Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia - 2008

Party Politics and Democratization in
Indonesia
Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia: Golkar in the post-Suharto era

provides the first in-depth analysis of contemporary Indonesian party politics
and the first systematic explanation why Golkar is still the strongest party in
Indonesia.
Applying a multidimensional conceptual framework of party institutionaliza-
tion theory, the book examines Golkar’s organizational infrastructure, its deci-
sional autonomy and programmatic platform as well as the party’s relations to
the mass media. Strengths and weaknesses in the individual dimensions of insti-
tutionalization are then contrasted with the corresponding levels of institutional-
ization reached by Indonesia’s other major parties. Tomsa argues that Golkar
remains Indonesia’s strongest party because it is better institutionalized than its
electoral competitors. However, while highlighting the former regime party’s
strengths in key aspects of party institutionalization, he shows that Golkar also
has some considerable institutional weaknesses which in 2004 prevented the
party from achieving an even better result in the general election.
As an empirical study on Golkar, and Indonesia’s other major political
parties, this book will be of huge interest to students and scholars of Southeast
Asian politics, political parties and elections and democratization.
Dirk Tomsa is an associate lecturer at the University of Tasmania, Australia. He

holds a joint appointment in the School of Asian Languages and Studies and the
School of Government.
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21 Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia

Golkar in the post-Suharto era
Dirk Tomsa
Party Politics and
Democratization in
Indonesia
Golkar in the post-Suharto era
Dirk Tomsa
First published 2008
by Routledge
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© 2008 Dirk Tomsa
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Contents
List of illustrations x
Preface xii
Acknowledgements xiv
Abbreviations and glossary xvi
1 Introduction: the remarkable resilience of Golkar 1

Introduction 1
The main argument 3
Methodology 4
Structure 6
2 Theoretical reflections: protracted transitions, uneven party

institutionalization and the special role of former hegemonic
parties 8
Introduction 8
The transition paradigm revisited 9
The role of parties and the importance of party
institutionalization 16
Conclusion 33
3 Systemness: deconstructing the myth of Golkar’s party

machinery 35
Introduction 35
Golkar’s genetic model and organizational developments during
the New Order: a brief historical overview 36
From Sabang to Merauke: assessing the territorial reach of
Golkar’s apparatus 40
The party and its leader: factionalism, assertive regional cadres
and the rise and fall of Akbar Tandjung 45
viii Contents
Party funding: challenges to financial sustainability 62
Conclusion 68
4 Decisional autonomy: the main problems lurk inside the

party 71
Introduction 71
Golkar and the military: separated at last 72
Guided by greed: how money politics affects Golkar’s decisional
autonomy 83
Conclusion 93
5 Value infusion: in search of Golkar’s roots 95

Introduction 95
The religious dimension: bridging traditional aliran structures 97
The regional dimension: is Golkar the voice of the Outer
Islands? 103
The socio-economic dimension: sentimental nostalgia among the
poor and Indonesia’s short-lived SARS syndrome 109
What exactly makes Golkar tick? – The rise of ‘ersatz’ values 114
Conclusion 120
6 Reification: mastering the use of symbols and the pitfalls
of political communication 122
Introduction 122
What’s in a name? Banyan trees, yellow flags and the politics of
symbolism 123
The politics of mass media representation 127
Looking beyond Jakarta: the impact of local media on party
politics 136
Conclusion 149
7 Gauging uneven party institutionalization: how strong are
the others? 151
Introduction 151
Systemness 152
Decisional autonomy 161
Value infusion 166
Reification 172
Conclusion 178
Contents ix
8 Conclusion and outlook: uneven party institutionalization and
the future of democracy in Indonesia 180
Appendix I: composition of Golkar’s central board 1998–2004 193
Appendix II: composition of Golkar’s central board 2004–9 195
Appendix III: Golkar’s election results in 1999 and 2004, all
provinces 197
Notes 198
Bibliography 231
Interviewees 253
Index 255
Illustrations
Figures
2.1 Dimensions of party institutionalization 19
2.2 Dimensions of party system institutionalization 29
6.1 Distribution of articles featuring political parties, Jakarta Post
(2004) 129
6.2 Results of the 2004 parliamentary elections in South Sulawesi 140
6.3 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004 141
6.4 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004,
by section 142
6.5 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004,
by section 142
6.6 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative news on Golkar 144
6.7 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles on the
front page 144
6.8 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles in the
Parepare section 145
Bone section 145
Palopo section 146
Tables
2.1 Results of the legislative elections 1999 and 2004 14
3.1 The voting structure at Golkar’s presidential convention 51
3.2 Distribution of votes for leadership election at Munas VII, as
approved by the national leadership meeting 59
5.1 Golkar election results 1999 and 2004, selected provinces 104
5.2 Socio-economic profile of Golkar’s supporters and Indonesia’s
population 113
7.1 Numbers of DPR candidates for the 2004 elections 154
7.2 Campaign expenditures of the major parties during the 2004
election 160
Illustrations xi
7.3 Electoral constituencies of major parties 169
7.4 Foundation dates of major parties 173
7.5 Name recognition of parties, 1999–2005 (in per cent) 173
7.6 Frequency of TV appearances of major parties during the 2004
campaign 176
8.1 The institutionalization of Indonesian parties in early 2007 186
8.2 Fragmentation of the Indonesian party system 187
Preface
In April 2004 Indonesia held its second free and fair legislative elections after
the fall of Suharto. With 21.58 per cent of the vote, the former regime party
Golkar topped the voting tally and thus re-emerged as the strongest party in
Indonesia just six years after the end of the authoritarian New Order regime. The
results were described by some observers as the ‘return of Golkar,’ but in actual
fact Golkar had not returned. Put simply, it could not return because it had never
disappeared. Indeed, even though it had only finished second in the 1999 elec-
tions, Golkar has continued to be the strongest force in Indonesian party politics
and looks set to achieve another good result in the 2009 elections.
In the early stages of the post-Suharto era Golkar’s enduring strength seemed
to surprise many observers, while others said ‘I always told you so’. But regard-
less of their convictions, no one actually seemed interested in seriously investi-
gating why and how the former regime party had been able to transform itself
from an artificially created electoral vehicle into a highly competitive political
party. Neither was I. It was Professor Merle Ricklefs, back in 2002, who first
suggested that I should look into this as a potential topic for my planned doctoral
dissertation at the University of Melbourne. Initially reluctant, I soon realized
how little was known about Golkar, and indeed about post-New Order party
politics in general, so I gradually warmed up to the idea and by 2003 I was ready
to go. The decision to work on Golkar earned me a fair share of jeers from some
of my Indonesian friends who had been involved in the 1998 demonstrations
that helped bring the New Order regime to its knees. But after a while I con-
vinced them of the academic value of such a study and that I was not going to be
an adviser for the former regime party.
And so I embarked on a fascinating academic journey which offered me
unprecedented insights into the dynamics of party politics in Indonesia. The
research project was effectively concluded in early 2006, but several revisions
and amendments have been added since the completion of the original disserta-
tion, resulting eventually in the manuscript for this book. Significantly, my
research helped me understand not only why Golkar was able to redefine itself
as a competitive party, but also why it is likely to continue to influence the
course of Indonesia’s democratization process for the foreseeable future. Indeed,
although many indicators point to a decreasing role for political parties in
Preface xiii
Indonesia, predictions of their complete demise appear greatly exaggerated.
Contemporary representative democracy is, in the vast majority of countries,
party democracy, and if Indonesia continues its arguably protracted, but relat-
ively steady progress towards democratic consolidation, it is unlikely to be an
exception.
Golkar, as the best-institutionalized of all Indonesian parties, looks set to
remain an integral part of this maturing Indonesian democracy. The party has in
fact made a number of significant contributions to the country’s democratization
process in the last ten years. At the same time, however, it has also been one of
those forces that have repeatedly slowed down the progression towards demo-
cracy. This book will explain how and why Golkar has been so instrumental in
Indonesia’s political development after the fall of Suharto – in both a positive
and a negative sense. Approaching the topic from the perspective of party insti-
tutionalization theory, it will be argued that compared to the other parties Golkar
possesses some crucial institutional advantages, which have helped the party to
maintain much of its strength in the post-New Order period. In 2004 these insti-
tutional strengths translated directly into votes at the ballot box, catapulting the
party back to the top of the voting tally. Golkar’s ‘victory,’ however, was by no
means as resounding as many observers had predicted. Indeed, the party’s
failure to win the elections by a larger margin indicated that Golkar apparently
had certain weaknesses which have directly conferred disadvantages at the ballot
box. In other words, there are good reasons to argue – and this book will in fact
do so – that Golkar owed its ‘victory’ more to the weakness of the other parties
than to its own prowess.
In about a year from now, Indonesians will go to the polls again. At this
stage, Golkar looks set to achieve yet another good result. Consecutive opinion
polls throughout 2007 have confirmed that impression. However, it seems as if
little has changed with regards to the reasons for Golkar’s enduring strength.
Since 2004 the party has done fairly little to sharpen its profile and attract new
supporters. But as most of the other parties have done even less, there may be no
need to worry. And yet, as the rising popularity of the Democrats Party (Partai
Demokrat) in the wake of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s performance in the
presidential palace shows, it may not be the best strategy for Golkar to simply
rely on the expectation that the others will not improve.
This book is not intended to give advice to the Golkar leadership on how to
run the party or how to prepare for elections. Rather, its purpose is to provide a
scholarly explanation as to why Golkar has been able to maintain much of its
strength after the fall of Suharto. At the same time, however, the book will also
elucidate why Golkar has only been able to shape, not to dictate, the course of
Indonesia’s democratization process. In doing so, it will hopefully enhance our
understanding of party politics in Indonesia and the overall implications of party
institutionalization for processes of democratization.
Launceston, January 2008

Acknowledgements
This book would not have been possible without the assistance and encourage-
ment of a great number of people. Since it is based on my doctoral dissertation
at the University of Melbourne, I would first like to thank my supervisor Profes-
sor Merle Ricklefs for his continuing support during my time as a student in
Melbourne. From the beginning, Professor Ricklefs was an inspirational super-
visor and I thoroughly enjoyed our meetings and discussions about political
developments in Indonesia. His decision to leave Melbourne in 2004 was a great
loss to me and my fellow postgraduate students, but even from distant Singapore
he still provided academic guidance and invaluable advice. Apart from Professor
Ricklefs, I am also indebted to my second supervisor, Arief Budiman, and to
Michael Leigh who kindly agreed to replace Merle Ricklefs as my supervisor
after the latter’s departure to Singapore.
Throughout the preparation of this manuscript, a number of scholars, political
observers and journalists from all over the world have assisted me with their
invaluable comments. I would like to express particular gratitude to those who
read either the PhD thesis or the book manuscript (either as a whole or selected
parts of it), including Harold Crouch, R. William (Bill) Liddle, Marcus Miet-
zner, Andreas Ufen, Edward Aspinall, Ariel Heryanto, Dan Slater, Marco Bünte
and the reviewer at Routledge. Furthermore, I have enjoyed helpful advice, sug-
gestions and recommendations from Greg Fealy, Vedi Hadiz, Elizabeth Morrell,
Damien Kingsbury, Patrick Ziegenhain, Christian Chua, Rainer Adam, David
Bourchier and John McBeth. To all of them I am deeply indebted.
During my fieldwork in Indonesia, I was fortunate to be surrounded by a
large network of incredibly helpful people. I would like to thank the Centre for
Strategic and International Studies (CSIS) in Jakarta for providing me with
office space and access to their comprehensive library facilities. Members of the
academic staff at CSIS including Hadi Soesastro, J. Kristiadi, Rizal Sukma,
Indra Piliang, Philips Vermonte and Begi Hersutanto all helped to establish
important contacts with Jakarta’s political elite. Additionally, I would also like
to thank Saiful Mujani, Mohammad Qodari, Andi Makmur Makka, Salim Said,
Jun Honna and Bima Arya Sugiarto. In Makassar, Dias Pradadimara, Muliadi
Mau and Yusran Darmawan provided excellent insights into the dynamics of
local politics in South Sulawesi.
Acknowledgements xv
A research monograph on a political party would of course not be possible
without access to members of the party concerned. Throughout my various stays
in Indonesia, I was positively surprised by the openness of many Golkar politi-
cians, and their readiness to discuss the latest political developments. Among
those who have been of particular assistance were Theo Sambuaga, Andi Matta-
latta, Fahmi Idris, Slamet Effendy Yusuf and Nurul Arifin. In addition, I would
also like to thank Hulfa, Lina, Dave, Arfandy and Syafiuddin for their extra-
ordinary help. And of course special thanks go out to Professor Dr B. J. Habibie
who effectively set the ball rolling on a sunny afternoon in mid-2003.
At the Asia Institute in Melbourne, Linda Poskitt, Liza Tsang and Nadine
Blair have been fantastic in helping me through the administrative jungle of the
university bureaucracy. Other postgraduate students at the institute, including
Amelia Fauzia, Arskal Salim, Ludiro Madu, Masdar Hilmy and Suaidi Asyari
have helped to maintain an enjoyable and hospitable atmosphere. Financially, I
am indebted to the University of Melbourne for providing me with a scholarship
that not only covered the tuition fee for my entire course, but also living
allowances and occasional travel expenses. Since commencing work at the Uni-
versity of Tasmania, my colleagues in the School of Asian Languages and
Studies and the School of Government have been tremendously supportive. At
Routledge, Stephanie Rogers and Leanne Hinves have shown great understand-
ing in response to my various questions and inquiries during the preparation of
the final manuscript.
Of course I would also like to dedicate some words of gratitude to my
parents, Angelika and Karl-Friedrich Tomsa, and my grandparents, especially
my grandmother Hanna Kohnen. Without their unconditional support, this book
– in fact, the whole idea of doing postgraduate studies and becoming an acade-
mic in Australia – would never have been possible. Thanks for supporting my
decision to move overseas, and for coping with the pitfalls of foreign languages
and modern technology. And finally, I would like to thank my wife Wulan who
provided much-needed support and encouragement throughout the preparation
of the book.
Some sections of this book have been published elsewhere previously. Parts
of Chapter 3 appeared as ‘The Defeat of Centralized Paternalism: Factionalism,
Assertive Regional Cadres, and the Long Fall of Golkar Chairman Akbar Tand-
jung,’ Indonesia, No. 81 (April 2006), pp. 1–22. Chapter 3 also uses material
from ‘Bloodied but Unbowed,’ Inside Indonesia, No. 83 (July–September
2005), pp. 17–18 and from ‘Uneven Party Institutionalization, Protracted Trans-
ition and the Remarkable Resilience of Golkar,’ in Marco Bünte and Andreas
Ufen (eds), Democratization in Post-Suharto Indonesia, forthcoming (the latter
also includes some material from Chapter 2). Finally, part of Chapter 6 was,
with some minor amendments, published as ‘Party Politics and the Media: Cre-
ating a New Dual Identity for Golkar,’ Contemporary Southeast Asia, Vol. 29,
No. 1 (April 2007), pp. 77–96.
Abbreviations and glossary
abangan Nominal Muslims who do not strictly follow the five pillars of
Islam
ABRI Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (Armed Forces of
the Republic of Indonesia), now the TNI
Al-Hidayah Golkar-affiliated Islamic organization
aliran Ideological streams, term used to differentiate socio-cultural
cleavage structures in Indonesia
AMPG Angkatan Muda Partai Golkar (Golkar Party Youth Brigade),
one of Golkar’s youth organizations
AMPI Angkatan Muda Pembaharuan Indonesia (Indonesian
Renewal Youth Brigade), another of Golkar’s youth organi-
zations
ANC African National Congress
BIN Badan Intelijen Nasional (State Intelligence Agency)
BJP Bharatiya Janata Party, Indian Hindu-Nationalist party
bupati District chief, head of a kabupaten (regency or district)
Bulog Indonesian State Logistic Agency
dangdut Traditional Indonesian music, often used at election campaign
events
decisional Structural/external dimension of party institutionalization
autonomy
DPD Dewan Perwakilan Daerah (Regional Representatives
Council), Indonesia’s upper house
DPD Dewan Pimpinan Daerah (Regional Leadership Board)
DPP Dewan Pimpinan Pusat (Central Leadership Board)
DPR Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (People’s Representatives
Council), Indonesia’s lower house
DPRD Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah (Regional People’s Repre-
sentatives Council), Indonesia’s regional parliaments
FKPPI Forum Komunikasi Putra-Putri Indonesia (Communication
Forum of the Sons and Daughters of Indonesian Veterans),
lobby organization closely affiliated to the military
GAM Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (Acehnese Independence Movement)
Abbreviations and glossary xvii
genetic model The process of a party’s formation and its subsequent organi-
zational consolidation
gizi literally, ‘nutrition’; in the context of Indonesian politics
usually refers to money and other material contributions given
as bribery
Hasta Karya Collective term for Golkar’s three founding organizations
Soksi, Kosgoro 1957, and MKGR, as well as five autonomous
mass organizations that had been founded by Golkar during
the New Order (AMPI, HWK, MDI, Al-Hidayah and Satkar
Ulama)
HMI Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam (Islamic Student Association), a
modernist Islamic student group
HWK Himpunan Wanita Karya (Workers Women’s Association),
Golkar-affiliated women’s organization
ICG International Crisis Group
ICMI Ikatan Cendekiawan Muslim se-Indonesia (Association of
Indonesian Muslim Intellectuals)
ICW Indonesia Corruption Watch
IFES International Foundation for Election Systems
Inpres Presidential instruction
IPKI Ikatan Pendukung Kemerdekaan Indonesia (League of Sup-
porters of Indonesian Independence)
Iramasuka Caucus group from Eastern Indonesia
faction
IRI International Republican Institute
kabupaten Regency or district
KADIN Indonesian Chamber of Commerce and Industry
KAMI Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Indonesia, student organization
Keppres Presidential decision
kiai Islamic religious leader
KKN korupsi, kolusi, nepotisme (corruption, collusion and nepo-
tism)
KMT Kuomintang (Nationalist Party of Taiwan)
KNPI Komite Nasional Pemuda Indonesia (Indonesian National
Youth Committee)
Koalisi Nationhood Coalition
Kebangsaan
Korpri Korps Pegawai Republik Indonesia (Civil Servants Corps of
the Republic of Indonesia)
Kosgoro Kesatuan Organisasi Serba Guna Gotong Royong, one of
Golkar’s founding organizations
KPPG Kesatuan Perempuan Partai Golkar (Golkar Party Women’s
Association)
KPPSI Komite Persiapan Penegakan Syariat Islam (Preparatory
Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law)
xviii Abbreviations and glossary
KPU Komisi Pemilihan Umum (General Election Commission)
LSIM Lembaga Studi Informasi dan Media Massa
Masyumi Influential modernist Muslim party in the 1950s
MDI Majelis Da’wah Islamiyah (Islamic Propagation Council);
Golkar-affiliated Islamic organization
MKGR Musyawarah Kekeluargaan Gotong Royong, one of Golkar’s
founding organizations
MPR Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat (People’s Consultative
Assembly)
Muhammadiyah Largest modernist Muslim organization
MUI Majelis Ulama Indonesia (Indonesian Ulama Council)
Munas Musyawarah Nasional (national party congress)
Munaslub Musyawarah Nasional Luar Biasa (extraordinary party con-
gress)
Muspida Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah (Regional Leaders Consultat-
ive Forum)
musyawarah Consultation and consensus (pattern of decision-making
and mufakat process in parliament)
NDI National Democratic Institute
New Order The Suharto era (1966–98)
NU Nahdlatul Ulama (revival of the religious scholars), largest
traditionalist Muslim organization
NGO Non-governmental organization
PAN Partai Amanat Nasional (National Mandate Party)
pancasila Five pillars, the five guiding principles of the Indonesian state
as laid out in the preamble of the constitution
panja panitia kerja (Working committee)
pansus panitia khusus (Special committee)
PBB Partai Bulan Bintang (Crescent Star and Moon Party)
PBR Partai Bintang Reformasi (Reform Star Party)
PD Partai Demokrat (Democrats Party)
PDI Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (Indonesian Democratic Party)
PDI-P Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan (Indonesian Demo-
cratic Party of Struggle)
pembangunan Development (New Order mantra which implied that political
freedoms can be sacrificed for the sake of economic development)
penekaran The process of administrative restructuring
pengajian Islamic Koran reading group
pesantren Traditional Islamic boarding school
pilkada pemilihan kepala daerah (direct elections of governors,
mayors and district heads)
PJ Partido Justicialista, the Peronist Party of Argentina
PKB Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (National Awakening Party)
PKI Partai Komunis Indonesia (Indonesian Communist Part, out-
lawed since 1965)
Abbreviations and glossary xix
PKP Partai Keadilan dan Persatuan (Justice and Unity Party)
PKPB Partai Karya Peduli Bangsa (Concern for the Nation Func-
tional Party)
PKS Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (Prosperous Justice Party)
PNI Partai Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Party)
PPDK Partai Persatuan Demokrasi Kebangsaan (United Democratic
Nationhood Party)
PPP Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (United Development Party)
preman thugs
PRI Partido Revolucionario Institucional (Institutional Revolu-
tionary Party)
pribumi Indigenous Indonesian; term used to distinguish between
Chinese Indonesians and indigenous Indonesians
priyayi Old Javanese aristocracy
putra daerah Son of the region (term used to describe politicians originating
from a specific region, and the ethnic sentiment felt towards
them by people from that region)
rapat pleno Plenary meeting of the central board
rapat pengurus Meeting of the executive board
harian
Rapim Rapat Pimpinan (leadership meeting)
reformasi Reform (term associated with the post-Suharto era)
reification Attitudinal/external dimension of party institutionalization
RSS Rashtriya Sevak Sangh (radical Indian Hindu organization)
santri Pious Muslims
SARS Sindrom Amat Rindu Suharto (acronym used to describe the
widespread New Order nostalgia in 2003–4, alluding to the
fatal epidemic disease that hit large parts of Asia in 2002–3)
Satkar Ulama Golkar-affiliated Islamic organization
Sekber Golkar Joint Secretariat of Functional Groups, predecessor of Golkar
Soksi Serikat Organisasi Karyawan Sosialis Indonesia, one of
Golkar’s founding organizations
systemness Structural/internal dimension of party institutionalization
TNI Tentara Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Army), title
of the Indonesian armed forces after 1998
tokoh Influential or charismatic leader, often though not always in a
local context
ulama Islamic religious scholar
UNDP United Nations Development Program
value infusion Attitudinal/internal dimension of party institutionalization
yayasan Charity foundation
Yayasan Dana Eternal Work Fund Foundation or Yayasan Dakab
Karya Abadi
1 Introduction
The remarkable resilience of Golkar
Writing about political parties in Indonesia makes one suddenly aware of how
little research has been done on the subject.
(Lev 1967: 52)
Introduction
When the late Daniel Lev lamented the lack of research on political parties back
in 1967, Indonesia was still a young republic with a short, yet already turbulent
post-colonial history. In the 22 years since the declaration of independence the
country had experienced a revolutionary war (1945–9), a brief spell of
parliamentary democracy (1950–9) and an even shorter period of so-called
‘Guided Democracy’ (1959–65). By the time Lev’s article went to print, Indone-
sia’s second president Suharto was just about to establish what would later
become known as the New Order (Orde Baru).
As it turned out, the New Order proved much more durable than the previous
political systems. Designed as a military-backed bureaucratic-authoritarian
regime with strong corporatist elements,1 it lasted for more than 30 years
(1966–98). Throughout these years political parties found themselves relegated
to passive bystanders as the Suharto regime systematically depoliticized and de-
ideologized all political processes. In view of this situation it was hardly
surprising that most academics who conducted research on Indonesian politics
during this period remained largely indifferent towards political parties. Put
simply, there was nothing to do research on. In fact, parties were so discredited
during the New Order that the Suharto regime even refused to define its own de
facto regime party as a party. Instead, the organization that was used by the
regime as its electoral vehicle was constructed as an amalgamation of so-called
‘Functional Groups’ (Golongan Karya or Golkar), and it was supposed to
remain aloof from the allegedly divisive squabbling of political parties. Despite
the rhetoric, however, Golkar was essentially a political party, at least from 1971
onwards when it participated in its first general election.2
Based on conceptualizations by Sartori (1976: 63) and Puhle (2002: 81),
political parties can simply be defined as political organizations with an official
2 Introduction
label that present candidates for elections (competitive or non-competitive), with
the goal of placing these candidates for public office. According to this defini-
tion, Golkar was indeed a political party and it is arguably irrelevant whether the
regime actually called it a party or not. Of course, Golkar did not fulfil most of
the ideal-type functions which theorists routinely attribute to political parties,
such as the representation, integration and aggregation of societal interests or the
crafting and implementation of policy agendas.3 But it did fulfil most of the
functions which Randall (1988) had once described as key functions of political
parties in the so-called ‘Third World’: it was used to enhance the regime’s
domestic and international legitimacy, to recruit political personnel and to
provide the ruling elite with an institutional structure down to the lowest admin-
istrative level.
Thus, Golkar was primarily an instrument of the regime. As such, the party
was an important mosaic stone in the New Order regime’s drive for hegemony.
According to Gramsci (1971: 244) hegemony is defined as ‘the entire complex
of practical and theoretical activities with which the ruling class not only justi-
fies and maintains its dominance but manages to win the active consent of those
over whom it rules.’ Without a doubt, the construction of Golkar as the regime’s
corporatist tool and electoral vehicle was a crucial part of these activities. Thus,
from 1971 onwards Golkar had once and for all ceased to be ‘an alternative to
the party system,’ as Reeve (1985) had once famously labelled it. Instead, it had
become a hegemonic regime party, acting in a hegemonic party system (Gaffar
1992).4
Between 1971 and 1998 the hegemonic status of Golkar was reinforced
during six consecutive ‘democracy festivals’ (pesta demokrasi), as the Suharto
regime euphemistically called its inherently non-competitive legislative elec-
tions. But when in 1998 the New Order came to an abrupt end, Golkar suddenly
‘seemed destined for the dustbin of history’ (Tomsa 2005: 17). As competitive
party politics was enthusiastically reinvigorated with the formation of more than
100 new parties within a few months, Golkar’s chances of political survival sud-
denly seemed to be slim. Amien Rais, one of the key figures of the reform
(reformasi) movement, for example, opined that Golkar was likely to ‘become
just a small party.’5
As is now well-known, Amien was wrong. Of course Golkar could not main-
tain the ridiculously inflated levels of artificial support which it had enjoyed
during the New Order, but by no means did it become a small party, and it defi-
nitely did not enter the dustbin of history. On the contrary, the party easily
shrugged off initial demands for its disbandment and managed to achieve a
respectable 22 per cent in the first post-Suharto election in 1999. The result was
enough to secure second place on the voting tally, well behind the Indonesian
Democratic Party of Struggle (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan, PDI-P)
of reform icon Megawati Sukarnoputri, but comfortably ahead of other highly
fancied parties including Amien Rais’s National Mandate Party (Partai Amanat
Nasional, PAN) or Abdurrahman Wahid’s National Awakening Party (Partai
Kebangkitan Bangsa, PKB). Following the 1999 election, Golkar quickly re-
Introduction 3
established itself as the most capable political force in national parliamentary
procedures and regional elections. When in 2004 Indonesia held its second legis-
lative election of the post-Suharto era, Golkar re-emerged as the strongest party
on the voting tally, prompting some commentators to describe the election result
as ‘the return of the Golkar Party.’6 In actual fact, however, Golkar had not
returned. It could not return because it had never disappeared. As one former
high-ranking party member who left the party in 1998 remarked rather graphi-
cally, ‘Golkar is like a zombie; you think it is dead but in fact it is always
there.’7
The main argument

Indeed, while it is true that the party was only the second-largest fraction in par-
liament between 1999 and 2004, the statistical figures never reflected the real
power structure in Indonesian party politics during these years. Under the
leadership of its chairman Akbar Tandjung (1998–2004) Golkar was able to
steer most of the important political developments in Indonesia in its own
favour. Significantly, the party was not only instrumental in orchestrating the
rise and fall of Indonesia’s first elected president Abdurrahman Wahid
(1999–2001), but also in overseeing the formulation of crucial constitutional
amendments and new election and party laws. Moreover, the party secured
numerous governor, mayor and district head (bupati) posts in the regions, often
at the expense of inexperienced PDI-P candidates.
In view of these developments, Golkar’s election victory in 2004 was hardly
surprising. On the contrary, many observers had actually expected that the
former regime party would not only emerge as the strongest party, but even that
it would win the election by a bigger margin (Lembaga Survei Indonesia 2003).
These predictions, however, turned out to be wrong, and this very fact illustrates
how little is actually known about the real strengths and weaknesses of Golkar.
Indeed, until the present day there has been no systematic analysis of Golkar and
its role in Indonesia’s ongoing democratization process. This book aims to fill
this gap by examining the former hegemonic party’s position in post-New Order
Indonesia from the perspective of party institutionalization theory. More pre-
cisely, the book will analyse whether Golkar’s perpetuated strength can be
explained as a result of uneven party institutionalization in post-1998 Indonesia.
A number of political observers have already pointed to Golkar’s institutional
superiority as a reason behind the party’s extraordinary tenacity (Suryadinata
2002, Kingsbury 2002, Budiman 1999). However, despite frequent references to
‘Golkar’s massive party machinery’ no methodical analysis of Golkar’s institu-
tional features exists so far. This work will conduct this urgently needed analysis
and provide a comprehensive overview of Golkar’s degree of institutionalization
in accordance with a multidimensional model developed by Vicky Randall and
Lars Svåsand (2002a). The analysis will not only help to explain why and how
Golkar managed to win the 2004 election, but also why it did not win by a larger
margin.
4 Introduction
In short, the book puts forward three main arguments. First, it will be high-
lighted that Golkar is indeed the best-institutionalized party in Indonesia and
that most of its institutional advantages are direct consequences of its long
history as a hegemonic party during the New Order. Significantly, the uneven
degree of party institutionalization has conferred immediate electoral advantages
to Golkar as the party has harnessed its strengths to secure the highest number of
votes in the 2004 elections. Second, despite its overall supremacy Golkar is not
a particularly well-institutionalized party. It is strong in certain aspects of party
institutionalization, but it also has considerable institutional weaknesses, and it
is these weaknesses that primarily account for the party’s failure to achieve an
even better result in the 2004 election. Most remarkably, the party appears to
have entered an incremental process of de-institutionalization, triggered by a
combination of internal and external factors, which may pose some serious chal-
lenges to the party in the future. Third, in spite of these challenges Golkar’s
strong position in the party system seems set to last, simply because most of the
other parties remain weakly institutionalized and unable to capitalize on
Golkar’s problems. With the exception of the Prosperous Justice Party (Partai
Keadilan Sejahtera, PKS) all other parties have failed to develop effective party
infrastructures and/or appealing policy platforms. Instead, they have tried to
build their existence primarily on the charismatic appeal of individual leaders,
the use of old-style money politics or the exploitation of narrowly focused sec-
tarian sentiment. As a result, levels of institutionalization have remained low
and electoral success elusive. Consequently, Golkar has been able to uphold and
even strengthen its grip on the party system. To sum up, this book will argue
that ten years after the fall of Suharto the former regime party Golkar is still the
strongest party in Indonesia, yet not by virtue of its own power but rather by
default.
Methodology
In order to properly assess Golkar’s strengths and weaknesses, this book relies
strongly on a conceptual framework developed by Vicky Randall and Lars
Svåsand in their 2002 article ‘Party Institutionalization in New Democracies.’ In
this article, the authors ‘unpick some of the conceptual confusion’ (Randall and
Svåsand 2002a: 6) that has surrounded the idea of party institutionalization,
especially the common ‘tendency to elide the issue of party institutionalization
with that of party system institutionalization’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 6).
One of the main ‘culprits’ in this regard is Scott Mainwaring (1999) whose
otherwise excellent work on party system institutionalization in Latin America
falls into exactly this conceptual trap. Similarly, the only systematic study on
party system institutionalization in Indonesia by Johnson (2002) also suffers
from the same weaknesses as she applies Mainwaring’s model without question-
ing the direct inclusion of issues of party institutionalization in her analysis of
party system institutionalization. Randall and Svåsand’s model, which will be
explained in great detail in Chapter 2, avoids this trap as it proposes the use of
Introduction 5
clear-cut criteria for party institutionalization, while developing a separate set of
criteria for party system institutionalization.
While Randall and Svåsand have successfully overcome one major problem
of party institutionalization theory, they have shied away from proposing solu-
tions to the other key issue that has haunted studies on institutionalization: mea-
surability. As a matter of fact, party institutionalization, as well as party system
institutionalization, has long been criticized as basically immeasurable, and most
of the criteria Randall and Svåsand describe as key components of their concept
are also, as they concede, neither measurable nor quantifiable. This lack of mea-
surability has always posed serious challenges to political scientists working on
the subject. Of course, it is possible to make meaningful statements about a
party’s degree of institutionalization without measurable variables. But espe-
cially when the analysis extends to more than just one party (as this book does in
Chapter 7), a set of measurable criteria would certainly enhance the analytical
value of the comparison.8
While this book does not claim to square the circle of institutionalization
theory and come up with the ultimate solution to this problem, it does propose to
resort to Mainwaring and Scully’s (1995) suggestion to measure the degree of
institutionalization with the help of a ranking system, if only for reasons of illus-
tration. Naturally, such a system is inherently subjective and it is certainly not
meant to be the main point of reference for the results of this book. Yet, for the
purpose of illustration, it should be considered as a useful tool and therefore the
final chapter concludes with a matrix which shows in a simplified yet systematic
manner the varying degrees of institutionalization for Indonesia’s seven biggest
parties.
The findings presented in this matrix are the result of a research project that
relied on a broad diversity of sources. For the theoretical underpinnings of the
argument the secondary literature on parties, party institutionalization and demo-
cratic transitions was reviewed and evaluated. For the empirical part of the
analysis, on the other hand, the project relied mostly on information from the
Indonesian and international press, as well as a number of primary sources,
especially official party documents, data from personal observations during
fieldwork, and a multitude of personal interviews that were conducted with
politicians, political observers, journalists and civil society activists.9 Whenever
useful, academic literature was consulted in order to support information
obtained from the media or the various primary sources, but it should be noted
that, owing to the sheer contemporariness of the topic, it was often difficult to
find relevant secondary material.
Data collection in Indonesia was completed during two field trips in 2004 and
2005. The first draft of the manuscript was completed in 2006, but some new
materials were added during the revision process. Nonetheless, the main focus
of the analysis remains firmly on the 2004 elections. As far as geographical
scope is concerned, the book deals primarily with politics on the national level
in Jakarta. Wherever possible and useful, however, additional data from local
political contexts have been supplied to further elucidate the argument. Most of
6 Introduction
these local data is derived from South Sulawesi where the researcher spent
several weeks during his fieldwork in 2004. The province was chosen as a ‘mini’
case study for two reasons. First, it is one of Golkar’s most important strong-
holds, or, as the Indonesian media likes to put it, its ‘rice barn’ (lumbung).10 In
1999, South Sulawesi was one of the few provinces where Golkar still reached
an absolute majority so that it was particularly interesting in 2004 to see how the
party set out to defend this result. As it turned out, South Sulawesi became one
of the provinces where Golkar sustained its highest losses, thereby vindicating
the presumption that political developments in this province would be particu-
larly interesting to analyse. Second, South Sulawesi provides an excellent setting
for studying some of the key characteristics of Indonesian party politics such as
personalism, factionalism, patron–clientelism and the prevalence of regional
sentiment. All of these characteristics can be found in abundance in South
Sulawesi, which makes it one of the most exciting places to study party politics.
Of course, this researcher is fully aware that data from only one province are by
no means representative of developments in other parts of Indonesia. Nonethe-
less, the data provided here help to underline certain internal developments
within Golkar, and therefore contribute to a better understanding of the manifold
dynamics in the party.
Structure
The book is divided into eight chapters. Following this brief introduction,
Chapter 2 will elucidate the theoretical concept of party institutionalization and
its relevance in explaining the enduring strength of Golkar. Moreover, this
chapter further elaborates on the already mentioned difference between party
institutionalization and party system institutionalization. Chapters 3 to 6 discuss
in great detail Golkar’s development in four different dimensions of party insti-
tutionalization, termed systemness, decisional autonomy, value infusion and
reification by Randall and Svåsand (2002a).
Chapter 3 on systemness is the longest chapter of this book, simply because
this dimension covers some of those aspects of party institutionalization that are
often mentioned as Golkar’s most effective strengths. In order to determine
whether Golkar really possesses such a superior party machinery as is often
assumed, this chapter provides an in-depth analysis of the party’s organizational
features, with particular reference to the organizational infrastructure, the rela-
tionship between the party and its leader, and the role of factionalism within the
party. Furthermore, the chapter discusses the importance of formal and informal
institutions and explains why the party has been able to maintain excellent
access to human and financial resources.
Chapter 4 on decisional autonomy examines whether Golkar is an independ-
ent party and to what extent it can make crucial policy and personnel decisions
without interference from external forces. Due to historical bonds, the armed
forces (Tentara Nasional Indonesia, TNI, formerly known as Angkatan Bersen-
jata Republik Indonesia, ABRI) are a logical focus of this chapter. The second
Introduction 7
part then moves away from tangible actors and looks at the role of corruption
and money politics in influencing decision-making processes within the party. It
also touches upon the tensions between external and internal threats to deci-
sional autonomy.
Chapter 5 on value infusion answers the question of whether Golkar is
infused with any political or cultural values that make people feel attached to the
party. Against the background of the ongoing debate on whether Indonesian
voting behaviour can still be explained with traditional aliran (literally, streams;
in this context cleavages based on socio-cultural dividing lines) approaches, this
chapter looks at both sociological and psychological factors that can influence
party choices.
Chapter 6 on reification evaluates the patterns of political communication
applied by Golkar in order to eradicate its stigma as a disgraced remnant of the
New Order. Based on the assumption that Golkar entered the post-Suharto era as
a highly reified party, this chapter examines how the party has transformed its
public image by forging a double identity, somewhere between progressive
reformism and conservative status quo attitudes. The role of the media is of
particular importance for this analysis, but the politics of symbolism is also
investigated.
Following the four comprehensive chapters on Golkar, Chapter 7 provides
the vital comparative perspective by analysing the degree of institutionalization
of the six other major parties in Indonesia. These include the three reformasi
trailblazers PDI-P, PKB and PAN, the two surprise packages of the 2004 elec-
tion, PKS and the Democrats Party (Partai Demokrat, PD), as well as the United
Development Party (Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, PPP). While the analysis
here cannot be as detailed as in the preceding chapters, it still sheds interesting
light on some of the key institutional features of the other parties.
Finally, Chapter 8 presents the main conclusions and puts them into the
broader context of party system institutionalization and democratization in
Indonesia. A brief outlook of potential further developments rounds out this
book.
2 Theoretical reflections
Protracted transitions, uneven party
institutionalization and the special role
of former hegemonic parties
Nor, finally, does it mean that we assume that parties are functional for demo-
cracy or its consolidation; on the contrary, it may be expected that in some cir-
cumstances they are part of the problem.
(Randall and Svåsand 2002b: 4)
Introduction
Political parties are widely considered to be an indispensable part of any modern
political system, no matter if it is a Western-style liberal democracy, an authorit-
arian dictatorship or one of the various types of electoral regimes that have
sprung up in the aftermath of what Huntington (1991) called the ‘third wave’ of
democratization. However, ‘political parties are not what they used to be’
(Gunther and Diamond 2001: 3), as it has become increasingly clear that the
types and functions of parties are changing. Especially in the countries of Asia,
Africa and Latin America, political parties rarely fulfil the ideal-type functions
political scientists attribute to them. As Randall (2006) has pointed out, wide-
spread poverty and the resultant lack of material and human resources, coupled
with the manifold legacies of colonialism and subsequent authoritarianism have
significantly impeded the development and, ultimately, the institutionalization of
political parties.1
The concept of institutionalization was pioneered by Samuel Huntington in
the 1960s, but it was not before the 1990s that the specific notion of party and
party system institutionalization rose to prominence in the academic literature.
Spearheaded by Scott Mainwaring, more scholars began to link the ideas of
party and party system institutionalization to problems of democratic consolida-
tion in a growing number of countries that had joined the third wave of
democratization in the 1980s and 1990s. In fact, the institutionalization of
parties and party systems – or rather the lack thereof – was identified with
increasing frequency as one of the key factors for the lack of progress towards
democratic consolidation in many third wave countries including Indonesia, the
subject of this case study.
In order to properly contextualize the Indonesian case within the current
Theoretical reflections 9
academic debate about political parties and democratization processes, this
chapter will first recap some of the latest developments in the study of compara-
tive democratization. It will then move on to discuss in more detail the concept
of party institutionalization and its significance for the subject of democrat-
ization studies. Towards the end, particular attention will be paid to the poten-
tially ambivalent role that former regime parties can play in democratic
transition processes, especially if they are allowed to continuously exploit long-
established institutional advantages at the expense of new parties.
The transition paradigm revisited

Transitions from authoritarian regimes to more democratic forms of government
have been the focus of analysis for political scientists ever since O’Donnell and
Schmitter (1986) published their seminal work on transitions in Latin America
and Southern Europe. Soon afterwards, the wave of democratization had spread
all over the world, prompting one scholar to enthusiastically declare ‘the end of
history’ (Fukuyama 1992). By the turn of the millennium, however, the enthusi-
asm was gone, replaced by a growing awareness that the third wave had actually
produced very few liberal democracies. Instead, a puzzling array of ‘demo-
cracies with adjectives’ (Collier and Levitsky 1997) and ‘hybrid regimes’
(Diamond 2002) had emerged, posing unprecedented conceptual challenges to
scholars of comparative democratization.
Defining regime types

After O’Donnell and Schmitter’s now famous transition paradigm had first
entered the academic agenda, scholars soon scrambled to find a consensus about
what actually constitutes a consolidated democracy. Early minimalist definitions
referred to Schumpeter’s (1947) procedural understanding of democracy and
claimed that two consecutive changes of government by means of peacefully
conducted elections are already sufficient to call a democratic regime consoli-
dated (Huntington 1991). But the exclusive focus on elections as the sole deci-
sive factor for determining democratic consolidation was quickly criticized as
too simplistic. As Elklit (2001: 57) stressed, ‘the holding of acceptable elections
is only a necessary, not a sufficient, condition for development towards fully
fledged liberal democracies.’
Therefore, more sophisticated concepts of consolidation were soon formu-
lated by scholars like Gunther et al. (1995), Linz and Stepan (1996) or Merkel
(1998). In fact, Linz and Stepan’s assertion that consolidation needs to combine
constitutional, behavioural and attitudinal dimensions soon emerged as one of
the most-frequently quoted concepts of democratic consolidation. According to
the authors, a consolidated democracy is ‘a political regime in which democracy
as a complex system of institutions, rules and patterned incentives and disincen-
tives has become, in a phrase “the only game in town” ’ (Linz and Stepan 1996:
15). This concept was further elaborated by Merkel (1998, 1999) who argued
that democratic consolidation includes not only the three dimensions as laid out
by Linz and Stepan – constitutional, behavioural and attitudinal – but also a
level of representative consolidation which comprises the territorial and func-
tional representation of societal interests as articulated through political parties
and interest groups.
The more sophisticated the concepts grew, the more apparent it became that
only a very small number of third wave countries were actually progressing
towards the normative ideal of liberal democracy that underpinned the defini-
tions of Linz and Stepan or Merkel. By the turn of the millennium, it was widely
acknowledged that despite the adoption of democratic constitutions and the
holding of free and fair elections, the vast majority of countries that had com-
menced democratization processes in the 1980s and 1990s still suffered from
several fundamental weaknesses. Typical problems included a lack of citizen
participation in politics beyond election times, the poor enforcement of civil lib-
erties, the enduring political influence of so-called veto actors such as the mili-
tary, and the prevalence of conflicting responsibilities between executives and
legislatures due to unclear constitutional arrangements.
In order to distinguish regimes with such democratic deficits from established
liberal democracies, it has become common practice to describe them as ‘elect-
oral democracies.’ According to Haynes (2001a: 8), electoral democracy is a
rather pure form of elite democracy which typically involves ‘political competi-
tion or collaboration among groups of powerful elites, often exclusive oli-
garchies dominated by relatively small groups of powerful men (and rarely
women).’ Effectively, electoral democracy is an umbrella term for all those
regimes that conform to Huntington’s minimalist definition of democracy, but
which may be lacking in several other characteristics of liberal democracy.2
More recently, however, an increasing number of scholars have suggested that
even competitive elections may no longer be a sufficient indicator to call a regime
democratic. As Levitsky and Way (forthcoming: 2) write in their scathing critique
of what they call ‘a pronounced democratizing bias that pervaded the post-Cold
War literature on regime change,’ elections in many countries today may be
competitive, but they are not fair. Therefore, the authors argue that it is entirely
inappropriate to use the term ‘democracy’ for these regimes. Instead, they propose
to label them according to what they effectively are, namely authoritarian regimes.
However, since countries like, for example, Singapore or Malaysia are still very
different from closed authoritarian regimes like, for example, Myanmar, China or
Saudi Arabia, the authors introduce the term ‘competitive authoritarianism’ (Levit-
sky and Way 2002; forthcoming) for more conceptual clarity.
Other scholars have echoed Levitsky and Way’s view, but have invented new
labels for what is essentially the same phenomenon. Ottaway (2003), for
example, calls these regimes ‘semi-authoritarian,’ while Schedler (2002, 2006)
speaks of ‘electoral authoritarianism.’ Pointing to an extensive ‘menu of mani-
pulation’ that governments use in order to sway election results in their favour,
Schedler (2006: 3) has also criticized the overly optimistic view that elections
are indicators of democracy.
Electoral authoritarian regimes play the game of multiparty elections by
holding regular elections for the chief executive and a national legislative
assembly. Yet they violate the liberal-democratic principles of freedom and
fairness so profoundly and systematically as to render elections instruments
of authoritarian rule rather than ‘instruments of democracy’ (Powell 2000).
Under electoral authoritarian rule, elections are broadly inclusive [. . .] as
well as minimally pluralistic [. . .], minimally competitive [. . .], and mini-
mally open [. . .]. Overall, however, electoral contests are subject to state
manipulation so severe, widespread, and systematic that they do not qualify
as democratic.
(Schedler 2006: 3)
The new discourse highlights the fact that the widespread optimism that sur-
rounded the study of comparative democratization in the 1990s has given way to
a much more sober assessment of a reality in which democracy is actually very
rarely the only game in town. At the same time, however, the ever-increasing
number of conceptual categories has led to growing difficulty in determining
precisely the boundaries between the various new regime types. Of course,
textbook-style regime classifications never entirely match messy realities, but
there is little doubt that the puzzling array of new regime types and especially
the emergence of new forms of authoritarianism pose increasingly complex
challenges to scholars of comparative politics. As more and more countries are
entering a foggy ‘grey area’ (Diamond 2002) between the clearly defined analyt-
ical poles of liberal democracy and closed authoritarianism, the long-cherished
transition paradigm of liberalization, democratization and consolidation appears
to be increasingly obsolete (Carothers 2002).
Protracted transitions and the special role of former hegemonic

parties
The growing scepticism towards the usefulness of the transition paradigm is
based on the recognition that even though many countries initiated a transition in
the 1980s or 1990s, they never really democratized. Levitsky and Way (forth-
coming) are particularly critical of attempts to frame what are effectively
authoritarian regimes as democratic, especially where authoritarian practices
have continued over a prolonged period. Despite the perfectly valid criticism
though, there are indeed cases where characterizations such as ‘evolving demo-
cracy’ or ‘protracted transition’ seem justified. In countries like Mexico,
Taiwan, South Korea or Indonesia, for example, clear progress towards demo-
cracy has been made in recent years, albeit not necessarily in accordance with
O’Donnell and Schmitter’s ideal-type mode of pact-making.3
Eisenstadt (2000) has argued that in these countries the transitions to demo-
cracy have been ‘protracted’ precisely because there was no opportunity for a
pacted transition and there was a lack of consensus among elites about how
exactly the political system should be changed. The uncertainty about the
outcome of negotiations between old regime forces and reformers then resulted
in a distinctively slow process of reforming numerous small sectors of the polity
instead of a general overhaul of all relevant political institutions. Owing to the
protracted nature of the transition process, enclaves of authoritarianism
remained intact not just immediately after the initiation of the transition to
democracy, but long after the old regime had been replaced by a newly elected
government. For several years, therefore, countries like Mexico or Taiwan
would have qualified as competitive authoritarian regimes, but at the same time
the political process during those years was far from static. Incrementally, these
countries dismantled the remnants of authoritarianism and eventually progressed
towards electoral democracy.
Mexico and Taiwan are archetypes of protracted transitions as their respec-
tive transition processes have been prolonged over decades. In these countries,
the initial failure to abolish authoritarian practices has proven particularly bene-
ficial for the old regime parties, the Institutional Revolutionary Party (Partido
Revolucionario Institucional, PRI) and the Nationalist Party (Kuomintang,
KMT), as they were given sufficient time to adjust to the changing political
environment. Although the two parties played very different roles in their
respective polities, the Mexican and the Taiwanese transition cases share a
number of similarities. Both countries had conducted more or less blatantly
rigged elections for years, and in both countries it was electoral reform that
finally paved the way for the opposition to seize their chance. Rampant corrup-
tion, fraud and eventual splits in the ruling parties further weakened the regimes,
so that charismatic opposition candidates were finally elected presidents in 2000
and hegemonic party rule came to an end in both countries (Solinger 2001).
However, despite the loss of the presidency, both the PRI and the KMT have
continued to wield immense influence over the political process even though
they have lost their positions of absolute dominance.
The special roles of the PRI and the KMT in the course of the Mexican and
Taiwanese transitions indicate that the possibilities for the growth and institu-
tionalization of new parties may be severely limited as long as a former regime
party maintains superior access to financial, material and human resources.
‘Unequal resources invariably make for unequal political outcomes,’ as Rigger
(2000: 137) has aptly remarked. If these inequalities are not levelled over time,
elections may remain restricted in their competitiveness and fairness, thereby
jeopardizing the long-term prospects for democratic consolidation. As Chu
(1999: 78–9) has argued for the Taiwanese case:
There is no doubt that the persistence of these holdover issues of regime

transition will continue to obstruct, if not distort, the normal functioning of
Taiwan’s newly established representative democracy and pose a series of
difficult challenges to the task of democratic consolidation.
The Indonesian transition to democracy: protracted, but on track
As previously mentioned, Indonesia has also been identified as a case of pro-
tracted transition. The Southeast Asian giant embarked on the democratization
path in May 1998 when long-time President Suharto stepped down in the midst
of economic turmoil and massive student protests.4 Writing in the early days of
the post-Suharto era, Malley (2000) claimed that the oppositional forces in
Indonesia had been unable to negotiate a pacted transition because they were not
prepared to capitalize on the unexpected opportunities that opened up in front of
them when the Suharto regime suddenly ruptured. Shortly after Suharto’s resig-
nation, interim president Habibie initiated the revision of electoral institutions
and laws on parties and legislatures, yet there was little input from opposition
forces as they were too preoccupied with establishing an organizational infra-
structure for their newly founded parties (Malley 2000: 172).5
Not surprisingly then, the outcome of the negotiations between the Habibie
government and the four old parliamentary fractions of the military, Golkar,
PPP, and the old Indonesian Democratic Party (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia,
PDI) was little more than a ‘half-hearted reform’ (King 2003) and Indonesia’s
new political system at first remained laden with authoritarian leftovers. The
successful holding of free and fair elections in June 1999 and the formation of a
new government in October 1999 did little to change this impression. Pointing
to structural advantages for Golkar enshrined in the reformulated election laws,
the retention of the military’s role in politics, the hesitation to fight corruption
and the unwillingness to reappraise human rights violations by members of the
old regime, Malley (2000: 177) concluded that ‘Indonesia should be character-
ized as being on a protracted transition path rather than in a consolidation
phase.’ Similarly, Diamond (2002: 31) included Indonesia in his list of ‘ambigu-
ous regimes,’ mainly because of the continued presence of non-elected represen-
tatives in parliament. But arguably the most critical assessment of Indonesia’s
early post-New Order trajectory came from Vedi Hadiz who maintained that the
country was actually not in a protracted transition, but had in fact already com-
pleted a very rapid transition – just not into a democracy but rather into an
obscure ‘something else’:
It is in fact erroneous to suggest that Indonesia is still in ‘transition’.

Instead, the new patterns and essential dynamics of the exercise of social,
economic and political power have already become more or less estab-
lished. [. . .] Thus, violence, money politics, alleged political murders and
kidnappings [. . .] are not regarded in this essay as symptomatic of a
painfully consolidating or maturing (liberal) democracy, but fundamental
instead to the logic of a ‘something else’ already more or less entrenched.
(Hadiz 2003: 120–1)
A few years later it is obvious that many of the problems mentioned by Hadiz
still persist. At the same time, however, it is clear that Indonesia has also taken
some significant steps towards democracy. Of course, as Malley (2000: 155) had
predicted, this democratization process was characterized by ‘prolonged and
repeated struggles to reform specific institutions’ and constant bickering
between elites over how and to what extent the political system should be
changed. In fact, between 1999 and 2002, Indonesia completed a painfully
drawn-out series of constitutional amendments, leaving the once-sacred docu-
ment with more new than old paragraphs. But despite this patchwork style of
reform the overall results were quite remarkable. Among the most outstanding
achievements were the introduction of direct presidential elections, direct guber-
natorial and bupati elections (pemilihan kepala daerah, pilkada), the abolition of
non-elected representatives in parliament (including the military), the formation
of a second legislative chamber6 and the establishment of a Constitutional Court
(Crouch 2003).
With these reforms in place, the country successfully conducted an unprece-
dented electoral marathon in 2004. The ‘year of voting dangerously’ (Emmerson
2004) started in April with parliamentary elections on three administrative levels
(national, provincial and district) and elections to the newly established
Regional Representatives Council, continued in July with the first round of
presidential elections and finally ended in September with the election of former
general Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY) as Indonesia’s sixth president.
Every single round of voting has been described as free and fair and in overall
accordance with democratic standards by academics (Qodari 2005) and inter-
national election monitors alike,7 so that Indonesia can now definitely be
labelled an electoral democracy8 (see Table 2.1 for election results).
Following the success of the 2004 elections, Indonesia has further democra-
tized its political system, especially in the arena of electoral politics where the
introduction of the pilkada in 2005 has significantly enhanced the openness and
competitiveness of voting processes in the regions. In view of these achieve-
ments the reputable non-governmental organization Freedom House, in its
annual Freedom in the World survey, recently promoted Indonesia from being a
‘partly free’ country to a ‘free’ country (Freedom House 2005, 2006, 2007).
Yet, beyond the surface of democratic elections there is still a lot that remains
to be done. Old, established patterns of thinking obviously still prevail among
Table 2.1 Results of the legislative elections 1999 and 2004 (in per cent)
Party 1999 2004 Gained/lost
Partai Golkar 22.44 21.58 –0.86

Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan (PDI-P) 33.74 18.53 –15.21
Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (PKB) 12.61 10.57 –2.04
Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP) 10.71 8.15 –2.56
Partai Demokrat (PD) – 7.45 +7.45
Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (PKS) 1.36 7.34 +5.98
Partai Amanat Nasional (PAN) 7.12 6.44 –0.68
Sources: www.kpu.go.id; Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata (2005: 14 and 22).

large parts of the political elite and few attempts have been made to address
endemic problems such as corruption, collusion and nepotism (better known as
korupsi, kolusi, nepotisme or KKN in Indonesia). As Robison and Hadiz (2004)
have shown, many of the old oligarchic power networks between business and
politics are still intact as they have successfully adapted to the new political
environment without changing their predatory mentality. Despite continued
efforts by democracy activists and non-governmental organizations to dismantle
these networks, prospects for improvement appear slim as long as regulations
about political finance are not sharpened and more strictly implemented. Fur-
thermore, the problem of corruption has been exacerbated by the negative side
effects of the well-intentioned decentralization programme as hundreds of
regional parliamentarians, governors and bupatis have succumbed to the tempta-
tions of power and misused public funds for personal enrichment. Countless
local politicians have been implicated in such cases since the start of regional
autonomy in 2001 and have thus further contributed to the deterioration of
public trust in elected officials.9
Apart from a lack of political will and determination at the highest political
level in Jakarta, another – arguably closely related – key obstacle in the fight
against corruption is the slow progress towards reform in the upper echelons of
the judiciary. The very fact that no serious efforts were made to prosecute
former president Suharto for his alleged embezzlement of billions of dollars
during his time as head of state clearly underlines just how much remains to be
done in this sector.10 Moreover, those few reform-minded judges that have
emerged in the lower ranks of the system in recent years have seen their efforts
being ridiculed on an almost regular basis when the judgements they had passed
down on high-profile corruptors were later overturned at a higher level.11 But it
is not only contentious cases of corruption and collusion where the judiciary has
been at the centre of criticism. Another arena of struggle between reformers and
status quo forces has been the issue of past human rights violations by members
of the New Order regime, especially former president Suharto himself and the
armed forces. Several cases against members of the military have been brought
to court in recent years, but rarely have the verdicts been in accordance with
expectations of human rights campaigners (Sulistiyanto 2007).12 The successful
blocking of efforts to reassess the past sheds worrisome light on the role of the
military in post-Suharto Indonesia. While the formal political power of the
armed forces has been curbed after its reserved seats in parliament were abol-
ished,13 the TNI does still wield considerable informal power. This became
evident not only in the above-mentioned trials, but also in the resumption of mil-
itary action in Aceh in 2003 (Jones 2004) and in the dispute about the TNI bill in
2004. In both cases, the military leadership exerted enormous pressure upon the
government and lawmakers so that many of their demands were eventually
granted.14
Apart from corruption and the role of the military, another urgent problem –
and the one that is central to this book – is the performance of the political
parties. Bestowed with high expectations in the early days of reformasi, the
parties have contributed fairly little to the consolidation of Indonesia’s young
democracy. To be fair, it was the representatives of the parties who crafted the
new political format of Indonesia’s post-authoritarian system, but apart from this
achievement their overall parliamentary track record has been rather disappoint-
ing so far (Ziegenhain 2005). Moreover, outside parliament most of the parties
that had won seats in the 1999 general election failed to undertake substantial
efforts to strengthen their organizational infrastructures or to develop appealing
party programmes.
The 2004 election results, however, indicate that these things may matter not
only in abstract discussions about institutionalization, but also at the ballot box.
The importance of a well-developed party infrastructure, for instance, was doc-
umented by the fact that the two parties which possess the most comprehensive
networks of branch offices in the country, Golkar and PDI-P, remained the top
vote-getters. Furthermore, the only party that had seriously endeavoured to
actually enhance its organizational apparatus in recent years, PKS, reaped con-
siderable benefits for its efforts and gained almost 6 per cent compared to 1999.
The good results of PKS and another new party, PD, were often interpreted as
retribution for the established parties or, more generally, as proof of the rational-
ization of Indonesian voters and the overall maturation of Indonesian demo-
cracy. Yet the success of the two newcomers cannot disguise the fact that
despite widespread disappointment with the status quo, big parties like Golkar
and, to a lesser extent, PDI-P still received the lion’s share of the vote. Thus, the
results indicated that, just like in Taiwan and Mexico, Indonesia’s former hege-
monic party has also been able to exploit the slow progress of the democrati-
zation process to its own advantage.
The role of parties and the importance of party

institutionalization
The pivotal role of Golkar in Indonesia’s democratization process has drawn
surprisingly little academic attention so far. Indeed, post-Suharto party politics
in general was long overlooked by most scholars, even though some good con-
tributions have been made recently.15 The lack of attention is surprising insofar
as there is near-universal agreement that the role of political parties is of
immense importance in newly democratizing countries (Burnell 2004, Mainwar-
ing 1999, Merkel 1998). As organizations acting on the intermediate level
between state and society, parties have the crucial function of linking the elec-
torate to the government and the legislature. Their strategic position gives them
a high responsibility not only for the legitimacy but also for the efficiency of a
newly installed regime. Thus, the structure and performance of the parties have a
direct impact on the prospects for democratic consolidation:
[I]deology, structure and behaviour of the parties are not only of utmost
importance for the survival or breakdown of young democracies but they
also constitute critical factors determining whether democracies consolidate
or instead remain in a grey zone [. . .], somewhere between functioning
liberal democracies and plebiscitarian authoritarianism.
(Merkel 1998: 50)
Approaches to party institutionalization

The heightened awareness of the importance of political parties for processes of
democratic consolidation goes hand in hand with the realization that traditional
explanatory patterns of the formation and consolidation of parties and party
systems are no longer sufficient to depict the ever-expanding variety of aspects
that influence the functionality of modern parties and party systems. Factors like
the nature of the regime type (presidential or parliamentary), the polarization
along social cleavage structures or the type of electoral system continue to play
a significant role, but in the context of analysing party politics in developing
countries particular attention has recently been paid to the importance of party
and party system institutionalization – and often the lack thereof as a key obs-
tacle to meaningful progress towards democratic consolidation (Kuenzi and
Lambright 2001, Levitsky 2003, Mainwaring 1999, Randall and Svåsand 2002a,
Sahli 2003, Stockton 2001,Tan 2002, 2006, Ufen 2006).
Predictably, the strong focus on institutionalization approaches in recent
years has drawn criticism from some scholars. Morgenstern and Vázquez-D’Elía
(2007: 157), for example, have lamented that the bias towards party institution-
alization has, at least in some cases, led scholars to overlook the immense influ-
ence electoral institutions continue to exert on the shape of parties and party
systems in the developing world.16 Furthermore, a much more fundamental
critique has come from proponents of social conflict theory who have argued
that it is not simply the lack of properly institutionalized parties and party
systems that derails the processes of democratic consolidation, but rather the
capturing of political institutions by ‘old predatory interests’ (Hadiz 2003: 121).
In this view, the whole transition paradigm is flawed because underlying con-
stellations of power will always survive changes in the formal regime structure
and reconstitute themselves within the confines of new institutions. Accordingly,
political parties would only be able to fulfil their idealized democratic functions
if society at large underwent a comprehensive social transformation.
These valid criticisms notwithstanding, the ever-growing literature on party
and party system institutionalization suggests that the level of institutionaliza-
tion does indeed play a crucially important role in explaining the complex inter-
play between political parties and democratization in non-Western countries. In
fact, focusing on party institutionalization does not necessarily rule out the
incorporation of so-called ‘predatory interests’ into the analysis. What makes
party and party system institutionalization such an important object of analysis
is the fact that in contrast to the mostly well-institutionalized party systems in
the consolidated democracies of Western Europe, North America, Australia and
New Zealand, party systems in the developing world are often characterized by
a high degree of volatility and poor legitimacy while the parties themselves tend
to suffer from weak roots in society and a lack of professionalism (Mainwaring
1999). As all these factors obstruct the institutionalization of the parties and the
party system, they ultimately also impede prospects for the consolidation of
democracy. In the words of Lindberg (2007: 218): ‘in order to fulfil their demo-
cratic functions to provide accountability, policy preference predictability and
aggregation of interests in society, the configuration of political parties must be
more durable and institutionalized rather than fluid electoral vehicles of power-
seeking entrepreneurs.’ However, despite the growing number of studies dealing
with the institutionalization of parties and party systems, the theoretical concept
of institutionalization as such remains somewhat murky as it is ‘multifaceted,
difficult to operationalize, and sometimes conducive to tautological argument’
(Gunther and Hopkin 2002: 192).
Arguably, the scholar who has most incessantly attempted to overcome pre-
vailing scepticism towards the concept of institutionalization is Scott Mainwar-
ing. Since the 1990s, this renowned expert of Latin American politics has
published an impressive series of articles, books and papers on the issue of party
system institutionalization. His works have inspired many other scholars, as is
evident in the growing number of publications that have applied Mainwaring’s
conceptual framework in countries outside Latin America, including Indonesia
(Buehler and Tan 2007, Hicken 2006, Tan 2002, 2006). In one of his latest
works, Mainwaring and his co-author Mariano Torcal have defined institutional-
ization as ‘a process by which a practice or organization becomes well estab-
lished and widely known, if not universally accepted. Actors develop
expectations, orientations, and behavior based on the premise that this practice
or organization will prevail into the foreseeable future’ (Mainwaring and Torcal
2006: 206). They then proceed to classify an institutionalized party system as
one ‘in which actors develop expectations and behavior based on the premise
that the fundamental rules of party competition and behavior will prevail in the
foreseeable future’ (Mainwaring and Torcal 2006: 206).
Mainwaring’s conceptualization of party system institutionalization has
evolved over the years, but the key components have essentially remained the
same: stability, rootedness, legitimacy and party organization. Thus, it seems as
if Mainwaring regards party and party system institutionalization as two sides of
the same coin. In other words, his model seems to entail the notion that in order
for a party system to become institutionalized the parties that constitute the
system must also be institutionalized.17 However, this notion has met with criti-
cism from several writers. Bértoa (n.d.: 5), for example, has criticized the con-
flation of party and party system institutionalization in Mainwaring’s work,
arguing that ‘it is not sufficient that individual parties become institutionalized,
for they must also function in the established context of a party system.’
In a similar vein, Wolinetz (2006) has used examples from Central Europe to
argue that party systems can actually be reasonably well institutionalized even if
the parties themselves are weakly institutionalized. Borrowing from Smith
(1989), he argues that all that is needed for a party system to institutionalize is a
‘discernible core’ of parties that interact with each other on a regular basis.
Significantly, he argues that this core can be developed with parties that do not
necessarily have deep roots in society or strong party organizations.
Yet another critique of Mainwaring’s concept has come from Wallis (2003)
who argued that the inclusion of Mainwaring’s last criterion (party organization)
in the analysis of party system institutionalization is problematic, not only
because party organization is generally more concerned with party than party
system institutionalization, but also because the inclusion of this element can
distort the results of the overall system analysis if the parties that make up the
system are extremely unevenly institutionalized in this dimension. Wallis’s point
draws on observations made earlier by Randall and Svåsand (2002a) who were
indeed among the first to maintain that there is no automatic interdependence
between party institutionalization and party system institutionalization. Like
Bértoa, Wallis and Wolinetz after them, these authors also stressed that ‘[p]arty
system institutionalization is the outcome of a range of developments, only some
of which have to do directly with the constituent parties themselves.’ While con-
ceding that requirements for party institutionalization and party system institu-
tionalization are in many respects ‘mutually supportive or at least compatible’
(Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 8), they pointed out that under special circum-
stances party institutionalization may in fact be counterproductive to party
system institutionalization and consequently to democratic consolidation.
Before discussing the potential perils of party institutionalization, however, it
is first of all necessary to take a closer look at Randall and Svåsand’s approach
to party and party system institutionalization. Interestingly, and in contrast to
Mainwaring and most other scholars working on institutionalization, these
authors focus primarily on the institutionalization of parties rather than party
systems. Starting from the assumption that parties do not only institutionalize in
structural terms, but also in an attitudinal dimension, they define party institu-
tionalization as ‘the process by which the party becomes established in terms
both of integrated patterns of behaviour and of attitudes, or culture’ (Randall and
Svåsand 2002a: 12). They suggest an innovative model of party institutionaliza-
tion which consists of four interdependent, yet analytically autonomous dimen-
sions that can be categorized along internal/external factors on the one hand and
structural/attitudinal aspects on the other hand (see Figure 2.1).
Inter nal
Systemness/
V alue infusion
par ty organization
Str uctur al Attitudinal
Decisional Reification and

autonom y pub lic suppor t
Exter nal
Figure 2.1 Dimensions of party institutionalization (source: adapted from Randall

and Svåsand 2002a and Randall 2006).
Systemness
First, systemness, a somewhat awkward term adopted from Panebianco,18 refers
to the organizational infrastructure and internal dynamics of a party. To what
extent a party institutionalizes in this dimension is not just determined by its
‘genetic model’ (Panebianco 1988), but also by the routinization of well-known
and widely accepted rules and procedures within the party (O’Donnell 1996).
Following the neo-institutionalist understanding of institutions (North 1990,
Lowndes 2002), these rules and procedures can be formal (e.g. party constitution
or other official party statutes and decrees) or informal (e.g. factionalism, clien-
telism, seniority principle), and their impact on systemness can be analysed in a
variety of aspects, including internal power structures, succession regulations,
decision-making processes, relations between the central leadership and regional
branches, and the regularization of access to financial resources.
A party’s genetic model, or the process of its formation and its subsequent
organizational consolidation, plays an important role in its prospects for long-
term institutionalization. Arguing from a European perspective, Panebianco
(1988: 53) claims that parties which are created in the centre and then gradually
spread to the periphery have a better chance of institutionalization than parties
that come into existence as a result of ‘spontaneous germination’ in the regions.
However, few parties in the developing world have had the chance to evolve
gradually over time as they experienced frequent interruptions when authorit-
arian regimes arbitrarily changed crucial institutions like party laws or the elec-
tion system (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 18). Therefore, prospects for parties to
continuously develop a coherent party apparatus have often been inhibited by
structural confinements that are beyond the control of the parties themselves.
Moreover, parties in the developing world are rarely founded by a group of
visionary elites with a persuasive ideology and an elaborate party platform.
Instead, party politics in the Southern hemisphere is often dominated by charis-
matic leaders who establish parties with the sole intention of using them as their
personal election vehicles. While in the early stages of party formation a certain
degree of charisma is not necessarily antithetical to systemness, in the long-term
a gradual transfer of decisional authority from the leader to the party as a
collective actor is needed in order to facilitate party institutionalization as rules
and regulations are more easily implemented without an almighty party patron.19
Another issue related to structural institutionalization is the access to finan-
cial resources. Mass parties with regular revenues from membership fees are
almost non-existent outside Europe so that parties need to open up other chan-
nels for funding. Money is needed for a broad array of activities like election
campaigns, the maintenance of permanent offices, policy research and political
education, or the support for party-affiliated institutions such as think-tanks or
so-called ‘independent foundations,’ to name but a few. Especially the escalat-
ing cost of election campaigns has increasingly forced parties to find new
sources of revenue (Ferdinand 2003).20 Many countries have regulated party
finance in relevant laws, but often these laws are poorly enforced so that it is
sometimes hard to distinguish between political finance and political corruption
(Pinto-Duschinsky 2002: 80).
In fact, political corruption is one of the most serious obstacles to formal
party institutionalization.21 In many countries corruption is so common nowa-
days that some scholars have come to view it as an institution in its own right
(Böröcz 2000). In contrast to formal institutions such as constitutions or other
formally binding regulations, however, corruption does not take on a tangible
form as it is not put down on paper for everyone to see. It is an informal institu-
tion which often deliberately undermines the enforcement of existing formal
institutions. The negative implications of such informal institutions for processes
of democratic consolidation were first highlighted by O’Donnell (1996) who
saw them as one of the biggest obstacles to democracy in Latin America.
Defined as ‘socially shared rules, usually unwritten, that are created, commu-
nicated, and enforced outside of officially sanctioned channels’ (Helmke and
Levitsky 2004: 727), informal institutions are often created as a surrogate where
formal institutions are few in number or too weak to fulfil the security expecta-
tions of important actors. While some of these informal rules and regulations
can actually help to enhance the efficiency of existing formal institutions,22 all
too often they live at the expense of formal institutions and exploit the latter for
their own needs, thereby making it very difficult for the formal rules of the game
to fulfil their tasks. Lauth (2000: 26) has described these kinds of informal insti-
tutions as ‘parasitic institutions’ as they are ‘either partially occupying or penet-
rating’ formal institutions. Similarly, Helmke and Levitsky (2004) have called
them ‘competing informal institutions’ as they diminish the effectiveness of
formal institutions.
Apart from corruption, two other potentially dangerous informal institutions
can be identified in the context of party institutionalization. One is the wide-
spread phenomenon of factionalism, the other the prevalence of clientelism. Fac-
tionalism in particular has been described as diametrically opposed to party
institutionalization because of the damaging impact it has on organizational
coherence (Janda 1980, Panebianco 1988, Türsan 1995). In the context of demo-
cratic consolidation processes, factionalism within parties is often blamed for
the emergence of highly volatile party systems, which in turn can have negative
implications for the efficiency and effectiveness of both the executive and the
legislature (Riedinger 1995, Croissant 1997). Other scholars, however, contest
this gloomy view of factionalism and point to the positive contributions factions
have made during democratic transitions (Waller and Gillespie 1995). Further-
more, long-established parties like the Japanese LDP or the Congress Party in
India are evidence that factionalism is not necessarily a source of instability
(Richardson 1997, Köllner 1999). In the light of these contrasting views, Sugi-
arto (2006: 3) has stressed that ‘it is necessary to emphasise that party factional-
ism can both facilitate and hinder the consolidation of the new party system.’
The divergent assessments of factionalism can be put down to the differing
characteristics of factions in certain political, social and cultural settings. Beller
and Belloni (1978), who are widely credited with the most frequently quoted
definition of factions,23 point out that factionalism can not only have many
causes, but it can also take on various forms. For instance, where factions come
into being merely in response to a specific political issue or as a result of person-
alism or clientelism, they tend to be weakly organized and in most cases short-
lived or of intermediate duration only. On the other hand, those factions that
pursue more ideological goals or those which see themselves as the mouthpiece
of a certain social or regional group, are often more institutionalized in their own
right. These ‘institutionalized or organizational factions’ can have their own
internal rulings and procedures as well as easily recognizable names and
symbols (Beller and Belloni 1978: 427–30).24 Where their existence within the
host party is based on mutual tolerance, institutionalized factions can make a
significant contribution to the aggregation, integration and representation of
societal interests.
As indicated above, in some cases factionalism is closely associated with
clientelistic relationships between a political patron and his followers (clients).
In fact, clientelism remains a widespread phenomenon in large parts of the
developing world and its influence on the formation and institutionalization of
parties and party systems cannot be denied. Most scholars regard clientelism as
inimical to party institutionalization as it prioritizes individual interests at the
expense of the party. Accordingly, Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 20) have
summarized the negative implications of clientelism for party institutionaliza-
tion, arguing that it ‘undermines rules and regularized procedures, reducing the
party constitution if there be one to a meaningless sham.’ However, the authors
also point out that in the context of party politics clientelism should not only be
understood in its traditional sense as a face-to-face relationship of personal
exchange between an individual patron and his followers (Scott 1972). Rather, a
party itself as a collective actor can be identified as a patron who offers and dis-
tributes to its electorate material or professional benefits such as government
posts or positions in the party bureaucracy. Perceived in this way, clientelism
may be seen as less threatening to the systemness of a party than in its tradi-
tional form (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 21).25
Decisional autonomy
Second, decisional autonomy, as conceptualized by Randall and Svåsand, looks
at the party’s relations with its external environment. Huntington (1968) and
Panebianco (1988) have both stressed the need for autonomy as a distinct
dimension of institutionalization, whereas Janda (1980) and Levitsky (1998)
have questioned the necessity to include the issue of autonomy in the context of
party institutionalization.26 The disagreement mainly revolves around hazy con-
ceptions of when a party is dependent on another economic, political or social
actor or when it is just closely linked to such an external sponsor. In other
words, it is not always sufficiently clear what autonomy actually means. For
Panebianco (1988: 55–6), crucial elements of autonomy are control over finan-
cial resources, domination of collateral organizations, a well-developed party
bureaucracy and the freedom to choose party leaders from within. On the other
hand, he maintains that a party that is dependent on external actors for the provi-
sion of financial, material or human resources is weakly institutionalized as the
party’s constituency might be more closely affiliated with the external actor than
with the party as such. But this view has been challenged by scholars like Jones
(1997) or Janda (1980), who argue that parties like Peron’s Partido Justicialista
(PJ) in Argentina or the British Labour Party reached a high degree of institu-
tionalization regardless of their close relations with the trade unions.
While acknowledging ambiguities in the concept of autonomy, Randall and
Svåsand, in their attempt to accommodate differing views on institutionalization,
have narrowed down the idea of autonomy to the crucial element of decision-
making processes. They concede that close links to external forces do not
necessarily weaken a party’s degree of institutionalization as long as the party is
still the dominant force in the relationship and as long as it is able to maintain ‘a
significant degree of decisional autonomy, or freedom from interference in
determining its own policies and strategies’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 14).
In fact, such links may even be conducive to party institutionalization, especially
in times of democratic transitions when newly formed parties are in need of
external sponsorship to counter the organizational advantages of the established
ruling party.
The idea of concentrating on decisional autonomy rather than organizational
autonomy in general is an innovative attempt to allow for a tightly focused
investigation of a party’s ability to forge its own destiny. Unfortunately,
however, Randall and Svåsand’s discussion of the subject matter falls short in a
number of aspects. First, they fail to mention a number of critically important
actors that have the potential to compromise a party’s decisional autonomy.
Second, they fail to acknowledge that it is not only actors, but also structural
factors that can limit a party’s decisional autonomy. And third, their focus on
decision-making processes rather than organizational autonomy as a whole
raises questions about the conceptualization of autonomy as an external dimen-
sion of party institutionalization. These issues are discussed in the following
paragraphs.
To begin with, Randall and Svåsand only mention three different actors that
can potentially compromise a party’s decisional autonomy. First, in countries
with strong class cleavages, trade unions have traditionally linked up with
Labour and communist parties and supported them with material and human
resources. In the context of Indonesia, for instance, the emergence of the Indone-
sian Communist Party (Partai Komunis Indonesia, PKI) as a strong political
force in the 1960s was at least facilitated by the party’s close ties with the
country’s largest trade-union federation (Mortimer 1974). Second, religious
organizations have more or less actively supported the founding of political
parties. Examples from Asia include India, where the radical Hindu organization
Rashtriya Sevak Sangh (RSS) was heavily involved in the establishment of the
Jan Sangh which was later revitalized as the Bharatiya Janata Party (BJP), and
Indonesia, where the Muslim organization Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), which itself
acted as a party for a limited time, sponsored the creation of the PKB.27 Third,
transnational party organizations like the Council of Asian Liberals and Demo-
crats or the Socialist International may act as external sponsors as they assist
parties in democratizing countries through workshops, training and funding.
However, since programmatic parties are rare in large parts of the developing
world, so far only a very few parties are linked through these networks and the
impact of the assistance programmes, both in ideological and organizational
terms, seems to be fairly limited (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 23).
Apart from these three examples, however, there are several other societal
forces that have the potential to constrain a party’s decisional autonomy. The
role of the military, for instance, cannot be excluded from this discussion. While
in most countries the armed forces are not directly associated with party politics,
there are certainly examples where the military has openly intervened in the
formation of political parties. Africa has been particularly notorious in this
regard (Sahli 2003: 19–27), but countries in other parts of the world have also
been affected as the Milli Demokrati Partisi in Turkey (1983) or the Samakkhi
Tham Party in Thailand (1992) show.28 In Indonesia, the military was involved
in the formation of the short-lived League of Supporters of Indonesian
Independence (Ikatan Pendukung Kemerdekaan Indonesia, IPKI) in the 1950s.
Later, of course, it initiated the establishment of Golkar.
At the other end of the extreme there are also various political parties who act
or have acted as official or semi-official representatives of separatist or terrorist
movements. Sinn Fein in Northern Ireland and Herri Batasuna in Spain are but
two examples of parties that cannot be separated from the terrorist organizations
behind them.29 In Indonesia, it was long considered to be impossible to establish
such parties because organizations such as the Acehnese Independence Move-
ment (Gerakan Aceh Merdeka, GAM) or the Free Papua Movement (Organisasi
Papua Merdeka, OPM) used to be regarded as enemies of the state by the
Indonesian authorities. With the signing of the 2005 Memorandum of Under-
standing between the Indonesian government and GAM, however, circum-
stances have changed. In fact, it now seems almost inevitable that not only one,
but several political parties affiliated with GAM will emerge in the run-up to the
2009 general election (International Crisis Group 2007: 3).30
Finally, the increasing importance of money as a pivotal factor in politics has
opened up new space for organized or individual business actors to pursue their
interests through political parties. In some cases, business tycoons simply form
their own parties and use them as a political vehicle,31 but business actors more
often act behind the scenes, from where they influence decision-making
processes within parties without being formally involved in a particular party.
However, it should be noted here that the growing influence of capital is not
necessarily tied to the presence of businessmen. Any affluent actor can interfere
in politics, regardless of his or her profession. Therefore, it is suggested here that
in order to determine a party’s degree of decisional autonomy it is imperative to
not only look at the influence of specific actors or organizations, but also at the
structural power of capital. As we shall see in Chapters 4 and 7, decision-
making processes in Indonesian parties are often determined by financial consid-
erations rather than policy concerns. To make matters worse, these decisions are
often made within extremely small elite circles in Jakarta, which deprives the
party as a collective political organization of its decisional autonomy.
Of course, it could be argued that every large social organization needs to
concentrate its decision-making processes at the top of its organizational infra-
structure if it wants to operate effectively and efficiently. This natural trend
towards oligarchy was already highlighted by Michels (1959) a long time ago.
However, patterns of oligarchy in many Indonesian parties tend to be particu-
larly pronounced, not least because they are often compounded by the absence
of accountability mechanisms and consultation processes between the party elite
and the grassroots. Parties with strong and charismatic leaders, in particular,
often neglect the party organization. Such problems indicate that a party’s deci-
sional autonomy can be encroached upon by external actors and also by
members of the party itself. An exclusive conceptualization of decisional auto-
nomy as an external dimension of party institutionalization therefore appears
somewhat inappropriate.
Value infusion
Turning to the attitudinal dimension of party institutionalization, value infusion
concerns a party’s popular base and the members’ identification with and attach-
ment to the party. In order to institutionalize in this dimension a party needs to
acquire a reasonably large core group of followers (members or supporters)
which commits itself to the party not only for its own self-interest but also for
the sake of the party itself. Any party that claims to represent the aspirations of a
certain societal group needs to be or become thoroughly infused with the social,
cultural or political values of this particular group. If successful, the party even-
tually ‘becomes valuable in and of itself, and its goals become inseparable and
indistinguishable from it’ (Panebianco 1988: 53). The creation of a distinctive
value system can significantly contribute to party cohesion as it provides the
basis for strong ties between the party as an organization and its members and
supporters.
While sources of value infusion can be manifold, Randall and Svåsand
(2002a: 21) note that ‘[v]alue infusion is likely to be strongest where the polit-
ical party is identified with a broader social movement.’ In a Western European
context this correlation was famously described by Lipset and Rokkan (1967)
who identified the four classic social cleavages class, religion, region and the
rural/urban divide as key engines behind the formation and consolidation of
Western European mass parties. To a certain extent these cleavages can also be
found in the countries of the developing world, with the centre/periphery divide
and religion being the most salient of the classic four.
Although the mere existence of cleavages does not necessarily entail the
formation of political parties along these cleavages, some Asian and African
countries have indeed witnessed the formation of regional and religious parties.
In addition, ethnic parties have also gained increasing prominence in recent years
(Reilly 2006, Rüland 2001),32 particularly but not only in Latin America where
indigenous movements have formed a number of successful political parties (Van
Cott 2005). While some observers see the potential contribution of such parties to
democratic development in a positive light (Madrid 2005), others are more scepti-
cal.33 Gunther and Diamond (2001: 23–4), for instance, have argued that ‘the
ethnic party’s particularistic, exclusivist, and often polarizing political appeals
make its overall contribution to society divisive and even disintegrative.’
Many governments in the developing world apparently share Gunther and
Diamond’s view and have resorted to a variety of means to contain the influence
of not only ethnic, but also religious and regional parties. While in some cases
existing parties were simply banned (e.g. Masyumi in Indonesia, the Islamic Sal-
vation Front (FIS) in Algeria or the Refah Party in Turkey), a more frequently
used tool has been the creation of institutional regulations that seek to weaken
the influence of exclusivist parties. As Reilly (2006, 2007) has shown, such
political engineering measures can come in various disguises, ranging from
electoral reform (for example the introduction of majoritarian electoral systems
or electoral thresholds) to the formulation of requirements for parties to have a
nationwide organizational apparatus. Many governments in the Asia-Pacific
region have engaged in at least some form of political engineering in recent
years, and while the main motivations have differed from country to country, it
seems that an important consideration has always been to contain the polariza-
tion and fragmentation of the party system.34
An inevitable and indeed often deliberately intended side effect of such meas-
ures is the strengthening of broad-based electoralist mainstream parties which,
ironically, often lack any kind of distinctive values. In many ways, these parties
resemble European-style catch-all parties with their often vague and superficial
programmatic platforms, but despite the ‘drastic reduction of [. . .] ideological
baggage’ (Ufen 2006: 23) many parties in the developing world have actually
crafted their own distinct identity based on values which may not be linked to
traditional cleavages, but which are nonetheless powerful tools for the mobil-
ization of members and supporters.
Randall (2001), for example, points to the importance of nationalism as a
driving force of party formation in many African countries. In Asia, the Indian
Congress Party and the Indonesian National Party (Partai Nasional Indonesia,
PNI) are further examples of aggregative, broad-based parties whose value infu-
sion was primarily based on nationalism as a unifying ideology against the colo-
nial powers. But nationalism as a source of value infusion is not confined to the
period prior to and at the point of gaining independence. As the legacies of colo-
nialism loom large in lengthy and often complicated nation-building processes,
nationalism has never completely lost its momentum. On the contrary, in more
recent years the negative consequences of globalization and free trade have trig-
gered a resurgence of nationalist sentiment, often manifested in fierce anti-
Western rhetoric. This trend is evident not only in developing countries but also
in some parts of Eastern Europe (Von Beyme 1997).
Nationalism, however, rarely serves as a sole basis of value infusion. Often
nationalist ideas are conveyed through a charismatic leader, so that the real
sources of identification with and attachment to the party may blur. For example,
the Indian Congress Party and the Indonesian PNI owed their support not only to
the rising forces of nationalism, but also to the appeal of their charismatic
leaders, Nehru and Sukarno. The two parties are proof that under special circum-
stances even personalism and clientelism can serve as sources of value infusion.
In India, the Nehru family continued to dominate politics long after the death of
Nehru, and in Indonesia the legacy of Sukarno was revived in the 1990s by his
daughter Megawati Sukarnoputri. Her rise to the presidency – and her continu-
ing popularity after the loss of it – show that the combination of personalism and
nationalism can still be a very potent political force.
Finally, in many countries that have experienced periods of authoritarianism
another historical factor that has significantly shaped the processes of party
formation is the dividing line between forces aligned with or sympathetic to the
old regime (‘status quo’) on the one hand, and reformist forces on the other hand
(Randall 2001).35 Von Beyme (1997) also mentions this additional cleavage in
his discussion of the new democracies in Eastern Europe, but he also stresses the
transitional character of this cleavage, implying that it is only a temporary phe-
nomenon that does not qualify as a long-term source of value infusion.
Reification
The last dimension of party institutionalization, reification, reflects the ability of
a party to establish itself as a household name in the political discourse of a
country. For Janda (1980: 19) reification is the defining characteristic of an insti-
tutionalized party. He claims that ‘an institutionalized party is one that is reified
in the public mind so that “the party” exists as a social organization apart from
its momentary leaders.’ This definition clearly takes up notions of value infu-
sion, but the important point in Janda’s concept is that reification deals more
with the perception of the party by the wider society than with the party’s rela-
tions with its core constituency.
In order to establish itself in the public imagination, a party needs to create
and develop effective means of interaction with the public. Therefore, regular
access to the mass media is a vital necessity for any party that wants to dissemi-
nate its political message to the public. Contemporary politics is conveyed to the
people primarily through the mass media and no party nowadays can afford to
be shunned by the media. Similarly important for reification is the efficient use
of well-known symbols and labels as they serve as tools for the public to struc-
ture their electoral preferences. As Mainwaring (1999: 12) has argued, ‘[i]t
would be impossible to begin every election anew, with no established party
labels, without shortcuts that tell the electorate who is who.’ Voters naturally
associate certain expectations with political parties. But usually only a small
minority knows exact details about the programmes and policies of the parties.
Instead, most people tend to ‘rely on symbols and organizations to orient their
conceptual universe’ (Mainwaring and Scully 1995: 3). A party’s name plays a
crucial role in this regard but traditional symbols, colours or catchy slogans can
also be effective means to secure a place in the minds of the people.
Reification is a long process and can only be achieved in time. As Randall
and Svåsand (2002a: 23) put it, ‘party reification is finally and importantly a
function of longevity, the party’s ability to survive over time.’ Needless to say
that in countries that have just recently embarked on the path of democrat-
ization, reification is still a non-issue for many parties. While democratic trans-
itions often bring about a mushrooming of new political parties, normally only a
very few survive the initial euphoria surrounding the founding elections. Com-
pared to the multitude of newcomers, those parties that already existed either
before or under the ousted authoritarian regime enjoy a significant advantage in
terms of reification. Interestingly, this can be true for both former regime and
former opposition parties. In some cases, for instance, parties that had been
banned under authoritarian rule have shown an amazing resilience in the face of
prolonged repression. The African National Congress (ANC) in South Africa or
the PJ in Argentina are just two examples of parties, which have successfully
retained their place in the public consciousness during long phases of authorit-
arian rule. In Eastern Europe, on the other hand, ‘historical parties’ (Segert and
Machos 1995) were far less successful. Instead, the successor parties of the for-
merly hegemonic communist parties emerged surprisingly strongly in many
post-communist elections, especially in Russia (March 2002) and in the former
‘national consensus regimes’ (Ishiyama 1997) of Poland and Hungary.
The virtues of multidimensional models

