(Routledge Contemporary Southeast Asia Series, 46) Ehito Kimura - Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia - Provincial Proliferation-Routledge (2013)

Political Change and Territoriality
in Indonesia
What makes large, multi-ethnic states hang together? At a time when ethnic
and religious conflict has gained global prominence, the territorial organization
of states is a critical area of study.
Exploring how multi-ethnic and geographically dispersed states grapple
with questions of territorial administration and change, this book argues that
territorial change is a result of ongoing negotiations between states and
societies where mutual and overlapping interests can often emerge. It focuses
on the changing dynamics of central–local relations in Indonesia. Since the
fall of Suharto’s New Order government, new provinces have been sprouting
up throughout the Indonesian archipelago. After decades of stability, this
sudden change in Indonesia’s territorial structure is puzzling. The author
analyses this “provincial proliferation,” which is driven by multi-level alliances
across different territorial administrative levels, or territorial coalitions. He
demonstrates that national-level institutional changes including decentraliza-
tion and democratization explain the timing of the phenomenon. Variations
also occur based on historical, cultural, and political contexts at the regional
level. The concept of territorial coalitions challenges the dichotomy between
centre and periphery that is common in other studies of central–local relations.
This book will be of interest to scholars in the fields of comparative politics,
political geography, history, and Asian and Southeast Asian politics.
Ehito Kimura is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of

Hawai’i at Manoa. His research interests include contemporary Indonesian
and Southeast Asian politics.
Routledge Contemporary Southeast Asia Series
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Political Change and
Territoriality in Indonesia
Provincial proliferation
Ehito Kimura
First published 2013
by Routledge
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© 2013 Ehito Kimura
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British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Kimura, Ehito.
Political change and territoriality in indonesia / Ehito Kimura.
p. cm.
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Central-local government relations–Indonesia.
2. Indonesia–Administrative and political divisions. 3. Indonesian
provinces. 4. Decentralization in government–Indonesia.
5. Indonesia–Politics and government–1998- I. Title.
JQ766.S8K56 2012
320.809598–dc23
2011048395
ISBN: 978-0-415-568613-6 (hbk)

ISBN: 978-0-203-11697-5 (ebk)
Typeset in Times New Roman

by Taylor & Francis Books
To my family
Contents
List of illustrations xii

Acknowledgments xiii
Abbreviations xvi
1 Territorial change in post-authoritarian Indonesia 1

Averting collapse 1
Territory and mobilization amidst political change 3
Methods and approach 5
Structure of the book 7
2 Breaking boundaries, splitting regions: the politics of territorial

coalitions 10
Introduction 10
Making, unmaking, and scaling territory 11
Territorial coalitions and mobilization 15
Territorial coalitions in comparative
perspective 16
Territorial coalitions in the Indonesian context 17
The process of coalitions 19
Conclusion 20
3 Origins and dilemmas of territorial administration in colonial

Indonesia 22
Introduction 22
Pre-colonial geography and territorial diversity 23
The spice trade and choke-point economics 25
Constructing the center and the shift to Java 27
Consolidation, centralization, and expansion 28
Ethical policies and decentralization 31
Nationalist resistance and the failure
of federalism 34
Conclusion 36
x Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia
4 Post-colonial territorial administration and the imperative toward
centralization 38
Introduction 38
The post-independence era and the weak state 39
Rebellions without secession 41
New provinces in Indonesia: the first wave 44
“Guided Democracy” and the solution to state weakness 46
Centralization under the New Order 49
Separatism and territorial conflict in the New Order era 54
The territorial impact of political change 57
Territorial change and shifts in territoriality 61
Conclusion 64
5 Marginality and opportunity in the periphery 66

The birth of a province 66
Compartmentalized diversity in North Sulawesi 68
The historical foundations of privilege and marginality 70
Transition and opportunity and territorial coalitions 78
Reflections and conclusions 85
6 Territoriality and membership: the case of

Kepulauan Riau 87
Introduction 87
The movement for a new Kepri 88
Diversity and territoriality in the Riau region 90
Economy: regional development and economic
trajectories 93
A rejection of membership 96
National membership 102
Conclusion 104
7 Elite conflict and pressure from above: dividing

West Papua 106
Introduction 106
Ethnicity, religion, and development 108
Early clashing visions of Papua 110
International pressure and the act of free choice 112
Papua during the New Order: forced integration 113
Human rights and resistance 115
Competing visions of Papua for the
Indonesian elite 116
An alternative vision 118
The un-breakup of Papua 119
The move to split the regions 121
Conclusion 125
Contents xi
8 Politics of territorial change: comparisons and conclusions 127
Politics, coalitions, and territory 127
Comparisons in two multi-ethnic states 128
Competition and cooperation in post-authoritarian Indonesia 132
The centripetal effect of territorial change 134
Appendix: Data on Indonesian provinces 136

Glossary 142
Notes 143
References 148
Index 158
Illustrations
Maps
1.1 Map of Indonesia xx
5.1 Map of the new Gorontalo Province next to North Sulawesi
Province 66
6.1 Map of the new Kepulauan Riau Province next to Riau
Province 87
7.1 Map of the new West Irian Province next to West Papua
Province 106
Tables
4.1 New provinces in Indonesia 1950–99 44
4.2 Legislation for new provinces in Indonesia 62
5.1 Ethnic groups in North Sulawesi Province in 2000 69
5.2 Kabupatens and kotas in North Sulawesi 69
5.3 Religion in North Sulawesi Province 70
5.4 Governors of North Sulawesi, 1961–2005 77
5.5 Social development indicators I in North Sulawesi 78
5.6 Social development indicators II in North Sulawesi 78
6.1 Ethnic groups in Riau Province in 2000 91
6.2 Ethnic groups in Riau Province in 2000 92
6.3 Ethnic groups in Riau and Kepri in 2000 93
6.4 Religion in Riau in 2000 93
7.1 Religion in Papua in 2000 109
A.1 Provinces by population 136
A.2 Provinces by area 137
A.3 Provinces by population density 138
A.4 Provinces by gross regional domestic product (GRDP) 139
A.5 Provinces by foreign direct investment (FDI) 140
A.6 Provinces by poverty rate 141
Acknowledgments
Like many academic books, this one began as a dissertation and so my debts
are heavy to the mentors and supporters in graduate school. Three professors
have profoundly influenced my interest in comparative politics and Southeast
Asian studies. David Wurfel lit the flame, James Scott fanned it, and Paul
Hutchcroft helped me to try to harness it. Paul Hutchcroft was a dream
advisor striking just the right balance between a hands-off approach and
interventionism during my dissertation. His many insightful comments made
this study better, though he should not be implicated in its remaining flaws.
Paul was also upbeat and encouraging throughout, even on the days when it
seemed the process would never end. I would also like to thank the other
members of my dissertation committee who provided ideas and encourage-
ment along the way including Aseema Sinha, Mark Beissinger, Joe Soss, and
Al McCoy.
The vibrant community of scholars studying Southeast Asia was invaluable
during my time as a graduate student at the University of Wisconsin-Madison.
I am convinced that the Center for Southeast Asian Studies under the Insti-
tute for International Studies at UW is among the very best of its kind.
Michael Cullinane and Mary Jo Studenberg were fixtures in the Center office
and always had time for the harried grad student. Larry Ashmun, Andy
Sutton, Peggy Choy, Ellen Rafferty, Monita Manalo, and Dustin Cowell are a
few of the faculty who were supportive and encouraging of my work. Fellow
grad-students-in-arms from many academic disciplines included Amelia Liwe,
Ruth De Llobbet, Ying Limapichart, Prajak Kongkirati, Dadit Hidayat, Sisca
Oroh, Fadjar Thufail, Cisco Bradley, Steve Laronga, Jennifer Munger, and
Jonathan London. I would especially like to thank Eunsook Jung, Erick
Danzer, Cleo Calimbahin, and Kevin McGahan for their support as fellow
political scientists studying Southeast Asia.
I could not have completed this book without the generous support of the
US Department of Education. They funded several language grants that I
was fortunate to receive during my graduate career including the COTIM
Advance Indonesian Language Program and the Foreign Language Assis-
tance Scholarship (FLAS). I am also grateful for their support in funding my
dissertation research though the Doctoral Dissertation Research Abroad
xiv Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia
(DDRA)—Fulbright Hays program. Once in Indonesia I received invaluable
assistance from Nelly Pailima and Rizma Fadilah at the American Indone-
sian Exchange Foundation (AMINEF). The staff at the Indonesian Institute
of Sciences (LIPI), particularly Pak Reuben Silitonga, were kind and efficient
dealing with all of our preparations after arrival and before departure.
In the field, I benefited greatly from the company of many fellow research-
ers and friends, including Yosef Djakababa, Nelden Djakababa, Richard
Payne, Takeshi Ito, Tom and Julie Pepinsky, Adam and Kate Day, Dar and
Anissa Rudnyckyj, Doreen Lee, Birgit Berg, Savitri Soegijoko, and Lala
Amiroeddin. Yosef and Nelden provided our home away from home in
Jakarta and we became like family. In Manado, Ibu and Oma opened up their
home during my extended stays and took me touring around the region to
boot. In Gorontalo, I was generously hosted by Hasanuddin and his family.
There is not enough space to list all of the people who helped me in my
research while in Indonesia but several people deserve special mention. These
include Pitres Sombowadile, Hasanuddin, Basri Amin, Alex Ulaen, Riwanto
Tirtosudarmo, Syarif Hidayat, and Tri Ratnawati. I would also like to thank
my institutional sponsor, the University of Sam Ratulangie, under the able
leadership of Rector Lefrond Sondakh. At various stages of my research I
was also privileged to have some very helpful exchanges with Donald
Emmerson, Michael Malley, Bill Liddle, and Dwight King. I also had the
privilege of meeting several Japanese scholars of Indonesian politics including
Mariko Urano, Jun Honna, and Masaaki Okamoto. Honna-san and Oka-
moto-san were kind enough to invite me to a panel on local politics at the
University of Indonesia toward the end of my time in Jakarta.
I was fortunate to secure a post-doctoral fellowship at the Walter H. Shor-
enstein Asia Pacific Research Center at Stanford University after completing
my dissertation. I am very grateful to my host Don Emmerson and other
colleagues there who made my time so enjoyable and fruitful, including Gi
Wook Shin who was the director at the time. Since 2007, I have had the pri-
vilege of being on the faculty of the Department of Political Science at the
University of Hawai’i at Manoa where colleagues and staff have offered
immeasurable support. I have also benefited from the colleagues at the Center
for Southeast Asia including Barbara and Leonard Andaya, whose combina-
tion of intellect, energy, and generosity are unparalleled. In countless ways the
University of Hawai’i has been an ideal place to be a scholar of Southeast
Asian politics. I would also like to take this opportunity to thank the editorial
staff at Routledge, including Dorothea Schaefter, Leanne Hinves, and Jillian
Morrison, for patiently and expertly shepherding this project to its conclusion.
Finally, I would like to thank my family for all their support. My sisters
were always curious about their little brother’s latest antics. My parents have
always been supportive of their children’s endeavors and the journey through
graduate school and beyond proved no different. In so many ways, they have
shaped who I am, and where I am today. I’d also like to thank my wife, my
partner in crime and much, much more. I’ve never won a lottery of any kind,
Acknowledgments xv
but with Aya I really hit the jackpot. As for our two children, Isato and
Emma, they have nary a clue about this book their father has struggled to
write, but they have brought great joy into our life.
Parts of this manuscript have appeared elsewhere in print. Modified sec-
tions of Chapter 4 have appeared in “Changing the Rules: Historical Con-
junctures and Transition in Indonesia,” Asia Pacific Viewpoint 51(3),
(December 2010): 248–61. Sections of Chapters 1, 2, 4, 5, and 6 have
appeared in “Proliferating Provinces: Territorial Politics in Post-Suharto
Indonesia,” South East Asia Research 18(3), (September 2010): 415–49. A
slightly modified version of Chapter 5 has appeared in “Marginality and
Opportunity in the Periphery: The Emergence of Gorontalo Province in
North Sulawesi,” Indonesia, no. 84 (October 2007): 71–95.
Sections of chapters 1, 2, 4, 5 and 6 were originally published in Ehito

Kimura’s article, Proliferating provinces: territorial politics in post-Suharto
Indonesia, South East Asia Research, Volume 18, Number 3, September 2010,
pp 415–449. Reproduced by permission.
A slightly modified version of chapter 5 was previously published in the
journal, Indonesia. See Ehito Kimura, Marginality and Opportunity in the
Periphery: The Emergence of Gorontalo Province in North Sulawesi, Indonesia
84 (October 2007): 71–96.
Sections of chapter 4 were originally published in the article Changing the
Rules: Historical Conjunctures and Transition in Indonesia, Asia Pacific
Viewpoint, vol. 51, no. 3 (December 2010): 248–61.
Abbreviations
ABRI Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (Armed Forces of

the Republic of Indonesia—now the TNI)
Bakin Badan Koordinasi Intelijen Negara (State Intelligence
Coordinating Agency)
BIA Badan Intelijen Abri (Armed Forces Intelligence Body)
BIDA Batam Industrial Development Authority
BIN Badan Intelijen Nasional (State Intelligence Agency)
BP3KR Badan Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Kepualuan Riau
(Body to Prepare for the Creation of Archipelagic Riau
Province)
BPS Biro Pusat Statistik (Central Bureau of Statistics)
CNRM Conselho Nacional da Resistência Maubere (National Council
of Maubere Resistance)
DPD Dewan Perwakilan Daerah (Regional Representatives
Council—Indonesia’s upper house)
DPR Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (People’s Representatives
Council—Indonesia’s lower house)
DPRD Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah (Regional People’s
Representatives Council—Indonesia’s regional parliaments)
FALINTIL Forças Armadas da Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste
(Armed Forces for the National Liberation of East Timor)
FKGMIJ Forum Komunikasi Generasi Muda Irian Jaya (Forum for
Communication of the Younger Generation of Irian Jaya)
FORERI Forum Rekonsiliasi Rakyat Irian Jaya (Forum for
Reconciliation of the Peoples of Irian Jaya)
FSRKKR Forum Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten Kepulauan Riau
(Solidarity Forum for Reform in District Riau Archipelago.)
GAM Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (Free Aceh Movement)
GMPPK Gerakan Mahasisan Perjuangan Provinsi Kepri (Student
Movement to Struggle for Kepri Province)
GMTPS Gerakan Mandau Talawang Panca Sila (Pro Panca Sila
Cutlass and Shield Movement)
Abbreviations xvii
Golkar Partai Golongan Karya
Party of the Functional Groups
HMI Himpunan Mahasiswa Islam (Islamic Students’ Association)
ICG International Crisis Group
IGGI Inter-Governmental Group on Indonesia
Kepri Kepulauan Riau (Archipelagic Riau)
KODAM Komando Daerah Militer (Military Regional Command)
KODIM Komando Distrik Militer (Military District Command)
Kopassus Komando Pasukan Khusus (Special Forces Command)
Koramil Komando Rayon Militer (Military Rayon Command)
Korem Komando Resort Militer
(Military Resort Command)
KP3GTR Komite Pusat Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo Tomini Raya
(Central Committee for the Formation of Gorontalo Tomini
Raya Province)
KPKR Komite Pemekaran Kepulauan Riau (Committee for the
Dividing of Archipelagic Riau)
Lemhannas Lembaga Ketahanan Nasional (National Resilience Institute)
MRP Majelis Rakyat Papua (Papuan People’s Council)
MUBES Musyawarah Besar (great deliberation)
NGO non-governmental organization
NKRI Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia (Unitary State of the
Republic of Indonesia)
NU Nahdlatul Ulama (traditionalist Sunni Islamic organization)
OPM Organisasi Papua Merdeka (Free Papua Movement)
P4GTR Panitia Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo Tomini
Raya (Committee to Prepare for the Formation of Gorontalo
Tomini Raya Province)
PAN Partai Amanat Nasional (National Mandate Party)
PBB Partai Bulan Bintang (Crescent Star and Moon Party)
PBR Partai Bintang Reformasi (Reform Star Party)
PDI Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (Indonesian Democratic Party)
PDI-P Partai Demokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan (Indonesian
Democratic Party of Struggle)
Permesta Piagam Perjuangan Semesta (Universal Struggle Charter),
rebel movement in Indonesia 1957–61
PKB Partai Kebangitan Bangsa (National Awakening Party)
PKI Partai Konumis Indonesia (Indonesian Communist Party),
outlawed since 1965
PKS Partai Keadilan Sejahtera (Prosperous Justice Party)
PNBK Partai Nasional Benteng Kerakyatan (Indonesia Indonesian
National Populist Fortress Party)
PNI Parti Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Party)
Polri Kepolisian Negara Republik (Indonesia Indonesian National
Police)
xviii Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia
PPP Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (United Development Party)
PRESNAS Presnas P2G (Presidium Nasional Pembentukan Provinsi
Gorontalo)
PRRI Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik (Indonesia Revolutionary
Government of the Republic of Indonesia)
SIJOHRI Singapore Johor Riau (reference to the regional growth triangle)
TNI Tentara Nasional Indonesia (Indonesian National Army—title
of the Indonesian armed forces after 1998)
UNSF United Nations Security Force (in West New Guinea)
UNTEA United Nations Temporary Executive Authority
VOC Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie (United East India
Company)
Map 1.1 Map of Indonesia
1 Territorial change in post-authoritarian
Indonesia
Averting collapse
Amid Indonesia’s economic and political upheaval in the late 1990s also
loomed the specter of its territorial collapse. The Soviet Union and Yugosla-
via had each splintered earlier in the decade and observers at the time raised
the prospect of Indonesia’s “balkanization” (Bolton 1999; Hadar 2000).
Experts and pundits alike cautioned that transition and political reform could
weaken the state, embolden the regions, and lead to a domino effect begin-
ning with the breakaway of East Timor followed by a general fragmentation
of the archipelago into a dozen or so states.
As things turned out, Indonesia survived and has since remained largely
intact. East Timor gained independence in 1999, but along with West Papua, it
had not been part of the Indonesian nation-state at independence in 1950, and
was forcibly incorporated in 1975. Dominoes did not fall and the archipelago
did not splinter the way many had feared. In fact, the state has territorially
been quite resilient in recent years.
Indonesia’s political transition did spur on a territorial shuffle of another
less expected kind. Instead of external fragmentation and collapse, Indonesia
experienced an internal fission where provinces and districts were divided into
ever smaller units resulting in an unprecedented proliferation of new sub-
national territories. The number of provinces has grown from 27 to 33 and the
number of districts from 292 to around 450. These internal territorial changes
have attracted much less attention than the challenges of Timor, Aceh, and West
Papua but they affect many more people and suggest a need for a different
way to think about territorial politics in Indonesia and elsewhere.
People living in areas with newly-drawn local boundaries experience an
immediate change in patterns of everyday life. Their leaders suddenly change
because new districts or provinces come with new mayors, district chiefs, or
governors. Rules change for a range of issues from tax codes and local budget
allocations to public service provisions. And the fragmentation affects the
physical aspects of everyday life. Where you go to perform even the most
mundane tasks such as registering your car or filing for a marriage license
may suddenly change because of new boundaries.
2 Political Change and Territoriality in Indonesia
Politically, local territorial changes affect election outcomes. Locally, it can
form a function similar to gerrymandering where constituencies might be
divided or split off altogether leading to a changing political calculus of can-
didates running for office. Incumbents might be threatened in such new
schemes but it also offers opportunities for new players who can fill the ranks
of executive, legislative, and bureaucratic offices that accompany new regions.
Even before new provinces or districts are approved, prospective candidates
may see the virtue of campaigning for potentially new seats.
In a richly diverse and multi-ethnic country such as Indonesia, there is also
an important cultural aspect to local territorial politics. Imagine how one area
splitting off from another could shift majority–minority relations in both
regions. In a new district or province, a former Muslim minority could find
itself the new majority. Alternatively, those formerly in the majority could
find themselves suddenly the minority. From the national state perspective,
territorial change may be useful to split up groups seeking to mobilize against
the state along lines of identity. In other instances, it may serve to compart-
mentalize different groups into discrete ethnic units, such as the ethno-federal
system of the Soviet Union (Brubaker 1996).
The local territorial changes that occurred in Indonesia then raise some
compelling theoretical questions. What explains the sudden onset of territor-
ial change in states? Why do some states fragment externally while others
seem to fragment internally? And what can this phenomenon tell us more
broadly about political change and territoriality? This book addresses these
questions and argues that local territorial change is not a mild or incremental
form of secession occurring throughout the archipelago. Instead, it needs to
be seen in the context of an increasingly fragmented and competitive political
system.
This means that analyses of territorial politics needs to go beyond the older
frames of center–periphery upon which scholars have long relied. In Indone-
sia, theories of center and periphery took on particular salience between Java
and the so-called “Outer Islands.” The questions about territorial politics
then were inevitably framed around this division. Did Java over-extract from
the resource wealthy and less densely populated Outer Islands? Did a process
of Javanization impose a cultural and political model outside of Java? How
can political representation be balanced between the two regions? In short, most
discussions of Indonesia’s territorial politics began and ended with this split
which came to represent other dichotomies such as modern vs. traditional,
richer vs. poorer, import-dependent vs. export-dependent and so on.
More recently, East Timor, Aceh, and West Papua attracted the bulk of
international attention when it came to thinking about territorial politics
during the New Order. The spotlight shone on issues of human rights, eco-
nomic development, and self-determination. These regions were seeking to
break away from the Indonesian nation-state and while their motivations were
many, their vision of territorial independence was uniform. Even after the fall
of Suharto, the interpretations of ethnic and religious conflict throughout the
Territorial change in post-authoritarian Indonesia 3
archipelago often came to be framed as residues of the old state fighting
emergent challengers. These kinds of analyses also seeped into questions
about Indonesia’s territorial survival in the late 1990s. The narrative of a
highly centralized, militarized, and “Javanized” core suggested that many in
the periphery wanted out.
In fact I argue just the opposite. Territorial change in post-Suharto Indo-
nesia is characterized by profound centripetal tendencies where local and
national groups are coming together to form what I call territorial coalitions.
These coalitions which consist of an array of groups at the local, regional,
and national levels can also be seen in other countries. In many places,
national politics is bound together with local demands in a way that sees ter-
ritorial change as a preferred political outcome. The Indonesian case clearly
shows how this happens, but the phenomenon is more general.
Territory and mobilization amidst political change

The internal fragmentation occurring in Indonesia is puzzling because borders
are institutions that have rules governing their own behavior which become
self-perpetuating and resistant to change. In other words, we expect bound-
aries to be sticky (Newman 2006: 102). Although political boundaries are
often contested and resisted, when they do change, they merit explanation as
to why and how that occurs (Shapiro 1996).
The official narrative in Indonesia, articulated by countless bureaucrats,
local executives, and policy advisors, is that the creation of new administrative
regions improves economic and democratic efficiency. The mantra repeated
almost word-for-word by proponents for new districts or provinces is that it
would “bring government closer to the people and the people closer to the
government.”1
Theoretically, efficiency arguments are rooted in economic approaches that
assume the role of government is to minimize negative externalities and pro-
vide positive ones. States are relied upon to provide public goods such as
accessible education systems, transportation infrastructure, public libraries,
public transportation, and so on, which would otherwise be under-supplied.
Often, these kinds of goods can be delivered more efficiently if they are
administered by smaller, more localized units. Thus, an increase in the
number of local administrative units should match some optimally efficient
territorial size with which to deliver a particular set of goods.2 Territorial
change can thus be explained by the increasingly complex and specialized
provision of goods and services (Sack 1986).
But one problem with this functionalist explanation is that it cannot
explain the timing and variation of territorial change. If this were a purely
efficiency oriented phenomenon, the increases in new provinces should be
steadier and not cluster around a particular time period. Similarly, there is no
clear pattern of territorial change based on even the most cursory of admin-
istrative efficiency indicators. For example, we might expect that larger, more
populous, or demographically-dispersed provinces would split but no such
patterns emerge in a broad comparison (see Appendix for more details). In
other words, efficiency explanations assume a rational state that administers
affairs to maximize local utility, a perspective that ignores politics. In
fact bureaucratic and efficiency explanations are often invoked in order to
obscure politics and confer legitimacy on a process that is otherwise dubious
(Ferguson 1994).
A second problem with this explanation is that it approaches territory with
a kind of cold materialism that assumes regions and territories are ripe and
ready to be divided and administered as states see fit. In fact, much of the
literature on regionalism and decentralization tends to assume the essential
existence of territories as enclosed spaces that can be empowered or weakened
depending on state policy. But we know that this is not the case. As Paasi
notes, territories are not “frozen frameworks where social life occurs. Rather,
they are made, given meanings, and destroyed in social and individual action”
(Paasi 2003: 110).
To that end, this study makes three arguments about territorial organiza-
tion, reorganization, and change. First and most immediately, territorial
change often results from new or shifting political institutions. If we talk
about territories being made through “social and individual action,” the
political institutions and changes within them help shape and direct what
those actions will be. Institutional reforms change the “rules of the game” in
a way that territory at the regional and local level become highly desirable. In
Indonesia, the reforms of democratization and decentralization that emerged
in the wake of Indonesia’s political transition are identified as the key changes
that spurred and shaped the process of territorial change. While this book
focuses on recent changes, early chapters of the book explore how changes in
the institutions of colonial rule and their particular political, economic, and
cultural context led to shifting definitions and organizations of territorial
administrative units in the archipelago. Furthermore, institutional change has
also driven territorial change in other countries as well.
Second, territorial change of the kind seen in Indonesia needs to be
understood in the context of both competition as well as mutual gain. These
are highly politicized and contentious processes, but we should not assume
that new administrative territories emerge simply because local regions
demand them and the national state gives in. Local demands exist, but
change emerges in the context of what I call “territorial coalitions,” coalitions
that span different levels of territorial administration and create linkages
between different levels. Instead of taking center and periphery as unitary
actors this study argues that each level is fragmented with multiple actors. In
turn, their interests are shaped by various economic, political, identity, and
security related motivations. In this way, the arguments presented here challenge
the prevailing binary of center and periphery.
Finally, the book argues that coalitions are possible at certain historical
junctures because territories have a conceptual plasticity to them. Instead of
taking the notion of territory and debating or assuming some exclusive
material or ideological essence, territory needs to be recognized for its inherent
flexibility. People imbue territory with different meanings and understandings,
and for this reason, it can take on a kind of multi-dimensional nature. The
different ways that individuals and groups think about and see value in terri-
tory can lead to conflict. But in many ways it can also lead to the basis for
cooperation in the form of the territorial coalitions mentioned above. In other
words, the flexibility or plasticity of territory is what allows for interests to
overlap and coalitions to occur. In this sense, territory is a kind of focal point
that allows groups to coordinate and mobilize for territorial change.
In Indonesia, decentralization and democratization offered a number of
different ways to think about territory. Local groups saw new opportunity to
create a new region of their own either at the district or the provincial level. A
people living in a northern Sulawesi region called Gorontalo, as we will see
later, saw an opportunity to become their own Muslim majority province and
break away from a Christian dominated province. At the same time, territory
had a different meaning for national legislators who saw opportunities for
electoral and patronage gains. Territory had profoundly different benefits for
each of these groups, but still provided an underlying basis of cooperation
which was necessary for the new territory to be approved. The overlapping
interests between local groups and national growth then laid the foundation
for a political coalition that pushed for and achieved the creation of a new
province.
These alignments, or coalitions, are striking in the context of Indonesian
politics where the conventional wisdom dictates that social groups tend to
avoid broad coalitions. The common interpretation of Indonesia’s political
transition in 1998 and 1999 attributes success to social movements despite the
inability to work together (Aspinall 2005; Weiss 2006). This study suggests
that where aims have been narrower and more concrete, there have emerged
alliances that cut across levels of administration as well as categories of
groups that do not typically work together.
Instead of focusing exclusively on national level politics or local level
demands I show how national, regional, and local levels are linked through webs
of networks and alliances. It is these territorial coalitions that help us under-
stand the redrawing of boundaries, the emergence of new provinces, and the
changing patterns of regional politics in Indonesia and elsewhere. This study thus
explores the linkages between groups and actors in both the center and in the
peripheral regions and how that can lay the groundwork for territorial change.
Methods and approach

The study of territorial change and territorial coalitions as framed above
requires various approaches looking at politics at different territorial levels.
This book takes a broad historical approach at the national level to understand
the relationship between political institutions and territorial change. At the
same time, local-level politics and histories are also a critical part of the story
and this requires digging around in far-flung regions where national media are
often absent.
The first chapters in the book focus on the national-level political institu-
tions during colonial, post-colonial, and contemporary times to examine
patterns of territorial change. During each period, shifts in territorial admin-
istration emerge due to the overlapping interests of national-level actors and
local societal actors. During the colonial period, this was manifested in the
tension between the state imperative for homogeneity versus its recognition of
immense social and political diversity throughout the archipelago. In the
post-colonial era and especially during the authoritarian New Order period, a
similar dynamic can be framed in the context of state–society relations.
Finally, in the contemporary reformasi era, I show how national and local
actors collaborate to form coalitions to produce a shifting terrain of new
provinces and districts.
The historical chapters are based on secondary and some primary materi-
als. In many ways, they tread familiar ground for those knowledgeable in
Indonesia’s history, but it seeks to do so in a way that sheds light on how
events formed and shaped the territorial institutions of the Indonesian state.
In this way, they seek to de-naturalize territorial administration as simply
technocratic or efficiency based and instead highlight the deeply politicized
nature of territorial administration.
The second section of the book consists of three in-depth case studies aimed
to better assess the mechanisms and processes taking place on the ground.
National institutional change trickled down to local levels and affected poli-
tics in contrasting ways. In Gorontalo, territory came to be framed as “mar-
ginality in the periphery” where local groups mobilized around grievances
with the ethnic majority in the region. In Archipelagic Riau (Kepri) province,
debates for a new province centered around membership and what it meant to
be an orang Kepri in post-Suharto Indonesia. Finally, I examine how the
politics of national security takes on a profoundly top-down form of territorial
change in Papua, but one that still requires alliances with local actors below.
The chapters in this section rely on both primary and secondary materials
to examine both regional historical context and contemporary events. Local
historical studies sometimes available only in the local regions were useful in
examining how regions portrayed themselves vis-à-vis the nation and their
regional neighbors. Local and national newspapers, magazines, newsletters
and the like were highly useful in recreating and understanding more con-
temporary events and arguments. Interviews with dozens of people in the
local, regional, and national levels were instructive in clarifying details about
events but more often about ideas and how they were articulated in the context
of political and territorial change.
The three cases were not chosen randomly to gain a sampling of a general
picture of Indonesia. Instead, they were chosen deliberately to highlight var-
iation across cases and contrasting the different processes by which the recent
territorial changes have emerged. Though many approaches in the social sci-
ences caution against “choosing on the dependent variable,” this exercise is
particularly useful when comparing across cases to highlight different kinds of
processes that are taking place (Evera 1997; Ragin 2000).
In the case of Indonesia, there are consistencies regarding territorial change
in all three cases which support the argument that territorial coalitions are a
key component of these changes. However, the point is that these coalitions
are also manifested in profoundly different kinds of ways. In some places,
they emerged due to issues of marginality and redress, in others out of issues
related to membership, and in yet others out of national concerns about
security. These three cases then help us see the different ways in which the
national articulates against the local in a way that is much harder to see if
exploring only one case, or multiple like cases.
Close observers of Indonesia will note that this study focuses on the pro-
vincial level while much of the power has been decentralized to the district
level. To be sure, districts are the main units of autonomy in Indonesia today.
But this study focuses on new province formation because that can capture
both regional-level politics as well as district-level politics since the new pro-
vince aspirants are usually districts or groups of districts. This then raises the
question of why districts would want to become provinces in the first place
and here the answer is that provinces are still important. They have histori-
cally become the main level of identity for ethnic groups (as opposed to dis-
tricts) and it was in fact the potential threat of strong provinces that led the
government to devolve power to the district level.
Furthermore, despite the lack of official power, provinces are still located in
urban centers whereas districts are smaller and can often be located in back-
waters. And while the landmark decentralization laws of 1999, and their
subsequent amendments have devolved power to the district level below the
province, this was precisely because policymakers feared devolving power to
provinces would result in further agitation and instability. And despite laws to
the contrary, provinces still matter. Governorships, for example, are still
highly contested and remain sought after as a source of political influence,
prestige, and patronage.
An underlying goal of this study is the development of theory based pri-
marily on an inductive analysis of case studies within Indonesia and pro-
ceeding to broader cross-national comparative reflections in the concluding
chapter. Comparative case studies in Nigeria and India show similarities and
confirm some of the lessons emerging from the Indonesian experience
including the coalitions that emerged between national and local actors in the
process of territorial change in those countries.
Structure of the book

The next chapter explores some of the theoretical underpinnings of the argu-
ment made in the book. I elaborate on the definitions of territory and offer
some broader claims about the phenomenon beyond Indonesia. I conclude by
exploring the utility of using coalitions as a conceptual framework and as a
practice of mobilization.
Chapter 3 begins by asking why Indonesia’s territorial administration takes
the form that it does today. It argues that the legacies of colonialism are evi-
dent in Indonesia’s post-colonial territorial administrative structure. Terri-
toriality shifted significantly during the colonial era due to broad changes in
economic conditions, colonial objectives, and changing local contexts on the
ground. In particular, changes in trade patterns, the collapse of the Dutch
East India Company (Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie—VOC), and the
onset of World War II all had important if partial effects on territoriality
today.
Chapter 4 examines Indonesia’s territorial administration and change from
independence in 1950 to the fall of the New Order regime in 1998. A puzzling
feature of this period is that the weak Indonesian state saw extensive social
turmoil but limited secessionism after independence in contrast to the sub-
sequent New Order. The chapter argues that during times of state weakness,
Indonesian social forces seek to change the state itself through a process of
“rebellion without secession.” This also explains an inverse trend, where new
provinces emerged during the immediate post-independence era in Indonesia
while new province formation became a rare event as the state grew in
strength. The last section brings us to the contemporary period addressing
territorial politics after the fall of the New Order.
Chapter 5 explores the struggle for territorial change in Indonesia through
the experience of Gorontalo province in North Sulawesi. Gorontalo offers an
example where local actors mobilized for a new province based on what I call
“marginality in the periphery.” After briefly outlining the demographic char-
acteristics of the region, it explores the historical process of state formation in
the region and how it produced discourses of marginality. Against this back-
drop, it shows how this discourse helped spark and fuel the movement for a
new province in the wake of reformasi.
Chapter 6 explores the territorial split which occurred between Riau in
Sumatra and Island Riau (Kepri). It argues that territorial split was driven by
a debate about different kinds of membership. Membership refers to the way
people see themselves as part of a given community whether at the local,
regional, national, or even global level. The chapter begins by examining the
ethnic, religious, and economic background of both the mainland and the
archipelago, showing that stark differences do not appear to exist between
mainland and island Riau. It then examines the narrative of the civil society
movement that advocated for a new province. The chapter goes on to address
tensions embedded in mobilization by exploring the questions of membership
within Kepri, within Riau province, and ultimately within the Indonesian
nation-state.
Chapter 7 examines the case of West Irian’s split from West Papua. This
split differs from the previous cases in that it occurred suddenly and seemingly
with little local support. Papua’s fate was tied up in intra-elite conflicts in
Jakarta about the region’s future in the Indonesian nation-state. While few in
Jakarta supported full independence, there were splits among policymakers
and elites about how much and what kind of autonomy Papua should have.
This case of territorial change shows how the central state pushed for the
process for the sake of “national interests.”
Chapter 8 takes stock of the theories and arguments presented in the book.
It summarizes the main arguments laid out in each chapter. It also addresses
two comparative cases, India and Nigeria, which are multiethnic states with
shifting internal boundaries. In doing so, the cases highlight the larger argu-
ment about the relationship between political institutional change, coalitions,
and territorial change, namely that political realignments created territorial
coalitions to spur on the creation of new provinces. Finally, the territorial
changes discussed, whether intended or not, seem to have had a centripetal
effect on Indonesia’s territoriality.
2 Breaking boundaries, splitting regions
The politics of territorial coalitions
Introduction
The process of territorial change occurring in Indonesia today, dubbed
pemekaran wilayah (regional blossoming) or pembentukan daerah (new region
formation), refers to the splitting or dividing up of provinces, districts, and
sub-districts into multiple new territorial administrative units. Since 1999, the
number of provinces in Indonesia has grown from 26 to 33 and the number of
districts from 290 to 450, reconfiguring the political territorial map of Indonesia.
This process of fragmentation can be distinguished from two related phe-
nomena. First, this is not a proliferation of regions that results from conquest
or other forms of territorial acquisition. The number of states in the United
States, for example, has risen from the original 13 to the present-day 50, but
most of the increase is accounted for by westward expansion and territorial
acquisition.1 In Indonesia, the incorporation of Western Papua in 1961 and
East Timor in 1975 technically represent a territorial change, but their
annexations fall outside the realm of this study because they were added
through expansion rather than internal change.2
Second, this form of territorial change is distinct from the practice of ger-
rymandering. Gerrymandering refers to the redrawing of political boundaries
for electoral benefit. While there is an electoral component to the current
phenomenon, gerrymandering does not imply an aggregate increase in the
number of regional or local territorial administrative units. In fact, the
assumption behind gerrymandering is that the number of electoral districts
stays constant while their shape, size and composition may change, sometimes
drastically.
While focusing on creation of new provinces may seem like a relatively
narrow scope of inquiry, it is worth noting that this phenomenon is not
unique to Indonesia. In fact, administrative reorganization in many countries
has included significant territorial changes. In Southeast Asia, countries such
as Vietnam and the Philippines have also experienced a similar jump in the
number of new provinces.3 In Nigeria and India the creation of new provinces
or states has also historically been a major bone of contention.4 Canada too
recently carved out a new province called Nunavut.
Breaking boundaries, splitting regions 11
In Indonesia, the implementation of decentralization has brought renewed
attention to politics in local regions and their connections to Jakarta (see
Aspinall and Fealy 2003; Erb et al. 2005; Nordholt and van Klinken 2007).
However, less attention has been paid to understanding the creation and
production of the local and its broader implications. The following sections
attempt to build a framework to understand the broad processes of territorial
change and new province formation in Indonesia today. To do so, I put for-
ward the concept of territorial coalitions and explore linkages between groups
spanning center and periphery that helped to make possibly territorial change
and the creation of new regions.
Making, unmaking, and scaling territory

The launching point of this study rests on the observation that new territories
are being created in Indonesia, but my argument is that this is more than just
a change in territory; the creation of new provinces also represents an
important change in territoriality. By this I mean that the rules and norms
around territory are changing. It is useful then to first explore what is meant
by the terms territory and territoriality and how they differ from each other
conceptually.
Territory is usually defined as bounded space. We live in a world where
virtually every imaginable space has been bounded and delimited; to wit, we
cannot go anywhere without being within a defined territory. On the one
hand, boundaries divide space in ways that are mutually exclusive, like
dividing up a pie. We cannot be in two different cities or countries at the same
time. On the other hand, territories are nested within one another and so we
can be in a country, a state, and a city all simultaneously. This nesting or
scaling of territories within territories means among other things that the
potential for human beings to create new territories is practically limitless.
Territorialization is, then, the process by which space becomes increasingly
bounded and divided, or territorialized. Scholars have argued that forces such
as modernity, capitalism, and technology have led human beings to think and
act more and more territorially (Sack 1986). For example, the enclosure of
forests by the crown in England during the medieval period represented the
beginning of a process by which commoners were forcibly excluded from
previously common property land (Thompson 1968). Political order, as we
will discuss later, has also become territorialized in the form of the nation-
state. But more generally the rise and spread of property rights has meant
that territory has become increasingly individualized in the form of land
tenure.
Territoriality is then defined as the formal and informal rules of the game
regarding territories. More specifically, it refers to the ways territories are
organized, governed, and contested. Referring to the territoriality of a state
such as Indonesia is not merely to describe its physical characteristics but also
to assess the underlying norms and practices on which it is based. How is
power exercised within the territory? What are the rules regarding territorial
boundaries? How autonomous is the territory from external influences? Sack
conceptualizes territoriality as the way individuals or groups “affect, influ-
ence, or control people, phenomena, and relationships, by delimiting and
asserting control over a geographic area” (Sack 1986). Territoriality is thus
inseparable from concepts of authority, control, and power.
While most scholars in the social sciences have accepted that human terri-
toriality is more than simply a manifestation of biological behavior, the con-
cept itself has usually been assumed and taken for granted (Sack 1986). The
way human society has shaped notions of territoriality is a relatively recent
area of inquiry and three key insights derived from this revelation are parti-
cularly useful for purposes of this study. First, states organized along terri-
torial lines emerged at a particular historical moment. Second, if states and
territories are made, they can also be unmade. And, finally, to say that they
can be unmade is to say territoriality can shift and change. I elaborate on
each of these points below.
While scholars as early as Weber had recognized territory as a key char-
acteristic of states, much of the subsequent scholarship in the field of political
science tended to take this characteristic for granted. Marxist and structural
functionalist approaches in political science differed starkly but neither paid
much attention to territoriality per se. It was resurgence in interest about the
state itself that led to more attention about its territorial components (Evans
et al. 1985). One example of this is the debate among scholars of state for-
mation and how the clearly demarcated territorial state ultimately won out
over other competing forms of political organization such as city-states and
empires over the long historical trajectory (Tilly 1990; Spruyt 1994). Another
example is the scholarship about the extension of modern state forms to the
colonial world including work that highlights the legacies of colonial rules to
present day conditions in many development countries (Young 1997).
Scholars of international relations have also recognized that states emerged in
a particular historical context, traditionally pointing to Europe and the Treaty
of Westphalia in 1648 as the key turning point when the authority of the
Church was made subservient to the authority of the sovereign as well as the
states over which they ruled (Bull 1977). But there remained a disjuncture between
historians and theorists, the latter of whom assumed states to be largely static
and unchanging. This was particularly true among proponents of realism and
neo-realism (Agnew 1994). In a seminal article, John Ruggie bridged these
two schools by arguing that political authority and territoriality had changed
over time and that the modern state which had been “territorially defined,
fixed, and mutually exclusive enclaves of legitimate domination” was becoming
increasingly “unbundled” in the modern age (Ruggie 1993: 168).
Ruggie’s observation, among others, launched a new trajectory on research
around territoriality which argued that in an era of globalization states were
being undermined with their territorial boundaries becoming less and less
relevant. The rise of regional trading agreements around the world heralded a
new age accompanied by the end of the nation state and the rise of regional
economies (Omae 1995). While some celebrated the triumph of a global
market liberalism, others lamented the process as one of westernization. For
those who saw the centrality of the state and economic development in places
such as East Asia and Latin America this represented a large-scale rollback of
state authority within its territorial boundaries (Strange 1996).
This intellectual trajectory on territoriality was an important step forward
in that it recognized the discontinuous nature of the modern state system and
its potential erosion. Overwhelmingly this perspective saw forces such as
Europeanization and globalization as fundamentally weakening states, trivia-
lizing boundaries, and undermining territorial sovereignty. Though the state
formation and the state erosion perspectives differed in many ways, they did
share the tendency to link territoriality to the level of the nation-state. A third
trajectory of scholarship has helped to chip away at this trend.
This third perspective actually countered the premise of weakening terri-
toriality in an era of globalization. According to these scholars notions of
territorial “unbundling” or “deterritorialization” were problematic in their
simplistic depiction of changes occurring in the world. As the early projec-
tions of the sweeping impact of globalization abated, these scholars observed
that states and territoriality remained remarkably resilient. The changes
taking place were not that of “deterritorialization” but of reterritorialization
(Kahler and Walter 2006).
In making these arguments, scholars employed the concept of scale which
highlights the way territories of differing size are nested within one another
such as the global, national, and local levels (Delaney and Leitner 1997; Cox
1998). Because scales are malleable and dynamic, territoriality can then move
upwards and downwards along the scale. Globalization is thus not destroying
territory but rather rescaling it upwards to the supra-national level and
downwards to the sub-national level. It is leading not to deterritorialization of
the state, but rather to its denationalization (Brenner 1999). Said differently,
rather than an unbundling of territory, there has been a process of rebundling,
for example, upwards to the European level (Ansell and Palma 2004). In this
sense, what is emerging today is a world where territory and authority are
more fragmented, and not wedded to strict national territorial boundaries
(Ansell and Palma 2004).
This reconsideration of eroding territoriality has forced scholars to shift
their gaze upwards above the states and downwards below the state to
reconsider notions of territoriality. The former has mostly been the realm of
international relations scholars and Europeanists. In contrast the latter
downward gaze below the state level has been dominated by anthropologists
and area studies specialists who conduct in-depth research on the ground
(Vandergeest and Peluso 1995; Wadley 2003; Peluso 2005). In this way, while
the study of territoriality is very much in flux scholars have taken seriously
the need to look at how it is changing at various levels but particularly above
and below the state.
Despite key advances in understanding territoriality including the emerging
attention to territoriality above and below the state, one continued short-
coming of the scholarship is the implicit assumption of the indivisibility of
territoriality. There tends to be an assumption that territorial arrangements
are inherently zero-sum and that the benefit of say, national territoriality
comes at the expense of local territory.
One reason for this is that many scholars see territoriality in largely
materialist terms. Areas rich in natural resources such as petroleum, minerals,
and timber benefit those who can access and control them. If natural resour-
ces are distributed unevenly across a territory of a given state the central
government may extract the resources either to redistribute it across other
regions, or simply to plunder it for its own benefit. Local resources can of
course be captured locally by local power-holders which can create tensions
with the center and other regions. Any of these conditions can lead to
domestic imbalance and resentment (Ross 2004).
Even without natural resources, certain regions may feel marginalized by a
central government leading to a conflation of marginality, territory, and
identity or “internal colonialism” which then gives rise to separatism or
rebellion (Hechter 1975). If territories are conceived in material terms, then it
makes sense that they would remain inherently conflictual because in a world
of fixed goods, one side’s gain is the other’s loss. For that reason most
research on politics and territory has emphasized rebellions, civil wars,
separatism, and ethnic violence (Brown 1988; Bertrand 2004).
An over-emphasis on the materiality of territory, however, tends to obscure
other critical aspects. We know that people also have emotional attachments
to land that are often independent of its material benefit. Anthropologists and
historians have sought to understand the symbolic dimensions of territory
including the sources of territorial attachments (Kahler and Walter 2006).
While early work tended to assume attachments as primordial, more recent
scholars have tried to understand why and how those attachments emerge
(Basso 1996; Goemans 2006). But understanding the sources of symbolic
attachments that individuals and groups have to territories and the process by
which they emerge also reinforces the incompatibility of territoriality between
different actors. The moving of indigenous peoples from their land or a
development project built on sacred places typically show how materialist
aspects of territoriality trump and overpower the symbolic or cultural
dimension. In turn, it also shows how these kinds of symbolic attachments
can be used as a way to mobilize and resist territorial encroachments by the
state (Afiff and Lowe 2007).
Yet a third dimension of territoriality is political or institutional. Territory
has political value that emerges out of the political institutions of a national
state. Again, this dimension stands independent of the aforementioned two.
Where regional representation in the political system is institutionalized, ter-
ritory means having a voice on national matters (Bartolini 2004). For exam-
ple, the total number of states or provinces can play an important part in
determining the overall make up of the legislative and executive branches of
government as they form the basis of electoral districts. While legislative seats
may be distributed according to a party-list system, there is often close
attention paid to the balance of representatives between different regions.
These differing notions of territoriality—material, cultural, and political—
can and do exist simultaneously, and this opens doors not just to conflict but
also to forms of cooperation. Although difference does not lead always to
cooperation it does not necessarily assume conflict either. The multi-dimensional
nature of territory forms the basis by which individuals and groups may
decide to mobilize around territorial issues. Interests along economic political
and social dimensions may often overlap in surprising and unexpected ways.
In the next section, I elaborate more on these mobilizations.
Territorial coalitions and mobilization

The multi-dimensionality of territoriality is key to understanding the terri-
torial reorganization of the Indonesian state. Territorial change, I argue, is
not the product of a single actor but rather a collaborative effort among
individuals and groups at multiple territorial levels. In other words there is a
coalitional politics that is taking place.
Coalitions are typically defined as groups of individuals and organizations
that work together toward a common objective. The concept has been used to
analyze politics in a variety of settings. The field of legislative politics, for
example, has explored how coalitions between political parties emerge and
their implications for political outcomes (Riker 1962; Tsebelis 2002). Coali-
tions between classes have been studied as a major force for political change
(Moore 1966; Rueschemeyer et al. 1992). And political economists have
explained outcomes such as open or closed economic policies or the rise of
welfare states as resulting from different kinds of sectoral coalitions
(Rogowski 1989; Doner 1990; Esping-Anderson 1990).
Drawing on notions of scale introduced earlier, this book introduces the
concept of territorial coalitions, coalitions that span different levels of terri-
torial administration and in the process embody both the hierarchy as well as
the different power relationships embedded in that structure. While scholars
typically highlight class or sectoral coalitions, territorial coalitions illustrate
how alliances often cut across these groups. The main actors in such coalitions
include local civil society organizations, local-level political elites, provincial-
level political elites, national-level political elites, political parties, and different
state institutions such as the military and national-level ministries.
Others have also explored linkages and alliances between different geo-
graphic scales. Cox explores how marginal or peripheral regions can trans-
form from “spaces of dependence” into “spaces of engagement” by allying
with groups at different territorial levels leading to “scale jumping” where
local issues are given national or international prominence through the con-
struction of coalitions (Cox 1998). Similarly, scholars have explored local
NGOs or workers who ally with supra-national organizations in order to put
pressure on that national state (Keck and Sikkink 1998; Tarrow 2004). In all
these cases, “jumping scales” provides a critical way in which local interests
can become nationalized or internationalized. This book’s concept of terri-
torial coalitions explores how “scale jumping” can occur between local,
region, and national levels in the domestic political context.
The concept of cross-cutting territorial alliances helps us to understand
territorial politics, but one difference is that we typically assume that allies
share a certain set of values and norms, say about human rights or workers’
rights or other issues. Similarly, the assumptions in coalitional politics is that
values and norms are either shared or need to be put aside in pursuit of spe-
cific goals (Gamson 1961: 374). My argument here is that simultaneous and
differing values can form the basis for a coalition. Said differently, coalitions
can work because of difference, not just despite them. Cooperation may
depend on the fact that groups have different values and attitudes toward
their goal, in this case, territory. To that end, the plasticity of territory ends up
being a useful feature that brings groups who may usually not work together
to engage and mobilize.
Territorial coalitions in comparative perspective

