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Table of Contents in Inside Indonesia

Oct - Dec 2008. West Papua: Inside Indonesia?

West Papua: Inside Indonesia?
This edition of Inside Indonesia marks an important anniversary, and explores the multiple faces of Indonesian Papua today - Jennifer Robinson

Rulers in their own country?
Special autonomy and Papuan aspirations have been thwarted by Jakarta and hampered by the administrative fragmentation sponsored by local politicians - Richard Chauvel

Papua road map
Conflict resolution should move from a security to a justice approach - Muridan S Widjojo

Freedom of expression
Whether Papuans support autonomy or independence, they should be allowed to speak freely - Jennifer Robinson

Torture in Papua
Human rights groups report on abuses - J. Budi Hernawan OFM

Arnold Ap and Theys Eluay
Political assassinations targeted West Papua’s culture and political identity - Carmel Budiardjo

Tangguh goes onstream
BP’s massive LNG project is due to begin operations in late 2008, despite social and environmental costs - Paul Barber

Beyond the Museum
Asmat bisj-poles gain new meaning in a Papuan refugee protest in Melbourne - Kipley Nink

Papuan romance
New norms about love and marriage alter the rules for the young - Sarah Hewat

Faith, flags and festivities
Images of highlanders at home and abroad - Jenny Munro

Papua webs
Web-based resources related to Indonesian Papua and West Papua - Michael Cookson

Weekly Articles

Review: Refugees and Rebels
Indonesian Exiles in Wartime Australia By Jan Lingard - reviewed by Jean Gelman Taylor

No positive news
People living with HIV face corruption and incompetence in the health system - Michael Buehler

Staying clean
Drug rehabilitation in Indonesia - Christopher Morrison

We miss you wali nanggroe
Hasan di Tiro returns to an Aceh in transition - Catherine Smith and Thushara Dibley

Giving up partisan politics?
Indonesia’s biggest Muslim organizations are having second thoughts about partisan politics - Eunsook Jung

Promoting Pluralism
Pesantren progressives defend constitutional religious freedoms - Joanne McMillan

Underground and at risk
Men who have sex with men in urban Papua - Iskandar Nugroho

Papuan waria and HIV risk
Indigenous waria face systemic discrimination, increasing their risk of HIV infection - Jack Morin and Leslie Butt

Brothers in arms
Papuan footballers score goals against HIV - Sara Knuckey

Inside Indonesia No. 94: Oct-Dec 2008

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West Papua: Inside Indonesia?

This edition of Inside Indonesia marks an important anniversary, and explores the multiple faces of Indonesian Papua today

Jennifer Robinson

For many people, West Papua is unquestionably part of Indonesia and therefore a proper topic for discussion in this magazine. For many others, it rankles. This difference in opinion boils down to a significant point in Papuan – and Indonesian – history. Next year marks 40 years since a UN sponsored vote in 1969, the Act of Free Choice (AOFC), which determined that West Papua would be integrated into Indonesia rather than become an independent state. Of course, there was another big and much-discussed anniversary in Indonesia this year. May 2008 marked ten years since the downfall of President Suharto and the beginning of reformasi. This anniversary prompted much reflection about the state of Indonesia’s democracy. That the anniversary of the AOFC is looming is hardly less significant. The contested histories arising from the AOFC – in particular concerning Papua’s status as a part of Indonesia – are at the root of ongoing conflict in Papua.

This important marker in Papuan and Indonesian history offers a pertinent and appropriate time for Inside Indonesia to dedicate a special issue to contemporary Papua. It has been seven years since Inside Indonesia last dedicated an edition to this topic. The title then was: ‘A New Papua: Special Autonomy or Independence?’ Seven years later, the question remains as relevant now as it was then.

This edition

In this edition we offer a range of articles that reflect upon contemporary concerns in Papua. In addition to the poor implementation of special autonomy, these articles deal with human rights abuses, demographic change, natural resource development and the HIV/Aids epidemic. Such issues fuel discontent with the Indonesian government and drive Papuan
independence sentiment.

Our first group of authors concentrates on issues in Papua that may be familiar to Inside Indonesia readers: politics and human rights. Richard Chauvel provides an overview of the recent politics of special autonomy in the territory. He suggests that, although political changes have been dramatic and there is now real electoral competition in Papua, the repression of Papuan nationalism and the pro-independence movement means that Papuans
are not able to fully enjoy the freedoms now available to most other Indonesians. The article by Muridan S. Widjojo represents an Indonesian view on paths to peace, offering a new framework to address the Papua conflict within the framework of the Indonesian state, arguing that Indonesia’s present security approach to conflict resolution creates unnecessary and violent tension. Three authors then look at different aspects of the human rights situation. Budi Hernawan reports upon state torture practices in Papua, Carmel Budiardjo reflects upon the political assassination of prominent Papuan leaders, and Jennifer Robinson writes about freedom of speech. Each of these articles reiterates the point made by Chauvel: in practice, state policy in Papua is radically different than in most parts of Indonesia, and Papuans do not enjoy the same civil liberties as most other Indonesians. Beyond politics

The other contributions look at a range of social issues that may be less familiar to our readers. Three articles are dedicated to the HIV epidemic in Papua, which stands out as one
of its most pressing social concerns. HIV infection rates in Papua are the highest in Indonesia and five times the national average. Seventy per cent of those infected are indigenous
Papuans. Iskandar Nugroho explains how men engaging in sex with other men are at high risk of contracting the virus, showing how this risk is exacerbated by taboos against discussions of extra-marital sex and HIV prevention strategies. Leslie Butt and Jack Morin show how systematic discrimination and structural inequities increase the risk of HIV infection among indigenous waria (transsexuals), leading to higher infection rates among indigenous Papuans. Sara Knuckey writes about community awareness and the need for socially and culturally sensitive HIV education, describing one successful sexual health education program involving Jayapura’s professional football team, Persipura.

The next three articles address a broad spectrum of social issues: the impact of large development projects, the increasing political significance of traditional Papuan art, and the
emotional transformations accompanying modernisation in Papua. Paul Barber questions whether the new BP Tangguh project will benefit local people or become yet another resource curse. Kipley Nink describes how Papuan asylum seekers in Australia are using the Asmat bisj-pole as a form of protest, explicitly linking this art form with their campaign for independence. Sarah Hewat writes about romantic love in Papua, demonstrating that new understandings of love, passion and expectations of gendered relations have accompanied, and been as dramatic as, the better documented changes associated with modernisation.

Our final article by Mike Cookson considers how ‘Papua’ is represented, used and exchanged on the web. While cautioning readers that one must be critical when using web-based material about Papua, Cookson provides readers with an invaluable guide to a far greater range of information.

As Papua enters this significant year, Inside Indonesia hopes to bring you more articles about the anniversary of the Act of Free Choice and about other contemporary developments and challenges in Papua.

