Asian Studies Review

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Civic Islam: Muhammadiyah, NU and the

Organisational Logic of Consensus-making in
Indonesia

Gustav Brown

To cite this article: Gustav Brown (2019) Civic Islam: Muhammadiyah, NU and the
Organisational Logic of Consensus-making in Indonesia, Asian Studies Review, 43:3, 397-414,
DOI: 10.1080/10357823.2019.1626802

To link to this article: https://doi.org/10.1080/10357823.2019.1626802

Published online: 01 Jul 2019.

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ASIAN STUDIES REVIEW
2019, VOL. 43, NO. 3, 397–414
https://doi.org/10.1080/10357823.2019.1626802

Civic Islam: Muhammadiyah, NU and the Organisational

Logic of Consensus-making in Indonesia
Gustav Brown
National University of Singapore

ABSTRACT KEYWORDS
Civil Islam notes a tendency or orientation within Indonesian Islam; Indonesia; democracy;
political Islam that is broadly compatible with electoral democracy civil society
and religious pluralism. Scholarly and popular discourses on Islam
in Indonesia frequently situate the Muslim civic organisations
Muhammadiyah and Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) within this tradition.
Muhammadiyah and NU do play important roles in both reprodu-
cing democratic norms and upholding the state’s formal commit-
ment to religious pluralism. However, this is not because of an
ideological commitment to civil Islam, but rather an organisational
logic of risk management – which shapes both the timing of their
interventions in politics and the compromise-oriented solutions
they propose. Drawing on analysis of parliamentary contention
over pornography and the legal status of the Ahmadiyah sect,
I argue that these “big tent” organisations seek compromise solu-
tions designed to preserve their own levels of influence and over-
come their own internal ideological cleavages. This article thus
suggests a new category of analysis – civic Islam – to describe
organisations whose policy interventions are driven more by inter-
nal factors than by an ideological commitment to the civil Islamic
project.

Observers have long noted a tendency or orientation within Indonesian political Islam
that is broadly compatible with electoral democracy and religious pluralism, if not quite
political liberalism. Robert Hefner (2000) paradigmatically articulated this idea in his
book Civil Islam, which recounts the role of Muslim reformists in the overthrow of
Suharto and onset of democratic reform. For Hefner, civil Islam offered a “middle path
between liberalism’s privatization and conservative Islam’s bully state”, a path that
passed “by way of a public religion that makes itself heard through independent
associations, spirited public dialogue and the demonstrated decency of believers”
(Hefner, 2000, p. 218). Furthermore, he argued that Indonesia’s future as
a democratic and pluralist state depended on the ascendance and continued vitality
of this “civil pluralist” tradition in Islam – which, among other things, “[denied] the
wisdom of a monolithic ‘Islamic’ state”, backed democratic reform and “[embraced] the
ideals of civil society” (Hefner, 2000, p. 12).1

CONTACT Gustav Brown gustavucla@gmail.com; aribrgj@nus.edu.sg

© 2019 Asian Studies Association of Australia
398 G. BROWN

During the 1980s and 1990s, the influential Muslim civic organisations
Muhammadiyah and Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) progressively came to adopt the position
that religious civil society can and should act as both institutional check on state power
and vehicle for social cohesion among the citizenry (Hefner, 2000, pp. 13–17; Menchik,
2016).2 However, when considering the role Muslim civil society organisations play in
structuring politics in post-transition Indonesia, it is useful to distinguish the functionality
of Muslim civic organisations – as non-state entities that can generate policy, frame the
political discourse and exert influence over political actors in contention – from the
ideological project to use Muslim civil society as a tool for reinforcing democracy and
pluralist values. These two elements, the functional and the ideological, are typically
conflated in the normative literature on civil society.3 But they should not be reduced to
one another. Rather, the civic organisation should be understood as an organisational
form that functions in specific ways, namely: filling the mediating space between house-
hold and state; engaging in policy advocacy and activism outside state structures; being
autonomous from the state; and acting – or even just potentially acting – as a check on
the state (Kopecky & Mudde, 2003). These functions, one notes, do not require any deep
ideological commitment to pluralism, although they do require autonomy from state
institutions.
Muhammadiyah and NU each clearly fit this functional definition of a civic
organisation.4 But it is rather less clear whether they fit the ideological one. Certainly
both reject the idea of an Islamic state, and by contrast accept the idea of Indonesia as
a multi-confessional state granting equal rights to members of several religious groups.5
And there are many prominent individuals within both organisations who unambigu-
ously subscribe to a civil pluralist worldview, and who work to pull each organisation in
that direction. Yet both organisations also seek an active state role in the regulation of
religion – including the policing of religious boundaries (both internal and external).
What is more, both took discernible “conservative turns” during the mid-2000s, shifting
from a more liberal, rights-based discourse to more socially conservative and particu-
laristic positions on issues such as blasphemy, vice, minority rights and the position of
Islam in Indonesian state and society (Bush & Munawar-Rachman, 2014, pp. 22–24;
van Bruinessen, 2011).6 And as Menchik (2016; 2019) has demonstrated, majorities
within both Muhammadiyah and NU are willing to forgo their commitments to civil
pluralism, human rights and equal protections for religious minorities if they believe
Islam requires “defending” from blasphemy, heresy or encroachment by rival faiths.
Yet Muhammadiyah and NU nevertheless do continue to play an important, and
specific, role in reproducing democratic norms, chiefly by intervening to uphold the
state’s formal commitment to religious pluralism when parliamentary legislation threa-
tens to overturn Indonesia’s pluralist system. However, while the solutions they propose
do preserve the institutional structure of religious pluralism at the level of state, they
also grant major concessions to opponents of pluralism, even creating space for dra-
matic rollbacks at the provincial, regional and local levels.
I argue that this is because interventions by Muhammadiyah and NU in the
Indonesian political process are not driven by an ideological commitment to civil
pluralism, but rather follow a civic organisational logic of risk management, with the
primary goal being to produce internal consensus. Muhammadiyah and NU are essen-
tially “big tent” organisations that are internally divided between civil Islamic and
 ASIAN STUDIES REVIEW 399

conservative factions. Both take turns in leadership and both exert a strong influence on
their policymaking. But the fact of their division, coupled with shared loyalty to the
organisation, drives both to find solutions that can work for members of both factions.
Ultimately, I argue, this urge for consensus leads Muhammadiyah and NU to seek
policy solutions that – to borrow Jeremy Menchik’s turn of phrase – truncate the formal
practice of religious pluralism even as they legitimate and reproduce it in principle.
This article is organised as follows. In the first section, I outline the central concepts
of the article – “big tent” organisations, political consensus making and “civic” Islam –
both theoretically and as they specifically apply to Muhammadiyah and NU. In
the second section, I discuss how Muhammadiyah and NU brokered compromises in
two cases of political contention on religious pluralism issues: over proposed anti-
pornography legislation (2006–08) and over a proposed ban on the minority
Ahmadiyah sect (2005–11). Finally, I discuss the implications of these cases for the
study of Islam and politics in Indonesia.

