Historical Indonesian Figures Series

He was a boy scout with the Hizbul Wathan movement and a teacher at a Muhammadiyah school. But during the Japanese occupation, Sudirman enlisted in the military, where at the age of 29 he was elected commander of the People’s Defense Army. Remembered as a simple general who was close to his troops, Sudirman set the foundations of the Indonesian Military or TNI—an institution which has been both revered and reviled. HE is unquestionably an icon. Boulevards and universities bear his name. His sculpted, uniformed figure stands guard on a major avenue in the capital city of Jakarta, while his image once graced a denomination of our paper money. Yet Sudirman is little remembered, perhaps only in school textbooks and national history encyclopedia. In fact, he was Indonesia’s fi rst military commander, an implacable man who led a grueling guerrilla campaign despite a painful bout with tuberculosis. He had always been a likeable person, even in his youth. His knowledge of religious issues prompted people to call him kaji. He was active in the Hizbul Wathan movement— a scouts group under the umbrella of the Muhammadiyah organization. Elected as commander of the People’s Defense Army, a precedent of the Armed Forces of the Republic of Indonesia on November 12, 1945, Sudirman was not someone to pass over. Clearly, he was destined to be a military leader. During the search for a commander, he won in the three rounds of voting among the officers, beating other candidates with more impressive credentials, such as Oerip Soemohardjo, who obtained his military education in the Netherlands. It may have been the negative sentiment against former soldiers of the Royal Netherlands Indies Army (KNIL) which paved the way for Sudirman to be selected commander, during the congress of the People’s Defense Army (TKR) in Yogyakarta. At that time he was 29 and popular among division leaders, especially in Java. As commander of the Homeland Defenders Battalion in Kroya, he was able to convince the Japanese to surrender their weapons peacefully. When he led the TKR division in Purwokerto and Banyumas, he turned the city into a weapons depot, supplying arms for troops in West and Central Java. A month after his appointment as commander, he turned back in one brutal battle, British forces which the Dutch forces had allowed to operate in Ambarawa. At that time the British had just defeated the Japanese occupying troops. Sudirman was appointed commander-in­chief on December 18, 1945, three days after that defeat, by Sukarno and M. Hatta at the TKR headquarters in Gondokusuman, Yogyakarta.

Dutch, French, German and Javanese blood coursed through his veins, but Ernest Francois Eugène Dekker possessed a spirit that was Indonesian to the core. The Dutch colonial government branded him a very dangerous man, and the political powerhouse spent a lot of time in exile or imprisoned. Dekker was the first person to establish a political party in Indonesia. The Indische Partij held a fiercely uncompromising stance in its fight for Indonesia’s independence. As one of the chief initiators of the struggle for independence, Dekker’s political thoughts were far ahead of his time. When translated into propaganda, his ideas inspired Tjokroaminoto to gather up mass support. His ideas on nationalism were key when Sukarno established the Indonesian National Party. He was languishing in exile when the proclamation of the Indonesian independence was declared. This is a special edition—Tempo’s way of celebrating Indonesia’s independence—on the life of the courageous man who also came to be known as Danudirja Setiabudi. HE was a political powerhouse ahead of his time. Ernest François Eugène Douwes Dekker was his name. As disappointment grew in some circles with the elitism portrayed by the Boedi Oetomo political society, Dekker came forward with fresh political views. He founded the first political party in Indonesia, which aspired to fight for equal rights for all ethnicities in the Indies. The founding of the Indische Partij breathed life into a movement to win independence. Its emergence was wildly received. In his book, An Age in Motion: Popular Radicalism in Java, 1912-1926, author Takashi Shiraishi said the propaganda tour spearheaded by Dekker was the first major political gathering of its kind in the Indies. This movement became key in future strategies on the gathering of masses on a large scale by Tjokroaminoto in order to gain public support for Sarekat Islam. It cannot be denied that the Indische Partij laid an important foundation for nationalism in the Indies. This political organization was far more radical in its methods than Boedi Oetomo. In addition to calling for an overhaul in the field of administrative services, Dekker cried out for tax reform and political reform in agricultural practices. His movements were monitored because he rejected discrimination. He was labeled a dangerous agitator. Dekker was a figure who rocked the Dutch-Indies government. Short-lived after it was forcibly disbanded by the Dutch, the Indische Partij, nevertheless, was able to foster hope and breathed long life into subsequent movements.

