-Akbar!’

115Integration into different networks of sociability of the dominant culture was mostly carried out through a very strict religious practice that broke with the prevailing laxity. The usroh/tarbiyah movement was, in this sense, essentially a puritan movement, as is its political extension today, the PKS. However, as we have seen, this severance with the surrounding milieu led some isolated groups to very different practices indeed.

116Some radical organisations tapped well beyond student angst and specialised in recruitment at the fringes of society. One of the greatest successes of Habib Rizieq, leader of the Islamic Defenders Front (FPI), was how he restored pride and a sense of purpose amongst the bad boys of Jakarta’s suburbs. FPI initially recruited from the preman milieu, that is, amongst hired hands and even gangsters, but cast its net further to include the disadvantaged of all sorts, who, in exchange for payment or sometimes out of pure conviction, joined in its punitive actions. As mentioned earlier, the supposed moralisation of the nightlife of the big cities was often nothing but a reorganisation of the racket to line the pockets of FPI. But it also persuaded a number of the excluded that they were better able to effect a cleansing of society than the authorities and that they could take their lives into their own hands. This probably explained the beatific admiration of Habib Rizieq’s followers and the support he seemed to enjoy in the district where he had settled.

117Finally, a word must be said about the strictly religious motivations that could have led to the success of the recruitment policies. These motivations were evidently at work for the volunteers who left to fight in the Moluccas. The remuneration that was sometimes given out — ranging from simply paying for the equipment to paying the member’s family up to hundreds of dollars in the event of death — does not suffice to explain why thousands of youths from Java and Madura were willing to risk their lives to fight in a place hundreds of kilometres away from their villages. It seems that many were recruited from abangan milieux, amongst those who had recently ‘reconverted’ under the influence of new preachers. Noorhaidi Hasan’s exhaustive study of Laksar Jihad (2006) points to the “simple rural background” of most students engaged in the Laskar Jihad missions to the Moluccas. The Salafi recruits, he writes, were “generally young militants from small towns or villages in the countryside who had an abangan background”.202 Migration to the big cities to pursue higher education or seek jobs exposed these students to a modernised world offering social ascension but in which they saw mostly rampant corruption and the failure of the New Order to distribute public goods. But it was also a case of orthodox Islam being introduced to remote rural areas by preachers attached to Muslim organisations, a development that created in turn a demand for Islamist activists prepared to organise secret cells or build Islamic teaching centers. Noorhaidi shows that this was the case for the Dieng Plateau in Central Java.203 Some radical Salafis came from the reformist santri families, mostly from Muhammadiyah,204 and much more rarely, it seems, from traditionalist Islam circles. Coming from the middle class and often having attended technical schools or science faculties (including communication studies), they were particularly mindful of the dangers that they felt weighed on their fellow believers, but also of the martyr status that was promised them should they die in combat.

118As for the leaders of Jemaah Islamiyah and Darul Islam, they also often came from the educated middle class while the foot soldiers were recruited from the poorest milieux, where children are often educated in Islamic boarding schools.205

A Prolific and Antagonistic Movement

119The challenges faced by any study of the radical Islamic movement in Indonesia are clear: a multitude of organisations often characterised by sectarianism and headed by leaders with a remarkable propensity to split up.

120Between 1999 and 2003, each bout of Islamist fervour led to a surge in new organisations that were sometimes as short-lived as the outburst of anger that gave rise to them. In August 2000, for example, the First Congress of Mujahidin gathered several dozens of organisations calling for the implementation of the sharia. Hitherto unknown militias carried out demonstrations of force. The Santri Militias (Laskar Santri), Militias of the Divine Army (Laskar Jundullah), Badr Company (Kompi Badr), Taliban Brigade or Commando Troops of Mujahidins (Pasukan Komando Mujahidin) paraded in very unusual uniforms, armed with swords and sticks. During this period, an investigation by the weekly Gatra listed more than 41 radical Islamist groups on the island of Lombok alone.206 Barely one year later, anti-American demonstrations saw numerous organisations emerge from nowhere: at the end of September 2001, some thousands marched for several days in the streets of Jakarta. Alongside well-known organisations such as FPI, KAMMI or GPI were members of the Anti-Zionist and Anti-America Movement (Gerakan Anti-Zionis dan Amerika, GAZA) or the Inter-Campus Association of Muslim Students (Himpunan Mahasiswa Muslim Antar-Kampus, HMMAK).207 This phenomenon of proliferation was accentuated at the local level. In Central Java, for example, numerous organisations were created after the outburst of emotion at the American bombing of Afghanistan. The Forum of Solidarity with the Muslim World of Magelang and the Committee of Muslim Solidarity of Purbalingga made a noisy show of their disapproval. On 23 September, in Solo, Laskar Jundullah, Laskar Santri, Laskar Hawariyah, Sunan Bonang Hizbullah Corps and the Surakarta Muslim Youth Front conducted a series of raids on downtown hotels for American citizens. These operations were carried out more for show than with any real intention to do harm. Their aim was above all to create a stir in the media, but some groups, notably those with links to homosexuals, came under attack in Yogyakarta. The strength and diversity of these mobilised organisations gave the operation a semblance of legitimacy, which was indispensable given the participation of mere hundreds of individuals.208

121Apart from the desire to gain strength in numbers, the multiplication of movements was also due to an old tradition of social structuring. It is rare for an individual to express independent ideas during a demonstration. The legitimacy of his combat comes rather from his belonging to a group. Even if this group comprises but a handful of persons and does not exist legally, the mere act of wielding a banner is enough to encourage the most timid person. The decline of traditional networks of authority during this turbulent period further increased the need for new sources of legitimacy. Similar sentiments explained the call by these groups for the implementation of the sharia, the norm par excellence to take refuge in. The majority of these movements compensated for the illegitimacy of their action with excessive formalism. Thus Laskar Jihad and Front Pembela Islam were particularly productive in churning out all sorts of forms and complex procedures. In their unrestrained use of stamps, they resembled the most nit-picking bureaucracy. Uniforms also played a big role in this process of legitimisation. The referents ranged from the army — black trellises for Daarut Tauhid — to the Arab combatants from the early days of Islam as they appeared in the imagination of Indonesians. Thus Laskar Jihad members wore on grand occasions the turban and long tunic. Only the sword was not curved in the Middle-Eastern way, but the Javanese kris was also missing.

122Most importantly, the proliferation of diverse movements demonstrated their disorganisation on a national level and their inability to unify. As there was a limited range of attractive names, very often totally disparate organisations used the same name. Thus in northern Moluccas existed a militia by the name of Front Pembela Islam that had no link whatsoever with Habib Rizieq’s organisation. By the same token, the Front Hizbullah in Mataram was a local creation and had nothing to do with its homonym in Jakarta. Founded around a charismatic figure, most of these groups displayed growth figures that were as impressive as they were far-fetched, boasting of branches in most of the cities in the country. This triumphalism was due in fact to intense competition amongst the radical movements, whose divisiveness had descended into bitter rivalry. Herein lies the essence of Indonesian Muslim rigour: since each movement was born of the indignation of its initiators with regard to the practices of other groups, the progression of each movement could only be accomplished at the price of a progressive dispersion of the movement as a whole.

