Ethno-religious Violence in

Indonesia

Ethno-religious Violence in Indonesia illustrates in detail how and why two previ-
ously harmonious religious communities can descend into violent conflict. Lasting
from 1999 until 2000, the conflict in North Maluku, Indonesia, saw the most
intense communal violence of Indonesia’s turbulent period of democratization.
For almost a year, militias waged a brutal religious war which claimed the lives of
nearly 4,000 people. The conflict culminated in ethnic cleansing along lines of reli-
gious identity, with approximately 300,000 people fleeing their homes.
Based on four years of research, including almost one year living in North
Maluku interviewing combatants, politicians and security personnel among
others, the book provides the first comprehensive account of this violence. The
accounts of participants and witnesses give the reader the opportunity to better
understand the tensions and fears involved in the conflict and begin to grasp the
motives of those who kill large numbers of men, women and children. The book
provides numerous examples of how different conflict theories can be applied in
the analysis of real situations of tensions and violence, illustrating the mutually
reinforcing nature of mass level sentiment and elite agency, and the rational and
emotive influences on those involved.
This book will be of interest to researchers in Asian studies, conflict studies and
religious violence.

Chris Wilson completed his PhD at the Research School of Pacific and Asian
Studies, Australian National University.
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From soil to God
Chris Wilson
Ethno-religious Violence in
Indonesia
From soil to God

Chris Wilson
First published 2008 by Routledge
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Simultaneously published in the USA and Canada
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© 2008 Chris Wilson

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or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic,
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storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing
from the publishers.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A catalogue record for this book is available from the
British Library
Library of Congress Cataloging in Publication Data
Wilson, Chris, 1969–
Ethno-religious violence in Indonesia: from soil to God / Chris Wilson
p. cm. — (Routledge contemporary Southeast Asia series: 18)
Includes bibliographical references and index.
1. Ethnic conflict—Indonesia—Maluku.
2. Communalism—Indonesia—Maluku.
3. Muslims—Indonesia—Maluku.
4. Christians—Indonesia—Maluku.
5. Maluku (Indonesia)—Ethnic relations.
6. Maluku (Indonesia)—Social conditions. I. Title.
DS646.67.W55 2008
959.803¢9–dc22 2007039080

ISBN 0-203-92898-9 Master e-book ISBN

ISBN10: 0-415-45380-1 (hbk)

ISBN10: 0-203-92898-9 (ebk)

ISBN13: 978-0-415-45380-6 (hbk)

ISBN13: 978-0-203-92898-1 (ebk)
For Elly, Aislin and Ciara.
And in memory of the thousands who lost their lives in
North Maluku.
Contents

List of illustrations x
Acknowledgements xi

Introduction 1

1 The study of violent communal conflict 15

2 North Maluku in context 29

3 Initiation – Malifut 49

4 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 71

5 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 96

6 Political exploitation – the Putih–Kuning 130

7 Killing in the name of God 147

8 Conclusion 177

Notes 197
Bibliography 231
Index 239
Illustrations

Tables
1 Phases of the North Maluku conflict 4
2 Chronology of events before violence in Tobelo City, 1999 103

Maps
1 Indonesia xiv
2 North Maluku 30
3 Kao/Malifut 53
4 Ternate 75
5 Tidore 87
6 Tobelo 100
7 Galela 116
Acknowledgements

A large number of people provided me with assistance during the completion of

this book. In North Maluku, hundreds of people gave generously of their time,
assistance and friendship in helping me in the field. In particular, I would like to
acknowledge the friendship and hospitality of Tot Duan, Ibu and Echa. Samsu
Rizal Panggabean of the Center for Security and Peace Studies at Gadjah Mada
University supported my research in Indonesia.
A number of people in Canberra and elsewhere gave generously of their time to
comment on drafts at various stages of disarray, including Elly Lawson, Juliet
Taylor, Catherine Mann, Dave McRae, Dr Michael Schiavone, Professor Ben
Kerkvliet, Dr Ron May, Dr Ed Aspinall and Professor Paul Brass. I would also like
to thank an anonymous reviewer at Routledge for comments on an earlier draft of
the book.
I would like to express my utmost gratitude to Professor Harold Crouch. From
the first until the last day of my research process, Harold provided me with
insightful advice and constructive criticism in a friendly and interested manner.
His advice has played a major role in anything that is good about this book.
Glossary

adat tradition
FKPKHU North Halmahera Christian Youth Communication Forum
FPI Front Pembela Islam, or Islamic Defenders Front
GMIH Gereja Masehi Injili Halmahera, Evangelical Church on
Halmahera
GPM Gereja Protestan Maluku, or Maluku Protestant Church
Hibua Lamo System of binding cultural ties between families in North
Halmahera
IDP Internally Displaced Person
Laskar Jihad Islamic militia formed on Java in early 2000
NHM Nusa Halmahera Mineral (mining company operating in Malifut
area)
Pasukan Jihad Islamic militia formed in North Maluku in early 2000
PDI–P Partai Demokrasi Indonesia – Perjuangan, or Indonesian
Democratic Party – Struggle
PP42 Government Regulation 42 creating Malifut Sub-District
PPP Partai Persatuan Pembangunan, or United Development Party
RMS Republik Maluku Selatan, or Republic of South Maluku sepa-
ratist movement
TNI Tentara Nasional Indonesia, or Indonesian National Military
Map 1 Indonesia
Introduction

Behind a mosque in the remote coastal village of Kao in North Maluku, eastern
Indonesia, there lies a large stone grave. The remains of seven warriors rest inside
the tomb, all members of the Kao ethnic group who died in a clash with Dutch
soldiers in the first decade of the twentieth century. The gravesite holds special
significance for Kaos. It is the resting place for both Christians and Muslims, a
symbol for the Kaos over the past century of their strong ethnic solidarity, regard-
less of religious differences. For most of the twentieth century this concord was
also representative of the North Maluku community as a whole. In 1999, however,
this society, which had long prided itself on inter-religious harmony, descended
into bloody religious war.
Devastating communal violence often begins with a series of events that in hind-
sight could easily have been contained. In August 1999 a small ethnic dispute
erupted in a village on the large island of Halmahera, to the east of Sulawesi,
marking the beginning of a series of clashes that brought horrific consequences to
the entire region. Throughout North Maluku, over 3,500 men, women and children
were killed by opposing mobs armed with machetes, spears and bows and arrows.
Several hundred thousand people were displaced from their homes, and the
fighting destroyed much of the region’s housing and infrastructure.
This book attempts to account for this violence. In particular it seeks to explain
five aspects of the conflict: why violence began; how it evolved from a small
dispute into a religious war; why it reached such a frightening level of intensity;
why it spread across the entire province; and why it ceased. This introductory
chapter begins with an overview of the violence and its consequences. The second
section gives an overview of the existing literature on the conflict.

The conflict: August 1999 to June 2000

Before August 1999, North Maluku had seen half a century of peace and stability.
The region, which until September 1999 comprised two relatively remote districts
in the north of Maluku Province, was far removed from national politics. While it
did not benefit significantly from Indonesia’s economic boom, North Maluku
enjoyed relative self sufficiency and good relations between ethnic and religious
groups. Even the onset of terrible religious violence in Ambon in the southern part
2 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
of the province in January 1999 (discussed in Chapter 2) caused little damage to
inter-religious relations in the region. Yet, in August of that year, just as North
Maluku prepared to become an independent province and reap the benefits of
Indonesia’s new era of political liberalization and regional autonomy, this
harmony was shattered.
On the night of 18 August 1999 two ethnic communities – the Makians,
long-term migrants to the area, and the indigenous Kaos – clashed in a village in
remote Malifut on Halmahera Island (see Map 3.1).1 As dawn broke and the Kao
village of Sosol lay in ruins, thousands of Makians moved on to and quickly
overran neighbouring Wangeotak village. Three Kao men perished in the fighting.
Two months later, just after the inauguration of North Maluku Province, the Kaos
retaliated, driving all Makians from Malifut and destroying their villages. Because
the Kaos were predominantly Christian and the Makians Muslim, the stage was set
for the large-scale religious conflict that was to sweep through North Maluku,
despite the fact religion had been inconsequential to their initial dispute.
Thousands of Makians fled to the provincial capital, Ternate, where retaliatory
violence erupted, as well as on the neighbouring island of Tidore and some areas of
Halmahera. Mobs targeted not just Kaos, but any member of the Christian
minority. Rioters destroyed Christian houses and churches, while Christians fled
to local police and military compounds. Dozens of people were killed, including a
Protestant pastor on the island of Tidore (his body dismembered and burned).
These riots had a far greater impact than the Malifut incident, sending shockwaves
across the province. From this moment, almost the entire North Maluku commu-
nity divided along religious lines. In a classic ‘security dilemma’, communities
began preparations either to defend themselves or, in some cases, to launch
pre-emptive attacks against their neighbours. Over the following months, violence
spread out across the region, affecting Halmahera, Bacan, Morotai and all the
islands in the archipelago.
The violence reached its brutal peak in December 1999 in Tobelo and Galela
Sub-Districts in north Halmahera, which had almost equal populations of Muslims
and Christians. After fighting began in Tobelo City, Muslims took control of the
town for just one night before thousands of Christians, armed with homemade
weapons and bombs, flooded in from rural areas. Over the next two days, these
Christians expelled the entire Muslim community from the town and surrounding
villages. Perhaps a thousand people died in the carnage, including women and
children. This violence immediately flowed into the sub-district of Galela, where
militia attacks quickly divided the area into exclusively Muslim and Christian
enclaves. During this inter-religious violence in north Halmahera, Ternate also
descended again into fighting, this time between Muslims. After these
intra-Muslim clashes ended, the opposing Muslim factions set aside their differ-
ences in order to retaliate against Christian militias on Halmahera. They sought to
legitimize these assaults by reference to the principles of jihad.
The violence finally ended in July 2000 after the fall of the Christian village of
Duma in Galela, which had resisted attacks for six months. Shortly afterwards, in
response to continuing violence in Maluku and North Maluku, President
 Introduction 3
Abdurrahman Wahid declared a Civil Emergency in the two provinces. Combat-
ants in North Maluku thereafter faced a more effective response from the security
forces. Perhaps more importantly, the violence had segregated Christians and
Muslims into separate areas of the province, divided by sizeable military contin-
gents, and continued attacks were untenable for the exhausted militia members.
After almost one year of violence, over 3,000 people lay dead. The populations of
many villages had been decimated, and Halmahera was littered with mass graves.
Innumerable people from both communities remained in hiding in the dense and vast
forests of the island. Statistics distributed in March 2000 by the North Maluku
Governor’s Office stated that 2,083 people had by that date died during the conflict.
Although the local government restated this figure in 2003 as a final estimate, the
actual number of deaths was almost certainly higher. Further incidents between
March and June saw large loss of life, most notably attacks on the villages of Duma,
Makete, Dokulamo and Mamuya in Galela, and the tragic sinking of the Cahaya
Bahari passenger ship, in which approximately 500 people drowned.
The official statistics do not include an estimated 250 casualties from violence
in the sub-district of Payahe in November 1999, nor do they include casualties
among the local Islamic militia, the Pasukan Jihad (Jihad Force), who were killed
outside their home sub-districts.2 According to one leader of this militia, approxi-
mately 200 mujaihid died in North Maluku.3 By July 2000 between 3,000 and
3,500 had died. The large number of missing persons cited in March 2000 (2,315)
suggests an even greater death toll.
The Governor’s Office reported that the violence displaced approximately
250,000 people.4 Of these, 199,605 were displaced within North Maluku Province
and 48,015 were forced to flee to elsewhere in Indonesia. Given that this figure
was compiled several months before the end of hostilities, the final figure was
probably higher, although most people had already fled their homes by the time
these figures were collated. Most Muslim Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs)5
were evacuated to Ternate, almost doubling that city’s population to approxi-
mately 180,000. Some also sought refuge outside North Maluku in South
Sulawesi. Perhaps 15,000 Christian IDPs fled to the Christian-dominated city of
Tobelo in north Halmahera. The majority of Christians, however, went to the prov-
ince of North Sulawesi (see Map 0.1) and were settled by the local government in
camps in the cities of Manado and Bitung. In 2005, many IDPs remained in North
Maluku and North Sulawesi. Many have settled around their displacement camps
in areas such as Tobelo, rather than returning home. Others feel unable to return
home because of a lack of government assistance, or because they fear reprisals or
new outbreaks of violence.
North Maluku’s infrastructure, particularly on Halmahera, was devastated.
According to the March Governor’s Office report, 18,022 houses, 97 mosques,
106 churches and 110 schools were destroyed. The final number of buildings
destroyed was undoubtedly much higher. Most villages located in a sub-district
dominated by the opposing group were destroyed entirely. Combatants destroyed
bridges, telephone poles, fishing boats, warehouses, gardens and other infrastruc-
ture crucial to North Maluku’s economic and social life.
4 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
To some extent, the conflict in North Maluku also affected national politics and
society. The intense violence in Tobelo in late December 1999, which involved the
deaths of almost a thousand Muslims and was described in often inflammatory
terms in the national media, stimulated the formation in Java of a large Muslim
militia, the Laskar Jihad. This organization, which gained national and interna-
tional notoriety, became involved in communal violence in Maluku Province,
although not, as this study will show, in North Maluku.

Studies of the conflict and remaining questions

This book seeks to account for this tragedy. What caused violence to start and to
escalate is a question not just for Indonesia, although the social, economic and polit-
ical costs of the conflict were severe for the immediate region and archipelagic
nation, as discussed above. The causes of a violent communal conflict of this magni-
tude are of relevance to the global community. In addition, the fact that the violence
occurred during Indonesia’s transition from an authoritarian political system is a
reminder of the pitfalls of rapid democratization and decentralization. Similarly, the
fact that most of the violence occurred between Muslims and Christians presents
lessons for the relationship between these two communities.
In order to capture the complexity, temporal dynamism and geographical
variation within the North Maluku conflict this study is divided into five chro-
nological phases. The phases are essentially new outbreaks of violence, each
involving several unique political, economic and social variables. In some
cases, these events involved riots by a majority group against local minorities.
In others, clashes took place between relatively evenly balanced forces. While
each new outbreak was influenced by those preceding it, each also had its own
specific dynamics and causes. The events in these five phases defined the
trajectory of the conflict as a whole, determining how it began, escalated,
spread, was exploited by political actors and ended in religious war. The phases
are listed in Table 1.
The following section discusses each phase in turn, beginning with a summary
of the existing literature on the events in question. Commentators, the majority of
whom are from North Maluku, have compiled a substantial body of literature on

Table 1 Phases of the North Maluku conflict

Phase Location Date

Initiation Malifut August and October 1999
Escalation Ternate and Tidore November 1999
Dispersion Tobelo and Galela December 1999
Political Exploitation Ternate December 1999
Religious War North Halmahera February to June 2000
 Introduction 5
the conflict.6 However, most studies are short in length and analyze the entire
conflict in just a few pages, leaving the reader confused as to which issues were
central to the first outbreak of violence, and which to later stages in its develop-
ment. For this reason, the following discussion of the published literature on the
conflict is divided into individual scholars’ analyses of each main event in the
conflict, rather than presenting their conclusions as a whole. The majority of
studies also suffer from a lack of objectivity: they are written on the whole by local
commentators and in many cases by individuals directly affected by the violence.
Most present either a Christian or Muslim perspective, allocating blame solely to
the opposing religious community.7
The discussion of each phase below will then outline the shortcomings in
existing published accounts of the events and point to questions that remain unan-
swered. Each section will also outline the theoretical frameworks used to help
analyze each main development. I have utilized these theories where relevant
throughout the study and will introduce them briefly below.

Initiation – Malifut
All commentators on the conflict point to the fact that the first violence in North
Maluku, that in Malifut in August 1999, erupted just as the local government
approved a new sub-district in the area. However, most disagree on how and why
the formation of this new sub-district led to conflict. For some, the destruction that
took place in August and October was the culmination of growing tension between
the two local ethnic communities – the indigenous Kaos and the Makians, who had
been moved to the area by the local government two decades before. M. Kordi
writes that the economic success of the migrants relative to that of the Kaos caused
inequality, jealousy and inter-ethnic tension.8 The Indonesian sociologist and
native of North Maluku, Tamrin Tomagola, takes the long-term tensions argument
further, stating that the area of Malifut had become the centre of a struggle between
Christianity and Islam on Halmahera.9 According to Tomagola, Christians
believed that, in relocating the Makian community from Makian Island to Malifut
in 1975, the local district government had deliberately aimed to halt the southward
expansion of Christianity. According to Tomagola, this perception contributed to
the level of friction in 1999.10
Others claim that the creation of the new sub-district was in itself a sufficiently
contentious issue to provoke hostilities. The presence of a large goldmine in the area,
operated since 1997 by the Australian company Newcrest, has led many analysts to
conclude that economic competition played a crucial role.11 Most analysts argue that
the two communities fought for control of this resource and the Kaos eventually
destroyed Malifut as a means of eliminating competition.12 Indeed, the Ternate
academic, Smith Alhadar, ignores the initial riot in August, claiming that the first
violence was that in October, when the Kaos, jealous of the Makians for dominating
employment at the mine, attacked and destroyed Malifut.13 The North Malukan
Christian academic, Jan Nanere, asserts, however, that neither gold nor jealousy was
the primary contentious issue involved in the creation of the new sub-district. More
6 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
importantly, the new sub-district violated long-established ethnic boundaries
recognized by the indigenous Kaos. 14
Given that the first Malifut incident occurred while the North Maluku elite jock-
eyed for political power in the new province, most analysts see the initial outbreak
in Malifut, and the conflict in general, as connected to this wider political competi-
tion. Alhadar writes that ‘just as the administrative wheels began to turn in
mid-1999 to split off North Maluku as a province of its own, the conflict began to
escalate’, and that the ‘riots must be seen in the context of a government plan at the
time to hold local elections for a new provincial parliament in June 2000’.15 The
International Crisis Group also concludes that the ‘separation of North Maluku …
stimulated rivalry by creating the need to elect a new governor and this seems to
have been one of the driving factors behind the initial outbreak in Halmahera’.16
Nevertheless, most analysts disagree on how this political competition caused
violence on Halmahera, and which individuals were most culpable. Tomagola
claims that the conflict resulted in part from the increasingly desperate attempts of
the Sultan of Ternate to become governor of the new province.17 The Sultan faced
a strong challenge for the governorship from the District Head of Central
Halmahera, Bahar Andily, who, according to Tomagola, was assured of the
support of the majority of the Muslim community, which, according to Tomagola,
constituted 87 per cent of the provincial population. The Sultan, although a
Muslim, was largely considered to rely on Christian support. Tomagola relates that
the Sultan of Ternate sought to shore up this Christian support by promising Chris-
tians on Halmahera that the Makian migrants would be removed from Malifut, and
claims that this promise encouraged the Kaos to turn to violence when the new
sub-district was created in Malifut.18 Nanere also argues that the violence in
Malifut was provoked by members of the elite in Ternate. However, he does not
lay the blame on the Sultan of Ternate, pointing more to provocative statements by
the Mayor of Ternate and the head of the bureaucracy (Regional Secretary).19 He
does not make clear why these individuals sought to cause violence on Halmahera.
Several analysts have argued that political competition was made more volatile
by a revival of the long-standing rivalry between the two historic and powerful
sultanates of Ternate and Tidore, and that, in supporting the Kaos in their dispute
with the Makians, the Sultan of Ternate was thereby attempting to maintain
support in the sultanate’s traditional area of influence.20 The International Crisis
Group argued that ‘on the provincial level, seeds of conflict can be found in the
centuries-old political rivalry between the Sultans of Ternate and Tidore’.21
Alhadar agreed that ‘Tidore people began to worry that their traditional enemies
on Ternate were preparing to revive the cultural dominance they had enjoyed in the
past in order to justify a resurgence of their political power.’22
Because North Maluku was still part of Maluku Province in August 1999, most
analysts have seen the Malifut clash as a consequence of the inter-religious
violence that had gripped the provincial capital, Ambon, for most of that year.23
For example, the International Crisis Group reports that, after a resurgence of
conflict in Ambon, the violence then ‘spread in October to Malifut on Halmahera
Island’.24 Jacques Bertrand also claims that the conflict in North Maluku was a
 Introduction 7
consequence of the ongoing violence in Maluku.25 Citing Tomagola, Bertrand
suggests that not only was Malifut the site of competition between Muslims and
Christians for control of Halmahera, but that Christians were concerned about the
success of Muslims in national and local politics.26 According to Bertrand, stories
of the violence in Ambon aggravated these tensions. He concludes that ‘it is not
coincidental that the violence erupted after months of conflict between Christians
and Muslims in other parts of the region’ and ‘thus local issues, while important,
provided the trigger and the filter through which tensions at the national and
regional level were expressed.’27
There is therefore a range of, often conflicting, explanations of the start of the
conflict. Despite these conclusions, a clear picture has not been provided as to why
the dispute had a violent, as opposed to a non-violent outcome. Under the process
of pemekaran (literally ‘blossoming’, but more appropriately ‘division’), the Indo-
nesian government has, since 1999, created a large number of new sub-districts
and districts and several provinces, but very few have descended into violence as a
result.28 It is not clear what lent this case such a highly affective character. Why did
violence become accepted as necessary and/or legitimate by large sections of each
community, when it had been largely absent from North Maluku before this
incident?
Did the creation of the new province of North Maluku, and the ensuing competi-
tion for political power, play a major role in stimulating violence, as most analysts
have suggested? It is not apparent how important, comparatively, were the polit-
ical changes occurring at the national and local levels. To what extent did several
decades of authoritarian rule lay the foundations for the violence in North Maluku
in 1999 to 2000? How important was the transition from an authoritarian to a
democratic political system in 1998 and 1999? For example, it is not clear whether
the military or other individuals or groups central to the New Order regime of Pres-
ident Suharto provoked violence in order to retain power, as has been suggested in
the case of conflicts in other areas of Indonesia. Answering these questions may
provide an answer to the question of why the violence occurred when it did.
The Kao–Makian relationship itself requires examination. Did the two commu-
nities have a history of antagonism and/or violence and if so for what reason? Did
inequality or other long-standing social, political and economic structures such as
segregation and prejudice create the conditions for violence? It is unclear how
important religion was in this incident that was to eventually ignite religious war in
the region. For example, it remains conjecture that Malifut had become the front
line in ongoing religious competition between the Protestant Church and Muslims
in North Maluku. In what way did the ongoing religious violence in nearby Ambon
(discussed in Chapter 2) contribute to the dispute?
The human agency involved in these riots has not yet been adequately uncov-
ered. Analysts have discussed the broader socio-political environment without
identifying the actions and motivations of those involved. The existing literature
on the conflict does not make clear why the Makians sought an autonomous
sub-district in Malifut and why the Kaos mobilized and resisted in such an emotive
manner. Were only local people involved in the initial incident, or were people
8 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
from outside the area present, and, if so, did they intentionally or otherwise
provoke violence? It remains uncertain whether district government officials
incited violence in Malifut or why they would have an interest in doing so, particu-
larly given that the area produced a large amount of revenue for the local
government.
I will argue in Chapter 3 that the initial violence in North Maluku was not
connected in any significant way to either competition for political power at the
provincial level or the conflict in Ambon and religious animosity. The violence
centred around two primary issues – the control of territory and government
partiality. Several theoretical frameworks are used in this analysis. The literature
on social movements, particularly that on counter-mobilization, explains how a
conflict might unfold when an under-represented community perceives its rights
or interests to have been undermined by the mobilization of a rival community
which has apparent government support.29 I will refer to Monica Toft and others to
elucidate why and how competition over territory can lead to violence, and the
theory of Donald Horowitz on the impact of invidious group comparisons.30 The
chapter highlights a weakness in the ‘economic causes of civil war’ or ‘greed’
thesis, and other models of conflict based on quantitative datasets.31 The analysis
demonstrates that, while lucrative natural resources may be present in a conflict
area, they are not necessarily central to the outbreak of violence. This illustrates the
danger in imputing too much weight to the presence of objective conditions for
conflict without allowing for the importance of subjective understandings and
human agency. Even in those cases with clear economic agendas, material consid-
erations alone do not to lead to violence, but only do so in combination with issues
more commonly classified as ‘grievance’.

Escalation – descent into religious conflict

In just a few weeks, the violence in North Maluku escalated from a localized
dispute over land into violence targeted at any member of the opposing religion.
Most analysts agree the violence took on a religious character only after the distri-
bution of a forged letter ostensibly sent from the Protestant synod in Maluku to the
Protestant Church in North Maluku. The letter, entitled ‘Bloody Sosol’ after one of
the Christian villages destroyed in Malifut, appeared to be planning for the Kaos’
attack on Malifut. Further, it purportedly proved that the attack was part of wider a
strategy of ‘Christianization’ of North Maluku. Most commentators conclude that
this letter provoked rage among Muslims in Ternate and Tidore, leading them to
attack Christians alongside whom they had lived for years.32 For example, Alhadar
states the letter ‘was signed by Rev. Sammy Titaley … it urged Christians to
convert Muslims, who were described as “ignorant”. Little wonder people on
Tidore were provoked.’33 The assumption that this letter provoked anti-Christian
rioting in November has not been questioned.
While the letter was clearly forged, its provenance has remained uncertain, and
therefore the intentions behind it are unclear. Alhadar raises the possibility that the
letter was disseminated by individuals connected with the former New Order
 Introduction 9
regime of President Suharto seeking to derail the process of political reform.34 Yet
he and most other analysts give only scant consideration to the letter’s origin.
Indeed, Bubandt maintains that it is important not to analyze the letter just as a
means of riot instigation.35 He claims that the origin of the letter is not as signifi-
cant as understanding how and why it was believed by so many. In addressing this
question, Bubandt stresses the significance of the ‘social and discursive universe
within which ordinary people are mobilized during conflict’. In post-Suharto Indo-
nesia, there prevailed a discourse of conspiracy and paranoia, with which the
contents of the letter resonated. In Bubandt’s opinion the first violence in Tidore
was a ‘spontaneous reaction to the rumour about a Christian conspiracy rather than
a long planned assault’.36
Yet the origins of and intentions behind this letter are surely crucial to under-
standing the escalation and trajectory of the conflict. If the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter
was not from the Protestant Church, who wrote and disseminated it and for what
reason? The apparent impact of the letter must also be critically re-examined. Was,
as most analysts claim, the wider Muslim community really provoked into
violence by it and other forms of propaganda? If so, it is not clear whether inter-
vention by parties with an interest in a wider dispute was necessary to achieve this
outcome. Was there either an existing animosity between Muslims and Christians
in North Maluku, or a more radical religious ideology that played a role in this
widening of the violence? No commentator has yet adequately explained why the
large numbers of national security personnel present in the district capitals did not
halt the riots.
Several analysts have documented how and why small incidents of relevance to
only a very restricted group of people (such as individual disputes or crime) can
rapidly evolve into sectarian violence. Detailed case studies in other regions
demonstrate that the descent into sectarian violence often follows intervention by
actors with an interest in a wider, more emotive conflict. Stanley Tambiah’s
concepts of ‘transvaluation and focalization’ and Paul Brass’s ‘institutionalized
riot systems’ shed much light on the transformation of the Malifut clash into a reli-
gious conflict.37 As conceived by these scholars, certain actors portray minor inci-
dents as having major communal significance in order to gain political or other
advantage. The use of such concepts will assist in demonstrating how the North
Maluku conflict changed in character and escalated to a much higher level of
intensity.
However, the analysis presented in Chapter 4 also cautions against overem-
phasizing the importance of propaganda in the escalation of conflict. Propaganda
is sometimes disseminated to make communal rioting appear as a sudden erup-
tion of anger, as my analysis demonstrates was the case in the anti-Christian
rioting in Ternate. The rioting was carried out by those seeking retaliation for the
destruction of Malifut, facilitated by individuals with a political interest in
sectarian tension, rather than by those provoked by propaganda. Once rioting
started in Ternate, numbers swelled for several reasons: the security forces failed
to act against rioters, convincing people that they could act with impunity;
excitement spread, particularly among young men; and for some, the targeting of
10 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
churches and other elements of the violence appeared to confirm that this was
indeed religious conflict.

Dispersion – spread across the province

In late 1999 and early 2000, following the riots in Ternate and Tidore, violence
broke out in almost every area of North Maluku. Chapter 5 examines how violence
spread throughout the province to previously unaffected areas, by focusing on the
cases of Tobelo and Galela Sub-Districts. There are several reasons for this focus:
Tobelo witnessed the most intense violence in the entire conflict; the area was the
location of the largest population centres on Halmahera; and the area possessed
relatively equal Christian and Muslim populations. During the terrible violence in
Tobelo and Galela, combatants frequently targeted defenceless people, including
women, children and the elderly. In many cases, corpses were mutilated and
disembowelled. This practice was sometimes followed by the consumption of the
body parts, particularly the hearts, of victims.
Most local analysts concur that Christians initiated attacks against Muslims in
Tobelo after being provoked by the preceding months of violence elsewhere.
Tomagola writes that the ‘initial attacks (in Tobelo) were launched simultaneously
by the Christians’.38 Alhadar agrees: ‘in response to Muslim attacks on Christians
in Ternate, a coalition of Christian tribes in northern Halmahera around Tobelo
and Galela on 26 December attacked Muslims living there, eventually resulting in
the loss of probably thousands of innocent lives.’39 Ahmad and Oesman relate that
local Christians, helped by thousands of Christian IDPs from the violence in
November, attacked and drove Muslims from Tobelo. According to these authors,
Christians launched the attack so as to remove any obstacle to their control of the
valuable economic potential of the sub-district.40
The International Crisis Group also claims that Christians initiated the violence,
although motivated by security concerns rather than anger. The group’s report
states that in Tobelo ‘local Christians went on the offensive against the local
Muslim minority … fuelled by rumours of planned “cleansing operations” on both
sides’.41 Bubandt also concludes that ‘conspiratorial fears that the opposing side
was planning their wholesale eradication motivated the Christian attacks on
Muslim villages in Tobelo.’42 Contrary to this majority view, Jan Nanere claims
that local Muslims initiated the violence in Tobelo Sub-District, having planned
the attack after the successful expulsion of Christians from Ternate.43 According to
Nanere, because they were the minority in Tobelo, Muslims had arranged for rein-
forcements to arrive from their co-religionists in Ternate and Tidore. However,
this assistance did not arrive (with tragic consequences for Tobelo Muslims)
because of violence that broke out at the same time in Ternate.
As most analyses of the violence in Tobelo are derived from sources in
Muslim-dominated areas such as Ternate, the widespread conclusion that Chris-
tians initiated violence in Tobelo must be reassessed. Did Christians launch
pre-emptive attacks against Muslims and for what reason? To what extent were the
attacks a consequence of the ‘reframing’ of the conflict in religious terms by actors
 Introduction 11
in Ternate? It is uncertain how important were local animosities and interests in
places such as Tobelo and Galela in the spread of violence compared to the reli-
gious tension engulfing the region. It is also necessary to uncover who played a
role in the spread of violence to Tobelo and Galela, and how and why the violence
was so intense in this area, which was previously characterized by inter-religious
harmony.
Chapter 5 demonstrates that a feeling of insecurity prevalent among both reli-
gious communities was crucial to the outbreak of violence. The chapter begins
with a discussion of two bodies of conflict theory known as the (physical) Secu-
rity Dilemma and the Societal Security Dilemma. A synthesis of these two theo-
ries provides several insights into the spread of violence to Tobelo and Galela
Sub-Districts. Concerns among both communities exacerbated one another,
causing increased belligerence between Muslims and Christians and increased
legitimacy for the more militant actors in society. My analysis suggests it was
these concerns that pushed the two communities towards violence, and neither
community deliberately sought to launch pre-emptive attacks.
That said, in my discussion of the violence in these sub-districts I have
attempted to move away from attributing cause solely to the security dilemma.
While this situation certainly stimulates rising militancy, human agency is essen-
tial to any complete explanation: it is the acts of militants and other individuals,
some of them unintended, which explain the terrible events. It is harder to explain
the atrocities witnessed in the two areas. In attempting to do so I will use the argu-
ments of Natalie Zemon Davis, R Scott Appleby and Mark Juergensmeyer. I do not
agree with the apparent conclusion of these and other authors that the nature of
religion necessarily facilitates extreme violence more than ethnic, class or other
ideologies. However, I do conclude that religious sentiment exacerbated the atmo-
sphere of anger and fear that characterized Tobelo in December and did play a role
in much of the brutality that occurred.

Political exploitation – intra-community conflict

Commentators have paid little attention to the apparent paradox of intra-Muslim
violence which took place in Ternate at the same time as inter-religious conflict
engulfed the rest of the province. Those commentators who have addressed these
events conclude that they were the result of political competition, and assert that
the Sultan of Ternate and his palace guards were directly responsible for this clash.
Tomagola maintains that, like the conflict in Malifut, the violence in Ternate also
resulted from the Sultan’s failing attempt to assume dominance in the new prov-
ince.44 Other commentators suggest that a rising swell of animosity had built up
against the Sultan largely because of the aggressive behaviour of his traditional
guards towards migrants. The International Crisis Group asserts that the violence
against the Sultan and his traditional guards occurred because he had been labelled
anti-Islamic for protecting Christians during the earlier November riot.45 Alhadar
recounts that, after hearing that Christians had massacred Muslims in Tobelo,
Muslims in Ternate attacked the Sultan’s guards, whom they accused of siding
12 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
with Christians in the earlier riots.46 Muslims from Tidore, angered at the destruc-
tion of houses owned by Tidore migrants in Ternate, and fearful of a resurgent
Ternate sultanate, also mobilized against the Ternate Sultan. According to this
argument, the Sultan of Tidore was directly responsible for this mobilization that
overthrew the Sultan of Ternate.
This intra-Muslim violence clearly demonstrates the existence of several layers
to the North Maluku conflict. Religion was certainly not the only divide along
which violence was fought. Yet the responsibility and agency involved in the riots
requires further examination. The almost universal blame placed on the losing
party in this conflict, the Sultan of Ternate, and the total absolution of those who
subsequently assumed power in the province as a result, suggest a critical reap-
praisal of the clashes is required. Was this conflict a direct outcome of the Sultan of
Ternate’s support for Kaos and Christians and the way his traditional guards
treated Makians, Tidores and other migrants? Or was it directly connected to the
struggle for political power in the province? If the violence was a symptom of
elite-level competition, to what extent was it a manifestation of the long-standing
rivalry between the two sultanates?
Contrary to most analyses, I conclude that several political rivals of the Sultan of
Ternate exploited the emotions aroused by the wider conflict in the region in order
to undermine the Sultan’s increasing political dominance. The chapter will also
utilize the claims of Jack Snyder, Paul Brass and Steven Wilkinson that members
of the elite often stimulate sectarian animosity for political purposes.

Religious war – ethnic cleansing in the name of God

In an era in which militant Islam has become such a focus of attention, the large
Muslim militia formed in North Maluku in 2000, and its campaign against Chris-
tian villages on Halmahera, have received surprisingly little analysis. Most
observers of the conflict agree the militia was formed in response to the killing of
Muslims in Tobelo and elsewhere. Several analysts claim the militia was joined by
members of the Laskar Jihad, the Java-based militia formed after the Tobelo
violence. Tomagola asserts that a fourth surge of violence began in May 2000
‘with the arrival of around 8,000 Lasykar Jihad from Ambon, South Celebes and
Java’.47 The International Crisis Group claims that Laskar Jihad advisers ‘intro-
duced a centralized command for the local jihad’.48
No analyses of the North Maluku conflict provide detailed information regarding
the formation, constitution, funding and leadership of this militia, however. Was the
militia assisted by large numbers of fighters from outside the province or was it
primarily or exclusively local? Which national or regional radical Muslim organiza-
tions were involved in the militia, if any? For what reason did the militia’s two main
operations in the areas of Malifut and Galela have such different outcomes, with a
marked lack of success in the former and the successful destruction of several large
Christian villages in the latter? Finally, the literature on North Maluku contains few
explanations of why the militia disbanded in June 2000 even though Christians
continued to control the large sub-districts of Tobelo and Kao.
 Introduction 13
What were the primary motivations of the militia personnel? To what extent
were the Pasukan Jihad and Christian militias in Kao and Galela motivated by reli-
gion? To what extent did sentiments of jihad motivate Muslim militia members
(for example a desire to defend Muslims and/or spread the Islamic faith in North
Maluku)? The chapter begins with a theoretical discussion of the capacity of reli-
gion to mobilize people for violence. It then demonstrates that the militia was
almost entirely local in composition and goals and no external militias became
strongly involved in the conflict. The fact that no external militia became involved
in the conflict is explained by the overwhelming numerical dominance of Muslims
in the region. The analysis will conclude that, while many other influences are
perhaps more important than religion in provoking violence, religion cannot be
discounted completely as a motivation for those involved, or as a means of facili-
tating collective action.

Additional questions
Several other general questions will be addressed throughout the book. In partic-
ular, a further question concerns why the conflict was possible. In a state long char-
acterized as authoritarian in its response to security threats, why did national
security forces not manage to control the violence? This question is particularly
pertinent with regard to phases of the conflict during which small numbers of
rioters faced large numbers of armed security personnel, and particularly when the
latter possessed adequate intelligence that rioting was imminent. It is unclear
whether these forces lacked the necessary capacity or political will to deal effec-
tively with the riots. To what extent did national factors such as democratization
and the military’s loss of influence nationally explain their lack of resolve? It also
remains to be seen whether the security forces provoked, became complicit in, or
exploited the violence in North Maluku as commentators have claimed they did
elsewhere in Indonesia, and if so, for what reasons.
A further question considered throughout this study is what is known as the
‘free-rider’ dilemma.49 Why did individuals and communities across North
Maluku choose to risk their own death and the destruction of their property, espe-
cially when collective action by others was likely to provide benefits to them
even without their participation? Did coercion, financial incentives or other
factors play a role in their decisions to take part in the conflict? How important
were ethnic and religious loyalties in mobilizing people to risk their lives?

Structure of the book

The rest of the study examines in depth these peaks of violence across the region,
some involving one-sided pogroms against minorities, others more evenly
balanced clashes between two heavily armed militias. I discuss in detail the factors
behind each phase, their interconnectedness and also the way each new event
expanded the issues being fought over and drew in a greater range of participants.
The book will explore the conditions in the region before the conflict and the
14 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
causes of the initial violent incident. It will also illustrate how and why the
violence rapidly evolved from a local border dispute into province-wide religious
conflict. Each chapter critically evaluates prevailing assumptions about the phase
of the conflict under discussion.
Chapter 1 outlines the analytical approach taken in the study. It discusses two
lines of analytical debate that are often implied in the conflict literature. The first
involves the relative importance of elite leadership and mass-level factors in
violent conflict, and the second concerns the relative role of rationality on one
hand and emotion and identity on the other in motivating combatants. The chapter
suggests that in sometimes presenting these phenomena in dichotomous terms,
many current theoretical models do not adequately capture the complexity of
internal conflicts. The chapter also discusses how, when analyzing an entire
conflict involving a number of events and spanning a considerable time period and
geographical space, the analyst must consider a great deal of temporal and
geographical variation.
1 The study of violent communal
conflict

This book seeks to account for the bloodshed and destruction in North Maluku
from 1999 to 2000. It explores why violence broke out in a region which had seen
decades of peaceful coexistence between ethnic and religious communities. It also
seeks to explain the trajectory of the conflict: why it transformed from a local
dispute into religious violence; how and why the initial incident sparked death and
mayhem across an entire province; and, finally, why it ended as abruptly as it had
begun. Within these primary foci are several secondary, yet crucial questions. The
study examines what motivated those involved and how organized the violence
was. It asks whether religion and religious identity played a major role in the
violence. It seeks to explain how such devastation could happen in a state which
for generations had harshly prevented large-scale domestic disturbances, as well
as where responsibility lies for this tragedy.
This chapter outlines the analytical and methodological approach taken to
answering these questions. The analysis presented throughout this book is based
on two main considerations – the need to recognize first the complex interaction of
structural influences and human agency; and second the dynamism and geograph-
ical variation involved in violent conflict. A detailed account of a single case of
large-scale violent conflict requires an inclusive approach – one that recognizes
the mutually influential role of elite agency and socio-political conditions, and of
instrumentalism, emotion and identity, and that pays close attention to changes
over time and to local detail.

Lines of debate in conflict study

Elite agency vs. mass phenomena

A central debate in conflict study concerns the relative importance of elite instiga-
tion versus mass-level phenomena in the onset and trajectory of violence. Within
this debate are several key questions relevant to this study: is violent conflict most
often spontaneous or coordinated? How causally important is any provocation and
organization that does occur before riots and other violent events? Why do ordi-
nary community members follow their leaders into conflict?
Time and again commentators have uncovered what appears to be intentional
16 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
instigation of violent conflict by powerful individuals seeking to gain or retain
power or economic advantage.1 V. P. Gagnon asserts that in the former Yugoslavia
during the 1990s, a wide coalition of ‘conservatives in the Serbian party leader-
ship, local and regional party elites … orthodox Marxist intellectuals … and parts
of the nationalist army provoked a conflict along ethnic lines’.2 He concludes that
‘violent conflict along ethnic cleavages is provoked by elites in order to create a
domestic political context where ethnicity is the only politically relevant identity.’3
John Mueller has argued that supposedly ‘ethnic’ war is more often the action of
thugs employed by members of the elite to instigate conflict.4 When several theo-
rists pointed to what they saw as an upsurge in New Wars since the end of the Cold
War, a key component of this new type of conflict was the economic predations of
elites. These elites do not enjoy wide societal support, unlike ‘old wars’ which
were characterized by widespread support for the ideologies espoused by leaders.5
Some elite-based theories of violent conflict have strong intellectual foundation
in the Resource Mobilization/Social Movements literature. Social Movements
theorists claim that because discontent and grievance are almost always present in
society, they cannot adequately explain mobilization.6 More important to the
emergence and success of a social movement is an increase in available resources.
Members of the elite who are able to organize money and labour efficiently, and
frame the group’s goals, are crucial to the emergence and sustainability of a viable
social movement.7 John McCarthy and Mayer Zald quote Turner and Killian, that
‘there is always enough discontent in any society to supply the grass-roots support
for a movement if the movement is effectively organized.’8 Doug McAdam argues
that this focus on the importance of the elite in the Social Movements school
stemmed from a belief that politics, in America as elsewhere, is fundamentally
oligarchic. The vast majority of people enjoy little influence or power, while a
small group of the elite control political, social and economic life.9
For some analysts, therefore, elite agency can be considered the main cause of
violence, with little explanatory weight resting with the conditions prevalent
before violent conflict. Benjamin Valentino asserts that ‘the remaining permissive
conditions necessary for mass killing have been relatively common across states,
culture and time. Even when leaders with an interest in violence have found such
conditions absent, it has been remarkably easy to create them.’10 In his thesis, small
numbers carry out the violence and little societal support is necessary – all that is
required is for the wider population not to physically oppose the killings.11 For
Valentino, ‘the search for the causes of mass killing should begin with the capabili-
ties, interests, ideas, and strategies of groups and individuals in positions of polit-
ical and military power.’12
Conversely, many analysts of conflict eschew this focus on the behaviour of
leaders to show the importance of mass-level phenomena. In this view, violence is
seen as largely spontaneous, stemming from the strain built up by unjust, unequal
or otherwise contentious structural conditions. This tension is eventually ignited
into violence, often by small incidents. Some of the social structures commonly
seen as causing, or at least facilitating, conflict include: economic and political
inequality;13 a lack of networks that span the ethnic or religious divide;14 and a
 The study of violent communal conflict 17
country’s reliance on extractable natural resources.15 Sudden changes in
long-standing socio-economic and political structures are also frequently seen as
important causes of conflict. Examples include: the feelings of insecurity associ-
ated with the collapse of national order;16 and changes in the relative
socio-economic situations of two ethnic or religious communities.17 The motives
and actions of the participants in conflict are largely determined by prevailing
structural conditions.
The Security Dilemma concept is a particularly influential structuralist explana-
tion of collective violence.18 With origins in International Relations Realist theory,
the Security Dilemma concept claims that in the absence of any overarching
authority communities may become wary of the intentions of other groups.
Accordingly, one or more of the groups may take measures to ensure their own
security, thereby threatening the other group, which in turn takes similar measures.
Despite the absence of any real intention to initiate violence, this insecurity spiral
may none the less lead to conflict.
Another prominent general explanation of conflict based on the presence of
mass-level phenomena is the concept of Relative Deprivation. Associated most
closely with Ted Robert Gurr’s Why Men Rebel, Relative Deprivation asserts that
aggression results from frustration.19 Gurr argued that two main forms of depriva-
tion are important causes of frustration – decremental relative deprivation (from
declining capabilities) and aspirational relative deprivation (where aspirations
increase but the capabilities for achieving these goals do not rise accordingly).20
The greater the intensity of deprivation, the greater the violence.
Taking a more synthetic approach to the role of elites and mass-level
phenomena, but still very much emphasizing the importance of the latter, is the
work of Donald Horowitz. Horowitz writes that riots can be located anywhere
along a spectrum of organization from highly coordinated to spontaneous.21
However, he generally gives causal precedence to mass-level sentiment. In his two
classic texts of conflict study, Ethnic Groups in Conflict and The Deadly Ethnic
Riot, Horowitz presents a common theme – that conflict stems ‘above all from the
struggle for relative group worth’.22 Riots will invariably enjoy wide support and
legitimacy within the community.23 ‘What the evidence shows is that most riots
seem to be unorganized, partially organized and partially spontaneous, or orga-
nized by ephemeral leadership that springs up to respond to events as they happen,
often suddenly. Most riots, in other words, consist of angry violence.’24 ‘Violence
thus produces organization, perhaps more than vice versa … Most of the time,
organization seems to take a back seat to passionate killing.’25 ‘The amalgam of
purpose and brutality reflects the spontaneous quality of riot behaviour, which
proceeds not in response to government orders but in response to the heat of the
moment and the feelings of the participants.’26
Reflecting the organization–spontaneity divide within conflict study, some
theorists have asserted that different cases of communal violence can be character-
ized as either elite-led or mass-led. Stuart Kaufmann concludes that mass-led
conflict results when mass hostility and fear triggers spontaneous outbreaks of
violence.27 In elite-led violence, elites ‘intentionally cause both mass hostility and
18 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
a security dilemma’.28 David Keen also distinguishes between ‘top-down’ and
‘bottom-up’ conflicts.29 Underlying much of the literature on the role of elite insti-
gation and mass-level conditions in causing violence is an assumption that elites
are removed from the ‘irrational’ influences operating at the societal level. When
elites organize violence, they do so for rational political or economic reasons, not
because of rage, injustice or prejudice. Mass-level conflicts stem from less rational
sources, however – frustration, hostility and fear. The motivations of those who
organize and engage in violence represent a second major analytical question
informing this study.

Rationality vs. affect and identity

When considering what factors are most likely to motivate participants to carry out
violence, analysts often emphasize one of two types of motivation – the rational
calculation of interests (utility maximization or instrumentalism) or emotional
and/or identity-related factors. Proponents of rational choice sometimes recognize
the role of emotion in conflict, and those espousing affective explanations allow a
degree of instrumentalism in the violence. Yet most analysts give causal prece-
dence to one or other form of motivation.
A number of analysts have presented persuasive accounts of violence grounded
in the theory of Rational Choice. Despite the spontaneous and irrational appear-
ance of conflict, these commentators point to the rationality of those involved,
suggesting that political, economic or other interests are concealed by the rhetoric
of grievance and identity. While recognizing the role of ethnic solidarity and
emotion, some conclude that these phenomena are ultimately the product of mate-
rial competition. Susan Olzak asserts that competition increases as migration or
other factors bring groups into contact in an environment of declining resources.30
In this situation, ethnic identity becomes more salient, events seemingly attached
to ethnicity take on a far greater significance and spontaneous collective action
along ethnic lines is promoted.31 When explaining why some communities seem to
be targeted more than others in collective violence, even when other groups
compete more strongly for economic goods, Olzak asserts that this paradox is due
to different forms of competition between different groups. 32
A major question facing the proponents of rational choice is what is known as
the ‘free-rider dilemma’. Even if one accepts that the decision to go to war is based
on a calculation of one’s personal interests, why would individuals and communi-
ties choose to risk their own death and the destruction of their property when
collective action by others will provide them with the same benefits even without
their participation? James Fearon and David Laitin provide several explanations,
strongly grounded in instrumentalism, of why actors sometimes engage in violent
conflict when it is clearly of low utility maximization. First, they point to the fact
that violent behaviour is rare – inter-ethnic cooperation is the norm.33 This stability
is maintained by ‘inter-ethnic policing’ in which communities monitor the behav-
iour of their own members so as to avoid the catastrophe of violent conflict with
another group. Any conflict that does occur is largely explained by information
 The study of violent communal conflict 19
failures and commitment problems between two parties meaning they are unable to
reach a negotiated settlement.34
As discussed above, several observers have concluded that, in many cases of
conflict, elites have provoked tension and violence with clear goals. Elites are seen
as provoking or organizing violence so as to undermine political or economic
rivals, reach or retain political office or prevent fractionalization of their commu-
nity during elections. Gagnon asserts that the ethnic violence in the former Yugo-
slavia during the 1990s was ‘a purposeful and rational strategy planned by those
most threatened by changes to the structure of economic and political power’.
Rational motives also appear to drive many ordinary participants in violence.
Stathis Kalyvas claims that ‘a key motive (in civil war violence) is settling private
scores.’35
For some, including Benjamin Valentino and Kalyvas, even the intense violence
and atrocities common to civil war have strategic or instrumental roles. Kalyvas
asserts that much of the violence in civil war is coercive, carried out by govern-
ments and insurgent groups to control populations and eliminate defection.36 Simi-
larly, Valentino has concluded that ethnic cleansing and genocide are often last
resorts designed by a small group of powerful leaders to deal with minorities seen
as threats to national security.37 He provides the example of how Hitler and the
Nazi leadership, believing Jews to be a threat to Germany and allied with Commu-
nism, only attempted their mass extermination after attempts to remove them from
the country by emigration and deportation had failed.38
For other observers, however, the barbarism of violent conflict, as well as the
high risk and low return involved in participation, indicate that more emotional
and psychological influences are at work than rational utility maximization.
Chaim Kaufman claims that Rational Choice faces a problem explaining ethnic
conflict because it does not recognize the power of communal attachments.39
Many theories of conflict assert that violence results from the fear or anger
caused by insecurity, inequality or injustice. The fear central to the Security
Dilemma concept and the frustration associated with Relative Deprivation are
two examples discussed above. Roger Petersen has identified four emotions
which commonly lead to violence – fear, hatred, resentment and rage – each
emerging in different situations and motivating attacks on different groups..40 For
example, fear predicts that a threatening group will be attacked. Hatred and
resentment predict a long-held enemy and a higher status group respectively will
be targeted.41
Some analysts have claimed that questions of identity play the pre-eminent role
in eliciting the emotional responses necessary for violence. In this view, members
are driven to conflict by threats or insults to their ethnic group’s identity and will
put themselves at risk in order to benefit the wider community. Ole Waever et al.
asserted that threats to a community’s distinctiveness caused by government poli-
cies, immigration, or the actions of another cultural group, are often the primary
cause of rising tension and conflict.42 For Stuart Kaufman, the source of conflict
lies in the ‘myth symbol complex’ of a group’s identity. ‘A group mythology that
justifies hostility is a precondition for violent ethnic conflict’ and ‘ethnic appeals
20 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
are successful in producing extreme violence only if the group also fears that its
existence is threatened.’43
A number of quantitative studies of civil war have recently taken a strong posi-
tion in the instrumentalism–affect divide. In 2001, Paul Collier and Anke Hoeffler
suggested that two contrasting explanations for civil war existed – the ‘political
science explanation’, based on the presence of sufficiently acute grievances, and
an economic theory explanation based on the opportunity to rebel.44 After carrying
out econometric modelling on a large data set of civil wars they concluded that
‘objective grievances’ (measured by ethnic and linguistic diversity, political
repression, political exclusion and inequality) had little bearing on the outbreak of
civil war.45 Far more important were opportunities to rebel, particularly ‘economic
characteristics’ (such as the availability of finance most commonly from primary
export commodities, a high proportion of unemployed young men and slow
economic growth).46 In Collier and Hoeffler’s terminology, greed is more impor-
tant than grievance in causing civil war.

Synthesis
The section above identified two questions central to the study of conflict – how
important, comparatively, are elite leadership and mass-level factors in causing
conflict?; and are those involved in violence motivated by instrumental calculation
or emotional influences and identity factors? As discussed, to some extent two
debates have crystallized around these questions in the conflict literature. While
few theorists exclude the role of either elite instigation, group-level factors, instru-
mental calculation or emotion in violent conflict, many give strong causal prece-
dence to one form of phenomenon.47 Yet, as anyone who has approached the
inductive analysis of a single case of conflict will attest, theories based too strongly
on the role of either structures or autonomous actors fail to capture the complexity
of large-scale violence. Both conditions and human agency play some role in
leading to violent conflict.
Some violent events are clearly more organized than others. Yet giving over-
whelming analytical weight to either elite leadership or mass-level factors leads
to several deficiencies. Without detailing the human actions involved, intended
and unintended, it is difficult to explain why one situation of, for instance,
inequality or insecurity leads to violence while others do not. While influenced
by the surrounding context, it is the motives and actions of individuals and
groups that translate that situation into violent conflict. Perhaps more impor-
tantly, neglecting the human agency in the tragedy of violent conflict removes
accountability from the actors most responsible. Human agency is necessary to
translate structures into conflict. For example, political inequality may exist for
decades without causing violent conflict until the exploitation of that inequality
by certain actors stimulates a violent response. Yet denying the influence of
ideational, political and economic structures on the actions of individuals and
groups also precludes a complete understanding of a conflict. The provocations
of elites, or the violent actions of a small number of militants or criminals, are
 The study of violent communal conflict 21
unlikely to cause large-scale conflict in the absence of material and ideational
structures of insecurity, injustice or prejudice.
This is not to attempt to undermine those theories outlined above. All have iden-
tified social mechanisms that undoubtedly shed light on conflict processes in a
range of cases. But the detailed analysis of any one conflict requires a more
synthetic approach that recognizes the mutually constitutive nature of elite agency
and structural conditions and instrumentalism and emotion.48
Members of the elite are as much a part of their societies and influenced by the
same prejudices, loyalties and other ideational and material structures as their
followers. There is no clear demarcation between society and the state. In Indo-
nesia, district and sub-district government officials, as well as national security
personnel, represent not only the state but also their own ethnic and religious
community. In addition, individuals from various levels of authority have a major
influence on conflicts, further confusing any neat demarcation between elites and
society.
In many conflicts, therefore, it is difficult to distinguish between leadership and
mass-level influences in the genesis and trajectory of violence. Indeed, as Paul
Brass, Donald Horowitz and others have demonstrated, many conflicts are best
understood as a combination of orchestration and chaos.49 Organized mobilization
often descends into a mélange of spontaneous acts, and, similarly, random acts of
violence often become more coordinated as influential individuals take charge.
Before and during violence, much takes place in this grey area between state and
society and between leadership and impulse. By investigating this area, and the
interaction between mass sentiment and elite leadership, a more complete under-
standing of events is possible. It also becomes possible to answer the question of
why people follow their leaders into violence.
Attempting to explain a conflict by reference to either rational interest or
emotional outburst alone is also problematic. Conflicts often involve a striking
complexity of issues. While Chaim Kaufman and others are correct in criticizing
a focus on pure instrumentalism for missing the ties and emotions of identity, it
must also be recognized that rational calculation does motivate some actions in
conflict. Yet other actions do seem simply to be the venting of rage, and have a
consummatory nature, being ends in themselves.
Any group will contain different sub-groups with varying identities and motives.
In most violent events, various sections of a crowd will have quite different motives
for participating, some affective in nature, others more interest-based. Certain
sub-groups will have a much greater attachment to the larger group identity than
others. Some may be acting with reference to the past (i.e. taking revenge for a past
affront) and others acting with a future goal in mind (i.e. to eradicate economic
competitors). In many cases, some individuals and groups will have known of plan-
ning behind a riot or clash, while others will believe they are part of a spontaneous
event. Finally, as discussed further below, as the riot or conflict goes on, new inter-
ests and emotions develop, and identities change and harden.
Further, the motivations of two opposing groups, both of which must be taken
into account when analyzing a conflict, are likely to involve different mixes of
22 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
rationality and emotion. Conflict is fundamentally the result of interaction, and two
opposing groups will almost certainly be driven by different motives. One indicator
of the maelstrom of issues usually involved in conflict situations is that members of
distinct communities and even different members of the same community often have
different conceptions of the real causes of the violence. Some members of one
community may claim that it was their economic marginalization that led to conflict,
while other members blame rising radicalism. Meanwhile, members of the opposing
community may point to entirely different causes, such as political rivalry.
Yet the analysis of a conflict cannot stop at ascertaining which actions are instru-
mental and which affectual. Individuals approach a conflict situation with mutually
reinforcing rational and ‘irrational’ motives. Case studies invariably demonstrate
that actors in a conflict situation simultaneously face a range of economic, political,
emotional and identity-related influences upon decision making. These influences
do not exist independently of each other but constantly reiterate or intensify the
importance of one other. For example, Anthony Regan writes that economic, polit-
ical and identity-related factors were ‘mutually reinforcing’ in motivating
Bougainvilleans in their separatist conflict with Papua New Guinea. While mining
revenue was important in this struggle for independence, these economic interests
cannot be separated from a political struggle stimulated by years of marginalization
and a sense of separate identity among the people of Bougainville.50
Nor in many cases is it feasible to give causal precedence to either form of moti-
vation. The direction of causation between the two phenomena is more
multi-directional than many theorists propose. Identities and passions constantly
shape interests and vice versa. It is therefore necessary to illustrate the ways in
which social conditions shape the identities, interests and actions of actors, the
manner in which their actions alter the surrounding structure and in turn how this
changed structure changes the interests, identities and interactions of actors. As
Horowitz writes, ‘an amalgam of apparently rational-purposive behaviour and
irrational-brutal behaviour forms the leitmotiv of the ethnic riot.’51
Several theorists have presented accounts of violent conflict that synthesize elite
agency and social structures. In a wide-ranging study on the connections between
the transition from authoritarianism to democracy, Jack Snyder concludes that
nationalist conflict is likely when elites feel threatened by democratization.52 In an
attempt to survive the democratic transition, elites appeal to ethnic solidarity and
mobilize followers through small networks and the state bureaucracy. However,
he also suggests some prevailing conditions that facilitate this elite instigation.
Exclusionary nationalism is likely to occur and succeed when economic develop-
ment is low, when citizens lack the skills for political participation and when
democratic institutions, such as political parties and a professional media, are
weak but the bureaucracy remains strong.53
In addition to recognizing the mutually constitutive role of elites and mass level
phenomena, it is also necessary to consider the interaction of emotional and
rational influences on both elites and masses. Badredine Arfi presents a strong
argument regarding the connection between the identities and interests of elites
and prevailing structures in the onset of violent conflict. He asserts that it is the
 The study of violent communal conflict 23
rapid construction of a belligerent communal identity by elites that causes violent
conflict.54 Changes in social identities destabilize patterns of inter-ethnic relations.
It is identities that determine whether an actor seeks to reach a negotiated settle-
ment or risk conflict.55 Arfi argues that three social structures are important in the
construction of a belligerent social identity. Salient historical memories play an
important role in the definition of ethnic groups and the nature of inter-ethnic rela-
tions. The structure of ethnic cleavages, such as territorial distribution, reinforces
identities. State institutional arrangements constrain actors and empower those
with resources. While asserting that elites construct aggressive social identities,
crucially Arfi argues that ‘the above social structures are not just tools in the hands
of self serving elites but also constitute the agency of elites.’56 The ‘existence of
these social structures enables and constrains such a role.’57
Only by recognizing the importance and interplay of both elite agency and soci-
etal factors, as well as emotion, identity and interest, can the analyst answer several
central questions in the study of conflict: to what extent are those elites actually
creating or merely following mass-level sentiment?; why did they come to believe
that organizing violence was a profitable means of achieving their agendas?; and
why do members of society uncritically accept the provocations of their leaders?
This last question is particularly pertinent in those situations where involvement in
clashes holds a high risk of substantial cost and little likelihood of reward.
Anthony Lake has asserted that the question of why constituents follow their
leaders into violent conflict is the most central question in conflict study today.58
Therefore this study proceeds with the assumption that conflict must be under-
stood as the result of human agency, in many cases provocative and Machiavellian,
which both shapes and in turn is influenced by a range of mutually exacerbating
political, economic, emotional and identity-related factors. Conflict situations are
influenced at various levels spanning agency and structure – individual, sub-
communal, communal and inter-communal or structural.59 The individual level
involves the various personal interests, identities, emotions, psychology and preju-
dices that contribute to violent outcomes. The sub-communal level involves those
collectivities of actors such as paramilitary groups, militias, criminal networks,
ethnic or religious organisations, political factions and powerful economic actors.
These actors often pursue competing agendas and hold varying attitudes towards
neighbouring communities as well as ideas about the legitimacy, efficacy or neces-
sity of violence. Their actions invariably play a central role in rising tension and
the outbreak of violence. The communal level of analysis concerns the impact of
communal solidarity and community identity, as well as the threats to the commu-
nity that cause or escalate conflict. The structural level involves those systems and
patterns of political power, economic distribution and inter-communal relations
(and changes in those structures) that influence a social outcome. It is necessary to
examine the interplay between actions and patterns at all these levels.
Rather than disaggregating and studying separately the emotional and material
aspects of violence and the role of organization and spontaneity, as recommended
by some theorists,60 I believe a full explanation of a conflict will be found in the
interaction of these elements. What I am suggesting is an approach to the study of
24 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
conflict that best explains the devastation involved in a protracted conflict such as
that in North Maluku, as opposed to a single theory of conflict that synthesizes all
the factors described above. This approach allows us to witness how instrumental
and identity or affective motivations help set the stage for one another, and how
elites and other important actors and mass-level structures shape each other. In
providing a number of examples of these dynamics this approach holds wider rele-
vance for the study of conflict.

Dynamism and geographical variation

Accounting for this complexity becomes more difficult when dealing with a
conflict that involved several different events across a wide geographical area and
lasted a substantial period of time. By their very nature, conflicts are highly vola-
tile. Analysts sometimes fall prey to adjudging prominent characteristics at the
apex of a conflict, such as the economic exploitation of local populations or reli-
gious prejudice, to self-evidently indicate the ‘causes’ of that conflict. Often the
analyst may be on steady ground in this judgement. Even conflicts that involve
several different events in different areas may follow the same logic throughout
their duration. Often, conflict appears to take on a self-perpetuating character as
refugees flee to neighbouring areas with stories of barbarity that anger their ethnic
kin. Subsequent riots are often a direct consequence of preceding violence, as
revenge attacks are launched and rumours and misperceptions abound. As Stanley
Tambiah puts it, ‘ethnic riots form a series, with antecedent riots influencing the
unfolding of subsequent ones.’61
However, many communal conflicts do not follow the same logic throughout
their course. Communal conflicts often transform over time in terms of the actors
involved, the issues being fought over, the goals of the participants and the strate-
gies and means used to achieve these goals. Conflicts sometimes evolve from
clashes that have criminal origins into wider sectarian violence or vice versa. In
some cases this transformation reflects the multitude of interests and issues that are
present in the conflict situation. A particular issue that did not play a direct role in
triggering conflict may come to the fore after the violence has started, sometimes
superseding the initial contentious issues.62
New issues sometimes emerge during a conflict as a result of actors exploiting
existing chaos to pursue economic or political agendas. Communal or ethno-nation-
alist conflicts sometimes evolve into criminal, rent-seeking operations. Several case
studies of inter-religious violence in India demonstrate how members of the elite
have portrayed relatively minor incidents as sectarian in order to obtain political
advantage, thereby dramatically widening the scope of a conflict.63 The different
riots and clashes that constitute a conflict may also differ in degree of spontaneity –
one or several may be spontaneous eruptions of anger, while the other(s) may be
more planned and organized.
Issues central to violence may also vary depending on locality. Ethnic, religious
or class cleavages at the local level may influence whether different areas descend
into violence. These local factors, therefore, play an important role in determining
 The study of violent communal conflict 25
the path of the conflict as a whole. As Stathis Kalyvas suggests, ‘actions “on the
ground” often seem more related to local or private issues than to the war’s driving
(or master) cleavage.’64 Kalyvas claims that, on close inspection, civil wars often
reveal themselves as numerous local conflicts, with local rivalries becoming
enmeshed in the wider dynamic. In turn, these local cleavages have ‘a substantial
impact on … the content, direction, and intensity of violence’.65
Ken Young has demonstrated this in his study of the violence in 1965 in Kediri,
Java, which appeared to be driven by the anti-communist sentiment that had swept
across the country following the apparent Communist coup attempt in the capital.
Following the dramatic events in Jakarta, members of the national Islamic organi-
zation, Nahdlatul Ulama, attacked members of the Indonesian Communist Party
and their sympathizers in many areas of Indonesia. The Kediri violence appeared
to be no exception. However, Young asserted that numerous other local dynamics
were also at play, including tensions between migrants and local communities,
between devout Muslims (santri) and Muslims more open to traditional practices
(abangan), as well as grievances over land reform and class-based issues.66 As
Kalyvas states ‘analysis of the dynamics of civil war (how and why people join or
defect, how violence takes place, et cetera) is impossible in the absence of close
attention to local dynamics.’67
To fully grasp the true nature of a conflict one must therefore identify and analyze
the points of transition within it. For example, at what point did the violence become
sectarian in nature, and, more importantly, was this transition intentional and if so
what motivated those who were instrumental in it? Above all, it is necessary to
differentiate between the issues and actors which are foremost in the initial stages of
a conflict and those that only become salient later. Likewise, it is necessary to
account for the differences as well as interconnections between the violence in
different areas in a conflict zone. Comparative theories of conflict based on
secondary sources and not on close qualitative examination are at risk of confusing
these factors and thereby drawing erroneous conclusions about causation.
The following study of the cause and trajectory of the North Maluku conflict
therefore divides the analysis into the five phases mentioned in the introduc-
tion: initiation; escalation; dispersion; political exploitation; religious war.
This approach goes some way to disentangling the many factors influencing a
protracted conflict involving a series of events across a wide area. By dividing
the analysis into these phases, one can separate those factors crucial to the
outbreak of violence from those that only came to be central to the violence
over time. In addition it better explains why this conflict escalated into wide-
spread religious war. While these phases may not transfer directly to other
conflicts, the general framework is likely to be broadly applicable elsewhere.

Researching violent conflict

The considerations regarding the study of communal violence discussed above
also determined the research methodology adopted in this study. I have focused
solely on the case of North Maluku rather than attempting a comparative study
26 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
with other conflicts in Indonesia or elsewhere. This approach enabled me to
present a more detailed and thorough case study and better uncover the range of
issues and the agency involved in the conflict. I make limited reference to other
cases of conflict so as to avoid taking them out of their context, which might result
in misleading comparisons and conclusions.
I have attempted through qualitative research, primarily field interviews, to
obtain insight into the perspectives of those involved in the events leading up to the
violence and of the combatants themselves. I conducted interviews with members
of almost all major ethnic groups and both religious communities involved in the
violence.68 Interview respondents included ordinary villagers, townspeople, politi-
cians, businesspeople, community and religious leaders, militia members and
leaders, and military and police personnel. All interviews were carried out in the
Indonesian language (Bahasa Indonesia).
I carried out nine consecutive months of fieldwork in North Maluku. This
research was focused on four sub-districts (Tobelo, Galela, Kao and Malifut) and
one municipality (Ternate), and the capital of Central Halmahera District (Tidore).
While violence took place in many areas of the province, these sites were chosen
for their centrality and importance to the wider conflict. The Kao/Malifut area was
the location of the initial outbreak of violence. Tobelo and Galela saw the most
intense violence and had the largest Christian populations in the province. Ternate
and Tidore were chosen because of their status as district (and in the case of
Ternate, provincial) capitals. Ternate was also the main economic and political
centre and most populous city in the province and most heterogeneous in terms of
ethnic groups. Importantly, it was also because of events in Ternate and Tidore that
the conflict developed from a local ethnic dispute into a province-wide religious
conflict. In addition, I carried out several months of interviews and searches of
secondary literature in other areas of Indonesia, including Manado, North
Sulawesi, Bandung, Yogyakarta and Jakarta.
Underlying this qualitative methodology is a focus on the importance of the
social interaction of individuals, groups and communities. In this sense, I follow
the Symbolic Interactionism school of Herbert Blumer.69 In its simplest form
Symbolic Interactionism has three main premises.70 First, Symbolic Interactionism
suggests that people act towards things based on the meanings those things hold
for them. The second and third premises of Symbolic Interactionism suggest that
the meaning of such things arises from, and subsequently changes as a result of,
social interaction. Therefore, rather than focusing on the apparently obvious
meaning of issues and objects central to the violence, I have attempted to ascer-
tain the real import of these factors to the people involved. These different foci
lead to quite different conclusions about conflict. For example, while the
goldmine in Malifut was highly sought-after by both parties because of its
material benefit, and therefore may appear to the outside observer to have been
integral to the outbreak of violence, close examination of the motives of those
involved indicated this material competition was less important than a range of
other factors. Likewise, the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter disseminated in Ternate
appeared to be important in instigating the ensuing anti-Christian rioting. Yet
 The study of violent communal conflict 27
interviews with those involved showed that this propaganda had little impact on
Muslims in the city.
I have used newspaper reports infrequently. Most local newspapers, such as the
Ternate Post, carried very subjective reports of the violence and in many cases
emotional and provocative accounts of events. National newspapers have been
used occasionally, although often their accounts of events in North Maluku were
based upon local newspaper reports or telephone interviews and in many cases
reported what appears to be incorrect information. While newspaper reports do
have some discursive impact on local communities during conflict, this influence
was far smaller than the spread of rumours, movement of refugees, propaganda of
elites and other more direct manifestations of the conflict situation.
Several methodological difficulties come into play when researching violent
conflict. The rhetoric of participants and members of the elite often masks more
than it illuminates. Because of the sensitive nature of the topic, respondents are
often reluctant to discuss their experiences. Most members of society are seeking
to assign the conflict to the past, are fearful of reigniting inter-communal tension,
suffering retribution or prosecution, and are often not inclined to talk about the
conflict with strangers. People often portray events during the conflict in a manner
that is favourable to themselves and to their ethnic or religious community.
Carrying out research several years after the events in question also presents an
aditional problem in that people have often finalized their version of events and in
some cases now believe that version fervently. To circumvent such problems I
have tried to develop relationships within all relevant ethnic and religious commu-
nities and assure people of my objectivity regarding the events. In addition, I have
attempted to ‘triangulate’ sources, obtaining several different accounts of the same
event from opposing sides in the conflict.

Conclusion
This study provides a more detailed explanation of the tragic events in North
Maluku than can be found elsewhere. It explores the conditions in the region
before the conflict and the causes of the initial violent incident. It also illustrates
how and why the violence rapidly evolved from a local border dispute into prov-
ince-wide religious conflict. The study critically evaluates prevailing assumptions
about the outbreak and trajectory of the violence.
I argue that it is crucial to analyze this conflict at four different levels, indi-
vidual, sub-communal, communal and structural. The study does not focus solely
on the political, economic or identity-related aspects of the conflict but seeks to
demonstrate the ways in which numerous agendas, concerns and relationships and,
crucially, human agency interacted to shape outcomes. I have divided the conflict
into phases to capture its temporal dynamism and geographical variation. My anal-
ysis of each phase sheds light on the trajectory of the conflict as well as salient
issues and agency. The examination of successive phases of the conflict, each with
distinct characteristics, allows the identification and use of the most relevant and
helpful theoretical concepts from the wider study of violence.
28 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Chapter 2 examines the background to the conflict, including the history and
social structure of North Maluku since the fifteenth century and the major changes
that occurred in Indonesia and in the immediate region in the years immediately
prior to the conflict. The chapter discusses the history of inter-religious relations in
Indonesia and North Maluku more specifically, illustrating how tension had risen
over the previous two decades between Muslims and Christians. It discusses the
factors behind this development and covers the acceleration of inter-religious
violence across Indonesia, including the terrible carnage in Ambon which began in
January 1999.
2 North Maluku in context

Introduction
There are few more breathtaking sights than North Maluku from the air as your
plane begins its descent towards Ternate. A chain of small volcanic islands rises
sharply out of the water. The city of Ternate clings to the side of one of these volca-
noes, massive Halmahera lies to the east and Tidore broods opposite. Once the site of
intense international competition over the lucrative spice trade, its waters alive with
European gunships, this place then slumbered for centuries in relative anonymity. Its
ancient sultanates, once fierce rivals, fell redundant. The remote islands were rela-
tively untouched by the tumultuous events of Indonesian politics in the twentieth
century. But just before the turn of the millennium North Maluku once more rose to
prominence, yet again a scene of political competition and bloody rivalry.
In 1999, Indonesia was in a state of flux. The Asian financial crisis forced
millions into unemployment and poverty, triggering nation-wide protests. In turn,
the protests led to widespread demands for political reform, culminating in Presi-
dent Suharto’s resignation in May 1998. His replacement, B. J. Habibie, initiated a
process of democratization as well as decentralization of authority to the regions.
The Indonesian armed forces, beset by factionalism and poor operational capacity,
were not untouched by this turmoil, facing growing criticism and pressure to with-
draw from economic and political life.
While these national developments affected all regions of Indonesia, North
Maluku faced additional local changes. In early 1999, the central government in
Jakarta announced that two remote districts in northern Maluku Province were to
form a new and separate province. This stimulated competition among the region’s
elite for political power. Religious violence in Ambon City also influenced North
Maluku society. Many public servants, students and workers returned from
Ambon with horrific stories, and the entire community witnessed on television
religious violence on a scale unprecedented in Indonesia.

