Status, Competition, and Violent Islamic Mobilization in Indonesia

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Radical Leaders: Status, Competition, and Violent Islamic Mobilization in Indonesia

Alexandre Paquin-Pelletier

A thesis submitted in conformity with the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy Political Science University of Toronto

Radical Leaders: Status, Competition, and Violent Islamic Mobilization in Indonesia

Alexandre Paquin-Pelletier

Doctor of Philosphy

Department of Political Science University of Toronto

2019

Abstract

Why do some Muslim leaders radicalize while others do not? Drawing on a study of radical mobilization in Indonesia, this dissertation argues that Muslim leaders radicalize when they find religious authority hard to gain and maintain. It makes two specific points: 1) radical mobilization is more likely among weak and precarious religious leaders, those with few followers and little institutionalization; and, 2) weak and precarious leaders are more likely to radicalize in crowded and competitive religious markets, because they need to be creative if they want to survive. It argues that weak Muslim leaders, in competitive environment, are the ones most likely to use strategies of outbidding, scapegoating, and provocation. The dissertation’s empirical puzzle is the cross-regional variations in Islamist mobilization observed in post-transition Java, Indonesia. Since 1999, radical groups have proliferated and mobilized more in some regions than others. The study finds that in regions with radical groups and mobilization, most clerics have weak religious institutions, fragmented networks, and operate in competitive religious markets. In these markets, radical mobilization provides

ii low-status clerics with a cheap and efficient way to bolster their religious authority. In regions where radical groups did not proliferate, most clerics have strong religious institutions with deep roots in society, extensive networks, and operate in much less competitive religious environments. In these markets, clerics do not feel the same urge to mobilize, as religious authority is more secure, stable, and routinized. The origins of these religious markets are traced back to sub-regional variations in the process of state building. State building strategies had long-lasting consequences on contemporary Muslim institutions by shaping subsequent political cleavages and state policies toward Islam. This dissertation is based on

13 months of fieldwork in Indonesia, 124 interviews with Muslim clerics and activists, and a new dataset of Java’s 15,000 Islamic boarding schools and their 30,000 Muslim clerics.

iii

Acknowledgments

It has been a long journey, but a stimulating and fulfilling one! I would not have made it to the end without the dedicated support and energy of so many people. First and foremost, I owe my most sincere and heartfelt thanks to my supervisor, Jacques Bertrand, who made my experience in the program incredibly unique and rich. I thank you first for your patience and for never stopping to believe that I would complete this dissertation, even when I was not sure myself. I also thank you for giving me the confidence to study a topic and a region that fascinate me. Thanks for guiding me in the right direction, for your insightful questions, and for giving me the space to grow intellectually and develop my own ideas. Your frankness (especially about my awkward English at times!) and rigour helped me turn this dissertation into something better, but also helped me become a much better scholar. But Jacques, you were more than a supervisor to me, you gave me amazing opportunities, you were an extraordinary mentor, a wonderful travel companion, and you have become a friend. Merci infiniment!

I thank my two other committee members, Lucan A. Way and the late Lee Ann Fujii, for their amazing work. Thanks Lucan for helping me see the broader picture and for your encouragement and commenting on my work. As I finished and defended my dissertation, I could not but think of Lee Ann Fujii who left us too early. As a scholar of political violence and identity, I was profoundly influenced and inspired by her work, and especially the way she approached fieldwork. She will never read the final version of this dissertation, but I hope she would have been proud of it. I would like to thank Aisha Ahmad whose enthusiasm for my work gave me confidence that I was saying something important and relevant. Thanks for being such a good mentor and a role model. Finally, I want to thank John T. Sidel from the London School of Economics for his excellent reading of my dissertation, for chal-

iv lenging me at the defense, and for his amazing comments that will shape future iterations of this project.

I feel privileged to have joined a community of scholars that welcomed me with open arms and that sees its role as helping the new generation do well. The AAS Conferences and SEAREG meetings have become like old friends reunions for me. I have enormously benefited from the generous suggestions, criticisms, and encouragement, at various stages of my dissertation, of Michael Buehler, Greg Fealy, Kikue Hamayotsu, Robert W. Hefner, Allen Hicken, Sana Jaffrey, Eunsook Jung, Erik Martinez Kuhonta, Diana Kim, Rita Smith Kipp, Edmund Malesky, Jeremy Menchik, Tom Pepinsky, Dan Slater, and Yuhki Tajima. I have also benefited over the years from the support of many members of the broader academic community such as Dominique Caouette, Isabelle Côté, Alain G. Gagnon, Tania Murray Li, Matthew I. Mitchell, and Ardeth Maung Thawnghmung. I owe a very special thanks to Jer- emy Menchik and Isabelle Côté for their friendship, and for being just amazing and generous mentors. I will pay it forward, I promise.

At the University of Toronto, besides my dissertation committee, I have learned a lot from the late Richard Simeon, who rapidly believed in me and who I miss dearly. I have also ap- preciated the encouragement of Neil Nevitte and all my conversations with Donald Forbes. The staff of the Department of Political Science is simply extraordinary. I would like to thank them all for making Sidney Smith’s cinder block walls so much warmer and welcoming. I especially want to thank Carolynn Branton and Sari Sherman for everything they did for me. I will keep sending pictures of Louise, I promise.

I owe a deep gratitude to many people in Indonesia, who gave both time and energy to help me conduct this research. I have learned so much more than this dissertation could ever con- vey. I had the privilege to meet genuinely friendly, welcoming, and generous people and I would like to apologize to all of you for any mistake I may have committed, especially for not being “halus” enough sometimes or for other unintentional cultural missteps. I owe special thanks to my friend Wawan Gunawan who made a lot of this research possible and who made my trips to the Priangan so much more fun. Many thanks to Abdil Mughis Mudhoffir, Abdul Karim Addakhil, Ahmad Bastomi, Ahmad Suaedy, Sukron Hadi, Ali Munhanif, Andi Rahman Alamsyah, Dadi Darmadi, Hunaifi Mas’oed, Andi Rahman, Ahmad Zainul Hamdi,

Jalaluddin, Shohei Nakamura, Sri Nuryanti, Sukirman Marshan, and Wahyuni Widyaning- sih. To all of you, and those I cannot name here, terima kasih atas segalanya!

My colleagues and friends have greatly enriched my time in graduate school on both an intellectual and personal level. It always felt good to share meals, drinks, laughs, and also to picket with you all. I want to thank for their friendship over the years Noaman Ali, Gabriel Arsenault, Ozlem Aslan, Karlo Basta, Ève Bourgeois, Dragana Bodruzic, Yi-Chun Chien, Yannick Dufresne, Min Do, Ahmad Fuad Fanani, Marie Gagné, Carmen Jacqueline Ho, Da- vid Houle, Kate Korycki, Melissa Levin, Jaby Mathew, Michael Morden, Jerald Sabin, Jes- sica Soedirgo, Paul Thomas, Mark Winward, Irene Poetranto, Jean Lachapelle, Hamish van der Ven, Andrew McDougall, and Luke Melchiorre. I would also like to thank my friends outside of Toronto for their support, especially Stéphanie Chouinard, Catherine Ellyson, Guillaume Filion, Arnaud Marion, Julien McEvoy, Sébastien O’Neill, and Jean-Charles Saint-Louis. Special thanks to my friend Gabriel who persuaded, when I was the most con- fused, that I was at the right place and that I should continue. Your friendship is one of the best things that the University of Toronto brought me. Marie, you have been an amazing friend throughout the years. You offered constant support and encouragement, always read my work and provided brilliant feedback and, most importantly, made sure to tell me when I was silly. I also want to thank Jessica for her friendship and support both in Canada and In- donesia, and especially during our fieldwork (i.e. when I was always sick!). I look forward to our next dim sum brunch!

My work would not have been possible without the financial support of the Social Science and Humanities Research Council of Canada (SSHRC) and the Ontario Government Schol- arships Program (OGS). I would also like to thank the University of Toronto’s Department of Political Science and School of Graduate Studies for supporting my fieldwork. Without this crucial financial support, it would have been impossible to spend as much time in the field. Fieldwork has easily been the most challenging, yet life-changing part of the experience. I am glad I was part of a department, a university, and an academic community that recognize and value fieldwork. Finally, support from the Trudeau Center for Peace, Conflict, and Justice (Munk School of Global Affairs) and the Centre d’études et de recherches inter- nationales (Université de Montréal) helped me complete this program.

My greatest debt is to my family. I would like to thank my parents for always valuing education and for prizing curiosity and experience over comfort and stability. I thank my mother, Jacqueline, for giving me her love of reading, and my father, Magella, for giving me his pas- sion for research. I thank them both for their unconditional support and for all the sacrifices they have made for me throughout all those years. They have never stopped believing in me, even when it was hard to say that I would do a PhD, let alone do well in college. You can be proud. Merci beaucoup, je vous aime.

I would also like to thank my brother and his wife, Jean-Philippe and Virginie, for their constant love and encouragement. I also thank Huguette, Jude, Pierre-Charles, Jean-Robert, Ja- cynthe, Sébastien, and Esther for their encouragement over the years and occasional jokes about my status of (eternal) student, which undoubtedly provided an extra-motivation to fin- ish.

And of course, many thanks to my wife Mireille, who has been my rock and anchor throughout this process. Without you, none of this would have been possible. You have supported me from the very beginning to the end and have seen me through the best and worst parts of this process. Thanks for being calm when I was anxious, enthusiastic when I was confident, and comforting when I was in doubt. You were a constant source of joy and happiness and never stopped believing in this project and me. I am extremely grateful for those days we escaped routine together, for our endless dinners, and for all of our future projects. I cannot but tell you how fortunate I am to have you as my partner wherever we live and go and how lucky I was to have you with me in Jakarta (in good and in bad times!). I cannot imagine this journey without you and I look forward to the next one. It is to you and our wonderful daughter, Louise, that I dedicate this dissertation.

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Table of Content

Abstract ...... ii Acknowledgments ...... iv Table of Content ...... viii List of Figures ...... xi List of Tables ...... xii Glossary ...... xiii

Chapter 1. Introduction ...... 1 1. The Argument ...... 2 2. The Puzzle ...... 4 2.1. A Puzzling Geography of Radical Mobilization ...... 11 3. Explaining Patterns of Radical Mobilization in Java ...... 15 4. Methodology ...... 21 5. Outline of the Dissertation ...... 23

Chapter 2. An Institutional Theory of Radical Entrepreneurship and Mobilization ...... 27 1. The Limits of Conventional Explanations ...... 28 2. An Institutional Theory of Radicalism and Radicalization ...... 37 2.1 “Vertical integration”: Ties to Followers ...... 40 2.2 “Horizontal integration”: Ties to Other Clerics ...... 41 3. The Origins of Islamic Institutions and Religious Markets ...... 43 4. Status, Competition, and Radicalism ...... 46 5. Conclusion ...... 51

Chapter 3. Radical Mobilization and Islamic Institutions: Setting the Stage ...... 53 1. Radical Clerics and Intolerant Mobilization ...... 54 2. A Geography of Islamic Institutions ...... 57 2.1. Comparing Within Java ...... 61

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3. Conclusion ...... 70

Chapter 4. The Colonial Origins of Islamic Organizations in Java ...... 72 1. Mobilizing Labour, Collecting Taxes ...... 76 1.1. Islamic Leaders in the Countryside ...... 80 1.2. Islam and “Secular” Power ...... 84 2. Colonial Reforms, Colonial Legacies ...... 87 2.1. Administrative Reforms ...... 88 2.2. Government Ulama in West Java ...... 91 2.3. Land Reforms ...... 94 2.4. Independent Kyai in West Java ...... 99 3. Conclusion ...... 102

Chapter 5. Cleavage Formation, State Response, and Muslim Leadership ...... 104 1. Cohesion in East Java ...... 106 1.1. Kyai vs. the Modernists: The National Awakening in East Java (1880–1930) ..... 108 1.2. Political Competition and the Consolidation of NU ...... 114 1.3. Kyai Against the Communists ...... 118 2. Fragmentation in West Java ...... 121 2.1. Kyai vs. the Colonial State: National Awakening in West Java (1880–1930) ...... 123 2.2. The Sarekat Islam/Rakyat Movement ...... 126 2.3. Repression, Co-optation and the Rise of Nahdlatul Ulama in West Java ...... 131 2.4. Ulama Against the Republic ...... 139 2.5. Co-optation and Repression in Post-Darul Islam West Java ...... 142 3. Ulama and Suharto’s “New Order” (1966-1998) ...... 149 4. Conclusion ...... 153

Chapter 6. Radical Mobilization in West Java ...... 155 1. Democracy and Religious Authority ...... 157 2. Generating Religious Authority in West Java ...... 167 2.1. Radical Groups and Religious Authority ...... 173 3. Opposition to Radical Groups ...... 183 4. Conclusion ...... 186

Chapter 7. Radical Mobilization in East Java ...... 187 1. Generating Religious Authority in East Java ...... 188

1.1. Low Competition, Low Proliferation ...... 189 1.2. Barriers of Entry ...... 196 1.3. Institutionalized Authority, Low Entrepreneurship ...... 203 2. Conclusion ...... 210

Chapter 8. Conclusion ...... 211 1. Summary of the Argument ...... 212 2. Beyond Indonesia ...... 222 3. Conclusion ...... 227

Bibliography ...... 229 1. Articles and Books ...... 229 2. Newspaper Articles ...... 250

Appendix 1. List of Interviews ...... 256

List of Figures

Figure 1.1- Radical Mobilization by Vigilante Organizations in Java, 1999–2014 ...... 8

Figure 1.2- Regional Variations of Vigilante Mobilization, 2008-2014 ...... 12

Figure 1.3- Summary of the Historical Argument ...... 25

Figure 2.1- The Two Sources of Religious Authority ...... 39

Figure 2.2- The Religious Authority Continuum ...... 41

Figure 3.1- Religious Titles of FPI chairmen, Java ...... 56

Figure 3.2- Summary of Religious Field Structures and Islamic Mobilization in Java ...... 67

Figure 4.1- Summary of the Religious Markets in Java ...... 72

Figure 4.2- Land Tenure Systems in Java, c. 1900 ...... 98

Figure 4.3- Number of Haji per 100,000 inhabitants in Java, 1900-1950 ...... 101

Figure 5.1- Pathway to Cohesion in East Java ...... 107

Figure 5.2- Organizational Structure of Traditional Islamic Education in Java ...... 111

Figure 5.3- Pathway to Fragmentation in West Java ...... 122

Figure 5.4- Number of “Mukim” leaving Java, 1921-1939 ...... 134

Figure 6.1- Total number of pesantren per 10,000 Capita, 2003-2014 ...... 161

List of Tables

Table 3.1- Pesantren Size and Ulama Influence ...... 60

Table 3.2- Pesantren Size in Java ...... 62

Table 3.3- Pesantren and Agriculture ...... 63

Table 3.4- Mosques and Land, 2018 ...... 64

Table 3.5- Crowding of the Religious Markets in Java ...... 65

Table 3.6- Affiliation of Traditionalist Pesantren in Java, 2002–2003 ...... 69

Table 4.1- Main Crop Produced, by Province, 1837–1844 ...... 77

Table 4.2- Village with Office Land in Java, by Province, 1870 ...... 79

Table 4.3 - Religious Power in Java, Summary of the Findings ...... 83

Table 4.4- Proportion of Haji Official Ulama, c. 1850–1942 ...... 84

Table 4.5 - Revenue and Revenue Source of Village Official, Java, 1926 ...... 90

Table 5.1- Percentage of Hajis among Sarekat Islam Board, 1913-16 ...... 128

Table 5.2- Results of the national elections, 1955 ...... 138

Table 7.1- Title of FPI’s chairmen, by province and region ...... 189

Table 7.2- Number of Kyai per Province ...... 197

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Glossary

Alim, Ulama (plural): Muslim scholar, cleric. Bupati: regent, head of a regency (kaputaten). Cuke: agricultural share destined to native officials during the colonial period. Fatwa: non-binding but authoritative legal opinion pertaining to the Islamic law. Fitrah: charity given to the poor at the end of the Ramadan. Gus: honorific title for the son of a kyai. Hajj: Islamic pilgrimage to Mecca. Hajji: honorific title given to someone who completed the hajj. Kyai: honorific title for an alim in Indonesia (mostly Java). Lurah: head of an administrative village. Majelis taklim: gatherings for religious learning and performance Menak: West Javanese/Sundanese gentry. Mukim: a pilgrim who stays in Mecca for a longer term. Pengajian: Islamic sermons or seminars. Penghulu: government ulama. Pesantren: Islamic boarding school. Priyayi: Javanese gentry. Ramadan: ninth month of the Islamic calendar, holy month of fasting. Santri: student of a pesantren. Tanah bengkok: land owned by a village. Ustadz: honorific title for teacher; refers to Islamic teacher in Indonesia. Wakaf: charitable endowment under Islamic law (building, plot of land, or other asset). Zakat: Islamic tithe.

xiii Chapter 1 Introduction

Islamic radicalism is one of the most pressing global security challenges. Yet the landscape of contemporary Islam is exceptionally diverse. Many vie to control the Islamic discourse, while no one seems to control it. Muslims are the first victims of this apparent “crisis of authority” in Islam.1 Despite a “crisis,” however, the role of Muslims clerics remains central in both spawning and contesting jihadist doctrines.2 Clerics are the primary interpreters of sharia law and play a crucial role in guiding lay Muslims, whether it is online, in a London mosque, or a village in Indonesia. While a growing scholarship tackles the broader question of Islamic radicalism, the actors and leaders of that racialization have decisively remained in the background. Yet understanding the factors that push some leaders to radicalize is central to understanding the roots of so-called Islamist violence worldwide. This dissertation is about why some Muslim leaders pursue contentious and violent paths—why they “radicalize”— while so many others do not.

1 Eli Lake, “Muslims Are Often the First Victims of Muslim Terrorists”, Bloomberg, 24 November 2017.

2 See, for instance: MWN, “300 African Ulemas Gather in Fez to Promote Values of ‘Moderate Is- lam’,” Morocco World News, 7 December 2017; Joe Cochrane “From Indonesia, a Muslim Challenge to the Ideology of the Islamic State,” New York Times, 26 November 2015; Rachel Rinaldo, “How a growing number of Muslim women clerics are challenging traditional narratives,” The Conversation, 6 June 2017.

1 2

1. The Argument

Drawing on a study of radical mobilization in Indonesia, this dissertation argues that religious leaders choose radical mobilization when they find religious authority hard to gain and maintain. In contrast to dominant approaches, which emphasize radicalization’s ideological and instrumental drivers, my approach focuses on the institutional opportunities and constraints faced by Muslim leaders when they seek to gain and maintain a status of religious authority. When religious organizations fail to produce and secure religious authorities and, instead, induce religious competition, leaders are drawn toward radicalization. When religious organizations generate strong authorities and mitigate religious competition, even leaders with “radical” or “extremist” ideas can afford to remain quiet.

Sunni Islam is a decentralized religion; it has no church and no priests. In the absence of a church, there are no strict boundaries between the “ordained” and the “laity,” and no professional clergy has a monopoly over religious authority. Instead, the status of religious authority is fluid, prone to appropriation, and the path toward that status is open-ended and inherently competitive. Instead of being part of a (vertical) hierarchical structure, Islamic leaders compete in a horizontal space, a “religious market,” for the right to speak in the name of Is- lam.3

Without a church that grants authority, Sunni clerics have to seek both 1) the recognition of the community of believers and 2) the recognition of other clerics to pretend having some form of religious “authority.”4 Sunni Islam may lack a central institution but it is far from a religion without institutions. Building and running mosques, Islamic schools, or charities, and creating and joining Islamic associations have always been inseparable from claiming religious authority in Islam. These organizations, which connect leaders among themselves and leaders to their communities, help produce and reproduce recognition. Islamic institutions,

3 Dale F. Eickelman and James P. Piscatori. Muslim politics (New York, NY: Princeton University Press, 2004); Rogers Brubaker, “Religious Dimensions of Political Conflict and Vio- lence,” Sociological Theory, 33, no.1 (2015): 1-19.

4 David C. Hofmann and Lorne L. Dawson. “The Neglected Role of Charismatic Authority in the Study of Terrorist Groups and Radicalization,” Studies in Conflict & Terrorism, 37, no.4 (2014): 351.

3 whether they are strong or weak, facilitate or hamper clerics’ capacity to recruit followers and to secure resources.

This dissertation makes two important points. First, that radicalization is an outcome of weakness, not strength. Leaders with strong institutions and a dominant position in a religious market do not behave the same way as low-status leaders. High-status leaders have more “theological independence,” they “preach what they please,” while low-status leaders are constrained. They become what Sam Cherribi calls “prisoners of the mosque,” that is, “[clerics who are] required to cater [their] preaching to the whims of whichever audience is supporting [them] from day to day.”5 Low-status leaders have to cater to their followers almost as clients and are judged more by their personal appeal to the people than their professional qualifications.6 Their future is inherently unpredictable and unstable.7

Second, that radicalization is an outcome of competition. The more people compete for religious authority, the more precarious religious entrepreneurs become, particularly those with weak institutions. “In a cramped marketplace of clerics, each attempt to appeal to similar groups of lay Muslims, and each attempt to promote their own credentials.”8 Clerics, particularly those with low-status, have to be extremely creative if they want to survive: they need to break into new “markets,” target overlooked niches, and better advertise and promote their offers. Precarious leaders are more likely to feel threatened by other or new entrepreneurs, as they do not have the tools or networks to secure their position. Another leader’s gain could be a mortal blow to their claim to religious authority. Competition creates incentives for radicalization through “strategies of outbidding, in which [clerics] claim to be more truly Islamic

5 Sam Cherribi, In the House of War: Dutch Islam Observed (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010): 114-115, cited by Richard Alexander Nielsen. The Lonely Jihadist: Weak Networks and the Radicalization of Muslim Clerics. (Boston, MA: Harvard University Press, 2013): 64.

6 Roger Finke, “Religious Deregulation: Origins and Consequences,” Journal of Church and State, 32, no.3 (1990): 617.

7 Gifford, Paul. “Religious Authority: Scripture, Tradition, Charisma,” John R. Hinnells (ed.), The Routledge Companion to the Study of Religion (New York, NY: Routledge, 2005): 388

8 Nielsen, The Lonely Jihadist: 80.

4 than others, and toward strategies of provocation, intended to gain visibility and recognition.”9 Targeting vulnerable minorities, women, or “less virtuous” co-religionists are ways for clerics to gain visibility, increase their religious credentials, and strengthen their autonomous networks.10 Scapegoating the “Other” is more likely in competitive environments because some clerics can discredit those with an ambiguous position and strengthen a new “im- agined” in-group.

Islamic institutions and religious markets do not create extremist ideas, but provide incentives for Muslim leaders with such ideas to either remain silent or to mobilize radically. This dissertation shows that violence and radicalism have less to do with ideas, or Islam as such, and more with intra-religious dynamics. The critical question is what keeps radical actors silent or spurs them to violent action.

2. The Puzzle

This dissertation’s point of departure is the important cross-regional variations in how religious entrepreneurs mobilize and contest religious authority in post-transition Indonesia. Since the democratic transition of 1998, Indonesia has experienced unprecedented levels of radical mobilization by small but vocal radical groups. Yet radical groups’ activities have varied substantially across regions, and the province of West Java has systematically been the most radicalism-prone province.

The concepts of radicalism and radicalization are inherently controversial.11 For the purpose of this analysis, I define radical activities and radicalism as “the willingness to use, support,

9 Brubaker, “Religious Dimensions”: 8.

10 Jacques Bertrand and Alexandre Pelletier, “Violent Monks in Myanmar: Scapegoating and the Con- test for Power,” Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, 23, no.3 (2017): 257-279.

11 For the debates surrounding the concept, see Peter R. Neumann, “The Trouble with Radicaliza- tion,” International Affairs, 89, no. 4 (2013): 873-893.

5 or facilitate violence” or other forms of extralegal contentious mobilization.12 A “radical” group is a group that engages in violent or extra-legal activities to achieve a particular social, religious or political goal. In this dissertation, therefore, “radicalism” and “radicalization” do not refer to ideologies or ideas, which are the most contentious dimension of the concept. While I focus on groups appealing to Islamic norms or ideas, I do not focus on the content of those ideas (radicalism) or the process whereby one relinquishes tolerant or pluralistic religious ideas in favour of intolerant, exclusive or violent ones (radicalization). Instead, for this research, radicalization means the process whereby a leader or a group moves from behavioural “restraint”13 to the use of contentious or violent mobilization.14 In essence, it focuses exclusively on “behavioural radicalism,” rather than “cognitive radicalism.”

Furthermore, this dissertation focuses on “vigilantism,” a specific set of radical activities that is very similar to terrorism. Unlike Islamist groups elsewhere, most radical groups in Indone- sia are not concerned with capturing state authority through elections, mass movements, coups, or underground terrorist activities.15 Instead, they use mobilization, violence or the threat of violence to control or repress the behaviour of certain groups they see as undesira- ble. They target other groups rather than political regimes or foreign nations. They are “vigilante” groups.16 Like terrorists, vigilante groups pursue activities “designed to have far- reaching psychological repercussions beyond the immediate victim or target.”17 Through

12 Idem.

13 “Restraint” is when leaders and/or group “abstain from or moderate the use of extensive violence against [others].” See Scott Straus, “Retreating from the Brink: Theorizing Mass Violence and the Dynamics of Restraint,” Perspectives on Politics, 10, no.2 (2012): 344.

14 See for instance Clark McCauley and Sophia Moskalenko, “Mechanisms of Political Radicaliza- tion: Pathways Toward Terrorism,” Terrorism and Political Violence, 20, no.3 (2008): 415–33.

15 But, see Carrie Rosefsky Wickham, Mobilizing Islam: Religion, Activism and Political Change in Egypt (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 2005).

16 See the definition of vigilantism and vigilante violence in Les Johnston, “What is Vigilantism?,” The British Journal of Criminology, 36, no.2 (1996): 220-236 and H. Jon Rosenbaum and Peter C. Sederberg. “Vigilantism: An Analysis of Establishment Violence,” Comparative Politics, 6, no.4 (1974): 541-570.

17 Bruce Hoffman, Inside Terrorism (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 2006): 40.

6 shows of force and violence—intimidation and provocation—it seeks to impose enough pressure on religious minorities, women, and the majority co-religionist population that they forcefully cease a practice or disappear altogether.18 In contrast to terrorist organizations, however, vigilante groups operate above ground often with impunity; they rent offices, wear uniforms, maintain websites, and engage in public relations. Vigilantism is a common and widespread form of militancy in the Muslim world and beyond.19

Islamic vigilante mobilization was uncommon under Suharto’s New Order but did take place periodically.20 Little space existed for political mobilization around issues related to “SARA” (Suku, Agama, Ras, dan Antar golongan, i.e., ethnicity, religion, race, and inter-group relations) and the state generally managed to clamp down on those who tried to initiate such conflict. Toward the end of the New Order regime, increasing religious polarization between Christians and Muslims led to some riots and the destruction of Christian churches. These riots, while they may have been planned, involved Muslim mobs rather than vigilante groups. Two of the best-known cases took place in West Java (Tasikmalaya) and East Java (Situ- bondo).21

18 Andrew H. Kydd and Barbara F. Walter. “The Strategies of Terrorism.” International Security, 31, no.1 (2006): 49-80.

19 Emmanuel Sivan, “The Clash within Islam,” Survival, 45, no.1 (2003): 25-44; Joshua T. White, “Vigilante Islamism in Pakistan: Religious Party Responses to the Lal Masjid Crisis,” Current Trends in Islamist Ideology, 7 (2008): 50-65; and, Conerly Casey, “‘Policing’ through Violence: Fear, Vigi- lantism, and the Politics of Islam in Northern Nigeria,” in David Pratten and Atreyee Sen, Global Vigilantes: Anthropological Perspectives on Justice and Violence (London: Hurst, 2007). 93-124.

20 For instance, Ahmadiyah mosques were attacked and torched down in Garut, Cianjur, and Bogor in the 1980s. See Darul Aqsha, Dick van der Meij, and Johan H. Meuleman, Islam in Indonesia: A Sur- vey of Events and Developments from 1988 to March 1993 (Jakarta: INIS, 1995). During the New Order, other forms of non-religious “vigilantism” involved, for example, youth groups who worked for political and economic elites. See Loren Ryter, “Pemuda Pancasila: The Last Loyalist Free Men of Suharto's Order?,” Indonesia, 66 (1998): 45-73 and Joshua Barker, “State of fear: Controlling the Criminal Contagion in Suharto's New Order,” Indonesia 66 (1998): 7-43.

21 See Jacques Bertrand, “The Escalation of Religious Conflict” in Nationalism and Ethnic Conflict (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2004). John Thayer Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad: Religious Violence in Indonesia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006). See also Toriq Hadad, Amarah Tasikmalaya: Konflik di Basis Islam (Jakarta: ISAI, 1998) and Thomas Santoso, Peristiwa Sepuluh-Sepuluh Situbondo, (Surabaya: Luftansah Mediatama, 2003).

Radical Islamic groups emerged in the context of the fall of Suharto in 1998 and the hectic days of the early democratic era. In August of that year, Misbahul Anam, a Nahdlatul Ulama- educated preacher, and Habib Rizieq, an Islamic preacher of mixed Arab-Betawi origins and a Sayyid, founded the now notorious Islamic Defenders Front (Front Pembela Islam, FPI). Today, the FPI has a membership in the tens of thousands and has dozens of provincial-level branches and hundreds of regency-level branches. In 1998, the police used the FPI and other similar “self-help security groups” to bolster their overstretched forces around the national parliament. Groups such as the FPI were rumoured to have close links with sections of the military. For the latter, militant and radical groups were a means to slow down the democratic transition and help counter the student-led reform movement.22 In fact, from among the 23 civil militias active during the special session of the parliament in October 1999, most were staunch supporters of the Habibie presidency.23 During that period, the FPI was mostly concerned with national politics and sought, among others, the inclusion of the Jakarta Charter into the national constitution.

Attempts to reopen the constitution failed and Habibie lost. With Abdurrahman Wahid and then Megawati Sukarnoputri in power, the window for large-scale constitutional changes closed. Claiming 200,000 members around that time24, the FPI retreated from high-politics and became a more autonomous vigilante group that took upon itself to cleanse the streets of Jakarta from sinful activities. Using the Qur’anic edict of “amar ma’ruf nahi munkar” (leading people toward good and away from evil), the FPI intensified its raids on nightclubs, kara- oke bars, brothels, and gambling dens. Some raids involved the smashing of tables and beer bottles, but in others, the FPI injured patrons, staff and residents, burned down buildings, and

22 Ian D. Wilson, “Morality Racketeering: Vigilantism and Populist Islamic Militancy in Indonesia” In Boo Teik, K., Hadiz, V. & Nakanishi, Y. (eds.), Between Dissent and Power: The Transformations of Islamic Politics in the Middle East and Asia (Palgrave Macmillan, 2014): 253 and Ian D. Wilson, “Continuity and Change: The Changing Contours of Organized Violence in Post-New Order Indone- sia,” Critical Asian Studies, 38, no.2 (2006): 268.

23 See FX Rudy Gunawan and Nezar Patria, “TNI/ABRI dan Proyek Militerisasi Sipil,” in Preman- isme Politik, (Jakarta: Institut Studi Arus Informasi, 2000): 59-60.

24 Majalah Tajuk, 10.2, (October 1999): 31; cited in FX Rudy Gunawan and Nezar Patria, Preman- isme Politik, 60.

8 clashed with local security.25 The FPI raids were initially confined to the Ramadan, but soon extended beyond.

In the mid-2000s, Islamic militias like the FPI suddenly expanded their agenda. They started targeting religious minorities in addition to activities deemed immoral. Bolstered by this new agenda—and as shown in Figure 1.1—radical mobilization spread outside of Jakarta around the year 2005. In highly publicized shows of force, white-clad men began to storm “illegal” Christian churches, and attack, seal, or destroy mosques of Muslim sects deemed deviant (e.g., Ahmadiyah, Shiah). In addition to direct action, they also regularly protested, intimi- dated, and, at times, helped the police to disband “heretical” religious minorities and groups deemed too liberal.

Figure 1.1- Radical Mobilization by Vigilante Organizations in Java, 1999–2014

Banten West Java Central Java East Java Jakarta

Source: Author’s own data, from various sources, including monitoring report, Wahid Institute, Laporan Tahunan Kebebasan Beragama/Berkeyakinan dan Intoleransi (Jakarta: Wahid Insti- tute, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, 2014, 2015).

25 Wilson, “Continuity and Change”: 285.

The timing of radical mobilization’s rise coincides with a series of fatwas released by the Indonesian Council of Ulama (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, MUI). From 2005 to 2007, MUI issued a fatwa against pluralism, liberalism, and secularism (2005); a fatwa declaring the Ahmadiyah sect to be deviant (2005); and, finally, a fatwa specifying ten criteria that make a non-orthodox sect “deviant” (2007).26 During that same period, the Indonesian government also adopted new regulations, which increased legal restrictions on religious minorities. It passed a regulation on the building of houses of worship, which allowed local populations and governments to vet the construction of new houses of worship (2006); a Joint Ministerial Decree ordering the Ahmadiyah sect to stop spreading its teaching (2008); and, a new law on “religious harmony” which updated previous regulations against blasphemy and imposed limits on proselytization, the celebration of religious holidays, the construction of houses of worship, funerals, and religious education.27

In the post-transition period, local governments have also increasingly restrained religious freedoms. As part of the transition to democracy, Indonesia implemented a vast program of political and administrative decentralization, turning district governments into one of the most powerful levels of government in Indonesia28. While religion remained the sole jurisdic- tion of the national government, local governments nonetheless adopted many regulations on religion. Among these regulations were sharia-inspired bylaws regulating morality, Muslim clothing (especially women’s), Islamic knowledge, almsgiving, deviant groups, and Islamic

26 See Moch Nur Ichwan, “Towards a Puritanical Moderate Islam: The Majelis Ulama Indonesia and the Politics of Religious Orthodoxy,” Contemporary Developments in Indonesian Islam: Explaining the ‘Conservative Turn’ (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2013): 60-104; and Syafiq Hasyim, “Majelis Ulama Indonesia and Pluralism in Indonesia,” Philosophy & Social Criticism, 41, no.4-5 (2015): 487-495.

27 See, for instance, Melissa Crouch, “Regulating Places of Worship in Indonesia: Upholding Free- dom of Religion for Religious Minorities,” Singapore Journal of Legal Studies, (2007): 96.

28 Jacques Bertrand, “Indonesia's Quasi-Federalist Approach: Accommodation Amid Strong Integra- tionist Tendencies” International Journal of Constitutional Law, 5 no.4 (2007): 576-605.

10 finance.29 Some regency-wide regulations also proscribed Muslim minority sects from proselytizing and holding activities. The construction of new houses of worship became a politically sensitive topic. In response to new national laws and popular mobilization, many local administrations removed permits from existing Churches or halted the construction of new ones.30

Finally, the image of Indonesia as the tolerant “smiling face of Islam” has come under increasing critical scrutiny in recent years.31 A growing number of opinion polls confirm that most Indonesians feel uncomfortable living close to people of different religious identity, especially those that are Ahmadis or Shiites. A survey found that Indonesians are incredibly intolerant of heterodox expressions of Islam as almost 80 percent declared Javanese syncretic or mystical religious groups to be heretical; and, about 60 percent believed that liberalism and Islam were simply incompatible.32 Surveys also indicate that a rising number of Indone- sian Muslims think that popular action, including vigilante violence, is an acceptable way of upholding religious principles and that they have to demonstrate against groups that insult or threaten Islam.

29 See Dani Muhtada, The Mechanisms of Policy Diffusion: A Comparative Study of Sharia Regula- tions in Indonesia, Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, (DeKalb, IL: Northern Illinois University, 2014) and Michael Buehler, The Politics of Sharia Law: Islamist Activists and the State in Democratizing Indonesia, (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2016).

30 Ihsan Ali-Fauzi, Samsu Rizal Panggabean, Nathanael Gratias Sumaktoyo, Anick H.T., Husni Mu- barak, Testriono, and Siti Nurhayati. Disputed Churches in Jakarta. (Melbourne: University of Mel- bourne, 2012).

31 See Martin van Bruinessen, “What Happened to the Smiling Face of Indonesian Islam. Muslim Intellectualism and the Conservative Turn in Post-Suharto Indonesia.” RSIS Working Paper (Singa- pore: RSIS, 2010), Martin van Bruinessen (ed.). Contemporary Developments in Indonesian Islam: Explaining the” Conservative Turn.” (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2013) and Andrée Feillard and Remy Madinier. The End of Innocence? Indonesian Islam and the Temptations of Radicalism, (Singapore: NUS Press, 2011).

32 Pew Research Center, Forum on Religion & Public Life, “The World’s Muslims: Unity and Diver- sity,” 9 August 2012, 134: www.pewforum.org/files/2012/08/the-worlds-muslims-fullreport.pdf; cited in Greg Fealy, “The Politics of Religious Intolerance in Indonesia: Mainstream-ism Trumps Extrem- ism?” in Tim Lindsey and Helen Pausacker, Religion, Law and Intolerance in Indonesia (New York: Routledge, 2016): 119.

2.1. A Puzzling Geography of Radical Mobilization

While discriminatory policies and fatwas account the rise of vigilante mobilization’s timing, they fail to explain regional variations. Indeed, some regions have experienced persistent mobilization and the proliferation of vigilante groups, while other regions have remained much calmer. As shown in Figure 1.2, West Java is the province most affected by radical mobilization; it is the province with both the most radical groups and the region where they have been the most active. From 2008 to 2015, West Java alone accounts for 70.5% of radical and vigilante mobilization in Java.33 Most incidents come from a handful of regencies in West Java, mostly those located in the Priangan region, the region southeast of the provincial capital Bandung. The regencies more prone to radicalism are Sumedang (6.4 incidents per 1,000,000 capita), Cirebon (5.1), Cianjur (4.6), Ciamis (3.5), Bekasi (3.2), and Tasikmalaya (3.0). By contrast, Central and East Java account for only 25% of vigilante mobilization in Java. Taking into account population size, the number of incidents in East Java is negligible (0.5 incident per 1,000,000). The regencies most prone to radicalism are Surakarta (5.9 incidents per 1,000,000 capita) and Purworejo (2.8) in Central Java, and Surabaya (2.2) and Pamekasan (1.3) in East Java.

33 I counted as an “incident” of radicalism every instance of mobilization that involved 1) a demonstration that asked the government to restrain another group’s freedom of (e.g., women, alcohol drinkers, Christians, sect members, communists); 2) a demonstration or the threat of a demonstration against another group; 3) a physical or violent encounter with another group; 4) an action aimed at disbanding another group’s activities or sealing another group’s offices or house of prayer; or, finally, 5) an attack on another group’s asset or members (e.g., the burning of buildings to the killing of people).

Figure 1.2- Regional Variations of Vigilante Mobilization, 2008-2014

Jakarta Bandung City

Madura Island

Banten 4 groups (0.3 groups/ 1 m. inhabitants) West Java 61 groups (1.3 groups/ Central Java 1 m. inhabitants) 24 groups (0.7 groups/ 1 m. inhabitants) East Java Vigilante groups 20 groups (0.5 groups/ 1 m. inhabitants) Incidents per 1,000,000 inhabitants 0.0 0.1-1.9

> 2.0

Source: Author’s own database, original data from monitoring available in Wahid Institute, Laporan Kebebasan Beragama/Berkeyakinan dan Toleransi (Jakarta: Wahid Institute, 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013, and 2014).

West Java is also home to more vigilante organizations than other provinces of Indonesia. As Figure 1.2 shows, about 61 different organizations have conducted vigilante actions in the province between 2008 and 2014. When we take into account population size, the regencies of Purwakarta (2.3 groups per 1,000,000 capita), Sukabumi (2.3), and Tasikmalaya (2.2) are those with the largest number of vigilante organizations in West Java. The province has most regency with the largest numbers of vigilante groups. These vigilante groups, similar to the FPI, are often purely local in orientation. Their influence does not extend beyond a single regency or city. Some have been extremely short-lived, while others have lasted for many years. By contrast, Central and East Java have few vigilante organizations and regional branches of the FPI have conducted most vigilante activities.

Could different levels of tolerance within these provinces explain such variations? Public opinions surveys on tolerance show East and West Java to be more similar than different. Nathanael Sumaktoyo surveyed people’s attitudes toward Christians and found that people in East and West Java had similar overall levels of tolerance (+ or – 0.1 on his index of toler-

13 ance). People in Aceh, Banten, and North Maluku, not West Java, were among the most intolerant in his survey results (ranging from -0.3 to -0.6).34 A survey by the Ministry of Reli- gious Affairs found that “religious harmony” is the lowest in Aceh, Lampung, and West Su- matra, not West Java.35 The survey found that while religious harmony in West Java is slightly lower than East Java, fewer than three percentage points on their religious harmony index separate both provinces (East Java: 75.0, West Java: 72.6). The five provinces with the most tolerant populations have, for instance, indexes equal to or above 80 percent.36 Other surveys reached similar conclusions.37 In sum, opinions toward minorities do not seem to explain or justify the variations observed above. While differences in levels of tolerance are generally small, differences in levels of Islamic mobilization are enormous. West Java has produced ten times as many vigilante incidents than East Java.

When we look at public policy as well, provinces in Java are somewhat similar. Since reformasi, local governments have used their powers to adopt regulations on various moral and religious issues; some have prohibited alcohol, gambling, and prostitution, for instance, and others have regulated the collection of religious alms and make compulsory Qur’anic education.38 According to data compiled by Buehler and Muhtada, 62 percent of all sharia regulations adopted since 1998 cluster in six provinces, and two of the clusters include West Java

34 Nathanael Sumaktoyo, “Measuring religious intolerance across Indonesian provinces” New Manda- la, 1 June 2018, http://www.newmandala.org/measuring-religious-intolerance-across-indonesian- provinces/

35 Religious harmony is measured by an index of a dozen questions about Christians and non- mainstream Muslim sects.

36 Raudatul Ulum and Budiyono (eds.) Survey Kerukunan Umat Beragama di Indonesia, Tahun 2015 (Jakarta: Puslitbang Kehidupan Keagamaan 2016): 21-25

37 Haidlor Ali Ahmad, Survei Kerukunan Umat Beragama di Indonesia (Jakarta: Puslitbang Ke- hidupan Keagamaan 2013).

38 Michael Buehler and Dani Muhtada. “Democratization and the diffusion of sharia law: Compara- tive insights from Indonesia,” South East Asia Research, 24, no.2 (2016): 261-282; Michael Buehler, The Politics of Sharia Law: Islamist Activists and the State in Democratizing Indonesia (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2016).

(85 regulations) and East Java (32).39 Similarly, reports of the Wahid Institute generally rank East Java as one of the provinces with the most cases of minority persecution by the state. 40 For instance, the provincial government of East Java even banned the Ahmadi a few months before that of radicalism-prone West Java. In Madura, the local Ulama Council has even banned the Shi’ite minority long before it tried, but failed, in West Java.41

State policies are known to incentivize popular mobilization against minorities. Politicians who play the ethnic or religious card often seek to generate conflict or violence to strengthen ethnoreligious identities ahead of elections.42 Brian J. Grim and Roger Finke found that “government restriction of religious freedom holds a powerful and robust relationship with violent religious persecution. […] As the [government] restriction increase, so does violent persecution.”43 In Central and East Java, however, they did not. Intolerant state actions (particularly the provincial, regency/city, and district governments), and intolerance from the police and the local Majelis Ulama councils, have not triggered social mobilization. In other words, despite politicians playing the “religious card,” few Muslim clerics have mobilized against minorities or mounted vigilante campaigns.44 In West Java, by contrast, intolerance came from both state and non-state actors.

39 Buehler and Muhtada, “Democratization and the Diffusion of Sharia Law”: 267

40 Wahid Institute, Laporan Tahunan Kebebasan Beragama/Berkeyakinan dan Intoleransi (Jakarta: Wahid Institute, 2013): 23.

41 “MUI Sampang Keluarkan Fatwa Sesat Syiah yang Dibawa Tajul Muluk” [Sampang’s Ulema Council adopt a Fatwa declaring Syiah led by Tajul Muluk heretical], Hidayatullah, 3 January 2012.

42 Paul R. Brass, The Production of Hindu-Muslim Violence in Contemporary India (Seattle, WA: University of Washington Press, 2011).

43 Brian J. Grim and Roger Finke, The Price of Freedom Denied: Religious Persecution and Conflict in the Twenty-First Century (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2010): 79-80.

44 See Wahid Institute, Laporan Tahunan Kebebasan Beragama/Berkeyakinan dan Intoleransi, (Ja- karta: Wahid Institute, 2012, 2013, and 2014).

These variations are puzzling and lead to two main questions: What makes West Java more vulnerable to radical anti-minority mobilization? What explains the proliferation of radical groups in that province?

3. Explaining Patterns of Radical Mobilization in Java

This dissertation shows that the regions where radical groups have proliferated and radical mobilization has thrived all have one thing in common: religious institutions are weak, cleric networks are fragmented, and religious markets are competitive. In West Java, most religious leaders have weak religious institutions, their religious schools are small and landless, and their Islamic organizations are weak and dysfunctional. In the absence of strong institutions and networks, religious authority in the region is much more fluid and the religious market is crowded with low-status leaders, as no one can impose barriers of entry in the market. In an institution-poor environment such as West Java, there is no channel to follow or ladder to climb to gain religious authority. It is, as a result, a more competitive religious environment. Clerics responded to these challenges by joining or forming radical groups such as the FPI because they help to gain followers, solidify their networks, and leverage their newly gained authority into influence, positions in various state bodies, or access to state patronage.

In regions where radical groups did not proliferate and radical mobilization remained moderate, religious institutions and religious markets are organized very differently: clerics are part of strong institutions with deep roots in society, share strong collective networks, and are part of common Islamic associations. Strong institutions and networks render access to religious authority more secure, stable, and routinized, and in doing so, help dampen religious competition. Clerics, even if they genuinely have intolerant or radical ideas, do not feel the same urge to form radical organizations. They can gain influence and access through existing and well-institutionalized channels and institutions. In an institution-rich environment like East Java, religious leaders have incentives to use the whole spectrum of opportunities allowed by existing institutions. When these institutions are powerful and dominant, clerics have little incentives to innovate. Lack of incentive for innovation helped mitigate spirals of outbidding, provocation, and scapegoating in East Java, and thus had an overall soothing effect on inter-

16 religious relations. Clerics and aspiring clerics use existing institutions such as pesantren, Islamic associations (e.g., Nahdlatul Ulama), student unions, and youth organizations to secure influence and gain access to state positions and patronage.

The argument in this dissertation differs from other studies that have addressed anti-minority mobilization in post-transition Indonesia. We can classify these explanations into two categories. A first line of work traces the origins of radical mobilization in a “conservative turn” and the growing influence of puritanical forms of Middle Eastern Islam in Indonesia.45 The origins of this turn are traced to the so-called dakwah movement on Indonesian campuses during the 1980s46 and the influence of the Saudi-financed Institute for Islamic and Arabic Studies (LIPIA) and those Indonesians who studied religion in Saudi universities.47 As Indo- nesia democratized, Wahhabi Indonesians became increasingly bold and visible. They created civil society organizations, student organizations, and political parties (e.g., Partai Keadi- lan Sejahtera, PKS) and built Islamic schools and mosques in city outskirts and rural villages.48 Alumni of the dakwah movement are increasingly apt at penetrating the state, political parties, and even existing Islamic socio-religious organizations, which all have negative consequences for religious minorities.49 While useful for tracing ideational changes among Indo-

45 See the discussion in Martin van Bruinessen (ed.). Contemporary Developments in Indonesian Is- lam: Explaining the ‘Conservative Turn’ (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2013).

46 Yon Machmudi, Islamising Indonesian: The Rise of Jemaah Tarbiyah and the Prosperous Justice Party (PKS). (Canberra: ANU Press, 2013); Hasan Noorhaidi, “Islamist Party, Electoral Politics and Da‘wa Mobilization Among Youth: The Prosperous Justice Party (PKS) in Indonesia,” RSIS Work- ing Paper, No. 184, (Singapore: Nanyang Technological University, 2009); and Kikue Hamayotsu, “The Political Rise of the Prosperous Justice Party in Post-Authoritarian Indonesia: Examining the Political Economy of Islamist Mobilization in a Muslim Democracy,” Asian Survey, 51, no.5 (2011): 971-992. 47 Martin van Bruinessen, “Genealogies of Islamic Rradicalism in Post-Suharto Indonesia,” South East Asia Research, 10, no. 2 (2002): 117-154; Krithika Varagur, “Saudi Arabia Quietly Spreads its Brand of Puritanical Islam in Indonesia” VOA News, 17 January 2017.

48 Noorhaidi Hasan, “The Salafi Movement in Indonesia: Transnational Dynamics and Local Devel- opment,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, 27 no.1 (2007): 83-94.

49 Abdurrahman Wahid (ed). “Infiltrasi Agen-Agen Garis Keras Terhadap Islam Indonesia” in Ilusi Negara Islam: Ekspansi Gerakan Islam Transnasional di Indonesia, (Jakarta: LibForAll Foundation, 2009): 171-220.

17 nesians, this approach does not focus on sub-regional variations: why are conservative ideas more influential in some regions than others? This dissertation argues that while ideas matter, they are—alone—a poor predictor of Islamists’ behaviour. Islamists are capable of incredible ideological flexibility.50

A second line of work treats radicalism and anti-minority mobilization as products of political incentives linked to democratization and decentralization, rather than to ideational changes. Some suggest that vigilante mobilization is entirely about material interests and that Islam is a front. Ian D. Wilson, for instance, argues that vigilante groups are part of Indonesia’s long history of decentralized violence, a state that never had, nor sought to have the monopoly over violence.51 Democratization has prompted the decline in state-sponsored violence, but the rise of non-state violent groups who employ violence and intimidation as a political, social, or economic strategy.52 Under the New Order regime, “preman” groups (thugs groups) used secular and nationalist ideologies, but now adopt a variety of identities such as ethnic and religious.53 Radical groups operate in ways similar to criminal gangs and offer conven-

50 The “inclusion-moderation” literature has reached similar conclusions. See Jillian Schwedler, “De- mocratization, Inclusion and the Moderation of Islamist Parties,” Development, 50, no.1 (2007): 56- 61.

51 Joshua Barker and Benedict Anderson, Violence and the State in Suharto's Indonesia, (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2001); Ariel Ira Ahram, “Indonesia” in Proxy Warriors: the Rise and Fall of State-Sponsored Militias. (San Francisco: Stanford University Press, 2011); and Joshua Barker, “State of Fear: Controlling the Criminal Contagion in Suharto's New Order” Indonesia, 66 (1998): 7- 44.

52 Ian D. Wilson, “Morality Racketeering: Vigilantism and Populist Islamic Militancy in Indonesia.” In K. Teik, Vedi Hadiz, and Yoshihiro Nakanishi (eds). Between Dissent and Power: The Transfor- mation of Islamic Politics in the Middle East and Asia (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2014) and Ian D. Wilson, The Politics of Protection Rackets in Post-New Order Indonesia: Coercive Capital, Au- thority and Street Politics (London: Routledge, 2015).

53 Ian D. Wilson, “Continuity and Change: The Changing Contours of Organized Violence in Post– New Order Indonesia.” Critical Asian Studies, 38, no.2 (2006): 265-297; David Brown and Ian D. Wilson. “Ethnicized Violence in Indonesia: Where Criminals and Fanatics Meet,” Nationalism and Ethnic Politics, 13, no.3 (2007): 367-403.

18 ient services to political and economic elites (e.g., thugs-for-hire)54; and, engage in their own businesses of protection racketeering and extortion. The state not only fails to control illegal activities according to that approach, but its officials are increasingly using criminal tactics themselves.55

Like the instrumental approach, I argue that concrete material interests often supersede ideologies. The instrumentalist approach does not explain, however, why some regions have produced more “Islamic” preman (thugs) than others. In contrast to the instrumental approach, this dissertation argues that clerics’ interests are not necessarily political or economic and that they are not always coterminous to those of state or political elites. This dissertation identifies instead the complex institutional context that generates religious leaders’ interests and incentives. It helps illuminate why clerics sometimes do not ally with or even resist politicians’ anti-minority campaigns.

Another instrumental approach argues that vigilante mobilization is both ideological and instrumental. It argues that democratization and decentralization did not create Islamist networks, but allowed them to be useful to some political interests. Thus, in contrast to the two previous approaches, it explains regional variation by the presence or absence of pre-existing Islamist networks. This approach generally posits that the origin of Islamism in Indonesia is the Darul Islam rebellion of the 1950s, a rebellion meant to transform the country into an Islamic state, and that contemporary mobilization is an outgrowth of the movement’s rem- nants.56 Michael Buehler is one of that approach’s leading proponents. He argues that radical groups play an increasingly important role as power brokers and vote-getters. Hardline

54 Gunawan, FX Rudy and Nezar Patria. Premanisme Politik (Jakarta: Institut Studi Arus Informasi, 2000); Abdil Mughis Mudhoffir, “Islamic Militias and Capitalist Development in Post-Authoritarian Indonesia,” Journal of Contemporary Asia, 47, no.4 (2017): 495-514.

55 Ed Aspinall and G. van Klinken. The State and Illegality in Indonesia (Leiden: KITLV Press, 2011).

56 Solahudin, The Roots of Terrorism in Indonesia: From Darul Islam to Jema’ah Islamiyah (Singa- pore: Ridge Books, 2013); Quinton Temby, “Imagining an Islamic State in Indonesia: From Darul Islam to Jemaah Islamiyah,” Indonesia, 89 (2010): 1-36; and, Ismail Hasani and Bona Tigor Naipo- spos. Wajah Para Pembela Islam (Jakarta: Setara Institute, 2010).

19 groups use the opportunities created by decentralization to lobby local governments for policy changes, such as banning alcohol or closing Ahmadiyah mosques or Christian Churches. Political elites in return are generally “opportunist Islamizers” and enact Islamic policies in the hope to garner their support and gaining “cultural capital” that will bolster their legitimacy and recognition among voters.57 State actors allow and even actively participate in the persecution of minority groups to win the support of those brokers as Jessica Soedirgo con- vincingly shows.58 For Buehler, West Java has experienced more vigilante mobilization simply because the province has more of those Islamist networks with roots that date back decades. He argues that prominent Islamist figures linked to the Darul Islam rebellion are the nucleous of most vigilante groups in the region.

My work did not find that Islamist networks of the past are the driving force behind contemporary Islamic radicalism in Indonesia. In contrast, my dissertation argues that the key to radicalism in contemporary Indonesia is not the radical fringes, but those at the “moderate” centre of Indonesia’s religious spectrum.59 Most leaders of the vigilante movement are otherwise “mainstream” clerics: some run Islamic boarding schools, others teach in madrasahs or preach in mosques. These leaders could well be “quiet" and do their own things, but in this context, some decide to engage in radical mobilization. If they do so, it is because most are clerics with a few followers, little-institutionalized ties to their communities and to other clerics. If radical mobilization is concentrated in West Java, it is because the region has an unusually large number of such low-status clerics and that gaining religious authority in the region is achieved in a particularly competitive way. In more peaceful regions too, low-status clerics exist, although they are fewer. Unlike their counterparts in West Java, however, they

57 Michael Buehler, The Politics of Sharia Law; and Michael Buehler, “Identifying Patterns in the Accumulation and Exercise of Power in Post-New Order Indonesia,” Pacific Affairs, 85, no.1 (2012): 161-168.

58 Jessica Soedirgo, “Informal Networks and Religious Intolerance: How Clientelism Incentivizes the Discrimination of the Ahmadiyah in Indonesia,” Citizenship Studies, 22, no.2 (2018): 191-207.

59 This point is also made by Greg Fealy in “The Politics of Religious Intolerance in Indonesia: Main- stream-ism Trumps Extremism?” In Tim Lindsey and Helen Pausacker, Religion, Law and Intoler- ance in Indonesia (London & New York: Routledge, 2016): 149-165.

20 face few incentives to engage in radical mobilization since they have a more secure access to religious authority, are embedded in their communities, and have stronger ties to other clerics.

This dissertation answers a critical yet generally overlooked question in studies of Islamic radicalism: under what conditions do radical leaders emerge and what triggers their decision to engage in radical mobilization rather than some other activities? Most studies of Islamist mobilization, jihadism, and terrorism focus on the radicalization of lay masses and give short shrift to leadership. While many have suggested the existence of a “crisis of authority” in Islam60, leadership remains a crucial dimension of both radicalization and moderation. Imams, preachers, Mullahs, and ulama, among others, play an essential role as religious ref- erences by interpreting sacred texts and providing legal rulings (fatwas) or other justifications in favour, or not, of violence. They also act as propagandists, recruitment magnets, and create networks of like-minded people.61 Unsurprisingly, in the wake of September 11th, governments have found Islamic leaders of utmost strategic and security importance.62 This dissertation sheds a crucial light on the factors behind clerics’ radical mobilization.

Dominant approaches point to ideational and psychological factors like fundamentalism, marginality, and grievances as sources of radicalization. While ideas matter, this dissertation shows that no direct link between extremist ideas and extremist actions exist; both respond to logics of their own. Like instrumentalist theories, I argue that interests may supersede ideas

60 Haim Malka, “Jihadi-Salafi Rebellion and the Crisis of Authority,” Religious Radicalism after Arab Uprising (Washington DC: The Center for Strategic and International Studies, 2015): 16-18; Francis Robinson, “Crisis of authority: Crisis of Islam?,” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 19, no.3 (2009): 339-354; and, Richard W. Bulliet, “The Crisis within Islam.” The Wilson Quarterly, 26, no.1 (2002): 11-19.

