JP/21/T05

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".