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Home , Ali Murtopo, Bogor Palace, Dwifungsi, General (Pakistan), Indonesian Air Force, Indonesian Army

The Professionalisation of the Indonesian Military

Robertus Anugerah Purwoko Putro

A thesis submitted to the University of New South Wales In fulfilment of the requirements for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy

School of Humanities and Social Sciences July 2012

STATEMENTS

Originality Statement

I hereby declare that this submission is my own work and to the best of my knowledge it contains no materials previously published or written by another person, or substantial proportions of material which have been accepted for the award of any other degree or diploma at UNSW or any other educational institution, except where due acknowledgement is made in the thesis. Any contribution made to the research by others, with whom I have worked at UNSW or elsewhere, is explicitly acknowledged in the thesis. I also declare that the intellectual content of this thesis is the product of my own work, except to the extent that assistance from others in the project's design and conception or in style, presentation and linguistic expression is acknowledged.

Copyright Statement

I hereby grant to the University of New South Wales or its agents the right to archive and to make available my thesis or dissertation in whole or in part in all forms of media, now or hereafter known. I retain all property rights, such as patent rights. I also retain the right to use in future works (such as articles or books) all or part of this thesis or dissertation.

Authenticity Statement

I certify that the Library deposit digital copy is a direct equivalent of the final officially approved version of my thesis. No emendation of content has occurred, and if there are any minor variations in formatting, they are the result of the conversion of digital format.

Signed …………………………………….

ABSTRACT

This thesis examines the factors influencing the professionalisation of the Indonesian military. It looks beyond the ‘civil-military relations’ paradigm of conventional analysis, focusing instead on the cultural and historical legacies that have instilled a particular system of values in the military. In turn, these values are reinforced by the military’s educational and professional experience.

It inquires into the legacy of political and social upheavals in 1965, when state power became heavily concentrated in the hands of the Indonesian . The post- 1965 regime buttressed its power by subordinating the Indonesian military and police to the supremacy of the . In turn, the Army engaged in a process of cultural and historical self-legitimisation in order to cement its authority within the armed forces as well as within Indonesian society more generally. The thesis explores how concepts of what constituted Indonesian military professionalism were redefined and re-engineered according to certain values defined by the Army.

The thesis shows how these historical and cultural legacies weigh heavily on contemporary attempts to reform the Indonesian military, creating obstacles to its professionalisation. It focuses on the educational process as a ‘cultural centre’ from which military professionalism begins. Military education has become an arena in which ’ cognitive schema, professional knowledge, and traditions are constructed. It is an arena where culture and values are invented, inculcated, and preserved across generations, especially for the corps. The thesis argues that prospects for Indonesian military professionalism remain incarcerated within a self- created historical legacy according to myths that the Indonesian Army has itself invented. It shows how the combination of historical legacy and cultural practices has produced a long-term crisis of professionalism.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

While the responsibility of the content is mine, I have been fortunate to have received gracious assistance from many people, despite naming only a few, in completing this thesis. It was Dr Alan Stephens who helped me enter the doctoral program at the University of New South Wales (UNSW) . Thus, my special thanks begin with him. Next, my grateful thanks go to my supervisor, Associate Professor Clinton Fernandes. I learned and learned, I grew, and remain indebted to Clinton, whose relentless help and guidance made this work possible. He encouraged me to think in new ways and provided valuable guidance throughout most of my candidacy, especially when frustration struck me on this erratic intellectual journey. This thesis would never have seen the light of day without generous financial support and sponsorship from AusAID-Australian Leadership Awards (ALA) for which I am very thankful. Special thanks also go to the TNI Headquarters and the Ministry of Defence that gave me an opportunity to carry out postgraduate study in . I also wish to express my gratitude to the successive Defence Attachés of the Republic of in Canberra, AFM Kuswantoro, AFM Modjo Basuki and AFM B Widjanarko whose support has been equally important during my four year stay in Queanbeyan, New South Wales. The School of Humanities and Social Sciences (HASS) has been a very congenial research home that made my research pleasurable. I am indebted to many people at HASS, but just to mention a few, who provided me with hospitality and administrative support, especially Professor David Lovell, Bernadette McDermott, Jo Muggleton, Shirley Ramsay, Marilyn Anderson-Smith, and Dr Craig Stockings. My thanks also go to Dr Minako Sakai, Dr Edwin Jurriens, Ida Nurhayati, Tony Kitting, Paul Tickell, Kerry Neale, Deanne Gibbon, and Tomohito Kimura. At the UNSW Canberra Research Office, I wish to thank especially Elvira Berra and Danica Robinson for their kind assistance I have received during my candidacy. My sincere gratitude also goes to the following: Professor S Budhisantoso of the , AM Dr Rio Mendung Thalieb, AM Eris Herryanto, AVM Erry Biatmoko, BRIGEN Suwanto, AFM A Sunaryo, and a number of Indonesian middle officers (): Age Wiraksono, Sri Subijarso, Penny Radjendra, Dedy Ghazi Elsyaf, Wajariman, Made Susila, Andi Kustoro, Djoko Tjahjono, Bambang Wijanarko, Taufan Gestoro, Anton Santosa, Sri Pulung, Hendrikus Joko Rianto, Bambang Pramushinto, Ishak Setyadi Sjam, M Fadjar Sumarijadji, and Widyargo Ikoputra. I also wish to thank Nuniek N Irianti, a former staff at the Australian Embassy Defence Section who assisted me in seeking for an AusAID scholarship, and Lydia Randall who proof-read this thesis. I would also like to make special mention of my Indonesian friends and relatives: Pakde Yama, Bude Mar, Dimas Nugroho, Sudi and Asti Mungkasi, Budi Hernawan, Bayu Dardias, Rahman Abdurrohman, Dr Hendra Gunawan, Najib Kailani, M Falikul Isbah, Fahlesa Munabari, Mahardhika Pratama, Irman Hermadi, Sheila Tobing, Nurhadi Siswanto, and ICC-Canberra members who brightened my difficult days with warm friendship and humour. Thanks to all of you for encouraging me and for the practical help along the way. Finally, I am most grateful for all blessings and tremendous support from my family members. Above all, my heartfelt thanks go to my beloved family, my wise and beautiful wife Monika Indriana Retno Dewati, my son Daniel Wenzelando Purwoko and my daughter Agnes Clarissa Purwoko for their patience, continuing prayers, support and encouragement. Their love has inspired me to complete this difficult study. To my parents and parents in law, I remain indebted for their enduring prayers throughout my life. I also wish to thank my extended family for their support and assistance during my study.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

STATEMENTS ABSTRACT ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS TABLE OF CONTENTS GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS 1. INTRODUCTION Research Methodology and Significance of the Study 8 Structure of the Thesis 12 2. A REVIEW OF THE LITERATURE 14 3. 1965: ABOUT TURN 25 Integrating the Indonesian Armed Forces (ABRI): AnAttitude Adjustment 37 ABRI and Popular Mass Depoliticisation 43 ‘Army-isation’ of the Indonesian Armed Forces 63 The ‘Army-isation’ofIndonesian: Cultural and Historic Tactics 73 Rewriting and Controlling Indonesia’s History 76 The End of New Order and ABRI’s 105 4. PROFESSIONAL OFFICER EDUCATION: MILITARY (TNI) ACADEMY 110 Indonesian Military Officer Education  A Historical Overview 111 Selection of TNI Academy Cadets 123 ‘Army-isation’ of the Officer Education Philosophy 131 Life in Cadet Corps: Traditions 151 Cadet as a Student 170 Knowledge as Temporary Information 182 Pragmatic Character of the Academy 187 5. HIGHER EDUCATION FOR MILITARY LEADERS 200 6. MILITARY (IN)DISCIPLINE AND IMPUNITY 258 Military (In)discipline: Violation of the International Humanitarian Law in 1975-1999 262 A Culture of Impunity: An Obstacle to Professionalisation of the TNI 278 7. CONCLUSION 298 BIBLIOGRAPHY 319 APPENDIX 332 GLOSSARY AND ABBREVIATIONS

AAHU Australian Army History Unit AAL Akademi Angkatan Laut (Navy Academy) AAU Akademi Angkatan Udara ( Academy) ABRI Angkatan Bersenjata Republic Indonesia (Indonesian Armed Forces) AD Angkatan Darat (Army) ADFA Australian Defence Force Academy AKABRI Akademi Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (Academy of the Indonesian Armed Forces) AKMIL Akademi Militer () AKPOL Akademi Kepolisian ( Police Academy) AL Angkatan Laut (Navy) AMD ABRI Masuk Desa (Armed Forces Enters the Village) AMN Akademi Militer Nasional (National Military Academy), see AKMIL ANTARA Indonesia national news agency ASEAN Association of Southeast Asian Nations AU Angkatan Udara (Air Force) Babinsa Bintara Pembina Desa (Village Guidance NCO) Bakin Badan Koordinasi Intelijen (State Intelligence Coordinating Agency) Bapak literally ‘father’, a respectful term of address for men BTI Barisan Tani Indonesia (Indonesian Farmers’ Front) C4ISR Command, Control, Communications, Computers, Intelligence, Surveillance and Reconnaissance CADEK Catur Dharma Eka Karma (Four Devotions for One Outcome) CAR Canadian Airborne Regiment CAVR Comissão de Acolhimento, Verdade e Reconciliação (Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation) CBC Canadian Broadcasting Corporation CIA Central Intelligence Agency CNRT Conselho Nacional de Resistência Timorense (National Council of Timorese Resistance) COIN Counter Insurgency CSIS Center for Strategic and International Studies Dandim Komandan Kodim ( Commander) Dephankam Departemen Pertahanan dan Keamanan (Department of Defence and Security) DI Darul (House of Islam) Dwifungsi literally ‘dual-function’, the dual military and political functions of the Indonesian Armed Forces G30S Gerakan 30 September (The Thirtieth September Movement), see Gestapu) GAM Gerakan Merdeka () GBHN Garis-garis Besar Haluan Negara (Broad Outlines of State Policy) Gestapu Gerakan September Tiga Puluh (The September 30th Movement), see G30S Functional Groups GTM Gerakan Tutup Mulut (literally ‘tight-lipped movement’) HAM Hak Asasi Manusia () Hankam Pertahanan dan Keamanan (Defence and Security) HATAG of Hambatan Ancaman Tantangan dan Gangguan (Obstacle Threat Challenge and Disturbance), see OBSTACLED ICTJ International Center for Transitional Justice IHL International Humanitarian Law Juang abbreviation of Kejuangan, see Kejuangan Kejuangan ‘fighting spirit’ or ‘the state of struggle’ a term used by the military to refer to values of those who fought in the independence struggle Kejuangan literally ‘state of struggle’ KIW Koninklijke Institut voor Wilemsoord (Royal Navy Academy) KKN Korupsi, Kolusi, dan Nepotisme (Corruption, Collusion, and Nepotism) KMA Koninklijke Militaire Academie (the Royal Military Academy) KNIL Koninklijk Nederlandsch-Indisch Leger (Royal East Indies Army) Kodam Komando Daerah Militer (Military Area Command) Kodim Komando Distrik Militer (Military District Command) Komnas HAM Komisi Nasional Hak Asasi Manusia (National Commission on Human Rights) KontraS Komisi untuk Orang Hilang dan Korban Tindak Kekerasan (Commission for Missing Persons and Victims of Violence) Komando Pasukan Khusus (Army ) Komando Operasi Keamanan dan Ketertiban (Operational Comand for the Restoration of Security and Order) KPP-HAM Komisi Penyelidikan Pelanggaran Hak Asasi Manusia (Commission of Inquiry on Human Rights Violations) KUHP Kitab Undang-Undang Hukum Pidana (Indonesia’s Criminal Code) KUHPM Kitab Undang-undang Hukum Pidana Militer (Indonesian Military Criminal Code) Lemhanas Lembaga Ketahanan Nasional (National Resilience Institute) Listus Penelitian Khusus (Special Investigation) LOAC law of armed conflict MA Militaire Acadamie (Military Academy) MEF Minimum Essential Forces ML Militaire Luchtvaart (Air Force) MOOTW Other Than War MPR Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat (People’s Consultative Assembly) MPRS Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat Sementara (Provisional People’s Consultative Assembly) NGO Non-Governmental Organisation NKRI Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia (Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia) NMA National Military Academy, see AMN, AKMIL NU Nahdlatul Ulama (literally ‘Revival of Islamic Scholars’) OBSTACLED acronym of Obstacle Threat Challenge and Disturbance, see HATAG Opsus Operasi Khusus () ORBA Orde Baru New Order, the name of the regime which governed Indonesia from 1966 -1998 ORLA Orde Lama ( government which ruled Indonesia before 1966) Pangab Angkatan Bersenjata (Comander of the Indonesian) Armed Forces) PDI Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (Indonesian Democratic Party) Perjuangan literally ‘struggle’ PETA Pembela Tanah Air (Voluntary Army of Defenders of the Fatherland). PKI Partai Komunis Indonesia (Indonesian Communist Party) PMKRI Perhimpunan Mahasiswa Katolik Republik Indonesia (Association of the Catholic Students of the Republic of Indonesia) POLRI Kepolisian Republik Indonesia (Indonesian National Police) PPP Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (United Development Party) PRD Partai Rakyat Demokratik (People’s Democratic Party) Pusintelstrat Pusat Intelijen Strategis (Strategic Intelligence Centre) RAK Ruang, Alat dan Kondisi (Container, Means and Condition) Sapta Marga ’s Oath Sekber-Golkar Sekretariat Bersama Golongan Karya (Joint Secretariat of Functional Groups) SEKKAU Sekolah Komando Kesatuan Angkatan Udara (Air Force Unit- Commanding School) SESKO Sekolah Staff dan Komando (Command and Staff College) SESKO TNI Sekolah Staf dan Komando TNI (TNI Joint Command and Staff College) SESKOAD Sekolah Staf dan Komando Angkatan Darat (Army Command and Staff College) SESKOAL Sekolah Staf dan Komando Angkatan Laut (Navy Command and Staff College) SESKOAU Sekolah Staf dan Komando Angkatan Udara (Air Force Command and Staff College) SHARP Standard for Harassment and Racism Prevention SMTA Sekolah Menengah Tingkat Atas (Senior Secondary High School) Sumpah Prajurit Soldier’s Pledge Surat Perintah Sebelas Maret (The Letter of Instruction of 11 March) TBO Tenaga Bantuan Operasi (Operation Assistant) TII Tentara Islam Indonesia (Islamic Army of Indonesia) TKR Tentara Keamanan Rakyat (People’s Security Army) TNI Tentara Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian Military) TUC Tri Ubaya Cakti (Three Sacred Promises) UN UNGA United Nations General Assembly UNSC United Nations Security Council UNSW University of New South Wales UNSW@ADFA University of New South Wales at ADFA, also known as UNSW Canberra USMA Military Academy UUD 1945 Undang-Undang Dasar 1945 (Constitution of 1945) Yonif Batalyon Infantri ( )

Chapter One

INTRODUCTION

More than three decades ago, a perceptive analyst of civil-military relations observed that there was a „trade-off between general insight and narrow fact, between the forest and the trees.‟1 This dilemma, which is perhaps inherent in all science, and particularly in social science, holds true in contemporary attempts to understand the Indonesian military. How professional has the TNI (Tentara Nasional

Indonesia)2 been? In answering such a question, a number of scholars3 of Indonesian politics have advocated an approach which examines the dynamics of civil-military relations to portray the officer corps‟ professionalism. In doing so, attempts were frequently made to correlate the officer corps‟ professionalism with the character of civil-military relations. This is, of course, not surprising because the concept of

„professionalism‟ has become a key factor in understanding civil-military relations.

Understandably, this is because the language and concepts of military professionalism have largely been based on Samuel Huntington‟s seminal work, The

Soldier and the State, first published in 1957.4

According to Huntington „the existence of the officer corps as a professional body gives a unique cast to the modern problems of civil-military relations‟.5 He

1 Timothy J. Colton, „The Party-Military Connection: A Participatory Model‟, in Dale R. Herspring and Ivan Volgyes (eds.), Civil-Military Relations in Communist Systems, Westview Press, Boulder, Colorado, 1978, pp. 53-75, p. 53. 2 The name of the TNI (Indonesian military) has been changed since its inception in 1945 from TKR (Tentara Keamanan Rakyat/People‟s Security Army) to TNI (Tentara Nasional Indonesia/ National Army) to ABRI (Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia/ Indonesian Armed Forces) and to TNI again in 1999. Historical review discussing the development of the TNI can be found in almost all writings on the Indonesian military, some of which feature in later chapters of this thesis. 3 Some of which will be discussed in the next chapter. 4 See Samuel P. Huntington, The soldier and the State: The Theory and Politics of Civil-military Relations, Harvard University Press, Cambridge, Massachusetts, 1957. 5 Ibid., p. 7. argues that the propensity of the military to involve itself in the political realm is largely dependent on its level of professionalism. He posited that „the participation of military officers in politics undermines their professionalism, curtailing their professional competence, dividing the profession against itself, and substituting extraneous values for professional values‟. Thus, the professional military men „must remain neutral politically‟.6

In Huntington‟s view, professional military men must stay out of politics because it becomes „impossible to be an expert in the management of violence for external defense and at the same time to be skilled in either politics and statecraft or the use of force for the maintenance of internal order‟.7 Thus, as Huntington argues, the military should be under „objective civilian control‟.8 In the current Indonesian democratic system, this so-called „objective civilian control‟ is perhaps best replaced with „democratic control‟. According to Huntington, the best way to achieve this

„objective civilian control‟ is by maintaining a high level of military professionalism or „by militarizing the military, making them the tool of the state‟.9 Indeed, this is to be done by maximising the pillars of the military‟s professionalism: „expertise‟,

„corporateness‟, and „social responsibility‟.10

Although Huntington‟s fundamental notion of civil-military relations has since undergone adjustments by other theorists  which subsequently leads what is really meant by military professionalism to remain unclear  the term

„professionalism‟ remains functioning as an explanatory variable in understanding civil-military relations. Alfred Stepan‟s work on the changing pattern of civil-

6 Huntington, The Soldier and the State, p. 71. 7 Ibid., p. 32. 8 Ibid., p. 83. 9 Ibid. 10 Ibid., pp. 9-10. 2 military relations in South America in 1960s, for example, constitutes a revision of

Huntington‟s theory of civil-military relations. Stepan found that professional military establishments, like the Brazilian and Peruvian militaries, got involved in domestic politics. Although Stepan found fault with Huntington‟s ideas, he did not dispute that military „professionalism‟ remains a crucial variable in understanding civil-military relations.11 In his other work, Stepan offers a terminology of military‟s

„new‟ professionalism, which refers to military‟s involvement in internal security and development, to replace that of Huntington‟s „old‟ professionalism  that is that professional military men must stay away from participation in politics.12

It is not surprising, then, that two decades later Ian MacFarling categorised the Indonesian military‟s socio-political duties during the New Order era as „an advanced form of “new” professionalism‟.13 There have been a number of reasons why the Indonesian military had been deeply involved in Indonesia‟s socio-political realm, one of which was suggested by Ulf Sundhaussen. His work, The Road to

Power14, has been frequently cited by other scholars analysing the Indonesian military‟s political behaviour. Sundhaussen‟s portrayal of the Indonesian military‟s direct involvement in politics from 1945 to 1967 is largely based on Finer‟s work on military intervention in politics.

Finer offers a set of generalisations on why the military intervenes in politics.

According to Finer, military intervention in the political realm results from a confluence of the factors of „disposition‟ (internal) and „opportunity‟ (external) to

11 Alfred Stepan, The Military in Politics: Changing Patterns in Brazil, Princeton University Press, Princeton, New Jersey, 1971, pp. 61-2. 12 Alfred Stepan, „The New Professionalism of Internal Warfare and Military Role Expansion‟, in Alfred Stepan (ed.), Authoritarian Brazil: Origins, Policies and Future, Yale University Press, New Haven, 1976, pp. 47-65. 13 Ian MacFarling, The Dual Function of the Indonesian Armed Forces: Military Politics in Indonesia, Australian Defence Studies Centre, Canberra, 1996, p. 4. 14 Ulf Sundhaussen, The Road to Power: Indonesian Military Politics 1945-1967, Oxford University Press, Kuala Lumpur, 1982. 3 intervene.15 Like Huntington, Finer identifies military professionalism as an important variable that determines military intervention in politics. He further argues that „the greater the professionalism, the more immersed does the officer become in his own technical tasks, and the less involved in any policy issues that do not affect them‟.16 Building on Finer‟s theoretical framework, Sundhaussen argues that the

Indonesian military‟s deep involvement in politics since independence is a consequence of the military‟s „disposition‟ to defend its corporate interests against politicians‟ infringement, and the „opportunity‟ created from the failure of civilian governments to run the country.17

By all measures of the approach suggested by Sundhaussen, after the fall of the New Order the Indonesian military officer corps should have attempted to intervene in the country‟s new democratic political environment. The dwifungsi doctrine that under-girded the military‟s privilege in power politics was condemned and finally dismantled, leading to its half-hearted withdrawal from politics.

Following the dismantling of dwifungsi, the military‟s autonomy from central funding resources was severely threatened. At the same time, separatist movements were gaining strength in Aceh and West , and East Timor finally gained her independence.

With all these attacks on the military‟s corporate interests by Indonesian civilian politicians, it seemed natural that career military officers would feel marginalised from the democratic power game. The long-standing involvement in politics had distracted the TNI from being a professional defence force. Thus, its

15 S.E. Finer, The Man on Horseback: The Role of the Military in Politics, Westview Press, Boulder, Colorado, 1988 (1962), especially chapter 4, chapter 5 and chapter 6, pp. 20-76. 16 Ibid., p. 21. 17 Sundhaussen, The Road to Power, pp. 255-73. See also Harold Crouch, The Army and Politics in Indonesia, Cornell University Press, Ithaca, 1978.

4 level of professionalism was clearly low. All the ingredients of military‟s intervention as suggested by Finer were apparently met. Thus, it would not be surprising should the military stage a coup. But, this did not happen, despite rumours of doing so.18 Of course, there have been many arguments provided by pre-existing studies on Indonesian military about why it did so.19

The focus of this thesis is not on civil-military relations in Indonesia.

However, I am predisposed to view that while the officers‟ professionalism might determine the quality of civil-military relations, both terms refer to a distinct concept and phenomenon. In the Indonesian context, the civil-military relations approach has been less sensitive to get a real sense of social formation of military professionalism.

This is because each has its own social formation.

On the 20th of April 2000, the TNI commander, Widodo, made a declaration calling for the liquidation of the military‟s dwifungsi role.20 This declaration was followed up by incremental withdrawal of the military officers assigned to political institutions. Concluding in 2004, the military completed its withdrawal from political institutions quicker than the initial plan had envisaged.

Clearly, this means the military has been disenfranchised from all practical politics.

To a large extent, the TNI has been under „democratic control‟ which according to

Callaghan and Kuhlmann is „best understood as an inter-institutional process in which legitimate state bodies authorize the structure, size, function, and use of the armed forces‟.21 In the current Indonesian democratic system, oversight over the

18 See for example A. Malik Haramain, Gus Dur, Militer dan Politik, LKiS, , 2004. 19 See for example Marcus Mietzner, Military Politics, Islam, and the State in Indonesia, Institute of South East Asian Studies, Singapore, 2009, pp. 314-5. 20 Salim Said, Legitimizing Military Rule: Indonesian Armed Forces Ideology, 1958-2000, Pustaka Sinar Harapan, Jakarta, 2006, pp. 1-2. 21 Jean Callaghan and Jürgen Kuhlmann, „Measuring the Civil-Military Complex: Tools and Some Empirical Evidence‟, Working Paper Series, no. 46, Center for the Democratic Control of Armed Forces, Geneva, 2002, p. 4. Cited in Mietzner, Military Politics, p. 5. 5 military comes not only from the political institutions but also from the media and other elements of society such as non-governmental organisations (NGOs). Viewed in Huntington‟s notion mentioned earlier, the current Indonesian democratic system has provided wide opportunities for the military to become a professional defence force. Precisely why it has not done so is the fundamental problem with which this thesis engages.

The new paradigm which was then translated into the internal reform steps constituted „the determination to take the TNI back as a truly professional military force, becoming a robust and strong state defence institution‟.22 At a closer look, the new paradigm embraces three aspects: „doctrinal‟, „organisational‟ and „cultural‟.23

However, after a decade of reform, the military‟s internal reform continues to encounter the fundamental obstacle as observed by two Indonesian observers, one of whom is a retired high-ranking military officer. Although there have been many changes in the last decade, „the TNI reform still has an obstacle in the form of military‟s culture and way of thinking [or mindset]. The TNI reform must be completely finished for the purification of the TNI to become professional for defence‟. „The most difficult challenge has been the culture and the militaristic behaviour‟. This is because the TNI culture „has been deeply entrenched for decades‟.24

The description above, of course, reflects a dilemma suggested by Colton at the start of this chapter. The existing literature on Indonesian military which mostly has dealt with military political behaviour can be said to reflect studies of the forest

(rather than the trees). Such studies are numerous but they do not give a real

22 Yahya Muhaimin, Bambu Runcing dan Mesiu: Masalah Kebijakan Pembinaan Pertahanan Indonesia, Tiara Wacana, Yogyakarta, 2008, p. 53. 23 Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin, „Militansi dan Intelektualisasi TNI‟, , 5 October 2010. 24 „Reformasi TNI Belum Selesai‟, Kompas, 1 December 2009. 6 understanding of the factors affecting Indonesian military professionalism. Very little of the existing literature has paid much extensive inquiry on the formation of trees.

Nowhere in the existing literature has attention been paid, for example, to the formation of officers‟ cognitive scheme that in turn shapes the professionalism of the

Indonesian military.

In contrast, this thesis attempts to provide a detailed example of tree (rather than forest) analysis of the social science dilemma in understanding the Indonesian military. It describes and explains how the TNI‟s officer corps‟ professionalism grows up as a faith-based edifice which was built on the „historical rights‟ which the military have always claimed as its eternal possession. However, as we will see, these „historical rights‟ constitute an „invention‟ rather than a representation of historical facts especially after the Army gained a power grip in the Indonesian polity following the political turmoils that occurred in 1965. In tandem with the invented historical legacy, certain myths also contribute to the construction of soldiers‟ mind- set of thinking.

The year 1965 has become a watershed in Indonesian socio-political life, placing the Army as the victor of political contestations surrounding that year. There emerged a new government which referred to itself as the New Order whose authority was supported by the military. The Army‟s political triumph had given it enormous scope to define and shape values and norms of the society in support of what was called development and modernisation. As well, the year 1965 constitutes a turning point for the Indonesian military‟s professionalisation. The Army‟s enormous authority had enabled it to define the professionalism of the entire Indonesian armed forces according to certain basic assumptions, values and norms. This thesis will show that the results were contradictory and even led to professionalism plummeting.

7

It is worth noting that, having served more than twenty years as an

Indonesian military officer in the air force, I have a strong personal interest in exploring this issue. Accordingly, the aim of this thesis is to investigate what factors have become obstacles for the professionalisation of the TNI. It does so by looking beyond the civil-military relations-centric lens of conventional analysis. It investigates how Indonesian military professionalism as a faith-based edifice has been shaped for decades. A major contention of this study is that the Indonesian military‟s professionalism has long been imprisoned by the self-perceived historical legacy and myths that it has created itself.

Research Methodology and Significance of the Thesis

The patterns of behaviour and mind-set of military men are shaped in their education, from its very initial stage at formative education, and strengthened at subsequent educations or trainings. This consideration has led this thesis to focus particularly on the Indonesian military education. Education has become an arena where military traditions are invented and preserved, knowledge is constructed, brotherhood (esprit de corps) is inculcated. This is parallel to the pillars of military professionalism suggested by Huntington mentioned earlier: „expertise‟,

„corporateness‟, and „social responsibility‟. Thus, education shapes a pattern or patterns of behaviour. Accordingly, this thesis employs a cognitive approach that recognises the existence of a pattern or patterns of behaviour by actors under consideration.

My arguments in this thesis are supported by a wealth of data collected from a number of sources of which the largest portion was from military units. My process of data collection resembles the method of Jonni Mahroza‟s research. While there are

8 more recent studies on Indonesian military politics, the work of Mahroza is the only piece on the subject written by an Indonesian Army officer at an Australian university. His work has been published almost without significant alteration from the original version of his dissertation.25 Harold Crouch, whose study of the

Indonesian military has become a standard reference, has appraised Mahroza‟s work.

Crouch expressed his admiration on how Mahroza exposed internal secretive issues of the military which also reflects how data from military units were collected.

According to Crouch

Militaries everywhere, and certainly in Indonesia, are secretive institutions. Such a study is extremely difficult to carry out not only by foreign scholars who are inevitably considered suspect but also by Indonesians from outside the ranks of the military itself while military officers are usually reluctant to expose „internal issues‟ to a wider public.

…This thesis is written by an Indonesian military officer who is obviously concerned for the reputation of the institution of which he is part but is disappointed by its failure to commit itself thoroughly to the professionalisation that is its stated goal. … [It] provides much information about the internal workings of the military which, as far as I am aware, has never before been revealed in such detail …26

Mahroza‟s experiences in data collection features in the chapter of methodology of his dissertation. He reveals that despite himself being an active army officer, it was not always easy to collect data from military units, even from his own unit where he was previously posted. Of course, to a large extent, what Mahroza had

25 Jonni Mahroza, A Local Perspective on Military Withdrawal from Politics in Indonesia: East 1998-2003, Lambert Academic Publishing, Koln, , 2009. 26 Viewed on 12 January 2012, . Emphasis added.

9 encountered in his fieldwork is also reflected in my own experiences. The difference lies only in context, time, places and actors under investigation.

Most official military documents are classified as „secret‟, or at least

„classified‟ which cannot be revealed to the public. To interview military personnel, researchers have to make a formal request and get written permission from their institution. This would need to go through a long procedure and involve wasting time prior to the interviews. Once formal clearance is issued, there is no assurance that the interviews will go as expected as the person being interviewed does not always answer much and only restates formal-institutional statements.

In a slightly different approach to Mahroza, knowing that formal-sequential procedures would not work well, I employed both formal and informal approaches in tandem. Once I had sent a formal written request to conduct a research in particular military institution, I began to visit the respondents as a colleague at the same rank, a junior officer or a senior officer, to borrow Mahroza, „just like common visits among officers in the military‟.27 Like Mahroza, at some early stage, I always explained to the respondents that certain parts of the interview would be used for my thesis, and that their information „would not harm them, their units, or the military in general‟.28

Of course, with twenty years in service I am also very familiar with most problems encountered by military personnel and their units, particularly in educational institutions. Thus, the interviews that I conducted were much more like sharing experiences than conducting an investigation. In this way, my respondents felt more comfortable and confident enough to talk openly.

27 Jonni Mahroza, A Local Perspective on Military Withdrawal from Politics in Indonesia: 1998-2003, PhD Thesis, Flinders University, Flinders Asia Centre, School of Politics and International Studies, 2005, p. 84. 28 Ibid. 10

Given that military matters are very sensitive in Indonesia, in treating the data collected from fieldwork, in many respects, I also used similar handling as performed by Mahroza:

As a serving army officer with professional obligations to the Indonesian military institution and to my senior officers, I am fully aware of possible implications for the issue of continuing confidentiality, therefore, all respondents and [materials] appear in the thesis, and all notes and any other potentially confidential material that have been collected have been, and will be, continually treated as confidential, not available to any party without my prior written consent.29

The sources for this thesis can be divided into four general categories. The first category is published material such as books, journal articles, newspaper articles, seminar articles and the like. They form the bulk of the bibliographical material and are cited where they have been used. The second category is documentary material. The third is interviews conducted with a number of people who had direct involvement with the subject under investigation. For the most part, they spoke for attribution but not for identification. Accordingly they have been listed in footnotes with certain codes.

The fourth source is personal observation. It is worth noting that I have served more than twenty years as an officer in the air force including my first three years as an air cadet. Of this period, I have spent more than five years assigned to the

Indonesian Air Force education and training areas. Before being commissioned as an air cadet, I spent and attended primary and secondary schools in the Indonesian education system, and most importantly, the integrative basic training in Military

Academy, Magelang. Thus, I was an eye witness to, and a participant in, the kinds of

29 Ibid., pp. 88-9. 11 events described and analysed in Chapter Three, Chapter Four and Chapter Five.

Here lies the significance of this thesis.

The value of this study is in its contribution to greater understanding of

Indonesian military professionalisation, particularly in the post-1965 era. So also, the study sheds light on how prospects for Indonesian military professionalism remain incarcerated within a self-created historical legacy according to myths that the

Indonesian Army has itself invented. It shows how the combination of historical legacy and cultural practices has produced a long-term crisis of professionalism.

Structure of the Thesis

Chapter Two is a review of the literature. It discusses how other attempts to understand professionalisation of the Indonesian military have been cast exclusively in civil-military terms. It underlines common gaps which this thesis intends to fill.

On the other hand, it addresses different approaches that this thesis will take.

Chapter Three explores historical and political factors that affected the

Indonesian military‟s professionalism. It discusses how through various tactics the

Army as the producer of official history promoted its self-perceived image to the rest of Indonesian society. Central to these tactics had been the Army‟s efforts to control the Indonesian past in which both the Indonesian society and the whole armed forces underwent „army-isation‟ process. Chapter Three also examines the impacts of such tactics on the society at large, which now remain alive and well. While the virtual influences of historical legacy over the military as the audience will be examined in subsequent chapter, Chapter Three addresses the preliminary crucial stages for the regime to instil a certain culture into the military body, which has subsequent damaging impacts on its professionalisation.

12

Chapter Four explains and describes how the military became the audience of its own self-perceived history. It examines how the historical legacy has engulfed soldiers‟ (officers‟) cognitive scheme which in turn shapes their character. It presents an analysis on how traditions and myths were invented, preserved and infused into the whole military body which in turn becomes an obstacle to professionalisation of the whole TNI.

Chapter Five expands the trajectory established by Chapter Four. It examines how officers‟ mind-set of thinking or cognitive scheme remains present throughout the rest of service life. To do this, it scrutinises the TNI higher education for officers, especially command and staff colleges, abbreviated in Indonesian as SESKO. It explains why the way they were educated and viewed the real world  as reflected in the entire education atmosphere  becomes an obstacle to the professionalisation of TNI.

Chapter Six deals with military (in)discipline and impunity. It examines how

TNI‟s violation of the international law of armed conflict which leads to its impunity has become another barrier to its professionalisation. It shows how such a damaging culture, in fact, had been a consequence of the education paradigm.

Chapter Seven summarises the major findings analysed in Chapter Three through Chapter Six. It then concludes the main factors which hinder professionalisation of the Indonesian military.

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Chapter Two

A REVIEW OF THE LITERATURE

Scholarly analyses of the Indonesian military abound. However, when this study commenced, no single investigation had been conducted on the specific question addressed by this thesis  what are the factors that influence, for better or worse, the professionalisation of the Indonesian military? This chapter highlights how other attempts to explain the professionalisation of the TNI have revolved almost exclusively around civil-military relations terms so that the readers are unable to get a deep understanding of the formidable obstacles preventing the TNI from becoming a professional defence force.

A crisis-ridden economy and popular uprising had caused the fall of the New

Order regime. The military dwifungsi that had long supported the regime was finally dissolved, followed by the military’s withdrawal from politics. TNI introduced the

‘new paradigm’ which was then translated into the internal reform. The latter constituted ‘the determination to take back the TNI as a truly professional military force, becoming a robust and strong state defence institution’.1 At a closer look, this so-called new paradigm embraces three aspects: doctrinal, organisational and cultural.2

However, after a decade of reform, military professionalisation, in fact, remains stalled by fundamental obstacles. In 2009 the presidential advisor, a former three-star Army general, Agus Widjojo said that ‘I believe the military has not reformed at all during the 2004-2009 period because of difficulties implementing the

1 Muhaimin, Bambu Runcing and Mesiu, p. 53. 2 Sjamsoeddin, ‘Militansi dan Intelektualisasi’. laws’ while at the same event an Indonesian military analyst said that the ‘military is still a long way from being like the armed forces in other nations, maybe even 20 years away’.3 Later that year, another two Indonesian observers of which one is a retired high-ranking military officer said that ‘the TNI reform still has [major] obstacles in the form of the military’s culture and way of thinking [or mindset]’.

Bhakti suggests that ‘the most difficult challenge has been the culture and the militaristic behaviour’. This is because the TNI culture ‘has been deeply entrenched for decades’.4

Indeed, such observations are indisputably accurate. But, why and how is it that such a dysfunctional military culture and militaristic behaviour persist? More specifically, why and how is it that the TNI’s culture and mindset — that admittedly impedes its professionalisation — has been so ingrained for decades? Unfortunately, and surprisingly indeed, no material has been published on this subject.

Much of the existing studies on Indonesian military conducted both by foreign scholars and Indonesian experts largely focused on civil-military relations.

Through this lens, particular attempts have been made to understand the political behaviour of the military during certain periods, and to identify the factors that could maintain the stability of civil-military relations. By doing so, it is of no surprise that examinations of the TNI’s professionalism have mostly revolved around a civil- military relations context. Such an approach frequently produced a categorisation of military behaviour in politics. This thesis is not a study of the interaction between military and politics in Indonesia. Of course, Indonesian military intervention in politics will unavoidably be touched on in this thesis, but it does not constitute the main focus.

3 ‘TNI Reform remains slow under SBY government’, , 27 February 2009. 4 ‘Reformasi TNI Belum Selesai’, Kompas, 1 December, 2009. 15

The classic works regularly cited have been those of Harold Crouch5, Ulf

Sundhaussen6, and Salim Said7 which explain the Indonesian military’s political behaviour in terms of the military’s dwifungsi doctrine becoming the central theme.

These works feature in Chapter Three of this thesis. In the post-Suharto era, publications on the subject dominate the on politics, some of which are worth presenting here.

The work of Sukardi Rinakit has attempted to recategorise the development of dwifungsi as he noted that the existing studies ‘[do] not facilitate an understanding of the deep involvement of the military in socio-political affairs during certain periods’.8 Rinakit’s approach portrays TNI political behaviour by classifying it into certain categories according to the ruling regimes in the post-New Order era. When touching on officer education, Rinakit provides a clue that the future of civil-military relations will also depend on academic standards for the next generation of officers.

This is because ‘[t]heir low academic qualifications will make them more stubborn because they know they will always lose when arguing with civilians on certain issues’.9 Rinakit argues that ‘the relatively low academic standards of its recruits, the curriculum of the Military Academy and the Army’s Command School contributed little to broadening their perspective, especially in relation to the idea of military professionalism’ and that ‘the curriculum suggests there is too much stress on non-

5 Crouch, The Army and Politics in Indonesia. 6 Sundhaussen, The Road to Power. 7 Salim Said, Genesis of Power: General and the Indonesian Military in Politics 1945-49, Institute of Southeast Asian Studies and Pustaka Sinar Harapan, Singapore and Jakarta, 1992; Salim Said, Militer Indonesia dan Politik:Dulu, Kini dan Kelak, Sinar Harapan, Jakarta, 2001; Said, Legitimizing Military Rule. 8 Sukardi Rinakit, The Indonesian Military after the New Order, Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore, 2005, p. 13. 9 Ibid., p. 246. 16 military subjects, which means that its training is not aimed at shaping the soldiers to become military professionals but to prepare the military to play a dual role’.10

I partially agree with Rinakit’s observation. However it needs closer examination. Of course, as a consequence of attempts to recruit cadet aspirants which should represent every corner of the Indonesian territory, it would be difficult for the

TNI to get high quality of aspirants that reach both the vast range and high standards of selection criteria. This is due to, among others, a significant disparity in

Indonesian education quality, especially between inner and outer islands. However this cannot be simplistically taken to mean that all recruits arrive for training with low academic standards.

I fully agree that the TNI schooling system contributes little to broadening officers’ perspective. Unfortunately, Rinakit gives no further explanation why this has been so. This is understandable because education is not the main focus of his study. In addition, he points out the content of curriculum that does not prepare officers to be professional in defence matters. Of course this is not fully accurate as military officer schooling systems around the world operate a similar pattern from which the TNI has adopted its model. The real educational problem may lie elsewhere. Thus, this thesis will explore further the gap left by Rinakit in his incomplete observation of TNI officer education.

Leonard Sebastian’s Realpolitik Ideology, in a different approach to explaining civil-military relations in Indonesia, attempts to elaborate on doctrinal identity drawn from the TNI complex of doctrine and strategy that is based chiefly

10 Ibid., pp. 245-6. 17 on Suharto’s cultural beliefs which led to military intervention in political affairs.11

When discussing defence and strategy, he argues that

The territorial command structure, and its enabling of the army to organize itself into geographical compartments, remains the major building block of a strategy to ward off an external invasion. Such a strategy remains the most viable option in the short to medium term, considering the lack of funds to equip the TNI for a conventional war.12

Sebastian further argues that ‘[m]y argument here is that the Sishanta or

‘Total Defence’ as a strategy to prepare the population for the defence of Indonesia against an external invasion should be retained but purged of its dwifungsi roots’.13

‘It is suitable for Indonesia’s current needs considering the meagre budget provided for defence’.14 Like many other common views, Sebastian seems to believe that the

TNI’s retention of its existing defence and strategy has been largely based on historical legacy and budgetary constraints. However, the Indonesian Defence White

Paper of 2008 implicitly denies such a view.

The defence endeavour which is total in nature is a model that is developed based on strategic considerations not because of the rationale based on inability to build modern defence. Although Indonesia has reached a sufficiently high level of advancement, this model remains worth developing…15

The quote above implies that the Total Defence system will remain to be adopted even if the government is able to fully afford to fund the military and even if

11 Leonard C. Sebastian, Realpolitik Ideology: Indonesia’s Use of Military Force, Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore, 2006. 12 Ibid., p. 296. 13 Ibid., p. 306. Emphasis added. 14 Ibid., p. 340. 15 Departemen Pertahanan Republik Indonesia, Buku Putih Pertahanan Indonesia 2008, Departemen Pertahanan Republik Indonesia, Jakarta, 2008, p. 43. Emphasis added. 18 it is without dwifungsi, which in fact had already been dissolved. Indeed, to maintain the old defence outlook, TNI has always based it on the history of its struggle, emphasising especially the unity of military and people in the past in opposing the return of colonial power. However, as this thesis will show, in the TNI discourse, the difference between history and myth is quite blurred. In this regard, history constitutes more a mythological rhetoric than an empirical legacy. It is an invention, which during the New Order regime was indoctrinated into society at large through various tactics for the justification of regime maintenance in which such a defence strategy became its political pillar. Whether or not the existing total defence outlook is relevant to Indonesia is beyond the focus of this thesis. Rather, contrary to the conventional account such as one suggested by Sebastian, this thesis will present different arguments on why the total defence outlook has been left largely unchanged and is even considered to be worth keeping throughout the post-New Order period.

A recent study on the Indonesian military conducted by Mietzner (2009) remains within the scope of civil-military relations. Mietzner’s main point of argument is that the ‘political, ideological and social divisions between Islamic groups that have destabilized civilian politics both before and after the 1998 regime change’ have become an underlying factor that allows the military to extend its engagement in politics and protect its institutional interests. Despite pointing out the historical legacy and military culture as unsupportive factors of military reform,

Mietzner’s explanation of these factors revolves around civil-military context.16

Mietzner does not provide a detailed explanation of how the historical legacy shapes the soldiers’ thinking. How the dysfunctional military culture operates and why it remains persistent is left unexplored. This is understandable because the focus of

16 Mietzner, Military Politics, pp. 379-81. 19

Mietzner’s study is civil-military relations. This thesis by contrast examines why the historical legacy and deficient military culture have been so deeply ingrained in the

Indonesian military body.

Undoubtedly, the pre-existing works such as those mentioned above provide valuable insights in comprehending the Indonesian military’s political behaviour.

However, the common gap in the literature is that readers get no sense of the real barriers to TNI professionalisation. Take for example the category of budget-related issues. Most studies concluded that a meagre budget has become a constant factor preventing the TNI from becoming a professional defence force, as also suggested by

Sebastian.17 This is because military professionalism is frequently equated with force modernisation. In his research on Indonesian economic defence, Harsono, himself a professional expert in the National Resilience Institute (Lembaga Ketahanan

Nasional, Lemhannas), argues that

Inadequacy in the condition and quantity of main weaponry system and facilities as well as the lack of soldiers’ well-being have become primary matters faced by the TNI in its efforts to enhance its strength, capability and professionalism of the soldiers.18

Few would dispute that TNI, as any other single armed forces around the world, needs an ‘adequate budget’ in order to meet operational readiness and to keep up with force modernisation. Many experts would also share no difference of opinion in that ‘no Indonesian government has been able to provide ... defence forces with an

17 See Sebastian, Realpolitik Ideology, especially chapter 3, pp. 177-274. 18 Timotius D. Harsono, Economic Defence and the Direction of TNI Development Policy: Questioning the State’s Commitment, Gadjahmada University Postgraduate School, Yogyakarta, 2009, p. 82. 20 adequate budget’, as once asserted by the Indonesian Defence Minister in 2006.19

However,

Possession of modern sophisticated equipment [which may be an indication of adequate budget] does not necessarily lead to victory [and professionalism]. And that is because every single force, anywhere in the world, is constructed in accordance with a purpose: a defense [sic] and security policy and a military doctrine, which demands certain amounts of troops and materials of specific qualifications, that all interlock into a coherent force. ... [L]ack of coherence ... is a major reason for the failure of force.20

In other words, ‘adequate budget’ is one thing, and yet military

‘professionalism’, which presumably leads to victory, is another. In this sense, military professionalism may lie elsewhere. The above excerpt implies that both defence policy and doctrine would in part require military planners to have an ability to create a clear-cut and coherent conception on the defence related issues. In this context, one’s ability to conceptualise a clear-cut idea would largely depend on one’s background knowledge which, in turn, would be determined by how one constructs the knowledge. In this sense, professionalism immediately relates to, and to a certain extent, depends on the construction of (professional) knowledge which is frequently gained through education. Accordingly, formal military education  from which military professionalisation begins  becomes the crucial factor to examine.

Unfortunately, none of the pre-existing studies had paid extensive attention to this subject.

19 Lex Rieffel and Jaleswari Pramodhawardani, Out of Business and On Budget: The Challenge of Military Financing in Indonesia, The Brookings Institutions, Washington D.C., 2007, pp. 100-1. 20 Ibid., p. 95. Emphasis added. 21

One exception has been the study of Paat that traces the history of the

Indonesian Navy. It concludes that westernisation of the education paradigm in the

Indonesian Navy Academy (Akademi Angkatan Laut, AAL) had failed to achieve its genuine meaning, that is, the modernisation of education capable of sharpening cadets’ ability in critical thinking. It points out that ‘western [education] culture only appears in physical features’.21 Although it makes passing reference to the training atmosphere, it omits the process of knowledge construction itself. By contrast, this thesis addresses this omission while also showing how the aspirant TNI leaders in their education appreciate knowledge of any kind relevant to their tasks. It examines how TNI officers’ mind-set of thinking (or cognitive ‘schemata’) is constructed.

TNI education principles are derived from its self-perception and historical legacy although, to a certain extent, no clear boundary can be drawn between history and myth. Yet, no single pre-existing study on Indonesian military has addressed the nexus between TNI’s historical legacy and its educational paradigm. In a politicised military, the historical legacy of the military has become an influential factor determining the quality of civil-military relations.22 This is relevant in the Indonesian context and pre-existing studies on the Indonesian military mostly have addressed this subject. How had the TNI controlled the production of official Indonesian history in an attempt to maintain its hegemony? Nothing is more comprehensive than the detailed work of McGregor.23 It elaborates on how the Indonesian military had mobilised historical tactics to justify its socio-political role. However, whilst

McGregor’s work is influential and convincing, it ‘focuses primarily on the military

21 Chrisna M.E. Paat, Sejarah dan Perkembangan Pendidikan Angkatan Laut Republik Indonesia, Mataram, Lengge, 2004, p. 101. 22 Mietzner, Military Politics, p. 37. 23 Katharine E. McGregor, History in Uniform: Military Ideology and the Construction of Indonesia’s Past, University of Hawaii Press, Honolulu, 2007. 22 as producers of representation of the Indonesian past rather than the audiences of these representations’.24 In contrast, this thesis focuses on the military as the audience of its own self-perceived history. It examines how the confluence of historical legacy and myth shapes the officer education paradigm which in turn affected TNI’s entire professionalisation.

Peter Britton’s Military Professionalism in Indonesia: Javanese and Western

Military Traditions in Army Ideology offers a cultural theme in understanding

Indonesian military professionalism.25 Britton was influential in presenting an explanation of the influence of Javanese political culture in shaping the ideology and professional identity of the TNI which in turn provided justifications of military rule through dwifungsi doctrine. Dwifungsi was believed to be a ‘historical consistency’26 of the pre-colonial Javanese political tradition. Hence, the nobility of Javanese cultural values became chosen ideal qualities upon which the entire notion of TNI professionalism rests. Britton argues that despite a dramatic acceleration of professionalisation and modernisation mostly gained through the US military aid,

‘U.S. influence did not transform the Indonesian army or push it in directions it had not already chosen’.27

One chapter of Britton’s work is devoted exclusively to explaining and describing the Military Academy (Akademi Militer, AKMIL) as a place where the noble values of were, and are, inculcated to create ‘a collective personality or identity’ of the cadets.28 Britton’s examination of the influence of

Javanese culture in shaping the training paradigm of AKMIL is admirable and useful.

24 Ibid., p. 13. 25 Peter Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia: Javanese and Western Military Traditions in Army Ideology to the 1970s, MA Thesis, Monash University, Melbourne, 1983. 26 Ibid., p. 313. 27 Ibid., p. 309. 28 Ibid., p. 206. 23

However, why have such nobility of Javanese cultural values simply produced a military culture that in turn becomes a major barrier for its professionalisation today?

This thesis looks closer at Britton’s observations of the AKMIL training paradigm.

Moreover, it will further examine how the education paradigm simply becomes a fertile ground for the seeds of unprofessional behaviour to grow. No pre-existing works on Indonesian military have ever addressed this issue.

This thesis has benefited greatly from the works of both McGregor and

Britton. McGregor’s History in Uniform features in Chapter Three of this thesis, while Britton’s work features in Chapter Four of this thesis. Both the works of

McGregor and Britton provided thoughtful insights, valuable references and other clues, and served as an important launching pad for further investigations. In this sense, this thesis expands the trajectory established by Britton and McGregor. It examines how the confluence of self-perceived historical legacy and myth creates impediments to the professionalisation of the TNI.

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Chapter Three

1965: ABOUT TURN

The year 1965 marked a major turning point in Indonesian socio-political life, placing the Army as the victor of political contestations that dominated the period.

There emerged a new government which referred to itself as the ‗New Order‘ whose authority was supported by the military. The Army‘s political triumph had given it enormous scope to define and shape the values and norms of society in support of what was called ‗development‘ and ‗modernisation‘. In tandem with inculcation of

Javanese culture, a number of tactics were employed, of which the most prominent means were rewriting and controlling Indonesia‘s past. Not only civil society, but also the whole Indonesian armed forces underwent what I call the ‗army-isation‘ process. This chapter will describe and explain how through various tactics the Army as the producer of official history, promoted its self-perceived image to the rest of

Indonesian society. It examines the impacts of such tactics on the society at large which can still be seen today. While the virtual influences of historic legacy over the military as the audience will be examined in the next chapter, this chapter addresses the crucial preliminary stages in which the regime instilled a certain culture into the military body, which has had subsequent damaging impacts on its professionalisation.

The second half of the Guided Democracy era saw a bitter ideological contestation between the Indonesian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia,

PKI) and the Army‘s right-wing which ended in an abortive coup of 1 that claimed the lives of army generals in central leadership.1 Wieringa described the situation surrounding the coup concisely.

By mid 1965, tensions in Indonesia society were reaching a climax. In the countryside the BTI‘s [Barisan Tani Indonesia  Indonesian Farmers‘ Front] unilateral actions had thoroughly disrupted social relations. Rising levels of inflation were leading to extreme poverty. The relationship between army leaders and the PKI became increasingly tense, with Sukarno leaning ever more towards the PKI. The confrontation with was used by the PKI to press for its ‗fifth force‘, a militia of workers and peasants, that was strongly opposed by the army under General Yani and by Defence Minister Nasution. At the same time, Sukarno‘s anti-Western attitudes had provoked mass protest and led to Indonesia‘s withdrawal from the UN…Only Sukarno seemed to be able to hold society together. Six attempts on Sukarno caused the PKI to worry that the President might be unable to protect them for much longer… Rumours of Sukarno‘s illness led to even greater unrest.

In this tense situation several middle-ranking army officers staged a military putsch. They wanted, so they testified later, to protect the President from an alleged Council of Generals which was conspiring to overthrow Sukarno on 5 October, Armed Forces Day.2

The putsch claimed the lives of six army generals, including General Yani.

General Nasution narrowly escaped, but his aide and daughter were shot. The death of General Yani and his inner-circle generals signalled a significant change in the way the Army confronted Sukarno‘s leadership, which was backed by popular

1 Who actually masterminded the coup would remain shrouded in mystery as the key figures in this event have passed away. There is a vast body of literature on this event, but at the moment the work of John Roosa seems to be the most comprehensive. Roosa scrutinises the new and old evidence of important figures involved in the events. See, John Roosa, Pretext for Mass Murder: the September 30th Movement and Suharto's Coup d’État in Indonesia, University of Wisconsin Press, Madison, 2006. 2 Saskia Wieringa, Sexual Politics in Indonesia, Palgrave Macmillan, New York, 2002, p. 282.

26

mobilisation of the PKI. Under Yani‘s leadership, the army had never been keen to overtly challenge Sukarno‘s political will which frequently clashed with its interests.

However the situation had changed dramatically. The assassination of the army generals had created a vacuum in the army‘s central leadership.

Suharto, who commanded the Army Strategic Reserve Command (Komando

Cadangan Strategis Angkatan Darat  Kostrad) took over control of the Army central leadership. Supported by Nasution who survived that abortive coup, Suharto blocked Pranoto‘s appointment by Sukarno on 2 October to fill the position of

General Yani. The army now started to stage an overt challenge to the president. It should be noted however that ‗neither Suharto nor Nasution was a member of the president‘s [inner] circle, and both were among the senior officers who had expressed concern with Yani‘s reluctance to confront Sukarno directly on the question of the PKI‘s advances‘.3 Indeed, Suharto finally accepted Pranoto‘s appointment but only as an acting official to execute the daily tasks of the army commander, while control over the restoration of security and order remained in

Suharto‘s hands.4 Later that year Suharto was appointed the commander of the

Army.

With such exceptional authority, the Army‘s anti-communist wing under

Suharto secured an opportunity to crush without restraint the PKI who had been accused of being behind the abortive coup. Suharto and his loyalist army moved swiftly. Special Operation (Operasi Khusus, abbreviated Opsus) was employed to crush the PKI. Opsus was a clandestine intelligence unit established within Kostrad in late 1963, when Suharto was its commanding officer. Opsus was used initially to

3 Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 136. 4 Ibid., p. 229.

27

‗liaise secretly with Malaysia with the aim of ending Confrontation‘ without

Sukarno‘s knowledge.5 In a later development of the New Order regime, Opsus along with the Operational Command for the Restoration of Security and Order

(Komando Operasi Pemulihan Keamanan dan Ketertiban  Kopkamtib) became central pillars of Suharto‘s power game.

Kopkamtib was established in 1966 by Suharto to purge the PKI as a political force and to restore law and order. Both Opsus and Kopkamtib were ‗more a function than an organisation‘.6 They were essentially ‗a ―concept‖ more than an organisation, an ideological formulation that allowed the reorganization of Armed Forces resources for total internal warfare and social engineering without political restraints‘. ‗Kopkamtib‘s powers of interrogation, arrest and detention were not subject to the restriction of the nation‘s regular legal and political channels‘.7 Such vigorous authority in itself made Kopkamtib a powerful institution.

Opsus conducted various specific intelligence operations of which, among others, controlled the media. The propaganda campaign to encourage anti-PKI action and provoke hatred against it had begun after the recovery of the murdered generals‘ bodies killed in the September 30th Movement, although the arrests of PKI activists and members started in the middle of October.8 The major theme of the propaganda

5 Clinton Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor: Multi-Dimensional Perspective-Occupation, Resistance, and International Political Activism, Sussex Academic Press, Eastbourne, 2011, p. 22. 6 Fernandes writes that ‗Suharto himself was the official head of Kopkamtib … In practice, the Minister for Defence and Security (who was also the commander of Armed Forces) ran Kopkamtib on a day-to-day basis. He reported directly to Suharto and acted as his principal assistant‘. Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, ibid. 7 Sebastian, Realpolitik Ideology, p. 81. 8 The army controlled the media such as the Radio of Republic of Indonesia, the state news office ANTARA and military newspapers such as Berita Yudha and Angkatan Bersenjata. Other newspapers allowed to operate had to present news in favour of the Army while all leftist newspapers were banned from operating. To propagate hatred and feelings of anti-PKI sentiment, pamphlets were circulated in Jakarta with particular messages to crush the PKI and its leaders, such as ‗Crush the PKI and hang up Aidit‘. See Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 140. See also Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, p. 18.

28

was that ‗the murder of the six generals who ... had been tortured and had their genitals cut off by members of the PKI-affiliated women‘s organisation Gerwani‘.

Major-General Suharto said that ‗it was obvious for those of us who saw [the bodies] with our own eyes what savage tortures had been inflicted by the barbarous adventurers calling themselves The September 30th Movement‘.9

The term Gerakan September Tigapuluh (the Thirtieth of September

Movement), abbreviated Gestapu or also known as G30S, was also fraught with political intentions. The term seemed to be used deliberately as an allusion to the

Adolf Hitler‘s secretive police in time of Nazi Germany, the Gestapo. Hitler‘s

Gestapo was renowned as terror-enthusiast police, and for its merciless deeds.10 In fact, the events actually took place on 1 October, not 30 September.11

Assisted by anti-communist elements of society such as the youth organisation, Muslim Ansor12, the Army launched an operation to crush those accused of being members of PKI and deemed to have participated in the Thirtieth of

September Movement. Arbitrary arrests and murders without court trial were carried out in , East Java, North and .13 ‗In the chaotic situation

[the] CIA [Central Intelligence Agency] provided the Indonesian Army with a list of thousands of ―communists,‖ many of whom were later summarily executed‘.14

Concurrently, the US, Britain, and Australia also ‗co-operated closely in the propaganda effort‘, as noted by Fernandes, that

9 Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, p. 18. 10 See, for example, Edward Crankshaw, Gestapo: Instrument of Tyranny, Greenhill, London, 1990 (1956). 11 Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, p. 18. 12 Especially in East Java. See Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 146. See also Clinton Fernandes, Reluctant Indonesians: Australia, Indonesia, and the future of , Scribe Short Books, Melbourne, 2006, p. 37. 13 Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 155. 14 Baskara T. Wardaya, SJ, Coldwar Shadow: United States Policy Toward Indonesia, 1953-1963, Galangpress, Yogyakarta, 2007, p. 436.

29

US ambassador Marshall Green urged Washington to ‗spread out the story of PKI‘s guilt, treachery, and brutality, adding that this was ‗perhaps the most needed immediate assistance we can give the army if we can find [a] way to do it without identifying it as [a] sole or largely US effort‘. The British Foreign Office hoped to ‗encourage anti-communist Indonesians to move vigorous action in the hope of crushing communism in Indonesia altogether‘, and sought to emphasize the PKI‘s brutality in murdering generals and families ... 15

Meanwhile, British Ambassador Sir wrote: ‗I have never concealed

... my belief that a little shooting in Indonesia would be an essential preliminary to effective change‘.16 The outcome of this ‗little shooting‘ was appalling. According to

Ambassador Green, ‗there is no way of gauging the total number of Indonesians killed in GESTAPU‘s ghastly aftermath‘.17 Robert Cribb describes the operational execution and estimates the number of victims as follows.

Largely done with knives or swords, but some victims were beaten to death and some were shot. In some cases the victims were forced to dig their own shallow, mass graves in secluded places, or the bodies were dumped in rivers, or concealed in caves ... The regions most seriously affected were Central and East Java, Bali and , where the [PKI] had been most active, but there were massacres in every part of the archipelago where communists could be found. A scholarly consensus has settled on a figure of 400,000- 500,000 deaths.18

According to an analyst in the CIA‘s Directorate of Intelligence at the time of the events,

15 Fernandes, Reluctant Indonesians, pp. 39-40. 16 Ibid., p. 40. For a deeply insightful analysis of the reaction in Australia, see Scott Burchill, ‗Absolving the Dictator,‘ Australian Quarterly, Vol. 73, No. 3 (May - Jun., 2001), pp. 24-9. 17 Marshall Green, Indonesia: Crisis and Transformation, 1965-1968, Compass Press, Washington D.C., 1990, p. 61, quoted in Wardaya, Shadow, p. 433. 18 Robert Cribb, Genocide in Indonesia, 1965-1966, Journal of Genocide Research, 3(2), 2001, pp. 219-39. Quoted in Fernandes, Reluctant Indonesians, pp. 37-8.

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[w]hile there may never be an exact figure of the numbers dead, the anti-PKI massacres in Indonesia rank as one of the worst mass murders of the twentieth century, along with the Soviet purges of the 1930s, the Nazi mass murder during the Second World War, and the Maoist bloodbath of the early 1950s.19

Fernandes writes, ‗[a]ccording to McGeorge Bundy, national security advisor to President Kennedy and President Johnson, the US should at that point have terminated its war in Vietnam because it was no longer necessary – the anti- communist purges had already achieved the broader objective of preventing independent economic nationalism in the region‘.20

With the elimination of PKI, the triangular balance of power between

Sukarno, PKI and the Army dramatically changed. By 1966, with the support of the anti-communist movement ‗the power of the Army leadership in relation to the president had increased greatly‘ and ‗become adept at undermining the president‘s commands‘.21 The army‘s direct contention against the president was indicated, for example, when Sukarno urged his followers to form the Barisan Sukarno (Sukarno

Front). Many army regional commanders banned any efforts to set up the formation of ‗structural or conventional Barisan Sukarno‘ and denounced ‗physical Barisan

Sukarno‘ as subversive‘. This warning seemed effective and ‗there had been no reports of the successful formation of the Barisan Sukarno anywhere‘.22

Although the army had successfully prevented any efforts to form the Barisan

Sukarno, the president remained confident that the Army would not be keen to take further steps against him. By early February, Sukarno began to take steps to reassert

19 Cited in Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, p. 19. 20 Fernandes, Reluctant Indonesians, p. 19. 21 Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 158. 22 Ibid., p. 173.