Overview of North Maluku

North Maluku comprises dozens of beautiful and heavily forested volcanic islands
in Indonesia’s east. The region lies between Sulawesi to the west, Papua (formerly
30 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia

Map 2 North Maluku

Irian Jaya) to the east and the southern Philippines to the north (see Map 1). For
several centuries, the area was the only source of a highly valued commodity on
the world market, the clove. Because of the wealth and influence afforded by trade
in this spice, several regional powers emerged in North Maluku, most notably
Ternate and Tidore, which exercised influence as far as Sulawesi, Papua and the
southern Philippines. However, the ‘Spice Islands’ as they became known, like
most areas possessing valuable resources, also became the site of competition and
turmoil, particularly after the arrival of European powers. North Maluku’s role in
the spice trade began to decline in the seventeenth century, after which the region
began a period of decline. The past few decades have nevertheless seen a moderate
upsurge in economic development.
Until October 1999, North Maluku was part of Maluku Province, governed
from the provincial capital, Ambon City. The region was divided into two districts
 North Maluku in context 31
– North Maluku District and Central Halmahera District.1 The boundaries of the
two districts coincided approximately with the traditional spheres of influence of
the two most prominent sultanates – Ternate and Tidore. The main villages on the
small volcanic islands of Ternate and Tidore were also the district capitals: Ternate
City on Ternate, and the quiet village of Soasio on the eastern side of Tidore. North
Maluku District comprised Ternate, the northern half of Halmahera Island and a
number of islands, including Makian and Morotai. Central Halmahera District
comprised Tidore, Bacan and the southern half of Halmahera. In October, the
region became a province in its own right. Ternate City was declared the tempo-
rary provincial capital, while a small village in Central Halmahera District was to
become the permanent capital.
The North Maluku region is populated by a large number of related ethnic
groups, each closely associated with a particular area. According to local ethnolo-
gist Yusuf Abdurrahman, there are 30 ethnic communities with distinct
languages.2 The largest ethnic communities, according to official statistics, are the
Makians, Ternates and Tidores although other communities, such as the Tobelos,
form sizeable minorities. No one ethnic community numerically dominates the
region.3 The region is also the long-term home to a minority of Arabs, Chinese and
other migrants, as well as small numbers of Javanese who were settled in
Halmahera under the central government’s ‘transmigration’ programme.4
The region is demographically dominated by Muslims. Between 75 and 80 per
cent of the North Maluku population identify themselves as Muslim, the remaining
population (20–25 per cent) predominantly as Protestant Christian.5 Muslims
constitute the vast majority on most islands and sub-districts. This religious consti-
tution is reflected in the district parliaments, where Muslims greatly outnumber
Christians. Christianity is strongest in northern Halmahera, particularly in Kao and
Tobelo Sub-Districts, where Protestant Christians constitute large majorities, but
Christians also comprise sizeable minorities in Galela, Jailolo, Ibu, Bacan and
several other sub-districts. In Ternate, approximately 10 per cent of the population
was Christian before the violence in 1999, mostly migrants including Chinese
Indonesians, Ambonese, Minahasans and other ethnicities from elsewhere in Indo-
nesia. Chinese Christians are highly visible in the Ternate economy, so to some
extent religious and class differences coincided.6
This chapter discusses the above context to the outbreak of violence in North
Maluku in 1999. It discusses relevant aspects of the area’s early modern history –
the struggle between the main sultanates for power in the region and the develop-
ment of inter-religious relations. It then provides an overview of North Maluku
during the New Order period from 1966 until 1998, followed by the dramatic
changes that occurred in Indonesia from 1997 until 1999. Finally, the chapter
explores the inter-communal violence in Ambon and the quest by the Ternate elite
to create the nation’s newest province.
32 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
The spice islands

Rival sultanates
North Maluku’s distinctive and, in many ways, troubled history is to a great extent
due to the region’s wealth of valuable spices.7 Ternate, Tidore and Bacan, the
small volcanic islands along the western edge of the region, were home to the
clove, renowned among Chinese and European societies for its medicinal proper-
ties.8 Several other valuable spices, such as nutmeg and mace, grew on these and
other islands of North Maluku. By the fourteenth century, these spices were traded
along networks passing from North Maluku, through northern Java, Malacca,
Gujarat, the Persian Gulf and the Mediterranean. Based largely on this spice trade,
by the fourteenth century four powerful kingdoms had emerged in North Maluku –
Ternate, Tidore, Bacan and Jailolo. After a period of competition between these
four kingdoms, two eventually became predominant.9
By the sixteenth century, the rulers of Ternate and Tidore had established influ-
ence over relatively large areas. Ternate’s authority extended southward to Ambon
and more tenuously to North Sulawesi.10 Andaya writes that in the seventeenth
century Ternate exercised influence over and enjoyed a close and strongly hierar-
chical relationship with the alifuru or indigenous and animist inhabitants of
northern Halmahera.11 By the seventeenth century the populations of Kao, Tobelo,
Galela and other areas of Halmahera were forced to pay tribute to the sultanate in
the form of crops, pearls and labour, and provided personnel for the sultanate’s
military campaigns.12 Kaos, Tobelos and other Halmaheran peoples carried out
military service for the Sultan, in some cases fighting against the Dutch colonial
authorities (1679–81) and in others enlisted by the Dutch to fight against other
communities in the region, for example during the Pattimura rebellion in Ambon.
The Sultanate of Tidore exercised power over the southern half of Halmahera,
Bacan and as far as the Raja Ampat area on the western edge of Papua, where local
inhabitants paid tribute to the Sultan of Tidore and provided personnel for military
campaigns.
The two kingdoms competed for authority over the region and occasionally took
up arms against each other. Competition was focused on the island of Makian to
their south,13 the most populous island in the region and a productive source of
cloves. Makian was for a long time powerful in its own right, considered a fourth
North Malukan kingdom as well as the origin of the Bacan kingdom’s royal line.
The island gradually lost power to its two rivals to the north and many of Makian’s
inhabitants moved to neighbouring islands after periodic volcanic eruptions. 14
Competition between Ternate and Tidore became the accepted order for North
Malukans. Andaya noted that ‘As long as the two pillars remained, all was well
with Maluku.’15 Ternate was the more powerful of the two kingdoms, partly
because of that sultanate’s closer relationship with the Europeans and the greater
revenue it received from international trade. Yet its predominance did not go
unchallenged. As Haire writes, ‘Jailolo and Tidore tended to be the sources of
opposition and even revolt.’16 For many North Malukans, the collapse of Jailolo
 North Maluku in context 33
and Bacan, and Ternate’s growing dominance over Tidore, had disrupted the
correct social order of the region.17 The colonial powers utilized and exacerbated
these regional rivalries. Almost all European powers who ventured into North
Maluku made alliances with one of the two main sultanates. In turn, the local king-
doms exploited the European presence in their own power struggle, fighting
several battles during the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries.18
From the latter part of the Dutch era, this competition between Ternate and
Tidore fell dormant. Both sultans declared loyalty to the Dutch administration,
which paid them each an annual stipend.19 Like Bacan and Jailolo, the sultanate of
Tidore eventually fell vacant during the twentieth century. It was co-opted by the
central government, although, as discussed below, it retained a great deal of
cultural influence and formal political power. As will be seen, this rivalry between
Ternate and Tidore re-emerged to some extent in 1999, both during efforts to
establish North Maluku as a separate province and during the communal conflict
that engulfed the region. Other social cleavages formed during the early modern
era also came to the fore in 1999. The following section discusses the introduction
of Islam and Christianity to North Maluku and the subsequent events that shaped
inter-religious relations.

Islam and Christianity

It is thought that Javanese traders introduced Islam to Ternate and the North
Maluku region sometime in the late fifteenth century.20 After the rulers of Ternate,
Tidore, Bacan and Jailolo converted to Islam, the religion spread rapidly
throughout the region. Most historians agree that, initially, these rulers adopted
Islam to facilitate trade with the Muslims who dominated the spice trading
networks. Villagers on Ternate, Halmahera and elsewhere who adopted Islam did
so in a syncretic way, melding Islamic practices with traditional religions.
However, by the time Europeans arrived in the area, Islam was firmly entrenched.
In 1486, the ruler of Ternate, Djainal Abidin, assumed the Islamic title of Sultan, a
title soon adopted by other regional leaders.21
Christianity was first introduced to North Maluku by Catholic priests connected
with the Portuguese trading mission on Ternate. The missionaries gained their first
converts in the village of Mamuya in north Halmahera in 1533.22 The Sultan of
Jailolo and the Sultan of Bacan also converted from Islam to Christianity, largely
to gain Portuguese protection from Ternate and Tidore.23 However, these Christian
kingdoms were quickly destroyed by their more powerful Islamic rivals. The
sixteenth century was a period of religious turmoil as communities converted back
and forth between religions depending on political and economic exigencies.
According to Andaya, most North Malukans did not see a fundamental contradic-
tion between the two religions, often using the practices and symbols of both,
along with traditional beliefs, to accrue additional spiritual advantages.24
Yet relations between the two religious communities were not always peaceful.25
On numerous occasions, the Portuguese brutally punished North Maluku’s Islamic
rulers for perceived insubordination, in several cases kidnapping or killing sultans.
34 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
This tension reached a tipping point during the reign of Sultan Hairun (or Khairun)
of Ternate in the sixteenth century.
Hairun was initially tolerant of Portuguese Christian evangelism in North
Maluku but, after his arrest at the hands of the Europeans, he became more protec-
tive of Islam and opposed to the Portuguese. 26 In response, the Portuguese
arranged his assassination. Hairun’s son, Baabullah, then led a failed military
campaign against the Portuguese in Ambon, before turning his attention to Portu-
guese and Malukan Christians in north Halmahera, where his forces destroyed
several settlements and killed large numbers of both communities.27 Christianity
subsequently began to lose its following and largely disappeared from North
Maluku for two-and-a-half centuries. James Haire concludes that this decline had
several sources, including the superficiality of earlier Christian conversion and the
killing of Sultan Hairun by the Portuguese.28 Islam remained strong in the region,
although existing alongside traditional spirituality.
Christianity was reintroduced to Halmahera in 1864 when the Protestant Dutch
Reformed Church established a mission at the village of Duma in inland Galela.29
Opposition from Muslim communities and from the Sultan of Ternate, who
ordered the arrest of Muslims who converted to Christianity, meant missionaries
proselytized only among animist communities in north Halmahera.30 During this
period, most pastors in north Halmahera came from Ambon, causing resentment
among local Christians. After World War II, Halmaherans established a local
Protestant Church – the Evangelical Church on Halmahera or GMIH (Gereja
Masehi Injili Halmahera). When, partly to undermine support for communism, the
new government of President Suharto declared that all Indonesians must join one
of five officially recognized religious traditions (Islam, Protestantism, Catholi-
cism, Hinduism and Buddhism), the number of Christians affiliated with GMIH
jumped from 60,000 in 1965 to 106,630 in 1979.31 The majority were animist
converts.
Historically, both Islam and Christianity in North Maluku have been suffused
with traditional spiritual practices, beliefs and ceremonies. In north Halmahera in the
early twentieth century, Dutch missionaries considered local traditions (adat) useful
for the introduction of Christianity.32 However, religious identity has always been
very important to both Muslims and Christians. North Maluku Muslims retained a
strong sense of their Islamic identity even after the decline in political influence of
the sultans, traditionally the central pillars of the Islamic community.
For most of the twentieth century, Muslims and Christians in the region lived in
relative harmony. Events of the nineteenth and twentieth centuries affected both
communities equally and in some cases drew them closer together. The Dutch
authorities did not favour North Maluku’s Christians over Muslims as they did in
Ambon.33 In some cases, Christians and Muslims cooperated in fighting against
the Dutch. During World War II, occupying Japanese soldiers treated members of
both communities with equal brutality.34 Both Muslims and Christians joined the
1958–60 Permesta rebellion, seeking greater autonomy for North Maluku.35
Although the rebellion was soon quelled, according to local historian Herry
Nachrawy, this cooperation strengthened inter-religious ties. 36
 North Maluku in context 35
The southern part of Maluku Province saw one of Indonesia’s most serious
regional rebellions in the 1950s. In 1950 a group of predominantly Christian
Ambonese declared their own state – the Republic of South Maluku or RMS
(Republik Maluku Selatan).37 This separatist movement gained control of the
island of Ambon (see Map 1) from April to December 1950, when it was over-
thrown by a massive attack by Indonesian forces, resulting in numerous casual-
ties.38 As Richard Chauvel wrote, ‘The RMS and its suppression was perhaps the
worst possible way for Ambon to be incorporated into independent Indonesia.
Ambonese society emerged deeply divided.’39
North Maluku remained detached from the RMS rebellion.40 Clashes between
Indonesian forces and the RMS were confined to central Maluku. According to
local historian Herry Nachrawy, RMS leader Soumokil invited the Sultan of
Ternate to join the separatist movement.41 The sultan declined because the
apparent Christian character of the movement was at odds with North Maluku’s
predominantly Islamic identity.42 Anti-Jakarta sentiment had never taken hold in
North Maluku as it had among some sections of Ambonese society. Haire writes
that, during the war of independence, a wave of Indonesian nationalism and
anti-Dutch sentiment swept Halmahera, where people thought the Ambonese
considered themselves ‘half-European’.43
While the RMS rebellion had little direct impact on North Maluku in the 1950s,
the memory of it nevertheless lingered and re-emerged to affect inter-religious
relations in the late 1990s. In the second half of the twentieth century, many
Muslims in North Maluku continued to believe that resident Ambonese Christians
supported RMS goals.44 Claims of RMS involvement became common during the
1999 conflict and were used by some Muslim leaders as a pretext to attack Chris-
tian villages on Halmahera. Some of Ternate’s Muslim political and economic
elites, who had tried to separate North Maluku from Ambon during the previous
decades, also wanted to be free of control by a perceived Christian elite based in
Ambon.
The other major rebellion of Indonesia’s first decade of independence, Darul
Islam, had a minor impact on inter-religious relations in North Maluku. The move-
ment began as a series of rebellions in Java, Aceh, Southeast Sulawesi and
Kalimantan involving Muslim units that had fought against the Dutch from 1945 to
1949. By 1953, these units adopted the common aspiration of forming an Islamic
state, the Islamic State of Indonesia or NII (Negara Islam Indonesia).45 According
to local Christians, a handful of Muslims established a North Maluku unit of the
movement, which included several people from Southeast Sulawesi.46 The group
once reportedly attempted to attack the church in Dokulamo village in Galela but
was repelled by police. Christians in Tobelo believe that stories of these events
continued to stimulate fervour among young Muslims in Galela and Tobelo in the
1990s, particularly among some of the children and grandchildren of the men
involved in the 1950s.47
36 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Suharto’s New Order 1966–98

Economy
During the first two decades of independence, North Maluku, as with most periph-
eral areas in Indonesia, received minimal developmental assistance.48 Little effort
was made to develop Maluku as a whole, and, located a great distance from the
capital Ambon, North Maluku fared worse than the rest of the province. Schools,
roads and most other infrastructure deteriorated during this period and the region
produced little in the way of exportable goods. The community was required to
import most commodities from Java and elsewhere.49
President Suharto’s New Order brought increased development to the region,
including improved roads, communications, ports and warehouses as well as a vast
increase in the number of educational institutions. Government infrastructure also
improved markedly under the New Order, with the construction of large district
and sub-district government buildings. The region became more integrated with
the rest of Indonesia with the opening of daily flights between Ternate and North
and South Sulawesi and Ambon, and the improvement of shipping services from
both Ternate and Tobelo. From a net importer of goods during the ‘Old Order’,
Maluku became in the 1980s, along with Irian Jaya (Papua), one of only two net
exporters among the eastern Indonesian provinces.50 As a result of the abundance
of local fish and agricultural products, by the mid-1980s poverty was low. 51
North Maluku’s economy is largely driven by the exploitation of the region’s abun-
dant timber resources. About three-quarters of the region is forested.52 Logs are
processed at the large Barito Pacific plywood factory at Sidangoli in Jailolo
Sub-District, which also serves as the main transit port between Halmahera and the
rest of the region. North Maluku is also rich in mineral resources, including nickel
deposits on Gebe Island and Halmahera. During the 1980s, Central Halmahera
district’s GDP was twice the Maluku provincial average, growing 10.7 per cent annu-
ally from 1975 to 1983.53 In June 1999, PT Nusa Halmahera Mineral (NHM), a joint
venture between the Australian company Newcrest Mining Ltd and the Indonesian
company PT Aneka Tambang, commenced an open-cut gold-mining operation at
Gosowong, about 40 km to the south-west of Malifut in northern Halmahera.54 With
350 local employees, NHM was the largest single employer in the immediate area.
The fishing industry is central to the North Maluku economy. Agricultural prod-
ucts provide a small income for many farmers and the bulk of the subsistence needs
of most villages. Copra production (dried coconut flesh for the production of oils)
is particularly important. In 1991, the Indonesian company PT Global Agronusa
Indonesia (GAI), in a joint venture with prominent American food corporation Del
Monte, established a 2,000 ha banana plantation in the north of Galela Sub-District
employing approximately 3,000 people.

The socio-political situation

During the New Order period, North Maluku experienced sustained political
stability. The community largely accepted the provincial government’s appointment
 North Maluku in context 37
of district and sub-district government heads. Yet, as will be seen, the appointment
of Ambonese Christians as sub-district heads in Tobelo contributed to inter-religious
tension in 1999.
During the twentieth century Ternate City remained the administrative, cultural
and economic centre of North Maluku and is still the main centre for processing
and exporting wood, fish and other products. A large service sector has developed
in the city catering to the district government and the forestry, mining and other
industries. Employment in these industries, as well as the educational facilities in
Ternate, has attracted large numbers of migrants, predominantly Muslim, from
neighbouring islands such as Tidore, Makian and Sanana.55 Migrants from
Sulawesi have also settled in the city, engaged largely in low-skilled occupations.
Most migrants have settled in the southern areas of the city, while the indigenous
Ternate ethnic community lives predominantly in the north of the city around the
Sultan of Ternate’s Palace or Kedaton (see Map 4).
In the decade preceding the 1999 conflict, three ethnic communities in North
Maluku had assumed political and social influence greater than their relative size –
the Makians, Tidores and Sananas. They were disproportionately represented in
the parliaments and bureaucracies of both districts. The Makians in particular
enjoyed substantial political representation and social influence.56 Over preceding
decades, Makians had migrated to Ternate for its employment and educational
opportunities, as well as to escape the harsh environment and volcanic eruptions
on their home island. According to one elderly Christian man, Makians who
attended school in Ternate in the 1960s and 1970s were considered backward
because they were poorly educated and unfamiliar with local culture.57 But by the
1990s, Makians were the most educated and successful ethnic group in North
Maluku, heavily represented in local parliaments.58
Makian representation in the bureaucracy was even greater. Many were
employed in local government departments, and in 1999 a Makian, Thaib Armain,
became the first head of the bureaucracy for North Maluku Province.59 Makians
were also prominent in other sectors of society. In 1999, a Makian, Yusuf
Abdurrahman, was both Rector of Khairun University and chairman of the Indone-
sian Council of Islamic Scholars for North Maluku (MUI).60 He resided on the
campus and had substantial influence in the university and in Ternate. A high
proportion of university lecturers and students were also Makians. The success of
Makians and Tidores was in stark contrast to the other large ethnic group, the
Ternate, who were less likely to undertake tertiary education and therefore to
assume prominent positions in the bureaucracy or to enter local politics.
The current Sultan of Ternate, Mudaffar Syah, no longer commands the political
influence the sultanate enjoyed during the pre and early colonial era. Indonesian
governments, particularly during the New Order, have reduced the sultan’s role to
that of traditional leader. The Suharto government co-opted the sultan, who
became a Golkar party representative in the local district parliament in 1971.
However, it is important not to underestimate his influence in North Maluku. At
the time of the conflict he continued to exercise great cultural influence over
several ethnic communities in North Maluku District, particularly the Ternates but
38 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
also the Kaos and Christian Tobelos. This was largely a consequence of the sultan-
ate’s historical influence over these regions, and the fact that many Christians
considered the sultan to be their traditional protector. The sultan still maintains a
palace guard which he has used on occasion to intimidate political rivals.61 In
1999, Sultan Mudaffar Syah was the Chairman of the North Maluku District
Parliament. As discussed, the other three historical sultanates had no such influ-
ence. All fell vacant before or during the New Order period, although as will be
discussed below, the sultanate of Tidore was revitalized in 1999.

Religion
Religious communities coexisted in North Maluku without major confrontation
before 1999. Inter-religious marriages were rare but did occur, particularly in areas
where ethnic ties cut across religious differences, as in Tobelo.62 Fights had broken
out intermittently over the previous decade in Ternate and in Tobelo and elsewhere
on Halmahera, often between Muslims and Christians, but most were not over reli-
gion, but rather over girlfriends, insults and similar issues. All older North
Malukans described relations between the two communities as good prior to 1999.
Respondents from both religious communities said inter-religious relations had
deteriorated in the decade prior to the conflict. Tobelo Christians suggested that
traditionally close ties with local Muslims began to deteriorate following the
in-migration of Muslims from Makian and Tidore who held more conservative
attitudes toward Islam and inter-religious relations. Christian Kiem asserts that
conservative ‘modernist’ Islam spread in some areas of North Maluku, particularly
Ternate, after the establishment of Islamic schools and foundations associated with
the national Islamic organization, Muhammadiyah. He claims young Muslims
increasingly opposed a perceived westernization of Indonesian society and the
continued participation by Muslims in pre-Islamic practices associated with local
traditional culture.63
In Ternate, this trend was strongest among migrants from Tidore, Halmahera,
Sulawesi and elsewhere. Their criticism of traditional practices generated tension
with the Sultan of Ternate’s supporters, who most commonly engaged in these
practices.64 But none of these tensions gave forewarning of the large-scale reli-
gious violence that would soon erupt in the region.

A nation in flux 1999

After several decades of political and economic stability, Indonesia entered a
period of profound crisis in 1997. The Asian economic crisis sent the national
economy into freefall, in turn stimulating large-scale political and social change,
commonly known as reformasi (reform). While the crisis did not have significant
economic repercussions in North Maluku, the ensuing political change certainly
did. This section will briefly cover the dramatic changes that occurred in Indonesia
from 1997 until 1999.
 North Maluku in context 39
Financial crisis 1997
For three decades Indonesia was seen as an economic ‘tiger’. An oil and gas boom
from the late 1960s, high levels of foreign direct investment, the successful devel-
opment of the manufacturing sector and increased rice production all contributed
to the country’s impressive growth. Poverty decreased remarkably, from 40 per
cent in 1976 to 15.1 per cent in 1990 and 11.3 per cent in 1996.65 All provinces
experienced improvements in most development indicators.66 However, nepotism
and corruption undermined governance and economic efficiency. Capital was also
highly mobile.67 Therefore when the Thai, Malaysian and Philippines currencies
collapsed, international and domestic investors withdrew capital from Indonesia,
prompting a run on the Indonesian currency. The rupiah decreased in value from
2,200 to the US dollar in July 1997 to 6,000 in December 1997, and fell as low as
17,000 in January 1998.
In 1997, a long-running drought led to a 4 per cent drop in rice production, exac-
erbating price rises associated with the lower value of the rupiah. Unemployment
increased, and the subsequent exodus of people back to rural areas seeking
employment depressed agricultural wages further. In addition, from 1997 to 1998
annual inflation rose from 6 per cent to 78 per cent.68 As a result, poverty levels
peaked at 27 per cent in 1999. Riots over the removal of government subsidies and
the price of fuel, food and other necessities broke out across the country.

Democratization 1998
The economic crisis triggered massive protest and pressure for governance reform
from a wide range of civil society actors. Students led mass protests on the streets
of all major cities and, along with leaders of opposition parties, academics and
other leaders, called for President Suharto’s resignation and the withdrawal of the
military or TNI (Tentara Nasional Indonesia)69 from political and civilian life.
Facing overwhelming opposition and declining support, and with his health
failing, Suharto resigned on 21 May 1998, and was succeeded by his vice-presi-
dent, B. J. Habibie.
After assuming the presidency, Habibie scheduled national elections for June
1999. The government also removed the restriction on the number of political
parties allowed to contest elections, after which dozens of new parties were
formed. Competition for political power suddenly assumed an intensity unknown
for several decades. Opposition groups were presented with the political freedom
to criticize the old regime, and local communities with the ability to lobby for
changes, such as the recognition of indigenous rights. After centuries of almost
uninterrupted authoritarian rule, Indonesia was on the brink of democracy. 70

Decentralization
Democratization was accompanied by political and financial decentralization.
This process was an attempt to address regional grievances, particularly in places
that had experienced separatist rebellions, such as Aceh and Papua (Irian Jaya),
40 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
and to increase public participation in politics, government accountability and to
provide better health, infrastructure and other social services.71 Decentralization
was based on two laws signed by the president in May 1999 – Law 22/1999 on
Regional Government and Law 25/1999 on Fiscal Balance between the Centre and
the Regions. Law 22 devolved to the district level authority over all functions of
government except defence and security, international relations, justice, monetary
and fiscal affairs and religion. The law also gave local parliaments the power to
elect and dismiss their own district heads and provincial governors.
Law 25 established a new financial relationship between the centre and the
regions. The law left expenditure largely to the discretion of local governments,
and allowed them to collect taxation as long as there was no duplication of the
national tax regime. More importantly for many resource-rich districts, a large
percentage of revenue raised from local resources was to be returned to the region
of extraction, including the ‘producing’ district. A regulation accompanying Law
25 stated that 32 per cent of revenue from mining operations had to be returned to
the producing district.72
The legislation also allowed for the creation of new sub-districts, districts and
provinces through the process of pemekaran. Through pemekaran, the number of
districts in Indonesia rose from under 300 in 1999 to over 400 by 2001. The central
government also created several new provinces, including North Maluku, as
discussed in more detail below. Hence by mid-1999 Indonesia’s regions were
faced with a range of dramatic changes in political, social and economic life. The
changes associated with reformasi, as well as providing the foundations for far
greater political participation by civil society, also provided economic and polit-
ical opportunities for powerful individuals.

The security sector

During the New Order, the TNI played a central role in the social, economic and
political life of Indonesia. The institution enjoyed considerable political represen-
tation, holding 100 out of 500 seats in the national parliament or DPR (Dewan
Perwakilan Rakyat).73 The military also maintained substantial influence in the
regions, through the appointment of military officers as governors and district
heads and through representation in provincial and district parliaments. In the late
1990s, former military officers occupied at least 50 per cent of gubernatorial posts
and 40 per cent of district positions. In addition, two-thirds of the army was
stationed throughout the country in units structured in parallel with the civilian
administration, from village to regional levels, giving it control over numerous
aspects of economic and political life throughout Indonesia.74
However, both the military and police were handicapped financially. For the
entire post-independence period, the military raised much of its operating
expenses independently of the government. In recent times the central government
has provided only 30 per cent of the funding required by the military.75 Military
and police personnel were insufficiently paid to meet accommodation, schooling,
health and other costs. 76 In order to make up this shortfall, the armed forces
 North Maluku in context 41
developed substantial business interests.77 Following the onset of the economic
crisis in 1997, however, many of these business interests ceased to be profitable. It
is estimated that the purchasing power of the military decreased by 30 per cent
from mid-1997 to mid-1998.78 The military has allegedly compensated itself for its
budgetary shortfall through involvement in illegal activities such as smuggling,
extraction of protection money, extortion and illegal mining and forestry.79
By 1999, this lack of funding had weakened the capacity and motivation of the
security forces to respond effectively to serious internal security disturbances.
This was particularly the case in regions located far from Jakarta where budgets
were stretched most thin.80 Many regional military and police units lacked the
transport, communications and equipment necessary to respond effectively to
serious conflict. Personnel numbers were also low, widely dispersed in small units
of only several men.81 Poor living conditions and meagre salaries diminished
morale and reduced soldiers’ willingness to act effectively in dangerous situations.
Corruption was rife; moreover police inaction (after receiving bribes) sometimes
helped to exacerbate violence because communities felt the need to take the law
into their own hands.82 Lower-ranking military and police were poorly trained, and
both the military and police possessed low levels of field intelligence, particularly
in remote regions. Military involvement in local businesses also impaired the insti-
tutional command structure and institutional coherence, creating the opportunity
for a divergence of interests between regional and local commanders and
personnel on the one hand, and the central military hierarchy on the other. 83
Factionalism in the upper ranks of the military also undermined the TNI’s
ability to respond to internal disturbances. While some leading officers called for
and accepted the military’s reduced political and social influence, others resisted
these changes. As the likelihood of investigations into alleged human rights abuses
increased, a number of senior officers openly challenged the reform process. This
factionalism further weakened the chain of command between field commanders
and their superiors. There are also strong indications that some military officers
allowed or even instigated violence in order to derail the reform process, particu-
larly after the reform-minded Abdurrahman Wahid was elected president.
In the late 1990s, the Indonesian military also faced declining popular legiti-
macy.84 As human rights abuse allegations heightened, ordinary officers and
soldiers became less willing to respond to civilian protests and other unrest. At the
same time, TNI’s apparent inability to prevent Suharto’s fall gave students and
other societal groups more confidence to challenge the security forces. This also
had a bearing on conflict areas, where combatants perceived a lack of willingness
on the part of TNI and police personnel to use force.
The separation of the military and police on 1 April 1999 also disrupted the
security sector. In separating the two institutions, the government assigned to the
police primary responsibility for internal security, including response to
communal conflict and insurgency. Some army personnel were reluctant to relin-
quish this responsibility.85 Some analysts have suggested that the military delayed
coming to the assistance of the police during conflict and other disturbances to
demonstrate the army’s indispensability to internal security. In addition, since
42 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
their separation, the military and police have competed for business and other
economic interests, in some cases leading to armed clashes. These rivalries greatly
undermined the state’s effectiveness in upholding internal security. Thus by 1999
the capacity of the police and military to respond effectively to the kind of
large-scale conflict that occurred in North Maluku had been greatly reduced.

Rising inter-religious tension

Religious sectarianism has been the exception rather than the rule in Indonesia.
The vast majority of the population is religiously moderate and, at least until
the onset of reformasi, the authoritarian government in Jakarta kept radicalism
firmly in check.86 Throughout the 1970s and 1980s, most senior military offi-
cers, both Christian and Muslim, identified with the nationalist ideology – the
pluralist pancasila – and stayed out of religious politics.87 This is not to say,
however, that the country has been completely free of religious tension. Most
decades have witnessed violent incidents that were ostensibly religious in
character.
The 1980s saw an increase in Islamic schools which espoused radical teach-
ings and served as bases for militant action in Indonesia. Muslims trained in the
Middle East introduced conservative doctrines into the country, including the
Saudi Wahhabist doctrine. These schools and institutions found a growing
number of supporters when Indonesian Islamic society underwent a process of
revival or santrification during the late 1970s and 1980s, evidenced by greater
mosque attendance, the wearing of Islamic dress and other factors.88
Over the last few decades many conservative Muslims have also become
concerned at a perceived process of ‘Christianization’ in Indonesian political and
economic life. Much of this sentiment stemmed from a relatively high Christian
representation in the government and the economic success of (often Chinese)
Christian Indonesians. Some Muslims contrasted the success of Christians with
the way the government suppressed political Islam. In addition, following the
legal prescription by the Suharto government in the late 1960s that all Indone-
sians must declare their membership of one of the five major religious traditions,
some Muslims became concerned at the growing tide of Christian conversion
and the increasing proselytization by foreign Christian missionaries. Muslims
protested at the construction of new churches, in some cases destroying them
along with schools and other buildings associated with Christian communities.89
The New Order regime’s suppression of political activity and dissent also
partly explains the rise of Islamic radicalism. Political Islam had, since the Darul
Islam rebellion, been a potential locus of political opposition to the central
government.90 The New Order regime’s steps to eradicate this threat radicalized
some Muslims. Much of this unrest centred around the government’s pressure on
political parties to accept the pluralist ideology of pancasila91 as a ‘sole ideolog-
ical principle’ (asas tunggal) in the 1980s. Many Muslims saw this policy as a
means to eradicate religion as a basis for political opposition, and were angered
at the capitulation of the main Islamic political party, PPP, to this pressure.92 This
 North Maluku in context 43
tension reached a climax when the security forces opened fire on a group of
Muslim protestors associated with a mosque in the Tanjung Priok area of Jakarta
which had been involved in protesting against the asas tunggal policy. The
general considered to have been responsible for the shooting of these protestors,
Gen. Benny Murdani, was a Christian. Subsequently, a series of bombings took
place in Chinese districts in Jakarta, of Christian buildings in Malang (on
Christmas Eve) and at the Borobodur temple in Central Java.93
While some Muslims had been concerned at ‘Christianization’ in the 1970s
and 1980s, by the late 1980s some Christians became concerned at what they
considered to be the growing ‘Islamization’ of Indonesian society and politics.
These concerns were exacerbated by the fact that President Suharto had increas-
ingly turned to Muslims as a means of widening his support base. The president
replaced several high-ranking Christians in the government and armed forces
(including Benny Murdani) with Muslims. In 1990, the president sponsored the
formation of the Indonesian Muslim Intellectuals Association (ICMI), an organi-
zation with wide-ranging political and social influence.
The mid-to late 1990s saw an upsurge in violent incidents that seemingly
reflected growing inter-religious tension. On the island of Flores, Catholics
rioted in 1993, 1994 and 1995 after accusing either Muslims or Protestants of
desecrating the eucharist during mass.94 In 1996, anti-Christian rioting occurred
in several locations on Java. While these riots were not triggered by incidents
involving Christians, they and their property and churches were the primary
targets in all three.95 The rioting, in particular the destruction of churches,
harmed inter-religious relations in Indonesia. A sentiment developed among
some Christians in North Maluku that if Muslims ‘try that’ in north Halmahera
Christians ‘will not retreat’.96 In late 1998, in the Ketapang area of Jakarta,
Muslims attacked Ambonese security guards working in front of local gambling
parlours and destroyed several churches. Subsequently, Christians in the city of
Kupang in West Timor (NTT Province) rioted and destroyed ten mosques. One
month later, in December 1998, rioting between Protestants and Muslims broke
out in the town of Poso in Central Sulawesi Province.97

Conflict in Maluku 1999

Inter-religious violence of a scale and intensity unprecedented in recent Indo-
nesian history began in Ambon City, the capital of Maluku Province (which at
that time included the North Maluku region, see Map 1). On 19 January, on the
Islamic festival day of Idul Fitri (or Lebaran) marking the end of the fasting
period of Ramadan, a riot began in the Batumerah and Mardika areas of Ambon
City.98 It was sparked by an altercation on a bus between a Bugis migrant from
South Sulawesi and the Christian Ambonese driver.99 A series of tit-for-tat
attacks developed into large-scale rioting. Ambon quickly divided along reli-
gious lines. Churches and mosques were attacked and Christians and Muslims
fought in the city for days, the security forces seemingly unable to halt the
rioting. The violence then began to spread beyond Ambon Island to other areas
44 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
in central and south-east Maluku.100 By mid-1999 the conflict had developed into
the worst religious violence in Indonesia in living memory.
This turmoil was preceded by rising tension in Ambon between local Protestants
and Muslims. A steady influx of Muslim migrants, mostly from South Sulawesi,
was central to this rising tension. From 1969 to 1999, 25,319 households or 97,422
people were resettled in Maluku under the central government’s transmigration
programme.101 A large number of independent migrants also settled in Ambon. A
report by the national newspaper, Kompas, stated in early February that 225,000
migrants from South Sulawesi lived in Maluku, 30,000 of them in Ambon City.102
A combination of economic competition, crime and cultural differences caused
rising tension between local Ambonese and Bugis, Butonese and Makassarese
migrants.103 These migrants began to dominate many low-skilled sectors of the
city’s economy including the service sector and markets. Following the 1997
economic crisis, many Ambonese Christians were forced to compete for jobs
which they had previously considered too menial.104 Crowded areas in Ambon
City, such as Batumerah and Mardika, saw frequent fights between Christian
Ambonese and Muslim Butonese and Buginese youths.105 In rural areas, the ques-
tion of land ownership also became contentious between Butonese migrants and
local Ambonese.106
Migration was accompanied by increasing political and bureaucratic represen-
tation among Muslims. In 1992, President Suharto appointed a Muslim Ambonese,
Akib Latuconsina, as the first local Muslim governor since 1965. The next
governor, appointed in 1997, Saleh Latuconsina, was also a local Muslim. After
the appointment of these two governors, educated local and migrant Muslims came
to be more highly represented in the local bureaucracy, challenging the traditional
position of the local Christian Ambonese elite.107 Local Christians, who had
initially welcomed migrants because they were willing to undertake low-skilled
employment, came to resent their increased power and status.108
The enhanced status of Muslims in Maluku as well as nationally seems to have
created extreme anxiety on the part of Malukan Christians.109 Bertrand argues that
the national influence of ICMI, the appointment of Muslim governors in Maluku,
the transmigration programme and the increasing appointment of Muslims to the
bureaucracy and other institutions in Ambon throughout the 1990s were inter-
preted by Christians as an Islamization of Indonesia and Maluku.110
Other analysts have argued that the conflict was more the result of provocation
than societal tension. Van Klinken says that when in December 1998 the central
government set a date for national elections to be held in June 1999, many local
politicians and other members of the elite in Ambon mobilized members of their
patronage and religious networks in order to gain or retain political or bureaucratic
office.111 Other analysts have argued that the violence in Ambon was instigated by
senior military officers and ex-New Order officials as a way of disrupting the
process of reformasi.112 According to the Indonesian academic George
Aditjondro, these figures employed gangs of Ambonese thugs, many of them sent
from Jakarta to spark rioting in the city.113 Little evidence has as yet been provided
to substantiate these claims.
 North Maluku in context 45
Security concerns appear to have mounted to very high levels in Ambon in the
months before the violence. Deteriorating Muslim–Christian relations in Indo-
nesia since the mid-1990s and riots in other areas of Indonesia in late 1998 magni-
fied tensions in Maluku. The International Crisis Group reported that communities
in Ambon had been arming themselves for weeks before the outbreak of violence,
as rumours forecasting impending violence circulated throughout the city.114
North Malukans watched as the southern part of their province burned. The
dramatic stories emanating from Ambon and the regular media coverage of the
violence caused tension in most areas of North Maluku. Several thousand North
Malukans who had been employed or studying in Ambon fled northwards in early
1999, primarily to Ternate. Many North Malukans became suspicious of any
Ambonese from the other religion, even if the individual in question had been
living in the area for a long period. As discussed in the previous chapter, a number
of analysts have argued that the violence that began in North Maluku in August
1999 was a result of the devastation in Ambon.
However, the following chapter will demonstrate that, while the violence in
Ambon to some extent affected inter-religious relations in North Maluku, North
Malukans saw Ambon as an external issue. Some of the historical reasons for this,
such as a lack of affinity between North Malukans and Ambonese, have been
discussed in this chapter. More importantly, other local developments occupied
North Malukans during this period. The initial clash in North Maluku was trig-
gered by local issues and disputes and was not a direct consequence of the Ambon
conflict.

North Maluku becomes a province

The North Maluku political and economic elite made many attempts since World
War II to seek independent provincial status for North Maluku. These individuals
argued that North Maluku was too far from Ambon to allow for effective adminis-
tration.115 Religion was also a factor behind this campaign: some Muslims pushing
for a separate province wanted to break away from a perceived Christian elite in
Ambon. However, religious issues were a minor consideration. The push to form
North Maluku as a province in its own right was driven by members of both reli-
gious communities, united in the goal of obtaining a greater portion of the region’s
resource wealth for North Maluku as a whole. The financial benefits of becoming
an autonomous province were substantial, with the former spice islands the home
to abundant natural resources such as forestry and fisheries.
The Sultan of Ternate convinced President Sukarno in 1951 that the region
should become an independent province. The president offered to create a Daerah
Istimewa, or Special Region, in the style of Yogyakarta. According to North
Maluku historian Herry Nachrawy, the North Maluku political elite refused the
president’s offer because they felt such a status would have given the province a
feudal character.116 In the early 1960s, several members of the North Maluku elite
gifted 1000 tons of copra to President Sukarno to facilitate the creation of a new
province, this time with normal status. This attempt to separate from Maluku
46 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Province, and a later attempt in 1971, foundered on opposition from the provincial
government in Ambon.117
The onset of reformasi in 1998 stimulated a renewed effort among members of
the North Maluku economic and political elite to secede from Maluku Province.
Representatives from almost all ethnic and religious communities were involved in
this effort. While reform at the national level provided a profound opportunity to
create the new province, the motivations behind the political momentum remained
largely the same as those behind previous efforts: the logistical difficulties associ-
ated with the distances in the region; the perception that the economic potential in
the region was being expropriated by people outside North Maluku; and concern at
being governed by a ‘Christian elite’ in Ambon.118
In 1997, a youth group, Maloko Kie Raha Students Association, organized a
national symposium on the division of North Maluku and the development of
Halmahera Island. The symposium was attended by leading North Maluku polit-
ical figures such as Mudaffar Syah (the Sultan of Ternate), Syamsir Andili (the
Mayor of Ternate), Bahar Andili (the district head of Central Halmahera) as well
as central government representatives. Crucially, the governor of Maluku Prov-
ince, Saleh Latuconsina, was also present and supported the creation of a new
province.
This momentum continued in 1998, those involved taking advantage of the
widespread political and social change occurring throughout Indonesia.119 Repre-
sentatives from political parties considered to be on different sides of the political
spectrum such as Golkar and PPP, and from both districts (North Maluku and
Central Halmahera), formed two groups, the Team of Nine from North Maluku
and the Team of Five from Central Halmahera. Both groups pressured Indonesian
legislators, cabinet ministers and officials of the Department of Home Affairs in
Jakarta.
A student group called the North Maluku Youth Student Forum or FPPMU
(Forum Pelajaran Pemuda Maluku Utara), sponsored by these political leaders,
travelled to Ambon. Along with approximately 100 students from North Maluku
studying at Ambon’s Pattimura University, the group demonstrated outside the
provincial parliament requesting that the provincial parliament agree to the divi-
sion of the province.120 The governor, Saleh Latuconsina, and representatives of
the parliament again publicly agreed with the students’ goals. Around twelve of
these students also travelled to Jakarta, along with leading North Maluku parlia-
mentarians Rusdi Hanafi, Rustam Conoras and Saiful Bakhri. In February 1999,
President Habibie promised the group that his government would create a new
province of North Maluku.
As it became clear in early 1999 that North Maluku was indeed to become an
independent province, the individuals and groups involved began to divide into
political factions surrounding candidates for the governorship. There were four
main candidates: Mudaffar Syah, Bahar Andili, Syamsir Andili and Thaib Armain
(who later that year became the head of the North Maluku provincial bureaucracy).
Each of the four main candidates held a great deal of power in the province and
therefore had very strong claims to become North Maluku’s first governor.
 North Maluku in context 47
Mudaffar Syah was in a particularly powerful position, serving not only as
Sultan of Ternate but also as North Maluku Chairman of the Golkar party, which
dominated both North Maluku and Central Halmahera District Parliaments. He
had also recently been elected as Chairman of the North Maluku District Parlia-
ment. The Sultan received most of his support from the Ternate ethnic group situ-
ated mostly in the northern parts of Ternate City and in the villages of Ternate
Island. The Sultan also enjoyed a great deal of support on Halmahera, particu-
larly among Christian communities in northern Halmahera. Likely to receive the
support of most representatives of the secular, nationalist parties which would
dominate the provincial parliament when it was formed (Golkar, PDI-P as well
as representatives of TNI), in 1999 Mudaffar Syah was expected to win the
governorship.
Mudaffar Syah’s main rival for the governorship was Bahar Andili, the
District Head of Central Halmahera. As district head, Bahar Andili exercised an
enormous amount of influence in that district. The two other gubernatorial candi-
dates were also important in this competition. As the Mayor of Ternate, Syamsir
Andili enjoyed widespread support in that city, particularly in the southern areas
of the city, such as Bastiong, where large numbers of Tidores had settled.121 As a
Makian, and having two years before held the highest position in the district
bureaucracy, Thaib Armain enjoyed a great deal of support from the large
numbers of Makians and Tidores within the bureaucracy, as well as in the south
of Ternate.122
These candidates differed on several issues concerning the character of the
new province, including its status, and the location of the capital. Mudaffar Syah
lobbied for the provincial capital to be located in the city of Ternate, arguing that
it already housed the province’s major infrastructure, including an airport and
port. He also pushed for some recognition of the cultural traditions of the region.
He argued that the province should, like Yogyakarta (also strongly associated
with a local sultanate), hold the status of Special Region (Daerah Istimewa).123
He proposed that the province be called Maloko Kie Raha, the name for the area
of North Maluku during the era of the four sultanates. The sultan eventually
compromised by suggesting the capital should be located in Sidangoli, in Jailolo
Sub-District on Halmahera, but still in the traditional sphere of influence of the
Ternate sultanate.
Bahar Andili and his younger brother Syamsir together took a different posi-
tion on all of these issues. They sought normal provincial status for North
Maluku, with the province’s capital to be located provisionally in Soasio, Tidore,
and permanently in Sofifi in Central Halmahera, within the traditional territory
of the sultanate of Tidore and easily seen across the bay from Soasio.124 This
would bring immense economic benefits to the district of Central Halmahera.
Thaib Armain was less visible in this struggle but reportedly supported the
Sultan’s goal of locating the provincial capital in Ternate or alternatively on
Halmahera. However, Thaib Armain opposed the adoption of the name Maloko
Kie Raha and the status of Daerah Istimewa. Supporters of Thaib Armain, many
of whom were civil servants, opposed a ‘Special Region’ status for North Maluku
48 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
because they believed it would enhance the political and cultural power of the
Sultan of Ternate and alter employment practices in the provincial bureaucracy.
It is important to note that, while none of the above candidates was Christian,
this fact did not cause tension within the Christian community. In early 1999, reli-
gion had not become an important marker for mobilizing political support by any
of the gubernatorial candidates, even with the ongoing violence in Ambon.
Throughout the first half of the year several prominent Christians from Tobelo and
elsewhere on Halmahera supported the efforts of Thaib Armain to become
governor, primarily because of his stated goal of locating the provincial capital on
that island. These forms of cross-cutting alliances only began to fragment after the
initial violence in the area of Malifut on Halmahera.

Conclusion
Historically, the remote ‘spice islands’ of North Maluku have long been a site of
competition and turmoil, not only between the ancient sultanates of Ternate and
Tidore, but also as pawns in the struggle between global powers for control over
their abundant aromatic spices. Relative stability as well as anonymity descended
on the region during the New Order period of President Suharto, allowing a certain
degree of economic growth. From 1997 to 1999, North Maluku, along with the rest
of Indonesia, went through a period of rapid and exciting change as Indonesia set
out on the path to democratization. The economic crisis did not affect North
Maluku in the way it affected Java and other areas. Yet other national changes, in
particular the decentralization of financial and political authority to the regions,
provided political and economic opportunities, particularly for the elite.
While this change was felt all across Indonesia, the North Maluku region faced
additional disruption. In 1999, inter-religious conflict broke out in Ambon City
and elsewhere in central Maluku. Yet local politics, specifically the push to make
North Maluku an independent province, were far more pertinent to the trajectory
of the North Maluku conflict than external religious influences. After several
months of lobbying, the central government announced that the region would be
inaugurated as a province in its own right. After decades of political appointments
from Ambon, North Maluku was suddenly presented not only with new-found
democracy but also with the political competition associated with elections for the
governorship. While the political elite was initially united in the quest to secede
from Maluku Province, it subsequently splintered into several competing political
factions. These factions reflected not only networks of political affiliation and
patronage but also, to some extent, ethnicity.
All of these issues served as background to the North Maluku conflict and many
of them influenced its trajectory and spread in one way or another. Yet the original
trigger for violence lay within the traditional and emotional heart of North Maluku
society. As we will see in the next chapter, the fighting began with a dispute over
that most emotive of resources – land – the control of which was brought into ques-
tion by the creation of a new sub-district in Malifut, North Halmahera.
3 Initiation – Malifut

Introduction
Many Makians did not want to leave their homeland of Makian Island when
government officials arrived in 1975. Despite increased seismic activity over the
preceding months, and the warnings that Kie Besi volcano was ready to erupt, the
people of Makian wanted to stay with their homes and gardens. Many believed that
the government was simply trying to move them to less crowded and unproductive
land. When officials began forcibly removing many families to Malifut on
Halmahera, this distrust turned to anger. Yet by the 1990s the Makians had
accepted they would remain in Malifut and sought to legitimate their permanence
in the area by having their new sub-district formally recognized. However, in
1999, just as they were about to achieve their goal, the Makians found their way
blocked by their neighbouring community, the Kaos.
The indigenous Kao ethnic community refused to accept a new sub-district for
migrants on what they considered to be their traditional land. The boundary of the
new sub-district cut through the Kao community, leaving some members in a
Makian-dominated sub-district. Goldmining operations in the area since 1998
added material incentive to this opposition. After the central government
mandated the new sub-district, rising tension between the Kaos and the Makians
culminated in a Makian attack on two Kao villages that refused to be incorporated.
Two months later, several thousand Kaos attacked Malifut, driving the entire
community from Halmahera. By 26 October 1999 Malifut had been completely
destroyed with only mosques and schools still standing.
This chapter seeks to explain why a territorial dispute became so emotive. It
concludes that the territory in question was simultaneously an economic, political
and identity issue in the Kao–Makian relationship. The land was not just an impor-
tant resource to the communities but also defined the way each perceived them-
selves in relation to the other. By 1999 land was the one remaining aspect of the
relationship over which the Kaos felt a source of pride and dominance vis-à-vis the
Makians. The biased and nepotistic response of the local government made this
issue more volatile. Despite the religious differences between the two communi-
ties and the fact the North Maluku conflict subsequently became religious in char-
acter, religion played little part in this initial incident.
50 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
In order to better understand the Kao–Makian riots this chapter begins with a
brief discussion of three bodies of theory: on the mobilization of social move-
ments, on the role of territory and on inter-group comparisons in conflict. The
chapter then discusses in detail the period before the first incident in August, and
the subsequent events leading up to the October attack. The final section then
analyzes why the creation of a new sub-district led to violence in Malifut, when
similar developments elsewhere in Indonesia passed peacefully.

Mobilization for violence

Mobilization and counter-mobilization

Some, perhaps many, cases of communal violence are preceded by a relatively
powerful group mobilizing for greater control of political office, an economic
niche or lucrative natural resources. These groups often have the capacity to
mobilize quickly and effectively in response to increased opportunity. When
another community mobilizes in response, the conditions for conflict are laid. In
such cases, Resource Mobilization theory provides a number of insights into
when mobilization is likely to occur, when it is likely to be successful and when it
is likely to stimulate counter mobilization.1 This approach can also shed light on
when one or more parties are likely to resort to action outside institutional
channels.
According to the Resource Mobilization school, social movements arise out of
a convergence of adequate resources and increased opportunity to mobilize.
Strong community networks allow easier recruitment, but influential individuals
must also sustain the movement through organizing money and labour and
promoting common purpose among participants. The likelihood of a movement
emerging will also depend on the potential costs and rewards of mobilization,
termed the ‘political opportunity structure’.2 People will refrain from mobilizing
others or participating if the risks of repression appear too great or if the likeli-
hood of substantial returns is minimal. Mobilization is far more likely if partici-
pants anticipate minimal repression and a high return.
Other studies within the Resource Mobilization tradition focus on the reac-
tion of other groups to mobilization, providing further insight into the period
preceding communal violence.3 To be effective, counter-movements also require
a mobilizing ideology, adequate resources and the ‘political opportunity’ to
emerge.4 Mobilization by one group creates further opportunity not only for that
group but also for other actors to counter-mobilize. The initial movement may
often stimulate counter-mobilization by demonstrating to others that their inter-
ests, too, could be served by acting collectively. However, counter-mobiliza-
tion is most likely to occur if the initial movement or mobilization appears to
threaten the interests of other groups.5 Perceived government support for the
initial movement may also appear as a threat to other groups, stimulating
counter-mobilization.
 Initiation – Malifut 51
From mobilization to violence
Mobilization and counter-mobilization can polarize two communities by severing
any ties between them. In turn, this polarization can cause other pre-existing
contentious issues between the two communities, not connected to the original
mobilization, to come to the fore. Leaders of each community are quick to play on
long-standing grievances or prejudices in order to recruit new members to the
movement. In addition, both the initial movement and the counter-movement are
more likely to adopt non-institutionalized strategies if institutionalized action
appears likely to be ineffective. David Meyer and Suzanne Staggenborg assert that
actors are more likely to engage in ‘direct’ (non-institutionalized) action, such as
protest, if they have failed to counter the success of another group through institu-
tional channels.6 Doug McAdam says that the basic problem facing insurgents is to
overcome their powerlessness in the face of the authorities. To do this, they must
disrupt established structures of power, forcing their opponents to make conces-
sions.7
Yet this form of competition and attendant polarization occurs in many situa-
tions without resulting in violence and destruction. Movements often find institu-
tional avenues blocked but do not resort to violence. There is also a great deal of
difference between peaceful ‘non-institutionalized’ action such as protest or sabo-
tage, and large-scale rioting and violence. The question remains: when and how
does mobilization become violent?
Many theorists of conflict have claimed that violence becomes more likely if
the issue in dispute holds not just material benefit but emotional resonance for
one or more parties.8 The character of communal violence itself seems to
support this conclusion. Communal violence is often incredibly intense,
involving massive destruction and the targeting of women, children and the
elderly. Much of the violence often appears expressive or consummatory as
opposed to goal-based (instrumental). In addition, communal violence often
occurs rapidly, with little time for premeditation, and is often counter-produc-
tive for participants, who ultimately bring on themselves destruction and loss
of life. It is clear that emotional factors, as well as purely rational interest, play
a role in communal violence. A perusal of the wider literature on conflict
suggests that certain types of issues are more likely to cause a dispute to take on
such an affective character. Conflict may be more likely to lead to violence if it
involves not only conflicting interests but also issues that are important to a
group’s ethnic identity and central to how each group perceives itself in rela-
tion to another.
Donald Horowitz asserts that the ‘sources of ethnic conflict reside, above all, in
the struggle for relative group worth’.9 He maintains that, largely because of colo-
nialism, ethnic communities have become ‘ranked’ into what he terms backward
and advanced groups in many countries. The sensitivities associated with this
ranking lie behind much ethnic conflict. The humiliation that accompanies a sense
of lower status and a realization that the other group has ‘mastered modern skills’
makes a group determined not to relinquish any power that it manages to obtain. A
52 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
fear of subordination ensures that even minor issues can appear relevant to the
survival of one’s group.10
Many less advanced groups make claims to being the indigenous community to
an area, the ‘sons of the soil’, as a means of achieving recognition in this struggle
for relative group worth. Territory is often much more than an economic resource
to communities, the attachment felt by its residents and past residents going much
deeper than the economic or subsistence benefits associated with its ownership.
Affective ties to territory are often central to ethnic identity and nationalism.11 Toft
concludes that a long-standing occupation by another state or ethnic group, a
history of struggle for, and blood spilt on, the land and a name reflecting ownership
by one’s group are all likely to increase emotional ties to a particular tract of terri-
tory.12 Claims to territory are central to a number of internal conflicts, both
inter-communal and separatist in character, for example those between Israel and
the Palestinians, and between Protestants and Catholics in Northern Ireland.13 As
will be seen in this chapter, territory can be central not only to the identity of one or
more parties to the conflict, but also to the mutual understandings between the two
communities.
Yet inter-group comparisons and attachments to territory are merely conditions
conducive to conflict. They cannot in themselves provide complete explanations
of violence. Such conditions exist in numerous situations around the globe but do
not result in violence. It is necessary to uncover the actions and motivations that
bring two communities to the brink of tragedy and ultimately send them into the
carnage of violent conflict. This synthesis of agency and structure, of emotion and
interest, as well of mass and elite action, is demonstrated in what follows.

The sources of tension

Kao Sub-District is located on the northern peninsula of Halmahera. In 1999 the
area was part of the district of North Maluku.14 The sub-district is largely an allu-
vial plain with a heavily forested and mountainous interior. The capital of Kao is a
large village of the same name, housing most infrastructure, including the office of
the sub-district head and schools. The population of Kao Sub-District, officially
26,704 in 1999, is concentrated along the coast, although there are also many
villages in the more remote interior of West Kao.15
The majority of the population is from the Kao ethnic group, which itself is
composed of four sub-ethnic groups, the Kao, Modole, Pagu and Boeng. The vast
majority of Kaos are Protestant Christian (affiliated with the Tobelo-based
GMIH), although there is a small Muslim Kao minority. based mainly in the
capital.16 Perhaps several dozen Ambonese also live in Kao. Several transmigra-
tion settlements populated primarily by Javanese are located in the interior.17 Most
Kaos are involved in subsistence farming and fishing, and most paid employment
is in the large copra industry.
In 1975 the government of North Maluku District, based in Ternate, began a
local transmigration programme from Makian Island, located west of the large
island of Halmahera (see Map 2). The programme was officially prompted by an
Map 3 Kao/Malifut
54 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
anticipated volcanic eruption on the island.18 The government moved the majority
of the population of Makian, in many cases by coercion, to the area of Malifut on
Halmahera, about 15 km south of the capital of Kao Sub-District.19 The Makian
community was, and remains, exclusively Muslim. The location of the resettle-
ment site is a subject of some controversy today, with people on both sides of the
conflict suggesting that the district government chose this site to either halt the
southward spread of the Christian community of north Halmahera, and/or to place
a more progressive community in the area to stimulate development.20
The Makian community began to arrive in the area of the Pagu villages of
Malifut, Wangeotak, and Balisosang in the centre of Kao Sub-District (see Map 3)
in 1975. The local Pagu and wider Kao population welcomed the Makians,
offering them food and established banana, cassava and coconut gardens, as well
as land for building houses and cultivating gardens.21 From 1975 until 1980,
approximately 6,000 Makians were moved to Malifut. In 1999, the local govern-
ment calculated that there were approximately 16,000 Makians living in 16
villages in Malifut, plus a population of 26,704, predominantly from the Kao
ethnic group, living in the surrounding Kao Sub-District.22 During the second half
of the 1970s, the district government also moved Makian’s sub-district govern-
ment office. Entire villages were moved, retaining their Makian names (e.g.
Tahane, Ngofagita). Standing village leaders were also retained.23 In official
government documents the community was subsequently referred to as Malifut/
Makian Sub-District.
However, the sub-district never received formal recognition in its new location,
which required both the consent of the district parliament and legal recognition by
the Department of Home Affairs in Jakarta. The community of Malifut had there-
fore enjoyed the infrastructure of the sub-district of Makian without the adminis-
trative unit ever being granted any legal status and with no official recognition of
Makian land-ownership or formal institutions of self-government. The govern-
ment had also never formally established the border of the new sub-district, an
issue that gained significance after gold mining began in the area. The Kaos and
Makians also held fundamentally different perceptions of the status of the land on
which the Makians had settled. As discussed further below, the Kaos understood
the area of Malifut to be Kao traditional land on which they had permitted the
Makians to reside, as victims of a natural disaster. The Makians, however, consid-
ered the area of Malifut to be government land, and did not recognize traditional
Kao ownership. One Makian complained that the Kaos ‘constantly said we lived
on their land, but they did not realize it was government land and had been given to
us by the Department of Transmigration’.
Much of this confusion appears to have stemmed from the manner in which the
transmigration programme was carried out in 1975. The North Maluku District
government explained the programme in different ways to each community. In
order to overcome the reluctance of many Makians to leave their home island, the
government reassured them that their relocation was part of an official transmigra-
tion programme and that they would therefore receive legal ownership of land and
accompanying documentation. The Kaos, however, agreed to the relocation of the
 Initiation – Malifut 55
Makians on the understanding that the Makians were guests on Kao land. For the
Kaos, their traditional or customary ownership of the entire sub-district was
proved by their long history of settlement, place names in the area and important
landmarks, such as a gravesite containing both Christian and Muslim Kaos (as
discussed further below). However, no official recognition had ever been given to
Kao customary ownership of the territory in question. The district government
appears not to have made explicit the legality of either position.
For many Makians in Ternate and Malifut, the uncertain status of the
sub-district in Malifut was a major source of frustration. Many had been forced by
the government to leave Makian Island and resettle in north Halmahera, and had
been told that the resettlement programme was permanent and not a temporary
emergency relocation. In addition, the district government closed the sub-district
on Makian Island in 1995 on account of frequent volcanic activity, precluding any
return there by those Makians who wished to leave Halmahera.24 This grievance
was exacerbated by the fact that the Makians, like the Kaos, had a strong emotional
attachment to their homeland. Writing just after the transmigration of the commu-
nity to Malifut, Ronald Lucardie concluded ‘the unattractiveness of the resettle-
ment at Malifut to the Makianese thus cannot be adequately explained by their
practical objections … the emotional dimension – the persistent, strong attachment
to home villages on Makian – is the key.’25 Although having eventually resigned
themselves to remaining in Malifut, the lack of any sense of ‘ownership’ of their
new home area compounded their anger at having lost these close ties to Makian
Island.
Other aspects of the Kao–Makian relationship also caused tension. Despite two
decades of living in close proximity, the two groups lacked any meaningful inte-
gration. There were no cases of intermarriage, even between Muslim Kaos and
Makians. In 1999, although the Makian villages of Tahane and Ngofagita were
immediately contiguous with the Pagu villages of Sosol and Wangeotak, the
communities remained socially segregated. The two communities were also highly
unequal in terms of status and access to resources. In 1999, the Kao ethnic commu-
nity of 27,000 had only one member in the North Maluku District parliament. Kao
representation in the district bureaucracy was almost non-existent. Few Kaos
study in the provincial universities in Ternate and do not usually hold positions in
the education sector. Conversely, as discussed in Chapter 2, Makians were highly
influential in many sectors of North Maluku life. A large proportion of young
Makians had undertaken tertiary education and as a result Makians were heavily
represented in the government, bureaucracy and educational sector.
Strong mutual stereotypes also characterized the Kao–Makian relationship. The
Kaos considered the Makians to be greedy, and accused them of constantly
extending the territory allocated to them during their relocation to Malifut.26 They
believed that the Makians dominated the government and bureaucracy, which in
turn strongly favoured Makians over members of other groups for employment
and government funding. The Kaos perceived the greater economic success of
Malifut compared to their own villages to be a result of this disproportionate allo-
cation of funding.27 Many Makians stereotyped the Kaos as lazy and backward,
56 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
and considered the differences in development between the two communities to be
the result of their own greater industriousness. 28
Prior to 1999 several violent incidents broke out between the Malifut and Kao
communities, although none presaged the extent of destruction that would occur in
1999. In 1982, a Christian Kao was beaten and killed during fighting between
Makian and Kao youths. The young man had been invited to a family meal during
Ramadan by a Muslim girl.29 In 1989 community leaders and police prevented a
potential riot following a ‘mysterious death’. Most Kaos and Makians stated,
however, that these incidents were not connected to religion and that relations
between the two communities were generally ‘good enough’.30 One Christian
leader claimed that, before the conflict, Christian Kaos had better relations with
Muslim Makians than with Muslims from their own ethnic group, whom the
respondent considered to be more ‘fanatic’.31 According to this respondent, fights
were more common between Christian and Muslim Kaos than between Kaos and
Makians, although these generally concerned football, girlfriends and other
non-religious issues.
As discussed in the previous chapter, in June 1999 the mining company PT Nusa
Halmahera Mineral (NHM) commenced gold-mining operations at Gosowong,
near Malifut.32 NHM paid a number of ‘honorariums’ to local officials on
Halmahera and elsewhere, including the sub-district heads of Malifut and Kao.33
The company also constructed several schools in Malifut and Kao villages. With
350 local employees, NHM was the largest single employer in the immediate area.
By mid-1999 the composition of the workforce at the mine had become a conten-
tious issue. The Australian managers of the mine attempted a policy of employing
50 per cent from each community, but by August 1999 90 per cent of employees
were Makians and 10 per cent were Kaos, largely because of the higher levels of
education and better organizational skills among Makians.34 Small fights occurred
between Kao and Makian mine labourers before larger riots erupted in August. 35

A powerful ethnic group mobilizes

The wider Kao–Makian relationship began to deteriorate in 1999 following
efforts by Makians in Malifut and Ternate to have the Makian Sub-District in
Malifut legally recognized. As discussed above, the uncertain status of the
community in Malifut was a source of potential conflict, as the Kaos and
Makians held opposing views about the territory on which the community was
founded. The two sub-district governments appeared to operate in parallel,
although the Kaos continued to consider Malifut as legally part of Kao
Sub-District. This uncertainty frustrated many Makians, who considered that the
community deserved sub-district status after two decades of residence on land
which was (in their understanding) allocated to them through an official transmi-
gration programme. In addition, with the start of gold-mining operations at
Gosowong in June 1999, it became apparent that the Malifut area was a particu-
larly resource-rich area. The employment opportunities offered by NHM would
be highly beneficial to a community the size of Malifut. NHM also offered
 Initiation – Malifut 57
regular funding to both the local Kao and Malifut communities for the building
of schools and health facilities such as local clinics.
Many Makians saw the era of reformasi in late 1998 and early 1999 as an
opportunity to formalize the status of the sub-district of Malifut. Makians in the
government, the bureaucracy and the educational sector, along with Makian
students studying in Ternate, Ambon and elsewhere, launched a powerful polit-
ical initiative to achieve this goal. While the Makian elite outside Malifut led this
drive, Makian community members within Malifut also pressed to have their
sub-district formally recognized. In December 1998 community leaders from
Malifut and Kao met to discuss the possibility of formally separating Malifut
Sub-District from Kao. Several Makians claim that community leaders from the
Kao villages immediately adjacent to Malifut (Sosol and Wangeotak) agreed to
the plan.36 However, all Kaos deny having ever agreed to the establishment of a
new sub-district.
In December 1998, Makian students studying at Pattimura University in Ambon
pressed the provincial parliament to legalize the status of Makian Sub-District in
Malifut. In January a team of six Makian university students from Ternate and
Ambon travelled to Jakarta to pressure the Department of Home Affairs to issue a
government regulation (Peraturan Pemerintah, PP) making Malifut a formal
sub-district.37 The mobilization of these students appears to have been facilitated,
and their travel to Jakarta paid for, by the Makian elite in Ternate.
When meeting government officials in Jakarta, these students requested that
this new sub-district be called Kecamatan Makian Daratan di Malifut (The
Sub-District of Mainland Makian in Malifut).38 The group subsequently became
known as the Makayoa, after the islands of Makian and Kayoa (a neighbouring
island with strong ethnic connections to Makian). The group, including those
who had been studying in Ambon but could not return after rioting broke out in
that city on 19 January 1999, then returned to Ternate. Several months later the
former rector of Khairun University, Yusuf Abdurrahman, allegedly contacted
Makian students in Ujung Pandang (Makassar) and requested they return to
North Maluku to pressure first the government to inaugurate the sub-district, and
then, as will be seen, the Kao community to accept this decision.39
Many among the political elite in Ternate also campaigned for legal recognition
of Malifut Sub-District. In early 1999, the chairman of the district parliament,
Suleiman Adam, presented a letter to the district head of North Maluku, Abdullah
Assagaf, stating the consensus of the parliamentary assembly to formalize the
sub-district in Malifut.40 Assagaf himself agreed with creating a new political unit
in Malifut, believing it would increase administrative efficiency.41 The district
head subsequently travelled to Jakarta to request that officials of the Department of
Home Affairs issue a government regulation giving the sub-district legal status.
Most Makian students and members of the Makian elite involved in this move-
ment were motivated by ethnic solidarity. Many, although living in Ternate, had
been born and raised in Malifut, where, in many cases, their families continued to
live. Following the closure of the island of Makian, Malifut was the one area in
North Maluku that remained strongly Makian. In addition, most felt little affinity
58 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
with the Kaos. Malifut’s legal status as merely a part of Kao Sub-District had long
been a source of discontent among those with connections to the Malifut area.
Legal recognition of the sub-district would also legitimize the Malifut commu-
nity’s control over the area’s valuable economic resources. Prior to the formaliza-
tion of Malifut, the community was required to share the benefits of the NHM gold
mine with the larger Kao community. Particularly important in this regard were the
hundreds of employment positions at the mine, but the assistance paid by the
company to the community for the construction of schools and other infrastructure
was also important. If NHM were to be located within a newly independent
Malifut Sub-District, the Malifut community would monopolize these benefits.
However, such material and legal benefits of a new sub-district were probably
insufficient to inspire the political momentum that occurred among the elite. Many
in North Maluku suggest that the recognition of Malifut as an autonomous
sub-district was only a first step towards achieving a long-held goal for many
connected with Malifut – establishing the town as the capital of a district.42 In 1998
the district head, Ret. Lt Col. Abdullah Assagaf, had advocated the creation of a
new North Halmahera District covering the whole northern peninsula of
Halmahera.43 As the likelihood increased in early 1999 that North Maluku would
become a province in its own right, it became clear that the province would indeed
be divided into more than the existing three districts.44
The location of the capital of a North Halmahera District was a sensitive issue
for many in the area. As the oldest and largest town in north Halmahera, Tobelo
was the obvious choice as capital of a new district in northern Halmahera. But as a
successful, relatively affluent group of villages with an increasingly developed
infrastructure, and located closer to Ternate than Tobelo, many also considered
Malifut an ideal candidate for capital. In early 1999, Abdullah Assagaf asked the
Tobelo Christian community leader Hein Namotemo if he would obtain agreement
among the Tobelos for Malifut to become the capital of this new district.45
Namotemo refused, saying that it was very unlikely Halmaherans would agree. As
a series of villages officially within a sub-district (Kao) of which it was not capital,
Malifut had little chance of assuming this position when compared to Tobelo,
already the capital of its own sub-district.
It seems likely that the prospect of Malifut coming under the jurisdiction of
Tobelo as district capital was perceived unfavourably by many Makians. Makians
were unlikely to agree to being part of a new district dominated not only by
Halmaherans but also by Christians. In addition, following the new national laws
on regional financial autonomy, the choice of district capital had major financial
implications.46 Under Law 25/1999, 80 per cent of the royalties from mining was to
be returned to the region in which the mine was located, and 20 per cent held by the
central government. The government of the district in which the mine was located
would receive approximately 32 per cent of the production revenue.47 In 2001,
Nusa Halmahera Mineral paid to the central government US$2,064,594 in Exploi-
tation Rent and in 2002, US$911,715.48 Of that figure, the central government was
required by Law 25/1999 and Government Regulation 104/2000 to return to the
North Maluku District Government approximately US$700,000 and US$315,000
 Initiation – Malifut 59
for 2001 and 2002 respectively. The economic benefits of having the local govern-
ment located in Malifut would also be great in terms of employment, infrastructure
construction and development.
As the capital of a district, therefore, the community of Malifut, particularly
members of the government and bureaucracy located there, would receive consider-
able financial benefit.49 As a sub-district, however, Malifut would not necessarily
receive any of the royalties of the NHM gold mine, a factor that the large numbers of
well-informed Makian elite would clearly have been aware of.50 Most respondents
suggested that if it were eventually to become the capital of a district, Malifut first
had to become an autonomous sub-district. The desire of many Makians to achieve
this goal quickly may be attributed either to their concern that it should be accom-
plished in advance of the district elections in July 1999, coinciding with the national
election, or to the need to formalize the status of the sub-district before North
Maluku was inaugurated as a province in October 1999. It is possible that many
Makians were concerned that the support they enjoyed from the incumbent govern-
ment might not be repeated by a new district parliament.51
In short, Makians living in Malifut, Ternate and elsewhere pressed for the legal
recognition of Malifut Sub-District for several reasons. Makians outside Malifut,
including students studying in Ambon and elsewhere, felt a strong sense of ethnic
solidarity with the Malifut community since many had originated from or had
family living there. Many wished to see the creation of a successful Makian
‘homeland’ within North Maluku following the closure of Makian Island. Most of
those involved sought to afford Malifut exclusive access to the employment and
other benefits presented by NHM. It also appears likely that many in the Makian
elite sought to establish Malifut as a sub-district as a first step towards installing it
as the capital of a new district likely to be formed after the separation of North
Maluku from Maluku Province. The Makian students who actively advocated the
creation of a Malifut Sub-District were influenced and assisted in their efforts by
members of the Makian elite in Ternate, who covered the students’ travel costs to
and from Ambon, Jakarta and elsewhere.

Counter-mobilization
On May 26 1999, following the visit of Abdullah Assagaf to Jakarta, the Depart-
ment of Home Affairs in Jakarta released Government Regulation No. 42 (PP42),52
which legally recognized the Sub-District of Makian Daratan di Malifut. Several
people involved in pushing for PP42 suggested that officials in central government
departments in 1999 were very keen to support local programmes seen or
portrayed as being in the spirit of reformasi.53 However, the Kao community had
not been consulted since December 1998 about the creation of this new sub-district
within Kao.
The Kaos objected strongly when they first heard of the release of PP42 in May
1999. Their objections intensified when Kao community leaders became aware of
the new sub-district’s borders and the implications of the sub-district for their own
interests.54 Their objections were based on a number of factors, both identity-related
60 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
and resource-related. Makian di Malifut Sub-District included the entire area
covered under the Contract of Work (COW) held by NHM for mining on
Halmahera. Many Makians state that Kao officials, such as the sub-district head,
Mohtar Sangaji, provoked ordinary Kaos into opposing PP42 because these offi-
cials did not want to lose NHM funding.55 Kaos denied this, as did one Australian
employee of NHM.56 In fact, the Kaos denied that the mine was important in their
objections.57 Yet the mine cannot be discounted completely as a motivating factor.
The Kaos’ denial that the mine was important in their opposition to PP42 most
likely stemmed from a desire to emphasize cultural rather than economic motives,
the latter often seen in less sympathetic terms by the wider North Maluku commu-
nity. As the primary employer in the area, the mine was an important source of
livelihood for many ordinary Kaos, and it is reasonable to assume that many Kaos
would have seen the creation of a new Makian Sub-District as exacerbating the
unequal distribution of employment between Kaos and Makians.
However, issues of ownership of territory and the unity of the Kao ethnic group
were more important in these objections. The Kaos reiterated that the Makians had
moved to the area because of a natural disaster, not through an official transmigra-
tion programme. They were welcome as long as they respected Kao tradition
(adat).58 To the Kaos, this entailed the Makians recognizing that they lived on Kao
(especially Pagu) land. The Kaos argued that Makians who had moved to other
areas on Halmahera, such as Central Halmahera District and Ibu in northern
Halmahera, had not established new sub-districts.59 They also argued that Javanese
transmigrants relocated to Kao had not established new sub-districts.60
Kao objections to the name ‘Makian Daratan’ (Mainland Makian) were strongly
connected to the issue of land ownership. To the Kaos, the suggested name was a
violation of their traditional ownership of Kao territory. Many Kaos did not object
to the creation of a new sub-district in the area, as long as it was a division
(pemekaran) of Kao Sub-District, with its name reflecting this. Indeed, many Kao
community leaders told Makian leaders and government officials that they held no
objections to the creation of a new sub-district with the name ‘Kao Selatan’ (South
Kao) or ‘Pagu’.61 Makian leaders agreed to compromise by changing the name to
‘Makian di Malifut’ but refused to drop the word ‘Makian’ from the name,
because, according to one respondent, to do so would mean the Makians had been
effectively assimilated into an alien culture.62
Perhaps the most strongly articulated Kao objection to PP42 was that Makian di
Malifut Sub District would divide the Kao population. The boundary of the sub
district created by PP42 incorporated five Kao villages: Sosol, Wangeotak,
Balisosang, Gayok and Tabobo, meaning that a portion of the Kao community
would be separated from the majority in Kao Sub-District.63 The Kaos are very
proud of the integrity of the four sub-groups of their community and point to a long
history of these groups living and fighting together. A strong feeling of ethnic soli-
darity prevailed among both Christian and Muslim Kaos. This feeling of solidarity
was symbolized by a well-maintained grave in the centre of Kao village containing
Kaos from both religions, and also by the principle ‘hidup bersama, mati sekubur’
(live together, dead in one grave).64 According to local oral history, in 1904 the
 Initiation – Malifut 61
Kaos travelled from Gosowong to the area of present-day Kao village to attack a
Dutch military base. In the clash between the Kaos and the Dutch army, seven
Kaos – four Christians and three Muslims – were killed. Following a consultation
between the community leaders of the various sub-ethnic groups and religious
leaders, the decision was made to bury the seven casualties in one grave.
Several Kao community leaders said cultural differences between the Kaos and
the Makians were so strong that it was not feasible for any Kaos to live in Makian
di Malifut Sub-District.65 As well as fearing that the Kao community would be
divided, many Kaos held concerns about being ‘controlled’ by a Makian-domi-
nated sub-district government. Villagers from Sosol and Wangeotak often
described the tensions surrounding PP42 by stating that the Makians ‘wanted to
control us, but we are the indigenous people of this land’.66 Therefore, both the
Kaos and the Makians had similar concerns about becoming subordinate to
another ethnic group.
There were two major Kao protests against the creation of Makian di Malifut
Sub-District. The Kaos protested outside the Kao and Malifut Sub-District govern-
ment offices in May after hearing of the release of PP42, and a delegation visited
the district head, Abdullah Assagaf, in Ternate in the same month. The primary
objection put to the district head was that the inhabitants of some villages included
in the new sub-district were Kaos and that this would undermine Kao unity and
land ownership.67 Assagaf told the Kaos that the creation of the sub-district was an
administrative issue, not an emotional one, and that they should accept the govern-
ment’s decision
As Kao protests mounted, pressure from some Makians also grew. The
Makayoa student group held demonstrations in Ternate to pressure the district
parliament not to accede to the Kaos protests and to inaugurate the new
sub-district. On 13 August several dozen members of the Makayoa organization
travelled to Malifut to bolster support among the Makian community for PP42 and
to pressure those Kao villages located within the new sub-district to accept the
regulation. When the Kaos voiced their objections, the Makayoa stated that a
government regulation had been released and that to change it the Kaos would
have to go to Jakarta, a task beyond most Kaos.68 When Kao leaders protested
about PP42 to the government in Ternate, Yunus Abbas, the first assistant to the
head of the bureaucracy, himself a Makian, also stated that the regulation was
already legally binding and it was too late to change.69
As the Kaos continued to refuse to accept PP42, the Makians assumed a more
belligerent and confrontational approach towards the Kaos. Many Makians, partic-
ularly the Makayoa student group, were angered that the Kaos were attempting to
prevent them from being officially recognized as the permanent residents of what
was, to their minds, government-owned land. By this time, a high proportion of
Makians were convinced that it was the inhabitants of Sosol, in particular, who
were resisting inclusion in Makian di Malifut Sub-District.70
Officials from the district government in Ternate, including Abdullah Assagaf,
asked Kao leaders to convince the Kao community to accept PP42. Those
approached included the local Protestant minister (pendeta), Pastor Salamena,
62 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
who refused to cooperate.71 When, because of continued Kao opposition, Assagaf
began to publicly express doubts that the situation in Malifut and Kao was condu-
cive to the inauguration of the new sub-district, the position of the Makayoa
student group in Malifut became more antagonistic.72

The August riot

At around 9 p.m. on 18 August, stones were thrown at houses in the Pagu (Kao)
village of Sosol, according to some accounts following a dispute at a party. Ten
minutes later, violence broke out between residents of Sosol and the neigh-
bouring Makian village of Tahane. A major attack was subsequently launched
from Malifut as shouts of ‘Allahu Akbar’ were heard from the Tahane mosque.73
In the initial attack from Tahane, the father of the village head of Sosol, Yordan
Moumou, was killed. The attack appears to have largely stopped overnight and
restarted the following morning. At 6 a.m. both communities regathered, and at 8
a.m. there was a further Sosol casualty, Erasmus Dodowol. The community of
Sosol was able to resist the attack for several hours, when the entire community
fled to the beach and was evacuated by boat to the capital, Kao. The entire village
of Sosol was destroyed, including the church and school. Still in Malifut, the
Makayoa students were involved in the attack, and the leader of the group was
killed in Sosol.74
On the morning of 19 August Makians from Tahane, Ngofagita and other
villages attacked the neighbouring Pagu village of Wangeotak.75 One man was
killed in the attack, and the village resisted for only a few hours, after which the
community was evacuated to Kao with the help of local military personnel and
reinforcements that had arrived from the military company based in Tobelo. As
with Sosol, every house and the church in Wangeotak were destroyed. The isola-
tion of Sosol and Wangeotak from other Kao villages meant there was little chance
of either village repelling the attacks. By the afternoon, the two villages at the
centre of opposition to being included in Malifut lay smouldering.
The five security personnel present in Malifut until reinforcements arrived from
Tobelo were completely overwhelmed. The commander of the unit stated that,
given there were over a thousand Kaos and Makians fighting, it would not have
been a ‘good idea’ for his personnel to shoot at the crowds.76 The military merely
shot in the air, to little effect. Reinforcements did not arrive from Tobelo until 11
a.m. that morning and were only able to assist in the evacuation of Wangeotak. The
Kaos, including villagers from the northern part of the sub-district, attempted
several counterattacks on 20 and 21 August. They destroyed the infrastructure in
the eastern part of Malifut, including the large Malifut market and bus terminal.
However, military personnel from Tobelo eventually repelled these attacks.
The exact intentions of the two communities involved in the first hours of fighting
on the evening of 18 August cannot be known with certainty. Unsurprisingly,
members of both communities claim the other initiated the violence. It seems
unlikely that the Kaos of Sosol and Wangeotak, vastly outnumbered by surrounding
Makians, would have launched an attack. The two Kao villages are approximately
 Initiation – Malifut 63
15–20 km away from the closest reinforcements and would surely suffer defeat in
any conflict with the Makians unless they had first arranged assistance from their
wider community. It is possible that the fighting may have begun spontaneously in
the midst of a party involving alcohol and loud music. Yet the scale of the Makian
attack against the two villages, along with the surrounding tension over the refusal of
these two villages to accept PP42, suggests that a degree of organization was also
involved on the part of the Makians. The attack also eliminated the two villages seen
as posing the greatest obstacle to the viability of the new sub-district. It seems likely
that it was members of the Makayoa student group who provoked and organized this
attack.