123Reasons for splitting up abounded, including accusations and permanent suspicions of being puppets of the ruling power or of being funded by the Indonesian secret service. This was especially so in the case of groups linked to former members of Darul Islam, which was infiltrated very early on. Thus, at the launch of a book by a famous Islamist, Umar Abduh, a former member of the Imron group, which was accused by Abduh of having links with the army, confronted him in fury before leaving the hall in a group. The audience was relieved to have narrowly escaped a fierce fight.209

124One of the most virulent organisations is an institute with links to Saudi Arabia — the Institute of Research and the Teaching of Islam (Lembaga Penelitian dan Pengkajian Islam, LPPI), which diligently published works lambasting movements it considered as “deviationist”.210 Thus targeted were: Shiites, Ahmadiyah, Indonesian movements formerly known as “sempalan” such as the Dakwah Institute of Indonesian Islam (Lembaga Dakwah Islam Indonesia, LDII — no links with DDII), also called Islam Jama’ah, which was itself not linked to Jemaah Islamiyah but was an old, very sectarian yet non-violent movement used by Golkar as early as the 1970s, as well as groups of former activists of Darul Islam orientation who had chosen less orthodox paths such as the al-Zaytun pesantren. On the other hand, conspicuously missing in Amin Djamaluddin’s book was any mention of the Ngruki group and Jemaah Islamiyah, and the Darul Islam outside of Zaytun. Amin Djamaluddin’s influence grew considerably in the mid-2000s when he became a member of the Council of Indonesian Ulama (MUI).

125Morever, the purist-Salafist Indonesia dakwah movement itself is opposed to all other Islamist groups and accused of hizbiyya (sectarian-political deemed to foster unbelief). For them, the ikhwani (close to the Muslim Brotherhood) label was regularly invoked to discredit an organisation or individual accused of dividing the Muslim community through political engagement that necessitates compromises, which is prohibited by principle.211

‘Islamic Business’: The Role of the Economy

126Involvement in the economy constitutes one of the essential aspects of the radical Islam cluster in Indonesia. For some movements, economic success was at times a key factor in their sustainability and in the recruitment of new members. Yet, as illustrated by the cases of Daarut Tauhid and the Al-Zaytun pesantren in very different registers, the wish to sustain and extend economic activities sometimes moderated to a significant degree the discourse of an organisation.212

127Several foundations amongst those examined here sought from the time of their creation to develop activities that would enable them to meet their needs without having to depend solely on sponsors, foreign for the most part. The Hidayatullah pesantren thus remade itself into a pioneer agriculture front, clearing the Borneo forest in order to develop land for cultivation. In Central Java, At-Turats organised a few workshops for motorcycles and cars, in addition to its agricultural activities. All this remained limited, however, and the organisation is said to survive on funds from Kuwait and Saudi Arabia.213 In this, At-Turats is an exception.

128Many other organisations were flush with money, to the point where economic preoccupations often seemed to take precedence over religious or moral motivations. Thus Hidayatullah transformed itself from a simple Islamic boarding school to a veritable conglomerate. Little by little, it bought a series of companies that allowed it to control the entire chain of distribution of its agricultural products. A small processing industry was established and, with the founding of the Sakinah Group in Surabaya, the organisation moved into distribution, from retail shops to supermarkets. Hidayatullah next took control of a maritime company (CCM Cargo) and a public works company (Citra Cipta Madina). Its sole activities with any real links to Islam were a travel agency specialising in the organisation of pilgrimages to Mecca (Intan Travel) and a small Islamic bank, Mashraf al-Madina.

129There is also the remarkable case of the Daarut Tauhid community, which illustrates the moderating influence that Islamic business can exert. In its early years, this organisation demonstrated an inward-looking mentality similar to the movements mentioned above. This small community can trace its origins to the Islamic Student Group for Entrepreneurship (Kelompok Mahasiswa Islam Wiraswasta, KMIW) founded in 1987, near Bandung, by Abdullah Gymnastiar, a personality very much in the news in the early 2000s. Then aged 25, Gymnastiar (who owes his name to a fitness fan of a father), was an ex-student of the Pajajaran University (he was enrolled in the business administration faculty but did not complete his course) and of a small local university that belonged to the army (Akademi Teknik Jendral Ahmad Yani) in Bandung, where he was noted for his rhetorical skills and his poetic talents, all while running a business so as to survive. He did not obtain any degree, but his oratorical skills made him very popular amongst his faculty mates and later assured large numbers of recruits for his organisation. KMIW developed in the field of education and religion and established itself as a foundation in 1990 under the name of Daarut Tauhid. Enriched by various commercial enterprises, Daarut Tauhid started expanding in 1997 in the vicinity of Gegerkalong (West Java), a district that was truly devoted to the organisation’s activities.214 KMIW was quite a closed organisation initially but became known to the public at the end of the 1990s through the actions of its militias against the gambling houses and prostitution spots of Bandung. Then in 2001, Abdullah Gymnastiar carried out an astounding strategic repositioning. Known henceforth as A.A. Gym, he opened up his organisation and embarked on a new career as a consensual preacher, much removed from his initial rigour.215

130Abdullah Gymnastiar’s Daarut Tauhid grew substantially thanks to its economic success: sewing workshops, a supermarket, a publishing company and a hotel were built in Gegerkalong at the start of the 1990s. Subsequently the foundation, which considered economic development as the first pillar of religion, extended its activities to commerce (food and electronics) as well as to cottage and service industries. Its capital was estimated to be more than USD 700,000 in 2005 and it maintains close links with the Indonesian business community. Several trained engineers sit on its consultative council, one of whom is the general director of Astra International, one of the principal conglomerates in Indonesia. Many other enterprises of a national scale (Bumi Daya Bank, Dharma Bhakti, Maspion) have signed deals with Daarut Tauhid.216 These are mostly from the education and training sector, favoured by Islamist organisations as it allows for the reconciliation of financial interests and recruitment.

131Of the direct heirs of Kartosuwiryo, those grouped behind Syeh A.S. Panji Gumilang were accused by some of their former fellow disciples of embezzling funds collected for their struggle.217 Indeed, its headquarters, the al-Zaytun pesantren in Indramayu, was flourishing. According to former Darul Islam militant Al Chaidar, this empire is estimated to be worth several billions of dollars. In addition, Syeh A.S. Panji Gumilang is accused by Al Chaidar of having abused the infak system to amass land. He manages a foundation that controls the making of oil and soap, sawmills and rice fields.

132The sessions organised by Daarut Tauhid were not strictly about the religious sciences but presented an Islamisation of individual or collective psychological methods taken from the Anglo-Saxon world. It thus proposed training sessions called ‘achievement motivation training’, ‘team building training’ or ‘heart management training’. This type of activities was part of a much wider current aimed at recuperating, in the name of the legitimacy of Islam, markets ranging from the control of ritual slaughter to communication and the supply of computers to giant Indo-nesian conglomerates. One of the organisations that participated in the Congress of Mujahidin in August 2000 specialised in the ‘halalisation’ of the economic sector. The Muslim League of Indonesia (Liga Muslimin Indonesia, LMI), created in 1992 by Budi Santoso, ex-student of the Bandung Institute of Technology and political science graduate, presented itself as the basis of a “Muslim communitarian development”. To fund its various activities, particularly in the field of education, it developed “profit-making centres” dedicated to electronic commerce and information technology. According to its founder, LMI won important contracts with two of the major conglomerates in the country, Bapindo and PTP4 (forestry).218 The validity of the religious dimension of the Indonesian Muslim League was questionable, as was its real strength, which seemed far smaller than the 500,000 members proclaimed. Nonetheless, it illustrated perfectly how these groups created in the 1990s exploited the Islamic label.