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his authority. On 21 February 1966, he administered a reshuffle of cabinet in which

Nasution as the Coordinating Minister for Defence and Security was the one of ten of the old cabinet members to be replaced. Nasution‘s position as the Chief of the

Armed Forces staff established in 1962 was also discharged.23 Now, of military ministers, only Suharto as the army commander ‗seemed to be an obstacle to the president‘.24

The dismissal of Nasution and several pro-army ministers while at the same time Sukarno reinstalled those who were ‗considered close to the PKI‘ made it clear that the President was unwilling to accept the Army‘s significant role in his government. The cabinet changes provoked a massive wave of student demonstration rejecting the new cabinet they charged the ‗Gestapu cabinet‘, or ‗Communist cabinet‘. This demonstration was sponsored by ‗the army radicals‘ who were disappointed with the cabinet reshuffle. Although a ban had been imposed, the student protest became increasingly anarchic around the President‘s . In the chaotic situation, the Cakrabirawa palace guard fired at protesters. Two students were killed, making the political situation even worse after the cabinet changes.25

On 11 March 1966 Kemal Idris and mobilised their troops outside the president‘s palace at the time the President was holding a full cabinet meeting in which he ‗again reaffirmed his Marxism ... until the end of his life‘.26 According to Kemal Idris, ‗their main purpose was to frighten the president and protect the demonstrating students from the Cakrabirawa troops‘.27 When the president was then flown to Palace that day, Suharto ordered three trusted

23 Ibid., p. 174. 24 Ibid., p. 175. 25 Ibid., pp. 182-3. 26 Ibid., p. 188. 27 Ibid., p. 189.

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generals with whom Sukarno was also known to have a good personal relationship to meet the president in Bogor. The outcome of their meeting was the ‗Letter of 11

March‘, or Surat Perintah Sebelas Maret (known by its partial acronym

Supersemar), the authenticity of which, until now remains questionable. It soon became clear that Sukarno and Suharto had a different interpretation of the degree of authority held by the bearer of the letter.28 The letter itself ‗did not have approval of‘ the commanders of other services‘.29 Further in the long run, it also became obvious that the letter was a transfer of power from Sukarno to Suharto. Later, after the fall of the New Order, Sukarno‘s former adjutant, Soekardjo Wilardjito, affirmed in eye witness testimony that the signing of the letter occurred at gun point.30

As the ‗Bearer of Supersemar‘, according to Crouch,

Suharto wasted no time in using his newly acquired powers. On 12 March he issued an order of the day addressed to the armed forces and the people of Indonesia. He claimed that the president‘s order to him of the previous day showed that ‗the voice of the heart of the people ... is truly seen, heard and considered by the Great Leader of the Revolution, Bung Karno, whom we love so much, and it is also evidence of [his] love for all of us. On the same day he issued his first order as the ‗Bearer of the Letter of 11 March.‘ In the name of the president, he ordered the dissolution of the PKI and its affiliated

28 Sundhaussen writes that ‗In the view of [the president] the Order represented no substantial change in his own position as leader of the government and the country. In an announcement on 16 March Sukarno asserted that he was still in command of the nation, only responsible to the MPRS and God almighty. He also made clear that it was solely his right to appoint ministers to the cabinet, and warned that no one should deviate from his directions‘. Meanwhile, Suharto ‗took an entirely different view and interpreted the 11 March Order as giving him wide political powers since he was charged with maintaining national security and the stability of the government. Sundhaussen, The Road to Power, p. 236. 29 Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 192. 30 Soekardjo Wilardjito, Mereka Menodong Bung Karno: Kesaksian Seorang Pengawal Presiden, Galang Press, Yogyakarta, 2008, pp. 196-7.

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organizations [sic] throughout the nation....[which] effectively eliminated the PKI as an active political force.31

By the end of July 1966, Sukarno had practically lost his power as president.

He no longer had control when the new government carried out ‗quiet diplomacy‘ efforts to discontinue the confrontation with Malaysia which was finally abandoned in August 1966. Sukarno had also simply lost authority when the new government prepared for economic recovery, for which it had now turned to Western countries, of which he had been always critical, if not opposing.32 In early October, the new government, which referred to itself as the ‗New Order‘ had begun to prepare further steps to gain foreign economic support from Western creditors and . In formulating his economic policies Suharto relied on economists from the University of Indonesia who had been recruited as his economic architects.33

When Sukarno had lost all his authority, he remained protective of the PKI, condemning the continuing slaughter and incarceration of its supporters and sympathisers. He also demanded a halt to racist treatment towards the Chinese minority. Without access to the media, due to the army being in firm control of it, and because in fact he was under house arrest, Sukarno‘s messages never reached the public. According to Crouch,

In May [1967] it was announced that he was no longer permitted to use the titles of president, commander in chief of the armed forces, and mandatory of the MPRS, nor could he use the presidential flag. Two months later the removal of Sukarno‘s photographs from government offices was ordered. Although Sukarno had lost all the attributes of the presidency, Suharto continued to hold the office of acting president until March 1968, when the

31 Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 192. 32 About Indonesian economic inflation in the mid 1960s, see Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 204. 33 Ibid., p. 320.

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fifth General Session of the MPRS appointed him as the republic‘s second president. The first president remained under effective house arrest until his death in June 1970.34

The events of 1st October 1965 have become a major turning point for the life of Indonesian people. Baskara T. Wardaya summarises that

The socio-political solidarity as fellow citizens which Sukarno and his colleagues had for years tried to bring together was now ruined.

From the ruins of this full blood-splashed socio-political solidarity, there emerged something ‗new‘ and desperate in the Indonesian‘s history. In 1965 hundreds of thousands of people and popular movements in Indonesia were purged. In 1966, Sukarno‘s government whose orientation was for people and was critical against foreign capital was eliminated, replaced by new government which was militaristic, elitist and pro-foreign capital. By 1967 foreign capital began liberally entering Indonesia, particularly from Japan and the US. Gradually, the economic liberty and sovereignty was removed from its people‘s hands...35

Meanwhile the cleansing of those deemed to have been influenced by communists continued. In 1967 those who were under arrest were grouped into three categories based upon their roles as PKI supporters. More than half a million were imprisoned or exiled to remote and isolated places without a fair trial. During the

New Order, citizens were required to obtain a ‗letter of clean circumstances‘ to guarantee that they and their extended family had not been involved or associated with the left-wing group before 1965. This requirement was especially imposed on those who aspired to join the armed forces or become state employees. During the

34 Ibid., p. 220. 35 Baskara T. Wardaya, SJ, Indonesia Melawan Amerika: Konflik Perang Dingin, 1953-1963, Galang Press, Yogyakarta 2008, p. 375.

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New Order, Indonesian society underwent depoliticisation and demobilisation in which non-government popular organisations were under constant government surveillance carried out mainly by the military.

The New Order now had its own conception of ‗modernisation‘ and

‗development‘ which was interpreted according to its own interests in developing

Indonesia. To achieve this, a social ‗transformation‘ was introduced by implanting a

‗particular culture‘ that revolved around the president‘s palace itself. This social transformation was supported significantly by a strategic complex mobilised simultaneously by controlling the core fields of social life through various tactics. In these pursuits, Suharto used the military which at the same time was ‗exploited‘ to maintain his power. As we shall see in this entire dissertation, the involvement of the military in Suharto‘s political projects had determined its orientation towards professionalism, remaining persistent in the long run, long after Suharto‘s fall.

Unfortunately, this developmentalism-driven social transformation went on in an Indonesian society which had already been heavily influenced by feudal culture, inherited both from colonial experience and long before it.36 Such a feudal structure of society in fact would be totally reformed by Sukarno through his political revolution headed toward the Indonesian future as mandated in the proclamation of independence.37

More than a decade after the New Order regime‘s fall, which was triggered by the reformation wave, Indonesian society ‗still operates in the durable feudal

36 , The Indonesian Dilemma (translated by F. Lamoureux), Graham Brash, Singapore, 1983 (1977). See also Achdiat K. Mihardja, Polemik Kebudayaan, Balai Pustaka, Jakarta, 1998 (1948). 37 See, for example, Max Lane, Unfinished Nation: Indonesia Before and After Suharto, Verso, London, 2008.

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climate‘.38 Ironically, such a situation was even criticised by those who were nurtured by the New Order‘s feudal labyrinth imposed by hierarchical rules. This, for example, was demonstrated by the association of Army retirees criticising the current president who is also a former Army general. For them, this feudalistic attitude is a fundamental issue. They reminded the president of the ‗fundamental matters the government has to address immediately, one of which ..., is the reduction of feudal attitude‘.39

Integrating the Indonesian Armed Forces (ABRI): An Attitude Adjustment

It is not hard to understand Mao Zedong‘s aphorism that ‗political power grows out of the barrel of a gun‘.40 Having assumed power, Suharto quickly realised that important posts within the military were still being held by Sukarnoist officers, and they could challenge his rapidly growing power. His appointment as acting

Indonesian president in March 1967 gave him greater control to take all necessary means to replace rival sections of officers with his confidants, while at the same time advancing measures to integrate the armed forces as part of power consolidation.41

The Sukarnoist officers‘ acceptance of Suharto leadership was based more on their desire to avert ‗civil war‘ within the army considering that both the pro- and anti-Sukarnoist officers had their own supporters. Large units in East Java, Bali and

Sumatera military regions, for example, were in support of Sukarno.42 Outside the

Army, some important high-ranking military officers who were pro-Sukarno, notably

Omar Dani of the Air Force, had been stood down on criminal charges, of

38 Reza AA Wattimena, ‗Feodalisme sebagai Musuh Demokrasi‘, Kompas, 30 April 2009. 39 ‗Purnawirawan Mengkritik Pemerintah‘, Kompas , 7 August 2010. 40 Maurice Meisner, Mao Zedong: A Political Profiles, Polity Press, Cambridge, 2007, p. 53. 41 Crouch, The Army and Politics, pp. 228-39. 42 Ibid., pp. 209-10.

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involvement in relation to the coup attempt.43 The removal of some other important officers commanding military units could be done smoothly by appointing them for overseas postings as foreign ambassadors or sending them for particular training, thus preventing them from assuming control of the troops, and replacing them with those who could cooperate with Suharto‘s Army.44 The officers inclusion as

Suharto‘s confidants seemed to be based primarily on their previous closeness when they were stationed in the same area of duty or operation, namely those who came from the in Central Java and those who were assigned under him in the operational preparation to seize West Irian from the Dutch in the early

1960s. Admiral Sudomo, for example, was one of his confidants in this regard.

Despite being a navy officer, Sudomo was appointed commander of Kopkamtib.

Along with the weakening leftist force of the dominant masses supporting

Sukarno, Suharto was taking ‗slow but sure‘ steps (alon alon asal kelakon)45 to cleanse the military of the Sukarno influence. Under Sukarno‘s administration, each service was given autonomous authority through which Sukarno could gain political benefits in his favour, to prevent them from becoming a unified force able to counter- balance his power by ‗encouraging restiveness among the other forces‘.46 On the other hand, with such an arrangement each service also benefited from the advantage of being able to manage and modernise its own force needed for the defence of the archipelago. Each individual service had its own commander responsible directly to the president. However, to consolidate his power, Suharto combined all military services under single control and made them ideologically homogenous to bolster his

43 Ibid., p. 200. 44 Ibid., pp. 231, 239. 45 Ibid., p. 222. 46 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 147.

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authority for which the Army was given a central role at the expense of other services‘ merit.

On the 24th of August 1967, with the President‘s decree 132/1967 that governed the structure of Department of Defence and Security, and the Armed

Forces Headquarters, an office of the Indonesian Armed Forces Commander was established. In this decree both head of the Department of Defence and Security as well as the Indonesian Armed Forces Commander (or Pangab) was now held by one person designated as the Minister of Defence and Security/The Commander of

Armed Forces (Menhankam/Pangab). As Suharto gained more power, two years later, a new arrangement was made. Through the President‘s decree 79/1969, the structure of the whole armed forces and that of the Department of Defence and

Security were now merged into a single organisation in which the armed forces  including the Indonesian National Police  were to be an organic part of the new structure. The post of individual service commander was downgraded to ‗chief of staff‘, responsible to the Minister of Defence and Security/the Commander of

Indonesian Armed Forces. This means that it was ‗not only a loss of status but also signified a reduction of power and functions‘ of each service and that ‗in effect, former service commands had been reduced to purely administrative units, with no power base of their own and unable to dictate national or defense [sic] policies‘.47

The Army had since assumed authority over the control of the Indonesian Armed

Forces which consisted of army, navy, air force and police, and this hegemony was

47 Meanwhile, ‗[a]ll political functions, all policy decision-making in the defense and security field, and the ultimate control over combat troops were vested in HANKAM headed by General Suharto himself in the double function of minister of defense and security and commander of the armed forces [sic] (he resigned in 1973 from both these posts)‘. See Ulf Sundhaussen, ‗The Military: Structure, Procedures, and Effects on Indonesian Society‘, in Karl D. Jackson and Lucian W. Pye (eds.), Political Power and Communications in Indonesia, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1978, pp. 46-81, p. 57-8.

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maintained constantly throughout the New Order era by appointing the Army officer as the armed forces commander-in-chief. The Army officers who were appointed the armed forces commander mostly had held the previous post of Army Chief of Staff.48

Only after the , beginning in ‘s administration, the post of the TNI commander rotated between three service officers who held the post of service chief of staff.49

Along with the structural changes mentioned earlier, there was a crucial step that was influential in shaping the professionalisation of the TNI for the next decades. This was the integration of the schools under single control of the headquarters of the Academy of Indonesian Armed Forces (AKABRI) in 1967.

Like the post of armed forces commander, the commanding officer of AKABRI for more than a decade was mostly appointed from Army officers. The integration of the

Indonesian Armed Forces Academy had become sort of a new historical bloc for the direction of today‘s TNI professionalisation. During the New Order era, it became an arena fostering a conformity of attitude to maintain allegiance to the ruling regime.50

The notion of fusing the service cadet schools under a single organisation had in fact been in existence since the Sukarno administration, during which the individual service academies had their own management and educational paradigm.

The idea originated, mainly, from army officers whose inspiration was obtained on their visit to , which was led by General Gatot Subroto.51 Administratively, the attempt to integrate all service academies into a single body had begun on 16

48 MacFarling, The Dual Functions, pp. 93-4. 49 An Indonesian Navy officer, Admiral Widodo AS, was to be the first non-Army TNI commander in the TNI history. 50 As we shall see in the next chapter. 51 Paat, Sejarah dan Perkembangan Pendidikan Angkatan Laut, p. 76.

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December 1965, but it was only formally put into place by President Sukarno on 5

October 1966.52

During the Sukarno administration, the obstacle to administer cadet schools was mainly inter-service rivalries which were persistent and continued to occur throughout the period, reaching a climax in 1965. The tragedy of Sea of Aru in 1962 was one example in that each individual service had power to show off as a single force capable of performing independent operations which was quite often done to demonstrate the superiority of one service or to denigrate the other.53 ‗By 1965, inter- service rivalry between the Indonesian services reached an intensity whereby there was no longer even a unity of purpose, politically or militarily, and in that situation the army leadership managed to persuade Sukarno of the necessity of integrating the academies of various services‘.54

The post-1965 events had brought about radical changes in the military leadership, leading to the complete removal of Sukarnoist officers, replaced with those who were deemed acceptable and cooperative with Suharto‘s Army. Inter- services rivalries were reduced following the integration of the Indonesian Armed

Forces, along with its education system in which the Army now had dominant roles and authority in defining the direction of the armed forces. This integration became an avenue to inculcate conformity of obedience systematically to support the regime.

It became an arena of ‗army-isation‘ over the whole armed forces‘ professionalisation which even now remains well preserved.

52 Ibid., p. 78. 53 Djajengminardo, Kesaksian, pp. 85-104; Ken Conboy, KOPASSUS: Inside Indonesia’s Special Forces, Equinox, Jakarta, 2003, pp. 62-7; Benedicta A. Surodjo and JMV. Soeparno, Tuhan Pergunakanlah Hati, Pikiran dan Tanganku: Pledoi Omar Dani, Media Lintas Inti Nusantara untuk ISAI, Jakarta, 2005, pp. 28-9. Indeed, Omar Dani‘s suspicion of a leak about the operation should be understood in the broader context of political contestation in that era, especially between Sukarno and the Army concerning the issues in relation to the recovery of West Irian. See Sundhaussen, The Road to Power, pp. 154-5. 54 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 263.

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Unfortunately, there has been no single systematic study to investigate the impacts of this integration on the overall process of TNI professionalisation. No serious attempts have even been made by those from internal TNI circles, to look at the impact of this integration on its existing paradigm. Also, the absence of systematic research of the TNI academy with internal sources reflects the military‘s ignorance about the education itself. As we shall see in the next chapter, the education process has been largely reduced to mere routines for working with the programme.

Integrative education through the military academy is believed to have become an arena to cultivate character uniformity, ‗corporateness‘ of the officer corps. According to Huntington, ‗corporateness‘ constitutes one of the military professional pillars. It can only develop with continuous indoctrination inculcated for a substantial amount of time to shape what is called esprit de corps. This is because officers ‗who share similar recruitment, socialization [sic], and career patterns share certain value patterns as well‘.55 Clearly, the process to pursue this goal should commence at the earliest time whilst an aspirant is still in tabula rasa, when he enters into the military life. In this way, the indoctrination of military values, beliefs, and culture can simply be carried out. Hence, integrative training for TNI officer cadets has been crucial in shaping the uniformed character of the TNI officer corps.

Under the Army‘s dominant influence, which by now controlled the whole armed forces, the education philosophy would inevitably have to align with one perceived and defined by the Army as to what the Indonesian officer‘s character should look like.

55 Frederic A Bergerson, The Army Gets an Air Force: Tactics of Insurgent Bureaucratic Politics, Johns Hopkins University Press, Baltimore, 1980, p. 11.

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ABRI and Popular Mass Depoliticisation

Political events during 1965 quickly changed the direction of Indonesian military professionalisation-building, which was progressing towards modernisation.

The termination of a confrontation with Malaysia initiated a new orientation of military roles in the New Order state which were contrary to the pre-1965 period.

Various military operations from 1945 until the first half of the 1960s had been the

‗training ground‘ for developing Indonesian military professionalism, whereby all operations were to confront foreign powers or in-country rebellions which were

‗backed up‘ by foreign power, especially the West (US).56 Indonesian military capability to wage conventional warfare (as opposed to ), had in fact begun in the early period of independence particularly by the Air Force. After

Indonesia gained its full sovereignty, its military capability building was in preparing to defend the country from external threats or intervention by foreign powers, to support Sukarno‘s political views which were ‗anti-colonialism‘ and ‗anti- imperialism‘. This was pursued by procuring massive weapon systems capable of projecting long-range military power. In short term this capability was prepared to recover West Irian from the Dutch authority and to confront the establishment of the

Malaysia Federation, known as Sukarno‘s politics of ‗Ganyang Malaysia‘ (Crush

Malaysia).

The New Order authority terminated the confrontation with Malaysia by establishing ‗hidden diplomacy‘ when Sukarno‘s authority began deteriorating in the post-1965 period. The slogans ‗revolution‘, ‗anti-colonialism‘ and ‗anti-imperialism‘ had disappeared from political discourse and the public sphere of the New Order state. The new government now set up a basic underlying assumption that Indonesia

56 See Wardaya, Indonesia Melawan Amerika.

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would have no foreign threats for the far-off future.57 Hence, the state defence outlook quickly shifted to be inward-looking. The military now became the main pillar to support the New Order government whose priority was to accelerate the modernisation of Indonesia.

Military capability which, under Sukarno‘s authority, was prepared to confront foreign colonial and imperial threats, was now, in the New Order era, mobilised to tackle all internal enemies aspiring to disrupt the internal security and order required to fully implement the ideology of developmentalism. Suharto was fully cognisant that the fundamental requirement for accelerating modernisation and development was national stability, that is, internal security and political stability. He asserted clearly that

In whatever country it is impossible to carry out development without the preservation of national stability – stability in the political, economic, social, culture, defence, and military field. Without development, there will be no growth, and without growth, there will be nothing to improve the people‘s standard of living.58

For the New Order, efforts in carrying out the development required a

‗stabiliser‘ and ‗dynamiser‘ (as they were so-called)59 to guarantee the social order to enable the modernisation and development itself to run well, as well as to keep the process according to the political vision and goals set up by the regime. The Army itself then became both a ‗stabiliser‘ and a ‗dynamiser‘. This seemed to fulfil what

Nasution had long envisaged of the military roles in society after his dismissal

57 See, for example, Robert Lowry, The Armed Forces of Indonesia, Allen & Unwin, St Leonards, New South Wales, 1996. 58 Quoted in Rinakit, The Indonesian Military, p. 27. 59 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 184.

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following the ‗17 October 1952 Affair‘.60 To army officers in general, the political message drawn from this affair was that the political parties were only ‗patronage machines serving limited sectional interests ... inimical to national goals‘ which quite often resulted in political instability as occurred throughout the Old Order era.61

Accordingly, the New Order‘s hostility towards parties and to the mobilisation of the popular masses associated with political parties thus became a basic underlying assumption for ‗social transformation‘ needed to carry out

Indonesian development and modernisation. In such assumption ‗the repression of the parties would allow the government to carry out its program unencumbered by the need to give concessions to the vested interests represented by the party politicians‘.62 Thus, repression of political parties and depoliticisation of the masses of people had become an integral part of Indonesian modernisation and development under Suharto‘s government in which the Army played a crucial role. For the most part, attempts to demobilise masses of people had been done since 1965 against PKI

60 The ‗17 October 1952 Affair‘ refers to the political dispute between the parliament and the Army in the era of parliamentary democracy which culminated in the internal crisis of the Army. In essence, it was a political dispute between the parliament who was ‗regarded as the legitimate exercise of civilian authority‘ under the 1950 Provisional Constitution and the Army who regarded that all matters related to the army were to be of their internal affairs, not the parliamentary‘s (civilian politicians‘) matters. Thus, any civilian politicians‘ ‗interference‘ in the army‘s internal affairs was deemed ‗intolerable‘. It should be noted however that the Army was also factionalised based on a number of factors, of which the striking one was their source of recruitment, mainly the Dutch-trained (KNIL) officers and the Japanese-trained (PETA) officers. Other factors came from their differences in ideological and political preferences as well as personal affiliation to political parties. Each faction tried to gain ‗political opportunities provided by the unrestrained competition between civilian political groups to further their own factions‘. The Dutch-trained (KNIL) officers, such as A.H. Nasution and few other senior army leaders, were frequently regarded as the more professional group than the less well- trained Japanese-trained (PETA) officers. Nasution‘s plan for rationalisation and demobilisation aimed at creating a more professional, disciplined and smaller force was rejected by the parliament. Pro-Nasution officers felt that this rejection constituted an interference of civilian government in the internal affairs of the army. This culminated in their anger as shown on 17 October 1952 when pro- Nasution troops marched and aimed a canon to the President Palace demanding President Sukarno dissolve the parliament. However, Sukarno dismissed the protest, and instead of dissolving the parliament, he discharged Nasution as the Chief of Staff of the Army. For more detail on this affair, see Crouch, The Army and Politics, pp. 27-31. See also Sundhaussen, The Road to Power, especially chapter 3. 61 Crouch, The Army and Politics, pp. 245-6. 62 Ibid., p. 246.

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supporters following the September 30 Movement. As we shall see later, for the New

Order regime, the spectre of mobilisation and radicalisation of the masses of people remained a haunting and menacing threat to the social transformation the regime envisaged.

The bloody events that commenced at the end of September 1965 had dramatically changed Sukarno‘s political power that relied upon mass popular mobilisation. Despite ideological differences between Sukarno and the PKI, pro-PKI masses became a significant supporter of Sukarno‘s power. The massacre of PKI supporters followed by the banning of PKI offered an opportunity for the Army under Suharto‘s control to capitalise on the political situation and quickly change the balance of power in the Guided Democracy. At a glance, the Army seemed to be the victor in this ideological contestation, defeating other cultural blocs whose power was based upon pro-Sukarno and pro-PKI mass mobilisation. But hastily concluding that the victory reflects the supremacy of army‘s culture would blur the role of

Suharto‘s personal interests.

It would eventually become apparent that it was not the Army‘s interests in particular, but rather those of Suharto‘s palace itself, that would be referred to in defining and building Indonesian cultural character. For Suharto, the Army was only a tool in maintaining his political power.63 In the early stages of his power consolidation, Suharto relied much on his trusted army generals in formulating basic assumptions, values, and norms in building what modern Indonesia should look like.

In later development, for the sake of his power, Suharto constantly stirred contestation between his inner circle generals. This contestation was maintained in

63 Rinakit, The Indonesian Military, p. 50-4.

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order to guarantee their allegiance for both Suharto himself and the Army.64 Suharto even sidelined senior officers who had shown their dedication in nurturing the Army during the difficult times after the independence struggle, such as Nasution, who later demonstrated a critical attitude towards him.

As an entity that has unified norms, values and beliefs, the Army is a political institution in itself.65 When the New Order newly commenced assumption of power, there was not any single large party whose platform represented the military‘s political interests, particularly those of the Army.66 It should be noted here that the

Army‘s interests should be viewed as ones derived from Suharto‘s palace. It seemed that Suharto was inclined to appoint the Joint Secretariat of Functional Groups

(known by its partial acronym Sekber-Golkar or Golkar67) to which since 1966 he had given particular attention to accommodate the Army‘s interests.68 This clearly

64 David Jenkins, Suharto and his Generals: Indonesian Military Politics 1975-1983, Monograph Series No. 64, Cornell Modern Indonesia Project, Ithaca, New York, 1984, p. 136. 65 Stepan, The Military in Politics, p. 49. 66 During the Guided Democracy era political interests of the armed forces were accommodated in the National Council which was established by the Kabinet Karya (Work Cabinet) following the collapse of Ali Sastroamidjojo‘s second cabinet in May 1957. The National Council which was primarily based on the functional groups ‗was intended as a counterpoise to the ideological party system‘. This is because for Sukarno and many others, especially the military, regarded the ideological divisions among the parties were seen to have brought about national disunity. Thus, ‗an alternative basis for organizing the nation‘ was then channelled through the functional groups. For Sukarno, this body also functioned as his political vehicle. Meanwhile to the armed forces, particularly the Army, it provided enormous benefit, especially with the introduction of a state of emergency throughout the whole of Indonesia in March 1957. This state of emergency had brought the army in the National Council to dominate over other groups. See Daniel S. Lev, The Transition to Guided Democracy: Indonesian Politics, 1957-1959, Monograph Series, Modern Indonesia Project, Cornell University, Ithaca, New York, 1966, pp. 11-74. For army leadership the functional group concept installed in the National Council ‗offered funds of patronage for dispensation. It promised moves against the party system in general and a rationale with which to deny the very legitimacy of the appeal of the PKI‘. See David Reeve, Golkar of Indonesia: An Alternative to the Party System, Oxford University Press, Singapore, 1985, p. 148. For more detail of political crises that preceded the declaration of can be seen in Daniel S. Lev, The Transition to Guided Democracy, especially chapter 1 and chapter 2. See also Crouch, The Army and Politics; Sundhaussen, The Road to Power. 67 Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 264. 68 Sekretariat Bersama Golongan Karya (abbreviated Sekber Golkar) or the Joint secretariat of the Functional Groups was formed on 20 October 1964 to strengthen the anti-communist groups. For the Army which already had interests to play a political role, this body became a major political vehicle that could channel its interests in managing the country. However, although it was aimed at strengthening anti-communist groups, there were military officers and civilian politicians who were close to Sukarno, holding important positions in the central executive board of Sekber Golkar. Only

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demonstrated that Suharto for his part and desire to hold on authority, preferred a political vehicle for his army and not vice versa.

After having reorganised through various measures up until late 1969, though it remained heterogeneous, Sekber Golkar could finally be consolidated to become the political vehicle for the military.69 Thereafter, various tactics were devised to ensure Golkar won the general election, mostly using Opsus (Special

Operation), bureaucracy-conditioning and army territorial structure mobilisation. The

Body to Manage the General Elections (Bapilu) established by with the support from Opsus conducted secretive operations in ‗conditioning‘ the established party and mass religious leaders to ensure the victory of Golkar by intervening in their internal affairs with various tactics, namely intimidation and money politics.70

In state bureaucracy circles, ‗civil servants were pressed to sign statements of

―monoloyalty‖ to the government, implying support for the Golkar, and local government officials were assigned ―quotas‖ of votes to be mobilized for the Golkar in their district [sic]‘.71 These tactics were accompanied by mobilisation of the army territorial command structure for conditioning mass people up to the village level to widen support for Golkar. This conditioning creation was aimed at cutting off the grass-root mass from the established political parties while at the same driving them

‗to switch their vote to the Golkar‘.72 By employing a combination of such tactics,

after 1969, the important positions of Sekber Golkar leadership were replaced by the pro-Suharto Army officers. See Leo Suryadinata, Military Ascendency and Political Culture: A Study of Indonesia’s Golkar, Monograph in International Studies, South East Asia Series No.85, Ohio University Center for International Studies, Athens, Ohio, 1989, pp. 13, 25, 30. 69 Ibid., p. 30. 70 See for example Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 258; Suryadinata, Military Ascendency, p. 44; Ikrar Nusa Bhakti et al., Tentara Mendamba Mitra. Hasil Penelitian LIPI tentang Pasang Surut Keterlibatan ABRI dalam Kehidupan Kepartaian di Indonesia, Mizan, , 1999, pp. 112-3. 71 Crouch, The Army and Politics, pp. 267-8. 72 Ibid., p. 267.

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unsurprisingly, Golkar won the 1971 general election overwhelmingly, winning

62.8% of the votes and 236 of the elected seats giving it a majority in parliament.73

In later developments throughout the New Order era, instead of becoming

Golkar‘s political machine in general elections the army territorial structure became the ABRI‘s effective instrument in maintaining political stability as an integral part of the implementation of its dwifungsi doctrine, which in turn was used by Suharto to sustain his power. In fact, the significance of the army territorial structure was felt long before the 1971 general election. In August 1966, through a seminar at the

Army Command and Staff College (SESKOAD), the Army had firmly asserted its doctrine of dwifungsi. The territorial structure established since the guerrilla war was then revitalised to implement the dwifungsi doctrine as the Army‘s dominance in politics increased. Political roles played by the territorial structure seemed to be based on a basic underlying assumption that political stability had to be created by

‗making permanent the end of any form of open mobilizational [sic] politics. There was to be no more pergerakan [movement], ever‘.74 To achieve this, the masses of people had to be continuously ‗conditioned‘ through constant monitoring, supervision, and, if necessary, intervention administered by the army territorial apparatus.75 In this way, the army territorial structure became very political throughout the New Order government.

For the New Order military elites however, all these sorts of political mobilisation and politicisation of the masses of people more often created political instability that could obstruct modernisation and development. According to Ali

Murtopo,

73 Ibid., p. 270. See also Bhakti et al., Tentara Mendamba Mitra, p. 143. 74 Lane, Unfinished Nation, p. 45. 75 Crouch, The Army and Politics, pp. 268-72.

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The political parties were always trying to marshal mass support by forming various affiliated organisations based on the ideologies of their respective parties. The mass of the people, especially those in villages, always fell prey to the political and ideological interests of those parties. Their involvement in the conflicts of political and ideological interests had as its result the fact that they ignored the necessities of daily life, the need for development and improvement of their own lives, materially as well as spiritually.

Such a situation should not repeat itself. Nevertheless, even now the parties continue to be narrowly ideology-oriented as before. Therefore it is only right to attract the attention of the mainly village people away from political problems and ideological exclusiveness to efforts of national development through the development of their own rural societies. For these reasons, it is justifiable that political activities are limited to the district level only. Here lies the meaning and the goal of the depoliticisation (the process of freeing the people from political manipulation) and the ‗deparpolisasi‘ [the process of freeing the people from political party allegiances] in the villages.76

In order to operationalise above political views or basic assumptions, the regime needed a sort of strategy of action. Hence, the ‗counter-revolution‘ New

Order formulated an action strategy for the creation of political stability which was elaborated on in the so-called concept of ‗floating mass‘.77

Nevertheless, this does not imply that people in the villages are debarred from maintaining political aspirations. Besides their opportunity to pour their aspirations into development of their own societies, in general elections they can also vote for whichever political party or the Functional Groups (Golkar) they regard as capable of channelling their aspirations and whichever has platforms in accordance with their own aspirations.

76 David Bourchier and Vedi R. Hadiz (eds.), Indonesian Politics and Society: A Reader, RoutledgeCurzon, London and New York, 2003, pp. 47-8. 77 The term ‗floating mass‘ in the Indonesian context was first used by Nurcholish Madjid, an Indonesian Muslim scholar shortly before the 1971 general election, but was then utilised by Ali Murtopo. See David Bourchier and Vedi R. Hadiz (eds.), p. 29.

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In this way people in the villages will not spend their valuable time and energy in the political struggles of parties and groups, but will be occupied wholly with development efforts. Through this process there emerges the so- called ‗floating mass‘, i.e. people who are not permanently tied to membership of any political party. This concept of ‗floating mass‘ should lead to increased development efforts. It may also stimulate the other socio- political forces to prepare development programs that will be brought forth and evaluated in general elections. The group that has the development program that best suits the public interest will win the general elections.78

Indeed the counter-revolution New Order was not always anti-mobilisation in its very real sense. As noted earlier, to a certain degree, approaching the 1971 general election, to ensure Golkar victory the ruling regime also occasionally administered mass-mobilisation by using army territorial structures and bureaucracy. But, this sort of mobilisation was largely done in its own interest to ‗occupy political space … rather than to foster frequent and regular mass mobilization [sic] or participation‘.79

So also, when it was deemed necessary to achieve its aims, the regime could quickly change its political view to anti-mobilisation and radicalisation. Later, in the long run, such contingent attitude found its expression in the invasion of East Timor in the mid of 1970s. According to Fernandes

Suharto‘s hostility to the prospect of an independent East Timor must be understood in the context of its broader hostility to political activity at the village level in Indonesia. This opposition to village-level mobilization was a fundamental principle of the New Order regime. ‘s commitment to working in the villages and its pursuit of land reform and public education would have been a successful example of a democratic alternative in the

78 Bourchier and Hadiz, Indonesian Politics, p. 48. 79 Karl D.Jackson, ‗Bureaucratic Polity: A Theoretical Framework for the Analysis of Power and Communications in Indonesia‘, in Karl D. Jackson and Lucian W. Pye (eds.), Political Power and Communications in Indonesia, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1978, pp. 3-22, p. 9.

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middle of the Indonesian archipelago. This is not to say that Fretilin was a model of libertarian political thought; rather, its work in mobilising the inhabitants of the villages of East Timor was intolerable because the Indonesian public would be able to see a successful alternative to the New Order in their geographic midst.80

Fernandes further argues that

Indonesia had not shown any interest in annexing East Timor during its struggle for independence. Nor did it show any interest during the liberal parliamentary period from 1950 to 1959. Dr Subandrio, then Foreign Affairs Minister, explicitly denied any claim to East Timor in his submissions to the First Committee of the United Nations General Assembly in 1961. This remained Indonesia‘s position during the Guided Democracy period from 1959 to 1965 and the first decade of the New Order. Given Fretilin‘s commitment to political activity at the village level, however, Indonesia used anti-Communist pretexts to justify its opposition to an independent East Timor. It claimed (falsely) that communists from were attempting to enter East Timor, that East Timor would give the Soviet Union a naval base to divide Indonesian waters into two zones, that Vietnam might send troops to East Timor, and other equally false Cold War-inspired claims. President Suharto told Australian Prime Minister Gough Whitlam that the Chinese embassy in Canberra was helping communists enter East Timor. Whitlam replied that there was no evidence to support his claim. The real issue was that the threat of a democratic alternative to the New Order dictatorship might have inspired other Indonesians.81

Indeed, a few years before the annexation of East Timor, the New Order‘s anti-popular mobilisation and anti-libertarian political thoughts had already become established along with its growing dictatorship. Golkar‘s overwhelming victory in the 1971 general election drastically reduced mass opposition to the regime and

80 Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, p. 25. 81 Ibid., p. 27.

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opened an avenue for the regime to simplify the established political parties, which had long been envisaged since the beginning of New Order. The simplification of the political parties, done through the fusion of established parties was completed in

1973. The fusion resulted in the merger of nine old political parties into only two parties with new name: United Development Party (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan

 PPP) and Indonesian Democratic Party (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia  PDI).

PPP constituted a fusion of four Islamic parties, while five other parties dissolved into PDI and both of these parties ‗were under leadership largely amenable to the government‘s wishes and received subsidies from the government to finance their operations‘.82 The success of this fusion meant that it would be much easier for the government and ABRI to create conditions for those parties to remain accommodating to the regime‘s desire.83

It seemed henceforth that during the New Order regime ruling the state, backed up by ABRI, the regime was consistently eager to create conditions to ensure that all political leaders had to be elected from those aligned with the government‘s wishes. Besides that, party leaders had to be chosen according to Suharto‘s favour.

Since then, there developed a political culture in that political party or organisation leaders needed Suharto‘s ‗blessing‘ in order to be legitimately acknowledged by the government. The New Order‘s hegemony on political culture ‗had thoroughly permeated into every cultural aspect‘ of social life at large. This socio-political culture was inculcated through various sophisticated strategies and resulted in an

‗artificial‘ democratic system whose impacts remain apparent in Indonesia today.84

In such culture there prevails popular idioms of ‗mohon petunjuk‘ (literally, to ask

82 Crouch, The Army and Politics, p. 271. 83 Bhakti et al., Tentara Mendamba Mitra, p. 141. 84 Ibid., p. 168.

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boss‘ guidance) and ‗asal bapak senang‘ (as long as boss is pleased) which today still applies in military and bureaucratic environments.85

In 1973 the New Order had just become established as a government with

Suharto as the focal point of authority. This status quo establishment was supported by political stability maintained with three political resources: ‗coercive, persuasive, and material‘.86 These resources were consistently mobilised to secure a political system of so-called ‗ Democracy‘ for twenty five years, in which the armed forces, in particular the Army, and ‗civilian‘ bureaucracy played instrumental roles.

As mentioned earlier in this chapter, post-1965 saw a directional shift in

Indonesian military orientation, which was in fact at the time focussed in its professional form, on the defence of the archipelago from external threats. The crucial alteration lies in the basic assumption of its function as a defence force.

Under the Sukarno regime, it was used mainly to contain the external threats allegedly backed up by what Sukarno called neo-colonialism and imperialism.

Although the military had been mobilised to wage ‗civil war‘ in regional rebellions under a declared state of emergency, its deployment was more to crush the dissenters who were supposedly sponsored by foreign powers.87 When the foreign neo- colonialism and imperialism threats disappeared from the New Order‘s public sphere and were replaced by developmentalism discourses focusing on state political stability, in which the military became the main pillar, the state defence outlook also changed. The military‘s professional orientation and defence outlook changed

85 R. William Liddle, Leadership and Culture in Indonesian Politics, ASAA Publications Series no. 29, Asian Studies Association of Australia in association with Allen & Unwin Sydney, 1996, p. 80. 86 Ibid., p. 185. 87 See Wardaya, Cold War Shadow.

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drastically from ‗outward looking‘ to ‗inward looking‘ in support of political stability and regime maintenance.

To implement this new basic assumption, Suharto gave the military a new

‗playground‘ especially to support his interests in the power game. To sustain the continuity of the political game, the regime created a persistent image of state enemies perceived as a constant threat to the Pancasila Democracy, in response to which the military became the main pillar to safeguard the state from such threats. In this effort, the military employed its coercive apparatus, Kopkamtib to vanquish any form of potential and real enemy inclined to try to disrupt social order and political stability.88 This body conducted ideological screening for political party leader cadres and state employees; cleansing the communist remnants; and dismissing labour and student activists. There was a political screening test which was then called Special Investigations (Penelitian Khusus, abbreviated as Litsus). Litsus was aimed at preventing a person allegedly having relations with communist or other leftist movements from enlisting as a state employee or to military service.89

Although it had been in use since the New Order authority came into power, especially in recruiting military personnel, Litsus was formally brought into effect with the President‘s Decree or Keppres No. 19/1986 and was then renewed by

Keppres 16/1990.

Supported by army territorial structure, Kopkamtib carried out monitoring of any form of daily socio-political life in Indonesian society. The operations focused

88 In 1988 President Suharto liquidated Kopkamtib and replaced it with the National Stability Coordination Agency (Badan Koordinasi Stabilitas Nasional, Bakorstanas). Despite using a different name, Barkostranas‘s functions resembled that of its predecessor. Like Kopkamtib, Bakorstanas was an extra-judicial body which had wide discretion to arrest and interrogate people deemed a danger to national security and order. This body was dissolved in President Abdurrahman Wahid‘s era in March 2000. For more detail on Kopkamtib and Bakorstranas, see Damien Kingsbury, Power Politics and The Indonesian Military, RoutledgeCurzon, London and New York, 2003, pp. 129-31. See also Sebastian, Realpolitik Ideology, pp. 80-6. 89 Bourchier and Hadiz, Indonesian Politics, p. 215.

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on enforcing security and order with the targets being those who criticised the government, especially student demonstrations, labour rallies, critical intellectuals,

Islamic groups and legal activists. Any criticism toward government and military dwifungsi would be deemed as anti-development and, consequently, stamped as anti-

Pancasila. Any form of political activism criticising the government would be punished with accusations of staging subversion. During any approaching general election, a standard prohibition was imposed on any political campaign for discrediting the state ideology Pancasila and the Constitution of 1945 as well as criticising government‘s policies and its officials.

As a socio-political entity which had a self-imposed ‗call of duty‘ as

Pancasila guardian in all aspects of Indonesian life, the military also had a playground to develop its economic interests, which had begun during the state of military emergency and which rose sharply during the New Order era through the implementation of dwifungsi doctrine. The military economic business was needed to fund its operations in enforcing internal security and political stability, and certainly, for the interests of Suharto‘s palace and his cliques. Its economic interest expanded in all sectors in which each service had its own business firms of which the Army managed the most. For the most part, the military economic businesses took the form of foundations.90 However, the position of the military in its economic interests was, in fact, just marginal, as observed by the leader of Indonesia‘s largest Islamic religious organisation Nahdatul Ulama (Renaissance of the Islamic Scholars),

Abdurrahman Wahid (later the in the reformation era). Wahid asserted that ‗people always allocated blame to ABRI as an independent identity

[w]hereas we know that ABRI is only the watchman. The decision was taken

90 See, for example, in Rinakit, The Indonesian Military, pp. 166-97; Sebastian, Realpolitik Ideology, pp. 299-300; Kingsbury, Power Politics, pp. 214-20.

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elsewhere. So, ABRI had only been made the for securing what is called development. Or, it is made sweeper to clean up anything dirty‘.91

As the army‘s role in politics became increasingly dominant, Suharto‘s pragmatical experiences of his own bid for power made him remain vigilant to the significance of the gun barrel. His position in power had not been fully secured before the Army was fully under his control.92 It seemed henceforth that Suharto employed the political pragmatism of ‗divide-and-rule‘ — which also originated from the values of particular Javanese wisdom — to control the military under him.

According to Rinakit, for Suharto, ‗divide and rule politics [had] been thoroughly inculcated in his blood‘. As a traditional Javanese, Suharto intimately understood the values of particular Javanese cultural wisdom, which he frequently advised the

Indonesian young generation to learn about.93

The political wisdom contained in Javanese alphabet of Hanacaraka that tells a story about how to secure political power game was used by Suharto to control the military. As summarised by Rinakit, ‗[t]he moral of this story is that someone must create two balancing and powerful camps and plot to make them fight each other.

The plotter will then emerge to pick up the spoils after they have destroyed each other‘. By these means, the victor needs not ‗to worry about a threat from below‘.94

Suharto created a situation whereby the military that supported his throne was divided into various competing groups. ‗Suharto will never use only one person. He will balance these people, the one controlling the other, for his purpose‘.95 By these means, he was therefore ‗able to remove them one by one and prevent the emergence

91 Budi Susanto dan A. Made Tony Supriatma, ABRI: Siasat Kebudayaan 1945-1995, Kanisius, Yogyakarta, 1995, p. 96. 92 Rinakit, The Indonesian Military, p. 51. 93 Ibid., p. 81. 94 Ibid. 95 Jenkins, Suharto and His Generals, p. 134.

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of one dominant group threatening his position‘.96 However, the tactics by which

Suharto secured his throne frequently incurred high social costs. Rinakit‘s observation indicates that any rivalry in two competing camps of army generals always ended up in social riots.97

However, such conflict management in the military body was only part of the picture of how Suharto managed his power by using particular Javanese teachings.

Later throughout his authority, it seemed that Suharto made particular Javanese wisdom the foundation for managing the whole state and government. ‗Javanisation went on simultaneously with civil bureaucratisation and militarisation‘ wherein

Suharto became ‗[the pioneer] to popularise the New Order‘s version of Javanese

[philosophy]‘ which was widely accepted and adhered by civilian and military officials as ‗Suharto Teachings‘.98

At the beginning of his authority, Suharto relied on his inner core group of army generals99 as his advisers and personal assistants in administering the state- related affairs. This group can be said to be the first layer of Suharto inner advisers.

Some of them had special roles advising Suharto on matters. In spiritual matters, Suharto appointed Major General Sudjono Humardani as his ‗senior‘ adviser, especially in ‗Javanese mystic beliefs‘ (kebatinan), in addition to being his

96 Rinakit, The Indonesian Military, pp. 51-2. 97 Rinakit summarises that ‗It is widely known that the conflicts between Ali Moertopo and Soemitro (1974), Soedarmono and Benny Moerdani (1984), Faisal Tanjung and Hendroprijono (1996) and and Prabowo (1998) were engineered by Soeharto. The first two were mainly attempts to eliminate his critical supporters, while the last three were addressed to maintain the balance of power among the parties and to defend his position as the centre of power. Excluding the last conflict, which finally led to his downfall, Soeharto was able to control them firmly. However, the collision between the two camps always led to riots, such as the 15 January disaster of 1974 (Malari 1974), the affair (1984), the 27 July affair (1996) and the May riots (1998) respectively.‘ See Rinakit, The Indonesian Military, p. 52. 98 Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, p. 286. 99 In subsequent development, there was a Navy officer, Sudomo who was a Suharto confidant after the operation to liberate West Irian.

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economic adviser.100 As ‗invisible government‘, this inner core group were much more influential than the cabinet in formulating government policies. Most of these few generals were Suharto‘s trusted and well-travelled colleagues.

At the second layer, Suharto was supported by an influential group of

Indonesian Chinese Catholics. According to Fernandes, ‗[t]hese Catholics came out of the milieu of elite Jesuit schools such as Canisius College (known in Indonesia as

Kolese Kanisius) and university student groups such as the Association of the

Catholic Students of the Republic of Indonesia (PMKRI) ... [which] following the rise of Suharto ... renamed itself for CSIS‘.101 The key figures of CSIS, namely Liem

Bian Kie (Jusuf Wanandi) and Liem Bian Khoen (), had established close links and cooperation with Suharto‘s inner generals, most notably Ali Murtopo and . ‗Murtopo‘s patronage ensured that CSIS was influential in the formulation of Indonesian strategic policy [while] Hoemardani‘s patronage ensured that CSIS received funding from state owned companies‘.102

Later in the long run, the workings of these CSIS figures were influential in the decision to invade East Timor. As noted by Fernandes, according to Liem Soei

Liong, ‗[w]e knew before the invasion of [East Timor] what was going to happen, when we saw all the propaganda from Ali Murtopo. Ali Murtopo stage-managed everything... Opsus and CSIS were preparing the ground, [engaging in] destabilisation. You simply had to read Indonesian newspapers to know what they were planning ...‘.103 In an interview with the Commission for Reception, Truth and

Reconciliation, known by its Portuguese initials CAVR, Jusuf Wanandi and Harry

100 Jenkins, Suharto and his Generals, p. 23. 101 Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, p. 26. 102 Ibid., p. 28. 103 Ibid.

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Tjan Silalahi of CSIS admitted that they were both involved in developing policy towards East Timor in 1974-75.104

Furthermore, Suharto‘s inner circle generals can be categorised into two groups according to their political view. The first were those who felt they themselves were holding on to their moral principles. The second group were those who were pragmatic in political principles and who could be seen as having

Machiavellian views in the sense that ‗the end justified the means‘.105 Suharto and his generals‘ pragmatical views regarding power have their roots in Javanese political culture.

According to Ben Anderson, in his work The Idea of Power in Javanese

Culture, the Javanese see power as ‗something concrete … without inherent moral implications‘. ‗[P]ower itself antecedes questions of good and evil‘.106 Power, in

Javanese political culture, is thus a matter of pragmatism. Politics then just becomes an arena of competing intrigues.107 This was relevant to Suharto. According to Pour,

‗Suharto was a Javanese whose pattern of thinking faithfully adhered to a traditional view of life‘.108 Thus it is not surprising if particular teachings109 of Javanese philosophy were so influential to Suharto. Hence, it is understandable that the pragmatist group of generals whose background was from intelligence were more acceptable to Suharto than the moralist group. The pragmatists were so convinced

104 CAVR, Chega 3, 66. 105 Jenkins, Suharto and his Generals, p. 31. 106 Benedict R. O‘G Anderson, ‗The Idea of Power in Javanese Culture‘, in Claire Holt (ed.), Culture and Politics in Indonesia, Cornell University Press, Itacha and London, 1972, pp. 1-69, p. 8. 107 Jenkins, Suharto and his Generals, p. 16. 108 Julius Pour, Benny: Tragedi Seorang Loyalis, Kata Hasta Pustaka, Jakarta, 2007, p. 344. 109 It should be noted nonetheless that Suharto was very selective in employing the teachings in Javanese culture that he was willing to promote. This selective attitude created reactions shown by other group of Javanese teaching adherents such as Wasito, Permadi, Soemarsaid Martono and Subadio Sastrosatomo who criticised Suharto on behalf of the other perspectives of Javanase culture. See Mudhofir Abdullah, ‗Soeharto dan Ideologi Orde Baru‘, in Baskara T. Wardaya et al. (ed.), Menguak Misteri Kekuasaan Soeharto, Galangpress, Yogyakarta, 2007, pp. 55-101, p. 72.

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that ‗the intelligence services should, and indeed must, manipulate the political processes in order to achieve the desired result — a stable and prosperous

Indonesia‘.110

In managing government and all state affairs, as a president Suharto displayed his character more as a Javanese sultan.111 Bhakti labelled him ‗sabda pandita ratu‘

(what the president says or believes will be followed by all his subordinates).112 The power that revolves around the palace is characterised by the culture whose norms approximate those of a patrimonial state system. In a patrimonial system, social arrangements are based on relations driven by the patron-client relationship, that is, the ‗above-below‘ and ‗father-children‘ (or bapakisme, literally fatherism) relations.

In the Indonesian context, according to Jackson, such a patron-client pattern is

‗referred to as bapak-anak buah relationships. The father (bapak) [or patron] accumulates authority by building what is, in effect, an extended family for which he must assume diffuse responsibilities. The bapak forms relations with his anak buah

(children) [or client] by assuming responsibility for their spiritual, material, and social needs‘. The fulfilment of the children‘s needs will in turn create moral obligations, producing respectful attitude and absolute obedience on the children‘s part toward their father.113 In fact, the New Order‘s patrimonial system did not

110 Jenkins, Suharto and his Generals, p. 31. 111 According to Nasution, ‗If you know the tradition in the court of the sultans, the kraton, there is the king, the Sultan, and you have the princes. If the princes come to the Sultan it is always: ‗You are alright.‘ Maybe three or four princes have different opinions but in their talks it is always one to one, not together. ‗You are alright!‘ But if the princes are going to fight, ya, you can fight and the one who wins is the right man. It‘s more or less the same today, not 100 percent‘. See Jenkins, Suharto and His Generals, p. 134. 112 Bhakti et al., Tentara Mendamba Mitra, p. 169. 113 Karl D. Jackson, ‗Urbanization and the Rise of Patron-Client Relations: The Changing Quality of Personal Communications in the Neighborhoods of Bandung and the Villages of ‘, in Karl D. Jackson and Lucian W. Pye (eds.), Political Power and Communications in Indonesia, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1978, pp. 344-92, pp. 349-50.

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necessarily appear in a feudal or mystical manner, but it could otherwise be managed on a ‗rational-legal‘ basis of relationship.114

It should be noted nonetheless that in the post-colonial Indonesian bureaucracy, such a patrimonial system remains prevalent. The independence revolution that made

Indonesia politically sovereign did not completely change the face of Indonesian society. The old structure of pre-colonial patrimonial system which continued to exist in colonial era remained, and is, extant.115 Both the Sukarno and Suharto eras were a continuance of this old pre-colonial arrangement.116 Nevertheless, in the New

Order era the patron-client culture was institutionalised even more systematically.

This was achieved by employing the combination of two tactics simultaneously;

‗military hierarchical view that is characterised by stringent obedience of superior- subordinate line command ... coupled with the concept of social stratification of

Javanese culture characterised by paternalistic obedience that is very much confidential in nature‘.117

The New Order‘s model of bureaucracy approximates the Weberian concept of

‗patrimonial domination‘118 that appears multi-faceted: it includes (1) robust centralisation; (2) high appreciation on uniformity across the structure of bureaucracy; (3) opaque delegation of authority; and (4) inconsistency in setting up the job descriptions and analyses.119 Of these aspects, one that is easily recognised is

114 Jenkins, Suharto and his Generals, p. 17. 115 Susanto and Supriatma, ABRI: Siasat Kebudayaan, p. 29. 116 Crouch, ‗Patrimonialsim and Military Rule in Indonesia‘, World Politics, Vol. 31, No. 4, July 1979, pp. 571-87. 117 Abdullah, ‗Soeharto dan Ideologi Orde Baru‘, p. 71. 118 Frank Parkin, Max Weber, Routledge, London, 2002, p. 81. 119 Priyo Budi Santoso, Birokrasi Pemerintah Orde Baru: Perspektif Kultural dan Struktural, Grafindo Persada, Jakarta, 1995 (1993), pp. 73-9.

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the centralisation and uniformity which is ‗infused into the main sectors of social life, namely, policies in economy, education, culture and religion‘.120

In the Indonesian military body, which is characterised by an absolute obedience of line command, those aspects of patrimonial bureaucracy are completely visible and of course can be simply imposed. The vagueness of delegation of authority in the military body was particularly apparent in the Suharto‘s military inner circle. Jenkins notes that

[i]n the early 1980s, General Jusuf was the minister of defense [sic] and the commander of the armed forces. Admiral Sudomo was the deputy commander of the armed forces and, in theory, answerable to Jusuf on military matters. But Sudomo was also the commander of Kopkamtib. Acting in this capacity, he was able to go ―above‖ Jusuf to the president and ―below‘ him in the sense that he had direct access to and commanded the loyalty of the commanders of each of the military regions. The pattern was repeated throughout the system. Yoga Sugama was not only chief of Bakin but was, for two years, chief of staff of Kopkamtib as well. Benny Moerdani was not only assistant 1 (intelligence) at Hankam but head of Kopkamtib intelligence and deputy chairman of Bakin. He was at the same time, head of Pusintelstrat (Strategic Intelligence Center) and would in an emergency have day-to-day command of all Kopassandha () units. … The commander of the Kopassandha, Maj.Gen. Yogie Suardi Memet, doubled as commander of the Siliwangi. …At the same time, [Suharto] ensured that his position remained paramount by dispersing power among officers who, while loyal to both himself and the armed forces, were divided by interpersonal rivalries and suspicions. 121

‘Army-isation’ of the Indonesian Armed Forces

As regards uniformity and centralisation that characterises patrimonial bureaucracy, the army domination over the entire Indonesian armed forces was

120 Abdullah, ‗Soeharto dan Ideologi Orde Baru‘, p. 74. 121 Jenkins, Suharto and his Generals, p. 136.

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immediately visible in the process of defence doctrine formulation. Doctrine formulation was carried out by manipulating the Army‘s own doctrine known as Tri

Ubaya Cakti (TUC, literally Three Sacred Promises). The earlier (1965) version of

TUC produced in the Sukarno era defined the Army‘s role as ‗instrument of revolution‘ as part of the ‗national progressive-revolutionary forces‘. In this version, the Army had identified itself as a ‗revolutionary military‘ and functioned as a both socio-political and military force. As socio-political entity, it had the purpose to support the development of a socialist Indonesia based on Pancasila ideology. Its role was integrated under the Golongan Karya (Functional Groups).122

When Suharto had just taken authority, in August 1966 the whole substance of

‗revolutionary military‘ doctrine was totally revised. In the revised version of TUC, the Army now became central in all aspects of social life in the pursuit of national modernisation and development. The chief targets of the new version of TUC were the PKI‘s supporters and sympathisers. Through further manipulation and revision, in November 1966 this new version of TUC was then integrated and converted into the central trans-service doctrine of the armed forces which consisted of the doctrines of Hankamnas and Perjuangan to replace the similar old version that already existed.

Finally, these last two doctrines were then organised and combined into single

Hankamnas doctrine known as Catur Dharma Eka Karma (CADEK, literally Four

Devotions for One Outcome) which became the parent doctrine for the whole armed forces and the foundation of ABRI‘s dwifungsi. In the CADEK, the main target was enlarged and more flexible, not only communist supporters and sympathisers but also all threats deemed to be menacing the state ideology Pancasila and national

122 Jun Honna, Military Politics and Democratization in Indonesia, RoutledgeCurzon, London, 2003, p. 54.

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stability.123 By these means, there was centralisation and uniformity in doctrinal extents in which the Army had identified itself as the whole Indonesian armed forces.

The doctrine CADEK was accepted by the air force reluctantly. The Air Force was initially reluctant to adopt this new ABRI doctrine. But, under pressure from the

Army, it finally accepted the new doctrine. With no choices left, this acceptance seemed to be based mainly on intention to protect the Air Force which was at that time already put into a corner following the abortive coup of 1st October 1965.124

Since the ABRI was integrated and put under single control in 1967, all services were simply subject under the CADEK as their parent doctrine. The confusion was soon felt in the service education institution, particularly at the air command and staff college (SESKOAU) which was just established in 1963. This institution which was regarded as the centre of air doctrinal and strategic reviews, from now on, had to accommodate and adopt the army political doctrine which was completely different to the characteristics of air power. In the early 1970s, when the commander of this school was asked about his views regarding the new ABRI‘s doctrine stated that ‗that is your business, The Jolly Green Giants‘. According to him, the Air Force should

‗be genuinely professional‘.125

In its further development, this confusion was eventually neutralised with the obedient attitude imposed by Soldier‘s Oath, saying that ‗We, soldiers of the

Indonesian Armed Forces, uphold discipline, obedience and loyalty to our leaders, and uphold the soldier‘s honours‘. A closer look at the SESKOAU commander‘s expression aforementioned, there appeared a paradoxical situation. The phrase ‗that

123 Ibid., pp. 56-7. 124 Imran Hasibuan et al., Elang dan Pejuang Tanah Air: Biografi Marsekal (Purn) Roesmin Nurjadin, Q Communication and Pustaka Sinar Harapan, Jakarta, 2004, pp. 179-81; see also Surodjo and Soeparno, Tuhan Pergunakanlah, p. xxvii. 125 Wisnu Djajengminardo, Kesaksian: Memoir Seorang Kelana Angkasa, Angkasa, Bandung, 1999, p. 138.

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is your business The Jolly Green Giants‘ implied that the doctrine of dwifungsi devised in the CADEK had no relevance with the Air Force professionalism.

Furthermore, the SESKOAU‘s commander firmly asserted that ‗however the Air

Force will remain adherent to the dwifungsi as part of the whole armed forces which are committed and loyal to the Soldier‘s Oath‘.126 This clearly meant that although dwifungsi was strange to the air force, it was no option for this service but to completely accept it. Predictably, a similar attitude toward this new political doctrine existed in all services.

Beside the principle of unreserved obedience and loyalty, there were important factors that facilitated the incorporation of dwifungsi doctrine into all services: budgetary constraint and education paradigm. In the early years of the New

Order authority, the focus on economic development had brought the defence sector to be allocated a meagre budget and this continued throughout the New Order era preventing Indonesia from building defence posture with strategic offensive capability as it was under Sukarno administration. At the same time, the high-tech offensive defence capability built up during the Sukarno era — which was supplied mostly by communist countries and had not yet been fully mastered — quickly deteriorated and was discontinued due to a drastic changing political situation leading to the suspension of part supplies. Thus, Indonesian military strategic- offensive operational capability of the air and sea power practically died down. The operational and professional vacuum of defence capability which was based upon a high-tech weapon system was now replaced by the operation of the political doctrine of dwifungsi which now called for the roles of all services.

126 Ibid.

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The implementation of dwifungsi doctrine was striking in all aspects of modernisation that demanded political stability and national integrity. The dwifungsi quickly mobilised the military into arenas which ‗used to be the domain of civilians‘.