Government partiality
On Saturday 21 August the new district head of North Maluku, Rusli Andiaco, the
district head of police, Lt Col. Didik Prijandono, and the Sultan of Ternate,
Mudaffar Syah, travelled from the district capital, Ternate, to pacify the situation.
The sultan, at that time the chairman of the North Maluku District parliament, was
highly respected by the Kaos as a traditional leader.77 The delegation met with
community leaders from both Kao and Malifut. Kao leaders say they demanded
two things: that the government rebuild Sosol and Wangeotak and that PP42 be
cancelled. However, several more belligerent community leaders pressed for a
further demand, that the entire Makian community leave Malifut.78
The Sultan of Ternate managed to pacify the Kaos. He agreed with the Kaos that
the Makians had violated local traditions and that the four sub-ethnic groups of the
Kaos should not be separated. But he also insisted that the problem had to be
resolved through traditional forms of resolution, including meetings between
community leaders, and not through violence.79 As will be seen in later chapters,
different perceptions of the sultan’s response to the Kaos’ demands and to the 18
August riot were central to the development of violence later in 1999. Many
members of the Makian elite believe that the sultan told the Kaos that PP42 would
be cancelled and that he supported retaliatory action. They believe the Kaos there-
fore considered that they had permission to carry out further attacks against
Malifut.
Yet the Kaos initially attempted diplomatic efforts to resolve the conflict, which
suggests that the sultan did not recommend retaliation. Kao community leaders
formed a delegation called the Team of Nine to make representations to the
government in Ternate.80 The Team of Nine made two trips to Ternate, the first to
meet with the Sultan of Ternate, the second to meet with members of the North
Maluku parliament. The delegation told the sultan that since the Makians had
violated hak adat (traditional rights) and destroyed the houses and churches of the
indigenous population, they had to leave Malifut.81 The sultan again ordered the
Kaos not to break tradition and told them they were forbidden to expel the
Makians.82
The Team of Nine’s second visit to Ternate in late September was to the district
parliament. The Kaos demanded the cancellation of PP42 and the rehabilitation of
64 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Sosol and Wangeotak. According to one member of the Team of Nine, there was
already a feeling among some members of the district parliament that the rioting
was caused by religious animosity, a claim the Kao representatives strongly
denied.83 The members of the Team of Nine were also forced to refute an accusa-
tion from a member of the assembly that it was Muslim Kaos who had destroyed
churches in Sosol and Wangeotak, not the Makians. 84
Following the return of the Team of Nine in late August, the Kaos waited for
funding to reconstruct the two destroyed villages, while IDPs from those villages
lived in temporary accommodation in the capital. There was little response from
the district government, and neither the communities of Sosol and Wangeotak nor
the Kao Sub-District government received any funding for the reconstruction of
the villages. The government did not rescind PP42 nor was any investigation
carried out into the attack and no charges were laid against anyone involved.
There are several explanations for this lack of response from the district govern-
ment. It is likely that many officials were busy with preparations for the inaugura-
tion of the province, to take place on 12 October. In addition, the Team of Nine was
not particularly influential in Ternate, partly because there was only one Kao in the
district parliament. When compared to the political influence enjoyed by the
Makians in North Maluku, this weakness was all the more apparent. The Sultan
and the several Christian members of parliament from Halmahera were in a
substantial minority in the parliament and unable successfully to represent the
Kaos. Indeed, the Sultan of Ternate did little to press the Kaos claims in Ternate,
perhaps focusing more on his political campaign to become governor and
unwilling to jeopardize this campaign by becoming involved in the incident.
More importantly, most members of the parliament, especially Makian
members, believed that since PP42 was already authorized by the Department of
Home Affairs, the Kao community would therefore be forced to accept it. It
appears that they also felt that the Kaos were not in a position either to lobby
Jakarta directly to have PP42 cancelled or to retaliate for the destruction of Sosol
and Wangeotak. It is likely that Makians in Ternate, and the government in
general, considered that the military unit stationed on the north-eastern border of
Malifut was adequate to resist small attacks like those that had come from Kao
after the destruction of the two villages. There was clearly little foresight of the
events that were to come in Malifut.

The October riot

When the Kaos received no response from the local government throughout
October, their perception of unjust treatment at the hands of a Makian-dominated
government increased. The Kaos’ anger at the Makians for destroying Sosol and
Wangeotak was compounded by this perceived bias of the government, a govern-
ment that had failed to provide funds for the villages’ rehabilitation or prosecute
anyone involved in the incident. For this reason, the Kaos’ focus shifted from
diplomatic efforts to preparations for physical retaliation, led by a highly respected
and feared Kao, Benny (Bernard) Bitjara.85 The Kaos made a large number of
 Initiation – Malifut 65
traditional weapons such as bows, spears and machetes. Many also made a
powerful variant of the Molotov cocktail from sulphur extracted from bombs
found on the several Japanese World War II battleships sunk off the coast of Kao.
On the morning of Sunday 24 October a clash occurred between Muslim Kaos
and Makians in coconut fields in Kalijodo, the area bordering the two sub-districts.
Versions of this incident from the two sides differ sharply.86 What is clear is that a
large group of Makians requested permission from the military officer in charge of
guarding the eastern edge of Malifut to enter their coconut gardens, which were
located in no man’s land between that military post and the border of Kao. At that
time, as many Christian Kaos were attending church, the border was guarded by
approximately 12 Muslim Kaos.87
The intention of this group of Makians is a matter of disagreement. Makians
involved maintain that they were merely planning to gather coconuts.88 All Kaos
interviewed, however, including several who were guarding the border at that
time, say that at least a hundred armed Makians in trucks, having passed through
the military line, directly attacked the Kao guards, and obviously intended to attack
the capital, Kao.89 The Kaos claim the men guarding the border held back the
Makians using bows and arrows until reinforcements arrived following the church
service.
A number of factors nevertheless suggest that the Makians did not intend to
attack that day. After two months of tension and restricted movement, the Malifut
community was very short of food.90 Therefore it is highly likely the Makians were
gathering coconuts and the dangers of working so close to Kao may explain the
large number of armed men who entered the field. It is also unlikely that 12 Kao
men with bows and arrows could have stopped the advance of over a hundred men
in trucks. According to the Kaos, the Makians had only machetes, not bombs or
petrol, which are the usual weapons for attacking a village. In addition, a senior
military officer present at the time of the clash stated that the Makians were defi-
nitely just gathering coconuts, and were then attacked by a large number of Kaos.91
The information available suggests that the Makians did not intend to attack the
Kao capital, at least on 24 October. There are, however, much stronger indications
that at least some Kaos had planned a large-scale assault on Malifut and used the
clash in the coconut field as a pretext to launch this attack, namely the massive and
rapid mobilization of a huge militia and the great preparation demonstrated by the
attack. The man who had led Kao preparations for military action over the past
month, Benny Bitjara, was also present in Kao that weekend, having travelled
from his home in south Tobelo Sub-District and led the large Kao attack the
following day.
Following the initial fight in the coconut field, during which, around five
Makians were killed (and no Kaos), the Makians were driven back to Malifut, and
the Kaos reassembled in the capital along with others from the large northern
villages of Pediwang and Gamlaha. Reportedly notified by messengers travelling
in cars, Kaos from the west of the sub-district joined them in the capital.92 In the
early morning of 25 October, Benny Bitjara led perhaps 5,000 armed Kaos in a
massive attack on Malifut.93
66 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
In the attack, the Kaos used sulphur bombs, a small number of homemade fire-
arms, bows and arrows and spears. Almost all men carried machetes. The Makians
attempted to defend their villages with only stones, and were completely over-
whelmed. Because of the rising tensions associated with PP42 and the initial riots,
the majority of the Malifut population had already fled over the preceding weeks,
leaving only approximately 5,000 (mostly men) in Malifut.94 The military unit
guarding the border abandoned any attempt to prevent the two sides from clashing
because the number of Kaos attacking Malifut was far too large.
Among the Makians there were hasty deliberations over the best response. The
village head of Tahane argued for attempting to hold out and guard Malifut.
However, the majority of community leaders decided the Kao force was too great
and opted to evacuate the population to the sub-district military compound in
Malifut.95 The Makians had resisted the attack for less than an hour. The speed
with which the Makians were driven from Malifut meant that only three people
were killed.96 Several Kao leaders stated that their goal was to drive the Malifut
community from the area, not to kill large numbers. However, the scale of destruc-
tion that took place as the Makians were evacuated was massive. Every house in all
16 villages was either bombed or burned. The entire infrastructure of the
sub-district was destroyed, including the sub-district government office, although
several schools were left untouched.97
Before the attack, Benny Bitjara and other Kao leaders had ordered militia
members not to destroy mosques. Following the expulsion of the Makians, Benny
Bitjara took a military officer to each mosque in order to confirm that it had not
been destroyed.98 The Kaos also raised an Indonesian flag in front of each one.
Bitjara gave the order to protect the mosques because, first, Muslim Kaos were
involved in the attack and, second, he sought to demonstrate that this conflict was
not ‘about religion’.99
Representatives of the district government arrived in Malifut to assess the situa-
tion, meeting Makian leaders in the military base and also calling the Team of Nine
from Kao. The members of the Team of Nine demanded the Makians be taken
from the area, and Makian community leaders stated their unwillingness to return
to their villages. The remaining Malifut population was then evacuated by truck to
Sidangoli and from there by speedboat to Ternate.

Why did violence come to North Maluku?

After two decades of coexistence and economic cooperation, the relationship
between the Kaos and Makians quickly deteriorated in 1999. In August this
animosity spilled over into fighting leading to the destruction of two Kao villages,
and in October to the razing of Malifut to the ground. The case demonstrates the
complexity of civil conflict, illustrating the interaction of structure and agency,
emotion and reason, and leadership and mass sentiment that plays a role in causing
violence. The following section discusses the importance of structural conditions
such as political inequality, attachments to territory and religious sentiment, along
 Initiation – Malifut 67
with the agency involved in the mobilization to form a new sub-district and in the
August and October riots themselves.

Mobilization and counter-mobilization

Events in Malifut before and during this violence concur closely with the patterns
suggested in Resource Mobilization theory. The relationship between the Kaos
and Makians on Halmahera had not been particularly intimate before the conflict
and occasional brawls had broken out between youths from the two communities.
Yet, while largely segregated, the two communities had never experienced
large-scale violent conflict, and the relationship had not been affected to any great
degree by the conflict in Ambon. Successful mobilization by members of the
provincial Makian community to divide Kao Sub-District and provide the Makians
in Malifut with their own territory changed the relationship, perhaps irrevocably.
This campaign was stimulated by changes in the prevailing ‘opportunity struc-
ture’. The impending pemekaran of the province and the creation of a new North
Halmahera District threatened to place Malifut under the control of Tobelo, at a
time when new decentralization laws had increased the influence of district
governments over sub-district or village-level governments. At the same time, the
new decentralization laws, along with the presence of a lucrative gold mine,
presented the community of Malifut with the opportunity to gain substantial finan-
cial benefits if it were to become the capital of one of the new districts created in
place of the old North Maluku District. The strong Makian ethnic network
throughout the province and the influence of the Makian elite, allowed the
Makians to achieve their goal without consulting the Kaos. The influence of the
Makians in the government and bureaucracy also led to these institutions ignoring
the Kaos’ subsequent opposition.
Threatened by the success of the Makians, the Kaos launched a strong
grass-roots counter-mobilization to delegitimate the new sub-district. The loss of
the gold mine from Kao territory caused concerns among the community about the
loss of employment and other revenue. Their conviction that they were being
deprived of resources that had traditionally belonged to them increased a feeling of
frustration among many members of the community. The economic benefits of the
territory of Malifut, particularly the gold mine at Gosowong, were obviously a
central motivation in this early stage of the spiral of mobilization and
counter-mobilization.

Attachment to territory
But the rational element of this competition alone does not explain why the two
communities resorted to violence. For the Kaos, territory was not just a source of
economic livelihood in the form of copra crops and more recently gold, but was
also central to their sense of ethnic identity. The Kaos had all the connections with
territory identified by Toft: they had lived for centuries on the land; the territory
bore their name; and they had shed blood in their defence of their land. The bound-
aries of the new sub-district also threatened another important element of Kao
68 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
ethnic identity, the unity of all four sub-ethnic groups. The Kaos’ counter-mobili-
zation was therefore infused with emotion. It was nevertheless non-violent and
institutionalized in the first instance.
The issue of territory was also volatile in this case because it was central to the
inter-subjective understandings between the two communities. Control over the
territory of Malifut was the one advantage the Kaos still held over the more politi-
cally powerful and economically successful Makian migrants. While the Kaos
suffered from a lower level of development, education and representation in the
local government, their sense of deprivation stemming from this inferior position
had been assuaged by the knowledge that the Makians lived, as their guests, on
Kao land. This status was now at stake – a highly emotional issue for the Kaos. The
Kaos felt that the creation of a separate sub-district in Malifut violated their status
as the indigenous community of the area by reassigning ownership of their land
without their agreement, separating members of the Kao community and using the
name of a migrant group for the new sub-district. As such, in line with Horowitz’s
theory, perceptions of relative group worth played a central role in the violence in
Malifut.
For the Makians, too, territory was central to their understanding of their own
status relative to the Kaos. Many had become frustrated by uncertainty over their
right to live in Malifut and by the Kaos’ continuing claim that they lived on Kao
land. Many Makians, particularly the Makayoa student group, were angered that
the Kaos were attempting to prevent what was to them a long-overdue process: the
recognition of the Malifut community as the official owners of the territory on
which they had resided for 25 years.100 Their resentment was intensified by their
perception that the Kaos might prevent them from profiting from the lucrative gold
mine. The strength of these emotions led to a more belligerent response to Kao
opposition (especially by the Makayoa student group) and eventually the destruc-
tion of the two Kao villages that posed the greatest obstacle to the viability of the
new sub-district. Therefore, as in most, if not all, cases of communal conflict, the
interaction of both material and non-material factors increased the likelihood of
violence.

Government partiality
A further crucial factor in the riots in both August and October was government
partiality. The Malifut case strongly suggests that violence can become more likely
if both communities perceive the authorities to be biased in their treatment of the
dispute. In such cases, one party may feel aggrieved at the partiality of the authori-
ties, while the other may feel a sense of empowerment from the apparently assured
government support. In the Malifut case, violence was initiated by a group, the
Makian, which considered itself to have political and economic weight behind it.
In ignoring Kao concerns and finally in attacking Sosol and Wangeotak, the
Makians were motivated not just by economic interest and frustration at the uncer-
tain status of Malifut, but a sense that they could act with impunity because of the
backing of the district government.
 Initiation – Malifut 69
A lack of government impartiality also partly explains the actions of the Kaos in
October. When the district government failed to respond to any of their demands
following the August riot, Kao perceptions of bias on the part of that government
increased. In line with Meyer and Staggenborg’s argument about counter-move-
ments, this prompted members of the Kao elite to employ a ‘non-institutionalized’
strategy to counter the success of their opponents – namely large-scale preparation
for conflict and eventually massive violent retaliation against Malifut. Therefore
the manner in which the sub-district was formed acted as a catalyst to transform the
tension concerning the territory into violence.

Religious sentiment
Given that the conflict in Ambon had been raging for seven months by August, it is
necessary to consider the role of religion in this first large violent incident in North
Maluku. There is little doubt that, for some among the Makayoa, the experience of
religious conflict in Ambon increased their antagonism towards the predominantly
Christian Kaos. For the Kao community, too, stories of the conflict in the south of
the province probably increased their suspicion of, and animosity towards, the
Makians throughout this period. Inter-religious tension was perhaps increased by
the presence of a small number of Ambonese IDPs in Kao.101 Shouts of ‘Allahu
Akbar’ from the Tahane mosque in Malifut and the destruction of the churches in
Sosol and Wangeotak demonstrated some degree of religious tension in the
Makian attack in August.
However, the evidence strongly suggests that religious sentiment or tension was
not the primary cause of either the August or the October attacks and motivated
only a minority of the individuals involved. The violence in Malifut can be seen as
the result of months of tension arising from the creation of the new sub-district in
Malifut. The initial dispute was related primarily to those factors addressed above:
ethnic solidarity and competition; the importance of traditional land to the Kaos;
and the Makians’ frustration at the refusal of the Kaos to recognize what they saw
as their rights. Illustrating the non-religious character of the conflict, Muslim and
Christian Kaos maintained ethnic solidarity in the face of what was ultimately
ethnic antagonism, Muslim Kaos joining in retaliatory attacks against the Muslim
Makians. No other Muslim or Christian ethnic groups assisted the Makians or
Kaos until members of the Makian elite subsequently reframed the conflict in
terms of religion, as discussed in the next chapter.102 Kao relations with other
Islamic communities in the area, including Javanese transmigrants, remained civil
throughout 1999 until religious violence elsewhere forced them to flee the
island.103

Agency
The actions of several influential individuals brought the emotional impact of
these macro conditions (ties to territory and government partiality) to the fore.
These actions translated the tension in the sub-district into violence. The presence
and rhetoric of the Makayoa student group in Malifut in August played a crucial
70 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
role in the attack on 18 August. Responsibility for the violence also lies with those
elites who mobilized students both to engender support among the Malifut
community and to intimidate the Kaos. Most respondents interviewed regarding
this mobilization claimed it was carried out by Yusuf Abdurrahman, the Makian
former rector of Khairun University. In pressing through PP42 without any
consultation of the Kaos and then ignoring and delegitimating Kao objections and
claims for compensation, many members of the district government paved the way
for the August and October riots. The leadership of Benny Bitjara was also crucial
in the latter event. His determination to launch forceful retaliation against the
Makians for violating traditional rights, and his charismatic leadership, played a
large part in preparing the Kaos for the October attack.

Conclusion
By the end of October all the villages that were to constitute the new sub-district of
Malifut lay in ruins. The Makians of Malifut were again IDPs, compelled to leave
this time not by force of nature or by government decree, but by overwhelming
physical assault. This chapter has asserted that what made the creation of a
sub-district in Malifut such a volatile issue was the importance of the territory in
question to all parties: it was simultaneously economically valuable; important to
the ethnic identity of one group; and a crucial element of the inter-subjective
understandings of the two communities. Government partiality exacerbated this
tension, as did the actions of several individuals among the Ternate elite.
The ethnic clash between the mainly Christian Kaos and Muslim Makians
subsequently sparked religious war throughout almost all areas of North Maluku,
as discussed in the following chapters. However, while the North Maluku conflict
became religious in character, this chapter has shown that it did not begin as such.
The initial conflict stemmed from local issues. For the Kaos in particular, the
dispute was ethnic in character, a fact underscored by the assistance given by
Muslim Kaos to Christians in the October attack on Malifut. As will be seen,
Muslim and Christian Kaos continued to maintain ethnic solidarity throughout the
subsequent inter-religious North Maluku conflict.104 Yet Christians still living
unaware in Ternate and Tidore were to become the next victims as the province
moved tragically towards religious war.
4 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore

Introduction
It was in Ternate and Tidore, North Maluku’s historic centres of political and
religious power, that the violence took a religious turn. For centuries, Christians
had enjoyed relative security in the regional capitals despite the islands’ strong
Islamic heritage. But in November 1999, in the wake of the Malifut conflict, they
appeared to be caught up in a wave of Muslim anger. Rioting mobs targeted
Christians regardless of ethnicity, and destroyed their homes and churches. The
violence in these two cities set off a wave of killing and destruction that engulfed
the entire province.
This chapter considers not only why violence spread to the two major provin-
cial centres, but how and why the conflict escalated from a border dispute
between ethnic groups into an inter-religious war involving all ethnic communi-
ties in the province.1 It examines the common claim that the riots were the inevi-
table result of a flood of IDPs from Malifut and the rumours that accompanied
them. It concludes that while the condition of these IDPs elicited sympathy from
Muslims in Ternate this was not the primary reason for the spread of violence to
the capital, nor for the dramatic emergence of religion as the primary marker in
the conflict.
By the time the violence had spread to Tidore and Ternate it displayed a marked
degree of organization. Members of the Makian elite portrayed the earlier clashes
in Malifut as religious in character so as to displace blame from their own commu-
nity for these events and to obtain sympathy from the wider Islamic community for
retaliation against the Kaos on Halmahera. When prevented by the security forces
from returning to launch retaliatory attacks, the group focused their attentions on
Christians on Tidore and Ternate. To make these attacks possible, powerful
members of the elite immobilized the only institutions capable of halting the
violence, the military (TNI) and police (Polri). In this, these elites found ready
allies among other high-ranking politicians with a different goal – to undermine
the daunting political support enjoyed by their political rival, the Sultan of Ternate.
The following section will outline several theoretical considerations of how
violence can escalate; the remainder of the chapter then describes and analyzes the
riots themselves.
72 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Leadership and mass sentiment in the escalation of conflict
A central question in the study of violent conflict concerns the relationship
between elite leadership and mass-level sentiment and action. Is conflict most
often created from above, as a means of achieving the interests of political or
economic elites, or do interests and prejudices among, and the actions of, ordinary
community members constitute the predominant cause of violence? As the
following discussion on the escalation of violence and the case addressed in this
chapter demonstrate, this relationship is often complex. It indicates that, often,
neither can be considered in isolation from the influence of the other – leadership
and mass-level factors are invariably mutually constitutive.
The escalation of violence from a minor, non-sectarian dispute into widespread
communal conflict often appears to occur almost naturally. Even isolated criminal
acts or traffic accidents can eventually escalate into large-scale sectarian violence
when ethnic or religious sympathies attract large numbers to the dispute. Charles
Tilly asserts that when parties to a minor incident call on their friends and family to
support them, they can inadvertently redefine the situation as sectarian. Tilly terms
this process ‘network-based escalation’.2 Anonymous rumours often exaggerate
the extent of minor incidents and provoke anger and, ultimately, sectarian rioting.
These rumours, often combined with the movement of refugees and other manifes-
tations of the dispute, produce anger and feelings of insecurity, reduce the apparent
feasibility of peaceful solutions and legitimize militant actors within society.3
When escalation is viewed in this manner, an initial violent incident is seen as
spontaneously igniting the ‘dry grass’ of long-standing tensions between two or
more communal groups.

Reframing conflict
Yet, in many cases, escalation of a conflict is more intentional. In such cases, indi-
viduals deliberately portray an initial dispute as sectarian in nature as a means of
achieving some political or economic goal.4 In his study of communal violence in
South Asia, Stanley Tambiah shows how immediately before many cases of wide-
spread communal rioting, members of the political and economic elite had publicly
misrepresented previous interpersonal, business or other disputes.5 They had
removed any acknowledgement of the specific context and local character of inci-
dents, distorting them so that they ‘appeal to larger deeper, more emotive and
enduring loyalties and cleavages’.6 Tambiah terms this strategy ‘focalization’ and
‘transvaluation’.
Paul Brass agrees, pointing to the fact that incidents similar to those which
trigger communal rioting have occurred on numerous other occasions and passed
almost unnoticed. According to Brass, the difference in outcome depends on the
surrounding political context and who stands to gain and who to lose from rein-
terpreting or politicizing such events.7 Undoubtedly many cases of communal
rioting are a direct consequence of the propaganda efforts of members of the
elite. When elites exhort their followers to avenge murders committed within
places of worship, the brutal rape of women and other examples of inhumanity,
 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 73
they can provoke fury that is only assuaged by violence against the apparent
perpetrators.
However, in some cases it is possible to overstate the role of propaganda in
explaining why people engage in sectarian rioting. In fact, propaganda, particu-
larly when carried out anonymously, is sometimes used to make rioting appear
spontaneous when it was in fact planned and orchestrated. As stated above, Brass
demonstrates that communal riots are often preceded by a portrayal of everyday
incidents as sectarian in nature. However, he also makes clear that these riots are
often instigated and carried out by ‘riot specialists’. These ‘specialists’ are not
acting because they have been plied with, and believed, propaganda, but because
they have a direct interest in violence. In their review of six books on cases of
ethnic violence, James Fearon and David Laitin come to a similar conclusion.
They assert that the evidence suggests that in many cases where members of the
elite appear to have mobilized a form of ‘false consciousness’ in their followers in
order to get them to engage in violence, the masses were ‘not duped at all’. Rather
they have acted out of their own interests, ‘such as looting, land grabs, and
personal revenge’.8
Horowitz and other scholars demonstrate that once rioting has begun, larger
numbers of participants will subsequently join the violence, including a wider
section of the community with no direct involvement in preceding incidents.9
Many of these people become involved for a range of reasons, including excite-
ment, the opportunity to loot victims’ houses and a sense that the violence erupting
on the streets and the destruction of buildings confirm the content of recent propa-
ganda. Underlying this participation is a sense that they can take part with impu-
nity, having seen that the rioting is not prevented and no punishment is incurred by
participants.
The reaction of the security forces is therefore crucial to the onset and scale of
rioting. The response of the security forces to a particular outbreak of killing and
burning may be influenced by the prejudices of commanders or by less malign
factors, such as incapacity or incompetence. Yet in many other cases, their
response is directly tied to the interests of civilian leaders who exercise authority
over them. Tambiah has shown that in Trilokpuri, India, politicians mobilized
crowds for violence while simultaneously putting pressure on the security forces
in order to ‘immobilize’ them.10
Similarly, considering the incidence of inter-religious violence in India, Steven
Wilkinson concludes that parties whose platform is based on ethnic or religious
identity sometimes stimulate sectarian tension as a means of winning the votes of
members of their target community who would otherwise vote along lines other
than ethnic or religious affiliation.11 This is sometimes achieved through holding
marches or other activities that provoke counter-mobilization by members of the
other ethnic or religious community. Whether these local provocations lead to
violence depends on the electoral incentives of the party controlling the state
government. If the current government enjoys the support of the minority group at
risk or may need that group’s support in the future, it will almost always order the
security forces to prevent attacks against that group.12 If it does not require its
74 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
support but is at risk of losing an election to an opposition party that does, incum-
bent politicians will be far less likely to protect that community. Wilkinson states
that ‘abundant comparative evidence shows that large-scale ethnic rioting does not
take place where a state’s army or police force is ordered to stop it using all means
necessary’ but that the police and military will only intervene and halt violence if
ordered to do so by their civilian, political superiors. 13

Ternate and Tidore in 1999

The two volcanic islands of Ternate and Tidore, home to two great historical
regional powers, are separated by a deep but narrow tract of water. Having
amassed substantial power from the spice trade, these two kingdoms projected
influence to far-flung territories such as Ambon, Papua and Sulawesi. Each manip-
ulated global rivalries to further their own interests. Over this period, Ternate and
Tidore also came to embody the strong Islamic character of the region. Their rulers
converted to Islam in the sixteenth century, assuming the title of sultan, and the
religion spread quickly throughout the archipelago. For centuries, the sultans of
the two islands were the traditional rulers of the region, respected equally by Chris-
tians, Muslims and animists.
Both the Ternate and Tidore sultanates have declined in power and political
importance over the ensuing centuries. During the colonial era, most sultans in
Indonesia were stripped of formal political power – a process which continued into
the post-independence era. However, as traditional figures of great political and
religious authority, many sultans exercised substantial ‘charismatic’ influence
over local communities. Many retained traditional palaces (kraton or kedaton) and
numerous staff. Some used this informal influence to assume positions of real
political power within the former regime of President Suharto.
This was the case with the Sultan of Ternate. Although he held no formal consti-
tutional power by merit of his traditional position, the Sultan of Ternate enjoyed
strong loyalty within communities in Ternate and north Halmahera. In 1999, the
current sultan, Mudaffar Syah, retained a palace (kedaton) and a large palace guard
(colloquially known as the Pasukan Kuning) and regular ceremonies were held in
his honour. Ternates continued to believe that the sultan possessed strong spiritual
or magical powers which were intimately connected to the volcano that looms
imposingly above Ternate City. In addition to this traditional influence, the sultan
had assumed actual political authority during the Suharto era. By early 1999,
Mudaffar Syah was chairman of the North Maluku branch of the nationally
predominant political party, Golkar, and as a result of this party’s dominance in
local politics, was elected chairman of the district parliament.
The Tidore Sultanate had not retained the same level of traditional influence in
North Maluku as its neighbour and historical rival, and it became vacant after inde-
pendence. Over ensuing decades, the palace of the sultanate on the eastern side of
Tidore fell into disrepair. In 1999, however, not long before the new province of
North Maluku was to be inaugurated, the district-head of Central Halmahera,
Bahar Andili, nominated a new sultan, Djafar Syah. The district parliament
Map 4 Ternate
76 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
supported the nomination and, as the new province was inaugurated, he was
installed as sultan.14
In early 1999 Ternate was the capital of North Maluku District, which
comprised the northern half of Halmahera, and several islands, including Makian
and Morotai. After the inauguration of North Maluku Province in October that
year, Ternate became the interim provincial capital.15 In early 1999 the city also
assumed municipality status and gained its own district government, bureaucracy
and parliament. Following the June 1999 general election the North Maluku
District parliament was dominated by the Golkar Party (of which the sultan was
chairman) which had won 17 out of 40 seats. The party with the next highest repre-
sentation was the other major secular nationalist party, the Indonesian Democratic
Party – Struggle (PDI-P), with eight seats.16
At that time, Tidore was the capital of Central Halmahera District, which
spanned the traditional area of the Tidore Sultanate’s influence, including the
southern half of Halmahera, Bacan and other islands in the south of the region.17 In
1999 the Central Halmahera District parliament was also dominated by Golkar,
with 11 seats, while the Islamic United Development Party (PPP) and PDI-P had
five and four seats respectively.18 The population of the island of Tidore was
approximately 52,000, with 25,000 people living in and around the capital Soasio
(see Map 4.2). Most of the island’s population was from the Tidore ethnic group
but sizeable Makian, Sanana, and Kayoa minorities also lived on the island.
Ternate has long been the economic centre of North Maluku. The city possesses
the province’s key port and a large quantity of exports passes through en route to
Surabaya and North Sulawesi (Bitung), as well as to international destinations
including Japan, South Korea, Singapore and Hong Kong.19 Thriving service,
retail and transport sectors have developed around this trade and around the district
and municipality governments based in the city. It also possesses the region’s two
universities – Khairun and Muhammadiyah. In contrast, the Tidore economy
revolves solely around the local government and bureaucracy. Over the past
decades, large numbers of Tidores have departed for Ternate to seek employment
or to attend secondary or tertiary educational institutions. Until late 1999 several
hundred migrants, including Christians and Chinese, lived in the suburb of
Indonesiana and worked in Soasio.
Indeed, not just Tidores but large numbers of migrants from all ethnic groups
across the region were drawn to Ternate City in the last decades of the twentieth
century. The majority came from the nearby islands of Makian and Sanana, along
with Tidore. These migrants mostly settled in the southern suburbs of Bastiong,
Mangga Dua and Takoma (see Map 4.1). As a result, Ternate was the most densely
populated island in the archipelago, with a total citizenry of almost 100,000 in
1999. As well as swelling the population of Ternate, these communities also
became well represented in the North Maluku District government and bureau-
cracy. As discussed, of these ethnic communities, the Makians were particularly
successful, becoming prominent in local government as well as in the region’s
educational institutions. The success of the Makians (and to a lesser extent the
Tidores) was in stark contrast to the indigenous Ternate ethnic community. Less
 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 77
inclined to undertake tertiary education, the Ternates were under-represented in
the government and bureaucracy and few became lecturers, staff members or
students in the two universities in Ternate. Ternates lived predominantly in the
northern suburbs of Dufa Dufa and Santiong near the sultan’s palace. The city was
therefore segregated between the north, dominated by the indigenous Ternates,
and the south, where most migrants resided.
Both islands were overwhelmingly Muslim, with approximately 90 per cent and
95 per cent of the populations of Ternate and Tidore identifying themselves as
Muslim. The Tobelo-based Protestant Church, GMIH, and the Ambon-based
GPM (Gereja Protestan Maluku – Protestant Church of Maluku) both had congre-
gations and churches on the islands. A small Catholic community also resided in
Ternate, constituted mostly of migrants from Southeast Maluku, East Nusa
Tenggara and other areas. The Catholic Church also ran a busy hospital in the
centre of the city. Chinese Indonesians, most of whom were Protestant Christians,
were highly visible in the economic life of both islands, particularly Ternate. They
owned most shops and a large number of restaurants and were often involved in the
transportation sector servicing the export trade.
Relations between Muslims and the Christian minority had always been good on
both islands, particularly on the more heterogeneous Ternate.20 One Christian resi-
dent in Ternate stated that while fights broke out occasionally between neigh-
bouring areas (kampung) of the city, they were not usually between followers of
the different religions and did not concern religion. At least one commentator has
suggested that the introduction of more formal religious education in schools run
by the national Islamic organization, Muhammadiyah, led some Muslims to take a
more dogmatic stance towards non-Muslims in the decade before the conflict.21
However, most Muslims generally agreed that Islam in Ternate was not ‘ideologi-
cal’ and Muslims were tolerant of followers of other religions.22 Christians gener-
ally concurred, and, as will be seen, most stayed in Ternate right up until rioting
broke out, feeling secure despite rising inter-religious tension in the city.
In Tidore, too, most respondents considered relations between the two religious
communities to have always been clement. Muslim residents of Tidore described a
high degree of ethnic pluralism, particularly in the Soasio suburb of Indonesiana.
However, several Christian respondents from Tidore suggested that Muslims on
that island had long been more exclusive or ‘fanatic’ and less tolerant of
non-Muslims than those in Ternate. One former resident of Indonesiana related
how Muslims refused to buy food from Christian traders or accept foodstuffs as
gifts from Christians.23
The inter-religious conflict in Ambon in early 1999 had a greater impact on
Ternate and Tidore than on other areas of North Maluku. Many individuals from
the two islands had been working as civil servants in the provincial capital at the
time of the outbreak. In addition, most students who had been studying at Ambon’s
Pattimura University returned to Ternate after the violence in Ambon to attend
Khairun University or seek employment. Inter-religious tension also increased on
Tidore. One Muslim leader on Tidore, Abu Bakar Wahid, told me he returned from
witnessing the outbreak of violence in Ambon in January 1999 and ‘prepared’ to
78 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
ensure that the local Muslim community did not suffer the same fate as that in
Maluku.24 Some Muslims who had returned from Ambon attempted to intimidate
Christians by pelting their houses with stones.25
Yet to a large extent concerns in Ternate and Tidore caused by the violence in
Ambon were secondary to the political transition taking place in North Maluku in
1999. As discussed in Chapter 2, Ternate and Tidore were once again emerging as
regional rivals, the two islands at the centre of the political struggle to separate
North Maluku from Maluku Province. When it became clear that North Maluku
was finally to assume provincial status, the region’s elite inevitably divided into
several factions. These surrounded the main contenders for the governorship:
Mudaffar Syah (the Sultan of Ternate); the brothers Bahar and Syamsir Andili (the
District Head of Central Halmahera and the Mayor of Ternate City respectively);
and Thaib Armain (soon to become the head of bureaucracy for the new province).
Originally united in the goal of seceding from Maluku, these factions saw tensions
begin to rise over several issues.
Two issues in particular caused the most friction between the main political
factions – those surrounding Mudaffar Syah and Bahar Andili. First, these two
men were the main contenders for the first governorship in the new province, and
second, each attempted to have the provincial capital located within his own
district. Both issues had major implications for the patronage networks of each.
The future governor would have immense influence over the appointment of
senior civil servants, which would in turn determine employment throughout the
government in general. The location of the capital would also bring immense
revenue to the surrounding district through the construction of facilities, allocation
of funding from the central government and the employment and revenue associ-
ated with local government.
The two men rigidly opposed the other’s initial proposals, that the capital be
located in Ternate and Soasio, Tidore respectively. Each subsequently proposed
locations on Halmahera, again within their own districts. Mudaffar Syah suggested
that the port of Sidangoli, directly across the strait from Ternate, be made the
capital, while Bahar Andili advanced the location of Sofifi, at that time a quiet
village within sight of Tidore. As a compromise, the central government ultimately
decided that Ternate would act as a temporary capital, while a permanent seat of
government would be constructed in Sofifi. 26
Despite failing to achieve his desired outcomes regarding the location of the
capital, and several other initiatives regarding recognition of the regional sultan-
ates, the sultan was still in a powerful political position. Supported by a large
proportion of the Ternate population, as well as by most Christians on Halmahera,
the sultan wielded considerable authority as chairman of the locally dominant
Golkar Party for North Maluku and chairman of the North Maluku District Parlia-
ment. In 1999 Mudaffar Syah appeared destined to become the province’s first
governor, and the Ternates seemed set to challenge the dominance of the Makians
and Tidores in the local government and bureaucracy.
 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 79
Rising tension
This political struggle led to rising tension in Ternate. In early September, when
the central government announced that the provincial capital was to be constructed
in the small village of Sofifi in the district of Central Halmahera, several thousand
people protested outside the North Maluku District government building. To the
protestors, the fact that a team from Central Halmahera had recently travelled to
Jakarta to discuss the location of the capital suggested that corruption had swayed
this decision. The protesters accused leading Central Halmahera District politi-
cians, including Bahar and Syamsir Andili, of using ‘money politics’ to influence
central government officials. The protestors held banners stating ‘Bahar – Syamsir
Andili provokator’ (Bahar and Syamsir Andili are provocateurs), accusing them
not only of corruption, but also of attempting to destabilize Ternate and the district
of North Maluku so as to undermine its claim to hosting the capital.27
The destruction of the Kao villages of Sosol and Wangeotak in Malifut in
August had little impact in Ternate or Tidore. The local newspaper carried several
short articles, posing the question of who provoked the destruction and why the
police and military had not had adequate field intelligence to prevent it.28 The
newspaper provided no answers to these questions and any attention to the Malifut
dispute soon waned in Ternate and Tidore. Other issues emerged to cause tension
around this time. In August, just before the first clash in Malifut, rumours spread
around Ternate, and elsewhere in North Maluku, that the date 9 September (9/9/
99) would bring catastrophe in the form of natural disaster. The scenario received
widespread coverage in Ternate, occupying the front page of the weekly news-
paper, the Ternate Post.29
As mentioned, the inter-religious clashes in Ambon also caused some tension in
Ternate, although much of this was clearly stirred up by individuals with an
interest in inciting Muslim hostility towards Christians. In early September, a map
was circulated in the city, purportedly drawn by members of the Ambon-based
Protestant Church of Maluku (GPM).30 The rudimentary map appeared to be
evidence that Christians in Ternate were preparing to launch a coordinated and
pre-emptive attack on Muslims in the city. The map divided Ternate into a number
of sectors, detailing the strength in numbers of Christians in each area. The
drawing was entitled Map of Attack (Peta Penyerangan).
Following the circulation of this map, the atmosphere in Ternate became suffi-
ciently tense for the new district head of North Maluku, Rusli Andiaco, to call an
open-air community meeting in front of the district government building. A
Protestant pastor spoke to the assembled crowd and explained that the map had
originally been the work of a student preparing for the ministry. It had originally
been entitled Peta Pelayanan (Map of Service) because the trainee pastor had been
attempting to divide Ternate into areas to improve the religious service of GPM.
He explained that there was certainly no plan on the part of Christians to attack
Muslims in Ternate, adding that, as Christians constituted only 10 per cent of the
population of the small island, any such plan would be foolish.31 He stated that he
did not know how, or by whom, the title of the map had subsequently been altered
80 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
from ‘Map of Service’ to ‘Map of Attack’ so as to appear to be a plan for an attack
on the Muslim community. The crowd was sufficiently mollified and left the
district government building without incident.
The conflict in Ambon had therefore created an atmosphere of inter-religious
tension in Ternate and Tidore. However, it seems likely that if it had not been for
the dramatic events that touched the city in October, the cities would have
remained calm, just as they had for ten months while violence raged in Ambon.
There are several reasons why inter-religious violence had not, and probably
would not, have occurred in the two district capitals.
While most people in North Maluku were disturbed by the violence in Ambon,
they felt it was sufficiently removed in character and geography to be largely irrel-
evant to them. The relatively small number of Christians in North Maluku as a
proportion of the population (approximately 20 per cent), but particularly in
Ternate (less than 10 per cent) and Tidore (approximately 2 per cent), also reduced
concerns on the part of Muslims that they might come under threat from local
Christians. More importantly, Ternate was in the grip of ‘new province fever’.32
Most high-level political leaders in North Maluku had for the past six months been
united in the task of achieving provincial status for North Maluku, including both
Muslim and Christian politicians. For example, Thaib Armain, who in late 1999
assumed the position of head of bureaucracy for the new province, and the Chris-
tian political leader from Tobelo, Hein Namotemo, cooperated until November to
ensure that the provincial capital was located on Halmahera.

The aftermath of Malifut

The complete destruction of Malifut in October, and the arrival of thousands of
IDPs, dramatically changed the atmosphere in the two cities. Shocked Makian
IDPs told stories of how the Kaos had stormed their villages in their thousands
killing defenceless people. They also claimed that all mosques in Malifut had been
destroyed, and that a copy of the Qur’an had been torn up and thrown in the
street.33 The sight of thousands of traumatized and destitute Makian men, women
and children enraged many of their ethnic kin living in Ternate. Many had family
members and friends among the IDPs. Ternate municipality parliamentarian
Wahda Zainal Imam, a Makian, formed an organization to provide food, medicine,
shelter and donations for the IDPs. 34
The Sultan of Ternate had exacerbated this tension among the Makian commu-
nity by opposing the immediate evacuation of the Malifut community to Ternate.
He had argued instead that the Makians should stay on Halmahera until a settle-
ment could be reached between the two communities. This infuriated many
Makians in the city, who already believed the sultan was supporting the Kaos in
their efforts to cancel the formation of Malifut Sub-District. Disregarding the
sultan’s objections, the Mayor of Ternate, Syamsir Andili, organized the transpor-
tation of the IDPs to Ternate, the one area with adequate resources to cope with so
many people. The sultan’s apparent support for the Kaos and his attempt to prevent
the evacuation of the Makians to Ternate brought to an end his political alliance
 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 81
with Thaib Armain. The sultan’s perceived bias and Armain’s strong sense of
sympathy for his fellow Makians eradicated any common ground the two had
enjoyed regarding the location of the provincial capital and other issues.
On 25 October, after news of the events in Malifut reached Ternate, a group of
around a hundred largely Makian students attacked and punched Christian
students from Halmahera on the Khairun University campus in northern Ternate
City. The crowd chased dozens of Christian students from the campus. The rector
of the university, Rivai Umar, subsequently announced that Christian students
should not return to the campus, citing concerns over potential future distur-
bances.35 Sporadic murders and assaults took place over the following days.
Several Christians were killed near Bastiong port in the southern part of Ternate
City, an area dominated by Makians and Tidores.36 Over this period, some of the
city’s more wealthy Christian residents began to leave the island for Halmahera or
North Sulawesi.
Almost immediately after arriving in Ternate, the IDPs from Malifut, along with
Makians living in Ternate, attacked Kao homes.37 On 26 October, the day the
majority of the IDPs arrived, a crowd of IDPs attacked and destroyed the house of
Jesaja Singa, a Kao member of the North Maluku District parliament. Singa and
his wife fled to the district Police Compound (Polres) in central Ternate City.
From 26 to 28 October the IDPs and other Makians staged demonstrations
expressing outrage at the Kaos’ attack against Malifut. During these demonstra-
tions, Makian youths attacked Kaos’ houses in central and southern areas of
Ternate City. The attacks over this period were almost exclusively carried out by
Makians and, while several Christians from other ethnic groups were also killed,
were targeted primarily at Kaos.

Creating a mob
While sporadic attacks against Christians, and in particular Kaos and other
Halmaherans were taking place, there were also calculated efforts to mobilize
organized violence. The Makian IDPs were initially placed in the suburb of Dufa
Dufa, close to the sultan’s palace. Soon, however, several Makian community
leaders arrived to organize their transfer to the southern part of the city, an area
largely populated by Makians and Tidores. Over the following days, in areas such
as Bastiong and Mangga Dua (see Map 4.1), community leaders, imams and politi-
cians held closed meetings with IDPs and other Makians. During these meetings
these leaders made provocative speeches attempting to mobilize the audience to
take retaliatory action.38 A police intelligence officer present at one meeting in the
suburb of Mangga Dua claimed that Wahda Zainal Imam, the Makian member of
the Ternate Municipality Parliament from the Islamic United Development Party
(PPP), advocated a riot targeting not just Kaos but all Christians.39 Stories also
circulated throughout Ternate that a Christian militia, the Pasukan Merah, was
gathering on the slopes of the volcano that dominates most of the island.
As well as carrying out humanitarian work, the organization formed by Wahda
Zainal Imam also attempted to mobilize Muslim youth to join the Makians in
82 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
retaliatory attacks against Kao. One young Tidore man recounted how Makians,
including the local youth leader of this organization, put pressure on Tidores and
other Muslims to assist in their planned return to Halmahera.40 According to this
respondent, the young Makian man declared that if Muslims were not allowed to
leave and avenge the destruction of Malifut, Christians in Ternate would bear the
brunt of their anger. According to a number of sources, this experience of mobili-
zation was common throughout the southern part of Ternate in the last week of
October.
On 28 October several hundred Makians did indeed attempt to return to
Halmahera and attack Kao. Led by Wahda Zainal Imam, the group assembled near
the port on a street in the centre of the city. The crowd was armed with machetes,
spears and other weapons and wore white headbands (the first such use of an
Islamic symbol). A large contingent of military and police personnel prevented the
group from leaving and carried out a sweeping operation confiscating all weapons.
The district’s Deputy Chief of Police told Wahda Zainal Imam that the group
would not be allowed to depart for Halmahera. According to one Makian, Wahda
Zainal Imam then spoke in front of the crowd, proclaiming that the Kaos had
attacked the Makians in Malifut because of their faith and, along with other Chris-
tians throughout the region, were seeking to dominate north Halmahera. 41
Dispersed by the security forces, the crowd moved through the centre of the city
breaking the windows of (largely Chinese) Christian-owned shops and throwing
stones at the houses of Christians.42 The house of a Christian Tobelo community
leader, Yohannes Namotemo, was destroyed in this disturbance, he and his family
forced to run to the police compound. The crowd then proceeded to the suburb of
Kalumata in the southern part of Ternate City where they pelted the local
Protestant church with stones and set it on fire. Once again, security personnel
acted forcefully, halting the riot and arresting approximately 35 people, who were
taken into custody at the police headquarters.43
Makian community leaders had thereby successfully mobilized IDPs from
Malifut as well as Makians living in Ternate, drawing support from the almost
universal anger felt among the Makian community over the destruction of Malifut.
This anger led to attacks on Kaos in Ternate, on Christians, churches, houses and
shops, as well as an attempt to return to Halmahera in order to attack Kao. The
Makians involved in these incidents were not just IDPs or criminals, but included
students, bureaucrats and politicians. But, despite stories of the destruction of
mosques and the desecration of the Qur’an, few Muslims from other ethnic groups
had become involved.
Muslims from most other communities, particularly Ternates, considered the
Malifut conflict to have been ethnicity-based and the destruction of Malifut to have
been a backlash against the Makian’s attempts to monopolize natural resources in
North Halmahera. This lack of wider participation in the disturbances afflicting
Ternate meant that the security forces were able to prevent the Makians’ return to
Halmahera, preclude further rioting and minimize destruction.
For this reason, leading members of the Makian community now accelerated
their efforts to expand the conflict. Over the first few days of November they took
 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 83
steps to convince the wider Islamic community that the destruction of Malifut was
indeed of relevance to all Muslims. Simultaneously, and perhaps more importantly
(although not recognized in any existing literature on the conflict), they sought to
immobilize the security forces.

Immobilization of the security forces

The arrest of the group of Makians for rioting prompted a high-ranking Makian
delegation to go to the district police compound to request their release.44
According to a police officer present, the delegation included Thaib Armain and
the next highest ranking civil servant, Yunus Abbas, as well as Wahda Zainal
Imam and the city mayor, Syamsir Andili.45 This delegation requested the release
of the prisoners on the grounds that their incarceration would be likely to heighten
tension in the southern part of the city and provoke more rioting. After lengthy
debate with these individuals, the police commander requested that they provide
him with a written request. After receiving this documentation, the commander
ordered the release of the prisoners. From this point, neither the police nor the mili-
tary made any significant efforts to halt the ensuing violence.
The security forces also failed to act against apparently illegal behaviour by the
Sultan of Ternate’s traditional guards. The sultan first ordered the Pasukan Kuning
to begin patrolling the streets after the first arrival of Makian IDPs from Malifut,
prior to the major influx in late October. The sultan described their deployment as a
means of guarding vital infrastructure in Ternate and protecting the lives and
houses of Christians. The majority of the sultan’s traditional palace guards were
Muslim Ternates, although a minority were from Halmaheran ethnic groups,
including some Christians. While it is illegal for civilians to carry weapons on the
street, the security forces made no effort to prevent patrols by members of this
militia, who were armed with spears and machetes. Several politicians requested
that the security forces prevent these patrols, but no action was taken.46 Ibrahim
Fabanyo, deputy head of the district parliament and also chairman of the National
Mandate Party (Partai Amanat Nasional – PAN), requested that the sultan with-
draw the Pasukan Kuning from the streets.47 According to Fabanyo, the sultan
agreed, but failed to carry out his promise.
The Pasukan Kuning’s apparent intent to protect Christians angered Makians,
who also took umbrage that the leader (kapita) of the Pasukan Kuning was a Chris-
tian from Halmahera. For some Muslims then, particularly Makians, the sultan
appeared to be siding with Christians against Muslims in what they took to be a
religious conflict. The perceived arrogance of the sultan’s troops, and the fact they
carried weapons, also angered Muslims from other ethnic groups, including
Tidores. The Pasukan Kuning alienated many Muslims by using force against
civilians and demanding to see identity cards, on some occasions denying the
validity of these cards, throwing them on the ground and assaulting those they had
stopped.
84 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
‘Transvaluation’: the Bloody Sosol letter
In this tense atmosphere during the last few days of October, Muslims began to
pass from hand to hand a photocopied letter with potentially catastrophic implica-
tions for the region. The letter was ostensibly from the Ambon-based Moderator of
the Protestant Church in Maluku (GPM), Pastor Sammy Titaley, to the Chairman
of the Evangelical Church on Halmahera (GMIH), Pastor Aesh. The document
appeared to be evidence of collusion between the two Churches in the destruction
of Malifut. In the letter, Pastor Titaley advocated a campaign of revenge attacks by
Christians against the Makians for their attack on the Christian Kao villages of
Sosol and Wangeotak. The letter advocated the killing and expulsion of the
Makians from Halmahera, and used imagery such as ‘the giant of Christ on the
rampage’ and the unity of the ‘golden (Christian) triangle’ of Maluku, North
Sulawesi and Irian Jaya. The letter thus both reflected and appealed to concerns
among more conservative Muslims over a national process of ‘Christianization’
(see Chapter 2).
The letter was not authentic, a fact that became universally recognized in North
Maluku shortly after its dissemination. The author used an incorrect letterhead and
reference number, greetings that were never used in official Church letters, and
signed the letter incorrectly as Semi Titaley instead of Pdt. S. P. Titaley. Several
references in the letter were also incorrect. For example, a reference to ‘organizing
intellectuals from the Theological University of Ternate’ demonstrated a lack of
knowledge of Christian educational institutions in North Maluku. The term
appears to have been a mistaken reference to the Theology College (Sekolah
Tinggi Teologi), which was in fact located in Tobelo. The letter was also dated 29
July 1999. The Makian attack on Sosol and Wangeotak, for which the letter was
ostensibly seeking revenge, did not take place until 18 and 19 August – well after
the date on the letter. The author had thus backdated the letter too far. Pastor Aesh,
the head of GMIH and supposedly the intended recipient of the letter, first learned
of its existence when he received a photocopy from a Muslim friend in Tobelo. 48
The exact origins of the letter are still a subject of debate. However, there was a
consensus among many well-informed people with whom I spoke that the letter
was composed and typed by one of the instigators of the earlier violence, a local
politician and his associate, both Makians.49 The two men reportedly composed
and typed the letter at the school where the latter man was a teacher. A large
number of people appear to have assisted in distributing the letter throughout
Ternate and Tidore, including in the district parliament buildings, local govern-
ment department offices and schools. A number of politicians and other members
of the elite appear to have distributed the letter, suggesting their complicity in
organizing the riots that ensued. In one incident, members of the Pasukan Kuning
reportedly stopped the car of a Makian leader, Fahri Almari, and found multiple
copies of the letter in his car.50 In Tidore, also, several politicians and bureaucrats
were involved in distributing the letter. One member of the district parliament
alleged that a colleague, along with a district bureaucrat, had handed the letter out
in the parliament.51
 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 85
Pastor Aesh and other Church officials from GMIH sent a letter to the local
district government stating that the letter was a forgery and listing the large number
of errors in the document. According to GMIH, the government did not reply to
these points. In addition, no official effort was made to publicly clarify that the
letter was a forgery and dispel suspicions within the Muslim community, as the
government had done in the case of the previous ‘Attack Map’ forgery. The
reasons for this are unclear. However, several respondents claimed that the North
Maluku District Head, Rusli Andiaco, who had been in that position for only
several months, was intimidated by leading politicians. While he attempted to
announce that the letter was false and obviously penned and distributed to provoke
Muslims, and further that the Malifut clash had little to do with religion, he was
intimidated into remaining quiet.
Several politicians and leading figures also made public pronouncements that
the Malifut incident had had religious overtones. A senior member of the district
parliament allegedly stated during a parliamentary session that the incident in
Malifut demonstrated that Christians had brought religious violence to North
Maluku as they had to Maluku.52 According to a member of parliament present
during the speech, this individual demanded that all Christians leave Ternate.53 As
tension rose over the incident, a delegation from the North Maluku District parlia-
ment travelled from Ternate to Malifut to investigate claims that mosques had been
destroyed. The leaders of this delegation claim that, after visiting Malifut, the team
ascertained that mosques had not been destroyed and therefore agreed that the
conflict had not been religious in character. However, they claim that the team was
too late to convey that message to the parliament back in Ternate.54
Strangely, given the high level of tension in Ternate and Tidore and the wider
context of the conflict in Ambon, the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter did not have an imme-
diate impact. For several days people read and discussed the letter but the violence
did not escalate. The letter had a varied impact on Muslims depending on their
ethnicity, religiosity, educational level and their relationship with Makians. Those
ethnic groups considered to be more devout Muslims while at the same time most
closely integrated with Makians – the Sananas, Kayoas and Tidores – were the
most ready to believe the letter. People in Ternate were far more likely to be
educated and employed and also enjoyed greater access to information about the
circumstances of the Malifut clash. Members of the Ternate ethnic community in
particular discounted the letter, continuing to believe the destruction of Malifut
had been caused by competition over territory and the gold mine. Most
non-Makian Muslims, and therefore the majority of those not already taking part in
demonstrations and attacks against Christians, were not provoked by the letter.
Christian respondents stated that, although the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter had been
circulating for approximately four days and sporadic attacks on Christians had
occurred, they had not expected large-scale rioting to break out in Ternate. The
majority of Christians remained on the two islands. After five days of little impact
in Ternate, those seeking to initiate violence turned their attention to Tidore. There
are several possible reasons for this: that Muslims on that island were more recep-
tive to claims of wider Christian involvement and of religious motives in the
86 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Malifut attack; because the military contingent on Tidore was smaller than that on
Ternate or security personnel had greater sympathy for Makians; or because it was
home to a far smaller Christian population. Whatever the reason, the ensuing
events in Tidore would make a similar incident on Ternate almost unavoidable, by
raising tension to unprecedented levels and proving that violence could be carried
out with impunity.

Anti-Christian rioting

The Tidore riot

On the evening of 3 November (several days after the dissemination of the ‘Bloody
Sosol’ letter), citing heightened tension on Tidore, the administrative head of the
suburb of Indonesiana called a community meeting in his office. All community
leaders, including Christian religious leaders, were summoned to discuss the accu-
sations made in the letter.55 People crowded into the local government office to
attend the meeting and yet more people gathered outside. When the local
Protestant pastor, Arie Risakotta, failed to arrive, the local police chief, Captain
Muhar, drove to the pastor’s house and escorted him to the local government
office.56 No other Christians attended the meeting.
According to several sources present, Pastor Risakotta was forced to read the
‘Bloody Sosol’ letter to the agitated crowd. While asserting that the letter was false
and that he, along with the entire Church, had no knowledge of its production, he
was punched and ran from the office. A large number of men from the crowd
chased and caught the pastor, hacked him to death with machetes and set his corpse
alight. The crowd then proceeded to the nearby Protestant church and burned it,
and began to attack the houses of Christians in Indonesiana and elsewhere in
Soasio.
While the meeting at the government office took place, Christians in Soasio
began fleeing from their homes, either to the sub-district police station or to the
district military compound. This flight continued in heavy rain after the killing of
the pastor and throughout the night. Security personnel protected those sheltering
in the compounds and prevented the rioting mobs from entering. Several Christian
respondents said Muslim neighbours and friends also helped them reach safety or
hid them in their houses. Christians who were unable to reach police or military
bases hid overnight in gardens pounded by the driving rain.
After one terrifying night of violence and destruction, 35 Christians had been
killed before they could reach safety.57 Three churches were gutted by fire and all
260 homes on the island owned by Christians were destroyed. Christian men,
women and children waited inside the military and police compounds to be evacu-
ated to safety.
The riot appears to have been planned and carried out by people from outside
Soasio.58 Most witnesses stated that large numbers of Makians were involved, and
concluded they were most likely from Ternate. One Christian respondent said that
Makians led the rioting crowds, and that local Muslims knew none of those
Map 5 Tidore
88 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
involved. Indeed, many Muslims fled the carnage themselves. The ‘Prime Minis-
ter’ for the Tidore Sultanate (a largely ceremonial position), Ridwan Do Tahir,
maintains that, following the incident, he led an investigatory team which ascer-
tained that 500 people had crossed from Ternate that day, as opposed to the normal
300. Several witnesses did state, however, that those involved were residents of
villages on the opposite, western side of Tidore, such as Tomalou, most of whom
were Makian migrants.59 Almost all witnesses stated that many in the crowd
arrived carrying petrol cans, suggesting that they intended to start the riot regard-
less of any explanations offered by the pastor.

The Ternate riot

Tensions rose markedly in Ternate after the riot on Tidore. Jati writes that in the
days after the events in Tidore Christian religious leaders in Ternate received
frequent anonymous telephone threats. Under the cover of darkness, crowds of
men threw stones at Christians’ houses. Individuals carried out planning to repli-
cate the riot in Tidore. One Makian man recounted that he was warned by other
Makians to stay off the streets the following day because rioting was going to
occur. Several Christian respondents stated that in the two days after the Tidore
riots the fronts of their houses were painted with red crosses to signal the faith of
the occupant.60 Oddly, most Christians remained in the city, perhaps believing that
inter-religious relationships in Ternate was better than that on Tidore and that the
security forces present were adequate to prevent rioting.
At around 4 a.m. on Saturday 6 November anti-Christian rioting began in the
southern suburbs of Ternate City. Crowds began attacking churches and the
houses of Christians in the areas of Kalumata, Tanah Tinggi, Mangga Dua and Jati
(see Map 4.1). One Christian resident recounted that the electricity in the area of
Tanah Tinggi was turned off and Christian houses were pelted with stones. As
large mobs of men moved through the streets attacking the houses of Christian
residents, Christians fled north, attempting to reach the district police compound or
the guard posts of the sultan’s traditional guards in the centre of the city. Many
could only reach neighbourhood churches from where they were evacuated by the
military to the police compound. Those who could not reach safety were speared or
hacked with machetes. Most witnesses, including young Muslim men in the
southern suburbs, said the rioters were primarily Makian men, including university
students and IDPs from Malifut. According to people present, the municipality
parliamentarian Wahda Zainal Imam and other local Makian leaders led the
rioting.
The rioting gathered momentum as other groups (such as Tidores and Sananas)
in the southern areas began to participate. The rioters spread through other suburbs
such as Bastiong, but were blocked from entering the central city by hundreds of
the sultan’s guards (the Pasukan Kuning), who were stationed near the provincial
government office and just north of the district police compound. Several houses
owned by Christians located directly opposite the police compound were
destroyed. However, no attempt was made by police officers to prevent this.61
 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 89
The security forces did little to prevent attacks against Christians, focusing on
evacuating groups from churches and elsewhere and guarding those who made it
to military and police compounds. Personnel took no forceful action against
rioters. Several witnesses state that military and police personnel, when they did
venture on to the streets to evacuate Christians, were armed only with sticks. One
witness claims that military and police commanders removed firearms from their
personnel patrolling the streets. These assertions are difficult to verify.62 The mili-
tary’s inaction in the face of the rioting is demonstrated by the story of one Chris-
tian respondent who sought refuge in the Protestant church in Tanah Tinggi.
According to this respondent, with the church full of terrified and defenceless
people and a mob gathering outside, the pastor phoned the district military base
only to be asked whether she and her congregation wanted to be evacuated or to
‘hold out’ against the rioters.63
Thirty-one people were killed in the riot and large numbers injured. During the
riot and over the following days, six churches and 353 houses were destroyed.64 In
all, 12,763 Christians fled to the police and military bases and to the sultan’s
palace. The Pasukan Kuning protected large numbers of fleeing Christians, further
angering those Muslims involved in the riot, particularly Makians. Large numbers
of Christians sheltered in the neighbourhood of Dufa Dufa, close to the sultan’s
palace, and in the palace itself. After several days, the vast majority of these IDPs
were evacuated to Christian regions outside North Maluku, such as North
Sulawesi. A much smaller number of Christians travelled to Tobelo in north
Halmahera.
On Sunday 7 November, one day after the Ternate riot, violence broke out once
more on Halmahera, this time in Central Halmahera District, in the sub-district of
Payahe.65 Christians appear to have been the primary victims of these clashes.66 A
series of attacks in the sub-district led to approximately 1,600 Christians fleeing
into the forest. These IDPs made their way north to Kao Sub-District and most
were eventually housed in the city of Tobelo. As will be seen, the flood of people
fleeing from this violence, along with graphic accounts of the Ternate and Tidore
riots, played a major role in causing violence to break out elsewhere in the region.

Religion enters the North Maluku conflict

This chapter has accounted for the escalation of the North Maluku conflict from a
border dispute on Halmahera into extensive and devastating ethno-religious
conflict. In doing so it has illustrated how an analytical distinction between the role
of elite agency and mass-level factors in causing conflict is problematic. It has also
demonstrated how the impact of rational interest and more emotional influences
were almost analytically indistinguishable, exacerbating one another as they moti-
vated participants to join the riot.
Tension was rising in Ternate throughout 1999. The conflict in Ambon had
stimulated anti-Christian sentiment among some Muslims. More importantly, the
elevation of North Maluku to provincial status stimulated political rivalry and
accusations of ‘money politics’. The destruction of two Kao villages in the Malifut
90 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
area on Halmahera during this period had little impact in Ternate, with the excep-
tion of one article in the local newspaper speculating on who had provoked the
attack. After the destruction of Malifut by the Kaos and the influx of Makian IDPs
into Ternate, however, the atmosphere degenerated considerably. The large
numbers of destitute IDPs, and their allegations that the Kaos had insulted Islam,
angered Makians and alarmed Christians. Makians from Ternate, along with
hundreds of refugees, attempted to return to Halmahera to attack Kao, and carried
out sporadic acts of violence against Christians, and Kaos in particular, residing in
Ternate.
For many Makians the primary means of comprehending catastrophic world
events was through the lens of their religion. For this reason many came to believe
that the Kaos had somehow been motivated by inter-religious animosity, and that
their attack had been led by the Protestant Synod based in Tobelo. For them, this
made Protestant churches and Christians in general legitimate targets for their
reprisals.
I have demonstrated that this influx of refugees and the accompanying increase
in tension was nevertheless insufficient to explain the spread of violence to
Ternate. For almost two weeks, there was some level of sympathy for the Makians
among Muslims from other ethnic groups, but little real anger about the destruc-
tion of Malifut or a desire to initiate religious war. Many individuals, particularly
Ternates, attributed the clashes on Halmahera to over-zealous attempts by the
Makians to obtain power and resources. This lack of sympathy for the Makians
among the wider Muslim population meant that the security forces were able to
easily control the relatively small numbers of potential rioters and prevent them
from returning to Halmahera. In addition, as small-scale acts of violence occurred,
the Sultan of Ternate’s traditional troops began to dominate the security situation
on the city’s streets. These men, some of whom were Christian, stopped and
searched any men they suspected of seeking to cause disturbances and began to
control certain areas of Ternate with the apparent acquiescence of the security
forces.
In order to circumvent these restrictions and generate support for their goal of
exacting retribution against the Kaos, several influential members of the Muslim
political elite intervened in two ways. First, they sought to create a new under-
standing of the violence in Malifut as religious in character, and second, they
intentionally or inadvertently created the political opportunity for rioting to occur
by immobilizing the security forces.
One of the most common means by which elites are seen to provoke their
followers into violence is propaganda. Makian leaders portrayed the Kaos’
destruction of Malifut as Christian expansionism, both in closed meetings in
houses and mosques and in public meetings in the district and city parliaments.
This effort was aimed at gaining sympathy for the Makians from the wider Muslim
community. Members of the Makian elite in North Maluku were well aware that
the one issue likely to gain widespread support from Muslims and to provoke
people into violent action was religion. The effort was therefore intended to trans-
form an ethnic dispute into a wider religious conflict. In doing this, those Makians
 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 91
involved sought to facilitate their retaliation against Kao on Halmahera and to
displace blame from their own community for the Malifut riots.
The success of propaganda in causing violence is most often attributed to its use
of highly sensitive and volatile subject matter. This certainly appears to be the case
with the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter, the most visible element of the effort to escalate the
conflict. The letter played on several connected issues that its authors hoped would
anger and concern Muslims: links between North Maluku Christians and Chris-
tians in Ambon; Christian separatism connected with the RMS; and the
‘Christianization’ of North Maluku and a physical threat to the Muslim commu-
nity. Within the context of the Ambon conflict, and the clashes in Kao and Malifut,
the letter was certainly intended to have a provocative effect on Muslims. The fact
that all Makians are Muslim, and the Kaos predominantly Christian, no doubt
helped convince some Muslims that the Protestant Church was involved in the
violence.
Bubandt in particular puts a great deal of importance on the letter in the ensuing
violence. He argues against seeing the letter as just a means of provocation,
concluding that the violence in Tidore was a ‘spontaneous reaction to the rumour
about a Christian conspiracy rather than a long planned assault’.67 Bubandt asserts
that the letter played strongly into the prevailing ‘social and discursive universe’ of
conspiracy and paranoia in North Maluku and Indonesia as a whole in the
post-Suharto era. In other words, an understanding of the impact of the letter on
ordinary Muslims is more important in explaining the riots than the actual propa-
ganda campaign. This follows Horowitz’s conclusion regarding the role of
rumours in conflict situations: while they are often intended to initiate rioting, they
are unlikely to do so if there is no ‘market’ for the messages contained in them.
‘What is remarkable is not that an interested agitator starts a rumor but that the
rumor is spread, believed, and acted upon.’68 Yet this conclusion is predicated
upon the assertion that those who started the rioting did so because they were
provoked by the rumour.
This chapter has demonstrated that, contrary to most analyses of the anti-Chris-
tian rioting in Ternate and Tidore, it was not the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter that insti-
gated violence. While the Makian leaders allegedly involved in this process had
moderate levels of influence over the residents of certain areas of Ternate, this
influence did not extend over other ethnic groups across the city or over the secu-
rity forces. Fears of a Christian attack in Ternate were not credible given the tiny
Christian populations in Ternate and Tidore.69 The ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter did little
to alter the majority Muslim view that Makians, and not Christians, had provoked
the Malifut violence. Most remembered that the Makians had instigated the Kao
attack by previously destroying two Kao villages. The letter circulated in Ternate
for five days with little impact on the wider Muslim community. When violence
exploded it did not result from a neat linear process of propaganda, suggestibility
and participation.
While at least some sections of the Islamic community in Ternate and Tidore
believed the letter was genuine, the majority of those involved in the initial rioting,
like those who organized and led it, participated not because they believed in a
92 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Christian conspiracy, but for reasons of revenge. Most participants in the early
stages of rioting were Makians, either refugees from Malifut or those who were
living in Tidore and Ternate, some of whom originated from and had family
connections to Malifut. Ethnic solidarity and a desire for revenge for what
happened in Malifut motivated almost all of those who took part in the early rioting
in Tidore and Ternate and many of the community leaders who organized it.
Makians had set their sights on establishing Malifut as a sub-district not only
throughout 1999, but ever since the local transmigration of the community from
Makian Island in 1975. To see this project destroyed in flames on 25 October
dismayed Makian elites in Ternate and Malifut. Those who initiated and carried
out the violence in Tidore and Ternate acted out of a direct grievance over the
destruction of Malifut and not because of the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter or other forms
of propaganda. It was their attacks on Christians and churches, rather than
reframing by propagandists, which transformed ethnic conflict into religious
conflict.
Participation in the rioting quickly broadened, however, as excitement spread
among young men, and, importantly, as it became clear they could take part with
impunity. While burning churches perhaps appeared to confirm the claimed reli-
gious element of the conflict to some Muslims, anti-Christian sentiment was not
felt strongly beyond the Makian community. Even after this violence, most
Muslims saw little cause to wage war against Christians on Halmahera. No wide-
spread multi-ethnic religious war was launched from Ternate and Tidore until after
the clashes in Tobelo and Galela in late December, to be discussed in the next
chapter.
The ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter did perform one very important function, however –
that of making two organized and well-planned riots appear to be spontaneous
eruptions of Muslim anger. While the authors of the letter, and their supporters,
hoped the letter would provoke the turmoil that would allow the rioting to proceed,
their primary goal was to establish a credible reason for the rioting: namely the
understandable anger of the Islamic community at a violent Christian conspiracy.
By the time the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter was produced and disseminated, the riot had
already become imminent because of the immobilization of the security forces.
The letter and other forms of provocation were less instrumental in the onset of
rioting in Ternate and Tidore than the pressure brought to bear on the security
forces by several of the highest-ranking politicians in North Maluku. After
Syamsir Andili, Thaib Armain and several other officials requested that the police
free the prisoners arrested for attacking Christian buildings in Ternate, the security
forces made little effort to halt subsequent rioting. The security forces also
afforded the same political opportunity to the Sultan of Ternate and his traditional
guards. The immobilization of the security forces was thus one of the most telling
instances of elite agency in the riots and, ultimately in the North Maluku conflict as
a whole. It seems likely that the security forces were reluctant to oppose the
possible future power holders in the province. While the appointment (and with-
drawal) of regional military and police commanders is determined in Jakarta, the
influence of local figures on that decision can be substantial. As a Golkar Party
 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 93
functionary, Mudaffar Syah was considered to have considerable influence in
Jakarta as well as in Ternate itself. The influence of district heads, mayors and the
regional secretary would also be important in terms of the future economic activi-
ties of the police and military in the province. Civilian politicians could therefore
have an impact on the economic well-being of local commanders. No arrests were
made following the riots, despite clear indications of who had planned and led the
violence.
Whether all members of the elite group that requested the release of the pris-
oners intended to facilitate increased rioting is uncertain. While it is feasible that
the head of the bureaucracy and mayor of Ternate requested the prisoners’ release
in order to prevent further disturbance, the release of 35 men who had already
attacked churches and shops and tried to instigate inter-religious violence was
almost certain to have the opposite effect. According to several witnesses, some of
these elites, such as Wahda Zainal Imam, certainly intended further violence.
Several days after the release of these prisoners, Wahda led these men and
hundreds of others in anti-Christian rioting, this time facing no resistance from the
security forces. It seems likely that these individuals seeking to start anti-Christian
rioting found allies among other Muslim politicians, such as Syamsir Andili,
whose primary goal was to undermine the growing dominance of the Sultan of
Ternate.70 Indeed, these two groups were not mutually exclusive – many Makian
politicians and civil servants, such as Thaib Armain, were both aggrieved at the
destruction of Malifut and sought to undermine Mudaffar Syah. Thaib Armain
abandoned any alliance he had with the Sultan of Ternate after the destruction of
Malifut, because of the sultan’s alleged support for the Kaos. Important elites were
thus subject to the same emotional and psychological influences as the less visible
young men in the streets during the riot.
By late October there was a growing desire among much of the North Maluku
elite to undermine the sultan’s strong, and apparently improving, political posi-
tion. His strength was a threat to his main rivals for the governorship, Bahar Andili
and Thaib Armain. The position of Syamsir Andili, the Mayor of Ternate City, was
particularly compromised by the growing strategic and political dominance of the
sultan, as his Pasukan Kuning dominated the central city. In addition, the likely
elevation of the sultan to the position of governor in elections scheduled to take
place sometime in the following year was also a direct threat to the large numbers
of Makians, Tidores and Sananas who dominated the bureaucracy.71 It was prob-
able that the sultan, on becoming governor, would appoint Ternates and even
Halmaherans to high-level positions in the civil service.
The expulsion of Christians, particularly members of the three district and city
parliaments, would have reduced some political support for the sultan in upcoming
gubernatorial elections. However, the small number of Christians in Ternate and
Tidore and the little bearing they had on political outcomes suggest an alternative
goal behind the facilitation of rioting. It may have been calculated that the sultan’s
gubernatorial ambitions would be checked if he acted to protect Christians in this
situation, an action that would be likely to anger many Muslims. Rioting therefore
provided an opportunity to unite Muslims against the sultan.
94 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
However, while this political context meant many members of the elite facili-
tated rioting and immobilized the security forces, it cannot be said that the initial
violence was a direct consequence of political competition. This elite-level polit-
ical struggle between the Sultan of Ternate and his rivals (Bahar and Syamsir
Andili and Thaib Armain) merely provided the conditions for the brewing riot to
go ahead. If the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter had been primarily aimed at undermining
support for the sultan it would almost certainly have mentioned him and his
support for the Kaos. Later rioting in Ternate, in late December, would demon-
strate the extent to which political factors had by that time taken a more central role
in the conflict. While not ‘riot specialists’, in Brass’s meaning of the term,
Makians, led by Wahda Zainal Imam, initiated the rioting in November for clear
goals: to exact revenge on Kaos and Christians in general and, second, to deflect
blame for the clashes in Malifut away from their own community. They did not do
so under the sway of propagandists. The violence launched by the Makians and
members of other groups in southern Ternate subsequently initiated a series of
violent events that pushed North Maluku almost inexorably towards religious war.

