THE CHANGING CONTOURS OF ORGANISED VIOLENCE IN POST NEW ORDER INDONESIA

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Ian Wilson
THE CHANGING CONTOURS OF ORGANISED
VIOLENCE IN POST NEW ORDER INDONESIA
Working Paper No.118
February 2005
The views presented in this paper are those of the author(s) and do not necessarily reflect those of the Asia Research Centre or
Murdoch University. Working papers are considered draft publications for critical comments by colleagues and will generally be
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A revised version of this paper is published in Critical Asian Studies, 38 (2), June 2006: 265-297
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Paramilitary, vigilante and militia groups have a long and colourful history in
Indonesia. Prevalent throughout the colonial period, the Indonesian national army
itself was originally formed from such groups, pointing to the longstanding historical
ambiguity between ‘legitimate’ and ‘illegitimate’ uses of violence (Cribb 1991).
During the New Order, as has been well documented, the state fostered and utilized a
number of quasi-official organizations such as Pemuda Pancasila, and Pemuda
Pancamarga (Ryter 1998). Drawing from gangs and the criminal underworld of
preman (thugs), these groups acted as ‘assistants’ to the regime, employing the time-
proven methods of physical and psychological intimidation in carrying out what
O’Rourke refers to as ‘regime maintenance’ chores (O’Rourke 2002: 11).
1
Aside from
these groups, a symbiotic relationship also existed between street level preman and
the military and political and social elites, referred to simply as beking (backing).
Preman were allowed to carry out their activities, such as protection rackets and
control over a particular localized sector of the economy, in return for a cut of the
profits that would make its way through the various levels of the state bureaucracy.
Violence and criminality were normalized as state practice.
Since the collapse of the New Order in 1998 and the beginning of ‘reformasi’,
incidents of state sponsored violence have comparatively declined, however this has
been accompanied by an upsurge in violence, coercion and extortion carried out by
paramilitary, criminal and vigilante groups that are largely independent of state
control. The fragmentation of the centralized state and the resulting rivalry between
groups seeking economic and political power at the national level and control over
resources at the local has been a central factor in this proliferation of violent thuggery.
Groups with a variety of agendas have employed the violent mobilization of
supporters as a central political strategy. Decentralization reforms initiated since 1999
have given greater economic and political autonomy at the provincial and sub-district
levels. These reforms have also led to an increase in conflicts between groups trading
in violence as political and civil organizations fight over ‘turf’, economic resources
and constituencies that were previously the exclusive domain of the New Order.
2
This article intends to outline some of the recent historical events that I will
argue have played a significant role in the ‘democratization’ of violence in post New
Order Indonesia, namely the impact of the state sponsored Pamswakarsa vigilante
force mobilized in 1999, and the subsequent boom in paramilitary ‘task forces’
attached to political parties. I will then go on to examine the structure, actions and
1

practices of two of the many vigilante groups that have emerged post New Order.
Behind the differences of their respective history, ideology and politics, all share a
common set of practices based upon the use of organized violence. The first of these,
the Betawi Brotherhood Forum (Forum Betawi Rempug) is a group claiming to
represent working class members of the indigenous Betawi ethnic group of Jakarta,
which combines appeals to ethnicity and class with a strategy of extortion and
coercion. The second is the Defenders of Islam Front (FPI: Front Pembela Islam), one
of a number of vigilante style groups employing the symbols of militant Islam to
emerge post New Order that has conducted a street level war against ‘immorality’. I
intend to demonstrate that these and similar groups have emerged as a consequence of
the fragmentation of state power post-1998. This case study of Indonesia also has
broader implications in terms of making problematic one of the most basic
assumptions regarding the state: that it has an internal monopoly over the legitimate
production of violence and security. As I will show, the increasing privatization of
violence that has occurred in Indonesia post New Order demonstrates that the state no
longer possesses a monopoly over either its production or legitimate use. Far from the
consolidation of formal institutions of power, democratisation in Indonesia has
involved a more fragmented intertwining with informal constellation of power.
PARA-MILITARISING THE PUBLIC: PAMSWAKARSA AND POLITICAL
‘TASK FORCES
The roots of the growth in paramilitary and vigilante activity in Indonesia post-1998
were established during the New Order. Via the development of a corporatist state,
the New Order co-opted and politicized ‘youth’ as a form of political capital. The
military concept of ‘total people’s defence and security’ justified the use of civilian
groups as proxies by the state apparatus (Lowry 1996: 88). As Lindsay has argued, the
New Order operated in a way analogous to a criminal gang, employing and
normalizing violence and extortion as state practice(Lindsey 2001). The removal of
Suharto in 1998 meant not the complete collapse of patrimonial networks and
authoritarian structures, but rather the loss of their central focal hub, so that they
loosened into decentralized and competing power centres.
An event that highlighted the extent and speed with which the strong nation-
state unravelled after Suharto’s departure was the Pamswakarsa ‘self-help’ civilian
2

guard formed by Gen. Wiranto and Gen. Kivlan Zein in late 1998. In the lead up to
the special legislative session of the People’s Consultative Assembly in November
1998, around 30,000 civilians were recruited by the army and mobilized around the
national parliament. The rag-tag civilian security force was intended to bolster the
over stretched police force and help counter widespread opposition to the Habibie
presidency.
3
With its public profile at an all time low, the armed forces felt compelled
to resort to using proxies armed with bamboo spears to carry out the task of defending
state interests. The composition of the Pamswakarsa forces revealed an alliance of
largely militant Muslim groups sympathetic to Habibie, such as Furkon (Muslim
Forum to Uphold the Constitution and Justice) and the Front Pembela Islam,
alongside a hotchpotch of martial arts and youth groups from Banten, nationalist
organizations such as Pemuda Pancasila and the ranks of the unemployed (Tempo 30
November 1998a). The circulation of rumours that ‘anti-Islamic’ forces would
attempt to derail the session and overthrow the Habibie government led to other
Muslim groups mobilizing forces around the MPR (Tempo 30 November 1998b). The
presence of the Pamswakarsa further provoked an already tense situation resulting in
violent clashes with student demonstrators and locals that left fatalities on both sides
(Gatra 21 November 1998). Public outrage and political pressure soon led to its
disbandment.
As a state political strategy the Pamswakarsa exercise was undeniably a
failure, however it had a more lasting impact in a number of respects.
4
Firstly, whilst
being the continuation of a pattern familiar during the New Order, of the military
employing civilian proxies to do its dirty business, the Pamswakarsa was on a scale
not seen before. It was the largest mobilization of civilian forces by the state since the
1960s, reflecting the state’s recognition that it could no longer legitimate centralized
violent suppression of peaceful dissent. There was also an unintentional flow on
effect. As Bourchier notes, the government’s decision to form a civilian militia was
partly a response to the already large and well-organized paramilitary wings of PDI-P
and Nahdatul Ulama (Bourchier 1999: 165). However there was also a reverse effect;
political parties, religious and civil organizations began forming and expanding their
own paramilitary forces in reaction to the prevalence of state-sponsored vigilantes.
The result was a spiraling in the number of both civil and state backed paramilitary
3