Approaching the early 1980s, the number of military (Army) officers appointed in strategic posts had reached more than 8000 personnel. This number, as noted by

Said, included important bureaucratic posts as follows:127

Position Number

Ambassador 28 (out of 63) Consulate General 4 (out of 16) Governor 18 (out of 27) Ministry Secretary General 14 (out of 19) Ministry Directorate General 18 (out of 61) Inspectorate General 15 (out of 19) Other Important Posts of Head of 29 State Institutions and Minister Assistants

Through such kekaryaan (appointments), dwifungsi quickly became an institution to preserve New Order patrimonial or patron-client system. For some officers, such appointments in civilian arenas were a compensation for excluding them from the circle of power. Meanwhile for the others, such appointments were ‗a means Suharto used to reward those who had been of service or who had been loyal to him‘.128 In other words, Suharto as the father or bapak (the patron) rewarded material to his children or anak buah (the clients) for their obedience and merit.

127 Said, Legitimizing Military Rule, pp. 91-2. 128 Ibid., p. 92.

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Apart from those facts, military involvement in civilian domains seemed to amplify the army‘s conviction that dwifungsi was the ‗imperative format‘ for the operational undertakings to support national modernisation and development which was based upon Pancasila Democracy. As mentioned earlier, Suharto had stated that national development should incorporate all aspects of national life including in the defence and military field. In this way, predictably, defence capability building was largely driven by the doctrine of dwifungsi in which defence posture was aimed at supporting and preserving internal political stability. In other words, the defence outlook was to be directed inward to support internal affairs undertakings.

This inward-looking defence outlook was paired with Suharto‘s perception regarding the external threats menacing Indonesia which should be deterred heavily by diplomacy.129 Interestingly, Suharto‘s defence outlook was influenced by his beliefs in particular Javanese values which in essence mean ‗a country should try to win a battle without going to war, and without causing the opponent to lose face‘ (or in Javanese terms, perang tanpa nglurug, ‗menang tanpa ngasorake‘).130 This principle produced a basic assumption that in the foreseeable future Indonesia had no direct threats confronting its territorial integrity. ‗Indeed Suharto felt he could never be respected if he did not have his territory intact‘.131 As a consequence, defence priorities were ‗oriented towards maintaining national unity against domestic challenges to the regime‘.132 Hence, Suharto emphasised the importance of diplomacy and regional co-operation in coping with the external strategic environment.133

129 Sebastian, Realpolitik Ideology, pp. 16-7. 130 Ibid., p. 17. 131 Ibid., p. 16. 132 Ibid., p. 15. 133 Ibid., p. 18.

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Hence, the confluence of emphasis on ‗internal political stability‘ and ‗the absence of foreseeable external threats‘ had been made a basic underlying assumption in defence capability building which continued to be adhered to throughout Suharto‘s government. The focus on economic development had taken precedence over the defence priority. With such an assumption, Indonesia implicitly needed no defence structure capable of conducting strategic offensive based on high- tech weapon systems. This perception was in contrast to those during the Sukarno era that saw that military offensive mobilisation and diplomacy were inseparable.

Thus Sukarno‘s outward-looking defence orientation was now replaced by

Suharto‘s inward-looking defence to support domestic challenges to the regime and stability. The difference was markedly indicated in defence spending allocation which drastically plummeted from 83% of the government spending in 1963 to only

25% in the early New Order.134 Henceforth, during the New Order government the defence spending budget remained relatively low. During the 1980s this figure was even lower than before which was a mere less than 3% of GNP and less than 10% of government spending.135

As noted by Rieffel and Pramodhawardani, the Indonesian defence budget profile for the period of 1970-2000 presented as a Share of the Central Government

Budget and in Relation to GDP, is as follows.136

134 Lowry, The Armed Forces, p. 106. 135 Ibid., p. 23. 136 Rieffel and Pramodhawardani, Out of Business and On Budget, p. 96.

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Defence 1970 1975 1980 1985 1990 1995 2000

As share of central 23.5 16.9 11.3 10.6 7.0 7.7 4.3 Government budget (%)

In relation to GDP (%) n.a 3.6 2.9 2.5 1.5 1.6 1.0

Meanwhile as stipulated in the Defence White Paper 2008137, realisation of the defence spending (as a share of the central government budget and in relation to

GDP 2005-2008) is as follows

Defence 2005 2006 2007 2008

As share of central 5.81 4.36 4.27 4.23 Government budget (%)

In relation to GDP (%) 0.93 0.93 0.92 0.79

With such a budget figure, Indonesia appears to be spending significantly less than its neighbours.138 Although during the New Order era there was a period when economic growth increased admirably, Suharto remained persistent in his defence outlook. Sebastian notes that ‗despite the fact that the ability to use lethal force against external security contingencies developed progressively as the country‘s economic circumstances improved, the TNI‘s military capabilities had been hamstrung by Suharto‘s desire to meet national objectives and maintain a focus on internal security rather than policies aimed at boosting defence spending for external defence‘.139

137 See Departemen Pertahanan Republik Indonesia, Buku Putih Pertahanan Indonesia 2008, p. 163. 138 To compare this budget figure with some ASEAN members, see Rieffel and Pramodhawardani, Out of Business and On Budget, p. 96. 139 Sebastian, Realpolitik Ideology, p. 14.

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Concurrent with above factors, another crucial factor that boosted the inculcation of the mental framework of dwifungsi — as well as the instutionalisation of the patrimonial character of the regime — had been the officer education at the military academy. The socialisation of dwifungsi doctrine to the young generations of

ABRI officers commenced taking place massively through the integrative education of a cadet officer academy (AKABRI) in Magelang. Through this integrative training, not only the socialisation of dwifungsi outlook but also the ‗army-isation‘ process was carried out by implanting norms, values as well as assumptions required to inculcate the character of Javanese knightship.140 The education curriculum was adjusted to align with the need of dwifungsi‘s operational undertakings. A sort of

‗executive summary‘ on the alteration of academic curriculum of 1974 stated that ‗If that continuous changing curriculum is compared [with the previous one], then there appears that the teaching hours allocation to military subjects tend to lessen and otherwise general subjects increase. This variation is due to the increasing ABRI roles in social, political, economic and cultural fields recently‘.141 Since the 1970s the CADEK doctrine had been included in the integrative curriculum for all (four) services: the Army, the Navy, the Air Force and the Police.142 At the earliest stage, the ‗educational‘ method placed a heavy emphasis on uniformity of cadets‘ mindset carried out with: (1) indoctrination, (2) drilling, (3) understanding (penjiwaan), and

(4) instructors-centric education (students were to listen only).143 The indoctrination proceeded intensively to ‗inculcate soul, attitude, discipline, obedience and traditions

140 See the next chapter. 141 AKABRI Bagian Umum dan Darat, ‗Naskah Penyajian tentang Kurikulum AKABRI UDARAT pada Rapat Sisdik [Sistem Pendidikan] Angkatan Darat‘, Magelang, 28 Februari 1974, p. 2. Copy of this document is in the author‘s possession. 142 Ibid., p. 3. 143 AKABRI Bagian Umum dan Darat, ‗Lampiran–H dari Naskah Penyajian tentang Kurikulum AKABRI UDARAT Pada Rapat Sisdik Angkatan Darat‘, Magelang, 28 Februari 1974. Copy of this document is in the author‘s possession. The education paradigm will be discussed in the next chapter.

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for ABRI soldier‘.144 Unsurprisingly, the ABRI officers trained in Magelang then gained new knowledge of dwifungsi in addition to the uniformity of character and attitude especially one which is ‗anti-critical discourse‘ or ‗anti-intellectual‘.

Moreover, under such an arrangement, the police had since been placed in a submissive role to the army hegemony. As a result, the military personnel had since seemingly felt themselves less respect for the ‗civilian‘ legal code that the police had tasks to enforce.

Two years after the New Order‘s fall, the military academy curriculum still included dwifungsi doctrine as subject matter. After the formal statement of the TNI commander to dismantle the dwifungsi on 20 April 2000, the military academy curriculum was altered to remove dwifungsi doctrine. The subject matter of dwifungsi was now replaced with Paradigma Baru TNI (the TNI‘s New Paradigm) organised under the subject group of doctrine. However, despite considerable alterations in curriculum content, the paradigm of education — which stuck on the army‘s educational paradigm — remains unchanged even today.145 Meanwhile, the

Police which was formally separated from the Indonesian Armed Forces on 1 April

1999 began to ‗relearn to become police after undergoing more than 32 years of militarisation‘.146 However, up to now, the Navy and Air Force seem to remain adherent to the educational paradigm whose content is very army-oriented. As we will see later in the next chapter, that paradigm has apparently led to the Air Force‘s chronic crisis of professionalism as a defence force. At the same time, the training paradigm also remains an arena to preserve patrimonialism.147

144 AKABRI Bagian Umum dan Darat, ‗Naskah Penyajian tentang Kurikulum …‘, p. 10. 145 As we shall see in the next chapter. 146 Salim Said, Militer Indonesia dan Politik, p. 311. 147 Will be discussed in the next chapter.

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The ‘Army-isation’ of Indonesian: Cultural and Historic Tactics

Up to this point some questions need to be addressed. How was it possible that the New Order‘s hegemony and military dwifungsi endured for so long? How had the regime preserved its patrimonial domination to maintain its authority?

In conjunction with the process of ‗army-isation‘ and ‗Javanisation‘ of the armed forces as a whole that made them ideologically homogenous, the New Order used cultural and historical tactics to create in the national society ideological uniformity. To achieve this, the regime mobilised the ‗ideology of uniformity‘

(ideologi penyeragaman)148 into all aspects of bureaucracy that administered the public sectors at large. Unsurprisingly, among public sectors, education became the most strategic arena for the regime to operate its cultural and historical tactics. There are two reasons. First, through education bureaucracy, state control over the

‗ideology of uniformity‘ could be easily assumed. Second, at the same time, through the education sector, ABRI could massively promote its dwifungsi by means of historical tactics included in the school curriculum. In this context, public schools as a ‗cultural centre‘149 became the fertile ground for historical indoctrination controlled by the regime. The regime‘s cultural and historical tactics will be further explained below.

The New Order authority made the state ideology Pancasila a moral basis used to ‗control the mind‘ of citizens and imposed by a ‗monopoly of interpretation‘ about ‗economic, political and cultural life‘150. In 1970s, the materials of ‗Pancasila

Moral Education‘ (Pendidikan Moral Pancasila) whose interpretation was already defined by the regime began to be included in education curriculum, stretching from

148 To borrow Darmaningtyas, ‗Pendidikan Militeristik‘, Kompas, 3 May 1999. 149 Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, p. 581. 150 Ibid., p. 335.

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primary to tertiary education. The expansion of the moral values of Pancasila was carried out through history teaching done by means of memorising historical facts.

McGregor summarises that

[f]rom 1978 the indoctrination expanded to include all state servants aimed at associating the New Order with the Pancasila and creating bonds of loyalty between the people and the Pancasila, and hence between the people and the regime. Emphasis in these courses was on concepts of hierarchy, order, the family, respect for leadership, harmony and subordination of the individual to the group.151

During the New Order authority, the efforts of ‗controlling the mind‘ were accompanied with the ‗disciplining or controlling of the physical-body‘. This was carried out by the imposed wearing of uniform clothing. In 1982 government issued a regulation on wearing uniform clothing which goals were, as observed by

Dhakidae,

… to create good and healthy school administration and environment, so that the learning process for the building of Indonesia ‗whole-man‘ can be guaranteed. ... that creating the good school administration and environment is the basic capital of efforts in enhancing School Resilience in the pursuit of creating the school as Cultural Centre. … therefore it is necessary to wear school uniformed clothing which will generate the sense of unity and oneness as well as esprit de corps between school students; ... that to achieve this it is deemed necessary to take into effect the Guidance of Uniformed Clothing for Kindergarten, Primary School, Junior High School and Senior High School ... 152

This government‘s regulation implied a basic assumption held by the New

Order authority that, to quote Dhakidae, ‗[i]n uniformed clothing there conceives the

151 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 37. Emphasis added. 152 Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, p. 581. Emphasis added

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total ideology of ―the Indonesian whole-men‖ which must be achieved through uniformed clothing‘. Regarding the relation between ‗uniformisation‘ and domination of the New Order authority, Dhakidae describes it aptly,

… therefore the attention was particularly given to a systematic effort in managing the physical-body in many ways which were supported by various organisations which related to the physical-body such as military or para- military organisation including civil organisation which appeared to be managed to imitate that of military bureaucracy. The compulsory wearing of safari clothing [a typical style of cloth for bureaucracy official] which also applied for university lecturers was none but to maintain military image in the civilian body. The uniform clothing was not just only a sort of style of fashion, but also one to create an imaginary of particular sort of life which was only full of discipline, tough, [and] unbreakable in the one side, but on the other side also to forge the attitude of permissiveness, being subjugated under a group of superiors, only listening to the order, in short a hierarchical society.153

The education (knowledge) world simply became ‗no more than an effort to create uniformity of mind which was physically symbolised in itself by the uniformed clothing‘.154 In this culture of thinking which was very much uniformed, any variation in opinion for seeking the truth (namely, against the authority such as teachers or superiors) should be avoided. This is because such different attitudes would be regarded as deviating from what was contained in the Pancasila doctrine of guidance. Moreover, it seemed that the regime was more fearful of what Dhakidae denotes ‗the culture of critical discourse‘ than weapons. The military was to face a new threat in the form of verbal words. ‗The most fearful threat was the literacy ...

[b]ecause of that all New Order‘s institutions [both civil and military] ... were

153 Ibid., p. 573. Emphasis added 154 Ibid., p. 353.

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mobilised to defeat one person like Pramoedya Ananta Toer, who was ―only‖ a writer ...‘.155 In other words, language had emerged as the shape of a new threat to be confronted.

Rewriting and Controlling Indonesia’s History

Upon the mind of a society which was already ‗subjugated‘156, the Indonesian history was rewritten and taught. This subjugation of the mind facilitates the authority to create ‗history silence‘ (le silence de l’histoire). The history silence is one of the ‗means to control the history‘. In the political regime with anti-critical discourse culture, historians are forced to be silent157 which also means they are compelled to be subjugated. The other means to control the history is done by augmenting or protruding particular historical elements. These historical tactics always relate to the maintenance of a ruling regime. For the sake of legitimising the regime‘s domination by means of controlling history, the ruler ‗dominates collective memory‘.158

During the New Order, critical historians were forced to be silent. Although there were some instances of criticism spoken out by historians about the controversial writing of Indonesian history, their voices were ignored by the authority.159 As a consequence, according to a University of Indonesia professor,

‗actually we have no objective knowledge of history‘ in Indonesia. Some of which were even ‗the myths created from time to time‘160. During the New Order era, even a large military institution like the Air Force did not dare to install its former leader‘s

155 Ibid., p. 54. 156 To borrow Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, p. 330. 157 Surodjo and Soeparno, Tuhan Pergunakanlah, pp. xiv-xv. 158 Ibid. 159 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 142. 160 Irna H.N. Soewito et al., Awal Kedirgantaraan Di Indonesia: Perjuangan AURI 1945-1950, Yayasan Obor Indonesia, Jakarta, 2008, p. 259.

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photo, Omar Dani161, anywhere in its buildings, let alone write the history that challenges the victor‘s version. The descriptions on the under

Omar Dani in the Sukarno era in 1960s could only be found by word of mouth or in silent display available in the air force museums.

Soon after the fall of Suharto‘s regime, there emerged a courage to re-write the history of the Air Force. In 1999, the book Menyingkap Kabut Halim (Unveiling the Halim Cloud) was published ‗to deny 30 years of the impression that Halim [Air

Force Base] was the nest of G30S/PKI‘162 as had been for so long circulated in the society at large. Ten years after the release of Omar Dani from prison, in 2005

Surodjo and Soeparno published a book on Omar Dani‘s pledoi (plea), Tuhan

Pergunakanlah Hati Pikiran dan Tanganku: Pledoi Omar Dani (God, Use My Heart,

Mind, and Hands: Omar Dani’s Plea) which uncovers many new facts surrounding the G30S event and the involvement of the Air Force which had been accused of being part of that affair.163 A prominent Indonesian historian, Asvi Warman Adam, described such publications as ‗the rewriting of the Air Force‘s history‘.164

Interestingly, and surprisingly as well as ironically indeed, unlike many books about the Indonesian Air Force history published in post-Suharto era which usually gained a foreword from the Air Force high ranking leadership, there was no foreword in those two books aforementioned, in particular the book on Omar Dani‘s plea. There is no convincing reason why this was so. But, one could speculate that this was because of the potential political sensitivity, that no high-ranking leaders of the Air Force — especially those who were nurtured in the New Order era — would dare ‗welcome‘ the book on Omar Dani‘s plea by offering a foreword. Clearly, this

161 …who led the Indonesian Air Force as the biggest air power in South East Asia. 162Asvi Warman Adam, Pelurusan Sejarah Indonesia, Tride, Yogyakarta, 2004, p. 9. 163 Surodjo and Soeparno, Tuhan Pergunakanlah. 164 Ibid, p. xx.

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shows that the Army‘s hegemony in controlling history remains alive and well in the post-New Order era.

In 2008, a book titled Awal Kedirgantaraan di Indonesia. Perjuangan AURI

1945-1950 (The Early Indonesian Aviation: The Air Force’s Struggle 1945-1950) was published as an outcome of collaboration between the Air Force and historians of the University of Indonesia. The selection of the period of 1945-1950 can be interpreted as an attempt to deconstruct the myth about the struggle of Indonesian independence which had long been dominated by a romanticism of guerrilla wars (of both General Sudirman and Lieutenant Suharto version) which in fact took place ‗only‘ for a short period (1948-1949) and ‗only‘ in certain places.165 Since there was a romantic myth of the guerrilla war  a myth of intimacy between military and people  the Air Force also attempted to identify itself as part of that romanticism. The publication of a book titled Peran TNI AU Pada Masa

Pemerintahan Darurat Republik Indonesia Tahun 1948-1949 (The Role of Air Force in the era of Emergency Government of the Republic of Indonesia 1948-1949) in

2001 can be viewed as an attempt to socialise the Air Force contribution in the history of Indonesian struggle in the form of guerrilla war commensurate to one led by General Sudirman. This can be seen in the selection of the period 1948-1949 at which time the Army conducted the guerrilla struggle.

However, any efforts to rewrite such historical facts, in fact, simply became a sort of ‗community history‘ excluded from official versions published by the government. The authority of developing school curriculum through which history is taught is in the hands of the government. In other words, the acceptance of a

‗community history‘ to be included into the national school curriculum would

165 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 136.

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depend very much on government wishes. ‗The matter of school books [and curriculum] is the authority of Ministry of National Education‘.166 In this way, there will always be conservative elements in government bureaucracy who have particular interests in the writing of Indonesian history. The rigid control imposed by the conservative elements over the school curriculum was indicated in the case of the writing of subject matter in history based on the 2004 curriculum as noted by Lane.

The 20 September Jakarta Post reported: Education Ministry curriculum center [sic] head Diah Harianti had argued that the 2004 curriculum more comprehensively explained the events surrounding Sept.30, 1965. Instead of associating the tragedy only with the PKI, it blamed the social conflicts on ideological and political difference among citizens. Now, with no explanation, the Education Ministry had decided to reinstate the PKI as the main culprit, he said. ‗Members of the police, attorney general‘s office (AGO) and State Intelligence Agency questioned Diah and one other official at the curriculum center [sic] recently about why 12th-grade history books based on the 2004 curriculum did not blame the PKI for the violence.167

It seems apparent that in the post-Suharto era, Indonesian historians are not fully free from both psychological and bureaucratic pressures to write different interpretations or points of view of history other than those determined by the state authority. In the above case, the Attorney General had issued a letter prohibiting 13 titles of history books for high school. This decision soon resulted in complaints on the ground that in addition to having a negative impact in attempting to educate the nation‘ this ban was also inaccurate.168 The rejection against such prohibition came

166 ‗Kejagung: Mahmilub Buktikan Kejahatan PKI‘, viewed 16 March 2012, . 167 Lane, Unfinished Nation, p. 112. 168Asvi Warman Adam, ‗Blunder Kejaksaan Agung dan Departemen Pendidikan Nasional‘, viewed 16 March 2012, .

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from various communities of national historians. However, the government‘s decision remained in effect since all educational policies are to be the government‘s authority.

In reality history indoctrination is not a distinctive phenomenon which belongs only to the New Order regime. During the Guided Democracy, the same was also practiced by the Old Order regime in indoctrinating what was called the ‗1945 values‘.169 Like in the New Order era, the Old Order also used education as a medium for doing so. The 1945 values specified in Guided Democracy were

‗discipline, patriotism, social awareness and creativity‘.170 However, in the New

Order era, the indoctrination referred to values defined largely by the military.

Indeed, this was aimed at promoting the roles of military in supporting the ruling regime. To achieve this goal, the national history of Indonesian was re-written and taught.

The historical and cultural tactics mobilised by the New Order regime seem to have multiple purposes which can be explained as follows. The New Order‘s basic underlying assumption on ‗development‘ had been the political stability that required the dominant roles of ABRI in the one hand, and the exclusion of the popular masses from political participation on the other. In this context, the re-write of Indonesian history seems to have included three simultaneous efforts designed for: (1) removing the collective memory of pre-1965 popular mobilisation and radicalisation; (2) implanting a culture of anti-critical discourse; and (3) promoting the legitimacy of both the New Order and ABRI’s dwifungsi. As we shall see later, these efforts were packaged in the themes of passing on the 1945 values to ‗the younger generations‘ but ones which specifically referred to ‗the Indonesian National Army 1945

169 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 152. 170 Ibid., p. 153.

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Values‘.171 The tactics to implement such values were managed by the ABRI‘s

Centre of History for which was appointed head of the executive committee. Since the early 1970s developing curriculum of national history taught in all levels of education was controlled by the ABRI‘s Centre of

History.172

The Removal of Popular Masses’ Collective Memory: A Historic Tactic

Parallel with the politics of floating mass, the New Order made efforts to flush collective memory of popular mass mobilisation and radicalisation of the pre-

1965 period. Systematically, the image of early national leaders, in particular

Sukarno  which was once synonymous with popular mobilisation of the pre-1965 period  was gradually excluded from Indonesian national history. The attempt to remove Sukarno from the centre of nationalist movement began in the early 1970s when Nugroho elevated the theory of the origin of state ideology Pancasila by denying Sukarno as its ‗discoverer‘.173 The central theme of Sukarno as the discoverer of Pancasila was replaced by the promotion of the regime  led by

Suharto  as a safeguard and protector of Pancasila from communist hands.

Although Nugroho‘s idea was controversial and received public criticism, his theory remained part of both the National History Textbook and the indoctrination materials for the upgrading course on P4 ( Pedoman Penghayatan dan Pengamalan

Pancasila, Pancasila-Upgrading Course on the Directives for the Realisation of

171 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 124. 172 As noted by McGregor, ‗Staff from the Centre also assisted in preparing the history textbooks for middle school and high school from 1975-76 and for tertiary education from 1970-74. The Centre also participated in evaluation of books for school libraries and in designing history curricula for schools‘, McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 153. 173 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 87.

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Pancasila).174 The New Order Government continued to make ‗Nugroho‘s book on the Pancasila theory compulsory reading for schoolteachers who taught the Pancasila moral education course and a reference book to accompany the National History

Series‘.175 Lane describes the exclusion of Sukarno‘s central role from the modern during the New Order era.

Now, over forty years later, very few people under the age of forty have read a speech by Soekarno or any other of the early nationalist leaders. Two of these leaders, the radical Soekarno and the pro-Western , had their roles in history symbolically revised when the New Order government started to describe them as the proklamator of Indonesian Independence. ... Nobody needed to know anything more than that; or to have any sense of the richness of ideas and political experience of their own country.176

Along with the exclusion of Sukarno from the Indonesian national history, the image of popular mobilisation and radicalisation was also written out from the public sphere. The historic tactic used was to make the year of 1945 the cornerstone of the

Indonesian‘s ‗new spirit‘, neglecting the influential ‗role of preceding influences‘.177

When Nugroho was appointed as Minister of Education in 1983, he was able to socialise what he had formulated earlier in an Army seminar in 1972 concerning the

‗1945 values‘. Nugroho introduced a new school history course, History of National

Struggle (Pendidikan Sejarah Perjuangan Bangsa, PSPB) which had aims to

‗expand and develop the soul, spirit, and values of 1945 for the younger generations‘.178 Realising the importance of historic tactic to remove ‗collective

174 Ibid. 175 Ibid. 176 Lane, Unfinished Nation, p. 51. 177 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 157. 178 Ibid., p. 156.

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memory‘ of the Indonesian‘s past, this new history course was then incorporated into the Garis-garis Besar Haluan Negara (Broad Outlines of State Policy) of 1983.

Indeed, Nugroho had in fact attempted to get his work made part of the GBHN, but his efforts came true after he held authority as a minister.179 The political goals of

PSPB according to the Broad Outline of Teaching Program of PSPB, as quoted by

Lane, were that

a) Students would understand that the Dutch colonialization [sic] caused the suffering of the Indonesian people;

b) Students would come to believe in the justice of the struggle of the heroes in the expulsion of the Dutch;

c) Students will understand that it was political and territorial unity that brought Indonesia to the doorway to independence;

d) Students will understand that the Dutch were able to implement a divide and rule tactic because there was no political and territorial unity;

e) Students would believe that the absence of political unity and the putting of personal and group interests first resulted in a government that strayed from the 1945 Constitution (material about the Republik Indonesia Serikat);

f) Students would believe that the PKI unilateral actions [peasant occupations of land] were the PKI‘s attempts to unilaterally enforce its will in order to destroy the Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia;

g) Students would believe that the actions against the PKI were driven by the courage to defend independence and justice;

h) Students would believe that the New Order‘s priority interests are those of the State and Society.180

179 Ibid. 180 Departement Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan, Garis-Garis Besar Pengajaran Pendidikan Sejarah Perjuangan Bangsa untuk SMTA, Departement Pendidikan dan Kebudayaan, Jakarta, 1985. Quoted in Lane, Unfinished Nation, pp. 108-9.

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Concerning the argument that Nugroho made the year of 1945 as the corner stone of the Indonesian‘s ‗new spirit‘, McGregor summarises,

Nugroho‘s own logic for commencing this course at 1945 no doubt stemmed from his theory on the origins of the Indonesian national spirit in his thesis on the Japanese created army PETA (Pembela Tanah Air, Defenders of the Fatherland). In this, he argued that 17 August 1945 represented the birth of a new spirit, a new beginning of Indonesians, and that it was incorrect to place too much influence on the role of preceding influences, such as the Japanese period, in moulding this new spirit.181

By choosing the year 1945 as the time reference of Indonesian‘s ‗new spirit‘

PSBP had in itself denied the roles of early nationalist movement that largely involved popular mass mobilisation and radicalisation. It seemed that the choice of

1945, and particularly up to the period of four years later, was aimed at emphasising the period of guerrilla war in which Suharto was actively involved. However, another crucial argument can also be presented here, that the selection of 1945 was to avoid the preceding period because before 1942 Suharto was ‗a sergeant in the Dutch colonial army used ‗to suppress Indonesians‘.182

Not only denying the roles of early nationalist movement, highlighting the guerrilla war in itself signified the ‗army-isation‘ of the Indonesian history. The period of guerrilla war was in fact relatively very short in comparison to that of the nationalist movement. Nevertheless, ‗for the military this period is crucial to their claims to enduring close ties with the Indonesian people and to their claims to political roles‘.183 The close ties with people during the guerrilla war — where in fact the military regarded themselves as superior to the ordinary people — then justified

181 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 157. Emphasis added. 182 Lane, Unfinished Nation, p. 110. 183 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 136.

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‗a model for military-civilian relations‘ in Indonesia. In such relations the military always regarded themselves as ‗being in charge of civilians‘.184 Its domination in politics was particularly apparent during the New Order era. With that domination, the Army — which had identified itself as being the military as a whole — had

‗successfully developed a good image to legitimise itself and the authority it supported by means of controlling the single interpretation and narrative of the construction of the Indonesia‘s past‘.185

While stigmatising terrible images of Sukarno and the political situation surrounding his government, the content of PSPB also emphasised the horrific impact resulting from the mass political mobilisation particularly driven by the leftists. The ultimate goal of PSPB was to fill up the collective memory of the young generations with an image of political mobilisation as the main source of protracted political instability. In the subject matter of PSPB for secondary schools, emphasis was given to memorise the terrible image of popular mobilisation. An example was quoted by Lane as follows.

Mobilizing workers, farmers, fisherpeople, small traders and lower civil servants the interests of the party

Launching unilateral aksi ... [referring to the peasant land occupations]

Creating the politics of conflict and mutual distrust...186

184 Ibid. 185 Bambang Purwanto, ‗Ketika Historiografi Hanya Sebuah Topeng‘, a foreword in Katharine E. McGregor, Ketika Sejarah Berseragam: Membongkar Ideologi Militer Dalam Menyusun Sejarah Indonesia, Syarikat, Yogyakarta, 2008, p. xxiii. Emphasis added. 186 Lane, Unfinished Nation, p. 109.

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The Culture of Anti-critical Discourse: A Historic Tactic

If the national history was rewritten to promote the legitimacy the New

Order‘s counter-revolution authority, then the methods to inculcate the attitude of anti-critical discourse culture lay in how the history was learned. Here, in the methodology, there exists a powerful domination in the interpretation of history meant for rote learning to inculcate obedience and uniformity. Thus, the teaching of history in particular and education in general became merely an attempt to create a uniform mindset. For the school students ‗the history they were taught was simply part of a knowledge store they were required to learn and repeat‘.187

In such a method, obedience is formed when there is no sphere available for the process ‗to capture an understanding [required to] claim justification‘ against a conviction obtained through ‗debate‘ based on clear logic. Indeed, the latter is the core of what Dhakidae denotes critical discourse culture.188 On the one hand, in respect for their teachers, students had to sacrifice their freedom of expression to challenge or justify any ideas. For students, emphasis was placed on memorising facts merely to seek the passing grade.189 On the other hand, teachers had to comply strictly with the Broad Outline of Teaching Program already defined and intervened on by the authority, leaving teachers no sphere to develop their teaching creativity.190

This paradigm was applied to schools under the New Order system. In the view of

Mangunwijaya, New Order‘s schools were intimate to ‗the military style discipline and language‘191, and ‗the system of memorising facts‘ indicated that schools were

187 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 25. 188 Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, p. 51. 189 Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayan RI, Simposium Pengajaran Sejarah (Kumpulan Makalah Diskusi), Departemen Pendidikan dan Kebudayan RI Jakarta, 1998, p. 71. 190 Ibid., pp. 70, 73, 77. 191 Of course, this refers to the 1945 values according to Nugroho‘s vision.

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organisations for ‗caderisation‘.192 Here, teachers act more as ‗commander, instructor or tutor‘ than as a teacher.193

Upon such an educational paradigm, PSPB was taught in public school systems throughout the New Order era. As a result, ‗New Order historiography was anti-intellectual [as the core of anti-critical discourse culture] and responsible for the appalling historical ignorance even among liberal arts university students in

Indonesia‘.194 This was reflected in history school textbooks set up in such a manner for rote learning. While inculcating a patriotic spirit of defending the country defined by the military, history textbooks were also ‗meant to consolidate a stereotype of

Guided Democracy and [communism] and the basis for the coming to power of the

New Order‘.195

In a much stricter sense, indeed, the indoctrination of history can be found openly in military schools. As we will see later in the next chapter, not only was the historiography anti-intellectual, but also the paradigm of education was, and is, in itself, an anti-critical discourse culture. In addition to shaping conformity of obedience, in military training the indoctrination of the army‘s version of history also constituted crucial part of the ‗army-isation‘ process for the Indonesian military forces as a whole. This process was, and is, largely conducted through integrative education of military academy where the cadets were introduced to the 1945 values specifically drawn from the period of guerrilla war.196

As will be further elaborated on in the next chapter, in military academy training the history indoctrination was aimed at entrenching the values of kejuangan,

192 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 163. 193 Darmaningtyas, ‗Pendidikan Militeristik‘. 194 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 26. 195 Lane, Unfinished Nation, p. 109. 196 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 140.

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or the ‗fighting spirit‘ (McGregor denotes it as the ‗state of struggle‘) demonstrated by General Sudirman during the guerrilla war. The particular values are obedience

(‗Follow all orders‘), ‗Never surrender‘, and for the sake of defending the nation,

‗the Army knows no compromise ...‘.197 According to McGregor, such an emphasis is aimed at highlighting the ‗passivity‘ of civilian political leaders, especially

Sukarno, who surrendered to and was willing to negotiate with the Dutch.198

By inculcating the fighting spirit of Army‘s 1945 values while at the same time consistently stressing the passivity of civilian leaders ‗represented‘ by Sukarno, the regime seemed to aspire to entrench the culture of anti-critical discourse in the officer corps body. Indeed, in the nationalist movement for independence, Sukarno represented a well educated young generation who dared to confront the colonial power by elevating critical thoughts and ideas rather than with armed struggle. Thus, the inculcation of Army‘s spirit of kejuangan can be viewed as a tactic to deny the reality that the early Indonesian independence movements were not characterised by armed struggle, but rather by intellectual and political struggle of a young brave generation. In this context, the word ‗intellectual‘ is clearly contrasted with kejuangan or armed fighting spirit as defined by the Army. That is why kejuangan for the TNI is much more important than intellectual attributes.

As we shall see later in the next chapter, the fighting spirit or kejuangan drawn from 1945 has become the paradigm of character in the TNI‘s education.

Kejuangan is then translated into the educational principle of the whole TNI which is called ‗Dwi Warna Purwa, Cendekia Wusana‘. Dwi Warna or ‗two colours‘ refers to the colour of Indonesian flag which is red and white, representing a nation which has to be placed in ‗first‘ (purwa) while cendekia means ‗intellectual‘ which comes later

197 Ibid., p. 132. 198 Ibid., p. 134.

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(wusana). Thus it can be said simply that the spirit of kejuangan to defend the nation is given more emphasis and must come first, and only then the intellectual attitude.

As will be further explored in the next chapter, this principle has influential impact on the training outcomes that ironically leads to professional crisis. It should be noted however, the meaning of kejuangan was greatly influenced by Japanese fascist spirit.199

The impact of such educational principle is particularly visible. Take for example, the indoctrination of 1945 values, namely, for the sake of nation ‗the Army knows no compromise‘. This attitude quite often encourages the military to take autonomous or unilateral actions. Such symptoms can be found in daily reality as demonstrated by the following simple case. It took place on the 4th of June 2010 in

West Aceh when a military district commander angrily reprimanded the local government office staff, only because he came across the state flag raised at half- mast showing an expression of condolence to the death of Acehnese and the Free

Aceh Movement leader, Hasan Tiro. Indeed, the district commander felt that Tiro was a figure of separatist leadership who was deemed a state enemy. Thus, raising state flag at half-mast for his death would mean respecting a person who was once a state enemy.

For this officer, raising the state flag at half-mast in honour of the former state enemy was viewed as ‗quite humiliating to the heart of heroes who had fought for [Indonesian] independence‘. According to him, ‗half-mast state flag raising is only for respecting the fallen heroes who gained [Indonesian] independence from colonial hands and for those high ranking state officials who pass away‘. For the sake of defending the Red-White flag, he was even prepared to be removed from his post

199 See the next chapter.

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for his unpopular action.200 In fact, the instruction to raise that flag at half-mast came even from the Governor of Aceh, after having previously obtained a permit from the regional military commander. In addition, the letter of instruction had also been forwarded to the central government officials in Jakarta, especially the President,

Coordinating Minister for Politics, Law, and Security, Minister of Internal Affairs as well as Minister of Law and Human Rights.201 This incident indicated that the indoctrination of kejuangan, if unaccompanied with critical thinking culture, would be even counter-productive and in itself damaging to the image of military. It seems that anything relating to the ‗state‘, would be quite often interpreted unilaterally and autonomously. Ironically, this incident took place ten years after the dismantling of the military‘s dwifungsi.

The example above reflects an old educational paradigm which even now basically has not changed as much. Over 32 years, the New Order authority had changed the Indonesian educational face to be militaristic. Intervention of the

Army‘s version of 1945 values has been deeply entrenched at the expense of critical discourse culture. One year after Suharto stepped down, an Indonesian education expert, Darmaningtyas, wrote in the Indonesian leading newspaper, Kompas. He described aptly the character of Indonesian education.

The soul developed in public schools was similar to that in military school. The difference was only that one was under the Department of Defence and Security, while the other was under the Department of Education and Culture; one was conducted in tight isolation while the other was in open society.

200 ‗Dandim: Saya Tidak Mengamuk hanya Marah‘, viewed 5 June 2010, available at . 201 ‗Dandim Aceh Barat Murka‘, viewed 5 June 2010, available at .

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That militaristic education was felt by teachers, students and society at large, through the ideology of uniformity; all was uniformed (from clothing, curriculum, teaching method and the way of thinking). No sphere was to develop different ways of thinking, ideology, culture, voice, or action. During New Order era, what is called education was in fact absent. What existed was indoctrination, briefing, upgrading, or tutorial which only taught people to conform by obedience and to become followers.

All curriculum content for general education from kindergarten to secondary high school strongly supported the ideology of militarism. The history teaching ... — which was limited to war history — was not to meet the students‘ cognitive and affective needs, but rather to serve the authority‘s need to maintain its status quo. For example, who had interests over the dominance of history teaching about the Event of ‘65 (G30S/PKI) from kindergarten to high school? Not all Indonesian people, particularly children under 30 of age had emotional sentiment with that event, but to them they were fed history of 1965. .. We are now convinced that the feeding was part of regime‘s engineering to maintain its status quo.202

The culture of anti-critical discourse that places emphasis on uniformity in thinking has damaged the public dialogue sphere which assumes the use of rational- logical thinking. What has already been ingrained is patriotic spirit relying on physical strength. The citizens‘ dialogue sphere in resolving any social problems has been replaced with a culture of violence. To command obedience, school teachers frequently use violence, be it in the form of reprimanding, throwing chalk, banging the desk or beating their pupils.203 The immediate impact is that education creates a culture of violence at the expense of rational logic dialogue.

202 Darmaningtyas, ‗Pendidikan Militeristik‘ 203 Yayasan Pemantau Hak Anak (YPHA), ‗Kekerasan Anak dalam Pendidikan: Akar Masalah, Locus, Korban, Pelaku, dan Kewajiban Negara‘, Kertas Posisi 2006, p. 5, viewed 14 March 2012, available at .

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After school hours, the ‗uniformity‘ converges with the absence of rational logic, resulting in a unexpected outcome.

Once uniform [clothing] is recognised and used as an identity, then the quality of self and school becomes a thing to be defended. In this connection, aggression is the best defence. There was almost never so brutal fighting between school students during the history of Indonesia comparable to that during the New Order era. In any student fighting, the city ... became ‗the stone battle field‘, ... because what had been fertilised was the esprit de corps of military version ... to mutually killing.204

The historic tactic aimed at inculcating the culture of hostility to popular mobilisation produced social disease which was frequently encountered in daily social life: in-uniform mass-fighting. Not only between school students, but also, on behalf of esprit de corps clashes appeared to take place between the members of military as well as between military and police members triggered by simple causes.205 As noted by Muhaimin, in the period between 2001 and 2008 for example, there had been 32 cases of clashes involving the TNI and police members across the archipelago. It is difficult to accept that those incidents were not caused by what is called esprit de corps to defend both the institutional identity and interest.206

Meanwhile, the culture of violence among school students remains alive today.

Promoting the New Order and ABRI’s Dwifungsi

The historic tactic used to promote dwifungsi was by creating the ‗image‘ of

‗oneness‘ between ABRI and people. In this context, the romanticism of guerrilla war is made the basis of claim of that image. However in this tactic, that oneness was

204 Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, p. 586. 205 ‗Oknum TNI dan Polri Bentrok di Manggar‘, viewed 14 March 2012, available at . 206 Yahya Muhaimin, Bambu Runcing dan Mesiu, pp. 35-40.

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defined by the military ‗according to their own interest and interpretation‘.207

‗Oneness‘ here was based on nostalgia that during the guerrilla war the villagers provided the fighters help in the form of temporary accommodation and the need of food. However, despite dependence on these people, the army regarded themselves as different from ordinary people. This fact was described by Nugroho himself from his own experience during the independence struggle. He depicted that to address a lieutenant people would call him ‗Pak‘ (‗Mr.‘).208

Nugroho‘s confession implies that the military‘s interpretation about

‗people‘s army‘ is completely different from the concept of revolutionary army which has members recruited from popular masses of peasant and worker class and which put more emphasis in ideological unity, rather than hierarchical structure of command. According to Susanto and Supriatma,

ABRI, in its history, in fact, had never been part of the chronicles of peasant unrest. So, ABRI had no ideological root in their relation with the peasants. Encountering peasants, ABRI acted more as an authority rather than army whose basis was in the villages. In other words, the phenomenon of oneness between the army and the people was never really in existence in Indonesian military history, especially ABRI. Thus, in this way, for ABRI, people were a very political connotation. By addressing themselves as the people‘s army, as if ABRI always aspired to underline that they were part of people. In other words ... people were just becoming an imagination without revolutionary elements or opposing actions in it.209

But for the Army, it seemed that the most important thing was the effort to constantly identify itself as an army born of people. The tactic to affirm its

207 Susanto and Supriatma, ABRI: Siasat Kebudayaan, p. 30. 208 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 42. See also Susanto and Supriatma, ABRI: Siasat Kebudayaan, pp. 40-1. 209 Susanto and Supriatma, ABRI: Siasat Kebudayaan, p. 42.

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‗peopleness‘ had been always pivotal for the military‘s political roles. The image of being united with population then became a justification for the Army to get involved in the national socio-political projects aimed at prospering and advancing the people from where they came. Such a view then became the basis of argument for the military to get itself involved actively in the national development which requires political stability. To achieve this, the military had long claimed itself as an expert in

‗stabilisation and dynamisation in all aspects of Indonesian‘s national life‘.210

When political contestations lifted the Army as the victor, the New Order government supported by the Army created political stability as a basic assumption.

Hence, with no competitors, the Army gained extensive opportunities to act as

‗stabiliser‘ and ‗dynamiser‘ in all aspects of life. To obtain legitimacy, it needed to promote continuously its image of ‗its oneness with the people‘— as the core of its dwifungsi — into the collective memory of Indonesian younger generations. By promoting its oneness with people and dwifungsi to the young generations, the Army in itself promoted the New Order authority. Therefore, public schools became a fertile ground to sow that image into the collective memory of young generations.

The inclusion of PSPB and Pancasila Moral Education, as mentioned earlier, was part of the historic tactic applied to the school curriculum. In addition to school curriculum, the history tactics were made through films, museums, monuments and even currency which in detail had political aims to promote the twin facets: the dwifungsi and the New Order.

To promote dwifungsi, an important emphasis was given in the Army doctrine that the New Order is principally ‗a new mental attitude with the aim of creating social, political, economic and cultural life which was based on the morals

210 Ibid., p. 50.

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of Pancasila, ....‘. For this political project, the army had roles ‗to modernise the state and people by playing a part in nation and character building‘.211 In this entire project, no hambatan (obstacle), ancaman (threat), tantangan (challenge), and gangguan (disturbance), known as its partial acronym as HATAG (OBSTACLED) is allowed to hamstring the national development. In this way, HATAG was also to be promoted to the society at large. In the society was inculcated an ‗ever-present sense‘ that HATAG would always exist, and ‗hence the need for military protection‘ was imperative to protect the New Order‘s developmentalism ideology.212

Every aspect of HATAG was deemed an enemy to the entire package of New

Order state: dwifungsi, Golkar, Pancasila and the Constitution of 1945. The regime then defined it according to its own interpretation. By dominating the interpretation, therefore, ‗gossip and rumours could then be engineered to become a collective threat [which could be conditioned] to propagate influence and produce obedience‘ to the ruling authority.213

As regards collective threats, since the beginning of New Order, they had been defined and incorporated in the Army‘s doctrine as

... infiltration, subversion, and revolts either mental or physical by forces within the Indonesian society which disavow the Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution and challenge the process of renewal from the Old to New Order.214

The threat formulation above spans across the two diachronical time dimensions: the past threats and the future threats. From the past, the threat was always related to the history of revolts by mental or physical forces which came from

211 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 119. 212 to borrow McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 203. 213 Susanto and Supriatma, ABRI: Siasat Kebudayaan, p. 83. 214 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 177. Emphasis added.

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the society body. The past HATAG were consistently instilled in collective memory of the society to prevent the society from taking the same action, such as revolts, particularly those involving mass mobilisation. Parallel to this, the future threat was promoted by pointing out every possible aspect of HATAG taken to challenge the

New Order. Specifically, the past HATAG defined in the Army‘s doctrine was designated to the two extreme different poles: the extreme left and the extreme right.

The former refers to communism and other leftist groups while the latter denotes extreme Islamic groups. The communist element revolts of in 1948 and the proclamation of Islamic state by /Tentara Islam Indonesia (House of

Islam/Islamic Army of Indonesia) in time of revolution, for example, had been made an image that since the independence of the Republic there had always been attempts to betray the Pancasila which resulted in a fragmented Indonesia because of civil war.

During the New Order era, such a message was repeatedly emphasised through various media, namely museums, monuments, school textbooks, and films.

The main goal was that the society had to be vigilant to the danger of Indonesian disintegration so that it needed a strong government supported by army dwifungsi to maintain the national unity. ‗In the monuments, the museums and the official film about the coup, the regime used representations of communists as a symbolic space to represent everything the New Order was allegedly not‘. The common message was to promote ‗the barbarity and a-religiosity of the communists‘, while at the same time it was to highlight ‗the New Order myth of origin: the progression from disorder under Sukarno to order under Suharto‘.215 Meanwhile toward the extreme rightist, the regime used Islamic group revolts and terrors in the period of 1942-1962, particularly

215 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 107.

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the Darul Islam (House of Islam) rebellions. Such history projects were also aimed at inculcating a sense of ‗deference‘ toward the regime while at the same time carrying a message for the need of Army‘s dominant roles in securing and preserving the

Pancasila and the 1945 Constitution.216 This effort was accompanied by a program labelled the National Vigilance Refresher to institutionalise ‗the perception of ever- present threats of the extreme right and the extreme left‘.217

By inculcating a sense of ‗deference‘ the regime seemed to anticipate the possible future threats which might appear in the form of critical discourse culture arising from society. Indeed, the Army was not alone in confronting communism.

There were various Islamic groups which were anti-communism and which were excluded from the extreme right.218 However this was not in the case of critical discourse culture. Realising the importance of the past, the military was always aware about the significance of intellectuals for political struggle. The memory of the past was that the young critical intellectuals were able to create grassroots, mass movements to challenge the colonial power.

The culture of critical discourse grew up well in campuses. For the military, critical intellectuals were part of popular masses which were difficult to control.

Critical discourse on democratisation, human rights, freedom of expression, and military dwifungsi were deemed menacing. The military‘s fear of these kinds of threats was indicated by warning the academic circles that ‗[t]ertiary education or university grounds (because of their encounter with science and knowledge) will become a target of ideological infiltration for extreme teachings‘.219 Against the growing critical discourses, a frequent response given by ABRI officials was that

216 Ibid., p. 186. 217 Ibid., p. 177. 218 McGregor, History in Uniform, pp. 212-4. 219 Susanto and Supriatma, ABRI: Siasat Kebudayaan, p. 47.

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what was voiced by intellectuals was a defiance of the ‗genuine concept‘ owned by

Indonesians.

We have our own Indonesianess, that is, all philosophy, way of life and genuine concept discovered from our own culture ... Don‘t rework these. Pancasila, the 1945 constitution, including the ABRI‘s dwifungsi were part of the system. Others, if using Western lenses, yes there are no military involved in politics. Even in eastern [] there military are party tools. But in Indonesia, this is distinctive.220

For the military, critical discourse not only discredited its image, but also presented a new shape of fear. The intellectuals elevated issues to defend the interests of the popular masses. This implied that there were groups outside the military which were also intimate with the people. ABRI became so worried of an emerging impression that people were separated from it.

Actually, ABRI was fearful that there emerged a competitor with particular prestige. The prestige produced by independent and altruistic attitude of intellectuals, students and other university members ... were considered as competitors in order to be ‗intimate‘ with people.221

For ABRI, the concept of oneness with people was not allowed to be disturbed because it constituted ‗great strength to the maintenance of national integrity‘.222

Because of this, any action on behalf of the public would be viewed by ABRI as removing the people from its oneness with ABRI. Thus, ABRI would be separated from people and this would destroy the strength needed to maintain the national integrity. In other words, every threat to separate the public from ABRI was also a threat to national integrity. Therefore, such threats would immediately be connected

220 Ibid., pp. 44-5. 221 Susanto and Supriatma, ABRI: Siasat Kebudayaan, p. 47. 222 Ibid., p. 43.

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to the past extreme movements which were constantly deemed as disintegrating the nation. Such a view implied that every attempt to separate people from ABRI was a re-incarnation of extreme groups of the past, especially the leftist. This tactic seemed to anticipate and warn against any popular mobilisation that might occur in the future. A military regional commander, in his speech before the university academic circle in 1994, asserted that

[i]f we retreated far to the past, the prologue of G30S/PKI whose desire was to arm the peasants and fisherpeople as the fifth force that was also blown up to separate ABRI from the people. Those ways employed by the PKI were now re-emergent …223

In the mid 1990s, People‘s Democratic Union, later became People‘s

Democratic Party (Partai Rakyat Demokratik, PRD) became a target of ABRI‘s aforementioned assertion. The elements of this people‘s union came from students and intellectuals. Throughout campuses, critical discourse prompted ‗political confrontation‘ developed through discussion which ‗took the idealisation of

Indonesian intellectuals of the 1920s movement. The radicalisation of the young generation found its important manifestation in a discussion group which later formed the PRD‘. 224 Dhakidae denotes those party intellectuals as ‗prophetic‘ intellectuals who were able to transform theory into praxis for the sake of defending the people oppressed by the New Order authority.225 When declared on the 22nd of

July 1996, PRD elevated themes to protect the people as mentioned in its manifesto that ‗it is important in the future to build a modern civil society that respects popular

223 Susanto and Supriatma, ABRI: Siasat Kebudayaan, p. 43. 224 Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, pp. 721-27. 225 Ibid.

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sovereignty and institutionalizes [sic] democratic practices ... [which] must be subservient to the sovereignty of the people‘.226

During the period 1995-1996 for example, the PRD organised a wide range of workers‘ protests and strikes demanding improvement of their fate in all aspects of the workplace and supported peasants in land disputes. In June 1996 PRD also administered an action to call for the dissolution of the military‘s dwifungsi. All actions involved radicalisation of popular mobilisation. Indeed, this meant that ABRI felt that there were other groups struggling for the fate of people. In other words,

ABRI encountered new competitors in its intimacy with popular masses; presenting a possibility that people would be taken apart from their unity with ABRI. PRD even used the word rakyat (people) to name the party, an indication of being on the side of the people.

For ABRI, the actions of PRD were deemed a menace to the unity of people and army which in turn meant a threat to national integrity as a whole.227 In this way, the PRD was soon easily labelled as the new face of a manifestation of the extreme movements of the past. PRD was branded a ‗communist organisation‘ because of its so-called ‗communist methods‘.228 In this way, all actions by PRD were easily suppressed and its activists arrested and sentenced with a wide range of legal articles such as subversion, damaging the good image of authority, or spreading anti-

Pancasila teachings by provoking popular masses. In July 1996, PRD was accused of being responsible in organising the riots following the attack of Megawati‘s PDI

226 Lane, Unfinished Nation, p. 138. 227 See note 222. 228 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 211.

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headquarters. In the aftermath, ‗thirty PRD leaders and members were arrested and detained‘.229

The ABRI‘s image-building as the people‘s army was promoted not only by seizing collective memory of the society through the use of cultural tactics and the control of history, but also through other practical means. Simultaneously, ABRI also launched civic mission programmes. By this means, ABRI built its image of people‘s army in a real sense carried out through various physical projects to build public facilities and provide aid for society health services. Such programmes had in fact commenced in the 1950s ‗as a form of follow up operation and social weapon in areas recently liberated from the Darul Islam (House of Islam) rebellion‘.230

Such programmes, however, were not independent from foreign intervention.

Entering the 1960s, supported by the US aid, such programmes were carried out more intensively.231 The US interests in ABRI‘s civic mission programmes, such as in ABRI Masuk Desa (AMD) or ‗ABRI enters the villages‘ programmes, were to combat communism. This programme was aimed at cutting off communist influence from the people in villages. ‗The chief aim of the program was to develop people‘s support for the military, a support that the military would need in the event of any future conflict with the country‘s communists‘.232

Under the New Order, the ABRI‘s civic mission (karya bhakti) continued with a chief priority ‗to monitor and control local populations‘ from the influence of extreme left. The programmes were focused ‗in very poor areas‘ which ‗had been

Communist Party strongholds‘. It is interesting however that these poor areas were also the main part of the route General Sudirman took during the guerrilla war, such

229 Lane, Unfinished Nation, p. 159. 230 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 137. 231 Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, p. 384. 232 Ibid.

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as Gunung Kidul. In other words, local people of Gunung Kidul who had provided aid for the army during the guerrilla war — a period to which the integration of army and people was always referred — were also to be connected to communism.

Ironically, they were now under surveillance of the military who previously gained help from their ancestors during the guerrilla war.

During the era of Guided Democracy, Gunung Kidul suffered severe economic hardship and communist ideas consequently gained popularity. A communist- affiliated university, Kiageng Giring People‘s University (Universitas Rakyat Kiageng Giring), was opened in this area in 1963.233

In the 1980s and 1990s, the ABRI‘s AMD programmes had extended to the wider scope of political goals. In addition to promoting its dwifungsi and image of people‘s army, the programmes were aimed at fortifying ‗the rural community against the perceived negative influences of modernisation and globalisation. Such influences include ... the insidious infiltration of foreign political values which it is thought may undermine internal security‘.234 It is not hard to understand that what was meant by ‗negative influence‘ was all one relating to global issues: openness, democratization, and human right. The opportunity to express social unrest was now widely open. When the global influence truly reached Indonesia, the demands related to those issues spread out. However, such demands frequently ended in riots which claimed lives because they were suppressed by military means.

At this point, a question needs to be addressed. How effective was the

ABRI‘s effort to support the New Order and promote the dwifungsi?

Findings of an observation of limited scope present a general impression on the effectiveness of ABRI‘s cultural and historical tactics mentioned earlier in this

233 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 138. 234 Lowry, The Armed Forces, p. 207.

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chapter. Indeed, the general impression captured by the people was gained so far from what they saw, heard, and read through media such as school textbooks, monuments, museums and official films which were compulsory for students to watch such as The Treachery of the . In a limited scope of observation, when questioned about their impression of the ABRI image, as many as sixty four respondents responded that

ABRI had dedicated their merits in maintaining security of people. They had been able in crushing revolts of certain political party, mitigating riots, eradicating ‗gali‘ (gangsters) ... ABRI are people of the most decent and responsible kind in defending the integrity of Indonesian nation and state... ABRI are people worth becoming exemplars and a reference in conserving Indonesian nationalism. Nationalism which remains vulnerable of SAR[A] [ethnicity, religion, race] threats.235

Those respondents were ‗impressed that the figures and soldiers of ABRI who had fallen or suffered for the sake of loving the motherland or defending Pancasila‘.

They ‗admitted that they were horrified and appalled by the revolts and tortures persecuted by the PKI in 1965 ... They were thankful that ABRI had been able to protect their life until now‘.236

However, at the same time, the whole tactic mobilised to create the image of

‗people‘s army‘ and ‗dwifungsi‘ had become fragile, and in itself, was easily to deny.

ABRI was very confident because for certain periods the political stability it created was able to allow amazing economic growth. But, at the same time, the rigid social control enforced over society had made all government political-economic policies immune from criticism and evaluation within society at large. All attempts to

235 Susanto and Supriatma, ABRI: Siasat Kebudayaan, pp. 72-3. 236 Ibid.

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criticise the deviance of ongoing development would immediately be seen as anti-

Pancasila and consequently suppressed by repressive militaristic means.

Not long after Suharto became president, the aroma of corruption-collusion- nepotism (Korupsi-Kolusi-Nepotisme, KKN) was sensed readily by the public. In

November 1969 for example, a journalist, Mochtar Lubis, exposed a corruption scandal of national oil , Pertamina, involving Suharto‘s close circle. Other corruption scandals also began emerging in the early 1970s. A wide range of protests and criticisms soon followed, and Suharto viewed these as discrediting the government. Against such protest and disgrace directed at his government, the president threatened to counter, if necessary, by using the military. He asserted that

I have been criticized for doing things too cautiously … Never mind. The main thing was to safeguard the state and the nation. For that reason, if there are now people trying to act in defiance of the constitution, I will go back to the attitude I took on 1 October 1965: quite frankly, I will smash them, whoever they are. And I will certainly have the full support of the armed forces in that.237

The mass media critical of government were dismissed and the mass mobilisations were countered by repressive means. Under the New Order authority, there was no decade exempt from military repression for the sake of political stability.238 Less than two years into the regime‘s power, between 1965 and 1966, there were forty six newspapers banned. The Indonesian Journalist Association

(Persatuan Wartawan Indonesia, PWI) constantly underwent interferences by the government.239 The Law on Media 1966 was introduced to constrain the freedom of media. As a result, public participation in the political-economic development

237 Hamish McDonald, Suharto’s Indonesia, Fontana Books, Blackburn, 1980, p. 127. 238 See, for example, Honna, Military Politics, especially chapter 2. 239 See, for example, David T. Hill, The Press in New Order Indonesia, Equinox Publishing, Jakarta, 1994.

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processes was largely marginalised. Supported by the military, the New Order government ‗developed into an authoritarian government, centralistic, bureaucratic, and feudalistic‘.240 Herbert Feith called the New Order state a ‗repressive developmentalist state‘ — a repressive state with repressive policies in order to keep the development on track.241 In turn, the New Order regime passed on chronic multi- dimensional crises for Indonesia, of which its corruption legacy remains visible even today.242 In this way, the military had in fact promoted an image contrary to reality.

The End of New Order and ABRI’s Dwifungsi

The New Order ‗repressive developmentalist state‘ (to borrow Feith) had produced Indonesian‘s fragile economic foundation resulting from corruption, collusion and nepotism which in turn ‗brought Indonesia to the edge of a devastating ravine‘.243 A crisis-ridden economy starting in mid-1997 had led to the political turmoil. The fall of the rupiah against foreign currencies resulted in high unemployment while the prices of basic goods increased dramatically, provoking anger and disappointment among the people. A popular uprising forced Suharto to step down in 21 May 1998 after more than three decades ruling Indonesian. His vice president, B.J. Habibie, was appointed to replace him. With Suharto‘s resignation,

Indonesia moved from the New Order era to the Reform era.

240 , ‗Reformasi TNI‘, in Agus Wirahadikusumah (ed.), Indonesia Baru danTantangan TNI :Pemikiran Masa Depan, Pustaka Sinar Harapan, Jakarta, 1999, pp. 313-32, p. 320. 241 Cited in Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, p. 231. For more detail, see Herbert Feith, ‗Repressive-Developmentalist Regimes in Asia: Old Strengths, New Vulnerabilities‘, Prisma, Issue 19, December 1980, pp. 39-55. 242 ‗KPK: Indonesia Negara Terkorup Urutan Kelima Dunia‘, viewed 16 March 2012, available at . See also, ‗Korupsi Semakin Masif‘, viewed 9 December 2011, . 243 Bhakti et al., Tentara Mendamba Mitra, p. 233.

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However, a popular anti-Habibie movement was immediately sparked off.

Habibie was deemed ‗to be one of Soeharto‘s cronies [sic]‘. ‗He stated proudly on some occasions that Soeharto was his political mentor. Besides, the transfer of power from Soeharto to him was seen as unconstitutional by the students and his political opponents since it was not conducted in the DPR/MPR building, and not with

Soeharto‘s accountability speech [sic]‘.244 Student demonstrations urged for three things at once: refusing Habibie, bringing Soeharto to trial and liquidating the

ABRI‘s dwifungsi.

Against the demand of the dwifungsi abolition, ABRI responded by launching

ABRI Abad XXI: Redefinisi, Reposisi, dan Reaktualisasi Peran ABRI Dalam

Kehidupan Bangsa (The Armed Forces in the XXI Century: Redefinition,

Repositioning, and Reactualisation of the Role of the Armed Forces in the Life of the

Nation), explaining four new paradigms of its political role. However, according to

Said, ‗it is true that the term Dwifungsi is no longer used in this latest document but careful reading of the Four New Paradigms will lead to the conclusion that only terminologies — [where] function became role — and ways of implementation have changed‘.245

Indeed, for the military the demand for the abolition of dwifungsi was viewed as not representing the people as a whole. ‗According to the military, there were still many people who wanted the continued practice of Dwifungsi‘.246 ‗On the conceptual level, it seems that all the officers agreed with the formulation of the military‘s new paradigm‘. Yet, ‗when the reformist officers translated the paradigm into internal

244 Rinakit, The Indonesian Military, p. 91. 245 Said, Legitimizing Military Rule, p. 170. 246 Rinakit, The Indonesian Military, p. 100.

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reforms of the military, friction among the officers occurred‘.247 Since the military reform agenda included the abolition of military assignment in civilian lucrative posts, many officers would have to sacrifice their business and economic interests with the implementation of reform.248

Meanwhile, on the part of students and other groups rejecting the military‘s involvement in political roles, the demand for the abolition of dwifungsi remained although each group had its own different time of reference for the military to completely disengage from politics. Student and popular protest even escalated in various cities. In Jakarta, a series of student protests led to a clash between students and the security forces. Throughout November 1998, six students from various universities were shot dead in two different demonstrations, worsening the situation.

Nevertheless, such tragedies did not weaken their anti-military dwifungsi and anti-

Habibie spirit.249

Concurrent with the escalating of anti-dwifungsi protest, many social conflicts took place, such as the shaman killings in Banyuwangi and the ethnic uprising in Ambon. According to Rinakit, ‗most people believed that the military was responsible. Its aims were clear, namely, to remind the people that without the military‘s presence [and dwifungsi] there would be disorder‘.250 As a result, the military‘s self-perception image as the people‘s army slumped terribly. Confronted constantly by increasing pressures from the society, on the 20th of April 2000, the

TNI commander, Admiral Widodo, finally declared the liquidation of the military‘s dwifungsi.