61 Peter R. Neumann, Joining al-Qaeda: Jihadist Recruitment in Europe (New York: Routledge, 2012).

62 Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad and Tyler Golson, “Overhauling Islam: Representation, Construction, and Cooption of Moderate Islam in Western Europe,” Journal of Church & State, 49, no. 3 (2007): 487; Maha Azzam, “The Radicalization of Muslim Communities in Europe: Local and Global Di- mensions.” Brown Journal of World Affairs, 13, no.2 (2006): 123-138; and, Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad and Michael J. Balz, “Taming the Imams: European Governments and Islamic Preachers Since 9/11,” Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 19, no.2 (2008): 215-235.

21 and that concrete political opportunities account for the type of strategies that religious entrepreneurs pursue. This literature, however, has a shallow conceptualization and theorization of the interests peculiar to religious leaders. While some clerics have political ambitions, most do not run for office or aspire to control the state. The dissertation shows instead that clerics’ decision to engage in radical mobilization is rooted in considerations related to their position and strength in the religious market. In other words, institutional interests, the desire to mobilize and maintain a large following, often trump ideological or theological commitments among religious leaders. This dissertation thus contributes to the study of the micro- foundation of religious behaviour and the growing literature on the comparative politics of religion.

4. Methodology

Much of this research is qualitative. It is based on 13 months of fieldwork in two regions of Indonesia in 2014 and 2015—the violence-prone West Java, and the more peaceful East Ja- va—where I conducted 126 interviews with local academics, NGO leaders, religious clerics, and leaders of radical groups. I also relied on a wide array of primary and secondary material in Bahasa Indonesia, French, and English to reconstitute the history of these two regions. In a second trip to Indonesia in 2016, I interviewed, among others, local historians to fill gaps and missing information in the primary and secondary historical material.

While many criteria guided the selection of these two cases (East and West Java), the goal was to control for as many independent variables as possible. The total Muslim population is similar in numbers, and both provinces have a majority of traditional Muslims. The two regions have similar levels of religiosity based on some crude indicators: both have large numbers of mosques (East Java 127,439 [34 per 10,000 Capita]; West Java 147,378 [32 per 10,000] and religious schools (East Java 6,044 [2 per 10,000]; West Java 9,167 [2 per 10,000]).63 The two provinces have about the same percentage of minorities as well. While

63 Anonymous, “10 Provinsi Dengan Masjid Terbanyak,” Republika, 30 Sept 2014.

West Java has more members of the Ahmadi group, East Java has more Shiites. Both regions have similar numbers of Christians and a substantial number of sects (both Javanese and Muslim) that mainstream Muslims consider unorthodox. 64 Finally, the two provinces have similar political institutions, and both were exposed to the same decentralization policies in post-transition Indonesia. West Java is slightly more urban and wealthy, and East Java slightly more rural, but the two provinces have similar overall socioeconomic backgrounds. Where the two provinces differ is on the dependent variable of interest: anti-minority mobilization. As discussed above, West Java is prone to mobilization against minority groups, while East Java is more peaceful.

The research also uses quantitative methods. It develops a new and original method to measure religious institutions and religious market, the dissertation’s main independent variable. In the past, few other studies have attempted to systematically assess and compare the extent to which religious markets are competitive. Those who look at the market structure’s effect on its adherents’ religiosity, for instance, use data on denominational strength or growth to assess whether a market is competitive or not.65 This dissertation, by contrast, looks at intra- religious rather than interreligious competition and focuses on the behaviour of religious leaders instead of the followers. To measure competition, I built a new database from previously un-analyzed data produced by the Ministry of Religious Affairs. The Ministry publish- es yearly almanacs that survey Indonesia’s 29,000 religious schools and report basic information such as the owner’s name, the number of students, and the location of the school. These almanacs also include other aggregate data about religious schools’ staff, buildings, land, businesses, and curricula. I collected a set of almanacs that go back to 2002 and coded this data to measure cross-regional variations and temporal changes to religious “market”

64 Badan Pusat Statistik, Kewarganegaraan, Suku Bangsa, Agama, dan Bahasa Sehari-hari Penduduk Indonesia: Hasil Sensus Penduduk 2010, (Jakarta : BPS, 2010).

65 See Mark Chaves and David E. Cann. “Regulation, Pluralism, and Religious Market Structure: Explaining Religion's Vitality,” Rationality and Society, 4, no.3, (1992): 272-290.

23 structures for each of Java’s 107 districts.66 For Java alone, the database contains information about more than 15,000 religious schools and 30,000 religious leaders.

5. Outline of the Dissertation

This dissertation proposes a structural theory that specifies the conditions under which radical leaders emerge and engage in radical mobilization. Chapter 2 develops an institutional theory of radical mobilization. It explains that radical mobilization is a by-product of a broader competition among religious elites to speak on behalf of Islam. Depending on a cleric’s networks and organizations, gaining recognition as a religious “authority” is more or less secure and is done in a more or less competitive way. How religious entrepreneurs gain and secure authority has profound consequences for the behaviour of clerics. Clerics are more inclined to engage in radical mobilization when they are weak, insecure, and engaged in fierce competitive struggles over authority. The chapter posits that radical mobilization provides a quick and efficient way to stand out, build a follower base and gain recognition from other leaders.

The empirical argument is two-pronged. First, chapters 3, 6 and 7 treat religious institutions and markets as the independent variables. The relation between institutions and radical mobilization is demonstrated both at the macro level (Ch. 3) and qualitatively, through an in-depth study of West Java (Ch. 6) and East Java (Ch. 7). Second, chapters 4 and 5 treat religious institutions and structures as the dependent variables. These chapters explain the origins of religious institutions in various regions of Java by tracing their formation during the late colonial period and early post-colonial regime.

Chapter 3 measures the dissertation’s core independent variables—i.e., religious institution and religious market configurations—for each of Java’s 107 districts. It shows that most clerics located in districts that have experienced anti-minority violence all have extremely weak

66 I focused exclusively on Java because approximately 90% of the cases of violence have happened on this island alone.

24 religious institutions and are members of highly competitive religious markets. The chapter develops a new method that gauges the extent to which a “market” is competitive by looking at religious schools as “firms” and pupils as “market share.” The chapter finds telling variations across districts. Some districts have a large number of unusually small and poor schools, as well as extraordinarily fragmented and competitive elite structures, while other districts have fewer, more prominent and richer schools, with extremely cohesive and oligar- chic elite structures.

In Chapters 4 and 5, I show that the structure of religious elites and religious institutions are not endogenous to contemporary radical mobilization. They are, in the case of Indonesia, the outcome of enduring legacies of colonial state building. Previous works on the state formation in Indonesia tend to see state formation as a single, uniform process across Java.67 My analysis reveals significant regional variations in the process of colonial and post-colonial state formation and the way the state has engaged with religious authorities since the colonial period.

In Chapter 4, I show that state-building strategies in colonial Java were shaped by considerations related to export crops, labour mobilization, and taxation. State strategies of direct or indirect rule either empowered or weakened independent clerics. A crucial factor to contemporary developments was whether kyai had the right to collect the zakat, the Islamic tithe. West Java was under greater indirect rule and remained less bureaucratized than other regions until the final years of the colonial regime. In that region, local state officials collected the zakat and, as a result, clerics were unable to build strong religious institutions. State officials also engaged in patron-client relations with some clerics, thuse weakening inter-clerics institutions and networks. East Java was under greater direct rule and was bureacuratized earlier. In that region, the local state had its own income sources and did not need to monopo-

67 Tuong Vu, “State Formation and the Origins of Developmental States in South Korea and Indone- sia,” Studies in Comparative International Development, 41, no.4 (2007): 27-56 and Benedict R.O'G. Anderson, “Old state, New Society: Indonesia's New Order in Comparative Historical Perspective.” The Journal of Asian Studies, 42, no.3 (1983): 477-496.

25 lize the collection of zakat. Clerics built strong religious institutions and networks since they, rather than state officials, collected zakat.

Figure 1.3- Summary of the Historical Argument

Colonial strategies Post-colonial of state-building Political cleavage policies toward Islam

Coercion and Patronage Infighting among • weak clerics Indirect rule clerics along • fragmented clerical • State officials clientelistic lines networks West Java control zakat

• Patronage

Direct rule

• Independent clerics

East Java control zakat Cohesion of clerics • Laissez-faire against Modernist Muslims and Communists Laissez-faire • strong clerics • Cohesive clerical networks

In Chapter 5, I show that these state-building strategies shaped subsequent political cleavages and local state policies toward Islam in the post-colonial period. Post-colonial developments locked these two regions into their respective path: one of weakness, competition, and fragmentation in West Java; and, one of strength and cohesion in East Java. In East Java, clerics were mostly undisturbed by the colonial regime. As a result, the main political cleavage opposed clerics as a group to modernist Muslims and communists. This cleavage helped clerics realize their common identity and forced them to strengthen their collective institutions and networks. As a result, the state had trouble, throughout the post-colonial era, to penetrate East Javanese clerical networks. In West Java, colonial patterns of patron-client ties led to the fragmentation of clerical networks. As a result, the political cleavage of the post-colonial

26 period opposed clerics among themselves who fought along clientelistic lines and allegianc- es. Infighting prevented the realization of a common interest among clerics, despite intense competition with modernist Muslims and communists, and undermined their efforts at creating collective institutions. To quell conflict, the post-colonial state intensified patronage and coercion as the main, if not the only modalities of interaction with clerics. These new state strategies kept West Javanese clerics in a permanent state of disorganization, fragmentation, and internal competition.

The legacies of these state strategies are seen today. Chapters 6 and 7 focus on two specific provinces—the violence-prone West Java and the more peaceful East Java—and show that these structural conditions help explain the development of radical groups from 1998 to 2014. Chapter 6 shows that colonial state formation (Ch. 4) and post-colonial state-building (Ch. 5) have led to a fragmented, crowded, and competitive religious market in West Java. This structural condition has generated the growth of religious entrepreneurship. For low- status clerics, leading a vigilante organization helps gain recognition and influence. Chapter 7 discusses the case of East Java. It argues that lower levels of competition among clerics have mitigated incentives for radical mobilization. Religious leaders’ cohesion and strong organizations have prevented many putatively radical clerics from creating vigilante organizations. Religious leaders have used both direct and indirect anti-competitive measures to prevent the emergence of radical groups in the region.

Chapter 2 An Institutional Theory of Radical Entrepreneurship and Mobilization

Why do some religious leaders choose to radicalize and mobilize against religious minorities while others do not? So far, most answers to this question have focused on the role played by ideologies or political interests and overlooked the role played by religious leaders. This dissertation focuses on Muslim leaders and locates incentives for radicalization in the institutions and the religious market in which they negotiate their religious authority. The theory presented in this chapter specifies the conditions necessary for violent entrepreneurs to emerge and for clerics to choose anti-minority mobilization rather than other activities.

The chapter has three main sections. First, it reviews conventional explanations and shows that most studies to date have tried to explain the radicalization of lay masses or politicians by focusing on ideas or instrumental interests. The behaviour of clerics has remained a “black box” in comparative politics. Second, it suggests that, in the absence of a church that licence authority, recognition from followers and other clerics shape religious authority. This process of recognition is more or less institutionalized, more or less competitive, which makes Islamic authority more or less precarious. Third, the chapter posits that clerics whose status is weakly institutionalized and who operate in a competitive environment will find recognition particularly difficult to achieve. Such clerics, I argue, are most likely to turn to aggressive strategies such as radical mobilization to gain recognition. By contrast, clerics whose status is institutionalized and who operate in less competitive environments have more stable position and are less likely to find aggressive strategies relevant.

27 28

1. The Limits of Conventional Explanations

Most studies of radicalization focus on the role played by ideas and tend to link the persecution of minorities to the rise of fundamentalism, particularly the Wahhabi creed. Fundamentalists generally share world-views that are intolerant and exclusive: for those who see themselves as “rightly guided,” fighting those outside the law is a “sacred” duty that trumps any moral considerations.1 Wahhabis’ strict observance of tawhid (monotheism) has shattered tolerance toward “people of the Book” such as Christians and Jews and turned a number of Muslim into kufr or infidels.2 The takfiri rhetoric is self-expanding and increasingly includes a broader range of Muslims that may be targeted such as moderate Sunnis and non-takfiri Sunnis.3 In this context, violence against minorities is inevitable, as fundamentalists tend to see the world in Manichean ways.4 They conceive themselves as having “God” on their side, and as having the “sacred” duty to resist and fight those outside the law actively.5 The “straight path” is fixed by a system of divine laws that trump any moral consideration and ethical values not fully coded in the law.

The intolerant puritanism of the Wahhabi and Salafi creeds does not, in and of itself, predict Islamist militancy. Most Salafi remain inward looking or “quietists.” While they have “radical” ideas, they do not engage in “radical” activities such as violence or extra-legal contentious activities. Two main explanatory models generally explain the rise of fundamentalist ideologies and their transformation into radical Islamist militancy: one that locates its sources in the economy and another one in the political system. The dominant model suggests that economic depriva-

1 Khaled Abou El Fadl, ”The Place of Tolerance in Islam” In Khaled Abou El Fadl and Ian Lague, The Place of Tolerance in Islam (Boston, MA: Beacon Press, 2002): 4-5 and Gabriel A. Almond, Emmanuel Sivan, and R. Scott Appleby, “Fundamentalism: Genus and Species.” Fundamentalisms Comprehended (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1995): 399-424.

2 John L. Esposito, Unholy War: Terror in the Name of Islam (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002).

3 VG Julie Rajan, Al Qaeda’s Global Crisis: The Islamic State, Takfir and the Genocide of Muslims. (London: Routledge, 2015). See also Lynch, Marc. “Islam Divided Between Salafi-Jihad and the Ikhwan,” Studies in Conflict & Terrorism, 33, no.6 (2010): 467-487.

4 On the link between sacred texts and violence, see Charles Selengut, “Fighting for God: Scriptural Ob- ligations and Holy Wars” In Sacred Fury: Understanding Religious Violence (Laham: AltaMira Press, 2003).

5 El Fadl, The Place of Tolerance in Islam: 4-5

29 tion, the breakdown of traditional solidarity caused by rapid urbanization, and the failure of modern states in the Middle East to meet the rising expectations of the people have contributed to the support for Islamist groups and militancy.6 Islamists constitute powerful opposition forces as they, unlike socialist and nationalist leaders, are not to blame for any of these failings. They succeed in drawing sympathy by grounding their appeals in the rhetoric of a pristine Islam, the idea that “Islam is the solution.”7 Impoverished people turn to Islamic organizations for what the state does not offer, social services such as education, health care, and credit.8 In the West, radicalization has gained traction among “rootless” Muslim youth, in particular among second- and third-generation migrants, for similar reasons.9 The study of homegrown terrorists and jihadists in Europe almost always point to social exclusion and marginality as preconditions of radicalization’s early stages.10 This body of work, while useful, does not explain cross-regional variations very well: many Muslim societies have faced the combined effect of modernization and globalization, but have experienced different levels of mobilization.

6 For the Middle East, see Gilles Kepel, Muslim Extremism in Egypt: The Prophet and Pharaoh (Berke- ley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 2003); Gilles Kepel, Jihad: The Trail of Political Islam. (London and New York: IB Tauris, 2006); R. Hrair Dekmejian, Islam in Revolution: Fundamen- talism in the Arab World. (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1995); Susan Waltz, “Islamist Ap- peal in Tunisia,” Middle East Journal, 40, no.4 (1986): 651-670; and, Hamied N. Ansari, “The Islamic Radicals in Egyptian Politics.” International Journal of Middle East Studies 16.1 (1984): 123-144.

7 Devin R. Springer et al. Islamic Radicalism and Global Jihad (Washington, DC: Georgetown Universi- ty Press, 2009). See also Kristen Stilt, “Islam is the Solution: Constitutional Visions of the Egyptian Muslim Brotherhood,” Texas International Law Journal, 46 (2010): 73-104.

8 For one of the most extensive accounts of the Islamic parallel civil society, see Carrie Rosefsky Wick- ham, Mobilizing Islam: Religion, Activism and Political Change in Egypt (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 2005), particularly Chapter 5, “The Parallel Islamic Sector”: 93-118; See also Janine A. Clark, Islam, Charity, and Activism: Middle-Class Networks and Social Welfare in Egypt, Jordan, and Yemen. (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 2004).

9 Olivier Roy, Globalized Islam: The Search for a New Ummah. (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 2004).

10 See, for instance, Fathali M. Moghaddam, “The Staircase to Terrorism: A Psychological Exploration,” American Psychologist, 60, no.2 (2005): 161; John Horgan, “From Profiles to Pathways and Roots to Routes: Perspectives from Psychology on Radicalization Into Terrorism,” The ANNALS of the American Academy of Political and Social Science, 618 no.1 (2008): 80-94; and, Michael King and Donald M. Taylor. “The Radicalization of Homegrown Jihadists: A Review of Theoretical Models and Social Psy- chological Evidence,” Terrorism and Political Violence, 23, no.4 (2011): 602-622.

These economic and psychological models focus on macro-variables and the radicalization of lay masses. They generally give short shrift to the drivers of clerics’ radicalization and remain ambiguous about the role they play in Islamist movements. Instead, some scholars point to the increasingly leaderless nature of contemporary Islamic movements. In the post 9/11 period, groups such as al-Qaeda and ISIS are decentralized, composed of a multitude of informal and loosely-knit cells, “lone wolves,” 11“wannabes, copycats or homegrown initiates,”12 and in many cases entirely disconnected from a central direction.13 Some have highlighted, however, the crucial role played by radical preachers and clerics in radicalizing, recruiting, and connecting individuals with each other and forming terrorist networks.14 According to Peter R. Neumann, they play four roles: they act as chief propagandists, religious authorities, recruitment magnets, and create networks of networks.15 While this literature discusses the role of clerics, it says little about the factors that account for their radicalization, aside from the life stories of some radical clerics such as Ali al-Sistani, Abu Bakr al-Baghdadi, Osama bin Laden, and Ayman al- Zawahiri.16

11 Mark S.Hamm and Ramón Spaaij. The Age of Lone Wolf Terrorism (New York, NY: Columbia Uni- versity Press, 2017).

12 Marc Sageman, Leaderless Jihad: Terror Networks in the Twenty-First Century (Philadelphia, PA: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011): 31

13 On ISIS in Europe, see Petter Nesser et al. “Jihadi Terrorism in Europe: The IS-Effect,” Perspectives on Terrorism, 10, no.6 (2016): 3-24.

14 Peter R. Neumann, Joining al-Qaeda: Jihadist Recruitment in Europe (New York: Routledge, 2012). See also Jessica Stern, “Inspirational Leaders and Their Followers,” In Terror in the Name of God: Why Religious Radicals Kill (New York, NY: Ecco, 2003). For a discussion of the leadership role played by veteran jihadists in the recruitment of new jihadists, see Thomas Hegghammer, “Should I stay or Should I Go? Explaining Variation in Western Jihadists' Choice Between Domestic and Foreign Fighting,” American Political Science Review, 107, no.1 (2013): 1-15.

15 Neumann, Joining al-Qaeda: 13. See also Frank Peter, “Individualization and Religious Authority in Western European Islam,” Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 17, no.1 (2006): 105-118. Numerous governments have also recognized this role. See Yvonne Yazbeck Haddad and Michael J. Balz. “Taming the Imams: European Governments and Islamic Preachers Since 9/11,” Islam and Christian–Muslim Relations, 19, no.2 (2008): 215-235.

16 See, for instance, Brynjar Lia, Architect of Global Jihad: The Life of Al-Qaeda Strategist Abu Mus‘ab al-Suri (London: Hurst 2007) and Bruce Hoffman. “The Myth of Grass-Roots Terrorism: Why Osama bin Laden Still Matters,” Foreign Affairs, 87, no.3 (2008): 133-138.

Instrumentalist approaches, by contrast, focus more directly on leadership. It emphasizes how political entrepreneurs activate ethnic identities to increase their power base. Conflicts are not inherently religious; political entrepreneurs frame them in ethnic or religious terms, mainly when alternative modes of political organization are weak or absent.17 Political entrepreneurs mobilize their followers in a competition for state resources or to make political gains relative to another group.

While this perspective is useful in pointing to the type of interests that may supersede grievances or religious ideologies, it focuses mostly on (lay) Muslim elites rather than clerics. A conventional approach points to political exclusion as the driving factor behind Islamist mobilization. Mohammed M. Hafez argues that Islamist insurgencies are not primarily an aggressive response to economic deprivation or psychological alienation, but defensive reactions to exclusion and state repression that threatens the organizational resources and lives of Islamists.18 Similarly, another group of scholars argues that the political inclusion of Islamists creates strong incentives for moderation as it forces Islamists to accept and play by the rules of the game, cooperate with opponents, and move away from exclusionary practices.19

Political competition is frequently seen as a driver of conflicts and violence. In his study of communal conflicts, Steven I. Wilkinson focuses on local political incentives as the “major pre- cipitant” of religious violence. Politicians in close, competitive races, are more tempted to use

17 Paul Brass, The Production of Hindu-Muslim Violence in Contemporary India (Seattle, WA: Universi- ty of Washington Press, 2011); Jack Snyder, “Chapter 2, Nationalist Elite Persuasion in Democratizing States” in From Voting to Violence (New York, NY: W. W. Norton and Company, 2000); David D. Laitin, Hegemony and Culture: Politics and Change Among the Yoruba. (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1986) and, Kanchan Chandra (ed.), Constructivist Theories of Ethnic Politics (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2012).

18 Hafez, Why Muslim Rebel: xvi.

19 Hafez, Why Muslim Rebel; Carrie Rosefsky Wickham, “The Path to Moderation: Strategy and Learn- ing in the Formation of Egypt's Wasat Party,” Comparative Politics, 36, no.2 (2004): 205-228; Jillian Schwedler, “Democratization, Inclusion and the Moderation of Islamist Parties,” Development, 50, no.1 (2007): 56-61; Jillian Schwedler, “Islamists in Power? Inclusion, Moderation, and the Arab Uprisings,” Middle East Development Journal, 5, no.1 (2013): 1-13; and, Janine A. Clark, “The Conditions of Islam- ist Moderation: Unpacking Cross-Ideological Cooperation in Jordan,” International Journal of Middle East Studies, 38, no.4 (2006): 539-560.

“ethnic wedge issues to increase the salience of ethnic issues that they hope will benefit their party.”20 Communal appeals, ethnic outbidding, and polarization strategies are particularly likely when ethnic party systems are composed of parties appealing exclusively to voters from their own ethnic group (“catch-us”) rather than to all voters (“catch-all”).21 Similarly, Jack Snyder argues that during political transitions, political elites may try to prevent threats to their political authority by fanning the flames of nationalist conflict. In such contexts, ethnic outbidding—a process in which competing political parties try to outdo each other in nationalist rhetoric in order to receive the support of ethnic voters, which spirals to more extreme positions—is common.22 Small and innocuous minorities frequently pay the price of outbidding spirals, as they are often easy targets or scapegoats.

Sectarianism, like ethnic politics, is politically expedient. Monica Toft argues that the logic of outbidding also extend to religious conflicts. She argues that political elites transform civil conflicts into religious conflicts through “religious outbidding” when they feel under threat and in need of external support. In Sudan, the civil war was sparked by elites who relied on two options to bolster their credibility and power: introducing and intensifying sharia law and scapegoating those they deemed a threat. Like “ethnic cleansing,” religious discourses of “purity” may lead to sanctioned threats and escalating persecution against those deemed “dirty.” Chris- tians and other religious minorities are potential victims, since political elites can easily identify

20 Steven I. Wilkinson, Votes and Violence: Electoral Competition and Ethnic Riots in India. (Cam- bridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2006): 93; The use of wedge issues in the context of intense electoral competition is also known to happen elsewhere. See Marc Van de Wardt et al. “Exploiting the Cracks: Wedge Issues in Multiparty Competition,” The Journal of Politics, 76 no.4 (2014): 986-999 and Sara B. Hobolt and Catherine E. De Vries. “Issue Entrepreneurship and Multiparty Competition,” Com- parative Political Studies, 48, no.9 (2015): 1159-1185.

21 Paul Mitchell, Geoffrey Evans, and Brendan O'Leary, “Extremist Outbidding in Ethnic Party Systems is not Inevitable: Tribune parties in Northern Ireland,” Political Studies, 57, no.2 (2009): 401.

22 Alvin Rabushka and Kenneth A. Shepsle. “Political Entrepreneurship and Patterns of Democratic In- stability in Plural Societies,” Race, 12, no.4 (1971): 461-476; and Stuart J. Kaufman, “Spiraling to Ethnic War: Elites, Masses, and Moscow in Moldova's Civil War,” International Security, 21, no.2 (1996): 108- 138.

33 them as threats to the community or Umma.23 Geneive Abdo explains the current increase in sectarian conflict throughout the Middle East as the outcome of the “collapse of authoritarian rule and a struggle for political and economic power, and over which interpretation of Islam will influence societies and new leadership.”24

The outbidding literature, like other instrumental accounts of conflict, tends to overlook religious leaders. This literature focuses mostly on political leaders, for whom the incentive structure is clear. Through outbidding, they seek to gain electoral support. By focusing on politicians and state actors, instrumental theories do not generally grant much agency to religious leaders. They general conceive political actors as “rational”, “goal-oriented,” and either say little about religious leaders or assume that they are driven by ideology. In his study of Hindu-Muslim violence in India, Paul Brass recognizes that politicians do not act alone. He argues that if politicians exploit local religious incidents, they are turned into violence by “riot specialists,” i.e., “[people] who are ready to be called out on such occasions, who profit from it, and whose activities profit others who may or may not be actually paying for the violence carried out.”25 Spe- cialists come from various backgrounds and include criminal elements, local radical group leaders, politicians, businesspeople, and religious leaders.26 While Brass identifies religious leaders as potential riot specialists, he does not specify what kind of interest this particular group’s members have, beyond saying that they have some interests in violence. In other words, the literature does not make a particular difference between religious leaders—whether scholars, clerics, or leaders of organizations—and other forms of ethnic or political leadership.

Yet, religious elites have their own sets of interests, which are not always aligned with those of politicians. Most religious leaders do not seek election or re-election, and may not necessarily

23 Monica D. Toft, “The Politics of Religious Outbidding,” The Review of Faith & International Affairs, 11, no.3 (2013): 14

24 Geneive Abdo, The New Sectarianism: The Arab Uprisings and the Rebirth of the Shi'a-Sunni Divide (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017) and Frederic M. Wehrey, Sectarian Politics in the Gulf: From the Iraq War to the Arab Uprisings (New York: Columbia University Press, 2014).

25 Paul R. Brass, (ed) Riots and Progrom (Houndmills, Macmillan, 1996): 12

26 Ibid: 12-3.

34 benefit from increased religious tensions. Indeed, political elites may find it difficult to use religion as an instrument of mobilization if clerics do not cooperate and grant permission. Clerics can use their influence to prevent violence and oppose politicians if they wish. For instance, we know that some churches and religious leaders have played a positive role in opposing dictator- ship in Latin America27, fighting against or in favour of segregation in the United States28, res- cuing Jews during the Holocaust29, and preventing the killing of Tutsis in some regions of Rwanda.30 As argued by Alexander De Juan, clerics generally cooperate with politicians to protect their religious communities, expand their religious influence, and realize their religious agendas.31 We know little, however, about clerics’ interests. The theory proposed in this chapter aims to fill that gap.

When applied to clerics, the religious outbidding literature also tends to largely overpredict religious radicalism in the Muslim world. It has become something of a truism today to state that the Sunni religious field is fragmented, decentralized, and competitive. In the absence of a Church, there has never been an official clergy and the boundaries between the laity and the religious specialists have always been fluid. Each cleric is autonomous and independent. Mo-

27 Anthony Gill, Rendering Unto Caesar: The Catholic Church and the State in Latin America (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2008); Christopher W. Hale, “Religious Institutions and Civic Engagement: A Test of Religion's Impact on Political Activism in Mexico,” Comparative Politics, 47, no.2 (2015): 211-230; Guillermo Trejo, “Religious Competition and Ethnic Mobilization in Latin America: Why the Catholic Church Promotes Indigenous Movements in Mexico,” American Political Science Review, 103, no.3 (2009): 323-342.

28 Allison Calhoun-Brown, “Upon this Rock: The Black Church, Nonviolence, and the Civil Rights Movement,” PS: Political Science and Politics, 33, no.2 (2000): 169-174; Aldon D. Morris The Origins of the Civil Rights Movement: Black Communities Organizing for Change (New York, NY: The Free Press, 1986); and, Wyn Craig Wade, The Fiery Cross: The Ku Klux Klan in America. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, USA, 1998).

29 Herbert Fein, Accounting for Genocide: National Responses and Jewish Victimization during the Hol- ocaust (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 1979); Jacques Sémelin et al. Resisting Genocide: The Multiple Forms of Rescue (New York, NY: Columbia University Press, 2011); and, Scott Straus, The Order of Genocide: Race, Power, and War in Rwanda (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013).

30 Timothy Longman, Christianity and Genocide in Rwanda (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2009).

31 Alexander De Juan, “A Pact with the Devil? Elite Alliances as Bases of Violent Religious Con- flicts,” Studies in Conflict & Terrorism, 31, no.12 (2008): 1121.

35 dernity has eroded the authority of the ulama, which was protected until then by their privileged access to education and the Arabic language (in most Muslim countries). In other words, it has opened the religious field to numerous “new intellectuals” of Islam.32 As Eickleman and Pisca- tori put it,

common to contemporary Muslim politics is a marked fragmentation of authority. The ulama no longer have, if they ever did, a monopoly on sacred authority. Rather, Sufi shaykhs, engineers, professors of education, medical doctors, army and militia leaders, and others compete to speak for Islam. In the process, the playing field has become more level, but also more dangerous.

Despite fragmentation and competition—a de facto condition in the Sunni religious field—not all clerics have radicalized. A better understanding of the type of competition that triggers radicalization and the nature clerics’ interest is therefore necessary.

The literature is only starting to delve into clerics’ decision-making and the reasons that push some, and not others, into radical mobilization. In his book Deadly Clerics: Blocked Ambition and the Paths to Jihad, Richard Nielsen examines the influence of academic, religious, and political institutions on the rise of modern jihad. He argues that clerics are unlikely to espouse violent jihad when their academic ambitions are attainable, but they are at a higher risk of turning to violent ideologies when their ambition is blocked. Insider clerics have dense and well- connected networks, while outsider clerics may preach jihadi ideologies to attract supporters and funding.33 Similarly, Quinn Mecham argues that Islamist actors have low incentives to politicize Islam when religious superiors can police them and when they have access to state rents such as state subsidies, economic agreements, or employment.34 Both scholars focus on “establishment ulama,” ulama who have access to government positions. In Indonesia as elsewhere, this would

32 Muhammad Qasim Zaman, The Ulama in Contemporary Islam: Custodians of Change (New York, NY: Princeton University Press, 2010).

33 Nielsen, Richard A. Deadly Clerics: Blocked Ambition and the Paths to Jihad (Cambridge, MA: Cam- bridge University Press, 2017).

34 R. Quinn Mecham, Institutional Origins of Islamist Political Mobilization (Cambridge, MA: Cam- bridge University Press, 2017).

36 overlook the much larger body of clerics without government jobs and who are not radical. A theory of radicalism that focuses on clerics must have a broader understanding of their interests.

The religious economy literature has long framed the question of religious behaviour as one of interests and institutions. This approach focuses on 1) the producers of religious “goods,” clerics and churches, and 1) the religious “market” in which they are located, the arena in which various clerics and churches interact with each other and the government.35 The premise is that clerics, like firms in a market, aim to maximize followers and resources. This approach avoids treat- ing clerics as pure “ideologues” and as potentially irrational actors. Indeed, even the most de- voted cleric must find resources to run his school, hire staff, and pay electricity bills. While ideas matter, religious firms’ behaviour is modelled as a rational response to constraints and opportunities they find in the religious market.

A central argument of the religious economy literature is that clerics and churches behave differently under conditions of religious pluralism than under conditions of (state-enforced) religious monopoly such as official churches. The puzzle they tackle is the decline of religiosity in Europe and its stability in the United States. They argue that under religious pluralism, like the United States, competitive religious markets produce incentives for “evangelical vigour,” as clients can turn to alternative offers in more diversified niche markets. Pluralism leads to higher levels of religiosity. By contrast, monopolistic markets like in Europe produce fewer incentives for “religious innovations,” and thus religious institutions are less responsive to the various preferences of the religious goods consumers.36 A growing body of comparative work shows that religious competition is a key factor that explains shifts in clerics’ preference in favour of defending the poor37 and the indigenous population in Latin America.38 The religious economy literature has mostly focused on Christian societies, leaving Muslim societies under-theorized.

35 See Anthony Gill, “Religion and Comparative Politics,” Annual Review of Political Science, 4, no.1 (2001): 130.

36 However, see Malika Zeghal, “État et Marché des Biens Religieux. Les Voies Égyptienne et Tu- nisienne.” Critique Internationale, 5, no.1 (1999): 75-95.

37 Anthony Gill, Rendering unto Caesar: the Catholic Church and the state in Latin America. (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2008) and Christopher W. Hale, “Religious Institutions and Civic En-

This theory of radicalization builds on some of the insights of the religious economy literature. It conceives religious behaviour as an outcome of rational considerations related to clerics’ interests, and the interactions between “producers” of religious goods. It goes beyond this literature’s shallow understanding of clerics’ interests (i.e., follower maximization), however. It shows that clerics’ interests —the desire to maintain a large following and gain recognition from other clerics— take shape in a complex institutional environment. In contrast to the outbidding literature, this dissertation shows how institutions construct the competitive space for clerics to bid for support. It shows that these interests of trump ideological or theological commitments among clerics. It also shows that clerics’ own sets of interests may trump political efforts to politicize interreligious conflict. This theory seeks to explain more than behavioural radicalization and seeks to explain the emergence of radical entrepreneurs themselves.

2. An Institutional Theory of Radicalism and Radicalization

A theory of clerics’ radicalization begins by identifying what is at stake. Religious entrepreneurs seek to lay claim on religious authority. Religious authority is “the ability (chance, power, or right) to define correct belief and practice […], to shape and influence the views and conduct of others accordingly; to identify, marginalize, punish or exclude deviance, heresy and apostasy and their agents and advocates; [and] to compose and define the canon of ‘authoritative’ texts and the legitimate methods of interpretation.”39 Yet Sunni Islam lacks a formal clerical structure and an institution resembling a church that would recognize and legitimize a class of ordained and professional clergy with complete de facto and de jure monopoly over religious authority.

Muslim clerics thus face a fundamental problem. In the absence of a church, how does gain recognition as a cleric? Once recognized, how does one maintain that status? While authority

gagement: A Test of Religion's Impact on Political Activism in Mexico.” Comparative Politics, 47, no.2 (2015): 211-230.

38 Christopher W. Hale, “Religious Institutions and Collective Action: The Catholic Church and Political Activism in Indigenous Chiapas and Yucatán.” Politics and Religion 11, no.1 (2018): 27-54.

39 Krämer, Gudrun, and Sabine Schmidtke (eds.) Speaking for Islam: Religious Authorities in Muslim Societies. (Boston, MA: Brill, 2006): 1-2

38 rests on specific qualities and qualifications, inherited or acquired40, “it is the willingness of others to credit any given person, group or institution with religious authority that ultimately renders it effective.”41 Religious authority is not a fixed attribute. It is premised on “recognition and acquiescence.”42

Most clerics seek a loyal base of followers, the most obvious and visible indicator of recognition. Indeed, without a church to grant sanctions, followers are often the only judges of a cleric’s “worth.” As Sam Cherribi puts it, “success of the imam in the eyes of the public […], measured by the number of followers, is an important metric for cleric status.43 People typically perceive clerics with large numbers of followers perceived as employing well-reasoned arguments and to write clear, pragmatic rulings on relevant issues.44 Those clerics are better able to leverage their popularity when seeking political influence or material rewards such as a position at a prestigious mosque or a job in the government.45 A loyal base of followers is also useful for material reasons. In the absence of a central Church, each cleric is responsible for his income via the contributions he can gather from his followers.46 Clerics also require material resources if they want to grow their flock. Proselytizing, operating churches, mosques or temples, and providing social services or religious education are costly. The long-term survival of a church, a monastery, or a madrasah (a Quranic school) depends on a religious leader’s ability to secure material resources.

40 See Tamara Sonn, “Continuity and Change in Religious Authority among Sunni Arabs” Sociology of Islam, 6 (2018): 141-64

41 Ibid: 2.

42 Ibid: 2; see also Mandaville, Peter. “Globalization and the Politics of Religious Knowledge: Pluraliz- ing Authority in the Muslim World.” Theory, Culture & Society, 24, no.2 (2007): 101.

43 Cherribi, In the House of War: 114

44 Richard Alexander Nielsen, The lonely Jihadist: Weak Networks and the Radicalization of Muslim Clerics. Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation, Harvard University, 2013: 63

45 Idem.

46 Gill. “Religion and Comparative Politics”: 132.

Figure 2.1- The Two Sources of Religious Authority

Recognition from other clerics

Recognition from followers

Followers

Most clerics seek recognition from fellow clerics. As discussed by Cherribi, a form of informal hierarchy exists among imams and ulama based on degree of recognition by other clerics. The society of imams and ulama acknowledge (or not) the legitimacy of their colleagues’ religious authority. This recognition involves various elements including, but not restricted to the recognition of degrees from well-known and well-respected Islamic schools and universities, family ties to famous ulama, membership in common networks and organizations, or reputation.47 Clerics who cannot gain recognition from other clerics risk isolation or outright exclusion as inter-cleric recognition acts as a form of “peer review.”48 When clerics do not recognize each other, greater competition and less cooperation exist among them. The need for recognition from followers and other clerics interact: for those clerics who cannot gain recognition from other clerics, more of their status rests on amassing a large number of followers. Clerics with large flocks force other clerics to recognize them.

47 Nielsen, The lonely Jihadist: 63.

48 Cherribi, In the House of War: 114.

2.1 “Vertical integration”: Ties to Followers

If Sunni Islam lacks a central institution, it is far from a religion without institutions. Building and running mosques, Islamic schools, or charities, and creating or joining Islamic associations, have always been inseparable from claiming religious authority in Islam. These organizations— which tie clerics to communities of followers and clerics among themselves—produce, reproduce, and help with the recognition of religious authority. Organizations either facilitate or hamper clerics’ capacity to gain influence, recruit followers, and secure resources. Stronger vertical integration produces more stable religious access to followers and resources, while weaker integration makes authorities more precarious.

Leaders have more or less institutionalized ties to their followers. For instance, informal patterns of patron-client relations often form the basis of vertical ties. Mutual exchanges reinforce the cleric’s (patron’s) authority and the followers’ loyalty. Some of these ties are stronger when they involve a sense of common identity and mutual trust, which facilitate a cleric’s claim to authority. These ties can also lead to more institutionalized forms of vertical integration such as organizational ties for instance. Religious entrepreneurs are often part of socio-religious organizations that target various groups such as youth, students, farmers, women, and even activities such as literature, arts, and cooperative. Some clerics also engage in the provision of services, such as healthcare and education, complementing or sometimes replacing the state. While more or less “religious,” these socio-religious organizations play a crucial role in strengthening collective identities and increase the legitimacy of the clerics’ leadership claims. They create spaces of participation through which followers gain a sense of belonging and mutual obligations, which all help to reinforce leadership positions.

Entrepreneurs who evolve in institution-poor environments—who are not embedded in their community—face additional challenges to gain and stabilize their religious authority. They have to work a lot harder for society to recognize them, as they are not part of it; they just cannot rely on patron-client relations or use socio-religious organizations to gain a foothold in society. Con- tacts with potential followers are, as a result, more episodic and uncertain, and entrepreneurs need to build and rebuild them all the time. Clerics have to be particularly creative in such situa- tions and use a variety of means to signal and demonstrate their value to potential followers and

41 thus gain recognition. Access to influence and authority is, for clerics without vertical ties to communities, much more unstable and precarious.

Figure 2.2- The Religious Authority Continuum

Fragile, Secure, precarious, and strong, and competitive stable religious religious authority authority

Followers Followers

Less institutionalized More institutionalized Weak vertical integration Weak vertical integration Weak horizontal integration Weak horizontal integration

2.2 “Horizontal integration”: Ties to Other Clerics

Horizontal ties connect clerics among each other, both locally and across space. Like ties with followers, ties with fellow clerics are more or less formal and more or less profound. Social bonds such as friendship, kinship ties, marriages, or ethnicity are the most basic horizontal networks. Such solidarity-based social bonds are generally stronger than instrumentally driven “transaction” networks.49 Transaction networks nevertheless help clerics increase information sharing and mutual trust. Both types of ties help clerics settle disputes, instill a sense of collec-

49 Delia Baldassari and Mario Diani. “The Integrative Power of Civic Networks.” American Journal of Sociology, 113 (2007): 735–80. Quoted in Sidney G. Tarrow, Power in movement: Social movements and contentious politics. (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2011): 132.

42 tive identity, and mitigate conflict potential among clerics. Social or transactional bonds can also lead to more formal organizational ties, which help cement inter-elite bonds. It is easier for entrepreneurs to gain recognition as religious authorities within organizations that grant them official leadership position and opportunities to increase their networks.

When strong, inter-cleric connections can also facilitate collective action and help mitigate inter-elite competition. Indeed, clerics that coalesce can come together and form a religious “cartel.” A cartel is a form of horizontal concentration in which independent firms agree to control prices and share a market. The goal is to make it more difficult for new competitors to enter the market and thus maximize their profit. Religious “firms” and entrepreneurs can also seek cartel- like arrangements in order to mitigate religious competition. In The Churching of America, Roger Finke and Rodney Stark found that various churches throughout the U.S. history have tried through formal and informal agreements to cooperate and refrain from competing against each other. For instance, they avoided to recruit from each other’s flock, by dividing the territory, and by imposed limitations on who has the right to preach or not. In other words, cartels seek to impose barriers of entry to new religious leaders in the religious market in the hope of max- imizing existing leaders’ authority. These types of arrangements are only possible when clerics have some form of horizontal ties.

Without horizontal ties, clerics are isolated and gaining religious authority is often more competitive. Religious markets are characterized by a series of localized power centres and networks that cluster around particular leaders. Clerics find it more difficult to coordinate, and the broker- age of interests is limited; religious cartels are impossible. The more fragmented and segmented the elite structure is, the more competitive gaining religious authority for a cleric becomes. In a competitive environment, the number of competing clerics is central. Like party systems, some religious markets are more or less crowded, and some more or less competitive. In the absence of cartel arrangements among elites, barriers of entry are low. Religious entrepreneurs find it easier to gain access to the religious market since established religious leaders are unable to act collectively and block access to the religious market. In a crowded religious market, a large number of religious leaders and entrepreneurs compete for the same constituency. A limited supply of followers exists, however. With more entrepreneurs in a religious market, an entrepre-

43 neur can often secure only a smaller share of followers. Entrepreneurs with fewer followers are more vulnerable to go “out of business” and be unable to sustain their religious efforts.

The rest of this chapter explains how the institutional context in which clerics operate shape and mediate religious leaders’ decision to embrace radical mobilization. Islamic leaders with weak ties to the community and to other clerics are more likely to radicalize, whereas those with strong ties are less likely. Before turning to radicalization, I discuss the origins of Islamic institutions briefly.

3. The Origins of Islamic Institutions and Religious Markets

Religious markets and institutions are varied. Their configuration results from broader political dynamics and conflicts. Factors such as ethnicity, clans, war, and geography may all have long- lasting impacts on the strength or weakness of clerics’ ties to the community and other clerics. The existence of a common identity is often not sufficient, however, for the emergence of a strongly integrated elite structure.50

Throughout the world, the advent of colonialism and the building of modern states represented significant ruptures in how states and religious elites interact in the Muslim world.51 The terms on which modern states incorporated religious leaders and organizations differed greatly across countries and left long-lasting consequences. As shown in this dissertation, they also differed

50 Stathis N. Kalyvas, The Rise of Christian Democracy in Europe. (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1996): 13.

51 Marcel Maussen, Veit-Michael Bader, and Annelies Moors (eds.), Colonial and Post-Colonial Gov- ernance of Islam: Continuities and Ruptures. (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2011); David Robinson, Paths of Accommodation: Muslim Societies and French Colonial Authorities in Senegal and Mauritania, 1880-1920.” (Athens: Ohio University Press, 2000); and Pierre-Jean Luizard, Le Choc Co- lonial et l'Islam: Les Politiques religieuses des puissances coloniales en terres d'Islam (Paris: La Découverte, 2006).

44 significantly within countries.52 A crucial and strategic dimension of that incorporation revolved around clerics’ autonomous sources of revenue. Clerics historically drew most of their revenue and autonomy from wakaf (charitable foundation).53 A wakaf is an inalienable charitable endowment (a building, a plot of land, or other assets) given for a religious or charitable purpose with no intention of reclaiming the asset. Muslims have long used incomes generated by a wakaf to maintain imams, khatibs, ulama, and even madrasahs’ students. A second source of income for clerics is the zakat, the obligatory Islamic alms. Zakat is either given to the poor directly, to Muslim associations, charitable organizations, or the Islamic clergy. People use it to fund a variety of activities, primarily welfare and educational institutions such as madrasahs. Aside from income, the degree of autonomy granted to clerics was also crucial to state-building strategies.

State-building altered clerics’ access to independent sources of revenue. In many cases, 19th- and 20th-century state-builders seized, nationalized, or replaced Islamic charitable institutions (wakaf) with state-run substitutes. The state often took over zakat and made it part of state taxation.54 Through these reforms, modern and colonial state builders sought to eliminate, co-opt, or bureaucratize Islamic leaders, often transforming into salaried employees of the state. The state tried to strengthen its power, avoid fiscal evasion, and destroy the autonomy and strength of Islamic leaders by attacking religious endowments. For states that had weak legitimacy, incor- porating religion into the state, and making the state into the main patron of the religion, aimed

52 Catherine Boone also finds variations in state-building within a single state in Africa. See Political Topographies of the African State: Territorial Authority and Institutional Choice (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2003); and Catherine Boone, Property and Political Order in Africa: Land Rights and the Structure of Politics (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2014).

53 Abd Al-Rahman Al-Salimi, “Zakāt, Citizenship and the State: The Evolution of Islamic Religious and Political Authority.” Journal of the Royal Asiatic Society, 25, no.1 (2015): 57-69; Jennifer Bremer, “Is- lamic Philanthropy: Reviving Traditional Forms for Building Social Justice,” Unpublished Conference Paper, CSID Fifth Annual Conference, Defining and Establishing Justice in Muslim Societies (Washing- ton, D.C., May 28-9, 2004).

54 Jennifer Bremer, “Islamic Philanthropy”: 12; Tamir Moustafa, “Conflict and Cooperation Between the State and Religious Institutions in Contemporary Egypt.” International Journal of Middle East Stud- ies 32, no.1 (2000): 3-22; Malika Zeghal, “État et marché des biens religieux”; Arnold H. Green “A Comparative Historical Analysis of the Ulama and the State in Egypt and Tunisia.” Revue de l'Occident Musulman et de la Méditerranée, 29, (1980). 31-54.

45 at tapping into religious leaders and organizations’ legitimacy.55 In other contexts, state builders granted more autonomy to religious elites and left their wakaf and zakat almost untouched. Is- lamic leaders were sometimes useful allies to state builders as they kept the population subservi- ent. They helped collect taxes, mobilize labour, offer a much-needed social safety net, and keep the population obedient.56

The model adopted left enduring legacies on religious authorities and their institutions. Often, ulama that were too close to the state lost legitimacy in the eyes of the ummah. Clerics who resisted integration, but faced policies of nationalization and bureaucratization, often became powerless. Where ulama were neutralized, the religious market became wide open for new Is- lamic actors to fill the space.

Those who successfully resisted and were empowered became important economic or political elites, and subsequent regimes were often unable to undo what the previous regimes did. Vested interests, both among religious and secular leadership, often prevented states from altering their relation to religious leaders. For example, religious organizations resisted the development of the welfare state in countries where they were responsible for providing social services.57 Reli- gious organizations have also become an integral part of some country’s social services provision systems.58 Eventually, these interactions came to be entrenched in laws and constitutions,

55 Seyyed Vali Reza Nasr, Islamic Leviathan: Islam and the Making of State Power. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001); Stephen McCarthy, “Overturning the Alms Bowl: The Price of Survival and the Consequences for Political Legitimacy in Burma”. Australian Journal of International Affairs, 62, no.3 (2008): 298-314.

56 The most striking example of such a system took form in West Africa. In West Africa, the French colonial power used the Sufi brotherhood as a means to get access to the lucrative peanut cultivation. See Boone, Political Topographies; and David Robinson and Jean-Louis Triaud (eds.), Le Temps des Mara- bouts: Itinéraires et Stratégies Islamiques en Afrique Occidentale Française (Paris: Karthala Editions, 2012). Robinson, Paths of Accommodation.

57 Anders Bäckström et al. Welfare and Religion in 21st Century Europe: Volume 1: Configuring the Connections. (New York, NY: Routledge, 2016).

58 Arendt Lijphart, “Consociational Democracy,” World Politics, 21, no.02 (1969): 207-225.

46 making reversal even less likely.59 The configuration of relations with religious leaders and organizations established in the 17th and 18th centuries still shape European states’ approach to contemporary problems such as the integration of new religious minorities.60

4. Status, Competition, and Radicalism

The opportunities and constraints faced by clerics when they seek religious authority shape the choice to mobilize against minorities, women, and co-religionists. Low-status clerics are particularly precarious. With weak vertical and horizontal ties, they find it difficult to secure recognition from followers. They often have to compete with other clerics for recognition by followers. When leaders have weak ties to the community and inter-elite competition is intense, they tend to adopt more aggressive strategies of recruitment. Scapegoating and radical marginalization are efficient strategies in these contexts.

This dissertation is about “behavioural” radicalization, the use of violent and extra-legal mobilization. It is not about radical ideas and it does not suggest that institutions generate tolerance or intolerance per se. Clerics with weak ties do not suddenly become intolerant and start to despise their neighbours. A variety of factors—psycho-sociological, theological, or historical— explain intolerant attitudes, but they are beyond the scope of this theory.61 Instead, intolerant clerics

59 See for example the American case, Leonard W. Levy, The Establishment Clause: Religion and the First Amendment (Chapel Hill, NC: University of North Carolina Press, 1994).

60 See for example Ahmet T. Kuru, Secularism and State Policies Toward Religion: The United States, France, and Turkey. (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2009); Anthony Gill, The Political Origins of Religious Liberty (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2007); Joel S. Fetzer and J. Christopher Soper, Muslims and the State in Britain, France, and Germany (Cambridge, MA: Cam- bridge University Press, 2005); Michael Koenig, “Europeanising the Governance of Religious Diversity: An Institutionalist Account of Muslim Struggles for Public Recognition. Journal of Ethnic and Migra- tion Studies, 33, no.6 (2007): 911-932. See Christian Joppke for a critique of that longue durée approach in “Beyond National Models: Civic Integration Policies for Immigrants in Western Europe” West Euro- pean Politics, 30, no.1 (2007), 1-22.

61 Classic social psychological perspectives on prejudice are: Gordon W. Allport, The Nature of Preju- dice. (Reading, MA: Addison-Wesley, 1979) and Thomas F. Pettigrew, “Intergroup Contact Theo- ry.” Annual Review of Psychology, 49, no.1 (1998): 65-85. For a historically grounded explanation of

47 exist just as much as tolerant clerics do, and they either mobilize or remain silent. This dissertation shows that no inevitable connection exists between extremist political or religious ideas and extremist or violent actions; radicalization—i.e., the internalizing of a set of beliefs—does not entail participation in violent organizations.62 Intolerant clerics mobilize only if they have the opportunities or incentives to mobilize. Conversely, tolerant clerics mobilize in favour of minorities only if they have the incentive.

This dissertation shows that “tolerant” societies may not be truly or entirely tolerant when it comes to social attitudes. Tolerance is more often the unintended consequence the intolerants’ silence, rather than the tolerants’ heartfelt ethics or mobilization. In other words, tolerance is often a form of truce, an “indifference to differences,” or in Walzer’s words, a “resigned acceptance of difference for the sake of peace.” Religious persecutions are neither spontaneous nor inevitable. Instead, the critical question is what keeps intolerant actors silent or spurs them to violent action.63

Clerics with deep roots in society are in a stronger position: they have constant access to followers and have higher status. A high-status cleric has more “theological independence”: he “preaches what he pleases, while a low-status cleric is constrained to the point [of becoming] a ‘prisoner of the mosque,’ required to cater his preaching to the whims of whichever audience is supporting him from day to day.”64 In other words, clerics who want to persist “must constantly prove [themselves] to the immediate religious group that grants legitimation.”65 They have to cater to their followers’ needs almost as clients. Without regularized interaction with followers, “the messenger is […] judged more by his personal appeal to the people, rather than his profes-

hatreds see Stuart J. Kaufman, Modern Hatreds: The Symbolic Politics of Ethnic War. (Ithaca, NY: Cor- nell University Press, 2001).

62 For a similar argument see Randy Borum, ‘Rethinking Radicalization’, Journal of Strategic Security, 4, no. 4, (2011): 2.

63 Cherian George, Hate Spin: The Manufacture of Religious Offense and its Threat to Democracy. (Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 2016): 4.

64 Cherribi, In the House of War: 114-115, cited by Nielsen, Lonely Clerics: 64

65 Jackson W. Carroll, “Some Issues in Clergy Authority.” Review of Religious Research (1981): 100.

48 sional qualifications […]; and the message is judged by its application to the practical life […] and not by the professional standards of a well-trained clergy.”66 When institutions do not facilitate the gaining religious authority, recognition lies entirely on the shoulders of clerics and aspiring clerics. Such leadership is unpredictable, personal and unstable, and hence must become “routinized” if the mission of the originator is to persist. Clerics who have deep ties in society and strong horizontal ties are less likely to feel threatened by religious minorities. Their immediate survival does not depend on annihilating the other group.

Religious markets in which clerics have weak horizontal ties are more competitive and prone to conflicts. The more a religious market is crowded and pluralistic, the more access to authority and resources is precarious. In pluralistic markets, religious entrepreneurs need to be incredibly creative if they want to survive: they need to gain a competitive advantage by breaking into new “markets,” catering to overlooked niches, or better advertising and promoting their “offer.” As Richard A. Nielsen puts it, “in a cramped marketplace of clerics, each attempt to appeal to similar groups of lay Muslims, and each attempt to promote their own credentials.”67 Low-status clerics are unable to send credible signals as to where they stand and what is their “worth”, so this has a radicalizing effect on the clerics’ position taking. In less crowded religious markets, access to resources and followers is less competitive. In such markets, clerics need not be as fervent or as creative. They can even afford to be “lazy” as other clerics are not as threatening.68 They are often more concerned with maintaining their market share than to conquer new markets.

Clerics who operate in competitive religious markets are more amenable to strategies of radicalization and anti-minority mobilization. Competition sets off a process of internal differentiation. Cunningham et al. show that in contexts of civil war, ingroup competition for political relevance

66 Roger Finke, “Religious Deregulation: Origins and Consequences,” Journal of Church and State 32(3): 617 (1990).

67 Nielsen, Lonely Clerics: 80

68 See for instance, Mark Chaves and David E. Cann, “Regulation, Pluralism, and Religious Market Structure: Explaining Religion's Citality,” Rationality and Society, 4, no.3 (1992), 272-290; Laurence R. Iannaccone, Roger Finke, Rodney Stark, “Deregulation Religion: The Economics of Church and State,” Economic Inquiry 35 (1997): 350-364.

“creates incentives for militancy” and “for all factions to use violence against the state and against their co-ethnic brethren.”69 Clerics with weak vertical and horizontal ties are particularly vulnerable to radicalization. In her study of radical leftist organizations in Italy and Germany, Donatella Della Porta found that activists who lacked resources were those who most radicalized their repertoire.70 Violent mobilization is “a resource for survival for groups that are weak”: violent militancy a substitute for other resources and “militancy become its only unifying prin- ciple.”71 Like rival companies vying for a share of the market, competition between activists triggered their attempt to distinguish their “product” from that of the others in order to occupy a niche where their products were most in demand.72 The range of options is wide open: where clerics have weak horizontal ties, no institutions or cartels can impose barriers of entry in the religious market. The boundaries between the legitimate and the illegitimate, orthodox and unorthodox, and acceptable and unacceptable religious expression are much more fluid as a result. Inter-elite competition also leads to tactical differentiation.73 In their search for a specific political identity, different groups tested different strategies, thus polarizing the moderate and radical wings. Nielsen shows that clerics with little access to networks and influence are more likely to radicalize and adopt jihadist rhetoric as a way to demonstrate their commitment and autonomy. Finally, as argued by Roger Brubaker, competitive religious markets are more disposed toward

69 Kathleen Gallagher Cunningham, Bakke Kristin M. and Lee J. M. Seymour. “Shirts Today, Skins To- morrow: Dual Contests and the Effects of Fragmentation in Self-Determination Disputes,” Journal of Conflict Resolution, 56, no.1 (2012): 67–93, cited in Kathleen Gallagher Cunningham and Wendy Pearlman, “Nonstate Actors, Fragmentation, and Conflict Processes,” The Journal of Conflict Resolution, 56, no.1 (2012): 11.

70 Donatella Della Porta, Social Movements, Political Violence, and the State: A Comparative Analysis of Italy and Germany, (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2006): 110.

71 Ibid: 107.

72 Ibid: 196.

73 Mayer N. Zald and John D. McCarthy. “Social Movement Industries: Competition and Cooperation Among Movement Organizations,” in L. Kriesberg (ed), Research in Social Movements, Conflict, and Change (Greenwich, CT: JAI Press, 1980): 6.