The suggested model combines all important aspects of party institutionalization
and integrates them into one comprehensive analytical framework. Accordingly,
party institutionalization is a process that takes place in several dimensions, all
of which need to be analysed and evaluated separately.36 Levitsky (2003: 16–17)
has objected that research based on such multidimensional models can have ana-
lytical costs when organizations reach different degrees of institutionalization in
the individual dimensions, but arguably such problems can be avoided if the
results in the respective dimensions are not just simply aggregated but accu-
rately distinguished before final conclusions are drawn.
Of course, it is almost natural that parties do not institutionalize simultan-
eously in all dimensions. In practice certain parties may be highly institutional-
ized in one dimension while remaining weakly institutionalized in another
(Morlino 1998).37 But that does not mean that any of the four dimensions can
simply be omitted from the analysis. As a matter of fact, theoretical models
hardly ever match complex realities, but the more complex the model the better
its chances of reflecting and explaining reality accurately. The conduct of one-
dimensional research only leads to highly contrasting assessments of institution-
alization as exemplified by the case of the Argentinian PJ. This party has been
the focus of much scholarly research but there are huge discrepancies in the
assessments of institutionalization. Jones (1997: 272) for example characterizes
the party as ‘highly institutionalized,’ whereas Levitsky (2003: 3) and McGuire
(1997: 1) have described it as ‘weakly institutionalized’.
Party institutionalization versus party system institutionalization

The most significant feature of Randall and Svåsand’s institutionalization model,
however, is not its multidimensionality (Huntington’s and Mainwaring’s models
are also multidimensional), but its clear differentiation between party institution-
alization and party system institutionalization. As was mentioned earlier, many
authors fail to make this distinction, seemingly assuming an automatic interde-
pendence between the two. Yet this assumption is erroneous. As Randall and
Svåsand (2002a: 8) stress, ‘[p]arty system institutionalization is the outcome of a
range of developments, only some of which have to do directly with the con-
stituent parties themselves.’ While the authors concede that requirements for
party institutionalization and party system institutionalization are in many
respects ‘mutually supportive or at least compatible’ (Randall and Svåsand
2002a: 8), they suggest analysing party system institutionalization in four dis-
tinct categories, similarly structured as the party institutionalization model
(shown in Figure 2.2).
First, continuity and stability are key elements of any competitive institution-
alized party system.38 In the words of Mainwaring and Scully (1995: 4–5),
‘where [. . .] stability does not exist, institutionalization is limited.’ In fact, some
authors regard stability as so crucially important that they have limited their
analysis of party system institutionalization to just this component (Lindberg
2007). To a certain extent, stability is a direct result of party institutionalization
as only a stable number of institutionalized parties can prevent the system from
becoming highly volatile. As long as the parties themselves are weakly
institutionalized, disintegration and re-formation of new parties will remain
common features of the party system. Consequently, volatility will remain high
and the party system is unlikely to stabilize. However, continuity and stability
do not only depend on institutionalized parties. Equally important are
Inter nal
Contin uity and Mutual acceptance

stability of the par ties
Str uctur al Attitudinal

Relations betw een Apreciation b y
the par ty system and the elector ate
the state
Exter nal
Figure 2.2 Dimensions of party system institutionalization (source: adapted from

Randall and Svåsand 2001: 91).
well-administered political institutions such as the form of government
(presidential or parliamentary) and especially the electoral system (majoritarian/
plurality or proportional representation). Thus, the nature of the electoral institu-
tions should always be considered in the analysis of stability as a component of
party system institutionalization.
Majoritarian or plurality systems are generally regarded as more conducive to
the stability of party systems because they tend to foster the emergence of two-
party systems. Proportional representation, however, which more often leads to
multi-party systems and is therefore regarded as fairer than majoritarian
systems, does not necessarily rule out stable party systems.39 In view of the
necessity for electoral systems to not only provide stability, but also fair and
equal representation of all segments of society, Merkel (1998) dismisses both
pure majoritarian/plurality and pure proportional representation systems as not
suitable for democratizing countries. Instead, he argues in favour of either pro-
portional representation with significant thresholds or mixed electoral systems
with an ‘almost equally weighted combination of PR [proportional representa-
tion] and plurality election elements’ (Merkel 1998: 51).40
Second, an institutionalized party system has to be protected from arbitrary
interference from the state. According to Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 8),
prospects for party system institutionalization improve when the individual parties
‘are supported by public measures, such as public subsidies, access to media and
legal protection for their existence, for instance in the constitution or in ordinary
laws.’ However, in many countries of the developing world these measures are far
from guaranteed and even where the regulations exist, their implementation is
often poor. This aspect of party system institutionalization is further complicated
by the fact that state actors are often directly involved in the formation of new
parties in order to ensure preferential treatment for their own parties (Mainwaring
1999). The Indonesian party system during the New Order was a prime example
of a system that was weakly institutionalized in this dimension.
The third dimension, mutual acceptance of the parties that constitute the
system, is a critical precondition for parties to accept the possibility of electoral
defeat. In times of transition sentiments of suspicion and mistrust tend to run
high, especially towards parties that are believed to maintain links to old regime
elites. However, for a party system to institutionalize, the individual parties that
make up the system need to fully respect the system and ‘accept each other as
legitimate competitors’ (Randall and Svåsand 2001: 92). If this does not happen,
the validity of electoral results will constantly be challenged and parties may not
accept the role of parliamentary opposition.
Finally, the party system should be appreciated by the electorate. If parties
and the competitive electoral process as a means of electing a legislature and a
government are respected as taken-for-granted institutions, the party system as a
whole can be regarded as institutionalized. However, in many democratizing
countries political parties are among the least trusted political actors.41 While
similar findings have also been noted for many Western democracies (Listhaug
and Wiberg 1995), the implications for newly democratizing countries are far
more negative as widespread mistrust in the party system increases the possibil-
ity of an authoritarian backlash.
The potential perils of uneven party institutionalization

Implicit in most concepts of party system institutionalization, including Randall
and Svåsand’s, is the notion that prospects for a party system to institutionalize
are likely to be enhanced by the institutionalization of individual parties. Yet
Randall and Svåsand are to be credited for pointing out quite explicitly that there
is no automatism between the two issues. On the contrary, under special circum-
stances party institutionalization may even be counterproductive to party system
institutionalization and consequently to democratic consolidation. One example
concerns the aspect of value infusion and its relation to party system institution-
alization. As Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 9) rightly mention, cross-party
competition could be restricted and the mutual respect and acceptance among
parties severely undermined if large parts of the population identify with parties
that are based on highly polarizing religious or ethnic values. The stronger and
more institutionalized these exclusivist parties grow, the higher the danger of the
democratic party system being dismantled. It is therefore hardly surprising that
many countries have engaged in all sorts of political engineering in order to
minimize the threats posed by such parties.
A second example, which is of particular interest to this book, is the uneven
character of party institutionalization in times of democratic transitions. The
commonly held view that party institutionalization is a crucial precondition for
democratic consolidation is based on the assumption that all parties enjoy a
relatively even degree of institutionalization. In established democracies, this
may be true. In democratizing countries, however, degrees of party
institutionalization often vary significantly between new parties and those with
close connections to the preceding authoritarian regime (Wallis 2003). Espe-
cially in the early stages of a transition period, financial, material and human
resources are often distributed very unevenly and this has implications for party
institutionalization, particularly in the dimension of systemness where imbal-
ances are likely to provide considerable advantages for former regime parties.
Indeed, the different degrees of institutionalization between old and new
parties tend to be most clearly visible in the dimension of systemness where new
opposition parties that have emerged during the transition often lack a strong
organizational infrastructure and their inexperienced members rarely possess the
professional skills that are needed to handle parliamentary or government
affairs. On the other hand, old regime parties frequently capitalize on the exist-
ence of a well-organized party apparatus, better access to financial resources or
the political shrewdness of their leading cadres. Organizational superiority has
been named as one of the main reasons for the strong performance of ex-
communist parties in Poland, Hungary or Russia (March 2002, Waller 1995),
and it has also been an important factor in the transformation of other former
hegemonic parties like the Taiwanese KMT or the Mexican PRI. While the
KMT’s Leninist party structure resembles those of the Eastern European com-
munist parties, the PRI is a different case as it was never a state party per se but
rather an ‘extension of the state machine and its tame corporatist organizations.
It existed to reward loyalty and not to compete for power’ (Philip 2002: 140).
Nevertheless, in order to fulfil this ‘primary goal’ (Harmel and Janda 1994), the
PRI was equipped with vast human, material and financial resources that, for a
long time, made it difficult for the opposition to challenge the PRI’s hegemony.
In the other dimensions of party institutionalization, former regime parties
may also enjoy advantages, but to what extent that occurs – or whether it occurs
at all – often depends on the nature of the preceding regime. As a matter of fact,
even before the emergence of recent phenomena such as competitive or electoral
authoritarianism, non-democratic regimes came in all shapes and sizes. It is
therefore important to remember that ‘not all authoritarian regimes are alike’
(Rigger 2000: 143).42 In military-dominated or highly personalistic regimes, for
example, ruling parties often possess little-to-no decisional autonomy and few
meaningful political values. Once democratization commences in such regimes,
the former regime parties may try to reinvent themselves by embracing demo-
cracy and denouncing their connections to the armed forces, but their prospects
for institutionalization in the dimensions of decisional autonomy and value infu-
sion are likely to remain low.
On the other hand, transitions from authoritarianism in regimes where a
strong political party formed an integral part of the power structure can be
expected to produce very different outcomes with regards to party institutional-
ization in these two dimensions. The Russian communist party (Communist
Party of the Russian Federation, CPRF) or the Taiwanese KMT are but two
examples of former regime parties that were and continue to be highly
autonomous and infused with strong political values. In the case of the CPRF,
for instance, the party’s unrelenting commitment to communism after the end of
the Cold War has helped it keep its place in the post-Soviet party system as it
continues to benefit from people’s enduring attachment to communism as an
identity-providing ideology (March 2002, Miller and White 1998).43
As far as reification is concerned, former regime parties are most likely to
enjoy comparative advantages in countries where the authoritarian regime did not
allow opposition parties to operate. Under such circumstances new parties
founded during or after the transition often face an uphill battle to establish them-
selves in the public consciousness. This task is made even more difficult if old
regime elites continue to maintain control over key means of communication like
the mass media. In Taiwan, for instance, where opposition parties were banned
until 1986, their legalization did not immediately provide them with equal
opportunities to disseminate their political programme. Most of the country’s TV
stations were directly or indirectly owned by the ruling KMT so that media
coverage continued to be biased in the KMT’s favour for several years after the
initiation of the transition to democracy. Only with the introduction of cable TV
in the mid-1990s, was more neutral and critical coverage finally made possible,
and today the opposition also owns its own media outlets (Chu 1999).
Generally, opposition parties have much better prospects of establishing
themselves in the public mind if they have been allowed to operate during the
authoritarian period. In Mexico, for example, the oldest opposition party was
founded back in 1939, and other opposition parties existed throughout the era of
hegemonic PRI rule. Under these circumstances, reification is not really an issue
of inequality, even though advantages for the ruling party may be discernible in
rural areas.44 In addition, it should also be noted that reification may also offer
advantages to the opposition in countries where repression under the authorit-
arian regime was extremely harsh. In this case, name recognition may backfire
for old regime parties as their discredited names, symbols and logos could
trigger such a strongly negative reaction by the public that this particular party
may be forced into a low-profile role.
Final remarks
In sum, transitions from authoritarian rule can, depending on the characteristics
of the outgoing authoritarian regime and the nature of the actual transition
process, produce situations in which political parties that compete for power in
the new political environment are not evenly institutionalized. This unevenness
is often particularly pronounced in the dimension of systemness where old
regime parties tend to enjoy vastly superior access to financial, material and
human resources. Moreover, former regime parties also tend to have advantages
in the dimension of reification as new parties often have difficulties matching the
high levels of name recognition of their widely known competitors.
If this unevenness is highly pronounced and perpetuated for a long time, it
may have negative implications for the institutionalization of the party system as
a whole. Particularly vulnerable are the internal dimensions of stability and
mutual acceptance, but the appreciation by the electorate may also remain low if
old elites continue to control access to power. By jeopardizing party system
institutionalization, uneven party institutionalization is also likely to further pro-
tract the overall transition to democracy because the competitiveness and fair-
ness of elections might be compromised. Therefore, former regime parties might
have to de-institutionalize first before the party system can become a level
playing field. At the same time, however, it is equally important that new parties
take active steps towards their own institutionalization so that they can actually
benefit from the ensuing de-institutionalization of the former regime parties. If
new parties remain passive, they are unlikely to become capable of challenging
the dominance of the former regime party.
Conclusion
This chapter has provided the theoretical framework which will guide the empir-
ical discussion in the following sections. The twin purpose of this chapter has
been to emphasize the importance of political parties for processes of demo-
cratic consolidation and to highlight the necessity to distinguish between party
institutionalization and party system institutionalization as two distinct theo-
retical concepts. From the various institutionalization models developed by other
scholars, Randall and Svåsand’s model was chosen as the most suitable frame-
work for this book because it was specifically designed as a tool to analyse the
institutionalization of individual political parties rather than the party system.
Political parties remain, despite widespread dissatisfaction with their
performance, at the centre of democratic politics. Nearly all established demo-
cracies in the world feature a number of institutionalized parties that operate in
institutionalized party systems. In the developing world, however, parties with
broadly accepted and widely applied formal rules and regulations are an excep-
tion rather than the norm, and there is a growing awareness in academic circles
that this lack of institutionalization can at least partly explain why so few coun-
tries that initiated transitions from authoritarianism in the 1980s and 1990s have
moved decisively towards democratic consolidation. In specific circumstances,
democracy may in fact thrive without institutionalized parties, but as Randall
(2006: 31) declared so succinctly, ‘institutionalization helps’ because it
enhances prospects for stability in the party system and often improves the
chances for parties to accept electoral defeat.
Having said that, the preceding discussion has also pointed out that if party
institutionalization is very uneven in character, it can actually be harmful to
party system institutionalization as well as to democratic consolidation as a
whole. Where former regime parties can monopolize access to crucial resources
to such an extent that they can not only maintain a strong position in the post-
authoritarian party system but even dictate the course of the transition, prospects
for democratic consolidation are likely to be compromised because elections
will be lacking in fairness and competitiveness.
The following chapters will utilize these theoretical findings and apply them
to the case of Indonesia where the former regime party Golkar continues to play
a formidable role in the post-New Order era. Four topical chapters on each
dimension of party institutionalization and one additional comparative chapter
on the other main parties’ degrees of institutionalization will help answer the
question whether Golkar’s enduring strength can indeed be explained as a result
of uneven party institutionalization and whether the party’s strong position poses
a threat to party system institutionalization and democratic consolidation in
Indonesia.
3 Systemness
Deconstructing the myth of Golkar’s
party machinery
Akbar Tandjung has not succeeded in changing the character of Golkar. He has
been naïve and completely underestimated the party’s thirst for power.
(Salim Said, Interview, 3 February 2005)
Introduction
In June 1999 Golkar contested the first competitive election in its history. Given
the artificially constructed election results during the New Order, few observers
had dared to predict the outcome of this election,1 but arguably many experts
were surprised to see the former regime party finishing second with 22.44 per
cent of the vote. After the election, a frequently heard explanation for the ‘relat-
ively good performance of Golkar’ (Suryadinata 2002: 103)2 was that the former
regime party owed its success primarily to its superior organizational apparatus
(Budiman 1999, Kingsbury 2002, Suryadinata 2002). Five years later, Golkar
returned to the top of the voting tally in the 2004 election, and yet again
observers pointed to the party’s massive political machinery (mesin politik) as
the main reason for the party’s victory.
The ‘victory,’ however, had a bittersweet aftertaste, for the result of 21.58
per cent was a far cry from the 30 per cent the party had been expected to poll
(Lembaga Survei Indonesia 2003). Moreover, compared to 1999 Golkar had
actually lost votes and only emerged on top of the voting tally because of the
disastrous performance of Megawati Sukarnoputri’s PDI-P. Thus, rather than a
demonstration of power the 2004 legislative election was more of an indicator
that Golkar’s party machinery may actually not be as strong as many comment-
ators seem to assume. The limitations became even more obvious in the sub-
sequent presidential elections, where Golkar and the candidates it officially
supported – Wiranto in the first round, Megawati in the second round – failed
to prevent the victory of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and his running mate
Jusuf Kalla who, ironically, was a Golkar figure and would later become party
chairman.
The events in 2004 have raised questions about the real scope and the
efficiency of Golkar’s party machinery or, to use a more neutral term, its
36 Systemness
organizational apparatus. In fact, the results of the various elections revealed
that Golkar is actually facing a number of potentially serious challenges, and
that its alleged superiority in some aspects of systemness is no longer uncon-
tested. This chapter will draw attention to these challenges as it examines the
underlying dynamics behind Golkar’s party apparatus. Particular attention will
be paid to questions related to the upholding of internal coherence at the national
as well as the local level, the adjustment of vertical communication patterns to
the increasingly localized political environment in Indonesia, and the party’s
ability to generate sustainable financial resources. The analysis will show that
while Golkar does still possess a number of invaluable assets in the dimension
of systemness, the party also has some remarkable institutional weaknesses,
most of which are directly related to the prevalence of strongly embedded infor-
mal patterns of communication and decision-making.
Significantly, both Golkar’s strengths and weaknesses are direct con-
sequences of the party’s history as the hegemonic party during the New Order.
Therefore, it is imperative to start the analysis in this chapter with a brief recap
of Golkar’s genesis and its subsequent development during the Suharto era. The
discussion then moves on to review the institutional changes that were brought
about in 1998 by the so-called New Paradigm, before focusing on a systematic
analysis of organizational developments during the Akbar Tandjung era
(1998–2004). Among the issues discussed in greater detail are the position of the
party leader vis-à-vis his party, the impact of informal institutions on party
coherence, as well as patterns of fundraising. While the focus is mainly on the
national level, the chapter also includes information on the local politics of
South Sulawesi in order to add further weight to the argument.
Golkar’s genetic model and organizational developments

during the New Order: a brief historical overview
The official history of Golkar begins on 20 October 1964, when leading figures
of the Indonesian army created an obscure organization called ‘Joint Secretariat
of Functional Groups’ (Sekretariat Bersama Golongan Karya, Sekber Golkar).
Founded in order to counterbalance the increasing influence of the PKI, the
organization remained largely ineffective in its early years, but quickly rose to
prominence after Indonesia’s first president Sukarno handed over power to
General Suharto in 1966. Having promised to hold elections soon after the
change of government, Suharto and his chief strategist Ali Murtopo decided to
‘hijack’ (Elson 2001: 187) Golkar for a new mission: to become the electoral
vehicle of the New Order regime.3
The genetic model and the first New Order election in 1971
Once the decision to use Golkar for electoral purposes had been made, Suharto
and his aides wasted little time in devising a systematic strategy to ensure a
comfortable win for Golkar. While the other parties were constantly being
Systemness 37
harassed by the army and intelligence agencies,4 an extensive patronage system
was developed for Golkar in order to secure huge financial resources for its elec-
tion campaign. According to Ward (1974: 83), by early 1970 Golkar had
emerged as the ‘greatest source of patronage, greatest provider of facilities,
greatest distributor of offices, greatest procurer and supplier of finance’. Accord-
ingly, after an extended campaign which Liddle (1978: 183) described as
‘heavy-handed on the extreme’ Golkar won the first New Order elections in July
1971 by a landslide of 62.8 per cent.
In the aftermath of the election further steps were taken to consolidate
Golkar’s hegemonic position. First, Golkar’s grip on the bureaucracy was tight-
ened with the creation of the so-called Civil Servants’ Corps of the Republic of
Indonesia (Korps Pegawai Republik Indonesia, Korpri) in December 1971.
Second, in 1973 the party system was simplified by merging all opposition
parties into two blocks, the Islamic PPP and the secular-nationalist PDI. Third,
the regime introduced the so-called ‘floating mass’ concept which called for the
depoliticization of the population and prohibited all parties from establishing
branches below the district level. As a consequence, Golkar then enjoyed
exclusive access to the large rural masses, not through party branches, but
because of its affiliation with Korpri, which enabled the party to control the
entire bureaucracy down to the lowest administration levels.
The various measures taken by the New Order regime before and after the
1971 elections had a significant impact on the development of Golkar’s genetic
model. As Panebianco (1988) had argued, a party’s prospects for institutional-
ization are likely to be most promising if its genetic model reflects a mixture of
both penetration and diffusion, although a higher degree of penetration is gener-
ally considered to be an advantage. Golkar’s prospects were therefore fairly
good as the special historical circumstances facilitated a very high degree of
penetration. Backed by the army, a coercive government apparatus and seem-
ingly inexhaustible patronage resources, Golkar rapidly spread its organizational
network from Jakarta all over the archipelago. While other parties were severely
restricted in their movements, Golkar was able to establish its presence even in
the remotest parts of the country.
Diffusion, on the other hand, was almost non-existent, simply because the
party did not have any stable roots in society. The organizational infrastructure
that was developed in the regions was not based on ‘spontaneous germination
from below’ (Panebianco 1988), but primarily on the dispensation of patronage
as the party offered lucrative jobs in the bureaucracy and other affiliated organi-
zations. However, it is significant to note that Golkar did not rely only on its
own network of patron–client connections. The party also endeavoured to
exploit pre-existing local clientelistic networks by accommodating influential
local leaders into the party apparatus.5 These leaders then took over important
dual functions: on the one hand they acted as brokers for the party, while on the
other hand they remained patrons to their own clients in their old, established
local networks. As Scott (1972: 96) noted, ‘[s]uch a role combination is not only
possible, but is empirically quite common.’6
38 Systemness
Within just a few years Golkar grew from an insignificant and incoherent
amalgamate of small-scale, army-sponsored organizations into a formidable
political machine that fulfilled exactly the functions that Randall (1988) has
identified in her book on political parties in the developing world. First, Golkar
enhanced the regime’s legitimacy by winning the quinquennial general elec-
tions. Even though these elections were little more than a ‘useful fiction’ (Liddle
1996), they were still an effective instrument in providing the regime with a
semi-democratic façade that pleased foreign donors. Second, Golkar endowed
the regime with an institutionalized command structure that enabled the state to
control all segments of society. Societal interests, formerly articulated by out-
spoken mass organizations, were canalized under the umbrella of corporatist
associations linked to Golkar while grassroots politics in the villages was
bureaucratized and thus brought under Golkar control. Third, Golkar also served
as a pool from which the state recruited new political personnel for positions at
the top executive level. From 1978 on, all New Order cabinets always consisted
exclusively of Golkar members (Suryadinata 1989: 81).
Organizational transformation, weak leadership and manifestations

of factionalism
Despite initial success, Golkar’s organizational structure in these early years was
still fairly unconventional, not least because of the presence of Golkar’s found-
ing member organizations Kosgoro (Kesatuan Organisasi Serba Guna Gotong
Royong), MKGR (Musyawarah Kekeluargaan Gotong Royong) and Soksi
(Serikat Organisasi Karyawan Sosialis Indonesia), all of which enjoyed special
membership status as functional groups.7 First attempts to reduce their influence
were made in the run-up to Golkar’s first national congress in 1973, but it was
not before the mid-1980s that fundamental organizational changes were eventu-
ally implemented. During the chairmanship of Sudharmono (1983–8), a heavily
centralized command system with strict top-down decision-making processes
was introduced and membership via affiliated functional groups was abolished
in favour of individual membership.8 Moreover, the party initiated an unprece-
dented cadre recruitment programme which ushered in the gradual decline of the
military’s influence in Golkar as the programme focused predominantly on civil-
ians, especially former student activists and young businessmen.
Although Sudharmono was the driving force behind this transformation, it
should be noted that he was not a strong party leader. Ultimate power within
Golkar rested in the hands of Suharto who chaired the so-called Supervisory
Council (Dewan Pembina), an almighty body above the central executive board
(Dewan Pimpinan Pusat, DPP) which had the power not only to overturn pol-
icies and decisions made by the DPP, but also to temporarily freeze the DPP if
the existence of the organization was believed to be in danger.9 Furthermore, the
Dewan Pembina also enjoyed superior authority to decide the composition of
the personnel in all important party bodies (Suryadinata 1989: 109). Thus, the
position of party chairman actually carried far less weight in Golkar than in
Systemness 39
modern Western-style parties and generally all Golkar chairmen during the New
Order were relatively weak political figures under the tutelage of Suharto.
Nonetheless, in retrospect the brief Sudharmono era was a crucial turning
point in Golkar’s history, not only because of the drive towards professionaliza-
tion, but also because of the deterioration of factional divisions within the party.
Golkar had been a divided house since its very foundation, as epitomized in the
party’s unique three-way organizational structure (kepemimpinan tiga jalur),
consisting of the military, the bureaucracy and civilian politicians. Until the
appointment of Sudharmono as chairman, however, the divisions were kept in
check, simply because the military was too dominant to be challenged. But
during the Sudharmono era the pendulum swung more and more towards the
civilian forces, mainly because President Suharto grew increasingly concerned
about the ambitions of the then-commander-in-chief of the armed forces, Benny
Murdani.10 In fact, Suharto now deliberately fostered factionalism in Golkar in
order to prevent the emergence of independent power centres within the party.
Hence, Sudharmono had the full backing of the president when he embarked on
loosening ABRI’s grip on Golkar’s provincial chairmanships and weakening the
military’s power in parliament in the mid-1980s (Vatikiotis 1994: 238).
Another emerging trend during the Sudharmono era was the growing influ-
ence of younger party cadres with a background in Islamic organizations. The
beginning of this incremental ‘greening’ (penghijauan) process was symbolized
by people like Akbar Tandjung or Slamet Effendy Yusuf, who had previously
been leading activists in Islamic organizations such as the Islamic Student
Association (Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam, HMI) and Ansor, the youth wing of
Nahdlatul Ulama (NU). The swing towards Islam intensified in the 1990s,11 as
the military lost further influence in Indonesian politics in general and in Golkar
in particular. One person who benefited immensely from these developments
was B. J. Habibie, the enigmatic Technology Minister from South Sulawesi,
who gradually expanded his influence within Golkar in the early 1990s. Backed
by a number of key power brokers inside the party,12 Habibie not only orches-
trated the election of Information Minister Harmoko as the first civilian Golkar
chairman in 1993, but also succeeded in positioning some of his closest political
confidants like Marwah Daud Ibrahim, Fahmi Idris and Fadel Muhammad in the
party’s executive board.
With the military in decline, the only serious opposition to the growing influ-
ence of Habibie and his supporters came from a small group of Suharto cronies,
most notably the president’s eldest daughter Siti Hardianti Rukmana (‘Tutut’)
and the second son Bambang Trihatmodjo. In typical divide-and-rule fashion,
Suharto had promoted them to Golkar’s central executive board in 1993 in order
to counterbalance the increasing power of Habibie. Thus, the president had
opened up yet another factional cleavage and the party remained fiercely divided
until the very last days of the New Order. In the end, there were at least two
main groupings – Tim Enam and the Tutut Group – and countless sub-factions in
Golkar (Institut Studi Arus Informasi 1999). None of these groups, however,
ever reached the status of an institutionalized faction as defined by Beller and
40 Systemness
Belloni (1978). Coherence was weak and the glue that kept them together was
never based on common ideological goals, but rather on the self-interest of some
powerful party cadres.
Financial resources
The development of Golkar into a hegemonic party would not have been pos-
sible without access to seemingly endless financial resources. From the very
beginning, Suharto had made sure that Golkar would never be short of cash to
finance its massive election campaigns (Ward 1974). The most important instru-
ment to implement the acquisition of funds was the so-called ‘Eternal Work
Fund Foundation’ (Yayasan Dana Karya Abadi or Yayasan Dakab). This and
other obscure foundations were created with the primary aim of maintaining
financial security for Golkar,13 and they were controlled directly by Suharto and
a small group of members from the State Secretariat who decided how the
money would be distributed (Van Dijk 2001: 276).
The funds that were generated by Yayasan Dakab were used not only to
support the various day-to-day activities of Golkar, but also to bankroll the quin-
quennial election campaigns.14 The foundation itself was partly financed by
compulsory funds from Indonesia’s ever-growing corps of civil servants,15 who
were forced to make regular financial ‘contributions’ to the foundation (Tand-
jung 2007: 173). Moreover, Yayasan Dakab was also a major shareholder in
banks and companies affiliated to members of the Suharto family and cronies
like Liem Sioe Liong. Thus, throughout the New Order Golkar was blessed with
inexhaustible financial resources which were used to oil its patronage networks,
pay expensive election campaigns and bribe voters. None of these resources,
however, was generated by the party itself so that Golkar was set to face some
massive challenges to its financial sustainability once the New Order regime
crumbled.16
From Sabang to Merauke: assessing the territorial reach of

Golkar’s apparatus
As explained in the previous section, Golkar’s genetic model was not only
shaped by an almost ideal-type organizational development from the centre to
the regions, but also by massive structural advantages during the New Order.
While opposition parties were crippled by the Suharto regime, Golkar’s appar-
atus was spread systematically until it reached even the remotest village in
Indonesia’s sprawling archipelago. Today, Golkar’s presence can still be felt all
over the country. Yet, as this section will show, the party’s organizational infra-
structure is beginning to erode from the bottom up as new electoral institutions
have started to expose the porosity of Golkar’s frequently praised party
machinery.
Systemness 41
Golkar’s party apparatus: comprehensive, but built on a weak
foundation
Thanks to extremely favourable historical circumstances, Golkar is now a
party that is truly national in scope. Its nationwide appeal is reflected in the
results of the 2004 election where Golkar was the only party that managed to
win at least one parliamentary seat in every single province.17 Given the
absence of a charismatic national leader, Golkar, more than any other Indone-
sian party, relies primarily on its armada of local officials at the grassroots
level to achieve such a geographically widespread distribution of votes.
According to internal party documents quoted by Tandjung (2007: 115), this
armada consisted of more than 14 million cadres and ordinary members just
before the 2004 election,18 and even though these figures need to be treated
with extreme caution,19 it is fair to assume that Golkar’s membership base is
indeed huge.
Golkar’s members are organized in an impressive organizational apparatus.
When the party registered for the 2004 general election in April 2003, it claimed
to have 30 provincial branches, 374 regental branches and 3,936 sub-district
offices.20 At the end of the year, when all parties approved by the General Elec-
tion Commission (Komisi Pemilihan Umum, KPU) to contest the election had to
submit their lists of legislative candidates, Golkar was the only party to register
the maximum number of candidates.21 Shortly afterwards, all parties were
required to register their officially accredited election campaign officials and
again, Golkar submitted the longest list.22 By the time of the presidential con-
vention in April 2004, the number of Golkar’s provincial and regental branches
had already been updated in accordance with the new administrative landscape.
Provincial branches had risen to 32, while regental branches now stood at 421
(DPP Partai Golkar 2004a: 7). In December 2004, Golkar’s national party con-
gress was attended by delegates from 33 provincial branches and 440 regental
branches.
These figures clearly confirm that Golkar does indeed possess an all-
encompassing party infrastructure. Yet the naked figures hardly capture the
real extent of Golkar’s powerful presence in the regions. In reality, the above-
mentioned multitude of local party branches and their respective offices are
often little more than empty shells.23 On the local level, party activities are
almost non-existent outside election times (Fealy 2001, Soebhan 2003), and if
they take place at all, then usually not in officially designated party locations
but rather in local parliament buildings, public places or in the private houses
of party officials. This is where political deals are struck, where business con-
tracts are sealed and where connections between party officials and the
bureaucracy are strengthened. Often, private gatherings such as weddings,
birthdays or religious meetings are utilized to reaffirm existing bonds between
party and non-party actors. Party offices, on the other hand, are often deserted
and only fulfil the symbolic function of reminding the public of the party’s
presence.
42 Systemness
Beyond the party apparatus: the virtues and risks of
patron–clientelism
Interestingly though, it is precisely this kind of informal and basically non-
partisan character of local politics that accounts for much of Golkar’s strength
on the local level, especially in the Outer Islands. The influence of Golkar’s
party officials in these regions is mostly based on informal positions of tradi-
tional power rather than formal party posts. In other words, the real strength of
the former regime party is not grounded in the sheer number of its offices, but
rather in its ability to accommodate informal local power holders like tradi-
tional noblemen, wealthy businesspeople or religious dignitaries into the
party’s patronage networks. In fact, this has always been the major strength of
Golkar. Throughout its history, the party has exploited informal local power
structures to its own advantage and in many rural areas these patterns of
mutually beneficial cooperation initially changed fairly little after the fall of
Suharto.
In South Sulawesi, for example, traditionally powerful families like the Yasin
Limpo family, the Halid family, the Baramuli family or the Kalla family have
influenced local politics and business for decades. At the time of writing Syahrul
Yasin Limpo had just been elected as governor of South Sulawesi, his brother
was the bupati of Gowa district and members of the family occupied various
positions in local parliaments and the national legislature in Jakarta. According
to local journalists, the prestige of the Yasin Limpos is based primarily on ‘a lot
of money, a lot of followers and a lot of loyal preman (thugs).’24 And naturally,
all family members are Golkar cadres. In fact, some observers have gone so far
as to assert that at least in Gowa district ‘the Golkar party and the Limpo family
have virtually become one’ (Buehler and Tan 2007: 62).
For the party, families like the Yasin Limpos have always played a crucial
role as vote-getters because they represent the upper end of extensive patronage
networks that reach down to the remotest villages in South Sulawesi. By accom-
modating the key figures of these networks into the party apparatus, Golkar has
always secured large-scale electoral support since many villagers simply fol-
lowed the recommendations of their local leaders. Immediately after the fall of
Suharto, this pattern essentially remained the same. Few traditional leaders saw
a reason to switch their party affiliation as they still considered Golkar to be the
party that was best equipped to facilitate their own power ambitions.
In the run-up to the 2004 election, however, this perception had begun to
change. Arguably, Golkar was still the party with the best infrastructure, but
some local politicos apparently no longer regarded it as the best vehicle for their
personal power aspirations. Consequently, in the run-up to the April elections
numerous local dignitaries turned their backs on Golkar and defected to other
parties. The main reason for this volatile behaviour was a small but significant
change in the election law. In contrast to the previous elections, the 2004 ballot
papers not only featured party names and symbols, but full candidate lists with
photos. This suddenly opened up the possibility for smaller parties to recruit
Systemness 43
promising candidates who normally would have run for Golkar. As a party
member in Parepare complained:
Golkar has so many good people; it is quite difficult to get a high place on
its list of legislative candidates. At the same time, other parties do not have
enough candidates, so they approach you and offer you to become No. 1 on
their list. Many people who used to run for Golkar have accepted these
offers and have now entered parliament for one of the smaller parties. The
problem is, people here don’t vote for parties, they vote for their local
leaders.
(Golkar member from Parepare, private communication, 2 July 2004)
The statement shows that key arguments from Scott’s seminal 1972 article on
patron–clientelism are still relevant. Back then he had stipulated that ‘the capac-
ity of the regime [or, in this case, the Golkar Party] to keep its network intact
and win elections depends on its capacity to provide rewards for the lower tiers
of its structure at a constant or even expanding rate’ (Scott 1972: 113). Indeed,
throughout the New Order Golkar’s capacity in this regard had never been in
doubt. But with the end of the Suharto regime and especially with the introduc-
tion of new electoral rules for the 2004 election, the former regime party has
now partially lost this capacity, at least in the eyes of all those lower-ranking
cadres whose social prestige is not sufficient to compete with the power of the
Yasin Limpos, the Halids and the Baramulis for top positions on the party lists.
Without a doubt, even in 2004 Golkar still possessed massive patronage
resources, but it was no longer able to distribute these resources to the satisfac-
tion of its entire personnel. The unprecedented competitiveness of the new elect-
oral system had produced winners and losers in the candidate selection process,
and many of those who lost out during this process were simply unwilling to
accept their marginalization. Hence, they defected to other parties.
A very similar phenomenon could be observed during the first series of
pilkada, which was conducted from 2005 onwards. Previously, elections of gov-
ernors and bupatis had been conducted indirectly through local parliaments, but
in the process of Indonesia’s massive decentralization programme this election
modus was abolished in favour of direct elections. For Golkar, this electoral
reform has brought new problems as the party can no longer use its parliament-
ary majorities to push through its own candidates. What matters most in direct
elections is the personal appeal of individual candidates and not the infrastruc-
ture of powerful parties. Golkar had to acknowledge this political reality in
dozens of pilkada when its candidates lost heavily in regions where the party
had actually enjoyed strong victories in the parliamentary election.25 Even worse
than the actual defeat, however, was the fact that Golkar candidates often lost
against candidates who had long been known as Golkar cadres, too.
South Sulawesi is a case in point here. As mentioned before, and elaborated
in great detail by Buehler and Tan (2007), the Yasin Limpo family has long
been closely affiliated with Golkar. Despite the intimate connection between the
44 Systemness
family and the party, however, Syachrul Yasin Limpo had no reservations about
accepting the nomination for governor from a coalition of other parties when he
realized that Golkar was likely to renominate incumbent governor Amin Syam
for the 2007 election. Syachrul went on to win the election, leaving provincial
Golkar officials who had pinned their hopes on Syam out in the cold.26 Another
striking example of this trend of decreasing loyalties towards Golkar was the
gubernatorial election in North Sulawesi where, as Mietzner (n.d.) points out,
all five gubernatorial candidates had been affiliated with Golkar before the
polls but had sought alternative options after Sondakh [the incumbent gov-
ernor] had secured his re-nomination by the party. During the campaign, the
party split into several factions, with large sections supporting candidates
other than Sondakh.
The examples in the previous paragraphs illustrate that traditional patron–clien-

telism is still a defining feature of Golkar’s party apparatus, at least in those
areas where formal party structures remain weakly developed and where the
overall societal structure continues to be based on traditional, hierarchical rela-
tions of power. At the same time, however, they also demonstrate that Golkar’s
ability to act as an impersonal patron to local power holders can no longer be
taken for granted. To be sure, the party is likely to maintain its dominant posi-
tion in areas like South Sulawesi as long as it can provide the goods and posi-
tions that are requested by local power holders. In other words, as long as the
party can fulfil its functions as an impersonal patron, its clients will stay put. The
problem, however, is that the changing dynamics of electoral politics have made
it almost impossible for Golkar to keep everyone happy and loyal to the party.
Lower-ranking backbenchers started to jump ship when they saw their interests
better accommodated by smaller parties who could more easily offer access to
top positions on legislative lists. Similarly, governor and bupati hopefuls who
were unable to secure a nomination from Golkar have shown little hesitation in
accepting nominations from parties other than Golkar. Therefore, it can be con-
cluded that Randall and Svåsand’s argument that clientelism personified by a
party itself is less threatening to party cohesion is apparently flawed. Just like in
traditional face-to-face patron–client relationships, the patron’s failure to deliver
is punished with withdrawal of support. The negative consequences can be seen
in internal splits and defections and, eventually, in declining electoral support
for the party.27
Final remarks on Golkar’s organizational apparatus

There is no doubt that Golkar is a truly national party with an impressive territo-
rial reach. The former hegemonic party still possesses an organizational appar-
atus that spans the entire archipelago, and the election results in 1999 and 2004
have shown that this apparatus is still able to mobilize substantial support from
the Indonesian people. But the results – especially those in 2004 – have also
Systemness 45
shown that the party apparatus is built on a porous fundament which has gradu-
ally begun to erode from the bottom up. Given the absence of ideological values
that could provide strong incentives for people to remain loyal to Golkar, the
party has proven unable to prevent the defection of an increasing number of
local politicos who no longer see their interests protected by the former regime
party. During the legislative election, this incremental de-institutionalization
process was reflected in drastic losses for Golkar in large parts of Eastern
Indonesia. In South Sulawesi and Southeast Sulawesi, for instance, it lost more
than 20 per cent in 2004, and the party also lost heavily in West Nusa Tenggara
(–17.8 per cent), North Sulawesi (–17.2 per cent), Central Sulawesi (–16.0 per
cent), and Papua (–12.6 per cent). During the pilkada, defeats for Golkar candid-
ates in provinces like South Sulawesi, North Sulawesi or Papua, to name but a
few, have continued the trend. While these results cannot be explained exclus-
ively as a consequence of this de-institutionalization process, it is clear that the
creeping erosion of Golkar’s strength at the local level has indeed been a key
contributing factor.
In sum, this section has shown that, while Golkar still has a comprehensive
territorial reach, the party’s organizational apparatus is gradually losing its
strength in some parts of Indonesia. If this trend continues, it may have serious
implications for the former regime party. For decades, Golkar has owed much of
its strength to its armada of local officials, not only because it relied on them to
mobilize voters, but also because these local officials maintained the party’s
organizational coherence in the regions. After the end of the New Order, the role
of the lower-tier officials has started to change. In some areas, especially some
urban regions of Java and Sumatra, they are facing increasing difficulties in
mobilizing voters and maintaining organizational coherence because less and
less people are following what local leaders say. In other areas such as South
Sulawesi, such a maturation of the electorate has yet to commence, but even
here Golkar has been forced to deal with rapidly changing dynamics. Encour-
aged by new electoral institutions and a general empowerment of local politics
in the wake of Indonesia’s decentralization process, more and more local politi-
cos have started to seek their political fortunes with other parties as Golkar can
no longer guarantee exclusive access to lucrative patronage resources. Given the
prevalence of patron–clientelism in these areas, defection of influential local
leaders equals defection of voters and as a consequence, Golkar lost heavily in
South Sulawesi and other provinces in Eastern Indonesia.
The party and its leader: factionalism, assertive regional

cadres and the rise and fall of Akbar Tandjung
The increasing importance of local politics has implications not only at the local
level, but it also affects Golkar’s internal affairs at the national level. While parties
with strong charismatic leaders may still only be mildly affected by what is hap-
pening in the regions, this section will show that for an utterly non-personalistic
party like Golkar the effects of the changing dynamics of local politics can be felt
46 Systemness
even at the party headquarters in Slipi. This section will review the six-and-a-half-
year-long chairmanship of Akbar Tandjung (1998–2004) in order to illustrate how
factionalism, patron–clientelism and the growing assertiveness of local party
cadres have continuously undermined the authority of the party chairman. From
the very beginning, Akbar had been a disputed leader, and even though he tried
hard to consolidate his control over the party, his leadership was under constant
scrutiny from certain elements in the party. By early 2004, he seemed to have
staved off the challenge, but then he made a whole series of strategic errors which
eventually led to him being ousted as chairman in December 2004.28
The rise of Akbar Tandjung

When Akbar Tandjung rose to the chairman post in a hotly contested leadership
battle at Golkar’s 1998 extraordinary congress (Musyawarah Nasional Luar
Biasa, Munaslub),29 he found himself confronted with a party full of internal
frictions. Decades of orchestrated leadership successions and deliberately facilit-
ated factionalism had left Golkar rudderless and weak so that Akbar was forced
to begin his tenure with a comprehensive reshuffle of the DPP and the
parliamentary fraction in order to unify the ranks (Zenzie 1999: 253–4). His
actions were supported by then-president Habibie who regarded Akbar as an ally
in his bid for re-election at the 1999 session of the People’s Consultative Assem-
bly (Majelis Permusyawaratan Rakyat, MPR). But Akbar soon abandoned
Habibie, and when the assembly finally met Akbar threw his support behind the
eventual winner of the election, Abdurrahman Wahid (Mietzner 2000).
This manoeuvre had far-reaching consequences for the political career of
Akbar Tandjung. On the one hand, it paved the way for the Golkar chairman to
establish himself as a key power broker in Indonesian politics. Significantly,
Akbar had not only sidelined Habibie, who may have threatened his leadership
position in the future, but had also secured the prestigious post of DPR speaker
for himself.30 In his new double capacity as party chairman and house speaker,
he was now in a formidable position to assert his authority over the party and to
decisively influence Indonesian domestic politics in general. To most observers,
Akbar Tandjung’s rise to prominence came as little surprise as he had long been
regarded as one of the most capable politicians in Indonesia. Moreover, he had
been a loyal party soldier for more than 20 years.
Akbar Tandjung started his political career as a student leader in organi-
zations like KAMI (Kesatuan Aksi Mahasiswa Indonesia) or HMI. He joined
Golkar in 1977 and was directly ‘elected’ Member of Parliament later that year.
Once in the corridors of power, his reputation as a capable negotiator grew
quickly and so did his patronage networks as he expanded his influence into
various Golkar-affiliated organizations. In 1983, Akbar was appointed vice-
secretary general of Golkar’s central board. Until the end of the New Order he
served the party as a high-ranking member of the parliamentary fraction and as a
member of the almighty Supervisory Council (1988–98). Furthermore, he was
also given government responsibility in two of Suharto’s cabinets.31
Systemness 47
Despite the multitude of prestigious posts he held during the New Order,
Akbar Tandjung’s star only rose to real prominence in the post-Suharto era.
While posts and positions under Suharto were automatically limited in influence
owing to the overwhelming power of the president, the newly democratic system
eventually enabled Akbar to fully harness his outstanding political skills.
Although he did not take up ministerial posts in any of the post-Suharto cabi-
nets,32 his influence in shaping the newly emerging political system has been
immense, not least because of his strategic position in the centre of legislative
power.33
Akbar’s rise was aided by several loyal supporters from his far-flung patron-
age networks, most prominently from North Sumatra and the HMI alumni con-
nection. For example, experienced party stalwarts from Sumatra like Mahadi
Sinambela, Bomer Pasaribu, Rambe Kamarulzaman or Mohammad Hatta were
all included in the 1998 central board and later rewarded with other influential
positions in the cabinet, the party’s parliamentary fraction and affiliated party
organizations.34 Alumni of youth organizations like HMI and KNPI (Komite
Nasional Pemuda Indonesia, Indonesian National Youth Committee) were
placed in strategic positions in Golkar’s DPR fraction in order to secure Akbar’s
position at the top of the party.35 Additionally, Akbar constantly sought to
strengthen his ties with the party’s provincial branches. He tirelessly criss-
crossed the archipelago, opened provincial board meetings, attended social
activities (silaturahmi) and promoted loyal cadres to top party posts. Halfway
through his term, he had established a massive patronage network with a huge
reservoir of loyal clients who were determined to defend their patron against all
challenges.
Challenging Akbar: the emergence of the Iramasuka faction

And challenges there were. The first came in the immediate aftermath of the
1998 Munaslub when a group of retired generals accused Akbar of having used
money politics and other New Order methods to secure his victory over Edi
Sudrajat (Novianto et al. 2003: 57). The disgruntled ex-military officers
quickly left the party, but a much more serious threat to Akbar’s position
emerged soon after the 1999 MPR session. Indeed, Akbar’s tactical manoeu-
vres at this session marked the beginning of the most distinctive factional
struggle of the Akbar Tandjung era, namely the struggle between Akbar and
his supporters on the one hand and the so-called Iramasuka faction, a group of
die-hard Habibie supporters who hailed predominantly from Eastern Indonesia,
on the other hand.36 Between 1999 and 2002, the Iramasuka faction’s continual
resistance to Akbar’s leadership posed a serious threat to Golkar’s organi-
zational integrity, as members of the faction repeatedly attempted to suspend
the chairman. Basically, the conflict between the two groups revolved around
three main issues.
First, it was a matter of personal dislike between the protagonists, Akbar
Tandjung and one of the leaders of the Iramasuka faction, Marwah Daud
48 Systemness
Ibrahim. This dimension of the conflict emerged as a direct result of Akbar’s
‘betrayal’ of Habibie. Ardent supporters of the former president were personally
hurt when Akbar abandoned Golkar’s official presidential candidate in the run-
up to the 1999 MPR session. Marwah, for example, famously burst into tears in
front of the television cameras after it transpired that Akbar and his then-ally,
Marzuki Darusman, had managed to persuade around 80 Golkar legislators to
turn their backs on Habibie. For Marwah, the departure of Habibie from the
political stage had far-reaching consequences. As a native of Habibie’s home
province of South Sulawesi, Marwah had risen through the Golkar ranks in the
1990s largely due to her close bonds with the ex-president, who once likened
their relationship to that between a father and his daughter.37 Now that her
mentor had left the scene, her fortunes were clearly in decline, and she blamed
party chairman Akbar Tandjung alone for this unwelcome development. Hence,
Marwah embarked upon what essentially amounted to a personal campaign to
avenge Habibie.
Second, the conflict showed traces of regional identity politics, as Marwah
sought (and found) support from a group of fellow legislators and lower-ranking
party cadres who also hailed from Eastern Indonesia. Arguing that Akbar Tand-
jung was seeking to impose Javanese/Sumatran hegemony in internal party
affairs,38 the caucus mobilized support against the marginalization of Eastern
Indonesian interests within Golkar. Even moderate cadres from the eastern regions
felt that Akbar disproportionately rewarded his closest loyalists from Java and
Sumatra. One leading member from Golkar’s central board, for example, claimed
that the appointments of pro-Akbar figures from Sumatra like Bomer Pasaribu and
Mahadi Sinambela as ministers in Gus Dur’s cabinet had caused widespread
resentment among Golkar cadres from Eastern Indonesia.39 Bomer’s appointment
as Minister of Manpower particularly was a bitter pill for the Iramasuka faction to
swallow because the long-time supporter of Akbar Tandjung replaced Fahmi Idris,
a leading member of the pro-Habibie group and one of the few Iramasuka sup-
porters who does not hail from Eastern Indonesia.40
Third, there was growing friction between the pro- and anti-Akbar groups
within Golkar in debates about ‘how and when to resurrect’41 the party. Under
Akbar’s leadership, Golkar had entered the immediate post-Suharto era with a
low-profile approach as the chairman was well aware of the widespread anti-
Golkar sentiment among the population in Java and parts of Sumatra. In 1999,
Golkar had suffered its biggest electoral losses in the provinces of these two
islands, whereas support in Eastern Indonesia had remained comparatively
strong. Party representatives from the Outer Islands therefore disagreed with
Akbar’s cautious actions and pushed for a more assertive stance for Golkar. But
the chairman and his Javanese supporters preferred to maintain a relatively low
profile, especially since an early attempt to show a more aggressive political atti-
tude had backfired in late 2000.42 As The Economist noted, ‘Golkar members in
Jakarta and the rest of western Indonesia would prefer to rebuild the party’s
image slowly and stealthily, recognizing that a period of purdah must be
endured before it can hope to return to power.’43
Systemness 49
In sum, the emergence of the Iramasuka faction was markedly different from
previous occurrences of factionalism in Golkar. In contrast to the Suharto era,
when dividing lines had been defined primarily according to either professional
affiliations (civilian versus military) or religious/ideological orientations
(Islamic versus secular/nationalistic), the divisions were now based on the inter-
play of three different, yet directly intertwined factors, all of which tended to
convince more party members that Akbar Tandjung should be removed from the
chairmanship. Between 1999 and 2002, members of the faction repeatedly tried
to replace or at least suspend Akbar Tandjung. After a number of futile attempts,
the activities of the faction reached a new climax in 2002, when the party chair-
man was implicated in a big corruption scandal and sentenced to three years in
jail for embezzling 40 billion rupiah (US$4 million) from the State Logistic
Agency (Bulog) into a Golkar electoral slush fund.44
The verdict led to a growth in the anti-Akbar movement. More and more
Golkar cadres began to regard Akbar as a liability to the party’s future. In parlia-
ment, at least 15 members of the Golkar fraction were reported to support an
initiative to suspend Akbar as house speaker.45 In the central board, Marwah was
joined by fellow vice-chairmen Fahmi Idris and Theo Sambuaga in her demand
to bar Akbar from party affairs.46 Both Fahmi and Theo were former Habibie
supporters who had been robbed of their cabinet posts by Akbar and his allies in
1999, but they had remained quiet until Akbar’s corruption scandal erupted.
Now that they saw a chance to hurt the chairman, they eagerly spoke out in
favour of his suspension.
The end of the Iramasuka faction

By late 2002 the anti-Akbar movement had certainly grown in size and influ-
ence. It was no longer just a group of backbenchers from Eastern Indonesia, but
was now supported by some high-ranking power brokers within the party.
Fahmi, in particular, was believed to have strong and far-reaching patronage net-
works in the party, while the Manado-born Theo Sambuaga was a valuable addi-
tion to the group because of his religious background as a Protestant.47 But just
when the movement had gathered real momentum, the cornered chairman fought
back. In an impressive display of pertinacity and political skilfulness, Akbar
(mis)used his position as parliamentary speaker to impede the debate about the
petition to suspend him and vowed to continue leading Golkar even if he had to
go to jail.48 He appealed against his conviction to a higher court and remained a
free man throughout 2003. When he was eventually acquitted by the Supreme
Court in February 2004, the anti-Akbar camp had all but given up its efforts to
undermine the authority of the chairman.
The failure to unseat Akbar Tandjung even after a scandal as embarrassing as
the Bulog corruption case ushered in the political end of the Iramasuka faction.
Sanctions were threatened against Marwah, but actual penalties were never
imposed. While resentments continued to simmer beneath the surface, the anti-
Akbar camp basically surrendered to the combined forces of the pro-Akbar
50 Systemness
groups and decided that it was in the better interest of the party to close ranks
and focus on the preparations for the 2004 elections. The rapid disintegration of
the caucus after just three years indicates that it never reached the status of what
Beller and Belloni (1978) called an ‘institutionalized or organizational faction.’
The Iramasuka faction never had its own internal rulings and procedures and its
claim to pursue the interests of Eastern Indonesia was hardly more than populist
rhetoric. Concern for the region was routinely included in position papers and
speeches (Daud Ibrahim 2000), but no significant policy initiatives to boost
development in Eastern Indonesia were ever submitted to parliament on behalf
of the faction.
Furthermore, it has to be noted that the caucus never comprised all key
Golkar cadres from Eastern Indonesia. Important figures like Jusuf Kalla,
Ibrahim Ambong (both from South Sulawesi), Freddy Latumahina (from
Maluku) or Akil Mochtar (from Kalimantan) were never actively involved in the
group, thereby undermining the caucus’s claim to speak on behalf of all people
of the Eastern Islands. This lack of coherence and absence of constructive activ-
ities suggest that the primary objective behind the formation of the Iramasuka
caucus was not to give Eastern Indonesia a voice in Jakarta, but to nurture per-
sonal animosities towards an unpopular party leader and to pursue vested power
interests. As these goals looked less and less likely to be achieved by the end of
2002, the caucus simply disappeared from the political discourse in Indonesia.
The bubble that burst: Akbar and the presidential convention

That Akbar Tandjung was able to stave off the challenge from the Iramasuka
faction was mainly due to the fact that the conflict was, despite its regional
dimension, fought almost exclusively at the national level in Jakarta. Local elites
were barely involved in the various episodes of the conflict, partly because of
Golkar’s highly centralized organizational infrastructure and partly because the
party’s grassroots membership lacked confidence to demand a bigger say in
national party affairs. These things changed, however, when Golkar began its
procedures to select a presidential candidate.
Despite his successful struggle against the Iramasuka faction, Akbar Tand-
jung was not exactly the kind of leader who could easily secure his party’s presi-
dential nomination by acclamation. Given his judicial woes and his generally
poor popular image as a dull career politician,49 many party cadres believed that
a direct nomination for Akbar by acclamation was a risk too great to take.
Hence, party strategists started to explore other ways to satisfy the chairman’s
presidential aspirations. What they sought to create was a nomination process
that had the appearance of an open contest, but that in essence would be
designed to ensure smooth passage for Akbar Tandjung. The solution was an
American-style presidential convention, yet with some distinctive Indonesian
features.50
The details about the format of the convention were finalized at a tense
national leadership meeting (Rapat Pimpinan, or Rapim) in early 2003. The
Systemness 51
most controversial issue was the question of who should be given voting rights
in the convention. In view of Akbar’s control over the DPP and most provincial
boards, the chairman’s opponents around Fahmi Idris and Marwah Daud
Ibrahim demanded that voting rights be granted to the national, the provincial
and the more than 400 district chapters.51 In response, Akbar declared that dis-
trict chapters would only be given the right to vote if the DPP was granted a
voting block of 97 votes, corresponding to the actual number of members of the
extended leadership board.52 In the end, a compromise was reached. Voting
rights were granted to the national, provincial and district chapters, as demanded
by the opposition, but the DPP and the provincial chapters were still given
voting blocks, as demanded by Akbar. They were worth 18 (DPP) and three
(DPD I) votes respectively, while the votes of the district chapters were only
worth one vote each. Altogether, the votes were to be distributed as shown in
Table 3.1:
Most observers agreed that this compromise still benefited Akbar because it
included built-in institutional advantages. Moreover, the convention rules were
regarded as unfair because Akbar was allowed to be both umpire and contestant
in the competition (Fatah 2003) as he was given ultimate supervisory authority
over the implementation of the convention. While the party leader was not
actively involved in the organizing committee, the composition of this commit-
tee basically read like a ‘Who is Who’ of Akbar’s closest confidants, with
people like Mahadi Sinambela, Rambe Kamarulzaman, Ferry Mursyidan Baldan
and Yahya Zaini all in leading positions. More critical party cadres had to make
do with positions in the toothless Monitoring Committee (DPP Partai Golkar
2003c).
Table 3.1 Voting structure at Golkar’s presidential convention
Value of votes Number of votes
National leadership board (DPP) 1 18 18

Provincial leadership boards* 32 3 96
District leadership boards** 423 1 423
Party’s youth and women’s organizations
(AMPG and KPPG) 21 2
Hasta Karya1 81 8
547
Source: DPP Partai Golkar (2003b: 32–5).

Notes
*Originally 30, but later revised due to an increase in provincial chapters.
**Originally 416, but later revised due to an increase in district chapters.
1 The so-called Hasta Karya consists of Golkar’s three founding organizations Soksi, MKGR and
Kosgoro 1957 (emerged as successor organization to Kosgoro after a leadership dispute in 2000),
plus five autonomous mass organizations founded by Golkar during the New Order: AMPI
(Angkatan Muda Pembaharuan Indonesia, Indonesian Renewal Youth Brigade), HWK (Him-
punan Wanita Karya, Workers Women’s Association), MDI (Majelis Da’wah Islamiyah, Islamic
Propagation Council), Al-Hidayah and Satkar Ulama.
52 Systemness
Thus, the stage was set for Akbar’s smooth progression through the nomina-
tion process. When the convention was eventually held on 20 April, the chair-
man was challenged by two former army generals, Wiranto and Prabowo
Subianto, and two business tycoons, Aburizal Bakrie and Surya Paloh.53 But
despite the strong competition, Akbar entered the race as the red-hot favourite.
Some observers even argued that Akbar ‘deserved to win’54 because of his long-
standing commitment to the party. However, the majority of delegates thought
otherwise and elected the former commander-in-chief of the armed forces,
Wiranto, as their presidential candidate.55
Reasons for Wiranto’s victory

The retired general owed his victory mostly to strong support from Golkar’s dis-
trict chapters. In order to understand why so many of these local functionaries
voted for a candidate who possessed neither an organizational track record nor
an established support base within the party, several things need to be kept in
mind. First and foremost, it should be noted that the result was primarily a defeat
for Akbar Tandjung rather than a victory for Wiranto. That Akbar was not an
ideal candidate for many regional Golkar cadres had already become clear after
the pre-conventions at the provincial level, in which the chairman had only fin-
ished fourth behind Aburizal Bakrie, Surya Paloh and Wiranto.56
But obviously this early warning sign was ignored by Akbar. After the
national pre-convention in October 2003, the continuing uncertainty over his
corruption case further eroded his chances of winning. Even his eventual exon-
eration did little to alleviate the damage to his reputation as many people
believed that the case had been too heavily politicized to allow for an unbiased
judgment. When two months after Akbar’s acquittal Golkar only garnered 21.58
per cent in the general election, many party members saw a direct link between
the prolonged court case and Golkar’s electoral performance. In their view,
Akbar’s low popularity and his reputation as a corrupt operator had had a negat-
ive impact on Golkar’s campaign and therefore directly contributed to the
party’s failure to reach the election target of 30 per cent.57 Thus, by the time the
convention was held, many delegates had already come to the conclusion that, in
a direct presidential election, Akbar Tandjung might actually be a liability rather
than an asset.
Second, many regional delegates resented the controversial convention rules
that gave district chapters only one vote when provincial chapters and the
national leadership board enjoyed voting blocks. Indeed, for some this proved
that the party had ignored the aspirations of its local-level cadres. Blaming
Akbar for the formulation of the rules, they saw no reason to give their vote to
the chairman. Their dissatisfaction was further fuelled by Akbar’s speech during
the convention. Emphasizing his own role in consolidating the party after 1998,
Akbar portrayed himself as the sole saviour of Golkar. He attacked his rivals for
hiding out during the chaotic days after Suharto’s resignation and bluntly
demanded to be given credit for his personal achievements.58 This attitude did
Systemness 53
not go down well with many local cadres, who felt that their own contributions
to the survival of the party were not properly appreciated by the chairman.59
A third factor that affected the voting behaviour of the delegates was the
candidates’ distribution of money. Some observers believed that Wiranto had
basically bought his victory, as he allegedly paid millions of rupiah to every dis-
trict chapter that supported him. According to one estimate, each vote in the
decisive second round of the convention was sold at around Rp.500–700
million.60 This generous distribution of gizi (literally: ‘nutrition,’ here referring
to money) was in fact not just confined to the convention as such. As part of a
well-planned long-term strategy, Wiranto had already started to drum up support
for his campaign long before the actual convention when he criss-crossed the
archipelago in an attempt to drag local party chapters into his camp. In contrast
to the majority of candidates, Wiranto was able to dedicate an immense amount
of time and money to this endeavour since he was not preoccupied with practical
politics (as was Akbar) or business activities (as were Aburizal and Surya).
Finally, the convention saw the revival of old factional divisions within the DPP
as several board members from the anti-Akbar camp threw their weight behind
Wiranto. Rumours of tentative cabinet lists for a prospective Akbar Tandjung-led
government had further deepened already existing splits, for these lists carried
almost exclusively the names of Akbar’s loyalists from the North Sumatra and
HMI factions. Furthermore, critical members of the central board were unhappy
that the votes of the DPP were to be cast as a block. Since Akbar was supported by
a majority of the board, they were unable to express their support for other contes-
tants at the convention. With their own hands tied, they used their clientelistic net-
works in the regional chapters to mobilize support for Wiranto.
In sum, the convention result was essentially a vote of no confidence for
Akbar from the regional delegates. By shattering Akbar’s presidential ambitions,
Golkar’s local party cadres had laid bare just how shallow the chairman’s struc-
tural support in the party actually was. Throughout his years in power, Akbar
had concentrated his network-building activities predominantly on the national
and the provincial levels, ensuring sound support in the parliamentary fraction,
the central board and a great number of provincial boards. But Indonesian poli-
tics in the post-Suharto era has become increasingly localized, and the rebellion
of Golkar’s district chapters against their own chairman was a clear indicator
that this trend was spilling over into national party affairs.
Akbar failed to acknowledge this trend. He obviously still believed in the
prevalence of established top-down patterns of communication and decision-
making processes. While a party outsider like Wiranto correctly calculated that
the district chapters would vote independently, the long-time party stalwart
Akbar Tandjung apparently hoped that securing the support from a certain
provincial branch would lock in support from all district chapters of this particu-
lar province, as the provincial chairman would instruct his subordinates on the
district level to vote in accordance with the provincial chapter’s choice. But, as
Akbar had to learn the hard way, these New Order-style manoeuvres no longer
work that smoothly, at least not in Golkar.
54 Systemness
From a more theoretical point of view, the convention provided some inter-
esting insights into Golkar’s institutional dynamics. As has been argued before,
the convention was primarily designed to provide an innovative vehicle for
Akbar Tandjung to secure his nomination for the presidential election. There-
fore, the rules that were created to regulate the convention were from the begin-
ning deliberately biased in favour of the chairman. For Akbar’s challengers, this
was regrettable but at least they knew the rules and could adapt to them accord-
ingly. However, even these rules, as unfair as they were, were never allowed to
institutionalize as they were constantly modified to create further advantages for
the embattled party leader. Examples included a ban on all contestants except
Akbar to campaign in the Outer Islands and the postponement of the final
national convention from February to April. Both these changes were introduced
as the campaign was well under way and they both disadvantaged Akbar’s chal-
lengers. Thus, the institutions that regulated the implementation of the conven-
tion could never create the kind of security of expectancy which the other
candidates would have needed to compete with Akbar on a fair basis. This
clearly points to an overall dominance of agency over formal institutions in
Golkar. The problem, however, was that the agents who repeatedly modified the
institutions, namely Akbar and his loyalists in the organizing committee, never
possessed enough authoritative power to decisively influence the eventual
outcome of the convention. Thus, in the face of weak actors and weak formal
institutions, Wiranto was able to snatch victory because he could harness the
power of informal institutions such as factionalism, clientelism and corruption.
The first round of the presidential election

After the convention, the defeated chairman publicly vowed to support Wiranto,
but this was generally perceived as little more than obligatory rhetoric. In fact,
Akbar and his loyalists in and outside Jakarta had no interest whatsoever in sup-
porting Wiranto and undermined the ensuing campaign wherever they could.
With the next national party congress scheduled for December 2004, Wiranto
was regarded as a serious threat to Akbar’s political career, for many believed
that a victorious Wiranto would use the upcoming congress to oust Akbar from
the central board. In view of this bigger picture, it was hardly surprising that
assistance from Golkar for Wiranto’s campaign was rather limited. Those local
chapters that were serious about supporting their candidate soon complained
about delays and obstructions in the provision of money and logistical support
for the campaign. In South Sulawesi, for example, several local campaigners
expressed their disappointment about the reluctance of the central board to
provide assistance, while in North Sulawesi’s capital, Manado, a member of the
local Golkar branch described the coordination between the party and Wiranto’s
own campaign team as ‘pretty chaotic.’61
Golkar’s central board in Jakarta rejected claims that they were deliberately
attempting to obstruct Wiranto’s campaign,62 but the signs were there for every-
one to see. For instance, Akbar’s seemingly relentless shadowing of Wiranto on
Systemness 55
the campaign trail appeared less like genuine support than like an attempt to
control the candidate’s activities. Given Akbar’s constant companionship,
Wiranto must have felt as if he was under permanent surveillance by the Golkar
chairman. Even in areas where Akbar was hugely unpopular, like Sulawesi, the
sore loser insisted on accompanying Wiranto, which effectively damaged rather
than benefited Wiranto’s electoral chances. Had Akbar been sincere in his advo-
cacy of the retired general, he could have played a much more helpful role in
Wiranto’s campaign by drumming up support for the candidate in those areas
where he himself was popular, for instance in North Sumatra or parts of Java.
Yet, while Akbar at least publicly denied any disloyalty towards Wiranto, some
of his closest aides were less reluctant to show their contempt for the retired
general and, in obvious anticipation of things to come, more or less openly sup-
ported PDI-P candidate Megawati Sukarnoputri.63 In the end, Wiranto finished
only third in the election, just behind Megawati, but far behind runaway leader
SBY.
The second round of the presidential election

For Golkar as a party, Wiranto’s failure to proceed to the second round of the
presidential election had the dual effect of strengthening unity within the Akbar
camp while at the same time reducing the potential for reconciliation with its
opponents, both at the national as well as the local level. How deep the rifts
between the two groups had grown became apparent shortly after the first round,
when the two remaining presidential contenders, SBY and Megawati, started
making overtures to Golkar leaders in order to forge a coalition for the decisive
second round. In the opinions of many neutral observers, the best option for
Golkar would have been simply to sit back and relax. In view of the fact that
Golkar had won the largest number of seats in the April legislative election, it
seemed logical that whoever won the second round of the presidential election
would be likely to seek parliamentary support from Golkar afterwards in order
to ensure a stable government. Making a premature coalition commitment
before the final round, on the other hand, was widely regarded as strategically
imprudent, as it would put Golkar’s advantage unnecessarily at risk. In accord
with this overall consensus, leading Golkar politicians and the party’s very own
research department reportedly recommended to the party leadership that it was
in Golkar’s best interest not to pledge allegiance to either candidate before the
election, but rather to remain neutral.64
In Golkar’s DPP, however, this option had little support. Akbar Tandjung, in
particular, had other plans. Long before the unholy alliance with Wiranto was
officially terminated, he had already made it clear that he would like to see
Golkar supporting Megawati in the second round. For Akbar, a coalition with
Megawati was attractive for a number of reasons. First, Akbar and Megawati
had a long history of good relations, which had begun in 2001, when the Golkar
chairman was instrumental in elevating Megawati to the presidency. Megawati
returned the favour later when she refused to become involved in the fuss about
56 Systemness
Akbar’s corruption scandal. Her silence was widely interpreted as tacit support
for Akbar’s acquittal. Second, Megawati had offered Golkar not only a large
amount of money,65 but also a substantial number of cabinet posts in a prospec-
tive new government.66 In case of victory, Akbar himself would have taken over
a new position as special advisor to the president, which would have endowed
him with broad authority over key political decision-making processes. Third,
and most importantly, supporting Megawati made sense for Akbar because
Megawati would only have been eligible for one more term in office, as the
amended Indonesian constitution only allows a maximum of two consecutive
terms for the president. According to Akbar’s calculation, a stable Golkar–PDI-
P coalition would have provided the right environment for him to orchestrate
politics safely from behind the scenes for a while and then run as the coalition’s
presidential candidate in 2009. In view of this long-term goal, Akbar was deter-
mined to fight all-out to help Megawati win another term as president.
In mid-August, he pushed through his agenda at a tense national leadership
meeting in Jakarta, which was attended by all provincial chapter leaders, but not
by the district leaders. Although a significant number of the provincial chapters,
as well as some DPP members, clearly preferred a coalition with the SBY–Jusuf
Kalla pairing, Akbar eventually secured support from the majority of provincial
branches.67 However, doubts about the sincerity of the acquiescence of some
branches continued to linger, and it quickly became clear that Akbar’s success at
the leadership meeting was little more than a Pyrrhic victory.
In fact, Akbar was fighting for a lost cause. His plan to support Megawati
was doomed from the beginning because the Golkar chairman overestimated
the power of party machines to influence voting behaviour in a direct presi-
dential election. After patching together the so-called ‘Nationhood Coalition’
(Koalisi Kebangsaan) with Megawati’s PDI-P and two smaller parties, Akbar
seemed to be convinced that the incumbent president would indeed be able to
win the election because these coalition parties would mobilize exactly those
same 57 million people who had voted for these four parties in the April elec-
tion. Such simplistic computations, however, revealed a flawed understanding
of direct presidential elections, as this logic not only disregarded the increas-
ingly rational voting behaviour of the Indonesian electorate, but also the fact
that traditional configurations of loyalty and power at the local level could no
longer be taken for granted. The success of any party machine is based on
certain tenets: first, a party must possess a coherent and disciplined local
network that is fully able to implement policy decisions made at the top level;
and, second, a party must command a broad constituency that is loyal to the
party simply for its own sake. But as the general election had shown quite
clearly, Golkar’s track record in these two categories was not exactly exem-
plary, so that the party was actually in a very weak position to deliver what its
leader had promised.
In short, the main problem with the decision to support Megawati was that, in
order to be successfully implemented, it required a solid and coherent party
structure that Golkar simply did not have. In view of the party’s long history of
Systemness 57
frictions and factionalism, it was in fact highly unlikely that the Golkar leader-
ship would be able to mobilize sufficient support for such a controversial choice.
And indeed, fierce resistance against the alliance with Megawati was noticeable
everywhere in the party. At the grassroots, many cadres questioned why they
should suddenly support the very candidate they had been instructed to criticize
in the previous elections. Furthermore, many campaigners in the regions argued
that SBY was a more suitable candidate to support since he had nominated a
Golkar figure (Jusuf Kalla) as his running mate. Finally, many local chapters in
Golkar’s strongholds in Eastern Indonesia genuinely wanted to support the
SBY-Jusuf Kalla pairing not only because Kalla represented a real chance for
them to gain direct access to the government, but also because of their ethnic
bond with Jusuf Kalla. Many had already tacitly supported Kalla during the first
round of the presidential election, but now that SBY and Kalla were clearly
making headway, and Sulawesi’s favourite putra daerah (son of the region) was
knocking loudly on the door to the vice-presidential palace, the choice was even
easier. As one local legislator had said on the eve of the first round of the elec-
tion, ‘it will be impossible to prevent people from defecting from Golkar if we
can have a vice-president who speaks Buginese.’68
In view of such sentiment, it was hardly surprising that local Golkar chapters
in Sulawesi were sceptical about the Rapim decision to support Megawati.
Muhammad Roem, one of Golkar’s provincial deputy chairmen from South
Sulawesi, responded to the decision by warning that he could not guarantee
strong support from the grassroots in his province, regardless of the instructions
from the centre.69 But it was not only in Sulawesi that the decision to support
Megawati was criticized. In West Java, for example, a province where Golkar
had made a strong showing during the legislative elections,70 disappointment
with the central leadership was now rife. During the Rapim, West Java’s provin-
cial party chapter had been the only one to remain steadfast in its rejection of a
coalition with Megawati. Now that the decision had been finalized, local Golkar
politicians were harshly critical of the party’s central board. Dr Avip Saefullah,
a local Golkar cadre who openly supported SBY and Jusuf Kalla, explained:
It has to be understood that the Great Golkar Family today is different from
the Great Golkar Family of the past. Our cadres today are already very
rational in truly observing the unfolding aspirations of the public. It is only
natural if the provincial leadership board of West Java decides to stay
neutral in the upcoming second round of the presidential elections.
(Avip Saefullah, as quoted in ‘Hasil Rapimnas Golkar Abaikan “Akar
Rumput” ,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 18 August 2004)
On the national level, the conflict between the pro- and anti-Akbar factions esca-
lated soon after the national leadership meeting, when a group of party officials
loyal to the two central board members Fahmi Idris and Marzuki Darusman
established the so-called ‘Golkar Party Reform Forum’ (Forum Pembaruan
Partai Golkar).71 Members of the group openly defied the DPP’s decision to
58 Systemness
support Megawati and lobbied regional cadres to join them in their support for
SBY and Jusuf Kalla. In the opinion of Fahmi Idris, the instruction to support
Megawati was primarily driven by Akbar Tandjung’s personal ambitions and
therefore indicative of a party elite that ignores the aspirations of the grass-
roots.72 Furthermore, Fahmi resented what he called ‘Akbar Tandjung’s increas-
ingly authoritarian approach to pushing through crucial decisions in the party
leadership.’73 Consequently, according to Fahmi, someone had to stand up
against the chairman, if only to test to what extent the leadership was willing to
tolerate dissenting opinions within its own ranks. And finally, supporters of the
forum asserted that Golkar ought to be naturally inclined to advocate a candidate
who, even though he was not nominated by the party, was in actual fact a long-
time Golkar cadre.
While all these points may have had some relevance for Fahmi and his col-
leagues, it is probable that the most compelling reason for their rebellion against
the official party line and their decision to join the SBY–Kalla camp was
actually the simple fact that SBY was widely favoured to win and that neither
Fahmi nor his fellow defectors had any intentions of supporting a losing candi-
date. Fahmi and Marzuki, in particular, reckoned that supporting SBY would
later translate into direct access to power, as they were tipped to be rewarded for
their activities with positions in the next cabinet.74 As for Fahmi, there were
rumours he might also become SBY’s preferred candidate if he sought to win
the Golkar chairmanship at the upcoming national party congress in December
2004.
It is these broader implications that probably accounted for the unprecedent-
edly harsh sanctions that were subsequently imposed on the members of the
Reform Forum. On 15 September 2004, just five days before the crucial second
round of the presidential election, the DPP decided to dismiss Fahmi Idris and
Marzuki Darusman, as well as a few of their supporters. Furthermore, Jusuf
Kalla and Muladi, both members of Golkar’s Advisory Council, were suspended
from their positions on the central board.75 Their dismissal was a clear sign that
Akbar was growing increasingly anxious about his political future. With the next
national party congress looming at the end of the year, Akbar obviously con-
sidered it necessary to unify the party ranks by force in order to protect his
already decreasing chances of retaining the chairman’s post.76 Nonetheless, he
was unable to stop his own downward spiral. As SBY was swept to the presi-
dential palace in a landslide victory, Akbar’s political fortunes took yet another
turn for the worse. Responding to Megawati’s defeat, he vowed to lead Golkar
into parliamentary opposition, but that was more than most party members were
ready to take. As the national party congress drew closer, the opposition inside
Golkar prepared its final onslaught.
The 2004 national congress: exit Akbar Tandjung, enter Jusuf Kalla
Yet this opposition was by no means a unified movement. Certainly, a signific-
ant number of top officials and an even larger number of local functionaries bit-
Systemness 59
terly resented Akbar’s leadership. But among these discontented factions, there
was no real political heavyweight capable of consolidating widespread organi-
zational support for a realistic challenge. As a matter of fact, the opposition
remained splintered, and there were no efforts whatsoever to form a collective
movement that could unite behind a common candidate. Instead, all the usual
suspects left after the expulsion of Fahmi Idris decided to struggle for power
individually, including Marwah Daud Ibrahim, Wiranto and Surya Paloh.77
Other potential candidates – such as newly elected vice-president and conven-
tion dropout Jusuf Kalla, party vice-chairman and DPR speaker Agung Laksono,
or convention participant and newly appointed Coordinating Minister for Eco-
nomic Affairs, Aburizal Bakrie – initially remained noncommittal.
Of the remaining candidates, Wiranto was widely regarded as the most
promising, but his hopes were shattered when Akbar used his support in the DPP
to push through a regulation that required a potential leadership candidate to
have at least five years’ experience on a party board at either the national,
provincial or district level. Wiranto had none of these and was thus declared
ineligible to run for the chairman post. The regulation was approved at a
‘streamlined’78 national leadership meeting just five days before the start of the
congress. At the same leadership meeting, the delegates also endorsed Akbar’s
proposal concerning the distribution of voting rights at the congress. Accord-
ingly, the votes were to be distributed as depicted in Table 3.2.
What is most striking about Table 3.2 is the fact that, in contrast to the con-
vention, district chapters were now set to be excluded from the election process.
In the run-up to the congress, Akbar had been urged by his opponents and some
political observers to grant the right to vote to the district chapters, but unsur-
prisingly the beleaguered incumbent rejected the plea.79 Thus, Akbar had taken a
double precaution. He had not only eliminated Wiranto as a potential contender,
but had also made sure that the remaining competitors (Marwah Daud Ibrahim,
Surya Paloh and Slamet Effendy Yusuf) would not pose a serious threat. And
yet, Akbar’s plan did not work out. In an unexpected twist of events, just two
days before the congress, vice-president Jusuf Kalla suddenly entered the fray,
thereby changing the whole configuration of power among the candidates.
Table 3.2 Distribution of votes for leadership election at Munas VII, as approved by the
national leadership meeting
Value of votes Number of votes
National leadership board (DPP) 11 1

Provincial leadership boards* 33 1 33
Party’s youth and women’s organizations
(AMPG and KPPG) 2 0.5 1
Hasta Karya 8 0.125 1
36
Source: ‘Munas Golkar, Konvensi Babak II?,’ Kompas, 9 December 2004.