Conclusion
Inter-religious relations in North Maluku have been changed, perhaps irrevocably,
by the events of early November 1999. The Christian minorities in Ternate and
Tidore were violently targeted, treated as scapegoats following a dispute in a
distant and remote area. The events were to lead to widespread and far more deadly
inter-religious violence across the new province, as innocent followers of both
religions were slaughtered. Most existing studies of the conflict explain the rioting
in the region’s two main cities as a spontaneous outburst of Muslim anger at anon-
ymous provocation in the form of the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter. The analysis presented
in this chapter suggests that a far more malign explanation of these riots is
appropriate.
The November Tidore and Ternate riots were not a spontaneous response to the
Malifut violence or to the inflammatory letter that attempted to draw a link
between that violence and the local Christian Church. The rioting appears to have
been organized by local politicians and community and religious leaders. At
another higher level, high-ranking bureaucrats and politicians both allowed and
facilitated the rioting to occur for more political purposes.
Above all, the rioting in both cities was organized and started by Makians
who did not require further provocation. The influx of Makian refugees from
Halmahera into Ternate and elsewhere had a major emotional impact on many
members of the Makian elite. The vast majority of Muslims of other ethnic
groups in Ternate and Tidore, perhaps less susceptible to religious propaganda
than is often claimed, did not accept the assertions that the Malifut conflict called
for inter-religious animosity. While some subsequently joined the rioting, most
Muslims did not participate.
As demonstrated by the analysis above, leadership and mass action are not
entirely separate phenomena. Both elites and ordinary participants reacted to the
 Escalation – Ternate and Tidore 95
statements and actions of the other. Both important elites and masses were moti-
vated by emotional/psychological factors as well as by rational interest. What
made the rioting possible was a convergence of interests between those who
sought revenge for Malifut and political elites who sought to unify Muslim polit-
ical support against the Sultan of Ternate. A coalition of these individuals then
pressured the security forces to refrain from action as the sultan’s political
supporters were targeted. Despite their relatively small numbers, the rioters were
able to freely target Christians and their property and face no sanction because
police and military commanders were hesitant to act against the supporters of the
potential future provincial power holders.
Within two months, almost the entire province was engulfed in religious
violence. As will be seen in the next chapter, this violence, often far more brutal
and extensive than that which had preceded it, was in large part a consequence of
the riots in Ternate and Tidore. That violence and the targeting of innocent
Christians on those islands caused intense anger and distrust across the province.
The scapegoating of Christians because of a clash in a remote area of North
Maluku, and for political purposes, escalated a small dispute into province-wide
religious war.
5 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela

Introduction
Since the sixteenth century, Islam and Christianity have converged in north
Halmahera. While North Maluku has long been strongly Islamic, in this one corner
of the region the two great faiths coincided and their members mixed in relatively
even numbers. The palm-tree-lined coastal road from Galela to Tobelo passes
through neighbouring Muslim and Christian villages as well as those where
members of both faiths have lived side by side for over a century. In Tobelo and
Galela, peaceful coexistence between Christians and Muslims, enshrined in the
local cultural tradition of Hibua Lamo, had always been a source of pride. When
violence wracked much of the region in late 1999, Tobelos were sure provocateurs
would try and undermine this harmony. They knew that ‘if they make Tobelos
fight, the rest of North Maluku will follow.’1
Most people in North Maluku saw the Malifut conflict between Kaos and
Makians as a local issue, a dispute over territorial borders and the control of
natural resources. For this reason, they deemed it unlikely that violence would
spread to other areas in the region. However, after the anti-Christian rioting in
Tidore and Ternate, and attacks on Christian communities in several villages in
Central Halmahera, the violence assumed a religious character that appeared
relevant to the entire North Maluku community. Christians, particularly those in
north Halmahera, believed that the Makian community had targeted defenceless
Christians to avenge their failed attempt to take control of valuable Kao land in
Malifut. Muslims also began to feel concerned at this rising sentiment and to take
defensive precautions, including making weaponry.
This chapter analyzes how and why violence spread throughout the new province
by considering in detail the events in the adjacent sub-districts of Tobelo and Galela
in north Halmahera. I will argue that two factors – security concerns and religious
animosity – in large part caused the bloodshed to spread to these areas. The sight of
Christians fleeing to Tobelo and accounts of the murder of a pastor and the destruc-
tion of churches spurred anti-Muslim sentiment. Rising tension meant that fear and
anger increased within both communities. Unsurprisingly, after the nature of the
violence in Tidore and Ternate, many members of both communities in Tobelo and
Galela began to assert their religious identity in a more belligerent manner.
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 97
To help explain how such concerns can bring individuals and groups to
commit violence, the chapter first presents two general explanations for the
outbreak of communal violence: the (physical) security dilemma and societal
security dilemma. It will then describe the events leading up to the violence in
late December 1999 and the clashes themselves. The final section draws some
conclusions on how and why two sub-districts with such a long history of
inter-religious harmony could descend into violence. While emphasizing the
importance of insecurity, in my analysis of these events I attempt to move away
from an apolitical focus on the impact of this tension alone and reveal the human
agency that was crucial to the violence.

The security dilemma

Why do two communities with apparently no interest in initiating devastating
civil war nevertheless find themselves fighting that war? To answer this ques-
tion, several general theorists of conflict have utilized the security dilemma
concept central to ‘realist’ thought in international ielations.2 They assert that,
simply by taking measures to ensure their own security, an ethnic group can inad-
vertently threaten others. Barry Posen posits that this often occurs when state
authority is removed and ethnic communities are suddenly required to consider
the intentions and military capabilities of, and their past relationship with, neigh-
bouring groups.3 If the benign intent of that group is not assured, the community
will take steps to ensure its own safety, reaffirming group solidarity, mobilizing
militias or constructing weapons. Members of the other community will find it
difficult to see these measures as purely defensive and will make similar prepara-
tions. A spiral of insecurity and tension will ensue, heightening the tension
between the two groups.4
A breakdown in information flows between the communities will exacerbate
this situation.5 Given that both have much to lose from violent conflict, they will
normally find a negotiated solution that maintains the status quo and prevents
chaos.6 The ability to reach a negotiated settlement to a dispute is diminished,
however, when one or more parties misrepresent their true position by ‘bluffing
… exaggerating their strengths, minimizing their weaknesses’.7 As each party
becomes suspicious of the true motives of the other, conflict becomes more
likely. If the state and the official security structure appear unable or unwilling to
provide protection, militant activity is likely to obtain greater legitimacy in the
eyes of the community. Groups may eventually adopt more offensive measures if
they appear to be the best way of eradicating the apparent threat to their group
and if the opportunity to do so exists now but may not in the future.8
Other theorists have claimed that threats to a community’s identity, rather than
purely physical threats, may often be the primary cause of rising tension and
conflict. Ole Waever et al. have suggested that perceptions of existential threats
can arise from in-migration, changes in education or other mechanisms that erode
a group’s distinctiveness.9 When a community perceives that its language, culture
or religion is threatened by government policies or the actions of another group, it
98 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
will attempt to protect that cultural identity, sometimes through military means,
but often by reasserting that identity. The displays of group solidarity that accom-
pany these actions will often unwittingly threaten another community.10
A synthesis of these two theories provides insights into the period before many
outbreaks of communal violence. Material concerns (with physical safety,
economic resources, etc.) and identity-related factors (such as cultural freedom
or ethno-nationalism) are clearly present and important in many conflict situa-
tions. In all social phenomena, identities and motivational factors (interests) are
mutually constitutive – influencing, changing and creating each other. Increased
communal solidarity is often an effective means of gaining economic advantage.
Fear of physical attack will often strengthen and radicalize communal identity.11
This, and the rising militancy that accompanies it, will in turn appear increas-
ingly threatening to neighbouring communities. Indeed, it is often difficult to
establish whether an issue central to rising tension has material or iden-
tity-related importance. For example, the possibility of attack threatens not only
the safety of group members but also the territory, buildings and symbols central
to a community’s identity. Certain places and buildings not only house and
support communities but are also of a sacred nature.
Rumours often play a central role during periods of acute insecurity.12 The
horrifying content of some rumours stimulates a sense of urgency and makes
non-violent alternatives seem ridiculous and dangerous. In such situations,
opposing groups may decide their options lie not between cooperation and
aggression, but between aggression and victimhood.13 The use of violence in
the self-defence of one’s community therefore becomes legitimate.14 Sporadic
confrontations appear to confirm the aggressive character of the other group
and the danger to one’s own group.
In these situations members of a community are particularly vulnerable to
manipulation. In situations involving religious tension, religious and secular
leaders sometimes use the teachings of the faith to legitimate violence. When
militia leaders use religion to mobilize followers, they often also draw on local
traditions and prejudices. Having limited knowledge of religious texts, commu-
nity members are unable to challenge or even critically evaluate the use of
doctrine to legitimate violence.15 Such use of religion appears to create particu-
larly volatile situations, with disputes coming to be perceived as a struggle
between good and evil,16 and one’s opponents seen as ‘fanatics’.17 This combina-
tion of insecurity, religious fervour and traditional practices may increase the
intensity of violence.
In her study of religious riots in sixteenth-century France, Natalie Zemon
Davis writes that the atrocities involved in Catholic–Protestant riots ‘can be
reduced to a repertory of actions, derived from the bible, from the liturgy, from
the action of political authority, or from the traditions of popular folk justice,
intended to purify the religious community, humiliate the enemy and thus make
him less harmful’.18 Fire and water (drowning) were considered sacred means of
purification. Catholics committed desecration of Protestant corpses in order to
further humiliate the victim, disembowelling them and dragging them through
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 99
the streets.19 Davis points to one other function of the terrible atrocities
committed during riots. The desecration of corpses, dismemberment and dis-
embowelling with butcher’s implements completes a process of dehumaniza-
tion of the victims.20
While providing strong insights into many conflict situations, the structural
nature of the physical and societal security dilemma concepts gives inadequate
explanatory weight to human agency. This means that it is difficult to differentiate
between those situations of insecurity that lead to violence and those that do not. It
also means that the analyst will miss those actions that are motivated by factors
other than physical and existential anxiety. While militants and provocateurs can
be ‘as much a product as a producer of ethnic fears’,21 fear is often not their
primary motivation. For many individuals and sub-groups, a conflict situation
offers opportunity as well as threat. While some act out of fear, other actions
central to the outbreak of violence are based on personal vendetta, a quest for
status, financial reward, criminality or religious militancy. Indeed, inter-commu-
nity relations in the period before violence are often complex, individuals and
groups in each community having very different interpretations of the situation
and the intent of the other community, and considering different interests and strat-
egies. By analyzing in depth the motives and actions of individuals and sub-groups
it becomes possible to explain why the absence of strong government and an atmo-
sphere of insecurity sometimes leads to violence.22
While Indonesia in 1999 cannot be considered a failed state, this chapter demon-
strates that the security dilemma concept can help explain the worst violence in the
conflict – that in Tobelo and Galela. The riots in Ternate and elsewhere stimulated
a great deal of insecurity in those areas. Physical and identity-related concerns
reinforced and exacerbated each other. As issues of insecurity, material interest
and identity interacted and exacerbated inter-communal tension, the conflict drew
in increasing numbers of people.

A region of inter-religious harmony

Tobelo
Tobelo Sub-District (split in 2000 into Tobelo and South Tobelo Sub-Districts)
stretches from Galela in the north to Kao in the south (see Map 5.1). The
sub-district is primarily rural, with most farmers growing coconut for the produc-
tion of copra. There is one major road that runs from the port of Sidangoli in Jailolo
Sub-District (the main entry point to Halmahera) along the coast through Kao to
Tobelo, and then on to Soasio, Galela. The city of Tobelo is the main centre for the
north Halmahera region and the export hub for copra and other commodities. The
city is now the capital of the new North Halmahera District, formalized with
district elections in 2004.
In 1999, the population of Tobelo Sub-District was 55,046 and lived predomi-
nantly along the coast.23 The majority of the population is of the Tobelo ethnic
group, closely related to the other ethnic groups in north Halmahera, including the
Map 6 Tobelo
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 101
Kao and Galela.24 The majority of Tobelos, and the population of Tobelo
Sub-District, are Protestant Christians. While the Dutch Reformed Church mission
was first established at the inland Galela village of Duma,25 Tobelo City is now the
centre of the Evangelical Protestant Church on Halmahera (GMIH), and the loca-
tion of the Christian Theology College (Sekolah Tinggi Teologi – STT). There is
also a small, mostly migrant Catholic population in Tobelo City. Protestant Chris-
tians comprise the majorities of most villages in the sub-district, particularly those
located on the road between Tobelo and Kao.
A substantial minority of the Tobelo ethnic group is Muslim. For the decade
before the conflict, Muslims constituted the majority in the sub-district capital,
Tobelo City. In 1999 the city was also home to several thousand Muslim migrants
from the Tidore, Makian and Bugis ethnic groups, many of whom were successful
small traders and shop owners. Large communities of Muslims were also located
in the villages of Gorua, 5 km north of Tobelo City, and Togoliua, approximately
30 km to the south of the city.26 Muslims also comprised small proportions of some
villages, such as Gamhoku. Several thousand government-sponsored
transmigrants, mostly Muslims from East Java, also lived in the sub-district, the
largest community located adjacent to the village of Togoliua.
Family connections between Protestant and Muslim Tobelos are very close.
Almost all Tobelos interviewed claimed that they have a parent, uncle, grand-
mother or other relative of a different religion. Members of the same extended
family often celebrated Christmas, Easter, Idul Fitri and Idul Adha with each other,
eating in the houses of the family members celebrating the event. Muslims would
assist neighbouring Christian communities in constructing new churches and
Christians would provide labour for the erection of new mosques. These connec-
tions have been formalized in a cultural structure known as Hibua Lamo. Hibua
Lamo is considered similar to the Pela Gandong cultural system in Ambon and
central Maluku, which binds Christian and Muslim villages in a pact of mutual
assistance and non-aggression.27 One Muslim Tobelo proclaimed that Hibua Lamo
was stronger than Pela Gandong as it was built on ‘blood’ or family ties.28

The weakening of ethnic ties

However, several Christian respondents noted that, during the 1980s and 1990s, the
closeness of this relationship declined. The practice of dining with family or friends
during holy festivals had become far less frequent over the past decade. According
to some Christians, where Muslim and Christian children had always played
together, by the late 1980s bullying and fights had increased. The 1990s saw more
serious fighting breaking out or being narrowly averted. The central suburb of
Gosoma in particular saw sporadic fights between young men from the two commu-
nities. One bout of fighting in this neighbourhood in the early 1990s was serious
enough to damage several buildings, including a local school. Rumours and rising
tension almost led to rioting in the period leading up to Christmas 1994.
There are several possible explanations for the deterioration in relations
between indigenous Christian and Muslim Tobelos. Christians blame an increase
102 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
in ‘radicalism’ among local Muslims, due because of the settlement in the city of
large numbers of migrants over the preceding two decades. Several Christians
considered that these migrants, many from Tidore and Makian and from outside
North Maluku, such as South Sulawesi, were far stricter in their observance of
Islam and more exclusive and antagonistic towards Christians. Migrants also felt
little affinity with the ties of Hibua Lamo.29
The perception that Muslims had become more radical over the two decades
prior to the conflict is widespread among Tobelo Christians. Some developments
in the city certainly suggested a degree of increased religiosity. For example, from
the late 1980s the sale of pigs or pork was banned in the central market located in a
Muslim area. But on the whole both communities were equally religious. When
external events, such as political turmoil in the Middle East, influenced the atmo-
sphere in the city, they appear to have affected each community equally. During
such periods, some individuals and groups from each community used the events
to antagonize the other. For example, in 1991 during the first Gulf War against
Iraq, provocative slogans and symbols such as the Star of David, ‘PLO’ (Palestine
Liberation Organization) and ‘Mossad’ appeared on walls, raising emotions in the
city.30
External actors also appear to have affected the relationship between Christians
and Muslims in Tobelo. In 1993, an American Christian missionary from the
American evangelical organization the New Tribes Mission, Pastor Bouwens, who
had long lived in Tobelo, was involved in an altercation with Muslim men that
almost started a communal riot. After allegedly asking several Muslim men why
they were leaving rubbish near his house ‘when Islam was supposed to be a clean
religion’, Bouwens was beaten seriously enough to necessitate medical care in the
local hospital, Bethesda.31 A crowd of Christian men gathered outside the hospital
and demanded they be allowed to take revenge against the Muslims responsible
but were calmed by a Christian community leader.
In 1998 a sermon delivered in a mosque by a visiting Muslim medical practi-
tioner caused tension when overheard by nearby Christians. The man told the audi-
ence of Muslims that they should no longer dine with Christians nor offer them
salutations during the Christmas period. Christians living close to the mosque
overheard the sermon, which was broadcast through the mosque’s loudspeaker.32
After complaints from these Christians, the Sub-District Head of Tobelo, Agil
Bachmid (a Muslim), asked the man, Dr Husen, for an explanation of his actions
and instructed him to write a letter of apology to the Christian community.33 While
these incidents caused tension and demonstrations of bravado in the Tobelo
community, none instigated rioting.
The Ambon conflict also influenced the atmosphere in Tobelo, although it did
not lead to violence. Leaders from the Muslim and Christian communities met
frequently after violence broke out in the provincial capital in January, stating their
continued respect for the cultural ties of Hibua Lamo and their determination to
prevent conflict spreading to north Halmahera. Several families seeking refuge
from the turmoil in Ambon arrived in Tobelo Sub-District but their presence did
not greatly influence the local atmosphere. However, several Tobelo Christians
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 103
Table 5.1 Chronology of events before violence in Tobelo City, 1999

19 January Religious violence begins in Ambon City

22 June Inter-village clash in Ibu Sub District in north-western Halmahera
18 August First clash in Malifut – two Kao villages destroyed
25 October Kao attack and destroy Malifut
3–6 November Anti-Christian rioting in Tidore and Ternate
8 November Attacks against Christians in Central Halmahera – IDPs flee to
Tobelo
14 November Christian man throws bomb in Tobelo market
20 November Christian student group confronts Sub-District Head
26 November Tobelo Muslim discovered making jihad robes
7 December Visit of Sultan of Ternate and Governor to Tobelo
24 December GMIH requests protection for central church
26 December Rioting starts in Tobelo City

told me the events in Ambon reconfirmed to them what they had perceived as a
persecution of Christians throughout Indonesia, citing examples such as the
destruction of churches in Java, repression in East Timor and the riot in Ketapang
in Jakarta. They recounted that a consensus had developed among many in the
Christian community in Tobelo that if ‘they [meaning mainly Muslims, but also
the government or the TNI] try that here, we will not step back’.34 Similar senti-
ments were prevalent among the Islamic community, who viewed the Ambon
conflict as caused by aggression by Christians and particularly by the RMS sepa-
ratist organization based in Ambon in the 1950s. 35
The atmosphere in Tobelo became slightly tenser following a clash in June 1999
in the sub-district of Ibu on the western side of the north Halmahera peninsula.
This area is close to Tobelo both geographically and ethnically. A fight between
youths from the Christian village of Bataka and the Muslim village of Talaga left
several people dead. My interviews with people involved suggested the clash was
sparked by a dispute between youths over suspected criminal activity. However,
Christians in Tobelo considered it an example of Muslim aggression towards the
Christian minority.36 The 18 August destruction of the Kao villages of Sosol and
Wangeotak by Makians angered Christians in Tobelo, yet both Muslims and
Christians considered the dispute to be ethnically-based, with a very local scope,
concerning a sub-district boundary. The lack of response from the district govern-
ment in Ternate to the Kaos’ demands confirmed Christians’ perception that
Makians dominated the government and supported the interests of their co-ethnics
at the expense of other groups. But relations between Christians and Muslims in
Tobelo remained peaceful. While the Kaos’ subsequent destruction of Malifut on
October 25, and the expulsion of the Makians, was still largely considered a local
104 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
problem not relevant to Tobelo, many Muslims considered it a rather threatening
development. Makians in particular were concerned at the events and the subse-
quent intimidation they faced from Kaos as they travelled to Ternate.

Fear and rising radicalism

The atmosphere between Christians and Muslims in Tobelo City and surrounding
villages changed markedly following the riots in Tidore and Ternate in early
November. While most Christian IDPs from these riots were evacuated to North
Sulawesi, some returned to their original homes in Tobelo. Most of these were
politicians and civil servants who had witnessed the efforts by their Makian
colleagues in Ternate to portray the conflict in Malifut as religious in character and
had perceived the organized nature of the riots in the city. One related how his
house had been painted with a red cross in the days before the rioting. Many of
these Christian leaders were angered at the events in Tidore and Ternate and influ-
enced the situation in Tobelo through their rhetoric.
What changed the security situation in Tobelo most dramatically was the arrival
of several thousand IDPs fleeing violence in Central Halmahera. Attacks on Chris-
tian communities had occurred in several villages in Payahe and West Gane
Sub-Districts in the days following the Ternate riots. It seems likely that these
attacks were launched from Ternate. According to a Makian respondent in that city
on 8 November 1999, immediately after the anti-Christian rioting in Ternate, as
Christians sheltered around the Sultan’s palace and in police and military bases,
Wahda Zainal Imam and other leaders allegedly formed a militia to travel to
Payahe and elsewhere to mobilize local Muslims for attacks on neighbouring
Christians.37 Wahda Zainal Imam and other leaders referred to this militia as the
North Maluku branch of the Islamic Defenders Front (Front Pembela Islam –
FPI).38
Muslims appear to have attacked Christians in the village of Lola in Payahe
Sub-District on Halmahera opposite Makian Island, home to large numbers of
Makian migrants.39 Christians suffered large numbers of casualties in this attack
and in a subsequent attack in the sub-district of West Gane. These conflicts forced
around 1,600 people from their homes, most fleeing into the surrounding forest. In
response to requests from community and church leaders, several pastors of GMIH
in Tobelo organized a ship to travel to Central Halmahera to evacuate the Christian
community. Large numbers of Christian IDPs were therefore brought to Tobelo
and housed in camps in the city and surrounding villages. Christians were angry
that neither the North Maluku nor Central Halmahera District governments orga-
nized the evacuation of, or provided any assistance to, these IDPs in the same way
they had to the Makians after the destruction of Malifut.40
The atmosphere in Tobelo now became highly tense. Christians were outraged
at the killing of a pastor and the destruction of churches, and saw these events and
the targeting of Christians in general (as opposed to just Kaos) as clear signs that
the conflict was now about religion. IDPs also brought stories that the military in
Ternate and Tidore, if not complicit in assisting the attacks, had not acted to
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 105
prevent the riot. This added to an awareness among many Christians of the need to
defend themselves and many turned to militant individuals.
When religious violence occurred in several areas of Halmahera in November,
the leader of the Christian militia in Kao, Benny Bitjara, sought religious sanction
to take his militia to these areas. Bitjara visited the head of GMIH, Pastor Aesh,
and requested church sanction for an attack against Muslims in these communities.
When Pastor Aesh refused to provide church legitimacy for attacks against
Muslims, Bitjara became angry and accused the pastor of not protecting Chris-
tians. From this moment the Christian community was divided in its response to
the rising animosity.
Muslims in Tobelo increasingly feared that Christians might retaliate against
them for attacks on Christians elsewhere. Muslims claimed that the IDPs arriving
in the city were almost all young men, and were armed with traditional weapons
such as bows and arrows. Christians denied this; however, some Muslims saw the
fact that the GMIH Synod had sent a ship to evacuate Christians from Central
Halmahera to Tobelo as confirmation of their suspicions that Christians were plan-
ning an assault on Muslims. Many perceived these IDPs as reinforcements for
Christians in Tobelo. To many Muslims, it became apparent that some Christians
were planning to attack Muslims in the area.
Both Christians and Muslims began to step up preparations for what inceasingly
appeared to be an inevitable conflict. Men and women on both sides set about
making spears, machetes and bows and arrows. By December the sound of explo-
sions became common as bombs were made and tested. Each side set up security
posts in their areas of town. Because of this growing sense of insecurity, both
Christian and Muslim shop owners paid militants from their religious community
to provide protection. Several Christian shop owners paid Benny Bitjara for
protection.41 Christians in turn claimed that a Muslim shopkeeper named
Muhammad Albar organized security for shops in the town owned by Muslims.
After the arrival of the Christian IDPs, a number of incidents both reflected and
increased the level of tension in the town and surrounding villages. November and
early December saw several fights between drunken men in the town market.
Although not particularly unusual, these fights had a far greater impact on the
community than previously. On one occasion in early December, a fight triggered
a stand-off between people wearing either white or red headbands (Islamic and
Christian symbols) and carrying weapons. Many Muslim residents of Tobelo,
particularly non-Tobelos, left the city over this period.
On 14 November guards at the Tobelo market expelled the younger brother of
Benny Bitjara for being drunk and causing a disturbance. Fleeing Tobelo on the
back of a motorcycle, witnesses claim he threw a pipe bomb at the national rice
agency (Bulog) building. The bomb failed to explode but lay smoking on the
ground and several police officers chased him. At Efi Efi, a village to the south of
the city, he was apprehended but then released by the police. Subsequently a
rumour circulated throughout north Halmahera that when the police attempted to
arrest him, Bitjara had picked up a large rock and eaten it, frightening the police
and onlookers and persuading the officers to allow him to continue unhindered.
106 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Bitjara probably escaped arrest, despite his obvious attempt at provocation,
because he was the younger brother of the head of the local Christian militia.
Nevertheless, the stone-eating rumour heightened the sense of nervousness in the
sub-districts of Tobelo, Galela and Kao.
Christian youths associated with the Theology College in Tobelo (STT) formed
a group called the Christian Youth Communication Forum or FKPKHU (Forum
Kommunikasi Pemuda Kristen Halmahera Utara). On 20 November members of
this group approached the sub-district head, Agil Bachmid, and told him that if he
did not find a way to prevent conflict in Tobelo, they would do so themselves.
They demanded that all Makians, Tidores and Sananas be expelled from Tobelo.
Bachmid, himself a Makian, told them that there were several ethnic groups
involved in the conflict in North Maluku and that everybody needed to take a
measured and careful response. His wording – ‘there are provocateurs within our
own community’ – conveyed a different meaning to the predominately Christian
audience, however.42 The members of FKPKHU understood his statement to mean
that there were certain individuals trying to provoke violence in Tobelo. When he
refused their demands to identify who was provoking tension in the city, he was
himself accused, and left Tobelo for Ternate in late December, several days before
the rioting broke out.
On 26 November several Christian men discovered a Muslim Tobelo sewing
white robes and headbands in the suburb of Gura, clothing associated with militant
Islam. Christian leaders reported the man’s activities to the police, who arrested
him. While Christians and the FKPKHU demanded that the police investigate who
had commissioned the tailor to make these uniforms, no further action was taken.
At least one Muslim community leader, Dr Musriyono Nobio, demanded that the
police release the man, but pressure from FKPKHU prevented this.
On 7 December a political delegation travelled from Ternate to Tobelo City,
made up of the Sultan of Ternate, Mudaffar Syah, the interim governor, Surasmin,
and the district head of North Maluku District, Rusli Andiaco. The delegation
members addressed a crowd in the grounds of the sub-district government offices,
including large numbers of Christian IDPs from Central Halmahera, in an effort to
reduce tensions in the town. Groups of people at the meeting displayed banners
stating ‘Muslims are our brothers and sisters, but Makians and Tidores are riot
instigators who have to leave Tobelo Sub-District’.43 This indicates that, even at
this late stage, many people still felt the violence in the province so far had not been
about religious tension but had been instigated by individuals from certain ethnic
groups. However, the banner was highly provocative, particularly as the
sub-district head, Agil Bachmid, was a Makian.
Security concerns and religious tension continued to converge in late December
with the beginning of Ramadan and the approach of Christmas. A rumour circu-
lated among the Christian community that they faced a ‘Bloody Christmas’ (Natal
Berdarah), unsurprisingly, given the events in Ternate and Tidore, causing a great
deal of anxiety. The Islamic fasting month of Ramadan also began in
mid-December, according to several Muslim respondents, a time when Muslims
are more sensitive to apparent insults to Islam. Given that the month of Ramadan
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 107
coincided with the noisy Christmas preparations and celebrations typical of
Tobelo, tensions were at high levels. Several small disputes arose when Christians
sang loudly outside the homes of Muslims or youths from both communities threw
stones at houses. Graffiti appeared on the walls of the city, with messages such as
‘Tobelo is the Second Israel’ and ‘PLO’. Small groups took a more aggressive
stance towards the other community. There are strong indications that some
groups in the Muslim community, such as one centred around the family of Yahir
Patty in Gosoma, believed it was better to initiate hostilities before Christians
could do so.44
Many leaders from both communities continued to work hard throughout
December to prevent conflict. On 21 December, Muslim and Christian community
leaders met and agreed that conflict should not occur in Tobelo. They reaffirmed
the ethnic relationship between Tobelo Christians and Muslims and the ties of
tradition embodied in the cultural structure Hibua Lamo. In some areas, members
of both Christian and Muslim communities cooperated in taking physical precau-
tions to prevent conflict. For example in the suburb of Gura, members of both
communities stood guard at posts on the main street intersections. Several Muslim
respondents said that, even at this stage, they still believed that conflict would not
break out, because Christian leaders appeared to be resolved to prevent it. Others
believed that conflict might occur but that the security forces, particularly TNI,
would bring it under control.
However, some efforts at conflict prevention aggravated the situation. One
particularly acrimonious community meeting deteriorated into shouting between a
pastor, Samuel Ray Ray, and a Muslim leader, Musriyono Nobio. According to
witnesses, each shouted that they could mobilize several thousand men to secure
the city. Around this time, the sub-district head, Agil Bachmid, made frequent trips
between Tobelo City and the major Muslim villages of Togoliua and Gorua,
stating he was attempting to alleviate the growing concern in the sub-district.
However, the fact that he carried out many of these visits at night and appeared
only to visit Muslim villages convinced many Christians that he was in fact
preparing the Muslim community for conflict. As mentioned above, after
continued accusations that he was attempting to provoke a Muslim attack,
Bachmid left Tobelo for Ternate.
As Christmas Day approached amid rising tension and with the ‘Bloody Christ-
mas’ rumour fresh in the minds of members of both communities, several officials
of the GMIH Church sought to ensure security for the GMIH complex in central
Tobelo. The compound was of major religious and administrative importance for
the Christian community, containing the central church (Bethesda) and the Synod
office of GMIH as well as north Halmahera’s main hospital, Bethesda. Many
Christians considered that this compound would be a primary target of any Muslim
attack. On 24 December a resident of the GMIH compound, Pastor Charles Kaya,
requested that the local military commander provide security for the compound
over the Christmas period.45 Receiving no response, he then contacted churches in
the predominately Christian villages of Kupa Kupa and Efi Efi in south Tobelo and
requested that 40 villagers travel to Tobelo City to guard the church overnight. The
108 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Synod hired a truck owned by a Christian Chinese Tobelo shop owner to transport
the villagers. The truck drove through the centre of Tobelo, a strongly Muslim
area, with the men standing in the back wearing red headbands and holding spears.
Muslims I spoke to saw this at the very least as a provocative act and some as
evidence of a Christian plan to attack Muslims, led by GMIH officials.
In response to this development, Haji Ponoh, a Muslim community leader in
Tobelo and Gorua, asked several Christian leaders, including Pastor Aesh (the
Chairman of GMIH), Pastor Jacob Soselissa (a pastor of Ambonese ethnicity from
Kupa Kupa, South Tobelo) and the former sub-district head, Mr Huwae, to explain
why armed men had been brought into the city. The Christian leaders assured him
it was only to guard the church, and that if no violence occurred during Christmas
then they would simply return to their villages. Indeed there appears to be little
evidence that GMIH brought these men to Tobelo to either attack or to intention-
ally provoke the Muslim community. The pastors involved probably did not
foresee that the group would enter the city in such a provocative manner. Yet it
seems likely that, although the rioting did not start until two days later (Christmas
Day, 25 December, passing without incident), the impact this act had on the
Muslim community and on the relationship between the two communities meant
that this was, ultimately, a primary trigger for the violence.

Violence in Tobelo
On 26 December a group of Muslim youths threw stones at the house of a retired
Christian Ambonese police officer, Chris Maitimu, in the western part of Gosoma
behind the major sports field in Tobelo City, Lapangan Kariangan. When Maitimu
came out of his house and accused the youths, a crowd gathered and threw stones
at Muslim houses. According to a Christian respondent, a crowd of approximately
80 Muslim men then attacked a Christian neighbourhood guard post in Gosoma.
Within an hour, hundreds of Christian and Muslim men were fighting on the street
with swords, machetes and homemade bazookas, and, according to some accounts,
wearing white and red headbands. Although Muslims blockaded the main
southern entry into Tobelo, several dozen Christian militia members were able to
enter the city via a road through gardens into the area of Gosoma. There were
several casualties from both communities in these initial clashes.
In the early morning of 27 December Christians fought running battles with
Muslims between Gosoma and the monument on Tugu Street. At around 9.30 a.m.,
Muslims set fire to the Pentecostal church, and by 10.30 a.m. had pushed the
Gosoma Christians back and were attacking Gosoma church, the main church in
the south-west of the city. Several witnesses stated that a local (Tobelo) Muslim
military officer named Hatalah joined this attack and shot dead Wanto Hohakay,
one of the local Christian men defending the church. 46
By mid-morning, Muslims controlled the central area of Tobelo.47 Those Chris-
tians who remained in the city were confined to the suburbs surrounding the centre
of the city such as Gura and southern Gosoma. Many also fled through the forest to
Christian villages to the south. Some Christians, mostly Chinese shop owners, fled
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 109
to the military base (Kompi) on the northern edge of the city. Several shop ruins in
the centre of the city still bear the message ‘Muslim’ from this period, painted by
their Muslim owners seeking to prevent the destruction of their premises.
During this period the city’s infrastructure was relatively untouched by the
violence. Muslims did not destroy shops owned by Christians in the central city
they now controlled. One exception was a complex of five houses near the offices
of the sub-district government which were burned to the ground. These houses
were almost all occupied by current and former civil servants of Ambonese
ethnicity, including the former sub-district head, Mr Huwae. Local Muslim men I
interviewed, when questioned as to why they targeted those houses, claimed the
residents were ‘RMS’ (Republic of South Maluku) Christian separatists. While
Muslims alleged that the RMS was present in North Maluku and in Tobelo in 1999,
there is little evidence to support this claim. Prior to September 1999, while North
Maluku remained part of Maluku Province, many officials in the local Tobelo
government were appointed by the provincial government in Ambon. Many of
these officials, often of Ambonese ethnicity, were still in their positions after the
creation of North Maluku Province and many others, like Mr Huwae, had retired
but remained in Tobelo City. On this occasion, being of Ambonese ethnicity was
apparently enough to raise suspicion and animosity.
On the morning of 27 December, as violence continued in Tobelo City,
clashes erupted to the north of the city in two large neighbouring villages with
Muslim majorities, Gorua and Popilo (see Map 5.1). After violence started in
the city on the evening of 26 December, Muslim leaders in Gorua offered to
guard the church, an offer that local Christians refused. The following
morning, Muslims attacked the Christians guarding the church. Because the
church and most Christian houses were located at the southern end of Gorua,
Christians were able to safely reach Tobelo City and the village of Wari on the
city’s northern edge. Muslims in Gorua destroyed the church and all Christian
houses after the Christians had fled. Their escape, and the lack of casualties,
suggests the attack was carried out to expel the Christian community rather
than kill them. Over the next few days, clashes occurred between Muslims from
Gorua and Christians from Wari.
In the adjacent village of Popilo, Muslims also appear to have launched a
pre-emptive attack. According to the Christian pastor in Popilo, the Muslim village
head arrived and reassured local Christians that Muslims would not attack them,
and they would therefore not require assistance from the neighbouring Christian
village of Ruko to guard their church. However, soon after that meeting, Muslims
did attack the Christian area of the village and destroyed the church. Christians
believe Muslims assured them only in order to ensure that they (Christians) were
unprepared for conflict. However, my interviews with the village head and other
Muslim leaders make it seem likely that the assurances had been genuine but that
the attack had been launched by a group of more aggressive men from the village.
The fact that the entire Christian community from Popilo reached Tobelo safely
also suggests that, as in Gorua, there was no intention to kill them but only to drive
the community from the village.
110 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
During the night of 26 December several senior Christian community leaders
telephoned Benny Bitjara in Kupa Kupa and other Christian militia leaders in the
major villages south of Tobelo City.48 That night, and the following morning,
Benny Bitjara, along with Hersen Tinangon in Pediwang, mobilized thousands of
Christian Kaos to travel to the city. The thousands of Kao militia members had
maintained a high degree of readiness for conflict since their attack against Malifut
in October, with machetes, spears, bows and arrows and sulphur bombs. While
Muslim Kaos wished to join the Christians in their attack, the militia leadership
refused this request.49 Christians referred to this militia as the Pasukan Merah (Red
Troops).
As it travelled north, the militia was forced to pass through the large Muslim
village of Togoliua, about 30 km to the south of Tobelo City. The 1,365-strong
population of the village is Muslim, primarily of the Tobelo ethnic group. Upon
reaching Togoliua, the Christian militia was blocked by coconut trees that the local
villagers had laid across the road in an effort to prevent the militia from reaching
Tobelo.50 This forced Benny Bitjara and the Kao militia to board boats in the
village of Kusuri and travel around Togoliua, rejoining the road to Tobelo City.
Togoliua Muslims explained their actions by stating that they had family in Tobelo
and they attempted to block the road in order to prevent the Kaos travelling there
and engaging in what would inevitably become a one-sided massacre. They argued
that when Malifut was destroyed in October, they and other Tobelo Muslims had
not travelled there to assist the Muslim Makians. Nonetheless, Bitjara arranged
with the villagers of Kusuri to attack Togoliua once Christians had regained
control of Tobelo City.
Muslims in the mixed village of Gamhoku also attempted to block the road
laying large rocks across the road to prevent the militia’s trucks from passing
through.51 However, Christian community leaders persuaded the Muslims to clear
the road of rocks, reassuring them that nobody from Gamhoku would travel to join
the violence in Tobelo and they would protect them from the Pasukan Merah. As
the Christian militia travelled through Gamhoku towards Tobelo on the evening of
the 26 and 27 December, members of the Christian community did indeed protect
local Muslims by standing in front of the mosque as the Muslim community shel-
tered inside.
A Christian community leader, Sakeus Odara, led hundreds of Christian men
from the village of Tobe towards Tobelo City in vans and other vehicles,
destroying several mosques and the houses of Muslims in the villages along the
road. The militia killed members of the Muslim minorities in these predominately
Christian villages, with the exception of Gamhoku where local Christians
protected the small Muslim community. Odara stated to me that it did not matter if
the Muslims they met were Tobelos, Makians or Javanese, he ‘did not choose’.52
On the evening of 27 December, this militia gathered in the church in Pitu
village on the southern border of Tobelo City which was dominated by Muslims.
The militia included men from Pediwang and other villages in Kao and almost all
men from the villages south of Tobelo. A Protestant Pastor led the militia in a reli-
gious ceremony and blessed the militia’s weapons inside the church.
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 111
That evening, as the militia prepared for night in the grounds of the village
church, with smoke from the fires of Tobelo City clearly visible against the night
sky, Benny Bitjara walked among his troops holding a bible. To the excitement of
the men waiting for battle, Bitjara informed them that Jesus had appeared before
him and commanded him to read Psalm 91 to his troops, which he duly did. An
excerpt from the psalm follows.53

You who live in the shelter of the Most High,

who abide in the shadow of the Almighty,
will say to the Lord, ‘My refuge and my fortress;
my God, in whom I trust’
For he will deliver you from the snare of the fowler
and from the deadly pestilence;
he will cover you with his pinions,
and under his wings you will find refuge;
his faithfulness is a shield and a buckler.
You will not fear the terror of the night,
or the arrow that flies by day,
or the pestilence that stalks in darkness,
or the destruction that wastes at noonday.

A thousand may fall at your side,

ten thousand at your right hand,
but it will not come near you.
You will only look with your eyes
and see the punishment of the wicked.

Because you have made the Lord your refuge,

the Most High your dwelling place,
no evil shall befall you,
no scourge come near your tent.

For he will command his angels concerning you

to guard you in all your ways.
On their hands they will bear you up,
so that you will not dash your foot against a stone.

You will tread on the lion and the adder,

The young lion and the serpent
you will trample under your foot.

According to Bitjara the message from Jesus to his troops was that the
following day, when they entered the city, it would not be they who would be
doing the fighting, but angels.54 The troops then slept in and around the small
Pitu church.
112 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
At 5.30 a.m. the following morning the Pasukan Merah attacked Tobelo City.
The majority of the militia approached and overran a Muslim blockade at
Kaliseratus on the southern edge of the city, while hundreds of other militia moved
through the area of Kampung Baru in the south-east of the city, destroying large
numbers of houses and a mosque.55 Muslims fled, hid in the dim light or were cut
down by the advancing Christians. The militia used sulphur bombs in the attack,
which both terrified Muslim crowds into running and almost completely destroyed
any buildings into which they were thrown. Throughout that morning, Muslims
ran from the central city as the thousands of Christians moved in.
By around 10 a.m. on 28 December the majority of Muslims remaining in the
city withdrew to the largest mosque in Tobelo, Mesjid Raya. Military personnel
from the base in the north of the city surrounded the mosque and held back the
Christian militia. Muslims also sought shelter in a smaller mosque several hundred
metres from Mesjid Raya where they too were protected by military personnel.
Muslims from the suburb of Gosoma also sought protection in the sub-district mili-
tary and police compounds (Koramil and Polsek). When the Pasukan Merah
demanded that a group of about 15 men, women and children sheltering in the
small military compound be handed over to them, the predominantly Christian
soldiers fled. According to witnesses, lacking firearms, the military personnel had
little choice but to hand over the group.56 As the Muslims attempted to run from the
building, the Christian militia killed them with spears.
The thousands of Christian militia then controlling the city, many of them from
outside Tobelo, began to destroy all Muslim houses and loot the shops along the
main street of Tobelo.57 Many shops, including some owned by Christians, were
destroyed during the chaos and looting in this period. Some Christian shop owners
I spoke to said they did not blame the militia, as the goods they took were just
reward for expelling Muslims from the city.58 As Christians returned to their
homes, they began to mark their houses with crosses to prevent their destruction.
Approximately 100 Muslims died in the attack on the city by the Pasukan
Merah. Many of their bodies were burned in the street. One particularly large pile
of corpses was burned in the middle of Jalan Pelabuhan near the port.59 On the
afternoon of 28 December the military evacuated the Muslims remaining in the
city’s mosques to the military base on the northern edge of the city. As these
Muslims entered the base, Christians already sheltering there left and returned to
the city. One Christian woman recounted how the return to the city was terrifying
even for Christians, as the Christian militia was looting and burning shops and
intimidating those attempting to return to their businesses. She said she witnessed
militia stop a vanload of Muslims trying to flee the city and burn the vehicle
without allowing the passengers to get out. Upon the evacuation of the Muslims
sheltering in Mesjid Raya, Christian militia entered and destroyed the building.
Following the expulsion of all Muslims from Tobelo, a pastor ‘baptized’ Benny
Bitjara as panglima or commander of the North Maluku Christian militia.
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 113
Attacks on remaining Muslim villages
Having expelled all Muslims from Tobelo to the military base or northwards to
Galela Sub-District, leaders of the Pasukan Merah met in the Elim church in the
suburb of Gura in the north of the city on the evening of 28 December. They were
joined by Christian religious and community leaders. As well as being a religious
service to celebrate their control of Tobelo, the meeting was called to discuss what
to do about several large Muslim villages to the north and south of Tobelo. A large
Muslim community remained in the two adjacent villages of Gorua and Popilo, 10
km to the north of Tobelo. As discussed above, the two villages had already experi-
enced rioting on 27 December. Approximately 30 km to the south was the Muslim
village of Togoliua, where villagers had attempted to block the Christian militia
arriving from Kao.
The leaders of the Christian community, including pastors, local politicians and
militia leaders, decided to attack these three villages. This decision was taken for
several reasons. First, most Christians from Tobelo and Kao were angry that
Muslims in Gorua and Popilo had attacked the Christian minority and destroyed
the churches in those villages. Christians in Tobelo considered the Muslims in
Gorua in particular to be ‘fanatic’ with regard to their religion and in their relations
with Christians. The presence of Christian IDPs from those two villages among the
militia undoubtedly exacerbated this anger. Similar sentiment was felt regarding
Togoliua. Christians believed that in the attempt to block the Christian militia,
Muslims in the village had shown themselves to be part of a Muslim plan to isolate
Tobelo City from Christians in Kao.
Second, Christians were concerned that after the Pasukan Merah had returned
to their homes, Tobelo would once again be vulnerable to attack from these
Muslim villages. A large portion of the Christian militia was from Kao, south of
Togoliua. In addition, it was believed that the vast majority of the military
personnel that would inevitably arrive from Ternate or elsewhere to reinforce local
contingents would be Muslim and would assist these villages in attacking Tobelo.
With many members of the militia preparing to return to their homes and with their
arsenal of bombs and other weapons becoming dangerously low, Christian militia
leaders, pastors and other community leaders decided to take swift and devastating
action against the villages.
On 29 December several thousand Christian militia members travelled in trucks
towards Gorua from Tobe village, according to several respondents led by Sakeus
Odara. To avoid the military base, which had blocked the road north, the group
drove through gardens to the north-west of Tobelo. Men from both Gorua and
Popilo held out against the onslaught for approximately an hour before being
overrun. According to several respondents, the scene in Gorua was chaotic.
Respondents from both sides of the conflict said the Christians committed atroci-
ties during the attack, including the extraction and eating of hearts and other body
parts. Photographs taken by military personnel following the attacks confirm that
corpses were disembowelled during the violence. Several Christians claimed these
acts were a reversion to what they termed pre-Christian practices.60 Around 90
114 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
people (almost exclusively Muslim) were killed in Gorua and the entire village
was burned. As the Pasukan Merah overran Gorua, the Muslim community
retreated along the road north to the village of Popilo.
The Pasukan Merah advanced through Gorua destroying houses and several
mosques and attacked Popilo. This village was also quickly overrun, and many
Muslim men escaped into the forest. Some joined the large number of women and
children hiding inside the village mosque. The Christian militia attacked the
building, several men claiming they were forced into this action because the
Muslims continued to fire arrows from inside. The attack against the mosque
continued throughout the night until resistance from inside had been quelled. Upon
entering the mosque, which was now strewn with bodies, the Christians discov-
ered a pit underneath the pulpit where a large group of Muslims were hiding. A
militia member dropped a bomb into the recess. Approximately 160 people were
killed in Popilo, bringing the deaths in the two villages to around 250. It took
several days for those Muslims who had managed to flee from Gorua and Popilo to
travel through the mountainous forested area between Tobelo and Galela to reach
Soasio.61 Christian militia also searched the forest to undertake (in the words of
one militia member) a ‘cleansing operation’ of Muslims.62
At the same time a large section of the Christian militia returned south to
Togoliua, led by Benny Bitjara. Several Christian leaders including Bitjara and
Hersen Tinangon, who had remained in the large northern Kao village of
Pediwang had organized a simultaneous attack on Togoliua from Tobelo to the
north and the village of Kusuri to the south. Kusuri village had recently been built
by the local government to house Tobelos relocated from the interior of North
Halmahera. Local pastors had, since its resettlement, converted the community to
Christianity. Villagers from Kusuri and from Kao attacked Togoliua on the
morning of 29 December, reportedly led by a convicted murderer named Nyeteke.
The militia from Tobelo was late in arriving at Togoliua and the Muslim village
had largely been overrun by the Kusuri villagers by the time they arrived.63 Large
numbers of Muslims were killed trying to prevent the Kusuri Christians from
entering the village, while hundreds of others ran into the forest. As in Popilo,
dozens of Muslims, mostly women and children, fled to the village mosque, Mesjid
Al Islah. The Christian militia, including those who had arrived from Tobelo,
attacked the mosque, throwing bombs into the building, which caused the walls to
collapse in on the people cowering inside. The militia speared or shot with bows
and arrows any of the terrified Muslims that attempted to escape.
The Pasukan Merah killed approximately 250–300 people in Togoliua.64
Contrary to several reports in national Islamic newspapers which stated that those
killed had been transmigrants from Java, all respondents in Togoliua and those
involved in the attack stated that all those killed were Halmaheran people, most
Tobelos like their assailants.65 The erroneous reports in the national press probably
stem from Togoliua’s proximity to a transmigration settlement called Trans Suka
Maju, where large numbers of Javanese reside, both Muslim and Christian.
Pasukan Merah forces did attempt to attack that settlement after the destruction of
Togoliua but were stopped by the local Protestant pastor, who told them there was
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 115
no tension in the settlement nor any risk of violence occurring.66 Atrocities report-
edly occurred in Togoliua similar to those in Gorua and Popilo.67 The Christian
militia searched in the forests for those villagers who had fled, killing an undeter-
mined number. Many who escaped spent approximately two weeks in the forest
attempting to reach Soasio in Galela. All buildings in the village were destroyed,
including local government offices, a health clinic, a school and a new water puri-
fication plant. The army company stationed in Tobelo City requested that NHM,
the company operating the mine at Gosowong in Kao, provide a backhoe to bury
bodies from the village.
As the surrounding sub-district was engulfed in violence, Christians in
Gamhoku were no longer able to protect their Muslim neighbours. On 29
December a small number of Muslim men from Gamhoku village became
involved in a clash in nearby gardens with Christians from the neighbouring
village of Upa. After the Muslim men returned to Gamhoku, several bleeding
from the fight, the local Christians, fearing the arrival of men from Upa, moved a
large section of the Muslim community into the village church for protection.
Another group remained in the village mosque. Inevitably, approximately a
hundred Christian men from Upa and other adjacent villages, fresh from the
violence in Tobelo City, arrived and attacked the church. During the attack, a fire
broke out inside the building, and the Christian militia killed approximately 30
Muslims as they fled.

Galela erupts in violence

Background
The neighbouring sub-district of Galela had a population of 35,245 in 1999,68
evenly dispersed between the capital Soasio and a number of large villages located
around the shores of Lake Duma (see Map 5.2).69 The majority of the Galela popu-
lation are from the Galela ethnic group, closely related to the Tobelos, and many
family connections exist between the two communities. The majority of Galelas
and of the Galela Sub-District population are Muslim, as are the majority in the
sub-district capital, Soasio, located around 20 km north of Tobelo. 70
Most villages in Galela had mixed religious populations, usually with small
Christian minorities. Christians were concentrated in Duma, which was exclu-
sively Christian, and the neighbouring villages of Dokulamo and Soatobaru. A
chain of contiguous villages, either exclusively Muslim or Christian or religiously
mixed, stretched along the western bank of Lake Duma (see Map 5.2). The capital
Soasio and the villages located nearby such as Igobula, Togawa and Pune had
Muslim majorities. The Christian community considers Duma to be the historical
and spiritual centre of the Protestant Church on Halmahera. The village was the
site of the first church set up by the Dutch Reformed Church and the centre of its
missionary activity in North Maluku. The village of Mamuya in south Galela was
also the site of the first Portuguese Catholic missionary settlement, although there
are now few, if any, Catholics residing in Galela.
Map 7 Galela
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 117
As in Tobelo, all respondents agreed that relations between Christians and
Muslims in Galela had generally been good before the Ambon conflict and the
riots in Ternate and Tidore. Just as in Tobelo, close family ties existed between
Muslim and Christian Galelas. Almost all respondents had a parent, uncle, grand-
mother or other relative from a different religion. Respondents from both religions
told me they frequently celebrated religious festivals together, worked together,
assisted one another in building houses and dined in each other’s homes. However,
some (generally Christian) respondents stated that tension had been rising between
the communities for some time. For example, in the village of Soatobaru several
Christians recounted their anger at how Muslims in the village had deliberately
constructed a mosque that was bigger than the church. 71
Most inhabitants of Galela are employed in the copra industry. As discussed in
Chapter 2, in 1991 the Indonesian company PT Global Agronusa Indonesia (GAI)
established a 2,000 ha banana plantation in the north of Galela. In 1999 GAI
employed approximately 3,000 people, including large numbers of locals and
people from outside north Halmahera who lived on the plantation base. In 1998,
after the onset of reformasi, a group of local university students returned to the
sub-district to organize protest action over the prices paid for land by GAI to local
farmers. However, all respondents were adamant that this had been supported by
both religious communities, and that GAI had nothing to do with the violence that
broke out in 1999. 72

Rising tension
The ongoing violence in Ambon created moderate tensions in Galela, particularly
in the area around Lake Duma. Several Christian respondents claimed that in
mid-1999 Muslim youth in Gotalamo and elsewhere were carrying out fitness and
weapons training. After the destruction of the two Kao villages, Sosol and
Wangeotak, in August the Protestant Church (GMIH) in Galela sent food and
clothing to the Kao IDPs sheltering in Kao. This assistance subsequently caused
tension with the Muslim community, members of which accused Christians of
sending men and weapons to assist in the Kao retaliation against Malifut.73
As in Tobelo, Christians in Galela were angered at the riots in Tidore and
Ternate. A small group of IDPs from Payahe and elsewhere in Central Halmahera
arrived in Christian villages around Duma. They were few in number and their
presence in Galela did not affect inter-communal relations to the extent that the
much larger numbers of IDPs in Tobelo had done. However, the dissemination of
rumours during November and early December appears to have increased tension
to very high levels around Galela. Christian villagers said that by December it was
very difficult to travel south to Tobelo, the major local city and the source of
almost all supplies needed in Galela. The only road to Tobelo wound through
Muslim villages such as Togawa and Igobula as well as through the sub-district
capital, Soasio, which had a strong Muslim majority.
Community leaders, both in the capital Soasio and in the densely populated area
around the western edge of Lake Duma, attempted to lessen this rising tension and
118 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
maintain peace. In Soasio, leaders from both Muslim and Christian communities
met and formed the organization Galela Sariloha Family Communication Forum
(Forum Kommunikasi Keluarga Galela Sariloha). The goal of the organization
was to anticipate conflict and reduce any tension that arose between the communi-
ties.74 Local community and religious leaders also held a series of meetings in
villages around Lake Duma to discuss ways of ensuring that violence did not occur
between them. At least one Christian leader from Duma, Josafat Etha, travelled to
several surrounding Muslim villages such as Ngidiho and Gotalamo. The village
heads of Soatobaru and Dokulamo also met to promote peace. Leaders from both
religious communities in Soakonora agreed to monitor and deflect provocation of
their communities.75 The sub-district government appears to have attempted little
in the way of peace-building, however. In Soasio, Christian respondents claim
neither the Muslim sub-district head nor his staff did anything to ameliorate the
rising tension in the capital.
Members of both communities were increasingly suspicious of the intentions of
the other. Just as in Tobelo, in late December the atmosphere in several villages in
Galela became tense. Rumours that each community was planning an attack to
coincide with either Christmas or Idul Fitri spread through all villages from
Samuda to Ngidiho.76 Communities in the villages of Galela, particularly those
around Lake Duma, prepared for violent conflict at least as vigorously as those in
Tobelo Sub-District. Against the orders of some village heads, members of both
communities made bows and arrows and spears.77 Small incidents that appeared to
demonstrate the aggressive intent of the other community became more frequent.
In several villages, youths from both communities threw stones at the houses of
members of the other community. In the capital, Soasio, Christian businesspeople
and local government staff fled the town several days before rioting broke out.78
While some community leaders were attempting to arrest the rising tension and
prevent conflict, some Christian leaders from Duma and Soatobaru also appear to
have planned to respond in a coordinated manner if violence did occur.
Further south and somewhat isolated from the rest of Galela, the mixed village
of Mamuya was divided by particularly high tensions. The population was almost
evenly split between Christians and Muslims and was spatially segregated, with
Muslims occupying the northern half of the village and Christians the southern
half. Christians in the village felt isolated from the main Christian villages of
Duma to the north and Tobelo to the south. On 16 December a stone-throwing inci-
dent led to an assault on two police officers, and on 19 December a Muslim man
was badly beaten by Christian youths. Christian respondents said that for several
weeks before the eventual outbreak they could not venture into the northern part of
the village for fear of being attacked.79 Christians were also concerned about
aggression from the Muslim village, Luari, located just across the border in Tobelo
Sub-District. Muslims considered the Christians in the southern part of that village
to be militant and preparing for conflict.80
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 119
Violence in Galela
People in the capital and villages of Galela first heard of the rioting in Tobelo when
several passenger vehicles that regularly travel between the two sub-districts
turned back to Galela on the evening of 26 December. When further accounts
reached the banana plantation, workers began to flee their compound in large
numbers. The first clashes in Galela Sub-District appear to have taken place in
Soasio and the adjacent village of Pune. Throughout the night of 26 December
Muslim IDPs had arrived by speedboat in Soasio from Tobelo. The Christian
community of Soasio fled to the GMIH church compound and spent a nervous
night before a mob of Muslim men attacked the compound with homemade bombs
and spears at dawn. Muslim youths from Pune, considered ‘radical’ by the Chris-
tian community, led the attacks. Christian respondents stated that the imam from
the Pune mosque pleaded with the crowd of Muslim men to stop attacking the
church compound, but no government officials attempted to placate the crowd.
Although the sub-district police station was only 200 m away, police personnel did
nothing to stop the attack.81 The Christian community was able to flee into the
forest and was evacuated by villagers from Mamuya two days later.82 The church
and surrounding compound was destroyed. On 27 December Muslims in the
villages of Togawa and Igobula near Soasio also expelled the small Christian
communities from their own villages, killing several people.
After stories of rioting in Tobelo and Soasio reached the villages around Lake
Duma on the morning of 27 December, crowds of armed men gathered in front of
mosques and churches in the adjacent villages of Soatobaru and Dokulamo. Both
sides claim the other was wearing symbols of religious identity, such as either red
or white headbands. Several Muslim and Christian leaders moved between neigh-
bouring villages.83 To members of the other religious community, these individ-
uals appeared to be coordinating attacks with neighbouring villages. After several
hours in which the opposing forces faced each other on the streets, an explosion,
apparently from a homemade bazooka, ignited rioting in Soatobaru in the late
afternoon of 27 December.
As the strongest Christian village in Galela, Duma was always going to play
a central role in any conflict in the sub-district. On 27 December, having heard
of the rioting in Tobelo, the Christian villagers of Duma gathered in turns for a
religious service in the local church. While small groups entered the church, the
rest maintained security posts at both ends of the village. 84 Weapons were taken
into the church and blessed by the pastor. The pastor instructed the residents of
Duma that they should fight if attacked but not attack first.85 When villagers
saw smoke rising from rioting in Soatobaru, and a group of Duma men clashed
with Muslim youth from Gotalamo to the north at approximately 5 p.m., the
villagers launched offensive action with devastating consequences for the area.
Within three hours, the Duma militia had driven all Muslim residents of
Gotalamo from their homes into the forest and destroyed the entire village. The
militia destroyed the mosque in the village despite the appeals of at least one
Christian leader from Duma.
120 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
At dawn the following morning, 28 December, men from Duma attacked the
villages of Dokulamo and Soatobaru, quickly expelling the Muslim communities.
Muslims from these villages were forced to walk through the forest towards the
capital Soasio, which was still controlled by Muslims. At 12.30 p.m., immedi-
ately after the attacks against Dokulamo and Soatobaru, Christians from Duma,
Soatobaru, Dokulamo and Makete moved north and attacked the mainly Muslim
village of Ngidiho. Prior to this attack, the Muslim village head of Ngidiho had
warned Christians living in the village to leave, which they did, moving to
Duma.86 One report stated that, following the departure of the Christian commu-
nity, Muslims from the villages of Simau and Toweka destroyed the Christians’
vacated houses, before attacking the Christian village of Makete, where they
were met and routed by the advancing Christian militia from Duma.87 However,
my research suggests that Ngidiho and the villages to the east did not in fact
attempt any attack against Duma before Christians from Duma attacked Ngidiho.
Eight Muslims were killed in the attack.
On the morning of 28 December Muslims from Igobula attacked the Christian
villages of Bale and Samuda to the west. Muslims were angered that Christians
from Bale had travelled to Soatobaru to help rioting Christians on the afternoon
of 27 December and that all Muslims had fled the area to the west.88 Neverthe-
less, security concerns were paramount in this decision to attack. The village
head, fearing for the safety of women and children, said that his community did
not want to wait until his village was attacked by Christians from Bale and
Samuda and the other larger villages to the west (Duma and Soatobaru).89
Muslim leaders decided it was better to create a buffer zone between the Chris-
tian and Muslim areas around the western edge of Lake Duma by driving the
Christian community from the village. Christians from Samuda spent four days
in the forest before arriving at Soatobaru and Duma.
Within two days, the violence in Galela had established two exclusive Chris-
tian and Muslim areas. Christians were concentrated in the area of Duma and
Soatobaru and Muslims in the area from Igobula east to Soasio. Attacks
continued between Christians and Muslims from these two areas for several
weeks until the Muslim community left Igobula and Togawa and moved to
Soasio or to Ternate and South Sulawesi.

Insecurity, identity and violence

Widespread fear developed among Christians and Muslims that they faced the
danger of attack from the other community in late 1999. By December, both reli-
gious communities in Tobelo and Galela perceived aggressive intent on the part of
(at least some sections of) the other community. Indeed the perceptions of both
sides continue to be that the other systematically planned and initiated the
violence. Both sides point to the other community’s period of intense weapons
preparation leading up to the conflict, with frequent explosions and sightings of
people making spears, arrows and other traditional weapons. Most stated that such
preparation was either carried out exclusively by the other side, or that members of
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 121
their own community made weapons only in response to the obvious preparation
of the other community.
Most Christians from Tobelo City and the surrounding area said that, by
December, large sections of the Muslim community had planned to drive all Chris-
tians from Halmahera, as demonstrated by the ‘Bloody Christmas’ rumour that
circulated prior to Christmas. Incidents such as the tailoring of white robes and
frequent late-night meetings between Muslim leaders (including the sub-district
head) created this perception. Several incidents during the violence itself appeared
to Christians to confirm the existence of such a plan. Christians claimed that upon
expelling the Muslim community from the city they found in several mosques a
number of implements intended for the torture of Christians. These included large
piles of razors and citrus fruit, wooden implements for raping women, along with
swords engraved with Arabic inscriptions.
Christians argue that while Muslims were a minority across the entire
sub-district, they had planned to negate this by isolating Tobelo City, where they
were a strong majority. According to this account, during his late-night visits, the
Muslim sub-district head of Tobelo, Agil Bachmid, had requested that on the
outbreak of violence in Tobelo City Muslims in Togoliua prevent the Kao militia
from passing through the village on the only road to the city. Many Christians also
believe that arrangements had been made for Muslim reinforcements to arrive by
speedboat from Ternate.90 One Christian man recounted how, as a friend of local
Muslims, he had been standing in a Muslim guard post during the first night of the
rioting when he overheard a local Muslim community leader, Musriyono Nobio,
speak to somebody in Galela on a two-way radio and tell those present in the post
that seven speedboats would soon arrive from Soasio carrying approximately 500
Muslim men.91
In turn, Muslims were convinced that Christians, in particular officials of GMIH
and several local leaders, including some who had fled Ternate in November,
pre-arranged the expulsion of Muslims from the area. Muslims claim that when
GMIH evacuated IDPs from Central Halmahera to Tobelo they brought only men
armed with traditional weapons. The apparent manufacture of large numbers of
weapons by Christians and the arrival of thousands of Christian reinforcements
after the violence had begun appeared to confirm this suspicion.
There is very little evidence that Muslim leaders planned an attack or intention-
ally initiated conflict in Tobelo. No material evidence of such a plan exists in
Tobelo. While Muslims were a majority in the city, they were a substantial
minority in the surrounding sub-district. It must have been apparent to Muslims in
the city that Christians in nearby villages would come to the aid of Christians in the
city. In addition, they were aware that the large Christian militia that had been
formed in Kao Sub-District only a few hours drive from Tobelo had close ties to
Christian Tobelos and would almost certainly seek to help their co-religionists. It
also seems unlikely that there was a coordinated plan to reinforce Muslims in
Tobelo. Residents of Togoliua who attempted to halt the Kao militia were not
acting out a conspiracy to control Tobelo, but attempting to prevent a massacre of
Muslims in Tobelo City. It was highly unlikely that Muslims would travel from
122 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Ternate to Tobelo by speedboat, a journey of perhaps 24 hours. Several Muslim
respondents, and also one Christian community leader, stated to me that in visiting
Muslim communities Agil Bachmid was trying to prevent violence, arguing for
respect for the ties of Hibua Lamo and not preparing people for violence. 92
It also appears unlikely that the Christian community or its leaders deliberately
sought to initiate violence on 26 December. It is unlikely that Christians would
delay for 36 hours the arrival of reinforcements from the villages to the south,
thereby allowing Muslims to control Tobelo for that period, expel all Christians
from the inner city and have the opportunity to destroy churches and other Chris-
tian buildings in the city. Benny Bitjara, Sakeus Odara and the Christian militia
would undoubtedly have entered the city well before the morning of 28 December
if such a plan had existed. While precautionary preparations for conflict were
undertaken on both sides, I believe this was because of an increasing sense that a
clash was inevitable rather than a desire to initiate violence.
The conflict in Tobelo began as a direct result of several actions and incidents
that occurred in the midst of a severe ‘security dilemma’, both physical and iden-
tity-based, between the two communities. Even before the riots in Ternate and
Tidore, Muslims and Christians in Tobelo and Galela had started to become
concerned about the possibility of conflict spreading to north Halmahera.
However, after anti-Christian rioting began on those islands and in Central
Halmahera, security concerns became acute, particularly in Tobelo City. Chris-
tians were angry at the targeting of Christians elsewhere in the region, and many
Christian leaders returned to Tobelo from Ternate radicalized by the experience.
More importantly, thousands of Christian IDPs were evacuated to Tobelo after
violence in Central Halmahera. The situation of these people and their stories of
attacks against Christian communities, the murder of pastors and destruction of
churches engendered anti-Muslim feelings among the Christian community in
Tobelo. This large-scale influx of Christian IDPs visibly heightened emotions
among Christians and also worried local Muslims. Many believed they were at
risk, particularly from the IDPs, who had no cultural or family ties with local
Muslims.
The combination of anger and fear caused individuals and groups on both sides
to take actions that in turn increased the level of tension. Members of both commu-
nities constructed weapons, including bombs, which frequently exploded during
construction. In other cases, actions by some individuals and groups appear to
have been designed to intimidate the other community, if not to initiate conflict.
Youths continually threw stones at houses, villagers had aggressive confrontations
in the market and community leaders verbally clashed in public meetings. Several
pastors, imams and political and community leaders attempted to prevent conflict,
particularly by reaffirming the ethnic ties of Hibua Lamo. However, many of these
attempts appear to have come with the caveat ‘We will not strike first but will fight
if attacked.’93 The bravado of each side convinced members of the other commu-
nity that the chance of inter-communal reconciliation was small, creating a
commitment problem of the type identified by James Fearon.94 The security situa-
tion was such that even some attempts at peace building appear to have been
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 123
misconstrued as preparation for conflict, such as the sub-district head’s late-night
visits to Muslim villages.
A physical security dilemma also took hold in Galela, particularly in the month
before Ramadan and Christmas. In the area around Lake Duma, concerns over the
intent of neighbouring villages were particularly prevalent. As the village head of
Gotalamo concluded, ‘Because people prepared, it happened.’ Acting in that grey
area between offence and defence, Christians from Duma and Soatobaru appear to
have agreed a coordinated response should conflict break out. Muslim leaders
from the villages beside Duma also appear to have appealed to Soasio for help after
violence occurred in Tobelo. The movement of Christian and Muslim leaders
between the villages in this area on 27 December led to each community believing
the other was finalizing plans to attack their village. Christians in Duma stated that
only after they had expelled all Muslims from neighbouring villages did they feel
safe.
This physical security dilemma in Tobelo and Galela was exacerbated by an
existential or ‘societal security dilemma’ as understood by such theorists as Buzan
and Roe. The volatility of the security situation was heightened by the perception
that not only lives and property were at risk, but the very existence of one’s reli-
gion in the region. The onset of Ramadan and approach of Christmas increased the
sensitivity of both communities. As Hersen Tinangon, the Kao Christian leader
who organized the militia that went to Tobelo and the attack on Togoliua, stated:
‘We were afraid we would never hear church bells again on Halmahera.’95
According to several Christians, if Muslims had not killed pastors and destroyed
their churches, the conflict ‘did not have to happen’.96 Muslims in turn increasingly
believed GMIH and local Christians were seeking to ‘Christianize’ the area. The
presence of Christian Ambonese among Tobelo’s political, bureaucratic and reli-
gious elite exacerbated these concerns. This fear of Christianization explains the
targeting of many of these individuals and their houses in the first 24 hours of the
rioting.
The perceived existential threat faced by both communities made some individ-
uals emphasize the religious character of the dispute in confrontational incidents,
in turn exacerbating the environment of tension. For example, the discovery of the
Muslim tailor making white robes and headbands as symbols of Islamic solidarity
seemed to confirm Christian fears. Belligerent individuals also played on religious
animosity through such acts as painting provocative religious graffiti. In turn, with
each religious incident, the Tobelo community polarized on the basis of religious
identity and began to see it as impossible to live peacefully with members of the
other community.
In Galela too, much of the militancy of the Christian community can be attrib-
uted not only to concerns with physical security, but also to a desire to protect
Christianity in the sub-district. Several Christian leaders stated that the reason they
expelled Muslims from the villages around Duma, and subsequently did not leave
the village for six months despite facing constant attack, was that Duma was the
site of the first Dutch Reformed Church mission on Halmahera. This desire to
defend Christianity in Galela was felt even in places where Christians constituted a
124 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
very small minority, such as the capital, Soasio. The head of the Protestant Church
(GMIH) in Galela advised his congregation to fight if attacked, so as to avoid
being forcibly converted to Islam.97 This connection between physical security,
sacred space and religious animosity was also central to the rioting in Tobelo. The
concern to protect the GMIH compound in Tobelo City over the Christmas period
and the transportation of a group of armed men into the city to do so, was highly
instrumental in the outbreak of violence.
The importance of the security dilemma to the outbreak of violence can further
be illustrated by a brief examination of the one area in North Maluku in which
violence did not occur, that of Weda Bay in Central Halmahera District.98 Weda
Bay has been the site of a large Nickel exploration activity since 1998 by PT Weda
Bay Nickel, whose main shareholder at the time was a Canadian company. In
November and December 1999, as tensions reached very high levels throughout
the province and at the request of local villagers, the directors of the mining opera-
tion asked the military command for approximately 12 Indonesian marines from
Surabaya to be sent to the area to provide security. The marines were dispersed
among the four Christian and Muslim villages that surrounded the mine and
supplied with two-way radios. This provided not only comfort to the villagers
regarding the possibility of external agitation or direct attacks, but also allowed
them to stay in constant contact with the surrounding villages and the mine. The
primary benefit of this increased communications capacity was the ability to quash
the rumours that constantly reached the villages. Remarkably, no violence
occurred in the area throughout the conflict elsewhere in North Maluku.
This is not to argue that the violence in Tobelo and Galela was entirely sponta-
neous or ‘caused’ by structures of insecurity and inter-religious animosity. There
were individuals on both sides of the conflict who sought to intimidate the other
community. Both Christians and Muslims attempted to deter and intimidate the
other side by exaggerating the strength of the forces at their disposal, leading to a
breakdown in information. The neutrality of the leading government official in the
area was called into question, meaning he could not act as an arbiter between the
two communities. A small minority in each community was willing to initiate
violence, believing they and their group would prevail and it was better to initiate
violence than be attacked. In the tense atmosphere of November and December,
young men from each community began to gather and adopt the attitudes of mili-
tant individuals, such as Benny Bitjara and Yahir Patty. Youths on both sides also
misread the intentions of other community leaders who were attempting to prevent
conflict, while appearing not to be afraid of the other community. This meant that
even a small incident, such as the pelting of a house with stones, could suddenly
ignite mass violence.
Varying motives lay behind the actions leading up to violence in Tobelo and
Galela. In many cases, individuals acted out of fear, for their own and their fami-
lies’ safety, and the possibility of losing their homes and land, as well as concern
over the sustainability of their religion in the area. Anger also undoubtedly played
a role as each side blamed the other for past violence elsewhere and for attempting
to initiate hostilities locally. In other cases, individuals deliberately aggravated
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 125
tension or prolonged violence in order to gain status, to ensure that payments of
security money from shops continued or simply because they were drunk.
Violence broke out almost simultaneously across the two sub-districts because of a
combination of local security concerns, anger exacerbated by religious fervour and
belligerent as well as foolish actions.
One other explanation for the outbreak of violence in North Halmahera must be
addressed. Several informed community leaders in Tobelo are adamant that mili-
tary and police personnel exploited the tension prevailing in North Halmahera and
provoked the violence. One Christian community leader claimed that in the days
prior to the outbreak of violence on 26 December he witnessed military personnel
warning Christians not to sleep as Muslims were planning an attack.99 He claimed
the military also gave the same warning to Muslims.
Military personnel certainly appear to have done little to stop the large rioting
mobs on either side. Yet there is little direct evidence of instigation by the military
and overwhelming evidence that societal dynamics caused the violence.100 During
the rioting, most personnel were frightened, particularly by the number of Pasukan
Merah and the ferocity of the violence. One young local Christian man involved in
the militia recalled how military personnel would stop and ask for permission to
pass through Christian guard posts, frightened that militia members would throw a
bomb into their truck. In particular, the abandonment by military personnel of
dozens of Muslims under their protection, and their subsequent killings, revealed
the lack of professionalism of the local security forces.
The lack of readiness of local security personnel for the violence appears to have
also been evident in the higher ranks. One Christian man who had been present in
the district military compound stated that the Deputy Commander of the company
(the Commander was on training outside of Tobelo) patrolled the city with his
troops. According to this respondent, the Deputy Commander fainted when he
returned from the city, saying ‘he had never seen anything like it’.101 In most areas,
military and police personnel were too widely dispersed to act as any deterrent to
conflict or source of assurance to the population. In the one area with a large
contingent of security personnel, Tobelo City, where approximately 120 soldiers
were based at the district military compound, the military commanders made the
decision to protect and evacuate Muslim civilians rather than forcefully oppose
those rioting. In Galela, the only concentration of personnel was located in the
capital, Soasio, which was overwhelmingly Muslim and therefore experienced
violence for only a short period. Yet these personnel made no effort to reach the
scene of most of the violence around Lake Duma in the first days of conflict.
According to several respondents, officials of the Galela Sub-District government
lacked any political will to prevent the conflict.