Jennifer Robinson (jennifer.robinson@balliol.ox.ac.uk) is an Australian lawyer and Rhodes Scholar at the University of Oxford, researching international investment law and human rights.
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Inside Indonesia No. 94: Oct-Dec 2008

Rulers In Their Own Country?

Special autonomy and Papuan aspirations have been thwarted by Jakarta and hampered by the administrative fragmentation sponsored by local politicians

Richard Chauvel

Photo: A peaceful demonstration against corruption at the local parliament building in Timika, 2008. Muridan S Widjojo

Politics in Papua operates in two distinct realms. One realm is closed and partly clandestine; the other is open and highly competitive. The first realm reminds one of the repressive
climate of Suharto’s New Order, while the second realm has many of the characteristics of the democratic electoral politics that has developed throughout Indonesia since the resignation of Suharto. Taken together these realms suggest that many of the promises of the early reformasi years have not yet been fulfilled in Papua. Yet at the same time, electoral politics and decentralisation have radically changed the pattern of politics in Papua.

The first realm is the politics of Papuan nationalism. The overt articulation of independence demands and public organisation for independence, dominated public life in Papua in the first years after Suharto’s resignation. A team of 100 Papuan leaders met with President Habibie in February 1999 and demanded that Indonesia recognise Papuan independence. In 2000 two mass public gatherings were organised. The second of these gatherings, the Kongres Papua, was partly funded by then President Abdurrahman Wahid, who had earlier permitted the change of name of the province from Irian Jaya to Papua and had allowed the Papuan Morning Star flag to be flown alongside the Indonesian flag. An Indonesian intelligence assessment prepared immediately after the Kongres Papua described the atmosphere down to the village level in Papua as one of euphoria and enthusiasm for the idea of Merdeka (independence). The detention of the Presidium leaders in late November 2000, the occupation of Jayapura by Indonesian troops and the severe curtailment of celebrations of Papuan ‘Independence Day’ on 1 December closed down the public politics of Papuan nationalism. These actions were followed nearly a year later by the assassination of the Presidium leader Theys Eluay. Although the government also issued in 2001 a Special Autonomy Law for Papua, it made it clear at the same time that there would be no toleration for ‘separatism’.

The Indonesian authorities’ responses to the occasional public outbursts of Papuan nationalism, like the flag raising incidents at the Papuan Adat Council Congress on 3 July 2007 and the march to mark International Day of the World’s Indigenous People at
Wamena in August 2008, demonstrate how restricted the realm of Papuan nationalist politics has become. The national government issued a new regulation (77/2007) banning the use of separatist symbols. In Papua the regulation led to the detention of three Papuan women in January 2008 who were selling handicrafts incorporating the Morning Star flag on the streets of central Jayapura.

Yet in pointing out that the realm of Papuan nationalist politics has been closed down, I am not suggesting that political sentiments have changed significantly since the heady
days of the Kongres Papua. Indeed, the factors that have fuelled Papuan nationalism – mass migration, economic marginalisation and the brutal behaviour of the security forces – remain part of the Papuan experience of Indonesian rule.

Democratic competition

The second realm of politics in Papua is that of elite and bureaucratic competition for the control of government positions and resources. In this realm, reformasi has dramatically changed Papua. Electoral politics has created a new sphere of political competition in Papua, as it has done elsewhere in Indonesia. These changes have seen a significant increase in the numbers of Papuans in the executives and legislatures of Papua; their under-representation had been one source of grievance during the Suharto years. All the members of the Papuan People’s Assembly (MRP), as determined by the Special Autonomy Law, are Papuans. The governors and their deputies of the two extant provinces are Papuans and the heads of district administrations are Papuans, while some of the deputies are Indonesian settlers. The two
governors and many of the district heads have been directly elected. Most of the heads of local governments are from the districts they govern.

For example, in Jayawijaya, 1999 was the first time that a local politician had become bupati (district head). In the early Indonesian period there had been two district heads from Biak in
Wamena, while those of the latter New Order period were Indonesians. Despite the conviction for corruption of the first local bupati and a corruption investigation targeting his
successor, also a local politician, it is nearly unimaginable that a non-local politician will be elected in the forthcoming elections. As will be discussed below, the competition for
bureaucratic and political positions has helped to fuel the creation of new district governments and campaigns for new provinces. According to the simple logic of the newly empowered local politicians, the more district and provincial governments, the more positions and resources available for them.

Special Autonomy spans both these political realms. As a policy of the Indonesian Government, Special Autonomy was a response to Papuan demands for independence. It also established the institutional framework for the newly competitive electoral politics and the greatly increased government revenues in Papua.

Special Autonomy

Photo: A 2005 demonstration rejecting special autonomy. Muridan S. Widjojo

Special Autonomy was first enshrined as a policy goal by Indonesia’s supreme legislative body, the People’s Consultative Assembly, the MPR, in 1999, which included the concept in its ‘Broad Outline of Government Policy’ (GBHN) for the 1999-2004 period. The MPR linked the granting of special autonomy to the objective of strengthening Indonesia’s national integrity within the unitary state. After the Kongres Papua the parliament instructed Abdurrahman Wahid to take decisive action against separatism in Papua (and Aceh) and to implement Special Autonomy. During the brief ascendency of Theys Eluay’s Presidium
Dewan Papua – the so-called ‘Papuan Spring’ – the Papuan advocates of Special Autonomy found it difficult to compete with the promise of independence. Few indigenous Papuans were interested in their promise of compromise when full independence seemed to be achievable.

However, following the detention of some Presidium leaders and the cessation of negotiations with those still at liberty, Special Autonomy became a more attractive option. Governor Solossa’s team negotiated what appeared to be, by the standards of post-independence Indonesian governance, a generous allocation of autonomy to Papua. Special Autonomy was significantly more generous in its allocation of government revenues and decision-making authority to Papua than was the case under the nation-wide regional autonomy laws of 1999. The Special Autonomy Law provided for an ethnic Papuan Governor and Deputy Governor and a Papuan upper house charged with protecting Papuan values and interests. The Governor’s team did not obtain all that they proposed in their various drafts of the law, but the negotiating process with the Indonesian Parliament had instilled a strong sense of ownership of the law, broadly felt across the bureaucratic and political elite in Jayapura.

The Special Autonomy Law did not convince the supporters of independence, nor did it overcome the scepticism of many others in Papuan society, including students, who, given the long history of promises of autonomy since 1963, posed the simple question: why should we believe Jakarta now? However, in retrospect, the greatest threat to the Special Autonomy Law as a policy framework to resolve the conflict in Papua came not from the sceptics in Papua, but from sections of the Indonesian government itself. There were some figures within the Department of Internal Affairs, the military and the intelligence community who considered that the law was too generous to Papuan interests. They feared that if the law was implemented it would empower a Jayapura-based Papuan elite and pose a threat to national unity.

These figures advocated the partition of Papua into three provinces. They sought to break the symbolic nexus between the name Papua, the Morning Star flag and Papuan nationalism. They persuaded President Megawati to issue a Presidential Instruction in January 2003 to divide Papua into three provinces and establish four new district governments.