If the aforementioned helps us understand the immediate causes of territorial
change in Indonesia, it also helps us to understand internal changes in other
parts of the world. India experienced a massive territorial reorganization in
the 1950s as groups demanded territorial boundaries along ethnic and lin-
guistic lines. Subsequently, there have been some new states created but gen-
erally to the chagrin of the central government. However, more recently, a
new wave of territorial change has emerged in the context of decentralization
initiatives and the changing landscape of electoral competition. As state-level
parties have become politically stronger, national parties often appealed to
neglected sub-regions for electoral support, exchanging the promise of a new
state for votes at the ballot box (Stuligross 2001: 18). This has led to the
creation of several new states that emerged with the blessing of national
players. This suggests an alliance between marginalized groups and aspiring
parties who can gain more seats nationally and locally by catering to local
demands.
The importance of the national role and its alliance with local politics is
also evident in Nigeria. Established as a federal system by the British in 1958,
Nigeria had just three states at independence, organized loosely around the
three dominant ethnic groups, the Hausa-Fulani, the Yoruba, and the Igbo.
Even before independence, politics took on a tri-polar dimension which cul-
minated in a civil war and humanitarian disaster. Since then, the number of
states in Nigeria has risen dramatically. In part these came from local
demands, but a variety of interests at the national level were also crucial.
Early on, a singular interest in unity, led the military rulers to split the three
regions into smaller units as a way to “divide and rule.” At other times,
patronage politics led to incentives from legislators to advocate splits between
states. Shifts from authoritarian rule to democratic rule also shifted the
incentives of parties at different territorial levels (Kraxberger 2003).
Nor are the territorial coalitions or alliances suggested here exclusive to the
developing world. Canada saw the creation of a new province in 1999 as a
result of landmark legislation passed in 1993. The new province of Nunavut
emerged from social mobilization on the part of those in the region who
sought to create a provincial homeland for indigenous Inuits. In this sense, the
story of Nunavut could follow a classic narrative of indigenous groups mobi-
lizing along lines of ethnic identity to push for more autonomy under a fed-
eral structure. However, the political alliance with national parties is also
crucial. In 1993, the Progressive Conservative Party was deeply unpopular
and seeking ways to appeal to a more liberal constituency. Indigenous issues
had become prominent in the political discourse and the Oka crisis, a stand-
off between Mohawk Indians and the government, over land rights issues
marred the government’s reputation. Furthermore, a single settlement around
land claims issues in the contested area of the Mackenzie Valley also col-
lapsed in the early 1990s leading to desperation in the government party. This
led the government to introduce and approve a new Nunavut province, in
many ways for their own political survival (Loukacheva 2007).
In fact, if we look even at some historical examples in the United States
such as the creation of West Virginia, we see a similar kind of dynamic. West
Virginia actually seceded from the state of Virginia in 1862, soon after Virgi-
nia declared secession from the Union. In part, West Virginians felt little
kinship with Virginia, they were geographically separate, lived in more
mountainous territory, and thus did not rely on slavery, the political issue of
the day. But the split between the two states can only be understood in the
national context of the civil war where West Virginia joining the Union had
important political and strategic implications (Rice and Brown 1993).
All of this is to say that territorial change and the notion of cross-regional
alliances can be understood as a global phenomenon. The cases of India and
Nigeria are explored in more detail in the conclusion. While there are distinct
differences in terms of institutions and historical context, the larger patterns
in these multi-ethnic and often territorially fragile states bear striking simila-
rities to Indonesia.
Territorial coalitions in the Indonesian context

In the context of Indonesia, discussions of alliances and coalitions have often
been examined between political elites, political parties, and political classes.
For example, much of the discussions of Indonesia’s transition and reformasi
explore the ways that figures such as Abdurrahman Wahid, Megawati
Sukarnoputeri, and Amien Rais forged an otherwise unlikely alliance to
oppose Suharto in the waning days of his presidency (Hefner 2000; Aspinall
2005). Others have discussed coalitions in the context of political economy
and how the capitalist class initially supported, then later abandoned Suharto
and the New Order regime (Bellin 2000).
It is also clear that among political elites, alliances between what Hadiz
calls “predatory interests” have also increasingly mobilized alliances, often
between center and periphery (Hadiz 2004). In some cases, these alliances go
even beyond elites. At the societal level, Tsing describes how urban middle-
class environmentalists and local rural villagers formed an unlikely alliance to
protect forests. Despite these groups having significantly different views on
environment she observes that “sometimes, difference can lead to new forms
of unity and struggle” (Tsing 2005). But while these alliances span territory,
the interpretation is usually that geography serves as a proxy for class.
In this study, the notion of territorial coalitions is explicitly geographic and
cross-class and cross-sectoral. I suggest we take actors along three different
territorial levels: national, regional, and local. Initiatives for territorial chan-
ges are likely to come either from the local level and scale upwards or vice
versa. Groups at the local level are the most obvious proponents for new
provinces because territory may be viewed symbolically as a homeland with
provincehood a long-held aspiration. In multi-ethnic provinces, such as North
Sulawesi, key groups may feel marginalized or slighted, and this aspiration
may be particularly strong. A new territory may also be seen as a solution to
economic woes. Depending on how the state is organized, a new province can
bring new fiscal resources to the region that promises to promote develop-
ment. At the same time local elites may have an interest in new provinces
both for the prestige as well as the economic opportunity to create their own
bailiwick.
If local sentiments for new provinces make sense, how should we view
national level support for territorial change? These groups have a different take
on territory. For example, security may be an overriding priority for Jakarta.
Supporting a new administrative region in an unstable area of the country
may serve to divide and rule different players in the region. In the creation of
West Papua, for example, military officers played a major role in brokering
deals with local groups in the process of negotiating for new provinces.
At the same time national legislators who have to approve new provinces
may also see the political benefits for their own political party. A new pro-
vince can reshape the legislature at the national level especially when the
electoral lines are drawn around provinces. If a party has hopes to capture a
particular region they may back the local demands for provincehood. Party
politics may also be influenced by patterns of patronage as new provinces and
districts can offer new opportunities in branch offices as well.
The regional or provincial level in this situation is much more ambivalent.
We are not likely to see a proactive movement for a new province emerge
from the “mother” province itself. The alliance with either national or local
level actors is likely to be more contingent. Provincial-level actors, often gov-
ernors or legislators, are sometimes reluctant to see new provinces created
because it generally means that their province will become smaller and wield
less influence. On the other hand, they may sometimes be convinced with side
payments or assurances of other kinds of compensation.
The process of coalitions

It is also useful here to explore the process of territorial coalitions. What kind
of role do they play and how do they work? Why are they so important for
the creation of new provinces in Indonesia? The argument presented in this
book should be understood as speaking against an exclusively statist inter-
pretation of proliferation as well as exclusively populist ones. To be sure, the
creation of new administrative boundaries at the sub-national level falls
within the authority of the central state and for this reason, support from
actors in the center is critical. But national actors can not merely create new
provinces on a whim, particularly in the context of a democratic and decen-
tralized state. Some kind of legitimating rationale is necessary and this often
takes the form of local popular demand.
At the same time, the argument also illustrates the limits of purely local or
popular movements for new provinces. Local actors may push hard for new
provinces, but in most cases actors in the center must also have some sort of
incentive to change local boundaries. In this way the framework of territorial
coalitions incorporates both the logic of state power as well as social forces.
Instead of arguing the importance of one or the other, it addresses the align-
ment of interests between actors in both arenas. Instead of perpetuating the
problematic binary of center and periphery, which conceives of the two as
unitary actors, we should understand the fragmentation of both actors and
interests in both the center and the periphery. This fragmentation is what
allows for territorial coalitions to occur.
In this context, what are the different kinds of linkages and how do they
function? Adapting from Sinha’s work on regional politics in India, I explore
three kinds of linkages: institutional, social and personal (Sinha 2004).5 For
example, political parties based in Jakarta have relationships with local-level
political parties that are formal and institutional. There are also social lin-
kages, links between social groups at both the center and the periphery. One
example of this is the ethnic diaspora groups that form in places like Jakarta
and play an important role in lobbying and pushing for change including new
province formation. Finally, personal linkages also play an important role in
linking actors between center and periphery. Although these personal linkages
may emerge in the context of an institutional or social context, they are
independent in the sense that links between actors can play an important and
independent role in seeing new province creation succeed.
These territorial coalitions function through different kinds of coordination
and collaboration. One clear way is that they pool resources. Politicians and
business leaders in the “center,” for example, may give money to the pro-
vincial cause. Beyond merely pooling resources, these groups may coordinate
mobilization at different levels of administration. For example, demonstra-
tions to show support of new provinces may occur in the locality where the
new province is proposed, the capital of the “mother province” as well as in
the national capital. Finally, there may be a functional division of labor
among different groups at different levels. In the locality, for example, orga-
nizations supporting proliferation may socialize and garner support for the
initiative. In the center, the activities may consist of lobbying the state for
approval of creating a new state.
The presence and need for coalition implies that there are opposing forces
to provincial proliferation. If there were no opposing forces, then a coalition
would be unnecessary. Opponents of proliferation are also often present at
every single level of administration. However, as the forthcoming case studies
show, many of the opponents to proliferation are particularly clustered at the
provincial level. Many provincial-level actors are likely to lose when a new
province is carved out of their own territory. For example, the province may
lose revenue generated from the territory. Incumbents may lose important
electoral districts which could hurt them and help their opponents. Local
legislators could lose their seats altogether if their districts are allocated to a
new province. And if the provincial split occurs along ethnic lines, then ethnic
groups in the mother province may resent their new-found minority status.
Provincial-level opponents may also try to align with groups both above
them in the center and below them in the locality. For example, at the local
level, bureaucrats and other public officials from outside the area may be
concerned about their sudden status as minorities. This reflects a concern
throughout Indonesia that decentralization and territorial reorganization
would lead to an ethnification of politics where native sons or putra asli
daerah would be given preferential policies positions over outsiders. Similarly,
national-level actors including bureaucrats and legislators were opposed to
the notion of territorial change because of the potential ethnification and
threat to Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia (NKRI), or the concept of the
Unitary Republic of the Indonesian State. While these opponents of new
province creation also aligned vertically, they may not have pooled resources
or worked collaboratively to the same extent the proponents did.
By positing the importance of territorial coalitions and alliances, this argu-
ment avoids a long-running debate about whether societal conflict in Indone-
sia is elite-led or bottom-up. Instead, an institutional approach looks at the
way in which political changes gave both societal groups and elites different
kinds of interests and incentives such that they decided to work together to
create new territorial boundaries. In other words instead of arguing for an
“either–or” explanation, it examines how each interacts with the other.
Conclusion
Territorial change in the form of new province creation is an important but
under-theorized phenomenon. This chapter has tried to present a new
framework on territorial change by emphasizing the importance of territorial
coalitions. It has suggested national and local factors influence the ways
actors think about provinces and how, under certain conditions, enough
actors’ interests can overlap to create coalitions in order to achieve the status
of a new district or a new province.
I have suggested that a coalitional approach dispels the idea that this phe-
nomenon is simply driven by national state interests or local agitation.
Instead, it is the marriage of the two through coalitions that have made these
changes possible. To be sure I note that triggers can come from either the
national level or the local level depending on the particular regional context
in which territorial change is being proposed. But eventually there must be
support beyond a single territorial level.
It is important to note that because of the weaknesses of existing theore-
tical foundations, this framework has been constructed inductively looking
closely at contrasting and comparing different experiences. In this sense, it does
not claim to explain all kinds of proliferation everywhere. Seeing how well
this framework works in other contexts will require further research. However,
given the examples explored in Indonesia, this framework seems to provide a
more complete explanation of the phenomenon of provincial proliferation.
3 Origins and dilemmas of territorial
administration in colonial Indonesia
Introduction
Indonesia today is organized as a unitary state with territorial administrative
units at the provincial and the district level. Territorially, this reflects the way
modern states are organized, but one of the puzzling aspects of the province
in Indonesia is its lack of historical precedent. Provinces date back only to the
early twentieth century when the Dutch colonial government introduced them
to replace the older and smaller regional territories called residencies. How
did Indonesia then come to be organized in this fashion?
While territorial structures and their subunits often appear to be natural,
stable, and fixed, scholars have long noted the social construction of territory and
territoriality, identifying particular moments where notions of boundaries,
territory, and sovereignty have shifted and political and social institutions and
practices have changed.1 The present system of territorial administration is no
different and has deep roots. Nor did the system result from some evolu-
tionary process that is the result of linear or gradual improvement. Rather,
this chapter will show territoriality in the archipelago shifted due to changes in
economic conditions, colonial practice, and the imperative of the modern state.
The colonial era in Indonesia, measured in centuries, has a long and com-
plex history. While doing injustice to this complexity, this chapter identifies a
number of key turning points including the shift from the spice trade to
commercial agriculture, from corporate rule to state rule, and from economic
logic to political and ethical imperatives. Such shifts also led to changes both
in territory, but more importantly, territoriality and they way in which the
archipelago would be run.
Throughout, colonial administrators faced a constant dilemma between the
desire for uniformity versus the recognition of diversity on the archipelago.
Cribb describes this as “bureaucratic pressures for uniformity and continuity,
and political and economic pressures for change and diversity” (Cribb 1999:
124). On the one hand, a system of indirect rule sought to preserve local
hierarchies and forms of political authority that predated colonial rule. At the
same time, the Dutch bureaucracy sought to make legible and coherent the
vastly diverse region over which they governed (Scott 1998).
The origins of territorial administration in Indonesia 23
As we shall see the Dutch colonial state also met ample resistance and
much of the way the territories emerged was a response to threats from the
local population. Territorial change occurred not as a sudden process of top-
down administration but one negotiated by the Dutch and the local popula-
tion. In this regard, it is worth noting that three and a half centuries of Dutch
colonialism remained a project of rule rather than an accomplishment. Neither
can we say that this system was one simply imposed by Europeans by a
reluctant indigenous group. In many cases, native elite groups including the
priyayi were well integrated into the Dutch colonial administrative system in
a way that served their own interests.
This chapter explores these tensions and how the production of territorial
administration emerged in an environment punctuated by economic condi-
tions, colonial policy, and changing local contexts on the ground. The next
section discusses territoriality in the pre-colonial period and the way in which
early colonial powers changed the territorial calculus on the archipelago. It
then examines the VOC’s initial ambivalence, even reluctance, for territorial
administration to their eventual embrace of territorial conquest as one of its
key goals. Finally, it examines the way in which the Dutch colonial state
sought to build the Indonesian state through its own system of territorial
administration. Ultimately, legacies of colonialism are evident in today’s ter-
ritorial administrative structure, even as Indonesians rejected the final Dutch
push for a federal Indonesian state.
Pre-colonial geography and territorial diversity

Territoriality on the Indonesian archipelago prior to colonial rule is difficult
to assess for several reasons. For one, there is simply a dearth of written
records that lay out how political administration took place. Historians have
typically relied on inscriptions and chronicles to piece together evidence about
previous eras. There is also a certain ambiguity in labeling some kingdoms as
“pre-colonial.” Given how slowly colonial rule evolved, any number of king-
doms and sultanates that existed prior to, say, the sixteenth century thrived
well into later periods when European colonial rule had ostensibly taken hold.
Finally, even in the case of empires existing well before any significant European
political influence in the region, from the eleventh to fifteenth centuries, for
example, political arrangements varied so widely that it makes little sense to
think of the archipelago as a single coherent region or political unit.
We do know that many of the ancient pre-colonial kingdoms did extend
influence outward beyond their immediate political centers into outer lying
and peripheral regions. For example, the Srivijaya empire based itself on
Sumatra but evidence suggests it exerted influence across the Straits of
Malacca onto the Malay peninsula as well (Wolters 1967). Similarly, the
Majapahit empire based itself in eastern Java from the late thirteenth century
to about 1500, and extended power outwards far beyond Java to Borneo,
Sumatra, Bali, and the Malay Peninsula (Cribb 2000: 87). In fact, Majapahit
is often cited as the largest pre-colonial empire in Southeast Asia, with its
size measured in terms of how much territory it controlled. In this sense,
pre-colonial empires have, by definition, been characterized in territorial terms.
At the same time, there are unresolved questions about the degree to which
territory was clearly delineated in ancient polities. Many scholars argue that
political boundaries as we understand them today did not exist in pre-colonial
times. Instead, power radiated outward from the center of a kingdom like a
penumbra, with influence waning in proportion to distance from the center
(Anderson 1972). The underlying rationale for this theory is that Southeast
Asia as a region tended to be land abundant and labor scarce, making terri-
tory and land a low priority. Wars tended to be less about securing territorial
gains than about capturing populations who could be brought back and put
to work, usually in agricultural cultivation (Reid 1988: 22).
In this type of system, political authority over distant regions proved weak
and sovereigns ceded substantial authority to local lords and vassals. Political
alignments and loyalties also lay with sovereigns rather than with any parti-
cular territory or piece of land and that loyalty was not necessarily exclusive
but could typically be distributed to several different sovereigns. On Java this
kind of arrangement is commonly referred to as a “system of limited king-
ship” (Ricklefs 1993: 17). For example, the empires such as Srivijaya and
Majapahit, while having extensive territorial reach, are often depicted as co-
centric circles where their influence is strongest within the inner circle, and
weakest along the circumference of the outer circles.
On the other hand, archaeological evidence suggests that some ancient
kingdoms did operate in systems with clearly marked territorial boundaries.
For example, the Airlangga Kingdom in Eastern Java was split into two
kingdoms in the early eleventh century. The source and meaning of the
boundary that divided the new kingdoms of Janggala and Panjalu is a point
of scholarly debate, but the division suggests that lines were drawn politically
and demarcated clearly (Nihom 1986). Why some polities employed boundaries
while other did not is unclear.
One possible explanation may lie in the contrast often drawn between the
maritime kingdoms and the inland agrarian kingdoms of the region. Inland
kingdoms, particularly on Java, were more rural, agrarian, and inward look-
ing. In contrast to maritime Southeast Asia, agricultural-based kingdoms
tended to be more bureaucratic and therefore more likely to administer their
societies in a systematic way and this logic may extend to territoriality as well
(Lieberman 1993). On the other hand, the maritime city states may have had
little ability or interest to rule in such a bureaucratic and administrative
manner and thus been much less interested in notions of territorial control.
The point here is not to resolve any debate on where and when territorial
boundaries were used across the archipelago prior to colonialism. What is
clear is that on the eve of European arrival a diversity of political systems
flourished with very different conceptions of territory and territoriality. Some
kingdoms ruled over territory but did not rule territorially. In other cases,
territorial boundaries and divisions seem to have been employed in the way
modern states function today. This diversity then presented the dilemma that
Dutch and other colonial powers would face in their attempts to colonize the
archipelago. And it was on these varying conceptions of territory that colonial
powers layered their own notions of territoriality.
The spice trade and choke-point economics

At the outset, the European colonial powers that arrived in the region had
little interest, much less ability to conquer or rule territorially over the Indies
archipelago. The Portuguese who arrived in the early part of the sixteenth
century sought to secure control of the spice trade including pepper, nutmeg,
cloves, and sandalwood, all of which flourished on particular islands within
the archipelago. They sought simply to buy cheap and sell dear and extensive
territorial administration was deemed too costly and unnecessary.
The Portuguese aimed to monopolize the spice trade by occupying key
production points in the eastern part of the archipelago including the
Moluccas, the lesser Sunda Islands, and parts of Sulawesi. They also sought
to control strategic ports that served as a clearinghouse for the export of
spices such as Melaka on the Malay peninsula. For the most part, the Por-
tuguese secured these regions through coercion and built forts in order to
protect their interests. Areas outside of these ports went largely untouched by
Portuguese administration.2
By the latter half of the seventeenth century, the Portuguese were no longer
able to exclude other players from the thriving spice market. The Dutch
capitalized on their improved seafaring skills as well as their growing eco-
nomic might and set out to the East Indies intent on carving out a share of
the lucrative spice trade. In 1602 a group of businessmen formally established
the VOC, which was then granted a charter by the Dutch crown that gave it
semi-sovereign status throughout Asia including powers to build alliances,
build fortresses, conclude treaties, and where necessary to wage war (Ricklefs
1993: 27). In 1603, the VOC assembled an expeditionary force and small
armada of a dozen ships and set out for the spice islands (Gaastra 2003: 39).
The VOC’s stated mission was to procure spices and other valuables and,
where possible, engage and displace Portuguese forces. Though both of these
objectives were grounded in economic interests, disrupting the Portuguese
monopoly had the unintended consequence of introducing free competition in
the local and regional spice trade, thereby driving prices up and cutting into
profits at home (Van Niel 1978a: 282). The VOC realized early on that they
would have to use political authority to secure an economic monopoly of
their own (Vandenbosch 1941: 52).
This shift from “merchant adventurer” to “merchant prince” had two
broad implications for territorial governance. First, the VOC’s governance
would have to be restructured. The original governing council composed of
“Seventeen Gentlemen” (Heeren XVII) represented different regions of the
Netherlands and made decisions and issued orders out of Amsterdam. But
communication between the council and the representatives abroad proved
slow and inefficient and the council agreed to delegate a broad range of
authority to agents headed by a newly created governor-general office in the
region (Angelino 1931: 7). Moving political authority from the motherland to
the colony proved the first step in conceiving of the archipelago as its own
territorially autonomous entity.
This new structure also meant that the VOC would have to search for a
more permanent base of operations. After moving from the Eastern region of
the archipelago in Ambon to the more centrally-located Banten on Java, the
company finally settled on Batavia on the north western tip of Java to base
their activities (Ricklefs 1993: 28). Initially Batavia served as a coordinating
center for a loose network of branch offices making up VOC operations
throughout Asia. These included offices in Nagasaki, Taiwan, Vietnam,
Sumatra, Surat, Ceylon, and Goa. Even though places on the archipelago
such as Malacca, Ambon, and Ternate would later be consolidated into the
Dutch East Indies, they were initially simply part, albeit an important part, of
the wider Asian network of port offices and factories that promoted VOC
trading interests in the region. The governor general in Batavia appointed
residents to manage each of these offices, dubbed residencies. In the long run,
Batavia, later renamed Jakarta, would become the political keystone for an
increasingly centralized colonial state.
As they established their base of operations on Batavia, the VOC system-
atically employed a combination of negotiated contracts and brute force in
order to secure their monopoly on spices in the region. Early agreements with
the Ambonese (for cloves), the inhabitants of Pulo Ai (for nutmeg and mace),
and Ternate for other spices, collapsed as contracts were easily broken by
both sides and oversight and enforcement proved difficult. On the small island
of Pulo Ai, VOC forces turned to violence and wiped out a large portion of
the population, replacing them with perkeniers or traders who subsequently
controlled the nutmeg and mace market. The Dutch initiated warfare in their
push for the clove market in Ambon, in some cases also destroying some of the
very clove trees they sought to control. Not until 1655 were they able to make
Ambon submit to their rule. The control of Ternate also proved elusive with a
strong sultanate and competition from the Spanish empire. Ternate did not
fall under full Dutch control until the latter part of the seventeenth century.
Overall, these efforts by the VOC did not try to establish complete control
over the entire archipelago. Rather they sought to secure key “chokepoints”
just enough to manage and monopolize the spice trade. In this sense, for both
the Portuguese and the Dutch VOC, market control for spices defined how
political control would occur. With spices growing on islands throughout the
archipelago, they relied on maintaining a network of offices and ports which
allowed them to monopolize production and transportation of the spice trade.
Territorial administration remained limited to those key pockets and elsewhere
much of the archipelago remained free from heavy colonial political control.
Constructing the center and the shift to Java
As time progressed, the Dutch came to find that securing only the choke-
points was not necessarily as cheap or efficient as they hoped. In fact, it came
at an enormous cost in terms of resources particularly on Java where VOC
efforts to secure Batavia resulted in political entanglements. The Company’s
aims there were deceptively simple: to control coastal areas to enable trade
and to prevent a power vacuum on the island (Gaastra 2003: 64). Both of
these tasks proved immensely challenging and the VOC became mired in
conflict on Java until the late eighteenth century. This involvement formed the
basis of centralization and state consolidation of the archipelago including a
systematic basis for territorial administration.
By establishing a presence on Java, the VOC bumped up against two king-
doms; Mataram to the west and Bantam to the east. Both kingdoms proved
resistant to the Dutch presence on the island and fought fiercely against VOC
forces on Java. Only by the mid-1650s, after a long taxing war with Mataram
was the VOC able to secure an agreement on a boundary separating Dutch
and Mataram territory to the east of Batavia. A similar agreement with
Bantam to the West was reached a few years later (Ricklefs 1993: 7). By the late
1600s and early 1700s, the VOC would also be firmly embedded in the inter-
nal politics of the larger island of Java siding with different groups in wars of
succession and in return gaining access and rights to build forts and garrisons,
as well as concessions over maritime rights in the Eastern seas off of Java.
Where the Dutch secured political authority on Java, they implemented a
system of indirect rule which governed through the so-called “native chief.”
Indirect rule refers to a system of colonial administration where a European
administrative bureaucracy is layered on top of pre-existing political arrange-
ments of pre-colonial kingdoms. On Java in the seventeenth century, this
meant employing bupatis or regents who were part of the Mataram kingdom.
The origins of the bupati system are unclear but they date back at least to
the sixteenth century and possibly much earlier. By the early seventeenth
century, the Kingdom of Mataram employed an administrative system of
governance centered around the capital city of Karta toward the southern
central coast of Java. The lands immediately around Karta were called negara
agung and administered directly by the Mataram court. Outer lying regions
too distant for direct control were dubbed mancanegara and ruled by bupati
or regional lords (Cribb 2000: 90). These were usually appointed by the King
of Mataram and often related to the royal family through kinship or marriage
(Van Niel 2005: 71).
With indirect rule, the Dutch sought to expand their commercial activities
by extracting commodities such as rice and maize which could also be used to
feed troops, servants, slaves, and quiescent natives in and around Batavia.3
The Dutch used the bupatis initially to coordinate the system of forced deliv-
eries (verplichte leveringen) and tributes (contingenten) as well as to maintain
law and order in their district. The bupatis in turn were rewarded with a
percentage, say 10 percent of goods, for their services delivered to the Dutch. The
VOC dubbed these officials “regents” and the areas that they administered
“regencies.”
Indirect rule thus led to the territorial division of Java into regencies, which
were in turn divided into sub-districts known today as camat. Below that
existed a hierarchy of lower heads who administered affairs at the village level
(Van Niel 2005: 72). The need to formalize this system of deliveries increas-
ingly hardened and bureaucratized the regency structure into the colonial
administrative system.
And so it was arguably on Java in the mid-seventeenth century that the
Dutch turned from a maritime political force into a land-based empire seek-
ing territorial control over Java and the rest of the archipelago. The particu-
larities of timing and place-Java in the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries
with the shifting currents of the global spice trade-shaped what would become
the foundations of the territorial administrative structure of the archipelago.
The VOC’s involvement on Java also presaged a larger shift in colonial
strategy from spices on the outer lying islands to cash cropping on the island
in the nineteenth century. In other words, shifts in the economic needs of the
Dutch from spice trade to extraction helped to shape the shift in territorial
management from choke-point rule to more expensive rule coordinated
through the sub-national territorial units in the form of regencies.
However, by the eighteenth century the VOC could find little way of turn-
ing a profit on the archipelago despite their increased political control. A shift
in trade patterns in Asia, poor management and corruption, inadequate
financing, bad debts, and war in Europe, all led to the VOC’s decline (Van
Niel 1978a: 282). On January 1, 1800 the VOC was dissolved and the Dutch
government took over the colonial enterprise on the East Indies.
Consolidation, centralization, and expansion

The change in colonial administration from the VOC to the Dutch govern-
ment introduced several important trends on the archipelago, particularly as
they pertain to territorial administration. First, the VOC’s collapse illustrated
a broader economic change in the region. As the spice trade declined in the
eighteenth century, so too did the economic importance of the islands on
which they grew.4 The Dutch shifted the majority of their economic activity
to Java growing export commodities such as coffee, indigo, and sugar (Van
Niel 1978a: 282). Java became both the political and economic center of the
East Indies archipelago which then accelerated the imperative for territorial
administration already in place as the Dutch sought to transform the East
Indies into a coherent colonial state.
As the colony changed hands from business to government, so too did
notions of territoriality. While the VOC had been a business interested pri-
marily in the economic efficiency of political rule, Dutch government admin-
istration of the colonies introduced political questions alongside economic
ones. This raised questions about who should be given local authority and
how much. In particular, colonial powers remained deeply ambivalent about
the native bupatis at the district level at once appreciative of the adminis-
trative efficiency yet frustrated at the abuse of power and the entrenchment of
aristocracy that resulted.
The Dutch therefore experimented often with administration, moving
authority upwards and downwards and then back to the regency level
depending on the political climate and the colonial leadership at the time.
One of the most significant changes to territorial administration occurred
under the governor-generalship of Herman Wilhem Daendels, appointed by
Louis Bonaparte in 1807.5 During his four-year tenure, Daendels made
sweeping changes to centralize administrative power on the archipelago. Until
Daendels, much of the archipelago was composed of larger regional bodies
dubbed gouvernementen loosely coordinated by Batavia. Daendels replaced
them with a system of territorial administration based on smaller units
dubbed gewesten, or regions, that would be more directly accountable to the
Governor-General in Batavia.
Daendels divided Java into nine regions, or prefects, and placed Europeans
in charge of each prefecture or landrostambten. These regions, also called
residencies were run by residents who were given full charge of the interior of
their districts including supervision over the smaller districts (Bastin 1954:
36). Residents were given broad-ranging authority and encouraged to pro-
mote agriculture within their areas. The total number of these regions on Java
fluctuated between a dozen and twenty regions as new residencies were created
and old ones absorbed and amalgamated (Cribb 2000: 123).
Sir Stamford Raffles, the British administrator who succeeded Daendels
from 1811 to 1816, had a notable impact on the colonial practices of the
Dutch in later years. Raffles reinforced some of his predecessor’s initiatives
such as centralizing administrative power and creating new residencies.6 He
also sought to undermine the power of the aristocratic class of Java, the
priyai, who occupied the offices of regents. In that regard, he helped solidify
the basis of the territorial administrative structure on the island by strength-
ening the residencies above the traditional regency structure (Sutherland
1979: 81).
At the same time, Raffles also sought to subvert the bupati at the regency
level by introducing the land-rent system of Java. This system drew on the
British colonial experience in India and proved a major shift in the way land
and territory was conceptualized. Essentially, instead of focusing on the
commodities produced by peasants, the land-rent system declared that all the
land of a particular country was owned by the sovereign who thus had the
right to draw rent on any kind of land-based productivity. Under this system,
land would be “rented” out to village chiefs who in turn would divide up the
land and collect rent on it (Van Niel 1992: 6).
After the British interregnum, the Dutch expanded on the land-rent system.
This helped shift their economic focus from spices, which had fallen in price
on world markets, to export crops on Java. The British introduced the Culti-
vation System in the 1830s, which applied the principles of the land-rent
system to agricultural production of these export commodities across Java.
The system required the mandatory cultivation of specific crops and villagers
to set aside a portion of their crops which would be allotted for the Dutch
and sold at a fixed price. Ultimately, it amounted to a practice of forced labor
as the Javanese peasants had little control over the commodity price and were
often forced to sell at extremely low prices.7
While the British had undermined the power of the bupati at the regency
level through the introduction of the land-rent system, the Dutch actually
strengthened it by administering village tribute indirectly, through the regents
at the district level. This had the effect of greatly expanding the native
bureaucracy of chiefs and priyayi. At the same time, the Dutch also recruited
European staff to oversee production and transaction and goods also marking
an expansion of a European bureaucratic administration on the archipelago
(Van Niel 1978b: 282).
Territorial administration off of Java proved a study in contrasts. For much
of the nineteenth century, the Dutch practiced a policy of abstention on the
Outer Islands (Vandenbosch 1941: 149). Fearing that they might overburden
the financial surpluses from Java, particularly after a long, grueling war with
Aceh, the Dutch Minister of the Colonies J. C. Baud ordered the withdrawal
of all posts on Sumatra and banned further expansion outside of Java
(Locher-Scholten 1994: 96).
However, as colonial competition in the region intensified toward the end
of the nineteenth century these policies were reversed and the Dutch launched
major initiatives on the Outer Islands. After quelling a large insurrection on
Lombok in 1896 and on Aceh in 1898, the Dutch pacified Jambi (1901–7),
Kerinci (1902–3), Southeast Kalimantan/Borneo (1904–6), South and Central
Sulawesi/Celebes (1905–7), Bali (1906) and Flores (1909) (Locher-Scholten
1994). By 1910, most of the regions of present-day Indonesia had been at
least nominally pacified and brought under Dutch rule (Ricklefs 1993: 131).
Territorial administration on the Outer Islands or Buitengewesten varied
considerably. A majority of the territories were ruled indirectly but arrange-
ments differed according to context. In some regions, the Dutch ruled as they
did on Java reproducing indirect administrative structures that mixed native
and European officials overseeing administrative territories in parallel (Cribb
2000: 124). In some areas the Dutch also recognized “Native Communities,”
which were self-governing territories that employed local rulers with only
minor oversight by the Dutch. On the other hand, in the directly ruled terri-
tories of the Outer Islands, Europeans filled the most senior administrative
positions and native officials with varying titles reported directly to them
(Cribb 2000).
The boundaries and the number of regions in the Dutch administrative
system shifted considerably both on Java and in the Outer Islands during the
nineteenth and early twentieth century. For example, between 1832 and 1931,
the number of residencies on Java increased, then fell after a process of con-
solidation, then rose again (Cribb 2000). In the Outer Islands, states were also
sometimes annexed, abolished, amalgamated, or split depending on local
factors and colonial interests including demographic changes, economic
interests, lines of communication, and political circumstances (Cribb 2000).
Nonetheless, the late nineteenth and early twentieth century marked the
true beginnings of the modern Indonesian state as we see it today. Territo-
rially, the Dutch focus remained on Java, but they would also expand their
presence and administration over the Outer Islands. But even as this hap-
pened, Java’s shadow and the state logic of uniformity loomed large. As both
the political and economic center of the East Indies, the Dutch administrative
experience on Java had long-term implications for state formation over the
whole of the archipelago.
More broadly, the shift from business to government meant that more
expansive notions of territory were adopted and the gradual territorialization
by colonial powers became a salient reality on the ground. Yet efficient man-
agement of that territory was a complex calculus and colonial powers faced a
constant dilemma in how best to balance political authority vis-à-vis native
elites.
Ethical policies and decentralization

Toward the latter half of the nineteenth century, a growing sentiment oppos-
ing the Cultivation System and the practices embedded within Dutch coloni-
alism began to emerge in Europe. Forced cultivation and the way it
impoverished the Javanese peasant were exposed and popularized in the
Western imagination through novels such as Max Havelaar by Eduard
Douwes Dekker.8 This era then introduced elements of ethics and morality
into the political discourse in the Netherlands about how to administer the East
Indies colony and the solution took on a profoundly territorial dimension.
Initially, the Dutch responded to the changing sentiment by shifting to a
more “liberal” set of policies with the belief that they would promote Dutch
enterprise and improve the well-being of the Indonesian “natives” at the same
time. The ideas embedded in the liberalism of the day translated to mean a
dramatic reduction in government intervention in the colonial economy,
which would lead to a corresponding promotion of growth in free enterprise,
and an end to the practices of forced labor on Java.
Despite the idealistic vision of many liberal promoters, the reality was that
the liberal system did little to increase the welfare of most of the natives in the
colony. Problems included the continued imposition of a land tax (20 percent
of household income by some calculations) as well as an inadvertent tighten-
ing of wages and rents of Indonesian farmers in order to increase profit
margins (Ricklefs 2001: 162).
Given the failures of the liberal era, the Dutch swung the pendulum to the
opposite extreme, abandoning those liberal policies and replacing them with
an “Ethical System” in the early 1900s. Echoing the condemnations of the
earlier Max Havelaar, C. Th. van Deventer, a lawyer who worked in several
judicial posts throughout the Dutch East Indies, penned an article in 1899
entitled Een Eereschuld, or “Debt of Honor,” arguing that the Dutch were
morally obligated to help Indonesians after years, indeed centuries, of economic
exploitation which they had inflicted.
The key policy instruments devised to make these ethical concerns a reality
was a set of decentralization laws. The Dutch initiated the first of these in
1903 and a second more sweeping reform was passed in 1922 and imple-
mented in 1925. These decentralization reforms gave residencies and their
subunits the authority to look after their own affairs, giving them the requisite
funds to be able to do so. To accomplish this, the 1903 legislation established
three different kinds of governing councils: regional or residency councils,
local or sub-residency councils, and urban councils (Vandenbosch 1941: 128–9).
Despite these institutional reforms, the actual authority devolved to these
councils in the 1903 legislation was limited and thus deemed largely ineffective.
New policies implemented in the 1922 decentralization laws proved more
sweeping.9 In addition to devolving power, the laws also outlined major
changes in the territorial administrative structure. The archipelago was reor-
ganized into 36 regencies, each with a regional executive. In most cases, the
regional executive was given the title of “regent” or bupati though in a few
instances they were called governors.10
In addition to the 36 regions, the 1922 laws established provinces for the
first time under Dutch colonial rule. The provinces were thus dubbed first
level units and governed above what became the second-level regencies. Provinces
consolidated the regional units that were formerly designated as residencies
and usurped their power. Soon after the passage of the decentralization law in
1925, the first three provinces were established: West Java (1926), East Java
(1929), and Central Java (1930) (Vandenbosch 1941: 131).
While the regencies or regentshappen were at least ostensibly based on pre-
colonial boundaries on Java, provinces had little analog on Java or elsewhere.
They were even larger than the residencies established under Daendels and
reinforced by Raffles. Because these provinces were artificial creations, scho-
lars have argued that they tended to lack any intrinsic cohesion and thus
tended to be less efficient and less self-reliant than the regencies (Benda 1972).
Yet the Dutch took the province as the primary site of their purported “ethical”
polity and portrayed it as a democratic space.
Politically, governments of the provinces were organized into three institu-
tions: a Provincial Council, a Board of Deputies, and the Governor. Pro-
vincial Councils were composed of the major representative groups in the
colonial Indies: the Dutch, the so-called natives, and “non-indigenous Asiatics.”
Thus for example in West Java, the allocation among groups was roughly
20 Dutch, 20 Indonesian, and five “non-indigenous” Asian, meaning that
indigenous Javanese were outnumbered on the council. Of these, half were
elected and the other half were appointed by the Governor-General who was
appointed by the Dutch government (Vandenbosch 1941: 132). In addition,
while they issued laws in key areas delegated to them by the central govern-
ment, some legislation such as tax collection and joint regulations between
provinces still had to be approved by the Governor-General.
The territorial translation of the ethical policy in the Outer Islands also
came through decentralization but the process came much later. For one, the
sheer diversity on the Outer Islands meant that the Dutch realized uniformity
in the way it had largely been achieved on Java would be a much greater
challenge. For this reason, provincial status was put on hold until future
developments could be worked out and then implemented only if necessary.
Thus, while the government of the Moluccas was officially instituted on
January 1, 1926 it was not elevated to a provincial status because of its
“backward social conditions” (Vandenbosch 1941: 130). Three additional
“governments”—Sumatra, Borneo, and the ‘Great East’—were instituted in
1938 but again denied provincial status (Royal Institute of International
Affairs 1941: 25).
In this sense, colonial administration on the Outer Islands was, at least in
design, more diverse in character than on Java. There was also a growing
sentiment that administrative reform should reorganize, restore, and
strengthen adat, or indigenous customary law communes and associated
ethnic groups. For example, in communes, considered too small for proper
administration, communities were encouraged to establish “group communes”
or “communal confederations.” The governments of these group communes
were given more power and autonomy than their parallel regencies on Java.
In principle, many of these communes were given the authority to administer
responsibilities ranging from irrigation, public health, veterinary service,
agricultural information, and local education (Vandenbosch 1941: 139).
On the Outer Islands, the Dutch also allowed the creation of “native
states.” Regions qualified as “native states” once local leaders agreed to a
contract called a “Short Declaration,” which included the following princi-
ples: (1) the ruler of the self-governing area recognizes the sovereignty of the
Netherlands; (2) the region does not enter into political relations with a for-
eign power; and (3) agrees to execute and maintain all regulations which with
respect to the state are issued in the name of the Queen or the Governor-
General (Vandenbosch 1941: 149).
By the mid-1940s, some 60 percent of the Outer Islands was considered to
be under the Status of “Native States” (Royal Institute of International
Affairs 1941: 26). From approximately 1900, the number of principalities that
acceded to the Short Declaration numbered about 250 as laid out in the
Native States Regulations of 1938 (Royal Institute of International Affairs 1941:
26). In contrast, the Dutch East Indies only recognized four principalities on
Java and Madura that they considered Native States.
Native states were technically located within provinces or governments but
they wielded a wide range of autonomy. To be sure, serious impingements on
the autonomy of these regions existed. For example, they could not sign
treaties or otherwise engage in international relations. Europeans, non-indigenous
Asiatics, Indonesian employees, and migrant workers were also exempt from
the power of these native states under agreement of extra-territoriality (Van-
denbosch 1941: 153). Nonetheless, compared to the administration on Java,
Dutch rule gave more recognition of the diversity and the differences and
agreed that institutions needed to adapt to that reality.
In sum, the Ethical Policy changed territoriality in a significant way by
implementing decentralization and promoting more local governmental
autonomy. Furthermore, it did so in profoundly different ways on Java and
the Outer Islands illustrating the continued dilemma the colonial state had
with the diversity it dealt with throughout the archipelago. The extent of
decentralization and whether such shifts in territoriality resulted in actual
improvements in people’s welfare is a separate question (Benda 1972: 599).
What is clear is that on the eve of World War II the Dutch state continued to
grapple with the territorial administration of a colony it had maintained for a
century and half.
Nationalist resistance and the failure of federalism

The last jolts to Indonesia’s colonial territorial structure occurred in the con-
text of World War II. During the war, the Japanese colonial administration
introduced their own territorial organization of the archipelago, but very few
of these remained after their defeat. Instead Japan’s unconditional surrender
sparked a clash between the old Dutch colonial power and an aspiring
Republic of Indonesia. On August 15, 1945, President Sukarno called for the
“conscientious” and “swift” transfer of power to the new Republic. The
Dutch ignored Indonesian aspirations, sought to retake their former colony,
and found themselves up against strong nationalist sentiment and a hastily
assembled but formidable opposing army.
Shortly after their declaration, Indonesia’s Republican leaders formed a
government in Jakarta in late August, 1945, adopted a provisional constitution,
and selected Sukarno as president and Mohammed Hatta as Vice-President
of the Republic. A Central National Committee was also created as well as a
cabinet that would be responsible to the President (Feith 1962: 8). Indonesian
advisors and officials, including vice-residents, under the Japanese were
appointed Republican officials and governing authority was handed over to
them (Ricklefs 1993: 263). The new government also obtained Japanese arms
and forged a military consisting of Indonesian soldiers trained by the Japa-
nese in Peta (Volunteer Army of Defenders of the Fatherland) as well as less
organized military bands that sprouted up in different parts of the archipelago.
The ensuing conflict between the Dutch and the Republican government
was territorial in two fundamentally different ways. On the one hand, the two
sides fought bitterly over land and soil. The Dutch sought to retake their
former territory and the Indonesians defended their newly-declared nation-
state. The Dutch reestablished rule in the Eastern part of the archipelago and
met resistance when entering Java and Sumatra. By 1948 the Dutch engaged
in a series of “police actions” and occupied much of Java and key urban areas
on Sumatra. However, fierce resistance and international pressure continued.
Parallel to the physical territorial struggle also emerged an ideational
struggle about territorial governance and organization of the archipelago
between unitarists and federalists. The Indonesian Republic clearly wanted an
independent and autonomous state organized along unitary principles. As
such the Republic consolidated areas they controlled into a coherent and
centralized territorial administration with provinces resting atop the Javanese
bupati system.
Even outside of Java, for example on Sumatra, the Republic replaced pre-
existing systems of “self-governing” rajas, hereditary chiefs, and adat heads
with the bupati-camat system at the local level in mid-1946 (Reid 1974: 123).
To further consolidate regions under their control and strengthen their rela-
tions to the Republican government representatives from the central govern-
ment organized an all-Sumatra council and promoted leaders most favorable
to the Republic. While initially assigning one governor and three deputy
governors for the north, central, and southern regions of Sumatra, eventually
Sumatra was organized into three separate provinces by 1948 mirroring Java’s
three provinces at the time (Reid 1974: 123).
The Dutch for their part pushed for a federal system revolving around
autonomous sub-national states organized under the authority of the Dutch
crown. To promote this agenda, they convened a conference in Malino on
Celebes in July of 1946, bringing together various representatives of king-
doms, ethnic groups, and religious groups particularly from Eastern Indonesia
and Kalimantan (Ricklefs 1993: 224). This conference endorsed the concept
of a federal republic of Indonesia that would have a “strong relationship”
with the Dutch. In subsequent negotiations the Dutch and the Republic
forged agreements including the Linggadjati Agreement and the Renville
Accords where a compromise emerged; the Dutch would recognize the Indo-
nesian Republic as the de facto authority on Java, Madura, and Sumatra in
exchange for the creation of a federal United States of Indonesia in which the
Republic would be one of the constituent states.
As Dutch forces gained more and more territory they began to organize the
areas they had taken into states that would eventually form the basis of a
federal Indonesia. First, they established the State of Eastern Indonesia
Negara Indonesia Timur, including Celebes, the Moluccas, and the Lesser
Sundas (Legge 1961: 4). Over the next three years as they made territorial
gains in the archipelago, the Dutch established six new states: East Sumatra,
South Sumatra, Pasundan, Madura, and East Java in addition to a number of
“special regions” such as Bangka and West Borneo which the Dutch felt were
not ready for separate statehood (Legge 1961: 4).
By controlling most of the Outer Islands and creating states out of them,
the Dutch sought to balance any power the Republic would have in a federal
system. Indonesia’s Republican forces also established numerous regions in
areas that they controlled in order to counter-balance these Dutch moves. For
this reason, newly-established states and districts were confined to areas either
under Dutch or Republican control respectively. The resulting boundaries
were little more than what Legge calls “accidents of war” with no firm political
or social basis to them (Legge 1961: 4).
By 1949, the Dutch military had made major advances, capturing Yogya-
karta, the Republican capital, and most of the key leaders including Sukarno
and Hatta. But despite these gains, international and domestic sentiment
turned against the Dutch. The Dutch “police actions” brought harsh rebuke
from the United Nations Security Council, and the United States shifted their
policy to a markedly pro-Indonesian position (Feith 1962: 11). As a result,
cabinets of East Indonesia and Pasundan resigned their positions in protest
against the attacks thus expressing solidarity with the Indonesian Republic,
despite Dutch expectations that they would serve as puppet regimes (Feith
1962: 12). By the end of the year, the Dutch were forced to the negotiating table
and agreed to transfer full sovereign power to the Federal Republic of Indonesia
(RIS) in the Round Table Agreement at The Hague (Reid 1974: 162).
However, by this time, the idea of federalism had become highly unpopular
among Indonesia’s elites (Reid 1974: 162). Many of the newly-established
constituent states were seen as randomly bounded areas of land that reflected
Dutch military positions more than any kind of social boundary. Further-
more, the regions that would become states and their appointed leadership
were largely deemed puppets of Dutch influence, rather than fully indepen-
dent entities. More broadly, federalism was perceived as a strategy intended to
divide and rule by capitalizing on suspicions some on the Outer Islands har-
bored against the Republican government based on Java. All of this resulted
in the rejection of federalism as the political foundation of the Indonesian
Republic.
The RIS would be short-lived and by 1950, most of the constituent states
withdrew from the Federal Republic and merged into the Republic of Indo-
nesia. In short, while the Dutch appeared to be on the verge of winning the
physical battle over territory it ultimately lost the ideational one.
Conclusion
On August 17, 1950 the government abandoned the old revolutionary con-
stitution in place of a new one establishing the Republic of Indonesia and a
unitary state. Despite the decision to reject federalism, the Republic remained
aware of regional challenges and sought to address them by establishing large
administrative areas-provinces, or “first-level regions,” and endowing them
with a broad range of autonomy.
For the first time then, the entire archipelago came to be organized under a
systematic uniform administrative code. Outlined in Law 22 of 1950, it
installed a hierarchical structure with a central administrative corps operating
from the Home Affairs Ministry in Jakarta. Below the national level rested a
provincial level headed by a governor. Provinces (provinsi) were in turn divi-
ded into residencies, which in turn were divided into regencies (kabupaten).
Regencies were in turn divided into districts (kewedanaan), districts into
subdistricts, and finally into villages (desas).
To be sure, there would still be significant fluctuation in Indonesia’s terri-
torial structure both in terms of where boundaries would be drawn as well as
how much authority and autonomy provinces and districts would be given.
But the institutional framework at the end of this period would hew closely to
the model adopted by the Republic of Indonesia in the latter half of the
twentieth century.
The path to this territorial administrative system was long and erratic. This
chapter has suggested that the product that emerged from centuries of colo-
nial rule depended on the vagaries of economic conditions, colonial policies,
and changing local contexts on the ground. Major turning points included the
arrival of colonial powers, the changing patterns of trade in the archipelago,
the shift from commercial rule to government rule, and war.
Throughout, colonial administrators faced the tension between the desire
of homogeneity in administrative structure and acknowledgment of the
diversity throughout the archipelago. This led to major differences in the way
various regions were administered, particularly between Java and the Outer
Islands. It also led to a persistent question about how much power to devolve
to “natives” within the territorial administrative system, something which
changed with relative frequency. It is for these reasons too that the regional
units of the administrative structure fluctuated frequently from residencies to
regencies and so on, before finally settling on provincial units.
In part, then, this chapter emphasizes the social and political construction
of provinces in Indonesia. At the same time, this does not imply that pro-
vinces are fictive or lack meaning with the political imagination in Indonesia.
In fact, they become imbued with strong meaning and eventually came
to embody many regional struggles along cultural, economic, and political
lines in subsequent years. These struggles and tensions emerge and persist in
post-independence Indonesia and it is to this that we now turn.
4 Post-colonial territorial administration
and the imperative toward
centralization
Introduction
While the Dutch colonial experience laid the territorial foundations for the
Indonesian state, the new Republic of Indonesia would take those building
blocks and fashion an independent and autonomous state on their own terms.
After fighting off the Dutch and rejecting a federal model, the state began a
gradual process of centralization first in the latter years of the Sukarno
administration and further tightened during the New Order under President
Suharto. Only after the fall of Suharto and his regime did this process come
under drastic reconsideration and reform.
The process of centralization in post-colonial Indonesia was anything but
smooth and the Republic’s territoriality shifted considerably. In particular, this
chapter highlights two puzzling features of this period. On the one hand, the
initial period after the revolution of the late 1940s saw a great deal of social turmoil,
but relatively few explicit threats to the new state’s territorial integrity. On the
other hand, it did see a burst of new provinces formed in the 1950s and 1960s.
In contrast, the relatively more stable New Order era saw less social turmoil but
more threats to its territorial integrity, and conversely almost no new provinces.
In this chapter, I argue that these changes in territoriality were critically
linked with the state’s relations vis-à-vis society. Simply put, in times of state
weakness, social forces sought to change the state itself through what I call
“rebellion without secession.” While often based in peripheral regions of the
archipelago, I argue that these were not secessionist movements seeking to
break away from the state but instead embraced an idea of Indonesia while
seeking to redefine its character. In contrast, the authoritarian New Order
under Suharto closed off many options for new province formation. Thus,
later movements seeing little possibility of transformative change at the state
level sought to pursue what Hirschman would call the “exit option” (Hirsch-
man 1970). This then also explains the inverse trend, where new provinces
emerged during the earlier period of Indonesia’s republic while new province
formation became quite rare as the state grew in strength.
By extension, I argue that the most recent territorial changes in Indonesia
loosely reflect the “weak state” era when few regions felt the dire need to
The post-colonial imperative toward centralization 39
secede from the Republic. The larger point made is that political institutions
affect the territorial organization of states and changes in those institutions
then can have drastic and often unintended consequences on territory.
The next section outlines the character of the weak state in the post-
revolutionary era. It then illustrates several serious rebellions which threa-
tened the new state. These conflicts presented alternative visions of Indonesia
rather than its outright rejection. The following section highlights the transition
to Guided Democracy and the New Order where state institutionalization
occurred at the expense of social forces. This process took on a profoundly
territorial dimension and the way in which it produced separatism and threats
to the territorial integrity of the state. The final section examines the post-
Suharto era and the way in which democratization and decentralization shifted
and aligned incentives that encouraged new provinces to be formed.
The post-independence era and the weak state