60 Systemness
Initially, Kalla had preferred to take a back seat in the chairmanship competi-
tion. Instead of running for the top job himself, he intended to back his closest
confidant among the contenders, Surya Paloh, and only aspired to be nominated
as the chairman of the Advisory Council. But as the congress drew closer, Kalla
realized that the package as it stood would not get sufficient support. In order to
tip the balance against Akbar the delegates would need to be assured that the
vice-president himself was really deeply involved in the campaign. When he
realized that he could not outmanoeuvre Akbar simply by supporting another
candidate, Kalla – backed by President SBY who worried about the govern-
ment’s stability in the face of Akbar’s opposition to his leadership – decided to
run himself and give Surya the Advisory Council position instead. Additionally,
the pair enticed the recently elected DPR speaker Agung Laksono into joining
them.80
Kalla’s involvement made possible a strategy that had seemed unworkable
for so long, namely the formation of a team with a genuine chance of beating
Akbar Tandjung. Together the three formed an immensely powerful troika, not
only because they were all extremely wealthy businessmen, but also because
they could offer access to hugely diversified organizational and geographical
patronage networks. While Kalla was the draw card to open up the Eastern
Indonesian branches (and basically anyone who was keen on getting access to
the vice-presidential palace), Agung was the link to some of Golkar’s cadre
recruitment pools, especially AMPI and Kosgoro 1957.81 Surya Paloh, finally, an
Acehnese with strong connections to the military-affiliated lobby organization
Communication Forum of the Sons and Daughters of Indonesian Veterans
(Forum Komunikasi Putra-Putri Indonesia, FKPPI) and the media community,82
was said to be close to the Golkar chapters in Central Java and Yogyakarta.
Together, the trio was far too strong for Akbar. Even a last-minute attempt by
the embattled leader to join forces with his former arch-enemy Wiranto and then
grant voting rights to the district chapters could not save him now. In the end,
Jusuf Kalla won the contest by a landslide, defeating Akbar by 323:156 votes.83
Significantly, Jusuf Kalla’s triumphant ‘blitzkrieg’84 reflected both continuity
and change in Golkar. On the one hand, Kalla’s victory showed that, in essence,
the political culture of Golkar had changed fairly little since the end of the New
Order. Despite all the reformist rhetoric, Golkar remains a party that is primarily
driven by its immense appetite for power.85 Clearly, Jusuf Kalla did not win the
leadership contest because he had a convincing political programme, but
because he was ‘the president’s man’ (Liddle 2005: 333) and could therefore
promise direct access to lucrative government resources. This prospect was
obviously much more appealing to the delegates than Akbar’s invitation to form
an oppositional alliance with PDI-P. As one delegate put it, ‘Akbar asked us to
listen to our hearts, but Kalla gives us vitamins.’86 Indeed, the irresistible power
of money could be sensed everywhere during the congress. While reliable
figures are not available,87 a bitter comment by Akbar Tandjung shortly after his
defeat spoke volumes about the corrupt nature of the contest: ‘Corruption is like
a fart – it is easily detected by its smell, but no one can see it.’88
Systemness 61
But despite the prevalence of money politics and old-style patterns of patron-
age at the congress, not everything was business as usual. In fact, the result of
the leadership contest also showed that earlier events surrounding Golkar’s pres-
idential convention and the presidential election were not isolated incidents, but
rather manifestations of an emerging trend away from long-established central-
ized paternalism to more decentralized party politics. As a matter of fact,
Golkar’s local party functionaries have grown increasingly assertive in their
responses to the formerly almighty national party elites on the central leadership
board and, as a result of that, traditional patterns of top-down decision-making
have become more and more difficult to uphold. Akbar Tandjung was reluctant
to acknowledge this trend and, at the 2004 party congress, he paid the ultimate
price for this reluctance. In the end, he not only lost the chairmanship but also
the respect of his party, as his final speech at the congress was rowdily booed
down by what observers described as a ‘rabid audience.’89
Final remarks on Akbar’s leadership

The rise and fall of Akbar Tandjung as described in this section shows that, in a
party like Golkar, obtaining the chairmanship is much easier than retaining it.
With the exception of the party’s very first leader Amir Murtono, who led the
party until 1983, no other Golkar chairman has ever been able to serve two con-
secutive terms, and the fate of Akbar Tandjung indicates that this phenomenon
is likely to continue. While the circumstances were largely different before
1998, the weak status of the Golkar chairmanship in the post-Suharto era is
nonetheless a direct legacy of the New Order. For more than 30 years the party
had been deliberately prevented from producing politicians with strong leader-
ship skills, while at the same time Suharto’s divide-and-rule tactics fostered fac-
tionalism and personal animosities within the party. The impact of this legacy
can still be felt today as Golkar remains a party without charismatic personali-
ties. In 1998, Akbar Tandjung was probably the best chairman the party could
get as the former student leader proved astute and skilful enough to consolidate
Golkar as an indispensable political force. But Akbar was never a strong or even
a charismatic leader and, although he did strengthen his position and stave off
the challenge from the Iramasuka faction, his leadership was never undisputed
and he never managed to extend his influence beyond the confines of the
national leadership board and a few selected provincial branches. In the end, it
was these limitations that sealed his political fate.
Akbar Tandjung was shoved aside because he underestimated his own party’s
appetite for power and because he failed to comprehend that local party officials
no longer blindly followed instructions issued by a narrow-minded party oli-
garchy. Buoyed by the overall localization of politics, these lower-level party
cadres have grown increasingly confident about their own role in the party and
are now more inclined to challenge the authority of the central leadership board
if it is in their own interests. In such a predatory political environment organi-
zational merits mean nothing while patronage is everything. The self-confessed
62 Systemness
opportunist Jusuf Kalla90 knew this when he challenged Akbar Tandjung at the
2004 congress. Backed by the power of his vice-presidential office, he won the
chairmanship easily, but he is unlikely to become a stronger leader than his pre-
decessors. Ultimately, his prospects for remaining Golkar chairman are inextri-
cably tied to his fortunes in the vice-presidential palace. Should he fail to deliver
what the party apparatus wants, he may find himself under fire sooner than he
may want to imagine.
Party funding: challenges to financial sustainability

Finally, before concluding this chapter we have to turn our attention to the con-
tentious topic of party funding. No discussion about systemness can afford to
ignore this issue since any political party that aims to become institutionalized in
this dimension has to be able to generate steady streams of money in order to
bring some form of stability to its financial foundations. If possible, the party
should generate the bulk of its funds predominantly from its own rank and file,
but this ideal model of a perfectly self-sufficient and independent party is basi-
cally non-existent in reality as membership dues and activists’ fundraising activ-
ities rarely produce enough capital to meet the cost of a party’s day-to-day
operations (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 18). This is particularly true in many
countries in the developing world where poor socio-economic conditions often
make it impossible for ordinary party members to make financial contributions.
Accordingly, Duverger’s (1954: 63) ideal-type mass party that is ‘essentially
based upon the subscriptions paid by its members’ is basically non-existent in
these parts of the world.
In this regard, Golkar is no exception. As we shall see in Chapter 5, the
party’s constituency is made up mostly of people who come from the lower
segments of society. Often, these people simply do not have the financial means
to help fund the party and apparently they are not even expected to do so.91 But
on the other hand, Golkar is a party of extremes. In stark contrast to its predom-
inantly poor constituency, many of the party’s leading functionaries are
wealthy and indeed quite often exorbitantly rich. Therefore, it seems logical
that for the safeguarding of its financial security, the party relies more on dona-
tions from its leading cadres than on regular contributions from its grassroots
members. Yet, internal funding alone can hardly explain how the party has
been able to finance its day-to-day activities and its expensive election cam-
paigns in the post-Suharto era.
This section will provide an overview of the various financial resources
Golkar has at its disposal. Against the background of the tremendously changed
political and economic environment in post-1998 Indonesia the analysis aims to
answer the question of how Golkar has been able to maintain its financial sus-
tainability after its financial prowess had suffered some severe blows in the
immediate aftermath of the fall of Suharto.92 Answering this question is not
easy. Generally, and probably unsurprisingly, it has to be said that information
about the financial proceedings in Golkar was almost impossible to obtain. Over
Systemness 63
a period of several months, then-party treasurer Mohamad Hidayat declined
requests for an interview and when he finally agreed to a meeting, it was can-
celled on short notice. Appointments with his deputies also proved difficult to
arrange so that it was impossible to establish, for example, whether Golkar actu-
ally possesses a proper book-keeping system or not. Lacking first-hand informa-
tion from the party, this part of the book relies chiefly on secondary data from
media reports as well as information from individual Golkar politicians who
were not directly involved in the party’s treasury.
Types of party funding: donations

In order to classify the various types of financial resources that Golkar has at its
disposal it is worthwhile to refer to the official party constitution which states in
Article XV that Golkar generates money from three kinds of sources:
1 membership dues;
2 non-binding donations and;
3 other legal activities (DPP Partai Golkar 2003a: 18).
As the first of these three sources is basically a paper tiger we can proceed
directly to the second category, donations. Naturally, every Indonesian party
relies on donations to finance its electoral campaigns and Golkar is certainly no
exception to this rule.93 In fact, donations are not only mentioned explicitly as
legitimate sources of party income in Golkar’s very own constitution, but also in
both the 2002 party law and the 2002 election law. From the perspective of party
institutionalization, however, it is important that the donations are both diversi-
fied as well as moderate in scale. Extremely high donations put the party at risk
of becoming dependent on these donations. Moreover, big donations increase
the likelihood that the donor will ask for certain favours in return for his invest-
ment, which in turn will almost certainly compromise the party’s decisional
autonomy.94
In order to prevent such plutocratic financing, many countries including
Indonesia have set legal limits for donations to political parties. In Indonesia,
both the party law as well as the election law set these limits. First, the 2002
party law, which together with the 2003 election law formed the legal basis for
parties participating in the 2004 elections, stated that political parties are only
allowed to accept donations of no more than Rp.200 million per annum from
individual donors and no more than Rp.800 million per annum in corporate
donations (KPU 2003: 12).95 Second, the election law prescribed that campaign
donations from private individuals must not exceed Rp.100 million, while cor-
porations were not allowed to donate more than Rp.750 million (KPU 2003: 64).
In addition to these limits, the election law also required parties to submit an
audited financial report to the KPU at the latest three months after election day
(KPU 2003: 64).96 On paper, all these regulations look very good, but unfortu-
nately the enforcement of them has been rather weak so far.97 As the National
64 Systemness
Democratic Institute (NDI) (2004: 12) noted, ‘[u]ntil these regulations have
greater teeth, political finance in Indonesia will continue to be highly opaque.’
Internal donations and the growing influence of businessmen

The weak enforcement of the rules has left big loopholes for parties like Golkar
to secure substantial financial contributions outside the legal framework. For
example, in 2004 Golkar acquired enormous funds by asking all its legislative
candidates to pay large donations to the party in order to support what party
executives called ‘operational costs in the regions.’98 Candidates who aspired to
be nominated for the highest list places were asked to pay up to Rp.100
million,99 precisely the highest possible amount of money a private individual
was allowed to donate to the campaign. Thus, at first sight it may have seemed
as if Golkar was abiding by the law, but in actual fact the real donations of the
legislators were much higher because in addition to these legal donations the
candidates also had to finance their own personal campaigns, thereby adding
massive hidden donations to the party, both during and well before the
campaign.
Significantly, the personal expenditures of individual candidates often
exceeded the Rp.100 million benchmark by large margins. Little hard data is
available, but anecdotal evidence and selected media reports suggest that NGO
activist Emmy Hafild was right when she claimed that ‘many legislative candid-
ates dug deep into their own pockets to pay their expenses, even though the law
stipulates that an individual’s personal campaign funds should not exceed
Rp.100 million.’100 One lower-ranking Golkar candidate, for example, said that
he had spent Rp.300 million during the three-week campaign period alone,
adding that ‘compared to the spending of other candidates, mine is of a very
small scale.’101
Unofficial campaigning, however, had of course begun long before the offi-
cial three-week period. Candidates who were vying for nomination started
touring their constituencies regularly as early as May 2003 in order to drum up
support for their eventual nomination. For one lower-ranking Golkar candidate
who wished to remain anonymous, personal campaign expenses amounted to
Rp.2 billion over a period of almost 12 months.102 Even candidates for local par-
liaments were expected to make large contributions to the party and finance their
own campaigns. As Yanuarti (2005: 95) reports from East Java, a top Golkar
candidate for the local parliament in Malang spent at least Rp.5 million every
month on his constituency, plus Rp.20 million in donations for the various vil-
lages in his district.
By requesting these big investments from its prospective candidates, Golkar
has smartly outsourced substantial parts of its own campaign expenditure. The
fact that the candidates were willing to make these sacrifices sheds interesting
light on the function of the party as an established institution of patronage. As
has been discussed earlier (and will be referred to later on), Golkar has indeed
assumed the position of some kind of impersonal patron who provides extra-
Systemness 65
ordinary opportunities for its clients (the candidates) to reach prestigious polit-
ical offices. For the candidates who invested big money in their campaigns, the
calculation was that they would be rewarded with even bigger revenues if they
were elected. Thus, as clients in a relationship of mutual benefit they were more
than happy to provide the funds the party could not or did not want to provide
itself.
The explosion of costs for election campaigning has led to a growing influx
of wealthy businessmen into Golkar while loyal but less affluent party soldiers
have found themselves increasingly marginalized. The increasing influence of
big business in Golkar is reflected in the growing number of businesspeople who
occupy positions in the party’s parliamentary fraction and the central leadership
board. First, in the DPR fraction the percentage of legislators who have previ-
ously been involved in private business activities has risen from 35.8 in the
1999–2004 fraction to 46.4 in the 2004–9 fraction.103 Second, the influence of
entrepreneurs has also risen within the DPP after Jusuf Kalla appointed a
number of close allies from the business community to key positions in the
party’s highest departments. For instance, Agung Laksono and Surya Paloh were
appointed as deputy chairman (Agung) and chairman of the Advisory Council
(Surya). Moreover, in a move that sparked allegations of nepotism, Kalla also
made his brother Suhaeli Kalla deputy treasurer, alongside other political entre-
preneurs like Paskah Suzetta, Bobby Suhardiman and Edward Suryadjaja. A
particularly dense concentration of businesspeople can be found in the new
Advisory Council, where cabinet members Fahmi Idris and Aburizal Bakrie
(Indonesia’s richest man in 2007) are joined by well-known business-politicos
like Prabowo Subianto,104 Tanri Abeng, Jan Darmadi, Cicip C. Sutardjo and
Siswono Yudhohusodo.105
External donations and the loss of old, established business-politics

loyalties
What is remarkable about this new trend of businessmen entering active party
politics is that it is yet to extend to the super-rich conglomerate bosses from the
ethnic Chinese community. Some observers argue that this is only a question of
time and that Indonesia will inevitably degenerate into a Thai- or Philippines
style plutocracy (Chua 2008), but such fundamental alterations to the political
landscape are not yet discernible. In fact, up to this stage the vast majority of
Chinese tycoons still prefer to remain in the background. This does not mean,
however, that they are completely apolitical. On the contrary, most tycoons
continue to play a huge role in electoral politics, even though this role is
usually more indirect than direct as they operate primarily from behind the
scenes.
In contrast to the New Order, when they were basically forced to put their
money exclusively into Golkar, business tycoons now rarely bankroll the cam-
paigns of only one particular party. The competitive nature of the new political
system has provided for a genuinely changed environment for big business
66 Systemness
interests and the multi-party system has created new incentives for business con-
glomerates to sponsor parties other than Golkar (Chua 2005). However,
although many conglomerates have diversified their financial contributions to
political actors, Golkar is still believed to remain one of the major recipients of
money from the business community. Faisal Basri, a noted economic analyst,
suspects that many businesspeople feel indebted to Golkar because the party
protected them during the New Order.106 If Golkar was weakened, Basri argues,
they might lose their long-cherished privileges. Hence, in order to prevent this
from happening, they continue to support the party. While Basri agrees with the
commonly held view that nowadays no businessman can afford to support just
one party (Robison and Hadiz 2004, Chua 2005), he believes that certain con-
glomerates do have a particular interest in supporting Golkar, including those of
Joko Chandra, Tomy Winata and the Ciputra family. Moreover, even those who
distribute their money across a broader spectrum of parties these days tend to be
especially generous towards Golkar (and to a lesser extent, PDI-P), simply
because they can expect the biggest rewards when needed.
Taken together, the donations from businessmen in and outside the formal
party structure are by far the most important source of funding for Golkar. The
growing influence of businesspeople may be a logical consequence of broader
political trends in Indonesia, but Golkar has also deliberately nurtured this trend,
for example through its presidential convention. Indeed, one may argue that
Golkar’s invention of a presidential convention with the chance for non-party
people to participate has actually paved the way for the rapidly increasing influ-
ence of businessmen in official party politics. It is in fact significant to note that
three out of five finalists of the Golkar convention were business people.107
Aburizal Bakrie, Surya Paloh and Prabowo Subianto spent massive amounts of
money on their campaigns in order to challenge the two favourites Akbar
Tandjung and Wiranto. The fact that they failed is a good indication of how
much money the other two contestants must have spent in order to stave off the
challenge. Thus, the convention turned into a genuine money-spinner for Golkar
and became a real blessing for the party’s treasurers on all levels.
Pillars of regularity: state subsidies and the spoils of office

Donations may be the most important source of funding for Golkar, but from the
perspective of party institutionalization they are insufficient because they lack
regularity. In order to cover expenses for day-to-day activities, it is therefore
imperative for the party to generate additional funds from other sources. And
Golkar does indeed receive such additional funds, even though they are not
particularly substantial. Given the absence of regular membership dues, they
come in the form of monthly levies imposed on elected legislators and subsidies
for political parties paid by the state. As far as the former are concerned, Golkar
requests that the members of its DPR fraction make monthly contributions to the
central board as well as the provincial and district boards in the regions where
they were nominated. The monetary value of these regular levies seems to
Systemness 67
depend on the province of origin. Generally, however, the levies are so small
that they are of no real importance to the party’s financial viability. Legislators
from Central and East Java, for example, explained that they paid a monthly
Rp.2 million (US$225) to the central board plus smaller amounts to provincial
and district boards, as well as extra contributions for special party occasions.108
Moreover, Golkar receives an annual share of state subsidies for political
parties from the government. The 2002 party law prescribed funding for political
parties to be distributed proportionally to all parties that won seats in parliament
(KPU 2003: 11). Interestingly, the previous party law (Law No. 2/1999) had fea-
tured a similar stipulation, but it did not mention specifically that the money
should be distributed proportionally. In fact, in the first year after the 1999 elec-
tion all parties seem to have received an equal amount of state funding, but from
2001 onwards the proportional distribution pattern was applied. Based on a
government regulation issued in 2001, every party was paid an annual Rp.1,000
for every vote they received in the legislative elections.109 Furthermore, many
local administrations also started to use the same party funding scheme as the
national government, thereby adding further funds to the party coffers (Mietzner
2007: 244). Thus, between 2001 and 2004 Golkar pocketed not only around
Rp.23 billion in state subsidies for its central board, but also many billions more
for its provincial and district offices.
In 2005, however, the new Yudhoyono government changed this method of
distribution and decided to calculate the money to be awarded to the parties on
the basis of the seats they gained in parliament rather than the votes they
received in the election.110 This reduced the number of parties eligible for subsi-
dies from the state to only 16,111 thereby allowing the government to save
significant expenses previously spent on parties. More importantly, however, the
new regulation set the amount of money to be paid to every party at a relatively
low Rp.21 million for every seat won in the DPR.112 For Golkar, which won 127
seats in the 2004 elections, this translates into a mere Rp.2.667 billion per
annum for the 2004–9 legislative period, a massive decrease compared to the
previous arrangement.113
Final remarks on party funding

To sum up this section, Golkar still has considerable financial resources at its
disposal. It generates these funds from a variety of sources, ranging from
internal and external donors to its own legislators and the state. In the absence of
regular membership dues the only steady and reliable sources of funding appear
to be public subsidies and regularized levies which the party imposes on its
elected representatives in parliament. Arguably, both of these forms of funding
fall into the category ‘other legal activities’ in the party’s constitution. These
contributions, however, are comparatively small and, especially after the change
in state subsidy patterns in 2005, far less significant than the donations which the
party receives from both its own members and external financiers from the big-
business community. In fact, Mietzner (2007) has argued that there is a direct
68 Systemness
causal connection between the decline in revenues from the state and the
increasing influence of big-business money in Indonesian politics. In Golkar this
trend is clearly visible in the growing number of businessmen in the party’s
parliamentary fraction and central board. It has also continued in local politics
where the number of businessmen who join local elections as party-nominated
candidates continues to rise. Incorporating more and more wealthy business-
people into the party has helped Golkar deal with the loss of the seemingly inex-
haustible funds from Suharto’s charitable foundations, but it has had negative
effects on other dimensions of party institutionalization, as we will see in
particular in Chapter 4.
Conclusion
This chapter aimed to identify Golkar’s most important characteristics in the
dimension of systemness. Overall, four key features can be singled out:
1 A nationwide yet gradually eroding party apparatus which is a direct legacy

of the party’s genetic model.
2 A tradition of non-personalistic and weak leadership that continues in the
post-New Order era.
3 The prevalence of factionalism and patron–clientelism, which has prevented
a routinization of formal structures within the party.
4 A remarkable ability to access diversified financial resources.
In view of these findings it can be concluded that the widespread assumption

that Golkar has a superior organizational infrastructure and that it owes its
enduring strength primarily to its so-called party machinery is only partly true.
Without a doubt, Golkar has some important strengths in the dimension of sys-
temness, but it also has some noteworthy weaknesses.
Arguably, the two most important strengths of Golkar are its comprehensive
territorial reach and its financial prowess, even though the latter has suffered a
minor blow after the recent loss of subsidy income. In 2004, however, financial
strength was certainly still a major asset as the former regime party spent huge
amounts of money on advertising and other forms of campaigning. Overall, it is
clear that Golkar no longer possesses the kind of inexhaustible funds it did have
during the New Order, but the party dealt reasonably well with the challenges
posed to its financial sustainability. Today, Golkar is still believed to generate
fairly large amounts of capital through a diversified group of sponsors ranging
from internal and external donors to its own legislators to the state. Of course,
the changed state subsidy legislation has done the party’s bank accounts no
favours, but at the same time the increasing influence of wealthy entrepreneurs
has further strengthened Golkar’s war chest so that the former regime party
looks set to remain financially stable.
Golkar’s second great asset is its ability to reach people all over the country.
Thanks to extraordinary historical circumstances, the former regime party
Systemness 69
enjoyed significant advantages in its organizational development and without a
doubt it still benefits from these advantages today. Golkar not only has branch
offices in every corner of the archipelago, but has also accommodated people
who are deeply embedded in local power structures and who are therefore influ-
ential vote getters during election times. The instrumentalization of local power
holders has always been the secret behind Golkar’s strength in outlying regions,
but as the 2004 election results have shown, relying on these mainly self-
interested politicos is increasingly risky. To be sure, as long as the party can
carry on providing lucrative patronage resources, Golkar will retain its strong
position in the Indonesian party system. But owing to changing electoral institu-
tions and the twin processes of personalization and localization of politics in
Indonesia, it has now become more and more difficult for Golkar to keep every-
one in the loop. Indeed, the party apparatus has already begun to erode from the
bottom up. The main reason for this incremental de-institutionalization is the
fact that the interests of local dignitaries and noblemen are often more closely
tied to locally contextualized power structures than to their support for the
Golkar party.114 As soon as other parties promised to deliver the same goods as
Golkar, at a substantially lower cost, people who had been Golkar members for
decades showed no hesitation in switching their allegiance to these new parties.
Lack of coherence has also been found at the national level, but with different
implications. Defections of national-level politicians have been relatively rare
since the initial post-New Order exodus, but here too, the impact of factionalism
and patron–clientelism has taken its toll on the party. The prolonged tug-of-war
between Akbar Tandjung and his opponents first brought about the temporary
dismissal of some leading party functionaries and eventually resulted in the
political demise of the chairman himself. In the end, Akbar succumbed to the
power of the same informal institutions that he himself had continuously nour-
ished during his chairmanship. Thus, he not only paid the price for leaving the
character of Golkar unchanged and for being unable to comprehend the chang-
ing dynamics of electoral politics in Indonesia, but also for his failure to estab-
lish routinized procedures within the party.
Akbar’s constant amendments to and alterations of pre-existing written rules
and regulations during the legislative election campaign, the presidential con-
vention and the national party congress had angered many party cadres. One
legislative candidate who was dissatisfied with his low list place lamented: ‘The
party has many written regulations, but they are usually vague and open to inter-
pretation.’115 In the absence of reliable ‘rules of the game,’ strategic political
decisions in the party are usually determined by factional affiliations, patronage
and outright money politics. The prevalence of these kinds of informal institu-
tions over formal procedures has had a negative impact on organizational coher-
ence and the party’s public image and in 2004 directly affected Golkar’s
electoral performance. Of course the somewhat disappointing legislative elec-
tions and the failed attempt to make Megawati president cannot be solely attri-
buted to Golkar’s organizational incoherence, but it certainly contributed to the
eventual outcome.
70 Systemness
That Akbar had to pay the price for all this in December 2004, finally, sheds
interesting light on the last important characteristic of Golkar. For years Akbar
Tandjung had been regarded by friends and foes alike as one of the most astute
politicians in Indonesia. As he was anything but charismatic, his leadership
always relied entirely on his ability to provide ever-growing patronage resources
to his numerous clients in the party. In the end, he failed to deliver what was
demanded by a power-hungry party apparatus and was duly ousted from the
chairmanship for this failure. Arguably, a more charismatic leader could have
prevented such an abrupt downfall,116 but Akbar had nothing to offer in this
regard. From the perspective of party institutionalization, the lack of a charis-
matic leader is a good thing for Golkar because it prevents personalistic tend-
encies and facilitates smooth leadership successions. Where leaders are
interchangeable it could be argued that the party should be forced to rely on
institutions rather than persons. At this stage, however, these institutions are still
predominantly informal as the formal rules of the game have not yet evolved
into legally or at least morally binding institutions.
4 Decisional autonomy
The main problems lurk inside the
party
As an independent party Golkar must always be able to take every political

decision and every organizational policy without the interference or intervention
from anybody or any third party.
(DPP Golongan Karya 1998: 51)
Introduction
Having established that Golkar’s organizational infrastructure is actually not as
well institutionalized as is often assumed, the analysis now moves on to the
second structural dimension of Randall and Svåsand’s model of party institu-
tionalization. Decisional autonomy is arguably the most contentious part of the
concept, not least because political theorists have so far failed to reach a consen-
sus on the question of whether autonomy is actually a necessary dimension of
party institutionalization or not. Randall and Svåsand believe that autonomy
should be included in the concept, provided that the analytical focus is limited to
the crucial issue of internal decision-making processes. In other words, a party is
well institutionalized in this dimension if it can make important policy decisions
autonomously and independently from external influences. According to this
understanding of autonomy, links between a party and a sponsoring organization
outside the formal party structure are acceptable as long as ‘the party is clearly
the dominant element in the relationship’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 13).
Indeed, in such cases, ‘a degree of interdependence could have very positive
consequences, in terms of extending resources (which could be vitally needed)
and, indeed, of external institutionalization’ (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 13).1
On the other hand, connections are regarded as negative if the external actor
severely compromises a party’s ability to shape its own policies and strategies,
and to appoint its own personnel. With this limited focus, the authors argue, the
complexities of defining the nature of a party’s links with external actors may be
avoided.
Against the background of this new approach, this chapter scrutinizes
Golkar’s relations with two major forces in Indonesian politics. In the first
section, the development of Golkar’s relations with the armed forces in the
post-Suharto era will be recapitulated. This part will examine general organi-
zational links as well as the potential for military interference in Golkar’s
internal decision-making processes. It will be argued that Golkar and the mili-
tary have indeed severed the ties which had bound them for more than 30 years.
In the second section, the scope of the analysis will be extended beyond tradi-
tional conceptualizations of autonomy. Instead of focusing on another specific
external actor, this part of the chapter will discuss to what extent Golkar’s deci-
sional autonomy is compromised by its susceptibility to corruption and money
politics. These kinds of illicit financial practices may be a structural problem
rather than a problem that can be linked directly to a specific actor (or a group of
actors), but they nonetheless affect a party’s decisional autonomy. Indeed, as
this section will argue, corrupt practices in all their manifold forms have become
a deeply entrenched enemy to formal party institutionalization, and the power of
capital is so strong that it severely undermines Golkar’s decisional autonomy.
This is particularly evident in parliamentary procedures, but also in important
recruitment and selection processes. In short, Golkar’s political manoeuvres
often appear to be guided by greed rather than by rules and regulations.
Apart from providing important empirical insights, this chapter will also shed
new light on some theoretical issues. First, it will test the analytical value of
Randall and Svåsand’s proposal to conceptualize decisional autonomy more nar-
rowly than in earlier models of party institutionalization. As shall be shown, the
proposed focus on decision-making processes makes it extremely difficult to
apply the concept in an empirical study in a country like Indonesia where many
decision-making processes are simply too opaque to be reconstructed by the
researcher. Consequently, many conclusions in this chapter have to remain ten-
tative. A second point of criticism that will emerge out of the discussion con-
cerns Randall and Svåsand’s suggestion to categorize autonomy as an external
dimension of party institutionalization. In fact, as will be demonstrated in the
final part of this chapter, challenges to Golkar’s decisional autonomy as a
collective organization not only come from outside the party, but also from its
very midst.
Golkar and the military: separated at last

Ever since the beginning of the reformasi era, the relations between Golkar and
the military have been under particular scrutiny from the public. Given the fact
that the armed forces had not only been the driving force behind the establish-
ment of Golkar in 1964, but had also continued to be actively involved in the
party’s internal affairs throughout the New Order period, many observers were
initially sceptical when both sides announced in mid-1998 that they would ter-
minate their relationship. While many believed that the military’s involvement
in day-to-day politics was indeed likely to decline, doubts persisted about the
future role of the military during elections. After all, the military, and especially
the army, had been one of the main pillars of Golkar’s electoral hegemony
during the New Order. Now that Suharto had stepped down, the commander-in-
chief of the armed forces, General Wiranto, pledged that his men would remain
neutral and stop supporting Golkar, but not everyone trusted him. As Crouch
(1999: 143) noted,
some observers [. . .] fear that General Wiranto’s record so far suggests that
he could not be relied upon to resist any instruction from the president,
while officers in the territorial structure may see alliance with Golkar as a
way of keeping open prospects for later appointments to civilian positions.
Arguably, this kind of scepticism has never entirely disappeared. Debates

about military reform have continued unabated over the years, sometimes
more intense, sometimes more subdued. Although hardly ever explicitly men-
tioned, an underlying theme of the debate has always been the question of
whether the armed forces would stick to their commitment to refrain from
active party politics. Moreover, the victories of several retired generals in
gubernatorial elections in 2002 and 2003, and especially the presence of two
retired generals among the five contenders in the 2004 presidential election,
reignited fears of a military comeback in politics. Golkar found itself in the
thick of the debate after it nominated former Suharto adjutant and ex-
commander-in-chief of the armed forces, Ret. General Wiranto as presidential
candidate in 2004.
This section will analyse some crucial turning points in the relationship
between Golkar and the armed forces in order to find out whether the wide-
spread scepticism of political observers was justified. More precisely, it will aim
to answer the question as to whether Golkar has fully emancipated itself from its
former sponsor. It will be argued that while organizational links have indeed
been severed satisfactorily, the military maintains pockets of influence on
decision-making processes, at least on the local level where party executives
sometimes still rely on protection from local military commanders.
The end of a wonderful friendship? Golkar and ABRI announce their

New Paradigms
The fall of Suharto in May 1998 precipitated the announcements of a number of
structural changes in both Golkar and the armed forces. In July 1998, Golkar
declared itself independent from its long-time mentor when delegates at the
extraordinary national party congress approved the reformulation of Chapter III
of the party constitution. By replacing the New Order version ‘Golongan Karya
is an organization of socio-political power oriented towards functional work and
achievement (karya and kekaryaan)’2 (DPP Golongan Karya n.d.: 61) with the
new, more reformist-sounding credo ‘Golkar is independent, open and oriented
towards functional work and achievement’ (DPP Partai Golkar 2003a: 7), the
party took a first formal step towards securing decisional autonomy. Clearly,
the severance of institutional ties with the military as well as the abolition of the
almighty Supervisory Council, which had given former president Suharto an
incontrovertible veto right, suddenly vested unprecedented power in the hands
of the civilian politicians in the central board.
According to the new arrangements, the central board is now in full control
of crafting and implementing the party’s political agenda. Its plenary meeting
(rapat pleno) and especially the meeting of the executive board (rapat pengurus
harian) are responsible for the day-to-day affairs of the party, while the
parliamentary fraction in the DPR represents the party’s interests in the legis-
lature. The rapat pleno consists of all members of the extended central board,3
whereas the rapat pengurus harian is confined to the general chairman, the vice-
chairmen, the secretary-general and the vice-secretary-generals. For policy
decisions of national scope, however, the rapat pleno and the rapat pengurus
harian can only issue recommendations. The final decisions in such cases are
made by the national leadership meeting (rapat pimpinan nasional (rapimnas or
just rapim), which comprises all members of the central leadership board as well
as representatives of the party’s provincial leadership boards. Significantly, the
new Advisory Council, which replaced the Supervisory Council in 1998, no
longer has any veto powers to annul decisions made by the rapim.4
On the surface, Golkar’s openly declared intention to become an independent
party may have looked like a farsighted assessment of the changing political
landscape or even a courageous act of political brinkmanship, but in many ways
the announcement of the ‘New Paradigm’ seemed more like a strategic neces-
sity, at least as far as Golkar’s ties with the military were concerned. It should be
noted that many of the delegates who attended the 1998 congress were retired
military officers and these officers probably knew that if it was not Golkar who
terminated the relationship, then it would certainly be the military who would do
it shortly after the party congress. After all, a blueprint for military reform
including a proposal to reduce ABRI’s political role had been circulating among
reform-minded generals since at least the mid-1990s (Mietzner 2004: 187;
Honna 2003: 164–5).
Thus, it was not really a surprise when, just one week after Golkar’s extra-
ordinary congress, General Wiranto gave the first public indication that the mili-
tary would soon announce its very own ‘New Paradigm.’5 Another six weeks
later it became official. According to Wiranto, the military was now ready to
accept that ‘the social and political role of the Armed Forces will systematically
and automatically decline.’6 Therefore he announced that the military would
start implementing a number of institutional changes, including the withdrawal
from the forefront of politics, a shift from occupying political positions to
influencing political processes, and a change in the method of influencing from
direct to indirect ways. Last but not least, the armed forces proclaimed to be
ready for political role-sharing with civilian partners (Rinakit 2005: 105–6;
Honna 2003: 166; Crouch 1999: 138–9; The Editors 1999: 143). While there
was no direct reference to the military’s future relations with Golkar, another
high-ranking general explained one day after Wiranto’s announcement that the
armed forces were ‘not the instrument of a political party, but an instrument of
the state.’7 Thus, the way was paved for a gradual reduction of the military’s role
in politics and consequently for its withdrawal from active involvement in
Golkar.
The first test: Golkar–military relations during the 1999 general

elections
The first test for both Golkar and TNI to prove that they were serious about sev-
ering their ties was the 1999 election and as has been noted above, this was the
part many observers were most sceptical about. Before the poll, both Wiranto as
well as Yudhoyono had repeatedly pledged that the military would remain
neutral (Crouch 1999: 143), but Wiranto’s political ambitions made the situation
more complicated. According to Rinakit (2005: 162), then-president and Golkar-
nominee Habibie had hinted at the possibility of nominating Wiranto as a vice-
presidential candidate in the upcoming presidential election. For many army
officers this hint apparently amounted to a plea for help from the military. Just
three days before the election, the military leadership gathered all local com-
manders in its headquarters and ‘instructed the commanders to support the for-
tunes of Golkar’ (Rinakit 2005: 162) in order to improve Wiranto’s chances of
becoming vice-president. Although this support was meant to be only indirect,8
reform-minded generals like the late Agus Wirahadikusumah were reportedly
appalled and asserted that ‘the military was far from neutral during the 1999
election. It still supported Golkar’ (Rinakit 2005: 161).
Most foreign observers, however, disagree with this negative assessment.
Kingsbury (2003: 173), for example, has argued that, while the overall imple-
mentation of the TNI’s New Paradigm may still leave much to be desired, the
1999 elections showed that at least the military’s intention to remain neutral in
elections and the general severance of ties with Golkar were successful.9 Sim-
ilarly, Mietzner (2004: 190) opined that in 1999 ‘TNI had remained neutral both
in rhetoric and in practice.’ Another observer wrote that the 1999 election ‘was
the first election since the formation of Golkar in which the military did not back
that party’ (Van Klinken 1999: 25). And Aspinall (1999: 34) reported from the
troubled province of Aceh that some Golkar members even actively criticized
the armed forces, urging trials for ‘the individuals from ABRI who murdered,
tortured and abducted innocent members of society.’
Thus, it seems as if Agus Wirahadikusumah’s accusations were probably
slightly exaggerated, if not completely false. In any case, even if Wiranto had
really been inclined to support Golkar before the election, he certainly changed
his mind after the poll. In particular Habibie’s involvement in the Bank Bali
scandal (see below) and the president’s controversial decision to conduct an
independence referendum in East Timor prompted Wiranto to turn his back on
the president and engage in talks with other contenders like Megawati and
Abdurrahman Wahid. In the weeks before the MPR session the general kept his
cards close to his chest, well-aware that the 38 military representatives in the
MPR could play a key role in deciding the presidential election. In the end, he
threw his support behind Wahid,10 but his strategy did not entirely pay off as
he failed to secure the vice-presidential post. However, Wiranto was compen-
sated with a powerful cabinet post, as were his military colleagues SBY and
Agum Gumelar (Mietzner 2000).
Coping with the fallout from the MPR session: Golkar and TNI
during the Wahid administration
The showdown in the MPR made it unmistakably clear that Golkar and the mili-
tary were no longer acting in concert. During the course of the session Wiranto
had not only embarrassed Golkar by publicly declining Habibie’s offer to
become his vice-presidential running mate, but had then also gone at great
lengths to outdo party chairman Akbar Tandjung in his efforts to seal the vice-
presidency under Wahid. Yet, as Honna (2003: 177) put it, ‘Wiranto, once
thought of as a shoo-in for vice-president [was] outmanoeuvred at the last’ and
had to make do with a ministerial post. Merely four months later, he was dis-
missed from the cabinet. He subsequently disappeared from the political stage
for a few years, only to re-emerge as a contender in Golkar’s presidential con-
vention in 2003.
Following the MPR session Golkar and the military both underwent strangely
similar phases of reorganization and reorientation. Without a doubt, both organi-
zations emerged from the session battered and bruised and, as a consequence,
heavily factionalized. Although both had secured several cabinet posts in the
government,11 they were also aware that their position in the new political
system was much weaker than before. Their internal fragmentation and their tar-
nished public image, however, prevented them from staging an immediate resur-
rection so that both were, at least for a while, forced to retreat from the centre of
Indonesia’s corridors of power. During this time, both organizations pursued
their own political agendas, and evidently these agendas were no longer tied to
the fortunes of the other. While Golkar sought to consolidate its organizational
apparatus in the regions, the military was preoccupied with internal discussions
about the future of civil–military relations under a president who seemed com-
mitted to scale down the TNI’s political role. Even the fact that both began to
reassert their power roughly at the same time – namely in mid-2001 – did not
point to a new alliance between the former partners. On the contrary, the
involvement of Golkar and the military in the impeachment of Abdurrahman
Wahid was solely based on distinctive power calculations that evolved com-
pletely independently from one another.
The fall of Abdurrahman Wahid after just 21 months in office marked the
return of both Golkar and the military to the centre of Indonesian power politics.
The move to impeach Wahid was supported by a broad coalition in parliament,
including Golkar and the TNI/police fraction. Both groups were keen on ending
Wahid’s chaotic rule, mainly because the president had repeatedly tried to
further weaken their political influence. Golkar, for example, was stunned when
Wahid dismissed Jusuf Kalla from the cabinet for alleged corruption,12 while the
military establishment was irritated by Wahid’s numerous rounds of leadership
reshuffles. However, although Golkar and the TNI were united in their struggle
to get rid of Wahid, neither of the two had a particular agenda to promote the
interests of the other as both were preoccupied with restoring their own power
bases in Jakarta. While Golkar sought a stable government under Megawati
because the party leadership believed that this would enhance the prospects for
an electoral coalition between the two parties in 2004, the military supported
Megawati because it was confident that she would be more accommodating
towards their institutional interests than Wahid.13 Thus, although Golkar clearly
backed the impeachment process, the decision to do so was in no way dependent
on external forces. It was solely made by the party leadership in Slipi and was
based purely on pragmatic power calculations.
Redistributing power, readjusting allegiances: Golkar and the TNI

during the Megawati administration
In the following years this pattern remained essentially unchanged. Throughout
the years of the Megawati administration, Golkar and the military often sup-
ported the same policies, but in most cases no evidence could be found that this
unanimity was actually a result of pressure from the armed forces. However, it
needs to be stressed that the real extent of the military’s influence on internal
decision-making processes in Golkar is extremely difficult to estimate, espe-
cially in regards to parliamentary politics. As several researchers have
bemoaned, transparency in the DPR is dreadfully low and important decisions
are often made behind firmly closed doors (Sherlock 2005: 7, Rüland et al.
2005). In fact, the key discussions in the legislature are rarely held in the actual
special committees (panitia khusus, pansus) that are routinely set up to negotiate
controversial bills, but in small informal working committees (panitia kerja,
panja) that are usually headed by the leaders of the parties’ parliamentary frac-
tions. As Alan Wall, the Indonesia representative of IFES, said, ‘when the going
gets tough within a pansus, a panja is formed. The pansus is just for the public,
while the decisions are taken by very small elite circles.’14 In view of this situ-
ation, it is almost impossible for external observers to determine which party
supported a certain bill from the outset and which party had to be convinced
during the so-called musyawarah and mufakat (consultation and consensus)
process. Needless to say, the opaqueness of these overall procedures also makes
it nearly impossible to gauge the impact of external influences on the decision-
making processes within the individual parties represented in parliament.15
With regards to the military, the situation is (or rather was, until 2004) even
more complicated because of the fact that the armed forces used to have their
own representatives in parliament who were directly involved in negotiations
with the legislators from the political parties.16 Although the TNI had pledged in
its New Paradigm to reduce its role in day-to-day politics, it is understood that
the 38 men and women in the DPR acted, if required, as the extended arm of the
military establishment. In fact, several observers have expressed their concern
that the armed forces have indeed continued to exert subtle psychological
pressure on all parties in parliament (not only Golkar), be it through their own
DPR fraction or through other lobbyists.17 Again, however, it needs to be stressed
that it is extremely difficult to tell to what extent these attempts at influencing
party-internal decision-making processes have really been successful.
If we cannot conclusively answer the question of to what extent the military
has really attempted to influence internal decision-making processes in Golkar’s
parliamentary fraction, it may be more insightful to ask whether these attempts,
if they did take place, have actually been necessary. As a matter of fact, by the
time Megawati took over government responsibility in 2001 large segments of
Jakarta’s civilian elite had already grown so impatient with the manifold secur-
ity problems in the country that many of them, including numerous Golkar
politicians, were increasingly sympathetic to the military playing a greater role
in politics (Mietzner 2004: 215). Indeed, it seems as if from mid-2001 onwards
hardly anyone in the civilian elite seemed to oppose the security-focused pol-
icies the military was advocating. The unanimous support for martial law in
Aceh in 2003 was the most striking example of this,18 but civilian party politi-
cians also toed the military line in various discussions about terrorism and in the
debate about the TNI bill in 2004. However, there was at least one exception to
this pattern of support for the military and one may argue that this exception
proves that the TNI’s influence has its limitations and that Golkar has indeed
gained full autonomy from the military. This noteworthy example was the
highly controversial issue of special autonomy for Indonesia’s easternmost
province of Papua. In many ways, the developments of the debate about Papuan
autonomy and the viewpoints taken by Golkar and the armed forces in this
debate captured in a nutshell the contemporary dynamics of civilian–military
relations in general and between Golkar and the military in particular.
Representing whose interests? Golkar, TNI and the division of Papua

Apart from Aceh, Papua is arguably the province that has posed the most
significant separatist challenge to the Indonesian state in the entire post-Suharto
era. Repressed and marginalized throughout the New Order, some Papuans
quickly began to demand independence from Indonesia once Suharto’s iron-
fisted rule came to an end in 1998 (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004). Suharto’s succes-
sor B. J. Habibie tried to end the conflict with an all-too familiar divide-and-rule
tactic when his government crafted Law No. 45/1999 which provided for the
separation of Papua19 into three provinces (Irian Jaya, West Irian Jaya and
Central Irian Jaya). The legislation, however, was soon suspended because of
massive resistance from the Papuan population. As the local independence
movement gathered steam throughout 2000 and early 2001, the short-lived
Wahid government tried to quell the separatist sentiment by promising Papua
special autonomy. A new law (Law No. 21/2001) was designed to lay the legal
foundation for this autonomy, but before Wahid was able to sign the draft he
was impeached and forced to hand over the government to his vice-president
Megawati Sukarnoputri. Soon afterwards, Megawati signed the law, but neither
she nor the leading protagonists in her new cabinet were committed to the cause.
Consequently, special autonomy was never fully enacted under Megawati.20
Instead, with the issuance of presidential instruction (Inpres) No. 1/2003,
which called for the enforcement of suspended Law No. 45/1999, Megawati
made it clear that she had a no intention of granting Papua genuine autonomy.
The decree caused a great deal of legal confusion and prompted Papuan politi-
cians to seek clarification about the status of their province from the Constitu-
tional Court. After several delays the court eventually issued its verdict in late
2004, ruling somewhat ambiguously that the separation into three provinces was
unconstitutional, but that one of the new provinces (West Irian Jaya) should
remain in existence nonetheless.21 By the time of writing this decision still
formed the legal basis for political operations and in March 2006 gubernatorial
elections were successfully held in both Papua and West Irian Jaya.
The dispute over Papua has been characterized by high-level politicking
between a number of powerful players including the military, intelligence agen-
cies, the government and the two biggest parties in Indonesia, Golkar and PDI-P
(International Crisis Group 2003). Of the various players involved, the military
has always been the most fervent opponent of special autonomy for Papua. By
mid-2001 the generals began to receive valuable support from the Megawati
government and large segments of the president’s party, PDI-P. Golkar, on the
other hand, appeared to oppose the idea of splitting the province and seemed to
side with the Papuans who urged the government to properly implement the
special autonomy law.
In the ensuing debate Golkar showed that it was perfectly able to decide inde-
pendently on what is in the party’s best interest, especially after the issuance of
the 2003 Inpres, which was widely regarded as a concerted effort by the army,
the State Intelligence Agency (Badan Intelijen Nasional, BIN) and the
Megawati government to maximize their own strategic benefits in Papua (Inter-
national Crisis Group 2003: 8–9). For the army and BIN, splitting the province
into three smaller administrative entities looked not only like a promising tactic
to weaken the independence movement, but also like a crucial move to safe-
guard their manifold business activities in the region.22 For PDI-P, the formation
of new provinces and districts would have created massive opportunities to
access lucrative patronage resources which under the existing administrative set-
up had been largely reserved for Golkar.
It is these broader implications that are most likely to explain Golkar’s initial
opposition to the division of Papua. Led by Simon Patrice Morin, a prominent
party cadre from Papua, Golkar repeatedly appealed to the Megawati govern-
ment to withdraw the Inpres.23 However, while Morin may have had genuine
concerns for his home province, the reasons for the party as an organization to
oppose the Inpres were probably more pragmatic and driven primarily by the
fear of losing its grip on power and patronage in the province. This argument is
further underpinned by the change of attitude in the Golkar leadership after
2004. Ever since the balance of political power in Jakarta swung back into
Golkar’s favour, resistance to the split has been reduced to Morin and a few
other politicians hailing directly from Papua.24 New party chairman Jusuf Kalla,
on the other hand, quickly signalled that he supported the creation of the new
province of West Irian Jaya. With Golkar back in the driving seat in Jakarta and
Kalla at the helm of the party, the situation had changed significantly and Golkar
no longer feared being left out of lucrative business deals in the new province.25
Electoral politics in 2004: TNI still neutral?

More indicators which support the assumption that Golkar has indeed emanci-
pated itself from the military could be found during the various elections in
2004. In the legislative election in April, for example, election observers
reported no interference from local military commanders in the voting process.
There were also very few former members of the military on the lists of
Golkar’s legislative candidates, which further demonstrated that the once-
overlapping patronage networks of the party and the armed forces had been sep-
arated organization-wise. With Golkar’s former secretary-general Budi Harsono,
the ex-governor of Riau, Saleh Djasit, Abdul Nurhaman, Afifuddin Thaib and
Djoko Subroto, only five retired TNI officers were elected for Golkar, leaving
the proportion of former military men in Golkar’s DPR fraction at a mere 6 per
cent.
The military’s neutrality was warmly welcomed by the public and political
observers, but the real concern for many was not the legislative election but the
presidential election. After Wiranto’s victory at the Golkar convention, the can-
didature of Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono and the nomination of Agum Gumelar
as the running mate for Hamzah Haz, three out of five pairings in the election
featured a retired general. For some observers, this development signalled the
return of the military to the centre of politics (Sasdi 2004a),26 but despite SBY’s
eventual victory, these fears proved unfounded. Even if, as was widely assumed,
the three contenders utilized their networks permeating the command structure
of the armed forces to mobilize support for the election, this did not necessarily
imply that the parties that had nominated them were compromised in their deci-
sional autonomy.27 In the case of Wiranto and Golkar, this was certainly not the
case. On the contrary, due to the fact that Wiranto had won his candidature at
the expense of party chairman Akbar Tandjung, the Golkar leadership was
particularly keen on demonstrating its decisional autonomy and as Wiranto had
to experience first-hand, it did so with extraordinary zeal.
For instance, Akbar made it clear immediately after his defeat at the conven-
tion that determining Wiranto’s running mate would be the prerogative of the
party and not of Wiranto. In line with this attitude, Akbar and the central board
then quickly took charge of the search for a suitable candidate, which of course
for Akbar meant a candidate who would rather not increase Wiranto’s chances
of winning. Indeed, the eventual selection of the relatively unknown Solahuddin
Wahid spoke volumes about Akbar’s real motivations in his ‘assistance’ of
Wiranto. The subsequent campaign for the presidential election was character-
ized by Akbar’s thinly veiled attempts to undermine Wiranto’s efforts to lift his
somewhat tarnished public profile. Well aware of these stumbling blocks,
Wiranto was reluctant to cooperate with Golkar’s official success team and
effectively ran his campaign alone.28 That Golkar was able to obstruct the cam-
paign of its official presidential candidate and even withhold financial assistance
shows clearly that the party leadership was in full control of its strategic
decisions. Even though Wiranto surely had the backing of some elements in the
military and allegedly of members of the Suharto family, the vast majority of the
party’s central board members stood firm in their loyalty to Akbar. This loyalty,
however, came at a price as the party base grew increasingly alienated from its
central board.29 As we have seen in Chapter 3, this alienation later turned into
outright hostility and eventually led to the ousting of Akbar Tandjung from the
party leadership.
Golkar and the military on the local level

If Golkar appears to have been reasonably successful in reaching decisional auto-
nomy on the national level, the verdict is less positive on the local level. Even
though it is difficult to find evidence for systematic TNI pressure on local Golkar
leadership boards or parliamentary fractions, the armed forces still play an influ-
ential role in local politics, especially in regions that are prone to communal or
separatist violence. The very fact that the military has been adamant to maintain its
territorial structure (Mietzner 2003) indicates that local politics and the control of
it remains a crucial pillar of the TNI’s enduring power in Indonesian politics.
In the early post-New Order years, the military’s interference in local party
politics has been particularly striking during gubernatorial and bupati elections.
As local regents were still elected indirectly during these years, the military
often had little difficulty in positioning itself as kingmaker in the midst of poorly
organized parties. Local power holders who ran for executive office therefore
often showed a keen interest in maintaining good relations with local military
commanders in order to ensure crucial support during the election:
Disputed election results, impeachments of governors and bupati, splits in

political parties and mob violence all provided the TNI with opportunities to
intervene in politics. Often its decision to protect – or not to protect – a
local head of government would decide his or her fate. Whether it was the
controversy over the mayoral election in Medan, the conflict accompanying
the impeachment of two mayors in Surabaya, the fight for the governorship
in North Maluku, the disputed election results in Kupang and Sampang, or
the dismissal of the governor in South Kalimantan, the role of the security
forces in controlling mass demonstrations was essential to maintaining, or
transferring, power.
(Mietzner 2003: 254)
Significantly, however, it has to be noted that this TNI interference in practical

politics did not exclusively target Golkar. Rather, it has emerged as an
inherently structural problem of civil–military relations in post-Suharto Indone-
sia as the armed forces continue to exert pressure on local governments and par-
liaments in order to prove their indispensability. While Golkar politicians have
often been at the receiving end of this pressure by virtue of their strong positions
in many regions, other parties, especially PDI-P, have also suffered from this
kind of interference.
With the abolition of indirect local elections and the introduction of the
pilkada, the opportunities for the military to interfere in electoral processes have
somewhat decreased, but that does not mean that the military has retreated from
local politics. On the contrary, while the patterns of interference may have
changed in appearance they have hardly done so in substance. According to one
prominent observer of the military, the main instrument the TNI uses to influ-
ence local politics today are the so-called ‘Regional Leaders Consultative
Forums’ (Musyawarah Pimpinan Daerah, Muspida).30 These informal forums
consist of members of the local military command and leaders of local execu-
tives, legislatures and judiciaries. The military often uses its influential role in
the Muspida to ask local parliaments or governors for financial contributions for
their local units. Given the local politicians’ dependence on the military for
cooperation in security issues, the requested contributions are mostly approved.31
Thus, here again the military clearly curtails the decisional autonomy of civilian
politicians, but again it is more of a structural problem of civil–military relations
than a problem of military interference in Golkar’s internal affairs.
Final remarks on Golkar’s relations with the military

The discussion in this section has shown that Golkar has been fairly successful
in emancipating itself from its original sponsoring organization, the military. To
a large extent the process was inevitable for both sides as the changing political
environment after 1998 no longer allowed close bonds between the armed forces
and a particular political party. Today, the interests of Golkar and the TNI are
often similar in nature so it is hardly surprising that the two organizations often
cooperate and support the same policies. However, once the interests diverge,
Golkar has demonstrated its willingness and its ability to challenge the mili-
tary’s position, as has been evident, for example, in the case of the division of
Papua.
Nonetheless, the military remains a cause for concern in regards to Golkar’s
decisional autonomy because of its strong influence in local politics. Especially
in regions where the security situation is tense, the armed forces have continued
to exert pressure on local politicians through their presence in the Muspida. That
Golkar is often the target of this pressure, however, does not mean that the mili-
tary deliberately intervenes only in Golkar’s internal affairs. Rather, by virtue of
its influential position in the Muspida the military intervenes in the internal
affairs of all parties that participate in local governments. Clearly, the core of
the problem here is the unresolved issue of the military’s territorial structure
and, arguably, this problem affects all parties, not only Golkar.
Guided by greed: how money politics affects Golkar’s
decisional autonomy
In the second part of this chapter the analysis will move on to the impact of cor-
ruption and money politics on Golkar’s decisional autonomy.32 Throughout the
New Order Golkar benefited from the interconnectedness of business and poli-
tics in Indonesia as it was provided with seemingly inexhaustible financial
resources from business donations and Suharto’s notorious charity foundations.
But the party’s wealth and the dubious origins of this wealth were also a mani-
festation of its complete lack of autonomy in regards to its financial activities.
As it never needed to develop its own sources of financial support, the former
regime party spent its entire New Order existence subject to the whims of the
state.
It was not until the fall of Suharto that things changed. Although the basic
tenets of business-politics relations have essentially remained the same, there
have been some changes in the relationship between big business elites and
political parties which have had lasting effects on Golkar’s financial situation.
For example, the emergence of a competitive multi-party system suddenly made
compulsory loyalty to Golkar obsolete for the country’s business elites and pro-
vided fresh incentives to sponsor other parties than Golkar. Moreover, as the
wheels of decentralization started to rotate in 2001, big business began to turn its
attention to newly empowered actors in the regions, both partisan and non-
partisan. As these new streams of funding were often channelled through net-
works outside the central party leadership, Golkar faced some formidable
challenges in sustaining its financial dominance.
As we have seen in Chapter 3, overall Golkar has responded quite well to
these challenges. The party has adjusted to the new circumstances with inno-
vative fundraising activities such as presidential and gubernatorial conventions,
and has incorporated an increasing number of wealthy businessmen directly into
the party. Hence, access to regular and diversified financial resources is still
guaranteed. The focus in this section, however, is not on regularity or accessibil-
ity of financial resources, but rather on the question as to what extent the explo-
ration of new avenues of funding has affected Golkar’s decisional autonomy. It
will be argued that the increasing importance of capital undermines the auto-
nomy of the party because it prompts party officials to make decisions which
may not necessarily be in the best interest of the party as an organization, but
rather in their own personal interest. In other words, in order to protect their
individual interests, powerful party officials often sacrifice the interests of the
party. In doing so, they rob the party as a collective organization of its decisional
autonomy.
The fall of Suharto and the end of infinite resources

When the New Order regime unravelled, Golkar strategists quickly realized
that maintaining the party’s long-established financial privileges would be
impossible. Arguably, the most significant blow to the party was the fact that
many of Suharto’s notorious charity foundations including Yayasan Dakab were
handed over to the government for better public scrutiny in late 1998 (Robison
and Hadiz 2004: 234).33 As explained in Chapter 3, Yayasan Dakab had once
been set up by Suharto with the primary aim of maintaining financial security
for Golkar and was by far the party’s most important source of funding during
the New Order. When Suharto’s successor B. J. Habibie decided to bow to
public pressure and arrange for the foundation to be handled by the government,
Golkar could not continue to generate the massive funds it had at its disposal
throughout the New Order.
It is likely that Habibie’s decision to end Golkar’s monopolized access to the
foundations’ funds was primarily intended to mollify the critical public. But the
issuance of presidential decision (Keppres) No. 195/1998 was still surrounded
by controversy as it remained unclear whether the transfer of the foundations’
operational business would also entail a handover of their private assets, which
were still believed to be under the control of Suharto. For Golkar this debate,
which primarily revolved around the question as to whether Suharto could be
put on trial for his role in managing the foundations, was rather irrelevant
because, regardless of the technicalities, the bottom line was that the party could
no longer rely on endless money from Yayasan Dakab.34 The irony in the situ-
ation was that Golkar had suddenly been granted autonomy over its financial
resources, but that this externally imposed autonomy confronted the party with
an unprecedented challenge to its financial sustainability. The main question
then was whether it would respond by moving towards the consolidation of this
new autonomy or whether it would move straight ahead into a new relationship
of dependence with selected elements of the business community.
Golkar’s initial reaction: Baligate, Buloggate and the structural

entrenchment of corruption
In the early days after the fall of Suharto, Golkar’s response to these new chal-
lenges was fairly unimposing. Or rather, there was no response at all as the party
seemed blissfully ignorant of the changed circumstances and continued to use
traditional New Order methods to generate funds. However, party leaders obvi-
ously underestimated the new transparency of the reformasi era and swiftly ran
into trouble when the so-called ‘Bank Bali scandal’ (also called ‘Baligate’) was
uncovered in the run-up to the 1999 MPR session. The scandal centred on the
diversion of some US$80 million from a big private bank, Bank Bali, to a
company controlled by, among others, then-deputy treasurer of Golkar, Setya
Novanto. For many Indonesians, the scandal was a stark reminder that Golkar
had not yet adjusted to the new times, and its clumsy attempts to cover up the
apparent involvement of high-ranking party cadres in the multimillion dollar
scam were evidence that the learning process was yet to commence.
The Bank Bali scandal had two major implications. First, it severely damaged
the reputation and presidential prospects of B. J. Habibie, who, until the scandal
broke loose, had earned himself a fair share of respect for overseeing the prepa-
rations for Indonesia’s first free and fair election in 40 years. Once the scandal
unfolded, his dream of winning a second presidential term was basically shat-
tered as public opinion turned against him and powerful elements within his own
party began to regard him as a liability.35 In the end, Habibie became a some-
what tragic figure as he was effectively mulcted of the benefits of his overall
respectable presidential performance. Second, the Bank Bali scandal set a rather
questionable standard for the judicial handling of high-profile corruption scan-
dals in post-Suharto Indonesia. The vast majority of those involved in the
scandal including top Golkar cadres Setya Novanto, Tanri Abeng and Arnold
Baramuli were either acquitted or not prosecuted at all, much to the dismay of
anti-corruption campaigners (ICW 2003).
Following the Bank Bali controversy, a number of other high-ranking Golkar
functionaries became embroiled in corruption scandals, but very few have actu-
ally been indicted, not to mention found guilty. While some escaped prosecution
by admitting themselves to hospital (like former top Economics Minister Ginan-
jar Kartasasmita in early 2001), others were either acquitted straight away or
found guilty by district courts, but later exonerated by a higher court. Arguably,
the most prominent case in the latter category was Akbar Tandjung’s so-called
Buloggate II scandal.36 In 2001, the then-Golkar chairman was accused of
having embezzled Rp.40 billion of non-budgetary funds from the State Logistics
Agency Bulog into an electoral slush fund for his party.37 As the alleged felony
was committed in the run-up to the 1999 legislative election, it has been widely
asserted that the money, which was originally designated to help alleviate
poverty, was diverted into party coffers in order to boost Golkar’s election cam-
paign. After a prolonged trial at the Central Jakarta District Court, Akbar was
eventually declared guilty of corruption and sentenced to three years in jail in
September 2002. Irritated but far from defeated, the Golkar leader appealed to
first the Jakarta High Court, which upheld the verdict in January 2003, and even-
tually to the highest judicial authority in Indonesia, the Supreme Court. There,
he was eventually acquitted in controversial fashion in February 2004.38
Compared to most other large-scale corruption cases in Indonesia, the Bank
Bali scandal and Akbar’s Buloggate trial had certain interesting features that dis-
tinguished them from the rest. For instance, both cases had far-reaching political
consequences, not only for the two individuals most closely associated (Habibie
and Akbar), but also for Golkar as a party. Baligate, for example, not only shat-
tered Habibie’s dream of retaining the presidency, but also sowed the seeds of
post-New Order factionalism in Golkar. Buloggate II, on the other hand, was
one of the main reasons for Golkar’s rather disappointing electoral performance
in 2004 and, as a consequence, for Akbar’s defeat at the presidential convention.
Even his eventual removal from the party leadership in December 2004 can be
directly linked to his involvement in the corruption scandal.
The most interesting characteristic of the two scandals, however, was that in
contrast to most of the other corruption cases that made headlines in Indonesia
in recent years, neither Baligate nor Buloggate II featured politicians who
embezzled money primarily for their own personal enrichment. It is indeed criti-
cally important in the context of party institutionalization and party autonomy to
differentiate between acts of corruption that are committed primarily for a
person’s self-enrichment and those that are committed mainly in order to enrich
the party. Furthermore, in the second category we also need to draw another line
between those acts of corruption in which the party is the initiator of the crime
and those where it is merely the recipient of bribes. The examples that follow
will illustrate why these differentiations are important.
The many facets of corruption and their impact on Golkar’s

autonomy
Arguably the most common form of political corruption in Indonesia in recent
years has been the personal self-enrichment of legislators and executives, espe-
cially in the regions. In the run-up to the 2004 election, new scandals were
exposed by the media on an almost daily basis, often involving groups of
parliamentarians who transcended party affiliations.39 Governors and bupatis
have also been at the centre of a number of corruption scandals, among others
the former governors of Aceh and Banten (both of whom are Golkar cadres).
Finally, in this category, there have also been cases of individual party func-
tionaries who became involved in corruption cases that had actually nothing to
do with their political positions. The various trials of the controversial Golkar
legislator and businessman Nurdin Halid in 2004–5 are but one example of such
corruption cases.40 Significantly, such acts of corruption do not really affect a
party’s autonomy, neither in the traditional sense nor in Randall and Svåsand’s
more narrowly defined sense of decisional autonomy, as they are committed pri-
marily for self-enrichment or for the enrichment of members of the perpetrator’s
clientelistic networks.
It is a different story, however, with cases like the Bank Bali scandal or
Akbar’s Buloggate case. In these cases, the act of corruption was committed first
and foremost in order to enrich the party and to improve Golkar’s chances of
electoral success. In both instances, Golkar acquired large amounts of money
illegally, thereby demonstrating that the party was obviously incapable of gener-
ating sufficient funds (or at least what party leaders believed to be sufficient
funds) to finance its campaign by legal means. The two cases can therefore be
regarded as evidence of Golkar’s lack of autonomy and hence of its weak insti-
tutionalization if we understand the concept of autonomy in its traditional sense.
On the other hand, however, the two scandals did not affect Golkar’s decisional
autonomy as conceptualized by Randall and Svåsand since the providers of the
funds (Bank Bali and Bulog) did not request any services from the party in
return for their money. The decisions to embezzle the money were
autonomously taken by high-ranking party executives with the goal of enhanc-
ing Golkar’s chances in the elections. Therefore, even though the scandals
affected the party’s autonomy, they cannot be said to have affected the party’s
decisional autonomy.
Finally, there is a third form of corruption which, in contrast to the two afore-
mentioned forms, directly affects the decisional autonomy of parties. The arena
in which these kinds of corrupt practices occur most frequently is the national
parliament where political parties enjoy much greater power than during the
New Order, not only in the legislation process, but also in other important areas
such as, the appointments of top bureaucrats and security personnel. Thanks to
their enhanced power, legislators, especially the more influential ones who sit in
the various DPR committees, have become natural targets for external interest
groups wanting to push through certain pieces of legislations or particular
appointments in the bureaucracy. And more often than not, these external inter-
est groups use money to reach their goals, especially if they consist of represen-
tatives of the business community.
One area of policy-making that has been particularly notorious for the blatant
misuse of money is the process of administrative restructuring (pemekaran).
Since the beginning of Indonesia’s far-reaching decentralization programme,
dozens of new provinces and districts have been formed. The proposals to estab-
lish new districts are normally engineered by powerful local elites from business
and politics, but in order to realize their dreams of creating new spheres of
improved influence, approval from the national parliament in Jakarta is oblig-
atory. This approval can be obtained more easily and quickly if the decision-
makers in the DPR are given financial incentives to decide in favour of the
proposal. According to one observer, almost every bid for the formation of a
new administrative region has been accompanied by illicit payments from the
respective region.41
Where external business elites induce lawmakers in parliament to approve
certain policies by making illegal payments to the legislators, the decisional
autonomy of the parties represented in parliament is severely compromised.
Even though it may seem as if the decision has finally been made autonomously
by the party fraction, decisional autonomy cannot be regarded as given if this
decision was triggered by a financial incentive from an external actor. As the
biggest party in the current DPR, Golkar is a natural target for such payments.42
The problem, however, is that these kinds of corrupt practices are extremely dif-
ficult to prove. As mentioned in the previous section, the origins of parliament-
ary decisions are difficult to track down and it is basically impossible to
determine whether a decision by a parliamentary fraction has been influenced by
external interference or not. And while almost every observer of Indonesian
politics has a story or two to tell about the prevalence of corruption in the DPR,
these acts of corruption are, by their very nature, so inherently non-transparent
that the degree of their influence is simply too difficult to ascertain. Hence,
despite an abundance of anecdotal evidence, it has to be stressed that any con-
clusion about a limitation of Golkar’s decisional autonomy in parliament needs
to be tentative because of the lack of hard data.
The power of gizi during electoral nomination procedures
This section has shown how the close relations between business and politics
often facilitate corrupt practices in parliament and how these practices can
restrict Golkar’s decisional autonomy. Clearly, the DPR and its regional coun-
terparts have been at the centre of most of the corruption allegations, but the
close ties between business and politics have also affected Golkar’s decisional
autonomy in other arenas of political struggle. One prominent example is the
increasingly competitive arena of elections where more and more business-
people have participated in the last legislative, presidential, gubernatorial and
bupati elections. What is of particular interest in the context of decisional auto-
nomy is the question of how these entrepreneurs have progressed through
Golkar’s complicated nomination processes and to what extent they have
attempted to influence decision-making processes by using money-politics.
The presidential convention: a prime example of decisional

autonomy?
To begin with, the presidential convention was, as discussed in Chapter 3, an
extraordinary political experiment for Golkar. Originally intended to be a rub-
berstamp event for Akbar Tandjung, the convention quickly developed its own
dynamics and turned into a genuinely open contest with a surprise ending. Per-
sonal power politics aside, however, the convention also had implications for the
overall development of business-politics relations in Indonesia and the question
of Golkar’s decisional autonomy. Arguably, the convention was a major indica-
tor that Indonesia may indeed be heading towards plutocracy since a number of
extremely wealthy business-people entered the contest, most of whom had not
been actively engaged in party politics before.
The most ambitious of the entrepreneurial candidates appeared to be Aburizal
Bakrie (head of the Bakrie Group), Surya Paloh (owner of Metro TV and the
Media Indonesia media empire) and Jusuf Kalla (head of NV Haji Kalla). While
they all had long-standing ties with Golkar, none of them had ever held a
leading party position at executive level. In order to secure support from the
hundreds of local Golkar chapters who would eventually decide the outcome of
the convention, the three toured the archipelago incessantly, distributing money
and other gifts (usually termed gizi in Indonesia) wherever they could.43 By the
time the pre-conventions on the provincial and district levels were over, they
had all qualified for the final convention in April 2004, and even though none of
them eventually managed to win,44 their march through the early stages of the
convention clearly demonstrated that money was a decisive factor in influencing
the local chapters’ choices.
It can therefore be argued that despite the appearance of a democratic contest,
the convention was yet another reminder that Golkar’s decisional autonomy in
the post-New Order era continues to be undermined by the ultimate power of
money. To be sure, the convention was an important step towards increased
internal democracy within Golkar. The very fact that local chapters enjoyed
voting rights during the convention was already a remarkable improvement on
previous decision-making patterns that had been largely based on centralized
paternalism. Now, for the first time in its history Golkar granted the right to
make important decisions on personnel not only to a few selected elites in
Jakarta but to representatives of its more than 400 district chapters. This in itself
was a noteworthy achievement and an important step towards party institutional-
ization. At the same time, however, it needs to be pointed out that the actual
decision eventually taken by the delegates was strongly influenced by money
politics, a factor diametrically opposed to the institutionalization of formal rules.
Hence, even if it is acknowledged that a multitude of other factors affected the
eventual election of Wiranto, it needs to be emphasized that the process in its
entirety remained overshadowed by the all-too-persuasive power of money,
thereby confirming that decisional autonomy continues to be compromised.
The selection of legislative candidates in 2004: decisional autonomy

for oligarchic elites
Turning to the decision-making processes that were applied during the nomina-
tion of legislative candidates for the 2004 parliamentary elections, we find very
similar deficiencies in the procedures. As during the convention, the rules of the
game appeared to be reasonably democratic, but were in fact, at least in some
areas, severely undermined by the prevalence of money politics. Additionally,
the procedures in these nomination processes suffered from other democratic
deficits, especially the exclusion of large parts of the party apparatus from the
decision-making processes and a considerable lack of transparency.
At a leadership meeting in mid-2003, Golkar had passed clear guidelines on
the procedures to select its legislative candidates on the national, provincial and
district level (DPP Partai Golkar 2003d). According to these, only Golkar cadres
with a minimum of five years’ party experience were eligible, thereby ruling out
non-party members or ordinary party members who had not at least passed
Golkar’s basic political education programmes.45 The selection process consisted
of three different stages, beginning with the profiling of prospective candidates,
followed by pre-selection based on these profiles and finalized by the eventual
decision. Significantly, while the first two stages required the input of the lower
party layers and therefore gave the whole process the appearance of a bottom-up
procedure, the final authority to decide rested firmly in the hands of small groups
of top party executives. At the national level, for example, the Tim Seleksi
(Selection Team) consisted of party chairman Akbar Tandjung, secretary-
general Budi Harsono, the head of the party’s mighty organizational department,
Agung Laksono, DPR fraction chairman Mohammad Hatta and a DPP-
appointed coordinator for the respective electoral regions.
At the lower administrative levels the selection teams were usually composed
in a similar fashion, with the provincial or district/municipal chairman and the
provincial or district/municipal secretary-general often in extremely powerful
positions (Ratnawati 2005: 256). Even in cases where the chairman of the local
chapter was not officially included in the team, he seemed to be the ultimate
authority in the final decision-making process (Ratnawati 2005: 267). The exclu-
siveness and the lack of openness and transparency of these selection commit-
tees have been criticized by Haris (2005b: 24) who has described them as
‘oligarchic – in the sense that power and decision-making rests solely in the
hands of a small group of party elites.’46
While in theory the selection teams only existed to give their blessing to the
nominees appointed by the regional cadres, in practice the committees had con-
siderable powers to change the proposed party lists at their own discretion. At
the national level, for example, the committee attempted to alter the rank order
in the proposed candidate lists for one of the two electoral districts in South
Sulawesi where Akbar Tandjung’s long-time foe Marwah Daud Ibrahim was
nominated as the top-ranking candidate. The selection team intended to move
Marwah to a lower list place, but the interference drew ire from Golkar cadres in
South Sulawesi.47 After a series of protests a compromise was finally reached
which saw Marwah dropping to second place while Syamsul Bachri was
awarded the top position.48
The problems in South Sulawesi appeared to be fuelled primarily by faction-
alism and internal power struggles. In other cases, however, money was often
the decisive factor determining which candidate landed in which list place. As
explained in the previous chapter, in 2004 Golkar’s legislative candidates had to
pay most of their campaign expenses out of their own pockets. In addition, they
also had to make massive donations to Golkar’s central board if they wanted to
have a reasonable chance of acquiring a good spot on the party list. Taken
together, the costs for the campaign could easily reach several billion rupiah.
Not every prospective candidate had the financial clout to raise such large sums,
but those who did have the means often enjoyed preferential treatment during
the selection process (Nuryanti 2005: 223, Yanuarti 2005: 95). Thus, as a con-
sequence of the ever-increasing cost of politics, more and more business-people
were successful in their bids to secure seats in national and local parliaments
(see Chapter 3).
The 2005 pilkada: businessmen as consolidators of local party

treasuries
The trend towards more active political engagement by business-people con-
tinued during the first series of pilkada which transformed local electoral con-
tests into hugely expensive political battlefields, dominated by business tycoons
and career bureaucrats with well-established patronage networks. In contrast to
the previous arrangements for local elections, which had prescribed indirect
elections in regional parliaments as the mode to determine governors and
bupatis, the pilkada now require candidates to campaign differently. First of all,
they need to fight hard (read: pay party officials) to secure the candidatures from
one of the few parties that are eligible to nominate a candidate. According to
Law No. 32/2004, only parties or coalitions of several parties that have achieved
more than 15 per cent of seats in the DPRD are eligible to nominate gubernator-
ial or bupati candidates.49 This stipulation has put political elites in local leader-
ship boards into extremely powerful positions. Many local leadership boards
have exploited this position to the utmost advantage as they requested massive
financial donations from prospective candidates. As Mietzner (n.d.) put it, ‘local
party branches recognized the opportunity to consolidate their finances by offer-
ing nominations to candidates with vast monetary resources.’50 Indeed, often,
though not always, the final nod for the nomination was given to those candid-
ates who had been the most generous.
As far as the formal aspects of the selection process were concerned, Golkar
had decided to select its gubernatorial and bupati candidates through a conven-
tion process that was reminiscent of the presidential convention in 2004.51 As in
the presidential convention, for example, Golkar invited candidatures from both
party members and non-party members,52 and the eventual decision-making
process was also designed to be similar to that of the presidential convention.
Accordingly, candidates for gubernatorial, mayoral and bupati elections were to
be elected by a convention committee consisting of representatives of leadership
boards from all administrative levels, plus representatives from Golkar’s youth
and women’s organizations AMPG and KPPG.
In comparison to the presidential convention, however, the pilkada conven-
tions have given the grassroots far less influence than they desired, especially
after the party leadership in Jakarta revised the original pilkada guidelines from
early 2005. According to the new guidelines, which were passed later that year
in response to an unexpectedly high ratio of pilkada losses for Golkar-
nominated candidates, voting power for the district branches was cut back to 20
per cent whereas the DPP awarded itself a substantial voting block (Buehler
2007: 139). The strong position of non-local elites in the decision-making
process could be seen as a step back towards increased centralization as it takes
away decisional autonomy from those who are – or at least should be – most
familiar with the local political context. At the same time though, the changed
regulations need to be seen in light of the reality on the ground. As a matter of
fact, results from numerous pilkada have shown that knowledge of local con-
texts did not always guarantee the selection of the best-possible candidates. On
the contrary, rather than using the local knowledge to nominate figures with
broad popular support bases, the party frequently prioritized local patronage
considerations and nominated what Buehler (2007: 139) called ‘detached local
Golkar elites.’ Significantly, in the early months of 2005 the former regime party
often lost pilkada in precisely those districts where the party nominee was chair-
man of the local Golkar chapter. By the middle of the year, a total of 161
pilkada had been conducted all over the archipelago and Golkar candidates had
only won a disappointing 58 elections. According to information from the offi-
cial Golkar website, the party nominated a total of 68 local Golkar chairmen as
candidates, but only 30 of these candidates were elected.53 Doubtless it was
those results that prompted the DPP to revise the original guidelines for the
nomination of pilkada candidates. Overall, it can be concluded that during the
pilkada conventions the standard of decisional autonomy for Golkar as a
collective organization was much lower than during the presidential conven-
tion, but it was probably still higher than during the selection process for
legislative candidates.
In sum, the two key characteristics of the pilkada conventions were the
immense power of money and the concentration of decisional autonomy in the
hands of a few selected party elites (initially local, later national). Together these
traits formed an almost insurmountable obstacle for all those lower- to medium-
ranking local politicians who aspired to run in the pilkada, but who lacked the
financial resources and/or the access to established patronage networks inside
the parties. Within Golkar, this has led to growing frustration among lower-
ranking party cadres and, unsurprisingly, to a growing number of defections.
Indeed, the lack of opportunity to challenge existing hierarchies has prompted
many Golkar politicians to seek nominations from other parties. Where their
efforts were successful as, for example, in North and South Sulawesi, the
pilkada were eventually contested by a number of candidates who were, despite
being nominated by different parties, all Golkar cadres.
Final remarks on money politics and decision autonomy