133It was amongst the movements founded in 2000 calling for an Islamic State of Indonesia (NII) that the most obvious links between religion and money were to be found. The clandestine cells of N Sebelas (NII) set-up throughout universities recruited students from the upper-middle class. As their first mission, the new recruits had to obtain ever increasing sums of money from their parents, from some thousands of rupiah at the start to hundreds of thousands. The movement also organised a sort of pyramid selling of hygiene products (soap, toothpaste), which allowed it to use its network for commercial purposes. Each member was obliged to buy its products on a regular basis, which were to be sold in turn to his/her entourage.219

134These varied economic activities are crucial in understanding the success of these diverse new Islamic groups, which advanced as such not only a new discipline of life but also economic resources similar to that proposed by the state — that is, a often badly paid bureaucracy or an informal business sector already saturated and offering little social prestige.

135Almost four decades after its military defeat, Darul Islam thus remains an essential matrix of radical Indonesian Islamism. Its supporters perpetuate, in diverse regions of the Archipelago, the tradition of those who never accepted the Republic of Indonesia as it was proclaimed in 1945. Various events occurring since 1967 enabled the networks of the 1950s to preserve this unusual resilience.220 The ambiguous relations that the New Order nurtured with some of these movements encouraged the maintenance of old solidarities. Contact with the armed Islamist Internationale in Afghanistan also linked some Darul Islam elements with networks operating on an international level. Finally, the decline of the Soeharto regime and the beginnings of Reformasi raised great hopes, only for them to be dashed, paving the way for a new intransigence. The proliferation of radical organisations — linked or not to Darul Islam — was largely due to this deleterious atmosphere in which the simplistic ideologies presented by these organisations promised reassuring remedies.

Notes de bas de page

1Salaf designates the first three generations of Islam (the Prophet’s generation and the following two) deemed to embody the original perfection. They are distinguished from khalaf (successors), the inevitably ‘decadent’ succeeding generations. See Encyclopaedia of Islam, E.J. Brill, Leiden, 13 volumes, 2nd edition, 1960–2005, vol. 8, 1995, p. 900, the entry “SALAF wa KHALAF”. The Salafist communities want to revive and imitate the exemplary life of the Prophet Muhammad and his pious followers, the salaf al-salih and the ‘pure’ Islam they practised. They borrow from eighteenth-century Wahhabism (see Chapter One), setting out to fight any bidah (blameable innovations), including Sufism, superstitions and un-Islamic behaviours, as well as from the nineteenth-century Salafiyya (see Chapter One), notably its anti-Western sentiments, which they also share with other twentieth-century Islamist movements such as the Muslim Brotherhood (see Noorhaidi Hasan, Laskar Jihad, Islam, Militancy and the Quest for Identity in Post New-Order Indonesia, Cornell Southeast Asia Program, Ithaca, 2006, pp. 138–139, 160–161).

2There are two types of dakwah: dakwah bi-l-hal, spreading the faith through practical activities and dakwah bi’l lisan, through oral preaching.

3See Chapter One. The rejection by Partai Sarekat Islam Indonesia of any sort of collaboration with the Dutch colonisers was already qualified as Hegira (a reference to the Prophet’s settling in Medina in 622).

4See Chapter One.

5Atjeng Kurnia’s faction covered the region of Bogor, Serang, Purwakarta and Subang; that of Ajengan: Masduki, Cianjur, Purwokerto, Subang, Jakarta and Lampung; Abdul Fatah Wiranagapati’s encompassed Garut, Bandung, Surabaya and Kalimantan; Ali Hate controlled southern Sulawesi; and lastly Abu Toto alias Syech Panji Gumilang’s faction constituted the regional command IX (Komandemen Wilayah IX), which covered greater Jakarta (S. Yunanto et al., Gerakan Militan Islam di Indonesia dan di Asia Tenggara, 2003, p. 35). See also International Crisis Group, 22 February 2005, p. 2.

6For example, Al-Chaidar, a young Darul Islam militant (born in 1969) and prolific author who relentlessly denounced the diversion of his movement’s ideals by a handful of leaders led by S. Panji Gumilang.

7GPII was close to Masyumi.

8International Crisis Group, “Indonesia Backgrounder: Why Salafism and Terrorism Mostly Don’t Mix”, in Asia Report, no. 83, 13 September 2004, p. 6.

9Abdullah Sungkar was the leader of the Indonesian Islamic Propagation Council (DDII), originating from Masyumist circles, for Central Java. Martin van Bruinessen, “Genealogies of Islamic Radicalisation in Post-Suharto Indonesia, in South East Asia Research, 1 July 2002, vol. 10, no. 2, p. 3.

10International Crisis Group, 8 August 2002, pp. 6–7.

11For a detailed description of the JI members trained in this pesantren, see Inter-national Crisis Group, “Jemaah Islamiyah in South East Asia: Damaged but Still Dangerous”, in Asia Report, no. 63, 26 August 2003, p. 26 ff.

12This ‘army-inspired’ organisation was created in the aftermath of 30 September 1965 to bring together the main student organisations, amongst which the Association of Muslim Students (HMI) was the most important.

13International Crisis Group, 22 February 2005, p. 3.

14Noorhaidi Hasan, “In Search of Identity: The Contemporary Islamic Communities in Southeast Asia”, in Studia Islamika, vol. 7, no. 3, 2000: 86.

15Abdul Aziz Qahhar Muzakkar later headed the Organising Committee for the Preparation for the Implementation of Islamic Law (Komite Persiapan Penegakan Syariat Islam, KPPSI), whose militia, Laskar Jundullah, one of the most active in Poso, was led by Agus Dwikarna, a partner of the Ngruki network. International Crisis Group, 8 August 2002, p. 27.

16International Crisis Group, 26 August 2002, p. 27.

17Ibid., p. 22.

18For a list of the most important of these institutions, and their activities and leaders, see International Crisis Group, “How the Jemaah Islamiyah Terror Network Operates”, in Asia Report, no. 43, 11 December 2004, pp. 32–39.

19Nobody in Indonesia seems to be able to provide an exact figure. The most detailed information on this subject comes from the International Crisis Group, which for the first time in September 2004 compiled a list of pesantren or Salafist humanitarian organisations, including 28 pesantren with links to Ja’far Thalib’s group (FKAWJ), the most intransigent and intolerant of non-Salafist Muslims, as well as 27 non-FKAWJ Salafist pesantren, which lean towards jihadist ideas (International Crisis Group, 13 September 2004, pp. 10, 36). For a history of the development of Salafism in Indonesia, see Jamhari and Jajang Jahroni (eds), Gerakan Salafi Radikal di Indonesia, Raja Grafindo Persada, Jakarta, 2004, 252 pp., and Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006.

20Aay Muhamad Furkon, Partai Keadilan Sejahtera, Ideologi dan Praksis Politik Kaum Muda Muslim Indonesia Kontemporer, Teraju, Jakarta, 2004, pp. 125–126. Two pesantren were established in Bogor, in the Jakarta suburbs, close to two universities, including the Bogor Agricultural University (IPB).

21This was due in particular to a kind of ‘multi-level marketing’ system whereby each trained militant had to ‘train’ five new members. Aay Muhamad Furkon, 2004, p. 133. This system was also in place in the government services.

22Aay Muhamad Furkon, 2004, pp. 126–129. Eighteen of their works were trans-lated throughout the 1980s. One of the first translations was Yusuf Al-Qaradhawi’s book, Pendidikan Islam dan Madrasah Hasan al-Banna (Islamic Education and Madrasahs, according to Hasan al-Banna) in 1983.