One way scholars have typically understood states are as organizations or
bureaucratic structures. While there has been extensive debate and refinement
the basic idea that capacity and autonomy are important characteristics of a
well-functioning state is widely accepted (Evans et al. 1985). Many new states,
particularly post-colonial states, are weak and are subverted by actions of
societal actors who maintain alternative organization structures and are able to
garner the loyalty, support, and obedience of the local population (Migdal 1988).
In part, Indonesia’s state weakness early on can be attributed to the Japa-
nese invasion and occupation during World War II. Japanese forces destroyed
much of the Dutch colonial administrative structure and while they instituted
their own administration, their presence only lasted three years, much of it
spent fighting the Dutch or Allied forces. This contrasted sharply with other
colonies such as Taiwan, Korea, and Manchuria where some scholars have
argued that colonial policies helped lay the foundations for strong develop-
mental states (Sato 1994: 25). Indonesians also faced a war of independence
after World War II which lasted five years further depriving the Republic the
power to stabilize and consolidate the state.
Thus once the Japanese and the Dutch were ousted, societal elements
thoroughly penetrated the state. Administrative structures were filled by those
who had previously been barred by the Dutch/Japanese. For example, Islamic
kiyais became district officers, and local teenagers joined the public services.
The newly created political parties were often also dominated by societal
elites and had patrimonial characteristics. They had little in the way of strong
social base or ideological coherence to give direction on social and economic
policy issues (Robison 1982: 50). As Anderson notes, individuals who filled
state roles often had divided loyalties where society trumped the state
(Anderson 1983: 483).
Furthermore, the 1955 elections, the only fully free elections in Indonesia
until 1998, produced parliamentary deadlock, further weakening the state.
Twenty-eight parties gained at least one seat in the legislature and the largest
four parties split the electorate resulting in a deadlock where the largest
plurality had only 22 percent of the seats. In this way the parliamentary
election served to exacerbate the emerging tensions in the archipelago rather
than resolving them (Ricklefs 2001: 304).
Strong states are also often considered superior economic managers
because they are autonomous from predatory interests that extract resources
from the state and have the capacity to implement good economic policy
(Evans 1995). Again, post-revolutionary Indonesia faced myriad economic
problems. The state inherited heavy debts from the Dutch colonial state.
Furthermore, few indigenous groups or individuals could step into the shoes
of the Dutch or Chinese who controlled agriculture and mineral exports
(Robison 1982: 50). For this reason, many of the Dutch companies remained
operational in Indonesia and dominated the domestic industries until 1957.
The oil industry, for example, was overwhelmingly operated by Dutch,
American, and British companies. The state also lacked a good tax-levying
capacity was thus faced constant fiscal instability.
Only in the late 1950s did the government begin to show some semblance
of authority by forcibly nationalizing all Dutch enterprises in Indonesia and
the government banks financed the establishment of state-owned enterprises
(SOEs). This led to a state commitment to industrialization through inter-
vention and protection. However, the inability to enforce macro-economic
discipline in the early 1960s saw continued economic instability inducing
widespread inflation and underutilization of productive capacity. In short, the
autarchic national economic policy was largely ineffective and produced
continued economic stagnation.
Finally, strong states are supposed to have autonomous coercive powers, of
what Weber called the “monopoly on the use of force over a given territory”
(Weber 1978). Indonesia’s military had little coherence and a “monopoly” on
the use of force meant very little, early on. For one, Japan had ruled the
Indonesian archipelago as three separate administrative units and there was
little interaction between these three areas during World War II. The revolution
against the Dutch, encouraged by the Japanese when defeat was imminent,
was thus fought by local guerilla forces, not a centralized well-coordinated
military force (Anderson 1983: 482).
Furthermore, many of the guerilla fighters did not join the army as indivi-
duals, but as members of party-affiliated youth organizations that had set up
their own “laskars” or fighting forces. Many of these units thus had extra-
military and extra-statal political loyalties, and individual soldiers often had
more loyalty to the unit commander than to the army as a whole or the leaders
in the chain of command (Crouch 1978: 27). The central leaders in the national
military thus had little real authority, preventing it from becoming a politically
cohesive force (Anderson 1983: 482).
If anything, early in its history, Indonesia’s military itself posed the biggest
threat to the regime and to the state because of its regionally fragmented
nature. The Indonesian resistance was decentralized by design during the
revolution. During the war against the Dutch, Indonesian strategists recog-
nized that they were at a technological disadvantage and thus adopted a
system of guerilla warfare which took advantage of their own knowledge of
the local landscape. This meant giving a high degree of operational autonomy
to the local commanders on the ground such that regional units would operate
independent of any kind of centralized command (Pauker 1963: 59).
These territorial divisions became regional commands after independence.
Accustomed to a high degree of autonomy during the Revolution some
regions devolved into a kind of “warlordism” after the Revolution that the
central government could not control. Regional commanders in the peripheral
areas of the archipelago began to resent the encroachments of Jakarta.
The relative weakness of the post-colonial state is not entirely surprising in
Indonesia, many states in a similar situation lacked coherent state capacity
after long periods of colonialism and battered by war. Indonesia faced the
challenge of both a Japanese invasion and colonization followed by a revolution
against the Dutch. And even a decade after independence, the Indonesian
state remained relatively weak and as state weakness persisted, it began to
threaten the Indonesian Republic in fundamental ways.
Rebellions without secession

What is perhaps more novel is how most conflicts in the early part of the life
of the republic, even those with strong territorial dimensions to them, focused
their efforts on transforming the state rather than breaking away from it.
To be sure, strong disagreement about the meaning of the Indonesian state
existed from its earliest inception, including how it should be organized
and who should wield influence. But state weakness ironically gave opportu-
nity for societal groups to express their goals in the language of state trans-
formation. Thus the domestic conflict during this era can be characterized
as “rebellion without secession.” The following section highlights how
these “transformational” conflicts came to be. In particular the uprising of
Darul Islam, PRRI-Permesta, and the communist uprising offer instructive
examples.
Among the first and most contentious debates in Indonesia’s early history
revolved around the question of whether Indonesia would include Islamic
principles in the constitution. While some called for Indonesia to be a secular
state that embraced a variety of faiths including Christianity, Buddhism,
and Hinduism, others wanted the state to embrace Islam exclusively and
incorporate religious principles in the legal and political system (Hefner
1999: 221).
While the constitutional debate raged among politicians in Jakarta, the rift
also took on a territorial dimension with the rise of Darul Islam. In the late
1940s, Islamic leaders including the movement’s founder S. M. Kartosuwirjo
proclaimed that President Sukarno and Vice President Hatta were sacrificing
Islamic principles in their negotiations with the Dutch for a ceasefire and
independence (Cribb 1999: 29). In 1949, leaders declared the formation of an
“Islamic State of Indonesia” in 1949.
Darul Islam simmered as a guerrilla movement for over a decade control-
ling many parts of West Java and later gained adherents in other areas of the
archipelago including South and Central Sulawesi. But despite the con-
centration of Darul Islam in key regions, the movement identified itself as
pan-Indonesian. While the movement brought together an array of groups
with different goals, all agreed that the new Indonesian Republic should be
based on shari’a. In other words, Darul Islam presented an alternative vision
to the secular character of the new Indonesian Republic (van Bruinessen
2002: 118).1
The PRRI rebellion constitutes another example of “rebellion without
secession.” The movement began in Sumatra in the 1950s due to the percep-
tion that the central government, run mostly by Javanese, was attempting to
impose its will on the periphery of the archipelago. The economic arrange-
ments in place distributed a disproportionate amount of revenues generated
from natural resources (petroleum, timber, minerals) to Java. There was
additional concern, similar to Darul Islam, that Sukarno associated too closely
with the PKI, which was generally unpopular on the outer islands.
By the mid-1950s this frustration led many, particularly regional army
commanders, to smuggle and sell goods in the international market place
instead of selling them to Jakarta at fixed, below-market rates. When the
military leadership in Jakarta tried to rein in the regional leaders, the conflict
finally came to a head and officers from Sulawesi declared a mutiny and
took control of the region. As we shall see in Chapter 5, in the case of
North Sulawesi, this would have profound consequences for territorial politics
later on.
Around the same time, regional elites in West Sumatra also expressed
concern over Jakarta’s influence in their region. In 1958, regional leaders in
West Sumatra demanded that President Sukarno’s powers be curtailed, that
Vice President Hatta (from Sumatra) be empowered to form a new cabinet,
and that General Nasution, the top military commander, be dismissed.2
With none of their demands met, the rebels in Sumatra declared a
Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia or the PRRI in
February of 1958.3 Two days after the declaration, Permesta forces in
Sulawesi backed PRRI leading the movement to adopt the name PRRI-
Permesta. The movement failed to spark a broader backing and became iso-
lated to West Sumatra and North Sulawesi. The movement was quickly
quelled and only a handful were involved in the guerilla resistance movement
that lasted until 1962.
In light of PRRI’s declaration, many interpreted this to be a separatist
movement of sorts. But supporters argued that, as the “RI” in PRRI indi-
cated, their demands were framed in terms of the Indonesian Republic. Their
objective was to transform the government in Java, not create an independent
nation. Specifically, PRRI-Permesta’s main point was to create a more equi-
table economic deal of the Outer Islands of Indonesia. For example, a key
demand included the creation of a senate in Jakarta in order to protect the
rights of the region. In this sense, their declaration can be interpreted as a
bluff and bargaining tool that rebels were forced to carry out after the central
government rejected their demands (Cribb 1999: 32).
The final example of transformational conflict during the Sukarno era
came in 1965 with the September 30th movement that eventually led to the
downfall of President Sukarno. On October 1, members of President Sukar-
no’s presidential guard kidnapped and killed six military generals who were
known anti-communists (Anderson et al. 1971: 1). Palace guards claimed
they were initiating a counter-coup to defend against an imminent army
takeover of government. No conclusive evidence exists to the veracity of the
alleged coup.
But the event itself proved pivotal in Indonesia’s history. The communist
“counter-coup” essentially collapsed and led to the supreme ascension of the
army in Indonesian politics. It also led to the downfall of Sukarno, and the
rise of his successor, General Suharto, who led a massive purge of commu-
nists immediately following the coup/counter-coup attempt. Five hundred
thousand to a million suspected communists are said to have been killed in
the purge (Crouch 1978: 100).
The larger point here is that the army and the Communist Party were two
large forces struggling for influence in the state. Neither the communists nor
the army saw secession as a logical course of action. Instead their objective
was to transform the Indonesian state and its ideological content. Each was
presenting an alternative vision, much like Darul Islam, on how Indonesia
should be run. Among the transformational conflicts of the period, this one
paved the way for the rise of Suharto and the New Order regime.
The September 30th movement and the subsequent massacre were not
regional conflicts in the same way as Darul Islam and PRRI-Permesta.
However, there was a clear territorial dimension in that a vast majority of the
PKI’s growth was confined to Java, in part because it was more developed
and thus had more salience toward issues of labor unions and workers’ rights.
But even as it spread into the rural areas, the movement gained ground in
Central and East Java with much less on the Outer Islands. In this regard, the
regional support behind the PKI was much stronger on Java while opposition
stood stronger elsewhere.
In sum, Indonesia’s state emerged highly vulnerable and weak and
remained so for the first two decades since the end of colonial rule. Con-
versely strong societal groups along religious, regional, and ideological lines
thrived and persistently challenged the state. For this reason, the opportunity
to transform the state arguably outweighed the decision to try to break away
and secede from the state. All of the aforementioned conflicts had a territorial
dimension to them, but even the most regionally focused rebellions called for
revolution rather than secession. It is against this backdrop that it is possible
to understand the flurry of territorial change that did occur in Indonesia in
the 1950s and 1960s.
New provinces in Indonesia: the first wave

We have seen that few regions tried to break away from the new nation-state,
and none succeeded in their efforts in the early years of the Indonesian
Republic.4 However, there were significant territorial changes that did occur
in the peripheral regions. In what we might call a first wave of territorial
change, various provinces were split into multiple units. The splits foreshadowed
the current wave, to be discussed in Chapter 4, in a number of ways but par-
ticularly in the way that new provinces emerged as a result of negotiation and
cooperation between national interests and local ones.
Precisely because state capability was still relatively weak and local
interests were strong, national actors formed alliances with local groups in
order to achieve divergent goals through the process of new province creation.
State interests in the creation of new regions included the desire to quell
regional rebellions and violence. Local groups sought new provinces for a
number of reasons including identity, patronage politics, and more regional
autonomy.
On the one hand, the creation of new provinces in the first decade of
Indonesian rule might be considered the result of trial-and-error administration
Table 4.1 New provinces in Indonesia 1950–99

Province Mother province Year
Yogyakarta Central Java 1950
West Kalimantan Kalimantan 1956
South Kalimantan Kalimantan 1956
East Kalimantan Kalimantan 1956
Aceh North Sumatra 1956
West Sumatra Central Sumatra 1957
Riau Central Sumatra 1957
Jambi Central Sumatra 1957
Bali Lesser Sundas 1958
NTT Lesser Sundas 1958
NTB Lesser Sundas 1958
Central Kalimantan South Kalimantan 1958
South Sulawesi Sulawesi 1960
North Sulawesi Sulawesi 1960
West Irian Dutch Administration 1962
Lampung South Sumatra 1964
Bengkulu South Sumatra 1967
Southeast Sulawesi South Sulawesi 1974
East Timor Portuguese Administration 1976
Source: www.statoids.com/uid.html
over territories. Many regions particularly on the outer islands such Kalimantan,
Sumatra, and Eastern Indonesian had been administered by the Dutch with
smaller territorial units. After the revolution, many of these units had been
lumped together into single provinces. Thus many of the calls for new provinces
emerged from the local level as a way to restore older boundaries which were
also sometimes along cultural or ethnic lines as well (Legge 1961: 67).
However, there was also a deeper politics to the creation of many of these
regions as a weakened government faced rebellion and instability. This comes
across in the experiences of two places, Sumatra and Kalimantan. The new
provinces on Sumatra, for example should be understood as the government’s
attempt to isolate the PRRI movement based in West Sumatra by splitting
new provinces away from it. In December of 1956, in the lead-up to PRRI, a
group of disaffected military officers seized local control and formed a “Ban-
teng Council” protesting the long arm of Jakarta. The problem was that
while support for the Banteng Council was concentrated mostly in West
Sumatra, the political administration of the region included the whole of
Central Sulawesi province. Jakarta recognized a West Sumatra province in
1957 in part as a concession to the Bangteng Council (Anderson and Kahin
1983: 110). But they also recognized the local demands for provincehood in
Riau and Jambi as a way to contain West Sumatra and their leaders’
influence on the island.
Initially, West Sumatra refused to recognize the new provinces and con-
tinued to claim Riau and Jambi as part of the larger Central Sumatra pro-
vince (Legge 1961: 76). Less than a year later, however, with the outbreak of a
full rebellion in the form of the PRRI, the Indonesian government quickly
moved to suppress the Banteng Council and its supporters (Anderson and
Kahin 1983: 110). Once the military offensive by Jakarta began, Jakarta
easily retook the region and Riau and Jambi were able to establish its own
provincial status.
A similar politics negotiated between national and local leaders also
occurred on Kalimantan. While the Dutch administered Kalimantan as
three regencies (technically one regency and two sub-regencies) divided
into West, East, and South, the new Indonesian Republic collapsed those
distinctions and created a singular province of Kalimantan. This led to col-
lective discontent among representatives and, in 1956, the government agreed
to re-create the older administrative boundaries though as first-level
provinces.
One issue that remained unresolved by these reforms related to the Dayak
communities who resided in the southern central part of the island. Techni-
cally, a Greater Dayak Region had been introduced briefly from 1946–50,
roughly in the area known later as Central Kalimantan, as part of Dutch
attempts to win support for a federal Indonesian state but this region was also
merged into the larger province after the Revolution (Miles 1976: 112). In
1956, as the regional rebellions of PRRI-Permesta and Darul Islam festered,
a group in South Kalimantan also declared the Council of Lambung
Mangurat and began to barter trade with foreign ports in contravention with
national law. A counter-rebellion emerged soon after in the Dayak majority
area of area and declared its opposition to Banteng, the PRRI, and the newly
formed Lambung Council, as well as the larger goals of Darul Islam. This
group called itself Gerakan Mandau Talawang Panca Sila (GMTPS), or the
Pro Panca Sila Cutlass and Shield Movement.
Much of this conflict must be understood in the larger context of ethnic
and religious contestation in south central Kalimantan during the period.
While most groups in the region were Muslim, many Dayak had historically
been converted to Christianity or remained animist. Dayak political identity
began to emerge as they contrasted themselves to Banjar and the Muslim
ethnic groups that resided in the most coastal areas of the island of Borneo.
This identity became more salient in the elections of 1955 when elites were
able to garner strong electoral numbers for an ethnic Dayak party (Davidson
2003: 16). An ethnic party is an aberration in Indonesian electoral history and
the rules have since been rewritten to prevent just such an outcome. However,
at the time, it showed the power of the Dayak identity and its power to
mobilize politically and electorally
GMTPS and its more moderately political counterpart, the Committee for
the Representation of the People’s Demands for Central Kalimantan Autonomy,
petitioned the government to declare a province of Central Kalimantan as a
way to ease the tensions between the different groups. Faced with the prospect
of two rebellions just in Kalimantan, Sukarno decided to meet the demands
of the group more aligned to his political goals, namely, the GMTPS. In
1957, he signed an emergency degree declaring Central Kalimantan and
autonomous province (Miles 1976: 121).
This first wave of new provinces being formed in Indonesia represents the
way territorial politics was articulated in this era. Rebellions were, more often
than not, debates about the foundational principles of the Indonesian state.
New provinces emerged from the negotiations and counter-movements within
those debates. We shall see in the next chapter some similarities between this
first wave and the second wave in the immediate post-Suharto era. Both, I
argue, show a convergence of national interest with local interests, though the
political context differs starkly.
“Guided Democracy” and the solution to state weakness

So far, I have suggested that the regional and ideological tensions during the
early years of post-revolutionary Indonesia threatened state collapse, but not
necessarily territorial integrity. The violence and tensions did not threaten
Indonesia territorially because these were conflicts about the political and
ideological foundation of the Indonesian state rather than a rejection of
Indonesia itself. Even where movements were concentrated around key
regions, they cannot be described accurately as ethnic nationalist or separatist
movements.
However, this is not to say that the threats to the Indonesian state were
trivial. Certainly the threat of collapse existed led by various rebellions exa-
cerbated by national level party politics occurring in Jakarta, and punctuated
by the 1955 elections which produced a deadlocked parliament. It was in this
context that we begin to see drastic institutional reforms designed to
strengthen the state and prevent its collapse. The rest of this chapter narrates
this process and shows how it produced an ironic outcome, one where poli-
tical stability was achieved, while simultaneously producing new movements
seeking to break away from the state territorially.
In order to address the tensions discussed above, President Sukarno made a
number of institutional changes, all of them eventually centralizing power
politically and territorially. First, he organized his cabinet in what can be
described as an informal consociational arrangement. This began at the top
where Sukarno (from Java) and Mohammad Hatta (from Sumatra) ruled as
president and vice-president respectively. However, as the regional tensions
strengthened, they produced a split in the cabinet with the Islamic parties
expressing sympathy for the rebellion while nationalist parties tended to be
more Java centric. The mostly Java-based Communist Party was also hesitant
to aid the strongly anti-communist Outer Islands. This produced a political
deadlock in Jakarta that led to the dissolution of the cabinet. The combina-
tion of deadlock in Jakarta and instability in the regions turned out to be
the last straw as Sukarno began to abandon parliamentary democracy and
centralize power.
Centralization of power during this period refers to two related but distinct
processes. We can imagine unitary states for example that continue to diffuse
power in a variety of political institutions. These may be territorially cen-
tralized polities but they continue to be democratic with power diffused
throughout the political system. In Indonesia territorial centralization occurred
alongside political centralization.
Political centralization refers to the abandoning of parliamentary democracy
and the centralization of power in key institutions, in particular the pre-
sidency. Sukarno had begun to abandon parliamentary democracy as early
as 1957 but in 1958, he suspended the constitution, implemented martial
law and declared that Indonesia was under a system of what he called
“Guided Democracy” (Feith 1962). Guided Democracy chipped away at the
constitutional foundations of the state by curtailing political parties and
carving out a place for “functional” groups which represented major societal
groups such as workers, peasants, women, youth, and intellectuals, as well as
the military (Feith 1963: 345). The government asserted control over the
press, legal institutions, intellectual life, voluntary organizations, and the like.
They also expanded the scope of the government’s power (Feith 1963: 374).
In short, Guided Democracy would end Indonesia’s experiment in any
kind of meaningful democracy and marked the onset of authoritarian rule.
At the same time, centralization also referred explicitly to the process of
territorially consolidating power away from the regions and into the hands of
the central government. This meant undermining the influence of leaders in
the region including religious leaders, communal elites, and military com-
manders many of whom contributed to the instability of the regime. Territo-
rially, this entailed changing the regional organization of the state. In 1957,
Sukarno issued Law 1 / 1957 which introduced the regional levels I, II,
and III or the province, regency, and village respectively. It also established
the local government which would consist of a local legislature and an advi-
sory body which would be headed by the regional executive. Two years later,
in Presidential Decree 6 / 1959, Sukarno declared that the local executive
would no longer be accountable to the local legislature but instead would
be the representative of the central government in the region. This con-
solidated state control of the regions by structuring local accountability
upwards instead of downwards (Legge 1961). These actions then usurped the
power of regional actors and placed them squarely under the authority
of Jakarta.
Similar steps were taken to centralize the military as well. Early reforms
were instituted in order to undermine the territorial autonomy that many of
the regional commanders retained after the revolution. To do so, the mili-
tary’s top commander, General Nasution, broke up the seven regional com-
mands into 17 commands, thereby dispersing power. Also, regional military
commands (Kodam) were established in every province, military resort com-
mand (Korem) in the large towns, and then military district commands
(Kodim) at the district or kabuapaten levels (Crouch 1978: 222). By the early
1960s, Kodims were built in nearly all districts across Indonesia, and Koramils
(Military Resort Commands) were established in each sub-district. In
1963, non-commissioned officers were given the role of Village Guidance
Non-commissioned officers or Babinsa (Said 1991: 47). Thus by the end of
1963, the military had a presence throughout the archipelago through their
territorially organized network. But more importantly, the authority and
accountability of the regional posts fell under a centralized military command
structure.
In addition to territorial expansion, the military also adopted an ideology
that proved highly expansive. The army formulated the doctrines of “terri-
torial warfare” and “territorial management” in the 1950s, calling for the
“total nature” of war and population management including “political, eco-
nomic, social, psychological, and military forces” (Pauker 1963: 67). In prac-
tice, this might have meant soliciting the help of the local population in
counter-insurgency operations and also going to regions affected by warfare
and repairing roads and buildings such as schools, mosques, and even rice
fields (Pauker 1963: 37). In this sense, “territorial warfare and management”
matched the philosophy of giving the military expanded functions to address
socio-political functions in addition to military ones.
This philosophy was articulated particularly through the doctrine of dwi
fungsi or “dual function” mandate formed during the Sukarno era. In
November of 1958, amidst Sukarno’s turn toward “Guided Democracy”
Nasution gave a speech about the role of the military as carving out the
“middle way” between political activists and mere spectators (Vatikiotis 1993:
70). In the speech, he argued that the armed forces should play both a mili-
tary security function as well as a social-political function, thus paving the
way for military officers to occupy positions in government as well as eco-
nomic enterprises. This served to widen the scope of the military and fore-
shadowed the central role the military would play in the future regime of
Suharto’s New Order.
Centralization under the New Order

Overall, Sukarno’s shift from parliamentary democracy to Guided Democracy
marked the beginnings of political centralization in Indonesia. As much as
Suharto’s New Order represented a break from many of Sukarno’s policies,
politically, it represented a continuation and acceleration of this centralization.
Suharto centralized power both institutionally and territorially, beginning
with the military, but extending on to the bureaucratic administration, economic
management, and even along cultural lines.
Military centralization
The highly unusual and destabilizing consequences of 1965 allowed Suharto
to centralize authority in unprecedented ways (Anderson et al. 1971: 1). For
one, the coup attempt gave him the opportunity to fill the void in military
leadership (Crouch 1978: 229). Immediately after the event, President
Sukarno bestowed Suharto with broad military powers to reestablish order in
Indonesia marking the beginning of the transition to the New Order era. By
mid-October, Suharto was formally installed as minister/commander of the
Indonesian army. The circumstances of his appointment also meant that
Suharto had exceptionally free reign in appointing members of his general
staff. In a matter of weeks, the army’s general staff consisted almost entirely
of officers hand-picked by Suharto himself, and thus formed the building
blocks of his regime (Crouch 1978: 229).
It was under Suharto, then, that the military became the foundation of the
state and able to finally exercise its Weberian monopoly on the use of force.
Suharto was committed to eliminating both communism and regional rebel-
lion and ensuring that Indonesia would not collapse. He moved gradually in
1966–7 in removing potential challengers particularly among the regional
commanders throughout Indonesia. Having gained supremacy in the army, he
also consolidated his authority in the other branches of the armed forces
including the Navy and the Air Force. In 1969, he integrated the armed forces
and transferred full operational command of all four branches to himself, as
commander of the armed forces (Crouch 1978: 228).
On the one hand, the military served as the key coercive arm of the state
under the New Order. They eliminated their key political rival, the PKI in the
wake of September 30, 1965. The army also had a special forces unit such as
Kopassus which operated in trouble spots such as East Timor, Papua, and
Aceh where they conduced low-intensity anti-insurgency operations. Kopassus
became infamous for their brutal practices including torture, kidnapping, and
executions. Also, agencies like the Special Command for the Restoration of
Order, or Kotkamtib was infamous for conducting security and intelligence
operations. Reporting directly to the President, the body had wide purview in
their operational mandate essentially to eliminate threats to the regime (Hill
1994: 24). Less visibly, they were the force behind the “mysterious killings” or
Petrus in the early 1980s that sought to eliminate criminal elements in society
(Hill 1994: 24).
Bureaucratic centralization
But aside from the coercive aspects, the military became a critical part of the
state apparatus with military officers filling many posts in the bureaucracy
and political offices (Emmerson 1978: 102). By design, Indonesia already had
a highly-centralized administrative structure around the Ministry of Home
Affairs (Mackie and MacIntyre 1994: 22). The structure was inherited from
the colonial government and had broadly defined powers to coordinate
and supervise the world of other departments at all levels (Mackie and
MacIntyre 1994: 22). Suharto took the structure and strengthened its ability
to penetrate all layers of state and society. The central government had
the authority through the provincial and district levels all the way to the
village-level government to exercise social and political control throughout
the rural areas.
The system of regional administration was also further centralized under
the New Order. One of the main institutional reforms for the regime was Law
No. 5 1974 on Regional Administration. This law reorganized the structure of
regional government throughout the archipelago (Bertrand 2004: 193). It
created two parallel sets of vertical institutions that intersected three different
levels of administration. At the province (Level I) and district (Level II) levels,
legislative bodies were established with a mix of appointed and elected posi-
tions. Each legislature in turn had a bureaucratic implementing arm to them
called the “autonomous regional government.”
At the same time a parallel bureaucratic institution was established at
each level, accountable to the central government. These were known as offi-
ces for “regional administration” (Malley 1999b: 152). Known collectively as
the pamong praja, they technically fell underneath the bureaucratic structure
of the Ministry of Home Affairs. A legacy of Dutch colonial structures,
the regional offices had sweeping power to both coordinate and supervise
the work of other departments at all different levels (Mackie and MacIntyre
1994: 22).
Within the military, postings in the regional divisions were considered
prestigious because they had a great deal of local authority. Army officers
could exercise influence over electoral outcomes at the local level. There was
often also very close coordination between a chief executive of a particular
locality and a local military commander (Jenkins 1984: 21). This also meant a
close relationship between the army and the local executive as well. In some
cases, local-level bureaucrats were also former military officers. But even when
that was not the case, a bupati would often coordinate policies with a local
military commander (Jenkins 1984: 264).
Under Suharto, a large percentage of governors and district chiefs emerged
from the armed forces, often after their retirement from service. In 1966, half
of the 24 governorships were occupied by army officers. This number rose to
16 by 1968. Between 1965 to 1968 the percentage of military district chiefs
rose significantly on Java where many of the district chiefs had been members
of the PKI party. In 1969, 147 or 271 district chiefs were from the military
and, by 1971, that had risen again to two-thirds. A survey of six provinces
also suggested that about 60 percent of all district heads including mayors
were from the armed forces. The proportion of military appointee governors
was stable at around four-fifths until 1977 when it gradually began to decline
and as late as 1983, 21 of 27 provincial governors were still from the military
as were 40 percent of district leaders (Malley 1999b: 83). By and large, these
appointments were directly controlled by Suharto though often rubber
stamped by a Golkar dominated legislature (Crouch 1978: 244).
Electoral centralization
The legislature was another part of Suharto’s strategy to centralize the state.
Suharto centralized his own power and that of the military’s by dismantling
the party system, a process Emmerson (1978) dubs “departyization.” Suharto
established a functional party called Golongan Karya (Golkar) and required
all government officials to join as members. This gave Golkar a strong
advantage in membership throughout the archipelago. At the same time
Suharto also proceeded to rationalize and thereby weaken other parties in the
system. The Communist Party (PKI) was thoroughly dismantled beginning
with the massive purge and killing spree in 1965 (Anderson et al. 1971). Four
Muslim parties were also combined to form the United Development Party
(Partai Persatuan Pembangunan or PPP), as were five non-Muslim parties
which formed the Indonesian Democratic Party (Partai Demokrasi Indonesia
or PDI).
In addition to the restrictions of party formation, the government
also restricted party mobilization in the lead-up to and during campaign
periods. While PDI and PPP were not allowed to organize below the district
level, Golkar had sub-district and village heads as well as regional military
commanders who were constantly close to the voters (Liddle 1996: 45). This
gave Golkar a large advantage during each election because of their
infrastructure and organization at the local level, an advantage that persists
even today.
By dismantling the party system, Suharto was then able to dominate
national politics in the MPR and DPR and manage that support to ensure his
electoral victories. Of 500 seats in the national assembly, one hundred were
reserved for military appointees. The rest of the seats were open to electoral
contestation, but mostly dominated by Golkar (Mackie and MacIntyre 1994:
20). Fully half of the members of the legislature were appointed by the
Suharto regime directly and every candidate from every party was screened
(Liddle 1996: 46).
Economic centralization
Indonesia’s system of regional finance was also highly centralized under the
New Order. Local assemblies for example, were empowered to make laws and
budgets but were always subject to approval from above (Ranis and Stewart
1995: 43). All major sources of revenue including income and value added
taxes as well as levies on oil and gas went to the central government. Inferior
sources of revenue were left to the provinces and districts such as motor
vehicle registration, title transfers, and so on (Malley 1999b: 80). This ad hoc
regional approach to finance gave the central authorities greater flexibility to
keep the provinces beholden to them than if there was some sort of formal
structure and regulatory mechanisms in place (Malley 1999b: 80).
In part, this was because of a weak tax base on the part of local govern-
ments and the resulting dependency on the central government. That depen-
dency was particularly strong from 1974 to 1982 during Indonesia’s boom
years, where oil revenue determined the amounts allocated to localities (Ranis
and Stewart 1995: 45). This led to very little administrative efficiency incen-
tives at the local level. By 1994, 76 percent of all sub-national expenditure
came from the central government and much of the remainder was “heavily
influenced” by the center (Hill 1998: 7).
In the latter half of the New Order era, the Indonesian economy expanded
rapidly due to the global oil boom. With the quadrupling of oil prices on the
world market, the government financed the manufacturing of petrochemicals,
steel, aluminum, cement, and paper. The end of the oil boom meant another
readjustment period for the economy. From the mid-1980s, the government
reintroduced deregulation including liberal policies for domestic and foreign
investment and liberalization of the financial sector.
In addition to economic growth, Indonesia received a great deal of
international aid from the Inter-governmental Group on Indonesia (IGGI)
(Anderson 1983: 489). Cumulative aid until 1973 totaled some three billion
dollars. These inflows in some years, covered 50 percent of the cost of all
imports. The money came directly and exclusively to the center without any
significant state outlays in the form of a tax-gathering apparatus (Anderson
1983: 489).
A strong economy allowed Suharto to finance his building of a strong state.
State power was enhanced vis-à-vis society through the accumulation of
economic resources. Much of the state revenue went directly into supporting
the military regime. For example, from 1969 to 1973, the army’s official
budget trebled (Crouch 1988: 292). Indonesia under Suharto also became one
of the most corrupt regimes in the world. Corruption on a large scale typi-
cally took the form of allotting the “surplus” of certain key sectors of the
economy to favored officials or cliques of officials. In addition to corruption it
helped to finance a whole subsection of the administrative apparatus and
where cuts and commissions were often standardized enough to be called
benefices in the tradition sense (Crouch 1988: 292).
Cultural centralization
Finally, there was arguably a cultural component to Suharto’s centralization
policies. We have already seen how Islamic groups resented the embrace of a
secular state, and how ethnic groups in the Outer Islands resented Jakarta’s
economic and political stranglehold. Critics often framed their frustrations in
terms of the “Javanization” of the Indonesian nation. At the same time, many
of the governors, district heads, and high-level bureaucrats on the Outer
Islands were not only Golkar and military, but also mostly from Java. This
created a great deal of resentment with many places demanding the appoint-
ment of “native sons” or putra daerah in key leadership positions. This feeling
was so strong that in some places, the local legislatures actually tried to reject
government appointments with their own chosen candidates, but to little avail
(Malley 1999b: 412).
In addition to this broad “Javanization” of Indonesia, there were also spe-
cific attempts to “modernize” some of the poorest and most marginal regions
of the archipelago. In this instance, “Javanization” referred to the process of
integrating “backwards” peoples into the modern Indonesian nation state.
The main vehicle to accomplish these goals was through transmigration pro-
grams where people living on Java were encouraged to move to the Outer
Islands through government-run programs. The main objective of these pro-
grams was to ease the overpopulation on Java, but an added benefit was
how it brought modern Javanese farmers into contact with “isolated” and
“primitive” indigenous peoples.
Transmigration programs sought to “modernize” the rural inhabitants in
several ways. First, their settlements were modeled after “Javanese” villages,
typically defined territorially, densely populated, divided into neighborhoods,
and hierarchical (Elmhirst 1999: 824). Settlements also usually sanctioned
“traditions” and national ceremonies such as the national anthem, parades,
and displaying of flags on independence day often tied to ceremonies of
Javanese ritual feasts slametan. Lastly, the state promoted modern agriculture
defined as sedentary high-input agricultural production over swidden and
other forms of agriculture typically practiced on the Outer Islands. This kind
of “Javanization” was particularly prominent in areas such as Irian Jaya and
Kalimantan and fed further into the resentment of Java.
Separatism and territorial conflict in the New Order era
The above-mentioned developments illustrate how Suharto transformed
Indonesia’s state from a weak and fragmented apparatus to a strong and
centralized one. While only some of these reforms were explicitly territorial, I
argue that they helped to produce a politics that ironically threatened the
territorial integrity of the state.
If the internal conflicts during the Sukarno era are characterized as
“rebellion without secession” then the main conflicts of the New Order can be
described as “insurgency and separatism.” Direct challenges to transform the
state largely disappeared as Suharto strengthened his state apparatus. Instead the
option to exit and the formation of ethnic nationalism became more appealing.
The examples of Aceh, West Papua, and East Timor prove instructive.
The experience of Aceh provides a useful example because it was part of
the broader Darul Islam movement in the 1950s, before transforming into an
ethnic nationalist movement in the 1970s and 1980s. We have seen earlier in
this chapter that Darul Islam broadly as a movement challenged the founda-
tional basis of the Indonesian nation-state, namely its secular underpinnings
in the constitution. Aceh proved an important part of the movement, and
despite its long history as an autonomous sultanate, their demands did not
call for breaking away from the Indonesian state at that time. Instead it
proved a moment that conflated Islamic, Achenese, and Indonesian identities
and goals (Aspinall 2009: 33).
The shift to separatism for actors in Aceh dates back to the mid-1970s
Suharto regime. Hasan Muhammed Tiro, the grandson of a famous Acehnese
war hero, helped found the movement after spending extensive time in the
United States (Sjamsuddin 1984: 113). In December 1976, Gerakan Aceh
Merdeka (GAM) unilaterally declared independence based on ethnic Acehnese
identity, thus claiming to represent the province’s four million people (Kingsbury
2002: 151).
GAM began as a small guerilla organization numbering less than two
hundred people and only a few old guns and limited financial resources
(Sjamsuddin 1984: 114). By the late 1980s, GAM benefited from the provi-
sions of Libyan arms and training (Rabasa et al. 2001: 30). This led to a surge
of unrest between 1989 and 1990, with stern reprisals from the military.
Northern Sumatra was designated an Operational Military Zone and the
army was given virtual free reign to crush the rebels by any means necessary
(Rabasa et al. 2001: 30).
On the one hand, the strong armed rule of Suharto and its policies in Aceh
are arguably at the root of why and how the movement transformed from a
pan-Indonesian religious movement to an ethnic nationalist one. As Indone-
sia’s economy developed, it came to be a significant contributor to state cof-
fers through its oil revenues, but relatively poor compared to surrounding
areas during the New Order era. Infrastructure development outside the main
towns was low relative to other regions and only about 5 percent of total
revenues from oil and natural returned back to the province (Kingsbury 2002:
151). The expansion of economic interests of Java often led to the dislocation
of local people who were forced to move from their homes and give up
landholdings. Environmental damage was also extensive. All of this created
an intolerable situation for many Achenese.
At the same time, New Order governance structures meant that govern-
ment elites undermined and marginalized local religious leaders in Aceh
(Webster 2007: 94). The restructuring of administration away from traditional
lines and along more Javanese lines also led to great antagonism toward
the central government (Kingsbury 2002: 152). Brown argues that Jakarta’s
promotion and favoritism of Javanese abangan in resource allocation and
elite recruitment left the Outer Island santris and the Acehnese, in particular,
highly disaffected (Brown 1994: 156). By the 1970s and 1980s, little opportu-
nity existed for negotiations with the New Order state. The frame of
mobilization thus took on an ethnic nationalist character with a strong
Islamic flavor.
Papuans, like Acehnese, were resentful of being governed by “racist and
corrupt” bureaucrats (Mote and Rutherford 2001: 120). In Papua during the
1960s, in the process of officially transferring the territory from Dutch to
Indonesian rule, the United Nations supervised a series of “consultations”
before setting up the “Act of Free Choice,” a referendum on whether or not
to join Indonesia. This act was voted on by 1,025 leaders and a majority
accepted integration (Mote and Rutherford 2001: 121). But the process has
always been considered highly suspect. Only selected village leaders were
gathered and the “Act” and it was held in and Indonesian controlled area in
order to confirm a pre-established outcome (Kingsbury 2002: 156).
The anger against the central government came through in other ways.
During the New Order, the Suharto regime prohibited the use of the term
“Papua” replacing it with “Irian.” A person from Irian was called “orang Irian”
and the territory was renamed “Irian Jaya” or “Glorious Irian.” Papuans
were taught in their schools how they were “liberated” from Dutch rule and
about their progress under the Indonesian state’s paternal guidance (Mote
and Rutherford 2001: 120). Their attempts to wipe out the collective memory
of Papuans and assimilate them into Indonesians were heavily resented.
The Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM) emerged out of the Manokwari
region during the Suharto period. This loosely organized guerilla and political
resistance movement sprang up to demand independence and challenge what
they saw as occupation by a colonial force. OPM operated two main wings,
and fielded between seven and nine armed units, totaling several hundred
guerillas (Kingsbury 2002: 156). The ability of these units to attack the army
was extremely limited and the few that were successful prompted fierce army
reprisals against the local civilian population (Kingsbury 2002: 156). Low
intensity warfare between OPM and the military ensued, resulting in OPM
disarray with many leaders fleeing to Holland. Nonetheless, OPM attacks
on government troops peaked around 1977–8 when about 40 government
soldiers and perhaps several hundred OPM guerillas were killed (Kingsbury
2002: 158).
Much more about Papua is discussed in Chapter 7, but the point here is
that like in Aceh, little opportunity of redefining the state was available for
malcontented Papuans. The New Order state closed off opportunities for
negotiation and the only alternative strategy appears to have been separatism.
While this movement was substantially weaker and less organized that the
Acehnese resistance, it garnered considerable attention from Jakarta and the
military.
The final example of Indonesia’s separatist conflict is East Timor. The
Suharto regime “annexed” the former Portuguese colony of East Timor after
the fall of the Salazaar regime in Portugal in 1974, which led to the collapse
of the Portuguese Empire. In 1975–6, frustrated with their inability to make
headway in resistance held areas, Indonesians began a mass campaign of
terror. They destroyed villages, committed atrocities, and used chemical
weapons to wipe out much of the civilian population (Pinto and Jardine 1997).
Army tactics were brutal. Large swaths of the population were shot,
beaten, stabbed, raped, tortured, relocated, starved, intimidated, and other-
wise abused. International human rights and relief organizations contend that
the invasion of East Timor directly or indirectly (through famine and disease)
claimed as many as 200,000 lives, nearly one-third of the pre-invasion population
(Taylor 1991: xi).
There was widespread organized resistance for independence. The three-
pronged strategy of the movement involved a political wing, Conselho Nacio-
nal da Resistência Maubere (CNRM—National Council of Mauber Resis-
tance); an armed resistance, Forças Armadas da Libertação Nacional de
Timor-Leste (FALINTIL—Armed Forces for the National Liberation of East
Timor); and an underground student movement. Individuals such as Jose
Ramos Horta represented the political wing of the movement seeking inter-
national support for CNRM. Domestically, FALINTIL was led by various
leaders who were captured or killed, but ultimately by Xanana Gusmao (Dunn
1996: 281). The student resistance was dispersed in villages and towns and
helped to organize spontaneous demonstrations, carry secret messages,
and help hide fugitives of the Indonesian army. As a result of this armed
opposition and political resistance, East Timor continued to be a nuisance for
Indonesia, souring its international diplomatic relations and human rights
standings.
Like Aceh and Papua, East Timor was an ethnic nationalist movement that
framed their identities as different from Indonesia’s. East Timor’s case is
somewhat exceptional because it shared none of the Dutch or post-colonial
history in the way other regions did. However, because it was incorporated
into Indonesia during the height of the New Order, it is instructive in terms of
how the strong state sought to incorporate it into the larger Indonesian nation
state on its own terms. Little possibility of negotiation or reframing existed in
that context and the only option was seen as secession.
In all three cases, there was no way to think about transforming the Indo-
nesian state given that they were fighting for their very survival. This was a
significant change from the internal conflicts of the Sukarno era where rebels
claimed they held the true meaning of “Indonesia.” The state strength under
Suharto and the relative weakness of society meant that there was little pos-
sibility of “rebellion without secession.” Since transforming the state was
perceived as risky, ethnic nationalism and secession became the preferred
mode of resistance
The structure of the New Order was designed to counter the problems of
societal conflicts in the immediate post-war era. It squelched open displays
of ideological conflict, tried to quell regional tensions, and depoliticized the
legislatures. In so doing, ironically, it produced stronger ethno-nationalist
movements that sought to exit from the Indonesian nation-state.
It is instructive to note here also that there was very little demand for new
provinces or districts and little opportunity to achieve such aims. In fact the
only instance of new province formation during the New Order would be by
fiat. In 33 years of the New Order, only three new provinces were created, and
one of those was East Timor’s annexation.
Local demand was unlikely because the local government had very little
power vis-à-vis the central government. Thus, there was little incentive to
create a new regional government under those circumstances. Economically,
there was also little incentive since the finances of the government were also
highly centralized. Culturally, some groups might have had an interest in
more autonomy but the costs of pushing for autonomy were high. In short,
there was very limited incentive to push for a new province and such movements
would have easily been quelled by the military.
The territorial impact of political change

In Indonesia, the end of the New Order regime came swiftly. The Asian
financial crisis triggered economic turmoil across the region and Indonesia
experienced widespread capital flight with the rupiah depreciating nearly
10 percent just in the month of August. Currency speculators also bet against
the rupiah and the Bank of Indonesia was unable to sustain their interven-
tions to keep the currency stable. By January of 1998, the rupiah lost 85 percent of
its value trading at around 5,000 rupiah to the dollar, and the stock market fell
by more than 50 percent, from 743 to 335 (Bird 1998: 175). In early 1997
unemployment hovered at around 14 percent but by 1998 it had risen to
around 40 percent. Amidst violent protests in the street and abandonment of
his political and economic allies, Suharto stepped down from power in
May of 1998.
It was amidst this political instability and territorial fragility that we can
understand reformasi as a moment of institutional change. One of the pri-
mary concerns of policy makers who came to power after Suharto was pre-
cisely about the future of the Indonesian nation-state itself. Institutional
reforms always had the territorial integrity of the state as a key consideration.
In particular, the twin reforms of democratization and decentralization helped
to shape the future of the new Indonesian state. In part, they did so by taking
away the main rationale of many separatists, the continued presence of the
New Order and its repressive and extractive presence in the regions.
At the same time, the way in which these reforms were designed were
arguably more reformist and incremental rather than revolutionary. Habibie,
Suharto’s hand-picked successor, and other political elites also clearly wanted
to retain power and thus worked to make the institutional rules advantageous
to themselves. To do this they needed to separate themselves from the New
Order regime and offer themselves as a legitimate and forward looking
alternative. In this regard, the institutional reforms during the critical histor-
ical juncture are not simply reforms demanded from below, nor policies
implemented by neutral experts (Smith 2008: 213). They were profoundly
political with many actors who had their own strategic interests in mind. In
this sense, it is important to note that the territorial instability that emerged
after the Suharto years was thus both a cause of and a product of key
institutional reforms.
Democratization: electoral and party reform

