Interpreting Islam: Us-Indonesian Relations, 1953-1968

INTERPRETING ISLAM: U.S.-INDONESIAN RELATIONS, 1953-1968

A Dissertation

Submitted to the Graduate School

of the University of Notre Dame

in Partial Fulfillment of the Requirements

for the Degree of

Doctor of Philosophy

Laura M. Weis

R. Scott Appleby, Director

Graduate Program in Peace Studies and History

Notre Dame, Indiana

July 2018

Laura M. Weis

INTERPRETING ISLAM: U.S.-INDONESIAN RELATIONS, 1953-1968

Abstract

Laura M. Weis

This study of United States relations with post-colonial Indonesia sheds light on how prevalent assumptions about and interpretations of a major world religion, Islam, shaped policymakers’ attitudes and decisions concerning U.S. engagement with Muslim actors abroad. It examines not only the accuracy and nuance of U.S. officials’ knowledge about Islam in Indonesia, but also religion’s shifting salience in U.S. foreign relations during the height of the Cold War. It argues that religion mattered in the construction and implementation of U.S. policies toward Indonesia—but under specific, changing conditions, not as an overarching framework. Islam provided one lens by which U.S. officials understood the behavior and goals of the Indonesian government and, perhaps more consequentially, the character of the majority of Indonesia’s people. While interpretations of Islam in Indonesia evolved over the course of subsequent U.S. administrations—and the significance and utility of these perceptions waxed and waned over time—in general the U.S. foreign policy establishment tended to see religion as a means to an end, namely, as an instrument that at times proved useful in the struggle against global communism.

For my parents.

CONTENTS

Acknowledgments ...... iv

Abbreviations ...... v

Introduction ...... 1

Chapter 1: From Colony to Country: The “Religious Factor” in U.S.-Indonesian Relations ...... 51

Chapter 2: “Friend” or “Fanatic”? Regional Rebellion and Religion, 1957-1961 ...... 117

Chapter 3: Whither Religion? 1961-1965 ...... 181

Chapter 4: Religious Violence? 1965-1968 ...... 249

Chapter 5: Conclusion ...... 299

Archival Sources ...... 338

Bibliography...... 339

iii ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

As I conclude my doctoral studies, I am filled with gratitude for: my dissertation committee, Rebecca McKenna, Asher Kaufman, Mun’im Sirry, and my advisor, Scott

Appleby, who provided guidance and support during my time at Notre Dame; Jackie and

Dave Perez, Wendy and David Heckler, Betsy and Jim Kreisle, Aura Kanegis and Lisa

Handy, Niki Akhavan, Raed Jarrar, and Clare Sullivan, who graciously opened their hearts and homes to me as I journeyed from archive to archive; Mark Chmiel, who set me on this path, and Joanie French, who taught me how to move through it; Courtney

Wiersema and Craig Kinnear, who helped me see the light at the end of the tunnel—to say nothing of their trivia skills, which, along with Bry Martin, Janice Gunther, and Chris

Flanagan, provided weekly laughs and camaraderie; Robert Palermo, who always said I could do it; Sarah Christensen, Sarah Rutherford, and Katie Volin, who always had my back; Heather DuBois, Janna Hunter-Bowman, and Karie Cross Riddle, for coffee dates and fireside chats and lifting my spirits during the final stretch; Kathrin Kranz, whose willingness to engage in marathon text exchanges about Very Important Things was surpassed only by her capacity to offer compassionate counsel; Niki Lee, for road trips and hour-long phone calls and steadfast friendship; Zoe and Emmy, who perfected laptop lolling and provided essential cat cuddles; and my dear parents, Jack and Alice Weis, whose love and encouragement sustained me throughout the past eight years.

ABBREVIATIONS

BPS Body to Protect Sukarnoism

CAP Civic Action Program

CFA Committee for a Free Asia

CIA Central Intelligence Agency

DCI Director of Central Intelligence

DCM Deputy Chief of Mission (U.S. Embassy)

FE Bureau of Far Eastern Affairs, U.S. Department of State

GPII Movement of Young Muslims, Gerakan Pemuda Islam Indonesia

HMI Muslim Students’ Association, Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam

INR Bureau of Intelligence and Research, U.S. Department of State

JCS Joint Chiefs of Staff

Kopkamtib Operations Command to Restore Security and Order

Kostrad Army Strategic Reserve Command

Nasakom Nationalism (nasionalisme), religion (agama), and communism (komunisme)

MPRS Provisional People’s Consultative Assembly

NIE National Intelligence Estimate

NII Islamic State of Indonesia, Negara Islam Indonesia

NSC National Security Council

NU Revival of Religious Scholars, Nahdlatul Ulama

OCB Operations Coordinating Board

PCIIA U.S. President’s Committee on International Information Activities

Permesta Universal Struggle Charter, Piagam Perjuangan Semesta

PKI Communist Party of Indonesia, Partai Komunis Indonesia

PNI Nationalist Party of Indonesia, Partai Nasional Indonesia

PRRI Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia, Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia

PSB Psychological Strategy Board

PSI Socialist Party of Indonesia, Partai Sosialis Indonesia

PSII Party of the Indonesian Islamic Union, Partai Sarekat Islam Indonesia

RPI Federal Republic of Indonesia, Republik Persatuan Indonesia

SDI Islamic Traders Association, Sarekat Dagang Islam

SI Islamic Association, Sarekat Islam

SPA Office of Southwest Pacific Affairs, U.S. Department of State

TII Islamic Army of Indonesia, Tentara Islam Indonesia

TNI Indonesian National Armed Forces, Tentara Nasional Indonesia

UN United Nations

USAID United States Agency for International Development

USIA United States Information Agency

VOA Voice of America

VOC Dutch East Indies Company, Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie

INTRODUCTION

In the aftermath of September 11, 2001, the United States government gradually lifted restrictions on security assistance to Indonesia. Initiated in no small part due to global civil society’s concerns about the human rights record of the Indonesian National

Armed Forces (TNI, Tentara Nasional Indonesia), limitations on military aid and training had been in place since the late 1990s. When the George W. Bush administration saw the

Indonesian government as a potential partner in the “global war on terror,” however, U.S. military assistance began to flow back into the country—a trend that has continued since then.1 In November 2005, State Department spokesperson Sean McCormack characterized this “process of military reengagement” with Indonesia as of the “utmost importance” to U.S.-Indonesian relations. He cited the archipelago’s “unique strategic role in Southeast Asia” as “the world’s third largest democracy,” and noted that

Indonesia, “the world’s most populous majority-Muslim nation,” acts as “a voice of

1 Breanna Heilicher, “Indonesia Requests U.S. to Reduce Limitations on U.S. Security Aid to Indonesian Special Forces Unit,” Security Assistance Monitor, January 26, 2018, https://securityassistance.org/blog/indonesia-requests-us-reduce-limitations-us-security-aid-indonesian- special-forces-unit; Rhea Myerscough, “Putting the Cart Before the Horse: United States Resumes Military Assistance to Indonesia,” Defense Monitor, Center for Defense Information, May 18, 2006; Bradley Simpson, “Solidarity in an Age of Globalization: The Transnational Movement for East Timor and U.S. Foreign Policy,” Peace & Change 29, no. 3–4 (2004): 453–482; for a comprehensive database on U.S economic and security assistance, see “Indonesia Country Page,” Security Assistance Monitor, accessed April 16, 2018, https://securityassistance.org/Indonesia.

moderation in the Islamic world.”2 Five years later, during a speech at the University of

Indonesia in 2010, President Barack Obama, his administration having abandoned the language (if not all the tactics) of the “war on terror,” also made reference to religion, alongside democracy and development, as “fundamental to the Indonesian story.”

Highlighting a recurrent theme of U.S. foreign policy in the post-9/11 era, Obama emphasized that “…America is not, and never will be, at war with Islam.”3

U.S. policymakers and pundits routinely invoke Islam to understand or explain the behavior and motivations of Muslim majority societies, often appealing to ideas about the historic role of religion in states with significant Muslim populations. In this era, in which Islam appears frequently in policy formulations and public discourse as both a catalyst for violence and as a potential resource for peacebuilding, scholars and policymakers would benefit from a more thorough scrutiny of the role(s) of religion in foreign relations. An historical analysis of U.S. relations with Indonesia, a Muslim majority society living in a newly independent state during the height of the Cold War, sheds light on how prevalent assumptions about and interpretations of a major world religion, Islam, shaped policymakers’ attitudes and decisions concerning U.S. engagement with Muslim actors abroad. The present study examines not only the accuracy and nuance of U.S. officials’ knowledge about Islam, but also its shifting

2 Sean McCormack, “Press Statement: Indonesia - National Security Waiver/Foreign Military Financing,” Bureau of Public Affairs, Department of State, Washington, D.C., November 22, 2005, https://2001-2009.state.gov/r/pa/prs/ps/2005/57272.htm.

3 Barack Obama, “Remarks by the President at the University of Indonesia in Jakarta, Indonesia,” Office of the Press Secretary, The White House, November 10, 2010, https://obamawhitehouse.archives.gov/the-press-office/2010/11/10/remarks-president-university-indonesia- jakarta-indonesia.

salience in the construction of foreign policy toward Indonesia during the 1950s and

1960s.

Scholars have asserted that policymakers and other observers of international relations “virtually ignored” the role of religion during the Cold War, including in

Southeast Asia. From the 1950s through the 1980s, liberal capitalism, socialism, and communism dominated ideological competition on the world stage, especially in newly decolonized states. One result, the familiar narrative continues, was that “ordinary people” often found “their traditional religious beliefs and communal structures” sidelined in favor of secular nationalist governments and state-led, Western-inspired modernization programs. By the 1970s and 1980s, economic decline and political corruption in the so-called Third World had begun to call into question the competence of secular states, the modernization projects they undertook in collaboration with Western powers, and, in some cases, their compatibility with Islam. Subsequent decades saw a resurgence of allegiance to and dependence upon familiar ethnic and religious communities and institutions, sometimes with violent consequences.4

This standard account of the apparent decline and reemergence of religion in global affairs is accurate as far as it goes. But the narrative of a return of religion, particularly in times of crisis or as a reaction against secular modernity and states, is

4 Linell E. Cady and Sheldon W. Simon, “Introduction: Reflections on the Nexus of Religion and Violence,” in Religion and Conflict in South and Southeast Asia: Disrupting Violence, ed. Linell E. Cady and Sheldon W. Simon, Asian Security Studies (London; New York: Routledge, 2007), 3-4 (quoted); on “religious backlash” against the modernizing projects of the West, see also Andrew Preston, “Globalized Faith, Radicalized Religion, and the Domestic Sources of U.S. Foreign Policy,” in Beyond the Cold War: Lyndon Johnson and the New Global Challenges of the 1960s, ed. Francis J. Gavin and Mark Atwood Lawrence, Reinterpreting History (New York: Oxford University Press, 2014), 265.

complicated by specific histories.5 It can flatten out, for example, the ways in which, in the era of Cold War decolonization, newly independent countries with majority Muslim populations—including Indonesia—responded to the challenge of nation-building in part by working to find “a viable synthesis between Islamic political movements and ideas and the state.”6 It can also reduce, or overlook, the continued salience of religion in many sectors of society, even when it seemed hidden from view or lacked obvious political articulation. Religion manifests in subtle but nonetheless powerful ways beyond its expression in political parties or state institutions. Religion is, to some extent, always salient; that is, it exists on a number of levels—personal, psychological, cultural, societal, political—ready, under certain conditions, to be expressed and mobilized in the public sphere. And Western societies, including the United States, that assign value to the separation of religion and state are no exception.

To lend historical weight and nuance to this familiar narrative, my dissertation zooms in on religion as a compelling and understudied factor in U.S. foreign relations, and considers the varied ways U.S. officials understood Islam and Islamic actors in their

Indonesian contexts. Religion’s salience over time is easier to identify and analyze in some sectors of society than in others. In Indonesia, the salience of Islam—“a polyinterpretable religion” which, like any historical, socio-cultural phenomenon, is not

5 John Thayer Sidel makes this point in Riots, Pogroms, Jihad: Religious Violence in Indonesia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2006), 10–11.

6 Bahtiar Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2003), 1–2. As Effendy notes, because the relationship has been fraught, some scholars have continued to question whether Islam is in fact compatible with the modern state system. This question often stems from long-standing assumptions about Islam’s intrinsic nature as a “political religion,” a perspective that, despite a number of scholarly and popular interventions, continues to persist in both studies of the past and analyses of the present.

static or uniform—waxed and waned in the formal political order.7 The relative influence of particular Islamic political parties at local, provincial, and national levels shifted over time, for example, as did the establishment of bodies to manage religion within the state bureaucracy, and the presence (or absence) of self-identified Muslims in positions of power.8 One can also trace the ways in which religion’s salience ebbed and flowed in domestic U.S. political and social spheres during this period.

The evolving salience of religion for certain individuals, or within particular segments of a population, is more difficult to assess. One can, however, examine how historical observers understood and evaluated its relevance. U.S. officials’ perceptions of the salience of Islam in Indonesian politics, culture, and society over time shaped their understanding of Indonesians as political and religious actors and informed their analyses of Indonesians’ receptivity to or hostility toward past, present, and future U.S. policies.

A study of U.S.-Indonesian relations is warranted for a number reasons, not least the conspicuous lack of attention to Indonesia by U.S. diplomatic historians. Such a study can also help shed light on the following questions. Did perceptions of Islam as a local, national, or transnational actor play a significant role in U.S. analyses of ideologies such as nationalism, communism, or modernization, which were competing for geopolitical influence during Cold War decolonization? Did they consider Islam itself as one of those competing ideologies? Did ideological portrayals or cultural representations of Islam influence the way U.S. decision-makers understood Muslim majority states and societies?

7 Effendy, 3.

8 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia; Myengkyo Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia (New York: Routledge, 2013).

If so, did those ideas influence how the United States conducted its foreign policy in

Indonesia?

In the simplest terms, my dissertation argues that the answer to these questions is

“yes.” Religion—specifically, perceptions of Islam—did matter in the construction and implementation of U.S. policy toward Indonesia. Embedded in that assertion, however, is the question of whether U.S. policymakers conflated Indonesian Islam with an imagined

Islamic monolith present in the Middle East, South Asia, Africa and elsewhere, or whether they appreciated certain distinctive characteristics of Islam in Indonesia which shaped their attitudes toward the archipelago.

The question of Islam’s role in Indonesia was hardly abstract; it became a matter of keen interest for U.S. officials in the context of persistent regional unrest and violent rebellions, the gradual marginalization of Islamic political parties, Indonesian President

Sukarno’s perceived leftward drift, and the rapid rise in popularity of the Partai Komunis

Indonesia (PKI, Communist Party of Indonesia) over the course of the Dwight D.

Eisenhower, John F. Kennedy, and Lyndon B. Johnson administrations. U.S. observers of

Indonesia did not necessarily view Islam and nationalism as incompatible, or even problematic, though they frequently assumed an inherent conflict between Islam and communism. At the same time, American policymakers, journalists, and scholars often missed—or, in some cases, dismissed—the nature of Indonesian identity and its multi- faceted relationship to Islam. Across the archipelago, Islam not only signaled membership in a particular religious community—a community that itself encompassed a diversity of historical experiences and expressions of what it meant to be Muslim—it also

functioned as one among many markers of national identity, socioeconomic status, and/or cultural identity.9

An account of U.S.-Indonesian relations thus complicates the observation that religion was sidelined during the Cold War. Beyond the contention that “religion mattered,” I seek to delineate the ways in which Islam provided a lens by which the

United States understood the behavior and goals of the Indonesian government and the character of the Indonesian people. In addition, I track how this “way of seeing” Islam in

Indonesia evolved over the course of subsequent U.S. administrations, and how the significance and utility of these perceptions waxed and waned at various points in time.

In short, I seek to make an argument about the salience of Islam in U.S.-Indonesian relations under specific, changing conditions, rather than to make overarching claims about religion as a comprehensive, static framework for U.S. foreign policy.

As noted above, an approach built around parsing the salience of Islam presents challenges for the researcher. During the Eisenhower era, for instance, policymakers were attentive to the role of religion both at home and abroad, as one among many tools in its anti-communist toolbox. This is evident in archival sources from the period, which contain abundant references to religion in general, as well as discussions of the role of

Islam in Indonesian society and its presumed anti-communist affinities. Decision-making

9 For a discussion of religious nationalism and religion as a marker of multiple identities, see Atalia Omer and Jason A. Springs, Religious Nationalism: A Reference Handbook (Santa Barbara, California: ABC-CLIO, 2013), 6–7; for examples of just some of the ways in which religion acts as a marker of multiple identities in Indonesia, see Ichlasul Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics: West Sumatra and South Sulawesi, 1949-1979 (Yogyakarta, Indonesia: Gadjah Mada University Press, 1992); Edward Aspinall, Islam and Nation: Separatist Rebellion in Aceh, Indonesia (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2009); Robert W. Hefner, Civil Islam: Muslims and Democratization in Indonesia (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000); Audrey Kahin, Rebellion to Integration: West Sumatra and the Indonesian Polity, 1926-1998 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 1999); Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, especially 18-19, 28-31.

also took place within a domestic framework undergirded by what at least some U.S. officials, academics, and mainstream press accounts considered to be a moral imperative to promote and protect the freedom of Indonesians from atheistic communism. Both of these strands of thinking had consequences for the policies the Eisenhower administration chose to pursue, particularly in response to mounting regional unrest in Indonesia as the

1950s progressed.

As the United States transitioned from the Eisenhower years into the Kennedy and

Johnson administrations, religion began to retreat from this kind of explicit rendering in

U.S. foreign relations, broadly, and in anti-communist efforts, specifically. How, then, does one talk about “religion” when it appears less frequently in U.S. government sources? One could say that its apparent absence is revelatory in and of itself. The demotion of religion in the Kennedy and Johnson eras coincided in practice and in principle with the turn toward modernization theory, for example, an agenda that operated within a Western, secularist paradigm that viewed “traditional” religion as inevitably and progressively receding in the modern nation-state. Yet, while these ideas dominated the U.S. foreign policy and national security apparatus, the United States did not stop monitoring Islamic groups and their activities, even if they misunderstood, marginalized, or maligned their beliefs and behavior. And, when Sukarno appeared to drift increasingly to the political left, U.S. officials revisited assumptions about the incompatibility of Islam and communism, noting the need to maintain or reestablish links with Muslim contacts. Moreover, religion was not absent from ideas about modernization circulating within Indonesia itself. Nor were Indonesian Army officers or members of self-described secular Indonesian political parties, despite their appealing modernizing

credentials, anti-religion; some, in fact, understood their own and others’ religious commitments as a form of patriotism, part and parcel of building national unity.10 Put another way, neither U.S. nor Indonesian officials subscribed to an ideologically pure secularist outlook, even during the height of the influence of modernization theories.

Methods and Approach

“Religious historians,” Andrew Rotter has written, “have tended to ignore U.S. foreign relations,” and “[f]oreign relations historians…have returned the favor.” Indeed, religion has long “been a third rail for students of American wars and diplomacy.”11 In recent years, however, scholars have begun to pay more attention to the importance of religion as a meaningful factor, and even a category of analysis, in the study of U.S. foreign relations. This attention comes as historians have examined the ways that ideology, culture, and identity have shaped, and are shaped by, foreign policy. These trends have deepened our understanding of the multitude of actors and interests that intersect to catalyze, sustain, or challenge the direction of U.S. foreign policy. They have

10 General Abdul Haris Nasution, for instance, frequently appealed to the important role of Islamic organizations and religious scholars in Indonesia’s national development. Besides being spiritual leaders, they should be well-versed in the “sciences and practical capability,” in order to be able to lead the people in areas like building infrastructure and “moderniz[ing] our agriculture.” Abdul Haris Nasution, “Citizens with Good Character,” in To Safeguard the Banner of Revolution (Djakarta: C.V. Delegasi, 1964), 30; Myengkyo Seo extends this to the concept of “Indonesian secularism.” He notes that while some scholars group the Indonesian and Turkish experiences together in studies of Islam and secularism, he differentiates between the two on the grounds that Indonesia’s secularism is neither anti-religious nor irreligious, while Kemalism tends to be associated with a stricter demarcation between private religion and the public state. Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 3; see also Howard M. Federspiel, “The Military and Islam in Sukarno’s Indonesia,” Pacific Affairs 46, no. 3 (1973): 407–20; Bradley Simpson, “Indonesia’s ‘Accelerated Modernization’ and the Global Discourse of Development, 1960–1975,” Diplomatic History 33, no. 3 (June 1, 2009): 467–86.

11 Andrew J. Rotter, “‘Introduction’ to H-Diplo Roundtable Review of Andrew Preston, Sword of the Spirit, Shield of Faith: Religion in American War and Diplomacy (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2012),” H-Diplo XIV, no. 11 (2012), http://www.h-net.org/~diplo/roundtables/PDF/Roundtable-XIV-11.pdf.

also drawn attention to the importance of understanding the interpretive framework(s) within which foreign policy is made; the reciprocal relationship between the production of knowledge and foreign policy; and how foreign policy itself can be a cultural product.12

Andrew Preston situates religion within this “new cultural diplomatic history,” alongside categories of analysis like gender and race, which, if not wholly absent from previous histories of U.S. foreign relations, have only recently been “formalized and theorized” in ways that facilitate a more structured, rigorous methodological approach.13

At the same time, he and other historians also challenge their colleagues to interrogate and explore the explanatory power of culturalist approaches. The challenge is especially pertinent to studies of religion and foreign relations, where a causal relationship is notoriously difficult to capture. But if such studies are to exercise any impact on the field,

Preston reminds his readers, “they must have causal force; they must be able to illustrate, to some degree, a relationship of cause and effect between religious matters and diplomatic events.”14

12 A 2009 roundtable in the Journal of American History provides good background on this trend: Thomas W. Zeiler, “The Diplomatic History Bandwagon: A State of the Field,” Journal of American History 95, no. 4 (March 1, 2009): 1053–73; Fredrik Logevall, “Politics and Foreign Relations,” Journal of American History 95, no. 4 (March 1, 2009): 1074–78; Mario Del Pero, “On the Limits of Thomas Zeiler’s Historiographical Triumphalism,” Journal of American History 95, no. 4 (March 1, 2009): 1079–82; J. C. E. Gienow-Hecht, “What Bandwagon? Diplomatic History Today,” Journal of American History 95, no. 4 (March 1, 2009): 1083–86; K. Hoganson, “Hop off the Bandwagon! It’s a Mass Movement, Not a Parade,” Journal of American History 95, no. 4 (March 1, 2009): 1087–91; See also Thomas Bender, ed., Rethinking American History in a Global Age (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2002); Andrew J. Rotter, “The Cultural History of Foreign Relations,” in A Companion to American Cultural History, ed. Karen Halttunen (Malden, MA: Blackwell Publishing, Ltd., 2008), 425–36; Akira Iriye, “Culture and Power: International Relations as Intercultural Relations,” Diplomatic History 3, no. 2 (1979): 115–128.

13 Andrew Preston, “Bridging the Gap between the Sacred and the Secular in the History of American Foreign Relations,” Diplomatic History 30, no. 5 (November 1, 2006): 796.

14 Preston, 809.

One approach to cause and effect emerges from Jon Butler’s assessment of “the religion problem”—namely, its comparative neglect—in studies of post-1870 United

States history. By treating religion “as commonplace but also transformed in modern

American history, not as exceptional or anomalous,” Butler writes, one can begin to probe religion’s relationship to issues familiar to most historians, including the state and its institutional apparatus; race, gender, and class; electoral politics; and the dominant narrative of progressive modernity, with its embedded assumptions about a linear process of secularization accelerated by the emergence of new technologies, scientific advancement, and rural-urban migration patterns that began in earnest around or after

1870.15 Preston sees value in extending Butler’s approach to religion in domestic politics into the realm of religion’s “integral role...in the formation, execution, and justification of

American foreign policy.”16 He also echoes Butler’s hypotheses as to why some historians have been hesitant to incorporate religion into their work, citing concerns about the appearance of “partisanship and advocacy” in scholarship. In addition, Preston attributes religion’s virtual invisibility to a norm of “secularization” often linked to ideas about objectivity and the instinct to (try to) separate the sacred from the secular—an

“empirical and methodological difficulty,” particularly when it comes questions of

15 Jon Butler, “Jack-in-the-Box Faith: The Religion Problem in Modern American History,” Journal of American History 90, no. 4 (March 1, 2004): 1377–78.

16 Preston, “Bridging the Gap between the Sacred and the Secular in the History of American Foreign Relations,” 784. Preston also notes that Butler appears to be concerned primarily with religion’s role in domestic politics, and not with its potential to inform the construction of foreign policy (796-797). Jon Butler has argued that historians should take religion as seriously in the study of 20th century U.S. history as they have in the study of the 18th and 19th centuries. Doing so need not entail “sanctimony” or “personal religious commitment;” rather, historians should pursue questions about religion’s role in much the same way as they consider other questions about the past, and ask: “Was religion important in American public and private life after 1870, and how should historians describe it?” Butler, “Jack-in-the- Box Faith,” 1360.

causality, traditionally a key feature of diplomatic history.17 A (reductionist) secularist approach can make it difficult for analysts to account for the full, if subtle, range of motivations and behaviors of political actors.

There is merit to the notion that religion is qualitatively distinct as a subject and an explanatory factor. As Preston puts it, “[t]here is an element of choice in the construction of religion that is absent from both gender and race.”18 Other scholars have raised this point as well, perhaps most persuasively Patricia R. Hill. While supportive of historians’ efforts to take religion seriously, including in the making of foreign policy,

Hill is more circumspect about its ability to explain cause and effect.19 While acknowledging the unique characteristics of religion, and admitting that it will never be a

“conclusive” factor in explaining a given historical episode or foreign policy decision,

Preston counts himself among those scholars who believe that it can function as a viable category of analysis.20 For Hill, religion is relevant, even crucial, to the study of foreign relations, as a variable that “acquires (or loses) salience in particular historical moments”—but not, she writes, as a category of analysis akin to race, class, or gender.21

This dissertation draws on both of these scholars’ conceptualizations of the role of religion in foreign relations. I trace the salience of perceptions of Islam in the

17 Preston, “Bridging the Gap between the Sacred and the Secular in the History of American Foreign Relations,” 787–90.

18 Preston, 809.

19 Patricia R. Hill, “Commentary: Religion as a Category of Diplomatic Analysis,” Diplomatic History 24, no. 4 (October 1, 2000): 633–34.

20 Preston, “Bridging the Gap between the Sacred and the Secular in the History of American Foreign Relations,” 811.

21 Hill, “Commentary,” 633–34.

construction of U.S. foreign policy over time, tempering a general claim that “religious thinking infuses states” by asking more pointedly, as Hill suggests, “whether a particular state, at a particular historical moment, is infused by religious thinking in ways that influence policy.”22 At the same time, I draw on Preston’s understanding of religion as a category of analysis—not as a framework for my own study, as such, but rather as a category deployed by U.S. foreign policymakers in own their analyses, in their own historical context. An approach that is attentive to both the salience of Islam over time, and to its use as a category of analysis, can also draw from Ann Laura Stoler’s suggestion that historians would do well to “historicize the politics of comparison, tracing the changing stakes for polities and their bureaucratic apparatuses.”23 U.S. officials across government agencies made comparisons between, for instance, different “categories” of political, ethnic, and religious groups within Indonesia, as well as between Indonesia and other Muslim-majority countries. What might those comparisons reveal about the assumptions guiding U.S. foreign policymaking? Were attitudes shaped by understandings of religion integral to the “political rationalities” that made such

“distinctions and categories viable, enduring, and relevant” in particular historical moments?24

22 Hill, 634. This question applies, it should be noted, not just to the United States, but to its counterparts in international community. Hill also urges the adoption of a transnational framework that would better illuminate how religious formations that transcend national boundaries can impact state policies—in the United States and elsewhere. While my source base is currently limited, I do attempt, when possible, to understand how religious thinking influenced foreign policy in Indonesia at particular moments in time.

23 Ann Laura Stoler, “Tense and Tender Ties: The Politics of Comparison in North American History and (Post) Colonial Studies,” The Journal of American History 88, no. 3 (December 1, 2001): 862.

24 Stoler, 865.

Defining Key Terms and Concepts

For the purpose of this dissertation, I understand religion as a dynamic and diverse social and cultural phenomenon, which can be understood as “the human response to a reality perceived as sacred,” made manifest in an “array of symbolic, moral, and organizational resources.” Religious actors are “people who have been formed by a religious community and who are acting with the intent to uphold, extend, or defend its values and precepts.” The category includes private individuals, public figures, and religious “collectives,” such as political parties, voluntary associations, and militias.25

Because religion has played such a significant socio-political role in the United

States—including during the Cold War—it is also useful to distinguish the above terms from what Robert Bellah identified as “an elaborate and well-institutionalized civil religion in America.”26 Civil religion, in Bellah’s formulation, exists alongside and distinct from established and recognized faiths, and merits a level of analysis on par with the study of any other religion. There is no formal creed associated with American civil religion, and it is not specifically Christian, despite having much in common with

Christianity. Rather, this “public religious dimension” finds expression in “a set of beliefs, symbols, and rituals” that have, since the beginning of the United States, become

“institutionalized in a collectivity”—namely, a sense of national identity and purpose.27

25 R. Scott Appleby, The Ambivalence of the Sacred: Religion, Violence, and Reconciliation, Carnegie Commission on Preventing Deadly Conflict Series (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield Publishers, 2000), 8–9.

26 Robert N. Bellah, “Civil Religion in America,” Daedalus 96, no. 1 (1967): 1.

27 Bellah, 4, 8, 15.

While my primary focus, then, is on the salience of religion, particularly Islam, as it was conceived of and deployed by U.S. policymakers, and on their perceptions of and engagement with religious actors, my dissertation necessarily takes place in a domestic context in which civil religion played an important role. President Eisenhower, in particular, strove to formulate a more inclusive discourse and institutionalization of civil religion to bridge denominational gaps and marshal public opinion to support the anti-

Soviet cause.28

Scholars have also grappled with how to characterize or define Islam in an

Indonesian context, both historically and today. Such studies have illuminated the diversity internal to Indonesia’s Muslim community, while also, and often simultaneously, raising questions about the extent to which “Indonesian Islam” or “Islam in Indonesia” differs from Islam in other parts of the world. Some observers, for instance, refer to Indonesians who are perceived as “less devoted to Islam” or who incorporate

“pre-Islamic” beliefs in their religious practices as “nominal Muslims”—a misleading label, according to Kees van Dijk. Others have questioned whether the religious practices and ideas found in certain segments of Indonesian society should be considered “Islamic” at all.29 And among Indonesians, the concept of Indonesian Islam itself can have different meanings in different groups, such as in traditionalist and modernist Muslim communities

28 William Inboden, Religion and American Foreign Policy, 1945-1960: The Soul of Containment (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008), 2–6.

29 See the discussion of terms in Kees van Dijk, “Comparing Different Streams of Islam: Wrestling with Words and Definitions,” in Islam in Indonesia: Contrasting Images and Interpretations, ed. Jajat Burhanudin and Kees van Dijk (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2013), 15.

(two terms that will be discussed further in Chapter 1).30 These discussions persisted among Western scholars during and after the colonial era, especially, though not only, about segments of the Javanese population, particularly after the publication of Clifford

Geertz’s The Religion of Java in 1960.31

The question of whether or not Islam in Indonesia is different also begs the question, put succinctly by van Dijk: “different from what?” Rather than Indonesian

Islam, for example, some scholars have wondered whether “Southeast Asian Islam” is a more apt descriptor, owing to the historical experiences and traits common to that region’s Muslims. Yet amidst these shared characteristics, one also, of course, sees variation across and within Southeast Asian Muslim communities—to say nothing of the region’s significant non-Muslim population.32 As one scholar puts it, Southeast Asia has historically been a site of diversity and pluralism, a centuries-old “testing ground for the coexistence of numerous religious outlooks and ethnic communities.”33 The question of difference also reveals the ways in which at least some scholars take the Middle East, or

Islam as historically practiced by Arabs, as the starting point of comparison. This tendency extends to the ways that public commentators discuss or portray Indonesian

30 Ahmad Najib Burhani, “Defining Indonesian Islam: An Examination of the Construction of the National Islamic Identity of Traditionalist and Modernist Muslims,” in Islam in Indonesia: Contrasting Images and Interpretations, ed. Jajat Burhanudin and Kees van Dijk (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2013), 27.

31 van Dijk, “Comparing Different Streams of Islam: Wrestling with Words and Definitions,” 15; on the influence of Geertz and his interlocutors, 16-20. The concepts of santri and abangan popularized by Geertz will be discussed in more detail throughout the dissertation. Clifford Geertz, The Religion of Java (Glencoe, Ill.: Free Press, 1960).

32 van Dijk, “Comparing Different Streams of Islam: Wrestling with Words and Definitions,” 16.

33 Clemens Six, Secularism, Decolonisation, and the Cold War in South and Southeast Asia, Routledge Studies in the Modern History of Asia (London; New York: Routledge, Taylor & Francis Group, 2018), 2.

politics, society, and culture—especially in the United States and Europe, but also, at times, in other Muslim majority societies and even in Indonesia itself.34

My dissertation focuses on the ways in which public officials have engaged these questions about Indonesian Islam, including how U.S. policymakers, journalists, and scholars have participated in the ongoing construction and deployment of such categories.

But doing so requires familiarity with the ways in which scholars continue to examine what, if anything, is unique about Islam in Indonesia, as well as what Indonesian

Muslims share with the wider Islamic community. For the purposes of this dissertation, I follow the lead of scholars who have shown that there are elements of Islam as practiced in Indonesia, and in Southeast Asia, that are particular to that country and region—as, indeed, is true of religions across the globe—while also acknowledging the ways in which Indonesians have participated in the co-creation of Islamic traditions within the global Muslim community.

Finally, scholars have drawn distinctions between concepts of the secular, secularism, and secularization, which are relevant to my project. Anthropologist Talal

Asad, for example, differentiates between “‘the secular’ as an epistemic category” and

“‘secularism’ as a political doctrine” in the modern world.35 Political theorist Elizabeth

Shakman Hurd, building on Asad’s work, contends that secularism is a socially constructed and historically contingent form of political authority, and as such, multiple

34 van Dijk, “Comparing Different Streams of Islam: Wrestling with Words and Definitions,” 16, 20–23; Burhani, “Defining Indonesian Islam: An Examination of the Construction of the National Islamic Identity of Traditionalist and Modernist Muslims,” 25–27.

35 Talal Asad, Formations of the Secular: Christianity, Islam, Modernity (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2003), 1. Asad challenges, for example, Charles Taylor’s understanding of secularism as a condition of “overlapping consensus” (Asad, 4-5).

models of secular authority exist, which may or may not reflect traditional Western conceptions of the modern nation-state.36 Similarly, historian Clemens Six understands secularism as “a distinct means of managing religious diversity under the auspices of a largely secular state.” That is, “secularism describes a particular relationship between state and religion that is neither a consequent separation—as often claimed for Western secularism—nor an equidistance of the state to all religious communities.”37

Secularization, finally, refers to theories of or processes associated with the (evident or anticipated) waning relevance of religion in public life.

It is thus quite possible, as Six writes, for a person who identifies with a particular religious tradition to be committed to a secular state; and Islam is no exception.38 While some observers—within the Islamic community and without it—see a religious tradition grounded in fixed dogmas and rituals, in fact, the history of Islamic thought and practice reveals wide-ranging ideas about and attitudes toward politics. Islamic institutions, ideas, and practices have both shaped and been shaped by intellectual and cultural currents about the proper relationship between religion and politics over time.39 My dissertation examines how U.S. officials understood post-colonial Indonesia’s engagement with such

36 Elizabeth Shakman Hurd, The Politics of Secularism in International Relations (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 2008).

37 Six, Secularism, Decolonisation, and the Cold War in South and Southeast Asia, 1–2.

38 Six, 1–2.

39 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 3–6; examples of scholarship on this topic include Abdullahi Ahmed An-Na’im, Islam and the Secular State: Negotiating the Future of Shari‘a (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2008); Dale F. Eickelman and James Piscatori, Muslim Politics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2004); Sohail H. Hashmi, Islamic Political Ethics: Civil Society, Pluralism, and Conflict (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2002); Abdulaziz Sachedina, The Islamic Roots of Democratic Pluralism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2007).

questions, while also paying attention to shifting ideas about religion and politics in the

United States.

Historiography

Religion and U.S. Foreign Relations

Scholarship on the intersection of religion and foreign relations is still a relatively new and growing body of literature, and it is useful to begin with a brief typology of existing works. Preston, for instance, characterizes approaches to studying the role of religion in foreign relations as “direct” and “indirect.” Direct approaches include biographies, case studies, or the study of self-described religious actors, such as missionaries, while indirect approaches examine religion in relationship to the ideas, culture, and norms that shape and are shaped by foreign policy. Rotter groups scholars into “case studiers”—those who have explored the religious commitments of particular

U.S. leaders, along with those who have studied the role of religion in U.S. relations with particular countries or regions—and “synthesizers”—scholars who have attempted more comprehensive or thematic accounts of the role of religion in American foreign policy.40

40 According to Rotter, biographers include, for example, Gastón Espinosa, ed., Religion and the American Presidency: George Washington to George W. Bush with Commentary and Primary Sources, Columbia Series on Religion and Politics (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009); Malcolm D. Magee, What the World Should Be: Woodrow Wilson and the Crafting of a Faith-Based Foreign Policy (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2008); Gary Scott Smith, Faith and the Presidency: From George Washington to George W. Bush (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2006); Elizabeth Edwards Spalding, The First Cold Warrior: Harry Truman, Containment, and the Remaking of Liberal Internationalism (Lexington: University Press of Kentucky, 2006); Synthesizers, meanwhile, include Walter A. McDougall, Promised Land, Crusader State: The American Encounter with the World since 1776 (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1997); Walter Russell Mead, Special Providence: American Foreign Policy and How It Changed the World, 1st ed. (New York: Knopf, 2001). Case studies, which are the most useful for my own approach, will be discussed more extensively below.

These lines of research are not mutually exclusive; some of the best recent works on religion and foreign relations—whether biographies, case studies, or syntheses— attempt to bridge “direct” and “indirect” approaches, illuminating connections between the domestic and foreign, as well as between personal beliefs, culture, ideas, and interests in the construction of policy. Preston, in his sweeping account of religion and foreign relations from the colonial period to the present, argues that the religious convictions of presidents and policymakers, as well as of public organizations and thinkers, have mattered in U.S. foreign policy. While religion is not always a comprehensive causal explanation, it has, he suggests, acted as the conscience for American foreign relations— due more to pressure from below to pursue a normative foreign policy than to its leaders’ moralism.41

The culturalist approaches of “case studiers” are methodologically instructive for my work. Seth Jacobs, for instance, has argued that it was shared religion and a lack of

“Oriental” characteristics that made the Catholic Ngo Dihn Diem a favorable choice to lead Vietnam in the eyes of U.S. policymakers and the network of Catholic supporters who lobbied on his behalf.42 Andrew Rotter has examined the role of perceptions of Islam and Hinduism in U.S. relations with India and Pakistan.43 Building on the work of Melani

McAlister, Elizabeth Shakman Hurd has shown how representations of Islam helped

41 Andrew Preston, Sword of the Spirit, Shield of Faith: Religion in American War and Diplomacy (New York: Anchor Books, 2012).

42 Seth Jacobs, America’s Miracle Man in Vietnam: Ngo Dinh Diem, Religion, Race, and U.S. Intervention in Southeast Asia (Durham, NC: Duke University Press, 2005).

43 Andrew J. Rotter, Comrades at Odds: The United States and India, 1947-1964 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2000); Andrew J. Rotter, “Christians, Muslims, and Hindus: Religion and U.S.-South Asian Relations, 1947–1954,” Diplomatic History 24, no. 4 (October 1, 2000): 593–613.

constitute, and were constituted by, the discursive traditions of (French) laicism and

(American) Judeo-Christian secularism, with consequences for American foreign policy toward Turkey and Iran.44 And, while diplomatic historians may not always have done due diligence in placing the study of U.S. missionaries in conversation with domestic and global religious currents,45 Ussama Makdisi has presented a truly transnational narrative of the “plural” encounter between cultures of American Protestantism and Ottoman Arab orthodoxy in the nineteenth century.46

Also relevant are the growing number of historians who have begun to examine the religious dimensions of the Cold War—not in order to position religion as determining the course or outcome of the conflict, or even as the dominant lens through which this period in American history should be understood, but rather as part of a broader endeavor to understand the myriad roles of religion (including civil religion) and religious actors in the global conflict.47 These works tend also to trace the mutually

44 Melani McAlister, Epic Encounters: Culture, Media, and U.S. Interests in the Middle East since 1945, 1st ed., rev. (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2005); Hurd, The Politics of Secularism in International Relations.

45 Preston, “Bridging the Gap between the Sacred and the Secular in the History of American Foreign Relations,” 803–4.

46 Ussama Makdisi, Artillery of Heaven: American Missionaries and the Failed Conversion of the Middle East (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2008).

47 Lee Canipe, “Under God and Anti-Communist: How the Pledge of Allegiance Got Religion in Cold War America,” Journal of Church and State 45, no. 2 (2003): 305–23; T. Jeremy Gunn, Spiritual Weapons: The Cold War and the Forging of an American National Religion (Westport, CT: Praeger Publishers, 2009); T. Jeremy Gunn and Mounia Slighoua, “The Spiritual Factor: Eisenhower, Religion, and Foreign Policy,” The Review of Faith & International Affairs 9, no. 4 (December 1, 2011): 39–49; Jonathan P. Herzog, The Spiritual-Industrial Complex: America’s Religious Battle against Communism in the Early Cold War (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2011); Inboden, Religion and American Foreign Policy, 1945-1960.

constitutive relationship between “religion’s ever-changing relationship with American society” and the conduct of U.S. foreign relations.48

William Inboden, for example, argues that U.S. leaders, both secular and clerical, saw the East-West struggle after World War II in overtly religious terms, and contends that religion was both a cause and an instrument in Cold War policymaking during the

Harry S. Truman and Eisenhower administrations. As a cause, “it helped determine why the United States opposed Soviet Union,” and religion shaped Americans’ perceptions of themselves and of others, of their country’s exceptional role and mission, and of the tools available for international engagement. As an instrument, it was “a factor in how” U.S. leaders moved to strengthen anti-communism at home and undermine it abroad.49 Indeed, the 1950s witnessed a deluge of state initiatives to promote religious faith as a distinct characteristic of American society, its citizenry uniquely qualified and equipped to confront communism at home and abroad. While these initiatives fell on already fertile soil, Jonathan Herzog draws attention to the fact that “these exhortations...were anything but organic. They were planned, often carefully.” Herzog describes this rather nebulous, but nonetheless potent, “amalgam of institutions” that straddled policy decisions and “the realm of theological conjecture” as a spiritual-industrial complex.50

The rise to prominence in the 1940s and 1950s of public religious figures like

Billy Graham, Reinhold Niebuhr, and Cardinal Francis Spellman; of media giants like

Henry Luce, publisher of Time, Life, and Fortune magazines, who famously prophesied

48 Herzog, The Spiritual-Industrial Complex, 9.

49 Inboden, Religion and American Foreign Policy, 1945-1960, 2–5.

50 Herzog, The Spiritual-Industrial Complex, 5–7.

the global reach of U.S. power in the coming “American century;” and of political elites with strong Protestant backgrounds, such as the brothers John Foster Dulles and Allen

Dulles, also helped produce a climate ripe for the emergence of an anti-communist ideology infused with religious appeals to good vs. evil, predicated on the United States’ prophetic role as purveyor of global peace and freedom. The personal relationships between these men meant not only a friendly ear in the White House, but often a direct conduit to the highest levels of the Eisenhower administration throughout the 1950s.51

The religious dimension of anti-communism also helped provide the context for white, conservative Protestants to reconcile their concerns about a burgeoning relationship with the emergent Cold War national security state. Beginning in the Eisenhower era, at least some members of that mainstream religious community began to accept public funding for activities seen as contributing to the United States’ post-World War II “imperatives of economic growth, global power, and consumer culture.”52

The 1960s are frequently characterized as a time of increasing secularization— understood as the gradual retreat of religion from public and political life—in

(modernizing) American society. Indeed, as noted by Herzog, according to a Gallup

Survey in 1965, less than a third of Americans at that time believed religion continued to have an increasing influence on society.53 Yet, as Atalia Omer and Jason Springs write,

51 Gunn, Spiritual Weapons, 25–27; Inboden, Religion and American Foreign Policy, 1945-1960; Alan Brinkley, The Publisher: Henry Luce and His American Century, 1st ed. (New York: Alfred A. Knopf, 2010).

52 Axel R. Schäfer, Piety and Public Funding Evangelicals and the State in Modern America (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2012), 6 (quoted), 12.

53 Herzog, The Spiritual-Industrial Complex, 8.

secularist discourses can “conceal the ways religion continuously relates to conceptions of nationhood.”54 This insight complements Herzog’s understanding of the role of secularization in U.S. society as a “process by which the perceived role of religion diminishes” as a solution to social problems—not a process in which religion is

“rendered meaningless” for individuals (or communities). He thus allows for contingent factors that may result in the slowing, or even reversal, of secularization processes at particular moments in time—including times of great upheaval, like the early Cold War in the United States, when religion seemed, for many, to offer something that “the secular” did not in terms of a diagnosis of the Soviet problem and its solution.55

Still, as the United States transitioned into the 1960s, and the perception of an imminent and dangerous internal threat from communism began to recede, so, too, did the urgency of maintaining a spiritual bulwark against it. Some scholars have examined the influence, if any, of Kennedy’s Catholicism on his domestic and foreign policies.56 As

Thomas Carty writes, early assessments of the role of religion in Kennedy’s public life often celebrated his ability to reconcile more progressive political leanings—his own, and his party’s—with a more tradition-bound church that was, even after Vatican II, concerned about its future in a rapidly changing world. More recently, however, some authors have linked Kennedy’s ambivalence about his religious identity to the hastening of “the marginalization of religion from American public life.” While Kennedy may not

54 Omer and Springs, Religious Nationalism, 84.

55 Herzog, The Spiritual-Industrial Complex, 10–11.

56 Thomas J. Carty, “John Kennedy, Religion, and Foreign Policy,” The Review of Faith & International Affairs 9, no. 4 (December 1, 2011): 51–52.

have explicitly called for the removal of religion from public discourse, these observers suggest, in both his rhetoric and actions he “treat[ed] religion as irrelevant to public life.”57

Some see this attitude as reflected, too, in Kennedy’s assortment of social scientists turned foreign policy advisors, who “‘thought of themselves as muscular realists, disciplined, potent, demanding hard facts—never pieties.’”58 Preston also writes that the “downgrading of religion” in Kennedy era foreign relations had roots in his administration’s embrace of “modernization and development, which were based on social science theories rather than religious faith.”59 Other scholars, however, have argued that Kennedy’s Catholicism informed his responses to global events and the development of key elements of his foreign policy. They point, most notably, to the Peace Corps and to

Kennedy’s Vietnam policy. (Then-Senator Kennedy was one of several Catholic founding members of the American Friends of Vietnam lobby.) And later in his presidency, following the election and subsequent popularity of Pope John XXIII, the

Kennedy administration also strengthened U.S. relations with the Vatican, despite its early concerns about appearing too close to the institutional Catholic Church.60

57 Carty, 52 (quoted); see also Shaun Casey, The Making of a Catholic President: Kennedy versus Nixon 1960 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009); Thomas J. Carty, “Religion and the Presidency of John F. Kennedy,” in Religion and the American Presidency: George Washington to George W. Bush with Commentary and Primary Sources, ed. Gastón Espinosa, Columbia Series on Religion and Politics (New York: Columbia University Press, 2009), 283–309; Smith, Faith and the Presidency, 259–92.

58 Loren Baritz, Backfire: A History of How American Culture Led Us into Vietnam and Made Us Fight the Way We Did, 1st ed. (New York: W. Morrow, 1985), 102, quoted in Carty, “John Kennedy, Religion, and Foreign Policy,” 53.

59 Preston, “Globalized Faith, Radicalized Religion, and the Domestic Sources of U.S. Foreign Policy,” 263.

60 Carty, “John Kennedy, Religion, and Foreign Policy,” 53–56; for John F. Kennedy’s involvement with the American Friends of Vietnam lobby, see especially Chapter Six, “‘This God-Fearing

The lack of scholarly attention to religion in the Johnson era is conspicuously captured in Gastón Espinosa’s edited volume on religion and the American presidency, which skips from President Kennedy to President Carter in its series of essays and primary documents; so, too, does Gary Scott Smith’s Faith and the Presidency move directly from a chapter on Kennedy to a chapter on Carter.61 It is accurate that a general trend toward secularization persisted into the Johnson administration. This should not be taken to mean, however, that religion became inconsequential in the lives of Americans.

Butler reminds us, for instance, that “religion and race merged on both sides of the most important political divide in the 1950s and 1960s—the civil rights crusade,” and as

Preston writes, the war in Vietnam “galvanized the largest antiwar movement in

American history, a movement that had faith at its core.”62

In addition, mainline faith denominations in the United States experienced a range of internal theological debates and socio-political realignments throughout the 1960s.

And, the countercultural movements of the decade did not inexorably lead to declining rates of belief; they also led many Americans to explore new spiritual paths. Some were drawn to what they saw as “Eastern” or “New Age” traditions, including Buddhism,

Hinduism, and Hare Krishna; others, especially in the African American community,

Anti-Communist’: The Vietnam Lobby and the Selling of Ngo Dinh Diem,” in Jacobs, America’s Miracle Man in Vietnam, 217–62.

61 Espinosa, Religion and the American Presidency; Smith, Faith and the Presidency.

62 Butler, “Jack-in-the-Box Faith,” 1371 (first quote). Butler notes, for instance, that in addition to African Americans, the resurgent Ku Klux Klan often targeted Catholics and Jews; and, the importance of Black churches to local organizing and the faith-based appeal and calls to action of Martin Luther King, Jr., are well documented (see footnote 27, p. 1371). Preston, “Globalized Faith, Radicalized Religion, and the Domestic Sources of U.S. Foreign Policy,” 263 (second quote), 267–69.

began to convert to Islam.63 President Johnson himself, raised in a Baptist tradition, remained a practicing, if “eclectic and informal,” Christian in his adult life. Still, his administration can be characterized as “notable for its lack of religiosity,” a continuation of the “trend begun by his predecessor.”64 Indeed, the explicit application of religion to the problems of global affairs declined even further during the Johnson administration, which similarly embraced and expanded upon the modernization agenda of the Kennedy administration in its foreign policy.

Secularism, Modernity, and the Nation-State

Conceptualizations of the secular, or discourses of secularism, are intimately related to two of the dominant frameworks according to which Americans understood the

Third World: the lingering influence of orientalist scholarship and the rise of modernization theory. Foreign relations historians, along with American Studies scholars, have shown how persistent perceptions of a monolithic Islam helped structure American interpretations of ‘the Islamic world,’ particularly the Arab Middle East and North

Africa, while others have explored the intersection of domestic politics and foreign policy in Asia, with culture, and sometimes religion, as a primary lens of analysis.65 These

63 Preston, “Globalized Faith, Radicalized Religion, and the Domestic Sources of U.S. Foreign Policy,” 261–62, 271–72.

64 Preston, 263.

65 Ussama Makdisi, “After Said: The Limits and Possibilities of a Critical Scholarship of U.S.- Arab Relations,” Diplomatic History 38, no. 3 (June 1, 2014): 657–84; Nathan J. Citino, “The ‘Crush’ of Ideologies: The United States, the Arab World, and Cold War Modernisation,” Cold War History 12, no. 1 (2012): 89–110; Matthew F. Jacobs, Imagining the Middle East: The Building of an American Foreign Policy, 1918-1967 (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2011); Douglas Little, American Orientalism: The United States and the Middle East since 1945, 3rd ed. (Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press, 2008); Jacobs, America’s Miracle Man in Vietnam; McAlister, Epic Encounters; Matthew Connelly, A Diplomatic Revolution: Algeria’s Fight for Independence and the Origins of the

works, which draw from and build upon the influence of Edward Said’s Orientalism and his interlocutors, tend to challenge, implicitly or explicitly, the “clash of civilizations” thesis.66

Numerous historians have lauded the increased attention to the impact of religion and religious stereotyping on foreign policies, while also urging scholars to find ways to push beyond such questions. This is not to say the ways in which policymakers have relied on cultural perceptions and religious stereotypes has not been consequential for

U.S. foreign relations; there is plenty of evidence showing how U.S. politicians, pundits, and even scholars (mis)understood non-Christian populations through the filter of religion, often in ways that were intimately bound up in ideas about gender, ethnicity, and the nature of the modern nation-state.67 (Correspondence between U.S. diplomats in

Indonesia and government bureaucrats in Washington certainly contained their fair share of orientalist representations; at times, these impressions were reinforced by Indonesian actors.68) Yet, while the sum total of such characterizations was no doubt part of an

Post-Cold War Era (New York: Oxford University Press, 2003); Christina Klein, Cold War Orientalism: Asia in the Middlebrow Imagination, 1945-1961 (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2003); Frances Gouda, American Visions of the Netherlands East Indies/Indonesia: U.S. Foreign Policy and Indonesian Nationalism, 1920-1949 (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2002); Rotter, Comrades at Odds.

66 Edward W. Said, Orientalism (New York: Pantheon Books, 1978); For an account of the influence of Said on U.S. diplomatic history, see Andrew J. Rotter, “Saidism without Said: Orientalism and U.S. Diplomatic History,” The American Historical Review 105, no. 4 (October 1, 2000): 1205–17; On the “clash of civilizations,” see Samuel P. Huntington, “The Clash of Civilizations?,” Foreign Affairs 72, no. 3 (July 1, 1993): 22–49; the “clash” thesis is most often associated with Huntington, though Bernard Lewis also used the phrase in his earlier article “The Roots of Muslim Rage,” The Atlantic 266, no. 3 (September 1990): 47–60.

67 Hill, “Commentary,” 634–35.

68 For example, an Indonesian Ministry of Interior official explained to a U.S. Embassy staffer that the division of Sulawesi into two provinces would be “natural, the north being dominated by the rather advanced Christian Menadonese, who had been favored by the Dutch, and the Moslem south which is relatively backward, having been neglected by the Dutch.” Memorandum of Conversation, Henry L. Heymann and R. Roosdiono, August 13, 1957, file 611.56D/8-1357, 1955-59 Central Decimal File (CDF),

overall mindset that conditioned interpretations of Islam, it would be misleading to claim that quotidian appeals to stereotypes led inexorably to poor decision-making.69 Despite the lingering influence of orientalist scholarship that pervaded perceptions of Islam and

Muslims, some U.S. observers did differentiate between, for example, Indonesian and

Arab Islam, and between Muslim groups within Indonesia. Some of these distinctions were better informed than others; and, to be sure, analyses of the role of religion in

Indonesia often conveniently cohered with, rather than posed significant challenges to,

U.S. ideological and material interests. But whether deployed in the service of broader foreign policy aims or not, to claim a complete lack of nuance on the part of policymakers would be inaccurate.

While Western conceptions of modernity and modernization have roots in the

Enlightenment and in ideas related to colonial dominance, technological advancement, and secularization, modernization theory was articulated most fully, and had the most coherent policy implications, during the height of the Cold War.70 Scholars have shown

Record Group (RG) 59: General Records of the Department of State, U.S. National Archives at College Park (NACP).

69 As Ussama Makdisi helpfully cautions, “it is one thing to criticize American representations of foreign cultures; it is an entirely different matter to study American engagements with them.” Makdisi, “After Said,” 659. In addition, as Laura Belmonte has shown, contrary to what one may expect, given the perceived (and often actual) tendency of political figures and media personalities to adopt homogeneous views of other cultures and populations, public officials engaged in U.S. information programs during the Cold War adapted their methods and messages in ways they believed would resonate the most with particular audiences. As Belmonte puts it, “America’s ideological offensive was not a ham-handed, one- size-fits-all model, but a sophisticated endeavor utilizing the most advanced communications methodologies of the era.” Laura A. Belmonte, Selling the American Way: U.S. Propaganda and the Cold War (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), 6. Of course, even if officials intentionally prescribed different tactics for different audiences, it does not necessarily follow that their initial diagnoses of “the problem” were correct.

70 David Engerman and Corinna Unger take an “ecumenical view of modernization as an intellectual agenda and set of policies and practices,” which includes “historical efforts to induce overall modernization with economic change being the primary lever for creating a modern society, culture, and polity.” I rely on this conceptualization of modernization as an intellectual agenda, accompanied by a set of

that Southeast Asia played an outsized role in the social scientific study of modernization and development in the 1950s and 1960s. The region also often served as a sort of experimental field for the policy proposals derived from such studies.71 In addition to the studies produced in such flagship research institutions as MIT’s Center for International

Studies (CENIS), the Social Science Research Council’s (SSRC) Committee on

Comparative Politics, and the University of Chicago’s Committee for the Comparative

Study of New Nations, emerging theories of modernization were also intimately bound up in the rise of area studies programs in American universities, including Asian Studies.

Scholars analyzed the new nation-states of Asia, “historically constructed and contingent” though they were, as if they were “natural units that would—or at least ought to—evolve along a single path (or at best a limited number of paths) towards modernity,” largely detached from considerations of time and place.72

That modernization theory and its proponents influenced the direction of U.S. policy has been well established.73 Foreign relations historians are now working to

tactical approaches, while acknowledging that this agenda was shaped by longer-standing ideological commitments. David C. Engerman and Corinna R. Unger, “Introduction: Towards a Global History of Modernization,” Diplomatic History 33, no. 3 (2009): 375, footnote 3.

71 Mark T. Berger, “Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-Building: Political Development Theory and the Appeal of Communism in Southeast Asia, 1945-1975,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 34, no. 3 (October 1, 2003): 423; Bradley Simpson, Economists with Guns: Authoritarian Development and U.S.-Indonesian Relations, 1960-1968 (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2008), 75.

72 Berger, “Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-Building,” 422–23.

73 David Ekbladh, The Great American Mission: Modernization and the Construction of an American World Order (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2010); Michael Adas, Dominance by Design: Technological Imperatives and America’s Civilizing Mission (Cambridge: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2009); Nils Gilman, Mandarins of the Future: Modernization Theory in Cold War America (Baltimore: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2007); David C. Engerman, ed., Staging Growth: Modernization, Development, and the Global Cold War (Amherst: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003); Nick Cullather, “Damming Afghanistan: Modernization in a Buffer State,” The Journal of American History 89, no. 2 (2002): 512–37; Nick Cullather, “Development? It’s History,” Diplomatic History 24, no. 4 (2000): 641–653; Michael E. Latham, Modernization as Ideology: American Social

“account for religion more fully” as part of a global history of modernization.74 This endeavor can usefully draw from the rich literature produced by international relations theorists, sociologists, anthropologists, religious studies scholars, and theologians, which tackles complex questions related to religion, secularism, modernity, and the nation-state.

With its attention to both global trends and localized expressions of religion in the modern nation-state, its challenges to the secularization thesis, and its

(re)conceptualization of modernity(ies), this body of scholarship has important ramifications for scholars of U.S. foreign relations seeking to broaden the scope of their work beyond traditional categories of diplomatic analysis.

Scholars such as José Casanova and Charles Taylor, for example, have examined embedded assumptions about the separation of religion and secularity as an element of, and foundational to, modernity. They challenge characterizations of this division as the uniformly progressive movement of religion from the public sphere into the private, and they draw attention to the presence and possibilities of public religion in the modern world.75 Talal Asad has challenged what he views as a lingering Western-centric outlook in such studies, and their positioning of public religion in the realm, mostly, of civil society, and not the state. He argues that secularism is in fact closely linked with the rise and development of capitalist system of nation-states. Citizenship, he writes, is meant to transcend identities, and secularism is among the primary mediators of different religious

Science and “Nation Building” in the Kennedy Era (Chapel Hill: University of North Carolina Press, 2000).

74 Engerman and Unger, “Introduction,” 384.

75 Jose Casanova, Public Religions in the Modern World (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1994); Charles Taylor, A Secular Age (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 2007).

identities and practices.76 And Robert Hefner has illuminated the manifold experiences of and responses to—not, he emphasizes, “reactions against”—modernity within major global religions.77

Building on and contributing to this scholarship, Elizabeth Shakman Hurd has challenged the field of international relations’ long-standing assumption that religion was effectively excluded from politics with the development of the modern, secular nation- state. Hurd critiques the biases embedded in secularization theory, including its attempts to arrive at a universal set of political principles, its Western conceptions of the public and private spheres, and its adoption of the nation-state as the primary unit of analysis.

She contends that Western traditions of laicism and Judeo-Christian secularism

“represent only two points on a much broader spectrum of theological politics;” that is, they are but two of many possible formulations of the relationship between religion and politics.78

76 Asad, Formations of the Secular, 4–5.

77 Robert W. Hefner, “Multiple Modernities: Christianity, Islam, and Hinduism in a Globalizing Age,” Annual Review of Anthropology 27, no. 1 (1998): 83–104; the concept of “multiple modernities” is associated with Shmuel Eisenstadt’s pioneering sociological approach to comparative civilizational studies. Eisenstadt writes: “The idea of multiple modernities presumes that the best way to understand the contemporary world—indeed to explain the history of modernity—is to see it as a story of continual constitution and reconstitution of a multiplicity of cultural programs. These ongoing reconstructions of multiple institutional and ideological patterns are carried forward by specific social actors in close connection with social, political, and intellectual activists, and also by social movements pursuing different programs of modernity, holding very different views on what makes societies modern. Through the engagement of these actors with broader sectors of their respective societies, unique expressions of modernity are realized.” It thus follows that “[o]ne of the most important implications of the term ‘multiple modernities’ is that modernity and Westernization are not identical; Western patterns of modernity are not the only ‘authentic’ modernities, though they enjoy historical precedence and continue to be a basic reference point for others.” S. N. Eisenstadt, “Multiple Modernities,” Daedalus 129, no. 1 (2000): 2–3.

78 Hurd, The Politics of Secularism in International Relations, 5–6; 23–24; 26-28 (quoted).

The scholarship above also helps to challenge dominant conceptions of nationalism as a secular phenomenon, in which religion’s place in the modern world is viewed by turns as mostly benign if kept to the private sphere, or as particularly toxic when mixed with nationalism.79 The conflation of nationalism with “modernity,”

“progress,” and the separation of religion from the public sphere, Omer and Springs write, implies that “religious nationalism” refers to an “antimodern and outdated” phenomenon, often in direct opposition to the secular nation-state to which present-day societies are expected or assumed to aspire. This oversimplification, they continue, obscures an accurate, constructive analysis of both the strengths and the weaknesses of religious nationalism, the myriad formulations of which have played—and continue to play—a role in local, national, and international affairs for better or for worse.80

My dissertation joins the effort to produce a global history of modernization by considering, together with U.S. perspectives, Indonesian viewpoints on the relationship between Islam, the state, and modernity. The invocation of ideas about the role of religion in state and society—particularly those in the process of “modernizing”— sometimes competed with and sometimes complemented the strategies pursued by both

U.S. and Indonesian leaders.

U.S.-Indonesian Relations

Despite the significant role the archipelago played in successive United States administrations’ policies toward Southeast Asia, studies of U.S. relations with Indonesia

79 Omer and Springs, Religious Nationalism, 1–2.

80 Omer and Springs, 2–3.

are surprisingly scarce. This may be explained only in part by the sheer scope of the question: “Indonesia” includes myriad linguistic, religious, and ethnic variations across some 17,000 islands.81 While historians have grappled with U.S. foreign policy toward

Asia during the Cold War, the bulk of these studies have focused on East Asia or

Vietnam. But U.S. relations with the rest of Southeast Asia, including Indonesia, have remained understudied, particularly given Indonesia’s centrality to U.S. containment strategy and the extensive intervention, both covert and overt, of the United States in the islands’ affairs during the 1950s and 1960s.

Indeed, the number of scholarly works written about Indonesia during that period points to the significant place Indonesia occupied in the minds of intellectuals and policymakers during the Cold War. This body of scholarship is useful in determining how intellectuals, some of whom had ties to the foreign policy establishment, understood

U.S.-Indonesian relations, including the role of Islam in the state and society, during the period under study.82 But the relative paucity of scholarship by U.S. foreign relations

81 The modern Republic of Indonesia, roughly equivalent to the Netherlands East Indies’ colonial boundaries, is comprised of several primary chains of islands: the Greater Sunda Islands include Java, Sumatra, Sulawesi (formerly known as the Celebes), and Borneo (shared by Indonesia, Malaysia, and Brunei; the Indonesian region is known as Kalimantan); the Lesser Sunda Islands include Bali, Flores, and the western half of Timor, among others; and the Maluku Islands (or the Moluccas), also known as the Spice Islands during the European colonial era. In 1962, the western half of the island of New Guinea became part of Indonesia (the eastern half is the independent state of Papua New Guinea), and when Portugal withdrew from its colony in the eastern half of Timor in 1975, Indonesia claimed the territory by force. Only after a protracted, violent conflict with the Indonesian armed forces did Timor-Leste, or East Timor, gain independence in 2002; a Papuan independence movement in West New Guinea continues to the present.

82 A non-exhaustive list includes: Harry Jindrich Benda, The Crescent and the Rising Sun (The Hague, Wvan Hoeve; distributed by the Institute of Pacific Relations, New York, 1958); Herbert Feith, The Decline of Constitutional Democracy in Indonesia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1962); Geertz, The Religion of Java; Clifford Geertz, Agricultural Involution: The Process of Ecological Change in Indonesia (Berkeley, CA: Published for the Association of Asian Studies by University of California Press, 1963); George McT. Kahin, Nationalism and Revolution in Indonesia (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1952); Daniel S. Lev, The Transition to Guided Democracy: Indonesian Politics, 1957-1959 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1966); R. William Liddle, Ethnicity, Party, and National Integration: An

historians since then is indicative of the extent to which the war in Vietnam drew scholars’ attention away from Indonesia—despite continued U.S. engagement with its close ally, President Suharto, throughout most of his 30 years in power. This is due in part to the number of sources that have remained classified until recently, but it reflects, too, how the U.S. war in Vietnam consumed successive presidential administrations and, later, U.S. diplomatic historians.83

There are, of course, notable exceptions to this trend, which have contributed to the historiography of U.S.-Indonesian relations. In 1981, Robert McMahon examined the evolution of U.S. foreign policy toward Indonesia in the years immediately following

World War II, when the Dutch attempted to reassert colonial control over the islands. He argues that the shift from U.S. support for their Dutch ally to their cautious backing of

Indonesian nationalists was primarily the result of the Truman administration’s recognition that support for decolonization was integral to its emerging strategy to contain communism.84 Thirty years later, Frances Gouda built on McMahon’s foundational diplomatic history, and explored how U.S. perceptions of Dutch colonial rule in the Netherlands East Indies, as well as of the burgeoning Indonesian anti-colonial nationalist movement, informed U.S. foreign policy analyses and objectives from the early 1920s until 1948. In this context, Gouda traces the gradual evolution of the post-

Indonesian Case Study (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1970); Ruth T. McVey, The Rise of Indonesian Communism (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1965); Guy J. Pauker, The Role of the Military in Indonesia (Santa Monica, CA: Rand Corp, 1961), http://catalog.hathitrust.org/Record/001256317.

83 Simpson, Economists with Guns, 4–5.

84 Robert J. McMahon, Colonialism and Cold War: The United States and the Struggle for Indonesian Independence, 1945-49 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1981).

World War II Truman administration’s tacit pro-Dutch position to open support of, and even advocacy for, an independent Indonesia.85

McMahon, Gouda, and other scholars have pointed to the Indonesian military-led suppression of a communist uprising in Madiun, East Java, in 1948, as a pivotal moment in the revolutionary period. Reassured that leaders like future President Sukarno, who initiated the crackdown, and future Military Chief of Staff Abdul Haris Nasution, who oversaw it, could act as anti-communist partners in a free Indonesian state, the Truman administration ultimately became a proponent of Indonesian independence from the

Netherlands. And, in the wake of President Truman’s “loss” of China to communism in

1949, Baskara Wardaya has shown how his successor, President Eisenhower, was determined not to “lose” Indonesia to the same fate.86

Eisenhower and his chief foreign policy officials monitored Indonesia’s domestic and foreign policies from the earliest days of his administration. U.S. officials watched warily in 1955 as Indonesia hosted the Conference of Afro-Asian Peoples in Bandung,

Java, an historic gathering of twenty-nine non-aligned, and mostly newly independent, nations.87 The electoral gains of the PKI, the Indonesian Communist Party, during the mid-1950s were particularly worrisome to the Eisenhower administration. So, too, was the announcement in 1957 of President Sukarno’s plan to move from parliamentary

85 Gouda, American Visions of the Netherlands East Indies/Indonesia: U.S. Foreign Policy and Indonesian Nationalism, 1920-1949.

86 F. X. Baskara Tulus Wardaya, Cold War Shadow: United States Policy toward Indonesia, 1953- 1963 (Yogyakarta, Indonesia: PUSDEP in collaboration with Galangpress, 2007), 4.

87 Matthew Jones, “A ‘Segregated’ Asia?: Race, the Bandung Conference, and Pan-Asianist Fears in American Thought and Policy, 1954–1955,” Diplomatic History 29, no. 5 (November 1, 2005): 841–68; Jason Parker, “Cold War II: The Eisenhower Administration, the Bandung Conference, and the Reperiodization of the Postwar Era,” Diplomatic History 30, no. 5 (November 1, 2006): 867–92.

democracy toward “Guided Democracy,” which U.S. officials understood as opening the door to communist participation in the Indonesian government. By late 1957, top

Eisenhower officials opted for a more active, interventionist U.S. foreign policy toward

Indonesia, which included covert support for a regional rebellion against the central government in Jakarta.88

In the post-independence era, economic grievances in the so-called outer islands89 intertwined with ideological conflicts over regional autonomy and centralized governance in Jakarta, capital of Indonesia and the largest city on the densely populated, politically dominant island of Java. Sometimes, these conflicts mapped onto political party allegiances. Masyumi, one of the two largest Islamic parties, had its primary base in the

Outer Islands, especially Sumatra, while the Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI, Indonesian

Nationalist Party) and the Nahdlatul Ulama (NU, Revival of Religious Scholars), the other major Islamic party, had their bases in Java.90 Some military officers, too, came into conflict with recently centralized command structures. Over the course of 1957, regional

Army commanders effectively seized control of the local economies in three Sumatran provinces and formed ruling councils. A colonel also declared martial law in Sulawesi and issued the Permesta (Universal Struggle) Charter, which included demands for increased regional autonomy and economic development. In February 1958, some of the

88 Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, 4.