247 Ibid., p. 106. 248 Ibid., pp. 106-8, pp. 153-7. See also Mahroza, A Local Perspective on Military Withdrawal. 249 Ibid., p. 96. 250 Ibid., p. 115.

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This decision was followed up by an incremental and substantial withdrawal of military officers assigned to political institutions, both in DPR and MPR. By 2004, the military had completed its withdrawal from the political institutions251 quicker than the initial plan when the dwifungsi abolition was formally declared by the TNI commander.252 Clearly, this means the military has been disengaged from all practical politics. To a large extent, the TNI has been under the ‗democratic control‘ which is ‗best understood as an inter-institutional process in which legitimate state bodies authorise the structure, size, function, and use of the armed forces‘.253 In the current Indonesian democratic system, the control over the military comes not only from the political institutions but also from the media and other elements of society such as NGOs. Viewed in Huntington‘s theoretical framework, the current

Indonesian democratic system has provided wide opportunities to the military to develop its professionalisation as a defence force.

The new paradigm which was then translated into the internal reform steps constituted ‗the determination to take back the TNI as truly professional military force, becoming a robust and strong state defence institution‘.254 At a closer look, according to Sjafrie Sjamsoeddin (himself an army ), the new paradigm involves three aspects: ‗doctrinal‘, ‗organisational‘ and ‗cultural‘.255 The cultural aspect of military reform pointed by Sjamsoeddin is aligned with the following observation. After a decade of reform, the military‘s internal reform remains stalled by the fundamental obstacle, as observed by two Indonesian

251 ‗Reformasi Internal TNI‘, viewed 14 March 2012, available at . 252 Rinakit, The Indonesian Military, p. 160. Actually, time allocation for gradual withdrawal from political institutions was provided until 2009. 253 Mietzner, Military Politics, p. 5. 254 Muhaimin, Bambu Runcing dan Mesiu, p. 53. 255 Sjamsoeddin, ‗Militansi dan Intelektualisasi TNI‘.

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observers of which one is a retired high-ranking military officer. Although there have been many changes in the last decade, ‗the TNI reform still has an obstacle in the form of the military‘s culture and way of thinking [or mindset]. The TNI reform must be completely finished for the purification of the TNI, to become professional for defence‘. Bhakti asserted that ‗the most difficult challenge has been the culture and the militaristic behaviour‘. This is because the TNI culture ‗has been deeply entrenched for decades‘.256

Indeed, such observations are undoubtedly accurate. But, why and how is it that such a poor military culture and militaristic behaviour remain persistent?

Unfortunately, and surprisingly of course, there has been no single systematic study to scrutinise closely how such culture is shaped. Specifically, why and how is it that the TNI‘s culture and mindset — that admittedly impedes its professionalisation — has been so ingrained for decades? To fully comprehend this question, there is no more important thing to be investigated than the TNI education process, particularly for its officer corps. This will be further elaborated on in Chapter Four.

256 ‗Reformasi TNI Belum Selesai‘, Kompas, 1 December 2009.

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Chapter Four

PROFESSIONAL OFFICER EDUCATION:

MILITARY (TNI) ACADEMY

The previous chapter has examined how the army-supported New Order regime developed and operated various socio-cultural and political tactics to sustain its authority, which was needed to put into effect the ideology of developmentalism.

Central to these tactics had been the Army’s efforts to control the Indonesian past in which both Indonesian society and the whole armed forces underwent a process of

‘army-isation’. While for the most part the previous chapter has discussed how the

Army as the producer of history promoted its historical legacy to control and shape the culture of Indonesian society, this chapter will explain and describe how the military became the audience of its own self-created history. It examines how this historical legacy shaped soldiers’ cognitive framework, and in turn became an obstacle to the professionalisation of the whole TNI. To do this, the TNI’s formative education for its officer corps through which the control of history was aimed at inculcating a certain culture will be examined.

A foundational question required to understand the difficulties involved in professionalising the Indonesian military is how has its officer corps been educated?

In Indonesia there is no single education institution that is more successful in maintaining the conservatism of its ‘paradigm’ than its military academy.1 The academy is informed by an educational paradigm which aims to forge ‘perfect

1 When I speak of military or TNI academy, I refer to all TNI service academies comprising the Military Academy (or Akademi Militer, known by its partial Indonesian acronym AKMIL), the Navy Academy (or Akademi Angkatan Laut, AAL) and the Air Force Academy (Akademi Angkatan Udara, AAU). Indonesian citizens.’2 Successive TNI leaders’ aspiration to standardise the degree of academy graduates and make them equal to those of civilian colleges has been one factor that has inspired various changes. In the late 1980s, the ‘credit system’ used by civilian universities began to be adopted. Nevertheless, the application of this hybrid model to the military academy system did not operate quite the way it did in the civilian colleges. Research conducted in one service academy that operates such a system indicated that institutional ignorance concerning the system persisted.3 At the same time, it also reflects a ‘professionalism crisis’; as a professional military educational institution it could no longer formulate what should be achieved by the system it adopts. This situation clearly becomes a paradox: the obstacles to TNI professionalisation are at work even in its formative processes.

Indonesian Military Officer Education — A Historical Overview

Military education for the East Indies can be traced back to 19th century colonial times, when the colonial military, Koninklijk Nederlandsch-Indisch Leger

(Royal Netherlands East Indies Army), or KNIL, began in 1816 to recruit its officers from native people. The ‘Ethical Policy’ (Ethische Politiek) introduced in the early decades of the twentieth century brought about an increase in military officer education for the indigenous people, although the colonial system implemented a discriminatory recruitment policy because ‘only those derived from the noble or aristocrat families could enlist in such training’.4

2 FX. Heri Joewono et al. (eds.), Untuk Bangsaku dan Negeriku: Kilas Balik Pengabdian AMN Tahun 1960-1963, Balai Pustaka, Jakarta, 2004, p. 46. 3 Chrisna M.E. Paat, Sejarah dan Perkembangan Pendidikan Angkatan Laut Republik Indonesia, Lengge, Mataram, 2004, p. 95 4 Daud Sinjal, Laporan Kepada Bangsa: Militer Akademi Yogya, Pustaka Sinar Harapan and Yayasan Kotabaru, Jakarta, 1996, p. 19. 111

An organisation for native officers was established in 1907, and from 1918 onwards the colonial authority began to dispatch native youths for training in an overseas military officer school in the Netherlands such as the Koninklijke Militaire

Academie (KMA, or the Royal Military Academy) in Breda and the officer school for aviators.5 During the same period some naval schools were also founded in the

Netherlands East Indies, and the colonial authority established the Koninklijke

Institut voor Wilemsoord (KIW, or the Royal Navy Academy) in Surabaya in 1940.

The KMA in Bandung was also set up at this time.6 The colonial government also founded military aviation training for officers, or Militaire Luchtvaart (ML) in

Kalijati, West Java, in 1915, but the opportunity opened for natives commencing in

1937.7

During the Japanese military occupation, which took place over a comparatively short period, the military authority set up both military training and organisations for youth natives. However, it did not bequeath a single over-arching body responsible for professional military education. The Japanese set up a number of military organisations of which the most important was the tentara sukarela

Pembela Tanah Air (known by its partial acronym PETA, literally the Voluntary

Army of Defenders of the Fatherland). However, such training and organisations were primarily aimed at preparing Indonesian mobilisation to support Japanese war efforts.

After Indonesia gained its independence, the officer education system of the colonial era was reconstructed. In late 1945, the new Republic founded the first

5 Ibid. 6 Paat, Sejarah dan Perkembangan, pp. 5-7. 7 There were ten young men who were the first indigenous officer cadets: Sambujo Hurip, Adisucipto, Husein Sastranegara, Sulistyo, Murkijo, Suyono, Bajuri, Sunarto, Haryono, and Tugiyo. See Suwito et.al, Awal Kedirgantaraan Di Indonesia, p. 4. 112

Militaire Acadamie (MA) scattered in some places across Java island which was then incorporated into a single organisation in 1948 located in Yogyakarta. This military academy was then well known as ‘MA Yogya’.8 The instructors of this academy came from those former KNIL and PETA officers.

In this way, military academy cadets were exposed to a hybrid, sometimes mutually contradictory, combination of two distinct characters: a somewhat liberal educated character found in ex-KNIL officers on the one hand and a fascistic character derived from ex-PETA officers on the other. The former KNIL developed

‘intellectuals’ whilst ex-PETA officers inculcated ‘fascist’ spirit that had now been given a new meaning as ‘fighting spirit’ cherishing physical strength.9 It should be noted, however, that since the number of PETA officers were far more than that of

KNIL, understandably therefore, the influence upon the direction of training was also dominated more by PETA character than that of KNIL. During the Japanese occupation, PETA officers who later became MA instructors received a military training in which ‘European versions of professionalism and military expertise had no place’. In that time, the Japanese officer responsible for conducting the training of

PETA officers even ‘refused to accept any officers with KNIL experience’.10

A retired army lieutenant general, , who himself underwent military training in both the Dutch colonial era and the Japanese occupation described the sharp distinction between these two experiences. In the

Dutch military training, ‘[we] were trained well, but that was not as harsh as what was done by Japanese’.11 As we shall see entirely in this chapter, the educational paradigm of this first military academy was made a reference for the whole TNI

8 Sinjal, Laporan Kepada Bangsa, p. 13. 9 Ibid., p. 9. 10 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 57. 11 Sinjal, Laporan Kepada Bangsa, p. 44. 113 education and training thereafter, especially after 1965 when the New Order assumed authority in which Indonesian military history was redefined and controlled by the

Army.

According to Sayidiman Suryohadiprojo,

[all] theories ... were taught by ex-KNIL, but in-the field practices were all held by the former PETA. As well, internal routines were replicated mostly from PETA, thus it was orientated more on the Japanese ways. This was felt as appropriate ways, because the Japanese military’s method was deemed better to create battle effectiveness. This method was much harsher than that of KNIL which had European orientation, and because of that, the Japanese defeated the British with ease in Malay and KNIL in Indonesia.12

Initially, this military academy had the objective of meeting an urgent demand for officers to lead troops for the likely coming battle front against the Dutch and its allies. However, due to more time gained from the negotiations between the

Dutch and Indonesian governments in 1946, it became possible to extend the period of training up to three years to enhance the qualification of its graduates. That alteration was in part due to cadets’ demands because they were keen to deepen and increase their knowledge.13 Although the training was conducted in a situation of considerably deficient resources, the first Militaire Academie training during revolution time had yielded officers who were capable of developing and expressing critical thoughts. Interestingly, this was because ‘they were conditioned to inculcate a habit of intellectual exercise’ and encouraged ‘to regularly read and discuss the readings between them’.14

12 Ibid., p. 43. Emphasis added 13 Sinjal, Laporan Kepada Bangsa, pp. 46-7. 14 Ibid., p. 288. 114

Whilst they were cadets, they had been involved in various battle fronts between 1945 and 1949: a guerrilla war against the Dutch military who wanted to reclaim their former colonised territories; the to confront the

British troops in 1945; and an operation to crush the Indonesian Communist Party

(PKI) revolt in Madiun in 1948.15 The troop commanders who employed them during those battles formed good impressions of the combat performance of these MA cadets. Later, in their career as Army officers, they occupied many strategic and important positions in the Army. Some of them had an opportunity to be assigned for international missions under the United Nations (UN). At the top of their career during the New Order era, some of them were appointed as state ministers or foreign ambassadors while others spent their career ascending in the Army or TNI. Such a successful career in itself has erected their self-confidence as Militaire Academie alumni. Above all, the central message underlying their conviction is that their educational experiences were claimed to be superior to the others, and the model for the future. Hence, it seemed necessary to reproduce and transmit it to the later generations of TNI officers, especially through military academies.

As will be explained throughout this chapter, this educational model was then cast as the most ideal one to take on the process of forging the TNI professional military officer. ‘The proper confluence’16 of Japanese’ fascist spirit and European intellectual appeal had been made the principles of the whole TNI education: Dwi

Warna Purwa, Cendikia Wusana.17 After the Dutch finally recognised Indonesian independence and sovereignty in 1950, this Militarie Academie that had graduated

15 Ibid., especially chapter two and three, pp. 54-154. 16 Sinjal, Laporan Kepada Bangsa, p. 44. 17 This will be discussed later in this chapter. 115 two classes was closed down. The education for Indonesian Army officers was for the time being transferred to the KMA in Breda.

In 1952, discussions about the re-opening of a military academy for cadet officers were held. Those discussions occurred alongside two on-going important events that had taken place since early 1950. First, Indonesia began receiving military aid from the US government, the most significant of which was the training of army officers. Second, there was an emerging consciousness of the need for a professional military ‘identity’ which was ‘Indonesian in character’; a professionalism which ‘drew inspiration from [Indonesian’s] own military history and traditions’.18 Each of these issues will be discussed briefly below.

Beginning in 1951 the Army began sending its officers to be trained in the

U.S. In this way, according to Britton,

U.S. influence was carried into the Indonesian officer corps and gradually the American military came to represent the most familiar model of Western- style professionalism... The training experience had significance far beyond the technical aspects of training, for trainees were exposed to the political indoctrination current in the U.S. Army at the time, and were also objects of orchestrated social interaction designed to incline them to respond sympathetically to U.S. policy suggestions. Trainee officers were not separated from other visitors or their American colleagues. The fraternisation and participation in all aspects of the social life of U.S. officers was regarded as essential to the programme. Thus, Indonesian officers not only gained access to the best military education which was available in the U.S. but were also hosted and exposed to the ‘American way of life’.... [These] officers had an intensive period of working with officers equivalent rank who were

18 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 83. 116

moving into the upper levels of the officer corps of the U.S. Army and the of other countries benefiting from similar assistance.19

In this manner, the US model of professional officer education inspired the training paradigm for Indonesian officer cadets. Unsurprisingly, when the military academy was re-opened in 1957 in Magelang, it seemed to resemble that of the West

Point paradigm, seen at least in its physical features. In many areas, there were similarities with the academy at West Point. This could be found, for example, in terms of its organisational structure and cadets’ insignia which looked similar to those of the USMA. The term ‘superintendent’ for the academy commander was adopted from West Point. Even in a spiritual area, when translated into , a partial prayer of the West Point cadets immediately becomes that of the

AKMIL cadets in Magelang.

At the time the National Military Academy (NMA, which later became

AKMIL) was re-opened, the USMA West Point itself was enjoying the triumph of the ‘Thayer System’. Inevitably, this system also informed the educational process in

NMA Magelang. The Thayer system emphasised the learning process through recitation and constant drill on the materials taught. All teaching materials were organised and set up in such a manner that could be easily learned by rote in order to gain technical skills. At West Point, cadets had to do a daily in-class presentation.

This was ‘intended not only to enforce rigorous study habits but also provide practical experience in leadership and to foster competition among members of the class’.20 However, in AKMIL, as we shall see later in this chapter, a similar process has never been fully implemented or regarded as suitable.

19 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, pp. 103-5. 20 Joseph Ellis and Robert Moore, School for Soldiers: West Point and the Profession of Arms, Oxford University Press, New York, 1974, p. 33. 117

Since, for the US-trained Army officers ‘the American military came to represent the most familiar model of Western-style professionalism’, the Thayer

System inspired the educational paradigm in Indonesia’s military academy.

Understandably, this was because on their return to Indonesia some of the US-trained army officers served in the most important positions in this academy shortly after its re-opening. This was part of the Army policies on personnel mobilisation in an effort

‘to revamp the educational system of the TNI’. This policy was promoted by General

Achmad Yani when he was assigned as Operations Officer for the General Staff in

1956 upon his return from attending the US Command and General Staff College in

Fort Leavenworth.21

US military aid was influential for the Indonesian military, which was in the process of developing a modern defence force. However, the new values and knowledge gained from the US training were no substitute for the imperative of creating an army with an identity that could fit the indigenous .

The seeds of consciousness for a new identity appeared long before the US began aid to the Indonesian Army. Those seeds of identity were found in Javanese military traditions of the past.22

The colonial era had buried for a long time the values and thoughts of

Javanese military traditions that predated the arrival of the Europeans. However during the Japanese occupation, those dormant values and thoughts were revived, although their revival was revised into the myth relevant to the promotion of those seeking power.23 It was aligned with the fascist enchantment sowed by Japanese

21 Bryan Evans III, ‘The Influence of the United States Army on the Development of the Indonesian Army (1954-1964)’, Indonesia, Vol. 47, April 1989, pp. 46-8. 22 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, pp. 106-7. 23 Ibid., p. 46. 118 military, since then ‘Javanese culture had much to say about how officers should conduct themselves, how wars should be won and how society should be ruled’.24

Javanese culture cannot be separated from Javanese society and it is therefore essential to understand it. The social structure of Javanese society has been relatively unchanged. It may be grouped into three stratified levels: the upper class (the noblemen or the sentana), the middle class (the aristocrats or bureaucrat elites, called the ) and the lower class (the common people). The upper class or the noblemen is the highest ruling class, namely, the king or sultan and his families. The middle class, or the priyayi, is the kingdom bureaucrat elites. Included in this group are the palace guards and the army corps. The common people are mostly workers and farmers. The middle class or the priyayi (as bureaucrat elites) have the role of bridging social relations between the upper class and the common people. Thus, basically the structure of Javanese society could simply be grouped into two layers, namely the rulers who represent the upper and middle class, and the ruled, that is, the common people.25

In the feudal system of Javanese society, language governs social relation.

Basically there are two levels in Javanese: ngoko (low level) and krama (high level).

To make it clear, according to Moedjanto, the low level or ngoko is one that is ‘used in a situation of intimacy, though it also develops into the sense of humiliation.

Ngoko is also considered a kasar (rough) level. To put it clearly, one speaks in ngoko to a person considered to be a lower social class [sic] status than oneself, or to a person who is younger than the speaker, or to a person of the same social level whom

24 According to Britton, ‘[t]he consciousness of a Javanese social, political and military heritage, and a determination to act within its terms blurred the distinctions between Peta and KNIL’. See, Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 62. 25 G. Moedjanto, The Concept of Power in Javanese Culture, Press Yogyakarta, 1986, pp. 35, 126. 119 the speaker knows well. The krama form is the level of honour and respect; it is also considered as alus or halus in Indonesia (refined). So one speaks in krama to person who is older than the speaker, or to a person whom the speaker does not know well’.26

This cultural feudal hierarchy that revolves around the palace in turn governs the entire social polity in Indonesian society.27 As a whole, such a social relation exhibits characteristics that can be found in the patrimonial state system ruled by the leadership model of paternalism.28

Javanese culture is dominated with models of paternalistic leadership. The beginning of paternalistic relations in Indonesian military society was shown during the revolution in the form of Bapakism (literally fatherism). According to Britton,

Throughout the revolutionary hostilities, army structures remained ill- defined. Poor communications made coordination and command difficult and, in this situation, officers became leaders and advisers in all areas of concern, private as well as official. The bapak (father) embodied the army’s spirit, its moral authority and was obliged to look after the well- being of his followers.29

In Javanese culture, the difference between history and myth is quite blurred.30 Javanese society is regularly portrayed through the (shadow

26 During the Mataram era, beside language the way one dressed also indicated the level of social status. Ibid., p. 126. 27 See Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, p. 226; Crouch, Patrimonialism and Military Rule in Indonesia, World Politics, Princeton University Press, 1979. 28 See previous chapter. 29 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 72. Italic added. 30 The original English version of Britton’s MA thesis does not mention what I cite here, but the Indonesian version does. See Peter Britton, Profesionalisme dan Ideologi Militer Indonesia: Perspektif Tradisi-tradisi Jawa dan Barat (translated by Hendrajit), Pustaka LP3ES, Jakarta, 1996, p. 15. 120 play)31, which ‘portrays idealised states, warfare and characters’.32 However, it is not factually true to historical events except in the mythological sense. The themes concerning war become dominant ingredients in wayang plays, with constant threats to the state’s interests. In the wayang play, the sacred mission to protect the state’s interests is performed by the satria (knight). A satria ‘must have a heroic mind, inner fire, constancy, resourcefulness, courage in battle, generosity and the skills of noble leadership’.33 According to Moedjanto, during the time of Mataram, ‘[e]ach person of the ruling class was obliged to imitate the [satria] figures in the world of wayang, in every aspect of his life’.34 To achieve the level of satria-ship or knightship, one must endure mental and physical forging ‘which was regarded as a manifestation of a whole view of life’.35 In the wayang world it is portrayed by a situation where a satria mythological figure, Gatotkaca, was ‘tempered’ in the crater of Candradimuka.

The term Candradimuka was then used by AKMIL to name the cadet basic military training.36

The young priyayi, who enlisted and fought in the revolutionary war and later moved up the promotion chain in the army, were said to possess ideal values that were reconstructed as the army’s values. Those values were a combination of priyayi-ship and satria-ship, and also a combination of the real world and the myth.

Thus, the priyayi who was also a satria was deemed instrumental in determining the survival of the state’s existence. Therefore, the power of the state and the importance of the satria-priyayi are indivisible.

31 For more detail about the wayang, see for example in Lee Khoon Choy, A fragile Nation: The Indonesian Crisis, World Scientific, Singapore, 1999, pp. 55-74. 32 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 19. 33 Ibid, p. 22. 34 Moedjanto, The Concept of Power, p. 126. 35 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 279. 36 Joewono et al. (eds.), Untuk Bangsaku dan Negeriku, p. 52. 121

Interestingly, the perception of relations between the state and the satria- priyayi were defined and promoted by a Javanese priyayi, Ki Hadjar Dewantoro, who elevated the themes concerning the role of the army’s greatness in Java’s past.

Dewantoro was ‘a leading proponent of the intellectual tradition which stressed the importance of old, elite Javanese values but which had been formulated and nurtured in the nationalist era by priyayi who had obtained a Western education’.37

He pointed out that ‘the armed forces and the civil service were a unity’ which means that the greatness of a nation ‘had been an essentially military greatness’. And, accordingly ‘an armed force is an absolute necessity’; it is the

‘backbone’.38 Here, Dewantoro referred to an ancient version of dwifungsi in Java’s past. Long before Nasution elevated a notion of Middle Way of the army roles which was an embryo of the New Order’s dwifungsi, in 1951 Dewantoro wrote in the monthly journal of the Defence Ministry, Yudhagama, an article highlighting the ancient values of military socio-political roles of Java’s past.

Dewantoro stressed that ‘[t]he soldierly spirit should always be remembered as an example from past culture and should be nurtured again in the present time’.

Entirely, the nobility of the army identity that rests upon the character of satria and priyayi demands spiritual strength. Concerning the spirituality, Dewantoro stressed

Believe, each member of our Army, that nobility of character ... and inner holiness ... is a weapon which can defeat any opposing army which is armed only with physical and material strength, however complete. Remember the mottoes of [soldiership] such as ... ‘bravery, courage and glory can be smashed by inner strength’.39

37 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 92. 38 Ibid., pp. 91-2. 39 Ibid. 122

This belief was deemed to have been practised by the 1945 Generation during the revolutionary time in which General Sudirman himself became a spiritual leader of those values. The Generation of 1945 was convinced that those past values had to be sowed into the younger army generations. TNI officer education should be understood in this context. A mythically-derived identity became a basic underlying assumption in conducting TNI officer education, especially in the military academy.

In a chapter titled ‘Training the Magelang Generation, Problems of

Transition’, Britton notes that as a ‘cultural centre’ the Indonesian military academy

(AKMIL) ‘occupied a place of central importance in activities which recognised and were based on the values inherent in Javanese culture ... [for] creating in the cadets a collective personality or identity’. The training paradigm ‘was dedicated not merely to modern military professionalism but also stimulating an awareness of the characteristics of Javanese satria, placing the future officers into a continuation of the best of the past’.40

Selection of TNI Academy Cadets

The government regularly publishes the recruitment criteria of TNI academy cadets in the print and electronic media. While there have been a few changes as

Indonesian society has changed, the principal entrance requirements of the TNI academies in general have remained relatively unchanged. Aspirants must be male

Indonesian citizens who believe in God and loyal to the state’s ideology of Pancasila and the Constitution of 1945.41 The age requirement varies, but it is not less than 18 or more than 22 years old at the commencement of education, dated from the start of

40 Ibid., p. 206. Italic added. 41 Akademi Militer, ‘Persyaratan Menjadi Taruna AKMIL’, viewed 20 March 2012, available at . 123 basic military training. There is a minimum height requirement of 163 to 165 centimetres, depending on the requirement set by each service academy. Candidates must provide documents that prove their Indonesian citizenship, their religion, and their date of birth.

In addition to this physical prerequisite, aspirants must also have a minimum education of secondary (high) school. They must be free of any legal (criminal) matters, must be available to be posted anywhere in the Republic of Indonesia, and commit to a compulsory service minimum of 10 years. During the New Order era, there was a further important specific requirement. It was that aspirants had no indication of ever being involved in any movements opposing the state ideology, more specifically the September 30 Movement/PKI.42 Once all of these physical and administrative requirements are fully met, they are required to attend and pass the selection and screening processes including medical, academic, psychological, psychoanalysis examinations, physical fitness tests, and interviews.

The Indonesian military demands an ideological homogeneity of its soldiers.

During the New Order Era, every single aspirant had to pass screening, called

‘Thinking and Ideology’ to guarantee that he had monoloyalitas (obedience to the

New Order regime). This screening was done through a paperwork examination and interviews to trace aspirants’ political attitudes and beliefs. The questions posed by the admissions committee whose background was in intelligence were relatively similar to materials used in ‘Special Investigation’ (Penelitian Khusus,

Litsus)43 in the selection of any other state government employees. As quoted by

Boucher and Hadiz, the list of questions includes:

42 Department of Defence and Security, Academy of The Indonesian Armed Forces of The Republic of Indonesia, 1975, p. 23. 43 See also previous chapter. 124

Describe your family background ... starting with your grandparents ... Mention which religion(s) and the organisations/parties they have followed. Tell the story of your family since you were small, from the time you started primary school. Was it on the whole comfortable or difficult? If you were adopted, say who your foster parents were. Also give the full names of your brothers and sisters, brothers-in-law and sisters-in-law. Then give the names of your closest acquaintances during the last three years; If you have ever received a scholarship, where was it from and on what conditions was it issued?; The basis of your convictions/religion. Do you practice these (convictions/religion) diligently? Which parish/church/mosque are you part of?; Your attitude towards mystical sects?; Say which national/world heroes you admire, and give your reasons; Recite the Pancasila. Describe your attitude towards the Pancasila; What would you think if the Pancasila were altered?44

During the New Order era, aspirants would be pressed intensively on the following questions:

Your view of G30S/PKI. Your reaction; Were any members of your family involved?; Marxism/Leninism. When did you hear of it...? Communism is a latent danger, do you agree?; ..Your attitude towards the dual function of the armed forces; Your understanding of the New Order. What is it? What is its basis?45

In that era, the examination on ‘Thinking and Ideology’ for the aspirants were done in-depth through both paperwork and interview. Not only for individuals who aspired to become armed forces members, but even active officers who had been in service for more than 10 years had to undertake similar assessment if they were to be promoted to a higher rank or posted overseas either to occupy a diplomatic post as a

44 Bourchier and Hadiz (ed.), Indonesian Politics and Society, pp. 215-6. 45 Ibid. 125 defence attaché or to attend a particular period of schools or courses, namely for six months or more.

In the post-New Order era, the requirement that an aspirant ‘is not involved in or shows any indication of being/having been affiliated to any movements opposing state ideology (G-30-S/PKI)’46 is no longer explicitly mentioned. However, it has since been replaced by one that requires aspirants to be ‘loyal and conformed’ to the state ideology Pancasila and the state Constitution of 1945’. The screening on

‘Thinking and Ideology’ is also replaced by the ‘interview’. By virtue of this method, an aspirant’s political and ideological background, in itself, can be traced back in order to warrant ideological homogeneity. An aspirant might exhibit high intellectual quality and physical fitness as well as survive all other aspects of examinations and tests, but if anything regarding his politics arouses suspicion, an appointment would be likely unsuccessful. However this is not peculiar to Indonesian military context as militaries around the world also apply the same principle. The sharp difference might lie in the objectivity of the selection process and training paradigm.

The processes in selection and screening are carried out by teams involving a complex array of bureaucracies stretching from the regional committees scattered across the archipelago to the central admission committee. However, the characteristics of the selection process and its results are not open to public scrutiny.47 There are two phases in the selection process namely regional-stage which is conducted by a regional committee, and central-stage which is carried out by a central commission appointed by the service headquarters. Each region is given a

46 Department of Defence and Security, Academy of The Indonesian Armed Forces, p. 23. 47 This was also admitted by Major General Syarifudin Tippe. See Syarifudin Tippe, Strategi Pengembangan TNI AD 25 Tahun ke Depan: Ditinjau Dari Perspektif Pendidikan, p. 8, viewed on 16 October 2009, available at .

126 certain quota in terms of the number of candidates to be selected. Having survived the regional-stage admission, successful aspirants are then sent to the central committee to follow a more competitive selection. At this stage, again they have to endure similar testing materials as undergone in the regional-stage but in more highly competitive screening. The committee itself is divided into various teams working on specific fields but generally includes administrative, medical, psychological, physical, academic and intelligence teams.

In the ongoing selection process, there exists a custom or practice that some aspirants are backed up with a sort of letter of ‘reference’ or ‘sponsorship’. This sort of letter is to indicate that the bearer of this letter needs a ‘special’ attention granted by the admission committee in order to ‘facilitate’ his selection process. This letter tells that an aspirant is sponsored and supported by a particular (high ranking) TNI official. Although it is not mandatory for the committee to fully regard such a letter, it often has a considerable influence in the extremely competitive selection process at the central-level. Not all of the aspirants, particularly those who do not derive from military families or have a particular relation with military officials, use these means.

During the New Order era, the selection process at the central-stage occurred under the control of the TNI (or ABRI) Headquarters in which admission committees consisted of all service elements.48 In this way, the choice as to which service academy they sought an appointment to, was determined not only by the aspirants’ own preference, but also by the committee based on the tests result, notably psychological examination. As a result, quite often a successful aspirant was appointed to a service academy that did not suit his choice. However since their

48 The Indonesian Police was still under the Indonesian Armed Forces or ABRI. 127 motive was more pragmatic than idealistic,49 they tended to simply accept that appointment. Since 2001, the selection pattern has changed in that the admission process is delegated to each service, although the selection standard remains relatively similar. In this way, an eligible aspirant can enlist himself for a selection process in a particular service academy according to his favour. Expectedly, this method has an objective to fully accommodate the aspirants’ preference. Rather than targeting qualified aspirants, however, such an admission system simply increases the likelihood of fraud due to collusion, corruption and nepotism in the selection process.50

The result of the admission process is not announced publicly – nor it is accessible to those concerned, even those in the academies, although aspirants have already been commissioned as cadets. A cadet commander complained about obstacles to access data resulting from the selection when he wanted to trace back the psychology examination record of a rare cadet having academic difficulties.51 With the prevalent patrimonial culture based on patron-clientelism of Indonesian society, which is also present in military society, the ‘secretive’ character of admission processes immediately provides an opportunity for corrupt behaviour. This practice seems to have been carried out since thirty years ago as indicated by Britton that

“selection was not always strictly on objective grounds, and that priority could be purchased’.52

An officer who had been a member of admission committee admitted that during the selection process he was often asked to pass an aspirant who actually was not in compliance with the required standard. ‘There was even an aspirant who failed

49 Paat, Sejarah dan Perkembangan, pp. 91-2; Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 267. 50 As we will see later in this chapter. 51 Interview 303-001A 52 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 267 128 at the regional-stage but passed because of a ‘request’ from the ‘centre [above] …

Bad luck to those who got no sponsorship, no backing, whereas these people in fact had good potential’.53 Ironically, on the admission committee part, there was also a

‘ploy’ practiced by its member as indicated by Britton earlier. There was an aspirant who in academic selection ‘clearly did not comply with the standard, was really not compliant’, but by an officer holding an important position in the admission team the deficient result was then ‘leveraged’ or manipulated after the aspirant’s parent came to that officer.54

Simultaneously, the selection process also shows that a considerable number of successful aspirants come from military families. According to an officer, himself a former member of admission team, there was a ‘tacit commitment’ to ‘give priority’ to aspirants who came from military families.55 This pattern seems to operate in all service academies. Each service would give priority to those coming from similar service-based family backgrounds. It is therefore unsurprising that about

40% of the total successful aspirants derive from corresponding-service military families. Statistical data of the Indonesian Air Force Academy cadets from 2001 up to 2008 consistently shows such a tendency.56

A similar trend is also apparent in the other two academies. In AKMIL, for example, the statistical data for cadet admission in the academic years of 2007 and

2008 respectively are sufficient to give a similar indication. In each of those years, the percentage of cadets who came from military families made up 49% of the total cadets accepted in each year.57 Given such a statistical figure, there often appears

53 Interview 223-001B 54 Interview 305-002 55 Interview 223-001B 56 A hard copy of these data are held by the author. 57 A hard copy of these data are held by the author. 129 cynical words that jokingly translated the AAU (Academy of the Air Force) as

‘[A]nak-anaknya [A]ngkatan [U]dara’ which literally means ‘children of airforce men’.58 The similar view is also present at Academy of the Navy where the acronym

AAL (Akademi Angkatan Laut) is cynically translated into ‘[A]nak [A]nak

[L]aksamana’ which literally means ‘children of admirals’.59 No precise method exists to determine what encourages aspirants to seek admissions to the military academies. However, mostly pragmatic options seemed to have become the chief motivation, namely ‘economic and social security’60, or pursuing ambitions of a military career for the sake of ‘power’.61 At the same time they benefit from tuition- free training because it is fully paid and cadets are fully supported.

The criteria employed by the admission system seek to select the ‘ideal man.’

Yet, since aspirants come from various areas across the archipelago, their education levels vary greatly.62 At the Air Force Academy there was a considerable disparity between the demand for cadets’ academic competence — which is required to prepare them to deal with the military-related aerospace world — and the competence actually possessed. Of the total number of successful aspirants, less than

50 per cent met the academic passing grade.63 In this way, most of them in essence are not prepared intellectually to cope with the world of general tertiary education which to a large extent the TNI academy represents.

58 Interview 305-002 59 Interview 303-001A 60 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 200. 61 Paat, Sejarah dan Perkembangan, pp. 91-2. 62 The TNI education system cannot be separated from Indonesia’s whole national education context. For more detail about Indonesian education, see Winarno Surakhmad, Pendidikan Nasional: Strategi dan Tragedi, Buku Kompas, Jakarta, 2009; Darmaningtyas, Pendidikan Rusak-rusakan, LKiS, Yogyakarta, 2005. Christopher Bjork, Indonesian Education: Teachers, Schools, and Central Bureaucracy, Routledge, New York, 2005. 63 Interview 223-001B 130

‘Army-isation’ of the Education Philosophy

As mentioned in a previous chapter, between 1965 and 1969, structural changes had been made as part of integrating the armed forces under a single command; in effect, under the Army’s control.64 As a consequence, education in

Indonesian military academies also underwent structural adjustment. In 1967 all four academies (three services and police) were unified into a single body namely the

Indonesian Armed Forces Academy, or AKABRI, for which the initial formative education was conducted at AKMIL in Magelang, Central Java. This integration was intended to foster ideological homogeneity which in turn could be expected to eliminate ideological challenges — as occurred under Sukarno’s administration — to future military (and national police) leaders. Under such an integrative education, it was hoped that the cadets would have had a feeling of ‘togetherness’ and ‘oneness’ since their formative year was based on an ideological uniformity.

The measures unifying the armed forces coincided with the growing domination of the Army’s roles and position in the New Order’s state.

Unsurprisingly, this effort also incorporated various policy-making efforts concerning the direction of how officer education at the military academy had to be carried out. Clearly, as we will see later, such a direction was apparently driven by the Army’s values. Thus, the step to integrate all academies under one Army- dominated arrangement at the same time also meant instituting the Army’s pedagogical ideas into the entire service academies. In this way, the Indonesian

Armed Forces Academy (AKABRI) had once become an arena to implant the

‘Army’s identity’. As mentioned earlier, the army’s consciousness of its identity which was inherited from Javanese aristocratic culture combined with the spirit of

64 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 197 131 fascism propagated during Japanese military-occupation. Accordingly, the education at AKABRI took the form described by Taufik Abdullah:

Generally, the youth of ours only gained skills to perform soldiership, that is, marching and conforming to an obedience to assault, crush and sacrifice themselves in an absolute sense; they never learned how to lead. ... Because they had no ability in it, therefore they staged propaganda and agitations against the masses in a way that they obtained and learned from the Japanese. ... thus... fascist. The mindset of our youth is deeply regrettable. They were constantly in vacillation and though they were full of enthusiasm, they did not yet have an understanding of the possibilities available in the struggle stage they were engaged in, so that their vision was short-lived.65

Thus, the academy education in each service is simply a continuation and a replica of the AKMIL’s paradigm. Pedagogical approaches on education are given more emphasis on tempering ‘mentality’ to instil ‘fighting spirit’ which are consistently infused by controlling the mind and body. To these ends, the approach usually taken is the use of physical privation accompanied by the creation of irrational mystified traditions.66 This is invented as part of attempts to convey the meaning of knightly ‘fighting spirit’ that has to be a character of a satria, or knight.

Simultaneously, the immediate benefit exploited from such approaches is the preservation of the patrimonial culture in social relation within the military body.

This, as we will see later, is made through the creation of feudal character of structural hierarchy for the sake of ‘subduedness’, orderliness, respect for superiors, harmony, as well as obedience to the group in order to encourage esprit de corps.

Such a pattern was and is believed to be completely ‘appropriate’ for building

65 Cited in Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, pp. 475-6. 66 Joewono et al. (eds.), Untuk Bangsaku dan Negeriku, pp. 19-23. 132 military professionalism in line with Indonesian cultural values.67 As we will see later, this character of pedagogy in turn determines officers’ ‘mindset’ or cognitive

‘schemata’68 which is homogenous in the way its graduates view the ‘world’.

This education model is well preserved based on the long standing basic assumption that the existing system has contributed to nurture and bring up its alumni to effectively climb in their military career by holding strategic posts in the

TNI organisation, and even assuming leadership positions at the national level. An officer holding an important post in AKMIL asserted that

It is clear here. AKMIL shapes national leaders. It is clear from here, it has been proven. The life here builds character. So, it is none of the superiority in sciences/knowledge, subject matters. It [the latter i.e. subject matters taught] remains the same since it was. I say it never developed here! No advancement! Here, we are trained not to become intellectuals, but to be leaders of character. If one says come here to become intellectual, they are wrong! So we learn to possess character.69

Taking a closer look at this assertion, it implicitly contains a contradiction, if not a ‘misconception’, that disputes ‘character’ versus ‘intellectuality’. In this context, ‘character’, which is given more emphasis refers to a phrase of ‘fighting spirit’ that must be owned by its alumni to accomplish all ‘calls of duty’ in later life in the service. On the other side, ‘intellectuality’ seems to come afterward, although it is not put aside at all.

The officer’s view above precisely reflects the education process or ‘soul’ of all TNI academies, more accurately one held and defined by the Army. It is based on

67 Sinjal, Laporan Kepada Bangsa, p. 44. 68 To borrow terminology from Piaget’s theory of cognitive construction as provided in Paul Suparno, Filsafat Konstruktivisme dalam Pendidikan, Kanisius, Yogyakarta, 1997, p. 30. For further analysis on Piaget’s theory of cognitive development, see Barry J. Wadsworth, Piaget’s Theory of Cognitive and Affective Development (4th edn.), Longman, New York, 1989. 69 Interview 318-001 133 the formal education philosophy (more precisely principle), that is, Dwi Warna

Purwa Cendikia Wusana. Presenting before the Senate’s assembly of Bandung

Institute of Technology on 18 June 1994, Major General E.E. Mangindaan, the commander of SESKOAD of that time, asserted that

The Army’s education system, besides being based on the Pancasila, holds the philosophy of DWI WARNA PURWA CENDIKIA WUSANA which means pursuing patriotism/devotion based on the Pancasila firstly, then professionalism and intellectual [curiosity] secondly.70

This philosophy was claimed to be a reflection of historical values as had been shown by the Generation of 1945 that centres on the charismatic leadership of

General Sudirman who was deemed exemplifying the ‘fighting spirit’ as the highest attribution. Furthermore, the implementation of this philosophy is elaborated into three aspects of quality: physical, mental and intellectual.71 The confluence of these three aspects is called Tri Sakti Viratama which means three (Tri) sacred (Sakti) qualites or virtues (Viratama). The two aspects of it, i.e. physical and mental, constitute the pillars of knightly ‘fighting spirit’. At the operational level, these three aspects are mutually overlaying in which one aspect tends to dominate another.

However, in reality, the mental-physical attitude building has been given more emphasis at the expense of the intellectual aspect. This is clearly consistent with what the education philosophy means as asserted by Major General Mangindaan.

Nevertheless, such a system is regarded as the standard not only for the academy’s education, but also for the whole TNI training paradigm. Although each service has its own academy along with its own traditions, the paradigm and the

70 E.E. Mangindaan, Mayjen TNI, Seskoad: Tugas dan Peranannya Dalam Pembangunan, Institut Teknologi Bandung, Bandung, 1994, p. 6. 71 Department of Defence and Security, Academy of The Indonesian Armed Forces, p. 12. 134 characteristics of its education are similar and are simply a continuance of one derived from AKMIL. In this way, the principles of the whole TNI academies have undergone an ‘army-isation’. In April 1999, as part of the Reform agenda, the

Indonesian National Police was separated from the Indonesian Armed Forces, and

ABRI acronym was changed back to TNI. Accordingly, AKABRI also became the

TNI Academy (Akademi TNI), and following from this step, a separation of the

Police Academy from the AKABRI occurred. The Police Academy (Akademi

Kepolisian, AKPOL) then considerably reformed its own educational paradigm that had long been ‘militarised’ under the AKABRI system. As a result, the initial basic training of the police cadets is no longer carried out at AKMIL in integrative training with other TNI service academies.

Having been confirmed to meet and pass the selection and screening processes, successful aspirants from each service are then dispatched to AKMIL to carry out integrative basic military training. This training takes twelve months and is divided into two stages. The very first stage, which proceeds in six months, is the so- called military basic training. It is a process of mental and physical tempering aimed at preparing the cadet to be a TNI soldier (or prajurit). The second stage, which is the follow up of the first, is integrative training set up for cadets to get them used to, and be mutually familiar with each other, and to nurture their camaraderie as the aspirants of future TNI’s leaders. Thus, this first year constitutes the crucial earliest stage in building ideological homogeneity, mental attitude as well as ‘identity’ of a

TNI soldier, done by

135

cleansing all ideologies that derive from family, school, and society which do not correlate with the soul and moral basic principle and the state’s orientation.72

To achieve this end, cadets are made a tabula rasa so that indoctrination programs can be held. In popular terminology that holds in the Indonesian military circle, at this military ‘formative’ stage they have to be nil-ified (literally to be zero- ed or emptied) to instil indoctrinations.73 Ideological indoctrination proceeds concurrently with military basic tactical-skill drills that rely very much on mental toughness and physical strength. Thus, the whole process enforces a control over the mind and physical body and is believed to become the ideal method to forging the

‘identity’ of the TNI soldier. As discussed earlier, the values that shape such an identity is the complex combination of ‘representation of the past’74 that revolves around 1945 and Javanese cultural elements derived from pre-colonial time which are inseparable from the ‘mythological world’ found in the Wayang story.75 The confluence of these virtues has been believed to shape the genuine TNI identity that suits Indonesia’s own culture and context well, and thus it is deemed necessary to be transferred to the younger generation of the TNI soldiers, particularly its officer corps.76

By those who regarded themselves the ‘1945 Generation’, the perceived mental attitude and identity were then articulated into heroic creeds, becoming the

‘breath’ of every TNI soldier. These creeds are enunciated in Soldier’s Oath (Sapta

Marga), Soldier’s Pledges (Sumpah Prajurit), and TNI Leadership Principles (Azas- azas Kepemimpinan TNI). Thus the entire indoctrination context centres on these

72 Paat, Sejarah dan Perkembangan, p. 80. 73 Interview 325-001 74 To borrow McGregor in History in Uniform, p. 10 75 See Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia. 76 See also, McGregor, pp. 117-9. 136 soldier creeds. During the basic training, and then carried on over the rest of the time in each service academy education, all cadets commit to memory every single word of these creeds. This is done by memorising them every single day. During this formative military training, for example, in every evening roll-call, one cadet is appointed to verbally say or exclaim Soldier’s Oath. The latter was first formulated by Bambang Supeno, an ex-PETA officer and a Javanese. It becomes the soul of

Indonesian military

(1) We are citizens of the Unitary State Republic Indonesia which is based on Pancasila

(2) We are patriots of Indonesia, supporters and defenders of the state ideology who are responsible and unyielding

(3) We are knights of Indonesia, who believe in the One God, and are defenders of honesty, truth and justice

(4) We, soldiers of the Indonesian Armed Forces, are the guardians of the Indonesian State and nation

(5) We are soldiers of the Indonesian Armed Forces, uphold discipline, obedience and loyalty to our leaders, and uphold the soldier’s honours

(6) We, soldiers of the Indonesian Armed Forces, uphold chivalry in our duties, and are always ready to serve the state and nation

(7) We, soldiers of the Indonesian Armed Forces, will keep the soldier’s pledge.77

The 1945 Generation themselves claimed that long before its formulation they had implemented all values instilled in this oath during the physical struggle to defend independence. With the patriotism and ‘knight-ship’ spirit and self-sacrifice, they felt they themselves had contributed so much to consolidate the TNI as the ‘only

77 Quote by slightly modified from Sebastian, Realpolitik Ideology, pp. 325-6. Emphasis added. See also McGregor, History in Uniform, pp. 124-5. 137 rightful possession of the Republic which is still intact’78 for the sake of upholding the Unitary State of the Republic Indonesia. After its independence, Indonesia had no longer undergone ‘physical’ imperialism. Accordingly, the younger generation of soldiers have no similar experiences as felt by their predecessor, the 1945

Generation.

However, such similar experiences along with their inherent spirits need to be transmitted to the younger generation so that they consistently feel themselves as custodians of these values.79 Thus the past experiences have to be virtually reconstructed into the entire officer education process in order to inculcate a similar feeling and perception of these values. Accordingly, military basic training has become an arena to this end. It then becomes the ‘battlefield’ to discover the meaning of ‘1945 struggle’ in the military context.

In this connection, physical-body privations80 subsequently become the most effective, simple and, by all means, efficient method to sustain psychological and mental effects in order to grasp the meaning of that ‘struggle’. At the same time, such a method promotes other benefits. Conformity to obedience can then be created by consistently controlling the physical-body and the mind, which over the course of time will result in uniformity of ‘cognitive schemata’ or outlook. Simultaneously, such physical privations also function in forging a physical attitude and strength all together.

In the mythological world found in the wayang or shadow play, the methods of that physical formation are illustrated in the well-known story of a mythological

78 Lieutenant General (ret’d) , General Sudirman: The Leader Who Finally Destroyed Colonialism in Indonesia (Translated by L. Krahlin et al.), Australian Defence Studies Centre, University College, University of New South Wales, Canberra, 1995, p. 165. 79 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 125. 80 Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekuasaan, p. 729. 138 figure, Gatotkaca, described as a knight to be tempered and forged in the so-called

Candradimuka crater.81 By virtue of such a myth, this integrative basic training is given a name Candradimuka. The training location itself where AKMIL is situated is located at the foot of Mt Tidar which symbolises an ascetical place of ‘meditative withdrawal for warriors’ in Javanese military tradition.82 Academy graduates regard

Mt Tidar’s valley as the Candradimuka crater or cauldron, a place to ‘cook’ cadets as aspirants to the military and even national leaders.83

More specifically, Candradimuka training seems to endow cadets with a very basic skill as an infantry-man since the Army to which the training refers to ‘is infantry based’.84 Instruction is imparted by both commissioned and non- commissioned officers with a specific qualification, at minimum, of military teacher or instructor. In this stage cadets wear military insignia or rank which is called

‘Cadet Private Candidate’ (Calon Prajurit Taruna, Capratar). Basic knowledge and skills that have to be mastered include: military marching arrangement, internal daily routines, garrison service, military salutation, military parade arrangement, as well as military discipline. Concurrent to this, they are trained to master basic military martial skills: various rifle and pistol techniques, shooting, grenade launching, field- mapping, individual manoeuvres such as an obstacle course, small-team manoeuvres, and bayonet fighting techniques.85

The training method largely emphasises learning by rote and drilling, combining daily lectures and training in the field. Entirely, the training methodology

81 Joewono et al. (eds.), Untuk Bangsaku dan Negeriku, p. 52. See also Butarbutar and Kusaeni, Tidar: Bhakti Tiada Akhir, AMN 1965, p. 22 82 Britton, Military Professionalism in Indonesia, p. 109. 83 Benny S Butarbutar and Akhmad Kusaeni, Tidar: Bakti Tiada Akhir. 40 Tahun Pengabdian AMN Angkatan ‘65, Ridma Foundation, Jakarta, 2005, p. 21. 84 M.P.F. Jones, Col. UK, Defence Attaché to Jakarta, Memo —The Armed Forces of Indonesia, FCO 24/1413 File Number FWD 10/4, December 1971. 85 The Indonesian Military Academy of 1960 and onwards. 139 is an actual implementation of the existing education philosophy, Tri Sakti Viratama.

It is clearly an ‘utopian’ principle that aspires to embrace three aspects — physical, mental and intellectual — at once, although in reality it is too complicated to attain.

This is reflected in the very rigid program and training schedule which in practice places emphasis on physical aspects.

No less rigid are the daily ‘rituals’ that begin from a morning wake up at

0500hrs until taps (bedtime) at 2200hrs. Cadets wear camouflage gear and carry the same equipment. Personal equipment-baggage that has to be carried and worn for each cadet is roughly 10 kilograms, but seems heavier to the wearer, mainly consisting of hardened plastic-helmet, old-fashioned weapon (rifle), full backpack filled with sand and hand-bag carrying instructional books of the day. Moving from place to place, they have to be in running-marching formation as well as singing or whistling in unison.86 With such a configuration, in a day they would travel no less than 5 km to go through the hilly roads around the Mt Tidar’s Chandradimuka

‘cauldron’.

As a soldier, more accurately an infantry-man novice, they have to demonstrate themselves to have high spirit, to speak firmly and loudly, to act and react quickly and aggressively. As this basic training aims to introduce ‘military characteristic’ that is accustomed to ‘violence’, any on-the-spot defiance of standard conduct would be penalised with physical punishments in various ways. In many respects, on-the- spot corrections would also hold similar treatment. The punishment might be in the

86 The lyrics of songs they sing is also part of indoctrination to electrify fighting and sacrificing spirits filled with the ‘1945 fighting spirit’ themes. Part of the lyric of one of the famous songs, for example: Tinggalkan ayah tinggalkan ibu, (Leave father, leave mother) Ijinkan kami pergi berjuang, (Allow us to go on fighting) Di bawah kibaran sang Merah Putih, (Under the waving of the Red White) Majulah ayo maju menyerbu, serbu! (Forward, let’s go attack, attack!) Tidak kembali pulang sebelum kita yang menang... (Never retreat, before we win)

140 form of a physical ‘standard’ order such as doing push-ups, crawling or tumbling, or both in combination, usually accompanied by ‘verbal abuse’. However, it is not rare that they also received physical harassment such as ‘face slapping’ or ‘body beating’ which sometimes ‘resulted in lips being cracked’.87

Although the type of physical punishment varies according to the punisher’s favour, generally the method employed is a combination of physical tiredness along with its painful consequence and mental distress. This method, which has long been believed to be the most effective one, has a chief aim to temper and to forge physical and mental strength. A testimony that can be regarded as representing a generation of academy-graduates is worth presenting here. ‘The hardest period [for cadets] had been one when attending basic military training ... in Mt Tidar’s valley. During that period [cadets] underwent a thorough hazing. They were short on relaxed time and a lot of constraints were imposed’.88

Their time is so divided and almost all of their energy is thoroughly used up to cope with physical and mental training. As a consequence, falling sleep becomes an efficient way to restore the energy discharged. It is done ubiquitously even for a few minutes, waiting for the next scheduled instructions or activities, and at the same time it functions to temporarily relieve physical and mental strains. Thus it is unsurprising, in the classrooms or training fields there is a ‘common scene’ where cadets are found sleeping. Accordingly, in-class lectures simply become a ‘rest period’ to them. When caught slumbered or drowsy, a cadet would be given a physical punishment that temporarily could wake him up. However, a renewed tiredness arising from that punishment generates the next drowsiness and so forth.

This is inevitably an immediate impact of the military training that simultaneously

87 Butarbutar and Kusaeni, Tidar: Bakti Tiada Akhir, p. 18. 88 Ibid. 141 combines three aspects — physical, mental and intellectual— all together. As we will see later, such a situation occurs not only in the first stage of basic military training carried out in AKMIL, but also throughout the academy years in all services.

In theory, cadets are supposed to have time for study, especially in the evening.

However, the time available was spent more preparing daily routines or special inspections for the following day than discussing or reviewing all the material taught that day. Therefore, such leisure time usually would be used in cleaning their personal gear or the dormitories, or performing religious rituals. Any spare time is spent trying to rest or recover in the barracks. Almost all cadets spend time for learning purposes only the evening before examination day. In this sense, learning is by rote. In preparation for an exam, they simply have to memorise all information or facts taught which are presented in the hand-out or notebook. The examination itself simply demands a recital of what they have memorised instantaneously before. In the ongoing program that is rigidly scheduled, they still have to receive out-scheduled programs, such as briefings (santiaji) given by their superiors or other TNI high- ranking officials. This is part of the indoctrination to inculcate mental attitude and pride as the ‘perfect Indonesian’.89

Thus, in reality, the characteristic of training allows no leisure time for intellectual contemplation for all materials taught.90 An emphasis is always given that they are military, soldier, and not ordinary students or any other sort of intellectuals and that the most important thing for military is mental attitude. They are conditioned to be tough to cope with any consistently changing circumstances, being able to manage time, to conform with obedience, and under extreme pressure,

89 Joewono et al. (eds.), Untuk Bangsaku dan Negeriku. 90 ‘Contemplation means self-retreating from every practical day of life and looking at matters thoroughly’. See Dhakidae, Cendekiawan dan Kekusasaan, p. 481. 142 to make reflex actions without wasting time to devote to intellectual analysis. Such pressure was deemed essential for military leaders. Here lies a very basic presumption that as a troop commander they are trained to make rapid response and decision under extreme stress demanding physical strength and allowing few alternatives.91 That is the training aimed for, in part to institutionalise the value of

‘unyielding’, or never surrender, found in Soldier’s Oath.

Ironically, given such a characteristic of training and program, for most cadets,

‘personal survival and security’ becomes the ultimate goal, which is simply to survive every single day. There is no choice but to comply with each instruction or order given from above in order to survive. Any defiance against an instruction would mean a physical punishment resulting in tiredness and pain. Thus, their task is simply to memorise and perform what they have been taught. Even when a cadet is asked to follow an order, he has to repeat exactly the words of that order before the giver. Those who feel discouraged would try to go AWOL (absent without leave), or undergo a mental breakdown, or at least request a withdrawal. However, although such a case is always likely to take place across generations92, its occurrence is actually quite low.

At the end of this Chandradimuka basic training, cadets carry out the

‘Commander for Life General Sudirman Pilgrimage’. Such a program was originally part of the New Order’s project to reconstruct the TNI history as a means to legitimate the military’s roles formulated in its dwifungsi concept. This training retraces Jenderal Sudirman’s guerrilla route during the 1945-1949 revolution. This pilgrimage has a particular function to reproduce the 1945 Generation’s experience

91 Butarbutar and Akhmad Kusaeni, Tidar: Bhakti Tiada Akhir, p. 18. 92 Joewono et al. (eds.), Untuk Bangsaku dan Negeriku, p. 18. See also Butarbutar and Akhmad Kusaeni, Tidar: Bhakti Tiada Akhir, p. 18. 143 in physical revolution period with a fundamental objective to internalise ideal

‘soldiership’ values defined by the Army.

As an integral part of the basic training curriculum, this training has a strategic significance. It is to inculcate a uniformity of historical consciousness into all services in the Indonesian military. This historical perception is to be found in the roles of the 1945 Generation as interpreted by the Army. In this context, the father of

TNI, General Sudirman, has been selected as the exemplar of those 1945 values themselves. In this way, the process of ‘army-isation’ for all services in the TNI has taken place by employing history in indoctrination infused in the earliest stage of officer education. This process also reminds us of similar tactics when the Army manipulated its own doctrine, the TUC, to be adapted into CADEK which was then declared as the whole Indonesian military doctrine in the New Order era.93

The pilgrimage walk that presents mental and physical challenges to the cadets also aims to inspire them to gain an understanding of the spiritual meanings revolving around Sudirman’s devotion and sacrifice. The values instilled promote commitment to devote and sacrifice for the sake of the nation and state, esprit de corps, ‘deference towards superiors’, and appreciation of unity between the military and the people. At the same time this training teaches cadets the mode of guerrilla warfare and the character of infantry-man at once. The ‘generic military values’ that have to be captured by the cadets, as closely observed by McGregor were the slogans on the spirit of nationalism quoted from Jenderal Sudirman’s phrases such as ‘Our

Army will never surrender to anyone who wishes to colonise or oppress us’, ‘Never surrender’, and ‘Follow all orders’.94

93 See previous chapter. 94 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 132-4. 144

Ironically, for most cadets the meaning of those spiritual slogans was not completely comprehended. Severe physical exhaustion resulting from this walk allowed little commitment to contemplate on all experiences that they had just undergone throughout it. For most cadets and even probably for the instructors, what seems to be more important is working with the program rather than achieving its ideals. This is because, like in all other pieces of training, their main goal is to survive each day. In short, completing the program seems to be given more priority rather than understanding its significance.

This basic military training which mobilises physical privation and mental pressure has been very effective in the indoctrination process. With a relatively short period of a program, only about four or six months, at the end of training cadets would have a unified character which at this point is indicated by their uniform physical attitude and mental framework. Officers from across generations of academy graduates would have similar impressions, if asked, on the implication of that military basic training. The following excerpt is one that can be regarded as representative of those impressions across academy graduates.

The outcome of that formative forging was extraordinary. The attitude and look of the capratar (cadet private candidates) in a 180 degree-turn, totally changed. They had been prepared to become a genuine [infantry] soldier. They are mentally and physically ready to serve at once as commander, father, and instructor to their subordinates afterwards. They regarded that training, which ran for about three months as the Candradimuka cauldron. 95

‘Totally changed’ mentioned above means that in their minds lives a uniform perspective, to borrow from a former cadet, that ‘a soldier is trained to kill or to be

95 Butarbutar and Kusaeni, Tidar: Bhakti Tiada Akhir, p. 21. Italic added. 145 killed’.96 In this way, a mental attitude is unconsciously present in their mindset that tends to be pragmatic especially in finding the easiest way to personal survival.97 As we will see later, ‘survival’ here also means having a successful career in the military. That training has also been particularly successful in generating their pride as Indonesian ‘perfect citizens’.98 It is not surprising, however, if such a training paradigm also contributes, to quote an academy graduate of 1984, in ‘developing and propagating authoritarian principles, even fascist ideas’.99 In part, the latter refers to fascist characteristics as described by Taufik Abdullah previously.100

The mental framework resulted from that basic training has become an important foundation to the subsequent education carried out in each service. Before they carry on education in each service they will have to complete the post-basic training, or the second part of the whole integrative education which takes a year.

Thus, practically all service academy cadets will carry on their first year training in

AKMIL Magelang at the same place as the Candradimuka training. To the non-

AKMIL cadets, this means that they are exposed to a longer ‘army-isation’ process.

All existing memorial books by academy graduates present chronicles of good and bad impressions during their basic training. They were very proud of all past experiences and the camaraderie nurtured among them. They always regarded such precious moments as an important factor that had made their ‘devotion to the nation’ and their military career successful. In this way, that education paradigm which has been in existence over a half century is deemed to be worth preserving.

96 Ibid., p. 18. 97 Interview 322-001 98 Joewono et al. (eds.), Untuk Bangsaku dan Negeriku, p. 46. 99 Paat, Sejarah dan Perkembangan, p. 85. 100 See note 65. 146

In its history, this so-called ‘academy integrative training’ or ‘education’ had undergone several alterations. Initially, this training aimed to create a unified ideology in officer corps as part of the steps to consolidating the armed forces in the early New Order to support the regime. From 1970 to 1985, this training was held for the period of a year in AKMIL, Magelang. The 6th Indonesian president, Susilo

Bambang Yudhoyono, was one who graduated from AKMIL in 1973 and who underwent such a training program. As the ideological consolidation of the armed forces was growing steadily and more stable, from 1986 the training period was shortened to five months.101 In 2007 this integrative training period was again amended to a year.

A colonel, himself a senior lecturer at the TNI academy, argued that such a policy relied not on a professional approach. Rather it emphasised more the cultural aspects of training. According to him, this is because the genuine issue lay not in how long they had been living in togetherness. He said that

The education at this point puts a culture as a main emphasis. Take for example, integrative [education] which was six months in AKMIL, why did it then become a year? What is supposed to be the so-called ‘integrative’ is living in togetherness, it is cultural wisdom. It is not based on professional criteria! Criteria on integration do not have to rely on residing together in order to avoid future clash in workplace. In order to prevent future clashes, they then have to be staying in togetherness... Even in from the same one family people could still fight each other, so it is irrelevant.... Such a cultural [approach] should be thrown out... Being conditioned in the same place, receiving relatively the same knowledge, was presumed to be safer or better [to avoid any future clashes].