Democratization can mean any number of things when regimes move from
authoritarian to democratic systems. In Indonesia, these included the removal
of restrictions on the press, releasing of political prisoners, and the weakening
of the military’s stronghold on power. But among the reforms, the revival of
political parties and the designing of a competitive electoral system were the
most important vis-à-vis Indonesia’s territoriality.
Political party reform in Indonesia was simultaneously liberalizing and
constraining. On the one hand, political parties which had been merged and
then emasculated during the New Order gained new life. New laws allowed
political parties to form with only 50 signatures from citizens 21 years of age
or older and registration with a court and the Ministry of Justice (D. King
2003: 51). As a result, dozens of new political parties emerged in 1999.
New laws also limited the number of military parliamentarians from 75 to
38 in the 1999 elections, and eventually to zero (Kingsbury 2003: 164).
During the New Order one-fifth of the seats in the national legislature were
allocated to the military and senior officers held key posts in the bureaucracy,
regional administrative services, governorships, and key cabinet posts (Mackie
and MacIntyre 1994: 24). Increased professionalism and reform also saw the
military disengage from the electoral process other than to ensure minimal
violence and disruption whereas in the past, the military had been instrumental
in rigging elections in favor of the regime (Kingsbury 2003).
At the same time the new laws laid out strict rules about which parties
could participate in national elections. Specifically, the new rules required
parties to have offices established in at least one-third of Indonesia’s provinces
and at least half of all districts in those provinces as a way to prevent regional
or ethnically based parties (D. King 2003: 51). The party system has also had
enormous influence on the composition of legislative bodies. For example,
election laws eliminated the possibility of non-party candidates and gave a
high degree of control to the central party leadership over the selection of
candidates (Sherlock 2004: 8).
The rules of a new electoral system also came under considerable discussion
in 1999. The government put forth a proposal for a mixed system which would
see 76 percent of seats contested on a district-plurality basis and 24 percent
contested according to the rules of proportional representation (D. King 2003:
60). The system sought to make legislators more accountable to their local
geographic communities while still retaining some aspects of the PR system
so smaller parties would not be disadvantaged. However, this proposal was
rejected both because it was likely to give the government party, Golkar, a
broad advantage and because it weakened the ability of political parties to
control their own candidates (D. King 2003: 61).
All parties agreed on a completely proportional electoral system. The question
then turned to the size of the electoral districts. Again, the government sought to
make electoral districts smaller. This too was seen by opposition parties as
distinctly advantageous to Golkar which had a much firmer presence in the
local level during the New Order. Thus in 1999, the electoral districts were
established at the provincial levels, regardless of population. Seats were allo-
cated proportionately with the average per province being 17 seats but varying
widely depending on population density. West Java, for example had 82 seats,
while Bengkulu and East Timor each had four seats (Suryadinata 2002: 9).
The election committee also came up with a formula to balance repre-
sentation between Java and the Outer Islands. If representation mirrored the
demographic distribution of the population, then legislative seats would have
been divided along a 60:40 ratio between Java and the Outer Islands. Instead,
legislative seats were divided nearly evenly, 234 (50.6 percent) for Java and
228 (49.4 percent) for the Outer Islands. Seats were distributed to cities with
more than 450,000 people first. The remaining seats were redistributed
between the provinces based on population (Suryadinata 2002: 89).
For this reason, the number of votes needed to secure a seat varied widely
depending on the location of the district. In the densely populated province of
East Java, one parliamentary seat required 287,199 votes. A seat from Irian Jaya
(West Papua) in contrast would only require 63,547 votes (Suryadinata 2002: 89).
Thus in the 1999 elections, PDIP won 34 percent of the votes and received 33
percent of the seats (153) because many of its votes were concentrated on Java.
In contrast, Golkar won 22 percent but received 26 percent of the seats because
they secured many votes from the less densely populated Outer Islands
(Sherlock 2004: 8). Other parties faced more or less similar kinds of disparities,
gaining or losing advantage depending on where their votes came from.
These early decisions in representation and electoral competition laid the
foundations for the next several elections. Although the rules changed,
sometimes in significant ways, the overall principle around political parties
did not. The political party reforms went a long way toward giving organi-
zational representation to some of the key cleavages in Indonesian society. At
the same time, there were simply too many social or cultural groups in Indo-
nesia for all to be represented, particularly along geographic or ethnic lines.
In this way, the new electoral rules both liberalized and limited party formation.
Decentralization: devolving power downward

The second pillar of reformasi after 1999 was the design and implementation
of far reaching decentralization. Again, it is worth reflecting on why this
became such an important reform measure. During reformasi one of the ten-
sions that began to emerge was the articulation of regional frustrations
against the central government. Regionalists included a spectrum of groups
who agreed broadly about the problems inherent in the over-centralized
regime.
At one extreme were ethnic nationalist groups who sought independence,
arguing that Indonesia had forcibly integrated them into the nation-state
without their approval including East Timor, Aceh, and West Papua (Aspinall
and Berger 2001). But plenty of other groups in the regions expressed frus-
tration with Jakarta, well into the Suharto era. Those in natural resource rich
regions such as Riau and Kalimantan also resented the centralized policies of
Jakarta arguing that they should be able to keep more of the revenue generated
from their region for themselves.
As a response, the Habibie government initiated milestone legislation that
passed in 1999 and was implemented under the Wahid administration in
2001. Two laws, Law 22 of 1999 on Regional Administrations and Law 25 of
1999 on Inter-Government Financial Balance, devolved almost all substantive
power, except in a few key areas (foreign affairs, international trade, monetary
policy national security, and legal systems) to the regency, a sub-provincial
level known in Indonesian as the kabupaten (Alm et al. 2001).
On the one hand, Law 22 on administration devolved a broad range of
public service delivery functions to the regions such as planning, financing,
implementing, evaluating, and monitoring of such services. More importantly,
the new laws devolved significant political powers downward by strengthening
the role of the elected regional councils Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah
(DPRD). The regions were given far-reaching autonomy and accountability
for the most part bypassed the province and was directed to the central gov-
ernment. Thus new responsibilities included work in the areas of environ-
ment, labor, public works, and natural resource management (Aspinall and
Fealy 2003: 4). Local parliaments also gained power independent of the local
chief executive with the power to hold the leader accountable.
Law 25 on fiscal balance focused on empowering and raising local eco-
nomic capabilities. Local government was given the power to tax, charge local
fees, and collect revenue from local businesses (Alm et al. 2001). In the case
of any budgetary shortfalls, they would also be allotted regional development
or “equalization” funds from the central government.
The justification for the new decentralization laws was based along two
principles, efficiency and equality. By devolving power to the local level, pro-
ponents argued that government would be “closer to the ground” and thus
better able to assess the needs of the local population and be more responsive
to their demands (Ranis and Stewart 1995). At the same time, proponents
also argued that decentralization would give more incentives to local actors to
provide better services, based on economic theories that people could move if
they were not happy in their particular district (Tiebout 1956).
Decentralization was also seen as a way to alleviate the regional tensions in
Indonesia that had risen to fever pitch during the period of political turmoil.
On the one hand, devolving power to the local regions alleviated resentment
about the way the New Order government had controlled local offices and
officials. Similarly, the new fiscal arrangements allowed several regions to
retain a larger portion of revenues from natural resources which was ordinarily
sent to Jakarta and redistributed accordingly. Although separate from Laws
22 and 25, the government also gave special autonomy to key regions and in
the case of East Timor, let it go altogether.5
Strategically, districts, not provinces, were chosen as the main level of
autonomy in a newly decentralized Indonesia. This was because of the fear
that autonomy at the provincial level would exacerbate regional tension rather
than alleviate them. Decentralization as designed in Indonesia actually then
weakened provincial power by strengthening the districts. All of this is to say
that the 1999 decentralization plan was a compromise reacting to pressures
for increased autonomy, increased freedoms, yet deeply concerned about
maintaining national unity.
In sum, democratization and decentralization formed the two pillars of
political reform during Indonesia’s transition. More importantly, they both
had important territorial dimensions to them. Democratization and electoral
reform in particular was consciously designed to prevent regional parties from
being able to wield any kind of political power. Similarly, decentralization was
in part implemented as a way in which to address the increasing territorial
pressures on the Indonesian polity. It did so by giving more power to the local
level and to some degree by circumventing the provinces and devolving power
to the districts. These reforms changed significantly over the course of the
transition in terms of particular rules but they never changed fundamentally
in their promotion of political competition, accountability, and devolution of
power. Ultimately, these reforms produced incentives for actors at a variety of
levels to act together in coalition to push for territorial change.
Territorial change and shifts in territoriality

Amidst these reforms, new provinces and districts began to sprout up
throughout the archipelago. The formation of new districts appeared in a
number of “waves” from 292 districts in 1998 to nearly 500 a decade later.
Most of the new provinces (West Irian Jaya, North Maluku, Banten, Bangka-
Belitung, Gorontalo, West Sulawesi) were approved in 2000. Riau Islands pro-
vince was approved two years later in 2002. Most recently, West Sulawesi province
was approved in 2004. Most of these initiatives for new provinces emerged in
1998 and 1999 and several others still remain shelved in the legislature.
Table 4.2 Legislation for new Provinces in Indonesia

Province Legislation
West Irian Law No. 45 1999 and UU No. 5 2000
North Maluku Law No. 46 1999 and UU No. 6 2000
Banten Law No. 23 2000
Bangka-Belitung Law No. 27 2000
Gorontalo Law No. 38 2000
Riau Islands Law No. 25 2002
West Sulawesi Law No. 26 2004
*compiled from various sources
The timing of these new provinces and districts must be understood in the
context above. First, we can attribute exogenous shock or what Bertrand calls
“critical junctures” to the timing of territorial change (Bertrand 2004).
“Critical junctures” are defined as moments when particular actors have a
wider than normal range of possible options, and the choices they make
create a significant impact on subsequent outcomes (Capoccia 2007). On the
one hand, the period of reformasi beginning in 1998 embodied a moment of
uncertainty leading in turn to instability and violence (Sidel 2006). But more
broadly, we can see this as a period when political mobilization and new
negotiations about political membership occurred both at the national level as
well as at regional and local levels (Schulte and van Klinken 2007).
The critical juncture helped to shape the particular institutional reforms in
the late 1990s. Democratization and decentralization both provided ways in
which actors could hold simultaneously different interests in territory and for
this reason, work together to effectively carve out new provinces. Said differently,
these institutional reforms shaped both capacity and interests.
On the one hand, democratization created a more liberal political system
where individuals and groups could protest and mobilize without excessive fear
of state retribution. Such mobilization would have been unlikely if not
impossible during the period of New Order authoritarian rule. In these instances,
latent demands for new regions was mobilized on the grounds of regional mar-
ginality. Proponents often argue on ethnic or religious grounds that they have
been marginalized in a particular region and thus would be better served if
they could have “their own” region with “their own” government officials.
But beyond what we might call “political opportunity” democratization
also spurred territorial change because of the clear institutional incentives of
territory for key groups. Depending on the organization of electoral districts
and the rules for forming political parties, the creation of new territories
could be an enormous boon to some political parties at the national, regional,
and local level. Democratization and party competition meant that there were
clear electoral implications for creating new provinces. In this sense, while
distinct from gerrymandering, proliferation might share some of the same
motivations. Democratization thus adds a new dimension of competition
particularly through the party system.
For example, the political party reforms of 1999 gave newly empowered
parties the ability to boost their seats in the legislature through territorial
proliferation. A cursory look at the 2004 election results suggests that several
parties were able to add to their total number of seats with the creation of
new provinces. Golkar in particular was the largest beneficiary of new seats
because of their strong support base in the Outer Islands, and the tendency of
territorial proliferation to occur outside of Java. Golkar and PDI-P together
had half the gains while seven other parties share the remaining half. The
largest parties then may have seen this as an opportunity to consolidate their
dominant position in the national legislature and keep open the possibility of
a cross-party alliance. At the same time, the requirement that parties have
offices in at least a third of all provinces also given larger parties an advantage
making it harder for smaller parties to compete (KPU 2003). To be sure, it is
difficult to ascribe electoral motives based on results alone. Party interests
likely depended on the particular matrix of conditions on the ground and in
any case, efforts to contest and win seats may not have translated to victories.
At the same time, new provinces meant the creation of new seats in the
newly created Dewan Perwakilan Daerah (DPD—Regional Representative
Council). While the DPD is a less powerful institution than the Dewan Per-
wakilan Rakyat (DPR—People’s Representative Council), prominent poli-
tical, social, and cultural elites in these provinces often contest these seats as
well. Finally, it is important to note that the advantage for political parties
did not come simply in terms of legislative seats, but also in terms of party
patronage and recruitment. Creating a new province meant a new party office
needs to be built and a new set of officers needs to be chosen.
National interests did not only benefit political parties. The state as well as
its institutions such as the military also had autonomous interests in actually
creating new provinces as well. The experiences illustrated in later chapters in
Riau and West Papua provinces show the involvement of military and state
institutions who were interested in dividing local movements for independence
or autonomy. In this light, the national level actors’ incentives to ally with
local groups makes a great deal of sense.
Similarly, the devolution of fiscal authority and responsibilities created
powerful incentives for local executives, legislatures, and bureaucracy and
other public officials to maximize rent seeking possibilities. In fact, critics of
decentralization have long feared the potential negative problems of devolving
power, such as low capacity, local corruption, and clientelism (Brueckner
2000; Persson and Tabellini 2000; Ahmad and Tanzi 2002). Malley suggests
that decentralization of power has already also decentralized corruption in
some places (Malley 2003: 115). New regional positions gave added incentives
for rent-seeking starting from the governor on down, as well as a new legis-
lative assembly. A new province in particular requires certain start up infra-
structure including a new governor’s house, a new legislative house, new
bureaucratic offices, and the like. Thus it also promoted a short construction
boom in the area and fill the pockets of those who control contract bids
(Fitrani et al. 2005: 63).
Finally, the incentive to create a new region also came from “legitimate”
economic interests such as gaining a larger share of development funds. The
creation of a new province or regency thus meant an attempt to divert more
funds than is typically received by an area that is part of the older territory.
This type of pork-barrel politics may also have driven incentives for a new
district of province. In this instance, political elites interested in the offices and
benefits that come along with new province creation also attracted potential
supporters by arguing about the economic benefits of a new region.
Conclusion
In sum, Indonesia’s territoriality changed significantly over the course of the
post-colonial era. This chapter has identified broad shifts in the way state–
society relations influenced territorial politics during this period. It has argued
that in the first decade or so after independence, a feeble and vulnerable state
faced tremendous pressures from societal groups and actors. These included
groups wanting a more Islamic state, a more decentralized state, and a more
ideologically leftist state.
But while the specter of state collapse was a real possibility, it was not
necessarily manifested in demands for territorial separatism. Instead, societal
actors took as given the territorial boundaries of the state and sought to
transform the state itself in line with their particular vision. This does not
mean that social conflict lacked territorial dimensions; indeed, territoriality
was important, in several instances. However, even where conflict took on a
starkly territorial dimension, the vision of social actors assumed a territorially
united Indonesian state.
In contrast, this pattern shifted as the state gained more strength toward
the end of Sukarno’s rule and under his successor, Suharto. On the one hand,
both Sukarno and Suharto implemented institutional reforms that sought to
clamp down on social uprising by strengthening the military and centralizing
power. By the 1980s and 1990s, this had proved quite effective, to the extent
that few threats to the state itself existed. In contrast, several societal groups
sought to break away from the archipelago thereby posing a threat to the
territorial integrity of the archipelago.
This shift symbolizes a larger pattern of territoriality in the New Order that
was largely defined and controlled by the state. State interests dictated
whether new provinces or districts could be formed and, for the most part,
they were not because the state had little interest or need to cooperate with
local demands for new regions. Local groups for their part had few actors
with whom to form coalitions in a state so tightly controlled by the New
Order elite. Thus whereas domestic territorial changes in the form of new
province creation was commonplace in the early post-colonial era, it proved
much less common during the New Order. This pattern shifted once again
amidst the collapse of the New Order state.
5 Marginality and opportunity in
the periphery
The birth of a province

On January 23, 2000, about 30,000 ethnic Gorontalo from all over the Indo-
nesian archipelago gathered at the local stadium in Gorontalo City. They
were there to celebrate “Hari Patriotik, 23 Januari 1942.” Patriot Day com-
memorates local hero Nani Wartabone and the anti-colonial rebellion he led
that ousted the Dutch from the region. On that fateful day in January, War-
tabone famously declared Gorontalo “free from colonialism” (Niode and
Mohi 2003: 38).
As a practical matter, Gorontalo would endure Japan’s brutal wartime
occupation as well as Dutch attempts to return to the archipelago after World
War II. But the Gorontalo are fiercely proud of Wartabone’s words, often
noting that they were the first in Indonesia to declare independence, well
ahead of Sukarno’s declaration in August of 1945.1 The story of January 1942
is therefore one woven into the larger tapestry of Indonesia’s nationalist
Map 5.1 Map of the new Gorontalo Province next to North Sulawesi Province
Marginality and opportunity in the periphery 67
struggle. The annual event is performed complete with the raising of the
merah putih (Indonesia’s “red–white” national flag), singing of the Indonesia
Raya, and speeches by government dignitaries.
But the ceremony in 2000 had a slightly different tone. The crowd was
larger than in other years, a buzz filled the air, and many of the attendees wore
traditional Gorontalo dress. When the official ceremony ended, a new group
of speakers took the stage. These were leaders of P4GTR2 and PRESNAS,3
two leading organizations advocating the creation of a new Gorontalo province.
Addressing the large crowd at the stadium, H. Natzir Mooduto, a key
organizer of the new-province movement, recalled Wartabone’s famous words
and continued, “Fifty-eight years later to the day, on this Sunday 23 January
2000, we, all the people of Gorontalo, whether inside or outside the region,
declare the formation of Gorontalo Province!” (Nurdin 2000: 77). A few
moments later, Nelson Pomalingo, another leading figure, underscored
Mooduto’s words: “With the blessing of Allah all powerful, on this day, the
23rd of January 2000 that is honored by the January 23 Patriotic Move-
ment, we officially declare the separation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya!”
(Nurdin 2000: 80).
If one resisted the excitement and emotion, this might have appeared a
slightly awkward moment. New provinces cannot simply be declared into
existence. They require extensive bureaucratic scrutiny at multiple levels of
government, capped by legislation passed in Jakarta. Though a lobbying
process was already underway to establish Gorontalo Province, such a bold
pronouncement entailed considerable risk. But like Wartabone’s declaration
in 1942, the statement of provincial independence proved prescient, if pre-
mature. Less than a year later, Gorontalo did succeed in its aspirations.4 A
new province called Gorontalo, mostly Muslim and ethnically Gorontalo,
split away from North Sulawesi Province, which had a Christian majority and
was multi-ethnic.
Why were the Gorontalo so anxious to form their own province? And how
did they achieve their objective so quickly? I argue that, historically, state
formation and centralization divided—rather than unified—different groups
in North Sulawesi, creating a situation I call “marginality in the periphery.”
By this I mean that, while the North Sulawesi region as a whole has histori-
cally been a peripheral area in the national context, stark differences in power
relations evolved within the province such that some groups dominated and
others felt marginalized.
With the foundations for this argument in place, I will also argue that the
timing and success of the new-province movement can be attributed to Indo-
nesia’s political transition. A weakened state and institutional changes affec-
ted the situation at a key juncture, when a variety of actors at the local,
regional, and national level developed an interest in seeing through the crea-
tion of a Gorontalo province. Together, the historical and more contemporary
narratives explain why a new-province movement in Gorontalo emerged and
why its advocates were successful.
More importantly, the experience of Gorontalo shows us how territorial
change was triggered by concrete material kinds of exclusions. A new pro-
vince was seen as a mechanism for redress after years of economic and poli-
tical marginality. While the movement articulated itself through differences
highlighted in ethnicity and religion, I argue that the main source of grievance
emerged in the context of Minahasan dominance in the province.
At the same time, movement actors worked hard to make connections and
build coalitions at the national and regional levels. This was possible, I argue
because national actors had their own incentives for creating a new province
including political institutional incentives. Groups worked together both in
Jakarta and in the regions to make a new Gorontalo province a reality.
The case of Gorontalo also reinforces two broader arguments in the book.
First, the process is not simply being undertaken in the interests of adminis-
trative efficiency, as many policymakers and public officials at both the
national and local levels claim.5 This phenomenon of territorial change needs
to be seen as a profoundly political process, undertaken by actors with clear
political and economic interests at the local, regional, and national levels.
Nor should this trend toward new-province formation be understood as a
general movement seeking regional autonomy in the conventional sense.
This chapter argues that examining territorial change tells us important things
about regional politics, particularly about the alliances and cooperation
that take place within and between regions and centers. The experience in
North Sulawesi illustrates that regionalist aspirations in the so-called
“periphery” can actually be “positive-sum.” I show in depth the actors at
multiple levels who had interests and worked together to form the territorial
coalitions.
The following section highlights North Sulawesi’s diversity, noting how the
province has been compartmentalized according to religion, ethnicity, and
territory. The chapter then shows how attempts to incorporate North Sula-
wesi into the state formed the basis for an imbalance of power among differ-
ent groups, and it examines Indonesia’s political crisis of 1998 and the way
democratization and decentralization reforms triggered the movement to
create new provinces. Finally, it addresses how the interests of political elites
converged with those of various societal groups, facilitating the establishment
of Gorontalo province.
Compartmentalized diversity in North Sulawesi

Located on the northern tip of Sulawesi Island, North Sulawesi Province is
remote, geographically closer to Manila than to Jakarta. It is also a highly
diverse region with a population consisting of half a dozen ethnic groups
split evenly between Christians and Muslims. Before the province was divided,
in 2000, its population hovered at around three million, divided roughly into
six major ethnic groups: the Minahasa, Gorontalo, Bolaang-Mongondow,
Sangir, Talaud, and Javanese (see Table 5.1).6
Administratively, the province consisted of four districts, or kabupaten—
Minahasa, Gorontalo, Sangir-Talaud, and Bolaang-Mongondow—and
encompassed three cities—Gorontalo, Manado, and Bitung (BPS 2000).
Gorontalo, located in the southwestern portion of the province, occupied the
largest land area. Bolaang-Mongondow lay to its northeast. Minahasa district
occupied the northern tip of Sulawesi. And Sangir and Talaud, two island
groups classified as one district, were neighboring islands located north of the
mainland and due south of the Philippines.
In 2000, about half of the region’s population was Christian, with most
residing in the northern area of Minahasa, and Sangir-Talaud. This was the
result of an effective proselytizing campaign conducted by Dutch missionaries
in the nineteenth century. To the south and west, the Gorontalo ethnic group
and a majority of the Bolaang-Mongondow remained staunchly Muslim.
Islam had made its way to Gorontalo and Bolaang-Mongondow in the six-
teenth century thanks to the influence of the neighboring Ternate Sultanate,
and later, in the early seventeenth century, it had radiated from the south with
the rise of the Kingdom of Gowa. The Christianizing influence of the Dutch
missionaries did not reach down to Gorontalo, in part because the Dutch did
not have a strong presence in the area.
Table 5.1 Ethnic groups in North Sulawesi Province in 2000

Name Population Percent
Gorontalo 897,235 33
Minahasa 824,700 29
Sangir 396,810 14
Bolaang-Mongondow 224,749 8
Talaud 79,838 3
Javanese 64,619 2
Other 314,735 11
Total 2,802,686 100
Source: BPS 2000
Table 5.2 Kabupatens and kotas in North Sulawesi

Name Square kilometers Percent of area
Gorontalo 12,150.65 44
Bolaang-Mongondow 8,358.04 31
Minahasa 4,188.94 15
Sangir Talaud 2,263.95 8.25
Gorontalo City 64.8 0.25
Manado City 157.25 0.5
Bitung City 304.00 1
Total 27,487.63 100
Source: BPS 2000
Table 5.3 Religion in North Sulawesi Province

Name Number Percent
Islam 1,396,513 50
Protestant 1,285,588 46
Catholic 93,678 3
Hindu 11,606 0.5
Buddhist 3,981 0.1
Other 12,258 0.4
Total 2,803,624 100
Source: BPS 2000
These demographic patterns not only highlight the diversity in the region.
They also illustrate the way in which ethnic identity and territory correspond
closely with one another. This correspondence—or compartmentalization—
provided an important precondition that facilitated the breakup of North
Sulawesi province. Compartmentalization should be understood as more than
just the clustering or concentration of different groups in close proximity to
one another. It refers to the particular way in which different groups are
brought together under the same overarching territorial institutions (in this
case, the province) by the state.
Most ethnic groups in the region formed a majority population in their
own districts; only in urban areas, such as the provincial capital of Manado,
was this not true. Thus, each of the sizable ethnic groups arguably had its own
“homeland.” Circa 2000, the Gorontalo could be characterized as an ethnic
group with most of its members living in the district of the same name, where
most people adhered to Islam. This kind of correspondence between ethnicity,
religion, and territory made it easy, when the time came, for advocates to
highlight the differences among groups in the region and claim the right to
“upgrade” the territory, from, say, a district to a province.7
To be sure, compartmentalization alone cannot fully explain why certain
provinces split apart. Many provinces throughout Indonesia have multiple
ethnic or religious groups occupying a single administrative region, and most
have remained intact. The process by which territorial administration in
North Sulawesi has historically been carried out is also critical to under-
standing group relations in the region and explaining the impetus toward the
formation of a separate Gorontalo province.
The historical foundations of privilege and marginality

In North Sulawesi, the historical process of state building created economic
and political imbalances between different groups in the region. Specifically,
state practices historically privileged the ethnic Minahasa at the expense of
the ethnic Gorontalo. The movement for a new Gorontalo province emerged
from this feeling of marginalization experienced by the Gorontalo within the
original province. In this sense, while North Sulawesi itself is often included as
part of Indonesia’s Outer Island “periphery,” this chapter highlights the
power dynamics of privilege and marginality within that periphery.8
Four key periods of state formation in North Sulawesi are particularly
instructive in highlighting the development of these intra-regional relations:
the colonial period, the nationalist period, the era of regional rebellion, and
the New Order era. Each shows how attempts by the state (both colonial and
Indonesian) to consolidate power and incorporate the region into a larger
territorial entity served to create a fragile and internally fragmented province.
Colonial interventions and legacies

Though group identities in North Sulawesi predate colonialism, European
intervention in the region influenced group relations in three fundamental
ways. First, colonialism introduced the practice of territorial administration
into the region. Second, Dutch missionaries actively transformed regional
identity by converting large numbers of people to Christianity. And third, the
colonial administration actively privileged one group, the Minahasa, above
others in the region.
One distinctive characteristic of pre-colonial Indonesia was its relative
abundance of land and shortage of labor (Ricklefs 1993). A high land-to-
labor ratio meant that the pre-colonial kingdoms on Java and elsewhere
tended to be more interested in people than in territory. Labor, particularly in
the context of agricultural cultivation, was critical to the growth and survival
of these kingdoms. Wars were thus less often about securing territory than
about capturing populations who could be brought back to the home city of
the victors and put to work.
Like many other regions, political affinities in North Sulawesi prior to the
Europeans’ arrival also tended to be aterritorial (Henley 1996: 29). Locals
aligned themselves with sovereigns or rajas rather than identifying themselves
with a piece of land. For example, different members of a single village might
have been loyal to different rulers despite living next door to one another. But
the Dutch arrived in the region in the seventeenth century intent on securing
territory in order to harvest rice for troops in the Moluccas (Henley 1996: 31).
This plan proved a threat to the Bolaang-Amurang-Manado raja based to the
south and west of the region, and he launched periodic attacks against the
Dutch. The Dutch then fortified their territory in the north and established
clear boundaries, which they stipulated in treaties and enforced with troops
(Henley 1996: 32).
Initially, the Dutch East Indies Company had dealt with Gorontalo indir-
ectly from their post in Ternate. Once they had established clear boundaries,
however, the Dutch entered the Gorontalo region in the early 1700s and set
up a trading post (Niode and Mohi 2003: 33). In the 1730s, the governor-
general of Maluku concluded an agreement with the king of Gorontalo to
build a residence for the representative of the Dutch East Indies Company in
Gorontalo (Niode and Mohi 2003: 33). But the company’s hold on the area
remained tenuous at best, forcing it to withdraw its forces periodically.
Nearly a century later, in 1824, the Dutch East Indies Company separated
Gorontalo from the residency of Ternate and appended it to the residency of
Manado (Hasanuddin 2004: 63). Thus, for the first time, the Minahasa and
the Gorontalo populations were governed by the same administrative struc-
ture. The Manado residency was composed of two large sections: the Mina-
hasa region, including Manado and various small kingdoms in the west and
south, and the kingdoms of Gorontalo, Limboto, and others in Teluk Tomini
(Hasanuddin 2004: 63). The islands of Sangir and Talaud, in the waters to the
north of the region, were added a short time later (Hasanuddin 2004: 63).
By the late nineteenth century, the Dutch had territorially consolidated
North Sulawesi into four regions: Minahasa; the areas to the north and west
of Minahasa; the areas along the Southern Coast of Teluk Tomini; and the
islands of Sangihe Talaud (Hasanuddin 2004: 63). The Dutch residency was
headquartered in Manado, while assistants to the residents were stationed in
Gorontalo and the other administrative regions (Hasanuddin 2004: 64). This
structure of administration would form the basis for the modern North
Sulawesi Province.
Beyond introducing the practice of territoriality and territorial administra-
tion, the Dutch also brought Christianity to the region on a large scale. In the
1820s, two Dutch missionaries from the Calvinist organization, the Nether-
lands Missionary Society (Nederlandse Zending Genootschap, or NZG),
conducted a mass campaign to convert the local residents to Christianity
(Henley 1996: 6). Conversion in the region accomplished two things. First, it
created additional cultural markers to distinguish groups in the area. Because
most of the missionary work took place among the Minahasa, where the Dutch
had established a strong presence, Christianity would be concentrated in the north.
By the 1880s, over 75 percent of Minahasans were converted to Christianity,
leading some contemporaries to reflect that the experience was “unequaled in
the history of Christian missions” (van Klinken 2003: 33). Meanwhile, most
other groups in the region, including the Gorontalo, were not converted.
Second, Christianity among the Minahasa served to exacerbate inequality
among different groups in the region. In addition to proselytizing, Christian
missionaries also sought to educate the “indigenous masses.” While most
schools were initially concentrated in the immediate area where Dutch mis-
sionaries worked, their influence slowly spread to the broader Minahasa
region. Only a small number of these schools were exclusively religious insti-
tutions, but the Dutch invested heavily in general education throughout the
area and often recruited the help of missionary teachers for secular schools.
By the turn of the twentieth century, residents in the Minahasa area had
become one of the most educated Native groups in all the Dutch East Indies.
In the 1930 census, Minahasa had the highest literacy rate in the entire
archipelago (Buchholt and Mai 1994). Of 539 government-run schools in the
Dutch East Indies, 74 were found in Minahasa (Leirissa 1991). This
combination of education and Christianity proffered high status to Minaha-
sans in the colonial order, where they were given priority in the KNIL
(Koninklijk Nederlandsch-Indisch Leger, or Royal Netherlands-Indies Army),
the bureaucracy, and other government positions (Leirissa 1991).
Even prior to the mass Christian conversion in this territory, the over-
whelming presence of the Dutch in the Minahasa region often led indigenous
elites to ally with the colonial regime in order to improve their own social standing.
For example, in military recruitment, Minahasans made up a disproportionately
large part of the colonial army. From 1825 to 1830, the Dutch faced a strong
rebellion on Java led by Prince Diponegoro. To counter Diponegoro’s forces,
the Dutch recruited from their various strongholds such as Bali, Ternate, and
Makassar. In Manado, the Dutch were able to recruit 1,400 soldiers out of a
population of roughly 80,000.9 (In contrast, only 150 soldiers from Gorontalo
were recruited and participated in the Java war; see Schouten 1998.)
Colonialism thus laid the foundations for future relationships among ethnic
groups in North Sulawesi. Colonial treaties demarcated the region territo-
rially and dictated who would be included in it. Dutch practices also shaped
identity, particularly among the Minahasa in the north through religious
conversion. And finally, colonialism distributed power unevenly in the region
in such a way that the Minahasa gained a disproportionate share of social,
political, and economic benefits under the colonial system.
Divergent nationalisms
If colonialism sowed the seeds of emerging differences and inequality in
North Sulawesi, nationalism might have been expected to ease them. A
common enemy often forces groups to set aside their differences. However, the
nationalist experiences of the Minahasa and Gorontalo diverged during this
period, in part due to their respective colonial relationships with the Dutch.
The Minahasa viewed nationalism through the lens of their special colonial
status, making their support of the budding Indonesian independence movement
more complex and conditional than it was in Gorontalo.
In the early twentieth century, at least three different models of Minahasa’s
political future stood side by side. One model advocated for Minahasan inte-
gration into the Dutch Republic as its twelfth province (Twaalfde Provincie)
(Henley 1996: 154). Others, such as supporters of the Perserikatan Minahasa,
pushed for more autonomy and, ultimately, national independence (Henley
1996: 154). But by the 1920s, considerable communication between the Min-
ahasa and other groups in the Dutch East Indies led to a growing sentiment
for the third model: pan-archipelagic, Indonesian nationalism. Leaders such
as Sam Ratulangie thus attempted to straddle Indonesian and Minahasan
nationalist interests (Leirissa 1991: 101). Intent on preserving Minahasan volk
identity, with the long-term goal of establishing an independent nation-state,
Ratulangie ultimately compromised by agreeing to a federal model for the
Indonesian state that would give states a great deal of autonomy (Henley
1996: 132). All of these experiences served to make Minahasans conscious
and self-aware of their own identity during the nationalist period. Notably,
each model sought to highlight and institutionally preserve Minahasan identity
and privilege in one form or another.
In contrast, the ethnic Gorontalo faced fewer internal dilemmas when
responding to the archipelago’s nationalist experience. Leaders, including
Nani Wartabone, had studied on Java, attending schools such as MULO
(Meer Uitgebreide Lagere Onderwijs, or Extended Elementary Education) in
Surabaya, and mixing with other future nationalist leaders from Java. In
1923, Wartabone pushed to establish Jong Gorontalo, a branch of a national
youth organization, and in 1928, he also established the local office for the
Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI, or Indonesian Nationalist Party) (Hasa-
nuddin 2004: 158). When PNI disbanded in 1931, it was replaced by Partai
Indonesia (Partindo), and a new branch was established in the region with
many of the same PNI leaders and organizers in place (Hasanuddin 2004: 159).
PNI and Partindo were secular nationalist organizations, but Islam also played
a key role in the nationalist movement in Gorontalo. By this time, Sarekat
Islam, an Islamic political party, had reached Gorontalo, having been introduced
into the region by the 1923 visit from H. Umar Said Cokroaminoto, leader of
the organization. Cokroaminoto and others saw Islam as a way of opposing
Dutch colonialism and forming the basis for national pride. In 1928, Sarekat
Islam officially opened a branch office in Gorontalo (Hasanuddin 2004: 154).
For these reasons, the Gorontalo did not harbor pro-Dutch sentiments nor
have clear aspirations for independent statehood in the way the Minahasa
did. Their experiences embedded them firmly in the nationalist struggle and
strengthened their desire to throw out the Dutch occupiers. Note the explicitly
nationalist message in this statement made by Nani Wartabone on Patriot
Day in 1942: “Pada hari ini tanggal 23 Januari 1942, kita, bangsa Indonesia
yang berada di sini, sudah merdeka, bebas lepas dari penjajahan bangsa
mana pun juga. Bendera kita Merah Putih. Lagu kebangsaan adalah Indonesia
Raya” (Niode and Mohi 2003: 38).10
Only World War II and the experience of Japan’s brutal occupation began
to bring the Minahasa and Gorontalo into the same Indonesian nationalist
fold. The Dutch had made some effort to suppress notions of Indonesian
nationalism, but when Japanese troops invaded, they forced their way into
houses with bayonets and demanded to know whether occupants were “Dutch
or Indonesian?”, to which the only safe response was, “Indonesian” (Henley
2002: 150). This meant that, for the first time, a pan-archipelagic nationalism
would be embedded in North Sulawesi, with the Minahasans and the Gorontalo
expressing similar aspirations and nationalist goals.
A lonely rebellion
The Japanese occupation ended in 1945, after which the Dutch attempted to
retain power over Indonesia. Those attempts ultimately failed, and in 1949
the Dutch granted Indonesia sovereignty. The different groups in North
Sulawesi jointly opposed Dutch attempts to regain a foothold in the former
colony. In order to fight the returning Dutch forces in Northern Sulawesi,
reinforcements were sent from other regions, including Makassar (Niode
2002: 68). But by the end of the 1950s, the rise of regional rebellions put
the Minahasa on a different trajectory from its local neighbors yet again.
Whatever affinity the Minahasa and Gorontalo felt in their shared opposition
to the Japanese and the Dutch in the 1940s was largely shattered in the
post-independence era.
From 1958 to 1961, North Sulawesi waged war against the central govern-
ment in what became known as Permesta (Perjuangan Semesta, or “General
Struggle”). The rebellion began as a reaction against the perceived over-
centralization of the Indonesian state, and particularly its “Java-centric”
focus, imposed at the expense of the archipelago’s “Outer Islands.” Leaders
cited the economic imbalance and, in particular, Jakarta’s restrictions on the
export of natural resources. The military officers in the region had a sub-
stantial stake in commodities such as coconut (copra, the dried kernel of the
coconut) and wanted to export it abroad at the international market price.
But Jakarta maintained a monopoly on the commodity and required Indo-
nesia’s “Outer Islands” to sell their commodities to Java at slightly above half
the international price, thereby infuriating regional producers (Harvey 1977: 3).
Initially, Permesta was based out of Makassar in southern Sulawesi and
consisted of a relatively broad coalition of dissatisfied Outer Island officers.11
But in independent consultations, officers in the south decided to negotiate
with the central government and quickly reached a settlement.12 The officers
from North Sulawesi, largely Minahasan, were not satisfied with the terms of
negotiation and opted to fight.
The Minahasa in North Sulawesi proved to be the most determined com-
batants in the Permesta rebellion, in large part because they had the most at
stake. Since they were Christian, and economically better off, they also made
up a disproportionate percentage of the military. But those very character-
istics also made them the object of resentment regionally, and thus the Min-
ahasa received little support from their neighbors after government retaliation
began. Permesta thus became a Minahasan problem.13 Though initially suc-
cessful in confronting the central government’s military force, Permesta
quickly collapsed once the central government captured Manado through
aerial bombardment and the dispatch of army troops.
Even a cursory study of Permesta brings the experiences of the Gorontalo
and the Minahasans into sharp relief. Narratives in Gorontalo emphasize
how the people of Gorontalo opposed Permesta. The nationalist Nani War-
tabone took part in resisting this rebel movement, declaring that “we did not
recognize PRRI/Permesta as a part of the Unitary State of the Indonesian
Republic.” Wartabone joined with battalion 512 and a detachment of batta-
lion 715 Hasanuddin and led a sweep of Gorontalo to clear the region from
the threat of Permesta, a feat accomplished by 1958 (Niode 2002: 68).
Permesta proved a defining moment in the history of the region. It not only
affected relations between the Minahasa and the central government, but also
served to further distance the Minahasa from the other groups in North
Sulawesi. Looking back, we find that many of the Minahasan interpretations
insist that the rebellion was primarily about reforming a system of governance
skewed toward Java. But the narratives of other groups, like the Gorontalo,
tend to identify the Minahasa and their rebellion—rather than Jakarta—as
the most notable threats during this period.
New Order rehabilitation

After the failure of the rebellion, the main leaders were captured and flown
to Jakarta, where they were jailed. However, the fall of Sukarno and the
ascendancy of Suharto and the New Order improved the rebel leaders’
fortunes markedly. After taking office, Suharto pardoned many of the key
figures of Permesta and then brought them into his patronage network. Many
found development and consulting jobs, including Ventje Sumual, a Mina-
hasan Christian and the leader of the Permesta movement. Sumual
established a company called P. T. Konsultasi and worked on lucrative devel-
opment projects doled out by the Suharto regime (Matindas and Supit
1998: 369).
At one level, Suharto may have let Sumual and other leaders of Permesta
off the hook for personal reasons. He and key Permesta leaders were appar-
ently old friends who had fought side by side against the Dutch during the
Indonesian revolution. At the same time, Permesta’s anti-communist and
anti-Sukarno ideology were closely in line with the New Order’s own logic
and thus may well have formed the basis for the rehabilitation of this cohort.
The New Order had emerged in the context of an alleged coup and counter-
coup that had led to anti-communist massacres in 1965. Those events had left
a smaller imprint on North Sulawesi, in part because the Christian population
in Manado was largely hostile to communism as an ideology, and because the
experience of Permesta had also wiped out much of the leftist influences in
the region. By the 1980s and early 1990s, some were attempting to reinterpret
Permesta as an anti-communist rebellion rather than an anti-government or
anti-Indonesian rebellion (Leirissa 1991).
This partial rehabilitation of a rebel force that had challenged the central
government exacerbated tensions between different ethnic groups within the
administrative boundaries of North Sulawesi. It appeared that the Minaha-
sans had been forgiven and regained their political dominance under the New
Order. Back in Manado, ethnic Minahasans retained the governorship over
the long term, while Javanese generals rotated in and out of the governor’s
office in other provinces (see Table 5.4).14 Minahasans also tended to dom-
inate the bureaucracy and military disproportionately. Within the military,
access to development funds (keuangan pembangunan) meant officers gen-
erally enjoyed informal privileges and often held personal financial stakes in
Table 5.4 Governors of North Sulawesi, 1961–2005

Name of governor Years in office Ethnicity
A. A. Baramuli SH 1961–1962 Sangir/Makassar
F. J. Tumbelaka 1962–1965 Minahasa
Sunandar Prijosoedarmo (interim) 1966 Java
Abdullah Amu (interim) 1966–1967 Not recorded
H. V. Worang 1967–1978 Minahasa
Willy Lasut 1978–1979 Minahasa
Erman Harirustaman 1979–1980 Not recorded
G. H. Mantik 1980–1985 Minahasa
C. J. Rantung 1985–1995 Minahasa
E. E. Mangindaan 1995–2000 Minahasa
A. J. Sondakh 2000–2005 Minahasa
H. Sarundayang 2005 Minahasa
Source: Hasil Karya (North Sulawesi Provincial Government 2004)
infrastructure development projects (Schouten 1998: 221). Thus military

patronage and corruption were perceived to have a Minahasan bias.
Politically, to be sure, some power-sharing arrangements did exist. The vice
governor, or the head of the provincial legislature, was usually from Bolaang-
Mongondow or Gorontalo or Sangir—that is, not Minahasan. In addition,
there were attempts on the part of the provincial government to mitigate the
ethnic tensions. During the New Order, government leaders promoted the
idea of “BOHUSAMI,” an acronym referring to the four different groups in
the province at that time: Bolaang-Mongondow, Gorontalo (Hulontalo),
Sangir/Talaud, and Minahasa (Henley et al. 2007: 323). This was an attempt
to create a “trans-ethnic” regional identity, one of the priorities of the New
Order government (Jacobsen 2002: 8). But these kinds of efforts tended to
ring hollow, particularly when one saw that Manado’s political structure
granted so much power to the Minahasa.
By the 1990s, many non-Minahasa were venting their frustrations. Politi-
cally, many Gorontalo resented the fact that, although they had the largest
population and the largest land area, Minahasans occupied most of the key
positions in government. At Jalan Roda, a local watering hole for politicians
in Manado, discontented patrons were often heard to gripe that “no matter
how good the gubernatorial candidates from other ethnic groups might be,
they can never compete with the Minahasa” (Pariwisata 2003).
And because the Minahasa historically have been economically much
better off relative to the Gorontalo, the Gorontalo tended to blame neglect by
North Sulawesi’s provincial government for their own underdevelopment.
Gorontalo informants complained that development funds dispersed to Gor-
ontalo often did not reach their area because the money was redirected by the
provincial government to development projects in Minahasa. One respondent
said of the situation, “Gorontalo is an area that is always treated as a step-child
[anak tiri].”15
Table 5.5 Social development indicators I in North Sulawesi

Name Primary school completion rate High school completion rate
Minahasa 75.2 19.8
Gorontalo 57.3 8.8
Source: Gavin and Sondakh (Sondakh and Jones 2003)
Table 5.6 Social development indicators II in North Sulawesi

Name % > 50 meter2 With private % owning stoves % owning TVs
floor space toilet
Minahasa 31.4 62.1 60.8 33.9
Gorontalo 25.2 26.6 37.4 15.0
Source: Gavin and Sondakh (Sondakh and Jones 2003)
Marginality in the periphery

The drive to separate Gorontalo from North Sulawesi was thus motivated, in
part, by a feeling of marginalization, engendered by the perception that the
province was dominated by the Minahasa. The advantages enjoyed by the
Minahasa were particularly irksome to the Gorontalo, who saw themselves as
having been loyal to the Indonesian nation during a time when the Minaha-
san relationship with the Indonesian nation was troubled. To be sure, even the
Minahasans’ own position in the Indonesian state was largely peripheral
during the New Order era, as this ethnic group never fully regained the status
it had enjoyed under the Dutch. But in North Sulawesi province, they con-
trolled the economic and political institutions. The campaign to form a new
province was an attempt by the Gorontalo to break away from a Minahasa-
dominated province. This historical context shows how resentment between
different groups in North Sulawesi was created, persisted, and, in fact, inten-
sified during the course of Indonesian state-building and well into the New
Order.
Transition and opportunity and territorial coalitions

The historical process of state centralization in North Sulawesi fed the grow-
ing frustration of the Gorontalo. But that frustration lay latent until triggered
by Indonesia’s political turmoil in the late 1990s. Political transition acceler-
ated the call for a new Gorontalo province for two reasons. First, the national
crisis weakened the central government’s capacity to govern. Increasing dis-
affection with the New Order and the weakness of the central state during the
economic crisis led to bolder initiatives by regional actors. At the same time,
the institutional changes that emerged in the wake of the political transition
also provided incentives for political elites. The following sections examine both
of these processes and how they served to facilitate coalitions among groups
with a shared interest in seeing the establishment of a new Gorontalo province.
The foundation of the coalition

The timing of new-province movements in Indonesia can be understood in the
context of an opportune political environment.16 The collapse of the New
Order proved to be a critical juncture that unleashed new kinds of political
and economic demands (Bertrand 2004). Thus, Gorontalo’s initiative can be
understood in the framework of other regional movements that emerged
during the late 1990s. These included the separatist movements in East Timor,
West Papua, and Aceh, mentioned earlier, but also reform movements in
resource-rich areas such as Riau and Kalimantan, where residents demanded
more autonomy and insisted that a greater share of the revenues earned
through sales of regional commodities must remain in those regions.
As early as 1996, students in Gorontalo district had begun forming dis-
cussion groups that met regularly to address themes such as democracy,
“national success,” balancing national power (limitation of powers), civil
society, and economic development (Niode 2002: 71). In the political turmoil
of 1997 and 1998, these discussion groups morphed into sites of political
organization and activism. The reformasi movement grew and spread
throughout the archipelago in part because many of the students studying in
Jakarta returned to their home towns (pulang kampung), joined the local
movements there, and took to the streets. In Gorontalo, the emerging student
movement adopted the slogan “Dulowo Limo Lo Pohalala,” or “Two from
Five that are Brothers,” referring to the different sub-ethnic groups that
together form the larger Gorontalo ethnic family.17
Initially, student demonstrations and demands in Gorontalo mirrored the
broader student movement nationwide. They raised issues such as inflation,
the distribution of foodstuffs, and economic security. In 1998, local news-
papers also began running stories on the corrupt practices of the Gorontalo
district chief, Imam Nooriman. Nooriman was Javanese, a military officer,
and a member of the dominant party, Golkar. The news stories prompted
student organizations to redirect their frustrations from the national to local
government. The students staged ongoing demonstrations in front of the local
government house for the next six months, calling on the regent to resign. In
response, Nooriman summoned the military and police to break up the
demonstrations with force.18 Over 30 students were hospitalized as a result of
the ensuing clash.
In ordinary times, such incidents may have ended with that firm act of repres-
sion, but now the violence marked a turning point in the student movement.
The event sparked outrage from the students and the broader community,
and a wide range of civil-society groups issued a demand to then-provincial
governor E. E. Magindaan, calling for Nooriman to be sacked. The governor
met with the students of Gorontalo and promised to resolve the issue. He
reshuffled the military bureaucracy in the region by firing Ali Fatam, chief of
the local military depot, and replaced him with an officer from Manado. But
despite the demands of the Gorontalo, reinforced by a new provincial law
against corruption, Governor Magindaan did not follow through on his promise
to hold Nooriman accountable.
This situation aroused widespread resentment against the governor and in
essence shifted the target of student grievances from the local district to the
provincial level and to the governor.19 The students demanded that either the
governor act decisively, or face the prospect of a Gorontalo region that would
split from North Sulawesi. So frustrated were some students that they marched
to the Radio Republik Indonesia station and declared on-air that if, their
demands were not respected, they would call for Gorontalo to become its own
negeri (state), which could have been interpreted as a demand for indepen-
dence either from North Sulawesi or from Indonesia.20 During renewed
demonstrations in January 1999, students began calling for the establishment
of a new province of Gorontalo.
In February of 1999, students organized a large meeting (Musyawarah
Besar, or MUBES) in Gorontalo city. MUBES meetings usually occur
annually and are opportunities for group members to air grievances and
address important issues. At this MUBES, student organizers officially
declared their support for a new province of Gorontalo.21 This decision
proved critical, as it brought together a broad array of student groups under
the same umbrella, groups motivated to pursue the creation of a new pro-
vince. Groups included Kerukunan Keluarga Indonesia Gorontalo (KKIG),
Forum Solidaritas Intelektual Muda Indonesia Gorontalo (FSI-MIG), Him-
punan Pelajar Mahasiswa Indonesia Gorontalo (HPMIG), Forum Komuni-
kasi Mahasiswa Indonesia Tinelo Gorontalo (FK-MITG), Himpunan Pelajar
Mahasiswa Indonesia Bualemo Gorontalo (HPMIBG), Ikatan Sarjana
Gorontalo (ISG), and Forum Komunikasi Mahasiswa Gorontalo (FKMG)
(Intim 1999). In addition to the secular Gorontalo student groups, the
Islamic student association in Gorontalo also supported the cause. Himpunan
Mahasiswa Islam (HMI) and its local branch office in the area took the
initiative to organize an open dialogue, or dialog terbuka, to promote the idea
of establishing a new province.22
It is worth noting that, in the wake of Muslim and Christian violence in
Ambon and the Malukus, the North Sulawesi region has often been held up,
rightfully, as one place that did not experience religious or other identity-
related acts of violence (Henley et al. 2007: 323). While this is true, the pro-
minent role of Islamic organizations shows that tensions latent within the
province did emerge, but manifested themselves in a different kind of way: as
a demand for provincial separatism. While anti-Christian rhetoric was never
used publicly to justify the demands for a new, predominantly Muslim, pro-
vince, religious differences clearly played an important role in people’s desires
to have a separate province.23
On December 7, 1999, the first official organization with the specific goal
of promoting the establishment of a new Gorontalo province was formed.
Headed by H. Natsir Mooduto, the organization was dubbed Panitia Persia-
pan Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo Tomini Raya, the Committee to Pre-
pare for the Formation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province (or P4GTR for
short). With the formation of P4GTR, the role of the students was folded into
the wider movement for a new province. The movement supporting the
creation of a new province spread to include a broad array of groups from
Gorontalo society.
Those involved performed a wide array of tasks, including mobilization,
education, lobbying, and negotiation. Perhaps most importantly, these groups
framed the debate in a way that identified the Gorontalo as a marginalized
group seeking separation from a dominant power. The head of HPMIG,
Ethon Parman, noted that the Gorontalo region should be entitled to half of
the regional budget since it occupies half of North Sulawesi.24 “That should
be 15 billion rupiah out of the 29 billion for North Sulawesi province. What
we [Gorontalo] receive is only two billion. Obviously, this is unequal”
(Kompas 1999a; Harian Gorontalo 2000a).25 Aleks Oli’l, head of the forum in
Makassar, noted that Manado takes advantage of Gorontalo’s resources
without then taking care of the people in the society. “Manado is like a new
imperialist in relation to Gorontalo,” he stated.26 Still others noted that “For
dozens of years, Gorontalo has been cow’s milk for the people of Manado”
(Intim 1999).27
The social mobilization that built support for creating a new Gorontalo
province was a critical part of the political process. Social forces took advan-
tage of the economic and political crisis in Jakarta and advocated for region-
specific goals. In particular, the demonstrations that emerged shifted the
frustrations that had been concerned with general national issues to specific
localized ones. Furthermore, the violence and the subsequent intransigence of
local and regional leaders triggered the concrete demand for a new province.
But the “political opportunity” argument only takes us so far. It can help
explain the emergence and growth of the movement, but in the case of Gor-
ontalo political elites also played a critical role in supporting the initiative for
a new province.
Decentralization and local elites