and vigilante groups. It reflected a new awareness, ‘if the state can do it, why cant
we?’
Suspicion and mistrust of the army and police was also at an all-time high
resulting in many people turning to local preman, paramilitary and vigilante groups
for security. A new decentralized intersection between criminal and political interests
established itself. During the New Order, the state had justified the mobilisation of
civilian militia and thugs by reference to the constitution, which states the
responsibility of citizens to defend the nation. With the weakening of state power and
the ideology of collectivist nationalism, groups with a variety of political, economic
and social agendas now did the same, a phenomenon referred to by some
commentators as the ‘I am Indonesia’ syndrome (Munir 2003). By appealing to
religious affiliation, the Pamswakarsa also legitimated a new pole for political
mobilisation post New Order, lifting the taboo on invoking primordial sentiments.
The economic crisis of 1997 saw the ranks of the urban poor increase
significantly and many found themselves forced into crime and violence
(Nordholt
2002). A greater opening for preman and organized crime began to emerge. In the
post New Order environment gangsters have become far more organized in the big
cities, not just operating individually but forming organizations, often along ethnic or
religious lines, that have gradually established control over public space such as bus
terminals, markets and food stalls. With the patronage and protection of the New
Order gone, preman were forced to seek out new patrons, or simply went ‘private’.
The enforcement partnerships that existed between the state and criminal gangs
fragmented and has been replaced by sets of shifting contractual arrangements with
political parties, members of the political and economic elite, local officials, business
people and other interest groups.
SECURING SUPPORT: THE ‘TASK FORCES’ OF THE POLITICAL
PARTIES
Political liberalization post New Order had resulted in the emergence of over 100 new
political parties by the time of the 1999 general elections. On the streets of major
cities such as Jakarta, Surabaya and Bandung, the scramble by the new parties to form
paramilitary forces presented itself as a golden opportunity for the ranks of preman
and unemployed youth. Replete with military style uniforms and helmets, command
4

structures, and an aggressive ‘us against the rest’ mentality, the satgas paramilitary
wings of the political parties reflected the reproduction of New Order style militarism
within the new political culture. Satgas groups in themselves are not a new
phenomenon, and were first established by Golkar, PPP and the PDI in the early
1980’s. However, it was with the reintroduction of multi-party competitive elections
in 1999 that a ‘party arms race’ began (King 2003). Almost all political parties have
some form of active paramilitary wing, as well as numerous associated ‘supporter’
groups, membership numbering in the tens, possibly hundreds of thousands.
Officially, the function of satgas is for internal party security, such as protecting party
assets and controlling the membership. The reality has been that satgas have been akin
to private mercenary armies, intimidating opponents and critics both within and
outside of the party, providing ‘muscle’ for the private sector and operating their own
protection rackets alongside of other criminal activities. They have acted as a nexus
between legitimate political power, and criminality. Satgas groups have provided a
vehicle by which preman can gain legitimacy and concessions within the political
system, and also a means by which politicians can establish working relations with the
criminal underworld. The 1999 elections were peppered with incidents of violence
and coercion, most involving satgas from the major parties, PDI-P, PPP, Golkar and
PKB. While on the surface many of these clashes appeared to be caused by political
rivalries, often the conflict was over control of local resources by preman within
satgas ranks. By the end of the 1999 elections and into 2000-2002 paramilitary and
vigilante forces had emerged as a conspicuous and intimidating presence on the
streets and in public consciousness (Panji 2000).
Of all the political parties, the PDI-P has had perhaps the largest menagerie of
paramilitary and militia style ‘supporter’ groups. The four main groups linked to the
PDI-P at the national level have been the PDI-P Security Taskforce (Satgas PDI-P),
the Indonesian Young Bulls (Banteng Muda Indonesia), the Defend Mbak Mega
Command (Komando Bela Mbak Mega), and the ‘elite’ Alert One Brigade (Brigass:
Brigade Siaga Satu), led by the former student activist Pius Lustrilanang. Of the four,
only the Satgas PDI-P is formally incorporated within the party structure, and hence
accountable to it. The Young Bulls is an informally affiliated ‘youth’ organization
headed by East Timorese militia leader Eurico Guterres, whereas the Defend Mbak
Mega Command is a militant Megawati loyalist group.
5
5

Brigass is interesting as an example of the degree to which some previously
strident critics of New Order militarism have reproduced it post-1998. It was initially
conceived as the ‘elite’ guard of the PDI-P, consisting of around 200 highly trained
‘troops’ (Supriyanto 2002). Rumoured to be financed by Megawati’s husband, Taufik
Kiemas, Brigass was formed in 1999 in order to raise support for her unsuccessful
presidential campaign.
6
It did this by mobilising supporters around the 1999 Special
Session of the MPR. Despite Megawati’s failure to secure the presidency, the group
did not disband, instead establishing headquarters in Bogor, West Java. Recruiting
from amongst taxi-drivers, labourers and security guards, its membership quickly
grew to around 3500 (Supriyanto 2002: 16). Adopting a centralised military style
command structure, the group is strictly controlled by Lustrilanang, who is
deferentially referred to as ‘commander in chief’ (panglima). If the PDI-P satgas are
the ‘foot soldiers’ of the party, then Brigass is its ‘special-forces’, ironic considering
that its leader was kidnapped along with other student activists by Kopassus special
forces troops in the aftermath of the government orchestrated overthrow of
Megawati’s leadership of the PDI in 1996. Brigass has received training from ex-
special forces troops, including those who were directly involved in abducting
Lustrilanang.
Selection criteria for Brigass members are rigorous, and once accepted recruits
undergo intensive and ongoing training in martial arts, crowd control and military
type exercises, such as that provided by ex-special forces troops. Whilst PDI-P party
membership is not compulsory, recruits undertake 16 hours of ‘political education’
and Lustrilanang ensures that all members channel their political aspirations to PDI-P
(Supriyanto 2002: 18). Like many satgas groups, Brigass also offers its security
services to the private sector as well as government institutions via its affiliated
business, Brigass Lustrilanang Security (Pikiran Rakyat 2002, 2003). Despite its
initial mandate as hardcore Megawati supporters, Brigass has recently developed into
a largely freelance organization, independent from the internal political interests of
the PDI-P. Through its private security service, and close links with government and
military figures, it has come to resemble New Order period groups, such as Pemuda
Pancasila, that are available for hire to the highest bidder.
Unlike Brigass, the Satgas PDI-P has been formally integrated within the PDI-
P party structure as its internal security branch. At the national level it is led by
6

Maringan Pangaribuan and has an estimated membership at 10-50,000.
7
Through
neighbourhood command posts known as posko established during the campaign
period of the 1999 elections, PDI-P satgas were able to establish a constant and
intimidating presence at the local level. The size of Satgas PDI-P has perhaps meant
that factionalism and internal conflict were inevitable. Factional loyalties between
supporters of local candidates, as well as vertical conflicts between the national level
party leadership and provincial branches have been frequent. Local PDI-P satgas
groups have emerged as crucial players in factional fighting within regional branches
of the party, usually linked to the selection of candidates for the local legislature, and
the positions of mayor and regent. In Tegal, for example, PDI-P satgas went on a
rampage after the head of the Tegal PDI-P lost in the election for mayor (Sinar
Harapan 2004a). Similar instances of inter-satgas violence have occurred in Medan,
Surabaya, Pemalang, Tulungagung, Banyumas, Mojokerto, and Jember. Like Brigass,
PDI-P satgas have also regularly worked as freelance security, including breaking up
labour actions by factory workers, and acting as bodyguards for business executives
(Bernas 2000).
8
In PDI-P rhetoric, satgas forces consist of ‘grass roots’ supporters, and its
members are largely recruited from disenfranchised urban youth, rank and file party
cadre and local preman (PDI-P official 2003). With scant job prospects and with the
rising cost of living, the satgas units have provided legitimacy and a sense of identity
and empowerment for the ranks of unemployed youth.
9
PDI-P specifically targeted
youths, conducting recruitment drives amongst unemployed senior high school
graduates unable to study at university (Supriyanto 2002: 16). As satgas membership
automatically confers PDI-P party membership, it becomes an effective strategy for
developing a mass base that can be quickly mobilised. Apologists within the PDI-P
have argued that the training, structure and discipline involved in becoming a satgas is
a means for ‘reforming’ preman, and provides them with an opportunity to become
‘useful members of society’(PDI-P official 2003). As such, the parties provide a
valuable social service for a marginalised social group. The argument is a convenient
and familiar one, and was used throughout the New Order to rationalise the existence
of groups such as Pemuda Pancasila. On the contrary, it is the very fact that they are
preman that makes them a valuable asset to the party. As the ICG has noted in its
report on civil militias in Bali and Lombok, local political candidates have found that
7