Big-tent Organisations and the Civic-organisational Logic of Consensus

Political consensus-making is a term often used but rarely defined in the analysis of
contentious politics. Like the related notion of political brokerage, it is typically used to
describe the process of connecting actors in contention (i.e. “bridging gaps”), the
mediation of political disputes, and the building/maintenance of political coalitions
(Fernandez & Gould, 1994; Hillmann, 2008; Marsden, 1982; McAdam, Tarrow, & Tilly,
2001, p. 26; Stovel & Shaw, 2012, pp. 141–151). Yet brokers work for commission or
influence, and not all individuals or organisations that perform these duties are moti-
vated by, or at least solely by, classic notions of self-interest. Thus, the term “political
consensus-maker” is useful in capturing a broader range of motivations for pursuing
consensus within the political process. Among other things, these could be to guarantee
stability in a social or political system, to ensure the regular allocation of resources, or,
in the case of organisations, to bypass sources of internal tension.
Civic organisations often assume the consensus-maker’s role, particularly when state
institutions are weak and when there is high potential for political polarisation. In an
influential study on urban religious rioting in India, Varshney (2001) found that cities
with religiously integrated civic organisations were less likely to experience communal
violence than cities where civic organisations were segregated along Hindu/Muslim
lines. The broader implication is that civic organisations with multiple constituencies
may be able to exert their influence across a wider plane, with clear advantages for
conflict-management and consensus-making.
In Indonesia, Muhammadiyah and NU are uniquely positioned to seek consensus
among Muslims in contention, being so influential that they can effectively “limit the
ability of the state and political parties to set the agenda and mobilise Islam in certain
ways” (Ufen, 2009, p. 310). This is facilitated, in part, by not being strongly committed
to either liberal pluralism or Islamic conservatism. Rather, Muhammadiyah and NU are
ideologically structured as “big tents”, enveloping a wide range of political and theolo-
gical inclinations – from very liberal to very conservative – and seesawing, from
congress to congress, between “moderately conservative” and “moderately liberal”
leaderships and policy directions (Bush & Munawar-Rachman, 2014, pp. 22–24; van
400 G. BROWN

Bruinessen, 2011).7 Indeed, as outgoing chairman and “civil Islamic” intellectual

Ahmad Syafi’i Ma’arif articulated in 2005: “The Muhammadiyah leadership is like
a big tent. So, as long as they still believe in God, in religion and the Prophet
Mohammad, and they still pray and fast, we will protect them. The parameters are
very simple” (cited in AsiaViews, 2005).
Big-tent organisations, like Muhammadiyah and NU, are notable in part for ideolo-
gical inconsistency in messaging, both an outgrowth and response to their internal
divisions. Inconsistent messaging may inhibit forms of mobilisation dependent on
internal solidarity. However, Eisenberg (1984, pp. 230–235) notes that inconsistent
messaging also has strategic value: heightening creativity and flexibility in problem
solving; facilitating a broader array of interpersonal networks within and beyond the
organisation; and broadening the appeal of the organisation, namely, by allowing it to
be all things to all people. Indeed, as a result of their big-tent structures,
Muhammadiyah and NU members are able to occupy positions of influence in nearly
every major Indonesian political party – from the quasi-Islamist PPP to the progressive
Muslim PKB and all the major secular–nationalist parties – as well as in nearly every
government ministry and watchdog organisation.
At the same time, their big-tent organisational structures allows for factionalisation,
which manifests in competing platforms, public disputes among cadres, and (often
intense) personal rivalries. These are all typically on display during debates over
religious pluralism, or on issues that would adjust or reset the limits of religious
pluralism, as institutionalised and practised by the state. As Menchik (2016, pp.
136–137) notes, both Muhammadiyah and NU officially support the notion of religious
pluralism in principle, and justify this stance on religious grounds: Muhammadiyah
refers to the Quran’s Surah 58 as sanctioning enmity with non-Muslims only
in situations where they deliberately and explicitly oppose Islam. NU, meanwhile,
predicates a pluralist worldview on the Quranic concept of brotherhood or solidarity
(ukhuwah) rather than that of protected minorities (al dhimmi), the latter of which
assumes a dominant/subservient relationship between Muslims and non-Muslims.8
Muhammadiyah and NU also share an understanding – enacted as policy by each
organisation during the 1980s – that religious affiliation should have no bearing on the
secular rights and protections afforded by Indonesian citizenship.
Some scholars have misdiagnosed these organisational positions as evidence of
ideological liberalism within Muhammadiyah and NU (e.g. Barton, 1997; Künkler,
2013).9 And it is true that the civil Islamic tradition, which Hefner envisioned as
inclusive if not exactly liberal, is highly influential within both organisations. But, as
Menchik (2016, pp. 67–71) suggests, conservatives within Muhammadiyah and NU
typically support Pancasila not because it is pluralistic per se, but rather because it
(a) defines Indonesia as a community of religious believers, rendering the state non-
secular; and (b) provides state sponsorship for Islamic belief and practice, in the
form of compulsory religious education, hajj subsidies and so forth. And while the
state confers recognition and financial support on non-Muslim as well as Muslim
institutions, the primary criterion for state recognition is monotheism – the keystone
of Islamic belief. Thus, for Muhammadiyah and NU conservatives, the Pancasila
state provides “enough Islam” – obviating the need for an Islamic state (Menchik,
2016, p. 67).
 ASIAN STUDIES REVIEW 401