Given this history it is not surprising that the Special Autonomy Law has dominated much of the political discourse among Papuans since before its enactment in 2001. The present Governor of Papua, Barnabas Suebu, made Special Autonomy the basis of his election campaign in 2006. He argued that Special Autonomy gave Papuans unprecedented authority. He said Special Autonomy was ‘an opportunity and a vehicle that is going to take us to
develop a New Papua in the future’. Arguing against the celebration of 1 December as Papuan Independence Day in 2007, the Governor asserted that: ‘With Special Autonomy within the framework of the Unitary Republic of Indonesia, Papua is able to govern itself. I use ‘Papuan freedom’ here to mean the freedom of self-government. Papuans have become rulers in their own country through Special Autonomy, because it is all contained with the Special Autonomy Law.’

Now, however, not all Papuans agree with Governor Suebu’s views. In August 2005 Dewan Adat Papua (the Papuan Customary Law Council) ‘returned’ the Special Autonomy Law symbolically as a coffin to the central government because it had not been effective and not been properly implemented. In April 2007 student protesters in Jayapura argued that ‘access to education and health services in the interior was still very limited. Employment opportunities were very narrow. Income was low, with many Papuans living in poverty, despite the fact that Special Autonomy had allocated 9 trillion rupiah (about A$1.2 billion)
to Papua. Thus, we have concluded that for the six years Special Autonomy has operated it has failed.’ Socratez Sofyan Yoman, the Baptist Church leader, has been a persistent critic of Special Autonomy. In addition to the broadly held views that Special Autonomy has failed to bring material benefits to Papuans, Yoman has argued that Indonesian military and intelligence operations have intensified since the introduction of Special Autonomy. There has been less discussion, however, about other changes that have occurred under Special Autonomy. Dividing Papua

Since Megawati’s Presidential Instruction of 2003, a new province, West Papua has been created in the western part of Papua, with its capital in Manokwari. Megawati’s attempt to
establish a second new province of Central Irian Jaya had to be abandoned in the face of riots in Timika. However, proposals to establish three new provinces – South Papua, South West Papua and Central Papua –have found support in the respective regions as well as in the national parliament. In January 2008, draft legislation was initiated in the parliament to establish these three new provinces.

Apart from the establishment of two new provinces, Megawati’s Presidential Instruction also created three new district governments and a municipality – Paniai, Mimika, Puncak Jaya and the city of Sorong. In addition, twenty other district governments have been created, making a grand total of 36 districts and municipalities for Papua and West Papua. This meant the number of local governments has tripled since the Special Autonomy Law was introduced. While there has been an increase in the number of local governments throughout
Indonesia, from 344 to 471, the proliferation in Papua has been much more pronounced and the impact on governance more significant.

Megawati’s Presidential Instruction and the subsequent proposals to create further provinces in Papua have been the focus of conflict between the central government, the provincial
government in Jayapura and other Papuan politicians. Much of the debate touches on the nature and extent of autonomy enacted under Special Autonomy; specifically whether the relevant provisions of the law mean what they say or, alternatively, that the central government retains the power to determine the provincial and district government structures in Papua. Jakarta’s unilateral creation of the province of West Papua in 2003 has done much to undermine the goodwill and trust created by the negotiations for and the enactment of the 2001 Special Autonomy Law.

The objective of the Presidential Instruction was to undermine and devalue the Special Autonomy Law, which some sections of the Indonesian Government considered to be too generous in its concessions to Papuan interests and values and a threat to the unity of the Republic of Indonesia. The Governor’s arguments likening Special Autonomy to independence might be effective among his fellow Papuans, but such arguments have only
heightened the anxieties of those in the intelligence services, security forces and the Department of Internal Affairs who opposed Special Autonomy from the beginning. Local elites

However, it would be misleading to suggest that the proliferation of district governments and the proposals for more provinces was simply a result of the central government’s divide
and rule policies. Some Papuan elites also have an interest in territorial fragmentation. The proliferation of local governments created new arenas for political competition among
the Papuan elites for government positions and access to resources, greatly increased under Special Autonomy, that go with these new positions.

Some of the advocates of new districts and provinces are local political figures, while others are politicians and officials out of power in Jayapura who have seen advantage in supporting
new provinces and districts as a means of acquiring position and access to resources. Two principal advocates of the province of South West Papua, Decky Asmuruf and Don Flassy, had been senior officials in Jayapura. Decky Asmuruf had been an unsuccessful candidate in the election for Governor in West Papua, while Don Flassy had been a member of the pro-independence Presidium Dewan Papua. Lukas Enembe, who narrowly lost the election for Governor in Papua to Suebu in 2006, was subsequently elected as head of the district government in Puncak Jaya, his home area. Johanes Gebze, the leader of the campaign for the province of South Papua, has been the Bupati in Merauke for two terms and cannot
be elected for a third term.

The proliferation of local governments has brought about the dispersal of political activity and authority away from Jayapura. Campaigns to establish new district and provincial governments have involved lobbying in Jakarta, especially with those sections of the central government who have their own interests in fragmenting administrative structures in Papua. It is as though there is an alliance of convenience between local politicians in Papua and those in Jakarta interested in undermining the Jayapura-based political and bureaucratic elite.
Often the provincial government in Jayapura is seen as an obstacle to the creation of more local governments.

In 2007 Lukas Enembe won the election in Puncak Jaya by defeating Elieser Renmaur, the incumbent district head and a Keiese. The heads of district (Bupati) in both Papua and West
Papua are Papuans, mostly from the districts they govern. The deputy heads are a mixture of local Papuans, Papuans from elsewhere and non-Papuans. The dominance of local government positions by indigenous local leaders itself conveys something of the Governor’s sense of self-government under Special Autonomy. The introduction of electoral politics in local government since the fall of Suharto together with Special Autonomy has facilitated ‘Papuanisation’ and localisation of political leadership in local government. Elieser Renmaur was the last of the non-Papuan bupati to lose his position. The localisation of political leadership in district government as well as the proliferation of administrations suggests a revival of local and regional identities, reversing the growth of a Papua-wide identity evident from the last years of the Dutch regime, consolidated and broadened during the Suharto years and the years of Papuan nationalist mobilisation that followed it.

It is worth noting that in contrast to ‘Papuanisation’ and localisation of political leadership in district governments; the reverse pattern is evident among the government officials.
There are insufficient numbers of qualified Papuans to become officials. The International Crisis Group estimated that about 85 per cent of the officials are non-Papuans in some of the new districts. Problems of proliferation

With respect to the proliferation of district governments in the central highlands, the Catholic Church’s Office of Justice and Peace have wondered to what extent the enthusiasm for even more local governments reflected the wishes of the people or just the interests of the local political elites. Some Church leaders in the highlands considered that proliferation of district
governments was a means to compartmentalise Papuans, making Papuan society easier to control with a greater military presence. In the campaign to establish six more district
governments during 2007, there was some opposition from highland student groups, who argued that the new local governments would not benefit the people’s welfare but merely expand the opportunities for corruption. The students demanded that the Governor stop the establishment of the new governments. Suebu declared that the decision was in the hands of the central government.