This second part of the chapter has demonstrated that decisional autonomy is not
always only compromised by tangible external actors, but also by the structural
problem of corruption and by the concentration of power in the hands of small
oligarchic party elites. Clearly, money is a powerful factor in political decision-
making processes all over the world, but it seems that in Indonesian party poli-
tics, the strong appeal of money is often the determining factor in the outcome
of crucial personnel or policy decisions. As far as Golkar is concerned, this has
been evident during decision-making processes at the presidential convention,
during the selection process of legislative candidates as well as the conventions
for the pilkada. Moreover, money appears to be the driving force behind many
important decisions in parliamentary procedures. Thus, while Golkar may be
reasonably independent of specific external actors, it cannot be described as
completely autonomous as it allows its internal decision-making processes to be
influenced and ultimately undermined by illegal payments and other illicit
contributions.
A second important finding is the fact that if Golkar is to be regarded as a
collective organization whose members are supposed to represent the interests of
the voters, the party is actually not particularly autonomous because its grass-
roots members are rarely involved in crucial decision-making processes. The
power to make important decisions too often rests in the hands of small groups
of top party elites while the party’s grassroots are rendered irrelevant. In the
cases of electoral nomination processes, for example, decisional autonomy is not
so much jeopardized by external actors, but rather by internal actors, namely by
small groups of oligarchic elites who are more concerned about the preservation
of their own personal power than the interests of the party. Thus, it appears
highly debatable whether Randall and Svåsand’s conceptualization of decisional
autonomy as an external dimension of party institutionalization has been particu-
larly helpful. Based on the discussion so far, it is clear that decisional autonomy
has both internal and external components, which means that the usefulness of
dividing the various dimensions of party institutionalization into internal and
external dimensions is rather limited.
Conclusion
This chapter has discussed Golkar’s track record in what Randall and Svåsand
have identified as the structural/external dimension of party institutionalization.
While the first part focused on Golkar’s relations with its former sponsor organi-
zation, the armed forces, the second shed new light on the role of capital and
big-business actors as external threats to Golkar’s decisional autonomy. The
second part also highlighted the threat to decisional autonomy from inside the
party. The overall results of the analysis are mixed. Today, Golkar is relatively
autonomous of the military, but the party still exists at the whims of capital, and
as a collective organization it lacks autonomy vis-à-vis small groups of oli-
garchic elites.
First, as far as Golkar’s relations with the military are concerned, it can be
concluded that the party’s decisional autonomy today is mainly restricted on the
local level where the military continues to exploit its territorial structure to its
own benefit. In many cases, Golkar is a natural target for the military to exert its
pressure, not because of historically established organizational ties, but simply
because Golkar is still the strongest party in many regions. Essentially, the mili-
tary influences decision-making processes in institutions like local governments
and parliaments and not so much in the political parties themselves. Nonethe-
less, since the personnel of governments and parliaments is recruited from
parties, and indeed often from Golkar, it has to be noted that on the local level
the former regime party has not yet become entirely autonomous.
Conversely, on the national level Golkar appears to be no longer constrained
by the military. The party’s electoral performance in 1999 and 2004, its track
record in parliament and last but not least its handling of the presidential con-
vention and the subsequent presidential elections all indicate that Golkar has
reached a high degree of independence from its former mentor. However, it
needs to be emphasized that only the assessments of the electoral performance
and the presidential convention/election are based on satisfactory data. In parlia-
ment, decision-making processes are extremely difficult to evaluate as the
prevalent musyawarah and mufakat procedures are not sufficiently transparent
for the external observer to draw meaningful conclusions.
The lack of transparency in decision-making procedures has also been a
major problem in examining Golkar’s dependence on external capital. Although
the influence of money politics on decision-making processes in parliament is
common knowledge in Indonesia, exact details are hard to come by as most
financial transactions in Senayan are conducted behind firmly closed doors.
Conclusions about the influence of money on party-internal decision-making
processes during parliamentary proceedings are necessarily tentative. Moreover,
it needs to be added that Golkar can hardly be singled out as being more at fault
here than other parties.54 Indeed, the problem of corrupt practices in parliament
is structurally embedded and affects all major parties.
More meaningful conclusions can be drawn about the role of money politics
in determining party-internal nomination processes for elections. Indeed, we
have seen that Golkar’s decisional autonomy during these processes is severely
compromised by the prevalence of informal financial contributions aimed at
bending or at least influencing existing modes of decision-making. While for-
mally the authority to decide presidential, legislative or gubernatorial and bupati
candidates lies in the hands of the party, the eventual decisions are often taken
only after substantial payments have been made to those in charge.
A closely related and similarly serious problem in the dimension of deci-
sional autonomy is the fact that, with the exception of the presidential conven-
tion, Golkar continues to disenfranchise large parts of its organizational
apparatus. The patterns of selecting candidates for political office still leave
much to be desired, in spite of the fact that the party has tried to give the proce-
dures at least the appearance of democratic bottom-up processes. Unfortunately,
it seems that the laudable effort during the presidential convention was only a
short episode in the history of Golkar and that old, established patterns of cen-
tralized paternalism have been reinstated by the new Kalla-led leadership board
shortly after its inauguration.
The problem of oligarchic decision-making processes is not only an import-
ant empirical finding, but also has major implications for the theoretical model
on which this book is based. Indeed, the last part of this discussion has raised
serious questions about Randall and Svåsand’s conception of decisional auto-
nomy as an external dimension of party institutionalization. Contrary to wide-
spread assumptions, a party’s decisional autonomy can be compromised not
only by external forces, but also by actors from within the party’s own infra-
structure. As shall be shown in Chapter 7, this problem is even more pronounced
in parties with strong charismatic leaders such as PDI-P, PAN or PKB as these
leaders apparently feel even less necessity to pay attention to the aspirations of
the grassroots than the non-charismatic leaders of Golkar.
5 Value infusion
In search of Golkar’s roots
Roots can always be created. Here a donation for a mosque, there a promise to
build a road, and already you have roots.
(anonymous Golkar member, private communication, 3 February 2005)
Introduction
In 1999, a total of 23,741,749 Indonesians gave their vote to Golkar in the
country’s first free and fair elections since 1955. Five years later, in 2004,
Golkar’s share of votes in terms of the overall percentage had dropped from
22.44 to 21.58, but despite the losses the absolute number of voters who
punched the Golkar logo on the ballot paper had actually increased to
24,480,757. The fact that more than 20 million Indonesians still voted for
Golkar raises questions about the reasons and motivations people have for sup-
porting the former regime party. According to Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 13),
it is important for a party’s institutionalization record that its members and sup-
porters commit themselves to the party not only for their own self-interest, but
also for the sake of the party itself. Such a non-selfish commitment is best
achieved if the party has a persuasive value-based platform or ideology, which
ideally should link it with a broader social movement. However, as Randall and
Svåsand (2002a: 21) point out, this kind of party is rarely found outside Europe
these days.1
Given its history as a product of thorough de-politicization and de-
ideologization, Golkar, at first sight, appears unlikely to be infused with any
meaningful political values. For more than two decades the former regime party
epitomized the New Order’s ideas of an apolitical society that would only
engage in active politics once every five years. And arguably, even this political
act (the act of voting) was inherently apolitical because the elections were rigged
and the results largely predetermined. Nonetheless, one may argue that by virtue
of its very function as the New Order’s electoral vehicle, Golkar as an organi-
zation has, over time, become synonymous with the values promoted by the
regime, namely economic development (pembangunan) and political stability
based on what Suharto called ‘pancasila democracy.’ As a former high-ranking
96 Value infusion
Golkar cadre put it, ‘despite a lack of ideology, Golkar does have an identity,
and this identity is mainly based on its history.’2
Of course, there is nothing wrong with economic development and political
stability per se. In fact, these values are so general and easily acceptable that
almost any party could subscribe to them. Yet, in view of their specific signific-
ance during the New Order, the two concepts have obtained a rather bad name in
the eyes of many Indonesians. Well aware of this stigma, Golkar strategists were
quick to delete any reference to pembangunan in the party constitution when
they revised the document in 1998. On the other hand, pancasila democracy was
retained and arguably pancasila remains a key pillar of Golkar’s self-image up
to the present day.3
Originally conceptualized by Sukarno in 1945 as a compromise formula to
mediate between the proponents of a secular republic and those who wanted to
turn Indonesia into an Islamist state, the pancasila has always been a symbol of
the need for reconciliation and moderation in a polarized society like Indonesia.
Its significance can be seen not only in the fact that in both elections of the post-
Suharto era the overwhelming majority of parties used the pancasila as an ideo-
logical foundation, but also in statements by prominent Golkar politicians such
as Marzuki Darusman who claimed that while he would like to see Golkar
develop a more clearly defined identity he believes that it will be difficult to
build a political ideology outside the usual pancasila framework.4
Marzuki’s statement points to a dilemma in contemporary Indonesian party
politics. Owing to the country’s turbulent history in the 1950s and 1960s and the
subsequent discreditation of ideology-based parties during the Suharto era, the
pancasila appears to be the only political model that is broadly accepted in
Indonesia. The question, however, is whether the concept that was once intended
to promote peace and harmony still represents any political values. During the
New Order the meaning of the pancasila was gradually adulterated as Suharto
began to misuse it as an omnipotent tool against political dissent. By the end of
the New Order, the pancasila was basically perceived to be little more than the
antonym of any political value that was not in line with the policies of the
Suharto regime.5
While abandoning this kind of restrictive stance, Golkar has, in principle, con-
tinued the interpretation of the pancasila as an ideology which is more clearly
defined by what it is not than by what it actually is. According to a leading
Golkar parliamentarian, ‘Golkar positions itself as a non-aliran, non-sectarian
and non-ideological party’ (Hatta 2000: 162). Interestingly, this position in itself
represents a value worth defending for many Indonesians, especially, but not
only, for the older generation which still feels emotionally attached to Golkar
because of its roots in the anti-communist struggle.6 For them, the party’s ideo-
logy of not having an ideology is actually a very precious value. Pointing to the
existing divisions in Indonesia’s multi-ethnic society, they argue that parties
which are too narrowly focused on the interests of a certain social group will only
facilitate further strife and disharmony. In their opinion, Golkar is therefore the
only party that properly represents the interests of the entire nation. But other
Value infusion 97
party activists disagree and argue that Golkar should endeavour to craft a stronger
party identity based on more attractive core values that may serve as a genuine
source of identification for members and supporters.7
Against the background of this internal debate, this chapter seeks to explain
why so many Indonesian voters continue to be loyal to Golkar. In order to do so,
the discussion will focus on analysing the socio-cultural and socio-economic
background of the party’s constituency. The primary aim is to find out whether
Golkar, despite the apparent lack of a distinct value system other than the pan-
casila, may have a particular characteristic that appeals to a specific segment of
Indonesian society. Based on an analysis of the election results from 1999 and
2004, it will be argued that while Golkar’s constituency does indeed have
certain socio-economic and socio-cultural features, there is little evidence for a
causal connection between these features and the electoral support the party
receives. In other words, Golkar does not represent any political values that
could link the party directly to the members of a certain sociological milieu.
Instead, as we shall see in the last part of this chapter, what mainly accounts for
Golkar’s continuing appeal to many Indonesians is the party’s instrumentaliza-
tion of its self-perception as the only legitimate party to rule Indonesia. In line
with this image, Golkar continues to function primarily as a patronage-
dispensing vehicle which uses religious, regional and economic policy orienta-
tions merely as a superficial shell.
The religious dimension: bridging traditional aliran

structures
Ever since the 1950s the most popular way to distinguish Indonesian political
parties has been to classify them along the secular/nationalist – religious/Islamic
dividing line. The division was upheld artificially during the New Order when
the only two legal non-government parties, PPP and PDI, were categorized as
Islamic and secular respectively, but at the same time the Suharto regime also
attempted to minimize the significance of these old, established aliran structures
by promoting the de-ideologization and de-politicization of society in general
and party politics in particular.8 According to King (2003: 134), however, these
attempts ‘have largely failed.’ Based on the findings from his statistical compar-
ative analysis of the 1955 and the 1999 elections, he concluded that there is in
fact broad continuity in the outcomes of the elections before and after the New
Order, ‘one being the re-emergence in the 1999 election of the basic cleavage in
the electorate between areas supporting nationalist, religiously inclusive parties
and areas supporting Islamic parties, commonly known as the abangan and
santri division’ (King 2003: 134).
Other analyses of the 1999 election have also resorted to the aliran pattern
(Suryadinata 2002, Budiman 1999), but the model is no longer undisputed. In
fact, it has been subject to a considerable amount of criticism lately, especially
after Liddle and Mujani (2000) demonstrated that the outcome of the 1999
election was apparently not so much determined by prevalent aliran structures,
98 Value infusion
but rather by the charismatic appeal of national party leaders. The 2004 election
results further backed up the critics of the aliran model as traditional party affili-
ations have obviously been watered down quite substantially. While loyalties
based on aliran may not yet be completely irrelevant, the 2004 election
marathon has certainly confirmed that the mosaic of present-day Indonesian
parties has developed far beyond this dualist classification scheme and Golkar is
the most obvious example in this regard.
Indeed, several scholars have acknowledged the uniqueness of Golkar in the
contemporary spectrum of Indonesian parties. Tan (2004), for example, has
described the former hegemonic party as ‘anomalous’ because it bridges the
traditional dividing lines between secularism and Islam. Ananta et al. (2004: 7)
concur, saying that ‘Golkar is perceived by the voters as both Islamic and
secular.’ And Baswedan (2004a: 674) depicts Golkar as a secular yet ‘Islam-
friendly’ party which ‘upholds and welcomes “Muslim” aspirations.’
Golkar and Islam

The difficulties in categorizing Golkar along religious cleavages imply that reli-
gion in general and Islam in particular are unlikely to be a pivotal source of
value infusion for Golkar. Ananta et al. (2004: 394) support this argument,
albeit with one important qualification. According to their analysis, religion
plays only a minor role in determining electoral support for Golkar if the whole
archipelago is considered. If, however, the unit of analysis is limited to Java,
religion appears to take a more prominent role in affecting people’s voting
behaviour. These findings are interesting because they contradict King’s (2003:
153) results which seem to suggest that Golkar did indeed appeal to modernist
Muslims and that it was this appeal that helped the party achieve its electoral
success, especially in the Outer Islands.9
Based on empirical observations during fieldwork in 2004, it is argued here
that Ananta et al. are correct when they state that overall religion, especially
‘Islamicness’ as King calls it, is not a defining characteristic of Golkar’s support
base. Statistically, it may be true that Golkar scored particularly good results in
areas where modernist Muslim parties were strong in 1955, but the statistical
correlation does not automatically mean that Golkar won strong support in these
areas because of its Islamic appeal. In fact, during the 2004 election campaign,
Golkar did not identify itself as an Islamic party at all. None of the leaders inter-
viewed put any emphasis on religion as a means to woo supporters and none of
the supporters interviewed mentioned religion as a reason why Golkar was their
party of choice. Religious activities by Golkar politicians were confined to
‘normal’ visits to pesantren, joint prayers with prominent religious leaders or
philanthropic activities. While these activities were certainly intended to appeal
to the Muslim community, they rarely went beyond common Islamic duties per-
formed on a regular basis by politicians from all political spectrums. With 90 per
cent of Indonesians adhering to the Islamic faith, it is hardly surprising that
politicians try to draw support from Muslims, but that does not mean that Golkar
Value infusion 99
can be classified as an Islamic party. Interestingly, the balance between Muslims
and non-Muslims in Indonesia’s overall population (90:10) mirrors both the
balance between Muslims and non-Muslims in Golkar’s DPR fraction in the
1999–2004 period as well as the balance between Muslims and non-Muslims
among Golkar voters in 2004. Thus, it can be said that in terms of Islamicness
both Golkar supporters and its top cadres are a perfect mirror image of the
Indonesian population.10
Golkar’s Islamic appeal on Java: true piety or a result of

patron–clientelism?
Looking at the deviating claims about Golkar’s appeal to the Muslim
community in the Outer Islands and in Java, Ananta et al. are probably
correct in their assessment that if Islamic values matter at all, they matter to
Golkar supporters in Java. This, however, does not mean that Golkar as a
party is perceived as more Islamic in Java. Rather, the crucial factor seems to
be the fact that here Golkar has successfully integrated into the party some
key figures from influential Muslim organizations (most prominently HMI
and its alumni organization KAMI), and that these figures use their organi-
zational patronage networks to attract supporters. As most of these patrons
hail from Java, the significance of Islam may appear greater here than on the
Outer Islands, where the influence of Islamic mass organizations is much
more limited.
The huge presence of HMI members and alumni in Golkar is sometimes
quoted as the most visible evidence of Golkar’s Islamicness and a significant
number of former HMI leaders are indeed active in Golkar.11 While the rise of
the HMI faction in Golkar had already begun in the last decade of the New
Order,12 it was not until Akbar Tandjung became Golkar chairman that its
members were deliberately promoted to influential positions within the party.
Akbar, who himself was general chairman of the organization from 1972–4,
claims to be a devout Muslim who fasts twice a week, but his Islamic credentials
are somewhat dubious and widely questioned among Muslim student activists
outside the realm of HMI.13 Inside the organization, however, Akbar has become
something of a role model for many young activists. As one young HMI
member explained: ‘I am very proud to be a HMI member and I am very proud
of Akbar Tandjung because he has increased the influence of HMI in politics.
Because of Akbar Tandjung, I want to enter politics, too.’14
Akbar did indeed manage to utilize his former position as HMI chairman to
recruit a significant number of promising young cadres from the ranks of the
organization and integrate them into Golkar. Two of the most prominent
examples of young, intelligent and very capable politicians who have built their
political careers on the basis of their organizational experience in HMI and their
clientelistic connections with Akbar Tandjung are Ferry Mursyidan Baldan and
Ade Komaruddin.15 Once the two had entered parliament for the first time in
1997, they rose rapidly through the party ranks and quickly emerged as some of
100 Value infusion
the most influential power brokers in Senayan. At the same time, their openness
and willingness to communicate with the media made them popular interview
partners for the local press (Koordinatoriat Wartawan DPR/MPR RI 2001).
It should be noted, however, that in line with its self-perception as a pluralis-
tic and religiously open party, Golkar has not confined its Islamic networks to
HMI. On the contrary, the party also has excellent connections to other mod-
ernist Islamic organizations including Muhammadiyah and, not surprisingly, the
New Order brainchild ICMI. Hajriyanto Thohari, for example, who helped for-
mulating Golkar’s New Paradigm, is a prominent member of Muhammadiyah’s
youth wing, while Priyo Budi Santoso was a leading activist with ICMI and its
affiliated think-tank CIDES (Centre for Information and Development Studies).
Together with the aforementioned group of HMI alumni, these young and bright
new faces are now seen by many as possibly the next generation of party
leaders.16
In addition to this group of modernist Muslim figures, Golkar has also long
cultivated close relations to the traditionalist camp. For instance, former Ansor
activist Slamet Effendy Yusuf and Abdurrahman Wahid’s sister Aisyah Hamid
Baidlowi are two prominent links with the realm of Nahdlatul Ulama (NU), the
biggest traditionalist Muslim organization in Indonesia. It could be argued that
all these Islamic figures, both from the modernist as well as the traditionalist
camp symbolize Golkar’s Islamic appeal. It is indeed probable that these figure-
heads have somehow contributed to the polishing of Golkar’s Islamic image.
But despite their religious credentials, it is more likely that their main function
for Golkar is not to display the party’s Islamicness, but rather to build bridges
into the patronage networks of Muslim organizations like NU, Muhammadiyah
or HMI. As a matter of fact, tapping into these networks has brought about some
immense benefits for Golkar as it has enhanced cooperation between Golkar’s
party elites and NU and Muhammadiyah officials representing other parties in
parliament. Moreover, in the long run it may provide an important means for
Golkar to make inroads into those constituencies that used to be closely tied to
electoral competitors like PKB (NU), PAN (Muhammadiyah) or PPP (both).17
In fact, for a party like Golkar which claims to be inclusive and pluralistic it
is strategically imperative to woo members and supporters from all religious
groupings. In contrast to Golkar’s own Islamic ‘mass’ organizations Al-
Hidayah, Satkar Ulama and MDI, all of which are fairly irrelevant to the organi-
zational dynamics of Indonesian Islam, NU, Muhammadiyah and HMI have
huge membership bases and thus represent a very lucrative cache of potential
voters. Refusal to engage with these mass organizations and their constituencies
would effectively mean to leave the electoral market in Java (especially East and
Central Java) virtually uncontested.
So far, however, all these efforts to appear more Islamic have yielded little
success at the ballot box. With the exception of West Java, Golkar’s electoral
results in Indonesia’s most populous island remained far below their national
average in both post-New Order elections, indicating that the mass appeal of
people like Ferry Mursyidan Baldan, Ade Komaruddin, Yahya Zaini, Hajriyanto
Value infusion 101
Thohari, Priyo Budi Santoso, Slamet Effendy Yusuf or Aisyah Hamid Baidlowi
is rather limited. In fact, results from the 2004 election show that of the seven
candidates mentioned only Priyo and Aisyah received the highest share of votes
of all Golkar candidates in their respective electoral districts, while all others
were actually outrivaled by fellow party candidates on lower list places. More-
over, voting patterns in large parts of Java suggest that Golkar’s candidates were
just simply not popular enough. In 19 out of 33 electoral districts on Java
(excluding Jakarta) the number of voters who only punched the party symbol
was higher than the number of voters who punched both the party symbol and
the candidate’s name. While this may of course be due to the low levels of edu-
cation in the rural parts of the island, Golkar’s candidates’ general lack of popu-
larity probably also contributed to this widespread voting pattern.18
Looking beyond Java: analysing Golkar’s engagement with the

‘Preparatory Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law’
Outside Java, the dynamics of Islamic politics are somewhat different and con-
sequently Golkar’s links with political Islam are different, too. Here, the big
mass organizations NU and Muhammadiyah are not as influential as they are on
Java so that Islamic politics in Sulawesi, Kalimantan or Maluku are primarily
shaped by distinct local contexts rather than by the institutional dynamics of
mass organizations. However, as an example from South Sulawesi will illus-
trate, Golkar’s strategies and objectives in dealing with Islam as a political force
are essentially the same as in Java.
South Sulawesi is a predominantly Islamic province, where almost 90 per
cent of the population are Muslims (Suryadinata, Arifin and Ananta 2003).
While all the major Islamic mass organizations are represented in South
Sulawesi, their influence on the social and political discourse of the province is
fairly limited. Consequently, there is little incentive for a mainstream party like
Golkar to recruit functionaries from these organizations. In fact, in the absence
of immediate electoral benefits, Golkar has not yet shown any interest in engag-
ing too closely with representatives of NU or Muhammadiyah. On the contrary,
the party has even marginalized some former high-ranking officials who used to
serve as links between the party and certain Islamic organizations. The most
prominent figure in this regard was the provincial chairman of the Indonesian
Ulama Council (Majelis Ulama Indonesia, MUI), Hamka Haq. The Muslim aca-
demic, who had been affiliated with Golkar since the early 1990s, left the party
shortly before the 2004 elections in order to run for PDI-P. Commenting on his
decision to join the most secular of the big parties, he complained that he had
been waiting for an offer from Golkar for a long time, but apparently the party
showed no interest whatsoever in keeping the services of the respected scholar.19
The incident showed how far PDI-P was lagging behind in terms of under-
standing the dynamics of Islamic politics in South Sulawesi. While Megawati’s
party still naively believed that they could use Hamka for wooing support from
modernist Muslim circles organized in MUI and Muhammadiyah,20 Golkar
102 Value infusion
politicians had already moved on and begun to put their Islamic stakes in
another organization, which promised to provide more media attention and more
electoral benefits than the established mass organizations. The so-called
‘Preparatory Committee for the Implementation of Islamic Law’ (Komite Persi-
apan Penegakan Syariat Islam, KPPSI) had only been founded in October 2000,
but had quickly attracted support from a number of prominent Muslim leaders in
the region and was gradually emerging as a political force to be reckoned with.21
Led by the charismatic son of former rebel leader Kahar Muzakkar, Abdul Azis
Kahar Muzakkar, the organization has been struggling for South Sulawesi to be
turned into a region with special autonomy which would then pave the way for
the committee’s ultimate goal, the implementation of Islamic law (Syariat
Islam) in South Sulawesi (Pradadimara and Junedding 2002).
Although its leaders are mainly ‘urban-based university-educated males’
(Pradadimara and Junedding 2002: 25),22 KPPSI acted quickly to establish its
presence in the many rural districts of South Sulawesi. The future aim is to
lobby the political elites in these rural regions in order to gain their support for
the implementation of Syariat Islam.23 The development of KPPSI has been
carefully monitored by local Golkar politicians. In anticipation of the organi-
zation’s probable public appeal, several prominent party leaders including party
chairman Jusuf Kalla, provincial governor Syachrul Yasin Limpo and the mayor
of Makassar, Ilham Arief Siradjuddin, have appeared at KPPSI-sponsored
events including the committee’s first two congresses in 2000 and 2001. In
2005, the third congress also drew substantial attention from local politicians as
it was held just a few months before a series of bupati elections in South
Sulawesi.
Hence, it seems that for Golkar politicians the strategic goals of interacting
with KPPSI are not very different from Javanese politicians’ objectives in
engaging with NU or Muhammadiyah circles. Although patronage networks are
not yet fully developed within the KPPSI circles, the organization has already
grown influential enough to be of strategic importance to Golkar’s election cam-
paigns. As KPPSI enjoys some significant support at the local grassroots level,
Golkar leaders apparently hope that they can reap some electoral benefits if they
present themselves as supportive of KPPSI activities. While there is no religious
substance discernible behind the efforts, it is the symbolic message that matters
in the context of South Sulawesi local politics. According to one observer, ‘they
[Golkar politicians] simply do not want to be regarded as opposing Islamic
issues. Politically, they cannot afford to do that.’24
Essentially, however, Golkar does not support KPPSI’s cause. When Jusuf
Kalla attended the second KPPSI congress in 2001, he called upon the particip-
ants not to ask the state to implement Islamic law but rather to begin the process
with oneself and one’s family. As Pradadimara and Junedding (2002) remarked,
this view contradicted the main goal of the organization. Nonetheless, the two
sides are likely to maintain their symbiotic relationship as long as they feel there
are political benefits. At the same time, however, the opportunistic pragmatism
behind the cooperation is almost certain to facilitate the termination of the
Value infusion 103
liaison in the not-too-distant future. Failure of KPPSI-supported candidates in
the bupati elections, for example, could easily provide a reason for Golkar
leaders to stop engaging with the organization and display their Islamic creden-
tials in other ways.
Final remarks on Golkar and Islam

To conclude, it appears that the Islamic dimension of Golkar is little more than a
mixture of academic discourse and elitist power play, with little relevance to the
actual voting preferences of common people. As a matter of fact, Golkar is an
open party that welcomes everyone who can enlarge the party’s popular appeal.
As will be shown later, the basis for enlarging this appeal can be anything from
personal wealth to regional affiliation to religious credentials. Indeed, in areas
where religion is a dominant feature of everyday life, Golkar is more than happy
to display a more Islamic image, but it should be noted that the motivation for
this Islamicness is not devout piety, but rather opportunistic pragmatism.
Significantly, the relation between the party and its Islamic cadres is not one of
one-dimensional benefit for the party. On the contrary, it is a symbiotic relation
because on the one hand Golkar gains religious credentials by accommodating
Islamic figures, while on the other hand these figures gain political benefits that
would be out of reach if they joined smaller Islamic parties.
The regional dimension: is Golkar the voice of the Outer

Islands?
One of the most striking characteristics of Golkar’s support base is its heavy
regional bias in favour of the Outer Islands. In fact, in both elections of the post-
Suharto era Golkar received the lion’s share of its votes in Eastern Indonesia.
Yet, in contrast to the overall stability of the national result, a look at Golkar’s
election results on the provincial level reveals remarkable fluctuations between
1999 and 2004. While figures in Java are relatively even, rather drastic changes
occurred in West Nusa Tenggara and in Sulawesi where Golkar lost dramati-
cally in every province.
Table 5.1 clearly shows the heavy losses Golkar incurred in parts of Eastern
Indonesia. At the same time, it is important to note that despite these losses
Golkar is still the strongest party in the Outer Islands. In South Sulawesi, for
example, Golkar lost more than 20 per cent in comparison to 1999, but support
in the large rural areas outside Makassar was still strong enough to secure close
to 50 per cent of the vote. These figures indicate that Golkar is indeed still the
dominant political force in Eastern Indonesia, even though its power is declin-
ing. While some sort of decline had been widely predicted before the election,25
the dramatic extent of it came as a surprise to many observers.
The following material will shed some light on the puzzle that is Golkar in
Eastern Indonesia, especially in South Sulawesi. After a brief analysis of the
root causes of Golkar’s enduring strength in this part of Indonesia the section
104 Value infusion
Table 5.1 Golkar election results 1999 and 2004, selected provinces
Provinces Votes in per cent Provinces outside Votes in per cent

on Java Java
1999 2004 Gains/ 1999 2004 Gains/
losses losses
Jakarta 10.3 9.2 –1.1 West Nusa Tenggara 42.2 24.4 –17.8
West Java 23.6 27.9 +4.3 East Nusa Tenggara 40.8 37.0 –3.8
Central Java 13.4 15.9 +2.5 North Sulawesi 49.5 32.3 –17.2
Yogyakarta 14.3 13.8 –0.5 Central Sulawesi 54.6 38.6 –16.0
East Java 12.7 13.1 +0.4 South Sulawesi 66.5 44.3 –22.2
Banten – 21.5 – Southeast Sulawesi 63.1 36.8 –26.3
Gorontalo – 53.1 –
Source: Compiled from www.kpu.go.id (accessed 1 October 2004); author’s calculation.
will explain why the former regime party has been able to maintain such a
strong support base in this area. Then the discussion will turn to questions as to
why this support base is crumbling and why people have begun to shift their
political allegiances to other parties.
A party that gives non-Javanese a chance

Eastern Indonesia has been a stronghold for Golkar since the early New Order
days and this regional bias has changed little in the reformasi era (Evans 2003).
South Sulawesi in particular has produced some of the most extraordinary elec-
tion results for Golkar in its history and the province has remained one of
Golkar’s main bases of support during the 1999 and 2004 elections. The main
reason for Golkar’s continuing success in this part of Indonesia is what local
observers and politicians alike often call a ‘traditional’ or ‘emotional’ relation-
ship between the people and Golkar.26 This traditional relationship is based on
the persistent prevalence of widespread conservatism, patron–client relations
and a high respect for local leaders (tokoh) in large parts of Sulawesi. Another
reason, closely related to this societal structure, is the fact that the party can still
reap some delayed benefits from its cadre-recruitment programme in the 1980s,
which produced some prominent and outspoken party functionaries in
Sulawesi.27 Andi Mattalatta, Marwah Daud Ibrahim or Yasril Ananta Baharud-
din, to name but a few, all kicked off their political careers in Golkar during this
period. Under the protection of B. J. Habibie they quickly rose through the ranks
to become influential members of Golkar’s national party infrastructure.
The two factors are closely interconnected. For many Buginese, Makassarese
and other ethnic groups in Sulawesi, the aforementioned politicians are well-
respected local figures (putra daerah) who have achieved eminence in the
highest corridors of power. For this achievement they are admired in their ethnic
communities, especially in their home towns and villages. While other parties
have also accommodated politicians from Sulawesi, their public image is often
Value infusion 105
dominated by Javanese and, to a lesser extent, Sumatrans. Arguably, PDI-P and
PKB are the most notorious examples in this regard. Although these parties do
possess nationwide infrastructures, the highest party ranks do not feature any
respected figures from Sulawesi. This has reaffirmed the perception that Golkar
is the only party with a truly national scope in which non-Javanese have a
genuine chance to rise to the top. The election of Jusuf Kalla as party chairman
in late 2004 added further weight to this perception and may have created new
incentives for people from Sulawesi to support Golkar in the future.
Loyalty to the party versus loyalty to local heroes

Jusuf Kalla, in fact, is a particularly intriguing figure whose rise to political
prominence in 2004 epitomized the immense significance of regional or ethnic
sentiment in Indonesian politics. Initially, when Kalla joined Golkar’s presiden-
tial convention, he served as an important vote-getter for the party as the
prospect of Kalla becoming Golkar’s presidential candidate electrified the
masses in South Sulawesi. In his home district of Bone, Kalla helped Golkar to
secure 61.59 per cent, which was by far Golkar’s best result in any district in
Indonesia. But when Kalla dropped out of the convention to join SBY as
running mate, he inevitably provoked a split in Golkar. Nowhere was this more
visible than in South Sulawesi where local Golkar cadres found themselves torn
between the official party instructions and the overwhelming desire of the local
people to support Jusuf Kalla. In both rounds of the 2004 presidential election,
Golkar officially supported other candidates, but few local cadres were commit-
ted to the cause. In fact, the vast majority of local functionaries interviewed for
this book admitted that they faced a difficult situation when they were told to
support Wiranto and Megawati in the two rounds.28 The overall mood was aptly
captured in a statement made by a member of Golkar’s provincial parliament
fraction, who said during a personal communication:
I follow whatever the party says. But in my home district it is difficult to

make Wiranto popular because the people simply want Jusuf Kalla. It will
be impossible to prevent people from defecting from Golkar if we can have
a vice-president who speaks Buginese.
The reference to the native language should not be taken lightly. In fact, it
signals the immense significance of local sentiment and solidarity with the putra
daerah. Thus, it can be argued that in 2004 Jusuf Kalla took over the role which
B. J. Habibie had played in 1999. Back then, many analysts had attributed
Golkar’s extraordinary results in South Sulawesi to the so-called ‘Habibie
factor’. In fact, the former president was so popular in 1999 that even parties
other than Golkar distributed T-shirts with the image of the German-educated
engineer-turned-statesman from Parepare. Five years later, Habibie had long
withdrawn from active politics, but his name still remained a major draw card in
his home province. Several parties tried to persuade the former president to be
106 Value infusion
nominated again as their presidential candidate for 2004, especially the Islamic
PKS.29 Although Habibie himself never expressed his willingness to re-enter
politics,30 news about his imminent return was reported in the local press on an
almost daily basis. The loss of the Habibie factor certainly contributed to
Golkar’s decline in South Sulawesi, but in view of the rise of Jusuf Kalla it is
unlikely to be the main reason.31 In fact, Golkar’s extraordinary losses cannot be
explained as the result of one single factor such as Habibie’s exit from politics.
Rather, the losses are the logical consequence of a combination of various
unfavourable developments which the party has failed to address.
Reasons for Golkar’s losses in South Sulawesi

First, Golkar’s initial success in the 1999 election had not only led to widespread
complacency among party members in Sulawesi, but even to the belief that
absolute majorities could still be taken for granted in the post-Suharto era.
Indeed, the fact that even now the figures are still undeniably high has appar-
ently blurred many long-serving cadres’ view on the changing political realities.
Asked why the party lost so badly in the 2004 election, the vast majority of
respondents from Golkar’s provincial board identified the ‘unfair’ electoral
system as the main reason. Some paid credit to improved efforts by the other
parties and a few others bemoaned the loss of Habibie as a major draw card.
Hardly anyone, however, acknowledged that Golkar could simply lack attractive
political values and that it never matched its ambition to represent the interests
of the Outer Islands with appropriate policy initiatives in Jakarta. Generally, in
the eyes of South Sulawesi’s Golkar elite it was always the others who were to
blame. Hardly anyone saw a reason to be critical about the party’s own perform-
ance between 1999 and 2004. One of the few exceptions from this pattern was
the provincial chairman and then-governor of South Sulawesi Amin Syam, who
described some of his fellow party members as slightly negligent and inattentive
towards their constituencies.32 He also warned that the provincial election target
of 70 per cent (and even more in some districts) was unrealistic and repeatedly
reminded his party to work harder for the people.33
For many local Golkar cadres, however, this is easier said than done. Older party
functionaries who have dominated local politics for decades merely by virtue of
their distinguished family name, in particular, are struggling to come to terms with
the new realities of the post-Suharto era. That their political mindsets remain
entrenched in New Order-style patterns of thinking has not only been evident in
their somewhat distorted views on the election results, but also in the inability to
describe the quintessence of Golkar’s New Paradigm.34 This lack of adaptability
has also been illustrated by Soebhan (2003) who questioned the gap between
Golkar’s reformist promises and its actual deeds. According to this author, in South
Sulawesi Golkar has not changed substantially since the end of the New Order:
The [reformist] agenda tends to be more of a plan for what ought to be

done, but evidence and detailed steps on how this agenda is going to be
Value infusion 107
implemented are not there or not yet there. The same thing happened in the
past. There were goals and visions, but concrete steps towards change were
rarely spelt out. Also, who was supposed to implement these steps and when
they were supposed to be implemented was not sufficiently explained. In this
context, it can be said that there is no change between Golkar then and now.
(Soebhan 2003: 137)
Second and closely related to this problem is the failure of Golkar to rejuvenate
itself in South Sulawesi. As previously mentioned, the province used to be a
vanguard in terms of cadre recruitment, but in the last 15 years or so, this
process has stalled. Widespread respect for the elderly and the prevalence of pat-
rimonial structures in local politics make it very difficult for young, aspiring
cadres to break up old, established power hierarchies. Indeed, the 2004 list of
DPR candidates from South Sulawesi was exclusively topped by old faces and
in the end all ten elected legislators had already represented Golkar in the
1999–2004 legislative period.35 Almost the same phenomenon could be
observed on the provincial level. Seven out of eight electoral districts featured
candidate lists where the first three positions were occupied by incumbent
DPRD members.36 And when in late 2004 a new chairman was to be elected,
incumbent Amin Syam secured a second term by acclamation.37
Among the new generation of politicians this has evoked bitterness and frus-
tration. In regards to the legislative election, several cadres who had been given
lower list places complained about the unfair selection criteria which favoured
the established elites, and the lack of a fair and transparent capability assess-
ment.38 Similarly, Amin Syam’s candidature and eventual reappointment trig-
gered protest actions from Golkar’s youth organizations AMPI and AMPG.39
Various external observers have also criticized the party’s inflexibility and its
unwillingness to promote generational change. Soebhan (2003), for example,
has quoted several NGO activists who opined that new faces in Golkar do not
have the political guts to challenge the established power structures. And
members of the Makassar-based media watchdog LSIM (Lembaga Studi Infor-
masi dan Media Massa) have expressed similar concerns, pointing to Golkar’s
dilemma of wanting to communicate a reformist message through old cadres
who have already reached their political zenith.40
Third, Golkar has been unable to prevent the gradual erosion of the main
pillars of its organizational network. As described in Chapter 3, Golkar has suf-
fered immense damage from the defection of numerous local dignitaries and
ambitious new politicians who simply saw a better chance to obtain a
parliamentary seat if they chose to run for a party other than Golkar. To a certain
extent, this development can be regarded as a direct consequence of Golkar’s
complacency and its unwillingness to give young cadres a chance in the highest
offices. But at the same time, it was also facilitated by the changed election laws
which created unprecedented opportunities for smaller parties to beat Golkar
with its own weapons as they could recruit some of those promising candidates
who previously used to run on a Golkar ticket.
108 Value infusion
One party which was particularly successful in luring local tokoh away from
Golkar was the United Democratic Nationhood Party (Partai Persatuan
Demokrasi Kebangsaan, PPDK). Led by one of South Sulawesi’s most promi-
nent politicians, former Minister for Regional Autonomy Ryaas Rasyid, the
party developed a strategy which was deliberately designed to focus on exploit-
ing the prestige of popular local leaders in South Sulawesi, especially from the
Buginese and Makassarese aristocracy.41 The example of Zainal Abidin is
representative of the success of this strategy. Zainal is a former bupati of
Takalar district and a long-time Golkar member, who in 2002 joined the PPDK
after Ryaas Rasyid offered him a top spot on the party’s provincial legislative
candidate list. In addition, Zainal was also appointed chairman of the provincial
party chapter. When the election was held in 2004, Zainal ran as a candidate in
his new home district of Gowa where he enjoys high rates of popularity, not
least because he sometimes opens his outdoor swimming pool to the general
public. With Zainal as the main draw card, PPDK secured 11 per cent in Gowa
while Golkar slumped to an all-time low of just 36 per cent.
The success of PPDK in exploiting ethnic sentiment and existing
patron–client relations proved that Golkar is no longer the sole representative of
Buginese and Makassarese interests. In fact, this perception had already waned
some time before the elections. According to Andi Mattalatta, many Golkar
members and supporters had started to feel increasingly bitter about then-party
chairman Akbar Tandjung and his manoeuvres to marginalize functionaries
from South Sulawesi, while he promoted his own supporters from Java and
Sumatra.42 Resentment and antipathy towards the chairman flared up repeatedly
before and during the election campaign,43 and they were certainly not alleviated
by Akbar’s attempts to restrict Jusuf Kalla’s and the other convention con-
tenders’ freedom to campaign wherever they wanted.44
Final remarks on Golkar’s appeal in Eastern Indonesia

Considering all these factors, it was hardly surprising that Golkar forfeited its
absolute majority in South Sulawesi. The roots that had once been developed in
this part of Indonesia through cadre-recruitment programmes and promotion of
promising politicians to top party positions are no longer being nourished. Most
significantly, the party has failed to enrich the soil around these roots through
the development of persuasive values. Instead of formulating a party programme
– and relevant policies – that emphasizes Golkar’s role in representing and pro-
moting the interests of Eastern Indonesia in Jakarta, the party still relies almost
exclusively on the appeal of individual leaders, in the context of national and
local politics. Given the prevalence of traditional hierarchies in South
Sulawesi’s society, this has long been a successful strategy and the fact that
Golkar is still the strongest party shows that this strategy is still working. But the
massive losses incurred in the 2004 legislative election also show that it is an
increasingly dangerous gamble for Golkar to rely simply on these patterns of
loyalty for electoral success.
Value infusion 109
Despite the setback suffered in 2004, however, Golkar may soon be back on
track, thanks to Jusuf Kalla’s rise to power. Kalla has already indicated that he
wants to promote cadre recruitment in Eastern Indonesia, especially in his home
province. One Indonesian observer even opined that the revitalization of the Ira-
masuka faction may be imminent (Bhakti 2005). While such speculation seems
exaggerated – and probably overstates the significance of the Iramasuka caucus
– it is quite possible that Kalla will indeed strengthen the influence of party
functionaries from South Sulawesi. This will most certainly appeal to many
Buginese, thereby creating new incentives for people to support Golkar. Thus,
the regional bias in Golkar’s support basis is set to stay.
The socio-economic dimension: sentimental nostalgia among

the poor and Indonesia’s short-lived SARS syndrome
After discussing the significance of religious and regional cleavages, this section
covers the socio-economic dimension. As the standard of living in Indonesia still
varies immensely between the urban centres of Java and the remote rural areas
of Eastern Indonesia, this section aims to determine whether there is any causal
connection between socio-economic indicators such as income, levels of educa-
tion or the location of households in rural or urban areas and Golkar’s electoral
performance. The analysis will begin with a discussion of statistical indicators
and survey results about the socio-economic characteristics of Golkar’s con-
stituency. Then the findings of these surveys will be contextualized in the light
of increasing New Order nostalgia in the run-up to the 2004 elections.
Class politics in Indonesia?

One defining characteristic of party politics in post-Suharto Indonesia is the con-
spicuous absence of class-based parties. More than 30 years of anti-communist
propaganda have left an indelible mark on the country’s collective perception of
class-oriented ideologies so that it is hardly surprising that no party of the post-
Suharto era has defined itself as a representative of a certain class.45 On the con-
trary, class-oriented ideologies are still very much taboo in Indonesia. Golkar in
particular, with its history of anti-communism, has always rejected the adoption
of an ideological stance of any kind, claiming that ideology-based politics are
divisive and detrimental to development. Marxist interpretations of class-based
cleavages may therefore be inappropriate when analysing Golkar’s support base.
Nonetheless, several researchers who have conducted quantitative research
on the 1999 elections have included the class cleavage as a variable in their
analysis. Interestingly, their findings are similar, yet not entirely identical.
Liddle and Mujani (2000), for example, have dismissed the relevance of socio-
economic factors, arguing that class-consciousness did not play any role at all in
determining the choice of voters in the 1999 election. King (2003: 162) agrees
that Golkar did not articulate any class-based interests, but his statistical analysis
concluded that socio-economic factors did have an impact on the voters of three
110 Value infusion
other parties (PKB, PDI-P and PAN). Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata (2004:
394) argue that the importance of socio-economic indicators varies between Java
and the Outer Islands as well as between individual factors such as educational
standards, poverty and the rural/urban divide. According to them, Golkar
enjoyed support from the rural population and, interestingly, from both ends of
the educational spectrum if the whole of Indonesia is considered. This pattern of
support is upheld if the analysis is confined to the Outer Islands only. If,
however, Java is singled out as the unit of analysis, educational standards no
longer play a role, whereas wealth becomes a defining factor as Golkar appar-
ently drew substantial support from upper- and upper-middle-class voters
(Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata 2004: 402).
A socio-economic profile of Golkar’s constituency

This data gives a first impression of the socio-economic background of Golkar’s
supporters. Their profile can be further sharpened if data from polling and survey-
ing institutes such as the Indonesian Survey Institute (Lembaga Survei Indonesia,
LSI), the Institute for Research, Education and Explanation of Economic and
Social Issues (Lembaga Penelitian, Pendidikan dan Penerangan Ekonomi dan
Sosial, LP3ES) or the International Foundation for Election Systems (IFES) is
considered. In 2003, LSI conducted voter surveys in various Indonesian
provinces in order to identify the most important strengths and weaknesses of
Golkar.46 Among other things, LSI compiled a profile of Golkar’s support base
along a number of socio-cultural and socio-economic indicators. Concerning the
latter, the most interesting findings of these surveys can be summarized as
follows.47 First, more than 50 per cent of Golkar supporters fall into the lowest-
income category with monthly incomes of less than Rp.400,000 (US$45). More
than 30 per cent have between Rp.400,000 and one million (US$112) at their dis-
posal and only 13.4 per cent have monthly incomes of more than Rp.1 million.
Second, the majority of Golkar supporters are not well educated as 48 per cent of
them have never attended a high school, let alone a university. In fact, only 6 per
cent of Golkar supporters are graduates from an institution of higher education.
And third, the vast majority of Golkar supporters are located in the millions of
Indonesian villages. While only 33.8 per cent are categorized as urban voters, a
massive 66.2 per cent are based in the vast rural areas of the archipelago, where
educational standards are low and access to media is limited.
Although LSI was way off the mark with its prediction that Golkar would
win the election with 30 per cent of the vote (LSI 2003: 26), the information
about the ordinary Golkar voter seems to be fairly accurate. Other institutes like
LP3ES or IFES, which conducted their surveys closer to and on the actual elec-
tion day, have provided similar data, allowing for the conclusion that Golkar
indeed mainly appeals to the rural lower classes. Taken together, the analyses of
voting behaviour in 1999 and 2004 provide relatively similar results, although
the 2004 figures indicate that apparently Golkar’s support base shifted slightly
towards the lower end of the social strata.
Value infusion 111
The emergence of the ‘I miss Suharto syndrome’ (Saya amat rindu
Suharto, SARS)48
One of the main reasons for this shift was the widespread dissatisfaction with
the performances of the various post-New Order governments. In the view of
many Indonesians, neither Abdurrahman Wahid nor Megawati Sukarnoputri had
succeeded in restimulating the economy, containing the increasingly decentral-
ized spread of corruption or stopping ethno-religious and separatist violence in
parts of the country. Consequently, certain features of the New Order started to
appear in a much more positive light for many Indonesians. The media and some
political observers were quick to label this phenomenon the ‘I miss Suharto syn-
drome’ (Gazali 2003, Rinakit 2003), but this was an utterly inaccurate descrip-
tion of what was actually happening on the ground. As a matter of fact, only a
tiny minority of the disillusioned masses actually longed for the return of
Suharto. This was clearly reflected in the electoral disaster of the ‘Concern for
the Nation Functional Party’ (Partai Karya Peduli Bangsa, PKPB), which
participated in the 2004 election under the leadership of Suharto’s eldest daugh-
ter Tutut and the self-proclaimed Suharto-lackey, Ret. General Hartono.49
Yet, the nostalgic sentiment which was so inappropriately captured by the
SARS acronym was real.50 Emmerson (2004) aptly illustrated the mood of many
Indonesians in his account of a communication with the taxi driver Rahmat in
Jakarta, who complained bitterly about ‘religious fanaticism, terrorist attacks,
endemic corruption, economic pain, secessionist rebels, lawless civilians, venal
parties, self-serving elites’ (Emmerson 2004: 95). For Rahmat, as well as for
many other Indonesians, this long list of unsolved problems was a clear indica-
tor that things were better under the New Order. For them, the old regime sym-
bolized economic prosperity and domestic stability, and Golkar, as the
once-omnipresent provider of bureaucratic services and the predetermined
winner of all elections, was now again regarded by many as the only party com-
petent enough to bring back this era of stability and growth (LSI 2003: 32).
The fact that people distinguished between the massive abuse of power by the
Suharto clan and the perceivably positive role of Golkar was evidence that the
party had been quite successful in disassociating itself from its image as a
Suharto tool.51 Notably, Golkar was now widely credited with the positive
achievements of the New Order such as the provision of affordable health care,
improvement of educational institutions or the generally positive economic situ-
ation. In the run-up to the 2004 election, the party rode high on this wave of nos-
talgia as people routinely named the ailing economy and the unstable security
situation as two of the most urgent problems for Indonesia. In the election cam-
paign, Golkar tried to make the most of this sentiment by contrasting the current
situation with its own track record during the New Order.
In many rural areas this message was successful. In the case of South
Sulawesi, for example, one observer argued that Golkar’s continued dominance
in Sulawesi can indeed be best explained by ‘the low levels of education and the
failure of the post-Suharto governments to improve basic living conditions.’52
112 Value infusion
According to Dias Pradadimara, an expert on local politics from Hasanuddin
University in Makassar, the disappointment with the Megawati administration
was particularly conducive to Golkar’ success because it was coupled with
widespread political apathy, especially among the large group of uneducated,
older female voters.53 No other party had ever made a serious effort to reach out
to this huge constituency, whose traditional role as housewives had limited its
exposure to objective media coverage. What people know about politics is based
on what they see in their immediate local environment, and more often than not,
the basic living conditions in these rural communities had not improved much
under the various reformasi governments. Many of these people then realized
that this compared unfavourably with the steady improvement of living stand-
ards under the New Order. Even during the financial crisis in 1997–8 parts of
Sulawesi were booming due to increasing exports. Only after the fall of Suharto
did things start to deteriorate. As Dias said, ‘Golkar didn’t do too badly, so
many people think, why not vote for Golkar again?’54
Golkar as a miniature model of Indonesia

However, despite the undeniable appeal Golkar still has for the lowly educated
rural masses, it would be misleading to describe the party as the new voice of
the little people. In fact, there is nothing particularly distinctive about the socio-
economic profile of Golkar’s supporters.55 If, for example, the socio-economic
pattern of Golkar’s electoral appeal is viewed in relation to other parties, it
becomes clear that Golkar actually draws its support from almost the same parts
of the electorate as at least three other parties. As the data from LSI (2003) and
LP3ES (2004) show, PDI-P, PKB and PPP appeal to almost exactly the same
rural lower-class constituency as Golkar, in spite of their supposedly different
religious orientations. Moreover, the assertion that Golkar may represent the
interests of a certain socio-economic segment of Indonesian society loses further
weight if Indonesia’s overall population structure is considered. As Table 5.2
shows, Golkar is actually more like a miniature model of Indonesia (LSI 2003:
38) as the profile of its supporters very much mirrors the socio-economic profile
of the entire Indonesian population (Table 5.2).
The two-headed party: why Golkar also appeals to people on middle-

and upper-level incomes
A final modification in regards to the socio-economic profile of Golkar’s support
base concerns the fact that, despite the bias towards the lower end of the social
strata, Golkar also attracts significant support from the opposite end of the spec-
trum. While LSI (2003) put the number of well-educated, wealthy party supporters
relatively low, the findings of Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata (2004) as well as
IFES (2004d) suggest that Golkar has indeed been reasonably successful in main-
taining a support base among the better-educated and wealthy upper classes, espe-
cially in Java. Basically, there are two main reasons for this slightly surprising fact.
Value infusion 113
Table 5.2 Socio-economic profile of Golkar’s supporters and Indonesia’s population
Criteria Profile of Golkar Profile of

supporters Indonesia’s
(in per cent) population
(in per cent)*
Urban/rural divide rural 66.2 58

Urban 33.8 42
Education standard Primary school or below 48.0 60
Lower secondary school 22.7 19
Higher secondary school 23.3 18
University 6.0 4
Income standard Rp.400,000 pcm or below 54.2 42
Rp.400,000–1 million 32.4 38
Rp.1 million or above 13.4 20
Gender Male 47.4 50
Female 52.6 50
Source: Adapted from LSI (2003: 38).

Note
* According to 2000 BPS census.
First, Golkar has had some success with its attempts to present itself as a
reformist party. The changes to the party constitution are one obvious indicator
in this regard, but much more important are the facts that the party has played a
constructive role in the process of constitutional amendments and that it has
created a reasonably transparent method of electing its presidential candidate.
For all its flaws, the convention was an innovative masterpiece in public rela-
tions and it demonstrated to the public that Golkar was an open party willing to
refine its democratic credentials. While the initiators of the convention surely
had a different outcome in mind, Akbar Tandjung’s defeat at least had the posit-
ive effect of convincing the sceptics that the Golkar leadership was ready to
accept unpleasant surprises.
Second, Golkar still enjoys broad support from influential members of the
business community. While many conglomerates have started to diversify their
political support, many entrepreneurs are still loyal to Golkar as can be seen, for
example, in the rising numbers of business-people representing the party in par-
liament. Moreover, Golkar also continues to maintain reasonably close links to a
number of big financial institutions and organizations, including Bank Indonesia
and the Indonesian Chamber of Commerce and Industry (KADIN). For example,
in February 2004 former Golkar treasurer and legislator Mohamad Hidayat was
elected general chairman of KADIN.56 He succeeded Aburizal Bakrie, another
Golkar politician and member of the pribumi business elite who has just recently
switched his focus from business to politics. KADIN and Bank Indonesia are but
two important links between Golkar and the business community which help
explain why the former regime party is not only an attractive choice for less
well-off Indonesians, but also for the upper segments of society.
114 Value infusion
Final remarks on the role of socio-economic factors
In sum, socio-economic factors appear to have a fairly limited impact on the com-
position of Golkar’s constituency. The party mostly appeals to rural lower-class
voters, especially to those feeling increasingly disadvantaged and alienated in the
post-Suharto era, but at the same time there is nothing outstandingly distinctive in
this appeal since the overall population structure suggests that most Indonesians are
categorized as rural lower class anyway. What is more interesting is the fact that in
addition to those poorer segments of society, Golkar also enjoys relatively stable
support from the upper and upper middle classes. These findings confirm what was
already suggested in the section on socio-cultural factors, namely the fact that
classic cleavages cannot account for the composition of Golkar’s constituency. As a
matter of fact, Golkar does not represent the interests of a certain social class.
Rather, its supporters come from a broad variety of socio-economic backgrounds,
which almost mirror the socio-economic structure of Indonesia as a whole.
What exactly makes Golkar tick? – The rise of ‘ersatz’ values

The discussion so far has shown that socio-cultural and socio-economic cleav-
age structures have little relevance when explaining Golkar’s sources of value
infusion. Admittedly, Golkar does appeal more to certain segments of society
than to others, but it does not represent any specific societal group in Indonesia,
not to mention struggle for the political, economic or cultural interests of a spe-
cific group. Therefore, it is fair to conclude at this point that, as far as the soci-
ological dimension of voting behaviour is concerned, Golkar is not infused with
any meaningful core values that could link the party to a broader social move-
ment. Today, the former regime party can probably be best described as an
Indonesian-style catch-all party (Ufen 2006: 24), but arguably that label does not
really capture the quintessence of Golkar’s electoral appeal. Hence, in order to
identify what exactly it is that makes Golkar tick, it is now imperative to extend
the analysis beyond the scope of traditional cleavage factors.
As Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 13) have argued, value infusion ‘has to do
with a party’s success in creating its own distinctive culture or value-system’
[emphasis added]. The differentiation between culture and value-system is indeed
important here because Golkar is a prime example of a party that is almost
entirely devoid of values – apart from the somewhat nebulous values associated
with the pancasila – yet still possesses a rather distinctive culture which keeps
members and supporters loyal and provides incentives for new members to join.
Party chairman Jusuf Kalla has described this culture as follows:
The culture of Golkar is that of a government party [. . .]. It does not have an
ideology from a religious or any other point of view. It is just pragmatic.
[. . .] So when there is a time when it is brought into opposition, there is a
feeling that this does not match with its [Golkar’s] culture.
(as quoted in ‘Jusuf Kalla: Golkar Semakin Solid,’ Kompas, 7 May 2005)
Value infusion 115
In late 2004, then-chairman Akbar Tandjung attempted to lead Golkar into
opposition when he established the ill-fated Nationhood Coalition with
Megawati’s PDI-P. It proved to be a fatal misjudgement of Golkar’s distinctive
culture as he was promptly ousted from the chairmanship at the party’s 2004
national congress. Arguably, the writing of his political demise had already been
on the wall long before (see Chapter 3), but his defeat at the hands of Jusuf
Kalla still sent a powerful message to the party grassroots: that Golkar was still
what many of its members and supporters perceived it to be, namely the ultimate
dispenser of posts and patronage in Indonesian party politics. In the absence of
meaningful political values, it is power, and its accessibility through party mem-
bership that is the only ‘value’ Golkar has to offer. As the party enables politi-
cians to gain access to posts or positions which would otherwise be unattainable,
it takes over the role of an impersonal patron while its members slip into dual
roles as clients to the party and patrons for their own followers (read: voters).
The fact that the functional role of Golkar, and its very self-perception as a
collective organization, have been reduced to the provision of power and patron-
age exemplifies its degradation to a merely practical vehicle which is needed
almost exclusively for the competition on the electoral market.57
Golkar as an impersonal patron

By their very nature, patron–client relations are relations of reciprocal depen-
dence. The relation between Golkar as a party and its members is no exception
in this regard. Indeed, Golkar needs its clients just as much as the clients need
the party. For active members, Golkar is an indispensable vehicle for gaining
access to the electoral market. As independent candidates are not allowed to run
in most Indonesian elections,58 even the most popular politician cannot compete
for legislative or executive power without at least nominal support from a party.
And the restrictions do not stop here. In a thinly veiled attempt to defend the
powerful position of the status quo, legislators in the DPR have not only banned
independents from participating, but also prescribed that only big parties (or
coalitions of smaller parties) have the right to nominate candidates for president,
governor or bupati. In 2004 only parties which had obtained either at least 3 per
cent of the seats in the DPR or 5 per cent of the vote in the preceding legislative
elections had the right to put forward candidates for the presidential poll.59
Similar requirements have been in place for the pilkada since 2005.60 Hence, it
was ensured that whoever aimed at becoming president, governor or bupati had
to approach one of the big political parties first before pursuing their aspirations.
And as the biggest party of all, Golkar – which unsurprisingly was instrumental
in formulating the laws – was a natural beneficiary of these arrangements.
The former chairman of Golkar’s West Java chapter, for example, acknow-
ledged that while cadre recruitment was overall, in his view, quite satisfactory, it
was only in the months before elections that the party received a real boost.
‘Naturally,’ he said, ‘the main motivation for people to join Golkar is to achieve
a political office.’61 This attitude was also confirmed in a series of interviews
116 Value infusion
with legislative candidates who had been vying for a place in the national parlia-
ment in the 2004 general election. Several respondents stated that their decision
to choose Golkar was primarily based on the calculation that Golkar’s organi-
zational infrastructure gave them the best chance to fulfil their own political
ambitions. And while these ambitions may be driven by a large array of different
underlying motivations, stretching from idealism to pure egoism, the common
denominator that united them all appeared to be Golkar’s image as a symbol of
power.
Among the more idealistic ones, who regard Golkar as the most suitable party
to promote political reforms, are people with somewhat atypical backgrounds
such as former university lecturer Happy Bone Zulkarnain or former actress
Nurul Arifin. For Happy, for example, Golkar was a good option because he
believed that the provincial chapter in his home province West Java was run by
smart, reform-oriented people.62 Happy, who says that he turned down an offer
to join the Department of Foreign Affairs during the New Order because he did
not want to join Korpri (read: Golkar), argues that the party does not only offer
the best institutional channels, but also the most astute politicians to push
forward political change. At the same time, however, Happy also concedes that
the political culture in Golkar has not yet changed to a satisfactory degree. In the
run-up to the 2004 national congress, he also complained that the strong focus
on the leadership contest prevented the party from concentrating on the more
urgent issues of development and democratization.63
Another young idealist is Nurul Arifin, a popular former actress and women’s
activist who turned to party politics in order to seize better opportunities to push
her own agenda of health and gender issues. Nurul’s idealism is evident in state-
ments like ‘influencing the people through ideas is more important than political
positions,’64 but she also concedes that this is not the attitude of the majority in
Golkar. Rather, she admits that patronage and positions are still key reasons for
people joining the party and that most of the young party cadres who have
already achieved high positions in the party hierarchy owe these positions pri-
marily to the mechanisms of patronage.65 Nurul says that she is using the party
for her own political objectives because only official party politics can provide
her with a higher-profile platform to raise awareness for the issues at the heart of
her own personal struggle.66 At the same time, however, she also says that she is
well aware of the fact that Golkar is also using her since her popularity as a
celebrity was expected to lift the party’s electoral fortunes. Here, the reciprocity
of the exploitation is evident. Moreover, what also becomes clear is that, in
order to be actually allowed to use the party for personal purposes, a candidate
must have something to offer that the party can use. Celebrity status, as in
Nurul’s case, is but one kind of market value that is deemed acceptable. Other
examples include material wealth, royal heritage, musical talent and of course
mass appeal based on primordial or clientelistic loyalties. The common denomi-
nator of all these ‘values’ is that they are all believed to enhance Golkar’s elect-
oral performance.
Value infusion 117
The personalistic dimension of value infusion
Probably the best example of Golkar’s strategy to exploit the popularity of indi-
vidual politicians for the party’s electoral success was the presidential conven-
tion in 2003–4. As previously discussed, the convention served a broad range of
political purposes. The aspect of particular relevance in this context is the fact
that the convention diverted much of the public’s attention away from the party
and projected it onto individual persons, namely the presidential contenders. As
the various candidates who competed in the convention all began to promote
their so-called ‘vision and mission’ (visi dan misi) long before the actual elec-
tion campaign kicked off, the convention gave Golkar a crucial comparative
advantage over the other parties. How keen the Golkar leadership was to capital-
ize on the mass appeal of the various contenders became evident when a
national leadership meeting in October 2003 decided that the convention would
be postponed until after the election.67 This meant that Golkar ensured that all
candidates would work for the party until the very last day of the parliamentary
election campaign (Denny JA 2003b).68 While none of them was universally
popular in Indonesia, they all had specific qualities that appealed to a certain
core group of supporters. Money politics aside, it can be argued that at least
three of the contenders drummed up their support by virtue of their personal
reputation as tokoh.
First, Jusuf Kalla commands enormous respect in his home province South
Sulawesi and some other Eastern Indonesian provinces. He earned his reputation
mainly through his business activities, but he is also revered for his role in bro-
kering a peace deal in the conflict-ridden area of Poso (Central Sulawesi). Well
before the election, Kalla was widely touted to be the ideal running mate for any
presidential candidate because it was believed he would pocket the vast majority
of votes in Eastern Indonesia. His initial decision not to team up with another
candidate, but to contest Golkar’s presidential convention was a big bonus for
Golkar as it helped to sustain high percentages for the party in its traditional
stronghold. Whenever Jusuf Kalla attended a campaign rally in Sulawesi,
slogans like ‘Hidup Jusuf Kalla’ (Long Live Jusuf Kalla) were at least equally
popular as ‘Hidup Golkar’ (Long Live Golkar) chants. Indeed, the message
Kalla communicated during the campaign was simple: if you want a non-
Javanese president, vote for Golkar.69
A similarly personalistic pattern was evident in Yogyakarta, where Golkar
tried to benefit from the culturally grounded charisma of Sultan Hamengkubu-
wono X. While the atmosphere at the rallies in Yogyakarta may have been more
subdued than in Sulawesi, the basic strategy was the same. The sultan, who is
also the governor of Yogyakarta, campaigned for Golkar, but he was mainly
promoting himself. Though a long-time Golkar member, he has actually never
been a particularly prominent party functionary. In fact, his reputation is not
linked to the party, but rather to his royal descent and, to a lesser extent, to his
success as a businessman. For Golkar, the sultan’s decision to join the conven-
tion was promising, not only because of his popularity in Yogyakarta but also
118 Value infusion
because of his democratic credentials.70 The sultan was therefore another good
example of how Golkar attempted to use the personal charisma of individual
leaders to broaden its support.71
A third example was the former commander-in-chief of the armed forces,
Ret. General Wiranto, whose re-entry into politics epitomized the widespread
desire for stability and security among Indonesians. With his background as a
former military commander, Wiranto hoped (and was hoped by the party) to
appeal to all those who perceived the reformasi period as a failure and who had
lost trust in the governance capabilities of civilian politicians. Wiranto tried to
portray himself as a ‘doer,’ as someone whose experience in the military
enabled him to solve problems quickly and decisively. For Golkar, Wiranto was
the perfect link between its past as a military-backed government vehicle and its
contemporary appearance as a modern party. While the party leadership around
Akbar Tandjung continued to try to present Golkar as a reformist force, Wiranto
was the candidate for all those who longed for a strong leader and maybe a
return to a military-backed government.72
The clientelistic dimension of value infusion

In addition to celebrities and the convention participants, Golkar in 2004 also
relied heavily on the marketability of its grassroots cadres. But in contrast to
celebrities and politicians who are known to a nationwide electorate, local politi-
cos usually have a more narrowly defined market value. Accordingly, the pat-
terns of voter mobilization on the local level are different from those on the
national level. Especially in areas with hierarchical societal structures like, for
example, South Sulawesi, the main asset for ambitious politicos is still extensive
clientelistic networks that can be transformed into large blocs of voters during
election times. First glimpses of how these patron–client patterns were instru-
mentalized by Golkar throughout the years have already been discussed, but in
the context of this chapter a few more details are needed to understand the
complex interplay between old, established patterns of informal power and
modern party politics.
In an interesting article on local politics in Takalar district in South Sulawesi,
Santoso and Titra (2003) argue that Golkar as a party actually did fairly little to win
the 1999 election in Takalar. According to the authors, Golkar was rather ‘handed
victory’ by the forces of a political ‘sub-system’ which dominates local politics in
most areas in South Sulawesi (Santoso and Titra 2003: 150). They describe this
sub-system as a pyramidal social order, at the helm of which a traditional, often
aristocratic ruler (karaeng) reigns supreme. The authors argue that regardless of the
political changes since 1998, the power claims of these karaeng were still largely
undisputed in 1999. However, as they cannot simply rule by virtue of their aristo-
cratic descent, they needed a formal vehicle to stake their claims and for many of
these local rulers the preferred vehicle in 1999 was still Golkar.
The mutually interdependent relationship between the traditional rulers and
Golkar goes back to the New Order years when both needed each other in order
Value infusion 119
to fulfil their respective power aspirations. With the fall of Suharto and the intro-
duction of a multi-party system, however, the balance of power in the relation-
ship began to shift in favour of the karaeng because Golkar was no longer able
to govern without their support (Santoso and Titra 2003: 155). As it is not the
party as an organization, but the karaeng as influential individuals who mobilize
most of the votes, Golkar is becoming more and more dependent on these local
vote-getters. The implication of this argument is that the party is actually less
and less important to the distribution of power than the traditional rulers. This
argument, developed after the 1999 elections, has indeed gained further momen-
tum after the 2004 elections as Golkar’s losses at the hands of, for example,
PPDK demonstrate. Today, the problem for Golkar is that while parties are still
generally indispensable because of their role in the electoral process, the former
hegemonic party is no longer automatically the first choice for local politicos.
The new electoral system and the increasing personalization of politics have
opened up new options for the clients and even though Golkar is still often the
party of choice, other parties are becoming more and more attractive for ambi-
tious local politicos (see Chapter 3).
Since 2005, numerous pilkada have further underlined this trend. Although
parties had tried hard to maintain a foothold in these elections, the results of many
pilkada clearly demonstrate that parties are actually largely irrelevant to the even-
tual outcomes (Buehler 2007, Buehler and Tan 2007). For example, although
Golkar had won the legislative elections in the vast majority of districts in 2004, the
party struggled to fulfil its – arguably unrealistic – target of winning 60 per cent of
the first series of governor, mayor and bupati elections. Buehler (2007: 138) quotes
internal party documents according to which Golkar ‘lost 63 per cent of all Pilkada
in Indonesia in 2005 and 50 per cent of pilkada carried out in the first four months
of 2006 in all of Indonesia.’ The disappointing results of the first pilkada in 2005
prompted one high-ranking Golkar cadre to conclude that ‘apparently those who
are regarded as good by Golkar are not wanted on the electoral market. [...] Just
like in the presidential election, the key is the appeal of individual figures.’73
Final remarks on Golkar’s use of ersatz values

After the first three parts of this chapter had highlighted Golkar’s lack of
ideology-based values, this last section argued that Golkar does possess some-
thing akin to a distinctive culture whose defining feature is Golkar’s self-
perception as a government party which, by virtue of its position in the political
system, acts as an impersonal patron providing its clients (its members) with
lucrative financial or material resources. In the uncertain environment of Indone-
sia’s protracted democratic transition, this culture may be enough to keep a rea-
sonably large number of members and supporters loyal to the party, but in the
long term it is unlikely to compensate for the overall dearth of political values.
In fact, it is argued here that this distinctive culture only serves as a kind of
‘ersatz’ value which lacks the persuasiveness and long-term stability of genuine
political values.74
120 Value infusion
The main problem with this culture is that it is based on an image which is
deeply rooted in Golkar’s past as a hegemonic regime party. Historically, it is
certainly true that Golkar was always the only party able to guarantee access to
the corridors of power. But in the competitive party system of the post-Suharto
era the parameters of power can change much more easily than before. So far,
Golkar may still remain the first port of call for many ambitious politicos who
want to enter parliament or become governor, but as the 2004 legislative elec-
tion and various pilkada showed, Golkar’s culture of pragmatism can easily
backfire if external circumstances change.
Conclusion
The objective of this chapter was to shed new light on Golkar’s sources of value
infusion. The findings suggest that, apart from a general commitment to the state
philosophy pancasila, Golkar has little, if anything, to offer in terms of value
infusion. In fact, the party even prides itself on not having a specific ideological
orientation. Golkar’s noncommittal stance has reduced the party’s ability to
fulfil a number of those ideal-type functions that political parties are expected to
fulfil in a democratic system, including the representation of societal interests,
the structuring of political issues or the crafting and implementation of policy
agendas. From the perspective of party institutionalization, these are worrisome
factors because they confirm the apparent lack of sustainable values inherent in
the party.
Instead of genuine political values, the party only has what may be termed
‘ersatz’ values. These ‘ersatz’ values are made up of a combination of
patron–clientelism, elements of personalism and in particular Golkar’s self-
perception as a government party. How deeply rooted this self-perception is in
the mindset of Golkar’s party members became apparent during the 2004
national congress. The election of Jusuf Kalla as party chairman clearly
demonstrated that Golkar members are indeed only interested in one side of the
democratic equation of government and opposition.75 For the moment, its ability
to provide access to lucrative patronage resources is the main source of appeal
Golkar has for its constituency. Kalla’s rise to the chairmanship has certainly
once again enhanced this appeal and looks set to provide new incentives to join
Golkar for all those who seek to gain mostly personal benefits out of supporting
a political party.
But at the same time, Indonesia’s political environment is changing, if only
gradually. In particular the increasing personalization of politics will make it
more and more difficult for Golkar to uphold its image as the most powerful dis-
tributor of patronage. In view of the severe losses the party incurred in its
strongholds in Eastern Indonesia during the 2004 elections, several party
activists have conceded that Golkar may indeed have trouble in maintaining its
strong position if it fails to develop a more distinctive party identity, which may
serve as a genuine source of identification for members and supporters. Some of
the interviewees have expressed particular apprehension about the negative
Value infusion 121
implications of patronage which prevents party identification and inhibits career
opportunities based on merit.76
Overall, however, there seems to be relatively little concern about these
issues. Rather, many party officials prefer to deny that the lack of party identity
may be a problem. They continue to believe in their own ability to manipulate
the electorate to such an extent that Golkar will maintain its supremacy in the
Indonesian party system merely by virtue of its image as a strong government
party. One young party member who intends to run as a legislative candidate in
2009 for the first time opined that a party and its candidates do not need to have
roots in society in order to be popular. His attitude, already quoted at the begin-
ning of this chapter, is worth repeating here: ‘Roots can always be created. Here
a donation for a mosque, there a promise to build a road, and already you have
roots.’77 As long as this kind of attitude prevails, Golkar is likely to remain
weakly institutionalized in the dimension of value infusion.
6 Reification
Mastering the use of symbols and the
pitfalls of political communication
The older a party, the clearer its image and the knowledge of the public about
this particular party.
(Surbakti 2003: 64)
Introduction
As we are now turning towards the attitudinal/external dimension of Randall and
Svåsand’s institutionalization model, it is fair to start by hypothesizing that
Golkar should be fairly well institutionalized in this final dimension. With a
history dating back to the 1960s the party has certainly had ample opportunity to
establish itself as a household name in the political mindset of the Indonesian
public. Moreover, if history alone is not enough, then Golkar’s hegemonic status
during the New Order, with all the privileges this involved, should have ensured
Golkar extremely high levels of name recognition. And indeed, survey data from
the early days of the post-Suharto period supports the assumption that Golkar is
a very well-known party in Indonesia. When the country held elections in 1999
around 90 per cent of the population was aware of Golkar as a political party
(IFES 1999a, 1999b).1 Clearly, these figures indicate that at the beginning of
the reformasi era the former regime party was deeply ingrained in the public
imagination.
From the day Suharto resigned, however, the problem for Golkar was that
high levels of name recognition also meant high levels of stigmatization and
hostility (Santoso 2000: 71). Indeed, being a household name was not necessar-
ily advantageous for Golkar as many Indonesians automatically associated the
party with Suharto and the various transgressions of the New Order regime.2
Attempting to change this image was inevitable, but at the same time the party
leadership also needed to consider all those loyal followers who had truly sup-
ported the New Order and its party.3 Thus, the challenge for Golkar in the years
following the 1999 elections was essentially that of developing a ‘dual identity.’
On the one hand, it needed to convince its traditional supporters that the Golkar
label still stands for stability and economic development a la New Order. On the
other hand, party leaders knew that they would also need to demonstrate a
Reification 123
reasonably credible commitment to reform if they wanted to counter persistent
criticism and demands for the party’s disbandment from proponents of the refor-
masi movement. Against this backdrop, the main question regarding reification
was not whether Golkar could become reified but rather whether it could remain
reified in the public imagination.
This chapter will answer this question by examining how the party has uti-
lized various means of political communication not only to retain the high levels
of reification it had built up during its long hegemonic rule, but also to develop a
new image. It will be argued that Golkar did remarkably well as it successfully
distanced itself from the worst aspects of the New Order while at the same time
preserving its appeal to all those who perceive the era of reformasi as a failure.
Moreover, Golkar also polished its reformist credentials through its contribu-
tions to the constitutional amendment process and the organization of the 2004
presidential convention. Key to communicating both sides of the coin to the
broader public was the maintenance of good relations with the media, which has
in fact grown more and more well disposed towards the party after an initial
period of hostility. Taken together, the increasingly positive media coverage and
the skilful instrumentalization of symbolism have helped Golkar to change its
public image without losing the high degree of reification it enjoyed at the
beginning of Indonesia’s transition process.
Structurally, the chapter is divided into three sections. In the first part, the
importance of keeping popular symbols such as the party logo, the party colour
and the party name (the name was changed, but only marginally) will be high-
lighted. The second and the third part of the chapter are dedicated to the media
and its role in helping Golkar forge its post-New Order identity. Without a
doubt, the mass media is the most important instrument of political communica-
tion these days, and its capacity to make or break political actors and organi-
zations should not be underestimated. While the second section will show how
some of Indonesia’s most reputed national media organizations have reported on
Golkar throughout the reformasi era, the third part will redirect the focus from
the national to the local level and look at the dynamic relationship between party
politics and the media in South Sulawesi. Among other things, this section will
provide an in-depth content analysis of the 2004 election coverage in one of
South Sulawesi’s leading newspapers, the Tribun Timur.
What’s in a name? Banyan trees, yellow flags and the politics

of symbolism
When Golkar held its extraordinary party congress in July 1998, the delegates
approved a number of path-breaking reforms to the party constitution and the
standing orders. One of these reforms was the change from the party’s old name
Golkar to Partai Golkar. Triggered by the dramatic changes in the overall polit-
ical environment, the modification of the name showed that Golkar leaders were
finally willing to acknowledge that Golkar was indeed nothing less than a polit-
ical party. As one young party cadre put it, ‘this symbolic name change showed
124 Reification
that Golkar was really determined to become a modern party, a party in the
truest sense of the word’ (Thohari 2004: 6).
From Golkar to Partai Golkar