50 what he calls “heteronomy,” that is, the use of capital and principles of valuation derived from other markets such as capital of notoriety, fame, or media exposure.74

Radicalization and intolerant mobilization are more likely to happen when clerics face intense competition and are weakly embedded in society. Mobilizing against a minority is a cheap and efficient strategy to generate religious authority. It is powerful because it strengthens in-group solidarity by erecting sharp boundaries between an in-group and an out-group; it amplifies dis- tinctions between one group and another by spreading negative ideas about a minority; it taps into anxieties and prejudice to foster a sense of urgency and threat; and stimulates strong popular reactions by painting another group as being offensive, blasphemous, or humiliating.75

Hate speech, “offence-taking” and scapegoating change followers’ sense of priority, make the status quo unacceptable, and silence those who perceive themselves as tolerant. On the one hand, noisy intolerant clerics hope to discredit moderate clerics, whose position on these issues are ambiguous, and push them into total silence. On the other hand, by identifying a problem, and offering to solve the problem, some clerics can promote their own leadership position and strengthen their appeal as religious leaders. Through public provocation, they hope to gain visibility, fame and media exposure and thus strengthen their social ascendency. By forcing religious entrepreneurs to stress the comparative advantage of their offer, competitive religious markets trigger dynamics of religious outbidding.76 Through outbidding, religious entrepreneurs gain religious credentials by claiming to be more religious than other religious leaders.

Mobilization against a minority is not just a short-term strategy for low-status clerics; it also expands religious entrepreneurs’ influence, networks, and access in the longer run. As Sirianni and Friedland recognize, “social movements do not merely rely upon existing social capital:

74 Rogers Brubaker, “Religious Dimensions of Political Conflict and Violence,” Sociological Theory, 33, no.1 (2015): 11.

75 George, Hate-Spin: 18

76 Monica D. Toft, “The Politics of Religious Outbidding,” The Review of Faith & International Affairs, 11, no.3 (2013): 10-19; Monica D. Toft, “Getting religion? The Puzzling Case of Islam and Civil War,” International Security, 31, no.4 (2007): 97-131; and Aisha Ahmad, “Going Global: Islamist Competition in Contemporary Civil Wars,” Security Studies, 25, no.2 (2016): 353-384.

51 they also reproduce it, and sometimes create new forms of it.”77 While some of them may fall back into oblivion after mobilization, others will use it as a means to solidify their position. For instance, mobilization itself often helps the creation of new networks and organizational structures, which may outlast mobilization itself. Clerics who are low-status may increase following through mobilization, and they may increase their status by gaining a “greater integration 78 […] within elite circles,” and “within the associational networks of their societies.”

5. Conclusion

The goal of this chapter was to develop a theoretical framework explaining the drivers of clerics radicalization. I showed the limits of dominant approaches, which focus on lay masses or politicians and state elites, rather than religious leaders per se. The literature often links ideas to radical actions, without looking at the structure of incentives and the interests of those who claim to be religious leaders.

I developed two interrelated causal arguments. First, I argued that a theory of clerics’ radicalization must begin by identifying what is at stakes. In the absence of a church, which assigns authority to a professional clergy, recognition by followers and other clerics is the basis of religious authority. The challenge for clerics and aspiring clerics is to garner and maintain that recognition. Ties to followers and other clerics are more or less institutionalized. When they are institutionalized, religious authority is more stable, routinized, and competitive. When they are not institutionalized, religious authority is inherently unstable, precarious, and competitive. Se- cond, I argued that clerics have incentives for radicalization when they have weak ties to their followers and other clerics and evolve in competitive religious environments. Such clerics are

77 Carmen Sirianni and Lewis Friedland. 1995. “Social Capital and Civic Innovation: Learning and Ca- pacity Building from the 1960s to the 1990s.” Paper presented at the American Sociological Association Annual Meeting, Washington, DC., cited by Mario Diani, “Social Movements and Social Capital: A Network Perspective on Movement Outcomes.” Mobilization: An International Quarterly, 2, no.2 (1997): 129-147.

78 Diani, “Social Movements and Social Capital,” 136.

52 more likely to adopt aggressive strategies of recruitment. Scapegoating and radical marginalization are efficient strategies in these contexts.

Chapter 3 Radical Mobilization and Islamic Institutions: Setting the Stage

Since the early 2000s, Indonesia has experienced unparalleled levels of Islamic militancy. New radical groups have spread throughout Indonesia and have increasingly adopted aggressive strategies against immorality, blasphemy, and religious deviancy. A striking feature of contemporary mobilization is cross-regional differences in how religious authority is mobilized and contested. While most regions have radical groups, only some have experienced widespread and persistent mobilization. West Java is the province most affected by radical mobilization: it is the province with both the most radical groups and the region where they have been the most active. Far from a fringe phenomenon, anti-minority mobilization in West Java has involved kyai and ustadz as leaders of the radical groups. The provinces of Central and East Java, by contrast, are home to fewer radical groups and radical mobilization. In these provinces, kyai and ustadz have refrained from condoning or joining radical anti-minority mobilization. Why?

This chapter sets the stage to the dissertation’s main argument, which is that there is a link between the production of radical entrepreneurs and the features of a religious environment, the strength of its clerics and its religious organizations. This chapter argues that the proliferation of vigilante groups and higher levels of mobilization are linked to the involvement of traditional Muslim leaders. Where clerics have participated, vigilante groups have proliferated, and mobilization has exploded, but where they have not, vigilante groups found it hard to get a foothold and have generally laid low. This chapter then explains that the participation of those clerics is linked to local Islamic organizations and the configuration of local religious markets. In regions with high numbers of vigilante groups and high levels of mobilization, being recognized as a religious leader is more difficult and more competitive. This chapter uses a newly compiled da-

53 54 taset to systematically measure differences in the configuration of religious organizations and religious markets across Java. The data shows previously overlooked sub-regional differences: in West Java, a radical region, clerics are fragmented and have small religious organizations and the religious market is crowded and competitive; in East Java, a region less prone to militancy, clerics are cohesive and have large religious organizations, and the religious market is less crowded and competitive.

1. Radical Clerics and Intolerant Mobilization

My point of departure is, as discussed at length in chapter 1, the cross-regional difference in how religious authority is mobilized and contested in post-transition Indonesia. Since the country’s democratic transition in 1998, new Islamic radical groups have been created, and some of them have adopted increasingly aggressive strategies such as fighting against immorality, pro- testing blasphemy, or attacking “deviant” religious minorities. The rise of radical groups varies across regions. Although vigilante militias exist in most districts of Java, some districts have higher levels of mobilization than do others. West Java is the province most affected by radical mobilization. It is the province with both the most radical groups and the region where they have been the most active. By comparison, Central and East Java are more peaceful. They have fewer radical groups and lower levels of radical mobilization.

The key driver to radical proliferation and mobilization is the interaction between these new radical organizations and traditional Islamic leaders. Where traditional Islamic leaders have joined radical groups, mobilization has thrived, and groups proliferated. In Java, traditional Is- lamic leaders are kyai and ustadz. Kyai are charismatic ulama and generally own an Islamic boarding school (pesantren), while ustadz are teachers at a pesantren or a madrasah, or preach or hold pengajian (Islamic sermons or seminars) in mosques or other public venues. Today, the 28,000 or more pesantren throughout Indonesia remain a significant source of religious authority, despite the emergence of so-called “celebrity preachers” who use television and Internet rather than pesantren or pengajian as a base of authority.

Figure 3.2 systematically compares the chairmanship of the Islamic Defenders’ Front’s (FPI) regency branches throughout Java.1 The FPI is not the only vigilante group in Indonesia. It is, however, the only vigilante group that has opened branches almost in almost every province. As the figure shows, radical groups have found widespread support among kyai and ustadz in West Java but not in East Java.2 In West Java, a kyai or an ustadz chair almost 70 percent of the regency branches. The headquarters of district branches of the FPI are often located in Islamic boarding schools.3 In the Priangan, the region southeast of Bandung, 87.5 percent are either ustadz or kyai hajis. In 2012, when the central government suggested dismantling the vigilante organization, FPI received support from the Indonesian Pondok Pesantren Cooperation Body (Badan Kerjasama Pondok Pesantren Se-Indonesia, BKSPPI), which claim to represent thousands of pesantren mostly in West Java.4 In the aftermath of the so-called Monas tragedy in 2008, where members of the FPI attacked dozens of peaceful protesters in favour of religious freedoms, a short-lived yet widespread countermovement requesting the FPI to disband emerged throughout Java. In West Java, however, protests against the FPI remained relatively insignifi- cant in comparison to other provinces. The map shows clear regional patterns in the leadership of FPI.

1 The map surveys only the FPI because it allows for cross-regional comparison. FPI is the only pan- national organization. Other local organizations may have different patterns of leadership, but since FPI is the largest and most influential group, we are confident that it reveals signficant trends.

2 Interview with Muhammad Sofyan Ansori, Chairman of FPI-Tasikmalaya, Tasikmalaya, West Java, May 2014; Interview with KH Ijad Noorjaman, Kyai pesantren, former chairman of FPI-Tasikmalaya (c. 1998-2001), Tasikmalaya, West Java, May 2014.

3 Anonymous interview with a former rank-and-file member of FPI, Bandung, West Java, April 2014.

4 See BKSPPI, Surat Nomor 03/BKSPPI/II/2012, 15 Februari 2012.

Figure 3.1- Religious Titles of FPI chairmen, Java

Jakarta Bandung City

Banten

West Java

Central Java No FPI branch identified No title East Java Ustadz Kyai haji

Source: Compiled by the author from various media sources.

In Central and East Java, by contrast, the relation between kyai and radical groups has been much more fraught. Despite the ideological sympathy of some kyai, radical groups have not found the environment particularly fertile. 5 Less than 30 percent of FPI leaders are from the ranks of kyai or ustadz in the region. On mainland East Java (excluding Madura) not a single chairman of the FPI is a kyai. Some kyai and their followers have even openly opposed the establishment of new branches of the organization in the region. Why do kyai and ustadz join FPI in West Java and less so in Central and East Java?

5 Interview with Ustad Maman, Commander-in-Chief of FPI, Depok, West Java, December 2013; Inter- view with Gus Roy Murtadho, Pesantren Tebuireng, Jombang, East Java, June 2014; Interview with Wahyuni Widyaningsih, Executive Director of the Center for Marginalized Communities Studies, Sura- baya, East Java, May 2016.

2. A Geography of Islamic Institutions

This puzzling variation is connected to differences in the structure of religious authority in the two provinces. A cleric’s decision to lead a radical group like FPI is related to the opportunities and challenges he faces when he tries to gain and maintain religious authority. Mainstream Is- lamic leaders have joined vigilante militias where they have weak organizations, i.e., weak ties with their followers and with other clerics, and where religious markets are competitive.

Comparing religious organizations and the configuration of the structure of the religious market in each regency is the first step in understanding the kinds of challenges, constraints, and incentives that new or established clerics face when they try to be recognized by others as legitimate religious authorities. Measuring the religious organizations and markets are a difficult task, however.

I use in this dissertation an approach similar to the one used by the religious economy literature. Like this literature, I focus on those who supply religious goods instead of the demand, the consumers; I also conceive the behaviour of religious “firms” as a (rational) response to incentives generated by the interaction between firms in a space, which they call, a religious “market.” However, the religious economy literature is mostly concerned with Christian societies. It generally measures religious markets by looking at denominational data.6 They use the number of denominations, and the growth of one over others, as indicators of market competitiveness. In Sunni Islam, however, there is no such thing as a denomination or churches. While some competition takes place between religious traditions (e.g., Muslims/Christians) and between Islamic movements (e.g., traditionalist/modernist, Salafi/Sufi, or Sunni/Shi’ite), most of the competition

6 See for instance Laurence R. Iannaccone, “The Consequences of Religious Market Structure: Adam Smith and the Economics of Religion.” Rationality and Society, 3, no.2 (1991): 156-177; Eva M. Ham- berg and Thorleif Pettersson. “The Religious Market: Denominational Competition and Religious Partic- ipation in Contemporary Sweden,” Journal for the Scientific Study of Religion, (1994): 205-216; Roger Finke and Rodney Stark, “Religious Choice and Competition,” American Sociological Review, 63, no.5 (1998): 761-766; and Anthony Gill, Rendering unto Caesar: the Catholic Church and the State in Latin America (Chicago, IL: University of Chicago Press, 2008).

58 takes place within each Islamic movement, say between one traditionalist preacher and another. As Julian Millie puts it, in a preachers’ economy,

“the competition […] is not played out between organized units competing for support in the manner of denominations, but between talented mediators competing for patronage by anticipating the likes, needs, and preferences of audiences. Some preachers clearly appear as innovators because they read the needs and preferences of emerging audiences, while others style themselves as bearers of tradition but nevertheless owe their success to their ability to read and mediate changing cultural subjectivities.”7

Unlike denominational strength, it is more challenging to measure the relative success of each preacher and the extent to which a given market is competitive or not. No survey of preachers exists; most preachers do not keep a tally of their followers; mosques do not have attendance sheets; and, the variety of preaching outlets (TV, books, magazines, or the Internet) make it difficult to get a sense of who is active and who has larger “shares” in a given preaching economy.

This chapter responds to this challenge and measures Java’s religious markets by using an inno- vative method. It looks at pesantren as “firms” and santri as “clients” and uses a newly compiled database of Java’s 15,000 Islamic boarding schools (pesantren) and 30,000 ulama. While it is not a perfect measure of religious authority structure, the size of pesantren and the number of santri and ulama are useful proxies, allowing to systematically assess cross-regional differences in how religious authority is structured, experienced, and practised. Pesantren, and Islamic schools in general are an important source of religious authority in Indonesia and beyond. Kyai continue to be highly respected and considered as key bearers of religious authority for many Indonesian Muslims.8

We can measure the success of a kyai or a preacher in claiming authority by looking at the size of his flock. The followers of a kyai do not, however, register or buy a membership card. We know, however, that the larger a pesantren is, the more authority a kyai commands. Kyai in

7 Julian Millie, “Oratorical Innovation and Audience Heterogeneity in Islamic West Java” Indonesia, 93, no.1 (2012): 145.

8 Millie, “Oratorical Innovation”: 145. Kyai seem to have less political influence than they used to have. On this topic, see Greg Fealy and Robin Bush, “The Political Decline of Traditional Ulama in Indone- sia.” Asian Journal of Social Science, 42, no.5 (2014): 536-560.

59 large pesantren have lots of santri and generally lots of followers within the broader society. In Indonesia, people refer to the least influential kyai as “kyai kampung” or “kyai langgar” (i.e., village kyai). Kyai kampung do have some religious authority, but their influence is generally limited to the boundaries of the village. They most often do not own a pesantren, but teach to small groups of students in the langgar (small village mosque) or their own house. They have limited training and focus on simple matters, such as teaching the Arabic alphabet and the mem- orizing of the Qur’an, generally after Maghrib (sunset prayer) or Subuh (dawn prayer). Villagers often consult these kyai about some social and religious questions, but their influence is limited to the village level.

Kyai with madrasah diniyah (extracurricular qur’anic school) or pesantren (Islamic boarding school) are influential well beyond their village. The more influential they are, the more people and kyai from outside of the region will come to visit and pay their respect. This influence is tightly connected to the size of the school a kyai command. While madrasah diniyahs targets children from the area, pesantren offer more potential for growth. Most pesantren have dormito- ries, which allows santri from other towns and region to come and study under the kyai. Santri from other villages, districts, or provinces are key to expanding a kyai’s influence. Upon return to their hometown, santri generally maintain strong connections with “their” kyai and will often help the pesantren grow, by providing material or financial assistance to their kyai.9

As summarized in Table 3.1, the more significant the number of santri in a pesantren, the higher is the influence of a kyai. 10 Although typologies are always arbitrary, and that categories are never as discrete as implied, my interviews revealed a generally accepted understanding of the relation between ulama’s number of santri and their social and religious influence. People typically consider pesantren with fewer than 50 santri as extremely local, and their kyai as marginal. Kyai with small pesantren, somewhere between 50 to 200 santri, are influential at the sub- district levels, while those with between 200 to 500 santri are influential at the district level.

9 Zamakhsyari Dhofier, The Pesantren Tradition: A Study of the Role of the Kyai in the Maintenance of the Traditional Ideology of Islam in Java. (Jakarta: LP3ES, 1982): 61.

10 While approximate, these numbers were obtained through multiple interviews, which asked participants to evaluate pesantren and kyai’s sphere of influence vis-à-vis others. The number of santri almost always came back as a metric of influence.

Kyai “khos” (special kyai) are those kyai who operate pesantren with 500 santri or more. These kyai are incredibly influential and commonly head vast networks spanning multiple districts and provinces. They are the most influential kyai.

Table 3.1- Pesantren Size and Ulama Influence

Small pesantren Langgar or no Mid-sized Large Very large or pesantren Pesantren Pesantren Pesantren Madrasa diniyah

Less than 50 50 to 200 200 to 500 500 to 2,000 More than students students students students 2,000 students Clerics have Clerics have Clerics have Clerics have Clerics have provincial- and village-level district-level regency-level national-level National-level influence influence influence influence influence Source: Author’s own typology, based on interviews.

By using pesantren as the primary market units, as the “firms,” I was able to measure and compare market structure across Java by focusing on four indicators: (1) how many firms a market includes (crowding), (2) how much of the market is controlled by each firm; (3) how levelled the market is, and (4) how easy it is for new firms to enter the market.11 For economists, markets that are levelled, that have multiple sellers of relatively equal size, and almost no barriers of entry are deemed perfectly competitive. In contrast, markets that have one or a few sellers with most market share, and that have considerable barriers of entry are considered oligopolistic or monopolistic.

11 William Baumol and Alan S. Blinder, Economics: Principles and Policy (Mason, OH: Cengage, 2009): 504.

2.1. Comparing Within Java

The basic make-up of the four provinces in Java is similar. Traditionalist Islam is dominant, especially in the countryside. Although no cross-national surveys exist, my interviews repeated- ly estimated that approximately 75 to 80 percent of the population are traditionalist Muslims and that Java’s four provinces are similar in that respect.12 Among the traditionalists, a majority of Muslim has cultural affinities, i.e., similar religious practices and rituals, to the Nahdlatul Ula- ma. In a survey of pesantren, 76.3 percent of all pesantren claim cultural affiliation with NU in Java. While slightly lower than in East Java, more than two-thirds of the pesantren in West Java claimed cultural ties with Nahdlatul Ulama.13

A systematic comparison of religious organizations across Java reveals crucial, yet previously unnoticed East-West differences. Clerics in West Java are much less influential than clerics in East Java. As shown in Table 3.2, pesantren are generally smaller in the province of West Java (111.5 santri/pesantren) than other provinces like Central (188.3) and East Java (230.5). In some East Javanese regencies, pesantren have on average more than 300 santri, three times the average pesantren in West Java and the Priangan. The regencies with the largest pesantren are Gresik (373), Bangkalan (368), Lamongan (313), Ponorogo (305), and Magetan (302). In some West Javanese districts, by contrast, pesantren have fewer than a hundred santri on average. The districts with the smallest pesantren are Cianjur (70), Bandung Barat (80), Majalengka (90), Sumedang (96), Tasikmalaya (98), Ciamis (101), and Garut (103). Based on the typology pre-

12 Based on many interviews with kyai in East and West Java. Karl D. Jackson reached a similar conclusion through survey data. He found that only 16 percent of the population in the 19 villages surveyed were Modernist Muslims and the rest were traditionalist, syncretist, or nominal Muslims. See Karl D. Jackson, Traditional Authority, Islam, and Rebellion (Berkeley, CA: University of California Press, 1980): 90.

13 Kementerian Agama RI, Statistik Pendidikan Islam (Jakarta: Direktorat Jenderal Pendidikan Agama RI, 2002-2003). This was confirmed by high-ranking officials from Nahdlatul Ulama: Interview with M. Imdadun Rahmat, Vice-General Secretary of PBNU (2010-2015), Jakarta, July 2014; Interview with Adnan Anwar, Vice-General Secretary of PBNU, Jakarta, April 2014; and Anonymous Interview with a Senior NU leader in West Java, Yogyakarta, June 2014.

62 sented above, the average cleric in West Java has district- or village-level influence whereas the average cleric in East Java has a comfortable regency-level influence.

Table 3.2- Pesantren Size in Java

Santri per Pe- Pesantren santren

Banten 2,467 94.7

West Java** 7,691 111.5

… Priangan 4,133 102.1

Central Java 5,025 188.3

East Java 4,047 230.5

Java* 19,230 146.5 Notes: * Excludes Yogyakarta; ** Includes the Priangan Source: Author’s own database; original data from Kemen- terian Agama, Direktori Pondok Pesantren: Jumlah Santri dan Nama Kyai Tahun 2008–2009 (Kemenag: Jakarta, 2009).

In addition to being smaller, pesantren’s land is generally smaller in West Java. The land on which pesantren sit and the pesantren buildings themselves are often held as wakaf. In Indone- sia, as in the Muslim world in general, the proceeds from agriculture on wakaf land are crucial to the income and autonomy of clerics and their educational institutions. The Indonesian government does not yet compile data on wakaf tied to pesantren. To measure whether pesantren have land, I look at data on pesantren’s agribusinesses. As Table 3.3 shows, a majority of pesantren in East Java engage in agriculture; they grow fruits, vegetable, and rice, or they raise livestock or farm fish. These businesses are central to the pesantren’s financial autonomy, but also reveal that they are endowed with land. Indeed, pesantren in East Java are not only bigger regarding numbers of santri, which imply that they have larger landholdings, but also can afford to devote on average 35.6 percent of their land to agriculture. In West Java, the average pesantren is land-poor, and only a fifth of the pesantren engage in agriculture. On average, only 15

63 percent of pesantren land is used for agriculture. As the table’s third column illustrates, these differences are not related to the extent to which the province is rural or not. The percentage of the province land used for agriculture in West and East Java is almost similar (41.6 to 47.8) and the difference is too small to justify the variation observed in the percentage of pesantren engaged in agribusiness (33 pp).

Table 3.3- Pesantren and Agriculture

Averahe per- Percentage of Percentage of centage of pe- pesantren en- santren land the province gaged in agri- land used for * used for agricul- *** business ture** agriculture

Banten 9.0 15.3 36.9

West Java 19.0 15.4 41.6

Central Java 38.2 22.1 56.2

East Java 52.3 35.6 47.8 Notes: * Direktorat Jenderal Pendidikan Islam. Statistik Pendidikan Agama dan Keagamaan, Tahun Pelajara 2003-2004 and Ibid, 2006-2007. ** Direktorat Jenderal Pendidikan Islam. Statistik Pendidikan Agama dan Keaga- maan, Tahun Pelajara 2005-2006 and Ibid, 2006-2007. *** Includes both wetland and dry land agriculture, Kementerian Pertanian. 2014, Statistik Lahan Pertanian, Tahun 2009-2013, Jakarta: Pusat Data dan Informasi Pertanian, Kementerian Pertanian.

There is a broader scarcity of wakaf land in West Java, a scarcity unknown in other regions of Java. I use a newly compiled dataset14 on Indonesia’s 400,000-plus mosques, which contains data on the size of almost every mosque’s wakaf land.15 Similar to pesantren, land of mosques in West Java is remarkably smaller than that of other provinces. Table 3.4 shows that the average

14 I would like to thank Nicholas Kuipers from the University of California-Berkley for providing me with the dataset.

15 There is less than 5 percent of missing data points on the size of wakaf land in Java.

64 land surface for wakaf mosques in West Java is 133.2 square meters, while the average in East Java is 214.1 square meters.

Table 3.4- Mosques and Land, 2018

Wakaf Average wakaf Mosques land size (m2)

Banten 6,361 218.7

West 66,102 133.2

Central 75,886 149.5

East 59,643 214.1

Source: raw data from Sistem Informasi Masjid, Daftar Profil Masjid (online) http://simas.kemenag.go.id/index.php/profil/masjid/

In sum, West Java has the smallest pesantren and the pesantren and mosques with the smallest wakaf land. The consequences are particularly important for pesantren. Pesantren with small landholdings are generally less self-suficient than pesantren with larger ones. Clerics who are “landlocked” are also less able to expand and increase their santri base.

The religious market in West Java is more crowded than those of other provinces as more Islam- ic entrepreneurs compete for a smaller share of santri. As shown in Table 3.5, it has more pesantren and more kyai per capita (1.9) than Central and East Java (1.4 and 1.2 respectively). However, a higher ‘demand’ does not match this greater ‘offer.’ The demand for pesantren is smaller in Banten and West Java (with only 171 and 212 santri per 10,000 Capita) and much more signficant in East Java (with 277 santri per 10,000 Capita). As the Table shows, despite a similar demand to East Java, the Priangan has nearly three times as many pesantren as East Java. In other words, clerics are not only smaller in West Java, but they are more numerous: more entrepreneurs compete for a smaller market of santri.

Table 3.5- Crowding of the Religious Markets in Java

Santri per Pesantren per Kyai per 10,000 pop. 10,000 pop. 10,000 pop.+

Banten 170.5 1.8 4.8

West Java** 211.9 1.9 3.3

… Priangan 297.4 2.9 –

Central Java 263.6 1.4 1.9

East Java 276.6 1.2 2.3

Java* 230.7 1.6 3.1

Notes: * Excludes Yogyakarta; ** Includes the Priangan Source: Author’s own database; original data from Kementerian Agama, Direktori Pondok Pesantren: Jumlah Santri dan Nama Kyai Tahun 2008–2009 (Kemenag: Jakarta, 2009). +Author’s own data; original data from Direktorat Jenderal Pen- didikan Agama RI, Statistik Pendidikan Islam (Jakarta: Kementeri- an Agama RI), Year 2009–2010, 2010–2011, 2013–2014, and 2014–2015.

The Priangan, the region where most vigilante militias are active, stands out as the region with the most crowded religious market in all of Java. As the Table shows, the demand is significant in the Priangan: the number of santri is comparable, and even larger, to that of East Java as a whole. For a similar demand (number of santri), however, East Java has only 1.2 pesantren per 10,000 capita, while the Priangan has 2.9 pesantren per 10,000. With that many pesantren, the Priangan is by far the most crowded religious environment of all of Java. In other words, in that region prone to radicalism and violence, more firms compete for much smaller pieces of the santri pie.

The number of religious schools and their size is one essential characteristic of market structure. It reveals the number of players, and their relative strength, but does not show whether a market is levelled or not. A levelled market is one in which most firms are of a similar size and control

66 similar share of the market. A levelled market is naturally more competitive than one in which some firms control most market shares, that is, an oligopolistic market.

To gauge whether markets are levelled or not, I computed a “concentration ratio” for each of Java’s 107 districts. A concentration ratio is a measure frequently used in economics to measure the share of an industry’s output produced by a given number of firms in an industry. The ratio is used to compare the extent to which the output is concentrated in a few firms or not, both across countries and industries. For example, markets in Canada are generally more concentrated, less competitive, than markets in the United States and the United Kingdom. Within Canada, the tobacco and soda industries are more highly concentrated, than the bread and women clothing industries.

The most common way of measuring that ratio is to take the four largest firms in an industry and calculate the market share they control. The closest a concentration ratio is to zero, the more a market is perfectly levelled; and, conversely, the closest it is to 100 percent, the more the market is purely monopolistic. I computed the concentration ratio of each of Java’s regency by calculat- ing the percentage of the total number of santri attending the four biggest pesantren.

Predictably, concentration ratios vary significantly across provinces in Java, and the same sharp East-West divide is visible. In the West, religious markets approximate a situation of perfect competition. Figure 3.3 shows that the most levelled markets are located mostly in the western part of the island. In West Java and Banten, the average concentration ratio is close 10 percent, meaning that the four biggest schools have a mere 10 percent of all the santri in the province. In the Priangan, the southern portion of West Java, concentration ratios drop to about 7 percent, the lowest in all of Java. Regencies like Cianjur, Sukabumi, Majalengka, Garut, and the city of Tasikmalaya have concentration ratios below 5 percent.

In the East, religious markets are oligopolistic, and a handful of big pesantren control large shares of the religious market. In Central and East Java, religious markets have a concentration ratio of about 28 percent on average. Districts like Ponorogo, Situbondo, Jombang, and Kediri have concentration ratios of more than 40 percent. In other words, these regencies’ four biggest pesantren have more than 40 percent of all the santri in the region. There is thus very little competition among the schools in these regencies.

Figure 3.2- Summary of Religious Field Structures and Islamic Mobilization in Java

> 500 santri pesantren Small pesantren on average > 2, 000 santri pesantren Small pesantren on average and competitive religious market

Banten

West Java Central Java Incidents per 1,000,000 inhabitants East Java 0.0 0.1-1.9 Vigilante groups > 2.0

A levelled religious market means that no pesantren are dominant. As discussed above, kyai with pesantren that have more than 500 santri are almost certain of having province-level influence, while those with more than 2,000 santri may have national-level influence. In West Java, only seven pesantren have more than 2,000 santri, and 114 have more than 500. By contrast, East Java has 37 pesantren with more than 2,000 santri and 319 pesantren with more 500. As a result, large pesantren (with 500 santri or more) have a meagre 16.8 percent of the total santri market in West Java, while they have 37.9 percent of that market in East Java.

West Java is the province with the most substantial proportion of marginal pesantren. As discussed above, marginal pesantren are those pesantren with fewer than 50 santri. A quarter of all the pesantren has fewer than 50 santri in West Java, while only a fifth do in East Java. These

68 very small pesantren are essentially built around a kyai who command little influence beyond his pesantren. These pesantren could be compared to “start-ups”; most of them have been established recently, and may not last long.

Clerics have more or less institutionalized ties to other clerics. Most religious elites in Central and East Java are tied to the Nahdlatul Ulama, a traditionalist Sunni organization. As Table 3.6 shows, 82 to 84 percent of all the Islamic boarding schools of the region have cultural affiliation to the Nahdlatul Ulama.16 Independent schools and other traditionalist organizations are marginal. As mentioned above, a kyai’s claim to NU membership is based on shared religious practices, but each kyai remains independent from any central control. The strength of the affiliation to the NU is hard to assess. A kyai can claim filiation to NU culture without ever participating in NU structures and organizations. Data on the participation of pesantren in NU boards, at the national, provincial, and regency levels are not available.

A way around that problem is to look at pesantren’s participation in Rabithah Ma’ahid Islami- yah (RMI). RMI is the pesantren association attached to NU. Established in 1954, it seeks to improve the quality and the management of pesantren across Indonesia.17 Pesantren who are members of RMI can be said to be active participants of Nahdlatul Ulama’s broader organization. Some pesantren are more or less active in RMI, but their participation indicates that they have more than just the NU “culture.” They are at least minimally involved in RMI, part of NU structure, and most also participate in other instances of NU. Pesantren that are part of RMI also have frequent interaction with other pesantren, which increase the strength of their horizontal inter-elite ties. As Table 3.6 shows, almost one pesantren out of two in East and Central Java are active participants in RMI.18 In other words, almost half of the pesantren both have NU culture and participate in NU structure.

16 Kementerian Agama RI, Statistik Pendidikan Islam (Jakarta: Direktorat Jenderal Pendidikan Agama RI, 2002-2003).

17 Anonymous interview with a general secretary of RMI-Surabaya, East Java, Surabaya, June 2016.

18 The affiliation of pesantren has unfortunately only been asked once, in the pesantren survey of 2001- 2002.

Table 3.6- Affiliation of Traditionalist Pesantren in Java, 2002–2003

Nahdlatul Ulama Other Traditionalists

NU NU & RMI* Small Org. Independent

Banten 67.4 9.6 2.6 29.5

West Java 71.9 16.1 3.5 22.7

Central Java 82.0 43.0 3.5 12.2

East Java 84.0 42.8 2.3 12.7

Java 76.3 27.9 3.0 19.2

Note: Rows do not add up to 100% because the table excludes modernist pesantren; * Participate in both NU and RMI; Source: Author’s own database. Original data retrieved from Kementerian Agama RI, Statistik Pendidikan Islam (Jakarta: Direktorat Jenderal Pendidi- kan Agama RI, 2002-2003).

In the West, associational ties are weaker and religious networks are less cohesive and more fragmented. As shown in Table 3.6, twice as many pesantren are independent in West Java and Banten than in Central and East Java. A majority of pesantren identifies with NU like in the East, but these affiliations are more tenuous. In West Java, 71 percent of the pesantren claim to be affiliated to NU, but only 16.1 percent is active members. “NU” pesantren in West Java seldom participate in the organization. As one NU activist puts it, “NU is culturally strong, but organizationally weak in West Java.”19 Kyai often use NU as a vehicle for other personal ambitions and have little desire to keep the organization working on itself in the long term.20 As a

19 Interview with a NU activist in Tasikmalaya, Tasikmalaya, West Java, May 2016

20 Interview with H. Ahmad Dasuki, Secretary of Lakpesdam NU-Jawa Barat, Bandung, West Java, 19

70 result, only some regencies and districts of the province have established branch and sub-branch boards. Some branches are more active, such as Cianjur, Garut, Tasikmalaya, and Ciamis, but others only exist on paper and rarely, if ever, take part in regency-level or provincial-level activities.21 The provincial capital Bandung had no organization at the sub-district or village level until 2006, a situation unusual in East and Central Java.

Although NU is weak, no other organization has filled the space or achieved a dominant position in the region. Instead, West Java has a greater associational diversity than any other regions of Java, which again reflects the competitive nature of that religious environment. Religious associations and networks are extremely localized, and none is present across the province. For instance, Persatuan Umat Islam (PUI) is strong in Majalengka, with up to 80 percent of all the regency’s madrasas, and relatively strong in neighbouring Kuningan (20 percent), Indramayu (16 percent) and the city of Tasikmalaya (11 percent) but almost absent everywhere else in the province. GUPPI is strong only in Kuningan (16 percent) and Indramayu (8 percent), the same regency in which PUI is strong. A traditionalist organization called At-Taqwa is strong only in the regency and city of Bekasi (31 and 12 percent respectively). Mahtaul Anwar, a traditionalist organization from Banten, is quite well established in the regency and city of Bogor (10 percent) and the neighbouring regency of Karawang (10 percent), but virtually absent elsewhere in the province.

3. Conclusion

This chapter’s goal was to set the stage for the upcoming chapters. It mapped two critical variables in this study: the strength of clerics and the configuration of the religious market. It showed that in West Java, pesantren has weak and low-status clerics and the configuration of the religious market suggests sharp inter-elite competition. Indeed, most West Javanese kyai have weak organizations: they have small pesantren, and most do not have land. If pesantren were “firms” in a market, West Java would approximate a situation of perfect competition: most pesantren are

May 2016

21 Idem.

71 of similar size, and few pesantren are either large or very large. Furthermore, clerics are generally fragmented: loose horizontal ties and fragmented associational networks characterize the province’s Islamic elite structure. By contrast, pesantren in Central and East Java produce stronger and higher status clerics, and religious markets suggest oligopolistic inter-elite configuration. Indeed, most East Javanese kyai have strong organizations: they have large pesantren, and most have land. East Java is closer to an oligopoly than a competitive model since a handful of large pesantren has great share of the santri “market”. Leaders have strong horizontal ties and associational networks within the Nahdlatul Ulama. The next two chapters will explain these cross-regional variations by going back to the early origins of the state in Java. It will show that the unique colonial state formation style in West Java account for much of its uniqueness.

Chapter 4 The Colonial Origins of Islamic Organizations in Java

Why are religious organizations and religious markets so different across Java? Why are religious schools (pesantren) small and clerics (kyai) weak in West Java, while most religious schools are large and clerics strong in East Java (see Figure 4.1)? In this chapter, I argue that colonial state-building had long-lasting consequences on Islamic institutions and authorities throughout Java. These consequences were not uniform, however. I show that colonial state formation strategies varied geographically within Java and that local imperatives related to taxation and the mobilization of labour led to different sub-regional strategies of state formation. These strategies inadvertently shaped local religious organizations and authorities in different ways.

Figure 4.1- Summary of the Religious Markets in Java

> 500 santri pesantren Small pesantren on average > 2, 000 santri pesantren Small pesantren on average and competitive religious market

72 73

The chapter argues that state formation strategies, in particular policies related to land ownership, labour mobilization, and taxation either empowered or weakened the clerics. A crucial factor to contemporary developments was whether clerics had the right to collect the zakat, the Islamic tithe. Where independent kyai collected zakat, as in East Java, religious organizations are still strong and wealthy today; by contrast, where state officials collected zakat, as in West Java, religious organizations are still weak today.

The type of cash crops produced in a specific region shaped the local patterns of state-building. In West Java, coffee was the main staple and required the mobilization of labour, but little administrative capacities. Not willing to mobilize labour themselves, the Dutch entrusted native state officials with the task of mobilizing labour and collecting taxation. This decision led to powerful native elites with extensive discretionary powers.

Among the powerful elites of West Java were the “penghulu”, i.e. government clerics, who were part of the state power structure. In West Java, and not elsewhere, government clerics were given the monopoly over the collection of zakat and fitrah. Despite attempts to reform the colonial state in the early 20th century, legacies of the colonial regime continued to empower native officials and government clerics until the independence. In West Java, local state formation strategies led to the independent kyai’s marginalization. The architecture of the local state prevented non-state clerics from collecting independent sources of revenue, such as zakat and fitrah. Inde- pendent clerics were also victims of the commercialization of the rural economy. The colonial state’s policies in the region led to weak village institutions and the individual ownership of land. Inadvertenly, then, the local state encouraged the commercialization of land more rapidly than elsewhere on the island. As a resut, many independent kyai lost their land. As the colonial regime ended, independent kyai in West Java did not have the chance to build strong educational institutions and consolidate their power in the countryside as much as East Javanese ulama.

In East Java, sugar was the main staple and required both labour and extensive administrative capacities. With the goal of improving sugar outputs, the Dutch bureaucratized native officials and developed increasingly modern administrative capabilities. State officials were paid through land owned by villages (village land) and the land tax, both absent in West Java. The Dutch did not use East Javanese penghulu (i.e. government ulama) for the production of sugar and bureaucratized them instead. Unlike government clerics in West Java, they were not granted exclusive

74 control over the collection of zakat and fitrah. As a result, independent ulama became the dominant Islamic leaders in East Java. As the colonial regime concluded, independent kyai in East Java had had plenty of time to build strong institutions in the countryside and strengthen their patronage power among the villagers.

A detailed historical analysis such as this is warranted for three main reasons. First, this dissertation’s main argument is that religious competition and fragmentation promotes radical entrepreneurship and leads to radical mobilization. The opposite argument could, in theory, be true as well: radical entrepreneurs and radical mobilization lead to religious competition and fragmentation. This chapter and the next one show that religious institutions and religious markets’ structure are exogenous to religious radicalization. In other words, they show that radicalism is a response to religious structure rather than the other way around. Second, most of the large and influential pesantren that exist today, and that form the building blocks of Java’s religious markets, were founded during the colonial period. If we are to understand why few large pesantren grew in West Java, we have to understand the opportunities and constraints faced by ulama during the colonial period, a time they should have been building pesantren. This chapter tries to understand what made the West Javanese “soil” so different from the rest of Java. Third, and similarly, religious entrepreneurs established most of the current Islamic mass organizations – i.e., Persis, Muhammadiyah, Nahdaltul Ulama, and GUPPI— during the National Awakening period (1880-1930). Again, if we are to understand why they did not grow well in West Java, we need to explore the political environment faced by ulama during that period. To understand this political environment, the current chapter goes back a few years earlier, during the late colonial period, when various colonial policies forged its actors and institutions.

Figure 4. 1- Pathways to Power Configurations in Java Coffee Sugar Technology Labour Technology Labour

• • • No village system Autonomous native ofﬁcials Indirect rule • • • Village system Bureaucratized native ofﬁcials Direct rule

Individual ownership Individual No village land No land rent system Communal ownership Village land Land rent

• • Native ofﬁcial • clerics Independent • Native ofﬁcial • kyaiIndependent • • Penghulu (government clerics) • Penghulu (government clerics)

Discretionary taxation powers Mobilize and exploit Control over zakat and fitrah and village land). (zakat and fitrah) No taxation power (paid by land tax and village land). No access to zakatNo access and fitrah Discretionary taxation power Mobilize and exploit No taxation power (paid by land tax

West Java East Java

labour labour

• (1870) Land reforms • (1890-1930) reforms Administrative • (1870) Land reforms • (1890-1930) reforms Administrative

Land tion landlessness fragmentation and Some exemptions Less land Less No exemption and landlessness fragmenta

Strong Strong Weak Weak kyai Weak kyai Strong

penghulu native ofﬁcials penghulu native ofﬁcials independent independent

1. Mobilizing Labour, Collecting Taxes

The Dutch government took over the territories controlled by the bankrupted Dutch East India Company in 1800 and sought to bring profitability back to the colony. To do so, it launched a broad administrative reform and a program of compulsory labour called the “Cultivation Sys- tem” aimed at producing cash crops for export to Europe. The primary challenge with that system was to mobilize labour without spending the profits made by those cash crops.

The cultivation of sugar in East Java required a substantial reorganization of the local economic, the social life, and the state apparatus.1 Sugar cultivation was a large enterprise and took place in no less than 10,000 villages in Java. To improve cultivation and milling techniques, the Dutch invested huge amounts of capital, set up hundreds of water-powered sugar factories, built roads, rail infrastructure, and seaports.2 With such investments, the Dutch needed a strong state. To modernize the state, the Dutch first transformed the native aristocracy into paid bureaucrats and removed most of their discretionary powers. Colonial reports reveal that officials “scrupulously managed”3 sugar plantations in Central and East Java. Second, they implemented a land-rent system and created the “village” administrative unit, headed by village councils and village headmen (lurah). These village institutions became the most important link between the peasants and the government under the cultivation system. Village headmen were responsible for renting the land from the Dutch government; parcelling it out to the peasants for cultivation; selling the crop at a fixed price to the government; paying back the land tax with that money; and, then, give back a small compensation to the peasants.

1 Melissa Dell and Benjamin A. Olken. The Development Effects of the Extractive Colonial Economy: The Dutch Cultivation System in Java. National Bureau of Economic Research (2017): 1.

2 Ulbe Bosma, The Sugar Plantation in India and Indonesia: Industrial Production, 1770-2010 (Cam- bridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2013): 108.

3 Jan Breman, Mobilizing Labour for the Global Coffee Market: Profits from an Unfree Work Regime in Colonial Java. (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2016): 244-5.

Colonial investments in building state capacities, infrastructure, and technologies bore fruit rapidly. Between 1833 and 1861, the production per hectare of refined sugar tripled; and doubled again by 1900. At the turn of the century, with the construction of modern irrigation facilities, planted areas tripled, leading to a fivefold increase in the agricultural output.4 The state thus became stronger in the sugar districts.5

Table 4.1- Main Crop Produced, by Province, 1837–1844

Indigo Sugar Coffee Tobacco

Banten 3.3 4.6 4.5 3.1

West Java 28.5 3.7 39.0 0.0

Central Java 55.7 20.2 24.7 61.2

East Java 9.0 63.5 19.1 4.9

Java 96.5 92.0 87.3 69.2

Source: Robert Elson, Village Java under the cultivation system, 1830- 1870 (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1994): 86-7

The cultivation system and local state-building strategies took an entirely different form in West Java. In contrast to sugar, coffee plantations did not require the same type of administrative capacities. Coffee was not as technology-intensive as sugar, and the only way to increase production was to mobilize more and more labour. Coffee grows on swiddens or wastelands, in gar- dens, or on hillsides, often many kilometres away from the villages. The government needs la-

4 Clifford Geertz, Agricultural Involution: The Process of Ecological Change in Indonesia (San Francis- co: University of California Press, 1968): 68.

5 Dell and Olken also observed that the state grew stronger in the sugar districts. See The Development Effects: 4

78 bour between harvests to clear, plow, weed, and fence new areas higher and higher up in the mountain and at harvest time, to pick, wash, shell, dry, and then return beans bag many kilometres away to the warehouses.6 Unlike sugar, there was no need to build irrigation systems, roads, and water-powered mills. All the Dutch needed was labour.

Not willing to mobilize labour themselves, the Dutch empowered the West Javanese native aristocracy called menak to mobilize labour. Then, the Dutch exempted the region from most administrative reforms taking place in the rest of the island. First, they did not implement the land- rent system and did not create the “village” administrative unit as in Central and East Java. Se- cond, the Dutch left the aristocracy (menak) into a position of power and did not seek to transform it into a bureaucratic elite as rapidly as in East Java. As a result, the West Javanese aristocracy became the most powerful elite in the region and the district headmen (bupati), who were from the menak group, exercised extensive discretionary powers. West Java, and particularly the coffee districts in the Priangan, remained the fiefdom of the menak well into the 19th century. Unsurprisingly, coffee plantations were the most lightly supervised crops in the whole cultivation system. Only 15 out of the 100 European supervisors were assigned to oversee the coffee plantations.7 West Java became a space of exception in Java, a region of violence and compulsory labour. Coffee played, however, such an essential role in filling the coffers of the metropolis that the Dutch tacitly accepted and even encouraged this situation.

Mobilizing labour was not the only concern for the Dutch; paying native officials without using too much of the profits made with export staples was another prime concern. In East Java, paying native officials was relatively straightforward. The Dutch exempted native officials from paying the land tax and paid them through profit made from the peasants’ own land-tax payments. Native officials’ second most important source of revenue came from the yields of the land owned by the village institutions themselves, called tanah bengkok (village land).8 Table 4.2 presents data from a land survey conducted in 1870 and shows the extent of land owned by

6 Breman, Mobilizing labour: 65-6.

7 Ibid: 244-5.

8 Ibid: 200.

Central and East Javanese villages. Most villages in these two provinces were richly endowed with village land, and almost a third of all the villages had substantial landholdings (3.5 hectares or more, i.e., 35,000 m2). Therefore, the government could pay native officials without imposing an extra burden on the villagers.

Table 4.2- Village with Office Land in Java, by Province, 1870

Villages with Village with large office land office land (+3.5 ha) (%) (%)

Banten 21.4 18.2

West Java 32.7 0

… Priangan 5.7 0

… Cirebon 92.5 96.2

Central Java 79.7 63.7

East Java 67.0 27.1

Source: Hiroshi Kanō, Land Tenure System and the Desa Commu- nity in Nineteenth-Century Java (Institute of Developing Econo- mies, 1977): 23 (number of villages) and 24 (size of land).

In West Java, paying native officials was much more difficult. As mentioned before, since the government levied no land tax, native officials could not derive any salary from land tax. More crucially, since the government did not implement the village system in the region, villages were not endowed with village land either. As Table 4.2 shows, only 5.7 percent of the villages surveyed in the Priangan, the southern half of West Java, had “village land.” Without village land, native officials in the Priangan could not receive a salary from the profit generated by the village land.

Since they did not receive a salary from the government or the village land, the Dutch granted native officials with their own taxation power. The Dutch gave regents and lesser native officials “taxation powers”: i.e., a generous ‘cultivation percentage,’ tied to yields in coffee production, and a one-tenth share of the peasants’ own harvest, called cuke.9 Also, the Dutch gave regents the power to levy additional work called corvée services. In theory, corvée services were for building public infrastructure, but native officials ended up using them for personal projects or replaced by cash payments from villagers.

The outcome was a brutal system of exploitation and extortion. Since native officials’ salary was tied to the peasants’ labour, they had incentives to make peasants work harder, which they did with incredible zeal. Colonial reports observed that regents used their power to extract work through extensive intimidation, violence, and coercion. In 1836, 65 percent of all households in the Priangan (West Java) were involved in coffee cultivation, four times as many people as were forced to grow sugar.10 Tying peasants’ work to native officials’ salary proved fruitful for both the government and the native officials. Between 1858 and 1860, regents received on average fewer than 2,500 guilders per year in Banten, about 26,000 guilders per year in Surabaya (East Java), and no less than 90,000 guilders per year in the Priangan (West Java).11

1.1. Islamic Leaders in the Countryside

The Dutch experienced the same challenge of paying penghulu (government ulama) than other native officials without using the colony’s profits from cash crops. The Dutch extended the unique state-building strategies designed to address the problem for native officials to religious

9 Cornelis Fasseur, The Politics of Colonial Exploitation: Java, the Dutch, and the Cultivation System (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, 1992): 248

10 William Gervase Clarence‐Smith, “The Impact of Forced Coffee Cultivation on Java, 1805– 1917,” Indonesia Circle, 22, no.64 (1994): 241; M.R. Fernando, “Coffee Cultivation in Java, 1830– 1917,” in W.G. Clarence-Smith (ed.) The Global Coffee Economy in Africa, Asia, and Latin America 1500–1989 (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2003): 171.

11 Mumuh Mushin Zakaria, “Coffee Priangan in the Nineteenth Century,” Jurnal Historia, 1, no.1 (2007): 29–30

81 officials. The approach adopted by the Dutch tended to strengthen government ulama in West Java, while it strengthened independent ulama in East Java.

In colonial Indonesia, two types of religious leaders existed: 1) Penghulu, or government ulama, were the head of the colonial religious bureaucracy. Each regency had its chief penghulu and numerous lower-ranking government ulama attached to the office of the penghulu (i.e., lebai penghulu, khatib, and bilal). Like regents (bupati) and village headmen (lurah), they were state officials. They administered mosques, presided over Islamic courts, officiated marriages and divorce, and gave advice on Islamic law. 2) Independent ulama, or kyai, were not tied to the state. Instead, they ran their own religious schools and provided religious services to villagers on a voluntary basis.

Like other native officials, penghulu’s position varied across provinces, and their strength was related to the shape taken by the local state. In East Java, penghulu remained “marginal officers in the colonial bureaucracy,”12 while independent ulama commanded great loyalty and respect from the population. In West Java, however, it was the opposite: penghulu were a powerful and influential group of actors, while independent ulama were marginalized. Colonial policies contributed to this situation. In addition to religious duties, the Dutch gave penghulu the responsibility to supervise and control all aspects related to agricultural production, including its most vital one, irrigation. Penghulu were thus granted a key and strategic part “in imposing agrarian discipline on the population.”13

In East Java, villages had office land. Hence, the Dutch used the profits made from village land to pay government ulama, just like they did with other native officials. Penghulu had little interaction with the population as a result. It contributed to their growing marginality during the colonial regime. Most importantly, the Dutch did not meddle with independent ulama’s independent source of revenue. Independent ulama were free to draw their income from the contribution

12 Clifford Geertz, The Religion of Java. Chicago (Chicago, IL: Chicago University Press, 1960): 132.

13 Tania Murray Li, Alexandre Pelletier, and Arianto Sangadji. “Unfree Labour and Extractive Regimes in Colonial Java and Beyond,” Development and Change, 47, no.3 (2016): 598-611.

82 of their followers, and some of those contributions came in the form of zakat and fitrah.14 Inde- pendent ulama’s control over the collection of zakat and fitrah was central to their success in the countryside. Zakat and fitrah helped independent ulama become dominant religious leaders in their village. With that independent source of revenue, independent ulama could build religious schools and mosques. They could also redistribute zakat and fitrah directly to the poor and needy, thus extending their own prestige among the villagers.

In West Java, however, villages did not have office land as mentioned previously. The government could not pay government ulama through profits made from office land as a result. To remedy this problem, the Dutch gave the West Javanese government ulama exclusive control over the collection of “religious taxes” (i.e., zakat and fitrah). The government set the amount of zakat to be paid at 10 percent of the peasants’ harvest. This 10 percent added to the existing 10 percent owed to the regents (i.e., cuke), adding to the peasants’ burden. Because of their monopoly over zakat and fitrah, West Javanese government ulama became much “richer than rural leaders in other parts of Java.”15 It did not take long for government ulama to abuse their power: colonial reports described government ulama in West Java as an exploitative elite. Colonial reports observed that large groups of village priests came to exist and described them as “parasitic plants.”16

14 Zakat is the Islamic tithe, one of Islam’s five pillars. At the time, villagers generally paid zakat in rice. Fitrah are the deliveries in kind demanded at the end of the fasting month, also paid in rice at that time.

15 Hans Antlöv, Exemplary Centre, Administrative Periphery: Rural Leadership and the New Order in Java (Richmond: Curzon Press Ltd, 1995): 21.

16 Breman, Mobilizing Labour: 112.

Table 4.3 - Religious Power in Java, Summary of the Findings

West Java Central and East Java

Government Independent Government Independent

ulama ulama ulama ulama

- Collect Zakat and Fitrah - Collect zakat

and fitrah - Control irrigation

- Administra- - Collude with - Arm’s length Excluded tive relation native officials relation with with native and aristocracy native officials officials

Rich and ex- Wealthy and Marginal ac- ploitative lead- Marginal actors respected lead- tors ers ers

Hajj statistics presented in Table 4.4 illustrate just how much economic affluence West Javanese penghulu (government ulama) had at that time. The hajj is one of Islam’s five pillars and, in the 19th century more so than today, was a costly and risky endeavour. Whether penghulu performed the hajj is thus an indicator of their social status. Table 4.4 shows that almost every penghulu from 1850 to 1942 completed the pilgrimage (hajj) in West Java.

The government ulama’s monopoly over the collection of zakat and fitrah had important consequences for West Javanese independent ulama. Unlike their counterparts in East Java, they could not use part of that money to fund their religious institution and redistribute to the villagers. This colonial policy, which was simply a convenient way to pay government ulama, had long-lasting consequences on the strength of independent ulama in the region.

Table 4.4- Proportion of Haji Official Ulama, c. 1850–1942

Percentage of Percentage of time Number of government ulama a hadji government official ulama who are hadji ulama was in office

Banten 25 96.4 100

West Java 68 75.9 75.6

… Priangan 36 88.2 90.0

Central Java 132 54.3 57.4

East Java 171 42.5 41.1

… Madura 29 73.3 62.7

Total 396 67.3 68.5

Source: Author’s own calculation, based on official ulama list in Appendix 4 in His- yam, Muhamad. Caught Between Three Fires: The Javanese Pangulu Under the Dutch Colonial Administration, 1882-1942 (Jakarta and Leiden: INIS, 2001).

1.2. Islam and “Secular” Power

With a stronger and more bureaucratized state in East Java, native officials had few incentives to identify with Islam. They also had few incentives to build an alliance with the ulama, both official and independent. The Dutch perceived Islam as anti-colonial, and an outward expression of piety would have attracted their suspicion. Instead, the aristocracy tended to build its legitimacy by drawing on the cultural repertoire of the Majapahit Empire and its Hindu-Javanese identity. Many members of the gentry were ignorant of Islam and kept their relations with government

85 ulama at arm’s length.17 Among the members of the aristocracy, only a few considered the hajj to be a desirable, let alone, an obligatory undertaking.18

In West Java, however, secular and religious powers merged, as they shared common interests. Because they controlled the collection of zakat and fitrah, government ulama had a vested interest in maintaining the colonial system intact and overlooking peasants’ oppression. Also, as dominant religious leaders, they helped native officials such as bupati impose agrarian discipline and collect their taxes.19 In return, regents used the state coercive apparatus to help government ulama collect their religious taxes. As a result, the regime in West Java became extremely violent; both government ulama and regents used force and intimidation to raise these taxes. The collaboration between government ulama and regents was an essential component cultivation system’s success and the collection of taxes in the region.

In addition to its converging interests with official ulama, the West Javanese aristocracy was in need of extra legitimacy if they wanted this particularly violent regime to persist. Islam provided that much-needed legitimacy. The gentry’s aristocratic background was weak in comparison to the gentry in other regions. In the Priangan, native chiefs were, for most of the pre-colonial history, nothing more than “warlords”20 or “regional chiefs.”21 They did not inherit or could not claim the same noble lineage as their counterparts elsewhere on the island. It is because the Pri- angan has always been a zone of exception, located in the periphery of every pre-colonial political order. The Hindu Kingdom of Pajajaran (669-c.1579) had only weak sovereignty over its

17 Heather Sutherland, The Making of a Bureaucratic Elite: The Colonial Transformation of the Javanese Priyayi (Singapore: Heinemann Educational Books, 1979): 28.

18 Merle Calvin Ricklefs, Polarising Javanese society: Islamic and other visions, c. 1830-1930. (Singa- pore: NUS Press, 2007): 219.

19 Thommy Svensson, State Bureaucracy and Capitalism in Rural West Java: Local Gentry Versus Peasant Entrepreneurs in Priangan in the 19th and 20th century. (Copenhagen: Nordic Institute of Asian Studies, 1991): 14.

20 Andrea Wilcox Palmer, “The Sundanese Village,” Local, Ethnic, and National Loyalties in Village Indonesia: a Symposium (New York, NY: Institute of Pacific Relations, 1959): 43.

21 Heather Sutherland, “The Priyayi,” Indonesia, 19 (1975): 57-77, 63.

86 edges and the Court never fully ruled the Priangan.22 While stronger, the Mataram Sultanate’s (1587-1755) expansion in the Priangan was limited and its control over the region was extremely loose in comparison to other areas such as Central and East Java. The frontier character of the region, and the absence of strong political institutions, meant that peasants remained footloose and practised nomadic slash-and-burn agriculture for most of pre-colonial history. Nomadic peasants were particularly challenging for native chiefs. On the one hand, they had to compete to appropriate peasants’ loyalty and labour; and, on the other, by remaining footloose, peasants could avoid overbearing lords and could vote with their feet if they felt the relation was unacceptable.

The advent of the Dutch East India Company in the 1600s changed the position of West Java’s native chiefs. The colonial state transformed these warlords into an aristocratic class. The company helped stabilize the power structure. The company assigned native chiefs an area of juris- diction so they did not have to compete anymore and forced peasants into wetland agriculture and a more sedentary lifestyle so they could no longer wander from one place to another.

