Press, readers, deal with shock of free information

Press, readers, deal with shock of free information

By Ati Nurbaiti

LHOKSEUMAWE, Aceh (JP): National Police chief Gen. Roesmanhadi
was in Lhokseumawe, the capital of North Aceh regency, last
month. He was told there had just been contact between security
personnel and armed groups, and that two police officers had been
shot.

He was escorted to a hospital to visit the wounded, and
private TV station RCTI cameraman M. Ali Raban was among
journalists who pounced on the moment. But he was struck without
warning. He found that a soldier had dealt the blow, but managed
to protect the camera, which was about to be damaged.

Insults were exchanged and Ali learned that the soldier, a
sergeant, was trying to protect his injured colleague's wife, who
the soldier said was three months pregnant.

"The soldier was afraid his friend's wife would be traumatized
if she saw her husband's condition on television," Ali was told
later by an apologetic officer.

"He could have just told me," Ali, based in Lhokseumawe, told
The Jakarta Post, reciting the incident.

Lilawangsa Military Commander Col. Syafnil Armen, whose
jurisdiction covers the most volatile regions here, said the
soldier had acted in panic out of solidarity with his friend, and
pointed out that reasoning with the press was not the first thing
to enter his mind.

The above was one incident among Ali's many experiences. Many
other journalists based in Aceh have similar tales to tell.
RCTI's green Kijang van here still bears the dents inflicted by
the rifle butts of emotional soldiers while the TV crew covered
the shooting of a civilian.

A Reuters journalist here said last week he was forced by gun
point to give up his film to a soldier, who destroyed it. Such
threats, local journalists say, are daily fare for them, while
visiting reporters can depart for safe ground once an assignment
is over.

The Aug. 10 explosion of a Molotov cocktail at the Banda Aceh
home of Sjamsul Kahar, chief editor of the leading Serambi
Indonesia daily, is suspected to be linked to the daily's
increasingly bold reports on violence in the province.

Sjamsul, who was at his office when the explosion took place
at 2 a.m., also heads the Kompas bureau in Aceh, and the terror
is also believed to be linked to the Jakarta-based daily's
reports on suspected intelligence operations in the province.

Years of silence shrouded the experiences of people here under
the military operations of 1989 to 1998. The winds of reformasi
that swept across the country meant the rush of long-suppressed

information on what was going on in Aceh, egged on by visits by
fact-finding teams investigating rights abuses.

Family

People in towns and villages suddenly spoke up, and the media
needed only to report this, which was backed up by much
information that for a long time had been off the record. At last
people turned their attention to Aceh.

Acehnese themselves were shocked -- stories of horror were not
even much discussed at family gatherings. A district employee in
Pidie regency told the Post that in the years of the military
operations, "you didn't know who you could trust," even among
relatives.

One reporter in Lhokseumawe said of the years, "You just chose
not to report (abuse and killings), rather than being picked up."

In the absence of an overseas network, as in the case of East
Timor, and the terror felt by both residents and the media, what
did leak out was not easy to check.

Media organizations pressed by resource shortages would not
send journalists to cover a dangerous area that had little chance
of being aired or printed.

Aceh, therefore, remained in the dark while human rights
groups, armed with leaked reports of abuse, yelled alone for the
military operations to stop.

A young driver growing up in Banda Aceh said, "Even if I'm not
an Aceh native, I felt very sad. We heard of things but there was
nothing in the newspapers."

Journalists did try. A reporter from state-run TVRI said, "We
reported things like: 'The local administration channeled aid to
Bukit Janda, the Hill of Widows.' And this would lead the
audience to question, why is the place named after widows?"

The hill in Pidie regency is one of many places where all
menfolk were abducted and killed for being suspected of links to
the Free Aceh Movement.

Continual violence even after the military operations status
of the province was lifted became the material of major daily
reports.

Front page stories of the leading Serambi Indonesia daily on
one day in August included at least three separate mysterious
murders and abductions of civilians and police officers, with
updates of other cases inside.

Some cases are the same as before, journalists here said, the
only difference being that it is now reported. They say this is
an unpleasant new experience for perpetrators of violence who
have grown so used to the silence.

To guarantee they can continue to operate, the media still
avoids extremely blunt reporting when it can. One newspaper did
not report details of the wounds on a dead man suspected of being
a Free Aceh member while the reporter had seen the three gunshots
on the body.

"It's all right for you reporters from Jakarta," one reporter
in Pidie said. "We live here."

Another journalist working for a Medan-based newspaper in
Pidie said he prefers his family to live in the North Sumatra
capital, given continuous threats.

Resentment

The recent murder of a Medan Post journalist in North Aceh
remains a mystery, with his editor only hinting that his death
might have been linked to his frequent reports on local
corruption.

Following the finding of his body on Aug. 5, the Association
of Indonesian Journalists (PWI) demanded security personnel to
protect the media.

Lack of professionalism is cited by reporters here as one
factor that may incite anger among the public. Just like in other
areas in the country, there are also many extortionists among the
press here, journalists say.

Now when reporters hope they can do their job much better,
they face a public resentful of their silence so far.

It is a tense situation, in which the public now demands
reporting of their grievances, while not trusting their
journalists.

"The local press is pro-government," a resident in Lhokseumawe
said. Some journalists go about their work here as unobtrusively
as possible, with their notebooks deep in their pockets, while
the foreign press are greeted with an enthusiastic "Hey Mister!"

In East Timor, to join a crowd of foreign journalists was to
seek trouble before the United Nations arrived, but in Aceh they
are useful shields.

"We'll only go with foreign press," drivers say in really
risky times.

The tension for everyone living in these parts is due to the
fact that over the past year it has been unclear who the
perpetrators of the violence are.

One watches out for unknown armed groups, several categories
of "Free Aceh" rebels, and security personnel members who might
be in a temper or are feeling like a display of power.

Journalists are cautious, nervous, and "leaving everything to
fate", one said. Some use a number of names but know quite well
that they are easy to find in the small town.

Fairly large organizations can afford to replace stressed-out
employees with new ones from Banda Aceh, while others are stuck.

A senior reporter from the state-run Antara news agency shared
one tip when Jakarta colleagues were assigned to cover
Independence Day here on Aug. 17.

"Hurry, clear out," he said in a low tone after a police
patrol in civilian clothes left a street where residents had been
ordered to raise the country's red and white flag.

"When security personnel leave an (unfamiliar) area, you leave
too," he said. "You cannot tell who the residents are."