While in some respect the name change marked the beginning of a new era, it
also indicated broad continuity. Most significantly, the eye-catching key word
‘Golkar’ was retained. This decision turned out to be critical in regards to reifi-
cation because it helped the party to maintain a high level of name recognition.4
The cosmetic nature of the transformation from Golkar into Partai Golkar was
also visible in the wording in the revised party constitution. After stating in
Chapter I, Article 1, that ‘[T]his party is called Partai Golongan Karya, short-
ened Golkar’ (DPP Partai Golkar 2003a: 6),5 all subsequent chapters in the con-
stitution only speak of Golkar, and not of Partai Golkar.6
Thus, it was clear from the early days of the post-Suharto era that the key
pillars of Golkar’s corporate identity would remain intact. Disbanding the party
and reviving it under a new name was never really on the agenda as leading
party executives passionately defended Golkar’s right to exist.7 A frequently
heard argument to justify the party’s existence was that during the New Order
Golkar had only been a tool for the ruling elite and that it would be unfair to
hold the party responsible for the political mistakes of the New Order (Thohari
2004, Latumahina 2000, Santoso 2000). In the words of Slamet Effendy Yusuf,
‘Golkar was not a “ruling party”, but a “ruler’s party”. [. . .] We admit that the
party made mistakes in the past. But put in a political context, Golkar was actu-
ally a victim of Soeharto’s centralization of power.’8 Or, as another Golkar offi-
cial stated flatly, ‘Golkar was not wrong during the New Order; it was Suharto
who was wrong.’9
The defiant rhetoric notwithstanding, overall Golkar adopted a predomi-
nantly low public profile in the early days of the reformasi era.10 Party leaders
were well aware of the widespread public discontent and many preferred to
disappear from the political limelight for a while. Behind the scenes, however,
Akbar Tandjung and his supporters were upbeat about Golkar’s long-term
prospects, not least because they had good reasons to believe that the pro-
tracted course of the transition would eventually play into the former regime
party’s hands. A first indicator that Golkar was indeed in a strong position was
the fact that the new election and party laws, which had been crafted by a
government-appointed team of experts, would have to be approved by the
DPR which at that time was still dominated by Golkar.11 Furthermore, the
student movement which had been so instrumental in Indonesia’s transition in
early 1998 was, despite its widely publicized anti-Golkar actions, a mostly
urban phenomenon which was not unanimously welcomed in other, more rural
parts of Indonesia. In South Sulawesi, for instance, a world without Golkar
seemed neither conceivable nor desirable for many people. As Santoso and
Titra have contended with regards to the somewhat subdued impact of refor-
masi in that province:
Reification 125
Symptoms which from the outside are regarded as successes of the reform
process can as well be interpreted as threats towards the existing social
structure. Conversely, what is regarded as status quo from the outside may
as well be interpreted as success.
(Santoso and Titra 2003: 140)
It can be argued that to a certain extent Golkar’s decision to modify its corporate
identity only marginally has helped to prevent a disruption of those existing
social structures and was therefore appreciated by the electorate in regions such
as, for example, South Sulawesi. It is in fact fair to assume that in the run-up to
the 1999 elections the name change from Golkar to Partai Golkar went largely
unnoticed by many people in Eastern Indonesia. And even where people did
notice, they obviously did not care very much as the good results for Golkar in
this part of the country demonstrate. In a sea of new party names, the key word
Golkar served to catch the eye on the ballot paper, evoking certain images that
had been shaped over more than 20 years of hegemonic rule. While in large
parts of Java these images may have been predominantly negative, it was a dif-
ferent story in Eastern Indonesia where many people either genuinely supported
Golkar or simply feared the ‘threat of the unknown’ (Kingsbury 2002: 246).12
The main symbols: the colour yellow and the unshakeable banyan
tree
Keeping the name clearly helped Golkar to remain reified in the early days of
reformasi. Yet, it was not only the retention of the name that was critical, but
also the preservation of other elements of Golkar’s corporate identity. Two other
symbols that are of particular importance in this context are the banyan tree
(pohon beringin) as the party’s logo and the colour yellow that had been chosen
in the early New Order days to be part of Golkar’s electoral label. Since the
party’s first election in 1971, these symbols have become so deeply entrenched
in the political mindsets of ordinary Indonesians that it seems inconceivable to
think of a campaign without yellow T-shirts or a ballot paper without the banyan
tree.
While the reasons for Golkar adopting the colour yellow are difficult to track
down,13 the banyan tree was a logical choice because it has significant symbolic
meaning, not only in Indonesia, but also in other Asian cultures and religions. Its
mythological origins lie in Hinduism and Buddhism where the banyan tree rep-
resents immortality and protection. In Indonesia, it features most prominently in
Javanese and Balinese culture, but it is also a symbol of national unity and a part
of the country’s coat of arms. According to official rhetoric, the banyan tree rep-
resents the third principle of the pancasila, which is indeed the national unity of
Indonesia.14 Thus, the tree is an essential symbol of Indonesia’s nation-building
process and as such an ideal logo for a party like Golkar. On the other hand,
however, it should also be noted that there is a darker side to the symbolism of
the banyan tree. As Anderson (2001) has pointed out, no healthy plant can grow
126 Reification
under a banyan tree because of the size of its crown. Critics of Golkar have
argued that this aspect of the banyan tree actually reflects the nature of Golkar
much better than the positive aspects like unity, guardianship and tranquillity,
mainly because for a long time Golkar represented an oppressive regime which
did not allow oppositional ideas to flourish.15
While the banyan tree is the most famous icon of Golkar, the party logo also
features a number of other highly symbolic items, some of which refer directly
or indirectly to the pancasila.16 On the righthand side the logo, which comes in
the form of a pentagonal shield, displays a cotton branch with a number of
sepals representing prosperity and sufficiency in basic necessities such as food
and clothing. Similarly, the plump rice grain on the lefthand side stands for pros-
perity and a plentiful food supply. Together, the cotton branch and the rice grain
symbolize unity, just like the banyan tree in the centre of the logo. The ribbon
underneath the tree is a string that is used to foster unity and to guide the party
in implementing its tasks of serving the homeland and worshipping God.
Finally, the numbers on the logo are of great symbolic value. Notably, the cotton
branch features 17 sepals while the banyan tree has eight hanging roots and the
rice grain 45 kernels. Together these figures combine to form the date of Indone-
sia’s independence, thus underscoring Golkar’s commitment to the cause of
nationalism.
While the deeper significance of all these symbols might elude most Indone-
sians, their very existence and their utilization as eye-catchers are highly import-
ant in the context of reification because logos, names and colours fulfil crucial
functions in enhancing public awareness of political parties. Moreover, they are
essential tools in aiding voters to structure their electoral choices. As Mainwar-
ing (1999) has pointed out, usually only a small fraction of voters is really
informed about the programmes and policies of political parties. The vast major-
ity relies on political, cultural or religious symbols to help them decide their
electoral preferences.
In a country like Indonesia, where most parties do not even have sophistic-
ated political programmes, the power of symbolism is even more pronounced.
Especially in areas where traditional patterns of socially constructed loyalties
remain strong, the enduring importance of symbolism should not be underesti-
mated. Despite all the talk about the maturation and rationalization of the
Indonesian electorate, symbol-based voting behaviour is far from extinct. Anec-
dotal evidence suggests that in 2004 people in some areas did indeed still vote
for Golkar simply because the banyan tree was the only familiar party symbol
on the ballot paper.
Final remarks on the power of symbolism

Although politically and culturally embedded symbols are important tools for
political parties, it should be noted that these symbols can only develop their real
power if they are accessible to a large part of the population. In spreading
names, logos and images, parties can only partly rely on the commitment of
Reification 127
their grassroots members since even the best-organized party apparatus can only
reach a limited amount of people with its activities. Golkar, for example, may
have a reasonably well-organized party infrastructure, but its grassroots activ-
ities – if they take place at all – usually only reach a narrowly confined group of
supporters and not the broader public. The concept of reification, however, is
concerned precisely with this particular relationship between a party and the
broader public.17 Therefore, in order to remain reified, Golkar, just like any other
party, needs to rely on other means than its own ‘party machinery’ to shape its
image in the public imagination. Arguably, the most important instrument in this
context is the mass media.18
The politics of mass media representation

The mass media has become an indispensable tool for all political actors in
modern democratic societies, be they parties or individuals. Some observers
even argue that the power of images conveyed through the media has long out-
weighed the power of programmes and ideologies (McNair 2003: 39). Accord-
ing to Meyer (2002), modern democracy in Europe is in effect already in the
process of being transformed from party democracy into what he calls ‘media
democracy,’ as media organizations have become so powerful that they are
essentially ‘colonizing politics.’ In Indonesia, certain historical, institutional and
logistical constraints have so far prevented the media from occupying such an
exceptionally prominent place in politics.
Historically, freedom of the press has been severely restricted in Indonesia
for most of the country’s post-colonial history. It is therefore a rather recent phe-
nomenon and many media organizations are still struggling to rid themselves of
long-established practices of self-censorship and ‘ritualized congratulatory
reporting’ of the government (Kitley 2001, as quoted in Kingsbury 2005: 120).
Institutionally, there remain a number of legal constraints. The 2002 Broadcast-
ing Act, for example, has upheld the controversial practice of licensing, even
though it is certainly less restrictive than during the New Order. Logistically, the
geography of Indonesia has so far proven to be an insurmountable challenge for
many smaller private media enterprises as they lack the financial means to dis-
tribute their products in the remoter parts of the country. Nonetheless, it is unde-
niable that television and newspapers and, to a lesser extent, radio and the
internet, do indeed exert substantial influence on people’s perceptions of poli-
tics. In the words of Kingsbury (2005: 118), ‘[t]he media in Indonesia became
increasingly influential in the post-Suharto period, but they were and remain one
influence among many.’
Focusing primarily on television and the print media,19 this section will
analyse the role of the media in the context of Golkar’s attempts to sell its new
double identity to the broader public. The discussion will focus on how crucial
political events like the 1999 and 2004 elections, the Akbar Tandjung trial, the
emergence of Indonesia’s very own SARS syndrome and Golkar’s presidential
convention have been presented in the mass media. It will be argued that
128 Reification
between 1998 and 2005 there have been some significant shifts in the way the
media has reported on Golkar and that these shifts have, on balance, aided rather
than hurt Golkar’s efforts to remain reified in the public imagination.
Indonesia’s post-authoritarian media landscape: a brief overview

After the freedom of the press had been severely restricted throughout the New
Order period (Hill 1994), the renaissance of the Indonesian media began just
two weeks after the fall of Suharto when interim president B. J. Habibie and his
Information Minister Yunus Yosfiah moved to simplify the notorious licensing
system for the press.20 Almost instantaneously, hundreds of new media outlets
were established all over the country and by March 1999, the Information Min-
istry had already issued 740 new licences (Mann 1999).21 Inevitably, the boom
was soon followed by a bust as many new magazines and newspapers struggled
for funds and readers,22 but even though many of the early trailblazers were
rather short-lived, new media enterprises have continued to spring up in sub-
sequent years, especially in the increasingly competitive electronic media
sectors like television and radio. By early 2002, one researcher counted 1,323
registered ‘media organizations relevant to journalism’ (Hanitzsch 2005: 496),
but it is almost certain that this number has further risen in recent years, not least
because of the multiple effects decentralization has had on the development of
the Indonesian media.23
Of the various media forms in Indonesia, television is by far the most
popular, with an overall reach of more than 80 per cent.24 While the census
figures only provide the naked accessibility rates, other surveys have discovered
some interesting details about patterns of media consumption in Indonesia. For
instance, a study conducted by the Asia Foundation in 2003 noted that two out
of three Indonesians watch television almost every day (Asia Foundation 2003:
159). Furthermore, results from three consecutive surveys in early 2004 have
revealed that, during the 2004 election campaign, television was by far the most
popular medium for voters to obtain information about the election process. In
fact, more than 80 per cent of Indonesians used television as their main source
of information, while newspapers and radio were mentioned only by an average
of 24 per cent and 26 per cent respectively (IFES 2004a, 2004b, 2004c). These
figures show that television has a huge impact on the public’s perceptions of
politics, including political parties.
The print media on the other hand have a far more limited reach. According
to data compiled by Low (2003: 17), Kompas is the newspaper with the biggest
circulation (600,000), followed by Jawa Pos (450,000), Suara Pembaruan
(350,000), Republika (325,000), and Media Indonesia (250,000).25 Given the
size of Indonesia’s population, these figures are very small indeed. Despite this
comparative disadvantage, however, the print media nonetheless play an import-
ant role in party reification. While they may not reach the broad masses, all the
aforementioned big national newspapers as well as the country’s only English-
language newspaper Jakarta Post26 and investigative magazines such as Tempo
Reification 129
and Forum provide a vibrant space for the exchange of intellectual discourses
about political, economic and social issues.27 In partnership with the electronic
media, the print media have a symbiotic relationship in which the press deter-
mines what is news, while television spreads this news all over the country (Sen
and Hill 2000: 51).
Golkar as newsmaker
Without a doubt, one of the major newsmakers in the last few years has been the
Golkar Party. Quantitative research in the electronic archives of the Jakarta
Post, for example, has revealed that between May 1999 and October 2006 no
other party name has been mentioned in more news articles in this publication
than that of Golkar.28 Coverage of the former regime party was particularly fre-
quent during the election year 2004, when the party featured in more than 1,000
articles and was mentioned more than 100 times in article headlines.29 Figure 6.1
shows that Golkar was mentioned in about one quarter of all articles featuring
political parties.
Figure 6.1 clearly shows that Golkar, together with PDI-P, has indeed
attracted much more attention from the press than the smaller parties. Of course,
only a fraction of the hundreds of articles listed here are really about Golkar or
PDI-P. Many of these articles are in actual fact neutral reports on random polit-
ical events in which Golkar was not necessarily the main actor.30 But the figures
indicate that Golkar and PDI-P politicians are asked to comment on these events
much more regularly than representatives of smaller parties who are usually
granted fewer opportunities to express their views. Critical observers of the
PAN, 498, 12%
Golkar , 1,105, 26%

PKS , 335, 8%
PD , 429, 10%
PPP, 447, 10%

PDI-P , 984, 23%
PKB , 469, 11%
Figure 6.1 Distribution of articles featuring political parties: Jakarta Post (2004).
130 Reification
Indonesian press have long bemoaned the prevalence of such biased reporting.
Prominent NGO activist Wardah Hafidz, for example, has lamented that the
overall system in which the media operates is still ‘deeply embedded in feudal
culture’31 as many journalists continue to focus their work too narrowly on the
government and other powerful interests, without critically investigating the
roles of these actors.
The situation seems to be not much different in the electronic media. While
no comprehensive data is available for long-term broadcasting patterns on
Indonesian television, observations from the 1999 and the 2004 elections indi-
cate that the biggest parties received far more television coverage than the
smaller parties. For example, outspoken Muslim scholar Ulil Abshar-Abdalla
pointed out that during the 1999 election campaign all television stations gave
‘undue coverage to Golkar, the incumbent ruling party of then-President
Habibie, the government and the military.’32 Similarly, a limited study of report-
ing patterns during the 2004 election campaign found that most TV stations,
including the self-proclaimed ‘election channel’ Metro TV, were heavily biased
towards the biggest parties, especially Golkar and PDI-P (Election News Watch
No. 1: 4).
Golkar’s image in the media during the early reformasi days

Extreme frequency of news reports helps to enhance or, in the case of Golkar,
maintain a party’s high level of name recognition. A party that is constantly
present on the television screen or whose name appears frequently on the front
pages of the newspapers is far more likely to cement its place in the public
imagination than a small party that is hardly ever mentioned. However, for a
party to become or remain reified, it is not only critical to be mentioned in the
media on a regular basis. Almost equally important is how a party is represented
in the media. Owing to the media’s highly influential role in shaping public
opinion, no party can afford to have a hostile relationship with the media for an
extended period of time. In other words, a party which consistently receives bad
publicity will sooner or later run the risk of being abandoned by its supporters
and eventually face disappearance into oblivion.
For former regime parties which continue to compete in elections during a
transition to democracy, the relationship with the media is often a particularly
delicate issue. In many transitional democracies the media has tended to be
scathingly critical of or even hostile towards old regime parties, whereas new
reformist parties of popular opposition figures have often been treated with con-
siderable favouritism. In other cases, however, members of old regime parties
have retained control of large parts of the media and subsequently used this
control to paint predominantly positive images of their respective parties. In
Indonesia, the early stages of the transition displayed elements of both these
trends. Certain segments of the press, for instance, seemed to be staunchly crit-
ical of Golkar. Jakarta Post was one of the frontrunners in this regard, featuring
several editorials with a clearly discernible anti-Golkar undertone in the months
Reification 131
before the 1999 election (Voionmaa 2004).33 Conversely, most television sta-
tions continued to back Golkar during these early reformasi days. State televi-
sion channel TVRI was singled out as one of the most blatantly pro-Golkar
channels, but the five private stations that were operating in 1999 were also
regarded as partisan.34
The bias of the electronic media was hardly surprising. In contrast to the
largely independent press, all private television stations were under the control
of well-known Suharto cronies, and most of these cronies still retained direct or
indirect links to Golkar. Indonesia’s oldest private television broadcaster RCTI,
for example, was controlled by a company owned by Suharto’s son and former
Golkar functionary Bambang Trihatmodjo. Another big TV station, SCTV,
counted a company controlled by Suharto’s cousin Sudwikatmono as one of its
major shareholders. TPI was owned by Suharto’s oldest daughter and former
Golkar chairperson Tutut, while Anteve and Indosiar belonged to the business
empires of two conglomerates with very close ties to the Suharto clan, namely
the Bakrie Group (Anteve) and the Salim Group (Indosiar) (Low 2003: 16,
Hidayat 1999: 187). Before the 1999 poll, the uncertainty about the future
course of Indonesia’s transition obviously induced many media moguls to stick
with the party they had supported for decades. Even though the Suharto clan had
fallen out with Habibie in 1998, the incumbent president and his party, Golkar,
were still regarded as better suited to defend the interests of the New Order stal-
warts than newer parties with a reformist reputation.
Turning tides: the end of the Wahid administration and the end of
Golkar’s purdah period
Following the reorganization of formal political power in 1999, many of the
television industry’s major stakeholders apparently lost interest in supporting
Golkar too openly. After the former regime party had only finished second in the
parliamentary elections and Habibie had failed to clinch the presidency, the
incentives to support Golkar became less and less appealing. Nonetheless,
Golkar continued to receive a substantial amount of media coverage during the
17-month-long Wahid presidency. Most of the reports during this period
appeared sufficiently neutral, but on balance it seemed that at least some of the
coverage in the electronic media still carried a slightly supportive undertone. At
the same time, some of the more critical newspapers began to warm up to the
idea that Golkar did not necessarily represent the evil end of the party spectrum.
One of the reasons for the increasingly positive representation of Golkar in
the press was that Abdurrahman Wahid quickly forfeited much of the sympathy
that had seen him through his first weeks in office. As the president went on a
predictably disastrous collision course with almost everyone in Jakarta’s polit-
ical elite, it soon became clear that his erratic behaviour not only antagonized
the political elite, but also the media. After only 100 days in office, the honey-
moon between the media and Indonesia’s first democratic president was already
over as criticism mounted over Wahid’s lack of coordination with the cabinet,
132 Reification
his controversial style of governance, his failure to bring security to Aceh and
Maluku, and his faulty economic policies (Mietzner 2001: 329). By early 2001
all the major media organizations more or less openly campaigned for Wahid’s
impeachment, while at the same time presenting the potential political alternat-
ives in a more positive light. Arguably, the main beneficiary of this anti-Wahid
campaign was Megawati (as the incumbent vice-president and potential succes-
sor), but Golkar as a party also profited from the situation.
In fact, for Golkar the growing discontent with the Wahid administration was
a golden opportunity to improve its heavily tarnished image and the party
leadership around Akbar Tandjung seized this opportunity with a cleverly bal-
anced strategy of publicly displayed restraint on the one hand and cordiality
towards the media on the other hand. The strategy quickly paid off as more and
more members of the press stopped depicting Golkar merely as a party of the
past and began portraying it as a party that represented hopes for a better future.
It is significant to note that this change of perception was not merely a byproduct
of the failure of the Wahid administration, but also a direct result of the inge-
nious strategies employed by the Golkar leadership.
For example, even though Akbar Tandjung worked tirelessly behind the scenes
to help impeach President Wahid, he essentially let others lead the charge against
the embattled president, especially PDI-P. Of course, Akbar remained the public
face of Golkar during these days, but in comparison to most other parties he, as
well as most of his aides, showed a remarkably low profile in public. Yet, while
many Golkar politicians showed unusual public restraint during this period of
‘purdah’35 it did not mean that they completely avoided the media. On the contrary,
media-savvy Golkar legislators and members of the central board were always
ready for a chat with journalists and eager to engage in discussions about anything
from constitutional reform to regional autonomy to budget-related issues. In 2001,
Golkar’s charm offensive yielded a remarkable, if only symbolic, reward when
journalists based at Jakarta’s parliament elected four Golkar parliamentarians – Ade
Komaruddin, Ferry Mursyidan Baldan, Slamet Effendy Yusuf and Syamsul
Mu’arif – into their top ten of Indonesia’s best legislators (Koordinat Wartawan
DPR/MPR RI 2001). Thus, Golkar’s new image as an experienced yet progressive
and open party gradually began to take shape.
An unexpected yet temporary backlash: Akbar Tandjung’s corruption

trial
Golkar’s resurrection, however, suffered a setback shortly after the impeachment
of Abdurrahman Wahid when a close ally of the ousted president, former
Defence Minister Mahfud MD, retaliated by leaking information to the press
which implicated Akbar Tandjung in a corruption scandal. The chronological
details of the scandal were covered in Chapter 4, but Buloggate II, as it was
dubbed by the Indonesian media, also had implications for reification as it had a
profoundly negative impact on Golkar’s efforts to build a new image. First, it
revitalized long-simmering factional tensions within the party which threatened
Reification 133
the image of Golkar as a solid and organizationally coherent party (see Chapter
3). Second, it reminded Indonesians how deeply Akbar and the party he was
leading were still entrenched in corrupt New Order practices. As one prominent
anti-corruption activist noted, ‘almost all Indonesian parties are now corrupt, but
I suspect it was Golkar who set the trend.’36 And third, it at least temporarily
tainted Akbar Tandjung’s personal image as one of the calmest and most
restrained politicians in Indonesia, especially when he was shown clearly dis-
tressed after his detention in March 2002.
Yet the consequences could have been even more serious if the media had
dared to investigate more thoroughly some of the more dubious aspects of the
trial. Instead, much of the coverage reflected what one observer has described as
‘A said X and B said Y’ journalism (Hanitzsch 2005: 499).37 In fact, the media
coverage often failed to provide any important background information about
the case. To many journalists, the political implications of the trial seemed to be
of more importance than the alleged crime itself. Given Akbar’s reputation as a
master politician (which was still intact at that time), this clearly played into the
hands of the Golkar chairman. The longer the case lasted, the more often he was
described as a cunning political virtuoso rather than as a convicted criminal. At
times it seemed as if Akbar was playing with both his political opponents and
the media. This impression was particularly strong on the day the Supreme
Court announced its final verdict. Several media outlets reported live from either
the courtroom or Akbar’s residence, depicting the normally so rational politician
as an emotional, deeply religious family man who was awaiting his fate together
with his wife and two of his four daughters. ‘By any account, media reports on
the trial were in favor of Akbar,’ wrote Sasdi (2004b), especially because they
‘focused on the human interest aspects of how Akbar, like a person in distress,
waited for the court verdict.’ Sasdi then elaborated:
Media reports have described Akbar, the leader of Golkar, a party used by
former president Soeharto as a political machine together with the military
in suppressing his political opponents, a hero because he was depicted as
the oppressed party. The media also failed to link Buloggate to the rampant
abuse of power by Soeharto’s regime, which almost sank Indonesia to bank-
ruptcy. The problem stemmed from the failure of the media to present
another side of the story of the scandal, especially the fate of thousands of
poor people in urban and rural areas who formed long queues under the
burning sun for small packs of cheap rice during government distribution of
the aid via workers paid by Dadang and Winfried.
(Sasdi 2004b)
Shaping a dual identity, Part I: the emergence of SARS and Golkar’s

image as a status quo party
By the time Akbar was finally acquitted, preparations for the election campaign
were already in full swing and, despite the prolonged court saga, Golkar was
134 Reification
widely seen as the favourite for the polls (LSI 2003). While Akbar’s trial cer-
tainly had a long-term negative impact on the chairman’s personal prospects of
becoming president, Golkar as a party actually seemed to be affected only in the
short term. The factional tensions that had flared up in 2001 and 2002 had been
– temporarily at least – swept under the carpet and corruption had long ceased to
be a malpractice exclusively associated with Golkar. As the media exposed new,
mostly regionally based corruption scandals with exhilarating frequency, more
and more people started to ponder the ‘good old times’ when big-time corrup-
tion was also common but, at least on the face of it, confined to Suharto and his
cronies. Together with other problems like secessionist and communal violence,
Islamic terrorism and sluggish economic growth, the seemingly unrestrained
spread of corruption spawned the outbreak of what was quickly dubbed the ‘I
miss Suharto syndrome’ (SARS).
Initially, the emergence of the SARS phenomenon presented Golkar with a
dilemma. Although party leaders knew that Golkar was a natural candidate to
benefit from the widespread dissatisfaction with the Megawati administration,
they also knew that an all-too-obvious embrace of the past would jeopardize the
party’s efforts to boost its reformist credentials. What was needed was a differ-
entiated approach to the New Order, one which would strike a fine balance
between denouncing the bad things and praising the good things. The quest for
an appropriate strategy was made easier with the growing media presence of the
new Concern for the Nation Functional Party (Partai Karya Peduli Bangsa,
PKPB), which had been founded in September 2002 by former army general
Hartono. The party openly glorified Suharto and the New Order, expressed its
intention to nominate Suharto’s daughter Tutut for the presidency and famously
labelled itself as the ‘Old Golkar.’38
Thus, for Golkar the emergence of PKPB was a blessing in disguise. On the
surface the new contender may have looked like a serious threat to the former
regime party,39 but as Qodari (2004a) pointed out, PKPB’s levels of name recog-
nition were so low that, by the time of the election, those voters who were most
susceptible to SARS would probably never have heard of this new party. More-
over, it was questionable whether those who said that they believed that life was
better under Suharto were really longing for the return of the former dictator or
more for some of the concomitant features of the New Order such as economic
prosperity and political stability.40 In the end, this differentiation proved to be
important as Golkar used PKPB’s openly displayed obeisance to Suharto to
draw a clear line and distinguish itself from the new rival. During the 2004 elec-
tion campaign, Golkar repeatedly highlighted the New Order’s more broadly
accepted achievements and emphasized the party’s role in bringing about these
achievements. At the same time, however, party executives also clearly dis-
tanced themselves from Suharto and his various transgressions, pledging that
‘we won’t be corrupt any more if we are back in power.’41 Thus, the emergence
of PKPB indirectly aided Golkar in its efforts to exploit the widespread disillu-
sionment with post-New Order politics as it forced the party to clarify its stance
towards its own past.
Reification 135
Shaping a dual identity, Part II: the presidential convention and
Golkar’s image as a reformist party
The SARS phenomenon and the strong publicity it received in the Indonesian
media ensured that Golkar could easily uphold its image as the status quo party
par excellence. It was, however, not in Golkar’s interest to be solely regarded as
a pure status quo party. On the contrary, it was also important for Golkar to
polish its reformist credentials, not least because most of the other allegedly
reformist parties had long forfeited their initially good reputations and there had
thus emerged a significant void in the reformist corner of the party spectrum.
Golkar leaders intended to fill this void by presenting the party as an innovative,
open and democratic party. First steps in this direction had already been made in
parliament where Golkar played a comparatively constructive role in the negoti-
ations about constitutional amendments and the laws on the direct presidential
elections. However, while many media outlets acknowledged Golkar’s contribu-
tions to the reform process, suspicions remained that the party was primarily
pursuing its own vested interests, especially in regards to Akbar Tandjung’s
presidential ambitions.42 More significantly, it should be noted that the whole
constitutional amendment process was mainly a spectacle for a small circle of
well-educated observers of Indonesian politics. In order to convince the broader
public that Golkar was a motor of democratic reforms, the party needed to
organize something more pompous, something that by its very nature would
generate a lot of media attention. The solution was a US-style presidential con-
vention which, as it turned out, quickly helped Golkar to win the ‘image trophy’
(Luwarso et al. 2004: 1).
As discussed in Chapter 3, the convention fulfilled several different pur-
poses for Golkar, but in the context of reification it is particularly noteworthy
that it provided the media with an incredible amount of top stories. Accord-
ingly, Golkar was certain to appear regularly in television reports and news-
papers for a period of more than 12 months. Thus, the convention markedly
contributed to Golkar’s consistently high levels of name recognition. More-
over, it is significant to note that most of the coverage about the multi-level
convention process tended to be positive, even though a number of sceptics
questioned the democratic character of the event (Denny JA 2003, Fatah
2003). Overall, Golkar was frequently described as a democratic and reformist
party which was ready to try something genuinely innovative. As the media
reported on the various pre-conventions on all administrative levels, the con-
vention essentially became a free form of advertising for Golkar (Luwarso et
al. 2004: 4).43
The ultimate climax came on the day of the national convention in Jakarta
when several TV stations broadcasted live from the Jakarta Convention Centre
until the dramatic ending at around one o’clock in the morning. The next day all
major newspapers ran stories about the convention on their front pages and the
pundits who had previously denounced the event as a rubberstamp ceremony for
Akbar Tandjung sheepishly acknowledged that the convention had indeed been
136 Reification
an open contest. Hence, in an ironic twist of events the unexpected and, as far as
the organizers were concerned, undesired result of the convention indirectly
strengthened the effects of Golkar’s image campaign as it showed the public that
Golkar was a party which was mature enough to grant a remarkable victory to a
party outsider.
Final remarks on Golkar’s relations with the mass media

Thus, in early 2004 Golkar’s efforts to establish its new dual identity had come
full circle. Through a sophisticated media strategy and with the help of an
overall conducive political environment, the party had developed an image that
had the potential to appeal to both status quo supporters and reformists. While
both factors were important, this section has demonstrated that the role of the
media in this development was indeed of utmost significance. Between 1999 and
2004 not only was Golkar at the centre of the news time and time again, but the
way the party was portrayed also changed remarkably. On the one hand, the
electronic media turned from its blatantly open pro-Golkar bias to a more
nuanced yet still somewhat positive coverage, while on the other hand the press
grew increasingly well disposed towards its former enemy. In fact, by the time
Golkar won the 2004 elections many reputable newspapers were full of praise
for the former hegemonic party.
In the aftermath of the elections, the media’s attitude towards Golkar has
remained largely positive. For example, a special Kompas supplement on polit-
ical parties in May 2005 described Golkar as a professional and solid party
while all its electoral rivals except PKS were criticized as immature and ama-
teurish.44 While PKS only received a few short paragraphs, Golkar’s develop-
ment was praised in a comprehensive article, an exclusive interview with party
chairman Jusuf Kalla and a number of comparative analyses in more general art-
icles on Indonesia’s fledgling party system. Even if the party engages in contro-
versial actions or policies, it is still often treated with surprising leniency, as
exemplified in a comment in the Jakarta Post: ‘While Golkar has its problems,
they are issues that are almost expected from a relative newcomer to the demo-
cratic game.’45
Looking beyond Jakarta: the impact of local media on party

politics
After analysing Golkar’s relations with the national media, it is now expedient
to finish this chapter with an in-depth look at the interplay between the media
and party politics on the local level. Although most media organizations are still
based in Jakarta and other cities on Java, some regional centres in the Outer
Islands have produced remarkably prolific media scenes. In South Sulawesi, for
instance, countless new media organizations were established after the fall of
Suharto (Morrell 2003). Many of the new newspapers and radio stations that
were set up in smaller towns outside Makassar did not last long,46 but the provin-
Reification 137
cial capital itself has remained a vibrant centre of media activity. In early 2004,
there were at least 18 radio stations in Makassar and five local newspapers
(Tribun Timur, Fajar, Pedoman Rakyat, Ujungpandang Ekspres and Berita Kota
Makassar).47 Moreover, there are now two Makassar-based television stations
(Makassar TV and Fajar TV).
Although the proliferation of local media outlets has not yet changed the fact
that most people in South Sulawesi still turn to national television for informa-
tion about national politics,48 the development is a clear indicator that there is an
increasing demand for information on local politics and society. Given the long-
established dominance of Golkar in the province, this development raises the
question of how the new media outlets have approached the local political land-
scape. Seen from the opposite direction, it also raises the question of how
Golkar has reacted to the new situation and whether the broader range of
information sources available has affected the party’s ability to impose its pres-
ence upon the public through the media. Against the background of Golkar’s
rather ambiguous 2004 election result in South Sulawesi, this section will
answer these questions by, first, providing a brief sketch of general media poli-
tics in the province and, second, taking an in-depth look at the election coverage
in one of the province’s biggest newspapers, the relatively new Tribun Timur.
Adapting to the changing times: media and politics in the early

reformasi days
In the early days of reformasi, the local press in South Sulawesi faced a
dilemma. On the one hand, journalists were eager to make the most of the new
freedom of the press and criticize those in power wherever they could. On the
other hand, widespread regional sentiment in favour of then-president Habibie,
both in the media community and the broader population, necessitated adequate
positive coverage about Golkar. The result was a mixture of supportive and crit-
ical media reports on the party. Based on an evaluation of the 1999 election
campaign coverage in four local newspapers, a Makassar-based media watchdog
concluded that while Golkar was certainly mentioned far more often than other
parties, the reports were by no means all in support of the former hegemonic
party. On the contrary, the majority of reports were actually critical of Golkar,
even in the biggest newspaper Fajar.49
For local Golkar officials, who had been used to decades of almost uncondi-
tionally positive media coverage, the media’s new assertiveness was apparently
hard to accept. According to senior journalists from Makassar, it was common
during the 1999 election campaign for Golkar politicians to call the newspaper’s
editors if the articles about the party’s campaign rallies were not absolutely
positive. Even small details were objected to, including remarks about the
number of people who attended Golkar’s rallies. ‘They would call if we wrote
“hundreds of people” (ratusan) attended the Golkar rally because they wanted
us to write that “thousands of people” (ribuan) attended the rally.’50
As democratization proceeded, this attitude gradually changed and by the
138 Reification
time the 2004 elections were held, there were apparently no more complaints
from local politicians about the media coverage. However, some observers argue
that this was not necessary anyway because after 1999 the media soon lost its
reformist spirit and returned to old-style ceremonial reporting. According to
Morrell (2005: 140), correspondents from outlying districts and sub-districts, in
particular, rarely dare to write something negative about their local administra-
tion. This line of argument is reminiscent of Hafidz’s allegations that the media
still operates in a system embedded in feudal culture.51 Significantly, such a
biased orientation towards those in power has long played into the hands of
Golkar as most local executives tended to be members of Golkar or were at least
backed by the party.52
Media and politics in South Sulawesi: an often cosy affair

Generally, the relationship between at least some media outlets and the powerful
elites of the province is extremely close. There are three main reasons for this
intimacy. In some cases, it is based simply on friendships between journalists
and local politicians. In fact, according to one observer, there are plenty of jour-
nalists among South Sulawesi’s media community who ‘have a close relation-
ship to Golkar politicians because they are good friends.’53 In other cases, local
newspapers and politicians from the local governments (read: Golkar) are
engaged in symbiotic relationships of mutual dependence. This is especially true
for some of the smaller rural papers which receive no funding from big-business
interests in Makassar. As Morrell (2005: 137) has reported from Palopo, for the
press ‘bureaucracy is also an important source of advertising revenues that com-
monly takes the form of large congratulatory messages inserted by politicians,
government departments, or senior officials, on such occasions as the appoint-
ment of a new bupati or opening of a new government office.’ For the politi-
cians, on the other hand, the media is an important tool in the shaping of their
public image and, in a more general sense, in communicating with the strategic-
ally important middle-class segments of society.54
Finally, a third reason that explains the lack of critical reporting in local
newspapers is the ownership structure. Fajar, for example, was co-founded by
two of the most powerful men in South Sulawesi, media entrepreneur Alwi
Hamu and the recently elected vice-president and Golkar chairman Jusuf Kalla.
The two men have been good friends for a long time and now that Kalla has
moved straight into Jakarta’s corridors of power, Hamu has become Kalla’s
right-hand man. Preoccupied with national duties, the two rarely intervene in
Fajar’s regular affairs these days, but as co-owners and major flag-carriers for
South Sulawesi in Jakarta they are assured of continuous positive coverage in
the paper.
The situation with Fajar’s main rival Tribun Timur is not that different. This
latest addition to South Sulawesi’s thriving media landscape is owned by Aksa
Machmud, the founder of the powerful Bosowa Group and close friend and
brother-in-law of Jusuf Kalla. Before establishing Tribun Timur, Aksa
Reification 139
Machmud was also involved in Fajar but he reportedly fell out with Alwi Hamu
and decided to set up his own newspaper.55 Although his relationship with Hamu
has cooled, Aksa Machmud has, just like Hamu, remained fervently loyal to
Kalla as could be seen in his generous donations to the SBY–Kalla campaign in
2004.56 Just like the other two big guns, Aksa now spends most of his time in
Jakarta, especially after he was elected to represent South Sulawesi in the
Regional Representatives Council (DPD). Henceforth, he has delegated most of
his business duties including those of Tribun Timur to his sons Erwin and
Sadikin both of whom now sit on the board of directors.57 In view of these
ownership constellations it is hardly surprising that media observers describe the
coverage of party politics in South Sulawesi’s biggest newspapers as ‘positively
biased towards Golkar.’58 Yet, as the following brief content analysis of two
months of election coverage in Tribun Timur will demonstrate, the partisanship
is actually not aligned with Golkar as a party as much as it is with certain indi-
viduals, especially Jusuf Kalla.
The 2004 elections as seen through the eyes of Tribun Timur

The Tribun Timur newspaper began circulation in February 2004, just two
months before Indonesia’s second post-New Order elections. Founded by Aksa
Mahmud and affiliated to the highly regarded Kompas-Gramedia Group, Tribun
Timur quickly earned a reputation as a professionally run media enterprise with
the potential to become a serious rival for the established Fajar. With its partly
coloured layout and its extensive coverage of football and celebrities, Tribun
Timur bears some hallmarks of a sensationalist tabloid, but the paper also has a
well-staffed research-and-development department and dedicated journalists
who are not only interested in reporting facts but also in providing educational
background information. While the main editorial office is in Makassar, the
paper also has correspondents in Palopo, Bone, Maros, Bulukumba and Parepare
as well as an additional editorial office in Jakarta.
The objective of the following brief content analysis is to find out to what
extent Tribun Timur’s coverage of the 2004 parliamentary elections was biased
in favour of Golkar and as a consequence beneficial to the party’s efforts to
remain reified in the people’s minds. The analysis is confined to coverage
between 26 February and 21 April 2004, thereby covering the run-up to the elec-
tion campaign, the campaign itself, polling day and the immediate aftermath of
the vote which, significantly, was also the prelude to Golkar’s presidential con-
vention. The analysis ends the day after the convention. For the first part of the
analysis all editions in the eight-week time frame were searched for articles that
mentioned the name of the Golkar party. In order to contextualize the figures,
the articles were then also searched for mentions of the other big national parties
PDI-P, PPP, PKB, PAN, PKS and PD as well as the regionally strong PPDK
which achieved the third highest number of votes in South Sulawesi in the 2004
election (see Figure 6.2). Following this mainly quantitative analysis, the second
part of the study looks at selected articles from different sections of the paper
140 Reification
50
45 44.34
40
35
30
Percentage
25
20
15
10
7.3 6.65 6.56 6.4
5 4.55
3.04
0
Golkar PKS PPDK PPP PA N PDI-P PD
Figure 6.2 Results of the 2004 parliamentary elections in South Sulawesi (in per cent).
and examines them with regard to the use of language, pictures and other editor-
ial features such as coloured fonts, charts and tables.
The quantitative dimension: Golkar’s domination confirmed

When Tribun Timur went to print for the first time in early February 2004,
South Sulawesi was, just like the rest of the country, in the midst of preparing
for the 2004 general elections. Accordingly, the 24-pages-strong paper dedic-
ated two pages in the middle (menuju pemilu) as well as the very last page
(tribun sulsel) specifically to the elections. In addition, the front page and the
reports from the local correspondents often covered election-related events.
Hence, the election was clearly the dominant topic in the paper’s early days.
Given the overall background of South Sulawesi’s media politics it might be
expected that during the time of the election Golkar would receive unevenly
frequent coverage in the paper and that much of this coverage would carry a
positive undertone.
The first hypothesis has been found to be confirmed by the data, even though
not as soundly as one may have expected. In the eight weeks between 26 Febru-
ary and 21 April 2004 the name of the Golkar Party featured in a total of 594
articles, which means that on average the party was mentioned in more than ten
articles per day. These figures are quite extraordinary, especially in view of the
fact that Tribun Timur is a newspaper of only 24 pages. The second-highest
number of entries (326) was recorded for PDI-P, which is an interesting result as
this party is not particularly popular in South Sulawesi (see the election results
in Figure 6.2). All the other parties garnered less than 300 entries each, with
PAN (278) leading the pack ahead of PPP (254), PKS (252), PD (206), PPDK
Reification 141
PKB , 174, 8%
PD , 206, 9%
Golkar , 594, 26%
PDI-P , 326, 14%
PKS , 252, 11%
PAN, 278, 12%
PPDK, 197, 9%
PPP, 254, 11%
Figure 6.3 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004.
(197) and PKB (174). These figures clearly confirm Golkar’s overwhelmingly
strong media presence.
However, while the absolute figures are certainly massive, Figure 6.3 also
clearly shows that in relative terms the gap between Golkar and its electoral
rivals is actually not that big. In fact, it is not much different from comparable
figures in some national newspapers. While in Tribun Timur Golkar’s share of
the overall entries was 26 per cent, it was 24 per cent in the Jakarta Post during
the same period.59 Hence, although Golkar certainly enjoyed much more cover-
age in Tribun Timur than its electoral rivals, the Makassar-based paper can
hardly be accused of granting extremely undue coverage to the former hege-
monic party, at least not quantitatively.
If we look at the quantitative distribution of articles by dividing the entries
along the individual columns of the newspaper, we can see that Golkar recorded
the highest number of entries in the menuju pemilu section (181).60 But these pages
also featured a substantial amount of articles on other parties. In fact, this segment
was not only the liveliest but also the most balanced section in terms of quantita-
tive coverage on political parties as Golkar received ‘only’ 23 per cent of the
coverage here. At the other end of the spectrum, Golkar’s dominance was particu-
larly pronounced on the front page and in some of the regional sections, especially
in those from Palopo and Bone, the two regions most distant from Makassar. On
the front page, for example, where national and local topics are often mixed,
Golkar accounted for 90 entries, while PDI-P was mentioned 60 times. The other
parties found themselves on the front page less than 40 times each. This gives
Golkar a relative share of 28.4 per cent of all entries on the front page. In Bone,
142 Reification
the number of articles that alluded to Golkar was 31, which translates into a share
of 36 per cent for Golkar in all relevant articles that made mention of political
parties. In Palopo, the coverage was even more biased towards Golkar. Here, in
the far north-east of South Sulawesi, Golkar accounted for 40 per cent of all rele-
vant articles, while parties like PD (one entry), PKB (two entries), PKS and PPP
(four entries each) were like ‘personae non grata’ for the local correspondent.61
Figures 6.4 and 6.5 summarize the findings for the individual sections.
200 Golkar
181 PKS
180
PPDK
160 PPP
PA N
140 PDI-P
ticles
127 PD
120 PKB
100
Number of ar
90 90 93
83 83
80 76 75
72
60
60 53
40 36 38 39 38 42 38
30 30
34
29 32 34 33
30
25 24
21
20 12
17 15 19
9
5 3 4 7 4 3
0
F ront page Menuju pemilu Bac k page Opinion Other
Figure 6.4 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004, by section.
60
50 49 Golkar
PKS
PPDK
PPP
40 PA N
ticles
35 PDI-P
31 PD
30
30 PKB
Number of ar
26
23 23 23
22
20
20 19
17
16
14
13
12
11 11 11
10 10 10 10
10 8 8 8 9
8
9
7 7
6 6 6
5
4 4
3
1 2
0
Palopo Bone Parepare Maros-Go w a- Makassar
Bulukumba
Figure 6.5 Coverage of political parties in Tribun Timur, 26/2–21/4/2004, by section.

Reification 143
The qualitative dimension: is Golkar being portrayed too positively?
Having established that Golkar’s name appeared in Tribun Timur much more
often than the names of other parties, it is important to investigate whether this
coverage was predominantly neutral or whether it was biased, either positively
or negatively.62 In order to answer this question, an in-depth look was taken at
all news items featuring Golkar from the front page as well as the three local
sections from Palopo, Bone and Parepare. These articles were chosen as the
focus of inquiry for two reasons. First, the front-page articles are the most
striking eye-catchers as they often use extra-large font sizes, colourful pictures
and other editorial features to catch the attention of the reader. Therefore,
these articles are of particular importance for the shaping of Golkar’s image.
Second, the local sections were chosen because in terms of relative advantages
Golkar has been treated most generously in these sections. This finding con-
firms Morrell’s argument that correspondents from outlying regions are more
likely to focus their reporting on those in power than their colleagues in urban
regions. However, the sheer figures do not yet reveal anything about the actual
contents of these articles. Thus, in order to find out whether this focus on the
authorities is also underpinned by a submissive reporting style towards parties
and bureaucracies, it is now crucial to examine some of the articles more
thoroughly.
Before proceeding with the analysis, however, it is first imperative to define
its parameters. In the context of this book, an article is regarded as positively
biased simply if it generates a positive image of Golkar. This can happen by
means of grandiloquent language, the reinforcement of pre-existing perceptions
of Golkar as a strong government party (for example by noting that certain
bupatis or mayors are also Golkar figures) or by reporting on events that already
carry a certain positivity by their very nature (for instance a social activity spon-
sored by the party). Conversely, an article is regarded as negatively biased if it
generates a negative or corrupt image of Golkar. This includes all articles that
use inflammatory language or report on the involvement of Golkar in inherently
negative events such as corruption or the violation of election-campaign regula-
tions. All other articles that do not generate a certain image of Golkar or that
feature a balanced mixture of both positive and negative elements are classified
as neutral.63 Against this background, a total of 193 articles were analysed. From
all these news items the vast majority carried a neutral, merely informative
message. The general pattern often resembled what Hanitzsch (2005) had
described as ‘A said X and B said Y’ journalism. However, there were also a
number of biased articles. Significantly though, these were almost evenly dis-
tributed in the positive and negative segments. While 39 were deemed to gener-
ate a rather positive impression of Golkar, 36 were found to be negatively biased
towards Golkar (see Figure 6.6).
Notably, of the four individual parts of the paper examined only Palopo was
openly favourable towards Golkar. Here, there were only two articles that were
deemed to be critical of the party whereas eight were classified as positive and
144 Reification
Negative, 36, 19% Positive, 39, 20%
Neutral, 118, 61%
Figure 6.6 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative news on Golkar.
Neutral, 59, 66%
Figure 6.7 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles on the front page.
13 as neutral. In Bone, there were six positive and five negative articles, while in
Parepare the ratio was 12 to 11 in favour of the positive reports. Conversely, on
the front page, articles which gave a negative impression of Golkar outnumbered
those that described the party positively (13 positive, 18 negative, 59 neutral).
See Figures 6.7, 6.8, 6.9 and 6.10.
Reification 145
Neutral, 26, 54%
Figure 6.8 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles in the Parepare section.
Neutral, 20, 65%
Figure 6.9 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles in the Bone section.
Examples of positive coverage

News items that were deemed positive towards Golkar included articles that
emphasized the party’s financial and organizational prowess, reports on election
campaign rallies as well as articles about popular individuals affiliated with the
party. First, several articles that reported on certain features of the election
146 Reification
Negative, 2, 9%
Positive, 8, 35%
Neutral, 13, 56%
Figure 6.10 Distribution of positive, neutral and negative articles in the Palopo section.
campaign highlighted the fact that Golkar was the biggest party with the most
plentiful resources. For instance, on 13 March 2004, the Parepare section of the
paper featured an article about a local small fabrics business which sold T-shirts
to political parties.64 The article mentioned that several parties had ordered T-
shirts from the merchant’s small business, but while parties like PDI-P, PPP or
PBB only ordered 3,000 shirts each, Golkar reportedly ordered more than
20,000 shirts. Golkar also requested T-shirts of a better-quality fabric, which
were of course more expensive than those ordered by its rivals, thereby giving
further emphasis to the notion that Golkar had superior financial resources in
comparison to the other parties. A similar pattern was discernible in an article on
17 March 2004, which detailed the situation of small-scale bamboo traders from
Parepare and Pinrang.65 While the focus of the article was on the competition
between the traders from the two towns, the name of Golkar was dropped
strategically at the end of the article, when a trader explained that it was Golkar
which always ordered the largest amount of bamboo.
Second, Golkar’s election campaign was sometimes described in extremely
positive terms. On 24 March 2004, for example, Tribun Timur’s correspondent
from Palopo reported on Golkar’s preparations for an upcoming rally, scheduled
for the following day. The article, which included a photo of Golkar members in
front of huge wrapped packages, described the arrival of thousands of Golkar T-
shirts in Luwu and provided elaborate details about the plans for the campaign,
the national party figures that were due to attend and the expected number of
supporters that would attend the rally.66 The next day (25 March 2004), the
tribun palopo section opened with the extra-large headline ‘Hari Ini Golkar
Kuningkan Palopo’ (‘Today Golkar Will Make Palopo Yellow’) while the sub-
heading read ‘Hadirkan Calon Presiden Prabowo’ (‘Presidential Candidate
Reification 147
Prabowo Will Attend’).67 The article stated that Golkar officials expected up to
35,000 people as well as presidential convention contender Prabowo Subianto
and other high-ranking party officials. The tone was extremely optimistic and
slightly reminiscent of the long-gone times of the Golkar hegemony.68
Third, the newspaper featured several articles which did not focus on activ-
ities by Golkar as an organization but rather on individual party members and
their activities. Most prominent in this category were the front-page articles
about Jusuf Kalla (see below), but the local sections also included various art-
icles about national legislative candidates such as Fachri Andi Leluasa or
Hamka Yandhu or bupatis and mayors such as Idris Galego (Bone), Zain Katoe
(Parepare) and HPA Tenriadjeng (Palopo). Significantly, the last three were not
only leaders of the local governments in their respective districts but also
leading executives in the local Golkar chapters.69 Emphasizing these double
functions repeatedly in news items essentially not related to any Golkar activ-
ities is part of what one observer called ‘the psychology of power’70 as it serves
as a subtle reminder to the reader that Golkar is still the ruling party. A typical
example of this kind of image-enforcing reporting is an article from Bone, dated
7 April 2004. The article on the gathering of election results from the district’s
various villages begins as follows:
The bupati of Bone, HAM Idris Galego, was forced to stay up until the wee
hours of the morning. The Golkar chairman of Bone waited for the results
from the individual polling stations. Idris stayed in the room of the tele-
phone operator in his office on Monday evening until the early hours of the
following day.
(‘Bupati Tongkrongi Operator Telepon,’ Tribun Timur, 7 April 2004)
As it unfolds, this article clearly focuses on Idris’s responsibilities as bupati and

in principle there was no need for the author to emphasize that he was also the
chairman of the local Golkar chapter. But, according to local media observers
like Muliadi Mau, this is a common journalistic pattern used to reinforce images
of Golkar as an omnipresent government party.71 It therefore directly contributes
to upholding Golkar’s high levels of reification.
Another major boost for Golkar was the fact that South Sulawesi’s favourite
son, Jusuf Kalla, was deeply involved not only in Golkar’s election campaign
but also in Indonesia’s first-ever direct presidential election. In one way or
another, Kalla was an almost daily feature in Tribun Timur during the eight
weeks considered here, and in most cases Golkar benefited from this extensive
coverage. On two occasions, for instance, Kalla was pictured on the front page,
addressing a crowd at a Golkar campaign rally, wearing a yellow jacket.72 In
many other cases, his name was mentioned in the context of Golkar’s presiden-
tial convention. Regardless of the focus of the articles, however, the reports
were always either positive or neutral towards Jusuf Kalla as a person. Indeed,
negative news about Kalla seemed to be taboo. For Golkar, this bias had positive
implications, at least in the weeks before the parliamentary elections when Kalla
148 Reification
was still a contender in Golkar’s convention. After the elections, however,
Golkar’s fortunes in Tribun Timur took a turn for the worse, not only because of
its less-than-satisfactory election results but also because it became clear that
Kalla would drop out of the convention and team up with SBY. Significantly,
after 6 April Golkar only recorded two more positively biased articles on the
front page, while Kalla continued to be praised in seven more articles.
Examples of negative coverage

The positive influence of Jusuf Kalla at one end of the spectrum was mirrored by
Akbar Tandjung at the negative end of the spectrum. Indeed, the poor popularity
of the Golkar chairman in South Sulawesi was reflected in a number of articles
on the party which carried a negative undertone. Other examples of this negative
bias included coverage of the party’s electoral performance and cases of cam-
paign violations by Golkar politicians.
First, certain manoeuvres by party leader Akbar Tandjung reinforced local
resentment towards the chairman. For example, Akbar’s spat with Surya Paloh
over the latter’s campaign rhetoric on corruption in the party was widely
covered, as were the chairman’s attempts to restrict his rivals in the presidential
convention in their choices of campaign locations.73 The paper also reported on
Akbar’s troublesome encounter with a vocal group of protesters at Makassar
airport,74 and seemingly mocked the chairman’s clumsy response to the resent-
ment.75 All these articles primarily targeted Akbar Tandjung but the negative
undertone in the reports ultimately reflected badly on Golkar as they evoked an
image of a party led by an unpopular leader.
The second group of negatively biased articles consisted of those pieces that
described the fallout from Golkar’s electoral performance. In contrast to the
often overtly optimistic reports in the run-up to the poll, the aftermath of the
election was characterized by more critical articles which explained how Golkar
lost its status as a superpower in South Sulawesi. Although it seemed as if
Tribun Timur tried to avoid criticizing Golkar too harshly,76 the very fact that the
party’s losses in South Sulawesi were quite dramatic made it inevitable that
news items on the results generated a slightly negative impression of Golkar.
Examples in this category included front-page articles with headlines like
‘PPDK Beats Golkar in the Village of Sungguminasa’77 or ‘Golkar in South
Sulawesi Decreases by 25 Percent’78 as well as a report from Palopo entitled
‘Golkar Quota Decreases up to 50 Percent.’79
The third group of articles comprised reports on fraud, corruption and viola-
tions against campaign regulations, perpetrated by members of Golkar. For
example, both the Bone and the Parepare sections featured articles highlighting
Golkar’s campaign violations.80 Generally, it is noteworthy that Tribun Timur
has not shied away from covering local political scandals, sometimes even over-
stepping the mark by sensationalizing allegations that would eventually turn out
to be unfounded.81 Two front-page articles on 11 and 12 April fall into this cat-
egory. On 11 April, the paper opened with a leader entitled ‘Golkar Makassar
Reification 149
Accused of Mark-Up.’82 The next day, it was Bone’s turn. ‘Golkar Bone Also
Accused of Mark-Up’83 was the headline on the front page. In both articles,
members of smaller parties accused Golkar of instructing staff at certain polling
stations to mark up the numbers of Golkar votes. The allegations, however,
turned out to be baseless and possible Golkar involvement in the irregularities at
the polling stations was never proven. Nonetheless, for two days at least Golkar
was once again linked to issues of corruption and fraud, allegations which
generated a negative impression of the party.
Final remarks on the local media analysis

In sum, Golkar has clearly been the most frequently mentioned party in Tribun
Timur, but it has not been portrayed in an overly positive way. Positive and
negative stories appeared to be well balanced while the overwhelming majority
of articles were written in a neutral style. It was different, however, when it
came to reports about individual politicians. In the Palopo section, for example,
Golkar legislator Fachri Andi Leluasa was almost exclusively portrayed in a
positive light. Even more obvious was this tendency in the case of Jusuf Kalla.
The coverage on Kalla was so extremely positive that Tribun Timur sometimes
almost resembled a campaign pamphlet for the man who wanted to be (and
eventually became) vice-president. For several weeks, Golkar benefited from
this phenomenon, but once Kalla had dropped out of the convention the party
lost one of its major draw cards.
Conclusion
Based on the assumption that Golkar entered the post-New Order era as a highly
reified party, this chapter has examined how Golkar utilized various means of
political communication in order to reshape its public image without forfeiting
its high levels of reification. As the analysis has shown, Golkar’s various strat-
egies have proven to be successful. Eight years after the fall of Suharto, Golkar
is indeed still a very well-reified party. The keeping of universally known party
symbols such as the party name (even though it was slightly modified), the
colour yellow and the banyan tree as well as frequent and comprehensive media
coverage throughout the post-Suharto years have secured high levels of name
recognition for Golkar and hence enduringly strong levels of reification. Today,
it seems indeed inconceivable to imagine the Indonesian party system without
Golkar.
In many ways, Golkar’s survival as a trademark of Indonesian politics is
hardly surprising. Given its more than 40-year long history, and especially its
hegemonic status under the New Order, it could be argued that Golkar has basi-
cally been guaranteed a place in the collective memory of all Indonesians. Yet,
to be remembered for a prominent role in a disgraced regime also bears consid-
erable risks, which is why the party had to develop something like a new corpor-
ate identity when the New Order regime crumbled. Party leaders knew
150 Reification
immediately that this new identity would have to combine elements of both a
nostalgic status quo party and a reformist force committed to a competitive
multi-party democracy.
By 2004, it was evident that the transformation had been successfully accom-
plished. Despite tremendous changes in the overall political environment,
Golkar is still a household name. Arguably, many Indonesians continue to asso-
ciate the party primarily with the economic prosperity and political stability of
long-gone New Order times, but thanks to a smart media strategy the party is
now also known as the party that brought Indonesia its first presidential conven-
tion. In fact, the role of the media in shaping Golkar’s new image cannot be
underestimated. Throughout the post-New Order era television and newspapers
have consistently reported on Golkar and while much of the coverage in the
early days carried a negative undertone, the party’s image in the press improved
year by year.
That Golkar was able to use the media so extensively to its own advantage
indicates that elements of what Hafidz called ‘feudal culture’ have indeed pre-
vailed in some segments of the Indonesian media. As one of the ‘powerful inter-
ests’ Hafidz was referring to, Golkar was assured of a constant media presence
while new parties, on the other hand, were struggling to make themselves heard.
The figures from the Jakarta Post speak volumes about the imbalance in report-
ing on political parties in Indonesia. The situation was even more pronounced (if
only slightly) in South Sulawesi where Golkar recorded more than a quarter of
all party entries in one newspaper during a two-month survey period. However,
the section on Sulawesi has also shown that Golkar’s positive image is, at least
in this region, closely linked to the image of individual figureheads like Jusuf
Kalla or a number of popular bupatis and mayors. It will be interesting to see
whether the party will continue to receive so much attention if one day it ceases
to be as powerful as it is today.
7 Gauging uneven party
institutionalization
How strong are the others?
Internal conflict management is not working, the hunger for power overrides the
desire to sustain party ideology and the future of the party, and the internal con-
solidation of the parties is ineffective.1
(Ikrar Nusa Bhakti, as quoted in ‘Internal Conflict Sign of Parties’ Immaturity:
Experts,’ Jakarta Post, 2 May 2005)
Introduction
The analysis in the preceding four chapters has identified Golkar’s most import-
ant institutional strengths and weaknesses. Significantly, and unsurprisingly, the
party is not equally institutionalized in all four dimensions. Instead, the analysis
has produced a rather mixed picture, revealing remarkably diverging results in
the four dimensions. In order to contextualize the various findings appropriately,
it is now imperative to compare Golkar’s institutional assets and liabilities with
those of its electoral competitors. Only after such a comparative analysis will we
be able to answer the question of whether Golkar’s enduring strength can actu-
ally be explained as a result of uneven party institutionalization. Moreover, a
comparison of the institutional features of all major parties is necessary in order
to draw meaningful conclusions about the interplay between party institutional-
ization and party system institutionalization as well as the impact of this
interplay on Indonesia’s democratization process. These conclusions will be pre-
sented in Chapter 8.
First, however, we need to turn our attention to Golkar’s electoral rivals.
Since the beginning of the reformasi era, there has been no shortage of political
parties in Indonesia. In 1999, a total of 150 parties had registered with the Min-
istry of Justice in order to contest Indonesia’s first free elections in 40 years, but
only 48 of them were eventually allowed to run. Following the success of the
founding elections, new parties continued to mushroom all over the country. By
late 2002, the number of officially registered parties had reached 237. After a
multi-stage verification process, the KPU eventually declared 24 parties eligible
to participate in the 2004 elections.2
The sheer numbers, however, are misleading. The very fact that in both
152 Gauging uneven party institutionalization
elections the vast majority of self-proclaimed parties did not fulfil the eligibility
criteria indicates that most Indonesian parties are actually little more than what
Von Beyme (1997: 37) once described as ‘taxi parties.’3 In the context of this
book, these parties are irrelevant. Instead, the analysis in the following para-
graphs will focus on the institutionalization (or lack thereof) of those few parties
that acquired more than 5 per cent in either one or both of the two post-Suharto
elections.4 As we shall see, levels of institutionalization vary from party to party
and from dimension to dimension, but overall the institutionalization record of
most major parties is fairly weak. This weakness resulted in substantial losses
for all major parties in the 2004 election, thereby confirming the underlying
assumption of this book that Golkar’s enduring strength can indeed be explained
as a result of uneven party institutionalization.
The chapter will be divided into four parts, structured in accordance with the
four dimensions of Randall and Svåsand’s party institutionalization model.
Beginning with an analysis of systemness, the discussion will then move on to
examine issues related to decisional autonomy, before considering the parties’
sources of value infusion. It will finish with an in-depth look at levels of name
recognition and patterns of political communication.
Systemness
Beginning with the dimension of systemness, it is first important to recall that
Golkar’s institutionalization record here is fairly good although not as strong as
is often assumed. The lack of reliable formal institutions and the gradual erosion
of the party’s local bases have led to unprecedented organizational incoherence.
The findings of Chapter 3 have raised questions about the frequently heard
opinion that it is Golkar’s superiority in the organizational dimension that
mainly accounts for the party’s continued strength. If this assumption were true,
it would have to follow that the other parties must actually be extremely weakly
institutionalized in terms of systemness since otherwise Golkar could not enjoy
superiority with its merely moderate track record. The following section will
examine the other parties’ profiles in order to determine whether Golkar’s elect-
oral competitors are really so weak. The answer to this question is mainly in the
affirmative. With the partial exception of PKS, all major parties are, to varying
degrees, plagued by serious organizational problems including insufficiently
developed party apparatuses, personalistic leadership structures, lack of internal
democracy, widespread factionalism and inadequate access to financial
resources.
Problem 1: lack of territorial depth and inferior quality of party

functionaries
First, hardly any Indonesian party possesses an efficient nationwide party appar-
atus as yet. The problem is not immediately obvious because most parties have
at least formally established their presence all over the country. For example, all
Gauging uneven party institutionalization 153
the big parties have representative offices in all Indonesian provinces.5 Even at
district level the gap between Golkar and most of the other parties is in fact only
minimal, as can be seen by the fact that, during the election year 2004, most
parties claimed to have around 400 district branches (Tim Litbang Kompas
2004). Even the relatively new PD has apparently already succeeded in spread-
ing its network of branch offices over the entire archipelago. When it held its
first national congress in May 2005, representatives of 434 district chapters were
present.6
The naked figures do not tell the whole story, however. What defines organi-
zational strength at the local level is not so much the quantity of offices,7 which are
often deserted anyway, but rather the quality and prestige of the local party execu-
tives and their ability to communicate with the people at the grassroots. In this
regard, most parties still have a long way to go as recruitment strategies and train-
ing programmes are poorly developed.8 The notable exception is PKS, which in
the last few years has won numerous well-educated and committed new members
through its thoroughly planned, pengajian-based recruitment programme. PKS
may be the party with the fewest branch offices of the big seven, but its organi-
zational structure is, in contrast to many other parties, built on a solid basis. As
Furkon (2004: 206–8) has observed, PKS combines elements of a cadre party with
elements of a mass party, with the ultimate aim of becoming an open, yet
restrained mass party that can bring together elite leaders with a mass movement.
The lack of competent human resources was particularly evident in the run-
up to the 2004 elections when parties had to compose their lists of legislative
candidates. Many parties struggled to find suitable candidates in their own party
ranks. In fact, a great number of candidates for the national parliament and an
even larger number of candidates for the local parliaments did not even fulfil
basic medical or educational requirements prescribed in the election law when
they were originally proposed to the KPU. Consequently, parties had to with-
draw numerous candidates from their lists. In the end, the composition of the
legislative candidate lists reflected the superiority of Golkar, both in terms of
quantity as well as quality of candidates.
As Table 7.1 shows, Golkar could eventually nominate almost 100 candidates
more than its closest rival, the PDI-P. What is more significant, however, is the
fact that Golkar was also the party which had to withdraw the smallest number
of candidates. Other parties with a better-educated membership base like PAN,
PKS and PD followed suit, whereas the lists of PDI-P, PPP and PKB displayed
huge discrepancies between the number of proposed candidates and those who
were eventually accepted by the KPU. These figures illustrate the dramatic lack
of depth in the human resources reservoir of the latter three parties. Not surpris-
ingly then, it is exactly those three parties that have been most frequently
accused of a poor work ethic in parliament and a general lack of understanding
of basic legislative proceedings.9 One member of Golkar’s DPR fraction, for
example, complained that the other parties have recruited too many political
preman, whose lack of professionalism has significantly lowered the quality of
the parliament.10
Table 7.1 Numbers of DPR candidates for the 2004 elections
Party Originally submitted Eventually accepted Margin
Golkar 660 653 –7

PDI-P 615 555 –60
PKB 538 461 –77
PPP 628 495 –133
PD 477 439 –38
PKS 469 444 –25
PAN 550 511 –39
Source: Compiled from www.kpu.go.id (accessed 1 August 2004); ‘Para Caleg “Beken” Belum
Penuhi Daftar Kekayaan, KPU: Caleg Penuhi Syarat Tak Boleh Diganti,’ Pelita, 8 January 2004.
Where parties cannot recruit capable personnel, their long-term chances of

improving their political profile are fairly small. Consequently, their prospects
for electoral success are also severely hampered. The 2004 results confirm this
assumption as the three parties with the biggest discrepancies between proposed
and accepted candidates in the abovementioned list – PDI-P, PPP and PKB –
were the parties that suffered the highest losses in the election. However, as we
have seen in Chapters 3 and 5, there are also signs that Golkar’s formerly iron
grip on human resources is starting to loosen, at least on the local level where
smaller parties with comparatively few candidates have successfully focused
their campaigns on the appeal of selected individual candidates who, ironically,
are often former Golkar cadres.
Problem 2: personalistic party structures

The second problem is closely related to the first one. Parties without adequate
human resources to fill the lower ranks tend to depend almost entirely on an
almighty, often charismatic and populist leader. Where party leaders exercise
almost unrestrained power, rules and regulations are unlikely to become rou-
tinized because crucial institutions like the party constitution are often subject to
arbitrary alteration. In Indonesia, parties like PDI-P, PKB, PAN and, in a
slightly different form, PD,11 have long been dominated by individual leaders
who have not allowed internal party democracy to flourish. The concentration of
power in the hands of leaders like Megawati Sukarnoputri (PDI-P), Abdurrah-
man Wahid (PKB) or Amien Rais (PAN) was generally accepted in the early
days of the post-Suharto era when the three carried the hopes of the reformasi
movement on their shoulders, but dissatisfaction with their leadership grew after
the disappointing 2004 election results.
Following the poll, dissident party members tried to hold their leaders
accountable for the unsatisfactory electoral performances, but these attempts
have largely failed. Amien Rais was the only one who voluntarily relinquished
formal control of his party, but he still ensured continuing influence on PAN by
pushing through the election of a close confidant, businessman Soetrisno Bachir,
as new party chairman.12 At the same time, Amien also retained a rather infor-
mal yet influential position as chairman of the party’s Advisory Council (Majelis
Pertimbangan Partai, MPP).13 In contrast to Amien, Gus Dur and Megawati
have not yet expressed any willingness to step aside. On the contrary, despite
their parties’ decreasing popularity, both leaders have held on to their power and
denied any responsibility for the 2004 electoral backlash.
Interestingly, both Megawati and Gus Dur actually maintained their positions
with relative ease. Although dissenting party elites had tried hard to mobilize
support for their plans to challenge the leaders,14 neither Megawati nor Gus Dur
were in real danger of losing their posts as both are revered like deities at the
party grassroots.15 As Saiful Mujani (2005) explained in regards to the 2005
PDI-P congress, Megawati’s election could even be regarded as democratic
since nearly all local chapters did indeed support the chairwoman and there were
no significant protests against her from the party grassroots at the congress. Fur-
thermore, even though Megawati’s election did not exactly occur in accordance
with the original congress schedule, rules and regulations were in fact not bent
excessively. This was simply not necessary because PDI-P’s requirements for
the election of the party chairperson are more symbolic than substantial anyway.
According to Mujani (2005) they are basically ‘an expression of loyalty towards
Megawati.’
Compared to PDI-P, the situation in PKB was slightly more complicated,
mainly owing to the party’s organizational set-up which features a dualistic
leadership structure with a consultative board (Dewan Syuro) and an executive
board (Dewan Tanfidz). Since 2000 Abdurrahman Wahid has chaired the
almighty Dewan Syuro and in 2005 he was re-elected to this post by acclama-
tion. But despite the extensive powers enshrined in the position,16 the leadership
of the Dewan Tanfidz is also important to the party’s power structure and in
2005, the election for the Dewan Tanfidz chairman turned into a highly contro-
versial affair.
Wahid had endorsed the nomination of three candidates, but rejected the can-
didature of Saifullah Yusuf because of his involvement in the government.17 Sai-
fullah, however, enjoyed broad support from many influential kiai, which led to
serious tensions within PKB. Gus Dur’s idea of a compromise was to let Saiful-
lah run, but only under the condition that he relinquish his posts in the cabinet
and in NU’s youth wing Ansor. The organizing committee of the congress,
which was controlled by Gus Dur’s preferred candidate Muhaimin Iskandar,
immediately adopted this stipulation and proclaimed that candidates holding
government posts would be barred from contesting the election.18 In the end,
Saifullah withdrew his candidature and Muhaimin was elected as new chairman
of PKB’s executive board in the same way as Gus Dur had been elected, namely
by acclamation.
From the perspective of party institutionalization, the PDI-P and PKB con-
gresses were immensely instructive as they clearly illustrated the huge gap
between the power of individual actors and the weakness of institutions. In both
cases, rules and regulations were reduced to, as Randall and Svåsand (2002a)
had described it, ‘a meaningless sham’ as they only served to strengthen the
position of the party leaders. If, as in the case of PKB, the leaders perceived
their power to be under threat, they could easily bend or amend these regulations
at will. The disdain for fixed and reliable institutions was particularly striking
during the PKB congress, where Muhaimin’s controversial election led to ‘alle-
gations of manipulation and downright evasion of the party’s charter.’19 The
eventual result reaffirmed the overwhelming power of personalism and clien-
telism as Wahid succeeded in staffing the top organs of the party with close
confidants and family members.20
What is more significant, however, is the fact that the events at the congress
were not a singular incident, but rather a continuation of previous patterns of
conflicts between Abdurrahman Wahid and recalcitrant party executives. As
Abu Rokhmad (2005) pointed out, Wahid has always reacted emotionally rather
than procedurally to challenges to his authority, especially in mid-2001 when he
ordered the suspension of then-party chairman Matori Abdul Djalil,21 and in late
2004 when he fired Matori’s successor as party chairman, Alwi Shihab, and
secretary-general Saifullah Yusuf.
Problem 3: prevalence of opportunist factionalism and

patron–clientelism
The conflicts in PKB were prime examples of how personalistic parties attempt
to solve internal conflicts. In fact, the two conflicts in 2001 and 2004–5 followed
strikingly similar patterns. In both cases, Wahid fired those who dared to defy
him, who then refused to accept their dismissal. Challenging the legitimacy of
Wahid’s authority, both Matori in 2001 and Alwi and Saifullah in 2004–5 were
adamant in their insistence that it was them and not Wahid and his allies who
represented the ‘true’ PKB. The Matori episode, which had begun in mid-2001,
dragged on for about two years and eventually had to be settled in court as both
sides threatened to use the PKB label in the 2004 elections. Similarly, the row
between the Alwi/Saifullah camp on the one side and the Wahid/Muhaimin
camp on the other side also ended up in the Supreme Court where the Gus Dur
faction was, rather unsurprisingly, recognized as the legitimate representative of
PKB. But even after the verdict, tensions in the party further escalated when
some local party chapters refused to follow directions from the leadership board
in Jakarta. This defiance resulted in the closure of 40 branch offices between
2006 and 2007.22 Dismayed by the perpetuate infighting, Saifullah decided to
leave the party and joined PPP instead.23 Thus, in the end it seemed as if Abdur-
rahman Wahid’s grip on the party was still strong enough to stave off the chal-
lenge, but the quarrel had cast further shadow on the party’s ability to solve
internal disputes in a fair and transparent manner.
While factionalism is not necessarily inimical to party institutionalization, the
internal disputes within PKB certainly had a damaging impact on the party’s
prospects for institutionalization as they were not driven by any form of ideo-
logical polarization, but rather by heavily personalized issues of patronage and
clientelism. It is in fact very unlikely that Alwi and Saifullah would have chal-
lenged Gus Dur to the extent that they did in 2004–5, had they not had the
power of governmental office to back them up. Similarly, it is very unlikely that
the two dissidents would have enjoyed so much support from influential kiai if
these kiai did not believe that access to Alwi’s and Saifullah’s government
resources would be more beneficial for them than loyalty to an ageing and
increasingly unpopular party leader. The volatility of the conflict and the incapa-
bility of the party leadership to solve it by the use of widely accepted rules and
regulations thus revealed how weakly institutionalized PKB is.
PKB is not the only party that has experienced outbreaks of this kind of
patronage-induced factionalism. It is a widespread phenomenon that has hit
other parties, particularly PDI-P and PPP, but also, though in slightly different
forms, PAN and PKS. Arguably, PDI-P is the most straightforward case where
factional infighting has followed a fairly clear-cut pattern of patronage and
clientelism. After the party had been haunted by occasional outbreaks of faction-
alism throughout the post-New Order period, tensions escalated when in early
2005 critics of Megawati Sukarnoputri around leading party executive Arifin
Panigoro established the so-called ‘PDI-P Reform Movement’ (Gerakan Pem-
baruan PDI-P).24 However, their resistance to the re-election of Megawati at the
2005 PDI-P congress was hardly driven by genuine concerns for the reformist
credentials of the party. Rather, Arifin’s initiative appeared to be motivated pri-
marily by the belief that retaining Megawati as chairperson would bar him and
his cronies from access to lucrative government resources as the differences
between Megawati and the Yudhoyono administration seemed irreconcilable.
Thus, the stakes at the PDI-P congress were set in a very similar fashion to the
Golkar congress in late 2004, where then-party leader Akbar Tandjung was also
challenged by a power-hungry faction. In contrast to Golkar, however, the
power balance within PDI-P proved far more difficult to alter as Megawati, even
after two humiliating electoral defeats in 2004, commanded much more support
at the party grassroots than Akbar Tandjung ever did. In the end, her unabated
mass appeal combined with a few arbitrary ad hoc changes in the congress
schedule were enough to secure re-election by acclamation. Soon afterwards, the
ringleaders of the reform movement were dismissed from the party.25
Rifts within Indonesia’s oldest Islamic party, PPP, followed a very similar
pattern, even though there were at least two major differences that distinguished
the factionalism in PPP from the other parties. First, in contrast to PDI-P, PKB
or PAN, PPP was never dominated by a charismatic leader. From 1998 to 2007,
the party was under the leadership of Hamzah Haz, an experienced but uninspir-
ing career politician who had been active in politics since the early New Order
days. As party chairman, he never had as firm a grip on PPP as Megawati,
Amien and Gus Dur had on their parties, so that he had to fight much harder to
stave off the various challenges to his leadership. A second difference was the
fact that the most serious conflict in the party actually led to the establishment of
a reasonably successful rival party when the popular preacher Zainuddin MZ
defected from PPP and founded the Reform Star Party (Partai Bintang
Reformasi, PBR).26 In 2004, PBR contested the general elections and reached a
respectable 2.44 per cent of the vote.27
The loss of Zainuddin and his supporters was the most serious crack in PPP
in the post-Suharto period, but it was not the last. In early 2005, Hamzah faced
another challenge to his leadership, when a group around deputy party chairman
and cabinet minister Suryadharma Ali organized a huge informal gathering
(silaturahmi) which was attended by hundreds of party executives from all
administrative levels. At the end of the meeting, the participants demanded that
the party’s next national congress be brought forward from 2007 to 2005 in
order to allow the party more time to reform itself before the next election in
2009.28 For Hamzah and his followers, the meeting was a barely unveiled
attempt to undermine his leadership. ‘It [this informal gathering] was simply a
forum for some party executives to express their discontent with the party. It’s a
betrayal,’ said one top party cadre close to Hamzah, while another branded the
meeting ‘the worst tragedy ever in the party’s history.’29
The conflict quickly escalated into a political farce as the organizers of the
meeting were first dismissed from the party, but then, after their supporters had
started to occupy the PPP headquarters in Jakarta, readmitted again only two
months later. At the same time that the six ringleaders were readmitted to the
party, however, several local cadres who had attended the meeting were sus-
pended for their participation.30 In the end, Hamzah somehow won the power
struggle, but his leadership was severely weakened by the episode. When the
next national congress was eventually held (as originally scheduled, in early
2007), Hamzah declined to contest the chairmanship again. Not surprisingly, his
successor at the helm of the party became Suryadharma Ali, the man who had
earlier led the challenge against him and whose status as a minister still provided
the best access to patronage resources for the party.31
In contrast to PDI-P and PPP, the factional infighting in PAN and PKS
appeared to be slightly different. In PAN, for example, the frictions between a
secular faction around Faisal Basri and a more devoutly Islamic faction around
A. M. Fatwa, which haunted the party between 1999 and 2001, seemed to have
at least some ideological underpinnings as they revolved around the general reli-
gious orientation of the party and its degree of closeness to Muhammadiyah. In
the end, the secular intellectuals lost out, leading to the resignation of Faisal and
a few others (Soebekti et al. 2002). However, critical observers have argued that
the differences over PAN’s Islamicness were in fact superficial and that the real
driving force behind the conflict was the struggle to gain the favour of party
chairman Amien Rais.32
In PKS, a party whose success in the 2004 parliamentary election was closely
linked to its image as a coherent and professional party, factional tensions broke
out in the run-up to the presidential elections. While the party mainstream
around then-party leader Hidayat Nur Wahid wanted PKS to support Amien
Rais as a presidential candidate, a hardline faction around the party’s secretary-
general Anis Matta argued that PKS should put its weight behind Golkar-
nominee Wiranto who in their view had a much better chance of winning than
Amien. According to Fuller Collins and Fauzi (2005) ‘the split illustrate[d] the
tension in PKS between those who seek power in order to achieve Islamist goals
and younger idealists committed to Islam and democracy.’ In other words, the
factionalism in this party was driven neither by programmatic differences nor by
patronage politics. Instead, it revolved around different ideas about what kind of
strategy would best help PKS achieve its Islamist ambitions. It was therefore
markedly different from the instances of factionalism in the other parties and
had a less damaging impact on the party’s public profile.
Indeed, it should be emphasized once again that internal conflicts are not
always automatically damaging to a party. Rather, the impact of factionalism on
a party’s degree of systemness depends on the root causes of the conflict and the
applied conflict-resolution mechanisms. If, for example, internal frictions are
based on clearly defined ideological or programmatic differences they may actu-
ally result in the establishment of institutionalized factions, which in turn may
foster the aggregation, integration and representation of societal interests within
a party. If, however, they revolve exclusively around short-term, power-oriented
objectives, they are usually harmful to a party and its prospects for institutional-
ization. Clearly, in Indonesia the vast majority of factional conflicts do lack a
substantial ideological underpinning. With the exception of the conflict in PAN,
which was at least partly a struggle with an ideological undertone, none of the
factional infighting within PDI-P, PKB and PPP was actually driven by ideo-
logical differences. Instead, all the conflicts were essentially power struggles
between dominant party elites and ambitious rival groups.
Problem 4: lack of financial resources