89 The “outer islands” typically refers to the islands outside of Java. The origins of many regional tensions in post-colonial Indonesia can be traced to the exploitation of the resource-rich outer islands by Dutch colonial administrators and corporations, who, in addition to enriching themselves, directed the resultant wealth toward Javanese social programs (of dubious benefit). For an overview of the development of the outer islands during the late colonial era, see M.C. Ricklefs, A History of Modern Indonesia since c. 1200, 4th ed. (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 2008), 161–80. For how the outer islands outpaced Java economically, but saw few of the benefits, see pp. 183-86.

90 Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 3–4; 71–72.

dissident Army officers declared an alternative—but not separatist—government in

Sumatra, the Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia (PRRI, Revolutionary

Government of the Republic of Indonesia). They were joined by several civilian leaders from Masyumi and the Partai Sosialis Indonesia (PSI, Indonesian Socialist Party), and within days, Permesta leaders also pledged their allegiance to the PRRI. The armed insurgency that followed is often referred to as the PRRI-Permesta rebellion, though they began as separate movements.

These events coincided with electoral gains by the PKI in the mid-1950s, which, along with Indonesian President Sukarno’s increasing openness to the political left, alarmed the United States and its Western allies. Prior to the declaration of the PRRI, its leaders had conveyed to U.S. officials their commitment to anti-communism (a commitment that many U.S. officials assumed the majority of Indonesia’s Muslim population would share). George Kahin and Audrey Kahin’s singular account of the CIA- led intervention in the PRRI-Permesta rebellion emphasizes the role of Secretary of State

John Foster Dulles in urging the escalation of the Indonesian regional commanders’ confrontation with Jakarta. Based on then-declassified documents, as well as personal interviews, they describe in great detail the provision of U.S. financial and military assistance to the rebels through covert operations—an approach that proved disastrous both in terms of Indonesian lives lost and in terms of U.S. foreign policy objectives.91

91 Audrey R. Kahin and George McT. Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy: The Secret Eisenhower and Dulles Debacle in Indonesia (New York: The New Press, 1995). Where scholars like the Kahins have seen a profound failure, Greg Poulgrain sees a carefully constructed strategy, led by CIA Director Allen Dulles, who sought to secure long-term access to Indonesia’s vast natural resources. Poulgrain also suggests that the CIA’s support for the PRRI was primarily intended to provoke an Army- led crackdown, demonstrating to U.S. policymakers the Army’s strength and, therefore, its readiness to act as a bulwark against the PKI, with U.S. support. Greg Poulgrain, The Incubus of Intervention: Conflicting Indonesia Strategies of John F. Kennedy and Allen Dulles (Petaling Jaya, Malaysia: Strategic Information

Matthew Jones, meanwhile, takes a multi-national approach by exploring the extent of covert U.S. activities that began in the fall of 1957, first in Sumatra and later in Sulawesi, along with the collaborative role of the United Kingdom in intelligence sharing and the provision of “‘maximum disavowable aid’” to the rebels.92

To the surprise of some U.S. officials, the Indonesian Army moved swiftly and effectively to put down the PRRI-Permesta rebellion by the summer of 1958, though guerrilla conflict continued in some areas until 1961. But both movements largely failed to mobilize their fellow Indonesians. The unsuccessful rebellion accelerated a shift toward the Indonesian Army as the United States’ preferred anti-communist partner during the last two years of the Eisenhower administration. The predilection to partner with the military intensified during the Kennedy and Johnson years, as modernization theorists moved from the academy into the policy sphere, bringing with them evolving ideas about the drivers of, and the necessary conditions for, economic development and political stability. The Kennedy administration initially adopted a less confrontational approach toward Sukarno, even seeking to build a personal relationship with the

Indonesian president. It acknowledged Indonesia’s non-aligned position, and took an active role in brokering an agreement to transfer control of West New Guinea, which had remained under Dutch control after Indonesian independence, from the Netherlands to

and Research Development Centre, 2015). As one reviewer points out, Poulgrain’s account relies on shaky evidence and exaggerated claims about CIA Director Dulles’ foreknowledge of how events would play out both during and after the PRRI rebellion, and flirts with conspiracy theory. Mattias Fibiger, “Review: Incubus of Intervention,” Inside Indonesia, February 7, 2016, http://www.insideindonesia.org/review- incubus-of-intervention.

92 Matthew Jones, “‘Maximum Disavowable Aid’: Britain, the United States and the Indonesian Rebellion, 1957-58,” The English Historical Review 114, no. 459 (November 1, 1999): 1202 (quoted); see also Kenneth J. Conboy and James Morrison, Feet to the Fire: CIA Covert Operations in Indonesia, 1957- 1958 (Annapolis, MD: Naval Institute Press, 1999).

Indonesia, a process that has been studied in both U.S. and international contexts.93

Despite this ‘softer’ approach, however, Cold War calculations remained key for

President Kennedy who, like Eisenhower before him, sought to prevent the establishment of a communist state in Indonesia.94

U.S. foreign relations historians have also focused in detail on the relationship between the U.S. military and the Indonesian military. The United States established a limited Indonesian military and police training program in 1954, along with a token military aid program, both of which gradually grew in scope over the course of the

Eisenhower administration. The relationship flourished during the Kennedy and Johnson eras, which witnessed a dramatic expansion of U.S.-backed military and police training, as well as increased funding for counterinsurgency assistance and a civic action program, a joint venture between the U.S. and Indonesian armies to bolster rural development.95

Ties between the United States and the Indonesian Army also survived the diplomatic upheaval of Sukarno’s policy of konfrontasi (confrontation), announced in the fall of

1963 in response to Western support for the creation of an independent Malaysia.96

93 David Webster, “Regimes in Motion: The Kennedy Administration and Indonesia’s New Frontier, 1960–1962,” Diplomatic History 33, no. 1 (January 1, 2009): 95–123; Simpson, Economists with Guns, 44–46, 52–61; Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, 293–358; Matthew Jones, Conflict and Confrontation in South East Asia, 1961-1965: Britain, the United States, and the Creation of Malaysia (Cambridge, UK; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 31–60.

94 Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, ii.

95 Bryan Evans, “The Influence of the United States Army on the Development of the Indonesian Army (1954-1964),” Indonesia, no. 47 (1989): 25–48; Simpson, Economists with Guns; Simpson, “Indonesia’s ‘Accelerated Modernization.’”

96 On the U.S. response to konfrontasi, see Jones, Conflict and Confrontation in South East Asia; John Subritzky, Confronting Sukarno: British, American, Australian and New Zealand Diplomacy in the Malaysian-Indonesian Confrontation, 1961-5 (Houndmills, Basingstoke, Hampshire: Macmillan Press, 2000); Simpson, Economists with Guns, 113–70.

The relationship between Sukarno and the United States soured under the Johnson presidency, partly as a result of konfrontasi, but also due to the increasing priority placed on Vietnam by senior administration officials. Frederick Bunnell contends that the impact of the war in Vietnam on high-level decision-making cannot be overstated, citing senior officials’ preoccupation with the escalation of that war as a key factor in why the Johnson administration pursued a “non-interventionist” policy toward Indonesia in 1965, as well as why mid-level rather than higher-level bureaucrats often ended up developing and guiding U.S. policy toward Indonesia. A “low-posture policy,” including covert propaganda activities to foster a climate of anti-communism, as well as maintaining U.S. ties to the Army, became the preferred (and most viable) means of confronting communism in Indonesia.97

Bradley Simpson’s Economists with Guns is the most authoritative work on the

U.S.-Indonesian relations from 1960-1968, and it covers the developments of the

Kennedy and Johnson eras outlined above.98 Simpson’s particular contribution is his tracing of the changing intellectual conceptualization and praxis of U.S. policy from promoting democracy after Indonesian independence to embracing an authoritarian government and military-led modernization. He contends that this latter tactic became a defining element of U.S.-Indonesian relations, as well as of wider relations with developing countries during the Cold War. Simpson also argues that Johnson officials

97 Frederick Bunnell, “American ‘Low Posture’ Policy toward Indonesia in the Months Leading up to the 1965 ‘Coup,’” Indonesia, no. 50 (October 1, 1990): 30–31; on Western covert propaganda efforts, see also David Easter, “British Intelligence and Propaganda during the ‘Confrontation’, 1963-1966,” Intelligence and National Security 16, no. 2 (June 1, 2001): 83–102; Simpson, Economists with Guns, 156– 63.

98 Simpson, Economists with Guns.

were complicit in the campaign of mass violence against the PKI and suspected communists in Indonesia that began in the aftermath of a tumultuous series of events in the autumn of 1965, and which hastened General Suharto’s ascent to power by 1968.

No scholarly consensus exists on what, exactly, happened late in the evening of

September 30, and into the early morning hours of October 1, 1965. We know that six

Indonesian Army generals were kidnapped and assassinated by a group of fellow officers, who referred to themselves as the 30 September Movement. The officers declared to the

Indonesian public and international audiences that they had acted to prevent a Western- backed plan to oust President Sukarno. By the evening of October 1, however, General

Suharto, commander of the Army Strategic Reserve Command (Kostrad), seized the narrative of events, and condemned the 30 September Movement as a tool of the PKI, claiming they had acted not to prevent, but rather to initiate, a coup against President

Sukarno. Suharto and his Army allies stepped into the political void, and a campaign to

“crush” the 30 September Movement and their alleged communist co-conspirators ensued.99

This initial series of events, for lack of more precise terminology, is variously described in most scholarly accounts as an attempted, aborted, or failed coup, even though, as Harold Crouch writes, the murders of the six generals were not, in fact, intended to oust Sukarno’s government.100 Speculation has abounded about U.S. awareness of and involvement in the events of September 30 and October 1, 1965. Peter

99 Harold Crouch, The Army and Politics in Indonesia (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1978), 97–101; General Suharto quoted in Crouch, 99.

100 Crouch, 101, footnote 7; see also Simpson’s discomfort with the phrase “coup attempt” in Economists with Guns, 173.

Dale Scott, for instance, has argued that they were but the first part of a “three-phase right-wing coup,” in which right-leaning members of the Indonesian Army intentionally provoked the actions of the 30 September Movement (phase one). The movement’s actions provided the justification for eliminating the PKI and the civilian left (phase two), and enabled Suharto seize power and establish a military dictatorship (phase three)—all with covert support from the United States.101 H.W. Brands, meanwhile, has argued that however likely such accounts may be, given the United States’ record of covert intervention to topple left-leaning leaders, the historical record is inconclusive, and suggests that U.S. officials were surprised, though not displeased, by the turn of events.102

Regardless of U.S. foreknowledge, it is clear that Western observers were well aware of, and sometimes witnessed, the mass violence that unfolded in Indonesia after the attempted coup, and that prominent members of the Johnson administration looked on approvingly as an estimated 500,000 to one million alleged communists and communist sympathizers were killed, and many more were detained and imprisoned.103 The U.S. response to the attempted coup included coordinated anti-PKI propaganda efforts with the United Kingdom, Australia, and Malaysia, as well as with partners in the Indonesian

Army; the provision of communications equipment and intelligence information to the

Army; and, in general, turning a blind eye to the slaughter carried out by the Army and its

101 Peter Dale Scott, “The United States and the Overthrow of Sukarno, 1965-1967,” Pacific Affairs 58, no. 2 (1985): 239–64.

102 H. W. Brands, “The Limits of Manipulation: How the United States Didn’t Topple Sukarno,” The Journal of American History 76, no. 3 (December 1, 1989): 785–808.

103 Simpson, Economists with Guns, 189.

paramilitary partners, some of which had explicit links to, or were sanctioned by, the leadership of Islamic organizations.104

In sum, my dissertation adds to this still growing body of literature on U.S.-

Indonesian relations during the Eisenhower, Kennedy, and Johnson administrations, each of which saw a non-communist government in Indonesia as crucial to achieving U.S. political and economic interests in Southeast Asia. The response of the U.S. foreign policy apparatus to developments in Indonesia during this period is representative of broader trends in U.S. engagement with the post-colonial world at the height of the Cold

War, and featured anti-communist propaganda efforts, covert operations, and counterinsurgency activities as part of a regional containment strategy and, over time, a military-led modernizing agenda. In this established context, my dissertation contributes an emphasis on religion as a compelling and understudied factor in U.S.-Indonesian relations, and considers the influence on U.S. decision-making of various ways of seeing

Islam and Islamic actors in local, national, and global contexts.

***

Scholars have focused on U.S. leaders’ personal religious beliefs and providential understandings of the United States’ role in the world, as well as on how U.S. policymakers instrumentalized religion as an ideological tool in the fight against communism. A direct link may not always exist between a particular religious belief and a policy pursued, but policymakers were influenced by their own cultural values and

104 David Easter, “‘Keep the Indonesian Pot Boiling’: Western Covert Intervention in Indonesia, October 1965–March 1966,” Cold War History 5, no. 1 (2005): 55–73; Simpson, Economists with Guns, especially 171-206; Greg Fealy and Katharine McGregor, “Nahdlatul Ulama and the Killings of 1965-66: Religion, Politics, and Remembrance,” Indonesia, no. 89 (2010): 37–60.

assumptions, and by their perceptions of other cultures. I contend that U.S. elites’ understanding of “other” religions—whether in conjunction with, or opposition to, their own culturally informed worldviews—influenced their decision-making in tangible ways in the realm of foreign affairs. I focus on the salience of perceptions of Islam in the construction of U.S. policy toward Indonesia, primarily from the perspective of policymakers. But I also attend to the ways in which scholars, journalists, and NGO workers intersected with U.S. officials in direct and indirect ways.

This story necessarily takes place in the context forged by domestic developments, as well as the evolution of what it meant to be “religious” and “secular” in

U.S. society, as U.S. policymakers understood and navigated the intersection of religion and politics over time. It also takes place in a global context of changing and competing ideas about religion, secularism, and modernity, the evolution of which were essential not only to Americans’ vision of a post-WWII liberal, capitalist global order, but also to

Indonesian ideas and perceptions as Indonesian leaders worked to build a new nation- state and evaluated the viability of both capitalism and communism in a decolonizing world.

Chapter 1 begins with an overview of the formative late colonial period, up to the establishment of Indonesia in 1949. I pay special attention to how leaders navigated questions about the relationship between religion, particularly Islam, and the emergent nation-state. Such background is crucial to understanding Cold War U.S. relations with

Indonesia, as successive U.S. administrations’ policies toward the young country were constructed in the context of how officials understood and made sense of Indonesia’s colonial past. The remainder of the chapter focuses on the emergence of religion as an

anti-communist tool in Eisenhower administration, and what that meant for U.S. engagement of Islam and Islamic actors in general, and in Indonesia, specifically. Ideas about the role of Islam in Indonesia that developed during this period, which circulated within and between U.S. political and intellectual spheres of influence, became part of a framework that influenced, if not directly dictated, the identification and analysis of policy options available to U.S. officials throughout the Eisenhower years.

Having shown how decision-making took place within a domestic framework undergirded by what some U.S. officials, academics, and mainstream press accounts considered as a moral imperative to promote and protect the freedom of Indonesians from atheistic communism, I turn to Chapter 2. Here I describe the calculus of certain members of the Eisenhower administration as they urged Indonesian Islamic political parties to emphasize the anti-communist nature of their grievances with the central government and, ultimately, decided to provide covert aid to regional rebellions. I argue that their decisions were due at least in part to their perceptions of Indonesia’s “Muslim” character, which led them to privilege certain information and recommendations, and to filter out others. And, while the public pronouncements of U.S. officials continued to paint some religiously inspired rebels as “fanatical,” evidence suggests that at least some

U.S. officials were willing to welcome “bad” Muslims into a united anti-communist front with the “good” Muslims of Masyumi, particularly once the PRRI-Permesta rebellion was in motion.105 That this rather instrumentalist manipulation of Muslims as a proxy for anti-communism ultimately proved unsustainable was due less to the unraveling of

105 Mahmood Mamdani, Good Muslim, Bad Muslim: America, the Cold War, and the Roots of Terror (New York: Three Leaves Press, 2004).

dominant assumptions about the incompatibility of Islam and communism, and more to the political realities that confronted U.S. policymakers as the regional rebels failed to gain the support of their fellow Indonesians. Where policymakers had seen a dependable ally, they now saw a liability.

After the PRRI-Permesta rebellion collapsed, the once-influential Masyumi party, including many of the leaders with whom the United States had developed relationships, were seen as “compromised” by both Americans and (some) Indonesians, rather than as potential partners in the fight against Indonesia’s leftward drift. Building on and then rapidly growing existing relationships with Army officers, the United States turned to the

Indonesian armed forces as a more viable anti-communist partner. The relationship between the United States and the Indonesian Army would come to fruition during the

Kennedy and Johnson eras.

Chapter 3 examines the extent to which U.S. policymakers understood and evaluated the role of religion and religious actors in their analyses of U.S.-Indonesian relations during the Kennedy administration, such as its role in mediating the dispute between Indonesia and the Netherlands over West New Guinea, the last remaining Dutch colonial holding in Southeast Asia; the construction of U.S. economic and military assistance policies; and the creation of its counterinsurgency strategy, including a joint

U.S. Army-Indonesian Army civic action program to foster rural development. The chapter then analyzes the transition to the Johnson administration, when U.S. relations with Indonesia declined as Sukarno pursued konfrontasi with Malaysia, allowed the PKI to pursue unilateral land reform efforts in Java, and grew, in the eyes of the West, increasingly close to China and belligerent toward the non-communist world. I show that

on the one hand, U.S. officials in the Kennedy and Johnson administrations did not tend to place religion on the same plane as other global ideologies competing for dominance in the decolonizing world, and policymakers often neglected religion as the discourse and practice of modernization gained traction in the United States, as well as in Indonesia. On the other, I demonstrate that U.S. officials did not stop observing or interacting with religious groups, and in fact continued to monitor and, in some cases, (re)assess their anti-communist potential.

Chapter 4 shows how U.S. administration officials, operating within the secular framework that accompanied Western theories of modernization, made sense of, accepted, and even condoned self-described Muslim groups’ participation in the mass violence against suspected communists that occurred after the attempted coup of

September 30/October 1, 1965. U.S. officials observed and appreciated the partnership between religious actors and the Indonesian Army in the purge of Indonesian leftists.

Prominent U.S. officials seem rarely to have understood Indonesia’s Muslim community as ideologically motivated actors, and when they did, it was nearly always within the context of the United States’ own Cold War ideological concerns. As General Suharto and the Army consolidated power, some of the Muslim organizations and parties that had played a crucial role in the destruction of the PKI, along with former members of the banned Masyumi, sought to (re)assert their role in public politics and participate in forging a post-Sukarno Indonesian state. Even if some U.S. officials were aware of the disputes that ensued between Islamic groups and Suharto’s New Order government, they do not appear to have placed much stock in their relevance to its overall Indonesia strategy. The Johnson administration was more concerned with the modernizing,

military-led government Suharto was building, than with the nature of the Indonesian state’s relationship to religion.

Sukarno was gradually marginalized and finally ousted from the government and

Indonesian public life by 1968. While there are, of course, important differences between the Sukarno and Suharto governments, both rulers advanced a vision of the relationship between religion and state based on Pancasila—the five principles of belief in one God, nationalism, internationalism/humanitarianism, democracy, and social justice that constituted the ideological foundation of independent Indonesia—and not, as some

Muslims had hoped, on the tenets of political Islam. In the United States, meanwhile,

Johnson administration officials embraced the New Order regime, and assigned minimal strategic weight to the steady sidelining of the Islamic groups whose members and supporters had partnered with the Army during the mass killings and helped usher

Suharto into power.

Finally, Chapter 5, the conclusion, reflects systematically on the narrative of the first four chapters, with an eye to eliciting insights about and patterns of U.S. foreign policy as it intersects with the complex presences of “religion” both at home and abroad.

How might a history of how ideas about Islam influenced past U.S. actions provide crucial context for understanding the narratives that shape U.S. policy options today— including calls for engaging religious actors to counter violent extremism and to build peace? Here I continue to speak in the voice of a historian but also, more explicitly, as a scholar of peace and peacebuilding. Especially since September 11, 2001, U.S. national security and diplomatic officials have been frequently charged with integrating “religion” into foreign policy calculations, broadly, and into foreign assistance programs and

“countering violent extremism” strategies, specifically. These strategies and roles have been institutionalized in foreign policy agencies, such as the Office of Religion and

Global Affairs in the State Department. Academics, non-governmental organizations engaged in humanitarian, development, and peacebuilding, and a range of non-state advocacy organizations have also worked to integrate “religion” in their work. I contend that these agencies and groups sometimes rely uncritically on familiar historical narratives/tropes and dubious analogies to inform their analyses and actions—sometimes to the detriment, ironically, of efforts to fruitfully engage religious actors abroad.

CHAPTER 1:

FROM COLONY TO COUNTRY: THE “RELIGIOUS FACTOR” IN U.S.-

INDONESIAN RELATIONS

From the turn of the twentieth century, when the Netherlands controlled the islands then known as the Dutch East Indies, Islam’s role in Indonesia has been variously negotiated, sidelined, and sometimes violently disputed. In the 1910s and 1920s, popular organizations advocating a range of nationalist ideas and aims sprang up across the Dutch

East Indies. They included both secular and religious actors who embraced ideas from across the political spectrum, from pan-Islamism to socialism to communism. Many of these groups endured or evolved throughout the colonial period, prefiguring and in some cases transitioning into the major political parties—and regional rebel movements—of post-colonial Indonesia. Indeed, the early movement toward independence was not without its internal debates; but despite Dutch colonial administrators’ increasingly repressive efforts to squelch it, the idea of an Indonesian nation gained momentum into the 1930s.

Dutch rule was interrupted by World War II and a period of Japanese military occupation from 1942 to 1945. Unlike their Dutch predecessors, the Japanese sought in limited ways to foster a sense of Indonesian identity, though their primary goal was to cultivate support for the war effort. Faced with an impending reassertion of Dutch control at the war’s end, a group of Indonesian nationalist leaders unilaterally declared

independence on August 17, 1945. Prominent nationalist organizations found common ground in the anti-colonial agenda during the four years of armed struggle that followed, despite their range of ideological foundations. Many revolutionary leaders chose to adopt a nationalist strategy that de-emphasized Islam as a potential unifying feature, in pursuit of a comprehensive approach that would appeal to Indonesia’s geographically far-flung, diverse society, with all its multitudes of viewpoints.1 But questions about the appropriate relationship between religion and state persisted. After achieving internationally- recognized independence in December 1949, Indonesians confronted what one scholar calls a “dual identity dilemma” characterized, at its extremes, by the tension between those who advocated a secular nationalist, non-theocratic basis for statehood, and those who saw decolonization as an opportunity to establish an Islamic state.2

A basic understanding of this formative period is crucial to any analysis of U.S. relations with Indonesia, given that successive U.S. administrations’ policies toward the newly independent country were constructed, in part, based on how officials understood and made sense of Indonesia’s colonial past. The place of religion, and of Islam in particular, in both Indonesian society and the emergent state was one of the questions taken into account in these policy-related assessments. Accordingly, the first section of this chapter provides an overview of Indonesia’s colonial history in the decades prior to its declaration of independence, along with its revolutionary struggle to secure that independence in the form of an internationally recognized sovereign state. I pay

1 Hefner, Civil Islam, 37–42; Gouda, American Visions of the Netherlands East Indies/Indonesia: U.S. Foreign Policy and Indonesian Nationalism, 1920-1949, 107–11.

2 Rizal Sukma, Islam in Indonesian Foreign Policy (London; New York: Routledge Curzon, 2003), 4–5.

particular attention to the ways in which nationalist and anti-colonial leaders approached the role of religion and religious actors in the movement toward independence and the founding of Indonesia.

In the context of post-World War II decolonization and the early Cold War, the

Truman administration’s policy toward Indonesia evolved from public neutrality and tacit support for the reinstitution of Dutch rule, to guarded support for Indonesian independence, and finally to an active courtship of the country’s leaders as potential anti- communist, pro-Western partners—a policy that continued into the early years of the

Eisenhower era. While the objectives of the economic integration of non-communist Asia and sustained access to the region’s resources were central to U.S. decision-making, policymakers’ perceptions of the role religion, especially Islam, in Indonesian society informed their approach to promoting anti-communism in the new nation. These attitudes toward Indonesia’s Islamic political parties and majority Muslim population developed in the context of the changing relationship between religion, state, and society in the United

States during the 1950s. The second section of the chapter thus shows how the relationship between religion, state, and society in the United States society changed in the 1950s, a transformation that corresponded with changes in how religion figured in the conduct of U.S. foreign relations.

Many Eisenhower administration officials envisioned U.S. global leadership as a moral duty, and they worked to cultivate American civil religion to promote spiritual strength at home, while simultaneously invoking religion as a tool in the fight against

communism abroad.3 I trace how an emphasis on the role of religion in global affairs included focused attention on the “natural” anti-communist potential of Islamic actors.

During this period, followers of Islam—whether as private individuals, as members of political parties, or as part of violent rebel movements—were frequently categorized as what Mahmood Mamdani has referred to as “good Muslims” or “bad Muslims.”4 “Good

Muslims” might include those described as conservative or moderate, anti-communist, and genuinely religious; westernized intellectuals also were included in this category.

“Bad Muslims” were fanatical, extremist, violent, and often agitators for a theocratic state.

Such categories were not, of course, without internal contradictions. Many policymakers, academics, and journalists, for instance, saw the United States as vying for the hearts and minds of those Muslims deemed “traditional,” “backward,” or “politically illiterate.” Muslims across the globe were ripe for U.S. influence; they were perceived as a promising, if malleable, pool of “good Muslims” who could come to embrace Western- style liberal democracy—but who were also in danger of becoming “bad Muslims,” succumbing to the influence of communism, be they true believers or naïve followers.

Nor were such categories fixed; they shifted not only in accordance with the pursuit of particular policy objectives, but also with changes in dominant academic discourses, not to mention the ideological commitments or even personalities of those in power at a given moment in time.

3 Inboden, Religion and American Foreign Policy, 1945-1960; Gunn, Spiritual Weapons; Herzog, The Spiritual-Industrial Complex.

4 Mamdani, Good Muslim, Bad Muslim, 15–16, 22–24.

Eisenhower administration officials drew on these ideas in their analyses of

Indonesia. The third section of the chapter turns to the ways in which U.S. policymakers understood Islam as both a moderating force and a driver of decision-making among

Indonesians. They tended to view “Muslim” as synonymous with “anti-communist,” for example, even as they viewed “Indonesian Islam” as distinct, in some ways, from Islam in the Middle East and North Africa. At the same time, some U.S. observers made distinctions between Muslim groups in Indonesia. The rebels of the Darul Islam (Abode of Islam) movement, for example, who sought to establish an Indonesian Islamic state, belonged to a category of Muslims considered more fanatical and violent than members of what policymakers understood as the moderate and conservative Islamic political parties of Masyumi and Nahdlatul Ulama (NU, Revival of Religious Scholars).

In sum, policymakers’ understanding of the role of religion in Indonesia was shaped by official interpretations of Islam derived from existing bodies of knowledge within U.S. government agencies, as well as by new efforts to leverage Islam’s transnational anti-communist potential; by U.S. government, NGO, and intellectuals’ engagement with non-communist actors in Indonesia, including self-described religious groups; and, not least, by journalistic accounts and media representations of Indonesian history and culture. Ideas about the role of Islam in Indonesia that developed during this period, which circulated within and between U.S. political and intellectual spheres of influence, became part of a framework that influenced, if not directly dictated, the identification and analysis of policy options available to U.S. officials during the

Eisenhower administration.

From Colony to Country

Islam in the Dutch East Indies

Arab traders exposed Southeast Asian populations to Islam as early as the seventh century, but the pre-colonial expansion of Islam across what is now Indonesia did not begin in earnest until the mid-1400s. Islam continued to spread during what has been called Southeast Asia’s “Age of Commerce,” and it became the dominant religion across the archipelago by the seventeenth century. Conversion to Islam was “incremental and elite-brokered,” and resulted from foreign exchange more than foreign conquest, which allowed pre-Islamic political and legal systems, as well as a range of Hindu, Buddhist, and animist cultural practices, to endure alongside or intermingle with Islamic beliefs. In addition—and unlike parts of the Middle East and South Asia—when rulers introduced their populations to Islam, they frequently shared the ethnic background of the previous, non-Islamic ruler, providing a sense of “cultural continuity.”5

Drawn to the islands for their renowned spice trade, European commercial expeditions arrived in the region by the early 1500s. The Portuguese established their first trading port in Malacca (in present-day Malaysia) in 1509, before turning east to the

Maluku Islands (also known as the Moluccas), often referred to as the Spice Islands during the colonial era. They built additional settlements in other eastern islands of the archipelago—including the eastern half of the island of Timor, which Portugal controlled as a colony until 1975. British traders reached the islands later that century, in 1577.

5 Robert W. Hefner, “Indonesia in the Global Scheme of Islamic Things: Sustaining the Virtuous Circle of Education, Associations and Democracy,” in Islam in Indonesia: Contrasting Images and Interpretations, ed. Jajat Burhanudin and Kees van Dijk (Amsterdam: Amsterdam University Press, 2013), 51 (quoted); see also Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, 15–16; Ricklefs, A History of Modern Indonesia since c. 1200, 1–23.

They, too, had established trading ports by the 1600s, though by the 1620s the British had begun to shift their commercial and colonial gaze toward mainland Asia. Over the next three centuries, it would be the Netherlands that came to dominate the archipelago and its vast resources.6

Dutch traders first arrived in present-day Indonesia in 1595, attracted by the flourishing spice trade like the Portuguese and British before them. Eager to expand their commercial interests, a number of Dutch companies joined to form the Dutch East Indies

Company (VOC, Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie) in 1602. The Dutch parliament gave the VOC “quasi-sovereign power,” granting the company broad authority to conduct treaty negotiations and, if necessary, to engage in war on behalf of the Netherlands. The

VOC built and controlled lucrative trading ports and became intimately involved in local politics, particularly on the island of Java, where the company renamed the port city of

Jayakarta and established its headquarters in Batavia (present-day Jakarta). Over the course of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, the VOC displaced European competitors and local rulers alike, and enforcing first commercial and then (often uneven) territorial control over what became known as the Dutch East Indies.7

When the VOC went bankrupt in 1800, the British, the French, and the Dutch battled for influence in the archipelago. Within several years, the Dutch government had taken over former VOC holdings, and the Netherlands regained control of the islands in

1816. The Dutch consolidated control in Java and expanded their territorial holdings

6 Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, 16–17; Ricklefs, A History of Modern Indonesia since c. 1200, 24– 33.

7 Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, 17–24; Robert B. Cribb and Audrey Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 2nd ed. (Lanham, MD: Scarecrow Press, 2004), 120–21.

across the islands, though their rule often remained tenuous outside of Java.8 They also began to administer the territory as a more traditional colony for the duration of the nineteenth century. By the early twentieth century, this included a new colonial policy known as the Ethical Policy, which guided the creation of healthcare, education, and economic development programs intended to reflect the Netherlands’ moral commitment to the populations under their rule. The social reforms frequently tended to benefit the

Javanese population at the expense of the more resource-rich outer islands (not to mention critiques of the Ethical Policy’s paternalism).9

Some elements of the “discourse of difference” surrounding Islam in Indonesian can be traced to this late colonial period. As the Dutch sought to strengthen their grasp on the islands, they tried to make sense of and “order” the diverse indigenous peoples they encountered. They assigned particular weight, for example, to the rural village and the urban neighborhood as political and economic units. Their perception of the communal nature of these locations, and their reliance on both to understand and engage with the native population, influenced not only Dutch colonial administration—they left, for example, landholding decisions to village control—but also helped create a sense of communal identity that was later “recognized, reified, and reinvented as ‘culture’ and

‘tradition’” in Indonesian society.10

8 This was especially true in Aceh, the northernmost region of Sumatra, where armed resistance to Dutch troops continued into the early 1900s. See, for example, Anthony Reid, ed., Verandah of Violence: The Background to the Aceh Problem (Singapore; Seattle: Singapore University Press; in association with University of Washington Press, 2006).

9 Ricklefs, A History of Modern Indonesia since c. 1200, 161–80, 183–86.

10 Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, 28–31, 31 (quoted).

Dutch administrators also often grouped people by ethnicity, particularly in Java, which had a significant Chinese population.11 By the late colonial period, the Dutch had also begun to focus on traits they understood to have religious connotations when constructing categories. For example, despite Islam’s mostly peaceful spread, indigenous populations that lived further inland had been more resistant to the cultural and religious traits of Islam—a factor not lost on Dutch colonial administrators. Throughout most of the colonial period, the Dutch had prevented Christian (Protestant) missionaries from working in Islamic areas. But in the early twentieth century, they began to point to the

“hinterland minorities’ estrangement from their Muslim neighbors,” and allowed missionaries to target such populations for conversion.12 Missionaries also pointed to the animistic and Hindu traditions common to Java to identify the Javanese as non-Muslims, thus bolstering their case to operate among that population.13

Ironically, Dutch efforts to portray parts of the Javanese population as non-

Muslim added additional fuel to the Islamic revitalization that had begun to take shape in the early decades of the 1900s. It may have inspired, for instance, the self-identified

11 Chinese merchants had traded and settled in coastal regions of many of the islands that now make up Indonesia since at least the fourteenth century. Many men married within the indigenous population, especially in Java, and their children adopted the language and religion of their social context. When the Dutch East India Company began operations, Chinese traders became valuable interlocutors. But the Dutch also began to impose administrative policies that promoted segregation rather than integration, such as barring ethnic Chinese from entering the Javanese aristocracy and requiring new migrants from China to live in separate neighborhoods. van Dijk, “Comparing Different Streams of Islam: Wrestling with Words and Definitions,” 16–17; Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, 19–22.

12 Robert W. Hefner, “The Sword Against the Crescent: Religion and Violence in Muslim Southeast Asia,” in Religion and Conflict in South and Southeast Asia: Disrupting Violence, ed. Linell E. Cady and Sheldon W. Simon, Asian Security Studies (London; New York: Routledge, 2007), 36–37.

13 van Dijk, “Comparing Different Streams of Islam: Wrestling with Words and Definitions,” 16– 17.

Muslims of Java to “prove” their Islamic identities in the face of Dutch disparagement.14

Dutch missionary activities and schools also led to the development of Christian communities that were over-represented in the colonial bureaucracy. Partly in response to this trend, some Muslim religious leaders began to create their own network of schools.

When combined with the multiple strands of anti-colonialist and nationalist discourse that had begun to circulate among the well-educated and well-traveled, the conditions were ripe at the turn of the twentieth century for the emergence of groups that would go on to become the first mass-based political organizations in the Dutch East Indies.15

Nationalist Beginnings

“No idea,” Robert Hefner writes, “has had so profound an influence on the refiguration of Muslim politics in modern Indonesia as has nationalism.”16 As the

Netherlands consolidated its holdings in the Dutch East Indies toward the end of the

1800s, colonial rulers began turning to local elites to govern the territory, and imparted ideas about “progress and modernity” in the process. European-educated elites also gained exposure to and began to write about a generally secular (or not overly religious) nationalism. As liberal, socialist, and communist ideologies spread across the globe, their

14 van Dijk, 16–17.

15 Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, 36–37; van Dijk, “Comparing Different Streams of Islam: Wrestling with Words and Definitions,” 17.

16 Hefner, Civil Islam, 37.

tenets began to take root in the Dutch East Indies as well, especially among the younger generation, many of whom were educated in Dutch colonial schools.17

At the turn of the 20th century, burgeoning Indonesian nationalism also mingled with emergent trends in Islamic thought, particularly Islamic reformism. Nineteenth century reformist movements developed in response to concerns about growing European influence and incursions in Muslim societies. They flourished especially from the late

1800s until the 1930s, and often became platforms for anti-colonialism or models for pan-Islamic or nationalist organizing. Islamic theorist Sayyid Jamal al-Din al-Afghani

(1838-1897) was among the earliest proponents of a revitalized, pan-Islamic community that could counter Western imperialism. He emphasized that Islamic tradition contained within it the principles necessary to meet the challenges of the modern world. Muslims, therefore, need not borrow from Western ideas, but rather should return to, and continually reinterpret, the original tenets of Islam.18 Mohammad ‘Abduh (1849-1905), a student of Afghani and the rector of Al-Azhar University in Cairo, went on to adopt “a purely religious vision of pan-Islam,” which focused on the importance of belonging to the ummah, but not on its geographical or political unity. ‘Abduh understood the salaf, or ancestors of Islam, to include not only the Prophet Muhammad and his immediate descendants, but also the long tradition of Islamic thinkers that followed.19 While ‘Abduh

17 Edward Aspinall and Mark T. Berger, “The Break-up of Indonesia? Nationalisms after Decolonisation and the Limits of the Nation-State in Post-Cold War Southeast Asia,” Third World Quarterly 22, no. 6 (2001): 1005 (quoted); Hefner, Civil Islam, 37–42.

18 Nikki R. Keddie, An Islamic Response to Imperialism: Political and Religious Writings of Sayyid Jamal Ad-Din Al-Afghani (Berkeley and Los Angeles: University of California Press, 1983), 3.

19 Chiara Formichi, “Pan-Islam and Religious Nationalism: The Case of Kartosuwiryo and Negara Islam Indonesia,” Indonesia, no. 90 (2010): 129 (quoted); Eickelman and Piscatori, Muslim Politics, 34.

is sometimes associated with “Islamic liberalism,” his student Rashid Rida (1865-1935) is considered a proponent of a “more conservative Islamic revivalism.”20 Rida stressed the example of the Prophet Muhammad and the authenticity of his teachings, and while he accepted ‘Abduh’s idea of a pan-Islamic religious community, he also broached questions about “the need for a caliphate that would combine spiritual and temporal authority.”21

Afghani, ‘Abduh, and Rida help to illustrate both the lineage of and variations within what is broadly termed Islamic reformism, and it was their ideas that Southeast

Asian Muslims encountered when they traveled to the Middle East. In the late 1800s, increasing numbers of ulama, especially from Sumatra, traveled to Arab and Muslim centers of learning—first to Mecca, and then primarily to Cairo—and returned with knowledge of reformist ideas. At the same time, existing networks of Islamic schools and mosques stretching from the Middle East to the Dutch East Indies facilitated the transmission of ideas about Islamic reformism and, later, an Islamic nationalism, which placed the tenets of Islam, not secular liberalism or socialism, at the center of any future nation-building project.22

Like their Middle East contemporaries, Islamic reformists in the Dutch East

Indies—more commonly known as modernists—privileged the individual study (ijtihad)

Because of ‘Abduh’s emphasis on salaf, Islamic reformism is sometimes referred to as Salafiyya, or Salafism.

20 Keddie, An Islamic Response to Imperialism, 3.

21 Formichi, “Pan-Islam and Religious Nationalism,” 129.

22 Formichi, 127; Kahin, Rebellion to Integration, 36; Hefner, “Indonesia in the Global Scheme of Islamic Things,” 52.

of the Qur’an and Hadith over the authority of a particular school of Islamic legal thought, as well as over the teachings of ulama.23 Ahmad Dahlan, for example, studied

Islamic reformism in Mecca before returning to Java to found the social welfare organization Muhammadiyah (“followers of Muhammad”) in 1912. Muhammadiyah’s activities centered around the promotion of reformist thought in areas such as education, health care, and other social services for the poor, rather than formal politics. Other

Muslims inspired also returned from the Middle East to create their own schools, madrasas, which were frequently organized under the auspices of Muhammadiyah.

Muhammadiyah continued to gain support throughout the Dutch East Indies during the remainder of the colonial period, it and went on to become the preeminent Islamic modernist organization in Indonesian.24

In response to the growing modernist movement in the Dutch East Indies, Hasyim

Asyari founded the traditionalist Islamic organization Nahdlatul Ulama (NU, Revival of

Religious Scholars) in 1926 in Surabaya, East Java. In Indonesia, traditionalist refers to

Muslims for whom religious authority rests with religious scholars who have studied not only the Qur’an and Hadith, but also the writings of other Islamic scholars. The NU resisted, for instance, some modernists’ emphasis on the Qur’an and Hadith as the sources of authentic Islam, and sought to preserve local, often syncretic, Islamic traditions (throughout much of the archipelago, Islamic legal teachings have long mingled with indigenous, customary law (adat); and in Java, especially, Islam blended

23 R. William Liddle, “The Islamic Turn in Indonesia: A Political Explanation,” The Journal of Asian Studies 55, no. 3 (1996): 622–23; Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 197.

24 Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 44; Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, 37–40; Hefner, “Indonesia in the Global Scheme of Islamic Things,” 52.

with existing beliefs and practices from Hinduism, Buddhism, and indigenous traditions).25 And when modernist Muslims began to establish religious schools, the NU sought to bolster and safeguard an already well-established network of rural Islamic boarding schools, known as pesantren, especially in Java. Religious scholars, known locally as kyai, not only headed these schools, but also had a “charismatic authority” in the community that included economic and political roles, and their santri, or advanced students, enjoyed the mentorship and benefits of the kyai.26

Both the modernist Muhammadiyah and the traditionalist NU concerned themselves first and foremost with “promoting piety, learning and Islamic well-being,” and did not, in their early years, subscribe to or advocate a particular political platform or agenda.27 The islands’ first mass-based, anti-colonial political movement, Sarekat

Dagang Islam (SDI, Islamic Traders Association), however, did appeal to a sense of shared Islamic identity to give early credence to “the idea of Indonesia” among the predominantly Muslim population.28 Javanese traders formed SDI in the city of Surakarta

(now Solo) in 1909 to defend the interests of Muslim merchants at a time when Chinese inhabitants, privileged by the Dutch in the colonial pecking order, dominated much of the private business sector. In 1912, SDI became simply Sarekat Islam (SI, Islamic

25 Liddle, “The Islamic Turn in Indonesia,” 622; Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 45; Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 196–97.

26 Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, 37-40 (quoted); Hefner, “Indonesia in the Global Scheme of Islamic Things,” 52.

27 Hefner, “Indonesia in the Global Scheme of Islamic Things,” 56.

28 Aspinall, Islam and Nation, 12.

Association), and the organization broadened its platform to include challenging Dutch rule.29

Sarekat Islam’s earliest members were politically conservative urban traders, and its leadership continued to promote Islam as an organizing principle of a future independent nation. By the end of the decade, however, SI had gained a diverse following. Its more politically radical members included both kyai and members of the small, but growing, Partai Komunis Indonesia (PKI, Communist Party of Indonesia), which formed in the context of labor activism and anti-colonialism. By the mid-1910s, the Indies Social-Democratic Union, a Dutch organization that included members in the

Dutch East Indies, had begun to push back against colonial rule. In 1920, the union changed its name to the Communist Union of the Indies, which in May became the PKI.

The PKI was the first communist party formed in Asia outside of Russia, and it joined the

Comintern in December. Heading into the early 1920s, members of the PKI and other left-leaning activists worked with the Islamic scholars and Muslim merchants of SI to build “the biggest mass movement in Southeast Asia.”30

It was not unusual in the early twentieth century for anti-colonial leaders to embrace cooperation between religious and secular groups, or to promote a blend of nationalist, Islamic, and Marxist ideas. In parts of Sumatra, for example, Muslim scholars and students were mainstays within the PKI in the early 1920s, and many admired its

29 Hefner, Civil Islam, 38.

30 John T. Sidel, “What Killed the Promise of Muslim Communism?,” New York Times, October 9, 2017, sec. Opinion, https://www.nytimes.com/2017/10/09/opinion/muslim-communism.html (quoted); Al Makin, “Haji Omar Said Tjokroaminoto: Islam and Socialism (Indonesian, 1924/1963),” in Religious Dynamics under the Impact of Imperialism and Colonialism: A Sourcebook, ed. Björn Bentlage et al. (Leiden, The Netherlands: Brill, 2017), 249–51; Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 44; Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 321–22.

early leader, Tan Malaka. Tan Malaka was born in West Sumatra in 1897 into an aristocratic family. He attended school both there and in the Netherlands, where he was exposed to European nationalist and socialist ideologies. When he returned to Indonesia in 1919, he became involved in the labor movement and joined the emerging PKI, rising quickly through its ranks to become the party’s chair in December 1921. Unlike some of his fellow travelers, Tan Malaka believed that “‘Communism was the natural ally of

Islam in the struggle against imperialism.’”31

Following his involvement in a workers’ strike, Tan Malaka was exiled by the

Dutch in 1922, and lived in the Netherlands for a time before moving to Moscow, where he joined the staff of the Comintern. At a meeting of the Fourth Comintern Congress in

Moscow in 1922, he outlined for a skeptical audience the similarities between pan-

Islamism and communism, contending that pan-Islamism represented “‘the brotherhood of all Muslim peoples, and the liberation struggle not only of the Arab but also of the

Indian, the Javanese and all the oppressed Muslim peoples.’” They, like others throughout the world, were engaged in a “‘practical liberation struggle not only against

Dutch but also against English, French and Italian capitalism, therefore against world capitalism as a whole.’”32 His speech was reportedly followed by prolonged debate, and he was ultimately barred from contributing more to the meeting—this, despite the successes of Indonesia’s blossoming communist movement compared to others at the time. In 1923, Tan Malaka became the Comintern’s agent for Southeast Asia. He moved

31 Tan Malaka quoted in Kahin, Rebellion to Integration, 45; see also Taufik Abdullah, Indonesia, Towards Democracy (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2009), 30–33; and Sidel, “What Killed the Promise of Muslim Communism?”

32 Tan Malaka quoted in Sidel, “What Killed the Promise of Muslim Communism?”

from the Soviet Union to the Philippines and then to Singapore, and he continued to argue in favor of an alliance between communism, nationalism, and pan-Islamism in the fight against colonialism.33

Tan Malaka’s appeals for a united front against colonialism took place in the context of internal ideological debates that had arisen in Sarekat Islam over the proper role of Islam in any future independent state. While the lines were not always clear-cut, one faction favored and began to promote a secular nationalist and sometimes Marxist orientation, while the other remained committed to a pan-Islamic ideal. In October 1921, left-leaning activists were marginalized within SI when its leaders declared that members could no longer belong to any other party. By 1923, PKI members had been expelled from organization. The leftist wing of SI began to abandon the organization and gravitated instead toward the PKI, which adopted a strategy of campaigning locally to build organizational support, particularly in rural areas of Java and Sumatra.34

Haji Omar Said (H.O.S.) Tjokroaminoto was another figure who worked to bridge divides within the still developing nationalist movement. Tjokroaminoto played a crucial role in broadening the appeal of Sarekat Islam beyond economics, and he attracted many supporters to the movement by appealing to Islamic sentiments of the population outside of Java. Like Tan Malaka, he attempted to demonstrate the validity of a partnership between socialist and Islamic groups in the burgeoning nationalist movement, even after the split between the PKI and SI had occurred. Tjokroaminoto—whose ancestry afforded

33 Kahin, Rebellion to Integration, 31–32; 45; Sidel, “What Killed the Promise of Muslim Communism?”

34 Kahin, Rebellion to Integration, 26–28; Hefner, Civil Islam, 38; Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 321–22; 383–84.

him religious authority within his community, even though he was not an Islamic scholar—wrote an article on “Islam and Socialism” in 1924, in which he argued that ideas derived from the West did not necessarily contradict Islamic teachings.35 He wrote, for instance, that not only did the Prophet Muhammad embody and teach the spirit of socialism, but also that the Qur’an and Sunna were purer sources of socialist and nationalist ideas than the West:

The dream of socialism in Islam, which cannot be said to have been influenced by Western ideas, has been harbored for thirteen centuries. We do not argue here that since the early time Islam has promoted the system of socialism like that of today. However, the principles of socialism have been known in Islamic society since the time of the Prophet Muhammad. These principles have been applied more easily than the same principles have been in Europe at any time.36

Tjokroaminoto attempted, on the one hand, to make certain Western ideas palatable to the Muslim community, while on the other he strove to show that Islam not only contained the “spirit” of socialism, but also, and unlike some Western forms, contained within it the values necessary to sustain it. “Socialism in the time of the

Prophet,” he wrote, “was based on the advance of moral character and ethics of the people. As far as our belief is concerned, any form of socialism will not achieve its dream except with the advance of morals and ethics of the people,” thus concluding that “[t]he

Muslim community is capable to build true socialism.”37

35 Makin, “Haji Omar Said Tjokroaminoto: Islam and Socialism (Indonesian, 1924/1963),” 249– 51.

36 Tjokroaminoto, trans. Al Makin, “Islam and Socialism,” 1924, in Makin, 259.

37 Tjokroaminoto, trans. Al Makin, “Islam and Socialism,” 263 (quoted); see also Makin, 252–54.

One could interpret such attempts to find common ground between seemingly disparate ideologies as having been motivated largely by shared opposition to colonial rule, rather than grounded in shared ideas or values. Perhaps this was true to a certain extent. But Indonesians also tackled the complex relationship between the myriad intellectual currents of the time in ways that suggest more than a simple utilitarian outlook. Moreover, Islam was just one among many social and cultural forces that had the potential to unite (or to divide) the population around an as yet nascent Indonesian identity.38 This became increasingly evident as the 1920s progressed, as new leaders, including such political and religious luminaries as Sukarno, Mohammad Hatta, Sutan

Sjahrir, and Mohammad Natsir emerged under the banner of anti-colonial nationalism, while existing groups worked to shift their strategies in response to an increasingly repressive colonial environment.

One sees this blending of ideas in an influential article by Sukarno—future revolutionary leader and first Indonesian president—on “Nationalism, Islam, and

Marxism,” published in 1926 in the magazine Suluh Indonesia Mudah (Torch of Young

Indonesia). As Ruth McVey has written, it is important to note that Sukarno’s piece was directed toward movement leaders, most of whom were Western-educated, and many of whom had experience working in the Dutch colonial administration. They were the emerging elite, and not “the common folk,” or “the People,” whose differences in language, religion, culture, and social position Sukarno sought to bridge in a unified movement toward independence. Sukarno thus appealed to anti-colonial leaders to adopt

38 Makin, 251.

an approach that brought together the dominant ideologies he saw in society: nationalism,

Islam, and Marxism.39 He posed the following questions to his fellow leaders: “Can these spirits work together in a colonial system to form one Great Spirit, the Spirit of Unity?”

And, “can the Nationalist movement be joined with the Islamic movement, which essentially denies the nation? Can it be allied with Marxism, which proclaims an international struggle? Under colonial systems can Islam, as a religion, cooperate with

Nationalism, which stresses the nation, and with Marxism, which teaches materialism?”

Sukarno answered these questions, “[w]ith full conviction…Yes!”40

Sukarno wrote, for example, that while “group feelings can give rise to quarrels and divisions,” the “common lot” of colonial rule provided the basis for “friendship” among seemingly disparate elements in the independence movement. “Many of our nationalists forget,” he continued, “that a Moslem, wherever he may be in the Dar al-

Islam, is obliged by his religion to work for the welfare of the people in whose country he resides. These nationalists also forget that a Moslem who truly practices Islam, whether he is an Arab, and Indian, an Egyptian or of any other nationality, is bound, so long as he lives in Indonesia, to work for Indonesia’s welfare! This,” Sukarno declared, “is Islamic

Nationalism!” He cited Mohammed ‘Abduh and Sayyid Jamal al-Din al-Afghani as “two great figures [who] lit up the Moslem world in the nineteenth century,” these “champions

39 Ruth T. McVey, “Introduction: Nationalism, Islam, and Marxism: The Management of Ideological Conflict in Indonesia,” in Nationalism, Islam, and Marxism, trans. Karel H. Warouw and Peter D. Weldon, Translation Series, Modern Indonesia Project, Cornell University (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Library, 1970), 2 (quoted), 3–5, http://cmip.library.cornell.edu.proxy.library.nd.edu/cgi/t/text/text-idx?c=cmip;idno=cmip048.

40 Soekarno, Nationalism, Islam, and Marxism, trans. Karel H. Warouw and Peter D. Weldon, Translation Series, Modern Indonesia Project, Cornell University (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Library, 1970), 37–39, http://cmip.library.cornell.edu.proxy.library.nd.edu/cgi/t/text/text- idx?c=cmip;idno=cmip048.

of the Pan-Islamic movement” who, he wrote, “awakened and regenerated the Moslem peoples all over Asia from their state of darkness and decline” and “first inspired feeling of resistance to the danger of Western imperialism in the hearts of the Moslem people.”41

One also finds echoes of Tjokroaminoto’s “Islam and Nationalism.”42 Sukarno invoked the notion of “Islamic socialism” and wrote that Islamic civilization’s downfall from previous greatness “was not brought about by Islam itself, but by the moral downfall of its leaders.” He reminded adherents of Islam that “[t]rue Islam contains no anti-nationalist principles,” and in fact is “socialist in nature and imposes obligations which are nationalist obligations as well.” He bemoaned the “fratricidal struggle” between Muslims and Marxists within Sarekat Islam several years prior, “which set back our movement several decades.” Sukarno remained convinced, however, that “there is no fundamental barrier to friendship” between Muslims and Marxists; despite the respective spiritual and materialist orientations of their socialism, they shared a common enemy, capitalism. Only the “‘fanatical’ Moslem,” he claimed, “is hostile to the Marxist movement.”43

Sukarno’s education in Dutch colonial schools exposed him to European forms of political liberalism and socialism, but he was also influenced by Kemalism in Turkey and other secular nationalist reform movements in the Middle East.44 In the aftermath of

41 Soekarno, 40, 44–45.

42 Makin, “Haji Omar Said Tjokroaminoto: Islam and Socialism (Indonesian, 1924/1963),” 255.

43 Soekarno, Nationalism, Islam, and Marxism, 47–51. The term “fanatical” is used in a translated text; I am, regrettably, uncertain about the use of the term and its connotation in Indonesian.

44 Audrey Kahin, “Natsir and Sukarno: Their Clash over Nationalism, Religion, and Democracy, 1928-1958,” in Encountering Islam: The Politics of Religious Identities in Southeast Asia, ed. Yew-Foong Hui (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2013), 192–94, 198.

World War I and the breakup of the Ottoman Empire, the concept of self-determination had begun to gain currency among indigenous anti-colonial movements across the globe.45 Young intellectuals in the nascent Indonesia were no exception, and they began to formulate explicitly nationalist appeals in their calls for independence from the Dutch.

They cohered especially around the Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI, Indonesian

Nationalist Party), established in 1927 and led by Sukarno. Inspired by the idea of kebangsaan, or nationality, which could transcend religion, ethnicity, and region,

Sukarno and the PNI embraced the nation-state as the path toward independence, freeing the islands not only from the burden of colonial rule, but also from “poverty, backwardness and tradition.”46

The PNI’s growing strength alarmed the Dutch colonial government, which arrested and imprisoned prominent members of the party, including its leader, Sukarno, in 1929. Weakened as part of a larger Dutch campaign against nationalist activities, the

PNI disbanded in 1931. Mohammad Hatta and Sutan Sjahrir, who would go on to be revolutionary Indonesia’s first vice-president and prime minister, respectively, attempted to fill the void in December 1931 by establishing Pendidikan Nasional Indonesia

(Indonesian National Education), frequently known as PNI-Baru, or New PNI.47 Both of

West Sumatran origin—the most robust center of nationalist fervor outside Java—Hatta

45 Erez Manela, The Wilsonian Moment: Self-Determination and the International Origins of Anticolonial Nationalism (New York: Oxford University Press, 2009).

46 Aspinall and Berger, “The Break-up of Indonesia?,” 1005 (quoted); Hefner, Civil Islam, 38–39; Kahin, “Natsir and Sukarno: Their Clash over Nationalism, Religion, and Democracy, 1928-1958,” 192– 94, 198.

47 Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 336.

and Sjahrir continued a “non-cooperation” approach toward the Dutch. This led by the mid-1930s to their exile, internally, to Banda Neira in what is now the Muluku province of Indonesia.48 Mohammad Natsir, meanwhile, another rising nationalist voice who hailed from West Sumatra, had begun to distinguish himself at this time on the question of

Islam’s role in the future Indonesian state. As a journalist for the publication Pembela

Islam, Natsir (using an alias) stressed that “Islamic ideals” were crucial to any nationalist movement. While he, too, desired Indonesian independence, he departed from Sukarno’s thinking on Islam’s attitude toward “independent thought” and, according to his biographer, saw potential danger in “unbridled ‘freedom’ or unrestrained action in any sphere, whether in individual thinking or, politically, in the implementation of a democratic order.”49

The PNI’s fate in 1931 was shared by other anti-colonial organizations in the late

1920s and throughout the 1930s. Sarekat Islam’s membership had continued to decline in the midst of its internal divisions, and its influence was further weakened by Dutch crackdowns on nationalist activities. The PKI, for its part, shifted its strategy to campaigning locally, particularly in rural areas of Java and Sumatra. The Dutch warily eyed its growing popularity and seized the opportunity to undermine its leadership structures in the wake of a failed communist revolt in parts of Java and Sumatra in 1926-

48 Jennifer Lindsay, “An Introduction,” in Heirs to World Culture: Being Indonesian, 1950-1965, ed. Jennifer Lindsay and Maya H. T Liem (Leiden: KITLV Press, 2012), 1; Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 2.

49 Kahin, “Natsir and Sukarno: Their Clash over Nationalism, Religion, and Democracy, 1928- 1958,” 193-194 (quoted); Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 19–27.

1927.50 The leaders of the Partai Sarekat Islam Indonesia (PSII, Party of the Indonesian

Islamic Union), which had been established by a few remaining members of Sarekat

Islam in 1923, also refused to cooperate with the colonial government, and the Dutch banned the PSII in 1940. One of these leaders was S. M. Kartosuwiryo, who went on to become the leader of the Darul Islam movement in 1948.

While the nationalist movement did not achieve meaningful political change throughout the 1930s, it persisted, even thrived, as a cultural movement.51 And, while the traditionalist NU and modernist Islamic groups like Muhammadiyah continued to vie with each other for influence, particularly in Java, their relations improved as they began to form a common cause against the increasingly repressive Dutch.52 Figures like Natsir, too, increasingly embraced the tactics of the leaders of Indonesia’s non-religious nationalist movements.53 It was the onset of World War II, though, and the Japanese occupation of the Dutch East Indies from 1942-1945, that marked a turning point for

Indonesian nationalists of all stripes.

Japanese Occupation, 1942-1945

The Japanese occupation of the Dutch East Indies from 1942-1945, though brief in comparison to Dutch rule, played a key role in shaping the trajectory of the Indonesian

50 Hefner, Civil Islam, 38; on how the revolt played out in West Sumatra, see Kahin, Rebellion to Integration, 31–49.

51 Aspinall and Berger, “The Break-up of Indonesia?,” 1005.

52 Greg Fealy and Katharine McGregor, “East Java and the Role of Nahdlatul Ulama in the 1965- 66 Anti-Communist Violence,” in The Contours of Mass Violence in Indonesia, 1965-68, ed. Douglas Kammen and Katharine E. McGregor (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2012), 108.

53 Audrey R. Kahin, Islam, Nationalism and Democracy: A Political Biography of Mohammad Natsir (Singapore: NUS Press, 2012), 36.

independence movement, as well as the future role of religion in the Indonesian state.

During the occupation, Japanese administrators identified Islam as a potential mobilizing force to support the war effort, and they assigned religion a more prominent strategic position than had the Dutch. As Bahtiar Effendy writes, the Japanese administration effectively “ended (albeit limited in scope) the Dutch’s policy of separating Islam from politics,” and some Islamic actors saw the occupation as an opportunity to restore what they had come during the 1930s to view as their waning social and political influence.54

The Japanese military administration established an Office for Religious Affairs in Java. Initially led by a Japanese official, beginning in October 1943 a series of

Javanese religious leaders headed the office, including Sajim Asjari, the founder of the

NU. His son, Wahid Hasjim, set up regional branches throughout Java, which laid the groundwork for the post-independence Ministry of Religious Affairs, blurring the line between religion and politics and institutionalized religion in the Indonesian state for the first time (Hasjim became the Minister of Religious Affairs in 1949). In October 1943, the Japanese also founded the Majlis Syura Muslimin Indonesia (Indonesian Muslim

Consultative Council), or Masyumi, which they intended to function as one, inclusive

Islamic organization. Its membership incorporated those already in the NU and the

Muhammadiyah, and Japanese officials disbanded other Muslim groups. In December

1944, Masyumi became the first Islamic organization permitted to form a paramilitary force, Barisan Hizbullah.55

54 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 27 (quoted); Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 45–46.

55 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 27–28; Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 45–46.

Nationalist leaders like Sukarno, Hatta, and Sjahrir, along with communist leader

Tan Malaka, also found themselves in new roles during the occupation. Sukarno, for instance, cooperated with the Japanese military occupation government, and believed that a war between the West and Japan had the potential to facilitate Indonesian independence. Hatta, too, cooperated with the Japanese, though he did so more reluctantly than Sukarno. A trained economist, Hatta foresaw the U.S. and Western powers outlasting Japan in the war effort, and he, like Sukarno, saw the occupation as an interim period between Dutch colonial rule and whatever form of government that would follow. Sjahrir, meanwhile, remained outside the military administration, and worked to build anti-Japanese sentiment within the Indonesian population. Tan Malaka, who returned to Indonesia in 1942, also opposed the Japanese military administration, and criticized Sukarno and Hatta for collaborating with Indonesia’s occupiers.56

Their attention to the utility of Islam notwithstanding, the Japanese still tended to favor secular nationalists for positions in the military administration, and this preference carried over into deliberations about the post-war status of the Dutch East Indies. Near the end of World War II, Japanese officials established the Badan Penyelidik Usaha-

Usaha Periapan Kemerdekaan Indonesia (BPUPKI, Investigating Body for the

Preparation for an Independent Indonesia). Located in Jakarta, its members included prominent nationalist figures like Sukarno and Hatta, along with representatives from

Javanese social groups; leaders from Islamic groups, however, were less well represented, and despite their strong Javanese base, communist representatives were

56 Gouda, American Visions of the Netherlands East Indies/Indonesia: U.S. Foreign Policy and Indonesian Nationalism, 1920-1949, 111–14.

excluded. BPUPKI members debated the relationship between religion, particularly

Islam, and the state during the early sessions.57

In June 1945 Sukarno first proposed the five principles of Pancasila as the ideological foundation of Indonesia: nationalism, internationalism/humanitarianism, democracy, social justice, and—without specifying a religious tradition—belief in God.

Some members of the BPUPKI, however, remained unsatisfied with what they viewed as an untenable compromise on Islam’s position in the future state. In response, BPUPKI members formed a Small Committee to review the proposed Constitution based on Pancasila. The committee included four nationalist members, including Sukarno and

Hatta, and five self-described Islamic leaders, including the NU’s Wahid Hasjim and

Abdul Kahar Muzakkar, future leader of the South Sulawesi branch of the Darul

Islam movement. The committee drafted the Jakarta Charter, intended as a preamble to the Constitution, which proposed a reordering of the five principles that would list belief in God as the first principle. More hotly contested were a proposed clause requiring the

President and Vice President to be Muslims, and the proposed inclusion of the phrase

“with the obligation for adherents of Islam to practice Islamic law.” Islamic leaders ensured the clause’s inclusion in a draft constitution, but the phrase, which became known as “the seven words,” was ultimately left out of the provisional constitution of

August 1945.58

57 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 29–31; Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 46–47.

58 In Bahasa Indonesia, “dengan kewadjiban mendjalankan Sjari’at Islam bagi pemeluk- pemeluknja.” Kahin, “Natsir and Sukarno: Their Clash over Nationalism, Religion, and Democracy, 1928- 1958,” 202; Hefner, Civil Islam, 42–43; Sukma, Islam in Indonesian Foreign Policy, 4–5; Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 48–49; Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 31–32.

Under the leadership of Sukarno and Hatta, the renamed Preparatory Committee for the Independence of Indonesia (PPKI) chose to abandon most of the Jakarta Charter, citing concern about ostracizing Christian populations in the outlying islands, and wary of establishing an official Islamic state. In a nod to Islamic leaders, the first principle of

Pancasila became “belief in one supreme God,” which acknowledged the monotheistic tradition of Islam, but stopped short of endorsing a state religion. Seo describes this revision as having “defined Indonesia as neither an Islamic nor a secular state.”59 Indeed, while a range of Indonesians united in the final phase of the anti-colonial struggle against the Dutch, Pancasila would become the locus of future deliberations on the role of religion in Indonesian state and society. And for some, the abandonment of the Jakarta

Charter, particularly “the seven words,” came to symbolize the ongoing struggle over state-religion relations for proponents of an Islamic state.60

Revolution and the Transition to Sovereignty, 1945-1950

On August 17, 1945, Sukarno, with Hatta standing by, proclaimed the independence of Indonesia. The culmination of decades of nationalist agitation, their decision to declare independence was hurried by a group of young nationalist students, who feared Japanese, Dutch, or other outside interference in the transition from colonialism to sovereignty. As Japanese officials retreated and the Dutch descended on their former colony after the Allies’ victory in World War II, word of Sukarno’s declaration spread across the islands, as did the revolutionary fervor for Indonesian

59 Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 49.

60 Kahin, “Natsir and Sukarno: Their Clash over Nationalism, Religion, and Democracy, 1928- 1958,” 202.

independence. The United States, for its part, despite the Truman administration’s rhetorical commitment to self-determination, professed its neutrality, tacitly supporting its Western European ally. U.S. officials were guided both by the view that Soviet expansionism needed to be contained, as well as by the importance of the Netherlands as an early Cold War ally. Though it grew increasingly frustrated with the Netherlands’ increasingly unsustainable efforts to retain its former colony, it was not until the fall of

1948, after the Indonesian government sanctioned the military repression of a communist-led rebellion in Madiun, Java, that the United States, convinced of Sukarno’s anti-communist commitment, publicly backed Indonesian independence.61

Many, though not all, Indonesian nationalist groups found common ground in the anti-colonial agenda of the armed struggle that followed the declaration of independence.

Despite their past disagreements, for example, Natsir worked closely with Sukarno during the revolutionary era. Natsir “viewed achieving the independence of Indonesia as a far higher priority than pursuing the individual aims of any of its constituent groups, including those of the religious community”—a position that led to some tension, though not a break, with the Muslim community with which he identified.62 Still, he continued to promote religion’s inclusion in the political sphere. And when in November 1945, members of colonial-era Islamic groups including the NU, PSII, and Muhammadiyah

61 Wardaya, Cold War Shadow; McMahon, Colonialism and Cold War, 242–44; Gouda, American Visions of the Netherlands East Indies/Indonesia: U.S. Foreign Policy and Indonesian Nationalism, 1920- 1949, 279–83; Simpson, Economists with Guns, 14.

62 Kahin, Islam, Nationalism and Democracy: A Political Biography of Mohammad Natsir, 36.

formed a single Muslim political organization, Masyumi—not to be confused with the

Japanese-sponsored group—Natsir was an early and active leader.63

Not all anti-colonial leaders, however, were content to sacrifice Islam as the foundation of a free Indonesia for a unified front in the short-term. S.M. Kartosuwiryo was an active leader within the PSII and then Masyumi during the independence movement. In 1946, Kartosuwiryo had called for ideological differences to be put aside until after the Dutch were defeated, at which point the ideological underpinnings of the new state—he favored Islam—could be decided through a democratic process. He became the Masyumi representative for West Java in 1947, and was charged with coordinating its guerrilla units, Hizbullah and Sabilillah, which fought alongside

Indonesia’s regular army units. Over the next year, however, Kartosuwiryo grew increasingly disillusioned by the prolonged fight against the Dutch, and by the direction of the new government. He began to distance himself from existing Indonesian institutions, first from Masyumi and then, after the signing of the Renville Agreements on

January 17, 1948, from the young Republic itself. The terms of the agreement ceded

West Java to the Dutch, and while Republican leaders presented this as “a temporary strategic withdrawal,” Kartosuwiryo saw it as “a betrayal of the revolution,” as did a large number of fighters from guerrilla units, who refused to withdraw from the region.64

By February 1948, Kartosuwiryo had turned Masyumi’s existing local infrastructure into an Islamic Council and named himself as imam. Troops loyal to him

63 Fealy and McGregor, “East Java and the Role of Nahdlatul Ulama in the 1965-66 Anti- Communist Violence,” 108; Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 50.

64 Quinton Temby, “Imagining an Islamic State in Indonesia: From Darul Islam to Jemaah Islamiyah,” Indonesia, no. 89 (2010): 3-4 (quoted); Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 51– 52.

transitioned into an Islamic Army of Indonesia (TII, Tentara Islam Indonesia). When the

Dutch violated the Renville Treaty in late 1948, Indonesian troops returned to West Java; they were met not only by Dutch troops, but also by TII forces, who fought against both the Republic and the Dutch in what Kartosuwiryo saw as a holy war. The resistance movement became known as Darul Islam, and Kartosuwiryo declared himself the head of the Islamic State of Indonesia (NII, Negara Islam Indonesia) in 1949.65 Because it was born out of the revolutionary fervor of the 1940s, Darul Islam’s sense of legitimacy derived not just from Islam, as Quinton Temby writes, but also from the nationalist struggle for independence; its identity was thus a “fusion” of the nationalist aims of the

Republic and “Qur’anic precept and Prophetic example.”66

Darul Islam was the first armed regional rebellion to attempt to establish an

Islamic state in independent Indonesia. It was also among the most dogged, as it expanded to the provinces of Aceh, South Sulawesi, and South Kalimantan by the early

1950s. Sukarno and the Indonesian Army struggled to quell the rebellion in the coming decade.67 They did not struggle, however, to put down another perceived threat to the young republic in 1948: the pivotal communist-led rebellion in Madiun, East Java.