the support of key criminal figures and civil militias is considered proof of political
power. Consequently, rather than endeavouring to eradicate crime and vigilantism,
they have sought to ‘direct’ them, via the incorporation of their perpetrators
(International Crisis Group 2003).
Clashes in October 2003 in Bali between rival supporters of the PDI-P and
Golkar left two dead, and renewed fears that the 2004 elections would be marred by
more conflict sparked by rival paramilitary and supporter groups (Republika 2004b).
Yet, as it turned out the elections passed with a notable absence of violence, and the
feared satgas groups were conspicuously absent from the streets. This was partly due
to the last minute introduction of regulation from the Indonesian Electoral
Commission that imposed restrictions on the mobilization of satgas forces during
campaigning, with the threat of sanctions against parties that failed to control their
supporters (Indonesian Electoral Commission 2004). Since early 1999 moves had
been made to introduce similar regulations, most notably from the police and armed
forces, whom by that stage had already grown increasingly alarmed at the threat posed
to their legitimacy by satgas. In 2002 Indonesia’s military chief Endriartono Sutarto
called for the disbanding of all ‘extremist and militia groups’, including those
affiliated with political parties and religious organizations (Sriwijaya Post 2002). In
March 2003 the Minister for Defence, Matori Abdul Djalil also called for the
disbanding of civil militias, especially those that used military style uniforms and
symbols, and the curtailing of party satgas that used a ‘paramilitary approach’, stating
that they were ‘inappropriate in a democratic system’ (Sinar Harapan 2003). The
response from political parties however, particularly the PDI-P, was blunt: the
military could no longer interfere in party affairs, and satgas were an internal party
issue (Sriwijaya Post 2002).
It appears that the primary reason behind satgas being sent ‘back to the
barracks’ in 2004 was the changed political climate. Compared to the high emotions
and enthusiasm surrounding the 1999 elections, the 2004 election year was
surrounded by an atmosphere of marked indifference on the part of the voting public.
A deepening cynicism towards the political process saw lacklustre turnouts to mass
rallies. Voters enthusiastically exercised their new voting rights, however with
ambivalence towards the available candidates. ‘Traditional’ methods of mobilising
support no longer guaranteed success. Vote buying was still rampant throughout the
8

2004 campaign, but it proved far less effective, for how successful can bribery be
when it cannot be backed up with at least the implied threat of repercussions? The
possibility of voter backlash, coupled with the risk of reprisals from rival groups,
outweighed the potential gains that were to be made by mobilising satgas. What this
points to at the national level is that Indonesia’s new system of electoral democracy
may have reduced the effectiveness of the mobilisation of satgas violence as a
political strategy. As Tilly has argued, the value of the use or threat of force is
determined in proportion to the value of the potential damage, be it financial or
political that may be caused in the absence of either protection or patronage from a
particular group (Tilly 1985). When the ‘market’ in violence comprises many players
operating with similar resources, in this case the satgas forces of the major parties, the
stakes involved in violent action increase dramatically which can act as a strong
disincentive for its use. The voting public have emerged as the most effective
deterrent.
THE NEW VIGILANTISM
While the political role of party satgas may have declined, other groups trading in
violence and coercion have continued to make their presence felt on the streets. As
has been discussed, the end of the New Order has seen a rapid increase in civil
organizations representing a variety of social, cultural, political and economic
interests and agendas that incorporate extensive and well trained paramilitary style
militias and ‘security wings’. With burgeoning levels of crime vigilantism has also
become widespread. The ineffectiveness of the weakened state in maintaining order
has led to the establishment in many communities of vigilante groups ostensibly
aimed at combating the symptoms of social and economic collapse, such as
‘premanism’ and ‘vice’ (kemaksiatan). These non-state initiatives were at first
welcomed in official quarters (International Crisis Group 2003: 1). Vigilantes were
considered to be filling a space created by the separation of the police and military by
providing policing and security at the community level. However in many instances, it
was preman themselves that either established or infiltrated these groups in order to
establish a new legitimacy, often with official backing, both financial and moral. The
post New Order state has attempted to resolve the argument against the previous
centralised patronage network via the introduction of decentralisation reforms in
9

1999. In theory, this devolving of power would help foster local leadership and
autonomy. To an extent this has been the case, however it has also given a new quasi-
legality to long-standing patron-client relations, and allowed local interests to
consolidate control over resources and markets without institutional checks or rule of
law. The new vigilantes combine the pragmatic self-interest and reliance on violence
of the preman with a justificatory moral ideology. In the following examples, the
Betawi Brotherhood Forum and the Defenders of Islam Front, this ideology is one of
defending the interests of an imagined ethnic and religious community.
The Betawi Brotherhood Forum
The FBR was formally established on 27 July 2001, the anniversary of the 1996
overthrow of Megawati’s leadership of the PDI. The date was not mere coincidence:
FBR’s head, Fadloli el-Muhir, was himself a former chair of the Jakarta branch of the
anti-Megawati faction of the PDI. More recently, he served as a member of the
Indonesian Supreme Advisory Council (Dewan Pertimbangan Agung). Fadloli
conceived of the FBR as a forum for reclaiming Jakarta for middle and lower class
members of the indigenous Betawi ethnic group. Ostensibly aimed at gaining
employment for its largely blue-collar, unemployed and preman membership, FBR
currently has around 10,000 members throughout Jakarta.
10
In the words of Fadloli:
Our aim is for Betawi people to become jawara in their own
neighbourhood. As the indigenous people of Jakarta, we should be enjoying
the fruits of its growth. Unfortunately, many businesses do not employ local
people, and don’t contribute to the community in any significant way (el-
Muhir 2003).
According to Fadloli, throughout the New Order the Betawi were culturally and
politically marginalised. This marginalisation has been compounded by
‘globalisation’ and has led to a loss of ethnic and cultural identity: ‘The first step we
need to take post New Order is to raise our heads, to stop cowering and take pride in
our ethnicity’ (el-Muhir 2002). There is a large number of groups representing the
ethnic Betawi in Jakarta, 67 of whom are affiliated with the umbrella organisation the
Betawi Consultative Body (Bamus Betawi) led by Abdul Syukur. FBR however
refused to join Bamus Betawi, considering it as only representing the interests of the
‘elite’ and not those of poor and working class Betawi (el-Muhir 2003). FBR strongly
identifies itself as a voice for the Betawi underclass.
10

In and around its headquarters in the Ziyadatul Muslim boarding school
situated in Cakung, East Jakarta, FBR has a firm hold over the informal economy. For
example, on becoming a member of FBR, local ojek motorbike chauffeurs are
provided with interest free loans to assist them in buying their own motorbike. The
organisation runs a number of other local economic initiatives for its members, such
as screen printing workshops and food stall cooperatives, similar to those employed
by NGO’s working with the urban poor. However FBR’s concern for the poor
apparently extends only to its own membership, and its control of the informal sector
has not occurred without conflict. A dispute in 2002 over control of the lucrative
parking market in Cakung between Maduranese preman and FBR members soon
escalated into a riot. In its aftermath, there was one fatality and several seriously
injured (Suara Merdeka 2002b). FBR claimed that the incident was a product of
ethnic tensions resulting from uncontrolled migration into the capital. Indigenous
Betawi and not migrant ethnic groups such as the Maduranese should control the
sectors of the informal local economy such as parking (FBR official 2003). Social ills
such as prostitution and gambling are also attributed to non-Jakartans. Several bars
and cafes in Cakung run by non-Betawi have been attacked by FBR on the grounds of
eliminating ‘immorality’. Perceiving the social, moral and economic cohesion of the
ethnic community as under threat, FBR considers its use of violence as a legitimate
act of self-defence.
FBR’s organisational structure consists of a central governing board that
mirrors a mini-government, with separate ‘departments’ for culture, economy, law
and security. The emphasis however is firmly upon ‘security’. FBR security personnel
are called dedengkot, a colloquial Betawi term for ‘big shot’. The security wing
employs a hierarchical structure similar to those found in local pencak silat martial
arts associations, from where many of its members are recruited (Wilson 2002). The
head of the security wing is referred to as a jawara. In Betawi culture, a jawara is
both a figure of reverence and fear who is believed to have martial and magical
powers.
11
The second in command following jawara is pendekar, traditionally an
honorary title given to an esteemed master of pencak silat. Under the command of
each pendekar are several hundred regular members known as pitung, named after Si
Pitung, the robin hood-type social bandit of Betawi folk legend.
12
The FBR also has
an ‘elite’ group of security personnel considered to have advanced martial ability and
supernatural skills. In Cakung FBR has 115 security posts, known as gardu, that are
11