23According to the model of the Association of Muslim Students (HMI), of which he was a leader.

24Aay Muhamad Furkon, 2004, p. 132.

25One of the first promoters of the concept of usroh in Indonesia was the chairman of the Association of Muslim High School Students (Pelajar Islam Indonesia PII), Mutammimul Ula, who had discovered it during an “international camp of Muslim student leaders” organised in Kuala Lumpur in 1982. Upon his return, he expressed his admiration in the Indonesian press for this concept developed by the Malaysian Islamic Youth Movement (ABIM) to deal with the “repressive” government under Mahathir. Abdul Syukur, Gerakan Usroh di Indonesia, Peristiwa Lampung 1989, Penerbit Ombak, Yogyakarta, 2003, pp. 37–38, quoting a declaration by Ula in Kiblat, no. 22, 1983, pp. 29–31.

26Ibid., pp. 37–38; Ali Said Damanik, Fenomena Partai Keadilan, Transformasi 20 tahun Gerakan Tarbiyah di Indonesia, Teraju, Jakarta, 2002, pp. 88–90.

27Ali Said Damanik, 2002, pp. 155–156. Each year, around 8,000–10,000 students were trained by Nurul Fikri in 29 cities, mainly in Java. According to Damanik, non-Muslims also joined in because of the quality of the lessons dispensed.

28Ali Said Damanik, 2002, pp. 180–182.

29See Chapter Two.

30Thus the lesser success, on the contrary, obtained up till then by the tarbiyah, later KAMMI, in the State Institute of Islamic Studies (IAIN), frequented by students who had attended Islamic boarding schools for many years, where they had lived by very strict religious rules since their childhood (interviews with former students of pesantren who went on to IAIN, 2004). The creation of non-religious faculties (psychology, medicine) in the Islamic universities in the mid-2000s seems to have changed this perspective.

31International Crisis Group, 22 February 2005, p. 19.

32Interview, Universitas Islam Yogyakarta, 22 August 2000.

33Tempo, 5 March 2000. The weekly cited the case of a student of Bogor Agricultural University (IPB) who had to change universities in order to escape the influence of the NII cell of which he was a former member. In spite of this, he continued to receive death threats.

34Ibid. An obviously exaggerated estimate, but it shows the distress of the authorities in the face of this phenomenon.

35Ali Said Damanik, 2002, p. 88, cites the highly respected Muslim intellectual Kuntowijoyo who in 1993 was worried by the “subversive” tendencies of the usroh, with their “secretive” character and their “sectarianism”.

36As of 1983, BKPMI training conveyed the notion that the usroh was a ‘second family’ that could resolve the problems that the ‘first family’ could not. Subsequently the second family often became a substitute for the first. International Crisis Group, no. 92, 22 February 2005, p. 12.

37On the creation of these networks, see Aay Muhamad Furkon, 2004, p. 136.

38Cited in Aay Muhamad Furkon, 2004, p. 136.

39International Crisis Group, 22 February 2005, p. 12.

40For numerous examples of these expansion strategies, see Sabarudin, Jama’ah at-turats al-islami di Yogyakarta, Laporan Penelitian Individual, Proyek Perguruan Tinggi Agama IAIN Sunan Kalijaga Yogyakarta, 1999/2000, Chapter Three, pp. 33–72.

41Documents of the law court of Malang cited in International Crisis Group, 22 February 2005, pp. 13–14. For details on inspiration by the Iranian model, see p. 13.

42On Lampung, see Abdul Syukur, 2003, pp. 46–52; International Crisis Group, February 2005, p. 15.

43Aay Muhamad Furkon, 2004, p. 140.

44According to the distinction established by International Crisis Group reports.

45International Crisis Group, 11 December 2002, p. 48.

46Gilles Kepel, The Trail of Political Islam, Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, Cambridge, 2002, 464 pp. ; Jihad, Expansion et déclin de l’islamisme, Gallimard, Paris, 2000, pp. 70–71.

47Even though DDII itself could not be considered as totally Wahhabi or Salafist, Salafists occupied the highest positions. However, its diversity is such that its theological method has been called “of all directions” (manhaj sanasini ) (International Crisis Group, September 2004, p. 22). The legacy of flexibility inherited from the Masyumi of the 1950s probably explains why personalities found within DDII mirror the pluralism of former members.

48See Chapter Four.

49Ali Said Damanik, 2002, p. 92; Noorhaidi Hasan, “Between Faith and Politics: The Rise of the Laskar Jihad in the Era of Transition in Indonesia”, in Indonesia, no. 73, 2002: 156, citing the PhD thesis of Asna Husin, “Philosophical and Sociological Aspects of Da’wah: A Study of Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia”, Columbia University, 1988, p. 168.

50One of DDII’s brochures published in 2004 claims that it has sent nearly 500 students overseas. Four universities in particular (Islamic University of Imam Muhammad ibn Saud in Riyadh, Islamic University in Medina, Ummul Qura University in Mecca and Punjab University in Lahore) have formed several Indonesian Salafists. International Crisis Group, 11 December 2004, p. 7.

51LIPIA had educated 3,726 students by 1998 and counted almost 5,000 ex-students in 2004. International Crisis Group, 13 September 2004, p. 8.

52For a list of projects conducted in the 1990s, see International Crisis Group, 13 September 2004, p. 22, citing Lukman Hakiem and Tamsil Linrung, Menunaikan Panggilan Risalah, Dokumentasi Perjalanan 30 Tahun Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia, Jakarta, 1997, p. 35.

53Some former students of LIPIA such as Ulil Abshar-Abdalla, head of the Liberal Islam Network, even chose an opposing path. Ulil voluntarily interrupted his course and thus never went on to complete his studies in the Middle East, to which he would definitely have had access given his intellectual capacity.

54These biographical details are mostly drawn from the excellent study by Sabarudin, 2000.

55Gerakan Pemuda Islam Indonesia is the former organisation of the Masyumi youth, whose legacy is cultivated by DDII groups. It survived the ban on Masyumi under the name of Gerakan Pemuda Indonesia (GPI).

56Maulavi Jamil ul Rehman (his real name was Maulavi Hussain but he later adopted the name Jamil ul Rehman) was a Pashtoun Safi (a tribe that only converted to Islam at a later stage and was never really subdued but was very rigorist) from the province of Kunar (Nuristan). Claiming to be Salafi and strongly opposed to the cult of saints, he was not close to the Talibans, who are radical Deobandis very much attached to Hanafism and to the cult of saints. Communication from Mariam Abu Zahab, French academic specialising in Pakistan, 4 July 2004.

57Although it maintained that it was independent, the Abu Nida movement repre-sented the Kuwaiti organisation in Indonesia, which also funded other structures in the region. International Crisis Group, 13 September 2004, p. 9.

58For a biography of Ja’far (and the FKAWJ foundation), see Noorhadi Hassan, 2002, p. 151.

59Ja’far’s father, Umar bin Thalib, was himself the student of Ahmad Hassan, the founder of Persis. Interview with Ghazie Hassan, grandson of the founder, in Bangil, October 2000.

60Forum Keadilan, 23 April 2000.

61It was actually during their first trial that the term ‘Jemaah Islamiyah’ (literally ‘Islamic communities’) cropped up. The Indonesian authorities viewed it as a politicised organisation and not as the informal aggregation of simple prayer groups, as maintained by the accused.

62The school was run by Ali Ghufron alias Mukhlas. Among the students of this school was Abdul Aziz, alias Imam Samudra, who would go on to train in Afghanistan and become the mastermind of the Bali bombings.