One obvious problem is that district governments in Papua, especially the newly created ones in remote areas, are incapable of delivering even the most basic services. The lack of capacity in service delivery has meant that the increased revenues provided under the Special Autonomy Law have not resulted in any discernable improvement of welfare. Governor Suebu had attempted to address the problem of weak district governments by distributing development funds directly to villages, bypassing the district administrations. One of the highland district governments created in 2008, Dogiai, was recently confronted by
the tragic circumstances of a cholera and diarrhoea outbreak that resulted in the deaths of about 173 people. Church leaders noted the irony that the new local government had been too busy celebrating the district’s foundation to take any action against the outbreak of disease.

Benny Giay, a Church leader from the affected region, urged the government not to busy itself with the creation of new district governments, but rather provide quality health services as dictated by the Special Autonomy Law. Giay and other Church leaders regretted that the inaction of both the old district government in Nabire and the provincial government had created suspicions in the community and exasperated tensions between Papuans and immigrants, leading to the destruction of some immigrants’ houses. The implication of the Church leaders’ criticism was that the new government in Dogiai did not have the capacity to deal with the outbreak.

Looking forward

The advocates of more and smaller district governments argue that this will enhance equity in development, bring government closer to the people and improve public services. There has been no evaluation of whether these ideals have been realised by the new district governments. Papua has particular challenges in its extensive and difficult terrain and very limited transportation and communication infrastructure. The proliferation of
administrative structures over the past six years has been ad hoc, but it might not be too late for a systematic assessment of what the appropriate structures of administration in Papua
consist of.

The national government and Papuan society have a shared interest in establishing administrative structures that support good governance and enable Papuans to benefit from the greatly increased government revenues generated by Special Autonomy. Expanding the frontiers of democratisation and demilitarisation into Papua is a prerequisite for creating a single political realm in which governments are held accountable and their
activities are transparent. Special Autonomy is the only policy game in town as far as the national government is concerned in Papua. Its credibility and legitimacy in the eyes of many
Papuans was undermined because, simultaneously with its formulation and implementation, the government closed down the reformasi political space and created what I have described as the closed political realm of Papuan nationalist politics. Hopefully, a newly (re-) elected Indonesian government will feel secure enough to permit Papuans to enjoy the same democratic freedoms and responsibilities as their fellow Indonesians.

Richard Chauvel (richard.chauvel@vu.edu.au) teaches at Victoria University.
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Inside Indonesia No. 94: Oct-Dec 2008

Papua Road Map

Conflict resolution should move from a security to a justice
approach

By Muridan S Widjojo

Photo: Abepura Court 2006: Justice remains a mirage. Tim Advokasi Papua Tanah Damai

The Indonesian government has so far treated Papuan claims for independence and allegations of human rights abuse as potential threats to national security. The government’s policy goal appears to be to paralyse the Papuan independence movement so it
will not endanger Indonesia’s territorial integrity. It is pursuing this goal through a security approach: using military and intelligence operations.

This approach creates unnecessary and violent tension between those Indonesians and Papuans who advocate the Unitary State of the Republic of Indonesia and those Papuans who insist upon an independent Papua. As a result, resources in Jakarta and Papua are wasted on political measures that are reactionary, symbolic and, ultimately, irreconcilable. The security approach does not address the heart of the conflict. Rather, it breeds further conflict and discontent.

A team from the Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI) has recently drawn up the ‘Papua Road Map’, a model for conflict resolution that adopts a justice approach. The aim of the Road Map is to provide new insight to decision makers within state institutions and the NGO community. It hopes to encourage a shift in approach to the conflict and to stimulate a willingness to take new steps to achieve justice for Papuans. The Road Map ultimately aims to promote an outcome whereby Indonesia (with Papua inside) enters into a new, constructive, and progressive phase. The justice approach has four key dimensions – recognition, development, dialogue and reconciliation.

Recognition

Essentially, Indonesia must recognise Papuans as traditional ‘owners’ of the land. Recognition requires that Indonesia respond to a number of pressing problems that have caused the marginalisation of indigenous Papuans in Papua. First is the radical demographic change that has brought dislocation and displacement. In 2005 the immigrant population was estimated to account for 41 per cent of the population in Papua and this is expected to jump to 53.5 per cent by 2011. Indigenous Papuans will soon become a minority in Papua.

The immigrants, meanwhile, are already dominant in most sectors. For example, immigrants have been more successful in commercial agriculture, and they have gained control of local markets. This contributes to a collective Papuan sense that they are under threat in their own land.

Recognition must also focus on Papuans and their identity. It should include a social strategy of positive affirmation. It should support processes that will help individuals and local institutions compete more effectively in the market and be better able to protect their nterests in the struggle for control of resources. This will assist Papuans to negotiate more effectively for status and resources in this period of rapid social change, to ensure Papuans enjoy the benefits of development. In practice, this will mean providing Papuans with better schooling to create a well-educated class. Specialist business and economic training is needed to develop sufficient numbers of Papuan businessmen. Government policy should provide the necessary bridge between preparing individual Papuans to compete independently and raising the general level of prosperity of Papuans.

Finally, recognition must also accommodate the symbols and other expressions of Papuan culture, and treat them as part of the richness of Indonesian culture. Development

Economic development has long been a government aim, but in practice it has left many vulnerable groups behind. A new paradigm for development in Papua is necessary to raise the
quality of life of Papuans to the level of other Indonesian citizens. This is linked closely with the training advocated as part of the policy of recognition. Development programs must be
able to meet the basic needs and rights of Papuans in education, health and economic welfare. Papuans must have the capacity to participate effectively in and feel themselves part of the project of social change in Papua. This will ensure that Indonesia and Indonesian-ness is considered integral to the provision of public services, which will gradually help Papuans
to feel comfortable in and proud of being a part of Indonesia.

A new development paradigm for Papua is required because indigenous Papuans are not yet fully enjoying the benefits of being part of the Indonesian state in terms of receiving public
services in education, health, infrastructure and community empowerment. The present paradigm has failed, partly because of the contrast between Papuan culture and that of the state apparatus, the business world and immigrants who dominate the economic and social changes taking place in Papua. Little has been done so far to create inter-cultural links to facilitate understanding within indigenous communities of development initiatives, or to prepare Papuans to participate actively in these initiatives, which impact on their social and economic conditions. The social-cultural interaction is mutually foreign, stereotypical and replete with stigmas and misunderstandings.