More powerful, but still facing a shortage of aristocratic legitimacy, native officials in the Pri- angan adopted the symbols of Islam as a means of legitimizing their authority. Herlina Lubis argues that the courting of Islam by the West Javanese gentry was related to their effort to maintain political power within their society.23 This use of Islam by the regents started under the Dutch East India Company (1602–1799), but it is under the Dutch colonial government (1800– 1949) that it took off. Regents started to claim the title of “imams” and “khalifah” and to adopt “behaviours that copied those expected from rulers of a Muslim sultanate.”24 In West Java, regents saw their duties as going well beyond administrative tasks. They claimed to be the religious heads of their communities and made sure that their subjects observed their religious obli-

22 Ibid: 63

23 Nina Herlina Lubis, “Religious Thoughts and Practice of the Kaum Menak: Strengthening Traditional Power.” Studia Islamika 10, no.2 (2003): 5.

24 L. W. C. van den Berg, 1883; translation by Paul W. van der Veur. “Van den Berg's Essay on Muslim Clergy and the Ecclesiastical Goods in Java and Madura: A Translation.” Indonesia, 84 (2007): 132.

87 gations correctly.25 They also often led communal prayers on important occasions and required that prayers be offered to them at every Friday prayer.26

From 1800 to 1860, state-building varied across sub-regions of Java. This unevenness reflected a state-building logic that was shaped by differences in the political economy of the regions, mainly imperatives related to export crops, taxation, the mobilization of labour, and the legitimation of authority. Coffee production led to a weak local colonial state, yet one in which native officials were autonomous and oppressive, and in which government ulama were dominant and marginalized independent ulama. Sugar production led to a strong local colonial state, one in which native officials and government ulama were bureaucratized, and independent ulama were strong. The next section explains why early forms of state formation shaped the state until the late colonial regime.

2. Colonial Reforms, Colonial Legacies

In the early twentieth century, the Dutch introduced a series of administrative reforms throughout Java. Initially, they paid special attention to West Java. However, while these reforms altered power structures elsewhere in Java, they largely failed to do so in West Java and maintained power structures mostly unchanged: government ulama maintained its monopoly over the collection of zakat and fitrah and native officials continued to be oppressive.

The Dutch also abandoned the cultivation system and introduced substantial land reforms in 1870. Institutions inherited from the cultivation system, however, continued to shape local developments. In West Java, land reforms had a particularly catastrophic impact on both landholders and the peasants. Many landholders, among who were some independent ulama, lost their land to absentee landlords. Many peasants, who lost their land and their capacity to subsist in the villages, moved to the cities or became coolie labour in the European commercial plantations.

25 Ibid: 132.

26 Mohammad Iskandar, Para Pengemban Amanah: Pergulatan Pemikiran Kyai dan Ulama di Jawa Barat, 1900-1950 (Jakarta: Matabangsa, 2001): 66.

Villages became heterogeneous and independent ulama lost their patronage capacity, which was so useful to East Javanese ulama.

2.1. Administrative Reforms

From the 1860s on, the Dutch introduced a series of administrative reforms throughout Java. The reforms failed, however, to bring the administrative machinery of West Java in line with that of other regions of Java.27 The cultivation system and its legacies continued to weigh heavily on the choices available to the colonial state. As a result, West Java continued to be characterized by a particularly exploitative regime until the end of the colonial system.

Administrative reforms in West Java were less of a priority to the Dutch given the financial importance of coffee cultivation for the colony’s revenue. From the 1860s on, the Dutch started to dismantle the Cultivation System. The least profitable cultures such as pepper, cloves, and nut- meg were abolished without any problems as early as 1860. It took much longer, however, for the government to terminate sugar production. The Sugar Law of 1870 decreed that the government would withdraw from sugar cultivation within 12 years, beginning in 1878. So, the government entirely privatized sugar production across Java only by 1890. Unsurprisingly, while coffee was the first forced cultivation to be introduced back in the 17th century, it was also the last one to be abolished. The Priangan was under forced cultivation until around 1917.28

The Dutch nevertheless implemented administrative reforms in West Java, alongside the forced cultivation of coffee. They extended the land-tax system and the village administration to the region in the 1870s. With the introduction of land tax, peasants were no longer forced to surrender 20 percent of their harvest. Instead, they had to pay a tax of about 15 percent of the revenue

27 Breman, Mobilizing Labour: 292.

28 Merle Calvin Ricklefs, A History of Modern Indonesia since c. 1200 (Houndmills: Palgrave, 2008): 150.

89 generated by their padi.29 The administrative reform also spatially reorganized peasant settlements into villages, a social and political unit still unknown in the Priangan, where small pockets of households were traditionally grouped along lineal ties.30

The introduction of the village system transformed village headmen (lurah) into key native officials like elsewhere on the island. The colonial administration faced, however, the same problem of paying lurah as they encountered a few years earlier with paying bupati and penghulu. In- deed, villages in West Java were still did not have village land despite these reforms. Like bupati before, lurah became an exploitative rural class, as they came to extract most of their salary through taxation. As shown in Table 4.5, office land provided the primary source of revenue for village officials in Central and East Java. In the Priangan, land tax and other levies provided the bulk of the lurah’s revenue. Informal tax is what the Dutch called “pancen money.” Pancen money is a legacy of the “corvée services” that existed under the cultivation system (1830- 1870). While it used to be obligatory services performed by landholders, it later became a levy paid in cash, a form of informal tax on landholders, outside and in addition to the formal land tax. In West Java, and more so in the Priangan, half of the lurah’s revenue came from these informal taxes in the 1920s.31 As can also be seen from Table 4.5, nowhere in Java were the lurah as rich as those in the Priangan. Despite drawing most of their revenue from informal taxation, West Javanese lurah made on average twice as much as lurah in East Java.

29 Breman, Mobilizing Labour: 295.

30 Ibid: 318.

31 Svensson, Thommy. “Peasants and Politics in Early Twentieth-Century West Java”, In Long Litt Woon, Thommy Svensson, and Per S.rensen. (eds) Indonesia and Malaysia: Scandinavian Studies in Contemporary Society. (1986): 96

Table 4.5 - Revenue and Revenue Source of Village Official, Java, 1926

Source of village head revenue (percentage)*

Average revenue Office land Land tax Informal tax (guilders)

Banten 755.8 8.7 22.3 63.4

West Java** 920.8 18.4 29.4 40.6

… Priangan 1321.5 4.1 27.8 54.4

Central Java 916.2 55.7 16.8 18.3

East Java 705.7 39.9 19.7 34.0

Notes: * Does not add to 100 percent because two minor additional sources of revenues are omitted from this table: i.e. “remuneration for work on behalf of the state” and “irregular levies”. See Svensson, “Peasants and Politics”: 96. ** West Java includes the Priangan. Source: Table originally from Svensson, “Peasants and Politics”: 97. Adapted and expanded with additional data from Eindverslag over het desa-autonomie-onderzoek op Java en Madoera, ingesteld krachtens Gouvernmentsbesluit dd. 8/5 1926, no. 3x (Weltevreden 1929), staat 2.

While aristocratic privileges were under attack everywhere in Java32, the West Javanese aristocracy found new ways to perpetuate its domination of the region. Colonial reports observed that bupati generally “continued to exploit the population at the local level.”33 And, while elections were supposed to determine village officials, the position quickly became hereditary in the Pri- angan. By 1926, 40 percent of the Priangan’s village head had inherited their office from within the family.

32 By 1900, the outward displays of aristocratic status were under attack by the Dutch: the “hormat circu- laire” ended Dutch encouragement of aristocratic displays, such as regalia and parasols. See Ricklefs, M.C. A History…, p. 155-6

33 Svensson, State Bureaucracy and Capitalism…: 24

2.2. Government Ulama in West Java

A second series of reforms hoped to tame the power of the religious officials. Toward the end of the colonial regime, the Dutch became increasingly worried that the abuse and misuse of the zakat funds by West Javanese government ulama could create unrest. However, controlling their doings would prove a more difficult task than expected.34 As a result, government ulama continued to enjoy a stronger position than their counterpart elsewhere in Java until the end of the colonial regime.35

The Dutch reformed the collection and management of zakat and fitrah through a number of regulations from 1858 to 1905.36 In 1866, the Dutch issued Bijblad no. 1892 prohibiting native officials from being involved in the collection and distribution of zakat.37 The regulation directly mentioned the problem of corruption and the effect of the Priangan system. It stated that “zakat income, which originally was religious generosity, in many places became corrupted through interference from local officials and became a form of repression, because it was used to cover needs which actually lay outside its purposes.”38 The objectives of the government were to limit and control the authority of religious officials and keep the payment of zakat and fitrah as “a totally voluntary donation.”39

34 Thommy Svensson, “Peasants and Politics in Early Twentieth-Century West Java” in Long Litt Woon, Thommy Svensson, and Per Sørensen. (eds.) Indonesia and Malaysia: Scandinavian Studies in Contem- porary Society (London: Curzon Press, 1986): 24.

35 Ibid: 24.

36 The most critical regulations were Bijblad no. 407 (1858), prohibiting the use of zakat padi for the maintenance of hospices; Bijblad no. 1892 (1866) on zakat contribution; and, Bijblad no. 6200 (1905) on the income of zakat and fitrah and its supervision; see Amelia Fauzia, Faith and the State: a History of Islamic Philanthropy in Indonesia (Leiden: Brill, 2013).

37 Arskal Salim, The Shift in Zakat Practice in Indonesia: From Piety to an Islamic Socio-Political- Economic System (Chiang Mai: Silkworm books, 2008): 19.

38 Bijblad 1866, quoted in Fauzia, Faith and the State: 113.

39 Fauzia, Faith and the State: 113

As for other reforms before, the Dutch exempted the Priangan from the application of this regulation. In 1870, the government commissioner O. van Rees promised West Javanese native leaders and government ulama that the government would not attempt to interfere in their “religious income.” The government feared that the implementation of the regulation would provoke a strong reaction from the government ulama since zakat and fitrah were an essential part of their income. As mentioned earlier, religious income through zakat and fitrah was so crucial for government ulama in West Java only because they did not have access to office land. Indeed, almost no village had office land in West Java. In contrast, for Central and East Javanese government ulama, these reforms had little to no impact on their salary, since they got most of it from office land.40 The source of government ulama’s revenue most likely followed the same pattern as those of the village head. From 40 to 55 percent of the village head’s income came from village land in Central and East Java, while only 8 to 4 percent came from it in Banten and West Java. Like the village head, government ulama had to rely on taxation to survive.

The exemption of the Priangan created two systems of zakat collection in Java. In Banten, Cen- tral and East Java, the reforms were strictly enforced and effectively prevented government ulama from taking part in zakat collection and distribution. Independent ulama already controlled the collection of zakat and fitrah anyway, but the reform facilitated this process. In the early 1900s, independent ulama claimed the most significant portion of zakat funds in regions outside West Java.41 In these provinces, the colonial style already marginalized government ulama. They received zakat only to a very limited amount, often just as a voluntary gift from the zakat giver.42 In West Java, however, government ulama and their assistants continued to collect zakat from the people, often through intimidation and coercion, leaving independent ulama with almost nothing. Snouck Hurgronje observed that “with all the revenue flowing into the hand of the [government ulama], [they] grew into one of the most influential and prominent groups [in

40 Muhamad Hisyam, Caught Between Three Fires: The Javanese Pangulu under the Dutch Colonial Administration, 1882-1942 (Jakarta: INIS, 2001): 113-4.

41 Salim, The Shift in Zakat Practice: 20

42 Hisyam, Caught Between Three Fires: 118

93 the region].”43 The reforms may inadvertently have increased the compulsion with which government ulama collected zakat in the Priangan. As part of the administrative reforms, the Dutch appointed government ulama to the newly created position of heads of the Islamic Courts (kan- toor raad agama). This appointment did not entitle them to a government salary, however, and without office land, government ulama were tempted to “exploit the full incomes derived from the offices under their authority.”44

Intimidation and violence in the collection of zakat increased tremendously at the turn of the 20th century. In response, the Dutch attempted one more time to streamline the collection and distribution of zakat in the troublesome Priangan. Through a Missive in 1893 and one in 1905, the Dutch gave European officials the power to supervise donations to make sure they were voluntary. They hoped to prevent native officials such as regents from interfering in the collection of zakat. In 1904, the government exempted government ulama from taxes in an attempt to less- en the incentives to extract zakat through compulsion. Zakat collection continued like before, however.45 It is not until 1910 that the Dutch were able to impose a redistribution scheme to the government ulama in West Java.46 Despite this new scheme, a significant portion of zakat and fitrah still went to the government ulama and his office (about 40 percent). The amounts collected remained very important until the end of the colonial regime. In the 1910s, the total amount of zakat and fitrah collected reach 52,476 guilders in Garut and 120,121 guilders in Tasikma- laya. To these amounts were added the zakat from the rice, which reached an average of 28,000 guilders a year in these two districts. As Svensson notes, the amount was substantial, given that the price of an ordinary two-wheeled buggy was about 225 guilders at that time.47 Unsurprising-

43 Snouck Hurgronje, Nasihat-Nasihat C. Snouck Hurgronje Semasa Kepegawaiannya Kepada Pemerintah Hindia Belanda, 1889-1936 (Jakarta: INIS, 1936 [1992]): 1331.

44 Hisyam, Caught Between Three Fires: 119.

45 Svensson, State Bureaucracy and Capitalism: 25.

46 Before this, Missives in 1893 and 1905 were intended to stop native official’s interference in the collection of zakat by giving European officials the power to supervise donations to make sure that they were voluntary. They had little impact, and zakat collection continued like before. See Fauzia, Faith and the State: 112-3.

47 Svensson, “Peasants and Politics”: 116.

94 ly, up to the 1930s, government ulama and regents had a hand in the collection of zakat in West Java and “still collected it on a compulsory and systematic basis each month.”48

In sum, the administrative reforms introduced in the late colonial period did not fundamentally alter the power structure in West Java. Village headmen replaced bupati as the exploitative class and exploitation continued but under a different guise. Despite attempts at taming government ulama’s power, they remained powerful and kept their monopoly over the collection of zakat and fitrah throughout the period. Penghulu’s power was not based on their ties to society, like independent ulama who had their pesantren. Their power was a function of their control over the means of coercion and the collection of zakat and fitrah. Administrative reforms outside West Java were efficient at neutralizing native officials and government ulama’s power. The reforms thus helped consolidate independent ulama’s role in the Islamic religious space. They could ac- cumulate zakat and fitrah and extend their ascendency and contribute to their pesantren more freely. In addition to administrative reforms, the Dutch also introduced land reforms. These reforms, like the administrative ones, had profound consequences on the West Javanese religious market.

2.3. Land Reforms

Following the end of the cultivation system, the Dutch implemented a series of agrarian reforms in 1870. While the goal of the reforms had nothing to do with religion, they had unexpected consequences on religious life. Land reforms triggered a process of land dispossession and land concentration throughout Java. The impacts of this process were most severe in West Java. While independent ulama were already weak, given they did not collect zakat and fitrah, land reforms accelerated their marginalization.

Land reforms unleashed three processes which made most West Javanese landless toward the end of the colonial regime. First, the Agrarian Law of 1870 abolished the Cultivation system. As it ended the system, the government started to redistribute some of the land used for the cultiva-

48 Svensson, State Bureaucracy and Capitalism: 1991: 42.

95 tion of coffee among the coffee-growing families. They each received about one half to one bahu of land each.49 In comparison, village officials and other native rulers got from five to seven bahu of land.50 Less than a bahu of land was insufficient for most peasants’ family livelihood. In response, peasants started to sell their small plots of land to larger landholders, such as the menak and well-to-do villagers, who already had land.

Second, the Agrarian Law of 1870 also stipulated that all land without ownership rights would become the property of the state. Before 1870, villagers had access to wastelands within or outside their settlement, which they used to grow food, a necessary complement for what they could not grow on their own land.51 After 1870, however, villagers no longer had access to that land without the permission of the government. The government requisitioned the land and granted that land to large agribusiness at extremely favourable terms to produce cash crops. This reform had a number of significant consequences: better-off peasants who had secured proper ownership rights had their position strengthened in the village, and some of them became usu- fructuaries by having land-poor peasants till their land; and, by losing access to wastelands, land-poor peasants lost a crucial means of subsistence and became even more precarious.

Third, the introduction of a taxation system in the Priangan also meant that the peasants were no longer forced to surrender a fifth share of their paddy harvest to the regents and clergy. The land-rent system indeed lowered the peasants’ burden to approximately 3/20 of the revenue generated by the paddy yield. While this should have been a good thing, the unexpected consequence was a sudden rise in the market value of cultivatable land. Land became a valuable ob- ject of investment and those having capital at their disposition could quickly expand their holdings. Moneylenders and other “rural usurers [became] notorious in the Priangan,” especially in the first half of the 20th century.52 Svensson found that the two largest creditors in the region had

49 One bahu of land is about .71 ha of land or 7,100 m2.

50 Samiati Alisjbahana, A Preliminary Study of Class Structure Among the Sundanese in the Priangan, Unpublished M.A. Thesis (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, 1954): 54.

51 Breman, Mobilizing Labour: 332-3.

52 Idem.

96 a yearly turnover of between 200,000 and 250,000 guilders, about 193 times the annual income of a lurah in Priangan. For the top 56 moneylenders, the annual turnover was over 5,000 guilders each, and together they had a circulating capital of over 2,350,000 guilders. Unsurprisingly, those like government ulama who had early access to capital could quickly cash-in this new legal environment. The head penghulu of Cianjur, for example, loaned his business capital estimated at 200,000 guilders at an interest rate of 30 percent.53 Moneylenders had the legal right to take the land of debtors unable to pay their debts, and they made ample use of the opportunity.54 Many people lost their land to rich villagers and absentee landlords as a result.

During that time, many West Javanese residents lost their land to wealthy villagers and absentee landlords. The process of land dispossession was faster in West Java than anywhere else in Java. The Dutch’s Declining Welfare Inquiry report of 1905 revealed that 51 percent of all West Ja- va’s 1.3 million households owned no land at all.55 In the Priangan, the situation was even worse: 61 percent of the population was landless by 1905.56 By contrast, less than half of the households were landless in East Java at that time. Landlessness pushed West Javanese peasants into coolie labour and out of their villages for seasonal work. Urban centres swelled at a much faster pace than those of Central and East Java.57

In contrast to other regions of Java, absentee landlordism was allowed and thrived in West Java. As Figure 4.2 shows, land in West Java was under an "individual" ownership regime, which meant that villagers could sell, lease, pawn their land to other people including those outside the

53 Ibid: 322

54 Quoted in Cornelis van Dijk, Rebellion Under the Banner of Islam: the Darul Islam in Indonesia (Se- attle, WA: University of Washington Press, 1981): 371

55 Cited in Benjamin White, “Agroindustry and Contract Farmers in Upland West Java,” The Journal of Peasant Studies, 24, no.3, (1997): 108.

56 Svensson, “Peasants and Politics”: 112.

57 Ibid: 102.

97 village.58 Besides, village institutions were too weak to prevent absentee landlordism as these institutions were recent and lacked the legitimacy to impose such restrictions.

Most landholdings in Central and East Java were under “communal possession” at that time. An individual or a family could use the land under communal possession, but it remained the property of the village. Some villages granted individuals with more rights to transfer land to their family, but in general, an individual could not dispose or hand over the land to his heir or someone outside the village. In Besuki, Pasuruan and Madura, the easternmost districts of East Java, landholdings were under individual holding like in the Priangan (see figure 4.2). However, village institutions were implemented in East Java long before West Java and were strong enough to prevent the free disposition of land to people outside the village.59 Inadvertently, then, village institutions provided a sort of bulwark against a too rapid concentration of land and the commercialization of the countryside.60 East Java developed a type of “collectivist agro-economic system,” and as a result “no larger capital formation took place within the native agriculture.”61 In West Java, the free transfer of paddy fields was allowed, which allowed for the agriculture’s rapid commercialization and the rise of big absentee landlords.

In sum, the Agrarian Law of 1870 combined with the weakness of village institutions in West Java led to an unparalleled process of land concentration, landlessness, and proletarianization of the peasantry in West Java.62 In the early 1900s, the majority of large landholders in Java were located in West Java. In 1905, 46 percent of landholders with more than 20 ha of land were found in the Priangan; 20 years later, they were 51 percent63; and, 50 years later, 65 percent64.

58 Private land can be occupied in perpetuity and can be sold, leased, pawned, or handed over to an heir. See Horishi, Land Tenure System and the Desa Community in Nineteenth-Century Java. (Institute of Developing Economies, 1977): p. 11

59 Ibid: 12-3.

60 Svensson, “Peasants and Politics”: 78.

61 Idem.

62 See also Willem Frederik Wertheim and The Siauw Giap, “Social Change in Java, 1900-1930” Pacific Affairs, 35, no.3 (1962): 223-247.

63 Svenson, “Peasants and Politics”: 100-1.

Between 1905 and 1925, the number of large landholders more than doubled in the Priangan, going from 559 to 1,226.

Figure 4.2- Land Tenure Systems in Java, c. 1900

Private European land with special rights

Communal control Communal control with with individual rights periodical redistribution

Individual holdings

Bureaucratic control with seigneurial rights Individual holdings with communal restrictions

Note: The map displays contemporary district boundaries. Source: The map is from Svensson, “Peasants and Politics”: 79. Additional and missing data from Hiro- shi Kanō, Land Tenure System and the Desa Community in Nineteenth-Century Java (Institute of Devel- oping Economies, 1977): 11.

The flip side of land concentration is landlessness, and the process of land dispossession that was taking place across Java was more intense in West Java and the Priangan. In the 1860s, landlessness was estimated at 30 to 50 percent in the Priangan,65 slightly more than that of the

64 Donald Hindley, The Communist Party of Indonesia: 1951-1963 (Los Angeles, CA: University of Cal- ifornia Press, 1966): 5.

65 Breman, Mobilizing Labour: 251, 278

99 rest of Java, which was in the low 30 percent at that time.66 The Dutch’s Declining Welfare In- quiry report of 1905 revealed that 51 percent of all West Java’s 1.3 million households owned no land at all.67 In the Priangan, the situation was even worse: 61 percent of the people were landless by 1905.68 By contrast, less than half of the households were landless in East Java at that time. In regions like Besuki, the easternmost part of East Java, only 22 percent of the households were landless. Yet owning land a small plot of land did not mean you could support a whole family, however. According to Ben Whites, 85 percent of the population in West Java was either landless or land-poor (marginal farmer) by 1905.69 A series of village studies conducted by the Japanese government revealed a similar pattern in the 1940s. In Cimahi, a district of West Java, one percent of the largest households owned 31 percent of the total wet rice land in the village.70 To be sure, land dispossession also happened in East Java, but at a slower pace. In 1957, still only 25 percent of the households were land-poor (with less than 0.5 ha) in East Java, while 38 percent were in West Java.

2.4. Independent Kyai in West Java

The land ownership regime and the weakness of the village institutions in West Java were disastrous for many kyai. Some of them lost their land to absentee landlords, just like other villagers,

66 See George R. Knight, “Review of Village Java under the Cultivation System, 1830–1870 by R.E.Elson,” Journal of Contemporary Asia, 26, no.1 (1996): 121; Peter Boomgaard, “Labour, Land, and Capital Markets in Early Modern Southeast Asia from the Fifteenth to the Nineteenth Century,” Continu- ity and Change, 24, no.1 (2009): 55–78; and Jan Breman, Control of Land and Labour in Colonial Java (Dordrecht: Foris Publications Holland, 1983).

67 Cited in Benjamin White, “Agroindustry and Contract Farmers in Upland West Java”, The Journal of Peasant Studies, 24.1 (1997): 108

68 Svenson, “Peasants and Politics”: 103.

69 White, “Agroindustry and Contract Farmers”: 107.

70 Shigeru Sato, War, Nationalism, and Peasants: Java under the Japanese Occupation, 1942-1945, (Armonk, NY: M.E. Sharpe, 1994): 104-5.

100 while others fragmented their land in the hope of making ends meet.71 Land ownership combined with the fact they could not collect zakat and fitrah, led to the emergence of a large group of poor kyai in West Java. The legacies are still visible today as few pesantren are big or engage in agriculture in West Java. Historically, the land owned by independent ulama was crucial in strengthening their rural position. As observed by Weirthem, landless or land-poor peasants would often till the land of their “master,” their kyai. Without land, West Javanese kyai could not use agriculture as a means to strengthen their connection to poor villagers.72

A second, more subtle impact, was that landlessness pushed many peasants into coolie labour and out of their village for work. Landlessness pushed West Javanese peasants into coolie labour and out of their villages for seasonal work. West Javanese urban centres swelled at a much faster pace than those of Central and East Java. The population of Bandung increased by 10 percent annually between 1905 and 1930.73 Hordes of landless peasants settled in European agribusinesses to work as permanent or semi-permanent coolie labor. Geographical mobility uproot- ed village life, and villages became much more heterogeneous as a result. As argued by Horiko- shi, “the ulama status-quo is […] [always] affected by change in the local economic structure, landownership, and consequent population distribution.” In East Java, “the relative homogeneity of village life and social structure […] help[ed] the ulama’s effective practice of authority.”74 Indeed, “ulama skilfully manoeuvred their chances by eliminating possible challenge to their authority both culturally, socially and economically.” In West Java, however, the heterogeneous landownership patterns made social control more difficult: as Horikoshi puts it “in towns and heterogeneous villages, […] many ulama have lost both religious and social influence.”75

71 E. Ensering, “De Traditionele en Hedendaagse Tol van Lokale Religieuze Leiders in de Preanger, West-Java.” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde 2/3de Afl (1987): 286

72 Willem Frederik Wertheim, “Indonesia Before and After the Untung Coup,” Pacific Affairs, 39, no.1/2 (1966): 121.

73 Svensson, “Peasants and Politics”: 102.

74 Hiroko Horikoshi, A Traditional Leader in A Time of Change: The'Kijaji' and 'Ulama' in West Java. Unpublished Dissertation (Urbana-Champaign, IL: University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, 1976): 69.

75 Ibid: 298.

101

Third, incomes from land leases, plantation work, and cash cultivation extended indigenous commodity trade and West Java bustling economy led to a small class of full-time native (bumi) traders.76 In the rest of Java, the Chinese minority controlled this niche in the economy but not, at this point, in West Java and the Priangan, and one reason was that the Dutch had earlier prohibited Chinese settlements in the area.77 It made it possible for a rising number of wealthy In- donesians to go on a pilgrimage to Mecca. In the 1880s, there were on average 4,125 pilgrims departing to Mecca per year in Indonesia. In the 1920s, this number reached an unprecedented high, with on average 27,669 pilgrims. From that total number, the most significant portion came from West Java. From 1900 to 1950, there were an average of 41 pilgrims per 100,000 inhabitants in West Java and only 14 pilgrims in Central and East Java.

Figure 4.3- Number of Haji per 100,000 inhabitants in Java, 1900-1950

140

120

100

0 1900 1902 1904 1910 1912 1914 1920 1922 1924 1930 1932 1934 1940 1942 1944 1950 1906 1908 1916 1918 1926 1928 1936 1938 1946 1948

West Java Central and East Java

Source: Author’s own figure, raw data from Jacob Vredenbregt, “The Haddj: Some of its Features and Functions in Indonesia,” Bijdragen tot de taal-, land-en volkenkunde 1ste Afl (1962): 91-154.

76 Svensson, “Peasants and Politics”: 93.

77 Idem.

102

A large-scale influx of hajis triggered an Islamic revival throughout Java, but that revival was more intense in West Java. Many hajis returned to their previous occupation with an intensified faith and could assist kyai in educating the village’s youth. Some returning hajis came back and dedicated themselves to religious leadership and education. This influx of hajis in West Java led to a rapid pluralization of the religious market and triggered a phenomenal growth of Islamic schools (pesantren) as many Mecca-trained kyai returned to Java and founded their own pesantren. In 1942, as a result, the number of pesantren per 10,000 Capita in West Java was already ten times that of East Java (1.9 for WJ, 0.2 for EJ). Like today, offer did not match demand, however. In West Java, 1,046 pesantren had an average of 66 santri per pesantren, while in East Java, only 307 pesantre had an average of 107 santri per pesantren.78 In other words, by the end of the colonial regime, the pattern of religious market crowding and small pesantren in West Java was already well established.

3. Conclusion

As the colonial regime came to an end, state formation had already left enduring legacies on religious authority. Interestingly, most of the government’s colonial-era policies did not aim to influence religious authority per se. They did, however. In West Java, the colonial state formation style had two main consequences: first, it led to a strong and exploitative native elite, in which government ulama and lower ranking government ulama were part. It was exploitative because it drew most of its revenues from formal and informal taxation, rather than office land. This power structure created increasing disgruntlement among commercial elites and independent non-government clerics. This antagonism will later on structure religious institutions by shaping political cleavages and collective action among religious leaders. Second, it led to a weak and fragile group of independent non-government clerics. In contrast to East Java, independent kyai in West Java could not collect zakat and fitrah. Consequently, they were unable to

78 Data from Osamu Shudan Shireibu, Zen Jawa Kaikyo Jokyo Chosasho [Survey on Islam in Java] (Dja- karta: Gunseikanbu, 1943), cited in Zamakhsyari Dhofier, The Pesantren Tradition: 20.

103 secure their position in the countryside as a result: with little resources, they could not expand their educational institution and develop strong patron-client ties with the villagers like their counterparts in Central and East Java. Agrarian reforms unleashed a process of land concentration and landlessness, which pushed many villagers into coolie labour. The heterogeneity of village life and the geographical mobility of the peasants in West Java had no equivalent elsewhere in Java. This environment proved particularly tricky for West Javanese kyai: some of them lost their land, like other villagers, and many lost ties to the villagers who went to the cities. Independent kyai came out of the colonial regime weak in West Java.

The next chapter shows that the configuration of the local state and the local religious authorities generated different political cleavages in the late colonial period, which forced local governments to maintain distinct state-building strategies throughout the post-colonial period.

104

Chapter 5 Cleavage Formation, State Response, and Muslim Leadership

How did state-building strategies of the late colonial era shape religious markets in Java long after the colonial regime ended? Why is the cleric structure fragmented in West Java and more cohesive in East Java? The history of Islamic institutions in Java is one of relative continuity, despite very significant pressures to transform. In this chapter, I show that sub-regional state- building strategies of the colonial era triggered specific political cleavages that shaped the choices made by religious leaders during critical junctures, namely the ‘national awakening’ (1880–1930) and the early independence period (1949-1962). In turn, these political cleavages came to impose distinct challenges to the local governments and generated different responses. These responses reproduced and reinforced earlier structural differences among clerics in Java’s different provinces.

The two critical junctures discussed in this chapter were periods of change and decision for religious leaders. Before the National Awakening period (“pergerakan,” 1880–1930), societies in Java were religiously homogenous. By the 1930s, however, deep social cleavages existed.1 The period was one of greater political freedom and witnessed the rise of Indonesian nationalism and Islamic mass organizations. Examining at this period is of vital importance for two reasons: most of the Islamic mass organizations that exist today were founded during that period; and, the pesantren that are the most influential today were also founded during that period. Then, the

1 Merle Calvin Ricklefs, Polarising Javanese Society: Islamic and Other Visions, c. 1830-1930 (Singa- pore: NUS Press, 2007).

104 105 early independence period was one of political organizing ahead and in response to the 1955 elections. The political choice made by clerics, either to form new parties or to side with existing ones, had long-lasting consequences as well.

This first part of the chapter discusses the case of East Java, where independent non-government clerics collected zakat and remained independent. In East Java, the cleavage that emerged opposed religious leaders to competitors in the religious market. The conflict first opposed traditionalist and modernist Muslim clerics and, later on, clerics to the communist party. This competition helped clerics realize they share a collective interest and encouraged their co-operation. In response to competition, clerics strengthened and institutionalized their networks and ties to the population through the creation of Nahdlatul Ulama and its numerous wing organizations (e.g., students, women, and youth organizations).

This second part of the chapter discusses the case of West Java, where government clerics collected zakat and fitrah and had ties to lower-ranking government ulama in the provinces’ villages and towns. It shows that the unique cleavage emerged in that region which opposed clerics among themselves: i.e., government versus non-government clerics. Internecine conflicts failed to push clerics into a single cohesive group like in East Java. They did not feel as collectively threatened by competitors in the religious market such as the modernists and the communists. During the national awakening period and later, intra-elite conflicts helped to fragment an already fragmented body of ulama: clerics who supported native officials and the aristocracy fought against those who opposed them, and clerics who supported the Islamic rebellion fought against those who opposed it. Finally, these cleavages generated a harsh response from threathened state and military elites who engaged in the repression, control, and co-optation of troublemaking clerics. State officials had in West Java, more than anywhere else, a profound interest in maintaining the power structure untouched. In sum, the cleavage structure in West Java both discouraged and prevented the development of strong ties among clerics and between clerics and the community.

106

1. Cohesion in East Java

Why did clerics develop strong ties with other clerics and with their community in East Java? Clerics developed such ties in response to the competition that emerged in the region, competition between clerics and other Muslim movements and political parties. The colonial style in East Java granted independent ulama autonomy and the right to collect zakat and fitrah, which helped them achieve an enviable position rapidly. At that time, the state was not a threat to the clerics. Instead, the threat mostly came from competitors in the religious market: clerics faced increasing competition from reformist Muslims and then from the communist party. In response to these challenges, clerics built on the resources they inherited thanks to the colonial state- building strategies in the region. They sought to solidify their position and preserve their status by establishing stronger ties with the community and by institutionalizing their ties to other clerics. In the post-colonial period, this pattern of conflict endured as competition became increasingly political and opposed ulama to Masjumi in 1955 and the PKI in 1965. Clerics’ response to competition continued to be similar: they built institutions and tightened their networks as a means to protect their position.

107

Figure 5.1- Pathway to Cohesion in East Java

Strong Strong Weak Weak kyai Weak kyai Strong

1910-1945 penghulu native ofﬁcials

penghulu native ofﬁcials independent Low threat Low High threat independent Low threat Low

• •

Communists Modernists threat High (kyai vs. colonial ofﬁcials) Sarekat (1910-1920s) Islam

(kyai vs. modernists) Modernists

Incentives and resourcesIncentives to respond (kyai vs. the republic) Darul (1949-62) Islam (1910-30s,1950-55) (kyai vs. communists) Communists

(1955-1965) (kyai vs. Golkar

West Java East Java • • • State’s response

Clientelism Co-optation Repression (1965-1985) Golkar

)

• •

Ulama West Java raino Creation of Banning of Government ( Military • • •

Network institutionalization Institution-building Status preservation • • •

Majelis Masjumi Network fragmentation Little institution-building Weak status preservation 1945-1998

Golkar

)

clerics cohesive Strong clerics fragmented Weak

and

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1.1. Kyai Against the Modernists: The National Awakening in East Java (1880–1930)

During the National Awakening period (1880–1930), the rise of Islamic organizations changed the political landscape of Java. In East Java, the threat to nongovernment clerics came from a new Islamic movement, Islamic modernism, which rejected critically re-examined classical con- ceptions and methods of jurisprudence. Since the state did not interfere with Islam in the area, kyai could not seek its assistance to solidify their position vis-à-vis the modernists. Kyai had to respond alone. They were, however, in a particularly good position to respond to the modernist threat in East Java precisely because the state did not interfere with its existence during the late colonial period.

During the pergerakan, the threat to independent ulama in Central and East Java did not come from the state and its native officials such as regents and government ulama (penghulu). For that reason, Sarekat Islam, the first Islamic movement in Indonesia, remained calm in East Java. Sa- rekat Islam spread rapidly across Java from the early 1910s. The movement was nationalist and served to express accumulated grievances against the representatives of the colonial regime, such as the native and Dutch colonial officials, and the commercial elites, such as the Chinese.2 By 1919, the organization claimed two million members. The political climate remained relatively quiet throughout the 1910s and 1920s.3 Elson suggests that, ironically, Sarekat Islam played an important part in “damping down whatever potential there may have been for rebel- liousness.” Sarekat Islam provided the peasantry with some “emotional security,” as well as much needed “down-to-earth support in the form of complaints bureau and local assistance pro- grammes.”4 Muhammadiyah and Nahdlatul Ulama, two apolitical organizations, rapidly captured the vacuum left by the decline of Sarekat Islam in the 1920s.

2 Ricklefs, A History of Modern Indonesia: 226.

3 Arsip Nasional Republik Indonesia, Sarekat Islam Lokal (Jakarta: Arsip Nasional Republik Indonesia, 1975): 271–326.

4 Robert Elson, Village Java Under the Cultivation System, 1830-1870 (Sydney: Allen & Unwin, 1994): 226.

109

The real threat to religious leaders in Central and East Java was the modernist movement and its organization, Muhammadiyah. Modernist Muslims sought to purify the Islamic faith from out- dated traditions and corrupt practices by looking at the Qur’an and Sunnah as the sole sources of legal authority. They opposed the authority of the ulama as an essential intermediary between sacred texts and the ummah. By doing so, they did not follow one of the four schools of Islamic jurisprudence (mazhab) and preferred independent reasoning (ijtihad) and an unmediated access to the Qur’an instead. They opposed any form of wrongful innovation (bida’h) such as Sufism and syncretic religious practices, which mix Islamic and pre-Islamic religious practices. The modernist movement was thus a vital threat to the authority of the ulama.

While modernists formed numerous organizations during the 1910s and 1920s, the one that became the largest – Muhammadiyah – was founded in Yogyakarta in 1912. In contrast to Sarekat Islam, Muhammadiyah focused on a non-political agenda and deliberately sought to avoid a confrontation with the Dutch. It established modern schools, with graded curricula, secular and religious topics, formal examinations, and western-style teaching methods; and, it also built hospitals, clinics, and orphanages, published books and magazines.

The theological conflict between modernists and traditionalists was at first amicable, but degen- erated rapidly when modernists started to oppose and criticize the quasi-aristocratic reverence given to kyai. In the 1920s, modernists also quickly became an existential threat to the entire institution of kyai when they started to expand in rural towns and cities of Central and East Java and recruited wealthy Muslim traders and landowners, essential to kyai’s material and financial support.5 Kyai had to design a way to survive.

In the late colonial era, pesantren already formed extensive networks throughout the territory of Central and East Java.6 Many pesantren were already large and represented central nodes in vast networks of “sister” pesantren. Some of them have survived till this day such as pesantren Sido-

5 Greg Fealy, Ulama and Politics in Indonesia: A History of Nahdlatul Ulama, 1952-67, Unpublished Ph.D. Dissertation (Melbourne: Monash University): 25; Deliar Noer, The Modernist Muslim Movement in Indonesia, 1900-1942 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1973): 226.

6 Zamakhsyari Dhofier, The Pesantren Tradition: the Role of the Kyai in the Maintenance of Traditional Islam in Java (Tempe: Program for Southeast AsianStudies, Arizona State University, 1999).

110 giri (1718), Miftahul Huda (1768), Darul Ulum (1787), Tremas (1830), Langitan (1852), Syaikhona Kholil (1861), Tebuireng (1899), Lirboyo (1910), Sukorejo (1914), Denanyar (1917), and Gontor (1926). They were connected to each other through kinship ties between kyai (genealogical ties), teacher-student ties and relationships between santri (intellectual ties). Kyai developed a tradition that their descendants, especially sons and grandsons, and their immediate relatives, especially sons-in-law, had greater rights than others to be recruited as new ulama.7 They expected their oldest son to take over their pesantren and their younger sons to establish new pesantren in other villages. Kyai also used marriages to strengthen inter-kyai networks. They generally expected their daughters to marry with sons of other kyai and these marriages have been instrumental in creating bonds across families of ulama and helping kyai extend their influence beyond their village.

Kyai maintain patron-client and intellectual ties with their former santri. The larger is a pesantren is, the greater is its patron-client networks. Santri generally devote a lifelong respect to “their” kyai and, even when their kyai pass away, santri keep contact with the pesantren where they once studied.8 Once they graduate, the richest santri will help financially to their kyai, his pesantren, or his charitable or commercial enterprise, while the poorest will contribute with time and work. When former santri establish a new pesantren, their pesantren become (more or less) tied to the pesantren of their former kyai and former santri colleagues.

Large pesantren are influential nodes in networks of hundreds of smaller, more minor pesantren. As Figure 5.3 illustrates, each new pesantren in a network strengthen the core kyai’s powers. Core kyai have ties to lower-level kyai through the pesantren or madrasah diniyahs (extracurricular Islamic schools) they have founded, sometimes in cooperation with higher-level ulama. Each smaller and more minor pesantren maintain ties of respect and recognition with the core pesantren. Former santri as well maintain ties to the core pesantren or kyai when they become imams or heads of a mosque. While imams have a lower status than ulama with a pesantren, some of them have close ties to their former kyai. Similar networks also exist between higher-

7 Ibid: 45.

8 Ibid: 61-3.

111 level ulama and lower level “village ulama.” Village ulama generally head “langgars” (small prayer houses) in which they dispense primary Islamic education. These village ulama will often have close ties to an alim (singular of ulama). In sum, the pesantren is the core of vast intellectual and loyalty networks, tying higher-level ulama to lower level ulama such as kyai of smaller pesantren, madrasahs, mosques imams, and village kyai. Naturally, the more santri a pesantren “produce,” the more influence it commands.

Figure 5.2- Organizational Structure of Traditional Islamic Education in Java

Major Kyai “khos” (“special”) pesantren National influence

Secondary Secondary Secondary Provincial or pesantren pesantren pesantren national influence

Minor Minor Minor Regency or pesantren pesantren pesantren district influence

Madrasah Madrasah Madrasah Sub-district or diniyah diniyah diniyah village influence

Pengajian Pengajian Pengajian

Source: adapted from Dhofier, The Pesantren Tradition: 5.

The colonial style in Central and East Java led to the unhindered development of pesantren in the 19th and early 20th century. Without these strong and wealthy pesantren, the development of new pesantren later in the 20th century would not have been as successful in Central and East Java; and, without these core pesantren, and ties among kyai, the institutionalization of kyai’s network would have been impossible.

112

In response to competition from reformists, a group of influential kyai founded the Nahdlatul Ulama in 1926. Like Muhammadiyah, NU was an apolitical mass organization and was committed to social and educational goals. It sought to improve communication and cooperation among ulama and between pesantren, increase the number of madrasahs, upgrade the care of orphans and the poor, and promote economic activities within the community.9 In its constitution, the organization declared obedience to one of the four schools of Islamic jurisprudence (mazhab), thus excluding modernists from membership. The name and structure of the organization also reserved a dominant position for ulama: they were to dominate in the Religious Council (Syu- riah), and only ulama could discuss matters related to religious questions, while lay Muslims took care of the Executive (Tanfidziah), the administrative body of the organization.10

NU was rapidly successful and its growth exponential. They were 15 kyai to found the organization in 1926, already 96 a year later and, 260 two years later. Kyai could draw their santri into the organization: hence, NU went from 40,000 members in 1933 to 100,000 in a matter of years.11 This growth was possible because of the recruitment of influential kyai within NU and the activation of the kinship and teacher-student networks discussed above.12 As Deliar Noer argues, “not all Nahdlatul Ulama followers joined the organization because of [theological or political reasons]. Many of them joined because of personal relationships, family or otherwise, with its founders.”13 The respectable position of Sjech Hasjim Asj’ari of Tebuireng was crucial. Asj’ari founded his pesantren, Tebuireng, in 1899 and by 1909 he had spread his influence all over the region and kyai from afar felt the need to study with him. Other influential kyai were KH Wahab Hasbullah, from Tambakberas, and KH Bisri, from Denanyar. All were connected to

Asj’ari as former santri and head of pesantren. These large pesantren existed, in part, thanks to

9 Fealy, Ulama and Politics: 30.

10 Deliar Noer, The Rise and Development of the Modernist Muslim Movement during the Dutch Coloni- al Period (1900-1942). Diss. PhD dissertation, (Ithaca: Cornell University, 1963): 377.

11 Fealy, Ulama and Politics: 32. 12 See Deliar Noer, The modernist Muslim movement in Indonesia 1900–1942 (Singapore: Oxford Uni- versity Press, 1973): 113.

13 Noer, Rise and Development: 373.

113 colonial policies, which did not meddle with kyai’s independent source of revenue such as zakat and fitrah. East Java was the fortress of NU because more pesantren joined the organization, thanks to inter-kyai and teacher-student networks.

Among the top priorities of NU was not only to strengthen commercial activities among kyai and santri, but to ensure the long-term survival of kyai’s institutions. NU established a Wakaf committee in 1930 and a special body in 1937, Waqfijah NU, with the responsibility to “pur- chase, own or administer wakaf lands on the basis of Islam and according to one of the four madzahib.”14 Wakaf are not commercial enterprises per se, but the gains derived from wakaf (e.g., sale of produce of wakaf lands) are commercialized and the profits used for social purposes. A better coordination of Wakaf, the buying of new landholdings and the administration of the existing ones, was thus strategic for the collective survival of kyai. As discussed later, these wakaf committees and boards came in handy in the 1960s when massive land transfers took place in the Javanese countryside in reaction to the rise of the Communist Party.

Theological conflicts declined in the 1930s and compromises between the two camps led to the creation of Majelis Islam A’laa Indonesia (MIAI) in 1937, an Islamic forum for both modernists and traditionalists. After their conquest of Indonesia, the Japanese left MIAI intact. One of the most successful endeavours of MIAI was the creation of a national Bait al-Mal, a zakat collection body. The body aimed to take care of the poor, travellers and mu’allah (new converts), and to spread the Islamic mission. Within only a few months, MIAI established 35 Bait al-Mal offices throughout Java, 11 in West Java and 11 in East Java.15 The success of this zakat campaign was the outcome of organizational efforts by the MIAI, without backing from the government. The Japanese rapidly perceived this mobilization as a threat and two months later disbanded MIAI. In December, they replaced MIAI with Masyumi (short for Majelis Syuro Muslimin In- donesia, Council of Indonesian Muslim Associations), a similar organization but more solidly put under Japanese control.

14 Quoted in Noer, Modernist Movement: 380.

15 “Berita Dewan MIAI” Majalah MIAI, No. 19, 15 August 1943.

114

1.2. Political Competition and the Consolidation of NU

If theological conflicts between traditionalists and modernists calmed down during the WWII, political conflicts rose quickly after Indonesia’s independence in 1945. After independence, Masyumi was transformed into the only Islamic political party. It was still the same heterogeneous and loosely knit coalition of traditionalists and modernists. The political union between the two camps was short-lived, as political competition became a vital threat to the ulama. In the late 1940s, traditionalists grew increasingly uncomfortable within Masyumi as tensions accrued due to disagreement over party structure, the role of ulama in politics, and the distribution of power between traditionalists and modernists.16

Two conflicts were particularly threatening for kyai. In the early 1950s, Masyumi increasingly marginalized ulama members. Under the Japanese occupation, traditionalist ulama affiliated with the NU were the largest recipients of leadership posts within the Masyumi.17 When Masyumi became a political party in 1945, ulama left executive positions on the directory board (Dewan Pimpinan) to the modernist camp and took control of the religious assembly (Majelis Syuro), meant to guarantee the conformity of the executive’s decisions with Islamic teachings. This balance of power worked well during the revolution years. In the late 1940s though, the religious assembly lost most of its influence to the political wing of the party. For Wahab Chas- bullah, a founding father of NU, the marginalization of NU within Masyumi was a return to the modernist offensive of the late 1920s and 30s that prompted the formation of NU. With this marginalization, NU cadres were increasingly unable to gain career and economic opportunities in and via Masyumi.18

The government also started to marginalize ulama. In 1952, the traditionalists lost control over the important Ministry of Religious Affairs. After independence, the government became an important vehicle for the distribution of state patronage for every party, such as the allocation of

16 See Fealy, Ulama and Politics: Chapter 3.

17 Rémy Madinier and Andrée Feillard, “At the Sources of Indonesian Political Islam's Failure: The Split between the Nahdlatul Ulama and the Masyumi in Retrospect,” Studia Islamika, 6, no.2 (1999): 11.

18 Fealy, Ulama and Politics: 93.

115 funding, contracts and licences and civil service positions. Among the ministries, the Ministry of Religious Affairs was a key instrument of patronage for the ulama who in general did not have the educational and professional qualifications required for other ministries. The Ministry controlled an extensive array of jobs from the national offices to the lower rungs of the administration, such as religious teachers, mosque officials, and religious judges. In the 1950s, about 70 percent of the Ministry of Religious Affairs’ staff was from the Nahdlatul Ulama but as the Min- istry passed under modernist control, many feared that this hold on the ministry could dwindle. Anxiety was particularly severe among the ranks of the younger cadres of the Nahdlatul Ula- ma.19

These tensions led Nahdlatul Ulama to secede from Masyumi in 1952. The secession forced kyai to make a crucial choice: either to join the newly formed Nahdlatul Ulama Party or to stay within the Masyumi. A member of Nahdlatul Ulama, the socio-religious organization, could remain a member of the Masjumi party if he wanted. In Central and East Java a majority of traditional ulama chose to join the NU party. Wahab Chasbullah, from Pesantren Tambakberas, was the chief advocate for the secession. Other influential kyai like KH Zainul Arifin, KH Mas- jkur, and KH A. Achsien were instrumental in convincing a critical mass of lower level ulama to follow the leadership into leaving Masjumi. The networks discussed above helped reduce commitment problems and facilitate collective action among kyai.20 For lower kyai and NU members, leaving Masjumi was the only way to retain their access to government jobs and influence. Support for the split was not unanimous, however. Some respected ulama such as Wahid Hasjim and Idham Chalid had profound reservations about it. Many older ulama were suspicious of politics and wanted the Nahdlatul Ulama to return to its social and religious activities only, declare neutrality, and abandon politics entirely. Kyai Wahab was, however, immensely influential in convincing most NU leaders to form a new political party. Seventy-nine percent of NU’s board members finally supported the split.

19 Ibid: 94.

20 Ibid: 98.

116

The split triggered a tense process of membership separation. Nahdlatul Ulama wanted Masyumi branches to resign en masse yet, fearing an exodus of traditionalists, Masyumi rejected the proposal. NU and Masyumi agreed instead that they would give individual members a choice and, after a few months, would not be allowed to have a double membership. Some prominent traditionalist kyai refused to join the new NU party. For some, their attachment to the idea of Muslim solidarity and to a single Islamic party was too strong to consent to a new splin- ter Muslim Party. For others, their position of prestige within Masyumi was too important to give up. In general, local low level village ulama joined the Nahdlatul Ulama, as frustrations with Masyumi helped generate support for the new Party. A key group in mobilizing for members to join NU were the sons of kyai, who often preferred political and bureaucratic careers to becoming pesantren kyai.21 The task of reclaiming NU members who were public servants or who held an official position within Masyumi was more difficult. The NU party had little to offer prospective members in 1952. It could only promise rapid ascendancy if the party was to succeed in the 1955 elections and only a few salaried positions were available within the NU party. Since the Ministry of Religious Affairs was under the control of a Masyumi minister, many traditionalist officials feared reprisals if they join the NU party.22

In the past, ulama conflicted with the modernists, but from the 1950s on, the conflict expanded as NU was now competing against three other parties: Masyumi, the Indonesian National Party (Partai Nasional Indonesia, PNI), and the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indone- sia, PKI). The competition was different, less theological, and more about mobilizing voters and resources. Thanks to its pre-existing networks, centred around key pesantren, NU had a head start in East Java. The need to mobilize voters for the party was useful for the NU organization and ulama.

To capture the Muslim masses, both NU and Masyumi started expanding and building subsidiary organizations. NU’s participation in the Masyumi party had a detrimental impact on the organization: while NU had more than 100,000 members in the early 1940s, it had only about

21 Ibid: 94.

22 Ibid: 110.

117

51,000 when it split from Masyumi. According to Greg Fealy, its administration had become ramshackle, funding had dwindled, and NU-sponsored economic activities had virtually all col- lapsed. The number of active branches went from 120 to less than a hundred.

After its secession from Masjumi, and in anticipation of the elections of 1955, the NU party launched a process of institution building, which benefited both the NU party and the NU organization. Building the NU organization helped solidify the power of kyai by providing them with a steady flow of new santri, recruited from an early age into NU’s lower rungs of the organization. In only two years, NU went from 87 branches to 200 branches and undertook a vast operation to revitalize its membership. In 1952, NU had only three autonomous divisions: Ansor for the youth, Muslimat-Fatayat for women, and Pertanu for farmers. In a short period, NU established new subdivisions to serve specific constituencies such as veterans, labourers, and students, and started to publish newspapers and journals, and created a stable funding base and fostered new commercial activities within NU.23 NU established two student associations in 1954, which “soon became a training ground for NU cadres.”

The 1955 elections were a complete success for NU. In East Java, NU finished first with approximately 1 million votes over the Communist Party. NU gained most of its votes from areas with strong pesantren presence. In these regions, kyai were able to mobilize the “santri” senti- ment to generate support. Kyai also used their patron-client relationship and their prestige to mobilize peasants who were not necessarily “santri.” More precisely, in regions where they were landholders, they used their landed position to sway voters (santri and abangans alike) into supporting the NU party. Ernst Utrecht found dozens of examples of patronage practises: “for instance, asked why they had joined the NU, the political party of their santri landowner, abangan sharecroppers and land labourers in the Lumajang, Bondowoso, Situbondo, Jember, and Malang areas usually gave reasons as ‘We were ordered to do so by our landowners’.”24 According to Utrecht, many putatively abangan voted NU to avoid conflict with their landowner

23 Ibid: 107.

24 Ernst Utrecht, “Political Mobilization of Peasants in Indonesia” Journal of Contemporary Asia, 6, no.3 (1976): 274; quoted in Sudjamitko, The Destruction of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI): A Com- parative Analysis of East Java and Bali, Unpublished PhD dissertation (Boston, MA: Harvard Universi- ty, 1992): 79.

118 and avoid being thrown off the land. Where pesantren were weaker such as in Kediri, kyai could not as easily use the land to entice voters and needed to maintain cordial relations even with abangan voters.25

1.3. Kyai Against the Communists

During and after the elections, a growing conflict with the Communist Party of Indonesia led to a “second burst of organizational expansion.”26 Like with the modernists, the cleavage that emerged opposed clerics against another social grouping. While the modernists represented a theological threat, the communists represented both an ideological and a material threat to the kyai. The competition with the Communist Party of Indonesia forced kyai into greater cohesion and triggered a process of institution building. During the first half of the 1960s, NU tried to match the rapid growth of the PKI in the countryside by mobilizing support in sections of the community where NU had previously been poorly organized. Like in 1955, NU created subsidiary organizations, this time targeting the students, the artists, the fishermen, and the entrepreneurs. The new student and artist organizations were central to the new push made by NU in its attempt to “attract devout Muslims who previously had little or no connection with NU.”27

The confrontation with the PKI forced kyai to secure independent sources of revenue, particularly those drawn from wakaf land. Thanks to the wakaf committees and boards established in the 1950s, kyai in East Java were in good position to reap the benefits of the massive land transfers of the early 1960s, triggered by the rise of the PKI. The total amount of land controlled by ulama increased after independence, as educational and religious needs increased quickly because of natural population growth.28

25 Ibid: 79, fn 67.

26 Fealy, Ulama and Politics: 109.

27 Ibid: 228.

28 Ibid: 142-3.

119

After 1955, however, the driver of land transfers was anxiety among landowners in East Java. The PKI did well in the elections and had campaigned in favour of land reform. After hesitation and confusion, the government finally consented to land reform in 1960, stipulating minimum and maximum landholdings. People could notify those who had excess land to the local Agrari- an Service, which would transfer a portion of that land to needy peasants and offer a financial compensation to the former owner. The government promised to complete land reform by 1964. By 1963, however, it had made very little progress.

In the years following the adoption of the land reform, many landowners chose to transform their land into wakaf rather than risk losing it to the peasants and the communist party. Rules on excess land did not apply to wakaf land, and therefore the land could not be redistributed.29 Ulama were, in Indonesia as elsewhere in the Muslim world, the managers of wakaf. Ulama could use the profits made from wakaf land to support their activities. Wakaf land were used to build new mosques, new pesantren or madrasah, or expand the land of existing religious institutions. Thousands and thousands of square metres of land thus escaped land reform. For instance, Lance Castels shows that the Pesantren Gontor had only 25 ha of rice fields, but that a wealthy landholder of Ngawi donated approximately 240 ha of land in 1964 as he was to lose it under the land reform law.30 Pesantren have benefited from such operation in the second half of the 1950s and the early 1960s.31 Once land was transformed into a wakaf, it was often placed in perpetuity under the supervision of an alim or an alim family.

The Communist Party launched its “unilateral action” (aksi sepihak) to achieve land reform in 1964. PKI’s unilateral actions ranged from demonstrations against officials and landlords to support for squatters and to the seizing of excess land from large landholders. Wealthy hajis and ulama families controlled many of the largest rural landholdings in Java and Islamic institutions such as pesantren and madrasahs often held title to vast tracts of land. Unilateral actions thus

29 For other examples, see Rachmat Djatnika, Les Biens de Mainmorte (Wakaf) à Java-Est: Étude Dia- chronique, Unpublished PhD Dissertation (Paris: École des Hautes Études et Sciences Sociales, 1982): 148.

30 Lance Castles, “Notes on the Islamic School at Gontor.” Indonesia, 1 (1966): 36-7.

31 Djatnika, Les Biens de Mainmorte: 159.

120 directly challenged the vested interests of the well-to-do santri and ulama. Revenue from landholdings and especially farmlands was a significant source of income for ulama families and their pesantren. Its loss would have a severe effect on their financial position.

Confrontations with the modernists and the communists led to institution-building, mostly. The situation in East Java’s countryside turned to bloodshed, however, when local kyai and Ansor leaders decided to get rid of the PKI physically. The spark came in October 1965, when leftist military generals attempted a coup in Jakarta. The coup unleashed mass killings throughout In- donesia. In East Java, the killings were particularly intense as Nahdlatul Ulama already had extensive networks and a robust organization. In the hours following the attempted coup, kyai formed the Badan Koordinasi Keamanan Jamiah Nahdlatul Ulama; its purpose was to plan and coordinate NU’s campaign against the PKI. In the days following the attempted coup, PBNU circulated letters inviting members to eradicate the PKI and implored the community to maintain good relations with the military. The violence started in mid-October: Ansor planned mass rallies, with the army’s approval, during which they would attack PKI buildings and kill its party supporters. Massacres raged over the next three months, with an estimated death toll of half a million people. A majority of these people died in the hands of NU and Ansor members.32 NU coordination, once the killings were over, also tried to reduce anti-communist actions. A month after instructing branches to create a calm environment, violence halted.