In Gorontalo, two kinds of local elites were active in supporting the move-
ment for a new province. The first were prominent figures in society who had
political aspirations related to the new province. These “out-of-power” or
“aspiring” elites included prominent educators, religious figures, and business
leaders. They lent the movement credibility as efforts to lobby and forge alli-
ances became more important. These elites were also able to use the newly
created civil-society organizations as vehicles to promote their own political
agendas.28
For example, despite the creation of P4GTR as the primary advocacy
vehicle for the formation of a new province, other groups such as PRESNAS
and KP3GTR also emerged.29 The official rationale for having several groups
outlined a division of labor: P4GTR’s activities would be “local,” PRESNAS
would be “medium size,” and KP3GTR would lobby in Jakarta. But there
was no compelling reason why one organization could not operate at different
levels. In fact, the situation was determined by a leadership conflict among
the different organizations because the leaders of each party aspired to
become governor of a new Gorontalo province.30
Local elites who already held positions of power, such as local district
heads and members of the district level legislature, also supported the for-
mation of a new province. Many of their considerations were electoral. The
movement was already popular, and to oppose such a movement could have
consequences later. At the same time, creation of a new province would also
funnel more development funds to the region, funds that had previously gone
to Manado. This would mean increased development projects, projects of the
kind that typically benefited local elites who could profit from fixed bidding
and other practices.31 The prospect of these benefits led the district heads of
Sualemo, Gorontalo, and Gorontalo City to support the new province move-
ment and they stood in solidarity at the Patriot Day rally on January 23,
2000. The mayor of Gorontalo City, Medi Botutihe, also supported the
movement, claiming that he sympathized with the aspirations of the local
people (Manado Post 1999). Botutihe was another local leader who tried to
run for governor of the new province, but he failed to garner broad support
(Harian Gorontalo 2000b).
To be sure, some elites were more willing to participate than others. In
contrast to their counterparts in Gorontalo district, the ethnic Gorontalo elites
in the provincial legislature did not initially support splitting the province.32
One might expect that such leaders would be interested in establishing a new
political unit where they could exert more power and influence without other
groups, like the Minahasa, interfering in their affairs. However, elites in their
position tended to be risk-averse and conservative. The Gorontalo legislators
in Manado already had secure positions, and it was not in their interest to
contest a new election where the outcome would be uncertain. Thus, of eight
ethnic Gorontalo in Manado, all initially opposed the provincial split.33
The initial reluctance of the provincial elite formed the basis for a coalition
opposed to the creation of the new province. In addition, ethnic migrants who
had relocated to the provincial capital in Manado as part of a regional dia-
spora also expressed reservations about a new province. Gorontalo migrants
who lived and worked in Manado were concerned that they would now be
unwelcome in the city based on their race and ethnicity; they feared being
told to “go home to your new province.”34 The same was true of ethnic
minority groups in the proposed new province of Gorontalo. Bureaucrats and
other public officials from outside the region who served in Gorontalo were
concerned about facing potential discrimination.
Recognizing the obstacle posed by provincial opposition, pro-Gorontalo
forces brokered a deal. They agreed that if the legislators supported the
recommendation for a new province, they would be given seats in the new
Gorontalo legislature without having to campaign for them in the first elec-
tion cycle.35 Out of the eight leaders who had originally been opposed to
splitting the province, seven of them now agreed and supported the initiative,
while one remained in his seat in Manado. Once the provincial leaders were
bought off, the remaining opposition receded. There was little coordination or
any impetus to mobilization among remaining groups inclined to oppose the
split. Thus, in February, the provincial legislature formally approved the
division of North Sulawesi province into two parts (Suara Pembaruan 2000).
Throughout this process, the support of elites was critical at both the local
and provincial levels, as government regulations dictated that before any such
initiative would be considered at the national level, it must have the support
of the local society and the local government. The provincial legislatures and
the district chiefs and governors functioned as checkpoints on the path to
Jakarta.
Political party reform and national elites

Civil-society organizations and political elites in the periphery had clear rea-
sons for promoting the establishment of a new province. But what of elites at
the national level? Why would political elites in the center join a coalition
supporting a regionalist initiative? On the one hand, the politics of person-
ality and patronage played an important role here. Gorontalo had strong
allies in Jakarta who rallied to the cause. At the same time, the transforma-
tion of the party system also shaped the interests of the various political
parties, motivating them to advocate for a new province.
The best-known advocate in Jakarta for Gorontalo provincehood was Pre-
sident Habibie. Though he had been raised in South Sulawesi, Habibie’s
family roots are in Gorontalo, and he strongly supported the provincial cause
based on personal affinity to the region.36 He both gave financial support and
lobbied on behalf of Gorontalo with key leaders in the legislature. General
Wiranto, army chief-of-staff under the Suharto regime and 2004 presidential
candidate for Golkar, was also a strong advocate, in part because his wife was
a native of Gorontalo.37 Powerful businessmen such as Rachmat Gobel, a
native of Gorontalo and head of Panasonic Indonesia, also strongly supported
the new province.
While individual political elites in Jakarta may have had personal interests
in creating a new province, national-level legislators had clear material
incentives in advocating for a new province. It is an open secret that new
provinces and new districts often require bribes paid to the national-level
legislators who are ultimately the ones to write the law that establishes the
fledgling administrative unit (a law that must then be signed by the president).
Lobbyists’ visits to legislators are then as much about distributing money as
they are about presenting convincing arguments. In the case of Gorontalo,
relevant legislators were apparently paid a sum of five million rupiah each in
exchange for their support of the bill.38
But the monetary incentives paid to individual legislators were not the only
factors influencing policy at the national level. Political parties as institutions
played a critical role in new-province formation since approval for such an
action requires legislative consent. Recall too the extensive reform of political
parties during this period. As noted earlier, new-province formation in Gor-
ontalo and elsewhere may have been part of a longer-term strategy to increase
the number of seats in the legislature through the creation of new provinces.
In 1999, electoral districts were organized along provincial lines, and thus the
creation of a new province effectively meant that broad-based parties could gain
more representation in the DPR-RI (Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat–Republik
Indonesia, People’s Representative Assembly of the Republic of Indonesia or
the House of Representatives of the Republic of Indonesia).39 The largest
parties, including PDI-P and Golkar, may have seen this as an opportunity to
consolidate their dominant position in the national legislature and keep open
the possibility of a cross-party alliance. At the same time, the requirement
that parties maintain offices in at least a third of all provinces also gave larger
parties an advantage, making it harder for small parties to compete.
What is clear from the Gorontalo experience is that supporting a new pro-
vince also gave central elites in Golkar a great deal of influence over the
future of its provincial leadership. Prior to 2004, the governor was elected by
the province’s legislature. In Gorontalo, Golkar dominated the legislature and
controlled the outcome of the gubernatorial election. Gorontalo has histori-
cally been a stronghold for Golkar. At the provincial level, out of 25 mem-
bers, 13 were from Golkar, two from PAN (Partai Amanat Nasional,
National Mandate Party), one from PDI-P, one from Kebangkitan Bangsa,
one from Partai Bulan Bintang, four from PPP (Partai Persatuan Pembangu-
nan, the Unity Development Party), and three from TNI/Polri (Tentara
Nasional Indonesia/Polisi Republik Indonesia) the armed forces and national
police party (Niode 2002: 72). Because parties remained highly centralized,
local legislators in Gorontalo were put under heavy pressure to elect Fadel
Mohammed, a candidate chosen by the national Golkar party. Mohammed
was Muslim, but not a putra daerah, or “son of the soil.” Though he had
spent some time in the region, his roots were in Ternate, and he lived and
worked in Jakarta. But he had been a high-ranking and influential member of
Golkar. Previously a businessman, Mohammed had risen through the ranks
and established close ties with the Golkar leadership. His election dismayed
the students and other local activists who insisted the ethnic Gorontalo take
care of their own political future by electing one of their own. In this sense,
national elites benefited from a new Gorontalo province mediated through
political parties.
In sum, a strong national party seeking to maintain its legislative dom-
inance had incentives to form a coalition with local proponents so they could
carve out a province that would provide electoral gains at the national level.
In addition, support from powerful patrons in Jakarta significantly aided in
Gorontalo’s cause. The role of central elites would also form a point of con-
flict among the local societal groups that had supported the creation of a new
province for very different motives. However, this rift would emerge only after
a new province was already created.
Reflections and conclusions

The coalition that emerged in the movement for a new Gorontalo was based
on a push by local actors as a remedy to what I have called “marginality in
the periphery.” This marginality was a product of the long process of state
formation in the region but in particular, of the New Order regime. The new
institutional changes in the post-New Order period gave impetus for local
groups to forge coalitions with regional and national supporters. These groups
had their own interests in a new region and were thus open to the idea of
joining such a coalition.
In this sense, this chapter has tried to demonstrate the starkly political
nature of new-province formation in Indonesia by examining the experience
of Gorontalo. In Gorontalo, perceptions of historical marginalization led to
popular resentment of Minahasan dominance. That dominance had emerged
from the process by which the Dutch and Indonesian states sought to incor-
porate far-flung regions of the archipelago into an administratively coherent
state. Gorontalo’s opportunity to split away from North Sulawesi grew out of
the political turmoil in the late 1990s and the subsequent institutional changes
to Indonesia’s political system. These provided the foundations for an alliance
between social actors and elite actors spanning local, regional, and national
levels.
Over a long span of time—through the colonial period, the nationalist era,
the era of regional rebellion, and the New Order—the relationship between
North Sulawesi and the state created tensions between the Minahasans and the
Gorontalo. Both the colonial and Indonesian central state tended to privilege
the Minahasa over the Gorontalo via the administrative structures of North
Sulawesi province. These conditions left North Sulawesi compartmentalized
ethnically and religiously.
The timing of Gorontalo’s provincial movement can be attributed, in part,
to the Indonesian financial crisis of 1997, the collapse of Suharto’s govern-
ment, and subsequent political reforms in Indonesia. The students’ demands
for a new province emerged from localized events that occurred in the context
of the national reformasi movement. Students vented their frustrations against
North Sulawesi’s governor for refusing to hold local leaders accountable for
violence and corruption. As it happened, the interests of these social refor-
mers overlapped with the interests of elites at the local, regional, and national
levels to such a degree that, once initiated, the process moved quickly and
smoothly.
A key implication of this study is that, in the context of center–region ties,
the process of new-province formation is closely connected to national poli-
tics. The road to creating a new province is paved through Jakarta. Initially,
national elite support for such regional objectives and ambitions may seem
puzzling, but if examined in relation to political institutions, especially the
larger political parties that might gain legislative seats and regional influence
through such initiatives, the motives of national elites became much more
clear. This is critical because the ultimate decision for or against a new province
rests on their approval.
This insight also suggests that the relationship between center and regions
in Indonesia is more complex than is typically portrayed. In Gorontalo, the
movement to institute a new province was not about severing relations with
the central state, but rather about creating new ties and new relationships
previously not possible when the area was subsumed under North Sulawesi’s
larger provincial administrative structure. In this sense, a new Gorontalo
province was less about a region seeking to isolate itself from the state and
more about new and different kinds of access and relationships between
center and region. In other words, there seems to be a centripetal element to
new-province formation. The pattern becomes clearer as we turn to other
cases including Archipelagic Riau and West Papua.
6 Territoriality and membership
The case of Kepulauan Riau
Introduction
In Gorontalo, territorial change emerged in the context of national institu-
tional change and local difference which became territorially politicized and
made a new province easy to imagine. However, it is important to note that
not all experiences in Indonesia mirrored Gorontalo’s. Despite all the mobi-
lization that took place in the push for a new province, the overall process in
Gorontalo proved remarkably smooth. Furthermore, the idea of a new pro-
vince as a form of political, cultural, and economic redress is not the only
way in which new province movements have been triggered.
This chapter explores the experience of Riau province, which split into
two in 2004. Located on the eastern coast of Sumatra, the district of Archi-
pelagic Riau, or Kepulauan Riau (Kepri), split away from its mainland
counterpart of Mainland Riau, or Riau Daratan, after several years of
wrangling. Here, actors in both regions shared the same religion (Islam), the
Map 6.1 Map of the new Kepulauan Riau Province next to Riau Province
same relative ethnic diversity, and approximately the same level of economic
development. Furthermore, as one of the wealthier provinces in Indonesia, some
groups in the region pushed for a pan-Riau autonomy and independence move-
ment after the fall of the New Order. Contrasted with Gorontalo, Riau’s split
can tell us then about the variety of ways in which territorial change has
occurred in Indonesia and what that says about territoriality more broadly.
The debate about territoriality in Riau reflects a debate about different
kinds of membership. By membership, I refer to the way individuals see
themselves and others as part of (or not part of) a given community. At least
three different kinds of memberships were at stake. On the one hand, there
was a fundamental question about membership within the larger Riau pro-
vince and Kepri’s relationship with the Riau daratan. At the same time, there
was also a question about who could truly claim to be an orang Kepri. And
finally, interwoven between these two tensions was the question of Kepri’s
place in the larger Indonesian nation-state. These local, regional, and national
memberships are not mutually exclusive from one another, nor are they
necessarily nested within one another. Instead, the experience in the Riau
region shows the dynamics between different kinds of memberships and the
conflict and struggle that can emerge in times of change.
I begin with a narrative of the movement for a new province of Kepri. I then
take stock of the ethnic, religious, and economic background of both daratan
and kepulauan, arguing that stark differences such as those that appear in
Gorontalo do not exist in the same way in Riau. Instead, contestation over
membership within Kepri, in the larger Riau province and ultimately within
the Indonesian nation-state, help to explain the provincial split.
The movement for a new Kepri

The initial narrative of Kepri’s path to provincehood does have some similar par-
allels to Gorontalo. The movement for a new province was triggered by political
turmoil and change at the national level. And these events were articulated in the
region in highly context-dependent ways where local groups and individuals
played key roles in mobilization. For this reason it is useful to review this narrative
as a starting point to understanding the larger dynamics that emerged in Kepri.
During the political upheaval in the late 1990s, local concerns among civil
society in Kepri centered around national issues such as corruption, nepotism,
and economic policy. For example, local actors convened groups such as the
Forum Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten Kepulauan Riau (FSRKKR), or the
Solidarity Forum for Reform in District Riau Archipelago. This organization
pledged to “support the reformasi movement in the Center and in the large
cities so as to implement the reformasi movement in the regions.”1 They held
demonstrations against the district chief who was seen as a vestige of the New
Order government. Groups also burned down nightclubs, gambling joints,
checkpoints, and other places associated with political corruption.2 These
Territoriality and membership 89
early movements tended to include an array of groups including civil (secular)
society, religious groups, as well as students.
As the upheaval in Jakarta quelled, the overall direction of political move-
ments in the region shifted from national issues to local ones, and this shift
resulted in the emergence of a narrower focus on territory as embodied by
organizations such as the Komite Pemekaran Kepulauan Riau (KPKR), or
Committee for the Dividing of Archipelagic Riau. The organization sought
initially to divide what was then the district of Kepri into six separate dis-
tricts. Their justifications included administrative efficiency, empowering pre-
viously marginalized sub-districts, and being better equipped to deal with
border related issues including trade and immigration.3 Nowhere was there
mention of a proposal to create a new province.
Groups such as KPKR undertook a broad array of activities. They orga-
nized regular discussion meetings, lobbying of regional governments, and
conferences and panel discussions on the region. They also reached out to the
local residents including the various sub-districts sending letters of support
and also to Kepri’s social leaders who reside outside of Kepri in Jakarta;
Pekanbaru, Bandung and other cities. They also conducted comparative
studies in other regions with similar aspirations, organized hearings with the
local governments, and organized a Kongres Rakyat Kepulauan Riau, or
People’s Congress of Archipelagic Riau, in order to gain a consensus and
mandate on the initiative for new districts. And finally they formed links with
national actors such as national policymakers in the Ministry of Interior and
the national legislature in Jakarta.4 However, the push for new districts
proved a precursor to a larger effort to promote a new province.
The articulation for a new province of the Riau Islands emerged from a large
societal meeting, the Musyawarah Besar Masyarakat Kepri, on May 15–16,
1999, and another in 2000 which brought together representatives from all the
sub-districts of Kepri (Koran Tempo 2002). This gathering was financed by
powerful elites in the province including the governor of Riau, the district chief of
Kepri, and higher-ups at the Riau Pos, the regional paper based in the provincial
capital. These groups financed the meeting in order to encourage the splitting of
districts under the strict agreement that a new province would not be proposed.5
Thus, the original proposal at the meeting was only for creating new dis-
tricts, out of the single Kepulauan Riau district. These included the proposed
new districts of Natuna, Lingga, Karimun, Bintan, as well as two cities,
Tanjung Pinang and Batam. However, as the meeting proceeded, participants
turned to the idea of a new province that was “sesuai dengan program
reformasi” (or “appropriate with the reformasi program”). Movement parti-
cipants stated that to address the problems of poverty, to promote prosperity,
participants decided a new province was necessary.6
With the need for a new province declared, proponents established another
new organization, Badan Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Kepulauan Riau
(BP3K), or Committee to Prepare for the Creation of Island Riau Province.7
The organization was headed by local leaders such as Abdul Razak and
Sarafuddin Aluan both highly respected community leaders in Riau Archi-
pelago (Koran Tempo 2002; Kompas 2002a). Like its counterparts elsewhere,
the organization also had representatives in Jakarta to support lobbying
efforts in the national legislature as well (Republika 2002). Claiming to
represent a broad swath of society the organization leaders noted that “the
desire for a new provinces is through all components of society including
Kepri, Tanjung Pinang, Batam, Karimun, and Natuna” (Kompas 2002a).
The civil-society groups such as BP3K started to pursue this goal in full
force in 2002 at the local level by organizing demonstrations and publicizing
their demands. They held events in multiple venues including in Jakarta, in
mainland Riau, and in the archipelago itself. In May 2002 for example,
thousands of people marched in separate rallies in Riau demanding a new
province. In their marches, they burned effigies of Riau’s governor Saleh
Djasit, the provincial council chair H Chaidir, the deputy chair Wan Abubakar,
and Tabrani Rab, prominent mainland Riau proponent. All of these figures
from the provincial-level government opposed the split.
Other civil-society organizations also emerged to support the creation of a
new province, for example Gerakan Mahasiswa Perjuangan Provinsi Kepri
(GMPPK), or Student Movement to Struggle for Kepri Province, and Panitia
Hari Marwah Masyarakat Kepri, or Committee for Rose Day of Kepri the
People. The latter demonstrated near Kepri’s port in 2002 and attempted to
declare their own province and even inaugurate their own leader as the gov-
ernor of the province. This demonstration was broken up by military and
police. In December the same year, residents from all parts of Kepri traveled
to Jakarta to rally the central government for support for Kepri to become its
own province (Kompas 2002a). Hundreds of residents marched in front of the
president’s palace, the Ministry of Home Affairs, and the Bundaran Hotel
Indonesia (Kompas 2002b). Amidst all this fervor, the legislature passed a bill
in 2002 to allow Kepri to split from Riau, finally implementing it in 2004.
In many ways, the narrative of Kepri sounds similar Gorontalo’s. Events at
the national level triggered a movement at the local level that articulated
problems and objectives locally. Groups at the local level formed a set of
demands and lobbied and linked up with groups at the national level in order to
push through their demands. And while there were opponents to the split at the
provincial level, these are depicted as challenges that were overcome by the
local community. How then do some of the arguments made about Gorontalo fit
in the context of Kepri? The next section sets the demographic and economic
backdrop that is arguably quite different from the North Sulawesi case.
Diversity and territoriality in the Riau region

In Gorontalo, demographic differences overlapped with territory and identity
in a way that made a new province easily conceived. In Riau, the situation
was more complex. Before the mainland/island split, Riau province consisted
of 12 regencies. The mainland of Riau lay in the watershed of four major
river systems including some of the islands immediately off its coast. Archi-
pelagic Riau, or Kepulauan Riau, included the islands that lie further off the
coast that form an archipelago stretching from the Straits of Malacca all the
way to Borneo. Most of Kepri’s three thousand-plus islands are uninhabited, a
majority of the population clustered on the five main islands of the archipelago:
Karimun, Riau Island, Singkep-Lingga, Anambas, and Natuna.
The entire region has always been characterized by a high degree of ethnic
diversity. However, ethnic or religious groups were not organized in a neat
and compartmentalized way in the way they were in Gorontalo. For example,
in the 2000 census, respondents self-selected at least eight different ethnicities
to identify themselves.
Of the eight largest ethnic groups in the region, the Malays are the only
group that are considered truly “indigenous” or “native” to the area. To be
sure, the notion of ethnicity in the region is highly complex (L. Y. Andaya
2008). Some groups such as the Minang and the Bugis have been in the
region for hundreds of years. On a census form, they could check off “Malay”
because of intermarriage and assimilation, but these identities are likely to be
fluid and may depend on who was being asked and in what context.
The second largest group, the Javanese, arrived in the region mostly under
the transmigration program pushed by the Suharto government in the 1970s and
1980s. The government sought to relocate two and a half million people from
the “inner” islands of Java, Bali, and Madura to the less densely-populated
“Outer Islands.” Many were sent out to places such as West Papua, Kali-
mantan, and Sumatra. In Riau transmigrant sites were often located around
oil palm plantations (Hoshour 1997: 558).
The Minangkabau from neighboring West Sumatra province were also
economic migrants to the region. Minang culture has a strong emphasis on
migration, and even in pre-colonial times there were strong connections
between the western upland side of Sumatra and the coastal regions in the
east. Many arrived via the Kampar, Siak and Indragiri rivers and capitalized
on the trade routes to China and India that had been established. Many of the
Table 6.1 Ethnic groups in Riau Province in 2000

Name Percent Number
Malay 38 1,828,107
Java 25 1,190,015
Minang 7 347,450
Flores 1 14,869
Banjar 4 179,380
Bugis 2 107,648
Sunda 2 80,282
Batak 7 347,450
Sunda 2 80,282
Total 100 47,551,776
Source: BPS 2000
Minang in Riau had been there for generations and considered themselves a part
of hybrid-Malay culture (B. W. Andaya 1997: 489). After World War II, Minang
migration to Riau surged, nearly doubling between the years 1943 and 1961.8
The remaining ethnic groups in Riau were also predominantly migrants to
the region.9 Many also tended to make up a disproportionate amount of the
labor workforce that arose from the booming petroleum, timber, and oil palm
sectors on the mainland, and the factory and service jobs that have appeared
on the archipelago. This posed a tension in Riau among many of the ethnic
Malays who saw their more “Malay” province overrun by “outsiders.” This
sentiment would later feed into the autonomy movement on the mainland,
which would in turn affect the island movement for a new province.
The high inflow of migrants also meant that ethnicity, religion, and terri-
tory in Riau also did not overlap in ways they have in other parts of the
country. Recall that in North Sulawesi each of the large ethnic groups had
their own territorial “homelands” in the form of sub-provincial regencies such
as Minahasa, Gorontalo, and Bolaang-Mongondow. In Riau’s 15 adminis-
trative regions the relationship between ethnicity and territoriality is much
more complex. Table 6.2 indicates that ethnic Malays tended to be the
majority throughout the province and in each of the districts, though to
varying degrees. Table 6.3 shows that the census does not indicate a significant
difference in the ethnic composition on the mainland vs. Kepri.
The same can be said about religion. While other provinces that faced
severe conflict including Maluku and Central Sulawesi, violent inter-religious
conflict was virtually non-existent since the vast majority of the population is
Muslim. Table 6.4 shows that in comparing the two regions that split, there
do not appear to be major differences between the mainland and archipelagic
Riau in terms of religious breakdown.
Table 6.2 Ethnic groups in Riau Province in 2000 (percent)

Region Malay Java Minang Other Total
Kuantan Singingi 68 22 3 6 100
Indragiri Hulu 52 32 4 10 100
Indragiri Hilir 26 20 2 50 100
Pelalawan 51 27 4 16 100
Siak 32 35 11 20 100
Kampar 55 24 6 13 100
Rokan Hulu 31 37 3 27 100
Bengkalis 38 23 14 23 100
Rokan Hilir 39 36 0 23 100
Island Riau 41 22 6 30 100
Karimun 50 17 4 27 100
Natuna 85 6 0 7 100
Dumai 25 26 23 24 100
Pekanbaru 26 15 37 19 100
Batam 20 26 14 37 100
Source: BPS 2000
Table 6.3 Ethnic groups in Riau and Kepri in 2000 (percent)
Region Malay Java Minang Other Total
Riau 38 25 11 23 100
Kepri 37 22 9 31 100
Source: BPS 2000
Table 6.4 Religion in Riau in 2000

Name Number Percent
Islam 4,214,294 89
Catholic 68,697 1
Protestant 252,764 5
Hindu 9,059 1
Buddhist 198,710 4
Other 11,652 1
Total 4,755,176 100
Source: BPS 2000
The differences between mainland and archipelagic Riau seem minimal in

comparison to provinces which included varying ethnic and religious groups.
Together, both island and mainland Riau formed Indonesia’s Malay province.
In part, as we shall see, the census and other statistical information fail to
capture more subtle differences that emerge both within Kepri proper and
also between the mainland and the archipelago. But before exploring these
differences, it is useful to examine another possible culprit in causing regional
tensions: economic inequality.
Economy: regional development and economic trajectories

Ethnic and religious diversity appear to have limited impact in explaining the
split between Kepri and the mainland. Perhaps economic differences drove
the division between the two regions. In Gorontalo, we saw how the deep
inequality layered on top of religious and ethnic differences drove the resent-
ment in Gorontalo to split from its Northern Sulawesi counterpart. This kind
of pattern does not seem to match the experience of Riau province. Eco-
nomically, the two regions were integrated into the national development
framework and both regions grew relatively prosperous compared to other
regions in Indonesia. In fact, as a province, Riau was one of the richest
provinces in Indonesia during the New Order.
During the 1960s and 1970s, Riau’s wealth increased in the context of the
global oil boom when the Indonesian government invested heavily in the
petroleum industry based mostly off of the mainland regions of Riau. It
developed the Minas oil fields off the coast of the province and then sold oil-
drilling concessions to foreign companies. By the 1970s, the Minas fields had
become the largest source of oil in the entire country. By 1974, the revenue
equaled approximately 4.2 billion dollars, or one-sixth of the total Indonesian
GDP by 1974 (Ascher 1998: 40).
The state petroleum company, Pertamina, headed by a key Suharto ally,
General Ibnu Sutowo, became part of the patronage machine for the New
Order government. It also became part of a larger strategy of the Suharto
government to pursue off-budget development to promote industrialization
and infrastructure expansion. This meant investing not only in the oil busi-
ness, but also in tourism, insurance, automobiles, telecommunications, and
airlines (Ascher 1998: 40). Although oil revenues fell after the bankruptcy of
Pertamina, the New Order was able to shift to other resources abundant in
mainland Riau such as logging and Riau’s economy remained robust.10
The broader point is that, by the mid-1990s, Riau had the highest per
capita gross regional domestic product per capita in all of Indonesia
(Mubyarto 1997: 543). To be sure, a high degree of inequality emerged in the
region between those working in oil and industrial-related sectors versus those
working in farming and small scale plantations (Mubyarto 1997: 545). Eco-
nomic development had a negative impact on groups living in forest areas due
to the unprecedented rates of deforestation during the New Order. Other
groups such as the orang laut sometimes referred to as “sea gypsies” were also
economically marginalized (Mubyarto 1997: 545–6). In many ways, Riau
resembled a dual economy in which urban dwellers linked to industrial sec-
tors did well while those in other sectors lagged behind. However, relatively
speaking the province was no worse off than most other Indonesian provinces,
and in fact better off in aggregate.
Although much of the engine of Riau province’s economy rested on the
mainland, the Riau Islands were also integrated into the national economy
though arguably in a different fashion. The region did benefit from rich
deposits of natural resources such as bauxite, tin, and natural gas offshore
from some of the islands. But more importantly, since the 1970s, the islands in
the region were developed under the New Order as a free trade zone, capitalizing
on its proximity to Malaysia and Singapore.
In particular, President Suharto transformed one of the main islands in the
regions, Batam, into an industrial development zone. Suharto established the
Batam Industrial Development Area (BIDA) in 1971 and initially appointed
Ibnu Sutowo to head the organization (Delta Orient Private Limited 1975: 9). In
fact, Pertamina invested a great deal of capital in Batam and the initial function
was to serve as a base for offshore drilling (Gill and Sri-Aksarakomunika 1998:
18). Thus the earliest investors on Batam were oil- and gas-related companies.
After the bankruptcy of Pertamina, Sutowo was quietly dismissed and one
of President Suharto’s closest confidantes B. J. Habibie was appointed as chair
of BIDA in 1978. Although technically in Riau province, the lines of author-
ity in BIDA were drawn directly to Jakarta. To promote the development
zone and reduce red tape, Suharto declared Batam a city by decree in 1983
and all economic responsibilities were assigned to BIDA and its leadership.
Under Habibie’s management BIDA shifted from an offshore base, to a free
trade zone concentrating on manufacturing and export.11 The island also
built up a sizable tourism industry with world-class resorts and hotels. BIDA’s
business model was to lease land to industrial factories as well as to hotels
and resort developers and then charge a high tariff on them.
Archipelagic Riau in many ways then became a region that piggy-backed
on the growth of neighboring countries. In 1989, Singapore’s Prime Minister
Goh Chok Tong proposed a growth triangle between Singapore, Indonesia,
Malaysia dubbed SIJOHRI.12 This removed restrictions on foreign ownership
and allowed for foreign and joint ventures with Singaporean companies. What
resulted were dozens of joint ventures. One example was the creation of
Batamindo, a 400 million USD venture between Singapore Technologies
Industrial Corporation, Jurong Environmental Engineering and the Indonesian
Salim Group (Gill and Sri-Aksarakomunika 1998: 106).
The growth triangle essentially served as a zone where Singapore could capi-
talize on abundant land and labor. While technically, SIJOHRI encompassed all
of the Riau province and later expanded to several other provinces, the bulk of
the economic benefit was focused around BATAM and its industries. Exports
on Batam grew from a 1978 base of 330,000 USD to over 1.3 billion USD in
1994 and over 3 billion USD in 1995 (Gill and Sri-Aksarakomunika 1998: 67;
Sari 2002). This dwarfed the gross domestic regional product of about 0.8 billion
USD in 1995. In addition 45 percent of total investment on Batam was made
up of foreign direct investment. And in taking into account the tourism
industry, the whole of foreign exchange income for Batam was about 3.5 billion
USD (Sari 2002: 126). By 1996, BIDA accounted for 10 percent of all non-oil
and gas exports from Indonesia.13 All of this is to say that economically
speaking, the Kepri region performed well during the New Order era.
Like the mainland, there did remain a high level of inequality in Kepri between
those linked to the services and tourism sectors on Batam vs. those relying on
more traditional sectors in other parts of the archipelago. Furthermore, the
growth on Batam relied on high concentrations of migrant workers not just
from other parts of Indonesia, but also from Malaysia and other parts of South-
east Asia. In this sense, the economic developments in daratan and kepulauan
paint a more complex picture, not simply two relatively wealthy regions, but two
regions with aggregate wealth but also high levels of inequality.
Nonetheless, by the end of the New Order, both Riau and Kepri were
firmly embedded in the national Indonesian economy and were thus impor-
tant economic and political assets for the New Order regime. Both areas were
also relatively well developed though Archipelagic Riau was much more tied
into the international economy with their export processing zone. This sepa-
rateness would become important once the differences between the two
regions began to re-emerge because it meant that Kepri had its own viable
economic base to separate from the relatively wealthy mainland neighbor.
Nonetheless, the capacity to split from Riau with an independent economic
base still does not answer the question of why it would choose to do so.
A rejection of membership
If ethnic, religious nor economic differences appear to be the root of the terri-
torial division in Riau, what kinds of factors might drive the two regions apart?
The case of Kepri shows how territory was more than just a set of material
resources to rectify economic and political marginality. A new province was also
about redefining the question of membership in the Riau region. For many this
meant recovering a lost sense of status and recognition from an idyllic past.
In many ways, Kepri came to be defined by what it was not. Winachakul,
in talking about nationalism in Thailand, calls this a “negative identity”
(Winachakul 1997b: 3). For Kepri, the boundary between the new province
and the old province established was both political as well as cultural. This
rejection was not based fundamentally on economic differences or ethnicity
per se. Instead, it was based on a desire for recognition and prestige. The new
province movement for Archipelagic Riau can be seen then as, ironically, a
reaction against the move for an independent Riau province that emerged in
the mainland in the late 1990s.
Mobilizing pan-provincial autonomy

In the wake of political changes occurring in Indonesia in the late 1990s, the
reformasi movement fueled deep resentment against Jakarta in many parts of
Indonesia, including Riau province and especially among those in the capital
of Pekanbaru. On the one hand, local Malays felt marginalized and under-
represented in the provincial government and locals argued that leadership
positions in the government were going to outsiders instead of locals or putra
daerah.
As the state gradually centralized power in the post-revolutionary period,
territorial reorganization carved out a Riau province out of a former Central
Sumatra province as described in Chapter 3. But under the New Order gov-
ernment, the province came under an even tighter grip of the central govern-
ment in Jakarta. The top officials in the regional administration were mostly
from the government Golkar party (Malley 1999a: 387). Most key positions
such as governor were typically held by ethnic Javanese and Minangkabau
rather than Malays (Derks 1997: 705).
The only local Malay to hold the governorship during the New Order was
Arifin Achmad, in 1967–78. A member of Golkar and appointed by Suharto
he helped strengthen and channel votes to the government party. But Golkar’s
and Arifin’s popularity waned in later years. In order to shore up support
among his local constituents, Arifin demanded 1 percent of the oil revenues of
Riau be returned in order to benefit his own people. As a result he was
quickly marginalized by Jakarta and allegedly the government launched a smear
campaign in order to discredit him (Derks 1997: 706). Subsequent governors
were Javanese military generals firmly in Suharto’s control and well embedded in
Golkar as well. These included leaders such as Imam Munandar who Suharto
appointed in 1980 and the appointment of Soeripto from 1988 to 1993.14
In addition to the feeling of political exclusion, proponents of an indepen-
dent Riau felt they were getting a raw deal in terms of economic distribution
in the archipelago. There was a significant disjuncture between the amount
that Riau contributed to the national economy and the relative amount they
received back in return. This sentiment was not new and in fact had been
increasing since the mid-1970s. As late as 2000, 15 percent out of two billion
dollars in oil revenue went to Caltex Pacific Indonesia, the primary contractor
while the remaining 85 percent went straight to Jakarta (Colombijn 2000).
During the New Order, resistance to Jakarta was seen largely as futile. To that
end elites prioritized maintenance and strengthening of a Malay cultural identity
(Derks 1997: 704–5). Cultural revitalization took place through the establishment
of cultural centers and research on language and literature (Wee 2002: 502).
For example, the University of Riau established a Center for Malay Language
and Culture Studies, including a new cultural journal called Dawak (Ink). The
Malay Chamber of Commerce which brought together business people not just
from Malaysia and Indonesia, but from other diasporas in the region. Organizing
along ethnic Malay lines whether cultural or economic then helped to
strengthen the Malay identity, even as resentment of outside rule festered.
These sorts of activities then helped to lay the foundations for a Riau Malay
identity in the province. Thus it came as no surprise when, during the reformasi
movement, some groups in the region began to push for more independence
from Jakarta. In March of 1999, amidst the demonstrations for reformasi, stu-
dents from the University of Riau and other local universities in Pekanbaru
began to call for an independent Riau or Riau Merdeka. They marched to the
office of a leading cultural figure, Professor Tabrani Rab, demanding he declare
independence for Riau. Rab read the statement handed to him by students
calling for Riau’s sovereignty or berdaulat.15 The act of students forcing a
respected leader to declare independence was likely meant to recall the circum-
stances of Sukarno’s declaration of independence which was forced upon him
by students on August 15, 1945. Rab eventually endorsed the notion of a free
and independent Riau and along with Al Azhar, another respected leader in the
community, organized a large scale movement calling for Riau’s independence.
In addition to those pushing for independence, there were also groups and
individuals arguing for more autonomy. A more reformist group headed by
Governor Saleh Djasit did not demand immediate independence but rather
called for a 10 percent increase in oil revenues, and threatened violence and
unrest if not accommodated (Colombijn 2000). Djasit also worked closely
with national-level elite figures from Riau who sympathized with their pre-
dicament. For example former Minister of Interior Syawran Hamid argued
for a federal model of the Indonesian state rather than the unitary model
(The Jakarta Post 1999a). However, federalism was broadly dismissed by
most Indonesians who associated it with a Dutch legacy of divide and rule.
Riau Merdeka then was a smaller but vocal political movement pushing for
an independent state but one which raised eyebrows in Jakarta in the context
of widespread regional instability in the early years after the fall of Suharto.
Their actions included demonstrations, declarations, and lobbying with
national elites. It did not include an armed resistance as in other regions.
Nonetheless, while it may have been a relatively small movement in retrospect,
the uncertainty at the time led to concerns among key national-level actors.
However, for activists of Kepri province, the notion of Kepri joining the
Riau Merdeka movement largely rang hollow. While many of the activities
identified above helped to lay the foundation for a more pan-Riau identity in
the area, it also belied a cultural and political competition between mainland
and archipelago. With many of these activities centered in the capital of Riau,
Pekanbaru, there was also a sense that the agenda was being set by the dar-
atan rather than the kepulauan. For many in Kepri the creation of a new
province trumped the idea of joining Riau Merdeka.
Rejecting Riau Merdeka