The PKI, which had foundered under the Japanese occupation, reemerged in central and eastern Java and began to rebuild in 1948. Tensions among the PKI and other fledgling communist groups in the revolutionary era manifested mostly in whether or not to adopt a more local, nationalist orientation, or a Soviet orientation. These differences

65 Formichi, “Pan-Islam and Religious Nationalism,” 126; Temby, “Imagining an Islamic State in Indonesia,” 4; Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 51–52.

66 Temby, “Imagining an Islamic State in Indonesia,” 5.

67 Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 43–50; 60–62.

coalesced mostly around the nationalist communist supporters of Tan Malaka and the supporters of Musso, a PKI leader during the 1926-1927 failed revolt who, having recently returned from exile in the Soviet Union, advocated a Soviet-inspired approach.

In Sumatra, where leftist leaders of different persuasions cooperated more freely, such tensions did not necessarily disrupt collaboration. In 1948, for instance, local socialist, communist, nationalist, and Islamic leaders came together in a meeting and pledged loyalty to the Sukarno-Hatta government and a commitment to protect the unity of the young Republic.68 But in Java, the disagreements were more pronounced, including over the decision to seize control of the local government offices in Madiun in September

1948.

In the midst of an economic crisis, resulting from both continued Dutch incursions and austerity decisions taken by the government, the PKI partnered with other left-wing organizations to urge strikes and demonstrations. They came increasingly into conflict with landed local Muslims, many of whom were members or supporters of the

NU. On September 18, 1948, local PKI leaders in Madiun took control of the city and declared a communist government; national party leaders threw their support behind the rebels. Indonesian troops, with Sukarno’s blessing, moved quickly to crush the rebellion, and within a month, key PKI leaders had been killed or jailed, dealing a critical blow to their organizational infrastructure.69 Violence erupted between retreating rebels and area

Muslims, particularly NU members, and casualties mounted on both sides.

68 Kahin, Rebellion to Integration, 134–35.

69 Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 52; Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 247.

The Madiun affair was a watershed moment in PKI-Muslim relations. While the

NU had, since its founding, opposed communism in principle, it had been more concerned with the PKI’s impact on intra-Islamic relations within Indonesia, than with formulating an ideological response to or critique of communism. This changed after the events in Madiun, as NU ulama came to view the PKI not only as a potential political competitor, but also as a physical threat to traditionalist Muslims. “From this time on,”

Greg Fealy and Katharine McGregor write, the “NU regarded the PKI as an inherent enemy.”70

Most scholars agree that the armed rebellions that erupted across Indonesia during the revolutionary era resulted more from disagreements over “the composition of the national government or the philosophical foundations of the nation-state,” and “not about its national borders.”71 The PKI-led rebellion at Madiun in 1948 was a brief but politically significant and psychologically potent violent episode between communists and anti-communists in the province of East Java. The Darul Islam movement, which

Sukarno and many Indonesians perceived as the biggest threat to the new government, was the most prominent and enduring example of the struggle between secular and

Islamic nationalists, and in the 1950s it gained affiliate armed movements in North

Sumatra, chiefly the Aceh province, and in southern Sulawesi. But while socially,

70 Fealy and McGregor, “Nahdlatul Ulama and the Killings of 1965-66,” 39-40 (quoted); Fealy and McGregor, “East Java and the Role of Nahdlatul Ulama in the 1965-66 Anti-Communist Violence,” 104–5.

71 Aspinall and Berger, “The Break-up of Indonesia?,” 1006. Only in the Moluccas was there a brief movement in 1950 to establish a separate Republic of the South Moluccas, led mostly by troops formerly affiliated with the Dutch colonial army, and with its own particular set of conditions that made it a more likely candidate for secessionism (1006).

politically, and economically disruptive, each of these violent episodes were about

“reconfiguring the Indonesian nation-state rather than breaking it up.”72 Still, in the coming decades, Indonesian society and political leaders of all stripes would continue grapple with how—or whether—to forge a unified national identity.

After a prolonged conflict in which the Netherlands found itself losing the support of its Western allies and the United Nations, the Dutch officially relinquished control of their former colonial holdings (except the territory of West New Guinea) on December

27, 1949. The government of the Netherlands transferred sovereignty to the Republic of the United States of Indonesia (RUSI), a federal system of government comprising sixteen states that had been designed by the Dutch in the later years of the revolution. By the middle of 1950, the states had dispensed with this remnant of the Dutch in favor of forming a unitary republic. President Sukarno dissolved the United States of Indonesia on

August 17, 1950—the fifth anniversary of the proclamation of independence—and established the Republic of Indonesia. Sukarno and Hatta became the President and Vice-

President, a provisional constitution was ratified, and Sukarno asked Mohammad Natsir to form the first government of the Republic of Indonesia on August 22, 1950.73

The legacies of Dutch colonial rule, the Japanese occupation from 1942 to 1945, and the Indonesian revolution from 1945-1949 cannot be disentangled from the founding and subsequent evolution of an independent Indonesia by 1950. Anti-colonial nationalism, in particular, bridged divisions between seemingly disparate groups in

Indonesia. Absent the revolutionary agenda, members of these groups may have found—

72 Aspinall and Berger, 1006.

73 This can be confusing, since the center of power in the sixteen states was a state called the Republic of Indonesia. It encompassed parts of Java and Sumatra, and it was the seat of federal power.

and later did find—their political aims to be diametrically opposed. Yet, as Rémy

Madinier writes, “there was undoubtedly more to this linkage than a simple strategic convergence. Shared ideals of social justice and naive calls for a new world order animated both” the Masyumi and the PKI, for instance.74 Moreover, while numerous studies of the late colonial period and the movement for independence refer to tensions that existed between nationalist and Islamic organizations or leaders, Kees van Kijk has called this “a peculiar—though convenient—trope.”75 Indeed, such characterizations risk oversimplifying the Indonesian anti-colonial movement, and make too tidy a distinction between (presumably secular) nationalism and an Islamic alternative. In reality, as van

Dijk puts it: “Most of the nationalist leaders who figure in such studies are (or were)

Muslims who take (took) their religion seriously. Equally, with some exceptions, the

Islamic leaders in question are (or were) no less patriotic than those who are dubbed nationalists.”76

Differences, where they existed, most often concerned not the overall goal of an independent Indonesian state, but rather the relationship of religion, particularly Islam, to that state. Yet, as Effendy has noted, even observers attentive to the nuances of religion and culture are prone to view both the Indonesian state and large segments of its society through the lens of “a clash…between religious group and nationalist group,” or

74 Rémy Madinier, “Lawan Dan Kawan (Friends and Foes): Indonesian Islam and Communism during the Cold War (1945-1960),” in Connecting Histories: Decolonization and the Cold War in Southeast Asia, 1945-1962, ed. Christopher E. Goscha and Christian F. Ostermann (Washington, DC: Woodrow Wilson Center Press, 2009), 357.

75 van Dijk, “Comparing Different Streams of Islam: Wrestling with Words and Definitions,” 16.

76 van Dijk, 16.

sometimes between more and less “devout” Muslims, “rather than as a conflict of vision among the state elites (the majority of whom are Muslims) concerning what constitutes an ideal Indonesia.”77 This frame of analysis characterized academic and policy discussions in the post-colonial period, and elements or derivations of this framework persist until today.

The onset of the Cold War also brought the differences between these groups into starker relief, as it became more and more politically unfeasible for individuals or groups to position themselves as viable global actors without somehow engaging the growing ideological split between the capitalist and communist blocs.78 Some Indonesian elites no doubt felt compelled to appeal to the dominant discourses of the early Cold War as they entered the global arena.79 While certain Indonesian leaders may have embraced, explicitly or implicitly, pro- or anti-Western or Soviet stances, countries and their populations could not, of course, be split so neatly into such dyadic groupings. Yet some, if not all, U.S. officials, not to mention scholars, journalists, businesspeople, and other influential observers, often viewed and categorized entire groups through a bipolar Cold

War lens—and Indonesia and its Muslim community were no exception.

The United States was not a mere bystander to the events unfolding in Indonesia during and following this pivotal transition to independence. When Indonesia gained its

77 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 2.

78 Madinier, “Lawan Dan Kawan (Friends and Foes): Indonesian Islam and Communism during the Cold War (1945-1960),” 357.

79 See, for example, Charles King’s discussion of “master narratives” in Charles King, “Power, Social Violence, and Civil Wars,” in Leashing the Dogs of War: Conflict Management in a Divided World, ed. Chester A. Crocker, Fen Osler Hampson, and Pamela Aall (Washington, D.C.: United States Institute of Peace Press, 2007).

official independence in 1949, the new nation’s anti-communist potential, its geographic location, and its natural resources increased Indonesia’s appeal as a crucial element of the

United States’ emerging containment strategy. In addition to the (purported) threat of

Soviet expansion, communist leader Mao Zedong had announced the formation of the

People’s Republic of China (PRC) in October 1949. Less than a year later, war broke out on the Korean peninsula in June 1950 between the Soviet- and Chinese-backed North and the U.S.- and United Nations-backed South. Indonesia emerged as an appealing bulwark against the spread of communism, and some U.S. policymakers saw the archipelago as the centerpiece of a regional containment strategy. The United States began to offer small packages of bilateral economic aid and technical assistance to Indonesia in 1950, hoping to advance the development of a pro-Western capitalist state that would support its long- term objectives set forth during the Truman administration: the economic integration of

Southeast Asia by way of a reconstructed Japan, as well as access to the region for the

United States and its allies.80 In Bradley Simpson’s words, those “core commitments, for which containment and anti-Communism were the means, not the ends, remained the unspoken assumptions guiding U.S. policy toward Indonesia through the end of the

Sukarno era and indeed throughout the Cold War.”81

Official interpretations of the history of Indonesia’s late colonial and revolutionary eras detailed above played a role in U.S. foreign policy planning during the early Cold War. In particular, the course of U.S.-Indonesian relations was guided, in part,

80 McMahon, Colonialism and Cold War, 317–20; Robert J. McMahon, The Limits of Empire: The United States and Southeast Asia since World War II (New York: Columbia University Press, 1999), 36– 38, 49–51; Simpson, Economists with Guns, 14–16.

81 Simpson, Economists with Guns, 16.

by U.S. government officials’ perceptions of the role of religiously motivated groups and parties in the global clash between communism and capitalism. And, importantly, attitudes toward Indonesian political actors, and Muslims in particular, were shaped not only by abstract analyses of reports and other forms of intelligence regarding Islam in

Indonesia, but also in the context of the changing relationship between religion, state, and society in the United States during the 1950s.

Religion and Foreign Relations in the Eisenhower Era

“The religious factor” at Home and Abroad

Throughout his presidency President Eisenhower placed great emphasis on psychological strategy and winning both domestic and international hearts and minds.82

Only a unified nation, so the thinking went, would possess the strength of character and moral fiber necessary to sustain the fight against communism, at home and abroad. On the domestic front, Eisenhower strove to formulate a more inclusive discourse and institutionalization of a “civil religion” to bridge denominational gaps and marshal public opinion to the anti-Soviet cause.83 In the early 1950s, an “implicit connection” between

Christianity and anti-communism—and, by extension, with patriotism—pervaded

American political culture to such an extent that religion “became fashionable.” Like many a fashion trend, however, this brand of “patriotic piety,” in Lee Canipe’s words, could also veer toward the superficial—which is not to say it was any less potent or powerful. On the contrary, the mass appeal of this form of religious nationalism made

82 Kenneth Alan Osgood, Total Cold War: Eisenhower’s Secret Propaganda Battle at Home and Abroad (Lawrence: University of Kansas, 2006); Belmonte, Selling the American Way.

83 Inboden, Religion and American Foreign Policy, 1945-1960, 2–6, 19–22.

sustaining the link between religion and anti-communism all the more feasible. In the battle against atheistic communism, the constituent parts of one’s religious beliefs mattered less than one’s courage of conviction: “the important thing,” Canipe writes,

“was to believe.”84

Despite the occasional assertion of his genuine religious faith, Eisenhower’s personal beliefs lacked coherent public articulation until he began his campaign for the presidency. Even as his religion took on a more public face during the presidential campaign, Eisenhower did not belong to a particular church or denomination. In fact, it was not until almost two weeks after his inauguration that Eisenhower was baptized on

February 1, 1953, as a member of the National Presbyterian Church in Washington, D.C., and became a member of the congregation. The man who baptized him was Rev. Dr.

Edward Lee Roy Elson, a former U.S. Army chaplain who had achieved the rank of colonel and had served under General Eisenhower in Europe. Rev. Elson went on to become a trusted confidant and adviser, on both spiritual and political matters, throughout

Eisenhower’s presidency.85

The Eisenhower era was notable for its “unprecedented...introduction of religious language and symbols into political life” in the domestic arena, from the inclusion of

“under God” in the Pledge of Allegiance to Eisenhower’s introduction of the Presidential

(now National) Prayer Breakfast and Days of Prayer.86 These changes in the domestic arena were intended to send a signal abroad as well. When Eisenhower signed the law to

84 Canipe, “Under God and Anti-Communist,” 312–13.

85 Gunn, Spiritual Weapons, 57–58.

86 Gunn and Slighoua, “The Spiritual Factor,” 41–42.

change the Pledge of Allegiance, for instance, the signing statement referred to the new law as an affirmation of “the transcendence of religious faith in America’s heritage and future” and referred to the country’s “spiritual weapons” as the United States’ most enduring and “most powerful resource, in peace or war.”87 In February 1953, when members of the American Legion veterans’ organization initiated a “Back to God” program, they launched it in a televised broadcast on a Sunday afternoon, which featured a prerecorded speech from President Eisenhower and a live speech from Vice-President

Nixon. Eisenhower reminded the television audience that the right to worship was an integral part of American democracy, while Nixon declared that the “spiritual strength” of the United States and its people were “the greatest advantage over those [the communists] who are trying to enslave the world.”88

While he worked to build “civil religion” at home, the Eisenhower administration also sought to build alliances with and fund co-religionists abroad. Early on, Eisenhower and his policy advisors considered the potential benefits of appealing to common religious and moral values abroad as part of the U.S. government’s strategy to build partnerships with like-minded people in countries perceived to be threatened by communism.89 Such efforts often included a combination of propaganda, public diplomacy, and foreign aid.

Almost immediately after his inauguration, Eisenhower began to explore ways he could overhaul the bureaucratic entanglement of offices, agencies, and departments

87 Gunn, Spiritual Weapons, 2 (quoted); 64–66.

88 Gunn, 58-59 (quoted); Canipe, “Under God and Anti-Communist,” 314.

89 Inboden, Religion and American Foreign Policy, 1945-1960, 2–6.

charged with crafting and carrying out U.S. foreign policy, including its propaganda efforts abroad. In January 1953, he established the President’s Committee on

International Information Activities (PCIIA) to evaluate the vast array of government information programs. The PCIIA’s final report recommended dismantling the

Psychological Strategy Board (PSB), a Truman administration holdover, and replacing it with an Operations Coordinating Board (OCB) that would work in tandem with the

National Security Council (NSC) to coordinate, among other things, the propaganda efforts of the State Department, the CIA, and the recently established United States

Information Agency (USIA). Much of the work surrounding the integration of “the religious factor” into U.S. national security strategy took place under the leadership of the

OCB.90 After first broaching the idea in 1954, the OCB established an Ideological Sub-

Committee on the Religious Factor in 1955.91 Among its first tasks was taking account of

U.S. relationships with Judeo-Christian groups abroad, and by 1956, the committee had expanded its efforts to include developing an inventory of existing and potential U.S. contacts with Buddhist groups in Southeast Asia.92

90 Memorandum, Elmer B. Staats to Edward P. Lilly, March 3, 1954, “OCB 000.3 [Religion] (File #1) (1),” Box 2, OCB Central File Series, National Security Council (NSC) Staff Papers, 1948-61, White House Office Files (WHOF), Dwight D. Eisenhower Presidential Library (DDEPL); Memorandum, Mr. Bishop and Mr. Hirsch to Dr. Lilly, May 20, 1954, “OCB 000.3 [Religion] (File #1) (1),” Box 2, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

91 Memorandum of Meeting of the Ideological Subcommittee on the Religious Factor, Operations Coordinating Board (OCB), May 19, 1955, “OCB 000.3 [Religion] (File #1) (2),” Box 2, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

92 Memorandum of Meeting of the Ideological Subcommittee on the Religious Factor, OCB, August 10, 1955, “OCB 000.3 [Religion] (File #1) (3),” Box 2, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL; Memorandum of Meeting: Committee on Buddhism, OCB, May 31, 1956, “OCB 000.3 [Religion] (File #1) (3),” Box 2, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

In what would prove to be one of his more controversial moves, President

Eisenhower also approved the creation of a “Chief of Religious Policy” position at

USIA—a title that was rather quickly changed to the “Chief of Religious Information”— and appointed Dr. Elton Trueblood to head the office of the same name. Trueblood was a professor of religion at Earlham College, a small Quaker college in Indiana, when he was tapped by President Eisenhower to lead USIA’s religious programming agenda. He was also a preacher and a former chaplain at Stanford University. In short, he had the scholarly and practical theological credibility, in the eyes of the administration, to go along with his sound anti-communist credentials.93 But his appointment, and the creation of the Office of Religious Information, met resistance from a skeptical public, including some of Eisenhower’s typical supporters.

Carl F.H. Henry, for example, editor of the journal Christianity Today, penned an article in April 1957, in which he wrote that USIA and the Voice of America (VOA), the international radio broadcast service overseen by USIA, risked “esteeming religion for sheer purposes of propaganda.” While he appreciated USIA’s recent efforts to present a more accurate picture of American religious life in its materials—namely, one that did not exclude evangelical literature—he also contended that the agency’s “nebulous religious policy,” one that “exalts all religions indiscriminately,” necessarily diminished the country’s “Hebrew-Christian heritage.” The prominent evangelical thinker singled out a particularly egregious “transgression” by the VOA: a recent bulletin that included a statement by Trueblood, translated into Persian, observing the birth of Mohammed. Not only did this “cheape[n] religion to an instrument of diplomacy,” Henry wrote, for “the

93 Inboden, Religion and American Foreign Policy, 1945-1960, 303–4.

deference to Islam for political purposes is undeniable,” but it also “flattered and encouraged” non-Christian religion—at the taxpayer’s expense, no less.94 As William

Inboden puts it, Henry deplored what he saw as an affirmation of “Mohammed as a true prophet and Islam as an admirable faith” in the VOA bulletin.95

Letters to the White House also poured in from mainly Protestant churches and organizations across the United States. From a Baptist church in Fort Worth, Texas, to the Independent Fundamental Churches of America in Chicago, Illinois, to the New

Jersey Presbytery of the Bible Presbyterian Synod in East Grange, New Jersey, the appointment of Trueblood raised questions about the separation of church and state in the minds of citizens and religious leaders alike.96 While a small number of letters did express support for his appointment, such as those sent by the Episcopal Diocese of Ohio and a Methodist church in New York,97 the majority appear to have been written out of concern about, as one Baptist pastor put it, “whether this [the office] is not a violation of the Constitution,” as well as “why such a man as Dr. Elton Trueblood has been named to

94 Carl F.H. Henry, “The Spirit of Foreign Policy,” Christianity Today, April 29, 1957, 22–23.

95 Inboden, Religion and American Foreign Policy, 1945-1960, 87 (quoted); see also the discussion from pp. 81-87.

96 The following letters to President Eisenhower were referred to USIA for handling: Letter, Rev. W. S. Arms, Jr., Pastor, Gateway Baptist Church, Fort Worth, TX to Eisenhower, May 18, 1954; Letter, J. Ellwood Evans, President, Independent Fundamental Churches of America, Chicago, IL to Eisenhower, July 14, 1954; and Reverend Daniel Fannon, Stated Clerk, New Jersey Presbytery of the Bible Presbyterian Synod, East Orange, NJ to President Eisenhower, October 18, 1954, “Trueblood,” Box 3147, Alphabetical File Series, Dwight D. Eisenhower (DDE) Records as President, White House Central File (WHCF), 1953- 61, DDEPL.

97 Letter, Nelson M. Burroughs to Eisenhower, March 31, 1954; and Letter, Pamela Vogeley to Eisenhower, May 6, 1954, “201 1954,” Box 1301, General File, DDE Records as President, WHCF, DDEPL.

this office in view of his political background and his belief.”98 The American Council of

Christian Churches of Ohio adopted a resolution calling for the removal of Trueblood from his position, along with the elimination of the office entirely, declaring that such an

“office has no place in the Government of the United States of America.”99 Some also protested Trueblood’s pacifism. He was a Quaker and, as one writer objected, having a pacifist in such a position made little sense in terms of national defense.100 Still others wrote to their members of Congress to register their opposition.101

Over the course of 1954 and 1955, many of these letters were forwarded to USIA, which crafted responses to defend both Trueblood and its Office of Religious

Information. Acting Director of USIA Abbott Washburn drafted a response, for example, which the President’s Administrative Assistant Bryce N. Harlow sent to Representative

Joseph P. O’Hara of Minnesota, who had received a complaint about the office from a constituent. Harlow’s response explained that the function of the office “is to present overseas the moral and spiritual heritage which is so integral a part of American life, both to assure a clearer appreciation of this country’s character and to counter incessant

Communist efforts to represent America as interested only in materialistic matters”— consistent with the Eisenhower administration’s overarching ideas about the religious factor in foreign affairs in the early Cold War. The office’s primary role was in providing

98 Letter, Rev. Arms to Eisenhower, May 18, 1954, “Trueblood,” Box 3147, Alphabetical File Series, DDE Records as President, WHCF, DDEPL.

99 Resolution of American Council of Christian Churches of Ohio, adopted November 13, 1954, “201 1954, Box 1301, General File, DDE Records as President, WHCF, DDEPL.

100 Letter, Helen Graydon to Eisenhower, June 3, 1954, “201 1954, Box 1301, General File, DDE Records as President, WHCF, DDEPL.

101 Letter with Encl., Rep. Joseph P. O’Hara to Eisenhower, May 21, 1955, “OF 247 USIA 1955 (3),” Box 748, Official File, DDE Records as President, WHCF, DDEPL.

“expert guidance and counsel” for the development of programs to convey these messages to “peoples with greatly different religious beliefs, in a manner that will not be offensive to them”—and not, the letter continued, to “seek to influence the formulation of religious beliefs anywhere in the world,” a distinction that the administration took care to make in its evaluations of how the United States might engage religious communities abroad. The letter also defended Trueblood’s “exceptional experience and reputation as teacher, author, administrator and speaker,” along with “his long history of working harmoniously with peoples of all faiths,” an important qualification to carry out the office’s mission abroad.102

Muslims as Anti-communist Allies Abroad

Despite the public objections over USIA’s Office of Religious Information, it is not hard to see why U.S. policymakers assumed that their co-religionists across the globe would share their anti-communist fervor; nor is it difficult to imagine how policymakers made the leap from Christianity to Islam as a ready-made source of anti-communism. In

September 1953, for example, Princeton University and the Library of Congress sponsored a Colloquium on Islamic Culture in order to bring together scholars and religious leaders from “Muslim countries” and prominent U.S. intellectuals to discuss the contributions of both Muslim and Western cultures to literature, art, philosophy, and other fields. From the perspective of the State Department, which had funded the leaders’ travel through a grant program, the colloquium was about more than academic exchange

102 Letter, Bryce Harlow to Rep. O’Hara, June 6, 1955, “OF 247 USIA 1955 (3),” Box 748, Official File, DDE Records as President, WHCF, DDEPL.

and mutual admiration. As presidential advisor Abbott Washburn wrote to fellow advisor

C.D. Jackson, the “[h]oped-for result is that the Muslims will be impressed with the moral and spiritual strength of America.”103 Indeed, another memo noted, “[t]hese individuals can exert profound and far-reaching impact upon Moslem thinking. Their long-term influence may outweigh that of any political leaders.”104 Several members of the delegation met with Eisenhower following the colloquium, a testament to “the

President’s deep convictions regarding the spiritual foundations of our democracy”—a connection presumably shared by the populations of the countries from which the delegates hailed, including India, Pakistan, Indonesia, Iraq, Iran, Syria, Jordan, Lebanon,

Egypt, and Turkey.105

Later that year, USIA reported to Congress that it had “stepped up” its emphasis on “[f]eature articles on U.S. cultural and spiritual values” for distribution abroad. The

Colloquium on Islamic Culture was foregrounded as a textbook illustration of how USIA could utilize such events in the service of U.S. foreign policy goals: “The colloquium provided the Agency with a rare opportunity to tell millions of Moslems in Asia and

Africa about America through the experiences of their fellow countrymen. At the same time it presented evidence of our respect for, and interest in, Islamic institutions.” USIA

103 Office Memorandum, Abbott Washburn to C.D. Jackson, August 24, 1953, “OF 144-B-4 Church Matters, Islamic and Moslem Religion (1),” Box 619, Official File Series, DDE Records as President, WHCF, DDEPL.

104 “The Colloquium on Islamic Culture,” August 19, 1953, attachment to Office Memorandum, Connors to Washburn, August 19, 1953, “OF 144-B-4 Church Matters, Islamic and Moslem Religion (1),” Box 619, Official File Series, DDE Records as President, WHCF, DDEPL.

105 Letter, Washburn to Thomas Stephens, September 8, 1953, “OF 144-B-4 Church Matters, Islamic and Moslem Religion (1),” Box 619, Official File Series, DDE Records as President, WHCF, DDEPL. The Indonesian representative was Ambassador Hadji Agus Salim, advisor to the Indonesian Minister of Foreign Affairs, and a former Foreign Minister himself.

sent wireless news stories to the Near East and Asia, including travel stories shared by visiting colloquium participants, which reached newspapers and magazines throughout

“the Moslem world.” VOA reported on the event in Arabic, Turkish, and Persian, while

USIA’s motion picture service captured the colloquium proceedings, as well as a visit by the delegates to a mosque in Washington and their meeting with Eisenhower, both of which were shown in theaters abroad just days after the events.106

The Eisenhower administration’s attention to Islam and Islamic actors was not limited to cultural exchange; it also made its way into policy planning analyses. In early

February 1953, for example, PSB staffer Charles Johnson shared with the new

Eisenhower administration the Board’s Psychological Strategy Program for the Middle

East, which had been approved just prior to Eisenhower’s inauguration. Of particular note are the numerous references to the importance of religion in cultivating U.S. relations with and preventing Soviet inroads into the Middle East. The United States should emphasize the shared principles and values between their societies, including respect for religion. The government should work with leaders to increase exchange programs, including especially visits from Muslim leaders to the United States, and of “American churchmen” to the Middle East. A lengthy annex provided perspectives on the “minds” of the region—by which the PSB meant “the traditional basic attitude towards life of [the majority of] the people involved”—including the Arab, Israeli, Kurdish, Armenian, and

Christian minds. A fascinating look into the ways PSB analysts categorized the region’s population, the annex also devoted a separate section to “Islam As A Barrier To

106 First Report to Congress, United States Information Agency [USIA], August-December 1953, “OCB 040. USIA (1) [November 1953-Mary 1957],” Box 20, OCB Central Files Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

Communism,” which reveals how at least one key part of the U.S. foreign policy apparatus understood Islam as “a faith that offers a total way of life, encompassing both religious and secular activities of its 300 million adherents.” A categorically “total way of life” did not, however, guarantee uniformity among believers; contact with modernity and ideas from the West had complicated the Muslim way of life, and resistance to change by leaders within “orthodox Islamic theology” could leave the Middle East’s population vulnerable to ideas emanating from the communist bloc.107

While many within the State Department and USIA saw “the Moslem world” as open to, even ripe for, U.S. influence, historian Bernard Lewis remained skeptical of the

West’s ability to influence the trajectory of “Islamic civilization.” In 1954, the prominent orientalist scholar sought to determine what “accidentals,” or factors related to the

“present historical situation,” and what “essentials,” or those factors “innate or inherent in the very quality of Islamic institutions and ideas,” might lead Muslim populations either to embrace or reject communism.108 Among the “accidentals” were a prevailing anti-

Western sentiment, rampant poverty, and the migration of large swaths of the peasant population into cities. “Essential” factors included a tendency toward authoritarianism, as well as a powerful sense of collective obligation and belonging—all of which could offer, under the right “accidental” conditions, points of convergence for Islam and communism.

107 Report, Psychological Strategy Program for the Middle East, Psychological Strategy Board, February 9, 1953, “Master Book of PSB Documents Vol. III (8),” Box 16, NSC Registry Series, 1947-62, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

108 Bernard Lewis, “Communism and Islam,” International Affairs (Royal Institute of International Affairs) 30, no. 1 (1954): 3; for a discussion of Lewis’ article, see Zachary Lockman, Contending Visions of the Middle East: The History and Politics of Orientalism, 2nd ed. (Cambridge, UK; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2010), 131–33.

Still, he continued, even granting these apparent similarities, communism could never function as a religion, which Islam, for the majority of its followers, still did: “and that,”

Lewis contended, “is the core of the Islamic resistance to Communist ideas.”109

Lewis’ framing reflected his understanding of Islam as, in his words, a

“potent…force affecting the lives and thoughts of its adherents,” such that the vast majority of Muslims would “not long tolerate an atheist creed.” The West may do what it could to “promote the material well-being” of people in the Muslim world—presumably in the form of some kind of economic assistance—but, in the end, Lewis was guarded.

Should Muslims fall victim to communist propaganda, or to “opportunists” within their own communities, “there is not a great deal we can do about it” besides “refrain from offering impediments” to the development within Islam itself of “the moral strength and spiritual resources to resist the great secular heresy of our time.”110

Many top Eisenhower administration officials shared the moral and spiritual opposition to communism of men like Lewis, but not, it seems, his doubts about the ability of the United States to wield its influence among Muslim majority societies. Prior to a presidential trip to Afghanistan, for instance, Eisenhower’s confidant and advisor

Rev. Elson reminded him that

[t]he Moslems are especially responsive to the religious note and, if you emphasize the religious devotion of the American people, you will get through to them. If you could refer to your participation in the dedication of the Mosque in Washington and point out how fine it would be to have a Christian Church in Kabal [sic], I am sure it would have a good effect. I was in Egypt when you spoke at the

109 Lewis, “Communism and Islam,” 12.

110 Lewis, 12.

Mosque in Washington and the effect abroad among the Moslems was profound.111

In the first half of 1957, in the tradition of earlier committees on “the religious factor” abroad, the OCB formed an Ad Hoc Working Group on Islam, which included representatives from the State Department, USIA, and the CIA. The working group first prepared an inventory of existing U.S. relationships with Muslims abroad, identifying which government agencies and private organizations had been or currently were engaged in activities with Islamic groups. The Board Assistants were then charged with deciding whether and how to proceed with an “Outline Plan of Operations Regarding

Islamic Organizations,” akin to the plan developed for Buddhism. The initial inventory of

U.S. collaboration with Islamic organizations evolved to include the production of a longer study of the Islamic faith, coupled with recommendations as to how the United

States might best engage with Muslim-majority countries to advance its anti-communist goals. The study clearly identified the “good” Muslims with whom the United States should aim to work:

“Support progressive movements aimed at reconciling the principles and ethics of Islam with democratic social and political reform. Muslim intellectuals continue to search for a bridge between traditional Islam and the modern state. Such progressive individuals and groups should be encouraged in interpretations of Muslim ethics and ideals which are in harmony with the concept of ever widening public responsibility for the processes of government and in opposition to reactionary movements and to communist and extremist propaganda.”112

111 Letter, Rev. Elson to Eisenhower, November 29, 1959, “Elson, Dr. Edward L.R. (1),” Box 14, Name Series, Dwight D. Eisenhower (DDE) Papers as President, 1953-61, DDEPL.

112 Draft of Inventory, attachment to Memorandum of Meeting: Ad Hoc Working Group on Islam, April 11, 1957, “OCB 000.3 [Religion] (File #2) (2),” Box 2, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

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The final report also emphasized the inextricable relationship between Islam, politics, and daily life, urging that “U.S. relations with Muslim groups wherever they are found should take into account this basic religious orientation”—a charge that U.S. officials took to heart in crafting relations with Indonesia throughout much of the

Eisenhower era.113

U.S.-Indonesian Relations, 1953-1957

U.S.-Indonesian relations during Eisenhower’s first term picked up where the

Truman years left off. Eisenhower and his chief foreign policy officials monitored

Indonesia’s domestic and foreign policies from the earliest days of his administration, and officials pursued a relationship with the geographically strategic, resource-rich archipelago that included economic and military assistance. To that end, the National

Security Council frequently discussed the possibility of bolstering anti-communist forces in Indonesia, but recognized early on that, in the context of nationalist, anti-imperialist sentiments in post-colonial Indonesia, the United States would have to do so without drawing unnecessary attention to its efforts.

In August 1953, the NSC Planning Board discussed the need to create a psychological strategy for U.S. relations with Indonesia, a task the Psychological Strategy

Board took on in the final weeks before its duties were transferred to the Operations

Coordinating Board in September.114 The PSB submitted an outline of issues for the

113 Inventory of U.S. Government and Private Organization Activity Regarding Islamic Organizations as an Aspect of Overseas Operations, May 3, 1957, “OCB 000.3 [Religion] (File #2) (4),” Box 2, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

114 Memorandum for the Record, Byron K. Enyart, August 20, 1953, “PSB 091 Indonesia,” Box 13, PSB Central Files Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

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NSC’s consideration in early September, which included questions about the future makeup of the Indonesian government, the policies of which it viewed as a product of the

“strong nationalism” that permeated the country. Its stability, however, continued to be tested by “ethnic and religious differences,” and “there is always the possibility of a military coup.” Accordingly, the PSB recommended a strategy that focused not only on thwarting communism, but also on longer-term objectives that would promote political stability and economic development.115

The PSB’s recommendations fed into the drafting process of NSC 171, which outlined U.S. objectives and possible courses of action in Indonesia. The top secret report, prepared by the Planning Board and presented to the NSC for its consideration in

1953, laid out the importance of the archipelago’s natural resources, not to mention

Indonesia’s proximity to key shipping lanes, the loss of which would deal a significant blow to the free world. The immediate objective of NSC 171, then, was a stable

Indonesian government, free from communist influence; the longer-term goal was to persuade the young country’s leaders to cooperate with the free world.116

The National Security Council considered the current composition of the

Indonesian cabinet, led by leftist Prime Minister Ali Sastroamidjojo since July 1953, to be “a strange mixture of minor nationalists, conservative Moslem, and leftist parties” in

115 Memorandum on Planning for Indonesia, John E. MacDonald, September 9, 1953, “PSB 091 Indonesia,” Box 13, PSB Central Files Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

116 Draft Report, “U.S. Objectives and Courses of Action with Respect to Indonesia (NSC 171),” NSC Planning Board, November 10, 1953, “NSC 171/1 - Policy on Indonesia,” Box 8, Policy Papers Subseries, NSC Series, Office of the Special Assistant for National Security Affairs (SANSA Office), WHOF, DDEPL.

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coalition with the dominant PNI.117 This was not an incorrect assessment. Mohammad

Natsir’s term as the country’s first Prime Minister had proven short-lived when his long- standing disagreements with Sukarno resurfaced. In addition, conflicts within Natsir’s

Masyumi party had resulted in its Nahdlatul Ulama-affiliated members breaking away in

1952 to form their own party, due in large part to what traditionalists saw as dominance by modernists within the erstwhile umbrella group.118 NSC officials recognized the NU’s new political party as one of “two minor Moslem parties”—the other being PSII, the

Party of the Indonesian Islamic Union—that occupied five ministry posts in the cabinet, including the Ministries of Justice and Religion.119

Masyumi and the NU were not alone in their post-independence rift. While the government and the recently reconstituted Indonesian Nationalist Party (PNI, no longer under Sukarno’s leadership) championed a unified national identity, tensions continued to simmer between the resource rich outer islands and Java, which housed the central government in Jakarta as well as two-thirds of the nation’s population. The NSC also noted the threat the young Indonesian state faced from Darul Islam, “a group of fanatic

Moslems to which has adhered miscellaneious [sic] bandits, Dutch-army deserters and adventurers,” which “is dedicated to converting Indonesia by force into an Islamic state.”

The group had “waged continuous warfare in West Java” since the end the revolution,

117 Draft Report, “U.S. Objectives and Courses of Action with Respect to Indonesia (NSC 171),” NSC Planning Board, November 10, 1953, “NSC 171/1 - Policy on Indonesia,” Box 8, Policy Papers Subseries, NSC Series, SANSA Office, WHOF, DDEPL.

118 Fealy and McGregor, “East Java and the Role of Nahdlatul Ulama in the 1965-66 Anti- Communist Violence,” 108.

119 Draft Report, “U.S. Objectives and Courses of Action with Respect to Indonesia (NSC 171),” NSC Planning Board, November 10, 1953, “NSC 171/1 - Policy on Indonesia,” Box 8, Policy Papers Subseries, NSC Series, SANSA Office, WHOF, DDEPL.

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and it was rumored to be involved with rebel groups in the southern Celebes (Sulawesi) and in Aceh, in northern Sumatra.120

The authors of NSC 171 recognized that certain U.S. positions, such as a lack of support for Indonesian claims to West New Guinea, constrained the United States’ ability to influence Indonesian leaders. They also believed that the PKI wielded greater political influence in the parliament than their numerically small supporters’ share would suggest, thanks to their strong organizational infrastructure. Masyumi, meanwhile, “backed by strong Moslem religious feeling,” was numerically stronger and had wider, village-level appeal and organization. The anti-communist Partai Sosialis Indonesia (PSI, Indonesian

Socialist Party), founded in 1948 by nationalist leader Sutan Sjahrir, was also seen as a viable counter to the PKI. The Army, too, was a potential anti-communist partner, and

NSC 171 recommended making U.S. military training, equipment, and supplies available as deemed appropriate. In the final analysis, given their limited influence, the only

“[f]easible U.S. courses of action” included appeals to “the forces of nationalism, anti- colonialism, and Islam. The United States must understand and, when possible, utilize these forces” to oppose communism, and forge good relations “with all anti-Communist and non-Communist groups and leaders.”121

As part of their anti-communist strategy, the State Department and USIA conducted propaganda efforts in and cultural exchanges with Indonesia, and pursued

120 Draft Report, “U.S. Objectives and Courses of Action with Respect to Indonesia (NSC 171),” NSC Planning Board, November 10, 1953, “NSC 171/1 - Policy on Indonesia,” Box 8, Policy Papers Subseries, NSC Series, SANSA Office, WHOF, DDEPL.

121 Draft Report, “U.S. Objectives and Courses of Action with Respect to Indonesia (NSC 171),” NSC Planning Board, November 10, 1953, “NSC 171/1 - Policy on Indonesia,” Box 8, Policy Papers Subseries, NSC Series, SANSA Office, WHOF, DDEPL.

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relationships with Islamic social and political organizations. This policy was illustrative of the Eisenhower administration’s strategic emphasis on cultural diplomacy, in general, and of its growing attention to the anti-communist potential of religious groups, both at home and abroad. U.S. cultural diplomacy in Southeast Asia took many forms, ranging from State Department-funded cultural exchange programs and the distribution of official

USIA-sponsored materials, to unofficial engagement with local actors, frequently under the auspices of non-governmental organizations.122

One such organization active in Indonesia throughout much of the 1950s—until it was dismissed from the country in 1958, following charges of CIA involvement—was the Committee for a Free Asia (CFA), the predecessor of the Asia Foundation. CFA was established in March 1951, with the stated goal to “promote, aid and assist the cause of individual and national freedom in Asia, as opposed to Communist and other totalitarian doctrines,” by means of direct communication, education, financial assistance, and cultural exchange between the people of Asia and the free world.123 With offices in San

Francisco and New York City, as well as several international offices in Asia, the U.S. government, and particularly the CIA, saw CFA as able to engage in activities that the

State Department could not.124

122 Marc Frey, “Tools of Empire: Persuasion and the United States’ Modernizing Mission in Southeast Asia,” Diplomatic History 27, no. 4 (September 2003): 543–68.

123 “Committee for a Free Asia,” CIA FOIA Electronic Reading Room, Undated, https://www.cia.gov/library/readingroom/docs/DTPILLAR%20%20%20VOL.%201_0001.pdf.

124 For instance, when draft terms of operation for the CFA were shared between the State Department and the CIA in 1951, it was suggested that the group minimize its links to the United States by “removing the U.S. label—private and public—from its operations and take on an Asian coloration.” And representatives abroad were instructed, when possible, to conduct operations “through local groups comprised of selected Asian leaders.” Memorandum with enclosures, December 13, 1951, CIA FOIA Electronic Reading Room, https://www.cia.gov/library/readingroom/docs/DTPILLAR%20%20%20VOL.%201_0085.pdf.

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In May 1954, representatives from the CFA offices in Pakistan, Indonesia, and the

United States were in communication about Darul Islam, and had at least indirect contact with Acehnese connected to the rebellion. Samuel H. Rickard, CFA’s representative in

Pakistan, had been approached by the president of the All-Pakistan Youth Movement with an English-language report that railed against Sukarno and his support for the communists in Indonesia. The report, presumably spearheaded by members of Darul

Islam, had been given to the Pakistani youth by the son of Daud Beureu’eh, leader of

Darul Islam in Aceh, who had recently visited the country.125 “The time has come,” the report declared, “for the free world to give immediate support to the anti-Communist

Muslim forces in Indonesia, if they do not want to lose this rich South East Asian country to the Communists.” The report requested “a small quantity of arms and --- now!”126 The report’s authors no doubt were the staunch anti-communists they proclaimed themselves to be, but they were also keenly aware of their English-language audience.

While recognizing the anti-communist potential of Darul Islam, CFA leaders’ early assessment of the movement was characterized by the prevailing image of the rebels at the time. A handwritten note cautions that while the authors of the report may count themselves among “the anti-communists of Atjeh, Dar-ul Islam,” they are also known to be “Muslim fanatics, and all this must be taken with a very large dose of salt.

These same Muslims,” the note continues, “are also establishing separate states in the

125 Memorandum PAK-356, Samuel H. Rickard to President, CFA, attn: Mr. Blum and Mr. Stewart, May 4, 1954, “Peladfar Islam Indo (PII),” Box P-68, Hoover Institution Archives (HIA).

126 Report, May 4, 1954, Enclosure to Memorandum PAK-355, Rickard to President, CFA, attn: Mr. Blum and Mr. Stewart, “Peladfar Islam Indo (PII),” Box P-68, Asia Foundation records, HIA.

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Celebes & Moluccas in a most ruthless fashion.”127 The Western press shared this interpretation at the time, often referring to the rebels as “Moslem terrorists” or “fanatics” wreaking havoc with violent raids against towns and villages. Throughout the 1950s the

New York Times, for example, reported the violent rampages of “fanatical Darul Islam rebels” in West Java, northern Sumatra, and the Celebes (Sulawesi).128 A special report on

Indonesia in December 1954 depicted the movement, comprised of “Moslem fanatics” in a “guerrilla revolt” that sought to install “an Islamic theocracy,” as a threat to the

“existing secular Indonesian regime.”129 The Times also reported on imperiled Christians in the Celebes, citing a “Moslem terrorist campaign” of violence against the substantial

Christian minority population, along with the burning of churches and reported forced conversions undertaken by “roving bands” of Muslims.130 Such reports also tended to be sympathetic to the Indonesian Army’s attempts to put down the rebellion.

Still, careful not to endorse the content of the report, Rickard mentioned that “a close friend and fellow-worker for Indonesian freedom from communism” named Hasan di Tiro was currently living in New York, and he provided his superiors with di Tiro’s

127 Note attached to Memorandum PAK-355, Rickard to President, CFA, attn: Mr. Blum and Mr. Stewart, “Peladfar Islam Indo (PII),” Box P-68, Asia Foundation records, HIA.

128 UP, “Rebels Slay 19 in Indonesia,” New York Times, March 13, 1954, ProQuest.

129 Tillman Durdin, “Report on Indonesia: A Nation in Turmoil: Disruptive Forces Open the Door to Dangerous Communist Maneuvers,” New York Times, December 12, 1954, sec. Review of the Week Editorial, ProQuest.

130 Special to The New York Times, “Celebes Rebels Peril Christians: Moslem Terrorist Campaign Reported to Include Killing and Forced Conversion,” New York Times, April 7, 1954, ProQuest; see also Special to The New York Times, “Fight on Terrorists Is Heavy in Celebes,” New York Times, July 28, 1954, ProQuest; Robert Alden, “Celebes Remains in Grip of Terror: Island Plundered by Rebels Fighting to Turn Indonesia Into an Islamic State,” New York Times, May 6, 1955, ProQuest.

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address.131 When Daud Beureu’eh allied himself with Darul Islam, di Tiro had positioned himself as the self-styled diplomatic representative of “the Islamic Republic of

Indonesia.”132 He was the great-grandson of Tengku Cik di Tiro (d. 1891), a well-known nineteenth century ulama and revered leader during Aceh’s war with the Dutch. Despite his famous Acehnese lineage and anti-colonialist credentials, di Tiro did not remain long in independent Indonesia, and his travels placed him squarely in the midst of the Cold

War tensions between the United States and Southeast Asia. He moved to New York City to pursue a master’s degree at Fordham University in the early 1950s, and as one of only a few Indonesians in New York, he worked as an information officer at the Indonesian consulate until August 1954.133

When his passport was cancelled by the Indonesian government, di Tiro was detained by immigration officials at Ellis Island. His case caught the attention of anti- communist activists in the United States. The New York Times covered his detention, and a group of American intellectuals organized a public campaign for his release, including notable anti-communists like Norman Thomas, chair of the Socialist Party; Roger

Baldwin, member of the International League of the Rights of Man; and James T. Farrell, a novelist and chairman of the American Committee for Cultural Freedom (ACCF).134

131 Memorandum PAK-356, Rickard to President, CFA, attn: Mr. Blum and Mr. Stewart, May 4, 1954, “Peladfar Islam Indo (PII),” Box P-68, HIA.

132 Hasan Muhammad Tiro, “Indonesia’s Communism: Fight Waged by the Anti-Communist Forces Is Described,” New York Times, September 13, 1954, sec. Letters to the Times, ProQuest; see also Aspinall, Islam and Nation, 41–43.

133 Aspinall, Islam and Nation, 32–33; 39–40.

134 The American Committee for Cultural Freedom (ACCF) was formed in the 1950s as an affiliate of the International Congress for Cultural Freedom, and its membership included prominent liberal and leftist artists and intellectuals. Unbeknownst to some of its members, certain of its activities were funded in part by the CIA. See, for example, Michael Warner, “Origins of the Congress for Cultural

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The ACCF organized a press conference in July 1955 to make public the contents of a telegram they had sent to President Eisenhower, asking him to halt di Tiro’s pending deportation.135 A telegram from Indonesia also arrived in July 1955, which appealed to

Eisenhower “in the name of all people in Achen [sic] Indonesia who are fighting against communism,” and requested that he “give political asylum to Hasan Mohamad Tiro…our representative in America. We hope that America whose history is based on freedom and right will not refuse shelter to a fighter in the cause of freedom [for the] people of Acheh

Indonesia.”136 Eventually, he was released from detention and his deportation was put on hold. During the next four years of his ambiguous immigration status, di Tiro met on occasion with high-level U.S. military and diplomatic officials. He finally was granted permanent U.S. residence in August 1958.

The full nature of the relationship between di Tiro and the CFA and its successor, the Asia Foundation, is unclear, but the organization was, at the very least, aware of him and his activities. In early 1955, in the run-up to the Bandung Conference, the Asia

Foundation’s New York office shared with San Francisco headquarters that it had received press releases from a so-called Islamic Republic of Indonesia and its self-

Freedom, 1949-1950,” Washington, DC: Center for the Study of Intelligence, CIA: https://www.cia.gov/library/center-for-the-study-of-intelligence/kent-csi/vol38no5/pdf/v38i5a10p.pdf, and the records of the ACCF, Tamiment Library and Robert F. Wagner Labor Archive, New York University: http://dlib.nyu.edu/findingaids/html/tamwag/tam_023/dscref27.html.

135 “Help Anti-Red Fight Deportation,” New York Herald Tribune, July 1, 1955; Aspinall, Islam and Nation, 42.

136 The telegram was routed through W. K. Scott, Director of the Executive Secretariat of the Department of State, on July 18, 1955; Encl: Telegram, “122 Indonesia,” Box 816, General File Series, DDE Records as President, WHCF, DDEPL.

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proclaimed representative in the United States, Hasan Muhammad Tiro.137 The latest release, on letterhead bearing di Tiro’s name and the address of the Republik Islam

Indonesia, Delegation to the United Nations, had been sent as an appeal to “the heads of

12 Moslem States,” from di Tiro “on behalf of the Moslem leaders and the Moslem people of Indonesia,” asking them to refrain from attending the upcoming conference, which could only be seen as “a rally for Communist China at the expense of the people of

Indonesia.” He put it in the starkest of terms, writing that “[t]he Moslems of Indonesia are engaged in a struggle for survival: if they win, Indonesia will remain Moslem, and if they lose, Indonesia will go Communist.”138

When, with a mixed record of operations, the CFA changed its name to the Asia

Foundation in 1954, it continued to function officially as a private philanthropic and educational organization engaged in similar activities to promote the image of the United

States abroad and to build relationships with Asian partners. It funded the building of schools and libraries, supplied books, and provided travel grants for academic and cultural exchange; its staff also began conducting social and economic research.139 In

Indonesia, for example, the Asia Foundation provided grants in 1956 and 1957 to the

Islamic University of North Sumatra (Medan) to purchase additional books for its library,

137 Memorandum, Lyman Hoover to John Sullivan, February 7, 1955, “Peladfar Islam Indo (PII),” Box P-68, Asia Foundation records, HIA.

138 Press release, Islamic Republic of Indonesia Delegation to the United Nations, February 8, 1955, Enclosure to Memorandum, Hoover to Sullivan, February 7, 1955, “Peladfar Islam Indo (PII),” Box P-68, Asia Foundation records, HIA.

139 Later, it would emerge that the Asia Foundation received funding from the CIA, with some of its international offices—though not necessarily with the knowledge of all staff—acting as fronts for carrying out a range of covert operations, particularly related to media and journalism. Wallace Turner, “Asia Foundation Got C.I.A. Funds,” New York Times, March 22, 1967, 17.

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as well as for a scholarship program. At the time, Foundation representatives understood the work of the university to be supported by such Indonesian luminaries as Mohammad

Natsir.140

The Asia Foundation also engaged in the provision of travel grants to both existing and potential Indonesian partners. After being approached in December 1956 by representatives from the Movement of Young Muslims (GPII, Gerakan Pemuda Islam

Indonesia)—a youth organization associated, if not directly affiliated, with Masyumi— the Foundation approved the following January a grant of $4,000 to provide equipment for the GPII’s new headquarters in Jakarta, including books deemed “suitable for a general library for the Movement.” Intended to “further the primary Indonesia objective of developing leadership for an independent Indonesia based on democratic principles,” the Foundation viewed the GPII, with its membership of over one million, as having

“great potential for nation-wide work” among Indonesia youth.141 The Asia Foundation provided similar grants to the Islamic University Student Welfare Foundation of the NU- affiliated Muslim Students’ Association (HMI, Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam) throughout

1956 and 1957.142

140 Approved Project No. 219, January 26, 1956; and Memorandum Indo-SF-14A, Holbrook Bradley, Indonesia Representative, to President, The Asia Foundation, January 16, 1956, “Edu Schools & Univ Islamic Univ of N Sumatra Teacher Program,” Box P-69, Asia Foundation records, HIA.

141 Approved Project No. 313, January 10, 1957; and Memorandum INDO-SF-540, Bradley to President, The Asia Foundation, December 7, 1956, “Indonesia 313 Organizations Indo Islamic Youth Movement (GPII),” Box P-68, Asia Foundation records, HIA.

142 Approved Project No. 309, June 8, 1956; Approved Project No .114, October 31, 1956; and Approved Project No. 309 increase, April 30, 1957, “Edu Schools & Univ Islamic Univ Student Welfare Found of HMI,” Box P-69, Asia Foundation records, HIA.

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The number of people traveling from Indonesia to the United States on USIA- affiliated grants grew from around fifty, in the early 1950s, to over 300 by 1955, and to more than 500 by 1960.143 Sometimes, these individuals would use the opportunity to form relationships with non-governmental groups in the United States, including The

Asia Foundation. Rasjed Aly, identified as a representative from Celebes (Sulawesi) to the GPII, was sponsored by the State Department under its Youth Specific Program to visit the United States for six months, beginning in late 1956. During his time in San

Francisco in February 1957, he visited the offices of the Asia Foundation. A memorandum about the visit detailed Aly’s desire to forge a relationship with the

Foundation, inquiring about its financial resources and its scholarship program. The office’s overall impression of Aly was that the young man was keen “to inform as many

Indonesians as possible about the wonders and the bounty of the United States and the

Asia Foundation.”144

While it can be difficult to pinpoint direct policy implications, it is clear that the

U.S. government and non-governmental groups like the Asia Foundation operated within similar spheres, exchanging information and building relationships with like-minded individuals, and constructing particular interpretations of the role of Islam as a strong anti-communist force in Indonesian state and society. The decision to form the Ad Hoc

Working Group on Islam discussed above had emerged, in fact, from an OCB discussion on Indonesia in December 1956. An annex of the working group’s final April 1957 report

143 Frey, “Tools of Empire,” 555.

144 The memorandum detailing the visit was forwarded to a Foundation representative in Indonesia, though it is unclear whether the relationship continued beyond June 1957. Memorandum, James Porterfield, “Mr. Rasjed Aly’s Visit, February 14,” February 20, 1957, “Indonesia 313 Organizations Indo Islamic Youth Movement (GPII),” Box P-68, Asia Foundation records, HIA.

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was dedicated to a “Description of Islam in Tropical Africa and Indonesia,” two regions given their own section due to the different ways Islam was understood to have arrived, interacted with local religious beliefs, and continued to evolve in the era of decolonization:

In Indonesia, Islam was grafted on to systems of thought— Hinduism, Buddhism, Javanese mysticism—which had for centuries provided a rationale for life throughout these islands. The long period of European control witnessed the strengthening of Islam as a focus of social and religious organization. When nationalism became a potent force, Islamic organizations offered a convenient rallying point for asserting the will for independence. However, before independence was achieved, the Islamic parties did not develop a clear and consistent program for political action which would distinguish them from other nationalist groups. In most respects, this failure has been duplicated during the period of independence.145

For all its brevity, the working group’s assessment was a broadly accurate, if not particularly precise or nuanced, account of the Indonesian independence movement and the evolution of Islamic political parties. It also illustrated how diplomatic and intelligence officials in the Eisenhower administration understood Indonesia’s colonial history, the development of a commitment to national unity, and the role of Islam in maintaining that unity in the face of a communist threat. The analysis continued:

However, the strength of Islamic political parties has been attested on a wide variety of occasions, the most recent of which was the effective assertion of opposition to President Sukarno’s plan for a government which would include the Communist party. In spite of the failure of the Muslim parties to devise an acceptable program for political action, they have repeatedly asserted their aversion to communism and their desire to establish an Islamic state. The Muslim parties have yet to make clear their conception of how an

145 Annex C, Inventory of U.S. Government and Private Organization Activity Regarding Islamic Organizations as an Aspect of Overseas Operations, May 3, 1957, “OCB 000.3 [Religion] (File #2) (4),” Box 2, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

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Islamic state would function and it is by no means clear that these parties share the same views concerning the structure and function of a religious state.146

A framework pitting Indonesia’s “Moslem parties” against “the Communists” also gained traction in U.S. media coverage of post-independence Indonesian politics throughout the 1950s, often depicted as a fight for the very soul of the nation. “The struggle,” one article proclaimed during a Soviet envoy’s visit, “between Islam and communism for control of Indonesia has sharpened during the last twenty-four hours.”147

Pieces featuring variations on repeated calls from “Moslem party leaders” for “a united

Islamic front against Communist infiltration” were commonplace.148 Articles frequently referred to “the Moslem party,” rather than Masyumi or the NU specifically, and sometimes simply to “the Moslems.”149

In what amounts to a relatively nuanced (if still implicitly suspicious) analysis of the history and evolution of communism in Indonesia in the New York Times Magazine in

March 1955, journalist Peggy Durdin asserted, without qualification, that Masyumi is

“the biggest [political party] because, in this Moslem country, its chief plank is the

146 Annex C, Inventory of U.S. Government and Private Organization Activity Regarding Islamic Organizations as an Aspect of Overseas Operations, May 3, 1957, “OCB 000.3 [Religion] (File #2) (4),” Box 2, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

147 Special to The New York Times, “New Anti-Red Unit Set in Indonesia: Soviet Envoy’s Arrival Points Up Growing Fight Between Islam and Communism,” New York Times, September 14, 1954, ProQuest.

148 Special to The New York Times, “Indonesian Moslems Urge Islamic Front,” New York Times, July 14, 1954, ProQuest.

149 Special to The New York Times, “Indonesian Rule Scored: Moslem Party Asks President To Dissolve Regime,” New York Times, November 1, 1954, ProQuest.

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establishment of a state based on Koranic principles.”150 Durdin went on to write that

“[t]he Moslem religion is…the chief weapon the Masjumi is using against the

Communists in the Indonesian countryside,” before disclosing that, in fact: “It doesn’t always work.” Durdin reported, for example, that an Indonesian government official had recently visited “a remote Sumatran village.” When he asked a female member of a communist-affiliated group how she could join as “a good Moslem,” the woman replied in surprise that “all the association’s aims fit in with those of our Moslem faith.’151

Nor, Durdin continued, could it be assumed that “religion will be dependable as a bulwark against communism with the sophisticated people of the towns and cities,” who often viewed the PKI as the champion of “the common people.” She relayed a conversation between a chauffeur and his employer. Upon being asked how he, as “‘a good Moslem,’” could “‘believe in the Communists,’” the chauffeur reportedly responded, laughing, that “‘the Masjumi is all right for religion…but the Communists are the people for improving our everyday life.’” Durdin concluded by questioning the wisdom of those in the U.S. government, particularly the State Department, who, in the aftermath of the “loss” of China continued to “subscribe to the theory that the United

States can ‘save’ Indonesian from, or ‘lose’ it to, communism.” In fact, the use of such rhetoric could boost the PKI if the United States gave the impression of meddling in

150 Peggy Durdin, “Analysis of Communism in Indonesia,” New York Times Magazine, March 13, 1955, 26, ProQuest.

151 Durdin, 30.

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Indonesian affairs. Assistance should only be given, she wrote, if and when “the

Indonesians clearly request it.”152

Durdin’s assessment was accurate insofar as, in the wake of President Truman’s

“loss” of China to communism in 1949, his successor was determined not to “lose”

Indonesia to the same fate.153 Even as Sukarno continued to position himself as a leader in the global non-aligned movement after the Bandung Conference in 1955, it was the growing domestic popularity of the PKI that proved most worrisome to the Eisenhower officials by the mid-1950s. The party’s better than expected showing in Indonesia’s first parliamentary elections in 1955 was followed by an even stronger showing in local and provincial elections in 1957. At the same time, Sukarno began to promote the concept of

Guided Democracy in 1957, in which he envisioned a government of mutual cooperation

(gotong rojong), built around a cabinet, led by himself, comprised of all major political parties, including the PKI. Panic about the Indonesian president’s left-leaning, authoritarian tendencies reached new levels within the Eisenhower administration. By late 1957, the United States government had moved from “a policy of non-interference” to “a policy of intervention” in Indonesia, a policy that ultimately included not only moral but financial and material support to anti-communist regional rebels.154

152 Durdin, 32; 34.

153 Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, 4.

154 Wardaya, 4.

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CHAPTER 2:

“FRIEND” OR “FANATIC”? REGIONAL REBELLION AND RELIGION, 1957-1961

We doubt very much that the people of Indonesia will ever want a Communist-type or a Communist-dominated government. Most of them are Moslems and they would not want, I think, to be subjected to a type of government which…where it does have power, maintains itself only by coercive methods and does not respond to the will of the people.1

- Secretary of State John Foster Dulles, February 11, 1958

Naturally our appeal must be made to fit our audience. For the Western powers we stress the very real danger of communism. For the Sumatrans we recall the ancient threat of Javanese colonialism. For the Javanese we will talk about parliamentary democracy and Sukarno’s corruption of free institutions.2

- Colonel Dahlan Djambek, PRRI Minister of the Interior

On February 15, 1958, Sjafruddin Prawiranegara publicly announced the formation of an alternative government in Indonesia, the Pemerintah Revolusioner

Republik Indonesia (PRRI, Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia). A member of Masyumi and the former Governor of the Bank of Indonesia, Sjafruddin had been appointed Prime Minister of the rebel government, which was headquartered in

1 Edited text of John F. Dulles press conference, February 11, 1958, attachment to Office Memorandum, Mein/SPA to Robertson/FE, February 14, 1958, 756D.00/2-358, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

2 Colonel Dahlan Djambek quoted in James Mossman, Rebels in Paradise: Indonesia’s Civil War (London, 1961), 65.

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Padang, West Sumatra. “Our present struggle,” Sjafruddin said in his remarks, “is not a struggle between the outer region and the central government, not a separatist movement to disrupt the integrity of the Republic of Indonesia, but on the contrary it is a struggle to establish a just and prosperous Indonesian State, based on the belief in God Almighty, the

Benevolent and the Merciful.”3

It is true that the PRRI did not begin as a separatist movement. And while its leaders professed a commitment to safeguard the religious foundation of Indonesia, they did not seek to establish an Islamic state; in fact, two of its bases of support in northern

Sumatra and northern Sulawesi were predominantly Christian areas. But the PRRI’s origins were not so unconnected to tensions between the outer islands and Java as

Sjafruddin’s remarks suggest. Motivated by a combination of political disaffection with the central government, ongoing economic marginalization of the outer regions, and hostility toward General Abdul Haris Nasution’s efforts to centralize the command structure of the armed forces, regional Army commanders in Sumatra and Sulawesi had asserted their autonomy in a “series of bloodless coups” from December 1956 to March

1957.4

In November 1956, Lieutenant Colonel Ahmad Husein, commander of the remaining units of a recently dissolved military division, formed the Banteng Council.

Husein called for greater autonomy and the restoration of the Banteng division, and on

December 20, he seized power from the governor in Bukittinggi and declared himself in

3 “Address delivered by Sjafruddin Prawiranegara,” in Booklet, “The Birth of New Indonesia,” enclosed with Letter, Dr. S.M. Rasjid to Eisenhower, September 25, 1958, 756D.00/9-2558, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP, p. 37.

4 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 54–57; 66 (quoted).

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control of the province of Central Sumatra. Two days later, Colonel Maludin Simbolon, territorial commander in North Sumatra, declared martial law and seized control of

Medan, capital of the province of North Sumatra. The central government did not immediately counter Husein’s actions, which it saw as having substantial popular support, but it moved quickly against Simbolon. Indonesian troops swiftly retook Medan within the week, and Simbolon and his supporters fled south to the town of Balige, near

Lake Toba, an ethnically Batak and predominantly Christian area of North Sumatra

(Simbolon himself was a Christian Batak).5

Lieutenant Colonel Barlian, the commander of South Sumatra’s military forces, shared many of Husein’s and Simbolon’s grievances, but he moved more gradually than his fellow officers. Barlian’s relationship with the central government was complicated by South Sumatra’s proximity to Java, as well as by the province’s role in the Indonesian economy. The governor of South Sumatra was Javanese; men of Javanese heritage served in the armed forces; and perhaps most significantly, numerous Javanese migrants worked in the area, particularly in its lucrative oil fields, which had made South Sumatra

“Indonesia’s most important single region in economic terms” by the 1950s.6 In January

1957, when Barlian announced the formation of the Garuda Council in Palembang, capital of South Sumatra, he did not attempt to seize administrative control, and initially described the Garuda Council’s role as “advisory,” rather than ruling. On March 9,

5 Kahin and Kahin, 59–60; Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 69– 70.

6 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 61 (quoted); Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 70.

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however, Barlian ousted the governor in Palembang and declared himself in control of

South Sumatra.7

Barlian’s decision to act in March 1957 was inspired by events over one thousand miles to the east, where calls for greater regional autonomy had also surfaced in

Sulawesi. Both North Sulawesi—a predominantly Christian area dominated by the

Minahasan ethnic group—and South Sulawesi—a majority Islamic area of peripheral concern to the Dutch in the colonial era—had begun to agitate against the government in

Jakarta. In August 1956, General Nasution appointed Lieutenant Colonel H. N. Ventje

Sumual as commander in the region. But Sumual, a Christian Minahasan, sympathized with Sulawesi’s aspirations, and in late 1956, he established contact with Husein and

Simbolon. On March 2, 1957, Sumual declared martial law, and a group of military officers from both North and South Sulawesi issued a Universal Struggle Charter

(Piagam Perjuangan Semesta), or Permesta, summarizing their demands. Sumual and his colleagues desired greater regional autonomy and economic development, but, like the

Sumatran colonels, they did not seek to create a separatist group.8

Colonel Husein and the Banteng Council garnered early and widespread support in Central Sumatra from religious leaders, local government officials, and the region’s major political parties—except the PKI. His strongest base was in western Sumatra, home to Sumatra’s largest ethnic group, the Minangkabau.9 Colonel Barlian, too, succeeded in

7 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 61 (quoted); 65–66.

8 Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 66–67; Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 64–65.

9 Known for its commitment to Islam, its matrilineal society, its high rates of education, and as an early site of anti-colonial resistance, the Minangkabau region produced some of the most influential leaders

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consolidating control through the Garuda Council in South Sumatra. Sukarno and

Nasution broached negotiation with the ruling councils and the Permesta movement throughout 1957, but the Sumatran commanders and Colonel Sumual continued to cooperate. Civilian actors began to join their meetings, including leading members of

Masyumi by the end of 1957, such as Sjafruddin and former Prime Ministers Mohammad

Natsir and Burhanuddin Harahap. Finally, in February 1958, after issuing an ultimatum to

Jakarta, the Sumatran colonels and their civilian partners declared the Revolutionary

Government of the Republic of Indonesia as an alternative to the central government.

Within days, Permesta leaders pledged their allegiance to the PRRI.

Regional unity was not, however, a given. After being driven from Medan,

Colonel Simbolon had come under the protection of Colonel Husein in Padang, where he continued to collaborate with the regional commanders. He did not, however, enjoy the same level of support throughout North Sumatra as his fellow dissidents did in their respective provinces. The region of Aceh, in particular, had pursued its own confrontation with Jakarta since 1953. Local government and religious leaders resented their incorporation into North Sumatra after independence and, as we saw in Chapter 1, many Acehnese believed that Jakarta had broken promises about self-rule and the implementation of Islamic law in the territory. The military governor of Aceh, Daud

Beureu’eh, had announced in September 1953 that Aceh would join Kartosuwiryo’s

Islamic State of Indonesia and the Darul Islam movement. Aceh was declared a separate province in 1957, and Beureu’eh reached a tentative ceasefire with the central

of early Indonesia, including Mohammad Natsir, Mohammad Hatta, Sutan Sjahrir, and Tan Malaka. Kahin, Rebellion to Integration, 15–17; 21–28.

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government.10 Disparate loyalties existed on the island of Sulawesi, too, where Lieutenant

Colonel Kahar Muzakkar had also pledged his loyalty to the Islamic State of Indonesia. A native of South Sulawesi, Muzakkar led South Sulawesian troops against the Dutch in

Java during the revolution. After independence, dissatisfied with the direction of the new government and his diminished military role, he gathered a group of troops loyal to him.

Muzakkar made common cause with Darul Islam in 1952, and the guerrilla forces under his command controlled large swaths of South Sulawesi by 1956.11

The United States government struggled to make sense of these various rebel movements and the rapidly changing political situation in Indonesia throughout 1957.

High-ranking members of Eisenhower’s staff were initially perplexed by what Director of

Central Intelligence Allen Dulles termed a “rather odd” and “very strange war” brewing in Indonesia early that year.12 Meanwhile, Sukarno’s announcement in February of his intention to pursue “guided democracy” as an alternative to Western-style, parliamentary democracy added a new sense of urgency to finding dependable, anti-communist partners. Sukarno’s concept (konsepsi) envisioned a new cabinet based on mutual assistance (gotong royong), which would include representatives from all major political parties—including the PKI. The cabinet would be advised by a National Council (Dewan

Nasional) made up of representatives from “functional groups” within Indonesian

10 Aspinall, Islam and Nation, 32–33; 39–40; Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 62; Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 8.

11 Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 46–49; Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 63–64.

12 Memorandum, NSC, March 15, 1957, “316th Meeting of NSC, March 14, 1957,” Box 8, NSC Series, DDE Papers as President, DDEPL.

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society.13 Sukarno’s concept, Director Dulles said, would not only “abandon the experiment in Western forms of democracy,” but also allow the participation of communists alongside the members of over 20 other parties active at the time.14

At a February NSC meeting, Director Dulles commented that it was not yet clear

“what the Moslem parties or the army propose to do” in response to Sukarno’s konsepsi.

He bemoaned the “ineffective leadership in the Moslem parties,” and claimed that the armed forces in Java were “already infiltrated by Communists and anti-Western elements.” But in Sumatra, at least, “the revolt against the central government continues.”15 Two months later, in April 1957, a CIA agent reportedly first made contact with Colonel Simbolon. Shortly thereafter, an agent made contact with Colonel Husein, and the CIA continued to meet with the dissident colonels throughout the summer.16 The

PKI made additional gains in local and provincial elections in Java during the summer, and by the fall the CIA was actively encouraging the dissidents to emphasize their anti- communist credentials. By the end of 1957, unbeknownst even to the United States’ own ambassador to Indonesia, the Eisenhower administration had begun to provide covert financial support and weapons to the colonels, who openly rebelled against Jakarta in

1958.