101 In practice, it did not always take five months exactly. It could be shorter or longer, depending on the curricular needs. 147

... For the time being such a policy is still shadowed by culture, so it is not by future. Culture is more dominant. The actual instance has been that so-called integration. [Only because] the president [said] ‘in my time it was one year integrative education so that no clashes occurred’, therefore [for the TNI leaders] the interpretation was to change from four month to a year. A year later, it was already changed. So it is not scientific, just to alter it from 4 months to become a year. Was it based on research? No!102

In an absolute sense, of course, there had been a ‘review’ before such a policy was created. However, such a ‘review’ was made simply to serve the superior’s desire, without taking into account an accurate formulation based on precise methodology.103 Apparently, the decision-making mode has been based largely on the boss’ guidance or superiors’ directives. A feudal nuance of paternalistic culture present in the catchphrase ‘as long as the father is pleased’ emerged. Subordinates or

‘children’ have to show their rapid response or readiness towards the father’s directives or desires without necessarily critically thinking about what really matters based on a precise problem formulation. As we will see later, such a nuance is consistently inculcated during the cadet life. Such an atmosphere seems to exist in all organisational levels within the TNI. In any other situations or issues, most policies were not rarely made in ‘spontaneous’ manner.104 Thus, in fact the policy was not based on accurate formulation or extensive research. Instead, it is more to demonstrate a preparedness or rapid responsiveness of the subordinates, so that the product could be made immediately available to superiors.

Such a situation can be immediately found in the TNI academy. Education simply becomes ‘routines’ in which any attempts to improve its quality were often

102 Interview 223-001A 103 Interview 223-001A 104 Interview 408-001 148 carried out without a precise problem-formulation. As regards the latter, an officer, himself a lecturer as well as staff in a TNI service academy argued that ‘the way we think is like “Jolted Awake Plan” [‘Rencana Bangun Tidur’]..., things do not count on research first’.105 Regarding the integrative TNI academy’s education along with its operational curriculum he argued that ‘that energy for a year is drained up [here].

Even, there are recurrences of similar subject matters given, like in here ...’.106 His assessment seems to be based on the fact that such an integrative program was simply a continuance of the basic training so that there was not any significant difference from the latter. In this way, the physical and mental baggage remains the same, except that they are now given leisure time on the weekend to go out, and have some recreation.

During this integrative training, instead of being given subject matters associated with each service, a substantial portion of instructional hours is allocated for learning the English language. However, the program arrangement for English language training was again not based on adequate research with accurate problem identification. Instead, it was made through reactive policy-making. The poor capability of TNI officers in using English in general was just regarded quantitatively as a lack of instructional hours when they were in an academy. For this reason, a policy was made on an assumption that officers should learn English as early and much as possible in their early education, that is, in the academy. Hence, teaching hours of the English language were then increased significantly.107 Such a policy clearly ignores important learning preconditions since the cadets are in fact both physically and psychologically not prepared to learn. It seems that working with the

105 Interview 325-001 106 Interview 325-001 107 Interview 325-001 149 program and budget is more important than the learning process itself. Predictably, the outcome of such a policy was very disappointing. This was indicated by poor results in tests of English as a foreign language.108

In such an unfavourable environment for knowledge construction process, almost all subject matters become merely a stack of facts that must be learned ‘by rote’ as opposed to ‘by critical thinking’. This situation is exacerbated by the anti- intellectual common wisdom that they are there not to be educated intellectually, but are trained to ‘become leaders of character’ 109 that need more physical and mental attributes than other things. Thus, in this way, a character of anti-intellectualism has been deeply implanted in cadets’ mental framework since their initial education. As we will see later, this pattern holds throughout service academies. Having completed integrative education in AKMIL, the non-Army cadets will continue their training in their own service academy whilst the Army cadets will remain in the same place until they complete the entire program.

If during the basic training they underwent the most basic soldiership indoctrination, then in the service academy they would continue to preserve the same, whilst at the same time they would also receive new traditions and customs established in each academy. Over the course of time, they might also create other new traditions and customs in the cadet corps. Although those traditions and customs vary from one academy to another, the basic philosophy of education remains the same.

108 Interview 303-001 109 Interview 318-001 150

Life in Cadet Corps: Traditions

Although it claims itself as a tertiary or higher education institution, the TNI academy is not one in a conventional sense. It is not a civilian college that encourages its students to develop their intellectual curiosity or to sharpen their skills to think critically for the benefit of ‘intellectual maturity’. According to Drost, the latter is referred to as one’s ability to ‘think critically and to articulate himself in such a manner so that a good quality of communication can be developed’.110

However, the goal does not in itself end at that point, but it is far-reaching.

Theoretically, it can be said that civilian colleges aim to prepare their students to become ‘independent’ individuals who are capable of applying the knowledge acquired and creating ‘opportunities’ in order to cope with all future uncertainties, at least in the workplace context. Thus, emphasis is more on the ‘opportunities’ and

‘uncertainties’ that they have to deal with. In this way, college students are encouraged to be independent, capable of thinking critically, and creative because they themselves have to face their own future that challenges them with both

‘opportunities’ and ‘uncertainties’.

The TNI academy is completely different. The emphasis is placed heavily on the stability of the legacy of the past and the strength of tradition, and not on the future challenges fraught with uncertainty. Unlike civilian college students, for cadets all things seem to have been organised and made available to them. The academy not only charges them nothing, but it also gives a monthly stipend to cover their personal expenses. Their career path in later life in the service seems conceivable. The A-Z rules, stipulated in ‘The Regulation of Cadet Life’ which governs all their rights and obligations, have already been set up. Simultaneously, as

110 Drost, Sekolah: Mengajar atau Mendidik?, p. 110. 151 stipulated in one of its sections, such rules aim to shape a uniform ‘character’ (or more accurately behaviour) that is particularly inculcated to bequeath the values of the 1945 Generation to the ‘new owners’, the cadets.111 Undoubtedly, those values are ones defined by the Army.

Hence, there seems no ‘uncertain’ future that they have to confront by developing their intellectual and creative powers. Practically, the latter should be acquired by sharpening their skill in critical and logical thinking in part during their education in the academy. Thus, for them the priority is to conserve the already prevalent traditions which were created long ago and which by all accounts are not allowed, at whatever time, to come to an end. Therefore, such traditions, along with their customs seem to be worth preserving.

The beliefs and values inculcated by those traditions then merge into a mantra it is a ‘sacred incantation that is supposed to possess a mystical power’.112

The mantra has been ‘the TNI unity’ or, in TNI circles, it is the so-called ‘soliditas

TNI’ (literally, ‘TNI solidity’). It is a legacy of the past which was once said by ‘the father’ of the TNI itself, General Sudirman in Yogyakarta on 1 August, 1949, that

‘…[t]he only rightful possession of the Republic which is still intact, despite facing all kinds of problems and changes, is the Armed Forces of the Republic of

Indonesia’.113 This mantra has become the ‘certain’ future itself that could not be bargained for any reason at any cost. Thus, to the future generations of officers (the cadets), a uniformed pattern of mental attitude or outlook has to be implanted to uphold and preserve that unity or solidity. Institutionalisation of those beliefs and

111 TNI Academy, The Regulation of the TNI Cadet Life, issued by the TNI Academy Commander Decree, KEP/18/IV/2008, 23 April 2008, Chapter II Section 4 ‘Cadet’s Code of Honour’. Copy of this document is in the author’s possession. 112 Clinton Fernandes, Reluctant Indonesians. Australian, Indonesia, and the future of West Papua, p. 5. Slight modification added. 113 Tjokropranolo, General Sudirman, p. 165. 152 values demands an intensive indoctrination process carried out through the creation and maintenance of traditions in cadet life.

The character development for the sake of ‘solidity’ is then performed by forging the physical and mental attitude, imposing the conformity to an obedience, and instilling the fighting spirit believed to stem from the 1945 Generation. This becomes a basic assumption that justifies the claim that the academy is a place of

‘character’ building, and not a civilian college that educates intellectuals. The

Indonesian Air Force Academy (AAU) also establishes its educational paradigm on the same foundation as asserted by a senior officer that ‘in character conditioning, especially in the military, it is about how solidity and loyalty are in a positive sense of togetherness. This could be seen [that] the military will be solid up to the post- service life ... different from one in civilian colleges that do not recognise ... let’s say... toughness and rapid response’.114 This claim seems to be based on a misconception of the significance of a college or university itself. Ironically, as we shall see later, the so-called character building of future air force leaders simply derails itself from the demands insisted by the air power characteristic. In short, as it is in AAL (Academy of the Navy), the officer character development at AAU has been excessively entrapped in the educational paradigm that has undergone ‘army- isation’ for decades.

Solidity assumes an uninterrupted circle in the relationships of hierarchy, leadership and esprit de corps. In this circle there converges a deference toward superiors, honour and pride, and allegiance and adherence to the group. They have to learn to put aside individual interests. To effectively achieve all this, control over the body and mind is consistently applied. The way of moving, thinking, and

114 Interview 510-001 153 communicating are all determined by strict regulations and supervised intensively as part of mental attitude conditioning. The indoctrination process then takes the most effective short cut employing physical privation a combination of pain and tiredness that gives multiple benefits, of which the most important is the internalisation of values and beliefs mandated by the soldiership creeds: Soldier’s

Oath, Soldier’s Pledge, TNI Leadership Principles, TNI’s Eight Compulsories as well as TNI Cadet’s Code of Honour. At the same time, the benefits that can be gained include uniformity, ‘subduedness’, a top-down relationship, mutually beneficial protection, fraternity, and long term patron-clientelism which are conditioned through the invention and preservation of tradition in the cadet life.

They are conditioned or ‘forged’ hard under austerity presumed to be necessary for the hardships of later life in the services. This is made by shaping their physical strength and mental attitude, so they are capable of productive reflex actions and rapid responses under severe pressure. At AAU, for example, such a basic assumption is often associated with their likely future tasks as air crew having a high stress workplace environment which does not tolerate any mistake. This is because in the sky any minuscule error could end in a fatality. Thus for this reason, they are trained to get along with the rigorous discipline imposed to comply with the entirety of regulations and norms, traditions, and customs. In this context, discipline implies punishment. Any violation against a standard of attitude entailed by tradition and custom would be given punishment, resulting in physical tiredness and pain. This paradigm is simply a continuation of what they have undergone earlier in basic military training. However, the situation is even harder than before.

During their basic training, the cadets’ physical and mental pressure had come mainly from instructors or guardians, who were significantly outnumbered by

154 the cadets. However, in the service academies they have to cope with a

‘conditioning’ program carried out especially by their senior cadets in ratios that enable close supervision, done one-on-one, in a 24-hour and 7-day mode. Senior cadets have an ‘obligatory duty to perform the conditionings, namely, to guide and direct the junior cadets by providing briefing, examples, rewards, corrections and punishment’. On the other side, the junior cadets are obliged ‘to conform and highly respect any order and advice instructed by their upperclass men’, ‘to sincerely respect all superiors’, and ‘to copy and follow ... positive matters set by the superiors/senior cadets’.115 However, a significant part of cadet life extends beyond the limits described by such formal regulations.

Certainly, the senior cadets have previously experienced similar treatment by their predecessors. Their role in supervising and controlling the juniors is ‘more dominant’ than that of guardian officers. In this way, the junior cadets seem to be

‘more fearful’ of their upperclass men than their guardian officers. According to a cadet commander, such relationships ‘shape a character’ as had been once exemplified by President Yudhoyono who was still willing to ‘raise his hand’ for saluting his seniors by calling ‘Bang’ (literally ‘older brother’) to General (ret’d)

Wiranto’s cohorts.116 Thus, in this way, the ‘solidity’ across officer generations can be steadily maintained through the preservation of traditions inherited during academy life.

Without mutual understanding or recognition, solidity would simply become untenable. When entering the cadet corps life, the very first order of business a junior cadet must attend to is recognising every single senior cadet. To do this, they are

115 Indonesian Air Force Academy, Special Regulation of the Air Force Cadet, issued by the Superintendent of the Air Force Academy Decree, KEP/57/V/2008, 27 May 2008, Chapter II. Copy of this document is in the author’s possession. 116 Interview 318-001 155 ordered to memorise the seniors’ attributes, namely their full name, area of origin and academic major for which the number of those upperclass men is roughly doubled. The junior cadets’ efforts in memorising those features will be checked randomly according to the seniors’ whim at any time. Failure to correctly mention all of these features would be seen as having no care or being ‘apathetic’ towards the senior or superior. Subsequent occurrences of this mistake would result in punishment. Thus, the tradition of recognising seniors has become indoctrinated, and serves to inculcate the feeling of deference and care towards superiors.

At the same time, such a burden becomes even greater when they also have to be aware of the position of their seniors in the entire cadet corps structural hierarchy instead of just knowing their general attributes. Hierarchy governs the lives of the cadets as part of their leadership training. It is a bureaucracy to which the cadets subordinate themselves. The hierarchy inside the cadet corps parallels that of its parent, that is, the ‘operational command’ in the form of the cadet corps wing. The similar also holds true for AKMIL, which is organised in regimental structure, or

AAL, which is organised in flotilla structure. This structure is further divided into sub-corresponding units, namely squadrons or and so forth. The entire cadet corps structure forms a hierarchical pyramid. Thus, when a junior needs to deal with a senior in a situation where a group of senior cadets are gathered, he should first seek permission from the cadet of the highest rank in that group before he could meet the relevant senior.

Not only is it the upperclass men that the junior cadets have to know well but also the officials of the institution. They are required to memorise important officials in the general TNI or service organisation. Concurrently, there are also masses of information that have to be recorded in their heads and have to be disseminated

156 among them. At AAU, for example, they are piled down with briefings each day to provide them with useless details of information in the aviation world. This is largely done in the dining hall. Each piece of information has to be known by all junior cadets. They will be checked randomly to ensure that specific information is widely known. At once, such a random check functions to verify whether an order given by senior cadets is actually executed. Further to this situation is the senior cadets’ practice of hazing, which is quite often, imposed upon their juniors for no logical reason or relevant purpose.117 Certainly, this has an ultimate goal to instil reflexive obedience and simultaneously to establish superior authority. This was shown, for example, in an order given to count the number of tiles along the way to their quarters. The junior cadets of course have no choice but to accept this kind of order.

For junior cadets, the dining hall has been the place of most discomfort.

Besides being a place to facilitate briefings and to confirm information given on earlier days, the dining table has become an arena to sow and conserve Javanese feudal culture. During a meal at the dining table, the juniors have to consistently attend to the seniors’ needs, such as pouring the water into their glass, among other things. This deed is done in part to show care, deference, obedience, and loyalty towards the seniors even without having been asked first to do so. Thus, the junior cadets (as subordinates) have to mindfully and respectfully anticipate and recognise the seniors’ (or superiors’) needs even without having those desires voiced.

However, this is only a beginning. In a slightly different context, such a situation would hold throughout the later realities of the service life that appear in the culture of ‘as long as the father is pleased’.

117 Joewono et al. (eds.), Untuk Bangsaku dan Negeriku, p. 23. 157

This occurs not only at the dining table, but constantly for junior cadets.

When a senior is seen doing something, the juniors should offer a hand to him before being asked to avoid being accused of having no care or respect. Thus, the comfort of the superiors has to be of constant concern. If the senior is offended, it would mean anger, which results in punishment and in turn create discomfort for the junior. In this way, not only is the sense of respect always preserved, but the feudal culture found in traditional patrimonial systems seems to also be well preserved as part of the indoctrination. Thus, the essence of a culture of ‘as long as the father (superior) is pleased’ persists throughout. In turn, such a social communication pattern leaves no sphere for the culture of ‘critical discourse or thinking’ to grow. Because the

‘doctrine is loyalty, [and] esprit de corps’, then in their mental framework the principle rests that ‘the seniors can do no wrong’ so that for every single matter the subordinates have to ‘respectfully obtain the superiors’ directives’. Accordingly, they are ‘lacking in initiative’.118

In communicating, the juniors have to speak firmly but politely which means not to teach nor to check or challenge the senior. In other word, towards the superiors, the subordinates are required to use the krama — the high level of

Javanese language. On the contrary, the superior could, in his own favour, use the ngoko form, or low level of , to communicate with his subordinates. In such an unequal social situation, the senior cadets could call their lowerclass men ‘monkey’.119 However, such an expression accounts for a tradition invented to forge the mental strength which in turn, generates fraternity and esprit de corps among them with the ultimate outcome of establishing the so-called ‘solidity’

(soliditas).

118 Interview 315-001 119 Joewono et al. (eds.), Untuk Bangsaku dan Negeriku, p. 19. 158

In later life, any irritation raised in a superior would likely have negative consequences for a cadet’s further career. Thus, subordinates have to look after the superior’s feelings. In offering advice for example, subordinates are not allowed to

‘teach’ or even ‘instruct’ their superior. Rather, they position themselves to receive any directive or guidance from above. Such a scene could be found, for example, in drafting a formal letter addressed to higher officials elsewhere. The official at the sender institution has to ensure that its content is written politely and appropriately and is not in a ‘teaching or instructing’ mode. As a consequence, drafting a formal letter like this involves wasting time, producing multiple drafts in an extended editing process just to make sure that it is nice to read.120 This in turn makes any decision-making so time-consuming, not only because of any substance, but also because of personal feelings and sensitivities of the recipient.

Such a tradition is so well institutionalised in its role of shaping deference, more accurately subduedness, towards superiors or leaders. It is so massively entrenched that such indoctrination is capable of generating a widespread sense that the junior cadets’ ‘future fate’ will depend on their senior’s favour. Such wisdom is invented through peculiar social relations implanted in years during the cadet life, so that allegiance to the group, namely in terms of mutually protecting, securing, or even taking benefit from this sort of relation can be made in longevity across generations.121 A lecturer at AKMIL described a common scene from everyday life where the junior cadets are more fearful towards their senior cadets than their officer instructors.

120 Confidential communication with a colonel. 121 Interview 303-001 159

They were seated. I and a non-academy graduate officer were passing through. Suddenly they greeted ‘good afternoon’. But surprisingly, that greeting was not directed at my friend who was a captain. Rather, that ‘good afternoon’ greeting was for their senior cadet [who coincidently walked around nearby]. Could you imagine how odd this was? ... Accordingly, they were punished by my friend ... they were ordered to tumble down etc. With that punishment the matter was finished. But, it would be completely different if the trouble was made with their senior cadets. When asked why they did so ... they said that ‘the nature of our destiny depends on the senior...’ That’s it, the prevailing doctrine.122

In fact, all these traditions function as a hazing for all cadets since they are of junior status. Of course, these boys actually hate this sort of tradition. However, it is just a matter of time before they reproduce and practice the same manners towards the new junior cadets and so forth. Thus, each generation of military academy graduates will have common history of life experiences as a cadet. Those similar experiences bind across generations as a ‘big’ or ‘extended’ family. By this way, they create ‘a ground for [a] shared outlook, a sense of collective destiny, that unites actors, even those who have never met ...’. Thus, the term ‘generation’ here can be best understood in the sense of the sociological notion that ‘implies more than being born at approximately the same time’.123 Rather, it is

a form of collective identity growing out of a common set of experiences, which gives rise to ‘an identity of responses, a certain affinity in the way in which all move with and are formed by their common experiences’.124

122 Interview 322-001 123 Ron Eyerman, Between Culture and Politics: Intellectuals in Modern Society, Polity Press, Cambridge, 1994, p. 70. Cited in Yudi Latif, Indonesian Muslim Intelligentsia and Power, Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, Singapore, 2008, p. 33. 124 Latif, Indonesian Muslim Intelligentsia, p. 33. 160

The patrimonial relationship or patron-clientelism created from feeling they are part of one ‘big family’ during cadet life, in turn, provides various benefits for the long run. This relationship could eventually lead to pleasant circumstances for any future dealings between them. Nonetheless, such affairs might constitute unethical practices. This calls to mind the cadet admission process mentioned earlier. It is conceivable accordingly if the significant proportion of successful aspirants come from the military families. Given such benefits, it seems that such traditions need to be maintained consistently throughout generations. A lecturer at the Military

Academy depicted this phenomenon.

Their habit: silence is golden! Silence is secured and so forth. It might be like that! ... With such an education [tradition] their loyalty is presumably high. They have just to wait. These kids simply stay silent waiting for their turn. When the time comes they would practice the same. Next, ‘I would enjoy the same. It’s just a matter of time’.

This could become a source of corruption, collusion and nepotism … when they are already in command. Committing corruption? Secured! Willing to entrust their kids [here]? Yes sir! With such a system [and benefit] therefore they are reluctant to change!125

Thus, such indoctrination successfully creates conformity by obedience, subduedness and loyalty resulting in the commitment to a ‘tight-lipped movement’ regarding any kind of unethical affairs. The latter can be found for example in terms of setting punishment. Although the ‘Regulation for Cadet Life’ formally bans the use of non-standard physical harassment, such practices remain extant.126 The juniors

(subordinates) are discouraged from reporting any physical transgression done to

125 Interview 322-001 126 TNI Academy, The Regulation of the TNI Cadet Life, Article 5 point (g) on prohibition of violence. 161 them because such a deed is seen to be disloyal, disobedient, ‘weak’ or vulnerable to surrender. The latter reminds us of a catchphrase ‘never surrender’ popularised by

General Sudirman during the guerrilla struggle. However, the genuine issue is that any disclosure of unethical conduct would be discrediting the transgressor and might cost him a legal or institutional punishment and he would possibly face possible dismissal. Discrediting superiors or even colleagues from the same cohort for wrongdoings or other unethical affairs would be regarded as a taboo that should be avoided in cadet life. A case of physical harassment was reported, resulting in the transgressor’s dismissal from the academy. However, the victim was not a junior cadet, but a civilian steward serving in the dining hall who dared to report that case to the institution.127 Yet, when such a conduct was done communally, it became difficult to pursue an investigation. Given the solid ‘tight-lipped’ attitude (well- known among cadets as Gerakan Tutup Mulut, or GTM, literally ‘tight-lipped movement’), it is very difficult to reveal any communal breach of moral ethics. They are trapped by indoctrination mandated by Soldier’s Oath, that is, ‘to uphold firmly the military secrecy’, but one which is in the ‘ethical boundaries’ interpreted according to their own desires. By this way, a culture of mutual protection of those involved in unethical conduct is well preserved. This has become a kind of epitome of impunity culture beset in the Indonesian military as will be discussed in Chapter

Six.

127 On an occasion during my posting at the Directorate of Education of the Air Force Academy from 2001 to 2005, a civilian young man, a former cadet, came to my office requesting an academic standing transcript of his. I asked one of my civilian staff who was a mathematics lecturer who had taught him in her class about who this man was. She told me that he was a former cadet who was dismissed from the academy for committing torture against a steward at the cadet dining hall. Later in 2009, I had a conversation with an Indonesian Air Force officer, an Air Force Academy graduate of 2000, who was doing a Masters degree at the Capability and Technology Management College (CTMC) in the University of New South Wales at Australian Defence Force Academy (UNSW@ADFA), Canberra. This officer confirmed that incident. He told me that this man was his former roommate in the academy’s dormitory when the incident happened. This former cadet should have graduated in 2000 had he not committed such an unfavourable act. 162

In fact, not all senior cadets use physical harassment in punishing their juniors.

However, for the vast majority, this method has been the most instant and effective means to control the mind and body for the purpose of the indoctrination process itself. An officer recently graduated from the academy revealed his astonishment about the difficulty of breaking the chain of unfavourable behaviour. According to his observation, ‘for some, they envisage a future [for not using physical violence], but for the rest they were merely to imitate that which had been in existence before’.128

Ironically, sometimes their guardian officers could not prevent themselves from perpetuating the tradition. The majority of guardian officers are former cadets who had themselves undergone the same tradition. In fact, some cadets were known for not using violent means in ‘conditioning’ the junior cadets. However, there was a situation where the senior cadets did commit misconduct and the guardian officers often administered physical harassment to punish those boys. As revealed by that young officer, ‘when we did wrong ... the guardians also beat us ... as a result [for us] the best means [to punish the junior] was to do the same’. According to him, ‘there were indeed good guardians, but they were also the rare ones. Most continued the bad tradition’.129

To some extent, particularly those at the rank of captain, becoming a guardian was quite often not their choice. Rather, it was only an appointment as part of personnel mobilisation or a ‘tour of duty’. At this level, in fact, they tend to prefer to be posted to the operational units which are considered to be more productive than being assigned in education or training institutions. Thus, to them becoming a lecturer or guardian officer at a training institution also signifies a ‘career

128 Interview 329-001 129 Interview 329-001 163 punishment’. Such an appointment simply constitutes mental pressure because all aspects of cadet life in the academy become their responsibility 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. As a consequence, they easily become pragmatic. The most important thing is to ensure that every aspect of cadet life runs in a secure and orderly manner, and that all the programs proceed according to plan and can be measured quantitatively. In this way, they hope to obtain good appraisals in performing such duties leading to a better promotion elsewhere, preferably outside the educational institution. However, for the sake of upholding an order, in practice they often behave as senior cadets.

Every guardian officer has his own typical service experiences depending largely on the units from which they came. The characteristics of units also vary according to each unit’s functions and tasks. Interestingly however, despite this variation, there is a uniform outlook that is brought into the academy and is then implanted in the cadets’ mindsets. It is a conventional outlook that says ‘in the post- academy life as an officer, one’s mental and physical attitude comes before intellectual curiosity’. Ironically, this common wisdom prevails at the Air Force

Academy which essentially demands more intellectual curiosity, critical thinking as well as sharp and logical analysis. However, according to a new lieutenant, there were frequent briefings from the guardians signifying the reality in service. He paraphrased a particular briefing that said ‘no need to be smart, if [you’re] smart [you have] no attitude ... attitude comes first, smart later’.130 This catchphrase parallels the formal philosophy of the TNI Academy itself that adheres to a principle of Dwi

Warna Purwa Cendikia Wusana which fundamentally means ‘mental attitude firstly, intellectual curiosity secondly’.

130 Interview 329-001 164

For cadets, those traditions and customs constitute a ‘hidden curriculum’.

However, this hidden curriculum is so time-consuming and such a drain on their energy that they spend little time on the formal curriculum. This is because it is already deemed to have contributed significantly in shaping the character of

‘gallantry’ which is fundamental for TNI identity building. Moreover, this is clearly an immediate consequence of the education principles, the Tri Sakti Viratama, that simultaneously aim to embrace three aspects of the TNI officer’s character building: physical, mental and intellectual. In this way, physical and mental aspects become too complicated to assess and measure, but they clearly consume much time and energy at the expense of other features which are truly essential, but marginalised — those of the intellectual aspect. As we shall see later, such an educational paradigm has even led to an anti-intellectual character.

The formal daily schedule is rigidly set up for the cadet life. Although each service academy has its own program, it generally involves a similar program density set up centrally under the guidance of the TNI academy headquarters. Following is the typical daily schedule for air force cadets, which is similar to schedules at other service academies.

Time Activity 04:30 Wake up 05:00 First call for daily morning physical formation 06:15 Breakfast 06:45 Morning roll call 07:30 Classes 13:45 Afternoon roll call 12:00 Lunch 13:00 Classes training/mass athletic 15:00 Afternoon roll call 15:30 Military physical training, athletics 18:30 Dinner 19:00 Independent individual study 21:30 Evening roll call 22:00 Bedtime

165

For most cadets, despite undergoing tertiary ‘academy’ education, the ultimate challenge is not one of academic work for the purpose of intellectual curiosity, but one of physical and mental pressures. Besides the guardian officers, senior or upperclass cadets are responsible for the conduct of that so-called hidden curriculum which appears in the form of traditions and customs. Certainly, the latter emphasises physical and mental pressure. This frequently takes the form of punishment as a result of the junior cadets’ wrongdoings. In every communal activity, the juniors have to arrive earlier at the venue than their upperclass men in order to show deference. Thus, it makes their burden even greater. In intervals between the formal schedule, they also have to carry out numerous intramurals, namely marching band, ceremonial parades and rehearsals, or other internal duties.

Each service academy has its own marching-band unit or ‘drum-band’. For these boys, this marching band is often a symbol of pride and skilfulness which can be displayed and performed for society at large. Quite often, due to a specific request or invitation, they are required to perform marching band shows at the expense of learning or lecturing hours. But, ironically, to these boys such a performance may be more pleasant than any other academic pursuits. This is because it excites their pride and is an effective means of promoting the academy. The latter has a specific aim to attract the curiosity of young men, especially senior high school students, for seeking admission to the TNI academy.131

Predictably, their time and energy are consumed in the effort of mastering their marching-band instruments. Moreover, the maintenance of skill level in orchestrating this unit entails a consistent set of massive rehearsals that are clearly energy-draining and time-consuming. In this way, during the academy life a

131 Interview 329-001 166 substantial proportion of their time would be devoted to regular marching band rehearsals. The senior cadets have to spend their time training their lowerclass men.

And vice versa, the juniors have to devote their time to catch up to the skill level of their seniors as quickly as possible, and any mistakes or inaccuracies in such rehearsals would, of course, result in the trainee receiving a physical punishment.

Thus, the entire program character simply encourages them to take a risk- averse, conformist approach. Like in the basic training, for most cadets the ultimate goal is just to survive each day. In theory they time for study, but not in practice. The rigorous program structure prevents them from devoting time and energy to intellectual interests, unlike their counterparts at the Australian Defence Force

Academy (ADFA) in Canberra. Except in preparing for exams, for which time is specifically allocated, each piece of free time tends to be used to relieve physical and mental strain and save energy for the next program.

Physical exhaustion and mental stress vary according to the cadet’s level or rank. The higher their rank, the less they undergo physical and mental privations.

Any piece of free time, if it exists, would commonly be used for fraternising in the barracks or taking an extra nap where possible. A recent AAU graduate, who was fortunate enough to be appointed for an exchange visit to ADFA, described his impressions of coming into contact with his counterparts at ADFA:

What I saw in Canberra [ADFA] was that they did have spare time, and more emphasis ... was put on the self-inclination to learn. But here, due to such a program ... from the time we wake up until we get back to bed ... all tired us out ... it simply made me just want to be relaxed ... consequently the leisure time that should be used for study was used for having fun etc...132

132 Interview 329-001 167

That picture holds true not only at AAU, but also at the other two service TNI academies, AKMIL and AAL. As discussed earlier, such a situation has taken place since the integrative basic training in AKMIL. The uniformity in the educational

‘paradigm’, or more accurately the ‘ideology’, has resulted in the same process being used although each service might expect different challenges in its own future that mean it should be prepared with its own appropriate process. This paradigmatic uniformity means that the research in this dissertation which is about the Air Force

Academy (AAU) can be applied to the other service academies also.

Therefore, the Indonesian Air Force Academy will be used as the main unit of analysis. In addition, among the TNI service academies, as a consequence of

‘army-isation’, the Air Force Academy constitutes one suffering ‘schizophrenic’ character at the extreme that produces chronic tensions in its educational process.

However, to gain better comprehension of the entire academy education, examination of other service academies, based on the data obtained from interviews and publications, remains to be done.

In AAU, one tension lies in its curriculum system. Since the late 1980s, it had used a system adopted from civilian college, namely Bandung Institute of

Technology, which employed a credit system in its curriculum. However, this endeavour was half-hearted, being inherently incompatible with the principles of Tri

Sakti Viratama that are applied uniformly in the TNI academy system, which assumes that ‘cadets do not have adequate time to study’. For cadets, that kind of system is ‘simply a description of the names of subject matters or lectures that are given a numerical mark’ without fully understanding their significance.133 Another tension is inherently contained in its education philosophy. This is because whilst

133 Paat, Sejarah dan Perkembangan, p. 95. 168

AAU should orientate itself towards the ‘future’, it has inevitably to preserve the values of the ‘past’.

On the one hand, the content of the curriculum apparently emphasises the intellectual aspect since the academic coursework or program shares the largest portion of the cadet’s day which also implies the major part of budget expenditure.

Thus, theoretically the curriculum is designed to facilitate intellectual pursuits aimed to encourage critical, analytical and innovative thinking. The latter is the indispensable condition for managing the Air Force as envisaged by air power theorists.

According to Mason for example, in a military service, and especially in the air force, ‘someone has to become the intellectual master of the ever-expanding, increasingly complex technology; someone has to analyse, synthesise, plan, and recommend; someone has to identify and coolly interpret hostile capabilities; someone has to have the foresight, imagination, and courage to suggest solutions to problems that may be ten years away or more…’. All of these demand powers of innovation and intellectual analysis associated with ‘independence of thought, individuality, imagination, and initiative’.134

Parallel to the development of modern air warfare which moves towards battle-space management in the third dimension, uninhabited aircraft, cruise missiles and cyberwar, a tactical skill-based military leadership style seems to be no longer relevant.135 Clearly, air force leaders are now confronted by new rapid development that urges a comprehensive understanding of the character of war itself. In short, the

134 R.A. Mason, ‘Innovation and the Military Mind’, in Richard I. Lester and A. Glenn Morton (eds.), Concepts For Air Force Leadership (4th edn.), Air University Press, Maxwell Air Force Base, Alabama, 2001 (1983), pp. 209-12, viewed 2 April 2012, available at . 135 For more comprehensive discussion on such issues, see Shaun Clark (ed.), Testing the Limits, Air Power Studies Centre, Canberra, 1998. 169 need for such a character in leadership is apparent because ‘any air force which does not keep its doctrine ahead of its equipment and its vision far into the future could only delude the nation into a false sense of security’.136 Certainly, the raison d’être of AAU has to be understood within this context.

On the other hand, however, character development at AAU has to refer to uniformed military traditions and values derived from the past which were found in guerrilla models as formulated by the Army. Hence, the educational process faces a severe tension between preparing for the future and preserving the past imposed values. In this way, AAU suffers a ‘schizophrenic’ split between an imperative need to serve as ‘pre-war school’, and at the same time, to function as

‘post-war school’.137 Interestingly, such a tension was also recognised by limited circles at AKMIL from which the old beliefs derive and have been preserved and adhered to for decades.138

The Cadet as a Student

Up to this point, the peculiarity of the academy has been presented from the cadet’s life perspective. However, the portrait is not yet complete. Any attempt to understand the cadets as students has to examine cautiously the whole ‘atmosphere’ and ‘ecosystem’ of the institution along with its misconceptions, if not fallacies. In the institution’s ecosystem, there prevails the most important principle which is consistently upheld with pride that the TNI (military) academy aims to educate or produce TNI ‘officers’, not ‘scholars’ unlike civilian colleges. In this way, the TNI

136 Mason, ‘Innovation and the Military Mind’, p. 212. 137 To borrow Major General Muir S. Fairchild. Cited in Mark R. Grandstaff, ‘To Make the Men for the Next Crisis: The USAF Air War College and the Education of Senior Military Leaders, 1945-93, in Gregory C. Kennedy and Keith Neilson (eds.), Military Education: Past, Present, and Future, Praeger, Westport, 2002, pp. 130-48, p.130-3. 138 Interview 315-001, 325-001 170 academy becomes in itself the school for cadres. In the TNI academy circle, due to a misconception about the role of a university, the word ‘officer’ is constantly contrasted with that of ‘scholar.’139

Unlike civilian colleges, the TNI recruits the cadets through a complex admission system to meet its organisational needs. TNI selects its personnel as cadres who will ‘man’ (a popular term substituting word of ‘operate’) as well as lead its organisational structure. As a war-fighting organisation, TNI requires a specific character of its soldiers, especially in its officer corps. For the TNI, the officer character demands a unified ideology, expertise in military related areas and social responsibility to their nation state, as prescribed precisely in Huntington’s pillars on military professionalism. To achieve this end, therefore TNI officer cadres must be trained in a specific atmosphere and ecosystem. This becomes the ultimate raison d’être of the TNI academy.140

The academy’s main task is simply to ‘make them become’ a ‘product’.141 In other words, all efforts in educating are mobilised to ‘cast’ or ‘cook’ the recruits as cadres or ‘raw materials’ of the TNI future leaders. In this sense, the education ecosystem then functions as a mechanistic ‘kitchen’ that cooks or processes raw materials in a flavour of its customer’s taste — the TNI’s organisational needs. This means that blame would be allocated to the ‘chefs’ or process apparatuses if a ‘taste variation’ occurred. This is because those raw materials are presumed to have been

‘properly’ selected through a complex process.142

It is inevitable that such an ambience remains in the cadets’ awareness. Thus, in their mental framework there develops an assumption that ‘the organisation needs

139 Interview 303-001B 140 Interview 303-001A 141 Interview 303-001A 142 Interview 303-001A 171 them’. In this way, cadets become more of an object rather than a subject of education process. For the institution part, their existence simply becomes a sort of routine project to the fulfilment of budget expenditure. As we shall see later, ironically such a circumstance appears not to be an anomaly, but it even puts the cadets in a comfortable milieu. As for the cadets, it reduces their fear of failing, or not passing, because everything has been done for them. They just need to obey all the rules. This condition is exacerbated by a misleading yardstick that measures the success of the institution according to a quantitative measure of its graduates.

Ironically, this fallacy comes mostly from the institution’s officials in leadership.143

These assumptions have considerable implications for the educational process. The program is designed in such a manner that it ‘provides cadets no likelihood of failure;’ educational issues are reduced to merely tactical-instructional matters.144 In this way, the learning process revolves around the lecturer or instructor.

When it was found that many cadets failed a certain exam, ‘therefore an instruction was given [‘from above’] to investigate the exam difficulty level, and a report was then made to name the lecturers who were allegedly unable to set appropriate test items … Thus [the blame] seemed to be placed on the lecturers’.145

As we will see later, mechanistic and quantitative approaches dominate most of problem identification. As suggested by an officer, the educational process sticks to a pragmatic paradigm, conserving what has been well established, as well as being easy and pleasant to pursue and with immediate visible outcome.146

Although the academy constantly claims itself as a character-building school that ‘casts’ officer cadres for the TNI, because of which it distinguishes itself from

143 Interview 303-001A 144 Interview 303-001B 145 Interview 303-001B 146 Interview 225-001 172 any other education institution, the content of its academic curriculum resembles that of civilian colleges or universities in general. Even for the institution which nominates itself as the ‘military academy’, the military-related subjects in AKMIL only share 23% of the total credits contained. A similar situation also prevails in the two other TNI academies. In both AAU and AAL, military-related materials account for less than 10%. For the rest, the service academy’s curriculum imitates, and is designed to function, as an institute of technology, although there are no elective subject matters available to channel the specific interest of its cadets. The program offered can be divided into major schools that could be found in general institute of technology: mechanical engineering, electrical engineering, civil engineering, and industrial management engineering.147

For the institution, it seems that working with the program and budget is more important than the learning process itself. Theoretically, the prescribed curriculum will take up the largest part of total time allocated to complete the entire training. This also means that most of the resources are mobilised to support the attainment of goals prescribed in the academic curriculum. In other words, the academic curriculum would logically consume most of the cadet’s time and energy for doing intellectual pursuits. But in reality this is not the case. The ‘character development’ — as often contrasted with ‘intellectual development’— which manifests in traditions, extends beyond the limits described by the formal curriculum.

It seems to overwhelm the intellectual aspect and becomes a hidden curriculum that simply takes up most of cadets’ time and energy.148

The entire environment in turn creates a ‘conventional’ wisdom that the cadets just have ‘no time to study’ outside what is already scheduled especially

147 Except for the majoring ‘Marine Corps’ in the Navy Academy. 148 Interview 325-001, 315-001, 329-001 173 during the official working hours. For the rest, leisure time available would be mostly spent on the character development-related program which constitutes the cadet’s hidden curriculum. The subsequent institutional ‘judgment’ is that cadets have no leisure time to read books. Based on this assumption, a ‘compulsory reading’ program was then created to stimulate cadets’ reading habits.

This program is carried out in the academy library under the supervision of appointed officers. They are free to choose reading materials and are required to produce a sort of synopsis or summary. However, rather than stimulating their reading, such a program quite often evolved into leisure time in order to take an extra nap. As a result, the library just becomes a comfortable ‘rest room’ to relieve physical exhaustion and restoring energy for the next (physical) activities. However, for the institution, the program’s functioning seems to be more important than its relevance. As long as efforts are practical and justifiable according to the budget allocated, all is well. In fact, reading habits remain low. However, this picture is not yet complete.

There is one basic underlying assumption upon which the operation of the curriculum rests. It is that cadets simply have no time for intellectual pursuits. This assumption shapes how teaching materials are made for cadets. According to an officer, this is based on ‘an assumption [that they have] no time, hence the thin books were made ... this is because the target is simple, merely to make those materials easy

[to digest]’.149 Given this reason, for each single subject matter they are provided with a handout, or diktat150, which contains various summaries of relevant (but not always coherently set) materials to be included and taught. In this way, the content of

149 Interview 325-001. To every cadet, a handout for each of subject matter is given to them. 150 The term ‘diktat’ refers to a phrase of ‘dictated curriculum’ which means that all materials taught are not allowed to derail from what is predetermined in the handout. 174 a diktat is not always easy to learn without having a lecturer. In other words, they could only effectively learn in the classroom. For the purpose of presentation uniformity, the diktat is set up according to the military writing format so that it quite often appears inconsistent with what is in the textbook. Thus, it would be difficult for one to capture the whole idea of materials given. Accordingly, this discourages cadets’ interest in independent study.

While the handouts or diktats offer no incentive to an independent learning process, the piecemeal nature of leisure time also prevents cadets from devoting their time to reading textbooks. Ironically, for the vast majority of lecturers, these circumstances give them a personal benefit, but also an academic disadvantage. They need not work hard to master relevant textbooks, since there is no incentive to do so.151 For the vast majority of lecturers (as educators), the regular main tasks throughout the semester are merely to pass on materials set up in the handouts. To do this they have to find the easiest way to present them so that the materials are easy to digest and feasible to test. This has to be carried out during teaching hours and especially in classrooms. Unlike in civilian colleges, the relative lack of leisure time has made any sorts of homework aimed at sharpening their power of analysis almost impossible to assign. Thus they cannot be expected to devote their energy to academic work.

According to a senior lecturer, by and large this situation is a logical consequence of the absence of precise problem formulation relating to the implementation of education principle i.e. the Tri Sakti Viratama. According to this officer, the elaboration of that principle has been ‘too normative’ leading to confusion. Even, ‘which direction the education would be brought to’ remains

151 Interview 223-001A 175 questionable,152 except for the short-term pragmatic goals. In fact, the three aspects formulated in that principle are mutually overlaying and tend to dominate each other, and in many ways, could not be measured properly. In practice, the intellectual aspect had always been easy to undervalue since it gives no immediate visible outcomes. Thus, paradoxically, the existing educational process simply makes the participants ill-prepared to learn.

At AAU, the first year constitutes a critical phase for which cadets must take and absorb the basic fundamental materials, such as mathematics and physics that share relatively high credits. The mastery of these subjects is mandatory before they advance on to the next harder subjects across the semester. However, it is here the paradox lies. For all cadets, the first year constitutes the hardest one in which they undergo severe hazing for the inculcation of traditions and customs. The immediate impact of such conditions is predictable. For them, the classroom just becomes a transitory place for having an extra nap to relieve their physical tiredness and mental tension and restore energy for their next activities. The process of relieving tension and restoring stamina interrupts their senses both sight and hearing, given that the most effective way is just to doze, eventually falling asleep. In this way, in-class lectures simply become nice rest time.

During in-class lectures, cadets have to fight to overcome severe drowsiness at the same time they try to absorb the materials being taught. Similarly, the lecturer has to ensure his pupils stay awake while at the same time conveying teaching contents. Any random inspection carried out by academy officials or senior duty officers that coincidently finds cadets slumbering would allocate the blame firstly to the lecturer who is deemed responsible for class participation.

152 Interview 302-002 176

Such a situation clearly causes frustration for the lecturers, because most of their time and energy would be wasted on affecting the class participation, ensuring their pupils keep their eyes open.153 A senior lecturer in the Air Force Academy was motivated to write a book given a title of Dasar-dasar Guru Serdadu (Fundamentals of the Military Teacher).154 This book describes how military teachers use creative and innovative endeavours to overcome those acute problems. Drowsiness has been the Academy’s chronic problem that has not been confronted through its existence.

As elaborated in this book, the teacher or instructor is viewed as the centre of the learning process. Lecturers and instructional equipments are deemed to be responsible for class participation. Even when a classroom is equipped with surveillance cameras to create cadets’ feeling of being constantly observed, the problem remains unresolved.155 This description shows that, in fact, the learning process rarely took place in a conducive situation. As students, cadets are not allowed to learn. This is because the problem is not correctly identified.156

Cadets are ill-prepared to develop knowledge. At the same time, the nature of the program does not leave sufficient time to allow the process of knowledge construction to take place. The cadets have no cognitive experiences necessary for the knowledge construction process. Such experiences should have been provided in the form of academic homework and classwork in order to sharpen their analysis skills. However, this is difficult to maintain due to the rigorous program, which constitutes the hidden curriculum. Even when after-class assignments could be allotted to them, this simply encourages other fraud, namely the dishonesty that takes

153 Interview 305-002 154 Tatar Bonar Silitonga, Dasar-dasar Guru Serdadu: Praksis dan Eksis Menjadi Pengajar Tentara, Aditya Media and Akademi Angkatan Udara, Yogyakarta, 2008. 155 Interview 315-001, 323-001 156 Interview 315-001 177 the form of plagiarism.157 This is because, for most cadets, the most crucial thing is just to hand in the task assigned on time to avoid a punishment, without taking quality into account. They tend to ignore the process, because to them a comprehensive and proper understanding about education is rarely given, except one that can be immediately seen in a tangible sense, such as orderliness, obedience, loyalty, as well as physical and mental attitudes.158

At the same time, their cognitive schemata or previous (old) knowledge construction were already shaped by ‘the way of thinking’ entrenched since their formative basic training. It has been so ingrained in their mindset that they are here trained not to be intellectual, but to be men of character.159 Thus, integrative basic military training at AKMIL has become a cornerstone for their cognitive schema formation. When education aims at developing officers who have the character of the

‘1945 fighting spirit’, the function of formal knowledge (education) is deemed marginal. Even formal education that is required to develop an understanding of the character of war itself, which clearly relates to their character development, is given a low priority. An officer lecturer at AKMIL even expressed his astonishment at the military academy training paradigm. According to this officer, cadets were given shallow understanding on war. ‘The war threat context put in their head is that the enemy is men. Given the enemy is men, then what is developed is expertise in how to paralyse men ... whereas the enemy could now be a culture’. In their cognitive schema, the prevalent old knowledge structure about professional military is one that

157 Interview 319-002 158 Interview 305-002, 329-001 159 Interview 318-001, 510-001 178 is proficient in the practicalities ‘to use weapons’; ‘in shooting expertise’, and

‘martial arts’, ‘without necessarily being capable of thinking analytically’.160

The educational process does not enable the construction of new knowledge or insight because the ultimate target is to ‘just memorise’. In this way, ‘they know much, [but] understand little’.161 Thus, in AKMIL there were many teaching materials that were wasteful,162 although presenting those materials had a relevance to the concept for which the Army had consistently maintained it — the territorial conditioning concept. However, the existing process prevents cadets from devoting their time to comprehending in-depth any defence-related issues, let alone those related to the territorial conditioning concept. As a consequence, the big picture about the territorial conditioning concept was never fully captured by the cadets; their insight in this field is poor. This is because during their education, knowledge is viewed as a heap of temporary information that has no mutually logical inter- connection and that is obtained by rote learning.

The poor understanding of territorial conditioning has simply made fresh academy graduates reluctant to seek any territorial assignments or postings.

According to a lecturer, ‘In their opinion, territorial posting was deemed less prestigious. At the levels of they would be more pleased to be assigned to battalions’. In their mind lies a misconception that territorial tasks or postings for ‘first’ officers (or subalterns) are a dumping place for ‘those who are no longer needed in battalions’. According to this respondent, this conventional wisdom is a logical consequence of the educational process that does not provide a sphere for the development of critical thinking.

160 Interview 323-001 161 Interview 323-001 162 Interview 315-001 179

Consequently, they fear thinking critically, ‘afraid also to analyse, afraid of wrongdoing ... This habit becomes a ‘pattern of behaviour’: ... that importantly I am secured, organised and loyal’. In this way, ‘they simply move like robots [and] this would kill the character of initiative.163 At the same time, they have to face a curriculum that has the characteristics of an institute of technology, demanding an ability to think logically and critically.

The cognitive structure of cadets is prepared more to accommodate

‘knowledge’ as heaps of information or facts that are gained by rote learning than to enlarge their mental horizon. In the Air Force Academy, a senior lecturer said that

‘the cadets’ analysis is so dependent on us [lecturers], they just follow us, without other development, almost none. There have been very few independently driven cadets, while the remainder are completely dependent.’ Their thinking skills failed to develop.164 Ironically, the ignorance of the institution’s leaders or officials regarding education and the poor knowledge about air power itself has exacerbated the education atmosphere. The briefings that were frequently given were that ‘for military it does not necessarily need to understand in depth, but it is enough to know little in many things ... if we want to understand much about few things then you just go to schooling outside [not here]’. Although this common view has long been in existence, when it was stated by the academy leaders or officials it has a great impact for the entire academy’s ecosystem. For cadets, this kind of briefing simply undermines their motivation in learning which is already low. On the instructors or lecturers’ part, such a briefing creates ‘apathetic’ attitude towards all matters relating to learning processes.165

163 Interview 323-001 164 Interview 302-002 165 Interview 305-002 180

The old knowledge structure that was indicated by the rare academic capability also constitutes a factor obstructing the process of new knowledge construction. As mentioned earlier, more than 50 per cent of the air cadet aspirants’ academic quality did not, in fact, meet the lowest minimum standard of academic competency. Partly, this was due to the disparity in the quality of secondary schools in Indonesia. TNI recruits aspirants from across the archipelago to accommodate representation of the entire state territory. However, in general, the gap in educational quality that exists between urban and rural locations remains an important issue.166

To compensate for the academic disparity, the new cadets were provided with a kind of academic bridging course. Predictably, the institution used mechanistic and reductionist methods based on a quantitative approach. Before they advanced to work out the curriculum, these boys underwent bridging courses based on an assumption that this program could standardise their academic foundation, narrowing the academic gap from high school. The program was given for physics and mathematics. However, this kind of program would have the similar fate as others since there was no favourable condition available for study. This situation was complicated by a common fallacy regarding the academic aspect on the part of cadets. Prior to their arrival, most of them never expected and imagined that they would face subject matters involving physics and mathematics or other materials that were deemed irrelevant to ‘military’ training.167 In this way, formal academic education would simply be seen as an obstacle to their training.

Thus, in the earlier years at the academy, they failed to absorb and master the fundamental subject matters necessary for the subsequent curriculum syllabus. In

166 Darmaningtyas, Pendidikan Rusak-rusakan, LKiS, Yogyakarta, 2005, p. 166. 167 Interview 223-001A 181 other words, their ‘knowledge construction’ faced acute obstacles. They failed to gain real understanding of knowledge of any kind. As a result, the learning process becomes a routine merely to fulfil the budget and program. A similar condition prevails for the following academy years as they climb to a higher level as senior cadets. Although at the senior level the physical and mental pressures are significantly reduced, their motivation for independent study remains low for two reasons. First, this is because the academic aspect is constantly assumed to be marginal, except for a very few highly motivated cadets. Second, since their earlier years cadets’ learning interest and habits were constrained from development. For most cadets, the highest priority was to ‘be looking [good] in the commander’s eyes’.

They felt that the organisation needed them and had recruited them and that given this, if they were dismissed then the state would ‘suffer losses’ because it had already spent too many resources.168

Knowledge as Temporary Information

Cadets tend to be pragmatic. They are enthusiastic if materials taught are deemed to have real relevance and be applicable for their future assignment as an air force officer. It would be easy for instructors with a military background and having a university degree as well as working experiences obtained from operational units to draw cadets’ attention and interest towards the materials given. Instructors with such backgrounds would be able to give the relevant context to the materials being taught.

However, this was limited generally to practical-technical or managerial fields. For instructors in the social and humanity field, efforts in exciting cadets’ curiosity frequently created frustration.

168 Interview 305-002 182

At AKMIL, the formal sources used in teaching the history of the TNI struggle are materials from the Armed Forces (TNI) History Centre. Although in the post-New Order era there had been numerous books that looked at the military’s role throughout Indonesian history and were written liberally in a democratic climate in various circles, and are available in the academy library, cadets are never encouraged to read history books other than the formal ones prescribed by the curriculum. This is because the aim of teaching history in itself constitutes indoctrination. Reading outside the formal version is not advised because ‘cadets might have not yet been able to digest such works’. For them, what is contained in the handout is deemed adequate since they have no time to read books.169

Surprisingly, in the chapter ‘National Period of Struggle’ of the cadet handout, the achievement criterion of learning this chapter is that ‘cadets could explain it [i.e. the history of the national movement] in a shallow manner’.170

However, whatever the aim or scope they simply do not care about it because the ultimate target for them is just to obtain a passing grade mark. Any assignment after class hours aimed at developing their skills in critical reading, writing and thinking, for example to do a short academic essay on history, just creates another ethical problem such as plagiarism.171 A similar situation prevails at AAU.

In this way, learning history simply becomes routines to work out the teaching program and budget as prescribed by formal curriculum. On the cadet part, the ultimate target is simple: merely passing the exam. For the lecturers, the crucial issue seems to be that the subject has been taught and that cadets could memorise and

169 Interview 319-002 170 Akademi Militer, Naskah Departemen tentang Sejarah Perjuangan Bangsa untuk Taruna Tingkat II, AKMIL 07-A1-D0227, Akademi Militer, Magelang, 2008, p. ii. Copy of this document is in the author’s possession. 171 Interview 319-002 183 recite the material for their exam. The exam on history was taken from the lists already available in the handout which they had been taught and discussed before.

There were two types of questions. One type was multiple choice while another was a short essay, entailing a brief explanation or description of certain historical events.172 The exam is drawn more to test their ability to memorise historical information or facts than to use their critical judgment. The questions usually tested them about historical dates, actors, places and chronology of past events. With such learning habits on history, obviously without paying critical contemplation or communication to the past, it seems mostly impossible to fully capture the entire context of Indonesian national history.

Thus, the entire educational process is reduced to the production of instant knowledge or information. As a consequence, for most cadets, learning also becomes something that occurs immediately before the exam days. To ensure that cadets could answer the questions, before the exam day, instructors give a description of the likely questions to be tested. In this way, the cadets would save time by only studying on the questions that were likely to appear. A similar situation seems to prevail in all

TNI service academies. As regard this tradition on giving the ‘mock’ question, a senior lecturer at AKMIL, admitted that

Here, there are ‘mock’ [questions]. That is a really wrong practice. But, when the cadets got bad marks, the blame would be allocated to the instructors. We have this policy based on the wrong [problem] identification... as a result the policy we made is wrong ... Our basic reason is that these cadets could not even do anything easy, so what if they are given anything difficult ... There is

172 An original sample of exam is held by the author. 184

something wrong with the education system ... a system that does not motivate them to learn.173

An air force second lieutenant freshly graduated from the academy revealed that with such tactics ‘even if we never learned for months ... [as long as] we listened and memorised the ‘mock’ [questions], of course, yes we could pass’.174 For these boys, the most important target is a Grade Point Average of 2.0 (of possible maximum 4.0) and the fulfilment of all other requirements, and ‘that is safe’. Thus their target is minimalist. Academic excellence would never be part of their interests.

According to this lieutenant, those who actually had a constant motivation to learn were less then 10%. ‘The remainder’ would prefer to take a short cut by waiting for

‘mock’ questions given immediately before the exam days, so that they did not need to learn all materials taught. Rather, for this group it was enough to only focus on the possible questions that might appear on exam day. Thus there was no need to learn much and in-depth, because ‘later after the exam [we will soon] forget it’ and with such tactics ‘we will become a second lieutenant as well’. They felt that everything was being done to get them through the academic process.

For those who completely fail to meet minimum passing standards, academy regulations allow them to have a remedial exam, which is usually a means to boost, if not to manipulate, cadets’ marks. A colonel who served more than 20 years in the academy admitted that

there was a class where one cadet there, got, say, a poor mark, and that needed a remedy. I was thinking how was it possible that poor learning during a semester can be remedied within two or three days? It seemed impossible ... In order to avoid pressure I let another instructor give the

173 Interview 315-001 174 Interview 329-001 185

remedial test, I handed it off. [The result] increased to one click but ‘that other instructor was not in, say, professional condition’, that was it ...Finally, that instructor himself told me that the result was actually poor. But because he was under ‘pressure’ ... of course no explicit or direct forcing pressure given [on to him]... But the atmosphere had already shaped such a situation... It was yes illogical ... for the failure of the entire semester ... it suddenly changed in two three days, it was impossible ... It means that ... as if after a remedial exam [one had to get passed].175

Just like a boomerang, cadets’ failure would, in turn, return to their instructors. This colonel revealed that ‘the only conclusion then ... is just one ... having been paid to teach ... why [they, instructors] failed to teach ... it was then deemed that the instruction was useless. The instructors would be then cornered on that point’.176 Predictably, this situation might encourage teaching staff to take pragmatic approaches at the expense of ethical conduct. Most of them would simply conform to the institution officials’ will, namely ones from departments or their superiors; this was opted for simply for the sake of avoiding losing the instructional hours for the following semester because teaching hours also means wellbeing.

From this pragmatic outlook develops an apathetic attitude; they feel themselves that the institution appreciates them little. As a consequence, they are

‘reluctant to get tired’. This apathetical feeling seems to be conducive to unethical conduct such as that in the case of the remedial examination aforementioned. They, instructors, ‘might have given marks even without assessing the actual results’.177

This cynical assertion was more an expression of frustration than genuine testimony.

175 Interview 223-001A 176 Interview 223-001A 177 Interview 305-002 186

Pragmatic Character of the Academy

The integration of the Indonesian armed forces academy under a single command at the beginning of New Order created a uniform educational process for all service academies. The above description prevails not only in the Air Force

Academy (AAU), but also in the other two service academies, in the army and the navy.178 A senior lecturer at AKMIL admitted a similar case in a cadet’s remedial exam that in turn also resulted in unethical conduct.

I had a student that was really dull. He got a mark of 7 out of maximum possible 100. The lecturer was from ... [a local university]. There was a regulation that for a sergeant [second year cadet] there were only two chances to take a remedial exam. It had been done twice but he’d still got a dead mark [not a pass]. Despite this, an order was given to do the remedy again ... and again. That meant I was asked to pass him, didn’t it? I dictated the answers for him ... finally he passed. 179

In the Air Force Academy, the pervasive institutional common wisdom is that the existing mechanism ‘provides no chance for cadets to fail’. ‘Instructors who made many cadets fail were themselves considered to have failed ... Such an emphasis was frequently stated in many forums, after which at that time, instructors got [them] all passed’.180 This atmosphere has imprisoned the mental framework of the instructors. At the same time, the atmosphere gives the cadets the impression that they need not fear academic failure.

For most instructors, such an atmosphere creates other forms of risk-averse, pragmatic behaviour. This symptom could be found in the quality of exam questions.

178 Concerning the Navy Academy (AAL), a navy officer who conducted a study of the Navy Academy described a similar situation to that which was occurring in the other two service academies and asserted that ‘nobody cares’ about education. Interview 504-001 179 Interview 315-001 180 Interview 303-001B 187

Lecturers or instructors should take the disparity in cadets’ academic quality into account in making exam questions. Logically, their academic quality should have a positive correlation with their exam result. In other words, one could expect that the level of academic failure should be considerably high given that the vast majority of them were academically poor and that an environment conducive to intensive study was largely absent. However, since the institutional success is measured quantitatively, a tendency of 5% rate of failure has created an institutional panic.181

Thus, every instructor has to take this situation into account when setting exam questions.

In this way, examinations are not to verify their ability to acquire or construct a new knowledge. For most cadets, every single exam problem has to be answerable according to the way in which they had been taught before. A conventional wisdom applies that, as mentioned earlier, these boys ‘could not even do anything easy, so what if they are given anything difficult ...’182

Thus in the existing system they simply become passive learners, or even objects of the education process. In this sense, knowledge has to be fed to them by the instructors. ‘The description ... of them [is just like] tabula rasa ... which actually should not be of their age’.183 Predictably, such an atmosphere has immediate impact on the instructors since the quality of instructors depends largely on the dedication and quality of the cadets.

181 ‘Evaluation of Cadet Entrants and Curriculum of the Air Force Academy’, attached in the Letter of the Superintendent of Indonesian Air Force Academy to the Chief of Staff of the Air Force, No. B/1460-14/05/01A/AAU, 30 December 2004. 182 Interview 315-001 183 Interview 225-001. Emphasis added. 188

For most instructors, the education atmosphere provides little incentives and challenges to explore further and in-depth the material they teach.184 The absence of such challenges or incentives in turn undermines their intellectual curiosity to explore new knowledge beyond what the cadets need. Like cadets, for most instructors, the learning process simply becomes a mere routine, reduced to mechanistic tasks. A senior lecturer admitted that instructors’ motivation to enlarge their mental horizons depends on ‘an individual’s drive’ because ‘there are no organisational demands’, nor from the students either.185 The institution itself even has no ‘quality control’ for its instructors, making what they teach unable to be evaluated or observed.186

This situation parallels the recruitment and career management of instructors, which runs without requirements of competency as qualified academics. According to a colonel, a senior lecturer at AAU, ‘[the human resources] sent here ... is not benchmarked professionally as instructors ... This must be admitted whether we like it or not’. The recruitment process of instructors here is completely different to that in civilian colleges or universities. In civilian colleges an academic is required to have research activities in which an academic competence is mandatory. But, in general TNI education institutions, and particularly in the Academy, such a demand is simply absent. ‘Here, such a standard is absent. Who arrives could become academic instructor ... s/he just performs the tasks perfunctorily. S/he operates not [in professional context] as academic instructors. As a consequence, [s/he] contributes little to the TNI professionalisation’.187

184 Interview 223-001A 185 Interview 223-001A 186 Interview 302-002 187 Interview 223-001A 189

Apart from the absence of criteria, the characteristic of its organisation does not enable the academy to adopt one that prevails in civilian colleges. As a consequence of the air force career management system, all officers posted in the academy would have double functions, both as an instructor and administrator. As a military organisation, the academy is subject to a centralised personnel mobilisation policy. Of all officers posted in the Academy, more than 99% are in transitory appointments. The remainder, usually due to individuals’ ‘preference’, prefer to stay longer or ‘permanently’ because of some practical reasons, such as spending their remaining service life to wait for retirement given that no further promotion could be expected in other posts. For civilian staff, posting in the Academy could be even longer.