coordinated by the central board. Ostensibly in order to ‘fill the void’ left by the
understaffed and underpaid police, the gardu are an adaptation of the siskamling local
security/surveillance system established during the New Order. Aside from
conducting neighbourhood patrols, gardu also organise various ‘cultural’ services,
such as performances of Betawi arts, traditional weddings, etc, which provide an
opportunity for drawing in new members. When I visited FBR’s headquarters in 2003,
the street was filled with around 70 well-built men wearing black and camouflage
military style uniforms emblazoned with the FBR logo waiting to go on ‘patrol’ of the
neighbourhood, some armed with wooden batons and barely concealed machetes. The
group also has its own intelligence agents who ‘collect information’ on suspected
drug dealers, petty criminals, gambling operators and potential ‘trouble-makers’
(Van
Tillen 1995)
.
13
FBR are a conspicuous and intimidating presence in the area.
According to Fadloli, since the establishment of the gardu, crime rates in
surrounding areas have dropped. At the same time, FBR membership has grown. The
perhaps unintentional suggestion was that crime dropped because its perpetrators now
wore FBR uniforms, for intimidation and extortion is only illegitimate and hence
criminal when it is done by those who do not have a ‘right’ to do so. Businesses and
street traders operating in FBR territory are expected to make regular ‘contributions’
to their local gardu. In the Pulo Gadung industrial area, FBR tax trucks a 1000 rupiah
entrance fee. In early 2002 an alleged extortion letter from FBR sent to businesses in
Pulo Gadung and Cakung surfaced in the press. In the letter, signed by both Fadloli
and the group’s secretary, FBR requested monthly donations to cover group
‘operational costs’ and as a sign of support for ethnic Betawi, threatening retribution
against those who refused (Kompas 2002b, 2002c). Whilst questioning the
authenticity of the letter, Fadloli defended it in principle, saying that businesses that
benefited from the security the gardu provided should contribute. Business also has a
‘moral obligation’ to assist the indigenous population FBR claims to represent (el-
Muhir 2003). The FBR has regularly demonstrated, picketed and intimidated
businesses and shopping malls that have refused to employ its members (Kompas
2003a, 2004a).
The group first gained public notoriety in March 2002 when members attacked
peaceful demonstrators outside the Indonesian Human Rights Commission. The
demonstrators, members of the Urban Poor Consortium (UPC), had just left a meeting
with the Indonesian Human Rights Commission in which they sought its support in
12

the upholding of a decision of the Jakarta district court that the Jakarta administration
led by Sutiyoso had unlawfully evicted and arrested Pedi cab drivers, buskers, street
vendors and street children.
14
The vicious attack, in which men, women and children
were beaten and hit with wooden clubs, resulted in 17 being hospitalised. Wardah
Hafidz, the coordinator of UPC, had a machete held to her throat. Two weeks earlier
FBR members had also attacked flood victims demanding government assistance at
the Jakarta City Hall. Why would FBR so violently oppose a peaceful demonstration
in support of the rights of the urban poor? According to Fadloli, the UPC and other
NGO’s ‘provoke and manipulate the poor for their own agenda … what’s more they
ignore the FBR’ (el-Muhir 2003). Considering the territorial nature of the group,
perhaps it considered the UPC a rival for its main constituency. Commentators in the
media however, along with Wardah Hafidz, saw the action as evidence that the FBR
was on the pay-roll of Jakarta’s governor Sutiyoso, who as the administrative head of
Jakarta was the object of the UPC protest (Hafidz 2003).
15
The relationship between Fadloli and Sutiyoso extends back to at least 1996
and the New Order orchestrated storming of the PDI headquarters in Jakarta. At the
time Sutiyoso was Jakarta Military Commander, and has been implicated in helping to
co-ordinate the thugs involved in the attack. He is said to have been promoted to
governor in 1997 as a reward from Suharto for his successful handling of the takeover
(Jakarta Post 2002). As mentioned, Fadloli at that time was prominent in the Suharto
backed faction of the PDI from which Megawati had split. The FBR was also
established just two months after Sutiyoso officially declared his 2001 ‘war on thugs’
campaign (Jakarta Post 2001; Gamma 2001). Around 73 areas of preman activity
were identified throughout the city, and a budget of 12 billion rupiah was allocated for
the operation. Ostensibly aimed at addressing public concern over rising levels of
street crime, in practice the campaign largely targeted street vendors and the
homeless. Prior to the campaign, Sutiyoso consulted with preman groups such as the
Betawi dominated Family of Tanah Abang Association (IKBT: Ikatan Keluarga Besar
Tanah Abang) on strategies for dealing with the ‘preman problem’.
16
The IKBT
proposed that the Jakarta police give month long training programs for the
unemployed in order to ‘prevent them from becoming thugs’ (Kompas 2001a). Those
who completed the training would be employed as security guards for shops and
businesses in their local district. Sutiyoso took to the idea. In order to carry out his
‘cleansing’ program Sutiyoso deployed around 1900 civilian police assistants
13

(Banpol: Bantuan Polisi) in addition to the 800 regular police already assigned. The
irony was that the Banpol were largely recruited from the ranks of the very preman
that the program was supposedly aimed at eliminating (Gamma 2001). Not
surprisingly then, when amongst great media fanfare Sutiyoso took to the streets of
Tanah Abang, there were no preman insight, except for those now wearing Banpol
uniforms. The following day however it was business as usual, with preman collecting
entrance fees and ‘security’ money from taxi, bus and ojek drivers. It was only later
that government officials revealed that preman were not the sole target of the
operation, but that it also included the pedicab drivers, buskers and street vendors and
others who ‘disturbed public order’.
17
In effect, Sutiyoso recruited preman to
‘eliminate’ themselves. Seeing the opportunity available to Betawi preman to work
with the Jakarta administration, it was a politically opportune time to establish a new
preman organisation. In this respect Fadloli’s choice of the 27 July as FBR’s founding
day can be interpreted as a signal to Sutiyoso that, like IKBT, the FBR was available
for hire. Considering that he faced re-election the following year, the move was
politically a risky one for Sutiyoso. Weighing up the possibility of public backlash
against the political benefits of gaining access to Betawi preman, Sutiyoso chose the
latter. The ‘war on thugs’ campaign prompted several protest and strike actions by
street vendors and bus drivers around Tanah Abang, however the issue quickly faded
from public consciousness.
It wasn’t until negative publicity emerged over FBR’s attack on the UPC that
Sutiyoso was forced to publicly deny involvement with it and similar groups. He went
even further, claiming to have never met Fadloli before (Republika 2002). Despite his
refutation, several days later Sutiyoso attended a FBR gathering at which Fadloli
supported his re-election as governor for 2002-2007 (Liputan6.com 2002a). Fadloli
stated that, while in principle the FBR preferred a native of Jakarta as governor, it
could accept a non-Betawi such as Sutiyoso as he had proven his commitment to
improving the conditions of the indigenous population. Fadloli’s choice of political
pragmatism over principle did not find unanimous support within FBR ranks. A
significant faction in the group publicly backed the bid of former minister for
women’s affairs, Tutty Alawiyah, on the grounds that she was ethnic Betawi (FBR
member 2003). It appeared as if tensions had emerged between the political
opportunism of FBR’s leadership and the ethnically driven ideology that motivated
many rank-and-file members. The split was diffused uneventfully when Alawiyah
14