63This was affirmed by, amongst others, Abdullah Hehmahuwa, former chairman of the Association of Muslim Students (HMI), who went to Afghanistan as early as 1979 (Tempo, 2 October 2001).

64Lily Zubaidah Rahim, “The Road Less Travelled: Islamic Militancy in Southeast Asia”, in Critical Asian Studies, vol. 35, no. 2, June 2003.

65His works were translated in Indonesian and published by Pustaka al-Alaq, a publisher in Solo associated with the Ngruki pesantren. One of the main accused of the Bali bombings, Ali Gufron (alias Mukhlas), acknowledged that Azzam was a major influence and that he met Osama bin Laden through Sayyaf. See Jamhari and Jajang Jahroni (eds), 2004, p. 47 ff.; International Crisis Group, 26 August 2003, p. 3.

66In honour of Abdul Rasul Sayyaf, Abubakar Janjalani named his organisation in Mindanao after him.

67Cited by Zachary Abuza, Militant Islam in Southeast Asia. Crucible of Terror, Lynne Rienner Publishers, London, 2003, p. 11.

68International Crisis Group, 26 August 2003, p. 4.

69International Crisis Group, 22 February 2005, p. 22. Children whose parents were Masduki loyalists left Ngruki for the Nurul Salam pesantren in Ciamis.

70In particular Hambali was suspected of having taken under his charge two of the hijackers of the American Airlines jet that crashed into the Pentagon on 11 September 2001 during their stay in Malaysia (Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 21).

71International Crisis Group, 26 August 2003, p. 16.

72For its links with Mindanao, see International Crisis Group, 26 August 2003, p. 16–22; “Southern Philippines Backgrounder: Terrorism and the Peace Process”, in International Crisis Group, Asia Report, no. 80, 13 July 2004, 38 pp.

73The idea that a safe territory, a home base was necessary was never far from their minds, and until the arrest of some of the JI leaders in 2003, many considered that Poso in Sulawesi could have been ideal for such a base (International Crisis Group, 22 February 2005, p. 6).

74Tempo, 11 November 2003.

75“Indonesia: Noordin Top’s Support Base”, International Crisis Group Asia Briefing, no. 95, 27 August 2009.

76“Indonesia: Jihadi Surprise in Asia”, International Crisis Group, Asia Report, no. 189, April 2010.

77Kompas, 25 June 2010.

78International Crisis Group, Asia Report, no. 142, 19 November 2007 and the updated but unpublished version, “Prison deradicalisation and disengagement: The Case of Indonesia”, November 2009.

79His intellectual responsibility has been rejected by, amongst others, the New Zealander Tim Behrend, specialist in Indonesian literature, who in December 2002 was quoted by the Islamist press in Indonesia: “[Ba’asyir] does not publicly advocate political violence or the forced conversion of non-Muslims; in fact he openly preaches against these extremist positions in both commercial and underground media”, in Sabili, December 2002. Strangely, however, Behrend mentions Ba’asyir’s ‘autobiography’ Saya Teroris? Sebuah ‘Pleidoi’, Penerbit Republika, Jakarta, May 2002, VII–136 pp, written by his right-hand man, Fauzan al-Anshari and published before his arrest. In this book, Ba’asyir explains in clear terms the significance of jihad and military strategy: “We are convinced that, without jihad in God’s path, the consolidation [dienul ] of Islam cannot be attained” (p. 63). He also recommends the formation of training camps for war. He does not name the enemy in these pages but preaches suicide as a way to attain martyrdom and sings the praises of Osama bin Laden (p. 115).

80Materi Pelajaran Aqidah IB, PP Islam Al-Mukmin, Solo (no date), cited in Jamhari and Jahroni (eds), 2004, pp. 61–66.

81Ibid., p. 64, citing the booklet p. 38.

82For example, the work of Said Hawwa, Jundullah Membasmi Penyakit Ummat (God’s Soldiers Eliminate the Disease of the Umma), 1986 and that of Abdullah Azzam, Tarbiyah Jihadiyah (Teaching of Jihad).

83Jamhari and Jajang Jahroni (eds), 2004, p. 47 cf. and ff.

84A. Maftuh Abegebriel and A. Yani Abeveiro, Negara Tuhan, The Thematic Encyclopaedia, SR-INS Team, Penerbit SR-INS Publishing, Jakarta Selatan-Yogyakarta-Semarang, 984 pp.

85These documents were of a very varied nature (constitution, theory, organisation, combat guidebook, the diary of terrorist Omar al-Faruq, a Kuwaiti linked to JI). They were mostly found during police investigations following the attacks.

86Agus Maftuh Abegebriel, 2004, p. 871, cited in the magazine Nidaul Islam, no. 17, February–March 1997.

87This was for a long time the central argument of the defence by Ba’asyir’s lawyers, an argument that was repeated during the Second Congress of Mujahidin in August 2003.

88Syafudin Zuhri, Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia; Ideology, Militancy and Politics, MA Thesis, Leiden University, 2009, Chapter One.

89Kompas, 4 June 2010, see also International Crisis Group, Asia Report, no. 107, 6 July 2010.

90The reports of the International Crisis Group, supervised by Sidney Jones and published regularly since August 2002, were the first to report openly and in great detail on the complexity of the links. Sidney Jones is a specialist on Indonesia, known for her work in advancing the respect of human rights, including those of political prisoners linked to DI in the early 1980s.

91As Carlyle Thayer rightly notes, “Al Qaeda is best conceived as a small hard-core whose influence globally and in SEA was limited in time (1996–2001) and space (Afghanistan).” Thus neither JI nor the Abu Sayyaf groups can be considered as branches or affiliates of Al-Qaeda. What characterises Southeast Asian terrorism is that it is “regionally networked, with international intermittent linkages, capable of conducting high profile attacks using conventional explosives, resulting in scores, if not hundreds, of casualties”. Carlyle Thayer, “New Terrorism in Southeast Asia”, in Damien Kingsbury (ed.), Violence in Between: Confl ict and Security in Archipelagic Southeast Asia, Monash Asia Institute, Clayton, ISEAS, Singapore, 2005, p. 72.

92Jemaah Islamiyah leaders obtained funding from supposedly charitable organisations such as KOMPAK (an offshoot of DDII, created in 1998), which was itself supported by big Saudi foundations such as the Islamic International Relief Organisation, the Medical Emergency Relief Charity or Al-Haramain. As such, Agus Dwikarna, one of the heads of Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia and head of one of the militias of the Jemaah Islamiyah movement was both representative of Al-Haramain at Makassar and head of the local branch of KOMPAK. International Crisis Group, 13 July 2004, 38 pp.

93This latter was sent to Mindanao as early as 1988 to recruit combatants for Afgha-nistan. Having married a local girl, he was able to penetrate fighting organisations in southern Philippines. On the complex relations with the Philippines, see International Crisis Group, “Southern Philippines Backgrounder: Terrorism and the peace process”, in International Crisis Group, 13 July 2004, 38 pp.

94On these rebellions, see Cees van Dijk, Rebellion Under the Banner of Islam; The Darul Islam in Indonesia. Martinus Nijhoff, La Haye, 1981, X–409 pp.

95Agus Maftuh Abegebriel, 2004, p. 875, cites the document “Nidhom Asasi” where Daulah Islamiyah is stated to be “the base for creating once again the caliphate” (khilaafah ‘Alaa Minhajin Nuhuwwah).

96We would like to thank Sidney Jones for these remarks on how Daulah Nusantara’s appeal differed for Malaysian and Indonesian JI members. See also International Crisis Group, 3 February 2004, pp. 2–3.