13 According to the U.S. Embassy’s understanding of Sukarno’s speech, the functional groups would include: “labor, farmery [sic], intelligentsia, national businessmen, Protestants, Catholics, Muslims, women, generation of 1945, ‘those who can reflect provincial feelings,’ army, navy and air chiefs of staff, state police head, attorney general and important ministers in cabinet,” along with representatives of the youth. Embtel 2017, Djakarta to State, February 22, 1957, 756D.00/2-2257, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

14 Memorandum, NSC, March 1, 1957, “Discussion at 314th Meeting of the NSC, February 28, 1957,” Box 8, NSC Series, DDE Papers as President, DDEPL.

15 Memorandum, NSC, March 1, 1957, “Discussion at 314th Meeting of the NSC, February 28, 1957,” Box 8, NSC Series, DDE Papers as President, DDEPL.

16 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 102–6.

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This chapter argues that the calculus of certain members of the Eisenhower administration in urging Indonesia’s religious parties to emphasize the anti-communist nature of their grievances with the central government, and in ultimately deciding to provide covert aid to the PRRI-Permesta rebellion, was due in part to their perceptions of

Indonesia’s “Muslim” character. In particular, policymakers’ predisposition to assume that Indonesia’s predominantly Muslim population would oppose communism rendered certain information and recommendations more palatable, and led them to filter out others.17 In addition, while their public pronouncements and internal rhetoric continued to paint Darul Islam as “fanatical,” evidence suggests that at least some U.S. officials were willing to welcome “bad” Muslims into a united anti-communist front with the “good”

Muslims who pursued their ends via party politics. That this rather instrumentalist understanding of Muslims as a proxy for anti-communism ultimately proved unsustainable was, I will show, due less to the unraveling of dominant assumptions about the incompatibility of Islam and communism, and more to the political realities that confronted U.S. policymakers.

A “rather odd” and “very strange war”: Spring 1957

In February 1957, outgoing U.S. ambassador to Indonesia Hugh Cumming cabled from Jakarta that communist publications, including Harian Rakjat and Sin Po, were using the announcement of John M. Allison’s appointment as Cumming’s replacement as a chance to escalate their “attacks” on U.S. meddling in Indonesian affairs. According to

17 This approach is inspired by scholars such as Melani McAlister, who argues that while foreign policy has material and military realities, it is formulated in a powerful cultural context that helps to shape the way Americans define their interests and their national identity. McAlister, Epic Encounters.

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Cumming, the articles contained “stereotyped charges” typical of the communists’ hostility toward the United States. One piece expressed anger over the continued U.S. protection of “Hasan Tiro of DI [Darul Islam],” while ignoring Indonesian claims to West

New Guinea. Another accused the U.S. media and its right-wing imitators in Indonesia of printing alarmist stories about the “‘Communist danger’ in Indonesia,” when “Indonesian soldiers and people know Darul Islam use weapons made by US not by PKI.”18

Ambassador Cumming did not directly address these charges in his cable, but neither did he deny them. At the very least, the perception among some Indonesians in early 1957 appears to have been that the United States was willing to aid Darul Islam, insofar as its anti-communist objectives aligned with those of the United States. Little is known about whether, and if so, to what extent, the U.S. provided assistance to Darul

Islam.19 If financial or military aid did take place, it would certainly have been covert, for the public position of the United States in 1957—and the position of its foreign service officers—remained that Darul Islam represented a threat to the Indonesia state. Despite their growing distaste for Sukarno, most U.S. officials did not wish to see the nation break up. As one State Department official later put it, U.S. objectives would be better served by encouraging anti-communist actors, especially in Sumatra, to join forces with

18 Embtel 1959, Djakarta to Secretary of State, February 6, 1957, 611.56D/1-957, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

19 Kahin and Kahin have noted that Hugh Cumming denied he had knowledge of specific covert operations in Indonesia during his tenure as Ambassador to Indonesia, only that he knew operations were set to begin in December 1954. The authors speculate that covert U.S. assistance may have supported Darul Islam in West Java and Daud Beureu’eh in Aceh, in addition to legal non-communist parties like Masyumi. Sukanro, too, suspected the CIA’s clandestine involvement with Darul Islam. Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 78–79. Such support seems plausible, especially given U.S. contact with Hasan di Tiro. To this author’s knowledge, though, the provision of U.S. financial or material assistance to Darul Islam has not been confirmed with documentary evidence.

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“their colleagues and co-religionist[s] on Java within the framework of a single national state”—the framework they understood to be promoted by members of Masyumi and NU, and not by the potentially separatist leanings of the “fanatically Moslem Atjehnese” or the “fanatical Darul Islam.”20

While many U.S. officials expressed their aversion to working with “fanatical,” often violent Muslims, the Eisenhower administration openly welcomed cooperation with other religious actors, including political parties and, in the case of the dissident colonels, those deemed to have legitimate grievances against Sukarno and the Indonesian state.

Though their grievances against the central government had mounted throughout the

1950s, Colonels Husein and Simbolon had both been moved to action after fellow

Sumatran Mohammad Hatta resigned as Vice-President in December 1956.21 While Hatta did not resign only or even primarily in response to regional issues, Ichlasul Amal notes that “his action did provide political justification for regional leaders to pass from protests to more substantial regional resistance,” particularly in his native Minangkabau region, then part of the province of Central Sumatra.22

When they first formed the ruling councils, the dissident colonels in Sumatra maintained they would stay loyal to Sukarno if he agreed to form a duumvirate government (dwitunggal) headed by himself and Hatta.23 Such a government seemed

20 Office Memorandum, Mein/SPA to Robertson/FE and Jones/FE, May 17, 1957, 756D.00/4-157, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

21 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 59.

22 Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 68.

23 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 59.

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increasingly less likely when Sukarno announced his konsepsi in February 1957. Indeed, the U.S. government had taken notice of the Sumatran rebels by early 1957, particularly as more details began to emerge about Sukarno’s vision for guided democracy and his insistence on including PKI representation in a future cabinet.24 The Embassy even reported that Sukarno had recently suggested he would not only “ask [the] PKI to participate in mutual solidary program but also Colonels Simbolon and Husein and Darul

Islam leaders Daud Beureuh, Kartosuwirjo and Kahar Muzakkar” in an apparent gesture toward national unity—an unlikely proposition, to say the least.25

Around this time, U.S. officials began to receive information from Indonesian sources that buoyed their sense of growing Muslim opposition to Sukarno’s konsepsi

(even as CIA Director Dulles remained skeptical of the Muslim parties’ organizational capacity). In conversations at the United Nations in New York in February, Deputy

Director of the Office of Southwest Pacific Affairs (SPA) John Gordon Mein learned from a prominent Masyumi figure, Abu Hanifah, that “the President of the Moslem

League...had told him that none of the Moslem Parties would accept the plan.”26 Former

Vice-President Hatta expressed a similar assessment to Ambassador Cumming in Jakarta, who passed the information along to Washington. Hatta also assured Cumming that while some NU members might be willing to compromise regarding inclusion of the PKI on the

24 Embtel 2110, Djakarta to State, February 23, 1957, 756D.00/2-2357, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

25 Embtel 2118, Djakarta to State, February 25, 1957, 756D.00/2-2557, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

26 Office Memorandum, Mein/SPA to Bell/SPA, February 25, 1957, 756D.00/2-2557, CDF 1955- 59, RG 59, NACP (quoted). See also Office Memorandum, Bell/SPA to Robertson/FE, February 26, 1957, 756D.00/2-2657, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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National Council (though not as part of the cabinet), the “Masjumi would remain firm.”27

Not long after this conversation, Hatta echoed those sentiments in Indonesia Raya, a

Jakarta daily newspaper. “Bung Karno’s [Sukarno’s] efforts to bring the PKI and the religious and nationalist parties together in a cabinet must fail,” he wrote. “It is like trying to mix oil and water…”28 The parties’ differences not in only ideology, but also in goals, placed them fundamentally at odds with each other. Where the religious and nationalist parties sought to build up “one national state, an Indonesian nation which will be just and prosperous,” he wrote, the PKI was beholden to an international movement bent on

“world revolution.”29

Ambassador Cumming’s conception of a pan-Islamic opposition to communism was reinforced by a meeting with an Iraqi Minister in Jakarta, who said that he had recently “spoken intently” with a suspected communist sympathizer in a high position in the security forces. This individual had “sworn to [the Iraqi Minister] that he is [a] devout

Moslem who, if issue ever arises, would strongly oppose any Communist threat.”

Cumming noted that the Iraqi Minister explained that “he felt, as [a] Moslem, that he had to take [the security official’s] statement at face value.”30 Embassy officials also observed the opposition among Masyumi members “becoming more articulate” by early March.

Party chair Mohammad Natsir, for instance, had recently accused Sukarno of importing his methods of intimidation from Moscow. And a Masyumi member of parliament had

27 Embtel 2173, Djakarta to State, February 28, 1957, 756D.00/2-2857, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

28 Mohammad Hatta, “Oil and Water Do Not Mix,” in Indonesian Political Thinking, 1945-1965, ed. Herbert Feith and Lance Castles (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1970), 367.

29 Hatta, 366.

30 Embtel 2191, Djakarta to State, March 1, 1957, 756D.00/3-157, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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publicly criticized Sukarno’s recent statement that “Mohammad suggested Gotong

Rojong [mutual cooperation] when Arabs had internal disagreements,” likening his konsepsi to the Prophet’s guidance for Muslims. Akbar responded to Sukarno by saying that “Mohammad meant Gotong Rojong among believers in God not between atheists and believers as Sukarno wanted.”31

By April 1957, some U.S. officials were convinced that since Sukarno’s proposal to include the PKI in the cabinet, “crystallization on the ideological front in Indonesia” had rarely been starker.32 In Washington, SPA Director James Bell told Walter

Robertson, Assistant Secretary of the Bureau of Far Eastern Affairs (FE), that he believed the “Moslem parties are united for the first time since 1952 and have opposed with one voice PKI participation in the government.” Sukarno’s actions had forced the hand of anti-communist elements to confront “the Communist question.”33 Unnamed NU and

Masyumi sources also told newly arrived Ambassador John Allison that the joint opposition of their parities, along with the opposition of the smaller Partai Sarekat Islam

Indonesia (PSII, Party of the Indonesian Islamic Union) and the Christian parties, to the appointment of two “known pro-communists” to key posts had derailed the formation of a new cabinet. An unnamed Nationalist Party (PNI) source also told Allison that “his party [was] astounded at [the] strength [of] Moslem unity.”34

31 Embtel 2252, Djakarta to State, March 6, 1957, 756D.00/3-657, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

32 Embtel 2447, Djakarta to State, April 2, 1957, 756D.00/4-257, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

33 Office Memorandum, Bell/SPA to Robertson/FE, March 26, 1957, 756D.00/3-2657, CDF 1955- 59, RG 59, NACP.

34 Embtel 2458, Djakarta to State, April 4, 1957, 756D.00/4-457, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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John Allison had served briefly as the Assistant Secretary of State for Far Eastern

Affairs and then as U.S. ambassador to Japan before being named U.S. Ambassador to

Indonesia in March 1957. In the coming months, Ambassador Allison would prove to be a voice of caution about U.S. involvement in the simmering regional conflicts, and he and his allies within the diplomatic community urged restraint in the face of the increasingly alarmist views emanating from the upper echelons of the State Department, the CIA, and the White House. Allison was deliberative in his recommendations to Washington, but often found that his analyses were undercut or ignored completely by stateside officials, including his predecessor in Jakarta, Hugh Cumming.

Since leaving his post in Jakarta, Cumming had become a vocal “Sukarnophobe,” and he wielded considerable influence over the development of U.S. policy toward

Indonesia as the head of the new Bureau of Intelligence and Research (INR) in the State

Department. As director of INR, Cumming made the most of a close relationship with both Secretary of State John Foster Dulles and CIA Director Allen Dulles, and he used his newly acquired position to solidify institutional links between “hard-liners” in INR and like-minded personnel in both the Deputy Directorate for Intelligence (DDI) and the

Deputy Directorate for Plans (DDP) of the CIA.35 Cumming’s views, along with those of the Dulles brothers, often won out over the voices of other State Department figures like

FE Assistant Secretary Walter Robertson, who shared many of Ambassador Allison’s

35 Frederick P. Bunnell, “The Central Intelligence Agency. Deputy Directorate for Plans 1961 Secret Memorandum on Indonesia: A Study in the Politics of Policy Formulation in the Kennedy Administration,” Indonesia, no. 22 (1976): 138. Officially, the DDP’s responsibility within the CIA during this period was clandestine activities, including intelligence collection, counterintelligence operations, and other covert actions. The Deputy Directorate for Intelligence, DDI, meanwhile, was tasked with analysis of the intelligence provided by DDP and from open sources, and its personnel tended to be the ones who produced materials intended to provide policy guidance, if not policy recommendations--though, at times, in practice, these formal boundaries proved flexible; see, e.g., Bunnell 131-132.

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concerns about the direction of U.S. policy. In time, Allison would come to advise his

Washington colleagues that if they were serious in their anti-communist efforts, they should pursue closer ties with the Indonesian military—and not, he continually wrote from Jakarta, with Sumatran or other dissidents, whose actions could be seen as undermining the unity of the young Indonesian nation.

As opinions hardened in Washington around the promise of Muslim-led anti- communism, policymakers worked to resolve other ambiguities in U.S. relations with

Indonesia. In March the NSC asked the OCB to assess of the implications of a single portion—paragraph 12—of NSC 5518, the official statement of U.S. policy on Indonesia since 1955. Paragraph 12 concerned U.S. policy on intervention in Indonesia to prevent the country from falling under communist control, and “implie[d] that the security of the

United States does not permit a Communist Indonesia.” The OCB recommended clarifying whether intervention would require an indigenous Indonesian request before any action could be taken, noting that if the United States decided to undertake unilateral military action, it could risk “uniting the Indonesian people around the Communist regime to resist what would be branded an effort to reestablish white, foreign control.” To minimize this risk, the U.S. military could instead seek to “support to indigenous elements themselves engaged in armed struggle against Communist forces,” provided they could be judged to have enough popular support. If not, the U.S. would be left supporting “only a fringe of religious extremists and political adventurers.” Which of

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Indonesia’s various religious movements and parties belonged to this extremist fringe was left vague.36

The OCB’s report presented the coordinated views of members of State, Defense, and the CIA, and shows that at least some U.S. officials sensed the potentially hazardous blowback that could come from supporting dissident elements against the Sukarno regime. Nationalism could trump anti-communism, and the possibility of U.S.-Indonesian solidarity on religious terms could be undercut and relegated to partnering with so-called extremists. But overall, Sukarno’s actions had kicked into high gear the tendency of many U.S. policymakers to view the Indonesian socio-political climate in ever-starker terms that pitted “the Moslem parties” against not only the PKI, but also against Sukarno and his government.37

The CIA, meanwhile, moved to evaluate the dissident colonels’ anti-communist potential. In April 1957, an agent reportedly first made contact with Colonel Simbolon, and soon after that, an agent made contact with Colonel Husein. The dissidents were more organized than the CIA had anticipated. The agents learned that the colonels had

36 Report, “Implications of Paragraph 12 (Courses of Action) of NSC 5518, ‘U.S. Policy on Indonesia,’” March 18, 1957, attachment to Memorandum for the OCB, Elmer B. Staats, March 18, 1957, “OCB 091.Indonesia (File #5) (5),” Box 42, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL. The relevant section of paragraph 12 reads: “Employ all feasible covert means, and all feasible overt means, including, in accordance with constitutional processes, the use of armed force if necessary and appropriate, to prevent Indonesia or vital parts thereof from falling under Communist control by overt armed attack, subversion, economic domination, or other means; concerting action with other nations as appropriate.”

37 For example, an International Cooperation Administration (ICA) report characterized Indonesian politics as having become, at base, a struggle between “Moslem Parties” and “Nationalist- Marxist Parties,” and warned that the PKI was ready to replace “the Moslem Party [Masjumi]” that had withdrawn its support from Prime Minister Ali Sastroamidjojo. “Annual Status Report on Operations Pursuant to NSC Action 1290-d for the Period Dec. 1955-Nov. 1956,” ICA, February 15, 1957, attachment to Memorandum for OCB, Elmer B. Staats, March 5, 1957, “OCB 014.12 [Internal Security] (File #4) (6),” Box 18, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

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already opened bank accounts in Singapore to receive foreign financial assistance, and that Indonesia’s former Minister of Finance, Sumitro, was already based in the British crown colony, working to solicit support for the movement. Sumitro became one of the

CIA’s most frequent contacts, meeting with agents from both Singapore and Jakarta.38

At the same time, U.S. intelligence analysts also began to raise increasingly strident concerns about the Indonesian political scene. An April report was highly skeptical of Sukarno’s continued promotion of national unity through guided democracy,

“essentially the rejection of Western-style democracy.”39 The report also cited both

Muslim and Christian parties as potential bulwarks against communism, though with reservations about whether their combined strength would be sufficient to force Sukarno to go beyond token concessions.40 His earlier concerns notwithstanding, CIA Director

Dulles himself had begun to put more stock in the “Moslem parties,” along with

Indonesia’s majority Muslim population, as among the challengers to the Indonesian president’s konsepsi. He often conflated being Muslim with being anti-communist, to the extent that he believed Sukarno was overestimating his ability to outlast his opposition— a perspective that no doubt influenced Director Dulles’ thinking on the prospects of supporting a rebellion against Sukarno.41

38 Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, 231–33; Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 102–6.

39 Report, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, April 1, 1957, “OCB 091.Indonesia (File #5) (6)” Box 42, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

40 Memorandum, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, April 1, 1957, “OCB 091.Indonesia (File #5) (6),” Box 42, OCB Central File Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

41 Memorandum, NSC, March 29, 1957, “317th Meeting of NSC, March 28, 1957;” and Memorandum, NSC, April 5, 1957, “318th Meeting of NSC, April 4, 1957,” Box 8, NSC Series, DDE Papers as President, DDEPL.

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“Volcanoes are unpredictable”: Summer 1957

In May 1957, Ambassador Allison reassured his Washington colleagues that the

“Embassy sees no imminent eruption [of] Indonesia’s volcanic political situation.

However,” he added, “volcanoes are unpredictable.”42 U.S. officials continued to try to make sense of that unpredictability throughout the summer of 1957. Prime Minister Ali had resigned in March after the declaration of Permesta, and Djuanda Kartawidjaja, the

Minister of State for Planning and an ally of Sukarno, became Prime Minister in April.

After the installation of the Djuanda cabinet, Army Chief of Staff General Nasution worked to fracture the Permesta movement, which had begun with the backing of both southern Sulawesians and the Menadonese of northern Sulawesi. Nasution sought to remove southern Sulawesi from Colonel Sumual’s control, and to break up Menadonese dominance in Makassar, a major city in southern Sulawesi. Nasution’s efforts succeeded in weakening support for Sumual among South Sulawesians, and Permesta was increasingly seen as a North Sulawesian movement by both Indonesian and U.S. observers.43

Henry Heymann, for example, the Second Secretary of the U.S. Embassy in

Jakarta, visited with R. Roosdiono, a Ministry of Interior official, in August. Roosdiono had accompanied Prime Minister Djuanda to Sulawesi and the Maluku Islands in July to assess the Indonesian government’s options in resolving the challenge to its authority from Permesta. Roosdiono believed, as did the central government, he said, that Sulawesi

42 Embtel 2793, Djakarta to State, May 15, 1957, 756D.00/5-157, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

43 Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 75–76.

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should be formally divided into two provinces, North and South. He explained to

Heymann that the division of Sulawesi would be “natural, the north being dominated by the rather advanced Christian Menadonese, who had been favored by the Dutch, and the

Moslem south which is relatively backward, having been neglected by the Dutch.”44

A Permesta conference in June 1957 had in fact declared North Sulawesi a separate province, though the separation was not recognized by Jakarta. As Amal points out, the leader of a northern Muslim ethnic community, where Masyumi was strong, was appointed as its first governor.45 The choice of a Muslim governor could challenge the kind of easy distinctions between the Christian north and the Muslim south in Sulawesi that at least some Indonesian and U.S. officials were prone to make. At the same time,

Roosdiono told Heymann that Masyumi actually favored “carving a province of Central

Sulawesi” out of North Sulawesi, an area “inhabited by Moslem Toradjas who the

Masjumi fear will be exploited by the Menadonese.” Heymann confirmed this perspective with a second Masyumi source, who told him that the party did not necessarily want to divide Sulawesi at all; but, if new provinces were created, Masyumi did prefer three, not two.46

Ambassador Allison had his own “frank informal discussion” about the current political situation with Masyumi leaders in early August, including former Prime

Ministers Mohammad Natsir and Burhanuddin Harahap, former Minister of Interior and

44 Memorandum of Conversation, Henry L. Heymann and R. Roosdiono, August 13, 1957, 611.56D/8-1357, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

45 Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 75–76.

46 Memorandum of Conversation, Heymann and Roosdiono, August 13, 1957, 611.56D/8-1357, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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former Deputy Prime Minister Mohammad Roem, and party spokesperson Harjono. They told Allison that the best approach by the United States would be to continue helping anti-communist groups with aid programs. They did not, at that time, mention aiding

Sumatra’s ruling councils or the Permesta movement in Sulawesi, nor did they indicate, in Allison’s assessment, that they were willing to take “any direct steps against Sukarno personally.”47

Still, Natsir in particular had become skeptical and then openly critical of

Sukarno’s expanding presidential powers.48 It is perhaps unsurprising, then, that he was among the Embassy’s regular contacts in the coming months. First Secretary of the

Embassy Windsor Hackler produced a lengthy report on Natsir’s leadership and

Masyumi’s “no compromise” approach on guided democracy, identifying the party as

“the only major non-communist party overtly opposing President Sukarno’s plans.”

Increasingly marginalized in Jakarta, Masyumi was working to “maximize its strength in the out islands,” where it already commanded support from large swaths of society. At the same time, Masyumi continued to support national unity, and Hackler understood that the party was “not in accord with any regional movement such as that of Lieutenant

Colonel Sumual in North Sulawesi, which verges on secession.” If Masyumi’s already tenuous presence in Jakarta worsened, however, as Sukarno threatened to further curtail the party’s activities, it “might well irritate the regional issue to the extent that Masjumi

47 Embtel 354, Djakarta to State, August 10, 1957, 756D.00/8-1057, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

48 Audrey R. Kahin, “Natsir and Sukarno: Their clash over nationalism, religion, and democracy, 1928-1958,” 204-9.

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resentment would be expressed throughout regional manifestations of an anti-centralist nature.”49

As the summer wore on, Ambassador Allison continued to sour on the wisdom of pursuing an anti-communist strategy that supported the regional rebels, and his appreciation of the complexity of the dissent in the outer islands often conflicted with the assessments of his colleagues in Washington. The Indonesian government, meanwhile, warily observed the growing boldness of the restive outer islands. In an attempt to mediate their concerns, Prime Minister Djuanda proposed that a national conference, or

Munas (Musyawarah Nasional), be held in Jakarta on September 10. Allison recommended that the U.S government support the Munas conference. Secretary Dulles, however, rejected the utility of the meeting, speculating that the PKI might try to take advantage of the situation to neutralize the regional commanders. He communicated as much to Allison, effectively shutting down the ambassador: “It seems to us [in

Washington] dangerous to have gathering of leading dissident personalities in atmosphere of Djakarta where they could be subjected to various forms of intimidation or even entrapment by army or Communist activists.” Even though Allison had become more and more convinced of the Army’s anti-communist potential, Secretary Dulles remained concerned not only about the machinations of the PKI, but also of the military, who might extol their fellow officers to cease their confrontation with Sukarno. Such a gathering, in the eyes of the State Department, would not provide the regional leaders to communicate effectively their anti-communist views.50

49 Foreign Service Despatch 80, Djakarta to State, August 12, 1957, 756D.00/8-1257, CDF 1955- 59, RG 59, NACP.

50 Deptel 396, State to Djakarta, August 24, 1957, 756D.00/8–2457, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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As the Munas conference approached, Embassy Counselor James Bell, who had moved from the State Department to Jakarta in April 1957, reported that Colonels

Husein, Barlian, and Sumual attended a “Muslim congress” in Palembang, along with

Colonel Dachland Djambek.51 Colonel Djambek had until recently been General

Nasution’s liaison with the Sumatran ruling councils. Djambek had grown disillusioned with Sukarno’s continued push for guided democracy, and in August, he resigned and moved to Padang, where he was warmly welcomed as the son of a West Sumatran

Muslim leader. Djambek’s support, Kahin and Kahin observe, had given “an added impetus to the anti-Communist character” of the movement.52 Indeed, anti-communism had begun to take center stage in much of the regional commanders’ rhetoric. At the

Palembang meeting, Colonel Barlian had stated emphatically that he believed an

“‘ungodly group”—the communists—was “moving to gain control of [the] state with

[the] purpose of establishing dictatorship.’” Barlian also said that many of the nation’s leaders were “‘spell bound’ by this irreligious and materialistic group and have helped it bring state and nation close to destruction.”53 The gathering resulted in the Palembang

Charter, signed by Barlian, Husein, and Sumual, which included, for the first time, a call to ban communism in Indonesia.54

51 Embtel 661, Djakarta to State, September 9, 1957, 756D.00/9-957, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP. In fact, Colonel Sumual had first proposed a meeting of the Sumatran ruling councils and himself in Palembang on September 4. When Nasution forbade the meeting, the dissident colonels, along with Sumitro, met instead under the guise of an ongoing conference of Islamic religious leaders on September 7- 8. Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 72–73.

52 Kahin and Kahin, 71.

53 Embtel 661, Djakarta to State, September 9, 1957, 756D.00/9-957, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

54 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 72–73.

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Colonels Sumual, Barlian, and Husein were initially encouraged by the proposals put forth by Jakarta at the Munas conference to address regional grievances. Ambassador

Allison shared this cautious optimism and praised the colonels’ presentations. He reported to Washington that Husein, Barlian, and Sumual had attended a special session with Sukarno, Djuanda, and Hatta, along with former Foreign Minister Ruslan

Abdulgani. According to an informed source, “their presentations were reasonable and as group they created strong impression of sincerity and determination.” The regional leaders’ determination had shown Sukarno that “regional feelings are reality and cannot be overcome by platitudes regarding national unity.” The ambassador even expressed hope that the regional leaders might form a partnership with Djuanda to achieve their goals.55

But when Husein, Barlian, and Sumual returned to Sumatra from Jakarta, they found their fellow dissidents were less sanguine about the conference’s outcome. They pointed out, for example, that the committee established to mediate disagreements between the outer regions and Jakarta only included two members, Mohammad Hatta and the Sultan of Jogjakarta, who could be considered “sympathetic to regional aspirations.”

The inclusion of General Nasution on the committee also angered the dissidents.

Colonels Simbolon and Djambek, along with Sumitro, impressed upon Husein, Barlian, and Sumual that their movement needed to gain momentum and additional support before they proceeded with negotiations with Sukarno; if they acted too soon, or compromised on their demands, the Jakarta government would be in the driver’s seat. Kahin and Kahin

55 Embtel 712, Djakarta to State, September 14, 1957, 756D.00/9-1457, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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point out that this position on comprising with Jakarta was “strikingly close” to the approach put forth in Secretary Dulles’s cable to Ambassador Allison.56 The “basic objective of US policy in Indonesia,” Secretary Dulles had reminded Ambassador Allison in August, “is to strengthen in every feasible way anti-Communist elements and to unify and bolster them in opposition to further development of Communist strength.”57

The Munas conference, Dulles had continued, was not a useful space to do so; the regional leaders needed to “develop further strength before attempting direct negotiations with Sukarno.”58 In what would prove a futile attempt to influence the direction of U.S.-

Indonesian relations, Allison had pleaded with his Washington colleagues to recognize that “[p]roblem of [the] dissident regional leaders and [the] central government is not simply one of Communism,” and is therefore “far more complicated and goes much deeper” than Secretary Dulles had suggested.59 Allison did not dispute that the regional leaders were anti-communist; but he saw their disillusionment with the central government’s handling of the outer islands’ economic needs as the core driver of their conflict with Jakarta. Allison also surmised that the positions of the regional leaders were further “complicated by the psychological distrust caused by the superiority complex of the Javanese toward the peoples of the outer areas,” and by “the feeling that Javanism and

Communism can be equated”—a perspective to which many U.S. officials subscribed.

Allison, however, made a point to differentiate between pursing a non-communist versus

56 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 99-101 (quotes from 100).

57 Deptel 396, State to Djakarta, August 24, 1957, 756D.00/8–2457, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

58 Deptel 396, State to Djakarta, August 24, 1957, 756D.00/8–2457, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

59 Embtel 505, Djakarta to State, August 26, 1957, 756D.00/6-1557, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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an anti-communist strategy, and he implored Secretary Dulles to reconsider U.S. support for the Munas Conference:

I do not understand how dissident leaders are to exercise definitive influence over Sukarno without contact with him. I also think it is [the] grossest self-deception to believe that any Indonesian Government, even one headed by Hatta with Sukarno completely eliminated, is going to adopt an ‘anti-Communist posture.’ We can look forward, if our policies are wise, to a non-Communist government which is truly independent and natural [sic, neutral?] but to expect anything more in the foreseeable future is unrealistic. For us to attempt to bring about an ‘anti-Communist posture’ could very easily bring about the very thing we wish to avoid—a definite switch into the Communist camp.60

But to many in the Eisenhower administration, including some of Allison’s own Embassy staff, the switch already appeared to be happening.

“Beyond the point of no return”: Fall 1957

In a widely echoed historical assessment, Kahin and Kahin contend that the outcome of Java’s provincial and local elections, “more than any other factor,” resulted in a shift in U.S.-Indonesian relations, tipping the scales in the uppermost echelons of the

U.S. government from unease to alarm about the future of the Indonesian state.61 The elections took place in June, July, and August, and Embassy First Secretary Hackler’s assessment of the election results confirmed the dramatic gains made by the PKI across all Javanese provinces. The PKI had even supplanted the PNI as the leading party in

Central Java, “Java’s most economically depressed region,” and, Hackler pointed out,

60 Embtel 505, Djakarta to State, August 26, 1957, 756D.00/6-1557, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

61 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 83.

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“the area in Indonesia where religion probably has the least influence”—a common perspective about the syncretic region and what some considered its nominal Muslim population.62

Hackler also conceded the PKI’s success was due to good organization, energetic campaigning in the press, local outreach, and an appeal to first-time youth voters. Non- communist parties’ campaigns, in contrast, were “as a whole lethargic,” though the NU and Masyumi increased their campaign efforts in East and West Java, respectively, after the PKI’s dominance in Central Java; the PNI also organized campaign rallies. Despite the PKI’s strong showing, however, Hackler concluded from discussions with unnamed sources that “[n]o one has claimed that the PKI won voters on intellectual or philosophical grounds. Informed Indonesians agree that voters did not vote communist because of belief in or attraction to communist ideology. They estimate that probably not more than one percent of those who voted for the PKI are ideological communists.” The communists, for example, “took advantage of the people’s credulity by advancing extravagant promises,” like giving land to the landless.63 Indeed, the assumption that few

Indonesians shared genuine affinity with the PKI or even understood communist ideology pervaded U.S. analyses at the time, and it would continue into the 1960s.

Unbeknownst to Ambassador Allison and his staff, by the time Hackler sent his report on the elections to Washington, CIA officials had already begun pursuing a covert strategy in Indonesia. The summer’s election results only confirmed for President

62 Despatch 130, Djakarta to State, September 6, 1957, 756D.00/9-657, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

63 Foreign Service Despatch 130, Djakarta to State, September 6, 1957, 756D.00/9-657, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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Eisenhower and his senior foreign policy advisors the seriousness of the situation and the necessity of a clandestine approach. The “hyperbolic nature” of intelligence reports on the communist threat, which were endorsed by influential figures like Secretary of State

Dulles and INR Director Cumming, contributed to the perception that Indonesian was on the verge of a communist takeover and helped push administration officials toward a policy of backing the regional autonomy movements. As the fall progressed, the CIA— usually without the consultation or even knowledge of U.S. diplomats stationed in

Indonesia—encouraged both the regionally strong Masyumi and the dissident colonels to emphasize the anti-communist aspect of their conflict with Jakarta, and began to provide material support to the regional commanders.64

At an August meeting of the National Security Council, CIA Director Dulles, armed with a chart showing Java’s election results, agreed when Under-Secretary

Christian Herter asked if “Sukarno had gone beyond the point of no return.” In response, the NSC formed an Ad Hoc Interdepartmental Committee on Indonesia, charged with putting together a report on possible U.S. courses of action in Indonesia, particularly “in the event of imminent or actual Communist control of Java,” pursuant to Paragraph 12 of

NSC 5518.65 INR’s Hugh Cumming chaired the committee and served as its liaison to the

CIA. The group comprised representatives from the CIA, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the

Defense Department, and the State Department—the latter including Deputy Assistant

Secretary for Far Eastern Affairs Howard Jones, the future U.S. ambassador to Indonesia.

The committee kept its work close; Francis Underhill, the State Department’s Indonesia

64 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 84–87, 86 quoted; 119.

65 Memorandum, NSC, August 2, 1957, “Discussion at 333rd Meeting of the NSC, Thursday, August 1, 1957,” Box 9, DDE Papers as President, NSC Series, DDEPL.

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desk officer, later remarked that he was often kept in the dark about U.S. policy on

Indonesia, especially regarding covert operations, and he only learned about the ad hoc committee’s existence several years after its creation.66 Ambassador Allison, meanwhile, was not informed about the interagency group until weeks after its establishment, and when the committee produced its Special Report on Indonesia that September, Allison received only a summary.

The NSC met to discuss the Special Report on Indonesia on September 23—parts of which still remain classified—and the interdepartmental committee’s recommendations included both overt and covert operations.67 In addition to maintaining official diplomatic relations, the report recommended promoting “effective action singly and jointly among non-Communist elements, particularly the Masjumi, the NU, and the PNI, against the Communists,” revealing the United States’ focus on the two major

Muslim political parties, in addition to the Indonesian Nationalist Party. Along with the

PKI, those three parties did in fact represent the majority of the population; still, it is notable, perhaps, that official U.S. strategies did not seem to assign comparable weight to reaching the smaller—but presumably no less anti-communist, in the administration’s assessment—Catholic and Christian parties. The report also urged leveraging regional dissent, especially by “strengthen[ing] the determination, will and cohesion of the anti-

Communist forces in the outer islands, particularly in Sumatra and Sulawesi, in order through their strength to affect favorably the situation in Java, and to provide a rallying

66 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 90–92.

67 Memorandum, NSC, September 24, 1957, “337th Meeting of the NSC, Monday, September 23, 1957,” Box 9, DDE Papers as President, NSC Series, DDEPL.

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point if the Communists should take over Java.”68 Though unnamed, one surmises this included not only through official political channels, but also through the burgeoning regional rebellions.69

Not surprisingly, the report’s recommendations derived from the perception of the dire communist threat facing Indonesia, in general, and Java, in particular. CIA operative

Joseph Burkholder Smith has said that the CIA initially concealed the agency’s desire to support the dissident colonels from some high-level officials, concerned that figures like

Ambassador Allison or others might oppose direct U.S. assistance. Instead, the agency set out to convince the NSC’s interdepartmental committee of the urgent necessity of U.S. intervention: when intelligence reports stressed the imminence of the communist threat to

Jakarta, the claims had enough “plausibility” to be “in tune” with the already existing concerns in Washington about the PKI’s growing strength.70 Such claims also, I argue, resonated with U.S. officials’ understanding of the ability of Indonesia’s majority Muslim population to meet that threat, conditioned as they were by report after report about the inflexible anti-communism of the outer islands’ dominant Islamic political party,

Masyumi, and its millions of supporters.

68 Report Prepared by the Ad Hoc Interdepartmental Committee on Indonesia for the National Security Council, September 3, 1957, Document 262, Foreign Relations of the United States (FRUS), 1955-1957, Southeast Asia, Volume XXII, eds. Robert J. McMahon, Harriet D. Schwar, and Louis J. Smith (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1989), https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1955-57v22/d262.

69 For a useful discussion of the report, see Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 93– 97. Kahin and Kahin note that the recommendations were adopted with some amendments (still classified), mostly likely to do with the level of potential military intervention that would be permitted, and under what conditions. One can surmise as much from the discussion of the recommendations at the September 23 NSC meeting: Memorandum, NSC, September 24, 1957, “337th Meeting of the NSC, Monday, September 23, 1957,” Box 9, DDE Papers as President, NSC Series, DDEPL.

70 Kahin and Kahin, 102–3.

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Embassy officials noticed how much regional leaders had begun to emphasize the issue of communism in the fall of 1957. Mary Vance Trent observed that “as the emotional content of the struggle has developed, the regions seem to have become more concerned with the question of communism,” whereas the initial motivation for “open regional defiance” had its roots in questions of regional autonomy, more equitable revenue distribution from the center to the periphery, and a role in a central government that better reflected the vast diversity of viewpoints across Indonesia. She astutely observed that by making concerns over Sukarno’s perceived leftward drift a key part of their public platform, regional leaders may have gained purchase with heretofore disinterested, ambivalent, or even hostile audiences, including “support from anti- communist Javanese elements as well as sympathy from abroad which they would never enjoy if they presented their grievances only in terms of the regional question.” She reported that the dissidents could be expected to continue to interpret the regional struggle in terms of Sukarno’s relationship to Indonesian communists because of the clear advantages of doing so.71 Indeed, Allison reported in November that leaders from

Masyumi, the NU, the PNI, and other minor non-communist parties in South Sumatra had issued a joint statement urging the Indonesian people “to realize [the] danger [of] communism as championed by PKI.”72

It is unclear the extent to which Embassy officials saw the shift toward increasingly vehement anti-communist rhetoric as an accurate reflection of regional

71 Foreign Service Despatch 263, Djakarta to State, November 21, 1957, 756D.00/11-2157, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

72 Embtel 1315, Djakarta to State, November 22, 1957, 756D.00/11-2257, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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concerns; but regardless of their particular understanding, they did recognize it as a strategic move on the part of the Sumatran dissidents and non-communist parties.

University of California professor Guy Pauker, who had recently visited with dissidents in Palembang and Padang, lent further credence to the emergent convergence between military and civilian leaders. Pauker told Ambassador Allison that Sumitro—who was by then in frequent contact with the CIA—spoke about the September meeting of “Moslem religious leaders” in Palembang before the Munas conference, where “it was decided to form [an] anti-Communist religious front and to urge close coordination between Moslem parties against Communists” They had also agreed on a longer-term objective of outlawing the Communist Party in Indonesia.73 Perhaps not coincidentally, Sukarno pointedly addressed the relationship between Muslims and communists in Indonesia during a speech in Jakarta the next month: “if there are Communists who wish [to] prohibit Muslims from cherishing their religion, ‘they should leave Indonesia,’ and, by the same token, if there were Muslims or other religious groups who favor banning

Communism they too should leave [the] country.” Indeed, Allison interpreted Sukarno’s statement as a “reproval [of] Muslims and plaudit for Communists,” due to the decisions taken in Palembang. The PKI, for its part, continued to advocate a policy of religious toleration—at least in public, Allison noted.74

The Eisenhower administration’s grim assessment of the prospects of achieving an “anti-Communist posture” if the current government remained in power was

73 Embtel 761, Djakarta to State, September 19, 1957, 756D.00/9-1957, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

74 Embtel 1086, Djakarta to State, October 29, 1957, 756D.00/10-2957, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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compounded by news of additional PKI gains in local elections in Jogjakarta, Central

Java, in November 1957. Just as in the Javanese provincial elections, the PKI gained at the PNI’s expense, replacing it as the leading party in the area. Relations between

Muslims and the PKI continued to perplex some U.S. officials, even as they became more and more invested in the potential of mass-based, anti-communist support among the

Muslim population, particularly in the outer regions. Embassy First Secretary Hackler suggested that “the primary reason for the communists’ success,” namely “the high degree of secularism existing in the Jogjakarta area because the Islamic religion never really dented the basic Hindu-Javanese culture there. With this background of secularism, the efficiently organized communist election campaign was extremely effective…” While the leading religious parties maintained about the same number of seats as in 1955,

Hackler explained, “the communists gained because they were far more successful in obtaining votes among the secular voters than the PNI, and those voters form the largest group in the Jogjakarta area, as they also do in the province of Central Java.”75 To underscore his point that Islam never really took hold in Central Java, Hackler provided the following account:

Illustrative of this condition is the remark of a Masjumi leader made to an Embassy officer that the B.T.I. (Barisan Tani Indonesia), the communist farmers’ organization, had hardly any opposition among the rural population of these two areas. He said the S.T.I.I. (Serikat Tani Islam Indonesia), the Masjumi farmers’ organization, had had no success among them and it was impossible for any religious organization to attract this group. He explained that the Masjumi had already formed an organization…which was outwardly secular but

75 Foreign Service Despatch 341, Djakarta to State, January 24, 1958, 756D.00/1-2458, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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controlled by Masjumi leaders, for the purpose of penetrating the Central Java and Jogjakarta areas.76

Beyond this particular experience of Central Java, which made the PKI’s gains less surprising, Hackler extended his analysis to the wider Indonesian context. He predicted that

[t]he trend toward secularization in Indonesia will most likely continue as more people become urbanized through the growth of industry and more become Westernized through the influence of radio, films and education. In the other elections in Java the vote for religious parties declined somewhat, though slightly in comparison to the losses suffered by the PNI, which may be an indication of the trend toward secularization. (On the other hand the decline may have been caused simply by the failure of the religious parties to bring their voters to the polls.) In any event, the trend toward secularization offers an opportunity to the communists and is a challenge to the West.77

Perhaps more illuminating than an appraisal of his account’s accuracy is an evaluation of the assumptions embedded within it. Hackler’s historical account of the

Jogjakarta area and its specific regional identity were shaped by his understanding of the history of secularism and Islam in Java. He invoked this history, with all of its embedded assumptions, to inform his analysis of the election results. In doing so, he seems to have taken as a given that the stronger an area’s Islamic identity—understood in opposition to secularism, which he seems also to conflate with Hindu-Javanese culture—the more naturally opposed to communism its residents would be. He extended this distinction to voters; i.e., secular people will vote for secular parties, and religious people will vote to

76 Foreign Service Despatch 341, Djakarta to State, January 24, 1958, 756D.00/1-2458, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

77 Foreign Service Despatch 341, Djakarta to State, January 24, 1958, 756D.00/1-2458, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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religious parties. Perhaps most interestingly, Hackler surmised that the trend toward secularization in Indonesia seems likely to continue for all the reasons one might expect: urbanization, the growth of industry, and exposure to Western education and culture.

These components of the emergent theory of “modernization” in American social science were, one might assume, desirable. But Hackler also saw the trend as a boon for

Indonesia’s communists, and therefore as “a challenge to the West.”

While such assumptions about modernity’s compatibility with Islam, and Islam’s relationship to secularization, may not necessarily drive grand strategy, they can still have repercussions for decision-making. The failure to see a diversity of perspectives on the relationship of Indonesia Islam to modernization had consequences for how U.S. officials interpreted the policy options available to them, as well as for what they “chose” to hear, or not hear, from their American and Indonesian sources alike, in the run-up to the 1958

PRRI-Permesta rebellion.

Indonesians had, in fact, continued to negotiate the relationship of religion to the

Indonesian state in the Constituent Assembly (Konstituante). The Konstituante had been elected in 1955 to draft a new constitution, replacing the provisional constitution that had been in effect since 1950. When the assembly first convened in November 1956, disagreements over whether Islam or Pancasila should be the foundation of the state prolonged the process, and debate in the body continued into the next year. Around the time of the November 1957 local elections, Atmodarminto, who identified as an abangan

Muslim,78 spoke before the assembly about his opposition to an Islamic state in

78 Abangan is often used to describe Javanese Muslims whose religious beliefs and practices also include non-Islamic elements, sometimes referred to as traditional Javanese mysticism. The term was popularized by anthropologist Clifford Geertz following his study of religion in East Java.

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Indonesia. His small Javanese party, Gerinda, had allied itself with the communists, at least partly due to their shared opposition to an Islamic state. Atmodarminto claimed that, in general, “our society is not, as yet, an Islamic society.” Rather, the “[b]eliefs, customs, and traditions inherited from our ancestors still form the basis of our society—witness the belief in the ghosts of ancestors,” he said, or “the smell of incense, found everywhere on nights regarded as holy.”79

Atmodarminto’s contemporaries outside of Java may have disagreed with his assessment that Indonesia was “not, as yet, an Islamic society.” Still, those gathered in the Konstituante must know, he continued, that not only are there “a variety of religions in Indonesia,” including Islam, Catholicism, Protestant Christianity, and Balinese

Hinduism, but also that “among the Muslims there are orthodox Muslims and abangan

Muslims,” not to mention religions not recognized by the government, like Buddhism and

Confucianism. Accordingly, proposals to establish Islam as the basis of the state should be viewed with “uncertainty and suspicion,” as “unrealistic and speculative.” They may even provoke “divisions among us which might intensify to the point of civil war. To make Islam the basis of the state,” Atmodarminto said, “would mean that the Muslims would reap the entire benefit of our national revolution and that other groups, including the mystical groups, would be regarded as dispensible [sic]…”80

One should not necessarily take Atmodarminto’s remarks to mean that he and other abangan did not, as Hackler seems to suggest, have a strong sense of Islamic identity. In addition, the small party of Gerinda’s decision to ally itself with communists,

79 Atmodarminto, “The Abangan Case against an Islamic State,” in Indonesian Political Thinking, 1945-1965, ed. Herbert Feith and Lance Castles (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1970), 192.

80 Atmodarminto, 193–94.

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while not representative of all of Java, illustrates the multi-faceted nature of Indonesian identity beyond either Muslim or communist; for some Indonesians, the appeal of the PKI was not simply a marriage of convenience, the NU’s accommodationist approach notwithstanding. There were those in the population who identified with their religion, their nation, and the communist party.

At the same time, others could not—or could no longer—reconcile what they viewed as conflicting ideologies or allegiances that characterized contemporary

Indonesian politics. On the same day that Atmodarminto spoke before the Constituent

Assembly, Mohammad Natsir warned his colleagues about “the dangers of secularism…as a way of life, the opinions, aims, and characteristics of which are limited by the boundaries of worldly existence.” Natsir granted that they may acknowledge, from time to time, the existence of God; but in their daily lives, secularist individuals had no need for “a relationship between the human soul and God.”81 He discussed the dangerous consequences of secularism in society, including the separation of the sciences, of economics, of ethics, law, and philosophy, from moral, cultural, and religion norms, and the utter lack of “firm guidelines” for everything from day-to-day decision-making to the rights of property, of workers, and of employers.82

Natsir then faulted the concept of Pancasila for having the same vagueness he found in secularism: “the explanations given by the supporters of Pantja Sila indicate that they themselves cannot decide what are its true contents, its proper sequences, its sources, its nucleus, and the interdependence of its components.” The “Pantja Sila itself,” he

81 Mohammad Natsir, “The Dangers of Secularism,” in Indonesian Political Thinking, 1945-1965, ed. Herbert Feith and Lance Castles (Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 1970), 215–16.

82 Natsir, 216–17.

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continued, “is responsible for this vague quality.” Unless and until it “acquires roots” in an existing ideology, it will remain neutral, and “Pantja Sila will always want to cling to its neutrality.”83 But the Muslim community, Natsir declared, had no desire to trade their

“definite, clear, and complete ideology, one which burns in the hearts of the Indonesian people as a living inspiration and source of strength,” for the hollow promises of

Pancasila. That would be, he concluded, “like leaping from the solid earth into empty space, into a vacuum.”84

Audrey Kahin suggests that Sukarno’s growing authoritarianism, along with the visibility and political viability of the PKI after the 1957 elections, contributed to Natsir’s decision to abandon his public support for Pancasila. Yet while Natsir’s speech could be interpreted as an argument in favor of an Islamic state—something he had consistently seen as a future ideal, if not an immediate possibility—his criticism was less about

Pancasila per se and more about Sukarno’s misguided and manipulative use of the principles to achieve misguided ends, such as guided democracy. Kahin also suggests that

Natsir was likely aiming to “provide a basis for negotiation with the other groups represented [in the assembly], most notably the Communist Party, whose growing strength and influence on Sukarno were probably the impetus for many of the arguments he was putting forward.”85 In short, Natsir increasingly viewed Sukarno as a threat to

83 Natsir, 218.

84 Natsir, 219; Natsir had always stopped short of advocating for an “Islamic democracy” until this speech, when he appeared to change his previous position that Pancasila could be an acceptable state philosophy, as long as belief in God remained the first principle. Now, he contended that Pancasila, in Audrey Kahin’s words, was “amorphous and essentially secular and thus unsuitable for a Muslim nation such as Indonesia.” Kahin, “Natsir and Sukarno: Their Clash over Nationalism, Religion, and Democracy, 1928-1958,” 208.

85 Kahin, “Natsir and Sukarno: Their Clash over Nationalism, Religion, and Democracy, 1928- 1958,” 208–9.

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Indonesian democracy; while his evolution toward support for the regional rebellion often found expression in his interpretation of Islamic tradition, it was also grounded in crafting a strategic response to Sukarno’s konsepsi.

By late 1957, Ambassador Allison was increasingly convinced that the Indonesian

Army had positioned itself as a reliable, and organizationally viable, anti-communist group. The Army was strong enough in its convictions (at least among the leadership), but without the equipment to back it up. In October, the OCB discussed Allison’s recommendation for “token shipments of military equipment this calendar year.”86 The following month the OCB noted that the military aid requested by the government of

Indonesia had “been agreed to at the working level in ‘token’ magnitudes,” but the final decision had stalled amidst State, Defense and CIA deliberations.87 By December the decision on assistance had been postponed indefinitely, “pending further developments in the political situation in Indonesia,” even as the Embassy in Jakarta recommended, at the very least, a “reconsideration of [the] delay, urging that a favorable public statement at this time would have as good an effect as the beginning of actual deliveries; [and] that if the situation should deteriorate further actual deliveries could be withheld.”88 Little did

Allison know that Eisenhower had already made the decision to back the dissident colonels with covert aid.

86 Weekly Activity Report, OCB, October 14, 1957, “OCB 319.1 Activity Report (File #1) (4),” Box 8, OCB Secretariat Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

87 Weekly Activity Report, OCB, November 18, 1957, “OCB 319.1 Activity Report (File #1) (6),” Box 8, OCB Secretariat Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

88 Weekly Activity Report, OCB, December 2, 1957, “OCB 319.1 Activity Report (File #1) (6),” Box 8, OCB Secretariat Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

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The CIA first channeled funds through Singapore to Colonel Simbolon in early

October 1957. An agent was authorized by CIA officials in Washington to tell Simbolon that he could soon expect additional funds, as well as the delivery of arms to Padang. The

U.S. reportedly provided arms for 8,000 men in Sumatra over the next five months; the

British also supplied smaller amounts of weapons, and the rebels also purchased foreign arms on their own. In the last three months of 1957, the transfer of weapons took place covertly, often via U.S. commercial freighters bound for places like Thailand or Taiwan, though some deliveries were made directly to rebel-held ports by U.S. Navy submarines off the coast of Sumatra. By January 1958, the United States, in coordination with the

United Kingdom, had begun to drop weapons in Sumatra via airfields in the Philippines,

Singapore, Taiwan, Thailand, and Malaya, part of an effort to provide the regional rebels with “‘maximum disavowable aid.’”89

“A growing feeling among the Moslems”: Winter 1957-1958

John Allison’s tenure as ambassador to Indonesia lasted just ten months. He was recalled to Washington in January 1958—just as the regional rebels in Sumatra and

Sulawesi prepared, with encouragement from the CIA, to intensify their confrontation with the central government. The press speculated about the reasons for Allison’s departure, including rumors about his disagreements with Secretary Dulles; but the official reason was his pending reassignment as ambassador to Czechoslovakia. Allison’s successor, Howard Palfrey Jones, who arrived in Jakarta in March, would be tasked with

89 Jones, “‘Maximum Disavowable Aid,’” 1202 (quoted); Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 120–27.

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containing the diplomatic fallout that occurred in the aftermath of the declaration of the

PRRI the month before.

Howard Jones was a U.S. Army colonel during World War II, and he worked briefly as a journalist before joining the Eisenhower administration in 1954. Jones was the head of the economic aid mission in Indonesia from 1954 until early 1956, serving concurrently for a time as both director of the International Cooperation Administration’s program and as the Embassy’s economic counsellor. In February 1956, he took on the role of Deputy Assistant Secretary of the Bureau of Far Eastern Economic Affairs at the

State Department, before assuming the role of Deputy Assistant Secretary of State for Far

Eastern Affairs in May 1957. Jones served in that role until his appointment as U.S. ambassador to Indonesia in March 1958. While he shared the end goal, Jones came to disagree with the Eisenhower administration’s approach to achieving a non-communist

Indonesia, especially covertly supporting the rebels. Instead, like Ambassador Allison before him, Jones argued that the key to preventing a communist Indonesia laid with the

Army, and he worked to build that relationship, particularly with Army Chief of Staff

General Nasution. Jones was also a proponent of engagement with Sukarno, and as he worked to repair the relationship between the United States and Indonesia, he championed what scholars have since referred to as an “accommodationist” approach toward Sukarno within the U.S. foreign policy bureaucracy.90

Before Jones could begin to pursue relationships with Nasution and Sukarno, he first had to manage the conflicts ensuing within his own government over U.S. policies

90 Evans, “The Influence of the United States Army on the Development of the Indonesian Army (1954-1964),” 27; Bunnell, “The Central Intelligence Agency. Deputy Directorate for Plans 1961 Secret Memorandum on Indonesia,” 31–32.

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toward Indonesia. Prior to his arrival in Jakarta—and after Allison had already left—U.S. government agencies scrambled to analyze an array of possible courses and outcomes for both U.S. policy and the direction the dissident colonels would pursue. The Sumatra colonels and Colonel Sumual had met in Sungai Dareh, West Sumatra, on January 9-10, where they were joined not only by Sumitro, but also by three Masyumi leaders, Harahap,

Sjafruddin, and Natsir. Initially, the civilian leaders were not convinced by the confrontational approach of the military officers, but they grew more supportive as they learned about the colonels’ foreign assistance. Natsir in particular later said that he became more convinced of the “seriousness of American support to the colonels” following a meeting in Padang with an unidentified representative from the U.S.

Consulate in Medan, who informed Natsir to watch for an air drop of weapons in one week—which arrived right on time.91 After the Sungai Dareh meetings the dissidents formed a single council in Padang that united all of the existing regional councils in

Sumatra, as well as Permesta, called the Dewan Perjuangan (Struggle Council), chaired by Colonel Husein. Colonel Barlian of South Sumatra, however, did not commit to supporting an alternative government, citing the presence of Javanese laborers in the province, as well as a lack of support among his officers.92

In early February, a week before the rebels issued their ultimatum to Jakarta, Time magazine reported that Colonel Simbolon had told its foreign correspondent that the

91 Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 128–29.

92 Because South Sumatra included oil fields crucial to the Jakarta military and economy, and because the United States had business interests there, the U.S. Navy briefly sent destroyers to the region, ready to intervene militarily and evacuate U.S. personnel if Jakarta bombed the oil fields. The rebels, for their part, took this display of military strength as a sign that the U.S. was prepared to back their movement with greater force than expected. Kahin and Kahin, 129–31; 148–52.

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dissidents had gathered “because the Djakarta government had ignored an earlier demand from the colonels made last September, asking for an anti-Communist government of democracy, constitutionality, law and order.” In the words of another Padang official:

“‘We fought for a country based on Pantja Sila [the Five Principles of belief in God, nationalism, humanitarianism, social justice and democracy]. Did we do this just to turn the country over to Communists as they are doing in Djakarta now?’”93

The rebel commanders’ continued emphasis on their anti-communist credentials does not only indicate the CIA’s influence and encouragement; it also suggests rebel commanders knew their Western audience. In addition, Indonesians across the political spectrum paid attention to the news and commentary coming out of Washington. As Time reported later that month, “the rebel colonels…found some encouragement in reading news reports on Secretary of States Dulles’ press conference in Washington” on February

11, in which he appeared to express support for the rebels’ ultimatum.94 Asked about recent trends in Indonesia, Secretary Dulles had replied:

I think that there has been a growing feeling among the Moslems, particularly in the islands other than Java, a feeling of concern at growing Communist influence in the Government in Java and in the feeling that the economic resources of these outer islands, like Sumatra, are being exploited contrary to the best interests of the entire Indonesian people. That unrest has made itself manifest.95

93 “Which Way the Lion?,” Time 71, no. 5 (February 3, 1958): 29, ProQuest. Embassy officials spoke with Time correspondent James Bell about his interviews with the dissident colonels in January, and reported on the conversation to the State Department: Foreign Service Despatch 343, Djakarta to State, January 24, 1958, 756D.00/1-2458, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

94 “Challenge & Response,” Time 71, no. 8 (February 24, 1958): 29, ProQuest.

95 Edited text of John F. Dulles press conference, February 11, 1958, attachment to Office Memorandum, Mein/SPA to Robertson/FE, February 14, 1958, 756D.00/2-1458, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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That Dulles focused almost entirely on the feelings “among the Moslems” reflects his ongoing emphasis on that population as crucial to achieving a non-communist government in Indonesia. In addition, his comments suggest not only a limited understanding of the diversity within Indonesia’s Muslim population, but also an apparent lack of attention to the fact that the outer islands objecting to Java’s dominance included significant minority religious populations—including in Sulawesi, the other locus of the current regional revolt.

The CIA had anticipated the coming ultimatum from the regional dissidents and considered the “probable developments in Indonesia” in a top secret report signed by

Director Dulles on January 31, 1958. The agency suspected the Sumatran rebel colonels would deliver an ultimatum in the coming two weeks, and its analysts were confident that the rebels “appear committed to pursue their objectives of gaining a new government in

Djakarta which will act to reduce Communist strength.” CIA intelligence also indicated that the rebel leaders believed they could garner support from Darul Islam groups in

Aceh, West Java, and Sulawesi.96

The CIA’s report also noted Mohammad Natsir and his allies in Masyumi were ready to commit to the rebel group, and analysts assumed Natsir would bring with him

“the active support of the Masjumi on the outer islands and at least the passive support of a large part of the Masjumi on Java.” Intelligence suggested that both the rebels and the government would be reluctant to take military action; but if civil war should break out, the report said, “the Padang group would have a better position in the outer islands than

96 Report, “Probable Developments in Indonesia,” Central Intelligence Agency, January 31, 1958, CIA FOIA Electronic Reading Room, https://www.cia.gov/library/readingroom/document/cia- rdp79r01095a000800020003-9.

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would the central government” in terms of both resources and public support. In particular, the group “could probably count on the loyalty of the people and of the forces directly under its command on Sumatra and northern Celebes [Sulawesi]. It would probably also have the support of the Atjehnese in northern Sumatra [and] the Darul

Islam forces in South Celebes [South Sulawesi].” And, if guerrilla warfare became necessary, the Darul Islam groups along with “the Moslem Youth Group (GPII)” and other volunteers could likely be counted on to continue the fight.97

The CIA’s report was correct about the timing. On February 15, 1958, after the government of Indonesia failed to respond to the demands of a February 10 ultimatum,

Colonel Husein declared an alternative government: the Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia.98 The Permesta movement pledged its allegiance to the PRRI two days later, and the PRRI established its headquarters in Koto Tinggi, West Sumatra.99

Subsequent events showed, however, that the CIA had grossly misjudged nearly everything else—including its assumption that the government of Indonesia would hesitate to respond militarily to the rebels, and that the rebels would be in a stronger position if it did.

97 Report, “Probable Developments in Indonesia,” Central Intelligence Agency, January 31, 1958, CIA FOIA Electronic Reading Room, https://www.cia.gov/library/readingroom/document/cia- rdp79r01095a000800020003-9.

98 The State Department’s Walter Robertson and John Mein considered the implications of the ultimatum, noting the “long-standing grievances of the regionalists” and their demands, which included a Cabinet “free from ‘athiestic [sic] elements.’” Office Memorandum, Robertson/FE to Mein/SPA, February 14, 1958, 756D.00/2-1458, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

99 Partly due to Husein’s own demands, and partly as an attempt to fracture the dissident movement, the central government had split the province of Central Sumatra into the provinces of Riau, Jambi, and West Sumatra by late 1957. Kahin, Rebellion to Integration, 191–92.

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The PRRI struggled to articulate clear objectives and marshal popular support from the beginning. There were divisions within Masyumi over some of its leaders’ participation in the rebel government.100 The Indonesian armed forces, meanwhile, acted quickly and decisively to squash the rebellion. When the Javanese-dominated government troops landed in rebel-held territories in Sumatra, they encountered little armed resistance, to the surprise and dismay of the PRRI’s civilian leaders. By mid-

March, the Army controlled most of the eastern coast of the island, and government forces had put down an attempt by a PRRI sympathizer to seize control of Medan, North

Sumatra. By mid-April, troops under the command of Colonel Ahmad Yani occupied

Pandang, West Sumatra, in less than one day, and Colonel Husein’s poorly equipped rebel forces retreated, deciding that a guerrilla campaign was the only viable option. By

May, the Army had reached the rebel government’s headquarters in Bukittinggi, and the

PRRI civilian leaders, including Sjafruddin and Natsir, fled to Kototinggi, West Sumatra, where they set up a new headquarters and attempted to steady the foundering rebel government.101 When the Indonesian military turned its attention to Sulawesi, Permesta’s resistance was stronger and better organized than the Sumatran rebels’—and benefited from CIA air support—but despite their initial will to fight, the resistance began to fracture in the face of continued government assaults by mid-1958 and disagreements between the movement’s military leaders.102

100 Embtel 2617, Djakarta to State, February 18, 1958; and Embtel 2624, Djakarta to State, February 18, 1958, 756D.00/2-1858, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

101 Kahin, Islam, Nationalism and Democracy: A Political Biography of Mohammad Natsir, 126– 31; Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 80–81.

102 Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 84–85.

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In the end, Colonel Barlian chose not to join the PRRI. Mohammad Hatta, who had long supported regional aspirations, also declined to offer his support for the rebels’ strategy. And contrary to the CIA’s expectation, Darul Islam leaders in Aceh announced their neutrality. Natsir and Burhanuddin had urged Daud Beureu’eh to cooperate with the nascent rebellion in late 1957 and, according to one scholar, promised military aid in return for his support.103 But the alliance failed to materialize as divisions among local

Acehnese political actors, as well as efforts by the central government to foil a potential alliance, frustrated attempted coordination between the PRRI and Darul Islam. Acehnese

Darul Islam leaders declined to participate in the early months of the rebellion, and they continued to debate amongst themselves the merits of cooperation with the PRRI over the course of 1958 and 1959.104

While declassified records shed some light on U.S. assistance to the PRRI, far less is known about whether Acehnese or other Darul Islam rebels received U.S. support, financial or otherwise, during the PRRI-Permesta rebellion. Its January report shows the

CIA saw Darul Islam as a potential partner of the rebels, if not a direct ally of the United

States. Some have also suggested that, after he was granted permanent U.S. residence,

Hasan di Tiro played a role in arranging arms purchases for the rebels, most likely with

U.S. assistance. Alfred Kohlberg, a U.S. businessman and staunch anti-communist with ties to Senator Joseph McCarthy, may also have tried to introduce di Tiro to Allen Dulles, though it is not clear whether a meeting took place. There is also some evidence to

103 Nazaruddin Sjamsuddin, The Republican Revolt: A Study of the Acehnese Rebellion (Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1985), 269–70.

104 For a detailed account of these events, see Sjamsuddin, 270–94.

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suggest that he connected in 1958 with Bernard Yoh, who ran an anti-communist magazine in Saigon.105

Since he arrived in the early 1950s, Hasan di Tiro had remained on the radar of

U.S. anti-communist “cold warriors,” including the likes of Colonel Edward Lansdale, the influential U.S. Air Force officer and CIA operative known for his contributions to development of counterinsurgency theory, first in the Philippines, and later in Vietnam.106

On February 17, 1958, just two days after the declaration of the PRRI, Colonel Lansdale recounted for Hugh Cumming a conversation he had with di Tiro on February 14; the memo was also shared with Walter Robertson. The meeting had been arranged by

Bernard Yoh, and Lansdale identified di Tiro as “the Indonesian politician who left the

Indonesian Embassy staff in Washington some time ago to speak out against the

Communists in Indonesia.” Lansdale informed Cumming that he had recently visited

“[your] ‘friend’ in New York” and that the “ideas expressed seem earthy and practical to me (from this distance), and prompt me to suggest strongly that our ‘friend’ be helped to go home where he has work to do.” (Di Tiro had expressed a wish to remain in New

York, where he was by that point pursuing a doctoral degree at Columbia University.)107

Lansdale and di Tiro had an “informal and friendly” talk about the announcement of the PRRI, which di Tiro said was poorly timed, poorly coordinated, and poorly

105 Aspinall, Islam and Nation, 41–44.

106 Aspinall, 41–44; Eric Pace, “Edward Lansdale Dies at 79; Adviser on Guerrilla Warfare,” New York Times, February 24, 1987, http://www.nytimes.com/1987/02/24/obituaries/edward-lansdale-dies-at- 79-adviser-on-guerrilla-warfare.html.

107 Memorandum, Colonel Edward G. Lansdale, USAF, to Hugh Cumming, Jr., February 17, 1958, with Encl: Memorandum for the Record, “Meeting with TIRO, 14 February 1958,” Col. Lansdale, February 17, 1958, file INR-Indonesia I 1958, Subject Files of the Bureau of Intelligence and Research (INR), Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

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resourced. Di Tiro said the rebels did not have a coherent political agenda, and offered his own platform, which he believed was more likely to unify the nation against Sukarno.

In order to bring political change, di Tiro said, the constitution should be amended with two main provisions: the institution of local self-rule and the declaration of Islam as the state religion. He imagined a federal union of states, but since “Sukarno has declared such thinking as ‘treason’…too many political leaders have been too afraid of Sukarno to declare their support of this idea,” which he believed was “the only hope for a united and anti-communist Indonesia.” Lansdale also recounted di Tiro’s reasons for declaring Islam the state religion: “98% of the people are Moslems [in reality, closer to 90%] and this declaration would provide a single, strong, unifying force. Tiro’s thought was that this should be done in much the same manner as Pakistan did, to avoid establishing a theocracy. Individuals would be free to worship the religion of their choice.”108

If Hasan di Tiro was, in fact, in contact with Allen Dulles—not to mention his documented conversations with figures like Yoh and Lansdale—it may help to shed additional light on why Director Dulles, Secretary Dulles, and their allies in the U.S. government seemed to assigned outsized potential to Indonesians’ Islamic identity as a unifying force against the increasingly left-leaning Sukarno. Moreover, as Lansdale observed, “Tiro has an attractive personality and is highly articulate in English…His logic shows the influence of Jesuit instruction at Fordham, where he obtained his MA.”109

Di Tiro, despite his affiliation with members of the Acehnese branch of Darul Islam, had

108 Memorandum for the Record, “Meeting with TIRO, 14 February 1958,” Col. Lansdale, February 17, 1958, INR-Indonesia I 1958, INR Subject Files, Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

109 Memorandum for the Record, “Meeting with TIRO, 14 February 1958,” Col. Lansdale, February 17, 1958, INR-Indonesia I 1958, INR Subject Files, Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

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other characteristics of a “good Muslim”—he was well-educated and familiar with

Western culture. He was staunchly anti-communist. He was a devout Muslim, who called for the establishment of a state religion that stopped short of theocracy, and he supported a federation of states that, while allowing for greater local autonomy, would also preserve the integrity of Indonesia’s national boundaries.

The same week that Lansdale met with di Tiro, the U.S. Army attaché in Jakarta cabled Secretary Dulles that an Indonesian Air Force intelligence chief had told him that

“Atjeh area North Sumatra may be next trouble spot” because “Darul Islam is active again [and] aligned with counter-government.” In fact, “only last week DI [Darul Islam] received by submarine new US-made guns, 12.7 and 20 millimeter” the intelligence chief said that “DI told this to an AURI [Indonesian Air Force] commander [in] North

Sumatra.” The source also mentioned that David Fowler, a U.S. national in Singapore, was “trying to establish air operations for [the] counter-government,” and that

“Americans with Civil Air Transport [CAT] Airline Bangkok [were] reportedly being engaged for Sumatra air operation.”110

It is difficult to corroborate reports about U.S.-made military equipment making its way into the hands of Darul Islam. The source of the information was several degrees removed, and few (declassified) official records directly address arms transfers that might have occurred, further obfuscating the origins of the weapons (to say nothing of tracing their subsequent path). Still, given their contacts with di Tiro, it is plausible that the

United States provided some kind of covert assistance to Acehnese Darul Islam rebels, in

110 Telegram CX-38, 180511Z, USARMA Djakarta to State, February 18, 1958, 756D.00/2-1858, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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addition to the PRRI and Permesta. The Indonesian Air Force chief’s other information is easier to substantiate: it is known that the Civil Air Transport, or CAT, was an East Asia- based front airline for CIA operations carried out in Indonesia during the first half of

1958, which included air drops of weapons to the rebels, particularly in Sulawesi, and bombing runs over parts of eastern Indonesia.111 In addition, several accounts based on interviews with or the memoirs of former U.S. officials describe Singapore as a hub of

CIA activity prior to and during the PRRI-Permesta rebellion.

While opposition to Jakarta on the basis of the role of Islam in the state did find some traction among the Sumatran rebels, mainly in the Minangkabau area, the Muslim leaders in the PRRI recognized that they could not make that the source of their movement if they wanted to position themselves as a government for all of Indonesia— not to mention retain the support of Christian populations in parts of North Sumatra, along with North Sulawesi’s Minahasans, which had become the center of the Permesta movement.112 Colonel Sumual apparently expressed this concern to at least some U.S. officials in Washington. Indonesia desk officer Francis Underhill met with two staff members of a congressional representative, who told him that Colonel Sumual had visited

Washington shortly after the declaration of the PRRI, hoping to establish contact with sympathetic U.S. officials “before any members of the Sumatra crowd arrived here [in

Washington, D.C.].” The Permesta leader said he felt certain that Simbolon, Djambek, and Husein had established channels of communication with U.S. officials, and he, too, desired such contacts. Sumual also reportedly said that the predominantly Christian

111 Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, 242.