Another severe problem, finally, is the fact that smaller parties are unable to
secure lasting access to sustainable financial resources. While Golkar maintains
good connections to the business community and PDI-P has exploited its posi-
tion as government party between 2001 and 2004, other parties still struggle to
open up effective channels of finance. Despite the fact that many big-business
conglomerates have started to diversify their political investments, the gap
between the financial resources available to Golkar and PDI-P on the one hand
and the other parties, on the other hand, is still immense.
Parties that cannot generate sufficient funds through donations struggle to
finance day-to-day activities and expensive election campaigns because other
financial resources are scarce. Membership fees are rarely paid and in some
cases even the monthly levies from elected party legislators are not strictly
enforced. As one observer has reported of PAN, the party originally set up a
monthly Rp.1,000 membership fee, but hardly anyone paid. Similarly, elected
DPR members were supposed to pay Rp.1 million per month to the central
board, but many legislators did not make this contribution.33 Others, who did pay
their fees, sometimes failed to comply with the regulations as they gave the
money directly to the chairman instead of the treasurer. Overall, Rizal concluded
that Indonesian parties still rely heavily on state resources.34
These resources, however, have always been limited and were even further
reduced in 2005 when the government cut state subsidies for parties drastically.
As Mietzner (2007) has shown, this policy change has had a massive impact on
many parties and, arguably, has further weakened their prospects for financial
sustainability, at least as far as legal channels are concerned. Since parties have
responded to the loss of money from subsidies by raising the monthly levies for
legislators, many members of parliament have apparently resorted to even more
corrupt practices than before, simply in order to be able to fulfil the demands of
their central boards (Mietzner 2007: 246). It seems clear, therefore, that a new
system of party finance is needed in order to address the dire financial situation
many parties are in. At this stage, only the biggest parties Golkar and PDI-P
seem to have access to sufficient resources to be competitive. To illustrate the
gap between the resources at hand for big-spending parties like Golkar and PDI-
P on the one hand and smaller parties on the other hand, a look at campaign
expenditures during the 2004 election is instructive (see Table 7.2).
Final remarks on systemness

This section has painted a fairly gloomy picture of party institutionalization in
Indonesia. Indeed, most Indonesian parties are still very weakly institutionalized
in the dimension of systemness. On paper, they may possess nationwide infra-
structures, but often local party representatives in the regions lack either the
social prestige or the intellectual qualifications to successfully engage in politics.
Hence, they are incapable of popularizing the party by communicating with the
local population. As far as party structures are concerned, many parties are
dominated by charismatic leaders who do not tolerate dissent within their own
rank and file. As a result, internal democracy is poorly developed and written
rules and regulations are more or less meaningless. The dominance of individual
leaders and the lack of opportunities for other ambitious party elites to achieve
top positions in the party hierarchy have led to widespread dissatisfaction,
resulting in factionalism, splits and defections. Significantly, in most parties the
various groupings appear to be in a permanent process of constituting, falling
apart and re-constituting. Indeed, defections from factional groupings are
Table 7.2 Campaign expenditures of the major parties during the 2004 election
Party Campaign expenditures (in billion Rp.)
Golkar 108.28
PDI-P 108.27
PKB 8.08
PPP n.a.
PD 8.95
PKS 29.36
PAN 25.75
Source: Adapted from IFES (2004d: 12).

equally frequent as new recruitments since none of the various factions pos-
sesses any meaningful ideological foundation that could provide a basis for per-
manency. Although party dissidents are always quick to call themselves
‘reformers,’ they have hardly ever drafted a programmatic reform platform on
the basis of which they could legitimately challenge the dominant party elites.
Instead, their claim to power is usually motivated by little more than perceived
shifts in the balance of power between various contending patronage networks.
The only partial exception to this pattern is PKS. This party has put a lot of
effort into developing its organizational apparatus through small cells based on
religious Qu’ran reading groups. At this point PKS is still fairly small and its
infrastructure does not yet cover the entire archipelago, but in contrast to most
other parties, it does seem to have the potential to reach high levels of institu-
tionalization. Whether it can use this potential will depend on its ability to main-
tain its internal coherence (the 2004 episode caused fairly little damage and the
party still appears comparatively solid) and the high professional standard of its
mostly well-educated cadres. In its relatively short life span, PKS has already
achieved a remarkable level of systemness, but it remains to be seen if the party
can maintain this strength should it grow into a sizeable mass party.
Decisional autonomy
Some of the issues discussed in the previous section are closely related to ques-
tions of decisional autonomy. The failure to generate sustainable financial
resources, in particular, is almost certain to affect a party’s level of decisional
autonomy because it increases the likelihood that parties will resort to corrupt
practices (Mietzner 2007). In fact, nearly all the problems discussed in this
regard in Chapter 4 are also relevant for parties other than Golkar. Corruption is
a problem endemic to Indonesian party politics in general, and Golkar is by no
means the only party alleged to have been involved in corrupt practices (ICW
2005). But, given the lack of transparency in parliament, it is basically imposs-
ible to determine which party is the worst offender. The only parties whose
reputations have not yet been tainted by major corruption scandals are PKS and
PD. Maintaining this record, however, will be an uphill task for these two
parties. If the development of other parties which started as ‘reformist’ parties in
1998 is anything to go by, prospects are not exactly good.
Another problem related to the issues discussed in the preceding section is the
prevalence of personalistic party structures. As a matter of fact, excessive person-
alism is harmful to institutionalization if the party as a collective actor loses its
decisional autonomy at the expense of small oligarchic elites or an individual
leader. The problem has already been emphasized in regard to Golkar, and it is
hardly surprising that it is even more pronounced in parties with more personalis-
tic organizational structures than Golkar. Indeed, in parties like PKB, PDI-P and,
to a lesser extent, after Amien Rais’s withdrawal from active politics, PAN,
important policy or personnel decisions are not always made in accordance with
the relevant party institutions, but rather by a handful of selected confidants of an
almighty party leader. PDI-P is particularly notorious in this regard as Megawati
and her clan around husband and party functionary Taufik Kiemas continue to
exert immeasurable power at the top of the party. Even PKS, a party that likes to
portray itself as progressive and member-friendly (peduli, caring), has been
accused of concentrating power in the hands of a few while excluding its member-
ship base from important decision-making processes (Wanandi 2007). Ultimately,
decisional autonomy in Indonesian parties does not rest with the party and its
members, but with oligarchic elites at the top. Here, the concept of decisional
autonomy as conceptualized by Randall and Svåsand (2002a) is, as already indi-
cated in Chapter 4, in real need of modification in order to accommodate cases
where institutionalization of decisional autonomy is not so much undermined by
external actors, but rather by individuals who are in fact members of the party.
Apart from the above-mentioned issues, there are more ‘traditional’ problems
that affect party institutionalization in the dimension of decisional autonomy. In
particular, the issue of overlapping organizational structures between parties and
external sponsoring organizations is of great concern, especially with PKB and
PAN, which maintain close relationships with Islamic mass organizations. But
other parties are not immune from external interference, as the brief example of
the military will show.
Parties and interference from external actors: the military

Although there are now no formal organizational links between the TNI and any
of the big parties, and although the formal political role of the armed forces has
been drastically reduced in the post-Suharto era, its influence on politics remains
strong, especially in areas that were until recently home to communal or sepa-
ratist conflict (Kingsbury 2003). As far as interference in party politics is con-
cerned, there is little evidence in terms of outright intervention, but as described
in Chapter 4, the military continues to find ways to put pressure on party politi-
cians, especially at the local level where it participates in the Muspida. More-
over, it is widely believed that until recently the military did exert considerable
influence on political parties during local elections, at least as long as these elec-
tions were conducted indirectly in local parliaments.
It is, however, significant to note that where it did get involved the TNI did
not give unconditional support to its former ally Golkar. Rather, as Honna
(2006) has shown in an interesting comparison of the military’s role in guberna-
torial elections in three Javanese provinces, it decided on a case-to-case basis
which party to support and which one to undermine. In the run-up to the 2003
West Java governor election, for instance, pressure from the local military com-
mander forced PDI-P to withdraw its original contender and replace him with a
candidate more favourable to the military. In East Java, on the other hand, a
PDI-P candidate won the governor election thanks to the interference of the
local TNI command, which resented the election favourite who had been nomi-
nated by a PKB-Golkar coalition. In Central Java, finally, the military took sides
in a bitter internal conflict in PDI-P and thus helped pave the way for the victory
of the Megawati-backed candidate Mardiyanto, who, just like the governor-elect
of East Java Imam Utomo, happened to be a former military commander. While
all three cases demonstrated the various parties’ susceptibility to external inter-
ference, it should be stressed that the main reason for this weakness is the lack
of systemness as most parties do not have the organizational solidity needed to
fend off these attempts at interference from the military. Thus, the limitations in
decisional autonomy can be linked directly to the weak institutionalization in the
dimension of systemness.
Parties and interference from external actors: the case of

Muhammadiyah and PAN
While the armed forces can compromise the decisional autonomy of any given
party, social mass organizations like NU and Muhammadiyah are more closely
tied to particular parties, namely PKB and PAN. Both parties seem to be border-
line cases in regards to decisional autonomy, with PAN probably more
independent than its traditionalist counterpart. PAN was founded in 1998 by
former Muhammadiyah chairman Amien Rais with the objective of establishing
a modern, pluralistic party that should not exist entirely at the mercy of Muham-
madiyah. In the run-up to the 1999 election, Amien walked a tightrope between
appealing to his loyal modernist Muslim constituency and to a newly emerging
reformist, but not necessarily Islamic constituency attracted to PAN’s progres-
sive image (Ghazali 2000: 188). As it turned out, Amien was unable to accom-
modate the interests of both groups. In the 1999 election, PAN only reached a
disappointing 7.12 per cent and soon afterwards, internal infighting between pro-
ponents of a pluralistic and a more upfront modernist Muslim approach broke
out. As the latter won the battle for influence, PAN tied its fate increasingly
closer to Muhammadiyah. Having alienated many of its original supporters, the
party has now achieved exactly what it tried to avoid in the beginning, namely to
be perceived as little more than a political vehicle for ambitious Muhammadiyah
people.35
Yet, while the relations between the party and its supporting mass organi-
zation are undeniably close, so far there is little evidence that the party’s actual
decisional autonomy is compromised by this close relationship. According to
Randall and Svåsand’s conceptualization of autonomy as a dimension of party
institutionalization, close links between parties and social movements do not
necessarily compromise a party’s autonomy as long as the actual power to make
political decisions autonomously rests entirely in the hands of the party’s central
leadership board. A look at PAN’s central board reveals that the highest party
offices are in fact not exclusively occupied by Muhammadiyah officials.36 Tech-
nically at least, the party is indeed independent. On the other hand, the party’s
mere existence still relies heavily on electoral support from Muhammadiyah
members and supporters so that it seems almost inconceivable to think of PAN
without Muhammadiyah.37 Therefore, it seems rather difficult to classify PAN in
the dimension of decisional autonomy. On paper, autonomy is guaranteed, but in
practice the party cannot afford to make decisions against the interests of
Muhammadiyah.
Parties and interference from external actors: the case of Nahdlatul

Ulama and PKB
While PAN appears to be in a somewhat grey area, PKB is a party whose deci-
sional autonomy is indeed severely restricted. This is not only because of its
close relationship with Nahdlatul Ulama, but also because of its dependence on
its eccentric founder Abdurrahman Wahid. When PKB was established in 1998,
it was widely regarded as the political voice of NU. Despite Gus Dur’s frequent
rhetoric about a secular party, most of the newly appointed party cadres per-
ceived their party to be the vehicle for the interests of NU:
Let Gus Dur talk about nationalism. He is the paramount politician, he has
to think strategically. But the reality is here on the ground. Look at the
party. The leaders are NU, the structures are NU, the procedures are NU,
even the jokes are NU. There is no doubt that this is an NU party.
(Ma’ruf Amin, as quoted in Mietzner 2004: 232)
The influence of NU in PKB was manifest from the beginning in the party’s
organizational structure and in the selection of personnel for the executive and
consultative boards (Choirie 2002: 221). Party founder and ex-NU chairman
Abdurrahman Wahid has been in charge of the almighty Dewan Syuro for most
of the time since the party was established,38 and the majority of other positions
of power have been dominated by NU-affiliated kiai. Nevertheless, the relations
between PKB and NU have not always been as smooth as Wahid may have
intended them to be when he founded the party. In fact, PKB has grown increas-
ingly independent of NU in recent years, but it has to be noted that this process
was not initiated by PKB officials, but rather by the NU leadership. Under its
chairman Hasyim Muzadi, NU has indeed gradually begun to dissociate itself
from PKB. This led to growing tensions between Wahid and Hasyim, especially
after Hasyim refused to support Gus Dur during the latter’s fight against his
presidential impeachment in mid-2001. In the lead-up to the 2004 elections, the
gap widened when Hasyim did not issue an edict calling on NU members to vote
for PKB.
The tensions eventually had a direct impact on the debate over PKB’s
nominee for the presidential election in 2004. As Wahid insisted on his own
nomination despite his poor health, the PKB leadership had its hands tied when
the big parties Golkar and PDI-P began their search for suitable vice-presidential
candidates from smaller parties. While leading NU officials preferred the nomi-
nation of an independent vice-presidential candidate instead of Wahid as a presi-
dential candidate, the ailing ex-president pressured his party to continue with his
own nomination.39 In the end Wahid’s candidature was annulled by the KPU due
to his poor health, and PKB decided to nominate Wahid’s younger brother, the
relatively unknown Solahuddin Wahid, as running mate for Golkar candidate
Wiranto. Hasyim Muzadi, meanwhile, ran as vice-presidential candidate for
Megawati Sukarnoputri.
In many ways, the episode was a political farce as PKB was basically held
hostage by its eccentric founder. More importantly, however, the episode
revealed that PKB as a party was actually far less important to the political
dynamics of the presidential election than NU itself. As PKB stubbornly insisted
on nominating Gus Dur, the big parties PDI-P and Golkar who were in search of
vice-presidential candidates for their own presidential hopefuls only half-
heartedly approached the PKB leadership. Instead, they directly contacted NU
leader Hasyim Muzadi and asked him to join Megawati or Wiranto
respectively.40 The manoeuvre and especially Hasyim’s eventual acceptance of
Megawati’s offer angered Gus Dur and his followers in PKB, further deepening
the split between the party and its supporting organization. When the presiden-
tial elections were eventually held, Gus Dur demonstratively refused to support
the Megawati–Hasyim pairing, while cautiously giving his blessing to Wiranto
and Solahuddin Wahid.
Final remarks on decisional autonomy

PKB may be an exceptional case because the party is dependent not only on an
external organization, but also on the arbitrary goodwill of an often irrational
individual. But despite the exceptionality of this particular case, it can be con-
cluded that most parties are weakly institutionalized in the dimension of deci-
sional autonomy. For instance, with the exception of PKS and PD, all parties
have been restricted in their decisional autonomy by the persuasive power of
money. The various corruption scandals that have rocked regional parliaments
and governments usually involved politicians from a broad range of parties. PKS
and PD have so far managed to remain relatively aloof from this entrenched cor-
ruption, but it remains to be seen how long its legislators will be able to resist
the temptations that come with the power of office.
Moreover, most parties, especially those with strong leaders like PDI-P, PKB
and, until recently, PAN, have weakly developed organizational autonomy as
crucial strategic decisions are usually made by dominant elites at the level of the
top leadership. In addition to these problems, the military always represents a
latent threat to decisional autonomy, especially on the local level where it con-
tinues to exert immense pressure on local party politicians. Finally, two parties
are further limited in their decisional autonomy by their relationship with reli-
gious mass organizations. PKB and PAN recruit a lot of personnel from NU and
Muhammadiyah respectively and can therefore not afford to make decisions
against the will of their sponsor organizations. PKB in particular will face an
uphill task should it wish to emancipate itself from Nahdlatul Ulama.
Value infusion
Where parties are closely affiliated with social movements, it is fair to expect
that they represent certain values, namely those which are associated with these
movements. Therefore, a questionable record in the dimension of decisional
autonomy may very well go hand in hand with a high degree of value infusion.
But as the discussion in Chapter 5 has already shown, conclusions about value
infusion need to be drawn very cautiously as it is often difficult to distinguish
between genuine values and purely populist mass appeal.
When Indonesia began its democratization process in 1998, the country had
endured more than three decades of authoritarian rule under a president whose
openly declared goal it was to eradicate the influence of political or religious
ideologies which he perceived as divisive. Golkar was an archetypical product
of this era, developed to serve the state without any kind of ideological trade-
mark identity except for the New Order mantra of pancasila. The lack of polit-
ical competition during Suharto’s authoritarian regime made it essentially
pointless for Golkar to craft a value-based ideology as the machinations of the
system ensured that there was no need to actually woo voters and convince them
with sophisticated political ideas.
After the end of the New Order, however, things changed. As restrictions on
the formation of new parties were lifted, Indonesia seemed destined for a revival
of the ideological fervour that had dominated the party system before the New
Order. Even though the ban on communism has remained in place in the post-
Suharto period, many of the parties that were established in the heady days of
1998–9 seemed indeed to be more or less legitimate descendants of the old
parties of the 1950s. As Tan (2004) observed, ‘Indonesia’s parties are, in effect,
older than they appear to be.’ Yet, as this section will make clear, this claim is
only partly true. While the aliran structures that once provided the political and
religious bases for the emergence of parties like PNI, NU or Masyumi may not
yet be entirely defunct, their ability to shape allegiances between parties and
voters in the reformasi era has somewhat faded as electoral choices seem to be
determined more often on the basis of psychological factors, especially people’s
emotional attachment to national or local leaders.
Hybrid parties: value infusion between personalism and rootedness

The prevalence of personalism and clientelism is a common phenomenon all
over the world, especially in many newly democratizing countries. Often, it is
one of the major reasons for the weak institutionalization of political parties
(Mainwaring and Torcal 2005: 18), even though it should be emphasized that
personalism is not always inimical to party institutionalization. Under certain
auspicious circumstances, there is actually potential for institutionalization, at
least if a party can manage to combine the appeal of its leader with supporting
ideological factors based on religious, regional or socio-economic cleavages.41
In Indonesia, there are indeed a few parties that potentially fall into this
hybrid category. Parties like PDI-P, PKB and PAN have long been dominated
by their charismatic founders Megawati Sukarnoputri, Abdurrahman Wahid and
Amien Rais, who have not only enjoyed almost unlimited power within their
parties but whose charismatic appearance has also overwhelmingly shaped the
public image of their respective parties. At the same time, however, these three
parties also seem to have relatively strong roots in certain societal milieux.
Accordingly, many people regard them, to varying degrees, as successor organi-
zations to the respective parties of the 1950s, namely PNI, NU and Masyumi
(Baswedan 2004b, Tan 2004, King 2003, Suryadinata 2002, Ufen 2006). Indeed,
the socio-cultural and socio-economic profiles of their constituencies are
startlingly similar to those of their spiritual predecessors (King 2003: 121). More
precisely, PDI-P and PKB supporters are overwhelmingly concentrated in the
rural areas of Java where levels of formal education and material wealth are low
whereas PAN’s strongholds are primarily in Sumatra and among the wealthier,
better-educated classes of Java’s urban centres (LP3ES 2004, King 2003:
150–8). The combination of charismatic leaders and strong social roots has
helped PKB and PAN to maintain reasonably stable support bases in both post-
Suharto elections. In fact, the two parties achieved very similar results in both
elections, not only on the national, but also on the provincial level.42 PDI-P, on
the other hand, lost massively in 2004, but nonetheless it could be argued that
the party’s core constituency seems to remain relatively stable as the 1999
results did not reflect the party’s real strength.43
Non-hybrid parties: how PPP, PD and PKS attract supporters

Yet, not all parties fit into this cluster. A party with a different kind of historical
lineage, for example, is PPP. Established in the early New Order days as an arti-
ficial amalgam of traditionalist and modernist Islamic parties, the party has
something like a split personality and consequently lacks a clearly defined con-
stituency.44 Of course, the party is based upon Islam as its core value, but apart
from symbolic gestures like Hamzah Haz’s much-publicized solidarity with
Islamist terror suspect Abu Bakar Ba’asyir or the former chairman’s controver-
sial role in the polygamy debate in 2006, PPP has given fairly little substance to
its Islamic identity in recent years. Moreover, the party also suffers from the fact
that, as a legacy of the New Order, it has failed to produce a strong and charis-
matic leader who could convey the party’s Islamic message more forcefully than
long-term chairman Hamzah Haz or his successor Suryadharma Ali. While it
may be too early to judge Ali’s performance, Hamzah certainly did not match
the appeal of the likes of Megawati, Amien or Gus Dur.
Someone whose charisma could easily outdo that of the above-mentioned
three leaders is Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono (SBY). Although SBY’s charisma
is arguably more situational than pure,45 in 2004 it was still sufficient to help the
relatively new PD win a widely unexpected 7 per cent in the legislative election.
SBY’s decision to sponsor the formation of PD in 2001 was one of the most
blatant attempts to build a party which relies almost entirely on the charismatic
appeal of a single individual, even though the former general was actually never
actively involved in the party’s day-to-day affairs.46 Following SBY’s ascen-
dance to the highest office, PD has been able to ‘bandwagon’ on the president’s
popularity and to solidify its position in many Indonesians’ minds. According to
regular surveys conducted by the Indonesian Survey Institute, the party averaged
popularity rates of around 16 per cent between April 2004 and March 2007
(Lembaga Survei Indonesia 2007), making it a serious contender for the 2009
election.
The only party to rival PD’s result in 2004 was the Islamist PKS. This party,
however, built its success on a completely different strategy. While its chairman
at the time of the election, Hidayat Nur Wahid, was certainly very popular,47
PKS never attempted to exploit populist sentiment, but rather concentrated on
disseminating a genuine political programme based on religious and political
values. With its grassroots-oriented approach, PKS seems to have lifted Islamic
politics in Indonesia into a new dimension. The party relies neither on the sup-
portive power of affiliated mass organizations nor on nostalgic sentiments about
labels like traditionalism or modernism. Instead, PKS promotes its own brand of
Islam which is based on its self-perception as a dakwah48 party and a strategy to
recruit new members primarily through small cells of pengajian groups (Furkon
2004). This innovative approach to religion and politics, along with the overall
resurgence of the Islamic faith not only in Indonesia but also globally, has won
PKS many supporters. Thus, the party appears to have emerged at the right time
in the right place. As Fox (2005) wrote in his address to a seminar on PKS in
July 2005:
Islam is in one of its greatest creative periods and Indonesia is a focal point
for this creativity. I would hope PKS is able to call on the full spectrum of
this creativity in formulating viable ideas on governance within an Islamic
context. PKS has the potential to provide a model for the future.
(Fox 2005)
Interestingly, however, in the election campaign of 2004 the party avoided too
open a promotion of religious issues in favour of a more broadly acceptable
campaign opposing corruption, moral decadence and dishonesty in politics. In
many ways, this strategy demonstrated how remarkably adept PKS leaders were
at reading the public mood. In a survey published just two weeks before the
elections, ‘a party’s honesty and morality’ was named as the most important
consideration for voters (IFES 2004c).49 Of those who intended to vote for PKS,
58 per cent said that honesty and integrity are important attributes for a party.
Some observers, however, have criticized this tactic, arguing that the party
itself was not being honest as it was hiding its real intentions from the public.
Yet, what exactly these intentions are remains unclear. Critics of the party of
course do not tire of accusing PKS leaders of striving for the reintroduction of
the Jakarta Charter, which would effectively pave the way for Indonesia to
become an Islamic state. But senior party figures have repeatedly dismissed
these accusations. According to former party chairman Hidayat Nur Wahid
(2005: 4), for example, ‘PKS promotes the adoption of the “Medina Charter”
instead of the Jakarta Charter.’50
Clearly, Islam is a defining feature of the party. In fact, one may argue that
PKS is the only big party for which Islam is not just a label but a real value. As
party executive Untung Wahono said, ‘Islam is the spirit of the party.’51 At the
same time, however, the party faces increasingly difficult challenges now that it
is involved in top-level power politics. How problematic it can be to maintain
the unblemished image of a purist Islamic party has already been shown by a
number of local elections where PKS nominated or supported candidates whose
track records were not exactly in accordance with the party’s otherwise strict
guidelines on religious piety (examples include the pilkada in Jakarta, Bengkulu,
Papua and South Sulawesi).52 Only time will tell how the party will manage this
balancing act between visionary idealism and opportunistic pragmatism.
Based on the characteristics described in this paragraph, the constituencies of
Indonesia’s biggest parties can be displayed – in simplified form – in a matrix
(see Table 7.3).
Is there a causal connection between social background and voting

behaviour?
The matrix gives interesting insights into the socio-cultural and socio-economic
structure of the major parties’ constituencies, but it does not explain why exactly
people from certain backgrounds vote for certain parties. Proponents of old-
established aliran approaches would argue that it is the social milieu itself that
determines electoral behaviour. In the absence of parties which clearly articulate
convincing policy platforms people decide about their electoral preferences in
accordance with their understanding of deeply rooted political traditions, which
were carved into their political consciousness back in the 1950s. For example, a
Table 7.3 Electoral constituencies of major parties
Party Charismatic Constituency

leader
Islam/secular Java/non-Java Urban/rural Class*
Golkar No Both Non-Java Rural Lower class

PDI-P Yes Secular Java Rural Lower class
PKB Yes Traditionalist Islam Java Rural Lower class
PPP No Traditionalist and
modernist Islam Both Rural Lower class
PD Yes Secular Both Urban Middle class
PKS No ‘New’ Islam Both Urban Middle class
PAN Yes Modernist Islam Both Urban Middle class
Note
*Class is determined on the basis of educational standards and household incomes.
becak driver from a small town in Central Java will vote for PDI-P because he
naturally dislikes Islamic parties and perceives PDI-P as the party that will fight
for the wong cilik (little people). Similarly, a poor illiterate peasant from East
Java will vote for PKB simply because he believes that this party represents the
interests of his particular social community. And a well-educated devout
Muslim from West Sumatra will vote for PAN because this is the party that he
will probably associate with the interests of Muhammadiyah and the wider mod-
ernist community.
Critics of the aliran approach do not dispute that sociological factors have an
impact on party affiliation and voting behaviour. Neither do they dispute that
there is significant overlap between the contemporary party system and that of
the 1950s. However, they challenge the notion that present-day electoral behavi-
our and the evolution of the post-Suharto party system are predominantly based
on the prevalence of frozen aliran structures. Rather, they contend that religious
affiliations and other social cleavages are only secondary factors in the determi-
nation of voting preferences. In particular, they debunk the myth that aliran
structures are too inflexible to allow, for example, a devout Muslim (santri) to
vote for a secular party. As Liddle and Mujani (2000: 41) wrote in their highly
influential paper about the 1999 elections, ‘[I]t is true that santri tended to vote
for santri parties and non-santri for non-santri parties, but the relationship is not
nearly as strong as the conventional wisdom, held for decades, would have us
believe.’
According to Liddle and Mujani, it is not religious or regional sentiment
created by old, established cleavage structures but rather emotional attachment
to national leaders that provides the strongest incentive for people to vote for
certain parties. The authors substantiate their argument with extensive survey
data, concluding that ‘Indonesian voters are strongly attached to national party
leaders. This attachment appears to be a principal reason for their choice of
party, more important than any of the other psychological or sociological
factors, including party identification’ (Liddle and Mujani 2000: 33).53
The 2004 election results seem to have strengthened Liddle and Mujani’s
argument, but the ultimate solution in this debate between aliran and personalis-
tic approaches will only be determined after leaders like Megawati, Gus Dur and
Amien Rais will have left the political stage. If Liddle and Mujani are correct
with their leadership thesis, PDI-P, PKB and PAN will then lose their main
sources of value infusion and suffer serious electoral consequences unless they
are taken over by equally charismatic leaders. In the long term, these parties
would be degraded to an increasingly marginal role in the party system, espe-
cially if new parties with more persuasive values or personalities emerge in their
familiar social environment. The recent rise of parties like PD (in the milieu of
PDI-P) and PKS (in the milieu of PAN) may be harbingers of things to come. If,
however, the proponents of the aliran school are to be believed, then PDI-P,
PKB and PAN should outlive their founders and continue to represent the inter-
ests of certain socio-cultural and socio-economic groups long after their
founders have disappeared from active politics.
Final remarks on value infusion
So far, Amien Rais has been the only one who has agreed to gradually relinquish
power in his party. By arranging an orderly leadership succession Amien has
indeed given PAN a good chance to follow the process described at the begin-
ning of this section, namely to combine personalistic appeal with supporting
ideological factors in order to eventually become ‘valuable in and of itself’
(Panebianco 1988: 53). PDI-P and PKB, on the other hand, have not yet shown
any signs of contemplating a future without their respective leaders. Similarly,
PD appears destined to remain utterly dependent on the appeal of its figurehead
Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono. In view of the overall trend towards personalism
in the wake of direct presidential, gubernatorial and bupati elections, the short-
term future of these parties may look bright. PD, in particular, continues to ride
high on the wave of SBY’s popularity. But personal charisma is usually an
ephemeral asset and not an enduring value. As a matter of fact, the appeal of
charismatic leaders often evaporates just as fast as it emerged. While for PDI-P,
PKB and PAN the final verdict on their main source of value infusion (and
hence on their degree of institutionalization) may still be out, PD can certainly
be labelled as weakly institutionalized in this dimension. And as long as the
party continues to focus its entire appeal on SBY’s personality, the prospects for
improvement appear bleak.
A more positive scenario beckons for PKS. Arguably, the party which in
1999 still failed to pass the electoral threshold of then 2 per cent is the only
Indonesian party that has put a real effort into developing its programmatic
profile. As a result, it has emerged as a new form of Islamic party, which
appears much more committed to linking its religious identity with political
issues than for example PAN and PKB. One obvious formal indicator is that
PKS firmly states Islam as its core ideology,54 whereas PAN and PKB leaders
have decided to base their parties on pancasila rather than Islam. The only other
straightforwardly Islamic party is PPP, but apart from the kabah in the respec-
tive party logos PPP and PKS have little in common. As PPP relies primarily on
an image it inherited from its past, the party seems destined to disappear from
the political map unless it rejuvenates both its personnel and its public image.55
The success of PKS in 2004 indicated that Islamic party politics in Indonesia
may be heading in a new direction. In the immediate aftermath of the fall of
Suharto, numerous new Islamic parties were founded, but few if any (apart from
PKS, then still called PK) had the courage to develop a sophisticated long-term
strategy. This was even more remarkable in view of the fact that after years of
depoliticization, the transition from New Order authoritarianism to a more
democratic system offered an unprecedented chance to redefine Islam as a polit-
ical force. Instead of looking towards the future, however, many new parties
tried to win votes by revitalizing the past. PKS dared to be different and in 2004
reaped the benefits.
For its supporters, the party is now in a good position to fill the ideological
void that has existed on the Islamic side of Indonesian politics ever since
Masyumi was banned in 1960. But Islamic politics in Indonesia is full of pitfalls
and the aggressive pursuit of a religious agenda carries immense risks. In 2004,
PKS leaders appeared to be aware of these pitfalls when they preferred to
portray the party as an anti-corruption force rather than a staunchly Islamic
party. But after the election, they quickly abandoned this stance and soon made
headlines with their purist policies in parliament.56 At the same time, however,
the party also demonstrated that it is not entirely immune to the temptations of
power politics, as was evident, for example, in a number of pilkada. Both the
renewed puritanism in parliament and the unprecedented opportunism in elect-
oral politics have alienated certain segments of the party’s constituency. As the
party struggled to find the middle ground and reshape its image, it slumped in
the opinion polls (Lembaga Survei Indonesia 2006, 2007).57 In early 2007,
figures were on the rise again, but it remains to be seen how the party will posi-
tion itself in the run-up to the 2009 election.
Reification
The huge popularity of national leaders discussed in the previous section raises
questions about the ability of parties to establish themselves in the long term as
household names in Indonesian politics. Where leaders are more popular than
parties, public awareness of parties may be low and in fact be dependent on the
name recognition of the individual leaders. Yet, as Janda (1980) has argued, a
political party can only become institutionalized if it is reified in the people’s
mind as an organization regardless of its current leader. Taken at face value, this
requirement is impossible to fulfil for most Indonesian parties, simply because
they are still very young organizations that have not yet or only just experienced
a change of leadership. Nonetheless, this section will attempt to draw a few pre-
liminary conclusions and try to determine to what extent the big parties have
already become reified after the first decade of reformasi. In order to do that, the
analysis will mainly rely on extensive survey data and an evaluation of media
coverage during the 2004 election year. As we shall see, Indonesia’s parties are
very unevenly institutionalized in this dimension, with PDI-P seemingly solidly
reified in the people’s mind, while at the other end of the spectrum PKS is still
struggling to establish itself as a household name in Indonesian politics.
Reification and name recognition

According to Randall and Svåsand (2002a: 23), party reification is first and fore-
most ‘a function of longevity.’ Most of Indonesia’s parties, however, are not
very old yet, even though the aforementioned similarities to certain parties of the
1950s may suggest otherwise. Despite similarities in appearance, it is important
to note in the context of reification that none of the big parties of the 1950s was
actually revived in its original form. The probable reason for the reluctance to
establish more direct links to Indonesia’s first period of parliamentary demo-
cracy appears to be the lasting impact of more than 40 years of anti-party propa-
ganda during the Guided Democracy and New Order periods. In view of this
‘legacy of anti-party attitudes’ (Tan 2002: 490) none of the major leaders who
spearheaded the reformasi movement in 1998 was willing to take the risk of
claiming to reconstitute parties like PNI, NU or Masyumi.58 Thus, it is hardly
surprising that today Indonesia’s oldest parties are those that were created
during the Suharto years, namely Golkar, PPP and, arguably, PDI-P.59 All other
major parties are genuine products of the reformasi era, including PKB, PAN
and PKS (all of which were set up in the immediate aftermath of Suharto’s res-
ignation in 1998),60 as well as PD, which was founded as recently as 2001 (see
Table 7.4).
In view of the fact that most parties are relatively new organizations, they can
hardly be expected to be institutionalized in the dimension of reification. And
indeed, this hypothesis can easily be confirmed by simply looking at the levels
of name recognition for individual parties. Thanks to the ever-improving quality
of surveys and polling institutions in Indonesia, public awareness of political
parties is now easy to measure. IFES, for example, has regularly asked Indone-
sians about their awareness of political parties and the results clearly show how
unevenly institutionalized Indonesian parties are in this regard. As Table 7.5
illustrates, only Golkar and PDI-P are already household names in Indonesia.
The figures depicted in Table 7.5 have three major implications. First, they
Table 7.4 Foundation dates of major parties
Party Date of establishment Date of official declaration
Golkar 20 October 1964 8 March 1999

PDI-P 1 February 1999 14 February 1999
PKB 23 July 1998 23 July 1998
PPP 5 January 1973 5 January 1973
PD 9 September 2001 17 October 2002
PKS 20 April 2002 20 April 2003
PAN 23 August 1998 23 August 1998
Source: Compiled from Tim Litbang Kompas (2004a).
Table 7.5 Name recognition of parties, 1999–2005 (in per cent)
Party 1999, pre-election 1999, post-election 2001 2003 2005 Average
Golkar 86 92 81 88 92 88
PDI-P 83 99 83 84 90 88
PKB 60 82 60 58 61 64
PPP 84 76 52 68 67 69
PD – – – – 79 79
PKS 22 22 n.a. 17 48 27
PAN 67 84 51 57 64 65
Source: Compiled from IFES, various surveys.

largely confirm that reification is indeed first and foremost a question of
longevity. Over a period of six years, Golkar and PDI-P have had by far the
highest average levels of name recognition, followed by the other New Order
survivor PPP. On the other hand, those three parties that were established in the
early reformasi years (PKB, PAN and PKS) have not yet been able to improve
their public profile much. Levels of name recognition for PKB and PAN have
basically remained stagnant since 1999, while PKS has at least recently
improved its standing, thanks to its impressive election results. Nonetheless, in
2005 the party was still only known to about half of the population, lagging far
behind the other big parties.
Second, the figures also confirm that name recognition of parties is, at least to
a certain extent, directly linked to name recognition of their leaders. This con-
clusion is not only supported by the huge discrepancy in the figures for PDI-P
and PPP, but especially by the extraordinarily high levels of recognition for PD.
Yet, PD’s figures do not say much about the sustainability of personalistic
parties. In fact, it is rather questionable that a party like PD will be able to retain
such high levels of name recognition in the long term. While it may be too early
to say if the party will outlast its charismatic founder, all indications point to the
assumption that PD will only remain a temporary phenomenon, intrinsically tied
to the political fortunes of SBY.
Third, the figures reveal that levels of name recognition for most parties were
at their peak in the aftermath of the 1999 elections, thereby reflecting the
unprecedented – and still unmatched – euphoria that surrounded these founding
elections. Figures of recognition then almost invariably declined in the 2001 and
2003 surveys, before rising again in 2005. These findings are in broad confor-
mity with earlier suggestions that most parties have remained largely inactive
outside the election periods. Indeed, the figures signify that there is a direct link
between weak organizational structures and low levels of name recognition,
especially in the cases of PKB, PAN and PPP. Where parties have only limited
resources to conduct regular party activities outside the quinquennial elections,
chances to enhance their public profile are severely restricted as they are unable
to interact directly with the public. On the other hand, however, figures for
Golkar and PDI-P are consistently high, and PD has scored an extraordinary
result in the only survey in which it was included. In order to explain these find-
ings it is imperative not only to look at how parties interact with their members
and supporters through their very own party infrastructure, but also at how they
communicate with the wider public. Hence, we now turn our attention to the role
of the mass media.
The role of the media

As a matter of fact, access to the media is crucially important for any party that
wishes to achieve high levels of name recognition. Nowhere has this been more
obvious than during Golkar’s presidential convention which turned out to be a
public relations masterpiece. Probably the only event that was similarly success-
ful in regards to its impact on electoral outcomes was SBY’s populist exploita-
tion of his rift with Megawati and her husband Taufik Kiemas in early 2004
(Luwarso et al. 2004: 8–14.). While this row was primarily intended to enhance
the former general’s chances of becoming president, it was his party, PD, which
was the first to benefit from the political aftershocks of SBY’s resignation from
the cabinet.
The rise of PD was an extraordinary example of how the mass media can
help to rapidly enhance a certain party’s level of name recognition as long as
this party can provide an appealing eye-catcher. It is indeed significant to note
that in early 2005 more than three quarters of Indonesians were aware of PD,
whereas the utterly non-personalistic PKS was not even known to half of the
population, even though it had gained almost as many votes as PD. As two in
three Indonesians watch television almost every day (Asia Foundation 2003:
159), it is clear that the electronic media can indeed have a huge impact on a
party’s ability to establish itself as a household name. Newspapers and maga-
zines, on the other hand, appear somewhat less important for raising awareness
for parties as their capacity to reach the large rural masses is limited. Nonethe-
less, their influence on the urban intelligentsia should not be underestimated.
In Indonesia’s post-authoritarian environment, the media have been very
eager in their efforts to distribute political information. Yet, although parties
feature regularly in the news, it is noteworthy that these news often carry a
negative undertone. In the press, parties are often presented as selfish, corrupt
and unprofessional. This is even more significant in view of the fact that ‘the
press in Indonesia carries a moral authority and political weight not seen in
many industrialized, First World, countries’ (Heryanto and Adi 2001: 329).
Arguably, the negative coverage has directly contributed to what Tan (2002) has
described as an ‘anti-party reaction’ in Indonesia. PDI-P and PKB have been
criticized particularly often because of their enduring problems with factional
infighting and their bad track record in parliament.
In response to widespread criticism and declining popularity figures, PDI-P
has repeatedly misused its position as government party, resorting to dubious
political practices in order to gain advantages on the media market. For example,
in early 2004 PDI-P allegedly placed loyal editors into crucial positions in two
leading TV stations and a newspaper.61 Moreover, the party violated various reg-
ulations on advertising during the three-week-long campaign period. According
to a respected media watchdog, PDI-P spots not only breached restrictions on
length, but also regulations on frequency (Election News Watch, Nos 1–3).62
Overall, however, it needs to be stressed that these violations were rather
marginal.
Yet the overwhelming dominance of PDI-P on all major television stations
was manifest, even if the outright violations of campaign regulations are left
aside. As Table 7.6 illustrates, in the first week of campaigning PDI-P fielded
more advertisements than all its nearest rivals put together and more than three
times more than Golkar. Since advertisement slots were priced at between
Rp.2–20 million,63 PDI-P’s massive campaign was a clear indication of the
Table 7.6 Frequency of TV appearances of major parties during the 2004 campaign
Party Number of reports Number of advertisements

(period covered: 8–25 March 2004) (period covered: 11–15 March 2004)
Golkar 446 147

PDI-P 457 486
PKB 169 16
PPP 241 1
PD 158 0
PKS 200 72
PAN 255 127
Source: Compiled from Election News Watch, various issues.
immense financial resources at its disposal.64 But PDI-P not only dominated the
advertisement market, it was also the party which featured most prominently in
the daily news reports during the campaign period.65 Along with Golkar, PDI-P
clearly dominated the election coverage at the expense of smaller parties,
thereby indirectly influencing undecided voters who might be susceptible to
‘bandwagoning’ with the party they see most frequently in the media (Election
News Watch No. 3). While there was apparently no open partisanship towards
any of the parties in the vast majority of media outlets,66 the very fact that PDI-P
and Golkar received so much more coverage than the smaller parties was
already somewhat unfair as it gave these two parties a far bigger chance to
bombard the electorate with their slogans and symbols.
The symbolism of colour

In the context of reification, the role of the media is of particular importance
because of psychological effects that go hand in hand with the repeated broad-
casting of colourful advertisement spots and reports from huge party rallies. As
has been discussed earlier, in Indonesia an election campaign is not the time to
communicate a sophisticated platform or programme. Rather, it is the time to
showcase charismatic leaders (often flanked by dangdut67 celebrities), display
easily recognizable party symbols and stage colourful mass rallies. Although the
usefulness of these campaign activities has been questioned by several observers
and even by leading politicians themselves (Tjaya 2004), many parties obvi-
ously continue to regard them as an indispensable tool of campaigning. Usually
void of political content, party rallies are mainly intended to send powerful
images to the electorate as they display thousands of people clad in T-shirts of
the same colour. While it is common knowledge that ‘huge crowds’ do not
necessarily equal ‘many supporters,’68 it is the sheer power of symbols that still
reigns supreme during the campaigns.
The large amounts of money spent on flags, banners and T-shirts clearly
show that many parties still put great emphasis on the power of colour symbol-
ism. Significantly, the media has played a big part in magnifying the impact of
this kind of symbolism by incorporating the language of colours into its par-
lance. During the 2004 campaign, for example, media coverage of PDI-P often
spoke of the ‘white snout’ party (partai moncong putih), which would ‘redden’
(memerahkan) certain campaign venues.69 Similarly, PAN and PD would trans-
form huge sports arenas into fields of blue (membirukan),70 while PKB and the
partai ka’bah (PPP) set out to make entire cities green during the campaign
(menghijaukan).71 PKS, finally, chose the symbol of purity as its colour and
accordingly ‘whitened’ (memutihkan) the cities where it was scheduled to
campaign.72
Without a doubt, the colours all have highly symbolic meanings and some
parties like to describe these meanings at great length in their official party
documents. To the general public, however, these meanings are largely irrele-
vant. Few people would know, for example, that PAN chose blue as its colour
because it is the colour of the sea and the sky, which supposedly reflects
independence and democracy (Tim Litbang Kompas 2004: 534). Similarly, it is
unlikely that supporters of PKB would associate the party’s green logo with
‘physical and spiritual prosperity for the people of Indonesia’ (Tim Litbang
Kompas 2004: 536). For the majority, green is quite simply the colour of Islam.
Yet, even if the deeper symbolic meanings as explained in official party docu-
ments are not known to most people, the colours, as well as the party logos
themselves (like the bull in the PDI-P logo or the kabah in the PPP logo) never-
theless play an important role in helping parties to become reified in the
people’s mind as they serve as important shortcuts for the electorate (Mainwar-
ing 1999: 12).
Final remarks on reification

In Chapter 6 reification had been identified as a dimension in which Golkar is
very well institutionalized. As far as the other parties are concerned, the same
can only be said about PDI-P. The difference to Golkar, however, is that in con-
trast to the former regime party the public image of PDI-P has deteriorated in
recent years. While much of the early press coverage on Golkar still carried a
critical undertone, the party’s image in the newspapers and magazines improved
year by year. Exactly the reverse process could be witnessed with PDI-P and
most other parties. Initially lauded as harbingers of change, PDI-P, PAN and
PKB quickly forfeited their initial bonuses with the media as they failed to fulfil
the high expectations of reformists. Soon after the initial euphoria had subsided,
media enterprises began to focus more and more on the two biggest parties only,
Golkar and PDI-P. If other parties were mentioned at all, the reports often
carried a negative undertone. In the run-up to the 2004 elections, the news media
were full of articles about the misdeeds of party politicians, especially in the
regions where countless provincial and district legislators enriched themselves
unscrupulously at the expense of the public. It is unquestionable that the increas-
ingly negative coverage in the media has not helped the parties’ already difficult
quest to become reified, but this has by no means been their only problem.
Indeed, another problem which in the long term will even more seriously
obstruct many parties’ prospects for reification is their heavy reliance on the
popularity of individual leaders. The high levels of name recognition for PD, for
example, are most probably only momentary snapshots as they are fuelled
almost exclusively by the popularity of President SBY. While PD may be an
extreme example, other parties like PDI-P, PKB, PAN and even PPP have not
yet proven that they can remain reified in the public imagination without their
leaders. As so often, PKS is again the only exception here. By the time of
writing, the party may have had the lowest levels of name recognition of all big
parties, but it has reached these levels almost exclusively because of its efforts to
present the party as a collective organization. If it can maintain the loyalty of its
supporters and further improve its image in the mainstream media, PKS is likely
to achieve higher scores on the reification scale in the not-too-distant future.
Conclusion
The goal of this chapter was to examine the institutionalization record of
Indonesia’s major parties in order to properly contextualize the findings of the
preceding four chapters. The major conclusion of this chapter is that most
Indonesian parties are indeed weakly institutionalized. The only at least partial
exception is PKS, which possesses a well-organized party apparatus, structural
coherence and a large number of committed cadres who are actually willing to
pay their membership dues. In short, the party possesses a very solid organi-
zational basis. Having arisen out of student activist circles, PKS has not only
maintained its independence from external actors, but has also resisted the temp-
tations of corruption and has not (yet) associated itself with vested big-business
interests.73 PKS is the only party that is deeply infused with genuine values,
namely with the religious and political ideas of Islam. Its members actively
perform their faith and try to bring Islamic values into day-to-day politics,
giving Indonesian Islam a new dimension that transcends old, established classi-
fication schemes like traditionalism or modernism. The only dimension of party
institutionalization where PKS is still weak is reification. This, however, seems
natural, given the fact that the party did poorly in the 1999 elections and has
only recently emerged as a serious contender in the Indonesian party system.
Apart from PKS, all other parties are weakly institutionalized, especially but
not only in the crucial dimension of systemness where a number of problems
prevail. First, failure to invest in training and recruitment programmes has exac-
erbated the lack of sophisticated human resources. As a consequence, party
infrastructures remain inadequate and many parties have struggled to find suit-
able candidates during the 2004 legislative elections and subsequent pilkada.
Second, the personalistic nature of decision-making processes and personnel
recruitment has prevented the development of internal democracy and
obstructed the process of formal institutionalization as written rules and regula-
tions have not been allowed to take root. Third, factionalism has emerged in
most parties, mainly as a result of personal rivalries or general dissatisfaction
with an overly oligarchic party leadership. Given the absence of viable conflict-
resolution mechanisms in most parties, outbreaks of factionalism, which often
coincided with challenges to the party leadership, were usually met with intimi-
dation and coercion or the bending of existing rules and regulations. Finally,
with the exception of PDI-P, most parties are still financially weak and continue
to depend on external funding which in turn is extremely limited.
In many cases, the inability to secure sustainable financial resources also
impacts negatively on issues of decisional autonomy, especially where parties
resort to illicit methods of fundraising. Moreover, the military has continued to
impede the development of decisional autonomy, at least in the early reformasi
years when local TNI commanders repeatedly interfered in internal party affairs
during the elections of bupatis and governors. The most serious questions in this
dimension of party institutionalization, however, must be asked about the close
relationships between PKB and PAN and the Islamic organizations out of which
they emerged. Many NU and Muhammadiyah functionaries have taken over posi-
tions in PKB and PAN, both on the national and the local level. While direct inter-
vention may be rare, it is widely acknowledged that both parties still rely heavily on
the support of the respective mass organizations and that neither PKB nor PAN can
afford to make policy decisions against the interests of NU or Muhammadiyah.
Slightly more promising conclusions can be presented about value infusion,
even if these conclusions have to remain somewhat tentative at this stage.
Survey data has demonstrated that most parties possess relatively clearly defined
support bases. In other words, it seems that Indonesians from certain socio-
economic and socio-cultural backgrounds do indeed identify with certain parties,
thanks to a combination of prevailing socio-cultural cleavage structures, wide-
spread nostalgic sentiment and emotional attachment to highly respected
national leaders. Which of these factors ultimately represents the defining reason
for people to join or to vote for certain parties, remains a hotly contested issue
and will, at least in the cases of PDI-P, PKB and PAN, only be resolved after
their charismatic leaders will have left the scene. As far as the other parties are
concerned, things are more straightforward since neither PPP nor PD conforms
to old aliran patterns. Put simply, PPP relies mainly on the nostalgic sentiment
of older, poorly educated Muslims who are either not aware of other Islamic
parties or simply afraid of supporting them. PD, on the other hand, is a blatantly
personalistic party which relies almost exclusively on the appeal of its founder
and current Indonesian president, Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono.
Finally, relatively little can be said about reification at this stage as this
dimension of party institutionalization is primarily concerned with longevity.
Since most of the parties have only existed for a few years and only participated
in two elections it is far too early to judge their ability to survive over time.
However, judging by the levels of name recognition which the parties have
achieved so far, it is fair to say that – apart from Golkar – only PDI-P is already
well established in people’s minds. Most other parties still lag behind, and the
high figures for PD are almost certainly unsustainable as they are more reflective
of the popularity of SBY than the party itself.
8 Conclusion and outlook
Uneven party institutionalization and
the future of democracy in Indonesia
Golkar is in many ways the closest thing Indonesia has to a genuine political
party.
(McBeth 2001)
Introduction
This book set out to examine whether the enduring strength of Golkar in Indone-
sia’s post-Suharto party system can be explained as a result of uneven party
institutionalization. Based on a theoretical model of party institutionalization
proposed by Randall and Svåsand (2002a) the book developed an elaborate
profile of Golkar, which highlighted the various strengths and weaknesses of the
party in four interdependent yet analytically distinct dimensions. Following the
detailed analysis of Golkar, a succinct comparative chapter examined the other
six major Indonesian parties in accordance with the same institutionalization cri-
teria applied to Golkar. This final chapter will now summarize the major find-
ings of the previous analysis and answer the main questions of this study,
namely whether Golkar is really better institutionalized than the other parties
and, if so, whether this advantage has helped Golkar to maintain its strong posi-
tion in Indonesian party politics.
Considering all the data discussed so far, it is fair to conclude that Golkar is
indeed better institutionalized than most of the other parties. The only party to
match Golkar’s institutional strength is PKS, but this party is still at the begin-
ning of its organizational development and it remains to be seen whether it can
follow up on the good first steps it has taken towards institutionalization. The
modification that PKS is still a very young party is immensely important and
links directly to one of Golkar’s key domains of power. The former regime party
enjoys its most significant advantages in the dimensions of systemness and reifi-
cation, both of which are dimensions where Golkar still benefits from the lega-
cies of its long hegemonic past. Clearly, its good institutionalization record in
these two dimensions has directly contributed to the enduring strength of Golkar
within the Indonesian party system.
At the same time, however, it must also be stressed that although Golkar is
Conclusion and outlook 181
indeed better institutionalized than most of its electoral competitors, the party
can hardly be classified as highly or strongly institutionalized. On the contrary,
the analysis has revealed that Golkar also suffers from various institutional
weaknesses, especially in the dimensions of decisional autonomy and value
infusion. Even in the dimension of systemness, where Golkar’s comparative
advantages seem fairly distinct, the party has entered an incremental process of
de-institutionalization, which has exposed the organizational apparatus as
porous and susceptible to defections. In light of this rather mixed picture, it is
clear that Golkar’s current position in the party system is based not so much on
its own strength, but rather on the weakness of the other parties. In fact, Golkar
appears to ‘dominate’ the Indonesian party system more or less by default. Ten
years after the end of the New Order none of the other major parties has yet pro-
vided any indication that they may represent a viable alternative to Golkar. As
long as this political inertia continues and the other parties do not undertake sub-
stantial efforts to institutionalize their own party structures, Golkar is likely to
perpetuate its prevalent institutional advantages and hence, its strong position in
Indonesian party politics.
This concluding chapter will now briefly recapitulate the main reasons behind
this assessment. In chronological order, the following paragraphs will first sum-
marize the book’s key findings and then project these findings onto a simplified
matrix. Subsequently, the broader implications of the findings for party system
institutionalization and Indonesia’s overall democratization process will be dis-
cussed. Finally, the chapter, and the study as a whole, will conclude with a brief
outlook on the future of Indonesian party politics and Golkar’s potential role in
this.
Uneven party institutionalization and the remarkable resilience of

Golkar
Having analysed in great detail the key characteristics of Golkar and, to a lesser
extent, those of the other major parties, this book has shown that Indonesia’s
parties are indeed unevenly institutionalized and that Golkar is indeed the best-
institutionalized party in the country, if only by a relatively small margin. This
margin, however small it is, has been enough for the former regime party to
maintain its strong position in Indonesian party politics and to re-emerge on top
of the voting tally in the 2004 legislative elections. The case of Golkar therefore
confirms the assumption, elucidated in Chapter 2, that in times of democratic
transition political parties are often unevenly institutionalized, and that such
uneven institutionalization often confers invaluable advantages to former regime
parties (provided they continue to compete in elections after the fall of the old
regime). As this book has demonstrated, Golkar’s strong performance in the
2004 legislative election has been indeed, to a large extent, a result of the party’s
superior institutionalization record in the dimensions of systemness and reifica-
tion. In particular, Golkar’s far-reaching party apparatus and its easy access to
plentiful financial and human resources, as well as its unmatched levels of name
recognition – maintained with the help of a well-disposed media – have turned
out to be key factors behind the former regime party’s enduring strength and its
election ‘victory’ in 2004.
Despite its overall superiority, however, Golkar is not a particularly well-
institutionalized party. In fact, it even faces the risk of forfeiting some of its
institutional assets as it has entered an incremental process of de-
institutionalization in the dimension of systemness. But the root causes of
Golkar’s overall mediocrity are not located in the dimension of systemness, but
rather in the dimension of value infusion. Here, Golkar remains weakly institu-
tionalized as its appeal continues to rely primarily on ‘ersatz’ values like its rep-
utation as a provider of political spoils. That the former regime party has been
able to retain such a strong presence in Indonesian party politics in spite of a
lack of genuine political values speaks volumes about the other parties, which
have indeed mostly failed to improve their institutionalization records since
1998. With the exception of PKS, no other party has invested adequate resources
in the development of an effective party infrastructure and/or an appealing poli-
tical programme so that their levels of institutionalization remain low. Con-
sequently, it is fair to conclude that Golkar’s continuously powerful position in
the Indonesian party system is based more on the weakness of the other parties
than on its own strength.
From a more theoretical perspective, the analysis has illustrated the useful-
ness of multidimensional concepts of party institutionalization. It would indeed
be misleading to simply claim that Golkar is better institutionalized than the
other parties without considering the details of the various individual dimen-
sions. As we have seen, Golkar is not the best-institutionalized Indonesian party
in every single dimension of Randall and Svåsand’s model, yet it is, importantly,
the strongest party in the dimensions of systemness and reification, both of
which apparently confer particularly formidable advantages to a party at the
ballot box. These findings confirm, among other things, the widespread assump-
tion that historical factors are immensely important when it comes to party insti-
tutionalization. As a matter of fact, Golkar is only strongly institutionalized in
those dimensions where it can still reap direct benefits from its long past as the
New Order’s hegemonic party. On the other hand, the party is weak where
the New Order had hindered its institutionalization from early on, namely in the
dimensions of decisional autonomy and value infusion. The multidimensional
character of the model has enabled a thorough investigation of each of these
aspects of party institutionalization, providing a comprehensive picture of
Golkar and the other parties.
The quintessential conclusion from these findings is that institutionalization
matters. Indeed, this study has shown that a good institutionalization record not
only increases a party’s prospects for adaptability and long-term survival, but it
can also have a direct effect on a party’s short-term electoral performance.
Conversely, a bad institutionalization record can have direct negative implica-
tions for a party’s electoral performance and is inimical to long-term organi-
zational consolidation. The case of Golkar exemplifies these conclusions. In
fact, the former regime party’s institutional strengths and weaknesses in the
individual dimensions can be used as explanatory variables for Golkar’s elec-
tion results. In short, Golkar won the 2004 general election because of the
following factors:
• A comprehensive organizational apparatus with a vast territorial reach;

• Access to rich and diversified financial resources;
• A huge reservoir of experienced and professional cadres;
• Widespread nostalgia for the past;
• Very high levels of name recognition;
• Clever use of political and cultural symbols to strengthen loyalties;
• The cultivation of good relations with the media.
By the same token, Golkar did not win the election by a larger margin because:
• Factionalism had damaged its image and caused unprecedented internal

frictions;
• Its leader did not command undisputed authority in the party;
• Top party cadres including the chairman had been involved in corruption
scandals;
• The party lacked – and still lacks – persuasive core values that could tie
members and supporters more firmly to the party and rein in the prevalence
of clientelism.
The results of the other parties can be explained in a similar fashion. PKS, for
example, gained votes because it has developed a well-organized and coherent
party apparatus and because it provides its members and supporters with real
values they believe in. The party was, however, unable to win an even bigger
share of the votes because its territorial apparatus does not yet reach the entire
archipelago, because its levels of name recognition are still comparatively low,
and because it received – until the 2004 election at least – relatively little
attention in the media. Moreover, although its Islamic ideology is based
on strong values, this ideology is, to quote Lev (1967: 59), ‘obviously
confining.’1
Golkar and PKS are good examples of how institutionalization has a direct
impact on a party’s electoral performance. But it should also be noted that a
good institutionalization record is not the only recipe for electoral success. The
rise of PD, for example, shows that votes can also be mobilized – very easily in
fact – through other means, especially through the mass appeal of a popular or
charismatic party leader (or, in this case, presidential candidate). Without a
doubt, the trend in contemporary Indonesian politics goes in that direction after
the introduction of direct elections on all executive levels. This is bad news for
the prospects of party system institutionalization as personalistic parties like PD
are, in contrast to institutionalized parties, often ephemeral phenomena which do
not remain competitive in the long term.2
Uneven party institutionalization in Indonesia: how to measure the
immeasurable
Against the background of these key findings, it remains to be seen whether, and
if so, how the empirical results of this book can be measured. The problem of
measurability has haunted proponents of institutionalization theory ever since
the concept rose to prominence in political science. With regards to parties and
party systems, the main problem has always been that most individual elements
of party and party system institutionalization are basically impossible to quan-
tify. Nonetheless, there have been attempts to overcome this problem, for
example by Mainwaring and Scully (1995: 17) who, in their comparative work
on party system institutionalization in Latin America, suggested a schematic
ranking based on a scoring system from 1.0 to 3.0 in each of their four institu-
tionalization criteria. Accordingly, a score of 3.0 would indicate high institution-
alization, 2.5 medium high, 2.0 medium, 1.5 medium low, and 1.0 low
institutionalization.3
Interestingly, Johnson (2002: 731), who applied the institutionalization model
by Mainwaring and Scully4 in her study on Indonesia, did not use the ranking
system, arguing that ‘a detailed examination of an individual party system is far
too complex to reduce the criteria to simple point values, and to arbitrary values at
that.’ She further claims that most of the indicators suggested by Mainwaring and
Scully are closely interrelated and therefore directly influence each other, some-
times with the effect that they simply do not add up. For example, according to
Johnson (2002: 733–4), ‘a “2” (a relatively weak score in Mainwaring and
Scully’s 1995 treatment) in one area is not just a “2” when operated on by a “4” (a
strong score) in another area. The net effect of a “2” and a “4” could be a “1”.’
In response to her first criticism, it could be argued that complexity does
not necessarily rule out the possibility of measuring by point values, even if
that means an inevitable simplification. Where data are not directly quantifi-
able or measurable (for example, the degree of factionalism or the impact of
corruption on decisional autonomy), there still remains a ‘felt value’ based on
the empirical findings, which the researcher can transfer into a schematic
ranking system. Of course, such a ranking system will always retain the
blemish of subjectivity, but this should be regarded as a common problem in
social science disciplines.
As far as Johnson’s second criticism is concerned, she is of course correct
when she points out that the individual criteria for institutionalization are inter-
related. Arguably though, this interrelation does not necessarily need to reach
the extent that, as Johnson claims, strength in one dimension exacerbates a
weakness in another or vice versa. Certainly, as Randall and Svåsand (2002a:
12) have already emphasized, the individual dimensions of party institutionaliza-
tion can always be ‘in tension with one another’ or even ‘pull in different direc-
tions.’ The findings in this study on PKB in the dimensions of decisional
autonomy and value infusion, for instance, are clear evidence of this phenome-
non. Yet, the existence of tensions between two dimensions does not mean that
the degree of institutionalization in these two dimensions cannot be evaluated in
a ranking system.
The problem with Johnson’s criticism is that the objects of analysis do not
match when she says that some parties are highly institutionalized in the dimension
of rootedness (value infusion) and that these stable roots ‘can contribute directly to
polarization and to the declining legitimacy of the party system, as has been the
case in Indonesia’ (Johnson 2002: 735). Arguably, this contention is debatable in
itself, but the main problem in the context of measurability is not whether rooted-
ness has a positive or negative impact on the relationships between the individual
parties, but that Johnson regards rootedness and the level of mutual acceptance of
parties as two elements of the same variable, when in fact they are not. Strictly
speaking, rootedness is a dimension of party institutionalization, whereas mutual
acceptance of parties is a dimension of party system institutionalization. Therefore,
the issue here is not the scoring system, but rather the overall conceptualization of
party system institutionalization as a process which encompasses elements of both
party institutionalization and party system institutionalization.
In view of these conceptual problems in the model developed by Mainwaring
and used by, among others, Johnson, the virtues of Randall and Svåsand’s
approach become abundantly clear. Thanks to the rigid differentiation between
party institutionalization and party system institutionalization, the idea of using
a point rating scale can be revived and projected on the analytical categories
applied in this book. This system is of course still highly subjective and based
on incomplete approximations, but if it is understood that the main purpose of
such a system is not to provide mathematically exact measurements of indi-
vidual institutionalization criteria, but merely to enable the researcher to summa-
rize the findings in an easily accessible matrix, it can still be regarded as an
appropriate tool of visualization. In other words, the point rating scale is not
intended to be a definitive statement about the degree of party institutionaliza-
tion, but rather a means to illustrate, in a simplified form, the conclusions that
have been drawn as a result of this study.5 With these reservations in mind,
Table 8.1 classifies the institutionalization record of Indonesia’s major parties in
accordance with the measuring units suggested by Mainwaring and Scully,
which means that 3.0 is the highest score and 1.0 the lowest.6
Implications for party system institutionalization and democratic

consolidation
Uneven party institutionalization and the enduring strength of a party that is
closely associated with a former authoritarian regime party are typical phenom-
ena in democratizing countries (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 8–9). While neither
of the two phenomena, which are obviously closely related, is necessarily bad,
they can be potentially problematic for party system institutionalization because
they can limit the competitiveness of elections and exclude certain social sectors
from access to party representation. In Indonesia, however, these kinds of
negative side effects are not discernible. The legislative elections in 1999 and
Table 8.1 The institutionalization of Indonesian parties in early 2007
Golkar PDI-P PKB PPP PD PKS PAN
Systemness
Scope of organizational apparatus/territorial reach 3.0 2.5 1.5 2.0 1.5 1.5 2.0
Importance of internal democracy vis-à-vis
personalism 2.0 1.0 1.0 1.5 1.0 2.5 1.5
Internal coherence vis-à-vis impact of factionalism 1.5 1.5 1.0 1.5 2.0 2.5 1.0
Routinization of rules and regulations 1.5 1.0 1.0 1.5 1.5 2.5 1.0
Access to regularized and diversified financial
resources 2.5 2.5 1.0 1.5 1.5 1.5 2.0
Professionalism/standard of human resources 3.0 2.0 1.5 1.5 1.5 2.5 2.5
Aggregate score Systemness 13.5 10.5 7.0 9.5 9.0 13.0 10.0
Average score Systemness 2.25 1.75 1.16 1.58 1.5 2.16 1.66
Decisional autonomy
Independence from external organization 2.5 2.5 1.0 2.5 2.5 2.5 1.5
Resistance to corruption 1.0 1.0 1.0 1.0 2.0 3.0 1.0
Organizational autonomy vis-à-vis oligarchic
elites or individual leaders 2.0 1.0 1.0 1.5 1.5 2.5 1.5
Aggregate score decisional autonomy 5.5 4.5 3.0 5.0 6.0 8.0 4.0
Average score decisional autonomy 1.83 1.5 1.0 1.66 2.0 2.66 1.33
Value infusion
Values based on socio-cultural or socio-economic
cleavages 1.5 2.5 3.0 2.5 1.0 3.0 2.5
Values based on emotional attachment (personal
charisma of national or local leaders) 2.0 3.0 3.0 1.5 3.0 1.5 3.0
Ersatz values based on impersonal clientelism
(parties as patrons who provide office for
clients/supporters)* 1.5 1.5 1.5 1.5 1.5 2.0 1.5
Aggregate score value infusion 5.0 7.0 7.5 5.5 5.5 6.5 7.0
Average score value infusion 1.66 2.33 2.5 1.83 1.83 2.16 2.33
Reification
Name recognition 3.0 3.0 2.5 2.5 2.5 1.5 2.5
Use of symbols 3.0 3.0 2.0 3.0 1.0 1.0 2.5
Access to mass media 3.0 2.5 1.5 2.0 1.5 1.5 2.0
Aggregate score reification 9.0 8.5 6.0 7.5 5.0 4.0 7.0
Average score reification 3.0 2.83 2.0 2.5 1.66 1.33 2.33
Note
*High importance of ersatz values equals low scores in the table since ersatz values are regarded as inferior.
2004 as well as the country’s first-ever direct presidential election have all been
judged to be free and fair by both domestic and international observers, and no
social group can be said to be excluded from party representation because of
Golkar’s strong position. Opportunities for new parties to establish themselves
as representatives of certain social groups are abundant in the post-New Order
period and Golkar’s dominance is not so suffocating that parties established
since 1998 are automatically destined to fail. Significantly, Golkar’s failure to
enlarge its vote share in 2004 and the rise of new parties like PKS and PD show
that the playing field for political parties in Indonesia is not overly unfair.
On the contrary, it can even be argued that Indonesia’s political arena is actu-
ally growing increasingly open and competitive, thanks to the introduction of
new electoral institutions and the, arguably closely related, process of de-
institutionalization that has started to erode Golkar’s strength in the dimension
of systemness. However, it is important to point out that in order to be con-
ducive to party system institutionalization this gradual de-institutionalization of
Golkar must be paralleled by the continuing institutionalization of the other
parties. But as has been shown, this process is, with the partial exception of
PKS, yet to commence in earnest. Thus, it is hardly surprising that by the time of
writing the Indonesian party system remained enfeebled by several fundamental
weaknesses,7 most of which are directly related to the relatively poor institution-
alization of the parties that make up the system.
Arguably, the most obvious indicator for the weak institutionalization of
the Indonesian party system is the lack of continuity and stability. To be fair, the
lack of continuity is simply a natural consequence of the short life span of the
post-Suharto party system and it would be absurd to blame the parties for that.
On the other hand, however, it would be anything but absurd to blame the
parties for the lack of stability, which is in fact, at least partly, a direct con-
sequence of the weak institutionalization of the individual parties. Significantly,
the party system has not only failed to stabilize after the second post-New Order
election, but even taken the opposite path towards further fragmentation, despite
(or maybe precisely because of) the fact that the 2004 election was contested by
a smaller number of parties than the 1999 election.
Although the changed electoral rules for the 2004 legislative elections and the
introduction of direct presidential elections certainly also contributed to this
increased fragmentation,8 it is the parties themselves which are primarily responsible
for this trend. As those parties that had reached the electoral threshold in 1999 failed
to invest in their own institutionalization, they became less and less attractive options
for the voters who then, as a consequence, preferred to vote for new parties which
had either not performed well in 1999 (PKS) or had not even contested the 1999
ballot (PD). All in all, volatility in the 2004 legislative election was relatively high,9
and the effective number of parties in Indonesia rose from five in the 1999–2004
period to eight in the post-2004 party system (Evans 2004: 204).10 The fragmenta-
tion of the system is illustrated with the help of a few indicators in Table 8.2.
Table 8.2 Fragmentation of the Indonesian party system
1999 2004
Number of parties that reached more than 5 per cent of the vote 5 7
Number of parties that reached at least 1 per cent of the vote 8 14
Number of parties that won more than 10 seats in the DPR 6 10
Number of parties that won at least 1 seat in the DPR 21 16
Vote share of the 4 biggest parties 79.50 58.83
Sources: www.kpu.go.id/ (accessed 10 March 2006); Tim Litbang Kompas (2005, 2000); Ananta,
Arifin and Suryadinata (2005).
Another weakness of the current party system concerns the nature of inter-
party competition or, as Randall and Svåsand (2002a) called it, the level of
mutual acceptance among the big parties. As noted, for a party system to institu-
tionalize the individual parties that make up the system need to acknowledge
each other as legitimate competitors in order to guarantee the smooth function-
ing of parliamentary procedures and, ultimately, allow for the formation of a
genuine opposition. Indeed, a moderate level of interparty competition is much
more conducive to democracy than combative competition or, at the other
extreme, collusive behaviour between the parties. Unfortunately, however, in
Indonesia it is exactly the latter two patterns of competition that are most domin-
ant. On the one hand, there is a strong tendency for politicians to refuse to
acknowledge defeat. From Gus Dur’s refusal to accept his impeachment in 2001
to the coalition of parties that rejected the results of the legislative elections in
2004 to Wiranto after his elimination in the first round of the presidential elec-
tion to Megawati after her defeat against SBY in the second round of elections,
there is a long list of politicians and parties that have challenged the results of
political processes in parliament and at ballot boxes, thereby directly undermin-
ing the legitimacy of these processes and that of their electoral competitors.11
On the other hand, however, the outrage rarely lasts long. On the contrary, in
Indonesia even parties that appeared to be irreconcilable enemies on one day can
become allies the next as the case of Golkar and PKB exemplifies.12 The key
problem is that no party is willing to accept the role of an opposition party. In fact,
for the sake of being rewarded with governmental responsibilities, most parties
would cooperate with any other party in Indonesia, regardless of religious orienta-
tions or personal animosities. The collusive nature of Indonesian party politics has
been described most articulately by Slater (2004) who accused the major parties in
general and Golkar and PDI-P in particular of acting like a cartel. Writing in the run-
up to the 2004 presidential election, Slater (2004: 62) argued that ‘Golkar and PDI-P
have taken the lead in devising a system in which these parties share power far more
than they fight over it.’13 Although the alliance between Indonesia’s two biggest
parties was terminated soon after the publication of this article, it seems unlikely that
PDI-P will be left out of the cartel for too long. Indeed, patterns of collusion between
all the major parties have essentially remained intact as can be seen, for example, in
their cooperation in various parliamentary committees (Sherlock 2005: 6–7).
A third problem that hampers the institutionalization of the party system is its
relatively low appreciation by the electorate. Despite comparatively high voter
turnouts in both the 1999 and the 2004 legislative elections,14 public trust in the
parties’ ability and willingness to pursue the interests of the people seems to be
anything but high. Numerous public opinion surveys conducted throughout the
post-New Order era showed that many people were convinced that parties would
rather pursue their own political interest than that of the common people (IFES
2002, LP3ES 2003). Moreover, many Indonesians perceive political parties as
among the most corrupt of all political actors and institutions, as consecutive
surveys by Transparency International (2004b, 2005, 2006, 2007) have
demonstrated. Surveys conducted by Indonesian organizations have come to
similar conclusions. In a 2006 report, for example, LSI asked respondents to rate
the performance of political parties, the DPR, the president, the police and the
army. Not surprisingly, political parties achieved the lowest scores, with only 48
per cent of respondents judging their performance as good (LSI 2006).15
Arguably, the main reason for this ‘anti-party reaction’ (Tan 2002) is the
weak institutionalization of the political parties. Their constant internal bicker-
ing and their lack of professionalism (as discussed in the context of systemness)
in particular, as well as their high susceptibility to corruption (as discussed in the
context of decisional autonomy), have had an inherently negative impact on the
levels of public trust in political parties and the overall party system. Yet, it is
not only the current parties’ own misdemeanours that are responsible for their
bad image. Today’s parties are also up against the powerful forces of history
which have left Indonesia with a deeply embedded anti-party legacy inherited
from the Sukarno and Suharto eras. It goes without saying that this legacy does
not exactly enhance the prospects for party system institutionalization. In fact, in
view of the enduring prevalence of widespread anti-party attitudes it seems that
only the combination of generational change and a significantly improved
performance by the parties will facilitate a higher degree of appreciation by the
electorate. At this stage, Indonesians do not yet appear to be convinced of what
Lipset (2000) called the ‘indispensability of political parties.’
Given these weaknesses of the party system, it is clear that an end to Indone-
sia’s protracted transition process is not yet in sight. As the poorly institutional-
ized parties still fail to fulfil even the most basic of their ideal-type democratic
functions, such as the representation, integration and aggregation of societal
interests or the formulation of policy alternatives for the voters, the legitimacy,
effectiveness and efficiency of the political system remain low. Moreover, it
needs to be stressed that problems such as the structural entrenchment of corrup-
tion or the prevalence of informal military power have not only impeded the
institutionalization of the parties, but also the consolidation of other critical
institutions (such as the judiciary) as well as the empowerment of civil society.
Accordingly, by the time this book went to press Indonesia had not yet moved
beyond the level of electoral democracy. With reference to the consolidation
models by Linz and Stepan (1996) and Merkel (1998), briefly introduced in
Chapter 2, it is fair to argue that so far only the developments in the dimension
of constitutional consolidation have been satisfactory whereas representative,
behavioural and attitudinal consolidation remain works in progress. Thus, it
seems as if Törnquist was close to the mark when he gloomily predicted that a
likely outcome of Indonesia’s democratization process would be
a military-supported ‘bad guy’ democracy within which incumbent bosses

on various levels are able to survive, pull in military and business allies, co-
opt some dissidents, and mobilize mass support through Islamic populism –
all well before genuine democratic activists and ordinary people manage to
organize themselves.
(Törnquist 2001: 66)
Outlook: whither Golkar?
If Indonesia’s overall democratization process has been marred by tensions
between progress (in terms of constitutional consolidation) and stagnation (in terms
of representative, behavioural and attitudinal consolidation), a very similar conclu-
sion can be drawn for Golkar. Just like Indonesian politics in general, Golkar, too,
is an ambiguous amalgam of progressive reformism and conservative status quo
attitudes. On the one hand, the party has been widely – and rightly – credited for its
constructive role in the constitutional reform process and for introducing innovative
political ideas such as presidential conventions to Indonesia. On the other hand, the
party is still associated with romanticized New Order nostalgia and concepts like
pembangunan, pancasila democracy and the floating mass. How torn the party is
between the past and the present is best exemplified in its relations with former
president Suharto. In late 2005, for instance, Golkar leaders caused a public outcry
after announcing plans to honour the former dictator and other former New Order
stalwarts with the so-called Bhakti Pratama Award for merited party members.16 In
January 2008, the party emerged as the driving force behind renewed efforts to
block the formal prosecution of Suharto.17
Without a doubt, the party has made the most of its dual identity. Taking the
best of both worlds, Golkar leaders have not taken much time to manoeuvre the
party out of its self-imposed purdah period right back into the centre of power.
And as this study has shown, the chances that the party will stay right there at
the top are good, too. Although Golkar faces some significant challenges to its
institutional integrity, the weakness of the other parties will ensure that the
former regime party will remain the strongest force in Indonesian party politics
for some time to come. It is indeed not inconceivable that of the seven parties
discussed in this study, as many as five will diminish significantly or even com-
pletely disappear from the political landscape in the not-too-distant future.
PPP may be the first to bite the dust of history, and PD is also likely to disap-
pear again once SBY leaves the political scene. PDI-P, PKB and PAN also face
difficult periods of soul-searching once Megawati, Gus Dur and Amien Rais
depart from the political stage. In contrast to PD, however, these three parties at
least have some sort of stable roots in fixed social milieux so that they may
eventually outlast their founding fathers (and one founding mother), albeit
almost certainly with less potent appeal to voters. Significantly, PKB and PAN
face an additional challenge from an increasingly assertive PKS, which
allegedly has already started to infiltrate traditional NU- and Muhammadiyah-
affiliated pengajian groups in order to enlarge its support base beyond its estab-
lished urban strongholds.18 If this strategy proves successful, and if broader
social trends of Islamization continue in Indonesia, PKS may one day become
the only sizeable Islamic party in Indonesia’s future party system.19 Admittedly,
these are extraordinary constraints to overcome, and the recent slump in popu-
larity indicates that the party still has a lot of work to do, but thanks to its strong
institutionalization in the dimensions of systemness and value infusion, PKS is
certainly in a position to tackle these challenges.
The only other party that looks set to stay is, arguably, Golkar. Given the
limited life expectancy of PD and the potential decline of PDI-P after the end of
Megawati’s political career, Golkar seems to be the only viable alternative for
all those Indonesians who oppose the growing influence of Islamic forces in
Indonesia. Of course Golkar cannot just simply absorb disappointed PDI-P sup-
porters, as became abundantly clear in the 2004 election. But if the party can
avoid making the same mistakes again that it did in the run-up to the 2004 elec-
tion, and if the developments in the Islamic spectrum unfold as described above,
then it is indeed quite possible that Golkar will gain at least some votes from
disenchanted Megawati fans.20
Moreover, if Golkar plays its cards in parliament wisely over the next few
years, there is a good chance that the party can strengthen its hold on power
through electoral engineering. Speculations about more changes to the electoral
system began to emerge as soon as the 2004 poll was over and by the time this
manuscript was finished negotiations about reforming the election laws were
indeed under way in the DPR. While no changes were finalized yet, Golkar
seemed determined to use its experience in parliament to push through some
changes that will further increase the party’s chances to cement its electoral
superiority. In the words of deputy chairman Agung Laksono, ‘Golkar’s political
machine is working to prepare the necessary hardware, particularly better poli-
tical laws . . . to make it ready for the presidential elections.’21
In fact, as early as 2004 some high-ranking Golkar functionaries had hinted at
the possibility that the former regime party might push for the implementation of
a pure district system for the legislative election.22 In anticipation of fierce resis-
tance from the smaller parties to such a reform, however, this option was not
pursued subsequently. More realistic are an overhaul of the electoral schedule in
order to streamline the current electoral marathon process and, perhaps in the
long term, a raising of the electoral threshold.23 Both changes could be sold
easily to the Indonesian people on the grounds of lowering costs of electoral
administration and strengthening the efficiency of the party system. Ultimately,
however, they will be beneficial primarily for Golkar as they are likely to reduce
the number of parties in parliament and thereby increase Golkar’s share of seats.
The scenario outlined in the preceding paragraphs could eventually pave the
way for the emergence of a classical bipolar party system in which Golkar and PKS
will both spearhead powerful blocks, comprised of one dominant and, maybe,
several minor parties. In principle, such a party system would seem to provide for
more stability, but this stability would come at a cost and would almost certainly be
short-lived as question marks remain about the two protagonists’ commitment to
democracy. While Golkar has still not entirely rid itself of its authoritarian past and
continues to tinker with corruption, PKS is yet to elucidate in a satisfactory way
how exactly it intends to blend its vision of an Islamic state with key pillars of
democracy like, for example, freedom of religion. A party system in which these
two parties play the main roles, therefore, would be built on precarious foundations.
Unless Golkar and PKS both adjust their still ambiguous attitudes towards demo-
cracy, further instability would be almost inevitable.
The possibility that this scenario will become reality, however, seems remote
anyway, even if it is not entirely inconceivable. It is unlikely though for two
main reasons. First, it implies that Indonesian party politics will continue to be
shaped strongly by traditional aliran patterns along the Islam versus secularism
dividing line. This presumption runs contrary to recent electoral trends which
point in the opposite direction. While aliran politics may still have some rele-
vance, personalism and clientelism appear to have a much stronger impact on
electoral behaviour than religious considerations. Second, the scenario outlined
above is based on the assumption that, ultimately, institutionalized parties will
have the edge over their weakly institutionalized competitors. But while the
good results for Golkar and PKS in 2004 indicate that this may indeed be true to
a certain extent, the developments of 2004 have also shown that institutionaliza-
tion is not the only road to success in Indonesian party politics. On the contrary,
the strong showing of PD has further strengthened the notion that the most strik-
ing trend is not institutionalization, but rather the increasing personalization of
party politics. There is no reason to believe that this trend will be reversed, espe-
cially not after the introduction of the pilkada has added a new dimension to this
trend.
For a party like Golkar, which is not exactly blessed with charismatic leaders,
this trend may pose some serious challenges. Initially, the party tried to counter
this trend through its convention system which opened the door for party out-
siders to seek nominations from Golkar. However, the primary goal of the presi-
dential convention was not to elect a charismatic candidate from outside the
party, but rather to ensure smooth passage for then-chairman Akbar Tandjung.
The fact that this endeavour failed has certainly not been lost on Golkar’s
current chairman, Jusuf Kalla, who in 2004 dropped out of the convention to
seek the vice-presidential ticket under SBY. Should he decide to vie for the top
job himself in 2009 (which is quite likely), Kalla will watch developments in
and outside his party very carefully before determining the format of the candi-
date selection process. In order to minimize the chances that he may suffer the
same fate as Akbar did in 2004, Kalla has already made it clear that the conven-
tion system will be replaced with a new selection mechanism.24
What exactly this new mechanism will look like will only be decided closer
to the election date. Until then, however, Golkar looks comfortable in its posi-
tion as quasi-government party. While many of the other parties are either
embroiled in internal infighting or have disappeared into the familiar ‘beyond-
election-hibernation,’ the Golkar leadership can basically sit back and relax.
With Kalla performing well in the vice-presidential palace so far, the party can
feel assured of continued access to almost unlimited amounts of patronage
resources, which will certainly come in handy at the next election. Thus, in the
near future, it seems almost inevitable that Golkar will concentrate on exploiting
its strategic advantage of being in power rather than investing resources in cadre
recruitment or the development of a more distinct corporate identity. At this
stage it can still afford to do so, but whether this attitude will prove sustainable
in the long term remains to be seen.
Appendices
Appendix I Composition of Golkar’s central board 1998–2004
Chairman
Akbar Tandjung
Deputy Chairmen
Agung Laksono Theo L. Sambuaga Fahmi Idris
Abdul Gafur Freddy Latumahina Aulia A. Rahman
A. Affifuddin Thaib Irsyad Sudiro Marwah Daud Ibrahim
Sri Redjeki Sumaryoto Slamet Effendy Yusuf Rambe Kamarulzaman
Marzuki Darusman GBPH Joyokusomo Mahadi Sinambela
Secretary-General
Budi Harsono
Deputy Secretary-General
Syamsul Muarif Andi Mattallatta Rully Chairul Azwar
Bomer Pasaribu Mohammad Hatta Adi Sutrisno
Gunarijah R. M. Kartasasmita
Treasurer
Mohamad S. Hidayat
Deputy Treasurer
Iris Indira Murti Enggartiasto Lukita Bobby S. H. Suhardiman
Djoko Purwongemboro Setya Novanto Manimaren (deceased)
Department for Organization, Cadre Recruitment and Membership

Tubagus Haryono Agung Laksono Yahya Zaini
Syamsul Bachri Imannuel E. Blegur Azhar Romli
Department for Election Victories

Ibnu Munzir Slamet Effendy Yusuf Hardisoesilo
Herman Widyananda Asep Ruchimat Sudjana Djusril Djusan
Department for Education, Research and Technology

Burhan D. Magenda Amir L. Sirait Hajriyanto Y. Thohari
194 Appendices
Appendix I continued
Department for Foreign Relations

Darul Siska Said Abu Hasan Sazili Zamharir AR
Francisco Fernandes Chrysanthus Kelana Putrajaya
Da Silva
Department for Youth

Syarfi Hutauruk Ferry Mursyidan Baldan Ahmad Mujib Rohmat
T. M. Nurlif Andi Muhammad
Department for Social Affairs and the Empowerment of Women

Juniwati Masjchun Sofwan Tisnawati Karna Oetarti Soewasono
Department for Finance and Development Supervision, Cooperatives, Small and

Medium Enterprises and Manpower
Azwir Dainy Tara Adi Putra Darmawan Tahir A. Edwin Kawilarang
Burhanuddin Napitupulu Andy Asmara
Department for Law and Legislation

Yuddy Crisnandi Farida Syamsi Chadaria
Lawrence T. P. Siburian Ridwan Sani
Department for Forestry, Agriculture and Fishery

Abu Hanifah Charles J. Mesang
Awal Kusumah Simon P. Morin
Department for Human Resources

Husni Thamrin Saut L. Tobing
Marzuki Achmad Sofhian Mile
Department for Arts, Culture and Tourism

Dharma Oratmangun Hayani Isman Sutoyo
Ali Zulkirim Lym Campay Anton Lesiangi
Department for Defence and Security

Muhammad Muas Joeslin Nasution
Yasril Ananta Baharuddin Watty Amir
Department for Religious Affairs

Hasanuddin Mochdar Aisyah Baidlowi Sylvia Ratnawati
Dicky M. Mailoa Yosep A. Naesoi
Department for Politics and Regional Autonomy

Ibrahim Ambong Aly Yahya
Imam M. Muhardio Anthony Z. Abidin
Department for Human Rights and the Environment

Tisnaya I. Kartakusumah Priyo Budi Santoso
Satya Widya Yudha Sofyan Lubis
Source: www.partai-golkar.or.id (accessed 20 May 2004).