97After a short period of collaboration in 2000 between Laskar Mujahidin and Laskar Jihad, the relationship went downhill at the beginning of 2001. International Crisis Group, “Indonesia Backgrounder, Jihad in Central Sulawesi”, in Asia Report, no. 74, 3 February 2004, p. 6.

98Cited by Maria A. Ressa, Seeds of Terror, An Eyewitness Account of Al Qaeda’s Newest Center of Operations in Southest Asia, Free Press, 2003, p. 52. The bombing of the Marriott greatly reduced the aura MMI enjoyed in its early days and its support in Indonesian ‘mainstream’ Islam.

99For a more complete list of the members of the Ngruki network enlisted in MMI, see International Crisis Group, 8 August 2002.

100Abu Bakar Ba’asyir, Catatan dari Penjara untuk Mengamalkan dan Menegakkan Dinul Islam (Notes from Prison to Uphold and Establish Islam), Depok, Mushaf, 2006, cited in Syaifudin Zuhri, “Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia; Ideology, Militancy and Politics”, MA Thesis, Leiden University, 2009, Chapter One.

101During our visit in August 2000, he sat enthroned on wonderful rose-coloured satin cushions and regularly rang a series of bells placed at his feet that sent a horde of eager assistants running.

102Sayyid Ali Baaqil’s name was often cited in the investigation of the wave of bombings that hit Indonesia in 2000. Noorhaidi Hasan, communication at the Euroseas Congress, London, September 2001.

103An ulama of Banten thus declared to the weekly Tempo that Front Hizbullah’s activities in the region “soiled” (mencoreng) Islam’s name (Tempo, 6 August 2000).

104Interview with Habib Rizieq, Jakarta, August 2000.

105Gatra, 5 August 2000.

106Kivlan Zen, Konflik dan Integrasi TNI-AD, IPS, Jakarta, 2004, 178 pp. On the militias known as pamswakarsa, see pp. 122–123; Jamhari, “Mapping Radical Islam in Indonesia”, in Studia Islamika, vol. 10, no. 3, 2003: 10–11.

107It was in fact a committee set up to promote the implementation of the sharia in Indonesia that was presented as evidence of the organisation’s success: it was purported that 15 million members were recruited by FPI in 18 provinces. This figure is totally unreliable as it is not backed up by any statistics. Protests organised by FPI alone seemed to have gathered only hundreds of persons, but it was habitual to organise joint events. Nonetheless, it is certain that the influence of the habib (religious persons of Arab descent) network is especially strong in the betawi community, the first inhabitants of Jakarta.

108Interview with Habib Rizieq, August 2000.

109In an interview with the weekly Gatra of 5 August 2000, H. Jony Yodyana, head of the police for the province of West Nusa Tenggara, acknowledged some form of collaboration with these groups and asserted that they were the reason behind a decrease in the crime rate.

110Gatra, 5 August 2000.

111This effusiveness of emotions was to be capitalised on in the following years.

112Interview with Abdullah Gymnastiar, in Asian Wall Street Journal, 11 April 2000.

113These groups were baptised ‘sadigo’ by the population, an acronym for ‘salah sedikit digorok’ (‘a small mistake and they’ll cut your throat’). Numerous interviews in Yogyakarta and Jepara, October 2000.

114The Indonesian term for hired hand or gangster, preman, comes from the English word freeman. Soeharto’s anti-crime campaign at the start of the 1980s had, as we have seen, pushed petty criminals to the mosques, a place of refuge where they were “taken care of” by Darul Islam. Abdul Syukur, 2003, p. 48.

115According to one political leader we met in Jepara on 8 October 2000 who wished to remain anonymous, the police did not dare to intervene as each crackdown would bring on even more militias.

116The information website http://www.laksamana.net reported many such incidents on 26 October 2004.

117In December 2009, a house in the south of Jakarta where Ahmadiyah members resided was attacked by men who claimed they were from FPI. The members of the sect had to be placed under police protection. Jakarta Post, 11 December 2009.

118The Jakarta Globe, 23 October 2010.

119Tajuk, third trimester, second year, 1999.

120A book published in June 2004 by General Kivlan Zen suggests that the violence in Ketapang could have arisen from the political mobilisation of the militias. According to him, Ketapang was an act of vengeance for the killing on 13 November of four Muslim Ambonese who were militia members (pam-swakarsa) hired by the army to support the election of President Habibie at the Special Session of the People’s Consultative Assembly (MPR). These pam-swakarsa had been rejected and sometimes even driven away by the population. These revelations explained, six years later, the passivity of the police during the massacre at Ketapang, a passivity that had raised many questions indeed. Kivlan Zen, 2004, pp. 122–123. See also Aditjondro George Junus, “Guns, Pamphlets and Handie-Talkies: How the Military Exploited Local Ethno-Religious Tensions in Maluku to Preserve their Political and Economic Privileges”, in Ingrid Wessel and Georgia Wimhofer (eds), Violence in Indonesia, Abera, Hamburg, 2001, p. 112.

121Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 105.

122Kivlan Zen, 2004, p. 123.

123There are many versions of this incident. Some report that the Muslim tried to extort money from the Christian bus driver, while others claim that he was simply trying to recuperate the amount owed to him for renting the bus. Cees van Dijk, A Country in Despair: Indonesia between 1997 and 2004, KITLV Press, Leiden, 2004, pp. 385. The publication of Kivlan Zen’s book in 2004, however, opens other perspectives, as it is noteworthy that clashes also occurred in Mataram on the same day. This makes the spontaneity of the incidents in Ambon very doubtful and could confirm the oft-heard hypothesis that the violence on 19 January was not totally spontaneous.

124Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 103.

125Gerry van Klinken, “The Maluku Wars: Bringing Society Back In”, in Indonesia 71, April 2001: 1–26.

126In August 2004, the minister of social prosperity mentioned that almost 300,000 persons were still living in refugee camps across the country and that an estimated 1.3 million Indonesians had already returned to their homes after having been displaced. A huge majority of these refugees were originally from the Moluccas. Jakarta Post, 28 August 2004.

127Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 104. They took over the majority of stalls in the main traditional markets at Batumerah, Mardika and Pelita. In the months leading up to the explosion in Ambon, graffiti with ‘usir BBM’ (expel the BBM), calling for the expulsion of the Butonese, Bugis and Makassarese, the ethnic groups making up the new migration, multiplied on walls in the town (Cees van Dijk, 2001, p. 385).

128According to Sinansari Ecip (Menyulut Ambon — Kronologi Merambatnya berbagai Kerusuhan Lintas Wilayah di Indonesia, Mizan, Bandung, 1999, pp. 69–70, cited in Gerry van Klinken, 2001, p. 19); Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 105.

129See Chapter Two.