Accounting for the intensity of the violence

Having considered why violence broke out in Tobelo and Galela, the remaining
question to be addressed in this section is: what explains the intensity of this
violence? The terrible atrocities reportedly committed during the violence in
126 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Tobelo, and to a lesser extent in Galela, have been discussed throughout this
chapter – beheadings, disembowelling, the consumption of body parts, the killing
of women and children and those surrendering. These atrocities were accompanied
by a lack of remorse on the part of those who carried them out. While it is neces-
sary to be sceptical about these claims, given the almost universal presence of
similar stories in communal violence, several factors indicate that some atrocities
did occur in this case. Witnesses come from both sides of the clashes,102 and photo-
graphs too graphic to display show corpses that had been disembowelled and
dismembered.
Most respondents in North Maluku state that atrocities were most often carried
out by orang pedalaman (literally, interior people) or Forest Tobelo who live in
the more remote interior and are considered to be more warlike by those in settled
coastal communities.103 Many Forest Tobelo were involved in the attacks on
Togoliua, Gorua and Popilo. Christopher Duncan has argued that this blaming of
the Forest Tobelo for the worst atrocities in the violence is incorrect and stems
from two factors.104 First, the stereotype of the Forest Tobelo as savage and
dangerous has been cultivated by local governments attempting to declare a form
of terra nullius in the interior in order to open it up for development, and paradoxi-
cally also by the Forest Tobelo themselves who have sought to prevent the inward
spread of coastal settlements into their gardens. Second, coastal villagers involved
in the violence have used this stereotype as a convenient scapegoat to divert blame
from themselves for the atrocities. They know police are unlikely to venture into
the interior to investigate supposed crimes by the Forest Tobelo. My evidence
confirms that the atrocities that occurred in Togoliua, Gorua and Popilo were
committed not only by the Forest Tobelo but also by villagers from coastal Tobelo
and from the city itself. Several factors converged to motivate the Tobelos, Kaos
and other Christians to attack Gorua, Popilo and Togoliua with such intensity.
Christians were angry at Muslims for apparently planning to isolate and control
Tobelo City and drive Christians from North Halmahera. This perceived plan
appeared to link Muslims in Tobelo with the atrocities that had occurred in Tidore
and Ternate, including the murder of a pastor on Tidore and the destruction of
churches. The stories of these events dehumanized Muslims as inherently violent
and deserving of retribution. IDPs from Payahe, Gane and other areas that had
suffered large-scale attacks by Muslims were involved in the attacks on Gorua and
Popilo and were undoubtedly enraged at the destruction of their homes. The
ferocity with which the Christians conducted the attacks in late December was also
connected to a more strategic or ‘instrumental’ goal. As discussed, it seems likely
that the Christian militia, particularly the leadership, in brutally driving Muslims
from these villages sought to deter Muslims from returning to Tobelo.
Another factor that played into the intensity of the violence was the sanction
provided by the Christian Church. The Church response to the rising tension was
not uniform. Some pastors had in previous weeks attempted to prevent
pre-emptive attacks and ameliorate some of the worse excesses of the violence.105
However, several pastors provided religious service before and after such attacks,
asking God to protect the militia members and blessing their weapons.106 Some
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 127
church officials therefore afforded legitimacy to acts of extreme violence against
Muslims and the expulsion of the Muslim community from north Halmahera. It
seems likely that this religious sanction for violence suppressed any remorse that
Christian men may have felt, increasing both their sense of purpose and their
ability to carry out further atrocities without guilt. The few leaders that departed
from this belligerent interpretation of the scriptures were intimidated.
Men outside the official Church structure also used religion to stir up anger and
prepare men for violence. Benny Bitjara in particular, a man with no religious
training, employed religious imagery. Refused Church sanction to attack Muslim
communities in November, by late December Bitjara had himself assumed the
mantle of Christian leader/protector. Before the entry of the Pasukan Merah into
Tobelo City, Bitjara inspired his troops with a selected reading from the psalms.
While the common exegesis of the psalm in question suggests that it points to
God’s determination to protect His followers, Bitjara interpreted the scripture to fit
the extreme context in which he and his militia members found themselves. He
explained to his men that it meant that it would be God’s angels fighting against
Muslims the following day. This message would have had a powerful impact on
Christian men as they entered battle. The almost mythical status of Benny Bitjara
and his apparent invulnerability to physical harm afforded a sense of power and
righteousness to Christian militia members.107
With the assumption of Christian leadership by Benny Bitjara and other militia
leaders, Christianity became synthesized with traditional, ‘pre-Christian’ war
practices. Christian and Muslim militias reportedly carried out traditional ceremo-
nies to bestow invulnerability. The revival of traditional Tobelo practices engen-
dered pride and sense of belonging among many Tobelo men who felt
disenfranchised from economic or political influence. The Tobelos take pride in
their history as pirates and the Sultan of Ternate’s most feared warriors. One
common story heard in Tobelo concerns a warning mothers in South Sulawesi
supposedly use to frighten their children into going to sleep – ‘If you don’t sleep
now, the Tobelos will come and get you.’ Some of the practices carried out in the
attacks, such as eating the hearts of victims, were considered by the Tobelos and
Kaos to have strong connections with the war practices of their ancestors. The
legitimation bestowed by this synthesis of Christianity and pride in traditional
identity led to a certitude that appears to have played a role in causing atrocities. As
militia leader Hersen Tinangon stated, ‘While it was hard to kill Muslims from the
same Tobelo ethnic group, there was one difference, we were right and they were
wrong because we had God on our side.’
Like all other phases of the conflict, the violence in late December involved
mutually reinforcing instrumental, affective, ideological and cultural influences.
The violence was driven by a desire among most Christians to drive Muslims from
the area and to deter their return. However, other less ‘rational’ influences – anger
at past atrocities, fear of a renewed Muslim assault on Tobelo, religious sanction
and traditional war practices – infused the attack with an intensity that would
otherwise have been absent. For many men, the opportunity to demonstrate their
bravery and ferocity in battle, particularly in what they saw as the defence of Jesus
128 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Christ and Christianity in Halmahera, provided them with an identity and status
that they had never before enjoyed. These factors, combined with the excitement
and frenzy of recent victory and the involvement in a large crowd under the leader-
ship of charismatic men like Benny Bitjara, resulted in the most horrific atrocities
of the North Maluku conflict.

Conclusion
‘Because people prepared, it happened.’ This statement by a village head in
Galela, while not completely capturing the complexity of the Tobelo and Galela
riots, goes a long to explaining the clashes. Violence spread to Tobelo and Galela
because conflict elsewhere had created physical security concerns for both
communities. A series of events throughout 1999, such as violence in Ambon and
Malifut, caused relations between Christians and Muslims in Tobelo and Galela to
deteriorate. However, most Muslims and Christians considered the Ambon
conflict to be too far removed from north Halmahera, and the Malifut clashes to be
too local in character, to ignite violence in their own community.
It was the riots in Tidore and Ternate that dramatically altered the
inter-communal relationship in Tobelo City and in villages throughout Tobelo and
Galela Sub-Districts. The flight of IDPs to Tobelo, including several Christian
leaders who had been members of the district parliament, along with the religious
character of the violence elsewhere, created an environment in which several
factors made violence more likely. First, both communities in Tobelo and Galela
perceived threats to their safety, land and economic livelihoods from the other reli-
gious community. In order to circumvent this threat, each community began to
prepare large supplies of weapons and undertook other preparations for conflict, in
turn appearing to pose a threat to the other community. Second, each community
began to consider that the other held malign intent not just toward them as individ-
uals, but also posed a threat to the sustainability of their religion in the region.
Therefore some members of each community began to emphasize the strength and
solidarity of their community, in turn increasing the sense of physical and existen-
tial threat. Third, militants assumed greater status within the community and were
paid protection money by local businesses. While not necessarily seeking to
initiate violence, these individuals therefore had an interest in continuing vola-
tility. In some cases community leaders more renowned for providing security for
markets and economic infrastructure emphasized a selective and militaristic
reading of religious texts.
Indeed the detail presented in this chapter has shown how this environment of
insecurity alone does not cause violence. Each religious community in Tobelo was
divided into several sub-groups with different agendas and opinions regarding the
use of force. The agency in any conflict situation therefore ranges from peace-
making to accidental provocation to intentional aggression. Whether the outcome
is large-scale violence, uneasy peace or reconciliation depends as much on the
actions and interests and identities particular to that situation as much as it does on
the prevailing social structure.
 Dispersion – Tobelo and Galela 129
The violence discussed in this chapter, particularly in Tobelo Sub-District, stim-
ulated nation-wide calls for jihad against Christians in Maluku and North Maluku.
In Java, radical Muslim leaders created a large militia which they dispatched to
Ambon and elsewhere in Maluku Province. In North Maluku, Muslim leaders in
Ternate and Tidore also created a large militia made up of IDPs from Tobelo and
Galela and Muslims from elsewhere in the province. The creation of this militia
and its operations on Halmahera are the focus of a later chapter. The next chapter
deals with clashes that broke out on Ternate simultaneously with those in Tobelo
and Galela. In this second outbreak on Ternate, however, Muslims fought against
Muslims. As the next chapter demonstrates, along with ethnic, religious and
economic tensions, political tension was never far from the North Maluku conflict.
6 Political exploitation – the
Putih–Kuning

Introduction
Towering above a busy intersection in central Ternate City is an arresting, almost
shocking statue. A traditional North Malukan man stands, his machete held aloft,
the other arm pointing in accusation to the north. On the statue’s base, dozens of
faces scream in agony. If you follow the line of the man’s finger your eyes come to
rest on the Sultan of Ternate’s palace. The inscription declares that the statue is a
memorial to the ‘Bloody Ramadan Tragedy’. Yet it is not the violence in Tobelo
that this statue commemorates, but instead intra-Muslim clashes that engulfed
Ternate in December 1999. As the Islamic holy month drew to a close, a conflict
began that would have major ramifications for political power in the new province.
This new outbreak of violence erupted in Ternate while Muslims and Christians
were fighting for control of the sub-districts of Tobelo and Galela. This time the
violence was between Muslims from different ethnic groups and was far more political
in character. The traditional guards of the Sultan of Ternate, Mudaffar Syah, along
with other Ternates, fought with large numbers of Tidores, Makians and other groups
from the southern areas of Ternate City. Thousands of men from neighbouring Tidore
Island also joined the latter group and together they defeated Mudaffar Syah’s tradi-
tional guards. The clashes became known as the Putih–Kuning (White–Yellow)
conflict, after the colours worn by the opposing groups.
As discussed in Chapter 1, there are two widely held explanations for these riots,
which appear so incongruous in the context of inter-religious conflict elsewhere in
North Maluku. The first suggests that the violence was largely spontaneous, born
out of the frustration of migrant Muslims at the arrogant behaviour of Mudaffar
Syah’s guards and lingering resentment at the sultan’s protection of Christians
during the November riot in Ternate. The second explanation suggests that the
violence was elite-led, a consequence of Mudaffar Syah’s desperate quest to
assume power in the new province. A variant of this elite competition explanation
suggests the conflict marked the resurgence of the historic struggle between the
Sultanates of Ternate and Tidore for dominance in the region.
This chapter examines the main causes of rising tension in the city and considers
whether the combatants were intentionally mobilized, and if so by whom. The
chapter discusses how the violence started, what motivated those involved and,
 Political exploitation – the Putih–Kuning 131
importantly, why the security forces took so little action to prevent or halt the
violence once it had begun. I argue that while some non-Ternates did feel
animosity towards Mudaffar Syah and his traditional guards, the violence in the
city appears to have been premeditated by a wide section of the political elite and
bureaucracy who felt threatened by the growing political and strategic dominance
of the sultan. Before giving an account of how the Putih–Kuning conflict unfolded,
I explore theoretical explanations of how political competition can play a major
role in communal violence, which I believe help to explain how intra-Muslim
clashes could erupt in the middle of a religious war.

The political uses of violence

Many analysts have argued that competition for political power often lies behind
communal violence. V. P. Gagnon, Jack Snyder and others have illustrated how
politicians sometimes manipulate communal tensions in order to gain or retain
power as a state goes through profound political change. Gagnon asserts that as a
‘response … to shifts in the structure of domestic political and economic power’
elites provoke violent conflict along ethnic cleavages ‘in order to create a domestic
political context where ethnicity is the only politically relevant identity’.1 Snyder
agrees, concluding that members of the elite will use exclusionary nationalism
when several conditions apply: when economic development is low; when citizens
lack the skills for political participation; and when democratic institutions, such as
political parties and a professional media, are weak but the bureaucracy remains
strong.2 Nationalist politicians use their access to the state bureaucracy and
patronage networks to make appeals to ethnic solidarity in an attempt to survive
the democratic transition.3 These individuals portray other ethnic communities as
hostile or malevolent, while the lack of an independent media that would normally
contradict such rhetoric precludes the community from obtaining objective
information on this threat.
Brass demonstrates that communal riots have long been a part of the political
process in India. Riots are a ‘continuation of politics by other means’ designed to
capture power by scapegoating and intimidation, which in turn consolidates the
votes of one ethnic or religious group.4 In some cities, what Brass terms an ‘institu-
tionalized riot system’ has emerged involving a range of actors from politicians to
criminals.5 Central to those networks are certain individuals that ‘take as one of
their purposes the protection of the status, pride, and interests of one community
against presumed threats to them from another’.6 At opportune times during the
political process, these individuals convert minor incidents involving Hindus and
Muslims into large controversies, often involving mass mobilization and rioting in
order to obtain political or other benefit for themselves and their sponsors.7 Brass
concludes that communal riots are made possible by a prevailing discourse of
Hindu–Muslim confrontation in India, built up over two centuries and maintained
by these same interested parties.8 Anti-Muslim riots create communal solidarity
among Hindus, thereby facilitating electoral victory for Hindu nationalist political
parties. While Brass’s studies have mostly been focused on ‘riot prone’ areas, as
132 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
will be seen in this chapter, the concept of an ‘institutionalized riot system’ can
also illuminate several aspects of communal violence in areas with little history of
violence or inter-communal tension. As was discussed in Chapter 4, Steven
Wilkinson similarly concludes that politicians running on ethnic or religious plat-
forms use sectarian tension as a means of unifying all members of the community
behind them.9 Further, Wilkinson concludes that in many cases, government offi-
cials only order the security forces to prevent rioting if it is in their political
interest.10
Violent conflict provides rare opportunities for political exploitation, opening
up the potential for political outcomes that may have seemed unlikely before the
violence. Just as some communal and vertical conflicts eventually become driven
by profit-making or ‘rent-seeking’,11 it seems likely that some politicians under-
take strategies of ‘political profiteering’ designed to exploit a conflict situation to
achieve political ends quite separate from the initial precipitants of the conflict.
As demonstrated by the theorists discussed above, many riots, particularly in the
context of political competition, can clearly be characterized as elite-led. But a
focus on the action and interests of those individuals in positions of power, while
necessary, should not come at the expense of a consideration of why ordinary
community members participate in violence. A fuller understanding of violent
mobilization, and an ability to differentiate between events at different times and
locations, comes from combining this elite focus with an account of the goals and
emotions of those participating. By focusing on elite provocation and organiza-
tion, participants can sometimes appear to be an amorphous mass responding to
the provocative claims of their leaders. As demonstrated in Chapter 4, this can
attribute too much suggestibility and inanimacy to the crowds involved. Many
members of these crowds also act out of interest. In some cases this interest mirrors
that of their political leaders – the undermining of a rival individual or political
organization. At the same time, as many analysts of conflict have pointed out,
many participants use the turmoil to seek personal gain or revenge. As Brass
writes:

Those screaming for blood and revenge in the crowd are making use of
slogans provided to them as a justification for actions that serve either their
interests or those of their political organizations, or for which they are paid,
partly in cash and partly by the loot they gain – under the cover provided by
the crowds so massed, by the justification given for the violence, and by the
near certainty that they will escape prosecution.12

Rising political tension

In 1999 Ternate was at the centre of major political change. From late 1998 to
mid-1999, many of the political, bureaucratic, economic and educational elite were
involved in the struggle for North Maluku’s secession from Maluku. The North
Maluku community was united in this campaign, with almost all sectors of society
recognizing the benefits that would come from forming their own province. While
 Political exploitation – the Putih–Kuning 133
these developments have been discussed in earlier chapters, they are repeated here,
as it was in this phase of the conflict that political rivalry suddenly came to dominate
the ongoing conflict.
After the inauguration of the new province in October, the three district govern-
ments arranged for an inaugural provincial parliament to be formed the following
year based upon the results of the 1999 district elections. In these elections, the
ruling Golkar Party had dominated all three district parliaments. The following
year, the members of this provincial parliament would elect the first governor of
North Maluku. As discussed in Chapter 2, at this time there were four candidates
for the governorship of the new province: Mudaffar Syah, the Sultan of Ternate;
Bahar Andili, the District Head of Central Halmahera District; Syamsir Andili, the
Mayor of Ternate City; and Thaib Armain, who in late 1999 became the Regional
Secretary of the provincial bureaucracy. Each of the four main candidates enjoyed
substantial support in the province and therefore had good prospects of winning
this election, although the first two, Bahar Andili and Mudaffar Syah, were consid-
ered the main contenders.
Initially united in their campaign to separate from Maluku Province, by mid-1999
differences quickly emerged between these individuals and their followers. The
sultan appeared to his rivals to be attempting to consolidate his power by pressing for
recognition of the historic and cultural importance of the sultanates to the region,
arguing that the province should take the name Maloko Kie Raha and assume the
status of Special Region (Daerah Istimewa). However, all three other candidates and
their supporters opposed both of these measures. Several students associated with
Thaib Armain said they opposed Special Region status for North Maluku as it would
enhance the political and cultural power of the sultan.13
But as discussed in Chapter 4, two issues with more immediate implications
provided the focus of most political tension in Ternate – the location of the provin-
cial capital and the question of who would become the province’s first governor.
Housing the capital would bring immense revenue to the surrounding district
through the construction of facilities, funding allocations from central government
and the employment and revenue associated with local government. The Sultan of
Ternate lobbied for the provincial capital to be located in Ternate. He argued that
the city already possessed the necessary infrastructure for the seat of government,
including government and service facilities, an airport and port. Bahar Andili and
his younger brother Syamsir Andili pressed for the capital to be located in the
village of Soasio on Tidore. Thaib Armain was less visible in this struggle but is
said to have lobbied for the capital to be located in north Halmahera and, for that
reason, received some political support from leading Christian politicians in
Tobelo. Attempting to reach a compromise, but still benefit their own constituen-
cies, Mudaffar Syah and Bahar Andili proposed locations on Halmahera within
their own districts – Sidangoli in North Maluku and Sofifi in Central Halmahera
respectively.14
A source of even greater tension was the issue of power in the new province.
The future governor would have immense influence over the appointment of
senior civil servants, which would in turn determine employment throughout the
134 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
government in general. Throughout most of 1999 Mudaffar Syah was the leading
contender for the first governorship, enjoying support from the Ternates and most
Christians in Ternate City, as well as many Tobelos, Galelas and Kaos in northern
Halmahera. The sultan also had a great deal of political influence as regional leader
of the leading Golkar Party, and as chairman of the North Maluku District parlia-
ment. Likely to receive the support of most members of those parties that would
dominate the provincial parliament (Golkar, PDI-P as well as representatives of
TNI) when it was formed, Mudaffar Syah had a strong chance of winning a
majority of votes for the governorship.
Of his three rivals, Bahar Andili posed probably the strongest challenge. As the
district head of Central Halmahera District, he had a strong support base in Tidore
and elsewhere in that district, as well as in the southern areas of Ternate where
many Tidores had settled, and would also exercise influence over all Central
Halmahera members of the new parliament. Thaib Armain could not be disre-
garded in this campaign, either. As a Makian, and holding the highest position in
the bureaucracy, he derived his support from Makians in the south of Ternate and
from within the bureaucracy, which was dominated by Makians and Tidores. 15
Tensions from this elite-level struggle spilled over on to the streets as the inau-
guration of the province drew closer. In early September, following the initial
announcement that both the temporary and permanent provincial capitals would be
located in Central Halmahera District (in Soasio on Tidore and Sofifi on
Halmahera), several thousand people protested outside the North Maluku District
government buildings. These protesters angrily claimed that Bahar and Syamsir
Andili, as well as other members of a delegation from Central Halmahera which
had recently travelled to Jakarta, were using ‘money politics’ to influence central
government officials. The protestors also claimed that the Andilis were trying to
cause conflict in Ternate in order to undermine the city’s prospects of becoming
the provincial capital.16
On 12 October 1999 the Department of Home Affairs announced National Law
46/1999 granting provincial status to North Maluku.17 The central government
confirmed that Sofifi in Central Halmahera would be the provincial capital,
although the established centre of Ternate, and not Soasio, would act as temporary
capital until construction was finished in Sofifi.18 The new province was inaugu-
rated in Ternate and one week later, the central government sent Surasmin, a senior
official from the Department of Home Affairs, to act as caretaker governor until
the provincial parliament was formed and a new governor elected.
In the midst of this political struggle, the district head of Central Halmahera,
Bahar Andili, announced the appointment of a new Sultan of Tidore, a position
that had been vacant for several decades. While not the immediate successor to the
sultanate (the son of the last sultan was living in Bogor on Java) the man, Djunus
Syah, was a distant relation of the last sultan. The district head inaugurated the new
sultan in October, two days after the announcement of the new province. Andili’s
hurry to install a new Tidore sultan, in the context of the rivalry between himself
and the Sultan of Ternate and between Ternate and Central Halmahera as
discussed above, looked to some observers like a political strategy.19 The new
 Political exploitation – the Putih–Kuning 135
sultan, Djunus Syah, quickly declared his support for the gubernatorial candidacy
of Bahar Andili, lending the district head a great deal of traditional legitimacy
within Tidore and Central Halmahera. The timing of Bahar Andili’s appointment
of a new sultan suggests that it was indeed a calculated political move to counter
the legitimacy that Mudaffar Syah gained from his position as a traditional, as well
as political leader.

After the expulsion of Christians

As previously discussed, the Malifut conflict, particularly the Kaos’ attack in
October, greatly exacerbated inter-ethnic and political tension in Ternate. Many
Makians, and to a lesser extent Tidores, believed Mudaffar Syah was behind the
Kaos’ efforts to cancel the creation of Malifut Sub-District. Many also believed
Mudaffar Syah had implicitly provoked the Kaos into retaliating against Malifut,
leading to the massive attack on 25 October. They argued that in his bid to become
governor, the Sultan had supported the Kaos in the Malifut dispute in order to
maintain political support from them and other Christians on Halmahera who were
traditionally loyal to the sultanate. This view was widespread among Makians, but
also shared by some Tidores and other ethnic groups in the south of Ternate City
and on Tidore Island.
In addition, Mudaffar Syah had opposed the immediate evacuation of the
Malifut community to Ternate, to the anger of many Makians in Ternate. He had
argued instead that the Makians should stay on Halmahera until a settlement could
be reached between them and the Kaos. The Mayor of Ternate, Syamsir Andili,
ignored the sultan’s objections, and deployed a number of trucks to evacuate the
Makians from Malifut to Sidangoli, from where they could be brought to Ternate.
Andili pointed to the extremely serious humanitarian situation and the danger for
Makians of remaining on Halmahera. Mudaffar Syah’s apparent support for the
Kaos at the expense of the Makians united Thaib Armain with Bahar Andili and
Syamsir Andili, as well as their supporters, in opposition to him.
Following the influx into the city of Makian IDPs from Malifut in October,
tension rose higher between Ternates and supporters of Mudaffar Syah and the
other ethnic communities in southern Ternate City. When sporadic violent inci-
dents began to occur after their arrival, Mudaffar Syah, perhaps angered that his
concerns over the influx of IDPs had been ignored, deployed his traditional troops,
the Pasukan Kuning, into the city. Approximately 4,000 members of the Pasukan
Kuning patrolled the streets to protect the city’s infrastructure as well as some
Christian property.20 As shown in Chapter 4, when rioting broke out in Ternate on
6 November the Pasukan Kuning protected Christians, evacuating many to the
sultan’s palace and to the areas surrounding the palace, such as Dufa Dufa.
Mudaffar Syah’s protection of Christians angered many Muslims, particularly
Makians but also Muslims from ethnic groups closely connected to them, such as
Tidores, Sananas and Kayoas. Graffiti appeared on the walls of the city making
declarations such as ‘Bishop Syah, GMIH’, linking the sultan to the main
Protestant organization in North Maluku.21 The fact that several members of the
136 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Pasukan Kuning, most visibly the militia’s leader, Yopie, were Christians from
Halmahera, further angered Muslims in southern Ternate.22
This situation continued on the streets of Ternate throughout November and
December. The Pasukan Kuning maintained checkpoints and bases around the
city. While Mudaffar Syah’s apparent support for the Kaos and his protection of
Christians during the November riots had particularly angered Makians, the armed
Pasukan Kuning patrols also alienated a broader section of Ternate society. As
noted in an earlier chapter, members of the Pasukan Kuning appear to have
adopted a highly belligerent and arrogant attitude towards migrants, questioning
their residency in the city and physically assaulting them.23 On several occasions,
the guards fought with young men from the main migrant communities on Ternate
(Makians and Tidores), and several of the latter group were killed. 24
Several sources stated that Mudaffar Syah and the Pasukan Kuning targeted
leading Makians for assault and kidnapping. Makian respondents in Ternate
claimed that during November and December a list circulated with the names of
100 Makians that the Pasukan Kuning intended to kidnap.25 The North Malukan
sociologist Tamrin Tomagola reiterated this claim, naming in the national media
two men who were apparently kidnapped and tortured by the Pasukan Kuning with
the assistance of the police and military.26 I was not shown a copy of the list, nor
did I hear of any abductions, so cannot attest the veracity or otherwise of these
reports.
Mudaffar Syah, through the Pasukan Kuning, thus controlled the central and
northern sections of the city of Ternate. The sultan’s forces monitored movement
between the south and north of the city and controlled the centre of the city. Their
presence restricted access to the governor’s office, the parliamentary and bureau-
cratic buildings for North Maluku and Ternate City district governments, the
offices of local political parties, as well as most infrastructure, such as the main
telecommunications facility, the market and Khairun University. Most govern-
ment departments closed down over this period, and many leading politicians and
bureaucrats remained in their homes. The militia established headquarters in the
provincial office for the Golkar Party (of which the sultan was chairman), located
in the heart of the political district.
This situation of almost martial control of Ternate City augmented the political
predominance of the sultan in the new province. Despite some anger at Mudaffar
Syah for protecting Christians during the November riot, the results of the June
1999 district parliamentary elections still stood. Therefore it was still widely
expected that he would be elected governor by a majority of parliamentarians.27
One senior member of the Tidore sultanate’s traditional guards (Pasukan Adat)
stated that Mudaffar Syah was still popular even among Tidores. Many Tidores
respected the Islamic and cultural traditions associated with the Ternate sultanate,
while the newly appointed Tidore sultan had not yet attained similar status.
According to this respondent, despite Mudaffar Syah’s prominence in the Golkar
Party long associated with President Suharto’s New Order, many people admired
his perceived opposition to authoritarianism and corruption, epitomized by a
 Political exploitation – the Putih–Kuning 137
Pasukan Kuning attack against the offices of the former military officer appointed
district head, Ret. Lt Col. Abdullah Assagaf, in 1998. 28
In mid-December 1999 several members of the elite faction opposed to
Mudaffar Syah began mobilizing their followers to counter the sultan’s political
and strategic dominance in Ternate. In the village of Tomalou on the
south-western side of the island of Tidore (see Map 4.2), Abu Bakar Wahid mobi-
lized approximately a thousand men.29 A long-time advocate of the necessity of
defending the Muslim community after his experiences in Ambon, Wahid referred
to this militia as the Pasukan Jihad, and on 25 December 1999 he was appointed
commander of the militia.30 In the southern suburbs of Ternate City, such as
Mangga Dua and Bastiong, Muhammad Selang, an influential Muslim leader in
southern Ternate City, also began to form a militia which he named the Pasukan
Putih (White Troops).31 When these two militias merged in late December in
opposition to the Pasukan Kuning, they were collectively known as the Pasukan
Putih.32

Intra-Muslim conflict
In late December a series of small incidents occurred in Ternate that developed
into rioting. This conflict began almost simultaneously with the outbreak of
violence in Tobelo City. On Monday 27 December at approximately 7.30 p.m.
members of the Pasukan Kuning on guard in front of the Golkar Party building
beat the driver of a car, who, by some accounts, had driven into their roadblock.
The man fled to his home in the nearby suburb of Kampung Pisang. Several hours
later, at approximately 11 p.m., a large group of youths, including the driver, his
friends and other men from the suburbs of Kampung Pisang and Tanah Tinggi,
attacked a group of the Pasukan Kuning near the Ternate Municipality govern-
ment offices. The two groups fought a street brawl with stones and spears until a
police unit (Brimob) arrived and attempted to separate them. After the unit
commander was injured by an explosion, however, the entire unit left the area and
the two groups resumed their fighting unhindered.
During the clashes, the youths from Kampung Pisang attacked the ‘Maria
Bintang Laut’ Catholic school, burning it to the ground. Dozens of the Pasukan
Kuning had been living in the school, which, as with most Catholic buildings, was
less damaged than their Protestant equivalents in the November riot. Both sides
appear to have retreated, the Pasukan Kuning to the Golkar Party building, which
served as their main base in the central city, and the ever-increasing numbers of
Pasukan Putih to an area near the governor’s office on Ahmad Yani Street.
At 5 a.m. the following day, 28 December, hundreds of the Pasukan Kuning
assembled with cans of petrol. Led by Yopie, the militia attacked and set fire to
houses in Kampung Pisang. The blaze spread into the neighbouring suburb of
Maliaro, destroying several more houses. Two people died in the fires, and resi-
dents of the two areas fled further up the hill away from the violence.33 After
attacking Kampung Pisang, the Pasukan Kuning moved south towards the areas
of Tanah Tinggi and Takoma (See Map 4.1). A large number of Pasukan Putih
138 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
gathered in the area around the sports stadium, striking telephone poles to attract
more residents of the area on to the street.
Kampung Pisang, as well as being home to the youths involved in the initial
clash with the Pasukan Kuning, was also inhabited by large numbers of migrants
from nearby Tidore. Many of the houses destroyed were owned by these migrants,
and news of their destruction was quickly relayed there, angering their ethnic kin.
In Tomalou on Tidore, Abu Bakar Wahid spoke before hundreds of young men,
informing them that the Sultan of Ternate was burning the houses of Tidores and
had taken control of Ternate.34 Throughout the afternoon, hundreds of men trav-
elled from Tidore to Bastiong Port in Ternate in order to join the Makians and
Tidores fighting the Pasukan Kuning. With the intervention of these men from
Tidore, the Pasukan Kuning was driven back north. The two groups fought
running battles, with spears, bows and arrows, homemade firearms and bombs,
along the two main streets through the city.
The several thousand Pasukan Kuning were outnumbered by the Pasukan
Putih, which had been reinforced by thousands of men from Tidore. They were
unable to maintain their positions in the central city. By late afternoon, the
Pasukan Putih had forced the Pasukan Kuning back to the sultan’s palace in the
north-east of the city. With the Pasukan Kuning overcome, the sultan arranged for
those Christians left in Ternate to be evacuated by ship from Dufa Dufa to
Halmahera.35
Having forced the sultan’s militia out of the central city, the Pasukan Putih
destroyed the Golkar building which had been used as a base by the Pasukan
Kuning. In explaining the destruction of the Golkar office, one leader of the
Pasukan Putih, Haji Kotu, told me that many members of the militia were angry
that Golkar appeared to have supported the sultan in the conflict.36 They argued
that as a national political party the organization should have remained neutral. As
the Pasukan Kuning retreated towards the palace, the Pasukan Putih also
destroyed another small building near the palace which had formerly been the
headquarters of the youth wing of the Pasukan Kuning. Many in the Pasukan Putih
also prepared to raze the sultan’s palace. Haji Kotu, however, told the crowd that
the palace was North Maluku’s most important cultural treasure, and should not be
destroyed.
The same day, 28 December, Surasmin, the interim governor of North Maluku,
telephoned the Sultan of Tidore to request that he try and rein in the large number
of Tidores involved in the fighting.37 In response, a delegation from the sultanate
travelled to Ternate that afternoon, including the sultan and 14 others, accompa-
nied by several hundred traditional guards.38 Upon arrival on Ternate, the Sultan of
Tidore ordered the protection of the new governor’s office, stating that the
building was likely to become the political centre for the entire community of
North Maluku.39 At 5 p.m., as the Sultan of Tidore arrived at the Sultan of
Ternate’s palace, the clashes stopped. The Sultan of Tidore and his officials
instructed those members of the traditional guards already involved to withdraw.40
The sultan’s group walked through the Pasukan Putih waiting near the palace and
all members of both militias sat down in the road.
 Political exploitation – the Putih–Kuning 139
The leaders of the two traditional guards, Husen Alting of the Tidore traditional
guards and Yopie of the Pasukan Kuning, met in the street in front of the palace.
All members of the Pasukan Kuning agreed to take off their yellow hats as a
symbol of their surrender, and the Sultan of Tidore and the leadership of the
Pasukan Putih entered the palace grounds. The Tidore leadership forced the Sultan
of Ternate to sign a document taking responsibility for the Putih–Kuning conflict
and recognizing an obligation to rebuild the houses destroyed in Kampung Pisang
and elsewhere.41 After Mudaffar Syah had signed the peace agreement and the
Pasukan Kuning had withdrawn to their homes, the Pasukan Putih returned to
southern Ternate City and Tidore.42 Soon after signing the peace agreement,
Mudaffar Syah left Ternate for Jakarta. The sultan claimed he was not pressured to
leave, but merely left Ternate on a routine business trip and soon returned to
Ternate.43 Most people on the Pasukan Putih side of the conflict, however, claimed
that the peace agreement stipulated that the sultan was obliged to effectively leave
his position of authority in Ternate and North Maluku.
Estimates for casualties from the Putih–Kuning conflict vary from 18 to around
200.44 While the local government report calculates that 18 people were killed in
the violence, most respondents in Ternate put the figure at around 40. Many more
were injured. The conflict caused a great deal of damage to housing in the city,
particularly around Kampung Pisang and in areas near the sultan’s palace such as
Dufa Dufa. The report on the conflict compiled by the governor’s office stated that
241 houses were destroyed. During the clashes between the Pasukan Putih and the
Pasukan Kuning, which stretched from one side of the city to the other, no military
or police personnel were present.45
In January the North Maluku District parliament unseated Mudaffar Syah as
parliamentary chairman. Some members of parliament who had supported the
sultan had already fled the island, including all Christian members. Other
supporters had been convinced of the sultan’s malfeasance or had been intimi-
dated into abandoning their support for him. Mudaffar Syah was widely
accused, not only in Ternate but also elsewhere in Indonesia, of provoking the
violence, and using intimidation and conflict to achieve his political ambitions.
Tamrin Tomagola, a North Malukan sociologist at the University of Indonesia,
called for the investigation of Mudaffar Syah for his role in the violence in
North Maluku as a whole.46 Indonesia’s National Commission for Human
Rights (KOMNAS-HAM) initiated an investigation into accusations of human
rights abuses ordered by Mudaffar Syah, although no charges were ever
brought against him.
Stripped of formal political power and now thought by many Muslims in North
Maluku to have been responsible for much of the violence in the province,
Mudaffar Syah was no longer considered a suitable candidate for the governor-
ship. Most respondents agree that by January 2000 Bahar Andili had become the
leading candidate to assume the primary position of political power in North
Maluku.47
140 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Explaining intra-Muslim violence during religious war
Most existing analyses explain the Putih–Kuning conflict as a spontaneous
response to mounting animosity against the Sultan of Ternate. Many Muslims,
particularly Makians and Tidores, were infuriated that Mudaffar Syah had used the
Pasukan Kuning to protect Christians during the riots in November. Many were
also disappointed that the province’s principal Islamic and cultural leader
appeared to be more interested in ensuring political support from Christians than in
defending Muslims and Islam in the region. In an article published two weeks after
the Putih–Kuning conflict in the national Muslim newspaper Republika, the North
Maluku academic Smith Alhadar suggested that many Muslims in North Maluku
had doubts about Mudaffar Syah’s commitment to Islam.48 He pointed to the
sultan’s series of (three) Christian wives, as well as his reputed penchant for
drinking alcohol. Most respondents in North Maluku, including Ternates, agreed
that Mudaffar Syah adhered to a more moderate form of Islam than was practised
by most Makians, Tidores and other migrants in southern Ternate.
Alhadar asserts that this Muslim anger came to a head when Muslims heard of
the violence in Tobelo discussed in the previous chapter. Because the sultan was
seen to have sided with Christians, after hearing of these riots Muslims in Ternate
attacked his palace guards. Alhadar writes that after ‘Christian tribes in northern
Halmahera … attacked Muslims there … on 27 December people from south
Ternate in turn attacked a Catholic school housing customary guards loyal to the
Sultan of Ternate.’49 The Putih–Kuning conflict is here seen as a direct result of
anger about these Muslim deaths in Tobelo. There is, however, reason to doubt this
explanation. As the violence began in Tobelo on the evening of 26 December,
there was certainly time for people in Ternate to hear about it. Nevertheless, at the
time that the Putih–Kuning clashes began on the evening of 27 December the
violence in Tobelo was not particularly extensive, Muslims still controlled most of
Tobelo City and most casualties had been Christian. Muslims had not yet fled the
city. It seems unlikely, therefore, that the first day of conflict in Tobelo would have
provoked the attack on the Catholic school ‘Maria Bintang Laut’ in Ternate as
Alhadar claims. It was not until 28 December, with the entry of thousands of Chris-
tian Pasukan Merah militia into Tobelo, that Muslims suffered large numbers of
casualties and all mosques in the city were destroyed. By this time the
Putih–Kuning clashes in Ternate were already well under way.
Many Christians in Tobelo also believe the rioting in Ternate in late December
was connected to the outbreak of violence in Tobelo, although for a different
reason. It is generally believed among Christians in North Halmahera that Muslims
in Ternate had planned to travel to North Halmahera to come to the aid of their
co-religionists. According to this account, the Putih–Kuning clashes occurred
when ‘jihadis’ attempted to leave Ternate but were halted by the Pasukan Kuning
and the security forces. Ahmad and Oesman, in their book written from Ternate
and presenting a strong Muslim view of the violence, also stated that the
Putih–Kuning conflict stopped Muslims from helping their co-religionists in
Tobelo and Galela.50 However, all respondents who were involved in the
 Political exploitation – the Putih–Kuning 141
Putih–Kuning conflict deny that any militia attempted to leave Ternate around this
period. Therefore, although occurring simultaneously, it appears that the
Putih–Kuning and Tobelo clashes were not directly connected.
A far stronger case can be made, however, that the Putih–Kuning conflict was
caused by the actions and attitude of the Pasukan Kuning. Several young men in
Ternate who fought in the Pasukan Putih claim that it was the Pasukan Kuning’s
behaviour on patrol and at checkpoints throughout the central and northern parts of
the city that angered them and motivated their participation in the riot. Many
people, including members of the elite, were angry that the Pasukan Kuning
appeared to have replaced the military and police as the main providers of security
on the streets of the city.51
It seems clear that Mudaffar Syah, through the deployment of the Pasukan
Kuning, was indeed assuming control of the city. It is possible he thought his
provision of security may have increased his political support among the people of
Ternate. It also seems possible he was aggrieved at his failure to achieve his objec-
tives for the new province – the name, Special Region status and the location of the
capital. He may also have had legitimate concerns over the destruction of the city’s
infrastructure, including the government buildings he hoped to soon occupy.
Animosity towards Mudaffar Syah and the Pasukan Kuning was strongest
among those ethnic groups associated with the southern areas of the city such as
Makian, Tidore and Sanana. The destruction of Kampung Pisang marked the peak
of this tension between ‘north’ and ‘south’ Ternate. Several leaders from the
sultan’s side of the conflict, including Mudaffar Syah himself, deny the destruction
of Kampung Pisang was carried out by members of the Pasukan Kuning, claiming
it was the work of provocateurs intending to mobilize opposition against them.52
They suggest the men involved in the attacks on Kampung Pisang wore yellow
hats and other items of clothing so as to appear to be Pasukan Kuning. Neverthe-
less, it seems likely that the attack was indeed carried out by some members of the
Pasukan Kuning, most likely in retaliation for previous clashes. One member of
the sultan’s militia admitted that the Pasukan Kuning launched the attack in
revenge for insults against the sultan.53 He claimed Ternates and other supporters
of the sultan were traditional people and insults against him could not go
unpunished.
The sight of large areas of Ternate on fire and the striking of electricity poles by
people coming out of their houses (a common occurrence in the early stages of
rioting in North Maluku and elsewhere in eastern Indonesia) mobilized hundreds
of young men from Kampung Pisang and Tanah Tinggi and other suburbs in
southern Ternate. The fact that the Pasukan Kuning had destroyed the houses of
Muslims in Ternate fuelled claims that the militia was predominantly Christian and
that the sultan was more interested in protecting his Christian supporters than
defending the Islamic community. Many of the young men involved in the riots
were also undoubtedly driven by excitement. Several interviews with participants
reflected the ‘rush’ involved in large-scale battles along the main streets of Ternate
and the sense of power in finally opposing the Pasukan Kuning. The burning of
houses in Kampung Pisang, many of them owned by migrants from Tidore,
142 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
appears to have been an important motivation for many of the Tidores who trav-
elled to Ternate.54 This flood of reinforcements for the Pasukan Putih proved a
turning point leading to the political defeat of the Sultan.
However, several aspects of the conflict suggest that it was not completely spon-
taneous, nor stimulated solely by the behaviour of the Pasukan Kuning. As well as
anger against the Pasukan Kuning among young men on the streets, by December
there was a great deal of concern among Mudaffar Syah’s political rivals and their
supporters at his growing political hegemony. In December 1999, despite the
social unrest associated with the November riot, the political elite in Ternate and
Tidore still planned to form a provincial parliament and hold gubernatorial elec-
tions in 2000. It was still widely expected that a majority of these parliamentarians
would support Mudaffar Syah, as chairman of Golkar and a moderate Muslim, in
the upcoming gubernatorial election.55 This eventuality threatened the aspirations
of Bahar and Syamsir Andili and Thaib Armain.
The likely ascension of the Sultan of Ternate to the position of governor also
threatened the positions of thousands of non-elite Makians and Tidores in the
district bureaucracies and future provincial bureaucracy. The governor would be
responsible for all major bureaucratic appointments, including the heads of all
government departments. Many existing and prospective civil servants feared that
if he became governor Mudaffar Syah would give bureaucratic positions to
Ternates and Halmaherans, including Christians. Makians and Tidores also
resented the prospect of a return to a ‘feudalistic’ system where opportunity was
based on loyalty and ethnicity rather than on education, merit and capability. The
events of November and December, and the day to day necessity of dealing with
Pasukan Kuning patrols on the streets of the city, had given many non-Ternate
Muslims an insight into what they could expect in a North Maluku dominated by
Mudaffar Syah.
In line with Snyder’s argument on political transition in the former Soviet
Union, it appears that Mudaffar Syah’s political rivals began mobilizing their
followers for violent action to protect their political power.56 Many of these men
had a great deal of influence and were able to draw upon support in the bureau-
cracy as well as ethnic networks. The rising resentment against Mudaffar Syah
among migrant men provided an opportunity to stimulate rioting against him. The
leaders of these militias on Tidore and Ternate – later to merge as the Pasukan
Putih – were inspired not by Mudaffar Syah’s protection of Christians nor his
supposed support for the attack on Malifut, but by their opposition to his powerful
political position in Ternate.
The leader of the Pasukan Putih on Ternate, Muhammad Selang, claimed
people rose up because they were angry that the sultan and his troops wanted to
control the city.57 Another leader stated, ‘We only wanted to show them we were
the majority.’58 Other Makian leaders claimed that, by December, many people
had become concerned at what they called Mudaffar Syah’s political hegemony.
On Tidore, Abu Bakar Wahid mobilized young men to travel to Ternate by
asserting that the sultan’s militia had not only destroyed Kampung Pisang, but also
already controlled 70 per cent of Ternate City.59
 Political exploitation – the Putih–Kuning 143
Pointing to the involvement of numerous Tidores in the riots, one analyst has
argued that the primary dynamic in the Putih–Kuning conflict was competition
between the Ternate and Tidore sultanates for political and cultural control in the
new province.60 To many people in North Maluku this argument appears highly
feasible, given the centuries of rivalry between the two sultanates prior to and
during the Dutch colonial era. While the destruction of houses owned by Tidore
migrants no doubt angered many of their co-ethnics still living on Tidore, it is
unlikely that the Sultan of Tidore, Djunus Syah, played a major role in instigating
the Putih–Kuning conflict, however. My interview with Djunus Syah suggested he
had little interest in challenging the Sultan of Ternate, particularly militarily.
Members of the Tidore sultanate’s traditional troops also denied the sultan had sent
them to Ternate to join the attacks on the Pasukan Kuning. They claimed that while
many of their number did join the attacks they did not do so as representatives of
the sultanate. According to all officials of the sultanate and members of the tradi-
tional guards, the sultan only officially sent his troops as a means of ending the
conflict in Ternate. As discussed above, the Sultan of Tidore was a recent
appointee, chosen by the district head of Central Halmahera and gubernatorial
candidate, Bahar Andili, and had little political ambition independent of his
sponsor.
Because the position of Sultan of Tidore had been vacant for around five
decades, many of the members of the traditional Tidore guards had become more
involved in politics than in traditional or ceremonial activities. Many members of
the Pasukan Adat, particularly the leadership, were more politically minded and
better educated than their counterparts in the Pasukan Kuning in Ternate. Many
were bureaucrats and politicians and, hence, looked to the district head, Bahar
Andili, as the main power holder in Tidore and Central Halmahera. He enjoyed
widespread support in Tidore not only because of his influence as district head but
also because of his campaign to have the capital of the province located in Central
Halmahera District. The mobilization of men on Tidore to end the Sultan of
Ternate’s growing provincial dominance was not carried out under the direct influ-
ence of Djunus Syah, but by Mudaffar Syah’s political rivals.
While Ternate had only for a short period been ‘riot prone’ it is clear that some
of the elements of Brass’s ‘institutionalized riot system’ existed in that city in
1999. Abu Bakar Wahid returned from Ambon after the outbreak of violence there
stating his determination to prevent any repeat of the same attacks on Muslims in
North Maluku. As Muslims constituted a large majority in North Maluku, particu-
larly on Tidore (95 per cent), where Abu Bakar Wahid resided, this was not a real-
istic concern. It appears his main goal was similar to that of Brass’s ‘riot
specialists’ – to keep a minority, in this case Christians, ‘cowed’ and Muslims
‘ready and alert for mobilization, for crowd action, and for violence if necessary
should it be considered desirable for political or other reasons’.61
Mudaffar Syah was portrayed as supporting his own political ambitions and his
Christian supporters at the expense of Muslims. Mudaffar Syah’s rivals used these
and other issues, such as his apparent failure to live in accordance with Islam, to
stimulate sectarian tension as a means of unifying Muslim parliamentarians
144 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
against him before scheduled gubernatorial elections. The violence and the
massive mobilization against Mudaffar Syah intimidated politicians who
supported his candidacy for the governorship. The destruction of the Golkar
building in particular was a clear message to the political supporters of the sultan.
An important feature of the Putih–Kuning clashes was the inaction of the Indo-
nesian military and police. It must have been clear during December that the pres-
ence and behaviour of the Pasukan Kuning, who carried spears and other sharp
weapons, was creating tension and anger on the streets of the city. Yet the security
forces took no action against them. Then, as rioting began, neither the military nor
the police acted to stop the militia attacking Kampung Pisang and moving into the
areas of Tanah Tinggi and elsewhere to fight with migrant youths. Nor did they act
as the Pasukan Putih, including perhaps thousands of men from Tidore, forced the
Pasukan Kuning back towards the sultan’s palace, destroying several buildings
important to the provincial infrastructure, including the provincial Golkar Party
office. Security personnel remained in their compounds during the conflict.
There were clearly enough security personnel present in Ternate City to halt the
violence. Military and police contingents were stationed in the city, each with
approximately 100 men. Security personnel had an opportunity to halt the rioting
in the early stages of the clashes, which took place immediately adjacent to the
police compound, but did not do so. What explains this inaction? One possible
explanation can be discounted. With both parties to the conflict being Muslim,
religious bias did not affect the behaviour of the security forces. The sultan’s
alleged protection of Christians was not sufficient to unite the city’s security
forces, many of whom were Ternates, against him.
There are several possible reasons for this inaction. As discussed in Chapter 2,
in late 1999 there was a great deal of domestic and international pressure for the
government to bring security personnel to trial for apparent human rights viola-
tions, particularly during the violence that occurred after the independence refer-
endum in East Timor in September that year. While no military personnel explicily
expressed concern to me about the possibility of accusations of human rights abuse
arising from their response to the conflict in Ternate (as others involved in the
violence in Tobelo and Malifut did), it is possible some may have been afraid to
use the lethal force necessary to halt these clashes. Another possible explanation
concerns the announcement, made only six months previously on 1 April 1999,
that the Indonesian Police (Polri) were to become an autonomous institution, free
of a long-standing subordinate position to the military.62 It is possible that the local
military in North Maluku were seeking to demonstrate the lack of capacity of the
police to deal with major internal security problems, as a means of ultimately
regaining this responsibility. Confusion over which institution was tasked with
responding to which disturbances may also have affected both institutions’
performance.
Yet it seems likely that local political factors contributed more to this lack of
response by the security forces. In 1999, after years of authoritarian and military
rule, the security forces were not directly responsible to local political leaders but
to their own superior officers in Jakarta, who were in turn directly responsible to
 Political exploitation – the Putih–Kuning 145
the president. However, whoever became governor of North Maluku, whether
Bahar Andili or Mudaffar Syah, would be likely to exercise enough influence in
Jakarta to successfully seek the removal of those commanders who had opposed
them. In clashes widely seen as deciding the ultimate alignment of future political
power in the new province, military and police commanders appear to have felt it
safer to order their personnel to remain in their barracks.

Conclusion
In a conflict occurring as a new province was born, political competition was never
likely to be far from the surface. This chapter has demonstrated that members of
the Ternate elite exploited the existing communal conflict in the province to
weaken a political rival and obtain political benefit. The large numbers of Makians
and Tidores in the three district bureaucracies in Ternate and Tidore presented a
sizeable constituency which shared these goals. Yet the mobilization of such a
large group and the riot against the Pasukan Kuning cannot be separated from
more emotional factors associated with the conflict itself, such as the Sultan of
Ternate’s claimed support for Christians at the expense of Muslims. The process
that his political opponents had begun with the anti-Christian riots in November
came to fruition in late December.
Political tension was at its height in Ternate in December 1999. Throughout
November and December there had been growing tension between Mudaffar Syah
and his Pasukan Kuning on the one hand and the migrant-dominated south of
Ternate City on the other. Many Makians remained angry at Mudaffar Syah for
protecting Christians during the November riot and for supporting the Kaos in the
Malifut dispute. The Pasukan Kuning had also alienated and angered other
Muslim men from Ternate by their arrogant and aggressive behaviour.
However, more importantly, the Sultan’s ascension to power threatened the
gubernatorial aspirations of his opponents and the dominance in local government
and bureaucracy of the migrant groups which had settled over the previous
decades. In late December the sultan remained a powerful political force and was
the likely winner of the first gubernatorial election. In addition, his traditional
troops had taken control of large swathes of Ternate City, assuming responsibility
for law and order in place of the local police and thereby augmenting his electoral
dominance. Around this time, several ethnic and political factions united against
him because of the Malifut riots and his growing dominance. The leaders of these
factions exploited the existing animosity towards him and the tension caused by
the wider conflict in North Maluku to first unify the Muslim vote against him, and
second, to undermine his dominance by force. Contrary to some analyses, the
Sultan of Tidore played only a peripheral role in the Putih–Kuning conflict.
Recently appointed by Bahar Andili, the sultan merely provided traditional legiti-
macy to the district head’s campaign for the governorship and played no role in
instigating or exacerbating the conflict.
Following a clash between the Pasukan Kuning and youths, massive force was
brought to bear on the sultan and his troops. Local security forces made no effort to
146 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
halt the fighting, demonstrating a lack of willingness to oppose any future power
holder in the province. The sultan was defeated, and fell as a political and strategic
force in Ternate, leaving his rivals to contest the governorship. 63
These events were quickly subsumed in the repercussions of the violence in
Tobelo. In the following days thousands of Muslim IDPs began arriving from the
violence there and from Galela in north Halmahera. Many of these IDPs related
stories of the terrible events in Tobelo, angering Muslims in Ternate and Tidore.
The leadership of the Pasukan Putih, which had initially been mobilized to defeat
Mudaffar Syah, now formed a militia more Islamic in character which they called
the Pasukan Jihad. This militia began training for the more demanding task of
waging jihad against Christians on Halmahera.
7 Killing in the name of God

Introduction
The intensity of the violence in Tobelo and Galela dramatically altered the North
Maluku conflict. Several days after the parties to the Putih–Kuning clashes in
Ternate had halted hostilities and demobilized, thousands of Muslim IDPs from
north Halmahera arrived in the city. The arrival of these people, and the stories
they brought with them of atrocities against Muslims, united Muslims in anger at
Christians. Politics and ethnicity were forgotten as religious animosity come to the
fore. Muslims from both political factions in Ternate and elsewhere in North
Maluku formed a militia to retaliate against Christians in north Halmahera – the
Pasukan Jihad (Jihad Force).
This chapter discusses the formation and goals of the Pasukan Jihad. Those
Muslims driven from their homes and seeking retribution against Christians in
Tobelo and Galela found a militia already mobilized and buoyant from its victory
over the sultan’s forces. The Tidores, Sananas and Makians who had made up the
Pasukan Putih, along with many Ternates against whom they had recently fought,
were outraged by the apparently calculated attacks against Muslim communities
by Christians in Tobelo and Galela.
The chapter begins with a theoretical consideration of the role of religion in the
mobilization of such militias. After assessing the organization and goals of the
Pasukan Jihad, the chapter then evaluates claims that several militant, national
Islamic organizations were involved in the North Maluku conflict and investigates
how the North Maluku militia fits into the wider environment of Islamic radicalism
present in Indonesia in early 2000. The chapter then discusses the two main
campaigns of the militia in Malifut and Galela. The final section brings together
the conclusions of the chapter and assesses the role of religion in the violence as
well as the varied response of the Indonesian security forces to the campaigns in
the two areas.

Identity, strategy and the mobilization of religious militias

North Maluku entered the new millennium in the grip of full-scale religious war. In
Ternate thousands of Muslims mobilized to launch attacks against Christians in
148 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
north Halmahera. These men prepared to spend months in the field fighting against
well-fortified and -armed Christian villages, receiving no pay and obliged to
forage for food in the abandoned gardens of Halmahera. While many of the men in
this militia were IDPs who had lost their homes and family members in attacks by
Christians, many were Muslims from elsewhere in the province who had not been
directly affected by the violence in north Halmahera. This was the first time since
the start of the conflict six months earlier that people had mobilized en masse and
travelled to assist co-religionists of different ethnic groups. Almost all cases of
violence had thus far been confined to local protagonists, combatants fighting
neighbouring villages or suburbs.
This case illustrates a central question in the study of conflict, often termed the
free-rider dilemma. Why do people mobilize for collective action even when their
interests might not be served or when they might still be served even if they
remained in the safety of their homes? Several scholars have asserted that it is the
obligations and loyalties of collective identity that explain mobilization in such
circumstances.1 Religion is perhaps a more potent force for mobilization than other
forms of collective identity because it is not only strongly linked to a sense of self,
but also provides a far-reaching and uplifting ideology, powerful institutional
structures and an enduring and clear-cut definition of an ‘other’.
Unsurprisingly, militias fighting in religious violence often appear to be driven by
religious zeal. The mobilization of the militia in North Maluku, and the violence that
followed, was replete with religious symbolism. The militia formed by Muslims in
Ternate and Tidore was named the Pasukan Jihad (Jihad Force), and many Muslims
declared an obligation and willingness to wage jihad to defend Islam and Muslims
and to prevent Christian expansionism in the region. Likewise, Christians wore large
crosses into battle and declared they were fighting ‘for Jesus’ and to defend Chris-
tianity in north Halmahera. Pastors sang ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’ during
fighting. In conflicts elsewhere, militias have tended to adopt evocatively religious
names such as Laskar Jihad and God’s Army, religious leaders have proclaimed
their support for militants and religious sites been used as meeting places, and
centres of recruitment and fundraising. Combatants have denied fearing death,
proudly stating their willingness to meet God and die a martyr’s death.
The apparent capacity of religion to mobilize people for violence can perhaps be
explained by the profound psychological and emotional effect religious belief can
have on individuals. For many people, religion provides answers to questions that
cannot be satisfied by secular knowledge, such as those concerning death and
‘existential’ meaning. Religion can provide ‘individuals and groups more secure
anchors for self-reference’ and hence a sense of stability.2 During crises, religion
can therefore take on increased salience and provide assuredness in times of uncer-
tainty. As Jeffrey Seul writes, during crises, loyalty to other members of your reli-
gion can become a litmus test for one’s loyalty to God.3 In conflict situations this
can often lead to pressure from society to turn to acts of violence, particularly when
the sustainability of the religion itself appears to be under threat.
In addition, violent action can be legitimized in the eyes of believers by the use,
or misuse, of the texts and teachings of the monotheistic religions.4 Some passages
 Killing in the name of God 149
in the Qur’an say that the use of force is legitimate (and in some cases obligatory)
for all able-bodied Muslims, particularly when they or their fellow believers have
been attacked by non-Muslims.5 The Qur’an states ‘kill them wherever you find
them. Drive them out of places from which they drove you … Fight against them
until idolatry is no more and Allah’s religion reigns supreme’ (2:190–192).6 In
order to spread the Islamic faith ‘fighting (qital) is obligatory for you, much as you
dislike it’.7 Most commonly, the term jihad is used to refer to war against
non-Muslims, equating in this context to the term ‘holy war’. The Hebrew Bible
(Tanakh or Old Testament), central to Christianity as well as Judaism, also
contains both metaphors and direct accounts of violence in God’s name. The very
nature of religion with its promise of everlasting life after death also means at least
some people are more willing to risk death.
However, it must be noted that this legitimation of violent action requires a fair
degree of selectivity in the choice of verses. The Qur’an also puts restrictions on
the oppression of the weak and in some passages on the use of force other than for
self-defence.8 It states ‘fight for the sake of Allah against those who fight against
you but do not be violent because Allah does not love aggressors’ (2:190). While
Islamic militants have often used the term jihad to legitimate the use of violence,
most references in the Qur’an to the word’s root form, j-h-d, relate to striving for
good and doing God’s will.9 The term has been used to mean ‘striving in the path
of God’, correcting one’s internal weaknesses, the abandonment of worldly attach-
ments, and total dedication to God.10 Similarly, pacifism has been a major tenet of
Christianity. A pacifist tradition is particularly prevalent in the New Testament,
according to which Jesus exhorted those who have been struck to turn the other
cheek (Mt 5:39) and to ‘pray for those who persecute you’ (Mt 5:44).
Despite this ambivalence in the sacred texts monotheistic religions, it is clear
that during times of crisis and conflict, prescriptions of the use of violence will
assume far greater prominence than passages which proscribe violence. In such
cases, religious institutions are well placed to mobilize people for violence. Not
only do these institutions generally exercise enormous emotional influence over
members, but they also often provide social meeting places, communication
networks and pools of resources.11 In crisis situations, individuals untrained in reli-
gious doctrine may also assume the mantle of religious leaders and preach an
intoxicating mix of religious doctrine and militancy, as we have seen in the case of
Benny Bitjara in Tobelo. As discussed in Chapter 5, Appleby has maintained that a
belligerent interpretation of the scriptures is particularly effective in provoking
violence when the audience does not possess adequate knowledge to challenge this
interpretation.12
Yet despite the convenience of religion as a mobilizing tool, do people actually
join ‘religious’ militia and participate in violence because of religious zeal and
threats to their religion? Analysts often question the extent to which religion is the
primary inspiration for participants in militia violence. Commentators sometimes
conclude that leaders and participants in ostensibly religious conflicts are in fact
fighting over economic and political spoils.13 Even in situations where members of
the faiths are pitted against one another, there is often no correlation between
150 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
religiosity and participation in violence. In Northern Ireland, for example, those
who joined the Irish Republican Army and the Ulster Defence Association were
not necessarily the most observant Catholics or Protestants, and those who could
be considered the most observant were often those least likely to become involved
in violence.14 In addition, those leaders using religious imagery to instigate
violence may do so for very different reasons, whether out of religious fervour,
political interest or because they feel pressured into it by grassroots sentiment.
A consideration of the role of religion in the mobilization of the Pasukan Jihad
therefore goes to the heart of a central debate in the study of conflict – how impor-
tant, comparatively, are identities and interest in motivating participants in
violence? The study of religion and violence suggests the relationship between
religious sentiment and mobilization is often complex. It is therefore important not
to exaggerate or underestimate the role of religion. Even in the face of provocation,
any Muslim or Christian community will rarely have a single idea of when war is
legitimate or necessary. A range of groups within each religious community will
have different notions regarding the use of force which are only partly influenced
by religious doctrine. Religious fervour or prejudice will motivate some people to
a large extent, while others will be acting with little reference to their own religious
identity or that of their opponents. Many sub-groups will be acting with clear
instrumental goals in mind. Those with such goals will find utility in attaching
themselves to those with identity-based fervour and vice versa. Ultimately, iden-
tity and interest interact to provide the opportunity, resources and motivation
necessary for sustained mobilization and violence.
The remainder of this chapter provides a detailed illustration of the mobilization
of a religious militia and examines the importance of religion in this process and in
the subsequent violence. It demonstrates that religion helped facilitate the mobili-
zation and sustain the violence, but was not the primary motivation for all combat-
ants involved. On examination of the surrounding context, it becomes apparent
that the mobilization of the Pasukan Jihad was based upon a range of motivational
factors. The case illustrates that we need to look beyond the highly evocative term
jihad and the notions that the term conjures up to understand the true motivations
involved in the mobilization and actions of ‘religious’ militias.

Muslims united against Christians

Organization
As the conflict between the Pasukan Kuning and the Pasukan Putih was coming to
an end in Ternate, thousands of Muslim IDPs fleeing from the violence in Tobelo
and Galela arrived in the city. They brought news of Christian attacks against
Muslims, the destruction of mosques and terrible atrocities committed against
men, women and children. These stories aroused a great deal of anger among the
Muslim community in Ternate, particularly as a result of the large numbers of dead
and the sense that the Muslims who died were innocent. The leaders of the
Pasukan Putih, along with other community leaders and imams, began mobilizing
 Killing in the name of God 151
an Islamic militia to return to Halmahera. Enthused by their recent victory over the
sultan’s guards, members of the Pasukan Putih provided the basis for this militia.
By this time called the Pasukan Jihad, the group drew support from every suburb
and village on Ternate and Tidore. Two main centres of recruitment and mobiliza-
tion were established in Ternate, the Muhajrin mosque and Toboko mosque. In
Tidore, the main centre was the village of Tomalou, the home of Abu Bakar
Wahid. Wahid quickly assumed leadership of the militia.
Before leaving to attack Christians on Halmahera, potential recruits underwent
physical examination and those considered too weak or infirm were excluded or
restricted to logistical tasks. Throughout January and February, the Pasukan Jihad
conducted training in martial arts, fitness and the use of weapons. Several large
rallies were organized to recruit more members and publicize the intentions of the
Pasukan Jihad. Leaders organized a large rally in April, symbolically held in the
sports grounds in front of the exiled Sultan of Ternate’s palace. At the rally, Abu
Bakar Wahid declared that reconciliation with Christian communities should be
postponed until all Halmaheran IDPs could return to their homes.
A wide cross-section of the North Maluku Muslim community participated in
the Pasukan Jihad. Male IDPs from those ethnic groups (Makians, Tobelos and
Galelas) driven out of Halmahera by Christians comprised the majority of the
militia. These IDPs were joined by numerous men from the other main North
Maluku ethnic groups: Ternates, Tidores, Makians, Sananas, Kayoas, and Bacans.
Among the Ternates who joined the militia were many members of the Pasukan
Kuning who had recently fought against their new allies.
The militia assumed a far more religious character than the Pasukan Putih. The
Pasukan Jihad conducted prayer sessions and heard sermons inside mosques, and
during operations on Halmahera militia members were expected to pray regularly.
All mujahid wore white as a symbol of their religion.15 Yet religious guidance was
provided to militia members in Ternate and Tidore not by imams, but primarily by
teachers and other community leaders considered to have religious knowledge.
The main spiritual advisors for the Pasukan Jihad were two teachers at Islamic
schools, Abdul Gane Kasuba and Albi Shamat. Some imams did assist in mobi-
lizing the militia and several joined the Pasukan Jihad on Halmahera. Support for
the jihad may not have been universal among Islamic religious leaders, however.
One militia member said that certain imams faced intimidation and coercion to
support the militia. Some imams and other religious leaders instructed militia
members not to engage in atrocities such as the killing of women, children or
people attempting to surrender. One Makian imam recounted how he forbade any
Muslims to dismember or otherwise abuse corpses.16

Motivations/objectives
The motivations and goals of the Pasukan Jihad in North Maluku were born out of
exclusively local issues. Its formation was driven by the events in North Maluku,
in particular in North Halmahera. The IDPs who had recently arrived from Tobelo
and Galela had two goals in joining the Pasukan Jihad. First, they were enraged at
152 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
what they saw as the premeditated nature of Christian attacks against them. In
addition, they sought to defeat the Christians in their home areas so that it would be
safe for them to return to their villages. For many from Tobelo and Galela this
meant defeating Christians in the major villages of those sub-districts and in
Tobelo City. Several respondents stated that the militia planned to drive all Chris-
tians from the area if that was necessary in order to facilitate their return to their
homes.
Makian IDPs in Ternate, Tidore and elsewhere had the same goal. Expelled
from Malifut in October, they saw in the tide of Muslim anger an opportunity to
return to their homes. Many of the leaders of the Pasukan Jihad, such as Wahda
Zainal Imam and Abu Bakar Wahid, along with some politicians who supported
the jihad such as Thaib Armain, were also motivated by a desire to avenge the
destruction of Malifut. Makians also sought revenge for the attacks against
Muslims and the strong anti-Makian sentiment that had been displayed in Tobelo.
The return of Muslims to their homes was also an important goal for the
Pasukan Jihad leadership. Abu Bakar Wahid claimed that the militia was moti-
vated by a desire to protect the rights of Muslims, including the right to live wher-
ever they chose in Indonesia.17 It is possible that leading politicians and
bureaucrats supported the militia’s campaign partly because they realized that the
long-term presence of Muslim IDPs in Ternate was untenable. Most, therefore,
hoped to see Christians on Halmahera defeated so that the tens of thousands of
Muslims could return to their villages. The displacement of additional Christians
caused by attacks on Halmahera would not be a problem for the local government
because it was assumed that they would mostly go to North Sulawesi, like those
who had fled earlier violence.
Like those from Halmahera, Muslims from the main ethnic groups in Ternate
and Tidore (Ternate, Tidore, Sanana) also joined the Pasukan Jihad out of anger
about what appeared to have been brutal, premeditated attacks by Christians in
Tobelo and Galela. The events in Tobelo (especially Togoliua and Popilo) consti-
tuted perhaps the most terrible atrocities of the conflicts in both Maluku and North
Maluku. Muslim IDPs from Tobelo brought stories of the killing of men, women
and children in mosques and even those under the protection of the security forces.
Stories of beheadings, forced conversions, kidnappings and rapes added to the
anger.
This anger against Christians on Halmahera was framed in the terms of jihad
and other Islamic references. At a large rally organized by the Pasukan Jihad in
Ternate in April, Abu Bakar Wahid declared to the thousands of armed men
assembled there that they would fight until the day of reckoning (Hari Kiamat).18
Leaders pronounced that all able-bodied Muslim men must avenge the attacks on
Muslims and protect those who remained in Halmahera. The principles of jihad
and a sense of Islamic solidarity clearly motivated those Muslims (such as
Ternates and Tidores) who had not been directly affected by the violence in north
Halmahera. However, IDPs from Tobelo, Galela and Malifut, while no doubt
inspired and energized by proclamations of Islamic solidarity, had concrete goals –
retribution against Christians and the chance to return to their homes.
 Killing in the name of God 153
Some Muslims, including at least one community leader who had led the
Pasukan Putih against the Sultan of Ternate, refused to take part in the jihad.
Several claimed they did not want jihad waged in their name, believing that the
preconditions for holy war were not present. Those who did not participate and
travel to Halmahera were required to pay a form of taxation to support the militia.
Yet it appears little coercion was applied to men who chose not to participate and
did not attend the meetings at which the militia was organized. Several male trans-
vestites also participated in the jihad, which perhaps demonstrates the non-puritan
nature of the militia. Those individuals who did join the Pasukan Jihad stood to
gain a great deal of prestige within society.19
Abu Bakar Wahid claimed the primary goal of the Pasukan Jihad was to oppose
and defeat a resurgence of the 1950s RMS separatist organization which he
declared was operating on Halmahera.20 He proclaimed to militia members that if
the Christian militia opposed the Pasukan Jihad, it was thereby opposing the Indo-
nesian republic.21 Other Muslims in Ternate and elsewhere, including individuals
not involved in Pasukan Jihad, also claimed that the RMS was present in Tobelo.
Many believed that without external provocation by the RMS, the Christian and
Muslim members of the Tobelo ‘family’ could not possibly have begun to kill each
other.22 Assertions by the militia that they were fighting against a separatist organi-
zation were reflected in the carrying of red-and-white Indonesian national flags by
the militia members.23
As discussed in Chapter 2, the North Maluku region had remained isolated from
the RMS rebellion in the 1950s.24 The conflict between the forces of the Indone-
sian Republic and the RMS was confined to the south of Maluku Province, not
affecting the northern area which was to become North Maluku. Furthermore,
there was no evidence that RMS was active in North Maluku in 1999 and 2000 and
no signs of RMS presence such as flags, symbols, propaganda or other documenta-
tion. The presence of Ambonese Christians in Tobelo appears to have been the
only supposed evidence of the presence of this (largely defunct) organization in
North Maluku. The Christian leaders most commonly accused by Muslims of
‘being RMS’, such as Jacob Soselissa, Frans Manerry and May Luhulima, deny
there was any connection between Christians in North Maluku and RMS or any
other separatist organization.25
The declaration by Abu Bakar Wahid and others that the Pasukan Jihad was
fighting against the RMS was perhaps based more on deliberate calculation than a
mistaken belief. Such statements created the impression that the militia was
fighting Christians who were carrying out ethnic cleansing of Muslims in order to
create a new Christian state, thereby undermining the territorial integrity of Indo-
nesia. Through such claims, the leaders of the Pasukan Jihad calculated that the
Indonesian military would not hinder their operations on Halmahera. While mili-
tary commanders in North Maluku may not have believed claims about the RMS,
in some cases these pronouncements by the Pasukan Jihad leadership at least gave
them a pretext for avoiding a confrontation and for allowing the militia to travel to,
and operate in, Halmahera. The security forces seemed reluctant to confront the
Pasukan Jihad for a variety of reasons – sympathy with the militia’s goals, concern
154 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
about its size and fear about the consequences of clashes, and worries about
apparent connections the militia leaders had with civilian provincial power
holders.