Although there is broad support within both organisations for Pancasila and reli-
gious pluralism as an organising principle of the state, there are sharp internal divisions
on specific policy issues. These include: whether Christian proselytising should be legal;
whether minority Islamic sects should be accorded the full rights and privileges enjoyed
by mainline Sunnis; whether Indonesia’s blasphemy laws should be expanded, main-
tained as is, or done away with; whether the state should outlaw homosexuality;
whether non-Muslims should be elected leaders in regions where Muslims constitute
the majority; and so forth. As Menchik (2019) underscores, popular opinion within
these organisations is often more conservative than civil pluralist, evincing a contingent
hostility to specific pluralist norms, if not pluralism writ large.
What is more, these issues speak to broader ideological divergences within the
organisation: first and foremost on whether the state should draw legislation from
Islamic norms; and second, on what those norms actually are. Cadres with progressive
or civil Islamic positions on these issues advocate for a state that is broadly neutral in its
approach to Indonesian faith communities, and for an Islamic morality that is tolerant,
humanistic and oriented toward multiple forms of pluralism. Conservatives, by con-
trast, advocate for an expansively regulatory state in which Islam is “first among
equals”, which defines Islam as narrowly congruent with mainline Sunni belief and
practice, and which is prepared to restrict individual freedoms in order to “protect”
(conservative) Muslim sensibilities. Personalised networks run by rival ulama, whose
existence serves less to advance the ideological agenda of a specific faction than to
further the personal ambitions of a specific figure, crosscut these ideological divisions –
further complicating the picture. This is especially so for NU, which is not only a civic
organisation, but also a network of largely autonomous ulama, many with their own
pesantren (Islamic seminary) and power base in local communities.
Despite this, organisational identity and solidarity are high among cadres in both
organisations. In their Central and East Javanese heartlands, “being Muhammadiyah”
or “being NU” functions as an almost ethnic mode of identification and categorisation,
which Indonesians refer to as aliran (cultural streams). Members of various aliran go to
different schools and mosques, follow different ulama, pray differently, and even wear
differently coloured or patterned jilbab. Equally, there is a form of inter-organisational
solidarity, predicated on pervasive rhetorics of moderation – where members frame
themselves, and to a lesser extent each other, as embodying the true, “moderate” spirit
of Indonesian Islam. In official rhetoric, Muhammadiyah and NU frame their influence
as exerting a “moderating effect” on Indonesian Muslims as a whole – reining in both
those who are “too liberal” and those who are “too conservative”, view themselves as
“centres of gravity” working to rein in those who drift too far to the left or right. For
example, the Muhammadiyah 2010–15 Program statement cites the following as chal-
lenges for the organisation:

(1) The flow of secularism-materialism attacking the world [which] becomes a big
temptation and challenge for Muhammadiyah members [as they attempt] to
strongly hold their commitment in Muhammadiyah life and to make Islam as
a religion of rahmatan lil-‘alamin (pity for the entire world).
(2) The radical tendency in social-political and religious [movements] producing
conflict and violence becomes a challenge for Muhammadiyah in [its mission to
402 G. BROWN

present an] Islamic movement that brings peace, enlightenment and pity for the
entire world (Muhammadiyah, 2010).10

These organisational factors – internal divisions, powerful network ties to nearly all
political parties, authority among Muslims, and normative emphasis on “moderation” –
combine to make NU and Muhammadiyah ideal mediators and coalition-builders,
urging contending parties toward compromise solutions that are acceptable to most
parliamentarians. In doing so, Muhammadiyah and NU reproduce the pluralist under-
pinnings of the central state while also, more often than not, accepting some form of
limitation imposed upon pluralism by conservatives – most often, by allowing con-
servative provinces and regions to pass or enforce the statutes watered down or blocked
at the national level. Including concessions to both progressives and conservatives, in
turn, helps Muhammadiyah and NU preserve the internal consensus that is threatened
by internal ideological factionalism. Equally, the act of consensus-making serves to
reproduce the influence and centrality of these organisations to the political process.

Muhammadiyah: Consensus-making on the Anti-Pornography Bill

The 2004 elections swept in a new coalition government under President Susilo
Bambang Yudhoyono. This coalition included two ascendant political parties:
Yudhoyono’s own Partai Demokrat (Democratic Party, PD), an officially secular party
formed to support Yudhoyono’s candidacy; and the Partai Keadilan Sejahtera
(Prosperous Justice Party, PKS), which had increased its vote share from 1.4 per cent
in 1999 to 7.3 per cent in 2004 by softening its advocacy for sharia and rebranding itself
as an Islamic equivalent to postwar Germany’s Christian Democrats (Sidel, 2006, p. 36).
Between them, the two new parties controlled 90 seats (out of 455). Both, moreover,
sought to position themselves at various points on the continuum between the secular
nationalism of Yudhoyono’s former party, the outgoing Partai Demokrasi Indonesia
Perjuangan (Indonesian Democratic Party of Struggle, PDIP), and parliament’s pro-
sharia parties, the Partai Persatuan Pembangunan (United Development Party, PPP)
and Partai Bulan Bintang (Crescent and Star Party, PBB). Thus, on 30 October 2006,
Balkan Kaplale of PD and Yoyoh Yusron of PKS introduced the Rancangan Undang
Undang Anti Pornografi dan Pornoaksi (Proposed Law against Pornography and
Pornoaction) to address the “pornography epidemic” in Indonesia.11
The notion of regulating pornography was not particularly controversial.
Pornographic media was already illegal under Indonesian common law, although it
was readily available on the cheap video compact disc (VCD) format (Barker, 2014,
p. 258; Pausacker, 2008). A previous bill, introduced in 1999, had sought to tighten the
existing laws and enforcement mechanisms to keep pornography out of Indonesian
markets; it had failed due to fears that it might herald the return of Suharto-era
censorship (Barker, 2014, pp. 255–256). By 2006, though, Indonesians were feeling
much more secure in the post-Reformasi political order, and much less afraid of
a democratic reversal.
Had the 2006 Anti-Pornography Bill hewed closely to the 1999 draft bill, it likely would
have passed without issue. However, it also sought to widen the parameters of what was
pornographic (Republic of Indonesia, 2006). This included: recordings of adults kissing on
 ASIAN STUDIES REVIEW 403