OVER the past two months, many of us at Proklamasi 72 were immersed in history books and documents. A number of the publications are originals, others photocopies. The titles vary, but all the books relate to Oemar Said Tjokroaminoto, known as the ‘mentor’ to the Republic’s founders. The books are part of the Tempo library collection, some newly purchased. A good number resulted from the ‘hunting expeditions’ of Philipus Parera, Tempo Bureau Chief in Yogyakarta, who visited the library of Cokroaminoto University there. As in previous issues, while still working on our regular assignments, we also prepared a special Independence Day edition for August 17. This year we chose Tjokroaminoto as the figure to focus on, because of his central role as the vanguard of democracy movements at the start of our struggle to become a republic. This magazine has written a series of special editions on the Fathers of the Nation, such as Sukarno, Moh. Hatta, Sjahrir and Tan Malaka, which have been republished by the Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia. This special edition on Tjokroaminoto is aimed at enhancing those series. A meeting to plan for this issue at Citarik, West Java last year decided that we would take no more than two months to come up with this special edition. Budi Setyarso, managing editor of the political section, was the lead person, ably assisted by Sunudyantoro, Yandhrie Arvian and Oktamanjaya Wiguna. They collected books, contacted resource persons and coordinated the assignments of our regional reporters. Sunudyantoro, a journalist from Trenggalek, East Java and graduate of International Relations at Gadjah Mada University, was so engrossed in this special edition, that he quoted often from Tjokroaminoto’s speeches on his Twitter account. We invited a few descendents of Tjokro for discussions at the Tempo office, among them Haryono Sigit, former rector of the November 11 Institute of Technology in Surabaya. Sigit is the son of Oetari, the daughter and second child of Tjokro. Present at the discussions was also Anie Hidayat, daughter of Anwar Tjokro and wife of the current Industry Minister. Surrounded by a forest of teak trees, the house where Tjokro once lived is only 500 meters from a station through which the Surabaya-Solo-Yogya trains pass. He lived there with his second wife, a former stage performer from Solo. Our reporters traced his movements in Surabaya and Solo, the two cities which fostered his development. Illustrator Kiagus Aliansyah was assigned to Solo so he could breathe in the history of Tjokroaminoto and his era, better to create credible but readable infographics. Dear readers, this special report is not intended to supplant a history book. We have used a journalistic approach so that the Tjokroaminoto story makes for ‘essential easy-reading’ in line with the motto of this magazine. The short bibliography below lists some of the publications we relied on to prepare this issue. Happy reading!

In early November, 22 years ago, one Lt. Gen. (ret) Sarwo Edhie peacefully passed away, following an eight-month coma caused by a stroke. The soldier from Purworejo, Central Java, was 62 years old. Many will remember Sarwo Edhie as the commander of the para-commando regiment, who played a vital role in the elimination of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI), following the September 30, 1965 tragedy. He was the one who mobilized the army’s special forces around Java and Bali, to capture PKI leaders in the regions, and who trained youths of the Nahdlatul Ulama (NU) organization to spearhead major operations aimed at neutralizing the PKI support bases. No definitive number is recorded on how many people died during that tragic period. Almost all historical research indicates it was in the hundred of thousand. In many remote areas of Java, villagers still recount stories of rivers turning red from the blood of victims. In a small or big way, Sarwo Edhie part of this tumultuous period.

He was too unbending a person to compromise. Wanted by the Dutch, British, American and Japanese secret police, he was hunted down across 11 countries because of his dream: Indonesian independence. He is Tan Malaka, the first man to conceive the idea of a Republic of Indonesia. Muhammad Yamin named him the real “Father of the Republic of Indonesia.” Sukarno called him “an expert at waging a revolution.” But his was a tragic life, which ended by the guns of an army of the republic he helped create. HE was a man who set Indonesian revolution in motion: Ibrahim Datuk Tan Malaka, simply known as Tan Malaka. Today, two or three generations of Indonesians might have forgotten this man, who was rich in political ideas and good at organizing. The New Order tried to erase his name and his role in Indonesian history. But in the eyes of young Indonesians Tan possesses an irresistible attraction. When Suharto was in power delving into Tan’s political thinking was tantamount to reading Pramoedya Ananta Toer’s novels. Books that he wrote were distributed through a clandestine network, his ideas discussed in whispers. Although he clashed with the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI), Tan was frequently associated with the PKI, the mortal enemy of the New Order. Sukarno also treated him in a similar way. For two years he was imprisoned by Sukarno, through the Sjahrir government, without any charges. His conflict with the PKI leadership led to his ouster from the circle of power. When PKI was close to those in power, Sukarno chose Muso, who vowed to hang him for challenging the leadership, over Tan. Dipa Negara Aidit beat the bush trying to find a political testament said to have been written by Sukarno and given to Tan, which transferred leadership of the nation to four people named in the document, including Tan, in the event of Sukarno’s and Hatta’s death or capture by the enemy. Ironically, Sukarno later burnt the testament which read: “In the event of my death, leadership of the revolution is to be transferred to Tan Malaka, an expert at waging a revolution.” Politics eventually erased Tan from memory. In Bukittinggi, his birthplace, his name is known vaguely to most of the people there. When Harry Albert Poeze, a Dutch historian researching Tan for the past 36 years, visited Senior High School No. 2 in Bukittinggi last February, teachers there were surprised to learn that Tan studied from 1908-1913 at what was then known as Kweekschool, a teacher training institution. They knew about it only from their students, who browsed the Internet for information. The teachers were not entirely sure until a search of the records carried out after the arrival of Poeze, found in the school cupboard, an inscription bearing the name of one Engku Nawawi Sutan Makmur as a teacher at the time Tan was a student at the school.