112 Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 80–81.

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Menadonese of Sulawesi, “while cooperating wholeheartedly with the Sumatrans, are disturbed by the strong Islamic influences in the Padang regime, and the religious fanaticism of some of the Sumatran leaders, particularly Col. Hussein.”113

If high level U.S. officials were aware of such tensions, they do not appear to have let them dissuade either their private or public support for the PRRI-Permesta rebellion. As the regional crisis slid into violence, Secretary Dulles testified before the

House Foreign Affairs Committee on February 26, stating baldly that the United States is

“not intervening in the internal affairs of [Indonesia.]” He did not hesitate, however, to convey his “sympathy for the non-Communist elements” in Indonesia, addressing the fallout from his comments at the February 11 press conference. Dulles had no regrets: some said it was “a terrible thing to have done…[But] I did it, and I did it consciously…We would be very happy to see the non-Communist elements who are really in the majority there, the Moslem elements, the non-Communist parties, exert a greater influence in the affairs of Indonesia than has been the case in the past.”114

U.S. media essentially toed the line on the Eisenhower administration’s official denial of U.S. intervention in Indonesia.115 But some journalists were well aware of the

United States’ keen interest, if not its direct involvement, in the rebellion. Hugh

Cumming visited the U.S. Embassy in Manila in March 1958. While there, Cumming met with New York Times foreign correspondent F. Tillman Durdin. The two men discussed

113 Memorandum for the Files, Mr. Bill Barry, Mr. Liong, and Mr. Underhill, February 26, 1958, INR-Indonesia I 1958, INR Subject Files, Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

114 Deptel 2618 (transcript of Sec. Dulles’ testimony before House Foreign Affairs Committee on February 26), State to Djakarta, March 14, 1958, 756D.00/3-1458, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

115 Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, 248–49.

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U.S. oil interests in Sumatra, and Cumming even asked what kinds of weapons and other support, in Durdin’s opinion, the rebels might need. According to Cumming’s account,

Durdin replied with a list of possibilities.116

Cumming also asked Durdin whether he thought the Padang government (that is, the PRRI) had the resolve to continue its struggle against the government of Indonesia, based on Durdin’s familiarity and recent contact with its leaders, along with his general knowledge of the region. Cumming asked specifically about the personalities of

Sjafruddin and Natsir, and about “the character of the Minangkabau people,” who were perceived to be the rebellion’s primary base of support. He did not, it seems, probe about the Christian populations in Sulawesi or North Sumatra, despite, one assumes, the potential for religious affinity with the U.S. population. Durdin told Cumming that he believed the leaders of the movement “were determined to carry on,” and that the

Minangkabau people “were wholeheartedly behind the present Padang leadership.” The two men also discussed “the well-known characteristics of the Minangkabau people, namely their high standard of living, their high rate of literacy, and the fact that they were devout Moslems.”117

While an attentive reader could gather from journalistic accounts and administration statements that the United States was sympathetic toward the PRRI-

Permesta rebellion, one would not have gotten the same sense regarding potential support for either the goals or tactics of Darul Islam. Back-channel discussions with Westernized

116 Memorandum, Alfred C. Ulmer, Jr., to Acting Director of INR, March 19, 1958; and Encl. Memorandum of Conversation between Hugh Cumming and F. Tillman Durdin, March 18, 1958, INR- Indonesia I 1958, INR Subject Files, Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

117 Encl. Memorandum of Conversation between Hugh Cumming and F. Tillman Durdin, March 18, 1958, “INR-Indonesia I 1958,” INR Subject Files, Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

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Indonesians like Hasan di Tiro were one thing; public support for a movement like Darul

Islam was quite another. Islam, New York Times foreign correspondent Bernard Kalb wrote, in a nation where approximately 90 percent of population identifies as Muslim,

“obviously is destined to play a major role in political life. But its impact—as a unified and powerful political force—is far less than it could be owing to the fact that the

Moslem political forces are splintered into a variety of parties frequently pulling in different directions—much to the delight of the Communists.”118 The members of Darul

Islam were “Moslems of the fanatic sort…who are fighting from the jungles in scattered parts of Indonesia for their goal of an Islamic state.” Other Muslims, however, including

“some leading members of the anti-Communist Masjumi,” had become involved in “the present political showdown” by taking posts in the rebels’ self-proclaimed government.119

While he does not explicitly condone approach of the latter, one surmises that their prestige and political backgrounds are understood to lend a semblance of legitimacy to the rebellion.

Kalb also suggested that one reason the PKI had been able to make gains is that

“the Communists have tried to out-Moslem the Moslems in an effort to fight off the criticism that their ideology is atheistic.” Party officials and organizations had engaged in the building of mosques, “mak[ing] friends…among the politically illiterate peasants.

Only the other day an Islamic Scholar said in a speech in Borneo that the ideology of the

Communist party was not opposed to God—and this story was reported around the

118 Bernard Kalb, “A. B. C. of Indonesia: The Land, People and Current Split,” New York Times, February 22, 1958, ProQuest.

119 Kalb.

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nation.”120 The view that Indonesian peasants would be politically unsophisticated is also emblematic of assumptions built into the increasingly fashionable modernization theories of the late 1950s. At the same time, the peasants’ perceived susceptibility to communist influence put them in a position that straddled binary categories of “good” and “bad”

Muslims; they had the potential to be either, depending on the choices they make with respect to working with the PKI.

Indonesian Muslims’ views toward communism and the PKI were, on the whole, much less straight-forward than many U.S. officials, especially Secretary Dulles, seemed willing to concede. In March, for instance, as the U.S. government had begun to reevaluate its support for the rebels, NU party chair Idham Chalid confirmed to

Ambassador Jones that “‘my religion makes me anti-Communist.’” At the same time,

Chalid described the NU as having a “‘middle of the road’ policy” between the PNI and

Masyumi in its approach to the PKI. While both Muslim parties were opposed to communism in principle, Chalid said, their tactics differed in confronting it. Jones gathered that the “NU and Masjumi views on communism are not exactly [the] same;

Masjumi sees communism as [a] far great danger than does NU.”121

“He is a good Moslem”: Jones Reaches Out to Nasution, 1958

As Ambassador Jones worked to inject these subtler notions into U.S. decision- making, he also began to lay the groundwork for a closer relationship between the U.S. and Indonesian armed forces—much like his predecessor, Ambassador Allison, had tried

120 Kalb.

121 Embtel 3282, Djakarta to State, March 20, 1958, 756D.00/3-2058, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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to do. This was a delicate operation, for Jones was confronted with increasingly bold— and sometimes accurate—claims in Indonesian newspapers about U.S. aid to the rebellion.122 Working in an atmosphere of distrust, Jones began to pursue a relationship with General Nasution through friendly contacts like the NU party chair. When asked about his opinion of Nasution, Chalid replied: “‘He is [a] good Moslem.’” Chalid went on to say that while the military was divided at times, those divisions “did not follow

Communist-anti Communist or political party lines”; rather, they tended to be about personal politics.123 Over the course of the next month, Jones provided similar assessments, noting that of Sukarno, the insurgents, and the Army, the latter should be seen as the strongest anti-communist actor in Indonesia. The “best hope in Indonesia,” he wrote, “lies with Army.”124

When it became clear that Sumatran rebels were foundering, Eisenhower and the

Dulles brothers shifted their attention to Sulawesi. The United States ended up committing more direct aid to the Sulawesi rebels, mainly in the form of air power.

Permesta benefited from U.S.-made planes, many of which flown by U.S. and Taiwanese pilots. A CIA pilot was even shot down in his B-26 during a bombing raid on Ambon in the Moluccas, which had resulted in the destruction of a Christian church. The pilot,

122 Article (English translation), “A Youth’s Demonstration at the American Embassy: To condemn the Wicked Purpose of the USA,” Bintang Timur, March 25, 1958, “Subject File Indonesia Anti- American Demonstrations,” Box 60, Howard Palfrey Jones (HPJ) Papers, HIA.

123 Embtel 3282, Djakarta to State, March 20, 1958, 756D.00/3-2058, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

124 Embtel 3565, Djakarta to State, April 6, 1958, 756D.00/4-658, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP; Embtel 3587, Djakarta to State, April 8, 1958, 756D.00/4-858, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP (quoted).

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Allen Pope, was captured by Indonesian forces and imprisoned until 1961.125All the while, the U.S. government denied involvement, even as Indonesian press published accounts of foreign aid to the rebels.

Back in Washington, it was increasingly clear that the regional rebellions, which the Eisenhower administration had hoped would unite the Indonesian people under the banner of anti-communism, had in many ways done the opposite, and split the non- and anti-communist elements in Indonesia along the lines of those who agreed or disagreed with the rebels’ tactics.126 Having already withdrawn its support from the Sumatra rebels, the Eisenhower administration ended its lingering aid to the Permesta rebels in late May, to the chagrin of Colonel Sumual.127 INR and the CIA agreed by June that among the non- communist political parties, Masyumi was now seen as “particularly compromised” due its leaders involvement in the PRRI. It had been “left largely leaderless,” while the NU was simply opportunistic, its members vulnerable to “the prospect of party and personal enrichment.” The PNI had been “largely left in the wilderness” by Sukarno, and though it had some regional leaders who were willing to work against the PKI, the party had, on the whole, failed to cohere around or lead the kind of “specific anti-Communist program”

125 Embtel 1654, Djakarta to State, December 8, 1960; and Memorandum, Secretary of State Herter to Eisenhower, December 21, 1960, “Indonesia [February 1959-December 1960],” Box 8, International Series, Office of the Staff Secretary: Records, 1952-61, WHOF, DDEPL. See also Wardaya, Cold War Shadow, 252–54; Kahin and Kahin, Subversion as Foreign Policy, 166–82.

126 Memorandum of Conversation, Canadian Ambassador N.A. Robertson, First Secretary Canadian Embassy J.R. Maybee, Walter S. Robertson/FE, and J.L. O’Sullivan/SPA, May 16, 1958, 756D.00/5-16-58, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

127 Memorandum, Robertson/FE to Secretary of State Dulles, July 30, 1958, “INR-Indonesia I 1958,” INR Subject Files, Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

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that Eisenhower officials desired.128 And by July, the dissident movements were branded ineffective and even detrimental to U.S. interests. Their continued guerrilla resistance resulted in economic uncertainty, only aiding the communists. Moreover, they had been discredited because the government of Indonesia “has been able to learn in great detail the source and scope of outside assistance to the rebels, on the basis of which it has made its charge of ‘foreign intervention,’” another boon to the PKI.129

The shifting tone in Washington coincided with Ambassador Jones’ assessment that the time was ripe for the United States to support the Indonesian Army. On May 8, accompanied by U.S. Army Attaché Colonel Cole, Ambassador Jones paid the first of many visits to General Nasution. Jones cabled Secretary Dulles his very favorable impression of Nasution, from his “definite philosophy” to his “most attractive personality” and “quite fluent” English. Nasution told Jones that the Army had been able to maintain its position of influence thanks to its status as protectors of a democratic

Indonesian state, based on Pancasila: “He wanted me [Jones] to understand this because this was [the] reason [the] Army would never permit Communists to take over [the] government. PKI did not (repeat not) agree with two points of Pantjasila and Army considered all five points fundamental to Indonesian philosophy of revolution.”130 For the

128 Memorandum, Cumming/INR to Secretary Dulles, June 20, 1958; and Intelligence Note, “Prospects for Effective Anti-Communist Action in Indonesia,” June 19,1958, INR-Indonesia I 1958, INR Subject Files, Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

129 Memorandum, Robertson/FE to Secretary Dulles, July 30, 1958, INR-Indonesia I 1958, INR Subject Files, Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

130 Embtel 4116, Djakarta to State, May 8, 1958, 756D.00/5-858, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP; this perspective reached policymakers in Washington, see, e.g., Memo, Cumming (INR) to Secretary Dulles, June 20, 1958; and Intelligence Note, “Prospects for Effective Anti-Communist Action in Indonesia,” June 19, 1958, INR-Indonesia I 1958, INR Subject Files, Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

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same reason, Nasution was “equally and unalterably opposed to [a] Moslem state which would violate principles Pantjasila. This was [an] old-fashioned concept,” he said, and while “[i]t might have been all right 500 years ago in [the] period [of] absolute monarchies,” that was no longer the case. Nasution told Jones that “he knew Natsir intimately. They had worked together during revolution but he had never been able to subscribe to Natsir’s philosophy.”131

General Nasution, in short, had in abundance the characteristics of a “good”

Muslim. As the Eisenhower reevaluated its relationship with the Indonesian Army, the

New York Times described Nasution, newly appointed as Minister of Security and

Defense, as neither anti-Communist nor pro-American, but pro-Indonesian—and, thus, as

“an Indonesian Reds Hate.”132 It also did not hurt, the Times profile pointed out, that

Nasution “has a deep belief in Islam.” He would even “occasionally …call a break in a staff meeting if it is time to turn toward Mecca and pray.”133 Yet Nasution had also vowed that no religious (or military, or other political) force would take over the government on his watch. He seemed to endorse a separation of religion and politics close, if not identical, to Western ideas about the secular nation-state. He supported, for instance, the

“propagation of doctrinaire Muslim religious beliefs and ritual among armed services personnel as a means of assuring a common ethical and moral guide and standard of behavior”—but not as the foundation of the state.134

131 Embtel 4116, Djakarta to State, May 8, 1958, 756D.00/5-858, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

132 “An Indonesian Reds Hate: Abdul Haris Nasution,” New York Times, July 11, 1959, ProQuest.

133 “An Indonesian Reds Hate.”

134 Federspiel, “The Military and Islam in Sukarno’s Indonesia,” 410. One cannot help but think of Eisenhower and other high-ranking administration officials’ support for the American Legion’s “Back to God” program.

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***

In September 1958, Dr. S.M. Rasjid wrote to President Eisenhower: “We must frankly admit that the U.S. wavering attitude towards Indonesia in trying to be friendly with Sukarno-Djuanda-Nasution, is very disappointing to all the leaders of the P.R.R.I.”

Rasjid, a representative of the PRRI in Europe, reiterated the PRRI’s anti-communist position, and noted that they continued the fight against Sukarno’s forces in Sumatra and

Sulawesi, despite the “terrible odds [of] guerilla warfare.”135 In October, when the French government received a request for weapons from another PRRI representative in Europe, the U.S. Embassy in Paris requested guidance on how to respond to inquiries about the

United States’ position on the rebellion.136 Secretary Dulles replied that Embassy officials should communicate informally to the French that the U.S. government “is not permitting the sale of United States military equipment and supplies to the Indonesian rebels and believes that such assistance to the rebel faction would not serve the best interests of the

Free World.” In addition, as the French government was already aware, the Eisenhower administration had reached an agreement with the Sukarno government in August to provide equipment to the Indonesian military: “This support is designed primarily to strengthen the hand of the Indonesian Army which the United States views as the only major force in Indonesia which might control Communism in that country.”137

135 Letter, Dr. S.M. Rasjid to President Eisenhower, September 25, 1958, 756D.00/9-2558, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

136 Foreign Service Despatch 615, Paris to State, October 7, 1958, 756D.00/10-758, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

137 Department of State Instruction 1668, Secretary Dulles to American Embassy, Paris (Rpt Info: Djakarta, Saigon), October 17, 1958, 756D.00/10-1758, CDF 1955-59, RG 59, NACP.

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This chapter has examined how officials involved in constructing U.S. policy toward Indonesia during the Eisenhower administration interpreted the role of Islam in

Indonesian state and society, and the extent to which particular assumptions were consequential for decision-making. Throughout 1957, as U.S. officials evaluated their options to respond to both Sukarno’s guided democracy and the burgeoning regional rebellions in Indonesia, analyses frequently emphasized the relevance of, or assumed the persistence of, Islam—not simply as an integral part of Indonesian culture, but as an influential, even dominant, socio-political dynamic. While religion was not the primary driver of U.S. foreign policy, this framework helped to guide their willingness to engage with, tacitly support, and sometimes directly aid particular Islamic groups or their affiliates. The emphasis decision-makers placed on the communist threat led them to overestimate the ability of the rebels to mobilize their fellow Indonesians—including the presumptive majority of “good Muslims”—and to underestimate the relevance of other grievances against the government.

Within months of the declaration of the PRRI, however, the United States had reassessed its support for the regional rebellions, withdrawing its military assistance in

May 1958. By then, PRRI forces in Sumatra had been reduced to guerrilla warfare, and by June, the Permesta rebels found themselves on the losing end against the more powerful Indonesian Army. As the Eisenhower administration reevaluated its support for the regional rebellions, most U.S. officials did not so much relinquish their perceptions about the role of Islam in Indonesian society, including its anti-communist potential, as they reformulated their understanding of its utility. After the PRRI rebellion collapsed,

Masyumi and its erstwhile leaders were seen as compromised by both U.S. officials and

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some Indonesians, rather than as potential partners in the fight against Indonesia’s leftward drift. When Sukarno dissolved Masyumi in September 1960, Nahdlatul Ulama was left as the largest mainstream Islamic political party in Indonesia and, intent on maintaining a role in the government, the NU’s national leaders mostly accommodated

Sukarno in the coming years.

In the midst of the reformulation of U.S. strategy, the PRRI’s civilian leaders and their remaining supporters came increasingly to understand “their cause [as] completely just and in tune with God’s will,” to depict it as a “struggle…largely between good and evil,” and to make “open religious appeals,” especially to Islam, despite their initial reluctance to do so, so as not to alienate their Permesta Christian allies in Sulawesi.138 As the areas under PRRI control dwindled, Natsir and Sjafruddin began courting Darul

Islam leaders again, including in Aceh and South Sulawesi. The outreach occurred in the context of deliberations over whether to rethink the movement’s objectives, and move toward creating a new, federal state. Over the course of 1959, PRRI civilian leaders drafted a constitution, and on February 8, 1960, they declared the establishment of the

Republik Persatuan Indonesia (RPI, Federal Republic of Indonesia) in Bonjol, West

Sumatra. The RPI was to consist of ten states, all outside of Java, each of which was free to choose its own form of government. Aceh and South Sulawesi, for example, were allowed to adopt the status of “Islamic republics.” RPI leaders also acceded to Daud

138 Kahin, Islam, Nationalism and Democracy: A Political Biography of Mohammad Natsir, 132 (quoted); Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 80–81.

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Beureu’eh’s demand that Aceh be permitted to govern itself according to Islamic law, over the objections of Colonel Simbolon.139

The evolution of the PRRI’s appeals to Islam is somewhat ironic in its timing.

The presumed intractability between Muslims and communists, which had characterized many Eisenhower administration officials’ understanding of resentment in the outer islands, came increasingly to characterize the PRRI’s rhetoric, while the United States shifted its anti-communist strategy away from covert support to the rebels and toward building closer relations with the Indonesian Army. Audrey Kahin has observed that

Mohammad Natsir, in particular, began to see the conflict between the PRRI and the central government “in less nuanced terms than previously, viewing his opponents as guilty of destroying the ideals for which he and his fellow Indonesians had fought in the independence struggle.”140 Despite his earlier statements that Sukarno was not a communist, Natsir became increasingly convinced throughout 1958 that the Indonesian president’s actions betrayed him as an instrument of the PKI and its sympathizers, a belief that only hardened in 1959 as the Indonesian Army appointed leftist officials to administrative positions vacated by PRRI supporters who had either fled or joined the guerrillas.141

139 On Sumatra, the states were to include an Islamic Republic of Aceh, Tapanuli/East Sumatra (North Sumatra), West Sumatra, Riau, Jambi, and South Sumatra; on Sulawesi, they included North Sulawesi, an Islamic Republic of South Sulawesi, North Maluku, and South Maluku. According to Amal, the choice of Bonjol had a strategic purpose, because an Imam Bonjol had once launched a “holy war” against the Dutch colonists there, and the RPI leaders hoped the selection would inspire supporters to see their fight against “Javanese colonials” in a similar light. Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 83; Kahin, Rebellion to Integration, 221–25; Kahin, Islam, Nationalism and Democracy: A Political Biography of Mohammad Natsir, 136–37; Sjamsuddin, The Republican Revolt, 297.

140 Kahin, Islam, Nationalism and Democracy: A Political Biography of Mohammad Natsir, 132.

141 Kahin, 130, 132–34.

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Meanwhile, the PRRI’s military commanders grew increasingly frustrated with the movement. They remained opposed to Sukarno’s willingness to coexist with the PKI, but opposed the creation of the RPI, particularly its openness to cooperate with and even concede to the demands of Darul Islam affiliates. Opposition was especially high among military officers who hailed from majority Christian populations, such as the Bataks of

Sumatra and the Minahasans of North Sulawesi. Nazaruddin Sjamsuddin has characterized the later tensions among PRRI leaders as a “division between advocates of secularism and theocracy,” however, more than an inter-religious conflict between

Christianity and Islam. After all, proponents of a non-Islamic state argued, adherents to different religious traditions could coexist under the principles enumerated in

Pancasila.142

A December 1958 Time magazine profile echoed the sentiments circulating in

U.S. government agencies about General Nasution’s appeal. Under his leadership,

Nasution said, the Army “‘will take the middle way,’” and work to protect the state from attacks by both right- and left-wing forces.143 When he visited Washington, D.C., in the summer of 1958, Nasution had begun to develop ties with then-Army Chief of Staff

General Maxwell Taylor, who went on to serve in both the Kennedy and Johnson administrations as Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff.144 By the end of 1958, a U.S. military assistance program for Indonesia had been approved, and Sukarno expressed his

142 Sjamsuddin, The Republican Revolt, 297-298 (quoted); Kahin, Islam, Nationalism and Democracy: A Political Biography of Mohammad Natsir, 137–38.

143 “The Army’s ‘Middle Way,’” Time 72, no. 25 (December 22, 1958): 27, ProQuest.

144 Evans, “The Influence of the United States Army on the Development of the Indonesian Army (1954-1964),” 31–33.

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gratitude for improved relations.145 By January 1959, the NSC had approved the continuation and growth of the Token Military Aid Program, as well as new guidelines for U.S.-Indonesian relations. NSC 5901 replaced the Ad Hoc Interdepartmental

Committee’s Special Report on Indonesia, which had, an NSC staffer said, “caused the

U.S. to favor the outlying islands at the expense of the central government. The central government, largely as a result of the posture and attitude of the Army Chief of Staff,

General Nasution, now appears to offer the best prospects for realizing U.S. objectives in

Indonesia.” 146

145 Weekly Activity Report, OCB, November 24, 1958, “OCB 319.1 Activity Report (File #4) (2),” Box 9, OCB Secretariat Series, NSC Staff Papers, WHOF, DDEPL.

146 Memo, National Security Council, January 29, 1959, and Briefing Note for NSC Meeting 1/29/59, “395th Meeting of NSC, January 26, 1959,” Box 11, DDE Papers as President, NSC Series, DDEPL.

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CHAPTER 3:

WHITHER RELIGION? 1961-1965

In February 1961, recently inaugurated President John F. Kennedy spoke at the dedication breakfast of the International Christian Leadership, Inc., a nondenominational group of laypersons, at the Mayflower Hotel in Washington, D.C. Rev. Dr. Billy Graham and several members of Congress were also in attendance. In an assessment not unlike those found in the early Eisenhower administration, Kennedy told the audience that, during this current “time of trial,” Americans would need “to call upon our great reservoir of spiritual resources,” grounded in a principled tradition not only of “religious freedom,” but also “religious conviction.”1 Such statements were atypical of the Kennedy administration’s overall approach to foreign affairs. The new president also kept references to his own faith vague—unsurprising for a man whose advisors had formed a

Committee on Community Relations at his presidential campaign headquarters “to work on neutralizing the religious issue,” namely, the ongoing questions about the relationship of candidate Kennedy’s Catholic faith to his political decision-making, which persisted throughout his presidential campaign.2

1 “Remarks of the President at the Dedication Breakfast, International Christian Leadership, Inc.,” Office of the White House Press Secretary, February 9, 1961, Speech Files, President’s Office Files (POF), Papers of John F. Kennedy, Presidential Papers (JFK Presidential Papers), John F. Kennedy Presidential Library (JFKPL). Digital Identifier: JFKPOF-034-005.

2 “TCS” most likely refers to then-staff assistant and speechwriter Theodore “Ted” Chaikin Sorensen. Sorensen went on to serve as Special Counsel to President Kennedy and remained his primary

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Even before Kennedy announced his intention to run for president, the junior senator from Massachusetts fielded questions from constituents and non-constituents alike asking him to clarify his thinking on religious freedom and the Catholic Church. “I have never felt,” one constituent wrote, “that freedom of religion and Catholicism were synonymous. Rather, I have felt Catholicism is a totalitarian form of government.”

Senator Kennedy had recently challenged that view in a television broadcast appearance, when he stated that as a Catholic, he embraced “freedom of religion.” If true, Mrs. Earl

M. Brennan continued, she would be open to his eventual candidacy for president, for he seemed to possess the necessary intellect and “bigness of mind” to lead the country.3

Kennedy assured Mrs. Brennan that he believed wholeheartedly that “[e]very human being is entitled to worship or not to worship as he pleases in accordance with the dictates of his own intellect and will,” a position that he deemed “consistent with the teachings of the Catholic Church.”4 And, he continued, he firmly believed “that our [the United

States’] religious and cultural pluralism has been over the years one of our principal sources of strength.”5

speechwriter. “Memorandum on the Religious Issue,” TCS, August 15, 1960, Religion, Press Secretary’s Subject File, 1960, Speeches and the Press, Presidential Campaign Files, 1960 (PCF), Papers of John F. Kennedy, Pre-Presidential Papers (JFK Pre-Presidential Papers), JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKCAMP1960-1049-019.

3 Letter, Mrs. Earl M. Brennan to John F. Kennedy, May 13, 1957, Correspondence: General: 6 September 1956-31 November 1957, Religious Issue Files, 1956-59, Issues, PCF, JFK Pre-Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKCAMP1960-0998-002.

4 Letter, Kennedy to Mrs. Brennan, June 11, 1957, Correspondence: General: 6 September 1956- 31 November 1957, Religious Issue Files, 1956-59, Issues, PCF, JFK Pre-Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKCAMP1960-0998-002.

5 Letter, Kennedy to Mrs. Brennan, June 11, 1957, JFKCAMP1960-0998-002.

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Kennedy and his staff continued to address such questions throughout the 1960 election season, while simultaneously working to downplay the issue of religion. The

Democratic National Committee (DNC) distributed a pamphlet including a series of oft- asked questions, and President Kennedy’s answers, about his views on everything from the separation of church and state, to government aid for parochial schools, to birth control, to the proper role of the Catholic Church in the United States and across the globe.6 The Committee on Community Relations (CCR) closely monitored polling on

Americans’ willingness to vote for a Catholic candidate for president. It also coordinated communication with a campaign staff in the field, and worked with local, state, and national religious organizations and publications to tackle ongoing misperceptions, especially among Protestants, about Kennedy’s views.7

In September 1960, for instance, Francis P. Miller, a Rhodes Scholar, a veteran of

World Wars I and II, and a former Democratic member of the Virginia House of

Delegates (1938-1941), notified the CCR’s James Wine that he planned to circulate to the

Virginia press a statement on religious liberty and the 1960 election campaign.8 “One hundred churchmen and scholars” (at least nine women were among the signatories) had signed the statement, including “fifty-five Protestants, twenty-nine Roman Catholics, one

6 Pamphlet titled “Memorandum,” Democratic National Committee, undated, News clippings, 1960: February-October, JFK Campaign Files, 1959-1960, James Wine Personal Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JWPP-001-003.

7 “Memorandum on the Religious Issue,” TCS, August 15, 1960, JFKCAMP1960-1049-019.

8 Miller, himself the son and grandson of Presbyterian clergy, told Wine that, “We could not have a better list of signers in this State [Virginia].” Letter, Francis P. Miller to James W. Wine, September 28, 1960, Correspondence: No answer (4 of 10), Issues, PCF, Religious Issue Files of James Wine, 1960, JFK Pre-Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKCAMP1960-1014-004; see also Martin Weil, “Francis Pickens Miller Dies at Age 83, Father of Va. Senatorial Nominee,” Washington Post, August 4, 1978, sec. Metro, B6, ProQuest.

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Greek Orthodox, and fifteen of the Jewish faith.” The signatories asserted their commitment to the U.S. Constitution’s provision proscribing any “‘religious test’” for public office, and affirmed religious liberty as “basic, both historically and philosophically, to all our liberties.” In the 1960 election campaign, the statement claimed, “we face a real and inescapable challenge with respect to the relation between a man’s religion and the responsibility of the nation’s highest elective office.” Although it did not mention Kennedy by name, the statement urged members of the religious communities not to cast their votes based on candidates’ religious affiliation, “a vicious practice and repugnant to all honorable Americans to set class against class, race against race, and religion against religion.” Instead, the signatories called on the faithful to base their votes on “true and vital grounds and issues” and “on the candidates’ whole character and record.”9

In November 1960 Kennedy became the first non-Protestant to be elected president. While he could not avoid the issue entirely, he had “deliberately deemphasized religion’s role in politics and foreign policy” during the campaign, and he continued this approach throughout much of his presidency.10 The downplaying of religion did not result only from Kennedy’s efforts to assuage those who feared his loyalties would lie with the

Vatican. In the turbulent 1960s, Andrew Preston writes, whatever their personal belief systems may have been, foreign policy officials’ “application of private faith to public

9 Leaflet, “A Statement on Religious Liberty in Relation to the 1960 National Campaign,” undated, enclosure to Letter, Miller to Wine, September 28, 1960, JFKCAMP1960-1014-004. A foreword notes that the signed statement was initially released on September 12, 1960, and that it was “widely publicized in newspapers and other periodicals,” before being printed in leaflet form for further use.

10 Preston, “Globalized Faith, Radicalized Religion, and the Domestic Sources of U.S. Foreign Policy,” 263.

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life was imperceptible,” a phenomenon that persisted from the Kennedy years into the administration of his successor, President Lyndon B. Johnson. “In a technocratic age,”

Preston continues, in which social scientific theories of modernization and development dominated, “it was simply assumed that religion was an antediluvian force and had no solution to the problems of modern world politics.” A “secularization policy” bridged the two administrations, as President Johnson retained many of Kennedy’s foreign affairs and national security staff.11

Preston’s assessment is, of course, broadly accurate. The demotion of what the

Eisenhower administration had referred to as “the religious factor” in foreign affairs manifested in practice and in principle in the turn toward modernization. The modernizing agenda operated within a Western, secularist paradigm that viewed

“traditional” religion as inevitably receding in the modern nation-state. During this period, modernization theory functioned in U.S. policymaking as both an interpretive lens and a political and economic project. As Mark Berger puts it, the theories that gained traction were those seen as able, directly or indirectly, to help the U.S. government to facilitate the development of anti-communist ideas and, ultimately, the establishment of anti-communist national political systems.12 For U.S.-Indonesian relations during the

Kennedy and Johnson years, this meant a combination of economic and military assistance programs, targeted especially toward Indonesia’s rural population, and the forging of ever-closer ties with the Indonesian Army, which came to be seen as the

11 Preston, 263.

12 Berger, “Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-Building,” 422. Often, scholars who did not promote such theories were marginalized: George Kahin, upon questioning the United States’ focus on “guerrilla communism,” found his seminal work on Indonesian nationalism prohibited reading among U.S. embassy staff in Jakarta (432-33).

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primary vehicle of modernization. The Kennedy and Johnson administrations did not, in the main, privilege partnering with religious actors.

Yet a largely secularist outlook did not mean the “absence” of religion in foreign affairs. This chapter examines the extent to which U.S. policymakers in the 1960s understood and evaluated the role of religion and religious actors in their analyses of

U.S.-Indonesian relations. U.S. policymakers’ understanding of the role of religion— sometimes nuanced, sometimes not—in Indonesian state and society continued to inform the Kennedy and Johnson administrations’ assessments of the major domestic issues facing Indonesia, as well as Indonesia’s relationship with its neighbors and the international community. The U.S. Embassy observed Indonesians’ continued negotiation of the relationship between nationalism, religion, and communism, as well as President

Sukarno’s efforts to maintain an increasingly tenuous equilibrium in national politics between the (nationalist) Army, the remaining religious political parties, and the PKI.

U.S. officials also monitored new manifestations of old antagonisms, such as the unilateral, PKI-led land reform campaign in parts of Java, which affected wealthy, landowning santri13—many of whom supported the NU and had begun to build closer relations with the Indonesian Army. And when Sukarno appeared increasingly to cater to the PKI—especially at the expense of their allies in the Indonesian Army—some U.S.

13 The term santri originally referred to a student of religion, but after the publication of Clifford Geertz’s ethnographic study of Islam in East Java, it became associated with the sociocultural group of “pious” or “orthodox” Muslims, that is, those Muslims who practice Islam with little or no influence from pre-Islamic Javanese tradition. The term is now often used outside of the East Javanese context of Geertz’s work in ways that can be problematic if used to generalize about all “orthodox” Muslims in Indonesia, who are, of course, a diverse population. Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 382.

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officials revisited assumptions about the incompatibility of Islam and communism, and recommended maintaining or reestablishing links with Muslim contacts.

Moreover, religion was not absent from ideas about modernization circulating within Indonesia itself. Nor were Indonesian Army officers, the United States’ primary modernizing partners, anti-religious or non-religious figures.14 And while President

Sukarno promoted a nationalist identity and led the government in the direction of a secular state, the charismatic leader of the Indonesian revolution and champion of the non-aligned movement was keenly aware of the continued potency of Islam as a feature of Indonesian society, as well as its capacity for building unity among Muslim majority countries.15 In short, even during the height of the influence of modernization theories, neither U.S. nor Indonesian officials subscribed to, or indeed promoted, a purely secularist outlook.

Modernization in Southeast Asia: From Scholarship to Policy-making

While shaped by longer-standing ideological commitments, Western ideas about modernization—understood as both “an intellectual agenda and set of policies and

14 Federspiel, “The Military and Islam in Sukarno’s Indonesia.”

15 Dale Eickelman and James Piscatori urge scholars to be attentive to Islam as a “language of politics,” as well as to the “politics of language” in the Muslim world. Multiple interpretations of Islam exist both within and across national boundaries; but there are also shared symbols and expressions that endow it with a particular resonance among diverse populations. At the same time, the use, and the utility, of "Muslim politics" varies. For example, Islamic terms may be used especially during times of upheaval, or as Scott Hibbard has shown, state actors may bestow legitimacy on particular interpretations of religion as part of a strategy to consolidate authority or maintain power. Dale F. Eickelman and James Piscatori, Muslim Politics (Princeton, N.J.: Princeton University Press, 2004), 12; Scott W. Hibbard, Religious Politics and Secular States: Egypt, India and the United States (Baltimore, Md.: Johns Hopkins University Press, 2010); see also Rizal Sukma, Islam in Indonesian Foreign Policy (London; New York: Routledge Curzon, 2003), 4–5.

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practices”—cohered into particular theories and flourished in both academic and policy circles during the height of the Cold War. Southeast Asia was considered an especially relevant area of study.16 The Kennedy and Johnson administrations, especially, are known for welcoming social scientists into government agencies as both staff and advisors, and for their enthusiastic embrace of modernization theorists and theory. But ideas associated with emergent strands of modernization theory had already begun circulating among government agencies in the waning years of the Eisenhower era, particularly within the

State Department and the National Security Council (NSC).17 By the late 1950s, for example, the Bureau of Intelligence and Research (INR), located in the State Department, had begun compiling two lists per year of social science research on global regions—one list of works in progress (spring), and one list of works recently completed (fall)—using information provided by U.S. scholars. The lists, which were catalogued and made available to government officials, included a number of works representative of the modernization theories beginning to emanate from U.S. academic circles.18

An October 1958 list on the Middle East included Daniel Lerner’s seminal work,

The Passing of Traditional Society: Modernizing the Middle East.19 A trained sociologist,

16 Engerman and Unger, “Introduction,” 375, footnote 3 (quoted); Berger, “Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-Building.”

17 Gilman, Mandarins of the Future, 175; 179; 229.

18 For a description of this compilation process, see the introductory page to “External Research: A Listing of Recently Completed Studies, Southeast Asia,” External Research Staff, INR Office of Intelligence Research and Analysis, October 1957, “Asia #30 (1),” Box 9, U.S. President’s Committee on Information Activities Abroad (PCIAA) Records, 1959-61, DDEPL.

19 “External Research: A List of Recently Completed Studies, Middle East,” Division of External Research and Publications, INR Office of Intelligence Research and Analysis, October 1958, “Middle East #36 (2),” Box 10, PCIAA Records, DDEPL.

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Lerner had been a member of the U.S. Army’s Psychological Warfare Division during

World War II. After the war, he turned his attention to communications studies, and became a professor of sociology and international communication at MIT’s Center for

International Studies (CENIS). The Passing of Traditional Society, published in 1958 as a joint research project between CENIS and the Bureau of Applied Society Research at

Columbia University, is usually considered the first explicit articulation of a process termed “modernization” by an American social scientist.20 Mass communication, Lerner argued, would increase contact with Western ideas, commodities, and technologies in

Middle Eastern societies. This exposure was key to creating “empathy,” or “the capacity to see oneself in the other fellow’s situation,” which would in turn facilitate the transition from “tradition” to “modernity.”21 While his analysis focused on the Middle East, Lerner did note that “there are more Muslims in Indonesia alone than in all Arab countries together,” and cautioned his readers that “[t]o speak of this enormous population spread over the earth’s surface as a unified ‘Muslim world’ is, on practically any issue of current world politics, simply wishful.”22 Still, Islam would be “‘absolutely defenseless’” against the coming tide of change. Lerner included Islam in the category of tradition, understood as irrational and therefore not conducive to the social, economic, and political change envisaged by modernization. In the choice between “Mecca and mechanization,” and in

20 Gilman, Mandarins of the Future, 171.

21 Daniel Lerner, The Passing of Traditional Society: Modernizing the Middle East (Glencoe, IL: The Free Press, 1958), 50 (quoted); Gilman, Mandarins of the Future, 171–73.

22 Lerner, The Passing of Traditional Society, 404.

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order to progress toward (U.S.-style) modernity, the secular must replace the sacred, and religion would be separate from politics.23

The INR’s social science research lists also included works by scholars who went on to become staff members or consultants in both the Kennedy and Johnson administrations. The Fall 1957 lists on Asia and Southeast Asia included Lucian Pye’s

Guerrilla Communism in Malaya; Walt Rostow’s Essays on Communism in Asia, published by CENIS; three works by Clifford Geertz, including two articles, “The

Development of the Javanese Economy: a Socio-cultural Approach” and “Religious

Belief and Economic Behavior in a Central Javanese Town,” and a book, The Social

Context of Economic Change: an Indonesian Case Study; and several works by Guy

Pauker, including a paper on Research Problems in Southeast Asia, from an SSRC conference on comparative politics in 1956, and a pamphlet titled “Where is Indonesia

Going?”24

Lucian Pye, like Daniel Lerner, understood societies in the developing world as being “in transition,” and sought to investigate the appeal of communism to the populations of decolonizing nation-states. The son of missionaries, Pye had grown up and

23 Lerner, 43-47 (first quote, 45); 405 (second quote); As Lockman has shown, in the first half of the 20th century, Western scholarship on “Islamic civilization” and “the Orient” often took a universal set of beliefs and practices among Muslims as its starting point, minimizing historical experience and local particularities. In some ways, the rise of modernization theory and the social sciences in the United States helped to distinguish U.S. scholarship from older forms of orientalist study that framed the wider so-called “Muslim world” as static or monolithic. Even as they retained assumptions about the singularity of civilizations (or particular tribal, ethnic, or religious groups), and how to make “them” more like “us,” many social scientists focused on change—universal and linear though it was—rather than stagnation. Lockman, Contending Visions of the Middle East, 140.

24 “External Research: A Listing of Recently Completed Studies, Southeast Asia,” External Research Staff, INR Office of Intelligence Research and Analysis, October 1957; and “External Research: A Listing of Recently Completed Studies, Far East and Asia General,” External Research Staff, INR Office of Intelligence Research and Analysis, October 1957, “Asia #30 (1),” Box 9, PCIAA Records, DDEPL.

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attended school in China, before earning a graduate degree in political science at Yale

University. He joined CENIS in 1956, having recently published his work on guerrilla communism in what was then the Federation of Malaya, still a British protectorate. Pye found that the psychological stress caused by the loss of “‘traditional way of life’” as societies began rapidly to modernize contributed to the turn toward insurgency and communism. Thus, while he was somewhat sympathetic to communism’s appeal, he also attributed its resonance to a psychological disruption, and not to a true ideological commitment to communist principles.25

Pye’s conclusions are evocative of similar ideas put forth by some U.S. journalists and policymakers concerning Indonesia in the 1950s (as shown in Chapters 1 and 2), and such interpretations persisted into the 1960s. As we will see, these observers viewed a certain segment of the Indonesian population, especially peasants, as willing to join the

PKI for the purported benefits it could provide to rural society as it transitioned to modernity; for this reason, the narrative went, the population was willing to overlook (or, often, unable to understand) Marxist ideology’s alleged incompatibility with their dominant religious identity as Muslims. Pye also conducted extensive research on the process of collective identity formation in postcolonial nation-states. Part of the transition to modernity, he argued, included the formation of a coherent national identity or character. But here, too, the populations of decolonizing Southeast Asian states could be vulnerable to communism’s collectivism; it therefore was important to cultivate a sense of individual identity as well, within the nation-state. In a study on Burma, for example,

Pye contended that the only way transitional societies could progress toward modernity

25 Gilman, Mandarins of the Future, 70; 167-169 (quote from 168).

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would be if they accepted not only new forms of collective identities, but also developed a regard for individual identities. In short, change at the national level had to take place in tandem with personal change, which included the gradual shedding of allegiances to identity groups—ethnic, religious, racial—other than the nation-state.26

During the Kennedy era, Pye taught courses in counterinsurgency theory for the

State Department, and he advised the newly established U.S. Agency for International

Development (AID). His research provided the conceptual grounding of the Kennedy administration’s counterinsurgency strategy, which recognized the need to build nationalism and “appealing national institutions” from the ground up in order to lessen the appeal of communism.27 Scholars like Pye had a more “culturalist” understanding of the development and modernization process, as opposed to other prominent Kennedy administration officials like Walt Rostow, who put forth a more materialist understanding.28 Rostow published what many consider the pinnacle of economic-led modernization theory, The Stages of Economic Growth: A Non-Communist Manifesto in

1960. He left CENIS to serve first as Kennedy’s Deputy National Security Advisor

(January 20-December 4, 1961), and then as his Director of Policy Planning, overseeing the State Department’s influential Policy Planning Staff (S/P), a position he retained in the Johnson administration until becoming the National Security Advisor in April 1966.29

26 Berger, “Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-Building,” 434–35; Gilman, Mandarins of the Future, 170.

27 Latham, Modernization as Ideology, 7; 177–78.

28 Gilman, Mandarins of the Future, 94.

29 Gilman, 191–202. Rostow essentially developed a five-stage theory of historical change (not unlike the Marxian approach he opposed), a well-defined process through which all countries would pass.

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One who shared Pye’s culturalist approach, however, was anthropologist Clifford

Geertz. While Geertz was attentive to ethnic and other identities, he also tended in his earlier work to see such differences in culture or religion as fixed, rather than changing over time.30 In the early 1960s, while working with the Committee for the Comparative

Study of New Nations at the University of Chicago, Geertz penned an essay on “The

Integrative Revolution: Primordial Sentiments and Civil Politics in the New States” of

Africa and Asia. He explored whether “‘primordial’ loyalties”—to region, to religion, to language—were surmountable obstacles in the integration of disparate identities into a single national identity in new states. He referred to Indonesia, for example, as “‘an almost classic case of integrative failure,’” characterized primarily in terms of regional discontent in which two leading political figures, Sukarno and Mohammad Hatta, had come to “supplemen[t] one another not politically but primordially.” As Geertz saw it:

Sukarno summed up the syncretic high culture of the elusive Javanese; Hatta, the Islamic mercantilism of the less subtle Outer Islanders. The major political parties—particularly the Communists, fusing Marxist ideology with traditional Javanese ‘folk religion,’ and the Moslem Masjumi, which having gained nearly half of its popular vote in the more orthodox regions outside Java became their major spokesman—aligned themselves accordingly.”31

Because modernization theory was intimately linked to the liberal intellectual project of building a secular, progressive state—initially through economic aid

The stages were: the traditional society, the preconditions for take-off, the take-off, the drive to maturity, and the age of high mass consumption.

30 Berger, “Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-Building,” 435.

31 Clifford Geertz, “The Integrative Revolution: Primordial Sentiments and Civil Politics in the New States,” in Old Societies and New States: The Quest for Modernity in Asia and Africa, ed. Clifford Geertz (Glencoe, IL: The Free Press, 1963), 130–33; quoted 132-33; Berger, “Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-Building,” 435–36.

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programs—it was open to the kind of conservative critique put forth by scholars like Guy

Pauker. A founding member in 1954 of the Social Science Research Council’s (SSRC)

Committee on Comparative Politics, Pauker was among the most prolific Southeast Asia specialists of the Cold War. In 1959, he wrote in an article about the region as a growing

“problem area,” that the “liberal tradition” of the United States made it resistant to cooperating with or advocating for military-led regimes, even at the expense of continued political instability.32 By the 1960s Pauker headed the Asian Section of the Social Science

Division at the Rand Corporation, an influential think tank that frequently produced policy-oriented research papers for the U.S. government. He shunned psychological theories of nation-building, along with the preoccupation of most modernization theorists with social reform and economic development. Instead, he and his colleagues at Rand increasingly advocated for military-led modernization and a “politics of order,” along with shift in emphasis from “constructive counterinsurgency” to “coercive counterinsurgency”—a concept that, while it began on the margins of scholarship, made its way to the heart of the U.S. foreign policy bureaucracy under the Johnson administration.33

32 Berger, “Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-Building,” 441.

33 As noted by both Berger and Simpson, this shift in counterinsurgency approach is discussed in Ron Theodore Robin, The Making of the Cold War Enemy Culture and Politics in the Military-Intellectual Complex (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2003), 189–90; 196; Berger, “Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-Building,” 427; 432; 441; Simpson, Economists with Guns, 43; Samuel Huntington is often associated with the development of the “politics of order” approach. Berger, “Decolonisation, Modernisation and Nation-Building,” 442–43; see, for example, Samuel P. Huntington, The Soldier and the State; the Theory and Politics of Civil-Military Relations (Cambridge, MA: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, 1957); Samuel P. Huntington, Changing Patterns of Military Politics (New York: Free Press of Glencoe, 1962); Samuel P. Huntington, Political Order in Changing Societies (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1968).

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The groundwork for a shift toward military-led modernization in Indonesia was laid as early as the end of the Eisenhower era. As officials lost confidence in the direction of Indonesian democracy under President Sukarno in the late 1950s, and the PKI continued to make inroads across the country, the idea that the Indonesian military could, on the one hand, establish sufficient order to guarantee economic development and, on the other, have the strength to prevent—or put down—a communist takeover, began to gain both intellectual and political credence. In the early 1960s, in addition to providing economic aid, President Kennedy oversaw a dramatic expansion of military and police training for Indonesian officers. He also supported a joint U.S. Army-Indonesian Army civic action program, which U.S. officials envisioned “as a nation building exercise, as a counterinsurgency strategy, and, not incidentally, as a front for covert operations aimed at undermining the PKI.”34 The trend toward promoting military-led modernization in

Indonesia that began during the Kennedy administration intensified during the Johnson years. Influenced by mutually constitutive developments in modernization theory and in

Indonesia’s political landscape—namely, the perception of Sukarno’s leftward drift and the rising fortunes of the PKI—U.S. decision-makers ultimately came to see a military- led regime as “Indonesia’s best hope for long-term economic and political stability.”35

What’s in a (modern) Nation? U.S.-Indonesian Relations, 1961-1962

In April 1956, then-Senator John F. Kennedy spoke at a Town Hall Luncheon in

Los Angeles on the topic of colonialism and U.S. foreign policy. In his remarks, he

34 Simpson, Economists with Guns, 73–75 (quote is from 75).

35 Simpson, 39.

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expressed concern that American prestige was on the decline in decolonizing countries in the Middle East, Africa, and Asia, whose populations perceived that the United States’ support for self-determination and nationalist movements was evident more in its leaders’ rhetoric than in the reality. U.S. security interests, Kennedy said, had since the end of

World War II become entangled with those of European colonial powers, to the chagrin of nationalist leaders in decolonizing countries who expected more from a country that had fought its own war of independence not 200 years earlier. In its efforts to prevent the spread of Soviet communism, the United States found itself linked with Western imperialism; and while those gathered in Los Angeles might have considered Western imperialism better than Soviet totalitarianism, the young senator said, “the sullen hostility of Islam and Asia should make us wonder.”36

Kennedy went on to push back against the likes of Secretary of State John Foster

Dulles and those within the Eisenhower administration who preferred a policy of

“‘neutrality’ on colonial issues.” He claimed instead that the United States could not help but be “directly involved, deeply involved,” even if the territories in question were not

U.S. possessions, because of its “standing in the eyes of the free world.” The United

States was, after all, a country grounded in a “traditional and deeply philosophy of freedom and independence for all peoples everywhere,” a philosophy that Kennedy said the majority of Americans continued to believe in. He therefore urged the nation to declare to its allies and to the world “that—after a reasonable period of transition for self-

36 Remarks of Senator John F. Kennedy, “Colonialism and American Foreign Policy,” Town Hall Luncheon, Los Angeles, CA, April 13, 1956, Colonialism and American Foreign Policy, Town Hall luncheon, Los Angeles, California, 13 April 1956, Speech Files, 1953-1960, Speeches and the Press, Senate Files, JFK Pre-Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKSEN-0895-009.

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determination—this nation will speak out boldly for freedom for all people—whether they are denied that freedom by an iron curtain of tyranny, or by a paper curtain of colonial ties and constitutional manipulations.”37

Not five years later, when Kennedy was sworn in as president in January 1961, one of the first policy challenges facing the young administration was U.S. policy toward both the recently independent countries and the remaining colonial territories of

Southeast Asia. Having seen the failure of the Eisenhower administration’s support for the PRRI and Permesta rebellions firsthand, Ambassador Howard Jones in particular saw the incoming Kennedy administration as an opportunity to shift U.S. relations with

Indonesia in what he viewed as a more constructive direction. The time was ripe, he wrote to the State Department from Jakarta on January 25, 1961, for a reassessment of the situation in Indonesia and a review of U.S. policy. In addition to a continuation of the strategy he had helped usher in at the end of the Eisenhower years—building relationships with anti-communist elements of the Indonesian armed forces, coupled with a program of economic and military assistance that could offset the dramatic increase in

Soviet aid to the islands—Jones urged President Kennedy to forge better relations with

Sukarno himself.38

Jones knew, he wrote, that the Indonesian president did not have a particularly good reputation in the United States: Sukarno “is personally obnoxious to many

Americans, [and] his leftist sympathies make him anathema to some while his moral

37 Remarks of Senator John F. Kennedy, “Colonialism and American Foreign Policy,” Town Hall Luncheon, Los Angeles, CA, April 13, 1956, JFKSEN-0895-009.

38 Embtel 2154, Djakarta to State, January 25, 1961, #6, Indonesia: Security, Sukarno visit, April 1961, Countries, President’s Office Files (POF), JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKPOF-119-004.

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peccadilloes revolt others.” The feeling was mutual, from Sukarno’s perspective. With the CIA’s covert support for the PRRI rebellion still fresh in his memory, plus a hostile

U.S. press and Eisenhower’s repeated rebuffing of invitations to Jakarta, Sukarno (not without reason) “believes we not only do not like him but that we are in fact out to get him.” Mutual distrust or dislike aside, Ambassador Jones was convinced that Sukarno would remain in power for the foreseeable future—“like Nasser and Nehru he is there, and we must learn to live with him as a fact of life.” One way the new administration could begin to repair the damage done to the United States’ relationship with Indonesia during the Eisenhower years, Jones said, was to invite Sukarno to Washington to meet with President Kennedy.39 The visit was set for April 1961, and thus began a cautious relationship between two “regimes in motion,” which shared ideas about progress, despite their oft-conflicting political ideologies.40

Religion and “the New Guinea question”

One of the main topics of conversation between Sukarno and Kennedy when they met in Washington in April 1961 was the issue Jones had placed at the top of his list of objectives for a fresh approach to U.S.-Indonesian relations: “resolution of the New

Guinea question.”41 In addition to complicating U.S.-Dutch relations, the conflict over the last remaining Dutch colonial claim in the region was seen by Jones and others as a boon to PKI recruitment the longer the territory remained in dispute. As early as February, just

39 Embtel 2164, Djakarta to State, January 26, 1961, #7, Indonesia: Security, Sukarno visit, April 1961, Countries, POF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKPOF-119-004.

40 Webster, “Regimes in Motion,” 97, 107.

41 Embtel 2154, Jones to State, January 25, 1961, #6, JFKPOF-119-004.

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a month into the new administration, Robert Johnson had identified the “West New

Guinea (West Irian) Dispute” as “the chief remaining colonial issue in Asia,” and one that could irrevocably damage U.S. “efforts to establish decent working relations with the

Indonesians…unless we meet [them] on this one issue vital to them.”42 Where the

Eisenhower administration had chosen not to engage the issue—against the advice of

Ambassador Jones—senior Kennedy officials placed resolution of the conflict front and center from the earliest days of the administration.43

The dispute over West New Guinea had its origins in the decolonization period.

Upon recognizing Indonesian independence in December 1949, the Netherlands retained the western half of the island of New Guinea—known variously as the Netherlands New

Guinea (to the Dutch), West New Guinea (in the United States), and West Irian or Irian

Jaya (to Indonesians).44 Sukarno had tried to raise the issue with Western governments and at the United Nations over the course of the 1950s, but the Netherlands maintained that West New Guinea was culturally and geographically distinct from the rest of

Indonesia, citing the lack of shared language, religion, and historical experience. Having come under increasing international pressure to relinquish its final colonial territory, the

Dutch government by the early 1960s professed support for the native Papuan population’s right to self-determination—so long as it meant their shepherding the

42 Memorandum, Robert H. Johnson to Robert W. Komer, May 11, 1961, #18; and Report, Multiple Authors, February 10, 1961, #21, “National Security Problems (1961),” Box 438, Robert W. Komer (RWK) Series, National Security Files (NSF) JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL.

43 See, for example, Memorandum, R.H. Johnson to Komer, April 17, 1961, #10; and “Notes on a Conversation with James D. Bell and Robert S. Lindquist, S/SPA, April 15, 1961, in Re Indonesia and the Sukarno Visit,” R.H. Johnson, April 17, 1961, #11, Indonesia, 1961-63: General (3 of 3), RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-423-003.

44 Webster, “Regimes in Motion,” 95, footnote 1; 99.

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territory and its people toward independence, and not the integration of West New

Guinea into Indonesia. This position only hardened in the midst of increasingly embittered relations between the Netherlands and Indonesia.45

Indonesia, meanwhile, staked its claim to West Irian based on its being part of the former Dutch East Indies, the boundaries of which had guided the boundaries of the contemporary state of Indonesia. That the Papuans were viewed by many international observers as a “separate race,” categorized as “black” or as “residents of Melanesia,” did not deter Sukarno.46 Since its founding, the Indonesian state had, he argued, incorporated diverse ethnic groups, languages, religions, and cultures under the auspices of a unified national identity.47 For Sukarno and his supporters, bringing West New Guinea into the

Indonesian fold meant nothing less than “the completion of its revolution,” an outcome that would both consolidate state power and provide an occasion to demonstrate the viability of Indonesian nationalism.48

The competing territorial claims to West New Guinea posed both a geopolitical and, for lack of a better term, a theoretical challenge for observers of Cold War global

45 Memorandum, McGeorge Bundy (President’s Special Assistant for National Security Affairs) to Kennedy, December 1, 1961, Document 205, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 1994), https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961-63v23/d205.

46 “Prewar colonial race scholarship,” Webster writes, “rendered Papuans as residents of Melanesia, in contrast to Indonesia,” which was itself an anthropological term that described “not only the Dutch East Indies but also Malaya, the Philippines, and Madagascar.” Both during and after the colonial period, the Dutch used racial categories to distinguish West New Guinea from Indonesia; and, Papuan leaders took the label as “a marker of difference” in their quest for nationhood, attempting to show a distinct racial identity, despite it being a relatively recent construction. In so doing, they chose not to adopt a more fluid identification with their Indonesian island neighbors. Webster, “Regimes in Motion,” 103–4.

47 Telegram, Mission to the UN to State, September 16, 1961, Document 191, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961-63v23/d191.

48 Simpson, Economists with Guns, 53.

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politics. U.S. policymakers sought to strike a balance between maintaining good relations with their Dutch allies and continuing to cultivate a relationship with Sukarno. Reaching a peaceful settlement over what most policymakers agreed was an inconsequential territory—a “bit of colonial debris,” as NSC staff member Robert Komer once referred to it—was the means to avoiding a regional war that could end in Indonesia’s continued leftward drift toward the Soviet Union. “[W]e have simply got to keep our eye on the object of the exercise,” Komer continued, “which is Indonesia, not WNG.”49 Most officials agreed the issue merited sustained attention, and West New Guinea was a constant on the list of “urgent planning problems” identified by the president’s national security staff.50 For the duration of 1961 and much of 1962, however, they struggled to agree on whether—and if so, by what process—to advocate for the transfer of West New

Guinea to Indonesian control, or to support the Netherlands’ desire to oversee the

Papuans’ preparation for self-government.

The territorial dispute raised questions, for instance, about when, and to whom, the growing international norm of self-determination applied—as well as who was deemed qualified to answer. U.S. decision-makers viewed Papuans as backward, secluded, and largely unprepared for self-governance, and such claims reverberated throughout public discourse on the future of West New Guinea.51 Policymakers pondered

49 Memorandum, Komer to Carl Kaysen, January 15, 1962, “Staff Memoranda Robert Komer 1/62,” Box 322, Meetings and Memoranda Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL.

50 See, e.g., Memorandum, “Urgent Planning Problems,” July 31, 1961, #4 and #4a; and Memorandum, Walt W. Rostow, September 11, 1961, #2 and #2a, “National Security Problems (1961),” Box 438, RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL.

51 Webster, “Regimes in Motion,” 95. As historians like Webster have pointed out--and as evidenced by the Papuan nationalist movement that has lingered into the 21st century--the indigenous population of West New Guinea was ignored in deliberations over their future.

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“the validity of the self-determination principle for West New Guinea,” an area considered to be “150,000 square miles of perhaps the most primitive territory in the world, part of it unexplored mountain jungle-swampland. Most of the estimated 700,000 inhabitants are seminomadic, stone-age, Papuan tribesmen, speaking a couple hundred mutually-unintelligible tongues,” according to one State Department assessment.52 Media representations of West New Guinea also emphasized its rugged landscape and backwards inhabitants, insulated from the outside world, and ill-equipped to take responsibility for their own future. The Wall Street Journal, for instance, referred to West

New Guinea as among “the most forbidding and primitive areas in the world,” an area in which “at least half of [the natives] have never seen a white man” and where “head- hunting and cannibalism survive.”53

As Webster has argued, such perceptions of West Papuans as “a peripheral remnant of the Stone Age, caught in an earlier stage of development” meant that their nationalist claims of self-determination were viewed as illegitimate, even irrelevant, whereas Indonesia, despite its many problems, was understood to be in a higher stage development and therefore had potential for continued progress.54 Indeed, U.S. policymakers turned rhetorical somersaults to reconcile President Kennedy’s professed commitment to third world nationalism with building better relations with Indonesia.

52 Memorandum, R.H. Johnson to McGeorge Bundy, December 18, 1961, Document 215, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961- 63v23/d215 (first quote); Memorandum and Tab A (attachment), Secretary of State Rusk to Kennedy, April 3, 1961, Document 158, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961-63v23/d158 (second quote).

53 Staff Reporter, “Prestige Called Key to Indonesian, Dutch Dispute Over Control of West New Guinea,” Wall Street Journal, December 21, 1961, ProQuest.

54 Webster, “Regimes in Motion,” 97, 121–22, 123 (quoted).

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Robert Johnson, for instance, wrote to Rostow that while supporting Indonesian control of West New Guinea “would flaunt the principle of self-determination, it could be based upon acceptance of the Indonesian principle that WNG was an original part of the Dutch

East Indies and should go to the successor state.”55

This was, in fact, similar to the line of reasoning that Sukarno pursued. While the

Dutch, and some U.S. policymakers, pointed to the lack of shared culture, ethnicity, and in some cases, religion, as the reason the West New Guinea could constitute an independent nation, Sukarno maintained that those characteristics were true throughout

Indonesia—not to mention, in his view, in the United States. “‘Long before the Dutch came,’” Sukarno told Kennedy during their meeting in April 1961, “‘West Irian was

Indonesian territory.’” Kennedy remarked that “the Solomon Islands and New Guinea seemed to be of the same race and shared a common culture and history,” unlike, he implied, New Guinea and Indonesia. When he inquired why Sukarno had “‘such a strong feeling about this territory,’” the Indonesian president replied, “‘Because it is part of our nation. The Dyaks of Kalimantan (Borneo) are also less developed, similar to the

Papuans of West Irian. Hawaii is part of the U.S., but the Hawaiians are another race, the black negroes are another race, the Papuans—yes—they, too, are another race, and so are the Dyaks. But the Dyaks are happy as Indonesians.’”56

55 Memorandum, R.H. Johnson to Rostow, April 18, 1961, Document 166, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961-63v23/d166 (emphasis in original).

56 Memorandum of Conversation, Kennedy and Sukarno, April 24, 1961, Document 172, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961- 63v23/d172.

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The issue of West New Guinea raised questions in the minds of U.S. observers, too, about which characteristics constituted “belonging” to a nation-state. Editorial boards and journalists often included a lack of shared religion as one among many identity-based reasons the Papuans were distinct from the Indonesian neighbors, but the category that received the most attention as a distinguishing factor was race or ethnicity. A New York

Times editorial in November 1961 pointed to the fact that “[t]he Papuans are a people ethnically and culturally different from the Indonesians and their island is geographically and historically distinct from Indonesia” in making an argument for their right to self- determination.57 Writing in the Los Angeles Times, journalist Bill Henry chafed at

Sukarno’s ambition to control West New Guinea, claiming that “the indigenous inhabitants of New Guinea in the main bear little resemblance to those of Indonesia and are, in fact, much more closely related to the native “Blacks” of Australia.”58 The LA

Times’ editorial board also questioned the rumored settlement on West New Guinea by noting that “Indonesia has no valid claim” to the island, whose “natives are not of Malay stock, nor do they have common ties of language, religion or culture with Indonesia.”

Papuan nationalists also portrayed themselves on the international stage as sharing a common identity with Africans, even referring to West New Guinea as “new Africa.”59

The historically African-American Chicago Defender ran a piece on the Papuan National

57 Editorial, “Self-Determination in Papualand,” New York Times, November 13, 1961, ProQuest.

58 Bill Henry, “The Ambitions of Mr. Sukarno,” Los Angeles Times, April 19, 1961, sec. B1, ProQuest.

59 Webster, “Regimes in Motion,” 110–11.

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Committee urging “‘Negroids throughout the world’ to support their desire for self- determination.”60

The attention to ethnic and racial identity reflects, perhaps, that race was a particularly salient feature of the early 1960s, in the context of global anti-colonialism and civil rights movements.61 That the lack of shared religion received less media attention could also reflect a decline in the perception of religion’s importance as a component of national identity, both at home and abroad. In any case, considerations about Islam do not appear to have factored much in the Kennedy administration’s decision-making on West New Guinea; or, perhaps more accurately, differences in religious identity were presented less frequently than differences in racial identity as a potential obstacle for Papuan integration into Indonesia. This apparent decline in the relevance of religion to national identity, as we have seen, was a reflection of an increasingly dominant modernization paradigm in both public and political discourse, which envisaged a trend of secularization that would, in time, transcend religious identities in favor of “citizenship” with in a nation-state.62 One could argue that some

U.S. observers saw Indonesia as unique in this regard, as a predominantly Muslim, but religiously plural and syncretic, modernizing society.

60 “W. New Guinea Begs ‘Negroids’ All Over World For Help,” Chicago Defender (National Edition), April 14, 1962, sec. Exclusive Features, ProQuest.

61 Thomas Borstelmann, The Cold War and the Color Line: American Race Relations in the Global Arena (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2003); Mary L. Dudziak, Cold War Civil Rights: Race and the Image of American Democracy (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2011); Penny M. Von Eschen, Race against Empire: Black Americans and Anticolonialism, 1937-1957 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 1997).

62 Asad, Formations of the Secular, 4–5.

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In 1963 the political affairs section of the U.S. Embassy in Jakarta shared its mostly positive analysis of the rather “remarkable” lack of “officially sanctioned discriminatory practices based on race, religion or place of national origin” in the multi- ethnic, multi-religious nation. While one might expect, the memo continued, “that in a state which is predominantly Muslim, practitioners of other religions would suffer, such is not the case in Indonesia.” The Embassy posited that “[p]erhaps a primary reason for this phenomenon, both officially and in social practice, lies in the basically syncretistic approach which the Indonesians take toward religion.” The memo did express concern about possible friction in the future over Indonesia’s acquisition of West New Guinea, where differences were understood to be more “pronounced, in physiognomy as well as in culture and educational background”—though again not, specifically, with respect to religion.63

Other scholars have discussed in detail the evolution of U.S. involvement in resolving the West New Guinea crisis.64 To summarize, in March 1962, Kennedy dispatched Ambassador Ellsworth Bunker to mediate secret negotiations between

Indonesia and the Netherlands. He proposed a plan, often known as the Bunker formula, that aimed to assure the government of Indonesia that it would oversee the decolonization of West New Guinea, while assuring the Dutch that the Papuans would, in time, have the

63 Airgram 103, Djakarta to State, July 31, 1963, file SOC 14-1 INDON, Central Foreign Policy File (CFPF) 1963, RG 59, NACP.

64 See, e.g., Webster, “Regimes in Motion”; Simpson, Economists with Guns, 44–46; 52–61; Jones, Conflict and Confrontation in South East Asia, 31–60.

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opportunity to exercise an “act of free choice” about their future status.65 After a series of stops and starts, negotiations resumed under the auspices of the United Nations that summer, with the Bunker formula as a basis for the talks.66

A final settlement was reached in August 1962: the UN would administer the territory for seven months, and Indonesia would assume control in May 1963. An act of free choice, overseen by Indonesia, was slated to occur in 1969. The Kennedy administration had, in short, pursued a resolution of the conflict over West New Guinea that it viewed as bolstering its burgeoning relationship with Indonesia, while removing additional anti-Western fodder for the PKI.

Religion and Nationality in the “Federal Republic of Indonesia”

At times, Sukarno and his allies’ justifications for Indonesia’s claim to West New

Guinea opened him to critiques from fellow Indonesians. The former Secretary General of the Ministry of Home Affairs in Indonesia, Soemarman, wrote in a letter to the editor of the New York Times that “as far as Indonesia is concerned, the principle of self- determination, even though a very noble principle, is not the issue here. Indonesia’s claim on Irian Barat is based on her sovereign rights on all territory that, prior to the

65 Telegram, State to U.S. Embassy of the Netherlands, March 29, 1962, Document 254, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961- 63v23/d254.

66 Memorandum, Komer to McGeorge Bundy, May 28, 1962, Document 271, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961-63v23/d271; Memorandum, Rusk to Kennedy, July 10, 1962, Document 274, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961-63v23/d274; Telegram, Djakarta to State, August 3, 1962, Document 285, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961-63v23/d285.

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proclamation of Indonesian independence...was known as the Dutch East Indies.”67 A reader responded to Soemarman’s reasoning with a critical letter, however, writing that the only way “to convince the world” that Sukarno did, in fact, speak for an “Indonesian people” would be to “[l]et the Moluccans, the Sundanese, the Madurese, the Menadonese and many other races in Sumatra and other islands speak for themselves.”68

While deliberations over how to resolve the status of West New Guinea dominated much of the early Kennedy administration’s engagement with Indonesia, detractors of the Sukarno administration within Indonesia began to advocate for self- determination in pursuit of their goals. One such critic of Sukarno was long-time U.S. contact Hasan di Tiro, who went beyond the idea of multiple “races” within Indonesia to contend that twelve distinct “nationalities” existed throughout the archipelago. When

PRRI civilian leaders established the Federal Republic of Indonesia (RPI, Republik

Persatuan Indonesia) in early 1960, di Tiro assumed the position of its ambassador to the

United Nations. In October 1961, he wrote to the Sixteenth United Nations General

Assembly (UNGA) President Mongi Slim on behalf of the RPI in order to bring attention to “the plight and suffering of the Nationalities of the Indonesian archipelago in their struggle to defend their right of self-government against the Javanese neo-colonialism.”69

Di Tiro urged the UN to intervene on behalf of the people of Indonesia by supervising a

67 Soemarman, letter to the editor, “Indonesia’s Claim Backed: New Guinea Is Declared Integral Part of Republic,” New York Times, December 13, 1961, ProQuest.

68 Karel J. V. Nikijuluw, letter to the editor, “Indonesia’s Government: Right to Speak for All Races of Archipelago Challenged,” New York Times, December 23, 1961, ProQuest.

69 Hasan Muhammad Tiro, Neo-Colonialism in Indonesia (How a New Colonialism Has Been Established under Cover of the Cry of “Anti-Colonialism”) (New York, 1961), 1.

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free election that would allow “all the nationalities of Indonesia” to decide for themselves whether to remain part of “the Javanese so-called Republic of Indonesia,” to join the RPI, or to choose another form of government.70 Di Tiro also included an appendix with brief descriptions of the twelve “nationalities” of Indonesia.