the lips, such as in mainstream foreign films (article 7); and “erotic dance performances”,
regardless of whether nudity was involved (article 6). This latter provision was seemingly
aimed at Indonesia’s popular dangdut singers, such as Inul Daratista – who sold between 3
and 10 million VCDs annually from 2000 to 2003 to her adoring, mostly Muslim, fans
(Heryanto, 2008, p. 16). More egregiously, for critics, the 2006 Anti-Pornography Bill
classified a broad range of public behaviours as “pornoaction”. It included a vaguely worded
injunction against “showing sensual body parts” (article 25) and another against public
kissing on the lips (article 27). The law attached massive penalties for each of these acts,
including exorbitant fines and jail sentences of between one and five years for kissing on the
lips in public (Republic of Indonesia, 2006).
Parliament’s Islamist and Muslim conservative parties (PKS, PPP and PBB) all
backed the bill, as did its secular–nationalist co-sponsor, PD. The “civil Islamic” and
Muhammadiyah-linked Partai Amanat Nasional (National Mandate Party, PAN) and
secular–nationalist Golkar, which was the largest sitting party at the time, also hinted at
support for the draft bill. Hardline groups such as the Front Pembela Islam (Islamic
Defenders’ Front, FPI) and Hizb-ut-Tahir (Party of Liberation, HTI) brought pressure
on the street, urging its swift passage. On 26 May 2006, these and several other hardline
organisations staged the Aksi Sejuta Umat (Million Muslim Action) rally, which also
featured speeches from mainstream conservatives such as Din Syamsuddin of
Muhammadiyah and the Majelis Ulama Indonesia (Indonesian Ulama Council, MUI),
Ma’ruf Amin of NU and MUI, and Agus Laksono of Golkar (Ilhami, 2011, pp. 88–89).
The draft bill also provoked vociferous opposition. Tourist areas such as Bali worried
that the bill would criminalise common tourist behaviour, such as public displays of
affection and the wearing of bikinis – thus endangering the island’s livelihood. Islamic
liberals, political progressives, women’s rights groups and members of Indonesia’s
religious minorities joined them, arguing that the bill eroded religious pluralism by
imposing a conservative Islamic morality on a religiously heterogeneous society.
Educators and health-service providers also came out against the bill, out of fear that
the law could impinge on medical education and family-planning services, while
activists from local communities voiced their concerns that the bill would criminalise
traditional practices and dress, such as the form-fitting Javanese kebaya dress and the
sensual Sundanese jaipong dance.
The impasse created political problems for Indonesia’s secular–nationalist parties, as
well as the NU-linked Partai Kebangkitan Bangsa (National Awakening Party, PKB)
and Muhammadiyah-linked PAN, which draw from both the conservative and politi-
cally progressive wings of their respective parent organisations. Passage of the draft bill
was sure to alienate progressives and political moderates. Equally, failure to pass the bill
would alienate Muslim conservatives – including key constituencies within
Muhammadiyah and NU, as well as all the major secular–nationalist and Muslim
parties.
Responsibility for deliberation on the draft bill fell to parliament’s influential Komisi
VIII (Commission Eight), which held a portfolio encompassing “religious affairs, social
issues and women’s empowerment” (agama, social, dan pemberdayaan perempuan).
During the period in question, 2006–08, Komisi VIII was dominated by figures asso-
ciated with Muhammadiyah and NU. Six of its ten members came from either the
Muhammadiyah-linked PAN or NU-linked PKB parties, including its chair, H. Abdul
404 G. BROWN

Kadir Karding (PKB). Of the remaining four, two held looser associations with the civic
organisations. There was only one Islamist on the commission, Ahmad Zaunuddin of
PKS, and no members of Indonesia’s religious minorities.
Through its personnel on Komisi VIII, Muhammadiyah began using its influence to
forge a compromise. First, Muhammadiyah mediated a series of talks between legisla-
tors, religious leaders and rights activists aiming to forge a compromise (Syamsuddin,
2006). Then it introduced a revised draft bill through one of the committee members,
reflecting the input of those involved in the talks (US Embassy to the Republic of
Indonesia, 2006). Behind closed doors, Muhammadiyah began using its influence to
steer legislators toward acceptance of a truncated bill – one that narrowed the scope of
pornography to recorded or printed nudity (interviews with Muhammadiyah leadership
and aligned parliamentarians, 2011–13).12 Though not directly involved in the process,
NU soon adopted the same stance, which allowed NU to heal the increasingly acrimo-
nious split between its most prominent leaders, then-chairman Hasyim Muzadi (in
favour of the bill) and former-chairman Abdurrahman Wahid (in opposition to it) (NU
Online, 2006).
In 2008, lawmakers re-introduced the draft bill, now re-titled Rancang Undang
Undang Pornografi (Proposed Law on Pornography) (Republic of Indonesia, 2008).
Drawing from Muhammadiyah’s suggestions, the revised bill sought consensus through
a narrowed definition of pornography as encompassing public or media nudity, or
sexual acts. It removed the articles relating to public kissing, “erotic dance” and the
“showing of sensual body parts” and reduced the penalties associated with the produc-
tion, distribution and possession of pornographic media. As a concession to Indonesia’s
traditional communities, it exempted traditional cultural use of nudity or “suggestive”
dress/dance, while allowing for the use of nudity and sexual acts for educational and
healthcare purposes. It removed the vague language on “pornoaction”, which had led
critics to fear that the bill would have criminalised the kebaya, the Sundanese jaipong
dance, or singer Inul’s goyang ngebor. Finally, it removed references to the Badan Anti
Pornografi dan Pornoaksi Nasional (National Anti-Pornography and Pornoaction
Agency, BAPPN), which would have enforced the new law under the 2006 draft bill.
Instead, the national police would be responsible for controlling the importation of
pornographic goods into Indonesia and for closing down production and distribution
of domestic media pornography. Provincial and regional authorities would be respon-
sible for all other areas of enforcement (Republic of Indonesia, 2008).
At the same time, the revised bill retained several contentious provisions. For one, the
law allowed non-state actors – including hardline groups such as FPI that were notorious
for extrajudicial actions against “vice” establishments, and which had threatened violence if
the 2006 draft bill were not adopted as law – to assist in enforcement (Bellows, 2011).
Although it sought to limit this involvement to relatively mundane actions like reporting
suspicious behaviour to the police, or contributing to public education, the reality was that
it provided some leeway to groups that engaged in vigilantism and their political patrons.
The bill also left enforcement of its statutes entirely to the provinces and regions – a key
element of the brokered compromise, in that it allowed for the bill’s adjustment to local
conditions. Bali, which had objected to the 2006 draft bill, simply refused to enforce it
(Creagh, 2009). Meanwhile, the city of Bandung in conservative West Java province cracked
down on “sexy” dancing in bars and even jaipong, as if the law still encompassed the 2006
 ASIAN STUDIES REVIEW 405