unexpectedly died of natural causes prior to the election. If Fadloli thought his support
for Sutiyoso would secure special treatment for FBR he was soon to be disappointed.
In May 2003 FBR leaders met with Sutiyoso to request that the Jakarta administration
provide facilities for a ‘skills training centre’ for unemployed FBR members as part of
its obligation to assist ethnic Betawi (Kompas 2003b). Sutiyoso politely denied the
request. Having secured his re-election, Sutiyoso no longer needed to court the
controversial FBR.
FBR’s other flirtation with those in power has been with former police chief
Noegroho Djajoesman. Three months prior to the April 2004 legislative elections
Noegroho established the ‘Save Indonesia Alliance’ (API: Aliansi Penyelamat
Indonesia). The API was a curious mix of former activists and human rights
advocates such as Hariman Siregar and Buyung Nasution, together with preman
dominated groups such as FBR and the Muslim Workers Brotherhood. Fadloli was
appointed deputy head of the alliance. Founded on an ‘anti-corruption’ platform, API
supported the election of former military candidates, such as Wiranto and
Yudhoyono. Mirroring the prediction of armed forces chief Sutarto, Noegroho
threateningly suggested that the elections would fail, in which case API was ready to
‘take action’ in ensuring a smooth transition to a stable government (Sinar Harapan
2004b). In March 2004 FBR held its own rally, attended by presidential candidate
Wiranto, in which the group affirmed its willingness to provide security for the
upcoming elections, and ‘hammer anyone who makes trouble’ (el-Muhir 2003).
However by the time of the second round of presidential elections in October, FBR
had emerged as a vocal supporter of Megawati, a position contradicting their
involvement with the anti-Megawati API. FBR hosted a public show of support for
Megawati, who attended the event, in which Fadloli declared that she had made
improvements in ‘every aspect of national life’ (Liputan6.com 2004a). Three days
later hundreds of FBR members held a noisy demonstration outside the Indonesian
Electoral Commission, protesting over the campaign leaflets produced by her rival
Bambang Yudhoyono, claiming that it played upon religious sentiment
(Liputan6.com 2004b). The seeming contradictions of FBR’s shifting political
allegiances are justified by Fadloli as evidence of the group’s neutrality. Rather than
seeking out patronage, Fadloli insists that ‘currently we are like a pretty girl, everyone
is flirting with us!’ (el-Muhir 2003).
15

The Defenders of Islam Front
The Defenders of Islam Front (FPI: Front Pembela Islam) was one of the groups that
emerged as part of the pro-Habibie 1998 Pamswakarsa forces. On 24 September 1998,
a month after its founding, FPI made its first public appearance, attacking student
activists at the Christian Atmajaya University on the pretext of challenging ‘left wing
and Christian students who are paid by American Jews’ (Radio Nederland
Wereldomroep 2000). One month later FPI was involved in a bloody pitched battle
with Christian Ambonese security guards in Ketapang, Central Jakarta. In the
aftermath 14 were dead and an indelible image was left in the public’s mind; of white
robed and turbaned young men angrily wielding machetes and swords in the name of
Islam (Gunawan and Patria 2000).
The FPI was founded by Misbahul Alam, a Nahdatul Ulama educated
preacher, and Habib Rizieq a habib preacher of mixed Arab-Betawi descent.
18
It was
one of a number of ‘radical’ Islamic organisations to emerge post New Order, such as
Laskar Jihad and the Hizbut Tahrir. According to a report in Tajuk magazine, the FPI
was originally planned as a nation wide support base for the Muslim United
Development Party (PPP: Partai Persatuan Pembangunan) of Hamzah Haz, and
modelled along the lines of the Banser paramilitary wing of Nahdatul Ulama (Tajuk
1999). The emergence of the PPP aligned Ka’abah Youth Movement and the initial
failure of FPI to create strong support bases outside of Jakarta saw it redefine itself as
a street level ‘anti-vice’ movement.
19
While its leadership consists of scholars from
habib circles alongside several seasoned Muslim radicals of the New Order period,
rank and file members are drawn mainly from the poor urban youth in districts of
Jakarta, such as Tanah Abang and Depok. FPI’s uniform, consisting of long white
robes and turbans, invokes popular representations of the ‘wali songo’, the nine
Muslim saints believed to have spread Islam throughout Java (Gunawan and Patria
2000). This romantic image drawn from popular myth, combined with the focus upon
vigilante actions, religious instruction, martial arts training, and vehement attacks on
US foreign policy, have proved irresistible to many disenfranchised urban youth. By
August 1999, Rizieq claimed to have up to three million militia members who were
‘ready to fight’, with a total FPI membership of 13 million (Gatra 1999). While this
figure is greatly exaggerated, FPI’s membership did grow quickly. By 2003 it was
16

estimated to have around one hundred thousand members with branches in 22
provinces.
20
Like the FBR, the FPI has a formal leadership hierarchy. A supreme advisory
council reports directly to Habib Rizieq. The FPI secretariat is subdivided into six
‘council fronts’, such as those for ‘anti-sinful practices’ and recruitment. The
‘investigation council front’ is the group’s intelligence unit, which is believed to have
coordinated the infiltration of FPI operatives into student organisations considered to
be ‘communist’.
21
This is supplemented by numerous government style departments,
covering issues from foreign relations, national defence and education to women’s
affairs and food distribution. The paramilitary wing used by FPI in its raids is known
as the Laskar Pembela Islam. The Laskar hierarchy mirrors the territorial command
structure of the Indonesian armed forces, with a chain of command and semi-
autonomous territorial units extending from the national down to the sub-district level.
Recruits are given martial arts and ‘inner power’ training, such as physical
invulnerability.
FPI’s ideology centres upon two central themes. The first of these is the
necessity for the insertion of the ‘Jakarta Charter’ into the Indonesian constitution.
The Jakarta Charter, which obliges the application of Shari’a law to all Muslims, was
proposed for inclusion in the original version of the 1945 Constitution by Islamic
political parties, however was later dropped after objections from Christian
nationalists. Since the end of the New Order, who outlawed discussion of the
amendment, its re-inclusion has become a rallying point for a variety of Muslim
groups and political parties. Unlike Laskar Jihad and Hizbut Tahrir, the FPI stops
short of openly rejecting democracy. Somewhat reservedly, Misbahul Alam stated
that ‘the voice of the people is the voice of God, however Islam is not a democratic
religion even though it does respect democracy’.
22
According to Rizieq, the Prophet
Muhammad never discussed the specifics of an Islamic state and was concerned only
with the creation of a society based upon Shari’a law (Rizieq 2005). Consequently
FPI’s agenda was to reform public morality rather than directly challenge the nation-
state. In the opinion of Rizieq, ‘if the morals and character are not reformed then it
would be useless to talk about reform in economy, political affairs, and law’ (Asia
Times 2004a). This leads to the second theme fundamental to FPI’s ideology, the
Qur’anic edict of amar ma’ruf nahi munkar, to lead people towards good and away
from evil. It is this principle that has provided the rationale for FPI’s ongoing attacks
17