In sum, competition against the modernists and the communists were central into pushing kyai in Central and East Java institutionalizing their networks. They were able to do so only because the colonial regime did not try to tamper with religious authority in the area. In the absence of a state ally, or a state enemy, ulama had to get together if they were to survive. It is what they did through the building of Nahdlatul Ulama, an organization that both strengthened inter-ulama network and deepened their roots within society. The deepening of NU’s roots in society was first a response to the threat they experienced and a result of a need to win the elections. These roots, however, became one of Nadhlatul Ulama’s most stabilizing aspects.

32 Fealy, Ulama and Politics: 253.

121

2. Fragmentation in West Java

Why were clerics not able to develop strong ties with other clerics and with their community in West Java? Why are clerics still weak and fragmented in West Java? In West Java, competition from modernists was strong, if not stronger than in East Java. Instead of one big contender, like Muhammadiyah in East Java, traditionalist kyai in West Java faced numerous attacks by modernist groups: Muhammadiyah, Persis, Ahmadiyah, and a group of modernists focused on the countryside called MASC. In the post-colonial period, West Java counted the largest number of landless peasants and the Communist Party was reasonably strong. Despite the presence of modernists and communists, the cleavage that took form in West Java was resolutely different: it opposed groups of government clerics against non-government clerics, and opposed clientelistic networks against others. In the post-colonial period, the conflict remained similar. In West Java, more than anywhere else, native officials and the local military had incentives to respond harshly to challenges to their authority. They had the resources to respond too. During the pergerakan and early independence periods, native officials and the government engaged in the repression and co-optation of those who challenged their rule. This context was detrimental to the emergence of strong cohesion among clerics and explains why clerics have remained weak and fragmented in West Java (see Figure 5.5).

122

Figure 5.3- Pathway to Fragmentation in West Java

Strong Strong Weak Weak kyai Weak kyai Strong

1910-1945 penghulu native ofﬁcials penghulu native ofﬁcials independent Low threat Low High threat independent Low threat Low

• •

Communists Modernists threat High (kyai vs. colonial ofﬁcials) Sarekat (1910-1920s) Islam

(kyai vs. modernists) Modernists

Incentives and resourcesIncentives to respond (kyai vs. the republic) Darul (1949-62) Islam (1910-30s,1950-55) (kyai vs. communists) Communists

(1955-1965) (kyai vs. Golkar

West Java East Java • • • State’s response

Clientelism Co-optation Repression (1965-1985) Golkar

)

• •

Ulama West Java raino Creation of Banning of Government ( Military • • •

Network institutionalization Institution-building Status preservation • • •

Majelis Masjumi Network fragmentation Little institution-building Weak status preservation 1945-1998

Golkar

)

clerics cohesive Strong clerics fragmented Weak

and

123

2.1. Kyai Against the Colonial State: The National Awakening in West Java (1880–1930)

In West Java, during the National Awakening period, competition from other Muslim movements was intense, if not more intense than in East Java. Muhammadiyah was growing very quickly in the Garut area. The most assertive modernist organization was the Islamic Union (Persis, Persatuan Islam). Founded in the early 1920s in Bandung, Persis held frequent public meetings, tabligh and conducted sermons, study groups, organized schools and published pam- phlets, periodicals, and books.33 Persis particularly liked to engage in heated public debates and polemics with traditionalist and other modernist ulama.34 While Persis was mainly an urban phenomenon, another group was particularly active in the countryside, the Majlis Ahli Sunnah Cilame (MASC). MASC was particularly popular in the countryside because like the traditionalists, it used the Sundanese language in its preaching.35 Finally, West Java was also home to a fast-growing modernist sect, the Ahmadiyah, which competed both with traditionalist and other modernist clerics. Ahmadiyah missionaries entered West Java in 1933 and rapidly opened branches of the organization in Garut, Tasikmalaya, and Bandung among others. Up until today, West Java and the Priangan have been the most dynamic source of membership for the Ahmadi- yah. Despite its strength, competition failed to trigger clerics’ cohesion like in East Java.

The outcome of the National Awakening period was different, however. As discussed in chapter 4, the colonial state granted independent ulama little autonomy and meddled extensively with their autonomous sources of revenue. The colonial state gave government ulama (penghulu) and their lower ranking colleagues exclusive control over the collection of zakat and fitrah. Yet, penghulu centred their activities around mosques, prayer houses, and most importantly religious courts rather than pesantren. Reforms to the administration maintained penghulu into powerful

33 Noer, Modernist Movement: 85.

34 Howard M. Federspiel, The Persatuan Islam, Unpublished PhD dissertation (Montréal: McGill Uni- versity, 1966): 47.

35 Iskandar, Para Pengemban Amanah: 172.

124 position until the end of the colonial regime. Penghulu’s wealth and influence did not translate into large pesantren like in Central and East Java. Instead, penghulu had lavish lifestyles and little commercial ambitions.

The land reforms of 1870 triggered a process of land dispossession and land concentration, which profoundly affected independent kyai’s power. As they entered the late colonial regime, ulama were collectively much weaker in West Java than East Java. In contrast to East Java, few pesantren were big and only a handful was influential (and today) aside from pesantren Ciwar- inging (1715), Buntet (1785), Darul Falah (1894), Suryalaya (1905), and Cipasung (1932). Za- makhsyari Dhofier identified only three major pesantren in 19th century West Java (Al-Falah in Bogor, and Ciwaringin and Buntet in Cirebon) and 16 in East Java. But these pesantren were not big in comparison. In general, pesantren were already much smaller in West Java than East Ja- va: in 1942, for instance, pesantren had 67 santri on average in West Java and 107 in East Ja- va.36

Kyai are connected through inter-kyai (kinship and marriage) and teacher-santri ties (intellectual and patron client) like in Central and East Java. Historically, these ties were crucial in spreading Islam from the coastal areas of Cirebon and Banten to the inland regions of Sukabumi and the Priangan.37 Many pesantren in the 19th century Priangan were connected in one way or another to two pesantren in East Java: pesantren Bangkalan (Bangkalan, Madura) and pesantren Tebuireng (Jombang). Others were connected to pesantren Ciwedus in Kuningan or Al-Mahmud in Bandung, which had no prior connection to East Javanese pesantren, given that they were founded before that of Bangkalan and Tebuireng. Marriage and kinship networks, which tended to remain within the region and among Sundanese, also existed throughout the region and were instrumental in spreading Islam to the Priangan in the 19th century.38

36 Dhofier. The Pesantren Tradition: 46.

37 Nina Herlina Lubis, “Religious Thoughts and Practice of the Kaum Menak: Strengthening Traditional Power,” Studia Islamika 10, no.2 (2003): 29.

38 For a detailed account of pesantren networks in West Java see Ading Kusdianal, Nina Herlina Lubis, Nurwadjah Ahmad EQ, and Mumuh Muhsin Z, “The Pesantren Networking In Priangan (1800-1945),” International Journal of Nusantara Islam, 1, no.2, (2014): 118-37.

125

Colonial legacies meant that traditionalist kyai hardly formed a single group in West Java. Mar- riage and kinship ties were weaker in West Java than East Java. The colonial style in West Java profoundly altered marriage practises among kyai. In the rest of Java, the aristocracy (priyayi) and Muslim leaders were like silos and, as mentioned earlier, did not interact or overlap. They formed what Geertz called “aliran” (cultural ‘stream’) and each had their own set of autonomous institutions, similar to the Dutch practice of verzuiling or pillarization. In East Java, ulama tended to marry exclusively within the ulama group. In West Java, however, colonial incentives were different: interactions between the aristocracy (menak) and the Muslim leaders were far more frequent. Initially, those interactions were mostly instrumental as explained in the last chapter: Islam bolstered the legitimacy of the weak menak, Islamic leaders helped native officials mobilize labour, and native officials helped penghulu collect the zakat and the fitrah. Even- tually, however, marriage patterns became more heterogeneous in West Java, except perhaps during periods of crises, when ulama felt particularly threatened.39 In normal times, elite circula- tion was more widespread and barriers of entry into “ulamaship” were much lower in West Java. Kyai were keener to marry their son and daughters to those of economic, political, and aristocratic elites, rather than almost exclusively with members of other kyai or ulama families.40 As a result, “it is not a common practice for kyai to marry their sons or daughters with those of other kyai in West Java.”41 In her history of the West Javanese aristocracy, Nina Herlina Lubis explains that in the late colonial era it was not unusual for bupati and menak to marry with sons of kyai and even for some members of the aristocracy to become ulama themselves.42 In contrast to East Java, and as shown in Figure 5.6, kyai were fragmented early on into various networks and nodes of allegiance: some kyai were penghulu, others were “raden,” they had aristocratic blood and had close ties to penghulu and bupati; while others were commoners, mid-size or small-size

39 Hiroko Horikoshi, “Islamic Scholasticism, Social Conflicts, and Political Power: Corporate and Non- Corporate Features of Muslim Learned Men in West Java,” Social Compass, 31, no.1 (1984), p. 88-9.

40 Interview with Dadi Darmadi, Scholar of Indonesian Islam, PPIM, Jakarta, February 2014.

41 Interview with KH Agus Muhammad, Kyai “sepuh” and kyai pesantren Nahdlatul Ulama, Ciamis, June 2014.

42 Lubis, “Religious Thoughts”: 14-5.

126 landowners with or without ties to penghulu. The body of ulama is not fragmented that way in East Java.

Among independent kyai, teacher-santri networks were also weaker. The colonial style in the region, in which penghulu and his acolytes controlled the collection of zakat and fitrah, led to a slower growth of pesantren. Without a large santri base, kyai were not on top of wide patron client networks and could not count on a large number of santri to ensure their survival.

The colonial style of state formation led to a completely different political cleavage in West Java. Since kyai were divided, the cleavage opposing traditionalist and modernists was not as salient as it was in East Java. The cleavage that emerged, instead, opposed groups of clerics against other clerics based on ties to the religious bureaucracy or clientelistic ties to a penghulu (government ulama). The colonial style in the region is directly responsible for this outcome. In this province, laissez faire did not exist. Native officials were strong, rich, and affluent, and the colonial style was oppressive and predatory. The cleavage that emerged opposed disgruntled and marginalized kyai (among others) to state officials. kyai and later on to the young republic. In turn, kyai’s attacks on the state and the privileged position of state elites generated a harsh response. Again, the colonial style in the region was responsible for that response as it strengthened native officials. State officials had the resources and, more than anywhere else, the interest to respond harshly. That is what they did by increasingly using repression and co-optation as ways to cling to power.The state’s response was disastrous for the region’s kyai.

2.2. The Sarekat Islam/Rakyat Movement

The Sarekat Islam movement that spread throughout Java in the early 1910s varied across regions. In East Java, as mentioned earlier, the Sarekat Islam movement was dynamic, but not overly antagonistic to the colonial government. The real threat to the ulama did not come from the state and its agents, but from the modernist movement. In West Java, however, Sarekat Is- lam was particularly dynamic and political conflicts were intense. This hostility was not the outcome of Sundaneses’ religiosity, but of concrete structural factors: the local state formation style, taxation, and the configuration of power in the region were at the root of the problem

127 there. Sarekat Islam is generally seen as a reformist movement, a precursor to Muhammadiyah and Persis, two modernist organizations. In West Java, however, it was clearly a coalition of traditionalists and modernists, united against the local state agents and the aristocracy.

Sarekat Islam’s first target was naturally the penghulus and their acolytes. The organization contested their dominant position, powers and responsibilities in the province, which went well beyond the management of marriage and heritage. Sarekat Islam rejected the penghulu’s monopoly over the collection of zakat and fitrah, the compulsion and violence they used in its collection, and the fact penghulu used the funds for their own rather than the benefits of the poor. The organization also turned against the native officials and their attempt to regulate religious life in the region. Sarekat Islam criticized and contested the regents’ claim to be the religious head of the community and rejected the obligation to address a prayer to him on Friday prayer.43 In West Java, Sarekat Islam was a sort of “free-church movement” and sought to get rid of the “religious parasites” in power.44

Sarekat Islam was a coalition of various people and interests, including hajis and kyai. Hajis were an important component of the organization. As shown in the previous chapter, they were expanding rapidly in West Java and their interests collided with those of the colonial officials. Taxation was a core issue for the hajis. The absence of village land in West Java increased the tax burden on the wealthy. As seen in the last chapter, administrative reforms in the late colonial period did not change the situation and taxation continued to be hefty. In Central and East Java, hajis generally used the Sarekat Islam as a means to increase commercial networks, but not as a means to contest state taxation. In Table 5.1, data gathered by Thommy Svensson (1983: 118) shows important variations in the percentage of hajis among Sarekat Islam boards. In absolute numbers too, numbers are telling: West Java had more hajis as board members than East Java (125 and 117 respectively), despite having fewer positions. West Java is by far the province in which hajis found Sarekat Islam to be a potent vehicle to defend their interests.

43 Svensson, “Peasants and Politics”: 113.

44 Idem.

128

Table 5.1- Percentage of Hajis among Sarekat Islam Board, 1913-16

Number of board Percentage haji members

Banten 26 77

West Java 212 59 … Priangan 88 69 … Cirebon 53 43

Central Java 375 37

Yogyakarta & Surakarta 35 20

East Java 556 21

Java 1,178 33

Source: Adapted from Svensson (1989: 118)

Independent ulama and kyai were another key component of Sarekat Islam’s success in West Java. Independent kyai – who the colonial power had marginalized in West Java – saw Sarekat Islam as a convenient vehicle to increase their local autonomy and influence. Penghulu account- ed for only 12 percent of all board members between 1914 and 1916 across Java.45 Most of the local leadership came from independent ulama and the bulk of the membership came from the lowest and least structured level of the organization, called Sarekat Islam “circles.” In these circles, independent kyai and ulama mostly assumed the leadership. Once a kyai joined, he formed a circle with his students and followers in the village.46 Leading a circle gave the independent ulama much needed prestige in the local community.47 The organization’s circles and ulama

45 See Table 1 in Hisyam, Caught Between Three Fires: 154.

46 Yong Mun Cheong, Conflicts within the Prijaji World of the Parahyangan in West Java, 1914-1927, (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1973): 4; W. A. Oates, “The Afdeeling B: An Indone- sian Case Study,” Journal of Southeast Asian History, 9, no.1 (1968): 109.

47 Oates, “The Afdeeling B”: 109.

129 established various forms of cooperatives and mutual aid societies, such as free funeral services, credit circles, and helped their members organize commercial undertakings to the benefit of all the members.48

In the Priangan, the Sarekat Islam became extremely local and the circles came to increasingly resemble traditional and popular tarekats, or Islamic mystical brotherhood.49 Some of these circles had revolutionary goals. In 1919, the Dutch authorities uncovered the existence of a secret Sarekat Islam organization, called Sarekat Islam “Afdeeling B” (B section), while investigating the killing of Haji Hassan by the police after he resisted forced rice delivery.50 Afdeeling B was a secret organization headed by kyai with thousands of members in the Priangan. According to Oates, the secret organization was an “instrument for the kyai to […] further move the Sarekat Islam into the local arena.” Independent ulama used the organization to expand their authority and consolidate their followers. Kyai used a host of secret signs, handshakes, oaths, and religious tokens “which tied the membership to them.”51 The Dutch believed that the Afdeeling B had revolutionary goals and aimed to overthrow the government and establish an Islamic state. While not entirely wrong, the Dutch probably overestimated the strength of the underground organization. The government quickly crushed the organization.

Sarekat Islam rapidly declined in the 1920s as enthusiasm for the movement dropped. In the late 1910s, a mounting ideological conflict within Sarekat Islam opposed a Marxist-leaning faction, or “Red Sarekat Islam,” to an anti-communist faction, or “White Sarekat Islam.” This conflict was most important at the local level, where some local branches came under the control of the red faction.52 Despite attempts by the central leadership to reconcile the two camps, the tensions eventually led to an irreconcilable split within the organization. The Muslim leadership estab-

48 Svensson, State Bureaucracy: 42.

49 Oates, “The Afdeeling B”: 110.

50 Takashi Shirashi, An Age in Motion: Popular Radicalism on Java (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1990): 113. For an analysis of the Garut affair, see Chusnul Hajati, “The Tragedy Cimareme: The Re- sistance of Haji Hasan to the Colonial Power in 1919.” Studia Islamika, 3, no.2 (1996).

51 Oates, “The Afdeeling B”: 112.

52 On the conflict between the two factions, see Noer, The Modernist Movement: 200-201.

130 lished the Partai Sarekat Islam in 1923, while the Red faction established a popular front called the Sarekat Rakyat in 1924. The competition for rural followers increased the ideological distance between the two groups. Sarekat Islam increasingly emphasized its religious foundation, while the Sarekat Rakyat increasingly emphasized its communist option.

Like the Sarekat Islam a few years earlier, the uniquely burdensome taxation scheme of the region was a core factor behind the mobilization of Sarekat Rakyat. In 1923, when the Dutch increased the land tax by 100 percent in the Priangan, Sarekat Rakyat became one of the main players in local protests.53 In the absence of village office land, village taxes were comparatively higher in the Priangan. Despite its communist background, Sarekat Rakyat’s rural agitation did not follow the cleavage between landlords and landless. Sarekat Rakyat was particularly silent about land redistribution, a common theme among communists at the time. Instead, Sarekat Rakyat drew key support from among the landowners, including kyai and ulama, who contested the region’s taxation scheme. It turned against the tax collectors, the local officials, the Muslim establishment, and the village officials. As Ensering concludes, Sarekat Islam and Sarekat Rakyat were the result of

neither a conflict between landless peasants and landowners, nor of communists against non-communists, but much more a conflict between local elite groups, that is between wealthy kyai and middle-sized farmers against government officials and religious officials as representatives of the colonial regime.’54

West Java’s unique taxation scheme created again a particularly explosive situation. In the region, Sarekat Rakyat in remained rather disorganized, but contested local native officials. Being landholders, kyai and hajis were naturally involved in the leadership of the Sarekat Rakyat movement. At the village level, some kyai took part in the movement and political agitation took a religiously inspired form inspired by the local tradition. Messianic expectations became common, such as the coming of the righteous Sundanese prince (Ratu Sunda) or the coming of a

53 Stijn Cornelis van Huis, Islamic Courts and Women's Divorce Rights in Indonesia: the Cases of Cianjur and Bulukumba, Unpublished PhD dissertation (Leiden: Leiden University, 2015): 126.

54 E. Ensering, “De Traditionele en Hedendaagse rol van Lokale Religieuze Leiders in de Preanger, West-Java,” Bijdragen tot de Taal-, Land-en Volkenkunde, 143, no.2/3 (1987): 281-282; quoted in Huis, Islamic courts: 127.

131 holy war (perang sabil) against the unbelievers.55 By the end of the 1920s, the Sarekat Rakyat mobilization like that of the Sarekat Islam was mostly over.

2.3. Repression, Co-optation and the Rise of Nahdlatul Ulama in West Java

With Sarekat Islam and Sarekat Rakyat questioning and opposing the rule of the regents and penghulu in West Java, they felt increasingly threatened in the 1920s and 1930s. That threat generated a harsh response. Regents and penghulu replied with the repression and the co- optation of dissident kyai.56 They sought to re-monopolize the Islamic religious market as they did in the past and keep a grip on independent ulama. West Java rapidly turned violent as conflict between native officials, aristocrats, and independent kyai soured. This context was far from conducive for the establishment of Muslim mass organization like Muhammadiyah and Nahdlatul Ulama. Native officials perceived clerics who sided with NU, for instance, as their opponents.

Native officials had long used Islam as a means to legitimize their position in West Java. So, regents and government officials were in good position to establish, fund, and lead their own Islamic mass organization in the late 1920s in order to curtail the Sarekat Islam and Sarekat Rakyat movements. Some have suggested that this counter-movement and organizations were the puppets of the Dutch officials. But, as argued by Sutherland, the Priangan native officials had a considerable personal interest in gaining the upper hand and destroying the Sarekat Islam and Rakyat movements. They were not just the puppets of the Dutch officials; they retained vast powers over appointments and taxation in the region. Extra income drawn from the government coffee production also enabled their extravagant lifestyle and great patronage capacity. By gain-

55 Svensson, “Peasants and Politics”: 110.

56 Cheong, Conflicts within the Prijaji World: 16.

132 ing the upper hand over these movements, native officials hoped to confirm aristocratic rule in the Priangan.57

Native officials in the Priangan created a flurry of new associations in the 1920s, with the goal of controlling religious leaders and tame local populations.58 Since bupati used Islam as a source of legitimacy, they were able to enlist kyai and ulama, particularly those with aristocratic blood or those close to penghulu, by framing these new associations as defending Islam. For example, the bupati of Tasikmalaya founded in 1919 an anti-Sarekat Islam association called “Sukalilah” (God lovers). Unlike Sarekat Islam, this organization thought highly of bupati.59 In the early 1920s, other bupati founded similar organizations such as Sarekatul Ichwamah, Sarekatul Dja- miah, Sarekatul Patwa, Sukalilah Djamiahtulmutun, Sarekat Tuhu and Sarekat Sabenere. Mem- bers of these organizations could not be members of the Sarekat Islam and had to show respect to the aristocracy. Bupati also tried to regain the upper hand in the villages by creating local burial and mutual aid societies, like Sarekat Islam a few years earlier.

The regent-led counter-movement intensified in the late 1920s when the communists began to assume the role that the Sarekat Islam was now too weak to play. Regents continued to create new organizations and religion was even more useful. Violent confrontations spread to the countryside, in areas close to Bandung, Tasikmalaya, and Ciamis. Kyai who did not show support for native officials, even if they were not members of Sarekat Islam or Sarekat Rakyat, were called red kyai (kyai merah).60 Seen with suspicion, red kyai lost access to the native officials during that time.

This counter-movement was far from united. It involved individual bupati and their own networks of ulama. Eventually, these small bupati-led organizations allied with the most prominent of them: the Green Union (Sarekat Hijau), organized by the bupati of Sumedang. It was at first a

57 Svensson, State Bureaucracy: 43.

58 Cheong, Conflicts within the Prijaji World: 15-6.

59 Ibid: 16.

60 Iskandar, Para Pengemban Amanah: 160.

133 funeral association, but became a religious and traditionalist association aimed at preventing the activities of Sarekat Islam and its communist faction, the Sarekat Rakyat. Sarekat Hijau quickly spread to Bandung, Tasikmalaya, Ciamis, and Cianjur.61 It was often violent; it stoned the houses and beat up Sarekat Rakyat members, and disbanded their meetings.62 Some bupati created a Sarekat Hijau branch with the only purpose of destroying the Sarekat Rakyat. In some districts, they were groups of hired thugs, often jawara63, paid by local officials to hunt down communists. They stoned the houses of the Sarekat Rakyat members, beat up the members, and disbanded their meetings.64 In Tasikmalaya, throughout the 1930s, kyai close to the government were coined as green kyai (kyai hijau) in contrast to the red kyai.

This environment was not conducive to the development of autonomous ulama organization in the 1930s and 40s. Sarekat Hijau served the interests of bupati and penghulu first; it was not a mass organization like NU. It did not seek to build a long-term organization, strengthen inter- ulama networks, and ulama-follower ties. Crucial ingredients were missing. First, in contrast to Central and East Java, the dominant socio-religious cleavage was not between modernists and traditionalists, but between pro- and anti-aristocracy and government clerics. As clerics were divided, it was more difficult for them to realize their collective interests and establish a single ulama association. For pro-government and menak kyai, the incentive was to seek shelter from antigovernment ulama and modernists by strengthening their alliance with native officials and their patronage instead of building common institutions.

Second, the extent of repression was massive in the Priangan at that time. Many kyai simply fled the region at the height of the repression, and could not offer the leadership necessary to build solid ulama organizations. Figure 5.8 shows the number of Mukims in Java from 1921 to 1939. Mukims are the hajis who decide to settle in Mecca for a longer term, to pursue more extensive

61 Cheong, Conflicts within the Prijaji World: 21.

62 Ibid: 21.

63 Ian D. Wilson, The Politics of Inner Power: The Practice of Pencak Silat in West Java, Unpublished PhD dissertation (Perth: Murdoch University, 2003): 250.

64 Cheong, Conflicts within the Prijaji World: 21.

134 learning under prominent ulama in Mecca. Becoming a mukim has always had an “important political function” as it was a “means to withdraw oneself from unpleasant actions on the part of those in power.”65 In Mecca, pilgrims could live among equals without any discrimination and, most importantly, they could live away from colonial authority. As Figure 5.8 shows, a sudden rise in the number of pilgrims leaving West Java happened in 1926-27, a rise that did not take place in Central and East Java. This suggests that repression and disturbances were indeed intense in the region66 and that it may have prevented kyai in the region from building common institutions.

Figure 5.4- Number of “Mukim” leaving Java, 1921-1939

160

140

120

100

0 1921 1922 1923 1924 1925 1926 1927 1928 1929 1930 1931 1932 1933 1934 1935 1936 1937 1938 1939

West Java Central and East Java

Source: Jacob Vredenbregt, "The Haddj: Some of its features and functions in Indone- sia." Bijdragen tot de taal-, land-en volkenkunde, 118.1 (1962): Appendix I

65 Jacob Vredenbregt, “The Haddj: Some of its Features and Functions in Indonesia,” Bijdragen tot de taal-, land-en volkenkunde, 118, no.1 (1962): 105.

66 Ibid: 105.

135

For antigovernment ulama, organizations like Nahdlatul Ulama were too apolitical to offer a good vehicle for their interests. While NU was growing in East Java, its growth remained ane- mic in West Java. During that period, the region experienced the pluralization of associations rather than their cohesion. In 1931, some ulama in Sukabumi created an organization called Al- Ittihadiyatul Islamiyyah (A.I.I.). In many respects, religious practices of A.I.I.’s members were similar to NU, such as the practice of tahlilan and mankiban, and followed the Syafi’I madhab. Unlike NU, A.I.I. was militant: Kyai Haji Ahmad Sanusi, who was very respected, often contested the stranglehold of the government ulama over the collection of zakat and fitrah.67 A.I.I. became one of the most popular and militant organizations in the region. KH Ahmad Sanusi’s popularity disturbed the Dutch, who arrested him in 1927 and the authorities placed him under “town custody” in 1932 in Sukabumi.68

Kyai who joined Nahdlatul Ulama faced serious opposition from the government ulama and the regents. The colonial administration, more precisely the Association of Religious Teachers (Perkumpulan Guru Ngaji), opposed the foundation of NU in Tasikmalaya. The A.R.T. was one of the counter-organizations created by regents with the help of the government ulama in June 1926. As part of the counteroffensive described earlier, A.R.T. mobilized kyai dubbed “kyai Idzhar” (pro-government) against the nascent Nahdlatul Ulama organization. The competition between NU and the “kyai Idzhar” led to violence on some occasions.69 By the end of Dutch rule, regents had convinced most religious leaders in Tasikmalaya to join A.R.T. instead of NU. NU had convinced only a minority of ulama to join its ranks. Kyai Haji Zainal Mustafa, who founded the pesantren Sukamanah (approx. 900 santri at that time), was one of the kyai who joined Nahdlatul Ulama in 1933. In contrast to NU in East Java, KH Zainal Mustafa and other

67 Falah, Riwayat Perjuangan KH Ahmad Sanusi (Sukabumi: Masyarakat Sejarawan Indone- sia/Pemerintah Kota Sukabumi, 2009): 37.

68 Sulasman, “Heroes from Pesantren: A Brief Biography of K.H. Ahmad Sanusi: A Patriot of Indonesian Independence,” International Review of Social Sciences and Humanities, 6, no.2, (2014): 178-9.

69 Romdhom, Sejarah Berdirinya Nahdlatul Ulama di Tasikmalaya (Bandung: Pengurus Wilayah Nahdlatul Ulama, 2000).

136 kyai adopted a stauncher anti-Dutch attitude. This further antagonized the kyai Idzhar and the Nahdlatul Ulama in the region.70

As discussed above, NU split from Masyumi in 1952. Scholars often describe NU’s split from Masyumi as a “turning point” in Indonesian political history, “the source of a definitive split between Muslim traditionalists and their opponents, the modernists.”71 This is mostly true for Central and East Java, where most traditionalist sided with the Nahdlatul Ulama Party and modernists with the Masyumi after 1952. In East Java, the modernist-traditionalist cleavage that prompted the creation of NU led to a party system opposing modernists and traditionalists.

In West Java, however, the split was not a turning point. Masyumi remained a coalition of modernists and traditionalists and only few kyai joined the Nahdlatul Ulama Party. Most West Java- nese kyai chose to remain in Masyumi or declare their neutrality. When NU left Masyumi, “the migration of traditional ulama [to the new party] did not happen in West Java.”72 Despite being traditionalist kyai, “almost every ulama Idzhar stayed in Masyumi” as they could not join a party that they once opposed.73 More dramatic, even, is that within the group of kyai affiliated to the NU organization, some even refused to join the NU party.74 Many kyai involved in other local mass organizations also remained loyal to the Masyumi or declared their non-affiliation. For instance, Mathla’ul Anwar, which affiliated to Nahdlatul Ulama in 1928, and even hosted its National Congress in 1938, declared its political neutrality from any organization in 1952. For Mathla’ul Anwar’s kyai, “an explicit political affiliation to a certain political party whatever the

70 Aiko Iromata Kurasawa. Mobilization and Control: A Study of Social Change in Rural Java, 1942-45, Unpublished PhD Dissertation (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University, 1988): 625-6.

71 Rémy Madinier and Andrée Feillard. “At the Sources of Indonesian Political Islam's Failure: The Split between the Nahdlatul Ulama and the Masyumi in Retrospect.” Studia Islamika, 6, no.2 (1999): 6; and Ali Munhanif, “‘Ties that would Divide’: Explaining the NU’s Exit from Masyumi in 1952” Studia Is- lamika, 19, no.2 (2014): 254.

72 Interview with Hasyim Adnan, Wakil Sekretaris DPW PKB Jawa Barat, May 2016.

73 Interview with Iip D. Yahya, Historian, Bandung, West Java, May 2016.

74 A notable example is KH Zenal Mustofa from Tasikmalaya.

137 party was would be dangerous to the sustainability of [their] education institutions.”75 Despite the split, a number of Mathla’ul Anwar ‘s ulama and members remained involved in Masyumi. Infighting between pro-NU and pro-Masyumi ulama within Mathla’ul Anwar almost caused the downfall of the organization in the 1950s as pro-NU left the organization to found its own network.76 The Persatuan Umat Islam Indonesia and the Perikatan Ulama merged in 1952, declared neutrality, but many of its ulama remained active within Masyumi. KH Abdul Halim, chairman of the Perikatan Ulama (Majalangka), kept a prominent position within Masyumi’s Religious Assembly, which may have justified his decision to remain within the party.77

Regionalist sentiments were also important in driving the ulama’s decision. Kyai in West Java anticipated that Javanese ulama would dominate the Nahdlatul Ulama Party. If elected, the Nahdlatul Ulama Party would not significantly improve West Javanese ulama’s access or influence. For Sundanese ulama, Javanese domination would be as unacceptable as modernist domination within Masyumi. Non-Javanese ulama already felt that domination before the split. Since independence, “those who controlled the Ministry [of Religious Affairs] tended to push their own favourite ulama for various kinds of patronage.” Smaller Islamic organizations “were given short shrift by Nahdlatul Ulama and Muhammadiyah leaders in charge of the Ministry in Jakar- ta.” The Ministry of Religion’s leadership was heavily Javanese and the ministry was resolutely “Java-centric” (read Central and East Java-centric)78 Regionalist sentiments were not, however, the only reason. After all, ulama in Kalimantan and Sulawesi did join the NU Party.

75 Didin Nurul Rasyidin, “Introducing New Religious Ideas to Mathla’ul Anwar,” Wahana Akademika, 6, no. 2 (2004): 236.

76 Ibid: 236.

77 See Masjumi. Muktamar Masjumi KeVII, Surabaja, (1954): 95.

78 Daniel S. Lev. Islamic Courts in Indonesia: A Study in the Political Bases of Legal Institutions (Berke- ley: University of California Press, 1972): 46.

138

Table 5.2- Results of the national elections, 1955

West Java East Java

Masjumi 26.5 11.2

PNI 22.1 22.8

PKI 10.9 23.3

NU 9.7 35.1

PSII 5.7 0.43

Perti 5.7 0.02

Alfian, Hasil Pemilihan Umum 1955 Untuk Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR) (Jakarta: Lembaga Ekonomi dan Kemasjarakatan Nasional, 1971) : 70- 1.

The position of West Javanese ulama within Masyumi was quite different from that of East Ja- vanese ulama. As mentioned above, East Javanese ulama were exclusively involved in Masyumi through the religious assembly (Majlis Syurio). In contrast, West Javanese ulama, and other socio-religious organizations, “took greater care not let themselves be confined to purely religious posting.” As a result, West Javanese ulama had “a strategic position within the executive board of Masyumi” and did not feel that their position was entirely compromised by the marginalization of the Majlis Syurio. West Javanese ulama probably thought that there were more to lose than to gain by joining the Nahdlatul Ulama Party.79

In sum, while Masyumi became a “modernist” party elsewhere in Indonesia, it remained a coalition of modernist and traditionalist leaders in West Java. As Table 5.2 shows, the party was successful in the 1955 elections in the province and shows the extent to which traditionalist leaders supported the party.

79 Interview with Hasyim Adnan, Wakil Sekretaris DPW PKB Jawa Barat, May 2016.

139

2.4. Ulama Against the Republic

A second major episode of mobilization took place in the early days of the republic, and followed a similar pattern as the previous one. After a period of relative calm in the 1930s, a full- fledged Islamic rebellion took place in West Java from 1949 to 1962.80 Led by Soekarmadji Maridjan Kartosoewirjo, the Darul Islam (House of Islam) troops hoped to establish an Islamic state, with the Sharia as the only source of law. In its heydays, the rebel organization included about 30,000 soldiers and controlled large spans of territories in West Java, mainly in the Pri- angan (Garut, Tasikmalaya, Ciamis). Darul Islam had a civilian administration duplicating the central government’s structure down to the village level. The rebellion was not strong for long as successful counterinsurgency measures by the Republic government slowly pushed the Darul Islam movement underground or above the mountains. The rebellion ended in 1962 when the army captured and executed Kartosuwirjo.

The rebellion was yet another manifestation of the cleavage generated by the colonial regime in the region. Like Sarekat Islam and Sarekat Rakyat before, Darul Islam targeted the menak class, including penghulus. The rebellion started in the midst of a power vacuum in the region. In July 1947, the Dutch launched their first “Police Action” aimed at taking Java from the hands of the revolutionary republican troops, in the hope of reinstalling the colonial state. It was a quick and immense success. In only two weeks time, the resistance in all major cities fell, the republican troops were easily pushed back, and the Dutch took control of West Java and the easternmost part of East Java and the island of Madura. In January 1948, the Renville Agreement confirmed these gains and recognized a ceasefire line between the Dutch and the Republican territories. As part of the agreement, about 20,000 republican troops retreated from West Java to Republic-held

80 Similar, but initially unrelated, other Islamic rebellions took place in Aceh (1953-1962), Central Java (1950-1959), South Sulawesi (1950-1965). See Chiara Formichi, Islam and the Making of the Nation: Kartosuwiryo and Political Islam in Twentieth-Century Indonesia (New York: Brill, 2012); and, Kees C. van Dijk, Rebellion Under the Banner of Islam (New York: Brill, 1981).

140 territories. Irregular troops refused to retreat, however.81 Almost a year after the agreement, thousands of irregular fighters were still roaming the region, frequently attacking Dutch position, despite the Dutch’s constant patrols and mop-up operations. In East Java, similar resistance groups existed, particularly in the mountainous areas of Lumajang, Pasuruan and Mojokerto but were unable to undermine Dutch authority.82 The Dutch control of Java was almost complete, except for West Java.

In this power vacuum and administrative chaos, a Javanese mystic named Kartosuwirjo felt that the republic had abandoned West Java. In response, he transformed the local Masyumi party organization into Defense Councils, vehicles for anti-Dutch armed resistance.83 When the Dutch conducted their second Police Action in 1948, these defence councils became the backbone of the Darul Islam rebellion. In May 1948, Kartosuwirjo proclaimed himself imam (head) of a new state called the Indonesian Islamic State (Negara Islam Indonesia, NII), a state based upon Sha- ria law and administered by kyai, and an Islamic Army (Tentara Islam Indonesia, TII), which brought into a single command all the irregular troops of the region.84 The Darul Islam movement first fought against the colonial power, but then turned against the republic in 1949 when the regular army came back to the region. The rebellion continued for about 13 years, mostly as a protracted conflict.

The unique power vacuum in the region facilitated the rebellion, but its background were the same legacies of the colonial system as those that prompted Sarekat Islam and Sarekat Rakyat two or three decades earlier. The number of people who lost their land increased after 1945, due to the struggle for independence and poor economic condition. Poorer peasants were often

81 The number of irregular troops was comparatively much larger in West Java than in East Java due to the fact that many guerrilla fighters were left out of the republican army in the months prior to the agreement.

82 Petra M. H. Groen, “Dutch Armed Forces and the Decolonization of Indonesia: The Second Police Action (1948–1949), A Pandora's Box,” War & Society, 4, no.1 (1986): 83.

83 Robert E. Elson and Chiara Formichi. “Why did Kartosuwiryo Start Shooting? An Account of Dutch– Republican–Islamic Forces Interaction in West Java, 1945–49,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 42, no.3 (2011): 458-486.

84 Ricklefs, A History of Modern Indonesia: 279.

141 forced to sell their land to buy food. In the 1950s, the introduction of a new tax, the Pajak Per- hadilan, may have forced even more people into selling their land. The Darul Islam in West Java is likely to have drawn part of its following from the new landless. According to George Kahin “the widespread discontent arising from this among the peasantry throughout much of West Java was utilized by the leaders of the Darul Islam, providing them with a major portion of their political capital." It is not surprising then that the “Darul Islam’s scheme of land redistribution had [indeed] ameliorated the general living conditions of the local population” in the particularly poor region of East Priangan.85

Haji and kyai assumed most of Darul Islam’s leadership. Unsurprisingly, their targets included the menak class, including penghulus. Wertheim explains the support of local kyai as follows: “the traditional leaders of village societies are embittered at a process which is gradually rob- bing them of their authority. They are able to gather a following […] who are increasingly re- sentful of what they feel to be an exploitation by the ruling class, which is mostly of priyayi [menak] origin.86 In addition, the rebellion allowed kyai to strengthen their ties to followers, particularly the “bujak” (coolies and estate labourers) who, as explained in the last chapter, were out of the reach of most kyai. They found it difficult to achieve authority over such a mobile population. They were “an unsettled group, not bound to any village by ties to land, however tiny a plot, and were thus completely free to join the bands in the mountains. They were, moreover, generally susceptible to radical ideas.”87 In its early days, the Darul Islam strengthened the authority of the kyai in the countryside. Sons of kyai swelled the ranks of irregular troops like the Hizbullah, while many kyai held significant positions within the organization. Most religious leaders of the region joined the movement.

The Darul Islam rebellion is not a manifestation of cohesion among Muslim leaders in West Java. Kartosuwirjo was unable “to maintain control over his line of command” and local officers had great independence. Daud Beureueh, who led a similar rebellion in the province of Aceh,

85 Formichi, Islam and the Making of the Nation: 174.

86 Wertheim 1956: 228, quoted by Huis, Islamic Courts and Women: 131.

87 Ten Dam, 1961: 351, quoted by van Dijk, Rebellion Under the Banner of Islam: 373.

142 called Darul Islam in West Java very “bobrok” (degenerate).88 Kartosuwirjo lost most of its control over the movement in the early 1950s. Many ambitious and opportunistic political and guerrilla leaders whose concern with Islam was very much secondary to their concern for their own fortunes joined the movement. The old-time professional bandit gangs of the area felt that by using the Darul Islam label they could improve their fortune. As the organization disintegrated, it became increasingly difficult to distinguish Darul Islam from “simple banditry, extortion, and terrorism on a grand scale.” Now that its rank included more powerful, unscrupulous bandits and ambitious leaders, Darul Islam became more violent and increasingly turned against the very kyai and peasants who initially supported the movement. In the 1950s, Darul Islam’s challenge was not “one of gaining voluntary support from the people but of maintaining the survival of their movement.”89 Turning against the ulama was a bad idea as it led to a decline of support among the population. By the late 1950s, only a few pockets of resistance existed. The military took the upper hand by using the peasants to encircle these last pockets of rebels, walking up the mountains as a fence of moving legs. On the morning of September 5, 1962, Kartosuwirjo was taken to a remote location and was executed by firing squad, putting an end to the rebellion.

2.5. Co-optation and Repression in Post-Darul Islam West Java

Counterinsurgency measures pushed many ulama into the hands of the state. The ease with which the state was able to co-opt ulama in the post-Darul Islam period was an indication of the very weakness of the ulama. The rebellion itself further weakened ulama. It had a detrimental impact on the institution of kyai in the region while heightening deep divisions among kyai in West Java, which did not exist in East Java. It led to infighting among ulama: some supported the movement, others did not. Those who supported the rebellion often “fell from public grace,

88 Nazaruddin Sjamsuddin, The Republican Revolt: A Study of the Acehnese Rebellion (Singapore: Insti- tute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1985): 233.

89 Ibid: 244.

143 as the movement turned more and more into a terrorist organization,” while those who withdrew their support, “became incapacitated to pursue Muslim politics.”90

Infighting among ulama profoundly disturbed patterns of traditional social authority and the weakening of ulama accelerated the opening up of the region to external influence, including the state and the military. Some families of ulama and kyai suffered a lot from the rebellion: sons of kyai were killed, families were displaced, and pesantren were abandoned or destroyed. When the situation stabilized in West Java, an “acute shortage of influential ulama” came to exist; “many of the older orthodox ulama had died and the young ulama were not yet ready to succeed the old generation.”91 Traditional religious institutions, such as pesantren, tended to decay in the aftermaths of the war.

As soon as the 1950s, in the midst of the rebellion, the government and the military started to put into place several bodies to co-opt ulama. In the early years of the uprising, the military would co-opt ulama through patronage on an individual basis. The creation of the Majelis Ula- ma Jawa Barat (West Javanese Council of Ulama) institutionalized the informal patterns of state cooperation that existed. In 1956, ulama of eastern Priangan took the initiative to ask for a meeting with the military.92 Important kyai of the region, most of them from the Nahdlatul Ulama, and the bupati of Tasikmalaya and Ciamis attended the meeting, hosted by the military. At the meeting, participants agreed to create a ‘Consultative Body of Ulama’ (Badan Musyawarah Al- im-Ulama, BMAU) in Tasikmalaya. The Consultative Body was a success and in the following years, the government established similar bodies in Banten (1957), Sumedang, Garut, and Ban- dung (1958). In 1958, the government established the very first Council of Ulama. It is not before much later, in 1975, that the government created a national council of ulama (Majelis Ula-

90 Hiroko Hirikoshi, “Islamic Scholasticism, Social Conflicts and Political Power: Corporate and Non- Corporate Features of Muslim Learned Men in West Java,” Social Compass, 31, no.1 (1984): 87.

91 Idem.

92 MUI Jawa Barat, MUI Dalam Dinamika Sejarah: BMAU ke MUI di Jawa Barat (Bandung: MUIJB, 2007): 15.

144 ma Indonesia) with branches in every province, including East Java.93 Majelis Ulama West Java was unique to West Java and responded to its unique religious authority structure. In June of that year, as violence between the National Army (Tentara Nasional Indonesia) and the Islamic Army (Tentara Islam Indonesia) intensified, the West Javanese top military commandment instructed all regional commandments to establish local Councils of Ulama, placed under the direction of a provincial one, located in Bandung. For ulama in the region, the Council was a welcomed creation as it facilitated access to resources.”94 A few months later, to enhance and strengthen the position of the newly created Majelis Ulama Jawa Barat, the government organized a large conference in Bandung. At that conference, the participants adopted three key resolutions: to increase the efforts to restore and maintain security in West Java; encourage economic development; and improve educational and cultural institutions.95

The government granted a crucial regulatory role to the Majelis Ulama to restore security. First, the government prohibited public gatherings in the region but gave the Majelis Ulama the power to emit permits for a few exceptions such as pengajian education and dakwah.96 Second, the military also gave Majelis Ulama the authority to manage Mosque Councils (Dewan Keluarga Masjid). In East Java, Mosque Councils were and remain until today autonomous. Providing a government organization with control over Mosque Councils would have been unthinkable in East Java at that time as kyai maintained a firm grip on their pesantren and mosques.97 The relative ease with which the Majelis Ulama gained control over Mosque Councils speaks to the

93 A central council of Ulama was created in 1962, but members of the committee were mainly government officials and leading figures from various Islamic organizations. Their role was, however, insignifi- cant, as it did not give any guidance to the regional ulama councils. Deliar Noer, The Administration of Islam in Indonesia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell Univ Modern Indonesia, 1978): 67.

94 Iip D. Yahya, Ajengan Cipasung: Biografi KH Moh. Ilyas Ruhiat (Jakarta: PT LKiS Pelangi Aksara, 2006): 108.

95 MU Jawa Barat, MUI Dalam Dinamika Sejarah: 37-8.

96 MU Jawa Barat, MUI Dalam Dinamika Sejarah: 16; In East Java, pengajian permits were under the authority of the Religious Educational Project (Projek Pendidikan Agama) a much weaker institution than the Majelis Ulama. It was placed under the Ministry of Religious Affairs, which granted de facto control over these issues to the Nahdlatul Ulama.

97 Interview with Iip D. Yahya, Historian, Bandung, West Java, May 2016.

145 weakness of the ulama in the region. Defeated, weakened, and fragmented, some ulama perceived the Majelis Ulama as the only remaining source of access, influence, and power.

Through its control over Mosque Councils, the government gave the Majelis Ulama the de facto power over the collection and distribution of zakat. Renewing a practice that was unique to West Java during the colonial period, the government, through Majelis Ulama this time, was again in control of the collection of zakat and fitrah. West Java was the only province with such an ar- rangement at the time. Channelling zakat payment to state committees continued to weaken the social and political power of kyai as well as reduce their income, a trend initiated under the colonial period.98 Kyai were in no position to oppose state interference in zakat collection and illustrate their weakness in West Java.

Kyai in Central and East Java, by contrast, have opposed the collection of zakat and fitrah by government agencies continuously. In the 1970s, for instance, the Ministry of Religious Affairs instructed the formation of zakat committees in villages throughout Indonesia. Kyai and followers from the Nahdlatul Ulama systematically refused to pay their zakat to these committees: “Nahdlatul Ulama followers stubbornly kept paying their zakat to local kyai, abandoning the payment of zakat to neighbourhood association zakat committees [and] some kyai openly criticized the state-based zakat committees in their speeches at religious gatherings (pengajian).”99 As Fauzi explains, competition with state zakat collection agencies incentivized Muslim leaders to strengthen their own zakat collection capacities.100

The power that some kyai gained in West Java through the Majelis Ulama should not obscure the fact that it is the military that had the upper hand over the ulama, not the opposite. The Majelis Ulama, both at the provincial and local levels, was subordinated to the military. Through the Council, the government institutionalized a formal channel to reward loyal ulama. Its founding charter stated that "each member of the Council of Ulama […] are eligible to re-

98 Pradjarta Dirdjosanjoto, Memelihara Umat, Kiai Pesantren-Kiai Langgar di Jawa (Yogyakarta: LKiS, 1997): 196-204; cited in Fauzi, Faith and the State: 174.

99 Ibid: 174.

100 Ibid: 175.

146 ceive assistance and protection from the Government of the Republic of Indonesia, both civil and military, in carrying out their duties."101 This proximity between the military and the Coun- cil was also visible as the Council's headquarters were often located directly in the district's military compound or in barracks donated by the army. The local Council's membership included both ulama and military officials and the latter often controlled leadership positions. Generals and lieutenants attended most district meetings and, during these meetings, the government in- formed the Council of new regulations and policies concerning religious activities and projects. The Council also organized 'operasi' tours, preaching throughout West Java, and the army would take care of the expenses, transportation, and protection of the ulama.102 The influence of the military over religious life in West Java went further than the Majelis Ulama. In addition to the Councils of Ulama, the military also created a Religion and Education section in the regional military structure, which was headed by a military officer (Captain HM Soefri Djamhari) but included some ulama.103 The military also created the People's Welfare Institute (Lembaga Kesejahteraan Umat, LKU) with the goal of supporting civilian actions for community welfare, including matters about zakat and fitrah.

The government banned Masyumi in 1960 after some of its leaders joined the PRRI rebellion against Sukarno in Sumatra. The banning of Masjumi was the final blow to some of the kyai’s cohesion in West Java, already fragile due to colonial and post-colonial developments. The impact was amplified because most kyai had decided not to join Nahdlatul Ulama in 1952. The banning of Masjumi removed the last organizational ties linking kyai to their community. Like Nadhlatul Ulama, Masyumi had established subsidiary organizations ahead of the 1955 elections such as a women's organization (Muslimaat), a Youth Female Movement (GPII Puteri), a traders' association (Sarekat Dagang Islam Indonesia), a Fisherman's Association (Sarekat Nelayan Islam Indonesia), a Workers' Association (Sarekat Buruh Islam Indonesia) and a Farmers’ Asso- ciation (Sarekat Tani Islam Indonesia). With the banning of Masjumi, these organizations were

101 See Pasal 8, Instruksi No. 32/8/PPD/1958.

102 Hiroko Horikoshi, A Traditional Leader: 335.

103 MU Jawa Barat, MUI Dalam Dinamika Sejarah: 32-3.

147 dismantled. The dismantling of these organizations removed an essential link between ulama and their followers.

After the banning of Masjumi in 1960, the Council of Ulama became the main, if not only channel through which members of the former Masyumi could seek to expand their influence. A kyai’s influence is often a function of his participation in government bodies, rather than socio- religious mass organizations. In one of his reports, D.N. Aidit, leader of the communist party (PKI), called the Council of Ulama in West Java the "Masyumi New Style" ("Masjumi gaya baru"). The Council served the interests of “evil” landlords and former members of Masjumi- Partai Sarekat Islam who, according to Aidit, turned to the council for protection.104 While during that period, ulama in East Java strengthened their collective influence by fighting against the Communist Party, “ulama [in West Java] remained aloof from the politics of the new government and skeptical of President Sukarno's intentions and his drive for a "permanent revolution.”105

The war against Darul Islam ended in August 1962 when the Indonesian army captured the last pockets of insurgents and captured and executed Kartosuwirjo. The implementation of Martial Law in 1957 marked the beginning of the end for the Darul Islam. In 1959, the military used a counterinsurgency technique that required the mobilization of villagers to form “fences-of-legs” (pagar betis) to encircle and close in on the rebel hideouts in the mountains. But to recruit villagers, the cooperation of ulama was essential. It is through the Majelis Ulama that the military was able to enlist the support of both ulama and villagers.

Aside from the execution of Kartosuwiryo, the government adopted a strategy of co-optation instead of violent punishment of the Darul Islam’s former fighters. Almost all of the D.I. fighters received an amnesty, while the military forced thirty-two key leaders into signing a Joint Declaration of loyalty to the Republic of Indonesia and undergo re-education by the Siliwangi military command. Yet, “it is clear that, early on, a close relationship with Darul Islam was cul-

104 Dipa Nusantara Aidit, Kaum Tani Mengganjang Setan-Setan Desa: Laporan Singkat Tentang Hasil Riset Mengenai Keadaan Kaum Tani dan Gerakan Tani Djawa Barat (Jakarta: Pembaruan, 1964): 21.

105 Horikoshi, A Traditional Leader: 198.

148 tivated by Suharto [and his government, most notably his] advisor Ali Moertopo and his rogue Special Operation intelligence organization, Opsus.”106 In addition to Opsus, the Siliwangi Divi- sion also managed patronage relations with former Darul Islam’s members. Many former leaders received short-term benefits to shore up their loyalty, such as cars, land, and capital to start businesses. For instance, in 1969 Opsus arranged for some Darul Islam leaders to receive kero- sene distribution rights in exchange for support for Golkar support.

Danu Mohammad Hasan, a former commander from West Java who had signed the Joint Decla- ration, became the main point of contact between Opsus and the former DI. He was given a jeep and a driver. In early 1966, former D.I. fighters helped the government hunt down pro-Sukarno officials who had gone into hiding after the failed Coup attempt of 1965. A few months later, these links were reinforced when the army enlisted the help of former Darul Islam fighters to attack and capture suspected communists in West Java. For the DI leaders, such tactical cooperation was meant to avoid arrests and prevent the Darul Islam from being wiped out like the PKI.107

This connection was far from transitional; it continued well into the 1970s. In 1970, four former Darul Islam leaders signed a Second Declaration, which reaffirmed the first Joint Declaration of 1962, promised not to enter or affiliate with a political party other than Golkar and to become a force working for the government.108 The year later, Danu Mohammad who now worked for the state intelligence coordination agency (Bakin) hosted a three-day reunion of former Darul Islam members at his house. The Secret services sponsored the meeting, and two members of the military attended the event (Colonel Dadang and Colonel Pitut Suharto). According to Ridwan, one member of the reunion committee, Bakin was seen as a protector and an aid to security at a time

106 Quinton Temby, “Imagining an Islamic State in Indonesia: From Darul Islam to Jemaah Islami- yah,” Indonesia 89 (2010): 6.

107 Solahudin, The Roots of Terrorism in Indonesia: From Darul Islam to Jem'ah Islamiyah (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2013).

108 Cited in Temby, “Imagining an Islamic State”: 10.

149 when “[Darul Islam] didn’t have funding, and [that] support from the Muslim community [ummat] was less than total.”109

3. Ulama and Suharto’s “New Order” (1966-1998)

In the 1970s, the state started to expand and formalize its net of patronage in the hope of co- opting more and more ulama. The government found it convenient to revive and work with the Islamic Education Advancement League (GUPPI, Gabungan Usaha Parbaikan Pendidikan Is- lam), a small Islamic mass organization from West Java. The New Order regime’s attempt to co-opt ulama was mostly successful in West Java, where ulama were too weak and disorganized to compete against the state.

GUPPI was founded in the 1950s in Sukabumi, West Java, but had become moribund until several Ulama met and decided to revive the organization in 1965. In 1968 they decided to hold a Muktamar in Malang (East Java) in the hope of attracting Ulama from Central and East Java and making this West Javanese organization genuinely national. KH Anwar Sanusi, a former Mas- jumi activist, was elected as its chairman. Despite attending the Muktamar, most ulama from East and Central Java decided not to join the organization.110 Ulama, members of the Nahdlatul Ulama, already had their own organization for pesantren, called the Association of Islamic Boarding School (RMI, Rabithah Ma’ahid al-Islamiyah). There was thus little incentives to join an organization such as GUPPI. Quickly, and like in the 1950s, funding problems plagued GUPPI.

In 1970, Pitut Suharto approached the leaders of GUPPI and brought the ailing organization under Golkar’s fold. In a matter of months, GUPPI went from a small organization of several West Javanese pesantren to a national organization, headquartered in Jakarta. After moving

109 “NII Pernah Diminta Dukung Golkar,” Majalah Darul Islam, no. 10, April-May, 2001, 38; cited in Temby, “Imagining an Islamic State”: 8.

110 Heru Cahyono, Peranan Ulama Dalam Golkar 1971-1980: Dari Pemilu Sampai Malari (Jakarta: Pustaka Sinar Harapan, 1992): 45, fn 37.

150

GUPPI from Sukabumi to Jakarta, the government instructed Provincial Offices of Religious Education Inspection (Inspeksi Pendidikan Agama Propinsi, IPAKAP) to open branches of the organization in their provinces. In early 1971, Ali Murtopo organized a national congress (Muk- tamar Nasional) in Jakarta. At that Congress, GUPPI appointed Major General Sudjono Hu- mardani as a “patron” and several army Generals delivered speeches (e.g.,Ali Murtopo, Colonel Sapardjo, and General Darjatmo). The Congress, attended by between 800 and 1,000 kyai, was an astounding success for Golkar. That day, GUPPI officially declared its affiliation with the government and endorsed Golkar in the next elections.111

The power of GUPPI was more than symbolic. It was, like Majelis Ulama West Java, a powerful patronage vehicle used to channel money and official sponsorship to the ulama and other Muslim figures to buy off their support. GUPPI was a wealthy organization. It was funded through official government assistance but also through private national and international business associates of Sudjono Humardini.112 Officially, GUPPI aimed at improving the quality of pesantren education, fostering greater coordination between pesantren and other Islamic schools, and extending missionary work.113 Unofficially, the goal was to co-opt ulama into supporting Golkar, remove the monopoly of Muslim parties over mosque services, and sideline Nahdlatul Ulama. To be part of GUPPI, for instance, an alim had to surrender its affiliation with NU.114 According to Quinton Temby, some evidence exist that the government may have used GUPPI as a legal front to co-opt former Darul Islam members as well.

GUPPI did not entice supporters in every province. In East Java, Golkar met with resistance from traditionalist ulama, particularly those affiliated with the Nahdlatul Ulama. It also found ulama networks hard to penetrate. Subchan, chairman of the Nahdlatul Ulama, called its restora- tion “political extortion” and alleged that many GUPPI members were corrupted officials from

111 Ibid: 86.

112 Temby, “Imagining an Islamic State in Indonesia”: 9.

113 Ken Ward, The 1971 Election in Indonesia: An East Java Case Study (Melbourne: Centre of South- east Asian Studies Monash University, 1974): 75.