As political change at the national level in Indonesia trickled down to the regions,
one of the key questions that emerged revolved around the issue of who could
legitimately claim to be a member of the local community. In the post-Suharto
era, the term putra asli daerah came to be a popular term that captured this
dilemma. Putra asli daerah, or “true son of the region,” refers to the idea that
ethnically local individuals should reclaim positions in the political system after
years of having outsiders occupying government positions during the New Order.
In Kepri, this emphasis on local identity emerged strongly and came to be
epitomized in the push for a Kepri province, in which at least two different kinds
of groups emerged. One group can be called the cultural elite. For these propo-
nents a new province would restore the ancient Sultanate of Riau Lingga
(Faucher 2005). These individuals were often referred to as the local aristocrats
because of their lineage to an ancient sultanate. A second group of mobilizers
included a more secular elite who saw new political potential in a new province.
In terms of aristocratic elites, these included cultural figures who could
trace their lineage back to the traditional Riau-Lingga kingdom (Faucher
2005: 128). They saw a new province as an opportunity to revive the old sul-
tanate and among other things, reintroduce traditional social practices such
as adat and Shariah or Islamic Law (Faucher 2005: 128). Wee has called this
a process of “atavism” which she defines as a “reversion to a past style,
manner, outlook, or approach” (Wee 2002: 503). Atavism on Kepri was
characterized by several different kinds of discourses that justified the split
between mainland and archipelagic Riau. Often these emphasized different
historical origins or experiences while underplaying the various similarities
that might exist. In Kepri, the elites who pushed these discourses included the
raja-raja or local kings from the island of Penyengat and their kin. These raja
were revered for the study and preservation of Malay language and culture.
The backdrop to this reverence is that historically, Kepri is said to have been
home to the last line of royalty of the Sultanate of Malacca that dominated
the region in the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. While the previous Srivijaya
empire had largely operated from Sumatra, the locus of regional power shifted
to the Malay peninsula with the rise of Melaka. Melaka however, would bump
up against the arrival of colonial powers and power would be redistributed in
the region based on European attempts to monopolize the spice trade.
The Portuguese arrival in 1511 led eventually to the fall of the Melaka
sultanate. Melaka’s last ruler before the Portuguese invasion, Sultan Machmud,
fled and eventually established himself on Bintan Island in the Riau archipelago.
From this base, he hoped to fight and ultimately oust the Portuguese and take
back his realm. After several unsuccessful attacks against Melaka, the Portuguese
proceeded to destroy Bintan and the Sultan escaped again, this time to Johor
on the southern tip of the Malay peninsula where his descendants established
a new sultanate (B. W. Andaya and L. Y. Andaya 2001: 59).
The arrival of the Dutch in the early 1600s proved to be of great benefit to
the Johor sultanate, the successor to Melaka. In the Dutch, Johor saw an ally
with which to counter both the Portuguese and the growing influence of Aceh
to the north. By 1606, the VOC and Johor negotiated an alliance where the
Dutch would control Melaka, while Johor would control the Riau-Lingga
Islands and their surrounding areas (B. W. Andaya and L. Y. Andaya 2001: 72).
This allowed Johor and the Riau islands to claim the mantle of Malay culture
for much of the eighteenth century. In the nineteenth century, Johor and
Riau-Lingga split into competing kingdoms with the Malay-Bugis establish-
ing a new Riau-Lingga sultanate in the Riau archipelago. The remnants of
this sultanate continue on in the Kepri archipelago today, embodied in the
aristocratic elites that still occupy relatively high social status in Kepri.
During reformasi, many of the aristocrats, numbering in the hundreds,
participated in the mass rallies and lobbying efforts of the local organizations
(Faucher 2005: 135). Also highlighted in the justification for a new province
were the cultural differences of the Kepri Malays vs. the mainland Malays.
One oft-cited difference consisted of the lineage patterns, which on Kepri were
traditionally patrilineal while those on the mainland, perhaps due to West
Sumatran influence, tended to be matrilineal.16 For these groups, a key way to
membership revolved around archipelagic Riau’s royal lineage.
But because of the historical arguments, religious elites defined Malay
identity based on a relatively narrow scope of lineage. This in turn meant that
orang Kepri should be “Malay” and, in fact, “true Malay.” If the “true
Malays” were ready to revitalize a new territory it implied that those without
similar lineage and particularly migrants were by definition, second class
citizens. Ironically, this ignored the lineage of the Bugis in the Riau/Lingga
sultanate who historically came from Sulawesi (Faucher 2005: 129). Still the
vision of aristocrats who supported Kepri then was ultimately exclusive.
While many of the culturally Malay elite in Kepri advocated the new pro-
vince as a way of “purifying” Malay culture, mainland opponents argued that
splitting up the provinces would equate to splitting Malay culture. In
response, Kepri advocates insisted that the new division would be adminis-
trative only and that cultural ties between the mainland and the islands could
and would remain strong. As one Malay leader noted, “In the movement at
the time, we wanted to protect the relationship with Pekanbaru. If we separated
with Pekanbaru then Melayu would be separated. So we kept the relationship.
Melayu is like water. Even if chopped, it cannot be divided.”17 In this sense,
we can interpret the cultural elites not as dismissing the larger Malay identity
but seeking to strengthen their own status within it.
A second set of supporters for a new province consisted of individuals and
groups who saw the political potential in a new province. These individuals
and groups were markedly less religious in their outlook. Members in this
camp included a broad array civil society groups but particularly student
groups, other Malay groups, and migrants. For these supporters, a new province
had to do with the political and economic potential of the region.
Many informants in Kepri emphasized that the city of Tanjung Pinang in
the archipelago had historically been the capital of the region until 1961 when
it was moved to the mainland city of Pekanbaru. Part of this was because of
the influx of non-citizen Chinese who made up some 11.7 percent of popula-
tion in Tanjung Pinang at the time. There may have been doubts about the
loyalty of the Chinese given their strong connections to Singapore and
Malaysia (B. W. Andaya 1997: 509) But for many, the move represented the
theft of their political status. A new province would mean Tanjung Pinang’s
role as provincial capital could be restored.
Among the key leaders of this secular vision of Kepri included Huzrin Hood,
the district chief or bupati of the Kepri regency. Hood played an active leadership
role in BP3K, the civil society organization calling for a Kepri province. Huzrin
Hood also headed the Forum Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten Kepulauan
Riau, founded during the reformasi period, and local supporters noted that
Hood’s leadership and abilities were critical in Kepri’s success for new province
formation. Hood’s intention was to become governor of the new province and he
himself claimed to be the strongest candidate for the governorship (Faucher
2007: 246). However, in November 2003, he was found guilty of swindling Rp
4.3 billion from the local budget. He was given two years in prison and ordered
to repay Rp. 3.4 billion of the funds and since then lost all of his legal appeals.
Hood is largely seen by his supporters as a victim of the successful Kepri
province. Playing on his name, many referred to him as Kepri’s Robin Hood
who stole from the government to help the common people.18 While Hood
was not the only person involved in pilfering he was the only one convicted
and serving time. Other local political elites saw advantages to a new pro-
vinces. Their own political aspirations they saw as having been limited by
Kepri’s relatively minor status within the larger Riau province. Provincehood
opened the door to many new higher ranking positions than those available
under a “mainland-centric” province.
Although Hood and other elites had their own interests and agenda, they
also came to embody the secular, non-aristocratic, elements of the movement.
Civil-society groups and individuals who did not have the same lineage connec-
tions as the aristocrats of Kepri rejected support for the resurrection of a neo-
sultanate in any shape or form. For these groups, membership in Kepri was seen
as something more secular, more open, and ultimately more cosmopolitan.
In this sense, two competing visions of members in Kepri emerged during the
movement for a new province. On the one hand, those with lineage ties to the
Riau Lingga sultanate clearly supported a vision of the future that emphasized
the past including a reversion to traditional practices rooted in Islamic law. A
second group proved more secular and cosmopolitan. However, for both of
these groups, the question of who is orang Kepri came to be defined by what
they were not, with a strong rejection of membership in their inclusion in Riau.
Because of the way the debate came to be framed, the movement for Kepri
province did face strong opposition among actors in the mainland, particu-
larly those based in the capital of Pekanbaru. The main disapproval stemmed
from governor Saleh Djasit, though the provincial legislature was also split on
the issue. As noted earlier, the provincial opposition must be understood in
the context of the movement within Riau for more autonomy.
Djasit’s opposition to a new province was seen in the context of his extremely
weak position in Riau. He was unable to forge strong networks at the pro-
vincial level because many in Riau supported the movement for merdeka or
independence. On the other hand, he also lacked credibility with the central
government. As a representative of the central government in the regions he
had been unable to prevent the movement for an independent Riau. In that
regard, he saw the importance of holding Riau together lest that be another
permanent stain on his record as governor.
The political parties in the legislature were initially split over this matter.
The main supporters of Kepri were the larger parties such as PDI-P and
Golkar which saw the potential benefit of a new province for their respective
parties both in the national arena as well as on the ground. Many of the other
parties opposed the process. However, it is unclear exactly what their moti-
vations were. Both opponents and proponents of Kepri claimed that the
DPRD had been bought off by the opposing side.
The Jakarta Post, for example, reported that every member of the Riau pro-
vincial legislative council, composed of 55 members, had been bribed (Tanjung
2002). In an earlier vote in 2002, only 25 of 55 councilors voted in favor of the
proposal while 32 opposed it. Twenty-five were from the Golkar and PDI-P
party (Tanjung 2002). In a later vote the same year, all members of the council
supported the new province. Allegedly, each member was paid 50 million rupiah
for their support (Tanjung 2002). But others argued that the original opponents
of the bill were also bribed receiving some 60 to 70 million rupiah in the process.
Corruption aside, the conflicts over creating a new province of Kepri had
few clear ethnic or religious lines. Rather there was the sense of lost status vis-
à-vis the mainland among Kepri’s activists and elites. Joining a Riau Merdeka
movement would do little to recover that status, while new provincehood
would break relations with the mainland and recover some degree of lost
status and power. Kepri residents felt that with more resources flowing from
Island Riau to the mainland than vice versa, there was little advantage to
joining a separate sovereign state which would, as Wee notes, “lead to only a
change of masters but no change in the current relationship” (Wee 2002: 511).
National membership
Also driving the debate for a new province of Kepri was a discussion of its place
in the Indonesian nation-state. In part, Kepri’s rejection of Riau was based on
what they deemed their already direct connections to Jakarta. At the same
time, national-level initiatives to allow Kepri to go forward also show how
actors in Jakarta were also concerned about mainland Riau’s membership in
the Indonesian nation. In that regard, support for Kepri was in many ways a
game of divide and rule for national groups, particularly the military.
On the one hand, economic development discussed earlier meant that the
archipelago had unusual and direct links to Jakarta. This is particularly evi-
dent in the New Order’s involvement in the Batam Islands, one of the engines
of the economy in Kepri. Under Habibie, BIDA and Batam became very
much a family business. He assigned his younger sister Rejeki Sudarsono as
head of the Batam Family Foundation, an organization that was accused of
holding an indirect monopoly over the island’s schools and hospitals. He also
placed his brother-in-law, Sudarsono Darmosuwito as head of BIDA’s daily
operations allowing him to build a small business empire. Habibie’s son
Thareq Kemal and his brother Suyatim Abdulrachman were also awarded
rights to build ship facilities on the island. The two, along with another son
Ilham Akbar, held interests in BatamIndo Industrial Park facility. Suyatim
also had separate stakes in sea-transport companies in Batam (Tesoro 1998).
President Suharto’s friends and family were also clearly a part of the BIDA
patronage structure. One of his closest business partners, Liem Sioe Liong,
formed a partnership with two other Singaporean companies to build an
industrial park for electronics companies (Malley 1999b: 424). Suharto’s sons,
“Bambang” and “Tommy,” were also said to have substantial stakes in busi-
ness related to BIDA. That the very top leadership of the Indonesian gov-
ernment was invested in large stakes of development in the Riau Islands also
suggests the possibility that a major reason for central government support to
create a new province was to guard over that wealth.19
Politically, this suggests that part of the fight for a new province was about
Batam and its economic resources. Some in Kepri expressed concern that
Batam would be extricated from the region altogether and made its own
administrative region called Barelang (which includes Batam and some sur-
rounding islands of Rempang and Galang). And so from the local perspective, a
swift resolution of a new province and Batam’s place in that province was
critical in order to retain the considerable economic resources of Batam.20
At the same time, actors in Riau sought to build national-level support for
a new Kepri province by exposing the alleged activities of the sovereignty
movement on mainland Riau. In particular, local activists fanned the flames
of Jakarta’s apprehension with Riau Merdeka. Supporters of Kepri province
went so far as to present “evidence” showing how well prepared the groups in
mainland Riau were in declaring independence. This raised concern with the
President (Megawati at the time) who allegedly called together military advisors
from various military branches and departments.21
This resulted in the involvement of two intelligence agencies who aided
local groups in the process of Kepri’s split. The first of these was the National
Intelligence Agency or BIN. Reports in local media suggested that leaders
such as Hood worked to pay off legislators by employing agents of BIN who
then carried out the actual payoffs. Allegedly the acting agent was a two-star
Army officer (Tanjung 2002). The money used for payoffs was from the gov-
ernment office of Kepri Regent Huzrin Hood (Tanjung 2002). At the same
time, in an unusually public move, Major General Muchdi PR a high-level
official in BIN, noted that he strongly supported the creation of a Kepri province
and called for patience as the administrative details were finalized.
The Badan Inteligens Abri or BIA also took a strong interest in new pro-
vince formation. The commandant of Satuan Tugas at the time lent their
support to local activists. Abri’s intelligence unit had closer connections to
local leaders of the movement and offered a quid pro quo. Specifically they
exchanged support for Kepri as long as they were willing to oppose initiatives
from Riau Merdeka.22 Thus in their official declaration of a new province,
they explicitly state their rejection of Riau Merdeka in the very beginning of
the document.23 Also, activists from Kepri staged a walk-out at a general
meeting on Riau Merdeka organized in Pekanbaru.24
The involvement of BIN and BIA suggests that the creation of Kepri was
also considered a matter of national security and more precisely a way to
undermine the Riau separatist movement. This logic of divide-and-rule makes
particular sense because of the potentially complementary economic resources
between Riau and Kepri. Riau mainland is rich in natural resources while
Kepri has focused on foreign investment, manufacturing, and export growth.
Furthermore, the military may have had an interest in new provinces and
kabupatens because the process increases the number of postings and thus
more places where officers can be posted.25 Thus, one of the most receptive
political parties to the efforts of the movement was the ABRI party. Activists
noted that key ABRI party members actually introduced the efforts in the
parliament and pushed it through.26 But other national parties also had inter-
ests in creating a new province. Golkar, for example, was one of the major
beneficiaries. They ended up having a plurality of the seats in the provincial
legislature. PDI-P, which also supported the bill, emerged with the second
largest number of seats in the legislature. In the end, Golkar candidate Ismeth
Abdullah also won the election for governorship. Abdullah had also been
Habibie’s successor at BIDA after Habibie became vice-president to Suharto.
Thus he had close connections not only with Golkar but with the New Order
figures invested heavily in Batam.27
Activists for Kepri also lobbied other political parties including organizing
a Musyawarah Partai Partai Politik Kepulauan Riau in Jakarta in September
2003. Representatives of the major parties were all invited, including Golkar,
PBR, PNBK, PBB, PKB, PAN, PKS, PDIP, and PPP. This meeting was
designed to address and alleviate any perceived problems to new province
formation for the national level legislators who would ultimately be voting on
the bill to allow the Riau Islands to become its own province. In general,
local offices of national parties benefited also because of new infrastructure
and new patronage. Each province has a party headquarters which would
otherwise have remained in Pekanbaru.28
In fact, in the case of Riau, the national legislature actually passed the law
to approve the creation of Kepri province before there was any approval from
the governor and the provincial legislature, as stipulated by law. This became
so contentious that opponents brought a suit before the Supreme Court of
Indonesia. The Court ruled in favor of the legislation arguing that the gov-
ernment did indeed have the right to create a new province, even without the
approval of the provincial-level government.
National membership then, became a critical way in which the debate
about a new province came to be mediated. National political elites in the
legislature as well as the military saw national unity as a principle reason to
support Kepri’s provincial aspirations especially because it undermined any
potential threats of a mainland Riau province that sought independence or
even unreasonable levels of autonomy.
Conclusion
By 2004, the Riau Islands had finally achieved provincehood after nearly five
years of wrangling in Jakarta and at the regional level. On the one hand,
Kepri’s case illustrates similarities with other cases of new province formation
and territorial coalitions or the linkage politics between center and periphery as
well as between social movements and political elites. Political, social, and
economic linkages between different administrative levels play important parts
in other regional splits. In this sense, the experience of Kepri is consistent with
the larger argument made in this book that coalitional politics are critical in
understanding the territorial changes undertaken during Indonesia’s transition.
Kepri did face major stumbling blocks, most notably from its “mother
province.” Because of the autonomy movement on Riau that sought pan-
provincial integrity, many individuals and groups organized and mobilized
against Kepri’s move. But ultimately, they were not able to build as strong a
coalition as the proponents. The best they were able to do was to slow the
process down. The provincial-level actors were more isolated from allies at the
national level because of their support for either independence or federalism.
And there was scant collaboration between provincial elites and local-level
opponents of proliferation in Kepri proper.
In this way, Kepri’s experience also has to be understood as occurring in a
particular historical context of the region where post-Suharto reformasi move-
ments led to regional tensions between Riau and Jakarta. These dynamics
then affected other intra-provincial relations in a way that drew Jakarta and
Kepri together with a common objective of marginalizing Pekanbaru. Said
differently, national institutional changes can filter down to the locality in
different ways and thus create different kinds of experiences in the regions.
In particular, much of how we can understand Kepri’s push for a new pro-
vince can be thought about in terms of membership and the redefinition and
interaction of multiple kinds of identity at the local, regional, and national
level. Said differently, the movement for a new Kepri province needs to be
understood as a triangular politics between Kepri, Riau daratan, and Jakarta
where the former sought to restore lost political and cultural status by linking
directly with Jakarta rather than joining an independent Riau.
Part of this story of membership included a rejection of inclusion in mainland
Riau. When Riau mainland wanted to secede from the Indonesian state, Kepri
had little need or interest in going along. Whereas the mainland was fed up with
its “exploitation” and felt it had the resources to go its own way as an inde-
pendent state, the Islands were much more cautious. They had benefited greatly
from New Order era projects, particularly the Batam Industrial District. But
actors in the mainland were reluctant to let such an important source of income
go. Riau Archipelago’s international trade ties and industrial development zones
could nicely complement the natural-resource-driven wealth on the mainland.
Membership is often articulated through particular discourses that have
been employed as a way to highlight difference. This was certainly the case
between Kepri and Riau daratan. Actors on Kepri highlighted their distinct
Malay lineage as well as their different economic development patterns. Some
of these narratives, we have seen produced internal tensions between groups
including the religious elites and the secular groups. In this sense, there were
debates about membership within Kepri itself despite the consensus rejecting
membership with Riau daratan.
Territory and the drawing of a new provincial boundary between daratan
and kepulauan can thus be understood as a way of validating that difference
in a legal and physical way. In this way, I argue that while material incentives
play an important role in thinking about the new province movement, they
underlie a broader notion of cultural and political status that came to man-
ifest itself after the fall of the New Order regime in the context of decen-
tralization and democratization. To be an “orang Kepri” meant not so much
a rejection but a refinement of being an “orang Riau” and it did embrace the
idea of being a “orang Indonesia.”
Ultimately, Kepri’s experience reinforces the notion that the creation of new
provinces and new districts does not pose a particular threat to its territorial
integrity in the way that the “old” regionalist movements had. The internal
fragmentation has a centripetal element that maintains and even strengthens
the territoriality of the state. While the long-term impacts are difficult to
assess, it suggests that Indonesia’s cohesion, so commonly questioned in the
early days of reformasi, shall persist and even thrive despite deep changes in
political and territorial structure.
7 Elite conflict and pressure from above
Dividing West Papua
Introduction
On January 27, 2003, President Megawati Sukarnoputeri issued Instruksi
President No. 1 calling for the division of West Papua into three separate pro-
vinces (Kompas 2003b). The presidential fiat determined the boundaries among
the three provinces, gave guidance on the creation of provincial legislatures,
and activated the positions of governor and other parts of the bureaucracy for
the new provinces (ICG 2003: 7).
Megawati’s Inpres actually revived Law No. 45 passed in October of 1999,
calling for a similar division of Papua. That law had been cast aside in 2001
when the government led by then-President Abdurrahman Wahid proffered
special autonomy status to Papua Province.1 Thus Megawati’s decision to
resurrect Law 45 came as a surprise to many. It had been made without broad
consultation among Papuans despite the significant implications of such a
move (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 39).
Map 7.1 Map of the new West Irian Province next to West Papua Province
Elite conflict and pressure from above 107
As such, the 2003 Inpres provoked strong opposition. All the Papuans in
the national legislature opposed the split. In addition, major leaders of the
provincial assembly, the local Golkar party, senior political figures, aca-
demics, major NGOs, and representatives from religious groups all voiced
their opposition. The local Papuan Presidium Council, an executive council
composed of Papuan leaders, also opposed the split as did most student
groups in the area (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 38). Opponents were strong
enough to stop the creation of a Central Irian province, while West Irian
province was ultimately approved after a significant delay.
As in other places, Jakarta’s call for new provinces centered around argu-
ments of efficiency. Since 1999, the number of districts in West Papua had
increased from 14 to 28 (Kompas 2003e). No other province in Indonesia had
so many districts and thus new provinces would enable better, more effective
management of the province (D. King 2003: 91). A local official who sup-
ported Megawati’s decision noted, “Every time we go from Manokwari or
from other districts to go to Jayapura (the capital of West Papua), it’s hard to
meet the governor. He’s either in Jakarta or abroad” (Kompas 2003e). But
once again, arguments of efficiency belie a deeper politics.
Papua’s reasons for the split seem to have little in common with the pre-
vious two examples in Gorontalo and Kepri. On the one hand, there is little
evidence that the people in West Irian felt marginalized or frustrated with the
rest of the brethren in West Papua province. Similarly there appears to be
little debate regarding different types of membership or assertion of local
“West Irian” identity.
What this case shows is that Papua’s fate was tied up in intra-elite conflicts
in Jakarta about its future in the Indonesian nation-state. While few in
Jakarta supported full-on independence, there were splits among policy-
makers and elites about how much and what kind of autonomy Papua should
have. In particular, the Wahid administration promoted a vision of “Special
Autonomy” for Papua, while his successor, Megawati, envisioned Papua as a
much more integral part of the Indonesian nation. Different alliances between
these actors and political parties, the military and other elites helped to trigger
the push for a new province in Papua.
In this sense, this third case of territorial change illustrates an example of a
new province created by the central state, largely for national interests
including military/security reasons as well as national-level parties. While the
security imperative also influenced the case of Riau, it dominated West
Papua’s split because of the region’s ongoing separatist movement and its
natural-resource wealth.
More importantly however, the chapter highlights that even in such a case,
actors at the local level, particularly local elites who also had clear interests in
seeing new provinces created, worked together with national-level actors to
make the new provinces a reality. In this sense, the chapter highlights the
continued importance of territorial coalitions as Jakarta could not accomplish
its goals alone.
In the following I give some background to the setting of the region, high-
lighting the area’s diversity and contrasting it with both the North Sulawesi
and Riau cases. I then explore the process of state formation and how
Papua’s experience of Indonesian rule influenced regionalist movements.
Ultimately these then explain why and how the province of West Papua
becomes divided.
Ethnicity, religion, and development

The arguments put forth in the previous chapters about differences in identity,
economic difference, or even status vis-à-vis the mother province do not help
explain the case of the splits on Papua. In Kepri, one characteristic of the
region is the relative uniformity of ethnicity (Malay), religion (Islam), and
language (Malay). Papua, on the other hand, is one of the most diverse places
on the planet. Papua dwarfs both North Sulawesi and Riau in the number of
ethnic groups. The official statistics indicate over 250 distinct ethnic groups,
and roughly the same number of languages throughout the province.2
It is also the largest of Indonesia’s provinces. The most recent estimates
suggest the population is about 2.6 million people, or about 1 percent of
Indonesia’s entire population. The province is also just over 160,000 square
miles, making it three times the size of Java and Bali combined. The geo-
graphical terrain in the province varies highly with coastal regions, deep valleys,
snow-capped mountains, lakes, jungles, and river basins.
The remoteness and inaccessibility of many parts of Papua has also meant
that historically ethnic or tribal groups had limited contact with the outside
world. This was particularly true of the inland and highland areas, while the
coastal regions did have contact with some groups including traders passing
to or from Maluku. Relative to many other regions in Indonesia, Papua has
also historically been underdeveloped prompting both the Dutch and the Indo-
nesians to consider the region “backwards” and in need of “modernization,”
through investments in education, health, and infrastructure.
In fact, the Dutch laid claim to the region only in 1848, almost two and a
half centuries after establishing themselves in the East Indies archipelago. The
Dutch focus was less on Papua itself, but in the land that could serve as a
buffer against British and German interests in the eastern portion of the
island. The basis of the Dutch claim on Western New Guinea came indirectly
through the Sultan of Tidore. The Sultanate in the Moluccas claimed
authority over the region and, by the system of colonial indirect rule, the
Sultan was considered a “vassal” of the Dutch (Saltford 2003: 1).
It would be another 50 years, in 1898, until nominal administration was
finally established in the area under the authority of the Dutch resident in
Ternate. The region was allotted a small budget in addition to its new
administrative status (Bertrand 2004: 145). This was also the period when
Dutch colonial missionaries began to convert Papuans who lived in the
accessible and coastal areas laying the ground work for mass conversions later
on. By 1950, 160,000 Papuans would be Christian (McGibbon 2004: 7). By
2000, a majority of the population would be Christian (see Table 7.1).
In addition to the diversity, and the mass conversions on Papua, a third
characteristic of the area is the mass migration to the region over the past
century. Only in the 1920s and 1930s did the Dutch begin a concerted effort
to set up administration offices in the area. Although the numbers tended to
rise and fall over the decade, as late as 1939, there were still only 15 official
European administrators in West New Guinea and some 200 European
residents in total (Bertrand 2004: 145).
However, as the Dutch began to take a stronger interest in West New
Guinea, the demographic picture would change markedly. Because of the
perceived “backwardness” of Papuans due to their relative isolation com-
pared with other groups in the archipelago, government positions were often
allotted to outsiders. Although the Dutch employed the system of indirect
rule, elevating and governing through local chiefs in much of the archipelago,
in Papua, they employed other natives from other parts of the archipelago to
rule, particularly those from the Maluku or Minahasa areas (McGibbon
2004: 9). Colonial business enterprises would also employ similar strategies
and thus began a pattern of high in-migration for Papua.
After being transferred to Indonesian hands in 1963, West Papua (or Irian
Jaya as it was renamed) again experienced a jump in migration, both official
transmigration as well as spontaneous migration. Many of the early migrants
were those coming to fill government positions of the new provincial bureau-
cracy or skilled employees of large companies (Arndt 1986: 167). In the 1970s,
there was also an influx of wage laborers and farmers (McGibbon 2004: 15).
While much of the official migration came from Java, much of the “spontaneous”
migration came from the island of Sulawesi (McGibbon 2004: 25).
Unofficial numbers suggest that between 1979 and 1989, the number of
migrants ranged between 70,000 and 150,000, compared to the local Papuan
population of about 1.2 million (Bertrand 2004: 152). In 1971, migrants made
up about 4 percent of the Papuan population. By 2000, they constituted 35
percent, a total of one million people out of a total population of 2.6 million.
Moreover, like in other regions of Indonesia, migrants often took a dis-
proportionate number of jobs in both government and the private sector
(Bertrand 2004: 152). They also tend to be clustered in urban areas such that
native Papuans were often a minority in these cities. Many in Papua thus
came to see migration as the primary source of their own poverty, through
intrusion extraction and new forms of colonization (McGibbon 2004: 22).
Table 7.1 Religion in Papua in 2000 (percent)

Province Protestant Catholic Islam Hindu Buddhist
West Papua 54 24 22 0.3 0.1
West Irian 58 15 26 0.3 0.2
Source: BPS 2000
The demographics of Papua then, on the one hand, offer only limited value
in explaining the justification for the splits on Papua. With hundreds of
groups, there is little compartmentalization of territory and ethnicity as there
was in North Sulawesi. At the same time, there is no single dominant ethnicity
in each of the regions like the Malays in the case of Riau. Instead, the groups
in Papua are much smaller and more fragmented.
Ultimately, the high inflow of migrants and the historical experience with
the Indonesian state has helped to consolidate a native Papuan identity, based
around the Papuan province, despite the high level of diversity. The history of
the last 50 years is thus one of consolidation around a Papuan national
identity that seeks self-determination and independence. In many ways, it
makes the division of West Papua all that much more puzzling. However, it is
crucial to understanding the dynamics of the territorial change in the area.
This development is the primary focus of the rest of this chapter and the main
source of Papua’s recent division.
Early clashing visions of Papua

The future of Papua in many ways is co-terminous with the Indonesian
Republic itself and exemplifies the problems of state-making in the early
years. In particular, West Papua, or “West New Guinea” as it was called at
the time, emerged as a point of dispute between the Dutch and the newly
declared Republic in the period following World War II. Two days after
Japan’s surrender, Sukarno and Hatta declared Indonesia’s independence,
while the Dutch were intent on reestablishing their old colony in the East
Indies. During the ensuing conflict, the Dutch and the Indonesians engaged in
several rounds of negotiations on the future of the Indies.
The Dutch vision for Papua was one that would be granted special status
so that it could be established as a Eurasian homeland (Lijphart 1966: 11).
Aside from this early request, the status of West New Guinea was rarely
mentioned in talks and its status remained unclear throughout the remainder
of the conflict. But the issue came to a head at the 1949 Round Table Con-
ference when the Dutch formally agreed to transfer sovereignty of the East
Indies to the Indonesian Republic. The Indonesian side had understood that
“all regions” of Dutch colonial administration would be transferred to them,
but the Dutch refused to hand over West New Guinea.
For both sides the issue was symbolic. The region had little strategic value
and its natural resource potential was largely unrealized. For the Dutch,
keeping West New Guinea was a way for them to save face after being
expelled from the archipelago and seeing their overseas empire dismantled.
For Indonesians, it became a question of nationalism. Refusal to cede Papua
was seen by the nationalist leadership as an affront to Indonesia’s right to all of
its territories as a newly-independent and sovereign state. Unable to agree on
the future of Papua, the parties signed the rest of the Round Table Agreement
and the issue of West New Guinea was tabled tentatively for a year.
The Dutch and Indonesians were not able to resolve their differences in a
year. In fact it would take over a decade before they could agree on the future
of Papua. In the meantime, the region stayed under Dutch administration and
therefore experienced little of the nation-making process in the early for-
mative years of the Indonesian Republic (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 9).
Instead, the Dutch directed their efforts to develop the region with the eventual
goal of self-determination for the West Papuans. They poured heavy resources
into Papua, particularly in education and health, often relying on the help of
Catholic and Protestant missionaries in many of the remote areas (Bertrand
2004: 146). They also established a Dutch school system and educated many
of the traditional elite, thereby giving rise to a new politicized elite.
In 1959, the Dutch established elected regional councils in Papua with the
objective of creating a sovereign democratic state by 1970 (Saltford 2003: 10).
Two years later, they established the Nieuw-Guinea Raad or the New Guinea
Council which had limited advisory powers. Nonetheless, most members were
elected either directly or indirectly and 22 of 28 members were native Papuans
(Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 10). This was the first organization of its kind that
represented and promoted the interests of Papuans in West New Guinea.
On December 1, 1961, the council signed the Manifest Politik which offi-
cially adopted a national Papuan flag (The Morningstar), declared a national
anthem (“Oh, My Land Papua”), changed its name (from West New Guinea
to West Papua), and named the people of the region “Papuans” (Chauvel and
Bhakti 2004: 11). The Manifest represented the first official articulation
of Papuan nationalism and December 1 has since marked the official day of
West Papuan national celebration by supporters of independence.
While the Dutch prepared West New Guinea for eventual self-rule, Indo-
nesia directed their own efforts toward helping to “liberate” West Papua from
Dutch colonialism and integrating it into the Indonesian fold. They first
attempted to negotiate bilaterally with the Dutch, but failed to reach any
agreement. By 1955, they were frustrated enough that they unilaterally with-
drew from the Round Table Conference agreement of 1949 as well as from the
Netherlands–Indonesian Union (Lijphart 1966: 16).
From the mid-1950s, Indonesia shifted from a bilateral to a more multi-
lateral approach looking toward the United Nations General Assembly for
support. Indonesia had strong support among many of the GA members, but
it failed over the years to garner the requisite two-thirds majority to pass
resolutions in the Assembly (Lijphart 1966: 17). Thus from 1950 to 1957
Indonesia and the Dutch remained at a stalemate over the issue of Papua.
Tensions over the issue of Papua continued to escalate and in late 1957
Sukarno expelled all Dutch citizens out of the country and expropriated all of
their assets including Dutch companies. The government took over businesses
in mining, banking, oil, and agribusiness. Most of these became the basis of
Indonesia’s state enterprises and many of these companies were eventually run
by the Indonesian military paving the way for their involvement in a broad
array of business enterprises (Vatikiotis 1993: 71).
In 1961, Sukarno declared a “People’s Triple Command” or Trikora policy
toward Papua. The three-pronged strategy called for (1) thwarting the for-
mation of a Papuan “puppet state,” (2) raising the Indonesian national flag in
West Irian, and (3) preparing for “major mobilization” to defend the freedom
and unity of the country (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 12). In early 1962,
Sukarno issued Presidential Decree No. 1, 1962 to establish the military
Mandala Command to “liberate” West Irian (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 12).
International pressure and the act of free choice

While international negotiations for Papua were largely at a standstill at the
UN, the United States expressed strong interest in resolving the issue of
Papua. The US offered to mediate between Indonesia and the Dutch, but in
practice, however, they sided with the Indonesians and pressed firmly on the
colonial power to give up their hold over West Papua. The United States’ own
vision of Papua included curbing the perceived growth of leftist influence in
Indonesia. They were troubled by the support the Soviets provided to the
Papuans through diplomatic backing and supplying of weapons (P. King
2004: 21). The US hoped to undermine Soviet support by helping Indonesia
broker a deal with the Dutch, thus earning political capital with Sukarno.
Several proposals were put forth by the Dutch, but the Indonesians held
firmly to the principle that they would only consider a plan that would ulti-
mately leave Papua under their authority. After protracted negotiations, the
Dutch and Indonesians finally agreed and the two parties signed the New
York Agreement in 1962. The agreement outlined a plan to transfer West
New Guinea to the United Nations for a period of nine months, then transfer
sovereignty over to Indonesia. For their part, Indonesia agreed to hold a
plebiscite in the province before 1969 assessing whether Papuans wanted to be
independent or remain part of the Indonesian Republic (Saltford 2003: 13).
In 1969, the Indonesian government finally agreed to hold a plebiscite
under the auspices of the United Nations. The “Act of Free Choice” was
actually a series of assembly votes cast by elected representatives in eight
locations scattered throughout West Papua. The representatives totaling 1,025
in all were ostensibly elected by Papuans in the local areas of a particular
assembly (Saltford 2003: 160). In practice, the election of the representatives
was marred by controversy, often taking place without UN observers
and frequent accusations of vote rigging by pro-Indonesia officials (Saltford
2003: 147).
Furthermore, several weeks prior to the assemblies, elected representatives
were isolated in camps, often under armed guards. Reports later indicate that
assembly members were threatened, bribed, and told how to vote. In some
instances, their speeches at the assembly sessions were scripted (Saltford 2003:
15). From July 14 to August 2 of 1969, all eight assemblies throughout West
Papua each voted unanimously to affirm Papuan integration into the Indo-
nesian republic. The decision was accepted by the United Nations General
Assembly in Resolution 2504 (XXIV) 11–19–1969. A British diplomat would
later call the Act of Free Choice a “meaningless formality” (Saltford 2003: 159).
The Act of Free Choice marked the capitulation of the international com-
munity on the issue of Irian Jaya in Indonesia’s favor. All parties seemed to
have recognized that the Papuans themselves were not interested in integra-
tion with the Indonesians, but this fact was studiously ignored and the pre-
tense of the Act upheld. For Indonesia, the Act of Free Choice and the UN
resolution thus eliminated any question further questions about West Papua
or Irian Jaya’s status vis-à-vis the Indonesian Republic.
Papua during the New Order: forced integration

Well before the plebiscite, Indonesia had de facto control of the region. The
Act of Free Choice was little more than a temporary blip in their efforts to
integrate the area into the larger Indonesian nation-state. In October of 1962,
the Dutch transferred West New Guinea to the United Nations under the UN
Temporary Executive Authority (UNTEA). Although the function of the UN
mission was to establish and maintain peace and security in the territory it was
equivalent to de facto Indonesian control. All expressions of West Papuan
nationalism were banned (Osborne 1985: 31). The UN played a direct role in
preventing organized nationalist demonstrations and marches, including inde-
pendence day celebrations on December 1 of 1962 (Saltford 2003: 39). Immedi-
ately after the New York Agreement, even prior to official transfer to the UN,
Indonesian troops also emerged to assert their authority. Meanwhile, Papuans
also began to organize militarily, often conducting quick strikes against the
military with basic weaponry such as those left behind by the Dutch. This tended
to ignite retaliation and an escalation of conflict. To cite one example: in
December 1962, Indonesian soldiers opened fire on demonstrators at Merauke
air base killing two people, in retaliation for an earlier attack (Saltford 2003: 43).
Seven months later, Papua was handed over to Indonesian rule and for the
remainder of the decade, Indonesia sought to consolidate its position in Irian.
Sukarno, who visited Papua days after it was handed over, proceeded to ban
all political parties and prohibit any form of unauthorized political activity in
Papua (Saltford 2003: 75). The prohibition was laid down in the Presidential
Decree No. 8/1963, as follows:
In the region of West Irian, it shall for the time being, be prohibited to
undertake political activity in the form of rallies, meetings, demonstra-
tions or the printing, publication, announcement, issuance, dissemination,
trading or public display of articles, pictures or photographs without
permission of the Governor or an official appointed by him.
(Tebay 2003)
There was also a wave of migration from Java to fill the new posts of the
bureaucracy under the new provincial government based in Jayapura. Sukarno
appointed Papuan Elierzer Bonay as governor, but he was dismissed after
openly expressing nationalist sentiments (Saltford 2003: 79). Bonay fled
abroad and later criticized Indonesian repression, noting that the prisons in
Papua were full and that his role as governor had been nothing more than to
be a puppet for the Indonesian government (Osborne 1985: 33).
As Indonesia’s military presence in the region strengthened, it fostered
more and more resentment. Under the New Order government of 1965,
repression became stronger with many Papuans jailed for petitioning inde-
pendence (Saltford 2003: 79). The Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM) was
formed in 1965 after emerging as a loose resistance force. But OPM lacked
strong organization and resources, often fighting with only the most basic of
weapons. The Indonesians in contrast tended to be very well armed and used
disproportionate force.
By 1969, the New Order regime under President Suharto was firmly in
place and had already begun to capitalize on the new territory and its rich
natural resources. Copper and gold deposits were discovered in the region as
early as the 1930s and mining became the single largest industry in the region.
The region was also heavily forested providing a boom in the timber sector.3
And it contained several oil and natural gas fields.
Papua’s resource wealth fit nicely into the developmentalist ideology of the
New Order regime. The exploitation and export of natural resources was one
of the cornerstones of the development model and in turn also helped to
boost the regime’s legitimacy. To that end, Papua’s role in Indonesia shifted
from a predominantly symbolic one to an economic one as well.
For the regime, the natural resources provided a large portion of economic
growth for the country. In 1967, the Suharto government signed an agreement
with New Orleans-based Freeport McMoran Copper and Gold Inc. to
establish an Indonesian subsidiary to extract minerals in the south central
portion of the province. By 1991, Freeport was mining the Grasberg Ore, the
world’s largest gold deposit and the third richest copper deposit. Because of
low costs, Grasberg also became the most profitable copper-mining operation
in the world (D. King 2003: 23). In the 1990s, Freeport became the largest
taxpayer in Indonesia, paying about $180 million per year in taxes, dividends,
and royalties. It was also West Papua’s largest employer and the source of
over half of the region’s gross regional domestic product (Blair and Phillips
2003: 51).
Along with Kalimantan and Sumatra, Papua has been a key center for
forestry and logging activities and several international and domestic compa-
nies have established a presence throughout the area. In Papua, the logging
industry increased more than tenfold over the decade leading up to 1996. The
forestry sector in Indonesia at large includes production of tropical hardwood
logs, plywood, and pulp for papermaking. The value of the industry in Indo-
nesia is difficult to determine but estimates in 1997 suggested that forestry and
wood processing sectors were valued at 3.9 percent of GDP, and exports of
plywood, pulp, and paper were valued at $5.5 billion. This amount was nearly
half the value of oil and gas exports, and equal to nearly 10 percent of total
export earnings (Matthews 2002: 4).
Also, the petroleum industry has been a significant part of the Indonesian
economy particularly in the 1970s. Pertamina has operated in the region, but
its oil reserves have thus far been modest relative to the income generated
from mining and forestry. In 1997, Pertamina partnered with Arco (later
purchased by BP) to build a 24 trillion cubic foot Tangguh natural gas field in
the Western Region of Papua. The field is operated by BP and the natural gas
from the region is exported to China (Blair and Phillips 2003: 54).
The natural resources industry in Papua was closely linked to the cronyism
of the Suharto family. This operated in a number of creative ways throughout
different industries. To cite one example, in February of 1998, Freeport
formed a joint venture with a Suharto-controlled company called PT Nusan-
tara Ampera Bakti, giving the company a 4.7 percent stake in the Grasberg
Ore. In return for its stake, Suharto allegedly paid $315 million of which $254
million was borrowed from commercial banks. Under the agreement, if
Nusantara could not repay the interest on the loans from the dividends
accrued in Freeport, Freeport would make up the difference. In 1999,
Nusantara apparently had $7.6 million in arrears, 3 percent of Freeport’s
$245 million net income earned by the subsidiary (Celarier 1998).
In the timber sector, the Suharto regime was also well known for facilitat-
ing business for its close family associates. In Papua, the Suharto regime dis-
tributed logging concessions to military officials, business cronies, and family
members. For example, one of the largest operations in Papua is the Djajanti
group, which has shareholders who include senior military officers as well as
Sudwikatmono, Suharto’s cousin. Barito Pacific, another timber company is
run by former Suharto ally Prayogo Pangestu. And a smaller company called
Hanurata is controlled by the Suharto family (ICG 2002: 15). Since the end
of the New Order new local and international actors have also entered the
fray. Despite this, the New Order players have managed to maintain a sizable
stake in the market.
Human rights and resistance

Although the region contributes to the national economy, many Papuans
argue that they have benefited little from integration into Indonesia or from
the economic activity in the province which they claim was illegal in the first
place. Statistics indicate that consumption rates in Papua are extremely low
relative to other parts of the archipelago (Elmslie 2002: 112). The difference
becomes even starker when distinguishing between the Papuan population
who are mostly rural based and the migrants who are predominantly in urban
areas. Other statistics suggest that in rural areas, daily protein intake has
declined in the 1990s as have health services (Elmslie 2002: 113). Overall,
proponents of Papuan independence argue that Papua’s riches have been used
for national economic development at their expense.
At the same time the resentment toward companies such as Freeport and
their obvious links to the repressive machinery of the New Order have often
led OPM and other Papuan resistance groups to stage attacks on the com-
panies themselves. In turn, the military would retaliate for such attacks,
leading to an escalating cycle of violence. Military killings and human rights
abuses are said to have occurred on a wide scale during the 1970s and 1980s
but there is little concrete documentation of this due to the sparse international
attention the region garnered (Osborne 1985).
By the 1990s, violence in other parts of the archipelago including East
Timor and Aceh directed attention to the human rights violations of the
Indonesian regime to West Papua. In 1994, Australian NGOs released a
report on human rights abuses in West Papua and reported how military and
security forces typically used violent means to suppress the separatist OPM
rebels and other groups they deemed disruptive. Military tactics included
summary executions, murder, arbitrary arrest, detention, torture, intimidating
surveillance, destruction of property, and kidnappings (Leith 2003: 197).
Under international pressure, the New Order also sent the national human
rights commission to investigate and also found that military activities in the
region had violated human rights (Leith 2003: 198).
From 1996 to 1997, human rights activists reported a crackdown in the
Papua region by special forces unit, Kopassus, led by Suharto’s son-in-law
Prabowo Subianto. There were reports of extrajudicial killings of 13 people
with many more subsequent deaths from disease and malnutrition after
people were driven from their villages (Leith 2003: 204). Amnesty Interna-
tional reported that since 1998, 72 people had been brought to trial by the
government for engaging in subversive activities related to West Papuan
independence including organizing meetings, engaging in flag-raising cere-
monies, and participating in demonstrations (Amnesty International 2005).
Other reports highlight dozens killed, injured or missing after flag-raising
ceremonies, and other demonstrations turn violent (Amnesty International 2000).
By the twilight of the Suharto years, the conditions in Papua garnered
international attention mentioned alongside other Indonesian trouble spots
such as East Timor and Aceh. Human rights activists demanded that the
repression in Papua be lifted. Environmental groups pointed to the environ-
mental impacts of deforestation and mining. Development organizations
pointed to the areas poverty. However, as long as the New Order remained in
place, there seemed little likelihood to any substantive change in the status quo.
Competing visions of Papua for the Indonesian elite

The fall of the New Order presented the new regime with a notable dilemma.
On the one hand the unprecedented political liberalization combined with
regional governance reforms gave great optimism to the proponents of Papuan
autonomy. Facing domestic and international scrutiny, President Habibie
expressed interest in investigating some of the grievances articulated by the
Papuan people. In October of 1998, he lifted the Regional Military Operation
status in the region known in Indonesian as Daerah Operasi Militer (DOM).
On the other hand, already under pressure for allowing a referendum in
East Timor, Habibie could offer little in terms of the political goals of the
Papuan movement. In February of 1999 Habibie agreed to meet with Papuan
representatives and opened a dialogue with a group called Forum Rekonsiliasi
Rakyat Irian Jaya (FORERI). The group was composed of intellectuals,
church leaders, traditional leaders, and NGO activists (Chauvel and Bhakti
2004: 26). At their meeting several representatives spoke about the repression
in Papua. One of the key leaders of the group, Tom Beanal, read a statement
to the President denouncing integration and requesting Papuan independence
(Bertrand 2004: 155). Habibie was reportedly stunned at the statement,
unimaginable even a year ago under the New Order government. He rejected
the demands and the meeting marked the end of any more dialogue between
the two parties.
By April, the government exerted a renewed campaign against Papuan
independence arresting many of the representatives that attended the earlier
meeting that year. That same month, the Director-General for General Govern-
ment and Regional Autonomy, Ryaas Rasid, announced that the government
was preparing a plan to divide Papua into three provinces (Suara Pembaruan
1999a). The government argued that the plan to divide Papua had existed
since 1994 and thus was not a new proposal, implying that it should not be
regarded as a political or controversial announcement. They also argued that
the splits would speed up development and fulfill the “aspirations” of the
people of Papua (Republika 1999). Others such as members of the Supreme
Advisory Council which acts as a consultative body for the executive also
noted that the government should act because “Irian Jaya is in a state of
emergency” (Jakarta Post 1999b).
But the announcement prompted condemnation on several fronts. Papuan
leaders in the national legislature immediately convened a meeting to question
the wisdom of such a decision. A key leader of the Papuan movement for
autonomy, Theus Eluay, noted that the split was unnecessary and the priority
of the government should be for President Habibie, after the meeting in Feb-
ruary “to come to Irian so that he can fulfill the aspirations and needs of the
people of Irian” (Davidson 2003: 16) (Suara Pembaruan 1999b). Other
Papuan groups such as the Forum Komunikasi Generasi Muda Irian Jaya
(FKGMIJ) and the Komite Solidaritas Rakyat Irian also spoke out strongly
against the government’s announcement.
At the national level, some also expressed wariness arguing that changes so
close to the general elections could confuse the electorate in the regions or
simply reinforce the “status quo.” Feisal Basri of the National Mandate Party
argued that the splits were taking places off of Java and thus would be a boon
to Golkar and its traditional strongholds (Merdeka 1999). But this was also a
period of intense activity in Indonesia with the ongoing preparations for the
first free and fair elections since 1955. The debate on Papua’s division
centered more around its timing, before versus after the general election, than
on the soundness of the policy itself. Eventually, it was clear that the splits
would have to be implemented after the elections since they would throw
additional complications into the elections very close to the voting day itself.
An alternative vision
The law to divide Papua was passed in the national legislature and formalized
by Presidential Decree on October 4, 1999.4 But the law also came at the
heels of a leadership change in Indonesia. In October 1999, Abdurrahman
Wahid, the leader of the National Awakening Party, or Partai Kebangkitan
Umat (PKB), and the head of Indonesia’s largest Islamic organization, Nahdlatul
Ulama (NU), ascended to the presidency. Wahid emerged after fractious nego-
tiations in the national legislature where he outmaneuvered PDI-P’s Megawati
Sukarnoputeri, despite the fact that her party won the most votes in the general
elections. President Wahid was widely perceived to be both moderate in his
religious views and liberal in his political leanings. For Papua, this indicated a
new opening for negotiation with the government. Wahid reopened dialogue
with the Papuans and effectively canceled the proposal to split the region
(Kompas 1999b).
In light of the new liberalization, Papuans began to organize once again.
On December 1, 1999, marking their commemoration of Papuan “indepen-
dence” as marked by the Manifest Politik, Papuans organized flag raisings
throughout the region. Similar ceremonies took place in 11 of the largest
towns in the province involved tens of thousands, possibly hundreds of thou-
sands of participants, and proceeded remarkably without violent retaliation
from the military (Bertrand 2004: 155). In late December 1999, President
Wahid decided to spend New Year’s Eve in the capital of Papua, Jayapura,
and took the opportunity to meet with representatives of Papuan organiza-
tions. In these discussions, he agreed that Papua could raise their national
Morningstar flag as long as it was hung 30 cm below an Indonesian flag. He
also allowed the region to be referred as Papua, rather than Irian Jaya. And
significantly, he granted approval for Papuans to organize a Papuan Congress
(Mote and Rutherford 2001: 131).
In February 2000, Papuans from throughout the province convened a
Musyawarah Besar (or MUBES) to discuss the future of West Papua. At the
end of their meeting they reaffirmed their goal to separate from the Republic
of Indonesia. In turn they elected a Presidium of 18 members including
representatives of churches, women’s groups, customary landowners, former
political prisoners, students, youth and business professions. The MUBES
concluded with a decision to organize a broader and more inclusive Papuan
Congress. The Congress, held in June of 2000, brought together 501 envoys
from different regions of the Papua and over 21,000 local and international
observers. Resolutions adopted at the Congress rejected the outcome of the
Act of Free Choice as well as the New York Agreement forged in 1969
because Papuans were not part of the negotiations (Timmer 2005a: 4). They
also stated that Papua had already declared independence as a state on
December 1, 1961 (P. King 2004: 49).
Despite Wahid’s willingness to dialogue, an independent Papua was
unacceptable to the government and they instead set about designing a set of
arrangements that would give Papua “special autonomy.” This autonomy
would go far beyond the autonomy designed in the 1999 decentralization
laws. In addition to devolving a vast array of powers to the provincial gov-
ernment, it also committed to protect and reinforce Papuan values and ensure
that 80 percent of Papua’s earnings from forestry, fishery and mining revenues
would go to the local government as well as 70 percent of oil and natural gas
revenues (Blair and Phillips 2003: 42). Significantly, it also provided for the
creation of the Papuan People’s Council or the Majelis Rakyat Papua (MRP).
The MRP was designed to be a representative body of Papuan indigenous
leaders who would protect and promote Papua’s cultural values. Special
autonomy was broadly interpreted as a significant concession on the part of
the government and supported among much of the Papuan elite. The law was
passed by the national legislature in October of 2001 (Chauvel and Bhakti
2004: 33).
The un-breakup of Papua

Despite Wahid’s moderate and liberal approaches, he faced challenges in the
DPR-RI, the national House of Representatives. He was accused by law-
makers of corruption and incompetent leadership as they pointed out the rise
in regional and social conflicts under his watch as well as the lagging reform
in the economy (Malley 2002: 124). In July of 2001, Wahid was removed from
office and replaced by his vice-president Megawati Sukarnoputeri. The
change in the presidency marked yet another shift in course for Papua.
Megawati was also liberal in her politics but she was also more outwardly
nationalist than Wahid. In this sense, she carried on the legacy of President
Sukarno, her father, in appealing for a united Indonesia. To cite one example:
during her election campaign in 1999, she spoke out firmly against giving
East Timor a referendum to decide its fate. It was against this backdrop that
we can understand Megawati’s Instruksi President No. 1 of 2003.
Despite the importance of Megawati’s personal perspectives, her actions
should also be seen in the larger context of Indonesia’s state imperative. In
particular there was broad concern at the national level that the Special
Autonomy Laws passed under the Wahid administration was a first step
toward Papuan independence rather than any final agreement on autonomy
between West Papua and Jakarta. They saw the 2001 law as promoting
nationalism through its endorsement of “Papuan values” such as the Papuan
flag and Papuan anthem (Kompas 2003a). There was also broad concern that
the governor of Papua, JP Solossa was also supportive of OPM’s activities,
particularly in recruiting international support for the West Papuan cause in
his frequent trips abroad (Kompas 2003d). And government officials also
expressed concern that the Papuan independence movement had gained
momentum after the success of East Timor’s independence (Kompas 2003d).
Megawati’s position as leader of PDI-P suggests another dynamic at play in
the decision to divide Papua, namely the upcoming 2004 elections. Splitting
up Papua was seen as a way to break up the Golkar party’s political stran-
glehold over the province, and their dominance in the Outer Islands more
generally (Kompas 2003a). In 1997 Golkar received 86 percent of the vote in
Papua versus 7.1 percent for PDI (Kompas 2004). In 1999, Golkar managed
to hold on to a plurality of seats (15 of 45) in the provincial legislature as well
as the governorship. But the implications of a West Irian province was not
likely to help Golkar. Given the changed political climate since the general
elections in 1999, Megawati would be likely to gain the political support of
two new governors, distribute PDI-P patronage in the new provinces, and also
make sure that related business including contracts and concessions in the
region would be secured, including ties to BP and Pertamina in Bintuni Bay
where they were establishing the Tangguh natural gas plant (Timmer 2005b: 449).
Finally, the military imperative also proved to be a factor. Independent of
the New Order regime, the Indonesian military also had a large stake in the
natural resource wealth of Papua.5 The military historically operated com-
mercial ventures in banking and finance, real estate, manufacturing, con-
struction, recreation, shipping, air services, fisheries, forestry, mining, and
transportation (Singh 2001: 15). It operated these enterprises in a number of
ways. Charitable tax exempt foundations known as Yayasan as well coopera-
tives which are established under each of the armed forces often run the
businesses. The military also had a dominant presence in state-owned enter-
prises, most prominently in Bulog and Pertamina but also in many others
(Blair and Phillips 2003: 63). They also engaged in informal activities such as
protection rackets and were also believed to be involved in illegal extraction
of timber, oil, and other minerals. Some even suggest the military was directly
involved in activities related to smuggling, piracy, gambling and prostitution
rings, and drug trafficking (Singh 2001: 22).
On the one hand, the involvement in business serves as a source of income
for the military. The military, or the TNI, has historically relied on external
sources of revenue to cover its budget. Even as late as 2001, the national
budget allocated $1 billion to the TNI which made up only 25 to 30 percent
of its operational costs. Military soldiers are also typically poorly paid earn-
ing about $60–$95 per month and high-ranking officers earning $110–$350
per month (Blair and Phillips 2003: 62).
But military involvement in these businesses also goes far beyond institu-
tional income generation. Military units like Kopassus, a crack commando
wing of the army, often served as protection rackets for large firms like Free-
port. Even in public reports, Freeport revealed the “logistical support” it
received from the TNI and paying $5.6 million for such related services (P. King
2004: 125). In addition to mining, the TNI has been heavily involved in
logging on Papua, both through legal and illicit means (P. King 2004: 123).
In short, new provinces would mean building new provincial commands in
each of these regions. This would potentially bring them closer to the Free-
port mine as well as the BP Tanggua natural gas development at Bintani Bay
in Manokwari (P. King 2004: 92).
The marriage of PDI-P and the military and security apparatus at the
national level to push for the splitting of Papua thus makes sense at several
levels. On the one hand, Megawati herself claimed the mantle of her late
father Sukarno and emphasized national unity more than any other viable
presidential candidate. This ideology fit well with the military as evidenced by
the way Megawati surrounded herself with military brass. The military had
thrown their support behind Megawati during her presidency and thus
actively supported and shaped the new post-Wahid policy toward Papua. The
military/security apparatus for their part also pushed along ideological lines
that matched Megawati’s. At the same time, they had their own institutional
and economic incentives in a new province. The military, for example, had
strong ties to multinational companies such as Freeport which had large
mining operations in the region. New provinces would mean building new
provincial commands in each of these regions. This would potentially bring
them closer to the Freeport mine as well as the BP Tanggua natural gas
development at Bintani Bay in Manokwari (P. King 2004: 92).
The move to split the regions

In January 2002, the National Resilience Institute (Lemhannas), a military-
political think tank that conducts in-depth studies on national resilience,
issued a report entitled “The Partition of Irian Jaya: A Solution to the Threat
of National Disintegration.” The author of the report was the governor of the
Lemhannas, Ermaya Suradinata, who previously had been the Director-
General of National Unity in the Department of Internal Affairs.
In the report Ermaya argued that the elite in Papua were essentially pro-
autonomy and therefore posed a threat to national unity. In that regard, he
argued that the partition of Papua would have three benefits for Indonesia.
First, it would divide the “pro-disintegration forces” and in particular, make
it more difficult to hold a referendum on Papuan autonomy in the region.
Second, it would fracture Papuan identity and symbolically undermine Papuan
nationalism by fostering three different cultures and identities and giving
them political representation and territory. Finally, by reducing the nationalist
threat, it would stabilize the region from violence and promote more business
and economic development in the region (Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 38). A
year later, Megawati would announce Inpres No. 1.
Two weeks after Megawati’s directive, Brigadier General Abraham Octa-
vianus Ataruri officially declared the establishment of the new province of
West Irian (Kompas 2003g). Thousand of residents from nearby districts
attended the ceremony. At the same time, protests among those who opposed
the new province also occurred in the area, with some 2,000 people pouring
out into the streets. However, the protests were not strong enough to stop the
creation of the new province.
In August of that same year, the district chief of Mimika in Central Papua’s
region, Andreas Anggaibak, declared the establishment of a Central Irian
Province. At the official declaration there were also no officials from Jakarta
and none from Jayapura (Kompas 2003c). The suddenness of the event ignited
several days of protests in Central Papua killing five people and injuring
dozens more (P. King 2004: 93). The violence in Central Papua was so strong
that the government declared a postponement of establishing a Central Papua
province and announced it would review all policies toward Papua (Kompas
2003f). West Papua, in the meantime, would be allowed to stand and Abraham
Ataruri was officially installed as governor in November 2003.
The security apparatus of Indonesia was clearly critical in implementing the
plan to create new provinces. BIN, the National Intelligence Agency, seems to
have played a key role. The head of the agency, Hendropriyono, instructed
Abraham Atururi on February 4 to establish the new province of West Irian
(Kompas 2003a). In a private conversation, Hendropriyono said to Atururi, “I
don’t want to have to use a passport to visit Papua” (ICG 2003: 9). Also
Andreas Anggaibak, the bupati of Mimika who led the inauguration of Central
Papua, later noted that the Ministry of Home Affairs and BIN, had encour-
aged him to go forward with the ceremony in a meeting in Bali between offi-
cials from Papua and Jakarta, including members of the provincial legislature
(Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 41) (Kompas 2003f).
Working with local actors