It is difficult to assess from these documents alone the extent to which di Tiro and the RPI’s leaders embraced the idea of different nationalities within Indonesia, and their right to self-determination, as a genuine conviction, a political tactic, or a combination thereof; but they do offer a fascinating example of how they chose to depict the varied ethnic and religious composition of the Indonesian archipelago to external audiences during the era of decolonization. Each entry in the appendix includes a list of UN member states with populations equal to or smaller than the Indonesian nationality described, and the descriptions emphasize the nationalities’ particular histories, cultures, languages, and, sometimes, their religions. The Acehnese, for example, were said to have

“their own language, culture, and literature,” as well as an “unbroken independent political history since their ancient Kingdom was first established in 500 A.D.” Now, they had “established their own Islamic Republic of Atjeh” as part of the RPI.71 The majority Hindu Balinese also possessed a unique culture, and “[w]hen Java became

Moslem,” the Balinese welcomed Hindus from Java “who refused to accept Islam.”72 The

Javanese, too, had a rich culture and “a great historic past.” Yet after Indonesian independence they had, on Sukarno’s watch, imposed “Javanese colonialism over the

70 Tiro, 4.

71 Appendix I, Tiro, 1.

72 Appendix I, Tiro, 2.

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other nationalities of Indonesia,” thanks to their numerical majority and military strength.73

Di Tiro’s communication with the UNGA also provides a glimpse of the trajectory of his own views about the future of the Indonesian state since he had first sought asylum in the United States in the mid-1950s. In 1954, when di Tiro announced his role as the official representative abroad of an Islamic Republic of Indonesia, he wrote that after casting off Dutch rule, Indonesians now were battling communism and

“threatened by the colonial rule of Moscow and Peiping”—though not, as he later claimed, by Javanese (neo-) colonialism.74 By early 1958, di Tiro was advocating amendment of the Indonesian Constitution to allow local self-rule, i.e., a federation of states (not separatism), and to declare Islam as the state religion, as the only way to preserve “a united and anti-communist Indonesia.”75 In this context, di Tiro’s endorsement of the RPI’s position on the right to self-determination makes sense—even though he had expressed his doubts about the goals, tactics, and timing of the RPI’s predecessor, the PRRI. By 1961 di Tiro had not relinquished his own commitment to

Islam as the basis for an Indonesian state (or, alternatively, in selected federal states), nor had he abandoned his staunch anti-communism. But in his role as ambassador for the

RPI, he seems to have emphasized ideas about self-determination and anti-colonialism, more than anti-communism, and about nationality, more than religion—a rhetorical, if

73 Appendix I, Tiro, 4–5.

74 Tiro, “Indonesia’s Communism.”

75 Memorandum, Lansdale to Cumming, February 17, 1958; and Memorandum for the Record, “Meeting with TIRO, 14 February 1958,” Col. Lansdale, February 17, 1958, INR-Indonesia I 1958, INR Subject Files, Lot 58D 776, RG 59, NACP.

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not ideological, shift that paralleled changes in both U.S. and international discourse during the 1960s.

Nationalism, Religion, and Communism: Conflict or Coexistence?

In preparation for Sukarno’s April 1961 visit, as senior officials compiled briefing materials for President Kennedy, NSC staffer Robert Johnson shared with Deputy

National Security Advisor Walt Rostow a brief backgrounder on “past U.S. policy toward

Indonesia.” Johnson’s assessment was much as one would expect: in the early and mid-

1950s, he wrote, the U.S. had pinned its hopes on former Vice-President Hatta, on the

Indonesian Socialist Party (PSI), a “pro-West, rational intellectual” party, and on

Masyumi, a “liberal middle class pro-West Moslem party.” With the first excluded from politics, and the latter two banned for their complicity in the U.S.-backed PRRI rebellion, the U.S. had turned to General Nasution and the Indonesian Army as their preferred non- communist partners. The only viable non-communist parties that remained, the PNI and the NU, had largely fallen in line with Sukarno, whose charisma and revolutionary legacy still exercised considerable power over much of Indonesian society—including General

Nasution. Indeed, Sukarno was adept, the memo continued, at appealing to “a deep syncretic tendency in Indonesian culture” through the creation of political philosophies and slogans that “provide an all-encompassing political-ideological umbrella under which he can operate to unite the most diverse political factions.” This included the misspelled

“Pantshila,” which was described simply as an example of this tendency, and one that was “quite devoid of genuine content”—a rather remarkable dismissal of one of the

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foundational, and contested, ideas of the revolutionary era and the modern Indonesian state.76

When Kennedy met with Sukarno and Foreign Minister Subandrio, he asked the

Indonesian president how he could claim with such certainty that Indonesians would ultimately reject communism. Sukarno responded “that Indonesians believed in God.

90% of the people of the country were Moslems. It was impossible for them to accept communism. One could not pray five times a day and still accept communism.”

Subandrio, too, interjected that “‘Communism interprets life in a material way…This is not acceptable to us.’” Sukarno did acknowledge the PKI’s organizational effectiveness—a position U.S. analysts shared—but he claimed that “even within the

PKI, ‘only 10% are Communists; 90% are revolutionary nationalists.’”77

These views expressed by Sukarno and Subandrio resonated with many U.S. policymakers’ views about Indonesians’ true understanding and rejection of communism.

As one Kennedy era interagency report put it, many Indonesians “support or tolerate

Communist activity because they confuse their own nationalist ideals with those of the

Communists.” That the PKI even occupied a “position of respectability in Indonesian political life” was seen as due more to Sukarno’s continued acceptance of the party than

76 Memorandum, R. H. Johnson to Rostow, April 21, 1961, #8; and Attachment, “Past U.S. Policy Toward Indonesia: An Interpretation,” April 20, 1961, #8a (quoted), Indonesia, 1961-63: General (3 of 3), RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-423-003.

77 Memorandum of Conversation between President Kennedy and President Sukarno, April 24, 1961, Document 172, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961-63v23/d172.

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to its rank and file members’ adherence to communist ideals.78 Such characterizations persisted into the Johnson years: “Sukarno’s own Marxist inclinations, largely emotionally based, clearly predominate over those derived from the West or from

Mohammedanism. He appears to consider Indonesian Communists as nationalist first and

Communists second,” a 1964 CIA report said.79 And, the United States’ Indonesian contacts often provided similar assessments. Government minister Chaerul Saleh, for instance, told NSC staffer Michael Forrestal during a visit to Jakarta that the “success of

PKI in [the] past was more indicative of [the] failure of other parties to exercise necessary dynamism and militancy than it was of pro-Communist proclivities of

Indonesian people or government.”80

Despite Sukarno’s and Subandrio’s comments, which implied that as much as

90% of the population would never truly accept communism, by the time of his 1961 meeting with President Kennedy, Sukarno had begun to advocate the concept of

Nasakom as a new state ideology. The acronym derived from nationalism (nasionalisme), religion (agama), and communism (komunisme), and positioned the three as ostensibly equal partners, co-existing in Indonesian state and society—not unlike the formula proposed in Sukarno’s article on “Nationalism, Islam, and Marxism” (as discussed in

78 Enclosure 7, “The Potential for Insurgency in Indonesia,” attachment to Background to Plan of Action for Indonesia (NASM No. 179), October 1962, #9j, Indonesia, 1961-63: General (2 of 3), RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-423-002.

79 Special Report, “The Power Position of Indonesia’s President Sukarno,” CIA Office of Current Intelligence, February 7, 1964, #105, “Indonesia Memos Vol. I,” Box 246, Asia and the Pacific Series (AP Series), Country File (CF), National Security Files (NSF), Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library (LBJPL).

80 Embtel 1567, Djakarta to State, February 12, 1965, #107, “Indonesia Cables Vol. III [2 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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Chapter 1). In remarks provided to the Conference of All Indonesian Functional Writers in Jakarta in March 1964, General Nasution referred to the ideas in Sukarno’s 1926 article as the forerunners to Nasakom, and he urged Indonesian writers to continue to cultivate this “spirit of national unity and eliminate any idea of forming small separate groups.” Doing so, he said, would continue to make the revolution successful.81

Ambassador Jones described Nasakom in the early days of the Kennedy administration as a “symbol for the unity of Moslem, nationalist, and Communist groups.”82 While Kennedy officials did pay attention to the ways that Indonesians employed the concept, they often considered it little more than a slogan, devoid of true ideological content.83 Other observers saw it as a ploy to include representatives from PKI in a “Nasakom cabinet,” or as opening the door to a communist government; “[t]he PKI is a strong and vociferous supporter of President Sukarno’s ‘Nasakom’ principle,” the

Wall Street Journal informed its readers.84 It is true that, politically, Nasakom reflected

Sukarno’s attempt to maintain the precarious balance between the dominant factions competing for political influence from the village level to the national government: the nationalist-led Army, the NU, and the PKI. Moreover, many Indonesians continued to champion Pancasila, which made no mention of communism.85 Still, Nasakom provided

81 Abdul Haris Nasution, “The Role of Culture in a Struggle to Safeguard the Ideology and Policy of the State,” in To Safeguard the Banner of Revolution (Djakarta: C.V. Delegasi, 1964), 43.

82 Telegram, Jones to Department of State, January 25, 1961, Document 144, FRUS, 1961-1963, Volume XXIII, Southeast Asia, https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1961-63v23/d144.

83 Attachment, “Past U.S. Policy Toward Indonesia: An Interpretation,” April 20, 1961, #8a, JFKNSF-423-003.

84 Ronald Stead, “Indonesian Reds Demand Voice,” Christian Science Monitor, February 23, 1963, ProQuest (first quote); Igor Oganesoff, “Restless Reds: Indonesia’s Communists May Push for Control Soon,” Wall Street Journal, May 7, 1963, ProQuest (second quote).

85 Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 286–87; Hefner, Civil Islam, 44.

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another platform for negotiating the role of religion in Indonesian state and society, although one that did not map neatly onto existing Western ideas.

The Nasakom framework proved particularly useful for someone like PKI Party

Chairman D. N. Aidit, who worked to demonstrate to the Indonesian people that religion and communism need not exist in conflict. As Chairman of the Council of Curators and

Visiting Lecturers at the Aliarcham Academy of Social Science, Aidit gave a public lecture on Indonesian socialism to inaugurate the academy’s first academic year in

August 1961. He characterized the speech as a way to provide the Indonesian public with a clear presentation of a Marxist viewpoint on socialism, in general, and on Indonesian socialism, in particular. In it, he invoked the life of H.O.S. Tjokroaminoto, the former leader of Sarekat Islam, as evidence that the “socialist idea” had achieved such a degree of influence among the Indonesian people that even some Islamic leaders “were unwilling to be left out, and raised the banner of ‘socialism.’86

Aidit not only tried to educate his fellow Indonesians about the potential for socialism or communism and religion to peacefully coexist; he also endeavored to communicate this perspective to Americans. Ambassador Jones’ personal papers contain a transcript of an interview conducted with Aidit in December 1961. The interviewer is identified as an American visiting Indonesia as a guest of the National Planning

86 D. N. Aidit, Indonesian Socialism and the Conditions for Its Implementation (JPRS-16014) (Arlington, VA: Joint Publications Research Service, 1962), 1–2, 19-20 (quoted). The lecture, titled “Indonesian Socialism and the Decrees of the MPRS,” was published with some revisions by the academy in March 1962 as “Indonesian Socialism and the Conditions for its Implementation.” It was translated and published by the United States Joint Publications Research Service (JPRS) in November 1962. JPRS was established in March 1957, and during the Cold War it prepared translations of foreign language books, periodicals, and other materials, many of which were related to communism, for use by U.S. government officials. JPRS Reports accessible via: http://www.readex.com/content/joint-publications-research-service- jprs-reports-1957-1995.

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Committee; unfortunately, only his initials—RAS—are found in the transcript.87

Nonetheless, it provides some insight into both the interviewer’s and Aidit’s views on communism and religion. The interviewer wondered, for example, about the compatibility of communism with Pancasila, questioning whether adherence to one meant dismissing tenets of the other. In particular, he asked whether by accepting the doctrine of Pancasila, with its “religious theme,” Aidit necessarily denied Marxism-

Leninism. Aidit responded by emphasizing that “it is precisely because we are Marxists that we accept the Pantja Sila.” He challenged the idea that communism and Pancasila were incompatible, and addressed the religious question, in particular, stating:

As far as Pantja Sila is concerned, especially with respect to its part about God, we agreed to that principle in the framework of all five principles. If you combine the first principle with the other four, Pantja Sila leaves it to all Indonesians to profess whatever religion or…belief they want because in the Pantja Sila there is also the principle of democracy, so that no one can be forced to accept religion.

Aidit continued, by affirming that “we as materialists have to act on the basis of facts, and the fact is that there is indeed a political factor in Indonesia based upon religion. There is also nationalism. There is also Communism. These exist. Therefore, we agree to what is called Na-Sa-Co [Nasakom]—the united working together of

Nationalism, Religion, and Communism for the betterment of the country.”88

Of course, one must consider that Aidit would present the best face of both the

PKI and of Sukarno’s commitment to Nasakom to external audiences; and, it is clear that

87 One possibility is Robert A. Scalapino, a noted scholar of East Asia and professor in the political science department at Berkley since 1949. By the mid-1960s, the State Department had begun to solicit Scalapino’s counsel on U.S.-Asian relations, a role he maintained for much of his life.

88 “Interview with Aidit (Secretary-General of the PKI), December 15, 1961, “Subject File Indonesia Aidit, Dipa N.,” Box 59, HPJ Papers, HIA.

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not all Indonesians, Muslim or otherwise, agreed with the rosy picture of cooperation presented by both Aidit and Sukarno. Still, such conversations provided, to those in the

United States who might be prepared to listen, an alternative conception of a kind of

Indonesia-specific experiment, one in which communist and religious ideologies, while not in agreement, could coexist under the umbrella of Pancasila and a democratic nation- state. It is not clear from Jones’ document, however, that Aidit’s remarks were seen by

U.S. government officials in Washington. Nor it is clear they would have been open to persuasion, consumed as they were by efforts to counter PKI support in Indonesia.

Modernization, Civic Action, and Religion, 1962-1963

The Humphrey Report

When Sukarno met with Kennedy in April 1961, the Indonesian leader had recently announced an 8-year economic plan (1961-1968), which U.S. officials viewed with skepticism. During their meeting, Kennedy proposed to send a team of U.S. economists to Indonesia. Sukarno accepted. The following August, Don D. Humphrey,

Professor of International Economic Relations at the Fletcher School of Law and

Diplomacy, Tufts University, led a team of academics and government officials to

Indonesia, where they were charged with studying the current Indonesian economic situation, and with making recommendations about how, or if, the United States could respond constructively to Sukarno’s proposed economic plan. The final report,

“Perspectives and Proposals for United States Economic Aid: Indonesia,” commonly known as the Humphrey Report, ran some 300 pages. It was a wide-ranging political,

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social, and economic analysis of Indonesia’s past and present, and the role that U.S. economic aid might play going forward.89

The Humphrey mission exemplifies how Kennedy officials “transformed modernization ideology into political practice in a national context.”90 Scholars have rightly focused on the mission’s relevance for the development of U.S. economic policy toward Indonesia, and how the report’s recommendations formed the core of proposals for Indonesian aid in the coming years. As context, the report surveyed Indonesian history, politics, and culture on the grounds that “the stage of a country’s economic progress and the priorities of its economic development cannot be accurately analyzed or appraised without analysis of the polity and the society in which the economy operates.”

The survey sheds light on how some scholars and policymakers interpreted the past, present, and future role of religion in Indonesian society.91

The authors reported, for example, that they were impressed by “the cultural and linguistic complexity” of Indonesia, and by its “diversity…apparent in such facts as the resistance of regionalism, the cultural leaven of successive animist, Buddhist, Hindu,

89 Other members of the study team were: Walter S. Salant, Senior Member, Economic Research Staff, The Brookings Institution; David S. Burgess, Acting Director, Office of Indonesia-Burma Affairs, Bureau for Far East, Agency for International Development; Allan M. Carter, Professor of Economics and Dean of the Graduate School of Arts and Sciences, Duke University; Allan B. Cole, Professor of Far Eastern History, Fletcher School of Law and Diplomacy, Tufts University; and Robert S. Smith, Acting Chief, Planning Division, Bureau for Far East, Agency for International Development. Report, “Perspectives and Proposals for United States Economic Aid: Indonesia,” January 12, 1962, #58, JFKNSF- 423-004.

90 Simpson, Economists with Guns, 64 (quoted), 64–67.

91 Preface to “Perspectives and Proposals for United States Economic Aid: Indonesia,” January 12, 1962, #58, JFKNSF-423-004. The authors continued, pointedly, that “The distinction between ‘economic’ and other matters does not exist in Nature. It is an artificial one that Man has devised to overcome the limitations of his intellectual grasp.” One wonders whether they had the Kennedy administration’s “harder” social scientists in mind.

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Muslim and Christian influences, the ninety or more native languages or dialects,” even as they noted that “[s]uch pluralism presents many problems for administration and nation-building.”92 Still, shared historical experience, particularly the revolution, and the adoption of a national language boded well for the young country as its people sought to

“modernize in accordance with their own ‘identity.’”93 Reminiscent of the debates over

West New Guinea, the analysis of the authors, while cautious, perceived Indonesia’s plural society as a challenge—but one that could, with time (and targeted economic assistance), be overcome as it modernized. The mission team also discerned “a perceptible decline in the influence of organized religious movements in public affairs” since independence in 1949, while asserting that “[s]ecular and national forces have gained.”94 This is not inaccurate, per se. But one sees echoes of Daniel Lerner’s claim that for modernization to progress, the secular would replace the sacred, and religion would separate from politics.95

In fact, neither the “decline” of organized religious movements in public affairs nor the “gains” of secular and national forces took place in a vacuum. While the authors note elsewhere that one of the most prominent vehicles for such influence, Masyumi, had been banned, they did not mention it here; it was, however, noted in the context of

Sukarno’s consolidation of power and his efforts to eliminate political parties. Yet when

92 Report, “Perspectives and Proposals for United States Economic Aid: Indonesia,” January 12, 1962, #58, Indonesia 1961-63, RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, p. 51. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-423-004.

93 Report, “Perspectives and Proposals for United States Economic Aid: Indonesia,” January 12, 1962, #58, JFKNSF-423-004, p. 52.

94 Report, “Perspectives and Proposals for United States Economic Aid: Indonesia,” January 12, 1962, #58, JFKNSF-423-004, pp. 81-82.

95 Lerner, The Passing of Traditional Society, 43–47; 405.

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Masyumi was banned, its former members and supporters turned to other like-minded groups, which remained active outside the official political arena. The youth groups HMI

(Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam, Muslim Students’ Association) and GPII (Gerakan

Pemuda Islam Indonesia, Indonesian Islamic Youth Movement), for instance, were no longer formally affiliated with Masyumi, but they shared its commitment to modernist theology, as well as familial ties. HMI and GPII worked to counter PKI inroads wherever they could, especially after 1960 (GPII was dissolved in 1963, but its network did not disappear). With the avenue of public politics closed to them, they worked instead with other anti-communist groups, along with some sympathetic members of the Indonesian

Army—a relationship that continued to grow, as we will see, in the years prior to the communist purges of 1965-1966.96

The Humphrey Report did go on to note that “it would be false to conclude that the old ways are passing altogether. Religion, and with it, traditionalism, continue to play a large role in the lives of the villagers, the vast rural population,” where the majority were Muslims, along with smaller numbers of Hindus, Christians, and other faiths. But

“[i]ntermingling with them all…is a strong animistic tradition which even defies the

West’s scientific impact.” Religion, not surprisingly, is associated with “tradition” and the rural population; at the same time, the “variety of influences to which [Islam] has been exposed,” like animism, not only rendered some facets of Islam resistant to change, it also showed, to the authors, how Indonesian Islam differed from the Islam of the

Middle East. Finally, while the authors allow that “religious traditions are a source of inner strength to community life,” they were ultimately seen as “a barrier to progress,”

96 Hefner, Civil Islam, 47–48.

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particularly when new technology and habits “compete for approval with the traditional—the religiously approved—way of doing things.”97

A Civic Action Plan for Indonesia

During the Eisenhower administration, as we have seen, appeals to morality and even specific religions often figured quite prominently in official strategies to counter communist influence from the ground up. Such an approach was largely absent from

Kennedy administration officials’ counterinsurgency planning. In a more than 30-page

U.S. Overseas Internal Defense Policy report, produced in August 1962 by the recently formed Special Group (Counter-Insurgency), or Special Group (CI), there is but one mention of religion in reference to “leader groups” the U.S. might engage to “deal more effectively with the critical sectors” in populations vulnerable to communist propaganda.

The United States “must build on those local assets which are favorable to U.S. objectives,” the report states, including “the political leadership, the intelligentsia, the military and police, the civil bureaucracy, religious and education elements, and the middle class generally.”98 But in delineations of the roles of the Special Group (CI)’s member agencies—including representatives from the Departments of State and Defense, the CIA, USIA, USAID, the Joint Chiefs of Staff, the Attorney General’s office, and the

White House national security staff—there was no mention of outreach to “religious leaders.” While this document is clearly intended as a broader blueprint of

97 Report, “Perspectives and Proposals for United States Economic Aid: Indonesia,” Doc. #58, January 12, 1962, JFKNSF-423-004, pp. 81-82.

98 Report, Special Group (CI), August 1962, “Special Group (CI) 7/62-11/63,” Box 319, Meetings and Memoranda Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL.

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counterinsurgency strategies, and thus not specific to any one country, the general absence of references to religion or religious actors abroad is a notable shift from the previous administration’s approach to the campaign against communism.

In August 1962, as the West New Guinea settlement became a reality, President

Kennedy directed the Secretaries of State and Defense, the Administrator of USAID, and the Directors of Central Intelligence and USIA to evaluate and amend as necessary their current Indonesia programs: “I would like to see us capitalize,” he wrote in National

Security Action Memo (NASM) No. 179, “on the US role in promoting this settlement to move toward a new and better relationship with Indonesia,” one that might include, he continued, “expanded civic action, military aid, and economic stabilization and development programs, as well as diplomatic initiatives.”99 The CIA’s Office of National

Estimates concurred that the settlement presented an opportunity to forge closer ties with the Indonesian Army, and contribute to its efforts to counter PKI influence.100 The State

Department coordinated this and the other contributing agencies’ proposals, and the resulting Plan of Action for Indonesia was submitted to President Kennedy in October.101

99 NSAM No. 179, Kennedy to Secretaries of State and Defense, AID Administrator, and Directors of CIA and USIA, August 16, 1962, #1, NSAM 179, U.S. Policy Toward Indonesia, Meetings and Memoranda Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-338-006.

100 Staff Memorandum No. 35-62, CIA Office of National Estimates, September 12, 1962, #11b, Indonesia, 1961-63: General (2 of 3), RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-423-002.

101 Memorandum, George W. Ball to Kennedy, October 10, 1962, #2, NSAM 179, U.S. Policy Toward Indonesia, Meetings and Memoranda Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-338-006. On the organization of agency responses to NSAM 179, see Memorandum, Avery Peterson to AID/FE, DOD/ISA, Treasury, BOB, and USIA/FE, August 20, 1962, #18, Indonesia, 1961-63: General (2 of 3), RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF- 423-002.

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The overarching U.S. objective remained the same, namely, “to keep Indonesia independent and out of the Sino-Soviet camp.” This involved the promotion of economic and political stability, in the short term, and a national development plan, in the long term. National security officials envisioned a two-pronged strategy that involved shifting

Indonesians’ attention “away from militant nationalism and toward development” and

“strengthening the army in the countryside.” The plan advocated working with civilian leaders interested in modernizing Indonesia, as well as strengthening the role of the Army in carrying out both economic and social development activities—an approach the persisted throughout the remainder of the Kennedy era and into the Johnson years. Action recommendations included the continuation of PL 480 food assistance, AID grants for public administration and technical education, and military and police aid.102

The background report’s appended political assessment makes no mention of religion in either Indonesia’s internal dynamics or its foreign policy alignments.

Domestically, political power is understood to exist in a “delicate balance” between

President Sukarno, the Army, and the PKI, while non-communist political parties have receded to the point that they are “no longer a significant factor in Indonesian life,” either because they have been banned or because their leaders are “wholly opportunistic” in their allegiance to Sukarno.103

102 Memorandum, “Background to the Plan of Action for Indonesia,” October 2, 1962, #2b, NSAM 179, U.S. Policy Toward Indonesia, Meetings and Memoranda Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-338-006.

103 Enclosure 6 to Report-Plan of Action for Indonesia (NSAM No. 179), September 10, 1962, #9i, Indonesia, 1961-63: General (2 of 3), RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-423-002.

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The political assessment is not entirely inaccurate; yet, in its association of

“political power” with access to the government, it runs the risk of discounting political forces external to state power—similar to the Humphrey report’s somewhat decontextualized account of the “gains” of secular and national forces, and the retreat of religious groups. The Army leadership, meanwhile, was suspicious of the PKI’s increasingly close relationship to China, and emphasized its pro-Western credentials; it also, however, remained committed to the revolutionary ideals embodied in the person of

Sukarno. Sukarno’s own international outlook was deemed rhetorically neutralist, with his regular professions Afro-Asian solidarity.104 Neither Sukarno, the Army, or the PKI, it seems, were seen by U.S. officials as having a particular allegiance to the Muslim world.

Indeed, the only instance of significant attention to the role of religion and religious actors in the Indonesian socio-political landscape is in the appended section on the potential for non-communist insurgency in the country. According to the interagency analysis, “[m]ost currently operating insurgency groups profess to have a religious basis,” but apart from Darul Islam, with its origins in West Java, U.S. officials understood their

“true” motivation in terms of anti-Javanese sentiment. The report recognized, for instance, that the PRRI had been led by several leaders of Masyumi, but it suggested their role reflected Outer Islands resentment more than genuine religious motive. Darul Islam is, again, viewed as something of an exceptional movement.105 Similar to other assessments, the report also posited that many Indonesians “support or tolerate

104 Enclosure 6, September 10, 1962, #9i, JFKNSF-423-002.

105 Enclosure 7 to Report-Plan of Action for Indonesia (NSAM No. 179), undated, #9j, Indonesia, 1961-63: General (2 of 3), RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF- 423-002.

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Communist activity because they confuse their own nationalist ideals with those of the

Communists.” That the PKI even occupied a “position of respectability in Indonesian political life” was seen as due more to Sukarno’s ongoing acceptance of the party than to its rank and file members’ adherence to communist ideals. Moreover, while the “average

Indonesian” was considered to be “often unorthodox and passive in his religious beliefs,” most still recognized “the value of religion.” The analysts did claim that “[t]he campaigns of the more fervent Moslem groups against ‘Communist godlessness’ has had a considerable impact” in some quarters, which could help to marginalize the PKI in the future—though the neither nature of that impact, nor what constituted a “fervent Moslem group,” were further elaborated.106

Perhaps most significantly, the Plan of Action called for the establishment of a civic action program (CAP) in Indonesia that would focus, as General Nasution desired, on the provision of vocational training for retiring members of the armed forces and on the involvement of active army personnel in rural reconstruction and development projects.107 The Kennedy administration had been studying the possibility since early

1961, when Brigadier General Edward Lansdale, a prominent proponent of counterinsurgency theory, wrote to the Deputy Assistant to the Secretary of Defense about the benefits of a CAP for Indonesia. As the U.S.-led negotiations on the West New

Guinea conflict progressed during the summer of 1962, the administration began preparations to send an Interagency Civic Action Survey Team to Indonesia. The team

106 Enclosure 7 to Report-Plan of Action for Indonesia (NSAM No. 179), undated, #9j, JFKNSF- 423-002.

107 Memorandum, “Background to the Plan of Action for Indonesia,” October 2, 1962, #2b, JFKNSF-338-006.

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visited Indonesia that September and October and reported its findings and recommendations in late October 1962.108

The Interagency Civic Action Team was comprised of Philip Manhard of the

State Department, Lt. Col. Lyman Richardson of the Department of Army, Lt. Col.

George Benson of the Department of Defense, David Burgess and Clyde Burns of AID,

George Spencer of USAID Manila, and Guy Pauker, as consultant to the Department of

Defense.109 The survey team concluded that it was in the “strategic interest of the U.S. to support to Indonesian Army’s Civic Action program with all possible speed.” The Army was seen as “led by far-seeing, enlightened officers” who were, in general, pro-West. It was also considered the only organized anti-communist force that remained in Indonesia, and its leaders’ vision of national development, especially among the rural population, was in line with U.S. thinking and objectives.110 Indeed, the Indonesian armed forces had in fact already begun to implement a “homegrown version” of a civic action program, part of a long-standing effort to bring the Darul Islam rebellion in West Java to an end.111

Known as Operation Bhakti, its mission included reconstruction and development assistance in the areas most affected by the fighting. That these were mostly rural areas—

108 Memorandum, Charles Maechling, Jr., to Special Group (CI), November 1, 1962, #4, Indonesia, 1961-63: General (2 of 3), RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-423-002.

109 Report of Civic Action Team to Indonesia, October 23, 1962, #4a, Indonesia, 1961-63: General (2 of 3), RWK Series, NSF, JFK Presidential Papers, JFKPL, p. 20. Digital Identifier: JFKNSF-423-002.

110 Report of Civic Action Team to Indonesia, October 23, 1962, #4a, JFKNSF-423-002, pp. 1-2, 5.

111 Simpson, Economists with Guns, 78.

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where the PKI had focused on making organizational inroads—only helped to justify the

Army’s role in developing the project.112

The U.S. survey team praised the Army’s palpable progress in West Java. The defeat of Darul Islam, they said, had endeared the military to the population, especially after General Adjie’s Siliwangi Division quickly moved in to begin Operation Bhakti, constructing roads and rebuilding villages in cooperation with local leaders. Now, Army leaders sought to transition the majority of battalions from combat to economic reconstruction and development as a means to “stem the tide of communism” by building better relations with the rural population and demonstrating how the military could contribute to “peaceful pursuits.”113 U.S. support for the expansion of the Army’s existing program would help the United States maintain links with and influence in the armed services—over 800 members of the Army’s officer corps had already been trained in the

United States and were, according to the survey team’s report, “strongly influenced by

American ideology.”114 The survey team recommended that the U.S. fund a Vocational

Training Program for retiring Army personnel, along with farming tools and heavy engineering equipment for Construction Battalions in West Java, Central Java, and

Sulawesi. The team also recommended Lt. Col. George Benson, USA, be assigned as the

112 Evans, “The Influence of the United States Army on the Development of the Indonesian Army (1954-1964),” 35–37; Simpson, Economists with Guns, 78; Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 390.

113 Report of Civic Action Team to Indonesia, October 23, 1962, #4a, JFKNSF-423-002, pp. 7-8

114 Report of Civic Action Team to Indonesia, October 23, 1962, #4a, JFKNSF-423-002, pp. 1-2, 5.

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in-country coordinator for the program, to be stationed in the U.S. Ambassador’s office in

Jakarta.115

The U.S. civic action program in Indonesia was up and running by 1963. Unlike other U.S.-sponsored civic action programs, the Indonesia CAP was a direct U.S. Army-

Indonesian Army effort, rather than a joint-governmental operation. This was due in part to the United States’ existing relationship with General Nasution, who favored the arrangement, as well as to the gradual turn toward military modernization in both U.S. and Indonesian circles.116 Indeed, Nasution saw the West Java program as a model for the development of others throughout the country.117

In July 1963, General Sukawati, a supervisor for the Army’s civic action program, met with Colonel Benson to discuss the three major programs underway. The first program involved senior Indonesian government officials attending courses at the Army’s staff and command school in Bandung, part of an effort to develop “Pantjasila into national ideology that can stand up against communist ideology.” The second program was set to begin in a few months’ time with the opening of a civic action school in

Magelang, Central Java, which would train 500 students from various levels of the Army

115 Report of Civic Action Team to Indonesia, October 23, 1962, #4a, JFKNSF-423-002; and Department of Defense, comments on “Indonesia Civic Action Program,” November 7, 1962, #2b, JFKNSF-423-002. Lt. Colonel Benson and Ambassador Jones saw eye to eye on the important role the Indonesian army played in Indonesia. Benson, as a Major, had served as the assistant military attaché in Indonesia from October 1956 until July 1959. He found himself the only U.S. Army officer in Indonesia from 1957 until mid-1958 during critical phase of the lead up to and outbreak of the PRRI/Permesta rebellion. During that time, he established close working relations with Indonesian military leadership, including such prominent figures as Generals Nasution and Yani, earning their trust with his wariness toward the U.S. role in the regional rebellion. See Evans, “The Influence of the United States Army on the Development of the Indonesian Army (1954-1964),” 28-30.

116 Evans, “The Influence of the United States Army on the Development of the Indonesian Army (1954-1964),” 35; Simpson, “Indonesia’s ‘Accelerated Modernization,’” 473–74.

117 Report of Civic Action Team to Indonesia, October 23, 1962, #4a, JFKNSF-423-002, pp. 7-8; Abdul Haris Nasution, Fundamentals of Guerrilla Warfare (New York: Praeger, 1965).

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in civil-military relations, as well as, again, a curriculum geared toward “heavy indoctrination on Pantjasila.” The Army would also carry out a joint civilian-military training initiative at the local level among village leaders, local police, and the military, a third program that Sukawati believed would help to create a strong base of support for the

Army among the masses. Jones commented that General Sukawati repeatedly emphasized the importance of the Army’s program of “Pantjasila indoctrination” as the best way to counter the appeal of communism within both the Army itself and among the general population.118

Despite the repeated mentions of Pancasila, Jones did not specifically mention religion as a factor in the civic action program in this communication. Nor had the U.S. survey team, in its attention to potential of a CAP to bolster anti-communist sentiments among rural Indonesians, referred to the religious background(s) of the population.

Perhaps these officials assumed the majority of the target population were Muslims, and thus did not see a need to make an explicit reference to religion. But many Indonesian officers, including General Nasution, saw the Army’s outreach to Muslim groups as part of its role in promoting national unity and, at the same time, countering the influence of leftist and Communist groups among the masses.119 Building relationships with, and promoting unity within, Indonesia’s diverse Muslim community of course helped to advance the Army’s own political agenda. But its outreach also helps to highlight how figures like Nasution navigated the Army’s relationship to religion, state, and society in ways that, despite its clear commitment to certain elements of U.S.-style modernization,

118 Embtel 131, Djakarta to State, July 22, 1963, DEF 6-1 INDON, CFPF 1963, RG 59, NACP.

119 Federspiel, “The Military and Islam in Sukarno’s Indonesia,” 413.

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were unique to the Indonesian context, i.e., not necessarily squarely within a Western, secular paradigm.

In an address during the opening ceremony of the Sultan Agung Islamic

University in Semarang in October 1962, for instance, General Nasution stressed that he shared the view of the new university’s president “that every Indonesian citizen want[s] to become a complete patriot in all fields, especially in the field of religion, which constitutes an essential requirement for our Nation Building.”120 He went on to say that practical learning needed to be complemented with theoretical learning, including among religious scholars and Indonesian Muslims. Religious scholars, while “leaders and

‘sheperds’ [sic] of the people in our spiritual life…must be armed with sciences and practical capability,” lest they “lag behind in the implementation of our revolution.”

Indonesian Muslims, more broadly, should not “be passive or in a position of wait and see,” for the “State gives you much opportunities to play your role in our National

Building in line with the spirit of our Constitution.”121

Continuity and Change, 1963-1965

During the Kennedy administration, an “accommodationist” approach toward

Indonesia and Sukarno, best exemplified by Ambassador Jones, dominated U.S. decision- making. Jones also, for a time, found partners in Robert Komer and Walt Rostow,

Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Maxwell Taylor, and the staff of State Department’s Bureau of Far Eastern Affairs (FE). There were some, however, who advocated a tougher stance

120 Nasution, “Citizens with Good Character,” 27.

121 Nasution, 30.

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toward Sukarno, and saw his removal from power as the only way to secure U.S. interests in Indonesia. During the Kennedy years, the “hardliners” were often critics from outside the administration, including academics like Lucian Pye and Guy Pauker. After the assassination of President Kennedy in November 1963, many of his administration’s officials remained in their roles, or moved within or between government agencies, in the

Johnson administration. Over the course of 1964, Ambassador Jones continued to see a hardline approach as counterproductive and unnecessarily provocative. But his approach faced increasing opposition from within the NSC, the CIA, and S/FE, including the latter’s Deputy Assistant Secretary, Marshall Green, who would be appointed U.S.

Ambassador to Indonesia in June 1965. As events unfolded in Indonesia, it was the “anti- accommodationists” whose recommendations began to shape U.S. policy.122

“Collision Course?” Konfrontasi and Sukarno’s Anti-America Campaign

The term konfrontasi, or confrontation, was first used by Minister of Foreign

Affairs Subandrio in January 1963, to express Indonesia’s opposition to the proposed incorporation of British colonies in Southeast Asia into an independent Federation of

Malaysia. In addition to the former colony of Malaya, an independent federation since

August 1957, the new state would include the remaining British colonial territories of

Singapore, Sabah (formerly North Borneo), and Sarawak. Sabah and Sarawak comprised the northern half of the island of Borneo, and thus shared a border with Kalimantan, the southern, Indonesian half of the island; Sarawak, in particular, became a source of tension

122 Bunnell, “American ‘Low Posture’ Policy toward Indonesia,” 31–32; Simpson, Economists with Guns, 42–43.

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and, later, a site of armed conflict. During the summer of 1963, the leaders of Malaya, the

Philippines, and Indonesia discussed the possibility of forming a regional confederation—Maphilindo—and in July, they reached an agreement to allow a United

Nations team to assess whether the people of northern Borneo wanted to join the proposed federation of Malaysia. But before the UN shared its findings, the Prime

Minister of Malaya, Tunku Abdul Rahman, and the British foreign minister unilaterally announced the formation of Malaysia in September 1963. On September 23, 1963,

Sukarno declared he would “crush” the new country, and over the next two years, pursued an increasingly militant policy toward Malaysia.123

Sukarno and his supporters’ reasons for opposing the new state were both domestic and international. The Indonesian president decried the creation of Malaysia as a neo-imperialist project, artificially constructed to ensure a Western-friendly government in the region, and General Nasution expressed a similar perspective to U.S. officials.124

Sukarno appealed to his fellow neutralist nations in Africa and Asia to back his opposition to Malaysia, although he received less support than he expected—including from the nations that attended the Afro-Asian Islamic Conference in Bandung in March

1965.125 The Indonesian Army, meanwhile, trained guerrilla forces in Sarawak beginning

123 Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 88; Jones, Conflict and Confrontation in South East Asia; Subritzky, Confronting Sukarno.

124 Deptel 626, State to Djakarta, December 7, 1963, #7, "Indonesia Cables Vol. I," Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL. When Nasution visited the U.S. to attend Kennedy’s funeral, he conveyed to State Department officials that Indonesia viewed Malaysia as still under UK domination and “not truly independent,” and he did not attempt to hide that Indonesians were training guerrilla fighters in Borneo.

125 See, e.g., the failed resolution to condemn Malaysia at the Afro-Asian Islamic Conference held in Bandung in March 1965. Neil Sheehan, “Indonesian Draft Fails at Parley: Islam Conference Refuses to Condemn Malaysia,” New York Times, March 14, 1965, ProQuest.

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in 1963, and small-scale armed incursions onto the Malay peninsula occurred in 1964, raising concerns in the West over a potential confrontation between Indonesian and

British armed forces in the region.126

Rand Corporation analyst Guy Pauker traveled to Indonesia, and to the

Philippines, Malaysia, Australia, New Zealand, and the South Pacific, from October 1963 to January 1964 to conduct research for the Office of the Secretary of Defense for

International Security Affairs (ISA) regarding a possible future structured security system in Asia and the Pacific. In the course of his travels, he also “generated some tentative conclusions concerning Indonesia’s confrontation policy against Malaysia,” and he prepared a written report for ISA, which was shared with the office in May 1964.

Pauker’s 47-page report wrestled with the logic of Sukarno’s continued policy of konfrontasi in an academic manner, which was nearly devoid of consideration of cultural variables like ethnic, religious, or racial identities. The approach was typical of the Cold

War-era “pure” social scientist. Pauker concluded that “[c]urrent Indonesian policies appear, on balance, as the rational choice of statesmen and not as the pathological manifestations of international adventurers”—a counter, he writes, to those who attribute the country’s bellicosity to Sukarno being “an incurable romantic” and “a revolutionary.”

The primary goal of Sukarno’s policy, he noted, is to establish Indonesia’s dominance in

126 General Nasution did not hide the training of guerrillas from U.S. officials: Memorandum of Conversation, General Nasution, Dr. Sudjarwo, Ambassador Zairin Zain, President Johnson, Under- secretary of State Harriman, and Ambassador Jones, November 29, 1963, #115a, “Indonesia Memos Vol. I,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL. The U.S. viewed Malaysia as “primarily a British responsibility,” but had enough of a stake in a peaceful resolution to be involved in trying to bring together representatives from Indonesia, Malaysia, and the UK: Memorandum of Conversation, Ambassador Jones, President Johnson, Harriman, and Michael Forrestal, December 18, 1963, #116a, “Indonesia Memos Vol. I,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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the region, which requires the displacement of first the British and then the American military powers from their strongholds in Malaysia and the Philippines.127

In his analysis of Indonesia’s “grand design” to establish a regional hegemony in the “Maphilindo” area, Pauker did note the historical precedence of a World War II-era

“Greater Indonesia” movement in Malaysia, one of the leaders of which still headed the

Pan-Malayan Islamic Party. He also suggested that, if the Malay population felt threatened by “their Chinese co-nationals, they may come to look increasingly to

Indonesian as their ethnic, cultural, and religious protector against the ‘foreigners’ in the midst.” His analysis thus did not exclude the potential of cultural affinities, including shared religious identity, as incentives for or obstacles to the underlying rationale of konfrontasi. Still, his primary focus remained the geopolitical strategy and regional consequences of what he believed were Indonesia’s expansionist aims, which he concluded would not be halted by the threatened withdrawal of U.S. economic aid. He stopped short of offering any explicit recommendations, other than “to find alternative means to induce [Sukarno] to change his course.”128

As Sukarno’s konfrontasi campaign continued to rattle the already-strained relationship between the United States and Indonesia, the State Department weighed the possibility that the U.S. would have to reassess its relationship with the country,

127 Memorandum RM-4080-ISA, Guy J. Pauker, May 1964, #61, “Indonesia Cables and Memos Vol. II [2 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

128 Memorandum RM-4080-ISA, Pauker, May 1964, #61, “Indonesia Cables and Memos Vol. II [2 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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including even its allies in the Indonesian Army.129 Ambassador Jones, for his part, continued to advocate maintaining U.S.-Indonesian relations, despite the “exasperating situation” with Malaysia. “[S]o long as we can maintain our position here without doing violence to either the principles for which we stand or our own laws,” he wrote to his

Washington colleagues, “I am certain it is the part of wisdom for us to do so.”130

Still, the long-time ambassador feared the U.S. and Indonesia could be on a

“collision course.”131 When some members of Congress sought to curb U.S. aid to

Indonesia, Jones tried to reassure them that U.S. assistance would not directly aid

Sukarno; rather, it went toward maintaining U.S. links to education and agricultural training, police training, military civic action activities, and its influence among intellectuals and students.132 Along with Chairman of the Joint Chiefs Taylor, he also worked to reassure General Nasution that the U.S. would not withdraw its funding for the

Indonesia CAP, nor would it cease training Indonesian Army officers in the United

States.133

129 Deptel 946, State to Djakarta, March 3, 1964, #38, “Indonesia Cables Vol. I,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

130 Embtel 1849, Djakarta to State, March 6, 1964, #42a, “Indonesia Cables Vol. I,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

131 Embtel 1854, Djakarta to State, March 6, 1964, #43; and Embtel 2067, Djakarta to State, April 3, 1964, #60, “Indonesia Cables Vol. I,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

132 Embtel 1802, Djakarta to AID, April 1, 1964, #58, “Indonesia Cables Vol. I,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

133 Embtel 1989, Djakarta to State, March 26, 1964, #53; and JCS 5747, CJCS Taylor to Jones, April 8, 1964, #63, “Indonesia Cables Vol. I,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL; see also #79 for more on decision to continue training programs and MAP/USAID funding for non-offensive material as part of CAP in Indonesia; and #80 for Nasution’s reception of the news.

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Communications from Francis Galbraith, Deputy Chief of Mission (DCM) in

Jakarta, grew increasingly alarmist in the fall of 1964, veering from Jones’ more cautious analyses. This was especially true after Sukarno’s August 17 Independence Day speech, which, Galbraith said, could not “be shrugged off as more of the same” from the

Indonesian leader.134 Sukarno had directed his ire toward the United States for its support of the creation of Malaysia and its intervention in Vietnam. Over the course of the next year, USIA facilities were vandalized and shuttered, Time, Life, and Newsweek were banned from Indonesia, and U.S.-owned businesses were attacked, making a civilian U.S. presence in Indonesia ever more difficult to maintain.135 With his August speech, and in his continued “endorsement of current PKI policies domestically…and internationally,”

Galbraith warned, “Sukarno has revealed himself to be firmly in the communist camp of

Asia.”136

“Keep contact open:” Islamic Groups and Anti-communism

DCM Galbraith implored his colleagues in Washington not to succumb to the temptation “to write off non-communist Indonesians…as spineless” for failing to unify around an anti-Sukarno agenda. The “real reason,” he continued, that Sukarno “can

134 Embtel 317, Djakarta to State, August 18, 1964, #52, “Indonesia Cables and Memos Vol. II [2 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

135 Embtel 1040, Djakarta to State, December 4, 1964, #63, “Indonesia Cables Vol. III [1 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL; and Embtel 1582, Djakarta to State, February 13, 1965, #109; Embtel 68, Medan to State, February 18, 1965, #115; Embtel 269, Medan to Djakarta, February 18, 1965, #116; Embtel 271, Medan to Djakarta, February 18, 1965, #117; Deptel 765, State to Djakarta, February 28, 1965, #133; and Embtel 1700, Djakarta to State, February 28, 1965, #136, “Indonesia Cables Vol. III [2 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL. See also Simpson, Economists with Guns, 2008, 152-3.

136 Embtel 317, Djakarta to State, August 18, 1964, #52, “Indonesia Cables and Memos Vol. II [2 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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dominate as he does is [the] Indonesian cultural habit pattern of giving way to authority.”137 Harkening back to an orientalist assumption about Asian and Muslim predilections toward authoritarian rule, Galbraith seems to suggest in the same breath that

U.S. officials ought to pay more attention to the potential of non-communist Indonesians at the same time as he dismisses them as compromised, or simply unwilling to act, due to their characteristic submission to authority. Even so, despite its “weak leadership and organization” and its inability to “do much but mute [the] enthusiasm with which it says

‘me too’ to Sukarno,” Galbraith recommended that, in addition to maintaining its close ties to the Army, the U.S. should “keep contact open” with the NU and remain alert to the possibility of “meaningful dissidence, especially in [the] Outer Islands and West Java. He insisted that the armed forces along with the “larger part of [the] Moslem, mainly peasant population” remained unprepared to accept the kinds of “revolutionary changes” Sukarno envisioned for Indonesia.138

The CIA made a similar assessment in September 1964, advising that only when the myriad anti- and non-communist forces in Indonesia managed to “work collaboratively [would] they be able to combat [the] PKI effectively.” At the same time, the CIA cautioned that internal divisions remained a concern, including within and between Islamic groups. A “logical grouping would be among Moslem elements,” the report suggested, but the NU was the only “organization of any size and potency,” and it continued to be “plagued by weak and time-serving leadership.” Still, the CIA also saw

137 Embtel 317, Djakarta to State, August 18, 1964, #52, “Indonesia Cables and Memos Vol. II [2 of 2],” AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

138 Embtel 359, Djakarta to State, August 24, 1964, #59, “Indonesia Cables and Memos Vol. II [2 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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hopeful signs that former Masyumi members and “other Moslem types” seemed to be reconstituting themselves within the NU. While it was too early to tell whether a “real unification of Islamic elements” was possible, intelligence analysts thought it likely that they would support improved U.S.-Indonesian relations; and, given the limitations on political participation outside the Nasakom framework, their “fortunes” going forward would most likely be tied to “the degree of their association with the military sector for which many of them [Islamic elements] have long had affinities.”139

U.S. officials continued to observe that Indonesians struggled to cohere around a pro-Sukarno, yet anti-PKI platform; their efforts lacked organizational capacity, as well as ideological unity. And, when organized efforts did emerge, they were swiftly dismantled by Sukarno. In the fall of 1964, for example, U.S. officials expressed cautious optimism about the anti-communist platform of a new coalition calling itself the Body to

Protect Sukarnoism (BPS). The Washington Post had reported earlier that year on the emerging idea of “Sukarnoism” in Indonesian, which Information Minister Roeslan

Abdulgani described as “Marxism without atheism.”140 By the fall, the CIA reported that

Sukarnoists were working to cast themselves as the true adherents of Pancasila, while accusing others, especially the PKI, of not upholding its original aims.141

Minister of Trade Adam Malik, one the group’s primary spokespersons, told

Ambassador Jones in November that BPS had the support of the NU, the right-leaning

139 TDCS DB-315/00846-64, CIA Situation Appraisal, September 19, 1964, #29, “Indonesia Cables Vol. III [1 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

140 UPI, “Indonesia Ideology Called ‘Sukarnoism,’” Washington Post, May 11, 1964, ProQuest.

141 Report OCI No. 2057/64, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, December 2, 1964, #145, “Indonesia Memos Vol. III,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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wing of the PNI, and “lower levels of the bureaucracy and political parties,” along with a number of press, youth, and labor groups, who had organized themselves in “a loose coalition” of Sukarnoists.142 But by December, Sukarno, who had initially appeared to support the group, accused the BPS of creating internal divisions. He banned several anti-

PKI newspapers deemed mouthpieces of the BPS, and formally disbanded the group on

December 17. “Even though [the] Sukarnoists may eventually regroup,” Ambassador

Jones lamented, the “dissolution [of] BPS can only be regarded as major setback for non- communist forces and important psychological victory for [the] PKI.”143

Waiting Game: Religious Actors in the “‘Low Posture’ Policy” Period

Beginning in the early months of 1965, an unofficial Indonesia policy group comprised of U.S. officials in Indonesia and Washington led the development of U.S. policy on Indonesia. The group arrived at a “low posture policy” that entailed an end to

Jones’ relationship-building initiatives and a sharp reduction of the U.S. aid program in

Indonesia. They did, however, seek to maintain “the closest possible link with the anti-

Communist army.”144 And, as Simpson points out, “low posture” did not mean “passive bystander;” it meant a shift to covert operations.145

142 OCI No. 2057/64, Office of Current Intelligence, December 2, 1964, #145, “Indonesia Memos Vol. III,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

143 Embtel 1144, Jones to State, December 18, 1964, #72c, “Indonesia Cables Vol. III [2 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

144 Bunnell, “American ‘Low Posture’ Policy toward Indonesia,” 31–32.

145 Simpson, Economists with Guns, 149.

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The decisive ascent of the hardliners within the Johnson administration took place in the context of the Ambassador Jones’ decision to move on from his position as

Ambassador to Indonesia, and accept a position as Chancellor of the East West Center at the University of Hawai’i.146 William Bundy responded enthusiastically to Jones’ new position, praising his exemplary six years of service in Indonesia. The search for a successor began immediately, though Bundy recommended a careful transition, to minimize the “shock” to Sukarno, who continued to trust Jones above all other U.S. officials.147 NSC staffer James C. Thomson, a supporter of Jones, also urged caution and a gradual transition.148 The Johnson administration settled on Marshall Green, current

Deputy Assistant Secretary in the Bureau of Far Eastern Affairs—and a proponent of low posture policy—in the early months of 1965, and the White House announced Green’s nomination to the position of Ambassador to Indonesia in May.149 When Ambassador

Green arrived in Jakarta in July, he was greeted by protests that continued into August and September at the Embassy and the Consulates in Medan and Surabaya.150

In the months before Jones’ departure, U.S.-Indonesian relations continued to decline, and low posture policy advocates gained ground. Under-secretary of State

146 Embtel 853, Djakarta to State, November 9, 1964, #45, “Indonesia Cables Vol. III [1 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

147 Deptel 465, State to Djakarta, November 13, 1964, #50, “Indonesia Cables Vol. III [1 of 2],” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

148 Memorandum, Thomson to Bundy, December 28, 1964, #147, “Indonesia Memos Vol. III,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

149 Press Release, Office of the White House Press Secretary, May 14, 1965, #182, “Indonesia Memos Vol. IV,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL. See also Bunnell, “American ‘Low Posture’ Policy toward Indonesia,” 41–42.

150 Embtel 51, Medan to Djakarta, July 30, 1965, #110; Embtel 259, Djakarta to State, August 7, 1965, #123; Embtel 261, Djakarta to State, August 7, 1965, #124; and Embtel 544, Djakarta to State, September 7, 1965, #135, “Indonesia Cables Vol. IV [2 of 2],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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George Ball warned President Johnson about the “ominous” situation in Indonesia:

Sukarno, he said, was moving ever-leftward, the PKI continued to make inroads, there was internal feuding in the Army, and Indonesia had moved to seize U.S.-owned rubber plants and oil companies. Ball and Secretary of State Rusk recommended a reappraisal of

U.S.-Indonesian relations, including Ambassador Jones’ approach: Jones’ efforts, Ball wrote, to “advance American interests through his closer personal relations with

Sukarno” seem to be “pretty well played out.” Ball and Rusk recommended sending

Ellsworth Bunker to Indonesia to get “a fresh and objective reading of the situation.”151

Bunker travelled to Indonesia as a presidential envoy in April, charged with investigating how best to respond to Sukarno’s continued anti-American propaganda campaign and the seizure of U.S. business interests. Bunker also sought to reassure the

United States’ civilian and military contacts of the Johnson administration’s commitment to improving relations with the country over the long term. Bunker returned to the United

States convinced of “Sukarno’s mystical belief in his own destiny, hence his conviction that it is his mission to lead his country to unity and power,” along with “his avowed intention of doing away with capitalism in the process of socializing Indonesia.”152 He advocated continued contact with existing partners in the Indonesian Army, the maintenance of a small U.S. military training presence, and the fulfillment of existing military assistance commitments—but not additional aid. And he recommended establishing an “information program under the aegis of the Embassy,” along the lines of

151 Memorandum, George Ball to President Johnson, March 18, 1965, #168, “Indonesia Memos Vol. IV,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

152 Report, “Indonesian-American Relations, Part I: General Conclusions,” Ellsworth Bunker (hereafter Bunker Report), undated, #177a-1, “Indonesia Memos Vol. IV,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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a recent USIA proposal to assign a small number of both U.S. and Indonesian staff to the

Embassy in Jakarta, as well as to the U.S. Consulates in Surabaya and Medan. Such a program could be “expanded with the objective of keeping a window open for U.S. influence with Indonesian leaders, particularly those among the youth.”153

In fact, since the summer of 1964, officials in the CIA and the Bureau of Far

Eastern Affairs had been working with Ambassador Jones to develop a political action program aimed at reducing the influence of the PKI while building up “the more moderate elements” within Indonesia. In February 1965 the 303 Committee (successor to the Eisenhower administration’s “Special Group,” which was responsible for coordinating covert actions) considered the program, which proposed covert activities including the cultivation of potential non-communist successors to Sukarno, assistance to anti-PKI groups, and a propaganda campaign. The 303 Committee approved the joint

CIA-State Department political action program in March.154 While it urged the identification, monitoring, and support of non-communist, anti-PKI, and anti-Sukarno elements in Indonesia, the memo detailing the proposed program did not mention specific groups or individuals such as General Nasution, the Army, or the NU.

Bunker, however, took note during his two-week visit of the weakened position of

“[m]oderate moslem [sic] political organizations” in Indonesia, while also noting that they and other marginalized moderate political actors outnumbered the PKI and its

153 Bunker Report, Part II: Recommendations, undated, #177a-2, “Indonesia Memos Vol. IV,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

154 Memorandum Prepared for the 303 Committee, NSC, February 23, 1965, Document 110, FRUS, 1964-1968, Volume XXVI, Indonesia; Malaysia-Singapore; Philippines, ed. Edward C. Keefer (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 2000), https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1964-68v26/d110.

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supporters.155 He found “the conservative Java-based Nahdatul [sic] Ulama and the illegal, disorganized but still widely respected Masjumi” among the strongest non- communist elements in the country. But NU leaders, along with many non-communist military officers, seemed wary of appearing to oppose Sukarno.156 It is unclear how much

Bunker knew about the CIA-State political action program—he did not reference specific covert operations in his report—but this aspect of his analysis appears to lend credence to one of the program’s objectives: “Portray the PKI as an increasingly ambitious, dangerous opponent of Sukarno and legitimate nationalism” (in addition to being an

“instrument of Chinese neo-imperialism”). This approach seemed designed to exploit

Indonesians’ continuing affection for the leader of the revolution, even as the U.S. attempted to undermine his authority.157

While many NU leaders in Jakarta continued to accommodate Sukarno, Bunker was encouraged by “grass-roots stirrings among Moslem elements,” many of whom saw the PKI as a threat to village social structure.158 He observed that parts of the Muslim population were becoming “increasingly restive over the growing power of the PKI,” and

155 Bunker Report, Part I: General Conclusions, undated, #177a-1, “Indonesia Memos Vol. IV,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

156 Bunker Report, Part IV: Background, undated, #177a-4, “Indonesia Memos Vol. IV,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

157 Memorandum Prepared for the 303 Committee, NSC, February 23, 1965, Document 110, FRUS, 1964-1968, Volume XXVI, Indonesia; Malaysia-Singapore; Philippines, ed. Edward C. Keefer (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 2000), https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1964-68v26/d110.

158 Bunker Report, Part IV: Background, undated, #177a-4, “Indonesia Memos Vol. IV,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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violent clashes had already occurred in East and Central Java and Sumatra.159 The CIA reported that Sukarno had “alluded to the use of Islamic organizations for subversive purposes” in a speech in March. Communist actors, meanwhile, were said to have suggested to Sukarno that the U.S. was backing an anti-communist effort in Java.160 The scope of direct U.S. contacts with Islamic organization is difficult to determine, as the bulk of the documents surrounding covert operations during this period remain classified; but the charge put forth by the PKI and Sukarno that the U.S. worked to support anti- communist efforts in Java (and elsewhere) is, as we have seen, broadly accurate.

With or without U.S. encouragement, NU leaders had indeed begun to mobilize members in response to a series of PKI-led land seizures in Java, with some using

“religious symbols and justifications for opposing the communists, claiming that they threatened religion.”161 The unilateral action, or aksi sepihak, undertaken by the PKI beginning in late 1963 was intended to implement the largely unenforced 1960 Basic

Law on Agriculture, which had been intended primarily to break up the increasingly vast concentrations of land held by the wealthier citizens of Java. In response to the law, many landowners had simply sought to reduce the size of their holdings by distributing the land among their relatives, or by donating lands to mosques and traditionalist Islamic schools, known as pesantren in Java, run by a religious teacher, or kyai.162 The PKI’s focus on

159 Bunker Report, Part I: General Conclusions, undated, #177a-1, “Indonesia Memos Vol. IV,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

160 OCI No. 0783/65, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, March 17, 1965, #166, “Indonesia Memos Vol. IV,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

161 Fealy and McGregor, “East Java and the Role of Nahdlatul Ulama in the 1965-66 Anti- Communist Violence,” 112.

162 Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 234–35.

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land reform was a strategic choice; by highlighting inequalities between the landed and the landless, it sought to mobilize the rural peasant population.163 As Simpson writes:

For the PKI, land reform was not a vehicle for addressing the cultural and ecological problem of tradition-bound, poverty-sharing peasants, as Clifford Geertz argued in his influential book Agricultural Involution, but rather the political problems of rural landlessness and inequality. Viewing land reform in this manner, however, had political implications deeply threatening to Islamic organizations and the armed forces—two of the largest landowners.164

An October 1964 CIA report on the ever-growing threat from the PKI in

Indonesia contained only a brief discussion of a “series of unilateral land seizures in eastern and central Java” conducted by the PKI-affiliated Barisan Tani Indonesia (BTI,

Indonesian Peasants’ Front). The BTI had justified its actions by pointing to the violation of land reform laws by corrupt landlords, the report said, noting that Sukarno had sympathized with the farmers in his Independence Day speech that August.165 The report did not, however, note that many of those landowners were wealthy Muslims—though subsequent CIA analyses, as well as communications from the Embassy, pointed to rising tensions between the PKI and Muslim organizations, especially the NU, especially in

East and Central Java. In March 1965, the CIA reported on the increasing violence between the PKI and Muslim organizations: “The greatest number of incidents have occurred in East Java where the orthodox Moslem party, Nahdatul [sic] Ulama (NU), has its chief strength. Difficulties have also occurred in Central Java and in Atjeh in northern

163 Six, Secularism, Decolonisation, and the Cold War in South and Southeast Asia, 167.

164 Simpson, “Indonesia’s ‘Accelerated Modernization,’” 471.

165 SC No. 00642/64A, CIA, October 23, 1964, #142“Indonesia Memos Vol. III,” Box 246, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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Sumatra.” Initially, the clashes resulted from “resistance to illegal Communist land seizures,” but now Muslim groups increasingly “sought to disrupt almost any Communist activity.” The CIA’s analysis suggested that the “Moslem campaign gives the appearance of some effort at coordination at the provincial level.” And, in what turned out to be an accurate assessment, their efforts also “seem[ed] to have the sympathy and partial support of significant elements of the army and police.”166

U.S. newspapers also began reporting on the growing tensions in Java between communists and an “informal alliance of Moslem and nationalist parties” in 1965.

According to Washington Post journalist Neil Sheehan, while the disputes had initially arisen over land seizures, the struggle against the PKI and its supporters had grown “into something of a religious crusade for the Moslems after a Communist mob invaded a mosque in Kanigoro in mid-January and one Communist allegedly put his foot on a

Koran.”167 A leading Muslim newspaper had, he wrote, printed a cartoon showing the PKI as “a wolf hypocritically singing a song about national unity while it tramples on a

Koran,” while “[u]nsigned leaflets were clandestinely distributed in Surabaya and elsewhere last week calling on Moslems to wage a holy war against the Communists.” In what would turn out to be an ominous foreshadowing of events to come, Sheehan wrote that “[t]he conflict is potentially so explosive that some observers here believe that

166 OCI No. 0783/65, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, March 17, 1965, #166, “Indonesia Memos Vol. IV,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

167 Neil Sheehan, “Moslems on Java Clash with Reds: Violence Grows Following Seizure of Farmland,” New York Times, March 17, 1965, ProQuest.

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rioting of Communist and Moslem mobs could become more serious if something is not done to ease the tension.”168

***

In early 1965, Christian Science Monitor correspondent John Hughes interviewed

PKI Chairman Aidit and pondered the party’s continued gains in a profile piece for the

Monitor. He wrote about the PKI’s “strangely unorthodox tactics,” from a “pure Marxist-

Leninist point of view,” including the party’s acceptance of Pancasila and its first tenet of belief in God. Not only that, he continued, but the PKI includes “many practicing

Moslems,” and the party participates in the current government alongside “a curious jumble of parties and political movements including Moslem parties.” Hughes viewed the

PKI’s public attitudes toward religion as contradictory, at best, or exploitative, at worst, although he allowed that “[b]ending ideology around built-in Indonesian realities has apparently however proved profitable,” since the PKI claimed as many as three million members. But he attributed the PKI’s inroads among the peasant population, especially in

Java, to the party’s provision of “straight-forward but carefully calculated economic assistance,” and not to the population’s acceptance of communism, as such.169

Later that year, U.S. foreign service officers in Jakarta put forth a similar assessment of the PKI’s, and well as Sukarno’s, allegedly instrumentalist relationship with religious groups. The Embassy observed in June that “[t]he public position of the

PKI has been one of leaning over backwards to appear friendly toward the NU and religion.” As Hughes had noted, the PKI “consistently and emphatically asserted its

168 Sheehan, 18.

169 John Hughes, “How Reds Gain in Indonesia--Key Leader Interviewed,” Christian Science Monitor, January 2, 1965, ProQuest.

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acceptance of the Pantjasila including its religious plank,” along with “its support for the religious as well as the nationalist elements of Nasakom.” In reality, however, Embassy staff concluded that “both Sukarno and the PKI regard the religious element of Nasakom as a necessary evil that must be humored for the time being.” If Sukarno and his communist allies had their way, they feared, remaining religious leaders would become

“a thoroughly tamed group of stooges” who subscribed to the Revolution at home, and functioned as a “showpiece for propaganda” abroad. In the not so distant future, U.S. officials in Jakarta warned, the “a,” for agama (religion), in Nasakom could be eliminated, reducing the Indonesia’s state ideology to simply Naskom.170

Despite the prevalent modernizing lens of the time, then, at least some U.S. officials continued not only to analyze the “religious element,” but also to view religious leaders in Indonesia as relevant, even desirable, political actors and potential partners, in danger though they were of state co-optation for the purposes of advancing an anti-

Western agenda. In fact, the co-optation of religion and religious groups by the state is exactly what happened in Indonesia—only it occurred not at the hands of the PKI and

President Sukarno, but during the New Order era under Sukarno’s successor and U.S. ally, General Suharto. As we will see in Chapter 4, this development proceeded apace in the late 1960s with little, if any, objection from the Johnson administration.

170 Airgram 928, Djakarta to State, June 4, 1965, SOC 12 INDON, CFPF 1964-66, RG 59, NACP.

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CHAPTER 4:

RELIGIOUS VIOLENCE? 1965-1968

“…it would appear that the Moslem counteraction on communism has taken on many of the aspects of a Jihad, or holy war. Islam in Indonesia felt itself strongly threatened by the growth of communism, by Indonesia’s closer and closer swing to Communist China, by the official disfavor into which Islamic parties had fallen. Thus the present slaughter takes on the always dangerous overtones of religious fanaticism.”1

- Editorial, Christian Science Monitor, January 18, 1966

“Over the longer term, these conflicts [between the outgoing “old order” and the emergent “new order”] will tend to merge with political questions even more fundamental to Indonesia’s political evolution: the role of Islam; the legitimacy of Marxism; Java-based centralism versus outer-island federalism; and the conflict between traditional authoritarianism and Western democracy.”2

- National Intelligence Estimate, “Prospects for Indonesia,” February 15, 1967

Accounts of the events that transpired in the early morning hours of October 1,

1965, are conflicting, to say the least. The basic outline is this: six Indonesian Army generals were kidnapped and executed by a group of fellow military officers calling themselves the 30 September movement, led by Lieutenant Colonel Untung. General

1 Editorial, “Sheathe the Sword,” Christian Science Monitor, January 18, 1966, ProQuest.

2 National Intelligence Estimate (NIE) 55-67, “Prospects for Indonesia,” February 15, 1967, #6, “55, Indonesia,” Box 7, National Intelligence Estimates (NIEs), NSF, LBJPL.

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Nasution, long the United States’ closest ally in the Indonesian Army, barely managed to escape the same fate; his young daughter, however, was killed in the confusion. After seizing control of the state radio, the officers declared in a series of broadcasts that they had acted to protect President Sukarno from a Council of Generals they believed was, with the assistance of the United States and Great Britain, plotting his overthrow. They announced the establishment of a Revolutionary Council in Jakarta, with Untung as its chair, along with proposed regional councils throughout Indonesia, to ensure the continued implementation of Sukarno’s political agenda. The Council, they said, would hold power until elections were held on an unspecified future date, while Cabinet ministers’ duties would be limited to routine activities.

Initially, the 30 September Movement appeared to receive some public support from Indonesian Army, Navy, and Air Force officers. But by 9:00 p.m. on October 1,

Major General Suharto, commander of the Army Strategic Reserve Command (Kostrad), took to the airwaves to decry the actions of Untung and his fellow officers as “‘a counterrevolutionary movement,’” and he deemed the Revolutionary Council a coup against President Sukarno. All branches of the military and the police, he said, had reached an agreement to “crush” the 30 September Movement.3 In the coming days,

Sukarno agreed to place Suharto in charge of stabilizing the country, and by October 10, the Operations Command to Restore Security and Order (Kopkamtib) had been established under the command of Suharto.4 The Army soon began to promulgate direct

3 Crouch, The Army and Politics in Indonesia, 97–101; General Suharto quoted in Crouch, 99.

4 Crouch, 223.

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links between the PKI and the 30 September Movement, which they often referred to as

G30S or Gestapu (from the Indonesian Gerakan September Tiga Puluh).

Almost immediately, conflicting interpretations of the attempted coup arose in

Indonesia and elsewhere.5 The military’s version of events, which remains the state sanctioned narrative, put the blame squarely on the PKI. With Suharto at the helm of

Kopkamtib, the Army set out to eliminate the PKI and affiliated organizations from future participation in Indonesian politics. By mid-October, it had joined with civilian and paramilitary partners, including Islamic groups, to mobilize popular anti-communist sentiment in a violent campaign spread from Java, to Sumatra and Bali, and across the archipelago in the coming months. Meanwhile, Suharto continued to chip away at

President Sukarno’s grasp on power in a series of political maneuvers in late 1965 and early 1966. While Sukarno remained nominally in power until Suharto was appointed

Acting President by the Provisional People’s Consultative Assembly (MPRS, the legislative body since 1959) in March 1967, the structure of what came to be called the

New Order regime was effectively in place by March 1966. Indeed, as early as January

1966, the CIA declared the “era of Sukarno’s dominance has ended,” as it became increasingly clear that Suharto and the Indonesian Army were on their way to assuming power.6

5 As Harold Crouch points out, the assassination of the generals was not exactly a coup against Sukarno’s government. But the language of an attempted, aborted, or failed coup quickly came to dominate the discourse surrounding October 1, 1965, and since then the tumultuous events have been “almost universally described” as such. Crouch, 101, footnote 7.