Appendices 195
Appendix II Composition of Golkar’s central board 2004–9
Chairman
Jusuf Kalla
Vice-Chairman
Agung Laksono
Secretary-General
Sumarsono
Deputy Secretary-General
Iskandar Mandji Fatomy Asaari Rully Chairul Azwar
Malkan Amin Simon Patrice Morin Ahmad Noor Supit
Priyo Budi Santoso T. M. Nurlif
Treasurer
Andi Achmad Dara
Deputy Treasurer
Ratu Atut Chosiyah Bobby S. H. Suhardiman Paskah Suzetta
Edward Seky Soeryadjaya Suhaeli Kalla Airlangga Hartarto
Poempida Hidayatulloh
Department for Organization, Cadre Recruitment and Membership

Syamsul Muarif (Chairman)
Syamsul Bachri Farida Syamsi Chadariah
Yudhi Krisnandi Ibnu Munzir
Department for Election Victories

Andi Mattalatta (Chairman)
Leo Nababan Hajriyanto Y.Thohari
Hardisoesilo Hari Salman F. Sohar
Department for Law and Legislation, Human Rights and Regional Autonomy
Muladi (Chairman)
Ariady Achmad Daniel Domoli Simanjuntak
Edison Betaubun Nudirman Munir
Department for Transport, Telecommunication and Information

Theo L. Sambuaga (Chairman)
Bambang Soesatyo Trulyanti Sutrasno
I Gede Nyoman Arsana Husni Thamrin
Department for Public Services and Housing

Burhanuddin Napitupulu (Chairman)
Bambang Riyadi Soegomo Abu Hasan Zazili
Idrus Marham Muhammad Oheo Sinapoy
Department for the Economy and Small and Medium Enterprises

Tadjuddin Noer Said (Chairman)
Muhidin M. Said Melkias Markus Mekeng
Yusuf Sukardi Robert Samson Sumendap
196 Appendices
Appendix II continued
Department for Energy and Natural Resources

Enggartiasto Lukito (Chairman)
Adi Putra Darmawan Tahir Lili Asdjudiredja
Roem Kono Bambang Sutrisno
Department for Social Prosperity

Firman Subagyo (Chairman)
Oelfah A. S. Harmanto Hernani Hurustiati
Syahrul Udjud Unggul Budi Sambodo
Department for Arts, Culture, Tourism and the Empowerment of Women

Juniwati Maschun Sofwan (Chairwoman)
Nurul Arifin Ulla Nuchrachwaty
Rae Sita Supit Dharma Oratmangun
Department for Religious Affairs

Yahya Zaini (Chairman)
Irsyad Djuwaeli Aisyah Hamid Baidlowi Charles Jones Mesang
Hasanuddin Mochdar Nusron Wahid
Department for Education, Youth, Sports and Research and Technology

Yamin Tawari (Chairman)
Tony Uloli Serta Ginting
Mohamad Nasir Tamara Baiq Isvie Rupaeda
Department for Foreign Relations, Defence and Security

Agus Gumiwang Kartasasmita (Chairman)
Yasril Ananta Baharuddin Natsir Mansur
H. Yan Hiksas Muhammad Muas
Department for Agriculture, Forestry, Fishery and the Environment

GBPH Joyokusumo (Chairman)
Anton Lesiangi Marzuki Achmad
Gatot Sudariyono Gde Sumarjaya Linggih
Department for Manpower and Transmigration

Ali Wongso Sinaga (Chairman)
Zainal Bintang Idris Laena
Abu Hanifah Ricky Rachmadi
Chairwoman KPPG
Endang Syarwan Hamid
Chairman AMPG
Yorris T. H. Raweyai
Source: www.golkar.or.id/index6_detail.php?cat_id=37 (accessed 8 December 2006).

Appendices 197
Appendix III Golkar’s election results in 1999 and 2004, all provinces
Province Votes in Votes in Gain/loss DPR Seats DPR seats Gain/loss

% (1999) % (2004) in % (1999) in % (2004)
Aceh 15.6 16.2 +0.6 16.7 15.4 –1.3

North Sumatra 21.8 20.5 –1.3 20.8 20.7 –0.1
West Sumatra 23.6 28.7 +5.1 28.6 28.6 ±0
Riau 29.7 29.9 +0.2 30.0 27.3 –2.7
Jambi 34.7 24.7 –10.0 33.3 28.6 –4.7
South Sumatra 22.1 21.2 –0.9 26.7 25.0 –1.7
Bengkulu 28.9 23.7 –5.2 25.0 25.0 ±0
Lampung 19.4 21.6 +2.2 20.0 23.5 +3.5
Bangka Belitung 18.3 33.3
Kepulauan Riau 15.9 33.3
Jakarta* 10.3 9.2 –1.1 11.1 9.5 –1.6
West Java 23.6 27.9 +4.3 24.4 26.7 +2.3
Central Java 13.4 15.9 +2.5 13.3 15.8 +2.5
Yogyakarta 14.3 13.8 –0.5 16.7 12.5 –4.2
East Java 12.7 13.1 +0.4 13.2 15.1 +1.9
Banten 21.5 22.7
Bali 10.4 16.8 +6.4 11.1 22.2 +11.1
NTB 42.2 24.4 –17.8 44.4 30.0 –14.4
NTT 40.8 37.0 –3.8 46.1 38.5 –7.6
West Kalimantan 29.4 24.5 –4.9 33.3 30.0 –3.3
Central Kalimantan 27.8 25.6 –2.2 33.3 33.3 ±0
South Kalimantan 24.0 20.8 –3.2 27.3 18.2 –9.1
East Kalimantan 29.7 27.4 –2.3 28.6 28.6 ±0
North Sulawesi 49.5 32.3 –17.2 57.1 33.3 –23.8
Central Sulawesi 54.6 38.6 –16.0 60.0 33.3 –26.7
South Sulawesi 66.5 44.3 –22.2 66.7 41.7 –25.0
Southeast Sulawesi 63.1 36.8 –26.3 60.0 40.0 –20.0
Gorontalo 53.1 66.7
Maluku 30.5 20.7 –9.8 33.3 25.0 –8.3
Maluku Utara 23.5 33.3
Irian Jaya Barat 24.8 33.3
Papua 37.3 24.7 –12.6 38.5 20.0 –18.5
National 22.4 21.6 –0.8 26.0 23.1 –2.9
Note
*Includes votes of overseas Indonesians.
Notes
1 Introduction: the remarkable resilience of Golkar

1 Over the years, the New Order regime has been conceptualized from various theoretical
perspectives. Jackson (1978), for example, described it as a bureaucratic polity, while
Crouch (1979) thought of it as a neo-patrimonial regime. After the fall of Suharto, retro-
spective reflections about the New Order have spawned a multitude of new descriptions.
For Liddle (1999: 40), the regime was ‘a complex hierarchy of authoritarian institutions
designed to curtail political participation and enable Suharto and the military to control
society,’ while scholars like Robison and Hadiz (2004) or Chandra and Kammen (2002)
have pointed out that the nature of the regime actually changed over the years. According
to Chandra and Kammen (2002: 96), ‘Suharto’s New Order began as a typical hierarchi-
cal military regime (1965–74), took on additional characteristics of bureaucratic authori-
tarianism (1975–88), and during its last decade came increasingly to resemble a
sultanistic regime (1989–98).’ From Robison and Hadiz’s neo-Marxist perspective, the
New Order looked like a regime that in its early days contained a regulatory financial
apparatus, highly organized political repression, and elements of both corporatism and
patrimonialism. Towards the end, the authors argue, the New Order became ‘a capitalist
oligarchy that fused public authority and private interest, epitomised in the rise of such
families as the Soehartos.’ (Robison and Hadiz 2004: 43).
2 Golkar had been founded in 1964, but remained outside electoral politics until 1971.
3 These are just some of the key functions that political parties are expected to fulfil in
modern democratic states. For a more comprehensive discussion see for example
Diamond (1997), Gunther and Diamond (2001) or Sartori (1976).
4 This understanding follows Sartori’s (1976: 230) definition of hegemonic party
systems as party systems that are
one-party centered and yet display a periphery of secondary and indeed second
class minor parties. [. . .] The hegemonic party neither allows for formal nor de
facto competition for power. Other parties are permitted to exist, but as second
class, licensed parties.
Throughout this book, Golkar will mostly be referred to as a ‘former hegemonic
party,’ but at times the term ‘former regime party’ will also be used to highlight the
party’s association with the New Order regime.
5 Amien Rais, in an interview with the Bali Post newspaper (1 July 1998), as quoted in
Soebekti et al. (2002: 52).
6 ‘Partai Golkar Kembali,’ Kompas, 13 April 2004.
7 Private communication with former Golkar executive, 18 August 2004.
8 Having said that, party institutionalization is of course not the only concept in poli-
tical science that suffers from this problem. Any study about power, for example,
faces the same problem and yet power is a widely studied concept.
Notes 199
9 All interviewees who did not raise any objections against the use of their details are
listed at the end of this book; those who preferred to remain anonymous have been
omitted from this list. Where data is taken from such interviews, some brief back-
ground information about the interviewee is provided in the text.
10 ‘Prediksi Pemilu Sulsel: Mengepung Lumbung Golkar,’ Kompas, 26 February 2004.
2 Theoretical reflections: protracted transitions, uneven party

institutionalization and the special role of former hegemonic
parties
1 In addition, Randall (2006) also lists the negative side effects of ‘accelerated globaliza-
tion’ as another reason behind the problems of many parties in the developing world.
2 While electoral democracy is a widely used umbrella term for all democratic regimes,
political scientists have also identified various subtypes of electoral democracy – so-
called ‘defective democracies’ (Merkel 2004). The most common of these subtypes
appear to be ‘delegative democracies’ (O’Donnell 1994) and ‘illiberal democracies’
(Zakaria 1997, 2003) but Merkel (2004) has also listed ‘exclusive democracies’ and
‘tutelary democracies.’
3 In fact, Levitsky himself has, in an article co-authored with Gretchen Helmke, used
the term ‘protracted democratic transition’ for the Mexican case (Helmke and Levit-
sky 2004: 729).
4 The circumstances of the fall of Suharto have been dealt with extensively elsewhere
and will not be recapitulated here in detail. For good accounts of the events that led to
Suharto’s downfall see for example Aspinall et al. (1999), Van Dijk (2001), Emmer-
son (1999), Forrester and May (1998), Luhulima (2001), Schwarz (1999) or Ufen
(2002).
5 Furthermore, the new parties were also reluctant to get involved in the lawmaking
process because they were uncertain about what election system would actually be
most beneficial for them. As Malley (2000: 171) pointed out, ‘they could not gauge
the impact of the change on their electoral performance. None had ever competed,
and few even knew how strong their organizations would be at election time.’
6 The so-called ‘Regional Representatives Council’ (Dewan Perwakilan Daerah, DPD)
is not really a second chamber in the true sense of the word as it does not have the
power to actually pass legislation. Its functions are mainly advisory, putting it in a
much weaker position than upper houses in countries like the United States, the
United Kingdom or Australia. See Sherlock (2006) for more details.
7 See for example the election observation reports by the Australian Parliamentary
Observer Delegation (2004) or the European Union Election Observation Mission to
Indonesia (2004).
8 According to Webber (2006) Indonesia is a ‘patrimonial democracy,’ but that appears
to be little more than yet another new sub-category of an electoral democracy.
9 According to a report by Indonesia Corruption Watch (2006), between 2005 and mid-
2006 alone a total of 328 local parliamentarians stood trial in 55 different corruption
cases.
10 In a widely quoted report, Transparency International (2004a) named Suharto as the
world’s most corrupt politician of the last two decades; he was alleged to have stolen
between US$15 billion and 35 billion.
11 Among the most prominent court trials that eventually ended in acquittals for con-
victed corruptors were those of former Bank Indonesia governor Syahril Sabirin (con-
victed to three years in jail in March 2002, acquitted in August 2002) and of course
former Golkar chairman Akbar Tandjung whose prolonged but eventually ‘success-
ful’ legal battle will be covered in more detail in Chapter 4. For a detailed overview
of the Bank Bali scandal, see for example Indonesia Corruption Watch (2003).
12 Particularly disturbing in this regard were the acquittals of high-ranking security
200 Notes
officials in the ad hoc trials that supposedly investigated human rights violations in
East Timor in 1999 and in Jakarta’s port district Tanjung Priok in 1984. See for
example ‘Sriyanto Juga Dibebaskan Pengadilan,’ Kompas, 13 August 2004; ‘Mayjen
(Purn) Pranowo Dibebaskan Pengadilan,’ Kompas, 11 August 2004; ‘Police and
Army Officers Acquitted of Rights Abuses,’ Jakarta Post, 16 August 2002.
13 According to the law on the composition of the MPR, DPR and DPRD (Law No.
22/2003), which was passed in 2003, the legislature only consists of elected members.
See Komisi Pemilihan Umum (2003) for more details.
14 The military bill (Law No. 34/2004) was passed in September 2004. Although
reformist legislators pushed through the scrapping of some of the most controversial
paragraphs proposed by the TNI leadership, the new legislation still contains several
blurry formulations that primarily serve the military’s conservative views on defence
and internal security (International Crisis Group 2004).
15 See for example Haris (2005a), Tan (2002, 2006), Romli et al. (2003), Sugiarto
(2006) or Ufen (2006).
16 There is indeed no doubt that electoral systems continue to be of enormous signific-
ance for the development of parties and party systems, as is evident, for example, in
the changing contours of party politics in some Asian countries in the wake of a
recent wave of electoral engineering (Reilly 2007).
17 In one of his earlier works, Mainwaring (1999: 18) tells the reader that his study
‘moves back and forth’ between party and party system institutionalization. In
another, more recent work, co-authored with Torcal, he stresses that the focus is
firmly on party systems while at the same time conceding that the relationship
between party and party system institutionalization may not always be linear (Main-
waring and Torcal 2005: 28). Despite the concession, however, the key components
of the model have remained essentially unchanged.
18 Several colleagues who provided comments on earlier drafts of this book have
objected to the use of the term ‘systemness.’ Indeed, even Randall and Svåsand did
not use this word in the original version of their 2002a article, which was published a
year earlier in an edited volume (Haynes 2001b). In a paper delivered to an academic
conference in 2006, Randall called this dimension of party institutionalization
‘organizational systemness.’ For this book, I have decided to label this dimension sys-
temness/party organization in the matrix that helps to illustrate the model. For the
remainder of the book, however, I will resort to the short version ‘systemness’ as sug-
gested by Randall and Svåsand (2002a), even though I do acknowledge the linguistic
awkwardness of the term.
19 Here, the dimension of systemness overlaps with the other structural dimension as
indeed the concentration of power in the hands of a charismatic leader also inhibits
institutionalization in the area of decisional autonomy. Chapter 4 will examine this
phenomenon in regards to Golkar.
20 This does not necessarily refer to the increasing importance of TV campaigns. In fact,
a television set is still considered a luxury in large parts of the world so that campaign
rallies are often still the best way to reach voters. Accordingly, ‘old-fashioned, face-
to-face politicking costs more than the new mass-marketing media-heavy approach’
(Pinto-Duschinsky 2002: 83).
21 Significantly, the impact of corruption on institutionalization is not only visible in the
dimension of systemness. As we shall see throughout this study, the prospects for
institutionalization in the dimensions of decisional autonomy and reification are also
directly influenced by the prevalence of corruption.
22 Helmke and Levitsky (2004: 728) list informal bureaucratic decision-making proce-
dures as well as judicial norms as examples for such so-called ‘complementary infor-
mal institutions.’
23 According to Beller and Belloni (1978: 419) a faction is defined as ‘any relatively
organized group that exists within the context of some other group and which (as a
Notes 201
political faction) competes with rivals for power advantages within the larger group
of which it is a part.’
24 See Bettcher (2005) for a slightly modified version of this characterization of fac-
tions.
25 This line of argument is, as we shall see later on, closely linked to issues of value
infusion.
26 Scholars who have focused on party system institutionalization like Mainwaring
(1999) have treated autonomy as part of the organizational dimension, an approach
that has also been applied in the context of Indonesia (Tan 2002, 2006).
27 See Chapter 7 for a discussion of PKB and other Indonesian parties.
28 For Turkey, see for example Franz (1999) or Hale (1994); for Thailand see Bünte
(2000) or Maisrikod (1992).
29 Sinn Fein is the political arm of the Irish Republican Army (IRA) while Herri Bata-
suna represents the interests of the Basque Homeland and Freedom (Euskadi Ta
Askatasuna, ETA).
30 Given the de facto disbandment of GAM as a guerrilla force and the fragmentation of
its leadership into several factions, however, it seems unlikely that these parties will
face external interference.
31 Thailand’s Thai Rak Thai Party under the leadership of former Prime Minister
Thaksin Shinawatra and Silvio Berlusconi’s Forza Italia are obvious examples.
32 See Nair (2007) for an interesting discussion about the failed efforts of Malaysia’s
reformasi movement to overcome the salience of ethnicity in that country’s political
party landscape.
33 See for example Mainwaring’s review of Van Cott’s book in the Fall 2006 edition of
Political Science Quarterly.
34 However, the effects of such measures do not always match the expectations of the
lawmakers. In Thailand, for example, widespread corruption and money politics have
long undermined efforts to streamline the party system. In Indonesia, the country
which according to Reilly (2007: 64) ‘has taken the engineering of party systems the
farthest,’ electoral threshold regulations have been widely criticized for their lack of
functionality and practicality (Mietzner 2006) since parties which fail to meet the
threshold can simply reconstitute themselves under a new name. Outside Asia, the
same thing happened in some cases where parties were banned. In Turkey, for
example, the Refah Party reconstituted itself under the name Fazilet Partisi. Even
worse, in Algeria the FIS resorted to terrorism after it was banned in 1989.
35 Rüland (2001: 47–8) specifies this argument by referring to the special relevance of
the military as the epitome of authoritarian rule in many developing world countries.
Thailand is one country where the military has established its own party, but in most
cases the armed forces prefer to sustain their political influence by supporting one of
the formally civilian parties.
36 Certain aspects of institutionalization in two different dimensions tend to be inter-
related though. For example, factionalism is more likely to have a negative impact on
systemness in a party that is weakly institutionalized in terms of value infusion than
in a party with strong political values. Also, the availability of financial resources is a
relevant issue for both systemness and decisional autonomy, even though the analyti-
cal focus may be slightly different.
37 For example, decisional autonomy and value infusion often pull in opposite directions
as the examples of PKB and PAN in Indonesia show (see Chapter 7). Due to their
close links with religious mass organizations, both parties are highly institutionalized
in terms of value infusion but poorly institutionalized in terms of decisional auto-
nomy.
38 The emphasis on competitiveness is important here as party systems in authoritarian or
semi-authoritarian regimes are usually also very stable, although the parties that consti-
tute the system may not be institutionalized at all (Randall and Svåsand 2002a: 7).
202 Notes
39 For discussions of the impact of electoral rules on party systems and democratic gov-
ernance see Farrell (1997), Lijphardt (1991), Reynolds and Reilly (1997) or
Taagepera (1998).
40 Interestingly, mixed electoral systems have indeed become increasingly popular in
recent years, especially in Asia. In contrast to what Merkel had proposed, however –
and what is commonplace in some established Western democracies – few countries
have adopted systems with equally weighted PR and majoritarian elements. Instead,
‘most Asian mixed systems are highly majoritarian in both design and practice’
(Reilly 2007: 61).
41 The bad image of parties has been described for numerous countries and regions,
including Russia and other Eastern European countries (Lewis 2000, Remington
1999), Brazil (Mainwaring 1999) and of course Indonesia (Tan 2002). See also the
annual surveys by Transparency International (2005, 2006, 2007) on perceptions of
parties and parliaments in the context of political corruption.
42 For example, in the context of Eastern European transitions, several scholars have
pointed to the importance of distinguishing between different institutional and cul-
tural specifics of the previous regime type in order to explain the evolution of trans-
formed communist parties (March 2002, Kitschelt et al. 1999, Ishiyama 1997).
43 Support for the CPRF has declined in recent years though. After strong performances
in the 1995 and 1999 elections, where it garnered more than 20 per cent of the vote,
the party only reached 13 and 11.6 per cent in the last two parliamentary elections in
2003 and 2007 respectively.
44 This argument is underlined by Mexican election results. Though the PRI lost badly
in some of the urban centres during elections in the 1990s, the party continued to be
strong in the more rural parts of Mexico (Philip 2002: 143).
3 Systemness: deconstructing the myth of Golkar’s party

machinery
1 Among those who did make predictions, Fachri Ali proved to be best fortune-teller
as he tipped Golkar to win 21 per cent in the poll. Other observers who came close
to the real figures included Andi Mallarangeng who predicted 25 per cent for Golkar
and Cornelis Lay who said the party would win 16 per cent. Others like J. Kristiadi
(11 per cent) and Lance Castles (10 per cent) were way off the mark. See Legowo
(1999) for details.
2 Interpretations of Golkar’s 1999 result vary greatly, but Suryadinata’s assessment
seems to be the most accurate. Budiman (1999: 15) described it as a ‘surprising
victory of Golkar,’ but that seems far too positive in view of PDI-P’s 33 per cent. In
contrast to Budiman and Suryadinata, other observers have described the former
government party as the ‘clear loser’ (Young 1999: 7) or the ‘big loser’ (Bourchier
2000: 20) of the election, which in turn appears a bit harsh given the fact that it won
far more votes than new parties like PKB or PAN.
3 The origins of Suharto’s decision to use Golkar for electoral purposes are, as Elson
(2001: 186) points out, ‘difficult to disentangle’. Apparently Suharto also contem-
plated using the PNI for his purposes because this party had an established organi-
zational structure and was supported by large parts of the bureaucracy. Another
option was the creation of a completely new party, but eventually Golkar emerged as
the best solution because of its strong army backing and its aloofness from tradi-
tional party politics (Elson 2001: 186, Lidsker 1992: 24).
4 Apart from such ‘ “bulldozer” tactics’ (Crouch 1988: 269), the regime also sought to
weaken the parties through institutional engineering. The new election laws which
were passed in 1969, for example, gave the government significant leverage to inter-
fere in the parties’ internal affairs. Furthermore, the ‘monoloyalty’ decrees from
1969 and 1970 prohibited civil servants from joining official political parties and
Notes 203
required them to vote for Golkar. Finally, a screening system for all party candidates
was introduced in order to expel candidates with alleged links to the PKI. Before the
1971 elections, more than 3,800 candidates were screened and a total of 735 did not
receive the authorities’ approval (Van Dijk 1992: 53).
5 Lemarchand (1972) had argued that these two types should be distinguished from
each other, but the case of Golkar shows that a party can combine both types of
party machine.
6 It should be noted that Scott (1972: 94) had stressed the ‘face-to-face, personal
quality’ as a defining characteristic of patron–clientelism. However, as explained in
Chapter 2, clientelism can also be understood in a more abstract sense, when parties
as organizations, and not individuals, act as patrons.
7 Kosgoro, MKGR and Soksi, all founded between 1957 and 1962 and collectively
known as the Trikarya, were army-sponsored organizations which conducted
various socio-economic activities in order to counter the rising influence of the PKI.
For more details on these organizations see Pandiangan (1996), Reeve (1985) or
Suryadinata (1989).
8 According to Ricklefs (2001: 384), the party claimed to have 25 million members in
1988. Van Dijk (1992: 58) speaks of 30 million party members, while Ufen (2002:
278) quotes party sources that claim a membership of about 35 million in 1998, plus
the ten million cadres who have at least completed simple Pancasila courses.
9 The Dewan Pembina had existed since 1973 but only at Golkar’s third national con-
gress (Musyawarah Nasional or Munas III) in 1983 were its powers substantially
extended.
10 Interestingly, Sudharmono was actually an ABRI man who carried the rank of
lieutenant-general. However, he was never recognized as representing the armed
forces since he had no battle experience and had served most of his career in the
state bureaucracy (Vatikiotis 1993: 84).
11 Clearly visible indicators for the incremental Islamization of Indonesia were the
establishment of the Indonesian Muslim Intellectuals Association (Ikatan Cendeki-
awan Muslim Se-Indonesia, ICMI) in December 1990, Suharto’s pilgrimage to
Mecca in 1991 and the opening of Indonesia’s first Islamic bank in May 1992
(Porter 2002: 88).
12 Among the most prominent names in the Habibie-camp were then-secretary-general
of the Supervisory Council Akbar Tandjung, economic czar and Supervisory
Council member Ginanjar Kartasasmita, ICMI leader Haryanto Dhanutirto, the
newly appointed commander-in-chief of the armed forces, General Feisal Tanjung,
and Information Minister Harmoko. Together with Habibie, they became known as
the ‘Team of Six’ (Tim Enam), a powerful informal group bound together by their
Islamic identity and their strong power aspirations for the approaching post-Suharto
period (Institut Studi Arus Informasi 1999).
13 On a website run by people close to the former dictator, Suharto has rejected claims
that the funds of Yayasan Dakab were exclusively for Golkar. However, he admitted
that ‘Golkar received what they needed’ and that the party received ‘the biggest
share of the funds.’ See www.soehartocenter.com/yayasan/dakab/index.shtml
(accessed 20 March 2006).
14 Additional resources for Golkar’s election campaigns came from Suharto’s cronies
who ‘furnished virtually unlimited funds to cover whatever Golkar needed to secure
the victory’ (Haris 2004: 29). In contrast to Golkar, PPP and PDI were generally
shunned by the business community so that the opposition parties depended on small
government subsidies and the minimal funds they generated from membership fees
(Juoro 1998: 208).
15 During the New Order the number of civil servants rose from 515,000 (1970) to
more than four million in the mid-1990s (Ufen 2002).
16 See Chapter 4 for further details on this.
204 Notes
17 In 1999, Golkar had also won seats in every province, but back then it had to share
the honour with PDI-P which had also managed to win seats in every province.
18 The party constitution and standing orders formally distinguish between party
members and cadres. Eligibility criteria for simple membership include age
(members must be at least 17 years’ old or already married), literacy, willingness to
follow party activities, acceptance of the party’s formal institutions and political
platform, as well as a voluntary expression of interest in becoming a party member.
Cadres, on the other hand, form the core of the party and need to prove that they
fulfil a number of special criteria including mental ideology, achievements, dedica-
tion, discipline, loyalty, lawfulness, leadership and independence. Party cadres also
have to pass a political education and training programme. See DPP Partai Golkar
(2003a: 9/20–2) for details on the formal differentiation.
19 According to the data presented by Tandjung (2007: 115), the number of Golkar’s
cadres and members nearly doubled between October 2003 and March 2004, from
7,405,566 to 14,732,556. While it is understandable that party membership increases
before an election, there is ample reason to believe that the Golkar’s administration
of membership data is rather inaccurate, not least because Akbar Tandjung himself
called for the establishment of a modern membership database in the run-up to the
party’s national congress in December 2004. See ‘Mereka Berlomba Memanjat
Puncak Beringin,’ Kompas, 16 December 2004.
20 ‘Golkar Registers for 2004 Election,’ Jakarta Post, 17 April 2003.
21 The KPU had ruled that a party could only register a maximum of 660 candidates
(120 per cent of the 550 seats to be contested) for the legislative election. Golkar
was the only party to reach this benchmark, while PPP (628) and PDI-P (615) were
the only others to submit more than 600 names. See ‘Sebanyak 24 Parpol Serahkan
Daftar Caleg ke KPU,’ Kompas, 30 December 2003.
22 Altogether, Golkar registered 811 campaigners. Other parties were only able to
mobilize far smaller numbers, for instance PPP 572, PDI-P 571 or PKB 549. Online,
available at www.kpu.go.id/kampanye/lihat-dalam.php?ID=3&cat=Kampanye
(accessed 12 March 2004).
23 Moreover, as we shall see in Chapter 7, Golkar is by no means the only party that
claims to have such a comprehensive organizational infrastructure. According to
official figures, most other parties also possess a nationwide party apparatus and yet,
the real scope of their territorial reach is in fact limited. Hence, the explanatory
value of statistical figures is clearly insufficient in this regard.
24 Interview with journalists from local newspapers in Makassar, South Sulawesi, 1
July 2004.
25 See Chapters 4 and 5 for more details on Golkar’s performance during the pilkada.
26 This is not to say that Syachrul will turn his back on Golkar for good. On the con-
trary, despite running on behalf of another party in the 2007 election, he has
remained a top Golkar official and is even likely to vie for the provincial chairman-
ship in the future.
27 As we shall see in Chapter 5, an important part of the problem for Golkar is that
apart from patronage resources it has few other incentives to keep its members and
supporters committed to the party.
28 Despite numerous attempts during the time of his fieldwork this researcher was
unsuccessful in his efforts to conduct an interview with Akbar Tandjung. Accord-
ingly, the personal views of the former party leader could not be accommodated in
the following analysis. It should be noted, however, that in late 2007 – just before
this book went to press – Akbar published his own account of Golkar’s performance
in the post-Suharto period (Tandjung 2007). Wherever useful, excerpts from this
book have been provided as a reference.
29 Akbar Tandjung was the first-ever Golkar chairman in the party’s history who was
elected in an open contest. The right to vote was in the hands of Golkar’s then 27
Notes 205
provincial chapters and although the majority of these chapters were headed by
retired military men who were believed to be sympathetic to Akbar’s challenger Edi
Sudrajat, Akbar won the contest by 17 votes to 10 (Crouch 1999: 131–2).
30 Furthermore, Akbar also successfully negotiated cabinet posts for some of his
closest allies such as Bomer Pasaribu and Mahadi Sinambela. Altogether, Golkar
secured four cabinet posts in Wahid’s first cabinet (Ufen 2002: 535).
31 His cabinet posts included jobs as State Minister for Youth and Sports (1988–93)
and State Minister for Housing (1993–8).
32 He was State Secretary in the short-lived Habibie administration (1998–9) though.
33 In his capacity as house speaker, Akbar was instrumental in negotiating the compo-
sition of house commissions and in determining the outcome of parliamentary pro-
cedures and the discussions of draft legislation. For a detailed analysis of the
structure and functioning of the Indonesian parliament and the special role of the
house speaker, see Sherlock (2003).
34 While Mahadi and Bomer were chosen to represent Golkar in Gus Dur’s cabinet,
Rambe Kamarulzaman became the first chairman of Golkar’s new youth organi-
zation AMPG (Angkatan Muda Partai Golkar, Golkar Party Youth Brigade) in
2000. Mohammad Hatta was appointed chairman of Golkar’s DPR fraction in 2003.
35 Yahya Zaini for example was named a direct aide of fraction chairman Mohammad
Hatta, while other young cadres like Ferry Mursyidan Baldan or Ade Komaruddin
have played crucial roles in the parliament’s influential commissions.
36 Iramasuka (literally: happy melody) is short for IRian Jaya, MAluku, SUlawesi, and
KAlimantan.
37 Interview with B. J. Habibie, 18 July 2003.
38 Akbar Tandjung is a native Batak from North Sumatra, but he is sometimes
described as more Javanese than his Solo-born wife.
39 Interview with a member of Golkar’s central board, 4 May 2004.
40 Fahmi, a former student activist and successful businessman, was born in Jakarta.
41 ‘Golkar Plots Its Comeback,’ The Economist, 4 August 2001.
42 At the occasion of Golkar’s 36th anniversary, Akbar harshly criticized the Wahid
government for its failure to combat corruption. A public outcry followed, forcing
Golkar back on the defensive. See ‘Akbar: Gus Dur Lebih Jelek Dari Orba,’ Media
Indonesia, 23 October 2000.
44 See Chapter 4 for more details on Akbar’s corruption trial.
45 ‘Golkar ‘Rebels’ Join Call for Akbar’s Suspension,’ Jakarta Post, 23 October 2002.
46 ‘Golkar to Finish Fourth Due to Akbar Factor: Fahmi,’ Jakarta Post, 26 October
2002. Another vice-chairman who was rumoured to support the bid to unseat Akbar
was Agung Laksono, but in contrast to Fahmi and Theo, Agung never expressed his
ambitions publicly.
47 Most members of the Iramasuka faction were Muslims, some with ties to the Islamic
think tank ICMI.
48 ‘Akbar Ready to Lead Golkar from behind Bars,’ Jakarta Post, 14 October 2002.
49 In the various polls before the presidential elections Akbar’s popularity index had
never reached double digits. For an overview of various survey results see Sebastian
(2004).
50 As Golkar vice-chairman Slamet Effendy Yusuf explained, ‘a settled system like the
one applied in the United States may not be suitable for a country like Indonesia.’
He did not elaborate though. See ‘The Show Must Go On, With or Without Akbar,’
Van Zorge Report, 24 February 2003.
51 Officially, they argued that this would enhance the legitimacy of the elected candi-
date, but basically they knew that only with the inclusion of the district chapters did
they have a realistic chance of challenging Akbar. See ‘Beringin Mencari Presiden,’
Tempo, 28 April–4 May 2003.
206 Notes
52 See ‘Kandas, Penggelembungan Hak Suara DPP di Konvensi,’ Kompas, 1 May
2003.
53 Sultan Hamengkubuwono X. had also qualified for the convention, but had with-
drawn after Akbar Tandjung’s acquittal by the Supreme Court. Another contender,
Jusuf Kalla, had pulled out of the convention at the last minute after teaming up with
Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono on a separate ticket. See ‘Kalla Siap Dampingi SBY,’
Suara Merdeka, 19 April 2004.
54 See for example, ‘Siapakah Pemenang Konvensi Partai Golkar?,’ Suara Pembaruan,
19 April 2004; or ‘Akbar dan Wiranto Bersaing Ketat,’ Suara Merdeka, 15 April
2004.
55 After none of the five candidates had received an absolute majority in the first round,
Wiranto thrashed Akbar in the second round with 315 to 227 votes. Four votes were
spoiled, while one delegate abstained. See ‘Wiranto Capres Golkar,’ Media Indone-
sia, 21 April 2004.
56 Seven provincial chapters did not even include Akbar in their lists of five nominees
for the national convention. These seven provinces were West Sumatra, Central
Java, Yogyakarta, South Kalimantan, East Nusa Tenggara, Southeast Sulawesi and
North Maluku. See ‘Tiba di Mata, Konvensi Dipicingkan,’ Tempo, 20–6 October
2003.
57 Personal communication with convention participants, 20 April 2004.
58 During his campaign in the run-up to the convention, Akbar had repeatedly accused
his competitors of showing little commitment to Golkar in the immediate aftermath
of Suharto’s fall. Pointing to his role as the most conspicuous target for criticism
directed at Golkar after 1998, Akbar frequently stressed that only he himself had
shown the courage to defend Golkar against attacks from non-governmental organi-
zations, student activists and other political parties. At the convention, he repeated
these accusations in his final speech to the assembled delegates from all over
Indonesia. Personal observation at convention, 20 April 2004.
59 I am grateful to J. Kristiadi for pointing out this factor to me.
60 ‘Menang Berkat Jual Beli Suara,’ Fajar, 26 April 2004.
61 Personal communications with local Golkar members in North and South Sulawesi
between June and July 2004.
62 ‘Golkar-PKB Bantah Tidak Kompak,’ Kompas, 9 June 2004.
63 After the presidential election, a close confidant of Akbar’s indirectly confirmed that
Golkar had held back funding for Wiranto. Alleging that Wiranto had simply mis-
calculated his budget and spent too much money for vote-buying at the convention,
he argued that it was not the responsibility of Golkar to provide the funds for
Wiranto’s campaign: ‘We [the party] do not have money for his campaign. It is his
own problem if he spends all his money on the convention to buy the votes and then
runs out of money during the campaign; we cannot support him, the party does not
have money.’ Interview with a former member of Golkar’s central board, 6 August
2004.
64 Interview with Marzuki Darusman, 14 September 2004; personal communication
with a member of Golkar’s Research and Development Department, 11 August
2004.
65 According to a report in Tempo news magazine, Megawati had offered Golkar at
least Rp.100 billion if the party supported her bid for the presidency. Some
observers, however, claim this was an understatement or, as Faisal Basrie called it,
‘a conservative guess.’ See ‘Lain Pucuk, Lain Akar dan Ranting,’ Tempo, 16–22
August 2004; interviews with Faisal Basri, 14 September 2004 and Ryaas Rasyid,
31 August 2004.
66 At least eight cabinet positions were rumoured to be reserved for Golkar, and not
surprisingly, all of them were to be distributed to Akbar loyalists. See ‘Koalisi
Bermesin Iming-Iming,’ Tempo, 30 August–5 September 2004.
Notes 207
67 See ‘Rapim Golkar Dukung Penuh Pencalonan Mega-Hasyim,’ Kompas, 16 August
2004.
68 Personal communication with member of the provincial parliament (Dewan Perwak-
ilan Rakyat Daerah, DPRD) South Sulawesi, 30 June 2004.
69 See ‘Koalisi Menabrak Tembok,’ Gatra, 20 August 2004.
70 West Java had been one of the few real success stories for Golkar in the legislative
elections. With 27.9 per cent, the party gained 4 per cent compared with the 1999
election results, when it had only managed to win 23.6 per cent of the vote. In fact,
West Java was one of only eight provinces where Golkar actually gained votes com-
pared to 1999, and one of only five where these gains exceeded 1 per cent. The other
provinces were Bali (up from 10.4 to 16.8 per cent, +6.4), West Sumatra (up from
23.6 to 28.7 per cent, +5.1), Central Java (up from 13.4 to 15.9 per cent, +2.5) and
Lampung (up from 19.4 to 21.6 per cent, +2.2).
71 See ‘ “Perpecahan” di Partai Politik: Buah Personalisasi Politik,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 6
September 2004.
72 ‘Ibarat Daud Melawan Goliat,’ Tempo, 6–12 September 2004.
73 Interview with Fahmi Idris, 13 August 2004.
74 After SBY’s victory, Fahmi Idris was appointed Minister of Manpower and Trans-
migration. In 2005, he survived a cabinet reshuffle and moved on to become Minis-
ter for Industry. In contrast, Marzuki Darusman was not included in SBY’s cabinet.
75 Interestingly, Kalla and Muladi were only suspended from their positions in the
central board, but not from their party membership. Conversely, Fahmi Idris,
Marzuki Darusman, Burhanuddin Napitupulu, Yuniwati Masjchun Sofwan, Anton
Lesiangi, Abu Hanifah, Abu Hasan Sadjili, Priyo Budi Santoso and Yuslin Nasution
were all dealt the ultimate penalty – dismissal from the central board and from the
party. Additionally, three other supporters of the Reform Forum who did not hold
any positions in the central board were temporarily stripped of their party member-
ship. These were Edison Betaubun, Yorris Raweyai and Malkan Amin. See ‘Golkar
Pecat Pengurus dan Kader “Mbalela” ,’ Suara Merdeka, 16 September 2004.
76 In his own book, Akbar justified the harsh penalties against the dissidents by
describing their actions as a ‘political rebellion [which] caused a lot of questions and
confusion amongst cadres in the regions’ (Tandjung 2007: 125).
77 The lack of cooperation between oppositional figures was criticized by one of the
dismissed Reform Forum founders, Muladi, who argued that Akbar could only be
toppled if Wiranto and Surya Paloh united and agreed on some sort of power-
sharing deal. See ‘Wiranto, Akbar Tandjung, dan Surya Paloh Dominasi Bursa
Calon Ketua Umum Partai Golkar,’ Kompas, 24 November 2004.
78 After the dismissal of the members of the Reform Forum, resistance against Akbar
in the DPP was far less pronounced.
79 ‘DPD II Partai Golkar Tak Punya Hak Suara,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 11 December 2004.
80 Just before the congress, Agung had briefly contemplated running for the top job
himself, but he gave up that plan when Jusuf Kalla entered the fray.
81 Agung was chairman of AMPI between 1983 and 1988 and has been chairman of
Kosgoro 1957 since 2002. For more details on Agung Laksono, see www.tokohindone-
sia.com/ensiklopedi/a/agung-laksono/index.shtml (accessed 1 February 2006).
82 Surya Paloh, who was never an active member of the armed forces, was one of the
founding members of FKPPI and chaired the organization between 1979 and 1983.
He also has links with AMPI, where he is a member of the Advisory Council. Surya,
however, is most famous for his media empire, which comprises, among other
companies, the newspaper Media Indonesia and the television channel Metro TV.
Online, available at www.tokohindonesia.com/ensiklopedi/s/surya-paloh/index.
shtml (accessed 1 February 2006).
83 After the last-minute changes, voting rights had eventually been granted to the
central board, all provincial and all district boards, AMPG and KPPG, and the entire
208 Notes
Hasta Karya. Altogether, the number of votes eventually amounted to 484. In the
final round of the contest, there were two abstentions and three invalid votes. See
‘Jusuf Kalla Ketua Umum DPP Golkar 2004–2009,’ Tempo Interaktif, 19 December
2004; ‘Akbar Mengaku Dikeroyok,’ Suara Merdeka, 20 December 2004.
84 ‘ “Blitzkrieg” Jusuf Kalla Berhasil,’ Kompas, 20 December 2004.
85 This may be true for all parties, but Golkar’s appetite seems to be particularly fierce.
In contrast to other parties such as, for example, PDI-P, Golkar has demonstrated
that its cadres will not hesitate to remove their leader if he fails to deliver access to
power.
86 As quoted in ‘Akbar Tandjung’s Event-filled Political Career Grinds to Halt,’
Jakarta Post, 20 December 2004.
87 Not surprisingly, congress participants were generally tight-lipped about the preva-
lence of money politics. Newspaper reports alleged that candidates and their allies
paid up to Rp.350 million to secure the support of provincial boards, whereas district
boards received up to Rp.75 million. See ‘Penguasa dan Pengusaha Kuasai Golkar,’
Kompas, 22 December 2004.
88 As quoted in ‘Akbar Tandjung’s Event-filled Political Career Grinds to Halt,’
Jakarta Post, 20 December 2004.
89 ‘Kalla’s Rise Reignites Fears,’ Jakarta Post, 20 December 2004.
90 ‘Jusuf Kalla: “Saya Memang Oportunis” ,’ Tempo, 2 May 2004.
91 Interview with Mahadi Sinambela, 6 August 2004. Unfortunately, no official data
were available to verify this but, given the relatively low socio-economic status of
Golkar’s grassroots constituency, it is indeed likely that the party does not generate
any substantial income from its rank and file.
92 After 1998 Golkar not only lost access to the financial resources of Suharto’s notori-
ous foundations, but also lost its monopoly on non-budgetary funds from state-
owned cash-cows like Pertamina or Bulog.
93 This is indeed not an exclusively Indonesian phenomenon, but a natural condition of
party finance all over the world.
94 See Chapter 4 for details on how money compromises Golkar’s decisional auto-
nomy.
95 For the 2009 election, these limits are set to be raised quite substantially. The draft
of the new party law, which was passed by the DPR in December 2007, states that
individuals will be allowed to donate up to Rp.1 billion while the limit for private
enterprises was raised to Rp.4 billion. See ‘Pemilik Modal Bisa Kontrol Partai
Politik,’ Koran Tempo, 6 December 2007.
96 For the 2009 election, the law on general elections will, just like the law on political
parties, also be replaced by a new bill. By the time this book went to press, however,
negotiations about the exact wording of the document continued in the DPR and no
draft bill had been passed.
97 Many parties, for example, ignored the request to submit an audited financial report.
Altogether, only 13 parties submitted their financial reports in accordance with the
formal guidelines, but only four, including Golkar, had done so before the deadline.
See ‘Political Parties Ignore Campaign Fund Regulation,’ Jakarta Post, 24 Decem-
ber 2004.
98 See comments by Agung Laksono in ‘Golkar Pungut Rp.100 Juta Dari Caleg Jadi,’
Media Indonesia, 26 February 2004.
99 ‘Golkar Pungut Rp. 100 Juta Dari Caleg Jadi,’ Media Indonesia, 26 February 2004.
100 ‘Parties Not Transparent about Legislative Poll Funding,’ Jakarta Post, 29 May
2004.
101 See comments by Baharuddin Aritonang in ‘How Costly Was Your Campaign?,’
Jakarta Post, 5 April 2004.
102 Interview with Golkar legislative candidate, 26 August 2004.
103 These computations are based on data taken from Tim Litbang Kompas (2000,
Notes 209
2005) and are similar to those of Sugiarto (2006: 92). Suryadinata (2002: 121), on
the other hand, has put the number of entrepreneurs for the 1999–2004 period much
lower (21.7 per cent). His data, however, appear to be based on what legislators
named as their most recent occupation in the KPU datasheets. Significantly, this
method of counting excludes, for example, all those entrepreneurial legislators who
had already been in parliament in the 1997–9 period because they would count as
politicians and not as businessmen. In the context of this study, however, it is con-
sidered more meaningful to include all legislators with a background in business,
regardless of when they abandoned their entrepreneurial activities.
104 Prabowo’s name is probably more closely associated with the military and his career
in the special forces, but it is significant to note that after his expulsion from the
armed forces in 1998, Prabowo also made his name as a businessman.
105 ‘Penguasa dan Pengusaha Kuasai Golkar,’ Kompas, 22 December 2004.
106 Interview with Faisal Basri, 14 September 2004. Similarly, former party chairman
Akbar Tandjung has also argued that Golkar’s ‘special relationship’ with many busi-
nesspeople has helped the party tackle the financial challenges of the early post-
Suharto era (Tandjung 2007: 175).
107 As noted previously, the actual number would have been four out of seven, but Jusuf
Kalla and Sultan Hamengkubuwono X. withdrew from the race.
108 Interviews with members of Golkar’s DPR fraction, 16 and 31 August 2004. It
should, however, be noted that it is impossible to establish how regularly the legisla-
tors make these payments as information from the treasury was not available.
109 Presiden Republik Indonesia (2001), Peraturan Pemerintah Republik Indonesia No.
51/2001 Tentang Bantuan Keuangan Kepada Partai Politik.
110 Presiden Republik Indonesia (2005), Peraturan Pemerintah Republik Indonesia No.
111 In 2005, payment for two parties embroiled in internal infighting (PKB and PBR)
was delayed. See ‘14 Parpol Menerima Bantuan Rp. 10,264 M,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 4
January 2006.
112 ‘Partai Politik Terima Dana Rp 21 Juta per Kursi DPR,’ Kompas, 20 July 2005.
113 ‘14 Parpol Menerima Bantuan Rp.10,264 M,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 4 January 2006.
114 This point will be picked up again in Chapter 5.
115 Interview with Sjachrir Sjafruddin Daeng Jarung, 26 August 2004. Similar comments
were also made by a number of other legislative candidates who felt that they had
been treated unfairly. Ibrahim Ambong, for example, said that according to the rules
his membership in the DPP and his post as chairman of the DPR commission on
foreign affairs should have made him eligible for a high list place. To his disbelief,
however, he was dropped to list place no. 7 without, so he claimed, receiving any
explanation from the central board. Interview with Ibrahim Ambong, 2 June 2004.
116 See Chapter 7 for details on how Megawati, Abdurrahman Wahid and Amien Rais
dealt with challenges to their leadership after the 2004 elections.
4 Decisional autonomy: the main problems lurk inside the party

1 In the case of Golkar, such beneficial relations exist with a number of organizations,
especially Golkar’s three founding organizations Kosgoro 1957, MKGR and Soksi, as
well as youth organizations such as AMPI and, to a lesser extent, KNPI, which used
to be part of Golkar during the New Order, but is now independent. These groups are
now all formally independent, but basically they are little more than recruitment pools
for Golkar. They hardly conduct any activities on their own, but aspiring politicians
still use these organizations to kickstart their careers because they provide invaluable
access to lucrative patronage networks, most of which are somehow linked to Golkar.
Given their general insignificance in the political process, these groups are of minor
interest in the context of this book.
210 Notes
2 The doctrine ‘karya dan kekaryaan’ is difficult to translate into English. While karya
can be translated as function or functional, it can also mean work. The usage of the
word goes back to Sukarno’s idea of functional groups’ representation as an altern-
ative to political parties (Reeve 1985), and was later adapted by the Suharto regime.
In the post-New Order era Golkar has retained it as the core element of its pro-
gramme, defining it as a combination of ‘performance,’ ‘professionalism,’ ‘fighting
spirit’ and ‘dignity’ (DPP Partai Golkar 2004b: 2). Kekaryaan is usually associated
with the military’s New Order practice of seconding military personnel to civilian
posts (in fact kekaryaan was already practised by the military before the New Order,
but only under Suharto did it become institutionalized), but in the context of Golkar’s
political platform it should be understood as ‘achievement,’ in a practical sense. See
statement by Theo Sambuaga, online, available at www.golkar.or.id/detail_
tokoh_kita.php?option=content&task=view&id=173 (accessed 28 August 2006).
3 That includes the various departments that are part of the central board such as the
organizational department or the religious department, to name but a few. Between
1999 and 2004, the rapat pleno comprised 97 members, but after the election of Jusuf
Kalla as general chairman it was reduced to 88 members. See Appendix for the full
line-ups of the central boards under Akbar Tandjung and Jusuf Kalla.
4 Tasks, functions and composition of the Advisory Council are regulated in Chapter X
of the party constitution and in more detail in Chapter VI of the party’s standing
orders (DPP Partai Golkar 2003a: 14; 29–30).
5 See ‘Pangab: ABRI Kembangkan Empat Paradigma Peran Sosial Politik Baru,’
Republika, 18 July 1998.
6 Statement by Wiranto, as quoted in The Editors (1999: 143).
7 Statement by Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, as quoted in The Editors (1999: 143).
8 Based on interview data from Agus Wirahadikusumah, Rinakit (2005: 232) argues
that military commanders were asked to call on businessmen to support Golkar’s
electoral activities with financial contributions.
9 Interestingly, in an earlier draft Kingsbury (2001: 104) still argued that the military
had been ‘relatively successful’ in implementing its New Paradigm. In an updated
version of the same manuscript, published just two years later, he describes most of
the individual components of the New Paradigm as a failure, with the severance of
ties with Golkar being one of the notable exceptions (Kingsbury 2003: 173).
10 Owing to the secret nature of the vote, it is not exactly clear whether the 38
TNI/police representatives all followed Wiranto’s instructions and voted for Gus Dur.
According to Mietzner (2004: 191), however, ‘it seems likely that at least a majority
of military members opted for Abdurrahman.’
11 Golkar secured four cabinet posts, the military even got six ministerial positions. For
a complete line-up of the cabinet see Ufen (2002: 535).
12 Charges against Kalla were never laid and many observers believed that the allega-
tions were completely baseless.
13 Given her conservative ideological worldview Megawati was widely regarded as a
natural ally or even a ‘mascot’ for the military. Commenting on Megawati’s ascension
to the presidency, Sidney Jones argued that ‘we expect that one of the direct results (of
Megawati’s ascendancy) will be a green light to the military to do whatever it wants on
Aceh and Papua and to some extent other areas of conflict.’ Quoted in ‘U.S. Warned
against Full Embrace of Megawati,’ Inter Press Service, 25 July 2001.
14 Interview with Alan Wall, 5 August 2004.
15 As one observer put it, ‘external actors are important in any parliament and of course
the DPR is no exception. But their influence through lobbying and financial contribu-
tions is difficult to substantiate.’ Email interview with Patrick Ziegenhain, 28 Febru-
ary 2006.
16 Until 2004, the military held 38 reserved seats in parliament. It was only after the
2004 election that military representation in parliament was abolished.
Notes 211
17 Interview with J. Kristiadi, 11 August 2004.
18 When in mid-2003 the government declared martial law in Aceh after a series of half-
hearted attempts at peace, the decision was unanimously supported by parliament and
by all accounts, this support was in no need of any extra push from the military. In the
following months, the DPR approved of extensive financial assistance for the Aceh
operation, even though the Supreme Auditing Board bemoaned the TNI’s unsatisfac-
tory financial reports (Mietzner 2004: 216)
19 At that time, the province was still officially called Irian Jaya. The name change from
Irian Jaya to Papua was not endorsed before December 2000.
20 For example, Megawati persistently refused to arrange for the establishment of a
Papuan People’s Assembly (Majelis Rakyat Papua, MRP), even though the autonomy
law clearly prescribed the establishment of this institution. It was eventually inaugu-
rated in October 2005, but with much fewer responsibilities than the law had actually
called for. See ‘Papuans Need Sincerity,’ Jakarta Post, 7 November 2005.
21 The court argued that by the time the verdict was finally reached, the province of
West Irian Jaya already had an operating central administration, a legislature and four
elected members to the Regional Representatives Council (DPD) in Jakarta. See
‘Provinsi Irjabar Sah,’ Kompas, 12 November 2004.
22 See Wing and King (2005) for a harshly critical report on TNI’s business activities in
Papua.
23 See for example Morin’s critical comments at a conference in Berlin in June 2003,
online available at http://home.snafu.de/watchin/AfP2003morin.htm or ‘Kaji Ulang
Pemekaran Papua,’ Suara Pembaruan (accessed 26 August 2003).
24 ‘Leaders Slam Government Plans to Split Papua,’ Jakarta Post, 12 January 2006.
25 ‘Kalla Seeking to Restore Papuan Confidence,’ Jakarta Post, 26 November 2005;
‘One Policy on Papua Needed,’ Jakarta Post, 27 June 2005.
26 See for example ‘Lagi, Calon Presiden Dari Militer Ditolak,’ Tempo Interaktif, 26
April 2004.
27 An exception may be PD, but in this case doubts about the decisional autonomy had
persisted anyway. These doubts were, however, aimed more directly at SBY’s per-
sonal role in the party and not the military as an external influence. See Chapter 7 for
a more detailed discussion of the other parties’ decisional autonomy.
28 At times, the members of his own success team even refused to wear the yellow
Golkar uniform, indicating how little the former general identified himself as a
Golkar figure. Personal observations from Wiranto’s campaign in North Sulawesi, 26
June 2004.
29 See below for a discussion of the discrepancies between the autonomy of a small oli-
garchic party elite and the party as a collective organization.
30 Email interview with Marcus Mietzner, 24 February 2006.
31 Email interview with Marcus Mietzner, 24 February 2006.
32 Simply defined, corruption is ‘the misuse of public power for private gain’ (Rose-
Ackerman 1999: 91). As we shall see later on, this misuse of power can take many
forms, but money politics – that is the payment of cash or other financial contribu-
tions in expectation of a quid pro quo – is regarded as the most significant in the
context of this chapter.
33 Altogether, seven foundations were handed over to the government, including
Yayasan Dakab, Yayasan Dharmais, Yayasan Supersemar, Yayasan Amal Bakti
Muslim Pancasila, Yayasan Dana Mandiri Sejahtera, Yayasan Dana Gotong Royong
and Yayasan Trikora. See ‘Kejagung Segera Sita Kekayaan Soeharto,’ Indonesia
Media Online, online, available at www.indonesiamedia.com/rubrik/berta/
berta00may.htm (accessed 24 April 2000).
34 Despite the Keppres, the run-up to the 1999 election was still marred by rumours that
the foundation continued to supply funds for Golkar. One magazine, for example,
reported that Yayasan Dakab would provide up to Rp.800 billion for the campaign.
212 Notes
These figures, however, seem vastly exaggerated. According to McBeth (1999), for
example, Golkar’s entire campaign spending was set to reach ‘only’ Rp.300 billion.
While this is of course still massive, especially in comparison to the other parties, it is
a far cry from what the party used to have at its disposal during the New Order. For
details on the Rp.800 billion rumour, see ‘Beringin Itu Belum Tumbang,’ Forum
Keadilan, 22 February 1999.
35 The second factor that contributed to Habibie’s downfall was his decision to allow
East Timor to hold a referendum on its independence.
36 Buloggate I had involved Abdurrahman Wahid in 2001.
37 Apart from Akbar, several other former Golkar officials including then-treasurer
M. S. Hidayat, then-deputy treasurers Fadel Muhammad, Setya Novanto and Enggar-
tiasto Lukito, as well as former vice-chairman Mahadi Sinambela were implicated in
the case, but only Akbar and two non-party figures were prosecuted.
38 The final judgment was given against the dissenting opinion of Abdul Rahman Saleh,
one of five judges at the Supreme Court. See ‘Akbar Tanjung Bebas – Abdul Rahman
Saleh Ajukan Dissenting Opinion,’ Kompas, 13 February 2004. For a succinct
summary of the case see ‘Bulwark of Justice?,’ Jakarta Post, 13 February 2004.
39 Two of the most outrageous examples of collective corruption by regional legislators
were the scandals in Kampar and Padang. In Kampar, which is located in Riau
province, all 45 members of the local DPRD were implicated in a large-scale corruption
scam while in Padang (West Sumatra), 43 legislators were found guilty of corruption
and sentenced to jail terms. For an overview of corruption scandals involving regional
parliamentarians see www.antikorupsi.org/docs/korupsidprd04.pdf (accessed 25 March
2006). For a general overview of Indonesian corruption cases in 2005, see the ICW
report at www.antikorupsi.org/docs/voniskorupsi2005.pdf (accessed 25 March 2006).
40 Nurdin Halid is a controversial businessman from South Sulawesi who represented
Golkar in the DPR between 1999 and 2004. His bid for re-election in 2004 failed because
he had been degraded to a lower place on Golkar’s list of legislative candidates. Following
the election disaster, Nurdin’s fortunes declined further when he was embroiled in a series
of corruption cases. While he escaped conviction in two of the cases (embezzling money
from Bulog and illegally importing sugar), he was finally found guilty of illegally import-
ing rice and sentenced to two and a half years in jail in August 2005.
41 Email communication with Marcus Mietzner, 24 February 2006. In view of the poten-
tial windfall that every new district produces for the legislators it is hardly surprising
that the vast majority of legislation initiated by the DPR in the first reformasi years
has constituted those laws which regulate the creation of new administrative regions
(Ziegenhain 2005: 31).
42 It should, however, be reiterated here that most of the important decisions in parlia-
ment are made in the powerful committees, which are staffed by members from all
parties. Often, it is sufficient to bribe the members of these committees to get a law
passed. As Sherlock (2005) has pointed out, members of the committees often feel a
greater commitment to their fellow committee members than to their party fractions.
43 Significantly, the local cadres’ expectation that they would receive money in
exchange for their support was so explicit that one prominent pre-convention partici-
pant, respected Muslim intellectual Nurcholish Madjid, pulled out in disgust. See
‘Nurcholish Urung Ikut Konvensi Golkar,’ Kompas, 31 July 2003.
44 Jusuf Kalla actually pulled out shortly before the national convention in order to
become running mate for Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono who was nominated by PD.
45 Exceptions were of course made occasionally, for example for celebrity candidates
like Nurul Arifin who had only entered the party in 2001 but was still given a spot on
the party list.
46 His conclusions are supported by a number of local case studies. For interesting refer-
ences to Golkar see, for example, Yanuarti (2005), Nuryanti (2005), Ratnawati (2005)
and Haris (2005c).
Notes 213
47 ‘Golkar Sulsel “Melawan” ,’ Fajar, 28 December 2003.
48 Marwah’s case was not the only controversial example of list allocation in South
Sulawesi. With Ibrahim Ambong and Nurdin Halid there were at least two other
candidates who reacted angrily to their degradation to lower list places.
49 This stipulation was in fact later overturned by the Constitutional Court. First it ruled
that parties must have not only 15 per cent of seats, but also 15 per cent of the votes
to be eligible to nominate candidates. This gave smaller parties a better chance to
compete in the pilkada than the original rule. Later on it even ruled that independent
candidates, who according to the original law had been banned from participation in
the pilkada, have to be allowed to run in local elections, thereby further eroding the
power of the parties. By the time this manuscript was completed, however, the DPR
had still not revised the relevant legislation so that no pilkada with independent
candidates had been held yet. Thanks to Marcus Mietzner for drawing my attention to
the first court ruling.
50 According to some estimates, the costs of an entire election campaign for a candidate
in a pilkada on district level in Eastern Indonesia could easily reach between
US$500,000 and US$700,000 (Buehler 2007: 144). Clearly, these sums limited the
chances of participation to a few selected elites.
51 Significantly, and in contrast to the presidential election, during the pilkada many
other parties emulated Golkar’s convention model. For prospective candidates, this
meant that they often campaigned simultaneously on various fronts as they registered
for not only one, but many conventions, in order to increase their chances of securing
a candidature. Not surprisingly, these multiple campaigns also led to an increase in
expenditure for prospective candidates.
52 This was in contrast to the legislative elections, where Golkar had made party mem-
bership a condition of eligibility to run. During the pilkada, party membership was
only compulsory for candidates in districts where Golkar had gained more than 50 per
cent in the 2004 legislative election.
53 See ‘Rekrut Calon Kepala Daerah Akan Dievaluasi,’ online, available at www.partai-
golkar.or.id (accessed 10 July 2005).
54 See Chapter 7 for more details.
5 Value infusion: in search of Golkar’s roots