But the split up of Papua was more than simply the central government
exerting its influence unilaterally. It is also worth noting that several of the
strongest proponents of new provinces were former members of the govern-
ment. Abraham Atururi, John Djopari, and Herman Monim were all depu-
ties to Governor Freddy Numberi in 1999. Monim and Atururi were allegedly
frustrated because they had been promised governorship of the new provinces
back in 1999, but these promises never materialized (Timmer 2005a: 6). Both
of these men were former deputy governors who ran as unsuccessful candi-
dates for governor in 2000. Djopari noted in public remarks that the advan-
tage to partition was that “three Papuans could become governor” (Chauvel
and Bhakti 2004: 41).
Local level elites that had been marginalized and disaffected by the new
government were also a crucial part of the picture. Atururi, for example, was
schooled in the Dutch education system in Dutch New Guinea. After the
Dutch departure he attended the Navy National Academy and made a career
in the navy. He rose to the position of Lieutenant Colonel. He also became a
member of the intelligence agency Bakin, Badan Koordinasasi Inteligen
Negara, which in the current incarnation is BIN. He also served as a member
of the presidential guard or Paspanpres. He was then assigned to be the dis-
trict chief in the Sorong district in Papua before becoming one of three deputy
governors in Irian Jaya. In 1999, he lost a campaign to become governor to
Jaap Solossa (Timmer 2005a: 9).
Atururi in turn worked closely with actors such as Jimmy Ijie, who was a
Jakarta based Papuan who ran an organization called the Irian Jaya Crisis
Center (IJCC). Ijie was a strong opponent of Papuan independence and even
opposed the special autonomy status granted to the area back in 2002
(Timmer 2005a: 6). In July of 2002, Ijie allegedly contacted Hendropriyono
supporting the partition of Papua. A strong PDI-P activist, Ijie argued that
Papuan nationalism unchecked could lead to separatism and even Papuan
independence. He also noted that new funds for special autonomy were being
diverted by the Governor to ensure a Golkar victory in 2004. He thus sug-
gested partitioning Papua and placing Atururi as governor of West Irian
Province (ICG 2003: 8).
In 2002, Ijie assembled Tim 315, a lobby group made up of people from the
Sorong and Manokwari regions, as well as Papuan students in Yogyakarta
and Jakarta who supported Atururi’s bid to negotiate a plan with BIN and the
Ministry of Home Affairs (Timmer 2005a: 6). In a meeting set up by General
Hendropriyono, Tim 315 met with the president and the Minister for Social,
Political and Security Affairs, General Susilo Bambang Yudhoyono, demand-
ing the new provinces be established (P. King 2004: 92). Apparently, bribes
were exchanged to the sum of $320,000, which went to officers in Ministry of
Home Affairs as well as Ijre’s Irian Jaya Crisis Center (Timmer 2005a: 6).
Finally, it is important to point out that, for the most part, migrants on
Papua are critical of Papuan independence and thus likely supportive of the
new provincial divisions. Migrants have already felt the brunt of much ethnic
nationalism in Papua, particularly in the immediate aftermath of the 2001
decentralization laws, where affirmative action programs prioritized appoint-
ing or electing puteri asli daerah or native sons of the soil in most government
jobs. We have already noted that migrants constitute over one-third of the
entire population of Papua. Though there were no migrant organizations per
se that openly demonstrated to support or oppose the splits, the opposition
that did emerge was almost completely ethnic Papuan.
As I have noted above, there were also a broad spectrum of groups that
opposed the division of the province. In particular, these included groups that
supported independence and/or special autonomy. Papuan representatives in
the national assembly, local civil-society organizations, religious leaders, aca-
demics, and student groups all voiced their opposition. The governor and the
speaker of the parliament, both from Golkar, were staunch opponents of new
province creation (ICG 2003: 9). Golkar as a party also came out strongly
against dividing the province in large part because they saw the Megawati-led
government’s strategy there (Kompas 2004).
The opposing coalition in Papua came close to defeating the movement for
a new province. In addition to organizing large-scale demonstrations to
oppose the initiative by the central government, the opponents also appealed
to the Supreme Court of Indonesia contesting the legality of the division in
light of the Special Autonomy status proffered to the region in 2003. The
Court declared the creation of the new provinces a violation of Papua’s spe-
cial autonomy laws, but because one of the new provinces, West Irian, had
already been created, it would be allowed to remain. But the Central Irian
province was put on hold until the matter could be resolved (ICG 2003). The
coordination of local-level demonstrations with national-level lobbying and
political pressure was effective in the case of Papua because opposition was so
widespread.
Territorial politics in the Papua case

More than the previous two cases, Gorontalo and Kepri, the Papua case
represents a strong top-down initiative. For this reason, one may expect a lack
of links to the local level. However, the institutional, social, and personal
linkages are also evident even in this case. The political party linkages
between the national and local level are one set of linkages that occur con-
sistently across the cases. In Papua’s case, PDI-P seems to have been the key
party but the dynamics of the linkages were similar. In the context of a cen-
tralized party structure, the national-level party based in Jakarta worked in
concert with local-level party members to push the proliferation agenda forward.
An opposing coalition composed of Golkar party members tried to oppose
the split both at the national and local level within the formal legislative
process.
Social linkages also spanned both sides of the proliferation. There were
both pro and con Papuan organizations at all different levels of administra-
tion from Jakarta to the local level. Social-level linkages facilitated mobiliza-
tion and lobbying efforts. For example, I noted above that Jakarta-based
groups organized local Papuans to visit and meet with national-level figures
to lobby for a new province.
Finally, the personal linkages seem to have played a relatively minor role in
this case. In the prior cases, national-level figures such as Habibie had perso-
nal stakes and relationships in the regions and thus had a vested interest in
seeing new provinces created. To be sure, some of those economic interests are
still relevant in the case of Papua. But the overarching personal agenda and
their links to the locality were not as critical. The state already had ample
rationale to divide Papua such that personal interventions, whether financial,
political, or otherwise, were not critical.
This is not to say that individual leadership roles were not critical, as they
clearly were. When Habibie was president, he pushed forward a conciliatory
agenda at first, but then disappointed Papuans with a much more hard-line
approach later in his presidency. With the changeover to President Wahid,
Wahid overturned Habibie’s first attempts to split up Papua and reopened
dialogue and granted broad autonomy to the province. However, when the
presidency was turned over to Megawati, the idea for dividing Papua was
revived again, possibly as a reaction against the concessions that Wahid had
given to in his term. But these differences were largely a matter of strategy
rather than any personal affinity or connection to Papua per se. Wahid, in
particular, had a different approach to dealing with the region based on a
more optimistic vision of Papuan autonomy co-existing within the national
Indonesian state.
Conclusion
There are two broad conclusions to draw from the case of Papua vis-à-vis the
phenomenon of provincial proliferation. The first is that the split was very
much driven by the military and security rationale and specifically designed as
a divide-and-rule strategy by national-level players. In particular it seems
clear that the National Intelligence Agency (BIN) working with the Ministry
of Home Affairs were key implementers of this policy. BIN’s role was also
peripherally evident in the previous case of Riau.
The divide-and-rule tactic emerged in the context of a highly-vocal Papuan
independence movement that rejected efforts to integrate into the Indonesian
state, starting from the early 1960s to the present day. Much of the repression
and coercion during the New Order to keep Papua in the Indonesian circle
ironically also helped to solidify Papuan nationalism amidst an exceptionally
diverse population. When authoritarianism in Indonesia was lifted, these
activists demanded that Papua be allowed to go their own way.
The Indonesian state’s reluctance to allow Papuan independence can be
understood on multiple grounds. At a general level, states by their nature tend
to be conservative institutions averse to ceding territory within their sovereign
realm except under the most extreme of circumstances. In the Indonesian
context, East Timor had already gained independence and the state was
highly concerned about the prospect of state collapse and fragmentation.
Violence in Aceh and other regions was on the rise and regions such as Aceh
and Riau were also demanding independence or at least substantial levels of
autonomy.
But beyond the logic of state coherence, it is also critical to point out the
material incentives the state and its various components had in Papua. The
natural-resource wealth in the region generates substantial wealth for the
Indonesian economy, largely through mining and forestry. The military has a
particularly high stakes given the legitimate and illegitimate business gener-
ated in the region. Habibie may also have had personal interests in protecting
many of the New Order’s crony interests in the region. The overwhelming
interests of so many institutions at the national level, including the executive,
key political parties, the military, and the Ministry of Home Affairs/BIN,
help explain why this top-down process was able to succeed despite the con-
siderable opposition among local actors including civil-society and student
organizations.
This leads to the second general point of this chapter. Even given the
security centric and top-down nature of the splits, the links with local elite
actors were vital for the division to take place. In particular, marginalized
elites who were seeking positions in the government saw the creation of new
provinces as an opportunity to build new patronage networks. In this sense,
there are some parallels of this case to Riau, where national and local elites
forged a coalition and squeezed reluctant provincial actors in the process.
Some may argue that Papua’s case is exceptional because of its historic
exclusion from the Republic in the early years of the Indonesian state. It is
true that in many ways the position of the Papuans is unique or at least out of
the ordinary experience of most other Indonesian regions. Nonetheless, there
are important lessons that can be drawn from this case that furthers our
understanding both of the motivations for provincial proliferation as well as
the nature of its success.
Furthermore, the creation of new provinces in Papua actually subsequently
led several district chiefs, including those from Maruke, Yapen, Waropen, and
Fak Fak, to express a desire for their own districts to become new provinces
(Chauvel and Bhakti 2004: 40). Leaders in smaller cities and towns also
began to argue that their municipalities and not Manokwari should be the
capital of a new province. Though none of these have come to fruition, it
shows that strategy of divide and rule seems to have had some of the effect
that the central actors had hoped it would.
8 Politics of territorial change
Comparisons and conclusions
Territory still matters. Amidst all the strong assertions regarding the impact
about globalization, the end of the nation-state, and its increasingly porous
boundaries, we tend to forget that institutions still depend on territory, and
people still have strong feelings about the places where they live. The nature
of territory may be changing, as it always has, and the Indonesian experience
shows us how complex these shifting forces can be. In Indonesia, the national
state faced pressures of territorial fragmentation after economic and political
turmoil, but emerged mostly unscathed. It has been territorial change at the
subnational level that has come fast and furious.
Politics, coalitions, and territory

A central argument put forth by this book is that territorial changes occur-
ring in Indonesia have been the result of coalitional politics, what I have
called territorial coalitions. Territorial coalitions are alliances formed between
groups at different levels of territorial administration, which cut across center
and periphery. In Indonesia, linkages emerged between civil society organiza-
tions, local-level political elites, national-level political elites, political parties
and different state institutions such as the military and the intelligence agencies.
These coalitions were initially triggered by national-level institutional
reforms that were put into place after the fall of the authoritarian regime,
most notably the processes of democratization and decentralization. At the
local level, democracy, for example, unleashed new movements for the crea-
tion of new territories as opportunities arose for ethnic or religious “home-
lands” denied to them in the past. At the same time, other local actors also
pushed for territorial change because of the potential gains new political ter-
ritories would bring including the offices themselves as well as the spoils that
often come along with them. In many cases, local leaders who supported local
movements also had their own political agenda. This meant that local elites
often came into conflict with one another as they competed for new local
political offices. National-level actors supported territorial change for differ-
ent reasons. Political parties saw the potential of carving new provinces that
would increase representation not only at the regional and local levels, but
potentially also in Jakarta. National security interests were also a key concern
in some regions and territorial change was a way to divide and conquer
potential threats to the territorial integrity of the state.
A related argument in this book is that territorial coalitions emerged, pre-
cisely because territoriality is multi-dimensional in nature. In particular, I
have highlighted three different aspects of territory including its material or
physical dimension, the symbolic or cultural dimension, and the political
institutional dimension. All of these played important roles in the story of
Indonesia’s territorial change. It is also this conceptual flexibility of territori-
ality that allows actors to form coalitions at times when they would otherwise
have little incentive to work together.
In all cases, the ties between national and local actors proved critical and
each of the cases demonstrates how those ties emerged as personal, social,
and institutional phenomena. Personal ties included strong supporters of local
groups at the national level, social ties included those along ethnic and reli-
gious lines, and institutional ties were mostly along party lines where national
and local parties saw mutual interests. These ties all reinforced one another
and helped to propel territorial change forward.
While emphasizing the importance of these coalitions, I have also tried to
show how the territorial change that occurred in Indonesia did not occur
uniformly, but rather came to be articulated through different local contexts.
In other words, territorial coalitions brought varying groups together, but
they did so in very different ways. The three cases of Gorontalo, Kepri, and
West Papua highlight different paths to territorial change. Gorontalo experi-
enced a process of what I called “marginality in the periphery.” In Kepri the
discourse emphasized ideas about different kinds of membership, local, regio-
nal, and national, at different territorial levels. In Papua, national security
interests drove the territorial changes, though with support among local actors.
Comparisons in two multi-ethnic states

A key question of any study, particularly one focusing on a multiple cases
within a single country, is the extent to which the findings can be generalized.
A cursory investigation of territorial change in other states also suggests
similar kinds of processes taking place. Two states that offer useful compar-
isons are India and Nigeria because of the way they have dealt with territorial
challenges in the context of multi-ethnic populations.
India
India shares many characteristics with Indonesia and its experience of terri-
torial management. Both countries have enormous populations; India has the
second largest in the world while Indonesia ranks fourth. Both countries are
extremely diverse with hundreds of ethnic and sub-ethnic and language
groups. And both have legacies of colonial rule by Western powers, the British
Politics of territorial change 129
in India, the Dutch in the East Indies, for hundreds of years. Furthermore, in
both countries, the post-colonial demarcation of sub-national units, their size,
shape, and composition of administrative units was the result of a combina-
tion of historical accident as well as strategic and political calculations rather
than any sort of rational or bureaucratic basis (Khan 1992: 39).
One key difference between India and Indonesia was that India chose a
distinctly federal structure and Indonesia chose to become a unitary state.
The diversity of India’s post-colonial state meant that leaders felt there was
little alternative but one that accommodated that diversity through a federal
structure. In contrast, we have seen that Indonesians discarded the idea of
federalism because of its association with Dutch colonial attempts to divide
and rule the archipelago.
Territorially, Indonesia was organized with relatively few sub-national units
that tended to subsume many ethnic groups. For example, Sumatra was initi-
ally designated a single province and then it was split up into three provinces,
and future years would see a reorganization that divided Sumatra further into
more provincial units and thus more aligned along ethnicity.
In India, the reverse was true. The post-colonial organization of states were
considered too small and did not hew closely to ethnic or linguistic lines and
in fact divided many ethnic and linguistic groups. Early proposals to reorga-
nize sub-national boundaries were rejected by national leaders who feared
that it would undermine the basis for Indian nationalism. Key leaders like
Nehru and Gandhi rejected proposals for reorganizing boundaries along lines
of identity.
However, by the 1950s, it became clear that state politicians, regional elites,
and in some instances, ordinary people wanted their states to be organized
along ethnic and linguistic lines. National leaders finally capitulated and, in
1956, India reorganized its internal boundaries and also reduced the number of
states from 27 to 14 including six centrally administered territories. Mirroring
Indonesia, many of these states were quite large and still heterogeneous despite
the realignment. And over the years, India has also occasionally seen the
creation of new states but largely in the context of a reluctant government.
This experience has shifted in recent years when India experienced a new
phenomenon with the creation of three new states: Chhattisgarh, Uttar-
anchal, and Jharkhand (Mawdsley 2002: 34). As in Indonesia, the new states
were justified by the government on the grounds of efficiency. Furthermore, in
all three “mother states,” there were ethno-culturally marginalized groups
often with different languages and distinct ethnic identities. New provinces
were thus usually initiated by civil society movements at the local level
(Mawdsley 2002).
What was different about this most recent wave of territorial reorganization
had to do with the political support from the center. Two institutional changes
drove national parties to support the creation of new states (Stuligross 2001).
First, state-level parties were increasingly successful in national elections
undermining their electoral base. Second, institutional reforms gave state
governments more budgetary authority over a greater proportion of national
development issues. As a result, national parties relied more heavily on
neglected sub-regions for electoral support but at the same time were not able
to provide substantive developmental benefits for their votes. Thus they pro-
mised institutional change, in this case statehood, instead of development
policies or resources (Stuligross 2001: 18).
This cursory sketch resembles some of the key arguments made for the case
of Indonesia. First, it seems clear there was a popular local process of new
state creation in India driven by local civil society organizations. At the same
time, national-level actors were willing to work in coalitions with local actors
as a way for them to secure legislative seats in national level elections. This
then supports the notion that territorial coalitions play an important part in
new state creation. Furthermore, the entire process takes place in the context
of institutional change, in particular decentralization of fiscal authority.
Here, in contrast to the Indonesian cases, decentralization leads national-
level actors to promote new states. In Indonesia, decentralization tended to
motivate local-level elites. The main difference between India and Indonesia
seems to be the relatively minor role of the state security rationales versus
political parties. In Indonesia we recall that in the Riau and Papua cases, the
state had a concrete interest in preventing secession. In India, the main poli-
tical actors at the national level that benefit from territorial change are
political parties.
Nigeria
The second case study with strong parallels to the Indonesian experience is
Nigeria. The country itself is an amalgam of different colonial territories
consolidated by the British in 1914 (Dent 1995: 129). At independence,
Nigeria formed three regions: a large Northern Region, a smaller Western
Region, and the Eastern Region. In 1967, regions were renamed states and
eight new states were created. In 1976, seven new regions were created. Since
then, there have been sporadic bursts in the number of new states. In many
ways, territorial change was a tool for national territorial unity as well as a
tool for patronage. In terms of state-level changes, Nigeria presents probably
the most spectacular example in the world, having expanded from three states
in 1960 to 37 as of 2004 (Kraxberger 2003: 11).
The territorial change in Nigeria forms a counterpoint to India’s experience
in that early on it was very much an elite led process initiated by the national
state as a form of constitutional engineering. At independence, Nigeria was
organized territorially so that the three largest ethnic groups, the Hausa-
Fulani, the Ibo, and the Yoruba each formed a majority in the Northern
state, the Western State, and the Eastern State respectively (Dent 1995: 131).
Even before independence, politics took on a tri-polar dimension and in 1953,
the constitutional agreement outlined that each region would be granted self-
government under a federal system (Young 1976: 291). This institutionalization
created an intense struggle between the three groups culminating in a split in
1964 between the Hausa-Fulani of the north and the Yoruba and Ibo to the
East and West.
By the latter half of the 1960s, the conflict had escalated into a series of
coups and counter-coups. Initially an Ibo general from the East took power,
dismantled the federal structure and claimed a unitary government (Dent
1995: 131). This prompted a counter-coup by groups from the North who
then re-instituted federalism (Dent 1995: 132). The Ibo, having failed to
secure power, then rejected the federal model and pushed for their own
secession. The Eastern region where the Ibo reside was also of strategic
importance for the state as it contains a majority of its oil reserves.
Foreseeing the consequences of such a collapse, Yakubi Gowon, the mili-
tary head of state at the time, divided Nigeria into 12 states: six in the North,
three in the East, and three additional states in the West (Dent 1995: 32). The
creation of new states liberated the minorities from regionally dominant
groups and paved the way for new political alignments (Horowitz 1985: 604).
Said differently, the territorial reorganization shifted power to smaller, pre-
viously marginalized ethnic groups, shattering the political monopoly held by
the three dominant ethnic groups. Declaring the creation of the first set of
new states, Gowon noted that:
The main obstacle to future stability in this country is the present struc-
tural imbalance … while the present circumstances regrettably do not
allow for consultations through plebiscites, I am satisfied that the creation
of new states as the only basis for stability and equality is the over-
whelming desire of the vast majority of Nigerians. To ensure justice, these
states are being created simultaneously
(Hale 2004: 188)
An example of how this affected regional unity can be seen through the
experience of the Northern region. After the splits, only three of the six states
in the northern region fell under direct Hausa-Fulani influence (Young 1976:
306). Thus although the identity of the Hausa-Fulani as a distinct group may
have remained, the structural conditions for them to achieve national dom-
ination was eliminated, and thus the cooperation among the three Hausa-
Fulani states was not guaranteed (Young 1976: 305). Other states fell under
the control of smaller minority ethnic groups as well. Before the institutional
shift, minority parties had little incentive to support candidates because they
were destined to lose. However, new states meant new legislative seats, new
governorships, and perhaps most critically, new seats to the central legislature
in Lagos. A previous minority party from the Northern state subsequently
could control a few (smaller) states and gain one or more federal seats at the
center (Horowitz 1985: 406).
After this initial burst of new states, it became difficult to put the genie back
in the bottle. What then began largely at the national level and eventually
shifted to a situation where new regions began to demand statehood from the
local and regional levels. The change emerged because the creation of new
states created a localized political environment. Campaigns for new states
were thus increasingly initiated by local politicians, civil servants, and tradi-
tional rulers who stood to benefit most from the establishment of a new state
(Kraxberger 2003). Local elites mobilized support for new states by appealing
to pre-colonial and colonial events, institutions, and precedents, thereby
emphasizing more local identities (Kraxberger 2003). Dent calls this process
“vigorous localism” which he argued enhanced the sense of local ethnic or
clan identity and tied it to a territorial identity leading local communities to
behave with more self-confidence (Dent 1995: 140).
At this point, fears of separatism and state collapse had subsided giving less
impetus of the national unity rationale. But national elites now had a different
reason to promote new state creation, namely to extend patronage to regional
allies. In Nigeria, the practice of prebendalism is common, where individuals gain
office through the support of patrons. Often the relationship between patron
and client in this context occurs along ethnic lines. The creation of a new state
along such lines would be an example of a prebendal arrangement. Furthermore,
state creation was seen as the equivalent of promoting development because it
meant distributing more development funds (from natural resource revenues)
to the new states (Kraxberger 2003: 276). Office holders could skim from the
new development funds in order to repay their patrons for their support.
Nigeria’s experience thus also suggests several parallels to the Indonesian
case. In particular, the notion of constitutional engineering resonates with
national state-led approaches to understand provincial proliferation in Indo-
nesia. Worried about the prospect of fragmentation and state collapse, both
central governments sought to employ a strategy of “divide-and-rule.” There
was also a great deal of local incentives to become a new region. It seems
clear that later movements for new states were more “bottom-up” than they
were “top-down.” At the same time there seems to be cooperation between
national-level actors and local elites in many cases thus lending credence to
the idea that territorial coalitions are an important factor in determining the
success of new regions.
More work needs to be done to compare the dynamics of provincial pro-
liferation in Indonesia with the dynamics of new state creation in both India
and Nigeria. In particular, the territorial coalitions framework needs to assess
local historical and political factors that may require better regional knowl-
edge and first hand investigation. Nonetheless, a cursory look at these coun-
tries suggests that the concepts generated in the Indonesian case have some
applicability in other large multi-ethnic states.
Competition and cooperation in post-authoritarian Indonesia

One of the most striking aspects of contemporary Indonesia is its political
and economic success, now over a decade after the fall of the Suharto regime.
It is not an exaggeration to call Indonesia the leading democracy in Southeast
Asia. Despite this success, scholars have also sounded a cautious note arguing
that politics in Indonesia is shifting into an “oligarchy” or a “cartel” (Robi-
son and Hadiz 2004). Local politics too has been characterized as full of
“raja-raja kecil” (little kings) or dominated by bossism (Sidel 1999; Harriss
et al. 2004). Alongside elements of elite capture in Indonesian politics, this
study also highlights the intense competitiveness of politics that has emerged
in Indonesia over the last decade.
Coalitional politics does not suggest a lack of conflict or competition.
In fact, in many ways, there is more conflict and competition in Indonesia
than there was during the New Order era. Part of the argument being put
forth is that territorial coalitions along “vertical” lines are being mobilized
precisely because of the high levels of competition that are occurring
horizontally.
Competitiveness gets beyond questions of whether Indonesia today has a
“strong” or “weak” state. It is safe to say that Indonesia’s state is not as
strong as it used to be but not as weak as, say, many African states. Rather,
Indonesia’s state may be characterized as one that is divided or fragmented.
While all states have some fissures in them, Suharto’s New Order was
remarkably resilient in its ability to keep those internal rifts to a minimum.1
The new found competitiveness in Indonesia today is most clearly mani-
fested in the conflict and competition between Indonesia’s political parties.
During the New Order era, President Suharto formed his own government
party, Golkar, and emasculated the opposition. Elections were thus uncom-
petitive with the only real question the margin of victory for Golkar. Today,
Indonesia’s party system is vibrant and highly competitive, if still unin-
stitutionalized. For example, nine parties hold power in the legislature, with
no party holding a majority.
There is also a great deal of competition among institutions. For example,
there have been major battles between the legislative branch and the execu-
tive. At the same time, intense inter-party competition within the legislature
has also been a notable characteristic of recent Indonesian politics. Further-
more, other groups such as the military, the police force, the judicial branch
all have independent political interests and are often seen competing with one
another, not necessarily in an electoral sense but in terms of mobilizing
resources to achieve a particular objective.
Nor is this new found competitiveness exclusive to the national level. Moving
from an authoritarian and centralized regime to a democratic decentralized
system has had enormous implications for the emergence of local political
actors (Aspinall and Fealy 2003). The many problems of democratization and
“big bang” decentralization became clear in the early part of the transition
with the prevalence of elite capture and corruption characterizing many
regions (Choi 2004; Hadiz 2004; Okamoto 2008). But with decentralization
has also come an intense competition both among elites as well as social
actors. Again, elections highlight this competition among elites at the local
level, and this in turn is often accompanied by societal level conflicts along
lines of identity such as religion and/or ethnicity.
Territory I argue is a critical component of this competitiveness. The local-,
regional-, and national-level actors have divergent but also often overlapping
interests around territory. The competition at these different territorial levels
induces the linkages that I have called territorial coalitions. As groups seek to
gain advantage at their particular level of competition, they draw on the
resources and strengths of actors above and below them. Territorial change is
a manifestation of competition and specifically a result of the coalitions and
alliances that emerge in the context of the intense competition at both the
national and local levels.
The centripetal effect of territorial change

The experience of Indonesia as well as other places also suggests that there
may be an inverse relationship between internal territorial reorganization and
external territorial collapse. At the very least, Indonesia, Nigeria, and India
have all been territorially resilient states for the most part, while they have
had significant changes internally.
Especially in a new, uncertain, and highly competitive political environ-
ment, groups may form unusual alliances, in this case vertically across terri-
torial administrative levels, in order to mobilize and compete horizontally.
For example, political parties seeking more votes or local candidates seeking
to outmaneuver opponents may see benefits to linking downwards or upwards
with allies and use territory as a means to political ends as well. And where
national state-level initiatives appear to have supported territorial change to
weaken potential separatist regions, they have done so by fanning intra-regional
tensions.
To that end, territorial coalitions appear to have in fact strengthened the
territorial resilience of the state by creating and strengthening linkages
between center and periphery while at the same time exacerbating intra-
regional tensions. Creating new regions then, is akin to creating new spokes
on a wheel, where spokes strengthen the wheel, making it less likely to fly
apart or break down. This has ensured that even as power has moved from
the hub to the outer rim of the wheel, that the wheel itself remains resilient.
In this way, what appears to be territorial instability and fragility at the local
level has had the ironic effect of strengthening the cohesion of the national
territorial state.
In this way, the concerns of those who criticize recent changes as the “eth-
nicization” of Indonesia into increasingly identity-based provinces actually
miss the point. While this has been the case in some places, most notably in
Gorontalo in North Sulawesi, territorial change has been a phenomenon that
has quelled or weakened moves of separatism in places where it mattered.
Even in the case of Gorontalo, the discourse and justification for a new pro-
vince was framed in the context of Indonesian nationalism and Islam, which
was contrasted to North Sulawesi’s history of regional rebellion and their
Christianity.
Territorial politics, in other words, is not a one way street. We typically
imagine states expanding outward from some political center and regions
fighting their encroachment with one side winning and the other losing, i.e. a
zero-sum game. The reality of territorial politics is much more complex where
mutual negotiation occurs in the context of institutional change. Territorial
changes in Indonesia are not about autonomy as much as they are about
access; access to political power, access to economic resources, and access to
status and recognition.
To be sure, we don’t know what the future holds for the Indonesian state. If
history is a guide, political turmoil, identity-based conflict, economic dis-
placement, natural disasters and their various interactions are all possibilities
on the long horizon. No state is immune from the possibility of unexpected
crises. What is clear is that power does not flow only in one direction, from
the center outward. In Indonesia today relations between the nation’s political
center and its periphery are fragmented and multi-directional, a condition
that political actors at all levels are learning to negotiate.
Appendix
Data on Indonesian provinces
Table A.1 Provinces by population

Province Population
East Java 34,783,640
Central Java 31,228,940
North Sumatra 11,649,655
Jakarta 8,389,443
South Sulawesi 8,059,627
South Sumatra 7,799,872
Lampung 6,741,439
Riau 4,957,627
West Sumatra 4,248,931
West Kalimantan 4,034,198
West Nusa Tenggara 4,009,261
East Nusa Tenggara 3,952,279
Aceh 3,930,905
Bali 3,151,162
Yogyakarta 3,122,268
South Kalimantan 2,985,240
North Sulawesi 2,847,142
East Kalimantan 2,455,120
Jambi 2,413,846
Papua 2,220,934
Central Sulawesi 2,218,435
Maluku 1,990,598
Central Kalimantan 1,857,000
Southeast Sulawesi 1,821,284
Bengkulu 1,567,432
Source: BPS 2000
Note: Entries in italics are the “mother provinces” where new provinces appeared.
Table A.2 Provinces by area (km2)
Province Area
East Kalimantan 230,277
Central Kalimantan 153,564
West Kalimantan 146,807
South Sumatra 109,254
Riau 94,560
Maluku 77,870
North Sumatra 73,587
Central Sulawesi 63,678
South Sulawesi 62,365
Jambi 53,437
Aceh 51,937
East Java 47,922
East Nusa Tenggara 47,351
South Kalimantan 43,546
West Java 43,248
Sumatera Barat 42,899
Southeast Sulawesi 38,140
Lampung 35,384
Central Java 32,549
North Sulawesi 27,488
West Nusa Tenggara 20,153
Bengkulu 19,789
Bali 5,633
Yogyakarta 3,186
Jakarta 664
Source: BPS 2000
Table A.3 Provinces by population density (persons/km2)
Province Density
West Java 1013
Yogyakarta 979
Central Java 959
East Java 725
Bali 559
West Nusa Tenggara 198
Lampung 190
North Sumatra 158
South Sulawesi 129
North Sulawesi 103
Sumatera Barat 99
East Nusa Tenggara 83
Bengkulu 79
Aceh 75
South Sumatra 71
South Kalimantan 68
Riau 52
Southeast Sulawesi 47
Jambi 45
Central Sulawesi 34
West Kalimantan 27
Maluku 25
Central Kalimantan 12
East Kalimantan 10
Papua 6
Source: BPS 2000
Table A.4 Provinces by gross regional domestic product (GRDP)
Province GRDP
West Java 181,629,901
East Java 177,273,781
Central Java 118,404,885
East Kalimantan 72,177,526
North Sumatra 68,212,374
Riau 55,429,873
South Sumatra 45,668,901
Aceh 28,625,759
South Sulawesi 26,596,247
Lampung 23,252,525
Sumatera Barat 22,367,811
Papua 20,713,545
West Kalimantan 17,863,007
South Kalimantan 17,688,377
Bali 16,509,986
Yogyakarta 12,964,953
West Nusa Tenggara 11,937,427
North Sulawesi 11,761,791
Central Kalimantan 10,871,227
Jambi 9,061,211
Central Sulawesi 8,240,293
East Nusa Tenggara 6,329,452
Southeast Sulawesi 5,730,160
Bengkulu 4,539,983
Maluku 4,531,370
Source: BPS 2000
Table A.5 Provinces by foreign direct investment (FDI)
Province FDI
Jakarta Raya 38246.2
East Java 32997.6
Riau 27158.3
Central Java 17044.8
North Sumatra 10152.6
Southeast Sulawesi 7415.8
East Kalimantan 6675.3
Papua 6113.5
South Sumatra 5410.6
West Nusa Tenggara 5187.7
Jambi 4631.7
Aceh 4366
Bali 4038.5
South Kalimantan 3288.8
Lampung 1599.4
West Kalimantan 1250.7
North Sulawesi 1137.6
Sumatera Barat 1079.6
Central Kalimantan 623.1
Maluku 404.7
Yogyakarta 322.8
Bengkulu 300.7
South Sulawesi 287.5
East Nusa Tenggara 163.6
Central Sulawesi 174.1
Source: BPS 2000
Table A.6 Provinces by poverty rate
Province Poverty rate (%)
Bali 5.68
Riau 10.38
Sumatera Barat 11.43
Central Kalimantan 11.97
South Kalimantan 13.03
North Sulawesi 13.03
North Sumatra 13.05
West Java 15.4
South Sulawesi 15.44
East Kalimantan 16.3
South Sumatra 17.37
Bengkulu 17.83
Jambi 21.15
Central Java 21.16
East Java 22.77
Southeast Sulawesi 23.88
Central Sulawesi 24.51
West Nusa Tenggara 28.13
West Kalimantan 29.42
Lampung 30.43
Aceh 31.4
Yogyakarta 33.39
Maluku 34.79
East Nusa Tenggara 36.52
Papua 46.35
Source: BPS 2000
Glossary
bupati district chief, head of a kabupaten

Dwi Fungsi Dual Function, doctrine of the armed forces
Guided Democracy political system in Indonesia under Sukarno from 1957
until 1966
Inpres presidential instruction
kabupaten district or regency
musyawarah liberation and consensus
New Order Suharto era (1966–98)
pemekaran blossoming, term used to refer to the creation of new districts and
provinces in Indonesia
reformasi reform (term associated with the post-Suharto era)
Notes
1 Territorial change in post-authoritarian Indonesia

1 Interviews with government officials in North Sulawesi and Gorontalo in 2005.
2 Alesina and Spolaore (2003) argue that transactions costs essentially force a
bundling of particular goods and services instead of having separate and possibly
overlapping administrative regions for each public service.
2 Breaking boundaries, splitting regions: the politics of territorial coalitions

1 A notable exception includes West Virginia’s split away from Virginia.
2 Subsequent divisions in Papua, however, are important and fit in the realm of this
study as discussed later.
3 Malesky, for example, argues that new provinces in Vietnam are emerging as a
result of conflict between conservatives and reformers in the national legislature
(Malesky 2009).
4 Stuligross sees the creation of new states in India as a way national parties can
court new constituents in an effort to gain legislative advantage at the national
level (Stuligross 2001). Kraxberger elaborates on identity based factors that led to
the creation of new states in Nigeria which he refers to as “subnational citizenship
containers” (Kraxberger 2003).
5 Sinha (2004) has suggested one way to look at linkages along lines of authority,
institutions, and personnel. Sinha’s linkages are more formal and bureaucratic
but in the Indonesian context, there are also more informal and personalistic ties
suggesting a need for a slightly different conceptualization of linkages.
3 Origins and dilemmas of territorial administration in colonial Indonesia

1 See, for example, Winachakul’s work on border construction in Siam (Winachakul 1997).
2 Portuguese attempts to monopolize the trade were unsuccessful and simply dispersed
the trade from the region that they sought to control.
3 The Dutch used a system of forced deliveries called verplichte lever.
4 The spice trade waned for various reasons including advances in meat preservation
technology in Europe as well as more competition from other colonial powers that
were able to circumvent the Dutch monopoly.
5 As Europe was mired in the Napoleonic wars, the Dutch along with other countries
fell under French sway under Louis Bonaparte.
6 Raffles was appointed by the British government who had taken over administra-
tion of the East Indies on behalf of the Dutch so as to avoid French takeover. The
British proceeded to occupy the archipelago for five years from 1811 to 1816.
7 The system was implemented by Governor General J. van den Bosch.
8 The novel described the deep corruption of the Dutch colonial institutions as well
as the deep poverty and starvation among Indonesian peasants that resulted from
the Cultivation System.
9 Though these are referred to as decentralization laws, they are probably more
accurately characterized as acts of deconcentration.
10 Governors were generally appointed in particular areas where there were outstanding
military pacification interests (Aceh), outstanding economic interests (East Coast
of Sumatra) or in large remote areas (Celebes) (Vandenbosch 1941: 129–30).
4 Post-colonial territorial administration and the imperative toward centralization

1 The movement peaked in the late 1950s and early 1960s in part because of concern
over the growing influence of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI) with the
government. Islamists considered Communism’s atheism as a threat to their own
existence. However, as the state gained strength in the early 1960s, the movement
declined and was largely wiped out by the capture of S. M. Kartowirjo in 1962
(Kingsbury 2002: 40)
2 Nasution was also a Sumatran but was identified as an advocate of the central
government.
3 Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia or PRRI.
4 One exception might be the Republic of Molucca. Webster (2007) argues that the
Republic of Molucca’s declaration of independence was largely a residue of the
revolution where Ambonese leaders loyal to the Dutch tried to resist integration
into the new republic.
5 The government did establish Aceh and West Papua as Daerah Istimewah and
Daerah Otonomi Khusus, respectively, giving them a significant share of natural
resource revenue and broad legal authority.
5 Marginality and opportunity in the periphery

1 This fact was recounted to me in numerous conversations with informants in Gor-
ontalo. This discourse was also evident in the local media; for example, see newspaper
accounts such as 2000.
2 Panitia Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo Tomini Raya, or Committee
to Prepare for the Separation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province.
3 Presidium Nasional Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo, or National Presidium for
the Formation of Gorontalo Province.
4 Law Number 38 was passed on December 4, 2000; the official declaration of
provincehood occurred on February 16, 2001 (Hasanuddin 2004).
5 For example, at the national level, interviews with Ferry Mursyidan Baldan,
chairman Commission II of the Parliament of the Republic of Indonesia, Jakarta,
June 3, 2005; and Suparman, head of Technical Commission on Regional Auton-
omy, Association of Indonesian Regency Government, Jakarta, May 25, 2005. At
the local level, interviews with Edwin Silangen, Interim District Chief, North
Minahasa, Manado, March 29, 2005; A. G. Kawatu, interim bupati, North Mina-
hasa, April 1, 2005; Abit Takalingan, Provincial Parliament member, Northern
Sulawesi, Manado, April 2, 2005. Interviews with government officials in North
Sulawesi and Gorontalo in 2005.
6 It is important to note that these identities are malleable and often complicated by
sub-ethnic identities as well. For example, there are several languages in Minahasa
that correlate to some eight different sub-ethnic groups. See for example, Schefold
(1995) and Palar and Anes (1994). These authors argue that these “subethnic”
groups consolidated over the years in order to counter domination from a neighboring
kingdom, the Bolaang-Mongondow.
Notes 145
7 Upgrading inside existing boundaries would be easier than creating a new province
with new administrative boundaries. In North Sulawesi, other initiatives for the
formation of new provinces and new districts were also often justified along ethnic
or sub-ethnic lines in ways that overlapped with territory. For example, in the wake
of Gorontalo’s success, there has been an emerging movement for a Bolaang-
Mongondow province emerging from people living in that district. At the district
level, too, Minahasa was divided into three different districts: Minahasa, North
Minahasa, and South Minahasa, again along sub-ethnic lines.
8 Anna Tsing (1993) formulates this notion more eloquently as “out-of-the-way,”
albeit in a different context in her aptly titled book.
9 In contrast, only 150 soldiers from Gorontalo were recruited and participated in
the Java war. See Schouten (1998).
10 My translation: “On this day, January 23, 1942, we, the people of Indonesia, living
here, are independent, free from colonialism by any nation whatsoever. Our flag is
the Red and White. Our national anthem is Indonesia Raya.”
11 Permesta was part of a larger uprising that should be understood in the context of
Outer Island resentment of Java’s perceived economic and political dominance.
Permesta joined up with another rebellion on Sumatra island called PRRI
(Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik Indonesia, or the Revolutionary Government
of the Indonesian Republic). Their alliance was dubbed PRRI–Permesta. Though
the two movements were separately motivated, they saw benefits in cooperation.
12 In 1960, through Presidential Regulation no. 5 of that year, Sulawesi was divided
into two provinces, and later that year assigned the status of an autonomous region
(Legge 1961: 68). The formation of a new province may have been one of the key
negotiating points and a way for the central government to divide the insurgents
and conquer the rebellion.
13 See, for example, reports of resentment against residents of Bolaang-Mondondow
(Harvey 1977: 120).
14 One informant suggested that the Minahasa may have been enabled to hold onto
the governorship because the military at the time was heavily Christian.
15 “Gorontalo itu, daerah yang selalu dianaktirikan.” Interview, Saiful Ngiu, staff,
Ministry of Sport, Jakarta, December 15, 2004. Saiful Ngiu is a native of Gorontalo.
16 In the social-movements literature, this is referred to as the “political opportunity”
approach to understanding movements (McAdam et al. 2001).
17 Interview with Jamal Mooduto, former student activist, Bappeda, Gorontalo, July
26, 2005.
18 Ibid.
19 Later, Nooriman, the bupati, stepped down voluntarily.
20 Interview with Jamal Mooduto, former student activist, Bappeda, Gorontalo, July
26, 2005.
21 Interview with Djamaluddin Panna, former secretary, PRESNAS, Gorontalo, July
26, 2005.
22 Interview with Masri Usman, former leader of HMI Gorontalo, Gorontalo, July
28, 2005.
23 Interview with Husein Mohi, journalist, Gorontalo, July 29, 2005.
24 APBD, or the Anggaran Pendapat dan Belanja Daerah, Regional Budget.
25 Note that the budget for a Gorontalo province was reported to be as high as 13
billion rupiah.
26 “Manado seperti imperilisme baru terhadap Gorontalo” (Intim 1999).
27 “… selama berpuluh-puluh tahun menjadi sapi perahan bagi masyarakat
Manado.”
29 Komite Pusat Pembentukan Provinsi Gorontalo Tomini Raya or the Central
Committee for the Formation of Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province.
30 Interview, Nelson Pomalingo, and Roem Kohno, heads of PRESNAS, and
KP3GTR respectively. Both had clear gubernatorial ambitions. Natsir Mooduto,
head of P4GTR had recently passed away.
31 Interview with Rusli Monoarfa, student leader for Gorontalo Province, Manado,
July 9, 2005.
32 Interview with Husein Mohi, journalist, Gorontalo, July 29, 2005. Confirmed also
by Ismail Moo, businessman, supporter of Gorontalo Province, Manado, July 8,
2005.
33 Interview with Paris Yusuf, member DPRD Gorontalo, Gorontalo, July 25, 2005.
34 Interview with Rainer Emyot Ointoe, local activist from Gorontalo, Manado, April
3, 2005.
36 In general, Habibie was seen as an advocate for “Outer Island” Indonesia after he
replaced Suharto as president.
37 Note that this took place when the army still held a block of seats in the national
legislature. Some suggest that Wiranto may have even been the one to broach the
subject in the legislature. Interview with Pitres Sombowadile, activist, February 4,
2005.
38 An informant, who was present at the time the bribes were paid, emphasized that
five million was quite a small sum, in part because Gorontalo was such an uncon-
tentious case. He claimed that Gorontalo was the cheapest, fastest, smoothest of all
the new-province initiatives and that others were more expensive or fraught with
complications.
39 This point was suggested to me in various interviews, but I could not confirm
through party officials or other participants that it had been an intentional strategy.
Furthermore, by 2004, the laws governing electoral districts changed so that they
were no longer based solely on provincial boundaries.
6 Territoriality and membership

1 Declaration letter of Forum Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten Kepulauan Riau,
May 22, 2998, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia.
2 Interview with Rusli Silin, July 20, 2007, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia
3 Proposal for the formation of Komite Pemekaran Kepulauan Riau (KPKR), Tanjung
Pinang, April 15, 1999.
4 Ibid.
5 Interview with Hasim, July 21, 2007, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia.
6 Interview with Idris Zaini, July 16, 2007, Office in DPD Building, Jakarta, Indonesia.
7 Committee to Prepare for the Creation of Island Riau Province.
8 Before 1943, only 8 percent of the Minangkabau migration was to Riau. Between
1942 and 1961 that number rose to 19 percent. And by 1961 it was at 21 percent.
Thus alongside Jakarta, Pekanbaru (Riau’s capital city) became a favored destination
for the Minang (B. W. Andaya 1997: 51).
9 The main exception being the Toba Bataks.
10 The problem with Pertamina was that along with its high revenues, it also had high
rates of borrowing. By the mid-1970s, Pertamina had high levels of debt, higher
even than the Indonesian government. Pertamina was forced to default on its debt
and declare bankruptcy by 1975 quickly followed by General Sutowo’s dismissal.
As oil prices dropped slowly in the 1980s and 1990s, oil became less and less central
for government export revenue.
11 By 1995 about 85 percent or about 2.6 billion USD of total export value lay in the
electronics industry (Sari 2002: 136).
12 Abbreviated for Singapore-Johor-Riau.
13 See online. Available at: www.pathfinder.com/asiaweek/98/0904/cs\_4\_batam.html.
Notes 147
14 Malley talks at length about the DPR’s refusal to approve Munandar and the
government ignoring that opposition and appointing Munandar regardless (Malley
1999b).
15 He elected to avoid the word “merdeka” or independence at that moment.
16 Interview with Abdul Razak, Director of the Lembaga Adat Melayu, Tanjung
Pinang, Indonesia, July 20, 2007.
17 Ibid.
18 Interview with Rusli Silin, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia, July 20, 2007.
19 In 2001 BIDA’s authority was devolved to local powers in line with decentraliza-
tion initiatives that were implemented. There needs to be more research as to how
this affected the involvement of the previous stakeholders such as Habibie and
Suharto.
20 Interview with Hasim, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia, July 21, 2007.
21 Interview with Idris Zaini, Jakarta, Indonesia, July 16, 2007.
22 Interview with Zulkar Nain, July 20, 2007 in Tanjung Pinang, Kepulauan Riau,
Indonesia.
23 The first point of the declaration states “Menolak Negara Riau Merdeka” and is
signed by representatives of the people of Kepulauan Riau, signed on May 15,
1999.
24 Interview with Elza Zen, Jakarta Representative for BP3KR, Jakarta, Indonesia,
July 23, 2007.
25 Interview with H. Syamsul Bahrum, Assistant for Economy and Development,
Batam, Indonesia, July 22, 2007.
26 Interview with Elza Zen, Jakarta Representative for BP3KR, Jakarta, Indonesia,
July 23, 2007.
27 See Choi (2005) for an analysis of the most recent local politics and local elections
in Kepri.
28 Interview with Rusli Silin, Tanjung Pinang, Indonesia, July 20, 2007.
7 Elite conflict and pressure from above

1 Note that West Papua as referred to in this text has gone by several names. Until
1962 it was referred to as Netherlands Guinea or Western New Guinea. From 1962
to 1973 it was called West Irian. In 1973 it was renamed Irian Jaya. In 2000, it was
again renamed West Papua or sometimes just Papua. The newly declared provinces
were called West Irian and Central Irian and the remaining area was simply called
West Papua. Since 2007, West Irian has been renamed West Papua, Central Irian
has been revoked, and the remaining area is simply referred to as Papua province.
2 Data downloaded from online. Available at: http://irja.bps.go.id/.
3 Papua also has over 41.5 million hectares of forests of which 27.6 million are
classified by the government as “production forests.”
4 See Law 45, 1999.
5 Known in the past as ABRI and more recently as TNI.
8 Politics of territorial change

1 To be sure, there were disagreements among key military elite. And as Suharto’s
base waned, it is now commonly accepted that Suharto looked toward other sources,
such as radicalized Islam to strengthen his regime. But overall, the regime was
solid and unified relative to the intense competition today.
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Index
Abdullah, Ismeth 103 Ascher, W. 93