114 Cahyono, Peranan Ulama: 84-5.

151 the Ministry of Religious Affairs who hoped to be forgiven by joining GUPPI.115 Golkar did succeed in gaining the support of some East Javanese ulama, but these ulama paid a hefty price for deserting NU. They “were branded as traitors” by other kyai and, by losing the legitimacy associated with Nahdlatul Ulama, they often also noticeably loss of popularity as well.116 The NU organization, and the depth of its institutionalized networks, also allowed for some collective action. In the 1960s, Kyai Musta’in Romly (Jombang) was among the most charismatic and influential tarekat leader in East Java and Madura.117 He had an estimated following of no less than fifty thousand people. When he established a relationship with Golkar in 1975, after Golkar gave him ten hectares of land and money to build his own university, he lost much of that popularity. An alliance of ulama, apparently orchestrated by ulama from the pesantren of Tebuireng (Jombang, East Java), agitated against Kyai Romly. As a result, he lost most of his followers who went into the orbit of another kyai, kyai Adlan Ali.118 A similar fate happened to Kiai Ha- san (pesantren Genggong), Badrus Saleh (Kediri), and Kyai Zaeni (Probolinggo), who all received generous government support. They too lost much of their followers to other kyai as a result. Such resistance by NU worked until 1985 when the pressure exerted by the New Order government over ulama in East Java finally paid off. That year, NU decided to go “back to khit- tah,” the organization’s initial charter and abandon electoral politics. Kyai were free to join PPP, the last Islamic party standing, or focus on their social and educational mission.

The New Order regime was much more successful in West Java. Golkar’s “efforts were fruitful in co-opting most kyai who rose to fame and became influential after 1966.”119 Every large pe-

115 Pedoman, 2 February 1971, cited in Ward, The 1971 Election in Indonesia: 42.

116 van Bruinessen, “Tarekat and Tarekat Teachers in Madurese Society,” In Kees van Dijk, Huub de Jonge and Elly Touwen-Bouwsma (eds.), Across the Madura Strait: The Dynamics of an Insular Society (Leiden: KITLV Press, 1995): 34.

117 The tarekat in question was the Tariqa Qadiriyya wa Naqshbandiyya.

118 It is not clear why Kyai Musta’in deserted NU to join Golkar. For sure, he received a very generous land and monetary donation from the government, which allowed him to build his university. It may also be that he felt discriminated within NU who never included his pesantren (Rejoso) within the inner circle of the organization. See van Bruinessen, “Tarekat and Tarekat Teachers in Madura”: 12-3.

119 Interview with KH Agus Muhammad, Kyai sepuh NU and kyai pesantren, Ciamis, West Java, June 2014.

152 santren in West Java “went to Golkar” and their santri worked for the government.120 In the absence of strong Islamic organizations in West Java, the cost of association with Golkar was much less severe for ulama in West Java. For instance, unlike the fate experienced by Kyai Romly in East Java, the chief representative of the same tarekat in West Java (Abah Anom) was able to associate with the government freely. His pesantren Suryalaya shares important similari- ties with Nahdlatul Ulama.121 Golkar eventually appointed Abah Anom to the People's Consul- tative Assembly in 1993. In West Java, Golkar “[did] not face as many difficulties in terms of maintaining its relations with various groups such as the ulama, mass Muslim organizations and the people, for they are not directly involved in the Nahdlatul Ulama.”122 During the first half of the 20th century, his father (Abdullah Mubarak or Abah Sepuh) spread his influence over all of West Java by cultivating relations with the indigenous administrative elite.123

For traditionalist kyai, the funding of pesantren activities was a continual challenge. For those who resisted co-optation, it was an even more difficult task. Some non-coopted ulama established the Pondok Pesantren Cooperation Body (BKSPP, Badan Kerjasama Pondok Pesantren). Unlike NU kyai, who benefited from inter-pesantren coordination through the well-established Association of Islamic Boarding School (RMI, Rabithah Ma’ahid al-Islamiyah), independent kyai were vulnerable. In March 1972, KH Noer Ali (Bekassi), KH Chaer Affandi (Tasikma- laya), KH Abdullah Syafi’i (Jakarta), KH Abdul Halim (Sukabumi) and KH Iskandar met in Bogor to find a way to foster pesantren and community development. Unlike RMI, affiliated with the Nahdlatul Ulama, the BKSPP remained politically neutral. It did not prevent the Gol- kar, however, from suspecting the BKSPP to be anti-Golkar. In the early years of the New Or- der, cooperation with BKSPP was thus quite tricky. In the mid-1990s, the New Order government was finally able to get some hold over BKSPPI when it passed under the leadership of KH

120 Idem.

121 Our emphasis, Sri Mulyati, The Educational Role of the Tariqa Qadiriyya Naqshbandiyya with Spe- cial Reference to Suryalaya, 2002): 99-100.

122 Idem.

123 Martin van Bruinessen, “Shaykh `Abd al-Qadir al-Jilani and the Qadiriyya in Indonesia,” Journal of the History of Sufism, 1-2 (2000): 23.

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Kholil Ridwan. In the 1990s, Ridwan developed close connections several generals and politically connected Muslim bureaucrats.124 BKSPP became a national organization only in 1998 after opening a branch in Central Java, South Sulawesi, South Sumatra, Lampung, East Java and East Kalimantan.

4. Conclusion

This chapter asked two questions: Why did state formation styles of the late colonial era shape religious markets in Java long after the colonial regime ended? Why is the cleric structure in West Java fragmented and more cohesive in East Java? The chapter focused on two critical junctures: the national awakening period and the early post-independence period. Both periods were critical junctures, periods in which Muslim clerics made important choices about their collective organization and state officials about their relation with Islam with long-lasting consequences. The chapter argued that sub-regional colonial state-building strategies triggered different political cleavages in East and West Java and shaped the decisions they made during the pergerakan and the early independence period. In turn, these political cleavages represented specific challenges to the local states and generated different responses. These responses reproduced and reinforced earlier structural differences among clerics in Java’s various provinces.

This first part of the chapter discussed the case of East Java, where the cleavage that emerged opposed clerics as a whole to other social and religious competitors in the religious market. The conflict first opposed traditionalists and modernists clerics and, later on, clerics to the communist party of Indonesia. This competition forced clerics into closer co-operation and incentivize them to strengthen and institutionalize their networks and ties to the population through the creation of Nahdlatul Ulama and its numerous subsidiary organizations targeting students, women, and youth. The state found it hard, both during the late colonial and early post-colonial period, to penetrate kyai’s networks. Clerics remained strong until reformasi and managed to survive by abandoning electoral politics in 1985.

124 Syafii Anwar (ed.) The Perception of Pesantren Communities in West Java Towards Secularism, Plu- ralism and Liberalism (Jakarta: ICIP, 2005).

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The second part of the chapter discussed the case of West Java, where the cleavage that emerged opposed clerics among themselves. Internecine conflicts opposed clerics who supported and opposed the colonial state. This context prevented clerics’ realization of a collective interest in safeguarding their position. It led to the weak institutionalization kyai’s networks and maintained clerics in a precarious and fragile position. This cleavage generated a harsh response from state elites and triggered strategies of violent repression, control, and co-optation of clerics. This response both discouraged and prevented the development of strong ties among clerics and between clerics and the community. Clerics remained weak dependent upon the state until the reformasi.

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Chapter 6 Radical Mobilization in West Java

The proliferation of radical groups and high levels of militancy are defining features of local politics in West Java since the country’s transition to democracy. Radical groups have mushroomed rapidly in the province, well before similar groups started to emerge in other regions. West Java does not lack radical entrepreneurs. As early as 1998, a dozen “anti-vice” groups were active in West Java and targeted people selling alcohol or food during Ramadan. In the mid-2000s, when national policies created a climate prone to popular mobilization against mi- norities1, the province was already replete with local radical groups. With religious and legal legitimation, radical groups continued to proliferate exponentially after 2005 and became ever more brazen and violent. Since 2008, West Java has been home to 57 percent of all the radical groups and 71 percent of all the protest and violent mobilization in Java.2

1 From 2005 to 2007, the Majelis Ulama Indonesia (MUI) and the Indonesian government released a series of fatwa (religious edicts) and regulations targeting Muslim sects such as the Ahmadiyah and re- straining the building of new houses of worship. The MUI released a fatwa against pluralism, liberalism, and secularism in 2005; a fatwa declaring the Ahmadiyah sect to be deviant in 2005; and, finally, a fatwa specifying ten criteria that make a non-orthodox sect “deviant” in 2007. The government adopted a regulation on the building of houses of worship in 2006, which allowed local populations and governments to vet and approve the construction of new houses of worship; a Joint Ministerial Decree ordering the Ah- madiyah sect to stop spreading its teaching in 2008; and, a new law on “religious harmony” which updated previous regulations against blasphemy and imposed limits on proselytization, the celebration of religious holidays, the construction of houses of worship, funerals and religious education.

2 West Java is the province that was among the first to witness attacks by militant groups on minorities in the post-transition period. Since then, militant groups have engaged in regular protest activities requesting the government to restrain the freedom of religious minorities, threatening and attacking minorities through shows of force and sealing or destroying their houses of prayer. Ahmadiyah communities have been victims of constant threats and repeated attacks in the regencies of Bogor (January 2006), Ciamis

155 156

Why is West Java more vulnerable to radical mobilization than other provinces? What explains the proliferation of radical groups in the region? What makes the province’s religious leaders and entrepreneurs more likely to join or lead anti-minority mobilization? This chapter argues that the structural conditions unique to the province – i.e., its weak religious institutions and competitive religious markets – generate incentives for religious leaders and entrepreneurs to join vigilante organization and mobilization. These structural conditions do not explain radical ideas per se, but why religious entrepreneurs have proliferated in the region and why they have incentives to mobilize radical ideas.

The chapter first discusses the transformations brought by the democratization and the liberalization of Indonesia in 1998. Democratization and liberalization have pluralized the religious market and increased the value of religious authority. In addition to a freer environment, democratization has multiplied the number of opportunities where leaders with followers can leverage their authority into influence and power. Religious authority and the capacity to mobilize followers are now, more than ever, resources in demand for government officials and political parties.

The chapter argues that West Javanese clerics are not in the best position to engage with such opportunities, however. As fleshed out in Chapter 3, religious leaders in West Java have small pesantren, weak networks, and operate in crowded and competitive religious markets. The average cleric finds it hard to gain recognition as a religious authority, and in return, state officials and politicians find it hard to recognize which religious leaders have substantial influence. In this low information environment, clerics have incentives to be entrepreneurial: creating and mobilizing a radical organization help stand out in such a crowded environment and help secure recognition from followers and other clerics. Religious entrepreneurs who create and lead radical groups try to force more established religious leaders to treat them as equal. They are also

(July 2008), Cianjur (September 2005, June 2008), Kuningan (October 2002, November 2007, July 2010), Majalengka (January 2008), Sukabumi (April 2008), and Tasikmalaya (May 2005, March 2008, April 2012). Christians have been the victims of sustained mobilization by militant groups too. Accord- ing to the Indonesian Communion of Churches (Persekutuan Gereja-Gereja di Indonesia), 430 churches were closed down forcefully by vigilante organizations or the state between 2005 and 2010 and the majority of them are located in West Java. In addition to Ahmadi and Christians, several other sects were banned or the target of violent protests in the province.

157 better able to signal their influence to decision makers and politicians. Weak religious institutions and high competition have thus created a vast reservoir of entrepreneurs with interest in radical mobilization. The sheer number of entrepreneurs in West Java explains why radical groups proliferated in the post-reformasi period. Once mobilization became the medium through which recognition took place, mobilization became self-sustaining and tended to escalate rapidly.

1. Democracy and Religious Authority

Indonesia’s democratic transition of 1998 had many consequences for religious authority. Reli- gious leaders now operate in an increasingly plural religious market, and they express and contest their authority in a greater number of sites. Freedom of expression and assembly has led to the opening up of a previously unimaginable space for the public expression of Islam. Under a democratic regime, religious entrepreneurs can leverage their authority into political influence since Muslim leaders can act as political allies or vote brokers. The democratic transition has thus increased both the “value” of religious authority, but also those who contend for such status.

Suharto resigned in May 1998, putting an end to the 33-year-long New Order regime. Triggered by an unprecedented economic and political crisis, Indonesia entered an era of reformasi (reformation), which involved substantive reforms, liberalization and ultimately, democratization. President B.J. Habibie, Suharto’s successor, lasted in office only 17 months, but released political prisoners and introduced no less than 200 new laws and regulations revoking, among others, government control over the media, limits on freedom of expression and association, restrictions imposed on political parties. A landmark reform of the democratic transition was the adoption of two regional autonomy laws, which shifted Indonesia from a highly centralized to a highly decentralized state.

The loosening up of the authoritarian state’s grip on public and Islamic institutions has led to the pluralization of the sites in which Muslim leaders can build their networks and express their religious influence. Today, a religious leader has more opportunity to turn religious authority into income and get access to political or government jobs than in the past. During the New Or-

158 der regime, most channels for the political expression of Islamic interests were either closed or severely constrained. The regime banned Masjumi in 1960 and forced all other Islamic parties to merge under the Unity and Development Party (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, PPP). The Nahdlatul Ulama, which remained the most serious opposition to Suharto, lost control over the Ministry of Religious Affairs in 1972, thereby losing its main access to patronage and government jobs. Eleven years later, NU finally abandoned politics altogether and became a civil society organization again. Throughout the period, the government extended its reach and played a crucial role in managing religious affairs such as education and preaching. It created new institutions to keep Islamic leaders and clerics under its control and strengthen their support for the regime.

In the late Suharto era, the continued suppression of Islam was untenable. The middle class became increasingly pious and started to pressure the government for change.3 A fast-growing better-educated Muslim class also hoped to gain jobs in the bureaucracy and private sectors. Increasing tensions within the regime also forced Suharto into a closer alliance with Islamic leaders. The government thus partially reversed its approach and increasingly courted Islam. The government built mosques in government offices, allowed Islamic banking, and the public display of piety, such as and the wearing of the hijab in public schools.4 In 1990, Suharto supported the creation of the Indonesian Association of Muslim Intellectuals (ICMI), which formal- ized the channel between new Muslim intellectuals and the New Order state. Modernists, who made up the majority within the association, enjoyed increasing power and influence within the regime. In addition to ICMI, Golkar and Suharto’s new cabinet included prominent Muslim leaders in 1993. Bureaucrats affiliated to ICMI became the most influential faction within the New Order bureaucracy.5 Despite its increasing role, the government still tightly contained the space and vehicles for the public expression of Islam and Islamic authorities.

3 Jacques Bertrand, Nationalism and Ethnic Conflict in Indonesia (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge Univer- sity Press, 2004): 87.

4 Ibid: 84-5.

5 Ibid: 89.

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The lifting of restrictions on the freedom of association and expression has contributed to a be- wildering multiplication of Islamic organizations and movements. Democratization has made possible the emergence of new religious organizations such as the Islam Defenders’ Front (Front Pembela Islam), the Indonesian Council of Mujahidin (Majelis Mujahidin Indonesia), and the Forum of the Islamic Ummah (Forum Umat Islam). Some of the organizations that the Suharto government pushed underground, restricted, or banned are now actively promoting their vision of Islam in the public sphere. Some of these organizations are JI (Jemaah Islamiyah), Indonesian Islamic Dawah Council (Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia, DDII), Institute for Islamic Stud- ies and Research (Lembaga Penelitian dan Pengkajian Islam, LPPI), and HTI (Hizbut Tahrir Indonesia). These organizations now continuously challenge the authority of mainstream organizations like Muhammadiyah and NU (Nahdlatul Ulama).

In the democratic era, religious authority is more volatile. An increasingly large number of religious authorities, mass organizations, celebrity preachers, Sufi sects, and NGOs compete for the loyalty of followers.6 Clerics and aspiring clerics cultivate or expand their follower base through informal audiences such as pengajian, majelis taklim, or other seminars. As Martin Slama explains, the middle and lower middle class likes to express their religiosity through Majelis Taklim, gatherings for religious learning and performance, organized by a person able to gain recognition for his Islamic knowledge – an ustadz, a dai, a kyai, or a professor.7 Among the lower classes, similar gatherings are popular. Ustadz hold pengajian and taklim in mosques at night and are often broadcast loudly through the mosque’s speakers. These preachers, local ce- lebrities, and clerics, can attract crowds in the thousands.8

6 Edward Aspinall, “A Nation in Fragments: Patronage and Neoliberalism in Contemporary Indone- sia,” Critical Asian Studies, 45, no.1 (2013): 46.

7 Some majelis taklim are more scripturalist, while others embrace Sufi forms of religious expression such as the salawat prayers and poems remembering the prophet and zikir litanies. Among popular classes, similar gatherings are also popular. See Martin Slama, “A Subtle Economy of Time: Social Media and the Transformation of Indonesia’s Islamic Preacher Economy,” Economic Anthropology, 4, no.1 (2017): 95.

8 Slama, “A Subtle Economy of Time”: 95.

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The rise of new preachers with unusual credentials and who lack what the Islamic establishment would regard as proper Islamic education are evidence of the religious market’s opening.9 An increasing number of people try to gain recognition as religious authorities. As Martin Slama puts it, today, “ustadz are almost everywhere, as are majelis taklim—urban, rural, upper class, lower class, on-air, off-air, online, offline, and so on.”10 In this competitive environment, a prominent representative of Nahdlatul Ulama, Ahmad Mustofa Bisri, laments the “inflationary use of the title ustadz” for people who are “not yet worthy of it”. People who know only a few verses of the Qur’an, he deplored, are quickly called “ustadz”; what is important, he adds, is “their nice religious dress, even though they behave like thugs.”11 After the fall of Suharto, ulama have noticed increasing competition among pesantren and between pesantren and tarekat. The pattern of santri attendance at pesantren has also become more volatile.12 The total number of pesantren since 1999 has increased more rapidly than the population across Java.

9 Ibid: 95.

10 Ibid: 95.

11 Anonymous, “Gus Mus: Media Online Dikuasai Orang Tak Paham Agama,” Tempo, 1 April 2015, quoted in Slama, “A Subtle Economy of Time”: 97.

12 Torkil Saxebøl, The Madurese Ulama as Patrons: A Case Study of Power Relations in an Indonesian Community, Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation (Oslo: University of Oslo, 2002): 68.

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Figure 6.1- Total number of pesantren per 10,000 Capita, 2003-2014

3,5

2,5

1,5

0,5

Banten West Java Central Java East Java

New opportunities for preachers fuel the dynamism of the religious market. People never preach for materialistic reasons entirely, but preaching has become a full-time job for many entrepreneurial clerics and aspiring clerics. As Robert Hefner puts it, preaching is a business, and it is not uncommon for preachers to receive money every time they preach. “A gifted preacher fluent in Arabic and knowledgeable in religion can earn more in one night than an Islamic judge or teacher gets in a month.”13 Indeed,

… being an ustadz has become something like a profession, including the acceptance of material rewards that allow ustadz to make a living from preaching. […] This economy is embedded in a market that determines the value of the preachers, ranging from high- priced celebrity ustadz to less prominent ustadz who have not (yet) managed to live on their preaching activities.14

13 Robert Hefner, “Islamic Schools, Social Movements, and Democracy in Indonesia”, in Robert Hefner (ed.), Making Modern Muslims: The Politics of Islamic Education in Southeast Asia (Honolulu: Univer- sity of Hawaii Press, 2009): 68.

14 Slama, “A Subtle Economy of Time”: 95

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If star preachers can earn substantial amounts of money, most ustadz operate in the middle or lower rungs of that market: they receive a handful of dollars per appearance and, in poor neigh- borhoods or villages, can even be paid in kind, with fruits or vegetables for instance.15

Preachers use both private and public venue to hold preaching events. Governments are increasingly involved in providing a stage for preachers, and in organizing preaching events. Regency and city governments now reserve some funds for these activities and provide public or semi- public venues such as educational institutions, utilities or the residence of office bearers.16 Preaching events are for the government an opportunity to generate publicity. Some of the events bring together high-profile people, such as elected leaders, members of the business community, and celebrity preachers. As argued by Millie, it suits the government to “share the stage” with preachers and government officials make sure to include preachers with a wide variety of Islamic orientations. The media cover these events as “news” and “the respect these religious figures generate in the community is of great value to the […] government, which hopes to obtain Islamic credibility from alliances with them.”17

Under democracy, religious entrepreneurs can leverage their authority in a host of new outlets. They can use their religious authority for electoral purposes. Reformasi has allowed the creation of new political parties, including Muslim political parties. Dozens of new Muslim parties were created in the early days of the transition, but few survived the first election. Still, today, a core of four parties is based on Islam: the Unity and Development Party (Partai Persatuan Pem- bangunan, PPP) the last Islamic party allowed under the New Order regime, the National Awak- ening Party (Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa, PKB) a party linked to NU, the Prosperous Justice Par- ty (Partai Keadilan Sejahtera, PKS), and the National Mandate Party (Partai Amanat Nasional, PAN) a party linked to Muhammadiyah. Muslim clerics’ influence is not restricted to Muslim parties, however. In post-transition Indonesia, Islam has penetrated parties’ agenda in every po-

15 Ibid: 96.

16 Julian Millie, “Regional Preaching Scenes and Islamism: A Bandung Case Study,” in Sayed Khatab, Muhammad Bakashmar, and Ela Ogru (eds.) Proceedings of the 2008 GTReC International Conference (Melbourne: Monash University, 2008): 156.

17 Ibid: 157.

163 sition of the political spectrum, including the dominant nationalist, secular, and Pancasila based political parties.18 Most political parties now have offices or staff focused on catering to the Muslim voters. These offices involve young Muslim activists and more seasoned clerics.

Perhaps the most significant role played by Muslim leaders in post-transition Indonesia is informal. Parties can use clerics as political brokers and vote-getters because they have a close relation to followers. The New Order regime was a system of “centralized clientelism,” where “patronage was distributed downwards through a pyramidal structure that centred, at its apex, on the presidential palace.”19 One of the democratic transition’s landmark reforms was the adoption of two regional autonomy laws. The first law, Law No. 22/1999, assigned only key national functions to the central government and decentralized most of the authority directly to local governments (city and regency), bypassing provinces as a political unit. The law granted autonomy over issues such as education, public health, environmental management, and planning. The second law, Law No. 25/1999, provided local governments with independent revenue sources. From 2005, the population, rather than regional parliaments, started to elect local regency and district heads directly. Decentralization created thousands of local political arenas: in 2014 alone, 560 seats were up for elections in the national legislature and 19,699 seats were up for elections in 34 provinces and 491 districts.20

Indonesia’s shift from a highly centralized to a highly decentralized government has altered rather than eliminated clientelism. The reforms have led to the fragmentation of clientelistic networks into a pattern of “decentralized clientelism.” While rent-seeking at the local level was particularly intense in the early days of the transition era, the patronage-based nature of local politics remains deeply embedded even today.21 Local officials often use budgets to nurture patron-client networks and to provide a “slice of patronage resources for the bureaucrats, political

18 See Sunny Tanuwidjaja, “Political Islam and Islamic Parties in Indonesia: Critically Assessing the Evidence of Islam’s Political Decline,” Contemporary Southeast Asia: A Journal of International and Strategic Affairs, 32, no.1 (2010): 29-49.

19 Aspinall, “A Nation in Fragment”: 34.

20 Edward Aspinall, “Parliament and Patronage,” Journal of Democracy, 25, no.4 (2014): 97.

21 Aspinall, “A Nation in Fragment”: 38.

164 bosses, and networks that dominate these areas.”22 Party members often use political parties and government positions as vehicles for personal advancement and for gaining access to networks of influence.23

Informality now characterizes state-citizen interactions.24 Access to state benefits, such as jobs, contracts, or services, rely heavily on third-party mediation or broker networks, which facilitate interactions with bureaucrats and decision makers.25 Mediation is clientelistic; it often involves the expectation that services will be repaid in electoral support. Social networks and personal connections lubricate state-citizen interaction through third-party mediation. These networks are often organized around membership or affiliation with social groupings, such as an ethnic group, regional associations, an Islamic mass organization, or even on being an alumnus of a particular pesantren or university. These affiliations all play an essential role in shaping who can – and who cannot – derive benefits from the state. As argued by Ward Berenschot and Gerry van Klinken, “one’s membership of (or, conversely, exclusion from) such communities can boost or curtail [his] capacity […] to deal with state agents and realize [his] rights.”26

The effectiveness of such affiliations depends on whether a sense of mutual obligations infuses such networks, and whether they include members with influence. People spend a lot of time nurturing personal relations and networks. They often participate in government programs or mass organizations out of a desire to develop useful connections with influential people. They see such networks, along with education, as part of a necessary toolkit for their social promotion in the future. Given the importance of mutual obligations, network activists also spend time strengthening network ties by developing a sense of collective identity.

22 Ibid: 39.

23 Ibid: 40.

24 Ward Berenschot and Gerry van Klinken. “Informality and Citizenship: the Everyday State in Indone- sia.” Citizenship Studies, 22, no.2 (2018): 101.

25 Ibid. 103.

26 Ibid: 104.

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The institutional weakness of political parties reinforces the need for such networks. Instead of using party machines to secure electoral support, candidates now supplement their own efforts on the ground by working with teams of vote brokers.27 As explained by Ed Aspinall, core groups called “success teams” (tim sukses) coordinate broker networks. These teams have ties to different networks, which expand to districts, sub-districts, villages, and polling booths, all the way down to individual team members embedded in local communities.28 The base-level brokers are key. They provide information about the candidate, draw up lists of supporters, and get the vote out on election day. Motivations vary, but the prospect of material rewards drives most of tim sukses members. If few candidates pay their brokers, most provide money for expenses and bonuses for positive results. Other brokers have longer-term goals and hope to benefit from local development projects, employment opportunities, or government programs if their candidate is elected.29 Candidates usually establish success teams outside the formal party structures. People with extensive networks either approach or are approached by candidates.

Under a democratic regime, religious entrepreneurs can leverage their religious authority into political influence. Because religious leaders have more or less loyal followers and command respect, Muslim leaders are central political allies: they provide support, act as vote-brokers, and run as candidates. The capacity of a Muslim leader to play such role depends, however, on its ability to mobilize followers and to signal his influence to the candidates. Leaders with pesantren find it easier to mobilize followers and signal their “worth” to politicians, especially if they have a large pesantren.30 For the candidate, the size of a pesantren is generally a good indicator of the value of reaching out to a kyai. If a candidate can sway a famous kyai into supporting him, he hopes to gain support among some members of the kyai’s networks as well. It is much harder for low-level religious leaders to obtain attention from politicians. With a small

27 Aspinall, “Parliament and Patronage”: 102.

28 Ibid: 102.

29 Idem.

30 Religious leaders may act as vote brokers and try to sway the vote, but they do not, if they ever did, have much influence on people’s vote preference. See Greg Fealy and Robin Bush, “The Political De- cline of Traditional Ulama in Indonesia,” Asian Journal of Social Science, 42, no.5 (2014): 536-560.

166 pesantren, or no pesantren at all, the task of signalling one’s worth to a candidate is much harder.

Religious leaders without pesantren operate in a competitive religious environment. Some clerics lead a majelis taklim or hold pengajian for instance. Majelis talkims are led by ustadz and are a form of informal religious educational institutions that operate in mosques, mushollas, schools, private homes, and other locations. Some majelis taklim are incredibly popular, reaching hundreds and even thousands of people. Pengajians are Islamic study sessions held in mosques; some are regular, others are one-off. Pengajian membership is more fluid than majelis taklims, but some ustadz can gather from a dozen to a hundred people on a regular basis. Politi- cians often see leaders of majelis taklim and pengajian as vote brokers and target their participants when campaigning.31 With more than 30, 000 majelis taklim in Java alone, however, the challenge for any of their leader is for politicians and party cadres to notice them.32 For politically ambitious ustadz and ulama, the challenge is to make sure politicians chose his pesantren, majelis taklim, or pengajian as the basis of a broker network and not another one.

Many Muslim leaders and entrepreneurs increase the strength of their networks and their visibility by participating in different mass organizations. Mass organizations such as Nahdlatul Ula- ma, Muhammadiyah, and Persis, as well as student organization such as PMII, HMI, and KAMMI are powerful tools to build networks, personal connections, and gain recognition as religious leaders. Politicians will often work exclusively with colleagues involved in mass organizations in which they are members themselves. In a decentralized patronage system, having a NU or a KAMMI politician elected can bring substantial advantage for those within that network. Many religious leaders, such as kyai, ulama, and ustadz, are involved in such organizations before and while running their pesantren.

31 See Gandung Ismanto and Idris Thaha, “Banten: Islamic Parties, Networks and Patronage,” in Edward Aspinall and Mada Sukmajati (eds.) Electoral Dynamics in Indonesia: Money Politics, Patronage and Clientelism at the Grassroots (Singapore: NUS Press, 2016): 146-149.

32 The total number of majelis taklim is probably superior. This number includes only adequately registered majelis taklim. The total number of pengajian is unavailable, but it is much larger than the total number of registered majelis taklim.

167

Others try to increase their visibility by forming new mass organizations or various types of “forums,” “fronts,” or “bodies.” These forums tackle one or a series of issues publicly, such as the environment, child malnutrition, or prostitution for instance. When they attract sufficient attention, such organization can signal the influence of its leader and politicians and party cadres may court them in election time for their capacity to mobilize voters.

Democratization and decentralization have not changed how entrepreneurs generate and consolidate religious authority. Religious authority in Sunni Islam is still a matter of gaining recognition from the community and other religious leaders. Democratization has changed, however, the environment in which they seek such recognition. The liberalization of a political regime allows a higher degree of freedom of speech and mobilization and therefore diversifies the “tools” available to religious leaders. Democratization also multiplies the opportunities for religious leaders to leverage their authority into influence and access to political parties and government jobs.

2. Generating Religious Authority in West Java

Radical groups have found in West Java a very fertile soil and have encountered little opposition by established religious leaders. If they have proliferated, it is because a “demand” for radical groups and radical mobilization exist. The demand is high, not only because radical ideas are popular among some clerics, but also because religious leaders are weak in West Java. They have small schools, fragmented networks, and evolve in a crowded and competitive religious environment. The average religious leader finds it hard to gain and maintain religious authority and, as a result, is not well positioned to leverage his religious authority into social and political influence. By leading a radical group, however, weak religious leader gain a tool to further their religious authority. Conservative, intolerant or radical religious leaders who may not have mobilized elsewhere, have incentives to do so in West Java, given their structural weakness.

Radical “fringe” Islamists we find in underground or terrorist organizations are not the typical leader of most radical groups in West Java. The typical leader resembles what would otherwise be “mainstream” religious leader. Some of them head or teach in a pesantren, others have their own majelis taklim or pengajian, while others are “lay” religious leaders. Indeed, in West Java,

168 radical groups have found widespread support among kyai and ustadz.33 Approximately 70 percent of the regency-level Islamic Defenders’ Front’s chairmen are either called kyai (ulama) or ustadz (Islamic teacher). Headquarters of local branches of the Islamic Defenders’ Front (FPI), the largest radical organization, are often located in pesantren (Islamic boarding schools).34

Many of the FPI leaders claim cultural filiation with the Nahdlatul Ulama, i.e., they pray and respect the same school of jurisprudence than members of NU, Indonesia’s largest and most moderate Islamic organization.35 They are not, however, members of NU, the organization. As Irfan L. Sarhindi explains, in West Java, there is a unique proximity between religious leaders with an NU “cultural” background and the Islamic Defenders’ Front: “culturally, they are NU (i.e., traditionalist religious leaders), but structurally, they are FPI front-liners.”36 Unlike elsewhere in Java, “it is not uncommon for santri in Islamic boarding schools that are culturally NU [in West Java], to be involved in the FPI movement” in West Java.37 For instance, Ustadz Sofyan Anshori, chairman of the FPI in Tasikmalaya, often claim to be a member of “Fighting NU” (NU berjuang) (read: FPI) rather than NU the organization. This proximity between mainstream moderate Islamic leaders and the FPI is puzzling.

The proliferation of radical organizations such as the FPI is thus inseparable from the role played by traditionalist kyai, many of whom are culturally close to NU. Radical organizations have found a fertile source of leadership among these leaders for three main reasons. First, most pesantren are small in West Java. With smaller pesantren, most religious leaders have small following and find gaining recognition difficult. The colonial regime initially hindered the devel-

33 Interview with Muhammad Sofyan Ansori, Chairman of FPI-Tasikmalaya, Tasikmalaya, West Java, May 2014; Interview with KH Ijad Noorjaman, Kyai pesantren, former chairman of FPI-Tasikmalaya (c. 1998-2001), Tasikmalaya, West Java, May 2014; Interview with Ahmad, Chairman of Laskar Taliban, Tasikmalaya, West Java, May 2014.

34 Anonymous interview with a former rank-and-file member of FPI, assistant to the former chairman of FPI-Cicalangka (a suburb of Bandung), Bandung, West Java, April 2014.

35 Interview with Muhammad Sofyan Ansori, Chairman of FPI-Tasikmalaya, Tasikmalaya, West Java, May 2014.

36 Irfan L. Sarhindi, “NU Kultural, NU Struktural,” Detik News, 10 November 2017.

37 Idem.

169 opment of large pesantren by preventing independent ulama from collecting zakat and fitrah and by commercializing land earlier than other regions of Java. The average school in the province is as a result twice as small as the average school in East Java. A quarter of all the pesantren has fewer 50 santri or less, while only a fifth do in East Java. These very small pesantren are built around a kyai who command little influence beyond his pesantren. Indeed, small pesantren have fewer santri who come from outside the region. Half of the santri in West Java do not live on the premise of the pesantren, while about a third of them do in East Java.38 With smaller schools, kyai have smaller networks of santri, and with smaller networks of santri, networks stemming from a core pesantren to smaller pesantren are less extensive. The position of an average kyai is more fragile because recognition from former santri and fellow kyai is weaker.

Religious entrepreneurs find it hard to stand out from the crowd in West Java. The religious market is crowded and competitive; few kyai and pesantren have emerged as dominant network nodes in the region. Indeed, “historically, only a handful of influential kyai is from West Ja- va.”39 The four regencies that have the most significant number of radical groups per capita (more than 2 per 1 m. Capita) - i.e., Cirebon, Tasikmalaya, Sukabumi, and Purwakarta - have a concentration ratio of only 7 percent. In other words, the four largest pesantren have a mere 7 percent of the total santri population, which indicates an almost perfectly competitive religious environment. Similarly, the ratio of the seven regencies with more than 1 group per million Cap- ita is only slightly higher (8.7 percent). In contrast, the three regencies without active radical groups, i.e., Indramayu, Karawang, and Subang, have much less competitive religious markets (concentration ratio: 27.9 percent).

Second, most religious leaders lack strong ties to other clerics in West Java. In the absence of these ties, their position as religious leader is more precarious. Informal ties based on marriage and kinship were historically fragmented and more heterogeneous in West Java. While kyai married their offspring almost exclusively to sons or daughters of kyai in Central and East Java,

38 Direktorat Jenderal Pendidikan Islam, Statistik Pendidikan Islam: Tahun Pelajaran 2014-2015 (Jakar- ta: Kementerian Agama RI, 2016): 181.

39 Interview with Dr Nurchoman, Lecturer at UIN Bandung, Bandung, West Java, April 2014; Interview with Pak Hasyim Adnan, Vice-Secretary of DPW-PKB West Java, Bandung, West Java, May 2016.

170

West Javanese kyai did not hesitate to marry aristocratic, political, and economic elites more often. Formal ties too are weaker in West Java. The political cleavage that emerged out of the late colonial and early post-colonial period tended to fragment clerics, rather than opposed them as a group of other competitors in the religious market. Throughout the years, conflicts have alternately opposed official ulama to independent kyai, clerics with aristocratic blood to those without, “red” to “green” clerics, ulama affiliated to the NU party to those affiliated to the Mas- jumi party, and pro-DI to anti-DI kyai. The disbandment of Masjumi in 1960 and patterns of co- optation through the creation of Majelis Ulama, GUPPI, and BKSPPI have all contributed to hinder the development of strong ties among clerics.

Because they do not have strong ties with other clerics, most religious leaders have a more precarious basis of religious authority and fewer opportunities to expand and consolidate their influence. In Central and East Java, many religious leaders derive some of their religious authority from their “genealogical” filiation to a core pesantren. A pesantren established by the offspring (“cucu kyai”) or the former santri (“anak buah”) of a famous kyai has more rapid access to a status of authority than one that is not. As Anwar Pribadi puts it,

hereditary factors to kyai-ship [are important,] the status of a kyai is ultimately legitimized by such factors. … Kyai who do not have a well-known kyai lineage, do have possibili- ties, albeit rarely, to achieve prominence for certain reasons, including ties with important local leaders, the affiliation with the NU, the reputation of their pesantren, and their style of dakwah (preaching).40

In other words, lower-level pesantren and lower-status clerics gain some of their religious authority from their filiation with higher-level pesantren and higher-status kyai. This mechanism prevents outsiders from gaining access to the religious market too easily in East Java. “Kyai who do not belong to a transmission chain are generally not accepted.”41 In addition to “genealogical” ties, religious leaders use networks to conduct “silaturahmi” sessions in which they visit other pesantren to talk with their kyai or invite some guests to their pesantren for more or less formal gathering meant to strengthen their mutual bonds. Being asked to go to another kyai’s

40 My emphasis: Yanwar Pribadi, Islam, State and Society in Indonesia: Local Politics in Madura (Lon- don: Routledge, 2018): 220.

41 Abd Latif Bustami, Kiai Politik, Politik Kiai (Malang: Pustaka Bayan, 2009): 91.

171 pesantren or pengajian generates exposure and recognition from current and new followers.42 It also creates real material opportunities since a guest kyai may receive some money for holding a pengajian.

Religious entrepreneurs are “are on their own”43 in West Java. Cleric networks are fragmented, and genealogical filiation between one pesantren and another do not generate much authority.44 Without strong ties, religious entrepreneurs have fewer opportunities to expand their influence as they are less frequently invited to participate in other clerics’ pesantren, pengajian, or to give the Friday sermon for instance. 45 In the absence of ties, religious entrepreneurs have to achieve a status of religious authority status by themselves.

Third, Muslim mass organizations and subsidiary organizations are less consolidated, institutionalized, and extensive in West Java. Without strong mass organizations, religious leaders have less institutionalized ties to followers and other clerics. NU is much “thinner” in West Java than East Java.46 Many districts and sub-districts do not yet have a branch organization, and “caderization” activities are infrequent.47 Pesantren, even when they have an NU culture, do not participate in NU activities or get involved “only sporadically, without deeper and more long- standing involvement.”48 Like NU, Muhammadiyah too is “thinner” in West Java; it is much

42 Interview with KH Agus Muhammad, Kyai sepuh and kyai pesantren Nahdlatul Ulama, Ciamis, June 2014

43 Interview with Pak Hasyim Adnan, Vice-Secretary of DPW-PKB West Java, Bandung, West Java, May 2016; Interview with H. Syaifudin Zuhri, Secretary of the PKB faction at DPRD-West Java, Ban- dung, West Java, May 2016.

44 Interview with Pak Hasyim Adnan, Vice-Secretary of DPW-PKB West Java, Bandung, West Java, May 2016

45 Interview with Drs. H. Muchtarum M.M., Chairman of the Majelis Pembina Daerah PMII-West Java Bandung, West Java, May 2016 46 Irfan L. Sarhindi agrees with this observation. See “NU Kultural, FPI Struktural,” Detik News, 10 No- vember 2017.

47 Idem; see also Syaiful Huda Syafi’iy, Membuka Jalan Menuju Konsolidasi Politik: Pemaknaan dan Konsolidasi PKB Jawa Barat yang Belum Tuntas (Jakarta: Incrës, 2005).

48 Interview with H. Syaifudin Zuhri, Secretary of the PKB faction at DPRD-West Java, Bandung, West Java, May 2016.

172 less consolidated and its networks and set of subsidiary organizations far less extensive.49 A crucial institutional vacuum exists in the region. Historically, the lack of competition between traditionalists and modernists, and between clerics and communists, failed to trigger a process of horizontal and vertical integration among clerics in the region. The dismantling of Masjumi destroyed ulama’s remaining networks and subsidiary organizations. While the majority of Mus- lims have a religious culture compatible with the Nahdlatul Ulama, few have joined the organization, and most have remained either autonomous or unaffiliated with any organization. These clerics are perfect candidates for leading radical groups such as the FPI.

Subsidiary organizations such as student's, youth's, and women’s organizations connected to Nahdlatul Ulama also lack institutionalization and consolidation. In West Java, NU activists often describe the organization and its subsidiary organizations as "empty shells," "containers" where people come in and out, and they have little loyalty.50 Subsidiary organizations are responsible for much of the caderization process. PMII, a student organization, and Ansor, a youth organization do most of it in NU. While they hope to instill a common identity among members of the organization, they also create a structured process through which future leaders must go through before gaining leadership positions.51 Future and current religious leaders must first gain recognition within these organizations before climbing to upper-level positions in the organizations. Yet NU student unions are strong in only a few schools and far from dominant in the region’s major universities.52 In the absence of a strong caderization process, “people who join NU in West Java often emerge suddenly; they haven’t been seen before!” NU has thus failed to provide much help to current and aspiring clerics in their attempt to secure followers. It has not been successful either at facilitating social promotion. For instance, few NU leaders and

49 Interview with Pak Hasyim Adnan, Vice-Secretary of DPW-PKB West Java, Bandung, West Java, May 2016.

50 Interview with H. Ahmad Dasuki, Secretary of Lakpesdam NU-Jawa Barat, Bandung, West Java, 19 May 2016.

51 Interview with Jalaludin, Former chairman of PMII Bandung Regency (2012-2013), Bandung, West Java, May 2016.

52 Interview with Wawan Gunawan, Chairman of Jakatarub, former chairman of PMII Bandung Regency, Bandung, West Java, June 2014.

173 clerics were elected in the government in West Java since the democratic transition53 and belonging to NU hardly facilitates access to government jobs.54

If religious entrepreneurs join radical groups like the FPI, it is because Muslim mass organizations have little to offer in the region. In West Java, religious entrepreneurs are on their own: they, alone, must secure recognition from followers and other clerics. They have, as a result, to be particularly active if they are to gain authority and leverage that authority into social and political influence. They are perfect candidates for leading radical groups.

2.1. Radical Groups and Religious Authority

Radical groups provide low-status clerics with unique opportunities: they offer them with an organizational identity, help increase their follower bases, and nurture their inter-cleric networks. Using the public space, the media, targeting issues of morality and religious minorities are effective strategies to rapidly gain ascendency and recognition in a crowded and competitive environment such as West Java.

Belonging to a group like the FPI eases the process of gaining recognition as a religious leader. In mass media, groups like the FPI are known for their heavy-handed attacks on places of “vice” and religious minorities’ house of worship. But much of these organizations’ daily activities involve some form preaching. According to Abdul Kahar, by becoming an FPI activist, “I did not have to wait long to become a person who has legitimacy as an Islamic figure […] everyone knows that I am a person who is fighting for Islam and now I already have a mass of followers like that of a kyai”.55 Kahar is only of the many religious entrepreneurs who use FPI to build his

53 Interview with H. Syaifudin Zuhri, Secretary of the PKB faction at DPRD-West Java, Bandung, West Java, May 2016.

54 For example, members of NU student organizations encounter a lot of difficulty in getting teaching positions at the State Islamic University in Bandung. Interview with Wawan Gunawan, Lecturer at UIN Bandung, Bandung, West Java, June 2014

55 Interview with a student activist of FPI at IAIN Ciputat, cited by Al-Zastrouw Ng, Gerakan Islam Simbolik: Politik Kepentingan FPI (Jakarta: LKIS Pelangi Aksara, 2006): 122.

174 credential as a religious leader. Beyond official members, these organizations have a more or less loyal “Jemaah” – a group of followers – who are not involved in protest activities or violence. Most of these groups hold weekly religious sermons (pengajian) and its leaders partake in frequent Majelis Taklim (gatherings for religious learning and performance). These sessions are crucial for the construction and safeguarding of its leaders’ legitimacy and claim to authority.56 In sum, gaining a “jemaah” the main goal of many FPI leaders.57 With followers, or “anak buah,” one increases its ascendency and centrality in many clientelistic networks.

Groups like FPI help religious entrepreneurs achieve some form of recognition, which they can leverage into access and influence. Vigilante organizations generally share rank-and-file members, but they each have their own leadership structure. In the FPI, the provincial level board in West Java has no less than 30 different positions, each manned by a different person. It has a consultative (syura) and an executive (tanfidzia) board with positions such as imam, chairman, secretary, treasurer, and a number of vice-chairmen in divisions such as education, morality, and jihad, as well as heads for the legal, intelligence, monitoring of immorality, and charity bodies. At the regency and district levels, the organization is a bit simpler, but still involves a lot of people. The regency of Bekasi has 11 district branches, each with an executive committee composed of seven to eight people. In total, approximately 80 religious entrepreneurs find a room within FPI in Bekasi alone. In total, West Java has around a hundred branch offices and hundreds of low-ranking officials. Among them, we find hajis, ustadz, Habibs, and kyai. How do they use their affiliation to FPI?

Membership in FPI is a means to promote oneself in a competitive environment. The chairman of FPI Central, Habib Rizieq, holds a weekly pengajian at Ishlah mosque in Petamburan, his

56 Chaider S. Bamualim, “Islamic Militancy and Resentment Against Hadhramis in Post-Suharto Indone- sia: A Case Study of Habib Rizieq Syihab and his Islamic Defenders Front,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, 31, no.2 (2011): 271.

57 The importance of having followers (“memiliki massa”) came back as a motivation in a number of interviews with vigilante organizations’ leaders. For instance, among others, Interview with Muzakir, Chairman of the FPI-Surakarta, Surakarta, Central Java, February 2014; Edi Lukita and Yusuf Suparno, Chairmen of Laskar Umat Islam-Solo, Surakarta, February 2014; Ustadz Agussalim Syam, Chairman of FPI-Makasar, Makasar, Sulawesi Selatan, March 2014; Khoirul, Chairman of FPI in Solo, Surakarta, Central Java, February 2014.

175 kampong (neighborhood). That weekly pengajian attracts about 2,500 people a week. Most are from his neighborhood, but some come from other parts of the city. In addition to that pengajian, Rizieq and other key leaders of the FPI can conduct more than 15 additional pengajian per month across the city’s various mosques.58 Some months, Rizieq and others go on “dakwah safaris” and tour some region, preaching where they get invited. Some of these safaris attract media attention and can draw thousands of people at the event. Rizieq also conducts protests, which attract anywhere from a few thousand to a million people.59 Increasingly, the FPI central leadership tries to avoid violent demonstrations as to attract more favourable news cov- erage.60 Leading a demonstration increase exposure, as local news always cover these events.

In West Java, many religious entrepreneurs use radical groups such as the FPI in a similar way. They use radical groups to “build networks with other kyai and with more influential figures”; to increase their popularity and follower base; and, “to expand their opportunities to conduct pengajian, as they draw revenues from such activities.”61 They are not involved in a national- level religious competition, like Habib Rizieq, but take part in similar competitions at a more local level. For instance, Sofyan Anshori, the current leader of FPI in Tasikmalaya, is the care- taker of a small pesantren named Al- Muhtarom. In the broader religious market, people like Sofyan Anshori occupy a very low position. As a leader of that small pesantren, opportunities are limited. Although he has an NU culture, he is not part of any NU institutions. He is not courted by any politicians or by other clerics to conduct pengajian or preach in their mosque. His prospects for leveraging his religious authority into influence and power are close to null. Nahdlatul Ulama or Muhammadiyah do not offer much prospect in the region. After becoming

58 Interview with Habib Mushin alatas, Member of the Dewan Pembina FPI (National), Bogor, West Java, February 2014.

59 For instance, Habib Rizieq claims that the anti-Ahok demonstrations brought a total of 7.5 million demonstrators in Jakarta. While grossly exaggerated, this number shows the capacity of a leader such as Rizieq to bring a lot of people together to protest. See Herianto Batubara, “Habib Rizieq Sebut Massa Aksi 2 Desember 7,5 Juta Orang, Begini Analisisnya,” Detik News, 5 December 2016.

60 Interview with Ustadz Maman, Commander-in-Chief of FPI-National, Petamburan, Jakarta, December 2013.

61 Interview with Ajengan Fauz Noor, Son of an influential kyai in Tasikmalaya, Pesantren teacher and university lecturer, Bandung, West Java, May 2014.

176 chairman of FPI in Tasikmalaya, however, Anshori started giving weekly sermons, as well as started receiving invitation to conduct monthly pengajian in each of the regency’s district. In addition to a minimum of 10 pengajian per month, Anshori also used these occasions to befriend (bersilaturahmi) ulama and kyai in each of the districts. Each time he conducts a demonstration, he says he consults important kyai in Tasikmalaya to get their blessing: “the young are at the front, and the kyai at the back, and we always work together.”62 Such opportunities to work with more established kyai would typically escape someone with Anshori’s stature, but not in Tasikmalaya. Within a few months, Anshori became a well-known Islamic leader in the Tasikmalaya region.63 For Anshori, “now that I am the chairman of FPI, I can knock on the bupati or the chief of police’s door at any time of the day.”64 Anshori is only one of many religious leaders that have gained ascendency through FPI, GARIS, or other similar organizations.

The sheer number of low-status clerics like Anshori has contributed to the rapid proliferation of vigilante groups in West Java. This proliferation started in the early 2000s when the FPI opened branch offices in the regencies of Bogor, Cianjur, Bandung, Garut, and Tasikmalaya.65 Today, the FPI has a branch in almost every regency of the province (called Dewan Pimpinan Wilayah) in addition to its provincial office (called Dewan Pimpinan Daerah). FPI’s most active regency branches are in the Priangan – especially in Bandung, Ciamis, Cianjur, and Tasikmalaya – where religious markets are the most crowded and competitive. These regencies with active FPI branches have smaller pesantren (105 santri per pesantren v. 114 in the province) and more crowded religious market than the provincial average (2.9 pesantren per 10,000 v. 1.8 in the province).

62 Interview with Muhammad Sofyan Ansori, Chairman of FPI-Tasikmalaya (since c. 2013), Tasikma- laya, West Java, May 2014

63 Idem.

64 Interview with Asef Syaffulah, Chairman of FPI-DPC Tarogong Kidul, Garut, West Java, May 2014.; Interview with Momon, Panglima-FPI, Garut, West Java, May 2014.

65 Interview with KH Ijad Noorjaman the former chairman of FPI-Tasikmalaya (1998-2002), Tasikma- laya, West Java, May 2014.

177

West Java has so many entrepreneurs that they opened district branches (called Dewan Pimpi- nan Cabang) in most of the province’s regencies. District branches do not exist in most other provinces of the country. In its activities, much of the FPI’s manpower comes from this lowest rung of the organization. District-level organizations are the least institutionalized of all, and their configuration varies from one regency to the other. In Bandung, for instance, each district has its own organization,66 whereas in Tasikmalaya, districts are grouped into three regions (South, North, and West Tasikmalaya).67

Entrepreneurs did not create branches of the FPI at the regency and district levels from nothing. The province already had a wide array of local groups in the early 2000s. In Garut, for instance, when FPI officially established a branch in 2005, three small groups with similar goals already existed: Laskar Hisbullah, Komite Jihad (Komji) and Hipunan Santri Anti-Maksiat (Hisam).68 Some of these small organizations were deactivated with the coming of the FPI, while others grew into larger local vigilante organization. In Cianjur, in addition to the FPI, an organization called Gerakan Reformis Islam69 (Islamic Reformist Movement, GARIS) was founded in 1998. It has since then become a very successful radical organization and has opened branch offices in neighbouring regencies such as Bandung, Bogor, and Sukabumi.

After 2005, with the adoption of fatwas and regulation targeting religious minorities, similar organizations proliferated in each district of West Java. Seasoned hard-line preachers lead some of these groups. However, local religious figures lead most of them. Before leading a radical organization, they were often unknown to the public.70 Ustadz Andi Mulya, a local mosque

66 Anonymous interview with a rank-and-file member of FPI in Cicalengka, Bandung, West Java, April 2014.

67 Interview with Muhammad Sofyan Ansori, Chairman of FPI-Tasikmalaya, Tasikmalaya, West Java, May 2014

68 Interview with Asef Syaffulah, Chairman of FPI-DPC Tarogong Kidul, Garut, West Java, May 2014.

69 The founder of GARIS, Chep Hernawan, is a businessman in Cianjur and a former activist of Dewan Dakwah Islamiyah Indonesia (DDII), a reformist organization in Bandung, and of the Gerakan Pemuda Islam (Islamic Youth Movement, GPI).

70 For instance, the founded the Islamic Fraternity Forum (Forum Ukhuwah Islamiyah, FUI), Salim Bajri, was a preacher in Cirebon in the 1980s and 1990s. Bajri was often invited to preach at the Majelis Taklim

178 preacher, lead the Gerakan Anti-Pemurtadan dan Aliran Sesat (Anti-Apostasy and Heretical Sect Movement, GAPAS) and has also created the People’s Alliance for Forbidding the Wrong (Aliansi Masyarakat Nahi Mungkar, Al Manar) in 2005. In Bandung, Heddi Muhammad has a similar background, but now leads the Investigation Team of Deviant Beliefs (Tim Investigasi Aliran Sesat, TIAS) and a militia called the Anti-Apostasy Front (Barisan Anti Pemurtadan, BAP), which target “unauthorized churches” often violently.71 Among the other groups that are the most important are the Bekasi Anti-Apostasy Front (Front Anti-Permurtadan Bekasi, FAPB) led by ustadz Abu Al-‘Izz; the Muslim Movement for the Rescue of Aqidah-Bogor (Gerakan Muslim Penyelamat Aqidah-Bogor, GEMPA) led by ustadz Al Haidar; the Himpunan Santri Bersatu (Collective for the Unity of Santri, Hisba); the Forum Komunikasi Muslim Indonesia (Indonesian Muslim Communication Forum, Forkami); the Forum Aktivis Syariat Islam (Islam- ic Sharia Activists Forum, FAKSarekat Islam); Aliansi Umat Islam (Islamic Community Alli- ance, Alumi); the Gerakan Anti-Maksiat (Movement against Immorality, GAM); and, the Fo- rum Anti-Gerakan Permurtadan (Anti-Apostasy Movement Forum, FAKTA). Although some of these groupings are purely ad hoc, often established for a single demonstration, others have lasted much longer and have held numerous demonstrations or attacks against religious minorities in Bandung, Garut, Cianjur, Kuningan, and Sukabumi.

Vigilante organizations do not provide much opportunity for recognition without constant mobilization. Once constituted, radical groups have to mobilize and renew their pressure on local governments continually. In Bandung, for instance, the Investigation Team of Deviant Beliefs was extremely active documenting and researching deviancy after its creation in 2005. It identified 250 deviant sects throughout Indonesia, of which West Java contained 50.72 Ten years later,

Hidayatullah, a religious group with a distinct anti-government stance and thousands of members. In the post-transition period, the Majelis Taklim Hidayatullah lost some of its appeal, as the religious market became increasingly competitive. Rapidly, Salim Bajri turned to Islamic militancy. Similarly, KH Athian Ali founded the Forum of the Community’s Islamic Scholars (Forum Ulama Umat Islam, FUUI) in 2005 along with 62 other ulama from various Islamic organizations. See Hasani and Naipospos, The Faces of Islam ‘Defenders’: 74.

71 ICG, Indonesia: Implications of the Ahmadiyah Decree, Briefing 78/Asia, (Jakarta: International Crisis Group, 2008).

72 Ardi Januar, “Sesat Karena Menyimpang dari Prinsip Islam,” Okezone News, 5 November 2007.

179 it identified 144 deviant sects in West Java alone. KH Athian Ali of the Forum of the Communi- ty’s Islamic Scholars identified no fewer than 90 places of apostasy in Bandung.73 This activism led to a rapid upsurge of protests, demonstrations, and attacks on minorities and their houses of prayer in the second half of the 2000s.

Through mobilization, low-level religious leaders can gain access to state patronage. For instance, with a concentration ratio of 3.1 percent, Cianjur has the most competitive religious market of all West Java. The challenge for religious entrepreneurs in such an environment is to gain recognition as a religious authority worthy of being courted by politicians. In return, the problem for politicians is to identify network nodes. After being selected as bupati74, Swastono, worked with Islamic leaders and radical groups to prepare a white paper titled “The Gate to Marhamah,” an acronym for the “The Movement for the Development of a Noble Society” (Gerbang Marhamah, Gerakan Pembangunan Masyarakat Berakhlakul Karimah).75 In a meeting on March 26, 2001, 36 local groups pledged allegiance to Swastomo’s Marhamah agenda. Among the signatories, unknown groups such as the Ikatan Muslim Anti Maksiat, Majelis Mus- lim Bersatu, Gerakan Anti Maksyat, Front Hizbulloh, and GARIS signed alongside long- established organization such as NU, Muhammadiyah, ICMI, and MUI. In May, the bupati established the government-funded Institute for the Assessment and Propagation of Islam (Lem- baga Pengkajian dan Pengembangan Islam, LPPI), which employed various Muslim figures in Cianjur, such as KH Muhammad Kusoy (Secretary of MUI) and H. Chep Hernawan (Garis). LPPI also involve many low-level ustadz and kyai, who gain an influential place in the district only thanks to their involvement in small radical organizations, such as KH Umar Burhanudin, Ustadz Dani Saefurrahma (Ikatan Muslim Anti-Maksiat), Ustadz Aceng Ubaidillah (Himpunan santri Bersatu), Ustadz Awaludin Asgar (Gabungan Mubaligh Muda Cianjur) who later ran for the leadership of FPI, and Arif Gumelar Ar-RAsyid (Council of Young Preachers of Cianjur, Gabungan Mubaligh Muda Cianjur (GMMC)). The government also formed another govern-

73 Anonymous, “Terdapat 90 Titik Pemurtadan di Bandung,” Republika, 29 November 2010.

74 In 1999, bupati were chosen by the parliament rather than through popular vote.

75 For an extensive analysis of the politics surrounding the Gerbang Marhamah, see Buehler, The Politics of Sharia Law: 161-5.