Funding and supply

Despite the large size of the Pasukan Jihad, the militia required little funding. The
main expense was for petrol to fuel the speedboats which transported over 10,000
men from Ternate and Tidore to Halmahera, particularly those that needed to travel
to Galela via Morotai (see Map 2.1). Some funding was also required for the
purchase or hire of automatic weapons, obtained either from the security forces or
from dealers in the southern Philippines. Christians travelled by boat from Tobelo
to the southern Philippines to buy weapons in the latter stages of the conflict and
claimed that members of the Pasukan Jihad did likewise.26 Once in the field of
operations on Halmahera, mujahid required little funding. Most slept in the open
and were fed by local communities or collected food from abandoned gardens.
Most respondents said the funding raised within the Ternate and Tidore communi-
ties, largely from donations collected in local mosques, was sufficient for opera-
tions in Halmahera. According to one leader of the Pasukan Jihad who remained
in Ternate to organize logistics for the militia, the local provincial and district
governments also provided food and accommodation, meaning mujahid were
supported as they waited for departure.27 Rank and file members of the Pasukan
Jihad said they received no money for participating,28 although Christian respon-
dents claimed they often found a large amount of money on the bodies of fallen
mujahid.
There is little doubt that the leadership of the Pasukan Jihad also received
funding from wealthy sympathizers in other parts of Indonesia. Abu Bakar Wahid
claimed he had numerous friends in Jakarta who provided him with funding.29
Several individuals in Ternate, including at least one former leader of the Pasukan
Jihad, claimed that any funding donated by external actors for Pasukan Jihad
operations was retained by a small number of people in the militia’s leadership.
According to several respondents, the leadership of the Pasukan Jihad divided
acrimoniously when two leaders, Muhammad Selang and Muhammad Albar,
accused Abu Bakar Wahid of stealing donations. 30

Questions of radicalism and terrorism

North Maluku Christians and external observers have claimed that the Pasukan
Jihad was not entirely local in constitution and affiliation and had strong connec-
tions to external militant Islamic organizations. Christians in places such as Galela
and Tobelo who fought the militia stated that many mujahid came from Ambon,
Java, Sumatra and elsewhere in Indonesia.31 Christians defending villages such as
Duma said they found numerous identity cards (KTP) on the bodies of deceased
mujahid. According to Christian militia members, these KTP identified the men as
originating from islands and provinces outside North Maluku.32 Theo Sosebeko, a
 Killing in the name of God 155
leader of the Christian defence of Duma, Soatobaro and other Christian villages in
central Galela, estimated that approximately 40 per cent of the members of the
Pasukan Jihad were from North Maluku, the remaining 60 per cent from else-
where in Indonesia.33 Christians from Duma also said that they had heard several
languages that they could not understand, although this could be applicable to the
Makian, Tidore and Ternate languages.34 They also claimed they overheard and
could recognize the Ambonese language.
Claims that people from outside North Maluku participated in the conflict and
that the Pasukan Jihad received funding from external sources have led many
observers to suggest that several extremist, national Muslim organizations were
involved in the North Maluku conflict. The group most frequently said to have
been involved in the conflict is Laskar Jihad, the large Java-based militia led by
Ja’far Umar Thalib. For example Professor Jan Nanere, a North Maluku Christian,
stated that the Laskar Jihad travelled first to Ternate and then to Halmahera in
early 2000.35 The North Maluku sociologist Tamrin Tomagola also claims a fourth
surge of violence began with the arrival of the Laskar Jihad.36 While not claiming
the Laskar Jihad was present in North Maluku, Hasan identifies Abu Bakar Wahid
(the leader of the Pasukan Putih and the Pasukan Jihad) as a field commander of
Ja’far Umar Thalib.37
Laskar Jihad was formed in early 2000 by Ja’far Umar Thalib, an Indonesian of
Yemeni descent and prominent preacher within the puritan salafi movement.38
Ja’far spent a number of years studying in Saudi Arabia and Yemen and engaged in
jihad against the Soviet Union in Afghanistan. In 1998 he established the Forum
Komunikasi Ahlussunnah Wal Jamaah (FKAWJ – The Communication Forum of
the Followers of the Sunna and the Community of the Prophet).39 In early 2000, in
response to major Muslim losses in the Maluku and North Maluku conflicts, in
particular the Christian attack on Muslims in Tobelo in late December 1999, Ja’far
established a paramilitary wing of the FKAWJ – the Laskar Jihad.40
The militia was the most prominent Islamic paramilitary organization to become
involved in local communal conflict in Indonesia. The Laskar Jihad claimed that
the conflicts in Maluku and North Maluku were the initial stages of an interna-
tional Zionist–Christian conspiracy to Christianize Indonesia.41 In response to this
threat, Ja’far Umar Thalib sought and received several fatwas from Saudi and
Yemeni muftis to wage jihad against Christians in Maluku. Between May and June
2000, over 3,000 militia members left Java for Maluku, despite President Wahid’s
orders that the security forces prevent their movement. Throughout 2000 and
2001, the Laskar Jihad swung the balance of power and initiative in the conflict in
Ambon from Christians to Muslims, inflicting heavy losses on Christians in
Maluku Province.42
The Laskar Jihad appeared to operate in Ambon and Maluku Province with the
acquiescence of some elements within the military.43 Leaders and militia members
were able to travel throughout Maluku and elsewhere in Indonesia without
hindrance.44 In some cases, military units appeared to actually facilitate and/or
assist the militia’s attacks on Christian communities. Some reports said military
units guarding Christian communities withdrew moments before the Laskar Jihad
156 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
and local Muslim forces attacked, for example in the suburbs of Poka (including
Pattimura University) and Waai.45 Some observers explained this military assis-
tance afforded to the Laskar Jihad as driven by a desire on the part of some military
personnel to undermine the Wahid presidency. The militia’s leaders had openly
opposed Wahid because of his refusal to implement sharia, his failure to protect
Muslims in Maluku and elsewhere and his proposal to re-establish trade relations
with Israel.46
Connections certainly did exist between the leadership of the Pasukan Jihad
and the Laskar Jihad. In an interview with a reporter from the Maluku newspaper
Maluku Hari Ini, Abu Bakar Wahid stated that he and Ja’far Umar Thalib were
friends and shared the same ideology and goals.47 Abu Bakar Wahid was present at
a large rally held by Laskar Jihad in Jakarta on 6 April 2000 and, along with Ja’far,
went to the presidential palace to demand that President Wahid take firm action to
protect Muslims in Maluku and North Maluku.48 The president expelled the dele-
gation from the palace.
However, all Muslims from North Maluku denied that external combatants were
involved in the Pasukan Jihad. Every Muslim respondent interviewed, including
the leaders of the Pasukan Jihad in Tidore and Ternate, and the militia’s leader in
Galela, Samsul Bakhri, stated that no assistance was provided to the militia in
North Halmahera by Laskar Jihad.49 Other community leaders in Galela and
Malifut, and all mujahid interviewed, also denied that outsiders were involved in
the militia.50 They claimed the only exception was a small medical team from Java
which treated injured mujahid, but did not take part in attacks on Christians. None
of the identity cards allegedly found on the corpses of mujahid that purportedly
demonstrate a non-local origin remained in North Maluku in 2003. Several
mujahid stated that Christians may have mistaken members of the Sanana ethnic
group for Ambonese (Sanana Island is located close to Ambon but is part of North
Maluku Province).
The Pasukan Jihad leadership appears to have declined an offer of assistance
from the Laskar Jihad. In early 2000, a vessel sailed into Ternate harbour carrying
a Laskar Jihad delegation. The militia offered to assist the local Muslim militia to
conduct military operations against Christians in North Maluku. However, the
Pasukan Jihad leadership declined the offer, although the various individuals
proffered different reasons for this decision.51 Abu Bakar Wahid said he declined
the offer because he felt he had enough troops (18,000 by his reckoning) with
which to defeat Christians on Halmahera and defend the Muslim community.52
Other leaders, such as Muhammad Albar and Muhammad Selang, said they were
more concerned with preventing the involvement of outsiders in the conflict. Albar
said he had been reluctant to involve the Laskar Jihad because they did not under-
stand the problems that had led to the violence in the province and did not under-
stand the strength of local tradition in places such as Tobelo.53 He believed the
external militia were not aware of how close relations had been between Muslims
and Christians in such areas before the conflict.54 Similarly, Muhammad Selang
stated that he refused Laskar Jihad’s offer because he felt it would be difficult to
end the conflict if people from outside the province were present. He believed
 Killing in the name of God 157
Ja’far Umar Thalib was too radical and wanted to implement sharia.55 As the
majority of North Maluku Muslims did not want Islamic law, he was concerned
violence would arise between local and external Muslim militias.56
All of these reasons influenced the decision of the Pasukan Jihad to decline the
offer of assistance. Many Muslims in Maluku Province, where the militia did play
an important role, also became concerned that the militia was overly radical.
Nevertheless, it was the overwhelming majority that Muslims enjoyed in North
Maluku Province – approximately 80 per cent of the provincial population – that
allowed Muslims there to reject the offer of assistance. In Maluku Province,
Muslims did not enjoy numerical superiority, in some areas, such as Ambon City,
numbering fewer than Christians. Having departed Ternate, the Laskar Jihad unit
proceeded to Ambon.
There are indications that other radical national and international Islamic orga-
nizations provided logistical or financial assistance to the Pasukan Jihad. Press
reports from early 2000 claimed that the leaders of the militia referred to their orga-
nization as the North Maluku branch of the Islamic Defenders Front or Front
Pembela Islam (FPI). FPI first emerged in Jakarta after President Suharto’s resig-
nation as part of the Pam Swakarsa, a conglomeration of groups used by the mili-
tary and police to intimidate crowds protesting outside the parliament.57 The FPI
leadership also sought the addition of sharia to the Indonesian constitution, but
because of the organization’s links with the Indonesian security forces claimed this
must be done within the existing structure of the Indonesian state.58 The
Jakarta-based FPI does not appear to have become involved in communal violence
in Maluku or elsewhere. The organization focused more on the eradication of vice
in Jakarta and other cities on Java, raiding and vandalizing bars, brothels and
gambling centres.
Those individuals in North Maluku mentioned in press reports as members of
FPI include Abu Bakar Wahid, Wahda Zainal Imam, Albi Shamat and Abdul Gane
Kasuba.59 Most of them now deny having been members of FPI, and one leader,
Muhammad Selang, argued that journalists ‘invent things’.60 However, several
respondents claimed that, in 2000, those leaders had identified themselves with
FPI.61 One former mujahid in Mangga Dua, Ternate, alleged that Wahda Zainal
Imam had referred to himself as the leader of FPI in North Maluku.62 Abu Bakar
Wahid claimed that one of the leaders of FPI, Habib Husein al Habsyi, provided
him with funding for jihad operations in North Maluku.63
Despite the adoption of the name FPI by some North Maluku Muslim leaders,
the Jakarta-based organization does not appear to have been directly involved in
that conflict. While some FPI funding was probably received by the leadership in
North Maluku it is unlikely it was substantial. The low cost of the Pasukan Jihad
meant that any funding received had little effect, neither lengthening nor wors-
ening the conflict. Ternate moved to a more conservative observance of Islamic
practices during the conflict, with alcohol consumption and prostitution taking
place only in secret to avoid raids by young Muslim men. In February 2000 two
nightclubs were destroyed in Ternate City. However, this development is more
likely to have been a consequence of the religious violence in the province rather
158 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
than of the influence of FPI or any other external organization. It seems likely that,
rather than having any important links with the FPI in Jakarta, the leaders of the
Pasukan Jihad adopted the (rather generic) Islamic Defenders Front name in order
to obtain funding and for reasons of status.
There are also some indications that the regional terrorist organization Jemaah
Islamiyah (Islamic Community – JI), and through it the Al Qaeda organization,
were involved in the conflict in North Maluku. JI’s main goal is to overthrow Indo-
nesia’s current secular, democratic political system and establish a pan-Islamic
state or regional caliphate based on sharia.64 An Islamic preacher formerly
involved in the Darul Islam organization, Abdullah Sungkar, established JI in
1993 in Malaysia after fleeing arrest in Indonesia. The JI leadership in Malaysia
maintained strong connections with small ‘cells’ of group members in Indonesia
throughout their exile. Sungkar and another leader, Abu Bakar Ba’asyir, travelled
to Saudi Arabia seeking funding for Jemaah Islamiyah and sent several hundred
recruits to Afghanistan to assist in the mujahidin’s struggle against the Soviet
Union and gain military experience.
Military experience in Afghanistan provided training in bomb making and the
use of weapons, and exposure to more radical international Islamic organizations
(such as the al-Gama’a al-Islamiyah, an Egyptian organization thought to have
links to Osama Bin Laden’s Al Qaeda). The experience infused the organization
with jihadist thought.65 Some members began planning attacks on Western and
other targets in South-east Asia.66 According to the International Crisis Group,
after Ba’asyir assumed the leadership of Jemaah Islamiyah, the organization frac-
tured, with one faction seeking to take a more active role in attacking Western and
Christian targets.67 During 2000 JI carried out several bombing attacks against
Christian churches in Medan, Sumatra, Java and elsewhere.68
As with most radical Islamic organizations in Indonesia in 2000, Jemaah
Islamiyah’s leadership also saw a need to defend Muslims in Maluku and in Poso
District in Central Sulawesi. It sent members and new recruits to fight in Ambon as
members of an affiliated militia, Laskar Mujahidin.69 These conflict zones, along
with others elsewhere in South-east Asia, became centres of recruitment and
training for members of JI during 1999 and 2000.
The connection between JI and the North Maluku conflict in essence boils down
to one man. Fikiruddin, alias Abu Jibril, considered to have been a leading figure
in the organization in 2000, and a link between JI and Al Qaeda, arrived in North
Maluku shortly after the violence in December. Like the rest of the JI leadership,
Abu Jibril fled to Malaysia in 1985 as the Suharto regime cracked down on Islamic
radicals. He was arrested under the Internal Security Act in Malaysia in 2001 as an
alleged member of JI.70
Abu Jibril was recorded on video delivering a sermon in front of a mosque in
Galela in early January 2000 (not long after the initial violence in Tobelo and
Galela). In the sermon, holding the Qur’an in one hand and a pistol in the other, he
exhorts Muslims in North Halmahera ‘to use both the way of the book and the way
of steel’ to defend Islam in the area.71 Abu Bakar Wahid confirmed that Abu Jibril
 Killing in the name of God 159
was present in Ternate in early 2000 and gave spiritual guidance to members of the
local militia.72
Apart from this belligerent rhetoric and ‘spiritual guidance’, the organization
appears to have had little influence on the conflict. As I have argued, there was no
great influx of fighters from outside North Maluku. Nor does the region appear to
have been a training ground for members of JI or other radical organizations, as
was the case in Ambon.73 There was also no apparent change in the level of
funding for the Islamic militia. Most militia members continued to use homemade
weapons and subsisted on donations from local villagers and by obtaining food
from abandoned gardens. There were also no substantial changes in the strategies
of the Pasukan Jihad in North Maluku. As discussed below, the Pasukan Jihad did
not seek to implement sharia, a primary goal for JI and the other organizations
discussed above.74 Most members of the Pasukan Jihad, including at least one
leader, Samsul Bakhri, were unaware that Abu Jibril had been in North Maluku.75
There are some important similarities between the stated goals of the Pasukan
Jihad and those of the militant Islamic organizations discussed earlier, particularly
the Laskar Jihad. The ideology of the Pasukan Jihad was far closer to that of the
Laskar Jihad than that of other organizations such as JI. Both Abu Bakar Wahid
and Ja’far Umar Thalib stated that they were opposed to the RMS and were
seeking to protect Indonesia’s national integrity. Both have also stated that their
primary goal was to defend the Islamic community in Maluku and North Maluku
which they believed was not being sufficiently protected by the national govern-
ment. They also sought to win back the territory they had lost to Christians in the
same way that the Laskar Jihad was attempting to win back the territory that
Muslims had lost to Christians in Maluku Province.
There are, however, also a number of important differences between the
Pasukan Jihad and the Laskar Jihad and the other national Islamic organizations
discussed in this chapter. In contrast to Laskar Jihad, FPI and Jemaah Islamiyah,
neither the leadership nor members of the Pasukan Jihad advocated the creation of
an Islamic state or implementation of sharia.76 Militia leaders claim that banners
and graffiti proclaiming ‘This is an Islamic Province’ (Ini Provinsi Islam) were
displayed by a small minority, predominantly among the youth, and were not
calling for sharia. Muhammad Selang stated that he and the other leaders of the
militia desired continued adherence to secular Indonesian national law in the new
province. He said the Pasukan Jihad also did not advocate a wider jihad against
Christians and Western interests, as did Jemaah Islamiyah.

Assaults on Christian villages

The first attack by a Muslim militia in North Maluku was carried out against Chris-
tian villages on the small island of Lata Lata south of Makian Island.77 Witness
accounts state that the assailants arrived in speedboats travelling from the direction
of the island of Kayoa to the north. Yet it is difficult to verify the provenance of the
mujahid in this case. Witness accounts state there were numerous people involved
from outside Lata Lata, including from Tidore. Some accounts also claim there
160 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
were a large number of Javanese in the attack.78 It is probable that this force was
composed of mujahid largely from the surrounding islands, such as Kayoa and
Bacan and possibly southern Halmahera. Approximately 30 people were killed in
the attack, including the local Protestant pastor.
From Ternate, the Pasukan Jihad also attacked Christian villages in Jailolo in
early February, but was repelled by local villagers who killed several mujahid.
After returning to Ternate, the Pasukan Jihad protested outside the mayor’s office,
demanding that the government investigate the killing of Muslims in Jailolo.
Following this demonstration, the Pasukan Jihad assembled at the port in order to
depart for Halmahera. According to Nanere, military personnel prevented them
from leaving Ternate and four mujahid were killed in the resulting clash.79
After these early forays, the Pasukan Jihad divided into two main groups. One
group travelled to Sidangoli to attack Kao, seeking to retaliate for the destruction
of Malifut and reclaim the area so that Makian IDPs could return to their homes.
This group comprised primarily Makians from Malifut and elsewhere in North
Maluku and was led by Abu Bakar Wahid and Haji Ishak Puasa, both Makians.
The second group travelled to Morotai and Galela in the northern part of north
Halmahera. This group comprised primarily IDPs from that area, including Galela
and Tobelo, and was led in the field by local Galela community leader Samsul
Bakhri but was organized by Muhammad Selang and Muhammad Albar in
Ternate.

Malifut
After the Kaos’ destruction of Malifut in late October 1999, the security forces in
the area were greatly reinforced. Approximately 50 army personnel were posted
near Tanjung Barnabas, the port used by the mining company NHM to service the
nearby Gosowong mine. A further 50 external and local army personnel were
posted either at the port or at the mine itself. A police paramilitary (Brimob) unit
was dispatched to the largely deserted area of Malifut.
In the two months after the destruction of Malifut, Christian militias patrolled
the roads between Kao and Sidangoli on the coast facing Ternate. The Kao militia,
the Pasukan Merah, continued to search the public transport vans that carried
people from Galela and Tobelo to Sidangoli, on at least one occasion beating a
young Makian passenger. Armed militias from Muslim villages in Jailolo
Sub-District also monitored the road from Malifut to Sidangoli, although no Chris-
tians travelled on this road over this period. Despite the increased security pres-
ence, the Kaos returned to Malifut in the week after the anti-Christian rioting in
Ternate, and burned a small number of deserted Makian houses that remained
standing. On one occasion, security personnel appear to have been intimidated by
the presence of the large Kao militia in the area. In late November, army and
Brimob personnel withdrew from Kao and Malifut after hearing rumours that the
Kaos planned to attack them.
During November and December, the Kaos demanded that former employees of
NHM be allowed to return to work at the mine. On several occasions former
 Killing in the name of God 161
employees, armed with machetes and other weapons, travelled to the site’s
entrance and demanded a return to work, but were turned away by Brimob
personnel. NHM managers informed the Kaos that no employees would be rehired
until the security situation had been resolved.80 By the start of December the secu-
rity situation around Kao and Malifut had improved to the extent that 30 of the
army personnel stationed at Tanjung Barnabas returned to Sidangoli.
Then in December and early January came the terrible events in Tobelo and the
gathering storm of religious war. In January tension began to increase in Kao as
stories of the mobilization of thousands of Muslims and declarations of jihad in
Ternate and Tidore were heard in Kao. When stories reached Kao that Muslims
were preparing to depart in order to launch an attack against them, the Kaos went
on to a war footing.
On 8 January the Pasukan Jihad gathered in a mosque in the village of Tomalou
on Tidore, and prayed before their departure for Sidangoli. Many members of the
militia were Makian IDPs, most carrying homemade weapons. According to the
militia’s leader, Abu Bakar Wahid, military personnel stationed at the port of Rum
on Tidore attempted to prevent the Pasukan Jihad from leaving but, upon hearing
that the militia was seeking to defend the republic against separatist RMS forces on
Halmahera, allowed the militia to depart unhindered. The militia travelled to
Halmahera in a flotilla of approximately 40 boats, each carrying some 75 men.81
On hearing rumours that the Muslim militia had left Ternate, about a thousand
Kaos, led by Benny Bitjara, gathered at the village of Dum Dum west of Malifut.
By 22 January several thousand mujahid gathered in the west of Malifut
Sub-District.82 That day the two sides faced each other in the Tabobo area (See
Map 3.1), the mujahid outnumbering the Kaos by several thousand. The military
and police units present attempted to separate them but several skirmishes took
place and a few Kaos were killed. The Kao militia retreated further east, pursued
by the Pasukan Jihad. The two groups again massed within sight of each other at
the Tanjung Barnabas port, separated by approximately 100 army personnel, while
another 100 personnel guarded the mine site at Gosowong nearby.83 The mining
company hastily brought in 40 military reinforcements from Wasile Sub-District
to Tanjung Barnabas port.
In the late afternoon the approximately 140 military personnel present forced
the Kao militia to withdraw, firing repeatedly into the ground around them. The
Pasukan Jihad also withdrew west to Akelamo. Several thousand Muslims at this
point abandoned the attempt to reach Kao, deterred by the strong response taken by
security forces in the area, and returned home to Ternate, but approximately 2,000
militia members, mostly from Tidore but also some IDPs from Malifut, remained
in Akelamo.
The Kaos made several efforts to end the conflict over this period. In late
January the Team of Nine Kao representatives presented a letter to the security
forces stating their desire for peace, but warning that if the Pasukan Jihad entered
the area they would be attacked. The Team of Nine also reassured the predomi-
nantly Javanese, and Muslim, transmigrants still living in the sub-district that they
would not be harmed. The sole Kao member of the North Maluku District
162 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Parliament travelled to Tobelo to telephone the government in Ternate and request
that it order the Pasukan Jihad to withdraw from the area.84
As mujahid reinforcements arrived in the Malifut area in February, bringing the
total number of militia members to approximately 5,000, the security forces
continued to separate the two militias and prevent any major clashes. However, the
military did allow the Pasukan Jihad to destroy at least two unoccupied Kao
villages in western Malifut. Because the military commander had informed the
Kao militia that the villages would be protected and that they, the Kaos, should
withdraw, these events served to confirm to the Kaos the need to provide for their
own security.
As well as taking action to prevent fighting in Malifut, the government and the
security forces from this point on took a harder line on preventing further militia
from leaving Ternate for Sidangoli. Their plans to attack Kao seemingly thwarted,
the Makian members of the Pasukan Jihad leadership spent this period pressuring
the provincial government to provide for the return of the Makian IDPs to Malifut
so they could start rebuilding their homes. Abu Bakar Wahid negotiated directly
with the army commander in North Maluku, Lt Col. Sutrisno, requesting that he
allow the Pasukan Jihad to return to Malifut. The commander refused this request,
perhaps concerned that, in reality, the militia sought to attack Kao. When several
thousand mujahid did attempt to leave Ternate once more on 5 May, army troops
from Infantry Battalion 732 fired on the militia, killing five mujahid. The response
to this incident demonstrated that support for the jihad was not universal in
Ternate. According to an Australian staff member from NHM, a petition was
presented to the commander of the unit with the names of 500 Muslim Ternate citi-
zens supporting the action taken against the Pasukan Jihad.
Those groups that did manage to leave Ternate were stopped by security forces
around Malifut or were deterred by the large Kao militia. On 18 May approxi-
mately 2,000 mujahid managed to leave Ternate and travelled by truck from
Sidangoli to Akelamo. There, however, this group was stopped by army personnel
and returned to Sidangoli,85 although perhaps 1,000 Makian IDPs who had crossed
over with them remained in West Malifut waiting for permission to return to their
homes. In June a small group of Kaos killed approximately ten mujahid as they
were bathing in a river in the forest, in Tanjung Barnabas. The Pasukan Jihad once
more retreated westward from Malifut.86 This was the last confrontation between
the two forces in the Kao/Malifut area, the security forces having separated the two
militias during each attempted attack by the Pasukan Jihad. Most of the several
thousand mujahid who had been in Malifut returned to Ternate. It seems likely
that, by early June, the Makian leaders of the Pasukan Jihad had resigned them-
selves to not reaching Kao, and the Makian IDPs had grown tired of the dangers in
the area.
After several failed attempts to militarily defeat the Kaos, Abu Bakar Wahid
attempted to bring hostilities to an end and initiate reconciliation between the
Makians and Kaos, meeting Kao leaders such as Jesaja Singa and Hersen
Tinangon in Malifut in the presence of military personnel. Part of the motivation to
start reconciliation talks was provided by a statement by the district head that the
 Killing in the name of God 163
government would begin returning Makian IDPs to their homes in villages west of
Malifut. Following the attempts at reconciliation by Abu Bakar Wahid, the
Pasukan Jihad began to divide into a faction surrounding Wahid and one
surrounding Muhammad Selang. This schism appears to have occurred for two
reasons. The latter stated that he disagreed with any reconciliation with Christians
on Halmahera until all Muslims could safely return to their homes. Second,
animosity appears to have developed between the two groups over the disappear-
ance of funding. Selang accused Abu Bakar Wahid and other leaders of not
dispersing funding they had received from external sources and from the local
North Maluku community.87
The Pasukan Jihad’s attempts to attack and destroy Kao therefore appear to
have failed largely because of the efforts of army personnel in the area. The mili-
tary present, including external personnel from Brawijaya 512, a company from
the Surabaya-based military command (Kodam), appear to have provided a strong
deterrent to large-scale attacks, although the two militias did clash on several occa-
sions. As will be seen, this professional response did not occur in Galela. The
Pasukan Jihad also appears to have been deterred by the large number of Pasukan
Merah in Kao. The Kao militia had been reinforced by hundreds of Tobelos.88
Throughout these attempts by the Pasukan Jihad to attack Kao, Muslim Kaos
fought alongside Christians against the Muslim militia.

Galela
As discussed in Chapter 5, after the conflict in Galela in December 1999, perhaps
several thousand Christians had remained in the sub-district, mostly in the adjacent
villages of Duma, Dokulamo, Soatobaru and Makete around the western shore of
Lake Duma (See Map 5.2). These communities possessed strong village militia
which prevented Muslims returning to these and neighbouring villages. Another
Christian community remained in Mamuya, restricting any return to villages in the
south of the sub-district, such as Luari. Several thousand Muslims remained in the
sub-district capital, Soasio, and nearby villages such as Igobula, similarly
restricting the movement of Christians through the area and thereby between
Galela and Tobelo. From January to March, the area between Igobula and Duma in
Galela Sub-District was the site of frequent clashes between Muslims and the
Christians. The Christian Duma militia and the Al Istiklama Muslim militia from
Igobula launched frequent tit for tat attacks on the strongholds of the other commu-
nity.89
While Christians in Galela were isolated from the much larger Christian popula-
tion in Tobelo, some Christian militia members attempted to go to Duma to assist
their co-religionists. Small groups of Christian militia members, mostly from the
village of Wari, travelled from the village of Mamuya in the south of Galela
through the mountainous area to Duma.90 This group also travelled to Loloda and
Ibu Sub-Districts to help Christians resist Muslim attacks. On one trip through the
forest around a dozen Christians were ambushed by the Al Istiklama militia from
Igobula and suffered several casualties.91 In January, Christians from Tobelo made
164 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
several more large-scale attempts to reach the Christians in Galela. However, mili-
tary reinforcements (Brawijaya 512) had installed a major roadblock at Pintu Batu
immediately south of Soasio and forcefully repelled the Christian advance. During
one attempt to pass the military guard post, military personnel shot several
members of the Pasukan Merah.92
While the Pasukan Jihad was attempting to attack Kao and return the Malifut
community to their homes, a much larger section of the militia was preparing in
Ternate to travel to Morotai and the sub-districts of Galela and Tobelo. The
majority of this militia consisted of people displaced by the violence in those areas
in late 1999. For example approximately 700 men from the large Tobelo village of
Gorua returned to Galela.93 In Soasio, local Muslim leaders coordinated the arrival
of thousands of Muslim men from Ternate and Tidore, providing accommodation
and food. A local man, Samsul Bakhri, became the leader of the Pasukan Jihad in
Galela. The two remaining pockets of Christians, in Mamuya and around Lake
Duma, were the initial target of the Pasukan Jihad arriving in Soasio. The large
numbers of Muslim men from Tobelo Sub-District who returned to Galela with the
Pasukan Jihad also hoped to attack Tobelo City.94
The first major operation by the Pasukan Jihad in Galela was a simultaneous
attack against the villages of Makete and Soatobaru just after dawn on Sunday 5
March. This attack was repelled by these villages, reinforced by Christians from
Duma, although one person was killed and approximately 15 injured.95 At 4 p.m.
on 25 May the Pasukan Jihad attacked the more isolated Christian village of
Mamuya near the Tobelo border. According to villagers, approximately 3,000
members of the Pasukan Jihad were involved, including many from Morotai.96
The militia attacked Mamuya both from the road from Soasio and from the sea.
Christians in Mamuya were able to repel the attack for approximately three hours
before fleeing along the road south to Tobelo or through the mountains inland from
the village. Twenty-two Christians were killed in the attack, including four
women.97 Estimates of the number of mujahid killed in the attack vary. According
to Mamuya Christians, a large number died in the attack, although a young Tidore
man tasked with collecting the corpses of mujahid during the Pasukan Jihad oper-
ations stated that only eight militia members died and three more were missing
after the clash.98
After the attack on Mamuya, the Pasukan Jihad focused on the village of Duma.
Christians in Duma state that their village was attacked 19 times from the first
conflict in late December to the end of June 2000. Over this period, the communi-
ties of Duma, Makete and Soatobaru faced a great deal of deprivation. Isolated
from Tobelo and afraid to walk to their plantations outside the village, the villagers
had become very short of food. To defend itself against attack, Duma established
well-organized defences surrounding the village, including hundreds of small pits
filled with sharpened stakes. After the arrival of the Pasukan Jihad in Galela, the
village suffered three main attacks. On 19 May approximately 2,000 members of
the Pasukan Jihad attacked Duma. The Christians repelled the attack but around
40 per cent of the houses on one edge of the village were destroyed.
On 29 May the Pasukan Jihad launched another major attack against Duma.
 Killing in the name of God 165
According to both mujahid and Christian witnesses, a torrential downpour began
as the attack started, causing the bombs prepared by the Pasukan Jihad to fail to
explode. The attack was a dramatic failure. Several dozen mujahid died, many
after falling on the stakes surrounding the village, others shot with firearms or
arrows.99 The failure of the attack may also partly be explained by animosity
between local and external members of the Pasukan Jihad. Several local Muslims
stated that for this attack they had demanded that only local Galela Muslims partic-
ipate, as they claimed men from Tidore, Ternate and elsewhere became frightened
during the violence and undermined morale among the local members of the
militia.
At 4 p.m. on 18 June the commander of the military personnel guarding Duma
informed a local Christian leader, Samuel Kukus, that the village would soon face
another major attack and that the Pasukan Jihad had gathered in Makete.100
According to Kukus, the commander reassured him that his unit would prevent the
Pasukan Jihad from reaching the village. Although the Christian militia was
divided between Duma and the neighbouring village of Dokulamo, the Christians
felt the number of military personnel guarding the two villages, along with their
own militia, was sufficient to repel the Pasukan Jihad. After preparing the Chris-
tian militia in Duma, Samuel Kukus inspected the border of the village and discov-
ered the corpses of several mujahid who had already fallen on the stakes placed
around the village. After noting that the military were manning all guard posts
around the village, the Christian militia members rested in anticipation of an attack
the following day.
However, when the Pasukan Jihad launched a massive attack on 19 June, the
military offered no resistance.101 Christian respondents in Duma state that when
the Pasukan Jihad began their attack at approximately 10 a.m., the military aban-
doned their posts on the edge of the village and withdrew behind the Pasukan
Jihad.102 Christians and Muslims offered quite different explanations for the
failure to prevent the attack. These are considered later in the chapter.
Most respondents agree that approximately 10,000 Pasukan Jihad attacked
Duma. Christians fought to prevent them from entering the central part of the
village. Some men remained in their houses, attempting to defend them with
homemade bazookas and other weapons, but after a short period of time the entire
community that remained in the village, over a thousand people, was driven back
towards the large village church. Women and children sheltered inside the church
while men attempted to defend the surrounding grounds with homemade firearms,
spears and bows and arrows. Only one man, Samuel Kukus, possessed an auto-
matic firearm. According to Christians in Duma, three soldiers from a military post
in Bale rowed across the lake to attempt to defend the Christian community, firing
on the attacking mujahid.
After approximately six hours, and with the village almost completely overrun,
the Pasukan Jihad ceased the attack. It seems likely that they halted the attack
because of the arrival of a unit of Indonesian marines from Soasio. The arrival of
these additional troops appears to have motivated the Brawijaya 512 personnel
stationed at Duma to begin to resist the Pasukan Jihad’s attack. The leader of the
166 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
militia gave orders to halt the attack and for the militia to withdraw so that the
Christians could be evacuated. The marines then used trucks to evacuate all Chris-
tians from Duma and Dokulamo to Tobelo on 20 June. The Pasukan Jihad ceased
its attack in part because of the arrival of military reinforcements which were intent
on halting further Christian casualties and in part because its defeat of Duma was
already complete.
Approximately 250 Christians died in the attacks on Duma, most during the
largest and final attack on 19 June. A graveyard now occupies most of the grounds
of the church, which lies in ruins. The entire village of Duma, as with the villages
surrounding it, was destroyed. The Pasukan Jihad ravaged the gardens owned by
the residents of Duma and the surrounding villages, chopping down coconut and
other trees.103 Respondents on each side disagree on the number of mujahid who
died during the conflict in Galela. According to Muhammad Selang, who led the
Pasukan Jihad, approximately 200 mujahid were killed in operations on
Halmahera. Christians who were in Duma estimated the number to be far higher.
One Christian militia leader estimated that perhaps 3,000 mujahid died in attacks
against the villages around Duma. The likely total, not calculated by local govern-
ment or any other agencies, is probably closer to the smaller figure. One imam
from Tidore involved with the Pasukan Jihad died in an attack on Duma.104
Respondents from both sides of the conflict said militia members killed women
and children, including some who had already surrendered, often in front of mili-
tary personnel. Unsurprisingly, members of both communities denied that they, or
others from their group, carried out such actions. Members of the Pasukan Jihad
stated that imams and religious teachers had forbidden the killing of any
non-combatant. However, one mujahid acknowledged that an indeterminate
number of women and children were killed during fighting or accidentally by
bombs. It seems likely, however, given the large number of casualties, including
women and children, that such practices were carried out by both sides. 105
Respondents from both parties to the 2000 conflict in Galela said members of
the opposing militia used narcotics during the violence, both claiming to have
found pills on the corpses of their enemies. These pills had allegedly been stamped
with names such as ‘Mad Dog’. Muslims also recounted that when they cut the
skin of Christian militia members they would bleed very slowly because of the
drug. Christians claimed that Muslims acted exceedingly bravely for approxi-
mately an hour, at which point they would flee, seemingly because the effects of
the narcotic had worn off.106 The veracity of these claims is difficult to establish,
but given the prevalence of amphetamine and other narcotics in pill form
throughout South-east Asia, their use during the violence in North Maluku is
possible.

The violence ends

After the fall of Duma on 19 June, all Christians had been expelled from Galela
Sub-District. Yet Christians remained in Tobelo City and Kao Sub-District,
continuing to prevent the return of Muslims to their homes in those sub-districts, as
 Killing in the name of God 167
well as any return of the Makian community to Malifut. Controlling the main city
on Halmahera, Tobelo, Christians also held the most important infrastructure in
the region in the form of a port, the hospital and warehouses.
Not long after the fall of Duma, the Pasukan Jihad disbanded and most
members returned to Ternate, Tidore and elsewhere. For what reason(s) did the
Pasukan Jihad leadership decide not to attack Tobelo City? Abu Bakar Wahid
asserted that, had he so desired, the Pasukan Jihad could have controlled Tobelo in
one hour, but that the caretaker governor, Surasmin, contacted him and requested
that he halt jihad operations.107 However, there appear to have been several other
factors that informed the decision of the leaders to disband the militia and abandon
their goal of expelling Christians from Tobelo City.
The Pasukan Jihad attack on Duma, the large loss of life involved and the
destruction of the village received a great deal of media coverage in Indonesia.
This attack, renewed violence in Maluku Province and the protracted nature of
both conflicts prompted President Wahid to take stronger security measures in the
region. On 26 June the president announced a state of civil emergency in the two
provinces through Presidential Decision Number 88/2000. Several provincial and
district government officials flew to Tobelo and met with Abu Bakar Wahid and
Benny Bitjara and explained to them the implementation of the civil emergency.
Civil emergency did not greatly increase the troop levels in North Maluku, where
the equivalent of approximately three battalions had already been on Halmahera
during the latter stages of the violence. However, the civil emergency gave secu-
rity personnel increased legal authority to take more forceful action, dispelling any
concerns over charges arising from over-zealous suppression of rioting. A short
amnesty for militia members to hand in weapons was announced, and over the first
week of July the Tobelo, Galela and Kao communities handed in thousands of
homemade firearms, swords, bombs and other items.108 Three naval vessels began
patrolling the northern area of North Maluku, preventing the movement of militia
and the entry of automatic weapons from the southern Philippines. Increased mili-
tary assertiveness may have motivated the Pasukan Jihad leadership to abandon
their planned attack on Tobelo City.
Two days after the government announced the civil emergency a large
passenger ship left Tobelo City carrying Christian IDPs. The Cahaya Bahari was
licensed to carry 500 passengers but on 28 June left Tobelo loaded with perhaps
750 people fleeing the violence in north Halmahera, mostly women, children and
wounded. The vessel sank in heavy seas before reaching Sulawesi, with the loss of
492 lives. According to a Christian missionary who interviewed survivors of this
tragedy in 2000, some Christian respondents stated that they believed the ship had
been deliberately sunk because they had seen a smaller vessel approaching them
just before the ship began to suffer difficulties.109 However, by all accounts the sea
was particularly heavy and it is unlikely any small vessel would have journeyed
into the open seas to sabotage the Cahaya Bahari. As the wooden vessel was
severely overloaded and encountered heavy seas, it seems almost certain that the
sinking was a tragic accident. This incident undoubtedly had an emotional impact
on all members of the North Maluku community, including members of the
168 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Pasukan Jihad. It seems likely that the incident removed a great deal of enthusiasm
for attacking Tobelo.
In addition a major element of the Pasukan Jihad decision not to attack Tobelo
City was the perception that it would be an enormous task. According to
Muhammad Selang, after the fall of Duma almost all members of the Pasukan
Jihad were exhausted. Many had experienced approximately five months in the
field and been involved in several major attacks on Duma, Mamuya and other
villages. Muhammad Selang stated that after Duma, members of the Pasukan
Jihad were so exhausted that he was unwilling to ask them to continue the military
campaign. The village of Duma, a community of several hundred, had resisted
attacks by several thousand Pasukan Jihad for three months. The city of Tobelo,
with a population greatly inflated by Christian IDPs to approximately 35,000,
constituted a far greater challenge. In addition, the Pasukan Jihad’s operations to
destroy Kao and attack Tobelo from the south had failed, meaning that the city
could be attacked only from the north and by sea.
Perhaps more importantly, Tobelo City enjoyed far greater military protection
than villages in Galela. Unlike Duma, which was protected only by several small
Brawijaya military units from outside North Maluku, including personnel who had
little interest in protecting Christians, the northern road into Tobelo City was
guarded by a company of approximately 100 soldiers, many of whom were of local
origin. These local soldiers had a direct interest in preventing the destruction of
Tobelo and the killing of its residents. Their base also abutted the ocean shoreline,
allowing them to monitor the approach of vessels to Tobelo City from the north.
Several mujahid told me that they had come to believe that security personnel near
Tobelo were supporting Christians in the conflict. While resting after the attack on
Mamuya on 25 May, the Pasukan Jihad had come under automatic weapon fire
which they believed was from Christian soldiers. In addition, given their experi-
ence during December, many Muslims from Tobelo believed the local military
company had done little to halt Christian attacks against Muslims. The size of the
military contingent guarding the north side of Tobelo, and this belief that it would
be willing to protect the Christian community, persuaded many Pasukan Jihad
members not to attack Tobelo City.
As the International Crisis Group points out, the violence ceased in North
Maluku while it continued in Maluku, because of a ‘cantonment’ of Christian and
Muslim communities, caused by displacement, rather than any process of reconcil-
iation.110 These cantons were separated by large military contingents to the north of
Tobelo City and in Malifut which had demonstrated the will to prevent attacks. In
early July Muhammad Selang and Abu Bakar Wahid began ordering motor boats
from Ternate to transport militia members from Galela back to Ternate.111 All
mujahid from Ternate, Tidore and elsewhere in the province returned to their
homes. Most IDPs from north Halmahera returned to displacement camps in
Ternate. Even those from Galela, an area no longer under threat from Christian
militia, returned to Ternate, choosing not to return to villages that had been
destroyed during the violence.
 Killing in the name of God 169
Religion and national security forces in religious war

The role of religion

Despite the anger caused by the violence in Tobelo and Galela and the accompa-
nying influx of IDPs, large-scale mobilization of other Muslims would probably
not have occurred in Ternate and Tidore had it not been for the work of several
influential individuals in Ternate and Tidore. There was a great deal of sympathy
among Muslims for the plight of their fellow Muslims from north Halmahera.
Nevertheless, to launch a four-month campaign on Halmahera required coordina-
tion, funding and an ideology to stimulate and sustain participation. The first two
of these have already been addressed in this chapter. The third, the role of religion,
will be addressed here not only with regard to the mobilization of the Muslim
militia, but also the motivations driving Christians in defending their homes on
Halmahera.
Undoubtedly, those Muslims from Ternate, Tidore and elsewhere not directly
affected by the carnage on Halmahera were greatly motivated by anger at what had
happened to their co-religionists. The atrocities committed, particularly during the
attacks on Gorua and Togoliua, stimulated a great deal of solidarity among
Muslims in Ternate, Tidore and elsewhere, temporarily eradicating the political
rivalry that had caused the Putih–Kuning clashes. In addition, in early 2000, Chris-
tians still posed a direct threat to the several thousand Muslims remaining in and
around Soasio. These circumstances appeared to legitimate calls for a holy war
against Christians on north Halmahera under the principle of jihad, a fact that facil-
itated large-scale mobilization in Ternate, Tidore and elsewhere.112
The fact that Christian or Muslim men were fighting and dying for their reli-
gious community and for God/Allah meant they were afforded a great amount of
respect by their religious community. Religious devotion and participation
increased substantially during the conflict. Christians attended church in Tobelo
and other areas of north Halmahera far more regularly during the violence than
they did prior to the conflict.113 Involvement in the Pasukan Jihad necessitated
more regular prayer than most young men were accustomed to. The importance of
sacred space and buildings increased for local communities and this lengthened the
violence in some cases. The decision to remain in Duma and protect the local
church was taken because of the village’s status as the site of the first Protestant
mission on Halmahera.
Religious identity also influenced the form of mobilization of both communi-
ties, with religious ceremonies, symbolism and clothing playing a major role in
each. The strongly Islamic character of the Pasukan Jihad, and in particular the
framing of the campaign in the terms of jihad, helped unite Muslims from different
ethnicities who had until that time been pitted against one another. This effect, of
increasing religious solidarity and undermining internal division, may have been
the primary function of jihad in this phase of the conflict. Religious ideology and
solidarity facilitated the mobilization of a far wider group of Muslims than would
otherwise have been the case.
170 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
However, several factors suggest that it is important not to overstate the role of
religion in the mobilization of Muslim and Christian militias and in the violence
involved in this phase of the conflict. The goals of both sides to the conflict were
far more strategic and physical than religious. The objective of those involved in
the Pasukan Jihad was to eliminate the threat posed by Christians in their home
areas, and facilitate the return of Muslims to their homes. Their actions were not
driven just by hatred of Christians or a desire to eliminate Christianity from North
Maluku. For Christians, too, religion cannot be considered a primary motivating
factor. Christians resisted the attacks by the Pasukan Jihad because of a desire to
protect their territory, homes and families.
One way of assessing the influence religion had on the participants in this last
phase of the conflict is to consider whether the responses of Muslims in Ternate
and elsewhere would have been different if their adversaries had been Muslims of
a different ethnic group. Likewise, would Christians in north Halmahera have
reacted differently had they been under threat from other Christians? A partial
answer to this question is provided by the violence described in the previous
chapter. The Putih–Kuning conflict was fought by two almost exclusively Muslim
political factions. As in those clashes, it seems likely that in the last phase of the
conflict those Muslims from Halmahera would have sought the military defeat of
any group that had driven them from their homes and was preventing their return.
Likewise, Christians would have defended their homes against attackers of any
religion.
On both sides of the conflict, it was lay people rather than religious officials who
most strongly espoused and utilized religious symbolism to mobilize community
militia. In the Muslim community, it was leaders such as Abu Bakar Wahid, Abdul
Gane Kasuba, Albi Shamat and Wahda Zainal Imam who legitimated the forma-
tion of a militia and the campaign against Christian villages on Halmahera in terms
of jihad, and declared themselves the leaders of the Islamic Defenders Front (FPI)
in North Maluku. Indeed, one mujahid suggested that there was some coercion of
imams to support the jihad.114
Protestant pastors were more inclined to use religious symbolism in mobilizing
people for violence than their Muslim counterparts, perhaps because of the more
threatened position of the Christian community compared to Muslims.115 As the
Pasukan Merah faced the Pasukan Jihad in Kao, Pastor Soselissa stood on the roof
of a motor vehicle singing ‘Onward, Christian Soldiers’, the metaphorical nature
of the hymn undoubtedly lost on militia members. However, as in the Muslim
community, it was primarily militant community leaders such as Benny Bitjara
who used Christian symbolism as a means of mobilizing community members.
Benny Bitjara had no religious training and his religious devotion was more
communal than spiritual. His high status in the community meant that no one ques-
tioned his assumption of a religious role or his use of religious doctrine.
Similarly, it was secular community leaders in Duma who decided that the
community should remain in the village and oppose attacks from Muslims and not
withdraw to the safety of Tobelo.116 The Christian community in Galela considered
Duma, where the Dutch Reformed Church was first established locally, to be the
 Killing in the name of God 171
historical and spiritual centre of Protestantism on Halmahera and therefore
decided to defend their village and church. However, the pastor in Duma came
from outside Galela and it was local community leaders such as Theo Sosebeko
and Josafat Etha who made the decision to stay.
Even within the Protestant Church, leading pastors took different positions on
the conflict depending on their personal perceptions and interpretations of the situ-
ation. Several prominent pastors opposed the violence, including the chairman and
deputy chairman of GMIH, Pastors Aesh and Duan. As discussed in Chapter 5,
Pastor Aesh refused church legitimacy to Benny Bitjara to attack Muslim commu-
nities on Halmahera in November 1999. These pastors faced intimidation and
threats of murder from more militant Christians, including other GMIH pastors.
The two pastors, having left Halmahera in December 1999 to seek assistance from
the government in Jakarta, were unable to return to Halmahera until after the
conflict. Other pastors took a very active role in legitimating and leading militia
activity.
Therefore even in this last, most clearly religious phase of the conflict, religion
influenced different actors to varying degrees and always acted in conjunction
with other motives, such as a desire for revenge, to return to one’s home, a sense of
empowerment from being part of such a large group or a quest to obtain status
within society. The greatest impetus for Muslim attacks against Galela and Kao
was retaliation against Christians for previous violence. For Christians the primary
motivation was to defend their homes and families, although religion also
provided an additional inspiration. Similarities can be drawn between the Pasukan
Jihad and the anti-communist violence in Indonesia in 1965 and 1966, during
which some Muslims called for jihad. As Robert Cribb concluded, despite such
calls ‘even for radical Muslims, however, the purpose of the killings was relatively
limited’.117

The security forces

A further question arising from this phase of the conflict concerns the role of the
security forces. Why did the military and police stationed in Ternate and Tidore
not prevent the Pasukan Jihad from departing for Halmahera? While Abu Bakar
Wahid stated that military units stationed on Tidore chose not to prevent the mili-
tia’s departure from the port at Rum because they agreed with his claimed goal of
opposing RMS separatists, it seems likely that the military merely used this claim
as a convenient excuse. The large numbers of Pasukan Jihad members, perhaps
10,000 on Tidore and Ternate, no doubt deterred the military from taking strong
action that would have led to violence. Many military commanders and personnel
also undoubtedly sympathized with the goal of avenging the (apparently unpro-
voked) attacks on Muslims in Tobelo and elsewhere. In addition, the political
faction of North Maluku politics that had gained the upper hand in the
Putih–Kuning conflict now supported the Pasukan Jihad. It seems likely that mili-
tary commanders would not have risked firing upon the Pasukan Jihad for fear of
political repercussions.
172 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
As has been shown in this chapter, the security personnel stationed in the
Malifut area were far more effective at preventing violence between the Pasukan
Jihad and local Christians than those in Galela. The same army battalions,
Brawijaya 511 and 512, provided the majority of personnel in both areas. All units
were responsible to the same provincial military commander in Ternate, Lt Col.
Sutrisno. From January to June, similar troop numbers were also present in each
area. Between 120 and 200 soldiers and smaller numbers of police were located in
both areas throughout this period, although at most times slightly more were
present in Malifut. Why was the performance of the security personnel in Malifut
and Galela so different?
The area between Sidangoli and Kao was certainly easier to secure than Galela.
There is just one road from Sidangoli north-east to Malifut and Kao, which made it
easier for small numbers of security personnel to halt and turn back advances by
the Pasukan Jihad. The coast of Malifut is also located on the east side of
Halmahera, preventing any easy sea access from Ternate. In contrast, the main
Christian villages in Galela are located in a ring around Lake Duma and can be
approached by at least three routes (along the southern and northern edges of the
lake and from the coastal area in northern Galela – see Map 5.2). Nevertheless, as
has been shown throughout this chapter, personnel were in positions to act force-
fully against attacks on Christian villages in Galela, but they chose not to do so. It
appears that the difference between the responses of the security personnel in the
two areas was a matter of motivation rather than tactical considerations.
One major factor in the differing responses in the two areas was the presence of
the gold mine located at Gosowong in Malifut. There are several ways in which the
presence of the gold mine influenced the performance of the security personnel.
The mine provided a great deal of logistical support for the security personnel
stationed in the area, including trucks for patrolling the road between Sidangoli
and Kao and helicopters for the transportation of troops and surveillance of mili-
tias in the area. It is also likely that NHM provided funding directly to the security
personnel to prevent any further conflict in the area. The presence of the mine also
appears to have created greater political will in Ternate to prevent major disrup-
tions to mining operations. Up to 140 personnel guarded the mine infrastructure,
including the port at Tanjung Barnabas, the airport near Kao and most notably the
front gate of the mine itself. The Australian mining staff were in constant contact
with the district head, governor and military commander in Ternate requesting that
adequate security measures were taken in the area. The priority given by the
government and military hierarchy to securing Malifut was demonstrated when
140 personnel were transported from Galela to Kao when tension developed
between Christian and Muslim Kaos in early 2000.118
While the above factors explain why the security forces responded efficiently to
the threat of violence in Malifut, they do not explain why they allowed attacks
against civilian populations in other locations, most notably Galela. Military and
police personnel charged with defending communities in Galela failed on
numerous occasions. In early 2000, the security forces played a role in preventing
fighting between Duma and Igobula. However, as the Pasukan Jihad amassed in
 Killing in the name of God 173
large numbers in the sub-district, the performance of the security personnel
declined. Despite knowing that the Pasukan Jihad was gathering in its thousands
first in Soasio and then in Makete, the security forces in the area did nothing to
request they withdraw, in contrast to their demands in Dum Dum and other areas
near Malifut. The main sub-district army and police contingents based in Soasio
neither hindered the build up of the militia in the capital nor reinforced units
around Lake Duma once the militia had moved there. When attacks did occur,
army personnel quickly capitulated or withdrew from their posts. As discussed
above, the military personnel based in the guard posts surrounding Duma did little
to prevent attacks by the Pasukan Jihad against Duma, particularly during the
major attack on 19 June.
Some Christians claim that military personnel assisted attacks against their
communities and otherwise treated Christians poorly during the conflict. Respon-
dents from all Christian villages in Galela claimed TNI soldiers fired upon them as
they attempted to resist the mujahid. Christian witnesses state that the military
often assisted the Pasukan Jihad and a large number of Christians said they were
shot by military personnel, in some cases being able to name the officer who shot
them. According to one man, different military posts took different approaches to
the violence. He claimed that while the military post in Bale acted neutrally, the
post in Ngidiho supported only Muslims, and fired upon Christians while allowing
the Pasukan Jihad to pass through the village unhindered.119 In April, even before
the Pasukan Jihad attacks in Galela, Benny Bitjara and other Christian leaders in
Tobelo and Kao declared that the Pasukan Merah would oppose the entry of any
non-local military units into the two sub-districts because of the lack of neutrality
on the part of military personnel.120 Pasukan Jihad leaders and personnel deny
soldiers assisted in their attacks, however. According to Muhammad Selang, while
some militia members wore military clothing they were not military personnel.121
What seems clear is that military and police units often did little to stop attacks
by the Pasukan Jihad against Christian villages in Galela. Christian and Muslim
respondents suggested diverging explanations for the failure of security personnel
in Galela to prevent violence or assisting attacks. Some members of the Pasukan
Jihad stated that the military personnel had little option but to allow them to attack
Duma. One man claimed that if soldiers had fired upon the mujahid they would
have been attacked by the militia, which was itself armed and far larger than most
military units facing it.122 Another claimed that on the morning of 19 June most
military personnel guarding Duma were resting after being awake on guard all
night. During attacks on other Christian villages such as Mamuya and Makete, it is
possible that the army guard posts with a contingent of perhaps 12 men were insuf-
ficient to resist the attack of, in some cases, several thousand militia members.
Christians believed the military personnel intentionally allowed the Pasukan
Jihad to attack for different reasons. The most common belief was that because
they were Muslims most military personnel sympathized with the Pasukan Jihad
and wanted to see the Christians defeated. Christians also claim that the Pasukan
Jihad sometimes paid military units not to resist their attacks. Several Christians
stated that military personnel would allow the Pasukan Jihad to expel Christians
174 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
from a village and then extract any valuable items themselves before allowing the
militia to destroy the houses. While some of these claims are difficult to verify,
economic incentives certainly appear to have influenced undisciplined or provoca-
tive behaviour by military personnel throughout the conflict. Military personnel
appear to have exploited the violence in north Halmahera for profit at the expense
of both Muslim and Christian civilians, as the following case suggests.
Despite the violence in Malifut in August and October and in Tobelo in
December, several communities of Javanese transmigrants had remained in their
homes in the sub-district. The majority of these communities were in west and
north Kao Sub-District, while one other community was located near the village of
Togoliua in Tobelo. While some of these transmigrants were Christian, the
majority were Muslim. Despite religious violence in the sub-district, these
communities remained in their homes throughout 1999 and early 2000, because of
assurances by leaders of the Christian militia (the Pasukan Merah) that the conflict
was not religious in character and they would not be harmed.
One of these transmigration settlements is located at Waringinlamo, approxi-
mately 20 km north-west of Kao village. Most of the village’s inhabitants were
moved from East Java in 1983, and had established adequate livelihoods as
farmers and developed good relations with both the Kaos and Makians in the area.
After the Kaos’ destruction of Malifut in late October, and rising religious tension
following anti-Christian rioting in Tidore and Ternate, concerns among Javanese
Muslims in Waringinlamo were assuaged by messages from Benny Bitjara and
other leaders of the Pasukan Merah that, as Javanese, they were not involved in the
conflict and were welcome to remain on Halmahera. However, this sense of rela-
tive security changed after Indonesian military personnel from Brawijaya 512
arrived to guard Waringinlamo in January 2000. According to several residents,
the military personnel warned Muslim villagers that they faced an impending
attack from the Pasukan Merah and were required to leave the area and return to
Java. While some Muslim villagers agreed with the need to evacuate the island,
others refused to leave citing the assurances of the leaders of the Pasukan Merah.
In addition, they argued, they no longer had homes or livelihoods to return to in
Java. Military personnel forcefully evicted those villagers that refused to leave,
assaulting several men and firing bullets into gas canisters necessary for
cooking.123
While it is possible the military personnel, not knowing the local situation well,
considered that the village was under grave threat from Christian militia, there also
appears to have been a financial incentive for the eviction of the Javanese. The
military unit used trucks to transport the villagers to Sidangoli on the western side
of Halmahera. Each individual was forced to pay 50,000 rupiah (approximately
US$5) for this trip plus an additional 15,000 rupiah for the speedboat journey to
Ternate, from where they were evacuated to Java. This was a substantial amount
for small-scale rural farmers, particularly for a large family. In order to meet this
cost, and because they could not take livestock, appliances and other belongings
with them, villagers were forced to sell these to military personnel. The soldiers
bought the items at much reduced prices and subsequently transported some items
 Killing in the name of God 175
off Halmahera and sold others to Christians in north Halmahera, including IDPs
from violence elsewhere.124
It therefore appears likely that there were three main reasons for the lack of
action or partiality of the security forces in Galela: religious sympathy among
Muslim soldiers for the Pasukan Jihad; a concern for their own safety; and finan-
cial exploitation of the conflict. In some cases, the response of security personnel
in Galela and Kao varied not just from area to area but from guard post to guard
post. The level of response was contingent on the surrounding circumstances and
the personnel involved in any particular situation. The response would often
depend on intelligence about impending attacks received by unit commanders, the
degree of contact between commanders and the Pasukan Jihad before attacks and
the motivations of individual soldiers.

Conclusion
The Pasukan Jihad was created as a direct result of the intense violence that
occurred in Tobelo and Galela in late December 1999. The events in Tobelo in
particular stimulated widespread anger, and the leaders of the Pasukan Putih
declared that Muslims must wage jihad to defeat the Christians who they claimed
were attempting to expel all Muslims from north Halmahera. The presence of the
existing militia, the Pasukan Putih, made organization relatively simple. Yet
recruitment, training and the collection of adequate funding for transport and other
costs took several months to complete. In addition, religious ideology was neces-
sary to facilitate widespread recruitment of Muslims not directly affected by the
violence. Religious and community leaders deliberately reiterated the principles of
jihad, including an obligation to protect Muslims under attack from non-Muslims.
However, while leaders framed their campaign within the principles of jihad,
the militia did not espouse broader Islamic goals such as the implementation of
Islamic law (sharia). The militia’s main leader also proclaimed that his primary
goal was to defend the integrity of the Indonesian state from separatists. In addi-
tion, for many participants in the militia religious ideology merely provided
symbolism and ideological certitude for their campaign to achieve more worldly
goals. Many, if not most, of the mujahid came from Tobelo, Galela and Malifut
and first and foremost sought retribution for their expulsion by Christians. Partly
because of this local nature of the conflict, but also because Muslims enjoyed such
numerical superiority in North Maluku, the Pasukan Jihad declined the offer of
help from more extreme and militant external Muslim organizations, such as the
Laskar Jihad.
Religion interacted with strategic goals for Christians in north Halmahera in the
same way. The religious element of the conflict added to the strength of emotions
of those defending their homes and families. Many believed they were struggling
for the very existence of Christianity on Halmahera. This sentiment pervaded the
entire community of Tobelo and Galela, facilitating the mobilization of militias
and convincing the Christians of Duma, Soatobaru and nearby villages to stay and
defend themselves. Within this turmoil, many young men who were willing to risk
176 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
their lives to defend their religion attained a status they would otherwise never
enjoy. Despite the influence and visibility of religion in the mobilization of the
militia and ensuing violence, the case demonstrates that some apparently religious
militias are at heart formed as a reaction to specific socio-political contexts rather
than in response to calls for jihad or other transnational ideologies.
The Pasukan Jihad launched two main campaigns on Halmahera. The earliest,
against the community of Kao, was designed to avenge the destruction of Malifut
and return the thousands of Makian IDPs to their homes. The campaign failed
largely because the security forces in the area were effective in preventing clashes.
The professional and forceful response of the military and police was due to the
presence of a gold mine in the area which was extremely valuable to the fledgling
provincial economy.
The second and larger campaign against several Christian village strongholds in
Galela was far more successful. The militia destroyed several of these villages that
were preventing the return of Muslim IDPs to the sub-district. In the absence of
any incentive to prevent the attacks, the security forces did little to protect these
villages, instead concentrating on protecting the Muslim-dominated sub-district
capital, Soasio. The Pasukan Jihad halted operations on Halmahera, giving up the
goal of defeating Christians in the city of Tobelo, for two major reasons. First, the
conquest of that city posed too big a challenge, particularly after attacks against
Kao to the south had failed, meaning that Tobelo could not be attacked from both
north and south. Second, the implementation of a state of civil emergency trig-
gered a more serious attempt by security forces to prevent violence. By July 2000
most North Malukans were finally free from the threat of violence that had
tormented their region for almost a year.
Conclusion

Introduction
On a day when most Indonesians were still celebrating the national Day of Inde-
pendence, two ethnic communities began fighting in the area of Malifut. Two
months later, an entire sub-district lay in ruins, its population displaced. By the end
of the year, political and religious tensions reached their apogee as thousands of
militia members fought in different areas of the province. For the next six months
North Maluku was paralyzed, the security forces abandoning entire swathes of the
archipelago to the violent campaigns of religious militias.
The horror of nearly one year of violence came to an end in July 2000. The
conflict had left over 3,000 dead, and innumerable people maimed and trauma-
tized. Photographs which are too graphic to display in this book show bodies
disembowelled, decapitated and burned. Much of the new province, particularly
the largest island of Halmahera, lay in ruins. The relationship between Christians
and Muslims in the region, long characterized by harmony and cooperation, was
now dominated by suspicion and hatred.
This study has been an attempt to understand such terrible violence. The
preceding chapters have provided a comprehensive account of the initiation and
trajectory of the conflict in North Maluku, and uncovered the range of structural
forces and human agency involved. Each chapter focused on a major development
within the conflict. After summarizing the background to the violence, this chapter
reviews the findings of this study regarding each phase: initiation, escalation,
dispersion, political exploitation and eventual religious war. In addition, addi-
tional consideration is given to the question of opportunity – how was violence
allowed to occur in a country then facing many problems but far from being a
failing state? A second section demonstrates the mutually reinforcing nature of
structure, elite and mass agency, interest, emotion and identity in the conflict. By
way of special illustration the section discusses the role of religion in the violence.
The chapter ends by assessing the implications of this study for the methodological
approach to the study of inter-communal conflict.
178 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
From harmony to bloodshed: the North Maluku conflict

A nation and region in turmoil

Centuries of trade and colonialism left North Malukan society with two faiths,
Islam and Protestant Christianity. Despite their religious differences, the two
communities had lived peacefully side by side for centuries. This stability
continued throughout the New Order period of President Suharto, not based on
fear of the harsh security measures occasionally employed in Indonesia during that
era, but on cultural ties and a desire among the local population for development
rather than confrontation.
But in 1999 change hit hard in the region. While the economic crisis did not
greatly affect North Maluku, the sudden collapse of national political structures
that had been in place for a generation led to dramatic political change. It is clearly
no coincidence that the conflict occurred during Indonesia’s transition from
authoritarianism to democracy. Mostly peaceful before and after this period,
between 1998 and 2001 the nation experienced several other large-scale and
violent inter-communal conflicts, along with an upsurge of vertical conflict in
Aceh and Papua, as well as secession in East Timor. Several studies have
accounted for the seemingly close connection between democratization and civil
conflict. As Snyder and others have demonstrated, conflict can often result when
new opportunities, freedoms and threats come up against long-standing nepotism,
patronage and other non-democratic practices.1
In North Maluku, democratization opened up political competition for the first
time in decades. The eruption of severe religious violence in Ambon caused
moderate concerns and animosities in the north of the province. Many North
Malukans based in the provincial capital moved back to their homes relating
terrible stories of the carnage in Ambon. The impending devolution of political
and financial authority to the regions, along with North Maluku’s establishment as
a separate province, created opportunities for political and economic gain, particu-
larly among members of the elite. Politicians and bureaucrats spent much of 1999
repositioning themselves to assume power in the new province and its constituent
districts. As the region moved towards provincial status, rivalry emerged between
several political factions, each broadly associated with a different ethnic group and
region. Two issues in particular caused tension between these factions: the loca-
tion of the provincial capital and, more importantly, the question of who would
become the province’s first governor. Each had major implications for
employment and business in the region.
Political and economic agendas were therefore fundamental to the rising tension
in the region before the conflict. None the less, this elite-level competition did not
provide the spark that ignited conflict. The genesis of the initial violence can be
traced to how this competition translated into social change at the local level. As in
many political transitions, members of the elite in North Maluku sought to further
the interests of their own ethnic communities and patronage networks. Violence
was born out of the attempt by Makians in the political elite in Ternate to resolve a
 Conclusion 179
long-standing grievance among members of their ethnic group by providing the
Makian community in Malifut with their own autonomous sub-district.

Initiation
Decades of peaceful, if not altogether friendly relations between the migrant
Makians and indigenous Kaos suddenly became confrontational with the
announcement that a new sub-district would be formed in Malifut. While it would
incorporate several Kao villages, the sub-district was clearly designed to serve the
interests of the local Makian community. The new sub-district would not only
increase the territory allocated to the Makians under the terms of their original
relocation, but would formally end the uncertainty associated with continuing Kao
claims to the area. The location of the Gosowong gold mine within the new
sub-district would also mean the Makian community would monopolize employ-
ment and other benefits associated with that resource. As an autonomous
sub-district, Malifut also suddenly became a viable option to serve as a capital of
one of the new districts that would make up the new North Maluku province. This
eventuality would provide a major financial windfall to the community under new
decentralization laws that were to come into effect in January 2001.
The Kaos refused to accept the new sub-district for several reasons. They were
concerned at the loss of the gold mine, believed the sub-district and its boundaries
infringed their traditional land rights and communal integrity and were angered at
the lack of consultation prior to the government decision. All of these factors inter-
acted to give their objections an emotive character. But the Makian community and
government officials, many of whom were Makians, paid little heed to their
concerns.
Long-standing political structures associated with the previous authoritarian
order therefore exacerbated this dispute. When, through the ethnic nepotism that
had become prevalent in local government in New Order Indonesia, one commu-
nity was seen to monopolize the impending benefits of democratization and finan-
cial decentralization, the volatility of local politics increased markedly. Makians in
the North Maluku District government and bureaucracy used their dominant repre-
sentation in those institutions to bypass the Kaos in a decision that directly and
profoundly affected them. After almost two months of attempting to gain legal
recourse against the Makians for the destruction of their two villages in August, the
Kaos resorted to violent action. The status and leadership of local militia leaders
was crucial in this decision and its implementation.
The imbalance in political influence between the two communities also embold-
ened some Makians to take a more ‘non-institutionalized’ and aggressive stance
towards the Kaos in Malifut. With the sub-district already recognized by the
central government in Jakarta, Makians in Malifut and Ternate ignored the Kaos’
objections and mobilized a group of students to pressure them into acceptance.
After sustained Kao opposition, and increasing belligerence on the part of
members of both communities, Makians from Malifut, led by these students from
outside Malifut, attacked and destroyed two Kao villages.
180 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
Had the North Maluku District government responded impartially to this first
incident, it is likely the conflict would have ended at this point. However, the
Kaos’ demands for compensation received little response, again owing largely to
the influence of the Makians in the district government and bureaucracy. Bias
within government also meant that, suffering from a lack of political representa-
tion, the Kaos were more likely to engage in ‘non-institutionalized’ strategies.
Their most immediate motivation was anger at the destruction of the two Kao
villages. They were also angered and frustrated by the government’s lack of impar-
tiality, as well as their own lack of success in overturning the creation of the
sub-district through institutionalized processes. These factors exacerbated their
already strong sense of grievance over what they saw as the violation of their tradi-
tional ownership of Malifut, and by extension their legitimate claim to some
benefit from the gold mine at Gosowong. Thus disempowered, those Kaos calling
for more retributive action assumed greater influence and, in October, some 5,000
Kaos attacked and destroyed the new sub-district.
This analysis demonstrates that structures of political and economic inequality
between two communities can play an underlying role in the outbreak of
communal violence, as asserted by Horowitz and others. In this case, the issue of
territory went to the heart of the unequal relationship between the Kaos and the
Makians. During the previous two decades, the Kaos had been disempowered rela-
tive to the Makians in all but their indigenous rights over the territory in and around
Malifut. While land was very important to the well-being and identity of the Kaos,
it was the additional importance of that land in their relative position to the Makian
that explains the intensity of Kao opposition. Put differently, ownership of terri-
tory was their only source of relative superiority and pride over the Makian. In line
with Horowitz’s conclusions drawn from his wide-ranging study of ethnic
violence, the Kaos were reluctant to relinquish what little power they did hold rela-
tive to their more ‘advanced’ neighbours.2
Yet, demonstrating the multifaceted links between inequality and violence, in
this case it was the more empowered and economically successful group which
initiated violence. When attacking Sosol and Wangeotak, the Makians were to
some extent acting out of a sense of disenfranchisement, a lack of legitimate rights
to the land on which they had lived for two decades. But in all other respects the
Makians were relatively powerful. Chapter 3 demonstrated that it was their
perceived greater power vis-à-vis the Kaos, in particular their sense of immunity
from prosecution arising from high-level political support, that to a large extent
explained the violence.
Analysis of the Malifut case also sounds a note of caution about placing too
much importance on economic factors as the primary cause of violent conflict. A
cursory examination of the conflagration in Malifut may suggest that the violence
stemmed wholly or primarily from competition for the benefits of the mine in
Gosowong. Both communities in the dispute had a material interest in this lucra-
tive resource in the form of employment and funding for the community. Yet the
emotional character of the dispute, and therefore the resort to violence, cannot be
explained by reference to these interests alone. A confluence of disputed territorial
 Conclusion 181
and mineral rights, threats to ethnic unity and government bias explains the
emotive character of the confrontation and the decision to use violence.

Escalation
The Kaos’ attack on and destruction of Malifut displaced thousands of Makians,
who fled to Ternate. These events, and the plight of the refugees, angered many
Makians in Ternate and several Makian leaders quickly focused on retaliating
against the few Kaos residing in Ternate. At the same time, Makians, both from
Malifut and elsewhere, all of whom were Muslims, tried to portray the attack by
the mainly Christian Kaos as religiously motivated, alleging that mosques were
destroyed and the Qur’an desecrated. There was little evidence to support these
assertions and they appear to have been a means of soliciting sympathy and
support from Muslims of other ethnicities. However, most other ethnic groups,
including Muslims, continued to see the clash in Malifut as a local dispute over
territory and natural resources, and few sympathized with the Makians’ plans to
seek retribution. Few non-Makian Muslims joined their demonstrations or their
attempt to depart for Halmahera. This lack of support allowed the security forces to
prevent the Makians both from leaving Ternate and from rioting in the city.
In response to the influx of refugees and a rising number of disturbances, the
Sultan of Ternate sent his traditional guards, the Pasukan Kuning, on to the streets
equipped with spears and machetes. Although the sultan declared that this decision
was necessary to protect the infrastructure of the city and the lives of Christian
residents, the sudden appearance of a paramilitary presence on the streets, loyal
only to the sultan, worried his political opponents. To them, the sultan appeared to
be assuming control of the city as a deliberate strategy in the run-up to gubernato-
rial elections the following year, augmenting his already dominant political posi-
tion. In this way, political considerations became entwined with the looming
ethnic and religious tension in the province. Those Makians trying to provoke
anti-Christian rioting formed an alliance with several other political rivals of the
sultan’s who hoped to undermine his growing dominance. Together these individ-
uals pressured the district police commander to release a group of Makians
arrested for attacking a Christian church.
In the following days, several Makian leaders stepped up their campaign to
portray the Kaos’ attack as religiously motivated. The main element of this
campaign was the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter that was authored in, and disseminated
from, Ternate in the final days of October and purportedly proved the existence of
a Christian conspiracy to drive Muslims from Halmahera. Several days after the
circulation of this letter, rioting broke out on Tidore and soon spread to Ternate.
Mobs attacked and killed Christians and destroyed their homes, shops and
churches. This was the first rioting explicitly based on religion.
Chapter 4 examined why Christians became the target of this violence despite
the Malifut dispute having had little connection to religious differences. In addi-
tion, the chapter analyzed why it was possible for violence to break out in the
provincial capital, where the hundreds of armed security personnel present should
182 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
have been able to halt the rioting mobs, who possessed no automatic weapons. The
events in Tidore and Ternate added inter-religious tension to the greater conflict
and caused violence to spread across the province. The analysis of these events
therefore presents an example of how a small dispute between ethnic communities
can escalate into religious war.
Many studies of communal rioting conclude that particular cases of ethnic or
religious rioting are spontaneous eruptions of outrage at the barbaric stories found
in rumours and other forms of propaganda.3 These rumours often take on a form of
agency themselves, largely denuding the actors involved of any responsibility.
Most studies of the events in Tidore and Ternate concur with this understanding of
riots, seeing them as an eruption of Muslim anger at the contents of the ‘Bloody
Sosol’ letter.4 However, Chapter 4 demonstrated that it is important not to over-
state the role of rumours and propaganda in instigating communal violence. Even
in cases where propaganda appears to have ignited violence, close investigation
may reveal greater intent and less suggestibility on the part of those involved. In
such cases, rumours and propaganda are designed principally to make rioting that
has been meticulously planned appear spontaneous, and should not be considered
a cause of rioting themselves.
In the attacks in Ternate and Tidore, almost all those participating in the initial
violence were Makians, angered at the events in Malifut. These people sought to
riot against Christians even in the absence of the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter. They
targeted Christians in general, and not just Kaos, because they believed that GMIH
must have been involved in organizing the Kaos’ attack and because they had been
prevented from departing for Halmahera. Once Makians had initiated violence in
Tidore, the conflict accelerated as individuals from other ethnic groups began to
participate. Some did so in order to loot properties, others perhaps merely for the
thrill of engaging in violence and destruction. The sight of burning churches and
houses also convinced some Muslims that the conflict was indeed about religion.
Most ‘late arrivals’ had also identified a high level of political support that would
obviate any punishment.
If the rioting in the provincial capital cannot be explained purely as the sponta-
neous response of outraged Muslims, some other change must have occurred in the
capital after late October, when the security forces prevented the crowds of
Makians from burning churches and leaving for Halmahera. Chapter 4 illustrated
that the difference between the situation in October and that in November was the
almost complete retreat of the security forces from the city’s streets. This was facil-
itated by an alliance of influential figures forged by Malifut’s destruction and the
sultan’s increasing dominance of the city. Those seeking to retaliate against Chris-
tians in the city allied with politicians whose main goal was to undermine the
sultan. The resulting political pressure on, and immobilization of, the security
forces was a more important contributor to the riots than the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter
and other propaganda. This allowed those Makians seeking to take out their anger
on Christians to do so with impunity. The sultan’s rivals saw political benefit in
these riots because, as a traditional protector of minorities in the region and reliant
on Christian support in his gubernatorial ambitions, the sultan was forced to
 Conclusion 183
defend Christians during the rioting. This protection of Christians then became a
main source of mobilization for his political rivals as they sought his demise in late
December.
It was therefore the violence itself, particularly the killing of a pastor and the
destruction of churches, facilitated by elites seeking to obtain political advantage
from sectarian tension and not the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter that acted as the catalyst
for real religious violence. These acts, and the political Machiavellianism behind
them, explain the escalation from local border dispute into provincial religious
conflict. These riots ultimately brought the two faiths in the region into bloody
confrontation.

Dispersion
After the anti-Christian rioting in Tidore and Ternate, violence spread to almost
every area of North Maluku.5 Ethnic groups divided along religious lines in areas
across Halmahera, Bacan, Morotai and other islands. In some cases, members of
the same family fought against each other. Chapter 5 analyzed how violence
spread throughout the region by examining in detail the cases of Tobelo and Galela
Sub-Districts in north Halmahera.
The killing of a pastor and the targeting of defenceless Christians in Tidore and
Ternate dramatically changed the nature of the conflict throughout the region. The
nature of the violence there led people elsewhere in the province to believe the
region was now in the grip of religious conflict between Muslims and Christians.
Christians were infuriated at the events in the two district capitals and angered and
concerned that the security forces had not intervened to halt the riots. Both
Muslims and Christians were increasingly afraid that their neighbours would
attack them. Tobelo, as the main Christian centre in North Maluku, was addition-
ally affected by the influx of thousands of Christian refugees from Ternate and
rural areas in Central Halmahera.
A spiral of insecurity ensued in Tobelo and Galela. Both sides prepared
weapons and bombs and assumed a more belligerent demeanour towards followers
of the other religion. Heightened tensions gave militant members of each commu-
nity increased status, while at the same time any individuals or groups seeking to
reconcile the two communities were marginalized and intimidated. The nature of
the violence elsewhere meant that many individuals emphasized their religious
identity and solidarity in a militant fashion. This ‘security dilemma’ led almost
inexorably towards violence in the area.
But security dilemmas do not in themselves cause communal violence. Certain
interests and actions played crucial roles in converting this atmosphere of tension
into violence. Perhaps because of the increased status that the confrontational situ-
ation afforded them, or for more material reasons (such as protection money),
certain individuals deliberately attempted to intimidate and provoke members of
the opposing community. For example, the brother of Benny Bitjara attempted on
one occasion to instigate fighting in Tobelo City. The decision by unknown
Muslim leaders to commission the tailoring of white robes, presumably as a means
184 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
to demonstrate the solidarity and strength of local Muslims, exacerbated tension in
the city. Other actions that were merely ill advised, such as the transportation of
Christian men into the city to guard the GMIH compound, also led to the outbreak
on 26 December.
In the case of Tobelo, the security dilemma was in part facilitated by incompe-
tence and a fear of exacerbating the situation on the part of the security forces. The
police and military rarely took action against individuals clearly acting as provoca-
teurs. Many were local personnel and felt pressure not to act against their own
community. Had the security forces acted more forcefully it seems likely that
violence might have been averted. Their visible presence on the streets would have
assuaged the insecurity felt among the ordinary population and provided security
for shops, thus taking away the interest some militia leaders had in continuing
volatility. In Galela, the security forces made little effort to prevent violence in the
villages around Lake Duma.
The violence in Tobelo, particularly the attacks of Christians, was particularly
intense because of a confluence of factors. The religious sensitivity of both
communities and the involvement of Protestant pastors in the violence increased a
sense among Christians that violence against their enemies was divinely sanc-
tioned and removed any remorse they may have felt at killing non-combatants. But
strategic considerations were also important. Many Christians, particularly militia
leaders, sought to expel Muslims from the sub-district before they could regroup
and ally with sympathetic security personnel. Through such brutal violence they
also sought to deter Muslims from returning to the area.
Numerous clashes broke out across North Maluku in the aftermath of the riots in
Tidore and Ternate. Not all were the result of increased security concerns. Many
involved more calculated attacks by one community against another, in some cases
assisted by militias from neighbouring sub-districts or islands. In Tobelo and
Galela, however, the most populous areas outside Ternate and those with the most
evenly divided religious composition, a security dilemma provided fertile ground
for violence, encouraging belligerent actions and exploitation of tensions within
society. In such a situation, provocative and even unconsidered actions, which
would otherwise have been ignored, had dramatic consequences.