Sutan Sjahrir was one of the seven Fathers of Indonesian Revolution. He urged Sukarno and Hatta to declare Indonesian independence although he himself was not present on the big day. He chose an elegant way to drive the Dutch out of Indonesia, a way which was opposed by the other Fathers of Indonesian Revolution. His anti-fascist, anti-military ideology was criticized as only fit for an educated elite. He was thus branded an elitist. Sjahrir went down to the people, touring the country as he mobilized cadres for the Indonesian Socialist Party, the party he founded after independence. History passed over the big role of Bung Kecil, Little Brother, as he was fondly called, in the Indonesian struggle for independence. Sjahrir was a revolutionary who died in exile.

He was different from communists in general. He was well-dressed and a good violinist and saxophonist. He enjoyed symphony music, went to theater shows and wrote poetry that conveyed more than mere “populist” and “fighting-spirit” themes. He removed The Old Man and the Sea—the film based on the novel by Ernest Hemingway—from the list of western movies banned by the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI). He comprehended Marxism and Leninism but did not regard everything “capitalist” as an enemy. He was Njoto, a PKI leader on the other side of the history of the September 30 Movement of 1965. Apart from New Order books that incriminate all PKI members in the incident, most historians have found no involvement of Njoto in this revolutionary action. Njoto was indeed no longer within the inner circle of PKI Chairman Dipa Nusantara Aidit by the time of the 1965 crisis. He was sidelined for being too close to President Sukarno. But the “official” history of 1965 shows, no communists were “half sinful” and “totally sinful”. In the eyes of soldiers, the victors of the struggle, there were only communists or non-communists. Therefore, sinners had to be exterminated. Njoto was among them. He was abducted and was never seen again. No traces of his death were found. Writing about Njoto, 44 years after the 1965 tragedy, is an attempt to avoid being dragged into the indiscriminate-killing logic. PKI was not a whole entity. History has always kept distinctive individuals. Njoto is one of them.

His name was Musso, a son of Kediri known for his religious diligence as a child. Having received his political education while staying at the boarding house of HOS Tjokroaminoto, his influence during the early years of independence should not be underestimated. In fact, the role played by Musso should be set alongside those played by Sukarno, Hatta, Sjahrir and Tan Malaka. He studied politics in Moscow, Russia, and observed up-close the strategies employed by European communist movements. He dreamed that his homeland would one day be a just, egalitarian and free nation. He opted for the radical path, parting company with his non-communist contemporaries, even those on the left whom he deemed insufficiently radical. It was radicalism that drove him, and he devoted himself to cultivating a movement that was little more than a seed in his youth. At the end of October, 62 years ago, Musso joined the ranks of the fallen.

He came from a nominal Muslim family but Sekarmadji Maridjan Kartosoewirjo ended as the leader of the rebellious Darul Islam. Almost 50 years after his death, at the hands of a firing squad, his vision and his ideal of an Islamic state still resonate among some Muslims in this country. ALTHOUGH Kartosoewirjo, born in Cepu, Central Java on January 7, 1907, was known as an Islamic leader, he was not excessively “Islamic.” His father was a mantri candu or head of an opium control division— a somewhat high rank for a “native Indonesian” during the Dutch colonial era. Clearly, candu and Islam seemed, even at that time, quite incongruous. The Kartosoewirjo family was indeed among the feudal upper-class, and they were not strict adherents of Islam. “Our family tended to be abangan,” said one member of the family in Cepu. Kartosoewirjo’s childhood was not filled with religious instruction. Most of his education came from Dutch schools. After graduating from the Inlandsche School der Tweede Klasse, known as the “Ongko Loro School” little Kartosoewirjo continued his education at the Hollands Inlandsche School in Rembang, Central Java. He then continued his studies at the Europeesche Lagere School, an elite school for Dutch children, in Bojonegoro, East Java.