180 ment body the Foundation for the Empowerment of the Marhamah Community (YASPUMAH, Yayasan Pemberdayaan Ummat Marhamah ) and placed it under the authority of MUI.76 The foundation was a formidable vehicle to disburse patronage funds to local kyai through “development funds” to mosques, religious facilities, Islamic boarding schools, and majelis taklim.77 For clerics who have little other opportunities to gain access to government funds, participation in LPPI and the Gerbang Marhamah was an extraordinary opportunity. These low-level entrepreneurs were able to participate in this body only as a result of their involvement in a radical group.

Radical groups’ proliferation in the 2000s is inseparable from competition for leadership and recognition between local Muslim leaders. Regencies with the largest number of radical groups are also those with the most levelled and competitive religious markets in all Java.

In Garut, where the concentration ratio is 4.3 percent, competition is intense. In the early part of the 2000s, this competition opposed, among others, the Coordinating Body for the Unity of the Umma (Badan Koordinasi Persatuan Umat Islam, BKPUI), under the leadership of KH Abdul Halim a cleric with ties to NU, to other ulama, including some leaders from the FPI and other new vigilante groups. Clerics in the BKPUI formed the Imamah Council in 2001 to support the bupati, Drs H. Dede Satibi, and consolidate their political influence. As long as they enjoyed a certain position of dominance, they did not push for the adoption of Sharia bylaws in Garut. Locally, Nahdaltul Ulama was against the implementation of Sharia bylaws in the regency.78

The second group of leaders were not part of the BKPUI and the Imamah Council and was formed by clerics such as KH Endang Yusuf, then leader of FPI in Garut, KH Qudsi Nawawi (Pesantren Suci), a former activist from Nahdlatul Ulama, and KH Aan Mustofa and KH Saeful Tamam (Pesantren Cipanas).79 Together, they created the Committee for the Enforcement of

76 Ibid: 162.

77 Ibid: 162.

78 Interview with Asef Maher, Gusdurian Activist, Garut, West Java, May 2013.

79 Ismail Hasani and Bonar Tigor Naipospos, The Faces of Islam “Defenders” (Jakarta: Pustaka Masyarakat Setara): 92-3.

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Islamic Sharia (Komite Penegakan Syari’at Islam, KPSI) and started a campaign of mobilization and protest for the regency-wide implementation of Sharia.80 Some, like kyai Qudsi, were also involved, in the meantime, in Movement Against Ahmadiyah (Gerakan Anti-Ahamdiyah, GE- RAM), a local vigilante group. In 2002, this strategy worked when, along with members of the government, Kyai Qudsi and Kyai Endang Yusuf established the Institute for the Study, En- forcement, and Application of Islamic Sharia (LP3SyI). At its inception, the LP3SyI involved 27 ulama, 20 Muslim activists, 18 bureaucrats from the government and numerous other people.81 Given his position as chairman of the Imamah Council and the MUI, members chose KH Abdul Halim as the chairman of the LP3SyI, but the organization remained mostly stagnant under his leadership; KH Endang Yusuf replaced him a few years later.82 Within a few years only, KH Endang Yusuf moved from the periphery of the religious market in Garut to its centre. In the early 2000s, Yusuf – a preacher in Garut – was not part of the BKPUI and the Imamah Council, two coalitions of kyai, yet through his involvement in FPI, then in KPSI, in the LP3SyI, and later, as we will discuss below, in the National Alliance Against Siyah (ANNAS).

In Tasikmalaya, where the concentration ratio is 8.3 percent, competition for authority involved among others a group of activist kyai called “kyai bendo” The word “Bendo” refers to the type of Arabic-style hat these kyai wear, hats that are reminiscent of those worn by the “Wali Son- go,” the nine Muslim saints who spread Islam to Java. Kyai Bendo includes figures such as KH Acep Mubarok (Ponpes Darul Anba), KH Miftah Fauzi (Ponpes Tajur), KH Aman Baden, KH Asep Mausul, KH Nuril Mubin (Ponpes An Najiah), KH Jenjen (Ponpes Al-Irsyadiyah), and KH Mukmin.83 People came to know most of these kyai in the aftermath of the 1996 anti- Christian riots in Tasikmalaya. Although not directly involved in the events, they quickly built popularity by becoming staunch critics of Suharto. Most of the kyai bendo share a Nahdlatul Ulama cultural background but are not part of the NU structure.

80 Interview with Rofiq Azhar, Co-founder of KPSI, Garut, West Java, May 2014.

81 Ibid: 32.

82 Interview with Asef Maher, Gusdurian Activist, Garut, West Java, May 2014.

83 Ma’Mun Murod Al-Barbasy, “Islam dan Negara: Perdebatan dalam Pembuatan Perda Syariat di Kota Tasikmalaya,” Afkaruna: Indonesian Interdisciplinary Journal of Islamic Studies, 12, no.2 (2016).

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In the post-transition era, kyai Bendo have used the full power of vigilante groups to increase their ascendency over the other local kyai. In the early days of the reformasi, when the chairman of FPI Habib Rizieq came to Tasikmalaya for a series of pengajian, kyai bendo seized the opportunity to be seen with him. In 1998, kyai bendo and other kyai from various Islamic organizations met and established the Forum Silaturahmi Umat Islam Tasikmalaya. That forum set up two vigilante organizations. KH Jenjen and KH Asep Mausul founded the Taliban Militia (Las- kar Taliban) in 1999, which rapidly became the most assertive militia in the city.84 It recruited most of its members from among the santri of the Pesantren Miftahul Huda and Pesantren Nurul Jaza in South Tasikmalaya.85 Along with two other groups, the Santri Regiment (Resimen Santri RESAN), and the Tasikmalaya Solidarity of the Muslim (in English, TSM), Laskar Taliban started to raid dens of prostitution, gambling, and alcohol consumption. In a short period, the Taliban persuaded the district governor to issue a host of edicts, from barring vehicular traffic near the central mosque during Friday prayers to requiring elementary and high school students to receive a certificate of proficiency in Islamic studies.86 The organization has offshoots outside the city, in the regency of Tasikmalaya. Led by a local ustadz, Ustadz Rahanudin, Laskar Tali- ban in the regency focuses on preaching rather than sweeping.87

In addition to the Taliban, kyai bendo also supported the formation of a local Laskar Pembela Islam led by KH Ijad Noorjaman. Initially entirely independent, the FPI from Jakarta eventually swallowed it. Around 2003, competition among religious leaders was fierce. Local kyai over- threw KH Noorjaman from the leadership of LPI and promoted Asep Sofyan instead.88 From then on, FPI in Tasikmalaya became more aggressive and, along with the Taliban, started raid- ing places of vice more frequently. In the meantime, a group low-level kyai formed the Associa-

84 Rajiv Chandrasekaran, “Indonesian-Style Taliban Fights for Islamic Law: Radical Groups Challenge Secular Traditions,” The Washington Post, 4 mai 2002: A01.

85 Hasani and Naipospos, The Faces of Islam ‘Defenders’: 168-9.

86 Rajiv Chandrasekaran, “Indonesian-Style Taliban”: A01.

87 Anonymous, “Eksistensi Brigade Taliban di Kab. Tasikmalaya Sebatas Dakwah Islamiyyah, Nuansa Post, 1 January 2012.

88 Interview with KH Ijad Noorjaman, Kyai pesantren, former chairman of FPI-Tasikmalaya (c. 1998- 2001), Tasikmalaya, West Java, May 2014.

183 tion of Young Kyai (Ikatan Kyai Muda), headed by Ustadz Entis Abdul Azis, a group that then frequently participated in local demonstrations and focused on recruiting mosque activists.89 Within a few years, Kyai Bendo went from preachers to leaders of radical organizations and, some, to influential clerics in Tasikmalaya. For instance, KH Acep Mubarok became chairman of MUI and the interfaith forum in Tasikmalaya (FKUB).90 These entrepreneurs did not achieve religious authority and influence through mass organization, but by mobilizing radical groups.

3. Opposition to Radical Groups

Radical groups have encountered little to no resistance in West Java. In the absence of strong networks among clerics, it was impossible to coordinate and impose barriers of entry in the religious market. Few religious leaders saw the emergence of the FPI as a threat, and many saw it as an opportunity. Although many clerics opposed radical groups in West Java, few dared to take a public position for fear of being isolated.

Radical groups grew mostly undisturbed in West Java until 2008. In June 2008, however, in the aftermath of what came to be called the “Monas Incident,” radical groups such as the FPI experienced their most important setback. On 1 June 2008, five hundred members of the FPI attacked a thousand members of the National Alliance for Freedom of Religion and Belief (Alian- si Kebangsaan untuk Kebebasan Beragama dan Berkeyakinan/AKKBB) during a demonstration they held at Monas in support for pluralism. FPI accused them of defending Ahmadiyah, liberalism, and secularism. The attack injured more than 90 people, 14 critically. In the days following the event, 1,500 police officers were deployed at the FPI headquarters in Jakarta and the police arrested 57 FPI members.91

89 Interview with Ajengan Fauz Noor, Son of an influential kyai, Pesantren teacher and university lecturer, Tasikmalaya, May 2014

90 Fajar Sukma, “MUI Kota Tasik Himbau Tidak Ada Sweeping Selama Ramadan” Ayo Tasik, May 24, 2017.

91 Anonymous, “Habib Rizieq dan 57 Anggota FPI Jadi Tersangka” Liputan6, 5 June 2008.

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In West Java, mobilization against radical groups, especially the FPI, has failed to put sufficient pressure on the organization to disband. To begin with, other radical groups such as Garis support FPI.92 More importantly, however, mainstream mass organizations have often sent mixed signals on the legitimacy of radical groups. Some people among the provincial branches of Mu- hammadiyah and Persis have expressed public support for the FPI.93 The same is also true of NU. Some regency branches of the Nahdlatul Ulama have publicly declared support for the FPI. In this context, it is next to impossible for some religious leaders to oppose the FPI publicly: “the risk of being isolated and singled out is enough for many kyai, who would otherwise oppose the FPI, to remain silent.”94 Structural factors explain why “moderate” religious leaders have trouble opposing groups such as the FPI in West Java. A religious leader needs strong networks and stable access to followers to take the risk of being isolated and singled out publicly.95 A secure cleric is more likely to take that risk than a cleric with a small pesantren in a crowded and competitive religious environment.

In the absence of institutionalized networks and organizations, no leader has had sufficient power to force FPI into submission. It is almost impossible for NU to police radical groups. As KH Abdul Mujib puts it, “NU in West Java is different from other regions […], it is unable to ‘filter’ radical movements.”96 The Monas incident led to a short-lived yet widespread countermovement, requesting the FPI to demobilize and disband. In some regions, the tensions led to open clashes. In West Java, however, protests against the FPI remained relatively mild in comparison. In the hours following the incident, some kyai and ulama from Cirebon met at the Pesantren

92 Ahmad Fikri, “Ormas Islam Bandung Dukung FPI” Tempo, 17 February 2012.

93 Muttaqin, “PW Muhammadiyah Jabar Tegaskan Dukung FPI Kecam GMBI” Arrahmah, 14 January 2017; Syarif Hidayat, “Ketua PW Pemuda Persis Jabar Dukung FPI dan Muslim Jakarta Lengserkan Ahok,” VOA, 5 December 2014.

94 Interview with Wawan Gunawan, Chairman of Jakatarub, former Chairman of PMII-Bandung, June 2014; Interview with KH Imam Ghozali Said, Religious Harmony Forum-Surabaya, Surabaya, East Java, 20 May 2016.

95 Idem.

96 Quoted in Anonymous, “Radikalisme Tantangan Terberat NU di Jawa Barat” Kabar Priangan, 11 October 2016.

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Kempek to condemn the violence. Following the meeting, however, some NU youth went and destroyed the FPI signboard, which led to some skirmishes between the two groups.97 The ten- sion was strong enough for the police to guard the FPI office during the following days, but not enough for the FPI to disband.98 Threats to forcefully disband the FPI also came from Bogor, where Habib Saggaf said that he was ready to mobilize a thousand santri to do so99; and from Majalengka and Bandung, where hundreds of people from various Islamic groups were ready to mobilize.100

The counter-movement in West Java was not able to shut down any of the FPI branches in the province. As soon as the pressure rescinded, FPI was back in action. A few years later, a clash between local residents and the FPI in Palangkaraya101 led to renewed calls for the disbandment of the vigilante organization. In West Java, the FPI received the public support of a pesantren organization called the Indonesian Cooperation Body of Islamic Boarding Schools (Badan Ker- jasama Pondok Pesantren se-Indonesia, BKSPPI).102 BKSPPI is a very loose network of approximately 2,000 pesantren mostly located in West Java. In sum, the opposition of moderate and tolerant kyai has been timid, at best. Vigilante groups were able to push moderates into silence. Radical groups sometimes forced NU and other moderate organizations to support Sharia bylaws and restriction on religious freedoms because “as religious organizations, they do not want

97 Anonymous, “Warga NU dan FPI Nyaris Bentrok di Cirebon,” Kompas, 1 June 2008.

98 Anonymous, “Diserbu Santri NU, Markas FPI di Cirebon Dijaga Ketat Polisi,” Detik News, 2 June 2008.

99 Anonymous, “Ribuan Santri di Bogor Siap Serbu FPI,” NU Online, 3 June 2008. 100 Taofik Hidayat, “Jagoan Banser NU Tantang Habib Rizieq Duel,” Okezone, 3 June 2008.

101 Faturahman, “Tolak FPI, Warga Dayak Kumpul di Bundaran Palangkaraya,” Tribun News, 11 Febru- ary 2012.

102 See letter 03/BKSPPI/II/2012, 15 Februari 2012.

186 to be labelled as less religious.”103 If they are to leave the stage to vigilante groups, they feared “losing the moment.”104

4. Conclusion

The chapter tried to understand why West Java is more vulnerable to radical mobilization than other provinces and what accounts for the proliferation of radical groups observed. The chapter argued that the province’s uniquely weak religious institutions and competitive religious markets have generated incentives for religious entrepreneurs to join radical organization. The average religious leader in West Java has a small religious school, fragmented networks, and evolve in a crowded and competitive religious environment. West Java is most crowded province with religious schools, madrasah, and informal Islamic seminars (majelis taklim). Eact religious entrepreneurs thus fight for a smaller share of the followers pie. Indeed, the regencies with the most significant number of radical groups per capita are among the most competitive of all Java. The chapter argued that radical groups provide low-status clerics with unique opportunities: they offer them with an organizational identity, help increase their follower bases, and nurture their inter-cleric networks. Using the public space, the media, targeting issues of morality and religious minorities have become effective strategies to gain ascendency and recognition in West Java’s crowded and competitive environment.

103 Erwin Nur Rif’ah, Women Under Sharia: Case Studies in the Implementation of Sharia-Influenced Regional Regulations (Perda Sharia) in Indonesia, Unpublished Ph.D. dissertation (Victoria: Victoria University, 2014): 89.

104 Idem.

187

Chapter 7 Radical Mobilization in East Java

The province of East Java has not experienced the proliferation of radical groups and violent mobilization observed in West Java. Until today, few radical groups have been active in the region. Attacks against places of sin or people selling food and alcohol during the Ramadan are uncommon and, even more usual, are rallies in front of Christian churches, Ahmadiyah mosques or other religious minorities’ houses worship. Since 2008, East Java accounts for a mere 9.6 percent of all incidents of violence against minorities by radical groups and the province hosts only 16.5 percent of all the radical groups active in Java. In contrast to West Java, where radical groups have mushroomed after 2005, East Java seems to lack radical religious entrepreneurs.

The lack of religious entrepreneurs in the region is not related to a lack of radical ideas or tolerance in the region. Many religious leaders have actively sought to curtail the rights of religious minorities, giving radical groups both religious (fatwa) and legal legitimation (regulations and laws). While such legitimation has emboldened radical groups in West Java, they have remained less active and have not proliferated in East Java. Why is East Java less vulnerable to radical mobilization than other provinces? What prevents the proliferation of radical groups in the region? And, what makes the province’s religious leaders and entrepreneurs less likely to join or lead anti-minority mobilization?

This chapter argues that East Java has not been a fertile soil for the emergence of radical groups for two main reasons. Radical groups are uncommon because most religious entrepreneurs have large followings, institutionalized ties to their followers and fellow clerics, and operate in less competitive religious markets. Religious entrepreneurs do not need radical groups as they find it easier to gain and maintain religious authority through existing institutions. Second, the institu-

187 188 tional vacuum that pushed many religious entrepreneurs into creating a radical group in West Java does not exist in East Java.

1. Generating Religious Authority in East Java

East Java has not been a fertile soil for the creation of radical groups. If they have not proliferated, it is because little “demand” for radical groups and mobilization exist. There is no lack of ideological support for it, however, but radical groups are uncommon because most religious entrepreneurs have large followings, institutionalized ties to their followers and fellow clerics. These institutions act as disincentives for the creation of a radical group, as they create integration mechanisms that prevent people from seeking religious authority on their own. The average religious entrepreneur finds it easier to gain and maintain religious authority. They are, as a result, better positioned to leverage that authority into social and political influence.

The origins of radical groups’ leaders in East Java are radically different from West Java. Two main regions compose the province of East Java: mainland East Java and the island of Madura. I treat these two regions separately because they display different patterns of radical mobilization. In mainland East Java, as shown in Table 7.1, not a single kyai and only two ustadz are chairmen of the FPI. In other words, mainstream clerics – those who own or teach in a pesantren, lead majelis taklim or pengajian – have mostly stayed away from radical organizations. It con- trasts to West Java, where the majority of FPI chairmen are kyai or ustadz, here, the majority of FPI chairmen bear the title of “habib”. “Habib” is an honorific title commonly granted to Indo- nesians of Arabs origins, Islamic scholars from the Sayyid community or descendants of Prophet Muhammad.1 Not all Indonesian Arabs are Sayyid. In itself, the public use of the title “Habib” is

1 Most members of the Sayyid community in Indonesia are descendants of Ba’Alawi families that settled in the Hadhramaut region in Southern Yemen in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, and most follow the Shafi’i school of thought and are members of a Sufi sect called Tariqa Alawiyah. See Ahmad Syarif Syechbubakr, “Meet the Habibs: the Yemen Connection in Jakarta politics” http://indonesiaatmelbourne.unimelb.edu.au/meet-the-habibs-the-yemen-connection-in-jakarta-politics/

189 a call for recognition by the broader Muslim community.2 In contrast to mainland East Java, kyai chair the three branches of the FPI in Madura, a pattern similar to that observed in West Java. In sum, kyai and ustadz are not interested in the FPI in East Java, except in Madura.

Table 7.1- Title of FPI’s chairmen, by province and region

Kyai Haji Ustadz Habib No title

Banten 33.3 33.3 0.0 33.3

Greater Jakarta Area 0.0 0.0 100.0 0.0

West Java 25.0 43.8 18.8 12.5

Central Java 0.0 25.0 0.0 75.0

East Java (mainland) 0.0 16.7 58.3 25.0

Madura 100.0 0.0 0.0 0.0

Author’s own data, from various media sources.

1.1. Low Competition, Low Proliferation

Why have radical groups failed to generate interest among kyai and ustadz? The province seem- ingly lacks radical entrepreneurs, but it is not because radical ideas or religious legitimation are missing. Since the democratic transition, many ulama have actively promoted more restrictive laws for religious minorities. East Java is, alongside West Java, one of the provinces with the largest number of Sharia-inspired by-laws.

2 The title, and the privileged status that comes with it, are disputed among non-Arab Indonesian Mus- lims and within Arabs themselves. See Syamsul Rijal, “Internal Dynamics Within Hadhrami Arabs in Indonesia: From Social Hierarchy to Islamic Doctrine,” Journal of Indonesian Islam, 11, no.1 (2017): 1- 28.

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The Ahmadiyah sect has been the target of ulama throughout the second half of the 2000s. In the months following the national fatwa against Ahmadiyah in 2005, East Java’s ulama held numerous prominent meetings urging the government to disband the sect as soon as possible. 3 Mean- while, ulama also started to criticize the principles of pluralism, liberalism, and secularism and many intensified their call for “cleansing” NU from liberals and to exclude its members involved in the Liberal Islam Network (JIL).4 Public meetings calling to disband Ahmadiyah multiplied in 2010 and 2011 as more and more ulama grew impatient.5 In February 2011, a thousand people attacked an Ahmadi hamlet in Cikeusik, Pandeglang in the province of Banten. By far the most violent episode to date, three people were killed, and an Ahmadi community’s schools and houses burned to the ground. While this event led to the proliferation of radical mobilization in West Java, it did not have a spillover effect in East Java. Despite incessant calls from many East Javanese ulama to disband Ahmadiyah, radical groups did not mobilize strongly. In 2011, the governor of the province finally adopted a decree prohibiting the activities Ahmadiyah in the province. The decree fell short of dissolving Ahmadiyah, but targeted its activities, banned Ah- madiyah from spreading their teachings orally, in writing, or through electronic media, and to

3 They held a first meeting at the Pesantren Tebuireng in Jombang. They held a second meeting in Madu- ra, which was hosted by the Association of Pesantren-Based Ulama in Madura (Badan Silaturahmi Ula- ma Pesantren Madura, BASSRA). See Anonymous, “Sejumlah Ulama Sepuh Minta Ahmadiyah Dibu- barkan”, NU Online, 17 August 2005; Anonymous, Ulama Madura Berseberangan dengan Gus Dur Soal Ahmadiyah, NU Online, 31 August 2005.

4 Ahmad Sadzali, “Kiai Subadar: NU Harus Bersih dari Jaringan Islam Liberal”, Hidayatullah, 26 No- vember 2004; Ahmad Sadzali, “Ulama Jatim Tolak JIL Masuk Pengurus NU,” Hidayatullah, 1 Decem- ber 2004; Anonymous, “Para Ulama Keluhkan Liberalisme di Kalangan Anak Muda NU,” NU Online, 27 Juli 2006; and Anonymous, “KH Ma'ruf Amin: Paham Liberal Masih Ada di NU,” NU Online, 09 Desember 2007.

5 In April 2010, an influential pesantren published a fatwa declaring Ahmadiyah misguided, and several ulama in the Pasuruan region requested the government to act. In May 2010, the Forum of Ulama and Habaib of East Java gathered approximately 70 ulama and habib and publicly pressed the government to move forward and disband Ahmadiyah in the province. In February 2011, a meeting of 130 ulama asked the government to disband Ahmadiyah. See Hamdi and Firdaus. Potret Buram Kebebasan Beragama (Surabaya: CMARS, 2010): 11; Anonymous, “Forum Ulama Tuntut Pemerintah Bubarkan Ahmadiyah,” Suara Surabaya, 13 May 2010; and, Muhammad Usamah, “Kiai se-Jawa Madura Desak Pembubaran Ahmadiyah” Hidayatullah, 12 February 2011.

191 signal their identity in public places and on their mosques or educational institutions.6 While similar fatwas and decrees in West Java emboldened radical groups, they “never managed to push the population into conducting violence against Ahmadiyah”7 and never prompted the proliferation of radical groups in East Java. Similar fatwas were pronounced against smaller Mus- lim sects but failed to trigger the spread of radical groups and violence.8

Similar preoccupations about the Shiite community simmered for most of the 2000s but failed to prompt the type of sustained radical movement observed in West Java. NU ulama and “habib” were among groups involved. While fanning the flames of anti-Shia sentiments, most of these groups have stopped short of engaging in violence directly. Throughout the 2000s, a number of minor clashes took place in Bangil, Malang, Jember, Bondowoso, and Probolinggo, all regions with large Shiite communities.9 The most significant anti-Shia campaign took place in Madura when local ulama in Sampang started to oppose a local Shiite cleric in 2004. Within a few years, ulama from NU, as well as from the MUI in Sampang and East Java, issued numerous fatwas against Shia.10 The government adopted in 2012 a regulation prohibiting religious activities that

6 Anonymous, “Gubernur Jatim Keluarkan SK Larangan Aktivitas Ahmadiyah,” Antara, 28 February 2011.

7 Interview with Akhol Firdaus, Lembaga Bantuhan Hukum-Surabaya, Surabaya, East Java, March 2014; Interview with Joan Avie, Chairman of PusHAM Surabaya, Surayaba, East Java, March 2014

8 For instance, ulama pronounced similar fatwas against sects such as Dununge Urip (Blitar, 2009), Noto Ati (Jombang, 2009), Masuk Surga (2009), Brayat Agung (Situbondo, 2010), Sawamiyah (Sumenep, 2010), Al-Qadriyah al-Qasimiyah (Jember, 2011). Yet most of these fatwa triggered either very limited popular mobilization or none at all.

9 In 2006, Sunni mobs protested an Ashura celebration at the Al-Itroh pesantren in Bangil, and attacked an IJABI meeting in Bondowoso. In April 2007, about 1,000 people gathered in Bangil for what was the first major anti-Syiah demonstration in the region. Later in November 2007, the head of the Sunni al- Bayyinat Foundation, Thorir al Kaff, delivered a sermon in Bangil calling on the audience to “cleanse” Bangil from its Syiah members. Following the sermon, a group attacked the school, throwing stones, and shouting at teachers and students. See, Human Rights Watch. In Religion’s Name: Abuses against Reli- gious Minorities in Indonesia (New York: Human Rights Watch, 2013): 58.

10 Isma Savitri, “Hanya MUI Jawa Timur yang Teken Fatwa Syiah Sesat,” Tempo, 30 August 2012; Musthofa Bisri, “NU Sebut Syiah di Sampang Sesat,” Tempo, 3 January 2012; and, Erik Purnama Putra, “Fatwa MUI Jatim: Ajaran Syiah Sesat,” Republika, 29 November 2015. These edicts contrast with the position of the National Board of NU, which did not declare Shia misguided. See Prihandoko. “NU: Sy- iah Tidak Sesat, Hanya Berbeda” Tempo, 29 August 2012.

192 defame or deviate from religious teachings held in Indonesia and “the dissemination of heresy.”11 As a result of ulama activism, the police arrested the Shiite cleric and charged him with blasphemy and mobs attacked his village in 2011 and 2012, killing a man, burning down the Shiite pesantren, and destroying more than 50 houses. The government relocated the community outside of Madura. Since then, however, only a few other clashes took place, still without the proliferation of radical groups.12 The National Anti-Syiah Alliance (ANNAS) launched in Ban- dung in 2014, for instance, failed to garner much interest among East Javanese religious leaders. The Alliance opened most of its district branches in West Java, in Garut, Tasikmalaya, Cianjur, Bogor and Purwakarta for instance. In East Java, a branch was inaugurated only in the city of Probolinggo. Kyai and ulama did not join in the regencies with the largest Shiite populations, such as Malang and Bangil, or in districts where the issue was the most politicized (e.g., Sam- pang).

Why so few radical groups? Radical groups have generated little interest among kyai and ustadz because on average they command much more massive followings. For instance, mainland East Java has an average pesantren size twice that of the average pesantren in West Java (231 and 112 santri/pesantren respectively). Historically, the process of colonial and postcolonial state formation did not temper with kyai’s revenues. By controlling zakat and fitrah, kyai were able to establish larger pesantren. Religious markets are, as a result, less competitive. The average concentration ratio in the province is 33.8 percent, which means that the four largest pesantren in a regency have about a third of its santri body. By comparison, West Java has a concentration ratio of 11.7 percent. Religious markets are thus more levelled and competitive in the West than the East. The 23 regencies in which no entrepreneur established a radical group have an average concentration ratio of 36 percent, which slightly higher than the provincial average. Less competition among pesantren means less competition among kyai and ustadz for audiences and followers. Religious authority is less contested and more stable as a result.

11 The regulation also grants the power to the regional government to “immediately cease such activities.” See, Peraturan Gubernur Jawa Timur Nomor 55 Tahun 2012 Tentang Pembinaan Kegiatan Keagamaan dan Pengawasan Aliran Sesat di Jawa Timur.

12 Shia-Sunni brawl took place in May 2012 in Puger (Jember), while a worse clash took place in Sep- tember 2013, incited once more, by Habib Mudhlar. See IPAC, The Anti-Shi’a Movement in Indonesia, IPAC Report No. 27, (Jakarta: Institute for Policy Analysis of Conflict, 2016).

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The few regencies in which entrepreneurs did establish a radical group have a more competitive religious market, similar to those found in West Java. The concentration ratio of the five regencies in which we find active radical groups is 18.5 percent, which means that the four biggest pesantren have only a fifth of the total number santri population. The Islamic Defenders’ Front was successful at establishing a branch just in the regencies where concentration ratios are particularly low. The ratio of the 13 regencies where we find FPI branches in East Java is 16.5 percent, half the concentration ratio of the province as a whole. The two regencies in which FPI has recruited an ustadz as chairman have a concentration ratio of 11.8 percent.

In mainland East Java, though unusual, competition did help trigger religious leaders’ participation in radical groups and radical mobilization, particularly against Shia Muslims. Jember, Probolinggo, Pasuruan, Malang, Bondowoso, and Surabaya have significant Shia communities, but not all of them have experienced opposition by these radical groups. NU kyai and ulama provide leadership to most anti-Shia radical groups like the al-Bayyinat Foundation, the Forum Against Deviant Sects (Forum Anti Aliran Sesat, FAAS), the Majelis Taklim Aswaja, and the Sunni Straight Path (Aswaja Garis Lurus). Radical mobilization has, however, happened only where NU clerics are the weakest and where religious markets are the most competitive.

Jember, which has experienced some anti-Shia mobilization, is the regency that has among Ja- va’s lowest concentration ratio. With a ratio of 10.7 percent, and a crowded religious market (308 pesantren), Jember’s religious market is levelled and competitive. In Jember, relations between Shiite clerics and local kyai were fraught because they both competed for students and because the Shiite pesantren seemed too rich for the average Sunni kyai.13 Nahdlatul Ulama in Jember has long worried about conversions to Shi’ism in the region. In 2007, for instance, a report revealed that 30 people from a small hamlet had just converted to Shi’ism. Sunni residents, along with their kyai, were increasingly restless has Shia frequently criticized Sunni ulama openly.14 Back in 2007, only minor clashes happened in Jember. In 2013, however, one was killed after a group of people attacked the Darus Sholihin boarding school and its mosque in the

13 IPAC, The Anti-Shi’a Movement in Indonesia: 20, fn 111

14 Idem.

194 village of Puger Kulon, Jember.15 In Jember, “the competition between schools was probably more important than religious differences.”16

Pasuruan, also with a concentration ratio lower than the provincial average (22.5 percent), has also experienced a few episodes of anti-Shia mobilization. Bangil (Pasuruan) is home to the largest and most important Shi’ite educational institution in East Java. The well-off pesantren and booming Shi’ite community were victims of some skirmishes and demonstrations until 2011, when members of a group called Sunni Straight Path stormed the community’s pesantren, destroyed some of its property, and injured 11 people. In Bangil (Pasuruan), as in Sampang and Jember, “the roots of violence lay in competition between traditional NU clerics and the Shi’ite school head.”17 In sum, conclude some observers, “the anti-Shia’s activity in East Java involved NU kyai who felt directly threatened by what they saw as Shia’s encroachment on their traditional spheres of influence.”18 Like Pasuruan, tensions and verbal attacks between local kyai and Syiah occurred in Bondowoso, but without popular mobilization. Bondowoso too has among the lowest concentration ratio of Java (11.7 percent).

The island of Madura is the only region where FPI was able to recruit leaders from among kyai haji (table 7.1 above). While the average pesantren size is large in Madura (236 santri/pesantren), concentration ratios are among the smallest of all Java. In other words, the religious market is levelled, albeit with large schools. Madura’s religious market is competitive. Madura as a whole has a concentration ratio of 14.1, and the three regencies with an FPI branch that are led by a kyai haji have a concentration ratio of only 10.8 percent. Like in West Java, some kyai have used the Islamic Defenders’ Front as a means to bolster their religious standing.

15 Wahyoe Boediwardhana and Bagus BT Saragih, “One Killed in Jember Communal Clash” The Jakar- ta Post, 13 September 2013.

16 IPAC, The Anti-Shi’a Movement: 20

17 Ibid: 19; Anonymous interview with peacemaker in Sampang, Surabaya, East Java, March 2014.

18 Ibid: 20. See also A. Z. Hamdi, “Klaim Religious Authority dalam Konflik Sunni-Syi'i Sampang Ma- dura,” Islamica: Jurnal Studi Keislaman, 6, no. 2, (2012): 215-231. Masdar Hilmy, “The Political Econ- omy of Sunni-Shi’ah Conflict in Sampang Madura,” Al-Jami'ah: Journal of Islamic Studies, 53, no. 1 (2015): 27-51.

195

In Bangkalan, for instance, the chairmen of the FPI have all been kyai. In that regency, pesantren are large, but the religious market is levelled (13.2 percent). Most kyai have, in other words, similar influence. Also, most Madurese religious leaders have a strong NU identity, but are not, however, as integrated within the organization as their counterpart in Java. Few Madu- rese kyai sit on the provincial Nahdlatul Ulama (Pengurus Wilayah NU) board and even fewer on the national board (Pengurus Besar NU).19 Most have little prospects beyond local instances of the organization, such as regency and district boards. In a competitive environment, chairing the FPI may help achieve further recognition. For instance, one of the FPI leaders in Bangkalan used his leadership of FPI to gain a position within NU’s formal organization.20 As explained by Muzakki, Secretary of Nahdlatul Ulama in East Java, “that kyai could not compete with middle- and high-status kyai of NU, so when FPI came and offered a leadership position to that kyai, he stepped in.”21

The mobilization against Shia in Sampang, Madura, is directly tied to the uniquely competitive market of the regency. Sampang has the most competitive and the most crowded religious market of all of East Java (9.1 percent concentration ratio, 3.1 pesantren per 10,000 Capita). Aside from proximate political factors,22 the roots of clerics’ participation in anti-Shia mobilization lie precisely in concrete and material “competition between traditional NU cleric and the Shi’ite school head.”23 Competition started in 2004, when the Shi’ite leader opened his own pesantren, potentially recruiting new members from among the other leaders’ flock. Competition picked up steam in 2006 when the Shiite leader started a new celebration of the Prophet’s birthday. In the past, each household held their own celebration for a month and kyai would come to give their

19 Email correspondence with Ali Imron, Nahdlatul Ulama Activist from Madura, November 2017.

20 Interview with Professor Akh. Muzakki, Secretary of Nahdlatul Ulama-East Java, Surabaya, East Java, April 2014.

21 Idem.

22 The conflict in Sampang involved a mix of interests, including political interests related to the local elections. See, Mohammad Iqbal Ahnaf et al., “Pilkada dan Kekerasan Anti-Syiah di Sampang,” Politik Lokal dan Konflik Keagamaan (Yogyakarta: CRCS, 2015): 17-33; and, Kontras, Laporan Investigasi dan Pemantauan Kasus Syi’ah Sampang (Surabaya: Kontras, 2012).

23 IPAC, The Anti-Shi’a Movement: 20

196 blessings while receiving a small amount of money from each family. This celebration represented a consecration of kyai’s authority and an important revenue source. The Shi’ite cleric initiated a new form of celebration in which people were invited to come together to the village mosque for the celebration. This new type of celebration was a “direct challenge to the established social order” and the income source of kyai.24 Kyai were particularly nervous that this practice, which is less costly for the followers, could incite conversions to Shi’ism. Sampang’s uniquely competitive religious market helped local Sunni clerics feel that Shia Muslims were threatening.

1.2. Barriers of Entry

Religious markets in East Java are not as competitive as in West Java because established religious leaders impose barriers of entry. Most religious leaders are firmly bound to each other through genealogical and intellectual ties and derive some of their religious authority from their filiation to a core pesantren or kyai. Even low-status kyai, with small pesantren, belong to more extensive networks of mutual recognition. Even belonging to such network does not guarantee success, being the offspring or the former santri of a famous kyai help a religious entrepreneur achieve recognition. They represent a form of “barriers of entry” and prevent religious entrepreneurs’ proliferation. These ties also help mitigate competition as it limits the number of people who can lay claim to religious authority.

Self-made-man tactics are thus less common in East Java. Indeed, as Table 7.2 shows, fewer people claim the status of kyai in East Java than West Java. It is both true when looking at kyai per capita and kyai per santri. This difference is not anecdotal. They mean that the “barriers of entry” – such as genealogical and intellectual networks – do work to limit competition in the religious market. In West Java, where genealogical and intellectual networks are weak, the religious market is the most crowded with entrepreneurs.

24 Ibid: 16.

197

When informal barriers of entry are not enough, East Javanese leaders do not hesitate to use their networks to engage in anti-competitive tactics. Historically, the birth of NU was an attempt to stave off competition from modernists. Traditionalist and modernist clerics eventually worked out a modus vivendi in which they avoid too frontal attacks on the other camp, but the conflict was very intense in the 1920s and 1930s. The violence with which NU eliminated competition from the communists in the 1960s shows little tolerance for competitors in the religious market. If they can act collectively, it is precisely because they have common networks and can establish regional policing mechanisms. Like an elite cartel, religious leaders in East Java try to maintain their monopoly over the religious market.

Table 7.2- Number of Kyai per Province

Kyai per 10,000 Kyai per 10,000 Kyai Capita santri

Banten 3,865 3.5 130.2

West Java 14,729 3.3 151.5

Central Java 6,186 1.9 121.6

East Java 8,859 2.3 96.9

Java 33,638 2.8 125.0

Author’s own data.

The Islamic Defenders’ Front has faced constant opposition from some religious leaders and activists in East Java. FPI has laid low in the region up to this day because of that opposition. In June 2008, FPI members attacked members of the National Alliance for the Freedom of Faith and Religion in Jakarta. They injured 90 people and 14 critically. In the follow-up to that incident, FPI experienced its most crucial setback in East Java and had to close many of its branches. The same countermovement was much smaller in West Java, where religious leaders were unable to coordinate and impose the closure of FPI branches.

198

In the hours after the Monas Incident, the anti-FPI movement went into full steam. Rapidly, NU activists and some kyai were able to mobilize people against the FPI, demanding the government to disband the group. In Gresik, a hundred people from the Alliance Against Violence went to the local parliament and police to ask for the disbandment of FPI and say they are ready to go to Jakarta to help the police disband the FPI. Similar demonstrations took place in several districts such as Malang and Surabaya. In Jember, pressure from NU leaders was particularly forceful. After a tense meeting with Banser, the chairman of FPI in Jember, Habib Abu Bakar, agreed to disband FPI and asked forgiveness to Gus Dur.25 Similar anti-FPI demonstrations happened in Surabaya two days earlier, when 500 people protested FPI in front of their office in Surabaya.26 In response, the FPI in Surabaya decided to disband by itself, and Ali Al-Habsyi agreed to surrender his leadership of the organization.27 These protests against FPI led to a province-wide coalition giving 24 hours for the organization to disband and leave the province. The situation was tense enough for NU and MUI East Java to call on the population not to use violence.28 A similar countermovement took place in 2006 when FPI sympathizers in West Java roughed Gus Dur, NU’s most revered kyai at the time. Since then, NU youth groups have continued to put pressure on the radical group, and have clashed with FPI on many occasions.29

Anti-competitive tactics have not targeted the only FPI in East Java. Majelis Tasfir al-Qur’an, a Salafi group, has been the constant target of clerics and NU activists who have not hesitated to

25 Syamsul Hadi, “FPI Jember Membubarkan Diri” Kompas, 3 June 2008.

26 Wahid Institute, FPI Cs Meresahkan, Massa NU dan Prodemokrasi Demo Mabes Polri,” Wahid Insti- tute, 30 May 2006, online http://wahidinstitute.org/v1/Agenda/Detail/?id=220/hl=id/FPI_Cs_Meresahkan_Massa_NU_Dan_Prode mokrasi_Demo_Mabes_Polri

27 Qodriansyah Sofyan, “FPI Surabaya Membubarkan Diri” Liputan6, June 4, 2008; and, Syamsul Ma’arif, Kelompok-Kelompok Keagamaan Transnasional: Studi Kasus Pada Gerakan Islam Kelompok FPI di Kota Surabaya, Laporan (Jakarta: Departemen Agama, 2008): 32

28 Noer Soetantini, “MUI Minta Semua Pihak Menahan Diri,” Suara Surabaya, 04 Juni 2008.

29 Indra Harsaputra, ”FPI Intolerable: NU Wings”, The Jakarta Post, 12 June 2013; and, Inge Klara Sa- fitri, “Banser, FPI Involved in Clash” Tempo, 19 April 2017.

199 disband their activities, yet they have generally averted violence.30 NU has also reacted strongly to rumours of competition within their mosques. In the mid-2000s, NU reports that an increasing number of mosques are being “stolen” from NU them. The scenario was almost always the same: new people would come to a mosque traditionally used by people with NU background, but suddenly would offer help cleaning and taking care of the mosque. Eventually, they would gain control of the mosque’s administrative board and steer its activities toward Salafi doctrines.31 In response, NU strengthened its branch structure at the mosque level, creating a new lower organizational level called anak ranting. In some regencies, NU leaders gave orders to mosque councils not to let unknown people stay in the mosque.32 In West Java, such coordination at the mosque level is impossible. Mosques are much more plural and become, themselves, sites of competition.33

Opposition to FPI has also come from more conservative figures, people otherwise sympathetic to FPI’s anti-Ahmadiyah stance. These clerics made sure, however, to keep FPI on tracks not to lose the leadership on the question. For instance, the chairman of East Java PWNU KH Muta- wakkil Alallah stated local clerics had to increase the intensity of their preaching (dakwah) in the face of Ahmadiyah, but radical groups should not bring people into violence. In Surabaya, FPI was disbanded in early June 2008 but came back to life only a few weeks later. Habib Rizieq himself demanded the change of leadership and the reopening of the branch. Habib Mu- hammad Mahdi, a local preacher, said to have a following of a thousand people, replaced Ali Al

30 See, for example, Anonymous, “Banser Bubarkan Pengajian MTA” Radar Banyumas, 3 June 2015; Anonymous, “Tolak Selamatan, Ratusan Warga Nyaris Bentrok dengan Pengikut Aliran MTA,” DetikNews, 15 January 2015; Anonymous, “Didatangi Banser, Pimpinan dan Anggota MTA Kabur,” NU Online, 23 Agustus 2013; Doni Prasetyio, “Banser Datang Pengajian MTA Bubar,” Tribun News, 22 January 2014.

31 Many participants told a similar story. Interview with Wawan Gunawan, Chairman of Jakatarub, former chairman of PMII Bandung Regency, Bandung, West Java, June 2014.

32 Interview Kiagus Zaenal Mubarok, Vice-chairman of NU in West Java, Chairman of Forum Lintas Agama Deklarasi Sancang, May 2016.

33 Idem.

200

Habsyi as chairman of FPI in Surabaya.34 In reality, people in the region knew little about Habib Muhammad Mahdi. Under his new leadership, FPI turned more decisively against Ahmadiyah. Habib Mahdi organized several demonstrations, and in one, for instance, went as far as occupy- ing the provincial parliament building requesting that the government disband Ahmadiyah. Co- erced by local NU leaders, Habib Muhammad Mahdi pledged to adopt non-violent tactics and promised that they would fight Ahmadiyah alongside Nahdlatul Ulama.35 In Pasuruan, one of the FPI leaders became secretary of NU at the district level. Although there is no hierarchical relation, the regency-level board summoned him and asked him to choose between NU and FPI.36

The Islamic Defenders’ Front leaders understood by 2010 that they had to change their discourse to avoid generating opposition from NU leaders. The FPI changed discourse in the hope of making the organization more palatable to East Javanese ulama. In a single visit to the region, Habib Rizieq inaugurated 13 new bAranches all at once. The bulk of these branches was opened in the Tapal Kuda and the Madura region and was able to attract the support of some ulama.37 In some regions known for being particularly conservative, such as Pasuruan, the FPI did not open a branch before 2015.38 FPI’s courting of NU was deliberate. As Habib Muschin explained, “to grow in East Java, we used the cultural approach […], focusing first on the pesantren, the ulama, and NU’s culture.”39 Rizieq also stressed out its mission’s compatibility with that of the government: “As a religious figure and vice governor, Rizieq said, Gus Ipul [is] committed to main-

34 Eddy Prastyo, “FPI Surabaya Dihidupkan Kembali,” Suara Surabaya, 30 Juni 2008; See also Syamsul Ma’arif, Kelompok-Kelonpok Keagamaan Transnasional: 32-3.

35 Eddy Prastyo, “Tetap Tolak Ahmadiyah Tanpa Toleransi,” Suara Surabaya, 30 Juni 2008.

36 Interview with KH Ahmad, Vice-Secretary of NU-Pasuruan, Pasuruan, East Java, March 2015.

37 Eddy Prastyo, “Lebarkan Sayap di Jatim, FPI Targetkan Tutup Dolly,” Suara Surabaya, 23 December 2010.

38 Bayad, M. Sadidul. Gerakan Front Pembela Islam (FPI) di Pasuruan tahun 2015-2017, Skripsi. UIN Sunan Ampel Surabaya, 2017. Interview with Luthfi, Gusdurian Activist, Pasuruan, East Java, June 2014.

39 Interview with Habib Mushin alatas, Member of the Dewan Pembina FPI (National), Bogor, West Java, February 2014.

201 taining plurality and diversity [in East Java]. This is in line with FPI's vision. If there is intolerance in East Java, we are ready to move forward with the local government and eliminate it!”40

Opposition continued, however. In Jombang, for example, some of the ulama opposed the inau- guration of the FPI branch in 2010. When they met with Habib Abubakar Assegaf, they asked him to refrain from conducting “sweeping” operations and to focus only on preaching.41 For the local kyai, the FPI threatened to disrupt social peace, but also the fragile balance of authority in the region. The kyai were not eager to allow new player easy access in the area. Since then, leaders of the FPI often visit influential ulama to secure their permission before holding religious events. Local ulama allowed, in one case, only if several conditions were met, such as they were to be no public declaration, no violence, and no sweeping. Local kyai threatened the FPI to use Banser against them if they did not strictly abide by these rules.

The passing away of Gus Dur in December 2009 also freed ulama from the taboo of courting FPI.42 It is no surprise that two months after Gus Dur passed away, Habib Rizieq conducted a preaching safari (safari dakwah) in East Java. Throughout his tour and speeches, Rizieq emphasized his Nyahidin background more so than ever in the past. At a meeting in East Java, he claimed that “FPI comes to East Java as children of the NU family” and that it has, and wishes to maintain, “good relationship with NU”.43 Rizieq claims that FPI's struggle is the same as NU and that both organizations are based on the Ash'ariah school of jurisprudence, the Shafi'iyah in the field of Sharia, and Al-Ghazali in the field of Sufism. He suggests that NU and FPI are com- plementary, and that NU is a locomotive for the social struggle through education, and that FPI

40 Quote in Eddy Prastyo, “Gus Ipul: Benih-benih Intoleransi Beragama di Jatim Menguat”, Suara Sura- baya, 23 Desember 2010.

41 Interview with Gus Roy Murtadho, Pesantren Tebuireng, Jombang, East Java, June 2014.; Interview with Ustadz Aan Anshori, Coordinator of Islamic Network against Discrimination - East Java, Yogya- karta, June 2014.

42 Interview with Ustad Maman, Commander-in-Chief of FPI, Depok, West Java, December 2013.

43 Quoted in Ferdinand Waskita, “Habib Rizieq: NU adalah Rumahnya FPI” TribunNews, 27 February 2011.

202 is the foot soldier of NU’s struggle.44 In a later speech, Rizieq even suggests that FPI has the unique role to protect NU from its various internal enemies:

“We must (wajib)! We must protect NU from being infiltrated by liberals so that it is not destroyed, not eaten up by people who are not Sunni (Aswaja)… What I want to know is… are you ready to defend NU? Are you ready to protect NU? [Addressing the audience] Are you ready to drive out liberals from NU? Takbir! [Audience: Allahu Akbar!] Takbir! [Audience: Allahu Akbar!].”45

This rapprochement was not innocent: FPI was trying to find allies in among NU clerics. For instance, Habib Rizieq was invited along with Munarman as speakers to an event celebrating the 88th anniversary of NU in East Java.

Despite this rapprochement, however, FPI did not experience much success among kyai. Today, FPI has 13 branches in East Java. “Habibs,” Indonesians of Hadrami descent, lead seven branches in total. Except in Madura, kyai are not leaders of the FPI. In general, the Hadrami community lacks integration within mainstream Muslim networks in Java. In Java, they have their own networks and organizations, even live in different neighbourhoods. Individual Islamic scholars of Hadhrami descent have gained a large following among Javanese Muslims. They, however, seldom participate within native Islamic organizations such as NU and Muhammadi- yah.46 This somewhat marginal status may account for the willingness of some habib to lead FPI in East Java. Martin Slama explains that in eastern Indonesia, where Hadramis are well integrated socially and within Islamic mass organizations, they played a crucial role in repelling and taming radicalization among Muslim youths, especially those attracted to the Laskar Jihad and the Islamic Defenders Front (FPI).47

44 Idem.

45 Habib Rizieq, Public Speech Tabligh Akbar Malang, Malang, East Java, [2010?], Available online: Habib Rizieq: NU Adalah Milik Kita Bersama, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vJoZ2bbBPnU&list=PLIRV5rGNH1Gz3kScDBg7- 81AL158DWpOj

46 Martin Slama, “Paths of Institutionalization, Varying Divisions, and Contested Radicalisms: Compar- ing Hadhrami Communities on Java and Sulawesi,” Comparative Studies of South Asia, Africa and the Middle East, 31, no.2 (2011): 337.

47 Ibid: 341

203

1.3. Institutionalized Authority, Low Entrepreneurship

The institutional vacuum that pushed many religious entrepreneurs into creating a radical group in West Java does not exist in East Java. More than 50 percent of East Javanese religious leaders and entrepreneurs are active members of Nahdlatul Ulama, Indonesia’s largest Islamic mass organizations. Unlike West Java, few other mass organizations exist in the region. While kyai remain autonomous within NU, the organization has branch offices in every regencies and most districts of the province. Through NU, religious entrepreneurs can expand their network beyond direct genealogical and intellectual ties by working with other clerics and cooperating on common projects.48 Where it is strong, NU helps clerics increase their prestige and influence, while mitigating inter-cleric competition. Indeed, since they are part of the same organization and networks, kyai generally avoid recruiting from another kyai’s flock. In times of conflict, they conduct silathurahmi sessions to mitigate conflict and also avoid bringing it into the public space.49 Low-status kyai will often invite higher-status kyai to their pesantren, using such meetings as opportunities to bolster their claim to authority. Similarly, through these networks, lower status leaders will be asked to pronounce sermons, animate pengajian, or lead a majelis taklim in another village or city. Such opportunities increase their religious influence while providing part of the cleric's revenue.

The NU organization’s design tends to lower the potential for these institutions to become sites for competition. Rather than granting power to an exclusive group of clerics and lay Muslim, NU shares power widely. Every district, sub-district, and village have their branch organization, which all have their consultative council (Syuryah) and executive (Tanfidziyah) body. Every branch organization has its own chairman, vice-chairman, secretary, and other officials. For an

48 Saxebøl, The Madurese Ulama as Patrons: 88.

49 Interview with Kiagus Zaenal Mubarok, Vice-chairman of NU in West Java, Chairman of Forum Lintas Agama Deklarasi Sancang, May 2016.

204 individual cleric, a position in an Islamic mass organization like NU helps “rationalize their position in a network.”50

NU is generally inclusive, as it rewards both higher level and lower level religious leaders. By doing so, NU indirectly discourages “entrepreneurship,” at least, outside NU’s institutions. The prestige attached to such posts increases a leader’s influence, thereby eliminating interests for alternative, radical organizations. In Pasuruan, for instance, a religious entrepreneur was very active in the early 2010s. He was vocal because “he had just started preaching, and did not have any followers yet.”51 NU approached the preacher and “embraced him. The preacher “understood that because NU talks to the bupati, NU has power. He felt that NU could help him achieve leadership. Now that he is part of PCNU, he is no more violent.”52 In West Java, NU or other Islamic organizations are unable to play that part.

Nahdlatul Ulama appoints religious leaders to position of leadership based on their actual location in the network of pesantren, rather than divisive electoral campaigns, for example. Influen- tial kyai, with large pesantren, get positions in higher instances, while nothing bars kyai with smaller pesantren from gaining access to the organization. Local bodies of NU also cast their net wide. They include more and less prominent clerics. Indeed, since the organization has regency- , district-, sub-district-, village-, and mosque-level bodies, even less influential religious leaders can gain a space in the organization. Instead of concentrating power in the hands of the few, it shares power with a large number of ulama. For example, in the city of Surabaya alone, the organization has six vice-chairmen, seven vice-secretaries, and fifteen vice-Rais elected for the 2015-20 period.53 In total, the organization appointed 73 people to various positions, and more than half of those people were ulama (kyai haji).54 The situation is similar in most regencies of

50 Iik Arifin Mansurnoor, Islam in an Indonesian World: Ulama of Madura (Yogyakarta: Gadjah Mada University Press, 1990): 223

51 Interview with a KH Ahmad, Vice-Secretary of PCNU-Pasuruan, March 2014.

52 Idem.

53 See Pengurus Cabang Nadhaltul Ulama Kota Surabaya, SKPBNU No. 30/A.II.04.d/12/2015, 10 Desember 2015

54 Idem.

205

East and Central Java, where NU is structurally strong. Clerics involved in lower level bodies of NU are similar in many ways to the West Java religious entrepreneurs who created radical groups. In both East and West Java, low-level religious entrepreneurs seek recognition. In East Java, most do it through NU, while in West Java, many do it through radical organizations.

In addition to the NU organization, NU has developed an extensive network of sister and wing organizations. These organizations, which are absent or weak in West Java, provide a vehicle for religious entrepreneurs’ quest for recognition. It is because they are missing, that West Java- nese religious entrepreneurs are constrained to form or join radical groups. Historically, the conflicts between traditionalists and modernists, as well as between Muslim leaders and communists, have led to strong institution building among religious leaders. Indeed, Nahdlatul Ula- ma has two women organizations, three student organizations, a worker and fisherman union, a martial arts organization, a youth organization, and a host of institutes such as an institute for the arts and culture, an institute of research on human resources development, a zakat and wakaf institute, and an economic institute among others. These sister organizations are tied to Nahdlatul Ulama, the mass organization. This rich tapestry of organizations is the daily interface through which most NU members interact and are socialized into the organization’s values and identity. It also plays a considerable role in allocating religious authority and building the type of network people need to aspire to a political career.

Sister and wing organizations create well-established channels through which religious entrepreneurs gain recognition and prevent outsiders with dubious credentials from rapid access to the religious market. In East Java, lay activists who wish to join NU’s board must have the proper credentials such as having participated in NU’s subsidiary organizations. The process is more “meritocratic” in the sense that “people who join NU go through a natural progression from student associations, youth organizations and pesantren associations, and finally up to the NU organization.”55 Without such credentials, social promotion is almost impossible. This mechanism protects NU and the religious market of outsiders: “In East Java, almost all members of NU’s boards from the provincial to the village level have first evolved in the ranks of IPNU

55 Idem.

206 or PMII, [NU’s pupils and students organizations].”56 Moreover, almost every higher-level administrator in IPNU has first been a lower-level administrator of IPNU. You will never see someone suddenly appear and capture the leadership. In sum, a claim to some form of religious authority is harder to achieve but opens a much broader array of opportunities. The religious capital accumulated in first in IPNU is essential for gaining a leadership position within NU, at the provincial (PWNU), regency (PCNU), and district levels (PBNU).

The position of religious leaders is more stable here than in West Java, thanks to this vast network of organizations that provide clerics and mass organizations with a steady source of followers and regularized interactions with members of the community. They endogenously produce and regenerate leadership and membership, while increasing the recognition enjoyed by religious elites. It also reinforces a common organizational identity and helps legitimize its leaders. By doing so, they remove the urgency experienced by many religious entrepreneurs in West Java to stimulate the growth of followers continually. They thus mitigate incentives to use radical discourse and mobilization as a means of gaining recognition.

The pathway to religious authority is also more stable and institutionalized. Sister and wing organizations provide lay Muslims and religious entrepreneurs with the organizational space in which to acquire religious influence. Climbing the ladder within these organizations has become the necessary launching board for most careers of activists, preachers, clerics, and organization cadres. Participation in these organizations thus prevents outsiders from appropriating religious influence without prior qualifications. Each large pesantren has its own alumni organization. Sidogiri, for example, has the Ikatan Alumni Santri Sidogiri (IASS). Founded in 2003, it had already 16 “konsulate” across the province East Java a few years later.57 Influential alumni organizations like this one exist for many large pesantren in East Java. Within Nahdlatul Ulama, for instance, there are three important organizations in which many religious entrepreneurs go through before achieving positions of influence: the Nahdlatul Ulama Pupil Association (Ikatan Pelajar Nahdlatul Ulama, IPNU), the Indonesian Islamic Student Movement (Pergerakan Maha-

56 Interview with Agus Setiawan, Chairman IPNU-Surabaya, Surabaya, East Java, May 2016.

57 Bustami, Kiai Politik, Politik Kiai: 184

207 siswa Islam Indonesia, PMII) and the Ansor Youth Movement. IPNU (for boys) and IPPNU (for girls) target youth from primary and secondary schools.