130A Muslim Ambonese confided in us about the differences that struck him upon his return home in 1992 after ten years of study in Java: “In the streets, I saw Muslims with Muslims and Christians with Christians; we did not mix anymore. Ever since the Council of Indonesian Ulama had officially called upon Muslims not to wish ‘Merry Christmas’ to Christians (the 1981 fatwa), things have changed. Previously, in school, we all sang Christian songs together, and we Muslims knew them as well as the Christians. Then one day, a teacher pointed out Christians to sing these songs but not the Muslim students, who felt picked on. We ran into problems for the ceremonies in honour of the national hero Pattimura: 50 per cent of the committee for the preparation of the celebrations had to be Christians, and the rest Muslims. We hardly spoke anymore between Christians and Muslims. When I went to look for my Christian friends, I had to bear with rebukes from my Muslim friends: ‘Don’t hang around them, they are Christians!’ When the Christians obtained a permit for building a church, the Muslims would build a mosque, purely out of retaliation, even if the mosque had no reason to be built in the area. Competition was fierce. Protestants were accused of being arrogant and Muslims were just as bad. Everyone put on a show of being religious. Christians displayed crosses around their necks more frequently, or got tattoos, and more stickers of ‘Follow the Lord’ could be seen. This was during the 1990s, one could feel the mounting sectarianism.” Interview, Jakarta, November 2000. See also Judo Poerwowidagdo (ed.), Menuju Rekonsiliasi di Halmahera, Pusat Pemberdayaan untuk Rekonsiliasi dan Perdamaian (PPRP), Jakarta, 2003, p. 104.

131See Chapter Four.

132Indeed, in this case, it was ethnic solidarity rather than religious identity that dominated. On 17 January 1999, at Parit Setia (West Kalimantan, Kecamatan Jawai), some Malays (Muslims) beat up a Madurese (Muslim) accused of burglary. On 19 January (day of Idul Fitri), some 200 Madurese descended upon Parit Setia in revenge and killed three Malays. On 16 March, after a Christian Dayak (Martinus Amat) was stabbed — supposedly by a Madurese, though the Madurese leaders denied this — Dayaks became involved on the side of the Malay Muslims. The violence increased tenfold and spread to the whole of Sambas, forcing the Madurese to flee to Kuching, Pontianak and Madura. In spite of two years of peace in West Kalimantan, they were still unable to return to Sambas. Interview with Glenn Smith, specialist in the Madurese and in the conflict, June 2004. For a multi-dimensional look at these conflicts, see Dewi Fortuna Anwar et al., Violent Internal Conflicts in Asia Pacific, Histories, Political Economies and Politics, Obor, Lipi, Lasema-CNRS, KITLV, Jakarta, 2005, 416 pp.

133That children — called agas (jungle mosquito) and reputed to possess magic powers and to be invincible — were used as arsonists in this conflict contributed to this special atmosphere. Gerry van Klinken, 2001, p. 4.

134In 2000 and 2001, for example, visitors to the DDII headquarters in Jakarta would have walked past a wall of photographs showing the savagery of Christian combatants.

135In 2001, the circulation of Suara Maluku declined from 10,000 to 5,000, losing out to Siwalima. For example, Suara Maluku did not expressly name Laskar Jihad, using instead the term “perusuh” (troublemakers). While the village was Muslim, the term used was “majority group”. Eriyanto, Media dan Konflik Ambon, Kantor Berita Radio 68H, Jakarta, 2003, p. 98.

136Chris Wilson, Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia, From Soil to God, Routledge Contemporary Southeast Asia Series, London & NY, 2008, p. 195.

137Farsijana Adeney-Risakotta, “The Politics of Ritual and Ritual of Politics in the Moluccas”, paper presented at a Euroseas Congress (London, 5–6 September 2001).

138Wilson, 2008, p. 62.

139Ibid.

140Ibid., p. 66.

141Ibid., p. 141.

142Ibid., p. 192.

143Ibid., p. 71.

144Ibid., p. 84.

145Ibid., p. 86.

146Ibid., p. 88.

147Ibid., pp. 101–108 for details.

148Ibid., p. 108.

149Ibid., p. 110.

150Wilson, 2008, p. 186. In retaliation, in May 2000, three Christian villages were razed in Galela, killing 700 Christians. Eriyanto, 2003, p. 124.

151See Gerry van Klinken, 2001, p. 7. Wilson explains the brutal violence with a confluence of factors: the religious sensitivity of both communities and the involvement of Protestant pastors in the violence increased a sense that the violence was divinely sanctioned. The Christian militias sought to expel Muslims from the subdistrict before they could regroup and ally with sympathetic security personnel. They also tried to deter Muslims from returning to the area.

152Wilson, 2008, p. 187.

153Christian Science Monitor, 24 January 2000. Some 8,000 persons escaped and hid in the jungle for weeks.

154After Friday prayers on 7 January 2000, between 100,000 and 300,000 persons gathered at Lapangan Merdeka (Independence Square) in the centre of Jakarta, calling on the government to intervene on behalf of the Muslims of the Moluccas. Amien Rais, chairman of MPR and PAN; Hamzah Haz, PPP chairman; and Ahmad Sumargono of PBB and KISDI addressed the crowd. In the midst of calls for jihad, several Islamic organisations began to sign up warriors ready to leave for the Moluccas. International Crisis Group, 8 February 2002.

155At the beginning of the 1950s, a group from the Moluccan section of the Royal Dutch East Indies Army (KNIL) that wished to remain in the Federal Republic of Indonesia, which was part the part of East Indonesia, rebelled against the nascent Republic of Indonesia. They refused to integrate and proclaimed instead the Republik Maluku Selatan (RMS). The conspiracy theory evoking RMS involvement in the Moluccan conflict first appeared at the national level on 28 January 1999 in a press conference organised by two hard-line Muslim groups, the Indonesian Committee for the Solidarity of the Muslim World (KISDI) and the Indonesian Muslim Workers Union (PPMI), led by Ahmad Sumargono and Eggy Sudjana respectively. Noorhaidi Hasan, “The Radical Muslim Discourse on Jihad and the Hatred of Christians”, paper presented at the “International Symposium on Christianity in Indonesia, Perspectives of Power”, University of Frankfurt (Germany, 12–14 December 2003).

156On this subject, the speech by Paul Gardner, former ambassador of Papua New Guinea, before the US Commission on International Religious Freedom in February 2001 is illuminating. He showed how the least gesture made by the United States in the region, including the simplest routine exercises of the 7th Float in the South China Sea, was immediately construed of as proof of imminent meddling in the Moluccan crisis.

157It is estimated that Christians made up 70 per cent of the police force. International Crisis Group, 8 February 2002.

158From military sources. Interview with General Saurip Kadi, Jakarta, August 2000.

159Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 107, citing Marcus Mietzner 2002, “Politics of Engagement: The Indonesian Armed Forces, Islamic Extremism, and the ‘War on Terror’ ”, The Brown Journal of World Affairs, 9, 1, (Spring 2002): 78.

160Noorhaidi Hasan, 2008, pp. 106–107.

161On the role played by elements of the Indonesian military in the Maluku conflict, see Damien Kingsbury and Clinton Fernandes, “Terrorism in Archipelagic Southeast Asia”, in Damien Kingsbury (ed.), 2005. See also International Crisis Group, 8 February 2002, pp. 8–9; Aditjondro George Junus, “Guns, Pamphlets and Handie-Talkies: How the Military Exploited Local Ethno-Religious Tensions in Maluku to Preserve their Political and Economic Privileges”, in Ingrid Wessel and Georgia Wimhofer (eds), 2001.

162Members of a Protestant Moluccan gang called ‘Coker’ have admitted that they were paid by Kopassus to organise a series of 11 bombings since 2002, including one that caused 4 deaths in a stadium. Kopassus apparently furnished them with arms, explosives and instructions on how to use them. They have confessed to being behind all the bombings since the peace accords of February 2002 (Tempo, no. 46, 19 January 2003).

163Wilson, 2008, pp. 187–189.

164Ja’far Umar Thalib announced plans for jihad before some 10,000 persons at this demonstration. According to him, the audience included those who had experience in Afghanistan, Bosnia and the Philippines (AFP, 9 April 2000).

