Unspoken protest amid prolonged war in Aceh

Unspoken protest amid prolonged war in Aceh

Aboeprijadi Santoso, Radio 68-H, Banda Aceh

There is an intriguing public silence in Banda Aceh and
Lhoksemauwe. Of war and silence, the first has characterized much
of Aceh's history, but the second has not -- until very recently.
With hundreds of civilians killed, village life disrupted and
60,000 civil servants to be screened on their loyalty to the
nation, the impact of the war will be profound. The state, with
its promises unfulfilled and its nationalist discourse appearing
obsolete, has created its own problems.

The war in Aceh has provoked changes. From students, activists
to civil servants, intellectuals and public figures, people tend
to be either silent, hide or leave their home province to seek
security. They call this option mengendap (to absorb) or tiarap
(to lay down). These terms -- from activists' vocabulary -- are
often heard these days in coffee shops as people express fear and
insecurity in response to the war and the consequences of martial
law; they indicate an acute awareness of the current war and a
reflection on things to come, but avoid public comment and
suppress the desire to protest.

Abdullah -- not his real name -- comes from Bireuen, but lives
in Banda Aceh. When the war broke out, this brave young man cried
because his beloved mother was among thousands of locals forced
to move to the football stadium of Cot Gapu. He could not take
her to the capital as she needed to get a new ID card in her
district. An ID card has become a matter of life or death, as the
antiguerrilla warfare penetrates into urban and, especially,
village daily life. Others face a worse situation.

By contrast, Farida, a woman from another district in Bireuen,
is outspoken. She publicly displayed her anger, as her brother
had been brutally murdered. His body was left in a yard, but she
decided to leave it intact and waited for journalists to see it
before she buried him. "My brother was a religious teacher,
nothing to do with politics. But last night he was taken by men
in uniform with guns, speaking Javanese," she said.

Farida's case may be tragic, but not exceptional. Another
woman, a teacher from Juli, questioned the official version of
school burnings. Unlike those living in safe towns, villagers are
quite willing to talk.

In war-torn Aceh, these differences are significant and
illustrative. Villagers like Farida have been living in distress
for too long. She broke her silence, as the district where she
lives became a war zone and the conflict, literally, came into
her house. Now she is "liberated" as she has lost her fear.
Abdullah, too, is in distress, but he lives in relative peace. He
maintains silence in order to survive and safeguard his family.
Like Abdullah, students, humanitarian activists and officials in
the capital quietly absorb information but avoid the media, and
outspoken intellectuals turn quiet.

There are exceptions, though. In the Cultural Center of Banda
Aceh, young artists get together. "We lack an audience, as people
stay home after 9 p.m., so we can no longer perform," said poet
Yun Casalona. Others, like Rafly and his group Kande, capture the
suffering in the countryside in their protest songs Hom ("Don't
know" -- said when opposing Army questioning), Anuek Yatim (A son
who lost a father) and Kutidhing (Let's bear it together).

However, silence remains the mainstream. "We are fully
conscious, yet, in reality, we are mati suri (as if in a state of
death)," a high-ranking civil servant said.

The war in the countryside has thus directly affected life in
the cities. It has dramatized different public attitudes in the
urban and rural world of the Acehnese. It could create a crisis,
as Aceh lacks new leaders. But true leadership can hardly be
expected, for neither the corrupt and unpopular local politicians
nor the rebels can provide it, as the province is under strict
military command.

From 1998 to late 2001, during a period the Acehnese call "the
referendum era", when millions of Acehnese, including today's
local politicians and civil servants, showed public support for
the demand for an East Timor-type referendum, differences between
the Abdullahs and Faridas, if any, were irrelevant. Most Acehnese
were then united in euphoria and spoke out.

Now, in a reversal, a big wall has silenced them. The martial
law authorities in Aceh (PDMD), acting as a new Leviathan, are in
action.

Yet, sooner or later, it may prove to be a boomerang. People
like Abdullah and Farida may adopt a common platform if the war
continues unabated and the martial law authorities are
increasingly seen as reviving Soeharto's New Order, with the
latter's disregard for human rights.

After all, the conflict in Aceh had essentially grown out of a
protest against what was seen as the militarization of the state
and society that had marked this country, especially Aceh, during
the last decades. One of the strongest prodemocracy
manifestations outside Jakarta, following Soeharto's resignation,
occurred in Aceh (apart from that in Yogyakarta).

It was not a separatist rebellion, but a manifestation of the
momentum of public protest and demands, largely neglected by the
reformist administration of former presidents B.J. Habibie and
Abdurrahman Wahid, manipulated and exacerbated by the rebels.

Subsequently, and worse, local civil society was repressed as
human rights activists were threatened and killed. Like
villagers, they are sandwiched between the two warring parties.
As one keucik (village chief) -- a critical link between
villagers and the authorities -- put it, "both sides claim they
own us."

Currently, under martial law, the war has intensified state
control. Retired military officers will replace subdistrict
chiefs. Persecution, interrogation and arrests have quietly
started beyond the rural battlefields in and outside Aceh. Public
figures, including Teungku Imam Suja, have been interrogated for
four days, each from 9 a.m. to 9 p.m. It is not known what this
prominent religious leader, who helped mediate between Jakarta
and the rebels in the past, was accused of. Soeharto's infamous
institution of litsus (special investigation into ones' life
history and intentions) has been revived.

There are now more national red-and-white flags flying across
Aceh today than ever before, yet there are more than 50 army
posts along the 270 kilometer Banda Aceh to Bireuen highway
alone.

What does all this signify?

The big irony of Indonesia's antiguerrilla war in Aceh is that
while it is said to crush the rebels in order to assure peace and
security, it has made its people even more worried and they
suffer, in various ways. Civil rights are threatened and
villagers are exposed to physical and other threats. If this
continues, the flags and shouting that urge love and loyalty to
the nation-state of Indonesia, may instead strengthen alienation.

It means that the Indonesian state has stuck for too long to
the idea of nation-state and nationalism as a taken-for-granted
historic legacy that had become sacrosanct, rather than as
processes to be nurtured through negotiation and justice. Aceh is
a challenge to rethink that discourse: Here, silence is not
golden.