6 OCI No. 0481/66, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, January 3, 1966, #116, “Indonesia Cables Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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Some scholars have suggested that this outcome was planned all along: a multi- phase coup carried out by Army officers, several of whom had participated in U.S. military training programs, with the public encouragement and secret assistance of U.S. government officials.7 Scholars continue to debate the extent to which the PKI, the Army, and even Sukarno himself were or were not involved in the 30 September Movement; whether the impetus to act against the Army Generals was internal to Indonesia, or externally influenced; and the possibility of direct CIA involvement in the planning and execution of a multi-phase, right-wing coup.8 Given the CIA’s role in covert operations during the Cold War, such claims are not out of the realm of possibility. Yet, however possible or probable, conclusive documentary evidence of direct U.S. involvement in the events of October 1, 1965, has not been discovered.9

This is not to suggest, of course, that the United States opposed the series of events that transpired in that fateful fall. As relations with Sukarno soured during the

Johnson administration, the United States had engaged in covert propaganda activities to

7 Peter Dale Scott, for instance, has argued that the events of September 30 were but the first part of a “three-phase right-wing coup.” In short, right-leaning members of the Indonesian Army helped to instigate the September 30 coup-phase one-in order to provide a path to initiate a plan to eliminate the civilian left-phase two-and, eventually, to seize power and establish a military dictatorship-phase three. Scott, “The United States and the Overthrow of Sukarno, 1965-1967,” 239–40; For a counterpoint on alleged CIA and other Western powers’ involvement, see Brands, “The Limits of Manipulation.”

8 See, for example: Benedict Anderson and Ruth T. McVey, A Preliminary Analysis of the October 1, 1965, Coup in Indonesia (Ithaca: Cornell University, 1971); Benedict R. Anderson, “How Did the Generals Die?,” Indonesia, no. 43 (April 1, 1987): 109–34; Brands, “The Limits of Manipulation”; Crouch, The Army and Politics in Indonesia, 97–134; Easter, “‘Keep the Indonesian Pot Boiling’”; Scott, “The United States and the Overthrow of Sukarno, 1965-1967.”

9 While U.S. government documents continue to be declassified, many are heavily redacted, and accounts of U.S. knowledge of and involvement in the events surrounding the coup attempt remain incomplete. Indonesian accounts, too, are murky at best, particularly given the propaganda campaign that arose linking the PKI to the attempted coup and the official narrative cultivated by the Suharto regime in the coming decades.

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foster a climate of anti-communism, and it would provide crucial, if limited, intelligence and material assistance to the Indonesian Army in the months following the coup attempt.

In short, a complete account of attempted coup and subsequent counter-coup remains unclear, and the narrative and analysis that follow here do not attempt to answer “what really happened.” What is clear, however, is that the United States and its Western allies moved in late 1965 to take advantage of Indonesian instability, to “‘exacerbate internal strife,’” and to “ensure ‘the destruction and putting to flight of the PKI by the Indonesian

Army.’”10

This chapter examines how Johnson administration officials interpreted the coup attempt in Indonesia, the anti-communist campaign and mass violence in the months that followed, and Indonesia’s transition to an authoritarian regime led by General Suharto. In the 1950s and 1960s, Western theories of modernization evolved, but most retained underlying assumptions about religion as traditional or backwards—and, therefore, as resistant to change, at best, or fanatically violent, at worst. At the same time, secularization theory gained intellectual and social momentum in the West, including the idea that with modernity comes a universal, if not always linear, decoupling of religion and its institutions, symbols, and practices from the state and public life.11 Operating within this framework, U.S. policymakers observed and interpreted the violence that occurred in Indonesia in the aftermath of the attempted coup.

The Indonesian Army publicly linked the PKI to the coup attempt. Beginning in mid-October 1965, Indonesian armed forces cooperated, formally and informally, with a

10 Simpson, Economists with Guns, 178.

11 Six, Secularism, Decolonisation, and the Cold War in South and Southeast Asia, 3.

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host of anti-communist organizations across the archipelago to conduct mass arrests of

PKI members and military operations against the PKI and its known or alleged leftist sympathizers. Some of the Army’s most prominent partners in this purge included self- identified religious organizations and individuals—primarily Muslim, but also some

Christian and Hindu—in East and Central Java, North Sumatra, Bali, and the Lesser

Sunda Islands. Other religious actors, it is important to note, did not to participate in the violence, and some spoke out against the killings or offered shelter to potential targets.12

The U.S. government did not oppose, and indeed often supported, the partnership between Muslim organizations and the Indonesian Army in “clean-up operations” against the PKI. They welcomed, in particular, the instrumental role religious actors played in providing the Army the politically prudent space to appear above the violent fray.

Johnson administration officials tended to understand the Army-PKI conflict as primarily a political, not an ideological, struggle; and, likewise, they rarely understood Indonesia’s

Muslim community as ideologically motivated actors.13 Instead, the “causes of the mass killings,” in the assessment of U.S. Embassy staff in Jakarta, most likely “stemmed… from fear, from a desire to settle old scores, and from a kind of mass running amuck as much as from any hatred of Communism per se.”14

12 R. A. F. Paul Webb, “The Sickle and the Cross: Christians and Communists in Bali, Flores, Sumba and Timor, 1965-67,” Journal of Southeast Asian Studies 17, no. 1 (1986): 112; Six, Secularism, Decolonisation, and the Cold War in South and Southeast Asia, 171.

13 See, for example, Intelligence Memorandum, CIA, November 22, 1965, #119, “Indonesia Memos Vol. V,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

14 Airgram 263, Djakarta to State, December 26, 1966, #21, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VII,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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Mainstream U.S. media accounts, however, often portrayed the violence as a frenzied battle between Islam and Communism, a counter-coup response justifiably initiated by the Army that had spiraled out of control in an eruption of unchecked emotion and revenge in the majority Muslim country. To be sure, the reports that reached the West of the massacre of suspected communists and their sympathizers were gruesome and deserved condemnation; but American observers often described the killing in ways that reinforced ideas about inherent violent tendencies in developing societies. “Amok,”

Time magazine informed its readers in July 1966, “is a Javanese word, and it describes what happened” after the attempted coup: “In a national explosion of pent-up hatred,

Indonesia embarked on an orgy of slaughter that took more lives than the U.S. has lost in all wars in this century.”15

Narratives of the violence also reified dominant ideas about Islam. “Islam in

Indonesia felt itself threatened,” one Christian Science Monitor editorial read—not certain Muslims, or the Muslim community, but “Islam” itself.16 Shorthand or not, this kind of homogenizing was common in public discourse, as was the denial of agency to

Muslim actors, whose behavior was often perceived as a consequence of the Islamic faith’s dominance in all areas of life. While the masses were seen as “running amok,” the

Indonesian military was often portrayed, in the media and in U.S. policymaking circles, as a rational political actor in the planning and execution of the anti-communist purge. It is perhaps not surprising, then, that U.S. officials in the modernization-minded Johnson administration put their faith in the armed forces and in General Suharto’s New Order

15 “Vengeance with a Smile,” Time 88, no. 3 (July 15, 1966): 34, ProQuest.

16 Editorial, “Sheathe the Sword.”

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regime, without regard to the future political role of their erstwhile Muslim allies in the fight against communism.

From late 1965 onward, General Suharto and Indonesian Army officers consolidated power and succeeded in gradually marginalizing Sukarno and his supporters from the government and public life. Over the next several years, some of the Muslim groups that played a crucial role in the destruction of the PKI worked to reassert their political influence, including efforts to restructure the relationship between Islam and the

Indonesian state in the New Order era. Yet while there are, of course, important differences between the Sukarno and Suharto regimes, both rulers advanced a vision of the relationship between religion and state based on Pancasila, and not, as some Muslims had hoped, on Islam. Even if they were aware of the intricacies of intra-Muslim debates,

U.S. officials do not appear to have placed much stock in their relevance to overall U.S.-

Indonesia strategy. Having seen its preferred outcome of an Army-led Indonesia come to fruition, the Johnson administration was more concerned with building relations with the military-technocratic regime Suharto was constructing, than with the nature of the

Indonesian state’s relationship to religion.

Contested Narratives: Memory, Identity, and Islam

Agung Priyambodo was just fourteen years old in October 1965, a junior high school student living in Yogyakarta, Java, when news about an attempted coup in Jakarta began to spread across Indonesia. In an oral history interview, published in 2013, Agung described his background “in cultural terms [as] a follower of traditional Javanese

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mysticism,” while “[a]s far as official choice of religion is concerned, mine is Islam.”17

As an adult, he recalled the concept of Nasakom as an acknowledgment of the “actual fact in Indonesia there were three groups, the nationalists, the religious and the communists. But all three could be united with Pancasila,” he continued, as the

“foundation” of the country. “[T]he groupings,” according to Agung, “were merely groupings based on ideology. They were divided clearly. But even more important, at the time all of the groups adhered to religion. It was only their political ideologies that differed. So it didn’t mean that the nationalists and the communists did not embrace religion.” He concedes that “[m]aybe there were some who didn’t [embrace religion]. But that was their own business.” The important thing was that the country was based on

Pancasila, including its first principle of monotheism. “That,” Agung said, “is what I got at the time, when I was still 14.”

Agung’s recollection of Indonesia’s post-colonial political landscape helps to illustrate a number of the challenges facing scholars (to say nothing of Indonesian society) who seek to understand the causes, conduct, and consequences of the mass violence that began to sweep the country in the fall of 1965. First, it is important to note that the distinction between historical fact and historical memory is sometimes blurred in public discourse. Historians, then, are mindful that accounts such as Agung’s not only, and often not even primarily, shed light on exactly “what happened,” but instead provide insight into how people “remember and give meaning to what happened in the 1965

17 Agung Priyambodo (name has been changed), interview transcribed by Kiswondo, “Pride in Being Indonesian: The 1965 Tragedy in the Eyes of a Follower of Javanese Mysticism,” in Truth Will out: Indonesian Accounts of the 1965 Mass Violence, ed. F. X. Baskara Tulus Wardaya, trans. Jennifer Lindsay (Clayton, Victoria, Australia: Monash University Publishing, 2013).

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tragedy.”18 The failed coup and subsequent Army-led anti-communist campaign not only heralded the rise of an authoritarian military regime; they also upended social relations, reshaping Indonesian society in ways that continue to play out today. Decades later, Ann

Laura Stoler has written, when Indonesians ask “can it happen again?,” the “it” that occurred in 1965 depends in large part on who is doing the asking, as well as who you ask; and, it should come as no surprise that this past is “raided as a powerful tool in the present.”19 Claims based on competing narratives about this period can, for example, be used by religious and political leaders alike to generate popular support for both domestic and international policy agendas today.20 But narratives also have the potential to play a healing role, as Indonesians continue to grapple with this contested past.21

Agung’s account illuminates another key area of contestation in both historical memory and scholarly literature: the nature and salience of particular “groupings” of

Indonesians. First, Agung’s reference to ideological groupings is notable in light of the tendency of U.S. government officials to downplay the role of “real” ideological commitments as a driver of the post-October 1 violence. As discussed in the upcoming section, U.S. officials rarely depicted Indonesian Muslims as explicitly, or purely,

18 F. X. Baskara Tulus Wardaya, “Foreword: Hearing Silenced Voices,” in Truth Will out: Indonesian Accounts of the 1965 Mass Violence, ed. F. X. Baskara Tulus Wardaya, trans. Jennifer Lindsay (Clayton, Victoria, Australia: Monash University Publishing, 2013), xxxix.

19 Ann Laura Stoler, “On the Uses and Abuses of the Past in Indonesia: Beyond the Mass Killings of 1965,” Asian Survey 42, no. 4 (August 1, 2002): 644 (quoted) – 646; 643 (quoted).

20 Elizabeth Fuller Collins, “Indonesia: A Violent Culture?,” Asian Survey 42, no. 4 (2002): 582– 604.

21 “Memory,” Baskaria Wardaya writes, “is in principle relational, meaning it always involves others-or at least, events we experience with others.” Narratives informed by memory-particularly oral histories-could “help to create ‘relational space’ comprised not only of the relation between the reader and the informants, but also between one group and another and one generation and another.” Wardaya, “Foreword: Hearing Silenced Voices,” xxviii.

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ideologically-motivated; nor did they appear to view (Indonesian) Islam as a coherent political ideology, even as they continued to position it against Communism in the global context of the Cold War.

Agung’s interview also reveals how he simultaneously values Pancasila, including its principle of monotheism, as the foundation of the Indonesian state, while acknowledging the range of positions that Indonesians have advocated within its framework. To Agung, Pancasila transcended what he identified as clear ideological groupings—nationalism, religion, and communism—of Indonesian political and social life in the Sukarno era. But while this interpretation of Pancasila reflected the views of some Indonesians—for reasons both symbolic, with its revolutionary heritage, and practical, as a means to promote national identity in the diverse country—others in the multi-religious society retained a different vision for Islam’s relationship to the state.

And, despite the efforts of Sukarno and his fellow nationalists, national integration proceeded at different paces in different parts of Indonesia; the country was no stranger to regional rebellions, including movements like Darul Islam.22

Groups, ideological or otherwise, are closely related to concepts of identity or, in

Rogers Brubaker and Frederick Cooper’s formulation, the process of “identification.”23

22 Kenneth R. Young, “Local and National Influences in the Violence of 1965,” in The Indonesian Killings of 1965-1966: Studies from Java and Bali, ed. Robert B. Cribb (Clayton, Victoria, Australia: Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, 1991), 64–66; Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 1.

23 Identity, John Paul Lederach writes, “is deeply rooted in a person’s or group’s sense of how that person or group is in relationship with others and what effect that relationship has on its participants’ sense of self and group.” John Paul Lederach, The Little Book of Conflict Transformation (Intercourse, PA: Good Books, 2003), 54–55; Brubaker and Cooper lament the analytical value of the term identity as it is often used in social science literature, and contend that too often, it becomes an imprecise, catchall term for almost all processes of and practices of “naming and self-other distinctions.” To avoid such capaciousness, they propose several alternative terms, including “identification,” which is a “processual, active term” that suggests one can specify who is doing the identifying, without suggesting that the process will inevitably

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Agung’s geographic and socio-cultural location as a young person living in an urban area of Java, and whose background reflected one among many expressions of the syncretic nature of religion in Java, no doubt helped frame his understanding of concepts like

Nasakom and Pancasila. It also likely informed his response to and interpretation of the

1965 mass violence. Agung’s experience should thus not be taken as representative of the entire period, nor should his interpretation of Indonesian groupings, or even the role and relevance of Pancasila, be considered to reflect the understanding of all Indonesians. To be clear, Agung does not make this claim; rather, it bears mentioning that many initial studies of the events of 1965 focused on East and Central Java, which bore the brunt of the early violence. This was due in part to the availability of sources, as well as to the prominence of Java in scholarship on Indonesia at the time.24

Clifford Geertz’s influential The Religion of Java, in particular, first published in

1960, provided a ready vocabulary to observers seeking to understand Islam and the

Indonesian population. Geertz detailed the socio-cultural categories of the santri and the abangan, two streams (aliran) of the Muslim community of Java, each with its own

result in the desired “internal sameness” or “bounded groupness.” Rogers Brubaker and Frederick Cooper, “Beyond ‘Identity,’” in Ethnicity without Groups (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2006), 40– 41.

24 The few Western journalists and academics in Indonesia at the time of the killings often depended on the military for their information. Travel was also challenging. Domestically, the Indonesian press had been gutted in the later Sukarno years, particularly after twenty-one newspapers were banned in early 1965 for their role in creating, or supporting the creation of, the anti-communist so-called “Sukarnoism Front” (Barisan Pendukung Sukarnoisme). The journalistic accounts that do exist are often tinged by ideological agendas. A group of short stories published in Indonesian literary magazines was also constrained by the politics of the time and the risks associated with writing about the killings, whether in a fictional form or not. Robert B. Cribb, “Introduction: Problems in the Historiography of the Killings in Indonesia,” in The Indonesian Killings of 1965-1966: Studies from Java and Bali, ed. Robert B. Cribb (Clayton, Victoria, Australia: Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, 1991), 3–5.

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particular history and class dynamics.25 These concepts have permeated Western scholarship on Indonesian Islam and, as Bahtiar Effendy points out, there has been a tendency—even among observers attentive to the nuances of religion and culture—to view both the Indonesian state and large segments of its society through the lens of “a clash between orthodoxy and syncretism, between santri (devout Muslims) and abangan

(less devout Muslims), between religious group and nationalist groups, rather than as a conflict of vision among the state elites (the majority of whom are Muslims) concerning what constitutes an ideal Indonesia.”26

There are and have historically been, for example, santri who chose to affiliate with non-Islamic political groups and to explore or embrace non-religious ideologies.

Indeed, individual and communal identities or allegiances are not static; they can be nimble, overlap, and change over time. Agung, for instance, self-identified with both

“traditional Javanese mysticism,” as his culture, and Islam, as his religion, neither of which, for him, conflicted with his Indonesian national identity. Moreover, as Effendy points out, both santri and abangan are syncretic; the difference lies in the communal emphasis on either Islamic elements, in the case of santri, or on animistic elements, in the case of abangan, in the overall context of Javanese syncretism, and not, as is often assumed, in religious devotion. Even if Geertz did not intend it, “[d]egree of religious

25 Young, “Local and National Influences in the Violence of 1965,” 65–66; Geertz, The Religion of Java.

26 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 2.

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devotion” became entwined with the terms, and the categories were—and sometimes still are—often used as shorthand for explaining intra-Muslim conflicts.27

The diversity of Indonesia’s Muslim population was not entirely lost on U.S. officials during the Johnson years, and area specialists, diplomatic personnel, and CIA analysts often acknowledged as much in their communications. Still, while some analyses were more nuanced than others, there is little evidence to suggest a subtle understanding of—or, perhaps, to suggest the assignment of much importance to—such differences beyond the fact of their existence. U.S. officials also frequently relied on categorizations that, while not directly referring to Geertz, reflect the tendency to rank Muslims by level of devoutness—from fanatic and fundamentalist, to orthodox and conservative, to moderate, liberal, and nominal. And in reports on the mass violence, particularly in Java,

U.S. officials almost always identified Muslims as perpetrators, usually from the fanatic or conservative end of the spectrum. Rarely were Muslims, whether nominal or faithful practitioners of Islam, seen as victims of the violence. Whether this reflected the impulse to categorize by devotion, the inability or unwillingness to see overlapping identities, or, perhaps, simply the insignificance of such subtleties in overall U.S. strategy toward

Indonesia, is difficult to assess. But in the eyes of the Johnson administration, whether the Army-Muslim partnership lasted or not seemed less important than whether it helped produce a stable, modernizing, non-communist government in Indonesia.

27 Effendy, 3; 14 (quoted); 53, footnote 3; Santri, for instance, has sometimes been used outside the context of Geertz’s original work to generalize about “orthodox” Muslims in Indonesia, who are, of course, a diverse population. Cribb and Kahin, Historical Dictionary of Indonesia, 283.

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U.S.-Indonesian Relations, 1965-1966: The More Things Change…

Early U.S. Responses to the Attempted Coup

On October 7, 1965, one week after the attempted coup, Under-secretary of State

George Ball cabled Jakarta to assure Ambassador Marshall Green that the “army clearly needs no material assistance from us at this point,” thanks to the relationships that had been fostered over the last several years of joint training, civic action programs, and the cultivation of a relationship with General Nasution.28 Three days later, Ball recommended that Embassy officials continue to respond in a “non-committal manner” to Indonesian approaches for assistance, unless they came directly from Nasution. The priority should be to guard against undermining the anti-PKI movement.29

By October 13, Secretary of State Dean Rusk informed Ambassador Green that, while a decision had yet to be made, the “time [was] approaching when it may be desirable to give some indication to the military”—without the appearance of U.S. interference in internal Indonesian affairs—“of our attitudes toward recent and current developments,” despite the still unsettled question of Indonesia’s political future.30

Washington’s insistence on this front grew as it seemed increasingly clear to U.S. officials that the military was committed to “all-out fight against PKI and its fellow- travelers,” even in the face of Sukarno’s opposition. Though at times they couched the

28 Deptel 400, State to Djakarta, October 6, 1965, #6, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [1 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

29 Deptel 433, State to Djakarta, October 9, 1965, #9, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [1 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

30 Deptel 452, State to Djakarta, October 13, 1965, #11 “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [1 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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future of the Indonesian state in terms of a civil-military coalition, in the fall of 1965, the

U.S. government judged the Indonesian Army to be the only mass-based organization with the capacity to create order and the will to usher in a new, non-communist, Western- friendly government.31

While privately celebrating the Indonesian Army’s rise, U.S. officials continued to recognize that overt demonstrations of support could backfire. Ambassador Green suggested that Washington should instead “covertly…indicate to key people in [the] army such as Nasution and Suharto our desire to be of assistance where we can.”32 The

United States did pursue a covert strategy to assist the Army, which included an influx of anti-communist propaganda (a continuation of a CIA-State Department political action program begun in March 1965), along with the provision of medical supplies, communications equipment, and small arms. The Embassy’s defense attaché, U.S. Army

Colonel Willis Ethel, became one of the main conduits for discussions between the

United States and the Indonesian military, and he frequently met with General Nasution’s aide to discuss the United States’ willingness to provide secret military aid.33 The U.S.

Embassy also provided its Army contacts with valuable intelligence, including lists compiled under the direction of political officer Robert Martens and CIA analysts

31 Deptel 545, State to Djakarta, October 29, 1965, #20 (quoted); and Deptel 562, State to Djakarta, November 1, 1965, #22, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [1 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

32 Embtel 868, Djakarta to State, October 5, 1965, #66, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [2 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

33 On the importance of Colonel Ethel’s contact with General Nasution and his staff, as well as early discussions about whether or not to provide material aid and intelligence, see: Embtel 1271, Djakarta to State, October 30, 1965, #129; Embtel 1282, Djakarta to State, November 1, 1965, #133; and Embtel 1288, Djakarta to State, November 1, 1965, #134, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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stationed in Indonesia, with the names of thousands of local, regional, and even national

PKI leaders and their affiliates.34

Immediately following coup attempt, Washington-based State Department officials tended to think that the PKI, while it may have been a beneficiary of a coup, had not master-minded the attempt. Ambassador Green, however, suspected almost from the beginning that the PKI had been behind it.35 As competing interpretations and evidence swirled between U.S. and other Western government agencies, Indonesian state media, at the direction of General Suharto, began to saturate the airwaves with stories of the communist perpetrators’ attack on the nation. The Army shut down the communist press, while military, religious, and nationalist newspapers published sensational and incriminating accounts of communist treachery and treason. The demonization of the PKI became a central feature of Indonesian Army propaganda for the remainder of 1965, with sordid tales of the torture and mutilation allegedly inflicted on the murdered generals at the hands of the communists, including, most shockingly, by communist women, forming the basis for a narrative that set neighbor against neighbor in the months to come.36

34 That the U.S. government provided this aid with knowledge of the violent nature of the ongoing campaign against the PKI is not in question, as the frequent and often detailed communications between Jakarta and Washington show. Bradley Simpson has decried those historians who have previously contended that the U.S. did not know of the killings or was not aware of their scale, writing that such “claims are patently false” based on the abundant evidence of accounts that reached U.S. officials of the progressive mass slaughter taking place across the country. Simpson, Economists with Guns, 189–90; see also Bradley Simpson, “International Dimensions of the 1965-68 Violence in Indonesia,” in The Contours of Mass Violence in Indonesia, 1965-68, ed. Douglas Kammen and Katharine E. McGregor (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, 2012), 61–62.

35 On October 9, Ambassador Green wrote that “One week has passed since [the] massacre [of] top Army leadership in Oct 1 pre-dawn coup. It [is] now increasingly clear that PKI and Air Force leadership clearly implicated and that Sukarno himself probably at least aware of actions planned by 30 Sept Movement.” Embtel 923, Djakarta to State, October 9, 1965, #74, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [2 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

36 Leslie Dwyer, “The Intimacy of Terror: Gender and the Violence of 1965-66 in Bali,” Intersections: Gender, History and Culture in the Asian Context, no. 10 (August 2004),

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The Indonesian armed forces’ propaganda campaign dovetailed with Ambassador

Green’s own preferred approach: to provide covert support to anti-communist elements in

Indonesia and “spread the story of [the] PKI’s guilt, treachery and brutality.”37 Through

Voice of America (VOA) broadcasts, and in collaboration with the governments of the

United Kingdom, Australia, and Malaysia, the U.S. government linked the PKI to the coup attempt as part of a strategy to whip up anti-communist sentiment, driving a wedge between segments of Indonesian society who, under other circumstances, may have listened to Sukarno’s pleas for national unity against outside intervention (though it is unclear how many Indonesians these broadcasts reached).38 U.S. newspapers would repeat similar claims in the coming months, as information slowly trickled out from

Indonesia. Stanley Karnow of the Washington Post, for instance, reported that he “found the attempted coup d’état in Djakarta last Sept. 30…was part of a broader Communist plan of insurrection” across the islands and in coordination with “Red China.” And while he spoke with the occasional Indonesian—even a “Moslem leader” in central Java—who

http://intersections.anu.edu.au/issue10/dwyer.html; Katharine E. McGregor and Vannessa Hearman, “Challenges of Political Rehabilitation in Post-New Order Indonesia: The Case of Gerwani (the Indonesian Women’s Movement),” South East Asia Research 15, no. 3 (2007): 355–84; Easter, “‘Keep the Indonesian Pot Boiling,’” 60–62; Robert Goodfellow, “Forgetting What It Was to Remember the Indonesian Killings of 1965-6,” in Historical Injustice and Democratic Transition in Eastern Asia and Northern Europe: Ghosts at the Table of Democracy, ed. Kenneth Christie and Robert B. Cribb (London; New York: RoutledgeCurzon, 2002), 38–56; Klaus Schreiner, “Remembering and Forgetting at ‘Lubang Buaya’: The ‘coup’ of 1965 in Contemporary Indonesian Historical Perception and Public Commemoration,” in Historical Injustice and Democratic Transition in Eastern Asia and Northern Europe: Ghosts at the Table of Democracy, ed. Kenneth Christie and Robert B. Cribb (London; New York: Routledge Curzon, 2002), 57–78.

37 On October 5, Green and the Embassy cabled Washington a number of guidelines for U.S. posture toward recent events in Indonesia, including the suggestion to “spread the story of [the] PKI’s guilt, treachery and brutality (this priority effort is perhaps most needed immediate assistance we can give Army if we can find way to do it without identifying in as solely or largely US effort.” Embtel 868, Djakarta to State, October 5, 1965, #66, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [2 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

38 Easter, “‘Keep the Indonesian Pot Boiling,’” 62; 68.

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mourned the loss of communist friends and associates, Karnow maintained that most people “sought to justify the destruction of the Communists with the same phrase: ‘If we hadn’t done it to them, they would have done it to us.’”39

Even as the Johnson administration pursued its anti-PKI, pro-Army agenda, in the weeks after October 1 confusion reigned among U.S. officials close to the situation as to who—Nasution, Suharto, or Sukarno—was “calling the shots” in Indonesia, especially within the military, at any given moment.40 The Embassy saw the armed forces as having a “decided edge” in early October, and though Suharto had seized control of the Army, many U.S. observers continued to believe Nasution directed events from the behind the scenes while Suharto acted as the “public face.”41 By late October, the leaders of the remaining religious parties, Muslim, Protestant, and Catholic alike, along with the PNI, were seen to be coalescing around a “common line”—at the urging of General Suharto— that demanded Sukarno dissolve the PKI for good. If not, they threatened to withdraw their support from a government headed by the man who had been a fixture of Indonesian politics since the first rumblings of the anti-colonial, nationalist movement.42

39 Stanley Karnow, “First Report on Horror in Indonesia,” Washington Post, April 17, 1966, sec. A1, ProQuest.

40 Deptel 452, State to Djakarta, October 13, 1965, #11, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [1 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

41 Embtel 923, Djakarta to State, October 9, 1965, #74; and Embtel 1002, Djakarta to State, October 14, 1965, #79, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [2 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

42 Embtel 1235, Djakarta to State, October 27, 1965, #126, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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The Violence Begins

One week after the coup attempt, Ambassador Green was optimistic about signs that “virtually all Muslim and Christian organizations have rallied behind [the] army,” along with “moderate elements” from the PNI. But he also expressed concern about the prospect of sustaining civilian anti-communist momentum, particularly since the “largest

Muslim group (NU) lacks effective leadership and its general chairman, Idham Chalid, is lying low.”43 Indeed, shortly after the coup attempt, several key NU leaders, including

Chalid and party president Wahab Chasbullah, both of whom enjoyed good relations with

Sukarno, had gone into hiding.44 U.S. officials monitored the NU’s internal conflict as it played out over the course of the fall. The NU’s Deputy Chairman Subchan told Embassy staff in late October that there had been two recent attempts to kidnap him, likely connected to his role in “spark[ing] NU drive against PKI.”45 Meanwhile, another source reported that members of Ansor, the NU’s youth organization, doubting his commitment to the cause, had kidnapped Chalid for two days and “eventually persuaded him to take oath on Koran to stand up to president [Sukarno].”46

The U.S. ambassador’s concerns about the NU’s commitment to sustaining anti- communist energy soon proved unnecessary. In Chalid and Chasbullah’s absence, other

NU members met to discuss the party’s response to the coup attempt, paving the way for

43 Embtel 923, Djakarta to State, October 9, 1965, #74; and Embtel 1002, Djakarta to State, October 14, 1965, #79, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [2 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

44 Fealy and McGregor, “East Java and the Role of Nahdlatul Ulama in the 1965-66 Anti- Communist Violence,” 111–17.

45 Embtel 1280, Djakarta to State, October 30, 1965, #131, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

46 Embtel 1235, Djakarta to State, October 27, 1965, #126, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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“a dramatic shift in [NU] leadership” toward a previously marginalized militant faction, which soon controlled the direction of the party narrative explaining its history and goals.

More strident in their anti-communism, these NU members disapproved of Sukarno’s guided democracy, not only because of its trend toward authoritarian rule, but also, and more ardently, because it allowed the anti-Islam and atheistic PKI to have representation in the government.47

Within the loosely defined coalition of anti-PKI forces in East Java, site of some of the highest levels of violence, the NU became “the most important player.” Their activities were sanctioned at its national, provincial, and local levels, as NU leaders openly “endorsed hostilities against the PKI” and “encouraged NU youth to participate in killing communists and eliminating the PKI.”48 Indeed, Ansor and its paramilitary partner,

Banser, became two of the most prominent Islamic organizations to cooperate with the armed forces. They received training, tactical information, and “moral support” from the

Indonesian Army which, according to one scholar, provided civilians with “ideological legitimization” to commit acts of violence against their neighbors.49

The Embassy in Jakarta kept policymakers in Washington well-informed of the

NU and its affiliates’ extensive role in the unrest in Jakarta and the killings that had begun across the Javanese countryside by mid-October 1965. Ambassador Green

47 Fealy and McGregor, “East Java and the Role of Nahdlatul Ulama in the 1965-66 Anti- Communist Violence,” 111–17.

48 Fealy and McGregor, 104.

49 Schreiner, “Remembering and Forgetting at ‘Lubang Buaya’: The ‘coup’ of 1965 in Contemporary Indonesian Historical Perception and Public Commemoration,” 68 (quoted); see also Sukma, Islam in Indonesian Foreign Policy, 43; Fealy and McGregor, “East Java and the Role of Nahdlatul Ulama in the 1965-66 Anti-Communist Violence.”

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informed Washington that the PKI headquarters in Jakarta had been “partially burned by youth group (unidentified but undoubtedly Moslem)” and that a separate group of

“approximately 2,000 youth (mostly Moslem)” had gathered in the city square to listen to anti-PKI speeches before marching through the streets and “shouting ‘hang Aidit,’

‘dissolve PKI’ and similar slogans, cheering army trucks and greeting Americans.” From the posters and banners the protestors carried, Embassy officials determined that “the youth arms from NU, Protestant and IP-KI parties participated as well as NU peasant and artist affiliates,” and that the demonstrations “obviously” had the approval of and encouragement from the Army.50 Indeed, Ambassador Green reported on October 9 that military contacts had informed Defense Attaché Ethel that “Nasution, who [is] calling shots which Suharto is implementing, is encouraging religious groups to take political action which army will support.”51

Confrontations between what U.S. officials categorized as communist forces and anti-communist forces—increasingly understood as a partnership between the armed forces and “Moslem elements”—continued throughout October. On October 18,

Ambassador Green reported that while the Army continued to “squeeze communists out of key services” in Jakarta, student groups were holding anti-PKI demonstrations throughout Java. In East Java, one such demonstration resulted in what Green described as “Moslem mobs mount[ing the] bloodiest anti-communist action to date.’52 The U.S.

50 Embtel 910, Djakarta to State, October 8, 1965, #73, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [2 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

51 Embtel 928, Djakarta to State, October 9, 1965, #76, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [2 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

52 Embtel 1061, Djakarta to State, October 18, 1965, #90, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [2 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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consulate in Surabaya reported that “Moslems, after staging large demonstration, roamed through [the] city shouting ‘holy war’ battle cry, tearing down PKI signs, and killing PKI members…According to Surabaya press account, armed PKI members fired into crowd, inciting Moslem retaliation.” Based on information from his sources in the Army, Green foresaw a similar situation as inevitable in North Sumatra.53 He also reported that an aide to General Nasution had told Colonel Ethel that the anti-PKI demonstrations had begun to take on an increasingly anti-Chinese cast, including raids against Chinese residents in

Kalimantan and Aceh, as well as a recent break-in at the Chinese Embassy in Jakarta.

The “Chicoms,” he wrote, “may be caught up in anti-PKI activity,” though Nasution’s aide had claimed it was not, as had been reported, the armed forces who had broken into the Chinese Embassy; it was “the people ‘who do this kind of thing for us’, the Moslems and Ansor.”54

The news from Jakarta by the end of October confirmed a rising tide of violence sweeping through East and Central Java. Serious clashes occurred in Central Java, particularly in and around Jogjakarta, Solo, and Madiun, site of the 1948 communist uprising that was never far from Indonesian memory. The Army had declared a state of war, and the U.S Embassy saw the potential for a similarly serious situation to develop in

East Java, an “area where Party [PKI] has been on [the] defensive and Moslem opposition [is] strong.” Ambassador Green—perhaps in haste, perhaps illustrating the conflation of the two groups in his mind—reported that the PKI was seeing its “strength

53 Embtel 1068, Djakarta to State, October 19, 1965, #91, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [2 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

54 Embtel 1113, Djakarta to State, October 21, 1965, #96, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [2 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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and organizational structure…being eroded by Army/Moslem attacks.”55 By mid-

November, an American missionary who had recently left Madiun informed the U.S.

Consulate in Surabaya about “the efficiency with which [the] armed forced picked up leading communists of [the] city.”56

American missionaries working in Indonesia continued to provide some of the earliest, and most detailed, reports to the U.S. Embassy and Consulates about the scope and scale of the violence occurring in Java. Missionary sources from Central and East

Java, both of whom had recently fled to Jakarta, reported the situation in both provinces as critical in late October.57 Throughout November, Christian missionaries working in

Kediri, southwest of Surabaya in East Java, told the Consulate about the gruesome scenes they had witnessed. One was a woman who worked at a Baptist hospital in Kediri. She reported that “3400 PKI activists were killed by Ansor with probable assistance from

Marhaenist youths” over a five-day period earlier that month. NU youth leaders, working from a prepared list of victims, would seize the person in question, she said, and take him

“to river banks…and cut his throat.” One night, a group came to the hospital and “took away [a] man being treated for throat cut.” She said that similar events were thought to have occurred in Paree, northeast of Kediri, with at least 300 communists were reported killed. The armed forces, she said, “did nothing to stop [the] slaughter and in fact

55 Embtel 1255, Djakarta to State, October 28, 1965, #128, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

56 Embtel 176, Surabaya to Djakarta, November 18, 1965, POL 23-8 INDON, CFPF 1964-66, RG 59, NACP.

57 Embtel 1255, Djakarta to State, October 28, 1965, #128, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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apparently colluded with anti-PKI youths and perhaps instigated them.” The Consulate, unable to corroborate the exact figures, agreed that her basic story seemed credible, and commented that Kediri’s close proximity to the “critical area[s]” of Central and East Java made it an “excellent spot for [the] army to demonstrate to communists that weapon of terror not rpt not PKI monoply [sic].”58

One week later, another missionary from Kediri confirmed to the Consulate in

Surabaya that “there had been [a] massive slaughter in Kediri.” He “said he saw [the] river there full of dead bodies,” adding “that there seemed to be hardly a family in Kediri that had not lost someone in the killings.” Seeming to corroborate his fellow missionary’s report, he shared that he had also heard that “lesser slaughtering of PKI by

Ansor had taken place in Paree, Kertosono Blitar and Tulungagung at time of Kediri slaughter.”59 Still another missionary from Kediri reported continuing violence targeting alleged PKI members and their supporters committed by Ansor, including what she had heard was the “largest slaughter” to have taken place at Tulungagung, where a “reported

15,000 communists” had been killed.”60

U.S. diplomats based in Indonesia thus knew without doubt by November that the

Army had partnered with Muslim groups in its campaign to undermine the PKI from the ground up, and they communicated as much to their colleagues in Washington.

58 Embtel 171, Surabaya to Djakarta, November 14, 1965, #162, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

59 Embtel 176, Surabaya to Djakarta, November 18, 1965, POL 23-8 INDON, CFPF 1964-66, RG 59, NACP.

60 Embtel 183, Surabaya to Djakarta, November 27, 1965, POL 23-8 INDON, CFPF 1964-66, RG 59, NACP.

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Ambassador Green cabled the State Department to report that his Deputy Chief of

Mission, Francis Galbraith, had learned from General Nasution’s aide that “[i]n Central

Java [the] army (RPKAD) is training Moslem youth and supplying them with weapons and will keep them out in front against PKI.” Meanwhile, the “army will try to avoid as much as it can safely do so direct confrontation with PKI.”61 The approach complemented the Army’s decision to avoid a “frontal attack” against PKI leadership in Jakarta; as another Embassy source explained, the “army is letting groups other than [the] army discredit them [the PKI] and demand their punishment, and awaiting developments.

Smaller fry,” however, were “being systematically arrested and jailed or executed.”62

In this way, Ambassador Green believed, the Army hoped to avoid alienating itself too much from Sukarno, whose future remained uncertain for the time being. Green informed State on November 4 that the “DCM made clear that [the] embassy and USG generally sympathetic with and admiring of what [the] army [was] doing.”63 Later that day, he wrote that the Army was “doing a first class job here of moving against communists,” showing enough political acumen thus far to bolster his impression that it was “the emerging authority in Indonesia.” Green’s awareness of the likelihood of

“additional bloodshed involving Moslems and Christian youth groups, as well as military and others,” did not temper his assessment of the Army’s “first class job,” and he

61 Embtel 1326, Djakarta to State, November 4, 1965, #137, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

62 Embtel 1280, Djakarta to State, October 30, 1965, #131, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

63 Embtel 1326, Djakarta to State, November 4, 1965, #137, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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recommended that the U.S. government respond in the affirmative to the Indonesian military’s recent request for medicines.64

By December 1965, it was clear to U.S. officials at home and abroad that the violence was spreading outward from Java to the islands of Sumatra and Bali.

Ambassador Green wrote to U.S. government agencies about the reports the Embassy received of the “continuing massacre of PKI in Bali,” including a “reliable Balinese source” who stated that 10,000 had been killed. An unnamed American observer also reported “many headless bodies encountered on roads,” along with food and fuel shortages due to the closing of shops, as a climate of fear reigned. Green commented that while the “PKI repression in Bali” began later than other parts of the country, it had, by mid-December, taken on a “brutality whose scars will take long to heal in closely inter- related and semi-feudal Balinese society.” (This is the closest thing to a condemnation of the violence by Green that this author has found).65

The creeping violence also targeted Indonesia’s Chinese population with increasing intensity.66 The U.S. Consulate in Medan, North Sumatra, cabled Jakarta and the State Department about recent anti-Chinese violence in the city, noting a curfew had recently been imposed. The Consulate reported at least 4 dead and 161 wounded, while another unnamed source had said there were at least 100 dead. The telegram went on to comment that while the Army had acted to prevent further “blood bath” in Medan, it was

64 Embtel 1333, Djakarta to State, November 4, 1965, #138, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

65 Embtel 1814, Djakarta to State, December 21, 1965, #49, “Indonesia Cables Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

66 Embtel 1814, Djakarta to State, December 21, 1965, #49, “Indonesia Cables Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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opposed to the destruction of Chinese people, but not to the destruction of Chinese property. The Consulate was becoming concerned that even if the military could “keep

[the] lid on in Medan,” there was no guarantee they would be able to do so in the rest of the North Sumatra. Indeed, the “[w]holesale killing of PKI in recent weeks has created

[a] climate of violence here,” which included a “large goup [sic] of youth living outside normal social restraints for [a] prolonged period.” The consular staff in Medan began to wonder if the Indonesian Army would be able to “keep these elements completely under control.”67

The U.S. government watched as the “slaughter of PKI members and sympathizers” continued into the beginning of January 1966, the violence having swept across East and Central Java, North Sumatra, and Bali, according to the CIA.68 In

February, as his authority grew ever more tenuous, Sukarno removed General Nasution from his position as Minister of Defense. Chester Cooper and McGeorge Bundy informed

President Johnson that along with General Nasution, several other “moderates” were dismissed from the Cabinet, while “seven leftist ministers” had been added. Confident in the ongoing anti-PKI purge, the two NSC staff members did wonder whether the military would continue its thus far prudent strategy of avoiding direct political confrontation with

Sukarno, or if the time had come to challenge Sukarno’s most recent attempt to reassert control. The situation was “confused and fluid,” they said, and complicated by the military’s anti-PKI campaign, which had “unleashed religious and political emotions,”

67 Embtel 348, Medan to Jakarta, December 12, 1965, #58, “Indonesia Cables Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

68 OCI No. 0481/66, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, January 3, 1966, #116, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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some of which were now directed against the previously untouchable President. In any case, they concluded, the United States had few, if any, avenues to influence the outcome—though U.S. officials continued to make their support for the Army known in

Indonesia.69

Indonesian Minister of Trade Adam Malik, a frequent U.S. contact since his leading role in short-lived, anti-PKI Movement for the Promotion of Sukarnoism (BPS) in late 1964, reassured Embassy staff that Nasution’s dismissal was not cause for alarm: the general still garnered respect throughout the country, and Nasution, Malik said, could be effective from behind the scenes by remaining close with Suharto, who was the better

“front man.”70 Shortly thereafter, the “front man’s” hold on power became much more certain: under increasing pressure from the Army, Sukarno signed a document on March

11, 1966, known as Supersemar, from the Indonesian abbreviation for Surat Perintah

Sebelas Maret (Order of March the Eleventh). The White House Situation Room, having received word from Ambassador Green, informed President Johnson that “President

Sukarno had ordered General Suharto to ‘take all action necessary to guarantee security and calm” and “the stability of the government and the course of the revolution.’” The

Embassy understood the order as effectively transferring authority to the Army—“an

69 Memorandum for the President, Chester L. Cooper and McGeorge Bundy to President Johnson, February 21, 1966, #108, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

70 Embtel 2536, Djakarta to State, March 10, 1966, #8, “Indonesia Cables Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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extremely good thing,” according to Robert Komer, Deputy Special Assistant for

National Security Affairs.71

By mid-March 1966, then, just six months after the events of October 1, 1965, the structures of what became known as the New Order had fallen largely into place.72 “It is hard to overestimate the potential significance of the army’s apparent victory over

Sukarno (even though the latter remains as a figurehead),” Robert Komer wrote to

President Johnson on March 12. He continued,

Indonesia has more people—and probably more resources—than all of mainland Southeast Asia. It was well on the way to becoming another expansionist Communist state, which would have critically menaced the rear of the whole Western position in mainland Southeast Asia. Now, though the unforeseen can always happen, this trend has been sharply reversed.”73

U.S. Interpretations of Mass Violence, 1965-66

How did members of the Johnson administration make sense of the mass violence that helped usher in the sharp reversal celebrated by Komer and other U.S. officials?

And, in particular, what role did religion and religious actors play, according to U.S. policymakers?

71 Memorandum, White House Situation Room to President Johnson, March 11, 1966, #107 (quoted); Intelligence Notes, Thomas L. Hughes/INR to State, March 14, 1966, #105, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

72 For a discussion of what Harold Crouch refers to as the “disguised coup” of March 11, 1966, see Crouch, The Army and Politics in Indonesia, 179–96; see also Michael van Langenberg, “Gestapu and State Power in Indonesia,” in The Indonesian Killings of 1965-1966: Studies from Java and Bali, ed. Robert B. Cribb (Clayton, Victoria, Australia: Centre of Southeast Asian Studies, Monash University, 1991), 52.

73 Memorandum, Komer to President Johnson, March 12, 1966, Document 201, FRUS, 1964- 1968, Volume XXVI, Indonesia; Malaysia-Singapore; Philippines, ed. Edward C. Keefer (Washington, D.C.: Government Printing Office, 2000), https://history.state.gov/historicaldocuments/frus1964- 68v26/d201.

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In November 1965, a CIA analysis of the Indonesian Army’s attitudes toward communism described the conflict between the Army and the PKI as more complicated than “simple anti-Communism”—which was not incorrect. The intelligence memorandum further elaborated its reasoning that while “some army officers’ beliefs are firmly rooted in a fundamentalist and essentially anti-Communist Moslem tradition, many others, particularly in the lower ranks, equally firmly consider themselves to be

Marxist socialists.” What united the majority of Army leaders, the memo continued, was their view of the PKI as a political rival. The CIA thus concluded that Army leaders were

“engaged in a power struggle, not an ideological struggle, with the party [PKI].”74

The CIA’s analysis was typical of U.S. analyses of the motivation and goals of the

Indonesian Army, which were most often characterized as part of a legitimate political struggle, directed by—if not necessarily carried out by—rational political actors. Muslim organizations, meanwhile, were seen as enthusiastic accomplices of the Army, as willing, often “fanatical” participants in an anti-communist purge that, if sometimes couched in religious terms and symbols, was driven at its core by fear, by economic or political grievances, or by personal disputes, but not by ideology.

In May 1966, for example, Walt Rostow asked the State Department to consider whether recent political developments in Indonesia related at all to U.S. involvement in

Vietnam. The resultant brief report determined there was no evidence to suggest that the

U.S. presence in Vietnam had motivated Indonesian anti-communists to act. The anti-PKI campaign occurred for domestic reasons, namely, because the Army and non-leftist

74 OCI No. 2943/65, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, November 22, 1965, #119, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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political groups, including Muslims, feared an imminent communist takeover. The analysis identified several underlying causes of the post-coup violence, including resentment over the PKI’s unilateral land reform efforts in Java and the omnipresent memory of Madiun 1948. “Significantly,” the report concluded, “when the campaign against the Communists got underway, it often took on religious and racial overtones and seemed to be an effort to settle old scores; ideological differences were frequently cited only as an excuse for acting.”75

Indeed, U.S. policymakers did not necessarily connect the religious (or racial)

“overtones” they observed in the conflict to a particular ideological agenda. In addition, from their analyses, it is not always clear the extent to which U.S. officials understood religion, in general, or Islam, in particular, in ideological terms.76 In their descriptions of the 1965-66 mass killings, they tended to understand or depict religion as a potential source of motivation for a particular group to carry out violence, while allowing that—or, at times, assuming that—the underlying cause or desired outcome of the violence was not, as they understood it, explicitly religious. When non-military groups did make appeals to ideology, U.S. officials frequently understood them as a kind of rhetorical cover for the “real” motivations of the person or group perpetrating the violence.

75 Memorandum, “The Vietnam Conflict and Indonesian Developments,” May 13, 1966, #94a, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL. A CIA report, also dated May 13, 1966, contained a similar assessment that U.S. actions in Vietnam did not really influence outcome of the Indonesian crisis, and that the popular mobilization against anti-PKI and demotion of Sukarno were due to domestic reasons. Unlike the State Department memo, it did not explicitly mention religion. OCI 0815/66, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, May 13, 1966, #92a, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

76 One could argue that assumptions about Islam’s more fluid relationship between religion and politics were so embedded in Western discourses at the time, that U.S. observers of Indonesia implicitly understood Islam as having the characteristics of a political ideology.

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Perhaps first and foremost, Muslims were seen as the Army’s most reliable partners in undermining the PKI. By January 1966, CIA analysts had begun to draw tentatively positive conclusions about the PKI’s bleak prospects for a future role in the

Indonesian government or in society in general. They had also begun to evaluate how the anti-communist campaign had proceeded since the fall of 1965, including the ways that

“local Moslems” worked together with Army teams to eradicate communists. In “strong

Moslem areas,” one intelligence memorandum read, “this assistance rapidly assumed a fanatical character. Moslem extremists in many instances outdid the army in hunting down and murdering members of the party and its front groups,” especially in Central and East Java, Aceh, and Bali. While the rest of the report was not overly concerned with religion, as such, it did note near the end that some Indonesian government officials had expressed concern about the possibility of “long-term bitterness among families and communities which have lost members to army and Moslem execution squads.”77

Diplomatic personnel on the ground in Indonesia also reported that, at least in one case, an NU religious leader was unable to persuade Ansor youths to stop the killing against the PKI in East Java. Near the end of November 1965, the U.S. Consulate in

Surabaya received word that the NU’s second chairman, Sjaichu, had visited East Java the previous week “to call [for] halt to Ansor killing PKI.” But despite his efforts, “Ansor youth seem to be continuing slaughtering PKI,” according to “numerous eye-witness gory stories.”78 Other NU leaders, however, did employ religious language to motivate their

77 OCI No. 1352/66, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, April 29, 1966, #95, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

78 Embtel 187, Surabaya to Djakarta, November 30, 1965, POL 23-8 INDON, CFPF 1964-66, RG 59, NACP.

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members. For example, NU’s Surabaya branch declared in early October 1965 that

“based on chapter 2 (The Cow), verse 191, of the Qur’an, the appropriate response to the

September 30th Movement attempt was to ‘eradicate those who had disrupted the order wherever they are, and remove them from their positions as they have done, because disorder is worse than this.’” In addition, “some kiai issued a religious edict (fatwa) declaring that the PKI were ‘unbelievers’ (kafir harbi) belligerent towards Islam and rebels against the ‘legitimate government’ (bughat), against whom it was obligatory for

Muslims to wage war.”79 But such exhortations to violence did not occur in a vacuum.

The NU could draw on a history of antagonism between itself and the PKI, and party leaders supplied branches with anti-communist rhetoric designed to amplify memories of past grievances against communists, such as Madiun and the unilateral land reform action. The NU’s claims about the existential threat of communism were also bolstered by sensational accounts of the PKI’s involvement in the attempted coup—accounts that

Western propaganda efforts helped to fuel, along with the Indonesian Army’s own extensive information campaign.80

Islam, then, appeared in U.S. communications as a source of motivation in the killings—not only as something to defend from the PKI, but also as a religious tradition from which some groups typically drew inspiration to commit acts of violence. The

Consulate in Surabaya, for instance, communicated to Jakarta and Washington with increasing frequency reports of mass killings by Ansor youth: “We continue to receive reports PKI being slaughtered by Ansor [in] many areas [of] East Java.” In the villages

79 Quoted in Fealy and McGregor, “East Java and the Role of Nahdlatul Ulama in the 1965-66 Anti-Communist Violence,” 121.

80 Fealy and McGregor, 115–17.

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around Surabaya, sources told the Consulate, at least five train stations had closed because their employees were afraid to come to work; several had already been murdered. Unnamed “numerous sources” also said Ansor had targeted actors who performed in ludruk—“farcical theatre” shows popular with the PKI, according to the

Consulate—and that those “who have had [the] temerity to continue cast aspersions at

Islam have had throats cut by Ansor youths.” The same sources who described Ansor’s atrocities also reported that the killings had taken on the “coloration of holy war: killing of infidel supposed [to] give ticket to heaven and if blood of victim rubbed on face path there even more assured.”81

Because the sources are unnamed, it is not clear whether these reports were from

Indonesian contacts, or Americans in the region, or both. Nor is it clear whether the descriptions of “holy war” or the “casting of aspersions at Islam” represented the interpretation of the source(s), or the consular staff. But the authorship and origins of these reports notwithstanding, they painted a picture by then familiar to U.S. observers of

Indonesia: that of “fanatical” Islam. As discussed in Chapters 1 and 2, the fanatical, or

“bad” Muslim often provided a foil for the “good” Muslims with whom the United States chose to engage in Indonesia. Put another way, policymakers, along with journalists and some scholars, operating within a Western, liberal, secular paradigm, often perpetuated what Cady and Simon have referred to as analytically suspect distinctions between

“authentic” and “deviant” religion, with religious violence falling into the latter category.82 In the context of the 1965-66 mass violence, however, such categories were

81 Embtel 183, Surabaya to Djakarta, November 27, 1965, POL 23-8 INDON, CFPF 1964-66, RG 59, NACP.

82 Cady and Simon, “Introduction: Reflections on the Nexus of Religion and Violence,” 7–8.

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muddied. “Good” Muslims engaged in “bad” behavior as perpetrators of “fanatical violence,” but with “good” results, because their violence in this instance was directed against the PKI.

During the Sukarno era, the NU, for instance, had been among the Muslims groups considered “good” by U.S. observers, despite the too-close-for-comfort relationship of some NU leaders to Sukarno. Flawed though it was, the NU had participated in the modern Indonesian political system as an anti-communist party. As a representative of its supporters in the Javanese countryside, the NU had stood up to the

PKI’s aksi sepihak (direct action) land reform campaign in the years just prior to the attempted coup. And as religious leaders, they were considered “traditional,”

“conservative,” and “devout,” but rarely as “fanatics.” Now, however, in the campaign to eliminate the PKI, the NU, and particularly its youth affiliate Ansor, were increasingly described as fanatical, a category of deviant Muslims previously reserved for groups like

Darul Islam.

Policymakers were not alone in making such characterizations. Journalists also invoked the trope of the “Moslem fanatic.” As anthropologist Leslie Dwyer puts it: “the international media at the time tended to describe the killings as an irrational outburst of primitive emotion.”83 In April 1966, for instance, The Washington Post reported that the slaughter, though begun by the army in central Java, had next moved to east Java, where

“military units delivered captives to Moslem youths, who butchered them in frenzies of religious fanaticism.”84 In his 1967 account of the killings, Indonesian Upheaval, John

83 Dwyer, “The Intimacy of Terror: Gender and the Violence of 1965-66 in Bali.”

84 Karnow, “First Report on Horror in Indonesia.”

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Hughes, a foreign correspondent for the Christian Science Monitor who won a Pulitzer

Prize for his reporting on the aftermath of the coup, described how the “most savage slaughter in Java” occurred “in the island’s eastern region where Moslem fanatics were turned loose on the Communists, apparently with little military supervision.”85

U.S. observers in Indonesia and Washington alike, perhaps seeking a way to reconcile the formerly “good” Muslims of the NU with the mass violence they engaged in, often characterized this “fanaticism” as a kind of anomaly, triggered by the unique conditions after the coup attempt. In addition, characterizations of the killings as religiously driven or inspired were not applied exclusively to Muslim perpetrators of violence. “By December the homicidal fever reached Bali,” the aforementioned April

1966 Washington Post article continued, “where massive killings by both mobs and soldiers took on a mystical, almost sacrificial significance” in the majority Hindu population.86 In this case, the good/bad dichotomy that often shaped U.S. perceptions about Muslims extended beyond Islam to the Hindu population.

Such descriptions were not the sole purview of policymakers or the media, nor were they confined only to the period immediately following the coup attempt. Twenty years after the violence, one scholar wrote about the “fanatical Muslim youths intent on

‘cleansing’ the nation,” when, in the aftermath of the attempted coup, “the ensuing cataclysmic social explosion appeared to cause the Malay madness of amuk on a national

85 John Hughes, Indonesian Upheaval (New York: DMcKay Co., 1967), 157. Hughes’ account was published just two years after the attempted coup, and thus without the benefit of both distance and data. We now know that the Army encouraged and directed much of the violence perpetrated by Muslim groups, particularly early on. Dwyer calls Hughes’ book “perhaps the best example of this sensationalist genre.” Dwyer, “The Intimacy of Terror: Gender and the Violence of 1965-66 in Bali.”

86 Karnow, “First Report on Horror in Indonesia.”

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scale.”87 But for all the Western observers who described Indonesians in general “running amok” in spontaneous rampages against their neighbors, Fealy and McGregor have shown that many of the purges were planned and executed by the Army in cooperation with its partners, including the NU: “while the Army encouraged and coordinated the killings, NU leaders, especially in East Java, were determined to move against the PKI and readily sanctioned the participation of NU members in the killing squads.”88

Some Muslims also saw their participation in the anti-PKI campaign as a means to opening the door to a more explicit role for Islam in the Indonesian state. After enduring increasing marginalization in the late 1950s, former members and supporters of

Masyumi, in particular, who had been ostracized, at best, and imprisoned or otherwise persecuted, at worst, since Sukarno banned the party in 1961, were especially hopeful about the rehabilitation of the party’s leaders and the renewed attention they could bring to Islam in Indonesian political discourse.

Indeed, in the wake of the attempted coup, Muslim groups that played a crucial role in the destruction of the PKI worked to reassert their political influence, including efforts to restructure the relationship between Islam and the Indonesian state in the New

Order era.89 The United States observed these efforts and continued to pay attention to the meaning Indonesians assigned to concepts like Pancasila. Officials also monitored tensions within the New Order over the future of Islam’s relationship to the Suharto-led government. While U.S. policymakers were aware of these internal Indonesian, often

87 Webb, “The Sickle and the Cross,” 96, 112.

88 Fealy and McGregor, “East Java and the Role of Nahdlatul Ulama in the 1965-66 Anti- Communist Violence,” 106.

89 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 44–45.

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intra-Muslim, debates, their primary concern appears to have been the disagreements’ potential to undermine Indonesian stability.

…The More They Stay the Same: U.S.-Indonesian Relations, 1966-1968

Islam and State in the New Order

“There is a particular timelessness about human affairs in the Orient,” a Christian

Science Monitor editorial mused in February 1966, echoing a common orientalist trope.

“That may be one of the reasons,” the piece continued, “why it is taking so long for the consequences of the failure of the September 30 coup in Indonesia to emerge in a formal and clear outline,” before allowing that it was also due, in a more concrete sense, to the cautious maneuvering of Generals Nasution and Suharto to ensure they did not jeopardize their grasp on power. The editorial went on to observe that the “ruthlessness” of the

“campaign against the Communists…may not be wise—and is certainly inhumane.” Yet the country’s “Moslem organizations,” who were “[s]pearheading” the campaign with

“Army concurrence…have at least found a legal basis for turning on Communists and abandoning President Sukarno’s watchword of Nasakom.”90

U.S. diplomats in Indonesia had monitored the “concurrence” between the Army and certain Muslim organizations since the fall of 1965. As early as November, Deputy

Chief of Mission Francis Galbraith speculated that the “Nasution-Suharto strategy is for

Suharto to activate and instill confidence in Moslem elements, but not to bring Moslem leaders into limelight now rpt [repeat] now.” But “[i]n the post-Sukarno era,” which the

90 Editorial, “Back to Pantja Sila,” Christian Science Monitor, February 8, 1966, ProQuest.

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United States by then saw as increasingly inevitable and imminent, “Nasution may well play [a] leading political role with Moslem support.”91 The burgeoning Army-Muslim relationship could, indeed, pay additional dividends. The Monitor’s editorial continued:

“Nasakom, they [Muslim organizations] say, was preceded by Pantja Sila, the five principles first expounded by Mr. Sukarno himself in 1945 as a basis for the nation. One of them was belief in God, and this—it is argued—rules out communism and

Communists.” And so, while the violent means were not “wise” or humane, the apparent

“reversion from Nasakom to Pantja Sila for the slogan-loving Indonesians seems,” in the

Monitor’s evaluation, “a significantly formal step.”92

But the partnership between the armed forces and Islamic organizations would prove to be short-lived. By January 1966, the Army, while using “anti-Communist political elements to further its own ends,” did not, in the CIA’s view, appear willing to

“trea[t] these groups as its equal.”93 The armed forces and Muslim groups were not necessarily natural allies in Indonesia. The Army’s protracted fight against Darul Islam had made many within its ranks suspicious of, and often openly hostile toward, groups or individuals thought to hold not only radical or extremist religious views, but also those perceived as “devout” or “conservative.”94 Moreover, the armed forces, particularly its

91 Embtel 1326, Djakarta to State, November 4, 1965, #137, “Indonesia Cables Vol. V [3 of 3],” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

92 Editorial, “Back to Pantja Sila.”

93 OCI No. 0481/66, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, January 3, 1966, #116, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VI,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

94 Six, Secularism, Decolonisation, and the Cold War in South and Southeast Asia, 166.

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leadership, comprised a multitude of worldviews beyond adherence to a particular interpretation of Islam.95

Still, as Suharto consolidated power, many Muslim groups saw the rise of the

New Order government as an opportunity to rejoin the ranks of political relevance. They had, after all, played a crucial role in crushing the PKI. Instead, the establishment of the military-led regime resulted in a rather rapid shift from “cooperation to mutual and bitter antagonism” between the state and Islam, particularly for former members and like- minded supporters of the banned Masyumi, whose initial optimism turned quickly to disenchantment.96 Almost from the start, Suharto adopted, as Hefner puts it, a strategy of

“suppressing Muslim politics while encouraging Muslim piety.”97

Initially, the political prospects of Islamic parties that had been increasingly marginalized during the Guided Democracy period seemed positive. Before Sukarno banned the party in 1961, Masyumi had been, as we have seen, among the most vocal opponents of what its members viewed as movement toward authoritarianism and toward the left. Prominent leaders like Mohammad Natsir, Sjafruddin Prawiranegara and

Mohammad Roem were imprisoned for their participation in the PRRI rebellion. But

Masyumi figures who had not participated in the rebellion, along with members of

Muhammadiyah, continued to meet, part of an unofficial “Masyumi family” that kept the modernist Islamic party alive in spirit, if not in name.98 There was thus an existing

95 Six, 166; see also Federspiel, “The Military and Islam in Sukarno’s Indonesia.”

96 Sukma, Islam in Indonesian Foreign Policy, 43-44 (quoted); Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, 50– 52; Rémy Madinier, Islam and Politics in Indonesia: The Masyumi Party between Democracy and Integralism (Singapore: NUS Press, 2015), 430.

97 Hefner, Civil Islam, 59.

98 Madinier, Islam and Politics in Indonesia, 426–27.

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network to tap into when, after the coup attempt had sidelined Sukarno, former members and supporters of Masyumi saw a chance to revive the party’s erstwhile influence in

Indonesian state and society.

In December 1965, former supporters and constituents of Masyumi formed the

Badan Koordinasi Amal Muslimin (Coordinating Body of Muslim Activities), which sought to bring together Islamic organizations that favored reinstating the party.99 Some favored rehabilitating the party in its original form, while others, including former vice president Mohammad Hatta, wanted to form a new modernist political organization, deeming Masyumi “a failure,” tainted by its recent past. The committee also received support from Army officers who wanted restore a sense of balance between Indonesia’s traditionalist and modernist strands of Islam, which for some meant reducing the traditionalist NU’s influence and creating avenues for modernist representation in the emerging government.100

The Johnson administration also observed what appeared to be the potential for a greater role for political parties in general in the new government. In July 1966, the CIA believed that political parties occupied a stronger position in the Indonesian government than they had during the Guided Democracy period, even if they played second fiddle to the Army. After the expulsion of many of its Sukarno-supporting members, Suharto reportedly saw the configuration of groups in the new 27-member cabinet as a reflection of the main currents in Indonesian society, replacing Sukarno’s vision of Nasakom with

99 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 44–45; Ken Ward, The Foundation of the Partai Muslimin Indonesia (Jakarta; Kuala Lumpur: Equinox Publishing, 2010), 41.

100 Madinier, Islam and Politics in Indonesia, 430.

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“NASASOS,” with “Pantjasila Socialists” taking the place of communism. The cabinet included members from religious parties, including the NU, the Catholic Party, and the

Christian (Protestant) Party.101

CIA analysts considered the formation of the cabinet a victory for Suharto, who served as its head. Adam Malik and the Sultan of Jogjakarta made up the governing triumvirate. The report said that neither Suharto nor the Sultan had ever affiliated with a political party, but noted that “both lean toward secular nationalism.” Meanwhile, “[t]he

Moslem parties dislike Malik,” and had become concerned, the analysis continued, about their potential for political advancement, since Malik was known to promote “a government of well-qualified technicians.” This fear existed despite the CIA’s assessment that all three leaders were Muslims, and that Malik was “probably the most devout of the three.”102 The report’s author seems, on the one hand, to be perplexed by the

“devout” Malik’s apparent lack of support from fellow Muslims. On the other, they seem to acknowledge that Muslims, like Suharto and the Sultan, could also be secular nationalists—an interpretation that reflects, perhaps, a more nuanced understanding of the relationship between religion and politics than one might assume for the hyper- modernizing Johnson administration.

By the second half of 1966, Suharto officials had released high profile former

Masyumi members like Natsir, Sjafruddin, and Roem, and permitted them to begin to participate again in public life, giving further hope to the modernist-minded Muslims. It

101 OCI No. 1685/66, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, July 30, 1966, #111a, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VII,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

102 OCI No. 1685/66, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, July 30, 1966, #111a, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VII,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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soon became apparent, however, that the Suharto and the New Order regime would not be open to the idea of a revived Masyumi, as its supporters had hoped. The Suharto regime moved instead to invest itself with the power and position of sole guarantor of the revolution, of Pancasila, and of the 1945 Constitution. In December 1966, the Army’s regional commanders published a report declaring the military would not stand for any group that defied Pancasila or disputed the 1945 Constitution, serving notice not only to potential political opponents in the present, but also to those who had rebelled in past— including members of Masyumi, along with Darul Islam, the PKI, and the PSI.103

The armed forces, as an institution, did not resent Islam or Muslims writ large.

Rather, it was suspicious of politically active Islamic groups who had directly threatened the state—like Darul Islam—or those who had previously supported, tacitly or explicitly, movements against the state—like certain Masyumi leaders’ participation in, or sympathy for, the PRRI rebellion. In January 1967, Suharto reiterated this position, when he said the families of military members who had participated in campaigns against the PRRI and Darul Islam would not accept a revived Masyumi.104

The Johnson administration was aware of these emerging tensions. A February

1967 National Intelligence Estimate (NIE) on Indonesia concluded, in favorable terms, that Suharto and an anti-communist coalition of military and civilian actors was now in power, and despite the continued presence of Sukarno in the background, the present government was likely to remain in power for the foreseeable future. But the intelligence

103 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 44–45; Madinier, Islam and Politics in Indonesia, 431.

104 Sukma, Islam in Indonesian Foreign Policy, 45; Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 108; Madinier, Islam and Politics in Indonesia, 431.

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community also expressed concerns about persistent divisions “between Muslim and secularist, modernist and traditionalist, [and] Javanese and non-Javanese” civilian groups, as well as the lingering presence of left-leaning individuals on the political scene. Some remaining members of the PKI may have been recruited, for example, to the left-leaning, still pro-Sukarno PNI in order to strengthen it against “Muslim opponents.” Other

“Sukarnoites,” while not card-carrying PNI members, were seen as “secularists who share PNI fears of a trend toward Muslim political domination in the event of a complete

Suharto victory over leftist-nationalist elements.” The NIE concluded that “[o]ver the longer term, these conflicts will tend to merge with political questions even more fundamental to Indonesia’s political evolution: the role of Islam; the legitimacy of

Marxism; Java-based centralism versus outer-island federalism; and the conflict between traditional authoritarianism and Western democracy.”105

Military Modernization and Muslim Parties at the Margins

By early 1967 U.S. policy deliberations focused almost exclusively on how to ensure the New Order regime survived. To the extent that these discussions were attentive to Indonesians’ ongoing negotiation of the relationship between Islam and the state, it was in the context of the overall promotion of stability in the country. With

Sukarno sidelined and improved U.S.-Indonesian relations becoming a reality under the military-led Suharto government, the Johnson administration turned again to its preferred tools of civic action (CAP) and military assistance (MAP) programs. In February 1967

105 NIE 55-67, “Prospects for Indonesia,” February 15, 1967, #6, “55, Indonesia,” Box 7, NIEs, NSF, LBJPL.

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Walt Rostow wrote to President Johnson that the New Order in Indonesia had given

“high priority to military civic action,” and that the continuation or reinstatement of U.S. assistance programs would play a significant role in encouraging the Army to maintain its anti-communist stance.106

Meanwhile, in mid-1967, General Suharto agreed to the formation of a

Committee of Seven to discuss the possibility of establishing a new Islamic political organization that would fill the void in representation for modernist Muslims. The New

Order government finally conceded to the creation of a state-sponsored party, with the caveat that no former Masyumi leaders would be allowed to occupy leadership positions.

Partai Muslimin Indonesia (Parmusi) was formally established in February 1968, headed by Muhammadiyah activists.107

An August 1967 CIA Special Report on the New Order in Indonesia had noted the approval of a new Muslim party that would include members of Masyumi and other affiliated or ideologically sympathetic organizations (this was, one assumes, a reference to the Committee of Seven’s deliberations over the establishment of a new party, since

Parmusi was not officially founded until the following February). The CIA posited that the new party would rival both the NU and the PNI in size and influence, and provide

“geographic balance to the political scene” by drawing its primary base of support from

West Java and Sumatra, instead of the Central and East Java bases of the NU and PNI. It

106 Memo, Rostow to President Johnson, March 3, 1967, #87, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VII,” Box 248, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

107 Madinier, Islam and Politics in Indonesia, 432; Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 45– 46; Ward, The Foundation of the Partai Muslimin Indonesia.