Abubakar, Wan 89 Aspinall, E. 5, 17–18, 54
access to political power, importance of Aspinall, E. and Berger, M.T. 60
134 Aspinall, E. and Fealy, G. 11, 60, 133
Aceh, post-colonial experience in 54–55 Ataruri, Brigadier General Abraham
“Act of Free Choice” 55, 112–13, Octavianus 121–23
118–19
administration: administrative districts Badan Inteligens Abri (BIA) 103
in Gorontalo 69; colonial Badan Koordinasasi Inteligen Negara
administrative experimentation 29; (BaKIN) 122–23
establishment in West Papua of 108–9 Badan Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi
Afiff, S. and Lowe, C. 14 Kepulauan Riau (BP3K) 89, 100
Agnew, J. 12 Badan Pusat Statistik (BPS) 69–70, 91,
Ahmad, E. and Tanzi, V. 64 92–93, 109, 136, 137, 138, 139, 140,
Airlangga Kingdom in Eastern Java 24 141
Alesina, A. and Spolaore, E. 143n2 Bahrum, H. Syamsul 147n25
alliances between geographic scales Baldan, Ferry Mursyidan 144n5
15–16 “balkanization,” prospect for
Alm, J., Aten, R. and Bahl, R. 60 Indonesia of 1
Amnesty International 116 Bartolini, S. 14
ancient pre-colonial kingdoms 23–24 Basri, Feisal 117
Andaya, B.W. 91, 100, 146n8 Basso, K.H. 14
Andaya, B.W. and Andaya, L.Y. 99 Bastin, J. 29
Andaya, L.Y. 90 Batam Industrial Development Area
Anderson, B. and Kahin, A. 45 (BIDA) 94–95, 102, 103, 147n19
Anderson, B., McVey, R.T. and Bunnell, Baud, J.C. 30
F.P. 43, 49, 51 Beanal, Tom 117
Anderson, Benedict 24, 40, 41, 52–53 Bellin, E. 18
Angelino, A.D.A. de K. 26 Benda, H.J. 32, 34
Anggaibak, Andreas 122 Bertrand, J. 14, 50, 62, 79, 108, 109,
Anggaran Pendapat dan Belanja Daerah 111, 117, 118
(APBD) 145n24 Bird, J. 57
Ansell, C.K. and Palma, G.D. 13 Bitung 69
anti-communist generals, assassination Blair, D. and Phillips, D. 114, 115, 119,
of 43 120
Arifin Achmad 96 “BOHUSAMI” 77
army-Communist Party struggle for Bolton, J. 1
power 43 Bonaparte, Louis 29, 143n5
Arndt, H. 109 Bonay, Elierzer 114
Index 159
Botutihe, Medi 82 Colombijn, F. 96, 97
boundaries: effects of re-drawing of 1–2; colonial territorial administration 8,
regional and boundary shifts 30–31; 22–37; abstention on Outer Islands,
see also territorial change policy of 30; administrative
Brenner, N. 13 experimentation 29; Airlangga
bribery, corruption and 101 Kingdom in Eastern Java 24; ancient
British interregnum 29 pre-colonial kingdoms 23–24; British
Brown, D. 14, 55 interregnum 29; bupatis (district
Brubaker, R. 2 chiefs, system of) 27, 29, 30, 32, 35;
Brueckner, J. 63–64 business, shift to government 31;
Buchholt, H. and Mai, U. 72 Central National Committee, creation
Bulan Bintang 84 of 34; centralization 28–31; colonial
Bull, H. 12 competition, intensification of 30;
bupatis (district chiefs, system of) 51, consolidation 28–31; constructing the
100, 122, 142, 144n5; colonial center and the shift to Java 27–28;
territorial administration 27, 29, 30, decentralization 31–34;
32, 35 decentralization laws (1922) 32;
bureaucracy, expansion of 30–31 districts (kewedanaan) 37; Dutch and
bureaucratic centralization, New Order Republican government, conflict
and 50–51 between 34–35; Dutch new state
bureaucratic explanations 3–4 creation 35–36; Eastern Indonesia,
business, shift to government 31 establishment of State of 35; ethical
policies 31–34; “Ethical System” 32;
Capoccia, G. 62 expansion of bureaucracy 30–31;
Celarier, M. 115 extra-territoriality, agreement of
center-region ties in Gorontalo 68, 33–34; Federal Republic of Indonesia
83, 86 (RIS), sovereign power invested in 36;
Central National Committee, creation federalism, failure of 34–36;
of 34 governments of provinces,
centralization 28–31; under the New organization of 32–33; ideational
Order 49–54; process of, shifts in struggle about territorial governance
territoriality and 38–39, 47–48 35; indirect rule 27–28; land-rent
centripetal effect of territorial change 3, system 29–30; liberalization 31;
134–35 Linggadjati Agreement 35; Majapahit
Chaidir, H. 89 empire 23–24; maritime kingdoms
Chauvel, R. and Bhakti, I.N. 106–7, and inland agrarian kingdoms,
111, 112, 117, 119, 121, 122, 126 contrast between 24; nationalist
Choi, N. 133, 147n27 resistance to change 34–36; “Native
Christianity, Dutch introduction of Communities,” recognition of 30;
72–73 native elite groups, integration into
coalitions: coalitional politics, Dutch colonial administrative system
competition and 133; comparative 23; “native states,” creation of 33;
perspective on territorial coalitions Peta (Volunteer Army of Defenders of
16–17; foundation in Gorontalo of the Fatherland) 34; political authority,
79–81, 85; linkages and functioning of weakness of 24; pre-colonial
19; mobilization of territorial geography and territorial diversity
coalitions 15–16; possibilities for 4–5; 23–25; provinces, division of 37;
process of 19–20, 21; territorial regencies (kabupaten or
coalitions, politics of 15; territory and regentshappen) 32, 37, 60, 69, 103;
127–28; see also territorial coalitions, regional and boundary shifts 30–31;
politics of Renville Accords 35; resistance to
Cokroaminoto, H. Umar Said 74 colonial rule 23; Round Table
collapse, post-authoritarian prevention Agreement (1949) 36; “Short
of 1–3 Declaration” 33; social construction
160 Index
of territory 22; spice trade, choke- Daendels, Herman Wilhem 29, 32
point economics and 25–26; Srivijaya Daerah Operasi Militer (DOM) 117
empire 23; systematic uniform Darul Islam 42, 43, 46, 54
administrative code (Law 22, 1950), Davidson, J. 46
establishment of 36–37; territorial Dawak (Ink) 97
boundaries 24–25; territorial Dayak political identity 46
translation of ethical policy to Outer “Debt of Honor” (van Deventer, C.Th.)
Islands 33; territory, delineation in 32
ancient polities 24; uniformity and decentralization: colonial territorial
recognition of diversity, dilemma of administration 31–34;
22, 37; Vereenigde Oost-Indische decentralization laws (1922) 32;
Compagnie (VOC) 23, 25–26, 27, 28; implementation of, territorial
villages (desas) 37; Yogyakarta, coalitions and 11; local elites and
Dutch military capture of 36 81–83; post-authoritarian territorial
commercial ventures, military operated change 5; post-colonial territorial
120 administration, centralization and
Committee to Prepare for Formation of 60–61
Gorontalo Tomini Raya Province Dekker, Eduard Douwes 31
(P4GTR) 67, 81, 82, 146n30 Delaney, D. and Leitner, H. 13
Communist Party (PKI) 144n1; post- Delta Orient Private Limited 94
colonial territorial administration and democratization: post-authoritarian
42, 44, 50, 51 territorial change 5; post-colonial
compartmentalization 70; territorial administration,
compartmentalized diversity in North centralization and 58–60, 61
Sulawesi 68–70 demographc patterns: changes in West
competing visions: Kepulauan Riau, Papua 109, 110
territoriality and membership 101; of demographic patterns: in Gorontalo
Papua for Indonesian elite 116–18 69–70
competitiveness in post-authoritarian Dent, M. 130, 131, 132
Indonesia 132–34 Derks, W. 96, 97
Conselho Nacional da Resistência development funds (keuangan
Maubere (CNRM) 56–57 pembangunan), military access to
consolidation, colonialism and 28–31 76–77
constitutional debate 42 Dewan Perwakilan Daerah (DPD) 63
cooperation: in post-authoritarian Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah
Indonesia 132–34; territorial (DPRD) 60
coalitions, politics of 16 Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat (DPR) 63
coordination, collaboration Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat-Republik
and 19–20 Indonesia (DPR-RI) 84, 119
Cox, K.R. 13, 15 Diponegoro rebellion in Java 73
creation of new provinces 10, 20–21; districts (kewedanaan) 37
first wave 44–46; legacy of 126; divergent nationalisms 73–74
legislation for new provinces 62; diversity: ethnic diversity 90–91, 93;
new-province formation, political and territoriality in the Riau region
transition and 67–68; pembentukan 90–92; uniformity and recognition of
daerah (new region formation) 10; diversity, dilemma of 22, 37
political nature of new province divide-and-rule: Kepulauan Riau,
formation 68, 84, 85–86 territoriality and membership 103;
Cribb, R. 22, 23, 27, 29, 30–31, territorial change 126, 132; West
42, 43 Papua, elite conflict and downward
cross-cutting territorial alliances 16 pressure 125
Crouch, H. 41, 43, 48, 49–50, 51, 52 Djasit, Governor Saleh 89, 97, 101
cultural centralization, New Order and Djopari, John 122
53–54 Doner, R. 15
Index 161
Dunn, J. 56 “ethnicization,” territorial change and
Dutch government: claim on Western 133–34
New Guinea 108; development effort ethnification of politics 20
in West Papua 111; native elite Evans, P.B. 40
groups, integration into Dutch Evans, P.B., Rueschemeyer, D. and
colonial administrative system 23; Skocpol, T. 12, 39
new state creation by 35–36; regional Evera, S. van 7
consolidation of North Sulawesi 72; extra-territoriality, agreement of 33–34
Republican government and, conflict
between 34–35; vision for Papua 110 Fatam, Ali 80
dwi fungsi (‘dual function,’ doctrine of Faucher, C. 98, 99, 100
the armed forces) 49, 142 Federal Republic of Indonesia (RIS),
sovereign power invested in 36
East Timor: Forças Armadas da federalism, failure of 34–36
Libertação Nacional de Timor-Leste Feith, H. 34, 36, 47–48
(FALINTIL) 56–57; post-colonial Ferguson, J. 4
experience in 56–57 fiscal authority and responsibilities,
Eastern Indonesia, establishment of devolution of 63–64
State of 35 Fitrani, F., Hofman, B. and Kaiser, K. 64
economic centralization, New Order and forced integration in West Papua 113–15
52–53 forestry and logging 114–15
economic development, negative effects Forum Komunikasi Generasi Muda
of 94 Irian Jaya (FKGMIJ) 117
economic migration in Kepulauan Forum Komunikasi Mahasiswa
Riau 91 Gorontalo (FKMG) 80
economic problems of post-colonial Forum Komunikasi Mahasiswa
territorial administration 40 Indonesia Tinelo Gorontalo
efficiency, principle of 61 (FK-MITG) 80
efficiency arguments: post-authoritarian Forum Rekonsiliasi Rakyat Irian Jaya
territorial change 3–4; West Papua, (FORERI) 117
elite conflict and downward Forum Solidaritas Intelektual Muda
pressure 107 Indonesia Gorontalo
elected regional councils, establishment (FSI-MIG) 80
of 111 Forum Solidaritas Reformasi
elected representatives, isolation of 112–13 Kabupaten Kepulauan Riau
electoral and party reform 58–60 (FSRKKR) 88, 100
electoral centralization, New Order and fragmentation, process of 10
51–52 free choice, act of 55, 112–13, 118–19
electoral system, discussion on rules of 59 Freeport McMoran Copper and Gold
Elmhirst, R. 53 Inc. 114, 115, 116
Elmslie, J. 115
Eluay, Theus 117 Gaastra, F. 25, 27
Emmerson, D.K. 50, 51 Gamson, W. 16
environmental groups in West Papua 116 Gerakan Aceh Merdeka (GAM) 54
equality, principle of 61 Gerakan Mahasiswa Perjuangan
Erb, M., Sulistiyanto, P. and Faucher, C. 11 Provinsi Kepri (GMPPK) 90
Esping-Anderson, Gøsta 15 gerrymandering, practice of 10
ethical policies 31–34 Ghandi, Mohandas K. (‘Mahatma’)
“Ethical System” 32 129
ethnic diversity 90–91, 93 Gill, R. and Sri-Aksarakomunika, T. 94, 95
ethnic groups in globalization, territoriality and 12–13
North Sulawesi 69–70 Gobel, Rachmat 83
ethnicity, religion, and development in Goemans, H. 14
West Papua 108–10 Goh Chok Tong 94
162 Index
Golongan Karya (Golkar): in (MUBES) 80; national elites, political
Gorontalo 84; in West Papua 107, party reform 83–85, 86; Nederlandse
117, 120, 123, 124 Zending Genootschap (NZG) 72;
Gorontalo, marginality and opportunity New Order rehabilitation 76–78, 85;
in 8, 66–86; administrative districts new-province formation, political
69; birth of a province 66–68; Bitung transition and 67–68; open dialogue
69; “BOHUSAMI” 77; Bulan (dialog terbuka) 80; Partai Amanat
Bintang 84; center-region ties 68, 83, Nasional (PAN) 84; Partai
86; Christianity, Dutch introduction Dwemokrasi Indonesia-Perjuangan
of 72–73; coalition, foundation of (PDI-P) 84; Partai Indonesia
79–81, 85; colonial interventions and (Partindo) 74; Partai Nasional
legacies 71–73; Committee to Prepare Indonesia (PNI) 74; Partai Persatuan
for Formation of Gorontalo Tomini Pembangunan (PPP) 84; Permesta
Raya Province (P4GTR) 67, 81, 82, (Perjuangan Semesta, or “General
146n30; compartmentalization 70; Struggle”) 74–76; political affinities in
compartmentalized diversity in North pre-colonial Indonesia 71; political
Sulawesi 68–70; decentralization and nature of new province formation 68,
local elites 81–83; demographic 84, 85–86; political party reform and
patterns 69–70; development funds national elites 83–85; pre-colonial
(keuangan pembangunan), military Indonesia, land-to-labor ratio in 71;
access to 76–77; Dewan Perwakilan PRESNAS 67, 82, 145n21, 146n30;
Rakyat–Republik Indonesia privilege, historical foundations 70–
(DPR-RI) 84; Diponegoro rebellion 78; regional consolidation of North
in Java 73; divergent nationalisms Sulawesi by Dutch 72; regionalist
73–74; ethnic groups in North aspirations of “periphery” 68; religion
Sulawesi 69–70; Forum Komunikasi in North Sulawesi 70; Royal
Mahasiswa Gorontalo (FKMG) 80; Netherlands-Indies Army (KNIL) 73;
Forum Komunikasi Mahasiswa social development indicators 78;
Indonesia Tinelo Gorontalo social mobilization 81; student
(FK-MITG) 80; Forum Solidaritas demonstrations and demands in
Intelektual Muda Indonesia Gorontalo 79; Tentara Nasional
Gorontalo (FSI-MIG) 80; Golongan Indonesia/Polisi Republik Indonesia
Karya (Golkar) 84; Gorontalo (TNI/Polri) 84; territorial change,
Province, declaration of formation of triggering of 68; transition and
67; Himpunan Pelajar Mahasiswa opportunity 78–85; Vereenigde
Indonesia Bualemo Gorontalo Oost-Indische Compagnie (VOC)
(HPMIBG) 80; Himpunan Pelajar 71–72; violence, turning point in
Mahasiswa Indonesia Gorontalo student movement 79–80
(HPMIG) 80, 81; historical governments of provinces, organization
foundations of privilege and of 32–33
marginality 70–78; Ikatan Sarjana Gowon, Yakubi 131
Gorontalo (ISG) 80; inequality, guerilla fighters 41
Christianity and 72–73; Japanese Guided Democracy 39, 47–49, 142
invasion and occupation 66–67, 74;
Kebangkitan Bangsa 84; Kerukunan Habibie, Bacharuddin Jusuf (‘B.J.’) 58,
Keluarga Indonesia Gorontalo 60, 83, 94, 102, 103, 116–17, 124, 125,
(KKIG) 80; KP3GTR 82, 146n30; 146n36
local elites, decentralization and Habibie, Ilham Akbar 102
81–83; Manado 69–73, 75–77, 80–83; Habibie, Suyatim Abdulrachman 102
marginality, historical foundations of Habibie, Thareq Kemal 102
70–78; marginality in the periphery Hadar, L. 1
78; Meer Uitgebreide Lagere Hadiz, V. 18, 133
Onderwijs (MULO) 74; Minahasa Hale, H. 131
68–78, 82, 85; Musyawarah Besar Hamid, Syawran 97
Index 163
Harian Gorontalo 81, 82 provinces 141; territorial coalitions,
Harriss, J., Stokke, K. and Tornquist, O. politics of 17–19; see also colonial
133 territorial administration; Gorontalo,
Harvey, B.S. 75, 145n13 marginality and opportunity in;
Hasanuddin 72, 74, 144n4 Kepalauan Riau; post-authoritarian
Hatta, Mohammed 34, 36, 42, 43, territorial change; post-colonial
47, 110 territorial administration; territorial
Hechter, Michael 14 coalitions, politics of; West Papua
Hefner, R. 17, 42 inequality, Christianity and 72–73
Hendropriyono 122, 123 Inpres (presidential instruction) 106–7,
Henley, D. 71, 72, 73–74 121, 142
Henley, D., Schouten, M. and Ulaen, A.J. institutional territoriality 14–15
77, 80 institutions, competition between 133
Hill, H. 50, 52 Instruksi President No. 1 (Megawati,
Himpunan Pelajar Mahasiswa Indonesia 2003) 106–7, 119, 121
Bualemo Gorontalo (HPMIBG) 80 insurgency, separatist challenges and 54
Himpunan Pelajar Mahasiswa Indonesia Inter-governmental Group on Indonesia
Gorontalo (HPMIG) 80, 81 (IGGI) 52–53
Hirschman, A.O. 39 “internal colonialism” 14
Hood, Huzrin 100, 103 International Crisis Group (ICG) 106,
Horowitz, D. 131 115, 123, 124
Hoshour, C. 91 international pressure, free choice and
human rights, resistance in West Papua 112–13
and 115–16 Intim 80, 81, 145n26
human territoriality 12 intra-elite conflicts in West Papua 107
Irian Jaya Crisis Center (IJCC) 123
ideational struggle about territorial Irian Jaya see West Papua
governance 35
Ijie, Jimmy 123 Jacobsen, M. 77
Ikatan Sarjana Gorontalo (ISG) 80 Jakarta Post 97, 101, 117
Imam Munandar 96 Japanese invasion and occupation
Imam Nooriman 79–80, 145n19 39–40; of Gorontalo 66–67, 74
independent Papua, unacceptability to Java: constructing the center and the
Indonesia 119 shift to 27–28; “Javanization” 53; and
India 9, 10; colonial legacy 128–29; the Outer Islands, balance of
comparison with Nigeria 128–30; representation between 59
creation of new states 129; Jenkins, D. 51
decentralization, effects of 130; “jumping scales” 16
federal structure in 129; parallels to
Indonesia 130; posy-colonial state kabupaten (district or regency) 37, 60,
organization 129; state-level parties, 69, 103, 142
success in national elections 129–30; Kahler, M. and Walter, B.F. 13, 14
territorial management 128–29; Kartosuwirjo, S.M. 42, 144n1
territorial organization 129; territorial Kawatu, A.G. 144n5
reorganization 129–30 Kebangkitan Bangsa: in Gorontalo 84;
indirect rule 27–28 in West Papua 118
Indonesia: areas of provinces 137; Keck, M.E. and Sikkink, K. 16
“balkanization,” prospect for 1; Kepulauan Riau, territoriality and
density of populations in provinces membership 8, 87–105; Badan
138; foreign direct investment (FDI) Inteligens Abri (BIA) 103; Badan
in provinces 140; gross regional Persiapan Pembentukan Provinsi
domestic product (GRDP) of Kepulauan Riau (BP3K) 89, 100;
provinces 139; populations of Batam Industrial Development Area
provinces 136; poverty rates in (BIDA) 94–95, 102, 103, 147n19;
164 Index
bribery, corruption and 101; Kopassus (special forces unit): post-
competing visions 101; debate about colonial territorial administration and
87–88; Delta Orient Private Limited 50; in West Papua 116
94; diversity and territoriality in the Koran Tempo 89
Riau region 90–92; divide-and-rule KP3GTR in Gorontalo 82, 146n30
103; economic development, negative Kraxberger, B.M. 17, 130, 132, 143n4
effects of 94; economic migration 91;
ethnic diversity 90–91, 93; Forum Lambung Mangurat, Council of 46
Solidaritas Reformasi Kabupaten land-rent system 29–30
Kepulauan Riau (FSRKKR) 88, 100; Law No. 25 (1999) on Inter-Government
Gerakan Mahasiswa Perjuangan Financial Balance 60–61
Provinsi Kepri (GMPPK) 90; gross Law No. 5 (1974) on Regional
regional domestic product per capita Administration 50
93–94; Komite Pemekaran Kepulauan Law No. 22 (1999) on Regional
Riau (KPKR) 88–89; Kongres Rakyat Administration 60
Kepulauan Riau 89; Malacca, leadership roles in West Papua 124–25
Sultanate of 98–99; membership, Legge, J.D. 35–36, 44, 45, 48, 145n12
rejection of 95–102; migration, high Leirissa, R.Z. 72–73, 76
levels of 91–92; movement for a new Leith, D. 116
Kepri 88–90; Musyawarah Besar liberalization: and an alternative vision
Masyarakat Kepri 89; Musyawarah in West Papua 118–19; colonial
Partai Partai Politik Kepulauan Riau territorial administration 31
in Jakarta 103–4; narrative of, Liddle, W. 52
similarity to Gorontalo 90; National Lieberman, V. 24
Intelligence Agency (BIN) 103; Liem Sioe Liong 102
national membership 102–4; pan- Lijphart, A. 110, 111
provincial autonomy, mobilization of Linggadjati Agreement 35
96–98; Pertamina (state petroleum local actors, working with 107, 122–24,
company) 93, 94; reformasi, effects of 126
99–100; regional development and local elites, decentralization and 81–83
economic trajectories 92–95; religion local political actors, competition
92, 93; Riau Lingga, ancient between 133–34
Sultanate of 98; Riau Malay identity, local territorial changes 2
foundations of 97; Riau Merdeka Locher-Scholten, E. 30
97–98; Riau Merdeka, rejection of Loukacheva, N. 17
98–102; Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia
growth triangle (SIJOHRI) 94–95 McAdam, D., Tarrow, S.G. and Tilly, C.
Kerukunan Keluarga Indonesia 145n16
Gorontalo (KKIG) 80 McGibbon, R. 109
Khan, R. 129 Machmud, Sultan of Melaka 99
King, D. 58, 59, 107, 114, 120–21 Mackie, J. and MacIntyre, A. 50, 51, 52,
King, P. 112, 119, 121, 122 58
Kingsbury, D. 54, 55–56, 58, 144n1 Magindaan, Governor E.E. 79–80
Klinken, Geert Arend van 72 Majapahit empire 23–24
Kohno, Roem 146n30 majority-minority relations 2
Komisi Pemilihan Umim (KPU) 35–36 Malacca, Sultanate of 98–99
Komite Pemekaran Kepulauan Riau Malesky, E. 143n3
(KPKR) 146n3; territoriality and Malley, M. 50, 51, 52, 53, 64, 96, 102,
membership in Kepulauan Riau 119, 147n14
88–89 Manado, Gorontalo and 69–73, 75–77,
Komite Solidaritas Rakyat Irian 117 80–83
Kompas 81, 89, 90, 106, 107, 118, 119, Manado Post 82
120, 121, 122, 123 Mandau Talawang Panca Sila (GMTPS)
Kongres Rakyat Kepulauan Riau 89 46
Index 165
Manifest Politik in West Papua 111, multi-dimensional nature of:
118 territoriality 128; territory 5, 15
marginality: historical foundations of multi-ethnicity: multi-ethnic states,
70–78; in the periphery 78 comparisons of 128–32; post-
maritime kingdoms and inland agrarian authoritarian territorial change and 2
kingdoms, contrast between 24 Musyawarah Besar Masyarakat Kepri 89
Marxist political science 12 Musyawarah Besar (MUBES): in
material incentives in West Papua 125 Gorontalo 80; in West Papua 118
materiality of territory, over-emphasis Musyawarah Partai Partai Politik
on: post-authoritarian territorial Kepulauan Riau in Jakarta 103–4
change 4; territorial coalitions, musyawarahde (liberation and
politics of 14 consensus) 142
Matindas, B.E. and Supit, B. 76
Matthews, V.K. 115 Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) 118
Mawdsley, Emma 129 Nain, Zulkar 147n22
Max Havelaar (Dekker, E.D.) 31 Nasution, General 48, 144n2
Meer Uitgebreide Lagere Onderwijs national and local ties, critical
(MULO) 74 nature of 128
Megawati Sukarnoputeri 17, 103, 106–7, national elites, political party reform
118, 119, 120–21, 123, 125 and 83–85, 86
Merdeka 117 National Intelligence Agency (BIN):
Migdal, J.S. 39 Kepulauan Riau and 103; in West
migration: elite conflict, downward Papua 122, 123, 125
pressure and 109–10, 113–14; high National Mandate Party 117–18
levels of, Kepulauan Riau and 91–92; National Resilience Institute
independence of West Papua and 123 (Lemhannas) 121
Miles, D. 46 national role and alliance with local
military: centralization in post-colonial politics 16–17
era 48; centralization of, New Order nationalist resistance to change 34–36
and 49–50; commercial ventures “Native Communities,” recognition
operated by 120; expansiveness in of 30
post-colonial era 48–49; killings in native elite groups, integration into
West Papua and human rights abuses Dutch colonial administrative
by 116; security and military links to system 23
PDI-P 121; security rationale in West “native sons” (putra daerah)
Papua and 120–21, 122, 125 appointment of 53
Minahasa, Gorontalo and 68–78, “native states,” creation of 33
82, 85 natural resources industry 114–15
mobilization of territorial coalitions Nederlandse Zending Genootschap
15–16 (NZG) 72
Mohammed, Fadel 84 Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia
Mohi, Husein 145n23, 145n28, 146n32, (NKRI) 20
146n35 Nehru, Jawaharlal 129
Monim, Herman 122 networks and alliances 5
Monoarfa, Rusli 146n31 New Order 8, 142; bureaucratic
Moo, Ismail 146n32 centralization and 50–51;
Mooduto, H. Natzir 67, 81 centralization under 49–54; cultural
Mooduto, Jamal 145n17, 145n20 centralization and 53–54; economic
Moore, B. 15 centralization and 52–53; electoral
Mote, O. and Rutherford, D. centralization and 51–52; military
55, 118 centralization and 49–50; post-
Mubyarto 94 authoritarian territorial change 2–3;
Muchdi Purwoprandjono, Major- rehabilitation in Gorontalo 76–78, 85;
General 103 repressive machinery of 116;
166 Index
separatism in era of 54–57; societal Partai Demokrasi Indonesia (PDI) 51–52
conflict and 57; territorial conflict in Partai Dwemokrasi Indonesia-
era of 54–57; West Papua, elite Perjuangan (PDI-P) 63, 101, 103; in
conflict and downward pressure Gorontalo 84; in West Papua 118,
113–15 120, 121, 123, 124
new provinces see creation of new Partai Indonesia (Partindo) 74
provinces Partai Kebangkitan Umat (PKB) 118
Newman, D. 3 Partai Nasional Indonesia (PNI) 74
Ngiu, Saiful 145n15 Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP):
Nigeria 9, 10, 16–17; colonial in Gorontalo 84; post-colonial
inheritance 130; comparison with territorial administration and 51–52
India 130–32; coups and counter- party reform 58–60; national elites and
coups 131; division into 12 states 131; 83–85; political party reforms (1999)
ethnic groups 130–31; localization of 63
politics 132; parallels to Indonesia Pauker, G. 41, 48–49
132; politics, tri-polar nature of Peluso, N. 13
130–31; prebendalism 132; regional pembentukan daerah (new region
self-government 130–31; regional formation) 10
unity, effect of new states on 131–32; pemekaran (blossoming) 10, 142
territorial change in 130–31 Pemerintah Revolusioner Republik
Nihom, M. 24 Indonesia (PRRI) 144n3, 145n11
Niode, A. 75, 79, 84 “People’s Triple Command” policy 112
Niode, A. and Mohi, H. 66, 71–72, 74 peripheral marginality 128
non-uniformity of territorial change 128 Permesta (Perjuangan Semesta, or
Nordholt, H.S. and van Klinken, G. “General Struggle”) 74–76
11, 62 personal linkages, role of 124
Nunavut in Canada 10, 17 Persson, R. and Tabellini, G. 64
Nurdin, H. 67 Pertamina (state petroleum company):
Kepulauan Riau and 93, 94; in West
Ointoe, Rainer Emyot 146n34 Papua 115, 120
Okamoto, M. 133 Peta (Volunteer Army of Defenders of
Oli’l, Aleks 81 the Fatherland) 34
Omae, K. 13 petroleum industry 115
open dialogue (dialog terbuka) 80 Philippines 10
Organisasi Papua Merdeka (OPM): Pinto, C. and Jardine, M. 56
post-colonial territorial political affinities in pre-colonial
administration and 55–56; in West Indonesia 71
Papua 114, 116 political alignments, post-authoritarian
Osborne, R. 113, 114, 116 era 5
Outer Islands: abstention on, policy of political authority: territoriality and
30; Java and, balance of 12–13; weakness of 24
representation between 59; territorial political centralization 47–48
translation of ethical policy to 33 political change: territorial impact of
57–61; territory and mobilization in
Paasi, A. 4 midst of 3–5
Palar, H.B. and Anes, L.A. 144n6 political nature of new province
pan-provincial autonomy, mobilization formation 68, 84, 85–86
of 96–98 political territoriality 14–15
Panna, Djamaluddin 145n21 political transition 1
Papua: independence, campaign against politics: ban on political activity 113;
117; post colonial experience in centralization of 47–48; of territorial
55–56; see also West Papua change 9, 127–35; territory and 1
Pariwisata, K.K. 77 27–28
Partai Amanat Nasional (PAN) 84 Pomalingo, Nelson 146n30
Index 167
post-authoritarian territorial change 1–9; responsibilities, devolution of 63–64;
“balkanization,” prospect for Forças Armadas da Libertação
Indonesia of 1; boundaries, effects of Nacional de Timor-Leste
re-drawing of 1–2; bureaucratic (FALINTIL) 56–57; Gerakan Aceh
explanations 3–4; centripetal Merdeka (GAM) 54; guerilla fighters
tendencies 3; coalitions, possibilities 41; “Guided Democracy” 47–49;
for 4–5; collapse, prevention of 1–3; insurgency, separatist challenges and
context of 4; decentralization 5; 54; Inter-governmental Group on
democratization 5; efficiency arguments Indonesia (IGGI) 52–53; Japanese
3–4; local territorial changes 2; invasion and occupation 39–40;
majority-minority relations 2; “Javanization” 53; Kopassus (special
materiality of territory, over-emphasis forces unit) 50; Lambung Mangurat,
on 4; multi-dimensional nature of Council of 46; Law No. 25 (1999) on
territory 5; multi-ethnicity 2; networks Inter-Government Financial Balance
and alliances 5; New Order 2–3; 60–61; Law No. 5 (1974) on Regional
origins of 4; political alignments 5; Administration 50; Law No. 22 (1999)
political change, territory and on Regional Administration 60;
mobilization in midst of 3–5; political Mandau Talawang Panca Sila
transition 1; territorial change, timing (GMTPS) 46; military centralization
and variation of 3–4; territorial 48; military centralization, New Order
politics, analyses of 2 and 49–50; military expansiveness
post-colonial territorial administration, 48–49; “native sons” (putra daerah)
centralization and 8, 38–65; Aceh, appointment of 53; new provinces,
experience in 54–55; “Act of Free first wave 44–46; new provinces,
Choice” 55; anti-communist generals, legislation for 62; Organisasi Papua
assassination of 43; army-Communist Merdeka (OPM) 55–56; Papua,
Party struggle for power 43; balance experience in 55–56; Partai
of representation between Java and Demokrasi Indonesia (PDI) 51–52;
the Outer Islands 59; bureaucratic Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (PPP)
centralization, New Order and 50–51; 51–52; party reform 58–60; political
centralization process, shifts in centralization 47–48; political change,
territoriality and 38–39, 47–48; territorial impact of 57–61; political
centralization under the New Order party reforms (1999) 63; post-
49–54; Communist Party (PKI) 42, independence era, weak state and
44, 50, 51; Conselho Nacional da 39–41; power, downward devolution
Resistência Maubere (CNRM) 56–57; of 60–61; Pro Panca Sila Cutlass 46;
constitutional debate 42; cultural proportional representation 59;
centralization, New Order and 53–54; PRRI-Permesta 42, 43, 45, 46; purge
Darul Islam 42, 43, 46, 54; Dayak of communist sympathizers 43–44;
political identity 46; decentralization rebellions without secession 41–44;
60–61; democratization 58–60, 61; “regional administration,”
Dewan Perwakilan Daerah (DPD) 63; establishment of offices for 50–51;
Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat Daerah Shield Movement 46; societal conflict,
(DPRD) 60; Dewan Perwakilan New Order and 57; society, state
Rakyat (DPR) 63; “dual function” relations vis-a-vis 39, 40; sparatism in
mandate 49; East Timor, experience New Order era 54–57; Special
in 56–57; economic centralization, Command for the Restoration of
New Order and 52–53; economic Order (Kotkamtib) 50; state-owned
problems 40; efficiency, principle of enterprises (SOEs), establishment of
61; electoral and party reform 58–60; 40; state weakness, “Guided
electoral centralization, New Order Democracy” and 47–49; strong states,
and 51–52; electoral system, characteristics of 40–41; territorial
discussion on rules of 59; equality, change and shifts in territoriality
principle of 61; fiscal authority and 61–64; territorial conflict in New
168 Index
Order era 54–57; territorial divisions, regionalist aspirations of “periphery” 68
regional commands and 41; Reid, A. 24, 35, 36
transmigration programs 53–54; religion: ethnicity and development in
“warlordism” 41; “weak state” era 39; West Papua 108–10; Kepulauan Riau
West Sumatra, demands of 42–43 and 92, 93; in North Sulawesi 70
Prabowo Subianto 116 Renville Accords 35
Prayogo Pangestu 115 Republika 89, 117
pre-colonial geography, territorial resistance: to colonial rule 23; human
diversity and 23–25 rights in West Papua and 115–16
pre-colonial Indonesia, land-to-labor reterritorialization 13
ratio in 71 Riau Lingga, ancient Sultanate of 98
“predatory interests” 18 Riau Malay identity, foundations of 97
Presidential Regulation No.5 (1960) Riau Merdeka 97–98; rejection of
145n12 98–102
PRESNAS in Gorontalo 67, 82, 145n21, Rice, O.K. and Brown, S.W. 17
146n30 Ricklefs, M.C. 24, 25, 26, 27, 30, 31, 34,
privilege, historical foundations of 70–78 35, 40, 71
Pro Panca Sila Cutlass 46 Riker, W. 15
proportional representation 59 Robison, R. 40
provinces: areas of 137; birth of Robison, R. and Hadiz, V. 133
Gorontalo 66–68; density of Rogowski, R. 15
populations in 138; division of 37; Ross, M.L. 14
foreign direct investment (FDI) in Round Table Agreement (1949) 36, 110,
140; formation (and reformation) in 111
West Papua 106–8; governments of, Royal Institute of International Affairs
organization of 32–33; gross regional 33
domestic product (GRDP) of 139; Royal Netherlands-Indies Army (KNIL)
pan-provincial autonomy, 73
mobilization of 96–98; populations of Rueschemeyer, D., Stephens, E.H. and
136; poverty rates in 141; proliferation Stephens, J.D. 15
of, opposing forces to 20; see also Ruggie, John 12
creation of new provinces 20
PRRI-Permesta 42, 43, 45, 46 Sack, R.D. 3, 11, 12
PT Nusantara Ampera Bakti 115 Said, S. 48
purge of communist sympathizers 43–44 Saltford, J. 108, 111, 112–13, 114
Sarafuddin Aluan 89
Rab, Tabrani 89, 97 Sari, A. 95, 146n11
Rabasa, A., Chalk, P. and (U.S.), P.A.F. Sato, S. 40
54 scale, concept of 13, 15–16
Raffles, Sir Stamford 29, 32, 143n6 Schefold, R. 144n6
Ragin, C. 7 Schouten, M. 73, 77, 145n9
Rais, Amien 17 Scott, J. 22
Ranis, G. and Stewart, F. 52, 61 separatism in New Order era 54–57
Rasid, Ryaas 117 Shapiro, M. 3
Razak, Abdul 89, 147n16 Sherlock, S. 59
rebellions without secession 41–44 Shield Movement 46
reformasi (reform in post-Suharto era) 6, “Short Declaration” 33
8, 17, 57, 60, 62, 79, 85, 88–89, 96–97, Sidel, J. 62, 133
104–5, 142; effects of, Kepulauan Silangen, Edwin 144n5
Riau and 99–100 Silin, Rusli 146n2, 147n18, 147n28
regencies (kabupaten or regentshappen) Singapore, Indonesia, Malaysia growth
32, 37, 60, 69, 103 triangle (SIJOHRI) 94–95
“regional administration,” establishment Singh, B. 120
of offices for 50–51 Sinha, A. 19, 143n5
Index 169
Sjamsuddin, N. 54 Takalingan, Abit 144n5
Smith, B. 58 Tanjung, H.A. 101, 103
social construction of territory 22 Tarrow, S. 16
social development indicators 78 Taylor, J.G. 56
social mobilization in Gorontalo 81 Tebay, N. 113
societal conflict, New Order and 57 Tentara Nasional Indonesia/Polisi
society, state relations vis-a-vis 39, 40 Republik Indonesia (TNI/Polri) 84
Solossa, Jaap P. 119–20, 123 Tentara Nasional Indonesia (TNI)
Sombowadile, Pitres 146n37 120–21
Sondakh, L. and Jones, G. 78 territorial change: access to political
“Special Autonomy” in West Papua 107, power, importance of 134; centripetal
119, 124 effect of 134–35; coalitional politics,
Special Command for the Restoration of competition and 133; coalitions and
Order (Kotkamtib) 50 territory 127–28; competitiveness in
spice trade, choke-point economics and post-authoritarian Indonesia 132–34;
25–26 cooperation in post-authoritarian
Spruyt, H. 12 Indonesia 132–34; divide-and-rule
Srivijaya empire 23 126, 132; “ethnicization” 133–34;
state-owned enterprises (SOEs), Gorontalo, example of 133–34; India,
establishment of 40 comparison with Nigeria 128–30;
state system, discontinuous nature of 13 institutions, competition between 133;
state weakness, “Guided Democracy” local political actors, competition
and 47–49 between 133–34; multi-dimensional
states, emergence of 12 nature of territoriality 128; multi-
Strange, S. 13 ethnic states, comparisons of 128–32;
strong states, characteristics of 40–41 national and local ties, critical nature
structural functionalist political science of 128; Nigeria, comparison with
12 India 130–32; non-uniformity of 128;
student demonstrations and demands in peripheral marginality 128; politics
Gorontalo 79 and territory 127–28; politics of 9,
study of territorial change: arguments 127–35; shifts in territoriality and
about 4; methods and approach 5–7 61–64; study of, arguments about 4;
Stuligross, D. 16, 129–30, 143n4 study of, methods and approach 5–7;
Suara Pembaruan 83, 117 territorial politics, reality of 134;
Sudarsono Darmosuwito 102 territorial resilience 133–34; territory,
Sudwikatmono 115 importance of 127, 134; timing and
Suharto 38, 39, 43, 49–50, 54–55, 56, variation of 3–4; triggering in
57–58, 60, 64, 76, 85, 94, 96, 102, 103, Gorontalo of 68; see also colonial
114, 115, 116, 133, 147n1; territorial administration; Gorontalo,
bureaucratic centralization 50–51; marginality and opportunity in;
cultural centralization 53–54; Kepalauan Riau; post-authoritarian
economic centralization 52–53; territorial change; post-colonial
electoral centralization 51–52 territorial administration; territorial
Sukarno 34, 36, 38, 42, 43, 47–48, coalitions, politics of; West Papua
49, 54, 57, 64, 66–67, 97, 110, 112, territorial coalitions, politics of 7–8,
113–14, 119, 120 10–21; alliances and linkages between
Sumual, Ventje 76 geographic scales 15–16; coalitions
Suradinata, Ermaya 121 15; coalitions, process of 19–20, 21;
Suryadinata, L. 59 comparative perspective on territorial
Sutherland, H. 29 coalitions 16–17; cooperation 16;
Sutowo, General 146n10 coordination, collaboration and
systematic uniform administrative 19–20; creation of new provinces 10,
code (Law 22, 1950), establishment of 20–21; creation of new provinces,
36–37 legacy of 126; cross-cutting territorial
170 Index
alliances 16; decentralization, Thompson, E.P. 11
implementation of 11; ethnification of Tiebout, C. 61
politics 20; fragmentation, process of Tilly, C. 12
10; gerrymandering, practice of 10; timber 114–15
globalization, territoriality and 12–13; Timmer, J. 119, 120, 122–23
human territoriality 12; Indonesian Tiro, Hasan Muhammed 54
context 17–19; institutional transmigration programs 53–54
territoriality 14–15; “internal Tsebelis, G. 15
colonialism” 14; “jumping scales” 16; Tsing, Anna 18, 145n8
linkages and functioning of 19;
Marxist political science 12; uniformity and recognition of diversity,
materiality of territory, over-emphasis dilemma of 22, 37
on 14; mobilization of territorial Unitary Republic, potential threat to 20
coalitions 15–16; multi-dimensional United Nations (UN): General
nature of territory 15; national role Assembly Resolution 2504 (1969)
and alliance with local politics 16–17; 112–13, 118–19; Temporary Executive
Negara Kesatuan Republik Indonesia Authority (UNTEA) 113
(NKRI) 20; Nunavut in Canada 10, Usman, Masri 145n22
17; pembentukan daerah (new region
formation) 10; political authority, van Bruinessen, M. 42
territoriality and 12–13; political van den Bosch, Governor General J.
territoriality 14–15; “predatory 143n7
interests” 18; provincial proliferation, van Deventer, C.Th. 32
opposing forces to 20; Van Niel, R. 25, 28, 29, 30
reterritorialization 13; scale, concept Vandenbosch, A. 25, 30, 32, 33, 34,
of 13, 15–16; state system, 144n10
discontinuous nature of 13; states, Vandergeest, P. and Peluso, N.L. 13
emergence of 12; structural Vatikiotis, M. 49, 111
functionalist political science 12; Vereenigde Oost-Indische Compagnie
territorial coalitions 15; territorial (VOC) 8, 99; colonial territorial
coalitions, geographic, cross-class and administration 23, 25–26, 27, 28;
cross-sectoral nature of 18–19; marginality and opportunity in
territoriality, assumption of Gorontalo 71–72
indivisibility of 14; territoriality, Vietnam 10
definition of 11–12; territoriality, villages (desas) 37
erosion of 13; territorialization 11; violence in Gorontalo, turning point in
territory, definition of 11; territory, student movement 79–80
states and 12–13; territory,
unbundling of 13; Unitary Republic, Wadley, R. 13
potential threat to 20; United States, Wahid, Abdurachman 17, 60, 106, 107,
historical examples in 17 118–19, 124–25
territorial politics: analyses of 2; in “warlordism” 41
Papua case 124–25; reality of 134; Wartabone, Nani 66, 67, 74, 75
translation of ethical policy to Outer “weak state” era 39
Islands 33 Weber, M. 41
territoriality: assumption of Webster, D. 144n4
indivisibility of 14; definition of Wee, V. 97, 98, 102
11–12; erosion of 13 Weiss, M. 5
territorialization 11 West New Guinea: Dutch preparations
territory: definition of 11; delineation in for eventual self-rule in 111; Dutch
ancient polities 24; importance of 127, refusal to cede 110
134; social construction of 22; states West Papua, elite conflict and downward
and 12–13; unbundling of 13 pressure 8–9, 106–26, 147n1; “Act of
Tesoro, J. 102 Free Choice” 112–13, 118–19;
Index 171
administration, establishment of National Intelligence Agency (BIN)
108–9; Badan Koordinasasi Inteligen 122, 123, 125; National Mandate
Negara (BaKIN) 122–23; commercial Party 117–18; National Resilience
ventures, military operated 120; Institute (Lemhannas) 121; natural
competing visions of Papua for resources industry 114–15; New Order
Indonesian elite 116–18; Daerah 113–15; New Order, repressive
Operasi Militer (DOM) 117; machinery of 116; Organisasi Papua
demographcs, changes in 109, 110; Merdeka (OPM) 114, 116; Papuan
Dewan Perwakilan Rakyat-Republik independence, campaign against 117;
Indonesia (DPR-RI) 84, 119; Partai Dwemokrasi Indonesia-
divide-and-rule 125; Dutch claim on Perjuangan (PDI-P) 118, 120,
Western New Guinea 108; Dutch 121, 123, 124; Partai Kebangkitan
development effort 111; Dutch vision Umat (PKB) 118; “People’s Triple
for Papua 110; early clashing Command” policy 112; personal
visions of Papua 110–12; efficiency linkages, role of 124; Pertamina
argument 107; elected regional (state petroleum company) 115, 120;
councils, establishment of 111; petroleum industry 115; political
elected representatives, isolation of activity, ban on 113; provincial
112–13; environmental groups 116; formation (and reformation)
ethnicity, religion, and development 106–8; PT Nusantara Ampera
108–10; forced integration 113–15; Bakti 115; regions, move towards
forestry and logging 114–15; Forum splitting of 121–25; religion,
Komunikasi Generasi Muda Irian ethnicity and development 108–10;
Jaya (FKGMIJ) 117; Forum resistance, human rights and 115–16;
Rekonsiliasi Rakyat Irian Jaya Round Table Agreement (1949) 110,
(FORERI) 117; free choice, act of 111; security and military links to
112–13, 118–19; Freeport McMoran PDI-P 121; “Special Autonomy” 107,
Copper and Gold Inc. 114, 115, 116; 119, 124; tensions over Papua,
Golongan Karya (Golkar) 107, 117, escalation of 111–12; Tentara
120, 123, 124; human rights and Nasional Indonesia (TNI) 120–21;
resistance 115–16; independent territorial politics in the Papua case
Papua, unacceptability to Indonesia 124–25; timber 114–15; transfer to
119; Indonesian rule 113–14; Instruksi Indonesia (1963) 109; UN General
President No. 1 (Megawati, 2003) Assembly Resolution 2504 (1969)
106–7, 119, 121; international 112–13, 118–19; UN Temporary
pressure, free choice and 112–13; Executive Authority (UNTEA) 113;
intra-elite conflicts 107; Irian Jaya West New Guinea, Dutch
Crisis Center (IJCC) 123; preparations for eventual self-rule in
Kebangkitan Bangsa 118; Komite 111; West New Guinea, Dutch refusal
Solidaritas Rakyat Irian 117; to cede 110
Kopassus (special forces unit) 116; West Sumatra, territorial demands of
leadership roles 124–25; liberalization 42–43
and an alternative vision 118–19; West Virginia 17
local actors, working with 107, Winachakul, T. 96, 143n1
122–24, 126; Manifest Politik 111, Wiranto, General 83, 146n37
118; material incentives 125; Wolters, O.W. 23
migration 109–10, 113–14; migration,
independence and 123; military and Yogyakarta, Dutch military capture of 36
security rationale 120–21, 122, 125; Young, C. 12, 130, 131
military killings and human rights Yudhoyono, General Susilo Bambang 123
abuses 116; military operated Yusuf, Paris 146n33
commercial ventures 120;
Musyawarah Besar (MUBES) 118; Zaini, Idris 146n6, 147n21
Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) 118; Zen, Elza 147n24, 147n26

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Political Change and Territoriality

Ehito Kimura is Assistant Professor of Political Science at the University of

1 Land Tenure, Conservation and 9 The Politics of Tyranny in Singapore

8 Revolution, Reform and Regionalism 15 Communal Violence and

25 Vietnam’s Political Process 34 Singapore’s Ageing Population

41 Men and Masculinities in Southeast

ISBN: 978-0-415-568613-6 (hbk)

Typeset in Times New Roman

List of illustrations xii

1 Territorial change in post-authoritarian Indonesia 1

2 Breaking boundaries, splitting regions: the politics of territorial

3 Origins and dilemmas of territorial administration in colonial

5 Marginality and opportunity in the periphery 66

6 Territoriality and membership: the case of

7 Elite conﬂict and pressure from above: dividing

Appendix: Data on Indonesian provinces 136

Sections of chapters 1, 2, 4, 5 and 6 were originally published in Ehito

ABRI Angkatan Bersenjata Republik Indonesia (Armed Forces of

Territory and mobilization amidst political change

Methods and approach

Structure of the book

Making, unmaking, and scaling territory

Territorial coalitions and mobilization

Territorial coalitions in comparative perspective

Territorial coalitions in the Indonesian context

The process of coalitions

Pre-colonial geography and territorial diversity

The spice trade and choke-point economics

Consolidation, centralization, and expansion

Ethical policies and decentralization

Nationalist resistance and the failure of federalism

The post-independence era and the weak state

Rebellions without secession

New provinces in Indonesia: the ﬁrst wave

Table 4.1 New provinces in Indonesia 1950–99

“Guided Democracy” and the solution to state weakness

Centralization under the New Order

The territorial impact of political change

Democratization: electoral and party reform

Decentralization: devolving power downward

Territorial change and shifts in territoriality

Table 4.2 Legislation for new Provinces in Indonesia

The birth of a province

Compartmentalized diversity in North Sulawesi

Table 5.1 Ethnic groups in North Sulawesi Province in 2000

Table 5.2 Kabupatens and kotas in North Sulawesi

Table 5.3 Religion in North Sulawesi Province

The historical foundations of privilege and marginality

Colonial interventions and legacies

New Order rehabilitation

Table 5.4 Governors of North Sulawesi, 1961–2005

infrastructure development projects (Schouten 1998: 221). Thus military

Table 5.5 Social development indicators I in North Sulawesi

Table 5.6 Social development indicators II in North Sulawesi

Marginality in the periphery

Transition and opportunity and territorial coalitions

The foundation of the coalition

Decentralization and local elites

Political party reform and national elites

Reﬂections and conclusions

The movement for a new Kepri

Diversity and territoriality in the Riau region

Table 6.1 Ethnic groups in Riau Province in 2000