JP/ /POSO
JP/ /POSO
Post-conflict Poso
Consumed by hate, divided by faith
Ruslan Sangadji & Meidyatama Suryodiningrat
The Jakarta Post/Poso, Sulawesi Tengah
Tragically, communal conflict -- whether ethnic or religious --
has been a feature of the nation since the onset of the reform
era. One such conflict engulfed the once peaceful regency of Poso
in Central Sulawesi. Though an edgy peace now prevails, the
violence the conflict generated created lasting divisions that
may take generations to heal.
The sharp clangs of metal striking repeatedly shattered the
still of the night. An all too familiar warning that raised the
Arsyad family from their evening rest.
The distant screams of "Allahu Akbar! Allahu Akbar! Allahu
Akbar!" sounded a battle cry for Mohammad Arsyad and his son,
Ahmad.
As the women huddled together, Mohammad grabbed his trusty
machete and prepared to leave the house.
"This is jihad," Mohammad told his wife. Concern was clearly
etched on her face. "It is a call to duty. That's why I must
leave".
That night the battleground was the Catholic Church in Moengko
Baru district.
The target: Fabianus Tibo, who would later be arrested and
sentenced to death for murdering a local village police officer.
Five years and many shattered lives later, Mohammad still
recalls the conflict that swept his once peaceful village in
Poso, Central Sulawesi, with defiance, albeit also with a touch
of regret and sadness.
The reasons for the communal conflict that claimed over a
thousand lives differ according to who is talking. Everyone is
ever ready to blame each other for the 2000 conflict, but none to
take responsibility.
The only thing that is certain is that it turned neighbors
into mortal enemies, once peaceful hamlets into killing fields,
and men of faith into godless mobs running amok.
The "peace" that now prevails is nothing but an uneasy absence
of conflict. The idyllic life in Moengko Lama village, like many
other places in Poso, is now gone. Perhaps forever. Hardened
hearts, wary minds. Suspicion has now become a way of life.
Those days of malice are a stark contrast to this early July
morning in 2005. Sipping coffee while his wife prepares
breakfast, Mohammad, now 51, looks out to his cacao field, ready
for harvest. His son Ahmad, 32, is seated nearby.
He appreciates these lazy mornings, though he would rather
keep busy to avoid his mind wandering back to similar times when
he could still look forward to a visit from his Christian
neighbor, Maxi.
He and Maxi, who lived a few fields away, were in Mohammad's
own words "like brothers".
It was more than just the customary pleasantries. As close as
two unrelated kin could be.
Whenever Mohammad went to fish to supplement his income from
tending the fields, part of the catch would be sent over to
Maxi's family, and vice versa.
Religion did not matter. Mutual help and assistance was a way
of life. Whether it be a family celebration or a religions
commemoration, each would invite the other as the men helped set
up tents and women cooked together.
The most festive time would be the harvest celebration,
Padungku as it is known here. A time to eat, drink and dance
together. As the sun set, villagers would join hands moving to
the upbeat tempo of the Dero dance (a common communal dance in
Poso). They took pleasure in each other's company.
Since 2000, there have been no more Padungku celebrations. The
only beats that Mohammad and Maxi follow now are those of the war
drums. As the conflict swept the region, the two families were
condemned to divergent alliances -- one Muslim, the other
Christian.
The fish they exchanged have been replaced by sinister looks
and disparaging exchanges.
An irreconcilable divide has now arisen between the two
families. Mohammad says he cannot forgive Maxi for trying to set
his house on fire in a heated mob attack.
"Write this down, son. In capital letters!" Mohammad remarked.
"It was they (the Christians) who started the unrest in Poso".
To this day, people in Poso do not venture into the other
side's territory. Even observers and journalists have to be
careful when on assignment in certain parts of Poso.
Still, Mohammad says that he is thankful that peace has
returned to the village. Despite retaining his animosity, he
hopes peace will prevail. He recognizes the futility of the
conflict, albeit unrepentant about the cause that he fought for.
For him, the religious struggle was an obligation that had to
be shouldered.
The two families, like many in Muslim and Christian villages
throughout Poso, now live in a peace that is devoid of harmony.
Yes, they are neighbors, but not friends. Avoidance is the best
prescription against nervous pleasantries or the sudden desire
for retribution.
The battle lines have been drawn.
"We can be friends, but only Muslims can be brothers. We have
to be careful, I can no longer trust them".