Dialogue

Photo: 2007 Anti Torture Campaign in Jayapura: Make friends not violence. ALDP Papua

Both the establishment in Jakarta and the Papuan movement for independence have developed strong narratives about the history that has made Papua what it is today. Papuan mistrust and refusal to recognise the authority of Jakarta is largely based on an account of the history of Papua’s decolonisation that is contrary to the Indonesian state’s version of history. This has fed the tension between Papuan and Indonesian identities. Both Papuans and Jakarta stand firm in their respective positions. Different constructions of history and of the political status of Papua are the major barriers to relations between the central government and the Papuan people. These differing constructions have never been discussed in an open and frank manner. As a result, stigmatisation, mistrust, and mutual rejection have deepened. Unfortunately, within the context of the Papuan conflict, experience on both sides has given the term ‘dialogue’ a bad name. For Papuans, ‘dialogue’ has been a means to achieve the objective of an independent Papua. Jakarta, on the other hand, is averse to dialogue because it considers the demand for dialogue to be synonymous with the ‘disintegration’ of the state. This aversion grows greater when the proposal is for ‘international’ dialogue. For Jakarta, Papua is a domestic matter.

Both sides must therefore reconsider what true dialogue is. It is the framework for reaching agreement on issues and problems. Dialogue is followed by negotiations, which leads to a
compromise through making concessions. Dialogue can end the present political stalemate and cycle of violence and build mutual trust between Jakarta and Papua. If it was possible to negotiate a resolution to the Aceh conflict, then it is possible to negotiate on Papua.

The challenge is to persuade the parties in the conflict of the potential of dialogue at local and national levels, with or without international mediation. The strategic agendas to be put
forward will be determined by agreement between Papua and Indonesia. Without a doubt there will be many difficult questions, beginning with a decision on the team of acceptable
negotiators. The involvement of a well-respected international third party mediator would help. Paranoia about the involvement of foreigners on the basis of so-called ‘nationalism’ should be discarded.

Reconciliation

Reports show that state violence against Papuan civil society has occurred since the 1960s. Following the fall of Suharto in 1998, state violence towards Papuans has continued. The years between 1998 and 2006 were dominated by political violence perpetrated by the security forces (both TNI and the police) against Papuans. Indonesia has failed to prosecute and punish perpetrators or to restore the rights of the victims. In light of this, at the very least, Indonesia must acknowledge the truth as a first step on the path to reconciliation.

Reconciliation can be pursued through two potential transitional justice mechanisms. The first is through prosecutions before the Human Rights Court. The potential for reconciliation through prosecutions seems, however, to be limited. Past experience with the Court has demonstrated that victims are unlikely to obtain justice. Moreover, there is limited community involvement in such judicial processes. Individual cases focus on the facts
relevant to that particular case, rather than on the history of violence. And for these individual cases to succeed, the greatest impediment is the passage of time. By the time cases
are prosecuted, much of the material evidence is likely to have been lost, while many of the witnesses have passed away. The danger is that the perpetrators could be acquitted because of the lack of witnesses and available evidence to prove guilt.

The second possible mechanism involves the creation of a public record of events through a truth commission. The Special Autonomy Law provides the legal basis for the creation of a
truth commission, but no action has yet been taken. Truth commissions focus on the experiences and testimonies of the victims, which form the basis for exposing the pattern, motive and the extent of the crimes. Truth commissions aim to create an historical record of the events, providing restitution and reparations to victims and restoring their dignity. They do not punish perpetrators (though they may recommend prosecutions).

To be effective, a truth commission would need access to secret archives and to government officials, past and present. It would need to create a public record of events and publish the names of both perpetrators and victims. Civilian and military officials demonstrated to have been involved in past violence would need to be removed from official posts. The state must
also acknowledge victims and their suffering through public apologies and statements of determination that such violence will not recur. The state may erect monuments in memory of victims. Reconciliation along these lines will strengthen participatory democracy and reinforce basic human rights in Papua.

Moving forward

At present, few officials in Jakarta and Papua are willing to discuss the four key dimensions addressed in the proposed Papua Road Map. Instead, policy discussion remains focused on
development alone. Given that the government is succeeding in its objective of paralysing the independence movement by force, there seems little incentive for the government to open
discussions. The negotiations between Papua and Jakarta during the Habibie and Gus Dur administrations seem but a distant past. Yet the issues of recognition of Papuans as traditional ‘owners’ of the land, human rights abuses, and claims for independence
will never fade from the hearts and minds of Papuans.

The central government must address these issues through open and genuine dialogue with Papuan leaders. A justice approach, as opposed to the security approach, offers a means of doing so. Pressure must be brought to bear to ensure the central government comes to the negotiating table. Papuan leaders, both in government and in civil society organisations, must also synergise their resources to negotiate with Jakarta and fight for justice for the Papuan people.

Dr. Muridan S Widjojo (muridanwidjojo@gmail.com) is Coordinator of Papua Conflict Research in the Centre for Political Studies within the Indonesian Institute of Sciences (LIPI), Jakarta. This article is an extract from a report authored by the LIPI research team (2008): Muridan S Widjojo, Adriana Elisabeth, Amiruddin al-Rahab, Cahyo Pamungkas, and Rosita Dewi. The Papua Road Map can be downloaded from http://www.arts.usyd.edu.au/centres/cpacs/docs/PAPUA_ROAD_MAP_Short_Eng.pdf.

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Inside Indonesia No. 94: Oct-Dec 2008

Freedom of Expression

Whether Papuans support autonomy or independence, they should be allowed to speak freely

Jennifer Robinson

Photo; Fashion statements: Such bags are now banned in Papua

Yohana Pekei and Nelly Pigome sell handicrafts by the road in Jayapura. In January 2008 they were interrogated by Indonesian police and intelligence agents because of the bags they make and sell. What could possibly be so dangerous about a bag sold by the roadside by two West Papuan women? Woven into the design of their bags was the Morning Star flag; a regional and cultural symbol of huge significance for indigenous Papuans, and the symbol of Papuan nationalism.

Yohana and Nelly were reportedly targeted in police crackdowns throughout Papua on the use of the Morning Star flag, under Article 6 of Government Regulation No.77 of 2007, which prohibited the use of ‘any flag or logo used by separatist movements’. This law seemed to backtrack on the provisions of Special Autonomy under Law No.21 of 2001, which allows the use of Papuan regional symbols as an expression of Papuan cultural identity. While the Morning Star flag was not specifically listed as a protected regional symbol in the Special Autonomy Law itself, during Wahid’s presidency, display of the flag was permitted as a matter of government policy. In July 2007 the Papuan Tribal Council and Papuan People’s Council (MRP) recommended that the flag be made an official regional symbol in draft by-laws designed to implement special autonomy. Yet the policy of subsequent Indonesian governments has been to respond to flag raisings with violence and arrests. The prohibition of the flag, and the harassment of people like Yohana Pekei and
Nelly Pigome, takes existing restrictions even further.

Legally speaking, Yohana and Nelly can no longer make their bags. Nevertheless, women like them continue to sell their handicrafts in Jayapura today. Governor Suebu has pledged that he will not authorise police to arrest or imprison women and children for these activities. But informal assurances provide little comfort as long as the law stands.