1 In fact, it is not only difficult to find such parties outside Europe, but also in Europe
itself, as non-ideological catch-all parties have become the norm in many European
countries.
2 Interview with Sarwono Kusumaatmadja, 19 August 2004.
3 Pancasila (‘five principles’) is Indonesia’s state philosophy as formulated in the pre-
amble of the constitution. The five principles are: (1) Belief in the One and Only God,
(2) A Just and Civilized Humanity, (3) The Unity of Indonesia, (4) Democracy
Guided by the Inner Wisdom in the Unanimity Arising out of Deliberation among
Representatives and (5) Social Justice for the Whole of the People of Indonesia
(Department of Information of the Republic of Indonesia 1991: 14).
4 Interview with Marzuki Darusman, 14 September 2004.
5 These included, in the rhetoric of the regime, political Islam (the extreme right),
communism (the extreme left) and liberal democracy (the extreme centre).
6 This impression was gleaned from interviews with a number of Golkar cadres; some
even expressed fears of a communist comeback. Akbar Tandjung, too, talks at great
length about the need to be vigilant of extreme ideologies and lists anti-communism
as one of Golkar’s basic core values (Tandjung 2007: 208).
7 Interviews with Marwah Daud Ibrahim, 15 July 2004; Marzuki Darusman, 14 Sep-
tember 2004; Nurul Arifin, 11 August 2004; and HM Zain Katoe, 2 July 2004.
8 One of the most striking examples of this attempted de-ideologization was the
214 Notes
enforced acceptance of pancasila as the only relevant ideology for the Islamic PPP
and all other Islamic mass organizations (asas tunggal legislation in 1984). The
immediate aim of the measure was to weaken political Islam, but put in a broader
context, it generally aimed at expunging or at least softening existing aliran struc-
tures.
9 King (2003: 153) mentions a positive correlation between previous Masyumi strong-
holds as well as a certain degree of ‘Islamicness’ with Golkar’s results in 1999. At the
same time, however, he emphasizes that the strongest incentive for Golkar voters was
regional affiliation from Eastern Indonesia.
10 See Suryadinata (2002: 142) for religious backgrounds of the legislators, LSI (2003)
and LP3ES (2004) for religious backgrounds of Golkar’s voters in 2004.
11 Though it should be noted that the HMI network has actually spread out well beyond
party boundaries.
12 Fuller Collins (n.d.) notes that ‘during the Suharto era, HMI became a training ground
for students with political ambitions.’ The main function of HMI becomes obvious
when she quotes an HMI member from Palembang as saying that ‘ “HMI is an
important organization for establishing networks. Your university no longer matters –
you are all HMI”.’
13 Akbar’s public display of devout religiosity during his corruption trial in particular
drew ire from segments of the Muslim student community who claimed that the
Golkar leader was just window dressing to enhance his public reputation. Personal
communication with students from IAIN Jakarta, 10 July 2003.
14 Personal communication with HMI activist from Jakarta, 28 May 2004.
15 Ade Komaruddin became general chairman of HMI in 1988. In the same year, Ferry
Mursyidan Baldan was elected chairman of HMI’s West Java chapter, and in 1990 he
succeeded Ade as general chairman. When Ferry vacated the post in 1992, another
bright young prospect, Yahya Zaini took over the post. Like his predecessors, Zaini
too went on to become a Golkar legislator, but his career came to an abrupt end when
he was forced to resign from politics after an embarrassing sex scandal in late 2006.
For brief resumes of the three, see Tim Litbang Kompas (2000).
16 Factional dynamics have put Ferry and Ade on the back seat for the moment as they
were dropped from the party’s central board after Akbar Tandjung’s defeat by Jusuf
Kalla. Thohari, Santoso and Zaini, on the other hand, had switched to the Kalla camp
just in time to retain their positions in the DPP (Zaini only until later 2006; see previ-
ous note).
17 It should be noted that the cooperation brings benefits not only for Golkar but also for
the Islamic organizations themselves as they can gain access to highest political
offices. I am grateful to Suaidi Asyari for pointing this out.
18 In 34 of the remaining 36 electoral districts, the number of people punching both the
party symbol and the candidates’ names was higher than the number of those who
only punched the party symbol. The only exceptions were South Sumatra II and West
Nusa Tenggara.
19 See ‘Hamka Haq Tinggalkan Golkar,’ TVRI online, 30 December 2003, online,
available at www.tvri.co.id/beritadaerah/brada.php?id=622&daerah=Sulawesi_Selata
(accessed 15 May 2004).
20 During the ensuing presidential election, Hamka approached local Muhammadiyah
leaders in an obvious attempt to drum up support for Megawati. In view of the fact
that Megawati’s running mate Hasyim Muzadi was the chairman of NU, Hamka’s
actions drew a number of cynical comments from young NU figures. See ‘Siapa Kutu
Siapa Loncat,’ Gatra, 16 July 2004.
21 Significantly, the local leaders of NU, Muhammadiyah and MUI were all involved in
the genesis of KPPSI (Pradadimara and Junedding 2002).
22 Pradadimara and Junedding were writing in 2002, but apparently the male bias within
the organization has not changed at all as can be seen from the fact that the 2005
Notes 215
congress was not attended by a single female activist. See ‘Tak Satupun Perempuan
di Kongres III Umat Islam se Sulsel,’ Media Indonesia online, 28 March 2005.
23 See ‘Abdul Azis Kahar Muzakkar: Hukum Belanda Saja Bisa, Apalagi Hukum
Islam,’ Republika, 1 April 2005.
24 Interview with Arskal Salim, 26 June 2005.
25 See for example the various articles in the series ‘Prediksi Pemilu’ in Kompas
(various issues between 18 February 2004 and 6 March 2004) or a similar series in
the ‘Politik dan Keamanan’ section of Media Indonesia (issues between 25 February
2004 and 9 March 2004).
26 See for example ‘Mencari Peluang di Jazirah Golkar,’ Kompas, 27 February 2004.
The terms ‘traditional relationship’ or ‘emotional relationship’ were also frequently
used by local politicians in interviews during fieldwork in South Sulawesi.
27 Interview with Abdul Madjid Sallatu, 24 June 2004.
28 While most interviewees chose their words carefully when asked to comment on the
dilemma, some were less restrained. A leading member of Golkar’s campaign team in
South Sulawesi, for example, responded with resounding laughter when he was asked
to comment on Wiranto’s defeat. ‘He was destroyed,’ he said without the slightest
hint of regret. Interview with Arfandy Idris, 6 July 2004.
29 Local PKS leader Tamsil Linrung relentlessly spoke about his party’s desire to nomi-
nate Habibie as presidential candidate. His comments provoked angry reactions from
members of the Habibie clan, some of whom had agreed to run as legislative
candidates for PD and Golkar. See ‘Fanny Habibie Marah Besar,’ Fajar, 26 March
2004.
30 In an interview in his adopted home in Germany, Habibie admitted that politicians
from various parties had approached him to enquire about his readiness to run for the
presidency. However, he denied that he had made any commitment whatsoever,
pledging instead to stay in Germany to take care of his wife and enjoy the life of a
retiree. In the run-up to the election he reiterated this stance, but that did not stop the
rumours. Interview with B. J. Habibie, 17 July 2003. See also ‘Habibie Pilih Urusi
Istri,’ Fajar, 19 February 2004.
31 In fact, local Golkar politicians were divided over the significance of the Habibie
factor. Andi Mattalatta, for instance, claimed that it was one of the main reasons for
Golkar’s unsatisfactory result, while provincial chairman Amin Syam was among
those who alleged that it did not play a noteworthy role at all. Interviews with Andi
Mattalatta, 4 May 2004, and Amin Syam, 7 May 2004.
32 Interview with Amin Syam, 7 May 2004.
33 See ‘Golkar Optimis Raih 77 Persen Suara,’ Fajar, 5 January 2004. The election
target for every district in South Sulawesi was displayed on a big map on the wall of
the main meeting room in Golkar’s provincial head office in Makassar. Surprisingly,
few officials seemed to be bothered by the huge discrepancy between the official
targets and the actual results as the map had still not been removed several months
after the elections.
34 During fieldwork in 2004, several older party functionaries in South Sulawesi were
asked to describe the main points of the New Paradigm, but not everyone could
answer this question.
35 Along with DI Yogyakarta, South Sulawesi was the only province where not a single
parliamentary seat was won by a new face (In Yogyakarta, Golkar only won a single
DPR seat, so the effect is not as significant there as in South Sulawesi). Even if
Golkar had won four seats more in the province, there would still be no newcomer as
the first seven list places in both electoral areas of South Sulawesi were occupied by
incumbent DPR members. Yet, it should be noted that many of the new faces in the
other provinces were not really that new either. On a back-to-back basis they may be
new because they were not DPR members in the 1999–2004 period, but many of
these candidates had already been in parliament during the New Order period so that
216 Notes
the bad track record of South Sulawesi appears in a slightly better light. See ‘Muka
Lama di Dewan Yang Baru,’ Kompas, 27 May 2004.
36 Muhammad Roem in electoral district III was the only exception to this pattern. All
other areas had three or more old faces on the top positions of the list. See ‘Golkar
Andalkan Muka Lama,’ Fajar, 3 February 2004; see also Komisi Pemilihan Umum
Provinsi Sulawesi Selatan (2004) for a full listing of all candidates.
37 See ‘Amin Syam Kembali Pimpin Golkar Sulsel,’ Suara Pembaruan, 6 December 2004.
38 Interviews with Sjachrir Sjafruddin Daeng Jarung, 26 August 2004, and Fadhilla Mal-
larangeng, 22 September 2004.
39 See ‘Pembukaan Musda Golkar Sulsel Berlangsung Rusuh,’ Kompas, 4 December
2004.
40 Interview with LSIM activists, 30 June 2004.
41 See ‘Prediksi Pemilu Sulsel: Mengepung Lumbung Golkar,’ Kompas, 26 February
2004.
42 Interview with Andi Mattalatta, 4 May 2004.
43 See for example ‘FLP Palopo Laporkan Akbar Tanjung ke Polisi,’ Fajar, 14 January
2004, ‘MDI Konsisten Tolak Akbar,’ Fajar, 29 January 2004.
44 As described in Chapter 3, Akbar tried to set up several rules that weakened the
chances for his convention rivals. One of these was an instruction that forbade all
convention contenders except himself from campaigning outside Java and Bali. The
instruction was heavily criticized and widely ignored by most of the convention
participants, especially Surya Paloh and Prabowo Subianto. See for example ‘Surya
Paloh Tak Indahkan Putusan DPP Golkar,’ Kompas, 10 March 2004; ‘Capres Golkar
Keberatan Dibatasi Kampanye,’ Fajar, 11 March 2004.
45 Despite far-reaching reforms in the election and party laws, the communist party
itself remains outlawed until the present day. But the first positive step towards
ending the demonization of communism was finally undertaken in February 2004
when the Constitutional Court ruled that the ban on ex-PKI members voting or being
elected was unconstitutional. See ‘Mahkamah Konstitusi: Bekas PKI Boleh Memilih
dan Dipilih,’ Tempo Interaktif, 24 February 2004.
46 The surveys were conducted on request by Golkar’s election-campaign team, led by
experienced party strategist Slamet Effendy Yusuf.
47 All data in this paragraph is taken from LSI (2003).
48 Different sources have used different meanings for the individual letters in the
acronym SARS, ranging from ‘Saya Amat Rindu Suharto’ to ‘Sindrom Amat Rindu
Suharto’ to ‘Sindrom Aku Rindu Suharto’. Translated into English, however, they
essentially all mean the same, namely ‘I miss Suharto syndrome.’
49 Despite a big media hype the party only gained a disappointing 2.1 per cent in the
2004 election, a result that sent it straight back to oblivion.
50 According to LSI (2003: 18 and 33), the number of respondents who believed that life
was better under the New Order than in the reformasi era had reached more than 60
per cent by November 2003.
51 See Chapter 6 for more details on how Golkar changed its image.
52 Interview with Dias Pradadimara, 29 June 2004.
55 I am grateful to Harold Crouch for directing my attention to this point.
56 See ‘Hidayat, Ketua Umum Kadin Indonesia,’ Kompas, 21 February 2004.
57 Some observers claim that this is true for all parties. For example, Hadiz (2005: 45)
understands political parties in general as ‘primarily the vehicles of emerging
coalitions of interests, older and newer, forged in battles to secure control over state
power and its resources.’ However, as I will argue in Chapter 7.3., at least some of
the other parties have, in contrast to Golkar, a bit more to offer than simply access to
power.
Notes 217
58 Until 2006, no independent candidates were allowed in any elections in Indonesia,
regardless of whether it was a legislative, presidential or local election. Then, in
December 2006 the first exception to this rule was made in the province of Aceh
where independent candidates were allowed to run in the pilkada as part of the special
autonomy package for the province. Soon after the Aceh election, the Constitutional
Court in Jakarta ruled that independent candidates should be allowed to participate in
other pilkada, too. With this judgment, the monopoly of political parties to nominate
candidates for all legislative and executive elections in Indonesia looks set to be
broken, however, by the time this book went to press not much progress had been
made in regards to the necessary revisions of the relevant law (Law No. 32/2004).
Although the DPR had finalized new draft legislation and submitted it to the govern-
ment by November 2007, this draft contained so many contentious passages (espe-
cially in regards to the eligibility requirements for independent candidates) that many
observers expected prolonged negotiations before the new legislation would eventu-
ally be passed. Therefore, NGO activists like Ray Rangkuti predicted that there will
be no pilkada with independent candidates before 2009. See ‘Coalition Rejects Cri-
teria for Independent Candidates,’ Jakarta Post, 19 November 2007; ‘Calon Perseo-
rangan Tak Bisa Tahun Ini,’ Kompas, 12 January 2008.
59 This threshold is due to be further increased in 2009 when only parties that gain 15
per cent of the seats in the DPR or 20 per cent of the vote will be allowed to nominate
candidates. See Ellis and Yudhini (n.d.) for a discussion on the law or KPU (2003) for
the full text.
60 As mentioned above, these are currently being revised. By the time this book went to
press, however, all indications were that the parties would make it as unattractive as
possible for independent candidates to run in future pilkada so that they can retain
their powerful roles in the nomination processes.
61 Interview with Abdul Nurhaman, 29 July 2004.
62 Interview with Happy Bone Zulkarnain, 19 August 2004. If not indicated otherwise,
all information in this paragraph is taken from this interview.
63 See ‘Kalla Expects to Take Golkar Hands Down,’ Jakarta Post, 16 December 2004.
64 Interview with Nurul Arifin, 11 August 2004.
66 Interview with Nurul Arifin, 26 May 2004.
67 ‘Aturan Konvensi Diubah, Capres Tetap Tujuh Orang,’ Kompas, 20 October 2003.
68 Had the convention been held as planned in February, losing candidates may have
jumped ship and supported another party during the election campaign. Jusuf Kalla’s
late withdrawal in favour of a vice-presidential candidature alongside SBY was evid-
ence that this fear was well grounded.
69 While it can only be speculated, it is highly likely that if Kalla had dropped out of the
convention before the election, Golkar would have received far less votes in Eastern
Indonesia than it actually did.
70 During the last days of the Suharto regime, the sultan was one of the most outspoken
advocates of reform. He not only led a large demonstration through the streets of
Yogyakarta in May 1998, but also later joined other ‘opposition’ leaders Megawati
Sukarnoputri, Abdurrahman Wahid and Amien Rais in the so-called Ciganjur meet-
ings which were arranged by student leaders to apply pressure on the transitional
Habibie government.
71 In contrast to Sulawesi, however, the calculation did not work out in Yogyakarta as
Golkar only scored a disappointing 13.8 per cent in the province.
72 In addition to his reputation as a military man, Wiranto also had another, somewhat
curious market value, namely his musical talent. During his campaign appearances,
he regularly performed traditional Indonesian songs to entertain the crowds. Signific-
antly, the audience was often more interested in hearing him sing than presenting his
‘platform.’ For more details on the importance of musical performances during the
218 Notes
election campaign see Luwarso, Samsuri and Siswowiharjo (2004) or the various con-
tributions in Kartomi (2005).
73 Comments made by Rully Chairul Azwar, quoted in ‘Rekrut Calon Kepala Daerah
Akan Dievaluasi,’ online, available at www.partai-golkar.or.id (accessed 10 July
2005).
74 The prefix ‘ersatz’ is used here on purpose in order to signal the inferiority of this
‘culture’ in comparison with genuine political values. Just like Yoshihara (1988)
described Southeast Asian ersatz capitalism as an inferior variant of European or
Japanese capitalism, so too is Golkar’s distinctive culture as a government party
merely an inferior alternative to genuine political values.
75 The deep resentment of an oppositional role for Golkar was evident in numerous
interviews with Golkar politicians in the run-up to the second round of the 2004 presi-
dential election. For example, one Golkar member from South Sulawesi who had run
unsuccessfully for a legislative seat in the parliamentary election said that she did not
even like the party that much, simply because she disapproved of Akbar Tandjung’s
determination to lead it into opposition. ‘If Golkar does not elect a new leader at the
Munas,’ said Fadhilla Mallarangeng, ‘I may as well try my luck with another party.’
Interview with Fadhilla Mallarangeng, 22 September 2004.
77 Interview with young Golkar member from Jakarta, 3 February 2005. Significantly,
he had not yet decided in which electoral area he would run.
6 Reification: mastering the use of symbols and the pitfalls of

political communication
1 Only the two other New Order survivors, PPP and PDI-P, could come close to match-
ing these figures. See Chapter 7 for comparative details.
2 See ‘The Golkar Stigma,’ Jakarta Post, 18 June 2001.
3 As Antlöv (2004: 134) pointed out, Golkar during the New Order was, despite the
undemocratic nature of the regime and the rigged character of the elections, ‘not
necessarily a very unpopular party.’ Especially in rural areas the party enjoyed
genuine support as it was associated with economic growth and political stability. See
also Chapter 5 in this study for Golkar’s image in South Sulawesi.
4 As data from IFES surveys between 2001 and 2005 show, Golkar’s level of name
recognition remained consistently high, with figures of 81 per cent in 2001, 88 per
cent in 2003 and 92 per cent in 2005 (IFES 2001, 2003, 2005).
5 Before 1998, this article read ‘This organization is called Golongan Karya, shortened
Golkar’ (DPP Golkar n.d.: 61).
6 Continuity was further stressed by retaining Chapter I, Article 2, which states that
Golkar is the successor organization to Sekber Golkar, which was founded back in
1964 (DPP Partai Golkar 2003a: 6).
7 In many Eastern European countries, formerly hegemonic communist parties changed
their names after the transition. In other cases of protracted transitions like Taiwan or
Mexico, however, the dominant parties retained their names and contested competi-
tive elections under the same labels.
8 As quoted in ‘Golkar Was Not a “Ruling Party”, but a “Ruler’s Party” ,’ Van Zorge
Report, Vol. IV, No. 7, 18 April 2002, pp. 20–1.
9 Interview with Sjachrir Sjafruddin Daeng Jarung, 26 August 2004.
10 In early 1999, then-party chairman Akbar Tandjung even offered an official apology
for Golkar’s role in the New Order in early 1999 (Schwarz 1999: 384).
11 Golkar had to make several concessions, especially in regards to the status of civil
servants (King 2000), but the laws eventually contained numerous regulations which
benefited Golkar, most notably the strong imbalance between the weight of electoral
districts in and outside Java (Malley 2000).
Notes 219
12 Kingsbury (2002: 249) has suggested that some of the new parties, which had been
established by Golkar-affiliated groups, deliberately chose party symbols similar to those
of the big opposition parties in order to confuse voters and entice them to vote for
Golkar.
13 Arief Budiman has suggested that the Suharto regime may have chosen yellow as a
token of appreciation for the students of the University of Indonesia (UI) who in
1965–6 were heavily involved in demonstrations against Sukarno and the Old Order
(UI students traditionally wear yellow jackets as part of their uniform). Elsewhere, it
has been alleged that yellow symbolizes the intellectual ambitions of Golkar as the
colour supposedly represents wisdom, good education and a noble character (Tim
Litbang Kompas 2004: 540). But a senior member of the Centre for Strategic and
International Studies (CSIS) in Jakarta, Harry Tjan Silalahi, believes that there was
actually no deeper meaning at all behind the choice of yellow as the party’s colour:
‘Yellow does not mean or represent anything particular. When Golkar was founded,
there wasn’t much choice because green and red were already occupied by Islam and
communism. Maybe yellow was chosen because it stands for royalism and the old
priyayi culture, but I’m not sure about that’ (Interview with Harry Tjan Silalahi,
3 July 2003).
14 Online, available at www.indonesianembassy-china.com/EN/info/25.htm (accessed
12 December 2005).
15 Interviews with Harry Tjan Silalahi, 3 July 2003, and Rahman Tolleng, 9 July 2003.
16 The following paragraph is largely based on official information from Golkar as pro-
vided in Tim Litbang Kompas (2004).
17 Hence its conceptualization as an external dimension of party institutionalization
(Randall and Svåsand 2002a).
18 At this point it is important to note that Golkar actually owns its own newspaper,
Suara Karya. Founded in 1971 to help Golkar win the first New Order election, this
paper was compulsory reading for civil servants throughout the Suharto era and was
thus, for most of its existence, more a part of the party infrastructure than an
independent media organization. After the fall of Suharto in 1998, Suara Karya’s
readership numbers plummeted, eventually resulting in attempts to give the paper a
new design in order to reach a broader spectrum of readers. In 2005, a newly
appointed management team vowed to reform the paper’s image, announcing that it
would no longer be biased towards Golkar. Despite the good intentions and claims
that circulation had increased again to 80,000, however, it seems as if Suara Karya
continues to function primarily as a mouthpiece of the party. It is still owned by the
party and is often used by Golkar members to express their opinions, although it
should be noted that objective contributions by neutral observers can also be found
occasionally. Overall, however, Suara Karya’s role in Indonesia’s contemporary
media landscape is rather marginal so that it is deemed irrelevant to the following
analysis of independent media coverage of Golkar. For an overview of the history of
Suara Karya see the website www.suarakarya-online.com/aboutus.html or ‘Golkar
Gives “Suara Karya” a Makeover,’ Jakarta Post, 31 March 2005.
19 This selective focus is mainly due to the limited impact that radio and the internet
have on shaping the public images of political parties. The internet in particular is still
fairly new to Indonesia and has not yet extended far beyond the urban centres of Java.
According to Hill and Sen (2005: 57), the number of internet users rose from 110,000
in 1996 to 12 million in 2004; by the end of 2007 the Indonesian Internet Service
Provider Association (APJII) reported that the number had reached about 25 million.
While this is a dramatic increase, the absolute numbers are still very small in relation
to Indonesia’s overall population (about 10 per cent). Radio on the other hand may
reach a larger proportion of the Indonesian populace than newspapers or the internet,
but its popularity is nowhere near that of television. In 2006, radio had an accessibility
rate of only 40.26 per cent while television stood at a massive 85.86 per cent. Details
220 Notes
online, available at www.apjii.or.id/news/index.php?ID=2002052301464 &lang=ind
and www.bps.go.id/sector/socwel/table3.shtml.
20 During the New Order, all media outlets needed a so-called Press Publication Busi-
ness Licence (Surat Izin Usaha Penerbitan Pers, SIUPP) from the Ministry of
Information. Notably, this ministry was run for more than ten years (1983–97) by
former Golkar chairman Harmoko.
21 In comparison, by the time Suharto stepped down in May 1998, only 289 such
licences were in operation (Mann 1999).
22 The respected NGO Reporters Sans Frontières (Reporters without Borders) has
quoted figures which estimate that ‘there were half the number of newspapers in 2003
as in 1998.’ Online, available at www.rsf.org/article.php3?id_article=10172 (accessed
5 January 2006).
23 One of these effects is the growing number of local television channels. In late 2005,
Indonesia had 41 local TV stations, 16 of which were located outside Java. A year
later, the number had risen to 76 local stations, with 33 located outside Java. In late
2007, there were at least 109 local TV stations in Indonesia, and 46 of them were
operating from outside Java. The full, up-to-date list of all stations is online, available
at www.asiawaves.net/indonesia-tv.htm.
24 According to official census data, television accessibility was at its peak in 1998 when it
reached 88.72 per cent. In 2000, it stood at 87.97 per cent, before declining to 84.94 per
cent in 2003. By 2006, it had risen again to 85.86 per cent. Latest details online, avail-
able at www.bps.go.id/sector/socwel/table3.shtml (accessed 29 December 2007).
25 It should be noted that newspaper circulation in Indonesia is not audited by an
independent organization. The figures cited by Low should therefore be treated with
some caution (the same is true for the Suara Karya figures mentioned in note 18). It
is, however, widely acknowledged that Kompas is Indonesia’s biggest-selling news-
paper, with Jawa Pos in second place.
26 Indonesia used to have two more English-language newspapers, but the Indonesia
Times and the Indonesian Observer stopped operating in 1998 and 2001 respectively,
owing to financial problems (Low 2003: 18). Tempo, the country’s leading news mag-
azine, produces an English-language edition, albeit with limited contents.
27 In addition to these national papers and magazines, hundreds of local newspapers,
often owned by the big national media corporations, fulfil similar functions in more
narrowly confined local contexts. See Chapter 6 for a case study of local media in
South Sulawesi.
28 Samples were taken by typing the party name into the search engine of the news-
paper’s online archive. While in the case of Golkar this was a straightforward exer-
cise, the search for other parties’ names was more complicated as full party names
had to be matched with acronyms (for example ‘United Development Party’ would
not necessarily produce the same result as ‘PPP’). Overall, the results revealed that
the Jakarta Post reported in 5,331 articles about Golkar, more than twice as much as
parties like PKB (2,211), PAN (2,142) or PPP (2,026). The only party that came close
to the Golkar figures was PDI-P which claimed 5,084 articles.
29 One may argue that the Jakarta Post is not particularly representative of Indonesian
media trends because of its atypical readership which mainly consists of well-
educated Indonesians and expatriates living in Indonesia. However, it is probably fair
to assume that the distribution of coverage on political parties as depicted in Figure
6.1 would not have been very different in other newspapers. In fact, limited content
analyses of a number of Indonesian-language newspapers during the time of the 2004
general election revealed very similar proportions of coverage. Jakarta Post was
chosen here as a case study because of its comprehensive and easily accessible online
archive. It should, however, be noted that the online edition is not exactly identical to
the print edition.
30 It should be emphasized here that in the articles sampled Golkar was not always the
Notes 221
dominant or main actor (pelaku utama) in the sense Steele (2005) has defined it in her
outstanding study on Tempo. Articles were merely searched for the name of the various
political parties. A qualitative content analysis, which would have identified the main
actor in the sample articles, was not conducted, mainly because of the cross-cultural
complexities inherent in such an analysis. See Steele (2005: 149–50) for more details on
the difficulties in determining a main actor in Indonesian media articles.
31 As quoted in ‘Indonesian Press Charged with Disinformation,’ Jakarta Post, 23 June
2001.
32 Quoted in ‘Media’s Election Coverage Biased, Say Observers,’ Jakarta Post, 15 July
1999.
33 Other publications critical of Golkar included Jawa Pos and Rakyat Merdeka, both of
which more or less openly supported PDI-P (Kingsbury 2005: 127). On the other
hand, however, there were also newspapers which openly supported Golkar, includ-
ing the semi-official party newspaper Suara Karya and the ICMI-backed Republika.
34 ‘Media’s Election Coverage Biased, Say Observers,’ Jakarta Post, 15 July 1999.
36 Interview with representative of Indonesia Corruption Watch (ICW), 18 June 2004.
37 Hanitzsch attributes the inability and unwillingness of Indonesian journalists to become
actively involved in political discourses to the lasting legacies of the New Order, which
for more than three decades had systematically depoliticized the media. As a result
Indonesian journalists clearly do not carry any prior intention to disseminate their
opinion (partisanship), to set the political agenda or to serve as an adversary of the
government and business, even though they rate values such as ‘criticism’ and
‘control’ high.
(Hanitzsch 2005: 499)
This assessment contrasts with that of other scholars like Heryanto and Adi (2001) who
see the Indonesian press in a more positive light.
38 ‘Uji Coba dari Cendana,’ Tempo, 8–14 December 2003.
39 Hartono’s comments evoked strong resentment from large sections of the general
public, but the extensive media coverage of the general’s provocative rhetoric also
had the effect of boosting PKPB’s electoral prospects. In the run-up to the election,
several alarmist comments strengthened the impression that PKPB would be a strong
electoral contender. See for example ‘Maswadi Rauf: Jangan Anggap Enteng
Kebangkitan Cendana,’ Kompas, 29 March 2004.
40 In a survey conducted in December 2003, about 60 per cent of respondents stated that
they considered Suharto’s New Order a better system of government than the current
democratic regime (LSI 2003). Another survey, also published in late 2003, asked
respondents whether they agreed with the statement ‘This democratic government is
too weak. We need a strong leader like Suharto, who can make decisions and restore
order, even if it reduces rights and freedoms.’ Fifty-three per cent answered this ques-
tion in the affirmative (Asia Foundation 2003: 120).
41 Statement made by Agung Laksono, as quoted in ‘Golkar Rejects Its Old Image,’
Jakarta Post, 18 March 2004.
42 See for example ‘Political Interests Threaten Amendments of the Constitution,’
Jakarta Post, 30 July 2002.
43 Metro TV and Media Indonesia especially, both of which are owned by convention
contender Surya Paloh, dedicated extensive and not always neutral coverage to the
convention.
44 See the various articles in Kompas, 7 May 2005.
45 ‘Golkar Party’s Continuing Democratic Growing Pains,’ Jakarta Post, 27 November
2006.
46 By 2004, apart from Makassar only Parepare and Palopo had their own local news-
papers. See Morrell (2005) for a case study of the Palopo Pos.
222 Notes
47 Fajar, Ujungpandang Ekspres and Berita Kota Makassar all belong to Sulawesi’s
biggest media organization, the Makassar-based Fajar Media Group, which in turn is
part of the Jawa Pos media conglomerate. Tribun Timur is affiliated with the Kompas-
Gramedia Group while Pedoman Rakyat remains the only independent paper in
Makassar. See ‘Makassar, Ranah Pers Yang Subur,’ Kompas, 3 March 2004.
48 Interview with Muliadi Mau, 30 June 2004; email communication with Elizabeth
Morrell, 21 December 2005.
49 The report by Media Watch listed 79 articles that featured Golkar. Thirty-two of these
articles were regarded as negative, 27 as neutral and only 20 as positive. The second
biggest amount of coverage was attributed to PDI-P (56), which had an almost evenly
balanced number of pro- and contra-articles (15 positive, 14 negative, 27 neutral). See
Morrell (2003: 240) for details.
50 Personal communication with senior journalists from Fajar, 8 May 2004.
51 ‘Indonesian Press Charged with Disinformation,’ Jakarta Post, 23 June 2001.
52 Email communication with Elizabeth Morrell, 21 December 2005.
53 Interview with Muliadi Mau, 30 June 2004.
54 Most newspapers are only read by small parts of the population, mostly urban middle-
class people. The readership of Fajar for example is predominantly male (64.2 per
cent), aged between 35 and 45 (55.5 per cent), has an academy or a university degree
(51.6 per cent), works in the bureaucracy or in business (66.4 per cent) and earns
more than Rp. 1.5 million a month (59.3 per cent). Details online, available at
www.fajar.co.id/profil.php#e (accessed 6 February 2006).
56 Six different companies of Aksa Machmud’s Bosowa Group contributed to the election
campaign of SBY and Kalla. Altogether the donations amounted to more than Rp. 4
billion. For details see the data provided by the KPU online, available at www.kpu.go.id/
kampanye/link/dana_kampanye_SBY_Kalla.htm (accessed 5 February 2006).
57 See www.tribun-timur.com/profil.php (accessed 10 February 2006).
59 Coverage of most other parties was also very similar. Only the figures of PDI-P (14
per cent in Tribun Timur, 24 per cent in Jakarta Post) and PPDK (9 per cent in
Tribun Timur, 2 per cent in Jakarta Post) showed significant discrepancies.
60 This is hardly surprising as this section extended over two pages (pages 4 and 5).
61 Significantly, there were additional articles that focused on the bupati of Bone and the
mayor of Luwu respectively without explicitly mentioning that they were Golkar
members (which of course they were).
62 It may be noteworthy to recall in this context that in 1999 Golkar had also received
far more coverage than the other parties but that, according to the media watchers
from LSIM, the majority of this coverage was actually negative (Morrell 2003: 240).
63 Thus, this book does not differentiate between negative reporting and a negative
story. For example, an article on campaign violations by Golkar is classified as negat-
ive, regardless of whether the language is inflammatory or neutral. This classification
pattern is of course highly subjective and only represents the views of the author. It is
based on the presumption that in South Sulawesi it is already noteworthy that
Golkar’s violations are mentioned at all in the local press.
64 ‘Golkar Cetak 21 Ribu Kaos,’ Tribun Timur, 13 March 2004.
65 ‘Bambu dari Pinrang Diminati,’ Tribun Timur, 17 March 2004.
66 ‘Ribuan Baju Kaos Golkar Tiba di Luwu,’ Tribun Timur, 24 March 2004.
67 ‘Hari Ini Golkar Kuningkan Palopo,’ Tribun Timur, 25 March 2004.
68 Interestingly, the following day (26 March) there was no news about the rally, indicating
that not everything had gone according to plan. Only on 27 March did the paper eventu-
ally cover Golkar’s campaign. While the language was as flowery as ever, the author of
the article made no mention of the previously advertised marquee speaker Prabowo
Subianto, suggesting that the presidential hopeful had probably skipped the trip to
Notes 223
Palopo. Sometimes, it is actually more insightful to look at what is not written than what
is. See ‘Aktor Mak Lampir Hadir di Palopo,’ Tribun Timur, 27 March 2004.
69 At the time of the 2004 elections, Galego and Katoe were both chairmen of their party
branches while Tenriadjeng was a member of the Advisory Council.
72 ‘Cuaca Buruk Kalla Batal Naik Heli,’ Tribun Timur, 14 March 2004; ‘Kalla Tetap
Incar Kursi Presiden,’ Tribun Timur, 1 April 2004.
73 ‘Akbar Batasi Kalla,’ Tribun Timur, 21 March 2004; ‘Ditegur Akbar, Paloh Tak
Goyah,’ Tribun Timur, 24 March 2004; ‘Siapa Jamin Tak Ada Koruptor di Golkar,’
Tribun Timur, 25 March 2004.
74 ‘Massa Sulsel Tolak Akbar Tandjung,’ Tribun Timur, 19 March 2004.
75 ‘Akbar: Saya Berhak Kampanye di Sulsel,’ Tribun Timur, 20 March 2004.
76 Indicators were, for example, the use of predominantly neutral language or the
attempts to shift the focus in election-related articles from Golkar to other parties and
to mention Golkar’s losses only in passing.
77 ‘PPDK Kalahkan Golkar di Kelurahan Sungguminasa,’ Tribun Timur, 7 April 2004.
78 ‘Suara Golkar Sulsel Turun 25%,’ Tribun Timur, 12 April 2004.
79 ‘Jatah Golkar Turun Sampai 50 Persen,’ Tribun Timur, 14 April 2004.
80 ‘Golkar Pecahkan Rekor Pelanggaran,’ Tribun Timur, 17 March 2004; ‘Golkar
Lakukan 13 Pelanggaran,’ Tribun Timur, 25 March 2004.
81 Generally speaking, this is a common criticism of the Indonesian press. Too often
have Indonesian journalists misused their power as image-shapers by sexing up
reports at the expense of accuracy and neutrality. According to Hanitzsch (2005:
494), the main reasons behind this lack of professionalism are ‘the carelessness of
young journalists, the inefficiency of journalism education [. . .] and the weak self-
control of the press.’ Moreover, bribery among journalists remains widespread and
continues to inhibit efforts to improve professionalism among the media corps.
82 ‘Golkar Makassar Dituduh Mark Up,’ Tribun Timur, 11 April 2004.
83 ‘Golkar Bone Juga Dituduh Mark Up,’ Tribun Timur, 12 April 2004.
7 Gauging uneven party institutionalization: how strong are the

others?
1 Ikrar Nusa Bhakti, as quoted in ‘Internal Conflict Sign of Parties’ Immaturity:
Experts,’ Jakarta Post, 2 May 2005.
2 A detailed chronology of the full registration and verification process from 1999 to
2004 can be found at http://fisip.unmul.ac.id/modules.php?op=modload&name=
PagEd&file=index&topic_id=2&page_id=15 (accessed 31 July 2005).
3 The term ‘taxi party’ refers to parties that are so small that all of their members can fit in
one taxi. In Indonesia, these parties are usually called ‘insignificant parties’ (partai gurem).
4 In 1999, the electoral threshold was 2 per cent of the seats in the DPR (10 seats) or 3
per cent of the seats in the provincial and district assemblies distributed in half of the
provinces and half of the districts in Indonesia. In 2004, it was 3 per cent of the seats
in the DPR or 4 per cent of the seats in the provincial and district assemblies distrib-
uted in half of the provinces and half of the districts in Indonesia (NDI 1999: 6, KPU
2003: 30). For the 2009 election, the threshold has been lowered again marginally
(down to 2.5 per cent of the vote), however, the main problem is not the actual per-
centage level of the threshold but rather the ineffectiveness and lack of practicality of
the system which in its current form allows parties to take up seats in parliament even
if they fail to reach the threshold (Mietzner 2006). In order to draw a clear line
between big and medium-sized parties on the one hand and small parties on the other
hand, the benchmark for this book has been set at 5 per cent.
5 This is in stark contrast to the smaller parties which are not covered in this section.
224 Notes
With the exception of the Crescent and Moon Party (Partai Bulan Bintang, PBB),
which had actually passed the electoral threshold in 1999, none of the remaining
parties that contested the 2004 elections reached factual verification in more than 24
provinces (Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata 2005: 16–17).
6 ‘Hadi Utomo Calon Kuat Ketua Umum PD,’ Kompas, 23 May 2005.
7 Even if it was, it would probably be more instructive to compare numbers at sub-
district and village level where Golkar is likely to maintain a comparative advantage
over the new parties. However, no data were available for most of the parties here so
that a meaningful analysis of the two lowest administrative levels was not possible.
8 Many parties are unwilling to set up their own training schemes and also rather reluct-
ant to send their cadres to training programmes organized by international organi-
zations like UNDP, NDI or IRI. Programme coordinators from these organizations
reported that Golkar was the only party that was always easy to communicate with
whereas cooperation with some other parties was difficult. The most frequently cited
reason was that party executives in charge of selecting cadres for training were often
difficult to reach. Another problem seems to be that party bosses tend to use inter-
national training schemes to reward lower-ranking members of their patronage net-
works for their loyalty. As a result, training programmes are not always attended by
those who had actually been targeted by the organizers, namely young and capable
cadres with good prospects for their political careers, but rather by those who are
close to powerful party leaders. Interviews with local staff from UNDP, NDI and IRI,
conducted in July 2003, August 2004 and February 2005.
9 Typical complaints this author heard during fieldwork in 2004 were lack of know-
ledge about parliamentary rules and regulations, inadequate preparation for commit-
tee hearings and frequent absence from important meetings.
10 Interview with Happy Bone Zulkarnain, 19 August 2004. At the same time, he also
conceded that the atmosphere in parliament is now much livelier than during the New
Order when the DPR was full of smart people, but the system was too repressive for
them to actually use their smartness properly.
11 PD is a special case as SBY plays little more than a symbolic role for the party.
Although he was directly involved in the establishment of the party in 2001, he is
barely involved in the party’s day-to-day affairs. As chairman of the Advisory
Council, however, he is believed to possess something like an informal veto power.
See Tim Litbang Kompas (2004: 170ff.) for a brief overview of the genesis of PD.
12 Soetrisno won the leadership contest in Semarang against powerful opposition,
including the former Golkar functionary Fuad Bawazier who after his defeat defected
to PKS. Most observers believed that Soetrisno was only able to become PAN chair-
man because Amien Rais had thrown his support behind him. See ‘New PAN leader
Soetrisno, Amien’s heir apparent,’ Jakarta Post, 11 April 2005; ‘Bachir Menang,
Amien Dikecam,’ Suara Merdeka, 11 April 2005.
13 At the sidelines of the congress, Amien announced that he intended to step down
from this position within a year or two. See ‘PAN Tetap Dibayang-bayangi Amien,’
Suara Merdeka, 12 April 2005.
14 See below for a discussion of factionalism within PDI-P and PKB.
15 In fact, both were determined by acclamation rather than elected. See ‘Megawati Ter-
pilih Aklamasi, Guruh Ikut,’ Kompas, 1 April 2005; ‘Gus Dur Jadi Ketua Dewan
Syuro PKB,’ Kompas, 18 April 2005.
16 Among other things, the chairman of the Dewan Syuro has the prerogative right to
endorse or reject any candidate who wants to run for the Dewan Tanfidz chairman-
ship. This regulation is prescribed in PKB’s standing orders, Chapter IX, Article 36,
1e. For a full text of the standing orders see the PKB website www.kebangkitan-
bangsa.org/statis_anggaran_rt.shtml (accessed 11 November 2005).
17 Saifullah, along with the former chairman of the Dewan Tanfidz, Alwi Shihab, had in
fact been dismissed from the party after he had accepted the post of State Minister for
Notes 225
the Development of Disadvantaged Regions in Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono’s cabinet
without the approval of Gus Dur. Prior to his dismissal, Saifullah had served as PKB
secretary-general.
18 In addition to that, further regulations were set up to prevent anyone but Muhaimin
from winning the contest. These regulations included a passage that prohibited eli-
gible candidates to be active in social organizations (including NU and its affiliated
organizations) as well as a stipulation which stated that a candidate must never have
been involved in ‘organizational conflict’ with the NU chief patron, namely Gus Dur.
See ‘PKB Sets Dual Standards on Double Jobbing,’ Jakarta Post, 19 April 2005.
19 ‘Muhaimin Iskandar Elected PKB Leader,’ Laksamana Net, 20 April 2005.
20 Apart from Wahid’s nephew Muhaimin, another notable appointment in the new
central board was Wahid’s daughter Yenny who became deputy secretary-general.
21 Matori had fallen from Wahid’s grace after the 2001 impeachment process against
Wahid. In defiance of PKB’s official stance, Matori had attended the various
parliamentary sessions that sealed Wahid’s fate as president, thereby indirectly indi-
cating his support for the impeachment. After he was expelled from PKB, Matori
founded his own party (Partai Kejayaan Demokrasi) which, however, failed to fulfil
the eligibility criteria for the 2004 elections (Tim Litbang Kompas 2004: 257). He
passed away in May 2007.
22 See ‘PKB Tidies up, Readies for 2009 General Elections,’ Jakarta Post, 27 August
2007.
23 See ‘Minister Makes Move to PPP,’ Jakarta Post, 18 January 2007.
24 The movement had several high-profile members like Sophan Sophiaan, Laksamana
Sukardi, Didi Supriyanto and, at least in the beginning, Megawati’s brother Guruh
Sukarnoputra. Guruh in fact was initially touted to be the movement’s candidate for
the chairmanship, but he switched camps in the last minute and was later rewarded by
Megawati for this manoeuvre with a position in the new PDI-P central board. See
‘Reformists Challenge Mega’s Leadership,’ Jakarta Post, 17 January 2005;
‘Megawati Vows to Restore PDI-P Pride,’ Jakarta Post, 2 April 2005.
25 The 12 members of the faction who were dismissed from the party were Arifin Panig-
oro, Laksamana Sukardi, Sophan Sophiaan, Roy B. B. Janis, Didi Supriyanto,
Postdam Hutasoit, Tjiandra Wijaya, Pieters Sutanto, Pius Lustrilanang, Angelina Pat-
tiasina, Imam Mundjiat and Sukowaluyo Mintohardjo. They later went on to form a
new party, called the Democratic Renewal Party (Partai Demokrasi Pembaruan,
PDP). See ‘PDI-P Fires Dissidents, Internal Rift Worsens,’ Jakarta Post, 11 May
2005; ‘Eks GP PDI-P Bentuk PDP,’ Kompas, 1 December 2005.
26 Initially, Zainuddin named his party PPP-reformasi, but the PPP leadership around
Hamzah took legal action against this move so that Zainuddin was eventually forced
to change the name of his party to PBR (Legowo 2002, Soebekti et al. 2002: 63ff).
27 Ironically, PBR itself soon split into two camps after Zainuddin MZ was accused of
coercive practices in securing his re-election as party leader at the first national party
congress in April 2005. In the end, Zainuddin was axed from the party he once
founded. See ‘PBR Pecah, Zainal Pecat Zainuddin MZ,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 29 April
2005.
28 See ‘PPP Wants to Replace Hamzah Haz,’ Jakarta Post, 28 February 2005.
29 ‘PPP Wants to Replace Hamzah Haz,’ Jakarta Post, 28 February 2005.
30 See ‘DPP PPP Berhentikan 30 Pengurus DPW dan DPC,’ Kompas, 25 April 2005.
31 See ‘PPP Dipastikan Tak Jadi Oposisi,’ Kompas, 4 February 2007.
32 I am grateful to Bima Arya Sugiarto for pointing that out to me.
33 These figures refer to the early post-Suharto years. Over time, the levies were appar-
ently – and probably unsurprisingly – raised. Mietzner (2007: 246) reports that PAN
charged Rp. 5 million until November 2006, and Rp. 10 million after that.
34 Interview with Rizal Sukma, 21 September 2004.
35 One commentator likened the current status of PAN to that of a flower vase that is put
226 Notes
in a corner of a room. ‘If it’s there, it’s nice to look at, but if it’s not there, it doesn’t
matter either.’ Interview with Rizal Sukma, 21 September 2004.
36 In the early reformasi years, ‘only’ 38.9 per cent of the central leadership board were
Muhammadiyah cadres, although a higher percentage of Muhammadiyah cadres
could be found in PAN’s regional leadership boards. After the party’s 2005 national
congress, the connections with Muhammadiyah were further tightened as the new
party chairman Soetrisno Bachir appointed a central board that consisted of around 65
per cent of Muhammadiyah cadres or members. See ‘Soetrisno Bachir Bantah Kepen-
gurusan PAN “Gemuk” ,’ Kompas, 1 May 2005; Mietzner (2004: 234); Najib (2000:
29).
37 It should be noted, however, that Muhammadiyah support for PAN is waning.
According to a survey conducted just two weeks before the 2004 elections, only 32
per cent of Muhammadiyah supporters intended to give their vote to PAN (Qodari
2004b).
38 The first chairman of the Dewan Syuro was Ma’ruf Amin, but Gus Dur assumed the
post in 2000 and was then re-elected in 2005. Thanks to Marcus Mietzner for pointing
that out.
39 See ‘NU Yet to Support Gus Dur for President,’ Jakarta Post, 20 April 2004.
40 See ‘Megawati Terima Tiga Syarat PPP, Golkar Dekati Hasyim Tanpa Gus Dur,’
Media Indonesia, 29 April 2004.
41 For example, where charismatic leaders do not only glorify their own personality but
also communicate a value-based political ideology, the party can indeed gradually
institutionalize if it becomes associated with this ideology just as much as it is with
the leader himself (or herself). India’s Congress Party or the Peronist Party in
Argentina are but two examples of such parties.
42 In 2004, PAN improved its results in 14 provinces while it lost votes in 12 provinces (the
other six were new provinces). In most cases, however, the gains and losses were very
small indeed. PKB results were even more stable on a provincial level as only two
provinces recorded losses of more than 4 per cent. Significantly, one of these provinces
was the party’s main stronghold East Java where the party was downgraded from 35.5
per cent to 30.6 per cent. Online, available at www.kpu.go.id (accessed 3 April 2005).
43 In 1999, PDI-P was widely believed to have received many sympathy votes from
people who were not necessarily genuine PDI-P supporters.
44 Accordingly, the variations between PPP’s 1999 and 2004 election results were much
bigger than those of PKB or PAN. For example, PPP lost heavily in provinces like
Aceh (–15.0), Maluku (–12.0), West Sumatra (–8.7) and Jakarta (–8.3), online, avail-
able at www.kpu.go.id (accessed 3 April 2005).
45 Panebianco (1988: 52/53) distinguishes between ‘pure’ and ‘situational’ charisma.
While pure charisma always carries a messianic element, situational charisma refers
to leaders who emerge rather suddenly, often in a situation of acute social stress, and
then utilize the people’s yearning for strong leadership.
46 Party executives openly admitted that they aimed at replicating the feat of Thailand’s
Thai Rak Thai Party, which catapulted Thaksin Shinawatra to the Prime Minister post
(Tim Litbang Kompas 2004: 174).
47 Nur Wahid, who resigned from his position as party chairman after becoming MPR
speaker, was one of only two legislative candidates who acquired the requisite
amount of votes to be directly elected into parliament. The other one was H. Saleh
Djasit, a Golkar candidate from Riau.
48 The term dakwah is usually used to describe activities conducted to spread the teach-
ings of Islam. Among other things, such activities can include the organization of reli-
gious discussion groups or the implementation of social-welfare activities. A dakwah
party like PKS regards the spreading of Islamic values as one of its most important
political activities and rejects the differentiation between politics and religion that is
common in secular societies.
Notes 227
49 A total of 37 per cent of respondents ticked this category. Significantly, ‘taking care
of common people,’ another major focus of the PKS campaign, was the second most
frequently named reason (29 per cent) whereas religious affiliation (4 per cent) came
a distant ninth in the poll (IFES 2004c).
50 The Medina Charter was the constitution written by the Prophet Muhammad when he
lived in Medina. The significance of the Medina Charter lies in its provision for
adherents of other religions than Islam to be allowed to freely practise their own faith.
By referring to the charter, PKS is trying to allay fears that it wants to turn Indonesia
into an Islamic state where sharia law is applied to all citizens.
51 Interview with Untung Wahono, 15 September 2004.
52 Thanks to Marcus Mietzner for providing this information.
53 One of the other psychological factors dismissed by Liddle and Mujani as rather
insignificant is the impact of clientelism. However, as the analysis in previous chap-
ters has shown, changes in the 2004 electoral system seem to have brought clientelis-
tic patterns of voter recruitment back to the forefront. As individual candidates have
featured much more prominently on ballot papers in 2004 than in 1999, the incentives
for clientelistic practices have become much stronger than they were in 1999. Anec-
dotal evidence from South Sulawesi suggests that especially smaller parties have
relied more heavily on clientelism than Liddle and Mujani have argued for the 1999
elections.
54 See Chapter I, Article 2 of the party’s constitution online, available at http://pk-
sejahtera.org/organisasi.php? (accessed 10 November 2005).
55 See ‘PPP Bisa Jadi Partai Gurem,’ Kompas, 25 February 2005.
56 One of the most controversial issues was the proposed anti-pornography law which,
in its PKS-backed draft, intended to ban kissing in public, the flaunting of sensual
body parts, the wearing of tight clothes, and the display of nudity in artworks. For a
good overview of the key issues in the debate and especially the anti-draft position
see www.aliansimawarputih.com (accessed 25 August 2006).
57 Throughout 2005, PKS’s popularity declined continuously. After starting the year at
an all-time high of 10.1 per cent in January, the party dropped to 6.8 per cent in April,
to 2.9 per cent in July and eventually to only 2.7 per cent in September and December
2005. In 2006, it regained some ground and reached fairly consistent support of
around 4–5 per cent (Lembaga Survei Indonesia 2006, 2007).
58 While Megawati, Amien Rais and Gus Dur opted for new names, some new parties
featured clear references to the 1950s. The most blatant attempt to establish a bond
with Masyumi was the foundation of the Crescent and Moon Party (Partai Bulan
Bintang, PBB), which used Masyumi’s symbol in its logo. There were also parties
like Partai Masyumi Baru or, in the traditionalist camp, Partai Nahdlatul Ummat. On
the secular side of politics, a number of parties that carried the words Partai Nasional
Indonesia in their names sprung up, including Partai Nasional Indonesia Supeni,
Partai Nasional Indonesia Front Marhaenis, Partai Nasional Indonesia Massa
Marhaen and Partai Nasional Bangsa Indonesia. Of all these parties PBB was the
only one to reach the electoral threshold in the 1999 elections.
59 PDI-P is a bit of a borderline case. Arguably, this party, officially founded in 1999, is
one of the most obvious embodiments of reformasi as it is led by one of the most
prominent victims of New Order-style political repression. On the other hand, the
history of PDI-P cannot be separated from the history of the old PDI which was
created as a nationalist-secular umbrella organization in 1973. PDI-P came into
existence as the successor party of one particular faction within the old PDI. For a
history of PDI see Chapters 6 and 7 in Aspinall (2005) or Eklöf (2004).
60 PKS came to be known under its current name only in early 2002, but it is of course
the successor party to the old Partai Keadilan (PK), which was originally set up on 9
August 1998 (Amir 2003: 83). It changed its name because it had failed to reach the
electoral threshold in 1999.
228 Notes
61 See ‘Indonesian Parties Taking over Media,’ The Straits Times, 18 March 2004.
62 In the first week of campaigning, the team from Election News Watch recorded 11
violations by PDI-P, five by the small PKPB and two by Golkar (Election News
Watch No. 1: 13–15).
63 ‘Berlomba Jualan Partai Lewat TV,’ Kompas, 21 March 2004.
64 According to Election News Watch (No. 1: 11), PDI-P had prepared a budget of Rp.
40 billion for the campaign in the mass media.
65 Moreover, Megawati was by far the most frequently shown individual politician
during the campaign, followed by SBY. For details, see the report of the European
Union Election Observation Mission to Indonesia (EUEOM 2004).
66 As mentioned in Chapter 6, there was of course one exception to the overall fair press
coverage, namely the blatantly obvious bias towards Golkar and Surya Paloh in
Metro TV and Media Indonesia, which was largely due to Surya Paloh’s participation
in Golkar’s presidential convention. For assessments on the fairness of media cover-
age during the election campaign see Election News Watch, Vols 1–3 or EUEOM
(2004).
67 Dangdut is one of the most popular genres of Indonesian music. During election cam-
paigns dangdut artists are routinely used by political parties to entertain the audience.
See Kartomi (2005) for more details on the connection between popular culture and
politics.
68 See ‘Parties Break Rules, Big Money for “Supporters” ,’ Jakarta Post, 26 March
2004.
69 See for example ‘Moncong Putih Memerahkan Senayan,’ Liputan 6, 29 March 2004,
online, available at www.liputan6.com/view/0,75071,1,0,1133760717.html (accessed
16 June 2004). See also ‘Mega Ancam Tak Mau ke Jateng,’ Suara Merdeka, 31
March 2004.
70 See ‘Massa dan Simpatisan PAN Siap “Birukan” Jakarta,’ Kompas online, 29 March
2004; ‘Kampanye Dengan Semprot DB,’ Suara Merdeka, 22 March 2004.
71 See ‘PPP Hijaukan Jakarta,’ Jawa Pos, 5 January 2004; ‘PKB Siapkan Cadangan
Capres,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 30 March 2004.
72 ‘PKS: Indonesia Masih Punya Harapan,’ Kompas, 31 March 2004.
73 Although the party’s sometimes questionable selection of candidates for local elec-
tions, as exemplified in the Jakarta pilkada where PKS candidate Adang Daradjatun
was alleged to have paid billions of rupiah to the party (Mietzner 2006: 252), may be
a sign of things to come.
8 Conclusion and outlook: uneven party institutionalization and

the future of democracy in Indonesia
1 Writing about the parties in the early post-colonial period, Lev (1967: 59) was refer-
ring to Masyumi’s and NU’s inability to ‘transcend the basic symbol of the Faith to
reach out to the complex world of social and economic change.’ Arguably, this reser-
vation is irrelevant in the case of PKS as the emergence of this party is, at least partly,
a direct response to this complex world of social and economic change. Nonetheless,
Islam as an ideological value in politics still remains inherently confining, simply
because of its highly exclusivist character. PKS, for example, is in fact popular
among many non-Muslims because of its anti-corruption stance, but at the same time
many of those who like this aspect of the party still remain suspicious about the
party’s real long-term goals.
2 See below for a discussion of the interdependence of party institutionalization and
party system institutionalization.
3 Significantly, the authors emphasize that the scores in three of their four dimensions
and the overall score are ‘rough and incomplete approximations’ (Mainwaring and
Scully 1995: 16).
Notes 229
4 Actually, she is using Mainwaring’s later work on Brazil as a theoretical basis, but the
theoretical approach is the same as in the comparative study by Mainwaring and
Scully.
5 Apart from the problem of subjectivity in determining the point values, the rating
scale has of course another weakness. While it can highlight in concise form the key
strengths and weaknesses of the parties, and while it can pinpoint the uneven charac-
ter of party institutionalization in the individual dimensions, it cannot capture the
underlying dynamics that shape the process of party institutionalization. As a matter
of fact, party institutionalization is never a static condition, but rather a dynamic
process that is constantly evolving. Moreover, it is a process that does not necessarily
have to be irreversibly linear as, for example, the gradual de-institutionalization of
Golkar in the dimension of systemness has shown. These dynamics can of course not
be depicted in a simplified matrix and underline the notion that such a matrix can only
be a snapshot of the state of party institutionalization at a certain moment in time.
6 In contrast to Mainwaring and Scully, who in the end aggregated all individual scores
into one final score, this table does not suggest a definite institutionalization score for
all parties. Such an aggregation would imply that all individual dimensions carry the
same weight. This, however, is not necessarily the case. A party like PKB, for
instance, may be rather poorly institutionalized overall, but its high level of value
infusion compensates for some of the weaknesses in the other dimensions. Also, deci-
sional autonomy seems to have a much smaller impact on the electoral performance
of parties than the other dimensions so that its significance should not be measured on
a par with the impact of, for example, systemness.
7 The only dimension of the party system that seems to be reasonably well institutional-
ized at this stage is the structural/external dimension which deals with the relations
between the party system and the state (Randall and Svåsand 2001). Even though the
state has influenced the development and shape of the party system through measures
of electoral engineering (for example the setting of electoral thresholds), political
parties in contemporary Indonesia are formally granted autonomy from the state –
even more so, one may argue, after the cancellation of subsidies. This is obviously a
big improvement compared to the New Order when parties were permanently scruti-
nized and candidates screened. Furthermore, the independence of the election com-
mission and regulated access to media and election campaigning for all parties are
other important indicators of the parties’ autonomy from the state.
8 As discussed in Chapter 3, the introduction of candidates’ names and pictures on the
ballot papers altered the electoral behaviour of many voters and increased the chances
of smaller parties achieving good results, especially on the local level. Moreover, the
success of PD can be explained almost exclusively as a consequence of the introduc-
tion of direct presidential elections since many PD voters supported the party only
because they knew that in order to get SBY elected, they would have to lift PD over
the 5 per cent benchmark set as a threshold for parties which wanted to nominate a
presidential candidate.
9 The volatility index, which was originally developed by Pedersen (1983), measures
the degree of change in support for each party from one election to the next. It is
derived ‘by adding the net change in percentage of seats or votes gained or lost by
each party from one election to the next, then dividing by two’ (Mainwaring and
Scully 1995: 6). Calculated by votes, the volatility index in Indonesia in 2004 was
28.55, which is relatively high by normative standards, but still moderate compared to
the figures Mainwaring and Scully (1995: 8) found for their Latin American case
studies.
10 The effective number of parties is calculated by squaring each party’s share of seats
or votes, adding all of these squares, and then dividing 1.00 by this number. See
Laakso and Taagepera (1979) for details.
11 Dozens of other examples could be added from various gubernatorial and bupati
230 Notes
elections, where defeated candidates often mobilized mobs in order to force the nulli-
fication of the result.
12 In July 2001, when parliament impeached Gus Dur, the defiant president responded
by issuing a bizarre decree which mandated the banning of Golkar as a political party.
Subsequently, PKB politicians were instrumental in the moves to bring Akbar Tand-
jung to court. Shortly afterwards though, all bad blood was forgotten and eventually
the two parties collaborated in the first round of the 2004 presidential election.
13 One PDI-P politician described his cooperation with Golkar politicians in the special
committee for constitutional reform as so extraordinary that he had the feeling that
they should ‘call themselves a party of their own’. Interview with Jakob Tobing, 11
June 2004.
14 After the exceptional voter turnout of 91 per cent in 1999, figures dropped slightly to
83 per cent in 2004. By international standards, however, even 83 per cent is still
quite high (NDI 2004: 15).
15 Fifty-two per cent of respondents judged the performance of the DPR as good, 69 per
cent opined that the police were performing well, 71 per cent thought the president
was performing well and 80 per cent believed that the armed forces were doing well
(LSI 2006).
16 Suharto was eventually withdrawn from the list of those who received the award at
the official ceremony, but Golkar officials were adamant that they would still give the
award to the former president on a separate occasion. See ‘Golkar dan HM Soeharto,’
Suara Pembaruan, 28 November 2005; ‘Golkar Partai Pendukung Pemerintah,’
Kompas, 27 November 2005.
17 See ‘ “Drop Charges” against Soeharto,’ Jakarta Post, 7 January 2008.
18 Based on extensive survey data, Mujani and Liddle (2004: 118) have identified the
existing networks of NU and Muhammadiyah as ‘a major obstacle to the further
growth of PK [PKS].’ Therefore, it is little surprising that the infiltration of these net-
works is part of PKS’s strategy to enlarge its influence.
19 Another ‘if ’ may concern its current reputation as a clean and non-corruptible party.
Having achieved much of its success due to its clean record, much of PKS’s future
development will depend on how the party uses its unprecedented influence in poli-
tics, especially in many regional parliaments.
20 The end of Megawati’s career, however, is unlikely to come any time soon. In Sep-
tember 2007, the PDI-P leader had already announced her willingness to contest the
2009 presidential election and if surveys and election results for PDI-P candidates in
a number of pilkada throughout 2007 are any indicator of things to come, she may
even win. See ‘Megawati Calon Presiden 2009,’ Kompas, 11 September 2007.
21 As quoted in ‘Golkar in the Gates but Staying Steady,’ Jakarta Post, 23 October
2007.
22 Interviews with Theo Sambuaga, 28 April 2004 and Bomer Pasaribu, 11 August
2004.
23 ‘Golkar Proposes Two-tier Election System for Efficiency,’ Jakarta Post, 11 Febru-
ary 2006; ‘Kinerja Parpol Jeblok, UU Parpol Harus Dikaji Ulang,’ Detikcom, 23
March 2006. See Mietzner (2006) for a critical comment on the debate about the
electoral threshold.
24 ‘Kalla Minta Golkar Cari Pengganti Konvensi,’ Koran Tempo, 23 November 2007.
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‘Menang Berkat Jual Beli Suara,’ Fajar, 26 April 2004.
‘Mencari Peluang di Jazirah Golkar,’ Kompas, 27 February 2004.
‘Mereka Berlomba Memanjat Puncak Beringin,’ Kompas, 16 December 2004.
‘Minister Makes Move to PPP,’ Jakarta Post, 18 January 2007.
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‘Munas Golkar, Konvensi Babak II?,’ Kompas, 9 December 2004.
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‘NU Yet to Support Gus Dur for President,’ Jakarta Post, 20 April 2004.
‘Nurcholish Urung Ikut Konvensi Golkar,’ Kompas, 31 July 2003.
‘One Policy on Papua Needed,’ Jakarta Post, 27 June 2005.
‘PAN Tetap Dibayang-bayangi Amien,’ Suara Merdeka, 12 April 2005.
‘Pangab: ABRI Kembangkan Empat Paradigma Peran Sosial Politik Baru,’ Republika, 18
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‘Papuans Need Sincerity,’ Jakarta Post, 7 November 2005.
‘Para Caleg “Beken” Belum Penuhi Daftar Kekayaan, KPU: Caleg Penuhi Syarat Tak
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‘Partai Golkar Kembali,’ Kompas, 13 April 2004.
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‘Parties Not Transparent about Legislative Poll Funding,’ Jakarta Post, 29 May 2004.
‘PBR Pecah, Zainal Pecat Zainuddin MZ,’ Pikiran Rakyat, 29 April 2005.
‘PDI-P Fires Dissidents, Internal Rift Worsens,’ Jakarta Post, 11 May 2005.
‘Pembukaan Musda Golkar Sulsel Berlangsung Rusuh,’ Kompas, 4 December 2004.
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www.aliansimawarputih.com
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Interviewees
Abdul Madjid Sallatu, Hasanuddin University, 24 June 2004.

Abdul Nurhaman, former Chairman of West Java Provincial Leadership Board, Partai
Golkar, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (2004–present), 29 July 2004.
Alan Wall, International Foundation for Election Systems, 5 August 2004.
Amin Syam, Chairman of South Sulawesi Provincial Leadership Board, Partai Golkar,
and former Governor of South Sulawesi (2002–2008), 7 May 2004.
Andi Mattalatta, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1992–present), 4 May 2004.
Arfandy Idris, Member of Provincial Parliament South Sulawesi, Partai Golkar
(1999–present), 6 July 2004 and 16 September 2004.
Arief Budiman, University of Melbourne, 20 December 2005.
Arifuddin Saransi, Member of Provincial Parliament South Sulawesi, Partai Golkar
(1999–present), 30 June 2004.
Arskal Salim, IAIN Jakarta, 26 June 2005.
B. J. Habibie, former Indonesian President (1998–9), 18 July 2003.
Bomer Pasaribu, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004) and Member of Parlia-
ment, Partai Golkar (1982–1997 and 2004–present), 11 August 2004.
Damien Kingsbury, Deakin University, 3 March 2006.
Deddy Yevri Sitorus, National Democratic Institute (NDI), 10 July 2003.
Dias Pradadimara, Hasanuddin University, 29 June 2004.
Elizabeth Morrell, Flinders University, 21 December 2005.
Fadhilla Mallarangeng, Legislative Candidate Partai Golkar (2004), 22 September 2004.
Fahmi Idris, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–present), Minister of Industry
(2005–present), 13 August 2004.
Faisal Basri, former member of PAN, Commission for the Supervision of Business
Competition (KPPU), 14 September 2004.
Ferry Mursyidan Baldan, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1997–present), 11 July
2003.
Hajriyanto Y. Thohari, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1997–present), 16 August
2004.
Happy Bone Zulkarnain, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1999–present), 19
August 2004.
Harry Tjan Silalahi, Centre for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), 3 July 2003.
HM Zain Katoe, Chairman of Parepare Leadership Board Partai Golkar, and Mayor of
Parepare, 2 July 2004.
Ibrahim Ambong, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1997–2004), 2 June 2004.
J. Kristiadi, Centre for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), 11 August 2004.
254 Interviewees
Jakob Tobing, Member of Parliament Golkar (1972–92), Member of Parliament PDI-P,
1999–2004, 11 June 2004.
Luky Djany, Indonesia Corruption Watch, 18 June 2004.
Mahadi Sinambela, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004) and Member of Parlia-
ment, Partai Golkar, (1994–9 and 2004–present), 6 August 2004.
Marcus Mietzner, formerly US AID, 24 February 2006.
Marwah Daud Ibrahim, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004), Member of Parlia-
ment, Partai Golkar (1992–present), 15 July 2004.
Marzuki Darusman, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004), Member of Parliament,
Partai Golkar (2004–present), 14 September 2004.
Muliadi Mau, Lembaga Studi Informasi dan Media Massa (LSIM), 30 June 2004.
Nurul Arifin, Legislative Candidate, Partai Golkar (2004), 26 May 2004 and 11 August
2004.
Patrick Ziegenhain, Arnold-Bergstraesser Institut, 28 February 2006.
Rahman Tolleng, former student activist, 9 July 2003.
Rizal Sukma, Centre for Strategic and International Studies (CSIS), 21 September 2004.
Ryaas Rasyid, former Minister for Regional Autonomy, Chairman/President Partai Per-
satuan Demokrasi Kenbangsaan (2002–present), 31 August 2004.
Salim Said, Political observer and Indonesian Ambassador to the Czech Republic,
10 August 2004 and 3 February 2005.
Sarwono Kusumaatmadja, Member of Regional Representatives Council, former
secretary-general, Golkar, 7 July 2003 and 19 August 2004.
Sjachrir Sjafruddin Daeng Jarung, Legislative Candidate, Partai Golkar (2004), 26
August 2004.
Slamet Effendy Yusuf, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004), Member of Parlia-
ment, Partai Golkar (1992–present), 11 July 2003 and 1 September 2004.
Stephanie Lynn, National Democratic Institute (NDI), 4 February 2005.
Suwardi Thahir, Fajar, 8 May 2004.
Syamsu Nur, Fajar, 8 May 2004.
Theo Sambuaga, Member of DPP Partai Golkar (1998–2004), Member of Parliament,
Partai Golkar (1982–1998 and 2004–present), 28 April 2004.
Tom Garrett, International Republican Institute (IRI), 11 July 2003.
Untung Wahono, Chairman Political Department and Member of Parliament (2004–
present), Partai Keadilan Sejahtera, 15 September 2004.
Yahya Zaini, Member of Parliament, Partai Golkar (1997–2006), 31 August 2004.
Index
Abeng, Tanri 85 Chu, Yun-han 12

Acehnese Independence Movement 24 Ciputra family 66
Ali, Suryadharma 158, 167 clientelism 21–2, 42–4, 166, 227n53; see
aliran 97–103, 166, 169–70, 192 also patron-clientelism
AMPG 107 communication, political 7, 27, 122–50,
AMPI 107 127–36, 172–8
Ananta, Aris 98, 99, 110, 112 corruption 111, 188–9, 199n9, 199n11,
Anderson, Benedict 125–6 201n34, 211n32; and decisional
Ansor 39, 100 autonomy 86–7, 88, 161, 165; in Golkar
Arifin, Nurul 116 7, 60, 84–6, 148, 183; and
armed forces: influence of 6; New institutionalization 21, 200n21
Paradigm 73–5; role in politics 13, 15, Council of Asian Liberals and Democrats
24, 72–82, 162–3, 179 24
Aspinall, Edward 75 Crouch, Harold 14, 73, 198n1
authoritarian regimes 10, 27, 32, 185
Daud Ibrahim, Marwah 47–8, 49, 51, 59,
Ba’asyir, Abu Bakar 167 90, 104
Bachir, Soetrisno 154–5 decentralization 43, 45, 69, 87
Bachri, Syamsul 90 decisional autonomy 6, 22–5, 32, 93–4,
Baharuddin, Yasril Ananta 104 161–5, 178–9; Golkar’s 71–94, 181
Baidlowi, Aisyah Hamid 100 democracy 180–92; electoral
Bakrie, Aburizal 59, 65, 88 democracies 10, 199n2; in Indonesia
Baldan, Ferry Mursyidan 99 180–92; liberal democracy 10;
Baligate 75, 84–6 ‘pancasila’ 95–6
Bank Bali scandal 75, 84–6 democratic consolidation 8, 9, 16, 17, 31,
Baramuli, Arnold 85 189; and party system
Basri, Faisal 66 institutionalization 185–9
Baswedan, Anies Rasyid 98, 167 democratic deficits 10
Beller, Dennis C. 21–2, 50 democratic transition 9–16, 17, 31, 33,
Belloni, Frank P. 21–2, 50 119, 181; in Indonesia 13–16, 119,
Buehler, Michael 43, 119 137, 166, 189; and the media 130;
Buloggate 84–6, 132–3 protracted transitions 11–12; regime
businessmen and politics 24, 64–6, 88, types 9–11
113, 138; Golkar and businessmen developing countries 62
64–6, 83, 113, 159 Diamond, Larry 13, 26
Duverger, Maurice 62
Chandra, Joko 66
charismatic leaders 20, 27, 45, 154, 167, economic development 96–7, 122
170, 179, 226n45 Eisenstadt, Todd 11
256 Index
elections 9; competitive 10, 33, 35, 43, 65, of 36–40, 68; Golkar Party Reform
83, 201n38; in Indonesia 14, 35; see Forum 57–8; hegemonic status of 2, 36,
also under Indonesia; voting behaviour 37, 120, 122, 149, 182; influence of
and social background 169–70 entrepreneurs 65; institutional strength
electoral systems 30, 200n16, 202n40 3, 35, 45; institutional weakness 36, 54,
Elklit, Jørgen 9 86, 107, 181; Iramasuka faction 47–9,
Emmerson, Donald K. 111 49–50, 61, 109, 205n36; and Islam
‘ersatz’ values 114–20, 119, 120, 182, 98–9, 100; leadership 38–40, 45–62, 59,
218n74 68, 80, 183; local electoral contests
90–2; and local media, 136–49; loyalty
factionalism 21–2, 38–40, 45–62, 156–9, to 105–6; and the media 23, 130–4, 135,
178–9 150; and the Megawati administration
Fauzi, Ihsan Ali 159 77–8; money politics 61, 72, 83, 92, 94;
former hegemonic parties 32, 198n4 name recognition 124–5, 130, 135,
Forum magazine 128–9 173–4, 182; Nationhood Coalition 56,
Fox, James J. 168 115; and the New Order regime 36–40,
Freedom House 14 61; New Paradigm 73–5, 106; as
Fuller Collins, Elizabeth 159 newsmaker 129–30; organizational
infrastructure 37, 41, 68; and the Outer
GAM see Acehnese Independence Islands, 102–9; and Papua 78–80; party
Movement constitution 113, 123, 204n18; party
genetic model 20, 36–40, 68 logo 126, 149; party organization 68;
gizi 88; see also corruption patron-clientelism 37, 42–4, 60–1, 68,
Golkar 65–6; and the 1999 election 75–6; 70, 99–101, 115–16, 118–19, 120;
and the 2004 elections 69, 80–1, 105, personalistic politics 117–18; political
106–8; and the 2004 national congress communication 122–50; political culture
51–61; absence of ideological values 45, 60, 116, 119–20; positive coverage in
96, 119, 120, 121, 183; appeal of the Tribun Timur newspaper 143–8; and
99–101, 104–5, 112–14; and the armed the Preparatory Committee for the
forces 71–2, 72–82, 93; and the business Implementation of Islamic Law (KPPSI)
community 64–6, 83, 113, 159; cadre 101–3; presidential convention 50–4,
recruitment 115–16; candidates’ 69, 88–9, 113, 117, 135, 174–5, 192;
distribution of money 53, 64–5; central presidential election in 2004 3, 51,
board 74, 193–6; characteristics of its 54–8, 95, 104, 183; recruitment of
constituency 97, 103; coherence 45, 50, personnel 182, 204n19; regional cadres,
56, 69; the colour yellow and the banyan 45–62; reification 122–50, 177;
tree 123–7, 219n13; communication resilience of 1–7; selection of candidates
patterns 36, 127–36, 149; corporate 89–90, 91, 94; socio-economic profile of
identity 124–5; corruption 7, 60, 84–7, its constituency 110, 112, 113, 114;
148, 183; coverage in the Tribun Timur sources of funding 62, 66–7, 68, 83, 94;
newspaper 139–49, 144, 145, 146; and Suharto 83–4; Supervisory Council
culture of 60, 114–15, 116, 119, 120; (Dewan Pembina) 38; systemness
decentralization of, 61; decision-making 35–70, 181, 182; territorial reach 37,
processes 36, 38, 72, 78, 89–90, 92, 93, 40–4, 68–9, 105; uneven party
94; decisional autonomy 71–94, 181; institutionalization 181–3; use of
donations to 63–6; dual identity of 122, symbols 122–50, 219n13; value infusion
133–4, 135–6, 190; electoral 95–121, 181, 182; see also Golkar,
performance 41, 95, 100–1, 103–4, 104, ‘ersatz’ values; voter mobilization 118;
183, 197; ‘ersatz’ values 114–20, 119, and the Wahid administration 76–7;
120, 182, 218n74; factionalism 38–40, Yayasan Dakab 40, 84; youth
45–62, 68, 69, 90, 134, 183; financial organizations 107
resources 36, 40, 62–8, 83–4, 182, Gumelar, Agum 80
203n14; founding organizations 38, Gunther, Richard 26
209n1; future of 190–2; genetic model Gus Dur see Abdurrahman Wahid
Index 257
Habibie, B. J. 39, 78, 106, 128; and Akbar personalization of politics 119, 120,
Tandjung 46, 48; Bank Bali scandal 75, 161, 178, 183; political parties 151–79,
84–5; Yayasan Dakab 84 173, 178, 187; presidential elections 14,
Hadiz, Vedi 13, 15 54–8, 186; reforms in 13, 15, 73;
Hafidz, Wardah 130, 138, 150 regional identity politics 48; religion in
Hafild, Emmy 64 23, 98, 105, 109, 171, 192; SARS
Halid, Nurdin 86 syndrome 109–14, 133–4; separatist
Hamu, Alwi 138–9, 156 violence in 24, 111; social movements,
Haq, Hamka 101 166; socio-economic profile of the
Haris, Syamsuddin 90 population 110, 112, 113, 114, 167, 169;
Haynes, Jeff 10 state subsidies to political parties 66–7,
Haz, Hamza 80, 157, 158, 167 160; television 130, 131, 135, 175,
Helmke, Gretchen 21 220n23; transparency of the parliament
Hidayat, Mohammad 63, 113 77, 87, 161; uneven party
HMI 99, 100 institutionalization 160, 184–5
Honna, Jun 162 institutional regulations 26
Huntington, Samuel P. 22 institutionalization, 4, 8, 17–19; and
corruption 200n21; decisional autonomy
ICMI 100 6, 22–5, 32, 161–5; dimensions of 6–7,
Idris, Fahmi 49, 51, 57, 58, 59, 65 19, 28–9, 32, 94, 184–5; and financial
Indonesia: Acehnese Independence resources 20; importance of 16–33;
Movement 24; aliran structures 97–103, level of 17; measurability of 5, 184–5;
192; anti-political party attitudes 173, models of 3, 28–9, 71, 180, 182; and
189; armed forces, role of in politics 13, party system institutionalization 4, 18,
15, 24, 72–82, 162–3, 179; businessmen 29–31, 18; reification 7, 27–8, 32, 33,
and politics 24, 88; campaign 172–8; systemness 6, 20–2, 31, 152–61;
expenditure 160; characteristics of party theoretical aspects of 8–34; uneven
politics in 6, 66, 69, 187; class politics party institutionalization 31–3, 34,
in 109–10; constitutional amendments 151–79, 180–92; value infusion 7, 25–7,
14; corruption in 7, 15; de- 166–72
ideologization 97; decentralization institutions, informal 21
programme 43, 45, 69, 87; democracy in Iramasuka faction 47–50, 61, 109, 205n36
180–92; democratic transition 13–16, Iskandar, Muhaimin 155–6
119, 137, 166, 189; donations to Islam 98–103, 167–72, 203n11
political parties 63; election in 1971 Islamic law 101–3
36–8; elections in 1999, 75–6, 174; Islamic organizations 39, 100, 101, 171,
elections in 2004 139–49, 154, 160, 170, 179
176; electoral laws 42–3, 63, 107, 119, Islamic values 99, 168–9
186–8, 191, 202n4; freedom of the press
127, 128; GAM 24; gizi 88; human Jakarta Post (newspaper) 128, 129, 130,
rights violations 15; independent 220n29
candidates 115, 217n58; Janda, Kenneth 22, 27, 172
institutionalization of political parties Jawa Pos (newspaper) 128
186; Islam in 39, 99, 168–9, 171, Johnson, Elaine Paige 4, 184–5
203n11; Islamic law 101–3; legislative Jones, Sidney 29
elections 2, 14, 45; local politics in 42; Junedding, Burhaman 102
mass rallies 176–7; media in 128–9,
137, 150, 176, 219n19, 220n20; money Kalla, Jusuf 65, 102, 192; and the media
politics in 7, 24; nepotism 15; New 138–9, 147, 149; reputation 117; rise to
Order regime 36–40, 198n1; newspapers power 58–62, 88, 105–6, 109, 120
128–9, 130, 131, 220n25; oligarchic Kalla, Suhaeli 65
power networks 15; pancasila 95–6, King, Dwight Y. 97, 109
166, 213n3; parliamentary election, 14; Kingsbury, Damien 75, 127
party institutionalization in 160; Komaruddin, Ade 99
258 Index
Kompas (newspaper) 128 oligarchy 25, 89
KPPSI see Preparatory Committee for the Ottaway, Marian 10
Implementation of Islamic Law
Paloh, Surya 59, 60, 65, 88, 148
Laksono, Agung 59, 60, 65, 89, 191, PAN 190; decisional autonomy 161,
207n81, 208n98 163–4; factionalism 158; and Islamic
Lauth, Hans-Joachim 21 organizations 163–4, 179; name
leadership 38–40; charismatic leadership recognition 173–4; reification 177; value
20, 27, 45, 154, 167, 170, 179, 226n45 infusion 167, 170, 171, 179
legitimacy 18 pancasila 95–6, 114, 120, 125, 166, 213n3
Lev, Daniel 1, 183 Panebianco, Angelo 20, 22, 37
Levitsky, Steven 10, 22, 28, 29 Panigoro, Arifin 157
Liddle, R. William 37, 97, 109, 170 Papua 78–80
Lindberg, Staffan I. 18 party organization 18
Linz, Juan J. 9–10, 189 party system institutionalization 4, 29–31,
Lipset, Seymour Martin 25, 189 151, 185; appreciation by the electorate
30, 33, 188–9; components of 18; and
Machmud, Aksa 138–9 democratic consolidation 185–9;
Mainwaring, Scott 4, 5, 8, 18, 27, 29, 126, dimensions of 29; and interference from
166, 184, 229n6 the state 30; legitimacy 18; party
Malley, Michael 13, 14 organization 18, 19; stability 18; types
Marzuki Darusman 57, 58, 96 of 30
Masyumi 26, 166–7, 172–3; see also patron-clientelism 156–9, 203n6
Islamic organizations PBR 157–8
Matta, Anis 158 PD 175, 190, 191; electoral performance
Mattalatta, Andi 104, 108 183; name recognition 173–4, 178;
Media Indonesia (newspaper) 128 reification 177, 179; value infusion
Megawati Sukarnoputri 77–8, 111, 132, 167–9, 171, 179
154, 155, 188; Golkar alliance with PDI-P 2, 35, 101, 175–6, 191, 227n59;
55–8; and Papua 79 decisional autonomy 161–2;
Merkel, Wolfgang 9–10, 16–17, 30, 189 factionalism 157; name recognition
Mexico 12, 33 173–4, 178; patron-clientelism 157;
Meyer, Thomas 127 reification 177, 179; systemness 155–6;
Michels, Robert 25 value infusion 167, 170, 171, 179
Mietzner, Marcus 44, 67–8, 75, 81, 91, 160 PDI-P Reform Movement 157
money politics 7, 13, 24, 47, 61, 69, 72, personalization of politics 119, 120, 161,
83–94, 201n34, 211n32 166–7, 178, 183
Morgenstern, Scott 17 pilkada 14, 43, 82, 90–2, 119, 169, 172
Morrell, Elizabeth 138, 143 PKB 190; decisional autonomy 161, 163,
Morin, Simon Patrice 79 164–5; factionalism,156; and Islamic
Muhammadiyah 100, 101, 179; and PAN organizations 164–5,179; name
163–4 recognition 173–4, 178; patron-
Mujani, Saiful 92, 109, 155, 170 clientelism 156–7; reification 177;
Murdani, Benny 39 systemness 155, 155–6, 156; value
Muzadi, Hasyim 164, 165 infusion 167, 170, 171, 179
PKI 23
Nahdlatul Ulama 39, 100, 101, 164–5, PKPB 111, 134
179; and PKB 164–5 PKS 175, 190, 228n1; decisional
nationalism 26–7 autonomy 162; electoral performance
New Order regime 1, 61, 36–8, 198n1 183; factionalism 158–9;
newspapers 128–9, 130–1, 138, 220n25 institutionalization 178, 180; name
Novanto, Setya 84–5 recognition 173–4, 178; reification 177;
systemness 161; value infusion 167–9,
O’Donnell, Guillermo 9 170, 171, 172, 178
Index 259
political parties 1–2, 4, 151; appreciation Rokkan, Stein 25
by the electorate 30, 33, 188–9; and rootedness see value infusion
businessmen 24; characteristics of their
constituencies 170; clientelism 21–2; in Saefullah, Avip 57
developing countries 62; factionalism Sambuaga, Theo 49, 230n22
21–2; financial resources 159, 160, 161, Santoso, Priyo Budi 100, 124–5
179; former hegemonic parties 8–34, Sasdi, Ardinas 80, 133
11–12, 33, 181; functions of 2, 20, Saya amat rindu Suharto, SARS 111–12
16–33, 120, 198n3; genetic model of 20; SBY see Yudhoyono, Susilo Bambang
hybrid parties 166–7; institutional Schedler, Andreas 10–11
weakness 166; interference from Schmitter, Philippe C. 9
external actors 162–5; lack of human Scott, James 37
resources,153; mutual acceptance 30, Scully, Timothy R. 5, 43, 184, 229n6
33, 188; name recognition 172; Slater, Dan 188
nationalism and 26–7; opposition parties social background and voting behaviour
33; organizational strength at the local 169–70
level 153; organizational weakness 165; social conflict theory 17
party cohesion 44; performance of Socialist International 24
15–16; personalization of politics 119, Soebhan, Syafuan Rozi 106–7
120, 161, 166–7, 178, 183; public South Sulawesi 6, 42, 90, 101, 104, 117,
awareness of 172, 173; recruitment and 140, 215n35; ethnic groups 104;
training of personnel 154, 178, 224n8; Golkar’s performance in 106–8, 108;
socio-economic profile of their media in 136, 137–8; patrimonial
constituencies 179; use of symbols structures in 107, 108, 118;
176–7 political ‘sub-system’ in 118;
PPDK 108 traditional rulers 118–19; Yasin
PPP 177, 190; factionalism 157; name Limpo family 43–4
recognition 173–4, 178; patron- stability 18, 29, 30, 33, 95, 96, 122, 187
clientelism 157; value infusion 167–9, Stepan, Alfred 9, 189
179 Suara Pembaruan (newspaper) 128
Pradadimara, Dias 102, 112 Sudharmono 38–9
Preparatory Committee for the Suharto 38–9, 84, 111, 199n4; and Golkar
Implementation of Islamic Law (KPPSI) 83–4, 122; Saya amat rindu Suharto
101–3 SARS 111–12, 133–4
print media 128–9 Sukma, Rizal 159
Sultan Hamengkubuwono X 117–18
Qodari, Muhammad 134 Svåsand, Lars 3, 4, 19, 31, 71; decisional
autonomy 23; reification 28; systemness
Rais, Amien 2, 154–5, 158, 161, 163, 22; value infusion 25
171 Syam, Amin 106, 107
Randall, Vicky 3, 4–5, 19, 26, 31, 71; Syariat Islam 102
decisional autonomy 23; reification 28; symbols, use of 122–50, 176–7, 219n13
systemness 22; value infusion 25 systemness 6, 20–2, 31, 35–70, 178, 182,
Rasyid, Ryaas 108 200n18; and factionalism 156–9;
reification 7, 27–8, 32, 33, 172–8, 179, Golkar’s 35–70; and lack of financial
182; in Golkar 122–50; and name resources 159–60; and patron-
recognition 172–4; role of the media clientelism 156–9; and personalistic
174–6; symbolism of colour 176–7 party structures 154–6; problems with
Reilly, Benjamin 26 152–61; and quality of party
Republika (newspaper) 128 functionaries 152–4; and territorial
Rigger, Shelley 12 reach 152–4
Rinakit, Sukardi 75
Robison, Richard 15 Taiwan 12, 31–2
Rokhmad, Abu 156 Tan, Paige Johnson 43, 98, 166, 175
260 Index
Tandjung, Akbar 3, 39, 45–62, 99, 108; Von Beyme, Klaus 27, 152
and the 2004 national congress 58–61; voting behaviour and social background
corruption scandal 49, 52, 85, 132–3; 169–70
leadership 48, 59, 61, 70; and the
presidential convention 50–2, 53, 55; Wahid, Abdurrahman 3, 76–7, 111, 154,
rise to power 46–7 155, 156, 164; impeachment 132, 188
television 128, 130, 131, 135, 175, Wahid, Hidayat Nur 158, 168, 169
220n23 Wahid, Solahuddin 165
Tempo magazine 128–9 Wahono, Untung 169
terrorist movements 24 Wall, Alan 76–7
Thohari, Hajriyanto 100 Wallis, Darren 19
Titra, Adam 124–5 Ward, Ken 37
TNI see armed forces Winata, Tomy 66
Torcal, Mariano 18, 166 Wirahadikusumah, Agus 75
Törnquist, Olle 189 Wiranto 52–4, 59, 80–1, 118, 188; role of
trade unions 23 the military 73–4, 75
Tribun Timur (newspaper) 138–9; Wolinetz, Steven B. 18
coverage of political parties in 141, 142,
144, 145, 146; Golkar’s domination of Yasin Limpo family 43–4
election coverage in 140–2; reporting of Yosfiah, Yunus 128
the 2004 elections 139–49 Yudhoyono, Susilo Bambang (SBY) 57,
58, 60, 75, 167–8, 171, 188
Ufen, Andreas 17, 26, 114, 167 Yusuf, Saifullah 155–6
United Democratic Nationhood Party 108 Yusuf, Slamet Effendy 39, 100, 124
value infusion 7, 25–7, 114, 166–72, 179; Zainal Abidin 108

in Golkar 95–121; sources of 25, 120 Zainuddin MZ 157–8
Vásquez-D’Elia, Javier 17 Zulkarnain, Happy Bone 116

Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia - 2008

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Party Politics and Democratization in

Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia: Golkar in the post-Suharto era

Dirk Tomsa is an associate lecturer at the University of Tasmania, Australia. He

1 Land Tenure, Conservation and Development in Southeast Asia

2 The Politics of Indonesia–Malaysia Relations

3 Governance and Civil Society in Myanmar

4 Regionalism in Post-Suharto Indonesia

5 Living with Transition in Laos

6 Christianity, Islam and Nationalism in Indonesia

7 Violent Conflicts in Indonesia

8 Revolution, Reform and Regionalism in Southeast Asia

9 The Politics of Tyranny in Singapore and Burma

11 Security and Sustainable Development in Myanmar

13 Financial Fragility and Instability in Indonesia

14 The Revival of Tradition in Indonesian Politics

15 Communal Violence and Democratization in Indonesia

16 Singapore in the Global System

17 Chinese Big Business in Indonesia

18 Ethno-religious Violence in Indonesia

19 Ethnic Politics in Burma

20 Democratization in Post-Suharto Indonesia

21 Party Politics and Democratization in Indonesia

ISBN10: 0-415-46008-5 (hbk)

ISBN13: 978-0-415-46008-8 (hbk)

ISBN 0-203-89274-7 Master e-book ISBN

1 Introduction: the remarkable resilience of Golkar 1

2 Theoretical reflections: protracted transitions, uneven party

3 Systemness: deconstructing the myth of Golkar’s party

4 Decisional autonomy: the main problems lurk inside the

5 Value infusion: in search of Golkar’s roots 95

Launceston, January 2008

The main argument

The transition paradigm revisited

Defining regime types

Protracted transitions and the special role of former hegemonic

There is no doubt that the persistence of these holdover issues of regime

It is in fact erroneous to suggest that Indonesia is still in ‘transition’.

Party 1999 2004 Gained/lost

Partai Golkar 22.44 21.58 –0.86

Sources: www.kpu.go.id; Ananta, Arifin and Suryadinata (2005: 14 and 22).

The role of parties and the importance of party

Approaches to party institutionalization

Str uctur al Attitudinal

Decisional Reification and

Figure 2.1 Dimensions of party institutionalization (source: adapted from Randall

The virtues of multidimensional models

Party institutionalization versus party system institutionalization

Contin uity and Mutual acceptance

Str uctur al Attitudinal

Figure 2.2 Dimensions of party system institutionalization (source: adapted from

The potential perils of uneven party institutionalization

Golkar’s genetic model and organizational developments

Organizational transformation, weak leadership and manifestations

From Sabang to Merauke: assessing the territorial reach of

The examples in the previous paragraphs illustrate that traditional patron–clien-

Final remarks on Golkar’s organizational apparatus

The party and its leader: factionalism, assertive regional

The rise of Akbar Tandjung

Challenging Akbar: the emergence of the Iramasuka faction

The end of the Iramasuka faction

The bubble that burst: Akbar and the presidential convention

Table 3.1 Voting structure at Golkar’s presidential convention

Value of votes Number of votes