injunctions on “pornoaction” – a move cited by the local MUI chairman as part of

a broader move to “eliminate the non-Islamic parts of West Java’s traditional culture”
(cited in Onishi, 2010). By allowing for enforcement of the bill to be regionalised in this
manner, the Muhammadiyah-brokered compromise allowed state-level actors to wash
their hands of the Anti-Pornography Bill and its attendant controversies, while relocating
contention over the bill to lower levels of governance and social organisation – where
Muhammadiyah and NU chapters were often more firmly conservative or progressive.

NU: Consensus-making on the Legal Status of the Ahmadiyah

In 2011, parliament began debating whether to ban the minority Ahmadiyah sect, who
claim to be Muslims but are not considered as such by most orthodox Sunnis. The
Ahmadiyah sect has existed in Indonesia since 1928. For most of that time, orthodox
Sunnis – including from Muhammadiyah and NU – have taken an ambivalent view of
the sect, condemning its teachings but mostly ignoring its followers (Budiwanti, 2009;
Platzdasch, 2011, p. 3). Attitudes toward the Ahmadiyah began to change in the 1970s,
when the Saudi-based World Muslim League declared the sect to be “a subversive
movement against Islam and the Muslim world” that “contrives and plans to damage
the very foundations of Islam” (Bashir, 2000). In 1980, with the World Muslim League’s
backing, the conservative MUI issued a fatwa that declared Ahmadiyah to be an aliran
sesat (deviant sect) (Olle, 2009, p. 106; Platzdasch, 2011, pp. 3–4). The fatwa had limited
effect: only 16 regencies/municipalities (out of 439) and two provinces (out of 34)
placed restrictions on Ahmadi activities (typically proselytising or distributing pamph-
lets) between 1976 and 2005. But in 2005, MUI reissued its fatwa against the
Ahmadiyah – this time in stronger terms. The timing was opportunistic: Yudhoyono
was seen as friendlier to Muslim conservatives than either Abdurrahman Wahid or
Megawati Sukarnoputri had been, and relied on Muslim conservatives for support in
parliament. As with the proposed restrictions on pornography and “immoral” public
behaviour, Muslim conservatives sought to use this newfound political capital to police
Islam’s internal borders.
MUI charged that the Ahmadiyah elevate their founder, Mirza Ghulan Ahmad, to
prophethood. This is heresy for most orthodox Sunnis (and Shia), who believe that the
Quran designates Muhammad as the final prophet of God. The India-based Qadiani
school of Ahmadiyah does teach this, while also teaching that Ahmad, rather than Jesus,
will return on Judgment Day (another heresy for orthodox Sunnis). In another depar-
ture from Sunni orthodoxy, Qadiani Ahmadiyah do not believe that the Antichrist, or
dajjal, will be defeated in the cataclysmic battle predicted in orthodox Sunni eschatol-
ogy, but rather will be defeated peacefully, over time, by the global adoption of Ahmad’s
teachings. Finally, Qadiani Ahmadis believe that Ahmad is the promised saviour of all
religions, conferring legitimacy on eschatology outside the Abrahamic tree, including
polytheistic faiths at odds with the most central belief in Islam, tawhid (the oneness of
God). The Ahmadi view is, essentially, that non-Muslims have the general idea of
divinity and salvation correct, but have all the details wrong. As Dard (2008, pp. xiv–
xv), an Ahmadi imam, explains, the Qadiani school believe Ahmad is “the Second
Coming of all of whom was prophesied in their respective scriptures”. The purpose of
406 G. BROWN