Continuing restrictions

In the past, the Indonesian state restricted free speech and communication of information, including peaceful criticism of the government, through criminal prosecution of ‘hate sowing’ offences. Articles 154 and 155 of the Indonesian Criminal Code criminalised ‘public expression of feelings of hostility, hatred or contempt toward the government’ and prohibited ‘the expression of such feelings or views through the public media’. The crime attracted prison terms of up to seven years. Political dissidents, critics, students and human rights defenders in Papua – as elsewhere in Indonesia – were targeted under these laws during the Suharto regime.

In July 2007 Indonesia’s Constitutional Court declared the ‘hate sowing’ offences in Articles 154 and 155 to be unconstitutional because they violated the right to free speech protected in the 1945 Constitution. Described by Amnesty International as a ‘landmark ruling for freedom of expression’, the decision has been welcomed as a sign of Indonesia’s transition to democracy and to greater protection of the right to freedom of expression in Indonesia.

Photo: West Papuan refugee Herman Wanggai leads a demonstration at Parliament House, Canberra, 15 August 2007. In Papua, use of the flag in peaceful protest can attract prison sentences. Kipley Nink

Despite this Constitutional reform, most of the criminal offences used to suppress political opposition in Indonesia remain in effect. For example, Article 106 of the Criminal Code
makes criminal any acts which are conducted with intent ‘to separate part’ of the territory of the state. The maximum penalty is life in prison. This catch-all offence uses extremely
broad language, allowing prosecution for a broad range of acts associated with ‘separatism’. For example, in 2005 Filep Karma and Yusak Pakage were sentenced to 15 and 10 years in prison respectively for organising peaceful pro-independence celebrations and for flying the Morning Star flag. This provision – which has historically been used to target non-violent political activists across Indonesia – continues to be used in this way in Papua against those advocating self-determination. In March 2008, nine people were arrested for raising the flag in a peaceful demonstration against the new regulation prohibiting the Morning Star flag. In July 2008 forty-six more people were arrested after another flag-raising in Fak Fak, Papua, in protest against the 1969 Act of Free Choice. Most have now been released, but six remain in prison and face prosecution.

In Papua at least, then, the decision of the Constitutional Court has not had any real practical impact. According to Human Rights Watch’s February 2007 report, laws continue to be used in Papua to suppress free speech. Then in November 2007, Iwanggin Sabar Olif, a Papuan human rights lawyer, was arrested for forwarding a text message that stated that the Indonesian government had ordered the ‘elimination’ of the Papuan people. He was charged with ‘agitation’ under Article 160 of the Criminal Code, a crime attracting a six year prison term, and faces trial in Jayapura. Many see his arrest and prosecution as evidence of authorities’ surveillance and intimidation of human rights defenders. Public intellectuals and academics are also targeted through the censorship of books and intimidation by authorities. In December 2007 the Indonesian government outlawed a book by Sensius Wonda about Indonesia’s role in West Papua. According to Sri Agung Putra, Chief Prosecutor in Jayapura,
Wonda’s book contains elements that ‘discredit the government’,
‘disturb public order’ and ‘endanger national unity’. This is the second Papuan book to be banned in recent times. Another book about the assassination of Papuan leader Theys Eluay was banned in 2002. The author, Benny Giay, a prominent Papuan academic, has been routinely threatened by Indonesian authorities ever since. A long way to go

Indonesia is – and should be – praised for the steps it has taken towards democracy since the fall of Suharto. But progress is not equal across the archipelago. Restrictions in Papua
remain, as Papuans continue to be intimidated and arrested for expressing their views. In fact, in many ways, state action and policy in Papua continue to resemble the repression experienced under Suharto. Many assert the need for peaceful dialogue in Papua. But there cannot be genuine and meaningful dialogue without freedom of expression. Whether Papuans support autonomy or independence, assert contested versions of the Act of Free Choice, or simply criticise the current implementation of Special Autonomy, their right to express such views must be protected. The fate of Indonesia’s democracy depends on it.

Jennifer Robinson (jennifer.robinson@balliol.ox.ac.uk) is an Australian lawyer and Rhodes Scholar at Balliol College, University of Oxford.
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Inside Indonesia No. 94: Oct-Dec 2008

Torture in Papua

Human rights groups report on abuses

J. Budi Hernawan OFM

Photo: Brussels, parliamentary briefing: Anselina Temkon tells her story at a European Parliament briefing in Brussels. Budi Hernawan

Anselina Temkon’s son, Arnold Omba, took part in a major demonstration against Freeport Mining Company on 16 March 2006 in Abepura. The demonstration at one of the world’s largest gold and copper mines turned to chaos, with protestors killing four police officers and one air force intelligence agent. In response, the police launched house-to-house searches in
Abepura. Unable to find the perpetrators, they arrested, detained and charged student protesters with murder. The court sentenced 23 suspects, the majority of whom are students, to between five and 15 years in prison.

Arnold was one of the protest coordinators. Because the police were unable to find and arrest him, they arrested and detained Ms Temkon in order to force her to tell them where her son was hiding. Anselina was interrogated for three days at the Papua Police Headquarters in Jayapura. After she told them where he was, the police continued to interrogate her, showing her pictures she didn’t recognise and asking her who they were. When she asked the police to show her a picture of her son stoning the police, no such picture could be produced. By the second day, Anselina was hallucinating, but still they kept interrogating her. By the third day, she felt as if she was going mad.

Anselina’s story is representative of hundreds more recorded stories of torture in Papua – as well as many other untold ones – that have shaped the collective memory of Papuans. Her case is one of 242 individual torture cases reported to the UN Committee against Torture (UN CAT) in Geneva during its 2008 review of torture in Indonesia. Presented in a report on a decade of torture, these testimonies revealed the number and patterns of torture cases in Papua, as well as the impact of torture on the Papuan community.

Torture is a common practice in Papua. The police and the military employ methods including beating with blunt instruments, the use of electric shock, humiliation in public
and interruption of normal sleeping patterns. In most cases, torture is perpetrated against those who are considered separatists, suggesting a strong relationship between the practice of torture and government policy towards West Papua. In all reported cases, the degrading treatment of Papuans appears to be linked to racial discrimination by members of the security
forces who believe that they have the right to do whatever they want towards indigenous Papuans because they are racially superior.

Combating torture in Papua

Photo: Jayapura, Polda: The Papua Police Headquarters in Jayapura where Anselina was detained and interrogated. Budi Hernawan

The Abepura case was the first case to be brought before Indonesia’s Permanent Human Rights Court in Makassar under the Law No. 26 of 2000. The two accused, Senior Commissioner Daud Sihombing and Senior Commissioner Djoni Waenal Usman, were acquitted. Both officers were later promoted. The fact that the perpetrators were not punished also means that victims have been unable to pursue legal remedies for the suffering they have
endured.