IPNU is a youth organization that has 430 branches in 30 Indonesian provinces. Each branch has an administrative board and sub-branches at the district (kecamatan), sub-district (kelurahan), village (desa) and school commissariat.58 East Java is the region where IPNU is the most consolidated with 45 branches at the residency level, and an impressive 600 sub-branches at the district level, and more than 500 commissariats in the region’s schools and madrasahs. It is an impressive number since IPNU, IPPNU, and other schoolchildren associations could not be active at the school level since 1988, leaving schools only with OSSO (Intra School Student Organisa- tion), an apolitical student body.59 Schoolchildren associations came back into schools starting, particularly after 2003. In contrast to East Java, IPNU and IPPNU are only weakly consolidated in West Java. Bandung, for instance, has only four sub-district branches.60 The organization is stronger only in Cirebon and Ciamis, but nowhere as strong as IPNU in Surabaya. Moreover, a complete disconnect between pesantren with an NU culture and the organization IPNU exists.61 IPNU and IPPNU are similar to boy scouts, as they organize various activities for their members. Activities, such as jamborees, trivia contests, scouts, and debate clubs take place at the school level up to the provincial and national levels . The most important are training and “caderization” activities, about Nahdlatul Ulama’s values and history.62 IPNU-IPPNU is an important entry point for new NU activists into other NU subsidiary organizations.

Once they reach university, former IPNU members will generally join PMII and later Ansor. PMII is formally independent of NU since 1974, but it has maintained strong ties to the NU. Like IPNU, it emphasizes spiritual and non-spiritual training, as well as caderization within NU.

58 “Profil,” I.P.N.U. website, http://www.ipnu.or.id/profil/

59 Interview with Arumi Maulida, Chairwoman of IPPNU Surabaya, Surabaya, May 2016.

60 Anonymous interview with an activist of IPPNU in West Java, Surabaya, May 2016.

61 Anonymous interview with an activist of IPPNU in West Java, Surabaya, May 2016.

62 Interview with Agus Setiawan, Chairman IPNU Surabaya, Surabaya, May 2016.

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They also organize various seminars, voluntary works, and leadership training.63 Throughout Indonesia, PMII has 230 district branches under 24 district management committees (province- level).64 With 31 branches, East Java is the province where PMII is the strongest and where it gets most of its members.65 In East Java, “the caderization process functions very well; every weekend, each branch and subsidiary organization (badan autonom) organize activities teaching NU identity and values.”66 The key to the success of those activities is the participation of the pesantren and the kyai, which advertise, recruit, and host most of PMII’s events. After university, lay activists and aspiring clerics may join the Ansor Youth Movement. Along with PMII, Ansor is a youth movement that emphasizes the teaching of the values of Nahdlatul Ulama. An- sor has 433 branches (residency) and thousands of sub-branches (district) from the provincial level down to the village level, under the coordination of 32 province managers.67 Like IPNU and PMII, Ansor is strong in East Java with 42 branches and 658 sub-branches organization.68

PMII and Ansor, as well as other sister organizations within NU (e.g., Lesbumi, etc.), are formidable vehicles for the social promotion of aspiring clerics and lay Muslim activists with broader ambitions. These organizations are “the playground of Guses (i.e., sons of kyai) and an amazing outlet through which they gain leadership skills and capacities.”69 It is also an essential outlet for lay Muslims. IPNU, PMII, and Ansor all have legislative and executive bodies from the national level to the lower rungs of the organizations. A vast number of committees exist in which one

63 Interview with Jalaludin, Former chairman of PMII Bandung Regency (2012-2013), Bandung, West Java, May 2016

64 Nita Nurdiani Putri and Kendi Setiawan, “Miliki 230 Cabang, PB PMII Optimis Tangkal Radikalisme di Kampus” Suara Nahdlatul Ulama, 2 October 2017.

65 Anonymous, “PMII Tersebar Se-Indonesia” NU Online, 1 May 2016.

66 Interview with H. Ahmad Dasuki, Secretary of Lakpesdam NU-Jawa Barat, Bandung, West Java, 19 May 2016

67 Interview with Asep Rizal Asyarie, Chairman of GP Ansor-West Java, Tasikmalaya, West Java, May 2016.

68 Roy Hasbuan, “Direkomendasi 25 Cabang, Gus Abid Siap Pimpin Ansor Jatim” Barometer Jatim, 21 April 2018.

69 Interview with Gus Rizal, Chairman of RMI Surabaya, Surabaya, May 2016.

209 can be active. Within these organizations and committees, people develop their networks. Lead- ers and their “anak buah” (followers) engage in patron-client relations, similar to that of the kyai with his santri. Like santri for a kyai, one’s “anak buah” are a useful currency for aspiring clerics and lay Muslims willing to leverage their influence to gain more prestigious positions or jobs.70 Indeed, one can use the prestige and followers gained within PMII and Ansor in other instances of NU, such as the organization itself or other of its subsidiary organization.

Religious entrepreneurs can leverage the capital they accumulated in NU and its wing organizations in the political realm. Democratization and decentralization have increased in East Java as in West Java, the potential value of having religious authority. It is now easier to leverage that authority into political influence and access. In East Java as well, religious leaders are asked to provide support to candidates, act as vote brokers, and run as candidates. There are also informal opportunities to gain access to government jobs, as well as development and patronage funds through networks and connections. Many also live from preaching in East Java, touring government offices and mosques in various cities and town of the region.

Religious entrepreneurs are exposed to the same political incentives in East Java than West Ja- va, but they are in a much better position to benefit from them. Given the strength of their networks and organizations, it is easier for religious leaders and entrepreneurs to signal their worth to politicians. Politicians are often from the same networks and know the network nodes perfectly well. Having large pesantren also facilitate the work of politicians as they which pesantren and kyai to court during election time. Religious leaders can use existing institutions to signal their worth to politicians. In West Java, by contrast, religious leaders without strong networks and institutions had to create various organizations, including radical group, for politicians to take them seriously. In East Java, it is easier for religious leaders and entrepreneurs to use their position within NU and its wing organizations to gain political influence. As a result, East Java is one of the regions where leaders have had the most electoral success for instance. Kyai from NU form a large share of the candidates within the Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa, a party created by NU members. Electorally, heads of pesantren have encountered much more success in East

70 Interview with Jalaludin, Former chairman of PMII Bandung Regency (2012-2013), Bandung, West Java, May 2016

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Java than West Java. Kyai are seldom elected in West Java, which is surprising given the fact that province has more pesantren than East Java. In East Java, many kyai have become members of local parliaments, particularly in regions such as Pasuruan, Jember, Probolinggo, Jombang, Gresik, and Madura.71

2. Conclusion

This chapter tried to understand why East Java is less vulnerable to radical mobilization than other provinces and what accounts for the absence of radical groups’ proliferation. The chapter explored the main reason behind the region’s apparent lack of religious entrepreneurs. It argued that the province’s strong religious institutions and less competitive religious markets acted as disincentives for entrepreneurship. Religious leaders have many followers and entrepreneurs can use Nahdlatul Ulama’s extensive networks and organizations to gain religious recognition. Even more, established religious leaders used their networks and position to curtail competition. To- day, as in the past, religious leaders in East Java do not hesitate to use religious institutions to safeguard their position and status.

71 Fuad Noeh, Kyai Di Panggung Pemilu Dari Kyai Khos Sampai High Cost (Jakarta: Reneasia, 2014): 82.

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Chapter 8 Conclusion

As the jihadists’ battleground moves into new regions, away from older theatres, and convince new Islamic leaders to bear the flag of Boko Haram, al-Shabab, al-Qaeda, or ISIS, a better understanding of what motivates the spokesmen of Islam to side with the jihadists is more important than ever. As Muslim and Western states increasingly seek the help of so-called “moderate”1 Islamic leaders to act as bulwarks against radicalization, a better understanding of the factors that allow for restraints and that empower clerics to prevent radical mobilization is des- perately needed. It is increasingly clear that we cannot win this battle on the field of ideas alone; enmeshed in Islamic radicalism—as in any other religious radicalism—are a host of non- religious interests, factors, and institutions.

This dissertation started with a straightforward question: why do some religious leaders choose to radicalize while others do not? Using dozens of interviews with Muslim leaders and activists, a newly compiled dataset of Muslim schools and mosques in Indonesia, and various types of secondary sources, this study argued that religious leaders radicalize and adopt violent tactics when they find religious authority hard to acquire and maintain. It found that Muslim leaders’ precarity, insecurity, and competition were powerful triggers of radical mobilization. Weak Muslim leaders are more easily drawn into radical mobilization because it helps them bolster

1 I use “moderate” cautiously in this chapter to refer to non-radical leaders. Like for the concept of radical/radicalization, moderate/moderation means “behavioural” moderation, i.e., no mobilization or the use of non-violent and legal mobilization. For a discussion of the concept, and its inherent problems, see Sarfaz Manzoor, “Can we Drop the Term ‘Moderate Muslim’? It’s Meaningless” The Guardian, 16 March 2015.

211 212 their claim to authority and increase their flock. By contrast, I found that Muslim leaders who have a more stable, routinized, and institutionalized access to authority were less prone to radicalization. Counter-intuitively, perhaps, the “strength” of Muslim leaders breeds moderation.

This theory of radicalization was developed and tested using the case of Java, Indonesia. Since the democratic transition of 1999, radical and terrorist groups have proliferated throughout In- donesia. Some regions have experienced extensive mobilization, while others have remained much more peaceful. A newly compiled dataset observed unexpected variations in the nature of Islamic institutions and religious markets across Java. Radicalism-prone regions had more low- status clerics and fragmented Islamic networks. An in-depth study of violent prone and more peaceful regions revealed that Muslim clerics behaved very differently when located in fragmented and competitive religious markets. These markets produced entrepreneurial clerics, ready to use violent mobilization against religious minorities, women, and other co-religionists as a means to capture religious authority.

1. Summary of the Argument

Why do Muslim leaders radicalize? This dissertation presented a parsimonious explanation: leaders radicalize to gain religious authority. In the short term, behavioural radicalization shows commitment, generates followers, and forces the recognition of other clerics. In the longer term, it builds new networks and institutions, helps entrepreneurs to consolidate and perpetuate their authority. Other types of mobilization can arguably serve similar goals, such as humanitarian activities and service provision. Yet, mobilizing against religious minorities, women, and other co-religionists is particularly efficient. Scapegoating reinforces group identities, forces “moderates” to take a stance or risk being discredited, and generates participation.

The dissertation argued that radicalization strategies are more likely among low-status clerics. A low-status cleric is one with weak ties to his actual or prospective followers and to other clerics. He is isolated, has little resources, and his future is uncertain. Like “start-ups,” few of those clerics succeed and most fail. If they are to survive, they have to aggressively capture market shares, create new niches, convince people of their “problem” and of their “need,” and design “viral” marketing strategies. Few “start-up” clerics can afford discourses of moderation and nuance, as

213 it does not create as much branding, differentiation, and visibility. Low-status leaders have to cater to their followers as clients and they are judged more by their personal appeal to the people than their professional qualifications.

In contrast, higher status clerics have more theological independence and do not feel as dependent on mobilization for survival. They have stronger institutionalized ties to their followers and are part of denser clerical networks. They already enjoy “brand recognition” and control significant shares of a market. Such a position helps stabilize authority and remove the immediacy of seeking recognition. It generally has an analgesic effect on radical mobilization.

Whether a religious market is competitive or not matters a lot too. Standing out in a crowded market is challenging, particularly for low-status entrepreneurs. For every new start-up, “there are dozens of repeats, variations, or companies that already exist. […] some are improvement on old ideas, but others are just crowding the market.”2 Competition forces every cleric, high and low-status, to “up their game.” Low-status clerics may be more tempted by aggressive strategies, however. Pluralistic markets increase demand, but crowded markets also mean that followers are scarcer. The more entrepreneurs fight for the followers’ pie, the smaller the slices. By contrast, where clerics are fewer and have better-institutionalized ties, they may come to form an oligopoly. Clerics can mobilize their institutions and networks as a means to erect barriers of entry, curtail competition, and prevent new entrants in the market. While anti-competitive measures reduce pluralism, it may also reduce incentives for radicalization. In addition, high- status clerics are in a better position to respond to radical mobilization, as the strength of their networks and ties to the follower mean that they do not fear isolation or marginalization should they take unpopular positions.

In essence, the theory predicts that low-status clerics are good candidates for radicalization and radical mobilization and that it is particularly true when they operate in crowded and competitive religious markets. By contrast, high-status clerics have more freedom, especially in markets that are less crowded and competitive, and are more likely to feel that radicalization is unneces- sary. They even feel the freedom and capacity to prevent radicalism if they want to.

2 John Rampton, “Stand Out From The Crowd: Startup Differentiation,” Startup Grind, 13 October 2016, Online: https://www.startupgrind.com/blog/stand-out-from-the-crowd-startup-differentiation/

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This dissertation’s starting point—its empirical puzzle—was the significant cross-regional differences in radical mobilization in post-transition Indonesia. Since the democratic transition of 1998, Indonesia has experienced unprecedented levels of radical mobilization by small but vocal groups. While most groups have cropped up in the mid-2000s, in response to legal and political changes in Indonesia, their activities have varied substantially across regions. Some regions have experienced both persistent mobilization and the proliferation of vigilante groups, while other regions have remained much calmer. Mobilization has often targeted religious minorities, women, and co-religionists violently. Among all the provinces in Indonesia, West Java is by far the province with the most frequent radical movements and the largest number of radical groups. Throughout this period, the province of West Java alone represented around three quar- ters of all radical mobilization and organizations in Java.

This puzzle actually has much resonance in the Muslim world. Indeed, regionalized patterns of radicalization are far from a puzzle unique to Indonesia. Anyone who studies religious radicalism knows that it tends to cluster in some regions and not others, that some regions appear more immune to radicalism and others more vulnerable. Northern Nigeria, Northern Mali, the Sinai Peninsula in Egypt, and the Federally Administered Tribal Areas in Pakistan are, for instance, zones that breed Islamic radicalism.

This puzzle led to a natural question: why is there more radical mobilization in West Java? It also led to another important question, but often overlooked in studies of contentious politics and social movements: why are there more radical groups in West Java than in other provinces? In other words, why is the West Javanese Muslim community producing more radical “entrepreneurs”, more people willing to organize and pursue political goals violently or extra-legally? Instrumental accounts of contentious politics—like theories of outbidding generally—take for granted, rather than explain the emergence or proliferation of political entrepreneurs. The Indo- nesian puzzle offered a unique opportunity to probe the causes of radical entrepreneurship.

To answer these questions, the dissertation first compared religious markets throughout Java at the macro-level. Here, the challenge was to assess the strength of Muslim leaders and the configuration of religious markets systematically, the same way economists would compare “firms” and “markets” across sectors and nations for instance. Islamic authority or “capital” and religious competition are incredibly hard to measure. Studies of party politics and elections do not

215 face this problem. They can measure and compare party systems within and across nations by looking at electoral support, the distribution of seats, the fragmentation of parties, and the stability of party systems for instance. The same is not true for the study of religious politics. The religious economy literature focuses on interreligious competition and measures competition by looking at denominational data. A religious “market” is deemed competitive when a denomination grows over others. In the case of Sunni Islam, the idea of denomination does not really travels and much of the competition takes place at the individual clerics’ level. The problem, however, is that most of these clerics do not keep registers of their followers.

In response to these challenges, I developed a new method to measure and compare religious markets across regions. I collected previously untapped data and built a new dataset on Java’s 15,000 Islamic boarding schools and 30,000 clerics (ulama and ustadzes) in Java. For instance, I used the number of schools and students (santri) as proxies for firms and “market shares.” This is one of the dissertation’s most important methodological contributions as it proved rewarding. With this data, I observed impressive cross-regional differences in the strength of clerics (size of schools) as well as markets’ crowdedness and competitiveness. For the latter, I developed a new measure of market concentration (concentration ratio) that provided a district-level portrait of the environment in which clerics lay claim on religious authority in Java.

Unsurprisingly, districts with low-status clerics and competitive religious markets were those with both the most instances of radical mobilization and the most radical entrepreneurs.

With this broader macro-level pattern established, the dissertation systematically compared the rise of radical groups and mobilization in two provinces of Java: the violent-prone West Java and the more peaceful East Java. For this, I conducted 13 months of fieldwork in Indonesia, interviewed Muslim clerics, civil society organizations, and leaders of radical organizations.

In the violent-prone province of West Java, it found that radical groups encountered little opposition from established religious leaders. They found most of their leaders among “mainstream” Muslim clerics who, in other regions, are not involved in radical politics. The demand is high in West Java precisely because those mainstream clerics are weak and existing Muslim organizations have little to offer. Most clerics have small schools, fragmented networks, and evolve in a crowded and competitive religious environment. These small Islamic boarding schools are the

216 epitome of the “startup”; most will not last longer than its kyai’s life. Inherently precarious, these kyai were the perfect candidates for condoning, founding, or joining an Islamic radical organization. Interviews also found that most religious leaders lack strong ties to other clerics in West Java. Most are autonomous, in many cases isolated. Without strong networks, few can leverage their networks to gain access to state patronage, position, or even just to expand and consolidate their influence beyond their locality. Finally, fieldwork showed that Muslim mass organizations and subsidiary organizations are much less consolidated, institutionalized, and extensive in West Java than elsewhere. They are empty shells in West Java and offer little to either new or established clerics.

Meanwhile, radical groups did not experience as much success in East Java. There was no lack of “radical” ideas in the region, far from that. Indeed, many established clerics sought to curtail the rights of religious minorities, women, and co-religionists as well as implement policies in line with their vision of Sharia law throughout the post-transition period. They did not use radical organizations, however. There was a near complete lack of radical entrepreneurship, of people willing to mobilize violently in support of those ideas.

Radical groups have generated little interest among clerics because they command larger flocks. Established clerics were also able to impose barriers of entry, protecting “their” religious market against the too rapid proliferation of new entrepreneurs. Most religious leaders are firmly bound to each other in East Java. Even lower status clerics, with small pesantren, belong to more extensive networks of mutual recognition, which prevent new entrants in the market. As a result, self-made-man tactics were less common. In East Java, achieving a position of religious authority is institutionalized, although informally. I found that when informal barriers of entry are not enough, East Javanese clerics did not hesitate to use their networks to engage in anti- competitive tactics. The actual birth of the Nahdlatul Ulama was the constitution of a “cartel” of ulama, meant to stave off competition from modernist Muslims. In the post-transition period, radical groups experienced widespread opposition by ulama and NU youth. This opposition had little to do with ideas per se, but was a response to the means used by radical groups. Radical groups represented a threat to the ulama’s monopoly as spokesmen of Islam.

Democratization opened up new spaces for mobilization and increased the political and social value of having religious “capital.” In West Java, belonging to a radical group eased low-status

217 clerics’ attempt to gain recognition as religious leaders. Clerics could leverage this self-made Islamic authority into political access, influence, and resources. The leadership of a radical group was thus a means to promote oneself in a competitive and crowded environment. And it worked. Radical mobilization helped build new networks and expand some clerics’ opportunities to draw in resources. The sheer number of low-status clerics in West Java explains the rapid and exponential growth of radical groups in West Java.

The institutional weakness that pushed many clerics into condoning, founding, and joining radical groups in West Java did not exist in East Java. There, most clerics could engage with the opportunities of the democratization through existing institutions, thanks to their larger schools, their roots in society, and their participation in clerical networks. In that environment, lower status clerics were not left on their own, which greatly diminished impulses toward radical mobilization. Existing institutions provided and distributed religious capital widely, while protecting it from appropriation by new entrants in the market. This set of existing institutions helped mitigate intra-religious competition. High, just like low-status clerics, were entrepreneurs, but within the existing organizations, rather than through radical organizations. The outcome was one of low entrepreneurship, just like what an oligopolistic market generates in a real economy.

The dissertation contributes to our understanding of the micro-foundations of Islamic radicalism. It shows that Muslim leaders are rational actors, with interests that transcend ideas and ideologies. This model rejects the analysis of religious behaviour in terms fanaticism and irrational- ity, which is common in the study of Islam, where cultural factors are often used to explain religious behaviour. It also makes comparison possible both within and across societies. It contributes to the instrumental explanations of radicalism and outbidding by showing how institutions construct the competitive space for clerics to bid for support. In contrast to that literature, this research does not take “entrepreneurship” for granted and identifies the reasons why some societies have more radical or violent entrepreneurs than others.

This dissertation goes beyond just an explanation for violent or radical behaviour. It suggests that the prevention of radicalism is a function of the same institutions as those responsible for radicalism. It shows that if fragmentation and competition generate radicalism it also generates the silence of so-called “moderates.” It is one of the most important and urgent problems experienced by Muslim societies (and non-Muslim societies as well). Every Muslim society contains

218 numerous “moderate” voices, leaders who disagree with the instrumentalization of Islam, violent mobilization, and some even profess tolerant and pluralist viewpoints. Hostile environments often overwhelm them and maintain them into silence. They too, revealed this research, are concerned with their survival. A policy implication of this research is that these leaders will take a public position only when they do not run any risks. Indeed, the research showed that where they had solid networks and strong institutions, they were more willing to step in and prevent radical mobilization, as they did not fear negative repercussions as much.3 Most explanations of “moderation” focus on ideational orientations, rather than those structural enablers.

Looking at the Indonesian case, however, crucial questions remained: why do we see so much variation from one region to the other in terms of Islamic institutions and competition? Are status and competition endogenous or exogenous to contemporary radical mobilization?

My research revealed that Islamic institutions and religious markets are not endogenous to contemporary radical mobilization. They are, in the case of Indonesia, the outcomes of colonial and post-colonial state building’s enduring legacies.

I showed that considerations related to export crops, land ownership, labour mobilization, and taxation shaped initial state-building strategies. Colonial rule—direct or indirect—either empowered or weakened Muslim clerics. In West Java, indirect rule was adopted because coffee production required mostly labour mobilization and little technological or administrative capacities. The Dutch gave native elites, local chiefs, vast discretionary powers, and autonomous taxation powers. State officials appropriated the monopoly over the collection of zakat and fitrah deprived independent clerics from an important source of revenue. This explains why we find few large Islamic boarding schools at the turn of the century and today in West Java. Over time, native officials developed patron-client relations with clerics. These clientelistic ties divided religious leaders among themselves, which led to the fragmentation and weakness of their networks.

3 For a similar argument see Alexandre Pelletier and Jessica Soedirgo “The De-escalation of Violence and the Political Economy of Peace-Mongering: Evidence from Maluku, Indonesia.” South East Asia Research, 25, no.4 (2017): 325-341.

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In East Java, direct rule was adopted because sugar production required extensive labour mobilization and administrative and technological capacities. The bureaucracy was funded autono- mously, through land owned by villages. Native officials did not appropriate clerics’ own source of revenue and left the collection of zakat and fitrah untouched. Independent clerics were able, thanks to zakat and fitrah, to build their larger and wealthier institutions. This is why we find, at the turn of the century and today, larger pesantren in East Java. Native officials also kept an arm’s length distance with independent clerics and refrained, during the colonial time, from engaging in patron-client relations. This “laissez-faire” did not cause the fragmentation of independent clerics’ networks as they did in the case of West Java.

In the post-colonial period, these initial patterns were reproduced. They were reproduced because the initial patterns of the colonial period created political cleavages in the post-colonial period and these political cleavages generated state responses and strategies. These responses were, to a large extent, a continuation of previous state strategies. Political cleavages and state strategies of the post-colonial period thus locked these two regions into their respective path: one of weakness, competition, and fragmentation in West Java; and, one of strength and cohesion in East Java.

In West Java, patronage between state officials and some clerics led to infighting among independent clerics. The political cleavage thus opposed clerics among themselves. Intra-clerical conflict and infighting naturally failed to trigger their cohesion. They had little incentives to form a common organization despite competition from modernist Muslims and the communists. During the post-colonial era, the state maintained patronage as the main, if not the only modality of interaction with clerics in West Java. For instance, it created the Majelis Ulama West Java and co-opted clerics into the Golkar. The state faced little opposition and by the end of the New Order regime rein in clerics quite successfully in West Java.

In East Java, by contrast, there was little infighting among clerics. The political cleavage opposed clerics as a whole to competitors in the religious market, such as modernist Muslims, the communists, and later on, the Golkar. This competition forced clerics into realizing common interests, and provided incentives for closer cooperation and the consolidation and institutionalization of their networks. The state had trouble, throughout the Old and New Order regimes, to penetrate East Javanese clerical networks. In the democratic era, as discussed above, these con-

220 figurations proved all the more important. Fragmentation and competition in West Java led to radical entrepreneurship, while cohesion and lack of competition led to restraint in East Java.

The findings of this research cast doubts on the usefulness and potential success of the state’s attempts to co-opt and control religious leadership. The case of Indonesia reveals that Muslim leaders are less radical where the state did not temper with their religious authority and was able to build strong institutions. These institutions have mitigated contemporary radical mobilization in two ways: institutionalized authority has created little incentives for autonomous “self-made- man” tactics and dominant clerics in the religious market have consciously blocked access to competitors. By contrast, Muslim leaders are more radical where the state precisely tried to temper with religious authority and tame religious militancy. For instance, the state’s involvement in religious life backfired extraordinarily in West Java as we have seen. The unique “Islamic Leviathan” of West Java has created multiple exclusions and fragmented patronage networks, and a religious market characterized by competition among religious leaders. The consequences of this model are visible today: weak clerics, the proliferation of entrepreneurs, and competition created an explosive environment leading to religious radicalism.

The historical part of the dissertation contributes to our understanding of two understudied empirical puzzles in Indonesia. The first puzzle is the difference explaining radicalism in West Java and its relative absence in East Java. This puzzle is often explained in terms of culture: as if something inherent to Sundanese in West Java led to radicalism and something inherent to Java- nese in East Java led to moderation. In the West, media, and academics often explain contemporary radicalism tautologically, by pointing to radicalism in the past. Indeed, no explanation exists as to why West Java experienced repeated waves of Islamic radicalism in the past. This dissertation has gone a long way to explaining the concrete material and political foundations of these contemporary “cultural” differences. It explains repeated radicalism in West Java as an outcome of elites using Islam to further their basis of political and economic power. Sarekat Islam, Darul Islam, and contemporary radicalism are all manifestations of the fragmented, clientelistic, and agonistic nature of West Javanese society. As argued here, this has nothing to do with the Sundanese ethos, but all to do with the way the state extended its political and administrative reach in the region.

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The second puzzle it helps elucidate pertains to the development of Nahdlatul Ulama, the world’s largest Islamic organization. No explanation exists as to how Muslim clerics were able to come together and found such a large and durable Islamic organization. Reverence to kyai and the NU are generally explained as an outcome of culture as if NU could only grow in the aristocratic society of the Javanese. This dissertation has also gone a long way in identifying the concrete material and political conditions that allowed the development of NU. It suggests that NU would not exist without the colonial state’s particular relation with clerics, the taxation and land ownership structure of the region, and the competition with Modernists and Communists. The strength of NU has thus little to do with Javanese culture, and a lot to do with politics.

This dissertation also has implications for the way we study contemporary Muslim politics. While neither states nor Muslim leaders are prisoners of the past, I have shown that colonialism and state building had significant impacts on Muslim politics and movements. The study of the interaction between colonialism and Islam is only in its infancy.4 Yet, a common trait of most Muslim societies is that they have been, at one point or another, part of European colonial em- pires. Colonial powers have left indelible marks on Muslim societies, shaping and reshaping its laws and legal system (e.g., the relationship between customary law, secular law, and Islamic law), its property rights (e.g., waqf), and its cultural, religious, and family life. Colonial powers such as Great Britain, France, and the Netherland adopted an amazingly large range of policies in the Muslim world. It ranged from direct to indirect rule, and the collaboration with “good” Muslim to the repression of “bad” Muslim. Colonial powers have shaped religious authorities, controlled access to the hajj, and triggered challenges to its rule and the state through the rise of modernist Muslim movements. As this research shows, a more systematic attempt to compare and contrast the legacies of colonial states on Islam is necessary.

4 Marcel Maussen, Veit-Michael Bader, and Annelies Moors (eds.) Colonial and Post-Colonial Govern- ance of Islam: Continuities and Ruptures (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2011).

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2. Beyond Indonesia

More empirical testing and theoretical refinement are required to improve the comparative study of Muslim leaders’ radicalization. We can point future efforts in several directions. For instance, we need more data about the leaders of contemporary Islamist and Jihadist movement. While data exists about top leaders of the Taliban or Boko Haram, we know little about the mid-level and lower-level clerics who support or resist jihadi incursions in their localities. Why they join the movement and what they gain from it remains mostly unknown to this day. Anecdotal evidence suggests, however, that they do matter. The fragmentation of local Islamic authorities in Syria may have contributed to the spread of Islamist militias such as Jabhat al-Nusra and ISIS. The rise of the Taliban in Pakistan and Afghanistan’s Pashtun areas benefited from the support of the mullahs. Prior to the Taliban, mullahs had only “a secondary (if not tertiary) role to play in society” “had neither independent financial resources nor much of a political voice.”5 With the coming of the Taliban, mullahs gained ascendency over the maliks, the customary elites.

A thorough study of religious institutions, as this dissertation proposed, provides a key to understanding why some Muslim communities and its leaders have embraced radical mobilization and why others have resisted. Status and competition also produce radicalism elsewhere. Transna- tional networks and movements find fertile environments where Muslim leaders are weak, fragmented, and disorganized. As argued by Aisha Ahmad, the adoption of a global or transnational identity allows an Islamist group to “better recruit” and “expand its domestic political power across ethnic and tribal divisions without being constrained by local politics.”6 Global Islamists networks are more inclusive and less prone to fragmentation than local networks.7 In the Maghreb, many colonial and postcolonial states have tried to “annihilate in totality the autonomy of the religious field” by nationalizing and bureaucratizing the ulama. It opened the space wide for Islamists in the 1960s and 1970s. In Tunisia, for instance, the state reduced the

5 Hassan Abbas, The Taliban Revival: Violence and Extremism on the Pakistan-Afghanistan Frontier (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2014): 46

6 Aisha Ahmad, “Going Global: Islamist Competition in Contemporary Civil Wars,” Security Studies 25, no.2 (2016): 353.

7 Ibid: 362.

223 space for institutional Islam so much that the clash between new self-made Islamist elites and the state was particularly severe.8 In contrast, transnational Islamist networks have found contexts where Muslim elites are strong and institutionalized generally inhospitable. In Senegal and Mauritania, for instance, deeply entrenched Sufi brotherhoods have played a key role in “shield- ing the country against foreign extremist influence,” active throughout the western Sahel, particularly in neighbouring Mali, Niger, and Nigeria.9 Unsurprisingly, “where the brotherhoods are weak, as in eastern Senegal, is where the threat of radicalization is the highest.”10

The rise of radical Islamic mobilization in Pakistan reveals the impact of low-status clerics and competition, two of the dissertation’s main explanatory variables, on the rise of radicalism. Pa- kistan has experienced full-fledged sectarian conflicts since the early 1980s. In Pakistan too, militant sectarianism is closely related to the mushrooming of madrasahs and Islamic seminaries (darul-ulum) across Pakistan.11 With this proliferation came competition and the multiplication of low-ranking ulama, which had little more than sectarian rhetoric and violent mobilization to gain a space in the religious market. Sectarian violence in Pakistan, in terms of causality, is not comparable to Indonesia. The easy availability of automatic firearms in the context of the Sovi- et-Afghan war made sectarian conflict particularly bloody, claiming thousands of lives. From 1989 to 2018, more than 5,600 people have been killed and more 10,700 injured.12 The drivers of radicalization are similar, however.

8 See Malika Zeghal, “État et Marché des Biens Religieux. Les Voies Égyptienne et Tunisienne” Critique international, 5, no.1 (1999): 75-95.

9 ECOWAS, Overview of Religious Radicalism and the Terrorist Threat in Senegal, ECOWAS Peace and Security Report, Issue 3, May 2013, Online: https://www.files.ethz.ch/isn/168993/ECOWAS- Report-3-ENG.pdf

10 Tim Cocks, “In Senegal, Iran and Saudi Arabia vie for religious influence” Reuters, 12 May 2017; Timbuktu Institute, Facteurs de Radicalisation et Perception du Terrorisme chez les Jeunes des Zones Frontalières du Sénégal et de la Mauritanie (Dakar: Timbuktu Institute/African Center for Peace Stud- ies).

11 Seyyed Vali Reza Nasr, “The Rise of Sunni Militancy in Pakistan: The Changing Role of Islamism and the Ulama in Society and Politics.” Modern Asian Studies, 34, no.1 (2000): 142.

12 “Sectarian Violence in Pakistan” (online) http://www.satp.org/satporgtp/countries/pakistan/database/sect-killing.htm

224

The proliferation of madrasahs belonging to Deobandi, Brelwi and Ahl-i Hadith schools of Sun- ni Islam began in the mid-1970s and has continued relentlessly since then. Pakistan had between 130 and 300 madrasahs in 1947, the year of its foundation, while it has 35,000 today according to a recent report.13 In Punjab alone, the number of madrasahs went from a little over 700 in 1975 to somewhere between 14,000 and 16,000 today.14 The flow of funds from Persian Gulf monarchies and the Afghan war in the 1980s are important in accounting for the rise of madrasahs in Pakistan. Wealth among Pakistanis working in the Gulf following the rise of oil prices in the 1970s provided zakat and other contributions to madrasahs or Islamic organizations, preachers, and ulama. This windfall was used for existing madrasahs or to establish new ones. More important, however, is the military regime of General Muhammad Zia ul-Haq (1977-88) and its project of state-led Islamization of Pakistan.15 As part of that program, the government started to provide financial support to madrasahs and allowed Islamic parties and other social groups to do the same. The state also channelled important sums of zakat funds toward madrasahs in the 1980s and 1990s, benefiting thousands of them and their students.16 The Zia regime also encouraged that proliferation indirectly, by increasing opportunities for the employment of madrasah graduates in various government agencies.17

The rapid proliferation of madrasahs led to a transformation of its role and nature. Most of the “newer madrasahs that cropped up in the 1980s and 1990s […] were instituted and managed by low-ranking preachers or ulama.”18 Reliance on zakat funds from the government also reduced voluntary contributions to madrasahs and had the effect of jeopardizing madrasahs’ relations

13 Anonymous, “Report Says over 35,000 Madrassas Operating in Pakistan,” Pakistan Today, 31 July 2015, https://www.pakistantoday.com.pk/2015/07/31/report-says-over-35000-madrassas-operating-in- pakistan/

14 Idem.

15 See Seyyed Vali Reza Nasr, Islamic Leviathan: Islam and the Making of State Power (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2001).

16 Nasr, “The Rise of Sunni Militancy in Pakistan”: 145

17 Ibid: 146

18 Ibid: 149

225 with society.19 These madrasahs were less and less embedded in society. The proliferation was also indicative of a “competition between various Islamic and Islamist institutional and intellectual traditions for the control of the Islamization process [launched by the Zia regime].”20 As the number of madrasahs rose, the quality of education declined: the jihadi ideology became more important than excellence in mastering traditional scholarly subjects. In provinces close to the Afghan theatre, madrasahs militarized, combining religious education with modern military training.

As in Indonesia, sectarianism and radicalism first took off among these low-ranking ulama. In the 1980s, the end of the Soviet-Afghan war and Pakistan’s democratization transformed the political climate. As the pace of Islamization slowed, and economic recession hit the country hard, the promised jobs for (low-ranking) ulama, preachers, and recent graduates of madrasahs did not materialize. These poorly trained clerics were simply unemployable, or became rapidly “discouraged by the bleak prospects available outside the jihadi line of work.”21 Sectarianism was prompted by a “revolt of the petty ulama” as Mumtaz Ahmad calls them.22

Using the rural mosques, madrasahs, and Islamic institutions under their control, and using sectarianism as an Islamic ideology of mobilization, autonomous from the control of the higher- ranking ulama and their institutions and parties, the lower-ranking ulama began to stake out their own claim to power and wealth […].23

This new clerical class was largely Deobandi in orientation, but had only loose connections to the scholarly Deobandi establishment and was much more entrepreneurial. They refused to fol-

19 Ibid: 154.

20 Ibid: 149.

21 Joshua T. White, “Pakistan’s Islamist Frontier: Islamic Politics and U.S. Policy in Pakistan’s North- West Frontier,” in Daveed Gartenstein-Ross & Clifford D. May, The Afghanistan-Pakistan Theater (Washington, D.C.: FDD Press, 2010): 50.

22 Mumtaz Ahmad, “Revivalism, Islamization, Sectarianism and Violence in Pakistan,” In Craig Baxter and Charles H. Kennedy (eds), Pakistan 1997 (Boulder CO: Westview Press, 1998): 101, quoted in Nasr, “The Rise of Sunni Militancy in Pakistan”: 150.

23 Idem.

226 low the lead of the established ulama parties or traditional madrasahs and preferred smaller militant sectarian organizations. Low-ranking ulama used the minbar (pulpit) for political, as well as economic agenda as local and international patrons saw an interest in sectarian conflicts. Com- petition for sponsorship led sectarian groups to try to outdo each other in rhetoric and violence, leading to spiralling violence. Others became enmeshed in criminal activities such as heroin trade, extortion, kidnapping, and robbery as criminal elements started to patronize petty ulama and their madrasahs.24

Sectarianism in Pakistan did not benefit only low-ranking ulama. As explained by Muhammad Qasim Zaman, the struggle of radical groups such as Sipah-i Sahaba also helped higher-ranking ulama expand their influence without being involved in the tranches. In the course of the struggle against the Shi’a and Ahmadi, Deobandi ulama have come to eclipse other forms of religiosity within Sunnism, such as Barelawi shrine-based religiosity.25 Deobandi ulama have also increased their support among the urban middle classes, who traditionally supported lay Islamist parties such Jama’at-i Islami, and started to dominate the Islamist discourse.

As in Indonesia, contextual factors play a significant role in explaining the ultimate outcomes. Nevertheless, competition for religious authority is a driving factor in the decision of a religious entrepreneur to radicalize. Competition, in turn, depends on whether a religious market is crowded by weak religious entrepreneurs. The weaker a religious entrepreneur’s ties to followers and fellow clerics, the bigger are the potential payoffs of radicalization and radical mobilization. The cases of Indonesia and Pakistan show that radicalization is a relational dynamic rather than the sole result of ideas or ideologies.

24 See Aisha Ahmad, Jihad & Co.: Black Markets and Islamist Power (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2017).

25 Muhammad Qasim Zaman, The Ulama in Contemporary Islam: Custodians of Change (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010): 136.

227

3. Conclusion

This dissertation started with a simple question: why do Muslim leaders radicalize? More than a dissertation on radicalism, it showed both the “tragedy” and the “irony” of moderation in Islam, and in any other religion for that matter.

Indonesia illustrates perfectly well why “moderate Islam isn’t working.”26 Holding a nuanced discourse, stepping up, opposing and preventing radical leaders require and drain much more religious capital than it takes to mobilize radically. In West Java, for instance, I found that radical groups encountered little to no resistance. Herein lies the tragedy: the absence of resistance was not because there was no stock of “moderates” in West Java, but more so because they kept a low profile. They were not ready to invest that capital and risk bankruptcy. In the absence of strong networks among clerics, no one could impose barriers of entry in the market. Few religious leaders saw the emergence of the FPI as a threat, and many saw it as an opportunity. Alt- hough many clerics opposed radical groups in West Java, few dared to take a public position for fear of being isolated. “Moderates” had to navigate a mined territory, allying with high status clerics while muting overt pluralists and tolerant calls. They knew they had more to lose than to win. It was and remains excruciating. The outpricing of the moderates by the radicals is not unique to Islam or to Indonesia. For instance, I argued elsewhere that most moderate Buddhist monk kept a low profile during the rise of the anti-Muslim movement in Myanmar because the risk was too great.27 Western nations may continue to paternalistically demand “moderate” Mus- lims to step in, but this will happen only when the conditions are created for them to do so without too much risk.

The dissertation also illustrates the irony of “tolerance” and “moderation.” The case of East Java shows very well that these outcomes do not need a heartfelt ethic or a demanding moral or ethical posture. It shows that tolerance does not require, as Michael Walzer puts it, “a principled recognition that the ‘others’ have rights” or an “enthusiastic endorsement of difference.” Toler-

26 Cheryl Bernard, “‘Moderate Islam’ Isn’t Working” The National Interest, December 2015.

27 See my interview with Arnaud Vaulerin in “Birmanie: “Les Modérés ont du Mal à se faire Entendre quand les Radicaux s’Agitent,” Libération, 12 juillet 2018

228 ance is perhaps more easily achieved when it is more minimal, such as a “resigned acceptance of difference for the sake of peace” or a “passive relaxed, benignly indifferent [attitude] to difference.”28 When looked at closely, East Java is not the most tolerant society. Kyai have systematically sought to prevent any competitors from entering their market and from questioning their authority. They have opposed pluralism and freedom of expression in many ways. In the past as today, they have tried to curtail the emergence of modernist and Salafi Islam, now of Shia and Ahmadiyah. In 1965 and 1966, they went as far as killing between half to one million members of the communist party. As Jeremy Menchik puts it, many Muslim leaders are certain- ly tolerant but not liberal.29 In the post-transition period, anti-competitive tactics have ironically led to fewer instances of violent and extralegal mobilization. What appears like tolerance from the outside would perhaps be more accurately described as the “silence” or the “restraint” of the radicals. One of the main takeaway points from this research, and perhaps its most sobering as- pect, is that tolerance does not require tolerant people, but the right set of institutions to silence the radicals.

28 This continuum of tolerance is from Michael Walzer, On Toleration (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997).

29 Jeremy Menchik, Islam and Democracy in Indonesia: Tolerance Without Liberalism (Cambridge, MA: Cambridge University Press, 2016).

229

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2. Newspaper Articles

“Profil” I.P.N.U. website, http://www.ipnu.or.id/profil/ (consulted 27 April 2018).

Anonymous, “Banser Bubarkan Pengajian MTA” [“Banser Disband a MTA Seminar”], Radar Banyumas, 3 June 2015, https://radarbanyumas.co.id/banser-bubarkan-pengajian-mta/

Anonymous, “Berita Dewan MIAI,” Majalah MIAI, No. 19, 15 August 1943.

Anonymous, “Didatangi Banser, Pimpinan dan Anggota MTA Kabur” [“Visited by Banser, Leader and Member of MTA Disband”], NU Online, 23 Agustus 2013, http://www.nu.or.id/post/read/46600/didatangi-banser-pimpinan-dan-anggota-mta-kabur

Anonymous, “Diserbu Santri NU, Markas FPI di Cirebon Dijaga Ketat Polisi” [Invaded by NU Santri, the FPI Headquarters in Cirebon is Tightly Guarded by the Police”], Detik News, 2 June 2008, https://news.detik.com/berita/948845/diserbu-santri-nu-markas-fpi-di- cirebon-dijaga-ketat-polisi

Anonymous, “Forum Ulama Tuntut Pemerintah Bubarkan Ahmadiyah” [“The Ulama Forum Demands the Government to Disband Ahmadiyah”], Suara Surabaya, 13 May 2010.

Anonymous, “Gubernur Jatim Keluarkan SK Larangan Aktivitas Ahmadiyah” [“East Java Gov- ernor Issues a Decree Prohibiting Ahmadiyah’s Activities”] Berita Satu, 28 February 28 2011, http://id.beritasatu.com/home/gubernur-jatim-keluarkan-sk-larangan-aktivitas- ahmadiyah/6629

Anonymous, “KH Ma'ruf Amin: Paham Liberal Masih Ada di NU” [KH Ma'ruf Amin: Liberal- ism Still Exists in NU”], NU Online, 09 Desember 2007, http://www.nu.or.id/post/read/10749/kh-ma039ruf-amin-paham-liberal-masih-ada-di-nu.

Anonymous, “Para Ulama Keluhkan Liberalisme di Kalangan Anak Muda NU” [“Ulema Com- plains that Liberalism Exists Among NU Youth”], NU Online, 27 Juli 2006, http://www.nu.or.id/post/read/5057/para-ulama-keluhkan-liberalisme-di-kalangan-anak- muda-nu.

Anonymous, “Radikalisme Tantangan Terberat NU di Jawa Barat” [“Radicalism is the Most Important Challenge to NU in West Java”], Kabar Priangan, 11 October 2016, https://kabarpriangan.co.id/%E2%80%8Bradikalisme-tantangan-terberat-nu-di-jawa- barat/

Anonymous, “Report Says Over 35,000 Madrassas Operating in Pakistan,” Pakistan Today, https://www.pakistantoday.com.pk/2015/07/31/report-says-over-35000-madrassas- operating-in-pakistan/

Anonymous, “Ribuan Santri di Bogor Siap Serbu FPI” [Thousands of Santri in Bogor Ready to Attack FPI”], NU Online, 3 June 2008, http://www.nu.or.id/post/read/12608/ribuan- santri-di-bogor-siap-serbu-fpi

251

Anonymous, “Sejumlah Ulama Sepuh Minta Ahmadiyah Dibubarkan” [“A Number of Influen- tial Ulama Request the Dissolution of Ahmadiyah”], NU Online, 17 August 2005 http://www.nu.or.id/post/read/3408/sejumlah-ulama-sepuh-minta-ahmadiyah- dibubarkan;

Anonymous, “Tolak Selamatan, Ratusan Warga Nyaris Bentrok dengan Pengikut Aliran MTA” [“"Rejecting a Selamatan, Hundreds of Residents Almost Clashed with Followers of the MTA”], DetikNews, 15 January 2015, https://news.detik.com/berita-jawa- timur/2468137/tolak-selamatan-ratusan-warga-nyaris-bentrok-dengan-pengikut-aliran- mta

Anonymous, “Ulama Madura Berseberangan dengan Gus Dur Soal Ahmadiyah” [“Maduranese Ulama Oppose Gus Dur on the Issue of Ahmadiyah”], NU Online, 31 August 2005 http://www.nu.or.id/post/read/3466/ulama-madura-berseberangan-dengan-gus-dur-soal- ahmadiyah.

Anonymous, “Warga NU dan FPI Nyaris Bentrok di Cirebon” [“NU residents and FPI almost clashed in Cirebon”], Kompas, 1 June 2008, https://tekno.kompas.com/read/2008/06/01/23393672/warga.nu.dan.fpi.nyaris.bentrok.di. cirebon

Anonymous, ”Eksistensi Brigade Taliban di Kab. Tasikmalaya Sebatas Dakwah Islamiyyah” [Taliban Brigade in the Regency of Tasikmalaya limits itself to Islamic Da'wah”], Nu- ansa Post, 1 January 2012.

Anonymous. “Gus Mus: Media Online Dikuasai Orang Tak Paham Agama” [“Gus Mus: Online Media Used by People Who do not Understanding Religion”], Tempo (2015) https://nasional.tempo.co/read/news/2015/04/01/173654548/gus-mus-media-online- dikuasai-orang-tak-paham-agama.

Anonymous. “MUI Sampang Keluarkan Fatwa Sesat Syiah yang Dibawa Tajul Muluk” [Sam- pang’s Ulema Council adopt a Fatwa declaring Syiah led by Tajul Muluk to be heretical], 3 January 2012, https://www.hidayatullah.com/berita/nasional/read/2012/01/03/55696/mui-sampang- keluarkan-fatwa-sesat-syiah-yang-dibawa-tajul-muluk.html

Anonymous. “PMII Tersebar Se-Indonesia” [“PMII spreads throughout Indonesia”], NU Online, 1 May 2016, http://nusurabaya.or.id/2016/05/01/pmii-jatim-terbesar-se-indonesia/

Batubara, Herianto. “Habib Rizieq Sebut Massa Aksi 2 Desember 7,5 Juta Orang, Begini Ana- lisisnya” [Habib Rizieq Claims there were 7.5 Million People December at the 2 Mass Action, Here's the Analysis], Detik News, 5 December 2016, https://news.detik.com/berita/d-3363317/habib-rizieq-sebut-massa-aksi-2-desember-75- juta-orang-begini-analisisnya

Bernard, Cheryl. “‘Moderate Islam’ Isn’t Working” The National Interest, December 2015, Online: https://nationalinterest.org/feature/moderate-islam-isnt-working-14693

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Bisri, Musthofa. “NU Sebut Syiah di Sampang Sesat” [NU Calls Shia in Sampang Misguided] Tempo, 3 January 2012, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/375151/nu-sebut-syiah-di- sampang-sesat.

Boediwardhana, Wahyoe and Bagus BT Saragih, “One killed in Jember communal clash” The Jakarta Post, 13 September 2013, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2013/09/13/one- killed-jember-communal-clash.html

Cochrane, Joe. “From Indonesia, A Muslim Challenge to the Ideology of the Islamic State,” New York Times, 26 November 2015, https://www.nytimes.com/2015/11/27/world/asia/indonesia-islam-nahdlatul-ulama.html

Cocks, Tim. “In Senegal, Iran and Saudi Arabia Vie for Religious Influence” Reuters, 12 May 2017, https://www.reuters.com/article/us-senegal-saudi-iran-insight/in-senegal-iran-and- saudi-arabia-vie-for-religious-influence-idUSKBN1880JY

Erdy Nasrul, “Ini Dia 10 Provinsi yang Banyak Masjidnya” [“Here are the 10 Provinces with the Many Mosques”], Republika, 30 Sept 2014, https://www.republika.co.id/berita/dunia- islam/islam-nusantara/14/09/30/ncpidw-ini-dia-10-provinsi-yang-banyak-masjidnya

Faturahman. “Tolak FPI, Warga Dayak Kumpul di Bundaran Palangkaraya” [Refusing FPI, Dayak Residents Gather at Palangkaraya Roundabout] Tribun News, 11 February 2012, http://www.tribunnews.com/regional/2012/02/11/tolak-fpi-warga-dayak-kumpul-di- bundaran-palangkaraya

Fikri, Ahmad. “Ormas Islam Bandung Dukung FPI” [“Bandung’s Islamic Mass Organizations Support FPI”] Tempo, 17 February 2012, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/384695/ormas- islam-bandung-dukung-fpi

Hadi, Syamsul. “FPI Jember Membubarkan Diri” [“FPI in Jember Dissolves Itself] Kompas, 3 June 2008, https://nasional.kompas.com/read/2008/06/03/15333825/fpi.jember.membubarkan.diri.

Harsaputra, Indra. “FPI intolerable: NU wings,” The Jakarta Post, 12 June 2013, http://www.thejakartapost.com/news/2013/06/12/fpi-intolerable-nu-wings.html;

Hasbuan, Roy. “Direkomendasi 25 Cabang, Gus Abid Siap Pimpin Ansor Jatim” [“Recom- mended by 25 Branches, Gus Abid is Ready to Lead Ansor in East Java”], Barometer Jatim, 21 April 2018, https://www.barometerjatim.com/direkomendasi-25-cabang-gus- abid-siap-pimpin-ansor-jatim/

Hidayat, Syarif. “Ketua PW Pemuda Persis Jabar Dukung FPI dan Muslim Jakarta Lengserkan Ahok” [“Head of Persis in West Java Supports FPI and Muslims in Jakarta Dismisses Ahok”] VOA, 5 December 2014, http://www.voa- islam.com/read/ulama/2014/12/05/34309/ketua-pw-pemuda-persis-jabar-dukung-fpi- dan-muslim-jakarta-lengserkan-ahok/#sthash.cpJH4gwG.dpbs

253

Hidayat, Taofik. “Jagoan Banser NU Tantang Habib Rizieq Duel” [“NU Banser Challenges Habib Rizieq Duel”], Okezone, 3 June 2008, https://news.okezone.com/read/2008/06/03/1/115299/jagoan-banser-nu-tantang-habib- rizieq-duel

Manzoor, Sarfaz. “Can we Drop the Term ‘Moderate Muslim’? It’s Meaningless” The Guardi- an, 16 March 2015, Online: https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2015/mar/16/moderate-muslim-devout- liberal-religion

Muttaqin. “PW Muhammadiyah Jabar Tegaskan Dukung FPI Kecam GMBI” [“Muhammadiyah in West Java affirms support for FPI and condemn GMBI”] Arrahmah, 14 January 2017, https://www.arrahmah.com/2017/01/14/pw-muhammadiyah-jabar-dukung-fpi-kecam- gmbi/

MWN, “300 African Ulemas Gather in Fez to Promote Values of ‘Moderate Islam’,” Morocco World News, 7 December 2017

Prasetyio, Doni. “Banser Datang Pengajian MTA Bubar” [“Banser Comes and dissolve a MTA Recitation”] Tribun News, 22 January 2014, http://surabaya.tribunnews.com/2014/01/22/banser-datang-pengajian-mta-bubar.

Prastyo, Eddy. “FPI Surabaya Dihidupkan Kembali” [“FPI in Surabaya is Revived”] Suara Su- rabaya, 30 Juni 2008

Prastyo, Eddy. “Gus Ipul: Benih-benih Intoleransi Beragama di Jatim Menguat” [“Gus Ipul: The Seeds of Religious Intolerance in East Java strengthen”], Suara Surabaya, 23 Desember 2010.

Prastyo, Eddy. “Lebarkan Sayap di Jatim, FPI Targetkan Tutup Dolly” [“Spreading its Wings in East Java, FPI Targets Dolly”], Suara Surabaya, 23 Desember 2010.

Prastyo, Eddy. “Tetap Tolak Ahmadiyah Tanpa Toleransi” [“Ahmadiyah is Still Rejected With- out Tolerance”], Suara Surabaya, 30 Juni 2008

Prihandoko. “NU: Syiah Tidak Sesat, Hanya Berbeda” [“NU: Syiah is not Misguided, Only Dif- ferent”],Tempo, 29 August 2012, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/426145/nu-syiah-tidak- sesat-hanya-berbeda

Putra, Erik Purnama. “Fatwa MUI Jatim: Ajaran Syiah Sesat” [“MUI East Java’s Fatwa: Shia Teachings are Misguided”], Republika, 29 November 2015, https://www.republika.co.id/berita/dunia-islam/islam-nusantara/15/11/29/nykugi334- fatwa-mui-jatim-ajaran-syiah-sesat

Putri, Nita Nurdiani and Kendi Setiawan. “Miliki 230 Cabang, PB PMII Optimis Tangkal Radikalisme di Kampus” [“With 230 branches, PMII Central Board is Optimistic it Can Block Radicalism on Campus”], Suara Nahdlatul Ulama, 2 October 2017,

254

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Sadzali, Ahmad. “Kiai Subadar: NU Harus Bersih dari Jaringan Islam Liberal” [“Kiai Subadar: NU Must Be Clean from the Liberal Islam Network”], Hidayatullah, 26 November 2004, https://www.hidayatullah.com/berita/nasional/read/2004/11/26/1702/kyai-subadar-nu- harus-bersih-dari-jaringan-islam-liberal.html;

Sadzali, Ahmad. “Ulama Jatim Tolak JIL Masuk Pengurus NU” [East Java Ulema Refuse that the Liberal Islamic Network Enters NU's Board”], Hidayatullah, 1 December 2004, https://www.hidayatullah.com/berita/nasional/read/2004/12/01/1707/ulama-jatim-tolak- jil-masuk-pengurus-nu.html

Safitri, Inge Klara. “Banser, FPI Involved in Clash,” Tempo, 19 April 2017, https://en.tempo.co/read/news/2017/04/19/055867301/Banser-FPI-Involved-in-Clash

Sarhindi, Irfan L. “NU Kultural, NU Struktural” [“Cultural NU, Structural NU”] Detik News, 10 November 2017, https://news.detik.com/kolom/3721416/nu-kultural-fpi-struktural

Savitri, Isma. “Hanya MUI Jawa Timur yang Teken Fatwa Syiah Sesat” [“Only the East Java- nese MUI signed the Fatwa Against Shia”] Tempo, 30 August 2012, https://nasional.tempo.co/read/426499/hanya-mui-jawa-timur-yang-teken-fatwa-syiah- sesat

Soetantini, Noer. “MUI Minta Semua Pihak Menahan Diri” [“MUI Asks All Parties to Restrain Themselves”] Suara Surabaya, 04 Juni 2008

Sofyan, Qodriansyah. “FPI Surabaya Membubarkan Diri” [“FPI Surabaya disband itself”] Lipu- tan6, 4 June 2008

Sukma, Fajar. “MUI Kota Tasik Himbau Tidak Ada Sweeping Selama Ramadan” [“MUI Tasikmalaya Demands No Sweeping During Ramadan”] Ayo Tasik, May 24, 2017 http://ayotasik.com/read/20170524/122/321/mui-kota-tasik-himbau-tidak-ada-sweeping- selama-ramadan

Sumaktoyo, Nathanael. “Measuring Religious Intolerance Across Indonesian Provinces” New Mandala, 1 June 2018, http://www.newmandala.org/measuring-religious-intolerance- across-indonesian-provinces/

Usamah, Muhammad. “Kiai se-Jawa Madura Desak Pembubaran Ahmadiyah” [“Kiai in Java Madura Urge the Dissolution of Ahmadiyah”], Hidayatullah, 12 February 2011 https://www.hidayatullah.com/berita/nasional/read/2011/02/12/46509/kyai-se-jawa- madura-desak-pembubaran-ahmadiyah.html

Varagur, Krithika. “Saudi Arabia Quietly Spreads its Brand of Puritanical Islam in Indonesia” VOA News, 17 January 2017, https://www.voanews.com/a/saudi-arabia-quietly-spreads- its-brand-of-puritanical-islam-in-indonesia-/3679287.html (consulted on July 23, 2018).

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Wahid Institute, FPI Cs Meresahkan, Massa NU dan Prodemokrasi Demo Mabes Polri, Online, 30 May 2006,http://wahidinstitute.org/v1/Agenda/Detail/?id=220/hl=id/FPI_Cs_Meresahkan_Ma ssa_NU_Dan_Prodemokrasi_Demo_Mabes_Polri

Waskita, Ferdinand. “Habib Rizieq: NU adalah Rumahnya FPI” [“"Habib Rizieq: NU is the Home of FPI”] TribunNews, February 27th, 2011.