Political exploitation
The violence in North Maluku had, until this point, followed a pattern common to
many communal conflicts – a small dispute caused a flow of refugees and inspired
propaganda and revenge attacks which subsequently escalated into a much larger
sectarian conflict. Yet the Putih–Kuning clashes in Ternate in late December
suggested that the conflict in its entirety possessed several strands. While Chris-
tians and Muslims were engaged in intense clashes in Tobelo, Galela and else-
where, Ternate City again descended into violence, this time between two Muslim
factions. The Muslim followers of the Sultan of Ternate fought against Muslims
from the Makian, Tidore and other ethnic groups. This latter group, the Pasukan
 Conclusion 185
Putih, was soon reinforced by thousands of men from Tidore Island, and the
sultan’s traditional guards, the Pasukan Kuning, were quickly overrun.
Most analysts assert that the clashes occurred as a result of the Sultan of Ternate
and his armed militia alienating wide sections of the North Maluku community
throughout late 1999. The sultan certainly appears to have engendered animosity
among the migrant communities on Ternate. Claims that he supported the Kaos in
their opposition to the formation of Malifut Sub-District, and his attempt to
prevent Makian refugees being evacuated to Ternate, angered Makians. The
belligerent behaviour of his traditional guards, who were given sanction to patrol
the city’s streets, also increasingly aggrieved many Tidores and other migrants
living in the city. The Pasukan Kuning’s destruction of Kampung Pisang marked
the apex of this tension and caused many people to take to the streets in opposition
to the sultan’s militia
Nevertheless, much of the Putih–Kuning conflict suggests that it was far from
spontaneous. Mobilization for action against the sultan had already been underway
before the Kampung Pisang incident took place. This mobilization was coordi-
nated by the sultan’s political opponents, who were concerned at his growing
political and strategic hegemony over the city and, by extension, the new province.
The sultan’s strong position in December, along with his previous support for the
Kaos in the Malifut dispute, had united almost all other leading political figures
and their supporters against him. In Ternate and Tidore, clients of the sultan’s main
rivals mobilized militias with the goal of ousting the Pasukan Kuning from the
streets of Ternate and overthrowing the sultan as a political force. While inter-reli-
gious violence raged elsewhere in the province, Muslims divided into ethnic
factions and fought street battles as they determined the future balance of political
power in the region.
After several decades of authoritarian and non-democratic governance, intimi-
dation remained a common means of achieving political or economic outcomes.
Both leading factions in competition for political power in the new province used
intimidation and militia violence to prevent a loss in power and undermine rivals.
In dispatching his Pasukan Kuning on to the streets of Ternate, Mudaffar Syah
undoubtedly sought to enhance his own political position. He hoped to win public
support for protecting important infrastructure, while at the same time achieving
strategic control over political, social and economic activity in the city. Similarly,
threatened by his rising power, the sultan’s rivals mobilized militias to oppose him.
Both parties also exercised political pressure on the security forces, undermining
the neutrality that might have allowed them to halt rioting in its early stages.
Several points of convergence exist between the building tension in Ternate and
Tidore in late 1999, which culminated in the Putih–Kuning conflict, and the ‘insti-
tutionalized riot systems’ that Brass has identified as existing in some cities of
India. By late 1999 the ongoing violence in North Maluku had become entwined
with a political process which had implications for thousands of individuals in
Ternate. During this period, several individuals, self-proclaimed defenders of the
community, exploited communal tension to weaken the Sultan of Ternate as a
political force. In particular, the sultan’s alleged support of Christians, ignoring the
186 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
interests of Muslims provided an effective means of mobilizing wider opposition
against him.
As Wilkinson, Tambiah and Brass have demonstrated in the case of India, when
communal tensions become caught up in political processes in this way, the secu-
rity forces may become less willing to halt violence. In Ternate, military and police
commanders appeared unwilling to intervene in the violence for fear of political
consequences. The future power holders in the province would be capable not only
of exercising influence on the careers of military and police commanders but also
of hindering the economic activities of local units. This concern affected the
response of military and police commanders from November 1999 to the end of the
conflict in June 2000, as discussed further below.
Taken in the context of the wider North Maluku conflict, the Putih–Kuning
clashes illustrate the complexity and depth of issues present in a case of communal
violence involving several events. First, the fighting demonstrates the pitfalls of
imputing too much uniformity to ethnic or religious communities in the analysis of
violence. Violence between Muslim factions showed that religion was only one of
several ruptures in North Maluku society during the conflict. The clashes also
demonstrate that the phases of a conflict may differ markedly from each other,
depending not only on local political and social contexts, but also the use and
exploitation of previous events by influential actors.

Religious war
Within the space of just four months, what had begun as a dispute over territory
had escalated into full-scale religious war. The tensions between Muslims in
Ternate dissipated as floods of refugees from Tobelo and Galela arrived in the city,
recounting tales of unprovoked Christian attacks and the terrible deaths of
hundreds of defenceless people in mosques. Angry refugees from Halmahera
called for retaliation against Christians. Originally formed for political goals, the
Pasukan Putih assumed a more religious character and was renamed the Pasukan
Jihad. The militia swelled as other Muslims who had opposed the anti-Christian
rioting in November joined out of fury at the events in Tobelo. With the subse-
quent mobilization framed in the terms of jihad, Muslim Ternates and Tidores,
having only recently ceased fighting each other, became allies to exact revenge on
Christians and to allow their co-religionists from north Halmahera to return to their
homes. The earlier claims of several Muslim politicians that Muslims faced the
threat of Christian aggression appeared to have been borne out. The violence in
Tobelo achieved what the Kaos had taken a great deal of effort to avoid in their
attack against Malifut – it united the North Maluku Muslim community against
Christians in the province.
The militia formed over several months and divided into two groups. One
attempted unsuccessfully to reach Kao Sub-District, where military personnel
prevented major clashes between the militia and the Kao. The other launched a
series of attacks against the remaining Christian villages in Galela Sub-District. It
disbanded after destroying several villages and expelling all Christians from
 Conclusion 187
Galela. In Malifut, the security forces were largely effective in preventing clashes
between mujahid and the Kaos in an effort to avoid too much disruption to the
NHM mining operations, which provided so much revenue to the provincial
coffers. In Galela, however, with little financial incentive to prevent violence, and
no directive from the main civilian power holders in Ternate to do so, and with
many soldiers apparently sympathizing with the Pasukan Jihad, Christians were
often forced to provide their own protection.
Through its campaign and rhetoric, the Pasukan Jihad appeared to fit into the
rising tide of Islamic militancy in Indonesia in 2000. However, the militia was very
local in both participation and goals. The militia leadership refused the assistance
of the Laskar Jihad, the Java-based militia that would become prominent in the
conflict in Maluku, and few men from outside the province joined the violence in
North Maluku. The analysis in Chapter 7 suggests that the Pasukan Jihad had
different goals from the Laskar Jihad and other more radical groups. However,
also important in their refusal of assistance from Laskar Jihad was their belief that
they already possessed overwhelming force relative to Christians in the region.
Religion was only one of several motivations for attacks on Christians, as
discussed further below. Nevertheless, the principles of jihad did provide a
unifying banner under which to mobilize Muslims from all ethnic groups.
The violence ended for several reasons. The implementation of civil emergency
in the province by the central government increased the legality of firmer action by
the security forces against combatants. Shock at the sinking of the Cahaya Bahari
also diminished the motivation of many members of the Pasukan Jihad to continue
fighting, and many combatants had grown weary of the violence. Yet the principal
reason fighting stopped in July 2000 was the now complete separation of Chris-
tians and Muslims in the region into exclusive zones after almost a year of bloody
violence. The remaining Christian populations in Tobelo and Kao Sub-Districts
appeared to the Pasukan Jihad to be unassailable because of the strength of local
Christian militias and the presence of military contingents to the north and south of
the two areas.

The security forces

As outlined in Chapter 1, a crucial element in understanding the North Maluku
conflict is the question of how the violence was able to happen. In a state which
had a record of strongly repressing threats to internal stability how were mobs able
to fight unhindered on the streets, causing such social and human destruction? As
discussed in Chapter 2, in 1999 the military, and to a lesser extent the police, faced
a great deal of turmoil in the form of human rights abuse allegations, declining
popular legitimacy, a reduction in their political role and a lack of funding. Several
commentators on reformasi-era Indonesia have concluded that the military and
other individuals or groups associated with the recently ousted New Order regime
of President Suharto attempted to disrupt the national reform process by provoking
communal violence across the country.6 This study has demonstrated that this was
not the case in North Maluku. In the initial incident in Malifut, there is no evidence
188 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
of instigation by the security forces, which, indeed, appear to have been surprised
by the initial attack and then frightened and overwhelmed in October by the thou-
sands of Kao men attacking Malifut under the leadership of Benny Bitjara.
However, while not in itself a cause of violence, in almost all cases the response
of the security forces determined whether violence occurred, and to what extent.
As demonstrated throughout, the performance of the security forces was influ-
enced by a variety of factors. To a great extent, their response was influenced by
the political transition occurring across the country and in North Maluku. In this,
this study has found much common ground with Wilkinson’s argument that the
actions of the security forces will in large part be determined by the interests and
attitudes of the civilian political hierarchy who must order (or fail to order) the
security forces to act against those causing disturbances. This concern appears
particularly pertinent with regard to the urban political centres of Ternate and
Tidore, where the security forces were present in greatest numbers but where they
were also closest to the elite-level political rivalry occurring in the province. Mili-
tary and police commanders in Ternate and Tidore were reluctant to antagonize
potential future provincial power holders. This influenced their decision to refrain
from becoming involved in the building tension and eventual violence in those
cities.
In early 2000 the Pasukan Jihad continued to enjoy free rein from the security
forces partly because, having overthrown the sultan, this militia had the backing of
those who had assumed power in the province. The militia’s operations on
Halmahera, however, showed that the security forces took quite different
approaches depending on the local context. The military forcefully prevented
fighting between the Pasukan Jihad and the Kaos in the area of Malifut, largely
because the civilian elite and security commanders had a common interest in
preventing further violence and destruction in the areas of two of the most lucra-
tive resource-exploitation operations in the region, in Malifut and Weda Bay.
In Galela, however, the military offered scant protection to Christian villagers.
With little political reason to halt the violence, other motivations influenced the
security forces in Galela. The most likely explanation for their failure to deter
Muslim attacks on Duma and other Christian villages was that most of the military
personnel were Muslims and sympathized with the jihad. It seems possible, too,
that some of the funding generated during the mobilization of the Pasukan Jihad
was used to bribe military personnel to withdraw during the militia’s attacks. Other
economic spoils associated with the conflict also influenced security personnel. In
particular some units benefited financially by extracting payment from the
displacement of thousands of villagers whom they were charged with protecting,
as was shown in the forced evacuation of Javanese transmigrants in Waringinlamo
in Kao.
The degree of willingness of the security forces to prevent and halt violence was
therefore influenced, but not determined by, the political competition occurring in
the province. A range of motivations influenced the decisions of military and
police commanders and personnel in North Maluku, from the provincial to the
village level, on how to respond to violence. The response of the security forces
 Conclusion 189
varied from location to location depending on, among other factors, the size of
local militias, the prejudices of personnel, the capacity of contingents and financial
considerations. The military unit placed in Malifut after the August riot was vastly
inadequate to repel the Kao militia’s attack, and the failure of the security forces to
dispel the growing security dilemma in Tobelo in late 1999 was at least in part
because of their fear of militants. This study therefore demonstrates that no single
explanation will account for the action or inaction of the security forces throughout
the entire duration of a province- or state-wide conflict.

Structure, agency and motivation in violent conflict

Close examination of violent conflicts, such as that contained in this study, high-
lights the utility of a more synthetic approach to analyzing the agency, causes and
motivations involved. In isolation, an analytical focus on either structural factors,
the predations of elites, the call of identity or the emotions of the masses cannot
explain the onset, trajectory, duration or termination of conflict. The conflict as a
whole involved a constantly shifting amalgam of overlapping political, economic
and social forces, rational interests and heightened emotions.
This study has demonstrated that a range of structural conditions, at the national,
district and local levels, played some role in various phases of the conflict. Some
political, economic and social patterns established over decades of the New Order
were important in the onset and trajectory of the conflict. Norms of nepotism in
local government and the use of intimidation in political processes were some of
the structural conditions left by the New Order which played a role in the North
Maluku conflict. Increasing religious tension across the country, along with other
national developments, began to undermine decades of religious harmony in some
areas of North Maluku, particularly in Tobelo. Unsurprisingly, given the uncertain
and rapidly evolving situation in Indonesia in 1999, changes to many longstanding
structures were also important factors in the violence. For example, as noted in
Chapter 2, weakened by years of inadequate funding and suffering low morale in
the face of widespread criticism in 1999, the security forces were in disarray.
No one condition was determinative of any phase of the violence but interacted
with other political, economic and social structures to lead to rising tension and
violence. For example, political inequality played an important role in the violence
in Malifut and in Ternate. Yet while structures of inequality set the scene for
conflict in these areas, it was only when this inequality met other contentious
issues – ties to land and economic well-being in the case of Malifut and issues
surrounding the wider North Maluku conflict in general in Ternate – that they led
to violence.
But these conditions in themselves do not adequately explain the conflict.
Similar conditions existed in numerous regions of Indonesia but few areas experi-
enced large-scale violent conflict. Only by considering the interaction of static and
changing structures with calculating, foolish and desperate human agency can the
analyst account for the onset and trajectory of the North Maluku conflict. Human
agency combined the effects of these different structural factors and converted the
190 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
tensions inherent in such structures into overt conflict and violence. A number of
small actions at crucial times and in important locations often had major conse-
quences for the conflict as a whole. The pressure on the security forces by leading
politicians, the preparation of the Kao attack in October, the killing of a pastor and
the organization of the anti-Christian rioting in Ternate were all actions with great
ramifications for the region as a whole. In most cases, violence was primarily orga-
nized and initiated by dominant groups concerned at potential threats to their posi-
tions of economic or political power.
Many key events during the conflict were brought about in large part by the
actions of elites. The mobilization of large groups of men was a crucial element of
the conflict. Such coordination can often only be carried out by someone in
authority. The mobilization of the Makayoa student group by leading Makians in
Khairun University was crucial in this regard, as was the dispatching of the
Pasukan Kuning on to the streets of Ternate, the mobilization of hundreds of
Tidores to go to Ternate and the readying of the Kaos for the attack on Malifut.
One of the most influential cases of elite agency was the pressure exerted on the
police by leading politicians to release without charge the group of Makian men
who had been arrested for attacking Christian property. Perhaps more than any
other factor, this created the opportunity for rioting to occur and the conflict to
escalate.
Yet this study has demonstrated that the North Maluku conflict was not entirely
elite-led. Indeed, in most cases, elite agency coincided with a groundswell of senti-
ment and interest. This is not to suggest that the violence was caused by apolitical
social structures, but that we should extend consideration of the role of powerful
individuals to encompass the reasons why ordinary North Malukans responded to
their provocations. In numerous cases, in Malifut, Ternate and Tobelo, elite orga-
nization increased the anger, frustration or interest behind mass mobilization and
generated action that may not have occurred otherwise. Many different levels of
authority were observable in the conflict, confusing the distinction between lead-
ership and mass-led spontaneity. Actions and decisions that influenced the course
of the conflict were taken by individuals not generally considered members of the
elite, for example the leaders of local neighbourhoods and villages, militias and
local branches of religious organizations.
The apparent decision of many ordinary North Malukans to respond to the
machinations of politicians resulted from a coincidence of both interests and iden-
tities between masses and leaders. In the study of conflict, elite action is often seen
as the result of rational calculation, designed to achieve political or other ends,
while mass agency is generally seen as stemming from emotion and the ties of
communal identity. While many elite actions in the conflict were driven by polit-
ical interest, some powerful individuals were also simultaneously motivated by the
same communal sentiment and ethnic solidarity as their constituents. Makian poli-
ticians in Ternate mobilizing crowds to avenge the destruction of Malifut while
also aiming to politically weaken the Sultan of Ternate is a case in point. Likewise,
some of the people on the streets during violence responded to the emotional
 Conclusion 191
speeches of their leaders with one eye on the material or political advantage that
might follow their participation.
A range of mutually reinforcing motivations lay behind the violence. Viewing
the North Maluku conflict with the benefit of hindsight, it is difficult to see how the
violence could have been in anyone’s rational interest. Yet this study has demon-
strated that, at numerous points during the conflict, individuals and groups made
decisions with a major bearing on the onset and trajectory of the conflict, and even
initiated violence, with clear instrumental goals in mind. Many actions were
undertaken with objectives other than causing violence, but ultimately played an
important role in doing just that, such as the decision of Makian elites in Ternate to
push through PP42 with little consultation of the Kaos. In other cases, individuals
or groups appear to have decided that organization of, or participation in, violence
directly served their interests. Many elite actions in Ternate and Tidore were
driven by political motives, in particular the mobilization of opposition to the
Sultan of Ternate. Rational motives also appear to have motivated many of those
ordinary North Malukans who carried out the carnage of 1999 and 2000, as they
sought to protect their employment, provide security for their families or to loot
shops.
Yet at each stage of the conflict violent action may not have occurred, or may
not have been as intense, had certain issues and actions not caused emotional
responses in large proportions of some communities. Fear and anger were crucial
to almost all stages of the conflict. Emotional attachments to territory, frustration
at political inequality and at insecure land tenure, fear of religious and numerical
domination by the opposing community and of physical attack, anger at previous
violence and injustices were all important motivations driving mobilization and
participation in the violence.
Indeed, this study has shown that drawing a clear distinction between rational
and emotional and identity-related motivations for violent action is often problem-
atic. Throughout the North Maluku conflict, most actors’ engagement in mobiliza-
tion and violence was stimulated by a combination of both instrumental
calculation and emotion. Many participants undertook violence with simultaneous
ethnic, religious, political and economic considerations. In Ternate, many
Makians and Tidores fought the Pasukan Kuning because of their concerns over
losing their dominant position in the bureaucracy, becoming politically and strate-
gically subordinate to the indigenous Ternates and through anger at the destruction
of Malifut and the sultan’s apparent support for Christians at the expense of
Muslims.
In Malifut, the perceived loss of employment and revenue from the gold
mine accentuated the Kaos’ anger at what they saw as violation of their position
as the rightful owners of Malifut. During the dispute over the new sub-district,
the material implications of the Gosowong mine increased the sense of ethnic
solidarity between Kaos throughout Kao Sub-District and their kin living
around Malifut. Likewise, the Gosowong gold mine, and the impending
creation of new districts on Halmahera, focused the attention of many Makians
in Ternate on their kin in Malifut. Correspondingly, this increased solidarity
192 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
heightened each community’s opposition to any loss of this material resource.
This and other events during the conflict demonstrate the mutually constitutive
nature of material interest and identity. North Maluku descended into violence
in what can be termed an ‘identity–interest spiral’.

Religion
An analysis of the role of religion in the violence in North Maluku amply demon-
strates the interaction of rational and affective influences in motivating those
involved in violence. In general this study concurs with those analysts who
conclude that religion is most often not a cause of violence, but is sometimes used
as a tool by provocateurs seeking to stimulate inter-religious tension for their own
more worldly goals.7 Religion played very little role in the initial outbreak in
Malifut, which was essentially a result of competition over territory, made emotive
by ethnic identity and the unequal treatment of communities by the district govern-
ment. The crucial turning point for the conflict came in Ternate and Tidore, where
influential Makians portrayed their ethnic kin in Malifut as victims of Christian
aggression. Yet even in the face of this provocation claims of a campaign of
Christianization in North Maluku were not accepted by most Muslims. But the
actions of these rioters in murdering a pastor, burning churches and expelling and
killing Christians pushed the region towards a sectarian conflict that was defined
and waged almost entirely in terms of religious faith.
Religion, thereafter, played a multifaceted role in determining the trajectory and
intensity of the violence. It was not only used as a tool by those seeking to provoke
violence, but also simultaneously heightened the emotions of combatants, facili-
tated the mobilization of militias, determined the form of that mobilization (the
names, clothing and symbolism used by the militias) and provided the ideology
that sustained those militias in the field.
The use of religious doctrine by men such as Benny Bitjara and Abu Bakar
Wahid to legitimate killing, along with the fears of Christians and Muslims that not
just their lives but also the sustainability of their faith were under threat, made
violence both more likely and more intense. Some of the Muslims involved in the
Pasukan Jihad were motivated by what could be termed jihadist principles – a
desire to defend Islam and defeat those who had attacked Muslims. Among the
Christian community on Halmahera, too, emphasizing Christian solidarity and
religious symbolism were effective means of mobilizing the unity and bravery
necessary to resist the Muslim militia. Many Christians stated that their goal during
the conflict was to ‘defend Jesus’ and several members of the Protestant Church
evoked Christian sentiment in mobilizing combatants.
Yet even in the later stages of the conflict, which appeared so religious in char-
acter, the influence of religion was always contingent on other political, strategic
and economic considerations. The outbreak of violence between Christian and
Muslim Tobelos in late December was caused by a rising sense of insecurity and
intimidation by militants in combination with religious animosity. Similarly, the
Muslim refugees from Tobelo, Galela and Malifut who participated in the Pasukan
 Conclusion 193
Jihad did so to seek revenge for attacks by Christians and to return to their homes.
For these people, jihad was primarily a political and strategic vehicle to achieve
these goals, although for others in the militia the sense of waging holy war had real
meaning. Christians also had very real motives (in the form of physical threat) to
mobilize and oppose the Pasukan Jihad. During some important phases of the
conflict, such as the Putih–Kuning clashes in Ternate, religion was only a
peripheral issue.
Throughout the conflict there was no correlation between religiosity and
involvement in violence. Most militia members emphasized their religious identity
and devotion during the conflict, but in times of normality were not the most reli-
giously observant. Many devout Muslims and Christians, including religious
leaders, opposed the violence and attempted to prevent it. On both sides of the
conflict, it was lay people such as Benny Bitjara and Abu Bakar Wahid, far more
than imams or pastors, who used religious symbolism and doctrine to motivate
militia members.
Yet while religion never acted autonomously as a cause of conflict, ignoring its
role completely would preclude a proper understanding of much of the violence in
North Maluku. Throughout the conflict religious sentiment, material interest and
political motives interacted with one another, magnifying and altering the influ-
ence each would have had in isolation. As Jack Snyder, in his consideration of the
causes of war, puts it ‘the effect of each element can be understood only in the
context of the rest of the system.’8 Remove one factor, such as religious tension,
economic inequality or political competition, and in many cases the violence
would not occur.

Summary and implications for research

The discussion above demonstrates the wide range of factors behind the North
Maluku conflict. In isolation, a focus on structural factors, human agency, identity
factors, rationality, elite interest or mass sentiment would fail to explain the onset,
trajectory, duration or termination of the conflict. All are surely crucial elements in
any explanation of conflict – a focus on one factor at the expense of the others will
invariably miss a factor crucial to the onset and development of the violence. It was
the interaction of these elements which explains each important development of
the conflict. A territorial dispute only triggered the North Maluku conflict because
it occurred in conjunction with the Kaos’ ties to the territory and an imbalance in
political representation between the two communities. These conditions were
fused and made volatile by the specific decisions made by several individuals in
Ternate, Malifut and Kao. In other circumstances, such a development might not
have led to violence. Likewise, intentional elite provocation only led to anti-Chris-
tian rioting in Ternate, and subsequently escalated the conflict, because of its
entanglement with political competition, ethnic anger and religious tension.
This diversity and complexity is naturally greater when dealing with a conflict
that involves a series of violent events, such as that in North Maluku. The varying
dynamics involved in different locations and over time mean that, inevitably, a
194 Ethno-Religious Violence in Indonesia
greater range of motivations and influences is likely. In a protracted and wide-
spread conflict the issues central to each phase must be distinguished in order to
determine how and why violence begins, changes in character, intensifies and
moves beyond its initial location. Particularly important is the need to differentiate
initial causal factors from later developments.
This study has also illustrated the influence of local dynamics on the trajectory
of a conflict. As Stathis Kalyvas has pointed out, the violence that occurs in
different areas may appear as part of the whole, but may in fact be far more local in
character and only tenuously connected to the primary dynamic of the wider
conflict.9 In turn, these dynamics influence the path, extent and intensity of the
conflict as a whole. Set against the background of religious violence in Ambon, the
violence in Malifut appeared to have been the result of tension between Christians
and Muslims. However, qualitative research demonstrated that religion played
only a peripheral role in that dispute. Likewise, the Putih–Kuning clashes and the
violence in Tobelo, which occurred simultaneously in late December 1999, were
caused by wholly different dynamics which were contingent on the local context –
political competition in the case of the former and insecurity and religious tension
in the latter.
A full explanation of each outbreak of violence requires a detailed illustration of
the actions, motivations and chance events involved. The actions that caused and
changed the trajectory of the North Maluku conflict – the economic opportunism
and mobilization associated with the violence in Malifut, the pressure on the secu-
rity forces in Ternate from politicians and the militancy of certain individuals in
Tobelo – have been discussed throughout this book and need no further
elaboration here.
All of these conclusions suggest that the proper analysis of conflict situations
requires micro-level observation and analysis. This is perhaps particularly so in the
study of violent conflict because of its volatility and the misleading nature of most
rhetoric that accompanies it. The identification of objective factors frequently
associated with conflict situations also tells us little if we do not uncover the
meaning of those objects to relevant actors, the surrounding socio-political context
and the agency involved. The social complexity of each phase examined in this
study, the fluidity of the issues over time and the variation from one location to
another all obscure the true nature of the violence, which can easily be missed
without close examination. This requires the gathering of information from partici-
pants and witnesses themselves.
This is not to say that general conclusions regarding the causes or trajectories of
conflict are impossible, or to cast doubt on the efficacy of well-researched compar-
ative analyses. However, such studies should be preceded by an uncovering of the
detail, temporal dynamism and geographical variation of each case. A failure to
first ascertain the detail of each case may lead to erroneous conclusions and hinder
the advancement of knowledge regarding communal violence.
 Conclusion 195
Conclusion
This study has revealed that a range of macro-structural forces and changes in
those structures played a role during the conflict in North Maluku. Economic
opportunism, political inequality, high-level political competition, insecurity,
ethnic and religious antagonism, territory and natural resources all played not
inconsequential roles during the conflict. When each main event was closely
analyzed, it became possible to ascertain which causal factors played a role at
which stage in the conflict.
Yet while these conditions increased tension and made violence possible it was
human agency that defined and caused each critical juncture. Such agency has
been demonstrated throughout this study. In some cases these actions inadver-
tently had consequences far beyond their intention. In others, however, individuals
and groups sought to exploit opportunities at the expense of other communities
and in several cases deliberately provoked violence.
The response of the security forces was important in allowing these tensions and
motivations to reach their conclusion in violence. On several occasions, the secu-
rity forces acted professionally and competently to prevent or halt violence. There
were also many cases in which security personnel were outnumbered, lacked
capacity, were disorganized or were otherwise unable to act forcefully against
those involved in violence. However, at other critical moments within the conflict,
security personnel appeared to make an intentional decision to remain disengaged,
influenced by the political competition taking place in North Maluku in 1999, by
personal bias or by corruption and a desire to exploit the conflict for profit.
This study has gone some way to explaining why a society that had seen decades
of stability and relative inter-religious harmony, a society that, in early 1999, was
united in its endeavours to forge its own province, could descend into such
violence. Explaining communal violence that simultaneously involves economic,
political and identity issues and which is both organized and spontaneous is no
easy task. The complexity of the conflict is perhaps best encapsulated in the words
of the participants themselves, who were left by the spiral of events struggling to
comprehend how they could have gone from relative stability to such extreme
confrontation: ‘how can we explain why we killed each other … we are all one
family.’
Notes

Introduction
1 This study uses English language terms for the administrative units in Indonesia.
Therefore ‘sub-district’, ‘district’, ‘municipality’ and ‘province’ are used for
kecamatan, kabupaten, kotamadya and provinsi respectively. When talking about
districts and municipalities together, I use the term ‘district’. The term ‘region’ is used
generally to refer to provinces and districts. I also anglicize the names of ethnic
groups; for example when talking about members of an ethnic community, I will use
‘Kaos’ and ‘Makians’ rather than the Indonesian forms, orang Kao and orang
Makian. There are no accepted English terms for these groups and I believe this usage
provides uniformity and deviates from the Indonesian term as little as possible. By
referring to ethnic groups in this way, I also differentiate them from the places after
which they are named, i.e. Kao Sub-District and Makian Island.
2 The local sub-district officials who compiled the figures did not include members of
the Pasukan Jihad who were registered as residents of other administrative areas,
such as Ternate, Tidore, Sanana, etc.
3 Interview with Muhammad Selang in Ternate, 7 February 2004. Mujahid, meaning a
participant in holy war, is the term used by most North Maluku Muslims to refer to
participants in what was widely seen as a jihad.
4 The official statistic for the number of IDPs is 247,620 people. No breakdown of IDPs
by religion was readily available.
5 I use the term Internally Displaced Person (IDP) in this study to refer to a person
displaced within their own country.
6 See the book-length work by K. H. Ahmad and H. Oesman, Damai Yang Terkoyak:
Catatan Kelam dari Bumi Halmahera (Shattered Peace: Dark Notes from the Land of
Halmahera), Ternate: Madani Press, 2000, and J. Nanere, Halmahera Berdarah
(Bloody Halmahera), Ambon: Yayasan Bina Masyarakat Sejahtera dan Pelestarian
Alam (BIMASPELA), 2000. Journal articles and chapters on the conflict include: S.
Alhadar, ‘The Forgotten War in North Maluku’ in Inside Indonesia, 2000; M. D.
Boediman, ‘Musuhku adalah Saudarku’ (My Enemy is My Brother), unpublished
dissertation, Universitas Kristen Duta Wacana, Yogyakarta, 2002; N. Bubandt,
‘Malukan Apocalypse: Themes in the Dynamics of Violence in Eastern Indonesia’, in
I. Wessel. and G. Wimhofer (eds), Violence in Indonesia, Frankfurt: Abera Verlag
Markus Voss, 2001; N. Bubandt, ‘The Dynamics of Reasonable Paranoia: Rumours
and Riots in North Maluku, 1999–2000’, background paper for presentation at the
Seminar Series of the School of Anthropology, Geography and Environmental
Studies, University of Melbourne, 25 April 2002; N. Bubandt, ‘Towards a New Poli-
tics of Tradition? Decentralisation, Conflict, and Adat in Eastern Indonesia’,
Antropologi Indonesia, no. 74 (May–August 2004); the final section in C. R. Duncan,
198 Notes
‘Savage Imagery: (Mis)representations of the Forest Tobelo of Indonesia’, The Asia
Pacific Journal of Anthropology, vol. 2, no. 1 (2001), 45–62; C. R. Duncan, ‘The
Other Maluku: Chronologies of Conflict in North Maluku’, Indonesia, 80 (October
2005), 53–80; the chapters on North Maluku in I. Hasan (ed.), Memikirkan Kembali:
Maluku dan Maluku Utara (Rethinking: Maluku and North Maluku), Makassar:
Lembaga Penerbitan Universitas Hasanuddin (LEPHAS), 2003; T. A. Tomagola,
‘The Bleeding Halmahera of North Moluccas’, Jurnal Studi Indonesia, vol. 10, no. 2
(2000); T. A. Tomagola, ‘Krisis dan Solusi Tragedi Maluku Utara’ (The Crisis and
Solution of the North Maluku Tragedy), Detikcom, 2 February 2000. The following
reports primarily on the Maluku conflict also contain small sections on the North
Maluku conflict: International Crisis Group, Indonesia’s Maluku Crisis: The Issues,
Indonesia Briefing, 19 July 2000; International Crisis Group, Indonesia: Overcoming
Murder and Chaos in Maluku, Asia Report no. 10, 19 December 2000; International
Crisis Group, Indonesia: The Search for Peace in Maluku, Asia Report no. 31, 8
February 2002.
7 The two book-length studies examining a large portion of the conflict, Nanere’s
Halmahera Berdarah and Ahmad and Oesman’s Damai yang Terkoyak, present
strongly Christian and Muslim accounts of the violence respectively. The different
interpretations presented of the conflict, in particular those emanating from the capital
city Ternate, no doubt play a role in displacing responsibility away from those
currently holding power. On the struggle to interpret conflict see P. R. Brass, ‘Intro-
duction: Discourses of Ethnicity, Communalism, and Violence’, in P. R. Brass (ed.),
Riots and Pogroms, New York: New York University Press, 1996.
8 M. Kordi and H. Ghufran, ‘Dinamika Masyarakat Makian Dan Konflik Maluku Utara’
(Makian Societal Dynamics and the North Maluku Conflict), in Hasan, Memikirkan
Kembali, p. 141, Ahmad and Oesman, Damai Yang Terkoyak, p. 121, and M. Kordi and
H. Ghufran, ‘Kompleksitas Konflik Maluku Utara’ (The Complexity of the North
Maluku Conflict), in Hasan, Memikirkan Kembali, p. 127.
9 Tomagola, ‘The Bleeding Halmahera of North Moluccas’.
10 Ibid., p. 7.
11 International Crisis Group, Overcoming Murder and Chaos in Maluku, p. 6.
12 Local communities would actually have exercised little control over this natural
resource which, as discussed in the following chapter, was (and still is) exploited by a
joint venture between an Australian and Indonesian mining company. However, the
mine was still important for those communities living adjacent to the area, in terms of
employment, company donations and other small amounts of revenue.
13 Alhadar, ‘The Forgotten War in North Maluku’; and S. Alhadar, ‘Kompleksitas
Konflik Di Halmahera Utara’ (The Complexity of the Conflict in North Halmahera),
in Hasan, Memikirkan Kembali, p. 144.
14 Nanere, Halmahera Berdarah, p. 62.
15 Alhadar, ‘The Forgotten War in North Maluku’.
16 International Crisis Group, Indonesia’s Maluku Crisis, p. 5.
17 Tomagola, ‘The Bleeding Halmahera of North Moluccas’, p. 9.
18 Ibid.; see note 27 for the percentage of Muslims as support for Bahar Andily’s greater
political support.
19 Nanere, Halmahera Berdarah, p. 62.
20 The history of this rivalry is discussed in the next chapter.
21 International Crisis Group, Overcoming Murder and Chaos in Maluku, p. 6.
22 Alhadar, ‘The Forgotten War in North Maluku’.
23 This conflict is discussed in the next chapter.
24 International Crisis Group, Indonesia’s Maluku Crisis, p. 2. Another study of the
Maluku conflict that sees the North Maluku violence as an extension of the conflict in
Ambon is E. Al-Jakartaty, Tragedi Bumi Seribu Pulau (The Tragedy of the Land of a
Thousand Islands), Jakarta: Gubuk Kajian Mutiara Nasional, 2000, p. 13.
 Notes 199
25 J. Bertrand, Nationalism and Ethnic Conflict in Indonesia, Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2004, pp. 129–31.
26 Ibid., p. 130.
27 Ibid., p. 131.
28 The process of pemekaran is discussed in the next chapter. Since 1999, over 100 new
districts have been created in Indonesia.
29 The literature includes C. Tilly, From Mobilization to Revolution, Reading, MA:
Addison Wesley, 1978; D. McAdam, Political Process and the Development of Black
Insurgency 1930–1970, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1982; M.
N. Zald and B. Useem, ‘Movement and Countermovement Interaction: Mobilization,
Tactics, and State Involvement’, in M. N. Zald and J. D. McCarthy (eds), Social Move-
ments in an Organizational Society, New Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books, 1987; D.
S. Meyer and S. Staggenborg, ‘Movements, Countermovements, and the Structure of
Political Opportunity’, American Journal of Sociology, vol. 101, no. 6 (May 1996).
30 M. D. Toft, The Geography of Ethnic Violence: Identity, Interests, and the Indivisi-
bility of Territory, Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2003, D.
Horowitz, Ethnic Groups in Conflict, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1985,
p. 143.
31 See for example: P. Collier and A. Hoeffler, ‘On Economic Causes of Civil War’,
Oxford Economic Papers, vol. 50, no. 4 (1998), 563–73; N. Sambanis, ‘A Review of
Recent Advances and Future Directions in the Quantitative Literature on Civil War’,
Defence and Peace Economics, vol. 13, no. 3 (2002), 215–43; J. D. Fearon and D. D.
Laitin, ‘Ethnicity, Insurgency, and Civil War’, American Political Science Review,
vol. 97, no. 1 (February 2003).
32 For example Alhadar, ‘The Forgotten War in North Maluku’; Bubandt, ‘The Dynamics
of Reasonable Paranoia’, p. 2.
33 Alhadar, ‘The Forgotten War in North Maluku’.
34 Ibid.
35 Bubandt, ‘The Dynamics of Reasonable Paranoia’, p. 2.
36 Ibid, p. 24.
37 See S. J. Tambiah, Leveling Crowds: Ethnonationalist Conflicts and Collective
Violence in South Asia, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996, p. 81, and P.
R. Brass, Theft of an Idol: Text and Context in the Representation of Collective
Violence, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997, p. 208.
38 Tomagola, ‘The Bleeding Halmahera of North Moluccas’, p. 4.
39 Alhadar, ‘The Forgotten War in North Maluku’.
40 Ahmad and Oesman, Damai Yang Terkoyak, pp. 60–71.
41 International Crisis Group, Overcoming Murder and Chaos in Maluku, p. 8.
42 Bubandt, ‘Towards a New Politics of Tradition?’.
43 Nanere, Halmahera Berdarah, p. 98.
44 Tomagola, ‘The Bleeding Halmahera of North Moluccas’, p. 9.
45 International Crisis Group, Overcoming Murder and Chaos in Maluku, p. 7.
46 Alhadar, ‘The Forgotten War in North Maluku’.
47 Tomagola, ‘The Bleeding Halmahera of North Moluccas’, p. 4.
48 International Crisis Group, Overcoming Murder and Chaos in Maluku, p. 9.
49 The free-rider concept is most commonly associated with Mancur Olson. See M.
Olson, The Logic of Collective Action: Public Goods and the Theory of Goods,
Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1971.

Chapter 1
1 Examples include: B. Arfi, ‘Ethnic Fear: The Social Construction of Insecurity’,
Security Studies, vol. 8, no. 1 (Autumn 1998), 151–203; S. Ellis, The Mask of
200 Notes
Anarchy: The Destruction of Liberia and the Religious Dimension of an African
Civil War, New York: New York University Press, 1999; V. P. Gagnon, ‘Ethnic
Nationalism and International Conflict: The Case of Serbia’, in M. E. Brown et al.
(eds), Nationalism and Ethnic Conflict (International Security Readers series),
Cambridge, MA: The MIT Press, 1997; and J. Snyder, From Voting to Violence:
Democratization and Nationalist Conflict, New York: W. W. Norton & Company,
2000.
2 V. P. Gagnon, ‘Ethnic Nationalism and International Conflict: The Case of Serbia’,
International Security, vol. 19, no. 3 (Winter 1994/95), p. 142.
3 Ibid., p. 134.
4 J. Mueller, ‘The Banality of Ethnic War’, International Security, vol. 25, no. 1
(Summer 2000), 42–70.
5 M. Kaldor, New and Old Wars: Organized Violence in a Globalized Era, Stanford:
Stanford University Press, 1999, p. 8.
6 S. Tarrow, Power in Movement: Social Movements, Collective Action, and Mass
Politics in the Modern State, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994, p. 3.
7 J. D. McCarthy and N. Zald, ‘Resource Mobilization and Social Movements: A
Partial Theory’, American Journal of Sociology, vol. 82, no. 6, p. 1215.
8 Ibid., p. 1215.
9 D. McAdam, Political Process and the Development of Black Insurgency 1930–1970,
Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1982, p. 21.
10 B. A. Valentino, Final Solutions: Mass Killing and Genocide in the Twentieth
Century, Ithaca and London: Cornell University Press, 2004, p. 61.
11 Ibid., p. 38.
12 Ibid., p. 64.
13 D. Horowitz, Ethnic Groups in Conflict, Berkeley: University of California Press,
1985.
14 A. Varshney, Ethnic Conflict and Civic Life: Hindus and Muslims in India, New
Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2002.
15 See for example P. Collier and A. Hoeffler, ‘Greed and Grievance in Civil War’,
World Bank Policy Research Working Paper no. 2355, Washington, DC: World
Bank, October 2001; M. L. Ross, ‘Oil, Drugs and Diamonds: The Varying Roles of
Natural Resources in Civil Wars’, in K. Ballentine and J. Sherman (eds), The Political
Economy of Armed Conflict: Beyond Greed and Grievance, Boulder: Lynne Reiner
Publishers, 2003.
16 B. R. Posen, ‘The Security Dilemma and Ethnic Conflict’, Survival, vol. 35, no. 1,
27–47.
17 Horowitz, Ethnic Groups in Conflict, and T. R. Gurr, Why Men Rebel, Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1970.
18 Posen, ‘The Security Dilemma and Ethnic Conflict’, pp. 29–31.
19 Gurr, Why Men Rebel, p. 9.
20 Ibid., p. 50.
21 D. Horowitz, The Deadly Ethnic Riot, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001,
pp. 225–6.
22 Horowitz, Ethnic Groups in Conflict, p. 143.
23 D. Horowitz, ‘Group Loyalty and Ethnic Violence’, in C. Hermann et al. (eds),
Violent Conflict in the Twenty-first Century: Causes, Instruments and Mitigation, Illi-
nois: American Academy of Arts & Sciences, 1999, p. 101.
24 Horowitz, The Deadly Ethnic Riot, p. 225.
25 Ibid., pp. 226, 230.
26 Ibid., p. 13.
27 S. Kaufman, ‘An “International” Theory of Interethnic War’, Review of International
Studies, vol. 22, no. 2 (April 1996), p. 157.
28 Ibid., p. 158.
 Notes 201
29 D. Keen, The Economic Functions of Violence in Civil Wars, Adelphi Paper 320,
London: Oxford University Press, 1998.
30 S. Olzak, The Dynamics of Ethnic Competition and Conflict, Stanford: Stanford
University Press, 1992.
31 Ibid., pp. 28, 209.
32 Ibid., p. 212.
33 J. D. Fearon and D. D. Laitin, ‘Explaining Interethnic Cooperation’, American Polit-
ical Science Review, vol. 90, no. 4 (December 1996), p. 715.
34 J. D. Fearon, ‘Ethnic War as a Commitment Problem’, paper presented at the 1994
Annual Meeting of the American Political Science Association, New York, August
30–September 2, 1995.
35 S. N. Kalyvas, ‘The Ontology of “Political Violence”: Action and Identity in Civil
Wars’, Perspectives on Politics, vol. 1, no. 3 (September 2003), p. 483.
36 S. N. Kalyvas, The Logic of Violence in Civil Wars, New York: Cambridge University
Press, 2006, pp. 12–14.
37 Valentino, Final Solutions, p. 235.
38 Ibid., pp. 169–72.
39 C. Kaufman, ‘Rational Choice and Progress in the Study of Ethnic Conflict: A
Review Essay’, Security Studies, vol. 14, no. 1 (January–March 2005), p. 182.
40 R. D. Petersen, Understanding Ethnic Violence: Fear, Hatred, and Resentment in
Twentieth-Century Eastern Europe, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002.
41 Ibid., pp. 22–31.
42 O. Waever, B. Buzan, M. Kelstrup and P. Lemaitre, Identity, Migration and the New
Security Agenda in Europe, London: Pinter Publishers, 1993, p. 23.
43 S. Kaufman, ‘Symbolic Politics or Rational Choice? Testing Theories of Extreme
Ethnic Violence’, International Security, vol. 30, no. 4 (Spring 2006), pp. 52–3.
44 Collier and Hoeffler, ‘Greed and Grievance in Civil War’, p. 2.
45 Ibid., p. 17.
46 Ibid., p. 16.
47 Correspondingly, conflict study is often seen as divided into several different
approaches: Essentialism (or Primordialism); Instrumentalism; Institutionalism;
and Constructivism. A great deal of literature attempts to assess the progress of
these main approaches to explaining conflict. See for example C. Kaufman,
‘Rational Choice and Progress in the Study of Ethnic Conflict’. See also Kaufman,
‘Symbolic Politics or Rational Choice?’. On several problems with the use of this
typology, see C. King, ‘The Micropolitics of Social Violence’, World Politics, vol.
56, no. 3 (April 2004), pp. 435–7.
48 This is clearly not a new discovery – numerous analysts have recognized the need for
a more synthetic and consensual approach to the study of conflict as the discussion
below demonstrates. See for example: Arfi, ‘Ethnic Fear’; J. B. Rule, ‘Rationality and
Non-Rationality in Militant Collective Action’, Sociological Theory, vol. 7, no. 2
(Autumn 1989), p. 158; D. Horowitz, ‘Structure and Strategy in Ethnic Conflict’,
paper prepared for the Annual World Bank Conference on Development Economics,
Washington, DC, 20–21 April 1998; Kaufman, ‘An “International” Theory of
Interethnic War’, p. 157.
49 As stated above, Donald Horowitz claims riots and other forms of communal violence
contain both organization and spontaneity: see for example ‘Structure and Strategy in
Ethnic Conflict’, p. 25. See also P. R. Brass, The Production of Hindu–Muslim
Violence in Contemporary India, New Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2003, p. 32.
50 A. J. Regan, ‘The Bougainville Conflict: Political and Economic Agendas’, in
Ballentine and Sherman, The Political Economy of Armed Conflict.
51 Horowitz, The Deadly Ethnic Riot, p. 13.
52 Snyder, From Voting to Violence, p. 305.
53 Ibid., p. 39.
202 Notes
54 Arfi, ‘Ethnic Fear’.
55 Ibid., p.156.
56 Ibid., p. 168.
57 Ibid.
58 D. A. Lake, ‘International Relations Theory and Internal Conflict: Insights from the
Interstices’, International Studies Review, vol. 5, no. 4 (December 2003), p. 86.
Surveying several detailed case studies of violence, James Fearon and David Laitin
provide a good overview of some possible answers to this dilemma. Possible explana-
tions include: a psychological bias towards believing the leaders of one’s group;
information imbalances between leaders and masses; a long-standing discourse of
ethnic animosity; and the possibility that participants are actually taking advantage of
ethnic provocation to pursue their own agendas: J. D. Fearon and D. D. Laitin, ‘Vio-
lence and the Social Construction of Ethnic Identity’, International Organization,
vol. 54, no. 4 (Autumn 2000), pp. 845–55.
59 Many internal conflicts are also complicated by the intervention of external parties, at
national or international levels. While the actions (or lack thereof) on the part of
Jakarta had some influence on the trajectory of the violence, the North Maluku
conflict remained almost entirely local in scope so this consideration does not apply
here.
60 R. Brubaker and D. Laitin, ‘Ethnic and Nationalist Violence’, Annual Review of Soci-
ology, vol. 24 (1998), p. 446.
61 S. J. Tambiah, Leveling Crowds: Ethnonationalist Conflicts and Collective Violence
in South Asia, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996, p. 214.
62 For example, the Ambon conflict in eastern Indonesia quickly evolved from clashes
between local Christians and Muslim migrants from South Sulawesi into religious
violence. See International Crisis Group, Indonesia’s Maluku Crisis: The Issues,
Indonesia Briefing, 19 July 2000, and Overcoming Murder and Chaos in Maluku,
Asia Report no. 10, 19 December 2000.
63 See for example A. A. Engineer, ‘Introduction’, in A. A. Engineer (ed.), The Gujarat
Carnage, New Delhi: Orient Longman, 2003; P. R. Brass, Theft of an Idol: Text and
Context in the Representation of Collective Violence, Princeton: Princeton University
Press, 1997; Tambiah, Leveling Crowds.
64 Kalyvas, ‘The Ontology of “Political Violence”’, pp. 475–6. Of rioting during the
Tragic Week in Barcelona in 1909, the governor is reported to have said: ‘On each
street they shouted different things and fought for different purposes’, H. Thomas,
The Spanish Civil War, rev. edn, New York: The Modern Library, 2001, p. 18.
65 Kalyvas, ‘The Ontology of “Political Violence”’, p. 479.
66 K. R. Young, ‘Local and National Influences in the Violence of 1965’, in R. Cribb
(ed.), The Indonesian Killings 1965–1966: Studies from Java and Bali, Victoria,
Australia: Aristoc Press, 1990.
67 Kalyvas, ‘The Ontology of “Political Violence”’, p. 481.
68 Individuals interviewed included members of the Ternate, Tidore, Makian, Tobelo,
Galela and Kao ethnic communities.
69 H. Blumer, Symbolic Interactionism: Perspective and Method, Berkeley: Prentice
Hall, 1969.
70 Ibid., p. 2.

Chapter 2
1 Kabupaten Maluku Utara and Kabupaten Halmahera Tengah. In April 1999 Ternate
City was made a municipality (kotamadya), giving it the same status as a district with
its own parliament. I use the full term North Maluku District when referring to the
district. I use the term North Maluku when referring to the entire region.
 Notes 203
2 Interview with Yusuf Abdurrahman, former rector of Khairun University, in Ternate,
12 January 2004. In reality, after several centuries of movement between islands, the
differences between ethnic communities are perhaps not clearly demarcated,
although most people strongly identify with their ethnic community and differentiate
themselves from other communities. Linguistically, the region is divided between
Papuan language speakers, located mostly in northern Halmahera, Ternate and
Tidore, and Austronesian speakers, located mostly on Makian, Bacan and in southern
Halmahera: L. Y. Andaya, The World of Maluku: Eastern Indonesia in the Early
Modern Period, Honolulu: University of Hawaii Press, 1993, p. 104.
3 Although many Makians believe their community constitutes perhaps 50 per cent of
North Maluku’s population.
4 Under transmigrasi the central government resettled families from overcrowded
areas of the country, such as Java and Bali, to less crowded areas in eastern Indonesia
and elsewhere.
5 Official statistics for religious affiliation state that Muslims constitute 80 per cent of
the North Maluku population. However, many Christians, including the Protestant
Evangelical Church on Halmahera (GMIH), dispute this, suggesting that the true
figure is more likely to be approximately 65 per cent, with Christians comprising the
remaining 35 per cent of the population.
6 C. G. Kiem, Growing up in Indonesia: Youth and Social Change in a Moluccan Town,
Saarbrücken and Fort Lauderdale: Verlag Breitenbach Publishers, 1993, p. 139.
7 More complete accounts of North Maluku’s history can be found in: Andaya, The
World of Maluku; J. Haire, The Character and Theological Struggle of the Church in
Halmahera, 1941–1979, Frankfurt: Verlag Peter D. Lang, 1981; W. A. Hanna and D.
Alwi, Turbulent Times Past in Ternate and Tidore, Banda Naira: Yayasan Warisan
dan Budaya Banda Naira, 1990.
8 Andaya, The World of Maluku, p. 1. Archaeological records from the Middle East
suggest that the clove, native only to Maluku, had been traded along long-distance
networks since at least 1700 BC.
9 From the early sixteenth century, Ternate came to exercise power over Jailolo, which
faced it across the strait on Halmahera. Likewise, Tidore eventually incorporated
Bacan into its own kingdom: Haire, The Character and Theological Struggle, p. 9.
10 Ambon recognized the authority of Ternate until the Dutch colonial administration
assumed control of the island in the late seventeenth century: Andaya, The World of
Maluku, p. 84.
11 Ibid., p. 97. This relationship can still be observed in present-day linguistic termi-
nology. Tobelo and other communities (both Muslim and Christian) use the terms ke
atas (above) to signify any direction toward Ternate and ke bawah (below) for any
direction away from Ternate. These terms are used rather than north and south and
can make for a confusing bus ride from Tobelo southward towards Ternate (ke atas).
12 For example, Galela was required to send the sultan 20 men for service each year
along with large amounts of rice: Hanna and Alwi, Turbulent Times Past, p. 259.
13 Andaya, The World of Maluku, p. 96.
14 Ibid.
15 Ibid., p. 55. Intermarriage between the two kingdoms was common, and in 1999 the
two sultans were (albeit distant) relations.
16 Haire, The Character and Theological Struggle, p. 92.
17 R. Z. Leirissa, ‘The Idea of a Fourth Kingdom in Nineteenth Century Tidorese
Maluku’, in E. K. M. Masinambow (ed.), Maluku dan Irian Jaya (special issue of
Buletin Leknas, vol. III, no. 1), Jakarta: Lembaga Ilmu Pengetahuan Indonesia, 1994,
p. 181.
18 Andaya, The World of Maluku, p. 157, and Hanna and Alwi, Turbulent Times Past, p.
135.
19 Ibid., p. 252.
204 Notes
20 Andaya, The World of Maluku, p. 57.
21 Haire, The Character and Theological Struggle, p. 91.
22 J. Villiers, ‘Las Yslas de Esperar en Dios: The Jesuit Mission in Moro 1546–1571’,
Modern Asian Studies, vol. 22, no. 3 (1988), p. 595. Christian conversion was appar-
ently spurred by a series of volcanoes and earthquakes. In 1533, 35,000 people were
baptized in 29 villages around ‘Moro’. Remains of the Portuguese settlement can be
seen in the forest on a mountainside behind the village of Mamuya.
23 Hanna and Alwi, Turbulent Times Past, pp. 57–8, 75.
24 Andaya, The World of Maluku, p. 146.
25 The Portuguese were particularly hostile towards Muslims, a result of the centu-
ries-long occupation of Portugal by Moors from North Africa: ibid., p. 123.
26 Ibid., p. 131.
27 Ibid., p. 132.
28 Haire, The Character and Theological Struggle, p. 107.
29 N. Ishige, ‘Limau Village and its Setting’, in N. Ishige (ed.), The Galela of
Halmahera: A Preliminary Survey, Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology, 1980, p.
8.
30 Haire, The Character and Theological Struggle, p. 144.
31 Ibid., p. 67.
32 Ibid., p. 182. The Ambonese, who constituted the majority of the pastors in the region
at that time, also practised a form of Christianity syncretized with local Ambonese
adat.
33 After spice production and the accompanying colonial administration had been relo-
cated to Ambon, Christians on that island were provided with superior education and
employment opportunities in the bureaucracy and Dutch military compared to
Muslims: R. Chauvel, Nationalists, Soldiers and Separatists: The Ambonese Islands
from Colonialism to Revolt 1880–1950, Leiden: KITLV Press, 1990, pp. 20, 27.
34 Interview with Galela Muslim leader Haji Umar T Baendi, former village head of
Igobula, Galela, in Igobula, 30 October 2003. The Japanese occupied Halmahera
from 1942 to 1945. Japanese forces occupied most areas of the region, including
Ternate, but were stationed in greatest concentration in Kao, where 50,000 troops
were based and built an airport. After the deployment of large numbers of American
troops led by General MacArthur on the large northernmost island of Morotai in the
latter part of World War II, North Maluku, particularly north Halmahera, became the
scene of intense conflict. The wrecks of several Japanese warships lie off the coast of
Kao: J. Leith, ‘Resettlement History, Resources and Resistance in North Halmahera’,
in S. Pannell and F. von Benda-Beckmann (eds), Old World Places, New World Prob-
lems: Exploring Issues of Resource Management in Eastern Indonesia, Canberra:
Centre for Resource and Environmental Studies, Australian National University,
1998, p. 113.
35 Interview with local historian Adnan Amal in Ternate, 15 January 2004. In 1958,
several military officers in North Sulawesi launched the Permesta rebellion.
Supporters of the rebellion in North Maluku fought against government military units
on Halmahera and Ternate: Hanna and Alwi, Turbulent Times Past, p. 271. Interview
with Ternate historian Herry Nachrawy in Ternate, 14 January 2004.
36 Interview with Ternate historian Herry Nachrawy in Ternate, 14 January 2004.
37 R. Chauvel, ‘Ambon: Not a Revolution but a Counterrevolution’, in A. R. Kahin (ed.),
Regional Dynamics of the Indonesian Revolution: Unity from Diversity, Honolulu:
University of Hawaii Press, 1985, p. 257. On the RMS rebellion, see also Chauvel,
Nationalists, Soldiers and Separatists.
38 Chauvel, ‘Ambon: Not a Revolution but a Counterrevolution’, p. 259.
39 Ibid. While the largely Christian RMS separatist movement was defeated, the Chris-
tian community in Ambon continued to enjoy dominance in gubernatorial and civil
service positions until the 1990s.
 Notes 205
40 See for example Kiem, Growing up in Indonesia, p. 54.
41 Interview with Herry Nachrawy, in Ternate, 14 January 2004.
42 Many Muslims in North Maluku refer to the movement as Republik Maluku Sarani –
the local term for Christian.
43 Haire, The Character and Theological Struggle, p. 54.
44 Many of the Christian Ambonese suspected of being involved in RMS were pastors or
others associated with GMIH.
45 For a discussion of Darul Islam, see C. van Dijk, Rebellion under the Banner of Islam,
The Hague: Martinus Nijhoff, 1981.
46 Interview with Christian community leader Urubungus Djawa in Tobelo Sub-District,
24 January 2004.
47 Interview with Urubungus Djawa and several other Christians in Tobelo Sub-District,
2003–4.
48 Kiem, Growing up in Indonesia, p. 55.
49 Ibid.
50 Ibid.
51 P. A. Meyer and M. Hardjodimedjo, ‘Maluku: The Modernization of the Spice
Islands’, in H. Hill (ed.), Unity and Diversity: Regional Economic Development in
Indonesia since 1970, Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1989, p. 558.
52 It is estimated that almost three-quarters of Maluku Province (before the separation of
the North Maluku region) was forested and two-thirds of the logs extracted in Maluku
came from the north: ibid., pp. 550, 564.
53 Ibid., p. 557.
54 Newcrest Mining Ltd website: www.newcrest.com.au PT Nusa Halmahera Mineral is
82.5 per cent owned by Newcrest and 17.5 per cent owned by Aneka Tambang.
55 A good discussion of the migration of young people to Ternate from rural areas on
other islands to attend school can be found in Kiem, Growing up in Indonesia, pp.
73–7.
56 Makians officially make up 9 per cent of the North Maluku District population.
Statistic from ‘Maluku Utara Dalam Angka, 1999’ (North Maluku in Figures, 1999),
Badan Pusat Statistik (Central Bureau of Statistics), Ternate. Their proportion in
Central Halmahera District is greater, however. There are also, according to several
sources, many others in North Maluku who have one Makian parent but do not iden-
tify themselves as Makians in censuses. There has traditionally been much intermar-
riage between Makians and several other ethnic groups such as Tidores, Sananas and
Kayoas.
57 Interview with Christian community leader Urubungus Djawa in Tobelo Sub-District,
24 January 2004.
58 The perception of this dominance held by other ethnic groups, especially those from
Halmahera, is probably even greater than the reality. Makians represent most political
parties including Golkar, PDI-P (Democratic Party of Indonesia: Partai Demokrasi
Indonesia – Perjuangan) and PPP (the United Development Party: Partai Persatuan
Pembangunan).
59 Thaib Armain was also the head of the bureaucracy for North Maluku District from
1989 to 1997. In 2002 he was elected governor of North Maluku Province.
60 Interview with Yusuf Abdurrahman, Khairun University campus, Ternate, 12
January 2004.
61 For example, in 1998, following a dispute with the district head, Abdullah Assagaf,
the sultan’s traditional guards (Pasukan Adat), also sometimes known as the Young
Generation of Sultan Baabullah (Gemusba), attacked Abdullah Assagaf’s office. The
guards destroyed a great deal of equipment in the office, including computers and
furniture.
62 This was despite societal and familial pressures against converting, as required by
Indonesian law when the partners are of different religions.
206 Notes
63 Kiem, Growing up in Indonesia, pp. 107, 111–12.
64 Ibid., p. 116. To some extent these divisions in Ternate society were also associated
with political divisions between Golkar (of which the sultan was a representative) and
the party with a strong Islamic character, PPP.
65 Badan Pusat Statistik, Bappenas and UNDP, Indonesia Human Development Report
2001. Towards a New Consensus: Democracy and Human Development in Indonesia,
Jakarta, 2001, p. 2, and H. Hill, ‘Indonesia: The Strange and Sudden Death of a Tiger
Economy’, Oxford Development Studies, vol. 28, no. 2 (2000), p. 118.
66 Badan Pusat Statistik, Bappenas and UNDP, Indonesia Human Development Report
2001, pp. 2–8.
67 The World Bank estimated that from 1990 to 1996 highly mobile short-term debt
trebled. Cited in Hill, ‘Indonesia: The Strange and Sudden Death of a Tiger Econ-
omy’, p. 124.
68 Badan Pusat Statistik, Bappenas and UNDP, Indonesia Human Development Report
2001, p. 1.
69 For the sake of uniformity this study uses the more recent term TNI for the military
and Polri (Polisi Indonesia) for the national police.
70 In the 1950s newly independent Indonesia had a brief period of democracy.
71 Some of the more resource-rich provinces such as Aceh and Papua accused Jakarta (or
more generally Java) of having exploited local resources with scant compensation.
72 The impact of this policy is discussed further in the next chapter.
73 H. Crouch, ‘Wiranto and Habibie: Military–Civilian Relations since May 1998’, in A.
Budiman et al. (eds), Reformasi: Crisis and Change in Indonesia, Melbourne:
Monash Asia Institute, 1999, pp. 140–1. In 1997 this number was reduced to 75.
74 Ibid., p. 145.
75 J. Kristiadi, ‘The Armed Forces’, in R. W. Baker et al. (eds), Indonesia: The Chal-
lenge of Change, Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 1999, p. 101.
76 The monthly salary of ordinary soldiers is between Rp550,000 and Rp900,000
(US$55–90) and for high-ranking officers it is between Rp2 million and Rp6 million
(US$200–600): ‘Cash Strapped Military Recipe for Corruption’, Asia Times, 15
March 2003.
77 Editorial, ‘Current Data on the Indonesian Military Elite: January 1 1999–January 31
2001’, Indonesia, vol. 71 (April 2001), p. 1. The editors estimate that, in 1999, the
military had control of over 300 companies through foundations and cooperatives
(ibid., footnote 3).
78 D. Bourchier, ‘Skeletons, Vigilantes, and the Armed Forces’ Fall from Grace’, p. 152.
79 H. Crouch, ‘Political Update: Megawati’s Holding Operation’, in E Aspinall and G.
Fealy (eds), Local Power and Politics in Indonesia: Decentralization and Democrati-
zation. Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2003. See also G. Robinson,
‘Indonesia: On a New Course?’, in M. Alagappa (ed.), Coercion and Governance:
The Declining Political Role of the Military in Asia, Stanford: Stanford University
Press, 2001, p. 242.
80 This lack of resources was felt most strongly in the regions, because the government’s
funding allocation to the security forces almost certainly remains in Jakarta. There-
fore while the security forces as a whole are forced to obtain 70 per cent of their
required income from ‘off-balance-sheet’ activities, in the more remote regions the
percentage is closer to 100 per cent.
81 Asian Development Bank, ‘Country Governance Assessment Report Republic Indo-
nesia’, draft report, September 2002.
82 See for example the anti-Madurese riots by Malays in West Kalimantan in 1999: J. S.
Davidson, ‘The Politics of Violence on an Indonesian Periphery’, South East Asia
Research, vol. 11, no. 1, 59–89.
83 B. Singh, ‘The Indonesian Military Business Complex: Origins, Course and Future’,
Working Paper no. 354, Canberra: Strategic and Defence Studies Centre, 2001, p. 10.
 Notes 207
84 Polls taken in Jakarta, Medan and elsewhere found that 46 per cent of the population
believed that the TNI did not work in the interests of the nation: Bourchier, ‘Skele-
tons, Vigilantes, and the Armed Forces’ Fall from Grace’, p. 155.
85 International Crisis Group, National Police Reform, Asia Report no. 13, February
2001.
86 Eighty-seven per cent of Indonesians consider themselves Muslim.
87 M. Mietzner, ‘Godly Men in Green’, Inside Indonesia, 53, January–March 1998.
88 See A. Azra, ‘The Islamic Factor in Post-Soeharto Indonesia’, in C. Manning and P.
Van Dierman (eds), Indonesia in Transition: Social Aspects of Reformasi and Crisis’,
Singapore: Institute of Southeast Asian Studies, 2000, p. 313.
89 J. Bertrand, Nationalism and Ethnic Conflict in Indonesia, Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press, 2004, p. 80.
90 On the connection between more contemporary radical groups and Darul Islam, see
M. van Bruinessen, ‘Genealogies of Islamic Radicalism in Post-Suharto Indonesia’,
South East Asian Research, vol. 10, no. 2, (2002), and on the origins of the Darul
Islam movement, see J. C. Santosa, ‘Modernization, Utopia and the Rise of Islamic
Radicalism in Indonesia’, unpublished PhD dissertation, Boston University, 1996, p.
248.
91 Pancasila was first articulated by Sukarno in 1945 and has since been enshrined as the
national ideology. The five principles of pancasila are: belief in one God, humanitari-
anism, national unity, democracy and justice.
92 Santosa, ‘Modernization, Utopia and the Rise of Islamic Radicalism in Indonesia’, p.
326.
93 These incidents were attributed to a radical Islamic group under the leadership of
Husein Ali al Habsyi, a teacher at an Islamic religious school (pesantren) in Malang.
94 Bertrand, Nationalism and Ethnic Conflict in Indonesia, p. 99.
95 K. Steenbrink, ‘Muslim–Christian Relations in the Pancasila State of Indonesia’,
Muslim World, vol. 88, no. 3 (1998), 32–52, and Bertrand, Nationalism and Ethnic
Conflict in Indonesia, pp. 100–2.
96 ‘Kami tidak akan mundur’: interview in Tobelo, North Maluku in 2003.
97 On the violence in Poso, see L. V. Aragon, ‘Communal Violence in Poso, Central
Sulawesi: Where People Eat Fish and Fish Eat People’, Indonesia, vol. 72 (October
2001), 45–79; G. J. Aditjondro, ‘Kerusuhan Poso dan Morowali, Akar Permasalahan
dan Jalan Keluarnya’ (The Poso and Morowali Riots, the Roots of the Problem and
the Way Out), paper presented at seminar on Application of Emergency Status in
Aceh, Papua and Poso?, Hotel Santika, Jakarta, 7 January 2004; and D. McRae,
‘Criminal Justice and Communal Conflict: A Case Study of the Trial of Fabianus
Tibo, Dominggus Da Silva, and Marinus Riwu’, Indonesia, vol. 83 (April 2007),
79–117.
98 There were violent incidents in at least seven locations throughout Indonesia on the
same day, including Cirebon, Tegal, Pemalang, Sugihwaras, West Kalimantan and
Bolang Mongondow district in North Sulawesi, according to ‘Mass Violence Mars
Indonesia’s Eid al-Fitr Celebrations’, Agence France Presse, 21 January 1999. The
nature of the incidents, i.e. anger over recent elections, retribution on a suspected
thief, violence against police because of brutality, would suggest that the religious
character of the date was not determinative.
99 ‘Panic in Ambon – National Human Rights Group Ambushed’, Kompas, 3 February
1999.
100 ‘Death Toll in Indonesian Religious Riot Reaches 24: Official’, Agence France
Presse, 21 January 1999, ‘Warning Shot Marks Tension in Riot Hit Indonesian
Town’, Agence France Presse, 23 January 1999.
101 See the Ambon Information Website, where figures obtained from the Regional Office
of the Ministry of Transmigration are displayed: www.websitesrcg.com/ambon/
Transmig.htm. Accessed May 2002.
208 Notes
102 ‘Unrest in Ambon on Lebaran Day’, Kompas, 21 January 1999.
103 Ambonese reportedly resented the influx of Bugis because of a belief they created
slums and caused rising crime: Human Rights Watch, ‘Indonesia: The Violence in
Ambon’, Human Rights Watch Report, 1999. Prior to the violence, both Christian and
Muslim Ambonese and Bugis had also complained of the violence of the migrant
Butonese population: D. Mearns, ‘Class, Status and Habitus in Ambon’, in D. Mearns
and C. Healey (eds), Remaking Maluku: Social Transformation in Eastern Indonesia,
Special Monograph no. 1, Centre for Southeast Asian Studies, Northern Territory
University, 1996, p. 102.
104 See report by Richard Rowat, the MSF Field Coordinator in Ambon, online at:
www.websitesrcg.com/ambon/documents/Advocat1.htm.
105 J. Bertrand, ‘Legacies of the Authoritarian Past: Religious Violence in Indonesia’s
Moluccan Islands’, Pacific Affairs, vol. 75, no. 1 (2002), p. 73.
106 See J. D. Goss and T. R. Leinbach, ‘Development and Differentiation: A Case Study
of a Transmigration Settlement in West Seram’, in Mearns and Healey, Remaking
Maluku, p. 92, and F. von Benda-Beckmann and T. Taale, ‘Land, Trees, and Houses:
Changing (Un)Certainties in Property Relationships on Ambon’, in Mearns and
Healey, Remaking Maluku, p. 52.
107 International Crisis Group, The Search for Peace in Maluku, p. 2. Human Rights
Watch, ‘Indonesia: The Violence in Ambon’.
108 C. J. Bohm, ‘Brief Chronicle of the Unrest in the Moluccas 1999–2001’, Crisis
Centre, Diocese of Amboina, p. 4.
109 International Crisis Group, Overcoming Murder and Chaos in Maluku, p. 3.
110 Bertrand, ‘Legacies of the Authoritarian Past’. The RMS rebellion of the 1950s was
also preceded by Christian concerns at being incorporated into a predominately
Muslim state: Chauvel, ‘Ambon: Not a Revolution but a Counterrevolution’, p. 260.
111 G. van Klinken, ‘The Maluku Wars: Bringing Society Back In’, Indonesia, 71 (April
2001), p. 11.
112 G. J. Aditjondro, ‘Guns, Pamphlets and Handy-Talkies: How the Military Exploited
Local Ethno-religious Tensions in Maluku to Preserve their Political and Economic
Privileges’, in I. Wessel and G. Wimhofer (eds), Violence in Indonesia, Hamburg:
Abera Verlag Markus Voss, 2001.
113 Between 165 and 600 Ambonese sailed to Ambon from Java at the end of 1998, either
expelled for having inadequate identification papers (KTP) or voluntarily for the reli-
gious holidays of Christmas and Ramadan. These groups included the leaders and
members of Ambonese gangs in Jakarta
114 International Crisis Group, Overcoming Murder and Chaos in Maluku, p. 5.
115 The distance between Ternate and the Maluku provincial capital of Ambon was
approximately 500 km, which is approximately the same as the distance between
Jakarta and Surabaya: Meyer and Hardjodimedjo, ‘Maluku: The Modernization of the
Spice Islands’, p. 549.
116 Interview with North Maluku historian Herry Nachrawy in Ternate, 14 January 2004.
117 Ibid. As in 1999, during the Sukarno and Suharto eras, the creation of a new province
required the agreement of the government of the province from which the new prov-
ince would be created.
118 The violence in Ambon cannot be considered a factor in the mobilization to create the
province, as efforts to do so preceded the start of that conflict.
119 Many North Malukans also perceived that the new president, B. J. Habibie, would be
more sympathetic to the region, coming as he did from Gorontalo in Sulawesi: F.
Ammari and J. W. Siokona (eds) Ternate: Kelahiran dan Sejarah sebuah Kota
(Ternate: The Birth and History of a City), Ternate: Ternate City Government, 2003,
p. 135.
120 Interview with Hasbi Yusuf, currently a lecturer at Khairun University and in 1998 a
member of the FPPMU, in Ternate, 5 January 2004.
 Notes 209
121 Bahar and Syamsir Andili are originally from Tidore, although of Gorontalo heritage.
122 Numerous interviews in Ternate and elsewhere in North Maluku, 2003–4.
123 President Sukarno granted Yogyakarta Daerah Istimewa status because of the city’s
involvement in the independence struggle against the Dutch.
124 Several interviews in North Maluku.