Most officers who come to the Academy spend three to six years in service there. In this way, they are expected to have a real sense of relevance of the subject matters they might teach. However, this was not always the case. The story of their previous postings told to cadets could even damage their interest in learning.

Briefings that were frequently given to cadets was that in later life as an officer, mental attitude comes before intellectual curiosity and that career success would largely be determined by non-intellectual factors such as good relations both vertically and horizontally. In such relations, mental attitude or loyalty had been more important than honest and open communication based on clear logical thinking.

Ironically, such briefings were frequently given especially by academy graduate instructors.188

For most officers, becoming an instructor is only half of their duty. The other half is to perform administrative functions. It automatically makes them the

188 Interview 329-001 190 academy’s bureaucrats.189 Administrative trivia frequently became more time- consuming than any other teaching tasks. Any disruption of the administrative chain could potentially impede the entire institutional routines. This means that the administrative-work outcome is more visible than one relating to educational-work which is usually measured and observed only in terms of cadets’ final exam outcome. In this way, performance or achievement as an administrator is immediately more observable than that of instructors or lecturers. As a consequence, administrative works are given high priority.

Such a picture could be found in all service academies. At AKMIL, a senior lecturer undertaking part-time postgraduate study in a local university, grumbled about a certain ceremonial function. ‘When we were doing part time [postgraduate] study and at the same time there was a letter ordering us to attend a ceremonial parade which we were actually unable to do, the institution was angry accordingly.

Finally, there was even another circular letter [flyer] issued that was counter- productive. That letter said that those assigned at the Academy had to perform the main duty ... if not ... the study permit would be cancelled ... Yes, this was counter- productive.’190

Like cadets, the high density of routines and incidental programs means that leisure time for most instructor or staff is in short supply. As bureaucrats their leisure time is piecemeal in nature and scattered between daily routines. This character of leisure time in turn undermines their curiosity to enlarge and deepen their knowledge or mental horizon beyond what is demanded by the formal syllabus, which the cadets themselves do not even care about.

189 Silitonga, Dasar-dasar Guru Serdadu, pp. 115-8. 190 Interview 322-001 191

The available educational facilities were also rarely used for the pursuit of academic excellence. Ironically, most instructors and cadets ‘might not even have any idea about the function of the facilities available here’.191 The condition of the academy library, that should symbolise the ‘power of literacy’, is sufficient to justify such a testimony. Beside its meagre collections, the poor management of the library did not allow visitors to browse easily. Lending circulation was considerably low, reflected in the number of visits.192

The academy ecosystem is a tiny window to view the character of its graduates since the majority of its officials come from this very alma mater. In other words, the institution itself reflects the character of its product. The academy’s top leadership circle from which policies emerge are always staffed by its alumni. In this top circle lies the office of superintendent, vice-superintendent and directors. Almost all the important positions at the lower circle are also occupied by academy graduates, namely heads of department. Thus, the entire policy inherently reflects the power of thinking of their maker.

It should be kept in mind that the academy institutional offices are transitory in nature. Although there is no explicit rule that those who hold important posts in the academy should be its graduates, personnel are posted as instructors on that basis.

It is assumed that only officers from the academy are able to fully comprehend the detail and complexity of the academy’s educational process because they themselves underwent similar experiences in the past.193 Thus, by such an assumption, those who lead the academy would be expected to ‘understand’ the cadets’ situation. This is particularly apparent in the case of cadet commanders. Any appointment of non-

191 Interview 305-002 192 Interview 223-001A 193 Interview 303-001A 192 academy graduates could undermine leadership effectiveness. This is because any

‘idealistic’ policy made by non-alumni commanders is frequently deemed to be violating the ‘traditions’ that had been long established. As occurred in AKMIL, due to an unpopular idealistic attitude, a cadet battalion commander who was incidentally a non-academy graduate received inadequate appreciation from the institution.194

Successive officials tend to enshrine the existing stable system and paradigm.

A colonel and senior lecturer admitted that the academy leaders ‘varied’ from time to time, but they ‘emerged from a similar context, and their policies were predictable.’

Although occasionally there were officials who had the courage to reform and improve education standards, they never received the support of the higher leaders at the headquarters.195

Immediately visible and quantitatively measurable changes such as renovating or constructing physical facilities and procuring hardware and equipment were made, but they contributed little in enhancing the quality of education.196 With such short-term pragmatic visions, according to a colonel, ‘the educating mission was finally unattainable’, and what frequently happened was simply ‘worried visions’ of their career. ‘There were officials who felt that if they didn’t get the cadets passed, although in fact the latter should not get passed, than it became a threat to their future career’.197

Another indication that ‘the [character-] educating mission was finally unattainable’ was reflected in the cognitive development of participants. A symptom of ‘character paralysis’ appears in another facet: the eroding moral ethics.198 Such a

194 Interview 322-001 195 Interview 223-001A 196 Interview 322-001, 305-002 197 Interview 223-001A, 322-001 198 Interview 223-001A, 305-002 193 symptom is noticeable in cadets’ behaviour that tends to seek personal survival. For them, to be ‘good looking before the commanders’ eye’ seems to be a priority. Thus, the habit of doing the right thing comes not from ‘inner consciousness’, but from a

‘fear of being punished’. There is a tendency to escape from responsibility and be tempted easily to commit fraud for personal survival when a critical situation confronts them.199

This portrait seems to prevail not only in AAU, but also in other service academies, and even at all levels of the TNI education. Such a situation, according to a navy colonel who once conducted research in the Navy Academy (AAL), is the consequence of an education that is managed in a ‘very amateur’ way. This colonel argued that the cadet life indirectly inculcates an unethical consciousness: ‘you could cheat as long as it’s unobservable’.200 In the regular army, such an indication could be found, for example, as shown in the military court administering a trial to the TNI soldier afflicting torture on West Papuans, which was made openly available through

YouTube.201 A soldier recorded on his mobile phone a brutal torture of two Papuan civilians on 17 March 2010. He admitted that the video footage was leaked from his mobile phone when it was being fixed in a repair shop. This 10-minute footage was then uploaded to YouTube, prompting public condemnation to the Indonesian military soldiers’ cruelty. A presiding judge of the military court reprimanded this soldier more because of his negligence that caused his action to gain attention rather than the unlawful misconduct itself. From this incident, three soldiers were found guilty and received light sentences. However, they were charged more because of

199 Interview 305-002 200 Interview 504-001 201 ‘Kekerasan dan Penyiksaan di Tanah PAPUA’, viewed 27 March 2012, 194 insubordination for ‘failing to inform their superiors that they had detained and tortured the two Papuan civilians’ rather than the violation against humanity.202

The AAU institution is only a small picture of the impact of character education. The big portrait of its outcome is reflected in the overall air force organisation. The values, beliefs as well as basic assumptions that shape officers’ mental framework, which is inculcated through indoctrination during cadet life, is projected throughout the rest of service life across the entire air force organisation.

Personnel mobilisation policies that tacitly make a priority to appoint academy graduates in almost all important positions at whatever official level, effectively produce a uniform culture, both in the way of thinking and behaving, in the overall air force organisation. Only a small number of important positions in the air force organisation array are held by non-academy graduates, especially those which demand specific expertise namely medical or law agencies. The air force education and training institutions are quite influential in the proliferation of culture. The values they inculcate during academy life are enshrined and reproduced through all training participants.203

When the overall air force organisational culture signifies both projection and development from what had been initiated at the Academy, officers’ character paralysis produces not only professional crises, but also professional tragedies. By ignoring data of previous years, only in one decade, in the period of 2000-2010 the air force itself underwent an enormous degradation in its capability. Certainly, this is a ‘professional disaster’ for a national air power whose capability building is

202 ‘Sidang Kilat Mengejar Citra’, viewed 08 November 2011, available at and ‘10 Month Sentence For Soldiers Found Guilty of Torture’, viewed 27 March 2012, . 203 In general, the education paradigm in all TNI services is similar. See, for example, Tippe, Strategi Pengembangan TNI AD 25 Tahun ke Depan, p. 7. 195 constantly confronted by the state’s meagre budget. In that period, about thirty aircraft of various types crashed, totally wrecked.204 Of all victims in those air disasters, many were academy graduate officers who were in charge as air crew or as passenger.205 However, as admitted by an important official of the Air Force Safety

Agency (Dislambangjaau), such disasters were merely the tip of the iceberg of organisational-managerial errors. They were an outcome of the air force organisation for which more than 90 percent of all important and strategic positions at all managerial level — from which policy-making flows and operational executions are made — are held by its academy graduates.206 Like the Air Force Academy (AAU), the whole air force organisational structure, at all levels, constitutes a transitory office. As a consequence, it allows little time for any official assuming authority to fully capture the substance of problem, except for mechanistic-technical aspects in working with the routines and budget.

Ethical issues were displayed in the procurement of spare parts or equipments that were not immune from fraud. Adjie Suradji, an Air Force colonel and flying officer, wrote publicly in the leading Indonesian newspaper, Kompas, indicating a likelihood of corruption in the process of aircraft spare procurements that involved the inner circle of the logistic chain. For his published article, he was given a warning from the Air Force institution and had put his career at risk accordingly.207

His article clearly exhibited a symptom of character paralysis. Suradji suggested that

204 From 2000 to 2012 the Indonesian Air Force has lost at least 30 aircraft of various types involved in air crashes. Record of the crashed air craft is in the author’s possession. Source: The Indonesian Air Force Safety Agency (Dislambangjaau), Indonesian Air Force Headquarters. 205 On 20 May 2009, an Indonesian Air Force’s C-130 ‘Hercules’ aircraft crashed near Air Base, Madiun, East Java, killing more than 100 people on board. Among those killed were Air First Marshal (AFM) Harsono and his wife. AFM Harsono, who was a fighter pilot, graduated from the Indonesian Air Force Academy (AAU) in 1983 and completed the College for Defence and Strategic Studies (CDSS) in Canberra in 2008. 206 Interview 420-001 207 ‘Adjie, Dua Kali Menulis Dua Kali Ditegur’, viewed 7 September 2010, available at . 196 there was likely a mafia involving ‘the black market’ and the inner circle of the institutional logistic chain in procuring bogus parts resulting in air force disasters.208

An official at the Air Force Safety Agency who had been for many years involved in air crash investigation also suggested that the process in procurement of parts or services was not immune from fraud.209 In the wider defence organisation, such an indication of illicit practice is palpable. Even president , as reported by The Jakarta Post, ‘says he perceives potential markups and fixed tenders in the country’s weaponry and defense [sic] equipment procurement projects’. As reported, Yudhoyono warned all parties involved in equipment projects, urging that ‘I ask you to end all kinds of illicit practices because I still feel that the temptation to commit such practices is still [sic] there’.210

Therefore, taking the professional tragedies experienced by the Air Force during the last decade into account, according to a colonel and senior lecturer at

AAU, it is sufficient to say that ‘character education [at the academy] has come to a worrying phase .... [It] contributes to the organisational failure given that [the air force] is the end user of this academy’s products ... Both character and professionalism failed to develop’. Ironically, according to this colonel, they, the alumni, ‘did not feel themselves’ to have committed ‘vandalism against their own alma mater ... It was seriously that bad’.211

While AAU had contributed to a ‘crisis of professionalism’ in the air force body, the AKMIL’s paradigm did the same to their parent organisation, the

Indonesian Army, whose backbone is manned mostly by its academy graduates. A symptom of ‘professional crisis’ resulted from officers’ character paralysis —

208 Adjie Suradji, ‘Hercules Petimati Terbang?’, Kompas, 27 May 2009. 209 Interview 420-001 210 ‘SBY sniffs at markups in weaponry procurement projects’, The Jakarta Post, 02 February 2012. 211 Interview 223-001A 197 indicated by glorification of material interests and inaccuracy in thinking — was admitted by a former commander of the Army Command and Staff College

(SESKOAD), Syarifuddin Tippe.

In the field, empirical realities indicated that there were personnel who manned the organisation still holding supreme values, but they were inconsistent in application for there was no integrity between talk and action. This might have been influenced largely by dominant individuals’ interests or cliques. Such a condition had made the personnel’s tendency to resist against whatever change, because it could disrupt his personal interests in that organisation.212

… The Army up until today has not yet been able to build its professionalism as a state defence force, because its strategy and attempt has not yet touched a basic aspect, namely, the development of ‘Mind Set’ regarding professionalism, profession cultural value, that would give strength for the good of every soldier.213

... Selection to attend education conducted by the Army has not yet been carried out in an open, transparent process by involving parties outside the TNI. Beside that, the recruitment system for soldier aspirants has not yet employed information and communication technology, especially the internet. Adding significantly to this condition is the reality of teaching staff in education institutions, their qualification was in doubt simply by observing their performance quality.214

As elucidated earlier in this chapter, character education simply encourages cadets to become narrow-minded and pragmatic individuals motivated toward personal survival. Ironically, the atmosphere of the institution itself has created this condition. Academy life is more an arena of socialisation of traditions to infuse the

212 Tippe, Strategi Pengembangan TNI AD 25 Tahun ke Depan, p. 5. 213 Ibid., p. 6. Emphasis added. 214 Ibid., p.8. 198 uniform culture than a training field in which to sow the powers of intellect. By this way, character building simply becomes a paradox when the education aimed at creating leaders offers no space for individuals to develop initiative and judgment by developing their insights and knowledge. Unfortunately, the institution itself has become a mirror displaying symptoms of character paralysis of its graduates. In the next chapter, we will further examine the complex crisis of professionalism.

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Chapter Five

HIGHER EDUCATION FOR MILITARY LEADERS

Building on the research in Chapter Four, this chapter examines how the habits and attitudes established in the academy persist during the mature phase of their service lives. To do this, the TNI officers’ higher education, especially at command and staff college (SESKO) will be examined.1 Unlike education at military academy level where cadets commence their training with no working experience, at

SESKO the officer students have already had at least fourteen years of service. They have had experiences that have shaped their views about the ‘real world’ in the

Indonesian military. This chapter explains why the way they are educated at SESKO continues the pattern established at the military academies, and remains a major obstacle to the professionalisation of the TNI.

According to Andrew Lambert, officers require ‘a broad liberal education to provide the context within which their particular expertise will be applied’ before they enter a particular profession.2 To a lesser or greater degree, military academies are supposed to provide a liberal education in order to prepare officers for the armed forces. For the TNI’s future leaders, military academy training is followed by allocation to various service branches based on particular criteria; each branch has its own perspectives and ideals. In the TNI, each service has its own branch division. In the Army, branches are basically grouped into the ‘combat’ and ‘non-combat’ corps,

1 SESKO is an abbreviation of Sekolah Staf dan Komando. The Indonesian military consists of three service; the Army (Angkatan Darat, AD), the Navy (Angkatan Laut, AL) and the Air Force (Angkatan Udara, AU). Each service has its own SESKO. The Army has SESKOAD. The Navy and the Air Force have SESKOAL and SESKOAU respectively. There is also a TNI joint command and staff college, called SESKO TNI, which is of higher level than the service SESKO. To become a SESKO TNI student, an officer should have completed a service SESKO. 2 Andrew Lambert, ‘History as Process and Record: The Royal Navy and Officer Education’, in Kennedy and Neilson, Military Education: Past, Present, and Future, pp. 83-104, p. 85. although these groupings remain debatable due to the absence of a unified convention on the definition of the terms used.3 Within the Navy, branch divisions cluster officer corps into three groupings ‘sailors’, ‘non-sailor’ and ‘marines’.

Similar to their counterparts both in the Army and the Navy, officers in the Air Force are basically divided into two groupings. The first group is categorised as flying corps or ‘air crew’ (pilot and navigator), while the second are those of non-flying officers other than air crew, or ‘non-aircrew’. (It should be noted that such a

‘division of labour’ takes place not only in Indonesia, but around the world).

After a period of duty for an average of eight or nine years, an officer will have reached the rank of captain or (junior) major. At this stage, air force officers will have to attend a sort of general development education or ‘junior staff college’ which is equivalent to ‘company commander courses’ of the Army. For this level of education, each service has its own name and program, but in general the aim of the training is to teach the junior officers to develop their ideas or concepts relating to the organisational problems posed by their own units, slightly beyond the technical aspects. However, in practice, what actually happens is that such training does not encourage the junior officer to develop original thinking. More accurately, it teaches them how to write in military-style composition and to introduce them to staff procedures. In contrast to the academic work, what is more important is the format of writing, which has to be strictly followed, rather than the content itself. The writing has to be outlined in a mechanistic pattern which in the TNI circle is called ‘military authorship’ (or karangan militer, abbreviated as ‘Karmil’ which literally means

‘military composition’).

3 Confidential communication with an Indonesian Army colonel. 201

The situation described above can be found at the Air Force Unit-

Commanding School, or SEKKAU.4 The author attended this six-month school in

2001. For other services, both in the Army and the Navy, the situation is no different at the same level of training.5 The unrealistically large numbers of materials assigned prevented the participants from digesting the material in depth. Similar to the TNI academy, knowledge in staff colleges is reduced to merely instant information that must be memorised shortly before the examination. SEKKAU, like other education agencies within the TNI, regards working with the program and using up the budget allocated as the focal point, not emphasising the educational purposes. On the other hand, for most students, this sort of education is only a formality needed for the next career path. At the same time, it functions as a place to strengthen ‘a network of solidarity’ or a reunion many years after leaving the academy.

Moreover, passing this junior college is also one of the requirements to reach the next step in military education. In short, their chief motive to attend such a school is only to meet the formal requirement in the pursuit of a promotion to higher rank or position. Actually, for many such training has always meant a financial burden because they have to pay for all needs related to the course, such as stationery and various extra curricular activities. Those who have family residing far from the course venue also have to pay for transport to visit their family regularly.

The conventional viewpoint, that any form of education in the TNI is only done in order to meet a formal requirement, is largely influenced by the officers’ working experiences for many years. They have come to understand that it was not the intellectual competence to formulate any good ideas that makes officers

4 SEKKAU is an abbreviation of Sekolah Komando Kesatuan Angkatan Udara. In the Indonesian military, each service also has its own similar college. 5 Conversation with two colonels from the Indonesian Army and the Indonesian Navy. 202

successful in climbing the career ladder. Rather, it is their ability to impress and to maintain a mutually beneficial social relationship with their superior officers who assess the officer efficiency reports for promotional that was more important. This calls to mind the indoctrination inculcated through the traditions in cadet life.6 For most academy graduates, an anti-intellectual mindset implanted since the early days of basic military training in AKMIL, Magelang, and then carried on at the service academy, is well preserved throughout their lives as an officer.

Because the emphasis is on implementing the program and spending the budget rather than encouraging intellectual curiosity, the paradigm of education of such school becomes mechanistic and perfunctory. Its outcomes tend to be assessed quantitatively. An unrealistically high load of assignments prevents participants from having enough time to master even the basics of the material assigned. The development of ideas is not based on accurate research or analysis through a thorough literature study. What is important is that students meet the format and quantity required by the institution and submit the assignments on time. As a result, there has been an enduring tendency over successive generations for just slightly touching up the works of previous classes.

As we will see later, such a culture continues to exist in any form of higher education in the TNI. Bradford describes this habit as ‘the tradition of leniency with regards to plagiarism’.7 Therefore, it is very common that on their arrival at the course most participants already have with them a database containing the bulk of assignments produced by previous classes that might probably be re-assigned for the

6 See Chapter Four. 7 John Bradford, The Indonesian Military As a Professional Organization: Criteria and Ramifications for Reform, Working Paper No.73, Institute of Defence and Strategic Studies, Singapore, January 2005, p. 16. 203

in-coming course. With a little touch or modification in order to avoid a charge of committing plagiarism, the ‘new look’ assignments produced may then be submitted for marking. In an examination participants need not to worry too much since the

‘mock’ questions along with the corresponding answers are usually provided the night before the exam. They only need to have the answer retained in their head and rewrite it on the answer sheet on the examination day. In this way knowledge becomes merely temporary information that disappears immediately after the exam.8

Throughout the course, student officers will be guided and directed by directing officers who are their seniors posted to the school. The main task of the directing officers is to offer assistance and to give an assessment on individual attitude development. Their tasks include keeping the ongoing group discussion on track, observing students’ class participation, supervising students’ working papers, and marking assignments. It should be noted that the directing officers are also the product of previous courses and that they mostly come from the same source the academy as the majority of students. In this way, they share with their students similar attitudes and experiences, and quite often, might have met each other before they arrive at the school. In this manner, the senior-junior ties are bonded on a patron-client model which had been implanted through the traditions in cadet corps during the academy years is refreshed throughout the course although it is now carried out with different people who never met in the academy.

The training is run according to a very tight schedule. It is coupled with a large number of reading materials, allowing little time for contemplation. For most participants the goal is simply to survive the assignment without taking the quality of

8 Personal knowledge and experience. 204

its content into account. This means that as long as one’s work is not exactly the same as that of other students, the result will be fine. They already know that their directing officers will not thoroughly examine in detail all the works produced. This is because the number of students greatly exceeds that of directing staff. Moreover, the directing officers also recognise that such training is simply a formality because they also experienced a similar process in the past.

In general, there are no specific criteria to become a directing officer at this school except for a qualification that one has attended and passed higher officer education e.g. the Command and Staff College (SESKO).9 Similar to those working at the academy as lecturers, becoming directing staff in such schools is more a consequence of duty rotation or personnel mobilisation rather than personal motives.

This leads to a minimalist mentality of getting things done only as much as necessary for the sake of expending the least energy. An air force major who had the experience of giving a lecture at this school expressed his concern at how the education proceeded. He found that the presentation of certain teaching material, i.e.

‘Introduction to Logic’, was ‘prepared unsystematically’.10 This description is, partly, an initial indication that the quality of higher education in the broader TNI context is a marginal issue. In this study, education at the level of junior staff college will not be examined further. Rather, I will focus on the Command and Staff College.

For a TNI officer, continued education and training is an important factor in both career advancement and personal development. Basically at least 20% of successful careers are spent on education and training. To occupy strategic positions in any service, an officer must have a minimum qualification, namely, the service’s

9 This college will be discussed later in this chapter. 10 Interview 225-001 205

Command and Staff College level (or SESKO angkatan) for which every single service has its own institution. According to Bradford, SESKO is ‘the most important training course and the one best known to foreign observers’.11 In the history of its development, each service has its own command and staff college along with its own vision and mission. But when the New Order came into power, the vision and mission of all SESKOs was unified into a single aim to support the political interests of the regime. This was part of the consolidation of the regime’s power done by integrating the Indonesian armed forces under central control.

The prestigious image of the command and staff colleges cannot be separated from the New Order regime. The legendary image of SESKO, in particular the

Indonesian Army Command and Staff College (Sekolah Staf dan Komando Angkatan

Darat, SESKOAD), lies in its influential roles as ‘The kitchen of concept [policy] formulation or the centre of strategic reviews’12 for the regime before the advent of the other think- institutions. The strategic products in state policy formulation supplied by SESKOAD were partly made from ‘the use of teaching-learning process

[to formulate strategic policies] throughout the courses’.13 In this way, the

SESKOAD performed a ‘think-tank’ not only for the Army and the whole Armed

Forces (TNI), but also for the government in particular for which all its products were claimed to have ‘strategic great weight’.14

In 1966, the college gave birth to ‘The Doctrine of Army Struggle’, Tri

Ubaya Cakti (TUC), which was initially designated solely for the Army but then modified and manipulated to turn into the Doctrine of CADEK in 1967. The latter

11 Bradford, The Indonesian Military As a Professional Organization, p. 15. 12 Major General E.E. Mangindaan, SESKOAD: Tugas dan Peranannya dalam Pembangunan, Institut Teknologi Bandung, Bandung, 1994, p. 5. 13 Mangindaan, SESKOAD, p. 6. 14 Ibid., p. 5. 206

was claimed to include the whole Armed Forces (TNI).15 The doctrine of ‘Armed

Forces Socio-Politics’ and ‘The Army Intelligence Doctrine’ were other examples produced by SESKOAD that had working scope for the Armed Forces overall. At the national level, mostly the New Order’s developmental concepts were also enacted at this institution, namely, the concept of the Krida Cabinet of 1968, the Long-Term

Development Plan and Five-Year Development Plan of 1972. Since 1978 and throughout the New Order government, the college also had contributed to provide advice for the Broad Outlines of State Policy (Garis-garis Besar Haluan Negara,

GBHN) enactment.16

During the New Order Government, such achievements by themselves had placed the SESKOAD institution as a centre of excellence, not only for the Army and the Indonesian Armed Forces entirely, but also for the nation in general. Moreover, in addition to its policy making prowess, its role in giving birth to national leaders made it prestigious. According to Mangindaan, this institution is deemed ‘to have been colouring the character of Indonesia’s national leadership’.17 This image by itself has placed SESKOAD as the single most important avenue for those army officers wanting to be future army or even national leaders. Such an impression has always been conveyed at the opening ceremony of the course where students are reminded that they are ‘the future leaders of the Army and the nation’.

The New Order measures integrating the Armed Forces in 1967 put all services under the single control and domination of the Army. It brought about a

15 See Chapter Four 16 Mangindaan, SESKOAD, pp. 6-7. 17 ibid., p. 5. 207

uniformity in all aspects of the armed forces.18 This was particularly apparent in its educational aspects. The uniformity in education includes not only the philosophy imposed Dwi Warna Purwa Cendikia Wusana and Tri Sakti Viratama but also the organisational structure as well as the teaching and learning paradigm. In fact, before the New Order came into power ‘the [armed] forces were in reality largely divided, each had its own ethos and vision’.19 It is understandable that the difference in vision inevitably included one in educational issues.20 As part of the consolidation of the armed forces, all services’ command and staff colleges were unified under one control, called the Armed Forces Command and Staff College. What is now Air

Force Command and Staff College (Sekolah Staf dan Komando Angkatan Udara,

SESKOAU) was formerly called Armed Forces Command and Staff College Air

Force Branch.

The Air Force Command and Staff College was established in August 1963, when the Air Force was undergoing modernisation of its weapon system acquired from . It had to drastically alter its educational direction by 1967.

Since then, the infantile SESKOAU which at time had not been yet fully developed as a centre of strategic thoughts for the Air Force, quickly became the centre of the

Army’s political indoctrination.21 In this way, the educational paradigm at

SESKOAU was undergoing an army-isation. The most important aspect in this

‘army-isation’ process which still exists is the ‘uniformisation’ of educational principles, that is, Dwi Purwa Cendikia Wusana with Tri Sakti Viratama as its operational elaboration.

18 As we have seen in Chapter Four that during the New Order Era, the Armed Forces Commander had always been appointed the Army generals. 19 McGregor, History in Uniform, p. 116. 20 See, for example, Paat, Sejarah dan Perkembangan. 21 See Djajengminardo, Kesaksian, p. 138. 208

Although in 1984, through a decree of the Commander of the Armed Forces

(ABRI), ‘the authority over the control of education at service command and staff colleges’ was returned back under the control of each service22, the embedded educational paradigm based on the Army-defined values of kejuangan remains well preserved up to now. This calls to mind the integration of the Indonesian Armed

Forces Academy where all service academies had also undergone similar ‘army- isation’ as explained previously.

Uniformity in the education model imposed since the beginning of the New

Order allows this study to select any one of the command and staff colleges as a unit of analysis. The examinations of the training process at the Army Command and

Staff College by McFetridge (1983)23 and Bradford (2005)24 as well as an interview with a participant of the class of 2011 indicates no significant change in the instructional paradigm. Indeed, such a situation was identified in the early 1970s. In

December 1971, the UK Defence Attache to Jakarta reported that the Indonesian military’s training command had ‘suffered because of the poor quality of commanders and staff officers appointed to it and because of a lack of finance to develop and support an effective training program’. The training was hindered by serious problems such as ‘a theoretical and unrealistic approach to training and a lack of awareness of the vital need for effective methods of instruction and efficient

22 … via the decree of the Indonesian Armed Forces Commander no. Kep/07/P/III/1984, dated 21 March 1984. See, The Brief History of SESKOAU, viewed 13 February 2011, , 23 Charles Donald McFetridge, ‘Seskoad: Training the Elite’, Indonesia, Vol. 36, October 1983, pp. 87-98. 24 Bradford, The Indonesian Military As a Professional Organization. 209

instructors’.25 Even now, the situation remains the same; only the names of the students and instructors have changed.

Here, I use the Air Force Command and Staff College or SESKOAU as the primary unit of analysis.26 As an institution conducting higher general development of the Air Force, the SESKOAU program continues the lower level education that officers must attend compulsorily if they are to continue up the career ladder. My experience of this eleven-month program in 2005 gave me an impression that such a college was only a resemblance (in its longer form) of the six-month junior staff college that I undertook in 2001. Next, it is necessary to look at what the SESKOAU is, along with its functions and objectives. The Indonesian Air Force describes the

SESKOAU as

the Air Force's highest professional officer education institution assigned to prepare cadres, those are, the middle ranked officers of Major and , to be the qualified and reliable air force future leaders possessing intellectual and technical skills as well as good mental and personal attitudes geared toward mastering the teaching of kejuangan [fighting spirit mentality] and being capable of analysing and developing doctrines necessary for national air and space defence.27

When one visits the website of SESKOAU28, the philosophy of TNI education will soon be found there— Dwi Warna Purwa Cendikia Wusana. This philosophy is further elaborated in its operational principles, called Tri Sakti

Viratama, embracing three aspects of TNI military education, that is, the

‘intellectual’, ‘mental’, and ‘physical’. These aspects can be found in its overall goals

25 Cited by Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, p. 33. 26 I graduated from SESKOAU in 2005. 27 Accessed on 13 February 2011, . 28 Accessed on 13 February 2011, 210

and objectives stated below. It should be noted here that I experienced difficulty in translating literally the Indonesian version of its stated goals and objectives into

English since they are written in flowery language, and in many ways, are illogical as well as long-winded. According to its curriculum29, the institution has its ambitious purposes

to develop and enhance the ability of the selected officers by providing them with supply of knowledge and managerial skills required at operational level as well as visions of leadership based on fighting spirit supported by excellent physical condition necessary to perform tasks on command and staff positions at the Air Force strategic level.

The stated targets and objectives are as follows

a. Possessing a mental, spiritual and personal attitude as good air force officers reflected in dedication, integrity and loyalty [to the country] in performing duties.

b. Possessing visions of TNI and national leadership rooted in the [1945] fighting spirit to secure, practice, preserve the state ideology Pancasila and the Constitution [1945] as well ... TNI 1945 [spirit] values.

c. Mastering knowledge and managerial capability as well as air operation at the air force level associated with planning, deployment, use and control of air power; and being able to apply managerial skills to administer resources and conduct operations in an effective and efficient manner.

d. Mastering knowledge and skills to communicate verbally and in writing based on logical and systematic reasoning supported by sharp

29 ‘SESKOAU: Curriculum of 2008’, taken into effect through the Indonesian Air Force Chief of Staff Decree no. Perkasau/134/XII/2008, dated, Jakarta, 30 December 2008. Emphasis added. Copy of the document is in the author’s possession. 211

analysis power; and expert in solving problems faced within the scope of their duties.

e. Possessing knowledge regarding the national, regional and international issues that have strategic values to exploit in order to help manage the potential aspect of national air space to support the Air Force mission.

f. Possessing knowledge in science and technology, especially those in aerospace, to be dispensed in the form of conceptual and strategic thinking in order to enhance the operational capabilities of the Air Force.

g. Possessing an excellent physical condition to support their duties.

The overall aims and objectives are seen in the curriculum syllabus which remains largely unchanged from year to year. The SESKOAU instructional programs are grouped into six areas of study which cover in total 1890 instruction periods (or teaching hours). Presented below is a typical SESKOAU curriculum of 2010.

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Subject Lesson Hours

(1) Leadership and ‘State of the Struggle’ (Kejuangan): Fighting Spirit Values 216 National Outlook Leadership The Role of TNI

(2) Operations: 693 Air Power Military Operations on War Military Operations Other Than War (MOOTW) Command and Control Conditioning and Training Contingency Plan Map (Operation) Exercises

(3) Management: 273 Theory of Communication Working Papers Research and Seminars Field Trips and Seminars Management Theory TNI/Air Force Management

(4) Strategic Environment: 294 Theory Intelligence Strategic Environment Assessment Government Systems Conditioning of National Air Resources Potential Field Trips and Seminars

(5) Science and Technology: 135 Development of Aircraft Technology Development of Electronic Technology Development of Missile (Weapon) Technology Applied Sciences Humanitarian Law Social Sciences

(6) Special Programs: 279 Institutional Traditions Briefings Health Interviews

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The stated purpose and objective of the college as well as the content of curriculum seem so ‘prestigious’ that to be selected to attend this course an officer must endure a very strict and thorough selection process including medical, psychological, physical fitness and aptitude tests. All this gives an impression of how prestigious and strategic the training is for an officer's future career. Similar portrayals of the selection criteria can be found in the Army college. It is so competitive that a lecturer of this school, Heri Marjaga Siagian, even set up a personal internet blog which he called ‘The Place for Course Material Discussion and Entrance Selection for SESKOAD’. This blog was specifically designed to provide candidates particular tips in order to pass the admission test for the program.

In his blog he writes ‘becoming a student of the SESKOAD regular program has always been an obsession for army officers because this course constitutes a “critical gate” that every army officer has to pass through in order to foster future career advancement. Without going to the SESKOAD, the opportunity to develop a career in the Army in particular and the TNI in general becomes very limited’.30 A retired army lieutenant general said similar thing. He writes that

the success of becoming SESKOAD students is not only a source of pride but also the hope of every army officer who wants to climb the highest career ladder in the future. A SESKOAD certificate is like a ticket to enter an arena of competition to become a General. Without a SESKOAD qualification, that hope seems out of reach. That is why every officer will try at best to obtain that ticket ...31

30 Heri Marjaga Siagian, ‘Strategi dan Kiat Belajar dalam rangka Seleksi Seskoad’, viewed on 15 February 2011, 31 H. Achmad Roestandi, Masuk Letnan Keluar Letnan, Republika Penerbit, Jakarta, 2008, p.43

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The number of officers attending the SESKOAU course varies from year to year. In 2011, for example, there were 131 officers participating in the course, some of whom were foreign officers. SESKOAU receives foreign officers as part of its exchange program. The number and country of origin varies from year to year. In

2011 (48th Class) for example, there were seven participants from foreign countries namely Australia, Malaysia, , Singapore, Thailand, the United States and

South Korea. As a whole, the number of SESKOAU students accounts for roughly half of that of SESKOAD. While for the Indonesian Navy Command and Staff

College (or SESKOAL), the number of participants are slightly higher than of

SESKOAU.

To complete the SESKOAU course, every student must undertake and pass all subjects prescribed in the curriculum. The majority of assignments were given in the form of group discussion and homework of which the latter usually takes the form of a short (or minor) working paper concerning a case study discussed previously in the group discussion. Besides this, each student is required to produce and submit a ‘large’ (or major) individual working paper (or Taskap besar) a sort of ‘major’ working paper of at least sixty pages in length which has to be defended before the examiners towards the end of the course. Students can freely choose any topic or title from a list determined by the school.

By 2010 (or forty seven years after its foundation), SESKOAU had produced at least three and half thousand officers, of which more than three thousand were

Indonesian air force officers. If every officer who passed SESKOAU has expressed their ideas in writing, be it in the form of minor or major working papers throughout the courses, then we might expect that SESKOAU has produced thousands of

215

‘conceptual and strategic thoughts’32 in various fields of study incorporated in its curriculum. Presumably, those thousands of conceptual and strategic thoughts should have been based on (as SESKOAU’s written objectives say) ‘logical and systematic reasoning supported by the sharp analysis’. In this way, SESKOAU should have itself become a think-tank for the Air Force, at least in terms of managing air force resources.

However, it has not done so, as can be seen from two examples. First, over the last decade, namely between 2000 and 2010, the Air Force has suffered

‘professionalism disasters’ that appeared in the form of air accidents.33 This is an indication of poor management of the organisation whilst at the same time also indicates a lacking in its officers’ character of being capable of thinking accurately, due to the absence of the ‘power of literacy’34. Accordingly, the stated aim of

SESKOAU to produce knowledgeable officers capable of managing air power resources in an ‘effective and efficient manner’ has already become a paradox.

Moreover, to contrast one of SESKOAU’s written objectives with reality, the views of two air force officers mentioned in previous chapter need to be reiterated: ‘Our planning fails ... we never have a concept ... no one knows accurately what [the Air

Force] should be like’.35 ‘We [the Air Force] have placed persons who ... are ignorant’.36 Both these accounts indicate a serious flaw of SESKOAU in achieving its objectives, namely producing experts to manage a credible air force.

32 As prescribed in its written objectives mentioned earlier in this chapter. 33 See Chapter Four, note 204. 34 In this regard, literacy is viewed as an instrument of accuracy in thinking. See Yudi Latif, Menyemai Karakter Bangsa: Budaya Kebangkitan Berbasis Kesastraan, Penerbit Kompas, Jakarta, 2009, pp. 15-23. 35 Interview 420-001 36 Interview 506-001 216

The second fact that challenged the raison d’être of SESKOAU (and also

SESKOAL) as an institution for developing and analysing doctrine and defence issues associated with the use of air power was revealed publicly to the media in

2010. Indonesia leading newspaper, Kompas, quoted the chairman of the Centre for

Security and Defence Studies, Kusnadi Kardi, himself a retired Air Vice Marshal:

‘At present Indonesia has no expertise in air and sea intelligence’.37 Although

Kusnadi Kardi did not specifically point out which institution was supposed to administer air intelligence studies, it is clear that the air intelligence field should be a part of officer education. By drawing attention to the word ‘education’ however,

Kusnadi Kardi exposed the failure of SESKOAU to be a centre of excellence in air power studies. In short, for most of its existence SESKOAU has been unable to produce air intelligence experts while at the same time the Air Force already operates modern such as Sukhoi Su-30s. This implies that even at the level of theoretical knowledge, propositions regarding air power — at the heart of which lies air intelligence — were not fully captured by most SESKOAU graduates.

At this point, a crucial question needs to be addressed. How is it possible that for the most of its existence SESKOAU had been in fact unable to produce expert officers to manage the Air Force, thus by its own accord, failing its raison d’être?

Toward such a question, it is imperative to look at the entire atmosphere of the institution. To do this, a similar approach to that used to examine the Air Force

Academy (AAU) in the previous chapter will be used.

To be eligible for entrance selection to the SESKOAU program, an officer must have undertaken and passed a junior staff college or SEKKAU or any course

37 ‘Agenda Reformasi TNI Belum Tuntas’, viewed 7 October 2010, . 217

equivalent to that recognised by the Air Force. In addition to this requirement, an officer must also have spent time in active service, on average at least fourteen years.38 In general, SESKOAU participants can be divided into groups based on their source of recruitment and branches. The majority of officers are derived from the academy. The second are those, the so-called ‘career officers’, recruited from tertiary institutions as university graduates. Both groups are further clustered into various branches or corps applicable in the Air Force, namely, flying-officer (pilots and navigators), aircraft engineer, supply, electronics/signal, administration, and special force. Specific branches such as medical corps, lawyers, psychologists, religious clergy or other expertises that the academy can not produce come from the second group.

During their service time of approximately fourteen years, they will have a range of experience in ‘tour of duties’ along with ‘tour of areas’ within the scope of their branch and normally will have achieved the rank of major. In a fourteen-year period, flying officers for example would have spent much of their time at air squadrons and around the air base where the squadron is located. Other corps officers would also have similar patterns according to their branch-based areas of duty. Some of them will also have served as instructors or lecturers at the educational institutions of the Air Force, particularly at AAU.

Although the scope and area of their duties are different as a consequence of corps differentiation and types of work, the characteristics of the work done are not different. In general, their job was one that was mechanistic in nature entailing a mastery of staff procedures rather than innovative, creative or critical thinking. In

38 In this analysis foreign officers are excluded. 218

such circumstances, all organisational as well as bureaucratic procedures were established with the job descriptions already set up. The main tasks are then to maintain the continuity of organisational routines and to assure that work runs according to plan. In this context, ‘organisational routines’ include those in units conducting training programs to train specific skill-based proficiencies such as tactical air squadrons. Planning at this level is very technical and repetitive with the overall structure of program determined in advance from above. For many there is almost no conceptual and intellectual challenge necessary to get any work accomplished. In general, any paperwork produced is one that supports the managerial process.

In the midst of such workplace characteristics, officers normally would find it easy to deal with their unit or agency’s procedures and can eventually comprehend the whole process of organisational routines and tasks given to their units. In this way, for at least fourteen years they would have fully comprehended the big picture of the workplace within the scope of their branch along with its social relationship.

This kind of workplace atmosphere in turn generates an impression that individual achievement or performance is not as important as being interchangeable with other members of the unit in order to be able to do any task assigned. Moreover, they also know that up to this level their rank or career promotion depends on the existing career management system in which they are posted. As long as they do not get involved in any legal difficulties and are able to give a good impression to their superiors, who assesses their performance, their career will be fine. In other words, the overall workplace environment creates a lack of merit system. Under such arrangements the difference of individual achievements and performance lies in the

219

mental attitude and loyalty to superiors or the corps, not in the ability to promote any visionary or idealistic notions that are useful for organisational development. As a result, an idealistic or critical attitude is often considered damaging to the existing order or even potentially disrupting of other parties’ interests, especially those of the boss. It is more acceptable to promote ideas that are very technical in nature to facilitate the tasks, provided they are conveyed in such a manner that the boss does not feel irritated.39

In these circumstances, the individual’s best performance is secondary to off- duty ‘patron-client relationships’ which become an important arena for career advancement. In other words, in addition to the patrimonial relationship already prevalent in the daily on-duty bureaucratic structure which is driven by relationship of ‘father-children’, ‘off-duty’ personal allegiance also becomes a determining factor for one’s career advancement. It is an arena where the meaning of mental attitude and loyalty inculcated during a cadet’s life in the academy is now put into practice in everyday service life. These realities validate the practice of briefings (or santiaji) given to cadets by their mentors and guardians to the effect that officers’ loyalty and conformity come before their intellectual curiosity. However, in this context, ‘loyalty flows to persons rather than to offices or institutions’.40

Thus, the ‘experience domain’ during fourteen years in service is sufficient for officers to understand how to climb the future career ladder. For most, career promotion is more a result of ‘cliques’ than merit. A colonel, who is a serving

39 Interview 510-001 40 To borrow Karl D. Jackson in describing patron-clientelism in Indonesia. See Karl D. Jackson, ‘Urbanization and the Rise of Patron-Client Relations: The Changing Quality of Interpersonal Communications in the Neighborhoods of Bandung and the Villages of West Java’, in Karl D. Jackson and Lucian W. Pye (eds.), Political Power and Communications in Indonesia, University of California Press, Berkeley, 1978, pp. 343-92, p. 348. 220

official in SESKOAU, labels this kind of career development a ‘wild ball’ without pattern because it all depends on the closeness of individuals based on a ‘moral obligation’ incurred over many years. ‘Who is able to serve [his patron] from the beginning will be carried over’. According to this colonel, this has been exacerbated by the absence of a clear and coherent plan of long-term human resource forecasting.41 In a similar vein, one star-ranked officer describes this arrangement as

‘the absence of merit-based system’ that is substituted by ‘a morat-marit system’.

The term ‘morat-marit’ stems from Javanese language which literally means

‘disorder’.42

Unsurprisingly, such a picture is also prevalent in the Army as admitted by

Lieutenant General Suryo Prabowo, himself a former deputy chief of the Army Staff and at the time of writing the chief of TNI General Staff, that

the absence of a [merit] system and mechanism that can be used to appraise performance has led to the growing practice of collusion and nepotism in managing the soldier’s career. ... So far we don’t know precisely what criteria are to be used to assess whether a battalion commander is bad or good. As a consequence, leadership elements are trapped in a climate of nepotism. They can only judge officers or officials whom they have encountered before in previous appointments and, who receive good appraisals if they can serve their (personal) interests.43

The experience gained in early assignments leads them to conclude that professional knowledge makes no significant contribution to their promotion

41 Interview 419-001. This is apparent in the SESKOAU itself as will be discussed later in this chapter. 42 Interview 510-001 43 J. Suryo Prabowo, Mewujudkan Profesionalitas TNI AD: Upaya Tiada Akhir, n.p, Jakarta, 2001, p. 56. Emphasis added. 221

prospects. With such mental frameworks, accordingly, for many attending

SESKOAU or any other courses the aim is simply to meet the administrative requirements needed for the next promotions, be it for a higher post or rank (to be a

Lieutenant Colonel), not to improve or prepare themselves in line with the demands of their upcoming tasks. To borrow the words of one navy colonel, a former directing staff at Navy Command and Staff College (SESKOAL), the education at SESKO functions as a sort of ‘formality’.44 In other words, they only regard it as a status symbol. For those with scant financial capability, attending this sort of education course is a burden. Yet for those who have the wherewithal, this kind of education becomes a pleasant place for relaxation because they can pay individuals from outside the school to work out almost all their assignments.45

However, although for the majority the goal was more to obtain a formal qualification, there have always been a smaller number of idealistic officers across generations who had great curiosity and a desire to expand their knowledge. Yet they usually find themselves disappointed at the situation they encounter, and have no choice other than to adapt to the situation. The inconsistency between the promoted image of SESKOAU as the Air Force’s intellectual institution and the reality of educational environment is often surprising and disappointing. A colonel, who was

SESKOAU graduate of 2004 and six years later became a head of department in this school described his experience to me:

As a student we had an expectation that SESKOAU was the best education in the Air Force and that it would be a source of all relevant knowledge

44 Interview 504-001 45 See also Bradford, The Indonesian Military As a Professional Organization, p. 16. 222

regarding characteristics of the Air Force. Unfortunately as I went on my study I realised it was possibly not that kind of source...46

Similar to other institutions in the Air Force, SESKOAU is more a transitory place as one part of the personnel mobilization chain rather than a professional education body. Even the adjective ‘transitory’ here has a much more stringent meaning than that which occurs in other educational institutions such as the Air

Force Academy. The above respondent said that was quite often officers whose skill and knowledge were needed at SESKOAU were stationed here for ‘few minutes’ as a result of poor personnel planning policy. This is particularly apparent, for example, for potential officers who had just completed a similar school in foreign countries and then were posted to SESKOAU as instructors. Actually, they were expected to stay longer to internalise the knowledge they had just acquired from abroad in attempts to improve education at SESKOAU.

Similar to the Air Force Academy (AAU), the SESKOAU institution often functions as a ‘shelter’ channeling ‘residual’ (as opposed to ‘potential’) officers seeking a promotion for higher positions or ranks because of a lack of choice outside the SESKOAU structure. Ironically, for those who fall in that ‘residual’ category, it becomes a relatively long-term posting. Hence, the institution fosters a pragmatic attitude that is reflected in organisational routines that give more priority to the achievement of a predetermined program and budget.

With such characteristics there are no specific criteria other than holding a

SESKOAU certificate that must be met by officers posted as officials, instructors or directing staffs. Specific criteria usually apply only to positions requiring specific

46 Interview 419-001. Emphasis added. 223

qualifications and experiences such as the Head of the Department of Operations, that has to be held by officers from the aviator branch. Even the position of Director of Air Power Studies has on several occasions been filled by non-flying officers.

Although SESKOAU has a body of teaching staff, many of its lecturers come from outside as guest speakers or lecturers, whose quality of instruction varies (but is generally very good). They come from leading national universities such as the

Bandung Institute of Technology and , most of whom hold

PhDs. SESKOAU also regularly invites speakers or lecturers from prominent institutions such as the Centre for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS).

Most strategic positions at SESKOAU are held by academy alumni.

Accordingly, there is a conformity in the way they perceive their surroundings. As in the Air Force Academy, although the institutional atmosphere is influenced by the personal character of the individuals in power, in reality successive officials tend to preserve the existing paradigm. In this sense they function as administrators rather than scholars because their chief priority is to ensure that all programs and courses run and can be measured quantitatively.

The absence of recruitment criteria coupled with a risk-averse attitude of senior leaders has ensured that organisational routines place more emphasis on managerial-coordinative expertise than on intellectual curiosity. According to a department head, most officials are ‘less willing to expose themselves’ to critical ideas that might be useful for institutional enhancement.47 Although many officers graduated from overseas command and staff colleges, particularly from Western

47 Interview 419-001 224

countries, when stationed at SESKO as directing staff or instructors, they usually fail to integrate their overseas knowledge and experience. There are two reasons for this.

First, as a consequence of poor personnel mobilisation policies, their postings to SESKOAU are frequently short-lived, followed by a posting elsewhere, allowing little time to internalise new ideas taken from outside into the school. Second, risk aversion means that the system tends to reject new ideas brought from outside into the existing paradigm, notably when implementation of such ideas requires an alteration of the status quo, even if it deals only with ‘student assessment criteria’.

Even so, if those new ideas come from a junior officer ‘who received overseas education whilst [his] superiors only ... did in-country schooling, there is always a rejection’.48 This situation seems to have been in existence for decades, as indicated by a memo from the UK Defence Attache to Jakarta that ‘officers who attend foreign training are not encouraged to demonstrate their acquired skills on return — returning staff college students do not experiment with new doctrine, and fresh ideas are thus prevented from being disseminated’.49 Such a situation is parallel to that in the Navy as affirmed by a navy colonel who had been once a directing staff there.

When we brought a concept [from overseas] that was rather new, I was told that ‘you are not down to earth’ ... [those ideas] are for those [countries] that have been advanced. This is Indonesia! You are to be down to earth ...’.

To change the existing system is very difficult ... even if it actually does not need somewhat expensive cost. It depends on the willingness of the number

48 Interview 419-001 49 As cited in Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, p. 33. 225

one man to make changes. And yet that is so hard. The way they think has been so well-established.50

The organisational realm of SESKOAU is thus contrary to its raison d’être as a school of thought or centre of strategic review for the Air Force. This is reflected in the entire school’s ‘ecosystem’. Most processes are largely administrative, focused more on working with the programs than on academic competence. Although the vast majority of officers are involved in their students’ affairs, their tasks are directional or managerial in nature to ensure that all programs run according to schedule.

Ironically, according to one director, in fact there is no particular body within the institution that deals with strategic reviews. He admitted that a particular project51 to review, for example, certain doctrinal issues, accounts for merely an additional or side-task completed through an ad hoc working group mechanism. This was done in part-time mode out of the ongoing planned programs. As a consequence, the reviews were ‘lacking in focus’, resulting in ‘far from excellent’, or ‘low-end’ products.52

Largely, this is because such projects are more simply to work out the programs and to absorb the budget provided rather than to research the substance. Consequently, such projects often fail to produce accurate reviews or assessments. In real sense,

SESKOAU does have a sort of ‘research directorate’ headed by a colonel, but this agency which should focus on the educational process in fact functions more as an administrative bureau rather than a research body.

Such a situation also prevails in other TNI colleges, for example in the Navy.

A naval colonel acknowledged the existence of a similar atmosphere at SESKOAL,

50 Interview 504-001 51 … which frequently was one ‘spilled over’ from air force headquarters. 52 Interview 408-001 226

saying that ‘in term of the education system SESKOAL is theoretically very good with the existing system [structure] ... but ... system is only a dead thing... [when] it is run by instructors or managers who are ignorant about... education, that system is useless.’53

A closer look at the contents of the SESKOAU curriculum indicates an unrealistically high load of subject matters the students must undertake in less than a year. In addition, thanks to education principles that demand physical fitness and good mental attitude, this load becomes even heavier. Like other TNI schools, most notably the academy, SESKOAU also implements the principle of Tri Sakti

Viratama but not as strictly as in the academy. Here they are deemed to be mature independent individuals, and therefore the after-school program is up to them. As described in the previous chapter, the concept of Tri Sakti Viratama is expressed in three areas: mental attitude, physical fitness and academic competence.

The course is divided into three stages with an average of forty four teaching hours per week spent entirely in class for academic lectures and briefings. Class begins at 7:15 am and ends at 5:10 pm with a mid-morning break and a lunch break of less than one hour. Attending lectures all day long makes the students get bored, predictably. To overcome this problem, directing staff monitor and grade the class participation of individuals. Those actively asking questions regardless of their relevance get more marks. And, conversely, those found asleep of boredom get negative remarks, lowering their ‘mental attitude rating’. To create a feeling of being observed at all times, some monitoring cameras are mounted in the classroom,

53 Interview 504-001 227

zooming into students’ faces and name tags. Students’ class participation represents one element of the education principles of Tri Sakti Viratama.

One of the structured activities scheduled after class for which attendance is compulsory is sport or physical training, divided into corresponding groups according to individual interests. Here, students are also graded on their mental attitudes and physical fitness as part of the education principles. Such a program also prepares students for the up-coming competition with other SESKO which is called the Integrative Week of Fighting Spirit Program.54 In addition to this physical program, every morning on Tuesdays, Wednesdays and Fridays they have to go jogging at 5:00 am. Whilst on the one hand the students benefit from the increased physical fitness, on the other hand this tires them daily. Consequently, they are sometimes sleepy during lectures in class.

In addition to academic routines in class, students still have to do school homework. These include writing working papers, preparing group discussions, acting as steering or organising committees for the (visiting lectures’) seminars, and performing the institutional traditions aimed at instilling a sense of solidarity, oneness and pride. In doing so, the majority of students spend until after midnight in order to complete all the required tasks. With such a schedule, the chief goal for each officer is simply to pass all the tasks without being concerned with the quality.

When I attended the course of 2005, a member of directing staff jokingly told me and others that what was important was not the quality of the instruction, but the creation of a sense of panic.55 The basic assumption seemingly used in this statement is the importance of being conditioned at all time to think under extreme stress. This

54 Abbreviated in Indonesian ‘PKB Juang’ (Pekan Kegiatan Bersama untuk Kejuangan). 55 Paraphrased from a colonel who was a member of directing staff when I attended the course in 2005. 228

calls to mind the academy’s atmosphere. But unlike the cadets, they are now no longer under extreme stress brought about by physical and mental harassment at all times.

Just as in junior staff college, for many, such a school environment is a place where ‘old-boy networks’ are formed and refreshed.56 It is simply not a ‘place of contemplation’57 to acquire knowledge or to explore ideas or new concepts. Even prior to their arrival at the school most air force students already know what tasks they are likely to be required to do. Thus it is very common for them to have with them assignments produced by previous-year students that also appear in their own course.58 All air force officer students are aware that their course is only slightly different from previous ones; it is only a continuation of previous programs at lower levels.

Throughout the course, the large number of tasks assigned has a considerable impact on the quality of assignments. This is hardly surprising. For most students, the quantity of work done and the submission deadline is the chief priority in completing their writing tasks. However, the bulk of assignments are allocated to problem-solving matters which are mundane and tedious but the writing has to follow TNI’s format strictly. Critical analysis, reports and estimates that might logically demand adequate literature research seem to be not the main thrust of such assignments. Moreover such assignments are rarely returned to the students or evaluated through feedback in order to improve future work. At the same time, the

56 See also McFetridge, Seskoad, p. 95. 57 SESKOAU is situated in the high land of Lembang which is in the vicinity of Bandung the capital city of West Java. This place has a cool climate throughout the year suitable for intellectual contemplation. Throughout the course, students have to live in the mess. It is hoped, as there would be virtually no distractions or truancy, they are totally committed to the program. 58 See also Bradford, The Indonesian Military As a Professional Organization, p. 16. 229

number of assignments to be evaluated is disproportionate to that of directing staff, allowing them little time to thoroughly examine the results. As discussed previously, for most directing staff, their energy is also absorbed in coping with the institutional routines. In this way, their attention cannot be totally devoted to evaluating students’ homework.

For most directing staff, their previous experience as students has also contributed to shaping their mental framework. Consequently, they also see assignments as just a formality without being too concerned with quality and detail.

It seems that as long as the format and the number of words required are met, all is well. However, there is another factor that is a bit more surprising. According to a colonel who attended the SESKOAU course in 2008, ‘in general most directing staff only looked at the format, not the contents of the article’. He further argued that ‘this was because most directing staff had no competence to give an assessment on students’ writing so that what they could do was just to look at the format’.59 This remains the current state of affairs.60

On the students’ part, such a situation creates a presumption that the most important thing is to meet the designated deadline and to ensure that the work done meets the requirements of quantity and format. They are aware that their submitted work would not be evaluated in detail except in terms of quantity and format. Such an assumption has an impact on the way they complete any writing assignments as follows.

59 Confidential communication, emphasis added. This account in itself indicates a chronic problem in the school which has existed since its existence, that is, the absence of criteria in recruiting instructors in which requirements of competence have long been ignored. A similar situation also appears in other service command and staff colleges, particularly in the Army. See, Major General Syarifudin Tippe, Strategi Pembangunan TNI AD 25 Tahun ke Depan Ditinjau dari Perspektif Pendidikan, viewed 16 October 2009, p. 8, . 60 Confidential communication with an air force major, SESKOAU student of 2011. 230

First, those with scarce financial resources do the tasks themselves, usually by slightly modifying the assignments of previous students so that theirs looks original. At the time of writing, SESKOAU does not use academic plagiarism detection software which is capable of detecting plagiarised material. Some cases of plagiarism are generally found by chance.

That is why at the TNI higher joint staff and command college (SESKO TNI) which is designated for colonel-level students, participants are required to do assignments partly in handwriting.61 This is somewhat awkward especially to those from foreign countries because by handwriting a participant could simply commit plagiarism. Again, such a situation reflects the absence of research-based policy grounded on an accurate problem formulation. As well, it should be noted that this, the highest military staff college, is one of the requirements for promotion to one-star rank.

Although in a real sense most students might be capable of completing all tasks independently, the intense work load means that they simply have no time left for scholarly research to produce original ideas. To borrow the words of a foreign observer, McFetridge, ‘[t]here is a surprising lack of emphasis in some areas that would be considered basic in other staff colleges. Foremost among these is the disinterest in individual analysis and original professional writing. Formal writing requirements are few and the scope is generally limited.’62 As a result, the writing is also an idea that is treated perfunctorily, not involving sharp, logical, coherent or original analyses. A colonel, SESKOAU graduate of 2008, paraphrased a comment given by a foreign directing staff against such a circumstance. He said that ‘there was

61 Confidential communication with an Indonesian Army colonel. 62 McFetridge, Seskoad, p. 96. Emphasis added. 231

an interesting point to me given by my directing staff, a colonel from Australia. He said that almost all students’ works were rubbish. [His comment] was irritating but that was the reality in which every single problem was given similar answer [and treatment]... There was no critical thinking from students’.63

Yet, the issue of poor assignments is not the only case. Under such a condition, most students might not even understand what they have written.

Knowledge is viewed only as instantaneous information arranged to fulfil a formal requirement. This was also observed by a foreign analyst, John Bradford who interviewed some SESKO graduates.

Unrealistically high standards for assignments dealing with … subjects, coupled with a tradition of leniency with regards to plagiarism ensure that many students do not master even the basics of the material assigned …

TNI graduates from SESKO describe lengthy assignments which they had neither the understanding of the material nor the time necessary to complete. As a result, they report having either plagiarized the work of a previous student or paid individuals from outside of the school to complete it for them.64

Second, as written by Bradford above, another way is to pay individuals who have been familiar with the SESKOAU program. This is done by those who have more financial capability although their percentage is difficult to assess. When I attended SESKOAU in 2005, among the students there developed a well-known term, called ‘Pentium-12’. This term referred to the cost, approximately 12 million rupiahs (roughly equals to AUD 1,400), for paying the ‘services’ to complete all

63 Confidential communication with a colonel, SESKOAU graduate of 2008. 64 Bradford, The Indonesian Military As a Professional Organization, p. 16. Emphasis added. 232

assignments throughout the course. As a result, the baggage of those who used

‘Pentium-12’-based computer became much lighter and, thus, they could ‘work’ quicker than those who only used a computer with Intel Pentium-4 processor.

This practice seems to have persisted for a long time, although it is difficult to trace when it began. The service providers are usually some members of civilian staff who have been stationed at the school for a substantial period of time. They are usually staff in the agencies or departments administering students’ affairs. They have become so familiar with the characteristics of the assignment and how it is treated. With such experiences for many years, they also have a database of assignment collections from various years that might be far more complete than those possessed by students attending the course. In this way, to do an ‘order’ they simply modify the previous submitted assignment easily obtained from the existing database; clearly, this is similar to what is done by most students who complete assignments themselves. According to a colonel, this practice is easy to do because

‘the sort of problems given [in SESKOAU] every year is about the same; school lecturers are reluctant to create new ones’.65 Although formally banned by the institution, at the time of writing, such practices remain present.

In addition to assignments, students’ academic achievements are evaluated through an examination. The characteristic of examinations puts more emphasis on students’ ability to memorise information. Before the exam day, the students usually have had the ‘leakage’ of problems that will be on the test.66 In this way they are simply to prepare the corresponding answers, then memorise and pour them back in the answer sheet. Whilst for many every exam is just a formality that must be

65 Confidential communication with a colonel, SESKOAU graduate of 2008. 66 Interview 504-001 233

followed, the heavy burden of daily tasks allows them little time to fully master each subject matter. In this way, knowledge becomes merely temporary information that must be memorised before the exam day.

Theoretically, sitting an examination should serve as an objective way to assess students’ individual abilities because they have to do it themselves. However, this method is in fact not immune to any attempt of committing fraud.67 Although there are severe penalties for those who cheat, there remains the opportunity to do so.

Apparently this culture has long been entrenched so that this kind of unethical behaviour is no longer seen as an anomaly. An extreme example of this bad habit was found in the navy staff college when it involved a foreign student. A former member of directing staff at the navy staff college found such a practice committed, ironically, by a foreign student from an English-speaking country.