the Ahmadiyah, then, is to unify all the peoples of the world through Ahmad’s
universalising message.
Complicating matters, though, the largest Indonesian Ahmadi association, the
Jemaat Ahmadiyah Indonesia (JAI), contends that Ahmad is not a latter-day prophet,
but rather a unique source of wisdom (Crouch, 2009, p. 5). According to JAI leaders,
Ahmad is not exactly a prophet, but a shadow representation of a real prophet (nabi
zili), a sort of special teacher or interpreter of Muhammad, rather than his successor
(Budiwanti, 2009, p. 4). The rebranded Jammah Muslim Ahmadiyah Indonesia
(Community of Indonesian Ahmadi Muslims, JMAI) further states on its website that
Ahmad is the “metaphorical embodiment of the Second Coming of the Prophet Issa
(Jesus) of Nazareth”, sent like Jesus to “end religious wars, stop bloodshed, and [revive]
morality, justice and peace” (JMAI, 2018).
Despite JAI/JMAI insistence that their veneration of Ahmad does not violate the
principle of finality with regard to Muhammad’s prophethood, few Indonesian Muslims
accept the Ahmadiyah as legitimately Islamic (Menchik, 2014, p. 593). Instead, the
debate has largely centred on whether the Ahmadiyah are: a deviant sect within Islam,
to be condemned but otherwise ignored and left to their own devices; a deviant sect
within Islam, to be banned as blasphemous; or a different religion, to be separated from
Islam and treated like Christianity or Hinduism. MUI’s 2005 fatwa urged the govern-
ment to ban the sect, on the grounds that the Ahmadiyah were “outside Islam, heretical
and misleading” and, as such, a danger to orthodox Muslims (MUI, 2005). MUI further
warned that failure to act against the sect would lead to “anarchic responses” from
aggrieved Muslims (Olle, 2009, p. 111).
Anarchic responses, notably rare prior to the issuance of MUI’s fatwa, quickly
escalated in frequency and severity. On Lombok, local religious leaders began urging
their followers to attack Ahmadi mosques, schools and orphanages, and to attack
Ahmadis in their homes (Budiwanti, 2009, p. 17). Advocates for human rights and
religious pluralism condemned the violence, organising a protest at Jakarta’s National
Monument (MONAS) on 1 June 2008 in defence of the Ahmadiyah and religious
pluralism more broadly. The protesters were then attacked by members of FPI wielding
bamboo canes, an act caught on video that shocked the Indonesian public (BBC
Indonesia, 2008; Hutabarat, 2008). Political leaders from across the ideological spec-
trum condemned the violence, while the police made a series of arrests of FPI personnel
involved in the attacks. But while the government declined to take action against FPI as
an organisation, the Ministry of Religious Affairs responded by issuing a Joint
Ministerial Decree outlawing proselytising by Ahmadis (Scherpen, 2013, p. 323).
In 2011, another act of violence was caught on video, this time in the town of
Cikeusik in Banten province. A large group of Sunni Muslims had converged on
a house where a smaller number of male Ahmadis had allegedly gathered. Six
Ahmadis were killed in the ensuing melee, again provoking widespread condemnation –
even from Indonesians who were otherwise hostile to the sect (Republika, 2011a;
Saragih, 2011). Many, however, blamed the victims rather than the perpetrators of
violence, citing unspecified “provocations” to shift blame from the perpetrators to their
Ahmadi victims (Republika, 2011b). There were thus legitimate fears that the Minister
of Religion, Suryadharma Ali, would use the incident as pretext for a broader minister-
ial decree against the sect (Jakarta Post, 2010). Instead Ali recused himself from the
 ASIAN STUDIES REVIEW 407

process, citing conflict of interest (Scherpen, 2013, p. 327). Parliament took up debate
on the issue. The Muslim conservative and Islamist parties within Yudhoyono’s govern-
ing coalition (PPP, PKS and PBB) called for a comprehensive ban on all Ahmadi
activities in Indonesia, with only the opposition PDI-P outright opposing a ban
(Platzdasch, 2011, p. 17).
Muhammadiyah, meanwhile, found itself in a situation analogous to NU’s during the
debate on the Anti-Pornography Bill. Chairman Din Syamsuddin was the organisation’s
highest-profile conservative. He had, in fact, helped author MUI’s 2005 fatwa on the
Ahmadiyah. Syamsuddin, however, was trying to reposition himself as a centrist within
the organisation. This was, according to multiple sources within the organisation, an
attempt to heighten organisational solidarity at a time when Muhammadiyah’s leader-
ship perceived itself to be excessively factionalised and under threat from rival organi-
sations, on both the “left” and “right” (interviews with Muhammadiyah personnel,
2011; 2013). Thus, Muhammadiyah declined to support the proposed ban, suggesting
instead that the Ahmadiyah register as a new faith, like the Baha’i (who also have roots
in Islam) (Antara, 2011; Jakarta Post, 2011; Scherpen, 2013, pp. 340–342). The proposal
foundered, due to opposition from pro-pluralism advocates, including those within
Muhammadiyah, who worried about the dangerous precedent that such a move would
engender, and from the Ahmadiyah themselves, who self-identify as Muslim and
viewed the proposed separation from Islam as a form of apostasy.
In this case, NU stepped in to perform consensus-making. As with Muhammadiyah,
NU luminaries aligned on both sides of the issue. The 2005 fatwa’s principal author,
Ma’ruf Amin, is a major figure within NU. What is more, under the leadership of
conservative Hasyim Muzadi, NU had in 2008 issued its own fatwa against the
Ahmadiyah, which also called on the government to take a “firm and consistent
stand” on the sect (NU, 2008). However, as informants within the organisation
explained, many within NU had been satisfied with the 2008 ministerial decree,
which had circumscribed Ahmadi proselytising but otherwise left Ahmadis alone
(interviews with the author, 2011). As with the Anti-Pornography Bill, the proposed
ban on the Ahmadiyah threatened a schism between the ultra-conservative Amin and
more moderately conservative ex-chairman Muzadi, on the one hand, and progressive
ex-chairman Wahid and influential Javanese ulama Ahmad Mustofa Bisri on the
other – each with their considerable followings and regionalised power bases. The
organisation’s new chairman, Said Aqil Siradj, was caught in the middle – and tasked
with preserving cohesion and solidarity within NU’s increasingly fractured leadership.
Siradj decided to send Masdar Farid Mas’udi to clarify the organisation’s case to
parliament. Choosing Mas’udi was symbolic in and of itself: he was a long-time
proponent of pluralism and human rights protections for religious minorities, and
had even publicly criticised Muzadi’s support for the ministerial decree. In his testi-
mony, Mas’udi declared that “humans are not entitled to judge whether a person’s
beliefs are heretical or not”. This signalled that, while NU might not approve of the
Ahmadiyah, it opposed an outright ban on principle. Instead, Mas’udi suggested
Indonesian Muslims

correct [the Ahmadiyah] gently. As it is said in the Quran, invite those who understand
differently from us, with dakwah, with good counsel. If [these methods] are not effective,
408 G. BROWN

argue politely with them. If [their] views are unchangeable, then it is already in God’s
hands (cited in Kompas, 2011).