While torture is recognised under the Human Rights Court Act as a crime against humanity if committed on a widespread and systematic basis, individual acts of torture are not recognised
as a crime under the Indonesian Criminal Code (KUHP). But although reports of other cases have been submitted to the relevant authorities at both the local and national level, no
other torture case has been pursued. Meanwhile, victims are unable to complain through ordinary domestic legal mechanisms, and no independent complaint mechanism is available. Without effective mechanisms, it is no easy task to address the problem of torture in Papua.

The report’s authors recommended that the UN Committee Against Torture urge the Indonesian government to implement laws criminalising individual acts of torture and creating complaint mechanisms. Indonesia must also prosecute perpetrators and provide justice and compensation for victims. In order to do this, Indonesia should make a declaration under Articles 21 and 22 of the Convention Against Torture, which would enable
Indonesian citizens to file international complaints with the Committee Against Torture. It should also ratify the Optional Protocol to the Convention Against Torture, under which it would be legally bound to establish a mechanism to allow individuals to file complaints against the state and to provide compensation to victims.

The continuing use of torture and the authorities’ failure to provide justice, medical treatment or any other form of compensation to ease victims’ suffering has galvanised antipathy
towards the government – and particularly the security services – in Papua. These issues must be addressed before the community can even begin to think about moving on.

J. Budi Hernawan OFM (bdh@hampapua.org) is the Director of the Office for Justice and Peace of the Catholic Diocese of Jayapura, Papua. The report to the UN Committee Against Torture was completed by the Office for Justice and Peace of the Catholic Diocese of Jayapura, JPIC GKI in Papua, Progressio Timor Leste, Imparsial, Elsam and HRWG.
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Inside Indonesia No. 94: Oct-Dec 2008

Arnold Ap and Theys Eluay

Political assassinations targeted West Papua’s culture and political identity

Carmel Budiardjo

When Indonesia seized control of West Papua on 1 May 1963, one of the first things the Indonesian armed forces did was to stage a public display of the suppression of Papuan cultural identity and the destruction of Papuan political activities.

The day following the seizure, a huge bonfire was organised in the main square of Jayapura, presided over by Indonesia’s Minister of Culture, Rusiah Sardjono. Symbols of public life,
cultural artefacts, school textbooks and Papuan flags were set ablaze. About 10,000 Papuans were herded into the square to watch the ceremonial burning of what was described by Mrs
Sardjono as ‘their colonial identity’.

Later that month, Presidential Decree No 8 imposed a ‘political quarantine’. All Papuan political activities were suspended and all Papuan political parties were disbanded. In doing this, the Indonesians recognised that the Papuan people had a distinctive culture and a thriving political life which had to be suppressed in order to make sure that Indonesia’s grip would not be challenged.

The political assassination of two prominent Papuans illustrates this broader policy. The first was Arnold Ap, an anthropologist and popular broadcaster who was dedicated to fostering the cultural traditions of his people. He died in 1984. The second was Theys Hiyo Eluay, elected as the head of the Papuan Presidium Council (PDP) in 2000, and assassinated the following year.

Arnold Ap

Arnold Ap was the curator of the Anthropology Museum in Jayapura and a member of a music group called Mambesak, which promoted traditional Papuan music and broadcast a popular weekly program on local radio. He was arrested by troops of the elite corps,
Kopassandha (now known as Kopassus), on 30 November 1983, during special operations that had been under way for several months. After interrogation and maltreatment, Ap was transferred to the regional military command with four other detainees. A month later, they were handed on to an intelligence officer of the local police. On being informed of Ap’s arrest, the Rector of Cenderawasih University temporarily dismissed him as curator, on
the grounds that he had been arrested ‘on suspicion of subversion’. When the Indonesian daily, Sinar Harapan, reported that Ap’s family were being denied contact, the newspaper was publicly reprimanded.

After being held in military and police custody for three months, Ap was transferred to the public prosecution authorities. It was thought that formal charges would be made. On 14 April 1984 he was seen on campus escorted by an officer. A week later it was announced that he had escaped from prison with four other detainees. However, it turned out that the ‘escape’ had been organised by the authorities. An officer of Brimob, the police special forces, who later fled to Papua New Guinea, said the military authorities regarded Ap as ‘extremely dangerous because of the activities of his Mambesak players and wanted him
sentenced to death or given a life sentence but could not find evidence for a charge in court’.

On 21 April, a Papuan police officer unlocked the cell doors of five detainees and ordered them out. They were driven by a Kopassandha officer to a coastal base camp. One of the detainees managed to escape and later fled to Papua New Guinea, where he described what had happened. The remaining detainees were told to swim out to a boat. One detainee, Eddy Mofu, was struck on the head and stabbed in the neck and thrown into the sea. The
others took shelter in a cave. Four days later, when Ap left the cave to urinate, the area was surrounded by elite troops. He was shot three times in the stomach and stabbed in the chest. He was taken to hospital where he told a nurse that, should he die, his ring should be given to his wife. Other hospital staff said that he was dead on arrival.

Theys Hiyo Eluay

The Papuan Presidium Council (PDP), which strongly supported independence, was set up at the Second Papuan Congress in May–June 2000, attended by many thousands from across West Papua. Theys Hiyo Eluay, chief of the Sentani tribe and a well-respected, high-profile community leader, was elected as its head. Back in August 1969, Theys was one of a number of West Papuan tribal chiefs who had been coerced into voting for the Act of Free Choice which sealed West Papua’s fate as part of Indonesia. He later made it clear that he had been taken from his home in the middle of the night and intimidated into supporting West Papua’s integration into Indonesia. Although the PDP decided to pursue the path of dialogue, eschewing violence, alarmed army intelligence officers set up a special task force, which identified a number of ‘target persons’, including Theys Hiyo Eluay and other leaders of the Council.

On 10 November 2001, Theys, was invited to a Heroes Day celebration at the headquarters of Kopassus troops in Hamadi, near Jayapura. On the way home, his car was ambushed, the driver was forced to flee and the car was driven away. The driver, Aristoteles Masoka, rushed back to the Kopassus base to report what had happened, but he was never seen alive again. The next day, Theys’s body was found 50 kilometres from the site of his abduction. The vehicle was upturned close to a ravine, creating the impression that there had been an accident. His face was black, with his tongue hanging out. An autopsy later confirmed
that he had died of suffocation. His burial on 17 November was attended by over ten thousand people from all parts of West Papua.

Later, in the face of international outrage at the killing, seven Kopassus officers were tried and convicted of the crime; they were given three-and-a-half year sentences or less, while a
senior Indonesian army officer hailed the convicted men as ‘heroes’.

Deserving of respect

Both Ap and Eluay were targeted for peacefully campaigning on behalf of the Papuan people for recognition of their distinct cultural and political identity. Their role in defining Papuan
identity was outstanding and deserves respect by all who seek to understand the suffering and continued suppression of the Papuan people under Indonesian rule.