I was [ever] so angry. You could imagine if a foreign officer cheated ... That was offensive, an absolute abuse. Why? Because we also did, yes we did so. So the college was being undervalued. ... Foreigners usually never behaved that badly. ... But, yes, because the culture was like that, the environment was like that ... he simply followed that way. It’s so sad.68

Almost all subject matters have similar characteristics in the way they are evaluated. Also, as noted earlier, the completion of any tasks given also employs a uniform method for which each single problem is given similar treatment.

The ultimate objective of the institution as a place to ‘develop and enhance the ability of selected middle-ranking air force officers’ in the ‘management of air operations’ is reflected in the operational area of study which shares the highest

67 Confidential communication with a major, SESKOAU student of 2011. 68 Interview 504-001 234

percentage i.e. 37% or 693 hours of instruction (or teaching hours) of all curriculum content.69 Of this portion, 180 hours is allocated for Olah Yudha (literally ‘War

Game’ Exercise) including a single service and join operation whilst the remaining is shared for Air Power theory, Military Operation of War, Military Operation Other

Than War (MOOTW), command and control, and other service orientation.

However, it is worth remembering that whatever the material assigned, it would be completed using the treatment in which knowledge is viewed as momentary information formed without taking critical analysis into account.

The curriculum syllabus is full of subject matters that have ambitious goals to educate professional air force officers. However there are inconsistencies between the objectives to be attained and the means to achieve them. The perceived image as a place to educate professional officer expert in air operations planning is not reflected in the process of education. Whilst military theory is the core of most higher military colleges particularly in developed countries, this is not the case at

SESKOAU. This is reflected in the lack of intellectual curiosity of both students and instructors to expand their knowledge on air power. Classical theories about air power are never studied in depth. The classical theorists of air power such as Giulio

Douhet, Billy Mitchell, John Slessor, John Warden and others are known merely as the names in air power history, but the relevance of their ideas regarding air power has received neither an in-depth discussion nor study.70

The characteristic of the institution as a transitory place whose chief priority is to engage in a daily, relentless administrative trivia prevents instructors or directing staff from devoting most of their time to study air power in-depth, which

69 Which totally is 1980 hours of instruction. 70 Confidential communication with a major, student of SESKOAU 2011. 235

could be expected to be dispensed to the students as lessons learned. Although there were some seminars and discussions regarding several air campaigns throughout the history as part of the subject matter ‘Air Power’, it was only a repetition of the previous course without taking critical analysis into account, for example the relevance of its propositions to the Indonesia context. Predictably, such a method of learning had made the study of air power boring. Thus, air power at the very theoretical level is not fully captured. Simultaneously, the mental horizon of both students and instructors has long been imprisoned by a parochial way of thinking according to corps or branch from which they derive.71 This is partly because there exists long-standing conventional wisdom that air power along with its application, that is, air operation, is solely the main business of the flying-corps officers.

As regards student numbers, the percentage of participants from flying-corps officers accounts for an average of 23-28% per class yearly whilst the rest are from the non-flying branch. This means that the majority of participants derive from non- flying officers. In this way, the majority of participants actually have little enthusiasm for acquiring knowledge of air operations, at least for two reasons. First, this is a consequence of a long-standing parochial way of thinking for which they presume that this area is simply none of their business. Second, to many the main purpose of attending the course is more ‘to meet the formal requirements for their future career rather than to expand their knowledge’ intellectually.72 Thus, any air power-related subject matters are simply treated as information that lapses immediately after an examination or exercise.

71 Confidential communication with a major, student of SESKOAU 2011. 72 Confidential communication with a colonel, SESKOAU graduate of 2008. One participant of class 2011 also shows the same vein. 236

This is particularly apparent in the ‘War Game’ exercise, or Olah Yudha.

Although the ideal objective is to develop officers’ expertise in making estimates, in practice it functions as a means of staff procedures socialisation. According to a colonel, ‘the majority of non-flying officers [that means the majority of course participants] do not understand overall air operations, because students are charged with staff products made conventionally which wastes time and energy but have no relevant benefit... SESKOAU has been fully equipped with an [advanced] War Game

[facility], but unfortunately it is not utilised optimally’. According to him, this is because ‘its HR [human resources], [more specifically] the directing staff do not master how to operate [the facility] ... the majority of them are in transit to get a rank promotion, [and] not to teach.’73

The lack of knowledge of air operations results in a deficient understanding of air intelligence. In the air campaign there is a proposition that ‘in essence, air power is targeting, targeting is intelligence, and intelligence is analysing the effects of air operations.’74 Such a proposition seems to have been undeveloped in their perspectives on air power. One could speculate that this is because the subject matter of (air) intelligence is only a part of the field of study of ‘Strategic Environment’ which totally shares 16% (or 294 instruction hours) of the entire curriculum.

However, this is only half of the picture. As with other curriculum materials, the problem lies not in allocation of instruction hours, but lies otherwise in the process of education itself that gives no incentives for intellectual curiosity to expand knowledge. Similar to other subject matters, material provided for intelligence along with how to learn it has never moved far beyond the old fashion as had been for

73 Confidential communication with a colonel, emphasis added. 74 Philip S. Meilinger, 10 Propositions Regarding Air Power, Air Power Studies Centre paper no. 36, Air Force History Office, Washington DC, 1995, p. 20. 237

many years taught before. That is why knowledge of air intelligence has hardly developed. A respondent, who was a SESKOAU participant in 2011, said that

‘overseas, air operations have been moving towards another dimension, whilst here it remains only the same as it was, using the doctrine of 1970s ... C4ISR [Command,

Control, Communications, Computers, Intelligence, Surveillance and

Reconnaissance] is “new stuff” [strange] here, whereas I’ve heard this all [in

Australia] in 2000’.75

Air intelligence theory and its history are never traced and studied with a critical analysis to gain new knowledge on its contemporary relevance. Parallel with this is the parochial way of thinking that looks at air intelligence as the exclusive business of intelligence officers. By doing so, most participants feel disinterested in these related areas. This description in itself provides an explanation to Kusnadi

Kardi’s assertion in the media, as mentioned earlier in this chapter, that ‘at present

Indonesia has no expertise in air and sea intelligence’.

However, such an explanation is not yet complete. Simultaneously, the army model of intelligence imposed since the beginning of New Order era still has a great influence in the air force intelligence paradigm. A director at SESKOAU admitted that individual’s mindset regarding intelligence revolves around ‘personnel security’ rather than air intelligence in the appropriate sense. As mentioned earlier, the integration of the Indonesian Armed Forces in the early New Order had become the means for the internalisation of military political doctrine for the armed forces.

Inevitably, the air force intelligence paradigm also experienced an ‘army-isation’.

75 Confidential communication. In Australia, the acronym of C4ISR itself has appeared before 2000. See, for example, in Keith Thomas (ed.), The Revolution in Military Affairs. Warfare in the Information Age, Australian Defence Studies Center, University College, ADFA, Canberra, 1997. 238

The latter was done when ‘The Army Intelligence Doctrine’ produced by SESKOAD was taken into effect for the whole armed forces.

For over 40 years, Army Intelligence Doctrine — which was claimed to cover the whole armed forces intelligence — has been deeply entrenched in the air force intelligence paradigm. According to an air force colonel, who was one of the directors at SESKOAU, the intelligence paradigm in the Air Force has long followed a pattern focused heavily on ‘asset and personnel security’. As a consequence, up to now the orientation of air intelligence is not as ‘focused’ as it ought to be.76 Such views clearly reflect a paradox. Whilst on the one hand the Air Force already operates modern fighter jets such as the Sukhoi Su-30, on the other hand it has no air intelligence specialists as indicated by Kusnadi Kardi.

Up to this point, this chapter has elaborated the crisis in the higher TNI education by using Air Force Command and Staff College as a unit of analysis. It should be noted however that the selection of SESKOAU is largely based on a uniformity of the TNI education philosophy, Dwi Warna Purwa Cendekia Wusana, with its operational principles, Tri Sakti Viratama. The principle itself, as has been described in the previous chapter, was defined by the Army and then integrated into the entire military education system since the New Order authority came into power.

Hence, a question needs to be addressed. Can the educational crisis in SESKOAU shed some light to explain the environment in the Army Command and Staff College

(SESKOAD)?

Uniform principles and process of education seem to produce a unified outlook. The picture found in SESKOAU apparently also applies in the SESKOAD.

76 Interview 408-001 239

The following account that comes from an army colonel can be used as a ‘tiny window’ to look through the atmosphere of SESKOAD training. Universally, military theory is the essence of the curriculum of most higher military schools. Yet, this was not the case at SESKOAD. According to him,

... at the time we carried out the course in 2003[sic], there was no instruction on the subject matter of strategic thinkers such as namely Machiavelli, Jomini, Clausewitz and others. Indeed they did not exist. In fact, many also did not even have any idea about who they were nor what were their conceptions. Clausewitz, Jomini and Machiavelli are all unfamiliar...77

That account is part of his response concerning a draft of the Army

Operational Field Manual (Bujuklapops TNI AD) which once was being developed as one of the Army operational doctrines and which began to include Clausewitz’s thoughts on war. On the one hand, it appeared in the draft that Western military classical thoughts began to be internalised into the army outlook on war operation.

On the other hand, however, sceptical views against such Western ideas also emerged. He, himself gained a post graduate degree from the US, further admitted that ‘in the educational curriculum ... the Army educational institutions, up to the level of SESKOAD [command and staff college], Clausewitz’s thought on centre of gravity and decisive battle is strange...’. He further suggests that

it would become problematic if … our coming new doctrine which is presented in ‘Operational Field Manual Book’... is one that, in considerable extent, refers to Clausewitz's thoughts. Clearly, a knowledge gap emerged. This is because indeed no subjects on Clausewitz are ever taught. Certainly, for the officers trained in the West it would not be strange provided that the

77 An army colonel, SESKOAD graduate in 2004 (not 2003). 240

books on these philosophers probably become mandatory readings there, so that they are familiar with them. Yet, what to do for those who are not?78

The mindset of most army officers, especially those graduating from

SESKOAD who are rarely exposed by a culture of critical thinking and tend to rely on knowledge as information acquired through rote learning, were apparent when this draft of the manual was discussed. At such a level of doctrine, participants would be selected from SESKOAD graduates. Reportedly, most participants had difficulties in digesting any conceptions that demanded intellectual skills. This clearly suggests that the cognitive schema ingrained is more prepared to memorise information rather than to think critically.

In connection with the draft of the field operational manual the respondent above describes the prevalent mindset of most army officers. He writes that

this matter needs to be considered delicately by those who make that manual in order that this operational manual doesn’t look too hard for them to understand (some of the makers of this manual are reported to have carried out training in Western countries). As observed in some previous discussions, on average participants responded uniformly to that manual: tough! It’s not easy to understand what it means by the overall content! What that book demands! Moreover, it is made like an essay (unlike one that [manual] was usually jotted down into simple points, so it is easy to memorise).

This observation was consistent with that of Suryo Prabowo. He admitted that

the current system of education has only just been able to make its officers conform to an obedience and memorise various theoretical subject matters. Officers’ thought remains caged by adherence to the theory. As a result they have not had yet, and do not dare do, creativities, even challenge themselves

78 Confidential communication with an infantry Army Colonel, official in Kopassus. 241

for improvisation, and are unable to engender motivation to learn independently. Their capability in analysis remains shallow ... even so as regard their synthesis capability which actually is necessary but has never been accommodated in the education curriculum.79

To compare with the immediately previous account of the above army colonel, what Suryo Prabowo means by ‘theory’ is clearly not one that demands intellectual competence to understand it. Rather it is one that is ‘edible’ or practical to perform. It is not, for example, Clausewitz’s work but rather knowledge that is directive, normative, tactical or operational in nature. This can be found in various field manuals that are ‘jotted down’ into, or written to the point, take for example, the Indonesian Army’s ‘Guide Book on War Intelligence Conditioning’.80

Not only a matter of conceptual issues regarding the future vision of the army, but also historical lessons which could be drawn from the country’s experiences in military operations receive inadequate treatment. They were never learned in-depth. What is absent in the education process, to borrow McFetridge, is the ‘nonevent’. In 1983 McFetridge wrote ‘[e]ven now there are virtually no professional articles on the activities in East Timor, lessons learned from joint exercises, or case studies of previous successful or unsuccessful operations’.81 More than two decades later, the process of education at SESKOAD remains unchanged.

Until today, no official or semi-official Indonesian study of the military history of

Indonesia’s longest war (East Timor) has been done, nor any operational or tactical analyses. As regards lessons learned, this can be seen for example in counter

79 Prabowo, Mewujudkan Profesionalitas TNI AD, p. 52. Emphasis added. 80 Provided in Damien Kingsbury, Power Politics and the Indonesian Military, London, RoutledgeCurzon, 2003, p. 98-101. 81 McFetridge, Seskoad, p. 97. 242

insurgency (COIN) operations in Aceh. An officer, who completed the SESKOAD course in 2004, said

... clearly there was something wrong with the implementation of COIN [Counter Insurgency] strategy [in Aceh] ... [yet] rare was the evaluation of its ‘unsuccessfulness’, if we were not to call it ‘failure’, of the COIN strategy in Aceh which was learned in the education institution. Quite often, we were only taught technical-theoretical matters without adequate case studies, taking the failures and success into account of any operations conducted in the past.82

Thus, the intellectual activism that often characterises military staff colleges is largely absent at the SESKOAD. Virtually such a situation is no different from that in air force and naval staff colleges. The similarity is also particularly highlighted at the institutional level. This can be found, for example, as regards formal criteria for recruiting instructors. Syarifudin Tippe, himself was once the commander of

SESKOAD, asserts that ‘in reality the existing instructors in educational institutions

... are still questionable by highlighting their performance quality. At the SESKO level, requirement for teaching staff has not yet been made formal degree at the same level of bachelor degree (S1)’.83

So far, this chapter has shown that up to the highest level, the TNI officer education process was undergoing a crisis. The military professional knowledge acquisition process in its real sense moves apart from the stated institutional goals.

The existing paradigm is clearly a continuance of what has prevailed in the military academy before, in which knowledge is viewed as instant information. The education

82 Confidential communication 83 Tippe, Strategi Pembangunan TNI AD, p. 8. 243

process simply becomes administrative routines to meet formal career requirement rather than a ‘battle of minds’ arena to explore new ideas.

In the context SESKOAU, although the institution declares its existence as a centre of excellence to work out the problems relating to 'the air space defence of the country', the education paradigm virtually denies such a claim. The thoughts produced were simply imitations of what had been in existence before. In this way,

SESKOAU moves away from its ultimate goals in producing air force officers capable of thinking analytically, originally and accurately in order to manage air power in the context of Indonesia.

According to Huntington, unlike other technical skills or crafts which can be

‘mastered by learning an existing technique without reference to what has gone before’, professional knowledge must be ‘intellectual in nature and capable of preservation in writing’ and be built upon its own history.84 In short, professional knowledge has to enlarge one’s mental horizon in which reading written histories becomes the backbone of the process. Of course, such a situation is easy to find in developed countries, such as in Australia with which TNI has long had a good cooperation in officer education.

In the Australian Army for example, the chief of the army launched the Chief of Army’s Reading List. Predictably, this list seemed to target all army members, not only those who attended a particular school program such as a command and staff college which, of course, has its own focused reading materials throughout its program. The philosophical rationale in promulgating such a list and encouraging all soldiers to read is described aptly by Hopkins.

84 Huntington, The Soldier and the State, p. 8. 244

The nature of the Army, the Defence Forces, the Australian strategic situation and the international security environment have undergone significant change … The realisation that personnel need the ability to make strategically aware decisions in the heat of battle, often in complex and unfamiliar cultural environments characterised by uncertainty and fluidity, has come to the fore with the future operational concepts Complex Warfighting and Adaptive Campaigning. Reading enables soldiers to make better snap decisions under pressure; reading widely and deeply broadens the soldiers’ context – it is educational. This is the principal motive for the Chief of Army’s drive to enhance the educational abilities of the Australian Army.85

Aware that teaching history has become a crucial part in shaping soldiers’ ability to make judgments, the Australian Army also encourages research in history by providing conferences, grants and prizes. The Australian Army History Unit

(AAHU), for example, provides annual grants for research into the historical role and involvement of the Australian Army in any war it has been involved in. The grants are awarded by the Army after academic assessment.86 AAHU also holds an annual international conference on military history.87

However, as the whole chapter indicates, this is not the case in the TNI context. Although TNI does have a centre of history, its function has been to indoctrinate and control its own self-perceived history that relies on dogma and rhetoric. The ‘real’ history of its past has never received serious attention in order to

‘develop the ability to analyse cause and effect, understand complex processes, comprehend the interdependence of diverse phenomena and explain to others the

85 Scott Hopkins, ‘Reading: The Military Profession and the Course of History’, Australian Army Journal, Vol. IV, No. 3, Summer, 2007, p. 94. Italic in the original. 86 Australian Army History Unit, ‘Grants’, viewed 19 December 2011, . 87 Australian Army History Unit, ‘Chief of Army History Conference’, viewed 19 December 2011, . 245

nature of problems’.88 The absence of perceptive history in Indonesia’s 24-year military operations in East Timor provided by the TNI’s Centre of History is the case.

Unlike in the Australian Army where reading (the history) is considered to

‘enable soldiers to make better snap decisions under pressure’, in the TNI education context, physical and mental hazing seem to be used to prepare soldiers to do the same. As this chapter showed, officers’ mental horizon seems to have been stultified, ironically by their training paradigm. Unfortunately, this has been shaped since their initial education particularly in the academy and is then reinforced in subsequent stages of training and education that consistently imposes a uniform outlook.

The result of such an educational paradigm is a reliance on transferring information rather than acquiring knowledge drawn on critical thinking and problem solving propelled by intellectual competence. It is reflected in the lack of ability of most officers to engage in critical thinking and analysis. The symptom of most TNI officers’ lacking ability in critical and analytical thinking is notable. According to an

Indonesian army general, ‘we [military] are unable to analyse the task, one that is mandated by the law’.89 While such a statement is undoubtedly accurate, it needs further examination in order to capture its real sense.

Undoubtedly, in this context, what that high-ranking army officer meant by the law refers to Law 34/2004 on the TNI which is currently in force. The law itself constitutes a reflection of the mindset in how the TNI’s thinkers formulated a vision

88 Hugh Smith, The Education of future military leaders, in Hugh Smith (ed.), Preparing Future Leaders. Officer Education and Training for the Twenty-first Century, Canberra, Austrian Defence Studies Centre, 1998, p.149. 89 Interview 429-002 246

whereby they themselves become stakeholders. In Chapter Two of Law 34/2004,

TNI defines ‘Professional Military’ as

the military that is trained, educated, armed and well equipped, not being involved in practical politics, business, and its welfare is guaranteed along with following national political policies which adhere to democratic principles, civilian supremacy, basic human rights, national legal stipulations and international legal stipulations already ratified.

When any soldier, especially an officer, is randomly chosen and asked about the TNI professionalism, it is highly likely that he will answer normatively in the similar vein as one said by the Minister of Defence,

essentially, the [definition of] professionalism of TNI is clear, one that is conceived in the Law. There are seven points in there: ... educated, trained, not being involved in business and [practical] politics, adheres to state political etc.... I suppose this all is to be adhered to.90

Although the Minister of Defence is a civilian, such a statement virtually reflects the official view of the whole TNI membership. It should be noted however, the majority of important posts in the Ministry of Defence itself are held by active military officers.91 Of the strategic or important positions in the Ministry of Defence, active-duty army officers occupy a significant proportion of the strategic positions of the institution, most notably, the Directorate General of Defence Strategy.92

Undoubtedly, these officers were the product of the TNI educational system such as command and staff colleges as discussed earlier in this chapter.

90 Interview with the Minister of Defence, Purnomo Yusgiantoro, Jakarta 12 April 2010. 91 Indonesian Ministry of Defence, ‘Organisasi’, viewed 2 January 2012, available at < http://www.dephan.go.id/index.php> 92 Direktorat Jenderal Strategi Pertahanan Kementerian Pertahanan Republik Indonesia, ‘Struktur Organisasi Pimpinan Strahan’, viewed 2 January 2012, available at 247

With such an arrangement, the Army’s hegemony is well preserved.

Therefore, the Ministry of Defence, ‘for its part, did not establish meaningful mechanism of civilian democratic control either. Despite its separation from the TNI headquarters in 1999, the department’s upper echelons [remain] largely controlled by active military officers, leading to the popular joke that there were only two civilians in the ministry the minister and his chauffeur’.93 In this way, almost all defence policies were largely products of military thinkers although the institution is a state civil body.

Few would dispute, as stipulated in the Law, that a professional soldier needs to be educated and trained well. This principle applies to all militaries around the world. However, both Chapter Four and this chapter indicate that TNI thinkers have been unable to formulate and transform ideas into practice as to what good professional education really means and how it should be pursued. The officer education even simply signifies a crisis of professionalism. It constitutes a ‘small window’ through which the broader professional crises can be looked at. In this regard, TNI thinkers are generally not only unable to formulate an objective precisely, but also no longer capable of setting up accurately what would be achieved with the sets of pursuits they devise to attain that objective. In this way, they tend to be reductionist in the sense that they are easily prone to simplify or avoid real, complex problems. To justify their lack of thinking, they are predisposed to preserve what has already existed and long held to have been correct although it is not fully understood.

93 Mietzner, Military Politics, p.366. 248

Given that the focus of military tasks and functions under the law of TNI is

‘in the field of national defence’94, it is therefore necessary to look at, prima facie, the mindset of thinking in how the TNI’s thinkers formulated Indonesia’s defence outlook. It should be noted that the more crucial issue that needs to be addressed here is the crisis of professionalism as stated recently above, not the relevance of that outlook in Indonesia context.

In the Defence White Paper of 1995, the Indonesian defence outlook was derived from the protracted guerrilla war based on the army’s experience in the national struggle for independence between 1945 and 1949. It was called the concept of People’s Total Defence System (Sistem Pertahanan Rakyat Semesta, abbreviated

Sishankamrata), as stipulated in the White Paper that in order

to prevent war, the philosophy pursued by Indonesia to deter a would-be aggressor is based, not on the size of the military forces it can deploy, but on a high level of assurance that any belligerence against Indonesia will be met by resistance of the whole Indonesian people and thus the aggressor’s aims will never be achieved.95

Meanwhile Defence White Paper 2003 which was given a title Indonesia:

Defending The Country Entering the 21st Century stated that ‘[t]he essence of

Defence is an all encompassing defensive effort (total defence)’.96 Regarding the purpose of a territorial defence system, this white paper firmly stated that

In the context of the implementation of Defence, territory includes the region of the country, population, sources of natural and man-made wealth, other

94 Law No.34/2004 concerning the Indonesian Military (TNI), Chapter IV, Article 5. 95 Cited in Sebastian, Realpolitik Ideology, p. 178. Emphasis added. 96 Department of Defence Republic of Indonesia, Indonesia: Defending the Country Entering the 21st Century, Department of Defence Republic of Indonesia, Jakarta, 2003, p. 12 249

means and infrastructure ass [sic] well as the social condition of the people. …

The territorial organisation of the TNI is currently still relevant and is continuously perfected in accordance with the environmental development and the task demanded by Defence requirement.97

To achieve this, the army formulated the concepts of ‘Container (Ruang),

Means (Alat), and Condition (Kondisi)’ to support ‘The State of Struggle’

(Kejuangan, abbreviated Juang) needed to oppose any aggressor in Indonesian territory. In Indonesian Army acronym, this is renowned as RAK Juang.98 In theoretical extent, this RAK Juang has to be consistently conditioned to support any future possible territorial warfare. In this sense, territorial warfare is defined as ‘a form of warfare which is total in nature. It utilises all national forces in a total fashion, but emphasizes military force’.99 The Army territorial structure, namely stretching from the Regional Military Command (Kodam) down to the village non- commissioned officers (Bintara Pembina Desa, Babinsa), has the chief task to condition and manage this RAK Juang through what was so-called ‘Territorial

Conditioning’ (Pembinaan Teritorial, abbreviated Binter). During the New Order era, this territorial conditioning was facilitated and supported by the dwifungsi doctrine that embraced all socio-political aspects. For decades, the People’s Total

Defence system had been justified based on the following rational.

When confronted with very limited state budget in defence sector development, it can therefore be stated that the state has not yet been able to provide an ideal defence posture in both the short and long terms. In this way,

97 Ibid., p. 62. 98 R is for Ruang (Container), A is for Alat (Means), and K is for Kondisi (Condition). 99 Sebastian, Realpolitik Ideology, p. 182. 250

the implementation of a conventional defence model to defend maritime and air space from any possible traditional invasion is inappropriate in the meantime, because in order to provide such a conventional defence it will need navy and air force support at a considerable level. Meanwhile, today’s state financial condition has not yet enabled it to build such a credible navy and air force.100

In the post-New Order era, following the dissolution of dwifungsi doctrine, terminologies related to defence policy were altered to more benign language. It seems to avoid the army’s socio-political taste of its defence and strategic outlook although the essence remains the same. The People’s Total Defence is replaced with

‘Total Defence’, no longer using the word ‘people’. Also, in many respects, the

Army avoids use of ‘territorial conditioning’. Instead, this phrase is frequently replaced with ‘territorial empowerment’.101

In a similar vein with both the defence white papers of 1995 and 2003, the

Law 34/2004 mentioned that

The National Defence System is a defence system which totally involves all citizens, territory and other national resources, along with early preparation by government in total spread, integrated, directed, continuous and extended to uphold national sovereignty, defend territorial integrity of the Unitary State of Republic Indonesia and protect the safe of people from every threat.102

This national defence outlook seems to have been elaborated further in the

Indonesian Defence White Paper 2008. It should be noted here that, just like the

100 Kodiklat TNI AD, KODAM Sebagai Kompartemen Strategis Pertahanan (Sistem Pertahanan Semesta), Jakarta, Mabes TNI AD, 2003, pp. 22-3. Emphasis added 101 Major General , Pembinaan Teritorial TNI AD: Justifikasi, Implementasi dan Fisibilitas, Seminar Nasional Pemberdayaan Wilayah Pertahanan Melalui Binter, , 26 February 2009, viewed 5 May 2011, . 102 Law of 34/2004 on Indonesian Military (TNI), Chapter I, Article 1. 251

SESKOAU website mentioned earlier, I encountered difficulty in translating literally the Indonesian version of the following quote into English language since it was written in flowery language, and in many ways, was illogical as well as long-winded.

State defence is essentially all defence effort which is total in character, based on the rights and obligations of the citizens as well as the conviction of self- strength to defend the life of Indonesian state and nation. The totality conceives a meaning that it involves people and the whole national resources …

The defence endeavour which is total in nature is a model that is developed based on strategic considerations not because of the rationale based on an inability to build modern defence. Although Indonesia has reached a sufficient high level of advancement, this model remains worth developing by placing citizens as subjects according to their own unique roles.

The state defence which is total in nature is characterised by kerakyatan [populist principles], totality, and regional [areal] system. Characteristic of people-ness has a meaning that defence orientation is dedicated to and devoted from the whole people. Characteristic of totality means that all national resources are empowered for defence endeavour. Characteristic of regional system constitutes defence force deployment scattered throughout the Unitary State of Republic Indonesia’s territory according to geographical condition as a defence unity.103

Surprisingly, like never before, the state’s financial inability to build a conventional defence force no longer became a justification to preserve and promote the total defence system, and interestingly no other alternative rationale was used in above formulation. Whether or not the successive defence policies were relevant and

103 Departemen Pertahanan Republik Indonesia, Buku Putih Pertahanan Indonesia 2008, Departemen Pertahanan Republik Indonesia, Jakarta, 2008, p. 43. Emphasis added. 252

matched with the Indonesian context is of course out of the scope of this thesis.

Rather, in this regard, what I would argue is that the TNI’s thinkers might have not even understood what they had formulated and how to transform it into reality. In other words, they might be ignorant of, or confused by, what they thought and envisaged. As a result, what was really produced in the defence policy outlook sounds more as (political) rhetoric than precise problem formulation. Through such a rhetoric, the military thinkers seem to justify what has already existed. This explains why in the post-New Order era the Army even established new Regional Military

Commands (Kodam) in the midst of civil society’s attempts to reform army territorial structure.

As stated earlier, to a theoretical extent, early preparation for the total defence is then translated especially by the Army from which the core thinkers of state defence policy came from into ‘territorial conditioning’ or ‘territorial empowerment’ in order to achieve a suitable level of the so-called ‘Container,

Means, and Condition of struggle’ (or RAK Juang) in the total defence system.

However, the excerpt below which came from Major General (ret’d) Sudrajat’s paper, himself a former Director General for Defence Strategy of the Ministry of

Defence indicates that defence thinkers did not even fully comprehend what they had conceived.

Philosophically this territorial conditioning is understandable, but how to implement this so that the RAK Juang is attainable remains questionable for us. This proved to be true from the intention to conduct territorial

253

conditioning during the New Order era, especially from 1965 to 1998. The imagined RAK Juang was unattainable. The reality was even contradictory.104

In other part of his paper, he made reflective questions, indicating the Army’s lacked understanding for decades about its own conception.

What should the state of struggle be like? What we need of the state of struggle must have a concrete elaboration. What is that state of struggle? … What constitutes the TNI’s domain has to be detailed further … For the TNI, it is to help educate people for their consciousness in defending the state. The trigger begins by including subject matter of state defence in formal education curriculum from primary to high school, and if necessary, up to tertiary education …

TNI’s approach … to the Department of Education to incorporate such a curriculum is urgent and constitutes an immediate need. [For this], TNI has to be prepared to supply instructors. TNI teaches at schools about defending the state by practical and interesting methods. Not only by in-class lecture but also by practical basic military disciplines such as marching, beside other defence-related knowledge.105

The quote above simply shows a reductionist view that reduces a very complex problem to mechanistic matters. While the idea to include defence-related subject matter in national school curriculum is understandable and of course debatable, it sounds clumsy given that within the TNI itself, the officer education is still experiencing paradigmatic problems. As we have seen, the TNI officer education failed to provide good education to produce defence experts to which the TNI has always claimed as the main component of defence. Perhaps, TNI’s thinkers themselves might have not even understood what ‘defence curriculum’ will look like,

104 Sudrajat, Pembinaan Teritorial TNI AD, p. 1. 105 Ibid, p. 9. Emphasis added 254

except inculcating a ‘militaristic culture curriculum’. Thus, were such a defence- related subject matter to be included into public school curriculum, it might become a means for militaristic-patriotic indoctrination such as occurred during the New

Order era. In turn, it might lead young generations to develop a kind of ‘fascist’ character.

Apart from this, to meet the state defence outlook, TNI is now looking to modernise weapons systems. All efforts to achieve this are covered by a concept known as the Minimum Essential Force (MEF). In general, according to the minister of defence at the time, Juwono Sudarsono, this concept

deals specifically with providing Indonesia with the forces and capabilities of the tri-services to execute their range of missions, in accordance with the Indonesia[n] doctrine of total defence … It seeks to ensure that Indonesia develop sustainable and interoperable forces, which can function even with limited or scarce budgetary resources.106

In other words, MEF refers to ‘the number, scale and nature of operational readiness and force structure that the country as a whole should at a minimum be able to deploy.’ To meet this, TNI planners must provide, to borrow from Sudarsono, ‘both a detailed determination of an integrated tri-service force ... requirements and the setting of implementation targets to fulfill those requirements … [as well as] a means to assess the degree to which planning targets are being met’.107 However, when asked about what precise methods were used in formulating the MEF, an air force officer involved in air force planning revealed that

106 Juwono Sudarsono, ‘Indonesia’s Defense Planning and Management’, viewed 9 January 2012, . Emphasis added. 107 Ibid. 255

I didn’t see any precise calculations on that [MEF] … Were we to plan to build [defence structure], then it should be planned simultaneously [or in a synchronised manner], shouldn’t it? … This was what I did not see’.108

An army colonel, himself a former official at the Directorate General for

Defence Strategy of the Ministry of Defence, described the lack of understanding of many of the military’s thinkers concerning the MEF. He suggested that

Actually, about the meaning of MEF, only few understand it. I know that! … Up to now when discussing about that [MEF], they tend to turn away from that topic, [they felt it’s] too hard, thus they evaded talking about that in order to avoid an impression that they know nothing. That’s the point. Believe me!

... If this [concept] were to be laughed at by people, no blame should go to the Minister. Just allocate that blame to us [the military planners]!109

The description above in part verifies the army ’s observation stated earlier. That is that the TNI’s thinkers themselves are unable to analyse the TNI’ main task. It, in itself, reflects the outcome of officer education systems from which the TNI professionalisation begins. Of course, to be modern and professional, a military organisation would inevitably need adequate defence budget.

This applies universally to military around the world. However, this chapter has shown that for the TNI, the ultimate factor that hampers its professionalisation lies mainly in the officers’ mind-set of thinking. Indeed whilst budget is important, it constitutes a secondary factor.

Chapter Four and this chapter have shown that the TNI officer education not only fails to improve and professionalise the officers’ mindset, but also produces a

108 Interview 430-003 109 Interview 414-001, 427-002 256

tendency to condone unethical conduct which, among others, found its expression in a culture of impunity. This will be examined in the next chapter.

257

Chapter Six

MILITARY (IN)DISCIPLINE AND IMPUNITY

It is worth recounting Huntington’s view that ‘the peculiar skill of officer is the management of violence not the act of violence itself’. This so-called management of violence has to operate, to borrow Huntington, ‘under prescribed conditions’.1 Indeed, when this relates to armed conflict, all forms of violent conduct have to comply with humanitarian law. In other words, it has to be compliant with the international law of armed conflict (LOAC) to which a country like Indonesia is subject. The aim of this chapter is to describe and explain that TNI’s violation of the international law of armed conflict that leads to impunity, which has become another barrier to its professionalisation.

Chapter Four and Chapter Five have examined the educational paradigm for the Indonesian military officers. The education process for the officer corps clearly signifies an obstacle for professionalisation of the TNI. As we have seen in those chapters, the educational paradigm has simply produced a chronic professional crisis.

Almost all learning materials were learned perfunctorily without real understanding of them. Predictably, this also applies to subject matter related to international humanitarian law. Like other subject matters, predictably the LOAC was studied perfunctorily, without the accompaniment of adequate case studies. This was the case even in the highest Indonesian military school, that is the SESKO TNI. In such schools humanitarian law was taught without adequate case studies, indicating another irony provided that for 24 years the TNI had been involved in the East Timor

1 Huntington, The Soldier and the State, p. 13. conflict. A senior colonel even admitted that he learned the LOAC in a more serious manner whilst he was in preparatory course for a defence college in Australia.2

Indonesia has been a party to the Geneva Conventions of 1949 since 19583. A year earlier, the National Military Academy (Akademi Militer Nasional, AMN) was reopened, and since then, the education curriculum has always included subject matter of the law of armed conflict (Hukum Perang). In the academic year of 1958-

1959 for example, the AMN Training Curriculum clearly stipulated that the objective of supplying this subject matter is that after graduating from the academy, officers

‘have to refer to those principles [conceived in the law of armed conflict] in exercising their tasks’.4 Thus, it was hoped that all TNI officers would comply with the LOAC in the conduct of military operations for any possible future conflicts they might encounter. The military academy curriculum has also included Indonesia’s

Criminal Code (Kitab Undang-Undang Hukum Pidana, KUHP) which as citizens the

TNI soldiers also have to respect.5

The military academy curriculum of 1957, for example, was signed by Major

General A.H. Nasution in his capacity as the chief of the Indonesian Army at that time.6 Thus, even before Indonesia became a party to the Geneva Conventions, the subject matter of LOAC was included in the military academy curriculum. A possible explanation is that this is because Nasution was a ‘legalist’ officer. He had been exposed for a long time to Dutch influences in his education and career as a

2 Unrecorded conversation with two Indonesian colonels, students of College of Defence and Strategic Studies (CDSS), Canberra, 5 October 2011. A preparatory course of this kind of college is held at Defence International Training Centre (DITC), Laverton, Victoria. 3 Rule of Law in Armed Conflicts (RULAC) Project, ‘Indonesia’, accessed 4 October 2011, . 4 The Curriculum of National Military Academy (Kurikulum Pendidikan AMN Angkatan V), Academic Year 1958-1959, p. 12. 5 See, for example, the Military Academy curriculum 1985 onward. 6 The AMN curriculum for the academic year of 1957-1958 was signed on 31 December 1956. Copy of this curriculum is on the author’s possession. 259

KNIL officer. According to Sundhaussen, ‘[e]ven in the stormiest days of the

Republic Nasution had never violated this principle’ in that ‘the Army was subordinated to the government’ under the law and the constitution.7

While the education fails to give enlightenment through knowledge construction, its paradigm produces symptoms of character paralysis in the form of unethical tendencies. Ironically, such unethical behaviour is simply condoned and normalised as a natural behaviour, not as an anomaly. Violations against discipline as long as it is unobservable or deniable is regarded normal. As mentioned in Chapter

Four, a colonel suggested that officer education nuance simply inculcated unethical consciousness: ‘you can cheat as long as it’s unobservable’. In the regular army, such an unethical symptom was indicated, for example, in the military court proceedings of a trial of TNI soldiers committing unlawful torture against West Papuan men. A judge of military court reprimanded this soldier more because of his ignorance that caused his actions to be made known public than the unlawful brutality itself.8

However, such a description is not quite complete. The whole portrait of

‘systematic’ military indiscipline should be further examined to see it as a historical

‘process and record’9. In this context, it is then worth recounting the historical process and record of Indonesian military indiscipline in East Timor. It should be noted however that this chapter is not about the conflict in East Timor itself. Rather, it is about the military (in)discipline and impunity. The East Timor case is particularly worth examining for two main reasons. First, East Timor was the longest international armed conflict that the Indonesian military had been involved in, which took place for 24 years. Second, that period of occupation became a lengthy fertile

7 Sundhaussen, The Road To Power, pp. 95-6. 8 See Chapter Four. 9 To borrow Lambert, ‘History as Process and Record’. See Chapter Five, note 2. 260 ground for the development of military culture of impunity that impedes its professionalisation. To gain general insight into the pattern of grave breaches against the LOAC, the report of the Commission for Reception, Truth and Reconciliation, known by its Portuguese initials CAVR (Comissão de Acolhimento, Verdade e

Reconciliação)10, will be largely used as the main source of events and statistical data. The official report produced by CAVR, known Chega!, has been the most extensive attempt to investigate the crimes against humanity during the East Timor conflict. It consists of more than 2,500 pages long, while its Executive Summary is about 200 pages long.

Indonesia invaded East Timor on 7 December 1975. In response to the invasion, the UN General Assembly (UNGA) on 12 December 1975 passed resolution 3485 condemning the aggression and requiring the Indonesian government to respect the rights of the people of East Timor to self-determination.11 The ignored it. Instead, a few days later the Indonesian government established a provisional government in East Timor. On 22 December

1975 the UN Security Council (UNSC) adopted resolution 384 that called upon the

Indonesian government ‘to withdraw without delay all its forces from the

Territory’.12 However, for a number of reasons, this resolution was also ignored by

Indonesia.13

In accordance with the UNSC resolution 384, the UN Secretary General sent a representative to conduct an ‘on-the-spot assessment’ of the post invasion situation

10 The CAVR was established by the UN Transitional Administration in East Timor in 2001 as an independent statutory authority whose mandate was to investigate human rights abuse by all sides involved in East Timor conflict between April 1974 and October 1999. The Chega! is available at . 11 United Nations General Assembly Resolution 3485 (XXX), 12 December 1975. 12 United Nations Security Council Resolution 384, 22 December 1975. 13 Cambridge International Document Series Vol. 10, East Timor and The International Community: Basic Documents, Cambridge University Press, Cambridge, 1997, pp. 53-63. 261 of East Timor. The report found that the facts were contradictory to the Indonesian government assertions that all was well. After a serial of debates on this report, on 22

April 1976 the UNSC adopted resolution 389 which again called upon ‘the

Government of Indonesia to withdraw without further delay all forces from the

Territory’.14 The government of Indonesia again ignored this resolution. Instead, notwithstanding this resolution, on 17 July 1976 after gaining the Indonesian

Parliament’s approval, President Suharto signed the bill for the integration of East

Timor into the Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia as its 27th province. Since then, the Indonesian government considered that the decolonisation process was completed and that all matters regarding East Timor had become internal affairs of the Republic of Indonesia.15 Indonesia then occupied East Timor for the next 24 years until Indonesian forces withdrew in September 1999. East Timor gained independence in 2002 after a period of UN administration.

Military (In)discipline: Violation of the International Humanitarian Law in East Timor 1975-1999

From the perspective of military expertise, the invasion itself simply demonstrated poor operational planning and a lack of discipline of the Indonesian troops. This was admitted by Major General Benny Moerdani, who said, ‘for a long time the shortcomings of this operation in Dili have plagued my mind’. In

Moerdani’s words, ‘These troops had no discipline at all. They shot one another…

14 Ibid., p. 93. 15 Department of Foreign Affairs Republic of Indonesia, Process of Decolonization in East Timor, Department of Information, Jakarta, 1976, p. 40. 262 overall it was embarrassing ... From a military viewpoint, we cannot feel very proud of this operation’.16

[T]he operational planning for the liberation of Dili [proved to be] less than professional. The great numbers of troops deployed, drawn from differing services and various types of military units, was proof in itself that it would be inherently difficult to coordinate.17

An example is worth mentioning to put this shortcoming in perspective:

Earlier, just before 6.00am, nine C-130B Hercules airplanes had flown over Dili and dropped the first contingent of from the Secret Warfare Command (Group 1) and Kostrad (Yonif 501). Poor intelligence caused these to be dropped directly over the town, a landing ground full of hazards. Most of these troops landed in the north-eastern part of Dili. Some of the paratroopers came under fire from Fretilin/Falintil forces while still in the air; others were injured or died as they landed among buildings and power lines. One aircraft dropped its load of paratroops into the sea, where they drowned, and another load landed behind Fretilin lines. A second drop shortly before 8.00am resulted in ABRI units fighting each other in confusion.18

However, this description does not completely explain the lack of Indonesian military discipline which brought about fatalities on its own part. After the invasion,

East Timor became an ‘occupied territory’.19 As we shall see later, the Indonesian military indiscipline had further produced crimes against humanity during the 24 year-occupation period. As the primary attention of this chapter is to examine the

‘normalised’ culture of indiscipline that gave birth a culture of impunity, and not the conflict itself, therefore, for analysis purposes, the date of invasion is made as the

16 Julius Pour, Benny Moerdani: Profile of A Soldier Statesman (translated by Tim Scott), Jakarta, Yayasan Kejuangan Panglima Besar Sudirman, 1993, pp. 334-6. 17 Ibid., pp. 333-4. 18 CAVR, Chega!, Part 3, para 236, p. 63. 19 CAVR, Chega!, Part 2, para 188-9, p. 37. 263 reference datum to carry out analysis, despite the fact that since the middle of

September 1975 transborder attacks had been carried out by the Indonesian troops.

The Indonesian invasion which was followed by a 24 year occupation had made the East Timor conflict an international dispute. In this way, the conflict is subject to international law. The body of law applicable to the conduct of armed conflict in East Timor is also ‘known by several names including the Law of War, the Law of Armed Conflict, and International Humanitarian Law (IHL) ... which may largely be used interchangeably’.20 It includes conventions of the Hague, Geneva and other international customary law of armed conflict.

The international legal principles relevant to the East Timor conflict were mostly Geneva Conventions to which Indonesia is a party and other customary law of armed conflicts, especially those related to the treatment of civilians. Both the

Indonesian armed forces and Fretilin/Falintil were subject to these legal principles.

Indeed, the ‘Four [1949 Geneva] conventions [and with their additional 1977 protocols] are considered customary international law. This means even if a particular nation has not ratified the treaties, that nation is still bound by the principles within each of the four treaties because they are merely a reflection of customary law that all nation states are already bound by’.21

Grave breaches of the Geneva Conventions were carried out by the

Indonesian military with its auxiliaries and by the resistance movement. These include, but are not limited to: wilful killing, torture or inhuman treatment, wilfully causing great suffering or serious injury to body and health, extensive destruction and appropriation of property not justified by military necessity and carried out

20 Keith E. Puls (ed.), Law of War Handbook, The Judge Advocate General’s Legal Center and School, US Army, Charlottesville, 2005, p. ii. 21 Ibid., p. 14. 264 unlawfully and wantonly, compelling a prisoner of war or a civilian to serve in the forces of a hostile power, wilfully depriving a prisoner of war or a civilian of the rights of fair and regular trial, unlawful deportation or transfer or unlawful confinement of a civilian, and taking civilians as hostages.22

Meanwhile, fundamental principles of customary law of armed conflict regarding the use of force in resolving conflict, state that

1. Such force should only be used as is necessary for achieving a legitimate military objective (the principle of military necessity).

2. All actions taken must be in accordance with principles of humanity.

3. Attacks must only be carried out against military targets, and in such a way as to minimise harm to civilians and civilian objects. Attacks must never be intentionally directed at civilians or civilian objects (the principle of distinction).

4. Where an attack may cause some incidental civilian casualties, the attack is only permitted if the harm to civilians and civilian objects is not excessive in relation to the military advantage to be gained (the principle of proportionality).23

Grave violations against the customary law of war, among others are: murder and enforced disappearance, torture, sexual violence, enslavement, imprisonment

(arbitrary arrest and detention), plunder of public or private property, employing weapons or methods of warfare which cause superfluous injury or unnecessary suffering or which are inherently indiscriminate, intentionally using starvation of

22 CAVR, Chega!, Part 2, para 199, p. 40. 23 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 24, p. 5. See also APV Rogers, Law on the Battlefield (2nd edn.), Manchester University Press, Manchester, 2004, pp. 3-23. 265 civilians as a method of warfare by depriving them of objects indispensable to their survival, including wilfully impeding relief supplies.24

Against these international humanitarian and customary laws, breaches were committed by both Indonesian military and its auxiliaries and the Fretilin/Falintil forces despite there being variation in characteristic and scale. However, the responsibility for violations of the law of war ‘cannot be equated’ between the

Indonesian military (ABRI/TNI) and resistance forces. This is because the

Indonesian military forces and their surrogate groups were ‘clearly the primary perpetrator’ for ‘widespread and systematic violations of the law of war ... during the invasion of Timor-Leste and the subsequent years of occupation, including a programme of intimidation, violence and destruction related to the Popular

Consultation in 1999’. Indeed, Fretilin/Falintil also violated the law, causing the deaths and suffers among the East Timorese civilian population. However, ‘the total violations of Fretilin/Falintil constituted only a minor proportion of the total violations’.25

The CAVR concluded that the minimum figure for the number of conflict- related death was 102,800 (+/- 12,000). This figure consists of an estimation of

18,600 total killings (+/- 1000), while the remaining of 84,200 (+/- 11,000) death toll due to hunger and illness resulting from the conflict.26 It should be noted however that this estimation included the year of 1974 in addition to the 24 years of

Indonesian occupation from 1975 to 1999. CAVR noted that during Indonesian occupation, ‘just over 70%’ of the conflict-related unlawful killings and disappearances ‘were attributed to the Indonesian military and police and East

24 CAVR, Chega!, Part 2, para 200, p. 40-1. 25 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 5, p. 2. 26 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 44. 266

Timorese auxiliaries, acting alone or jointly’. During this period, Fretilin/Falintil also committed similar crimes against humanity. CAVR concluded that ‘less than one- third, 29%, of all unlawful killings and disappearances ... were committed by forces affiliated with the resistance movement’. Human perspectives on these statistics will be explained below. However, the grave violation against humanity perpetrated by the resistance movement will not be explained since the focus is to understand the

TNI (in)discipline that leads to its impunity.

Violations of the LOAC had commenced on the day of invasion on 7

December 1975. Within just a few days of the invasion, unlawful executions were done by the Indonesian military. Within three days of the invasion, in Dili hundreds of civilian (unarmed) people had been killed, probably including an Australian journalist.27 This slaughter seemed to be in part ‘in revenge for deaths of Indonesian soldiers’.28 The killings of mass unarmed or civilian people were normally done by a similar pattern. The Indonesian troops gathered civilians suspected to have a connection with the resistance movement. On many occasions, women as part of family members suspected to be close relatives to Fretilin were also executed.

Among those was Isabel Barreto, the wife of Fretilin leader Nicolau Lobato.29 After separating them from the women, men suspected of being connected to the resistance movement were ordered to take up formation before being killed in rows.30 Without fair trial, the men were summarily shot dead in consecutive rows. In some instances, the civilian casualties were just incidentally caught being in area of military operation but they were deliberately executed.31 The casualties were mostly East

27 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 71; Chapter 7.2, para 148, para 169, pp. 42, 47-8. 28 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 64. 29 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 64; Chapter 7.2, para 148, p. 42. 30 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 70. 31 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.2, para 108-9, p. 34. 267

Timorese and other ethnic local people, particularly Chinese suspected to have a connection with resistance only because of their possession of Fretilin’s symbols such as a banner.32 An instance of how they were executed was shown by an eye- witness who reportedly could see several large groups killed on the Dili wharf.

... we go out [of the church] and see the people being lined up and shot ... They were shot all at once, ... and they [the victims] were ordered to stand on the pier ... Around 25 to 30 people at a time were shot ... They were in a line, or a group .... While we were watching, perhaps one or two groups had already been shot. Then a new line was formed – a third row, and a fourth.33

The widespread unlawful killings and enforced disappearance by the TNI continued during the occupation, reaching its hights between the late 1970s and the early 1980s. This seemed to become ‘a central and systematic component of an

Indonesian military strategy designed to overcome resistance to the military occupation’.34 This strategy for the most part was carried out using land forces. A former East Timorese TNI soldier who was once assigned in the operations described the deliberate indiscriminate killings:

During an operation in Kablaki in 1977, soldiers and Hansip came from two directions, Ainaro and Same, and formed a full circle to prevent Falintil and civilians hiding on the mountain. The attack on Kablaki was simultaneous and the Kodim commander told us that whoever we encountered, whether civilians or Falintil, there should be no mercy, [we should] shoot on the spot or, if necessary, arrest them.

When we arrived at the top of Mount Kablaki, we saw a group of five or six people and we shot them. We did not know whether they were civilians or

32 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.2, para 108-12, pp. 34-5. 33 Ibid. Square-bracketed in the original. 34 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 147. 268

Falintil. [Some] fled, and we could only find abandonded items, such as bags of food supplies that they had left behind. Then we continued the opearation back to Same via Rotuto.35

CAVR found evidence strongly indicating that ‘the invading Indonesian military employed a policy which involved the systematic destruction and looting of houses, livestock and crops, as well as the deliberate killing of civillians’ suspected in supportive for the resistance. An eyewitness told the CAVR about the deliberate destruction of crop fields that seemed to have become a pattern of how Indonesian military cut off food supplies for the resistance.

When ABRI attacked Ossu in the dry season in 1976 ... We fled to Mount Builo, Ossorua. ABRI entered Ossu and continued their advance. They built a post near my land in Loilubu, Ossurua. During a patrol, they burned my house in Basilau. ABRI abandoned the post after about a month ... I returned to see my coconut trees. They were all destroyed. They also cut down all 300 coconut trees. Only one tree was left intact.36

CAVR reported that ‘[a]ny suspicion of contact with people who had fled into the forest, whether or not they were part of Fretilin/Falintil forces, could result in retribution by ABRI/TNI’ in the form of killing or destruction as well as looting of individual property. The continuing advance of ABRI to combat the Fretilin/Falintil meant that the civilian population also had to flee frequently, thus leaving their property, particularly crop fields and livestock, were abandoned and finally destructed or looted by the TNI troops.37

In addition to extra-judicial killings using land forces, the Indonesian armed forces also employed aerial bombings that generated destruction beyond the military

35 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 39, p. 8. 36 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 33, p. 7. 37 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 38, p. 8. 269 necessity. Besides inflicting civilian casualties on the ground, indiscriminate aerial bombings also destroyed food crops.

...285 aerial bombings by the Indonesian military between 1975 and 1979, 125 of which provided details on how the bombings caused civilian deaths, the destruction of houses, as well as other buildings and corps. The bombings occurred in all districts with the exception of Oecusse. Most reports received related to bombings that occurred in 1978, as the Fretilin zonas libertadas (liberated zones) came under intense attack which caused many civilian deaths and ultimately resulted in destruction of the zones and many thousands of civilians surrendering to ABRI/TNI forces.38

...high-powered bombs that had limited accuracy resulting in significant civilian casualties even if they were aimed at military targets ... in 1978 up to 800 people from the village of Guruca who had fled to Mount Matebian were killed as a result of aerial bombardment.39

The Indonesian air force also used Opalm (a Soviet equivalent of the US Napalm, purchased for its campaign against West Irian during 1962).

The Commission received copies of Indonesian military propaganda film about the campaigns of the late 1970s, including extensive footage of preparations for bombing raids at Baucau Airport, and footage of raids themselves. In this footage, Indonesian military personnel are filmed clearly loading bombs labelled “OPALM” into the OV-10 Bronco planes at the Baucau Airport.40

This means of war conduct forced the civilians to constantly flee, avoiding the attacks. ‘Many spent between three and four years on the run, moving from

38 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 130, p. 26-7. 39 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 135, p. 28. 40 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 137, p. 28. 270 location to location, living in dire circumstances that resulted in the steady loss of individual lives and even entire families’.41

In January 1976, the Indonesian military entered the sub-district of Bobonaro. Continuous ground and aerial attacks forced civilians to flee to Lour. Villagers did not take much food. We stayed in Holba, Anapal, for about one year growing food crops and rice. While waiting for the harvest, we ate edible roots. At harvest time, ABRI and the Partisans forced people to move ... and abandoned ... gardens and fields unharvested ... they had to keep moving ... many died from wounds sustained during aerial attacks, or from illness and starvation.

In 1978, once again people had to flee after aerial attacks ... When there was nowhere else to go, villagers gradually surrendered to Battalion 507 in 1979.42

Those captured or surrendered, predominantly men, with a real or suspected association to the resistance movement constantly endured torture and other inhuman treatment during interrogation which frequently resulted in fatality.43 Meanwhile for women ‘who were targeted were forced to experience the repeated and horrific violation of their bodies and personal dignity’.44 The motivation of sexual violence was complex. Among others, ‘sexual violence committed against young girls was to punish their family members who were believed to be involved in Fretilin/Falintil: targeting by proxy’.45

Rape, sexual slavery and sexual violence were tools used as part of the campaign designed to inflict a deep experience of terror, powerlessness and

41 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 43, p. 9. 42 Ibid. 43 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.4, Chapter 7.5. 44 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 122. 45 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.8, para 313, p. 68. 271

hopeless upon pro-independence supporters. Sexual violation of East Timorese women, particularly those connected to members of Fretilin and Falintil, was intentionally carried out to destroy the self-esteem and spirit, not only of the victims, but of all who supported the movement for independence, with an aim of forcing them to accept the political goal of integration with Indonesia.46

For example, CAVR noted several accounts from former Tenaga Bantuan

Operasi (TBO, literally operation assistant) concerning sexual violations carried out by soldiers against women and children as ‘a form of psychological torture of prisoners’.

I saw how the prisoners were tortured, their daughters and wives raped in front of them.... I witnessed how they treated women aged 15 and above ... I saw how they were treated.47

Frequently, in order to remain alive, the only choice for a young woman was to avail herself to sexual slavery.

...once violated, girls became vulnerable to long-term exploitation leading to an extended period of sexual slavery or other forms of repeated sexual violence ... 48

[In 1978] FM [14 years old] was held at the village office for three days and raped repeatedly by three men. After her release, Kodim members took her from home to the Viqueque Kodim where she was locked in a room for three months and raped repeatedly by the Kodim Commander C61, the radio operator and the driver. A month after her release, FM was taken by the

46 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 123. 47 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.8, para 313, p. 68. 48 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.8, para 317, p. 68-9. 272

Koramil Commander and kept as his “wife” for 18 months and forced to provide sexual services on call. She eventually bore him a child.49

Throughout the occupation, Indonesian military and civil administration also

‘forcibly recruited tens of thousands of civilians to participate in military operations, known as Operasi Kikis, to search for and destroy remaining armed resistance in the mountains. The largest of these operations took place in June-September 1981, when as many as 60,000 East Timorese were recruited to converge on Falintil positions’.50

TNI also recruited children as TBOs. The reason for children to join as TBOs was complex but mainly for the sake of survival. Many were forced by threat because

‘their families were suspected of being supporters of the Fretilin’, while many others joined a TBO voluntarily in a particular attempt to get access to food supplies for survival.51 As TBO they were frequently ‘put at risk by being forced’ to carry operation logistics such as handling ammunition and guiding searches for Fretilin supporters in the forest.52 A former TBO explained that ‘he did not want to become a

TBO but was threatened with a weapon and so had no choice. He joined the army and was ordered to carry their knapsacks into the battlefield’.53 No one dared to oppose the Indonesian military.54

By the mid 1980s onwards, although the killings and forced disappearances continued, the number decreased in comparison to the earlier years of the occupation.55 Interestingly, among the continuing gross human rights violations, there was a small number of brave individuals who dissented the command to

49 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.8, para 316, p. 68. 50 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 65. 51 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.8, para 30-1, p. 7. 52 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.8, para 33, p. 7. 53 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.8, para 56, p. 13. 54 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.8, para 58, p. 13. 55 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 67. 273 execute unarmed civilians and sought to prevent these crimes. According to the reports in 1982 a member of Battalion 745 from Bobonaro refused to execute a group of civilians, which included women and children, preventing a massacre in Rotuto

(Manufahi). Again, following the 1999 ballot an Indonesian member of Brimob

‘smuggled a female CNRT leader to safety the day after the ballot in Gleno, Ermera

… Although she was initially safe, she was eventually raped and killed by militia when she attempted to return home a week later’. 56

In fact, there was also an attempt by an individual military commander in

East Timor to shift policy from a hard to soft approach in dealing with civilians and at the same time to rectify the military indiscipline. However such an attempt seemed to have always been hamstrung by the Indonesian military hard-liners. According to

Fernandes,

Confrontations between East Timorese youth and the Indonesian military were not the only source of tensions in the territory. The Indonesian military had its own internal tensions as well. Brigadier-General Rudolf Warouw, the first commander of Kolakops, had begun cracking down on military corruption and indiscipline and granting greater freedom to civilians through a policy known as Operasi Senyum (Operation Smile). Warouw who had been commander of Korem 164 from April 1989 to April 1990, had worked closely with Mario Carrascalao … The Indonesian military in East Timor resented Warouw’s anti- corruption measures. In addition, Indonesia’s special forces commanders were hostile to Warouw, whom they regarded as not hard-line enough against the resistance.57

During the period between 1985 and 1998, when Timor-Leste was ‘supposedly a normal province of Indonesia, arbitrary detention and torture was still reported to

56 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 71. 57 Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, p. 87. 274 have occurred every year and took the form of sporadic low-level violence’.58

However, a fatal violation of international humanitarian law that changed much of the direction of resistance strategy was the Santa Cruz massacre occurred on 12

November 1991.

The Santa Cruz tragedy became a turning point in the Timorese struggle for international recognition.

For the first time since the invasion of 1975, Indonesian military brutality against civilians was captured on film by international media. Smuggled out of the territory in the days after the initial massacre, this footage was shown on televisions around the world and revealed a truth about the Indonesian occupation that Jakarta had suppressed. The violent oppression by the Indonesian military of ordinary East Timorese could no longer be credibly denied.59

Independent estimates put the number killed as high as 271, with 250 listed as missing... An Indonesian enquiry established to investigate the massacre failed to meet expectations. It initially determined that 19 people were killed at Santa Cruz, and in the face of international outcry at this cover-up increased its figure to 50.60

About some eight years later after Santa Cruz massacre, on January 1999 the

Indonesian government announced that the East Timorese would be granted an offer for self-determination whether to remain with Indonesia or independence. Following this announcement, pro-Indonesia militia groups with support from the Indonesian military and police ‘conducted a coordinated and sustained campaign of violence, designed to intimidate the pro-independence movement and then to ensure a pro-

Indonesia result in the Popular Consultation, organised by the United Nations’. Fatal

58 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.4, para 24, p. 6-7. 59 CAVR, Chega!, Part 3, para 475, p. 115. 60 CAVR, Chega!, Part 3, para 483, p. 117. 275 violence reportedly had begun to occur in April 1999.61 A former commander of a militia admitted that

In April 1999, the commander of Kodim 1637 in Ermera, L20, gave me seven machine guns, one truck, two Kijang cars and one Taft car. I had 200 militia members, who were recruited to kill pro-independence supporters in Hatulia. I attacked Hatulia with the 200 militia ... We burned houses in the aldeia of Kukara and the village of Manusae Kraik. People fled their homes to save themselves.62

The vote was then held on 30 August with the result being announced on 4

September. Of the registered voters participating, 78.5% opted for independence from Indonesia.63 The disappointment of this result immediately triggered the pro-

Indonesian militia supported by Indonesian security forces to orchestrate violence against the suspected pro-independence East Timorese civilian using various similar methods of oppression that had been carried throughout occupation. ‘Indonesian support for pro-autonomy militia included money, food, and weapons. All of these were provided in a systematic manner and with the knowledge that the recipients were committing gross human rights violations’.64 An estimate between 1,400 and

1,500 were killed and disappeared during the course of that year.65

In this way, the Indonesian military and its auxiliaries in fact not only breached international humanitarian law, but also violated Indonesian law itself, both the civilian and military legal codes. During its occupation in East Timor, Indonesian military personnel were subject under the Indonesian Military Criminal Code (Kitab

61 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 68. 62CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 104, p. 21. 63 Fernandes, The Independence of East Timor, p. 189. 64 International Center for Transitional Justice (ICTJ) and Komisi untuk Orang Hilang dan Korban Tindak Kekerasan (KontraS), Derailed: Transitional Justice in Indonesia Since the Fall of Soeharto, A Joint Report, March 2011, p. 27. 65 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 68. 276

Undang-undang Hukum Pidana Militer, KUHPM) which operationally was further elaborated on in standard operational procedures, including interrogation procedure.

The Indonesian military standard procedure for interrogation prohibited acts of inhumane treatment of surrendered or captured adversary fighters.66 Thus, since torture and other inhumane treatment became a regular method to gain information from the surrendered or captured resistant fighters, the military infringed against its self-imposed procedures of discipline in interrogation.