Official NU policy coalesced along these lines, combining a view of Ahmadiyah teach-
ings as outside ahlus sunnah wal jama’ah (orthodox Sunni Islam) with opposition to
their legal reclassification as a deviant sect, on the grounds that such a declaration
would fuel violence (Scherpen, 2013, pp. 335–336).13 At the same time, many local
chapters did support restrictions on Ahmadi activities. This was even the case in
Wahid’s power base of East Java, where NU’s paramilitary wing, Banser, had for
years both protected Ahmadi congregations from violence and unilaterally imposed
limits on Ahmadi proselytising (Bush & Munawar-Rachman, 2014, pp. 29–30).
A survey conducted by Menchik (2016, p. 20), furthermore, demonstrated that support
for anti-Ahmadiyah restrictions was widespread among branch-level leaders of NU
(and Muhammadiyah) – even among those who strongly believed in religious protec-
tions for non-Muslims. As liberal NU activist Ulil Abshar Abdallah stated in a 2011
interview:
There’s an implicit threat in the idea of the Ahmadiyah, perhaps not to regular people, but
to the people who are inculcating ideology into people. That is to say, there’s an implied
attack on the central tenets of Islam from the Ahmadiyah, whereas one can come to an
accommodation with a Christian or a Hindu, as if there are two hermetically sealed spaces
that don’t necessarily overlap (interview with the author, 2011).

Consensus-making by NU thus did not reflect an organisational prerogative to uphold

a vision of pluralism that extended to “heretical” sects within Islam. Nor, however, was
it solely an attempt to resolve an acrimonious dispute among political parties. As
informants within the organisation explained, NU’s position reflected a desire to
achieve “harmony” within the organisation as well as across society at large (interviews
with the author, 2011). To do so, it sought to balance its theological opposition to
“incorrect” Ahmadi teachings, stressed by the conservative faction, with political oppo-
sition to a state-enforced ban, as stressed by progressives. By inserting itself into the
political process, NU signalled that it wanted the government to find a solution that
would preserve the status quo as framed by the ministerial decree of 2008 – both in
statewide politics (which, it should again be mentioned, directly involved a number of
major NU personnel) and in the organisation itself.
NU’s intervention had an immediate and powerful effect. Several major political
parties that had initially indicated support for the ban began moving away from that
position, and toward NU’s. Golkar announced that it supported turning the 2008
ministerial decree outlawing Ahmadi proselytising into a formal law, but would not
support an organisational ban (Hapsari, 2011). Meanwhile, the PKB – which drew
primarily from NU for support – suggested replacing talk of a statewide ban with
“dialogue” and perhaps even a new “umbrella law” that could simultaneously “regulate”
Ahmadi activities and preserve religious freedom and “harmony” (Scherpen, 2013, pp.
326–327). Support for an outright ban was dissolving.
As with the Anti-Pornography Bill, the compromise solution involved space for
Indonesia’s provinces and regions to chart their own paths, at odds with the national
environment and – arguably – the pluralist ethos embodied in Pancasila. Soon after
the Cikeusik incident, the province of East Java formally banned all organised
 ASIAN STUDIES REVIEW 409

activities by or on behalf of the Ahmadiyah, including membership in the JAI/JMAI,

use of mosques or schools for any sermons or teachings by or associated with the
Ahmadiyah, and disseminating Ahmadi texts or information about the sect via
printed or electronic media (Human Rights Watch, 2011). Several more provinces
followed suit. By the end of 2011, four provinces and 25 regions/municipalities had
passed laws restricting activity by or on behalf of the Ahmadiyah (Nurbaiti, 2011).
Although a relatively small percentage of Indonesia’s 34 provinces, 405 regencies
(kabupaten) and 97 cities, these areas represented more than 40 per cent of the total
population.
Regionalisation of the issue also played a role in maintaining organisational solidar-
ity within NU. Like Muhammadiyah, NU is politically factionalised, particularly on
issues of religious pluralism. However, to a far greater degree than is the case for
Muhammadiyah, NU is also localised. That is because NU is both a civic organisation
located in Jakarta (Pusat Besar NU, PBNU) and a loose network of autonomous ulama,
many of whom run their own pesantren (Islamic seminary). As such, these locally-based
ulama have their own sources of institutional and charismatic authority (interviews
with the author, 2011). Though affiliated with NU, these ulama will defy the organisa-
tion when they feel it is warranted. As such, a key challenge for NU is to keep the local
ulama within the “big tent”. Blocking a statewide ban on the Ahmadiyah while tacitly
allowing for bans at the provincial and regional/municipal levels thus preserved the
organisation’s integrity in a social–geographic sense.

Conclusion
These cases show how Muhammadiyah and NU act as political consensus-makers on
contentious issues related to the way religious pluralism is institutionalised and prac-
tised in Indonesia. Consensus-making by these organisations has both an external and
an internal function. Externally, it protects religious pluralism as an organising princi-
ple of the state, forges compromises among Indonesia’s political parties, creates space
for regions and provinces to be exempted from proposed new laws, and reduces the
threat to pluralism embodied in moral legislation. But consensus-making also involves
concessions to opponents of religious pluralism, most often by forcing all parties to
tacitly accept regional and provincial abrogation of the principle.
Consensus-making also provides tangible internal benefits to Muhammadiyah and
NU. Through successful intervention, these organisations not only use their influence
among Indonesia’s political elite, but also reproduce their central position in the public
sphere – as essential nodes in the circuitry of political deliberation. Consensus-making
further allows Muhammadiyah and NU to overcome their internal contradictions –
namely, their internal factionalisation. This serves two purposes. First, by minimising
the impact of contentious bills, it maintains the balance of power between conservatives
and progressives within each organisation. Second, by reaffirming the centrality of these
organisations to the political process, consensus-making raises internal solidarity and
the sense of prestige that organisation cadres associate with being members of the
organisations. What this demonstrates is that political interventions by Muhammadiyah
and NU do not follow from a deep commitment to the normative ideals of civil
pluralism, but rather from a civic-organisational logic that prioritises maintaining
410 G. BROWN