165Siar, 12 April 2000.

166Forum Keadilan, Forum Utama, 9th year, 23 April 2000.

167Noorhaidi Hasan, 2002, p. 148, citing an interview with one of the members of the first convoy, Jakarta, December 2000; see also Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 190.

168According to an independent Muslim Ambonese source: “The massive killings at the Al Fatah mosque did not take place as recounted by the people in Jakarta who wanted to legitimise the jihad. There was indeed an incident outside the mosque.

Someone had fired, and afterwards the bodies were transported to the mosque. Later, rumours circulated that it was the police who had shot at people praying in the mosque but that was not true. When someone from the police tried to clarify the situation, he was almost killed.” Interview, November 2000.

169Cees van Dijk, 2001, p. 388.

170Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 109.

171Ibid.

172See Chapter Four.

173International Crisis Group, 13 September 2004, pp. 16–17; Noorhaidi Hasan, 2002, p. 163. These fatwas were also put on the website of Laskar Jihad, http://www.laskarjihad.or.id.; Noorhaidi Hasan, 2008, pp. 116–121.

174Noorhaidi Hasan, 2002, pp. 163–164.

175Interview with Ja’far Umar Thalib, Jakarta, 10 August 2000.

176Interview with the signatories of the Malino 2 Accord, Paris, April 2002.

177The Jakarta Post, 11 April 2000.

178Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 197.

179The Yon Gab, accused this time of pro-Christian favouritism, was replaced in November 2001 by units from Kopassus. But these latter showed that they were just as firm towards the militia of Ja’far Umar Thalib. International Crisis Group, 8 February 2002.

180Tempo, 20 May 2001. In 2002, within the moderate Islamic circles, the reassuring explanation put forward was that the guilty party had asked for this punishment himself, out of a wish to submit to Islamic law.

181See, for example, the declarations of Laskar Jihad lawyer, Wirawan Adnan, to AFP, Jakarta, 30 April 2002.

182International Crisis Group, 3 February 2004, p. 5.

183Ibid., p. 3.

184Ibid., p. 9.

185International Crisis Group, 22 February 2005, p. 25.

186On the Poso conflict, see Lorraine V. Arragon, “Communal Violence in Poso, Central Sulawesi: Where People Eat Fish and Fish Eat People”, in Indonesia, no. 72, October 2001; International Crisis Group, 3 February 2004.

187Another less important movement also went by the name of Laskar Jundullah (Army of Allah) in Java and in the Moluccas, thus creating some confusion. International Crisis Group, 11 December 2002, p. 24.

188Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 196.

189International Crisis Group, 11 December 2002, p. 22. Abu Jibril was detained by the Malaysian authorities in June 2001. Laskar Jihad ended up calling Laskar Mujahidin ‘KGB’ (Khawarij Gaya Baru, new-style Kharijite). Ja’far Thalib is even said to have declared that once they had defeated RMS, he would attack Laskar Mujahidin. International Crisis Group, 3 February 2004, pp. 6–7.

190International Crisis Group, 3 February 2004, p. 4, citing Moritz Kleine-Brockhoff, “An Entry in the Diary of Reda S.”, Frankfurter Rundschau, 17 November 2002, p. 4.

191The employees of oil companies in East Kalimantan had requested an audit of the donations and dispatched an expert who asked JI to account for a sum of 40 million rupiah. International Crisis Group, 3 February 2004, p. 10.

192Ibid., p. 10.

193Ibid., p. 18, citing Program Kerja Wakalah Uhud Periode Jumadil Akhir s/d Dzul Qoidah 1423H, photocopy dated from February 2002. Recruitment should be carried out in this order: 1) dakwah in a mosque or pesantren without revealing one’s identity; 2) formation of small groups (halaqah) to which potential candidates are invited; 3) candidate taken under the charge of an instructor or murobbi; 4) preparation of the candidate in four stages: preaching (tabligh), lesson (ta’lim), education (tarbiyah) and training (tamhis), after which the candidate is given a dakwah mission to test his ability. If successful, he will gain entry to JI and must take an oath (baiat). Sound religious knowledge is also a requisite for this last step.

194International Crisis Group, 3 February 2004, p. 5.

195Gerry can Klinken, Communal Violence and Democratization in Indonesia, Small Town Wars, Routledge Contemporary Southeast Asia series, London & NY, 2007, p. 143.

196Ibid., p. 139.

197John T. Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad. Religious Violence in Indonesia, Singapore, NUS Press, 2007, p. 190.

198See International Crisis Group, “Indonesia: Tackling Radicalism in Poso”, Asia Briefing, No. 75, 22 January 2008.

199The ICG distinguished three phases in the Poso conflict: from December 1998, Phase I involved the burning of mostly Christian homes. Phase II began in April 2000 and resulted in further casualties and damage to mainly Christian communities. Phase III was a series of attacks on Muslims in May and early June 2000 that left more than dead (the worst incident was a massacre at the Walisongo pesantren). International Crisis Group, 3 February 2004, p. 2).

200Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, p. 220.

201For these observations and subsequent ones, we thank Abdul Syukur, whose unusual background (student in an Islamic boarding school, journalist then student in the 1990s at the Islamic University, followed by a stint as history student at the secular University of Indonesia) has given him a unique perspective.

202Noorhaidi Hasan, 2006, pp. 160–161, 219. A number of the radicals (Mujahidin) departing for jihad we met had parents from a secular nationalist party (PNI) background with minimal religious knowledge.

203Ibid., p. 169.

204ICG acknowledges that “persons formerly from Muhammadiyah are well represented amongst the Salafis today”. It thus qualifies Muhammadiyah as “more progressive than puritan, more modernist than fundamentalist”. International Crisis Group, September 2004, p. 5.

205International Crisis Group, 22 February 2005, p. 31.

206Gatra, 5 August 2000.

207Tempo, 2 October 2001.

208Ibid.

209Notes of the authors at the launch of the book: Umar Abduh, Konspirasi Intelijen & Gerakan Islam Radikal, Center for Democracy and Social Justice Studies, Jakarta, November 2003.

210Amin Djamaluddin, Capita Selekta Aliran-Aliran Sempalan di Indonesia, Lemgaba Penelitian dan Pengkajian Islam (LPPI), South Jakarta, August 2002.

211On this subject, see International Crisis Group, 13 September 2004, pp. 12–14.

212See Greg Fealy, “Consuming Islam: Commodified Religion and Aspirational Pietism in Contemporary Indonesia”, in Greg Fealy and Sally White (dir.), Expressing Islam: Religious Life and Politics in Indonesia, Research School of Pacific and Asian Studies, The Australian National University, ISEAS, Singapore, 2008. pp. 15–39; Gwenaël Feillard, “Insuffler l’esprit du capitalisme à l’Umma: la formation d’une éthique islamique du travail en Indonésie”, in Critique Internationale, no. 25, October 2004, Paris: 93–116.

213Noorhaidi Hasan, 2000, pp. 91–94.

214Ibid., pp. 88–91.

215See also Abdullah Gymnastiar, Aa Gym, Apa Adanya, MQ Publishing, Bandung, 2003.

216Asian Wall Street Journal, 11 April 2000.

217Accusations were levelled principally by Al Chaidar, a prolific author and the commander of Darul Islam for the district of Bekasi Barat between 1991 and 1996.

218Interview with Budi Santoso, August 2000.

219Interviews with several former N-Sebelas members, Yogyakarta, August 2000.

220According to the International Crisis Group, 22 February 2005, p. i.


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