Concomitant with the infringement of its own military law, Indonesian military also violated ‘civil’ law. Through the Law No.7 1976 of 17 July 1976,

Indonesian included East Timor as its legal territory. Thus the new province was subject to the jurisdiction of Indonesian’s legal codes. Indonesian’s Criminal Code

(Kitab Undang-undang Hukum Pidana, KUHP) contains robust protection and prohibition against criminal acts committed by its citizens, of course with no exception for the military members as they acknowledge themselves as citizens of the Republic of Indonesia as stipulated in the Soldier Oath. KUHP clearly prohibits crimes against the general security of persons which in common are aligned with international humanitarian law.

However, especially during the occupation of East Timor, the military personnel never felt themselves and even today their mindset culturally remains unchanged as the subject of KUHP as this was always deemed to govern civilian acts that the police had to enforce. By and large, this was a consequence of the

‘army-isation’ of the whole Indonesian Armed forces during the New Order era in which the police were part of the armed forces. As has been discussed in Chapter

Three, during this era the army hegemony over the police and society at large was so

66 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.5, para 120 ( note 126), p. 25. 277 deeply entrenched that the police became ‘militarised’ under army domination. At the same time, as a result of historic indoctrination exerted during the formative education, the military felt themselves to be superior to ordinary citizens.67 As a result, the legal framework governing civilian at large to which the police were to be responsible was regularly disobeyed.68

A Culture of Impunity: An Obstacle to Professionalisation of the TNI

The Indonesian military and its auxiliaries’ systematic unlawful killings and torture during 24 years of occupation indicate that violations against the international humanitarian law were ‘tolerated, supported and condoned’.69 They were not an anomaly but a regular practice whereby members of the Indonesian military committed gross violations without having a fear of reprisal from their superiors.

However, although grave violations against humanity had been evidently committed systematically throughout the period of occupation, very few were held responsible and prosecuted or convicted according to fair trial principles in order to deliver justice for the victims.

The Indonesian military had occupied East Timor since 1975, but it was only during 1990s the Indonesian government came under severe international and domestic pressure and were forced to conduct investigations and judicial proceedings against those involved in crimes against humanity. However, only a few cases were pursued. Of which the most notable was the Santa Cruz massacre in 1991.

Although the Indonesian authorities carried out inquiries of the Santa Cruz massacre through various channels, the conduct of investigation ‘did not meet the

67 See Chapter Three. 68 CAVR, Chega!, Part 2. 69 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 68. 278 standards set out in the Principles on the Effective Prevention and Investigation of

Extra-legal, Arbitrary and Summary Executions.’ It lacked efforts ‘to determine the cause, manner and time of death, the person responsible, and any pattern or practice which may have brought about that death’.70

Unsurprisingly, throughout the military trials, the proceedings were ‘not conducted in such a way as to establish the truth of what happened during these incidents or command responsibility for those atrocities’. Predictably, the outcome of such trials was of no surprise. In this case lenient sentencing was imposed against the low-ranking soldiers71 whereas in other court trial ‘the 13 civilians involved in [Santa

Cruz tragedy] were sentenced to terms of up to life imprisonment’.72 In this way, the court martial undermined the seriousness of what occurred at Santa Cruz on 12

November 1991, and thus provided a poor precedent for the future, while at the same time further fertilised a culture of impunity. According to the UN Special

Rapporteur, Bacre Waly Ndiaye:

The inadequacy of the charges and the inappropriately light sentences imposed by the court martial on the few members of the armed forces accused of having been implicated in the 12 November 1991 incident are in no way a fulfilment of the obligation to punish perpetrators, and thus provide a deterrent for the recurrence of a similar tragedy in the future...73

What Ndiaye envisaged above was eventually vindicated. The grave crimes against humanity, as previously explained, recurred following the Popular

Consultation in 1999. Again, domestic and international pressures forced the

Indonesian government to bring those involved in those crimes into inquiry.

70 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.2, para 694, p. 227. 71 CAVR, Chega!, Executive Summary, p. 68. 72 CAVR, Chega!, Chapter 7.2, para 687, pp. 225-6. 73 Ibid. 279

As the Indonesian armed forces withdrew from East Timor following the result of the ballot which favored independence, KOMNAS HAM established a special team known as KPP-HAM with the chief task was to conduct an inquiry on human rights violations in that territory. This special team had authority to investigage ‘whether and to what extent the apparatus of State and/or other bodies, national or international, were involved in’ the crimes against humanity. However, it investigated only the last nine months from January 1999 until the departure of

Indonesian forces in September that year, not the 24 year occupation’.

After having conducted investigations for about 4 months, the team reported findings of crimes that ‘that could be classified as crimes of universal jurisdiction including systematic and mass murder; extensive destruction, enslavement, forced deportations and displacement and other inhumane acts committed against the civilian population’.

The report urged the parliament and the government to ‘form a Human Rights Court with the authority to try perpetrators of human rights violations and crimes against humanity’ that occurred ‘in the past as well as those that have occurred in East Timor to the present day’. It urged the ‘Government and the Attorney General’ to ensure that crimes against humanity were investigated and punished ‘whoever is the perpetrator’, in a free and independent manner ‘without any interference whatsoever’.

A subsequent study by an international Commission of Experts appointed by the UN Secretary General found that the KPP-HAM report was a ‘genuine and impartial effort to inquire into serious human rights violations, reflecting the firm commitment of its members to establish the facts’. The Commission

280

said that its inquiry procedures ‘conformed to international standards relating to pro justicia inquiries’. 74

Parallel to KOMNAS HAM, in a similar vein several international commissions recommended that UN Security Council should establish an international tribunal in order ‘to bring the perpetrators to justice’. The Indonesian government was basically put in the midst of both domestic and international pressure. However, ‘[u]nder pressure from its military, the Indonesian government took its cue from this qualification’. In order to avert action by the UN Security

Council, the government established the so-called Ad Hoc Human Rights Court in

Jakarta.75

Like what happened in previous similar cases, the proceeding processes were predictable. The proceedings ‘focused [more] on individual crimes in which only the facts directly surrounding the particular criminal acts [were] deemed relevant’76 rather than crimes against humanity. Like in many cases that regularly happened in the past, ‘senior commanders regarded human rights violations as a matter of military discipline rather than criminal liability’.77 ‘As a result, investigative processes have failed to capture broader patterns of state-sponsored abuse and the cumulative impact of violations. In addition, they have generally avoided examination of the responsibility of senior commanders for the actions of subordinates’.78 Thus, the proceeding had ‘failed in comprehending and relating the definition of command

74 Clinton Fernandes, Indonesia and East Timor: Against Impunity, For Justice, Austral Policy Forum, 08-4A, 17 April 2008, accessed on 11 October 2011, available at 75 Ibid. 76 ICTJ and KontraS, Derailed, p. 33. 77 Ibid., p. 52. 78 Ibid., p. 33. 281 responsibility to the incidents that happened in East Timor where the superiors/commanders ought to have been made accountable’.79

The atmosphere throughout the proceedings was reportedly ‘highly intimidatory’. This seemed to be consistently apparent across the court trials processes since most prosecutions for crimes against humanity were held in military courts or in human rights courts where the cases involved military personnel.

Witnesses enjoyed no sense of security. One of the witnesses was made to sit beside militia figurehead , himself a defendant in another trial. Indonesian military personnel enjoyed free access to the witness waiting room. A so-called ‘safe house’ for witnesses had a sign placed outside it announcing that it was a witness safe house. Indonesian soldiers from the units accused of committing crimes against humanity attended the proceedings of the Ad Hoc Court en masse, some of them carrying weapons whilst in the courtroom. When they were eventually called to the witness stand, witnesses were questioned for hours without respite.

Throughout the proceedings, witnesses were ridiculed and intimidated, including by the prosecution. A witness who had suffered a serious disability during an attack was laughed at by members of the prosecution and the defence. In the public gallery were a platoon of Indonesian special forces personnel who had been bussed in for the occasion. These soldiers shouted words of warning and intimidation at the witnesses and the judges during the proceedings.

Numerous credible analyses have demonstrated that the prosecution called witnesses who were manifestly unable to provide evidence that supported its case. It never attempted to show effective control or a superior-subordinate relationship between those who carried out the prohibited acts and those

79 Institute For Policy Research and Advocacy (ELSAM), ‘Crime Against Humanity Without Accountability’, Monitoring Report on Ad Hoc Human Rights Court Against Gross Human Rights Violations in East Timor, Report No. 9, Jakarta, 20 December 2002, p. 9, accessed 10 October 2011 282

accused of having command responsibility. It made irrelevant closing submissions and made no attempt to show what the KPP-HAM Report had concluded, namely that the violence was a direct result of government policy.

Judges received threats to their life both inside and outside the courtroom. Often, when a judge was about to deliver the verdict, armed soldiers in the courtroom would shout at them, leading them to be concerned about their own security. A judge in the Ad Hoc Court later conceded that the court had not made any significant contribution to strengthening the rule of law in Indonesia. The Ad Hoc Court was widely denounced as a sham. A Commission of Experts appointed by the UN Secretary General concluded that the proceedings were ‘manifestly inadequate with respect to investigations, prosecution and trials, and … failed to deliver justice. The atmosphere and context of the entire court proceedings were indicative of the lack of political will in Indonesia to seriously and credibly prosecute the defendants’.80

The outcome was of no surprise. Of the 18 accused, 12 were acquitted while another six were convicted before an ad hoc court but were finally overturned on appeal, practically resulting in no conviction. It seemed that they were prosecuted in order to find ‘they were not guilty’. As a result, no single military commander stationed in East Timor at the time of event was found guilty. Rather, two

Indonesians of East Timorese heritage were found guilty. They were Eurico

Guterres, the militia figurehead, and Abilio Soares, the former governor of East

Timor. Guterres received a ten-year sentence, but this was reduced to five years on appeal, while Soares received a three-year sentence but later was acquitted altogether by the Indonesian Supreme Court. Thus this Ad Hoc Human Rights Court may not be a good precedent’ for the future practice of human rights in Indonesia.81

80 Fernandes, Indonesia and East Timor. 81 ELSAM, ‘Crime Against Humanity’, p. 9. 283

The proceeding process of the Jakarta Ad Hoc court soon became an irony in comparison with the UN serious crime trials conducted in Dili, East Timor. A joint report by ICTJ and KontraS noted that

[m]ost of those responsible for violations had fled over the border to Indonesia when the international force arrived in Timor-Leste in October 1999, and yet the Indonesian mechanisms that had jurisdiction over and access to all of these individuals, produced no convictions. Meanwhile, in Timor-Leste the UN serious crimes process investigating and prosecuting those responsible for the 1999 violations completed 55 trials, resulting in 84 convictions and three acquittals. Prosecutors in Timor indicted 314 more people, but could not bring them to trial because they were believed to be in Indonesia.82

The failure to deliver justice was facilitated by the institutional weaknesses of the Indonesian court system. The Indonesian court system is plagued by a ‘weak and corrupt judiciary’ which is exacerbated by ‘lack of political support for accountability’, and ‘intimidation and poor witness protection’.83 Thus, the use of military court tends to ‘protect those most responsible for crimes’. As a result, all ad hoc courts for mass human rights violation were considered to have failed ‘in providing justice for the victims of gross violations’ of human rights and ‘in struggling against crime against humanity’.84 Even in the post-Suharto era, the corrupt court system was still very much alive. This is, among others, because

[a]lthough Komnas HAM is an independent statutory authority, the AGO is situated within the executive branch. During the Soeharto dictatorship, the AGO was responsible for prosecuting people who opposed the government or promoted democracy, and the police were a formal part of the armed forces.

82 ICTJ and KontraS, Derailed, p. 47. 83 Ibid., p. 60. 84 ELSAM, ‘Crime Against Humanity’, p. 13. 284

As a result, in cases since reformasi [sic], that involve allegations against members of the security forces, police and prosecutors, often find themselves tasked with bringing former or current colleagues to account for acts committed during periods when they themselves may have been part of the military apparatus or its extension.85

This calls to mind the patron-clientelism inculcated during the officer integrative training when the Police Academy was still part of the Indonesian Armed

Forces Academy (AKABRI). As explained in Chapter Three, the epitome of the culture of impunity has been inculcated since the academy in the form of mutually protecting those, cohorts and particularly superiors, committing unethical conducts on behalf of esprit de corps. The cadets’ camaraderie which is strengthened by the

‘tight-lipped movement’ has kept the culture of impunity very much alive throughout the rest time of their service. This ‘tight-lipped movement’ makes investigation for any unethical conduct involving the military officer or soldier even more difficult to perform.

Thus, while the seeds of the culture of impunity are unconsciously inculcated through the education paradigm, the failure of human rights and military courts to prosecute those responsible seems to have strengthened this culture. Fear of punishment for committing crimes against humanity is generally absent. No lesson has been delivered to the rest of soldiers, making it possible for similar grave violations against humanity to recur in the future. In this way, the culture of impunity is well institutionalised in the military body. As a consequence, the military tends to violate discipline which should be meant in the sense that all aspects of military operations shall be in compliance with humanitarian law.

85 ICTJ and KontraS, Derailed, p. 39. 285

It is not surprising if the tendency to conduct crimes against humanity is very much alive which ironically happens in the post-Suharto era across the archipelago.86

One violation against humanitarian law which is quite often committed by the soldiers is to ‘justify torture as a tool in extracting testimonies from civilian’ which is frequently followed by unlawful killings or other inhuman treatments.87

The similar violence occurring in Papua shows factual instances where impunity remains very much alive. In part, this is because there were ‘almost no serious negative consequences for what it did in East Timor specifically in 1999’.88

Take for example the assassination of Papuan leader, ,89 only two years after the TNI’s withdrawal from East Timor. Like previous human rights trials for

East Timor, in the case of Theys Eluay impunity was indicated by the lenient sentence imposed on the perpetrators, thus made it difficult to deter similar crimes from happening again in the future. This proved to be true when in 2010 the TNI soldiers committed torture of men alleged to be part of a separatist movement which surfaced internationally through YouTube. It was of no surprise, when violence occurred again in 2011 as the people of Papua held the 3rd People’s Congress.90

Those events occurred in the post-Suharto era. More surprisingly, the last two violent incidents in Papua mentioned earlier took place in the democratising

Indonesia when the Indonesian military had been already subject to Law 34/2004. In the article 2(d), the law defined the TNI as ‘professional military’, among others, i.e.,

86 ICTJ and KontraS, Derailed, p. 40. 87 ‘Lenient verdicts will solidify military impunity: Kontras’, The Jakarta Post, 26 January 2011. 88 Fernandes, Reluctant Indonesians, p. 119. 89 For more detail, see Kingsbury, Power Politics and The Indonesian Military, pp. 104-5. 90‘Aparat Bubarkan Kongres Rakyat Papua 3’,viewed 19 October 2011, 286

… following with national political policies which adhere to democratic principles, civilian supremacy, basic human rights, national legal stipulations and international legal stipulations already ratified.

Furthermore, article 65 of the Law 34/2004 also stipulated that

The soldier must submit to the authority of military court in matters which violate military criminal law and submit to the authority of general judiciary in matters which violate common criminal law, as regulated by laws.91

When the authority of the general judiciary does not function in the same manner intended in verse (2), then the soldier must submit before judicial authorities, as regulated by law.92

However, although the Law 34/2004 has been in effect, the culture of violence and impunity seems to remain persistent. The continuing violence and impunity seemed to be even strengthened by the ‘mantra’93 invoked to justify the

Indonesian military arbitrary conducts, that is, ‘the national interest’. Among the

Indonesian national interests frequently promoted is the maintenance of territorial integrity, to which the military has a self-imposed call of duty. In this way, any dissenter against national interests will be deemed worthy to crush. This was demonstrated by General Ryamizard, the Army chief of staff, in the case of Theys

Eulay assassination.

I don’t know, people say they did wrong, they broke the law. What law? Okay, we are a state based on the rule of law, so they have been punished.

91 The Law 34/2004, article 65(2). 92 The Law 34/2004, article 65(3). 93 Fernandes, Reluctant Indonesians, p.5. 287

But for me, they are heroes because the person they killed was a rebel leader.94

Indeed, such a statement when asserted by an army leader reinforces that a culture of impunity persists. Impunity clearly obstructs professionalisation of the

TNI. Yet, how does impunity undermine military professionalism?

Military professionalism finds its expression in the fulfilment of legal and ethical standards of action, or in simple terms, professional standards. Thus, military as a profession should meet professional standards which guide its member to conduct an action. To borrow Huntington, that guide ‘may be a set of unwritten norms transmitted through the professional educational system or it may be codified into written canons of professional ethics’.95 In this way, the military as a profession

‘thus becomes a moral unit positing certain values and ideals’.96

Of course, the so-called professional standards in the sense of armed conflicts or military operations have an ultimate objective, that is, ‘to reduce the horrors inherent therein to the greatest extent possible in view of the political purpose for which [military operation is aimed at], namely to achieve one’s policies by victory over one’s enemy’.97 This was already recognised in the fourth century BC by Sun

Tzu, and some two hundred centuries later advocated by Clausewitz. In The Art of

War, Sun Tzu stated:

generally in war the best policy is to take a state intact; to ruin it is inferior to this. Do not put a premium on killing. To capture the enemy’s army is better than to destroy it; to take intact a battalion, a company or a five-man squad is better than to destroy them. For to win one hundred victories in one hundred

94 Ibid., p. 99. 95 Huntington, The Soldier and the State, p. 10. 96 Ibid., pp. 9-10. 97 L.C. Green, The Contemporary Law of armed conflict, Manchester University Press, Manchester and New York, 1993, p. 14. 288

battles is not the acme of skill. To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill.98

Meanwhile, in the view of Clausewitz,

.... war is an act of force, there is no logical limit to the application of force ... Attached to force are certain self-imposed imperceptible limitations hardly worth mentioning, known as international law and custom, but they scarcely weaken it. .... [In fact] kind-hearted people might ... think there was some ingenious way to disarm or defeat an enemy without bloodshed, and might imagine that is the true goal of the art of war. Pleasant as it sounds, it is a fallacy that must be exposed: war is such a dangerous business that the mistakes which come from kindness are the very worst ... [However,] if civilisations do not put their prisoners to death or devastate cities and countries, it is because intelligence plays a larger part in their methods of warfare [than was the case among savages] and has taught them more effective ways of using force than the crude expression of instinct.99

In this way, both Sun Tzu and Clausewitz have laid the very essence of professional standards for civilised armed conflict which should be adhered to by those involved. ‘Both Sun Tzu and Clausewitz pointed out that to achieve the ends for which war was undertaken it was unnecessary to kill all the enemy forces’100 or more importantly civilian or unarmed people. Thus, waging a war or launching a military operation is not only a matter of defeating the adversary, but also inherently respecting humanity. Both the international humanitarian law and the customary law of armed conflict provide such professional and ethical standards relating to humanity.

98 Ibid. 99 Ibid., p. 39. Square-bracketed in the original. 100 Ibid., p. 140. 289

In this regard, as stipulated in both the Hague Regulations and the Geneva

Convention, ‘the means of delivering a lawful attack are not unlimited’, and ‘it is prohibited to employ weapons, projectiles and material and methods of warfare of a nature to cause superfluous injury or unnecessary suffering’.101 These articles, according to Green, are

merely the modern version of Sun Tzu’s statement that ‘to capture the enemy is better than to destroy it. … To subdue the enemy without fighting is the acme of skill’. Or, as expressed by Clausewitz, some two millennia later, ‘to impose our will on the enemy is [the] object [of force] …. The [enemy’s] fighting forces must be destroyed: that is they must be put in such a condition that they no longer carry on the fight’.102

Not only that professional standards must be met to guarantee that armed conflict or military operation falls within the boundaries of humanity and necessity aspect103, but also that to be professional, military organisations must uphold the principle of chivalry.104 The principle of chivalry has its origin in feudal times.

According to Green, ‘the feudal knights were aware of what they knew as the ‘law of chivalry’, a customary code of chivalrous conduct that controlled their affairs and which was enforced by arbitrators specially appointed for, in the case of England and

France, by Courts of Chivalry’.105 This principle ‘requires the exercise of fairness in both offence and defence, and a certain amount of mutual respect between the opposing forces... Chivalry also denounced recourse to dishonourable means of combat’.106 Apparently, in modern times the latter has been introduced in common

101 Cited in Green, The Contemporary Law, p. 121. 102 Ibid., p. 121. Square-bracketed and emphasis in the original. 103 See note 23. 104 Green, The Contemporary Law, p. 122. 105 Ibid., p. 21. Emphasis added. 106 Ibid., p. 122. Emphasis added. 290

Article 3 of the Geneva Conventions. Thus, there are two key words that need to be underlined: knight (or knightship) and chivalry.

Of course, in fact, TNI soldiers already have these principles conceived in the

Soldier’s Oath to which TNI professional conduct should refer to. The Soldier Oath, as explained in chapter 4, has become the main foundation upon which the TNI

‘identity’ of being both professional and fighting soldier rest. Article 3 and 6 of the

Soldier’s Oath respectively state this:

We are knights of Indonesia, who believe in the One God, and are defenders of honesty, truth and justice.

We, soldiers of the Indonesian Armed Forces, uphold chivalry in our duties, and are always ready to serve the state and nation.

Unfortunately, as we have previously examined in this chapter, impunity has enabled the violation of professional standards to recur frequently. It violates the principles of honesty, truth and justice which are claimed to be the soul of, and have to be defended by the TNI’s soldiers. As explained earlier, some instances of human rights court trial indicate that the TNI culture of impunity has become a barrier to deliver truth and justice. Meanwhile, the continuing presence of methods to justify unlawful violence in dealing with civilians whose aspiration is regarded opposing to the state policy reflects more as ‘crude expression of instinct’ (to borrow Clausewitz) rather than professional ways of using force. In other words, this has become an obstacle for the professionalisation of the TNI.

The Indonesian military justice system seems to have failed to deliver lessons for the rest of the soldiers, in particular of the officer corps, in promoting deterrent effects to commit similar crimes against humanity. Unfortunately this situation is

291 exacerbated by the education paradigm. As discussed in Chapter Four and Chapter

Five, the educational paradigm prevents aspiring military leaders who will assume command responsibility from constructing professional knowledge. TNI officers never learn in their education anything in-depth about, for example, military history in all aspects, which in other military education institutions elsewhere would be considered fundamental. East Timor is the longest international armed conflict that

TNI has been involved in, but ironically there are virtually no lessons107 officers could capture from it in order to study all ethical and professional aspects of operation.

At the same time, education paradigm produces conformity of obedience, in the name of esprit de corps, implanted through the inculcation of anti-critical culture that enables no critical discussion on professional ethics to happen. To a certain extent, violations against humanity that lead to impunity should be put in this broader perspective. The individuals involved in crimes against humanity

must be viewed as products of [an educational] system that placed great store in the ‘can do’ attitude. The reflex to say ‘yes sir’ rather than to question the appropriateness of a command or policy obviously runs against the grain of free and open discussion, but it is ingrained in military discipline and culture. However, leaders properly exercising command responsibility must recognise and assert not only their right, but their duty, to advise against improper actions, for failing to do so means that professionalism is lost.108

Although the above excerpt could well describe the TNI situation it originally came from the Commission of Inquiry established in 1994 by the government of

107 See Chapter Five; also McFetridge, Seskoad. 108 ‘The Failures of Senior Leaders: Shortcomings Regarding Pre-deployment and Document Closure’, Report of the Somalia Commission of Inquiry, Vol. 4, viewed 30 March 2012, available at . 292

Canada to investigate the military scandal carried out by soldiers of the Canadian

Airborne Regiment (CAR) participating in humanitarian effort in Somalia. On 4

March 1993, soldiers of the Canadian Airborne Regiment perpetrated unlawful killing against unarmed Somalis, and some two weeks later inflicted brutal torture against a Somali teenager, causing his death. Some other soldiers, while knowing about the torture session did not intervene to halt that fatal misconduct.109 Some gruesome photos of the torture were spread publicly by the media, shocking the

Canadian public, and revealing internal problems in the Canadian Airborne

Regiment.

For the Canadian public this affair, which was then known as the Somalia

Affair, was so embarrassing and tarnishing for Canada’s good reputation for decades involved in international peacekeeping. At the same time, it made the morale of the

Canadian Forces plummet, damaging the domestic and international reputation of

Canadian soldiers. The Canadian Forces leadership circle also came into sharp reproach after a CBC reporter received altered documents, leading to allegations of a cover up.110

A public inquiry carried out by the so-called Somalia Commission was then established in 1994, but resistance from the military soon emerged. Some documents related to the Canadian military operation in Somalia were altered before being released to media. Later, the Chief of Defence Staff Jean Boyle admitted that there had been documents proving attempts to cover up details of the incidents.111 The

109 ‘The March 4th Incident’, Report of the Somalia Commission of Inquiry, Vol. 4, viewed 30 March 2012, . 110 CBC (Canadian Broadcasting Corporation) Digital Archives, ‘Somalia debacle a high-level cover- up’, broadcasted 2 July 1997, viewed 30 March 2012, available at . 111 ‘General Jean Boyle’, Report of the Somalia Commission of Inquiry, Vol. 4, viewed 30 March 2012 , . 293 final report of the inquiry was a striking attack on the organisational procedures, discipline, support and leadership of the Canadian Forces and the Ministry of

Defence.112 Many of the top officers in the Canadian Forces were excoriated, including three separate Chiefs of the Defence Staff’. Yet, the inquiry was never able to examine the top level of leadership decision-making and only soldiers of lower ranks have been made to account for the failures of their leaders.113 Only those directly involved and those who failed to prevent the events to happen were prosecuted.

However, notwithstanding this flaw, the inquiry had great negative consequences in the Canadian Forces. It had led to the disbanding of Canada’s elite

Canadian Airborne Regiment. It brought about a significant reduction of Canadian military spending from the time of the inquiry.114 At the same time, the Canadian

Forces suffered greatly in terms of public trust, making recruitment more difficult.

Following the affair, institutional adjustments were made to impose policy to deter the similar from happening again. This included the adoption of sensitivity training, including SHARP (Standard for Harassment and Racism Prevention) training, which required all ranks to compulsorily carry out such a program.115 This was accompanied by enforcing ‘zero tolerance’ policy on discrimination, racism and harassment of any kind, including hazing, bullying, and abuse of authority.116 As a

112 Report of the Somalia Commission of Inquiry, Volume 2, viewed 30 March 2012, available at . 113 CBC Digital Archives, ‘Somalia debacle a high-level cover-up’. 114 Bill Robinson and Peter Ibbott, ‘Canadian military spending: How does the current level compare to historical levels? … to allied spending? … to potential threats?’, Project Ploughshares, Working Papers 03-1, March 2003, accessed 30 March 2012, available at . 115 J. L. Granatstein, Canada's Army: Waging War and Keeping the Peace (2nd edn.), University of Toronto Press, Toronto, 2011, p. 386. 116 Karen Korabik, Leadership and diversity in the Canadian Forces: A conceptual model and research agenda, Prepared for Defence R&D Canada, Contract Report CR 2006-135, Toronto, September 2006, pp. v, p. 25, accessed 30 March 2012, available at 294 result, the Canadian Forces eventually underwent a recovery from poor image, leading to its gradually increasing defence spending after 2001 as Canada contributed a significant role in . At the same time, Canadian positive public perception of the Canadian military also increased dramatically.117

This, indeed, underlines that crimes against humanity committed by the

Indonesian military is not the only instance of this happening. In fact, history showed that similar crimes could potentially be performed even by a military of a developed country such as Canada. However, the difference lies in its follow-up treatment in order to prevent future occurrences. Unfortunately, the same situation has hardly occurred in the Indonesia context, meaning it remains problematic to the removal of impunity culture which obstructs the professionalisation of the TNI.

Of course, punishing the Indonesian military by reducing its spending such as that practised in the Canadian Forces is an unrealistic endeavour since the meagre budget has constantly been a central issue in the midst of efforts to professionalise the TNI. This is also not to say that various efforts to increase defence spending up to a significant level to meet sufficient soldiers’ well-being would warrant the removal of TNI’s culture of impunity. This is because impunity seems to have become a culture occupying soldiers’ mental framework.

Various systematic measures have been made in an attempt to eliminate the culture of impunity through the passage of new laws and establishment of mechanisms and institutions. These include:

117 David J. Bercuson, ‘Up from the Ashes: The Re-professionalization of The Canadian Forces After The Somalia Affair’, Canadian Military Journal, Vol. 9, No. 3, 2009, pp. 31-9, accessed 30 March 2012, available at . 295

Constitutional amendments including a bill of rights. Inclusion of crimes against humanity and genocide within the national legal system. Legislation providing for the establishment of four regional human rights courts. Legislation on the military, including focus on improved levels of professionalism, increased civilian control over the military, ... eliminating military businesses, and requiring those suspected of committing crimes against humanity to be tried in civilian courts. Establishing a National Commission on Violence Against Women. Strengthening the mandate of Komnas HAM. Establishing a national Witness and Victim Protection Agency. Increased authority by Parliament over security sector budgets. Increased levels of human rights training for security sector personnel. Ratification of core human rights treaties. [The] signing of the Convention for the Protection of All Persons from Enforced Disappearances.118

Meanwhile the Indonesian military has also banned all misconducts that

‘could tarnish its image’, especially violations against human rights mostly embraced in the Geneva Conventions.119 However, I would argue, such efforts are incomplete while the remaining parts stay untouched, that is, the TNI education paradigm as discussed in Chapter Four and Chapter Five.

Like the case of the Canadian military, as previously mentioned, in the

Indonesian context the individuals involved in crimes against humanity ‘must be viewed as products of system’, that is, education. In this sense, education should be viewed as a ‘cultural centre’. Chapter Four has shown that the seeds of impunity

118 ICTJ and KontraS, Derailed, p. 83. 119 Markas Besar Angkatan Darat, Setia dan Menepati Janji serta Sumpah Prajurit, Markas Besar Angkatan Darat, Jakarta, 2006, p. 190. The title of this book is adopted from the 7th verse of the Soldier’s Oath ‘We, soldiers of the Indonesian Armed Forces, will keep the soldier’s pledge’. 296 have been cultivated since the formative education in the name of esprit de corps.

Accordingly, the only feasible and realistic efforts would be to totally reform the existing education paradigm. Both Chapter Four and Chapter Five clearly explain that the old paradigm derived from the old beliefs remains well preserved.

Unfortunately, the TNI’s old values and beliefs derived from the ‘1945 spirit’ frequently contradicted the democratic values that Indonesians wish to nourish. Thus, among other factors, reform of the education system will become the most crucial launching pad to eliminate impunity. In other words, the education paradigm has to be able, to borrow from presidential advisor, Army Lieutenant General (ret’d) Agus

Widjojo, ‘to transform [the TNI soldiers] from the traditional fighters of 1945 to professional soldiers’.120

120 ‘TNI Reform Remains Slow Under SBY Government’, The Jakarta Post, 27 February 2009. 297

Chapter Seven

CONCLUSION

This study has attempted to grapple with a core issue in Indonesia’s democratic transition: the professionalisation of the Indonesian military. In seeking insights into the factors that aid or impede its professionalisation, it moved beyond the traditional analytical gaze of civil-military relations in Indonesia. While not denying the general importance of civil-military relations analysis, it has been informed by the view that such an approach would not provide a truly in-depth explanation for the tepid nature of Indonesian military reform. Instead, this thesis sought to examine the formation and crystallisation of a certain kind of anti-reformist culture that has been deeply entrenched in the Indonesian military for several decades.

It has tried to show why the Indonesian military has resisted attempts to professionalise itself. It has described and explained how the TNI’s officer corps’ professionalism is built on an edifice of so-called ‘historical rights’ claimed by the military. It has shown that these ‘historical rights’ were an invention, not a representation of historical facts, and that they were invented after the Army rose to dominance in Indonesia following the political turmoils that occurred in 1965. In tandem with the invented historical legacy, certain myths also contribute to the construction of soldiers’ manner of thinking. A key finding of the thesis is that the

Indonesian military’s crisis of professionalism has resulted from a number of factors.

As was shown in Chapter Three, the year of 1965 was a watershed year for all aspects of Indonesian societal life. An Army general from Java, Suharto, backed by right-wing generals, had a tremendous political triumph following the Thirtieth of September event. Popular organisations with mass membership, which Sukarno and his colleagues had nurtured for many years, were physically annihilated. The whole of Indonesian society was forcibly demobilised and depoliticised.

By contrast, the army was politicised and mobilised. Along with the weakening leftist political forces that supported Sukarno, Suharto gradually consolidated his regime’s power base anchored in the army. Suharto administered the integration of the whole armed forces under single control in which the Army was given dominant roles at the expense of other services. The Army’s doctrine was manipulated and imposed as the central doctrine of the Indonesian Armed Forces

(ABRI). At the heart of this trans-service doctrine lies the military socio-political doctrine, dwifungsi, the chief purpose of which was to legitimise the military’s roles in all aspect of Indonesian life. Later throughout the New Order era, in concert with

Golkar, dwifungsi became the political machinery for the regime’s persistence for more than thirty years. The most crucial measure embedded in the integration of the armed forces was the incorporation of service academies into single, integrative training. This step became a means to develop ideological homogeneity and conformity of obedience to the regime inculcated within the officer corps.

The Army-backed government which referred to itself as the ‘New Order’ emerged with a completely new set of basic underlying assumptions in developing and modernising Indonesia. To put development and modernisation into action, a sort of social transformation was carried out by implanting certain cultural values that revolved around the president’s palace itself in support of the implementation of what was called development. Political stability had become a mantra to secure the developmentalism ideology encapsulated in what was called ‘Pancasila Democracy’.

This was supported by three fundamental political resources, that is, coercive,

299 persuasive, and material. The mobilisation of these political resources throughout the archipelago was carried out chiefly through an intelligence-based ‘special operation’ backed up by the army territorial structure. Through such an operation, society was constantly under surveillance. Concomitantly, political parties were simplified and their leaders conditioned to become amenable to the government’s wishes and financially dependent on government subsidies for their operations. By this way, the regime enjoyed an enforced ‘monoloyalty.’

Along with both physical and psychological repression, the army’s victory gave it enormous scope to shape the political and cultural life of Indonesian society.

The military attempted to define and shape Indonesian identity, societal norms and culture through a process that I call ‘army-isation.’ This process was imposed not only on the civilian society but also for the whole Indonesian armed forces themselves. This was carried out by employing complex tactics of which the most important was control over Indonesian history. This tactic was used along with other socio-cultural tactics.

At the heart of these very complex tactics lay the ideology of uniformity coupled with the institutionalisation of robust bureaucratic and Javanese-patrimonial and feudal systems in which Suharto himself became the focal dignitary in cultivating his selective versions of the relevant Javanese teachings. All these tactics were designed to secure conformity of obedience, a sense of deference and obedience, and an anti-critical discourse culture for the purpose of maintaining the regime. In this way, during the New Order era Indonesian society underwent both

‘army-isation’ and ‘Javanisation’ processes. These processes were, and are, even more institutionalised in the military body.

300 Chapter Three has examined how the military promoted its legitimacy through complex historic and cultural tactics in supporting its dwifungsi. The history of Indonesia was rewritten in order to promote the military cultural values and beliefs to support the New Order regime. No alternative interpretations other than those of official versions of the Indonesian past were allowed to come to the surface. The project of rewriting history was handed to conservative historians and writers who collaborated with the New Order’s political plan. Even long after Suharto’s fall, the army’s hegemony in controlling Indonesian history was, and is still, vindicated. Up until now Indonesian historians found it difficult to include the different interpretations of the Indonesian past into the general school curriculum. Moreover, a military institution like the Indonesian Air Force is even reluctant and too discouraged to promote its own history, particularly if the latter relates to the events of 1965.

Grounded somewhat on the works of McGregor, and Susanto and Supriatma,

Chapter Three has partly set up the discussion on how the military as the producer of

Indonesian past and culture exercised its hegemony to shape the collective memory of Indonesian society. The self-perceived image of a people’s army was created to promote the military’s roles in all aspects of Indonesian societal life. It was also to demonstrate the superiority of military leaders over their civilian counterparts. By constantly elevating military themes, such a historic tactic was inherently also aimed at removing the collective memory of popular movements in the early Indonesian struggle for nationalism which led to Indonesian independence. Thus, early civilian nationalist leaders were left out of Indonesian history.

Through various media, namely museums, monuments, school textbooks, and film, emphasis was given to send a message that Indonesia was prone to disintegrate,

301 compounded by threats from extreme dissenters whose aims were to disavow the state ideology Pancasila and the state Constitution of 1945. Thus, the unity, or oneness, between the military and people would be needed to safeguard the nation against these threats. The unity of the people and military was deemed to be a historical imperative originating from the guerrilla struggle which is always referred to as the 1945 values, despite the fact that the guerrilla war only happened in a short period of time and in certain areas.

The indoctrination of militaristic culture was derived from the spirit of 1945 military values, especially those distilled from the guerrilla war experiences.

Throughout the New Order era, the public school system as a ‘cultural centre’ had become a fertile ground to instil militaristic culture and inculcate feudal Javanese culture. The impact was remarkable, and is still persistent today. The army’s historic indoctrination through public schools produced a culture of violence which remains visible in Indonesian society today. This can be found, for example, in violent brawls among high school and even university students.

Under the New Order authority, for the sake of political stability no moment was exempt from military ‘repression’. Society was constantly under the military’s surveillance. Media and universities were under the control of a government backed by the army. The law on media was imposed to suppress the freedom of the press.

Discussion on politics was considered to be a taboo. As a consequence, popular mass participation in the so-called ‘development’ was discouraged and popular forces were marginalised. In the absence of popular political participation, the army had become the main pillar of the New Order’s Indonesia that developed into a repressive developmentalism state managed by an authoritarian, centralistic, bureaucratic, feudalistic, and corrupt government. In this way, the military as the

302 producer of history had in itself produced an impression contradictory to one which it always attempted to campaign the self-perceived image of being a people’s army. A crisis-ridden economy in the late 1990s led to the regime’s collapse and the dissolution of the military’s dwifungsi along with the plummeting image of people’s army.

This thesis has addressed essential aspects in which the military presents itself as the audience of the official history it has produced and controlled. Chapter

Four and Chapter Five have observed how as an audience the military has been imprisoned by its own made-and-controlled history. The army’s control of history has become an obstacle for the whole of TNI professionalism because it generates basic underlying assumptions, norms, values and beliefs which in turn produce another damaging factor. In Chapter Three we observed a daily-life example in how such attributes had created a tendency among soldiers to act unilaterally and autonomously while at the same time showing a fascist character as was demonstrated by the military district commander in Aceh in the incident of half-mast flag-raising to respect a former Acehnese separatist leader. In a more violent way, such a tendency could easily be found in West Papua. Thus, it is in this context, control of history has found its involvement as a barrier to the TNI’s professionalisation. However, there is not yet a complete picture of this in order to understand why such unprofessional behaviour remains alive and well.

The more intact picture about the army’s control of history that created other damaging factors for its professionalisation can be found in the education process.

Here, the military constitutes the audience of what it produced and controlled, that is, the Indonesian past. This thesis has observed that army control of history found its expression very much in officer formative education process. As has been examined

303 in Chapter Four, the basic assumptions of the educational paradigm were largely derived from the legacy of TNI’s certain historic narratives, particularly derived from the guerrilla war.

When the National Military Academy (which later became AKMIL) was reopened in 1957 in Magelang, its training paradigm seemed to extend and preserve what its predecessor, the Militaire Academie Yogyakarta, had operated before, that is, the confluence of Japanese and Dutch military training models in which the

Japanese method was dominant. There were two important impetuses surrounding the re-opening of National Military Academy. First, an emerging consciousness of the need for military identity preoccupied the discourse on what the Indonesian army’s professional ‘true essence’ should be like one which drew inspiration from the dormant feudal-Javanese military traditions which were revived during the fascist

Japanese military occupation. In fact, this discourse had taken place since early

1950s. Second, the Indonesian Army had received considerable aid from the US military, particularly in officer training which also began in the early 1950s. By these means, the US model in professional military education, particularly the Thayer

System of US Military Academy (USMA), was carried into AKMIL Magelang. In many physical and organisational aspects, the USMA features are still visible in

AKMIL. Thus, AKMIL simply became an estuary incorporating an assortment of norms, values, and principles in which Javanese cultural nuances were dominant.

As part of the New Order regime’s consolidation in post-1965 Indonesia, all the service academies, including the Police Academy, were integrated and reorganised under the AKABRI (Academy of the Indonesian Armed Forces) systems in which the Army dominated training and training policy. In its further development, the Army’s training principle which was believed to be the ideal

304 paradigm to forge the TNI’s officer identity was adopted accordingly by all services.

By this way, educational process for the whole TNI has since undergone ‘army- isation’.

The Army’s dominant roles in supporting the New Order state gave it enormous scope to rewrite its own version of Indonesian history. While the Army version of rewritten Indonesian past was made to promote its legitimacy to the wider

Indonesian society, it was also aimed to shape the soldier’s identity, especially for the officer corps. The latter was, and is, carried out through the education process which takes the form of historic indoctrination. Thus, during the New Order, the feudal-Javanese culture of the TNI academy was strengthened by the indoctrination of history.

The most instrumental education process in the Indonesian Armed Forces has been the historic indoctrination of the 1945 values defined by the ABRI History

Centre. Such values have given birth to the basic underlying philosophy of the whole

TNI education, Dwi Warna Purwa Cendikia Wusana upon which the entire education process rests. As mentioned in Chapter Four, this philosophy (or more accurately principle) means ‘pursuing for patriotism and devotion based on Pancasila at first, then professionalism and intellectual thereafter’. However, since the New

Order regime identified itself as the defender of Pancasila, the education was exploited to nurture conformity of obedience to serve devotion toward the regime maintenance.

The Dwi Warna Purwa Cendikia Wusana was, and is, believed to be a manifestation of the confluence between historic virtues inherited by the 1945

Generation which revolves around the charismatic leadership of General Sudirman and the mythological figures found in wayang world. It is further elaborated into

305 three aspects of quality which is called Tri Sakti Viratama made up of physical, mental and intellectual attributes. The ultimate goal of this principle upon which the whole education process rests is to forge ‘identity’ or the ‘true essence’ of the TNI’s fighting soldier, especially the officer corps. With such a principle, the educational process aims to inculcate the meaning of ‘1945 struggle’ as the army version which is infantry (guerrilla)-based. At the heart of this 1945 fighting spirit lies the mantra which was distilled from the saying of the father of TNI, General Sudirman, during the guerrilla struggle, that is, the ‘TNI solidity’ needed in devotion to a sacred mission for upholding the sovereignty of the Unitary State Republic of Indonesia which must be defended at all costs.

Those values and beliefs have become a launching pad to all efforts in officer character and leadership building. To achieve this, a complex set of traditions which emphasise physical aspects was invented, and is preserved in which physical privations become the most effective, simplest and by all means efficient to grasp the meaning of ‘1945 struggle’. Such a method produces other mutual benefits, namely, fraternity, esprit de corps, conformity of obedience and uniformity of outlook or cognitive scheme.

However, at the same time, the existing education principle also has led to misconceptions, or fallacies as well as obstacles in conducting education and training which in turn created other damaging effects for the officers’ professionalisation.

Because the demands to forge the cadets were derived from the 1945 fighting spirit values, both the academy as an institution and cadets were exposed to dissonant and even contradictory values. As observed in Chapter Three, this principle immediately has brought about an academy that is thoroughly divided between maintaining stability of the legacy of the past and preparing to face future challenges, making it

306 desperately difficult to accommodate and operate all aspects conceived in this principle. As a result of this confusion, the essence of the education process has been significantly reduced to technical-administrative routines and heavily translated into quantitatively measurable and mechanistic undertakings.

The mono-interpretation on the meaning of ‘fighting spirit’ defined by the

Army becomes the only single source, and must be referred to in administering military education for the whole TNI officers. For other services than the Army, it has led to the shift of its paradigm, from the appreciation of knowledge (sciences) moving towards the acceptance of the myths (traditions). The traditions invented for character building have to follow what has been defined by the Army. This is to enshrine the stability of the past legacy. Central to this tradition has been the

‘fighting spirit’ which should contain full ‘bloody’ physical and mental abuse, reflecting both self-perceived army values of the ‘1945 spirit’ and the myth found in mystical world of satria (knight)-ship. With such a principle, leadership character building has been based largely on physical appearance while culture of literacy remains absent from the character building. As a result, unaccompanied by inculcation of culture of literacy, this complex tradition simply produces unthinking obedience.

The lack of a culture of literacy, in turn, has shifted the meaning of ‘fighting spirit’ to become ‘fascist spirit’. In tandem with patriotism a la Spartan, the fascist tendency of TNI soldiers comes to the fore: masculine, confident, arrogant, obedient, unthinkingly loyal, and desirous of developing a flaming spirit ‘to assault, crush, and commit an absolute act of self-sacrifice’. However, to paraphrase Abdullah, they lack understanding of the leeway available to them while their vision is short-sighted, and tend to be pragmatic.

307 At the same time the indoctrination of feudal-Javanese culture contributes to the preservation of a patrimonial system which has been deeply entrenched since the

New Order regime. This, in turn, creates patron-clientelism in the entire labyrinth of organisational relations. In combination with the fraternity, esprit de corps, conformity of obedience and uniformity of outlook, the patronage system generates a sense of mutual benefit both in a negative and positive sense. Positively, it is able to produce officer corps’ camaraderie that leads to the so-called ‘TNI solidity’, but simultaneously it generates the tendency to mutually protect unethical conduct as indicated in the cadet recruitment. At the same time, cadet traditions to invent the sense of esprit de corps have simply spawned seeds of a culture of impunity which becomes another major barrier for the TNI’s professionalism.

During the academy life, cadets’ energy is drained for the most part in tradition maintenance, while for the academy staff the energy is drained on operating institutional routines. It is virtually impossible for both cadets and their instructors to devote most part of their time for intellectual adventure exploring new knowledge or enlarging mental horizon through critical thinking and intellectual pursuits. This situation was facilitated by an admission system that was not immune from manipulative processes. As explained in Chapter Four, the existing admission process in turn resulted in the academic quality of the majority of cadets declining below the required standards. At the same time it becomes an arena for the maintenance of conservatism in the military body since a significant portion of cadet aspirants were given a priority to those coming from military family background.

308 The education paradigm had simply produced ‘generations without books’

(generasi nol buku)1 which in turn creates a symptom of character paralysis. Of course, such a symptom could immediately be found in the Academy’s organisational atmosphere itself since the latter reflects the product of its own alumni’s way of thinking. Inaccuracies in problem formulation has proved to be an indication of such symptoms. In this way, these obstacles to officer professionalism are at work even in its formative process.

The entire education process proved to have failed to provide a favourable environment for knowledge construction. Cadets’ power of intellect was simply sacrificed. As a result, cadets have little appreciation of knowledge acquisition which is needed to enlarge their mental horizon. In this context, knowledge simply becomes a heap of facts that should be memorised before the exam day. This applies to all subject materials, most notably the subject matter of history. The military version of

Indonesian history was consistently indoctrinated and not learned with critical thinking as ‘process and record’ to sharpen the power of intellect. In this way, while the Indonesian military consistently controls the Indonesian past, its officers simply become an ‘ahistorical’ society. Thus historic indoctrination through a complex tradition during the cadet life is inculcated without knowing what it is.

The failure of knowledge construction was enabled and even exaggerated by traditional wisdom that believes ‘mental attitude comes before intellectual curiosity’ and that ‘good relations’ with superiors will largely determine the officer career path.

Indeed, ‘good relations’ in this sense should be understood in patron-clientelism context. Such common wisdom has become a departure for academy graduates to pave their entire career throughout their service as TNI officers.

1 To borrow Taufiq Ismail, cited in Latif, Menyemai Karakter Bangsa. See Chapter Five, note 34.

309 There are two main important rationales why such an education paradigm has been able to persist for so long. First, there has been an established belief that views the existing system to have been the most appropriate system. It is believed to have been successful to produce leaders both for the TNI and (even) national levels.

Second, the absence of a culture of literacy has allowed no other critical discourses to challenge the established system. The entire education atmosphere simply produces of what Taufiq Ismail identifies as ‘generations without books’. In lesser or greater degree, this lack of literacy culture could potentially lead to ‘character paralysis’.

This has already been obvious in the TNI’s academy ecosystem which is indicated by practical orientations in conducting the education. In tandem with the two main factors mentioned earlier, such pragmatism has consistently contributed to preserve the reliability of existing traditional wisdoms and myths.

But how can we be convinced that the explanation above is proved to be consistent and true? This thesis has moved further to examine how such a professional crisis continued to prevail in higher education for the TNI leaders as presented in Chapter Five. While the main focus of Chapter Five is to examine the education process for the TNI leaders, it reveals in part the consistency of traditional wisdom in how an officer should advance his career if he is to be successful in the absence of merit system and fair mechanism for performance appraisal as admitted by a three-star Army general, Suryo Prabowo.

They who attended a command and staff college were already convinced that personal allegiance or cliques were the major factor in advancing their career rather than intellectual curiosity. This conviction has been built during teen years in service time as an officer. Thus, for many, attending such military colleges simply became a formality to meet administrative requirement for a further promotion either for a

310 higher rank or position while at the same time it becomes an arena to create or refresh ‘old-boy networks’. It is not the place to acquire knowledge or explore new ideas and concepts.

The uniformity in TNI education philosophy has led to a conformist atmosphere throughout all the TNI schools. Hence, it is understandable that to a large extent the instructional paradigm of higher officer education is pretty much similar to that of officer formative education, especially the military academy. Similar to what happened in the academy, military professional knowledge which in other developed countries is considered crucial for the officers failed to develop. In this context, knowledge has become a heap of instant information acquired without genuine contemplation in order to develop a real sense into genuine understanding. It simply becomes a heap of facts which are learned perfunctorily and need to be memorised only before exam date. Critical analysis, reports and estimates that might logically entail adequate literature research seem to be not the main thrust of the course. Even worse has been the culture of plagiarism which kills the seeds of innovative thinking or fresh ideas. Such a culture could also appear in the form of practice to purchase other persons’ ideas.

In the existing paradigm, almost all subject matters prescribed in the curriculum are simply wasteful. Take for example the subject matter of ‘law’. The prescribed curriculum always contains this subject which also includes humanitarian law. However, case studies of humanitarian law in which the TNI has been the subject are largely absent. So also, the TNI’s history in domestic military operation had never been analysed as a ‘process and record’ to capture the lessons learned.

This explains why there has been no professional article on the military operations ever conducted in-country. The case of the East Timor military operation has been a

311 profound example where the TNI (ABRI) had been involved in an international conflict for 24 years. Unfortunately, critical analysis on this case has been largely absent in TNI’s higher school, particularly command and staff colleges. Thus, practically no in-country history of military operations has been written. Again, this strengthens an indication that the TNI officer corps simply becomes an ‘ahistorical’ society.

The results of the existing education paradigm are apparent. They are reflected in the poor ability of most officers to carry out critical thinking and analysis. Chapter Four and Chapter Five have shown that TNI thinkers have been unable to formulate and transform ideas into processes as to what good professional education really means and how it should be pursued. The officer education even simply signifies a crisis of professionalism. It constitutes a ‘small window’ through which the broader professional crises can be viewed.

The symptom of most TNI officers’ inability in critical and analytical thinking is notable. In this regard, TNI thinkers are generally not only unable to formulate an objective precisely, but also are no longer capable of setting up accurately what would be achieved with the sets of pursuits they devise to attain that objective. In this way, they tend to be reductionist in the sense that they are easily prone to simplify or avoid the real, complex problems. To justify their inability in thinking, they are predisposed to preserve what has already existed and long held to have been correct although it is not fully understood. This is apparent in how the military thinkers formulate state defence and strategic policies.

Thus, it becomes very clear that the education paradigm has become an undermining factor to the professionalisation of TNI. However, although this factor is sufficient to understand the obstacles to TNI’s professionalism, it is not yet a

312 complete portrayal. As we have seen, this factor generates another barrier, that is, a culture of impunity.

In tandem with the failure of education to develop enlightenment through knowledge construction, its paradigm produces symptoms of character paralysis in the form of unethical tendencies. Rather than condemning it as an abnormality, such an unethical culture is simply normalised as natural behaviour. Violation against discipline as long as it is unobservable is regarded normal. In reality, such a symptom could be found, for example, in the military court proceedings of a trial of

TNI soldiers committing torture against West Papuan men made known internationally through YouTube. A military court judge admonished a TNI soldier, more because of his ignorance that caused his action to be known publicly, than the crime itself. However, such a description is not yet intact to explain military indiscipline that leads to a culture of impunity.

Military professionalism finds its expression in the fulfilment of legal and ethical standards of action, or in simple terms, professional standards. Thus, military as a profession should meet professional standards which guide its member to conduct an action. These so-called professional standards ‘may be a set of unwritten norms transmitted through the professional educational system or it may be codified into written canons of professional ethics’.2 In this way, military as a profession ‘thus becomes a moral unit positing certain and ideals’.3 Of course, the so-called professional standards in the sense of armed conflicts or military operations have an ultimate objective, that is, ‘to reduce the horrors inherent therein to the greatest

2 See Chapter Six, note 95. 3 See Chapter Six, note 96.

313 extent possible in view of the political purpose for which [military operation is aimed at], namely to achieve one’s policies by victory over one’s enemy’.4

The East Timor case was particularly worth examining to explain TNI soldiers’ indiscipline against professional standards. It was the longest international armed conflict the Indonesian military had ever been involved in, and for 24 years of

Indonesian occupation it became a lengthy fertile ground for the development of a military culture of impunity that acts as a barrier to its professionalisation. In this context, the TNI soldiers not only had infringed the international law of armed conflict, but also had violated their own moral principles of conduct conceived in the

Soldier’s Oath. The TNI soldiers always claimed this oath as its professional ‘true essence’. Contained in this oath are the principles of knight-ship and chivalry demanding all soldiers to ‘defend, honesty, truth and justice’.

The systematic unlawful killings and tortures perpetrated by the Indonesian military and its auxiliaries’ during 24 years of occupation indicate that violations against the international humanitarian law were tolerated, supported and condoned.

Although gross violations against humanitarian law had been evidently committed systematically during the occupation period, only few cases were acted upon in the courts as a result of international and domestic pressure faced by the Indonesian government. The most publicised case was the Santa Cruz massacre in 1991.

However, in this case, the trials were carried out in military court. The outcome of such trials was of no surprise. The proceedings were not carried in such a fair way as to establish the truth of what happened during these incidents or ascertain responsibility for those atrocities. Predictably, in this case lenient sentencing was imposed against the low-ranking soldiers, undermining the seriousness of what

4 See Chapter Six, note 97.

314 occurred at Santa Cruz on 12 November 1991. While this outcome failed to deliver justice for the victims, it failed to provide a deterrent for the recurrence of a similar tragedy in the future, and at the same time, fertilised the culture of impunity.

Similar violations eventually recurred following the Popular Consultation in

1999. Again, the Indonesian government came under international and domestic pressures to bring those involved in those crimes into inquiry. As the Indonesian armed forces withdrew from East Timor following the result of the People’s

Consultation which favoured independence, KOMNAS HAM established a special team known as KPP-HAM where the main task was to inquiry whether and to what extent the apparatus of State and/or other bodies, national or international, were involved in the crimes against humanity. However, it investigated only the last nine months from January 1999 until the departure of Indonesian forces in September that year, not the 24 year occupation. The findings could be classified as crimes of universal jurisdiction including systematic and mass murder; extensive destruction, enslavement, forced deportations and displacement and other inhumane acts committed against the civilian population. In tandem with KOMNAS HAM, several international commissions also recommended that the UN Security Council should establish an international tribunal in order to bring the perpetrators to justice. Thus, the Indonesian government was simply forced to act by both domestic and international pressure. However, under pressure from its military, the Indonesian government took its cue from this qualification of the recommendation, by establishing the so-called Ad Hoc Human Rights Court in Jakarta.

Like those happened in previous similar cases, the proceeding processes were predictable. The proceedings focused more on individual crimes in which only the facts directly surrounding the particular criminal acts were considered relevant rather

315 than crimes against humanity. Like in many cases regularly seen in the past, this case of gross human rights violation was regarded as a matter of military discipline rather than criminal liability. As a result, the prosecutions failed to capture broader patterns of state-sponsored abuse and the cumulative impact of those violations. It failed to prosecute the senior commanders responsible for the actions of their subordinates.

The atmosphere throughout the proceedings was reportedly highly intimidatory, which seemed to be consistently apparent across the court trials processes since most prosecutions for crimes against humanity were held in military courts or in human rights courts where the cases involved the military personnel. As a result, no single military commander stationed in East Timor at the time of event was found guilty.

Rather, two Indonesians of East Timorese heritage were found guilty. The failure to deliver justice was enabled by the institutional weaknesses of the Indonesian court system. The Indonesian court system was plagued by a ‘weak and corrupt judiciary’ which was exacerbated by ‘lack of political support for accountability’, and

‘intimidation and poor witness protection’. Thus, the use of military court tends to avoid prosecuting those most responsible for crimes’. Even in the post-Suharto era, the corrupt court system was still very much alive.5

As explained in Chapter Four, the training paradigm has simply become an arena where seeds of a culture of impunity are inculcated through traditions. The seeds of a culture of impunity found their expression in the form of mutually protecting those committing unethical conduct on behalf of esprit de corps, especially cohorts and superiors. The soldiers’ esprit de corps which is strengthened by the ‘silent-mode movement’ has enabled the culture of impunity to thrive throughout the rest of their time in service. This ‘silent-mode’ makes investigations

5 See Chapter Six.

316 for any unethical conduct involving soldiers, especially those of officer corps, even more difficult to perform. Thus, while seeds of the culture of impunity are unconsciously inculcated through the education paradigm, the failure of human rights and military courts to prosecute those responsible seems to have also strengthened this culture. Fear of reprisal for committing crimes against humanity is largely absent. No lesson has been delivered to the rest of soldiers, making it possible for similar grave violations against humanity to recur in the future. In this way, the culture of impunity is well institutionalised in the military body. As a consequence, the military tends to violate discipline which should be meant in the sense that all aspects of military operation shall be in compliance with humanitarian law.

Thus, it is not surprising if the tendency to conduct crimes against humanity is alive and well, which ironically happens in the post-Suharto era across the archipelago. One violation against humanitarian law which is quite often committed by the soldiers is to justify torture as a means in extracting testimonies from civilians.

Hardly rare, such a means was frequently followed by unlawful killings or other inhumane treatments. The similar violent incidents occurring in West Papua show factual instances where impunity remains prevalent. In part, this was because there were almost no serious negative consequences for what the TNI did in the past, especially in East Timor. Ironically, similar tragedies occurred in democratising

Indonesia when the Indonesian military had already been subject to the Law 34/2004 which demands the military to respect democratic principles, civilian supremacy, basic human rights, national legal stipulations and international legal stipulations already ratified by Indonesia as stipulated in the law.

Thus, impunity has enabled the violation of professional standards to recur frequently. It violates the principles of honesty, truth and justice which are claimed to

317 be the soul of, and have to be defended by the TNI’s soldiers. As explained earlier, some instances of human rights court trials indicate that the TNI culture of impunity has become a barrier to deliver truth and justice. Meanwhile, the continuing presence of methods to justify unlawful violence in dealing with civilians whose aspiration is regarded as opposing state policy reflect more as a crude expression of instinct rather than professional ways of using force. In other words, a culture of impunity has become an obstacle for the professionalisation of the TNI.

Various systematic measures have been made in an attempt to eliminate the culture of impunity, such as the passage of new laws and the establishment of mechanisms and institutions. However, such efforts only constitute a half-way, while the remaining part stays untouched, that is, the TNI education paradigm. This is because impunity seems to have become a culture occupying soldiers’ mental framework. The individual involved in crimes against humanity must be viewed as a product of the system, that is, education. In this sense, education should be viewed as a ‘cultural centre’. Chapter Four has shown that the seeds of impunity have been cultivated since the formative education process. Accordingly, reforming the existing education paradigm totally will become the most crucial launching pad to remove the culture of impunity.

Thus, this thesis has shown that three main factors have become major obstacles to the professionalisation of TNI. These factors are: (1) TNI’s control over the Indonesian history, (2) the TNI education paradigm, and (3) the culture of impunity. This answers the main question of this thesis: what are the factors that influence, for better or worse, the professionalisation of the Indonesian military?

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APPENDIX

INTERVIEWS AND CONFIDENTIAL COMMUNICATIONS

Minister of Defence, Purnomo Yusgiantoro, 12 April 2010 Interview 223-001A, 23 February 2010 Interview 223-001B, 23 February 2010 Interview 225-001, 25 February 2010 Interview 302-002, 02 March 2010 Interview 303-001A, 05 March 2010 Interview 303-001B, 05 March 2010 Interview 305-002, 05 March 2010 Interview 309-001, 09 March 2010 Interview 318-001, 18 March 2010 Interview 319-002, 19 March 2010 Interview 322-001, 22 and 25 March 2010 Interview 325-001, 23 and 25 March 2010 Interview 329-001, 29 March 2010 Interview 408-001, 08 April 2010 Interview 414-001, 14 and 27 April 2010 Interview 419-001, 20 April 2010 Interview 420-001, 20 April 2010 Interview 428-002, 28 April 2010 Interview 429-002, 29 April 2010 Interview 430-003, 30 April 2010 Interview 504-001, 04 May 2010 Interview 506-001, 06 May 2010 Interview 510-001, 10 May 2010 An Indonesian Army colonel, 05 October 2011 An Indonesian Air Force colonel, 05 October 2011 An Indonesian Air Force colonel (SESKOAU graduate 2008), 01 March 2011 An Indonesian Army colonel, (SESKOAD graduate 2004), 30 June 2010 and 14 March 2011 An Indonesian Air Force major, SESKOAU student, 18 March 2011 An Indonesian Air Force major, attending an overseas command and staff college, 21 March 2011

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