cohesion within the big tent, and reproducing influence, and by extension internal
solidarity, through the exertion of influence.
These cases also suggest a crucial revision to the civil Islam thesis as it is generally
understood – namely, that Muslim civil society in Indonesia upholds democratic and
pluralist norms because of commitment to these norms. Hefner, of course, does not
argue that Muhammadiyah and NU are intrinsically civil Islamic. Rather, in Civil Islam
and subsequent writings, he has framed civil Islam as a normative orientation toward
civil pluralism among Indonesian Muslims – one that emerged among intellectuals
within these organisations, but is not hegemonic among their cadres. However, many
observers – including within the organisations themselves – view Muhammadiyah and
NU, in a Tocquevillian sense, as vehicles for civil pluralism, Pancasila, and the demo-
cratic norms implemented after Suharto’s fall. As Menchik (2016; 2019) suggests,
though, the centres of gravity within Muhammadiyah and NU are often quite far
from the civil Islamic ideal on many issues. At best, their cadres are ambiguously
committed to the notion.
What this article demonstrates is that, while Muhammadiyah and NU play a crucial
role as moderating forces in Indonesian politics, they do this precisely because they are
not deeply committed to civil pluralism. Rather, they take on this role because they are
divided between the advocates of civil Islam and those who are ambivalent – and in
some cases outright hostile – toward its central precepts. Consensus-making may thus
have the effect of moderating contentious proposed legislation, such as the Anti-
Pornography Bill or proposed ban on the Ahmadiyah, but its real purpose is to over-
come internal divisions, and so maintain and reproduce organisational solidarity within
entities that are deeply factionalised. This “civic Islam” is nevertheless important for
Indonesia’s democratic trajectory, as it both structures decision-making at the elite level
and suggests that Indonesian politics will be defined, for the foreseeable future, by
a series of compromises.

Notes
1. The concept of “civil Islam” is rooted in theories of public religion, a concept that
describes situations in which religious organisations retract broad-based claims on the
state and instead accept positions of influence within “the undifferentiated public sphere of
civil society” (Casanova, 2001; Stepan, 2000).
2. Muhammadiyah and NU are the largest Muslim civic organisations in the world.
Muhammadiyah today has about 30 million followers. NU also claims 30 million mem-
bers, but is thought to have some 100 million followers (Bush, 2014).Since independence,
Muhammadiyah and NU have exerted a disproportionate influence on public policy across
a broad spectrum of issue types – from the formalisation and regulation of religion to
education and healthcare. It is worth noting that, in this article, I generally discuss
Muhammadiyah and NU – and their influence on policy – together. However, the two
organisations are significantly different from one another in key ways – differences I do
not intend to flatten. In fact, Muhammadiyah and NU were both founded during the
1920s as rival religious and educational networks – Muhammadiyah representing Islamic
modernism and NU representing traditionalism. Islamic modernism is, in essence,
a response to and refutation of traditionalism. More specifically, it is a reform movement
that seeks to reconcile economic and political modernisation with a rationalising theology
that stresses ijtihad (individual exegesis of the Quran and Sunnah) over traditional Islamic
 ASIAN STUDIES REVIEW 411

jurisprudence. Traditionalism, by contrast, describes orthodox Muslims who follow the

syafi’i mazhab (one of four medieval traditions in Islamic jurisprudence). Despite
a competitive dynamic between the two organisations, their leaderships make common
cause on public policy far more often than not. Muhammadiyah and NU are also distinct
from one another in terms of organisational structure. Muhammadiyah is more or less
a modern civic organisation, albeit one with an extremely large membership. NU is,
essentially, a modern civic organisation (Pusat Besar Nahdlatul Ulama) that sits atop
a decentralised network of autonomous kyai, i.e. ulama who run pesantren (Islamic
seminaries). NU-affiliated kyai take religious direction from the organisation, but do not
necessarily follow it in policy matters.
3. Kopecky and Mudde (2003) argue that the comparative literature on civil society is overly
normative, defining civil society only by whether a group may be coded as “pro-democracy”
(and then lumping all others together as “uncivil”). They suggest that these normative biases
reduce the analytical effectiveness of empirical work and render “civil society” useless as an
analytical category. Instead, they suggest redefining civil society in terms of whether an
organisation (a) fills the mediating space between household and state, (b) engages in policy
advocacy and activism outside state structures, (c) is autonomous from the state, and (d) has
the ability to act as a check on the state. Notably, none of these defining characteristics
requires any strong ideological commitment to democracy or liberal values.
4. They are also much more than that. Muhammadiyah was founded as a religious educa-
tional foundation promoting Islamic modernism, while NU was (and still is) a network of
traditionalist ulama and their seminaries (called pesantren).
5. Indonesia officially recognises Islam, Catholicism, Protestant Christianity, Buddhism,
Hinduism and Chinese Confucianism. Although individual citizens may practise other
faiths, these recognised faiths are granted various forms of institutional privilege.
Menchik (2016) describes a pact or understanding among embedded elites within
these religious groups that the state is or should be religious but not particularistic
among them.
6. Hefner himself does not, in either Civil Islam or subsequent writings, argue that
Muhammadiyah or NU is per se civil Islamic. Rather, he observes that civil Islam emerged
from these organisations and is represented within them.
7. The notion of “big tent” organisations emerged from the study of US political parties,
which are internally heterogeneous coalitions of interest groups.
8. As a consequence of this interpretation of Surah 58, Muhammadiyah instructs its followers
to be tolerant of non-Muslims, and to only deviate from that baseline when individuals,
organisations or states actively oppress or seek conflict with Islam.
9. Künkler (2013) argues that support for pluralism from within NU and Muhammadiyah is
part of an “emergent liberal discourse” in Indonesian Islam.
10. NU, like Muhammadiyah, portrays itself as occupying a middle ground between liberalism
and radicalism, and frames that position as distinctly and “authentically” Indonesian.
11. The draft bill was co-sponsored by the much smaller PBB.
12. As part of a broader project on Islam and democratisation (2010–14), I interviewed
a number of parliamentarians, parliamentary staffers and personnel from
Muhammadiyah and NU with intimate knowledge of this issue and how it unfolded.
Two high-ranking members of Muhammadiyah (interviewed in 2011 and 2013), a member
of PAN (interviewed in 2011) and a member of PD (interviewed in 2011) all recalled
Muhammadiyah’s backdoor intervention but requested anonymity.
13. The term ahlus sunnah wal jama’ah literally means “people of the Sunnah and the
Islamic community”. But it is generally used to denote orthodox Sunni Islam. In
Indonesia, it is also sometimes used by traditionalists, such as those from NU, to
delineate traditionalists (i.e. followers of the four medieval mazhab) from other
approaches to Islam.
412 G. BROWN

ORCID
Gustav Brown http://orcid.org/0000-0001-6959-2671

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