DURING his 32 years in power Suharto had plenty of opportunities to do good and bad—which he did, alternately. However, there was a process which seemed to go on forever under his administration, the length of which could only be outdone by Cuba’s Fidel Castro. This process was centralization, and even personalization, with figurehead Suharto as the nucleus of the entire nation. Political Science Professor from Ohio State University, R. William “Bill” Liddle, said that Suharto has two faces. He was a dictator, but was also the Father of Development. In this special edition, Tempo captures the many faces of Suharto. Suharto’s leadership was marked by a strong level of personal subjectivity. He created an Indonesia which was ‘prosperous,’ centralistic, and respected, without paying attention to matters of democracy or human rights. Things began to fall apart for him when his children became aggressive in business.

He appeared suddenly, with no discernible origin. Not many recognize the name Sjam Kamaruzaman. He made his first public appearance two years after the bloody events of the September 30 Movement (G30S). At that time, in July 1967, he was a witness in the trial of Sudisman, Secretary-General of the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI). Previously he was more of a myth. His existence was only half-believed. The Special Bureau, the secret PKI body which he led, was initially thought to be just military propaganda to make it easier for Suharto to get rid of the PKI. However, Sjam corroborated all charges. He said that he led the Special Bureau and made the secret plans for the G30S. He said that he intended to kidnap former Vice President Mohammad Hatta and 3rd Deputy Prime Minister Chairul Saleh, in addition to seven generals, on that bloody morning. As someone who was tasked with influencing members of the Indonesian Military to support the PKI, he had access to military institutions. In prison, while other political detainees shuddered in fear before each questioning, Sjam would face it with a smile. His relationship with the military was indeed like that of an “old friend.” His son recalls how, in prison, Sjam stayed in a large cell and was allowed to have a bag full of money to pay for his needs. He was like an agent in a Hollywood movie. His children only knew their father as a businessman. He owned a roof tile factory and repair shop, and sold limestone. His wife, a worker activist at Tanjung Priok Port and administrator of the Indonesian Farmers Front, an organization under the PKI, was asked to stop working in order to protect his cover. Who was Sjam, a man with five aliases? Who was this native of Tuban, East Java, who was an atheist yet known to be good at reciting verses from the Qur’an? Was he a double agent or just a loyal follower of PKI Chairman D.N. Aidit? The G30S tragedy is a mystery whose secrets have never been fully uncovered. Sjam Kamaruzaman is an important figure in the chaos which is thought to have taken the lives of at least 2 million people.

MOHAMMAD Natsir (July 17, 1908-February 6, 1993) was a puritan. However, even the honest can be interesting. His life was not as colorful or dramatic as a stage play, but the example set by this person, who had a talent for combining words with deeds, was nothing less than remarkable. With Indonesia currently going through a kind of vicious circle—new leaders taking over, yet an efficient bureaucracy, clean politics and an effective social welfare system still beyond the people’s reach— Natsir emerges as a leader who escaped that cycle. He was clean, consistent and although sharp toned when defending his position, he was a humble man. In the book, The Life and Struggles of Natsir: 70 Years of Memories, George McTurnan Kahin, an American scholar on Indonesia who sympathized with the Indonesian struggle for independence at that time, recalled the impression Natsir made on their first meeting. As Minister of Information, he spoke openly about what was going on in Indonesia. However, what really stuck in Kahin’s mind was the Minister’s appearance. “He was wearing a patched-up shirt, something I have never seen among government officials anywhere,” said Kahin. Perhaps that is why to this day—during the centennial of his birth and 15 years after his death—many believe that Mohammad Natsir is part of our contemporary life. Many like to identify themselves with Natsir. Islamic hardliners, for instance, tend to forget how close his ideas were with Western democracy, while pointing out his distress at the zeal of Christian missionaries in Indonesia. Moderate Muslims seem to have the same selective political memory. Many have forgotten the period when this former Prime Minister, who represented the Masyumi Party, led the Islamic Propagation Council (Dewan Dakwah). Meanwhile, others may recall the period when differences of opinion could not divide the country. Pluralism, at that time, was commonplace. Mohammad Natsir lived at a time when friendship across ideological lines was not ground for suspicion, nor was it a betrayal. He was fundamentally against communism. In fact, his later involvement in the Revolutionary Government of the Republic of Indonesia (PRRI) was caused by, among other factors, his disapproval of the Sukarno administration, which he felt was getting closer to the Indonesian Communist Party (PKI). Masyumi and the PKI were two groups which could never meet. Natsir knew, however, that political identity was not absolute. He often shared a cup of coffee with D.N. Aidit at the parliament’s canteen, even though Aidit was then head of the PKI’s Central Committee.