on Jakarta nightspots. The FPI worldview sees the Islamic community in Indonesia as
under serious attack from western decadence and immorality. The spread of free-
market capitalism has manifested in the uncontrolled spread of businesses ‘peddling
in vice’, such as discos, bars, entertainment centres etc (Alam 2004). While FPI
considers it the responsibility of government to uphold morality, it recognises it as
limited both by its administrative capacity as well as the presence of corrupt officials
within its ranks. Hence, devout citizens have a right and obligation to defend their
community, with violence if necessary.
FPI activity has been most vigorous during the fasting month of Ramadan, the
one most stepped in the symbolism of purification and cleansing for the Islamic
community. In December 1999, around 4000 FPI members blockaded and occupied
the office of the Jakarta regional government for over 10 hours, demanding that
governor Sutiyoso close down all nightlife spots during Ramadan (Kompas 1999).
After a lengthy meeting with Sutiyoso and police chief Noegroho Djajoesman, the
governor issued a statement that he agreed with FPI’s demands, and would work with
them to ensure that new regulations regarding opening hours were enforced. The
protest was an unexpected strategic success for FPI, they gained concessions from the
government and were essentially given a mandate to act in its absence. Between 1999
up until its ‘de-activation’ in late 2002 FPI’s paramilitary wing carried out dozens of
raids on nightspots, billiard halls, brothels, gambling dens and other places of ‘sinful’
activity throughout Jakarta (See Laksamana.net 2003).
23
Initially the raids were
confined to the fasting month, but soon extended beyond it. It became apparent that
FPI had a larger agenda to purge vice from the capital full stop. In some instances the
raids involved little more than smashing signs and overturning tables. In others
patrons, staff and local residents were attacked with clubs and machetes, buildings
were burned down and FPI members clashed with local security and police. In at least
one case FPI militia killed a local resident. Throughout the early attacks the response
from the police had been non-committal. Routinely late to the scene, they made only a
small number of arrests and released ambiguous statements that called upon the FPI to
not break the law while simultaneously defending its democratic right to protest.
Without a mandate or legal basis to act against the group as a whole, the police were
confined to arrests of individual members proven to have committed criminal damage
or assault. Rizieq’s attitude towards the police was far less ambiguous. Although
rhetorically insisting that the FPI ‘didn’t dream of replacing the police’, he regularly
18

launched scathing and threatening verbal attacks, accusing the police of profiting from
gambling and prostitution syndicates (Liputan6.com 2002b).
By early 2001 relations between the police and FPI had grown increasingly
tense. Under pressure from the entertainment industry, Sutiyoso revised the 1999
regulations regarding opening hours during Ramadan, allowing businesses to operate
in the evenings. Furious at the changes, FPI threatened to enforce a total ban during
Ramadan. The police responded by counter threatening to crack down harshly on the
group. The two had clashed violently in previous months, including an FPI attack on a
police station, and an incident in which police fired shots into a van carrying FPI
militia (Gatra 2003). In September 2001 FPI leaders and the police met and agreed to
a ‘truce’ in confrontations Tempo (2001b). It did not last for long. While its anti-vice
raids usually involved at most several hundred members, after the 11 September
attacks in the US the FPI began to mobilise far larger actions, drawing on widespread
opposition to the ‘war on terror’. In October 2001, at a demonstration against the
pending invasion of Afghanistan by US forces, an estimated 10,000 FPI supporters
rallied in front of the national parliament in what was the group’s largest mobilisation
to date. In his oration to the crowd, Rizieq demanded that the government sever all
ties with the US and threatened to do ‘sweeping operations’ to remove its citizens in
Indonesia (Asia Times Online 2001). Fearful the demonstration would spiral out of
control, the police moved in. The situation quickly deteriorated into a series of bloody
pitched battles. The following day police raided FPI headquarters in Tanah Abang.
Rizieq was detained on charges of inciting hatred over the demonstration, but later
released.
It wasn’t until after the Bali bombing on 12 October 2002 that more decisive
action was taken against the group. The bombing signalled the end of the
government’s tolerance towards groups employing the symbolism of militant Islam
such as FPI and Laskar Jihad. With international pressure on the Indonesian
government to be seen as tackling radical Islam, militant groups were now a political
liability. Rizieq was arrested four days after the bombing on charges of spreading
hatred against the government and inciting public unrest in relation to FPI attacks on a
pool hall and nightclub in Glodok on 4 October. Even while charging Rizieq the state
was still conciliatory, reflected in the reduction of the penalty for the offences by the
state prosecutor from the maximum of seven years to seven months on the grounds
that Rizieq had ‘merely intended to improve the morality of Indonesian society’
19

(Laksamana.net 2003c). After a brief period in custody Rizieq was released and placed
under house arrest on the condition that FPI would stop its raids. The following day
the laskar wing of the group suspended its activities indefinitely (Tempo 2002).
However the imminent US led invasion of Iraq saw FPI back in the spotlight, as it
threatened ‘sweeping’ actions against westerners in Indonesia. At its headquarters in
Tanah Abang, recruitment desks were set up for ‘jihad fighters’ to go to Iraq, with
over 500 signing up (Far Eastern Economic Review 2003).
24
Rizieq broke the
conditions of his house arrest, making a ‘humanitarian’ visit to Iraq in April,
apparently with the Red Crescent. On his return on 20 April 2003 he was immediately
arrested and taken back into custody.
25
Rizieq was confined to Salemba prison until November 2003. During his
incarceration FPI continued to operate as an organisation, however the activities of its
paramilitary wing continued to be suspended. Soon after Rizieq’s release FPI held a
national congress to ‘reconsolidate’ it’s internal leadership, refocus its mission and
formulate strategies for cleaning up its rank-and-file membership. Rizieq and
Misbahul Alam both admitted that the group had ‘grown too fast’ and as a
consequence had allowed what they termed ‘uncontrollable and undesirable elements’
to slip into its ranks (Alam 2004). Aside from unrepentant preman, this was also
believed to include infiltrators linked to the police and businesses involved in
gambling and prostitution (Alam 2004). Since its first raids, FPI had faced accusations
that it was little more than a band of criminal extortionists in religious garb. Patrons of
raided bars claimed to have been robbed, and nightspot owners accused FPI of
extortion and collusion with the police. The allegations were taken seriously by
Rizieq, who saw them as undermining the moral platform they claimed to stand upon.
It was apparent that a gap had emerged between the short-term material self-interest
of the ordinary membership and the ideological objectives of the leadership. In order
to address the problem a number of measures were introduced. Membership criteria
were tightened. Potential recruits now had to undergo a stringent screening process
and entrance test, and once accepted undertake intensive training coordinated by FPI
headquarters. Rather than acting as semi-autonomous units, laskar militia activities
were coordinated centrally. If Rizieq’s imprisonment had the intention of
undermining the group, the opposite was the case. FPI responded by tightening its
ranks, centralising control over its component units, and upgrading the discipline and
training of its recruits, moving it from an unruly bunch of thugs in religious garb to a
20

far more disciplined and ideologically motivated paramilitary force. During Ramadan
2004 the FPI once more took to the streets, targeting cafes and bars in the Kemang
district of South Jakarta (Asia Times Online 2004). As in previous years, the police
threatened to act however failed to do so. Faced with continued police inaction,
Kemang locals formed their own vigilante force to guard against possible repeat
attacks, perpetuating the cycle of vigilantism. The moral justification for organised
violence used by the FPI has apparently rendered the state reluctant to treat the actions
as purely criminal. It has been loathe to support it, but also failed to act against it in
any systematic way.
The devastating tsunami that hit the war ravaged province of Aceh on 26
December 2004 created a new arena for the FPI. Within two days of the tragedy
several hundred volunteers FPI along with Habib Rizieq had arrived in Banda Aceh,
their transportation provided by the government. Other paramilitary and militant
groups such as Pemuda Panca Marga, Pemuda Pancasila and the Indonesian
Mujahidin Council also flooded in en masse, ostensibly as part of relief efforts
(Aljazeera.net 2005).
26
For predatory groups, post-tsunami Aceh was new ‘territory’,
and offered a host of both political and economic opportunities. Reports soon
emerged of extortion rackets and the siphoning of aid supplies. The leadership of the
Free Aceh Movement (GAM; Gerakan Aceh Merdeka) was quick to issue a statement
calling the FPI a ‘criminal organisation’ and stating that its purpose in Aceh was to
act on behalf of the Indonesian military.
27
However, while not renowned for its
humanitarian relief work, the FPI soon made a name for itself for its dedication to the
grisly task of recovering and burying the dead.
28
At the same time however it issued
terse cautions to foreigners to respect the form of Islamic law practiced in the
province, with Rizieq further warning of the possibility of ‘Christianisation’ by
religion based aid agencies and an East Timor style intervention by foreign troops.
Strategically, post-Tsunami Aceh is a perfect recruiting ground for the FPI. Its relief
work has already won it guarded praise from locals, whilst its links to the military and
open opposition to Acehnese independence ensures it government support. It’s
particular brand of Islamic-nationalism fits well with the government’s autonomy
package for the region, designed as an alternative to independence, and could see the
FPI emerge as a significant player in the politics of post-tsunami Aceh.
Like the FBR, FPI has been largely transparent in its flirtations with elite
figures. Throughout its brief history the group has enjoyed the support of Habibie,
21