Chapter 3
1 Sidney Tarrow defines a social movement as ‘collective challenges by people with
common purposes and solidarity in sustained interaction with elites, opponents, and
authorities’, S. Tarrow, Power in Movement: Social Movements, Collective Action,
and Mass Politics in the Modern State, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
1994, p. 3.
2 J. D. McCarthy and N. Zald, ‘Resource Mobilization and Social Movements: A
Partial Theory’, American Journal of Sociology, vol. 82, no. 6, p. 1216.
3 Perhaps because the focus of most Social Movement theorists has been rebellion and
insurgency, most theorists have focused overwhelmingly on the responses of
different factions of the state’s elite to social movements.
4 On counter-mobilization, see M. N. Zald and B. Useem, ‘Movement and
Countermovement Interaction’, in M. N. Zald and J. D. McCarthy (eds), Social Move-
ments in an Organizational Society, Brunswick, NJ: Transaction Books, 1987, and D.
S. Meyer and S. Staggenborg, ‘Movements, Countermovements, and the Structure of
Political Opportunity’, American Journal of Sociology, vol. 101, no. 6 (May 1996), p.
1635.
5 See for example D. McAdam, Political Process and the Development of Black Insur-
gency 1930–1970, Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1982, p. 56,
and Zald and Useem, ‘Movement and Countermovement Interaction’, p. 248.
6 Meyer and Staggenborg ‘Movements, Countermovements, and the Structure of Polit-
ical Opportunity’, p. 1650.
7 D. McAdam, ‘Tactical Innovation and the Pace of Insurgency’, American Sociolog-
ical Review, vol. 48 (December 1983), p. 735.
8 Recent scholarship in the Resource Mobilization tradition has also emphasized the
importance of emotion to social movements. See R. R. Aminzade and D. McAdam,
‘Emotions and Contentious Politics’, in R. R Aminzade et al. (eds), Silence and Voice
in the Study of Contentious Politics, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001,
p. 15.
9 D. Horowitz, Ethnic Groups in Conflict, Berkeley: University of California Press,
1985, p. 143.
10 Ibid., pp. 147–75.
11 For example, Anthony Smith defines an ethnie as a ‘named human population with a
shared ancestry, myths, histories and cultures, having an association with a specific
territory, and a sense of solidarity’: A. D. Smith, The Ethnic Origins of Nations,
Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1986, p. 32.
12 M. D. Toft, The Geography of Ethnic Violence: Identity, Interests, and the Indivisi-
bility of Territory, Princeton and Oxford: Princeton University Press, 2003, pp. 1–6.
13 There are obviously many other factors relevant to these conflicts, but ties to territory
are central to both.
14 Kao is now located within North Halmahera District. Until October 1999, the area of
North Maluku was not yet a province but comprised two districts (North Maluku and
Central Halmahera) and one city (Ternate). The area that is now the district of North
Halmahera was, at that time, several sub-districts within North Maluku District.
15 Badan Pusat Statistik Kabupaten Maluku Utara, Ternate (Central Bureau for Statis-
tics for North Maluku District), ‘Maluku Utara Dalam Angka, 1999’.
210 Notes
16 There are no official statistics for the number of Muslims in Kao. Abdurrahman
Hongi, a Kao Muslim community leader, stated that over a thousand Muslims live in
Kao (interview in Kao, February 2004).
17 These settlements are largely in West Kao but are also situated at Waringinlamo, 15
km from the capital, and near Pediwang in the north-east of the sub-district. The
inhabitants of these settlements are generally Muslim Javanese. However, the compo-
sition of many of these villages has changed substantially following the conflict, as
almost all Muslim Javanese returned to Java, and their houses and land were often
bought (cheaply) by Christian IDPs from elsewhere on Halmahera (see Chapter 7).
18 For a discussion of this resettlement, see R. Lucardie, ‘Spontaneous and Planned
Movement among the Makianese of Eastern Indonesia,’ Pacific Viewpoint, vol. 26,
no. 1 (April 1985), 63–78.
19 Many Makians state that the government forced them to depart from their villages.
20 Interviews in North Maluku, 2003–4.
21 Makians living in Malifut and Kaos testify to the welcoming attitude of the Kaos in
1975 and the existence of close relations between the two communities. For example,
Fahri Yamin, a Makian staff member for the Malifut office of PDI-P, interviewed in
Malifut, 3 November 2003, and Nathanial Bitjara, a Kao community leader inter-
viewed in Kao, 29 December 2003.
22 In 1999, approximately 75 per cent of the Malifut population was successfully
engaged in farming clove, cocoa and coconut (for copra), most of which was sold to
Kao villages and Tobelo for export (interview with the Malifut Sub-District Head and
head of agriculture, Malifut, 20 January 2004). The Makians are widely considered
by most ethnic groups in North Maluku to be highly successful farmers.
23 Interview with Ahdan Abdul Gani, Kepala Desa Samsuma village, Malifut, 2
February 2003.
24 Interview with Suratman in Ternate, 13 January 2004. Suratman was involved in the
push for legalized status for Malifut. North Maluku District Head Instruction
(Instruksi Bupati KDH Tk. II Maluku Utara) no. 09/8/MU/1995 closed the island to
reoccupation. See H. H. Sitohang et al., Menuju Rekonsiliasi Di Halmahera (Towards
Reconciliation on Halmahera), Jakarta: Pusat Pemberdayaan untuk Rekonsiliasi dan
Perdamaian, 2003, p. 76.
25 Lucardie, ‘Spontaneous and Planned Movement’, p. 76.
26 Members of the Kao and Tobelo communities regularly expressed this stereotype to
me. They often related a story in which the Makians were described as an elephant
which first asks if it may rest its trunk inside a house, then his head and finally his
whole body until there is no room left for the original inhabitants.
27 Interviews with large numbers of Kaos. It is difficult to obtain statistics indicating
inequality in funding, although the perception is widespread and deeply held among
Kao.
28 Several Makians, including members of the Makian elite in Ternate, expressed this
stereotype to me.
29 Interview with Pastor Rein Salakparang.
30 I heard this from several sources, including Mohtar Adam, a Makian on the academic
staff at Khairun University, interviewed in Ternate, 17 February 2004.
31 Confidential interview in North Maluku, 2003. By 1999 Kao ethnic solidarity became
far stronger in the face of ethnic antagonism with the Makian.
32 Newcrest Mining Ltd website: www.newcrest.com.au. PT Nusa Halmahera Mineral
is 82.5 per cent owned by Newcrest and 17.5 per cent owned by Aneka Tambang.
33 Interview with an Australian employee of Newcrest in Gosowong, 2003.
34 Interview with several Australian employees of Newcrest, Gosowong mine, 2003.
35 Muksin H. Abdullah, ‘Kerusuhan Maluku Utara Dalam Perspektif Sosial Budaya’
(The North Maluku Riots in a Socio-cultural Perspective), in I. Hasan (ed.),
Memikirkan Kembali: Maluku dan Maluku Utara (Rethinking: Maluku and North
 Notes 211
Maluku), Makassar: Lembaga Penerbitan Universitas Hasanuddin (LEPHAS), 2003,
p. 132.
36 Interviews with several Makians, including Suratman, 13 January 2004.
37 Interview with Suratman, 13 January 2004.
38 Interview with several former students involved in lobbying the provincial and
central governments.
39 The names of these informants are confidential because of the sensitivity of the infor-
mation. Most members of the Makayoa group, or individuals associated with it, now
hold positions in the local bureaucracy or universities. Yusuf Abdurrahman told me it
was ‘stupid’ that the Kaos in villages such as Sosol wanted to remain part of Kao
Sub-District – the location of infrastructure clearly dictated that they should be within
Malifut. Interview on Khairun campus, Ternate, 12 January 2004.
40 Interview with Lt Col. (Ret.) Abdullah Assagaf, Bandung, 28 February 2004.
41 Ibid.
42 Interviews in North Maluku 2003–4. Several respondents also stated that some
Makian elite held the goal of making Malifut the provincial capital. In the early 1980s
there were plans among the North Maluku elite to create an independent North
Maluku Province. At that time there was discussion of making Malifut the capital of
the new province. The vice-president, Adam Malik, visited Malifut in 1982.
According to one respondent, this visit was widely seen as intended to assess the area
as a potential provincial capital. Interview with Tobelo community leader,
Urubungus Djawa, in Tomahalu village, 24 January 2004.
43 Interview with Abdullah Assagaf, district head of North Maluku July 1994–July
1999, in Bandung, 28 February 2004. The eventual North Halmahera District now
covers only the eastern side of the peninsula.
44 Interviews in North Maluku, 2003–4, including members of the North Maluku
District parliament. Even if the structure of two districts and one municipality had
remained after the new province had been established, it was likely that North Maluku
District would require a new capital. If, as seemed likely in early 1999, Ternate was to
become the provincial capital, it was likely that it would be considered unwieldy for
that city to fulfil a role as the capital of both the province and a district.
45 Interview with Hein Namotemo, in Tobelo, 2 December 2003.
46 In May 1999, one month prior to the start of production at Gosowong, Law 22/1999
and Law 25/1999 were signed by President Habibie and thereby passed into law.
Thanks to Professor Harold Crouch for information regarding the timing of these
laws. The decentralization process began in January 2001.
47 This proportion is specified in one of the implementing regulations following that
law. According to Regulation (PP) 104/2001, Section 10, this royalty is divided into
Land Rent (Iuran Tetap) and (the much smaller) Exploration and Exploitation Rent
(Iuran Eksplorasi dan Eksploitasi), 80 per cent of each going to the region. Of the 80
per cent of Land Rent, 16 per cent is paid to the province and 64 per cent to the
producing district or municipality (Kabupaten/Kota Penghasil). Of the 80 per cent of
Exploitation Rent, 16 per cent is paid to the province, 32 per cent to the producing
districts and 32 per cent to the remaining districts in the province.
48 Information obtained from the provincial mining department in Ternate in the form of
statements of royalty payments by Nusa Halmahera Mineral to the Department of
Finance in Jakarta. I was unable to obtain figures for 1999 or 2000, but I assume the
mine at that early stage of exploitation, despite the conflict, was producing at a rate
closer to the 2001 rate. Land Rent is obviously far smaller than Exploitation Rent. In
the first quarter of 2002, Nusa Halmahera Mineral paid US$5,354.47 in Land Rent as
opposed to US$465,407 in Exploitation Rent.
49 As was the case with North Maluku District, a large proportion of the staff of both the
bureaucracy and government were likely to be Makian.
50 Law 25/1999 provided no guidelines as to what portion of mining revenue must be
212 Notes
passed down to the sub-district government, leaving a ‘producing’ sub-district
dependent on the goodwill of the district government.
51 In 2004, ex-district head Abdullah Assagaf stated to me there was a consensus in the
district parliament in the early part of 1999 to form the sub-district. Interview in
Bandung, 28 February 2004.
52 The full name of this law is Peraturan Pemerintah No. 42/1999 tentang Pembentukan
dan Penataan Beberapa Kecamatan di Wilayah Kabupaten Daerah Tingkat II
Maluku Utara (Government Law No. 42/1999 on the Formation and Organization of
Several Sub-Districts in North Maluku District).
53 The use of student groups to lobby the central government may have been intended to
have this effect.
54 It is possible that the wider Kao community influenced the communities of those
villages set to be included in Malifut, making them subsequently reject the
sub-district.
55 Interview with Suratman, a member of the Makayoa student group, in Ternate, 13
January 2004.
56 Interview in Gosowong, October 2003.
57 For example, Arnol Nanlohy, a Kao Christian, interviewed 10 January 2003, and Mr
Moumou, a Kao Christian and village head of Sosol in 1999, both argued that the loss
of the mine was not a primary source of opposition to PP42.
58 Interviews with numerous Kao.
59 Sitohang et al., Menuju Rekonsiliasi Di Halmahera, pp. 78–9.
60 Ibid.
61 Interviews with Kao community leaders in Kao, 2003–4.
62 Interview with a member of the Makayoa student group.
63 Several Jailolo villages were also included in the new sub-district.
64 I was told of the symbolism of the grave by, among others, Haji Ahmad and
Abdurrahman Hongi, two Kao Muslim community leaders, in an interview in Kao, 19
January 2004, and by Imam Langar, a Kao Muslim religious leader, in Kao, 1 October
2003. A Christian Kao community leader stated to me the principle of ‘hidup bersama
mati sekubur’ (Ternate, confidential source).
65 Interviews in Kao 2003–4.
66 Interviews in Sosol and Wangeotak in 2003.
67 Interview with Abdullah Assagaf in Bandung, 28 February 2004.
68 Interviews with members of the Makayoa group.
69 Confidential interview with a Kao community leader, North Maluku, 19 January
2004.
70 Interview with Ahdan Abdul Gani, village head Samsuma village, Malifut, 2 October
2003. Confidential interviews with several Kaos in North Maluku 2003–4. Kaos state
that in August, the new sub-district head of Makian di Malifut, Husen Kuda, gave an
ultimatum to the Kaos, stating that if they did not want to join ‘please raise your feet
and get out of this new sub district’ and that ‘the houses of those who do not wish to
join will need to be burned’. The date for this speech is uncertain, but some Kaos state
that Kuda made the speech on 18 August, the day the violence occurred. As only Kaos
related this story, and no Makians, I cannot confirm it.
71 Several respondents stated that around this time the district head Abdullah Assagaf
recognized the volatility of the situation in Malifut and initially urged the district
parliament to implement PP42.
72 Confidential interview with a Makian community leader, Ternate, January 2004.
73 The Imam of Tahane mosque confirmed to me that ‘Allahu Akbar’ was shouted from
the mosque, although he said he was not present for the riot.
74 Confidential interview with a Makian community leader in Ternate.
75 Wangeotak is almost adjacent to Sosol, although the two villages are separated by
100–200 m of Makian houses.
 Notes 213
76 Interview with Commander Franciscus Arisusetio, in Tobelo, 29 September 2003.
Arisusetio is now the commander of the military company (Kompi Senayan C) for
North Halmahera District.
77 The Kao community historically served as important members of the Ternate Sultan-
ate’s military forces.
78 Confidential interviews in Kao in 2003. This was also stated in an unpublished report
by GMIH, released in December 1999.
79 Interview with the sultan in Ternate, February 2004.
80 Interviews with members of the Team of Nine such as Pastor Salamena, Mr Bitjara
and Haji Muksin.
81 Confidential interview in Kao with a member of the Team of Nine.
82 Interview with the Sultan of Ternate, Mudaffar Syah, in Ternate, 17 February 2004.
Members of the Team of Nine also told me the sultan was sympathetic to their
demands, but that he told them it was difficult to circumvent a government law. This
is an important point, as the sultan is considered by many Makians to have provoked
the Kaos.
83 Confidential interview in Kao with a member of the Team of Nine.
84 Ibid.
85 Before the initial incident, Benny Bitjara was living in Kupa Kupa village, Tobelo
Sub-district, but subsequently he spent a great deal of time in Kao, overseeing Kao
military preparations. Benny Bitjara would also come to be known as Benny Doro,
‘Doro’ being the name of his village in Kao. Prior to the conflict, Benny Bitjara was in
charge of security at the Pertamina installation at Kupa Kupa. Some military prepara-
tions had been carried out simultaneously with the Kaos’ diplomatic efforts, but were
accelerated over time as the Kaos received no response from the government.
86 Unsurprisingly, each side believes the other intended to attack that day.
87 Makians I interviewed suggested that there were between 40 and 100 Makians
present. Kaos whom I interviewed, however, stated that there were as many as 600
Makian, although one Kao man who had been present guarding the border suggested
there were 200. Interview with Kao Muslim, Mohtar Ismael, in Kao, 19 January 2004.
88 Interviews with Makians in Malifut and Ternate, including Ipor, a man from the
Malifut village of Tahane, in Ternate, 15 January 2004.
89 Separate interviews with Mohtar Ismael and Darwan, Muslim Makians guarding
Kalijodo on Sunday 24 October 1999, in Kao,19 January 2004. The Kaos suggest that
the Makians timed the attack to occur during the church service (ibadah) on Sunday
morning, when most Christians would be ill prepared, and the small numbers of
Muslim Kaos on guard could be easily overrun or persuaded to join the Makians.
90 Large numbers of Makians interviewed stated the community was short of food; inter-
views in Malifut and Ternate, 2003–4. Interview with Ipor, Ternate, 15 January 2004.
91 Confidential interviews, North Maluku, 2003–4. This statement does not by any
means prove that this happened, but does add to the list of factors discussed above.
92 Most Kaos (and Tobelos) consider the communities of West Kao, often called orang
pedalaman (interior people) to be more ‘warlike’ and animist than other Kao commu-
nities: numerous interviews on Halmahera, 2003–4.
93 Interview with Benny Bitjara, Kupa Kupa village, 18 September 2003. As is almost
always the case in such events, the exact number of Kao troops is difficult to obtain.
Makian have suggested there were as many as 20,000. Benny Bitjara stated he led
15,000. However, the fact that the total population of Kao Sub-District was only
27,000 suggests that both these figures are exaggerated. The more likely figure is
probably approximately 5,000. At least some women and children were involved. No
members of the Tobelo ethnic group assisted in the attack.
94 Interview with Satta Sabar, Ternate, 4 January 2004. Satta Sabar was a community
leader in Malifut at the time of the conflict and now is a staff member in the North
Maluku District Department of Agriculture (Kantor Petanian) in Ternate. Apparently
214 Notes
Makian from Ternate and elsewhere had attempted to reach Malifut from Ternate but
had been blocked by Indonesian security forces at Sidangoli, the port village on the
western side of Halmahera.
95 Interview with Satta Sabar, 4 January 2004.
96 Interviews with Benny Bitjara, Kupa Kupa village, 18 September 2003 and Satta
Sabar, Ternate, 4 January 2004.
97 It seems likely that the schools were not destroyed because they were built with funds
from Nusa Halmahera Mineral.
98 The mosques in Malifut were subsequently ransacked and then destroyed during the
wider conflict on Halmahera.
99 Interview with Benny Bitjara. As Christians are a 20 per cent minority in North
Maluku, it is obvious why the largely Christian Kao would not want the wider popula-
tion to see the conflict as religious. The issue of the destruction of mosques in Malifut
would nevertheless become a central issue in the development of the conflict in North
Maluku.
100 A series of national laws, from the Basic Agrarian Law No. 5 1960 to the Basic
Forestry Law 1967 and the Mining Law 1968, state that customary title is recognized
only so long as it does not interfere with national and state interests. See International
Crisis Group, Communal Violence in Indonesia: Lessons from Kalimantan, Asia
Report no. 19, 27 June 2001, pp. 15–16.
101 The Imam of Mesjid Raya, Ngofagita village, in Malifut told me there had been Chris-
tian Ambonese in Kao who had been provoking local people. One Makian told a story
of how an Ambonese IDP in Wangeotak had shouted ‘Yesus menang!’ (Jesus wins!)
following a ‘spike’ during a volleyball game.
102 This required a great amount of effort as most Muslims in Ternate and elsewhere in
the region continued to view the Malifut conflict as ethnic in character (see Chapter
4).
103 The Kaos maintained civil relations with Javanese transmigrants even as conflict
broke out between Muslims and Christians in the neighbouring sub-district of Tobelo
in December 1999. Many Javanese transmigrants fled North Maluku during the
conflict, not because of attacks by Christian militia but pressure from Indonesian mili-
tary personnel, as discussed in Chapter 7.
104 There was no violence between Muslim and Christian Kaos throughout the conflict.
The two communities stayed at peace even during the religious conflict in late
December between Muslim and Christian Tobelos in Tobelo City, 100 km to the
north.

Chapter 4
1 The only location in North Maluku that did not experience violence was a small area
around the Weda Bay nickel mine in (then) Central Halmahera District. The reasons
for the absence of violence in this area are discussed in the following chapter.
2 C. Tilly, The Politics of Collective Violence, Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2003, p. 119.
3 D. Horowitz, The Deadly Ethnic Riot, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001,
pp. 74–5.
4 This propaganda is a form of what the Social Movements literature calls ‘framing
processes’. See for example D. McAdam et al., Comparative Perspectives on Social
Movements, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996, p. 8. Social Movement
theorists have argued that even dramatic changes in objective conditions will not
stimulate collective action without a process of making people aware of the nature of
their condition, the source of their grievance and their collective capacity to act
against it.
 Notes 215
5 S. J. Tambiah, Leveling Crowds: Ethnonationalist Conflicts and Collective Violence
in South Asia, Berkeley: University of California Press, 1996, p. 81.
6 Ibid.
7 P. R. Brass, Theft of an Idol: Text and Context in the Representation of Collective
Violence, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997, pp. 96, 177.
8 J. D. Fearon and D. D. Laitin, ‘Violence and the Social Construction of Ethnic Iden-
tity’, International Organization, vol. 54, no. 4 (Autumn 2000), p. 874.
9 Horowitz, The Deadly Ethnic Riot, p. 73.
10 Tambiah, Leveling Crowds, p. 124.
11 S. I. Wilkinson, Votes and Violence: Electoral Competition and Ethnic Riots in India,
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004, p. 4.
12 Ibid., p. 6.
13 Ibid., p. 5.
14 By the time of writing in 2005, the new sultan has assumed some of the traditional
authority of the Sultan of Ternate.
15 The permanent capital of North Maluku Province will be Sofifi on Halmahera. Since
the division (pemekaran) of North Maluku District in 2001 and district elections in
April 2004, Ternate has become the capital of the district of West Halmahera.
Following the district elections held in April 2004, North Maluku District was offi-
cially divided into North Halmahera (Halmahera Utara) and West Halmahera
(Halmahera Barat).
16 Of the other major parties, PPP had seven.
17 In 2004 the city also obtained municipal status.
18 Interview with a member of the Central Halmahera District parliament.
19 Most export commodities are forestry products such as plywood, agricultural prod-
ucts such as copra, clove and nutmeg, fish products (live and frozen) and minerals,
particularly nickel and gold.
20 Interviews with both Muslim and Christian respondents.
21 C. G. Kiem, Growing up in Indonesia: Youth and Social Change in a Moluccan Town,
Saarbrücken and Fort Lauderdale: Verlag Breitenbach Publishers, 1993, p. 107.
22 Most respondents agreed that Islamic norms had become more strictly enforced
following the conflict.
23 Confidential interview with a Christian refugee from Tidore in Tobelo.
24 Abu Bakar Wahid eventually led the local Islamic militia in North Maluku, the
Pasukan Jihad discussed in Chapter 7.
25 Confidential interview with a member of the Central Halmahera District parliament.
26 This information is widely acknowledged and was given to me by various respon-
dents, including a member of the North Halmahera District parliament.
27 ‘Demo Berebut Ibukota’ and ‘Para Penghianat Rakyat’, Ternate Pos, 7–13 September
1999.
28 Ternate Pos, 7–13 September 1999.
29 ‘Misteri Angka Sembilan’, Ternate Pos, 7–13 September 1999.
30 GPM also operated several churches in North Maluku along with the local Protestant
Church, GMIH.
31 See A. H. Jati, Dan Bundapun Menangis (And Mothers Weep), Manado, 2001, p. 76.
32 Ibid., p. 64.
33 Numerous interviews in Ternate, Tobelo and elsewhere. As made clear in the
previous chapter, mosques had not in fact been destroyed, largely because of the
involvement of Muslim Kaos in the attack and because Kao leaders wanted to avoid
creating the impression that the clashes were caused by religious animosity.
34 This organization collected money, food and clothing for the thousands of Makian
refugees. Interview with Wahda Zainal Imam, a candidate for the North Maluku
provincial parliament for Partai Bintang Reformasi, in Ternate, 11 February 2004. In
1999 Imam was a PPP member of the Ternate Municipality parliament.
216 Notes
35 Confidential interview with a staff member at Khairun University.
36 Several confidential interviews in Ternate, January 2004.
37 Several confidential interviews, including people who owned houses attacked by
these crowds and who were forced to run to the Central Halmahera District police and
military compounds and elsewhere.
38 The sources of this information are confidential, but include the Lurah of Mangga
Dua, a police officer, a member of Palang Merah Indonesia (the Indonesian Red
Cross), members of the district parliament and young men resident in those suburbs.
39 Confidential interview with a police officer, February 2002.
40 Confidential interview with a Tidore man living in Mangga Dua, Ternate, in Ternate,
5 February 2004. The interviewee stated that the young Makian said ‘We have to
return to Malifut because they killed us and destroyed our homes, how can you be
quiet?’ In line with the mounting claims that the Malifut incident was religious in
character, he used the term ‘we’ to refer to Muslims.
41 Confidential interview with a Makian staff member of Khairun University, in
Ternate.
42 The fact the shop owners were Chinese appears to have played little role in causing
them to be targeted for any reason other than they were Christian.
43 Confidential interview with a member of North Maluku District Police Resort
(Polres).
44 Ibid.
45 Andili is of mixed Tidore and Gorontalo heritage.
46 Interview with Wahda Zainal Imam, Ternate, 11 February 2004.
47 Interview with Ibrahim Fabanyo, Ternate, 11 February 2004.
48 Interview with Pastor Aesh, Tobelo.
49 Respondents who stated that these people produced the ‘Bloody Sosol’ letter included
a police officer from the North Maluku District Police Resort (Polres) who was
involved in the investigation into the riot, confidential interview, February 2004.
50 Confidential interview with a member of the public service in Ternate, in a refugee
camp in Manado, February 2004.
51 Confidential interview with a member of the Central Halmahera Parliament (DPRD)
in 1999. I have not provided the names of the men the respondent gave as they were
not corroborated by any other source and the information could not be verified for
publication.
52 This speech, given in the closed meeting in the district parliament, was recounted to
me by two members of that parliament.
53 Confidential interview with a member of the North Maluku District Parliament, in
Ternate, 4 January 2004. This was also told to me by other respondents in Ternate
who had not been present in the parliament.
54 Interview with senior parliamentarian, Ternate, 11 February 2004.
55 Indonesiana is so called because it was very diverse, home to a large minority of
Christians and numerous ethnic groups including Makians, Chinese, Papuans,
Makassarese and Bugis. One Makian resident of Indonesiana told me that the meeting
was announced as between Muslim and Christian community leaders, which he felt
was ‘stupid and strange’.
56 Confidential interview with a member of the Tidore ethnic group and member of the
Central Halmahera District parliament.
57 Report produced by the North Maluku Governor’s office and interviews with local
government officials in Tidore.
58 Interviews with several people in Indonesiana, Soasio, Tidore, including a local
government official, 9 February 2004.
59 Witnesses who stated that there were large numbers of Makians involved in the riot
included one Makian who lived in Indonesiana, Soasio. Confidential source.
 Notes 217
60 As well as being told to me by Christian residents of Ternate, this claim is also made
in Jati, Dan Bundapun Menangis, p. 94.
61 Interview with a member of the North Maluku District parliament.
62 See for example Jati’s interview with a members of the security forces: Jati, Dan
Bundapun Menangis, p. 87.
63 Confidential interview with a Christian resident of Ternate who was sheltering in the
church at the time, now living in Kao.
64 North Maluku Provincial Government, ‘Kronologis Kerusuhan Bernuansa Sara di
Propinsi Maluku Utara’ (A Chronology of the Sectarian Riots in North Maluku Prov-
ince), April 2000. The rioters did far less damage to the Catholic church than they had
to the GPM and GMIH Protestant churches.
65 I did not undertake fieldwork in this sub-district, and therefore rely upon published
and unpublished analyses, as well as accounts given to me by people in other
sub-districts.
66 According to Nanere, Muslims attacked Christians attending prayers at church in the
village of Lola, killing all of the approximately 100 people present. The crowd
involved in the attack burned the church and Christian homes: J. Nanere, Halmahera
Berdarah (Bloody Halmahera), Ambon: Yayasan Bina Masyarakat Sejahtera dan
Pelestarian Alam (BIMASPELA), 2000, p. 92.
67 N. Bubandt, ‘The Dynamics of Reasonable Paranoia: Rumours and Riots in North
Maluku, 1999–2000’, background paper for presentation at the Seminar Series of the
School of Anthropology, Geography and Environmental Studies, University of
Melbourne, 25 April 2002, p. 24.
68 Horowitz, The Deadly Ethnic Riot, p. 75. See also D. Horowitz, ‘Group Loyalty and
Ethnic Violence’, in Charles Hermann et al. (eds), Violent Conflict in the Twenty-first
Century: Causes, Instruments and Mitigation, Illinois: American Academy of Arts &
Sciences, 1999, p. 105.
69 Ten per cent of the Ternate population is Christian and perhaps 2 per cent of the
Tidore population. The outbreak of anti-Christian violence therefore undermines
arguments made by some analysts that a security dilemma is necessary for conflict to
occur. Kaufman for example argues that a mutual fear of extinction must be present
for conflict to occur: S. J. Kaufman, ‘Spiraling to Ethnic War: Elites, Masses and
Moscow in Moldova’s Civil War’, International Security, vol. 21, no. 2 (Fall 1996),
p. 109.
70 For these reasons, a coalition was formed between the sultan’s rivals for the governor-
ship, Bahar and Syamsir Andili and Thaib Armain. Until late October, in addition to
being rival candidates for the governorship, these individuals had taken different
positions on several issues, including the location of the provincial capital.
71 While in November 1999 the new North Maluku provincial parliament had not yet
been formed, it was likely to be formed on the basis of the results of the mid-year
district elections. Therefore, as in the three district parliaments, the provincial parlia-
ment would be dominated by Mudaffar Syah’s own party, Golkar, and the other major
secular, nationalist party, PDI-P. Once this parliament had been formed, its members
would then elect North Maluku’s first governor.

Chapter 5
1 Interview with a Muslim community leader in Tobelo Sub-District in 2003.
2 The realist theory in international relations argues that in an international system of
anarchy, where there is no overarching power, each state will naturally strive for its
own security, thereby threatening other states in the system.
3 B. R. Posen, ‘The Security Dilemma and Ethnic Conflict’, Survival, vol. 35, no. 1, pp.
29–31.
218 Notes
4 Ibid., p. 28. See also D. A. Lake and D. Rothchild, ‘Spreading Fear: The Genesis of
Transnational Ethnic Conflict’, in D. A. Lake and D. Rothchild (eds), The Interna-
tional Spread of Ethnic Conflict: Fear, Diffusion and Escalation, Princeton:
Princeton University Press, 1998.
5 J. D. Fearon, ‘Ethnic War as a Commitment Problem’, paper presented at the 1994
Annual Meeting of the American Political Science Association, New York, 30
August–2 September 1995, and D. A. Lake and D. Rothchild, ‘Containing Fear: The
Origins and Management of Ethnic Conflict’, International Security, vol. 21, no. 2
(Fall 1996), 41–75.
6 Lake and Rothchild, ‘Containing Fear’, p. 46.
7 Ibid., p. 47.
8 Posen, ‘The Security Dilemma and Ethnic Conflict’, p. 32.
9 O. Waever et al., Identity, Migration and the New Security Agenda in Europe,
London: Pinter Publishers, 1993, p. 23.
10 For an application of this concept to ethnic conflict, see P. Roe, ‘Misperception and
Ethnic Conflict: Transylvania’s Societal Security Dilemma’, Review of International
Studies, vol. 28 (2002), 57–74.
11 ‘Momentous’ events (such as religious riots elsewhere) can eradicate an individual’s
normal indifference towards their religious identity: S. Kakar, ‘The Time of Kali:
Violence between Religious Groups in India’, Social Research, vol. 67, no. 3 (Fall
2000).
12 Horowitz points to numerous riots that were preceded by rumours of impending
aggression by the group that actually becomes the eventual target: D. Horowitz, The
Deadly Ethnic Riot, Berkeley: University of California Press, 2001, p. 79.
13 B. R. Weingast, ‘Constructing Trust: The Political and Economic Roots of Ethnic and
Regional Conflict’, in K. Soltan et al. (eds), Institutions and Social Order, Ann Arbor:
University of Michigan Press, 1998, p. 165. See also Horowitz, The Deadly Ethnic
Riot, p. 319.
14 Ibid., pp. 74, 529.
15 R. S. Appleby, The Ambivalence of the Sacred: Religion, Violence, and Reconcilia-
tion, New York: Rowman & Littlefield, 2000, p. 69.
16 M. Juergensmeyer, Terror in the Mind of God: The Global Rise of Religious Violence,
Berkeley: University of California Press, 2000, p. 146.
17 A. Hasenclever and V. Rittberger, ‘Does Religion Make a Difference? Theoretical
Approaches to the Impact of Faith on Political Conflict’, Millennium, vol. 29, no. 3
(2000), p. 656.
18 N. Z. Davis, ‘The Rites of Violence: Religious Riot in Sixteenth-Century France’,
Past and Present, vol. 59 (May 1973), pp. 81–2.
19 Ibid., p. 83.
20 Ibid., p. 85.
21 Posen, ‘The Security Dilemma and Ethnic Conflict’, p. 33, and Lake and Rothchild,
‘Containing Fear’, p. 55.
22 That such situations do not always lead to violence is pointed out in J. D. Fearon and
D. D. Laitin, ‘Explaining Interethnic Cooperation’, American Political Science
Review, vol. 90, no. 4 (December 1996), p. 715.
23 ‘North Maluku in Figures, 1999’, Central Statistics Agency (Badan Pusat Statistik),
North Maluku District, Ternate.
24 Van Fraassen considers the Kao to actually be of the ‘South Tobelo’ ethnic group: C.
F. van Fraassen, ‘Types of Socio-Political Structure in North-Halmaheran History’,
in E. K. M. Masinambow (ed.), Halmahera dan Raja Ampat: Konsep dan Strategi
Penelitian (Halmahera and Raja Ampat: Research Strategies and Concepts), Jakarta:
LIPI, 1980, p. 122.
25 N. Ishige, ‘Limau Village and its Setting’, in N. Ishige (ed.), The Galela of Halmahera:
A Preliminary Survey, Osaka: National Museum of Ethnology, 1980, p. 8.
 Notes 219
26 Togoliua is officially a sub-village (dusun) of the village of Tobe.
27 On Pela Gandong, see D. Bartels, ‘Guarding the Invisible Mountain: Intervillage
Alliances, Religious Syncretism and Ethnic Identity among Ambonese Christians and
Moslems in the Moluccas’, unpublished PhD thesis, Cornell University, 1977.
28 Interview with Ar Sidiumar, Tobelo Muslim, Tobelo City, 2003.
29 This was also the case for Christian migrants from Ambon, East Nusa Tengarra and
other areas of Indonesia. Migration similarly affected Pela Gandong in Ambon: D.
Bartels, ‘Your God is No Longer Mine: Moslem–Christian Fratricide in the Central
Moluccas (Indonesia) after a Half-Millennium of Tolerant Co-Existence and Ethnic
Unity’, unpublished article, 2000.
30 Such graffiti were very common during the conflict in 1999–2000. During my field-
work in 2003, new symbols had been added, such as ‘Taliban’ and ‘CIA’.
31 There are somewhat different versions of this story. Christians state the dispute arose
because of a linguistic misunderstanding since Bouwens’s skills in the Indonesian
language were not of a high standard. Muslims, however, and several Christians,
stated that Bouwens told the Muslim men that ‘Islam is dirty’. Several Christian
respondents also stated that during the conflict in 2000, Bouwens told them that there
was no need to be concerned because an American warship was not far from the coast
of the island of Morotai, ready to protect them against the ‘jihadist’ militia (the
Pasukan Jihad). Pastor Bouwens declined my request for an interview, citing ill
health.
32 Interview with several Christian men in the neighbourhood of Gura, Tobelo, 2003.
33 Interview with the former Sub-District Head of Tobelo, Agil Bachmid, in Ternate, 7
February 2004.
34 Several confidential sources from the Christian community in Tobelo.
35 By the time of the outbreak of violence, some Muslims in Tobelo as well as in Ternate
and elsewhere believed RMS was present in North Maluku, particularly in Tobelo.
36 Interview with a young Muslim man from Talaga who was involved in the clash, 6
January 2004. Several Christians in Tobelo also mentioned the Ibu incident.
37 Confidential interview with a Makian community leader who was asked to assist with
tents for the militia, interviewed in Ternate, January 2004. This informant refused to
assist the militia and was threatened.
38 Possible connections between this militia and the large Java-based militia of the same
name are discussed in Chapter 7.
39 I did not do fieldwork in these areas so the above information is based upon J. Nanere,
Halmahera Berdarah (Bloody Halmahera), Ambon: Yayasan Bina Masyarakat
Sejahtera dan Pelestarian Alam (BIMASPELA), 2000, pp. 91–3.
40 It is possible the government relied upon GMIH to evacuate the IDPs, but it seems
more likely that the government was unwilling to offer support to Christians given the
atmosphere at the time.
41 Interviews with several Christian respondents in Tobelo, 2003–4.
42 Interviews with several respondents in Tobelo, 2003, including Agil Bachmid,
members of FKPKHU and Muslim and Christian community leaders.
43 ‘Orang Islam adalah saudara kami, tapi etnis Makian dan Tidore adalah oknum
perusuh yang harus angkat kaki dari Kecamatan Tobelo.’ This information is given
in the Muslim account of the conflict: K. H. Ahmad and H. Oesman, Damai Yang
Terkoyak: Catatan Kelam dari Bumi Halmahera (Shattered Peace: Dark Notes from
the Land of Halmahera), Ternate: Madani Press, 2000, p. 59, n. 4. Christian respon-
dents also agreed this message was conveyed to the political delegation.
44 Several members of the Muslim community gave me this information.
45 Interview with Pastor Charles Kaya in Tobelo.
46 Interviews in Gosoma, 2003.
47 This area stretched from the port and market area around Kampung Cina, west to
Gosoma, north to Gura and south to Kaliseratus.
220 Notes
48 A senior politician and a pastor told me in confidential interviews that they notified
militia leaders of rioting in the city and requested they send Christian reinforcements,
Tobelo 2003.
49 Interview with Benny Bitjara and other leaders of the militia, as well as several
Muslim Kaos.
50 Interviews in Tobelo, Kao and Togoliua. Several men in Togoliua stated they laid the
coconut trees across the road.
51 Interviews with three Christian and three Muslim community leaders in Gamhoku, 29
January 2004. Relations between the Christian and Muslim communities in this
village had been deteriorating after the Tidore and Ternate violence and the spread of
the ‘Bloody Christmas’ rumour. Christian IDPs from Weda and Payahe were housed
in the village but no violent incidents had occurred during November or December.
52 Interview with Sakeus Odara, Tobelo, 3 September 2003. However, no Javanese were
killed in the violence.
53 Interview with Benny Bitjara in Kupa Kupa village, Tobelo Sub-District, 18
September 2003. Thanks to Father Tom Lawn for the excerpt from the psalm.
54 Interview with Benny Bitjara in Kupa Kupa village, Tobelo Sub-District, 18
September 2003.
55 Interview with a Muslim resident of Kampung Baru, 2003.
56 The claim that the soldiers did not have firearms is doubtful. Contradicting this claim,
Christians recounted how a Muslim Koramil officer had shot a Christian man
guarding a church in Gosoma.
57 Several Christian shop owners said that Christian militia had looted and destroyed
their shops.
58 Many shop owners have not yet managed to reconstruct their businesses.
59 The scarred asphalt remains as a grisly reminder of the violence.
60 Several Tobelo men told me this was common in ‘black magic’, using the
English-language term for traditional animist spiritual beliefs. The eating of hearts
was said to make one’s body feel hot (panas), and increase bravery and strength.
61 Interview with the village head of Gorua, 26 September 2003.
62 Interview with a Christian militia leader in Wari Village, Tobelo Sub-District, 17
October 2003.
63 The Kao Christian leader Hersen Tinangon told me the Kao were late returning
because they delivered the body of a Kao man to his girlfriend.
64 Interviews in Togoliua with the head of the village (Ketua Dusun), and two commu-
nity leaders, Hasan Andi Makulau and Irwan Sangaji, 23 September 2004.
65 On reports that those killed were Javanese transmigrants, see ‘Kepolisian Benarkan
216 Transmigrasi Dibantai di Mesjid Maluku Utara’ (Police Confirm 216
Transmigrants Butchered in North Maluku Mosque), Republika Online Edition, 17
January 2000; available online at: http://media.isnet.org/ambon/Republika05.html.
Accessed May 2002.
66 Interview with the pastor from the Trans Suka Maju transmigration settlement, in
Gamhoku village, Tobelo Sub-District.
67 Residents of Togoliua state that several dozen children were taken hostage during the
attack and are still being kept against their will by Christians in villages such as
Kusuri, Kupa Kupa, Efi Efi and Upa. According to residents of Togoliua these chil-
dren are currently forced to live as Christians, made to eat pork and attend Christian
services. I was not able to obtain verification of this claim nor evidence to disprove it.
68 ‘North Maluku in Figures, 1999’, Central Statistics Agency (Badan Pusat Statistik),
North Maluku District, Ternate. In 1999 the sub-district had a slightly larger male
(18,634) than female population (16,611).
69 Soasio (2,464), Dokulamo (2,166), Soatobaru (1,638), Togawa (1,558), Soakonora
(1,498), Mamuya (1,498), Duma (1,147). These figures are taken from a survey of
 Notes 221
communities in the area of a volcano near Mamuya and should be taken as estimates
only.
70 There are no official statistics for the size of the religious communities in Galela.
However, one source states that the Muslim population was 20,062 and the Christian
population 11,131. See F. Adeney-Risakotta, ‘Mobilising Conflict through Media in
the North Moluccas’, seminar paper presented at Indonesian Conflict Studies
Network, Bandung, Indonesia, 7–12 April 2003, p. 16.
71 Confidential interview with Christian community leaders, in Soatobaru, 27 October
2003.
72 Numerous interviews in Galela and Tobelo, 2003 and 2004. Aditjondro mentions the
Sinar Mas interest in GAI and the banana plantation in Galela in his discussion of the
violence in Maluku: G. J. Aditjondro, ‘The Political Economy of Violence in
Maluku’, Green Left Weekly, vol. 397 (2003). However, as I have stated, I found no
evidence to suggest external actors involved in this venture had reason to provoke
unrest around the plantation, and all local respondents stated there was no connection
between the business and the conflict.
73 GMIH officials denied this.
74 Interview with Samsul Bakhri, Islamic community leader, in Soasio, 20 October
2003.
75 Interview with Syamin Basyir, Soakonora Muslim community leader, in Soakonora,
30 January 2005.
76 Confidential interview with two Christian community leaders in Soatobaru, October
2003.
77 The village head of Dokulamo, Abu Bakar Dabidabi, told me he ordered villagers in
Dokulamo not to make weapons, interview in Dokulamo, 24 October 2003.
78 Interview with the head of GMIH for Galela, Pastor Kaleb Kakale, in Tobelo, 30
January 2004.
79 Interview with several Christian men, Mamuya, 2003.
80 Interview with a Muslim community leader in Mamuya.
81 The sub-district military compound (Koramil) is located outside Soasio, perhaps 10
km from the site of the first attack.
82 The fact the Christian community was able to flee with few casualties suggests the
imam persuaded the crowd to allow them to escape. Alternatively, the size of the
attacking crowd was at this stage still small.
83 Several Muslim community leaders travelled from Gotalamo and Dokulamo to the
capital, Soasio, telling Christians manning roadblocks in Duma and Soatobaru that
they intended to inform the government that there were individuals attempting to
provoke each community in their villages.
84 Interview with Josafat Etha, Christian community leader, Duma, 16 October 2003.
85 Ibid.
86 Interview with the village head of Ngidiho, Haji Basiron Ayub, in Ngidiho, 31
January 2004.
87 Adeney-Risakotta, ‘Mobilising Conflict through Media in the North Moluccas’.
88 Interview with former Igobula village head, Haji Umar Baendi, in Igobula, 30
October 2003.
89 Interview with Yamin Galela, village head of Igobula, in Igobula, 30 October 2003.
90 Almost all Christian respondents interviewed in Tobelo believe this to have been the
case.
91 Interview with Robert Tunggal, in Tobelo, 22 January 2004.
92 Confidential interviews in Tobelo, 2003–4.
93 In some cases, community and religious leaders attempted conflict prevention initia-
tives so as not to be seen as provocateurs.
94 J. D. Fearon, ‘Rationalist Explanations for War’, International Organization, vol. 49,
222 Notes
no. 3 (Summer 1995), p. 381. See also Fearon, ‘Ethnic War as a Commitment
Problem’.
95 Interview in Pediwang, Kao Sub-District, 5 December 2003.
96 Interviews in Tobelo, 2003 and 2004.
97 Interview with the head of GMIH for Galela, Pastor Kaleb Kakale, in Tobelo, 30
January 2004.
98 This information is based on a telephone interview with Malcolm Baillie of PT Weda
Bay Nickel.
99 Confidential interview Tobelo, 2003.
100 It is not beyond the realms of possibility, however. During my fieldwork in late 2003,
a series of bombs exploded in Tobelo, almost reigniting conflict between the two
communities. After suspicions arose that the Brimob unit from Makassar stationed in
the city was responsible, popular protests drove the district head to have the unit
replaced by another, from Manado. Following this rotation, the bombing stopped.
Possible reasons for instigation of conflict by security personnel include increased
payment for operations during a civil emergency.
101 However, it is worth pointing out that most Christian leaders believe the Muslim mili-
tary commander was ‘disturbed’ because he had believed Muslims would easily
control the city.
102 Interviews with Muslim men from Gorua and Popilo and Christian men involved in
the attacks on these villages.
103 The term Forest Tobelo is used by Christopher Duncan: C. R. Duncan, ‘Savage
Imagery: (Mis)representations of the Forest Tobelo of Indonesia’, The Asia Pacific
Journal of Anthropology, vol. 2, no. 1 (2001), 45–62.
104 Ibid.
105 Two senior pastors who attempted to prevent violence were the chairman and
vice-chairman of GMIH, Pastors Aesh and S. S. Duan.
106 One pastor who provided such a service before clashes was Pastor Yacob Soselisa.
107 Christian respondents recounted several stories about Bitjara which demonstrated his
magical powers. As the Pasukan Merah attacked the south of Tobelo City on 28
December a bomb landed in front of Bitjara but failed to explode. Bitjara strode to the
bomb and kicked it back towards the Muslim guard post, where it exploded and killed
several men. The story of Bitjara catching a bullet with only a slight injury to his hand
was also widely known and believed among Christians in north Halmahera.

Chapter 6
1 V. P. Gagnon, ‘Ethnic Nationalism and International Conflict: The Case of Serbia’,
International Security, vol. 19, no. 3 (Winter 1994/95), p. 132. For example, in Yugo-
slavia, following threats to their positions and power after the fall of the Soviet Union,
a wide coalition of ‘conservatives in the Serbian party leadership, local and regional
party elites … orthodox Marxist intellectuals … and parts of the nationalist army
provoked a conflict along ethnic lines’, ibid., p. 142.
2 J. Snyder, From Voting to Violence: Democratization and Nationalist Conflict, New
York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2000, p .39.
3 For example, in his discussion of the transition from Soviet authoritarian rule to
democracy in the Caucasus, Snyder argues that the prevalence of kin-based patronage
networks were irreconcilable with democratic processes: ibid., p. 204.
4 P. R. Brass, The Production of Hindu–Muslim Violence in Contemporary India, New
Delhi: Oxford University Press, 2003, p. 231.
5 Brass also used this term in Theft of an Idol: Text and Context in the Representation of
Collective Violence, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1997, p. 208.
6 P. R. Brass, ‘Introduction: Discourses of Ethnicity, Communalism, and Violence’, in
 Notes 223
P. R. Brass (ed.), Riots and Pogroms, New York: New York University Press, 1996,
p. 13.
7 Brass, The Production of Hindu–Muslim Violence, pp. 117, 242.
8 Brass, ‘Introduction: Discourses of Ethnicity, Communalism, and Violence’, p. 15.
9 S. I. Wilkinson, Votes and Violence: Electoral Competition and Ethnic Riots in India,
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2004, p. 4.
10 Ibid., p. 5.
11 D. Keen, The Economic Functions of Violence in Civil Wars, Adelphi Paper 320,
London: Oxford University Press, 1998, p. 12.
12 Brass, The Production of Hindu–Muslim Violence, p. 362.
13 Interviews in Ternate, 2003–4.
14 This information is widely acknowledged and was given to me by various respon-
dents including a member of the North Halmahera District parliament. Sofifi eventu-
ally became the permanent provincial capital.
15 Numerous interviews in Ternate and elsewhere in North Maluku, 2003–4.
16 ‘Demo Berebut Ibukota’ and ‘Para Penghianat Rakyat’, Ternate Pos, 7–13 September
1999. The demonstrators held banners claiming ‘Bahar and Syamsir Andili are provo-
cateurs’ (‘Bahar – Syamsir Andili provokator’).
17 The full title of the law is Undang Undang Nomor 46/1999 Tentang Pembentukan
Propinsi Maluku Utara, Kabupaten Buru, Dan Kabupaten Maluku Tenggara Barat
(Law 46/1999 on the Formation of North Maluku Province, Buru District and West
Southeast Maluku District).
18 As at the time of writing, construction of government facilities is still taking place in
the village of Sofifi.
19 Confidential interviews in Ternate, 2003–4.
20 The figure of 4,000 is cited in S. Alhadar, ‘Anatomi Kerusuhan Sosial di Maluku
Utara’ (The Anatomy of the Social Riots in North Maluku), in I. Hasan (ed.),
Memikirkan Kembali: Maluku dan Maluku Utara (Rethinking: Maluku and North
Maluku), Makassar: Lembaga Penerbitan Universitas Hasanuddin (LEPHAS), 2003,
p. 121.
21 Other pieces of graffiti stated ‘Jesus is an animal’ and ‘Jesus is a drunk’.
22 Several residents of Ternate claimed the Pasukan Kuning included many Christians
from Halmahera. Respondents included Haji Kotu, a prominent member of the militia
that would eventually oppose the sultan, the Pasukan Putih, interviewed in Ternate, 3
January 2004.
23 Some respondents stated they were outraged at this behaviour as the members of
Pasukan Kuning often could not read their identity cards
24 Confidential interview with a member of the Pasukan Kuning.
25 Interviews with several Makians in Ternate, 2003–4.
26 T. A. Tomagola, ‘Krisis dan Solusi Tragedi Maluku Utara’, Detikcom, 2 February
2000.
27 This was stated to me both by members of the Pasukan Putih as well as more tradi-
tional supporters of the sultan.
28 Confidential interview in Ternate, 2003.
29 Interview with Abu Bakar Wahid in Tomalou, Tidore, 7 January 2004. Abu Bakar
Wahid is of mixed Makian/Tidore descent, and, according to several respondents,
prior to the conflict in North Maluku had ties to Thaib Armain.
30 Interview with Abu Bakar Wahid in Tomalou, Tidore, 7 January 2004.
31 As will be seen in the next chapter, after leading the Pasukan Putih during the
Putih–Kuning conflict, Selang would also become the leader of the Laskar
Mujahidin, the Ternate branch of the regional Islamic militia, the Pasukan Jihad.
32 Following the violence in Tobelo and Galela the Pasukan Putih in Ternate and Tidore
became commonly known as the Pasukan Jihad.
33 Interviews with several residents of Kampung Pisang and Maliaro in 2004.
224 Notes
34 Interview with a young man in Tomalou, Tidore.
35 Interview with man from Dufa Dufa, Sucipto, in Ternate, 15 January 2004.
36 Interview in Ternate, 3 January 2003.
37 Interview with the Sultan of Tidore, Djafar Junus Sjah, in Soasio, Tidore, 9 January
2004.
38 Confidential interviews in Soasio, Tidore, 2004.
39 Interview with the Sultan of Tidore, in Soasio, Tidore, 9 January 2004.
40 Confidential interview with a member of the sultanate government, in Soasio, Tidore,
2004.
41 Interview with a senior member of the Tidore traditional guards, in Soasio, Tidore,
2004.
42 After the Pasukan Kuning had dispersed, several houses owned by Christians were
destroyed in northern Ternate City.
43 Interview with the Sultan of Ternate, in Ternate, 17 February 2004.
44 The higher estimate is given in Yurnaldi, ‘Dendam yang tak Berkesudahan’ (Revenge
without End) in Hasan, Memikirkan Kembali, and ‘Dendam yang tak Berkesudahan’,
Kompas, 2 January 2000.
45 Interview with the Sultan of Tidore.
46 See for example Kompas, 22 January 2000.
47 Bahar Andili would eventually die of natural causes during his campaign to become
governor.
48 S. Alhadar, ‘Tragedi Maluku Utara’, Republika, 18 January 2000.
49 S. Alhadar, ‘The Forgotten War in North Maluku’, Inside Indonesia, no. 63
(July–September 2000).
50 K. H. Ahmad and H. Oesman, Damai Yang Terkoyak: Catatan Kelam dari Bumi
Halmahera (Shattered Peace: Dark Notes from the Land of Halmahera), Ternate:
Madani Press, 2000, p. xxi.
51 Interview with Ibrahim Fabanyo, deputy chairman of North Maluku District parlia-
ment, in Ternate, 11 February 2004.
52 Interview with Mudaffar Syah, Sultan of Ternate, and several other respondents in
Ternate, 2003–4.
53 Confidential interview with a member of the Pasukan Kuning in Dufa Dufa, Ternate
City.
54 Several interviews in North Maluku 2003–4. Interview respondents included
members of the Tidore ethnic group residing in central and south Ternate, and on
Tidore.
55 This was stated to me by members of the Pasukan Putih as well as more traditional
supporters of the sultan.
56 Snyder, From Voting to Violence, p. 39.
57 Interview with Muhammad Selang, in Ternate, 7 February 2004.
58 Interview with Haji Kotu, in Ternate, 3 January 2004.
59 Interview with a young Muslim man who joined the Pasukan Putih, in Tomalou,
Tidore, 15 February 2004.
60 Alhadar, ‘The Forgotten War in North Maluku’.
61 Brass, ‘Introduction: Discourses of Ethnicity, Communalism, and Violence’, p. 13.
62 The police assumed primary responsibility for internal security and law and order,
including responding to both communal conflict and violent insurgency.
63 Thaib Armain would eventually be elected North Maluku’s first governor after Bahar
Andili’s untimely death from natural causes during campaigning. The North Maluku
provincial parliament’s first choice for governor, a former Suharto minister, Abdul
Gafur, was overturned following accusations of corruption.
 Notes 225
Chapter 7
1 F. Polletta and J. M. Jasper, ‘Collective Identity and Social Movements’, Annual
Review of Sociology, vol. 27 (2001), p. 284.
2 J. R. Seul, ‘Ours Is the Way of God: Religion, Identity, and Intergroup Conflict’,
Journal of Peace Research, vol. 36, no. 5 (1999), p. 558.
3 Ibid., p. 559.
4 Other studies have discussed the violence inherent in sacred texts and I will not
attempt to do so here; see, for example, B. Moore Jr, Moral Purity and Persecution in
History, Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2000.
5 F. M. Donner, ‘The Sources of Islamic Conceptions of War’, in J. Kelsay and J. T.
Johnson (eds), Just War and Jihad: Historical and Theoretical Perspectives on War
and Peace in Western and Islamic Traditions, Westport: Greenwood Press, 1991, p. 47.
6 Taken from B. Tibi, ‘War and Peace in Islam’, in S. H. Hashmi (ed.), Islamic Political
Ethics: Civil Society, Pluralism, and Conflict, Princeton: Princeton University Press,
2002, p. 179.
7 Ibid.
8 Donner, ‘The Sources of Islamic Conceptions of War’, p. 47.
9 P. L. Heck, ‘Jihad Revisited’, Journal of Religious Ethics, vol. 32, no. 1, p. 97.
10 Ibid., pp. 97–8.
11 J. Fox, ‘Do Religious Institutions Support Violence or the Status Quo?’, Studies in
Conflict and Terrorism, vol. 22 (1999), p. 120.
12 R. S. Appleby, The Ambivalence of the Sacred: Religion, Violence, and Reconcilia-
tion, New York: Rowman & Littlefield, 2000, p. 69.
13 See, for example, A. Hasenclever and V. Rittberger, ‘Does Religion Make a Differ-
ence? Theoretical Approaches to the Impact of Faith on Political Conflict’, Millen-
nium, vol. 29, no. 3 (2000), 641–74.
14 S. Bruce, Politics and Religion, Cambridge: Polity Press, 2003, p. 84; S. Bruce, ‘Reli-
gion and Violence: What Can Sociology Offer?’, Numen, vol. 52 (2005), p. 16.
15 Mujahid, meaning a participant in holy war, is the term used by most North Maluku
Muslims to refer to participants in the jihad.
16 Interview in Malifut in 2003.
17 Several interviews in Ternate, 2003–4, and interview with Abu Bakar Wahid in
Tomalou, Tidore, 7 January 2004.
18 Ternate Pos, 25 April–1 May 2000.
19 Several interviews in Ternate, 2003–4.
20 Interview in Tomalou, Tidore, 7 January 2004.
21 Ibid.
22 For example interview with North Maluku historian Herry Nachrawy, in Ternate, 14
January 2004.
23 Christian militia members in Tobelo told me they were angry to see Muslims carrying
red-and-white Indonesian flags in clashes with fellow Indonesians.
24 See, for example, C. G. Kiem, Growing up in Indonesia: Youth and Social Change in
a Moluccan Town, Saarbrücken and Fort Lauderdale: Verlag Breitenbach Publishers,
1993, p. 54.
25 Interviews with all those mentioned, in Tobelo 2003–4. No separatist sentiment was
conveyed to me during fieldwork in 2003 and 2004.
26 Interviews in Tobelo Sub-District, 2003.
27 Interview with Muhammad Albar, in Ternate, 10 February 2004.
28 For example interview with one young Muslim man from the Tidore ethnic group, in
Ternate, 5 February 2004.
29 Interview in Tomalou, Tidore, 7 January 2004.
30 Several interviews in Ternate in 2003–4. It is impossible to verify this claim but this
tension between the former leadership of the militia was still manifest in early 2004.
226 Notes
31 Numerous interviews in Tobelo, Galela and Kao 2003–4.
32 Interviews with Christians in Duma, Tobelo and elsewhere in North Maluku, 2003–4.
See J. Nanere, Halmahera Berdarah (Bloody Halmahera), Ambon: Yayasan Bina
Masyarakat Sejahtera dan Pelestarian Alam (BIMASPELA), 2000, p. 156 for a list of
the identification cards allegedly found on mujahid.
33 Interview in Tobelo, 11 January 2003. Several Christians also claim that one Afghan
was identified among the dead, although this seems unlikely.
34 Interview with Christopher Selong, Duma, 17 October 2003.
35 Nanere, Halmahera Berdarah, p. 154.
36 T. A. Tomagola, ‘The Bleeding Halmahera of North Moluccas’, Jurnal Studi Indo-
nesia, vol. 10, no. 2 (2000), p. 7.
37 N. Hasan, ‘Faith and Politics: The Rise of the Laskar Jihad in the Era of Transition in
Indonesia’, Indonesia, vol. 73 (April 2002), p. 159.
38 Salafism, a very puritan stream of the Saudi Wahhabist doctrine, demands a literal
reading of the Qu’ran and application of sharia. Indonesian salafi leaders often seek
guidance from sheikhs in Saudi Arabia and Yemen.
39 For a good discussion of FKAWJ, see Hasan, ‘Faith and Politics’.
40 Ibid., p. 159.
41 Ibid., p. 165.
42 For a good discussion of the operations of the Laskar Jihad, see International Crisis
Group, Indonesia: Overcoming Murder and Chaos in Maluku, Asia Report no. 10, 19
December 2000.
43 While the attitude of military personnel to Laskar Jihad varied from unit to unit, in
general the militia was not initially opposed by the military, although clashes between
the two did occur later in 2001.
44 International Crisis Group, Indonesia: The Search for Peace in Maluku, Asia Report
no. 31, 8 February 2002, p. 14. Military support for Laskar Jihad seems to have begun
with the training of militia members by military personnel at Bogor near Jakarta.
Reports claimed that when members of Laskar Jihad arrived in Ambon, military
personnel provided them with weapons: G. Fealy, ‘Inside the Laskar Jihad – An Inter-
view with the Leader of a New, Radical and Militant Sect’, Inside Indonesia, 31
March 2001, p. 29
45 See the various June 2000 reports of the Crisis Centre, Diocese of Amboina.
46 R. W. Hefner, ‘Civic Pluralism Denied? The New Media and Jihadi Violence in Indo-
nesia’, in D. F. Eickelman and J. W. Anderson (eds), New Media in the Muslim
World: The Emerging Public Sphere, Bloomington: Indiana University Press, 1999,
p. 3. Hefner writes that Western intelligence reports suggest army officers transferred
US$9.3 million to Laskar Jihad, ibid., p. 10.
47 Maluku Hari Ini, 18 July 2000.
48 Jakarta Post, 7 April 2000.
49 Interviews with Abu Bakar Wahid, Muhammad Selang, Muhammad Albar in Tidore
and Ternate, and with Samsul Bakhri in Soasio, Galela, 20 October 2003.
50 For example interview with Ahmad Pilo, a sub-district Muslim community leader in
Ngidiho, Galela, 21 October 2003.
51 This information is consistent with interviews conducted by Professor Harold Crouch
with members of Laskar Jihad: personal communication.
52 Interview with Abu Bakar Wahid, in Tomalou, Tidore, 7 January 2004.
53 Interview with Muhammad Albar in Ternate, 10 February 2004.
54 Ibid.
55 Interview with Muhammad Selang in Ternate, 7 February 2004.
56 Ibid.
57 The group’s leader was another Islamic preacher of Yemeni descent, Habib Rizieq
Shihab, a sayyid or descendant of the prophet Muhammad.
58 FPI appeared to have contacts with military and police officers, including senior
 Notes 227
personnel such as former General Wiranto. It is unlikely that senior officers shared the
goals of FPI, but may have utilized the organization as an expedient way of mobi-
lizing large numbers of people at certain times.
59 ‘500,000 Jihad Legion Supporters Gather in North Maluku Province’, The Indonesian
Observer, 24 April 2000. As North Maluku has a population of 800,000, it is clear
500,000 was a substantial overestimate. See also ‘Islamic Defenders Reject Reconcil-
iation over Maluku Conflict’, Antara, 26 April 2000.
60 Interview with Muhammad Selang in Ternate, 7 February 2004.
61 Respondents include Makian and Tidore men in Ternate and Dan Murphy, a jour-
nalist with the Christian Science Monitor: personal communication in Ternate,
February 2004.
62 Confidential interview in Ternate, 12 February 2004.
63 Interview with Abu Bakar Wahid, in Tomalou, Tidore, 7 January 2004.
64 A Bubalo and G. Fealy, Joining the Caravan? The Middle East, Islamism and Indo-
nesia, Lowy Institute Paper 5, New South Wales: Lowy Institute for International
Policy, 2005, p. 79.
65 Ibid., p. 81.
66 International Crisis Group, Al-Qaeda in Southeast Asia: The Case of the ‘Ngruki
Network’ in Indonesia, Asia Briefing no. 20, 8 August 2002, p. 19.
67 International Crisis Group, Indonesia Backgrounder: How the Jemaah Islamiyah
Terrorist Network Operates, Asia Report no. 43, 11 December 2002, pp. 3–4.
68 Subsequently, members of Jemaah Islamiyah have been responsible for the worst
terrorist attacks carried out in Indonesia. On 12 October 2002 a Jemaah Islamiyah cell
detonated two large bombs targeted at two nightclubs in Kuta, Bali, attempting to kill
Westerners. The bombings killed 202 people, both Westerners and Indonesians, and
injured a further 300. In August 2003 the organization exploded a bomb in front of the
American-owned J. W. Marriot hotel killing 12 people, and in September 2004 deto-
nated a car bomb in front of the Australian Embassy killing nine.
69 International Crisis Group, How the Jemaah Islamiyah Terrorist Network Operates,
p. 22.
70 Abu Jibril was deported from Malaysia to Indonesia and has not been charged with
being a member of JI in Indonesia.
71 This recording is discussed in D. Murphy, ‘Al Qaeda’s New Frontier: Indonesia’,
Christian Science Monitor, 1 May 2002.
72 Interview with Abu Bakar Wahid, in Tomalou, Tidore, 7 January 2004.
73 When other members of Jemaah Islamiyah arrived in North Maluku after the conflict,
they appear to have been disappointed that violence had ended. See International
Crisis Group, How the Jemaah Islamiyah Terrorist Network Operates, p. 24.
74 In 2001 in Ambon, Laskar Jihad members, under the leadership of Ja’far, executed a
militia member who had been sentenced to death under sharia.
75 Interview with Samsul Bakhri in Soasio, Galela, 20 October 2003.
76 Interviews with Muhammad Selang and Muhammad Albar in Ternate, 7 February
2004 and 10 February 2004. Some analysts have also reported that some Ambonese
Muslims, while at first welcoming the protection afforded by Laskar Jihad, soon
resented the imposition of a stricter form of Islam, as well as the continuing violence.
This was demonstrated in the July 2000 statement by the Ambon Secretary of Majelis
Ulama Indonesia, Malik Selang, that all external actors should leave Maluku: Crisis
Centre, Diocese of Amboina, report no. 25, 25 July 2000.
77 I did not undertake fieldwork on this island or interview anybody involved. This
information was taken from interviews with IDPs from Lata Lata in Ambon posted on
the internet by the Masariku Network: www.malra.org/posko/malra.php4?oid=
151531. It must be noted that all these accounts are given by Christians and I cannot
confirm their accuracy.
78 According to this account, by early February the entire village had been forcibly
228 Notes
converted to Islam and all men, women and children circumcised. According to an
individual who had interviewed the Lata Lata IDPs, Brawijaya 511 Battalion military
personnel supervised the procedures and remained on the island supervising mosque
attendance and other Islamic practices: interview in North Sulawesi, 2004.
79 Nanere, Halmahera Berdarah, p. 154.
80 Information received from a former NHM employee, 2005.
81 Interview with Abu Bakar Wahid, in Tomalou, Tidore, 7 January 2004. One
well-informed attendee at a seminar where I presented a photograph of the mujahid
leaving Tidore believed it was very likely that the vessels in question were Indonesian
Navy gunships.
82 Interview in Pediwang, Kao, 5 December 2003.
83 NHM began evacuating further personnel to a ship berthed at Tanjung Barnabas port
by helicopter. On 24 January NHM provided a helicopter to fly the national Human
Rights Commissioner, Bambang Suharto, in to the area to talk to both parties,
although this visit appears to have achieved little.
84 It was impossible for a Kao parliamentarian to return to Ternate during the conflict
and any requests to the government had to be made by telephone.
85 Some reports apparently stated that the militia was targeting several Ambonese staff
members of PT NHM.
86 Interview with leader of the Pasukan Merah in Kao, 2003. According to the militia
leader, the Kaos were able to convince the military unit commander, and through him
the mujahid, that the Pasukan Jihad was surrounded by Kaos. According to him it was
for this reason the Muslims left the area.
87 Several interviews in Ternate 2003–4.
88 Interview with Pasukan Merah leader Sakeus Odara in Tobelo, 3 September 2003.
89 Interview with Nasrun Alih, the leader of Al Istiklama militia in Igobula, 31 October
2003.
90 Interview with Eddie Tobelo, Pasukan Merah militia member, in Wari, Tobelo, 3
September 2003.
91 Interviews with Eddie Tobelo and with Nasrun Alih, leader of the Al Istiklama militia,
in Igobula, 31 October 2003, both of whom were present on opposite sides of this
ambush. A large number of Christians believe that a Christian leader from Duma gave
information about their movements to the Muslim militia in exchange for money.
92 For example, Sakeus Odara and Cornelis Hohakay were shot and wounded while
attempting to reach Galela.
93 Interview with the village head of Gorua, Tobelo, 26 September 2003.
94 One Muslim man from Tobelo who returned to Galela stated he was ready to attack
Tobelo City ‘if he had to’: interview with a Muslim community leader in Tobelo City,
19 September 2003. As discussed below, the Pasukan Jihad did not attack Tobelo for
several reasons.
95 Nanere writes that 31 members of the Pasukan Jihad died in the attacks and Chris-
tians found Indonesian name cards revealing that victims were not just from Ternate
but also Surabaya. Also found, according to Nanere, were two name cards of military
personnel from a Brawijaya battalion near Surabaya: Nanere, Halmahera Berdarah,
pp. 155–6.
96 Interview with approximately 15 Christians in Mamuya, 29 October 2003.
97 Interview with the village head, Mamuya,
98 Interview in Ternate, 5 February 2004.
99 Interview with Yamin Galela, village head of Igobula, in Igobula, 30 October 2003.
100 Interview with Samuel Kukus, leader of the Duma Christian militia, in Tobelo, 26
January 2004.
101 Interviews with both Christian and Muslim respondents present on 19 June, in Galela
and Tobelo, 2003–4.
102 Interview with Samuel Kukus, leader of the Duma Christian militia, in Tobelo, 26
 Notes 229
January 2004. According to Kukus, the military personnel guarding the northern edge
of the village laughed at the Christian militia as they withdrew.
103 In 2003 as Duma Christians were preparing to return to their homes, their gardens
were destroyed once more, leaving many local Christians still unable to establish
economic sustainability.
104 Interview with Nasrun Alih, kapita of Al Istikama militia in Igobula, 31 October 2003.
105 The kinds of atrocities that had been committed in Tobelo Sub-District are also said to
have occurred in the fighting in Duma and elsewhere in Galela. In Duma some Chris-
tian men were said to have engaged in the practice of eating the hearts of Muslim
victims. Interview with a Christian community leader in Duma, October 2003.
106 This may explain why several Galela men told me they demanded that external
mujahid should not join a certain attack against Duma, as their fear during battle
allegedly lowered the morale of the local men.
107 Interview with Abu Bakar Wahid, in Tomalou, Tidore, 7 January 2004.
108 The Ternate Pos quotes a police officer as stating that 19,000 homemade firearms,
machetes, spears and other weapons were surrendered or taken from citizens in this
amnesty: Ternate Pos, 15–21 July 2000.
109 Confidential interview with a Christian missionary in Manado, February 2004.
110 International Crisis Group, Overcoming Murder and Chaos in Maluku, p. 12.
111 Interview with Muhammad Selang in Ternate, 7 February 2004.
112 Under the concept of jihad, any war against non-believers who had previously
attacked Muslims is generally permissible: Tibi, ‘War and Peace in Islam’, p. 178.
113 Confidential interview with a Protestant pastor in Tobelo City, 2003.
114 Certain Muslim community leaders certainly opposed the jihad, arguing the condi-
tions for jihad were not present.
115 From a quantitative study of ethno-religious conflicts Fox has concluded that
‘whether religious institutions promote protests is highly dependent upon whether the
religion itself is threatened’: Fox, ‘Do Religious Institutions Support Violence of the
Status Quo?’, p. 131.
116 Clearly this decision was also taken in the context of believing that the military
personnel stationed in the area would assist in protecting the village.
117 R. Cribb, ‘Introduction: Problems in the Historiography of the Killings in Indonesia’,
in R. Cribb (ed.), The Indonesian Killings 1965–1966, Victoria: Aristoc Press, 1990.
118 Despite some tension, no violence erupted between Muslims and Christians in Kao
village.
119 Interview with Theo Sosebeko, in Tobelo, 1 November 2003.
120 See Ternate Pos, 2–8 May 2000, which reports GMIH Pastor Rudi Tindage
explaining why Christians refused the entry of non-local military units.
121 Interview with Muhammad Selang in Ternate, 7 February 2004.
122 Interview with a member of the Pasukan Jihad, in Ternate, February 2004.
123 Several interviews in Waringinlamo, 3 November 2003.
124 Ibid.

Conclusion
1 J. Snyder, From Voting to Violence: Democratization and Nationalist Conflict, New
York: W. W. Norton & Company, 2000, p. 39
2 D. Horowitz, Ethnic Groups in Conflict, Berkeley: University of California Press,
1985, p. 166.
3 See for example D. Horowitz, The Deadly Ethnic Riot, Berkeley: University of Cali-
fornia Press, 2001, p. 75.
4 See for example N. Bubandt, ‘The Dynamics of Reasonable Paranoia: Rumours and
Riots in North Maluku, 1999–2000’, background paper for presentation at the
230 Notes
Seminar Series of the School of Anthropology, Geography and Environmental
Studies, University of Melbourne, 25 April 2002, p. 24, and S. Alhadar, ‘The
Forgotten War in North Maluku’, Inside Indonesia, no. 63 (July–September 2000).
5 As discussed in Chapter 5, the only area not to experience violence was the immediate
vicinity of the Weda Bay nickel mine in Central Halmahera District.
6 For claims that a great deal of the violence in reformasi-period Indonesia was insti-
gated in a covert fashion by actors associated with the New Order regime, see for
example G. J. Aditjondro, ‘Guns, Pamphlets and Handy-Talkies: How the Military
Exploited Local Ethno-religious Tensions in Maluku to Preserve Their Political and
Economic Privileges”, in I. Wessel and G. Wimhofer (eds), Violence in Indonesia,
Hamburg: Abera Verlag Markus Voss, 2001, and K. O’Rourke, Reformasi: The
Struggle for Power in Post-Soeharto Indonesia, St Leonards: Allen & Unwin, 2002.
7 See for example, A. Hasenclever and V. Rittberger, ‘Does Religion Make a Differ-
ence? Theoretical Approaches to the Impact of Faith on Political Conflict’, Millen-
nium, vol. 29, no. 3 (2000), 641–74
8 J. Snyder, ‘Anarchy and Culture: Insights from the Anthropology of War,’ Interna-
tional Organization, vol. 56, no. 1 (Winter 2002), p. 34.
9 S. N. Kalyvas, ‘The Ontology of “Political Violence”: Action and Identity in Civil
Wars’, Perspectives on Politics, vol. 1, no. 3 (September 2003), pp. 475–6.
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Index
Ambon 31, 36; and Maluku conflict (1999
to 2002) 2, 6–8, 28–9, 31, 43–5, 48, 69,
77–80, 89, 103, 117, 128, 155, 157–9,
178; history 32, 34–5, 45–6
Andili, Bahar 6, 46–7, 74, 78–9, 93–4,
133–5, 138, 142–3, 145
Andili, Syamsir 46–7, 78–80, 83, 92–4,
133–5, 142
Armain, Thaib 37, 46–8, 78, 80–1, 83,
92–94, 133–135, 142, 152
Assagaf, Abdullah 57–59, 61–62, 137
Bitjara, Benny 64–6, 70, 105, 110–12,
114, 122, 124, 127–8, 149, 161, 167,
170, 173–4, 183, 188, 192–3
‘Bloody Sosol’ letter 8–9, 26, 84–6, 91–2,
94, 181–3
Brass, Paul 9, 12, 21, 72–3, 94, 131–2,
143, 185–6
Cahaya Bahari 3, 167, 187
Civil Emergency 3, 167, 176, 187
decentralization (also regional autonomy)
29, 39–40, 48; impact on conflict 4, 58,
67, 179
Duma 115; during conflict December 1999
to February 2000 2, 3, 117–20, 123,
125, 184; during attacks by Pasukan
Jihad 154–5, 163–70, 172–3, 175, 188;
history 34, 101
FPI (Front Pembela Islam) 104, 157–9,
170
Galela Sub-District 26, 31–2, 34–6, 96, 99,
101, 115; conflict in 2–3, 10–13, 92,
96–7, 99, 106, 113–15, 117–19,
121–126, 128–30, 140, 146–7, 150–2,
154–6, 158, 160, 163–76, 183–4,
186–8, 192
GMIH (Gereja Maseh Injili Halmahera) 34,
52, 77, 84–5, 101, 104–5, 107–8, 117,
119, 121, 123–4, 135, 171, 182, 184
Gorua 101, 107–9, 113–15, 126, 164, 169
Horowitz, Donald 8, 17, 21–2, 51, 68, 73,
91, 180
Imam, Wahda Zainal 80–3, 88, 93–4, 104,
152, 157, 170
Internally Displaced Persons (IDPs) 3, 10,
64, 69–71, 80–3, 88–90, 104–6, 114,
117–9, 121–2, 126, 128–9, 135, 146–8,
150–2, 160–3, 167–9, 175–6
Jemaah Islamiyah 158–9
Jibril, Abu (aka Fikiruddin) 158–9
Kalyvas, Stathis 19, 25, 194
Kao Sub-District 1, 26, 31–2, 52, 54–6;
conflict in 2, 5–8, 13, 49–50, 56–71,
161–4
Laskar Jihad 4, 12, 148, 155–7, 159, 175,
187
Makayoa (student group) 57, 61–3, 68–9,
190
Makian Island 5, 32, 49, 52, 55, 57, 59, 92,
104
Malifut 2, 4–9, 11–2, 26, 36, 48–50,
54–71, 79–96, 103–4, 110, 117, 128,
135, 142, 144–5, 147, 152, 156, 160–4,
167–8, 172–7, 179–82, 185–94
Maluku conflict (1999 to 2002) see
Ambon, TNI
240 Index
Mamuya 3, 33, 115, 118–9, 163–4, 168,
173
NHM (Nusa Halmahera Mineral) 36,
56–60, 115, 160–2, 187
Pasukan Jihad 3, 13, 137, 146–76, 186–8,
193
Pasukan Kuning 74, 83–4, 88–9, 93,
135–45, 150–1, 181, 185, 190–1
Pemekaran 7, 40, 60, 67; see also Malifut
Popilo 109, 113–15, 126, 152
PP42 (Government Regulation 42/1999)
59–66, 70, 191
Putih–Kuning Conflict 11–12, 130–1,
137–47, 184–6
RMS (Republik Maluku Selatan) 35, 91,
103, 109, 153, 171
Security Dilemma 11, 17, 19, 97, 99,
122–4, 183–4, 189
Sulawesi, North – refugees in 3, 89, 104,
152
Syah, Mudaffar – the Sultan of Ternate 6,
11–12, 37–8, 46–8, 63–4, 74, 78, 80,
83, 90, 92–5, 106, 127, 130–1, 133–46,
153, 181, 184–5, 190–1
Syah, Djunus – the Sultan of Tidore 12,
134, 138–9, 143–5
Tambiah, Stanley 9, 24, 72–3, 186
Ternate 29–31, 36–8, 45, 47, 55, 76–8:
history 30, 32–5, 74; riot – November
1999 2, 8–10, 26–7, 71, 88–95, 181–3,
192; see also Putih–Kuning conflict
Tidore 29, 31–2, 47, 76–8; History 30,
32–4, 37–8, 48, 74; riot, November
1999 2, 8–9, 71, 86–8, 91; see also
Putih–Kuning conflict
TNI – the Indonesian Military: nationally
39–42, 44, 47, 155–7; role in North
Maluku conflict 2–3, 7, 13, 26, 62,
64–6, 71, 79, 82–3, 86, 88–9, 93, 95,
103–4, 106–9, 112–13, 124–5, 134,
136, 139, 141, 144–5, 153, 160–6, 168,
171–174, 176, 184, 186–9
Tobelo City and Sub-District 3, 12, 31–2,
35–8, 48, 58, 67, 84, 96, 99–102;
conflict in December 1999 2–4, 10–11,
89, 103–115, 120–9, 183–4, 192
Togoliua 101, 107, 110, 113–5, 121, 123,
126, 152, 169, 174
Wahid, Abu Bakar 77, 137–8, 142–3,
151–63, 167–8, 170–1, 192–3