Ambonese come to terms with the limits of `normalcy'

Ati Nurbaiti The Jakarta Post Ambon

It seems an inevitable, accepted fact of life here that while things must return to "normal", it would be wishful thinking to imagine that it means resuming normalcy in full, at least in the foreseeable future.

Young and old now say that the conflict since 1999 had a significant impact and that it brought widespread suffering to nearly all residents, with the loss of life, amounting to an unofficial estimate of over 9,000, equally painful for all.

A drive to move on has replaced earlier, bitter feelings of vengeance. "Do you want to think of life or death?" says Ali, a motorcycle taxi driver who escaped near death in one of the communal battles.

A mother who lost two teenage sons allowed herself a moment of grief, and buried her face in her hands briefly before saying, "I would become too stressed out if I kept thinking about them, it was impossible for them to stay inside while there was a war anyway."

The change that must be acknowledged is of course that although many families never thought it a problem to live among neighbors of a different religion, it is now common sense to live apart.

It is heartening in the meantime that people can move through either "Christian" or "Muslim" areas for daily activities, that they can pay much less in fees when traveling by road instead of by sea for short distances, that they can associate with relatives and friends of other religions again and that they are all fed up with violence and are determined to move on.

Families with Christian and Muslim members no longer need to meet in secret.

But having seen how violence strikes, even under the supposedly safe era of the civil emergency status, there is no way that refugees who were of religious minorities can return to their villages.

In the event of an attack on either Muslim or Christian minorities, however remote the possibility, "our neighbors would not be able to help," says Abu Kubangun, a coordinator of one the Muslim refugee camps in Ambon.

"The Christians (minorities in Muslim dominated villages) can't go anywhere either," he said, while hearkening back to a different time in Kudamati, which during the conflicts became a feared base of Christian "hardliners."

While the deadline of Jan. 15 looms for refugees to leave the shelters, Abu, who works with almost 2,000 people from 385 families, said he did not yet know where they would go. Authorities say they have yet to find plots of land for the thousands of people who cannot return home.

The central government has said it can only financially support refugees until Jan. 15.

Nonetheless, much greater freedom of movement has been felt in the last four months, residents say.

A taxi driver, Jefri, says drivers like himself have only been able to operate the route from the airport to downtown in the last two months, as road barriers had been taken away near the razed ruins of the 23-hectare campus of the Pattimura University and the remains of a few state-run high schools.

The fiery scenes of youngsters in war gear and carrying weapons have been replaced by soccer games and billiard tables.

But in the relatively normal looking scene downtown, several areas are still segregated, including the motorcycle taxi pools. In the new bustling market place near Hotel Amans, motorcycle taxis stand ready to cater to the shoppers who are mostly Christians, because prices are double from their own areas, which is further from Muslim-dominated downtown.

Any visitor to Muslim refugee camps would have to take a Muslim motorcycle taxi as a precaution. Many public transport vehicles need to display their routes -- their colors indicate where they are going -- which is largely to either Christian or Muslim areas.

Residents have made the best of the situation. In a new twist of the religious and ethnic divide, Christian Ambonese, faced with the need to survive after escaping violence and the destruction of their homes, are now found among pedicab drivers catering to Christian areas once operated by migrant, Muslim pedicab drivers because locals did not take menial jobs like pedicab driving or small scale trading.

Now people must face the facts of such a religious divide, which some historians blame on governmental programs over many decades, for instance in the formation of segregated settlements. Analysts say New Order politics (under Soeharto from 1966 to 1998, including the transmigration program which sent thousands of Javanese Muslims mostly to non-Muslim islands) contributed to the transformation of the social dynamics and the structure of Christian dominance in prestigious jobs, including in the government. But none of this was ever addressed until after the violence broke out.

With some discomfort, such issues were taken up in a gathering of traditional village heads (raja, or king) here, from Jan. 9 to Jan. 11. In the group discussion on education, the leaders and educators debated the need to balance recruitment of students and lecturers or teachers based on religion.

Charges at Pattimura University, which was dominated by Christians, in regard to the students and lecturers only surfaced after the conflict broke out in early 1999.

Similarly, accusations that Muslims were appointed to the local government positions because of nepotism were only brought up after the seemingly endless violence.

In the above talks, the need to strike a balance with all teachers and lecturers should depend on the subject matter, said one raja.

While other subjects should only screen educators on the basis of their academic and teaching competence, he said, "If children are to be taught tolerance, then teachers at the elementary level must be balanced" between Muslims and Christians.

And while Maluku residents must now deal with such issues, the elders also face the task of understanding problems of the young, such as unemployment and drug use.

Ecstasy is freely sold at nightclubs and bars, witnesses say, and even children are involved in the now open business of lottery (unyil) on the streets. One of the older lottery organizers, Aladin said he would gladly do something else if there was another good job for him, but the numbers game was currently the only thing he could do to feed his three children.

One of the speakers at the gathering of the 110 raja, noted psychologist Sarlito Wirawan, said, "The approach to the young needs an entirely different approach, their icons and jargon are totally different."