Wiranto, vice-president Hamzah Haz, and Amien Rais. According to Rizieq, ‘we do
not object to being used by others, and we will use others in order to uphold morality
and eliminate vice’ (Asgart
2003). Neither the FBR nor FPI are state proxies, for this
presumes the existence of the state as a unified entity. The relationship between
vigilante groups and the post New Order state could be characterised more as one of
strategic partial-patronage. At times the support of vigilante thugs has been beneficial
to particular figures within the fragmented and competing elites. At the same time
temporary patronage has allowed vigilante groups to operate with impunity and gain a
degree of political leverage for agendas divergent from official state interests. The
groups have undoubtedly served as a vehicle for the political opportunism of their
leadership, yet this does not explain why both groups have been able to gain
significant support bases amongst the urban poor. In the case of FBR, the material
benefits of membership are tangible. With the FPI, especially post-reconsolidation,
the primary motivation for involvement appears more ideological, and draws part of
its appeal from the broader global discourse of Muslim radicalism and opposition to
the west.
A PREMAN STATE?
As Hadiz has noted, political gangsters and vigilantes have been major beneficiaries
of the introduction of reforms leading to a decentralized system of power in Indonesia
(Hadiz 2003). This new system, that has given greater autonomy and power to
regional and local government, has seen paramilitary groups and political gangsters
become a valuable form of political capital, and influential power brokers in their own
right, like their ancestors the jago of the colonial period. Some have aspired to more
direct political power. In August 2003 the ‘granddaddy’ of preman/paramilitary
groups, Pemuda Pancasila, formally registered its own political party, the Pancasila
Patriot Party.
29
Disillusioned with the lack of rewards for its long standing loyalty to
Golkar, the head of Pemuda Pancasila, Yapto Soerjo Soermano, stated that ‘rather
than choose a party who doesn’t care about us, its better we form our own party’
(Kompas 2003d). The organisations large membership networks enabled it to easily
fulfil the necessary criteria, and it competed in the April 2004 general elections.
While being far more established than other similar organisations, is it possible that
other groups may eventually take the path of Pemuda Pancasila? The presence of a
22

‘preman party’ as a registered, albeit unsuccessful, competitor in the general election
could be seen as eroding the legitimacy of the existing party system. Despite its poor
showing in the elections, with just under one percent of the votes, the Patriot Party
represents a self-proclaimed preman voice within the party system.
If the patronage of political parties is no longer sufficient or too unpredictable,
will satgas and vigilante groups seek to establish a more stable role for themselves as
‘security agencies’, akin to the transition made by Brigass, or will demobilised rank
and file satgas simply return to the streets to join the increasing ranks of street thugs?
Rather than resulting in a decrease in violent thuggery, the temporary demobilisation
of political paramilitary forces has seen an analogous increase in the emergence of
violence as a commodity in the private sector. One example of this has been the
labour sector. No longer able to rely solely on the police and military, factory owners
have turned to gangs of hired thugs who specialise in intimidating workers and
breaking up strikes.
30
Thugs acting on behalf of powerful clients have also regularly
targeted journalists and the media.
31
In an attempt to establish a reputation as
legitimate ‘businessmen’, some infamous gangland figures have even turned to the
courts, seeking compensation from media outlets that have referred to them as
‘thugs’.
32
Criminal gangs, vigilante groups and individual preman have established a
lucrative yet unstable control over public space, such as markets, terminals and
parking lots, creating further hardship for those living on the margins of the informal
economy. Preman based organizations are both a product of poverty and
unemployment, and a factor further exacerbating it. Without the protection of the
authorities that they once enjoyed under the territorial stand-over racket system,
preman have now become vulnerable to attacks from rivals, as well as from a public
that can no longer stand the burden of what amounts to an informal taxation system
running in parallel to that of the state. A review of media reports over the last 18
months indicates that there has been a steady increase in the number of retaliatory
attacks and vigilante ‘street justice’ against preman. During the New Order, such
attacks by the public were practically unheard of. The character of such extra-legal
violence however is self-justificatory and hence cyclic in nature.
Schulte Nordholt has suggested that on its current trajectory Indonesia is
heading towards what he refers to as a ‘preman state’, similar to that of post-
Communist Russia (
Nordholt 2002). The comparison with Russia is an intriguing one.
23

Vadim Volkov, in his study of Russian gangsters, has shown how criminal networks
and thugs trafficking in violence have played a pivotal role in the making of Russian
capitalism whilst simultaneously rendering the Russian state in functional disarray
(Volkov 2002). After a period of fierce rivalry between criminal gangs in the mid-
1990s, stronger ‘violent entrepreneurs’ have gradually established semi-legitimate
monopolies, becoming recognised guarantors of business transactions. Over time
private security companies with closer links to government, often run my former
KGB and military officers have commandeered these monopolies leading to the
legalisation of private protection. Privatised sections of the state coercive apparatus
have also become more independent market actors (Volkov 1999). Faced with myriad
autonomous groups employing violence, the Russian state has lost ‘unconditional
priority in those very areas that constitute it: protection, taxation and law
enforcement’ (Volkov 2002: 752). Looking to the future, Volkov speculates that one
possible scenario is a gradual appropriation of those private protection agencies with
state links, leading to a re-centralisation of state control, albeit in a more dynamic
form. This process entails not just controlling crime, but a fundamental rebuilding of
the state. The logic of the market, where intensive violence is simply unprofitable,
could also emerge as a mediating factor (Volkov 2002: 753).
Comparing the conditions in contemporary Indonesia, there are significant
parallels. Like Russia, the semi-autonomous nature of the armed forces and its diverse
business interests is a major hurdle towards the restoration of state control over
organised violence. Curbing of satgas violence has come less from state intervention
than from its political redundancy, the voting public can no longer be simply coerced
into giving support. While groups such as FBR and FPI have connections to figures
within the political elite, the current situation is far more fragmented than during the
New Order; allegiances are largely tactical and for the achievement of short-term
goals, hence they shift rapidly. Attempts to incorporate such groups within state
structures could only be temporary, and would further erode public trust leading to
more vigilantism. While it is perhaps easy to dismiss such groups as self-serving
thugs, an understanding of the role played by ideology is crucial. With the breakdown
in civic nationalism post New Order, appeals to local identity, ethnicity and religion
have become a persuasive justification and motivating factor behind the use of
violence that both intersects with and transcends material self-interest. At issue, then,
24