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would also, the report surmised, be more likely to support the New Order regime— presumably because its existence depended upon Suharto’s continued forbearance.108

This initial assessment, however, of Parmusi’s anticipated support for Suharto, would prove misguided. A December 1968 National Intelligence Estimate on Indonesia recognized that the Army was clamping down on the role Parmusi would be permitted to play in Indonesian politics. According to the NIE, Suharto’s military advisers reportedly

“persuaded him to block the installation of a new chairman by the Indonesian Muslim

Party (PMI), thus causing considerable resentment in moderate and modernist Muslim circles.”109 Though unnamed in the NIE, the person blocked from the position was

Mohammad Roem, former Foreign Minister, former Deputy Prime Minister, and a former

Masyumi leader. Tensions had mounted over the course of 1968 between the Indonesian government and the modernist Muslim party over its direction and leadership, coming to a head when Roem was elected as Parmusi’s general chairman at the party’s first congress in November 1968. Because of Roem’s previous position in Masyumi, however,

Suharto rejected his election. Fearful of risking its status, the young party returned to its previous leadership structure.110

Despite this setback, former Masyumi officials began to exert more influence within the party, and the party itself began to be more critical toward the government. In

1970, internal strife within the party between those who wanted to continue to criticize

108 SC No. 00782/67A, Special Report Weekly Review, CIA Directorate of Intelligence, August 11, 1967, #103a, “Indonesia Memos Vol. VIII (2 of 2),” Box 249, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

109 NIE 55-68, “Indonesia,” December 31, 1968, #2, “Indonesia Filed by LBJ Library 1/64-1/69,” Box 249, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

110 Effendy, Islam and the State in Indonesia, 46–47.

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the government and those who wanted to toe the Suharto line came to a head, and a

Cabinet Member close to Suharto ended up becoming the new leader, thus further entrenching the state’s control over the party direction.111

Allowing the establishment of Parmusi had been, in essence, a way to pay lip service to political Islam while keeping it in check. In 1968, the New Order also rejected

Parmusi’s initiative to legalize the Jakarta Charter, and refused to hold an Indonesian

Muslim Congress. It seemed that, for the time being, the status quo fate on the role of

Islam in the state was sealed. The CIA and Johnson administration officials were aware of the contested political spaces in Indonesia; but, if officials knew more about the intricacies of the internal debates over the relationship between the New Order and Islam, in general, and certain strands of thought and political representation, in particular, that knowledge was either not conveyed or not considered significant enough to include in further detail in most official policy documents. In the end, U.S. officials continued to see the military as “the best available instrument for the gigantic task of modernization,” since the Army, in particular, was in their view “the most cohesive and nationally- oriented institution within Indonesia.”112

***

The scope and scale of the violence that swept Indonesia in 1965-66 did not temper the sense of optimism in the mainstream press about Indonesia’s future: in a July

1966 article that detailed “a boiling bloodbath that almost unnoticed took 400,000 lives,”

111 Effendy, 46–47; Ward, The Foundation of the Partai Muslimin Indonesia.

112 NIE 55-68, “Indonesia,” December 31, 1968, #2, “Indonesia Filed by LBJ Library 1/64-1/69,” Box 249, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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Time magazine also declared Indonesia’s dramatic change in political direction as “the

West’s best news for years in Asia.”113 Nor did U.S. officials hesitate to welcome the role of Muslim actors and organizations in eliminating the communist threat. Although by the

1960s, ideas derived from and people associated with modernization theory and its attendant theory of secularization dominated the U.S. foreign policy and national security apparatus, the United States continued to monitor and interact with religious actors abroad, even if they partly misunderstood, marginalized, or maligned their beliefs and behavior. As mass violence spread across Indonesia in the fall of 1965, U.S. officials not only observed, but also in some cases appreciated the role Islamic groups played. In the coming year, however, Johnson administration officials fully embraced the military- technocratic modernization of the new Suharto regime, while many of the Islamic groups whose members had partnered with the Army to carry out the slaughter were gradually marginalized from the political center—a reflection of the almost purely instrumental view of Indonesian Islamic actors and parties ascendant during the Kennedy and Johnson administrations.

Not long after the attempted coup, the CIA, in two early profiles of the general who would rule Indonesia for over 30 years, took the time to note that General Suharto had been educated at a Muhammadiyah intermediate school, and that “[h]is family was apparently strongly Moslem but liberal in outlook.”114 Such information was likely low on the list of priorities for the U.S. government’s future relationship with Suharto. Yet the

113 “Vengeance with a Smile.”

114 OCI 2940/65, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, November 8, 1965, #218 (quoted); see also OCI No. 2329/65, CIA Office of Current Intelligence, October 2, 1965, #193, “Indonesia Memos Vol. V,” Box 247, AP Series, CF, NSF, LBJPL.

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perception on the part of CIA officials of Suharto’s background as a liberal Indonesian

Muslim did not disturb their expectations of his political behavior. “Liberal” religion was less to be feared. It is not difficult to draw the conclusion that in this judgment, U.S. officials were falling back on the context they knew best; after all, the average “liberal”

American Protestant was hardly a font of radicalism. What mattered, in the final analysis, was whether military rule in Indonesia would behave in a way congenial to a U.S. administration that considered itself a progressive, modernizing force, at home and abroad.

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CHAPTER 5:

CONCLUSION

This study has focused primarily on how U.S. government officials in successive presidential administrations responded to events in Indonesia during the 1950s and 1960s, and how their assumptions about and interpretations of religion, especially Islam, informed their attitudes and policy decisions. The primary sources consulted in preparing this account—among them, State Department, White House, and CIA communications and reports, correspondence penned by diplomats and other foreign service officers, and official policy directives of the Eisenhower, Kennedy and Johnson administrations— point to four sustainable generalizations.

First, and perhaps least surprising, official U.S. reactions to events in Indonesia were reflective of broader U.S. relations with the decolonizing world during the Cold

War. Anti-communist propaganda efforts, covert operations, and counterinsurgency activities in Indonesia were part and parcel of a wider regional containment strategy and, over time, a military-led modernizing agenda, aimed at securing U.S. political and economic interests in Southeast Asia. Though their rhetoric and tactics differed, an overarching narrative spanning successive administrations pitted the United States and the “free world” against what was perceived as an aggressively expanding communist threat from both within and without Indonesia.

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In a way, then, the second finding is also not surprising, in that it follows from the first. The foreign policy establishment tended in its analyses and deliberations to see religion almost exclusively as a means to an end, a blunt instrument which at times proved useful in the struggle against global communism. This was true even of the

Eisenhower administration, notwithstanding its overt emphasis on “the religious factor” abroad, the presence and visibility of openly religious high-ranking government officials, like Secretary of State Dulles, and Eisenhower’s own relationships with public figures like Rev. Billy Graham. That this was a woefully reductionist understanding of religion, one that elided the specificity of local religious traditions, not to mention the shifting dynamics of Islam as internally plural, was evident from the fact that the sources I consulted seemed to offer limited insight into the conditions under which this or that

Islamic movement or political party had evolved. This is not to say that U.S. officials did not observe or draw distinctions between groups of Muslims; on the contrary, they frequently did. But differences were most often attributed to, on the one hand, the decisions of individual leaders in the present—be they opportunistic or faithful—or simplistic renderings of the past and primordial identities, on the other. Contexts or explanations internal to a particular religious tradition or movement were rare.

While they did not dissuade, and sometimes encouraged, multi-religious opposition to both Sukarno and communism, U.S. officials consistently appeared to give special attention to the unique anti-communist potential of Indonesia’s Muslim majority population. This third finding is, perhaps, more surprising than the first two. While there were exceptions in my sources to this general rule, it is striking that mention of Hindu,

Buddhist, animist, and other indigenous actors on the archipelago—and even Catholic

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and other Christian actors—was often quite perfunctory. Perhaps this reflected an implicit assumption that more “modern” or “advanced” Christian actors, for instance, were in less danger of succumbing to communism than their “traditional” or “backward” Muslims neighbors. Or, perhaps Indonesia’s minority religious populations were perceived to have a degree of agency that religious groups in other Islamic societies—to say nothing of religious persecution in the Communist bloc—lacked, and therefore did not require special attention. (U.S. diplomats remarked from time to time on the “unexpected” level of religious freedom in the majority Muslim country.)

A perceived link between Islam and violence also conditioned the focus on Islam, along the lines of William Cavanaugh’s theory (The Myth of Religious Violence) that religion in the modern secularizing world becomes the scapegoat for all kinds of violence, allowing state-sponsored, and often brutal state violence, to hide behind the cloak of legitimacy.1 Indonesian Islam was a useful ally in anti-communist rioting and violence—but even this utilitarian view of Islam was modified by a collective Western fear of a presumed anarchism or primitivism at the heart of the religion, which rested uneasily alongside the Kennedy-Johnson era’s secular modernist agenda.

Fourth, and finally, what variation there was in U.S. policy attitudes toward

“foreign” religion, as when Eisenhower’s foreign policy apparatus articulated positive appreciations of Islam, had as much to do with how religion was situated and appreciated at home in the United States, as it did with the actual status and practices of Islam in

Indonesia. As U.S. officials and other observers sought to make sense of the role of Islam

1 William T. Cavanaugh, The Myth of Religious Violence: Secular Ideology and the Roots of Modern Conflict (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2009).

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in state and society in post-colonial Indonesia, they simultaneously navigated, and sometimes promoted, changes in the relationship between religion and politics at home.

This took place in a global context of shifting ideas about religion and secularism, which became all the more evident during the high modernist Kennedy and Johnson years.

“Religion” Never Absent

In the campaign against communism, whichever president was in power, religion was never absent. For many U.S. public figures and commentators, the Cold War represented “one of history’s great religious wars, a global conflict between the god- fearing and the godless.”2 Andrew Preston even refers to the “religious Cold War,” noting that “matters of faith permeated the conflict, particularly certain episodes, to the extent that they often came to define the struggle between the United States and the Soviet

Union and between West and East.”3

Apart from such “cosmic” overtones, religion also figured, more mundanely, in

U.S. policymaking. It was present at the nexus of domestic and international developments, even during the comparatively “less religious” 1960s. Evolving ideas about religion, secularism, and modernity were essential not only to Americans’ vision of a post-World War II liberal, capitalist global order, but also to Indonesian leaders’ evaluation of the viability of competing ideologies and systems of government, from democracy and capitalism, to socialism and communism. Indonesians also assessed the

2 Dianne Kirby, “Religion and the Cold War: An Introduction,” in Religion and the Cold War, ed. Dianne Kirby, Cold War History Series (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003), 1.

3 Andrew Preston, “Introduction: The Religious Cold War,” in Religion and the Cold War: A Global Perspective, ed. Philip E. Muehlenbeck (Nashville: Vanderbilt University Press, 2012), xi.

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compatibility of these ideas with the islands’ efforts to forge a national identity; as

Jennifer Lindsay writes, in the 1950s and 1960s, “a self-conscious process of

‘decolonizing the mind’ was essential for Indonesia’s autonomous, postcolonial identity.”4

Explicit references to religion and religious actors in the context of Cold War anti-communist strategies at home and abroad abounded during the early and middle years of Eisenhower’s presidency. Reflective of my second finding, U.S. officials drew on existing bodies of knowledge about the history of Islam in Indonesian society, as well as on their perceptions of its contemporary expressions in official politics, as they formulated policy options—but rarely, if ever, on a more finely-grained understanding of

Indonesian Islam. The role of perceptions of Islam was more nebulous, subtle, even elusive, but nonetheless also present during the 1960s. Analysts in the Kennedy and

Johnson administrations placed less emphasis on religion as an instrument of foreign policy, but U.S. officials did not stop observing religious groups and monitoring their anti-communist (or lack of) activities, and the salience of Islam as a frame through which to understand the Indonesian social and political landscape persisted.

In addition, the secularist assumptions embedded in the modernization theories that so informed the Kennedy and Johnson administrations were predicated, consciously or not, on an acknowledgement of the ongoing presence of religion and religious groups.

Accepting the legitimacy of the nation-state as a viable political entity did not mean that the development and expression of Indonesia’s guiding principles, and the structures of

4 Lindsay, “An Introduction,” 12.

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governing, went uncontested—including the role of Islam in state and society.5 If secularism, as a category of global history is understood “a distinct means of managing religious diversity under the auspices of a largely secular state,” then secularism as a historical practice is as relevant to post-colonial societies—including Muslim majority societies, and those understood as less developed—as it is to the West, which has dominated scholarship.6 Put another way, the United States and Indonesia have both, at different times, and in different ways, engaged the question of how to manage or organize religiously plural populations. Indonesia does not now, nor has it historically, fit neatly into the binary categories of a theocratic or a secular state; rather, it sits on a

“continuum”7 or, in Elizabeth Shakman Hurd’s formulation, along the “spectrum of theological politics.”8

A More Nuanced Picture

In some ways, the objectives of U.S. policy toward Indonesia had little, if anything, to do with Islam as a vital, lived religion, and everything to do with securing

U.S. political and economic interests. At the same time, U.S.-Indonesian relations were, and remain, unavoidably about Islam, as the consequences of U.S. policies affect not just the Indonesian state, but Indonesia’s people, the majority of whom identify as Muslim.

And yet, that population cannot, indeed should not, be described or understood solely in

5 Hefner, Civil Islam, 38.

6 Six, Secularism, Decolonisation, and the Cold War in South and Southeast Asia, 2–3.

7 Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia, 4.

8 Hurd, The Politics of Secularism in International Relations, 23.

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terms of its religious commitments. Islam in Indonesia was, and is, fluid, distinct and also diverse, one among many sociocultural forces that comprises individual identities, that features in relational group dynamics, that interacts with state apparatus, and that shapes its country’s foreign relations.

Throughout each of the three administrations under study, U.S. officials’ discussions about religion and religious actors, in general, and Islam and Islamic actors, in particular, are rife with (often contradictory) stereotypes—from perceptions of

Muslims as a monolithic group, pious and set in their ways, to comments about President

Sukarno’s womanizing and multiple wives, to the violent fanatics of Darul Islam and, later, of the wider population, who engaged in mass atrocities after the attempted coup in

1965. Indeed, ill-informed or demeaning representations of “the other” in the history of

U.S. foreign relations are all too familiar, and Indonesia was no exception. Yet such depictions did not preclude successive U.S. administrations from cooperating, openly or otherwise, with Muslims or Islamic groups. Key Eisenhower officials engaged Masyumi leaders, among others, as anti-communist partners, and saw themselves as like-minded in the importance they placed on religious faith. President Kennedy, over the objections of some in his administration, pursued better relations with Sukarno, and sanctioned U.S. mediation of the dispute over West New Guinea. And during the Johnson administration, most U.S. officials had few qualms about its closest Indonesian allies in the Army partnering with Islamic groups in the destruction of the PKI and alleged leftist supporters.

Despite the lingering influence of orientalist scholarship that pervaded perceptions of Islam and Muslims, some U.S. observers did differentiate between Islam in Indonesia or Southeast Asia and the Middle East, as well as between Islamic groups

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and their ideas within Indonesia. To be sure, some of these analyses were more nuanced than others. A minority of U.S. officials appears to have been aware, for example, that

“modernist” and “traditionalist” Islam in Indonesia comprised two different, sometimes competing, sets of religious ideas, and that their adherents tended to cohere around particular social organizations or political parties. When a February 1967 National

Intelligence Estimate (NIE) concluded that General Suharto and an anti-communist coalition of military and civilian actors were firmly in power and likely to stay there, the authors also expressed concern about divisions within civilian groups “between Muslim and secularist, modernist and traditionalist, [and] Javanese and non-Javanese.” The report further noted that the “traditionalistic Nahdatul [sic] Ulama…fears the revival of the

Masjumi, another large but more modernized Islamic party.”9 Yet—again reflective of my second finding—there appears to be little evidence that high-level U.S. officials had a deeper understanding of just what “traditionalist” and “modernist” Muslims believed, much less the origins of the development of the two streams of thoughts. The primary focus remained on whether and to what degree certain groups appeared to facilitate stability, namely, a government in Indonesia that would be amenable, if not outright friendly, to U.S. interests.

To suggest that harmful stereotypes may not always lead inevitably or directly to poor policy should not take away from the study or critique of both. Rather, scholars should be mindful that, as Ussama Makdisi puts it, “it is one thing to criticize American representations of foreign cultures; it is an entirely different matter to study American

9 NIE 55-67, “Prospects for Indonesia,” February 15, 1967, #6, “55, Indonesia,” Box 7, NIEs, NSF, LBJPL.

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engagements with them.”10 My dissertation only begins to shed light on how Indonesian actors, including Islamic actors, represented themselves to external audiences, in this case, primarily to high-level U.S. government officials and diplomats, and to a lesser degree, to NGOs and journalists. Further exploration of Indonesian sources would provide a richer understanding of the multi-faceted perspectives and interests driving

Indonesian engagement with the United States during this period.

Another area that would benefit from additional attention, as my third finding suggests, is the role of other religions and religious actors in Indonesia, particularly its

Christian and Hindu populations. A closer analysis would offer insight not only into these groups, but also into Indonesia’s plural society—context critical to understanding how the state “managed” religion,11 as well as the nature of inter-faith relations in Indonesia today. This brings to mind another underdeveloped area of study, where U.S. government sources I consulted were mostly (and oddly) thin: the role of Christian missionaries in both pre- and post-colonial Indonesia. In addition to the role of Dutch missionaries on contemporary understandings of Indonesian Islam (Chapter 1), we saw in Chapter 4 that

American missionaries provided the U.S. Embassy and Consulates with some of the earliest firsthand reports of the massacres taking place in Java, Sumatra, and later Bali.

Finally, this period is also considered by many scholars to mark the beginning of the emergence of a more radical political Islam, articulated most notably in the writings of Islamic theorist Sayyid Qutb, who was executed in Egypt in 1966. Situating the conflict between the NU and the PKI, for instance, or the tensions between certain

10 Makdisi, “After Said,” 659.

11 Seo, State Management of Religion in Indonesia.

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Islamic political actors and the Sukarno government in the 1950s and 1960s, in this context could help to reveal the extent to which the trajectory of political Islam in

Indonesian was similar to or distinct from the development of political Islam in the

Middle East, along with whether, and if so, when, U.S. policymakers made such comparisons. We find a clue, as the corollary to my third finding suggests, in increasing perceptions or assumptions that Islam in Indonesia—as elsewhere—is prone to

“irrational” or “hysterical” extremist violence.

The New Order Era, 1966-1998

By the late 1960s, former U.S. Ambassador to Indonesia Howard Jones had returned stateside to work at The Hoover Institution at Stanford University. In 1969, as he prepared to write a memoir of his time in Indonesia, Ambassador Jones wrote to General

Nasution with a series of questions, who responded extensively, in writing, to Jones’ prompts. Jones asked Nasution, then the chairman of the Provisional People’s

Consultative Assembly (MPRS), about his vision for the structure of the Indonesian government, after living through both parliamentary democracy and Guided Democracy.

Nasution replied with his firm commitment to a return to the 1945 Constitution “in a pure and constant way,” something he had also advocated as the position of the Army.

Sukarno, he wrote, had deviated from this vision. In addition to calling for increased regional autonomy, Nasution also reflected on “the role of the Government in leading the people toward faithfulness to God as stated by the 1945 Constitution, to prove that the

Republic was based on Faith in God Almighty. It is not,” he went on, “the Western secularization. …The Republic of Indonesia is not a religious State, but it is not separated

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from religion either, such is the 1945 Constitution, but the Government is obliged to lead and help the people in their religious life.”12

Given Nasution’s previous efforts to promote unity among the Indonesian people by drawing on the tenets of Islam, his position is unsurprising, and was likely all the stronger in 1969, by which point the New Order regime had begun its steady marginalization of Islam in politics. Suharto was deeply suspicious of political Islam, both as an ideology and as a threat to his rule, leading one scholar to remark that the New

Order saw political Islam as “public enemy number two”—behind only communists.13

Indeed, the first half of the Suharto era shows that the scapegoating of Muslims and legitimization of state violence, a la Cavanaugh, was not limited to Western or even non-

Muslim actors. Bitterness between Islamic groups, including those that had helped usher

Suharto into power, and the New Order regime worsened through much of the 1970s.

Islamic groups were steadily marginalized from politics, while Christians rose to several elite positions, only deepening resentment among some Muslims.14

The events of 1965-66 also marked the beginning of a period in Indonesia during which opposition and dissent was most often met with a state-backed military response,

12 “General Nasution’s Replies to Ambassador Howard P. Jone’s [sic] Questions,” February 19, 1969, “Subject File Indonesia Nasution,” Box 66, HPJ Papers, HIA.

13 Liddle, “The Islamic Turn in Indonesia,” 615 (quoted); Fealy and McGregor, “Nahdlatul Ulama and the Killings of 1965-66,” 50; M. Syafi’i Anwar, “The Interplay Between U.S. Foreign Policy and Political Islam in Post-Soeharto Indonesia,” Working Paper, Saban Center Project on U.S. Relations with the Islamic World (The Brookings Institution, September 2008), 5, https://www.brookings.edu/wp- content/uploads/2016/06/09_indonesia_anwar.pdf.

14 Amal, Regional and Central Government in Indonesian Politics, 108–9.

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whether through official or paramilitary channels.15 President Suharto’s repressive rule did not deter successive U.S. administrations from pursuing ever-closer relations with the

Indonesian government. Between 1966 and 1974, the United States provided an average of over $200 million per year in economic assistance to the New Order regime, along with more than $20 million in military aid. The Nixon administration had picked up where Johnson’s left off, and considered Indonesia, with its strategic location, its natural resources, and now its stable, anti-communist government, as a key ally in Southeast

Asia. And, despite its continued public commitment to the Non-Aligned Movement,

Indonesia’s dependence on Western foreign aid, as well as the avowed anti-communism of its powerful military, meant “its neutralism took a decidedly pro-Western hue.”16

Indicative of the continuity across U.S. administrations suggested by my first and second findings, successive presidents prioritized maintaining relations with Indonesia over, for example, human rights concerns. The U.S. Congress did briefly slow foreign assistance to Indonesia in the early 1970s, in the midst of the United States’ gradual withdrawal from Vietnam. But by the middle of the decade, Suharto met President Ford at Camp David, and sought a commitment from the U.S. for ongoing economic support and for “‘building up [Indonesia’s] neglected armed forces.’”17 When the Portuguese finally withdrew from their colony in East Timor in 1975, the Suharto government moved

15 Fealy and McGregor, “Nahdlatul Ulama and the Killings of 1965-66,” 50; see also Benedict R. Anderson, ed., Violence and the State in Suharto’s Indonesia (Ithaca, NY: Southeast Asia Program, Cornell University, 2001).

16 Bradley Simpson, “‘Illegally and Beautifully’: The United States, the Indonesian Invasion of East Timor and the International Community, 1974–76,” Cold War History 5, no. 3 (2005): 282–83.

17 Simpson, 289.

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quickly to annex the territory. The Ford administration, largely through the machinations of Henry Kissinger, supported Indonesia’s brutal invasion and annexation of East Timor, although it could have worked to prevent it by threatening to withhold military aid.18 The

United States had also stood by in 1969 as the New Order held the Act of Free Choice that Indonesia had agreed to in negotiations over West New Guinea. The “state-managed exercise” resulted in a unanimous vote from hand-picked representatives to remain part of Indonesia.19

Indonesia was not immune to the shifts in global religion, particularly a reemergent political Islam. By the late 1980s, Suharto had begun to develop a “politics of accommodation, including embracing political Islam,” as part of an effort to maintain support among the Muslim population.20 Part of an “Islamic turn in Indonesia,” in which

Suharto allowed, even promoted, a more public-facing Islam, female students were no longer barred from wearing jilbab (hijab) in state schools, an Islamic bank was established, and in 1990, Suharto traveled with his family on a pilgrimage to Mecca.21

Suharto also permitted the founding of the Association of Indonesian Muslim

Intellectuals (ICMI, Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim Indonesia) in 1990, after a group of students approached the government to fund a conference of Islamic intellectuals. Liddle viewed the ICMI as “an organization with an Islamic name but with minimal Islamic

18 Simpson, 295–97; Aspinall and Berger, “The Break-up of Indonesia?,” 1010–13.

19 Webster, “Regimes in Motion,” 122-123 (quoted); Aspinall and Berger, “The Break-up of Indonesia?,” 1013–15.

20 Anwar, “The Interplay Between U.S. Foreign Policy and Political Islam in Post-Soeharto Indonesia,” 5.

21 Liddle, “The Islamic Turn in Indonesia,” 614.

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content,” a tool of the Suharto government, headed by selected state officials, to control restive Islamic groups.22 Anwar, too, writes that after this institutionalization of political

Islam in state politics, Suharto shifted to “a politics of co-optation” by the mid-1990s, which included “a kind of state-sponsored political Islam” in the final years of his rule.23

Pancasila, meanwhile, was “transformed by the New Order from a doctrine aimed at the inclusion of diverse ideological, ethnic and religious groups in the national collective into a weapon to be used against dissenters of all kinds.”24

As Scott Hibbard has shown, state actors who bestow legitimacy on exclusive interpretations of religion often do so as part of a strategy to consolidate authority or maintain power.25 Hibbard’s analysis rings true in the case of Indonesia. By the mid-

1980s, Suharto had effectively eliminated all organized opposition to his rule. Whereas he governed initially as the dominant figure among other military partners, he had become Indonesia’s “paramount ruler;” thus, his once-impervious relationship with the armed forces began to show signs of strain. When he formed the ICMI, Suharto attempted to appeal to a new, Muslim base of support, as tensions worsened with his long-time military base. Throughout his rule, Suharto frequently “play[ed] one elite faction against another,” but leftist and Muslim organizations had always been excluded.

By establishing the ICMI, Hefner writes, “[t]hat rule had now been decisively broken.”26

22 Liddle, 614.

23 Anwar, “The Interplay Between U.S. Foreign Policy and Political Islam in Post-Soeharto Indonesia,” 5.

24 Aspinall and Berger, “The Break-up of Indonesia?,” 1009 (quoted); see also Hefner, Civil Islam, 128–66 on the establishment and evolution of the ICMI.

25 Hibbard, Religious Politics and Secular States.

26 Hefner, Civil Islam, 158–59.

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By the 1990s, even as violence remained a potent tool of the regime in dealing with both its detractors and ongoing separatist conflicts in Aceh, West New Guinea, and

East Timor, cracks had begun to appear in state control over dissent. Abdurrahman

Wahid, who led the NU through a series of reforms in the 1980s and early 1990s, became a vocal and frequent critic of Suharto. The Indonesian Democratic Party (PDI), one of the two state-approved parties, began to gain support among “devout Muslims” and nationalists alike.27 The Suharto regime cracked down on the growing opposition, and it seemed, for a time, the New Order would survive. But the Asian financial crisis accelerated discontent, and economic instability in the fall of 1997 contributed to protests against Suharto, many of them led by students. In mid-May 1998, four university students were killed by security forces during a rally in Jakarta, and within days students had occupied the grounds of the National Assembly, unhindered by the military or police.

The speaker of the Assembly called for Suharto’s resignation, fourteen cabinet members resigned, and, facing the prospect of ongoing demonstrations, Suharto resigned on May

21, 1998.28

Indonesia in the Post-Suharto Era, 1998-present

When President Suharto fell from power in 1998, a period of reformasi (reform) produced a wave of democratic reforms, and both secular and religious political parties remerged on the scene after decades of authoritarianism. Suharto was succeeded by his

Vice-President B.J. Habibie (1998-99). Abdurrahman Wahid assumed the presidency in

27 Hefner, 170.

28 James T. Siegel, “Early Thoughts on the Violence of May 13 and 14, 1998 in Jakarta,” Indonesia, no. 66 (1998): 76.

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1999, before being ousted by forces loyal to the daughter of former President Sukarno,

Megawati Sukarnoputri, in 2001. Megawati remained in office until 2004, when

Indonesians elected Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, which outside political observers considered evidence of Indonesia’s promising progress toward democracy.29 He would go on to serve to two terms, before Joko Widodo was elected in 2014.

In part because “the official representation of national identity had become inextricably linked to authoritarianism,” Aspinall and Berger write, the demise of the

New Order regime also gave “way to a questioning of the national project as a whole” in some parts of the country, and took on renewed strength in others.30 A transnational network of activists had emerged around the ongoing conflict in East Timor, and by the

1990s had brought pressure to bear on governments supplying weapons to the Indonesian military—including in the United States, which cut off most forms of military aid by the late 1990s. After the collapse of the Suharto regime in 1998, the Indonesian government agreed in 1999 to a referendum on independence, and East Timor became a sovereign country in 2002.31 The Free Aceh Movement (GAM, Gerakan Aceh Merdeka), a reconstitution of elements of Darul Islam into an ethno-nationalist separatist movement that emerged under the leadership of Hasan di Tiro in 1976, continued its struggle for an independent Aceh, before agreeing to regional autonomy in a peace accord in 2005.32

29 Anwar, “The Interplay Between U.S. Foreign Policy and Political Islam in Post-Soeharto Indonesia,” 2.

30 Aspinall and Berger, “The Break-up of Indonesia?,” 1009.

31 Simpson, “Solidarity in an Age of Globalization”; Aspinall and Berger, “The Break-up of Indonesia?,” 1010–13.

32 Aspinall, Islam and Nation; Elizabeth F Drexler, Aceh, Indonesia: Securing the Insecure State (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008).

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And a Papuan independence movement that persisted throughout the New Order era continues today.33

The years just prior to Suharto’s fall had also seen recurring episodes of collective violence in the form of riots, which took place in cities and town in several provinces across the archipelago, especially from 1995 into early 1998. The riots tended to target businesses owned by Chinese Indonesians, along with churches and government offices, but rarely targeted people. A major riot in Jakarta in May 1998, however, did result in deaths. From 1999-2001, a new form of collective violence emerged in which individuals and neighborhoods fell victims to armed attacks. The pogroms, as John Sidel describes them, took place primarily in West and Central Kalimantan, Maluku, and Central

Sulawesi, and resulted in both loss of life and episodes of ethnic cleansing. Another shift in the form of violence began to occur in 2000, Sidel writes, “crystallizing under the sign of jihad” by late 2001, with bombings against Western targets, like a nightclub in Bali in

2002.34

Some have argued that the presence of radical Islamist groups shows that liberalism and tolerance are found only among the intellectual elite, and not among the masses, in Muslim-majority societies. But as Hefner writes, Muslim politics is as diverse as Western politics, and thus “the struggle for the hearts and minds of Southeast Asian

Muslims” currently underway is not the result of “a uniform ‘Islam,’ but of highly varied interactions between a divided Muslim community, on the one hand, and state and

33 Webster, “Regimes in Motion,” 123; Aspinall and Berger, “The Break-up of Indonesia?,” 1013– 15.

34 Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, 1, 6–7.

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society structures beset with their own problems of coordination, corruption, and sectarianism, on the other.”35 In addition, as Sidel points out, episodes of religious violence in Indonesia in the post-Suharto era, while they have received much attention from Western observers, have not, in fact, been the norm.36 But the presence of Islamist groups, in conjunction with a global climate shaped by the September 11, 2001 attacks, brought Indonesia into the conversation on countering violent extremism.

As early as December 2001, officials in the George W. Bush administration, media outlets, and some scholars began pointing to Southeast Asia as a natural “second front” in the war on terror, due to the presence of groups like Jemaah Islamiyah (JI), responsible for the 2002 Bali bombing. Others were more circumspect and criticized the

“hysterical tone” and “overheated rhetoric” that characterized coverage of the region.37

The Bush administration began pushing to renew U.S. economic and military ties with the Indonesian government, which had declined during the 1990s in the face of increasing congressional objections. By 2005, the Bush administration had taken steps to begin removing restrictions on International Military and Education and Training (IMET),

Foreign Military Financing (FMF), and Foreign Military Sales (FMS) programs for

35 Hefner, “The Sword Against the Crescent: Religion and Violence in Muslim Southeast Asia,” 33–34.

36 Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, 6.

37 John Gershman, “Is Southeast Asia the Second Front?,” Foreign Affairs, July 1, 2002, (quoted), https://www.foreignaffairs.com/articles/asia/2002-07-01/southeast-asia-second-front; Catharin E. Dalpino, “The War on Terror in Southeast Asia,” The Brookings Institution (blog), December 19, 2001, https://www.brookings.edu/opinions/the-war-on-terror-in-southeast-asia/.

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Indonesia.38 The Obama administration continued the trend toward closer relations with

Indonesia. On November 2010, during President Obama’s visit to Jakarta, he and

President Yudhoyono launched the U.S.-Indonesia Comprehensive Partnership, an initiative that continued throughout the Obama era “to enhance,” according to the U.S.

State Department, “cooperation between the world’s second and third largest democracies.”39

The Role of Religion in Foreign Relations Today

While not nonexistent prior to September 11, 2001, calls to “take religion seriously” in both scholarship and policymaking have markedly increased since.

Imperatives such as the one found in the introduction to a volume edited by Jonathan

Chaplin typify such calls: “American foreign policy must more fully acknowledge the power of religious faith in international relations if it is to be credible and effective in the turbulent century that lies ahead.”40 “Engaging the Muslim world” is often understood as a priority, and scholars of religion, history, and international relations have explored U.S.

38 Bruce Vaughn, “Indonesia: Domestic Politics, Strategic Dynamics, and U.S. Interests” (Washington, D.C.: Congressional Research Service, January 31, 2011), 2, https://fas.org/sgp/crs/row/RL32394.pdf.

39 Office of the Spokesperson, “United States-Indonesia Comprehensive Partnership: Fact Sheet,” U.S. Department of State, Washington, D.C., October 8, 2013, https://2009- 2017.state.gov/r/pa/prs/ps/2013/10/215196.htm.

40 Jonathan Chaplin, “Introduction: Naming Religion Truthfully,” in God and Global Order: The Power of Religion in American Foreign Policy (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2010), 2; Robert A. Seiple and Dennis Hoover, eds., Religion and Security: The New Nexus in International Relations (Lanham, MD: Rowman & Littlefield, 2004); Scott M. Thomas, The Global Resurgence of Religion and the Transformation of International Relations: The Struggle for the Soul of the Twenty-First Century, 1st ed. (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2005); Eric O. Hanson, Religion and Politics in the International System Today (Cambridge; New York: Cambridge University Press, 2006).

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relations with Muslim societies, past and present, identifying challenges and proposing ways forward.41 Former U.S. government officials have drawn from their own experiences to promote more considered engagement with religious actors abroad.42

Think tanks, universities, and non-governmental organizations have dedicated programs and initiatives to exploring the relationship between religion, politics, violence, and peace, while practitioners of conflict resolution and peacebuilding, faith-based and otherwise, have brought renewed attention to religion’s capacity for both violence and peace.43

Since Douglas Johnston and Cynthia Sampson brought attention to religion as

“the missing dimension of statecraft” for foreign policy practitioners in the mid-1990s, others have echoed their appeal to better integrate religion into foreign relations, from

41 Juan R. Cole, Engaging the Muslim World, 1st ed. (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2009); John L. Esposito, The Future of Islam (Oxford; New York: Oxford University Press, 2010); Darrell Ezell, Beyond Cairo: U.S. Engagement with the Muslim World, 1st ed., Series in Global Public Diplomacy (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012).

42 Madeleine Korbel Albright, The Mighty and the Almighty: Reflections on America, God, and World Affairs, 1st ed. (New York: Harper Collins, 2006); Emile A. Nakhleh, A Necessary Engagement: Reinventing America’s Relations with the Muslim World, Princeton Studies in Muslim Politics (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2009).

43 See, for example: “About the Project on U.S. Relations with the Islamic World,” The Brookings Institution, Center for Middle East Policy, Project on U.S. Relations with the Islamic World, July 28, 2016, https://www.brookings.edu/about-islamic-world/; Berkley Center for Religion, Peace and World Affairs, Georgetown University, accessed March 23, 2018, https://berkleycenter.georgetown.edu/; “Issue Areas: Religion,” United States Institute of Peace, accessed March 22, 2018, https://www.usip.org/issue- areas/religion; “Interreligious Action for Peace: Studies in Muslim-Christian Cooperation” (Baltimore, MD: Catholic Relief Services, 2017), https://www.crs.org/our-work-overseas/research- publications/interreligious-action-peace; “Religion and Development: What Are the Links? Why Should We Care?,” From Poverty to Power, Oxfam International (blog), October 27, 2011, https://oxfamblogs.org/fp2p/religion-and-development-what-are-the-links-why-should-we-care/; R. Scott Appleby, “Retrieving the Missing Dimension of Statecraft: Religious Faith in the Service of Peacebuilding,” in Faith-Based Diplomacy: Trumping Realpolitik, ed. Douglas Johnston (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008).

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both analytical and operational perspectives.44 U.S. national security, diplomatic, and development officials are charged with integrating religion into foreign policy and national security strategies, including foreign assistance programs and activities aimed at

“countering violent extremism.”45 Some of these strategies and roles have been institutionalized in U.S. government agencies, such as USAID’s Center for Faith-Based and Community Initiatives, and the State Department’s Office of Religion and Global

Affairs—a notable turn of events, when one recalls the passionate objections, many of them from faith leaders, to USIA’s Office of Religious Information during the

Eisenhower era.46

The sum total of such efforts has been lauded for bringing renewed attention to religion in global affairs, but important critiques have also emerged. Atalia Omer, for example, cautions that while an “‘instrumental approach’ to religious peacebuilding” has illuminated the value of taking religion seriously, “the rendering of faith-based diplomacy as a supplementary but necessary venue for realpolitik is insufficient and problematic,”

44 Douglas Johnston and Cynthia Sampson, eds., Religion: The Missing Dimension of Statecraft (New York: Oxford University Press, 1995); Douglas Johnston, ed., Faith-Based Diplomacy: Trumping Realpolitik (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008); R. Scott Appleby and Richard Cizik, “Engaging Religious Communities Abroad: A New Imperative for U.S. Foreign Policy,” Report of the Task Force on Religion and the Making of U.S. Foreign Policy (Chicago: Chicago Council on Global Affairs, 2010), https://www.thechicagocouncil.org/publication/engaging-religious-communities-abroad-new-imperative- us-foreign-policy.

45 “Religion, Conflict, and Peacebuilding: An Introductory Programming Guide” (Washington, D.C.: U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID), September 2009), http://pdf.usaid.gov/pdf_docs/pnadr501.pdf; “Working in Crises and Conflict: Countering Violent Extremism,” U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID), accessed March 23, 2018, https://www.usaid.gov/countering-violent-extremism.

46 “Center for Faith-Based and Community Initiatives,” U.S. Agency for International Development (USAID), accessed March 23, 2018, https://www.usaid.gov/faith-based-and-community- initiatives; “U.S. Strategy on Religious Leader and Faith Community Engagement,” Office of Religion and Global Affairs, U.S. Department of State, August 7, 2013, http://www.state.gov/s/rga/strategy/.

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especially, she continues, because such an approach does “not depart in any significant way from the undergirding secularist discourses that informed conventional modes of thinking about international relations.”47 John Sidel, meanwhile, casts a critical eye toward a “veritable cottage industry” of research on “religious violence” that has, in response to political events, expanded beyond the ranks of academia to include a host of government agencies, international institutions, think tanks, foundations, and NGOs, and that is, in his view, often devoid of historical and sociological context in their analyses of contemporary trends and, therefore, can result in policy recommendations that are misguided at best and dangerous at worst.48 Elizabeth Shakman Hurd has warned that calls for U.S. engagement with religious actors abroad run the risk of being implicated in

“the projection of American power through the securitization of religion.”49 And Andrew

Bacevich and Elizabeth Prodromou contend that following the events of 9/11, a particular understanding of evangelical Christianity became entwined with proposals to rethink U.S. national security strategy, such that “[r]eligion [was] rendered an instrument used to provide moral justification for what is, in effect, a strategy of empire.”50

47 Atalia Omer, “Religious Peacebuilding: The Exotic, the Good, and the Theatrical,” Practical Matters Journal, no. 5 (March 1, 2012): 1–31.

48 Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, ix–xi; More subtly put, Appleby has noted that religious violence has been “exoticized” by some scholars and media outlets, shaping, at least in part, current public discussion and policy deliberations surrounding the nature of the threats facing the global community. R. Scott Appleby, “Religious Violence: The Strong, the Weak, and the Pathological,” Practical Matters Journal, March 1, 2012, 2, http://practicalmattersjournal.org/2012/03/01/religious-violence/.

49 Elizabeth Shakman Hurd, “The Global Securitization of Religion,” The Immanent Frame (blog), March 23, 2010, (quoted), http://blogs.ssrc.org/tif/2010/03/23/global-securitization/; see also Elizabeth Shakman Hurd, “How International Relations Got Religion, and Got It Wrong,” Washington Post, July 9, 2015, sec. Monkey Cage, https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/monkey-cage/wp/2015/07/09/how- international-relations-got-religion-and-got-it-wrong/.

50 Andrew J. Bacevich and Elizabeth H. Prodromou, “God Is Not Neutral: Religion and U.S. Foreign Policy after 9/11,” Orbis 48, no. 1 (December 1, 2004): 43.

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What might a historian contribute to discussions about religion and foreign policy? Historical sensibility, Francis J. Gavin writes, “goes beyond our notions as to what historians do,” like marshalling evidence to reconstruct the past, to how historians think. It embraces “uncertainty, surprise, and unintended consequences in human affairs,” and it does not shy away from “indeterminacy and multi-causal explanations.” It challenges assumptions, or as Gavin puts it, “makes the unfamiliar familiar, while revealing the unfamiliar in what was believed was well-understood.” It also fosters “empathy (though not necessarily a sympathy) for the past,” which includes

“a willingness to understand historical subjects on their own terms and as products of a particular time and place,” as well as an awareness of how history functions in cultures, societies, states that are not one’s own. In short, “a historical sensibility is less a method than a practice, a mental awareness, discernment, responsiveness to the past and how it unfolded into our present world.”51 Below I explore what the integration of a historical sensibility into public discourse around the role of religion in foreign relations might entail, along with potential convergences between peacebuilding and the praxis of the historian.52

First, scholars can continue to pursue a comprehensive account of the history of the role of religion in foreign relations. This includes interrogating assumptions that undergird descriptions of religion and religious actors in global affairs, which in turn inform the conceptualization of plausible policy options. Second, and related,

51 Francis J. Gavin, “Thinking Historically: A Guide for Strategy and Statecraft,” War on the Rocks, November 17, 2016, https://warontherocks.com/2016/11/thinking-historically-a-guide-for-strategy- and-statecraft/.

52 Gavin.

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policymakers, along with think thanks and NGOs seeking to influence policy, sometimes rely uncritically on familiar historical narratives and dubious comparisons to inform their decision-making. Historians can examine the ways in which policymakers and pundits appeal to “history”—as “experience, memory, tradition, [or] study”—in their analyses and policy proposals.53 To what familiar narratives about the history of religion’s role in foreign relations, of the nature of the Cold War, or of Islam in the world, do both policymakers and pundits appeal to for “analogies” and “lessons” about engaging religious actors abroad? How might a history of U.S.-Indonesian relations complicate or challenge “preconceptions or assumptions” about engaging the so-called Muslim world in the present?54 And how can thinking historically help illuminate when religion is not the primary lens, or at least not the only lens, through which to interpret contemporary events, conflicts, behaviors, motivations?55

Historical Sensibility, Religion, and Foreign Relations

Scott M. Thomas understands the global resurgence of religion as “the growing saliency and persuasiveness of religion,” not only in personal but also public life, along

53 William Inboden identifies experience, memory, tradition, and study as four types of history understood (as “history”) and employed by policymakers. This will be discussed in further detail below. William Inboden, “Statecraft, Decision-Making, and the Varieties of Historical Experience: A Taxonomy,” Journal of Strategic Studies 37, no. 2 (February 23, 2014): 296.

54 Inboden, quotes from pp. 294, 298, 315.; see also Hal Brands and William Inboden, “Wisdom without Tears: Statecraft and the Uses of History,” Journal of Strategic Studies, January 31, 2018, 1–31; on the use of analogies, see, for example Mark Atwood Lawrence, “Policymaking and the Uses of the Vietnam War,” in The Power of the Past: History and Statecraft, ed. Hal Brands and Jeremi Suri (Washington, D.C.: Brookings Institution Press, 2016).

55 See, for example, Omid Safi, “Ten Ways on How Not To Think About the Iran/Saudi Conflict,” On Being, January 7, 2016, http://www.onbeing.org/blog/omid-safi-ten-ways-on-how-not-to-think-about- the-iransaudi-conflict/8315.

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with a growing role for religious actors in both domestic and international politics; it

“describes,” he writes, “the ways religion and politics are being mixed together around the world.”56 Whether seen as “the growth of ‘public religion,’ the ‘deprivatization of religion,’ or the ‘desecularization of the world,’” the resurgence narrative dominates much policy-oriented research and Western political discourse.57 Yet it is important not to conflate the marginalization of the study of religion in particular disciplines as evidence of its actual absence in societies during that time; doing so can replicate the secularist assumptions one is trying to challenge.58 One must also take care not to limit religion’s salience to what is understood or identified as religious expression by those in elite positions, such as scholars or state actors, while artificially divorcing religion from the sociopolitical context within which it exists.59

Scholarship on the role of religion in the Cold War complicates the widely accepted account of a “global resurgence of religion,” usually considered to have begun in the 1970s, that gained traction in post-Cold War international relations literature, especially after September 11, 2001. Bringing a historical sensibility to this narrative can help to trace the varied ways religion has endured over time, as well as how recent

56 Thomas, The Global Resurgence of Religion and the Transformation of International Relations: The Struggle for the Soul of the Twenty-First Century, 26.

57 Scott M. Thomas, “Response: Reading Religion Rightly,” in God and Global Order: The Power of Religion in American Foreign Policy, ed. Jonathan Chaplin (Waco, TX: Baylor University Press, 2010), 189.

58 Thomas makes a similar point, and he ends up taking an “intermediary position,” writing that: “There is a global resurgence of religion, but this global and cultural shift is also prompting scholars to rethink their theories and assumptions regarding the study of religion in international relations.” Thomas, The Global Resurgence of Religion and the Transformation of International Relations: The Struggle for the Soul of the Twenty-First Century, 27–28.

59 See the analysis put forth by Hurd, “How International Relations Got Religion, and Got It Wrong.”

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scholarship and discourse on the role of religion in global affairs developed in response to political events.60 Historians have also challenged a bipolar, East-West lens and shown how Third World leaders’ responses to U.S. and Soviet policies, as well as their own initiatives independent of the superpowers, impacted the course of the global Cold War.61

In Indonesia, local and regional developments intertwined with the superpower conflict, which often brought particular identities to the fore in ways that were not foregone conclusions. And, like identities, assigning conflict “an obvious type,” like “ethnic,”

“religious,” or “ideological,” can become a shortcut to explaining entire historical and social phenomenon; such shortcuts often find their way into both research and policy discourse.62 As Charles King puts it, “it is simply erroneous to believe that analytical categories through which we view conflict are somehow independent of the political and cultural context in which we are doing the analyzing.”63

A historical sensibility also interrogates what can be an overly tidy split between the Cold War and post-Cold War eras found in much international relations literature on the role of religion in global affairs. This framework is often based on the notion of a

60 For a nuanced account of scholarship that addresses whether religion can be seen as “a renewed or persisting global phenomenon,” see Heather DuBois, “Religion and Peacebuilding,” Journal of Religion, Conflict, and Peace 1, no. 2 (Spring 2008), http://www.religionconflictpeace.org/volume-1-issue-2-spring- 2008/religion-and-peacebuilding.

61 Odd Arne Westad, The Global Cold War: Third World Interventions and the Making of Our Times, First Edition (Cambridge University Press, 2007); Malcolm H. Kerr, The Arab Cold War: Gamal ’Abd Al-Nasir and His Rivals, 1958-1970, 3rd ed. (Oxford University Press, 1971).

62 Charles King, “Power, Social Violence, and Civil Wars,” in Leashing the Dogs of War: Conflict Management in a Divided World, ed. Chester A. Crocker, Fen Osler Hampson, and Pamela Aall (Washington, D.C.: United States Institute of Peace Press, 2007), 121; Sidel, for instance, points to the shift from an analytical lens of “ethnic conflict” and “identity politics” in the 1990s to one of “Islamic terrorism” post-9/11 to explain violence. Sidel, Riots, Pogroms, Jihad, 1–6.

63 King, “Power, Social Violence, and Civil Wars,” 122.

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shift from a paradigmatic Westphalian state system to contemporary globalization.64

Historians, however, have in recent years pointed to changes in globalization over time, as both a historical process and a historical category; they have de-centered the nation- state and studied transnational processes and exchange that existed before and during the

Cold War.65 Others have pointed to “the contingency, the instrumentality, and the malleability of the idea of the Cold War during the immediate [post-World War II] decades,” while some have sought to reconsider the periodization of the conflict itself, and find continuity in ideological struggles over, for example, modernizing agendas before and after what is traditionally understood as the Cold War era.66 The point here is not to argue against the idea that the U.S. and other Western government officials have long minimized or misunderstood the role of religion outside (or even within) their own societies in the conduct of foreign relations. Rather, it is to guard against a tendency to associate the arrival of religion as a political force on the global stage with particular

64 Eric O. Hanson, for instance, has proposed “a post-Cold War paradigm” to make sense of today’s international system, one that accounts for “the interaction between the contemporary globalization of the political, economic, military, and communication...systems and the significant role of religion in influencing global politics.” Hanson, Religion and Politics in the International System Today, 1–5.

65 See, for example, Geoff Eley, “Historicizing the Global, Politicizing Capital: Giving the Present a Name,” History Workshop Journal 63, no. 1 (March 20, 2007): 154–88, and the series of responses in: Felix Driver, “Introduction,” History Workshop Journal 64, no. 1 (September 21, 2007): 321–22; Maxine Berg, “From Globalization to Global History,” History Workshop Journal 64, no. 1 (September 21, 2007): 335–40; Antoinette Burton, “Not Even Remotely Global? Method and Scale in World History,” History Workshop Journal 64, no. 1 (September 21, 2007): 323–28; Sanjay Subrahmanyam, “Historicizing the Global, or Labouring for Invention?,” History Workshop Journal 64, no. 1 (September 21, 2007): 329–34; Iain A. Boal, “Globe Talk: The Cartographic Logic of Late Capitalism,” History Workshop Journal 64, no. 1 (September 21, 2007): 341–46.

66 Joel Isaac and Duncan Bell, eds., Uncertain Empire: American History and the Idea of the Cold War (New York: Oxford University Press, 2012), 11 (quoted); Gilbert M. Joseph, “What We Now Know and Should Know: Bringing Latin America More Meaningfully into Cold War Studies,” in In From the Cold: Latin America’s New Encounter with the Cold War, ed. Gilbert M. Joseph and Daniela Spenser (Durham: Duke University Press, 2008); Westad, The Global Cold War.

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turning points or artificially discrete periods as seen primarily from the perspective of the

West.

Consciously or unconsciously, policymakers and policy analysts often

“reflexively” reach for the lessons of history in decision-making, seeking out narratives of the past to provide insight into the present, in search of “a knowledge base or other heuristic to help bring some intelligibility to the world or to a particular policy issue.”

Two particularly common uses of history are “analogical prediction” and “error avoidance,” or learning lessons from the past—natural inclinations, but ones that are often employed uncritically.67 As historians are well aware, “history never enables perfect prediction;” but at the same time, it does offer “one of the few sources of prescience we have.” And, as Brands and Inboden put it, history can paradoxically assist policy analyses

“by reminding us just how hopeless prediction often seems. There are plenty of continuities between past and future—and plenty of discontinuities, as well.”68

Take, for example, the use of history to locate potentially predictive analogies and lessons learned in a December 2001 op-ed by Catherine Dalpino of the Brookings

Institution. In the months after September 11, the potential of “Muslim extremist groups” with ties to al-Qaeda gaining a foothold in Southeast Asia, she reasoned, “make

Southeast Asia a proxy battleground in the global war against terrorism, as it was in the anti-communist struggle of the Cold War.” What might that “Cold War experience tell us” about confronting this new threat? One lesson she identifies is that “the profound

67 Inboden, “Statecraft, Decision-Making, and the Varieties of Historical Experience,” 294–95; 298–99.

68 Brands and Inboden, “Wisdom without Tears,” 10.

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diversity of the region—historical, political, ethnic and religious—offers fire walls that guard against widespread contagion. In the Cold War, the sweep of communism envisioned by the domino theory stopped abruptly at the Indochina border.”69 From the perspective of the United States, the latter statement is not untrue; the establishment of communist-led governments was contained to the mainland. To imply, however, that communism halted “at the Indochina border” as a result of the region’s internal diversity downplays the role intra-state violence—such as the Indonesian Army-led, and U.S.- supported, purge of the PKI and suspected leftist sympathizers paved the way for General

Suharto to seize power—and ignores the role of external intervention by the United

States and its allies throughout the 1950s and 1960s, via both overt and covert means.

In applying this lesson to today, Dalpino contends that “[i]n the post-Sept. 11 world, this diversity augurs well for moderation,” for “[e]ven the region’s Muslim- majority countries, notably Indonesia and Malaysia, must balance the concerns of their

Islamic populations with those of other significant religious and cultural groups. As a result, there is little enthusiasm for theocratic government and, thankfully, no possibility of state-sponsored terrorism.”70 Again, the notion that countries work to address the domestic concerns of diverse populations is not false; but Daplino’s assessment could be taken to imply that it is the “other significant religious and cultural groups” who oppose

“theocratic government,” and not the Islamic population, which is treated as a single unit.

Of course, Islam as practiced in post-Suharto Indonesia is a plural faith tradition,

69 Dalpino, “The War on Terror in Southeast Asia.”

70 Dalpino.

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including many Muslims who have cultivated what Hefner calls “civil Islam,” a “middle path between liberalism’s privatization and conservative Islam’s bully state.”71

Finally, Dalpino’s implied link between support for theocratic government and state-sponsored terrorism lacks historical sensibility and relies on ideas about the secular state’s monopoly on legitimate violence. Indonesia witnessed decades of state-sponsored violence under Suharto—much of which was aided and abetted by U.S. military aid— both during and after the Cold War, affecting the lives of Muslims and non-Muslims alike. And, Bradley Simpson gestures to the emergence of a more radical, sometimes militant political Islam in Indonesia after the fall of Suharto as one of the consequences of the authoritarian development and military-led modernization pursued by the New

Order regime. Confronted with a reduced role in public life for much of the Suharto era, some Muslims began to imagine alternative ways to influence Indonesia’s future.72

This historical context is also absent in, for example, the September 2005 testimony of Eric G. John, Deputy Assistant Secretary of East Asian and Pacific Affairs, before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee’s Subcommittee on East Asian and

Pacific Affairs. In his remarks, John reminded U.S. senators that Indonesia was now third largest democracy in the world; that its shipping lanes carried as much as one third of global sea trade; and that half of the world’s oil passed through its territory in the straits of Malacca. But “perhaps most importantly,” he continued, “Indonesia is a key player in

71 Hefner, Civil Islam, 218.

72 Simpson, Economists with Guns, 4, 12, 255.

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the dominant ideological struggle of our time: the competition between democratic modernization and extremist Islam.”73

In the post-9/11 era, Indonesian Muslims have been seen not only as critical to maintaining their own country’s political stability, but as exemplars to the rest of the

Islamic world, and Deputy Assistant Secretary John’s remarks were indicative of the shift toward viewing Muslim majority countries through the lens of the global war on terror:

“As the world’s largest Muslim-majority nation,” he said, “Indonesia is buffeted by the same radical strains of Islamic thought and hate-preaching firebrands that afflict much of the Islamic world.”74 But he also invoked long-standing ideas about Islam in

Indonesian—its distinctiveness, its exemplary tolerance, and its ability to mesh with modernity and democracy—the salience of which had come to the fore in the post-

September 11th political climate:

Indonesia stands as a democratic example to the Islamic world. Islam in Indonesia has always been and remains predominantly tolerant and open to combining Islamic beliefs with modernization and free speech. Indonesia has maintained its pluralistic constitution and proven that Islam and democracy are compatible and complementary. The ability of such a diverse nation to pursue a democratic, just agenda respectful of other faiths serves as a powerful reminder of what a successful, tolerant society can look like.75

As previously discussed, the terms used to describe Indonesia and its Muslim population are not simply matters of linguistic preference; they speak to a particular

73 Eric G. John, “Indonesia: Positive Trends and the Implications for U.S. Strategic Interests (Deputy Assistant Secretary of East Asian and Pacific Affairs’ Statement before the Senate Foreign Relations Committee, Subcommittee on East Asian and Pacific Affairs),” September 15, 2005, https://2001-2009.state.gov/p/eap/rls/rm/2005/53275.htm.

74 John.

75 John.

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history of describing “Indonesian Islam.” On the one hand, the ways that scholars, public officials, journalists, and other commentators have historically discussed Indonesia has, at times, perpetuated distorted categories of Muslims within Indonesia. On the other, it has sometimes portrayed Indonesian Islam as different from a more authentic Islam practiced outside of Indonesia, most often associated with the Middle East.76 Islam in

Indonesia continues to be described as “moderate” and “tolerant,” and questions about the future of Islam in Indonesian are often posed as threats or challenges to these characteristics. Headlines about Indonesia’s “reputation as a model of moderate Islam,” its “pious democracy,” and the threat posed by rising “hard-line Islamist groups” are common.77

Historical Sensibility and Peacebuilding

With some 35 million members, Nahdlatul Ulama today is the largest Islamic organization in Indonesia, and it is among the organizations frequently described, by its

76 van Dijk, “Comparing Different Streams of Islam: Wrestling with Words and Definitions,” 15– 16, 19–20.

77 For just a few examples, see: Mike Thomson, “Is Indonesia Winning Its Fight against Islamic Extremism?,” BBC News, December 19, 2015, sec. Magazine, http://www.bbc.com/news/magazine- 35055487; John Chalmers and Eveline Danubrata, “Exclusive: Indonesia’s Reputation as a Model of Moderate Islam Intact - President,” Reuters, July 3, 2017, https://www.reuters.com/article/us-indonesia- president-islam-exclusive/indonesias-reputation-as-a-model-of-moderate-islam-intact-president- idUSKBN19O15C; Joe Cochrane, “Indonesians Seek to Export a Modernized Vision of Islam,” New York Times, May 1, 2017, sec. Asia Pacific, https://www.nytimes.com/2017/05/01/world/asia/indonesia- islam.html; Jon Emont, “Rise of Hard-Line Islamist Groups Alarms Moderate Indonesian Muslims,” Washington Post, May 7, 2017, sec. Asia & Pacific, https://www.washingtonpost.com/world/asia_pacific/rise-of-hard-line-islamist-groups-alarms-moderate- indonesian-muslims/2017/05/05/0175c7e6-2f77-11e7-a335-fa0ae1940305_story.html; Jeremy Menchik, “Is Indonesia’s ‘pious Democracy’ Safe from Islamic Extremism?,” The Conversation, July 4, 2017, http://theconversation.com/is-indonesias-pious-democracy-safe-from-islamic-extremism-79239; Krithika Varagur, “Indonesia’s Moderate Islam Is Slowly Crumbling,” Foreign Policy (blog), February 14, 2017, https://foreignpolicy.com/2017/02/14/indonesias-moderate-islam-is-slowly-crumbling/.

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own spokespeople and outside observers, as representative of moderate Islam.78

Prominent Indonesians have been reluctant, however, to reckon publicly with the 1965 killings, especially the role of the NU. When in 2000 President Abdurrahman Wahid, who led the NU for much of the 1980s and 1990s, publicly apologized for the group’s role in the killings, the backlash from NU leaders was swift, and the topic soon faded from discussion amidst the myriad political and economic challenges facing the country in the immediate post-Suharto era. In the decades since the state-sponsored purges, the

NU has portrayed the “achievements” of Ansor as successful “in ‘safeguarding’ the

Muslim community from the communist threat”—though with images of paramilitary training and their participation anti-communist rallies, and not, necessarily, a celebration of their direct role in the killings. At the same time, some NU-affiliated NGOs have conducted small-scale reconciliation programs behind the scenes between NU members and former communists, often over the objection of senior NU officials.79 Current

President Joko Widodo, who promised an official investigation of the killings during his

2014 campaign, has stepped back from the issue over the past year, though the government did allow a symposium to proceed in Jakarta in 2016.80

78 Anwar, “The Interplay Between U.S. Foreign Policy and Political Islam in Post-Soeharto Indonesia,” 17.

79 Fealy and McGregor, “Nahdlatul Ulama and the Killings of 1965-66,” 37–38.

80 Joe Cochrane, “Indonesia Takes a Step Back From Reckoning With a Past Atrocity,” New York Times, September 29, 2017, sec. Asia Pacific, https://www.nytimes.com/2017/09/29/world/asia/indonesia- communist-purge.html; Joe Cochrane, “After Long Silence, Indonesia Allows Talk of Anti-Communist Atrocities,” New York Times, April 17, 2016, sec. Asia Pacific, https://www.nytimes.com/2016/04/18/world/asia/after-long-silence-indonesia-allows-talk-of-anti- communist-atrocities.html.

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“Historians are not alone,” Appleby writes, “in reconstructing the past. Richly imagined and ingeniously documented versions of the past shape and sustain religious, social, and political movements.”81 Indeed, “real” history cannot be easily disentangled from its representation; in fact, they are often mutually constitutive. In addition, the study of history is often richest, historian Baskaria Wardaya reminds us, when it examines

“narratives conveyed by the authorities, with all their interests, together with those who are outside the interests of that power and those who have become victims of those interests.”82 Historians are, in short, well-practiced at holding multiple, sometimes contradictory, ideas together, in relationship, at once—an approach that can converge with peacebuilding theory and practice.

The persistence of dualistic, either-or categories in the conceptualization of conflict is easily recognizable—us versus them, good versus evil—and extends to the ways in which people or communities in conflict often operate within a shared sense of what comprises “our history” versus “theirs.” As John Paul Lederach puts it: “History and the truth of history is most fully comprehended by our view,” while “[t]heir view of history is biased, incomplete, maliciously untruthful, and ideologically driven.”

Paradoxical curiosity—one of four core essences of peacebuilding Lederach identifies— rather than seeking only to determine whose or what version of history is most precise, instead invites reflection on “what may hold together seemingly contradictory social energies in a great whole.” It is mindful of complexity and ambiguity, of “the realness of

81 R. Scott Appleby, “History in the Fundamentalist Imagination,” The Journal of American History 89, no. 2 (2002): 498.

82 Wardaya, “Foreword: Hearing Silenced Voices,” xxv.

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appearance” as well as “how perceptions and meanings have emerged,” and is enlivened by the potential to imagine alternatives to binary thinking.83

Historians would, I think, recognize much of their craft in Lederach’s approach to cultivating paradoxical curiosity, with its openness to contradictions, complexity, and the unexpected; its resistance to ready-made categories and binary thinking; and its recognition of the authenticity of perceptions, meaning-making, and the ways in which history functions in the minds of individuals and groups. When individuals or groups appeal to or deploy ideas from history, for example, these ideas do not function merely— or, at least, not only—as tools of mobilization or indoctrination. Historical narratives are enmeshed in self and group identities, as well as in how individuals and groups represent themselves to external audiences; that is, they tell us something about how people understand themselves, and their location in time and space, in relationship to others—a historical sensibility that, again, converges with peacebuilding theory and practice, particularly its emphasis on “the centrality of relationships,” another of Lederach’s core essences of peacebuilding.84

Baskaria Wardaya, for example, along with colleagues from Indonesia and elsewhere, has participated in efforts to illuminate, through an oral history project, how survivors, witnesses, and perpetrators remember and interpret the 1965-66 episodes of mass violence in Indonesia. “Memory,” Wardaya writes, “is in principle relational,

83 John Paul Lederach, The Moral Imagination: The Art and Soul of Building Peace (New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 34–36.

84 Lederach, 34–35.

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meaning it always involves others—or at least, events we experience with others.”85

Lederach similarly refers to “the context of memory” or “remembered history,” which is situated within a narrative, the “formative story of who we are as a people and a place.”86

Wardaya continues that their “hope is that the memories which form the basis of the narratives in this book can help to create ‘relational space’ comprised not only of the relation between the reader and the informants, but also between one group and another and one generation and another, such as between the generation of those who lived through the 1960s and those who were born well after this time.”87 Relational space, too, is a peacebuilding concept: transcending cycles of violence involves the “capacity to envision,” Lederach writes, “that which already exists, a wider set of interdependent relationships,” as well as one’s own position in this “web of relationships.”88 Identity, then, is understood as “deeply rooted in a person’s or group’s sense of how that person or group is in relationship with others and what effect that relationship has on its participants’ sense of self and group.”89

If identity is relational, then the experience of violence at the hands of others changes how a group understands itself in relationship to that other. To take an example:

85 Wardaya, “Foreword: Hearing Silenced Voices,” xxviii.

86 Lederach, The Moral Imagination: The Art and Soul of Building Peace, 142–43.

87 Wardaya, “Foreword: Hearing Silenced Voices,” xxviii.

88 Lederach, The Moral Imagination: The Art and Soul of Building Peace, 34–35. Lederach uses the image of a “web process” to convey the idea that sustaining constructive change requires an approach that intentionally links “not-like-minded and not-like-situated” people; that is open to, and curious enough, to find or create spaces where relationships can intersect; and that creates adaptive and flexible means to respond to changing environments and ongoing issues. Lederach, 84-85.

89 Lederach, The Little Book of Conflict Transformation, 55.

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as Edward Aspinall has shown, the Indonesian military’s use of violence over five decades impacted how Acehnese rebels conceptualized their cause and their group identity. While some used a language of Acehnese ethnicity in the 1950s during the

Darul Islam rebellion, a clear ethno-nationalist agenda and perception of ethnic violence did not cohere in the short term. In the longer term, however, violence reinforced a sense of distinct identity—defined in opposition to Indonesia in general, and against Java in particular.90 When Hasan di Tiro formed the Free Aceh Movement (GAM, Gerakan Aceh

Merdeka) in 1976, he began to cultivate a distinct Acehnese identity. In The Price of

Freedom, Hasan di Tiro’s unfinished diary, he wrote, “‘Any Achenhese who has come to believe that he is not Achehnese anymore but ‘indonesian’…is suffering from acute identity crisis.’” He further wrote that “‘[i]t was very important to know who were ‘us’ and who were ‘them’—the enemy: the Javanese/‘indonesian’ invaders.’”91 When state violence against GAM intensified in the 1990s, the experience of the 1950s provided a

“historical familiarity” and, with distance from decolonization, the Acehnese were free to draw upon “a ready-made alternative nationalist ideology” to interpret the violence.92

Appleby, writing about “history in the fundamentalist imagination,” cautions that while it may be tempting to dismiss both the content and manner of fundamentalists’ construction of historical narratives, we would be wise not to do so. The point is well

90 Edward Aspinall, “Violence and Identity Formation in Aceh Under Indonesian Rule,” in Verandah of Violence: The Background to the Aceh Problem, ed. Anthony Reid (University of Washington Press, 2006), 151–52.

91 Hasan di Tiro, quoted in Aspinall, Islam and Nation, 73.

92 Aspinall, “Violence and Identity Formation in Aceh Under Indonesian Rule,” 171, 152.

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taken in the case of the Free Aceh Movement, too, as well as other social and political movements, religious or otherwise. Moreover, to quote at length:

the moral and political critiques that emerge from a historiography and historical method fundamentally different from that constructed and practiced by professional historians are hardly incoherent or even unpersuasive. Rather, they shed a revealing light on what many historians consider ‘the real stuff of history,’ namely, the experience of suffering, injustice, and alienation, mixed with and tempered by hope for deliverance, that characterizes the human condition.93

Finally, historians and peacebuilders also share a commitment to what Lederach calls “an expansive, not a narrow, view of time,” with reference to sociologist and peace and conflict studies luminary Elise Boulding’s concept of a 200-year present.94

“Expanding our time perspective,” Boulding writes, “is a useful way of understanding all kinds of events, not just quarrels,” whether personal or international in scope. She urges us to approach thinking about time as a 200-year present, stretching 100 years from today into the past, and 100 years from today into the future.95 Orientation to the past is, of course, familiar to historians; historians are, not unexpectedly, less inclined to project into the future. Yet they are keenly aware, as Wardaya writes, that the influence of historical narratives “continues even into times yet to come.”96 In his own work, Lederach has witnessed how different communities across the globe conceptualize time, and developed, with colleagues, an approach to peacebuilding that takes a “long view of identity and group formation,” one that accounts for the influence of understandings of

93 Appleby, “History in the Fundamentalist Imagination,” 511.

94 Lederach, The Moral Imagination: The Art and Soul of Building Peace, 22.

95 Elise Boulding, Building a Global Civic Culture: Education for an Interdependent World, Syracuse Studies on Peace and Conflict Resolution (Syracuse, NY: Syracuse University Press, 1990), 3–4.

96 Wardaya, “Foreword: Hearing Silenced Voices,” xxiii.

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the past and visions of the future. Different, but integrated, “past-oriented lenses” together comprise a “long view of a living history;” Lederach envisions these lenses as

“nested circles,” and they include recent events, lived history, remembered history, and the “deepest history,” narrative, all of which flow into the future.97 Or, in the words of

Indonesian author P. Swantoro: “the past is always actual.”98

97 Lederach, The Moral Imagination: The Art and Soul of Building Peace, 140–43.

98 P. Swantoro, Masa Lalu Selalu Aktual (Jakarta: Penerbit Buku Kompas, 2007), quoted in Wardaya, “Foreword: Hearing Silenced Voices,” xxiii, footnote 6.

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ARCHIVAL SOURCES

DDEPL Dwight D. Eisenhower Presidential Library, Abilene, Kansas

FRUS Foreign Relations of the United States series

HIA Hoover Institution Archives, Stanford University, Stanford, California

JFKPL John F. Kennedy Presidential Library, Boston, Massachusetts

LBJPL Lyndon B. Johnson Presidential Library, Austin, Texas

NACP United States National Archives at College Park, College Park, Maryland

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