Carmel Budiardjo (tapol@gn.apc.org) is founder and co-director of TAPOL, which promotes human rights, peace and democracy in Indonesia, and co-author of West Papua: Obliteration of a People (1988).
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Inside Indonesia No. 94: Oct-Dec 2008

Tangguh Goes On Stream

BP’s massive LNG project is due to begin operations in late 2008, despite social and environmental costs

Paul Barber Photo: Jetty at Babo, looking towards Bintuni Bay.
Liem Soei Liong

The Tangguh Liquid Natural Gas project in West Papua province, operated by the UK multinational BP, is one of Indonesia’s largest foreign investment projects. According to BP, it involves the extraction of around 14.4 trillion cubic feet of gas from six fields near Babo in the Bintuni Bay area of the Bird’s Head region over a period of 25-30 years, at a cost of between US$5.5 to US$6 billion. An entire community of over 120 households and more than 650 people has been relocated to make way for the project facilities on the south shore of Bintuni Bay.

BP claims that Tangguh has been designed and implemented with a view to ensuring corporate social responsibility and compliance with international human rights standards. The company employs sophisticated public relations techniques to convey the message
that, although local people are experiencing massive changes to their lives, overall the development will benefit those living nearby and Papuans in general.

However, the indigenous residents had no real say in whether the project should go ahead. The principle of Free Prior and Informed Consent– whereby indigenous peoples have the right to decide to accept or reject a project on their land – was never applied to them.

A number of key issues remain unresolved which are a source of potentially serious problems.

Human rights concerns

Anecdotal reports point to increased activity in the area by police and army special forces and intelligence agents. A company of around 100 troops has been permanently deployed to
Bintuni town, police numbers are set to increase, and there are plans to establish a small naval base in Bintuni Bay. Although Bintuni town is some distance from the Tangguh site, it is reasonable to assume that the troop deployment is related to the project development. The past record of the Indonesian military (TNI) suggests that those seeking to protect the rights of local communities may be stigmatised as ‘separatists’ and will be vulnerable to intimidation if not more serious consequences. The security forces afford a higher priority to protecting business interests than defending local livelihoods.

Ominously, the Indonesian National Defence Institute is conducting an assessment of security in the area in anticipation of Tangguh operations. It is considering whether to recommend upgrades to the local police posts and sub-district military commands. A panel set up by BP to advise on the non-commercial aspects of the project has warned that the situation could become less stable if new police or TNI units are stationed in the Bintuni area.

Photo: Quayside, Babo. Liem Soei Liong

BP has attempted to forestall human rights problems by operating an Integrated Community Based Security (ICBS) programme, which uses a community policing system in cooperation with the local police. The credibility of the programme was called into question, however, when it transpired that an agreement between BP and the police had been signed by a police commander, Timbul Silaen, indicted on crimes against humanity charges in East Timor. BP is keen to proclaim the success of ICBS, but it has not yet been tested by an incident deemed to threaten Tangguh as a national strategic asset. Human rights would be at severe risk if the military is brought in to respond to such an incident.

Disrupted livelihoods

The resettled south-shore villagers have seen some material benefits from the provision of new housing and infrastructure, but the longer-term impact of the social upheaval on their
livelihoods is uncertain. Access to gardens and forest resources in the vicinity of their former village and to traditional fishing grounds is no longer possible. One villager has complained that they are now living in ‘gilded cages’, expensive homes with empty kitchens and nothing to cook. BP argues that such an opinion is not representative and points to the steps it has taken to compensate or assist affected villagers. Despite that, some villagers have been unable to adapt to their new livelihoods and have decided to sell their new houses and move
out of the area.

There is ongoing tension among non-resettled villagers who feel they have been unfairly treated by BP. This applies in particular to villagers on the north shore of Bintuni Bay who
claim customary rights over some of the gas being exploited. In addition, there are tensions and unresolved disputes over claims to land affected by the project.

The demobilisation of up to 10,000 construction workers, who include more than 6,000 in-migrants from other parts of Indonesia, will have to be carefully handled if problems are to
be avoided. Less than 2,000 people will be employed during the operating phase. As they will include a higher proportion of managerial and skilled workers, the long-term employment
prospects for unskilled Papuans are not promising.

Environmental impact

Photo: Mangroves near Babo. Liem Soei Liong

Tangguh is located in the middle of a sensitive coastal ecosystem with the world’s third largest mangrove area. A degree of degradation is inevitable no matter how careful BP is to
ensure minimal impact. Its record in other parts of the world, which includes responsibility for the largest oil spill in Alaska’s history, does not inspire confidence.

Also of concern is the problem of CO2 emissions. Around 12.5 per cent of the Tangguh gas reserves consist of CO2, which will be ‘vented’ into the atmosphere unless it can be reinjected into the ground. There is currently no agreement between BP and the Indonesian government to proceed with a technical appraisal of reinjection. The expectation now is that the CO2 will be vented into the atmosphere for at least the first four years of operations.

Who benefits?

It can be reliably assumed that the project will generate huge profits for the shareholders of the operating companies and substantial tax revenues and royalties for the Indonesian
government. The Papuan people should receive a 70 per cent share of the royalties under special autonomy provisions, but no benefit will accrue to them until after the project costs have been recovered around 2016. The Indonesian government is currently attempting to renegotiate its LNG sales contract with China to reflect worldwide price increases, but the Papuans are not given any say in these talks and it is not clear whether they will gain from improved terms.

There is confusion about how the Papuans’ share of the royalties will be allocated given the controversy over the division of the territory into the two provinces of Papua and West Papua and the lack of clarity over how revenues derived from West Papua province will be apportioned under special autonomy. Until recently, the special autonomy legislation did not apply to West Papua province. Even now, seven years after its introduction to Papua, it is generally accepted that special autonomy has not been properly implemented and has failed to address key human development needs such as improved access to health and education services.

Some Papuans would argue that Tangguh, far from being beneficial to them, is yet another resource curse, whereby the presence of natural resources may actually cause more problems than benefits for local people. They regard the project as an obstacle to them realising their right to self-determination and BP as a collaborator with Jakarta’s exploitation of their natural resources. There is the risk, therefore, that Tangguh will represent a potential source of instability in the region until these concerns are addressed and Papuan rights are fully
realised. It is in BP’s interests not only to respect Papuan rights, but also to actively promote them in the widest possible context, for example by lobbying against local and regional security upgrades. At the same time, the project must be closely monitored and international pressure maintained at every stage of the process to ensure that BP accounts for its impact on
local communities and the Papuan population in general.

The company has rather pretentiously claimed that Tangguh aspires to be a ‘world class model for development’. It remains to be seen whether it will regret giving this hostage to fortune by the problems that will undoubtedly arise during the course of Tangguh’s operations.

Paul Barber (plovers@gn.apc.org) is research and advocacy coordinator for TAPOL, which promotes human rights, peace and emocracy in Indonesia.
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