are not just particular configurations of political and economic power, but also more
fundamental questions regarding what constitutes ‘Indonesia’ post New Order.
The proliferation of paramilitary and vigilante groups post-1998 has seen the
decentralisation of violence as a political, social and economic strategy with the state
losing control as its sole legitimate source and patron. If we define the state in
Weber’s terms, as the territorial monopoly over legitimate violence, then such groups
appear to present a major challenge to restoring public confidence in state institutions
and the judicial system. In the case of the FBR and FPI, violence and extortion is
legitimised by recourse to ideological frameworks in which they conceptualise
themselves as acting on behalf, or in lieu of, the lapsed state. Violence is justified as
an act of necessary rectification rather than direct opposition, in a situation where the
state has failed to provide staples such as security, justice and employment (Sung
2004). This would appear to offer an opening to the state to engage with valid
grievances whilst simultaneously enforcing the rule of law. So far, it has failed to do
either. There have been various attempts by local governments to either ‘eliminate’
violent elements without elite backing, via shootings and mass arrests of individual
preman by the police, or to incorporate them by employing preman as assistant police
or public order officers, such as Sutiyoso’s ‘war on thugs’ (Detik 2004; Kompas
2001). The rationale behind the recruitment is identical to that given by paramilitary
and vigilante groups themselves, that with discipline and direction preman can be
‘reformed’ and transformed into law-abiding and productive citizens. The message
sent out is a contradictory one, and an indication of the functional disarray of state
institutions. If this remains the extent of the state’s response it leaves the public
caught between two distinct types of ‘thugs in uniform’, those with state backing, and
those without. What may be required is a more broad ranging reconfiguring of the
state, and an endeavour to address the deep-rooted social and economic causes of
violence, something far more complex and ambitious than merely ‘tackling crime’.
Similarly, the implications of this for further research on post New Order Indonesia
include the importance of focusing upon informal constellations of power and their
ramifications for the ongoing process of state building.
25

NOTES
1
These included intimidating and attacking critics of the government, organising pro-government
rallies, and ‘procuring’ funds via state sanctioned criminal activities such as standover rackets
(O’Rourke 2002: 11).
2
For more on the impact of decentralization reforms see the various contributors in Aspinall and Fealy
(2003).
3
Publicly, Wiranto denied coordinating and funding the vigilante forces, claiming that they were a
‘spontaneous act of the people’. Pamswakarsa leaders themselves however named Wiranto as the
architect of the force. See Tempo (1999a, 1999b).
4
In 2004 the Pamswakarsa affair came back to haunt Wiranto’s campaign for the presidency. Kivlan
Zein accused Wiranto of still owing him nearly 5 billion rupiah (Aus$ 750,000) that Zein claimed to
have paid out of his own pocket to fund the vigilante force. See Jakarta Post (2004).
5
The Young Bulls came to public attention after 200 members were involved in an attack on the office
of Tempo magazine in March 2003, after it ran a report implying that business tycoon Tommy Winata,
a business associate of Taufik Kiemas, was behind a fire that destroyed the Tanah Abang market in
Jakarta. Winata recently won a libel against Tempo over the accusation. The Komando Bela Mbak
Mega was established in August 2001, the product of a split with the Komite Bela Mega (Defend Mega
Committee), a Megawati supporter group set up in 1996. According to KBMM’s chairman Herdy
Mas, the group’s loyalty is ‘to Mega alone, not to the PDI-P’ (Kompas 2002).
6
Kiemas has fostered close relations with numerous underworld figures, including Yapto
Suryosumarno, head of Pemuda Pancasila. During demonstrations over rising fuel prices, Kiemas
deployed Satgas PDI-P to guard his petrol stations, fuelling the perception that the role of satgas and
party militia was merely to protect the business interests of the first family (Laksamana.net 2001).
7
Pangaribuan is also a legislative candidate. In January 2004 he was accused of extorting 1.3 billion
rupiah from the Jakarta Public Works Department. See Republika (2004).
8
The PDI-P in Central Java prohibited its satgas to work as security for local businesses or as
bodyguards, however this policy was not adopted by the national leadership.
9
The average wage for a PDI-P satgas can be anywhere between 5000 to 50,000 rupiah per week.
10
This number is based on various Indonesian media reports. The group itself claims to have up to
150,000 active members.
11
During colonial times jawara and jago acted as powerbrokers for the colonial and indigenous elite.
On the relationship between the jago and the colonial state, see Nordholt (1991: 74
-91).
12
As Margareet Van Tillen discovered in her study on Si Pitung, the bandits’ relationship with the
poor was largely predatory. (Van Tillen 1995).
13
‘Intelligence agents’ are a common part of many political and social organisations in the post New
Order environment.
14
A chronology of the FBR attack can be found on the UPC website at
http://urbanpoor.or.id/28.23.0.0.1.0.phtml.
15
Seven FBR members were arrested over the attacks, however Fadloli himself as a then member of
the DPA, could not be arrested without the formal permission of President Megawati. The DPA itself
severely reprimanded Fadloli, however Megawati made no comment on the incident. INFID (2002);
Suara Merdeka (2002a).
16
The IKBT started in 1998 as the product of a truce between rival ethnic gangs in Tanah Abang
negotiated by the mayor of central Jakarta. Led by a renowned Betawi thug, the group splintered after
18 months along ethnic lines.
26

17
Later in June at a ceremony celebrating Jakarta’s anniversary, Sutiyoso symbolically ‘shot’ a statue
meant to represent the ‘preman problem’. Horned and with eight arms, each holding a weapon, the
statue also wore a tie, prompting some onlookers to suggest that it looked more like a politician than a
preman (Tempo 2001a).
18
Habib are Arab-Indonesians claiming familial descent from the prophet Muhammad. FPI’s founding
committee also consisted several of seasoned Islamic radicals such as Habib Husein Al-Habsyi, who
was jailed for the bombing of the 1985 Borobodur temple.
19
The Front Pembela Islam Surakarta (FPIS) based in central Java is estimated to have around 12,000
members, however its leadership operates independently of FPI.
20
This figured is derived from media reports in Indonesia.
21
FPI accused several student organizations such as the People’s Democratic Party, of being the basis
for a resurgence of communism in Indonesia.
22
In interview, Misbahul Alam said that he had held discussions with four generals where the
possibility of armed Iranian type insurrection in Indonesia in order to achieve a state governed by
shari’a law was discussed. He declined to name them, however it is documented that FPI has enjoyed
the patronage of former generals Djaja Suparman and Wiranto. See Laksamana.net (2003b); Alam
(2003).
23
The Indonesian Human Rights Commission was also attacked in 2000 in anger over a report playing
down the massacre of Muslims by the military in Tanjung Priok in 1984.
24
Plans to send fighters were prevented by a lack of funds as well as the obvious logistical problems of
getting fighters into the country. More recently Rizieq has threatened to send FPI militia to southern
Thailand as well as Falluja in Iraq (Tempo 2004).
25
After his arrest, FPI supporters helped Rizieq escape from the public prosecutors office, however he
surrendered to police the next day.
26
In 2003 Pemuda Panca Marga members attacked and ransacked the offices of the local NGO
Committee for Missing Persons and Victims of Violence (Kontras) after it criticised the imposition of
martial law in Aceh.
27
The full statement can be read on a GAM affiliated website; http://www.acheh-
eye.org/data_files/english_format/asnlf/asnlf_statements_data-eng/asnlf_statements_data-
eng_025_09jan2005.html.
28
In one instance FPI claims that GAM itself requested that they remove corpses from a conflict zone in
order to avoid a confrontation between GAM and the TNI (Indo Pos 2005).
29
Around 400 Pemuda Pancasila members already occupy seats in parliament throughout Indonesia,
primarily as representatives of Golkar. After initially declaring it forbidden for PP members to be
involved in political parties aside from the Pancasila Patriot Party, this was later changed; members are
now free to do so, but will be labelled ‘failed cadre… not a cadre of the nation’. See Kompas (2003c)
and Suara Merdeka (2003).
30
One recent example of this is the beating and intimidation of workers from the Shamrock textile
factory in Medan. See Wapada (2004) and Kompas (2004b).
31
For documentation of attacks on the Indonesian press see Suwarso, Solahudin and Aditjondro
(2002).
32
This includes Hercules, the former gangland leader from Tanah Abang, Pemuda Panca Marga, as
well as underworld figure and business tycoon Tommy Winata, who recently one a libel case against
Tempo magazine.
27

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